FROM SHAME TO SIN-The Christian Sexual Morality - (2013) PDF
FROM SHAME TO SIN-The Christian Sexual Morality - (2013) PDF
FROM SHAME TO SIN-The Christian Sexual Morality - (2013) PDF
G . W. B OW E R S O C K , G E N E R A L E D I TO R
KYLE HARPER
Abbreviations 247
Notes 259
Acknowledgments 299
Index 301
Preface
This book presents an effort to summarize, between two covers, what dif-
ference Christianity made in the history of sexual morality. It does so by
exploring the late classical world out of which Christianity emerged and fol-
lowing the story of the religion’s expansion down to the age of the emperor
Justinian. That is an enormous topic and this is a short book, which can only
claim to draw out some of the main lines of such a complex development. This
project arises out of my previous work on slavery, which left me with the
sense that there was still something worthwhile to be said on a theme that
has evoked some of the most exciting work of the last thirty years. From
Shame to Sin tries to speak to readers generally interested in antiquity, early
Christianity, and the history of sexuality, while simultaneously offering
something useful to specialists, who may find more attention devoted to
topics like status, demography, and law than is customarily found in narra-
tives of intellectual history. Therein lies the essence of the argument pre-
sented in these pages: by placing the rules and regulations, and their moral
assumptions, into their material context, we might emerge with a richer under-
standing of what the transition to a Christian sexual culture meant.
From Shame to Sin
Introduction
From City to Cosmos
Over the last generation, as the history of sexuality became one of the
great scholarly enterprises, the popular story in which Christianity put an
end to pagan freedom with the body was exposed as a caricature, at best. In
1978 Sir Kenneth Dover published Greek Homosexuality, opening a new era
in the study of ancient culture by arguing that the Greeks did not recognize
permanent sexual orientation as a core feature of individual identity. In that
same year, an article by Paul Veyne exploded the myth that pre-Christian
sexual culture was an uninhibited garden; in his strong reformulation, the
Romans were already, long before Constantine’s celestial vision, pent-up
pagan prudes who had sex timorously, at night, with their clothes on and
the lamps off. The insights of Dover and Veyne were refined and greatly
popularized in the late works of Michel Foucault, who showed that the his-
tory of sex could be about more than the changing balance of permissive-
ness and constraint; it could be about the categories of desire and morality,
about the cultures that sustained differing visions of the human person as a
sexual being. Above all, our understanding of early Christian sexuality has
been revolutionized by the work of Peter Brown, whose Body and Society
restored to Christian asceticism its original symbolic energy and human
urgency. Brown’s book inspired a whole generation of scholars by showing
that the act of sexual renunciation was at the heart of a debate over the very
meaning of Christianity’s place in the world. The pioneers of Christian
virginity, in denying the material demands the social order placed on their
sexual capacity, transformed themselves into intermediaries of an other-
worldly order. Acts of the flesh were burdened with a symbolism they had
never known before.
From Shame to Sin builds on the remarkable work of the last generation
to reflect on the Christianization of sexual morality. It is an attempt to
gather what has been learned about this great transformation, to take stock
of what truly changed, and to offer an interpretation that grounds sexual
morality firmly in the mechanics of ancient society. The reconstruction pre-
sented in these pages rests on four, mutually interdependent claims. The first
maneuver of this book is to displace the Christianization of sex to a time
rather later than it is normally thought to have taken place. The second
century, it will be argued, was not careening toward a repressive future. The
victory of a stern conjugal morality was not an inevitable triumph, over
which Christianity simply happened to be holding the banner. The fourth
century witnessed a fierce struggle, driven by the sudden advance of specifi-
INTRODUCTION
cally Christian norms and prohibitions, and only toward the beginning of
the fifth century did Christian values obtain a vice grip on public sexual
culture. The ratification of this victory in public law was halting and, until
the sixth century, incomplete and uncertain. This is a history of sex that
begins by trying to sketch the specific quality of sexual life in the second-
century empire and then chart the tumultuous changes of succeeding centu-
ries down to the age of Justinian, by which time anything resembling classi-
cal eros had lost its pulse and a new order of relationships between sexual
morality, public culture, and the legal regime was consolidated.
Second, despite the steady progress of the last decades, there remain spe-
cific topics that have not received adequate treatment in accounts of trans-
formation. For example, although same-sex eros has attracted a lion’s share
of the attention from historians, there is, astonishingly, just one reliable
treatment of the legal regime governing same-sex love in the Roman period;
it has had no discernible influence on the major studies of ancient sex. We
will depart from it in certain details, but the greater imperative is to inte-
grate a credible account of structure and change in the legal system into a
broader narrative of the history of sex. Equally urgent is the need to reckon
with prostitution. This book will try to convince the reader that prostitution
is important, even central, to the history of sex. “Prostitution” is not quite
the right word, and for us it might evoke a host of marginalizing connota-
tions: furtive vice, sanitary blight, guerilla warfare between the desperate
and the forces of order. In the ancient world, the flesh trade was a dominant
institution, flourishing in the light of day. The sex industry was integral to
the moral economy of the classical world. The circulation of pleasures, out-
side the nexus of matrimony, must occupy the foreground, if there is to be
any hope of recapturing the texture of life in the late classical world and of
experiencing the jarring gospel of Christian sexuality. Christianity gave a
name to the array of sensual opportunities beyond the marriage bed: por-
neia, fornication. Christian spokesmen for a time promoted the belief that
the dominance of porneia was the sign of a world in disorder, and then, as
they accumulated power, they set out, with some diligence, to repress it. The
coordinated assault on the extramarital sexual economy marks one of the
more consequential revolutions in the history of sex.
Third, the passage from classical to Christian sexual culture required new
conceptions of moral agency, and the idea (and the very formula) of “free
will” was born in the struggle to define the meaning of Christian sexual
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
world that impinge on behavior, that strike real human flesh in various
ways, especially by cutting across hard, structural patterns in the experience
of eros. Particularly in societies that lived in the unforgiving grind of high-
mortality cycles, with limited technologies of reproduction, sexual morality
existed within networks of power defined by law, demography, and the
control of resources. Sexual morality must be seen as part of the circuitry of
a sexual economy constituted by real human bodies. This book is through
and through focused on society, on its machinery for regulating reproduc-
tion and dispensing pleasures, and on the place of sexual morality within
the fabric of the social order. Seen in this light, the triumph of Christianity
not only drove profound cultural change. It created a new relationship be-
tween sexual morality and society.
The book’s title, From Shame to Sin, reflects the argument that Christi-
anity transformed the very order of relationships between sexual morality
and social reproduction. It is worth pausing to reflect on what is meant and,
just as importantly, not meant by this frame. The claim advanced here is not
that there was a sea change in the language of sexual morality. Shame and
sin, to be sure, both have a real grounding in the classical tongues. The
language of sin is narrowly confined—peccare and its derivatives in Latin,
hamartein and its relatives in Greek. The idiom of shame, by contrast, and
the closely related concept of honor, is more diff use but no less powerful, in
both Latin and Greek. In Latin, the notion of shame was centered around a
cluster of words including pudicitia (sexual modesty) and its opposite impu-
dicitia (sexual immodesty), as well as the more concretized states of being,
honestas (social respectability) and infamia (dishonor). In Greek, sōphrosynē
was used to denote both a virtue (self-control) and the possession of sexual
respectability. Shame was expressed as aischynē— an act which brought
dishonor on the actor, or the emotional experience of moral failure. Aidōs
drew closer to the individual’s “sense of shame,” both positively, in the
proper respect for others’ opinions that evoked honorable behavior (similar
to the Latin pudor), or negatively as the embarrassment that follows upon
misconduct. In Greek the more concrete states of honor and dishonor were
expressed by timē and atimia, respectively. The triumph of Christian sexual
morality was, as far as these terms are concerned, linguistically neutral. The
vocabulary of sin was as familiar to pre-Christian moralities (especially Sto-
icism) as it was to ecclesiastical authorities. Dio Chrysostom, for instance,
could refer to the unlawful violation of women and boys as “sins.” And
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
especially the wellborn, were thought to embody social honor and to ex-
hibit a finely wrought sense of shame proper to their station in life.
The moral expectations inhering in the dynamics of shame were gener-
ated by the social order. As a result, the real tension in the moral world of
the Romans was not between the internal and the external dimensions of
shame, but rather between the subjective and the objective qualities of shame.
Honor and shame were both states of mind and states of being—moral
qualities and social conditions. Nowhere is this clearer than in the sexual
field. Pudicitia, derived from pudor, described the quality of sexual mod-
esty. It meant something different in the case of men and women, free per-
sons and slaves (for whom it had virtually no meaning). As we will explore
in Chapter 1, it implied, simultaneously, both the intentional, mental state
of sexual propriety and the objective state of bodily sexual integrity.
Sōphrosynē covered a similar range in Greek, differing in the case of men
and women, and pointing both to a mentally virtuous condition and an
objective state. What is notable about the moralizing literature of the Ro-
man period is a heightened awareness of this duality. Greek and Roman
authors will contrive elaborate scenarios testing the fundamental assump-
tion that status and behavior cohere. The culture of the high empire, in
short, became acutely sensitive to the deep interconnection of external and
internal dimensions of moral behavior; the literate classes became sensible
to the fact that what we are— our desires, our limits, our moral awareness—is
given to us by the world.
From Shame to Sin, then, reconstructs a transformation in the deep logic
of sexual morality, in which the theological conception of sin came to over-
ride and to reshape an ancient sexual culture rooted in power and social
reproduction. The specific prohibitions introduced by Christianity— such
as the proscription of all same-sex love and the flat condemnation of
prostitution—were part of this transformation. But even where the rules of
conduct remained the same (such as the nearly unchanging expectations
placed on respectable women), the sanctions of morality decisively shifted.
The legacy of Christianity lies in the dissolution of an ancient system where
status and social reproduction scripted the terms of sexual morality. The
concept of sin, and its twin, free will, entailed what Nietzsche called “eine
Metaphysik des Henkers,” a metaphysics of the hangman, which is founda-
tionally distinct from the social metaphysics of pre-Christian sexual moral-
ity. Shame is a social concept, instantiated in human emotions; sin is a
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
rigid stratifications of law. A particular feature of the frame used here must
be noted: one canvas suffices for both the Latin and the Greek parts of the
empire. This choice is a calculated gambit, not just dictated by the necessity
of space but more deliberately by the belief that the institutions of army, the
webs of commerce, the intimate ties of intermarriage, the syncretism of law,
and a shared intellectual culture melded the Greek and Latin elements of the
empire into a whole that is not homogeneous but at least capable of represen-
tation as a single, complex organism. As far as possible, the authorities of
the second century are asked to present themselves. In part this is done be-
cause they are so rich and vivid. In part it is done to counterbalance the
widespread idea that the Roman Empire was on a trajectory away from
sexual freedom and erotic frankness. Above all, the aim in Chapter 1 is to
describe the world in which Christian sexual morality took shape, to recap-
ture something of its richness, its chaos, its vitality.
This presentation employs an eclectic armory of sources: law and litera-
ture, scientific treatises and moralizing tracts, even a glance at the ubiquitous
erotic art of the Roman Empire. The mélange is deliberate, for it helps us
resist the temptation to ascribe supremacy to any one witness or class of
witnesses. There will be no doubting, however, which type of informant is
accorded a measure of favoritism: the novelist. The history of the ancient
novel is effectively coterminous with the four centuries of Roman Empire.
Rarely in history are great genres of literature born, and when they are, it
surely signals a significant cultural juncture. The novels are tales of eros;
they are dedicated to the power of eros and celebrate its divine power. A
heady synthesis of comedy, love poetry, travel literature, and philosophy,
the novels are the quintessential cultural expression of a civilization with a
mature tradition of speculation on human sexual experience. At the same
time, the novels are breathtakingly unique creations whose narrative intri-
cacy allowed their authors to explore, slowly and with a new sympathy, the
contours of the soul experiencing eros. On the whole, the romances strike a
tone of wry conservatism. These stories are the product of a confident and
assertive aristocracy, capable of believing that the world could be redeemed
through social reproduction. But it is too much to declare the novels simple
propaganda. Their authors are too alert to the unruly power of eros, too
eager to portray the sinuous routes to conjugal love to be trying to put over
something as bland as a point. In particular, Chapter 1 lets Leucippe and
Clitophon, a romance written in the second century by an author named
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
If prose fiction was the great literary legacy of later classical antiquity, then
it should be no surprise that the stories that are considered in this book
trace the deep transformation in the logic of sexual morality.
Within the channels allowed by social dictates, eros flourished in the
high empire. The history of sex in antiquity is not a linear story of gradual
repression. The Roman moralists did not act as forerunners, preparing the
way for the Christian revolution. The gloomy tribe of Stoic brethren have
been allotted too much say. In a confident, prosperous, urban empire, old
patterns of lassitude prevailed, and even intensified within an economy that
delivered pleasures with unusual efficiency. Yes, the sexual culture of the
Roman Empire had its own complexion. Erotic life was caught up in the
great sciences of the day—medicine, astrology, physiognomics—to a new
extent; the body’s sexual capacity became part of broader conversations
about fate, free will, and the physical constitution of the self. But eros
thrived. If there was a new anxiety, it was the anxiety of affluence, and the
anxiety of an existentially serious culture, not a morbid or world-weary anxi-
ety. The visual record alone is a stark correction to the odd stern moralist
who groused about the power of the aphrodisia. Consider just the culture of
erotic lamps. The use of erotic art on this humble domestic instrument
reaches its pitch of expressiveness, variety, and popularity in second and
third centuries, and only withers in the late fourth or very early fifth cen-
tury. Pace Veyne, the Romans not only had sex with the lamps on—they
had sex by the flickering light of lamps that had images of them having sex
by lamplight on them!
The development of a Christian packet of sexual norms and a distinctive
sexual program is the focus of Chapter 2. The goal is to understand the
shape of Christian sexual morality as it was presented to the cast of literate,
second-century philosophers and artists featured in the first chapter. In
particular, the focus is on Clement of Alexandria, a profoundly important
Christian voice of the later second and early third centuries. To understand
Clement, it is necessary to understand the Christian apostle Paul (and it
must be confessed that this book is more interested in Clement’s Paul than
in the actual mission of the first century). At the level of specific prohibi-
tions, two strands of Paul’s thought would come to occupy the foreground:
the injunction against porneia and a radical opposition to all same-sex in-
tercourse. The central Christian prohibition on porneia collided with deeply
entrenched patterns of sexual permissiveness. With the lighthearted tolerance
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
cede. Gone is the warm eroticism of the Pompeian fresco, vanished is the
charmed sensuality of the Greek romance. The protean energy of human
desire resisted being corralled, but marriage, inexorably, became the only
legitimate venue of erotic fulfillment. Freudian intuitions, or simple experi-
ence, may lead us to expect that if Christianity was a signal victory for the
superego, the id endured, driven underground, searching for its own quiet
quarters out of ecclesiastical view, or sublimated into religious ecstasy. But
the transformation was epochal.
The story of same-sex love in the centuries between Constantine and
Justinian unfolds with fierce predictability. Vituperative attacks on same-
sex love are strewn across the late antique homiletic literature. Notable is
the direct influence of a Pauline conception, in which same-sex love per se
is an encompassing category, inclusive of all forms of erotic contact be-
tween males and females. At a rhythm that mimicked the deeper diff usion
of Christian norms, the late antique state gradually turned its attention to
the repression of same-sex encounters. The Theodosian age (ca. AD 379– 450)
was still marked by the predominance of old categories of masculinity as a
regulatory platform, but there is a new, hostile energy in the air that it is not
unsafe to attribute to religious fervor. The assimilation of Christian ideol-
ogy and sexual policing culminates in the reign of Justinian (AD 527–565),
whose Institutes for the first time classified sex between males as a crime
without distinguishing between active and passive partners. Justinian also
passed a law against pederasty and enforced it ex post facto in spectacular
fashion. Most remarkably, if Procopius is to be believed, men could be ac-
cused of sexual crime even by slaves, signaling a total breakdown of the
ancient sexual order.
The ecclesiastical campaign against same-sex love was vicious but highly
sporadic. By contrast, the struggle against fornication, porneia, was a full-
fledged war, which saw the church muster its forces in deliberate array
against an ancient style of sexual life. The preaching was endless, the peni-
tential enforcement real. But the sex industry was too entrenched for the
Christian state even to compass its repression. Instead, the Christian em-
perors focused on an aspect of the sex trade whose moral and material sig-
nificance should not be underestimated: they banned forced prostitution.
The brutal exposure of vulnerable women rested on a public indifference so
vast that it lay invisibly at the very foundations of the ancient sexual order. As
Christianity progressively absorbed society, and could ever less comfortably
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
present itself as a dissent movement apart from the world, it was forced to
reckon with the silences in its own sexual program. Because prostitution
was at the center of an ancient sexual culture, an order of relationships be-
tween state and society built on the concept of shame, the progressive real-
ization of its injustice is a privileged index of Christianization. The aggres-
sive campaign of Justinian against compulsion in the flesh industry marks
the end of a distinctly ancient sexual order, one whose distant origins lie at
the very beginnings of the archaic Mediterranean city-state and finally
crumble in the midst of his rule.
Chapter 4 follows the Christian revolution in sexual morality through
the medium of imaginative literature. The fictional word is an essential
complement to the injunctions of the moralists and the dictates of law. Lit-
erature is capable of expressing, in a way more intimate than mere com-
mands, the shape of sexual morality, when actually projected onto the fur-
rowed plane of human life. Pagans, Christians, and Jews alike used stories
as vehicles to express their deepest beliefs about the relationships between
the sexual body, the mechanics of society, and the nature of the cosmos.
The Christian transformation of sex can be retraced in the history of litera-
ture, which mirrors quite sensitively the passage from a public sexual ideol-
ogy organized around the imperatives of social reproduction to a mentality
founded in ecclesiastical norms. In short, the history of literature recapitu-
lates the passage from shame to sin.
Chapter 4 is focused on one of the central preoccupations of ancient fic-
tion, female chastity. Feminine purity was a transcendent symbol, capable
of bearing the most consequential meanings. The authors of the imperial
romances invested no small part of their talents in contriving elaborate
threats to the chastity of their heroines. These scenes, looked at across the
genre, provide direct access to the ideological code of romance. The ro-
mances are stories in which essence precedes existence. What is most re-
markable about the imperial romances is the extent to which they are explic-
itly built on an acute awareness that forces beyond the individual’s control
shape his or her life. Fate furnishes us with moral ends, and more instru-
mentally, society constitutes us as selves. The romances make their most
daring approaches to the inscrutable mysteries of fate in the image of the
heroine’s endangered chastity. The romances flirt with the possibility of her
violation, because the transgression of her body would mark a visceral con-
travention of the social and cosmic order. These typological scenes are very
INTRODUCTION
near the deep theology of the romance. In the end, she is always rescued,
and the deeper order of the cosmos prevails against the flux and frustration
that is experienced in human time. The heroine is reserved, by the will of
the gods, for marriage. There is salvation in the cycle of nature, which im-
parts to us the gift of eros within its mysterious order.
Christians and Jews would rework these very scenes of feminine imperil-
ment to express their deepest reservations about the world and the place of
eros in the constitution of the self. Already in the primitive phases of the
religion, Christian authors were adept at reformulating the fictional tropes
of Greco-Roman literature. A whole body of legend grew up around the he-
roes of Christianity, the apostles. In the apocryphal acts, we find the sexual
mechanics of the romance deliberately inverted. The ruling Roman order
provides the villains, while the apostles, intermediaries of a higher power,
furnish the heroes. In these legends, sexual rejection functions as an expres-
sion of dissent from the dominant order. By reading the parallel scenes of
female endangerment, we glimpse the theological imagination of a move-
ment set apart from mainstream society and convinced in its belief in a
separate, spiritual order.
In the centuries after Christian triumph, the Christian literary imagina-
tion was transformed, as the church itself stood less as an alternative to so-
ciety than an institution permeated by the world. Fiction still proved a vital
medium for the expression of sexual morality and its relation to life. From
Shame to Sin ends with the popular late antique tales of penitent prosti-
tutes, stories of fallen women who repent of their sins and pursue spiritual
rehabilitation. These lives are antiromances of some literary sophistication.
The authors of the lives of the penitent prostitutes intentionally evoke the
heroines of romance, all the more dramatically to violate the single, central
rule of romance: the heroine’s corporal inviolability. The genius of this new
archetype was that it allowed the authors to create allegories of sin, as a
paradigm in which sexual morality has been freed from the requirements of
society. These are tales of abundant moral autonomy, which dramatize the
severance of sexual morality from its social moorings and place the indi-
vidual eternally before the judgment of God. The stories of penitent prosti-
tutes are the fictional analogue to the social and legal program of late antiq-
uity, epitomized by the reforms of Justinian. The ideological correspondence
between law and literature is telling of a deep transformation. Indeed,
even as Christian authors perfected their new archetype, of the free sinner
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
In the last of a long series of threats to her chastity, the heroine of a second-
century Greek novel, Leucippe, stood in imminent danger of suffering sex-
ual violence at the hands of a man claiming to be her master. The romantic
novel, the characteristic literary invention of the Roman Empire, was a
genre built out of such theatrical endangerments to feminine chastity. In
the scene of her attempted rape, Leucippe is threatened by Thersander, a
caricature of a villain whose very name means “Savage Man.” Leucippe, a
freeborn girl of unparalleled beauty, has been enslaved by pirates and sold
to this stereotypical brute. It was “fate’s wish” that she be a slave for a time,
but her true status is never really in doubt, and the problematic relationship
between status and behavior runs as a thread throughout the entire con-
frontation between Thersander and Leucippe. When Thersander puts his
hands beneath Leucippe’s chin and lifts her face upward for a kiss, she re-
sists and reproaches him, “You are not acting as a free man, nor as a well-
born one.” While his hopes were still high, Thersander remained “wholly
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
have believed that the first icy gusts of denial could be felt sweeping across
the ancient valleys.
TH E CU RRE NT FA S H IO N : SA M E- S E X E ROS I N TH E H IG H E M PI RE
Around the age of nineteen, Clitophon’s cousin Leucippe came to live with
him and his family in Tyre. He fell in love with her at first sight. Paralyzed
by his infatuation, he took his troubles to his cousin Clinias, only two years
his elder but already “an initiate of eros.” Clinias quickly became his trusty
counselor. The passions of Clinias were for a meirakion, a boy somewhere in
his later teens, and his coaching is meant to be understood in terms of ped-
erastic norms. The ancient novels are, both superficially and in their deep
structure, stories of heterosexual love, but same-sex amours still find an
important place. In fact, the first two books of Leucippe and Clitophon are
framed by the traditional assumptions of classical Greek pederasty, trans-
posed onto a heterosexual plot. Clinias claimed that “boy and maiden”
alike shared a sense of shame; seduction, he argued, required the lover to
draw out the beloved’s consent by the most delicate rituals of courtship,
slowly wearing down the beloved’s guard without making startling moves.
Then, Clinias advised, “when you have a tacit understanding that the next
step is the big deed, even those who are ready to surrender prefer the ap-
pearance of compulsion, to let the façade of force deflect the shame of con-
sent.” Couched in terms of a plot to seduce Leucippe, Clinias lays bare the
central contradiction of classical pederastic norms: it required from the
younger partner forms of consent that were intrinsically disgraceful.
One of the more unlikely misprisions to have prevailed among historians
of antiquity is the view that modes and practices of same-sex contact with-
ered in the high empire. In Veyne’s words, ancient bisexuality disappeared.
But reports of same-sex love’s demise have been much exaggerated. Clinias
is presented as a sympathetic figure, even if his lessons nearly lead Clito-
phon and Leucippe into irreversible trouble. His erotic style looms over the
first two books of the romance, culminating in a famous rhetorical set-piece
on a boat that Leucippe and Clitophon have taken to elope. After noting
that “male-love has somehow become the current fashion,” Clitophon and
one of the passengers, Menelaus, debate the relative merits of loving women
and loving boys. Clitophon professes that his sexual experience has been
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
limited to “the women who sell Aphrodite,” but, as Menelaus notes, he cer-
tainly sounds like no novice. In fact, Clitophon delivers the most elaborate
encomium on the female orgasm that the ancient world has left to us. The
frantic, gasping delight of the woman is integral to his case for the superior-
ity of female lovers. Like other advocates of women, such as Plutarch, Clito-
phon emphasizes the promise of mutual pleasure in heterosexual aphrodisia
to contrast it with the presumptive one-way pleasure of pederasty. But
where Plutarch focused on the warm companionship that could arise from
sexual familiarity, the erotic novel describes the transport of sexual ecstasy
experienced by men and women— even, if Clitophon has not been misled,
by the vendors of Aphrodite.
Menelaus, by contrast, marshals a highly conventional case against
women, centered on their softness and artificiality. He extols the sharp, if
brief, pleasures of loving boys, “whose very evanescence makes the pleasure
so much greater.” He develops a contrast between feminine contrivance and
the “naturalness” of male kisses. Unlike other “contests of the loves,” no win-
ner is declared aboard the boat in the novel of Achilles. Nevertheless, the
author’s position is implicit, both in the narrative placement of the contest
and in the fate of the same-sex amours. The first two books are full of failed
love, most notably Clitophon’s disastrous near-seduction of Leucippe, car-
ried out under the advisement of Clinias. More revealing, both Clinias and
Menelaus, the lovers of boys, experience the early death of their beloveds in
tragic accidents for which they are indirectly responsible. In Leucippe and
Clitophon, same-sex love can bring pleasure, but only mutual eros culmi-
nating in marriage receives the protection of the gods. Same-sex love is
perishable, whereas the universe was built so that the rapturous delights of
heterosexual aphrodisia would have a place. The love of boys, in the ro-
mance, was not sinful or abnormal, but it was transitory and tragic, for it
had no happy resolution in a story destined to end with marriage.
The ancient reader of Achilles Tatius would have noticed a conspicuous
absence in the apology for pederasty. Nowhere do we find the soaring, spiri-
tualized defense of an elevated form of mentorship that harnessed the
power of erotic attraction for virtuous ends. In part the absence of any such
defense is explained by the setting of the debate within an erotic novel,
whose generic conventions accept and insist on the frankly sexual nature of
human companionship. But in a deeper sense Leucippe and Clitophon is a
cipher for attitudes toward pederasty in the Roman Empire. It is telling
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
that Foucault sees pederasty in the novel as “episodic and marginal.” Cen-
tral to Foucault’s presentation of Roman sexual culture is the claim that in
the high empire, “reflection on the love of boys lost some of its intensity, its
seriousness, its vitality.” The decline of pederasty, or at least its diminished
place in the moral economy of sex, is treated as the counterpart of the con-
jugalization of pleasure. Foucault finds in the high empire a “philosophical
disinvestment” from the institution of pederasty.
The claim rests entirely on a comparison with “the lofty formulations of
the classical period,” notably Plato’s. If comparison with classical Greece
seems inevitable in any discussion of pederasty, such a benchmark is never-
theless bound to lead to a stilted measure of Roman sexual culture. Seen in
broader perspective, the story of Roman-era pederasty is not its decline but
its liveliness. Foucault’s judgments are simply misguided. The place of ped-
erasty in Leucippe and Clitophon, which is important enough to frame the
first quarter of the novel, helps us to situate contemporary attitudes to ped-
erasty in terms of high imperial culture, rather than in comparison to clas-
sical Greece. A heightened and almost impolitic insistence on the physical
essence of love, an awareness that the beloved’s consent could not be squared
with social honor, and narratives of eros that sought to understand the
place of mankind’s sexual instincts within the cosmos: these, rather than
disapproval or disinvestment, make up the story of pederasty in the Roman
Empire.
The Greeks and Romans of this period believed that beauty resided in
the male as well as the female body, and they were never surprised when the
sight of a beautiful body aroused sexual desire. “Did you never feel eros for
someone, for a boy or girl, slave or free?” A farcical tale of travel to the after-
life imagined that on the Isle of the Blessed, “all the wives are shared in
common without jealousy . . . and the boys all submit to their pursuers
without resistance.” Pastoral poetry, meant to evoke an idealized harmony
between man and nature, made boys the object of erotic attraction, from
Virgil (who was said to be more fond of boys than of women) to Nemesia-
nus, a court poet of the late third century. Marcus Aurelius, who learned
from his adoptive grandfather to “cease all things concerned with the love
of youths,” thanked the gods that he had touched “neither Theodotus nor
Benedicta”—the casual indifference to the gender of the erotic object is what
is telling. The traditional myths still held that even the gods were sexually
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
indiscriminate: Zeus became a swan for Leda, but an eagle for Ganymede:
“some think one or the other is greater, but they’re equal to me.”
Age dynamics were at the core of acceptable same-sex love in the Roman
world. The “short season of rejoicing” was the span of time between early
adolescence and the growth of the first beard. In the wry words of a witty
courtesan, “boys are beautiful so long as they look like females.” The physi-
ological boundaries of pederasty were flexible, if inexorable, indeed a sym-
bol of evanescence: “time, which lays waste to beauty.” Sixteen to eighteen
were the canonically acceptable years, propriety decreasing by degrees with
distance from this window, without firm breaks. A mischievous poet from
the age of Hadrian was indiscreetly precise: the age of seventeen marked a
sort of perfection reserved for Zeus himself; after that, he said, there was a
risk the boy might turn the tables. It was a traditional charge: by twenty,
when the boy had a bristling chin, there was too much suspicion of alter-
nating sexual roles. But in Lucian’s satirical account of an all-male society
on the moon, the boys played the part of wives until twenty-five, then en-
tered the ranks of the husbands.
The notion of “Greek love” is misleading on two counts. In the first
place, practices and attitudes varied across the Greek world, and classical
Athenian culture was hardly standard. Even in Athens, pederasty could not
be washed of its aristocratic connotations, and the law was ambiguous
enough that the adult partner might find himself liable for criminal viola-
tion. It is an even greater error, though, to insinuate that Greek love was not
an indigenous Roman practice. This charge goes back to late republican
moralists, who, in chauvinistic terms, decried the effects of underlying so-
cial change as the by-product of Hellenization. In reality, Greek and Ro-
man codes of sexual behavior shared profound structural similarities: a
sexual act was composed of an active and a passive partner, and masculinity
required the insertive role. Roman pederasty was distinct in small but deci-
sive ways. The Romans had an absolute abhorrence for the violation of
freeborn boys; the body of the Roman man was impenetrable, and there
was no twilight of indeterminacy between boyhood and manhood. This
prohibition was backed by the fearsome power of public law. The severity of
the rule eliminated the zone of ambiguity that had proven such fertile
ground in the Greek philosophical tradition for celebrating the mentorship
of the lover and beloved.
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
The great chasm separating Roman pederastic practice from earlier mod-
els was the omnipresence of slaves. Classical Greece had seen an unprece-
dented expansion of the slave trade, which laid the institutional and com-
mercial foundations for the Roman slave system. Slaves, already in Greek
culture, were subjected to untrammeled sexual abuse. But the Romans built
one of history’s most enduring and extensive slave systems, and the own-
ership of slaves would gradually shape virtually every social institution in
Roman life, including pederasty. The laws deflected lust away from the
freeborn body, and slaves provided a ready outlet. In Roman pederasty,
elaborate courtship before the act was replaced by the master’s authority,
and intentional obscurity about the nature of the act gave way to a coarse
simplicity about the physical mechanics of pleasure. The most striking
physical artifact of Roman pederasty, the Warren Cup, simultaneously cel-
ebrates love between males and explores the dependence of the practice on
the institution of slavery. A silver goblet of the early first century, the War-
ren Cup juxtaposes two panels. On one side a young master, wearing a
wreath, penetrates an even younger slave. On the reverse, the two figures
are many years older. The slave lowers himself onto the master, who is again
wearing a wreath. But this time another slave, a small boy, peeks through
the door, observing the scene. Though opinions differ, the most compelling
interpretation of the cup suggests that the same couple is depicted on both
sides; on the reverse, the master’s sexual partner has outgrown his role, and
the younger slave watching the scene is catching a glimpse of his future life
course. In the Roman context, the moral economy of pederasty was recen-
tered around the bare fact of dominance.
The sexual use of slaves is prominent from the very beginnings of Ro-
man literature, and it is simply pervasive across the long tradition of amo-
rous poetry at Rome. Only the idiosyncratic Ovid dissents, and even then
as a matter of taste rather than scruple. “I hate amorous endeavors which do
not end happily for both alike, and so I am less interested in the love of
boys.” The slave system was an entrenched part of Roman society through-
out the imperial period. In an empire of some seventy million souls, per-
haps seven to ten million were enslaved, a proportion with few parallels in
premodern history. The Romans were promiscuous slavers. Rich households
teemed with unfree bodies; decurions, equestrians, and senators owned
scores, hundreds, in some cases thousands of slaves. The abundance of fun-
gible sex objects in the rich household might turn the anxious paradox of
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
assault” and “an even more lawless violation” than the corruption of women.
The law “so far exceeds all else in modesty and faith that to it has been
vouchsafed the matrimonial bond, the beauty of the virgin, the bloom of
boys.” Seduction of freeborn boys became conspicuously dangerous, but
the statutory basis of the crime is a little unclear. In the early empire the
Romans gave the towns under their sway considerable control over private
law, so that the empire was a patchwork of jurisdictions and legal regimes.
But Roman rules had an irresistible influence. Roman law applied to the
growing number of provincials who earned Roman citizenship, and Roman
governors played an ever larger role in the resolution of disputes. Through
whatever channels, Roman officials came to preside over the sexual honor
of free provincial boys. Lucian reports that the charlatan Peregrinus, having
“corrupted a pretty lad,” paid three thousand drachmas to the boy’s par-
ents, “who were poor, to avoid being hauled before the governor of Asia.” In
the early second century, a Roman prefect of Egypt, a member of the most
genteel social circles in the empire, was himself undone after seducing the
seventeen-year-old scion of a respectable Alexandrian family; the scandal
became a cause célèbre in a culture with a ready taste for judicial drama,
and stylized transcripts of the trial, before what judge we do not know, still
remain.
Whatever the law commanded, sex with freeborn boys went on. Fathers
were endlessly anxious about the sexual dangers that lurked in the schools.
The “lover of boys,” it was conventional to believe, only had to bribe the
pedagogue or attendant and entice his beloved with a little gift. Philoso-
phers, whose position gave them opportunity, were regularly accused of
taking improper liberties with their charges; “in sum all their doctrines are
mere words and they are enslaved to pleasure, some cavorting with concu-
bines, others with prostitutes, most of them with boys.” One sign that older
patterns endured is the intense reflection on the protocols of consent. The
ideal partner was one who knew “the art of assenting and refusing at the
same time.” Poets, anyway, could profess to believe that the life cycle still
afforded a brief window of indeterminacy: it was wrong to lure a boy into
sin in the years before his moral reason was developed, and twice as shame-
ful once the young man was too old, “but between not yet and nevermore
you and I have the now.”
The impossibility of honorable consent is at the heart of Plutarch’s Ero-
tikos, by any measure a crucial document of sexual life in the high empire.
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
The Erotikos is a dialogue set within the frame story of a young widow’s ef-
forts to lure a handsome young man into marriage. The backdrop is essen-
tial, for Plutarch construes the woman as a sort of female lover pursuing her
beloved according to the rules of classical pederasty. The story occasions an
extended discussion of the relative merits of marriage and the love of boys.
The defenders of pederasty give an apology as dramatic as any classical
antecedent. True eros, claim its defenders, has nothing to do with women.
Marriage is a domestic arrangement, more about keeping accounts and
enjoying enervating pleasures between daily squabbling than the soul’s as-
cent; bonding between males, they argue, is the true way to nurture virtue.
The “form, complexion, and image of the boy’s beauty” was just a powerful
reminder, sent by the gods, of heavenly beauty, a sensible impression of the
incorruptible reality. The true lover of wisdom experienced a chaste desire
and would never indulge in base pleasures. Hence, sex with slaves must be
explicitly renounced. “So too it is not gentlemanly or cultivated to lust after
slave boys, which is nothing more than physical coitus.” Sex with slaves was
so insalubrious that it had nothing more to recommend it than did “sex
with women.”
Plutarch, in response, defends marriage as an institution capable of gen-
tly pacifying the force of physical pleasure; the benevolent authority of the
husband might be used to cultivate the same sort of virtuous friendship
that the love of boys falsely promises. The Erotikos is indeed a grandilo-
quent expression of the conjugal values of the early empire. But the attack
on pederasty is so devastating because Plutarch does not treat it as merely a
debased reflection of a higher love. Instead, the amiable Plutarch uses the
social facts of his age to cut through the cultured obfuscations of the peder-
ast. The love of boys either requires consent on the part of the beloved,
which makes him soft and womanish, or it requires violence on the part of
the lover, which makes him a criminal. The claim to be free of physical
consummation is so much specious misdirection, done out of simple shame
and fear for the law. There can be no Eros without Aphrodite. Even in the
classical period, pederasty danced on the head of a pin. In an empire satu-
rated with the bodies of slaves, where the law was unequivocal, there was no
room for maneuver: the pleasures could not be sublimated, the matter of
volition could not be clouded. Plutarch’s logical precision was merciless,
its assumptions firmly rooted in the world around him. He did not de-
nounce pederasty; he pronounced that it was, in reality, long since dead.
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
mystical insight into the future but rather because it could account for the
individual’s physical and mental constitution. Sexual traits were deter-
mined by the composition of the soul. Ptolemy imagines an extraordinary
array of sexual phenotypes; the stars could make people erotic, frigid, pas-
sionate for women, passionate for boys, aggressive, pathic, impotent, inces-
tuous, adulterous, and so on. Desire for boys was an expression of the same
underlying passion for girls, and it could exist in normal or excessive quan-
tities. The bewildering logic of Ptolemy’s sexual schema becomes a little
clearer in a chapter on “diseases of the soul.” Most afflictions were said to be
matters of excess or deficiency in ordinary qualities. Sometimes, however,
the imbalances were of such extreme degree that the person’s “whole nature”
was “diseased.” Deformations in the passive part of the soul were manifested
in abnormal sexual morphologies. Two commonplaces of ancient thought
underlie Ptolemy’s doctrine. First, men are naturally active, women natu-
rally passive. Second, the difference between men and women is one of de-
gree rather than kind; masculinity and femininity stood on a single sliding
scale. Thus, the pull of planetary forces might draw men and women alike
toward either the masculine or the feminine end of the spectrum.
If the planets completely disrupted the proper quantum of passivity, a
monster was born. When sun and moon stood together unattended in mas-
culine signs of the zodiac, the soul was made more virile; men would expe-
rience natural passions to an extreme degree, and women too would be
somewhat manly. If Venus or Mars joined the luminaries in a masculine
sign, the effects were further intensified. Men became hypermasculine,
experiencing natural passions to such a degree that they were unrestrained
and even unlawful. Women became monstrously masculine figures who
played the role of men with other women. (It is worth pausing briefly to
note that Ptolemy is the rare source who even reflects on lesbianism; a com-
bination of young age at marriage for women, patriarchal regimes of con-
trol, especially in the upper classes, and the lack of a richly developed moral
discourse about lesbianism created a zone of silence around love between
women in the ancient world.) When, by contrast, sun and moon stood to-
gether unattended in feminine signs of the zodiac, the individual was dis-
proportionately feminized. Women became especially womanly, and men
became delicate and effeminate. If Venus intensified the effects, women
became lustful and unlawful in their natural passions, while men became
“soft,” incapable of having sex with women; they became closet pathics. If
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
Mars was also in a feminine sign, the man’s shamelessness was flagrant, like
that of a common male prostitute. Thus, the pathic was a creature formed
by the stars when a change in the quantities of masculinity and femininity
triggered a change in the quality of his whole nature.
There was little that was novel in these assumptions. Folk belief had long
held that women were underheated and incompletely formed men; moist,
clammy, the female body had been contrived by nature to play its role in
the continuous regeneration of the species, “born to be penetrated.” For
men, too, manliness was a matter of degree, and the insufficiently mascu-
linized male became damp, soft, in extreme cases an “androgyne.” If a man
was womanly in constitution, it was sure to manifest itself in sexual devi-
ance. By the second century a heap of traditional abuses had piled around
the stereotypes of sexual deviance, and the social tool kit of the Greco-
Roman man taught him how to recognize clandestine sexual malfeasance.
Lucian quotes an old saw, that you could sooner conceal five elephants in
your armpit than one kinaidos – the monstrous gender deviant of ancient
sexual culture. There were “ten thousand giveaways: his gait, his gaze, and
his voice, the angle of his neck.” Ancient techniques of discerning character
from appearance found expression in the theoretical science of physiog-
nomy, which flourished in the high empire as never before. “Knowledge of
the internal constitution of the feminine and the masculine” was, tellingly,
one of the three foundations of the science. We learn that androgynes
might try to project a deceptive appearance, but “they are easily outed. For
though they try to mimic the gait, speech, and glance of a real man, if they
are ever startled or distressed, they instantly return to their true nature.”
Both Ptolemy and the physiognomists adopt a scientific idiom and studi-
ously refrain from using the vernacular slur kinaidos. But we risk mismea-
suring the import of their scientia sexualis if we do not recognize the utterly
conventional social logic undergirding both astral and physiognomic doc-
trine. The conviction that society harbored individuals with monstrous
imbalances of gender characteristics was imponderably ancient. The ex-
slave Phaedrus, writing in the early first century, records a fable in which
Prometheus, after too much to drink, made mistakes in assembling certain
humans, placing male generative organs on women and vice versa, creating
tribades (a word meaning “women who rub”) and “softies.” Both Ptolemy
and the physiognomic treatises speak of a degree of gender deviance that
bore on the individual’s “whole nature,” and the language of “nature”
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
marks a subtle innovation. There was nothing new about the ascription of
certain patterns of desire to a definite social type, but the placement of the
traditional type, with all of the stereotypical qualities attached, into a scien-
tific matrix, purportedly capable of explaining the natural mechanics of
sexual deviance, was a step beyond the amorphous stereotypes of traditional
prejudice. In short, what was new was the scientific framework and the
types of sexual etiology it created.
The codes of masculinity that suff use the ancient literature belong to the
millennia; the systems of knowledge that flourished in the Roman Empire
provided a new medium for exploring the old stereotypes. But it is worth
asking whether perhaps, beneath the placid ideological continuity and the
crisper scientific paradigms, there was not a more profound movement un-
der way. Our knowledge of Roman attitudes toward men whose sexual be-
havior violated prevailing norms comes exclusively from sources that are
incandescently hostile; most of the evidence exists because, in the viciously
competitive public sphere of the late classical world, it was a canon of invec-
tive to insult a man’s sexual honor. Through such a haze of malevolence any
speculation on reality is perilous. But there is surely enough testimony from
the imperial era to posit the existence of men who openly flaunted domi-
nant sexual norms. A scientist like Ptolemy set out to explain the patterns of
social life around him, and what we have here is not an encyclopedist sum-
moning his marvels into existence. There is, in fact, more evidence for frank
sexual dissidence in the Roman Empire than for any other period before
early modernity.
Ptolemy distinguished between men who kept their behavior private and
those who “straightforwardly and openly lack shame.” That men indulged
in deviant behavior behind closed doors was the inexhaustible stuff of in-
vective. More interesting is the second type, those who self-identified as
noncompliant sexual beings. This sort, Ptolemy said, occupied a role that
was like “that of a vulgar prostitute, exposed to all shame and abuse.” The
assimilation of the public pathic and the prostitute may well reflect both
material and legal reality. There was certainly a male brothel scene in Rome
and presumably in most towns of any scale in the empire. More profoundly,
willful sexual submission by a male entailed infamia, literally a lack of re-
spectable reputation, which brought impairment of civil rights. In this at-
mosphere, it has been suggested, a subculture flourished.
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
their partners were their wedded wives.” Clement of Alexandria, too, de-
nounces with righteous indignation marriages between women. A vignette
in Lucian’s satirical “Dialogue of the Courtesans,” meant to amuse and tit-
illate, describes a marriage between women; it is hardly less vituperative
than Clement’s preaching. Perhaps the only testimony we have that does
not come from the pen of a hostile informant is a funerary relief of the Au-
gustan period depicting two women holding hands in a dextrarum iunctio,
the prime symbol of marriage. It scarcely needs saying that same-sex mar-
riages between women, or men, had no standing or consequence in public
law, but that fact hardly diminishes the extraordinary testimony we do have
for durable forms of same-sex companionship. In a peaceful and prosperous
society, amid a highly urbanized and remarkably interconnected empire
where marriage was valorized as an institution of the greatest moral and
emotional fulfillment, same-sex pairs openly claimed, and ritually enacted,
their own conjugal rights.
It is beyond our ken to say how people truly behaved in any period of his-
tory. But at the very least it is time to lay to rest the bizarre notion, which is
still sometimes expressed, that same-sex eros was, materially and ideologi-
cally, on the wane by the second century. This was the age when an emper-
or’s favorite could become an object of worldwide veneration. When a novel-
ist could claim that male-love was “becoming the current fashion.” When a
satirist could claim that marriage between men would soon be officially
recognized. The question posed in the debates between marriage and ped-
erasty, which figure so prominently in the literature of the era, was not an
idle one. Indeed, same-sex eros was of greater interest to the Latin writers
on either side of AD 100 than ever before; and as the Greek sources come
to preponderance in the second century, there is no sign of abatement.
The Greeks and Romans of the high empire still conceived of sexual de-
sire as an appetite that was basically indiscriminate in its choice of object.
For a man to play the insertive role in coital encounters was normative, so
long as the passive flesh was smooth. At the same time, the Roman male was
impenetrable, even during the temporary indeterminacy of adolescence. In
the imperial period, this norm, which was always one element among others
in the Greek cultural atmosphere, if not always the dominant one, drove out
the competing alternatives. Of course, such an attitude rests on a bedrock of
slavery. To read closely the famous “contests of loves” in the imperial period
is to see how deeply insinuated slavery had become in the nexus of erotic
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
practice. Yet despite the vitality of various forms of same-sex erotics in the
high empire, it would be a grave mistake to say that the Romans had any-
thing resembling tolerance for homosexuality. The code of manliness that
governed the access to pleasures in the classical world was severe and unfor-
giving, and deviance from it was socially mortal. The viciousness of main-
stream attitudes toward passivity is startling for anyone who approaches the
ancient sources with the false anticipation that pre-Christian cultures were
somehow reliably civilized toward sexual minorities.
shame, personified in the prostitute; down the other lay chastity and honor,
personified in the virgin and the matron. These two fates were deeply em-
bedded in patterns of social reproduction, loosely codified in public law,
and actively reinforced by the social technology of honor and shame. It is
an achievement of Leucippe and Clitophon that the story has so openly con-
templated the inscrutable economy of fortune, in the stunning contrast
between its beneficiary and its victim. The fate of the prostitute seems only
more capricious and unjust in a novelistic universe where there is no re-
demption beyond life, only the prospect of salvation through conjugal eros.
In the cosmos created by the author, the prostitute’s grotesque demise serves
only to exhibit the good fortune of Leucippe in even greater contrast.
The norms attaching to male sexual behavior inevitably attract the lion’s
share of the attention from historians. It is an obvious and insurmountable
fact that our informants are almost exclusively male. More subtly, expecta-
tions of female sexual behavior can seem uniform and immobile: good girls
remain pure until marriage, faithful within marriage. The imposition of
these limits is as unsurprising as the dawn. The effort to control female sexu-
ality is precultural, a permanent fixture of sexual competition. The regula-
tion of female sexuality in the ancient Mediterranean shared all the predict-
able features of a patriarchal culture. Nevertheless, the actual mechanics
and specific inflections of feminine sexual norms in the pre-Christian world
merit closer inspection. The peculiar complexion of classical sexual culture
derived from the institutionalization of a stark, binary opposition between
women who possessed and women who lacked sexual honor. The great po-
larization of feminine types not only animated a whole code of signs and
gestures, it actively gave structure to the material formation of classical so-
cieties. And in the Roman period, the reliance of female sexual ethics on
patterns of socialization even became the object of philosophical reflection,
though not a matter for reform, as the author of Leucippe and Clitophon
well knew.
The great dichotomization of female sexuality was embedded—
materially, culturally, and legally—in the very foundations of the ancient
city. Its assumptions are fully apparent in the earliest Roman literature. The
contrast between the matrona and the meretrix, the respectable woman and
the whore, runs throughout the entire oeuvre of Plautus. It animates the
social thought of Cicero. Most consequentially, it undergirds the moral
legislation of the first emperor, Augustus. The domestic reforms of Augus-
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
tus were the cornerstone of his social policy, whose precise mixture of con-
servatism and laxity were to set the moral tone of the high empire. The
adultery legislation of Augustus was, in the judgment of no less than Mom-
msen, one of the most intrusive and enduring creations in the history of
criminal law. Adulterium meant the violation of a respectable woman. The
true significance of the Augustan law against adulterium lay not in the im-
position of repressive norms on a libertine society, but in the assumption by
the state of an ever greater role in the regulation of sexual morality, along
solidly traditional lines. The lex Iulia actually limited the role of private vio-
lence in the punishment of adultery, and in place of hoary threats of private
death it established a standing court to hear charges of adultery; third-party
accusation was even, within certain boundaries, permitted. With the Au-
gustan legislation, the state got in the business of protecting feminine chas-
tity. At the same time the state was required to define, or at least establish
guidelines allowing judges to define, which women were beyond its pur-
view: implicitly slaves and explicitly women who made a profit with their
bodies. By insinuating the state into the traditional networks of violence
controlling access to female bodies, the Augustan laws ratified the distinc-
tion between women with, and without, sexual honor.
The lex Iulia was a momentous success, and one measure of its profound
influence is that it subtly reshaped the vernacular of sexual honor. The Au-
gustan laws protected the sexual honor of the mater familias, and the word
became the Latin term for a woman with an all-encompassing sexual re-
spectability, the equivalent of the Greek eleuthera, which had long denoted
the married or marriageable woman. “We ought to accept as a mater fa-
milias she who has not lived dishonorably. For it is behavior that distin-
guishes and separates the mater familias from other women. So it matters
not at all whether she is a married woman or a widow, a freeborn or freed
woman, since neither marriages nor births make a mater familias, but good
morals.” Social status and sexual behavior were inseparably fused, and the
mater familias was defined by a mode of being, visibly projected in her com-
portment and appearance. It was assumed that a mater familias could be
distinguished, in the way she dressed, from women without sexual honor,
whose “servile” or “whorish” vestments advertised their social condition.
The sexual life course of free women was dominated by the imperatives
of marriage. In a society that was never freed from the relentless grip of a
high-mortality regime, the burden of reproduction weighed heavily on the
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
tus depicts the bride’s metamorphosis from demure and reluctant creature
into a sensual enthusiast.
The code of female sexual morality was summarized by one word,
modesty—pudicitia in Latin, sōphrosynē in Greek. For a woman, the “single
ornament, the noblest beauty, unravaged by age, the highest honor,” was
pudicitia. A man perfectly blessed by the gods was given a wife with fertility
and pudicitia. If sexual modesty was a monopolistic virtue, it was neverthe-
less one that allowed surprising nuance and refinement. For women, pudici-
tia or sōphrosynē implied both an objective fact and a subjective mode of
being; it was a state of body and a state of mind. Fundamentally, pudicitia
was the corporal integrity of the free woman, untouched until marriage,
vouchsafed for one man within marriage. Sexual modesty was inextricably
fused with status, and pudicitia often appears alongside libertas as its in-
separable adjunct. Nevertheless, pudicitia was a social rather than a strictly
legal concept, and it could, exceptionally, even be predicated of slaves. In a
vast and highly stratified slave system, where slaves were delicately inter-
twined with the life of the free family, pudicitia was a powerful and impre-
cise enough concept that some of its mystique might devolve even on the
lowest members of the household; but the deeper truth was that, for slaves,
access to honor depended on the discretion of the master.
An ancient woman lived every moment engaged in a high-stakes game
of suspicious observation. “The one glory of woman is pudicitia, and there-
fore it is incumbent upon her to be, and to seem, chaste.” In the words of a
Christian author, “A woman’s reputation for sexual modesty is a fragile
thing, like a precious flower that breaks in the soft breeze and is ruined by
the light wind.” There were “so many” potential signs of immodesty; her
dress, her gait, her voice, her face all acted as external projections of her in-
ternal state. The woman’s “only protection” was never to become the cause
of any gossip. To guard against the attentions of other men, the Roman
matron should dress only so nice as to avoid uncleanness, she should always
be chaperoned in public, she should walk with her eyes down and risk rude-
ness rather than immodesty in her greetings, and she should blush when
addressed.
The sharpest of these patriarchal prescriptions come from rhetorical
school exercises, sources that no doubt caricature contemporary male bom-
bast and must be taken with healthful caution. Undoubtedly the scripts of
female modesty could be stifling. In most quarters women wore their hair
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
veiled from the time they reached sexual maturity. Coins of the high em-
pire advertise pudicitia as a chief imperial virtue, and its image is a Roman
matron, hair veiled, hand drawn partly across her face to shield it from full
view. Conventional limits on visibility and movement were truly constrict-
ing. Even the gentle Plutarch counsels a woman to be most visible in her
husband’s presence and to hide when he is away. A woman without a man
was “like a city without a wall”; fathers and husbands offered protection,
and protection brings its own types of dependence. But it would be a mis-
take to underestimate the room for maneuver left to women. Debates over
the appearance of modesty could be so intense because the lines were
contestable—how much hair could be seen, when the skin of an arm could
be exposed. Limits on movement were relaxed for women chaperoned by
slaves, a considerable concession in Mediterranean towns where maybe the
top fifth of all households owned servants. Moreover, the zone between the
permissible and the forbidden carries its own erotic charge, and in a society
where sex was always cheaply available, men and women alike were well
aware that danger amplifies pleasure. We are considering a society that prac-
ticed public bathing, at times even mixed bathing, so we can feel certain that
the striations of the forbidden and the permitted were densely compressed.
Societies tolerate, or pretend not to detect, female infidelity in varying
ways and degrees, and reports of wifely misconduct in Roman society are
such a concoction of satire, invective, and bluster that nothing like the gen-
eral sensibility can be ascertained. A belief in contemporary moral decline
was practically a requisite part of Roman vigilance. “A modest matron is a
rare thing.” The satirist could claim that sexual modesty belonged to the
age of Saturn, a mythical golden age. A Stoic philosopher believed that the
women of Rome kept Plato’s Republic in their hands because its utopian
community of women justified their sins. In quite a different tone, Lucian
imagined the frustrations of being a philosopher attached to a wealthy
household: the matron would make him pause his discourse on sōphrosynē
while she penned a note to her lover. In a slaveholding society, the specter of
sex between the mistress and the slaves was a stock theme of ribald folk
comedy. The timeless weapon of the seducer is reasonable suspicion about
the secret behavior of others: “All women do it, my child. . . . But bolt the
door so we don’t get caught!” Many were too indiscrete: the historian Cas-
sius Dio, during his consulate in the early third century, discovered a back-
log of three thousand adultery trials in the dockets!
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
response is tender. “Something human moved me, and I truly feared the
god Eros too. . . . This would have to be reckoned not so much intercourse
as a cure for an ailing soul. . . . Everything happened by the will of Eros.”
In the dramatic final act, Melite would indeed find herself charged with
adultery. The prosecutors note that one who corrupts a wedded wife steals
what belongs to another man. Nevertheless, Achilles Tatius is humane, or
subversive, enough to let Melite escape on a technicality, by vowing that she
did not violate her marriage so long as she thought her husband was dead,
when in fact she hurriedly cheated on him as soon as she learned that his
return was imminent!
The satisfaction of Melite demonstrates that sometimes eros transcended
human rules, not that the rules were changing. Despite the episode’s un-
doubted charm, it cannot count as a winking acknowledgment of women’s
liberation. Sometimes the Roman Empire is construed as a progressive mo-
ment in women’s history, rolled back in late antiquity by the regressive alli-
ance of religion and patriarchy. The vociferous, if satirical, complaints
about powerful wives, the frank depiction of feminine sexual pleasure in
the visual arts, the greater presence of women in the public sphere— all of
these are signs that point to a wider range of motion for the Roman matron.
As with any such caricature, this one has only a certain admixture of truth.
A number of structural factors worked in a woman’s favor. By the imperial
era, older forms of marriage that placed the woman in the legal power of
her husband had long fallen into desuetude. Roman rules that kept spousal
property in separate funds meant that the woman’s dowry was, as men
complained, a subtle source of leverage. The woman’s— or, more realisti-
cally, the girl’s— consent was formally required for the marriage, and lib-
eral laws of divorce allowed women to end marriages, unilaterally and vir-
tually without cause. The Augustan social legislation created a path for
women to achieve an exceptional legal competence, the ability to act with-
out a male tutor, by bearing three children. The Roman woman is hardly a
naive and feeble creature hopelessly under her husband’s thumb.
At the same time, none of the basic rules had changed. The double stan-
dard reigned almost universally. Even Plutarch, whose sensible advice for
husbands included not provoking their wives by smelling like other women,
ultimately expected the wife to find a way to cope with inevitable infideli-
ties. “If he makes some little slip with a slave girl or hired lady, do not bear
it too gravely, and consider that he wishes to spare you from his debauch-
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
that marked the stages of a free woman’s development. Slaves in the house
may have been more integrated into the rhythms of the free family’s life,
but at the same time proximity meant vulnerability and close control. The
slave’s public behavior could be seen as a reflection of the free family’s
honor; “the morals of the mistress are judged by those of the slave girls.”
Many slaves were owned in small numbers and surreptitiously sought com-
panionship outside the home. In larger households, the slave staff may have
offered its own opportunities. Rural slaves might have had the greatest
chance of stability and privacy, but our ignorance of their lives is profound.
When Leucippe was made a field slave, she was viciously threatened by the
sexual advances of her overseer. Although slave marriages were afforded
virtually no legal protections, slaves married nonetheless. We hear casually
of “slave weddings.” Plutarch knew that a slave girl who was married would
suddenly become more resistant to her master’s advances, but slave marriages
were not protected under the adultery laws. Slaves were entirely cut off from
their male relatives, and the surviving documents of sale are a chilling re-
minder that the slave family existed only at the master’s will.
As blurry as our perception of the slave’s life is, the realities of prostitu-
tion are possibly even more obscure. Slaves haphazardly appear in our
upper-class sources because they inhabited the same walls, because they
inevitably intruded upon the daily affairs of their masters. Prostitutes, by
contrast, represented “the most impure part of humankind,” and hence real
consideration of their existence has been exiled from all literature with pre-
tension to gentility. When prostitutes do appear in the sources, it is thus
usually as a cipher for pure sexual indecency. Like the miserable creature
whose unfortunate destiny is lost in the brilliant glare of Leucippe’s invin-
cible sexual modesty, the prostitutes we know are mostly nameless, faceless
distortions of an inconceivably brutal existence. But like slaves, prostitutes
were in reality ubiquitous, and the sexual economy of the Roman Empire
directly depended on the exploitation of their available bodies.
Roman policy toward prostitution has been aptly described as a volatile
mixture of “toleration and degradation.” Prostitution was legal. It was taxed
by the state and broadly supervised by the public officials in charge of keep-
ing urban peace. Far from an institution that festered implacably in shadowy
corners, prostitution in the Roman Empire was purposefully conspicuous.
It played a well-established role in the sexual order. The idea that prostitu-
tion prevented adultery, that the prostitute’s body acted as a safety valve for
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
male lust, was already, by the high empire, very ancient, and it remained a
vital notion across Roman history. The very model of ancestral Roman man-
liness, Cato the Censor, was reputed to have congratulated a young man
exiting a brothel for avoiding other men’s wives. Male sexual energy was a
definite quantity that had to be expended, somewhere; a nickname for the
penis was “the necessity.” Dio Chrysostom, in his Stoic attack on prostitu-
tion, admitted that many believed that prostitution deflected desire away
from respectable women. Wives belonged to the private sphere, but prosti-
tutes were, like the baths, a public good. Folklore held that after Corinth
expelled the legendary beauty Lais, the city was depopulated when the
young men turned their attentions to free women and a cycle of honor kill-
ings ensued. It is a Christian bishop, though, trained in Roman law, who
has left the pithiest description of Roman sexual policy: forbidding adulter-
ies, building brothels.
Prostitution was a boom industry under Roman rule. In the densely ur-
banized and highly monetized economy of the Roman Empire, sex was a
most basic and readily available commodity. Girls stalked the streets. Tav-
erns, inns, and baths were notorious dens of venal sex. Brothels “were visi-
ble everywhere.” Companions, trained in various forms of entertainment,
could be rented for domestic symposia. Sex was big business, and although
pimps and procurers suffered legal and social stigmas, Roman law allowed
slave owners to profit from a slave’s entrepreneurial activities, so that un-
doubtedly some rather illustrious households capitalized, discreetly, on the
flesh trade. In the few surviving scraps of evidence for real working broth-
els, including a handful of papyri from Roman Egypt, what is most notable
is the sheer sophistication of the financial instruments undergirding the
sale of sex. Prostitution was an exuberant part of Roman capitalism.
Prostitutes were imagined in impossibly contrasting ways. Throughout
the Roman Empire persisted the classical ideal of the hetaira, a “lady friend.”
Her title, like her very existence, is a euphemism. Like the prostitute, she
circulates among men outside the marriage market and for avowedly sen-
sual purposes. Unlike the prostitute, she trades in gifts rather than vulgar
cash exchanges; she is discriminate rather than promiscuous, her allure
heightened by her elusiveness; she is witty, even sophisticated, rather than
common. Truly, once, these women bestrode the Greek world, making
playthings of kings and philosophers alike. In the Roman Empire their im-
ages could still be seen in the temples where classical statues of goddesses,
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
modeled on the bodies of the most famous hetairai, stood hundreds of years
later. But from the beginning the line between the hetaira and the common
prostitute was blurry, and the distinction survived through a healthy dose
of sexual fantasy. By the second century of our era, the figure of the hetaira
was so clouded by the broader cultural nostalgia gripping the empire that
the truth of her existence is unknowable. The most elaborate literary reflec-
tion on ancient prostitution is, fittingly, the Sophists at Dinner: an imagi-
nary transcript of a late second-century conversation, set at the table of a
Roman aristocrat, where the symposiasts debate the obscurer corners of
Attic Greek and the relative merits of hetairai and common prostitutes. The
fog of erudition is so heavy that we cannot draw any safe conclusions about
the real world.
In a supremely rich, sexually open, and astonishingly interconnected
society that was poised to embrace the power of human beauty (a gorgeous
woman offered “no trivial happiness”), it would be unwise to doubt the ex-
istence of the demimondaine. We know that actors and actresses suffered
from legal discrimination, such as the inability to intermarry with the aris-
tocracy, and there was a material connection between the theater and the
sex industry. The Roman Empire had an insatiable taste for stage perfor-
mance, and it is likely that theatrical culture nurtured stars of various tal-
ents. Too much amorous literature presumes the existence of the glamor-
ous, independent prostitute for her to have been a mere figment of an
overactive cultural memory. But even more than before, her power to en-
rapture derived from her rarity. The preponderance of the evidence, and all
of the evidence that takes us away from fantasy and toward the mundane
realities of prostitution, points to the overwhelming connection between
the slave trade and the sex trade. There is, of course, no reason to doubt that
droves of poor women were forced to become prostitutes in the Roman Em-
pire. In an economy with relatively few respectable employments for women
and no social safety net, sudden shocks could render women hopelessly
vulnerable. But the defining feature of prostitution in the Roman era, which
gives Roman prostitution its particular tincture, is the pervasive influence
of slavery.
Convincing testimony confirms the sinister link between the slave trade
and prostitution. The most chilling evidence is an iron slave collar, a typical
means of preventing or punishing slave flight, discovered at Bulla Regia in
North Africa; found still clasped around the neck of a skeleton, the collar’s
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
inscription reads, “I am a slutty whore; retain me, I have fled Bulla Regia.”
A third-century papyrus shows a dispute that arose from the sale of a girl by
pimps. The pimp was, presumptively, a man “who buys girls.” Child expo-
sure, a significant input to the Roman slave supply, was presumed to lead
“to slavery or to the brothel,” fates that were not distinct. One of the more
interesting, if oblique, indices of the role of slavery in the sex industry is
that Roman law developed a special covenant allowing masters to sell slaves
with the binding restriction that the slave not be prostituted; whether these
covenants indicate residual benevolence or the frequency of biological rela-
tions between master and slave, they demonstrate the real danger that, for a
slave, prostitution lurked in the future.
The desire to romanticize venal sex was perduring, and even the erotic
art in brothels idealized the sexual encounter between professional and
customer. But the critics object. The lingering stench, the atmosphere of
violence, the cramped concrete cribs, the systemic abuse: these were the re-
ality of the flesh trade. Disease and chemical dependence surely followed in
the wake of such exploitative drudgery. The low price of sex is stunning. Sex
seems to have cost maybe two asses in an ordinary town, “about the price of
a loaf of bread.” Fellatio cost less. The vile rate of the transaction is also a
harrowing indication of the crushing amount of work women had to per-
form to survive and to profit their owners. The commodification of sex was
carried out with all the ruthless efficiency of an industrial operation, the
unfree body bearing the pressures of insatiable market demand. In the
brothel the prostitute’s body became, little by little, “like a corpse.”
The lower-class atmosphere of the brothel lies behind one of the more
subtle but important changes in the moral economy of prostitution under
the Roman Empire. To the respectable classes, prostitution was not im-
moral—it was squalid. The wealthy had slaves to serve their needs, and it
was unnecessary to share sexual receptacles. Prostitution was the poor
man’s piece of the slave system. In his City of God, Augustine imagined the
simple desires of the ordinary man; after military victory for the Roman
army and economic prosperity, he would think, “let public prostitutes
abound for any who want to use them, but especially for those who cannot
afford private ones!” The brothel was even patronized by slaves. It raised the
disturbing specter of sharing women with men of the lowest ranks. The
brothel was irredeemably vulgar, and in a carefully and formally stratified
society, nothing was more damning.
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
form, the hopes, values, and sufferings out of which Roman women could
make their lives.
The ancient novels have been hailed as messengers of a new erotic sensibility
focused on “sexual symmetry.” No literary genre had so valorized the mu-
tual devotion and shared attraction between two young lovers, nearly equal
in age, whose love triumphs in marriage. But symmetry of passion did not
mean equality of experience, and Achilles Tatius exploits the distinction
with his usual sardonic enthusiasm. When Leucippe reemerged after her
apparent beheading to find her lover engaged to Melite, she furtively sent
him a letter, scolding him in the most pathetic terms. Pierced by her accu-
sations, Clitophon defends his sexual comportment as impeccable. “You
will find that I have mimicked your maidenhood, if there is also a maiden-
hood for men.” This precious claim preceded the “cure” that Clitophon of-
fered Melite, but the reader remembers that Clitophon has already deliv-
ered a well-informed paean to the female orgasm. At the end of the novel,
when recounting his adventures, Clitophon would omit details of the favor
he performed for Melite, while to Leucippe’s father he would boast,
“Throughout our exile we have behaved like philosophers . . . If men have a
maidenhead, I have kept it with Leucippe up to the present.” With an artful
turn of phrase, and a whole culture’s indifference toward male chastity,
Clitophon could stare past his inconsequential sexual dalliances into the
exalted light of his love for Leucippe.
There was no natural word for male virginity in Greek or Latin. Parthe-
nia meant “maidenhead,” and the ordinary sense of parthenos was “maiden.”
The continent men of the incipient Christian movement searched, awk-
wardly, for an expression adequate to their unusual ideal. On rare occasions
authors would simply appropriate the language of maidenhood for men: the
canonical Revelation, for example, or Joseph and Aseneth, in which both
protagonists are called parthenos. Virgo, too, primarily meant “maiden” or
“young, unmarried girl,” though it would later be adapted by Christians
and applied to males. More often Christians found circumlocutions for
male sexual abstinence, such as eunouchia. What is telling is that Clito-
phon’s brazen protestations of his purity are intentionally amusing because
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
they are linguistically bumbling. (Do we have here another instance where
Achilles Tatius glances at contemporary cultural currents, such as Christian
encratism, in order to mock them?) Regardless, the absence of a symmetri-
cal term for male virginity is eloquent. So, too, is the fact that the prime
sexual virtue, sōphrosynē, carried different connotations for men and women.
For women, sōphrosynē meant chastity, the unbending criterion of corporal
integrity before marriage and fidelity during marriage. For men, sōphrosynē
meant self-control, the mind’s orderly management of the physical appe-
tites. For women, sōphrosynē was absolute; for men, it was gradational. In
between these shades of meaning lay a field of extensible space for men to
exercise their moderation.
In a society where “the work of Aphrodite” could always “be bought for
a drachma,” self-control was no trivial virtue. Sōphrosynē was “the first and
most fitting virtue of young men, harmonizing and choreographing all
qualities of excellence.” “Nothing in excess” was the sacred inner code of
Greek ethics. Moderation was for men what chastity was for women, in
that it served, on a millennial time scale, as the unwavering fundament
beneath mainstream sexual ethics. The classical ideal of moderation flour-
ished in a moral universe where it was ultimately the only force of resistance
against the easy satiety of sexual desire. The material environment of the
Greco-Roman city was unusually adapted for stimulating the appetites.
The high empire was the Indian summer of classical nudity, when prosper-
ity carried the culture of public baths and gymnasia further than ever be-
fore and when frankly erotic art was ubiquitous in refined and popular
media. The slave trade and its unruly outgrowth, the flesh trade, made plea-
sure cheap and unceremonious. Throughout the city, professionals cruised
the streets in shoes that left behind the words “follow me” in the sand.
Unsurprisingly, the second century generated a rich discussion on the phys-
ics of vision— conceived as the flow of particles into the eye, so that Achil-
les could unforgettably describe looking at a beautiful woman as a sort of
“fondling from afar.” The inhabitant of the Roman Empire was constantly
bombarded with visual allurements, so moderation was a virtue called
upon, constantly, to perform heroic feats of restraint.
The need for internal regulation of impulses was felt with special keen-
ness in a society that celebrated the pleasures of “wine, baths, and venus”
and delivered them with unprecedented efficiency to the male consumer.
Most of what passes for “sexual morality” is, implicitly or explicitly, advice
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
for men. The “conjugalization of pleasure” and the intensely interior, self-
regarding morality that have been identified as Rome’s signal contributions
to the history of sexuality weighed principally on men. For decent women,
what licit pleasure might be found had always been confined to the mar-
riage bed, and nearly all philosophical literature implicitly addresses a male
sexual subject. Below we consider how the institutions of marriage and the
philosophical cultures of the high empire shaped the sexual experiences of
men, but first we should explore the ambient atmosphere in which male
sexual desires developed. The male sexual life course, the shared cultural
assumptions about masculinity, and the practices of sociability in the Ro-
man Empire are the backdrop vivifying the more rarefied concerns of phi-
losophers and moralists.
For girls, the window of time between physical maturity and marriage
was fleeting; by contrast, young men in the ancient Mediterranean spent a
formless eternity between puberty and marriage. Male age at marriage var-
ied widely, but the vast majority of young men married in their twenties,
most of them in their late twenties. In both Greek and Roman tradition,
boys crossed the threshold between puerility and manhood around the age
of fourteen. The moment was recognized by ancient rites of passage and, in
the Roman case, by the weighty assumption of the toga virilis. Sexual expe-
rience presumptively followed on the heels of nascent maturity. Philo of
Alexandria has left the most indelicately precise description of this sexual
initiation. His hero, the biblical Joseph, utters words that are aimed at con-
temporary Alexandria, a city famous for its ebullient eroticism. “We de-
scendants of the Hebrews live according to a special set of customs and
norms. Among other peoples, it is permitted for young men after their
fourteenth year to use with complete shamelessness whores, brothel hags,
and other women who make a profit with their body. . . . Indeed, before
legitimate marriage, we [Jews] know no sexual intercourse with other women
but enter marriage as pure men with pure virgins.”
Philo’s tribal righteousness foreshadows a Christian moralism that will
cut, with pitiless severity, across the soft zones of pagan indulgence. For the
Greeks and Romans, any hard restrictions on male sexual exertion in the
years after puberty were considered implausible; through subtle but decisive
evasions, this stretch of life was left unregulated. In the first years after
sexual maturity, the moral faculty was too light and porous even to act as
the receptacle of ethical prescription. This was the age of Venus, when the
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
seminal channels were formed and the impulse for sex began to course
throughout a young man’s whole being. “Something like frenzy arises in
the soul, the will is powerless, there is lust for sex however it may be had, the
guile of one who is on fire with passion and the blindness of one who is reck-
less.” The most that could be hoped for was that the young man, in this
frantic period, did nothing to impair his manhood; he needed to pass
through “that slippery time” without doing permanent damage to his repu-
tation. Marcus Aurelius, a little cryptically, was grateful that he had man-
aged “to keep safe the bloom of youth and not to become a man before the
right hour, in fact to wait a little.” In other words, he had never submitted
to a lover, nor did he rush headlong into the aphrodisia at puberty, though
even this dreary Stoic had given way to “erotic passions” for a time, before
returning to sound control of himself.
Ethical strictures lay lightly on young men, who made use of the “mirth
conceded to their age.” There was an unwritten “law of youth.” “An un-
timely severity is not moderation but gloominess.” Sexual exploration was
“practically required training,” after which it was expected the young man
would cool off and ease into a more respectable self-control and eventually
marriage. The “natural violence of youth” was better indulged than re-
pressed, for repression would inevitably fail. The sexual escapades of boys in
their late teens and early twenties were almost completely inconsequential.
By contrast, the more seasoned sexual prowess of youth in their later twen-
ties was a social problem. The predatory sexuality of young, unmarried men
was a dangerous presence in the ancient Mediterranean city; in a society
where men were half a generation older than their wives, the threat of adul-
tery was conceived in generational terms, as a threat emanating from below,
from younger men with enough cunning to play the seducer. The solution
was a high degree of tolerance toward sex with slaves and prostitutes. A fa-
ther who sensed that his son was in love with a freeborn woman gravely
counseled him to use “the venus which is public and permitted.” This fa-
ther, whose son was saved by “the gratification of licit sex,” even ranks
among the exempla of so stodgy a moralist as Valerius Maximus.
The ready availability of licit sexual release gave adultery its dark tint in
Roman society. The violation of a respectable wife is the paradigmatic form of
sexual malfeasance in most human societies. In the Roman Empire, the pro-
hibition on adultery and the imperative of avoiding sexual passivity were the
two heavy rules weighing on men. There is little trace of those paradoxical
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
sentient mixture of the natural elements— earth and water, fire and air.
Health, for doctors like Galen and his contemporaries, was the mainte-
nance of equilibrium among the elements and their qualities of heat and
cold, moisture and dryness. “Health is a form of harmony.” The body’s con-
stitution changed over the course of life. The young were warm and moist,
and the old were cold and dry. To age was to become desiccated, slowly;
senescence was a sort of prolonged evaporation. For the doctors, the aphro-
disia had to be considered in terms of the maintenance of balanced flux and
the gradual loss of heat and moisture with age. Just as the proportionate
intake of foods, in the right mixture and quantity, was necessary to regulate
the body, so too sex was an act with distributional effects for the material
economy of the whole organism.
Far from being lodged in a subconscious realm teeming with abstract
pressures, desire and pleasure were enmeshed in a thoroughly physical chain
of cause and effect. Nature had contrived mankind, like other animals, to
feel desire. It was a natural effect of heat in the young. But desire could be
modulated by diet and environment. Hot and flatulent foods fed desire and
led to the buildup of semen, considered a warm concoction of blood and
spirit (pneuma) spread throughout the whole body. External stimulants to
desire— a beautiful body at the spectacles, a memorable scene of erotic
art—threatened to disturb a balanced regimen. Habit, too, mattered. Just
as the individual could sculpt the body’s exterior through exercise, so the
gears of the body’s internal system could be tuned at a higher or lower speed
through practice. Rapid changes of sexual habit were likely to be harmful
in and of themselves because they disrupted the body’s established rhythms.
Galen knew of a patient who “refrained from sexual intercourse out of grief
for his late wife. He had previously enjoyed sexual activity quite regularly.
Upon ceasing sex, he became nauseated, and could hardly digest the little
food he consumed. . . . He was despondent. But these symptoms subsided
when he resumed his old habits.”
Ancient beliefs about wine cast light on the place of sex within a thermal
economy. The Roman Empire was a civilization of the vine. Without to-
bacco, coffee, or sugar, with little taste for beer or distilled spirits, the Ro-
mans chose wine as their utterly dominant psychotropic commodity. The
sheer volume and variety of wine consumed in the Roman Empire testifies
to its reach across all social classes. It was drunk by everyone, men and
women, young and old, every day. Wine, like sex, was an immanent divine
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
force, and the wash of its warm ecstasy was experienced as a communion
with Dionysus. It is hard for us to appreciate the invisible but ubiquitous
effects of wine in the Roman Empire. In his list of inputs and outputs that
will have to be modulated to maintain a healthy equilibrium, Galen nota-
bly puts wine first and sex last. The Romans were alive to wine’s effects on
the body, attributing its disinhibiting qualities not to altered consciousness
so much as to greater heat. Wine was an accelerant. Wine was especially
healthy for older men, whose bodies were cold, and especially dangerous for
younger ones, whose bodies were already hot. Wine was “Aphrodite’s milk”;
it was, in the words of Achilles Tatius, “sex fuel.”
Youth, gassy foods, wine, exposure to beauty: all precipitated the buildup
of heat and the production of semen that spurred sexual desire. On the
other side of the ledger, sex itself was an expenditure— a highly elaborate
and particularly costly one. The sexual act set all the parts of the body
to work simultaneously, “as in a dance,” pulling semen through the body’s
channels. Seminal fluid was blood packed with pneuma culled from the
entire body; the pneuma discharged during sex included the precious and
especially fine psychic pneuma, the medium of the soul itself. Blood and
pneuma were brought to boil in the testes. Then, the convulsive pleasure of
orgasm was like a brief epilepsy that left the body depleted. Heat and mois-
ture were expelled. For the Roman doctor, the most revealing part of sex
was not the ecstasy but the aftermath—the immediate exhaustion, the
languid body.
Sex was a negative term on the body’s energy balance sheet and, for some
doctors, ipso facto deleterious. For most, though, sex was simply one output
among others that could be integrated within a balanced regimen. The
amount of sex to be prescribed varied case by case, with age and individual
constitution. Especially for the young in the prime of life, whose bodies
were warm and moist, sex was salubrious. At any age, excessive indulgence
left the body cold, dry, and withered. But abstinence had its own dangers
too. Lovesickness was a very real pathology in the Roman Empire, and no
less a scientist than Galen was able to diagnose its symptoms. Too little sex
might slow the body’s natural cycles, leaving the person dull and melan-
cholic. Unfulfilled desire could lead to nausea, fever, and poor digestion.
The retention of seed was unhealthy. Modern historians have been fi xated
on the idea of sex as a loss of vital spirit, a notion that is certainly present in
Roman medical literature. It is true that sex was a costly enterprise. Pneuma
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
was a precious biological commodity. But it was not a finite one. It was
continually regenerated. It was present in snot as in semen. What mattered,
for the doctors, was an equilibrium that would not unduly accelerate the
inexorable process of putrefaction. Roman medical advice was more inter-
ested in establishing healthy and balanced rhythms than in stemming the
leak of vital fluids.
The doctors were, to be sure, not erotic enthusiasts. Galen could recom-
mend sex for its hygienic effects, but not for its pleasures. He put forward
the Cynic philosopher Diogenes as a model. Diogenes engaged in sexual
intercourse to expel sperm, and he retained the ser vices of a courtesan for
his regular evacuations. One day when she was tardy, he manually recali-
brated his system. The lesson drawn for Galen was that the self-controlled
man would view sex as the satisfaction of an urge, a necessary transaction
in the maintenance of the body’s flux. In his estimate sex was much like the
evacuation of stool or urine— a purely natural act but nothing to sentimen-
talize. Unlike digestion, sex was discretionary, a voluntary process that, once
started, triggered an autocatalytic chain reaction. From this perspective,
sex, with its perfervid internal cycles, was a mildly hazardous necessity. The
ideally healthy man would achieve a measured state of self-control by regu-
lating the consumption system of the body, amorous expenditures included.
Pleasure was a valueless term in the equation of health.
Overall, the attitude toward sex in the Roman medical literature is one
of attentive sufferance. But it would be a mistake to treat Roman medicine
as a midway point between a classical cult of the healthy body and a later
obsession with sensory deprivation. What is novel about Roman medicine
is less its stance on sex than its popularity. It seems likely that in the age of
Aelius Aristides and Marcus Aurelius more people than ever before looked
upon themselves as life-term convalescents. But the pervasiveness of medi-
cal culture in the high empire is not to be ascribed to a public mood of
weariness or even a new anxiety toward the body. The peculiar vigilance
toward the body that we encounter in Roman medicine is the product of an
affluent society. Medicine was a branch of learning that flourished with the
support of public and private patrons in a wealthy empire. Abundance cre-
ated the anxieties of imbalance that fueled an interest in medical knowl-
edge. The medical literature addressed the concerns of a well-fed elite whose
physical labors were few and artificial. The doctors spoke to the greying
crowd, who could take comfort in hearing that wine was healthful and
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
sexual deceleration was natural. Roman medicine was neither morbid nor
ascetic; it was bourgeois, and a little geriatric.
The eternal moderation expected of Roman men was, ultimately, a flex-
ible demand. For most of the population, who lived along the edges of
subsistence, moderation was imposed, without pity, by the unrelenting
pressures of their material condition; destitution was the better part of vir-
tue. Sex outside the house was limited to occasional moments of release, a
day at the spectacles, a religious festival, or a visit to a tavern. It was the
more privileged classes who had to navigate the choppy waters of sexual
restraint by the strength of the will alone. The city and the school offered
perpetual temptation. Rich youngbloods were characteristically pleasure
seekers. The household itself was a haunt of allurements: private baths, spa-
cious groves, shaded promenades, all attended by an army of servants. The
dinner party remained the central venue of social intercourse in the Roman
Empire, and unsurprisingly it is here that endless tales of erotic intrigue
turn up. Though Roman men increasingly dined in the company of their
wives, the all-male symposium—with trains of female as well as male ser-
vants and entertainers—was always a staple of sociability. “What happens
to the boys when they’re in their cups, and what the men dare when Pan
has hold of them, would take a long time to tell,” said the satirist. But to a
philosopher, nowhere was the battle between desire and moderation so
starkly fought. At the symposia, the quality of a man’s character was re-
vealed. In a telling contrast, the vast body of ancient moral and medical
literature rests almost completely silent on the ethics of self-stimulation. So
effectively had slavery, prostitution, and other forms of conviviality ren-
dered pleasure available to men of means, so far beyond ethical surveillance
was this most private sphere of all, that it simply did not enter formal moral
conversation. Late classical sexual culture was, tellingly, as anxious about
nighttime revels as it was indifferent to masturbation.
The public sexual code of the second century was resolutely ancient. The
association between masculinity and dominance, the benign neglect of
youthful endeavors, the circulation of dishonored bodies, and the fluid re-
straints of self-control were all distinctly late classical. In material terms,
the Roman Empire was the most complete and most refined expression of a
sexual economy that had its origins in the very birth of the classical Medi-
terranean city-state. If the disciplines of sexual self-knowledge were more
rigorous in the high empire, the delivery of sexual pleasures was more effi-
cient than ever. The velocity of commerce was greater, and the self-
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
last generation, and students of Roman culture have now detected traces of
the sentimental ideal in the very earliest Latin literature. It can go no ear-
lier. The sentimental ideal requires, as its foil, a primitive period, before the
family was full of tender emotion. In the Roman case, this was conve-
niently provided by Roman antiquarians, for whom the belief in a tougher
time, when men knew better than to care too much about women, became
part of a Roman national mythology that always viewed the present as an
unexampled nadir of corruption. The Romans believed that in the old days
wives were kept properly under thumb and at an emotional distance.
Women used not to drink wine at all, and Roman society went 520 years
without a single divorce! In the late republic, men indifferently traded their
wives as pawns of political convenience. The Roman man was a citizen and
a soldier first, and there was simply little space left for the role of husband
to animate his identity. Whatever mask of manly indifference the early Ro-
mans may have worn, such a broad caricature must fail. The mass of men
led lives of humble domestication. It is dangerous to posit that a change in
the representation of conjugal reality corresponds to a change in underlying
patterns of emotional investment. What is remarkable about the promi-
nence of conjugal values in high imperial culture is the extent to which an
aristocracy—now an aristocracy of ser vice under the autocratic rule of an
emperor— embraced the private sphere as a domain of extreme emotional
and moral fulfillment. After all, the morsels of domestic wisdom doled out
by the moralists can be found centuries earlier. The Roman moralists cannot
be accused of great creativity. What is new, and important, is the projection
of these values in the public sphere.
The marriage relationship in imperial Rome was immersed in the dynam-
ics of social reproduction and social competition. The purpose of marriage
was the production of legitimate offspring. In the language of the law, mar-
riages were formed causa procreandorum liberorum. A complex of consid-
erations, glimpsed mostly between the lines of an enormous moralizing
literature, lay behind the formation of a conjugal union. The words of the
doctor Soranus are well known: “Women are usually married for children
and succession, and not for mere enjoyment, and it is utterly absurd to
make inquiries about the excellence of their lineage and the abundance of
their means but to leave unexamined whether they can conceive or not, and
whether they are fit for childbearing or not.” What distinguishes Soranus
from his philosophical contemporaries is his clinical insistence on fertility
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
superhumanly beautiful creatures might fall in love with each other at the
sight of each other’s body and eventually wed. Although the novels cele-
brate the reconciliation of the lovers’ passion with the civic order of mar-
riage, in reality the untamed love of young people could disturb the pater-
nalist forces shaping the reproduction of society. In the Roman period we
hear ever more of abduction marriages in which the girl engineered, or at
least allowed, for her lover to take her without her father’s approval. The
great physiognomist Polemo, with his uncanny ability to read faces, crows
that he had foreseen the abduction of a girl, contrived by her own design,
on the very day of her wedding—twice!
By the time evidence for Roman marriage becomes meaningfully thick,
around the age of Cicero, a revolution in material life had already turned a
sleepy, agrarian economy into the most prosperous, urbanized civilization
the premodern world would ever know. High mortality and a vigorous slave
system ensured that the “Big House” style of habitation flourished. Domes-
tic slaves, considered little more than breathing furniture, were often spec-
tators in the conjugal bedroom; we hear of a rabbi who would ring a little
bell when he was about to have sex with his wife, but he was a prude. With
in-laws and parents, slaves and freedmen, nurses and children sharing a
domestic space, the Romans had little notion of what we would consider
privacy. But it is meaningful that the physical house in the Roman Empire
was not a castle of the transgenerational gens; as time, circumstance, and
resources allowed, the married couple sought residential independence for
their domestic enterprise. Urbanization only encouraged young couples to
set up their own stead. Material factors thus reinforced the model of affec-
tive, companionate marriage.
It may seem paradoxical, but the legal advantages enjoyed by Roman
wives—progressive by primitive standards— conduced to promote the af-
fective nuclear family. In the Roman Empire, a husband took his wife sine
manu, meaning that she remained in the legal power of her father, so long
as he was alive, rather than passing into the potestas of the husband. A
woman could transact legal business only with the representation of a tutor,
who came from her father’s family, not her husband or his family; after she
bore three children, the woman earned the ius trium liberorum and could
act on her own behalf. Created by Augustus, the ius trium liberorum was a
badge of honor, and it became a wild success. The wife brought a dowry
into the marriage, but it was not a gift to the husband; the property of hus-
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
band and wife were, legally, distinct funds, and the married pair could not
even make significant gifts to one another. All of these rules had the effect
of making the wife a partner of her husband, not a ward. We might suspect
that Roman women earned considerable legal rights because fathers cared
to protect their daughters, and their property, and not because Roman leg-
islators held progressive attitudes toward women. The pressures behind de-
velopments in family law are always complex, but whatever the cause,
companionate marriage flourished in part because the Roman wife was
perched, legally, between her old family and her new.
Though the Romans did not marry for love, they hoped it would grow
within marriage. Marriage in the Roman Empire was freighted with high
emotional and spiritual promise. A Roman lawyer could define marriage as
“the joining of a husband and a wife and a sharing of their whole life, a
union of divine and human law.” There was even a new openness to the
potential for romance to germinate in the expectant period of the engage-
ment. The grace of sexual familiarity in marriage would breed philia, a
blend of friendship and love. In the letters of Pliny the Younger, we read
almost with embarrassment the eff usions of saccharine affection toward his
wife (more than twenty years his junior), but the public nature of the letters
reveals how far private emotional investment had become an acceptable ele-
ment of the elite’s self-projection. The highest ideal of marriage was har-
mony, homonoia, a charged term that located the peaceful partnership of
husband and wife within the civic and cosmic order. The man who was
going to harmonize the city, with its internecine squabbles and intense fac-
tionalism, was expected to have a harmonious house. Like the “ceaseless
circling dance of the planets,” companionate marriage was part of nature,
“an image of order and harmony.”
Sex inevitably became enmeshed in the high ideals of conjugal harmony.
“Where does eros more rightly belong than in the lawful marriage of man
and wife?” It was a short step for Roman moralists to lay down rules of
pleasure. Aphrodite, within the household, was to be subjected to “reason,
harmony, and philosophy.” Injunctions of mutual sexual fidelity easily arose
from the high spirit of companionate marriage. For Plutarch, sexual fidelity
was advised on pragmatic grounds. Plutarch reminded a bride not to lose
her modesty with her clothes off; he counseled the groom to make the bed-
room a “school of orderly behavior.” But nothing is more likely to render a
stilted view of Roman marriage than exclusive focus on the stern counsels
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
The stunning finds of Pompeii are nonpareil, but in the more scattered
and exiguous evidence of the second and third centuries we find that the
representation of eros remained a standard element of domestic presenta-
tion across the Roman period. An upper-class house of the third century in
Ostia presents lovemaking in the most direct and frank fashion, depicting
men and women in a range of conjunctions. In the view of an authority on
erotic art, this house is valuable proof that the same ideology and sensibility
so well preserved under the ash at Pompeii remained alive in a period for
which well-preserved domestic paintings are much rarer. Literary evidence
also suggests the continuity— and geographic reach— of erotic art. Clem-
ent of Alexandria fumes against the erotic aesthetics of the culture sur-
rounding him in late second- or early third-century Roman Egypt. If we
look beyond the walls of the ancient house, too, there are other indications
that Roman visual culture was vibrantly sensual. In the Antonine era, it
became fashionable among the respectable classes for a married couple to
have themselves depicted as Ares and Aphrodite, borrowing the bodies and
accoutrements of the gods beneath the recognizable visages of the married
pair. The images are ludicrously disconsonant. More profoundly, we won-
der why a married pair would wish to present themselves as the world’s
most discreditable adulterer and adulteress. Yes, the mythological veneer li-
censed the portrayal of decent women in the nude, but at a more symbolic
level Ares and Aphrodite signified pure, ardent passion. In a society that be-
lieved in the mysterious, indwelling presence of the gods, there could hardly
have been a more powerful evocation of the power of marital eroticism.
Given the vagaries of survival, the most representative artifact of Roman
eroticism is the humble lamp. Small, ceramic, and produced in truly innu-
merable quantities, lamps survive across the centuries. The culture where
sex was supposedly reduced to sexual fumbling in the dark is the same cul-
ture that has left, in rather startling abundance, lamps decorated with the
most uninhibited exertions. Lamps assure us that erotic art was not the
preserve of the elite alone. The sheer numbers and archaeological findspots
of erotic-themed lamps, furthermore, militate against the suggestion that
these artifacts were anything other than a basic and broadly diff used do-
mestic instrument. Sex— along with mythology, the animal kingdom, and
the world of public entertainments—provided one of the most inexhaustible
sources of decoration; the standard study of the huge collection of Italian
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
lamps in the British Museum suggests that sex may have provided the very
most common theme. The range and inclusiveness of the erotic repertoire
suggests that myth, fantasy, and farce were exuberantly mingled. Modern
studies conventionally divide the erotic lamps into two classes: Erotes (de-
pictions of Eros) and symplegmata (“embracings”— a sort of learned prud-
ery). This division does not adequately capture the range and meaning of
different erotic motifs. The figure of Eros himself, symbol of joy and life,
was unfailingly popular; though our eyes may be desensitized to the power
of such a mythological commonplace, in Roman culture, where sexual pas-
sion was an immanent divine force, the blending of spirituality and sensu-
ality ought not be discounted. The symplegmata lamps present the most
varied images. Some are mythological, such as Zeus (qua swan) and Leda.
Others are perhaps allegorical, such as the scenes of women with horses
(which, maybe, refer to the Ass legend; the scenes of men with donkeys are
probably not so easily rescued into decency). Some have a theme that is
perhaps comic, perhaps poignant, perhaps mocking: the popular motif of
the old man watching a couple perform feats of love. There are some same-
sex pairings, and some elaborate sexual positions, but these are all rare.
Mostly what the lamps depict is one man and one woman on a bed—
sometimes beneath a canopy, sometimes with a lamp in the background—
joined in carnal embrace.
Of particular interest are the lamp workshops of the Greek world in the
high and late empire. The lamps produced in Corinth and Athens have the
advantages of being clearly dated, well published, and relatively closely
studied (though a detailed study of the iconography, context, and chronol-
ogy of erotic motifs on ancient lamps is a desideratum). What they reveal is
a world of ebullient sensuality, deep into late antiquity. The shop of Pire-
ithos in Athens, which started in the early third century and flourished for
over half a century, specialized in sexual themes. Shops that were first es-
tablished in the fourth century continued to offer their clientele a range of
erotica. Only in the later fourth century do the erotic lamps of Athens be-
gin to give way to abstract designs and Christian symbols; just one work-
shop seems to have produced both erotic and Christian lamps. By the early
fifth century, Christian iconography prevails. In the fifth and sixth centu-
ries erotic lamps can still be found, but they are vanishingly rare. It can be
reasonably assumed that the lamp workshops produced for a market, a
market broadly shaped by public culture; other than their ubiquity and
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
Ovid, mutual satisfaction was a vital part of his sexual code. For the author
of the Lucianic Amores, it is what recommends heterosexual love. But noth-
ing can match Clitophon’s panegyric. For him, the climbing ecstasy of
shared pleasure encapsulated the real meaning of eros. When the woman
neared the “climax of Aphrodite,” she became frenzied with pleasure, and
at the peak of orgasm the woman’s gasps even carried a little of her vital
spirit into the mouth of her lover, where it mingled with his wandering kiss
and returned to the heart.
This description of the woman’s pleasure, the reader of the romance re-
members, is delivered by a young man whose experiences, on his own ad-
mission, have been limited to professional women. Part of us may wonder if
Clitophon has not himself been sold a convincing act, but that is to bring a
modern cynicism into the picture. Achilles is a sly author, to be sure, but his
rendering of female pleasure is integral to the whole conception of eros in
the novel. The novels embrace the physical power of eros and celebrate its
potential to be reconciled within the order of married life and the city-state.
The Greeks and Romans recognized eros as a wild, destructive force. The
novels present a cosmos where the feral power of eros is harnessed by mar-
riage, not dampened by it. For Achilles, marriage itself exists as part of na-
ture, or at least on an indistinct border between wild nature and human
civilization. The novels are about the ending, about marriage, but they are
not sermons or political pamphlets on behalf of marriage. In the world of
the novel, civilization does not repress eros. For the novelist, the fires of
sexual love gave warmth and meaning to human life. Civilization is nour-
ished by absorbing eros into its most vital institution.
In the very opening scene of Leucippe and Clitophon, the “author” sails to
Sidon and meets Clitophon in a temple of the goddess Astarte. The topic of
eros arises and the two descend to a nearby grove bordered by a clear cold
stream; the rest of the novel is Clitophon’s first-person account of his expe-
riences. The story of Clitophon and Leucippe’s romance is an afternoon
conte in the cool shade of the plane trees. The ancient reader would have
known immediately that we have been placed in the surroundings of Plato’s
Phaedrus, one of the Athenian’s most celebrated dialogues on eros, in which
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
Socrates extols the power of love to draw humans toward the divine. It was
by design an ambitious place to set an erotic story. From the beginning
Achilles Tatius evokes the atmosphere of philosophy and the possibility of a
rivalry between philosophy and art. The novel presents a narrative of eros
that is permeated at every turn by the concerns of contemporary philoso-
phy. Leucippe and Clitophon is a philosophical novel, though not a dogmatic
one. Indeed, Achilles Tatius was one of those creative spirits whose prime
conviction was the superiority of art over doctrine as a vehicle for represent-
ing deep human truths.
The references to philosophers and philosophizing scattered throughout
his novel are uniformly smirking. The word “philosophy” occurs six times
in Leucippe and Clitophon. Three times “to philosophize” means “to abstain
from sex,” as when the villain Thersander incredulously asks Leucippe if the
pirates who abducted her became philosophers. Twice it means “to wax elo-
quent for self-interested purposes,” as when Melite makes her final proposi-
tion to Clitophon. One time it means “to suffer, passively,” as when Clito-
phon takes a throttling from Thersander without resistance. Certainly these
passages play on the mixed reputation of contemporary philosophy for
sophism, complaisance, and fussy continence. Stoicism is clearly in view.
The Stoic allusions of the novel are deliberate, but they are not flattering.
Stoicism is evoked because it represented the closest thing to a philosophi-
cal koinē in the Roman Empire; more than a school, Stoicism seeped into
public consciousness. Achilles Tatius is less concerned with its doctrines
than with its stance toward the world. Leucippe and Clitophon is, in fact, a
grand rejection of Stoicism, or of any philosophy that denies eros as a posi-
tive, constitutive source of the self.
Stoicism in particular was a systematic philosophy, and its sexual ethics
cannot be abstracted from the web of problems internal to Stoicism. The
core ethical commitment of Stoicism was the principle that happiness, as
the end of life, consisted in the possession of virtue. Virtue was sufficient
for happiness. Stoic virtue was a thoroughly rationalist exercise, for virtue
was the state of a soul in reasoned accord with nature. To live in agreement
with nature was the highest ideal of the Stoic sage. Such serene rationality
could be fully exercised only in a state of calm that was immune to the im-
pulses of the passions. The Stoic sought apatheia, peace of mind, a reasoned
indifference to things external. Hence, the true Stoic was impervious to
misfortune; because he would “not for even the shortest time look away
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
from reason,” he could “remain ever the same, in the sharpest pain, at the loss
of a child, through the worst disease.” The Stoic achieved, through meditative
self-discipline, a wisdom that brought freedom, in the highest sense that
nothing external could truly affect the Stoic and his moral commitments.
One of the central paradoxes of Stoicism was the simultaneous emphasis
on fate and freedom. The Stoics believed in a deterministic cosmos where
human behavior was locked in a materialist chain of causality. Destiny was
an unbroken sequence of causes. At the same time the Stoics emphasized
individual responsibility and moral freedom. Although nothing could have
been otherwise, fate nevertheless worked through the individual human,
his character and dispositions. For Stoics, fate operated through, not on,
individual humans. In the Roman period especially, the problem of deter-
minism became a central issue of Stoic thought. Epictetus, without rework-
ing the cosmological assumptions of the old Stoa, places a much stronger
accent on the freedom of the rational soul to act virtuously. He believed
that reason allowed humans, unlike animals, to assent to impressions or to
withhold assent, and thereby to achieve freedom from all external forces.
To reconcile fate and freedom, the Stoics had to make enormous assump-
tions about god and providence that were not satisfying to many. Christi-
anity did not so much unconsciously absorb Stoicism as provide radically
new answers to some of its most difficult questions.
For the Stoics, sexual morality was epiphenomenal to the deeper com-
mitments of physics, logic, and cosmology. Nevertheless the Stoics recog-
nized that sexual desire was one of the most essentially human experiences,
and when the Stoics turned to practical ethics, sexuality was ever-present.
Stoic attitudes toward sex, it can be said, agreed on core valuative principles
but differed on the specific implications. First, pleasure was morally indif-
ferent; second, passion, including sexual longing, was inimical to reason
and led to false judgments of value. Sexual desire was inevitable, but not
something to which the wise man would offer assent. For the Stoics, sexual
morality was primarily about the internal regulation of desires. There is
nothing terribly dramatic about the “internalization” of sexual morality in
Stoicism; it was foreordained in the opening maneuver, which measured
virtue by the activity of reason.
The stern counsels of Musonius Rufus represent one logical outcome of
Stoicism’s starting principles. Musonius flourished under Nero and the Fla-
vians, and he was the most respected public philosopher of his generation.
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
idyllic hinterland of a Greek town. The natural virtue of their rustic life was
contrasted, in the second half of the speech, with the vices of the contem-
porary Greek city. The fact that stares out at us from the speech is the utter
centrality of prostitution in the social life of the high Roman Empire. Pros-
titution was the fi xed point in Dio’s roaring diatribe against contemporary
society, and on it hung all the ills and disorders of the world. It was an es-
tablished tenet of Stoic psychology that indulgence was self-reinforcing. Nor-
mally, though, these reflections focused on the individual. Dio turned to
consider the circulation of pleasure through the social body, and his attention
was locked on the vicious spiral of a society geared to deliver sexual satisfac-
tion cheaply and easily. In the thought of Dio, Stoic skepticism toward plea-
sure is suddenly refracted through a panoramic vision of society.
Prostitution was, for Dio, symptomatic of civilizational disorder. In the
“Euboean Oration,” Dio launched a frontal attack on the timeworn ratio-
nalization of prostitution as a safety valve for dangerous sexual energy. Stoic
psychology gave Dio a powerful rejoinder to the assumption that male sex-
ual energy was a determinate quantum. The rulers were wrong to think
they had discovered “a sexual-restraint drug” in the “open, unlocked broth-
els” of the city. Dio argued that men would inevitably become bored with
the pleasures that could be had “with permission, at a negligible rate,” and
turn their amatory energy to the “freeborn women,” locked in inner cham-
bers. Sexual lust was a self-accelerating force, and far from staving off the
violation of respectable women, prostitution fueled the desires that would
inevitably lead to adulteries. The “open, dishonorable violation,” even of
prostitutes, led straight to the corruption of “respectable women and boys.”
Once unbridled, sexual lust could ultimately only lead to sexual ruin—the
corruption of wives and the submission of sons.
In the “Euboean Oration,” Dio proved himself willing to contemplate
the social matrix of desire with a frankness and objectivity that was surpass-
ingly rare. His train of reasoning led him to the precipice of an epochal
moral insight. The sexual economy rested on the “women and boys taken
captive or bought, prostituted for shameful purposes in sordid brothels,
which are apparent everywhere in the city— at the governor’s porch, in the
marketplaces, by the buildings both civil and religious, right in the middle
of what ought to be most revered.” Dio recognized the mechanics of blunt
force, of slavery, behind the flesh trade. The “Euboean Oration” reveals an
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
inchoate legislative impulse; Dio would have had the magistrate forbid
prostitution, like a doctor tending to the “disease” infecting the civic body.
But having walked to the brink, Dio retreats. Dio stopped short of ponder-
ing the impossible, the sexual honor of the dishonored. He was concerned
to cure the internal moral disorder of the civic body through Stoic therapy
writ large. The civic body, rather than the mass of humanity, was the frame-
work for his moral prescription.
The former slave Epictetus also carried the thought of his teacher Muso-
nius in new directions. If Dio brought a panoramic social perspective to Stoic
thought, Epictetus stood in the internalizing, meditative tradition of Sto-
icism. For Epictetus, pleasure was a nullity. The wise man would place it in
the scales and, realizing it had no weight, cast it completely aside as irrelevant.
Marriage was a duty, rather than a partnership glued together with the bond
of eros. Epictetus would allow for marriage as one of the primary duties: “citi-
zenship, marriage, child production, piety to God, care of one’s parents . . .
all as one was born to do. And how are we born to live? As free men, as well-
born men, as men with a sense of honor.” Beyond the expectation of mar-
riage, we find few explicit social correlates in the doctrines of Epictetus. He
was concerned with the internal regulation of desire and, unlike Musonius,
did not express his aversion to pleasure in external rules. Rather, the wise man
needed to have reason to recognize the falsity of impressions that stirred de-
sire. “If you see a pretty young lady, do you hold off the phantasia?” Sexual
desire was something to be discounted by a rational faculty that had been
keenly prepared through the contemplation of the truth. Conquering sexual
desire was not unlike solving a logic problem. “If a girl is willing, beckoning,
inviting me, grasping me and pulling me close, and I still resist and conquer,
then I have solved a problem greater than the Liar or the Quiescent.”
The extant ruminations of Epictetus offer a clear image of the place of
sex in the moral economy of Stoicism. Desire was human, and it was inevi-
table: a man could cut off his penis more easily than his desire. In conse-
quence, the sage had to wean himself of pleasure through reason and self-
discipline, but sex was only one category of pleasure and by no means a
privileged one. “Learn to use wine with refinement . . . and to hold back
from some little lass or a little flatcake.” Stoicism, at least its more austere
side, was no philosophy for young men; a passage surviving in the Stoic
Handbook of Epictetus is particularly revealing. “Remain as pure as you can
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
before marriage with regard to sexual pleasures, and insofar as they are en-
gaged in, let them be lawful. Yet do not become oppressive or reproachful
toward those who do indulge, and do not hold forth all the time on your
own restraint.” It would be harder to craft a statement more alien to the
flamboyant renunciations and pellucid interdictions of Christianity.
The quiet placability of Epictetus in his sexual morality is not far re-
moved from the stance of the latest and most remarkable of the Roman
Stoics, Marcus Aurelius. His Stoicism is known through the cheerless if not
funereal collection of meditations preserved under the title To Himself. The
pessimism of Marcus was not just the by-product of a sickly, world-weary
emperor. His obsession with the cosmos was in the mainstream of Stoic
thought. Indeed, it was only through the contemplation of the universe,
and the place of human life within it, that man’s reason could truly com-
prehend what a “cheap, contemptible, filthy, perishable, defunct” thing plea-
sure was. The life of man was a narrow point, crushed in on either side by
eternity. Meditation on the cosmos put sex and marriage in true perspec-
tive. For Marcus, sex was “a commotion of the innards and a convulsive
secretion of mucus.” Marriage was a sign of perishability and meaningless-
ness: “meditate on the times of Vespasian, see all these things: people mar-
rying, raising children, falling sick and dying, warring, reveling . . . and yet
there is nowhere any trace of that life of theirs. Switch now to the times of
Trajan, and again the same things, and that life too has perished.” In time,
all the deeds of the body passed away for eternity. Pleasure was an indiffer-
ent, not an evil; reason should conquer the false impressions arising from
desire. Sexual morality hardly looms over the philosophy of Marcus. He
reminds himself, in oblique language, that he had not rushed into sexual
activity as a young man. We know, too, that his marriage to Faustina was
exceptionally fertile, producing fourteen children, and that after his wife’s
death Marcus did what many Roman widowers did for solace, he took a
freedwoman as a concubine. As Epictetus would have advised, the Stoic
emperor’s indulgences were lawful, and his restraint was not oppressively
vaunted.
The cosmology of Marcus, which is so important to his ethical outlook,
was inseparable from orthodox Stoic determinism. “The peculiar quality of
the good man is to love and to embrace whatever things have been be-
stowed and allotted to him.” At its deepest spiritual core, Roman Stoicism
assumed that moral action was made possible by a benevolent providence.
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
What is truly astonishing is how close Dio, Epictetus, and Marcus each
come to realizing that this was materially not tenable, and how each re-
treats from more disturbing conclusions: Dio by focusing on the civic body
rather than the dishonored, Epictetus by insisting on absolute internal free-
dom, and Marcus by the sheer assertion of divine justice. “The gods do
exist, and human affairs are a concern to them. They have dispensed to
man the power not to fall into anything that is truly evil.” Theodicy is not
a demonstration of Stoic philosophy, it is an assumption, perhaps its deep-
est assumption.
The providence of Stoicism was part of the religious atmosphere of the
high empire, and it is here that philosophy draws closest to literature. The
fatalism of Leucippe and Clitophon was just as conscious and overt as that of
the Stoic philosophers. For Achilles, as for the Stoics, the individual was the
plaything of destiny, which made kings and slaves alike. Achilles is just as
close as Dio—perhaps even closer—to realizing the dark side of fate. His
nameless, faceless prostitute, the foil of Leucippe, is the corollary of Dio’s
searching examination of the social dynamics of sex, which cannot ulti-
mately cross to consider the moral position of the enslaved. Yet the surface
similarities between Stoicism and the romance are hardly a sign of influ-
ence or agreement. Stoicism and narrative fiction breathed the same air, and
they addressed themselves to the deepest spiritual questions of the age.
Stoicism and the erotic novel, in fact, give diametrically opposite answers to
precisely the same questions. Marcus was a near contemporary of Achilles,
and it would be hard to find more incompatible attitudes toward sex: for
Marcus sex was a type of excretion, for Achilles it was an ecstatic commu-
nion with the “mystic fire” in the experience of erotic consummation. For
Achilles, marriage is the end, the resolution; on an individual scale, it of-
fered salvation and completion.
Leucippe’s very name, “the white horse,” evokes the Socratic metaphor of
the chariot from the Phaedrus. Like Plato, Achilles believes that eros can lift
the human soul just high enough to glimpse the divine. Unlike Plato,
Achilles describes eros for a girl. And yet Leucippe and Clitophon does not
just present Platonic eros in heterosexual guise. For Plato, physical eros was
a force sublimated in the intellectual search for wisdom, a mere image of
the true form of love. It is epitomized by the pederastic mentorship. Leu-
cippe and Clitophon, by contrast, begins with a series of failed courtships
modeled on pederasty and ends with the marriage of the protagonists. The
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
The sexual culture of the high Roman Empire was dominated by the im-
peratives of social reproduction. The symphony of sexual values, in all its
various movements and complex harmonies, was set to the rhythms of the
material world: early marriage for women, jealous guarding of honorable
female sexuality, an expansive slave system, late marriage for men, and basi-
cally relaxed attitudes toward male sexual potential, so long as it was conso-
nant with masculine protocols and social hierarchies. Moral expectations
were in tune with social roles, and social roles strictly determined both the
points of release and the rigid constraints in ancient sexual culture. The
value of a sexual act derived, first and foremost, from its objective location
within a matrix of social relationships.
The romances of the Roman Empire are such extraordinary witnesses to
the experience of eros because they transform the exigencies of social repro-
duction into the workings of a cosmic destiny, they toy with the tensions
between flux and order in the individual’s coming-to-be in the world, and
in the end, they spiritualize the mysterious erotic energies that connect man
to nature. In the romances, these stirrings are a constitutive source of the
self. When a romancer like Achilles Tatius looked out upon the gloomy
counsels of the philosophers, it was not as a partisan of one ideology upon
another, competing for supremacy in the public mind; it was, rather, as a
spokesman for life, and the timeless patterns of sexual experience, upon a
THE MORALITIES OF SEX IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
TO SOAR C LOS E TO A NG E L S
heaven, where she could glimpse from afar “the vales of immortality.” After
such a revelation, she would come to regard as trifles the things of this life,
“wealth, honor, birth, marriages.” Marriage, on this view, is not sinful, but
its merits shrink to invisibility in the blinding glory of sexual abstinence.
The star of this Christian Symposium is Thecla, the semilegendary travel-
ing companion of Paul, who makes an effective mouthpiece for the sexual
teaching of her apostolic mentor. Behind the imagery and mystical hierar-
chy of a Platonic cosmos, the ideological framework on which the Sympo-
sium rests is thoroughly Pauline. The compressed words of Paul in his first
epistle to the Christians of Corinth determine the boundaries between the
ideal, the permissible, and the forbidden throughout the dialogue. Paul’s
passing endorsement of continence as an optimal state, so gently embodied
in his own example, has been expanded into a thoroughgoing devaluation
of physical pleasure. If virginity is a marvelous foretaste of salvation, Meth-
odius holds, then what store could be set in the corporeal agitations of sex?
The sleep of Adam during the creation of Eve prefigured the deadening
trance perpetually reenacted in the marriage bed: during sex, so one of the
virginal interlocutors had heard, the generative element in the husband’s
blood was boiled into a sort of liquefied bone and implanted by the vital
organ into the living field of the wife. In the loving embraces of his wife, a
man was overcome by “generative impulses.” The gravest danger of the sex
drive was, in fact, that it impelled a “yearning for offspring.”
The pleasure of the marriage couch was a distraction, an insidiously dan-
gerous one. Like a torrential river, the delights of sex threatened to drag the
soul into its raging currents and send it careening down the “rapids of in-
continence.” For the virgins of Methodius, pleasure lacked any positive
value. Sex could not act as the warm bonding agent it is in Plutarch’s mari-
tal counsels, nor could it be celebrated as the mysterious wash of ecstasy
vouchsafed for man by nature and nature’s gods. Sex, with its corporal gy-
rations, was a little putrid. But it was not, in itself, immoral. The virgins of
Methodius knew it would be overbold to declare the generation of children
sinful, when God himself had installed marriage and reproduction in the
order of creation. Besides, marriage produced new generations of martyrs,
soldiers of God ready to face the trials of persecution. Marital intercourse,
even for these virginal symposiasts, also served another, less exalted pur-
pose: it prevented worse uses of the body. For those too weak to pursue
virginity, who smoldered with desire for sex, marriage was a safe harbor to
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
prevent them from crashing on the rocks of fornication, porneia. The logic
is distinctly that of Paul. Marital congress was a prophylactic against other,
easily obtained satisfactions. In their alertness to the perils of fornication,
the virgins at this symposium reveal the influence of a mental world, even a
language, that would have been unrecognizable to Plato and his many fol-
lowers in the Roman Empire. Fornication was one of the “horns of the
devil,” by which the evil one would cast down those who lacked self-control.
It became for Christians a supremely depraved form of sin, embedded in
the institutions and practices of the world around them. Even the virgins of
Methodius, in their lofty acclamations of bodily purity, must pause to
worry about the pollutions of fornication.
Although the specific rigors and allowances of his sexual code flow from
a reading of Paul’s epistles, Methodius does reveal one preoccupation that
would have been as unfamiliar to the apostle as to Plato. “Of all evils, the
greatest that has taken root among the many is the notion that the move-
ments of the stars cause our sins and that the necessities of fate steer our
life.” In his concern with astral determinism, Methodius marks himself as a
man of his age. His tirade against determinism addressed one of the pre-
dominant themes of intellectual culture in the Roman Empire, one whose
currents run through popular wonderment and formal philosophy alike.
Methodius dedicated an entire tract, On Free Will, to the problem of fate.
He revealed himself as an advocate of radical moral freedom. The Christian
was possessed of a “self-ruling and autonomous” moral faculty, “free of all
compulsion, its own master to choose what it wishes, slave neither to fate
nor fortune.” The problem of free will cut to the core of the most profound
questions about the nature of the cosmos and man’s place in it. Unsurpris-
ingly, debates about moral autonomy gravitated toward sex. Sex became a
privileged testing ground for doctrines of moral freedom. The authors of
romance knew as much. For Achilles Tatius, Leucippe’s “freedom” was a
perfect alloy of her virtue, her social status, and her assurance that she was
safe within the rules of the romantic narrative; Achilles Tatius playfully
mocked Stoic ideals of freedom by revealing how little space for action was
implied in the notion of voluntary assent to fate. For Christians, there
could be no ambiguity about a matter so fundamental, and so eternally
consequential, as the cause of sin. Nothing—not the stars, not physical vio-
lence, not even the quiet undertow of social expectation— could be held
responsible for the individual’s choice of good and evil. The Christians of
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
the second and third centuries invented the notion of free will. Against the
threat of gnostic determinism, amid a popular culture increasingly ad-
dicted to astrology, and in opposition to a philosophical culture with ever
more sophisticated accounts of moral causation, the Christians entered the
fray with a message that was jarringly simple and distinctive. The individ-
ual, whatever his or her condition, was a moral agent with unqualified ca-
pability and responsibility. These crystalline notions of freedom and re-
sponsibility came to focus on the realm of moral behavior whose wellsprings
might seem most inscrutable: sex.
The Symposium of Methodius can be regarded as the last text of early
Christianity. It reflects the authority of Paul’s words as a benchmark of
Christian sexual morality. It gives poetic expression to an ascetic theology
forced, begrudgingly, to accommodate marriage as an acceptable institu-
tion. It treats sexuality as a prime domain of moral exercise and sees hu-
mans as sufficiently equipped always to choose righteousness. But for Meth-
odius, the freedom of the sexual will was still an intellectual problem rather
than a social or psychological one. In this regard Methodius is much closer
to the self-styled philosophers of second-century Christianity than to many
of his own contemporaries, who would survive into the heady age of Chris-
tian triumph. In the work of Methodius, moral autonomy is a cosmological
postulate, a statement about the place of man before the eyes of God. His
Symposium is untroubled by the possibility of material constraints on hu-
man volition or even by dark undercurrents of the self that required exter-
nal grace to enable moral freedom. Methodius is one of the last Christians
to write in an apologetic voice, as the spokesman of a philosophy distinctly
apart from the machinery of society. On June 20 of AD 312, that machin-
ery turned against him. Methodius was tried—perhaps before the Roman
emperor himself— and executed, in one of the very final spasms of state vio-
lence faced by the early Christians.
This chapter attempts to summarize the sexual code which took shape in
the unruly world of early Christianity and to take stock of how the new
religion’s outlook on sex differed from mainstream values and philosophi-
cal attitudes toward the body. It has been very much doubted that there was
anything like a consensus within the early church on questions of sexual
comportment. Indeed, the discovery of the fierce internal struggles that
took place within the Christian movement has been a revelation, for it re-
stores some of the urgency and depth to the ancient debates. We know the
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
future of the early church. But the men and women of the first centuries
did not imagine a future where the sexual protocols they formed would be
placed in the hands of a powerful institutional church. Indeed, the strident
tone of so much early Christian writing on sexuality was nurtured in an
atmosphere where the advocates of the religion were a small, persecuted
minority. Christian sexual morality of the second century has a shrill tone
precisely because it is the urgent message of an embattled, if confident,
group of dissenters.
By nature a synthesis must concentrate on what is most important, and
despite the astonishing diversity within the early church, what matters is
the formation and triumph of a radical new orthodoxy of sexual propriety.
Early Christian sexuality was like a great braided river, but one kept within
certain boundaries by the geological features of the landscape. In an impor-
tant sense, with Paul the landscape was formed, and any movement that
was going to treat Paul’s letters as authoritative was bound to gravitate
around certain lines. Here we must focus on the contours and the destina-
tion of early Christian thought on sex, while resisting the pull of each
winding channel. What such an account loses in passing over the contin-
gency, and contentiousness, of early Christian sexuality, it hopes to gain by
taking a long-range perspective. For three centuries, Christian sexual ideol-
ogy was the property of a persecuted minority, and it was deeply stamped
by the ability of Christians to stand apart from the world, to reject the
world. From the fourth century on, Christian sexual morality would be ever
more deeply enmeshed in the world. The break was not necessarily sharp:
there were married Christian householders from the earliest days of the
church, and the ascetic movement carried on the world-rejecting style of
the early church. But the changing center of gravity was decisive.
The focal point of this chapter is the orthodox model of sexuality pre-
sented by the remarkable figure Clement of Alexandria. Clement was a
slightly later contemporary of Achilles Tatius, and a fellow citizen of Alex-
andria. It is important to imagine the two inhabiting the same culture and
the same cityscape. Clement is the first Christian whose sexual doctrines
are known in depth. Nearly every interpretive problem in the study of early
Christian sexual morality comes to a head in the question of how to situate
Clement within the trajectory of the church’s sexual mission. Was he an
isolated voice for the “silent majority” of married Christians or a character-
istic representative of an ever more powerful ecclesiastical establishment? Is
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
The code of sexual rules that came to prevail in the early Christian
church was highly distinctive; its moral logic was more innovative still. For
the Greeks and Romans, public sexual ideology was an organic expression
of a social system. Sexual norms were in harmony with public law, the pro-
tocols of marriage, and the patterns of inheritance. Even pagan philosophy
tended, at its deepest level, to offer a duty-based sexual ethics that accepted
the logic of social reproduction while devaluing pleasure as such. But early
Christianity showed itself prepared to abandon the traditional needs and
expectations of society, if necessary in the most dramatic fashion. Christi-
anity broke sexual morality free from its social moorings. The indifference
toward secular life and the new model of moral agency— centered around
an absolutely free individual whose actions bore an eternal and cosmic
significance—were covalent propositions. The individual was morally re-
sponsible, and moral responsibility required freedom, from the stars and
from social expectation alike. The chill severity of Christian sexuality was
born not out of a pathological hatred of the body, nor out of a broad public
anxiety about the material world. It emerged in an existentially serious cul-
ture, propelled to startling conclusions by the remorseless logic of a new
moral cosmology. The discovery of the free will was not a circumstantial
adjunct of early Christian sexual morality; it was an essential feature, deter-
mined by the deep logic of a moral order founded on sin and salvation.
Around the year AD 51 the apostle Paul arrived for the first time in
Corinth, the bustling seat of Roman power in Achaea. The city, once razed
by the Romans but long since resurrected by its destroyers, was an impos-
ing sight. In Paul’s own words, he came to Corinth “in weakness and in
much fear and trembling.” The Acrocorinth, the sheer escarpment housing
Corinth’s most archaic temples, dominated the views of the approaching
visitor. Perched on its eastern summit was a temple of Aphrodite, looming
over the town that sprawled toward the sea beneath her solicitous watch. As
Paul entered the forum, he would have been confronted by the bewildering
noise of power, commerce, and diffuse piety that characterized urban life in
a vibrant provincial town of the Roman Empire. The sanctuaries of the
gods—Tychē and Aphrodite, Artemis and Dionysus—ringed the crowded
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
center of the town, hard by the merchants’ stalls and public offices. The
haphazard accretion of religious monuments, and the tessellation of the sa-
cred and the profane, belied the reverent balance and careful rhythms that
guaranteed the gods their due honor. Into this enveloping cityscape of tremu-
lous paganism crept a missionary with a startling message. “Do you not
know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you?”
We meet the community of Christians Paul founded in Corinth through
the tantalizing but imperfect prism of the letters he wrote, some six years
after first visiting the city, when challenged by the unexpectedly fractious
relations in a small apocalyptic movement. Word reached Paul in Ephesus
that the Corinthian Christians were feuding, split on a range of mundane
problems, from marriage and manumission to sacrificial meat. In the pa-
tient response of the apostle that has come to be known as First Corinthi-
ans, fierce disagreement over proper sexual behavior lurches to the surface.
Such dissent was surely inevitable. Nowhere did the moral expectations of
the Jesus movement stand in such stark contrast to the world in which its
adherents moved. Corinth in particular was not famous for its sexual vir-
tue. In recent decades the reputation of Roman Corinth has enjoyed the
sort of undeserved rehabilitation that comes only when generations of gross
exaggeration allow overcorrection to pass as healthy revision. It is true that
Corinth had first earned its notoriety in centuries long past. But the laxity
of the Corinthians in venereal affairs was not just hoary legend. In the
words of a second-century admirer, Corinth was a city “more dear to Aph-
rodite than all cities that exist or have existed.” The eroticized atmosphere
of Corinth was the predictable attribute of a wealthy, imperial crossroads;
even against the indulgent backdrop of late pagan sensuality, Corinth stood
out as louche.
It is unsurprising that the inchoate sexual code of the Christian gospel—
terse yet austere— came to a head here. More surprising are the extremes
around which members of the Corinthian community had polarized, in
full belief that their radically divergent views were consistent with the de-
mands of the messianic religion. Such fundamental conflict was to charac-
terize Christian thinking on sex into the fourth century, even as Paul’s
views would exert a continuous and irresistible pull toward the compromise
he forged in his fateful response to the crisis in Corinth. Paul’s approach in
First Corinthians was shaped by his decision to steer a middle course between
an element within the Christian church who tended toward libertinism
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
and another group who espoused strict continence as an urgent ideal. Be-
tween those who said “All things are lawful for me” and others who insisted
“It is well for a man not to touch a woman,” Paul sought a defensible mid-
dle ground.
Paul’s reply, because it is an epistolary intervention rather than a treatise
on sexual ethics, assumes more than it reveals. In some sense the entire
Christian conversation on sexuality has been a search for the unstated as-
sumptions of Paul’s delicate guidance in the three central chapters of First
Corinthians. At the core of Paul’s thought is the term porneia, fornication,
a word packed with connotations less obvious to us than to his contemporary
audience. Porneia is the cornerstone of the sexual ethics of First Corinthi-
ans. Paul’s whole attitude toward sex—not to mention his place in Jewish
tradition and his distinctiveness against the backdrop of the Roman Em-
pire—is destined to remain opaque unless we demystify the word porneia.
It is not easy to do so, and a cottage industry has been devoted to unlocking
the meaning of this primary Christian term. To translate it as “fornication”
is mere convenience. Fornication is ecclesiastical argot— and always has
been. Even in the astonishingly rich sexual vernacular of Latin, there was
no word ready to hand to translate porneia, and an equivalent had to be
hastily contrived. Fornicatio was derived from fornix, literally an arch and
figuratively a den of venal sex. No classical author used the term fornicatio.
Likewise, porneia has no classical pedigree. In classical Greek, porneia is the
activity of prostituting oneself, not the institution of commercial sex or any
class of forbidden acts. Before its adoption by religiously inspired sexual
activists, porneia referred squarely to the production, not the consumption,
of venal sex. Likewise, in classical Greek the pornos was the male prostitute—
the gigolo, not the john. Tellingly, for Paul it was the reverse, and it can be
confidently asserted that the meaning of porneia, for Paul, was not derived
from the classical heritage.
The Christian understanding of porneia was inherited from Hellenistic
Judaism. The word first entered the parlance of Hellenistic Judaism as a
calque of the Hebrew zenuth. The core meaning of the Hebrew verb znh
describes the activity of a woman who loses her sexual honor. This sense
dominates the primitive strata of the Jewish Bible. Because legitimate fe-
male sexuality was strictly confined to marriage, a woman who engaged in
any extramarital sex was guilty of zenuth. In the patriarchal logic of early
Hebrew culture, she became a “whore,” and the feminine participle, zonah,
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
was the primary word for prostitute throughout the biblical period. The
Hebrew Bible is decidedly tepid in its condemnation of males patronizing
the brothel—there are practical, but not legal, warnings, and this same ir-
resolution will echo down through the monuments of Hebraic literature in
the Roman period. But crucial to the later expansion of the term’s meaning,
especially in Greek, was the introduction of a metaphorical sense of the
word. From the time of the prophet Hosea, zenuth came to stand as a pow-
erful metaphor for idolatry. Israel’s religious promiscuity was compared to
the sort of infidelity that was most likely to evoke a visceral reaction in a
patriarchal society: feminine unchastity. The rhetoric was jarring, and was
meant to be so. The prophets accused Israel of being a “spiritual slut.”
By the late Second Temple period, the metaphorical meaning had bled
back into the literal meaning, so that spiritual whoring and sexual whoring
were irreversibly blurred. Sexual misconduct could be construed as tanta-
mount to idolatry. This equation was reinforced by the presumption that
idolatrous people have whorish women; the prejudice that out-group fe-
males are less virtuous than the women of one’s own family, clan, and tribe
has often proven compelling to the human mind. Fatefully, the sense of
zenuth as idolatry allowed for acts of male commission. This sense was des-
tined to have a long future, but it is important to be precise about its place in
Jewish tradition. The decisive expansion of the word’s meaning, to include
sexual acts committed by men, is not overt in the Septuagint, the Greek
translations of the Hebrew scriptures. The Septuagint was the milk nurse of
Paul and the early Christians, but in it they would have found porneia to
mean female unchastity or religious idolatry. The decisive expansion of the
term’s meaning, to include male sexual error, occurred extrabiblically.
A tectonic shift in Jewish sexual ethics, concerned with the moral regu-
lation of male sexuality, is attested in texts staggered across the last centu-
ries BC. Perhaps the earliest extant witness to the more encompassing
meaning of porneia is Sirach, written in the first decades of the second cen-
tury BC. The most intriguing witness to the spread of porneia as a regula-
tive norm is a text known as the Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs, where
porneia has become the “mother of all evils.” The Testament is invaluable
because its unusual detail confirms that porneia could be used to describe a
whole array of improper sexual configurations: incest, prostitution, exog-
amy, homosexuality, and unchastity. But by far the most important witness
to the sexual sensibilities of Hellenistic Judaism on the eve of the Pauline
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
through the epistolary conversations between Paul and his eclectic assem-
blies of messianic believers that we watch the early and decisive develop-
ment of the term. Paul was drawn into the topic of sexual comportment by
a scandal within his Corinthian community that had shaken the small cir-
cle of the faithful. A man was living with his father’s wife, “a kind of por-
neia that is not found even among pagans.” A man had begun to cohabit
with his stepmother, probably widowed. The two may not have been so far
apart in age. Such scenarios were the material for much ribald comedy in
Greek and Roman cultures. For Paul, the relationship was intolerable, and
he sternly reminded the Corinthians, “I wrote to you in my letter not to
associate with fornicators.” The Christian community, an evangelical mi-
nority steeled for the end times, could not abide such impurity. As for
Philo, so for Paul, sexual morality was a presumptive requirement of com-
munal belonging.
The backsliding believer in love with his stepmother was symptomatic of
deeper and more complex antagonisms at Corinth. Paul was faced with an
intellectually armored libertine wing within the incipient church. Some of
the Corinthians were claiming that the emancipatory message of the gospel
freed the body from petty moral demands: “All things are lawful for me.”
Paul’s response was both sharp and ranging. The body, he insisted, was not
made for fornication. The believer’s body was a “member of Christ,” and
the member of Christ could not be made “a member of a prostitute.” Paul’s
libertine interlocutors espoused a traditional upper-class attitude toward the
male body, whose desires were to be balanced by vigilant control but not
self-denial. Paul’s response betrays an acute sensitivity to bodily purity. The
sexual machinery of the body was something to be protected from contami-
nation, not simply kept in proper balance. Coition was anything but a vacu-
ous physical act without effects beyond the circulation of heat and moisture.
“He who joins himself to a prostitute becomes one body with her.” Paul’s
demand was simple: “flee fornication.” The stakes were pitched deliberately
high, and in an idiom of Mediterranean piety that gentile converts would
immediately understand. “The fornicator sins into his own body. Do you
not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you?” Forni-
cation was an act of pollution in the sacred space of the Christian body.
Paul’s reflections on fornication, like a stone on the river bottom that
suddenly catches the light, reveals the unexpected depths of the term’s mean-
ing. Fornication was not just a marker of ethnic differentiation, providing a
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
template of sexual rules setting God’s faithful apart from the heathens.
Paul’s understanding of fornication made the body into a consecrated space,
a point of mediation between the individual and the divine. When Paul
heightened the term’s meaning, he also foreshadowed a certain narrowing
of the term porneia and its scope in gentile Christianity. The specter of
sexual lassitude presented by the libertine faction immediately suggested
not the establishment of a free love commune but the traditionally harmless
and “lawful” outlet for male sexual energies: prostitution. The availability
of dishonored women traced the profoundly different foundations of sexual
morality in the outside world. It was almost inevitable that fornication
would come to identify, ever more narrowly, the types of extramarital sex-
ual license entrenched in gentile society, centered on bodies without access
to sexual honor. In First Corinthians, Paul has set his sights not on heavy
petting gone too far among young innocents in the congregation, nor on
carnal bohemianism. Far more consequentially, Paul intended to dam the
traditional canals long approved as spillways for the inevitable sexual heats
of young men in the ancient world. Christian porneia would recast the
harmless sexual novitiate that was an unobjectionable part of sexual life in
antiquity as an unambiguous sin, a transgression against the will of God,
echoing in eternity.
Despite the extraordinary weight Paul places on sexual purity, his mis-
sive to Corinth was a delicate act of triangulation. Word had reached Paul
of a faction within the Christian community who declared that strict con-
tinence was the measure of holiness. Paul could not register unqualified
disagreement. “I wish that all were as I myself am,” he writes, foreground-
ing his own celibacy. For centuries Christians will elaborate on this most
gentle of moral suggestions, usually with a stridency that contrasts with
Paul’s cautious sensibility. Paul was not willing to disenfranchise the reli-
able married householders who held together the fledgling church. Mar-
riage was to be accommodated, “by way of concession, not of command.”
In fact, although marriage might tie down a man or woman to the dull
distractions of everyday life, it was the surest bulwark against sexual sin.
“Because of fornications, each man should have his own wife, and each
woman her own husband.” Paul imagines a sexual version of Pascal’s wager:
“It is better to marry than to be aflame with passion.” Surrounded by the
temptations of the Greek city, the Christians for whom continence was not
a practicable goal were to find safe exercise in the licit amours of the mar-
riage bed. Eros was an ominous threat hanging over the purity of the body,
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
not a constitutive feature of human identity. The most that could be said for
marriage was that it was not, at least, an act of desecration. Amid the ubiq-
uitous lures of Aphrodite’s city, that was not necessarily a trivial blessing.
Paul’s compromise between libertinism and continence was to reverber-
ate throughout the rest of Christian history. It was a settlement forged in
the compressed atmosphere of apocalyptic time. Paul offered a wisdom “not
of this age or of the rulers of this age, who are doomed to pass away.” Like
any treaty, it would eventually show the marks of age, strained by the pas-
sage of time and subtle realignments in the balance of power. But it laid
down the key terms that acted as the starting point for all future negotia-
tions. At the same time, the urgency of the moment left much unsaid.
There was much that simply did not need saying. The protocols of feminine
respectability—virginity followed by fidelity—were so universal and obvi-
ous that their express declaration would have been otiose. Paul’s focus was
squarely on the quarrels that had arisen in the church. His letter was an
intervention. But it was an intervention that would progressively attain ca-
nonical status within the diff use network of tiny communities who viewed
Paul as an authoritative messenger. Almost immediately Christians were
scrambling to interpret what Paul meant, both in what he said and what he
left unsaid. The prophets of virginity would latch on to the apostle’s own
celibacy, and the glaring absence of any enthusiasm for marriage, as sure
signs that Paul had not allotted any grace to acts of the flesh. But the au-
thors of the pastoral epistles would come nearer to the spirit of Paul, when
they envisioned, in the unfolded expanse of continuous time, the moral vi-
ability of orderly Christian households. Paul may well not have endorsed
the abrasive patriarchy of the pastoral letters, but their explicit affirmation,
against those who would forbid marriage, that “everything created by God
is good,” is not alien to his thought. Th is strain of Paul’s sexual ideology
was destined to prevail. But what could not be credibly doubted, by any
Christian claiming descent from the Pauline tradition, was the irredeem-
able depravity of fornication and the need to secede from the moral econ-
omy of the Roman sexual order.
Not long after the composition of his dispatch to the Corinthians, Paul au-
thored his letter to the church in Rome. Written to a community he was yet
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
Jew. But the attack on pederasty was not an attempt to slay some imaginary
monster from the past and purge the Platonic kingdom of an unwanted
intruder. For Philo, pederasty was a characteristic affliction of the society
that surrounded him. It had become “something boasted of, and not just by
those who indulge in it, but also those who suffer it.” It was a damnable act,
for both parties to the transaction. The deviance of pederasty, at its core, lay
in the attraction of males for males. Philo contrasted the madness of men
for women and women for men, “in which case the desires themselves are
pursued according to the laws of nature,” with the madness of men for other
males “who differ only in age.” The pederast sought a “pleasure” that was
itself “against nature.”
Far more than Paul, Philo makes strategic use of the models of mascu-
linity in the culture around him to bolster his own attack on same-sex erotics.
Amorous encounters with free boys drew his special indignation. Philo ar-
gued that the victim of pederasty was constitutionally transformed by the
experience of sexual passivity. The receptive role literally damped the circu-
lation of warmth through the developing male body and turned it toward
physical femininity. “Becoming accustomed to suffer the affliction of
women, they waste in body and soul, so that not one ember of their manly
nature is left flickering with heat.” Similar conceptions may well have un-
derlain Greco-Roman opposition to pederasty with free boys, though Philo
has given fullest voice to the fear. Pederasty, he argued, might so disrupt the
buildup of proper heat that turned a boy into a man that an irreversible
cycle of tabescence would set in, rendering the boy cold, frail, moist: an ef-
feminate. Manliness was such a fragile, indeterminate thing that it might
be lost altogether. The eromenos might become an androgyne, a she-male, a
physiological monster. The androgyne, thought Philo, for “debasing the
coinage of his nature,” should be killed with impunity, not allowed to live
for one day, or one hour.
The shrill tone never falters. There is a sense, in Philo’s fevered attacks,
that he is throwing the kitchen sink at a practice that he held in special
disfavor. But beneath the vernacular assumptions about masculinity, Phi-
lo’s attack on same-sex eros is governed by an irreducibly Jewish logic, a
sense of blinding dread toward all forms of sexual contact between males.
For Philo, no mitigating factors—not age, not status— could render male
flesh an appropriately neutral object of sexual desire for men. His coruscat-
ing attack dispersed all the mists of ambiguity—the sympotic drunken-
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
A CO M M U N IT Y A PART: P U RIT Y, P OR N E I A ,
A N D TH E A P O LOG E TIC VOIC E
accuse Tertullian of selecting his enemies wisely, in order to place the op-
position in the worst possible light. But he has understood the foundations
of Roman sexual culture rather accurately, and his case should not be too
lightly dismissed as the salacious concoction of a zealot. Tertullian’s address
belongs to an important class of early Christian literature, apologetics.
Apologetic literature marked the coming-of-age of Christianity as a self-
aware movement within the pluralist landscape of Roman intellectual life.
Christian apologies were part of a broader culture of public address, often
aimed at the awesome figure of the emperor himself. We need not believe
that most, or any, Christian speeches reached the ears of the prince, to rec-
ognize how powerfully the context of the official audience shaped the self-
projection of the religion. Indeed, apology was not just a category of litera-
ture but also a stance, a style of perception and presentation. The apologetic
literature of the second century was not only a crucial bridge between the
compositions of the New Testament and the oeuvre of Clement—the great-
est of the apologists. It offers us a chance to witness the development of or-
thodox Christian sexuality as a moral ideology that set Christians apart
from the world.
In the peaceful middle decades of the second century, a Greek speaker of
Samaritan origin settled in Rome. He had, by his own account, passed
through the hands of Stoics and Aristotelians, Pythagoreans and Platonists,
during the course of his studies. He was impressed by the Platonic doctrine
of an eternal soul. But this seeker, Justin, was unconvinced until he found
Christian philosophy. Following baptism, he became a Christian teacher
and the first of the apologists whose work survives. Justin studiously main-
tained the persona and trappings of a philosopher. His two apologies and
his Dialogue with Trypho are usually mined as evidence for the gradual ac-
commodation of Christian theology with Platonic metaphysics. But they
are at least as interesting as statements of a second-century sexual ideology
that parted quite as much from Plato as from the regnant norms of imperial
society. For Justin the conversion to Christianity meant leaving behind a
life of entrenched sexual indulgence. “Those who once reveled in fornica-
tions now cleave to chastity alone.” The sexual propriety of the Christians
was one of the chief recommendations for the new religion, and it stood in
sharp contrast to the patterns of sexual conduct not just allowed but insti-
tutionalized in the ancient Mediterranean. “We see that nearly all of them
are led into prostitution, not only the girls but also the males. In the way
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
that those of old are said to have reared herds of sheep and cattle, goats and
grazing horses, in these times children are reared, but for shameful use. So
too an abundance of women, she-men, and ineffably wicked ones are set up
for this sort of pollution. And you receive income, revenue, and taxes from
those whom you ought to cast out of your civilization.” The centrality of
prostitution stood as a stain on the oikoumenē, the hard-won civilization of
the Roman Empire.
Justin’s apology provides an important witness to Christian self-
presentation in the middle of the second century. The Christians had cre-
ated a way of life indifferent to the lures of pleasure. “It is our principle ei-
ther to marry for the purpose of rearing children or to abstain from marriage
and live in complete continence.” Justin does not offer a strictly Pauline
justification for marriage as a safeguard against sexual pollution. Instead,
marriage is justified as a procreative project. In part Justin is appealing to
the broadly accepted purpose of marriage in the ancient world. Marriage
was understood, and structured, above all as a procreative relationship.
Procreative intent distinguished marriage from all other relationships, and
marriage contracts often included a purpose clause, procreandorum liber-
orum causa. But Justin is the earliest witness to the co-optation of this ide-
ology for specifically Christian ends. For the Greeks and Romans, the pro-
creative purpose of marriage located the relationship in a network of legal
exchanges and transfers; it was certainly not seen as a palliative for the
otherwise dubious exercise of sexual faculties. Justin, like so many Chris-
tians after him, turns the purpose of marriage into a mitigating factor, ex-
cusing the sexual use of the body. It is important, knowing the future, not
to read too much into Justin’s rationalization of marriage. Procreation justi-
fied marriage. Traditional discretion and conjugal privacy obviated the
need to say more. Justin did not go so far as to say that procreation justified
sex, though it would be a short, fateful step from Justin to such a view. In
apologetic mode, Justin simply needed to point to the rectitude of the
Christians, who either remained celibate or married with most scrupulous
intentions.
Within only a few decades the procreative purpose of marriage would
gradually become a conceptual justification for sex. The shadowy figure of
Athenagoras, a Christian philosopher writing in the reign of Marcus Aure-
lius, took this fateful step. His Embassy is among the finest of the second-
century apologies. Athenagoras accused the Romans of a litany of formulaic
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
sexual excesses. “They set up a marketplace for fornication and set up un-
holy stations offering every shameful pleasure to the young. They refrain
not even from males, men practicing terrible things with men. . . . These
adulterers and pederasts reproach us, who are eunuchs and monogamists.”
Athenagoras focuses his disdain for contemporary sexual practice not on
any lurid rumor of imperial debauchery, nor on improbable tales of private
debasement, but rather on the institutionalized dispensations of pleasure,
visible in the light of day. He pointed out that Christians owned slaves,
whose omnipresent eyes were the surest form of surveillance in the Roman
world, and yet no plausible charges against Christian chastity could be al-
leged. The exceptional purity of the Christians was emphasized by the fact
that they, in obedience to the words of Jesus, did not even look with lust
upon women. In an empire full of cities that offered endless visual allure-
ments, such restraint would have stood as no minor accomplishment. But
ocular abstemiousness was not the end of Christian virtue. “Since we have
a hope for eternal life, we hold in contempt the affairs of this life, up to and
including the pleasures of the soul. We consider her a wife whom we have
taken according to our own laws, exclusively for the purpose of procreation.
Just as the farmer sows his seeds in the earth and waits for the harvest with-
out sowing again, so for us procreation is the limit of our desire.”
The Christians were not the first moralists to invest the “seed” with pon-
derous moral associations. The Pythagoreans had long since staked out a
procreationist model of sexual ethics, rooted in a fixation on the vital quali-
ties of sperm and a science of reproduction based on Pythagorean harmon-
ics. But the similarities with Christian procreationism are superficial. Pro-
creationism was not a piece of found wisdom, picked up by Christians
struggling to legitimize their faith in the competitive public arena of Ro-
man philosophical culture. Neither inheritance nor osmosis can explain
why certain specific resemblances between Christian and philosophical
sexual norms appeared. Among the innumerable aspects of man’s sexual
life that the early Christians found occasion to moralize, the Pythagorean
anxieties about wasted soul-force and eurhythmic coition were simply ab-
sent. Christian procreationism emerged from exegetical tensions specific to
the diverse body of textual artifacts in which Christians, already by the
generation of Athenagoras, vested authority. The Jesus of the canonical gos-
pels had warned that lust itself was a sexual crime and hinted that “becom-
ing a eunuch for the kingdom of God” was a supreme state. Paul allowed
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orderly church. The institutional church, too, lodged its authority in the
very apostles who so fired the Christian imagination, but in the place of the
raw enthusiasm that animates apostolic legend, the church came to offer a
disciplined and definite interpretation of the textual artifacts of the apos-
tolic generation. That hermeneutic project was a collective effort, but no-
where is it more in evidence than in the literary output of that scourge of
encratism, Clement of Alexandria.
the proper use of the body. In Clement’s writings, Stoic, Platonic, and Py-
thagorean language mingles with Christian tradition. The flip side of this
coin is Clement’s place in the Christian tradition, for Clement is perched at
a crucial transition point in early Christianity. Some have seen Clement as
the faded voice of a lost cause, others as a portent of gathering ecclesiastical
powers eager to meddle in the bedroom. The problem of how to situate
Clement is the problem of how to define the essence and trajectory of early
Christian sexual morality altogether.
It is tempting, of course, simply to retreat to the position that Clement’s
sexual ideology is a hybrid of mixed ancestry. But behind the language of
contemporary philosophy, Clement’s sexual ideology is purely Christian;
again and again, Platonic concepts of appetition and Stoic attitudes toward
desire are held responsible to the logic of Christian tradition. The embroi-
dery of philosophical language obscures the fact that Clement’s achieve-
ments were largely exegetical. Clement’s sexual morality had to answer to a
body of texts, bewilderingly diverse in origin and intention. For the Old
Testament, Clement could make good use of the pioneering syntheses of
Philo; for the New Testament, Clement had predecessors, but none who
had so completely wrapped together the gospels and the Pauline letters into
a single encompassing vision of man’s sexual obligations. Clement’s prob-
lem was not how to integrate paideia and revelation, Athens and Jerusalem.
Rather, it was how to integrate the commands of Genesis and those of First
Corinthians, how to square the Jesus who would speak elliptically about
eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven with the Jesus who treated marriage as
an indissoluble bond. Having reconciled the multifarious strands jostling
for primacy within the Christian tradition, decorating it with beads care-
fully plucked from the rich jewel box of Greek philosophy was the simple
part.
Clement’s sexual philosophy is shaped by notions of sin, the flesh, and
fornication that were simply alien to the classical intellectual tradition.
Where Clement does try to graft his sexual ideology back onto the familiar
inheritance of philosophical ethics— especially on the issue of desire—his
conceptions differ so radically that on close inspection the fissures remain
visible. For Clement, desire was the central problem of sexual ethics. He
sought not its use nor its control, but its extirpation. “For Christ always has
this remarkable capacity to cut out the very roots of sin. ‘Do not commit
adultery’ is but an outgrowth of ‘do not lust.’ Adultery is the fruit of lust, its
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
use of hired professionals, because they were not “exclusively for the pro-
duction of children.” Following Philo, Clement took the command not to
eat the meat of the hare or hyena as a cryptic sexual command against fruit-
less intercourse. In one of those passages that sent Victorian translators
scurrying to the decent obscurity of a learned language, the hyena was taken
as a symbol of misused orifices. Various modes of same-sex intercourse are
abused, but in a world with only the most primitive technologies of contra-
ception, this tirade was no small infringement on conjugal liberty either.
“Sex not intended to produce children is a rape of nature.”
This imaginative allegorization was ready to hand in the writings of the
idiosyncratic Philo, who did the pioneering work of squaring Plato with
Moses. But it is too easy to soften Clement’s radicalism by ascribing it to
the influence of Philo or, even more distantly, Plato and the Pythagoreans.
Clement shares, or at least deploys, a certain reverence for human seed, but
he is never overwhelmed by fears of spermatorrhea. The architecture of his
thought is neither Philonic nor Pythagorean. Clement’s procreationism is
much closer to that of Athenagoras, and it was born out of the same exeget-
ical tensions. The deepest principle of Clement’s sexual ideology is not pro-
creationism but rather the transcendence of desire.
For Clement, Christian marriage had received a special dispensation.
“For the others, marriage achieves a concord through the shared experience
of pleasure, but for the philosophers [Christians] it leads to a concord ac-
cording to the Word.” Christian marriage had as little to do with pleasure
as possible. “A love of pleasure, even if pursued within marriage, is irregu-
lar, unjust, and irrational.” Clement addressed those who argued that mar-
riage, and its tame pleasures of the bed, were according to nature. His en-
dorsement of the view was tepid. “Even if this is true, it is still shameful
that man, created by God, should be more uncontrolled than the beasts.”
The furthest Clement would go was to admit that “nature, as in the case of
food, so in the case of lawful marriage, allots to us what is proper, useful,
and seemly, that is, to seek after procreation.” Clement believed that in
Christian marriage the couple’s sexual intimacy would be aimed exclusively
at procreation, so that it could even escape the nets of desire and pleasure.
Marriage according to the Word was no sin because it offered a mysterious
exemption from the normal pangs of desire that motivated sex. These senti-
ments appear most clearly in Clement’s Miscellanies, which transmit his
deepest teachings. “With marriage, food, and other things, let us do nothing
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
from desire, but only will those things that are necessary. For we are not
children of desire, but of will. And so the man who marries for procreation
should practice continence, not even desiring his wife, whom he should
love. Procreation should be sought with a reverent and controlled will.” For
Clement, proper sex was solemn, cool, ratiocinative. Marriage itself was
encratic.
The Christian could achieve the transformation of natural desire into
rational will. Clement believed that Moses had prohibited an Israelite man
from violating a captive woman for a period of thirty days so that the
“physical impulse could be scrutinized and mastered into a rational appe-
tite.” The coming of Christ had “completely destroyed the works of desire—
greed, striving, vainglory, lust for women, pederasty, gluttony, indulgence,
and the like.” Clement envisioned a sort of self-transformation that was
alien to the philosophical tradition. “Man’s capacity for continence, as far
as the Greek philosophers regard it, is said to be a matter of striving against
desire and not serving it in its deeds. The Christian ideal is not to experi-
ence desire at all. The aim is not for one to prove as strong as one’s desires,
but rather somehow to be continent from desire. There is no way to achieve
this continence except through the grace of God.” This is as lucid a self-
perception as might be hoped for.
Clement’s sexual ideology is closer to the monastic desert than we might
suppose. “Our antagonists are Olympian in stature and sting, as is said,
more sharply than a wasp. Above all pleasure, which not only by day but
also by night, in our dreams, bites us and aims to deceive us with its sor-
cery.” But Clement’s asceticism is lodged within marriage, within the city.
The endless stream of minute directives for Christian living proffered by
Clement amount to a monastic rule for the Christian household. Clement
clasped enthusiastically to the Paul of the pastoral letters, who had offered
“so many thousands of commands about marriage, procreation, and the
arts of housecraft.” Paul’s commands are exuberantly expanded into a
punctilious rubric for the Christian life. Time, place, and manner restric-
tions are unmercifully imposed on the sexual act. Sex was not for the day-
time, but neither was the darkness of night to be a veil for hidden excess.
Immemorial patterns of sociability are wrapped in new rules of Christian
modesty: Clement could prescribe which sorts of dinners to attend and how
to behave. If women had to attend social gatherings, they should be entirely
covered; the “gravest calumny” that could be leveled against an unmarried
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
woman was that she was present at a symposium. If young men were pres-
ent, they were to sit motionless, look down, and keep their legs uncrossed.
Men were to eat and drink moderately, but also slowly, with a cultivated air
of self-control, pausing frequently, never reaching for food, sharing gener-
ously, and departing early. For Clement, the Christian sage could pass
through life amid the city, but exposure to so many temptations required
unfailing vigilance and supreme control of the will.
Clement has what might seem an embarrassing amount of advice on the
proper consumption of food and drink. His interest in dietetics and medi-
cal lore places him in the mainstream of imperial culture. Clement admired
those who abstained from wine completely in the name of chastity and
“thought it best if boys and girls are kept apart from this drug completely.
It is not advisable to pour liquid heat on smouldering youth. . . . Ramped
up by its influence, their privates expand and their breasts swell, so that
their genitals are an omen, the image of fornication.” Clement would har-
ness conventional medical wisdom in the name of not just healthful bal-
ance, but also transformation. “Food is for hunger and drink is for thirst,
but it calls for the most acute self-protection against any slip, for one step
down the path of wine makes one apt to fall. With care we can keep our souls
pure, dry, and luminous.” The more extreme regimes of mortification, which
will exploit the medical tradition with gusto, lie not far in the future.
Clement’s Christians find their will to transcend the lures of desire and
pleasure threatened in every direction. His writings are an unmatched
guide to the mundane dangers of modest wealth in a household of the Ro-
man Empire. He is the first Christian to worry about the temptation that
slaves, specifically eunuchs, posed to the women of a household. He is dis-
tressed by the built environment of the ancient city, aghast at a culture in
which erotic art was a normal accoutrement of the domestic sphere. Clem-
ent’s believers faced constant visual bombardment. They were surrounded
by the vibrant erotic anarchy of ancient Alexandria. Clement was, like so
many of his contemporaries, acutely sensitive to the ocular experience of
living in a great Roman town. For him the words of Christ not to look with
lust posed an overwhelming challenge. “He pulls up desire from its root.”
Inviting looks were “nothing other than adultery with the eyes, desire cast
from afar through them. For the eyes are corrupted before the rest of the
body.” In his belief that vision was a sort of particulate intromission, it has
been noted, Clement is not at all far from Achilles Tatius, who described
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
the erotic gaze as “fondling from afar.” What for Achilles was one of the
harmless thrills of life was for Clement an environmental hazard, clogging
the air with pollutants that threatened the purity of the body.
Clement’s attitude toward same-sex love is a predictable extension of his
commitment to Pauline authority and his strict procreationism. Following
Philo, Clement believed that the Mosaic prohibition on the consumption of
hare, that “lewd beast,” was really a ban on pederasty. Clement also believed
that Moses had condemned same-sex relations literally, for he repeatedly
cited the triune ban on “fornication, adultery, and the corruption of chil-
dren,” and, wrongly, attributed it to Moses. The injunction against peder-
asty has even snuck into the Ten Commandments, between adultery and
theft! For Clement, Paul’s condemnation of same-sex love in Romans was a
straightforward continuation of the Mosaic law. Clement elaborates on the
idea of “natural use” with unsparing literalism. Every orifice, every canal,
every protuberance had a natural use, to which it was limited. Procreation-
ism and the naturalization of heterosexuality went hand in hand.
Though Clement’s hostility to same-sex eros was inevitable, the specific
complexion of his moralism marks him as a man of Hellenic erudition in
the Roman Empire. Clement’s erudition could plumb the depths of Greek
mythology whenever it provided an opportunity to embarrass; the lusts and
escapades of a Zeus or Dionysus were fodder for humiliating recital. Clem-
ent’s sensibility of male prostitution as a “disease” would have been com-
fortable to Dio or Ptolemy, and it is an idea with an ominous ecclesiastical
future. For Clement, open love between males was always closely associated
with the flesh trade. Clement was an acute, if glowering, social observer.
His image of manliness was a unique concoction of Christian ideals and
contemporary assumptions, without precedent or successor. Clement took
hair as the “mark of manhood.” He describes, in gruesome detail, the hair-
plucking shops of Alexandria; the habits of anal and genital depilation
symbolized for him the entrenched disorder of civic life. There could be no
doubt, he said, that a man who would submit to such violation “by day”
played a woman “by night.” The statement is perfectly at home in a culture
where manliness was policed by competitive social surveillance. More than
any other early Christian, Clement’s understanding of masculinity has ab-
sorbed some of the machismo of his world. He thinks of “she-men” as soft
voluptuaries, as likely to have sex with women as with men. The Christian
was to avoid “all softness and daintiness.” There is no clearer sign of Clem-
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
ent’s cultural horizons than this: he is one of the vanishingly few Christians
to use the vernacular term of abuse for a man who monstrously flaunted
gender protocols—kinaidos. Clement’s outlook on same-sex love is an un-
stable mixture of Moses, Paul, and Lucian.
Of all the early Christians, Clement is most sensitively estranged from
the civic fabric of the Roman Empire. This was a dizzying vantage from
which to view the world. There is something of Dio Chrysostom’s alienated
perspective in Clement’s lofty pronouncements. “Such complete lascivious-
ness has poured over the cities that it has become the law.” Like Dio, Clem-
ent located the essence of the ancient sexual economy in the institution of
venal sex. “Women are prostituted in brothels, selling the violation of their
flesh for pleasure, and boys are led to reject their nature, taking on the role
of women.” Clement had the pulse of imperial sexual culture. No matter
what any moralist said, “the whores are proof of what is actually done.” In-
dulgence was not a matter of abuse or excess; it was embedded in the order
of society. “The wise men of the laws allow this. They let them sin with the
protection of law. They call unspeakable acts of pleasure contentment.” In
Alexandria Clement had a disturbing front-row seat to the most brutal ma-
chinery of the Roman sexual economy. He could watch the giant slave ships
at dock, bringing “fornication like wine or grain,” selling girls wholesale to
procurers throughout the empire. Sexual moralism inspires Clement’s dis-
comfort, but he is one of the most striking observers of the realities of the
Roman slave trade. The sale of sex was anything but marginal. “The whole
earth is filled with fornication and disorder.” This was something Dio could
never have said. Fornication was not just a word; it was a worldview, in
which the cosmos, the order of civilized life, appeared to be in the grip of
sin.
Clement’s thought-world and modes of expression are still shaped by the
vital civic backdrop and eclectic philosophical koinē of the high empire, but
the logic of his sexual ideology is exclusively Christian— a highly rigid form
of Christianity at that. Clement is not a voice of moderation. His attitudes
toward sexuality are as rigorist, or more so, as much of what will become
orthodoxy after him. Clement fended off encratism by strategically occupy-
ing as much of its ground— and appropriating as much of its language— as
his interpretation of Paul would allow. Clement’s defense of marriage bears
utterly no resemblance to the warm ideals of conjugal affection or cheery
romantic patriotism of the culture that surrounded him. Clement’s sexual
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
ent and Origen. Total sexual renunciation steadily came to occupy a larger
place in the moral imagination of Christian theologians. Origen was the
prophet of a type of cosmic spiritual warfare that would captivate the next
generation of Christians and lead directly to the desert. Clement assumes,
but rarely talks about, a Christian cosmology that for Origen was always
near. Angels and demons lurk in the background of Clement’s panorama,
behind the statues of the pagan gods, in the lush erotic art of the ancient
town. For Origen, otherworldly spirits crowd around the soul. Where
Clement draws on an ancient philosophical vocabulary of “inclinations,”
Origen will imagine demonic “impulses” rushing through the finely tensed
air making up the human soul. The ascetic movement of which Origen is
the premonition was not a sudden wave that washed out the foundations of
a moderate core of conjugal Christianity. Rather, it presages the develop-
ment of a bifurcated church, in which virgins represented a spiritual elite.
Clement imagined that somehow the marriage relationship could act as a
venue for such transformation. The discovery of the desert would make
that impossible. But it also left unsettled the exact relationship between
virginity and marriage, which would become an ever more pressing de-
mand in the fourth century as the church absorbed the machinery of social
reproduction.
by their free will, they cannot be responsible for whatever deeds they com-
mit.” Free will was, for Justin, an essential quality of human life. “Not like
plants or beasts, without the faculty of choice, did God create man.” The
motivation for this discovery is obvious: it was a prerequisite of divine jus-
tice. Man has moral freedom because the nature of existence is such that a
divine judge will evaluate his moral actions; it is a thoroughly libertarian
view of free will, defined by the capacity to act in a certain way. The passage
of Justin’s apology calls to mind the dictum of Nietzsche, that the purpose
of the will is chiefly to find guilty.
The sudden appearance of philosophical concepts that will endure for
centuries is rare. Justin’s discovery of the idea of free will was not haphazard
or circumstantial. It lies at the heart of his understanding of the cosmos. It
was a teaching that he bequeathed directly to his student Tatian. “The good
is a purpose that man may accomplish through the freedom of his will, so
that the evil man is justly punished, having become wicked through his
own doing, while the just man is worthy of praise for his good deeds, not
having transgressed the will of God in the exercise of his autonomy.” It is
equally prominent in Irenaeus and Clement. For Origen, and other Chris-
tians of the third century, it is central. The concept receives its finest expres-
sion in the writings of the Cappadocian fathers in the fourth century, be-
fore Augustine opens a distinctly new chapter in the history of the will by
describing it as a precognitive, pre-emotional faculty, partly beyond the
control and understanding of man’s conscious self. This commitment to
absolute autonomy is all the more remarkable because it required Chris-
tians down to Augustine to repress the strong moment of divine election in
Pauline scripture. But the conception of radical moral freedom as an essen-
tial human quality was integral to the worldview of Christianity in pre-
cisely the period during which its sexual ideology received form and expres-
sion. The rise of the concept of free will and the sea change in the logic of
sexual morality went hand in hand.
The place of early Christianity has been underestimated in the principal
treatments of the history of the will. In part this neglect is due to a ten-
dency to confine the development of Christian attitudes toward volition—
and the complex of ideas connecting cosmology, anthropology, and divine
election—to the ghetto of gnostic-orthodox controversy. Clearly the mean-
ing of individual freedom was an important part of second- and third-
century theological debates. In their efforts to redescribe the origins and
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
form of the universe, and the place of mankind within it, the gnostic Sethi-
ans may have developed a view of the “saved” as an elect seed whose re-
demption was predetermined. The Sethians, the group that most clearly
deserves the label “gnostic,” illustrate the primacy of cosmology to ques-
tions about human nature and individual autonomy. Even more impor-
tantly, the school of the Christian teacher Valentinus, a “heresy” that may
have drawn from some gnostic teachings but was not itself gnostic, pro-
voked orthodox Christians to articulate a model of free will and human
equality. The threat of Valentinus was heightened by the claims that he was
himself a student of Paul’s disciple Theudas and by the fact that the Valen-
tinians were formidable exegetes of Pauline scripture. The Valentinians de-
veloped a tripartite division of humanity: the spiritual, the animate, and
the material. The spiritual natures were elected to salvation by grace; the
material natures were destined for damnation. In between were the ani-
mate natures, whose fate was uncertain and depended on their own acts. It
seems likely that the Valentinians viewed themselves as the spiritual ones
and, in a sort of olive branch extended to their Christian brethren, con-
strued the orthodox sect as the animate ones. Despite the talk of different
“natures,” Valentinian ethics and ritual seem to presuppose that the lines
between these divisions are traversible. On the other hand, texts that de-
scribe salvation “through nature” suggest the influence of divine dispensa-
tion. It is much debated whether the Valentinian system was strongly deter-
minist, but what matters in this context is that for orthodox Christians like
Irenaeus, Clement, Origen, and Methodius, the view of humanity pro-
pounded by the Valentinians trampled the sacred inviolability of human
freedom. “These heretics practically ruin the concept of free will by intro-
ducing some who are lost without the possibility of salvation and others
who are saved without the possibility of being lost.”
To reduce the orthodox commitment to free will to an adjunct of zealous
heresy hunting is to miss the fact that these conversations were part of a
much wider fascination with cosmology and the essence of human free-
dom. Cosmological speculation was the formative crucible of a new concept
of the will, and not just for Christians. It is also easy to miss the centrality
of sexual ethics to the development of a novel model of moral agency. Sex
represented a domain of action uncannily suited for debates over the cau-
sation of human behavior. Sexual morality not only became a standard
paradigm, almost instantly evoked in debates over the will. The peculiar
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
in the sage’s ability to consent rationally to his fate, a fate that was in turn
the instrument of a benevolent and rational providence.
From Epictetus Frede turns to consider the prominence of free will in
the thought of Origen, the sage of the third century whom Frede calls,
wrongly, the first Christian to treat the problem of free will rigorously and
systematically. Origen’s commitment to free will does not derive neatly
from Christian scriptures. In fact Origen is at pains to adduce clear scrip-
tural support for his concept of the free will and must explain away a num-
ber of passages whose emphasis on providence, grace, and divine sover-
eignty cut against Origen’s beliefs in a radically free will. The contrast with
his sexual ideology, which hews dependably close to the body of authorita-
tive texts, is instructive. The Christian investment in the notion of a free
will was not an obvious outgrowth of the textual tradition. It thus all the
more starkly requires explanation. Frede has no doubt where the Christians
found the idea: in imperial Stoicism. What Epictetus created, the early
Christian theologians popularized, if in slightly debased form. Free will is
thus construed as one of the greatest intellectual heists in the annals of phi-
losophy. Justin and Tatian were trained in the philosophical schools of the
Roman Empire and openly admired Stoic ethics, so it can be inferred that
they “got their notion of a free will” from the schools. Origen is alleged to
have plundered contemporary philosophy for his theological ends; his ac-
count is “through and through Stoic.” The Christians, in their theological
squabbles, adopted “Stoic ideas” as expedience dictated.
The role of Christianity in the development of the concept was not so
derivative. The early Christians had an uncanny ability to provide decisive
answers to precisely the same questions that endlessly floated in the air at
the “schools of the philosophers,” where there was “nothing at all but the
assertion and controversy of stale dogma without end.” Certainly Justin
would have been startled to learn that he aped his notion of a free will from
Stoicism. In his Second Apology, Justin explicitly takes aim at Stoic deter-
minism. “The Stoics have declared that all things come about through the
compulsion of Destiny. But in the beginning God created the race of men
and angels with autonomy, so that it will be with justice that they undergo
the punishment of the eternal flames for their transgressions. It is the very
nature of all creation to be capable of evil or righteousness.” For Epictetus,
free will was an achieved state; for Justin, it was a native endowment. For
Epictetus, free will was the carefully cultivated prize of the sage; for Justin
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
it was a universal attribute of mankind. For Epictetus, free will was the se-
renity of resignation in the face of the smallness and finitude of existence:
“Don’t make your death into the material for a tragedy. It is just time for
the material of which you are constituted to be restored to those elements
from which it came.” For Justin, free will was a corollary of God’s solicitude
for man’s works and a precondition of eternal judgment. Justin’s discovery
of free will cannot, without severe injustice to both parties, be attributed to
the influence of Epictetus.
A better question to ask is, why did the Stoics become fixated on the
problem of fate and free will at the same moment that Christians began
preaching a radically new doctrine of human volition? Epictetus was not
the only imperial Stoic to be drawn to the problem of freedom and deter-
minism. Just a generation or two later, a Stoic named Philopator—the
teacher of Galen’s teacher—was making important advances in the Stoic
concept of “what is under our control” within the framework of a causal
universe. Selective preservation makes the Roman Stoa appear more con-
cerned with ethics than physics or metaphysics. But the problem of fate
permeated imperial Stoicism because it was a pervasive issue in the intel-
lectual culture of the Roman Empire. “In the first two centuries AD every
philosophical school and every sect of thinkers . . . had their say on fate,
determinism, and freedom somewhere in their works.” There are an aston-
ishing number of tracts on fate, from gnostics and Christians, Platonists
and Aristotelians, Stoics and Epicureans, dating to the high empire. Fate
was a topic equally suited for public declamation or Lucianic satire. The
tensions between destiny and autonomy lie at the foundation of the great
literary creation of the Roman Empire, the novel. The Christians did not
pilfer and debase a Stoic doctrine. Rather, both Christians and Stoics were
responding to a broad and urgent fascination with the problem of man’s
place is the cosmos. Cosmology, and its moral ramifications, became a cul-
tural problem in the Roman Empire as never before; the intellectual atmo-
sphere in which Christian sexual morality took shape was deeply concerned
about the nature of the cosmos and the place of humanity in it.
The science of astronomy was part and parcel of this cultural fascination.
The inhabitants of the Roman Empire had discovered the secrets of the
stars. Their beautiful regularity was a sign of cosmic order. Astronomical
science first spread into the Mediterranean world in the Hellenistic period.
Under Roman rule, it reached new heights, and it became, in the form of
T H E W I L L A N D T H E WO R L D
stark simplicities, contributed in some way to the diff usion and triumph of
the religion. And in new circumstances, when called upon, the impresarios
of the Christian imagination would summon a new world of fiction, ade-
quate to the changed position of the church in society.
missing the tectonic shifts that rearranged the order of western sexuality.
Sin, for so long the property of the world outside, would become the prob-
lem of the church, as the church and the world became coextensive. Free-
dom, for so long a statement about man’s place in the cosmos, was a slogan
that, in the aftermath of triumph, quickly became bogged in the thicker
realities of the world, with, as we will see, startling ramifications.
CHAPTER THREE
all the competing religions and philosophies of the late classical world, this
one, with its distinctive attitude toward erotic pleasure, prevailed. The an-
archic pluralism of the ancient Mediterranean would gradually recede be-
hind the universalizing orthodoxies of that extraordinary institution, the
Christian church. The world would be very different if any of the alterna-
tives had become the preferred religion of the emperors. But as it happened,
Aphrodite was to be slain by the Christians—toppled “like some debauched
slave-girl.”
The Christians were little prepared for this eventuality. There was, to be
sure, a stable and standardized packet of sexual norms carried by the reli-
gion wherever it insinuated itself: virginity was ideal, marriage acceptable,
sex beyond marriage sinful, same-sex eros categorically forbidden. Beyond
this zone of consensus there were peripheral aspects of sexual life where
Christian regulation lacked definition and sharpness—the validity of re-
marriages, the measure of virginity’s superiority, the exact peccability of sur-
plus marital congress. But the main drama of late antiquity was not the
gradual resolution of questions outstanding. The main drama, rather, was
the absorption of society by the church, the mainstreaming of the religion.
The most astonishing development of late antiquity is the transformation of
a radical sexual ideology, for centuries the possession of a small, strident
band of vociferous dissenters, into a culture, a broadly shared public frame-
work of values and meanings. The Christian vision of sexual humanity, in-
cubated in the radical air of persecution, was forced, unexpectedly, into the
mold of a regulatory system. Certainly Paul, who believed that the rulers of
this age were “doomed to pass away,” would not have dreamed that his terse
missives would become the touchstone of an entire culture.
The shift from an apologetic to an imperial mode was halting and not
always predictable. In sum, it meant a deeper engagement with society and
with the moral entanglements of the sexual agent as a part of society. This
shift is detectible already in the Divine Institutes of Lactantius, an apology
written against the backdrop of the great persecution but a work that nev-
ertheless points toward the new, imperial sensibility of Christian sexual
ethics. Lactantius is intensely aware of the moral agent’s embeddedness in
the world. When he turns to consider the libido, “which must be severely
repressed, because it does the most severe harm,” it is a faculty tempted and
threatened by the habits of the Roman world. The devil had contrived inge-
nious tests of the moral will and institutionalized them in Roman society.
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
“So that no one would have to abstain from sex with another out of fear of
punishment, he established brothels and exposed the sexual modesty of
unfortunate women, to the ruin of the men who use them as much as the
women who are forced to suffer.” To the audience that Lactantius was ad-
dressing, the brothel presented an especially diabolical source of tempta-
tion, because it removed all material impediments to the fulfillment of de-
sire. Still the devil was not finished with his tricks. “He also joined males
with males and designed unholy coitus in violation of the laws of God and
nature.” What most disturbed Lactantius was a shared feature of same-sex
eros and prostitution: they were socially acceptable. “Among them these
outrages are a light matter, virtually respectable.” Lactantius still spoke, in
the apologetic tradition, of depraved sexual habits among “them,” the main-
stream non-Christians. But the line between the Christian and the outside
world has started to grow decidedly thin, and within only a few generations
it will have quietly vanished.
It is highly telling that the passages of the Divine Institutes devoted to
libido are followed immediately by the presentation of Christian notions of
penance. A rigorous sexual morality, if it is genuinely ambitious, will have
mechanisms ready for the contingency of errant behavior. “Let no one des-
ert or despair of himself if, overtaken by passion, driven by lust, deceived by
error, or coerced by violence, he has fallen down the path of injustice.” Just
a few years later, after the conversion of Constantine, Lactantius issued an
abbreviated second edition of the Divine Institutes. Indulgence is given an
even wider berth. “But in fact all of these things are difficult for man, nor
in this state of frailty can any be without stain. Therefore the ultimate cure
is that we may take refuge in penance.” The distance traveled from the time
of Paul—who counseled in such searing, urgent words that sinners should
be cast from the midst of the Christian assembly—is measured by the tri-
umph of pragmatism over puritanism in the church’s management of sexual
sin. The elaboration of a penitential discipline that could regulate the errors
of the flesh is a sure sign of Christianity’s coming-of-age as a mass move-
ment. The famous canons of Elvira, one of the earliest Christian synods, are
almost precisely contemporary with the Divine Institutes. At this summit of
Christian leaders in Spain, it was apparent that sexual discipline would be a
leading preoccupation for a church quickly gathering size and strength. The
canons of Elvira, like the pages of Lactantius, reflect the first stirrings of a
great revolution in the boundaries of the church, in which it was trans-
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
Fornication, once the property of the impure outside world, was an object
of pastoral reform, as sermons, penitential literature, and the deepening
ecclesiastical awareness of its social basis make clear. Together with the
demand for sexual exclusivity came rigid insistence on the singularity of
the marriage relationship, which discouraged divorce and remarriage. The
Christianization of marriage was a great revolution, but it was incomplete
and uncertain in late antiquity. One measure of this incomplete transition
was the inability of late antique Christianity to corral the marriage rite into
the church itself. Similarly, the law of marriage is an index not just of change
but of the limits of change.
Finally, the relationship between free will and sexual morality presents a
privileged vantage on the deep relationship between social structure and
Christian sexual ethics. The high notion of absolute freedom that is so
deeply embedded in early Christian thinking about sex and sin enjoyed its
fullest ascendance in the aftermath of Constantine’s conversion. The fourth
century was the golden age of free will. But triumph brought unforeseen
challenges. The early Christian notion of free will was a cosmological asser-
tion, forged in opposition to Stoic causality, popular astrology, and gnostic
determinism. In its very structure this libertarian model was premised on
the separation of the church and the world, and its highest symbol was vir-
ginity, as a rejection of all exterior demands on the body. By the later fourth
century, with the progressive entanglement of church and society, this
model of free will came to look grossly inadequate. In the very generations
when Christianity became a majority religion, its leadership was awakened
to the insufficiency of the old absolutisms. Discussion of free will changed
key, the older cosmological mode giving way to debates over the nature of
volition and the absence of material capacities to choose. Augustine came
to expound a view of divine grace and original sin that cut against centuries
of Christian voluntarism. Moreover, rather suddenly some Christian bish-
ops came to realize that their pure notions of free will were simply incom-
patible with the realities of life, above all with the centrality of sexual coer-
cion in the Roman sexual economy. The sudden recognition that Christian
sexual morality would have to account for those without volition over their
sexual fate is a sign of the church’s broader social power from the later fourth
century. Most remarkably, this new anxiety led directly to a program of legal
reform in which Roman emperors, from Theodosius II to Justinian, at-
tacked coerced prostitution. The campaign against violent sexual procure-
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
A DI S E A S E NOT J U ST OF DE S I RE : SA M E- S E X E ROS I N
L ATE ANTIQ U IT Y
The law explicitly punished men who suffered their bodies to be used like
the flesh of women, but the focus of imperial energy was specific and re-
vealing. “Having dragged out all—it is embarrassing to say—from the male
brothels, let the flames of vengeance expiate their crime with the populace
watching, so everyone will know that the soul of a man is to be treated by all
as an inviolable precinct.” Such florid effusions are characteristic of late im-
perial statecraft. But the public incineration of the male prostitutes of Rome
is almost totally unaccountable in terms of ordinary Roman policy.
Opinion has been divided about the judgment of the author who in-
cluded a copy of this law in his comparison of Mosaic and Roman jurispru-
dence. Was the spirit of the Theodosian constitution, indeed, akin to reli-
gious injunctions against same-sex love, or was the compiler overreaching
in his effort to bend the law into a point of contact between the “spirit of
Moses” and the Roman state? In other words, was the Theodosian measure
inspired by religious homophobia, or by the immemorial ideals of Roman
manhood? On the one hand, the attack came at a moment pregnant with
change, as Theodosius I was transforming the Roman state into a Christian
one, and the official conflagration of a whole class of sexual outcasts was
uncharacteristic of Roman jurisprudence. On the other hand, the language
of the law could not possibly be more emphatic about its roots in Roman
tradition, and it would be a dodge to explain this rhetoric as a cloak for a
clandestine Christian agenda. The official who actually drafted the language
of the law was, in fact, one of the most visible pagans around the court. But
most tellingly, the object of regulation was sexual passivity, and in the form
of public prostitution. The categories of regulation are fundamentally, unde-
niably Roman.
The chemistry of the Theodosian measure was complex, and it simply
cannot be broken down into discrete proportions of the constituent ele-
ments, classical masculinity and unfamiliar malevolence. The law raises the
most profound questions about the passage from an ancient legal and cul-
tural regime, whose protocols required men to play the dominant role in
sexual encounters, to a legal and cultural regime that treated the gender of
the participants as the primary fact of any sexual conjunction. The gradual
transition from a classical to a Christian regulatory system produced many
complex harmonies along the way, of which the law of 390 is a signal ex-
ample. It can only be explained by considering the maturation of Christian
attitudes toward same-sex eros. In late antiquity Christian opposition to
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
same-sex love developed far beyond the brief, violent injunctions of the
scriptural tradition that ascribed the habits of same-sex eroticism to the
fallen confusion of polytheistic cultures. The eradication of sexual sin
became the object of a nascent penitential discipline; simultaneously, same-
sex love became pathologized to an unprecedented degree, spoken of as a
disease that threatened to contaminate the body politic. Indeed, a new con-
cern for the sexual behavior of the populace as such grows up in the fourth
century. At the same time, the process of legal change cannot be understood
apart from the specific mechanisms and traditions of regulation in Roman
law, the place of prostitution in the public order, and the subtle institu-
tional shifts in late antiquity that enabled more aggressive attempts at the
legal control of sexual morality. In short, a host of much broader changes
within Christianity and within the state converged to ignite the awful blaze
of 390.
As the church was transformed from a persecuted minority into a trium-
phant majority, its preaching on same-sex eros found a broader audience
than ever before. But the energy directed against same-sex love, so far as the
surviving homiletic and penitential literature is representative, was minus-
cule compared to the massive mobilization of force against forms of illicit
heterosexual contact. In the canons of Elvira, from the first decade of the
fourth century, sexuality is the dominant theme of the church’s regulatory
impulses. Of the dozens of canons that in some way lay down definite pre-
scriptions for sexual sin, adultery and fornication receive the lion’s share of
the attention. Love between males is addressed exactly once. “Any who
shamefully violate boys are not to receive communion, even as they near
their demise.” This rule is a transcription of the older apostolic command
against “the violation of children,” paidophthoria, but now it is attached to
a penitential regime—in fact, unlike most forms of sexual deviance, this sin
is placed explicitly beyond the possibility of return to communion. Nowhere
in the canons of Elvira is male sexual passivity or lesbianism compassed. The
canons of Elvira in fact foreshadow the way that sexual passivity will be so
far beyond the pale that it often did not require comment, even in the late
antique church.
The broadening of the penitential regime of the church in late antiquity
is a sign of the mainstreaming of the religion. As the church became a sac-
ramental dispenser on a mass scale, it generated a need to manage sinners
like never before. Though no one will mistake the late antique church for its
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
powerful late medieval successor, the elaboration of rules for the adminis-
tration of baptism and communion reflects the nascent influence of ecclesi-
astical structures in private life. The Apostolic Constitutions, an important
collection of church canons redacted in the later fourth century, reflect this
expansion. The Apostolic Constitutions are especially revealing because the
collection preserves multiple layers of canonical tradition. In book 7, we
find a lightly reworked presentation of the primitive Didache, whose bare
injunction against the corruption of children has been modestly elaborated.
“Do not violate children, for contrary to nature is the evil born at Sodom,
which was laid waste by the fire of God.” A rule deriving from a slightly
later tradition uses the “sin of the Sodomites” as a synecdoche for all same-
sex intercourse, which is grouped with bestiality as a violation of nature.
The latest stratum in the Apostolic Constitutions does not just prohibit vari-
ous sexual practices but addresses how the bishop must react when con-
fronted with sinners seeking entry to the church. “The doer of unspeakable
deeds, the kinaidos, and the debauched,” along with miscellaneous rogues
like magicians and astrologers, might be admitted to baptism, but not at
first. They were to be “scrutinized for some time.” Dokimasia, “the Scrutiny,”
was the same word once used to describe the ethical inspection of ancient
Athenian citizens, but it has now been adopted by the church, which was
willing to rely on the moral espionage of rumor in a face-to-face society. The
church’s sexual expectations were far more strict, and its ambitions of con-
trol reached deeper into the soul, than the institutions of the ancient polis
had ever imagined. Former sinners were to be watched so carefully because
“such evil is so hard to wash out.”
Though the baptismal candidate was given a broad moral entry exam,
the sins of the initiate were continually monitored, and over the fourth cen-
tury a penitential regime began to achieve some measure of universal consis-
tency. An accommodation with sin is noticeable. The canons from Elvira
had denied communion to the violator of boys, even to the point of death.
But by the second half of the fourth century, forgiveness was placed within
reach. In his canonical letters, the bishop Basil of Caesarea prescribed fif-
teen years of excommunication for anyone guilty of adultery, bestiality, or
“shameful acts with males.” Gregory of Nyssa applied the same grid of
punishment, subjecting those guilty of adultery, bestiality, or “pederasty” to
eighteen years of excommunication, though he allotted the bishop discre-
tion to shorten the punishment. Episcopal oversight was the lynchpin of a
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
therapeutic regime for the sick sinner. Penance was “the common cure for
the raging desire after such pleasures, to purify the man through repen-
tance.” Gregory’s letter also offers a rare insight into the informal systems of
surveillance behind the nascent penitential system. A man who became his
own accuser might be treated leniently, because confession was a sign of
contrition. But the sinner who was “detected in his wickedness, or unwill-
ingly called out through some suspicion or accusation,” was shown no mercy.
The church was not yet a fully organized confessional machine, designed to
reach inside the souls of its wards, but we might imagine that “suspicion”
and “accusation” had, in their own ways, an insidious reach.
Gregory’s canonical letter hints at one of the principal developments in
the church’s understanding of same-sex desire in late antiquity. Pederasty
and bestiality were grouped with adultery, Gregory explains, because these
two sins were “an adulteration of nature.” Same-sex love was a crime “against
nature.” It is hard to appreciate just how comprehensive was the triumph of
a particular understanding of “nature” in the morality of sex. In late antiq-
uity “natural” sex came to mean, exclusively, the one configuration of body
parts that has generative potential. This transformation drove a profound
shift in the idiom of sexual deviance. One casualty of this shift is the grad-
ual obsolescence of the term kinaidos/cinaedus, a word that appears in a
handful of fourth-century texts and thereafter declines. Once an indispens-
able monster of sexual deviance, who condensed a whole array of stereo-
types rooted in ancient assumptions about manliness and the body, the
kinaidos gradually became unnecessary, as the thought-world that called
him into existence crumbled around him. Perhaps even more surprising,
much of the Pauline idiom of sexuality simply vanishes too. The words con-
noting same-sex love in his vice lists quietly disappear. The term arsenokoitēs
is virtually nonexistent in late antique texts, and even malakia has some-
what more limited traction in the post-Constantinian world.
In place of these older vocabularies, Paul’s Letter to the Romans would
come to act as a land bridge between Christian ideologies and Greco-Roman
discourses of sex. The language of “nature” displaced a preexisting idiom,
gathering a fragmentary lexicon around its homogenizing force. It is easy to
miss the radicalism of this revolution, because the idea of “nature” had for
centuries already formed an important sanction of sexual moralizing. In
pre-Christian sources, though, “natural” sex was sex that mirrored the social
hierarchy, above all when the free male was the penetrator. In the dream
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
scale of values, one more fundamentally concerned about sin and salvation
than secular honor.
It is unsurprising, then, that Christian hostility toward love between
males could not be easily reconciled with an ancient regulatory system or-
ganized around masculinity. In classical Roman law, there were two points
of intersection between public regulation and same-sex eros. First, the man
who violated a freeborn boy was guilty of stuprum— criminal violation.
Pederastic culture in the Roman Empire accordingly came to depend on
the objectification of the slave’s body as a zone of free access. Second, the
man who voluntarily submitted his body to sexual penetration, to “wom-
anly use,” also faced dishonor, disability, and punishment. Both the viola-
tion of freeborn boys and male sexual passivity seem to have been criminal-
ized by a shadowy enactment known as the lex Scantinia, a law in force at
least by the age of Cicero. The law’s obscurity—it is mentioned but a hand-
ful of times and left virtually no mark in the extant codifications of Roman
law—is matched by its longevity, for it is described as a law in vigor from
the first century BC to the fourth century AD. As a result, the law has oc-
casioned no little controversy in modern scholarship. Its mysterious nature
is not so much a problem to be overcome by sifting for just the right clues,
as it is in and of itself the explanandum. In other words, the very obscurity
of the classical rules is an important part of the story about the way the Ro-
mans regulated sex.
The explanation for such obscurity lies in the nature and long-term de-
velopment of Roman institutions. For most of republican history, stuprum
was a private matter. The lex Scantinia first made stuprum committed against
free boys into a public crime. The most unambiguous evidence is in fact late
antique; the Christian poet Prudentius— a legal advocate, twice provincial
governor, and presumably in the know as far as the law was concerned—
noted that Zeus would have been culpable under the lex Scantinia, an allu-
sion to his habit of abducting boys. The lex Scantinia was an early law that
preceded by at least two generations the great lex Iulia de adulteriis coercen-
dis. In some sense the lex Scantinia was to be swallowed up by the extraor-
dinary creation of the lex Iulia, the pillar of the reforms enacted by the first
emperor, Augustus. The lex Iulia was destined to become the bulwark of
Roman sexual policy. The repression of adultery dominates the surviving
legal commentaries, even clouding from view the regulation of same-sex in-
tercourse. Adultery was clearly the focus of the lex Iulia, although stuprum
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
world that is distinctly late classical in its outlook and its familiar cast of
sexual types. Like Firmicus, the only extant law of the Constantinian dy-
nasty that approaches the problem of same-sex love is in fact closer to the
spirit and motivation of ancient machismo than Christian moralism. An
important imperial constitution of AD 342, issued by the chancery of
Constantine’s son Constans, is so florid that its precise content has been the
object of much speculation. “When a man couples in the manner of a
woman, that is, as a woman who will have granted men what they want,
when sex has lost its place, when there is a crime it is best not to know, when
venus is changed into another form, when love is sought but not seen, we
command the laws to rise up and justice to be armed with an avenging
sword, so that those infamous persons who are or will be guilty shall be
subjected to exquisite penalties.” Questions immediately arise. Does “cou-
ple” (nubit) here mean “marry” or does it imply the physical act of copula-
tion? At stake is the precise aim of the law. The law of Constans has some-
times been seen as a reaction against “gay marriage.” But this view is unlikely.
Marriage between men, mentioned in a handful of imperial sources, re-
ceived no legal recognition and entailed no legal effects, so juridically there
was no legal marriage to regulate or prohibit. Instead “coupling” has been
taken in a purely sexual sense, which is suggested by the parallel clauses of
the law. The enactment stands as a grandiloquent, sneering attack on male
sexual passivity. The measure of Constans proposes, ominously, “exquisite
penalties” where the Sentences of Paul had envisioned a fine. The violent pun-
ishment of sexual deviance makes the law something of a landmark, if one
obscured by the haze of its bilious rhetoric.
The author of the comparison between Roman and Mosaic law does not
mention this enactment, which he may well not have had at his disposal. It
would not have helped his case anyhow, because the law is an inspired de-
fense of old-fashioned virility. The conservative idiom of the law of Con-
stans is the one thing truly beyond dispute. It is about the vir, the man,
who abandons his role. The ominous penalties were directed against infa-
mes, men whose official reputation was impaired by their sexual deviance. If
the language and categories of the law are regarded seriously, its motivation
must have been the enforcement of old-fashioned sex roles. The rhetorical
flourishes, the judicial savagery, the greater zeal in the direct enforcement of
morality are all broadly characteristic of late antique statecraft, and not
necessarily tied to religious change. In combination with the traditional
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
more consequentially as a “plague harsher than all other plagues.” The pagan
Libanius, too, spoke of “love for males” as a disease, so the purchase of this
idea extended beyond Christian circles in late antiquity. Christian voices
uttered not only the diagnosis but also, more grimly, the need for a drastic
cure. “Those who do these things are worthy of death, and not only those
who do them, but also those who consent. For assent is participation. . . .
Therefore Moses recalled the wicked deeds of Sodom and Gomorrah, and
did not leave their end in silence, but to create fear of this thing to be
avoided. Thus, this vice, this contamination of a life without decency is not
allowed by one whose soul is thinking of God. There are those, to be sure,
who believe that they are not guilty if they do not perform such deeds, even
while they assent to their performance. But to remain quiet or to take
amusement at the report of such things, when they should be condemned,
amounts to assenting to them.”
These are the words of a Christian theologian, writing in Rome, in the
years just before the constitution of Theodosius I. The linguistic overlap was
not circumstantial. Only a few years after the law of Theodosius, in Rufi-
nus’s translation of Origen’s commentary on Paul’s Letter to the Romans,
the question is posed whether more glory was accrued by those who had
abstained from same-sex intercourse under the explicit command of the
Mosaic Law or those who had abstained “from this contagion by the judg-
ment of their own mind, not even letting their thoughts approach it. Would
you not much prefer the one who, not because held back by the intervention
of a law, still kept himself pure from the contamination of such flagitious
deeds?” Only a little later still, Augustine could describe same-sex love as
“against nature” and “without doubt more flagitious and disgraceful” than
even sinful heterosexual conjunctions. The linguistic similarities are not
just striking incidences of a shared, finite vocabulary. They represent a phase
of mental rapprochement between traditional and Christian modes of preju-
dice, one in which Christian authors gravitated toward a traditional vo-
cabulary, even as they infused it with a new spirit. The law of 390 was gener-
ated out of the same unstable mixture. The Christianization of public sexual
morality produced new and often unpredictable harmonies, but there is no
mistaking the fact that the shrillest notes came from the ecclesiastical side
of the choir.
Between the Theodosian crusade against male prostitution and the reign
of Justinian, there are no imperial measures bearing on same-sex erotics.
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
libido” places the law in the avant-garde of Christian thought, where the
notion of a specifically deviant form of desire remained inchoate. Most of
all the law represents the fulfillment of a Pauline view of same-sex love in
Roman law (though there is not to be found in Justinian’s legislation any
awareness of female homoeroticism as a problem capable of regulation).
Now the gender of the partners was the primary determinant, capable of
activating the punitive machinery of the Roman state. The traditional me-
dia of Roman regulation—property transfers, judicial access, public honor—
have been fully displaced by a stark willingness to dictate sexual behavior as
such.
The strict criminalization of same-sex love strikes us as a momentous in-
novation. But Justinian’s regulatory ambitions outreached the technologies
of surveillance, and very little in fact is heard of his blanket prohibitions on
intercourse between males. Instead it was another aspect of Justinian’s sex-
ual reforms that flared into a massive public operation. In the very first
years of his reign, Justinian enacted a law specifically aimed at pederasty.
Details of the law, and its application, are preserved only by the historians,
principally Procopius and John Malalas. Malalas relates that Justinian ar-
rested two bishops accused of “living badly and bedding males.” He identi-
fies them by name, Isaiah of Rhodes and Alexander from Diospolis in
Thrace. Tried by the prefect of Constantinople, Isaiah was “gravely tor-
tured” and sent into exile, while Alexander was relieved of his male organ
and paraded through the streets of Constantinople. According to Malalas,
their behavior incited Justinian to pass a law that “those discovered in ped-
erasty were to have their penises amputated.” “At that time many men in-
clined toward males were rounded up and, after their members were cut off,
died.” Procopius, whose Secret History is a salacious and highly skewed mem-
oir of Justinian’s reign, describes the affair with patent disgust, as an ex-
ample of Justinian’s extremism. His account provides two details absent in
Malalas—that the charges could be applied retroactively, and that even
slaves could make an accusation—which we simply cannot check against
other contemporary informants. They are in the spirit of the measure.
It is worth considering why Justinian’s crusade against pederasty has left
traces in the historical record, whereas the criminalization of same-sex love
enters the annals of jurisprudence with scarcely a whimper. In part the an-
swer may lie in the continuing vitality of pederastic practices. In the fourth
century, Libanius and John Chrysostom speak, with disgust, of pederasty
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
as a lively contemporary institution. But they are perhaps the last observers
to do so, and it is hard to imagine that pederasty—for so long legally con-
fined to the bodies of slaves, now relentlessly attacked by ecclesiastical
hectoring—had much of its old public acceptance, much less open advo-
cacy, by the time of Justinian. But in a world that expected sexual attrac-
tion toward smooth bodies, that sequestered its women, and that nourished
institutions like the schools and monasteries where male companionship
was fostered, it was not an unlikely occurrence. The intense violence of Jus-
tinian’s campaign reflects both the importance of pederasty as a social
practice and its flagrant offensiveness to a Christian emperor, for whom it
was an insufferable blazon of errant, bygone cultures. The spectacular mu-
tilation mandated by the law presages the more lurid strains of the Byzan-
tine penal code, and it testifies to the belief that terror could go where sur-
veillance might not. According to Malalas, the strategy worked. “And a
great fear followed among those diseased with lust for males.”
The violent repression of same-sex love dates to the ambitious early years
of Justinian’s reign. It was the dramatic and decisive policy of a zealous
emperor bent on rebuilding the Roman Empire, without time or tears for
those who risked the favor of God. The enterprise of reconquest, of course,
was to collapse, crumbling of its own overweening ambition and the unfore-
seeable advent of plague. The later legislation of Justinian bears the darkened
mood of political disappointment and desperate suffering. A law issued
sometime in the years after the appearance of the bubonic plague reflects
the utterly transformed atmosphere. The law is motivated by the fear of
God, whose displeasure manifested itself in the famines, earthquakes, and
pestilence that had struck so inexplicably. It is written in the language of sin
and salvation. Justinian, as legislator, considered the “sins” against nature
within his regulatory remit. The prefect was charged to take care lest these
sins lead to the destruction of the “city and the polity.” Another law, com-
posed toward the end of Justinian’s reign, represents a complete union of
Christian ideology, state power, and ecclesiastical ambition. In response to
terrible earthquakes, Justinian came to believe that God was angry at the
sins of man, with special anger reserved for the grievous impiety of sex
between men. If proof were needed, he pointed to the fires of Sodom,
which smoldered “up to the present time.” What God wanted, even more
than the destruction of sinners, was their repentance. Justinian commanded
that all guilty of such sin immediately repent. They were to take themselves
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
At nearly the exact same moment when a Christian set out to demonstrate
the essential similarities between Roman and Mosaic law, one of his coreli-
gionists, probably in Rome, published an imaginary philosophical conver-
sation between a pagan philosopher and a Christian. Their dialogue, spread
over three days, ranged widely across the accumulated doctrine of the
Christian church, and it included a long disquisition on the Christian “mode
of living.” The Christian speaker was an advocate of the monastic life.
Within his lifetime, ascetic ideas had swept across the Mediterranean, from
east to west, and in their trail came organized asceticism. The dialogue, the
Consultationes Zacchei christiani et Apollonii philosophi, appeared at a mo-
ment of intense and fateful reckoning in the western empire; against the
backdrop of the Theodosian dynasty, which gave such great impetus to mass
conversion, the vogue of complete sexual renunciation was an unstable ele-
ment. The Consultationes is a studiously moderate document. The married
Christian might never hope to shine as brightly as “the most brilliant stars”
in the kingdom of heaven—that is, the virgins. But the possibility of moral
decency was not to be denied to the married householders who were the
foundation of the church. “Honorable marriages are not displeasing to
God, nor is a sober love for the dignified marriage couch in the procreation
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
of children.” The salvation of the married was not in any special doubt. As
baptized Christians, they were heirs to the “promise of everlasting life.” The
author’s language echoes the idiom of late Roman status: the ordinary mar-
ried Christians were the mediocres, those of middling attainment, while the
monks were clarissimi, the most brilliant. Lay householders could be fine
citizens of the city of God, but those who had renounced the flesh alto-
gether formed its spiritual aristocracy.
The Consultationes is valuable because it is an unremarkable artifact, one
of any number of late antique texts that simultaneously laud virginity while
salvaging dignity for the married life. The Consultationes appeared at a mo-
ment that called forth some of the most remarkable reflection on the place
of sex within Christian society. In the span of about two decades, western
churchmen were to produce a body of literature on sex and marriage that
would define the Latin Christian tradition for the next thousand years. The
proximate cause of this great outpouring was the brazen doctrine of a
Christian teacher named Jovinian, who began to argue, amid the spreading
fashion of ascetic extremism, that virginity accrued no special merit to its
practitioners, that married and virginal Christians were capable of achiev-
ing equal virtue. His teaching touched a deep nerve in Roman society, for he
at once gave voice to a certain resentment against ascetic pride and threat-
ened to undermine the core criterion of spiritual elitism at a moment of brisk
change. The backlash provoked by Jovinian was fierce, immediate, and
unrelenting. The western church mobilized an organized resistance, and in
AD 393 Jovinian was officially condemned. But the very swiftness of Jovin-
ian’s defeat revealed the extent to which he had forced an uncomfortable
issue into the foreground. The next decades saw a bitter intellectual struggle
over how, exactly, virginity and marriage were to be evaluated by the in-
creasingly dominant church. Jerome—monk, scholar, translator of the Latin
Vulgate, and acrid critic—immediately issued a pointed rebuttal in his two
books Against Jovinian. His response was so immoderate that it embarrassed
his friends. He provided a reading of First Corinthians so stilted that few
could follow him. Jerome took the words of the apostle to mean that mar-
riage was a lesser evil. For the author of the Consultationes, virginity was
the highest good, and continence right after. But this pecking order did
not make marriage a lesser evil, only a lesser good. The praise of virginity
“was meant to encourage that which is greater, not to damn what is an
actual good.”
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
congregation, we can watch one Christian leader’s efforts to hector his au-
dience, by threat, suasion, and enticement, into a modicum of sexual de-
cency. His delicate efforts to instill Pauline values in his flock form an ob-
ject lesson on the collision between Christian norms and deeply entrenched
patterns of sexual conduct. Marriage, he claimed, was originally instituted
for two reasons: the creation of children and sexual self-control. The pass-
ing of time had dimmed the urgency of reproduction; the earth was full,
and the promise of resurrection nullified the imperative to live through fu-
ture generations. Thus, Chrysostom would argue, the prime justification
for marriage was sexual restraint. But here Chrysostom dropped a surprise
on his audience: it was wrong, even for a man, to have sex outside of mar-
riage. Even with prostitutes or slaves, a married man should not have sex
beyond the marriage couch. “What I am saying is a paradox, but it is true!”
In this sermon, Chrysostom juxtaposed Christian sexual boundaries
with the ordinary rules of conduct. “I am not unaware that most think it is
adultery only to violate a married woman. But I say that it is a wicked and
licentious adultery for a man with a wife to have an affair even with a public
whore, a slave girl, or any other woman without a husband.” The preacher
recognized that society’s standards, which accepted dalliances between mar-
ried men and their slaves or prostitutes, found a powerful ally in Roman
law. “Do not show me the laws of the outside world, which say a woman
committing adultery is to be brought to a trial, but that men with wives
who do it with slave girls are not considered guilty.” And if appeal to God’s
law was not enough, Chrysostom invoked the traditional hopes of a peace-
ful house. “Your wife did not come to you, and leave behind her father and
mother and her entire household in order to be humiliated.” The point bore
repetition: “Thus we say a man commits adultery, if he sates his lust with a
slave girl or a public whore while he has a wife.” Marital fidelity was the
Christian path. “A wife (eleuthera) offers at once pleasure and security and
joy and honor and order and a clean conscience.” John Chrysostom was
not, of course, a great exponent of the gifts of physical “pleasure,” so his
passing praise, or at least tolerance, of it here must be written down as a
rhetorical eff usion in an effort to persuade the crowd of the practicability of
his model of Christian marriage. It is a telling concession.
Documents like Chrysostom’s sermons provide some of the grittiest and
most authentic reflections on the dynamics of power within the ancient
marriage relationship. He claimed that “there is nothing more shameful
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
The result was an inevitable slide toward patriarchy. Women were flatly
prohibited from seeking divorce, and so long as their fi rst husband was still
living, they were forbidden to remarry, on pain of accusation of adultery.
John Chrysostom, in the very same set of sermons that showed him sympa-
thetic to the humble sufferings of women, could unleash a rhetoric against
women that grates the modern ear. “They are like runaway slaves, who flee
the master’s house but drag their chains along. Women who leave their
husbands carry around the condemnation of the law like a chain, and are
accused of adultery. . . . For she whose husband is alive becomes an adulter-
ess.” In a society where a woman’s sexual honor was the measure of her
worth, those were words calculated to bruise. John knew that Christian
rules ran against common practice. “It may happen that slaves change their
masters, even if the master is living, but the wife can never change hus-
bands so long as he is living. It is adultery. Don’t read me the laws which
have been laid down for those outside, which command that a notice of
divorce be rendered and then set you free. You will not be judged by those
laws on the day God has appointed, but by the law he has established.”
Men, too, were deprived of access to divorce, with one all-important excep-
tion: female infidelity. In late antiquity the exception clauses uttered by Je-
sus in the Gospel of Matthew were taken to mean that a husband could
dismiss an unfaithful wife. Even John would accept it, with a little tergiver-
sation. “An adulteress is not really even a wife.” The most he could find to
say for such a rule was that it prevented bloodshed in the house. But what
emerges so clearly from his sermons is the way that the church forcefully
sought to alleviate the sexual double standard while importing a new double
standard in the rules of divorce.
The homiletic corpus of the late fourth and early fifth centuries provides
abundant and vivid testimony to the intense war on fornication that trailed
the mainstreaming of Christianity. The sermons of Chrysostom were heard
by rich and poor, powerful and powerless, free and slave, men and women.
He truly hoped that he might transform Antioch or Constantinople into a
Christian city through the diligent reform of one household at a time. But
prostitution was a particularly formidable challenge to this agenda, even in
the late empire. A fourth-century cata log of the urban amenities of Rome
still included some forty-five public brothels (listed between the public
grain mills and the public latrines); it is telling that prostitution remained
part of the official, public face of civic life in the early phases of the Chris-
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
energies. In his early tract On Order, Augustine provided the most lucid
statement of prostitution’s necessity that has survived from antiquity.
“What could claim to be more filthy and more worthless, more full of
shame and defilement, than prostitutes and pimps and other infections of
this kind? But take whores out of human affairs, and you will overturn
everything because of lusts. Put them in the place of matrons, and you will
ruin honor with fallenness and disgrace.” Augustine was no stranger to the
world of procured sex, though he was more familiar with the sophisticated
side of the flesh trade. He spent over a decade with one concubine, and
when forced to dismiss her, by his engagement to a ten-year-old girl of the
Roman gentry, he quickly “procured another” companion in the interim.
So he had a robust appreciation for the forces that prostitution held in
check. If prostitutes were to be removed from society, not just the honor of
free women, “everything” would be thrown into confusion.
Prostitution for Augustine was a necessary evil. The social order had to
make such compromises, to allow virtue to flourish. “[Pimps and prosti-
tutes] represent the most impure part of mankind by their habits and the
most vile condition in the laws of order. Are there not in the bodies of living
things certain parts that, if you tried to consider only these, you couldn’t
stand it? Nevertheless, the order of nature did not wish for things that are
necessary to be lacking, but neither did it allow them, as they are dishonor-
able, to be conspicuous. Still, these imperfections, by holding their place,
concede the better part to their superiors.” Matrons enjoyed their place in
society because prostitutes deflected dangerous lusts away from honorable
women. An unfortunate passage, with a long future, it was no more than
the meeting point of Augustinian pessimism and perfectly traditional
ideology.
If prostitution was an obstacle to Christianization, marriage was an op-
portunity for reformist ambitions. Chrysostom’s sermons reveal an ecclesi-
astical ambition to control the rituals of marriage as a means of gaining
control over the meaning of marriage. It is telling that, across late antiquity,
the ancient deductio in domum, a festive march from the bride’s house to the
groom’s, remained the ordinary marriage ritual. The endurance of joyous,
erotically charged wedding ceremonies testifies to the survival, beneath the
spread of religious solemnity, of a sexual sensibility that is probably closer to
Achilles Tatius than anything contrived by a Christian bishop. Nothing
nettled Chrysostom so much as the “diabolical pomp,” which, he argued
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
classical law, was inextricable from a property regime in which the marriage
bond involved few property transfers. In the late empire, the law increas-
ingly recognized the realities of conjugal property, and, in tandem, unilat-
eral divorce became more difficult. The keyword is “unilateral.” Late Roman
law did not prohibit divorce: it prohibited one spouse from leaving the other
without coming to a settlement. Certainly these rules would have insinuated
themselves in petty domestic conflicts in ways that we will never be able to
see. But the basic fact is that the law of divorce, from Constantine to Justin-
ian, was primarily about property; the changed moral climate, driven by
Christianity, contributed, but secondarily.
Until Justinian. As with same-sex eros, so with marriage and divorce,
the legislative reforms of Justinian marked a breakthrough and reveal what
a legal program truly driven by Christian norms could look like. For the
first time, in his reign, Christian ideas determined sexual policy irrespective
of ancient, intricate patterns of relationship between state and society. “We
command that everyone live as chastely as possible,” the Christian legislator
commanded. “Because marriage is such an honorable matter that, by the
mercy of God, it has brought immortality to the human race and sustains
our continual renewal so far as is possible by giving an eternal nature
through the procreation of children under the auspices of matrimony, it is
proper that we devote our care to it.” The rules instituted by Justinian
matched his rhetoric. In AD 542, Justinian revisited the law of divorce,
sharply limiting the class of offenses for which divorce could be sought. The
only cause of divorce that received wider scope was, revealingly, the hus-
band’s sexual malfeasance. If he kept a woman “in the very house where he
lives with his wife,” or even if he was guilty of “frequenting a woman in his
city in another house,” the wife had cause to dissolve the union. Although
this rule fell far short of sexual equality, it was the closest any ancient law-
giver went. But the radicalism of Justinian’s reform lay elsewhere. He pro-
ceeded to abolish divorce by mutual consent. The immemorial capacity of
couples to part ways by agreement was abrogated by the Christian state. This
reform marked a considerable advance of the state’s tutelage over the mar-
riage bond, and it can be explained only by a firm will to suppress divorce
itself rather than to mediate the circulation of property through society and
across generations. Justinian’s law, in short, reveals a moral activism. It is
again the middle of the sixth century that marks the terminus of a fateful
passage toward the alignment of Christian morality and public power.
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
honor. Lucretia was such a wrenching case precisely because of the deep
tension at the heart of her story: she was innocent in mind, but voluntarily
accepted the penalty of death. It was this tension that Augustine unraveled
with remorseless zeal. If she was innocent in her will, then she had killed an
innocent person. “If she is cleared of adultery, then she becomes guilty of
murder. There is absolutely no escape when someone asks, ‘If she was an
adulteress, why is she praised? If she was sexually honorable, why did she
have to be killed?’ ”
It is a truism of the Western Civilization classroom that The City of God
represents the passage across the threshold from classical to medieval civili-
zation. It is almost accurate. Augustine’s sneering prosecution of Lucretia
was a cultural landmark. It represented the high-water mark of a distinctly
volitional framework of sexual morality in the ancient church. Augustine
could condemn Lucretia with such force because he carried with him a re-
fined Christian model of sin that dissociated sexual behavior from its place
in a network of social relationships. The first installment of The City of God
represented the apex of Christian free will for another reason, though. It
appeared at precisely the same moment when the great Pelagian controversy
erupted. In the last two decades of his life, Augustine was engulfed in a
doctrinal war over the nature of the human will, the repercussions of which
would echo through the centuries, with momentous consequences for the
history of sexuality. The Pelagian controversy, which can appear so com-
pressed in its course and circumstantial in its substance, was an affair of
such extraordinary moment because it represented Christian sexuality sud-
denly coming to terms with the newfound social dominance of the church.
The hopeful, if naive, notions of free will, native to primitive Christianity,
were washed out by the tidal wave of Augustinian pessimism—in the west.
Dark premonitions of this impending crash lurk already the fi rst install-
ment of The City of God. In his pursuit of Lucretia, Augustine compasses a
murky possibility. “Perhaps she killed herself not because of her innocence
but because of her guilty conscience? What if (and only she would have
known), despite the fact that she was violently ravished, her libido was led
astray and she consented, and she was so racked by her guilt she thought to
expiate it by her death?” The sinister insinuation—from which Augustine
sheepishly retreats— cannot be ascribed to prosecutorial zeal. It was part of
Augustine’s distinctive view of the sex drive, a view that was to receive fate-
ful expression in the coming years. Augustine developed a view of human
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
ate in discussions about the nature and origin of the soul; the perduring
tensions between ascetic elitism and ordinary piety, which flared in the Jo-
vinianist controversy, lurked within a religion that extolled virginity as an
ideal; the orthodox exegesis of Genesis, especially the nature of the Fall,
remained an open question. But the spark that was to ignite the conflagra-
tion was the ideal of perfection. Pelagius argued that the very existence of
divine commandment implied the capacity for complete fulfillment. At the
heart of Pelagian doctrine is the optimistic idea that man is always capable
of doing good or evil, according to his will. The capacity for total obedience
to God’s law was, for Pelagius, intrinsic to human nature. “Whenever it
falls to me to speak about the rules of morality and the maintenance of the
holy life, it is my custom to demonstrate, first of all, the power and quality
of human nature and to show what it has the capacity to effect, and only
then to encourage the spirit of those listening toward the face of virtue, lest
it be without profit to be called to those things which might seem impossible
to them.” For Pelagius, each human enjoyed the same plenitude of freedom
experienced by Adam and Eve in paradise, and each human reenacted the
fateful choice to disobey God. The possibility of individual perfection carried
high stakes: “Pelagius wanted every Christian to be a monk.” Pelagius offered
a particularly severe vision of how Christianity might relate to society: by
transforming it. It is no coincidence that the Pelagians produced some of the
most honest and acute social criticism of the late empire. The Pelagians envi-
sioned a church that stood apart from society, pure through and through. The
Pelagian movement carried within it ancient strains of Christian separatism,
but in an age of Christian accommodation.
The consequences of Pelagian attitudes for sexual morality are most ap-
parent in the thought of Julian of Eclanum, the ablest exponent of Pelagian
doctrines and the fiercest holdout against Augustinianism. Julian held that
the very shape of morality required humans to be naturally endowed with
free will. “For if justice does not lay blame unless there existed the freedom
to abstain, and, before baptism, there is a necessity to do evil, because, as you
have said, the will is not free to do good and therefore it cannot do anything
but evil, then the will is exonerated from the disgrace of doing evil by the
very necessity which it suffers.” Thus, for Julian, humans were capable of
obeying all of God’s sexual commandments. There was nothing inherently
sinful in sexual desire, when kept within its licit bounds. For Julian, the
sexual drive was a natural instinct, created by God; it was only sinful if an
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
individual chose to indulge it in excess. “God made the sexual desire of hu-
mans, just as he did of beasts; but God allotted an unbridled instinct to the
beasts, while for man he established a limit subject to reason. The wisdom
and honor that God gave to man is appropriately reflected in the fact that
man wears clothing. Therefore, it is not the proper amount or the very na-
ture of sexual desire that God deems sinful but its excess, which arises from
the insolence of the free will and brings blame not on the endowment of
nature but on the merit of the individual actor.” Julian’s sexual ideology is
marked by a distinctive combination of radicalism and optimism.
Augustine’s response to the challenge of Pelagius and Julian would de-
stroy ancient notions of free will by deliberately posing the radical moral
autonomy advocated by his opponents as a threat to the meaning of Chris-
tianity’s most sacred rituals. For Augustine, sin was a matter of inheritance,
not imitation, or else the ancient practice of infant baptism was senseless.
Augustine reinterpreted the Fall, which came to stand as a dark, transmis-
sible stain on human nature, lodged deep within the recalcitrant will. In
Augustine’s reimagining, the prelapsarian Adam and Eve were already sex-
ual beings. Sexual reproduction was part of the original, perfect creation.
But before their sin, Adam and Eve were capable of perfectly rational sexual
acts. After their disobedience, they were punished with a disease befitting
their crime: a disobedient will. What was lost in the Garden was the per-
fect, innocent control over the flesh. “As soon as the first man transgressed
the law of God he began to have another law, repugnant to his mind, in his
members, and he felt the wickedness of his own disobedience when he
found in the disobedience of his own flesh a punishment which he most
appropriately deserved.” Adam and Eve, feeling this intractable movement
within their flesh, realized their nakedness, experienced shame, and cov-
ered themselves. The will itself was dislodged and placed outside man’s
complete control, and nothing symbolized so powerfully the defiance of the
will like the uncontrollable forces of sexual desire.
The debates with Julian saw Augustine, who had written so eloquently
on the “Good of Marriage” against the ascetic elitism of men like Jerome,
turn his focus toward the inevitable sinfulness of sexual desire, even within
marriage. Augustine continued to maintain his threefold account of the
goods of marriage: reproduction, mutual fidelity, and sacred bond. But in
his later years he would write more energetically about the impossibility of
defeating concupiscence, even within marriage. For Augustine, “concupis-
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cence, this law of sin which abides in our members,” was an intractable
symptom of human nature. Concupsicence was “not to be imputed to mar-
riage, but only to be tolerated within marriage.” Procreative sex alone was
not to be reckoned a sin, but even the act of procreation, in the postlapsar-
ian world, required the mobilization of dangerous forces beyond man’s com-
plete control. “Conjugal intercourse which is had with procreative intention
is not in itself a sin, because a righteous will leads the spirit which follows,
and does not follow the lead of bodily pleasure; human choice is in this case
not led by mastering sin, when the attack of sin is rightly redirected for the
purpose of procreation.” Augustine was led to articulate a model of procre-
ationist sex that was, momentously, far more specific than anything that had
preceded it. Certainly Clement of Alexandria, the most important early ex-
ponent of procreationism, had avoided backing himself into the corners
where Augustine finds himself. Augustine provided a pessimistic reading of
Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians. Sex within marriage was indeed a
safeguard against “damnable crimes, that is fornication and adultery.” But
conjugal sex that served “an overpowering concupiscence” was allowed only
by way of concession. The Apostle had allowed that marriage could act as a
mitigating factor in the commission of sexual sin. Marriage transformed
sexual acts performed out of desire into “venial sins.”
What is at stake in Augustine’s pessimism, in the largest sense, is the
ability of the church to absorb society. The impossibility of human perfec-
tion was the necessary adjunct to a vision of the church as an embracing
institution, impure in its present form. Unlike Pelagius or Julian, Augustine
was willing to accept that the church was far from a perfect body of holy
men and women, standing apart from the world. The church was a collec-
tive where men and women strove, day by day, to be healed of their moral
imperfections. “So not only all the sins, but all the evils of mankind, are in
the course of being taken away by the sanctity of the Christian wash, by
which Christ cleanses his church so that He might present her to Himself
not in this age but in the future one, when she will have no stain or spot or
anything of such a kind. For there are people who say that the church is
already so, and yet they themselves are in her midst!” “Nevertheless, we
ought to will not to experience these sexual desires, even if we cannot ob-
tain this goal so long as we are in this body of death.” It is a measure of the
distance traveled that Augustine returns, like Epictetus, to the position that
a free will is an achieved state; but what for Epictetus was achieved through
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gospel of freedom rang hollow in the face of the complex social realities of
sexuality.
The earliest stirrings of a new consciousness are preserved in the sermons
of Basil of Caesarea. This origin is fitting, both because the homiletic con-
text demonstrates the practical role of pastoral Christianity, and because
Basil’s canons demonstrate an effort toward systematic thought. Basil and
his Cappadocian colleagues were avid readers of Origen, from whom they
drank deeply the gospel of freedom. For Basil, experience as the leader of a
vast and rapidly growing community gradually exposed him to the contra-
dictions between his ideology and the structure of the society around him.
Prostitution brought bishops face-to-face with the fact that even if sex were
a matter of sin, not all sex was the outcome of free will. The clearest expres-
sion of the idea occurred in one of Basil’s sermons on the Psalms, as he was
explaining to his congregation the problem of pain and injustice. “If you
ask why the life of the sinner is long, but the days of the just man are cut
short, why the wicked prosper and the good are oppressed, why the child is
snatched away before his time, where war comes from, why ships wreck,
why the earth shakes, why the waters flood, or drought strikes, why afflic-
tions were created for mankind, why this man is a slave and this man free,
why this man is rich and this man poor—the difference is greater among
those who commit sin and those who are righteous. For while the slave
woman who was sold to a pimp is in sin by necessity, she who happens to
belong to a wellborn mistress was raised with sexual modesty, and on this
account the one is shown mercy, the other condemned.”
Without any natural impetus to use the example of prostitution, it came
to mind as the coerced sin par excellence. The problem of evil was a chal-
lenge to Christian theodicy, but Basil’s God was intuitively just, and he
would spare the innocent. Basil simply assumed that a prostitute was a slave,
sold to a pimp. She was in sin as a result, but forgiven by God. In contrast,
the honorable woman had agency in her sexual immorality, and as a result
her actions were damnable. Basil’s notion that some prostitutes were con-
demned to sexual sin through coercion was by no means an incidental or
passing thought. In another sermon, Basil explicitly contrasted two prosti-
tutes. Some sins, he said, were “involuntary,” others from a “wicked disposi-
tion.” Here we see fully articulated the stark difference between voluntary
sin and coerced sin. “One prostitute has been sold to the pimp and is in evil
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
because of necessity, for she must provide her body for the work of her
wicked master. But there is another who gives herself to sin voluntarily,
because of plea sure.” In a more systematic context— one of his canonical
letters—Basil carried his thought to its logical conclusion. “Sexual viola-
tions that occur through necessity are to be without blame.” Basil’s canon
represents a monumental breakdown of the traditional social and mental
barriers that had insulated the church from the need to think about the
material realities behind sin. Here is a not insignificant expansion of hu-
man consciousness. Basil cut through the curtain that had for centuries
blocked the need to think about the moral capacity of society’s most
vulnerable.
We might fruitfully contrast the sermon of Basil with the novel of Achil-
les Tatius. Achilles is aware of the ineffable strings of fate that pull human
action. He walks us to the precipice and, at least for dramatic effect, asks us
to contemplate the mysterious dispensation that could make Leucippe free
and the prostitute an effigy of social death. But having stared at the abyss,
he retreats, and takes solace in the order of a world that does allow beauty,
pleasure, and existential fullness for some. Basil ponders this same mysterious
dispensation, but with a conviction of its profound injustice and a confident
hope for a final redemption in which all moral creatures will receive their
due. The radicalism of Basil’s discovery is attributable to the stark collision
between an ideology of free will and an earnest form of nascent social lead-
ership. It is no accident that Basil’s brother, Gregory of Nyssa, has left the
very earliest extant attack on slavery; for Gregory, slavery was an institution
unjust to its very foundations, a violation of basic human rationality and
moral autonomy. The takeover of society by the church opened a brief win-
dow for such radically creative social thought.
Basil’s idea, if it was first his, was to prove more fertile than Gregory’s
attack on slavery. The dichotomy between consent and coercion found its
way into the Christian mind in the late fourth century. Other Greek pas-
tors picked up the idea of consent, specifically in the context of slavery and
prostitution. The idea was clearly alive in the early fifth century, when Cyril
of Alexandria explained that there were two kinds of prostitutes. “See how
some wish to practice shameful pollution willingly and of their own voli-
tion while some are accustomed to impress it upon others as though by
force. . . . Do not some go into fornication on their own choice, women
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and young men voluntarily making wages off selling their youth to the dis-
orderliness of some? Yes. What’s more— some are conquered by shameful
profits and prostitute out their own slave women, even some of their males
to those who wish, and thus the wretched who happen to be sold must turn
over a tribute?” Cyril’s argument turns on the same idea, “out of necessity,”
to describe the prostitution of slaves, male and female, forced into venal sex.
Cyril’s account was, like Basil’s, just as emphatic about the consent of some
prostitutes. In his writings, we see the figure of the prostitute as a spectacu-
lar embodiment of sin gestating in the Christian mind.
The new consciousness evinced in Basil’s writings did not have an im-
mediate impact, but Cyril’s use of it— sometime in the 410s or 420s—
shows that the idea was percolating decades later. Indeed, in the AD 420s
the idea of prostitutes “sinning by necessity” would intersect, in one of those
deeply symbolic coincidences that history sometimes provides, with the
final phases of the doctrinal debates between Augustine and Julian. In 418
Pelagius and his Italian supporters were condemned to exile, and Julian of
Eclanum sailed east to carry on the struggle against the Augustinian coup.
Julian settled, for the better part of a decade, in Cilicia, near the figure of
Theodore of Mopsuestia. His place of refuge was well chosen. Theodore was
an auspicious protector who offered not only intellectual nourishment but
also, quite possibly, advantageous political networks. When on December
24, 427, the archbishop of Constantinople died, Nestorius, a Syrian and a
complete outsider, was elected; when he traveled to the capital in early 428,
Nestorius passed through Mopsuestia to visit his old teacher, Theodore, en
route. It is quite possible that Julian joined his entourage, for he too was in
Constantinople later in 428. On April 10, Nestorius was installed as arch-
bishop. He considered reopening the case against Julian and his allies, writ-
ing the pope for details about their condemnation. The polemics between
Augustine and Julian— and their theological slogans about the “necessity
of sinning”—reverberated throughout the eastern capital in the spring of
428. The words sat at the intersection of high theological debate and mun-
dane social fact. It is remarkable that on April 21, just eleven days after the
enthronement of Nestorius, the chancery of the emperor, Theodosius II,
issued one of the most remarkable, and misunderstood, laws of the later
Roman Empire. The law was suggested by Florentius, a man of Syrian origin
who was then praetorian prefect of the east. The law declared: “We cannot
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
suffer for pimps, fathers, and slave-owners who impose the necessity of sin-
ning on their daughters or slave women to enjoy the right of power over
them nor to indulge freely in such crime. Thus it pleases us that these men
are subjected to such disdain that they may not be able to benefit from the
right of power nor may anything be thus acquired by them. It is to be
granted to the slaves and daughters and others who have hired themselves
out on account of their poverty (whose humble lot has damned them),
should they so will, to be relieved of every necessity of this misery by ap-
pealing to the succor of bishops, judges, or even defensors. So that, if the
pimps shall think these women are to be urged on or impose the necessity
of sin on those who are unwilling, they will lose not only that power which
they held, but they will be proscribed by exile to the public mines, which is
less of a punishment than that of a woman who is seized by a pimp and
compelled to endure the filth of an intercourse that she did not will.”
Rarely is the translation of Christian ideology into statutory law quite so
clear. The “necessity of sinning” was precisely the language of Basil and
Cyril, Augustine and Julian, and the formulation undoubtedly reflects the
impact of Christianity on the imperial chancery. The law of 428 was a path-
breaking act of social policy. It addressed sin as a social problem. The state
took an active concern in the spiritual welfare of women forced into prosti-
tution. The constitution of Theodosius II made a statement that the govern-
ment was willing to interfere with the private powers of masters and fathers.
It also offered aid to poor women who had been forced into prostitution by
circumstance rather than private legal power. But there were limits to the
new policy. The measure did not punish women who prostituted themselves,
nor men who patronized the brothel. Prostitution remained legal. Forcible
prostitution, forcible sin, even sin caused by poverty, was redressed.
The nature, timing, and ideological basis of this legislative program have
been broadly misunderstood. The notion of coerced sin, first outlined by
Basil, was in fact at the center of Christian policy on prostitution and was
to remain so down to the age of Justinian. The attempt to segregate slavery
from prostitution was much more than a cosmetic reform. Ancient prosti-
tution was enmeshed in the slave trade. The law struck, materially, at the
heart of the sex industry in antiquity. Even more, it was the state’s first move
toward a moral realignment of the system of prostitution. Women without
honor, prostitutes and slaves, were still exposed to the forces of male sexual-
C H U R C H , S O C I E T Y, A N D S E X I N T H E A G E O F T R I U M P H
ity. But one of the most important subsets of these women, women forced
into prostitution, was no longer allowed to exist with state approval. And
once the Christian discourse of coercion and consent behind this law is
recognized, it becomes clear that these categories remained the moral basis
of state policy on prostitution for the next century.
After the law of 428, all prostitution was theoretically sinful but consen-
sual. A decade later, in 439, Theodosius II followed with another measure
that confirmed the new moral posture toward prostitution. Like other
trades, prostitution had been subject to an imperial tax. The tax corre-
sponded to the acceptance of prostitution as a legitimate form of commerce.
Only in 439 did the state publicly admit that collecting revenue from pros-
titution was indecent in a Christian empire. The language of the law im-
plied, disingenuously, that the emperor and his officials had lately discov-
ered this impropriety. The praetorian prefect, Florentius, “saw that the
negligence of our predecessors had been exploited by the damnable shrewd-
ness of pimps, as though having obtained the right under the payment of
some tax, they were allowed to conduct the business of ruining sexual
modesty. Nor did the state, in its ignorance, check this injury to itself.”
Florentius, “because of his respect for all people, his love of sexual propriety
and chastity,” suggested to the emperors that it was “an injury in our times
that pimps be allowed to operate in this city, or that their vile profit seem to
augment the treasury.” Florentius offered to compensate the treasury from
his own pocket for any lost revenue, but the actual disposition of the law
was to ban pimping rather than to amend the state’s fiscal policy. It seems
that henceforth the tax was levied on prostitutes directly, and Florentius
offered to pick up the tab on any shortfalls this reform caused. Clearly, the
main business of this law was the criminalization of pimping. “If anyone
hereafter should through a sacrilegious effrontery try to prostitute the bod-
ies of slaves, be they his own or another’s, or of freeborn women who have
been contracted at any price, first, these most oppressed slaves are vindi-
cated into freedom and the freeborn are freed from this unholy contract.
The pimp, having been severely flogged as an example and lesson to all,
shall be driven from the boundaries of this city, in which he thought his
illicit abomination was to be practiced.”
The law of 439 was an extension of the principles laid out a decade ear-
lier, though in the latter law the court reverted to a more traditional vo-
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was the target of a policy even wider than his campaign against sexual pro-
curement. Justinian and Theodora founded a convent for reformed prosti-
tutes. This refuge was to be a means of escape for women trapped in the life
of the brothel. Named “Repentance,” the convent advertised the possibility
of inner change for the prostitute and established a reformatory on Chris-
tian terms. As we will see in Chapter 4, the idea of the penitent prostitute is
exactly contemporaneous, and ideologically correlated, with the legal pro-
gram against coercion in the sex industry. As with the regulation of same-
sex eros, the state’s intervention in the sex trade reached its pitch of ideo-
logical fervor in the reign of Justinian, and once again relied on a
religio-juridical complex. In his Secret History, Procopius cynically reported
that the emperor and empress forced prostitutes who did not want to con-
vert, against their will, to enter the monastery. He claimed that these pros-
titutes threw themselves off the walls of the convent as their only means of
resistance. The very language, “forced to convert,” showed a close familiar-
ity with the moral and intellectual foundations of Christian policy between
Theodosius II and Justinian. Procopius inverted the dynamics of consent
and coercion to create a malicious send-up of the Christian approach to
prostitution.
The policy initiated in 428 and fulfilled in the age of Justinian repre-
sented a momentous crack in the foundations of an ancient institutional
order. What requires emphasis, though, and what proves revealing for the
larger question of the Christianization of law, is the extent to which this
was not destined to be one Christian sexual policy among others. It was the
front edge of Christian legislative intervention in the sexual economy. Rules
against homoerotic acts were explosive but exceedingly rare; the statutes
against adultery already on the books were sufficient; the direct repression
of prostitution was inconceivable. So the Christian state, from Theodosius
II to Justinian, the two great codifiers, made sexual coercion the signal re-
form issue. Over a crucial century, in which other examples of Christian
sexual legislation are virtually nonexistent, the problem of coerced prostitu-
tion generated a string of enactments whose evolving scope reflects the
earnest ambitions of lawmakers. At its core this campaign against coerced
prostitution is an expression of a new model of human solidarity. In the
name of suppressing sin, the campaign brought the most morally invisible
bodies inside the horizons of public solicitude. The state, so long accus-
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Revolutionizing Romance in
the Late Classical World
In the days leading up to his execution, with confrontation hanging over the
atmosphere like a leaden sky, Jesus relayed to the priests of the Temple in
Jerusalem the startling message that they would be preceded into the king-
dom of heaven by tax-collectors and prostitutes. The charismatic Galilean
rabbi had earned a reputation for his charitable attitude toward society’s out-
casts, and it was known on solid authority that he went so far as to share a
table with them. Almost four centuries later the radical benevolence of Jesus
had lost none of its original charge, in part because he had chosen his out-
casts so well. In the words of the Antiochene preacher John Chrysostom,
“These two represent the highest sins, born each of a grievous passion,
lust for the body and lust for coin.” God, in the dispensation of forgive-
ness, was not a respecter of persons, and nothing symbolized the limitless
potential of grace like the moral rehabilitation of a prostitute. Because of
her penitence, there was hope for all. She proved that “it is easy to rise
from the very depths of wickedness.” But John Chrysostom did not have
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Have you not heard how that prostitute, who once surpassed all in her wan-
ton immorality, now overshadows all in her moral scruple? I am not talking
about the prostitute in the gospels, but the one in our own time, hailing
from the most lawless city of Phoenicia. For she was at one time a prostitute
among us, in fact holding pride of place in the theater, and her name was
famous everywhere, not just in our city but as far as Cilicia and Cappadocia.
She emptied many an estate, conquered many an orphan. Not a few even
accused her of sorcery, saying that she ensnared not just by her physical
charms but also by the use of potions. This whore at one time held the
brother of the empress under her spell, so great was her tyranny.
tance struck a chord. The female body was a symbol beyond time and cir-
cumstance. Across ancient literature, the woman’s body stood as a cipher,
capable of expressing the most intensely felt beliefs about the order of the
world. The stark opposition between purity and pollution, between honor
and shame, was endlessly reworked in the literary imagination. But the
transition from one pole to the other, from purity to corruption or vice versa,
was almost never compassed, precisely because the woman’s body was an
objective correlative for an entire state of being. The passage of a prostitute’s
body from prurience to penitence handed Christian authors a figure that
not only resonated in an ancient arcade of symbols. Quite inadvertently, the
penitent prostitute transcended the very logic of an immemorial symbolic
architecture.
Here we will trace the embodiment of shame and sin in prose narratives
spanning the high and late empires. The claims made are, at one level, liter-
ary. While it has been recognized that early Christian literature is related to
the Greek romance, the depth of Christian engagement with the dynamics
of female honor in pre-Christian fiction remains to be fully explored. The
subgenre of literature that grew up around the figure of the penitent prosti-
tute not only demands to be read in light of ancient fictional traditions; the
narrative possibilities opened by the story of sexual transformation sud-
denly illuminate the inner logic of the old literature. In other words, penitent
prostitutes are good to read with. But the claims of this chapter go beyond
the literary. Literature, in the words of Stephen Greenblatt, is “an exception-
ally sensitive register of the complex struggles and harmonies of culture.” The
romances— Greek novels and Christian legends alike—are artifacts of a
shared, public system of values. Even a mode of literature as formal and fan-
tastic as the romance reflects the expectations and experiences of the society
that produced it. The transformation of female honor in prose fiction reca-
pitulates the profound revolution in sexual morality in the late classical
world. The ancient novels are stories of eros in which honorable female sexu-
ality is inviolable, because sexual morality itself is lodged in a social order
whose logic provides the syntax of the romance. The early Christian litera-
ture adopts this form but directly inverts it, preserving the heroine’s corpo-
ral integrity but doing so eternally, so that her perpetual chastity becomes,
like the apostle’s martyrdom, a rejection of society and society’s claim to
represent the constitutive grounds of the self. Early Christian romance is the
literature of a persecuted minority; the heroine’s integrity is a renunciation
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
VI RG I N IT Y I M PE RI LE D I N TH E A NC I E NT RO M A NC E
paradigm of the romance, of the genre’s most basic assumptions about the
body and society.
Despite her pitiful death wish, Anthia ended up in the clutches of a
brothel keeper in Tarentum, Italy. He compelled her to be placed in front of
the brothel, and she lamented that she was compelled to play the harlot. But
her despair quickly turned to resolve. “Why do I bewail my fate instead of
finding some contrivance [mēchanē] by which I might preserve the chastity
which I have safeguarded up to now?” As the crowd of lustful customers
jostled to pay for her services, Anthia, “without any recourse [amēchanē] from
this evil, nevertheless found a device for her escape.” She threw herself to the
ground and feigned the violent convulsions of an epileptic fit. The dumb-
struck crowd felt “pity and fear,” and their erotic aspirations were, temporar-
ily, dampened. The pimp took her home to recover, and she wove an elabo-
rate story to convince him that she was truly affl icted with the disease. Her
feint succeeded in creating just enough delay to let the universe resolve itself
happily. She remained inviolate, and when she eventually rejoined her hus-
band, she could boast to him, “I remain pure for you, having contrived
every device [mēchanē] for the preservation of chastity.” He, too, protested
his unimpeachable fidelity, and they “easily persuaded each other, since
that was what they wanted.”
Anthia’s escape from the brothel is a paradigm of the heroine’s chastity
in the romance. Parallel endangerments from pimps and pirates, slave own-
ers and other ruffians, recur throughout the entire genre. The most direct
parallel, and the only rival to the Ephesian Tale in the transparency of its
conventionality, survives in the popular History of Apollonius, King of Tyre.
The History of Apollonius is a family romance rather than an erotic romance,
but the pattern of separation, endurance, and reunion is structurally parallel.
In this story, which survives in Latin, it is the protagonist’s daughter, Tar-
sia, who has been cast on the cruel winds of fate and endures lurid threats to
her virginal purity. In the climactic scene of the History, Tarsia, like Anthia,
is placed for sale in a slave market. The prince of the city and the town’s most
notorious procurer enter a bidding war for the beautiful girl, with equally
prurient interests. As the price escalates, the prince reckons that the pur-
chase of this one creature would force him to sell off a number of his other
slaves. With the dispassionate logic of a cost-cutting accountant, he reasons
that he can let the pimp buy her, then pay to be the first customer for just a
fraction of the girl’s sale price. “I’ll go in first and snatch the knot of her
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
virginity at a low price and it will be the same as if I had bought her.” The
deep material and ideological connection between the flesh trade and the
sex trade was rarely exposed to such direct view. The demand for sex was a
major impetus behind the circulation of human chattel in the Roman
world.
The pimp in this story, a monochromatic villain, ignores Tarsia’s pleas
for compassion. “Don’t you know that supplications and tears have no force
with pimps and executioners?” Like the executioner, the pimp is an agent of
death. He sends her to the brothel. The prince, with his face covered, en-
tered first. Tarsia prostrated herself at his feet and in the most desperate
terms begged for his pity. “Listen to the misfortune that brought me to this
unhappy state, weigh the fact of my respectable ancestry.” The prince was
startled into compassion. He, too, had a virgin daughter, for whom he
might fear a similar fate. He abandoned his lustful intentions and told Tar-
sia to implore future customers with the same sad recital, until she had earned
enough to buy her own freedom. A train of suitors follows, and all are so
moved by Tarsia’s story that they refrained from impairing her chastity. She
endured, inviolate, until she was reunited with her father, who promised Tar-
sia to the noble prince as a bride (and incited the people of Mytilene to burn
the merciless pimp alive). Tarsia’s preservation of her chastity was less elabo-
rately contrived than Anthia’s. She relied on the bare compassion of strang-
ers. But the underlying assumptions about the order of the universe were
the same.
The inviolability of the heroine’s sexual integrity is the deep premise of
the ancient romance. Leucippe was said to have endured “every indignity
and outrage against her body, except one.” It went without saying what
single disgrace she had been spared. The physical integrity of the female
protagonist was the convention, in a genre of conventions. The great literary
critic Northup Frye has observed of the genre, that “with romance it is
much harder to avoid the feeling of convention, that the story is one of a
family of similar stories. Hence in the criticism of romance we are led very
quickly from what the individual work says to what the entire convention it
belongs to is saying through the work.” The insight is crucial, but it requires
an important amendment. Frye simply underestimated the sophistication
of some ancient romances. To compare, for example, naive texts like the
Ephesian Tale with more artful confections like Leucippe and Clitophon,
without recognizing the entirely different literary registers of the texts, is to
R O M A N C E I N T H E L AT E C L A S S I C A L WO R L D
miss the supreme command of the medium that authors like Achilles Ta-
tius display. The Ephesian Tale and Leucippe and Clitophon use the same set
of conventions but use them to vastly different effect. What they share is a
generic syntax, out of which the meaning of the individual work is created.
The ancient romances are stories of eros, a consuming physical passion
that binds two beautiful lovers, a young man and young woman, in mutual
attraction. The protagonists are unfailingly of high birth, born into the
civic aristocracies of a broadly Hellenic Mediterranean. The stories are set
against the backdrop of a physically familiar but temporally irreal Greek
past, what Bakhtin called “adventure time.” Eros is the driving force of the
story: a force of nature that, unbeckoned, guides human destiny. The novels
celebrate eros as a gift of nature; they ponder the stark mystery that replen-
ishing the city with new generations should also be a source of the greatest
pleasure. The romances are unhesitantly carnal: eros is the ecstatic joy of
bodily friction. At the same time the eros they admire is a force that has
been safely caged in matrimony—if just barely. The novels are conservative,
but hardly frigid. The novels unabashedly celebrate sex itself. The romances
are idealizing. The lovers are noble in blood and mien, their passion is pure
and true. Even the men are usually faithful, physically; emotionally, it is
imperative that they remain committed. The mutual attraction between
two lovers, married or about to be so, represented a new space for literate
cultural idealism around domestic bliss and private fulfillment. The social
and moral logic that underwrites the genre is shared between texts, even if
the individual authors regard it with different levels of reverence. The social
logic of the romances transcends the genre; the raw material of the romance
is preliterary, essentially folkloric.
Structurally the romances are stories of adversity and adventure that re-
solve happily in marriage. In the prelude to the final book of his romance,
Chariton signaled the shift from misadventure to resolution in revealing
terms: “No longer shall we have piracy and slavery, trials and battles, grisly
suicide, war or captivity, but righteous passions and legitimate marriages.”
Throughout the narrative the heroine faces grave dangers that call into
question her status. The heroine of romance is a recognizable social type;
her essence precedes her individuality. She is beautiful, of free and noble
birth, and in the prime of her marriageable years. Preferably the heroine is
superlatively beautiful and impeccably wellborn. Callirhoe, for instance,
was the daughter of the leading citizen of Syracuse, and she was the “glory
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
of all Sicily,” with a “beauty that was not human but divine.” Anthia, at
fourteen, was “in the very bloom of her body’s beauty,” a beauty that “was
an astonishment, far beyond all the other virgins.” In Leucippe and Clito-
phon, we first encounter Leucippe through the eyes of her lover, Clitophon,
who dilates on the experience of such superhuman beauty. In Daphnis and
Chloe, the drama revolves around the fact that the protagonists were exposed
as infants and raised by simple peasants; Chloe, even as a sheepherder, is
supremely if naively charming, but it is only in the very last sequence of the
story that her true identity, as a daughter of the town’s gentry, was revealed.
In fact, once she was literally scrubbed of her rural grime and properly
dressed, it was indisputably obvious that her rustic parents did not in reality
produce “such a maiden as that.”
The heroine is free, but her status is not merely an external attribute de-
scribing her current condition. Though the heroine is routinely subjected to
enslavement, she retains her free nature. The heroine’s freedom is objective,
a quality of her being that is apparent even to other characters in the ro-
mance. When tomb raiders abducted Callirhoe, they were worried that it
would be obvious from her appearance that they had kidnapped a free per-
son. “Her beauty isn’t human and won’t go unnoticed. Will we say, ‘She’s a
slave’—who would believe that once they’ve seen her?” The man who buys
her immediately perceives her true status. “It is impossible for anybody who
is not free by nature to be beautiful.” In the Ephesian Tale, Anthia’s master
gives her to a fellow slave, a goatherd, but she manages to convince him to
pity her “good birth.” When Leucippe is enslaved in Ephesus, she throws
herself at the feet of her mistress, Melite, who instantly recognized, despite
her tattered appearance, that the girl was not really a slave. “Even among such
travails your beauty proclaims your good birth.” In The Ethiopian Tale, sta-
tus is such an objective quality that, after a battle, the victors ransom the
free captives and keep the slaves in slavery!
Because the heroine’s identity partakes in the mysterious essence of her
freedom, to lose that freedom would be a sort of death. The romantic hero-
ine must be, volubly, willing to die. Callirhoe would expressly rather be dead
than be a slave. Anthia tells the slave about to sell her, “Just kill me yourself.”
Slavery, and with it presumptive sexual shame, is a sort of social death. For
the heroine to lose her physical purity would be, in effect, to cease to exist.
The sentiment receives arch expression in The Ethiopian Tale. The heroine,
Charicleia, reflects on her willingness to commit suicide rather than experi-
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ancient examples of the genre. The characters are presented, but they do not
develop. Heroes and villains are highly stereotyped, and the “moral facts,”
at the surface level, are greatly simplified.
The discontinuous episodic structure that was the skeleton of ancient
romance was closely related to the undercurrents of popular fatalism that
run through the genre. Fortune is omnipresent in the novels. To her capricious
will all the twists of the plot are attributed. In Leucippe and Clitophon, some
form of tuch- is used 142 times, that is, several times on each page. The
Fortune of the imperial romances is not an orderly theological concept; her
very nature is mysterious and arbitrary, but ultimately benevolent. She sub-
jects the protagonists to fearsome travails, but she rescues them too. This
uncanny mixture of whim and providence, of flux and order, is within the
mainstream of religious currents in the high empire. The Fortune of the
novels is no mere literary ornamentation. She is the same awesome divinity
who was worshipped, in cult, across the Mediterranean, like never before in
the Roman Empire— a syncretistic, cosmological goddess in a syncretistic,
cosmological age. The romances were, like the temples where Fortune was
worshipped, monuments built in awe of her supervenient power over hu-
man affairs.
The Fortune who presides over the romances is a literary spirit. Over and
over again, Fortune is said to be a dramatist. One character tells Chareas,
“Fortune loves invention, and you have been cast in an unhappy drama.”
Not just the authors of romance, but also the characters are aware that their
lives have the shape of literature. Clitophon launches on his story with the
reflection, “I was nineteen years of age when Fortune began her drama.”
Later he laments yet another bad turn. “Fortune as usual has set upon me
and contrived a new drama.” In The Ethiopian Tale the characters experience
the “ceaseless turning of the human lot, full of twists.” In despair Theagenes
wonders if he and Charicleia should not just submit to the “destiny that
everywhere chased” them by surrendering. The gods’ vendetta was “making
us into playthings, as though our affairs were a drama on a stage.” Chari-
cleia, by contrast, counsels resistance. In the final scenes, the king and his
people alike marvel at the “theatrics of Fortune.” The literary pretensions
of Fortune are part of the high-pitched aesthetic self-awareness of the ro-
mances. But given the real place of Fortune in the imperial pantheon, it
would be misleading to dismiss these comparisons as empty authorial
self-aggrandizement.
R O M A N C E I N T H E L AT E C L A S S I C A L WO R L D
Clinias tells Clitophon that “when you have a tacit understanding that the
next step is the big deed, even those who are ready to surrender prefer the
appearance of compulsion, to let the façade of force deflect the shame of
consent.” If the girl’s resistance is “hearty,” Clinias warns not to use “force,
because she is not yet persuaded.” But “as soon as her will begins to weaken,
act your role in this play, lest your drama fail to reach its conclusion.” The
theatrical metaphor is clever, for the astute reader will realize that Clinias
does not know exactly what sort of drama he has been cast in. His assump-
tions about the will— as a murky and pliable thing— contradict the social
grammar of female respectability and of the romance in general.
Before the first two books are finished, Achilles Tatius offers even more
smirking reflections on the protocols of romantic virginity. When Leucippe
proved willing to submit to the sexual advances of Clitophon, her virginity
was saved, as it were, against her will, through the last-minute intervention
of her mother, who was alerted by a dream. On discovering her daughter in
a compromising situation, Leucippe’s mother offers a doleful speech. She
regrets leaving a war zone to come to Tyre, because Leucippe seemed ready
to lose her chastity willfully. “Would that you had been outraged by a con-
quering Thracian, for at least corruption by coercion carries no shame!”
This, of course, is not true, at least not in romance, which is a whole genre
built on the need of respectable women to preserve their physical integrity
against violent incursions. Leucippe strikes back against her mother’s dia-
tribe with a canny defense that makes equally dubious use of romantic
protocols. “Impugn not my virginity, mother . . . for this I know is true: no
one has done dishonor to my maidenhood.” In defense of herself Leucippe
turns the deepest premise of the romance, the heroine’s chastity, into a mere
technicality. Achilles has inverted the basic tension between internal purity
and external endangerment to create a heroine who is internally compro-
mised but externally safeguarded. Leucippe states her wish that there was
some sort of virginity test to prove her innocence— a wish that is fulfilled at
the novel’s climax.
After the failed seduction, Leucippe’s virginal resolve is steeled, and she
even refuses future opportunities to sleep with Clitophon. Leucippe does
not so much develop as a character, as the story itself returns to conven-
tional order. She becomes a romantic heroine to fit. The romance builds
toward the final and gravest threat to her chastity, the gruesome scene in
which her master, Thersander, attempts to rape her. Although the setting is
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a private encounter between a master and his slave, the elements of the
scene are perfectly homologous with the escapes of Anthia and Tarsia from
the public brothel. This scene is extremely conscious of itself and its place in
the economy of romance. The villainy of Thersander is compounded by his
brash refusal to believe that Leucippe has maintained her virginity through
such arduous trials; thus he refused to believe in the romance as a package
of happy conceits. His unwillingness to suspend disbelief, to allow this sort
of literature to exist, is for the author almost as wicked as his eagerness to
rape Leucippe. Leucippe, in this scene, at last becomes fully aware of her
status as a romantic heroine; she taunts Thersander with the fact that his
threats will only bestow greater glory on her, which would be a strange
thing for a slave to say, after all, unless she knew she was a romantic hero-
ine. She warns Thersander that her eleutheria, her freedom, will protect her.
Achilles has contrived a brilliant scene in which eleutheria refers precisely to
the heroine’s objective status rather than to her autonomy. For no coherent
reason whatsoever, this claim deters Thersander from his malicious designs.
Or rather, for no reason other than the bare logic of the romantic genre
itself, in which the honorable protagonist will remain inviolate, does she
retain her purity. Whereas Thersander refuses to believe in the rules of
romance, Achilles Tatius asks the reader to believe solely out of convention
rather than narrative plausibility. Leucippe’s mēchanē, her device of escape,
is simultaneously the least convincing, and the most self-aware, of any in
the genre.
Achilles Tatius exposes the internal logic of the genre and tests whether
the reader will believe in it simply because it is good theater. He is willing
to lay bare the purely artificial, literary substance animating his characters.
Leucippe’s sudden and inexplicable transformation from a willing young
girl curious about eros into a romantic heroine capable of the most soaring
defenses of chastity is an example. More darkly, the creation of a doppel-
gänger for Leucippe, an “ill-starred” prostitute who is beheaded in Leu-
cippe’s place, is an accomplishment without equal in the ancient romances.
In the riddle of the severed head, which hangs, unexplained, over much of
the narrative, Achilles confronts the reader with the mysterious dispensa-
tions of fate. The brilliance of this creation ensures us that the arch tone
Achilles maintains across his romance is not postmodern camp before its
time, but instead a serious engagement with the deepest social and cosmo-
logical assumptions of romance. The manipulation of romantic protocols is
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
a sincere way of questioning the Fortune that presides over the order of
romance—in fact, over the world. This story, with its intricate knowingness,
promises the ability to confront the theodicy that underlies literature,
through literature.
The Ethiopian Tale of Heliodorus makes equally canny use of the generic
conventions underlying the inviolability of the heroine’s body. The Ethio-
pian Tale is as self-aware as Leucippe and Clitophon, but the effect achieved
by the author’s consciousness is an air of baroque grandeur rather than keen
lightness. The Ethiopian Tale is the latest of the erotic romances that sur-
vive, and there are compelling reasons to place it sometime in the second
half of the fourth century. The Ethiopian Tale deliberately builds an aura of
latest and greatest. All of the conventional themes are allowed to unravel, in
stately fashion. By far the longest of the erotic romances, it is unique in
weaving two story patterns into a single narrative. At one level it is the story
of Theagenes and Charicleia, their separation and endurance, their eventual
union. The Ethiopian Tale is also a homeward journey for Charicleia, who
gradually discovers her true identity as the princess of Ethiopia. In the so-
phistication of its narrative architecture, The Ethiopian Tale is without peer
among the ancient novels. But it is also distinctive in its fixation on male
bodily purity, and in general its chilly tone toward the pleasures of the flesh.
The Ethiopian Tale very consciously redeploys the traditional armory of the
erotic romance, but in the ser vice of a hieratic vision of human life.
Heliodorus reworks the conventions of romance to serve his own pur-
poses. Theagenes and Charicleia find themselves enslaved at the palace of a
Persian satrap, whose wife has sensual designs on Theagenes. Threats to the
hero are not uncommon in romance, but this scene is far removed from its
direct parallel in Leucippe and Clitophon, which has Clitophon indulge the
harmless desires of his seductress, Melite. For Heliodorus, the bodily purity
of Theagenes is supremely important. Earlier in the story he has sworn
that he is innocent of experience with a woman. At the end of the story,
he too will undergo a virginity test (in fact, a test to ensure that he is pure,
so that he can be the victim of a human sacrifice!). The language of physi-
cal and ritual purity, usually reserved for female bodies, is applied to
Theagenes. He faces the threat of seduction as a threat not to his romantic
fidelity but rather to his corporal integrity. He is distraught lest he, “with-
out any experience of Charicleia, will be polluted by unlawful intercourse
with another woman.”
R O M A N C E I N T H E L AT E C L A S S I C A L WO R L D
Heliodorus has constructed a scene where the male hero faces the dan-
gers that conventionally threaten a heroine’s chastity. In these desperate
straits Charicleia offers counsel to her lover. “If you have in mind to go all the
way through with this deed, I have no place to argue. For indeed our very
salvation and survival may depend upon it.” But, of course, she hopes he will
resolve not to submit. Charicleia tells him that he should feign assent and
string out the plot, deluding the woman in her hopes and desires. “Surely in
the space of time that you create it will be the will of the gods somehow to
effect our deliverance.” She tells him to create a mēchanē, a device to protect
his virtue in an impossible situation. Charicleia, in short, teaches Theagenes
how to be a romantic heroine. She simultaneously gives voice to the theod-
icy of romance. The will of the gods is inscrutable, but at the very least the
shape of the story they create promises deliverance—in the form of chastity
and marriage—to the protagonists.
The authorial insistence on the hero’s physical integrity is unusual, and it
is symptomatic of the skepticism toward carnal pleasure that animates this
novel. The Ethiopian Tale is an erotic romance in form but not in spirit. It is
quite as far removed from the earthy sensuality of the earlier romances as is
Christian fiction. The story is missing all the wry glances toward physical
pleasure that the genre usually allows. It is impossible to imagine the pallid
Charicleia as an erotic enthusiast. In the world of Heliodorus, the priestly
race condemns the common aphrodisia and descends to intercourse “not for
the use of pleasure but for the succession of generations.” In the penulti-
mate scene, as Charicleia and Theagenes are married, the high priest pro-
nounces them solemnly wed by the law of procreation. In the final scene
the two are invested as priest and priestess and march into the city to per-
form even “more sacred” mysteries. In any other ancient novel, such an al-
lusion would clearly be to the rites of the nuptial couch, but here there is no
hint of sex. Gone is the warm eroticism of carnal friction, in its place an
obsession with purity that is sacerdotal in its tone and timbre.
The fifth-century church historian Socrates reported, in the fifth book of
his ecclesiastical history, that the same Heliodorus who wrote The Ethiopian
Tale in his youth became a Christian bishop in Thessaly. Unlike later Byz-
antine tales which have Achilles Tatius converting to the faith, this bio-
graphical note is not so far removed in time and it is not an obvious speci-
men of literary wish fulfillment. The report deserves credence, as does the
detail, added by Socrates, that Heliodorus introduced strict clerical continence
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
in his church. That the author of this final romance, so frigid in its erotic
outlook, enjoined sexual abstinence on even the married members of his
clergy, is entirely consonant with the hieratic fi xation on purity and pollu-
tion in The Ethiopian Tale. Heliodorus lived against the backdrop of mass
conversion to Christianity and became a leader in the movement at a par-
ticularly consequential moment. He may well have found the sexual auster-
ity of the religion congenial and familiar. But what he would have quickly
discovered, on the entry to his new faith, was its will to impose rigorous codes
of corporal purity on all its adherents, not just a priestly race, set apart, with
special privileges of divine communication. The Christians would soon
develop a literature adequate to such an ambitious project, and it would
entail reworking the conventions of romance so thoroughly that we cannot
but wonder if a nostalgic spirit like Heliodorus would have been enthused
or scandalized. He lived on the cusp of a tremendous literary revolution.
But this revolution was only possible because, from very early on, the con-
ventions of romance— above all the charged symbolism of female purity—
had fully entered the bloodstream of Christian fiction.
TH E C H RI STIA N AC T S A N D TH E I NVE R S IO N OF RO M A NC E
Our most complete version of the diff use lore that attached to the Christian
apostle Andrew survives as a Latin epitome composed by the sixth-century
bishop Gregory of Tours. In the preface to his summary of Andrew’s leg-
end, Gregory concedes that some critics considered the stories of Andrew
apocryphal, “on account of their excessive prolixity.” His avowed purpose
in writing was to extract the miraculous pulp and to discard the unneces-
sary husk of the narrative. The story is none the better for Gregory’s literary
surgery. But we can be grateful to have, in however brusque and artless an
outline, the shape of this ancient apostolic legend in full profile. From
Gregory’s bare summary we can reconstruct a rather elaborate episode built
around a narrative trope that must have seemed deeply familiar to the origi-
nal audience of the Acts. The apostle, shortly after arriving in the Roman
province of Achaea, converts the proconsul Lesbius to the Christian faith.
Then a slave, Trophima, the former concubine of the proconsul, turned to
the apostle’s teaching and the sexual rigors that accompanied it. Her cur-
rent lover, discomfited by the loss of his sexual companion, designed a plot
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to undo her. He went to the slave’s mistress, the proconsul’s wife, reporting,
“Trophima has returned to harlotry, which she used to practice with my
lord the proconsul, to whom she has again joined herself.” It was a well-laid
trap, because to the proconsul’s wife this news seemed like a revelation:
“No wonder my husband has left me behind and for six months now re-
fused our marital rites, for he loves his slave!” So the wife did what any
archvillain in a romance would have done: she had Trophima, newly con-
verted to the Christian faith, condemned to the brothel.
Trophima—slave, concubine—was no romantic heroine of the ordinary
build, but she nevertheless found herself in the archetypal testing grounds
of feminine respectability. In the brothel, she prayed continuously, and
when eager customers came to her, she clutched a copy of the gospel to her
chest. One day an unusually insistent client entered, and, while resisting,
Trophima dropped the gospel. She cried out to heaven, “Keep me from suf-
fering this pollution, Lord, in whose name I esteem chastity!” An angel ap-
peared and struck the youth dead. Then Trophima, for what reason Gregory
has omitted to relate, resurrected the dead young man, a sight “the whole
city” rushed to see. The proconsul’s wife was killed by a demon in the public
bath, a penalty for her persecution of Trophima. Nevertheless, a distraught
nurse prevailed upon Andrew to resurrect the proconsul’s wife, which, in
the very public atmosphere of the governor’s headquarters, he did. All were
reconciled, miracles reported far and wide, newfound chastity saved.
The romantic elements, even in the eviscerated version of the Acts that
has come down to us through Gregory, are unmistakable. The Acts of An-
drew were hardly alone. In a freestanding episode in the fifth-century Lau-
siac History, the Christian adaptation of the romantic repertoire is even
more evident. In a “very old book ascribed to Hippolytus,” Palladius found
a story about a “certain maiden, most noble and extremely beautiful, in the
city of the Corinthians, who was practicing the life of virginity.” In an age
of persecution, she was denounced to the governor as a Christian. The
“woman-mad” governor had his own designs on her, and he “tried every de-
vice [mēchanē]” but “could not persuade the girl.” He ordered her sentenced
to a brothel, where she was subjected to the usual threats. She deflected her
suitors with a ruse of her own. “I have this festering sore in a hidden place,
which emits the most foul stench, and I fear it will make you hate me. Hold
off from me for a few days, then make your use of me, for free.” She prayed.
God, seeing her chastity, sent a young man in the employ of the Roman
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
secret ser vice to be the instrument of her salvation. He paid the guard for a
night with the girl, went in, and gave her his clothes. She escaped in dis-
guise, “inviolate and unpolluted.” The next day “the drama was known, the
agent was seized and thrown to the beasts.” He was a martyr twice over,
both for his own sake and for “the blessed girl.”
In this story, the recalibration of romance for Christian ends is so trans-
parent that it affords an opportunity to peer directly inside the artifice of
fiction. The social grammar is directly taken over from romance: the girl’s
high birth and good looks are in the exaggerated style of the romantic hero-
ine. If the Christian maiden’s “device of chastity” is slightly less appealing
than the equally desperate contrivances of Anthia or Tarsia, it is neverthe-
less structurally identical. The providential rescue of the girl’s chastity is
familiar, as is the high-pitched self-awareness of the episode as a “drama.”
The atmospherics of the story deliberately arouse the expectations of a ro-
mance, so the departures from the traditional script are all the more reso-
nant. In the Christian version, the story is not set against a timeless Medi-
terranean but a distinctly recognizable Roman Empire. The heroine relies
not on the implicit order of the fictional cosmos to rescue her but on the
Christian God. Her chastity is saved, but not as a precondition for marriage.
Instead, it is an end in itself. And her rescuer suffers the ultimate penalty for
securing her salvation. The Christian story ends not with marriage and re-
generation but with the double martyrdom of virginity and death. The
spirit of eros has been evicted, replaced by a grim sexual austerity that dic-
tates the shape of the narrative quite as much as the fervent sensuality of the
classical romance ever did.
These stories of Christian girls who escaped from the brothel are minor
but revealing marks of a closely shared imaginative space, and they point to
the central place of sex in the fictional economy of both traditions. The
writings known, somewhat unhappily, under the moniker of the apocry-
phal Acts of the apostles, bear a telling family resemblance to contemporary
Greek novelistic writing. The apocryphal Acts are the primary vehicle of
early Christian romance. The apostles, the wandering heroes of early Chris-
tianity, were an endlessly fertile source of Christian legend. Close to the
divine presence, the aura of the miraculous clung to them. The institutional
church claimed descent from them. The canonical scriptures testified to
their historicity but left ample room to the imagination. An enormous body
of Christian legend, continuously reshaped, came to attach to the heroic
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generation. The Acts are adventure stories, but unlike the pagan novels the
Acts are historical romances, set against a backdrop recognizable as the Ro-
man Empire of the first century. As in the pagan romance, travel and serial
endangerments hold together the structure, which is episodic, sensational.
The apostles are miracle workers, endowed above all with the wondrous
ability to resurrect the dead. They are also preachers who come to be arrested
by the Roman authorities. The apocryphal Acts, like the romances but to an
even greater degree, are forensic dramas. The gathering tension between ap-
ostolic missionizing and the Roman order inevitably resolves into a judicial
conflict. The apostle, in the end, is martyred, so that death substitutes for
marriage as the common ending of the apostle’s story. Between the travel,
miracle working, and martyrdom of the apostles, sex continually juts into
the foreground of the stories. Sex functions as a primary symbolic code in
the world of Christian legend, but in a radically reformulated sense. Chris-
tian romances not only preach a new model of proper sexual conduct, they
also discovered a way of expressing a strikingly original romance of the
eternal soul, in which this world of flux and regeneration is a façade and the
reunion with God, through purity and death, is the ultimate consumma-
tion. “Nothing of yours endures, but all things, right down to human con-
ventions, are transient.”
As in the pagan romances, the Acts reveal deep generic similarities in the
treatment of sex, so that there is a sense in which the genre speaks collec-
tively, or at least uses a shared syntax of conventions and symbols. Even in
the apostolic traditions that rely least on the manipulation of sexual proto-
cols, certain formulas recur. The Acts of Peter focus principally on the ri-
valry between the apostle Peter and the mountebank ur-heretic, Simon Ma-
gus. Sexual tropes are not, in the Petrine legends as we have them, a dominant
thread. But they do suddenly play a commanding role when the story turns
abruptly from the rivalry with Simon Magus toward the death of Peter. The
fatal sequence begins when four concubines of the prefect Agrippa hear the
“teaching about purity, and all the teachings of the Lord” and withdraw
their sexual favors from the powerful official. Peter’s next triumph is a “a
superlative beauty,” Xanthippe, the wife of a powerful man. Finally, “many
other women” left their husbands, and husbands their wives, in the name of
sexual purity. With so many marriage beds abandoned, Peter has put Rome
in an epic stir of erotic frustration. Peter sneaks out of the city in disguise
but, in a touching scene, encounters Christ and famously asks him, “Whither
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
goest thou?” Peter marches back through the gates to his certain death. The
apostle’s preaching on sexual chastity is the proximate cause of the most
famous scene in apocryphal literature and the most hallowed martyrdom in
Christian history (save one).
In the Acts of Peter, the “word of purity” that leads to the apostle’s death
is abrupt and almost mechanical in its exaggerated predictability. In the
Acts of Thomas, the pattern of events is identical, although the drama is
more elaborately developed. To the figure of Thomas stuck the most exotic
legends of the early church. His Acts describe his mission to India, where he
converts an aristocratic woman, Mygdonia, to the gospel. He teaches her
that “the reputation that comes from your high rank, the authority of this
world, and the disgusting intercourse with your husband will avail you not
at all if you are without the union of truth . . . for the union that brings the
production of children passes away, and is even worthy of contempt.” Her
husband, close kin to the king, is predictably befuddled by her newfound
commitment to sexual abstention, not to mention the truculence with
which she disobeys him. “I am your husband from the time of your virgin-
ity, by the gods and by the laws given the right to rule over you.” Thomas
is arrested, but his arraignment only provides a platform to spread the
message that salvation comes to those who are “delivered from all bodily
pleasures.” The king’s efforts backfire when his own wife, then his son
and heir, take up chastity. The king has Thomas killed. As a postscript to
his martyrdom, we are told that the king and his relative Charisius “tried
very much to force their wives” but “could not persuade them to abandon
their will.”
Whatever else may be said of them, the sexual doctrines presented by the
heroes of apostolic legend are consistently extreme. Thomas denigrates mar-
ried intercourse as “filthy,” and he leaves no room for ambiguity. In the Acts
of Andrew, the apostle’s primary convert, Maximilla, calls sex with her
husband a “defiling intercourse.” When Peter preaches the “word of purity,”
it is a gospel of complete continence. The Acts of Paul have the great mission-
ary coming into the city of Iconium proclaiming, “Blessed are those who re-
frain from sex altogether, for God will speak to them. Blessed are those who
stand in array for something beyond the present cosmos, for they will be
pleasing to God.” Here the only Christian apostle whose views we actually
know through his own writings, and who was so cautious that he would
not upset a single marriage through the unwanted abstinence of a spouse,
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but orders Thecla burned alive. She miraculously escapes and rejoins her
apostle on the road. They travel to Antioch, where the sequence of events
replays itself: a malignant suitor sets his mind on Thecla, she resists, she
faces trial and execution, but she is miraculously rescued. Finally she and
Paul part ways, and she journeys to Seleucia, her final resting place.
The apocryphal legends are a powerful expression of early Christian
sexual morality, the sexual gospel of a minority movement, when the reli-
gion and its followers stood apart from mainstream society. The Christian
romances reflect a configuration of sexual morality and society in which
Christian austerity represented a radical freedom from the demands of the
world. The stories of wandering apostles and the eager female adherents
who hear the gospel of chastity were produced by the same imagination
that reconceived the problem of free will around the capacity to act without
encumbrance from fate or from social expectation. This body of early
Christian literature adopts, wholesale, the romantic trope of feminine invi-
olability. But the heroine’s chastity is reoriented toward otherworldly ends
rather than the reproduction of life here beneath the moon. There is some-
thing flat, compressed, about the presentation of sex in the apocryphal lit-
erature. There is a juvenile absolutism about its place in human life. No
character wrestles with desire, confronts temptation, or experiences conflic-
tion. Sex is a symbol of the world, and all the more simplified by that fact.
Only a religious movement that had so completely resolved to live apart
from the order of society could package sex as a compact and tractable
symptom of ordinary life, with its dull cycles of survival and reproduction,
in contrast to the shimmering promises of an invisible order. It was a vision
of sex and its pervasive role in life that the Christian authors found, with a
wholly opposite purpose, in the contemporary genre of romance.
of Roman power. Among these heroes was Rabbi Hanina ben Teradion, a
Tanna of the third generation, martyred by the Roman authorities at the
apex of Roman hegemony in the second century. He was canonized as one
of the Ten Martyrs. The most complete account of his martyrdom is pre-
served in the tractate Avodah Zarah of the Babylonian Talmud. Avodah
Zarah, “foreign worship,” was, simply by virtue of the domain of life it regu-
lated, ideally suited to become a storehouse of rabbinic memory about the
interaction between Jews and their idolatrous rulers. According to the tra-
dition, Haninah was sentenced to death, his wife was condemned to exile,
and his virgin daughter was assigned to penal prostitution. The Hebrew
virgin in the Roman brothel, recounted in the Talmud, wrests us from the
dry struggles of halakhic interpretation and thrusts us into the atmosphere
of Greek romance. Like Christian romance, the Jewish story takes eternal
archetypes of noble innocents and sets them against the concrete historical
backdrop of Roman power. This Jewish legend, like Christian apostolic
lore, is an indissoluble fusion of history and romance.
Hanina’s daughter was sent to the “tent of prostitution.” Fortunately the
girl had a sister, Beruriah, who could not bear the shame of seeing her kin
in the brothel. This is the famous Beruriah, wife of Rabbi Meir, who is only
in this passage identified as the daughter of Haninah—part of the Babylo-
nian Talmud’s overarching tendency to create webs of interrelationship
among the Tannaim and their families. Beruriah induces her husband to
sneak into the brothel to bribe the guard into releasing the girl. Her hus-
band, Rabbi Meir, reckons to himself, “If she has not been subjected to
anything wrong, a miracle will be wrought for her, but if she has commit-
ted anything wrong, no miracle will happen to her.” If she has not been
subjected to violence, then she will be saved. But if she has committed any-
thing wrong, she is then damned to prostitution. It may appear illogical or
at least unsatisfying to construe the enslaved girl’s deeds as acts of commis-
sion. But this aporia, this surface disjuncture, is resolved at a deeper level of
narrative logic, which the redactors of this story have borrowed from the
assumptions of romance.
When Rabbi Meir reaches the brothel, in disguise as a Roman soldier, he
tests his sister-in-law’s virtue by trying to hire her. In the Talmudic story,
the brothel is a state institution. Whereas the pirates and pimps who threaten
girls in the Greek romance are part of a mythical anti-state, beyond the le-
gitimate social order, in the Christian and Jewish stories the Romans are
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the villains, the menace to the sexual integrity of the heroine. Rabbi Meir
must go in disguise as part of the ruling order to rescue the girl’s honor.
When he approaches, she resists by telling him that “the manner of woman
is upon her.” We should recognize in this ruse the parallels with the “de-
vices of virtue” in the romance—the epileptic fit, the uncontrolled weep-
ing, the malodorous complaint that will save the girl’s honor. This escape
mechanism explains the logic of the disjuncture between shame and sin;
the story still operates along the conventional gears of the Greek romance,
but within the moral logic of Judaism, of sin and Torah. The Talmud em-
ploys the characterization of a Greek romance— character is essence and
will be revealed in the crucible of danger—but sets the story within the
moral architecture of Judaism. Rabbi Meir, a patient customer, offers to
wait for her menstrual cycle to finish, but she redirects him to other women
in the brothel. He reasons that she has acted thus with all her customers and
therefore merits salvation. He bribes the guard and secures her release.
The narratives of the Babylonian Talmud are beguilingly complex liter-
ary creations, none more so than this deposit of Greek literature in the very
tractate dedicated to maintaining lines of separation between Jewish and
gentile cultures. The punishment of Rabbi Haninah ben Teradion and his
family was deeply embedded in rabbinic tradition. The story exists in kernel
in other sources, including the Sifre to Deuteronomy. In the Talmud, the
substratum of rabbinic legend has been reshaped into the form of a Greek
romantic trope. The appropriation of romance for a Talmudic story would
be striking enough in itself, but the true richness of the story emerges only
when the episode is understood in its redactional context, in its place
within a complex series of stories in Avodah Zarah. The tractate is princi-
pally concerned with idolatry, especially forms of commercial interaction
that might have brought Jews too close to the taint of idolatry. The anony-
mous virgin’s escape from the brothel actually sits at the end of an espe-
cially long and complex sequence that presents, in dreamlike succession, a
stream of memories about rabbis brought face-to-face with the Roman au-
thorities. The surreal quality of the memories conceals the fact that this su-
gya has an exquisitely careful design, in which a sequence of symbolically
interrelated stories unfolds once, and then again. This artful doubling al-
lows the redactors to juxtapose stories, to contrast characters, and to invert
meanings. Within this grander structure the brothel scene acquires an even
deeper significance.
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
The sequence opens with the arrest and acquittal of Rabbi Eliezer, who is
mistakenly charged with minuth— Christian heresy. This accusation, even
though false, perturbs him. He remembers a conversation with a follower of
Jesus that may have led to the confusion. The conversation involved the ci-
tation of three verses on fornication, on harlotry. The Talmud puts into
mind both the literal meaning, prostitution, and the metaphorical mean-
ing, spiritual promiscuity, idolatry. These passages prompt reflection on the
nature of sin and evoke the question whether the literal commission of for-
nication is as damning as its metaphorical twin, idolatry or heresy. The edi-
tors tell the story of Rabbi Eleazar ben Dordia, a fallen rabbi who had sex
with no less than every prostitute in the world. When a prostitute warned
him that he was lost, he was suddenly struck to his core with remorse for his
sins. He begged God for forgiveness. A heavenly voice announced his re-
demption, whereupon he immediately died. His sin of sexual fornication
was so vast that it was like minuth, heresy. When Rabbi Judah ha Nasi
heard this story, he wept and exclaimed, “One may acquire eternal life after
many years, or in an hour!” The first half of the sequence then closes with a
story that recapitulates all the themes of the preceding discussion. Rabbi
Hanina and Rabbi Jonathan are walking and reach a fork in the road, and
they must pass either a temple of idolatry or a brothel. They opt for the
brothel. Not only does this imply that idolatry is worse than literal fornica-
tion, the rabbis hope to earn merit for overcoming their desires. As they
walk past the brothel, the prostitutes scramble inside, out of their presence.
Significantly, in the concluding words the anonymous of the Babylonian
tells us, “Against these things the Torah will watch over thee.”
It is against this story that, thematically, the escape from the brothel
must be understood. The text launches into another stream of memories,
narrating a sequence of events which step-by-step mirrors the first series. The
second panel begins with an arrest—two arrests, in fact, one of which is the
arrest of Haninah ben Teradion for studying the Torah. He is executed by
fire. He has with him a scroll of the Torah that he was studying, and as he
expires he experiences a vision of the letters of the Torah ascending to
heaven, even as the parchment burned. The executioner is moved by the
scene and repents of his sins. In the first sequence, a rabbi repents of literal
harlotry; in the second, a gentile repents of metaphorical harlotry. The exe-
cutioner leaps into the fire, where he is consumed with the rabbi. A heav-
enly voice announces that the executioner has been admitted to eternal life,
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and again we hear the reaction of Rabbi, in identical words, that one may
earn salvation in a single, wrenching moment of heartfelt repentance.
After the death of Haninah comes his daughter’s escape from the brothel,
and this episode is surely to be read in light of all that has preceded it in this
intricate, contrapuntal structure. The arrangement suggests two insights.
First, harlotry is a metaphor for idolatry. Second, in the parallel episode, the
rabbis learn that the Torah will save them from iniquity. When Rabbi Meir
comes to test the chastity of his sister-in-law, she tells him that the “manner
of women is upon her.” Obviously this ruse compares to the epileptic fits or
fictitious diseases of the other heroines—the “devices of virtue” that are the
heroine’s only defense. But this device is something more specific, more
resonant. The virgin tells her prospective customer that she is menstruating.
She evades him, in other words, by trying to observe niddah, the ritual sepa-
ration of a woman commanded by the Torah. Elsewhere in the Talmudim,
women use this prohibition to their advantage, even postponing the mikveh
to avoid sex. The daughter of Haninah here uses her claim to ritual impurity
as her device of virtue. She obeys the Torah, and just as the Torah came to
the rescue of the rabbis walking past the brothel, the Torah will watch over
her, in the brothel. Rabbi Meir is convinced of her purity, and he effects her
release. The Bavli this time does not proclaim openly that the Torah will
protect its adherents—perhaps because its parchment has been symboli-
cally burned—but it is efficacious nonetheless.
This story ends with a twist. Rabbi Meir rescues his sister-in-law, and
then the Romans begin to hunt for him. Walking down the street, he met
Romans in hot pursuit. With nowhere else to escape, the Talmud reports, he
darted into a nearby brothel, because no one would suspect Rabbi Meir of
entering a brothel. Or, the Talmud relates, according to an alternative ac-
count, he saw pagans cooking food, dipped a finger in it, and pretended to
eat. In this epilogue, a farrago of all that has preceded, it is the pretense of
harlotry, both literal and metaphorical, that has secured his salvation from
the Romans. It is possible to flirt with sin, or rather to be encompassed about
by it, and yet to follow the Torah and enter the next life. That is the whole
message of the tractate Avodah Zarah—how the faithful may endure in the
midst of a hostile culture. The creative spirits who wove this tale from such
varied threads refashioned the symbols of romance—the virgin’s body and
the haunt of shame—into a statement about the boundaries between their
community and the contaminations of the outside world. Structurally the
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
Jewish virgin in the brothel is a direct parallel of the girls of early Chris-
tian fiction. But by the time the Talmud was redacted, Christian authors
were embarking on even more daring reconfigurations of these ancient
conventions.
Red Sea and finding pearls.” She readied herself on the bed, and he sat next
to her. Staring into her face, he reproached her, “Why do you have such
contempt for Jesus, that you come to this? . . . I see Satan toying on your
face.” Stirred, she asked him, “Is there repentance?” She repented and left,
immediately, without even arranging her affairs. The monk and the peni-
tent trekked into the desert. When night fell, John made her a pillow of
sand, marked with a cross. He camped some distance apart. In the middle
of the night, under the clear desert sky, he awoke to see a luminous path,
stretching from heaven down to Taïsia. He went to her lifeless body and
pricked her foot, knowing she was dead. But he heard a voice affirm, “After
one hour of repentance, she will be received before those who repent for
great lengths of time without showing such fervor as did she.”
The salvation of Taïsia is the kernel of a literary type that was to triumph
with irresistible force in the fifth century. Along with Chrysostom’s actress,
Taïsia belongs to the earliest stratum of a new legend, and there is no reason
to doubt the reality of her existence. Here is the chance to watch the birth
of an archetype. The story of Taïsia, as we have it, already bears traces of
artistic touch. Taïsia’s internal reflections about the monks and the pearls of
the Red Sea are, surely, a contrivance. We sense but cannot grasp some dis-
tant connection with the famous actress of Antioch, whose legend was fer-
menting in the same hothouse of spiritual imagination, and whose stage
name was none other than Margarito, pearl. But the story of Taïsia hits with
the thud of simple reality. Her material desperation and loss of respectability
had no literary parallel. Her story is very early and little stylized, and if we
cannot disentangle the authentic core from the light embellishments of time
and imagination, the story of Taïsia contains a stronger dose of authenticity
than will soon be found in the highly artificial morality tales of penitent
women.
The tale of Taïsia’s repentance is handed down among the chain of tradi-
tions about the earliest generations of monks, principally from the site of
Scetis. The Sayings of the Desert Fathers preserve a number of memories
about the colorful ascetic John the Dwarf, who flourished in the last de-
cades of the fourth century and the first decade of the fifth. Most of the sto-
ries and sayings focus on monastic pioneers from the mid-fourth to the early
fifth century. In the earliest days these memories were transmitted orally, and
characteristic traces of oral transmission remain in the collections. The story
of Taïsia passed through only a few generations of oral transmission before
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its redaction in the Sayings, which seems to have taken shape as a text in the
second half of the fifth century, probably in Palestine. A Palestinian origin
for the redaction would add poignancy to the humbling finale of Taïsia’s
story. The heavenly voice that affirms her salvation reminds us of nothing so
much as an aphorism of Rabbi Judah ha Nasi that recurs throughout Avo-
dah Zarah, uttered after the repentance of the most condign sinners. “One
may acquire eternal life after many years, another in one hour!”
In the desert, “the air is more pure, the heavens are more open, and God
is nearer.” The figure of the penitent prostitute first took shape in the sands
of Egypt, in the earliest monastic traditions, because she so radically con-
densed the cosmic possibilities of repentance, metanoia. In the pioneer
phases of Egyptian monasticism, fallen women begin to populate the land-
scape as avatars of temptation and repentance. Taïsia belongs to this most
primitive stratum. The trials and ecstasies she experienced were not hers
alone. In another early legend an anonymous monk discovers that his sister
has fallen into prostitution. He leads her to repentance, and as they walk
into the desert, she expires. In the tale that was destined to have the most
extravagant afterlife, a monk named Serapion passes through a “village of
Egypt” and sees “a prostitute standing in her cell.” When dusk falls, he goes
in with her. He chanted the psalms and prayed to God that she would “re-
pent and be saved.” The prostitute realizes that he has come to save her soul.
She cries and asks Serapion to lead her away. When they arrive at a monas-
tery of virgins, he gives the abbess instructions to be gentle with her. After
a few days, the former prostitute told the abbess, “I am a sinner. I want to eat
every two days.” Then, again, she said, “I am a sinner. I want to eat every
four days.” Finally, she asked the abbess to wall her in a cell with only a little
opening to pass through bread. “Thus for the rest of her life she was pleasing
to God.” The story begins in a cell (kellion) of dishonor and death, ends in a
cell (kellion) of repentance and life. The living sepulture of the penitent pros-
titute symbolized both the radical possibilities, and the suffocating limits,
of a purely spiritual redemption.
The Egyptian desert, in late antiquity, was to prove the birthplace of new
archetypes of human spirituality. With its barren horizons, the simple ecol-
ogy of life on the edges of civilization provided a rarefied backdrop. Here
men— and some women—wrestled with sin, stared down the devil, and
sought internal transformation. In the desert tales of penitent prostitutes,
the features of the moral landscape are simple. The women themselves are
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sketched in little detail. The focus of the brief encounter is the father—his
steadfastness, his grace. The tales are monastic from start to finish; even in
the prostitute’s lair, the monk brings with him the whiff of the desert. The
chief elements of the drama are sin and repentance. We are in a world
where sin is inextricable from the machinations of the devil and his de-
mons. In this setting, the significance of the girl’s prostitution is not that it
places her outside of respectable society. It is, rather, that it arrays her with
the forces of evil. Her repentance is not just the recovery of a most aban-
doned sinner. A victory over fornication is a defeat over Satan’s legions. The
monks who induce the conversion of the prostitute are like a modern sports
team that courts away its rival’s most valuable player. The desert tales of
penitent prostitutes are allegories of sin and salvation, played out against
the grander cosmic battle between good and evil.
The literary side is only one half of her story, for in the same period, in
the late fourth and then more explosively in the fifth century, the penitent
prostitute, modeled on the “sinful woman” in the Gospel of Luke, becomes
a popular subject for Christian preachers. Her tearful repentance proved
congenial to homilists in an age of mass conversion. The currency of these
legends, already in the late fourth century, is also confirmed in a most un-
likely source: the rhetorical handbook of the pagan sophist of Antioch, Liba-
nius. In one of his training exercises, Libanius creates a penitent pagan
prostitute. She represents the cross-pollination of Christianity and philo-
sophical paganism in the fourth century. The word “repentance” is glaringly
absent (instead she “becomes chaste”), but the mood is entirely Christian. “I
purify my mind. I flee Aphrodite, I prefer the clemency of Athena.” The
speech spoke of prostitution in terms of “pollution,” and there was a clear re-
ligious subtext to the speech: the prostitute fled Aphrodite, preferring chaste
Athena. Even so, Libanius could not resist insinuating that Aphrodite was
wrongfully accused of perversion. The prostitute wanted to set up a law tell-
ing women in prostitution that they had the capacity to become pure and to
flee—a full generation before Theodosius II would actually do so. The speech
was a fictional school exercise, to be sure, but nevertheless represents a re-
markable statement from a late pagan intellectual eager to defend the sexual
integrity of his religion. The speech might be considered a pagan apology,
written in response to the avant-garde of Christian sexuality.
In short order the literary potential of the penitent prostitute was recog-
nized and elaborated, and she was translated from the desert to the city,
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
where she could be made to bear heavier symbolic associations. She was
transformed into a figure capable of symbolizing the fundamental truths of
sin and salvation, but of doing so in familiar and deeply resonant literary
terms. Almost as soon as dramatic stories about the salvation of society’s
lowest began circulating in the Christian empire, the penitent prostitute
was reworked, as a literary figure, into a romantic antiheroine. In late antiq-
uity no less than four penitent prostitutes would become major literary stars,
destined for fame and popularity across the Middle Ages and into the mod-
ern world. The impresarios of the Christian imagination realized that in the
figure of the penitent prostitute they had not only the raw material for a
Christian allegory but a plot that could express the brave new order of sex-
ual morality. The lives of the penitent prostitutes were worked into antiro-
mances, inverting a rich fictional tradition to express an entirely new logic
of sexual morality, a new relationship between the sexual self and society.
In one case we possess both the early and the more developed version of
the same story, which allows us to take measure of the literary makeover
accomplished by late antique authors equally conversant with the wisdom
literature of the desert and the conventions of ancient romance. The prosti-
tute converted by Serapion and enclosed in a cell was bound to enjoy a most
extravagant afterlife. Thus far we have refrained from calling her Thais. The
legend of Thais is a tangled web of sensational identifications and implau-
sible embellishments that continued right into the twentieth century. She
enjoyed the longest posterity of any of the penitent prostitutes, her celebrity
briefly revived in the late nineteenth century when she became the subject
of a novel by Anatole France and an opera by Jules Massanet. In 1901 the
French archaeologist Albert Gayet discovered the mummy of a woman
named Thais in a late antique cemetery he excavated at Antinoe. Elsewhere
in the same graveyard was found the body of a male mummy, buried with an
iron belt, along with a potsherd that identified him as Serapion. The mu-
seum of Gayet’s patron, Émile Étienne Guimet, was eager to accommodate
imaginative connections with the Thais and Serapion of legend. In short or-
der the exhumed mummies of Thais and Serapion were displayed together in
a glass case at the museum. In the sweltering summer heat of 1902, in a last
burst of fame for the penitent prostitutes, Thais was the sensation of Paris.
The identification of the mummy as the Thais of literary legend might
have faded like any other instance of archaeological exuberance, had not an
eminent scholar of Syriac Christianity, l’Abbé François Nau, intervened at
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this juncture with a discovery that seemed not only to support the identifi-
cation but to clinch it by the addition of a relationship between Thais and
Serapion. This was more than Gayet had dreamed of. In the popular ver-
sion of the Thais legend, best known through the Latin translation in the
Vitae Patrum and adapted by Anatole France, Thais is led to repentance by
a monk named Paphnutius. But Nau discovered an unedited Greek version
of the life of Thais, preserved in a handful of European manuscripts, that
presents a monk called Serapion the Sindonite as the instrument of her sal-
vation. Nau’s discovery of a Greek version of the life—noteworthy enough
apart from Gayet and his mummies— came at a fortuitous moment, and it
was quickly published . . . in the Annales du Musée Guimet. Nau made a
significant discovery that was coincidentally useful to others, though he
entertained sensational identifications that deserved more than a half mea-
sure of scholarly skepticism. Nau’s willingness to identify Thais the mummy
with the Thais of hagiography has obscured, in the glare of misspent erudi-
tion, what is a real opportunity to witness the transformation of an early
monastic legend into refined literature. He treats the story of Serapion in
the Sayings of the Fathers as the prime source for the Life or Repentance of
Thais—without any reckoning of just how little is shared between the
primitive and literary versions of the story.
The primitive legend and the literary version of the Life of Thais in fact
share only two details. In both cases the name of the monk is Serapion (a
name widely shared by early Christian monks in Egypt, leading to no small
confusion of personages with the name in the manuscript tradition). More-
over, in both the early and later versions of the story the penitent woman
ends her reformation by enclosing herself in a cell featuring a small passage
communicating with the outside world. This memorably grim detail is
probably the principal point of connection between the earlier and more
elaborate forms of the narrative. In other words, the more elaborate form of
the prostitute’s legend was motivated precisely by the memorably gruesome
form that her penance took.
The Life, which Nau dated to the fifth or sixth century, includes a brief
prologue laying out the agenda of the story: to help those “who have fallen
into the mire of sin and wish to repent.” In the first line we meet the pro-
tagonist, who is now the prostitute rather than the monk. “There was in
Alexandria a certain maiden named Thais, exceedingly beautiful, with a
beauty that in fact surpassed all those who were ever admired for their
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
physical charm.” The spare canvas of the Egyptian desert has been replaced
by a fictional landscape crowded with meanings. The supremely beautiful
maiden is an artifice of the romantic imagination. Alexandria, the city par
excellence, has ousted the “village of Egypt” as the home of the prostitute.
And she is given a name: Thais. Nowhere in the manuscripts of the Sayings
of the Desert Fathers is the prostitute rescued by Serapion given a name. In-
deed, the name Thais is as likely as any other element of the story to be a
pure concoction of the hagiographer’s fancy. More profoundly, the tale of
desert wisdom could leave the woman nameless, because she was simply an
avatar of sin. In the Life, she becomes a character, and symbolic associations
will rapidly grow around her.
The girl’s mother was an unscrupulous and worldly woman who placed
her daughter in “the workshop of the devil,” where the beauty of Thais
could be “sold to all who wish to violate her shamefully.” Men came from
far and wide; they lost all self-control, dissipated their property, even turned
to brigandage to subsidize their lust. The hero Serapion heard of this dia-
bolical temptress and hastened to respond. The author of the Life mobilized
what is surely one of the least felicitous metaphors in the library of Greek
literature: “Like a wise fisherman, ready with a baiting device, he hunts af-
ter the lamb to snatch her soul from the maws of the devil.” In the Life it is
Serapion’s mission to find her, and he must go to the city to do so. The
monk disguises himself in “worldly apparel” and goes to her. In early
Christian and Jewish adaptations of the romance, the rescuer invading the
brothel must dress as a Roman soldier; in those legends, to pass into the
brothel is figuratively to step into the secular world, a world identified with
the ruling power. In the age of Serapion, there was no clear-cut divide be-
tween the social order and the Christian church. There was only the city—
symbol of sin and civilization— and the ascetic who entered it as an out-
sider. And unlike the chaste girls of romance whose corporal integrity is
miraculously preserved in the brothel, Thais has, quite flagrantly, long since
lost her physical purity.
When Serapion meets Thais, he sees a bed and out of shame inquires
about finding another, less visible place for their assignation. She assures
him that the bed is secluded and adds, “If it is God you fear, the one who
knows our secrets will see us wherever we go.” The monk is struck and asks
if she knows of God. She confesses that she was baptized as a child but she
never learned Christian teaching. She fell at the monk’s feet. “I know there
R O M A N C E I N T H E L AT E C L A S S I C A L WO R L D
none of its original compassion for society’s outcasts. The Life of Thais is
valuable because it allows us to watch the translation of a primitive monas-
tic tale into the symbolic world of classical fiction. It already reveals the way
that new configurations of religion, society, and the body fueled the literary
imagination. Because the Life of Thais is aesthetically clumsy, its author’s
handiwork is nakedly obvious. The other three examples of the subgenre
are more artful, and they reveal a deeper mastery of the medium and its
potential. Among the earliest competitors to the Life of Thais is the story of
Pelagia, a prostitute and actress of Antioch. Thanks only to the brief aside in
the sermon of Chrysostom do we know that there is a kernel of historicity
in the story of a glamorous celebrity who converted to the ascetic life. We
cannot say how far legendary material had accreted around her by the time
the author of the life, sometime in the fifth century, elaborated the written
version that survives. We can only say that the author, who purports to be a
deacon named Jacob, was a highly literate spirit, one of those soldiers of
Christian culture who remade the ancient tradition in a Christian mold.
The Life of Pelagia is highly conscious of its status as an antiromance. It
counterposes its hero, an ascetic bishop named Nonnos, and its heroine, the
redoubtable Pelagia, in the symmetrical fashion of the Greek novel. The story
begins as Nonnos and other bishops have gathered at Antioch at the behest
of the bishop of the great city. One day the visitors were sitting together
outside the shrine of the martyr Julian when Pelagia, “first lady of the An-
tiochene stage,” rode by with her cortege. No detail of the fantasia is omit-
ted. Pelagia rides on a donkey, head uncovered, attended by a great throng
of slaves, all of whom are bedecked with gold, gems, and pearls. The aro-
matics of her passing entourage could stun the unwary soul. The bishops
avert their gaze, except for Nonnos, who holds her in his mind with his
eyes. He is struck by her beauty, but his interest is not prurient. He is fired
with envy by the care she takes to make herself pleasing to men; he wishes
he could take such care to prepare his soul for God. Her glorious physical
charms, in good Platonic fashion, remind Nonnos of the “inconceivable
beauty” (to amēchanon kallos) at which even the cherubim dare not gaze,
which the Christian will find in heaven!
This first encounter between Nonnos and Pelagia is layered with mean-
ing. As has been noticed, it mimics the scenes of love at first sight between
the heroes and heroines of romance. Carnal eros has been displaced by
spiritual yearning. Nonnos’s anguish and weeping are drawn directly from
R O M A N C E I N T H E L AT E C L A S S I C A L WO R L D
the stock of romantic tropes. By the time the Life was written, stylized en-
counters between holy men and prostitutes had become a regular part of
the fictional repertoire. The true holy man—monks like John the Dwarf or
Serapion, even rabbis like Hanina and Meir— could stand face-to-face with
the prostitute, unfazed by her charm. These scenes assume, and defy, the
serious physics of the gaze that are essential to romance. In Leucippe and
Clitophon, beauty comes in at the eye; its ray of particulates enters and en-
ervates the soul. An even richer comparandum is the scene in Heliodorus’s
Ethiopian Tale in which the priest Kalasiris fled his native town because a
courtesan of unparalleled beauty appeared in his city; there was no escape
from the “dragnet of erotic charm” that emanated from her eyes. So Kala-
siris fled to Greece! Kalasiris, a richly characterized holy man who plays a
central role in the narrative, is closer to late antique fiction than to erotic
romance, but because The Ethiopian Tale is still a romance, it obeys the
erotics of the gaze. Simple indifference or moral superiority to the power of
beauty would offend the conventions of the genre, so to preserve his purity
Kalasiris must emigrate. The Christian ascetic, by contrast, has attained a
spiritual power that transcends the physics of beauty, and the scenes of en-
counter between holy men and whores dramatize their impassibility.
The bishop Nonnos plays the role of Pelagia’s lover. He groans, prays,
and fasts for her. Soon he is the recipient of a nocturnal dream, a surreal
vision of himself praying at the altar, while a dove, befouled with mud,
hovered over him. As he left the sanctuary, the dove flitted above him, and
he snatched it, plunging it into the nearest basin of water. The grime was
washed away, the stench disappeared, and the beautiful white bird fluttered
off over the horizon. As in romance, the dream is both a harbinger of things
to come and a soft assurance to the characters and the reader alike that the
story is wrapped in divine providence. When Sunday comes, the bishops at-
tend ser vices at the great church of Antioch, and Nonnos is asked to preach.
His sermon is true fire and brimstone, describing the torments reserved for
the wicked. Unexpectedly, Pelagia had stepped into church that day and
heard his homily. The words of Nonnos lanced her spirit. She sobbed, in-
consolably, with her sins before her eyes. The crowd stirred at the sight of
the famous actress in tears. She has to leave when the mysteries begin, but
two of her slaves find Nonnos and deliver a letter from their mistress in wax.
She pours out her remorse and begs for an audience with Nonnos. Nonnos
agrees to see her, in the relative safety of a small conclave of bishops. She
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
groveled before them, grasping the feet of Nonnos, soaking them with her
tears, like the sinner in the gospels. Her confession is a tsunami of self-
loathing guilt: “I am a sea of sins. I am an abyss of wickedness.” Pelagia asks
Nonnos himself to be her sponsor in baptism, as she exchanges her whorish
garb for the robes of purification. The two will be united in her spiritual
rebirth.
When she is baptized, she reveals that the name by which she was famous
throughout Antioch, “Margarito,” “Pearl,” was merely a stage name. In fact
her parents had named her Pelagia. Under her true name she is baptized
and receives the holy mysteries. As the assembly rejoices, Satan himself
appears, glowering at the baptismal party. He berates Nonnos and then
Pelagia herself. He takes the guise of a jilted lover, humiliated by Pelagia’s
betrayal. Pelagia, whose bridehood is now vouchsafed to Christ, crosses
herself and turns away her old companion. He tempts her again, by night,
but she resists and confesses her allegiance to her heavenly marriage cham-
ber. The scenes do not generate much compelling spiritual drama, but as a
transposition of romantic tropes they are at least clever. Pelagia bequeaths
her estate to Nonnos, who instructs the church’s steward, following Mosaic
law, not to allow the wages of the prostitute to cross the threshold of the
church. Instead the money is distributed directly to orphans and widows.
Pelagia manumits her slaves, urging them to free themselves from “slavery to
the sin of this world.” The crowds marvel at her very public transformation,
and many of her fellow prostitutes are inspired to follow her example.
Pelagia’s days of public fame are behind her. She takes a hair shirt and
woolen robe from Nonnos, and by night, dressed as a man, she leaves the city.
No one saw her depart. Three years later the author of the life, Jacob, went
to Jerusalem on pilgrimage. Nonnos told him to fi nd a monk named Pela-
gius, a eunuch. Jacob finds him living in a cell on the Mount of Olives,
wasted by asceticism, with cavernous eyes. Jacob does not recognize the
shell of skin and bones before him as the once-famous actress. Pelagius has
achieved, through gruesome self-mortification, a state beyond biological sex,
transcending male or female. When Pelagius dies, crowds gather for the
burial of the recluse. Anointing the body, the clergy of Jerusalem realize
that Pelagius was a woman. She is buried on the Mount of Olives. Indeed,
the sepulture of Pelagia provides a reminder that the stories of penitent
prostitutes do not simply belong to a closed world of monastic literature. In
the 570s a western pilgrim visiting the holy land reported, among the other
R O M A N C E I N T H E L AT E C L A S S I C A L WO R L D
sights encountered on his journey, the tomb of Pelagia. Her memory be-
longed to a vibrant world of popu lar Christian imagination. Indeed, a
tomb of Pelagia can still be visited in Jerusalem today, a numinous site
sacred to Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike. A custom is remembered
at the site, by which a curious penitent may try to step through a cramped
passage in the tomb, to test whether forgiveness for one’s sins has been
granted. The deep symbolism of these folk traditions is almost too perfect:
just as the penitent prostitutes replaced the virgins of romance, the tomb
of Pelagia has replaced the cave of Pan— and as a test of penance rather
than purity.
Pelagia inhabited the vibrantly bilingual world of late antique Syria. The
legends of the penitent prostitutes passed easily between the interconnected
worlds of Greek and Syriac. At least one of the legends of a penitent prosti-
tute, Mary the niece of Abraham, was originally composed in Syriac. The
tale of her repentance belonged to a longer cycle of narratives about her
uncle, the hermit Abraham of Qidun. The Life of Abraham is an early text,
preserved in a manuscript as old as the fifth century. Thus, the legend of
Mary is almost exactly contemporary with the spread of the Sayings of the
Fathers beyond Egypt and the elaboration of the story of Pelagia. Although
her story was written in Syriac, the narrative betrays an intimate familiarity
with Greek fiction—indeed, the text depends as much on its inversions of
romance as do the lives of Thais and Pelagia. Unsurprisingly, the text was
translated into Greek and Latin, and like the other legends of the penitent
prostitutes, it was popular across the Mediterranean.
Mary was an only child, orphaned by her parents and left in the charge
of her uncle, Abraham, a monk in a village near Edessa. For the first twenty
years of her life she imitated her uncle and lived “like a chaste lamb, like a
spotless dove.” Then she became the target of a satanic plot: she was se-
duced by a devious monk. Having lost her purity, Mary is distraught, but
her distress is that of a romantic heroine subjected to the unthinkable. Un-
chastity is a sort of death. “I am now as good as dead.” Darkened by guilt,
she cannot so much as look on her uncle’s face, and she exiles herself, trading
her ascetic habits for life in a tavern. Mary is the perfect opposite of the ro-
mantic heroine. At the first, slight assault on her virginity, she caves. Rather
than being taken to a brothel by force, she deposits herself in a den of ill re-
pute, a self-imposed sentence that represents a willful submission to the rules
of romance: the girl without honor belongs in the house of shame.
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
ing its origins around AD 600. It was destined to become the most popular
scion of the family. It is, aesthetically, the most accomplished of the pen-
ance narratives, and it is no exaggeration to say that this Life is a real mea-
sure of the distance traveled in the passage from a classical to a Christian
sexual culture. The Life of Mary of Egypt is, like Leucippe and Clitophon, a
quintessential text, a mature and representative expression of a wider cul-
ture, filled with its “struggles and harmonies.” Mary’s story is set within the
frame narrative of a monk from Jerusalem, Zosimas. This monk experiences
an overly satisfied spiritual pride—until he meets Mary. As he treks the
desert beyond the River Jordan, he glimpses a “shadowy image of the human
body,” a naked woman blackened by the sun who runs from him. It is Mary.
Mary of Egypt, when we meet her through the eyes of Zosimas, is a spectral
figure. She constantly insists on her sinful nature and prays, in mysterious
tongues, toward the east. Zosimas is entranced by her strange sanctity and
begs for her story. Much like Achilles Tatius, the author of this Life has
contrived to deliver the core of the narrative in the first person and uses the
perspective to artful effect: confession as a form of narrative.
Mary is the consummate antiheroine. “My homeland was Egypt. When I
turned twelve, with my parents still alive, I spurned this filial affection and
took myself to Alexandria. I am ashamed to recall how I first ruined my vir-
ginity, and what an unmitigated and insatiable lust for sex I had.” Her sexual
depravity cannot be excused by extenuating circumstances—no orphan is
she. Nor can plain moral weakness explain her fall. When she reached the
first threshold of sexual maturity—twelve, the legal minimum for marriage—
she willingly fled her loving family. And she did so for one purpose, defined
with crystalline precision: lust. For seventeen years, she so loved pleasure
that she was a blazing inferno of sexual dissolution. “And not for the sake of
money, to tell the truth. Often men wanted to pay something and I would
not accept. I figured that I could make more men come to me if I made a
free gift of my abandonment. Do not think that I refused such emoluments
because I was rich. I survived by begging, or sometimes spinning flax. My
unslakable passion and boundless desire was to wallow in such foul mire.
Such was my life, and my consuming purpose—to rape my nature.”
Mary is no damsel afloat the winds of fate. The romantic heroine is a
passive character, actively suffering the whims of Fortune. Mary is lust in-
carnate, the driving force in her own destiny. When she reaches the age at
which a respectable girl might be contemplating the marriage market, she
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
some invisible force. Standing in the courtyard of the church, she senses
that her own deeds are preventing her entrance. When she looks up, she sees
an icon of the Mother of God. She prays to the chaste, pure, and undefiled
virgin. “I have heard that the God who became man did so on this account,
that he might call sinners to repent. Help me, for I am alone, and I have
none to help me.” Mary promises that she will not only abandon her life of
shame, she will renounce this world altogether if she can only see the wood
of the true cross. The Mother of God extends God’s grace upon Mary the
prostitute, and she is saved. Whereas Thais, Pelagia, and the niece of Abra-
ham are shepherded to repentance through the guidance of a holy man,
Mary of Egypt finds unmediated salvation. She falls into sin of her own
volition, and she finds redemption without an intermediary between her
and the archetypal virgin whose name she shared.
When Zosimas finds Mary, she has lived alone in the desert for forty-
seven years. In that time she has eaten a total of three loaves of bread. She
has wrestled with temptations, with the thoughts of fornication that con-
stantly pricked the mind of the male monk. For seventeen years, the span of
time she lived in wantonness in Alexandria, she suffered and struggled, as
her withering body paid for her crimes. Then she spent thirty years in as-
cetic tranquility. She instructs Zosimas not to repeat her tale while she
lives, but to return to Jerusalem and to visit her in a year with the bread and
wine of the Eucharist. He comes to her again in the desert and she takes
communion. Again she instructs him to return in a year. He begs her to
pray, “for the church, for the empire, and for him.” When Zosimas returns
the next year, he finds Mary, dead, her corpse turned to the east. He weeps
over her, soaking her feet with his tears, inverting the biblical trope. In the
sand he finds a message from her, revealing her name and asking for burial.
A lion appears and helps dig the grave. Zosimas cries, prays, and returns to
his monastery, where at last he relates the story that Mary conveyed to him,
a story that was handed down by the monks through the generations. Fi-
nally the author’s voice breaks in, claiming to have inscribed the unwritten
truth at the command of God: like the artful confections of the sophistic
romance, the Life of Mary makes the reader aware of the frames within
which the narrative is stored.
It is hard to suppress a mixed reaction to the story. In the Life of Mary all
the features of the subgenre, both attractive and disturbing, are refined to
the highest degree. The blunt, unquestioning grace offered to the sinner
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
finds its most poignant expression in Mary’s encounter with the mother of
God. Because this is an allegory of sin and repentance, the scale of Mary’s
depravity is a measure of the infinite grace she can receive. At the same
time, in Mary’s story the toll of such forgiveness is plain to see. Mortifica-
tion, self-abasement, death unto this world— such are the adjuncts of re-
demption. The penitent prostitute is walled into a cell, she surrenders her
beauty, she sobs eternally. In Mary’s case, she suffers hauntingly until her
evils have evaporated along with her body. She becomes a phantasm, a pure,
pitiful creature whose body has been wasted to virtual nothingness. The
body, its existence in the world, its participation in the mysterious cycles of
regeneration, offer no truth, no pleasure, no redemption. In structure and
in spirit, the Life of Mary is the quintessential antiromance.
and especially condensed symbol of the sins of the world. The prostitute is
everyman.
The reach of these stories underscores their place as part of a broad cul-
tural transformation. So, too, does the manifest correspondence between
the growth of this literary legend and the legal program of the Christian
state. The remarkable attack on coerced prostitution that was launched un-
der Theodosius II and would reach its climax in the age of Justinian was
coterminous with the period of the penitent prostitute’s gestation and flo-
rescence. Just as Christian lawmakers, suddenly anxious about the “necessity
of sin,” broke with immemorial tradition and extended succor to society’s
most vulnerable, Christian litterateurs created stories in which sexual dis-
honor is the product of sin rather than circumstance, choice rather than
destiny. The Justinianic monastery “Repentance,” offered as a refuge for
former prostitutes, was part of a much deeper reorientation of state and so-
ciety around the logic of a sexual morality grounded on the idea of sin.
Narrative literature proved such a rich medium for exploring the relation
between sexual morality and the individual experience across the ancient
world because stories are naturally suited for dramatizing the tension be-
tween freedom and fate. In antiquity this tension, as we have seen, was an
endlessly fertile source of speculation about the nature, purpose, and limits
of moral claims on the body’s sexual potential. The Greek romances seem,
in their very form, structurally derived from pagan fatalism; yet the authors
who most completely sense this equation of form and fate—Achilles Tatius
and Heliodorus— are the ones who create characters that stridently accept
their moral responsibility in the face of an overwhelming destiny. This
powerful sense of sweeping external motion bearing down on the individ-
ual offers a satisfying concession to the mysterious fact that the self is part
of nature. The Christian authors, by contrast, recreate from the pieces of clas-
sical romance stories in which the characters determine their own destiny. In
the early period, the characters they imagine are little more than symbols of
moral liberty, standing apart from the dark forces of the world in their ab-
solute purity, within a narrative arc that ends in death rather than rebirth.
In the period of the church’s triumph, the bright division between the pro-
tagonist and the saeculum becomes blurred, and the individual’s freedom
consists precisely in the action of turning away from the world and separat-
ing herself from it. So a literature in which honorable girls were preserved
inviolate by the dispensations of fate or providence becomes a literature in
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
which girls choose to stain themselves and then choose to become righ-
teous, of their own volition, by accepting the grace of divine pardon.
Stories have a claim, just as much as formal philosophical literature, to a
privileged place in the history of sexuality. The narrative literature of the
late classical world proved capable, like no other medium, of representing
the pattern and experience of sexual morality, measured against the shape
of life. The collective body of texts, and the literary syntax shared between
them, seems to speak to us directly—especially in the hands of the authors
who understood the mechanics and conventionality of their stories most
profoundly. In the late classical world, the shared syntax of narrative changed.
The structural transformation that enabled the creation of characters like
Pelagia and Mary traces the deeper reordering of the form and logic of sex-
ual morality. A romance like Leucippe and Clitophon was possible because—
even if the author is smirking or sneering—ultimately the romance be-
longed to a world where individual sexual morality was locked within and
subordinate to systems of valuation that were external, objective, and social.
The self, with its uncanny eroticism, was constituted by its place in the har-
monious synthesis of nature and society that the ancient city had achieved.
A romance like the Life of Mary of Egypt was possible because sexual moral-
ity was now a troublesome inheritance of the flesh, in a universe whose true
scale of values lay in the hope of the spirit to transcend its embodiment.
CONCLUSION
eyes of monks, the lines between sexual sin and bodily restraint laid out
across the landscape. The “world,” the “city,” was virtually synonymous with
the submission to the flesh. The wilderness, in its barren, craggy recesses,
was a retreat from the corruption of the civilized order. In the stark figures
of monastic imagination, the world remained, as ever, in the grip of demonic
eros.
By the time John Moschus composed The Spiritual Meadow, it has become
harder for us to see the “world” from the inside than from the distant and
stilted view of monastic retreat. Such a perspective makes us wonder to what
extent the effort to reform the sexual habits of the ancient city had, simply,
failed to take more than superficially. But it is important not to be seduced
by the alarmist fables of monastic lore, composed by writers who were not
as far removed from the life of the world and its cities as they wished to
project. The two brothers in the tale of Moschus were shepherded back to
holiness under the guidance of Abraham, an ambitious monastery builder
from the age of Justinian who lived in the highest imperial circles and even-
tually became archbishop of Ephesus. John Moschus himself was an ascetic
journeyman who moved easily across a Mediterranean Sea that had endured
the first, devastating rounds of bubonic plague and still tied Italy and the
Aegean into the vibrant societies of the Levant; Moschus, who died in
Rome, would dedicate his collection of monastic stories to Sophronius, who
possibly authored the Life of Mary of Egypt and who witnessed firsthand the
fall of Palestine to the armies of Islam. As their broad horizons suggest,
authors like John Moschus and Sophronius are more rightly considered the
last spokesmen of antiquity than harbingers of an incipient medieval era.
But in some ways the Mediterranean-Levantine society in which they moved
was, by their time, the vital remnant of a classical world that was already
reduced in scope and complexity. What this means is that the revolution in
sexual morality that we have traced in these pages, far from simplistically
ushering in the Christian Middle Ages, belonged to an ancient thought-
world that very slowly crumbled in upon itself. The intellectual assumptions
that undergird Augustinian theology, or the patterns of state and society that
are presumed by Justinianic law, are in important ways closer to the philoso-
phers and legislators of the second century, where we began, than to the
monks and kings who would inherit the ruins of the Roman Empire; even
though the values of an Augustine or a Justinian, we have emphasized, were
radically novel, the intellectual and political architecture of their thought
CONCLUSION
Gone is the ancient rubric of the lex Iulia. All extramarital sex is punished.
Men are lashed for “fornication,” twice as harshly if they are married when
they commit the offense; sex with one’s own slave is subject to public penal-
ties. In these early medieval law codes, both eastern and western, we find
Christian values fully expressed within the scaffolding of a new public or-
der, one that owes less than might be imagined to ancient traditions even in
so conservative a domain as juristic culture.
The trajectory we can only wonder about, though, because it is virtually
invisible to us, is the erotic tradition, in both life and literature. On occa-
sion its embers flare, even into the fifth or sixth century. It was perhaps
around the court of Justinian that an erudite litterateur named Aristaene-
tus composed a fictive book of love letters that are charming tales steeped in
the ancient erotic tradition, affirming the enigmatic force of the sex drive in
human life. In a historian of the same period we are struck to read a hostile
portrait of a Justinianic official whose debauched entertainments with sex
servers, both male and female, were described in calculated detail; what is
striking is not that exaggerated sexual invective remained a potent form of
insult but that the terms of the criticism would have been familiar to Lu-
cian, or for that matter an Athenian of the classical age; the official’s crime
was immoderation, in the consumption of unmixed wine and dainty fish
plates as in the more carnal pleasures. We recall, too, that someone, after
all, copied by hand the erotic novels and epigrams that still serve to offer us
precious windows into the ways humans in the distant past thought about
sex, but these texts become, as time passes, safely stowed in the storehouse
of cultural memory. Inexorably the visible monuments of eros fade, and the
celebrations of its power become faint. We can strain to hear men and women
who resisted cold counsels and continued to celebrate, in their forgotten wed-
ding songs and in their lost tales that escaped the permanence of writing, the
uncanny, earthy power of eros in human life. But in the early Middle Ages,
strident affirmations of joy are hard to hear, because they have lost their
place in public forms of expression, and that in itself is a true change, both
in the experience of sexual culture and, more selfishly, in the ways that we
can know the past.
The changes that unfolded in the sixth and seventh centuries marked the
end of an ancient Mediterranean world, as the collapse of transmarine con-
nections cut apart the sea, as the great urban monuments became testa-
ments of ruin, as a classical way of life—with its rhythms, its modes of
F R O M S H A M E TO S I N
N OT E S
AC K N OW L E D G M E N T S
INDEX
Abbreviations
The following list offers the full forms of the authors and titles of works cited in the Endnotes.
To locate the editions used, the reader may consult, for classical sources, S. Hornblower and
A. Spawforth, eds., The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th ed. (Oxford, 2012), and for Christian
sources in Greek and Latin, respectively, M. Geerard et al., eds., Clavis patrum graecorum
(Turnhout, 1974– 87) and E. Dekkers, ed., Clavis patrum latinorum, 3rd ed. (Turnhout, 1995).
PR I M A RY S O U RC E S
Alciph. Alciphron
Ep. Epistulae
A B B R E V I AT I O N S
Ambrosiast. Ambrosiaster
Comm. Ep. I Cor. Commentarius in xiii epistulas Paulinas, ad I Cor.
Comm. Ep. I Tim. Commentarius in xiii epistulas Paulinas, ad I Tim.
Comm. Rom. Commentarius in xiii epistulas Paulinas, ad Rom.
Quaest. vet. et nov. test. Quaestiones Veteris et Novi Testamenti
Artem. Artemidorus
On. Oneirocritica
Athan. Athanasius
Contra gent. Contra gentes
Athen. Athenaeus
Athenag. Athenagoras
Leg. Legatio
Auson. Ausonius
Epig. Epigrammata
Bard. Bardaisan
Lib. leg. reg. Liber legum regionum
Cic. Cicero
Cael. Pro Caelio
A B B R E V I AT I O N S
Ps.-Clem. Pseudo-Clement
Rec. Recognitiones
CJ Codex Justinianus
Coll. leg. mos. rom. Collatio legum mosaicarum et romanarum
Conc. Illib. Council of Elvira
Const. apost. Constitutiones apostolorum
Consult. Zacc. et Apoll. Consultationes Zacchei christiani et Apollonii philosophi
CT Codex Theodosianus
Cyr. Alex. Cyril of Alexandria
De ador. De adoratione et cultu in spiritu et veritate
Dig. Digesta
Dio Dio Chrysostom
Or. Orationes
Eutrop. Eutropius
Brev. Breviarium
Evag. Evagrius
Hist. eccl. Historia ecclesiastica
Gal. Galen
Loc. aff. De locis aff ectis
San. tu. De sanitate tuenda
Sem. De semine
Simplic. med. temp. De simplicium medicamentorum temperamentis ac
facultatibus
Hel. Heliodorus
Aeth. Aethiopica
Hier. Jerome
Comm. in Isaiam Commentarius in Isaiam
Comm. Tit. Commentarius in epistulam ad Titum
Ep. Epistulae
Hippol. Hippolytus
Fr. in Prov. Fragmenta in Proverbia
Iren. Irenaeus
Adv. her. Adversus haereses
Iustin. Justinian
Nov. Novellae
Juv. Juvenal
Sat. Saturae
Lact. Lactantius
Epit. inst. Epitome divinarum institutionum
Inst. Divinae institutionum
Lib. Libanius
Decl. Declamationes
Or. Orationes
Prog. Progymnasmata
A B B R E V I AT I O N S
Luc. Lucian
Adv. indoct. Adversus indoctum
Alex. Alexander
Bacc. Bacchus
Catap. Cataplus
De merc. cond. De mercede conductis potentium familiaribus
De mort. Peregr. De morte Peregrini
Demonax Demonax
Dial. meretr. Dialogi meretricii
Imag. Imagines
Jupp. trag. Juppiter tragoedus
Pseudolog. Pseudologista
Rhet. praecept. Rhetorum praeceptor
Saturn. Saturnalia
Symp. Symposium
Ver. Hist. Verae historiae
Ps.-Luc. Pseudo-Lucian
Amor. Amores
Ps.-Mac. Pseudo-Macarius
Hom. spirit. Homiliae spirituales
Mart. Martial
Ep. Epigrammata
Nemesianus Nemesianus
Ecl. Eclogae
Ovid Ovid
Ars am. Ars Amatoria
Her. Heroides
Paus. Pausanias
Pelag. Pelagius
Ep. ad Demet. Epistula ad Demetriadem
Philo Philo
De vit. cont. De vita contemplativa
Ios. De Josepho
Spec. leg. De specialibus legibus
Philostrat. Philostratus
Ep. Epistulae
Vit. soph. Vitae sophistarum
Plaut. Plautus
Cist. Cistellaria
A B B R E V I AT I O N S
Plut. Plutarch
Amat. Amatorius
Conj. Pr. Conjugalia praecepta
Polemo Polemo
Physiogn. Physiognomica
Prudent. Prudentius
Peristeph. Peristephanon
PS Pauli sententiae
Ptol. Ptolemy
Tetr. Tetrabiblos
Rufinus
trans. See Origen
Salv. Salvian
Gub. De gubernatione Dei
Socr. Socrates
Hist. eccl. Historia ecclesiastica
Soran. Soranus
Gyn. Gynaeciorum libri
Stat. Statius
Silv. Silvae
Strabo Strabo
Geog. Geographica
Suet. Suetonius
Ner. Nero
Tib. Tiberius
Tac. Tacitus
Ann. Annales
Tat. Tatian
Or. Oratio ad Graecos
Tert. Tertullian
Ad nat. Ad nationes
Theoph. Theophilus
Aut. Ad Autolycum
Theophan. Theophanes
Chron. Chronographia
A B B R E V I AT I O N S
J O U R N A L S A N D R E F E R E N C E M ATE R I A L S
I NTRO D U CTI O N
Sexuality, and the Law (New York, 1998), and McGinn, The Economy of Prostitution
in the Roman World: A Study of Social History and the Brothel (Ann Arbor, 2004),
are fundamental; the only dedicated study of late antique prostitution is Stavroula
Leontsini, Die Prostitutione im frühen Byzanz (Vienna, 1989). Charles Chauvin, Les
chrétiens et la prostitution (Paris, 1983), has little to offer for our period.
3. For a learned overview of sin in the New Testament, see E. P. Sanders,
“Sin, Sinners (NT),” Anchor Bible Dictionary (New York, 1992), 6:40– 47; for
pudicitia and impudicitia, see Rebecca Langlands, Sexual Morality in Ancient Rome
(Cambridge, 2006), 19–32; on infamia, see A. H. J. Greenridge, Infamia: Its Place
in Roman Public and Private Law (Oxford, 1894); on the close connection between
impudicitia and infamia, see, e.g., Dig. 47.10.1.2; on sōphrosynē as self-control, see,
e.g., Dio Or. 3.10; as respectability, Dio Or. 75.8; Ach. Tat. 8.7.1; see further
Chapter 1; on aidōs, see Douglas Cairns, Aidōs: The Psychology and Ethics of Honour
and Shame in Ancient Greek Literature (Oxford, 1993); on pudor, Robert Kaster,
“The Shame of the Romans,” TAPA 127 (1997): 1–19; Dio Or. 7.139; compare
Muson. Ruf. Diss. 2; e.g., Ioh. Chrys. Ad Theod. 19; on the Christian use of
“shame” more generally, see Elizabeth A. Clark, “Sex, Shame, and Rhetoric:
En-Gendering Early Christian Ethics,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion
59 (1991): 221–245.
4. For the moral substance of shame in classical Greece, see Bernard Williams,
Shame and Necessity (Berkeley, 1993); Kaster, “Shame of the Romans,” 4; Aul. Gell.
19.6.3: timor iustae reprehensionis . . . aijscuvnh ejsti;n fovbo~ dikaivou yovgou.
5. “Slaves had”: see Kaster, “Shame of the Romans,” 9; for some limited
exceptions, see Langlands, Sexual Morality in Ancient Rome, 22; on the role of
slavery in sharpening attitudes toward honor and shame in Roman society, see Kyle
Harper, Slavery in the Late Roman World, AD 275– 425 (Cambridge, 2011),
esp. 326–348.
6. On pudicitia as both a bodily condition and a moral quality, see Langlands,
Sexual Morality in Ancient Rome, 49; see esp. Chapter 1 for the literature that
juxtaposes the subjective and objective grounds of honorable behavior.
7. Friedrich Nietzsche, Die vier grossen Irrthümer, 7, in Götzen-Dämmerung
(orig. Leipzig, 1889).
8. Study of the ancient novel begins with Erwin Rohde, Der griechische Roman
und seine Vorläufer (Leipzig, 1876); in the last generation, the reputation of the
ancient romance has been fully rehabilitated, and the bibliography is now vast:
selectively, Ben Perry, The Ancient Romances: A Literary-Historical Account of Their
Origins (Berkeley, 1967); Tomas Hägg, The Novel in Antiquity (Oxford, 1983);
Graham Anderson, Ancient Fiction: The Novel in the Graeco-Roman World (London,
1984); Shadi Bartsch, Decoding the Ancient Novel: The Reader and the Role of
Description in Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius (Princeton, 1989); Massimo Fusillo, Il
romanzo greco: Polifonia ed eros (Venice, 1989); J. R. Morgan and R. Stoneman, eds.,
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 1 – 1 3
Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context (New York, 1994); James Tatum, ed., The
Search for the Ancient Novel (Baltimore, 1994); Gareth Schmeling, ed., The Novel in
the Ancient World, rev. ed. (Leiden, 2003); Tim Whitmarsh, ed., The Cambridge
Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel (Cambridge, 2008), esp. Helen Morales,
“The History of Sexuality,” 39–55. For the purposes of this book, four contributions
have been indispensable: David Konstan, Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel
and Related Genres (Princeton, 1994); Glen Bowersock, Fiction as History: Nero to
Julian (Berkeley, 1994); Simon Goldhill, Foucault’s Virginity: Ancient Erotic Fiction
and the History of Sexuality (New York, 1995); and Helen Morales, Vision and
Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon (Cambridge, 2004). Finally, it is
imperative to note that throughout this book, when I speak of “the genre of
romance” I am referring to the set of Greek romances that happen to be extant
(principally the novels of Achilles Tatius, Heliodorus, Xenophon of Ephesus,
Longus, and Chariton); these are sometimes described as the “idealizing” romances,
even though an author like Achilles Tatius was (at best) a sardonic idealizer. We
possess a significant number of fragments that make it plain that what happens to
survive is only a particular subset of novelistic literature (and that Achilles would not
have been the most sensationalist if the others had survived). For reflections on the
genre, see Helen Morales, “Challenging Some Orthodoxies: The Politics of Genre
and the Ancient Greek Novel,” in Fiction on the Fringe: Novelistic Writing in the
Post-Classical Age, ed. Grammatiki Karla (Leiden, 2009), 1–12; Tim Whitmarsh,
“The Greek Novel: Titles and Genre,” AJP 126 (2005): 587– 611; Niklas Holzberg,
The Ancient Novel: An Introduction (New York, 1995 [1985]), 1–27. For the frag-
ments of other novels, see Susan Stephens and John Winkler, eds., Ancient Greek
Novels: The Fragments (Princeton, 1995). On the dating of the novels, again from a
massive bibliography, see Ewen Bowie, “The Chronology of the Earlier Greek Novels
since B. E. Perry: Revisions and Precisions,” Ancient Narrative 2 (2002): 47– 63; and
Albert Henrichs, “Missing Pages: Papyrology, Genre, and the Greek Novel,” in
Culture in Pieces: Essays on Ancient Texts in Honour of Peter Parsons, ed. Dirk Obbink
and Richard Rutherford (Oxford, 2011), 302–322, at 303–305.
9. For the totalizing ambitions of Christian ideology, see Averil Cameron,
Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse
(Berkeley, 1991).
10. See Chapter 1.
11. Kyle Harper, “Porneia: The Making of a Christian Sexual Norm,” JBL 131
(2012): 365–385.
12. Rom. 1:26–27 (RSV); see esp. B. Brooten, Love between Women: Early
Christian Responses to Female Homoeroticism (Chicago, 1996).
13. E.g., Jennifer A. Glancy, “Obstacles to Slaves’ Participation in the
Corinthian Church,” JBL 117 (1998): 481–501; Carolyn Osiek, “Female Slaves,
Porneia, and the Limits of Obedience,” in Early Christian Families in Context: An
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 4 – 2 1
Interdisciplinary Dialogue, ed. David L. Balch and Carolyn Osiek (Grand Rapids,
2003), 255–274.
14. Jennifer Wright Knust, Abandoned to Lust: Sexual Slander and Ancient
Christianity (New York, 2006); Kathy Gaca, The Making of Fornication: Eros,
Ethics, and Political Reform in Greek Philosophy and Early Christianity (Berkeley,
2003); on the diversity of early Christianity, see the recent treatment in David
Brakke, The Gnostics: Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Christianity (Cambridge,
Mass., 2010).
15. Inst. 4.18.4; Procop. Hist. Arc. 11.34–36; see Chapter 3.
16. On the formation of marriage, prostitution, and same-sex eros in the
archaic and classical Greek period, see Carola Reinsberg, Ehe, Hetärentum und
Knabenliebe im antiken Griechenland (Munich, 1989).
17. See esp. Kate Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride: Idealized Womanhood in
Late Antiquity (Cambridge, Mass., 1996).
1. TH E M O R A LITI E S O F S E X I N TH E RO M A N E M PI R E
Human Action: From Antiquity to the Present Day, ed. Thomas Pink and M. W. F.
Stone (London, 2004), 6–28; Albrecht Dihle, The Theory of Will in Classical
Antiquity (Berkeley, 1972).
4. Ach. Tat. 1.10.6.
5. Veyne, “La famille et l’amour,” 50; “current fashion”: Ach. Tat. 2.35.2;
orgasm: Act. Tat. 2.37; Plut. Amat. 769a; on these contests, which cluster in the
high empire, see James Jope, “Interpretation and Authenticity of the Lucianic
Erotes,” Helios 38 (2011): 103–120 (though not fully convincing in arguing for the
Lucianic authorship of the Erotes); Goldhill, Foucault’s Virginity, 102–111; Marcelle
Laplace, Le roman d’Achille Tatios: “Discours panégyrique” et imaginaire romanesque
(Bern, 2007), 261–278; on the authorship of the Erotes, see still Robert Bloch, De
pseudo-luciani amoribus (Strasbourg, 1907).
6. Ach. Tat. 2.36, 2.38; on Roman pederasty in general, the best treatment is
Christian Laes, Children in the Roman Empire: Outsiders Within (Cambridge, 2011),
222–277.
7. Foucault, Care of the Self, 229, 189, 192.
8. “Lofty formulations”: Foucault, The Care of the Self, 189; compare Luc.
Demonax 24.
9. “Did you never”: Epict. Diss. 4.1.15; Luc. Ver. Hist. 2.18; Virgil: Donat.
Vit. Verg. 9; Nemesianus Ecl. 4; Marc. Aur. Med. 1.16.2 and 1.17.6; Anth. Gr.
5.65 (adesp.) ll.3– 4.
10. “Short season”: Anth. Gr. 5.12 (Rufinus); compare Athen. 6.620E; Luc.
Alex. 6; Philostr. Ep. 13; courtesan: Athen. 13.605D; “time”: Anth. Gr. 12.10
(Strato); Anth. Gr. 12.22 (Strato); compare Dio Or. 36.8; age list: Anth. Gr. 12.4
(Strato); alternating: Ps.-Luc. Amor. 26; Luc. Ver. Hist. 1.22; on the context and
dates of Strato and Rufinus, see Alan Cameron, “Strato and Rufinus,” CQ 32
(1982): 162–173.
11. Aristocratic: Thomas Hubbard, “Popular Perceptions of Elite Homosexual-
ity in Classical Athens,” Arion 6 (1998): 48–78; law: David Cohen, Law, Sexuality,
and Society: The Enforcement of Morals in Classical Athens (Cambridge, 1991);
Veyne, “La famille et l’amour,” 50–51; Ramsay MacMullen, “Roman Attitudes to
Greek Love,” Historia 31 (1982): 484–502; Saara Lilja, Homosexuality in Republican
and Augustan Rome (Helsinki, 1983); Eva Cantarella, Secondo natura: La bisessualità
nel mondo antico (Rome, 1988); Craig Williams, “Greek Love at Rome,” CQ 45
(1995): 517–539, and Williams, Roman Homosexuality; Hans Peter Obermayer,
Martial und der Diskurs über männliche “Homosexualität” in der Literatur der frühen
Kaiserzeit (Tübingen, 1998); on the law, see below and Chapter 3.
12. On Roman slavery, Jerzy Kolendo, “L’esclavage et la vie sexuelle des
hommes libres à Rome,” Index 10 (1981): 288–297; Marguerite Garrido-Hory,
Martial et l’esclavage (Paris, 1981); Keith Bradley, Slaves and Masters in the Roman
Empire: A Study in Social Control (New York, 1987); Moses Finley, Ancient Slavery
N OT E S TO PA G E S 2 7 – 2 8
he was and where he came from”; more fulsome Christian invective against Antinous
can be found at Clem. Protrep. 4.49; Tert. Ad nat. 2.10.1; Athan. Contra gent. 9.
16. Trajan: Cass. Dio 68.7.4; Herodes: Philostr. Vit. soph. 558; Walter
Ameling, Herodes Atticus, 2 vols. (Hildesheim, 1983), 113; on Polydeucion, Aul.
Gell. Noct. Att. 19.12 and Louis Robert, “Deux inscriptions de l’époque imperiale
en Attique,” AJP 100 (1979): 153–165; “no doubt acquiesced”: Sarah Pomeroy, The
Murder of Regilla: A Case of Domestic Violence in Antiquity (Cambridge, Mass.,
2007), 53– 65; Anth. Gr. 12.175, 194, 199 (Strato); Luc. Symp. 15; Alex. 50;
Saturn. 24; Artem. On. 1.78 ll.43– 44.
17. Dio: Or. 7.139; Or. 7.149; Or. 75.8; Roman law: PS 2.26.12–14 with Dalla,
Ubi venus mutatur, and Chapter 3; as Dalla notes (at 126) in a significant analysis,
it is probable that the jurisdiction of Roman governors to punish acts classified as
iniuria or crimen vis gradually absorbed the regulation of pederasty; PS 5.4.4 and
5.4.14 are tremendously important; the example in Lucian would strongly support
his interpretation: Luc. De mort. Pereg. 9; compare Luc. Catap. 26; Luc. Jupp. trag.
52. Trial: P. Oxy. 3.471 (2C), re-edited with commentary, Herbert Musurillo, The
Acts of the Pagan Martyrs: Acta Alexandrinorum (Oxford, 1954), 33– 43; with
Dominic Montserrat, Sex and Society in Græco-Roman Egypt (New York, 1996),
151–153; Vout, Power and Eroticism, 141f.
18. On the worries around school, Richlin, “Not before Homosexuality,” 538;
bribes: Dio Or. 66.11. Philosophers: Clem. Str. 2.23.138; compare Lucian Vit. auct.
15 and De mort. Pereg. 43; assenting: Anth. Gr. 12.200 (Strato); the now: Anth.
Gr. 12.228 (Strato).
19. Plut. Amat. 4.751B; “that central text in the history of desire”: Goldhill,
Foucault’s Virginity, 112.
20. Conjugal friendship: Plut. Amat. 5.751C and 23.769A; consent: Plut.
Amat. 5.751D; Aphrodite: Plut. Amat. 5.752A; Frederick Brenk, “Plutarch’s
Erotikos: The Drag Down Pulled Up,” Illinois Classical Studies 13 (1988): 457– 471.
21. Plutarch on male passives: Plut. Amat. 23.768E; muscular lads: Luc. Adv.
indoct. 25; male prostitute: Luc. Adv. indoct. 25; Polyphemus: Luc. Pseudolog. 27; for
graffiti, see Antonio Varone, Erotica pompeiana: Iscrizioni d’amore sui muri di Pompei
(Rome, 1994), and most recently Sarah Levin-Richardson, “Facilis hic futuit: Graffiti
and Masculinity in Pompeii’s ‘Purpose-Built’ Brothel,” Helios 38 (2011): 59–78.
22. Ptol. Tetr. 3.14; in general, Tamsyn S. Barton, Power and Knowledge:
Astrology, Physiognomics, and Medicine under the Roman Empire (Ann Arbor, 1994);
Brooten, Love between Women, 140–142.
23. Ptol. Tetr. 3.14.171–172; for the relative lack of sources on lesbianism (esp.
in Latin), see Butrica, “Some Myths and Anomalies,” 261.
24. Born to be penetrated: Sen. Ep. 95.21; Luc. Adv. indoct. 23; Rhet.
praecept. 11; appearance and deviance: Adamantius, Physiog. A4; Simon Swain,
ed., Seeing the Face, Seeing the Soul: Polemon’s Physiognomy from Classical
N OT E S TO PA G E S 3 4 – 4 0
Antiquity to Medieval Islam (Oxford, 2007), 496– 497; “knowledge of the internal
constitution”: Istanbul Polemon, fo. 40, trans. Antonella Ghersetti, in Swain,
Seeing the Face, p. 481; “easily outed”: Adamantius, Physiog. B38, in Swain,
Seeing the Face, p. 536.
25. Phaedr. Fab. 4.16.
26. Richlin, “Not before Homosexuality,” 530; Taylor, “Two Pathic Subcul-
tures,” 319–371; Bruce Frier, “Review of Craig A. Williams, Roman Homosexuality:
Ideologies of Masculinity in Classical Antiquity,” BMCR, Nov. 5, 1999; Butrica,
“Some Myths and Anomalies,” 236.
27. Ptol. Tetr. 3.14.172.
28. Nero: Suet. Nero 28; Tac. Ann. 15.370; Elagabulus: Cass. Dio 79– 80; Xen.
Eph. 5.15; Mart. Ep. 7.58; 12.42; 1.24; Juv. Sat. 2.47; John Boswell, Same-Sex Unions
in Premodern Europe (New York, 1994), 53–107, is a useful assemblage of evidence.
29. Ptol. Tetr. 3.14.171; instrument: Ps.-Luc. Amor. 28; wives: Ptol. Tetr.
3.14.172; Clem. Paid. 3.3.21.3; Luc. Dial. meretr. 5; for the dextrarum iunctio, and
in general by far the most reliable treatment, Brooten, Love between Women, 59;
Boswell, Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality, 83, part of broader
changes in the emotional value of marriage.
30. Boat chase: Ach. Tat. 5.7; severed head: 8.15.4; ill-starred: 8.16.1.
31. McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality, and the Law, on the polarization of female
sexual honor; Langlands, Sexual Morality in Ancient Rome, on female norms in
general.
32. Plaut. Cist. 78– 81, with Langlands, Sexual Morality in Ancient Rome, 207;
Cic. Cael. 49; Theodor Mommsen, Römisches strafrecht (Leipzig, 1899), 691; in
general, Riccardo Astolfi, La Lex Iulia et Papia (Padua, 1970); David Cohen, “The
Augustan Law on Adultery: The Social and Cultural Context,” in The Family in
Italy from Antiquity to the Present, ed. David Kertzer and Richard Saller (New
Haven, 1991), 109–126; see esp. McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality, and the Law.
33. Behavior: Dig. 50.16.46; vestments: Dig. 47.10.15.15; on the language of
mater familias, see McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality, and the Law, 9, 153.
34. Age structures: Brent Shaw, “Latin Funerary Epigraphy and Family Life in
the Later Roman Empire,” Historia: Zeitschrift für alte Geschichte 33 (1984):
457– 497; Brent Shaw, “The Age of Roman Girls at Marriage: Some Reconsidera-
tions,” JRS 77 (1987): 30– 46; Bagnall and Frier, Demography of Roman Egypt,
111–118; Walter Scheidel, “Progress and Problems in Roman Demography,” in
Debating Roman Demography, ed. Walter Scheidel (Leiden, 2001), 1– 81; Walter
Scheidel, “Roman Age Structure: Evidence and Models,” JRS 91 (2001): 1–26;
Scheidel, “Roman Funerary Commemoration and the Age of First Marriage,” CP
102 (2007): 389– 402; on widows: Jens-Uwe Krause, Witwen und Waisen in
römischen Reich, 4 vols. (Stuttgart, 1994–1995); Thomas McGinn, “Widows,
Orphans, and Social History,” JRA 12 (1999): 617– 632.
N OT E S TO PA G E S 4 1 – 4 4
44. Plut. Conj. pr. 16.140B; domestic violence: Leslie Dossey, “Wife Beating
and Manliness in Late Antiquity,” Past & Present 199 (2008): 3– 40, suggesting that
the western Mediterranean was more violent than the east.
45. “Bathetic”: Goldhill, Foucault’s Virginity, 81; Leucippe’s mother: Ach. Tat.
2.24.4; statues: Juv. Sat. 6.165.
46. Sexual exploitation of slaves in general: Harper, Slavery in the Late Roman
World, 281–325; “morals of the mistress”: Hier. Ep. 79.9; Leucippe as field slave:
Ach. Tat. 5.17.3–9; slave marriages: Ulp. Reg. 5.5; Dig. 38.10.10.5; Hier.
Ep. 107.11; Querolus, ed. Randstrand, p. 74; slave fathers: see T. Bavli, Kidd. 69a,
for an especially clear formulation, if from beyond Roman frontiers; Aug. Serm.
nov. (Dolbeau) 2.13; P. Herm. Rees 18 (AD 323); Keith R. Bradley, “The Age at
Time of Sale of Female Slaves,” Arethusa 11 (1978): 243–252.
47. Most impure part: Aug. De ord. 2.4.12; in general, see esp. McGinn,
Prostitution, Sexuality, and the Law, and McGinn, Economy of Prostitution; Rebecca
Fleming, “Quae corpore quaestum facit: The Sexual Economy of Female Prostitution
in the Roman Empire,” JRS 89 (1999): 38– 61.
48. Toleration and degradation: McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality, and the Law,
347; Cato: Hor. Sat. 1.2 and Ps.-Acro. 1.2; necessity: Artem. 1.45; Dio: Or.
7.139–140; public good, like baths: Alciph. Ep. 3.22; Lais: Lib. Decl. 25; forbidding
adulteries: Salv. Gub. 7.22; further, Harper, Slavery in the Late Roman World,
311–313; on the antiquity of these ideas, Frank Frost, “Solon Pornoboskos and
Aphrodite Pandemos,” Syllecta Classica 13 (2002): 34– 46.
49. “Visible everywhere”: Dio Or. 7.133–134; papyri: PSI 9.1055; the identifi-
cation of brothels at Pompeii has occasioned a significant amount of commentary
with widely disparate interpretations; only the famous Purpose-built Brothel can be
identified with certainty, but this should not be taken to imply that there was any
sort of moral zoning practiced; for this discussion, see Andrew Wallace-Hadrill,
“Public Honour and Private Shame: The Urban Texture of Pompeii,” in Urban
Society in Roman Italy, ed. T. J. Cornell and K. Lomas (New York, 1995), 39– 62;
Ray Laurence, Roman Pompeii: Space and Society (London, 1994); McGinn,
Economy of Prostitution, 78–111, 182–219.
50. Laura McClure, Courtesans at Table: Gender and Greek Literary Culture in
Athenaeus (New York, 2003), on Athenaeus in particular; for the earlier period, James
Davidson, Courtesans & Fishcakes: The Consuming Passions of Classical Athens (New
York, 1998); Leslie Kurke, Coins, Bodies, Games and Gold: The Politics of Meaning in
Archaic Greece (Princeton, 1999); and the essays in Christopher Faraone and Laura
McClure, eds., Prostitutes and Courtesans in the Ancient World (Madison, 2006).
51. “No trivial”: Luc. Imag. 22; disabilities of stage performers: Dig. 23.2.44;
CT 4.6.3; Ulp. Reg. 13.1; with McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality, and the Law, 91–2;
these prohibitions on the marriage of actresses were overturned in the reign of
Justin, of course: CJ 5.4.23; see further Chapter 4; prostitution and slavery: Harper,
N OT E S TO PA G E S 4 9 – 5 3
Slavery and the Late Roman World, 304–310, with abundant evidence and cautions
about the limits of the evidence; McGinn, Economy of Prostitution, 74; Flemming,
“Quae corpore,” 58; poor: e.g., Artem. On. 1.56; Dio Or. 7.133.
52. Collar: ILS 9455; papyrus: PSI 9.1055; man who buys girls: Aug. Psalm.
128.6; slavery or brothel: Lact. Inst. 6.20; covenants: McGinn, Prostitution,
Sexuality, and the Law, 288–319.
53. Art in brothels: Clarke, Looking at Lovemaking, 202–204; price: McGinn,
Economy of Prostitution, 40–55, is the most comprehensive discussion, and see
p. 43– 44 for fellatio; corpse: BGU 4.1024.
54. Aug. Civ. 2.20; patronized by slaves: Ioh. Chrys. In Hebr. 15.3; Clarke,
Looking at Lovemaking, 196; McGinn, Economy of Prostitution, 71–72.
55. Bios: Alciph. Ep. 3.22; “that was that”: Peter Garnsey, “Introduction: The
Hellenistic and Roman Periods,” in The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman
Political Thought, ed. C. Rowe and M. Schofield (Cambridge, 2000), 401– 414, at 407.
56. Sen. Contr. 1.2; see Langlands, Sexual Morality in Ancient Rome, 258–259;
Amy Richlin, “Gender and Rhetoric: Producing Manhood in the Schools,” in
Roman Eloquence: Rhetoric in Society and Literature, ed. W. J. Dominik (London,
1997), 90–110.
57. Ach. Tat. 8.7.1.
58. On Regilla in general, see now Pomeroy, The Murder of Regilla; for the
inscription, Ameling, Herodes, no. 100, p. 120–121; this translation is from
Pomeroy, p. 107.
59. Mimicked: Ach. Tat. 5.20.5; “philosophers”: Ach. Tat. 8.5.7; on “sexual
symmetry” in the novel, see esp. Konstan, Sexual Symmetry.
60. See, in general, Christian Laes, “Male Virgins in Latin Inscriptions from
Rome,” in Religion and Socialisation in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. K.
Mustakallio, S. Katajala-Peltomaa, and V. Vuolanto (Rome, 2013), forthcoming,
and Kirk Ormand, “Testing Virginity in Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus,” Ramus
39 (2010): 160–197; RSV Apoc. 14.4; Ios. et. Asen. 4.9; 8.1; in the Symposium of
Methodius, Christ is called the archiparthenos (10.3 and 10.5); but for the rarity, see
Lampe PGL s.v. parthenos, II (p. 1038); for virgo used of males, OLD has only CIL
13.2036; compare the late fourth-century Marc. De medic. 7.15, 8.126, 21.11, and
26.107; Ioh. Cass. Inst. 6.19; a handful of other instances in A. Blaise, Dictionnaire
latin-français des auteurs chrétiens (Turnhout, 1954), s.v. virgo; Athenag. Leg. 33.3;
compare Hippol. Fr. in Prov. 62; Treggiari, Roman Marriage, 234; for sōphrosynē as
the pure status of a woman’s body, see, e.g., Hel. Aeth. 1.8.3; for its application to
male sexual self-control, Mus. Ruf. Diss. 12; Dio Or. 3.10.
61. Drachma (i.e., proverbially cheap): Plut. Amat. 16.759E; compare Anth.
Gr. 5.109 (Antipater); “first and most fitting”: Athen. 1.8E; “follow me”: Clem.
Paid. 2.11.116; Simon Goldhill, “The Erotic Eye: Visual Stimulation and Cultural
Conflict,” in Being Greek under Rome: Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the
N OT E S TO PA G E S 5 4 – 5 9
85. Dig. 23.2.1 (Modestinus); romance: Statius Silv. 1.2.26–30; philia: Plut.
Amat. 5.751C and 19.767C; Plin. Ep. 7.5, compare 6.4 and 6.7; homonoia: Dio Or.
38.15; Artem. 1.56; Plut. Conj. pr. 43; “circling dance”: Dio Or. 40.39; see Mary T.
Boatwright, “Women and Gender in the Forum Romanum,” TAPA 141 (2011):
105–141, esp. 135.
86. “Where does eros”: Muson. Ruf. 13A; conjugal Aphrodite: Plut. Conj. pr.
1.138C; modesty: Plut. Conj. pr. 10.139C; “school”: Plut. Conj. pr. 47.145A (the
Loeb’s rather unforgettable rendering).
87. Pessimism: Veyne, “Roman Empire,” 202; John R. Clarke, Roman Sex: 100
BC– AD 250 (New York, 2003), 155, captures the universality of sexual art in the
Roman Empire, and 31–35 for the villa of Iucundus.
88. Clarke, Looking at Lovemaking, 269–274; Clem. Protrep. 4.60.1 on erotic
art in late second-century Alexandria; Rachel Kousser, “Mythological Group
Portraits in Antonine Rome: The Performance of Myth,” AJA 111 (2007): 673– 691,
esp. 685– 686.
89. In general, Clarke, Looking at Lovemaking, 250–254; on the popularity of
erotic themes, see, e.g., Donald M. Bailey, A Catalogue of Lamps in the British
Museum, vol. 2 (London, 1980), 64; Annalis Leibundgut, Die römischen Lampen in
der Schweiz: Eine Kultur- und handelsgeschichtliche Studie (Bern, 1977), for a
focused study; for the relative rarity of same-sex conjunctions and oral sex, see
Bailey, Catalogue, 64– 65.
90. For the Athenian lamps, see Arja Karivieri, The Athenian Lamp Industry in
Late Antiquity (Helsinki, 1996), 46 on Pireithos, 48, 95, 110, 123; Judith Perlzweig,
Lamps from the Athenian Agora (Princeton, 1963), 34–36, 47– 48, 122; Corinth:
Kathleen Slane, The Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore: The Roman Pottery and Lamps
(Princeton, 1990), 17, nos. 32, 35, 44– 46.
91. “Whorish”: PGM 26.142; mulier equitans: Clarke, Looking at Lovemaking,
217.
92. Mouth pollution: e.g., Aul. Gell. Noct. att. 1.5.1; Luc. Rhet. praec. 23;
Artemid. On. 4.59; Anth. Gr. 6.17 (Lucian); prostitutes: see Clarke, Looking at
Lovemaking, 226; possibilities unknown: Bas. Anc. 61– 62 can easily be construed as
a misinterpretation; Gal. Simplic. medic. temp. 249 (Kühn 12); compare Luc. Pseudo-
log. 28; Ovid Ars. Am. 2.683– 684; Ps.-Luc. Amor. 27; Ach. Tat. 2.37.6; clarification on
the basic meaning of many ancient sexual acts began with A. E. Housman, “Praefanda,”
Hermes 66 (1931): 402– 412; see, more generally, J. N. Adams, The Latin Sexual
Vocabulary (Baltimore, 1982); Butrica, “Some Myths and Anomalies.”
93. On the setting, see Morales, Vision and Narrative, 57– 60.
94. To abstain: Ach. Tat. 5.16.7, 6.21.3, 8.5.7; to wax eloquent: Ach. Tat.
1.12.1, 5.27.1; to suffer: Ach. Tat. 5.23.7; see Goldhill, Foucault’s Virginity, 98–100.
95. Marc. Aur. Med. 1.8; in general, Malcolm Schofield, “Stoic Ethics,” in The
Cambridge Companion to the Stoics, ed. Brad Inwood (Cambridge, 2003), 233–256;
N OT E S TO PA G E S 7 2 – 8 2
Richard Sorabji, Emotion and Peace of Mind: From Stoic Agitation to Christian
Temptation (Oxford, 2000), 169–180.
96. Bobzien, Determinism and Freedom in Stoic Philosophy; Frede, A Free Will;
Roberto Hofmeister Pich, “Proaivresi~ und Freiheit bei Epiktet: Ein Beitrag zu
philosophischen Geschichte des Willenbegriff s,” in Wille und Handlung in der
Philosophie der Kaiserzeit und Spätantike, ed. Jörn Müller and R. M. Pich (Berlin,
2010), 95–127.
97. See Epict. Diss. 2.11.19–20; it is important to recognize that although the
early Stoa propagated radical sexual doctrines, already from Antipater of Tarsus (a
student of the great Chrysippus) Stoicism evinces conservative views toward
marriage, so that more conservative views had been at home in Stoicism long before
the Roman Stoics thrived; Gaca, Making of Fornication, 82; Ilaria Ramelli, Hierocles
the Stoic, Elements of Ethics, Fragments, and Excerpts, trans. David Konstan
(Leiden, 2009), 108–112.
98. Mus. Ruf. Diss. 12.
99. Ibid. 19.
100. Dio Or. 7; J. Samuel Houser, “Eros and Aphrodisia in the Works of Dio
Chrysostom,” Classical Antiquity 17 (1998): 235–258.
101. “Sexual-restraint drug”: Dio Or. 7.140; “open, dishonorable”: Dio 7.139.
102. “Women and boys”: Dio Or. 7.133.
103. In the scales: Epict. Diss. 2.11.20; “citizenship, marriage”: Epict. Diss.
3.7.26–28; “if you see”: Epict. Diss. 3.2.8; “if a girl”: Epict. Diss. 2.18.15–18.
104. Penis: Epict. Diss. 2.20.19; “learn to use”: Epict. Diss. 3.12.11; “remain as
pure”: Epict. Enchir. 33.8.
105. “Cheap”: Marc. Aur. Med. 2.12; a point: Marc. Aur. Med. 2.17, 4.3, 5.23;
“commotion”: Marc. Aur. Med. 6.13.1; “meditate”: Marc. Aur. Med. 4.32; concu-
bine: SHA Marcus 29.10.
106. “Peculiar quality”: Marc. Aur. Med. 3.16, compare 7.57; “gods do exist”:
Marc. Aur. Med. 2.11.
107. “Mystic fire”: Ach. Tat. 5.15.6.
108. On Achilles Tatius and Christianity, see Bowersock, Fiction as History,
125–128; Morales, Vision and Narrative, 203–205.
2 . TH E W I LL A N D TH E WO R LD I N E A R LY
C H R I STIA N S E XUA LIT Y
4. “Greatest evil”: Meth. Conv. 8.13; “self-ruling”: Meth. Conv. 8.13; on Stoic
fate, see Chapter 1; on the importance of astrology in early Christianity, see Tim
Hegedus, Early Christianity and Ancient Astrology (New York, 2007).
5. Timothy Barnes, “Methodius, Maximus, and Valentinus,” JTS 30 (1979):
47–55.
6. See esp. Jennifer Wright Knust, Abandoned to Lust: Sexual Slander and
Ancient Christianity (New York, 2006).
7. On Clement’s sexual ideology, see Henny Fiskå Hägg, “Continence and
Marriage: The Concept of Enkrateia in Clement of Alexandria,” Symbolae Osloenses
81 (2006): 126–143; Brown, Body and Society, 122–139; Gaca, Making of Fornica-
tion, 247–272; on his cultural context, see Nasrallah, Christian Responses to Roman
Art and Architecture, 249–295; on his thought in general, see Eric Osborn, Clement
of Alexandria (Cambridge, 2005).
8. On porneia and same-sex eros, see below; “above all else”: Ep. Clem. ad Jac.
8.1.
9. “Weakness”: 1 Cor. 2:3 (RSV); temples: Strabo Geog. 8.6.20; Paus. 2.5.1;
useful is J. Murphy-O’Connor, St. Paul’s Corinth: Texts and Archaeology (Wilming-
ton, 1983); Joseph A. Fitzmeyer, First Corinthians: A New Translation with Introduc-
tion and Commentary (New Haven, 2008); “do you”: 1 Cor. 6:19 (RSV).
10. Corinth and Aphrodite: Ps.-Dio [Favorinus] Or. 37.34.
11. “All things”: 1 Cor. 6:12 (RSV); “it is good”: 1 Cor. 7.1 (RSV); on the
sexual doctrine of 1 Corinthians, from a massive bibliography, I have found most
helpful Dale Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven, 1995); Will Deming, Paul
on Marriage and Celibacy: The Hellenistic Background of 1 Corinthians 7 (Cam-
bridge, 1995); Renate Kirchhoff, Die Sünde gegen den eigenen Leib: Studien zu
povrnh und porneiva in 1 Kor 6, 12–20 und dem sozio-kulturellen Kontext der
paulinischen Adressaten (Göttingen, 1994).
12. For this argument, see Harper, “Porneia;” F. Hauck and S. Schulz, “povrnh,
ktl,” TDNT 6:579–595; BDAG, “porneiva,” 854– 855; Fitzmeyer, First Corinthi-
ans, 233, 255, 279; Deming, Paul on Marriage and Celibacy, 13; Gaca, Making of
Fornication; Osiek, “Female Slaves, Porneia, and the Limits of Obedience”; Glancy,
“Obstacles to Slaves’ Participation in the Corinthian Church”; Martin, Corinthian
Body, 169; Kirchhoff, Die Sünde gegen den eigenen Leib; Peter J. Tomson, Paul and
the Jewish Law: Halakha in the Letters of the Apostle to the Gentiles (Minneapolis,
1990), 97–103; Gerhard Dautzenberg, “Feuvgete th;n porneivan (1 Kor 6,18): Eine
Fallstudie zur paulinishen Sexualethik in ihrem Verhältnis zur Sexualethik des
Frühjudentums,” in Neues Testament und Ethik: Für Rudolf Schnackenburg, ed.
Helmut Merklein (Freiberg, 1989), 271–298; Joseph Jensen, “Does Porneia Mean
Fornication? A Critique of Bruce Malina,” Novum Testamentum 20 (1978):
161–184; Bruce Malina, “Does Porneia Mean Fornication?” Novum Testamentum
14 (1972): 10–17; Hanz Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians: A Commentary on the First
N OT E S TO PA G E S 8 9 – 9 4
40. On the symbolic value of the renunciation of sex, see esp. Cooper, Virgin
and the Bride; “open text”: David Konstan, “Acts of Love: A Narrative Pattern in the
Apocryphal Acts,” JECS 6 (1998): 15–36; Christine M. Thomas, “Stories without
Texts and without Authors: The Problem of Fluidity in Ancient Novelistic Texts and
Early Christian Literature,” in Ancient Fiction and Early Christian Narrative, ed.
Ronald Hock, Bradley Chance, and Judith Perkins (Atlanta, 1998), 273–291.
41. Citations: Osborne, Clement, 2ff.; “accursed sophists”: Clem. Str. 1.3.22;
“use the wisdom”: 1.5.29; “doctrine of the Greeks”: Clem. Str. 1.2.19; on Clement
among the apologists, see Annewies van den Hoek, “Apologetic and Protreptic
Discourse in Clement of Alexandria,” in L’apologétique chrétienne gréco-latine à
l’ époque prénicénienne (Geneva, 2005), 69–93.
42. “True tradition”: Clem. Str. 1.1.11; for portraits of Clement’s sexual
outlook, see Brown, Body and Society, 122–139; Gaca, Making of Fornication,
247–272; Harry Maier, “Clement of Alexandria and the Care of the Self,” Journal of
the American Academy of Religion 62 (1994): 719–745; J. P. Broudéhoux, Mariage et
famille chez Clément d’Alexandrie (Paris, 1970).
43. “Very roots”: Clem. Paid. 2.6.51.
44. Encratism: esp. Clem. Str. 3.6.49; “sacrilege against creation”: Clem. Str.
3.6.45; “polluted”: Clem. Str. 3.6.46; “vaunt that they apprehend”: Clem. Str.
3.6.49; against Tatian’s exegesis: Clem. Str. 3.12.81; “passions of the devil”: Clem.
Str. 3.12.81; “distance” Clem. Str. 3.12.84.4.
45. “Taken together”: Clem. Str. 3.12.86; “harmonies”: Clem. Str. 3.12.81.
46. “Generally advisable”: Clem. Str. 2.23.140; “scripture counsels”: Clem. Str.
2.23.145; “co-worker in creation”: Clem. Paid. 2.10.83 and Str. 3.9.66.
47. “Aim”: Clem. Paid. 2.10.83; “stony places”: Clem. Paid. 2.10.83; “proper
moments”: Clem. Paid. 2.23.143; “shortly to be human”: Clem. Paid. 2.10.92; “not
exclusively”: Clem. Paid. 2.18.88; hare or hyena: Clem. Paid. 2.10.83– 88; “rape of
nature”: Clem. Paid. 2.10.95.
48. “Concord according to the Word”: Clem. Str. 2.23.143; “love of pleasure”:
Clem. Paid. 2.10.92; “more uncontrolled than beasts”: Clem. Str. 2.23.139; “as in
the case of food”: Clem. Paid. 2.10.90; exemption from desire: Clem. Str. 3.9.67;
“do nothing from desire”: Clem. Str. 3.7.58.
49. “Physical impulse”: Clem. Str. 3.11.71; “completely destroyed”: Clem. Str.
3.9.63; “not to experience desire at all”: Clem. Str. 3.7.57.
50. “Antagonists”: Clem. Str. 2.20.120; not for daytime: Clem. Paid. 2.10.97;
advice for symposia: Clem. Paid. 2.7.54–55.
51. “Wine”: Clem. Paid. 2.2.20; “food”: Clem. Paid. 2.2.29; in general, on
contextualizing Clement’s advice in terms of contemporary medicine, see Maier,
“Clement of Alexandria.”
52. Eunuchs: Clem. Paid. 3.4.26; art: Clem. Protrep. 4.60.1–2; “adultery with
the eyes”: Clem. Paid. 3.11.70; comparing Clement and Achilles, Goldhill, “Erotic
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 1 4 – 1 1 9
Eye”; Goldhill, Foucault’s Virginity, 76; compare Shadi Bartsch, The Mirror of the
Self: Sexuality, Self-Knowledge, and the Gaze in the Early Roman Empire (Chicago,
2006), 68– 69.
53. “Corruption of children”: Clem. Paid. 2.10.88– 89, Paid. 3.12.89; Pro-
trep. 10.108; Str. 3.4.36; body parts: Clem. Paid. 2.10.85– 86; procreationism:
Clem. Paid. 2.10.86.
54. Zeus, Dionysus: Clem. Protrep. 2.15; 2.34; “disease”: Clem. Paid. 3.3.20;
depilation: Clem. Paid. 3.3.20; “by night”: Clem. Paid. 3.3.20; compare Gleason,
“The Semiotics of Gender,” 405; “she-men”: Clem. Paid. 3.3.15, 3.4.29; kinaidos:
Clem. Paid. 3.11.69.
55. “Such complete lasciviousness” etc.: Clem. Paid. 3.3.21; “fornication like
wine or grain”: Clem. Paid. 3.3.22; “whole earth”: Clem. Paid. 3.3.22.
56. “Holy procreation”: Orig. Comm. in 1 Cor. Fr. 35; gift of God: Orig.
Comm. in 1 Cor. Fr. 29; following 1 Cor. 7: Orig. Comm. in 1 Cor. Fr. 33;
different forms of grace: Orig. Comm. in 1 Cor. Fr. 29; “in the mud”: Orig.
Comm. in 1 Cor. Fr. 13; “corrupts the temple”: Orig. Comm. in 1 Cor. Fr. 16;
“quantity and quality”: Orig. Comm. in 1 Cor. Fr. 23; sins to the bishop: Orig.
Comm. in 1 Cor. Fr. 26; “not mocked”: Orig. Comm. in 1 Cor. Fr. 27; on Origen
generally, see Brown, Body and Society, 160–177; Henri Crouzel, Virginité et
mariage selon Origène (Paris, 1963).
57. On Origen’s understanding of demons, see Gregory Smith, “How Thin Is a
Demon?,” JECS 16 (2008): 479–512.
58. Iust. Mart. Apol. 1.43.1– 8: proairevsei ejleuqevra/; with Bobzien, Freedom
and Determinism, 344–345.
59. Tat. Or. 7; on the topic, see Frede, A Free Will; Jörn Müller und Roberto
Hofmeister Pich, “Auf dem Weg zum Willen? Eine problemgeschichtliche Hinfüh-
rung zur Genese des philosophischen Willensbegriffs in Kaiserzeit und Spätantike,”
in Wille und Handlung in der Philosophie der Kaiserzeit und Spätantike, ed. Müller
and Pich (Berlin, 2010), 1–22; Dihle, Theory of Will.
60. In general, see Brakke, The Gnostics, 72–74, 116; Karen King, What Is
Gnosticism? (Cambridge, Mass., 2003), 206–207; Dihle, Theory of Will, 150–157;
Elaine Pagels, “The Valentinian Claim to Esoteric Exegesis of Romans as Basis for
Anthropological Theory,” Vigiliae Christianae 26 (1972): 241–258; Louise Schot-
troff, “Animae naturaliter salvandae: Zum Problem der himmlischen Herkunft des
Gnostikers,” in Christentum und Gnosis, ed. W. Eltester (Berlin, 1969), 65–97; on
the “elect seed” in Sethianism, see the (hostile) Epiphanius Pan. 39, but with
Brakke, The Gnostics, 73–74; on Valentinianism, see Ismo Dunderberg, Beyond
Gnosticism: Myth, Lifestyle, and Society in the School of Valentinus (New York, 2008);
on the claimed pedigree of Valentinius, Clem. Str. 7.17; for the tripartite division,
see Tri. Trac. 118–119; see Exc. Theod. 56, 61 for deterministic views (in 56 it is
expressly stated that the animate, in distinction to the spiritual and the material,
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 2 0 – 1 2 4
are beings with free will); for orthodox responses, see, e.g., Iren. Adv. her. 1.6.1– 4;
Clem. Strom. 2.3.10–11; Method. Lib. arb. is probably framed as an argument
against Valentinus’s doctrines; “these heretics”: Orig. De princ. 3.1.8.
61. Frede, A Free Will, 44– 48; on Stoic determinism, see esp. Bobzien, Deter-
minism and Freedom; Zeus: Epict. Diss. 1.12.25; “not under”: Epict. Diss. 1.22.10.
62. “Leg you can fetter”: Epict. Diss. 1.1.23; “withdraws from external things”:
Epict. Diss. 1.4.18; Frede, A Free Will, 77.
63. On Origen, Frede, A Free Will, 102–124; compare Matthias Perkams,
“Ethischer Intellektualismus und Willensbegriff: Handlungstheorie beim
griechischen und lateinischen Origenes,” in Müller and Pich, Wille und Handlung,
239–258.
64. “Nothing at all”: Ps.-Clem. Rec. 1.3; Iust. Apol. 2.7.4–5; Epict. Diss.
4.7.15; one must be hesitant to criticize a posthumous publication, but as published,
Frede, A Free Will, is inadequate in many respects, especially with regard to
anything bearing on Christian philosophers (for instance, Tatian rather than Justin
is credited as the first person to use the notion of “free will,” Clement is said to be a
student of Origen, Origen, rather than Bardaisan, is said to be the first Christian to
treat free will systematically, and indeed the author seems completely unaware of
Bardaisan).
65. On Philopator, see Bobzien, Freedom and Determinism, 370; every school:
ibid., 4.
66. Alexander Jones, “The Place of Astronomy in Roman Egypt,” in The
Sciences in Greco-Roman Society, ed. T. D. Barnes (Edmonton, 1995), 25–51;
Alexander Jones, “The Astrologers of Oxyrhynchus and Their Astronomy,” in
Oxyrhynchus: A City and Its Texts, ed. A. Bowman, R. Coles, N. Gones, D. Obbink,
and P. Parsons (London, 2007), 307–314; on the foundations of Ptolemy’s science,
see A. A. Long, “Astrology: Arguments Pro and Contra,” in Science and Speculation:
Studies in Hellenistic Theory and Practice, ed. Jonathan Barnes et al. (Cambridge,
1982), 165–192; outdated in many respects but still evocative, Franz Cumont,
Astrology and Religion among the Greeks and Romans (New York, 1912); finally, it is
a testimony to the cultural power of astrology that someone like Origen was so well
informed in his criticism of it: see Alan Scott, Origen and the Life of the Stars: A
History of an Idea (Oxford, 1991), 119–120.
67. Act. Tat. 1.2–3; I have learned much from David Carlisle, kai; o[nar kai;
u{par: Dreaming in the Ancient Novel (PhD thesis, University of North Carolina,
2009).
68. Ptol. Tetr. 1.3.11; at this point it is worth recalling that the Suda, a
tenth-century Byzantine encyclopedia, credits Achilles Tatius not only with the
authorship of Leucippe and Clitophon but also with an etymology and an astronomi-
cal work On the Spheres. A trio of astronomical texts—On the Universe, a Life of
Aratus, and an Introduction to Aratus—have survived under the name of Achilles,
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 2 5 – 1 3 0
but these texts date to the third century and thus almost certainly cannot be from
the pen of the romance’s author. It is just possible that the confusion, as in the
intractable case of multiple generations of Philostratoi, arises from a family relation-
ship. See, in general, Georgius Di Maria, Achilles quae feruntur astronomica et in
aratum opuscula (Palermo, 1996), x–xii; on the idea that Achilles intentionally
proposes “contrary readings,” see Tim Whitmarsh, “Reading for Pleasure: Narrative,
Irony, and Erotics in Achilles Tatius,” in The Ancient Novel and Beyond, ed. Stelios
Panayotakis, Maaike Zimmerman, and Wytse Keulen (Leiden, 2003), 191–205.
69. Porphyry: see Cristiano Castellati, Porfirio, Sullo Stigo (Milan, 2006),
270–278; Jan Bremmer, “Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus in Christian East Syria,”
in All Those Nations: Cultural Encounters within and with the Near East, ed., H. L. J.
Vanstiphout (Groningen, 1999), 22–24; Ilaria Ramelli, Bardaisan of Edessa: A
Reassessment of the Evidence and a New Interpretation (Piscataway, 2009), 110–111,
arguing that Achilles used Bardaisan, which is impossible on chronological
grounds; Goldhill, Foucault’s Virginity, 121, on the effects of Achilles’s
juxtaposition.
70. “Stars in heaven”: Hel. Aeth. 2.24–25; “fate’s stage management”: Hel.
Aeth. 10.16.3; “by decree”: Hel. Aeth. 10.40.2; it is worth noting another intertex-
tual echo: the courtesan who startles Kalasiris is named Rhodopis, which is also the
name of the maiden who, according to Achilles Tatius, betrayed Artemis; see
further Chapter 4.
71. Clem. Str. 1.17.83.
72. Eus. Hist. eccl. 4.30.2; Alex. Aph. De fat. 1 (164); see R. W. Sharples,
“Alexander of Aphrodisias, De Fato: Some Parallels,” CQ 28 (1978): 243–266, for
its context; Cass. Dio 78.2; “man’s natural”: Bard. Lib. leg. reg. (trans. Drivjers)
p. 23; “there are people”: Bard. Lib. leg. reg. (trans. Drivjers) p. 25; see Nicole
Kelley, Knowledge and Religious Authority in the Pseudo- Clementines: Situating the
Recognitions in Fourth- Century Syria (Tübingen, 2006), 115–116; Hans J. W.
Drijvers, “Bardaisan’s Doctrine of Free Will, the Pseudo-Clementines, and
Marcionism in Syria,” in Liberté chrétienne et libre arbitre, ed. G. Bedouelle et al.
(Fribourg, 1994), 13–30; on the cultural setting of Bardaisan, see G. W. Bower-
sock, Hellenism in Late Antiquity (Ann Arbor, 1990), 31–34.
73. “Chaldeans”: Bard. Lib. leg. reg. (trans. Drivjers) p. 31; Seres: ibid., p. 41.
74. Ibid., p. 43– 49.
75. “Problem”: Orig. De princ. 3.1.1; “ecclesiastical preaching”: Orig. De princ.
3.1.1; “if a woman”: Orig. De princ. 3.1.4; Epict. Diss. 2.18.15–18.
76. Method. Conv. 8.13–16; Method. De lib. arb.; Patterson, Methodius of
Olympus, 60– 63; see Elizabeth A. Clark, The Origenist Controversy: The Cultural
Construction of an Early Christian Debate (Princeton, 1992), 194–197.
77. See esp. F. Stanley Jones, “Eros and Astrology in the Perivodoi Pe;trou:
The Sense of the Pseudo-Clementine Novel,” Apocrypha 12 (2001): 53–78; Kelley,
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 3 1 – 1 3 6
3. C H U RC H , S OC I ET Y, A N D S E X I N TH E AG E O F TR I U M PH
AD: The Theodosian Dynasty and Its Quaestors, with a Palingenesia of Laws of the
Dynasty (Oxford, 1998), 59–70.
11. It is worth noting that this was not the first mea sure aimed at male
prostitution; Philip the Arab, in the third century, was said to have banned male
prostitution, when, after a failed sacrifice, he saw a prostitute resembling his son:
Aur. Vict. Caes. 28.6–7; Jerome (Hier. Comm. in Isaiam 1.2.5– 6) credited
Constantine with abolishing the practice of prostituting boys at the entrances to
public theaters; the law has left no trace in the legal record, though such a policy is
not implausible; at the same time, we should not follow Jerome in attributing it to
Constantine’s “Christianity” so much as to his streak of puritanical conservatism
(see below); the different degree of violence evident in the measure of 390 is telling.
12. Conc. Illib. 71.
13. “Do not violate”: Const. apost. 7.2; “sin of the Sodomites”: Const. apost.
6.28; “doer of unspeakable deeds”: Const. apost. 8.32; “scrutinized”: Const. apost.
8.32; “hard to wash out”: Const. apost. 8.32: dusevknipto~ ga;r hJ kakiva.
14. Basil: Bas. Ep. 188.7 and 217.62; Gregory: Greg. Nys. Ep. can. ad Let. (PG
45: 228–289).
15. “Adulteration of nature”: Greg. Nys. Ep. can. ad Let. (PG 45: 228); the
configuration of body parts was the primary determination of what was natural,
and it is not possible to accuse someone like Augustine of a failure of nerve to carry
the thought to its logical conclusion: “But for that part of the body which has not
been installed for generative purposes, if it is used sexually, even within marriage, is
against nature and flagitious”: Aug. De nupt. et concup. 2.20.35; consider that a
search of all texts in the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae from the fourth through the
sixth centuries produces 64 instances of the root kinaid-, 45 of arsenokoit-, 2,193 of
porne-, 909 of Sodom-, and 2,509 of para phusin; the word kinaidos never disap-
peared: see Ioh. Malal. Chron. 7.12, and Ioh. Lyd. De magis. 3.62 (Bandy p. 234),
for late usages; in general Mathew Keufler, The Manly Eunuch: Masculinity, Gender
Ambiguity, and Christian Ideology in Late Antiquity (Chicago, 2001), 166–167.
16. Artem. On. 1.78– 80; Musonius: Mus. Ruf. Diss. 12.11: aiJ pro;~ a{rrena~
toi`~ a{rresin, o{t i para; fuvs in to; tovlmhma.
17. Ioh. Chrys. In Rom. 4 (PG 60: 417).
18. Ibid. (PG 60: 417– 419).
19. Dio Or. 33.63– 64; on the interconnection of gender deviance and sexual
deviance in pre-Christian thought, see Gleason, “The Semiotics of Gender,”
esp. 411– 412.
20. Stuprum against a male, see esp. PS 2.26.12 and 5.4.14; sexual passivity: PS
2.26.13; on the lex Scantinia, see esp. Dalla, Ubi Venus mutatur, 107–109, 117, 126.
21. Prudent. Peristeph. 10.201ff.; PLRE 1 Aurelius Prudentius Clemens 4; see
McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality and the Law, 141, for the conclusion that the lex
Iulia did not originally regulate stuprum with freeborn boys but saw such offenses
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 4 9 – 1 5 5
come within its ambit either by juristic construction or later legislation; compare
Dalla, Ubi venus mutatur, 107; Dig. 48.5.9(8).pr (Marcianus) and Dig.
48.5.35(34).1 (Modestinus) treat stuprum cum puero under the lex Iulia; Dig. 48.5.6
(Papinianus) suggests that stuprum was principally committed against females.
22. PS 5.4.1, 4, and 14; with Dalla, Ubi Venus mutatur, 117, 126; on the text,
see Detlef Liebs, “Roman Vulgar Law in Late Antiquity,” in Aspects of Law in Late
Antiquity: Dedicated to A. M. Honoré on the Occasion of the Sixtieth Year of His
Teaching in Oxford, ed. A. J. B. Sirks (Oxford, 2008), 35–53; and Liebs, Römische
Jurisprudenz in Afrika: Mit Studien zu den pseudopaulinischen Sentenzen (Berlin,
1993); on iniuria, see Dig. 47.10, esp. 47.10.45 (Hermogenianus).
23. Juv. Sat. 2.43– 44; Auson. Epig. 99; PS 2.26.13; from set penalties to
sliding scale: Dalla, Ubi Venus mutatur, 109.
24. On the importance of infamia in the social discrimination against sexual
minorities, see esp. Richlin, “Not before Homosexuality,” 555–561; on infamia
generally, A. H. J. Greenridge, Infamia: Its Place in Roman Public and Private Law
(Oxford, 1894), and Max Kaser, “Infamia und ignominia in den römischen
Rechtsquellen,” ZRG 73 (1956): 220–278; ineligibility to apply on someone else’s
behalf: Dig. 3.1.1.6.
25. Ad hoc: Richlin, “Not before Homosexuality,” 560; never witch-hunts:
Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 216; legislation was never: Richlin, “Not before
Homosexuality,” 554; “be proven?” Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 215.
26. Publici: Firm. Matern. Math. 6.31.5, 7.16.2, 7.25.13, 7.25.15, 7.25.20,
7.25.21, 8.19.7; infamia: Firm. Matern. Math. 8.20.2, 8.25.4, 8.27.8; latentes: Firm.
Matern. Math. 7.25.7, 7.25.12, 7.25.19, 7.25.23, 8.29.7; high honors: Firm. Matern.
Math. 7.25.22.
27. CT 9.7.3; see Dalla, Ubi Venus mutatur, 167–170, who suggests the
mea sure may have been restricted to male prostitutes, which is possible but not
warranted by any information at our disposal; Cantarella, Bisexuality in the Ancient
World, 175–176.
28. It cannot pass unremarked that a number of ancient authorities, not far
removed from the reign of Constans, attribute a highly irregular sex life to the
emperor, and in fact attribute his downfall to a spiral of debauchery: Aur. Vict. Caes.
41.24; Zosim. Hist. nov. 2.42.1; Pass. Artem. 10; Zonar. 13.5.15; Eutrop. Brev. 10.9.
29. Ioh. Chrysos. In Rom. 4 (PG 60: 420); Hesychius, too defines kinaidiva as
pornikh; ajschmosuvnh.
30. “Grievous and incurable”: Ioh. Chrysos. Adv. oppug. 3.88 (PG 47: 360);
Lib. Or. 53.10; Ambrosiast. Comm. Rom. 1.32.
31. Rufinus, trans. Origen In Rom. 4.4; Aug. Contr. Iul. op. imp. 5.17 (PL
45: 1450).
32. On the composition of the Codex Theodosianus, and especially the editors’
role, see Kyle Harper, “The Senatus Consultum Claudianum in the Codex Theodosia-
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 5 6 – 1 6 2
nus: Social History and Legal Texts,” CQ 60 (2010): 610– 638; A. J. B. Sirks, The
Theodosian Code: A Study (Friedrichsdorf, 2007); John Matthews, Laying Down the
Law: A Study of the Theodosian Code (New Haven, 2000).
33. Inst. 4.18.4. compare CJ 9.9.30(31) = CT 9.7.3.
34. Ioh. Mal. Chron. 18.167–168; Procop. Hist. Arc. 11.34–36, 16.18–22;
compare Theophan. Chron. (PG 108: col. 408) and Cedren. Hist. comp. 368 (PG
121: 704).
35. Lib. Or. 53.8; Ioh. Chrysos. Adv. oppug. 3.88 (PG 47:360); with A. J.
Festugière, Antioche païenne et chrétienne: Libanius, Chrysostome et les moines de
Syrie (Paris, 1959), 192–210; Ioh. Mal. Chron. 18.168; for anxieties about same-sex
desire in monastic settings, see the sources gathered by Derek Krueger, “Between
Monks: Tales of Monastic Companionship in Early Byzantium,” Journal of the
History of Sexuality 20 (2011): 28– 61, esp. 51.
36. Iustin. Nov. 77 (540s); Iust. Nov. 141 (559).
37. Consult. Zacc. et Apoll. 3.1.5 (mode of life), 3.1.16 (clarissima sidera),
3.1.13 (honorable marriages); 3.1.16 (promise of eternal life); on the date, see M. A.
Claussen, “Pagan Rebellion and Christian Apologetics in Fourth-Century Rome:
The Consultationes Zacchei et Apollonii,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 46 (1995):
589– 614; for its context in the aftermath of the Jovinianist controversy, see David
G. Hunter, Marriage, Celibacy, and Heresy in Ancient Christianity: The Jovinianist
Controversy (Oxford, 2007), 250–256.
38. On Jerome’s response, see Hunter, Marriage, Celibacy, and Heresy,
230–242; “meant to encourage”: Consult. Zacc. et Apoll. 3.5.8.
39. On the development of clerical celibacy, Hunter, Marriage, Celibacy, and
Heresy, 213–219; Roger Gryson, Les origines du célibat ecclésiastique du premier au
septième siècle (Gembloux, 1970), and Gryson, “Dix ans de recherches sur les origins
du célibat ecclésiastique: Reflexions sur les publications des années 1970–1979,”
Revue théologique de Louvain 11 (1980): 157–185; rules of clerical celibacy remained
only modestly effective throughout late antiquity and the early Middle Ages: James
Brundage, Law, Sex, and Christian Society in Medieval Europe (Chicago, 1987), 150.
40. In general, see Harper, “Family in Late Antiquity”; Judith Evans Grubbs,
“Pagan and Christian Marriage: The State of the Question,” JECS 2 (1994):
361– 412; Manlio Sargenti, “Matrimonio cristiano e società pagana: Spunti per una
ricera,” Studia et documenta historiae et iuris 51 (1985): 367–391; on monogamy:
Aug. De bon. coniug. 7.7; compare CJ 1.9.7 (393); for Jewish polygamy, see Michael
Satlow, Jewish Marriage in Antiquity (Princeton, 2001), 188–192; Tal Ilan, Jewish
Women in Greco-Roman Palestine (Tübingen, 1996); “principal affair”: Aster. Amas.
Hom. 5.2.3; on monogamy, see Walter Scheidel, “A Peculiar Institution? Greco-
Roman Monogamy in Global Context,” History of the Family 14 (2009): 280–291.
41. On Chrysostom’s corpus generally, see Wendy Mayer, The Homilies of St.
John Chrysostom, Provenance: Reshaping the Foundations (Rome, 2005); on the
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 6 2 – 1 6 7
Making of Marriage in Roman North Africa,” JECS 11 (2003): 63– 85; Paulinus:
Paulin. Nol. Carm. 25, ll. 199–232; with Henri Crouzel, L’Église primitive face au
divorce, du premier au cinquième siècle (Paris, 1971); Verona Sacramentary: Ritzer,
Le mariage, 238–246; for the late triumph of Christian marriage ceremonies: Pierre
Daudet, L’Établissement de la compétence de l’Église en matière de divorce & de
consanguinité, France, Xème–XIIème siècles (Paris, 1941); Georges Duby, Medieval
Marriage: Two Models from Twelfth- Century France (Baltimore, 1978); and esp.
Pierre Toubert, “L’institution du mariage chrétien, de l’antiquité tardive à l’an mil,”
in Morfologie sociali e culturali in Europa fra tarda antichità e alto Medioevo: 3–9
aprile 1997 (Spoleto, 1998), 503–553.
52. For Constantine’s social legislation, including the intermarriage prohibi-
tions (reflected but not instituted by CT 4.6.3), see Harper, Slavery in the Late
Roman World, 443– 455; Thomas McGinn, “The Social Policy of the Emperor
Constantine in Codex Theodosianus 4.6.3,” Tijdschrift voor rechtsgeschiedenis 67
(1999): 57–73; “wines of intemperance”: CT 9.7.1 (326); on Constantine’s reforms
of family law, see Evans Grubbs, Law and Family in Late Antiquity.
53. Reforms to adultery law: CT 9.7.2 (326) with Evans Grubbs, Law and
Family, 205–216; a woman and her own slave: CT 9.9.1 with Harper, Slavery in the
Late Roman World, 438– 441; G. Bassanelli Sommariva, “Brevi considerazioni su
CTh. 9, 7, 1,” AARC 14 (2003): 197–239, at 226–269; Beaucamp, Le statut,
1:141–145; Hier. Ep. 79.8; broader anxieties about women and slaves: Harper,
Slavery in the Late Roman World, 335–340.
54. CT 9.24.1 (326); Judith Evans Grubbs, “Abduction Marriage in Antiq-
uity”; Cam Grey, “Two Young Lovers: An Abduction Marriage and Its Conse-
quences in Fifth-Century Gaul,” CQ 58 (2008): 286–302.
55. “Comes to reflect”: McGinn, “Social Policy,” 69; Constantine on divorce:
CT 3.16.1 with Evans Grubbs, Law and Family, 228–232; Julian: Ambrosiast.
Quaest. vet. et nov. test. 115.12, with Antti Arjava, “Divorce in Later Roman Law,”
Arctos 22 (1988): 5–21, esp. 9–13.
56. New limits in the west: CT 3.16.2; in 448, with the adoption of Theodo-
sius II’s novels, the east’s more liberal standard temporarily became law in the west,
but in 452 Valentinian III returned again to the restrictive standard, which would
remain the last word of Roman law on divorce in the west: Nov. Val. 35.11; Michael
Memmer, “Die Ehescheidung im 4. und 5. Jahrhundert n. Chr,” in Iurisprudentia
universalis: Festschrift für Theo Mayer-Maly zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. M. Schermaier
et al. (Cologne, 2000), 489–510; compromise: CJ 5.17.8.
57. Harper, “The Family”; Joëlle Beaucamp, “L’Égypte byzantine: Biens des
parents, biens du couple?,” in Eherecht und Familiengut in Antike und Mittelalter,
ed. D. Simon (Munich, 1989), 61–76; Roger Bagnall, “Church, State, and Divorce
in Late Roman Egypt,” in Florilegium Columbianum: Essays in Honor of Paul Oskar
Kristeller, ed. Karl-Ludwig Selig and Robert Somerville (New York, 1987), 41– 61.
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 7 1 – 1 7 8
process, the will as a faculty becomes a much clearer entity; see, in general,
Eleonore Stump, “Augustine on Free Will,” in The Cambridge Companion to
Augustine, ed. E. Stump and N. Kretzmann (Cambridge, 2001), 124–147.
70. “Conjugal intercourse”: Aug. De nupt. et conc. 1.12.13; “this law of sin”:
Aug. De nupt. et conc. 1.23.25; “not to be imputed” Aug. De nupt. et conc. 1.17.19;
“damnable crimes”: Aug. De nupt. et conc. 1.14.16; “venial sins”: Aug. De nupt. et
conc. 1.15.17.
71. “So not only”: Aug. De nupt. et conc. 1.34.39; “nevertheless”: Aug. De
nupt. et conc. 1.27.30; Dihle, Theory of Will, 123–144.
72. For the early period, see Glancy, “Obstacles to Slaves’ Participation in the
Corinthian Church”; Clem. Alex. Paid. 3.3.21; Lact. Inst. 6.23.7.
73. Angeliki Laiou, “Sex, Consent, and Coercion in Byzantium,” in Laiou,
Consent and Coercion, 109–221, though focused on the later period, is the only
treatment to recognize the importance of Basil; “if you ask”: Bas. Hom. psalm. 32.5
(PG 29: 336); Bernardi, La prédication des pères cappadociens, 27, places the sermon
sometime after AD 372.
74. “One prostitute”: Bas. Hom. prov. 9 (PG 31: 404); “sexual violations”: Bas.
Ep. 199.49, which explicitly covers the slave woman violated by her master.
75. On Gregory’s opposition to slavery, Greg. Nys. Hom. in Eccl. 4.1; see
Harper, Slavery in the Late Roman World, 345–347; Peter Garnsey, Ideas of Slavery
from Aristotle to Augustine (Cambridge, 1996), 81– 82.
76. Other sermons: Bas. (dub.) En. proph. Isaiah 5.158 (PG 30: 376–377);
Ps.-Mac. Hom. spirit. 27.2; Cyr. Alex. De ador. 14 (PG 68: 905).
77. On Julian’s exile, see esp. Lionel Wickham, “Pelagianism in the East,” in
The Making of Orthodoxy: Essays in Honour of Henry Chadwick, ed. R. Williams
(Cambridge, 2002), 200–213; CT 15.8.2; significantly, the drafter of the law was
none other than Antiochus Chuzon, the prime mover behind the creation of the
Theodosian Code: Honoré, Law in the Crisis of Empire, 112–118.
78. The phrase necessitas peccandi is completely alien to Roman law, and in Latin
nearly all occurrences appear in the Pelagian debates, especially in the polemics
between Augustine and Julian, which reverberated in Constantinople in 428; what
precedent there was for the policy lay in a series of late fourth-century constitutions
concerning women of the stage. By 371 the emperors exempted Christian women
from being forced on stage. This was a problematic form of coercion, because stage
performance could be defined as a public obligation and thus enforced by the state.
Policy would waver, especially when performers were scarce, but these laws
foreshadowed the state’s approach to prostitution: CT 15.7.1 (371); CT 15.7.2 (371);
CT 15.7.4 (380); CT 15.7.8 (381); with Ruth Webb, “Female Performers in Late
Antiquity,” in Greek and Roman Actors: Aspects of an Ancient Profession, ed. P.
Easterling and E. Hall (Cambridge, 2002), 282–303; and Richard Lim, “Convert-
ing the Un-Christianizable: The Baptism of Stage Performers in Late Antiquity,” in
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 8 5 – 1 8 7
Conversion in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages: Seeing and Believing, ed. K.
Mills and A. Grafton (Rochester, 2003), 84–126; compare Cornelia B. Horn, “The
Martyrdom of the Mimes,” The Harp 18 (2005): 55– 69; CT 15.8.1 (AD 342) was
not in fact a precedent (though the inclusion in the same title of the Theodosian
Code is something of an optical illusion that makes it appear so); that law belongs
to the struggle between paganism and Christianity that raged intermittently in the
decades after Constantine and reveals an ugly, private dimension to the conflict in
which pagan masters, in “a sort of mockery,” might deliberately sell into prostitu-
tion Christian slaves who refused the master’s religion.
79. E.g., Amalia Sicari, Prostituzione e tutela giuridica della schiava: Un
problema di politica legislativa nell’ impero romano (Bari, 1991), the only dedicated
treatment of the laws, is unaware of the Christian discourse lying behind the new
policy; Valerio Neri, I marginali nell’occidente tardoantico: Poveri, “ infames” e
criminali nella nascente società cristiana (Bari, 1993), at 223, argues that the church
ignored the social causes of prostitution.
80. On the taxation of prostitution, see McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality, and
the Law, 248–287; Nov. Theod. 18.
81. On the limitation to Constantinople, Beaucamp, Le statut de la femme à
Byzance, 4e–7e siècle, 1:125; Neri, I marginali, 217–219; Leo: CJ 11.41.7 + CJ 1.4.14
(457– 468); on the relation between the stage and the sex industry, Neri, I margin-
ali, 233–250; the connection was controversial but real: Lib. Or. 64.38, arguing in
defense of theater, has to contend that not all performers were prostitutes; compare
Choric. Gaz. Or. 32.7 and 32.29; Syn. Ep. 110; on the abolition of the chrysargyron,
see McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality, and the Law, 273; Evag. Hist. eccl. 3.39 offers a
breathless account of Anastasius’s virtue in eliminating the tax; Procop. Gaz.
Panegyr. 13 (PG 87c: 2812–2813); on the context of the panegyric, see Alain
Chauvot, Procope de Gaza, Priscien de Césarée, Panégyriques de l’empereur Anastase
Ier (Bonn, 1986), 97.
82. Iustin. Nov. 14 (535); already CJ 6.4.4.2 (531) reaffirmed the prohibition
on coerced prostitution; Johannes Irmscher, “Die Bewertung der Prostitution im
byzantinischen Recht,” in Gesellschaft und Recht im griechisch-römischen Altertum:
Eine Aufsatzsammlung, vol. 2, ed. Mihail Andreev (Berlin, 1969), 77–94 at 79;
Beaucamp, Le statut de la femme à Byzance, 4e–7e siècle, 1:127; compare Iustin. Nov.
51 (537); in CJ 5.4.23, Justin legalized intermarriage between senators and former
actresses; see David Daube, “The Marriage of Justinian and Theodora: Legal and
Theological Reflections,” Catholic University Law Review 16 (1966–1967): 380–
399; this mea sure was obviously instituted to suit the personal needs of Justinian
and Theodora, but the century of background behind the policy of Nov. 14 obviates
the need to explain it in speculative terms centered on the personal psychology of
the imperial couple.
83. Iustin. Nov. 14.
N OT E S TO PA G E S 1 8 7 – 1 9 9
84. Ibid.
85. Procop. De aedif. 1.9; Procop. Hist. arc. 17.5– 6.
4 . R E VO LUTI O N I Z I N G RO M A N C E I N TH E
L ATE C L A S S I C A L WO R LD
1. RSV Matt. 21:31; Ioh. Chrys. In Matt. 67:3– 4 (PG 58: col. 636); the
sermon obviously belongs to John’s Antiochene days, and possibly sometime around
the year 390: see Mayer, The Homilies of St. John Chrysostom, Provenance, 178; for
the interregional fame of an actress, see the third-century inscription: CIG 14.2324.
2. General treatments of the subgenre include Benedicta Ward, Harlots of the
Desert: A Study of Repentance in Early Monastic Sources (London, 1987); Lynda
Coon, Sacred Fictions: Holy Women and Hagiography in Late Antiquity (Philadel-
phia, 1997), 71–94; Patricia Cox Miller, “Is There a Harlot in This Text? Hagiogra-
phy and the Grotesque,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 33 (2003):
419– 435; Virginia Burrus, The Sex Lives of Saints: An Erotics of Ancient Hagiography
(Philadelphia, 2004), 128–159.
3. Stephen Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare
(Chicago, 1980), 5.
4. Xen Eph. 5.5.5.
5. “Why do I bewail”: Xen. Eph. 5.7.2; “without recourse”: Xen. Eph. 5.7.4; “I
remain”: Xen. Eph. 5.14.2; “easily persuaded”: Xen. Eph. 5.15.1.
6. Hist. Apoll. reg. Tyr. 33; on the text generally, see G. A. A. Kortekaas,
Commentary on the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri (Leiden, 2007); David Konstan,
“Apollonius, King of Tyre and the Greek Novel,” in The Search for the Ancient Novel,
ed. James Tatum (Baltimore, 1994), 173–182.
7. “Don’t you know”: Hist. Apoll. reg. Tyr. 33; “Listen to”: Hist. Apoll. reg.
Tyr. 34.
8. “Every indignity”: Ach. Tat. 8.5.5; Northup Frye, The Secular Scripture: A
Study of the Structure of Romance (Cambridge, Mass., 1976), 60.
9. Mikhail Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, ed. Michael
Holquist (Austin, 1981), 87–91; on the importance of mutual commitment, see
Konstan, Sexual Symmetry.
10. “No longer”: Chariton 8.1.4; “glory”: Chariton 1.1.1; “an astonishment”:
Xen. Eph. 1.2.5; “such a maiden”: Longus 4.32.1–2.
11. “Her beauty”: Chariton 1.10.7; “it is impossible”: Chariton 2.1.5; it is a
sentiment shared by the author, too: Chariton 2.3.10; Anthia: Xen. Eph. 2.9.4;
“even among”: Ach. Tat. 5.17.4; Hel. Aeth. 9.26.1, compare 1.19.5, 7.4.3.
12. Callirhoe: Chariton 1.11; 2.8.1; Anthia: Xen. Eph. 5.5.6; “if it is a death”:
Hel. Aeth. 1.8.3; Ach. Tat. 3.17.4, 5.19.2.
13. “The law of adultery”: Chariton 5.7.3; “if her husband”: Ach. Tat. 8.10.12.
N OT E S TO PA G E S 2 0 0 – 2 0 5
14. Frye, Secular Scripture, 47; the complication of the “moral facts” in a story
like Leucippe and Clitophon makes it hard to classify, just as Achilles Tatius would
have wanted it.
15. A survey of Tychē in the Roman period is overdue: Fernand Allègre, Étude
sur la déesse grecque Tyché: Sa signification religieuse et morale (Paris, 1899), is
focused on the earlier period; Charles Edwards, “Tyche at Corinth,” Journal of the
American School of Classical Studies at Athens 59 (1990): 529–542.
16. “Fortune loves invention”: Chariton 4.4.2; “I was nineteen”: Ach. Tat.
1.3.3; “Fortune as usual”: Ach. Tat. 6.3.1; “ceaseless turning”: Hel. Aeth. 6.7.3;
“destiny that everywhere chased”: 5.6.2; “making us into playthings”: Hel. Aeth.
5.6.3; “theatrics”: Hel. Aeth. 10.16.3; in general, Karl Kerényi, Die griechisch-
orientalische romanliteratur in religionsgeschichtlicher Beleuchtung: Ein Versuch mit
Nachbetrachtungen (Tübingen, 1927), 11–15.
17. Hel. Aeth. 7.25.6; 6.9.7.
18. “When you have”: Ach. Tat. 1.10.6; “hearty”: Ach. Tat. 1.10.7; “as soon as
her will”: Ach. Tat. 1.10.7.
19. “Would that”: Ach. Tat. 2.24.3; “Impugn”: Ach. Tat. 2.25.1–2.
20. Morales, Vision and Narrative, 83– 84.
21. Leucippe as kakodaimon: Ach. Tat. 6.20.1; prostitute: Ach. Tat. 8.16.1; this
reading of the prostitute is rather different from that given by Judith Perkins in
“Fictive Scheintod and Christian Resurrection,” Religion and Theology 13 (2006):
396– 418, at 404– 405, for whom Leucippe’s sacrifice is expressive of “the resilient
identity of the Greek elite in the context of Roman hegemony.”
22. A new era in the interpretation of Heliodorus was opened in 1982 by the
appearance of J. R. Morgan, “History, Romance, and Realism in the Aithiopika of
Heliodorus,” Classical Antiquity 1 (1982): 221–265, and J. J. Winkler, “The
Mendacity of Kalasiris and the Narrative Strategy of Heliodoros’ Aithiopika,” Yale
Classical Studies 27 (1982): 93–158; see esp. Ken Dowden, “Heliodoros: Serious
Intentions,” CQ 46 (1996): 267–285, whose reading of the story is similar to the
one offered here in that it posits religious intentions behind the clever narrative
structure of the novel; Heliodorus closest to Christian virginity: Ilaria Ramelli,
“Les vertus de la chasteté et de la piété dans les romans grecs et les vertus des
chrétiens: Le cas d’Achille Tatius et d’Héliodore dans les romans grecs,” in Passion,
vertus et vices, ed. Pouderon and Bost-Pouderon, 149–168; on the date, Bowersock,
Fiction as History, 149–160, remains convincing.
23. Swears he is inexperienced: Hel. Aeth. 3.17.4; pure: Hel. Aeth. 10.9.1; “will
be polluted”: Hel. Aeth. 7.25.7.
24. “If you have”: Hel. Aeth. 7.21.3; “surely”: Hel. Aeth. 7.21.4.
25. “Not for the use”: Hel. Aeth. 1.19.7; solemnly wed: Hel. Aeth. 10.40.2; on
the ending, Goldhill, Foucault’s Virginity, 120–121; J. R. Morgan, “A Sense of the
Ending: The Conclusion of Heliodoros’ Aithiopika,” TAPA 119 (1989): 299–320.
N OT E S TO PA G E S 2 0 6 – 2 0 9
1932); Perkins, Suff ering Self; above all, this discussion is indebted to Cooper, The
Virgin and the Bride ; on the Apocryphal Acts generally, see Hans-Josef Klauck, The
Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles: An Introduction (Waco, 2008 [2005]), and the
bibliography cited for the individual texts below.
32. Mart. Petr. 4– 6 (Lipsius, vol. 1, p. 84– 88); on the text in general, see Jan
Bremmer, “Aspects of the Acts of Peter: Women, Magic, Place and Date,” in The
Apocryphal Acts of Peter: Magic, Miracles and Gnosticism, ed. Jan Bremmer (Leuven,
1998), 1–20.
33. “The reputation”: Act. Thom. 88 (Lipsius vol. 2.1, p. 203); “I am your
husband”: Act. Thom. 114 (Lipsius vol. 2.1, p. 225); “delivered”: Act. Thom. 126
(Lipsius vol. 2.1, p. 235); “tried very much”: Act. Thom. 169 (Lipsius vol. 2.1,
p. 283).
34. Act. Paul. et Thec. 5 (Lipsius vol. 1, p. 238).
35. Act. Andr. gr. 57 (Prieur); see esp. Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride.
36. “She summoned”: Act. Andr. gr. 17 (Prieur).
37. Act. Andr. gr. 23 (Prieur).
38. Act. Paul. et Thec. (Lipsius vol. 1, p. 235ff.); on the Acts of Paul and Thecla
and ancient fiction, see Melissa Aubin, “Reversing Romance? The Acts of Thecla and
the Ancient Novel,” in Ancient Fiction and Early Christian Narrative, ed. Ronald
Hock, Bradley Chance, and Judith Perkins (Atlanta, 1998), 257–272.
39. Charles Altman, “Two Types of Opposition and the Structure of Latin
Saints’ Lives,” Medievalia et Humanistica 6 (1975): 1–11.
40. See Jeffrey Rubenstein, introduction to Creation and Composition: The
Contribution of the Bavli Redactors (Stammaim) to the Aggada, ed. Jeffrey Ruben-
stein (Tübingen, 2005), 1–20; and Alyssa Gray, “The Power Conferred by Distance
from Power: Redaction and Meaning in b. A.Z. 10a–11a,” in Rubenstein, Creation
and Composition, 23– 69, on the roles of the Bavli editors.
41. T. Bavli, A.Z. 18a, trans. A. Mishcon, The Babylonian Talmud, Nezikin
VII, ed. I. Epstein (London 1935), 93.
42. T. Bavli, A.Z. 18a, trans. Mishcon, 93; Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God:
Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford, 1999), 67–73;
Daniel Boyarin, “Virgins in Brothels: Gender and Religious Ecotypification,”
Estudios de literatura oral 5 (1999): 195–217; Rachel Adler, “The Virgin in the
Brothel and Other Anomalies: Character and Context in the Legend of Beruriah,”
Tikkun 3 (1988): 28–32, 102–105; compare her strategy of avoidance with Ach.
Tat. 4.7.7.
43. I have especially benefited from the interpretive example of Jeffrey
Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories: Narrative Art, Composition, and Culture (Baltimore,
1999); for a rich discussion of Greco-Roman narratives adapted by rabbinic
literature (though missing our scene in the brothel!), see David Stern, “The Captive
Woman: Hellenization, Greco-Roman Erotic Narrative, and Rabbinic Literature,”
N OT E S TO PA G E S 2 1 6 – 2 2 1
Poetics Today 19 (1998): 91–127; Sifr. Deut. 307, Sifre to Deuteronomy: An Analytical
Translation, vol. 2, ed. Jacob Neusner (Atlanta, 1987), 320; for the transmission of
Greco-Roman folklore and romance into Jewish literature, Joshua Levinson, “The
Tragedy of Romance: A Case of Literary Exile,” HTR 89 (1996): 227–244, has
many insightful comments.
44. T. Bavli, A.Z. 17a–b, trans. Mishcon, 87– 88.
45. T. Bavli, A.Z. 18a, trans. Mishcon, 92.
46. T. Bavli, A.Z. 18b, trans. Mishcon, 94; on Beruriah, see Daniel Boyarin,
Carnal Israel: Reading Sex in Talmudic Culture (Berkeley, 1993), 186–196.
47. Apophth. patr., coll. alph., John the Dwarf, 40; see the important discus-
sion of Lucien Regnault, Les Pères du désert: À travers leurs apophtegmes (Sablé-sur-
Sarthe, 1987), 47–51; as Regnault notes, the story is not included in some of the
early witnessess to the tradition (most importantly the sixth-century Latin transla-
tion), but this is not evidence against the story’s early circulation; Regnault accepts
the historicity of the incident.
48. “One hour”: Apophth. patr., coll. alph., John the Dwarf, 40.
49. T. Bavli, A.Z. 10b, 17a, trans. Mischon, 54, 88; on the Apophthegmata
patrum and their transmission, see William Harmless, Desert Christians: An
Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism (Oxford, 2004); Frances M.
Young with Andrew Teal, From Nicaea to Chalcedon: A Guide to the Literature and
Its Background, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids, 2010), 83–91; Derwas Chitty, “The Books
of the Old Men,” Eastern Churches Review 6 (1974): 15–21; Jean-Claude Guy,
Recherches sur la tradition grecque des Apophthegmata Patrum (Brussells, 1962);
Regnault, Les Pères du désert, 57– 83; Burton-Christie, The Word in the Desert,
76–79.
50. “Air is more pure”: Orig. Hom. in Luc. 11.4; other prostitutes in the
primitive strata include Apophth. patr., coll. alph., Ephrem 3; John the Dwarf 16;
John of the Cells 1; Timotheus 1; coll. anon. 43 (gruesome but important, which
Regnault, Les Pères du désert, 48– 49, sees as a sanitized version of the tale in John
the Dwarf 40) at François Nau, “Histoires des solitaires Égyptiens,” Revue de
l’Orient chrétien 12 (1907): 174; Serapion and the prostitute: Apophth. patr., coll.
alph., Serapion 1.
51. Repentance of the sinful woman in Christian homilies: e.g., Amphil. Icon.
Or. in mul. pecc. 4, discussed in Chapter 3; see also Hannah Hunt, “Sexuality and
Penitence in Syriac Commentaries on Luke’s Sinful Woman,” Studia Patristica 44
(2010): 189–194; Scott Johnson, “The Sinful Woman: A memra by Jacob of Serug,”
Sobornost 24 (2002): 56– 88; Sebastian Brock, “The Sinful Woman and Satan: Two
Syriac Dialogue Poems,” Oriens Christianus 72 (1988): 21– 62; François Graffin,
“Homélies anonymes sur la pécheresse,” L’Orient Syrien 7 (1962): 175–222; Lib.
Prog. 11.18; with Craig A. Gibson, Libanius’s Progymnasmata: Model Exercises in
Greek Prose Composition and Rhetoric (Atlanta, 2008), 402– 405.
N OT E S TO PA G E S 2 2 2 – 2 2 9
52. Albert Gayet, Antinoë et les sépultures de Thaïs et Sérapion (Paris, 1902);
Florence Calament, La révélation d’Antinoé par Albert Gayet: Histoire, archéologie,
muséographie, 2 vols. (Cairo, 2005), has brilliantly reconstructed the archaeologist’s
work, esp. 125; Nancyt Arthur Hoskins, The Coptic Tapestry Albums and the
Archaeologists of Antinoé, Albert Gayet (Seattle, 2004), 10–11.
53. François Nau, Histoire de Thaïs: Publication des textes grecs et de divers autres
textes et versions (Paris, 1903).
54. To make matters more complicated, at least by the seventh century Syriac
versions of the story credited Bessarion with her rescue! See E. A. Wallis Budge, The
Sayings and Stories of the Christian Fathers of Egypt: The Paradise of the Holy Fathers,
vol. 1 (London, 2002 [1904]), 140–142.
55. BHG 1695–1697; although Nau’s date is not unreasonable, and likely
correct, it rested on nothing more than Nau’s instincts about the style and spirit of
the work. The only hard terminus ante quem is the eleventh-century manuscript at
Paris that preserves the Life of Thais; but a fifth- or sixth-century date secured the
priority of Serapion as the monk who saved Thais and thus bolstered the possibility
of a connection with the mummies of Antinoe and the legendary saints.
56. Nau, Histoire de Thaïs, 40.
57. Ibid., 42– 48.
58. Ibid., 50– 62.
59. On Pelagia, BHG 1478; Hippolyte Delehaye, The Legends of the Saints: An
Introduction to Hagiography (Whitefish, 2006 [1905]), 197–204; for the Greek text,
see Bernard Flusin, “Les textes grecs,” in Pélagie la pénitente: Métamorphoses d’une
légende, 2 vols., ed. Pierre Petitmengin (Paris, 1981–1984); for the Syriac, BHO
919; Sebastian Brock and Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Holy Women of the Syrian Orient
(Berkeley, 1987), 40– 62.
60. “First lady”: Vit. Pelag. 4; see Lim, “Converting the Un-Christianizable,”
94–98.
61. Hel. Aeth. 2.25.1; on the romantic elements in the Life of Pelagia, see esp.
Z. Pavlovskis, “The Life of St. Pelagia the Harlot: Hagiographic Adaptation of
Pagan Romance,” Classical Folia 30 (1976): 138–149.
62. Vit. Pelag. 24.
63. Ibid., 38.
64. Pilgrim: Anton. Plac. Itin. 16; on the tomb, Ora Limor, “The Tomb of
Pelagia: Sin, Repentance, and Salvation on the Mount of Olives,” Cathedra
[Hebrew] 118 (2006): 13– 40; Ora Limor, “Sharing Sacred Space: Holy Places in
Jerusalem between Christianity, Judaism and Islam,” in In Laudem Hierosolymitani:
Studies in Crusades and Medieval Culture in Honour of Benjamin Z. Kedar, ed. Iris
Shagrir, Ronnie Ellenblum, and Jonathan Riley-Smith (Aldershot, 2007), 219–231;
on the literary afterlife of Pelagia, see Andrew Beresford, The Legends of the Holy
Harlots: Thaïs and Pelagia in Medieval Spanish Literature (Rochester, 2007).
N OT E S TO PA G E S 2 2 9 – 2 4 0
65. BHG 5– 8; BHO 16–17; I have used the translation of Brock and Harvey,
Holy Women of the Syrian Orient, 27–39.
66. Vit. Mar. (nept. Abr.) 17; Burrus, Sex Lives of Saints, 134.
67. Vit. Mar. (nept. Abr.) 19–29.
68. BHG 1041–1044; for the Vit. Mar. Aeg., I have used the Greek text in PG
87; on the narrative, and its antecedents, see esp. Maria Kouli, “Life of St. Mary of
Egypt,” in Holy Women of Byzantium: Ten Saints’ Lives in English Translation, ed.
Alice-Mary Talbot (Washington, D.C., 1996), 65–93; in the manuscripts, the Vit.
Mar. Aeg. is attributed to Sophronius (AD 560– 638), patriarch of Jerusalem; the
attribution is possible: Paul B. Harvey, “ ‘A Traveler from an Antique Land’:
Sources, Context, and Dissemination of the Hagiography of Mary the Egyptian,”
in Egypt, Israel, and the Ancient Mediterranean World: Studies in Honor of Donald B.
Redford, ed. Gary Knoppers and Antoine Hirsch (Leiden, 2004), 479– 499, is
brilliant on the antecedents to the Life, though without discussion of the family of
similar penitent prostitutes; F. Delmas, “Remarques sur la Vie de Sainte Marie
l’Égyptienne,” Échos d’ Orient 4 (1900): 35– 42; on the afterlife of the story, see,
e.g., Silvia Brusamolino, La Leggenda di Santa Maria Egiziaca: Nella redazione
pavese di Arpino Broda (Milaon, 1992); Erich Poppe and Bianca Ross, eds., The
Legend of Mary of Egypt in Medieval Insular Hagiography (Dublin, 1996); Peter
Dembowski, ed., La Vie de sainte Marie l’Égyptienne: Versions en ancien et en moyen
français (Geneva, 1977); Konrad Kunze, Studien zur Legende der heiligen Maria
Aegyptiaca im deutschen Sprachgebiet (Berlin, 1967).
69. Vit. Mar. Aeg. 18 (PG 87: col. 3709–3712).
70. Compare Cox Miller, “Is There a Harlot in This Text?”
71. Vit. Mar. Aeg. 19–21 (PG 87: col. 3712).
72. Vit. Mar. Aeg. 22–23 (PG 87: col. 3712–3713).
73. Vit. Mar. Aeg. 36 (PG 87: col. 3721–3714).
74. For the text, Anne Alwis, Celibate Marriages in Late Antique and Byzantine
Hagiography: The Lives of Saints Julian and Basilissa, Andronikos and Athanasia, and
Galaktion and Episteme (London, 2011); Frye, Secular Scripture, 13.
75. Further evidence that penitent prostitutes were a live issue in the first half
of the sixth century survives in the eastern conciliar collections of the period, which
show that they were a controversial element in ecclesiastical politics: see Collectio
Sabbaitica contra acephalos et origeniastas destinata 5 (ACO 3.1) 96 and 107.
CO N C LU S I O N
1. Ioh. Mosch. Prat. spir. 97; compare Ioh. Mosch. Prat. spir. 14.
2. Ioh. Cass. Coll. 15.10.
3. Foucault’s thoughts can be found, e.g., in Carrette, Religion and Culture,
188–197; in general see Elizabeth A. Clark, “Foucault, the Fathers, and Sex,” Journal of
N OT E S TO PA G E S 2 4 1 – 2 4 3
the American Academy of Religion 56 (1988): 619– 641; “heat of the body”: Ioh. Cass.
Coll. 12.6; degrees of chastity: Ioh. Cass. Coll. 12.7–8; on the Christian discourse of
nocturnal emissions, see esp. David Brakke, “The Problematization of Nocturnal
Emissions in Eary Christian Syria, Egypt, and Gaul,” JECS 3 (1995): 419– 460.
4. Frequency of emissions: Ioh. Cass. Coll. 2.23; compare Inst. 6.20;
inspection by monastic elders: Ioh. Cass. Coll. 2.10; “he is found”: Ioh. Cass. Coll.
12.8; chastity vs. abstinence: e.g., Ioh. Cass. Coll. 12.10.
5. Greg. Tur. Hist. 6.36.
6. Justifiable homicide: Cass. Var. 1.37 (AD 507/511); Athalaric’s edict: Cass.
Var. 9.18 (AD 533/4); prostitutes in Visigothic law: Lex. Vis. 3.4.17; sex between
men: Lex. Vis. 3.5.4; Byzantine law: Eclog. 17.19–21; with Angeliki Laiou, “Sex,
Consent, and Coercion in Byzantium,” in Consent and Coercion, ed. Laiou,
109–221, at 117–126.
7. Aristaenetus: Ep., see Anna T. Drago, Aristeneto: Lettere d’amore (Lecce,
2007); Ioh. Lyd. De magis. 3.62 (Bandy 230).
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my gratitude to the many friends, teachers, and colleagues
who have contributed to the completion of this book. Over the years, generous
audiences at Harvard University, Dumbarton Oaks, Cambridge University, the
University of Missouri, Princeton University, and the Society of Biblical Literature
have heard parts of this argument and provided valuable feedback. My friends
Scott Johnson and Greg Smith have been continuous sources of ideas and inspira-
tion. Christian Laes has always shared his work and his ideas, much to my benefit.
I am eternally in the debt of my teachers, Rufus Fears, Michael McCormick, and
Christopher Jones, all of whom will recognize, I hope, their influence in whatever
is valuable in this book.
In numerous ways my alma mater and employer, the University of Oklahoma,
has made this book possible. Audiences in Classics, Judaic Studies, and Modern
Languages and Literature have listened to various parts of the book and offered
stimulating conversation. I would like to thank Jordan Shuart and Jill Chance for
very capable research assistance and the Honors College for enabling such assis-
tance. The staff at Bizzell Library— especially in circulation and interlibrary loan—
have been astonishingly generous with a difficult patron. My Department and
its chairman, Sam Huskey, have offered unwavering support, as has the entire
A C K N OW L E D G M E N T S
administration, most of all President David Boren. To my friends who make the
University of Oklahoma an intellectually lively place, especially on Fridays, I am
grateful—Kevin Butterfield, Rangar Cline, Don Maletz, Jason Houston, Justin
Wert, Luis Cortest, David Anderson, Kermyt Anderson, Jonathan Havercroft,
Erik Braun, David Chappell, Eric Lomazoff, Amber Rose, Janet Ward, Dustin
Gish, Jane Wickersham, David Wrobel, and Andrew Porwancher.
It has been a pleasure working with Sharmila Sen and the staff of Harvard Uni-
versity Press. I am grateful to the anonymous reader who made a number of in-
valuable suggestions. Above all, I would like to express my gratitude to Glen
Bowersock, whose thoughtful guidance has made this a much better book; I have
learned much from him about late antiquity in general and literature in particular.
It is an honor to be included in the Revealing Antiquity series. Of course, all re-
maining infelicities and errors are my own stubborn fault.
Lastly, I thank my family for their continuous support. Mom, Haley, and
Lance are always there for me. My daughter Sylvie is perfect, and she has taught
me so much already. The book is dedicated to my amazing wife Michelle, to;
kavllo~ oujk ajnqrwvpinon ajlla; qei`on. Without her love and support it could
never have been written.
Index
Achilles Tatius, 9–10, 19–23, 37–38, 44, 51, Apologetic literature, 13, 83, 100–107,
52–53, 58, 70–71, 77–79, 80, 82, 99, 107, 117–118, 121, 127, 135–136, 176,
113–114, 123–125, 166, 182, 197, 221
201–204, 205, 231, 234–235 Aristaenetus, 243
Actors/actresses, 48, 186, 192, 218, 219, Artemidorus, 28, 146,
226–228 Artemis, 51, 86, 234
Acts, apocryphal, 17, 106–107, 206–213 Astrology, 13, 31, 83, 99, 122–129, 140,
Adultery, 20, 32, 35, 39, 42– 44, 46, 47, 144, 151, 175
55–56, 67, 74, 90, 97, 100–101, 104, 105, Athenagoras, 103–104, 111
108, 113, 114, 131, 143–146, 148, 155, Athens, 25, 51, 68, 80, 108,
162–165, 168, 170, 173, 175, 179, 188, Augustine, 4, 49, 118, 140, 154, 160, 161,
199, 241–242 165, 166, 167, 172–174, 175–180,
Aelius Aristides, 59 183–184, 238–239
Ambrose of Milan, 165 Augustus, 28, 38–39, 43, 64, 148, 168
Anastasius, 186 Avodah Zarah, 214–217, 220
Androgyny, 33, 96, 147
Antinous, 27–28 Bardaisan, 124–128, 130, 175
Aphrodite, 23, 30, 37, 53, 58, 65, 67, 70, 86, Basil of Caesarea, 144, 181–184
87, 93, 135, 221, baths/bathing, 42, 47, 53, 56, 60, 98,
Apocalypse of Peter, 99 207
INDEX
Caesarius of Arles, 167 Fate, 11, 14, 16, 19, 20–21, 37–38, 51, 72,
Caracalla, 126 77, 82, 86, 117–132, 151, 174, 182, 194,
Cassius Dio, 42– 43, 126 195–196, 201, 203, 211, 213, 231, 235,
Chariton, 123, 197–199 244
Chrysippus, 120 Firmicus Maternus, 151–153
Cicero, 38, 64, 148, 153 First Corinthians, 13, 86–94, 106, 108–109,
Cinaedus. See Kinaidos. 116, 159, 179
Claudius, 27 Fornication. See porneia
Clement of Alexandria, 11, 36, 67, 84– 85, Fortune. See fate
102, 105–117, 118–119, 126, 163, Foucault, Michel, 2, 24, 239–240
179–180, 239 Free will, 3– 4, 7, 11, 13–14, 20, 82– 83, 86,
Clementine Recognitions, 130–131, 175 117–132, 140, 172–190, 213
Commodus, 27 Frye, Northup, 196, 199, 234
Constans, 152–153, 155
Constantine, 2, 15, 134, 136–138, 140, Galen, 31, 57–59, 69, 122
151–152, 155, 168–171, 174 Gnostics/gnosticism, 13, 83, 118–119, 122,
Constantinople, 156, 158, 161, 164, 175, 126, 140, 175
183, 186–187 Gregory of Nyssa, 144–145, 182
Corinth, 47, 51, 68, 81, 86– 87, 91 Gregory of Tours, 206–207, 211–212,
Council of Ephesus, 176 241–242
Courtesan, 25, 36, 47– 48, 59, 125, 192, 227
Cyril of Alexandria, 182–183, 184 Hadrian, 25, 27–28, 264n15
Cyril of Jerusalem, 175 Heliodorus, 10, 123, 125–126, 130, 201,
204–206, 227, 235
Dio Chrysostom, 5, 28, 47, 63, 73–75, 77, Herodes Atticus, 28, 51
114, 115, 147, Hetaira. See Courtesan
Diogenes, 59 History of Apollonius King of Tyre,
Dionysus, 58, 86, 114 195–196
Divorce, 44, 62, 140, 161, 163–164, Homosexuality, 2, 3, 7, 11, 12, 15, 68, 85,
169–171 89, 93–99, 111, 114–115, 132, 135–136,
Domitian, 27 139, 141–158; male, 22–37; female, 32,
Dreams, 27, 28, 112, 123, 125, 145–146, 35–36, 95, 143, 146
202, 225, 227, 230,
Infamia, 5, 34, 150–151, 152–153
Eleuthera, 20, 39, 162 Ius trium liberorum, 64
Elvira, Council of, 136, 143–144
Encratism, 53, 105–107, 109–110, 112, 115, Jerome, 105–106, 159–160, 165, 169, 178
160 Jesus, 14, 87, 104, 108, 164, 175, 191, 209,
Epictetus, 72, 75–77, 120–122, 128–129, 216, 219
179, 239 Jews/Judaism, 12, 16–17, 40, 54, 64, 69,
Eunuchs, 27, 52, 56, 104, 108, 113, 228 88–90, 95–97, 105, 161, 213–218, 220,
Eusebius, 126, 174 224, 229
Exogamy, 89–90 John Cassian, 239–240
INDEX
Plutarch, 23, 29–31, 42, 44, 46, 65, 69, 81 175, 180–187, 194, 195, 197–199, 201,
Pompeii, 31, 66– 67 203, 204, 206–207, 211–212, 214,
Porneia, 3, 11–12, 15, 82, 85, 88–92, 98, 226–228, 242–243
100, 102, 104–106, 108–109, 113–116, Sophronius, 238
127–128, 132, 139–140, 143, 158, Sōphrosynē 5, 7, 41– 42, 45, 51, 53, 73
163–164, 175, 179, 182, 221, 233, 237, Soranus, 62
241, 243 Stoicism, 5, 10, 11, 21, 42, 47, 55, 71–78,
Porphyry, 124, 174 82, 101, 102, 108, 120–122, 124, 126,
Prices, 49, 185, 195–196 128, 140, 146, 161, 175, 239
Procopius of Caesarea, 15, 156, 188 Stuprum, 148–149, 165, 186
Prostitution, 3, 7– 8, 12, 15–16, 18, 35,
46–51, 60, 74–75, 85, 89, 92, 102–103, Tatian, 105–106, 109–110, 118, 121
114, 136, 138, 140, 142–143, 151, 153, Taxation, 46, 103, 185–186, 191
154–155, 164–166, 181–189, 191–236, Tertullian, 100–102
237–238, 242 Thais, 222–226
Prudentius, 148 Thecla, 81, 129, 212–213
Ptolemy, 31–35, 114, 123–124, 125 Theodora, 188
Pudicitia, 5, 7, 8, 41– 42, 45, 186 Theodoric, 242
Pythagoras/Pythagoreanism, 73, 102, 104, Theodosius I, 141–142, 153–154
108, 111 Theodosius II, 8, 140, 155, 183–186, 187,
188, 221, 235
Rape, 19–20, 43, 169, 172, 202–203 Theodosian dynasty, 15, 155, 189, 225
Recognitions. See Clementine Recognitions Tiberius, 27
Regilla, 51–52 Toga, 43, 54
Romans, Epistle to the, 93–97, 114, 145, Trajan, 28, 76
146, 154 Tychē. See Fate