NO REGRETS

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 No Regrets
Remorse in Classical Antiquity

LAUREL FULKERSON

1
 3
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# Laurel Fulkerson 2013
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For John Marincola
Who’s sorry now?
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 Acknowledgements

Being both peripatetic and garrulous by nature, I have talked a great

deal with a great many people about this project. Most have been
encouraging, many extremely helpful. Those who are disappointed
not to find their names mentioned below are warmly encouraged to
blame the lateness of the hour, the profusion of the drink, or other
external factors, as seems appropriate, rather than ingratitude.
First, for permission to reproduce or reframe things published
elsewhere, I thank the following journals: Proceedings of the Cam-
bridge Philological Society, Ramus, Latomus, and Illinois Classical
Studies. In nearly every case, the versions in this book are somewhat
different, though generally only in order to fit into the book’s argu-
ment. Article versions are also generally more detailed expositions of
the arguments contained herein. I wish here to record my obligations
to the numerous anonymous readers for the various articles spawned
by this project, most particularly those which never became articles
because the readers unknowingly convinced me that certain chapters
did not make much sense out of their context (or, in one case, simply
did not make much sense tout court). OUP’s readers also deserve
special thanks, for heading me back in the right direction. And Hilary
O’Shea has handled this project from start to finish with the finesse
and professionalism for which she is justly famous.
I have been fortunate to receive much institutional support. I thank
the Florida State University for a COFRS grant in 2009, a sabbatical in
2007–8, a Developing Scholar Award in 2008–9, and for providing me
with such exemplary colleagues, the National Endowment for the
Humanities for a Summer Stipend in 2004, and the University of
Cincinnati for a Tytus Fellowship in 2006; while I was there, Getzel
Cohen was a particular joy. I thank too the Fellows and Staff at Exeter
College, Oxford, especially Gregory Hutchinson, first for offering me a
Visiting Fellowship for 2007–8 and then for making my stay so pleas-
ant. I am also grateful to St Anne’s College, Oxford, for a Plumer
Fellowship for Trinity 2010, which allowed me to finish the book in
idyllic surroundings, the St Anne’s College Classical Society for an
extremely stimulating discussion during that term, and Matthew
Leigh, who made both things possible. My further Oxonian obligations
viii Acknowledgements
are numerous, so I here acknowledge only the very most pressing: for
their hospitality and kindness during my numerous visits, I thank Scott
Scullion and Vasiliki Giannopoulou, Chris Pelling, Bob and Elly
Cowan, Rosie Wyles, and Peta Fowler. The Lower Reading Room
staff at the Old Bodleian Library in Oxford deserve more than my
thanks, but, as this is all I have to offer in return for the many hours we
have spent together (idyllic for me; for them I cannot say), I gratefully
do so. External support does not come without a posse of letter-writers,
so I wish to thank Alessandro Barchiesi, Douglas Cairns, John Corri-
gan, David Konstan, Chris Pelling, Daniel Pullen, and Gareth Williams
for praising me to others in a time-honoured, Second Sophistic fashion,
i.e. beyond what the strict truth might allow.
I am grateful too to invited audiences for the opportunity to
present various ideas: Davidson College (2006), Liverpool University
(2007), Exeter College, Oxford (2007), St Anne’s College, Oxford
(2008 and 2010), Durham University (2009), the Sub-Faculty Sem-
inar at Oxford (Trinity 2010), Yale University (2011), Concordia
College (2011), and Florida State University’s Langford Conference
(2012).
Those who are experts in individual areas treated in what follows
will undoubtedly find fault with my sins of bibliographical commis-
sion and omission; as I am well versed in the scholarship of only a
very few of the authors and time-periods here treated, I have almost
certainly missed things I ought to have read. I have attempted to
remedy this deficiency by badgering those who are expert in various
areas, but I am confident that what has resulted is by no means
complete, not least because once people got wind of my devious
scheme of taking advantage of their knowledge, phone calls and
emails began to go ignored. Indeed, of the numerous and frightening
pitfalls inherent in writing a book of this sort, none has been more
simultaneously daunting and pleasurable than tackling, one after
another, dozens of subjects, in no one of which I am an expert. For
the inevitable misunderstandings and oversimplifications that come
from this, I am painfully aware that I have nobody to blame but
myself. Still, there has been some light in my darkness, and my own
ignorance has enabled me to discover anew the generosity of col-
leagues and friends. For advice and bibliography on Homer, I thank
Douglas Cairns; on Greek tragedy, Allen Romano and Leon Golden;
on Greek and Roman historians and historiography, Jim Sickinger
and John Marincola; on Plato in particular, and the philosophical
 Acknowledgements ix
project in general, Svetla Slaveva-Griffin; on Greek and Roman
comedy, Kenneth Reckford; on Plutarch, Chris Pelling; on Julian
(who did not make the cut, but still deserves mention), the remark-
ably learned David Levenson; and on Cicero, and for a wide variety of
bibliographic assistance, Gregory Hutchinson. I am grateful to Jan
Holland for teaching me enough to plough through the bibliography
on criminal offenders in a respectable fashion, and to Joe Bianco for
doing the same in the psychoanalytic literature. There are almost
certainly omissions in this list in particular; I have been the regular
recipient of extremely useful advice, which I have only later, upon
hearing it again from someone else (indeed, sometimes even a third
time!), been able to realize the soundness of. Bob Kaster generously
allowed me to look at his unpublished manuscript on paenitentia
(now available to all as part of Kaster 2005), and David Konstan
provided access to several articles and his book on ancient forgiveness
before their publication (the latter now Konstan 2010). Armand
D’Angour similarly offered up his manuscript on the Athenians and
the new, which came at a particularly fruitful time (now D’Angour
2011), Douglas Cairns was generous with forthcoming work on
Homer (Cairns 2011 and Allan and Cairns 2011), and Stephen
Hinds provided an early draft of his commentary on Tristia 1.3
which was very useful in thinking through that poem. Finally, con-
versations at key moments with Bob Kaster, David Konstan, Flore
Kimmel, and Paula Marincola, helped me to realize what this book
was trying to be about.
Pieces of this book have been read by various people at different
stages; none of the following should be blamed for the result, espe-
cially when, as often, they gave me better advice than I took: Douglas
Cairns, Tim Duff, Leon Golden, David Konstan, David Levenson,
Eleni Manolaraki, John Marincola, Chris Pelling, Kenneth Reckford,
Jim Sickinger, Jeff Tatum, and Gareth Williams.
Finally, a host of more personal obligations: I am grateful to Paul
Marty, whose idea this was in the first place (I hope he’s sorry!).
Frances Cairncross, Rector at Exeter College, provided the title.
I thank David Konstan for a wide variety of kind offices and encour-
agement, and especially for convincing me that a big book is a big evil.
In fact, all readers of this book should feel themselves indebted to
David for his heroic efforts in slimming this volume down from a
behemoth thirty-three intended chapters to its current, modest
length. Aline Kalbian has been an exemplary writing partner, and
x Acknowledgements
has shared generously of her time and advice. Michelle Walker
continues to offer a model of the life well lived, one which I hope
someday to emulate. My family has always been supportive, not least
in their reassurances that I could probably pull this hubristic project
off, and I continue to be grateful to them for not asking too often
when it would be finished. Jen Lenihan is an ideal travelling partner,
even now that we have moved firmly and irrevocably into midrange.
I thank too Joseph Bianco for his constant support, even and espe-
cially during times when it interrupted our own joint research; I have
always found him anxiolytic, particularly when we are making lists
and drinking various teas. John Marincola has done so much to keep
both this book and my humble self moving along at an appropriate
rate that I hope to have many more years to repay him. And, to clear
the record once and for all: my fascination with dreadful and irreme-
diable mistakes has nothing to do with him. Really.
 Contents

A Note on Citation xii

Abbreviations xiii

Introduction 1
Prequel: a penitent emperor 1
Emotions, remorse, and consistency 2
The shape of ancient remorse: vocabulary and definitions 12
Structure and outline of the book 45
1. Agamemnon, Achilles, and the Homeric Roots of Remorse 50
2. Neoptolemus and the Essential Elements of Remorse 66
3. Hermione’s Feigned Regret 80
4. Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Fruitless Remorse 97
5. Comedy Means (Almost) Never Having to Say
You’re Sorry 114
6. Ovid and the Coercion of Remorse from Above 133
7. Nero’s Degenerate Remorse 147
8. Command Performance: Mutiny in the Roman Army 161
9. Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 186
10. Conclusion 213
Late antiquity and the conversion of emotion 213
Final (re)considerations 217

References 220
Index Locorum 245
Index of Greek and Latin 259
Subject Index 260
 A Note on Citation

In the hopes that this book will be accessible to non-professional

classicists, I have chosen to cite ancient texts based upon the editions
in the Loeb Classical Library wherever they are available out of a
belief that they are the most regularly accessible to classicists and
(especially) those outside the field. The Loeb Classical Library offers
only selections from Libanius, so the text is instead taken from
Foerster. The places where my choice of text may cause difficulty
for readers using other editions are in the chapter subheadings in
Plutarch’s Lives and in Tacitus, and in Menander, which in the Loeb
differs slightly from other editions. Translations are all my own,
achieving an effortless clumsiness that will be the envy of all who
read them.
 Abbreviations

Aelian
VH Varia Historia
Aesch. Aeschylus
Eum. Eumenides
PV Prometheus Bound
Sup. Suppliant Maidens
Ambr. Ambrose
Ep. Letters
Ep. Ex. Epistulae extra collectionem
Andoc. Andocides
Antiph. Antiphon
App. Appian
BC Bellum Civile
Iber. Iberiaca
Lib. Libyaca
Mithr. Mithridatica
Ar. Aristophanes
Ran. Frogs
Arist. Aristotle
MM Magna Moralia
NE Nichomachean Ethics
Poet. Poetics
Rhet. Rhetoric
Arr. Arrian
Ath. Athenaeus
Aug. Augustine
CD City of God
Conf. Confessions
Aug. Augustus
RG Res Gestae
Caes. Caesar
Bell. Afr. African War
xiv Abbreviations
BC Civil Wars
BG Gallic Wars
Cic. Cicero
Ad Fam. Letters to Friends
Att. Letters to Atticus
Caec. Pro Caecina
Cael. Pro Caelio
Cat. In Catilinam
Cluent. Pro Cluentio
De Or. De Oratore
Fin. De Finibus
Inv. De Inventione
Leg. De Legibus
Mil. Pro Milone
Mur. Pro Murena
ND De Natura Deorum
Off. De Officiis
Para. Sto. Paradoxa Stoicorum
Phil. Philippics
Pis. In Pisonem
QF Letters to Quintus his Brother
Rab. Post. Pro Rabirio Postumo
Rosc. Amer. Pro Roscio Amerino
Rosc. Com. Pro Roscio Comoedo
Sen. De Senectute
TD Tusculan Disputations
Vat. In Vatinium
Verr. In Verrem
Codex Theod. Law Code of Theodosius
Curt. Curtius
Dio Cassius Dio (History of Rome)
Dio Dio Chrysostom (Orations)
Diod. Diodorus Siculus (Bibliotheke)
Dion. Hal. Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Roman Antiquities)
DK Diels-Kranz (Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker)
DSM IV Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
vol. iv
Epict. Epictetus
Ench. Handbook
 Abbreviations xv
Eur. Euripides
Andr. Andromache
Hercl. Heracles Mainomenos
Orest. Orestes
Frontin. Frontinus
Strat. Strategemata
Gorg. Gorgias (Helen)
Hdt. Herodotus (History of the Persian War)
Hes. Hesiod
WD Works and Days
Hesych. Hesychius (Alphabetical Collection of All Words)
Homer
Il. Iliad
Hor. Horace
Ep. Epistles
Odes Odes
Sat. Satires
John Chrysostom
Hom. Homilies
Josephus
BJ Bellum Judaicum
Justin
Epit. Epitome of Pompeius Trogus
Livy
Per. Periochae
LSJ Liddell, Scott, and Jones, Greek–English Lexicon
Lucian
De Salt. De Saltatione
Dial. Mort. Dialogi Mortuorum
Lucr. Lucretius (De Rerum Natura)
LXX Septuagint
Men. Menander
Dysk. Dyskolos
Epitrep. Epitrepontes
Sam. Samia
OLD Oxford Latin Dictionary
xvi Abbreviations
Ov. Ovid
Ars Ars Amatoria
EP Epistulae Ex Ponto
Met. Metamorphoses
Tr. Tristia
P.Oxy. Oxyrhynchus Papyri
Philo
Abr. On Abraham
Deus Quod Deus Sit Immutabilis
Fuga De Fuga et Inventione
Legat. Legation to Gaius
Praem. De Praemiis et Poenis
Q Gen. Questions and Answers on Genesis
Somn. De Somnis
Spec. De Specialibus Legibus
Virt. De Virtutibus
Philodem. Philodemus
de Ira On Anger
Pl. Plato
Alc. I Alcibiades I
Gorg. Gorgias
Phdr. Phaedrus
Prot. Protagoras
Rep. De Re Publica
Symp. Symposium
Plaut. Plautus
Asin. Asinaria
Aul. Aulularia
Bacch. Bacchides
Cas. Casina
Cist. Cistellaria
Men. Menaechmi
Merc. Mercator
Miles Miles Gloriosus
Most. Mostellaria
Rud. Rudens
Stich. Stichus
Trin. Trinummus
Pliny (the Elder)
NH Natural History
 Abbreviations xvii
Pliny (the Younger)
Ep. Epistulae
Plut. Plutarch
Alc. Life of Alcibiades
Alex. Life of Alexander
Ant. Life of Antony
Arat. Life of Aratus
Aristid. Life of Aristides
Artax. Life of Artaxerxes
Brut. Life of Brutus
Caes. Life of Caesar
Cam. Life of Camillus
Cat. Mai. Life of Cato the Elder
Cat. Min. Life of Cato the Younger
Cic. Life of Cicero
Cim. Life of Cimon
Coriolanus Life of Coriolanus
Crass. Life of Crassus
Dem. Life of Demosthenes
Demetr. Life of Demetrius
Dion Life of Dion
Fab. Max. Life of Fabius Maximus
G. Gracc. Life of Gracchus
Galba Life of Galba
Lucull. Life of Lucullus
Marius Life of Marius
Mor. Moralia*
Nic. Life of Nicias
Per. Life of Pericles
Philop. Life of Philopoemen
Phoc. Life of Phocion
Pol. Prec. Political Precepts
Pyrrhus Life of Pyrrhus
Quomodo Prog. Virt. How to Know you are Progressing in Virtue
Sera. On the Slow Vengeance of the Gods
Sert. Life of Sertorius
Sulla Life of Sulla
Syn. Aem./Timol. Comparison of Aemilius and Timoleon
Syn. Cimon/Lucull. Comparison of Cimon and Lucullus

*A number of the Plutarch’s Moralia are cited in the main text by title, but some are
simply cited as Mor. with the Stephanus number.
xviii Abbreviations
Syn. Nic./Crass. Comparison of Nicias and Crassus
Them. Life of Themistocles
Timol. Life of Timoleon
Virt. Alex. On the Virtues of Alexander
Polyb. Polybius (Histories)
Procopius
Anecd. Anecdotes
Prop. Propertius (Elegies)
Quint. Quintilian
Inst. Institutio Oratoria
Rufinus
HE Historia Ecclesiastica
Sallust
BC Bellum Catilinae
Jug. Bellum Jugurthinum
[Sallust]
In Cic. In Ciceronem
Sen. Seneca
Ben. De Beneficiis
Brev. Vit. De Brevitate Vitae
Clem. De Clementia
Cons. Pol. Consolatio ad Polybium
Cons. Helv. Consolatio ad Helviam
Ep. Mor. Epistulae Morales
Ira De Ira
Otio De Otio
Tranq. De Tranquilitate
Vita Beata De Vita Beata
SHA Scriptores Historiae Augustae
Soph. Sophocles
Ant. Antigone
Phil. Philoctetes
Sozomen
HE Historia Ecclesiastica
Stob. Stobaeus (Eclogae)
Suet. Suetonius
Aug. Life of Augustus
Cal. Life of Caligula
Claud. Life of Claudian
 Abbreviations xix
Dom. Life of Domitian
Galba Life of Galba
Jul. Life of Julius Caesar
Nero Life of Nero
Otho Life of Otho
Tib. Life of Tiberius
Tit. Life of Titus
Vit. Life of Vitellius
SVF Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta
Tac. Tacitus
Ann. Annals
Hist. Histories
Ter. Terence
Adelph. Adelphoe
Andr. Andria
Eun. Eunuchus
Heaut. Heautontimorumenos
Hec. Hecyra
Phorm. Phormio
Tert. Tertullian
De Paen. De Paenitentia
Theodoret
HE Historia Ecclesiastica
Thuc. Thucydides (History of the Peloponnesian War)
Val. Max. Valerius Maximus (Factorum ac Dictorum
Memorabilium)
Varro
Sat. Saturae Menippeae
Verg. Vergil
Aen. Aeneid
Ecl. Eclogues
Xen. Xenophon
Anab. Anabasis
Mem. Memorabilia
Zon. Zonaras
This page intentionally left blank
 Introduction

PREQUEL: A PENITENT EMPEROR

I begin my narrative at the end, with a deceptively simple case of

Christian metanoia (‘afterthought’, for now). In the year 390 ce, the
Christian emperor Theodosius flew into a giant rage (
N ¼
æ
Oæªc, Sozomen HE 7.25) and issued an order to massacre the
Thessalonicans, who had killed the commander of the army garrison
there during a riot over an imprisoned charioteer.1 We are told that
he soon thought better of the order and wanted to countermand it,
but was too late. So it is quite possible that he had sincere feelings of
what we would call remorse (as indeed, Sozomen suggests).
More important than his feelings, however, because more know-
able, is the public result of Theodosius’ proclamation. Because large
numbers of Christians had been killed, Sozomen tells us that Am-
brose, the Bishop of Milan, held that it was not proper (P Ł
Øe) for
the emperor to enter the church, since he had been the cause of sin, at
least not before he had felt/displayed metanoia (æe 
ÆÆ).
Ambrose wrote a letter to Theodosius stating that anger was an illness
of the soul, which could be expiated by penance, and excommuni-
cated him from the Church (B KŒŒºÅ Æ
xæ

, ŒÆd IŒØÅ
KÅ
, Ep. 51).
We do not have Theodosius’ version of events, but Sozomen tells
us that, ı ª
ªg  æ
ç
 e B 
ÆÆ Œ



1
Other sources: Ambrose Ep. Ex. 11 (Maur. 51); Ambrose De Obitu Theodosii 34;
Theodoret HE 5.11 and 5.18; Rufinus HE 2.18 and 11.18 (who de-emphasizes
Ambrose’s role); Paulinus V. Ambr. 24–5; Augustine CD 5.26. For discussion of the
incident, see McLynn (1994) and Gaddis (2005: 147–8), and, for contextualization of
the relationship between the two men, P. Brown (1992: 107–13).
2 Introduction
(becoming conscious [of what he had done], he was pricked by the
goads of metanoia, and he turned back around), and then c
IÆæÆ Kd B KŒŒºÅ Æ ‰ºªÅ
(confessed his sin in the
church [at Milan], 7.25). He also demonstrated his metanoia in a
physical way, by not wearing the traditional imperial purple, as if in
mourning (x ª

ŁH).2 Finally, he passed a law providing for a
thirty-day hiatus between any imperial order to kill and its enact-
ment, so that there would be an opportunity for pity and metameleia
(Kºø
fi ήd 
Æ
º
Æ fi ª
 ŁÆØ åæÆ).3
This incident may seem to require little by way of discussion: it fits
nicely into an easily comprehensible, modern-sounding Christian
narrative of sin, repentance, and amendment. But readers are warned
that they do not know the whole story: I shall suggest that the
Christian lens is only one of several available paradigms with which
to interpret the events described, and that an understanding of
ancient remorse offers several other, more persuasive interpretations
of these events. I offer further discussion at the end of this book
(pp. 213–17), and provide in the remainder of it fuller argumentation
of the various theses that support my own interpretation of events.

EMOTIONS, REMORSE, AND CONSISTENCY

There is no better time to get emotional: both the discipline of classics

and academia as a whole are experiencing an extraordinary flowering
in emotions research. Indeed, the study of emotions seems to be
replacing intellectual history as a primary field of scholarly interest,
with hundreds of books being written from the point of view of
philosophy, anthropology, social work, psychology, law, biology,
and other related disciplines, and numerous studies of particular
emotions in modern Western society, in other cultures, and in soci-
eties of the past. So too, popular books on individual emotions (anger
management, happiness-seeking) are more regularly to be found then
ever before.

2
See too Rufinus HE 11.18, who notes that the emperor appeared absque
regali fastigio.
3
Codex Theod. 9.40.13, which Peter Brown (1992) suggests comes before, rather
than after, his penance.
 Introduction 3
Because of the ready availability of basic introductory material,
I eschew a detailed introduction to the history of the history of emo-
tions and related disciplines, outlining instead only those issues that
have the most relevance to my themes.4 There is no consensus of
opinion even about what emotions are (mental? physiological?
both?), let alone how they happen or whether they are good or bad
(or, indeed, what these categories might mean).5 So too, there is heated
debate about the extent to which emotions are embodied and so, at
least potentially, universal6 versus the importance of the roles played by
culture and society.7 Recent work has attempted to valorize the emo-
tions as key features of mental life, rather than viewing them as
dangerous and irrational impulses competing with it.8
Controversy aside, most would agree that an emotion is comprised
of a perception about the world combined with a judgement about
what it means for me (i.e. ‘taking it personally’, in the broadest
possible sense).9 The extent to which I feel an emotion about some-
thing is therefore an index of how much it matters to me; perhaps my
range is large enough to include feeling pity for victims of natural
disasters on the other side of the world, or perhaps it is too small even
to become angered about a slight against my spouse. Many, but not

4
Four books have been of central importance to me in this project. The primary
inspiration for my own work, an exemplary study of ancient anger management, is
Harris (2001). The survey of theories and approaches in the Introduction to Konstan
(2006), to which I refer the interested reader, more or less obviates the necessity for
further introduction to emotions within the discipline of classics. These two books
and Cairns (1993a)—a forerunner of the sub-discipline of emotions in antiquity—and
Kaster (2005) are each grounded in the ancient languages, and succeed in integrating
specific data with general conclusions. For areas outside classics, see the notes to the
remainder of this Introduction.
5
For a time, it was fashionable in modern scholarship to divide emotions into
those which were ‘adaptive’ and those which were not (see e.g. Solomon 1976: passim).
But in general, most emotions are believed either to be useful to the proper function-
ing of the organism, or to have once been so.
6
See Damasio (2004: 5, 137–50) on the physical locations in the brain of certain
emotions and how those with damaged emotional responses have difficulty making
decisions and functioning in everyday life. This does not, of course, mean that all
people must feel emotions in precisely the same way.
7
Here anthropology has been of tremendous use. From a large and rich field,
I single out Briggs (1970), Harré (1986), Lakoff (1987), and Lutz (1988), as especially
instructive.
8
See e.g. DeSousa (1987: passim, esp. pp. xv–xvi, 16, 243, 301, 319) and Nussbaum
(2001: 1, 117–18) for two careful arguments about the necessity of taking emotions
seriously.
9
For this formulation, see Shields (2002: 143).
4 Introduction
all, emotions bring with them a measurable physical reaction, and
many of them seem to be associated with a particular somatic feeling
(although that feeling can and does vary by culture). Emotions are
usually distinguished from moods in that emotions must have an
object: one can certainly be in a bad mood for no particular reason,
but one must be angry about something.10
A certain number of emotions have been identified as ‘basic’ or
‘universal’, as appearing in all human societies known to us.11 Some
of them (anger and fear, for instance) are very likely to be universally
human, as they correspond to universal situations. Fear might have
helped our ancestors avoid bears, and anger might have helped them
when they were not successful in avoidance. But in addition to the
‘survival instinct’ such emotions reflect, there is also a complex
accretion of cultural baggage attached to even the most basic emo-
tions.12 There are also many emotions which do not translate into
universals, which are felt only in certain societies by certain kinds of
people in certain situations. It is this more complicated variant of
emotional response that is interesting for cross-cultural studies, as it
has the potential to educate us about otherwise invisible nuances. To
stick with a ‘basic’ emotion, learning who is allowed to become angry
at whom and for how long, what appeases anger, and what happens to
those who are inappropriately angry, can provide a wealth of infor-
mation about the unwritten rules of a society, and therefore about its
core values.13 An implicit, but foundational, belief behind the writing
of this book is that feelings matter, even, and perhaps especially, when
they are opaque to us. They can explain why things happen the way

10
Much of this modern discussion would be at least comprehensible to ancients;
see Nussbaum (1994: 369) for ancient definitions, and 376–9 on emotions as judge-
ments about the content of a proposition. Aristotle’s Rhetoric is the single best source
on ancient emotion; he outlines a variety of emotions and their causes (see Konstan
(2006) for detailed discussion of how Aristotle’s emotions map, and fail to map, onto
our own).
11
See Sedgwick and Frank (1995) on Tomkins’s seven basic affects, measured with
a series of photographs showing human faces distorted into particular configurations.
On how the universality of emotions plays into language, see Wierzbicka (1992).
12
See e.g Elias (1978–82: 60) on the ways table manners develop over time, such
that disgust (another ‘basic’ emotion) can now be felt when one observes someone
using a knife as a fork.
13
See too Goffman (1971) on a culture’s ‘display rules’, which regulate norms of
behaviour.
 Introduction 5
they do, or, in the elegant formulation of MacMullen (2003: 50–1),
they matter because they motivate behaviour.14
Traditional wisdom says that one cannot control one’s feelings, so
it might be argued that such studies as I have suggested will reveal
only the most banal and personal of details. But most cultures have no
difficulty making clear which emotions are and are not appropriate to
feel; child-rearing in all societies is a more or less formalized process
of refining emotional response.15 Mature individuals in the Western
world who do not feel and display emotions appropriately can be
deemed insane and sent to institutions to learn the correct emotional
responses, or simply isolated from society in less formal ways.16 Thus
emotions, while they may feel personal and embodied, are not en-
tirely so: the emotions to which an individual has access are circum-
scribed by culture, family, gender, and a variety of other external
factors, and not always in immediately accessible ways. So, to offer a
relatively simple example, women in America are generally not en-
couraged to be angry. It is therefore a commonplace in psychological
circles that women do not usually describe themselves as angry (many
do not even recognize anger in themselves). Instead, they are ‘de-
pressed’. Psychologists observe that this is because they turn their
anger inward. But what if we didn’t have them to tell us this? How
would we know that ‘sad’ sometimes really means ‘mad’?17

This book is based on the premise that remorse plays a significant
role in ancient classical literature, and therefore, in ancient ethical life.
Its importance has not previously been noted, I suspect primarily due

14
See too his claim that we can trust ancient representations of feeling, insofar as
they will have had to make sense to their audiences (2003: 35).
15
On the regulation of emotion in adults, see Hochschild (1983: passim, esp. ch. 9).
The importance of emotional education for children has been generally conceded
since the time of Freud. See e.g. Saarni (1999) on the education and development of
emotions in children, esp. 123–4 for research that shows that children who are skilled
at interpreting others’ emotions are better liked.
16
In a less ominous vein, B. Williams and other proponents of ‘virtue ethics’
observe that, far from being entirely private and unique, emotions are, at least
sometimes, susceptible of judgement: acts are not all that matters (1973: 166–75,
225–7; Oakley 1991: passim; Stocker 1996: 152–4; Sabini and Silver 1998: passim). On
the ways we manage emotions without always knowing what we are doing, see Planalp
(1999: 31–2), and on emotions as themselves communicators of standards of right and
wrong, 162.
17
Spelman (1989) offers a useful introduction into the subject of women’s anger.
6 Introduction
to the fact that regret and remorse have rather different roles to play in
ancient and modern cultures. It is not, as some have argued, that there
was no place for remorse or regret in pagan Greece or Rome, but rather
that these emotions occurred and were evaluated according to different
rules.18 In general, the modern Western viewpoint esteems the feelings
of regret and particularly remorse as a part of a beneficial rethinking and
learning process—even as the need for them shows an initial aberration
in behaviour. Their appearance shows that one has made progress,
has become a better person, and moved past the original incident.
The ancients have a different intuition, believing that one should
refrain from doing in the first place things that one will later need to
regret. Objectively speaking, of course, both are plausible conclusions
to draw: one should not do bad things, and if one does, feeling
remorse for them may help to remedy the situation, even if only a
little. So much, I think, both ancient and modern could agree on. But
it is the difference in emphasis between ancient and modern usage
that offers the opportunity for us to learn more about ancient emo-
tional structures. The remorseful individual in antiquity is, first and
foremost, a person who has failed to act well rather than one who has
learned a lesson. So where the modern observer is likely to privilege
progress over initial mistake, the ancient observer sees the error much
more vividly.19 We might even learn to wonder, by privileging the
ancient point of view, whether perhaps our remorseful person indeed
acts too quickly and then too quickly apologizes. Her remorse, the
ancients might argue, offers only cold comfort to those affected by her
actions—at any rate, it is vastly inferior to her having carefully
considered her actions in the first place.20 Again, this is in sharp
contrast to most modern narratives of remorse, which focus on the
redemption of the individual.21 Of course, this is a broad generaliza-
tion, one which will be qualified throughout this book.

18
Konstan (2010) makes the similar claim that remorse was either not really
present in the ancient world, or was very different from our understanding of it
(p. x). His book on forgiveness emphasizes the former, whereas I have chosen to focus
on the latter.
19
See e.g. Gibert’s (1995: 29) observation that in Greek tragedy, incidents of regret
‘focus on pathos and calamitous outcomes, dismal futures or none at all’.
20
See Dihle on the ignominy heaped upon one in antiquity who has changed his
or her mind, even for the better (1982: 31, with a citation from Hesiod WD 218);
his chapter 9 directly addresses the issues of change involved in remorse.
21
See, of the many influential modern conceptions of remorse from an ethical or
philosophical point of view, especially Gaita (2004).
 Introduction 7
Additionally, the ancient lack of interest in ‘inward change of
character as a condition for reconciliation’ (Konstan 2010: p. x),22 a
standard modern accompaniment of remorse, saves the ancients from
the necessity of having to determine whether specific remorse per-
formances possess any, or sufficent, sincerity. Much of the modern
literature on criminal remorse privileges the issue of ‘faking it’, to
such a degree that it can overshadow concern with the victims of
crimes.23 Refusing to care about questions of sincerity and instead
focusing on the status-lowering that happens regardless of, and
sometimes in spite of, individual intent, renders ancient examples of
apology and reconciliation less fraught than many of their modern
counterparts. Achilles, to take a famous example that will occupy us
shortly, does not have to worry very much about whether Agamem-
non really meant his Iliadic apology, because his status has been
lowered, and Achilles’ increased. In fact, the more obvious it is that
Agamemnon apologizes unwillingly, the clearer it is that he has vastly
underrated how much he needs Achilles. So patent insincerity may
well increase the amount of status the apologizer loses, and therefore,
quite possibly, render his apology all the more satisfactory to others.
This simpler method for dealing with conflict might have much to
offer us.24
The previous paragraphs assume everyday definitions of remorse
and regret; I save for a separate section more precise distinctions (see
pp. 12–45). My aims in this monograph are two: first, to show that
remorse and regret existed in Graeco-Roman antiquity, but that they
play such different roles from their modern relatives that they have
for the most part been overlooked or misconstrued. Second, I seek to
elucidate why that might be. One of my main answers is that consist-
ency forms a key part of the ancient picture of remorse. Ancient
sources seem to have valued consistency of behaviour to such a degree
that the need to display it often hampers expressions of remorse, and
to get in the way of reconciliation or even negotiation. This notion
recurs throughout the book, but Chapter 9 explores it most fully.

22
See too Konstan’s (2010: 59) claim that ‘remorse and repentance played little or
no role in the process of reconciliation between wrongdoer and victim’.
23
See Acorn (2004: 51 and 56–60) and Miller (2003: 77–95), and below, n. 62 on
displays of remorse in criminal trials.
24
I follow B. Williams (1993: 4 and passim), broadly speaking, in my assumption
that the places where ‘we’ and ‘they’ differ may be places where our ideas are wrong,
and where we can learn something useful about our own categories.
8 Introduction
Briefly put, the person who regrets is seen in a negative light in our
ancient sources precisely because he displays the flaw of inconsist-
ency, of changeability. Consistency, in both philosophy and lay texts
from antiquity, is closely connected with virtuous action: one must
have a stable disposition in order to act well. To regret is blame-
worthy, because it means that one has not chosen the correct action
the first time around. So, to a degree which may prove surprising,
ancient sources devalue changes of mind as exposing the weakness of
an individual, and consequently appreciate a virtue that holds but
little place in the modern world—consistency. To put simply one
thesis of this book, regret is bad for pagan Greeks and Romans
because consistency is good.25
This book is about instances of remorse which are public in all
senses, that is, it does not make any claims about internal feelings, not
least because some of its subjects are not real people. Instead, it
focuses on the verbal, physical, and situational responses that result
from mistakes. My examples are also public in the sense that they are
not, for the most part, familial, but rather occur on a larger canvas.26
Both of these features reflect the nature of the evidence, and allow me
to emphasize the status negotiations that take place when a wrong is
acknowledged. There is much we can never know about how remorse
felt to the ancients, or even what it looked like; we have little ‘thick’ or
even thin description of occurrent instances of remorse. This is
probably not surprising, given that remorse does not in the modern
world have any obvious somatic markers either (hence the interest in,
and possibility of, insincere examples).
I began writing this book because I was curious about what
happens in antiquity when someone does something wrong.
I expected to find something similar to what happens in the modern
world: apology, amendment, and the like.27 What I found was wholly

25
For the phrasing of this paragraph and the previous two, I profusely thank an
anonymous reviewer, who was invaluable in formulating it.
26
Those who are interested in the subject of interpersonal forgiveness cannot do
better than Konstan (2010); he argues that the Greek suggnome, often translated
‘forgiveness’, is in fact a denial of responsibility, an excuse (e.g. 28).
27
On rituals of apology, and how they need not be genuine to be efficacious, see
Miller (2003: 163); R. Duff (2001: 94–5); and Lazare (2004: 50–2 and 117–18). For
rituals in general, and the ways actors seek to help one another towards positive
interpretations of events, see Goffman (1971: 108–15). And, on ancient forgiveness,
see now Konstan (2010).
 Introduction 9
different: in the first place, there is far less admission of fault than
I could have imagined. Sometimes remorse is adduced as absent in
one’s enemies, who are so degenerate they do not even feel badly
about their behaviour (see, for instance, Fulkerson (2004) on the Attic
orators), and sometimes a narrator or observer tells us that someone
regrets a mistake. But, interestingly, first-person attributions of re-
morse are very rare in the ancient record, a fact which suggests that
there is something slightly suspicious about the whole subject, a place
where the ancient agent knew to tread with caution.
Instead, the most common ancient reaction to a mistake, or even a
change of mind, is to ignore it or argue it away (Cicero’s altered
positions in successive Philippics offer a pertinent, but by no means
the only, example). In order to offer a first, brief explanation of why this
might be, I discuss a passage from Aristotle that illuminates much of
what follows. Aristotle holds that emotions are susceptible of judge-
ment in themselves, not only in the actions that result from them, and
that emotions are virtuous only if they are felt in the right way—at the
right time, with the right intensity, and for the proper length.28 He adds
a key piece to our understanding of the position of metameleia at
Eudemian Ethics 1240b22–4. The context of this passage is a discussion
of friendship, and Aristotle asserts that the virtuous are consistent in
character, and hence make the best friends. So we find that:
› ’IªÆŁ hŁ’ –Æ ºØæ
EÆØ ÆıfiH, u 
æ › IŒæÆ, hŁ’ › o 
æ
fiH æ
æ, u 
æ › 
Æ
ºÅØŒ,29 h
› æ Ł
 e o 
æ,
u 
æ › ł
 Å.
the good man does not blame himself at the time [of doing a deed], like
the incontinent man, nor later does he blame his previous acts, like the
one inclined to metameleia, nor does his earlier self blame the later,
like the liar.
The good man will not feel metameleia, which is here compared to
incontinence and lying. The akratic man knows something is wrong
as he does it, but cannot refrain from the doing. The metameletikos
does something he will later find fault with, and the liar comes down
against something but later does it (we might more usefully call him

28
Aristotle does not list metameleia as one of the pathe (emotions, more or less),
but it seems to fit his strictures.
29
Casaubon proposed the supplement 
ƺÅØŒ, but it is not clear how that
improves sense.
10 Introduction
the hypocrite). Aristotle’s point is not immediately apparent; we
might especially wonder why the metameletikos is in the same
category as the hypocrite and the akratic. The first and third
examples, that is, make sense in a modern context: the good man
neither does things he knows are wrong while he does them, nor
claims that things are wrong before doing them (presumably he gains
some advantage by this—for instance, we think he is trustworthy
because he knows the good, which enables him to deceive us). But
the second example is surprising: we might be inclined to praise the
metameletikos for learning something from his misdeed, but Aristotle
does not. Indeed, for Aristotle, the metameletikos (the use of the
adjective is significant, as identifying a characterological state of
being)30 seems to suffer from a chronic condition, wherein he habit-
ually changes his mind about the right thing to do, and so he is viewed
as unreliable rather than as making progress.31 In fact, Aristotle’s
censure of the metameletikos suggests a larger discourse, more or less
invisible to us, in which metameleia is a character flaw rather than a
unique response to a single offence against virtue, and tracing out the
implications suggested by this passage is a main goal of this book.32

30
As Kaster (2005: 154 n. 8) notes, there is no such adjective in pagan Latin. And
the word is rare in Greek.
31
Cf. too the important discussion at NE 1150b29, where Aristotle claims that the
IŒºÆ  (intemperate man) is P 
Æ
ºÅØŒ, for he knows what is wrong as he
does it. So there is some aspect of learning or recognition to metameleia. But it is,
broadly speaking, bad to need to learn something you ought to have already known.
The IŒæÆ, by contrast, is 
Æ
ºÅØŒ A (nothing but repentant). So too, NE
1105a31–5 on fixed disposition of character as necessary in considering an act
virtuous, NE 1166a28–9 on the ıÆE (good man, more or less) as I
ƺÅ,
NE 1166b24 on how çÆFºØ (bad men) are plagued by 
Æ
º
Æ (see Burnet ad locc.
for brief discussion), and MM 2.11.50 on the akrates as incapable of being his own
friend, since he acts as pleasure decrees and soon feels metameleia and berates his own
self, P ºf 
Æ
º
EÆØ ŒÆd ŒÆŒÇ
Ø ÆPe Æ . Cairns’s (1993a: 411–31) discussion
on the relationship in Aristotle between aidos, aischune, and the akolastos is also
helpful here.
32
The importance of metameleia as a state of being rather than a one-time
emotion remains high throughout classical literature despite the relative rarity of
the adjective metameletikos. See e.g. the enticing fragment from Varro Sat. 239 on
metamelos as inconstantiae filius (the son of inconstancy). As S. White (1992: 299–
300) notes, the non-virtuous person will be subject to constant revision. See too
Graver (2007: 194–5) on the Stoic point that the ordinary person is frequently
remorseful. One common modern conception of remorse also suggests that it is, or
can become, a characterological feature: one has murdered, and so is a murderer.
When things work out properly, one is therefore always in a more or less active state
of remorse (just as recovering alcoholics emphasize the processual nature of their
 Introduction 11
So, for Aristotle, the issue of metameleia is intrinsically linked to
questions of consistency, and he is discomfited by the notion that
people may change their minds. His statement, overlooking as it does
the seemingly obvious positive aspect of metameleia, namely, that
variation sometimes entails improvement, is characteristic of many
ancient statements about change (for further discussion, see below,
pp. 89–96).
At the same time, it would be misleading not to observe that
Aristotle strongly believes in the possibility of moral development
through practice, particularly for the incontinent man (surely a close
relative of the metameletikos).33 Indeed, Aristotle explicitly claims that
one’s own shame at shortcomings or mis-steps may help him to
improve (NE 1128b10–12, 15–21 with Burnyeat (1980: 69–70)).34 In
fact, philosophical texts provide us with nearly the only examples we
have from antiquity of a positive valuation of remorse-like emotions, as
potentially leading to amendment of character. I de-emphasize these
examples in this book (but see discussion of them at p. 192–3), in
favour of focusing on a different, non-philosophical tradition which is
much more statistically common, and therefore likelier to reflect what
a majority ancient people actually believed. So too, the existing litera-
ture focuses almost entirely on the positive, redemptive aspects of
remorse (as evidenced by ancient philosophers), at the cost of ignoring

behaviour). But the gap here between our notion of this as a normative, and poten-
tially healing, state of affairs and Aristotle’s conception of it as degenerate, is
extremely significant. See below, pp. 12–45, for further distinctions between ancient
and modern understandings of remorse.
33
For instance, Aristotle draws attention to the figure of Neoptolemus in Sopho-
cles’ Philoctetes, claiming that while constancy is usually a good thing, when one
corrects oneself,  ÆØ Ø ıÆÆ IŒæÆ Æ, some (kinds of) akrasia are good, NE
1146a19. I shall argue below, however, that Neoptolemus is a special case because of
his youth; see too the Aristotelean notion that shame (aischune and aidos) is useful to
educate children, but not necessary for the good man (i.e. it is not a virtue, Rhet.
1383b–85a, 1389a3–b12. NE 1128b11–35, 1178b4–20, with discussion at Cairns
(1993a: 414–16 and 424–5)), and Verbeke (1990: pp. vii–viii) on Aristotle’s belief in
pointlessness of teaching morality (as opposed to good behaviour) to the young. See
too Furley (1977: 50) on the apparent distinction in Aristotle between stages before
and after the formation of character. Change, Furley (1977: 51) believes, was con-
ceived of as possible by Aristotle even after character formation, but was significantly
more difficult.
34
Burnyeat (1980: 78) usefully suggests that Aristotle views shame as ‘the semi-
virtue of the learner’, and this is certainly a strand present in ancient philosophy. It is,
however, in Aristotle, considered appropriate for the young, and not the adult
(NE 1128b15–21). See further discussion below, p. 187.
12 Introduction
the serious difficulties which seem to be involved in actually expressing
remorse. I believe the significant ancient differences from our own
intuitions, precisely because they are so surprising, offer valuable
insights about both modern remorse, and about the ancient world.
My research suggests that high-status individuals in the Graeco-
Roman world are extremely reluctant to admit that they have made a
mistake, and numerous ancient sources suggest that any change of
behaviour or mind is in itself problematic. So apology is replaced, for
the most part, by continued defence of one’s actions, attacks upon
others, and tortuous self-justifications. The phrase ‘high-status indi-
viduals’ in my phrasing is important, as it also seems to be the case
that those lower down on the social scale were readier to admit
mistakes, or were seen as more prone to do so. And indeed, in a
circular logic familiar to many who study class and gender stereo-
types, it may well be that the willingness of women, children, and
slaves to apologize is one of the features that characterizes them as
inferior to those who do not need to do so.

THE SHAPE OF ANCIENT REMORSE:

VOCABULARY AND DEFINITIONS

The best recent work on the emotions has shown that the context in
which an emotion is felt or described is all-important, but it has also
not neglected lexical aspects.35 Some cross-cultural studies begin with
a particular emotion in the target culture (aidos), some with a modern

35
In different ways, the following have served me as paradigms: Dover (1974; an
important predecessor on mentalité), Cairns (1993a; about ‘aidos in action’, p. viii, but
recognizing that other words cover the same ground), Carlin Barton (2001; on the
centrality of the emotions), Harris (2001; integrating both Greek and Latin), Konstan
(2001; showing that English need not be a false starting point, and 2006; grounded
more in the context of an ancient discussion of the emotions), and Kaster (2005;
lexical, but with sensitivity to context and ‘scripts’ for paradigmatic situations). In
addition to these model studies of classical emotion, I have found exceptionally useful
the following anthropological and sociological studies, which highlight, in different
ways, the fact that an emotion is always a cultural negotiation: Briggs (1970); Rosaldo
(1980 and 1984); Hochschild (1983); Levy (1984); Harré (1986, particularly his
introduction); Lutz (1988); Miller (1993); and Humphrey and Hürelbaatar (2005,
specifically on regret).
 Introduction 13
word (pity). Both approaches have merit; the former avoids the perils
of translation because it bases itself on a discrete and recognizable
concept in the culture it studies, but it is also sometimes overly
narrow, while the latter runs the risk of assuming what it has to
prove, namely that one word maps onto another.36 Because language
is not created in a laboratory, the most useful studies of emotions
work from both ends, neither assuming infallible precision in lan-
guage, nor positing an endless present in which a single English word
can magically capture all of the nuances of a single Greek or Latin
word.37 My attempt to avoid the pitfalls of both kinds of study has
meant that I have worked both from specific vocabulary and with
attention to the larger context of an incident and an author’s usage;
the complexity of remorse and regret, and the consequent possibility
of phrasing their associated feelings in a multiplicity of ways, seemed
to leave me little choice.
I think that the long-held notion that ancient Greece and Rome
were ‘shame-cultures’, and so would offer little evidence for any
emotion akin to guilt, has finally been laid to rest.38 So I eschew

36
Most emotions researchers assume, as do I, that however much emotions have a
biological root (i.e. that some of them at least are ‘hard-wired’ into all human
beings), their manifestations vary widely by culture. So even if we were to be satisfied
with ‘angry’ as a translation of iracundus (as most of us are, and for good reasons), we
would still not have done all of the work necessary to know how to understand the
Latin emotion. Who feels ira, and why, and for how long, may (indeed, does; see
W. V. Harris 2001: passim) render it a very different emotion from our anger, however
similar the two seem at first blush. The question remains whether this is simply a
semantic issue, or whether certain emotions are simply not available to members of an
outside culture, either to perceive or to feel. I believe that you can feel an emotion you
have no word for, but maintain that the ways societies divide their emotional lives are
of great significance in the cultural lives of those who live in them. See below, p. 245 on
hypocognized emotions, and below, p. 27 for B. Williams’s theory that Greek shame
and guilt are covered by the same word. Elias (1978–82) and Stearns (1994) trace two
tectonic shifts in the vocabulary (and so, probably, the feeling) of emotions in the pre-
modern and modern periods.
37
The problem is not, of course, unique to English, but seems to plague writers of
that language more than others, perhaps because of the pseudo-universality of the
English language.
38
Benedict (1946: 222–3) is the locus classicus for the term. See Creighton (1990:
passim), who defends a modification of Benedict’s views. For the classical world, first
Dodds (1951, arguing for shame and guilt cultures) and then Cairns (1993a: 27–47)
and B. Williams (1993) have been extremely influential; see too Ch. 1, n. 1 on the
Homeric manifestation of this shame/guilt dichotomy. My own belief is that, while the
divide between inner-focused and outer-focused morality does say something useful
about how different societies prefer to think about themselves, it does not point to a
genuine and irrevocable difference between them. Rosaldo (1984: 148–50) observes
14 Introduction
extended discussion of the differences between shame and guilt,
observing merely that they are very closely related, and probably
co-occur more often than scholarly discussion suggests.39 There are,
to be sure, differences between ancient and modern worlds, and
scholarship is becoming increasingly sensitive to the evidence
regarding emotional states in antiquity, which has resulted in more
fruitful discussion of the differences between cooperative and indi-
vidual values, and ancient theories of personality.40
Human decision-making is complicated; those who refrain from a
vicious action may be afraid of the consequences of being caught, or
of public censure in general, or may have no interest in performing
the action, or may think it does not befit their dignity, or is unholy, or
may believe more than one of those things in combination. So too,
remorse, which may be only a momentary impulse, and may be
intertwined with thoughts of self-interest (despite modern narratives
of it as a conversion moment, after which everything changes).
Distinctions are easier to perceive in the long term; genuine remorse
will look very different from strategic remorse several years later,
because real remorse will usually result in some kind of permanent
behavioural change.41

that it is only in societies in which the self is presumed to be in conflict with

community that shame and guilt occur.
39
The psychological literature sees shame as an emotion that focuses on ‘being
seen’; the person feeling shame wants to disappear. Guilt, by contrast, although it may
be felt for precisely the same deed and even by the same person at the same time, is
rather about falling short of an objective standard, i.e. with ‘being the kind of person
who’ would do such a thing. Generally, shame is seen by moderns as being maladap-
tive (e.g. Kekes 1988: 282 and 295). The bibliography is vast: for useful entry, see Piers
and Singer (1971); Solomon (1976: 318–23, 361–2); Schneider (1992; the latter two
both value shame); Morrison (1996: 54, on how the two interact with remorse); and,
perhaps most usefully, G. Taylor 1985; and Tangney and Dearing (2002). For brief but
careful discussion of shame, see Cairns (1993a: 18–21).
40
Gill’s work has also been extremely illuminating (1996 and 2006). I summarize
here a part of his complex argument: in all ancient societies, to a much larger extent
than in our own, the individual is always acutely conscious of his or her larger context,
i.e. the role- and status-based determinants of action. See 2006: 343 for the explicit
argument that this is true for the entire span of antiquity.
41
See Van Velsen (1999: 65) on the difficulty, even for professionals, in determin-
ing the sincerity of any individual manifestation of remorse. So too, Acorn (2004:
56–60) notes the exploitative possibilities of a pretence of remorse. See above, p. 7, for
the modern interest in the sincerity of remorse, by contrast with an ancient lack of
interest.
 Introduction 15
But it is important to note that modern remorse is not an emotion
of the same kind as anger: one gets angry, and then stops being angry.
Remorse is perhaps more like love. When one is in love, one is not in
love at every moment, not even every moment one spends in the
presence of the object of one’s affections. Rather, love is a kind of
colouring of one’s emotional world, effecting a fundamental change
(ideally, expanding it in positive ways, but also providing more
objects for worry and fear). So too, people who feel remorse do not
feel it every minute of every day. But if it is genuine remorse, it will
certainly have lasting effects.
Greek and Latin words for emotions similar to remorse will be our
primary concern, but I begin with English, in order to clarify my own
usage and delimit some areas of semantic overlap. I define remorse as
the unpleasant complex of feelings and actions that are a regular
after-effect of incorrect decision-making, typically including: (1) the
assessment of an action as both significant42 and wrong/unfortunate;
(2) an expression of sorrow or pain, sometimes including severe
negative self-assessment;43 (3) the acceptance of at least some degree
of responsibility for that action; (4) the attempt or statement of wish
to make reparation or undo the wrong.44 This final piece, in its
outward-looking aspect, contains a recognition that someone else
has suffered from the harm, and so is vital in distinguishing modern
remorse from other similar emotions such as guilt and shame.45
Remorse tends to be powerful; people who feel it often find it an
impetus for significant life change (Thalberg 1963: 552). Both the
possibility of this effect and the externalized nature of remorse make
it societally useful; it simultaneously recognizes that there has been a
breach in community values, and allows for a reaffirmation of that

42
If the wrong is easily fixed, the act of reparation seems to put an end to feelings
of remorse (or remorse never occurs), and if the wrong is slight, remorse often does
not occur (we may feel badly about breaking a friend’s wine glass, but are not likely to
feel remorse unless we know that it is priceless or has great sentimental value; even
here, remorse may be too strong a word).
43
As Humphrey and Hürelbaatar (2005: 10–11) note, this expression need not be
verbal.
44
On the desire for victims and their families to see remorse, cf. Charles Barton
(1999: p. xi).
45
Thalberg (1963: 546) suggests that remorse and reparation are not intrinsically
linked, reserving ‘repentance’ for those acts for which we seek to make amends, and
Solomon (1976: 347–9) sees remorse as being even more selfish than shame and guilt.
Lemos (1977: 62), on the other hand, connects remorse with expiation.
16 Introduction
community.46 In many societies, a wrongdoer47 can be reassimilated
only after an expression of remorse (and/or a payment, etc. of some
kind, which might, or might not, be equivalent to remorse48). Remorse
is central to a conception of the individual as a moral actor in
the Western world.49 It is how we differentiate the morally repugnant
(so-called sociopaths50) from the morally sound (the rest of us). Its
appearance is usually taken to signify moral improvement, and serves
as one of the primary factors for determining that a child has become
civilized.51
But, despite the most common modern way of conceiving of
remorse, namely as the conversion moment for a criminal,52 it can
also serve as a reminder to do the right thing rather than a discovery

46
See Tavuchis (1991: 20) on the fundamental task of apology as reaffirming
community.
47
For a focus on remorse and criminal offenders, see Cox (1999). The authors of
the several chapters observe that ‘we’ are usually invested in having offenders show
remorse for their deeds (Horne 1999: 30), but also note that there is no demonstrable
connection between remorse (or apparent remorse) and lack of recidivism (e.g. 17).
48
So, for instance, R. Duff (2001: 60–4, 72) notes that moral blame seeks to make
the offender blame him- or herself; the attempt to coerce remorse is criticized by
Matravers (2000: 86–95). The view that remorse is a penalty paid is almost, but not
quite, articulated in ancient sources; see Morris (1988: 65) on Freud’s formulation and
Griswold (2007: 60–2) on guilt as a debt owed. On the ways remorse and punishment
interact (and do not), see Teichman (1973: 344). Konstan (2010) provocatively raises
the question of whether the ancient world had a concept of forgiveness like our own,
and determines that it did not, and that suggnome represented a rather different
notion; as a result, ancients were significantly less concerned with the sincerity of any
apology or reconciliation attempt than we are. But see Arist. Rhet. 1380a14–15 for
what looks like a clear articulation of the importance of having the victim believe that
the wrongdoer is pained (with discussion below, p. 31–2).
49
This is most explicitly claimed by Freud (Civilization and its Discontents, ch. 7,
60–70), who links conscience and the superego (62, 64). On Freud’s views of remorse
and conscience in particular (outlined in Mourning and Melancholy), see Morris
(1988: 62–3); and Gilligan (1999: passim).
50
This term, now replaced for professionals by ‘antisocial personality disorder’ in
the DSM-IV, is still more commonly used among lay persons. Cf. Thomas (1999: 132–3)
on the capacity of feeling remorse as necessary for entry into ‘ethical relations’ with
other people; C. Taylor (1985: 265) on sociopaths as those who cannot accept
responsibility; Govier (2002: 119–31) and Griswold (2007: 73–7) on whether there
can be acts (and people) who are unforgivable; and, for a now-classic study of
sociopathy, Cleckley (1950).
51
Cf. e.g. parental injunctions to children to apologize ‘like you mean it’. Does this
in fact teach children anything other than what a persuasive performance of sincerity
looks like? Perhaps not, but somehow most children do learn to be sorry.
52
This scenario is not in the least common in antiquity; only Plato, in a discussion
of offenders (see below, p. 29–3), displays any interest in the remorse of criminals.
 Introduction 17
of the right thing, or can even provide a new reason for doing the
right thing. I suspect that this is the more frequent phenomenon in
real life, certainly among those who are not criminal offenders. Most
people know that killing is wrong, but those who have premeditatedly
killed others regularly have specific reasons that seemed to them at
the time, and perhaps still do, to override their generalized knowledge
of the wrongness of killing. We call them remorseful when they come
to the conclusion, often through sustained reflection, that their mo-
tivations to kill did not outweigh the harm done by killing.53 So it is
rather an increased integration of context than the learning of a new
fact. There is, to be sure, also the remorse that brings with it genuine
discovery of a new aspect of morality, but despite its narrative sim-
plicity and appeal, I have doubts about the prevalence of this scenario
in real life.
Nonetheless, the normal English remorse narrative features a
single moment of emotional development or realization. This
somewhat unrealistic aspect of modern remorse is another key
way in which we differ from the ancient world, for both Greeks
and Romans seem to have believed that painful, regretful emotions
were more regularly a reminder than a learning. Given this under-
lying belief, the process itself would naturally be suspect: one can
easily be seen as culpable for needing such a reminder in the first
place where others did not.54
Brief engagement with the notion of hope may clarify certain
aspects of ancient remorse.55 In ancient narratives, especially histor-
ical ones, hope is often the (delusive) quality possessed by those who
have not planned properly and so must trust to fate. They usually
fail.56 So too, perhaps, remorse is the natural after-effect of one’s

53
See Gaita (2004: passim) on remorse as a kind of realization (‘God, what have
I done!’); cf. Teichman (1973: 345). See too Garvey (1998: 770–1) for the notion that
criminal offenders may have first-order moral knowledge but still not quite know that
what they’ve done is wrong.
54
New Testament assurances to the contrary (e.g. Luke 15:7), it is difficult to
imagine that most of us would not prefer someone who needs no repentance in the
first place to even the most sincerely repentant sinner. See Nave (2002: 38) for
repentance as a particular concern of the author of Luke, such that this passage may
reflect only one strand of early Christian thought.
55
I owe the formulation of this point, and the connection between hope and
remorse adumbrated in the following paragraph, to one of the readers for the Press.
56
On the problematic nature of Pandora’s hope in Hesiod (a locus classicus
for understanding its function), see WD 96, with West (1978) and Verdenius
18 Introduction
failures (often, in an ancient context, one’s lack of control over anger).
For a modern audience, both hope and remorse can be viewed as
contingent virtues, but in antiquity, both seem to be weaknesses, signs
of a problem.
For us, then, remorse has a positive and a negative valence, serving
as an indicator that harm has been done, but also as an affirmation of
common humanity, insofar as the agent recognizes the offence as an
offence. Remorse is frequently deeply painful for the agent, but can be
satisfying to those who have been victimized. This is not, or not
wholly, because of a desire to see those suffer who have made us
suffer. It is also because it reaffirms the harm as harm, validating the
stance of the victim.57
Ancient expressions of apology and remorse that do appear share
similarities with their modern counterparts, but also diverge in key
ways. Primarily, the differences derive from the aforementioned
dangers of admitting that one has made a mistake. One effect of
this is that most of those who claim remorse are of low status, or
are otherwise disadvantaged (e.g. by gender). So both Greek and Latin
texts have ways of describing remorse, but seem to avoid doing so in
the case of figures who were otherwise considered admirable (so, for
instance, a number of historians attribute metanoia and metameleia
to barbarians, even when they eschew describing similar behaviour on
the part of Greeks or Romans as so motivated).
Broadly speaking, ancient texts focus on remorse as a result of
intemperance: the agent acts, often out of anger, and later wishes he

(1985 ad loc). The fact that elpis is taken in this passage to be both good and bad
indicates the difficulty: sometimes, hope is all people have, and it helps them to go
on. But at other times, it is delusive and simply prolongs human agony (on the dual
nature of elpis, see West (1978 ad WD 96) and Clay (2003: 103)). Myres (1949: 46)
suggests that elpis before Thucydides means ‘rational estimation of probability’, even
when it is mistaken.
57
A number of modern theories of punishment seek precisely to confront an
offender with the community s/he has damaged; South Africa’s Truth and Reconcili-
ation Commission is the most famous, but others have tried both shaming and
reintegrative punishments; on societal (shaming) punishments among the Romans,
see Carlin Barton (2001: passim, e.g. 105–8); and (for modern examples) Braithwaite
(1989) and Braithwaite and Petit (1990); Charles Barton (1999: 22–3); and Garvey
(1998: 763–5) for ‘educative’ punishments, which may well involve shame; on political
apologies and reparation, see Brooks (1999), particularly the study of Japanese–
American reparations, a rare example of successful amends. For a powerful critique
of restorative justice as a whole, see Acorn 2004.
 Introduction 19
had not done so.58 A second kind of remorse, recognized in modern
sources but almost absent from ancient, occurs after acts in which the
agent acts in good faith but makes a mistake in judgement of out-
come: to extend one of the ancient examples (Pl. Rep. 331c5–9),
I return weapons entrusted to me by a friend who is insane (but
without knowing of his insanity) and he then uses them to commit a
crime. While the degree of moral culpability arising from this kind of
scenario is one in which modern philosophy is extremely interested,
ancient writers rarely take into account the possibility of action which
is mistaken because taken without full knowledge.59 In fact, ancient
theorists seem to suggest that acting with correct intentions and
whatever knowledge could reasonably have been available will mean
that the virtuous man need never feel any regrets, so this second sort
of remorse plays almost no role in this book.60 The ancient discount-
ing of decisions made without sufficient information is significant,
because it denies them another opportunity to valorize one kind of
remorse.
So too, while modern remorse is often seen as the occasion for
moral progress, such a notion rarely appears in ancient discussions,
which, once again, focus instead on the failing rather than the im-
provement.61 There is, of course, a vast gap here between pagan and

58
Of the numerous examples, I offer a few citations: Xen. Mem. 2.6.23 (friends
prevent anger from progressing to metameleia), Isaeus 1.19 (all men metamelei of
wrongs done to relatives in anger), Philodem. de Ira 19.1–5 (metameleia as the regular
accompaniment of anger).
59
Ignorance in all of its forms is, in the Platonic view, infinitely preferable to
actions taken based on Łı or . In Laws 863e–864a, Plato is even willing to
concede that a just man may do some harm from ignorance, Œi 纺ÅÆ Ø, ‘if he is
tripped up in some way’. The use of the word 纺
ÆØ (trip up) leaves open the
possibility of not getting it right, but still being just, so for Plato it is clear that justice
does not require omniscience. Cf. MacKenzie (1981: 174–5 and 200–3) on involuntary
injuries, where the good man makes a mistake, and 245–9 on this passage.
60
See, for instance, Chrysippus (SVF 3.548–56) on how the sage does not make
mistakes. As Graver (2007: 194) notes, the wise person will know that a change in
externals is irrelevant to the correctness of an original decision. See too S. White
(1992: 300) on the paucity and insubstantiality of this kind of regret. The disjunction
between will and action is much more regularly to be found in the ancient historians,
but even there it is rarely highlighted.
61
There are, to be sure, ancient sources that suggest a discrete but limited place
for pain at one’s flaws in the life of the person who is attempting to make progress
in virtue; the identification of one’s own vices and pain over them can be characterized
as a first step in their elimination (see too above, p. 11, and below, p. 192). On this,
the so-called ‘Alcibiades paradox’, (so-called because grief is not a characteristic of
the virtuous person, and because Alcibiades was said to instantiate it) see Graver
20 Introduction
later Christian practices, wherein the admission of wrongdoing is
explicitly the first step towards salvation (see below, pp. 213–17, for
brief observations on some of the changes a Christian context brings
to remorse).
It is, of course, impossible to know that another person is feeling
remorse.62 So remorse is in some ways internal. But an immediate
problem arises, with this as with other ‘moral sentiments’: remorse is
an emotion whose display is extremely important, so it is also exter-
nal. Most (but, seemingly, not all) societies care deeply about whether
a person expressing remorse for their misdeeds is sincere or merely
hoping to avoid punishment;63 in fact, we judge people by whether or

(2007: 191–211); as she notes, there are seeds of it at Plato Symp. 215d1–216c3.
Therapeutic remorse might well have played some role in ancient philosophy, but
aside from brief allusions to Alcibiades (citations at Graver 2007: 252 n.1), it is not
prevalent in extant sources. There are a few hints in philosophical authors that feeling
pain at, or merely recognizing, one’s own shortcomings can have a didactic (and so
positive) function, and may eventually lead to eradication of flaws: Cicero TD 3.77 and
4.61, Sen. Ep. Mor. 28.9, where it is credited to Epicurus, Epictetus 1.4.10 and 2.11.1,
Plut. Mor. 81c, 82c, 84d (Alcibiades is fiH ı
ØØ F K
F ƌ
, ‘bitten by
the consciousness of his own lack’), 85e; the treatise as a whole (esp. 75b–76a) offers
explicit argument against the Stoic viewpoint that there are no degrees of unwisdom,
claiming that pain at one’s failings is a vital first step. None of these citations, however,
speak of metameleia, metanoia, or paenitentia (our main ancient words for remorse;
see below, pp. 27–36), using instead the vocabulary of pain or of consciousness
(a single exception in Plut. Mor. 452c–d on the therapeutic use of metanoia, attributed
to Plutarch’s opponents). I discuss further Seneca’s partial recuperation of paenitentia
below, pp. 39–40. But even the philosophical sources do not emphasize this positive or
pragmatic feature of regret as much as they might, and I speculate that this is because
they are too well aware of the negative tradition surrounding the concept to attempt
further rehabilitation of it. In fact, Aristotle cites regret as an example of his thesis that
emotion is not always purposive. On the topic of moral progress as it relates to the
emotions, see the introduction to J. Fitzgerald 2008.
62
Sundby (1998: 1561, 1563) notes that the expression of remorse in capital cases
(in the United States) seems likely to result in reduced sentences, but in the cases he
studied, most defendents did not testify, so jurors were left to extrapolate remorse
from trial demeanour; ‘emotionlessness’ was found to be the most objectionable
behaviour (cf. Eisenberg et al. 1998: 1617 on the dangers of ‘looking bored’). Eisenberg
et al. note, however, that the attribution of remorse may be closely linked to the nature
of the crime; offences seen as especially vicious are less likely to have remorse
attributed to their agents and this may be a result of the perceived ‘dangerousness’
of offenders (1998: 1600, 1605–6, 1613, 1619).
63
The display of criminal remorse is more effective the earlier it is (Sundby 1998:
1586), such that those who plead guilty or offer admission defences are rarely put to
death in those societies that practise capital punishment. Offenders tend to know that
it is to their benefit to express remorse, so it is not clear to what extent ‘remorseful’
 Introduction 21
not (we think) they are appropriately remorseful.64 Many people cope
with this by attributing remorse only where it can be seen as the
motivator for some visible action,65 so remorse functions in individ-
ual societies as a kind of ‘script’ understandable to all. We are unlikely
to attribute remorse to an agent who has killed our dog if s/he neither
apologizes for it, nor explains, nor offers to make some kind of
reparation. The offended party, or society at large, must take remorse
at least partially on trust, but remorse is often sought and felt for
deeds which diminish the capacity for trust. When remorse is in-
appropriately displayed (or, more often, inappropriately not dis-
played) there is a rupture in the social fabric.66
So too, the re-aspect of remorse is often emphasized in modern
understandings of the emotion: it is a biting that keeps on happening.
Once again, ancient texts do not share this concern. Several, but not

criminals are merely manipulating the criminal justice system (in which case it would
not be surprising that they commit the same offences after release). There is also, of
course, the problem of the prison system, particularly in the United States, the
brutality of which seems almost calculated to squelch any genuine feelings of remorse.
Finally, it is far from clear that remorse (even genuine remorse) is connected in any
way to a lack of recidivism. Again, because we tend to view remorse as constant and
life-altering, we may be insensitive to the ways it can come and go in different contexts
(Planalp 1999: 71). Miller (2003: 77–95) is invaluable on the topic of the sincerity, or
not, of private apologies; his contention is that an apology is often little more than
ritual humiliation, so sincerity is less relevant (in fact, the apology is all the more
humiliating if patently insincere and forced).
64
It is of course possible to think there is something ‘wrong’ with people who, for
instance, become sad too easily (i.e. more easily than we do), but we rarely take the
step of finding them reprehensible. On the other hand, those who do not display
remorse in situations where we expect it are generally agreed to be among the least
moral of all. See n. 16 on the modern resurgence of ‘virtue ethics’ and its belief that
emotions are susceptible of judgement.
65
In my own discussions of ancient incidents I follow the lead of the sources,
which more regularly take apologies at face value than probe into their sincerity. But
because the scholarship on some of the incidents I treat is exercised over the problem
of whether an emotion is genuinely felt, I do sometimes address this question,
particularly in those instances where it is precisely the failure of the performance to
be understood as convincingly sincere that is at issue (as it seems to be with
Hermione, and perhaps also Alexander).
66
On our desire for other people’s remorse, see Jacoby (1983: 6 and 282); Gilligan
(1999: 33); and Govier (2002: 131–2). Lazare (2004: 114), however, notes that society
finds a lack of remorse so disturbing that we may sometimes ‘find fraudulent expres-
sions of remorse more acceptable than its absence, as if we are somehow comforted by
believing that wrongdoers know the rules of society, even if they choose not to honor
them’. Jurors seem eager to see remorse as well, to the extent that even a display
perceived as feigned is valued (Sundby 1998: 1561).
22 Introduction
more, figures in antiquity do continue to feel a remorse-like emotion;
they usually commit suicide. But generally speaking, recurrent re-
morse in our sources is rare, and when it does occur, it is treated as
pathological.67
There is a final aspect to modern remorse, which renders it troub-
ling. We tend to think of remorse as such a painful and awful experi-
ence that it will effectively prevent wrongdoers from doing wrong
again (Gilligan 1999: 39). But studies of criminal offenders offer
absolutely no evidence that remorse has any lasting effect on future
behaviour (see Cox 1999: 17). We may wish to explain this by the
brutality of the criminal justice system, which dehumanizes offenders
to the point where remorse may be felt as weakness, or we may wish
instead to emphasize the benefits which accrue to offenders by a
display of remorse that is unfelt, but the fact remains that remorse
cannot be reliably demonstrated to perform its main function, that of
deterrence.
Conscience is twofold: it is the moral faculty that either prevents an
agent from doing something wrong, or causes distress when s/he has
done something wrong; in this latter, retrospective aspect (i.e. ‘guilty
conscience’) it is more or less the same as remorse. The prospective
aspect of conscience is itself an extremely complex topic, and one
I shall not often treat in what follows. Although the two are similar,
remorse is a more complicated phenomenon than conscience because
conscience, at least as it is usually conceptualized in modern scholar-
ship, is wholly internal. I am here interested in the intersection of
internal and external, that is, the social, which provides our only point
of access to the ancient world. Every one of my test cases therefore
includes a behavioural context, which allows us to look at the larger
picture. Interestingly, this means that several of the most-cited pas-
sages in the history of conscience have no place here, and most of the
passages that form the subject of this study are not cited as moments
in the development of conscience.68
Repentance and penitence are similar to remorse, but have taken
on a religious flavour in English. Insofar as they differ from it in
practical usage, they seem to bear a wider focus: one may repent of a

67
I have already discussed Aristotle’s views, above, pp. 9–11; the example of
Timoleon, discussed below at pp. 200–2, is also instructive.
68
e.g. Eur. Orest. 396, or the Erinyes at the end of the Eumenides (but see Stebler
1971: 19–26).
 Introduction 23
series of behaviours, or one’s sinful past life as a whole, but one
generally feels remorse only for specific deeds in that life. Further,
English tends to reserve ‘remorse’ for criminal offences, whereas peni-
tence seems to concern religious wrongs, or to denote immoral behav-
iour that is not necessarily illegal. I do not much use the terms penitence
or repentance in this work because the modern tendency to value them
as positive is especially misleading in an ancient context, and because
their ancient equivalents rarely have a religious component.
Regret is the large category of emotion to which the more limited
emotions of remorse and repentance belong. It is a wish that some-
thing about the world was different (I wish I weren’t going bald;
I wish I had caught the 7.30 bus). Regret seems to be looked down
upon in the modern world; dwelling in the past is regarded as a
dangerous and self-indulgent practice (i.e. as ‘crying over spilt
milk’); usually the implication is that the regretter is making too
much out of something, and here it differs sharply from the value
placed upon modern remorse.69 So too, unlike remorse, regret need
not be linked to a specific deed, and does not necessitate an accept-
ance of responsibility: you can regret losing your temper but also that
it is no longer summer or that a loved one has died.70 Furthermore,
regret does not have to include an assessment of evil, whereas remorse
does—one can regret not killing an enemy but not, I think, feel
remorse about it. Some kinds of agent-regret, like those which derive
from moral dilemmas,71 can be difficult to distinguish from remorse,

69
See Landman 1994: passim for a positive valorization of regret as sometimes
appropriate, rather than simply self-indulgent (with 21–33 on benefits of regret; her
discussion seems to shade into remorse).
70
On some of the problems regret (‘buyer’s remorse’) has caused economists,
see Sugden 1985.
71
B. Williams (1993) has usefully outlined the concept of agent-regret, which is a
situation in which one has not acted deliberately but still feels some degree of
responsibility, or one in which one believes one has acted for the best, but still wishes
one did not have to act so. For more technical definitions of both modern and ancient
agent-regret and remorse, see B. Williams (1993: 69–70 and 88–102), and Rorty
(1980) on the Greeks, and, from an exclusively modern perspective, Thalberg
(1963) and B. Williams (1973: 170–4). On the connections between agency and
responsibility and the narrowed parameters of agent-regret, see Baron (1988: 261),
who suggests that, even in a case of agent-regret, remorse is sometimes morally
incumbent upon an agent (268–9; cf. Hursthouse (1999: 75–7) on regret as the
‘remainder’ once a moral dilemma is resolved). Bittner (1992), by contrast, suggests
that repentance is useful only insofar as it helps an agent to realize the ‘wrongness’ of
an act, and that we should ideally move beyond the (pointless) feeling of this kind of
regret.
24 Introduction
but there are few instances of these in antiquity, so, while the problem
is a genuine one, it need not concern us here.72
In this book, I shall typically use ‘remorse’ when I am making a
stronger claim about the similarity of modern and ancient emotion,
and ‘regret’ as a weaker translation of the Greek and Latin words that
denote remorse feelings, when I am claiming merely that some aspect
of a completed action has begun to seem unsatisfactory to its agent,
whether that aspect is an unexpected result or a reconsideration of the
act on its own grounds. I also use regret more specifically, to denote a
performance that lacks at least one of the key characteristics of
remorse (most often a denial of seriousness or of responsibility).

Greek and Latin vocabulary

As will become apparent, there is no single Greek or Latin word that
can reliably be translated as ‘remorse’.73 Previous generations, believ-
ing that vocabulary transparently reflected reality, might have taken
this as incontrovertible evidence that no such thing existed in an-
tiquity, but recent scholarship has become increasingly sensitive to
the ways cultures divide up different concepts.74 Remorse is a hypo-
cognized emotion in Graeco-Roman antiquity; this means that it is

72
There is, however, one ancient incident that plays a key role in modern discus-
sions of moral dilemma, that of Agamemnon’s sacrifice of his daughter Iphigeneia; for
fruitful discussion of that example, see B. Williams (1973: 173 and 1993: 132–6);
G. Taylor (1985: 98–100); and Greenspan (1995: 101–2). Agamemnon, most are
agreed, would not do things differently, but his is still a terrible decision, and some
find him blameworthy for not expressing more regret; of classical discussions, see
Dodds (1951: 3); Adkins (1960: 51–2); Lesky (1966); Lloyd-Jones (1971: 8–23); and
Dover (1973: 65–6); so too, Sewell-Rutter (2007: 29–30 and nn. 44–6) observes that
inherited guilt in Aeschylus does not seem to attach itself to the wholly innocent.
73
For a discussion of the difficulties involved in ‘translating’ an emotion from one
language or culture to another, see Harré (1986), especially chs. 12 and 13, and, in an
ancient context, Dover (1974: 46–50), W. V. Harris (2001: 35), and Konstan (2003).
74
See, for instance, Konstan (2006: 5–6) on colour, which many have seen as pre-
cultural, assuming that the colours are simply there: optically, they are, but the
boundaries drawn between different colours by different languages and societies
make clear that the issue is much more complicated. Lakoff (1987: 6–7) notes that
categories, often treated as pre-existing ‘boxes’ into which things are put, are them-
selves a key way of structuring the world (on this, see too Goffman’s (1971) notion of a
‘script’, and C. Taylor (1989: 111–12) on the ways ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ are metaphors
depending on a particular cultural notion of the self which is by no means universal).
 Introduction 25
often disguised to look like other things.75 The entirety of this book is
designed to suggest why this should be; for now, I simply note that we
can rarely be certain that a given scenario involves precisely the
emotion we denote as remorse in English, so context is all-important.
So too, I emphasize here the final key difference between ancient and
modern remorse scenarios, noted above: ancient incidents of re-
morse-like behaviour are rare and, more importantly, seem to carry
little positive value.76 These differences, taken together, may seem to
some to rob ancient remorse of most of what defines it in a modern
context. Whereas modern sources can usually find in remorse the
encouraging signs of moral improvement, nearly all ancient texts
consider metameleia, paenitentia, and related emotions to be nega-
tive, showing merely how far one is from true virtue. Being ‘the kind
of person’ who felt remorse in antiquity seems to have brought little
benefit (see especially the Aristotelian example, discussed above,
pp. 9–11).
Because English and Greek and Latin do not map onto one another
in any simple fashion, word searches have not proven particularly
helpful. Most of the words that indicate remorse behaviour do not do
so unambiguously; they have other meanings as well. So in the
chapters that follow, I base my claims more on context than on any
occurrence of an individual word; each contains a lexical component,
but some focus more, some less on vocabulary.77 There are also
incidents I treat which do not contain the ‘remorse words’ identified

75
On the concept, see Levy (1984: 219 and passim). Essentially, he posits that in a
given culture, some emotions or concepts are hypercognized (well recognized, well
articulated, and well theorized), and others are hypocognized (not even necessarily
recognized, subsumed into other concepts, etc.). See too Miller (2003: 101) on the
ways a word or phrase can act as an ‘evaluative magnet’, encouraging us to limit our
emotional vocabulary, and Wallbott and Scherer (1995) on the ways, in certain
cultures, shame looks like guilt and vice versa; for a discussion of English guilt and
shame as covered by the same Greek vocabulary, see n. 81.
76
So, for instance, Konstan (2010) notes that it is in those situations in ancient
literature where there is no possibility for forgiveness that remorse seems most
prevalent. Monotheistic notions of repentance are rather different, claiming that
the wise man will recover from mistakes (
Æ
E ήd u 
æ KŒ  ı IƺÆ
Ø,
he regrets and recovers, as from an illness, Philo, Legat. 2.60), and that there is shame
only in sin, not in repentance (e.g. John Chrysostom, Hom. 8.2.8). See further below,
n. 147.
77
I have also adopted the procedure of confining the majority of lexical documen-
tation to footnotes; where it is in the main text, this reflects its importance to the
argument.
26 Introduction
in this section as most prevalent. This seemed like common sense,
given that remorse-like emotions can be expressed without any tech-
nical emotion words in Greek or Latin, or, for that matter, in English.
So, for instance, the Heracles of his eponymous Euripidean play
wishes he hadn’t gone mad and murdered his family; his determin-
ation to die immediately after he realizes his action suggests that the
emotion he feels may plausibly be understood as remorse.78
Since the vocabulary of remorse in Greek and Latin can only
be understood contextually, there seems little point in offering stable
definitions of the most common words that recur in this study.
The discussion offered here, then, is merely a starting point, as the
specific meanings of a word often vary with individual authors, and
not in an immediately comprehensible or schematic way (so, for
instance, Thucydides and the Greek orators, roughly contemporary
and writing in similar genres, use metameleia differently from one
another). I treat the words below in accordance with their importance
in what follows, which means that discussion is sometimes fuller than
might seem necessary, and sometimes rather abbreviated.
Finally, there is no pat chronological story to tell of the vocabulary
of remorse. Certain words come into and out of fashion, but the
concept of remorse seems to be present, in more or less the same
form, from the beginning of our period to the end.79 So too certain of
the incidents I have selected might suggest a chronological shift away
from sincerely regretful feelings to their progressively emptier display
as a coercive demonstration of power. This is, I believe, an accident:
we should not imagine that the transition from Neoptolemus to Ovid
to the army is the only story that can be told, not least because the
Andromache, performed just about contemporaneously with the
Philoctetes, already questions the sincerity of a display of remorse.
Finally, there are some nuances of difference between Greek and

78
The play ends shortly after this incident, which means that there is not quite
enough context to ascertain whether this is to be understood as remorse; see Cairns’s
(1993a: 293–7) observations about the plausibility of attributing remorse to Heracles,
although he is not actually responsible for his actions.
79
Cf. Kaster (2005: 67) on paenitentia; 2005: 60–1 on the lack of evolution in
usages of pudor. I cannot agree with Thompson’s (1908) claim that classical (5th and
4th century) usage of metanoeo/metanoia is wholly mental; indeed, even she lists
examples of the words which involve ‘change of thought and feeling’ (10). But the
New Testament does narrow the meaning of metanoia to its moral nuances and
reserves metameleia for a broader ‘regret’ (Thompson 1908: 24). And in Plautus,
among the earliest Latin we have, pudet is far more common than paenitet.
 Introduction 27
Roman notions of remorse, but none of them were significant enough
to become the story.80 Briefly, no one of these words always means
remorse, though all can, with the appropriate context. This is similar
to what B. Williams (1993: 87–96) has found about shame and guilt,
which share a single word in Greek.81
The verb letalkei (metamelei, literally, ‘it is a care later on’, an
impersonal verb) and its related nouns 
ƺ
ØÆ and 

º
(metameleia, metamelos: ‘aftercare’)82 are one of the primary ways
remorse behaviour is denoted in Greek. There is also an adjective,

Æ
ºÅØŒ, (metameletikos, ‘inclined to feel metameleia’), rare but
of great importance. Etymology provides my definitions, but these
words are most often rendered into English by ‘regret’, ‘repent’, and
‘feel remorse for’. As Kovacs (1980) has noted, metameleia is rarely
assigned a positive value.83 I offer a few brief citations of passages not
elsewhere treated, and two somewhat more extended discussions
from Plato and Aristotle.
Aeschylus uses the verb metamelei at Eumenides 771, where it
seems to mean little more than ‘think better of ’ or ‘change one’s
mind’; so too Thucydides 2.61 (Athens feels momentary metameleia
about starting the war), Andocides 1.149.12 (if the judges find Ando-
cides guilty and put him to death, they will not have the opportunity
to feel metameleia—this example is interesting because it suggests

80
See Konstan (2010: 77–9) for his selection of examples of ‘genuine remorse’ in
Greek literature, and (84–7) for those in Latin.
81
His discussion, foundational for my own understanding of these emotions,
begins from the Philoctetes. Among the important points he makes, perhaps most
significant is that our own division of shame and guilt predisposes us to categorize
each of them in particular ways, but that these ways are not the only, or even the
obvious, choices.
82
I have treated the verb as it it were regular in the text; a more literal translation
would read ‘it repents me of my behaviour’; see n. 117 for a similar problem with
paenitet. For a lexical study of metameleia, see Thompson (1908); she emphasizes the
‘regret’ aspect of metameleia rather than the change of purpose that it often brings.
83
See his discussion at 103 n. 42 of Democritus 43D–K (
ƺ
ØÆ K’ ÆN åæE Ø
æªÆ Ø ı øÅæÆ, metameleia about shameful deeds is the preserver of life),
which is one of few exceptions (so too Cairns 1999: 174). There is a similar fragment
from Posidonius about growing up and being ashamed of one’s mistakes, which adds
the key piece of age and maturity to the puzzle. So too Norden (1913: 135–40), who
argues for a (no-longer extant) Stoic polemic against metanoia and metameleia as
pathe. But see too Andronicus on 
ƺ
ØÆ as distress over things one has done,
namely that they were mistakenly done (SVF 3.414.32–3) and Philodemus on

ƺ
ØÆ as indicating an increase of irrationality rather than a return to reason
(de Ira 15.9–15, with Tsouna 2001: 242).
28 Introduction
that metameleia might lead to a revision of action—if they put him to
death, we might think that metameleia is precisely what they would
provide themselves the opportunity of feeling), Menander Dysk. 12
(the lead character dislikes people so much that he metamelei even
having to greet the statue of Pan outside of his house), Polybius 23.15
(one should not devastate the enemy’s land so completely as to leave
no opportunity for metameleia), and, probably, Xenophon Anab.
1.6.7 (Orontes metamelei being a traitor; that there is little emotion
involved is suggested by the fact that he soon repeats the behaviour).
In these examples, the concept being conveyed seems to be (weak)
regret, or a desire for the opportunity to do something differently.
Some aspect of the action has or has the potential to have a negative
effect, or simply seems unpleasant.
Sometimes, though, the word seems to denote behaviour that is
now considered unfortunate in some way other than simply not
having succeeded or having unintended consequences, that is, it
describes an act worthy of reconsideration on moral grounds. Opin-
ions about what belongs in this category will vary, but I offer some
relatively uncontroversial examples. So, for example, Lysias 3.7 and
10 (the speaker imagines that the defendant Simon will have meta-
melesai his outrageous and abusive behaviour, but he hasn’t, and even
continues it), Dion. Hal. 9.27.5 (the people metemelei their fine of
Menenius once he dies), Heliodorus 9.20.5 (Achaimenes metemele his
accusations against Arsakes), Josephus BJ 1.81 (metameleia at having
killed his brother makes Aristoboulus ill; he dies at 1.84), and Dio-
dorus 30.6 (the traitor Pytho is rewarded for his betrayal but lives the
rest of his life with athumia [spiritlessness] and metameleia). Often,
as in the examples I have listed, sufficient context is provided to allow
the inference that the metameleia is caused by something more than
end result (so, for instance, the death of Menenius seems to be more
than temporally conjoined to the people’s regret).
Ancient philosophers were very concerned with the role of emo-
tions in the virtuous life, and many of them provide our clearest
explications of individual emotions.84 Plato, for instance, treats meta-
meleia in such a way as to offer clarity about its larger context. The

84
As J. Fitzgerald (2008: 5) notes, there seem to have been large numbers of
philosophical treatises on the emotions (he believes that they derived from the
Academy). Stoicism in particular focuses on the extirpation of the emotions as a
marker of one’s progress towards virtue.
 Introduction 29
word appears primarily in the context of punishment for offenders, as
part of a larger discussion about how a community should treat those
who do wrong.85 In a realistic state (i.e. not the Republic, but the
Laws), there will inevitably be crimes, and so there is need for
punishment (Saunders 1991: 349).86 Plato’s primary view of punish-
ment is that it should be educative or curative, teaching both the
offender and onlookers to ‘completely loathe his wrong’ (e ÆæÆ
Ø B ÆØ c IØŒÆ, Laws 934a–b; cf. 862 and Prot. 324a–b).87 So we
might expect remorse-like feelings to matter as evidencing the pro-
gress of the cure, but they play only a limited role: Phaedo 113e–114a
states that those who are curable (N ØÆ) but who have committed
great sins, such as killing a parent in anger ( ’OæªB) and who have
lived the rest of their lives in repentance (
ƺ ÆPE e ¼ºº
) should be punished for at least a year, and in any case until they
obtain forgiveness from those they have wronged. So too, crimes
motivated by thumos and followed by metameleia are less serious
than other crimes, presumably because the offenders are curable
(Laws 866d–e):88
Ka ’ ¼æÆ Ø ÆPå
Øæ b Œ
fiÅ Kº
Ł
æ, ŁıfiH bfi q e 
æƪ
KŒæÆåŁ, ØåB fi 
E æH e ØF ØƺÆ
E. ŁıfiH ªaæ c

85
Of the modern scholarly apparatus on theories of punishment, I have found
R. Duff (1986 and 2001) and Matravers (2000) most useful for illuminating the
ancient material; Abel and Marsh (1984) share a similar focus on the victim, but to
very different ends, and Braithwaite (1989) is interested on reintegrative punishments
(which can be seen, broadly speaking, as ‘curative’).
86
See Stalley (1983: 9–10 and 14) on some general differences between the Laws
and e.g. the Republic, and passim on the context of the Laws within the oeuvre as a
whole.
87
The context is Plato’s assertion that punishments should depend partly upon the
circumstances, such that those who do wrong under the influence of another
(e.g. because of youth (
ÅÆ, Laws 934a)) should suffer lighter punishment than
those who do wrong because of a personal folly (NŒ
Æ ¼ØÆ). Cf. too Laws 671c on
the legislator as able to control the behaviour of the shameless and the young. On
curability, see MacKenzie (1981: 174–5, 245–9). Those for whom this healing does not
work should be put to death, both as an example to others and to rid the world of evil
(cf. e.g. Pl. Gorg. 476–8 and 509 on the benefit to the guilty of their punishment). See
too Gorg. 472, which observes that the wicked are less miserable if punished, with
MacKenzie (1981: 202–3). For Plato, in fact, punishment and education are not fully
distinguishable (Saunders 1991: 352), since proper education should obviate the need
for punishment (this is why citizens are punished more harshly than non-citizens for
certain crimes; they are assumed to know better). On the importance of curability, see
below and Stalley (1983: 141–6).
88
Saunders 1991: 225–6.
30 Introduction
æÆŒÆØ ŒÆd E ‹ Ø i K
ÆçÅ b ŒÆd Iæıº
ø F
IŒ
EÆØ ºÅªÆE X ØØ Øøfi ØÆçŁ
æø  ØÆ ÆæÆåæBÆ B
›æB ª
Å, 
ƺ
Ø 

PŁf F 
æƪı ªªÅÆØ, ŁıfiH
b ŒÆd ‹ Ø æÅºÆŒØ Ł
 ºªØ j ŒÆd IØ æªØ, 
ÆØŒ

c ØøæÆ, o 
æ IŒ
ø  ØÆ ıºÅŁ
 Œ
EÆØ ŒÆd e

æƪ ÆPE I
ƺŠªªÅÆØ.
If someone kills a free man with his own hand, and the deed was done
from anger, it is first necessary to divide this matter into two. For killing
is done from anger by those who suddenly and without intention to kill,
destroy a man on the spot in a sudden rush with blows or some similar
thing, and metameleia happens straightaway after the deed. By contrast,
there are those who, having been insulted by words or unseemly deeds,
pursue revenge and kill a man later, having planned to kill him; for
them the act happens without metameleia.
This definition concurs roughly with our modern distinction between
premeditated crimes and crimes of passion.89 In this first kind of
crime, the agent is as it were swept away by his anger (Łı) and
immediately wishes his deed undone.90 Crimes of the other sort,
however, are planned out in advance, and Plato believes that nothing
changes between the agent willing to commit them and the same
agent looking back at his deeds. He admits that the issue is complex,
but draws a practical distinction between premeditated and unpre-
meditated crimes (B fi KØıºBfi ŒÆd IæıºÆ fi , 867b).91 A rash
action accompanied by metameleia is, generally speaking, to be con-
sidered less serious than one that was planned in advance.92

89
Though, as many note, only very roughly: see Woozley (1972: passim), MacKenzie
(1981: 200–3), and Saunders (1991: 226–7), on what Plato’s terminology means.
90
See R. Duff (2001: 120–1) on the importance of immediacy: ‘sometimes an
offender’s immediate repentance can cast a different light on her crime by showing it
to have been a momentary aberration. She attacked another person but at once
repents the attack, is horrified by what she has done, and tries to help and apologise
to her victim. We can now see the attack itself in a different light—not as a vicious
assault to which she was wholeheartedly committed, but as an aberration for which
she already condemns herself. Her immediate repentance is then a proper mitigating
factor: it mitigates the seriousness of her crime.’
91
As Saunders (1991: 188–92) notes, this is only one of a number of ways in which
Laws 861–3 asserts that the state of mind of the criminal is key; one must understand
the disease in order to find a cure. See W. V. Harris (2001: 193) for brief discussion of
this passage.
92
Aristotle uses metameleia in a very similar way, claiming that its presence can
indicate (or perhaps does indicate) that an act was involuntary (e  Ø’ ¼ªØÆ På
Œ Ø b –Æ K , IŒ Ø b e Kºı ŒÆd K 
Æ
º
Æ fi , [acting in]
ignorance is always not voluntary, and is involuntary [when] painful and in
 Introduction 31
This seems to mean that the occurrence of metameleia can serve
for Plato as a sign that the agent’s behaviour should be considered an
aberration from a normally just (or more just) self; this would fit in
with the ancient notion of abnormal behaviour as a temporary ‘for-
getting’ of what is right.93 And, as noted above, practice agrees with
philosophy here: situations which relate to a loss of emotional control
are an extremely common locus for remorse words.94 We might,
then, want to see Platonic metameleia as a kind of limited step
towards virtue, an indication that there is some hope of cure in the
criminal’s soul; given Plato’s conception of punishment, this will lead
to his re-education rather than death.95 But, obviously, it is far better
never to (need to) feel metameleia in the first place. This passage, and
others, suggests that there is something about metameleia that
threatens the integrity of the ancient subject.
Other than the passage I have discussed above, pp. 9–11, as pivotal
to my understanding of ancient remorse, for Aristotle, metameleia
comes under discussion only tangentially, but in ways that we shall
also find instructive. Aristotle treats metameleia in another passage,
and here too he adds to our understanding. At Rhet. 1380a14–15, as
part of a discussion of how anger is aroused and allayed, he notes that

metameleia, NE 1110b18–19). The passage continues with discussion of the factors

that lead to involuntary action through ignorance, and a restatement that only when
sorrow and metameleia are present can an act be termed involuntary (1110b20–
1111a21). Most of NE 3 is about the relationship of emotion to virtue, and the
difference between voluntary and involuntary actions, and Aristotle’s explanations
have left many confused. See Woozley (1972) on the translation of IŒ Ø and
Kenny (1979: 26–53) on the problem in general. For lexical study of hekon and akon,
see Rickert (1989), with discussion of Aristotle’s view of how regret affects the
distinction at 123.
93
This may usefully be compared to the model offered in the Meno of knowledge
forgotten; the ‘educative’ function of punishment would then consist simply of
reminding.
94
See too Laws 727c, where, however, it is hedone, not thumos, that causes bad
behaviour later to be regretted: ˇP’ ›Æ ÆE Ææa ºª e F Łı ŒÆd
ÆØ åÆæÇÅÆØ, 
PÆH Øfi A, IØÇ
Ø b ŒÆŒH ŒÆd 
Æ
º
Æ Kغa
ÆP, ‘When a man gives way to pleasures contrary to the counsel and commen-
dation of the lawgiver, he is then in no way conferring honour [on his soul], but rather
dishonour, by loading it with evils and metameleia.’
95
It is of course impossible to know why Plato is not more interested in metame-
leia, but profitable speculation might centre on the impossibility of determining its
presence; an emotion that can be feigned is too dangerous to put much reliance on.
See Fulkerson (2004) on the attribution of a lack of metameleia to one’s opponents in
Attic courtroom oratory; there the (lack of the) emotion is demonstrated by continued
bad behaviour.
32 Introduction
men are appeased (æÆı¡
ŁÆØ)96 by those who confess (that they
have done wrong) and feel metameleia (about it) (E ›ºªF Ø97
ήd 
Æ
ºØ).98 Their appeasement has as its cause a belief that
it is just (ŒÅ) for the miscreants to feel pain (e ºı
E ŁÆØ Kd E

ØÅØ). Metameleia, here as elsewhere in the philosopher, is
envisioned as an internal pain that is not caused by practical aspects
of one’s misdeed. Therefore, Aristotle continues, people cease from
their anger at wrongdoers (ÆÆØ B OæªB). Metameleia here
serves as a redress of the wrong; indeed, for Aristotle, at least in the
context of the Rhetoric, it seems to be sufficient recompense for
wrongdoing, since it can halt anger by manifesting itself. The Rhetoric
is a work designed to help the orator persuade others, and the
manipulation of the audience’s emotions through displays of such
things as metameleia plays no small part in his instruction.99 Aside
from the possible distinction between ‘philosophical’ and ‘everyday’
uses of metameleia, Aristotle here raises, if only implicitly, questions
of status that will be significant in many of our examples of metame-
leia: doing things that anger others is a tricky business, and it may
sometimes turn out that a careful display of metameleia is required to
redress an imbalance that has become intolerable.
The verb letamoœy (‘I think about after’) and its related noun

ØÆ (metanoia, ‘afterthought’) is most regularly rendered into
English by ‘regret’; as with metameleia, the word can include both a
simple cognitive rehearsal of past events in light of negative present
outcomes and a recognition of their inherently wrong aspects. In
most periods, it has a larger semantic range than metameleia.100

96
On this (controversial) translation of praos-related words, see Konstan
(2006: 77–90). Even if Konstan’s suggestion is not accepted, the passage makes clear
that Aristotle believes the pain of wrongdoers provides some kind of recompense to
victims.
97
This word will later provide the term for the formal Christian confession and
process of absolution, exomologesis; cf. e.g. Tert. De Paen. 9.2–6 for a discussion of
what the process entails.
98
This passage is also discussed by Konstan (2010: 23–5), who comes to fairly
similar conclusions. In order for this appeasement to work, the victim must believe in
the pain of the wrongdoer (thanks to Douglas Cairns for refinement of this point).
99
Although, as Cooper (1996: 251) notes, not explicitly: the arousal of metameleia
is not mentioned in the Rhetoric, despite its obvious usefulness. Again, I would point
to this as evidence for the notion that metameleia is somehow inappropriate for
citizen men to feel.
100
In Hesychius, however, metameleia is glossed as metanoia, without further
comment (and metanoia does not appear). For a lexical study of metanoia, see
 Introduction 33
There is also the possibility of prospective metanoia (at least in late
philosophical writings) which, when rehearsed beforehand, can pre-
vent wrongdoing, but as this seems for the most part to be an
imaginative reconstruction of future metanoia, it does not necessarily
extend the meaning of the word.101
Metanoia sometimes signifies a simple change of mind or agent-
regret as (probably) at Sophocles Electra 581 (Electra claims that a law
will lead to metanoia once it redounds upon the head of its pro-
posers), Antiphon 2.4.12 (the judges will feel metanoia for a vote of
condemnation102), Chariton 3.3 (the pirates metenooun their piracy),
and Lucian De Salt. 84 (a dancer imitating Ajax actually went mad
and later metanoesai). But it also sometimes contains moral nuance,
as at Josephus BJ 1.555 (Herod feels metanoia for the murder of his
sons), Dio Chrysostom 34.18 (one cannot solve the problems one
has caused simply by claiming or being thought to metanoein),
Epictetus 2.2.35 (one should remove false judgements so as not to
metanoon one’s acts), and Pausanias 1.30.1 (after having spurned his
would-be lover Timagoras, who has now killed himself, Meles feels
such metanoia that he too commits suicide). Finally, one extremely
interesting example, which gives a bare indication of Christian usage:
Procopius Anecd. 17.5 tells of a convent of metanoia.
These two, metameleia and metanoia, are the most common word-
families associated with remorse, accounting for the vast majority of
the scenarios. The verb letacicmþsjy (metagignosko, ‘I think after-
ward’) is also of some importance and comes third in frequency;
again it is most regularly translated ‘change one’s mind’ or ‘regret’.
Some authors use only one set of these words, most use two or three
of them with slightly differing nuances, and a few use all of them.
Although the etymological distinction between metameleia on the

Thompson (1908), and Nave (2002: 40–70 on pagan literature, 74–118 on Jewish
literature, and 119–44 on early Christian literature). In the New Testament metanoia
seems to take over as the marked, moral term, i.e. to signify ‘repentance’ (Thompson
1908: 24, cf. e.g. 2 Cor. 7: 8–11b, where metameleia means non-moral regret and
metanoia repentance, with Nave 2002: 121–2). On metanoia in Luke and Acts, see
Nave (2002).
101
So, for instance, Epictetus suggests that we think of pleasures and then o 
æ

Æ
Ø ŒÆd ÆP ºØæ fiÅ, ‘of the metanoia and self-blame that will follow’
(Ench. 34). Metanoia is also used by Marcus Aurelius prospectively; he claims that the
anticipation of it will prevent wrongdoing (e.g. 8.2, 8.53; cf. Epictetus in Stob. 3.20.67).
102
Nave (2002: 50) takes this to be an unambiguously moral usage.
34 Introduction
one hand, as emotionally based, and metanoia and metagignosko on
the other, as mental, might seem significant, it is rarely emphasized in
the sources.103 All three of the word-complexes mostly refer to
actions for which one deems oneself responsible. Metagignosko is
the broadest term, reflecting both simple changes of mind or plan,
as at Herodotus 1.86 (Cyrus metagnonta his decision to burn Croesus
alive), and those which acknowledge a mistake, like Andocides 2.6
(everyone makes mistakes, but to metagignoskosi quickly shows good
sense). It is perhaps of some interest that the verbal forms of these
words are more common in Greek than their substantives; this may
suggest that the Greeks conceived of these emotions and states as
behaviours104 more than feelings.
A number of other words will come up in later chapters, and will be
discussed at greater length there. One such complex is sun-words,
such as ØÆ (sunnoia, ‘knowing-together’),105 ı
Å Ø (suneid-
esis),106 
Ø (sunesis), ıÆ ŁÅ Ø (sunaisthesis)107 and ØÆ
(often ‘with oneself ’, heauto). These words cover both the concepts of
‘consciousness’ and of (prospective) ‘conscience’, and it is not always

103
Graver (2007: 253 n. 8) notes that while Latin seems to differentiate mental
from emotional ‘care’, Greek does not regularly do so; see Dihle (1982: 30) on the
latter two words as often signifying emotional rather than mental activity.
104
The prevalence of verbs was brought up early in my researches by Michael
Gagarin (personal communication).
105
The Pseudo-Platonic Definitions explains ØÆ as ØØÆ 
a ºÅ,
thought with pain (415e), which suggests at least a certain degree of emotional turmoil
although it does not necessitate the backward-reflectiveness that is characteristic of
remorse.
106
For lexical studies, see Class (1964, on Greek tragedy), Cancrini (1970) and
Zucker (1963), on suneidesis and sunesis 15–33 and passim, with a distinction drawn
at 63. For a study of suneidesis which concentrates on the New Testament and
philosophical texts seen as influential upon it, see Dupont (1948: 124); he concludes
that the moral use (= ‘conscience’, more or less) dates to the Hellenistic period. We are
hampered by the fact that the earliest examples of sunesis and suneidesis are fragmen-
tary, so of unclear meaning (see Jung 1933). Stelzenberger’s (1963) study of suneidesis
focuses on the New Testament and Middle Ages, and suggests that the word changes
meaning from its pagan usage. Pelletier (1967: 364–8), however, suggests that it is a
notion that Hellenistic Jews got from Greeks rather than the other way around;
suneidesis does not appear in the LXX. C. Pierce (1955), also about suneidesis, believes
that Paul got the notion from the Gentiles and introduced it to Christianity; he sees
the focus in the Corinthians on suneidesis as reflecting local concern with how a semi-
foreign concept might fit into the religion (e.g. 16, 64–6).
107
Marcus Aurelius, for instance, asks,  ıÆ ŁÅ Ø F ±Ææ
Ø Nå
ÆØ, 
Ø F ÇB ÆNÆ, ‘once the knowledge of wrongdoing departs, what reason is there
still to live?’
 Introduction 35
possible to discern among the nuances. With only a few exceptions,
however, these words seem to have little to do with a retrospective
‘guilty conscience’.108 Suneidesis has been a particular focus of atten-
tion, as its use at Euripides, Orestes 396 seems to some to mark the
first clear appearance of the concept of conscience in Greek.109
The emotion of ÆN åÅ (aischune, shame) can be induced by the
behaviour of the self or that of others. It is not a reliable indicator of
remorse, but sometimes occurs with it. In a very influential study,
B. Williams (1993) observed that the words aidos and aischune seem
to do duty for both English ‘guilt’ and ‘shame’.110 ‘Regret’ proper in
Greek, that is, a simple wish that something were different with no
acceptance of responsibility, seems to be taken care of most often by
the word Ł (pothos, usually translated ‘desire’—but the word
includes a variety of other desires as well). Among other words that
occasionally share in the semantic field of remorse are IƺÆø
(‘I take back’)111 and 
ƺªø (metalgeo, ‘I feel pain afterwards’) and
its adjective 
ƺª (metalges, ‘in pain afterwards’).112 This last
complex of words is very poorly attested in our sources and seems
to appear only in poetry, which is correspondingly short on meta-
meleia and metanoia. Finally, Ær ø (aidos ‘[prospective] shame,
shamefastness’) plays a limited role in remorse scenarios,113 because

108
Polybius 18.43 refers to sunesis as the ‘most terrible witness’ of one’s crimes.
Seel (1953: 292) notes that the Greek notion of conscience seems only to be a ‘bad’
one. Philo, possibly influenced by Jewish tradition, speaks of ı
Ø as guilty
conscience, but ŒÆŁÆæF F ı
Ø as a clear conscience (Legat. 40 and 165).
109
On the word in its context, see Seel (1953: 298–9); Class (1964: 102–7); Stebler
(1971: 117–21). Class (1964: 100) argues that the sunnoia of Euripides’ Andromache
(c.425) marks the real start of ‘Gewissen’ in antiquity (cf. Stebler 1971: 83–4 and
below, pp. 86–7). Rodgers (1969: 243, 251–2) focuses on that passage as well, and sees
no presence of a ‘moral sense’.
110
B. Williams 1993: 88–102. See too Cairns (1993a: 291–305, 343–54, 360–70).
On aischune in Aristotle and elsewhere, see Konstan (2006: 91–110), and on aischune
in tragedy, Stebler (1971: 66–70).
111
This verb most regularly takes a concrete and physical object, but is used on
occasion to signify the wish that one had not done something, particularly in
conjunction with IƺªÇø/IƺªØ  (analogizo/analogismos, ‘I reconsider’/
‘reconsideration’).
112
On algos and its compounds as denoting mental pain in tragedy, see Class
(1964: 47) and Stebler (1971: 57–60) and, for a key usage, below, pp. 87–8.
113
Aidos has been the subject of a book-length study, and I have little to add to the
magisterial treatment there offered (Cairns 1993a): it is both the feeling that prevents
one from doing something one might later regret (i.e. something like ‘compunction’),
and also the ashamed feeling that occurs after one has done the something. As Cairns
36 Introduction
where it exists, there will normally be no need for remorse feelings.114
Once we move to Latin, things become both a bit simpler and a bit
more complex. As many have noted (indeed, even the Romans
themselves), Latin tends to have fewer words than Greek, which
means that the words often have wider ranges of meaning.115 Our
first word, extremely common, is paenitet/paenitentia (‘it repents/
repentance’, to stick with etymological links).116 Like metameleia in
Greek, this is the word usually most often translated into English by
remorse or repentance, and like the Greek verb, it too is imper-
sonal.117 Kaster (2005: 66–83, at 80) argues that paenitentia has little
intrinsically to do with others, that is, that it is concerned primarily with
regret, the wish that the world were different. His taxonomy, which it
would be difficult to improve upon, focuses on the etymological link,
the ‘almost-but-not-quite’-ness of paene, and so makes clear that pae-
nitentia can be felt for both moral and practical failings, and not only
those for which an agent takes responsibility (Kaster 2005: 68, 71–2,
74). And, as Kaster notes, the distinction between paenitentia related to
honestas (things that relate to one’s status and sense of self) and that
from utilitas (things which are simply unpleasant or inconvenient) is

(1993a: 139–46) notes, aidos is not identical with the English ‘conscience’, but it
comes close.
114
See Cairns (1993a: 416–18). While aidos may prevent some from committing
crimes, Plato Laws 941c–942a suggests that it will not prevent all; cf. Prot. 322d, where
Zeus proclaims that any person without a share in ÆNF ŒÆd ŒÅ (shame and a sense
of justice) should be put to death (and 325a, which raises the possibility of education
and punishment, Ø Œ
Ø ŒÆd ŒºÇ
Ø, before execution). Plato makes clear in this
section of the Laws that some offenders should be considered curable, and others
should not; there is no mention of metameleia in this passage, which suggests that it
does not matter much to Plato (but see above, p. 29 and n. 88). On Epictetus’ use of
aidos as an ‘internal self-judging standard’ that allows for progress in virtue, see
Kametkar (1988: 137, 143, 154).
115
W. V. Harris (2001: 68–70) importantly notes the poverty of Latin words for
emotion (ira is his particular concern), and the subsequent ‘softening’ of Stoic
doctrine in Latin to account for the fact that Latin emotion words encompassed a
significantly larger range of normal human behaviour than Greek. So, for instance,
Kaster (2005: 84–103) argues that invidia covers both the Greek word that means
justified annoyance at someone else’s undeserved good, and its unjustified form.
116
The nuances of the emotion are well captured by Kaster (2005: 66–83).
117
I have treated the verb as if it were regular in the text; a more literal translation
would read ‘it repents me of my behaviour’. Koch (1955: 33–4 and 40, notes at
pp. 179–88, 227–8) offers a comparison of paenitentia with metanoia. For the
equivalence of paenitentia with metameleia, see Gellius 1.8.6.
 Introduction 37
not always clear (75–6 and 178 n. 22).118 So paenitentia is by no means
identical to remorse, although it is sometimes invoked in remorse
situations (i.e. those where both agency and morality are involved).119
Again, I provide brief examples and extended discussion of philo-
sophical writings. Paenitentia is appropriate for things that have
turned out badly, as at Terence Phormio 172 (for the most part, we
humans feel paenitentia about our situations) Caesar BC 2.32 (Curio
to the soldiers: if you poenitet calling me imperator, take it back), Livy
31.32.2 (paenitentia follows plans made too swiftly; here it seems to
mean that it is better to take contingencies into account sooner rather
than later), Ovid Ars 2.592 (Hephaestus paenituisse his crafting of a
trap because Mars and Venus, now caught, don’t bother to hide their
affair any more), Pliny NH 18.26 (the sober platitude quod male
emptum est semper paenitet, a bad bargain is always regretted), Seneca
Medea 170 (Medea paenituit fugae, repents her flight; she has simply
found a better option), and Martial 4.48, in which the addressee is
accused of paenitere the cessation of his own sodomizing. Finally,
Tertullian polemically plays on the dual meanings of the word,
claiming that pagans paenitet (‘think better of ’) even their good
deeds, which means they do not have a space for paenitentiae mal-
orum (the ‘proper’ feeling; De Paen. 1.4–5).
Paenitentia is also, sometimes, the emotion felt when one acknow-
ledges a wrong or admits that others might view one negatively, as
when Quintilian makes clear that paenitentia is to be suggested for a
defendant only when there is no better option,120 Sallust Jug. 31.10
(Memmius explains that thieving nobles do not pudet aut paenitet
their behaviour), Vergil Aen. 1.545 (Dido is assured, with no little
irony, that she will not paeniteat offering hospitality to the Trojans),
Valerius Maximus 5.90 fin. (paenitentia appears after an attempt at
parricide), Pliny 9.21.1 (on the paenitentiae verae (genuine repentance)

118
See Kaster (2005) on cognitive aspects of paenitentia: it is not merely a bad
feeling, but one connected to relative judgement (and so reflects a desire for some-
thing different). As he notes, this differs from shame because of this judgement, and
the standard it implies. For a similar discussion of paenitet, see Thome (1992: 84),
who, however, sees a chronological expansion in meaning.
119
Kaster (2005: 81) finds ‘barely a dozen’ uses of paenitentia to reflect primarily
remorse-like feelings. My own list is somewhat longer, but the point is well taken.
120
See Konstan (2010: 57) citing Quint. Inst. 11.1.81–3 and 12.1.42; cf. too Quint.
Inst. 4.1.45. But see Quint. Inst. 11.1.56, on the right of people to commit suicide from
magnam infelicitatem (great unhappiness) or paenitentia.
38 Introduction
of a slave; see too Konstan 2010: 86), and Gellius 1.3.2 (a deathbed
speech, with only one thing paenitenda, where the dying man does not
know if he has done right or wrong). A number of these examples will
be controversial, and I note that they are often, as with verus in the
Plinian example, clarified in such a way as to suggest that paenitentia
by itself would not normally be understood as denoting a remorse-like
emotion.
We move to slightly more extended examples. Cicero’s philosoph-
ical writings are for the most part Stoic in orientation, which means
that he advocates the wholesale extirpation of the passions (e.g. TD
3.26–7). So he suggests that even distress over moral failings is
inappropriate, and it is not normally denoted with paenitentia.121
There are, however, circumstances in which Cicero appears to envi-
sion paenitentia as a reasonable response to wrongdoing,122 and even
those in which it may have some positive role to play, serving as the
limit to punishment.123 This is similar to the Platonic role for meta-
meleia, but Cicero’s belief that paenitere may suffice for punishment
is significantly different from Plato’s more limited claim. Cicero does
not say this uniformly; there are things for which he sees no possibil-
ity of expiation (e.g. certain crimes against men or gods, Leg. 1.14).

121
cf. e.g. TD 3.61, 68–70 and 77 which list lugent, aegre ferre, aegritudine
premuntur, confici maerore, even over lack of virtue, as foolish and unnecessary. TD
4.45 outlines the Peripatetic view that distress at one’s own wrongdoings is a good
thing, because it serves as a punishment (again, paenitentia does not appear here); see
Graver (2007: 163–4) for the suggestion that this notion does not derive from
Aristotle. So too, Mur. 61 says that the wise man repents of nothing (nullius rei
paenitere; cf. Konstan 2010: 33).
122
TD 4.79 highlights the uselessness and unnaturalness of irascibility (iracundia)
by observing the possibility quemquam poeniteret quod fecisset per iram (that some-
one could feel paenitentia over what he had done in anger); that is, presumably,
paenitentia is such an unpleasant after-effect of ira that ira as a whole cannot be
conceived of as conducing to human good. TD 4.79 similarly notes that anger cannot
be natural, or it would not bring tanta vis . . . poenitendi with it (his example is
Alexander’s killing of Cleitus, discussed below).
123
Est enim ulciscendi et puniendi modus; atque haud scio an satis sit eum, qui
lacesserit, iniuriae suae paenitere, ut ipse ne quid tale posthac et ceteri sint ad iniuriam
tardiores. ‘For there is a limit to vengeance and punishment; and it should probably be
sufficient that he who has done wrong feels paenitentia for his wrongdoing, such that
he himself does not do anything of the sort in the future, and so that the rest are less
likely to commit the same wrongdoing’, Off. 1.33. The De Officiis, of course, has a
divergent aim from the Tusculan Disputations; this alone may explain the differing
nuances of paenitentia in the two works. Still, the fact that Cicero could suggest two
such different functions for the emotion suggests that he reflects a larger contempor-
ary debate.
 Introduction 39
And Cicero, when he is not thinking philosophically, uses paenitentia
in very similar ways to other writers.124
Seneca too, in his philosophical writings, believes that paenitentia
is prone to occur under certain circumstances, primarily when one
acts in anger or from desire.125 There is, again, a positive but limited
role for paenitentia in Seneca; when it occurs after a misdeed, it can
bring about mercy from an unbiased judge,126 and through longa ac
frequenti rerum paenitentia (long and regular paenitentia) for their
misdeeds, people can become better (Ep. Mor. 68.14).127 More en-
couraging is the exhortation that the man who is not wise, can,
through the careful use of his reason, live a life that need not be
regretted (potest non paenitenda agi vita, Ep. Mor. 92.29). But this is
plainly not the ideal, and it is not clear how often even this limited
happiness can be expected.128
And despite these hopeful notes, Seneca sees paenitentia as a
constant feature of everyday life, deriving from non-virtuous (and
non-consistent) desires.129 Only the sage will feel no paenitentia for
any action,130 because s/he has always wanted the same things and

124
So e.g. ND 1.5 claims that the author will cause fault-finders to paeniteat their
criticisms, and De Or. 1.209 uses paenitet in a polite ‘conversational’ form (nobody
will poeniteat having asked Antony to speak).
125
De Ira 2.6.2 notes that deeds done in anger often result in paenitentia. See too
Ira 3.5.4–6 on the regular after-effects of anger; here paenitentia is not mentioned.
The angry person is usually presumed to act in haste, and so there is no opportunity
for pre-emptive consilium omne et paenitentiam (any advice or paenitentia, Ira 1.7.4).
126
Ira 1.19.5, but the point here is for judges to refrain from anger in judgement so
as to be able to observe this paenitentia, rather than an encouragement to wrongdoers
to feel it. Cf. Ira 1.18.3 on the over-harsh judge Piso, who mistook pro constantia rigor
(harshness for consistency).
127
This notion is often connected to Seneca’s apparent advocacy of nightly self-
examination. It is unclear precisely what Seneca means by this, but it seems to derive
from the Pythagoreans (Ira 3.36–8, Ep. Mor. 28.9–10, 83.2, with discussion in Ker
(2009: 170)).
128
See e.g. Tranq. 5.2, where Socrates reproaches the wealthy with seram pericu-
losae avaritiae paenitentiam, ‘a (too-late) repentance for their dangerous greed’; here
paenitentia does not have even a modicum of virtue.
129
The notion is clearly stated at Ben. 7.2.2, where one should remind oneself that
voluptas (pleasure) leads inevitably to paenitentia or shame (cuius subinde necesse est
aut paeniteat aut pudeat). For normal people want different things at different times,
and so they are constantly at odds with themselves.
130
Summum bonum . . . nec satietatem habet nec paenitentiam (‘the highest good
has neither surfeit nor paenitentia’, Vita Beata 7.4); philosophia makes it numquam te
paenitebit tui (‘that you will never feel paenitentia for your behaviour’, Ep. Mor.
115.18); non mutat sapiens consilium omnibus his manentibus, quae erant, cum
sumeret; ideo numquam illum paenitentia subit, quia nihil melius illo tempore fieri
40 Introduction
acted in the same way.131 For Seneca too, the question of paenitentia
is intrinsically linked to that of levitas and constantia, and in this he
seems to be an apt spokesperson for the majority of ancient writers.
Because the sage makes decisions carefully, he does not need to
remake them (compare this to Aristotle’s censure of the metameleti-
kos, above, pp. 9–11).132 Still, both Seneca and Cicero seem to suggest
that paenitentia can have some positive, if limited, effect.133

potuit, quam quod factum est (‘the wise man does not change his opinion when things
remain the same as they were when he adopted it; further, paenitentia never happens
to him, because nothing could have been done better at that time than what was done’,
Ben. 4.34.4; see too 4.35–6 and 38–9 on acceptable changes of mind). The Stoic sapiens
is the person who is perfect in virtue; they are rare if not non-existent in real life (see
e.g. Inwood 2005: 294–6 on Socrates and Cato the Younger as likely candidates, with
Seneca’s own claim at Vita Beatae 17.3–4 that he does not consider himself one of the
sapientes). The gods, unsurprisingly, also never paenitet their decisions (Ben. 6.23.1;
cf. Philo Deus 33 and 72, using metanoia, Q.Gen. 1.93 and 2.54 using metameleia).
Animals too have less complicated lives, enjoying their pleasures without ullo pudoris
aut paenitentiae metu (any shame or fear of regret, Ep. Mor. 74.15). Finally, the De
Clementia (ironically?) suggests that Nero need not worry about saevitiae paenitentia
(regret over violent deeds, 1.11.2) because he has engaged in no violence. On the
dating, and timeliness of this dialogue, see Braund (2009: 16–17). But there is also, for
the non-sage, the possibility of excessive rigidness: some people pride themselves on
being constant when they are merely stubborn (e.g. Ira 1.18.2–3), and it is important
to recognize that there are occasions for flexibility.
131
Again we see how consistency is connected to wisdom: Numquam enim recta
mens vertitur (‘never is a right mind changed’, Vita Beata 7.4); maneant illi semel
placita nec ulla in decretis eius litura sit (‘let those things which have been pleasing
once remain so for him, and let there be no erasure in his decrees’, Vita Beata 8.3);
summum bonum est infragilis animi rigor (‘the highest good is an unbreakable
firmness of spirit’, Vita Beata 9.4); Otio 7.3 (even Epicurus said he would avoid a
pleasure if voluptati imminebit paenitentia, ‘remorse would threaten that pleasure’;
similar sentiments at Ep. Mor. 23.6, where the pleasures of the body are breves,
paenitendas ‘short and regretted’, 27.2 on ‘crimes and pleasures’ (inprobarum volup-
tatum) as bringing paenitentia; the paenitentia alone remains, and 90.34, where
the wise man condemns mixtas paenitentia voluptates, ‘pleasures mixed with
repentance’).
132
The complaint of Tertullian is somewhat different; he notes that pagans feel
paenitentia even for their good deeds, and seems to suggest that it is for them a wholly
utilitarian emotion (Paen. 1.4–5, cited above, p. 37, with discussion at Kaster 2005:
179–80 n. 36).
133
A non-philosophical use of paenitentia appears at Ben. 2.4.1, where some
benefactors behave so boorishly that we paeniteat having been benefited by them
(see too Cons. Pol. 6.3, where Polybius must continue his exemplary behaviour so that
people do not paeniteat their admiration for him, Ben. 5.1.3, where Liberalis is so
generous as to take obligations onto himself, lest the benefactor paeniteat his bene-
faction because of the ingratitude of the recipient, and Ben. 6.4.6, where a benefactor’s
paenitentia deletes the obligation to him). Finally, Ep. Mor. 56.9 claims that, although
 Introduction 41
There has been much discussion of the nuances of noun conscien-
tia and the adjective conscius;134 as with the sun- compounds in
Greek, discussed briefly above, this complex of words seems to
cover both of the concepts represented by English ‘conscience’ and
‘consciousness’. So too, in some authors, conscientia and conscius can
mean the guilty conscience which reminds one of prior wrongdoing.
In fact, for Cicero, conscientia seems regularly to denote the suffer-
ings, usually debilitating, that fall to wrongdoers as a result of their
misdeeds.135 This is a notion that is at least roughly similar to the
modern sense of the workings of conscience.136 Although nearly all of

some think Seneca’s seclusion from public life derives from ingratae stationis paeni-
tentia (regret at his humble station), he is in fact delighted to be left to himself.
134
See Jung (1933) and, more recently, Carlin Barton (2001: 246–8), with further
citations. Stelzenberger’s (1963) study of conscientia focuses on the New Testament
and Middle Ages. Katz (1983: 110–11) lists the appearances of conscientia/conscius in
Sallust, Tacitus, Livy, Caesar, Cicero’s orations, and Suetonius with discussions of
whether they mean ‘guilty conscience’.
135
Eos agitant insectanturque furiae, non ardentibus taedis sicut in fabulis, sed
angore conscientiae fraudisque cruciatu, ‘Furies harass and pursue them, not with
burning torches as in plays, but by the anguish of conscience and the torture of their
wrongdoing’. Cf. the near-identical, but expanded statement at Rosc. Amer. 67: nolite
enim putare, quem ad modum in fabulis saepe numero videtis, eos, qui aliquid impie
scelerateque commiserunt, agitari et perterreri Furiarum taedis ardentibus. Sua quem-
que fraus et suus terror maxime vexat, suum quemque scelus agitat amentiaque adficit,
suae malae cogitationes conscientiaeque animi terrent (‘For do not think, as you often
see in plays, that those who have done something impious and wicked are agitated and
terrified by the blazing torches of the Furies. His own treachery and his own terror vex
each one the most, his own crime agitates each one and brings him to madness, his
own evil thoughts and the consciences of his soul terrify him’), and Para. Sto. 18 on
the goads of conscience (conscientiae stimulant maleficorum tuorum). Yet Cicero is
not always so sanguine. Finibus 1.51, coming from an Epicurean perspective, lists
conscientia factorum as one of the punishments of wickedness (cf. 1.53), but 2.53
objects that animi conscientia improbos excruciari is an ineffectual punishment for
those inclined to wickedness (cf. 2.54 on the man qui animi conscientiam non curet
and 2.55 on the implausibility of being anxio animo aut sollicito). Similarly, at ND
3.85, Cotta argues that et virtutis et vitiorum . . . ipsius conscientiae pondus is sufficient
to punish wrongdoers, although at 3.95 Cicero himself claims to prefer the other party
in the debate. For fuller list of citations and discussion, see Rudberg (1955: 98–104),
and on Ciceronian thoughts about punishment and expiation, see Leg. 2.9, 15, and 17,
and Pis. 43 and 95, the latter of which assert that only the guilty are truly punished, i.e.
by the burden of their own wrongdoing.
136
The following is only a sample, from the orations: Cicero claims that one who
does not refrain from lying conscientiae fide is hardly likely to find religious awe a
sufficient motive (Rosc. Com. 46); see too Fin. 2.53, where animi conscientia is
suggested to be insignificant in deterring the unvirtuous man; he animi conscientiam
non curet, quam scilicet comprimere nihil est negoti, does not care for the conscience of
his soul, which to be sure it is no difficult business to suppress (2.54). The Pro Milone
42 Introduction
Cicero’s enemies (self-evidently guilty) are assumed to suffer from
conscientia,137 the innocent do not seem to have its positive version;
that is, in Cicero’s public speeches, any conscientia is a bad conscien-
tia.138 The prospective sense of the English word ‘conscience’ or
‘scruple’ is usually occupied by such words as religio139 and pudor
(on which see below, p. 44).140

claims that Milo is pura mente atque integra . . . nullo scelere imbutum, nullo metu
perterritum, nulla conscientia exanimatum (‘of pure and upright mind, stained by no
crime, terrified by no fear, and struck senseless by no conscience’, 61); all of these
together assure his innocence in the murder for which he is charged. The conclusion
to this section claims magna vis est conscientiae, ‘great is the power of (a clear)
conscience’. Interestingly, this is also a murder that Cicero feels to be wholly justified.
So Milo’s conspicuous lack of remorse might also be taken to prove that he is guilty,
but praiseworthy (hints of this at 64, where he is guilty of no deed quod non posset
honeste vereque defendere, ‘for which he could not honourably and truly defend
himself ’; here too his conscientia is empty of etiam mediocrium delictorum, even the
smallest wrong). Such is not the case, however, in Cicero’s normal usage.
137
Oppianicus flees, which Cicero takes as et sceleris et conscientiae testem (witness
both to his crime and his conscience, Cluent. 25). Verres is suggested to be fearful and
suspicious because of conscientia (conscientia timidum suspiciosumque faciebat,
2.5.74). The In Catilinam draws attention to Catiline’s conscientia scelerum (‘know-
ledge of his crimes’, 1.17) and suggests that he is conscientia convictus (‘stricken by
conscience’, 2.13); so too Cethegus is debilitatus atque abiectus conscientia (‘crippled
and laid low by conscience’, 3.10), and then demonstrates by his confession quanta
conscientiae vis esset (‘how much power there is in conscience’, 3.11; cf. 3.13 for
physical manifestations). The In Pisonem speculates that the defendant is conscientia
oppressus scelerum tuorum, (‘overwhelmed by the consciousness of your misdeeds’, 39
(cf. too 44, where Piso is infirmatum conscientia scelerum et fraudium suarum,
‘weakened by the consciousness of his crimes and treacheries’). Finally, Antony is
said to have fled on the Ides of March propter conscientiam scelerum (‘out of
consciousness of his crimes’, Phil. 2.88). There are similar notions, without the
vocabulary, at Rosc. Amer. 65, where parricides are self-evidently unable to sleep at
night. And Cicero presents Verres as so guilty (nocens) that he cannot even attempt to
fake innocence (innocens, Verr. 2.3.132). Vatinius, on the other hand, is merely
accused of inconstantiam tuam cum levitate, although this is a serious enough charge
(Vat. 3; cf. levitas at 40 and inconstantiam orationis ac testimonii tui at 41); the
absence of conscientia (e.g. in 28, where tua fraus, tuum maleficium, tuum scelus are
mentioned) may reflect the fact that this speech is not formally a prosecution, but
rather a cross-interrogation (Vat. 33).
138
Interestingly, Cicero’s letters show a different pattern; in them, there is such a
thing as a positive conscientia: Att. 10.4.5 features Cicero’s claim to be praeclara
conscientia (a bit later conscientia alone clearly signifies a good conscience; Att.
13.20.4 again has Cicero boasting of recta conscientia (see Hijmans 1970 on the latter
two examples). It is perhaps noteworthy that the positive uses are marked by clarifying
adjectives.
139
e.g. Verr. 1.3, Rosc. Com. 46, Caec. 5, Cluent. 158–9.
140
e.g. Verr. 2.3.141, where it is conspicuous by absence.
 Introduction 43
Cicero is not alone in this notion of a haunting conscientia (other
authors speak more regularly of conscia mens or conscius animus, but
the meaning seems identical).141 We might see this difference be-
tween Greek and Latin as a significant development in the history of
conscience (hinted at in Thome 1992: 83 and 85).142 Interestingly,
however, conscientia, like metameleia, seems to bring with it little
benefit; it is the index of wrongdoing but not normally of its improve-
ment. Insofar as we can distinguish between paenitentia and con-
scientia in Cicero and other authors, we might attempt to see the
latter as fulfilling a partially positive role (insofar as it is sometimes
connected with punishment) and the former as simply an unpleasant
feeling suffered by the guilty. Seneca shares the Ciceronian under-
standing of conscientia as a punishment, but expands upon it in a
significant way: where for Cicero, conscientia is intrinsically bad, for
Seneca, it can be either bona or mala.143

141
e.g. conscius animus at Plautus, Most. 544. For similar contemporary notions,
see Lucr. 3.1018 (on the conscia mens which tortures the guilty even in the absence of
punishment), 4.1135 (on the conscius ipse animus which remordet, bites with unpleas-
ant thoughts), and 5.1151–60 on the constant fear of the criminal about his own
exposure; Sallust Jug. 35.4 (some of Jugurtha’s friends are hindered by conscientia), BC
14.3 (conscius animus exagitabat, ‘a guilty conscience haunts those’ (who join Cati-
line)), 15.4 (Catiline himself suffers from impurus animus to such an extent that
conscientia mentem excitam vastabat, ‘conscience ravages his overwrought mind’; the
author draws attention to the physical symptoms of madness). Cf. Sallust BC 34.2
(Catiline goes into exile, but claims it is for peace, not sibi tanti sceleris conscius esset,
‘because he was conscious of being guilty of such a great crime’) and 35.2 where
Catiline claims to act ex nulla conscientia de culpa, ‘out of no consciousness of guilt’.
Sallust does not always use conscientia for this lack of negative feeling; at BC 52.8, Cato
touts his own rectitude without it (mihi atque animo meo nullius umquam delicti
gratiam fecissem, ‘I had made no forgiveness for myself or for my mind for any
wrongdoing, ever’). Later examples are legion, e.g. poena est conscientia, Publilius
Syrus 194, conscientia tanti sceleris at Livy 4.17.5, conscientia of man-slaying lizards at
Pliny NH 29.74, etc.
142
Rudberg (1955: 96) and Zucker (1963: 25) both suggest that it is in Cicero that
we first find the notion of a struggle of conscience.
143
See Campos (1965: 408–11) for the nuances of conscientia; so too Grimal (1992:
157–8), contra Molenaar (1969: 172), who argues that Seneca’s use is without particu-
lar philosophical resonance; see Hijmans 1970 for commentary on Molenaar). On the
significance of this shift, see Carlin Barton (2001: 280–1). For instructive examples, see
e.g. Clem. 1.9.10, where Cinna is silent upon the discovery of his plot against Augustus
non ex conventione iam, sed ex conscientia (not from agreement, but out of [a guilty?]
conscience); Clem. 1.13.3 notes that the life of a sinner makes conscientiam suam
plenam sceleribus ac tormentis (‘his conscience full of his crimes and torments’);
Nero’s own faith in his bona conscientia may be sufficient for private citizens, but it
is not enough for rulers, who must also think of their reputations (1.15.5); Ep. Mor.
105.7–8, conscientia does not allow the inpotes to do other things; instead they focus
44 Introduction
The verb pudet and the cognate nouns pudor and pudicitia
(‘it shames/shame(fastness)’) occupy a role seemingly similar to the
Greek aidos, but they are more often retrospective than aidos; the
Latin emotion is not unrelated to paenitentia (Kaster 2005: 77–8), and
there are a few instances where I think it comes very close to
remorse.144 So, for example, Pliny Ep. 7.1.3 (he hopes, if he falls ill,
not to demand anything pudore vel paenitentia dignum; the doubling
may help to emphasize that it is the moral sense that is meant), and
Claudian In Eutr. 1.252–3 (where the incredulous question pudebit?
signifies the eunuch’s general shameless and lack of morality).
Piget (‘it is repugnant’, ‘it causes displeasure’) plays surprisingly
little role in what follows; although it mostly refers to things seen as
simply unpleasing, it can also occasionally be used for something one
has done that is morally repugnant. I adduce here a single relevant
example: at Velleius 2.18.5, P. Sulpicius, ‘as if his own virtue disgusted
him, became evil’ (pigeret virtutum suarum). Other words too cover
the general semantic field of regretted behaviour: morsus (‘bite’), from
which we get the English word remorse, can occasionally refer to
emotional pangs.145 Contritio means more or less ‘repentance’ but is
relatively late (and almost entirely Christian) and so does not appear
in my discussion.146 Finally, there are a variety of Latin words indi-
cating the doing of harm (culpa, noxia, noceo, reus, sons) and the
results of the harm (dedecus, ignominia, opprobium), which play a
limited role in what follows, and they will be discussed as appropriate.

on past misdeeds; Ben. 4.21.5 on the conscientia as a guide (Quid aliud sequitur quam
ipsam conscientiam, ‘what else does he follow but his own conscience?’); Ben. 3.17.3,
the ungrateful man is tortured by his own conscience (urit illum et angit intercepti
beneficii conscientia, here perhaps ‘consciousness’). There is also, as for Nero, such a
thing as a good conscience: Clem. 1.1.1 examination of bona conscientia is pleasant;
Tranq. 3.4 claims that bona conscientia is a secure blessing; De Vita Beata 20.5 assures
us that at his death, Seneca will be able to swear bonam me conscientiam amasse (‘that
I have loved [to have] a good conscience’); Ep. Mor. 23.7, the real good comes bona
conscientia, and it leads to constancy of purpose. Mens bona seems sometimes, but not
always, to have the identical meaning (e.g. Ben. 1.11.4); cf. Campos (1965: 411–16)
and Grimal (1992: 149–51) on nuances of mens/animus bona and mala, and Publilius
Syrus 231–2 for the use of gravis animus.
144
See the detailed and persuasive discussion at Kaster (2005: 28–65); Carlin
Barton (2001: 202–43) too focuses on the key role of honour in perceptions of
pudor. Pudet seems to be the normal way in Plautus to denote remorse-like feelings.
145
Remordeo meaning more or less remorse at, e.g. Lucr. 4.1135. So too the Greek
algos; see above, n. 112.
146
Cf. e.g. Aug. Conf. 4.3 and 5.3.
 Introduction 45
The primary Greek and Latin ways for talking about remorse-like
behaviour seem more similar to one another than either does to
English. In fact, there are two vital ways in which ancient and modern
vocabulary differ, and the remainder of the book explores further
these differences. The first is an ancient reluctance to attribute virtue,
or even progress in virtue, to the person feeling remorse, despite a
context that values improvement. (There are, of course, some philo-
sophical exceptions, which I have noted.) The second is the belief,
stated most explicitly in Aristotle but underpinning many other
passages, that remorse is not the reaction to a single act of wrong-
doing but a chronic, and crippling, defect of character.

STRUCTURE AND OUTLINE OF THE BOOK

The book has the contents that it does because this seemed the best
way to explain what I had found, rather than because I had any
intrinsic interest in particular authors or time periods. Readers may
wonder at my principles of selection: are these the only examples?
The ‘best’, in some way? I have chosen these incidents, out of a
multitude, as emblematic of particular points I wanted to make, and
have tried to highlight continuities and juxtapose select features
among them. But there are many other discussions of remorse in
our ancient texts. I have chosen to emphasize ‘case studies’ rather
than attempting to be comprehensive for two reasons. The first is that
I believe emotions are only fully comprehensible within a context (see
MacMullen 2003: 68 for a similar claim); simple lists of usage, even
with discussion, would not enable the reader to see how I have come
to my conclusions. The second, which is simply to restate the first, is
to make clear that I am engaging in a form of psycho-history, or
intellectual history, or a study of mentalité (as it was once called).
Some will have been pleased, others alarmed, at my recourse to
ancient philosophy for lexical discussion. Philosophers are among the
very few who reflect upon remorse and consistency in themselves,
rather than in particular contexts, so I have privileged them in order
to elucidate what is implicit elsewhere. But the ‘philosophical’ take on
ancient remorse that has been so influential in modern scholarship is
limited to a small segment of ancient society, so none of my examples
in the main part of the book come from philosophical texts (with the
46 Introduction
partial exception of my discussion of Plutarch’s ‘more’ and ‘less’
philosophical views in Chapter 9).
The majority of the book concentrates on representations of
remorseful incidents in both history and literature of the classical
period. A final chapter addresses the tangential but related issue of
consistency, which already appears as a key component in evaluating
instances of remorse-like behaviour, and the last few pages follow up
on some changes and continuities once we enter the Christian
period.147
In general, each chapter focuses on a single text or a single (myth-
ical or historical) figure as portrayed in different texts, and each is
indicative of a significant aspect of ancient remorse. This flexibility
has meant that certain kinds of texts are featured more than others.148
So too, changing views of such ‘trickster’ figures as Odysseus,
Themistocles, and Theramenes are fundamental to this study, al-
though their names do not appear often.149

147
In addition to a number of texts entitled On Penitence (Tertullian, Chrysostom,
etc.), there is much early theorizing about the problem of post-baptismal sin and how,
or whether, it can be atoned for. McNeill (1951) offers interesting discussion and an
outline of historical development. The primary difference is in approach: where the
pagan sources suggest that regret is dangerous, Christians presuppose it as the only
possible means of salvation (a possible pagan exception in the Tabula of Cebes; see
below, pp. 192–3). On the early church fathers’ positive view of Ł, grief (caused
by contrition), see Hunt (2004), who also, briefly, treats metanoia (Index, s.v.) and, for
a recent survey of metanoia in Luke and Acts (the NT texts in which it most frequently
appears) with comprehensive bibliography, Nave (2002), especially 39–118 for con-
tinuities between pagan, Jewish, and Christian understandings of metanoia. There is
also a Jewish tradition of repentance for wrongdoing, instantiated most obviously in
the Day of Atonement (on which, see Maimonides, On Repentance 2.6–9). Philo
posits repentance as secondary but still virtuous; see e.g. Fuga 99 and 157–60, Somn.
2.108–9 and 292, Abr. 17 (26–7, however, note that it is better not to need metanoia),
Spec. 1.187, 242 (again, 1.103 suggests penitence as a secondary virtue), Praem. 15
(noting its secondary place), Q.Gen. 2.13 and, above all, Virt. 175–86 with Konstan
(2010: ch. 2) and Winston (1990: 4–7).
148
As Rosenwein (2006: 28) notes in a study of the Early Middle Ages, certain
genres are perceived as better suited to particular displays of emotion than others, and
this can itself be instructive. For instance, the reader may expect even more treatment
of Greek tragedy than appears in this study. Because I focus on remorse in its
communal context, and most tragedies end at the point where remorse would
manifest itself, this seemed to make the most sense. Creon in Sophocles’ Antigone is
a possible exception (see e.g. 1261–9 and 1317–25, where his change comes too late, as
often in ancient remorse-incidents; fruitful discussion at Gibert 1995: 106–9).
149
Odysseus is particularly well studied in just this aspect, see Ch. 2, n. 20. And
it is clear that Themistocles too, although somewhat less studied, serves as an
 Introduction 47
The main body of the book examines particular cases of regretted
decisions, and also focuses on categories of people who are perceived
as characterologically likely to regret their actions. Each chapter
offers a paradigmatic example of remorse, or near-remorse, by way
of indicating where the boundaries of ancient remorse lie. Those who
do not like the psychological vocabulary inherent in my denotation of
the chapters as ‘case studies’ may prefer to think of them as declen-
sions from the main paradigm. The aim of these chapters is to show
both that some ancient incidents of remorse are easily recognizable to
us, and to outline where and why our recognition fails. Most of the
incidents treated are from fictional genres, as historical individuals do
not usually have regret attributed to them, or rather, those who do
tend to be minor characters. But there are a few notable exceptions.
The first chapter discusses two instances of remorse-like behaviour
in the Iliad, suggesting that they come remarkably close to providing
the components for a modern remorse scenario, but without our
modern focus on sincerity. The second chapter treats what seems to
me to be the single best case of (modern) remorse in antiquity, that of
the figure of Neoptolemus in Sophocles’ Philoctetes. It is no coinci-
dence that Neoptolemus is depicted in the play as extremely young,
nor that he is provided with every opportunity to make reparation for
his regretted deed. At the same time, there are troubling hints that
Neoptolemus’ remorse is not simply positive. Chapter 3 treats a
young woman who is, perhaps because of her gender and age, doubly
inclined to make the kinds of mistakes that would lead to remorse. It
will turn out that Hermione in Euripides’ Andromache behaves in a
way roughly consistent with feelings of remorse but that other char-
acters within the narrative find something objectionable in her re-
morse performance; in fact, she is manipulating the conventions of
remorse in the hopes of mitigating the punishment she fears. This
sophisticated use (or abuse) of remorse suggests that it was not an
unfamiliar concept.
The next chapter discusses the Macedonian king Alexander’s
drunken murder of a courtier and general. Alexander’s remorse
performance is profoundly unsatisfying to a modern audience, as it
leads to no amendment of character, and some of the sources call its
sincerity into question. Alexander might have been excused by them

explicit model for later ancient figures, including Alcibiades and Cicero (e.g. P.Oxy.
1608.82–4, Cic. Att. 10.8.7, Leg. 3.26).
48 Introduction
explicitly on the grounds of his youth but, interestingly, he is not. The
chapters on Hermione and Alexander each suggest that remorse has
potentially positive implications; each, however, undermines the
positive aspects of remorse by questioning whether its display was
real or feigned, and each emphasizes that it would have been better to
have behaved correctly in the first place.
The fifth chapter treats Greek and Roman New Comedy, a genre
focused on generational conflict, particularly in its Roman incarna-
tion. Although the need for the pained examination of one’s past
misdeeds is seen as typical of the young, we shall find that New
Comedy provides only the most perfunctory instances of young
regret, preferring instead to displace this undesirable trait onto their
fathers as a way of destabilizing paternal authority (a key component
of the genre). But even here, the expression of regret forms a part of
paternal punishment rather than mitigating it. Ovid and his exile
provide the subject for the following chapter. Reacting to his relega-
tion by Augustus, Ovid presents the emperor as a vengeful god whom
he is eager to appease. Here if anywhere we might expect remorse
language, but it is in short supply. This is not because the concept was
unavailable to Ovid; rather he seeks to suggest that he would be happy
to abase himself before Augustus and ask pardon, if only he knew
what he had done to offend. This chapter revisits the notion, import-
ant too for the next chapter, that the more powerful an individual, the
more incumbent the necessity for him to behave properly in the first
place, so that he does not need remorse.
The seventh chapter in this section returns to a king, this time, the
emperor Nero, whom our sources describe as plagued by regret after
having put his mother to death. There is no suggestion, as there was
with Alexander, that the emotion was feigned, but each of the sources
depicts Nero’s guilty conscience as revealing a key feature of his
character: he was either not so bad as he might have been, because
at least he felt remorse, or he was very bad indeed. In all cases,
however, his remorse is portrayed as more or less pointless in terms
of character amendment. The eighth chapter discusses a collective
entity, the Roman army in mutiny, over many years. The historians
who treat mutiny display a growing focus on the emotions of the
army, and their commanding officers increasingly demand a display
of paenitentia/metanoia from them as a way of re-establishing
military discipline.
 Introduction 49
Although there is no intrinsic reason to find changes of mind
problematic, we shall see that the Greek and Roman sources almost
universally do so. In the case of individuals, perceived alterations of
purpose or intent are normally presented as requiring narrative
explanation or justification. The ninth chapter therefore first dis-
cusses the issue of consistency as a whole, and then focuses on
Plutarch, staking the claim that his Parallel Lives see changeability
in itself as a problem and come directly to grips with it using a variety
of different strategies. The final few pages of the book return to the
incident of Theodosius and Ambrose described above, pp. 1–2,
offering a series of interpretations that build upon insights gained
throughout. Introducing details of how ancient remorse worked on
an interpersonal level, even in a newly Christian context, enables us to
see that there is much more going on than first appears. The chapter
also draws attention to some continuities and discontinuities in the
role of remorse in later antiquity and beyond.
 1

Agamemnon, Achilles, and the Homeric

Roots of Remorse

We begin with Homer, in part as a way of indicating the pervasive-

ness of the ancient concept of remorse. As I have noted in the
Introduction, examinations of a single concept through an extended
period are often structured chronologically, starting with the concept
as it appears in its ‘primitive’, ‘nascent’ form, and developing from
there to its full flourishing. This narrative arc, although satisfying by
its tidiness, is not the story of remorse. The phenomena I am exam-
ining do not come into being at some definable point in the mental
and emotional life of the ancients; they are always present. In fact, the
concepts of regret and remorse as I have outlined them, and even
questions about the sincerity of particular displays, are available from
the very start of the classical tradition; it is only the words that
change. For classicists, Homer is the Urtext, and the Iliad conse-
quently features as an originary basis of many different kinds of
studies. This chapter therefore discusses two incidents of remorse-
like behaviour in the Iliad in order to make explicit the claim that
Homer offers a well-developed concept of remorse behaviour.1 As we
shall see, the Iliad’s displays of remorse are different in certain key
ways from their later expressions, but not so different as to suggest a
complete break. Indeed, the remorse of Agamemnon and of Achilles

1
This is perhaps not terribly surprising, but given the influence of Snell’s (1960)
and Adkins’s (1960) theories of the ‘primitiveness’ of Homeric society (on which see
further below), it does need to be stated explicitly. When Homer is not ‘primitive,’ he
is ‘transitional’ (although there is nothing earlier); so, for instance, Arieti (1985)
conceives of Achilles as instantiating the move from a shame- to a guilt-culture. On
Homer as a source for some aspects of modern ethics, see B. Williams (1993: 21), and
(1993: 4–7) for a critique of the ‘progressivist’ viewpoint.
 The Homeric Roots of Remorse 51
could serve as models for the cases that follow, as they contain most of
the elements of later remorse and raise many of the same issues. What
many modern readers find lacking in the remorse of Agamemnon in
particular is precisely what they find lacking in ancient remorse in
general, namely a refusal to engage with the question of genuineness,
and a dearth of larger moral conclusions. In fact, for some readers,
these differences may seem so significant that they will not think of
Agamemnon’s behaviour as remorse at all. Yet the immediate context
makes clear that Agamemnon’s ‘apology’ is unsatisfactory to his
audience as well, that they too expect more of him. The insincerity
of his attempt at reconciliation, and the fact that his audience notices
it but does not care, is precisely what makes this such an instructive
example. At the same time, the remorse of Achilles later in the epic
does address both of these issues, even if it does so obliquely, which
also suggests that the Iliad is not a world apart from later literature.
Although there has been a vast amount of work on Homeric
decision-making and other related issues such as the interiority of
Homeric characters, much of it is tangential to the current discussion
because of my focus on remorse behaviour as part of a social script
that is acted out in front of and so must be comprehensible to a
specific audience.2 So too, I leave the gods out of my discussion:
whatever Agamemnon (or Homer) means to convey in Iliad 19 by
the statement that Zeus and ate befuddled his mind and so are the
ultimate causes of his behaviour, by this point in the narrative, neither
he nor anyone else doubts that he is responsible for making reparation
to Achilles. His statement is, as many have noted, a face-saving gesture,
allowing him to leave vague the attribution of blame.3 The gods are
indeed omnipresent in Homer, but Homeric heroes, even in those
moments when they place responsibility on a god for their own or
someone else’s actions, tend also to assume that human agents are liable
for the consequences of their acts. So whatever divine ‘responsibility’

2
Given the preponderance of studies of Homeric psychology, I cite only those
items that directly influence my own thinking. Snell’s (1960) study of Homeric
decision-making, which saw it as reflecting a fragmentary notion of self, was
extremely influential, but has now been persuasively attacked on a number of
grounds; see e.g. Sharples (1983); Gaskin (1990: 147–8 and 151); Pelliccia (1995:
15–27); and, most thoroughly, B. Williams (1993: 21–7) and Gill (1996).
3
The issue of Homeric ‘face’ has been discussed by many, none so usefully as
Scodel (2008) passim.
52 The Homeric Roots of Remorse
entails, it normally makes little difference on the human plane.4 Indeed,
it would be difficult to imagine a functional world in which this was not
the case; Gorgias’ later attempt to do so, in his Helen (6), reduces human
action to a mere puppet-show, for if it is possible to shunt responsibility
onto a god, then there can be no meaningful concept of human agency.5
That said, it is not the case that when the Iliad tells us that Athena
restrains Achilles from killing Agamemnon (Il. 1.188–214), we should
simply understand this as Achilles’ conscience, or some other wholly
interior motivation: the gods do interact with human beings, and can
even cause them to act in uncharacteristic ways, but the humans still
attribute and accept responsibility (in the loosest possible sense of the
word) for their acts.
When our story begins, Agamemnon, leader of the Greek exped-
ition to Troy, discovers that he has caused a plague through his
intemperate refusal of priestly supplication, and Achilles, his best
warrior, demands at an assembly that he return to the priest his
daughter, who had been allotted to him in the spoils.6 This leaves
Agamemnon feeling vulnerable to a loss of status (it is unclear
whether the public humiliation or the loss of material goods is
paramount), and he suggests that the rest of the army should make
it up to him by apportioning a new woman to him. But the women
have all been assigned, so Achilles again objects, whereupon Aga-
memnon loses his temper and threatens to take Achilles’ own war
prize, or someone else’s (1.131–47). This may be merely bluster, but
Achilles takes the threat seriously and responds to it, saying that he
refuses henceforth to fight for Agamemnon because the latter behaves
unjustly; his own rewards have been incommensurate with his battle
prowess, and for them to be taken from him is outrageous (1.148–71).

4
For a concise statement of the situation, see Lloyd-Jones (1971: 10): ‘the divinely
motivated act can also be fully motivated in human terms; the part played by the god
can always be subtracted without making nonsense of the action’ (cf. B. Williams
1993: 31–4 on the philosophical implications; he concludes that Homer contains all of
‘the basic elements of any conception of responsibility’ (55)). For a useful discussion
of the divine apparatus in Homer, see J. Griffin (1980: 143–60) and the classic piece by
Lesky (1961: esp. pp. 177–9).
5
See Adkins (1960: 11) for a working out of the argument. Gorgias’ work is,
presumably, a joke of some sort.
6
Perhaps it is overstating the case to call Agamemnon’s behaviour ‘intemperate’,
but the return of Chryseis is supported by the other Achaians (1.22–3), and it is clear
that Agamemnon has made an unnecessary error. See Taplin (1990: 79 and 1992: 53)
on Agamemnon’s gratuitous cruelty to Chryses.
 The Homeric Roots of Remorse 53
Agamemnon, enraged by this speech, insists upon taking Achilles’
prize (a woman named Briseis) and makes clear that he will not
tolerate threats from Achilles, who is free to go home if he likes
(1.172–87). Nestor, a senior statesman, intervenes (1.274–84), sug-
gesting that Agamemnon is in the wrong for allowing matters to
reach this point, but also chastising Achilles for insubordination.7
Both men have spoken over-hastily, and in ways that suggest that this
is not their first clash, and that it will not be their last.
It is assumed by some readers of the Iliad that conflicts of this sort
are all but inevitable given the constraints of ‘Homeric society’ and
the constant quest for honour. To the contrary: the poem in fact
predominantly depicts a careful management of status-related issues,
such that they do not become conflicts. Achilles’ escalating reaction to
Agamemnon’s provocation is not the only one available, even to a
status-conscious warrior. For instance, when Agamemnon accuses
Sthenelos and Diomedes of slacking in Iliad 4.365–402, the latter’s
response is to submit to this insult in silence (ÆN
Ł
d Æ ØºB
KØc ÆNØ, ‘out of respect for the rebuke of a worthy king’, 402).8
There are of course significant differences between Diomedes and
Achilles as the poem characterizes them, but a focus on personality is
perhaps less useful than observing that silence is also an available
response to potential conflict, even if it is temporarily status-
lowering.9 Sthenelos responds angrily to the king’s rebuke, but

7
On the nuanced behaviour of Nestor in this scene, see Allan and Cairns (2011:
117–19). For the pitfalls inherent in interpreting moral judgements within poems,
see Dover (1983); I assume that Nestor, and sometimes Odysseus, are safe moral
arbiters. There is a common modern critical viewpoint that sees Agamemnon’s
behaviour as paltry and contemptible throughout the Iliad (e.g. Taplin 1990: 61,
65, and passim). I am not unsympathetic, but prefer instead to focus on the social
interactions between the two men, in which I am immeasurably aided by Scodel
(2008). For the standard contrast between Agamemnon and Achilles see Whitman
(1958: 162–3), J. Griffin (1980: 70–1), and for an attempt to characterize Achilles
through linguistic comparison of his words to those of others, Richard Martin (1989:
146–205, esp. p. 148).
8
This contrasts not only with Achilles’ reaction to an attack by Agamemnon, but
to Odysseus’, just before, in 4.349–55. There, Agamemnon immediately takes his
insults back upon confrontation (4.355–63). Scodel (2008: 51) suggests that when a
rebuke is perceived as ‘justified’, a hero does not respond with anger (cf. her discussion
of Agamemnon’s behaviour here at 60–3).
9
Cf. Rosaldo (1984). The connections between the two scenes have long been
noted: so, e.g. Kirk (1985) ad loc., who observes the variation in the two rebuke scenes,
though he is less interested in them as examples of conflict over status. Cf. Richard
Martin (1989: 24–5) on the verbal characterization of Diomedes; Cairns (1993b: 95–7)
54 The Homeric Roots of Remorse
Diomedes explains that he has not taken the insult personally, and
that he understands, and supports, Agamemnon’s aim, which is to
encourage the men (4.412–18; cf. his belated response at 9.34–5,
which suggests that he has taken the matter rather more seriously).
This scene is important insofar as it adumbrates the variation possible
even in the most basic of social interactions. We do learn something
about the characters of Achilles and Diomedes from their differing
responses to provocation, but we also learn that behaviour is never
merely the inert repetition of a single script.
What follows, over several books, is a battle of status, in which
Agamemnon is forced to back down from his initial, aggressive
stance. Both he and Achilles have escalated the conflict, and Achilles
has withdrawn from battle and prayed to his divine mother for
vengeance. In the absence of Achilles, the Trojan enemy, led by
Hektor, goes on the offensive (Iliad 8). Although the gods do play a
role in the development of the plot and the strength of the various
combatants, this is at base a wholly human scenario. Agamemnon is
eventually forced to admit that he was wrong, which he does through
an offer of gifts and public apology.
Iliad 9 details Agamemnon’s first, semi-official retraction of his
insult to Achilles.10 The Achaian leaders, nervous at the Trojan
successes, meet in council, and Nestor is the first to mention Achilles;
he suggests that Agamemnon win over Achilles with gifts and words
(u Œ Ø Iæ

Ø 
Łø
 | æØ Ø ’IªÆE Ø 
Ø 


غØåØ Ø, ‘so that, having made atonement, we may persuade him
with winning gifts and honey-sweet words’, 9.112–13).11 Agamem-
non responds immediately,12 agreeing that he was ‘mad’ (the verb is

for a useful discussion of the scene; Cairns (1993b: 72–3) on the possibility of
Diomedes’ heightened sensitivity to insult; and Cairns (2011: passim) on the import-
ance of avoiding quarrels when possible.
10
Though, indeed, even in Il. 2.378, he had admitted to ‘starting it’ (Kªg ’ qæå
åƺ
Æø; Allan and Cairns 2011: 124). Agamemnon is (both there and here)
speaking in private, a key distinction (Cairns 2011: 101). On apologies in general in
Homer, see Hohendahl-Zoetelief (1980: 3–36), with examples of ‘attestation of one’s
regret’ at 3–20.
11
See J. Griffin (1995) ad 96ff. on Nestor’s tact in broaching the subject.
12
Many have suggested that Agamemnon is attempting to guide the situation
so that someone will suggest that he make reparations to Achilles (e.g. Scodel
2008: 68–9). To bring the subject up himself would involve further loss of status,
but once it has been suggested, he eagerly agrees.
 The Homeric Roots of Remorse 55
IÆ Å, 9.116 and 119)13 and discoursing on the gifts he will offer in
recompense (9.120–57). They are extremely generous, and include
marriage to whichever of Agamemnon’s three daughters Achilles
prefers, and honour equal to his own.14 For many critics, Agamem-
non’s final lines undermine his apology, inasmuch as he says that
Achilles should admit his superiority (ŒÆ Ø  ø, ‹ 
Æ Øº

æ
NØ | M’ ‹  ª

B fi æª
 
æ
håÆØ
r ÆØ,
‘and let him admit it15 to me, insofar as I am more kingly and insofar
as I am able to claim being elder in birth’, 9.160–1). In fact, they
simply outline what he wants in return for his gifts, and what he
wants is nothing more than the status quo ante, which he states
explicitly in the hope of avoiding future conflict: he is to be recog-
nized as the leader of the expedition.16 But whatever the intent of
these final words, Odysseus, perhaps wisely, leaves them out of his
speech to Achilles.17
In response to Agamemnon’s offer, Nestor avers that nobody could
find fault with Agamemnon now (9.163–4 with Hainsworth 1993: ad
loc.; cf. the implicit contrast with his speech in book 1 and Phoenix’s
criticisms of Achilles at 9.515–23, below, p. 57). At the same time,
Nestor’s exact words (æ
Å ŒØ 
, ¼Æ
IæH ª
, |
HæÆ b PŒ’ O a ØE åغBØ ¼ÆŒØ, ‘worthy son of Atreus,

13
Hainsworth (1993) ad loc. Ate is significant later in the narrative (see below,
pp. 60–1), but Agamemnon emphatically does not shirk responsibility by locating the
cause of his mistake in ate. Of the vast bibliography on this subject, I have found most
useful Dodds (1951: 3–6); Dawe (1967: 96–101); Stallmach (1968); and Wyatt (1982,
particularly his discussion of remorse and resentment at 252, 261, and 273, with nn.).
Doyle’s (1984) study of the word is hampered by his decision to divide its usages into
subjective and objective, which is just what he ought to be trying to prove.
14
Hainsworth (1993) ad 121–30 notes that ‘Agamemnon’s offer, as the circum-
stances require, is intended to be irresistible’.
15
As Scodel (2008: 140–1) notes, the verb ç ÅØ, usually translated here as
‘yield, submit’ generally means ‘promise’, with no implicit notion of subordination.
16
So too, Agamemnon is sometimes seen as attempting to formalize Achilles’
subordination to him; by incorporating him into his family, he would place him into a
subject position (e.g. Hainsworth ad 161: ‘Agamemnon makes no retreat on the moral
front’, Redfield 1994: 15–16). That this is Agamemnon’s intent seems eminently
plausible, but is hardly blameworthy given the situation: he is trying to solve this
problem now and forestall it in the future. Donlan (1993: 164–5) argues that the sheer
number of Agamemnon’s gifts is meant to serve as a ‘gift-attack against Achilles’,
increasing his own status at the expense of the man who will become his debtor if
he accepts them.
17
Interestingly, however, Odysseus also omits Agamemnon’s words of apology,
which, as Konstan (2010: 60–3) notes, seems to suggest that they are not particularly
relevant.
56 The Homeric Roots of Remorse
Agamemnon lord of men, you are giving to the lord Achilles gifts at
least no longer to be taken lightly’) suggest that he is not as pleased
with the manner of Agamemnon’s delivery as he is with the gifts
offered.18 Agamemnon is also sometimes criticized for not apologiz-
ing in person, but in fact he does not have the opportunity: Nestor
takes charge at this point and selects a group to carry the conciliatory
message. Presumably Nestor knows that it is safest for the two men
not to meet until they are formally reconciled.19 Nestor chooses
carefully: the embassy consists of Phoenix, Ajax, and Odysseus. The
latter two have already been introduced as significant heroes, and
Phoenix, an older man, was once Achilles’ teacher; in fact, his narra-
tive inserts himself into Achilles’ family tree, since he claims that
Peleus was like a father to him and he was like a father to Achilles.20
Each of the three members of the embassy makes a different kind
of argument to Achilles.21 Odysseus begins with an argument from
the common good (Achilles is needed, and his comrades are
suffering), and lists the gifts of Agamemnon; his speech is not strictly
speaking an apology (Tsagarakis 1971: 258–9), but it is not clear that
it ought to be, since he is not the offending party.22 To him Achilles

18
Taplin (1990: 71) reads Nestor’s words (particularly the  solitarium of 9.164)
as expressing disappointment that Agamemnon has not phrased his offer in a
more conciliatory manner, or at least offered to apologize in person (cf. J. Griffin
1995: ad 113 on the importance of both words and compensation). So too Wilson
(2002: 75, 81), who sees Agamemnon as following the letter, but not the spirit, of
Nestor’s suggestion. Nestor thus has to work even harder to make the offer of the gifts
seem acceptable. But Hainsworth (1993) ad loc. notes that  without an accom-
panying  is not so irregular that this is a necessary conclusion.
19
Scodel (2008: 142) points out that a formal assembly rather than a private
apology ‘defines Achilles’ anger as a matter of concern to the whole army, and it
makes it likelier that Achilles could agree to enter battle even if he is still angry at
Agamemnon’.
20
Achilles’ first comment upon seeing them is that they are çºÆØ, most beloved
to him (9.198; cf. 204). Achilles greets the assembly with a dual form although there
are at least three of them, but that is for the most part irrelevant to my concerns here.
21
There is much bibliography on the problematic aspects of the six speeches (three
from the ambassadors, three in response from Achilles), and on the embassy as a whole.
J. Griffin (1995: 47–50) provides a useful summation. For the suggestion that the
embassy has precisely the opposite of its intended effect, and in fact alienates Achilles,
see Arieti (1986). On Achilles’ use of language, and the question whether it alters so-
called normal Homeric usage, see Parry (1956: 6) and Claus (1975: 16–17, 26–7).
22
I find plausible the argument that Odysseus misjudges Achilles’ frame of mind
because of the friendliness of his greeting; Odysseus seems to assume that Achilles is
simply waiting to be asked to change his mind, but Achilles is in fact still in an
unforgiving mood (argued most concisely in Scodel 2008: 143–5).
 The Homeric Roots of Remorse 57
responds that he has been dishonoured, that Agamemnon’s ingrati-
tude cannot be so easily fixed (9.308–429); he draws attention to the
contrast between his own hard work and the meagre prizes he has
received. He then says that tomorrow he will sail home, and tells of
the prophecy that foretold his short but glorious or long but obscure
life.23 His speech leaves little (but I think, some) space for negotiation,
for he magnifies the gifts beyond what is mentioned, only to reject
even that hypothetical offer (9.378–97).24 After a long silence, Phoe-
nix bursts into tears, recounts his history with Achilles, and beseeches
him to relent (9.433–523); he also assures Achilles that he has been
blameless up to this point: æd ’h Ø 

Åe Œ
åºH ÆØ, ‘before,
it was nothing to be indignant at, that you became angry’ (523; cf. the
commentators ad loc.).25 He then recounts the story of Meleager, who
refused gifts but ended up defending his home city anyway, without
them (529–99). Phoenix, we might say, provides the unofficial,
human touch, first outlining his relationship with Achilles and then
reminding him that communities matter, not just in the abstract, but
to him personally (Hammer 2002: 103).26 Achilles asks Phoenix to
stay with him, so that the two of them can decide on the following day
what they shall do (606–19). He thereby shows that he considers
Phoenix, if not the others, part of his (now-abbreviated) community,
and relents from his threat to leave. Ajax speaks last, chiding Achilles
for his severity and reminding him that the taking of gifts is a
standard way of redressing grievances, even when murder of a relative
is involved (9.624–42; note the commentators ad loc. on the harsh-
ness of Ajax’s language). At this point, Achilles acknowledges that
Ajax speaks reasonably, but says that his own anger will not allow him
to relent (Æ  Ø ŒÆa Łıe K
 Æ ıŁ Æ ŁÆØ; | Iºº Ø

23
Fuller discussion at Hainsworth (1993: ad 410–16 and J. Griffin 1995: ad
307–429. For a sensitive discussion of Achilles’ choice, see Taplin (1992: 193–202).
24
There is much discussion among critics about Achilles’ speech, with some seeing
it as introducing concepts alien to Homeric society and others as expressing the hero’s
own ambivalence; for early and recent treatments, see Parry (1956) and Gill (1996:
136–48). See Redfield (1994: 6–10) on the oddity and power of Achilles’ speech, and
Richard Martin (1989: 167–70) on the characteristics of speech peculiar to Achilles.
25
For the nuances of nemesis, see Cairns (1993a: 51–4).
26
On the speech of Phoenix, see Rosner (1976: 315–18), who outlines the ways
Phoenix’s autobiography duplicates Achilles’ own, and Scodel (1982: 133), who
believes Phoenix’s story is designed to show Achilles that he would find intolerable
the lack of glory inherent in running from his problem. So too, the story of Meleager
‘foretells the shape of things to come’ (Thornton 1984: 121).
58 The Homeric Roots of Remorse
N
ÆØ ŒæÆÅ åºø fi , ‘you seem to me to have said nearly every-
thing like my own opinion, but my heart swells up in rage’, 645–6).27
He also retracts his threat to sail home, now saying that he will
prevent Hektor from setting fire to his own ships. The embassy
goes back, minus Phoenix.
Achilles’ rejection of the gifts of Agamemnon, apparently, puts him
at least partly in the wrong; all of the rules have been followed, and so
his recalcitrance can be seen as churlish: the ‘winning gifts’, even if
they came without the desired ‘honey-sweet words’, ought to have
been accepted (9.113).28 It is clear that Achilles remains unsatisfied,
but it is not clear precisely why: there are many sides to the issue. And
Achilles may not know himself: although he sees the reasonableness
of dismissing his anger, he is still angry. It may well be, as Allan and
Cairns argue, that Achilles recognizes that Agamemnon has offered
him only material goods, without any real apology.29 The harm done
by Agamemnon in his attempt to denigrate Achilles’ status is more or
less redressed by his handsome offer of gifts, or so some parts of the
poem suggest. Achilles disagrees, because he is still angry, and so
prone to interpret Agamemnon’s gesture in the least favourable

27
The verb here, Nø, is that earlier used by Phoenix to describe Meleager’s
anger (9.554). Łı is occasionally translated as Ajax’s, but I do not see much point in
Achilles telling Ajax he’s spoken according to his own beliefs.
28
As Wilson (2002: 3) puts it, the ‘conclusion that an overwhelming majority of
contemporary scholars have reached is that Achilleus’ refusal is unreasonable—in
other words, incompatible with the social rules and values of Homeric society’. Yet,
as Allan and Cairns (2011: 122–3) argue, the words of Odysseus, Phoenix, and Ajax
each recognize, in their own ways, that Agamemnon’s offer is not all it should be,
however much they suggest—and believe—that Achilles should accept it anyway
because of other considerations. But Achilles is not under any circumstances to be
understood as having by his refusal committed a sin, or even as (unambiguously)
having fallen under the spell of ate (Gill 1996: 124 and 143; contra Wyatt 1982: 256,
Lloyd-Jones 1971: 18, Arieti 1988: 1, 4, 6, 11). Some scholars simultaneously find
Agamemnon blameworthy for not apologizing properly, and Achilles blameworthy
for not accepting the supplication they deem inferior (e.g. Thornton 1984: 123,
126, 135).
29
Because Agamemnon has not mentioned ate in his offer of gifts, it ‘remains for
Phoenix to suggest that Agamemnon’s offer is a recognition of and amends for his atē
by means of the allegory at 9.502–12’. So too, given the lack of apology, ‘there is no
guarantee he will not act like this again, cheating another Achaean of his rightful share
of honour (9. 369–72)’ (Allan and Cairns 2011: 124). But, as Scodel (2008: 107) notes
(with examples), it is possible in the world of the poem for characters to ‘effectively
defuse other’s anger even if they do not admit wrongdoing or say overtly that they
regret their actions’. Agamemnon, as often, is a special case.
 The Homeric Roots of Remorse 59
light.30 The poem’s ambiguity on this point is a realistic touch; we can
imagine the Greeks themselves taking sides, with some still believing
Agamemnon to be in the wrong, and others finding Achilles blame-
worthy for refusing to be conciliated, particularly given how critical
his support has become.31
A status challenge has been made and met: Agamemnon thought
he did not need Achilles, but he was wrong, and so he suffers. We
could, as some have done, frame this event as being a feature of
Homeric ‘results-culture’,32 but I focus instead on the fact that this
incident establishes a pattern for displays of remorse and reparation
that recurs, with variations, throughout classical antiquity. Aga-
memnon, whatever his motivation, takes some responsibility, real-
izes that he has made a mistake that has cost many lives, and
attempts to fix it. His sincerity is of little interest to his audience.
In the modern world, we are often more satisfied with an edifying
and moralistic scenario of reconciliation, one which involves sig-
nificant and measurable life-change, but the ancient world, as
I have noted above, p. 17, seems readier to see such incidents as a
reminder of what one always knew but temporarily forgot: hence
the usefulness of a concept like ate, which, as Agamemnon suggests

30
See Donlan (1993), above (n. 16) on the excessive generosity of the gifts. Allan
and Cairns (2011: 125–6) note that the key feature of Agamemnon’s gifts is that they
are susceptible of a double interpretation: whether Achilles, or anyone else, thinks
they are sufficient is less important than the fact that they are so ample that Achilles
can think that anyone else could believe that these material goods are designed to
make him feel/seem/be inferior. Scodel (2008: 148–9) puts the point differently, but
still sees ambiguity: Agamemnon is either offering so many gifts because he has done
an enormous wrong (which reminds Achilles all the more of his suffering), or he is
trying to display his superiority.
31
On this point, see Scodel (2008: 15), who notes that any ‘action is always open to
description in multiple narratives, whose differences, even when they are slight,
permit quite different evaluations of the event’.
32
The phrase, and concept, are Adkins’s (1960: 50); he believes that Agamemnon
‘is finally convinced’ that he is ‘in some sense “wrong” to deprive Achilles of Briseis’,
but only because it didn’t work out in the way he had hoped. In effect, Adkins
(1960: 51) believes Agamemnon ‘has miscalculated the effect of the loss of Achilles
on the army, and that is why he apologises’. There have been a number of criticisms of
Adkins’s explicitly Kantian framework; see Long (1970: 121) Cairns (1993a: 50–68),
B. Williams (1993: 81–4), and Gill (1996). Van Wees (1992: 113) argues that intent
makes some difference in judging blameworthiness: ‘By shifting responsibility onto
someone else, and onto the gods when there is no-one else to blame, these men are
trying to deny that they intended to behave as offensively as they have undeniably
done, and clearly they hope for greater leniency on account of this’ (cf. 114–15).
60 The Homeric Roots of Remorse
in 9.115–16 and 19.94, clouds judgement and so leaves a space for
bad behaviour without equating it to thoroughgoing viciousness.33
Many modern readers are unsatisfied with Agamemnon’s behav-
iour here, for he seems not to take full responsibility, and in fact, not
even to apologize properly. We move to Agamemnon’s more formal
apology in book 19, which occurs after Achilles has made a gesture of
reconciliation (discussed further below, p. 63). Here too, in ways that
prove instructive, Agamemnon comes up lacking. His hesitation at
the start of this scene suggests that the king is finding it difficult to
apologize (19.78–82),34 but he soon says that it was Zeus and Destiny
(moira) and the Erinys who made him behave so irresponsibly to-
wards Achilles (19.86–7; the key word ate is used throughout his
speech).35 He tells how Hera once deceived Zeus, thereby comparing
himself to the god; both were powerless to resist and so caused grief
for themselves (19.85–138). As noted above, this is often seen as a
simple attempt to remove blame from himself (see especially 19.86,
Kªg ’PŒ ÆYØ
NØ, ‘I am not responsible’, with Taplin 1990: 76),
but it also mitigates the action of both men. Like Zeus himself, both
Achilles and Agamemnon have acted hastily and without full know-
ledge, indeed, under temporary conditions of ‘mad’ un-knowledge, and
so both can be forgiven for their mistakes.36 That he does not intend to
shirk responsibility but is merely saving face is made evident when he
continues: ‘And since I was deluded and Zeus took my wits away, I want
to make it up in return’ (Iºº K
d IÆ Å ŒÆ 
ı çæÆ K
º


33
For another, even clearer example of temporary ‘forgetting’ of correct behaviour
see the chapter on Achilles’ son Neoptolemus.
34
Cf. the commentators ad loc., particularly Edwards (1991) ad 76–84 on the
hostility of Agamemnon’s opening lines and the attention he draws to his seated
position (because of his wound); Achilles by contrast, has not been fighting and so can
stand before the assembly. Thornton (1984: 128–9), by contrast, believes that Aga-
memnon’s seated position draws attention to his humbling of himself before Achilles,
that is, to his formal enactment of supplication.
35
So too, Zeus is mentioned, possibly to lay the ground for the story that follows
and possibly to emphasize his own kingliness. See n. 29, above, on Agamemnon’s ate,
and Bremer (1969: 108) on both Zeus and Agamemnon as victims of ate.
36
See n. 28 on the possibility that Achilles has also been affected by ate. Agamem-
non’s hint that he might have been (contra Hainsworth 1993) exculpates Achilles
from any possible blameworthiness attaching to his actions. In terms of sharing
blame, Achilles’ speech at 19.56–73 seems also to accept joint responsibility with
Agamemnon for the precipitating incident (Edwards 1991: ad loc., and see Taplin
1992: 208 on the ‘conciliatory duals’ of Achilles’ speech).
 The Homeric Roots of Remorse 61
Z
, | ¼ł KŁºø Iæ ÆØ 19.137–8).37 Neither Agamemnon nor anyone
else imagines that laying ultimate responsibility on the shoulders of
Zeus makes a functional difference.38
So Agamemnon has apologized for his behaviour, more or less. But
there is still something missing, and everyone knows it. Odysseus
offers a corrective to Agamemnon in 19.181–3: æ
Å, f ’ 
ØÆ
ØŒÆØ
æ ŒÆd K’ ¼ººø fi | 
ÆØ. P b ªæ Ø 

Åe Æ ØºBÆ |
¼æ’ IÆæ Æ ŁÆØ, ‹
Ø æ
æ åƺ
fi Å (‘You, son of Atreus,
will be more just in the future, also to another. For indeed it is not a
disgrace even for a king to appease a man, when he has wronged him
first’). With these words, Odysseus lays blame squarely on Agamem-
non’s shoulders, claiming that as the one who started the injustice, it
is proper too for him to be first in amends, and he also rebukes him
with the vague threat implied by the future tense of the verb (‘You will
be more just’). So Odysseus reaffirms the culpability Agamemnon had
elided, refusing to allow him to get off quite so easily. Presumably in
circumstances where less was at stake, Agamemnon might have taken
more responsibility, or others might have let his ambiguous behav-
iour slide, but his act has had serious consequences, and Odysseus
seems to want more reassurance from Agamemnon than he has
received.
Agamemnon agrees with Odysseus’ implied reprimand, saying that
he has spoken K æfi Å (‘properly’, 19.186), offers to deliver the
promised gifts, and agrees to swear an oath that he never touched
Briseis, as he had also promised, earlier in book 9, and Odysseus had
demanded (19.187–8). In the behaviour of Agamemnon, we can
clearly see something similar to, though indeed not identical with, a

37
As B. Williams notes (1993: 53). Scodel (2008: 110, 117, 119–20) observes that
Agamemnon seems to stretch the notion of aitios, which generally brings with it an
attempt to place blame elsewhere; Agamemnon combines the use of ate with an
attempt to shift blame to an indeterminate locus. B. Williams (1993: 54) suggests that
by his peculiar formation, Agamemnon is ‘not dissociating himself from his action; he
is, so to speak, dissociating the action from himself ’.
38
This is stated most succintly (and persuasively) by Dodds (1951: 3). See too
Konstan (2010: 63) on the Aristotelian suggestion to disclaim responsibility, rather
then expressing remorse, precisely as a means towards reconciliation. As Dover
(1983: 46) notes in a discussion of this scene, referring responsibility for one’s actions
to the gods provides a social lubrication that is sometimes most welcome: ‘if we are
glad to see a quarrel settled, we do not hark back to its origin and dispute the terms in
which face is saved, whether we believe them or not.’ See too Scodel (2008: 15) on the
value of ‘permitting ambiguity’ about certain features of a dispute that is being
resolved, in spite of what may look like consensus.
62 The Homeric Roots of Remorse
modern apology.39 What we find lacking is, in fact, precisely what
Odysseus seems to find lacking: there is no self-reproach, no expres-
sion of a desire to repair the relationship, no assurances that the
behaviour will not be repeated, and especially, no explicit statement
of culpability; there is nothing which can be construed, even by the
most well-disposed listener, as remorse. Agamemnon’s words and
behaviour by themselves might be taken as evidence that such things
are not necessary, or do not exist, in Homer’s world, but Odysseus’
statement shows that their lack is felt; when Agamemnon fails to
supply the desired statement of culpability, Odysseus supplies it
himself.40 So the ways in which Agamemnon’s apology falls short to
a modern audience seem to be just those in which he falls short in the
poem.
If this were all the Iliad had to offer in terms of remorse, Odysseus’
normalizing statement might suggest that the Homeric conception of
regret is not irrelevant to its later relations, but Achilles’ own behav-
iour when he learns of the death of Patroclus is even more similar to
what modern readers want in a remorse scenario. During the course
of book 11, most of the major Greek heroes are wounded and the
situation has become dire. Nestor therefore suggests to Patroclus,
companion of Achilles, that he attempt once more to persuade
Achilles to fight, or at the very least, arm himself in Achilles’ armour
and help the Greeks (11.791–803). Such a deception, he believes,
might frighten the Trojans into letting up on their assault. Matters
worsen in books 12 and 13, with a partial recovery for the Achaian
troops in 14. Then Zeus takes a more active role, outlining his plan
(15.59–77), which comes to pass. Hektor makes for the Achaian ships
in order to set them on fire, and Patroclus chastises Achilles for his

39
As Scodel (2008: 120) notes, Agamemnon’s speech ‘comes reasonably close to
meeting the modern criteria for an apology’ while it is at the same time ‘clearly
missing much for a modern ear’. This is all the more peculiar given that Achilles has
already publicly retracted his anger.
40
I owe both the phrasing of this point, and the argument behind it, to Douglas
Cairns, both through personal communication and from reading Cairns (1993b and
2011). For a parallel discussion, which dismisses the modern worry about Agamem-
non’s ‘insincerity’ and lack of a ‘proper’ apology, see Konstan (2010: 60–3); he argues
that the modern notion of forgiveness as requiring moral transformation is simply
inappropriate to the ancient world (see especially his ch. 2). This chapter in particular,
and the book as a whole, have been extremely useful to my own understanding of the
process of reconciliation in antiquity. On the steps necessary for forgiveness (the
‘paradigm case’), see Griswold (2007: 49–51).
 The Homeric Roots of Remorse 63
harshness, explains that most of the best fighters on their side are
wounded, and requests Achilles’ armour, in the hopes of dressing in it
and fooling the Trojans into retreating (16.21–45). Achilles, who
plainly feels trapped by his public pronouncement, agrees, but
asks Patroclus not to pursue the Trojans once he has routed them
(16.49–100).41 The Achaians, with Patroclus leading the way, repel
the Trojans from their ships, but Patroclus continues to fight, forget-
ting Achilles’ command, and is eventually killed by Apollo, Euphor-
bus, and Hektor.42
Once Achilles learns of the death of Patroclus, he enacts his own
remorse scenario, and his pain and self-reproach are each empha-
sized. When he hears the news, he performs formal gestures of
mourning (18.20–7, 314–42); he refuses food and weeps again at
19.303–57. Antilochus, who has brought the news, fears that he will
commit suicide, and so remains with him (18.32–4). His mother, the
immortal Thetis, comforts Achilles, and the two discuss what is to
come: Achilles says that he must kill Hektor in revenge, and his mother
says that his own death will follow soon after Hektor’s (18.77–126).43
We know this already, but it is emphasized by the reiteration. In full
knowledge, then, that he is sacrificing his own life to avenge a fallen
comrade, Achilles rejoins the Achaian soldiers on the following day
to unsay his anger against Agamemnon (19.56–73).44 He wishes the
argument undone, and claims that he would prefer Briseis to have been
killed rather than losing so many Greek soldiers (19.59–62). Agamem-
non too apologizes (see above, p. 60), and then recounts the gifts he
offered yesterday. Achilles says that Agamemnon can give the com-
pensatory gifts if he likes, but makes clear that he does not want them;
rather, he urges the men to rejoin battle immediately (19.146–53, and
again at 199–214).45

41
Scodel (1989: 91) usefully pinpoints 16.60–3 as the moment when Achilles
admits/realizes that he is no longer angry; he has, however, publicly sworn not to
fight, so sending Patroclus seems like the best compromise.
42
Although Patroclus himself assigns responsibility in this way, Achilles focuses
his vengeance on Hektor.
43
Cf. 19.408–17, when Xanthos, the horse of Achilles, restates the prophecy.
44
If Schein (1984: 25–6) is correct to see the description of Patroclus’ death as
alluding to the story of Achilles’ own death as narrated in the Aethiopis, the connec-
tion between the two men is made even clearer.
45
As many note (e.g. Donlan 1993: 170), Achilles has ‘won’ this encounter,
receiving gifts without having to be grateful for them. But the poem is so powerful
precisely because he is beyond the point of caring about this victory.
64 The Homeric Roots of Remorse
It is less important to determine whether Achilles is genuinely
responsible for the death of Patroclus, or ought to feel guilty about
it, than observing that he does feel both responsible and guilty for
allowing Patroclus to fight in his armour.46 Indeed, we might see this
as a key difference between Agamemnon and Achilles: where the
former was prone to see himself as less responsible than others did,
Achilles may take on more responsibility than is appropriate. The
cases are not wholly dissimilar, and they offer parallel models of what
the aftermath of a mistake might look like. Like Agamemnon before
him, Achilles wishes his previous deed undone, and like Agamem-
non, he attempts to nullify it.47 But Achilles, unlike Agamemnon, is
no longer concerned with his public standing, and the attempt to
repair his deed is his sole concern. Indeed, Achilles’ reparation is an
extremely costly one, for he knows that to continue fighting means
that he himself will die. Only in this way does he feel he can make
atonement to Patroclus,48 and his sense of the enormity of his mistake
alters him so completely that he is, so far as the poem allows us to see,
never the same again. Achilles’ remorse therefore lacks none of the
key components to a modern understanding of that notion. The
rarity, however, of this kind of remorse, is noteworthy: we shall see
only one other instance of remorse that comes close to it, that of
Achilles’ son Neoptolemus, in the next chapter.
Agamemnon’s not-quite-sufficient apology and Achilles’ remorse-
ful battle-rage are each embedded in cultural practices that it is the
aim of this book to investigate. Rather than drawing larger conclu-
sions about the characters of the two men (although I think it is
perfectly justifiable to do so), I prefer instead to focus on the fact that
some ancient remorse scenarios are more fully realized than others.
In some cases (including that of Agamemnon), the lack of sincerity of
the agent is so patent that the performance is found unsatisfactory by

46
Lloyd-Jones (1971: 22) and Bowra (1930: 17) refer to Achilles’ feeling as
‘remorse’, and other scholars clearly concur, though the word is not always used.
47
Rabel (1988: 473–4) usefully points to the ways in which the elderly and helpless
Chryses’ prayer to Apollo models Achilles’ own response to Agamemnon’s outrage; to
the extent that Achilles has other, more active, options, his choice to involve the gods
precipitates his own suffering.
48
See Arieti (1985: 197–8, 203) on the emotional change in Achilles, and Whit-
man (1958: 188) for the suggestion that Achilles is ‘growing up’; for remorse as
his motivation, Lloyd-Jones (1971: 22). The commentators agree that both a desire
for vengeance and a wish for atonement motivate Achilles (e.g. Edwards 1991: ad
98–100).
 The Homeric Roots of Remorse 65
its audience, but there are other reasons why ancient remorse seems
to a modern viewpoint to lack a key component. One of them is that
ancient texts seem not as interested in a full performance of remorse
as the modern world is: our sources regularly provide a hasty recon-
ciliation and then move on, rather than continuing to focus on the
offending incident. This reflects, in part, a willingness to take behav-
iour at face value, except in extreme cases.49 But it does not mean that
there is nothing like remorse in the ancient world, merely that we will
have to look for it in unexpected places.

49
As Scodel (2008: 148) notes of the Homeric heroes, they ‘both care profoundly
about what others really think and implicitly agree to accept public and conventional
representations of honor as if it were the real thing’. Wyatt (1982: 262) usefully draws
attention to the ways in which moderns tend to look for an underlying cause for
behaviour, where the ancients instead examine its consequences. But, as I have noted
above, sometimes we are also satisfied with little or no guarantee as to the sincerity of
an apology or performance of remorse.
 2

Neoptolemus and the Essential

Elements of Remorse

Sophocles’ Philoctetes, a tragedy first performed in 409 bce, involves

plot twists, false resolutions, and, all but uniquely, a character who
seems to grow up in the course of the play. The figure of Neoptolemus
offers the clearest case in extant tragedy of a decision rethought on
moral grounds;1 indeed, Neoptolemus’ struggle may well render
him one of the most compelling characters in all of Greek tragedy
(Reinhardt 1979: 166; cf. Gill 1996: 1–18). There is heated debate
about whether Neoptolemus, or any other character in tragedy, can
be seen as possessing interiority (Nussbaum 1976–7: 28, who speaks
of ‘privacy’), or whether they merely fulfil set roles in the play.2
Because of his changed behaviour, Neoptolemus is one of the figures
most often cited as ‘growing up’ in the course of a tragedy, and this
chapter suggests that he grows up precisely through experiencing an

1
B. Knox’s (1979: 246 n. 1) exemplary study of changes of mind in tragedy
explicitly does not deal with the moral aspects of such changes; see, however, Gibert
(1995), who discusses these issues at 145–8 and passim.
2
Those who believe that character plays a significant role in tragedy include
Vernant (1981), who suggests that this is a later development in Greek thought.
Heath (1987: 80–1) focuses instead on the ‘emotional’ experience of tragedy, noting
that, although personality per se is not important for tragedy, ethos is, 116–18). On
ancient character in general, see the essays in Pelling (1990); his conclusion and the
essays by Gill (1990) and Easterling (1990) have been of particular use for this chapter.
Garton (1957: 248–51 and 1972) sketches a history of the problem: scholars first
overemphasized character; a reaction against this followed, in which all sense of
coherency of character was lost from scene to scene; eventually a mean was found,
in which character was seen as often but not always merely a function of plot, being
sometimes developed to increase meaning and sometimes for its own interest (see
J. Griffin 1990: esp. 138–9, for a study of the different uses of Euripidean character-
ization in two plays). For the argument that character and plot are inseparable, see too
Gibert (1995: 50).
 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse 67
emotion remarkably similar to, if not identical with, remorse; I will
later connect this with Plutarch’s claims about the value of remorse
for the young.3 In terms of tragic ethos, all that must be conceded is
the proposition that a tragic action seems to follow best when we can
believe that it lies within the character of the individual who commits
it (however broadly or narrowly that character is construed; cf. Arist.
Poet. 1454a22–8).4 So, for instance, in our play Neoptolemus is
plausibly portrayed as the kind of person who wants to do the right
thing, but who is not entirely sure what that is.
Neoptolemus’ role in the play is complex: while he has some
sense of what is required of him as Achilles’ son, his incomplete
understanding immediately embroils him in an ethical dilemma. It
would be easy to find him blameworthy for falling from the stand-
ards set by his father, even for the ‘brief shameless span of a day’
(
N IÆØb æÆ æ æÆåf, 83); yet such a dismissal does not
understand Neoptolemus’ own concerted efforts to engage with
practical morality. By offering the opposed paradigms of Odysseus
and Achilles/Philoctetes, Sophocles makes the dichotomy between
them even more pointed.5 As a result, the Philoctetes is much
concerned with how to decide what is right, and with the differ-
ences between doing what is right and doing what is self-serving
(P. Rose 1976: passim, esp. 91). Further, Neoptolemus’ youth makes
him an ideal locus for the kind of painful learning often involved in
remorse and regret.

3
Nussbaum (1976–7: 26); Easterling (1978: 34). I can here only summarize
what has become an increasingly complicated debate on character in tragedy. On
these issues in general, see most recently Gill (1996), the chapters on tragedy in
Pelling (1990), and, of older discussions, Garton (1957) and Gould (1978). For specific
discussion of Neoptolemus’ development, see below, n. 27, and on Hermione,
another tragic figure whose interiority is obscured, Ch. 3, n. 7.
4
The most notorious offence against this principle, Iphigeneia’s abrupt volte-face
in the Iphigeneia at Aulis, was first attacked by Aristotle (1454a32–7). On this passage,
and its privileging of consistency of character, see Gibert (1995: 42–4). And for recent
discussions of the Iphigeneia, most of which focus on the ways that play as a whole is
structured around ‘unmotivated’ changes of mind, see Gibert (1995: 206–7, 213–18)
and B. Knox (1979: 245).
5
Kieffer (1942: 45) notes that Neoptolemus shares qualities with both older men.
But cf. Calder (1971: 163 and passim), who thinks Neoptolemus’ behaviour from start
to finish is feigned. Even if this fairly perverse interpretation of the play were true,
Neoptolemus’ behaviour is still worthy of study, as it is in this case duplicitously
designed to be persuasive to Philoctetes; either way, we see what regret and apology
are supposed to look like.
68 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse
The claim of this chapter is that Neoptolemus’ behaviour is identi-
cal with what we have identified as an ideal modern remorse scenario
(see above, pp. 15–16 for a formal definition of remorse). In the
course of the play he does something he later argues against as
wrong, demonstrates an increased realization of its wrongness in a
fuller context, and apologizes and attempts to make reparation for his
misdeed. The success of his reparation marks it as all but unique in
ancient literature. Further, I suggest that by this complex portrayal,
Sophocles makes Neoptolemus a more sympathetic character than if
he had never wavered in the first place.6 So too, the remorse of
Neoptolemus has a key function in the resolution of the plot, allowing
the play to end in a way beneficial to both Philoctetes and the Greeks
at Troy. This may seem a surprising claim to make, given that I have
suggested that even emotions much less serious than remorse are
viewed as problematic by ancient sources, as indicating fundamental
character flaws. But Neoptolemus, because of his youth, belongs to a
category of people for whom remorse is a limited virtue, as leading to
the amendment of mistakes.7
The play begins with an introduction by Odysseus, and then
conversation between him and Neoptolemus, son of Achilles. Odys-
seus explains that on the way to Troy, he abandoned Philoctetes on
the island of Lemnos (where they now are) because his foot injury,
gained in the service of the Greeks, was disruptive of religious prac-
tice. The men are there because they need Philoctetes (or his unerring
bow; the matter is for now left unclear) to take Troy; Odysseus has
been chosen for the mission because of his skill in getting things done,
and Neoptolemus because Odysseus knows that Philoctetes will con-
sider him an enemy (46–7), so he cannot act directly (in Euripides, he
changed his appearance). Conveniently for us, Odysseus outlines his
plan: Neoptolemus will deceive Philoctetes in order to create a bond

6
On the emotional interest of Neoptolemus to critics, see Erbse (1966a: 177) and
Fuqua (1976: 32): ‘Sophocles has often been described as depicting him with unusual
affection.’ See too Gellie (1972: 133), who deems Neoptolemus ‘one of the most
engaging characters in Sophocles’. Cairns (1993a) treats the play as well, as an
example of ‘internalised aidos’ that is very close to remorse (250–63, esp. 257–61,
and see 343–4 for the argument that the notion of retrospective conscience is present
in the late 5th century, with evidence at 344–54 from Antiphon and Aristophanes,
illustrating both troubled consciences and clear ones. Contra, see Konstan 2010: 65–6,
who argues that remorse is irrelevant to the plot of the tragedy).
7
Further discussion of youth as a mitigating factor at p. 187; see too the Introduc-
tion, p. 11.
 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse 69
with him, and then invite him on to his ship, with the promise to
return him home. They will really be going to Troy. Neoptolemus is
not pleased about the deception (86–95), but Odysseus suggests that
this discomfort is something he will grow out of, as Odysseus himself
has (96–9).
Before his appearance onstage, Philoctetes is treated as a useful tool
by Odysseus (117) and as an animal by Neoptolemus (90, 147; in fact,
Neoptolemus ‘tracks’ Philoctetes’ movements as he would prey); after
this build-up, the Philoctetes who eventually appears is surprisingly
human: he rejoices to hear the Greek tongue, expresses deep sym-
pathy for Neoptolemus upon hearing about the death of his father,
and is eager to learn the fates of his friends and enemies at Troy.
Rather than the surly misanthrope other versions of the play seem to
have portrayed, this Philoctetes is if anything overly trusting, heaping
praise on Neoptolemus as he is being deceived by him, and assuming
that the two men have a bond because of their shared hatred of
Odysseus. This is not a ridiculous assumption, and Neoptolemus
(hesitantly) confirms it.8 Neoptolemus, for his part, comes to view
Philoctetes with a greater degree of compassion than Odysseus can,
precisely because he was not privy to the original abandonment (Jebb
1890: p. xxv). Philoctetes, furthermore, expresses a view of the world
that is similar to Neoptolemus’ own. The two men, to Neoptolemus’
growing discomfort, turn out to be akin in temperament and, even-
tually, even vocabulary (Blundell 1991: 211 n. 97).
The summary offered above has made clear that Neoptolemus
undergoes some kind of change during the course of the play. What
precisely that is must now be examined: at some point between lines
806 and 965, Neoptolemus becomes unwilling to continue with the
agreed-upon deception, for 965 marks the start of his new, guile-free
behaviour.9 At 965, he claims that rΠ
Øe, a terrible pity, has

8
Pratt (1949: 278–9). As Blundell (1991: 193–7) has well observed, according to
the traditional morality defining friends as the enemies of one’s enemies, Philoctetes
draws the obvious conclusions from Neoptolemus’ story: the two men share a single
enemy and so, naturally, similar feelings.
9
Steidle (1968: 169–78) tried to pinpoint the precise point at which Neoptolemus
begins to feel uncomfortable, and Erbse (1966a: 189–93) suggested that 965 reflects his
first discomfort. Poe (1974: 40) and Alt (1961: 156) place the change in Neoptolemus
during the speech of the fake merchant, and Fuqua (1976: 56) locates it in the very
start of the play; see Winnington-Ingram (1980: 286–9), Gibert (1995: 146 n. 81) and
Pucci et al. (2003) ad 804–12 and 965 for further bibliography and discussion.
70 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse
come over him as he observes Philoctetes’ anguish, and clarifies that
he has been feeling uncomfortable not only now, but for a long time
(P F æH, Iººa ŒÆd ºÆØ). This pity that Neoptolemus feels—a
pity which, given the intense and pathetic way Philoctetes’ suffering
has been portrayed, the audience cannot but applaud—shows him to
identify more and more with Philoctetes, to the detriment of his plan
with Odysseus. As an audience, we may not be surprised by this pity,
both because Neoptolemus himself had earlier expressed doubts
about the morality of Odysseus’ plan and because it is likely to mirror
our own feelings of compunction for the long-suffering Philoctetes.10
Yet Neoptolemus’ pity, while it is an appropriate gesture in
the circumstances, also marks him as not fully allied with Philoctetes,
however sympathetic he may be. Pity is, as Konstan (2001, esp.
75–105) has shown, an emotion that occurs when we feel a sense of
kinship to someone, but not when we are so close that his or her
sufferings are felt as our own. Neoptolemus pities Philoctetes, but is
not yet sufficiently assimilated to him to suffer with him (Konstan
2001: 51–3). By the end of the play, the two men are united, but at this
point, Neoptolemus’ pity marks a separation between them. The
Chorus, too, seems to pity Philoctetes, and, although they are in on
the deception, sing an ode about Philoctetes’ return home that has
puzzled generations of critics.11
This ‘pity’ is not the first place where Neoptolemus seems to have
an inner life obscured from our view: at 806, he says IºªH ºÆØ,
‘I have been in pain for a long time’.12 This pain may be identical with
the rΠ
Ø (‘terrible pity’) of 965 (also denoted as being of long

Easterling (1978: 28–9) notes that Neoptolemus’ behaviour in these earlier scenes is
ambiguous and therefore interesting.
10
This is not the only place where Neoptolemus seems to serve as a model for
audience response; see n. 37. Further, the dramatization of Philoctetes’ physical agony
is unparalleled in extant tragedy, which suggests that we are entitled to find it
significant.
11
Many assume that the ode is designed to aid in the tricking of Philoctetes, which
is possible but perhaps gratuitously cruel. P. Rose (1976: 66 n. 42) focuses on the
Chorus’s ambiguity throughout the play; cf. P. Rose 71 n. 51 for bibliography.
Probably the best way to read this ode is to assume that, as so often, the Chorus
serves to reflect the audience, here at the expense of strict rationality—we want
Philoctetes to be rescued and not to be further abused by the impious Greeks, even
as we know that this is impossible given mythic constraints. Gellie (1972: 147)
similarly suggests that the ode expresses Neoptolemus’ feelings.
12
Kamerbeek (1980: ad loc.) notes that Neoptolemus’ words are ‘sincere and
evasive at the same time’. Cf. Pucci et al. (2003 ad loc.) for bibliography on the
 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse 71
duration). In its context, the phrase simply means that Neoptolemus
is moved by the suffering of Philoctetes; he wishes it were not so. But
his use of the verb also foreshadows his later behaviour and serves as
the first expression of Neoptolemus’ growing distaste for making
Philoctetes suffer yet more.13
At 902–3, Neoptolemus confesses his deception to Philoctetes, begin-
ning with the general statement that it is not Philoctetes’ wound but his
own behaviour that brings ı åæ
ØÆ (disgust/annoyance): ‘everything
is ı åæ
ØÆ when, forsaking his own nature, someone does things
inappropriate (to it)’. Neoptolemus’ ı åæ
ØÆ has sometimes been
used to argue that he undergoes no significant maturation: he has always
been the noble man he turns out to be. In fact, it suggests precisely the
opposite, that his moral code has temporarily failed him: he has moved
away from his nature. Scholars seem to assume that because Neoptole-
mus winds up in the same place he has never moved. Rather, during
the course of the play, Neoptolemus discovers what it means to have
the phusis he has. Being Achilles’ son, it turns out, does not simply mean
that he must side with the Greeks and fight bravely (as even the briefest
summary of Achilles’ role in the Iliad shows); rather it is a far more
complex negotiation between what is due to himself and what is due
to others.14
The stage action in the lines immediately following Neoptolemus’
initial expression of pity at 965 is unclear, but Neoptolemus’ distress
is apparent (see especially his repeated questions  B’ i æfiH’ 895,
 æ ø, 908, 969 and as early as 757,  æH
 974, with Pucci et al.
2003: ad 908). Whatever he is doing immediately before line 974
prompts Odysseus (whom we must, without stage directions, assume
either to have appeared or to have been eavesdropping) to interrupt,
t ŒŒØ ’ IæH,  æfi A, ‘What are you doing, worst of men’?

significance of ºÆØ. See also Lada-Richards (1998: 22, nn. 35–6) and Worman (2000:
26–8) with nn. on the resonances of algos throughout the play.
13
See Blundell (1991: 200–1) on the educative function of Neoptolemus’ pity.
14
See de Vito (1988: 157–9) on Neoptolemus’ betrayal of his phusis and Lada-
Richards (1998: 25 n. 71) on the mutability of phusis with Pucci et al. (2003: ad loc.)
and at 1224 on the reversability of ı åæ
ØÆ. So too with c ç Ø ’ 
Ø
Æ of 1310;
Neoptolemus displays the nature he may always have had, but the display is itself a
marked change from his earlier behaviour. Blundell’s (1991: 212–13) formulation,
that the heroic ethos (of helping friends and harming enemies) has failed him, and so
he must look to justice, is apt, as is Moravcsik’s (1998: 265) notion of ‘moral
development’; Gill’s (1996: passim, esp. 68) description of Greek ethical life as
communal is key to my understanding of the play.
72 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse
(974).15 Odysseus (presumably) addresses himself to Philoctetes,
whom he sees as having changed Neoptolemus’ mind. Odysseus and
Philoctetes exchange insults, and their struggle over Neoptolemus
reflects a similar struggle within him.16 Philoctetes claims that Neop-
tolemus is already regretful: Iºª
ØH çæø | x ’ ÆPe K
Ææ
 x
’ Kªg  ÆŁ (‘he is in pain at the wrongs he has done and I have
suffered’, 1011–12, Seale 1982: 41; Pucci et al. 2003 ad loc.). Neoptole-
mus does not respond to this—although Philoctetes’ echo of his own
IºªH at 806 suggests that it is a reasonable explanation—and sets off
with Odysseus, instructing the Chorus to stay with Philoctetes in case
he changes his mind.
Neoptolemus is not yet ready to break with Odysseus, but now
sees, and is discomfited by, the full implications of his earlier deci-
sion.17 When he agreed to the plan, it had probably not occurred to
him that Philoctetes was helpless without his bow, and he seems also
not to have thought about whether Philoctetes was to accompany the
bow to Troy (at least until his hexameters at 839–42, which form no
small part of his struggle).18 Before the end of the play, he will have
altered his conduct, but also realized that if Philoctetes is to assist with
the capturing of Troy, he must be cured of his disease (see below,
p. 78).19 This too demonstrates his increasing ability to look at the
larger context of his actions.
After the Chorus suggests to Philoctetes that he has no choice but to
give in to his enemies (1095–221), Neoptolemus comes back on stage
and returns the bow despite the angry remonstrances of Odysseus.

15
Neoptolemus is presumably handing the captured bow back to Philoctetes.
16
Neoptolemus is (famously) silent for 100 lines (Adams 1957: 153). While silence
is the easiest thing to misinterpret, I think his subsequent behaviour makes clear that
Neoptolemus has been struggling to reconcile contradictory senses of what is right.
See Easterling (1978: 28–9) on Neoptolemus’ lengthy and numerous periods of
speechlessness as potentially indicating places where he has trouble with Odysseus’
plan and Inoue (1979: 220–3) on Odysseus’ filtering of Neoptolemus’ interpretations
to his own advantage from the very start of the play.
17
So Heath (1999: 148–50) on the ‘accumulation of concrete moral difficulties’
now facing Neoptolemus.
18
Pucci et al. (2003 ad loc.) suggests that at this point Neoptolemus thinks of
Philoctetes’ glory as well as his own.
19
Cf. Webster (1970) ad 983 on the ambiguity of the oracle in this play. Perhaps
the sight of the debilitating effects of Philoctetes’ wound helps Neoptolemus to realize
that the hero can hardly do battle without being cured (B. Knox 1964: 189 n. 21 and
Adams 1957). C. Segal (1977: 143) notes that Neoptolemus’ eventual piety renders
him ‘the only human character to grasp’ the oracle.
 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse 73
He says that he must right the wrong he has committed; significantly,
he has adopted Philoctetes’ verb, and with it his characterization of the
situation (º ø ‹ ’ K
Ææ, 1224, C. Segal 1981: 342; Blundell
1991: 211 n. 97). Odysseus, typically, is not sure what this wrong is
(1225),20 and Neoptolemus explains that he never should have lied to
Philoctetes. Neoptolemus no longer accepts Odysseus’ plan; his ori-
ginal uneasiness about the deceitful ploy has turned into open rebellion
against it. He is better able to recognize Odysseus’ guile when he sees it
practised upon another, and may also be inspired to ally himself more
closely with Philoctetes as he realizes that his own—supposedly fabri-
cated—similarities to the latter contain more truth than fiction.21
Neoptolemus then stakes the explicitly moral claim that taking the
bow was done ÆN åæH . . . Œ’P Œfi Å (1234; shamefully and not with
justice), and accuses Odysseus of being çe 
çıŒ (wise by
nature, perhaps ‘born wise’) but not doing ç (wise things, 1244).
Odysseus counters by claiming that Neoptolemus neither says nor
does ç (1245), to which Neoptolemus responds that just things
are better than wise ones (1246).22 Neoptolemus takes back
(IƺÆ
E) his ±ÆæÆ ÆN åæ (shameful mistake), insisting that
the removal of the bow was wrong (1248–9). After threatening
violence and abandonment, Odysseus leaves, and Neoptolemus
summons Philoctetes from his cave. He tries to persuade Philoctetes
to come to Troy with Odysseus and him, asking if the other man is
willing to allow his own change of heart (
ƪHÆØ, 1270).23 Phi-
loctetes thinks this new emotion is feigned, as were his previous
words (1271–2), and he has no reason not to—after all, Neoptolemus
has done nothing but claim that he feels different.24 In order for
Philoctetes to believe in this alteration, he will want some evidence

20
See P. Rose (1976: 91) on Odysseus as ‘indifferent to the shame ethic’ and Heath
(1999: 147) on Sophocles’ simplification of Odysseus’ arguments to their least effective
point. But see too Nussbaum (1976–7: 33–9) for a sympathetic reading of Odysseus’
worldview (and its inherent assumptions).
21
Podlecki (1966: 237) suggests that the feigned denial of the arms of Achilles to
Neoptolemus is, in fact, true, and that ‘Neoptolemus has himself been the dupe of a
lying ºª of Odysseus’.
22
See too Neoptolemus’ telling comment at 842 about an ÆN åæe Z
Ø, a
shameful disgrace.
23
Kamerbeek (1980) suggests that this verb echoes 961–2 (ªÅ 

Ø).
24
This is both in keeping with tragic constraints and reality. Cf. Aristotle on ethos
(character) as existing in prohairesis (choice), which implies action (Poet. 6; cf. Gill
1996: 103–4).
74 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse
(Blundell 1991: 207). But Neoptolemus is, we might say, still trying to
have it both ways; he wants to go to Troy and become famous, but
also wants to repair the effects of his previous deception. To his credit,
Neoptolemus is convinced that going to Troy is best for Philoctetes as
well as for himself, and so here appears the first explicit statement that
Philoctetes must be cured of his disease once he reaches Troy. But
Philoctetes remains determined not to fight, and so Neoptolemus
returns the bow to the disbelieving hero, to the dismay and disgust
of Odysseus, who has meanwhile reappeared. Neoptolemus has now
re-established matters in their original state, and could presumably
sail for Troy with a clear conscience. His ‘change of heart’ has
manifested itself not only in words, but in action; he abandons his
original mission once he sees its full moral implications. He has
become a different person. I think that if this were all Neoptolemus
did, we would still be entitled to think of him as remorseful in the full,
modern sense. But he goes even further in his attempt at reparation,
realizing that he has not only taken the bow from Philoctetes, but also
betrayed the latter’s trust (Heath 1999: 149). Neoptolemus therefore
intends to keep his promise to take Philoctetes home, despite the fact
that this means giving up his own chance at glory (for allying with
Philoctetes will inevitably mean breaking with Odysseus and the
Greeks). By this act, he hopes to restore not simply the physical
situation of the beginning of the play, but the original bond which
he had created with Philoctetes.25
According to many interpretations of the play, Neoptolemus grows
up in between these two bow scenes.26 He realizes what it means to be

25
Yet he has not become a traitor to his original cause: he interferes with Odysseus
by returning the bow, but also, as Seale (1982: 44) observes, with Philoctetes, when he
deflects the bow aimed at Odysseus. Pratt (1949: 282) well notes Neoptolemus’
newfound ability to balance ‘his concern for Philoctetes and his feeling of patriotic
responsibility’.
26
B. Knox (1964: 141): Neoptolemus has ‘grown to manhood in the fire of his
ordeal’; Blundell (1991: 194): ‘Neoptolemus’ emotional response to Philoctetes will be
an important factor in his moral education’. P. Rose (1976: 71 n. 52) observes that
Neoptolemus really does change, as he does not feel pity at the start of the play, and
Vidal-Naquet (1981: 178) refers to the play as ‘unique in Sophocles’ because Neop-
tolemus ‘undergoes a transformation’. Gibert (1995: 152–5) discusses the moral
development of Neoptolemus, particularly how by growing up Neoptolemus ‘is
disrupting the progress of the plot towards its traditional outcome’ (152). On the
(lack of ) character development in Greek tragedy as a whole, see n. 3 above, and, on
Neoptolemus specifically, e.g. T. Wilamowitz-Moellendorf (1917) and Alt (1961)
passim. Lada-Richards (1998: 10) notes that this alteration is not only psychological,
 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse 75
a man of his word, and keeps his promise, even at cost to himself.
In the earlier scene, he cannot bring himself to disobey Odysseus,
but when he reappears he has accepted the consequences of his
earlier deception and promise, which means, as B. Knox (1964: 138)
observes, that he ‘sacrifices ambition for glory to his honor’, thereby
surpassing even his father in moral terms.27 Yet scholars are generally
unsure how to understand his character—his motivations and feel-
ings, like those of the Chorus, are ambiguous until the end.28 As many
note, Neoptolemus’ change is a reaffirmation of his original feelings,
but I have suggested above that that is itself reflective of a significant
maturation of character.29 That is, his metagnonai is not to be
understood as the single moment in which he becomes a moral
person; it is rather, as Philoctetes knows (Iººa F ’ K ÆıF
ª
F, ‘become your real self ’, 950 with Pucci et al. 2003: ad loc.)
the signal that he has returned to his original moral standpoint, but
now with the courage of his convictions. Vidal-Naquet (1981: 182) is
eloquent on the dangers of misinterpreting 
ƪHÆØ,30 but his
further contention, that Neoptolemus’ change should be understood
as the ritual one of status, from ephebe to adult, is less plausible. It is
perhaps more appropriate to focus, as does Lada-Richards (1998: 1

but an experience which puts Neoptolemus in a ‘liminal space’. And, as de Vito (1988:
154) notes, the question itself is ‘very appropriate to this play’.
27
On the fact that this key moment seems to happen offstage, see Taplin (1971:
34–5) and Gibert (1995: 149). Konstan (2006: 106–9) has a discussion similar to mine,
although he focuses on Neoptolemus’ shame at his own behaviour.
28
Seale (1982: 32) describes Neoptolemus as ‘taciturn’ and ‘inscrutable’; cf. 96 and
98 on the question of whether we are to understand the Chorus and Neoptolemus as
deceitful or sincere). See P. Rose (1976: 318 n. 42) on the feelings of the Chorus and of
Neoptolemus throughout the text. On the characterization of the Chorus in this play,
see Kittmer (1995: 21) with bibliography at n. 41, and on this speech, 23.
29
De Vito (1988: 164); cf. Vidal-Naquet (1981). Kovacs (1980: 103 n. 42) calls it ‘a
return to his original code of honor, temporarily abandoned’, and asserts that
Neoptolemus ‘has the audience’s sympathy at this point . . . because they regard his
character as basically constant’. Many, however, see Neoptolemus as repentant
(Letters 1953: 271; cf. Whitman 1951: 185), ashamed and remorseful (Jebb 1890:
p. xxiii), or conscience-stricken (Podlecki 1966: 244); Pucci et al. (2003: pp. xi, xxxiii)
refers several times to a ‘crisi di coscienza’ and a moral reformation (p. xxxii). C. Segal
(1981: 343) observes that since Neoptolemus was never really like Odysseus, his
second change is less surprising than it might be; cf. too Heath (1999: 144) on
Neoptolemus’ numerous alterations of purpose.
30
1981: 192 n. 21 
ƪHÆØ ‘comes to denote the Christian idea of repentance,
thus almost inevitably giving rise to confusion’. He adds that it is ‘tempting to explain
this mutation on “psychological” grounds . . . and such temptations have inevitably
seduced some scholars’ (178).
76 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse
and passim), on ritualistic aspects of Neoptolemus’ change in behav-
iour, which parallel other developments. I would say that Neoptole-
mus, until his encounter with Philoctetes, had developed a more or
less articulate set of beliefs, but had not yet had the opportunity to put
them into action. At a key moment, he fails, but it is clearly the first
such moment,31 and we are surely justified in concluding that he has
learned something in the course of the play, even if it is only that he
was right in the first place to be troubled by Odysseus. This phrasing
reflects a difference between ancient and modern viewpoints: where
we look for internal and individual clues as a key to understanding
development or transition, Sophocles and his audience might be more
likely to focus on public rituals as explanations (B. Knox 1964: 122;
Gibert 1995: 155; Lada-Richards 1998: 20 n. 6). This is particularly
the case given the necessarily public nature of Greek tragic theatre,
which requires its characters to speak, even if only to themselves,
what other genres can leave as interior monologue.32
It may be a modern conception of personal maturity that obscures
understanding of the passages here discussed. We tend to think of
character as, in Gill’s (1996: esp. 1–18) words, ‘individual’ and ‘sub-
jective’, something developed by oneself after a degree of private
mental effort, whereas the evidence shows that Greeks found a
model of contextualized (‘participant-objective’) character formation
more persuasive. That is, where we might see Neoptolemus as failing
his first test of character (a character already developed), the Greeks
might be inclined to see the day’s events as reflecting an important
stage in his character development.33

31
On Neoptolemus’ ‘naïveté and inadequate understanding’, see especially Pratt
(1949: 277) (quoted), B. Knox (1964: 122–3); Nussbaum (1976–7: 44–5); Blundell
(1988: 138); Heath (1999: 144) (who terms it ‘moral immaturity’ or ‘moral weakness’).
Fuqua (1976: 56) suggests that Neoptolemus is rather outsmarted than compromised:
‘Odysseus adroitly changes the equation “guile equals lying” into “lying equals gain”.’
32
See (especially) Gould (1978: 46–9), and Gill (1983: 470) on the key role of
‘reasoned reflection and decision’ in character formation.
33
See too Gill (1996: 328–44), on ‘selfhood’ as an anachronistic notion applied to
the ancient world. Taplin (1987: 70) suggests a similar attention to context when he
notes that Neoptolemus’ ‘past words are now a part of him, and he must live with their
consequences’. See too Halliwell (1990: 33) on Prodicus’ Heracles as a story about ‘the
formation and exercise of character in the growing person’s active experience of the
world’, and p. 79 on future opportunities for Neoptolemus to shape his character. As
Annas (1993: 52) notes (in a discussion of this play), ancient philosophers believed
that each action could either develop or undermine a virtue; where we focus on ‘doing
the right thing,’ the ancient goal seems to have been ‘being the right person’ (124–5).
 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse 77
There is a further difficulty in translating from ancient to modern in
these scenes, insofar as we seem to conceptualize remorse as involving
an evaluation and alteration of the self (see above, p. 15). A typical
modern remorse scenario views it as an impetus for significant life
change, but it need not be; here we have a case in which it serves as a late
reminder to do the right thing, not a discovery of what the right thing
is. As I have suggested, this example reflects a more characteristically
ancient viewpoint (see Introduction, pp. 16–17). Neoptolemus already
knows what is right, as evidenced by his first speeches, but prefers his
own good to what is right, at least until he is convinced that aiding
Philoctetes provides the greater good (compare Odysseus’ instructions
at 83–5 to ‘forget’ what is right). It is hard to know how we could ask for
more, particularly when Neoptolemus has taken the opportunity not
only to make reparations as fully as he can, but to reaffirm the bonds of
community he has established with Philoctetes.
Another key difference between the case in the Philoctetes and a
typical remorse scenario is that here reparation is possible: it is not
too late for Neoptolemus to undo the action he repents, and by
focusing on his reparation we may be able to extricate ourselves
from the difficulties involved in focusing on the psychological motiv-
ations of what is, after all, a fictional character. Regardless of what
goes on ‘inside of ’ Neoptolemus, the play presents a rare case of
successful reparation, as Neoptolemus not only gives the bow back,
but allies himself to Philoctetes and pledges to keep his promise to the
hero in the hopes of atoning for his error.34 Unfortunately for the
plot, Neoptolemus’ reparation leaves the play in a less soluble situ-
ation even than at its start; this is so even if, as H. C. Avery (1965: 283)
notes, the intensity of Neoptolemus’ remorse nearly convinces Phi-
loctetes of the necessity of fighting at Troy.
These difficulties are only solved by the appearance of Heracles ex
machina. Awkward as this event may seem to some,35 neither the first

34
I take Heath’s (1999: 150 and 158) point, however, that giving the bow back to
Philoctetes only replaces one set of moral difficulties with another: he is now in default
of his obligations to the other Greeks because of his initial moral mistake. See Heath
(1999: 154) on the typical complexity of moral issues in tragedy.
35
The ending Heracles provides has been seen as: wholly arbitrary, forcing closure
where none is to be found (e.g. Pepe 1966: 242; Robinson 1969: 55; Poe 1974: 51),
organic (e.g. Kieffer 1942: 48; Pratt 1949: 285; Adams 1957: 135; B. Knox 1964: 140–1;
Galinsky 1972: 52), or clumsy but necessary (e.g. Winnington-Ingram 1980:
299–300).
78 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse
resolution of the plot, in which Odysseus and Neoptolemus have the
bow but not Philoctetes, nor the second, in which Neoptolemus and
Philoctetes have each other, but nothing else, is acceptable. Sophocles
spends too many lines outlining Neoptolemus’ growing realization of
Philoctetes’ humanity and heroism for the audience to be comfortable
with an ending that does not cure the bowman and offer him an
opportunity for the glory that is his due (Jebb 1890: pp. xix–xx;
Easterling 1978: 36–7). Neoptolemus’ remorse, in effect, serves as
the theatrical marker of the discomfort that the audience will have
been feeling with the play’s development.36
The steps Neoptolemus takes in supporting Philoctetes are central
to full understanding of the play: the heroic events surrounding the
final taking of Troy happen because they have to happen, but in their
working out we are given a snapshot of the redemptive power of
human nature (Jebb 1890: p. xxv).37 Neoptolemus’ remorse allows for
greater understanding of the moral implications of Philoctetes’ trip to
Troy; we now see, in a way we would not have if guile or force had
been successful, that going to Troy is not only necessary for the plot, it
is beneficial to Neoptolemus and Philoctetes, who have also solidified
their friendship, each by making a difficult decision, the one to act
against his own wish in the interest of another and the other to trust
where he had been betrayed.
The tragedy, in fact, presents an ideal case of how the ancient
equivalents of remorse and reparation might look: through poor
understanding, a character does something that he is later convinced
is a moral evil, and so he repairs his act insofar as that is possible,
apologizing to the one he has wronged, restoring the status quo, and
continuing to advocate for him to the very point of giving up what he
himself wants in the interests of that other.38 Neoptolemus’ remorse

36
This seems to be what Poe (1974: 27) means by noting that Neoptolemus is the
‘ideal spectator’, and that he usurps the traditional role of Chorus. See too Easterling
(1978: 30, 34) on Neoptolemus’ growing insight as ‘a guide to our own’, Lada (1993:
101) on Neoptolemus as modelling audience response, and Lada-Richards (1998: 8)
on Neoptolemus as instantiating the theatre-going experience of º
, tragic pity.
37
See Fuqua (1976: 37 and passim) on the ‘rehabilitation’ of Neoptolemus, which
he sees as partly accomplished by making Neoptolemus intertextual with Telemachus.
Lada-Richards (1998: 13) suggests that the audience may identify so much with
Neoptolemus that we find Philoctetes savage in his refusal to sail to Troy.
38
In a discussion of the kinds of incontinence (IŒæÆ Æ), Aristotle notes that
Sophocles’ Neoptolemus exemplifies the best sort: it is better to fix a mistake than
to remain stubbornly committed to it (NE 1146a20). A bit later, he again uses
 Neoptolemus: Essential Elements of Remorse 79
serves its function, causing him to alter his behaviour for something
more in line with what he believes. The fact that Neoptolemus’
actions in this play do not coincide with how we typically envision
remorse should not cause us to overlook their internal coherence.
At the same time, what the mythological tradition tells us about
Neoptolemus’ future suggests that his remorse is not wholly unprob-
lematic, and may begin to explain why Neoptolemus is almost the
only person to claim remorse for himself in the ancient world. For in
the mythological tradition, he and Philoctetes are indeed successful in
taking Troy, but Neoptolemus’ most famous act comes when he
impiously slays the elderly and helpless Trojan king Priam at an
altar.39 And the killing of Priam seems to be foreshadowed in the
play when Heracles warns the two men to behave appropriately
(
P

E) to the gods (1440–1). One of them, at least, does not. So
we may be left at the end of the play with the disquieting sense that,
although he has done the right thing this time, there was still some-
thing wrong with him for needing to learn this lesson. Perhaps
Neoptolemus’ character is still not so fully or comfortably fixed as it
ought to be, and perhaps his very susceptibility to changing his
behaviour in this play is a dangerous foreshadowing of the future,
emotionally labile Neoptolemus, who acts before thinking.
This chapter has discussed the most plausible candidate for a
modern remorse scenario, and has found it to be sufficiently close
to warrant thinking of Neoptolemus as genuinely remorseful, with all
of the nuances that word contains in English. At the same time, it has
suggested that one key difference between ancient and modern might
be a continuing uneasiness on the part of the ancients about the value
of an emotion like remorse, even in the young. The remaining
chapters examine other cases, both literary and historical, where we
might expect similar displays of remorse. In nearly all of them, as we
shall see, the performance works rather differently, either by falling
short in some way, or by failing to have any permanent repercussions,
or both.

Neoptolemus as a counter-example to the notion that incontinence (in this case,

breaking his word to Odysseus) is always bad (1151b19). Neoptolemus recurs once
again, at NE 1168a32–4, in the discussion of what makes a good friend (for discussion,
see Blundell 1988: 138, 141).
39
This is in impious and shocking contrast to his father’s behaviour at the end of
the Iliad; cf. Taplin (1987: 76) and Heath (1999: 145).
 3

Hermione’s Feigned Regret

The previous chapter suggested that Sophocles’ Neoptolemus offers a

compelling counterclaim to the argument that ancient Greeks had no
concept of what we call remorse in English. His recognition of a
mistake and wholehearted attempt to offer reparation to the one he
had harmed suggest, by contrast, that the ancient world does recog-
nize a neutral or even partially positive space for remorseful behav-
iour, even if it seems to function primarily as a (not wholly reputable)
characteristic of the young. This chapter discusses a narrative in
which a young wife displays behaviour that is superficially consistent
with the attribution of remorse, but then undermines her own per-
formance in various ways. Without Sophocles’ Neoptolemus, we
might understand this incident as showing that there was no ‘real’
remorse in antiquity; as it is, we must engage more seriously with the
question of how to understand Hermione’s performance in Euripides’
Andromache. I shall argue that Hermione is portrayed throughout the
play as morally bankrupt, and as making use of conventional behav-
iour to suit her own ends. A moment of potential redemption comes,
but instead of acknowledging what she has done, Hermione worries
about her own safety. Like Alexander in the following chapter, Her-
mione displays what is understood as remorse, but with no lasting
effect.
The play begins after the Trojan War, with Neoptolemus’ wife
Hermione jealous about his concubine Andromache. While Neoptole-
mus is away, Hermione’s father Menelaus comes to visit and the two
decide to kill Andromache and her son by Neoptolemus. They are
thwarted by the timely arrival of Neoptolemus’ grandfather Peleus,
who prevents the murder. Menelaus departs, and Hermione’s anger
turns to fear about what will happen to her on Neoptolemus’ return;
she then runs away with her cousin Orestes, who has opportunely
 Hermione’s Feigned Regret 81
arrived and told her that he has plotted the death of her husband.
Hermione’s hasty and incontinent action puts her in an uncomfortable
situation, and leads her to display (even if she does not feel) a conven-
tional expression of regret. Her behaviour shows both that there is a
normative way to demonstrate remorse-like emotions, and that once
the rules for display are normalized, the sincerity of any performance
can always be called into question.1
Whether the appellation H 
ıæø (‘among the second [class?]’)
from the second hypothesis of Euripides’ Andromache is intended to
be a criticism or not,2 the play has found few admirers. In addition
to larger issues,3 critics have been disturbed by a number of aspects of
the play’s narrative flow.4 For instance, Hermione, a primary focus
of audience attention once Andromache leaves the stage, undergoes a
kind of peripeteia (reversal) during the play; she transforms from a
powerful and vengeful wife into a runaway who fears for her very life.5
As many scholars note, the two women of the play are juxtaposed:
where Andromache is gentle and self-effacing, Hermione is hostile and
jealous.6 Hermione is in turn threatened with danger, although her
fears are perhaps only imagined. She banishes those fears by condon-
ing the murder of her husband and running off with his killer. For
many it is difficult to see Hermione’s ‘suppliant-drama’ as anything but
parodic of Andromache’s.

1
For an interpretation similar in essentials to mine but unelaborated, see Cairns
(1993a: 304–5); in many ways this chapter is an extended footnote to his treatment.
2
Most critics assume it is (Erbse 1966b: 276; Pagani 1968: 200; Lee 1975: 4 n. 1);
see Kamerbeek (1943: 48), Stevens (1971: 27–8), and Mossman (1996: 143) for
discussion of its possible meanings. Some think it means ‘one of the sequels’ and
implies a previous play on the same theme.
3
Cf. Allan (2000: 2) on the standard critical view of the Andromache as ‘disjointed,
melodramatic, and spoiled by anti-Spartan politicking’, and 40–7 with nn. for a recent
overview of scholarship on the play, focusing particularly on the quest for unity.
4
For instance: Menelaus’ motivation for leaving immediately after his showdown
with Peleus; Orestes’ sudden and unmotivated appearance; the reason for Hermione’s
terror of Neoptolemus, and, if we find this terror to be plausible, her previous
unmindfulness of his probable reaction. Kovacs (1980: 7) poses a series of questions
about the play more detailed than these but overlapping in part.
5
Burnett (1971: 133), Lee (1975: 8), and Vellacott (1975: 118) note the similarities
in situation between Andromache and Hermione; both are essentially war prizes, and
the feelings of neither are taken into account.
6
Most who discuss the plot of the play emphasize Hermione’s early arrogance, as it
makes a drastic contrast with her later position (Albini 1974: 85–6; 147ff. ). The
contrast is likely to have been visual as well; cf. Worman (2002: 25) on the problematic
nature of Hermione’s elaborate adornment (reflected in her haughty speech).
82 Hermione’s Feigned Regret
Critical opinion about Hermione varies widely, depending on
whether her role as abuser or as victim is emphasized.7 My own
interpretation, while it builds upon the characterization of Hermione
as disadvantaged by her upbringing and by the situation, focuses
primarily on the ways in which Hermione’s behaviour is immoral
yet comprehensible. Even if we believe that she does not have very
many mental or emotional resources available to her, we can still find
her blameworthy.8 Yet her deeds are also conventional, the sort of
thing a woman like her in such a situation might do, particularly on a
tragic stage.9 Hermione may indeed be less capable than other tragic
women of coping with her troubles, but her active manipulation of
her audience suggests that she is not merely to be pitied.
Before we move to the play itself, I treat a single critical interpret-
ation of Hermione, which has been influential but is, I think, wholly
mistaken. Burnett (1971: 138), one of the few to sustain a focus on
audience reaction to Hermione, believes that she is ‘an evil-doer who
is yet pathetic’. She sees Hermione as ‘much “like us”’, in that she is a
person who, while basically good, sometimes does bad things (145).
This means, for Burnett, that Hermione’s ability to escape the punish-
ment she fears is a relief rather than an outrage. This neo-Aristotelian

7
Although she behaves poorly towards Andromache, some excuse her, to a greater
or lesser degree, on the grounds of immaturity or poor parenting (Norwood 1920: 225;
Johnson 1955: 11; Aldrich 1961: 29; Goossens 1962: 379; Pagani 1968: 201; and
Pòrtulas 1988: 289); cf. Aldrich’s (1961: 73) observation that Hermione is ‘a disagree-
able person with no visible redeeming qualities’. Some note the difficulty of her
situation (Aldrich 1961: 30, 58–9, Lee 1975: 11). Some suggest mental illness or
instability (Pagani 1968: 203; Albini 1974: 87; and Allan 2000: 108), or excessive
valuation of her erotic life (Pagani 1968: 203; Ferrari 1971: 226; and Portulas 1988:
295). Finally, some critics believe that her actions are so circumscribed by others that
we cannot evaluate her as a moral agent (Verrall 1913: 3; Norwood 1920: 222–3; and
Vellacott 1975: 34 and 120). On this view, Hermione has little choice, and her fate is
productive of neither relief nor indignation, although her mistreatment may inspire
pity. See too Goossens (1962: 378), who sees Orestes as the primary manipulator of
the events of the play. For readings that focus primarily on her negative qualities, see
Stevens (1971: 9); Albini (1974: 86 ‘vacua e antipatica’); and Mossman (1996: 151
‘cowardly and hysterical’). Sorum (1996: 385), finally, connects Hermione’s wanton-
ness to that of her mother.
8
Goslin (2006: 121–2, 135), in a discussion similar in approach if not intent to
mine, sees Hermione’s treatment of Andromache as a (culpable) failure of pity which
derives from an inability to imagine herself in Andromache’s situation.
9
Compare, for instance, the Deianira of Sophocles in the Trachiniae; in a similar
situation she attempts to overcome her natural feelings of jealousy, but fails. Despite
her murder of her husband (figured in that play as an accident), she is nonetheless
portrayed with great sympathy.
 Hermione’s Feigned Regret 83
interpretation brings with it the advantage of fitting in with Euripides’
sometime habit of pulling the rug out from under his audience: in her
first stage appearance, we see Hermione as a spoiled bully, but we
later discover that she is not so bad after all. This reading makes the
play a coherent whole and offers the best of both worlds, two cathartic
thrills for the price of one: we feel pity and fear for Andromache and
then again for Hermione, but in the end both women are safe.10
But this interpretation of Hermione’s character finds little support
in the text: up until her downfall, the play simply offers no evidence
that she has ever done a good thing in her life—she is not a good
(or even neutral) person who has done a bad thing, but a bad person
who has accidentally done a good thing (by drawing Andromache
and Peleus together and so ensuring the continuation of Peleus’ line).
Burnett’s interpretation also suffers from an inability to explain how
or when the audience, who must be meant to sympathize with
Andromache in the start of the play, is able to transfer its sympathy
to her persecutor Hermione for its remainder.11 Finally, it is prob-
lematic to see Hermione as ‘safe’ with Orestes, given his psychopathic
tendencies.
Hermione’s arrogance and cruelty towards Andromache in her
first scene will make it difficult for the audience to sympathize
with her, even if she does later suffer. The initial impression of
her may be modified somewhat, but even so, her suffering is likelier
to seem a salutary lesson than the prompt for an emotional response.
And if she is not a good person, Hermione’s misfortune becomes,
at least according to Aristotle, not tragic at all, but outrageous (Poet.
1453a1–5).12 A modern audience, and perhaps an ancient as well,

10
Bibliography on the subject of Aristotle’s katharsis and pity and fear could fill
many a footnote. I cite only two influential discussions of the topic: Else (1967: index,
s.v. ‘pity and fear’) and Halliwell (1986: ch. 6), both with further citations.
11
Even Burnett (1971: 133), among Hermione’s staunchest defenders, does not
seem to find her a particularly compelling character. While I find Heath (1987)
persuasive on the ‘mobility of focus’ available to tragic audiences, I believe he
underestimates the difficulty in the Andromache of expecting an audience to feel
sympathy for the sufferings of Hermione; he believes that it is possible, but observes
that such mobility is ‘a kind of misdirection’ which ‘is not allowed to develop any
emotional intensity of its own’ (93). See too Heath 1987: 95 on the ‘increase in status’
that accompanies his more persuasive case, that of Antigone and Creon in Sophocles’
Antigone; Hermione may be a princess, but Andromache is only nominally a slave.
12
Despite Halliwell’s (1986) convincing argument at 166–7 and 179 that Aristotle
here refers primarily to fortune rather than ethics, it is clear, as he also notes, that a
certain degree of moral similarity is necessary for us to identify with tragic characters.
84 Hermione’s Feigned Regret
may consider Hermione’s peripeteia to be simple justice; she is now in
the precise situation in which she had placed Andromache, fearful for
her life and with no real hope of rescue: even more appropriately so,
as she is there of her own doing. Similarly, if she is less good a person
than Burnett thinks, her ultimate fate will be shocking, rather than
mitigating.13
Having briefly examined relevant interpretations of Hermione’s
character, we move to the play itself; I focus on the scene in which
Hermione thinks better of her attempted murders (805–80). Her-
mione did not come off well from her first scene with Andromache,
appearing both immature and foolish. Her attempt to kill both
Andromache and her son by Neoptolemus failed, and then her father
Menelaus departed after an argument with Peleus (it is not clear that
he has abandoned Hermione, but she seems to assume that she can no
longer rely on his help). The intervening choral ode (766–801) treats
of the importance of being born well (i.e. to a wealthy family), and
mentions the necessary defeat of violence and of those who abuse
their power; it concludes with a paean to Peleus. So, if we can trust the
Chorus, we are entitled to assume that Hermione’s behaviour is at
least problematic, if not downright wrong. Hermione’s Nurse enters
and discusses her situation with the Chorus, and then Hermione and
her Nurse debate her next move. In this scene, the Nurse, the Chorus,
and Hermione herself express opinions about her actions. Most of the
critics interested in this scene seek to determine whether Hermione
genuinely feels repentance or remorse for her act, as they see this
as key to understanding her character. I am less concerned with
Hermione’s character or feelings than with the normative quality
they suggest: whether she ‘really’ feels remorse or is only ‘faking’ it,
both Hermione and her audience clearly know what apology and
regret ought to look like. At the same time, it is difficult to argue that
Hermione’s behaviour is sincere in any but the most contingent
of ways.

See too Heath (1987: 82) on the inconsistencies between Aristotle’s assertions that the
tragic character must be both ‘like us’ and ‘better than us’.
13
Aristotle would, of course, say that this is not good tragedy, but this should
not stop us, as Euripides’ tragedies often push the boundaries of the genre and
Aristotle’s strictures on tragedy are extremely narrow. The reading of Hermione as
morally bankrupt is also typically Euripidean; especially in his ‘darker’ plays, the
poet had little compunction about presenting morally reprehensible characters who
remain unpunished.
 Hermione’s Feigned Regret 85
Before we examine Hermione’s behaviour and the behaviour of
others towards her, it is important to note a few peculiarities. First,
the play does not justify the degree of Hermione’s terror of Neoptole-
mus’ return, given that she has not actually killed his son or his
concubine (Albini 1974: 84; Allan 2000: 69); Hermione’s reaction is
viewed as excessive by others within the tragedy. Second, there is no
stated motivation for the change in Hermione’s behaviour; it is
reasonable to assume that Hermione’s ‘second thoughts’ are the result
of less emotional thinking, but the play nowhere says this, and her
appearance onstage does not suggest that she has ‘calmed down’—if
anything, she is even more agitated than before. As with Neoptole-
mus’ alteration in the Philoctetes, any internal changes are invisible to
us (see above, pp. 70–1) So we are, importantly, left to guess at the
cause of her behaviour: she may be horrified at nearly taking innocent
lives,14 or alarmed at the punishment which is likely to follow,15 or
some combination of the two. Many critics hold irreconcilable opin-
ions about the scene, wanting to see Hermione as both manipulative
and genuinely sorry;16 this confusion probably derives directly from

14
Scholarly opinion attributes to her: plausible but surprising remorse (Allan 2000:
105, who observes at n. 66 that Pacuvius’ Hermione is apparently also remorseful
(fr. 183)); genuine and deep remorse (Boulter 1966: 57; Ferrari 1971: 227); a moment
of high tragedy and moral recognition (Pagani 1968: 208); redemptive remorse
(Pagani 1968: 206–9; Ferrari 1971: 228, who see Orestes as her reward for becoming
a good person).
15
Again, scholars suggest: possibly genuine but still culpably shallow remorse
(Kamerbeek 1943: 60; Pagani 1968: 205; Burnett 1971: 141 n. 11 and 144; and
Allan 2000: 46, 68); signs of ‘moral breakdown’ (Lee 1975: 7); ‘panicky remorse’
(Mossman 1996: 146–7); manipulative and feigned remorse against Neoptolemus’
return (Johnson 1955: 12; Aldrich 1961: 46; Stevens 1971: ad 805 and 825ff., and
Cairns 1993a: 304–5). The claim is most strongly put in Johnson (1955: 12), who
claims that Hermione’s remorse ‘is false, and fear the only basis of repentance.
Heedless of others, she shifts the blame to Menelaus or her women friends, or
storms in self-abuse, purposely avowing and exaggerating her own faults to draw
denials from the Chorus or her Nurse. This vicious woman, possessive, unscrupu-
lous, intolerant of failure, is still at heart the naughty child, managing with tears
and tantrums to escape the punishment which she so richly deserves.’ U. Albini
(1974: 90–1) draws attention to the melodramatic elements of Hermione’s appear-
ance. Kamerbeek (1943: 52) more specifically objects to her behaviour as ‘invrai-
semblable et exagéré’.
16
Hermione feels remorse combined with fear about the consequences of her
actions (Sorum 1996: 381; Allan 2000: 106). Burnett (1971: 146) terms Hermione
‘a figure of remorse in action’ but also paints a picture in which ‘the spectator
searches . . . hopelessly for some way to soften his view’ of Hermione (147).
86 Hermione’s Feigned Regret
the poet’s unwillingness to resolve the opacity.17 Further, whereas
modern terminology is careful to distinguish true repentance from
false, ancient distinctions are less clear. Concern for one’s own fate is
not, for us, a marker of remorse but rather of calculation; yet despite
their fundamental difference, the two may well be felt by the same
person at the same time.18 More importantly, an agent’s true feelings
are nearly always opaque; once everybody knows what sort of behav-
iour is expected of a wrongdoer, the appearance of that behaviour tells
us little more than that the agent knows it too.
While Hermione is in the house, her Nurse comes out to describe
her behaviour, and this passage forms the edifice on which semantic
arguments about Hermione’s behaviour rest (Andr. 804–15):19
 ØÆ ªaæ ŒÆ’ rŒ, ῾¯æØÅ ºªø,
Ææ ’ KæÅøŁ
E Æ ıÆfi Ł’ –Æ,
x æÆŒ
 æª, æåÅ ŒÆ
E
ŒÆd ÆEÆ ıº
 Æ Æ, ŒÆŁÆ
E Łº
Ø,
 Ø æı Æ, c Id H 
æÆø
KŒ H’ Iø øø I ƺB fi ,
m ŒÆŁfiÅ Œ
ı Æ f P åæc ŒÆ
E.
ºØ  Ø Łºı Æ IæB ÆØ æÅ

Yæªı Ø çºÆŒ
 H
 Π


ØA

çÅ ŒÆŁÆæÇı Ø K
ÆØæ
Ø.
oø 
ƺª
E ŒÆd a æd 
æÆÆ
ªøŒ
æ
Æ ’ P ŒÆºH
(814 ª’ Iºª
E codd. : corr Nauck)
For my mistress in the house, Hermione I mean, bereft of her father and
also with sunnoia at such a deed as she has done, intending to kill
Andromache and her son, wishes to die, fearful of her husband, lest she,

17
See Lloyd (2005: ad 802ff.) on Euripides’ unwillingness to ‘disentangle’ Her-
mione’s response; he suggests that ‘his portrayal of Hermione is the more convincing
for it’.
18
See above, p. 14. The question of remorse in the Andromache is never divorced
from threatened retribution (see 492–3 and 856, where Hermione worries about the
consequences of her action, but manages to escape them).
19
I draw attention in passing to the first hypothesis of the play, which also treats
Hermione as having changed in some way:  EæØÅ b 

Å

PºÆÅŁ
E Æ c
Ææı Æ F ˝
ºı, ‘but Hermione thought better, having begun to beware
of the return of Neoptolemus’. Metanoia here, particularly given the rest of the
sentence, may well signify solely a consideration of consequences, but it also shows
the constraints placed on vocabulary: what is sunnoia and metalgei to Euripides is self-
evidently metanoia (whatever that means) to the author of the hypothesis.
 Hermione’s Feigned Regret 87
for her deeds, should depart dishonourably from the house, or lest she
be slain, she who planned to kill those she should not. And the house-
hold guardians barely stopped her when she wished to put a noose
about her neck, and snatching the swords from her right hand, took
them away. To such a degree has she metalgei/meg’algei for her earlier
actions, knowing she has done wrong.
At line 805, the Nurse claims that Hermione feels sunnoia for her
attempt on the lives of Andromache and Molossus. The word can
range in meaning from simple meditation to ‘anxious thought’ (LSJ I.2)
to, perhaps, ‘remorse’ (LSJ II).20 As Willink notes, compounds with sun-
often connote inner mental activity (ad Orestes 396).21 Contemporary
usage does not provide conclusive evidence: sunnoia appears in a number
of tragic texts and one comedy, where it ranges in meaning from ‘think-
ing similarly’ (Ar. Froqs 599; the word’s most literal use) to ‘anxiety about
the consequences’ (Wilkins 1993: ad Hercl. 236) to ‘troubled inner
thought’ (Willink 1986: ad Orest. 632–716).22 From the uses of sunnoia
elsewhere it is clear that the word can come close to meaning remorse.
It may do so here, or it may signify nothing more than that Hermione
is worried about her future. This vagueness is significant.
The other key word is 
ƺª
E, used by the Nurse at line 814, if in
fact that is the correct word.23 As with sunnoia, the word is ambiguous

20
See above, p. 35. Stevens (1971: ad 805) finds this definition to be special
pleading, as the word is ‘not elsewhere used in this sense’. Boulter (1966: 57 and n.
22), on the other hand, suggests that ıÆ, ‘impl[ies] recognition of moral failure’.
Ferrari (1971: 227) sees Hermione’s feelings as coming from inside, and suggests that
this raw emotion embarrasses critics, who explain it away, but also suggests that it is
innovative to use sunnoia to depict remorse.
21
There is much debate on the word sunesis at Orestes 396; it is often taken to
represent the first appearance of ‘conscience’ in Greek; see above, p. 34, with Cairns
1993a: 303–4 and nn. 136–7 for discussion and bibliography.
22
Willink (1986: 150, n. 396) characterizes this ‘remorseful distress’ as ‘a state of
mind that combines “thinking” (at least as “awareness”) and “feeling” in such a way as
to make it hard to draw a line between reason and non-rational emotion’. I think
Willink is also correct in concluding that Orestes ‘would do the same thing again’,
which certainly argues against a modern notion of remorse in his case (151 ad 396).
Stevens’s (1971) note ad loc. suggests that Hermione is more concerned with ‘anxiety
about consequences’ than ‘remorse’; in this he is followed by Griffith (1983: ad PV
437). In a later commentary on the Antigone, however, Griffith (1999 ad 279) suggests
that the Sophoclean xunnoia (the same word) ‘may mean here “second thoughts”
(after 211–14?), almost “conscience” ’.
23

ƺª
E is Nauck’s correction of the MS 
ª’ Iºª
E; it has been accepted by
most editors but certainty is impossible. The single use of the noun form 
ƺª in
tragedy, at Aeschylus Suppliant Maidens 405–6, is no help, as it is a manuscript
88 Hermione’s Feigned Regret
of meaning, and there are no other certain instances to check it against;
it seems to be able to signify that Hermione repents but also that she is
starting to realize the external ramifications of her deed (Stevens 1971:
ad 805); again the ambiguity in Greek points to a significant difference
from modern usage, which prefers to distinguish the two. More inter-
estingly, the fact that both words carry a variety of meanings means
that the Nurse can convey a positive impression without having to
commit herself to the proposition that Hermione is actually remorseful
(Cairns 1993a: 305). And this is true even if we read 
ª Iºª
E; as has
been pointed out, the uncompounded Iºª
E regularly denotes not
physical but emotional pain (Class 1964: 47 and Stebler 1971: 57–60,
both with citations).24
But the 
ƺª
E in our passage has not found universal favour,
either as a supplement or as a concept. It is, in fact, one of the key
places where modern scholars believe we are guilty of anachronism
about remorse.25 Both Kovacs (1980) and Stevens (1971), each of
whom discuss the question at some length, deny that Hermione can
be feeling remorse, not from a judgement on her character, but out of
a conviction that tragedy (indeed, 5th-century Athens) does not
admit of repentance or remorse.26 Previous chapters have suggested
that this is simply incorrect, but even within this play, both Her-
mione’s behaviour and the reactions of others to it suggest that her
audience expects her to be feeling something very like what we would
call remorse.27 So rather than arguing explicitly against Stevens and
Kovacs, I focus instead on the internal logic of the scene.

reading that is itself suspected. As these are the only two occurrences of the word
anywhere in extant classical literature, there is not much to go on.
24
Pagani (1968: 205) draws attention to the ªøŒ
of 814, suggesting that it, in
conjunction with 
ƺª
E, signifies the interiority of Hermione’s feelings, which he
regards as showing her emotional development.
25
Kovacs (1980: 103 n. 40), for instance, objects to the supplement on the grounds
that it is influenced by a modern notion not known to the Greeks. Kovacs’s note on
the word also discusses its possible occurrence at Aesch. Sup. 405–6.
26
‘It is doubtful whether the concept of remorse, as distinct from a sense of
pollution or anxiety about consequences, was known to fifth-century Athens’ (Stevens
1971: 192). But, interestingly, he rethinks this position in an addendum ad 805, with a
brief discussion of Sophocles’ Philoctetes.
27
See the discussion, below, of Hermione’s speech, in which she claims that her
character has changed in an important way: this, whether accurate or not in this
instance, certainly suggests that such a notion was possible.
 Hermione’s Feigned Regret 89
Those who concede that remorse might be possible in this ancient
context are usually interested in determining the sincerity of Her-
mione’s emotion, and usually do so with reference to her character.
This is a less than satisfactory method of proceeding given the diffi-
culty in determining her character—if anything, her character should
be judged from this incident, rather than the other way around—so
let us instead examine how others react to Hermione. At the start of
the play, the Chorus sympathizes with Andromache rather than
Hermione (142–6); Hermione’s first statement to it at 147 and
following is exceedingly haughty. Hermione’s attempt to justify her
action to the Chorus is met with little support (Kovacs 1980: 56).
Later, the Chorus reprimands Hermione—not Andromache—
advising her to make peace (231–2). At 491–2, the Chorus predicts
a metatropa,28 a change, for Hermione, which may suggest that they
find something objectionable in her behaviour. In her interactions
with the Chorus at the start of the play, its ‘lack of sympathy’ for her
‘is evident’ (Allan 2000: 222; cf. Garrison 1995: 97). In the later scene,
however, they may be more sympathetic, or perhaps they are merely
giving Hermione the benefit of the doubt. In response to the Nurse’s
statement about Hermione (804–15), they agree that the evidence
suggests that Hermione must be sorry for her deeds (820–5). To
them, it seems perfectly reasonable for Hermione to be wretchedly
bemoaning (ºÆØ’‹  
Ø) the big things she has done (æ
Æ Æ

Ø, 823–4).29 They seem to see her coming onstage, and observe
that she has fled her attendants in her desire for death (Łø fi ŁÆ
E,
824). As often, the Chorus speaks in platitudes. Even the judgement
that she is looking to die is perhaps an unwarranted conclusion, but
for the fact that Hermione immediately confirms it. The Chorus
retires into the background for Hermione’s scene with her Nurse,
interrupting only to draw attention to the rapidly approaching Ores-
tes (879–80). Thereafter, the Chorus expresses its disapproval of
Hermione’s self-justificatory speech to him (954–6; Mossman 1996:
147). And after Hermione’s departure, the Chorus never mentions
her again (Aldrich 1961: 11).

28
Stevens 1971: ad loc. observes that this word can mean the same thing as
metameleia but is more likely to signify an external retribution against Hermione
for her deeds.
29
One could read 
Ø as expressing choral disapproval of Hermione, but the
word has a very broad semantic range, from terrible to marvellous, and the adjective
can also signify little more than ‘very big’.
90 Hermione’s Feigned Regret
The role of the Chorus in Greek tragedy is often difficult to
determine, but we may expect Hermione’s Nurse to be on her side,
given the topoi of tragedy. Yet even she is unsympathetic (Allan
2000: 68), as for instance in her words above, which make clear that
she does not approve of her mistress’s behaviour (see too 867–79 with
Garrison 1995: 96). As she describes Hermione, the Nurse is willing
to attribute her behaviour to remorse, but also makes clear that she is
fearful for the consequences of Hermione’s rashness. So two charac-
ters within the play, the Nurse and the Chorus, do not express as
much sympathy for Hermione as might be expected, and the one who
knows her better suggests that her acts were blameworthy.
At this point, we could examine whether Hermione’s future behav-
iour in the play is consistent with remorse (it is not; see below). Yet
rather than focusing on the resolution of whether Hermione’s feelings
are genuine or merely displayed, I would like to redirect the question
to a more fruitful location: it is not Hermione but her Nurse who
interprets Hermione’s behaviour for us (Allan 2000: 105). And the
Nurse, who is presumably a favourable observer, understands Her-
mione’s behaviour—tearing her clothes, rending her hair, and the
like—as instantiating (met)algei.30 This is the feeling that the Nurse
expects Hermione to have in this situation, and Hermione’s behav-
iour confirms it. As Aldrich notes, both the Nurse and the Chorus
believe that Hermione has undergone a change of heart, which
suggests that they were expecting something of the kind (44), or at
least that they feel such a change to be appropriate. The Nurse’s use of
the word (met)algei, combined with her later interaction with Her-
mione, suggests that she understands this word as being something
close to our notion of remorse, that is, as encompassing a moral
aspect rather than merely fear of consequences. Hermione has, to
the Nurse’s mind, done something she ought to be sorry for. As there
has not yet been any discussion of consequences, this is the only way
of making sense of the Nurse’s statements. This tells us little about
Hermione’s feelings, but much about the normative qualities of her
behaviour.

30
Some see the Nurse’s role as bordering on the comic, and also suggest that
Hermione’s dramatics may undercut audience sympathy for her (McClure 1999: 165,
180; Allan 2000: 71; contra, Macurdy 1911: 100). Aldrich (1961: 28) finds the Nurse
shortsighted, and suggests that Hermione understands the realities of the situation
better than her comforter.
 Hermione’s Feigned Regret 91
Hermione appears onstage, and makes a spectacle of herself:31 the
Nurse has to advise her to fasten her garments (832, she has presum-
ably been baring her breast the better to beat it). The Nurse suggests
that perhaps she is upset (literally, ‘pained’) at her murder attempt
(Iºª
E, ç ÞłÆ Æ ıªªø fi Ł
, 836),32 and Hermione con-
firms this, in very promising language (Andr. 837–40):
ŒÆa b s ø
ÆÆ ºÆ, L æ

’.
t ŒÆæÆ Kªg ŒÆ-
æÆ IŁæØ.
Now indeed to be sure I bemoan the wretched deed I did. Abominable,
I am abominable to men.
Hermione and the Nurse continue to discuss Hermione’s actions;
the Nurse assures her that Neoptolemus will forgive her hamartia.
This is a word both notoriously difficult to translate and key for the
study of tragedy as a whole. Here we are perhaps safest translating it
as ‘mistake’, a word, which captures both the facts of the situation and
the Nurse’s attempt to minimize the damage.33 Hermione, however,
refuses to be calmed, begging instead to have the sword and rope
returned to her so that she may commit suicide; she also mentions fire
and jumping off a cliff (841–4, 846–50).34 At this point, whatever her
real emotion, Hermione’s behaviour is consistent with that of some-
one who is genuinely sorry for what she has done, and the Nurse
interprets it in this way. But neither the Chorus nor the Nurse, each of
whom is in a better position to judge her than the audience, and each
of whom might well be sympathetic, condones her earlier behaviour
or her theatrics now.

31
Pagani (1968: 206) and Ferrari (1971: 214) draw attention to the frenzy
of Hermione’s metre, and Allan (2000: 68) notes that the Nurse’s description of
Hermione’s acts implicitly expresses disapproval of them.
32
Note the repetition of algeis, the Nurse’s previous word for Hermione’s feelings.
33
See Harsh (1945: 56) on tragic uses of hamartia: he categorizes them as ‘acts not
deliberately wicked but nevertheless carrying, as is obvious from the context, a degree
of culpability’. On the varied modern understandings of what Aristotle’s notion of
hamartia entails, see Dawe (1967), Bremer (1969: 4–64, esp. 8–10 and 20), and
Stinton (1975).
34
See Stevens 1971: ad loc. on the forms of suicide here envisioned; their very
number may indicate melodrama or, as Gibert (1995: 57) suggests, poking fun at
Hermione.
92 Hermione’s Feigned Regret
I have paused for the purposes of summarizing internal audience
response to Hermione, but it is difficult to divorce the reception of
Hermione’s ‘remorse scene’ from its immediate sequel, the arrival
of Orestes. For immediately after Hermione expresses her wish to
die, the Chorus observes a foreign-looking man heading towards
them, and he soon identifies himself and engages Hermione in a
conversation about what has just happened. Within a short number
of lines, she has agreed to run away with him. Whatever our inter-
pretation of Hermione’s behaviour in front of her Nurse, her subse-
quent actions suggest that her remorse was either not genuinely
felt, or was so shallow as to be easily disposed of. Further, Hermione
shows not the least concern about the murder of her husband,
described by Orestes. Hermione supplicates Orestes, and her replica-
tion of Andromache’s gesture of supplication to Menelaus is worthy
of note: where the blameless Andromache had sought to preserve her
son’s life, Hermione beseeches her cousin to extricate her from diffi-
culties that are self-created and quite possibly blameworthy.35
I have argued that Hermione resorts to a performance of remorse
because she does not see any other options, and furthermore that
she abandons the performance once she sees another way out of her
difficulties. If I am correct, it may well be a surprise that Hermione is
characterized as feeling (met)algei, particularly if the word can signify
something like our remorse. In the end, however, it will turn out that
the Nurse was wrong: what was interpreted as (met)algei bore merely
an outward resemblance to it. Kovacs’s interpretation is therefore
correct in focusing on the implausibility of Hermione’s remorse
in the situation, but her behaviour is not indicative of her feelings.
The point is not that her repentance is ‘short-lived’ (Kovacs 1980:
105 n. 46), but rather that Hermione’s signals are misleading. Her
abrupt alteration in the face of a better option makes clear that she
cannot feel what moderns would consider remorse, but her actions at
this moment are superficially consistent with it; she is either actively

35
See Goslin (2006: 138) on the ways Hermione’s supplication is ‘a distorted
reflection’ of Andromache’s, showing ‘how supplication and pity may be pressed
into the service of deceit’ (cf. Goslin 2006: 174). Allan (2000: 68) reads this second
suppliant scene as a perversion of the first. McClure (1999: 193) reads the scene as
demonstrating Hermione’s ‘lack of self-control, sexual and otherwise, that destabilizes
the oikos in the absence of any male authority’. Lloyd (2005: 5) notes the ‘ironic
juxtaposition of Andromache’s resolute response to real danger and Hermione’s
hysterical response to imaginary danger’.
 Hermione’s Feigned Regret 93
manipulating the conventions of remorse or her Nurse is being overly
charitable and unwittingly manipulating them for her.
Given the importance of familial relations in tragedy, and the ways
in which this tragedy stages the same conflict through multiple
generations, it is perhaps apposite here to draw attention to the fact
that Hermione is the daughter of Helen. Helen, the most beautiful
woman in the world, is also notoriously difficult to pin down, pre-
cisely in terms of her inner life.36 In spite of her willingness in a
variety of texts to speak, the reader is never quite sure whether to
believe Helen, and it may well be that Hermione has picked up this
trick from her mother. Hermione’s interaction with Orestes suggests
that her primary concern is not her own wrongdoing but rather its
consequences for her, and Orestes’ arrival saves her from them. Yet
this does not mean that Hermione could not possibly have felt
anything like the modern notion of remorse: the Nurse and Chorus,
both perhaps naively, attribute an emotion very close to this to her;
they believe that she is genuinely sorry for her deeds and reassure her
that her wrongs are not irrevocable. But the workings of Hermione’s
inner life are less significant than the fact that she behaves in a way
that is plausibly understood as remorse. The play does not focus for
long on the aftermath of Hermione’s murder attempt; the arrival of
Orestes soon interrupts her ‘remorse scene’, and attention moves
elsewhere, to the death of Neoptolemus.
Hermione performs a gesture of remorse, but this very fact suggests
that she thinks some benefit will accrue to her from her performance,
and so offers evidence that some kind of remorseful behaviour would
normally be expected, and perhaps even that, when displayed, it
might lessen punishment. An emotion like remorse is especially
appropriate in the case of the young and inexperienced, and it is
clear that Hermione’s behaviour in the second half of the Andro-
mache is consistent with a portrayal of it. If her emotion continued,
and was understood as genuine, I suspect it could have mitigated her
offence, just as we would be likely to read it in a modern context. Her
subsequent actions, however, make manifest that her display was
merely a charade designed to get her out of a difficult situation, and
thus illustrate the complexity of both her portrayal and the emotion
of remorse.

36
For further discussion, see Fulkerson (2011).
94 Hermione’s Feigned Regret
In further support of the notion that Hermione’s behaviour could
plausibly be understood as remorseful, we turn to another episode in
the play. By contrast to Hermione’s feigned remorse, the Andromache
presents an example of remorse that seems genuine, albeit brief and
de-emphasized. Neoptolemus repents of his behaviour towards
Apollo (he had publicly blamed the god for his father’s death), and
returns to the shrine in order to make amends to Apollo. Androm-
ache explains why Neoptolemus is away from home and so cannot
protect her son (Andr. 49–55):
› ªaæ çı
 Æ ÆPe h’ Kd æÆ
æ øç
ºB ÆØ ÆØ ’ P K ’, Ig
˜
ºçH ŒÆ’ ÆrÆ, ŁÆ ¸
Æ fi ŒÅ
ø Ø ÆÆ,fi w ’ KØ —ıŁg ºg
fi XÅ
E Ææe y Œ

Ø ŒÅ,

Y ø a æ Ł
çºÆ’ K
ÆØ

Ł
e Ææ åØ’ KØ e ºØe
P
B.
For the one who sired him [i.e. Neoptolemus] is not here for me, nor to
his son does he give any benefit at all, because he is away at the land of
the Delphians, where he pays the penalty to Loxias for his madness,
when once before going to Pytho he demanded that Phoibos should give
satisfaction for the killing of his father, if by some chance by atoning for
his previous faults, he might make the god favourable to him for the
future.37
Euripides seems to have invented this second trip to Delphi (Goos-
sens 1962: 398), and it may well be designed to draw attention to the
contrast between his behaviour and Hermione’s; where she abandons
her circumstantially motivated repentance as soon as it is no longer
useful, he feels it even without the immediate danger of punishment. His
trip to Delphi explains his absence during the play, but also offers
important information about him. A number of critics have suggested
that Neoptolemus’ reparatory trip to Delphi is designed to rehabilitate
him.38 This may well be so, but I think the evidence may point us instead
to the troubling aspects of Neoptolemus’ revision in the Philoctetes.39

37
Cf. too ll. 1003–4, on Neoptolemus’ metastasis and 1106–8 and 1163, where he is
killed while making amends.
38
Johnson (1955: 11); Burnett (1971: 151); Stevens (1971: 6); de Jong (1990: 379);
and Allan (2000: 26).
39
That play was performed in the previous year, and Euripides’ Neoptolemus may
well be a comment on Sophocles’. And when Andromache explains that Neoptolemus
is away, it is in the context of his failure to protect her (Andr. 49–55).
 Hermione’s Feigned Regret 95
There is no mention made of any practical consequence feared by
Neoptolemus; he simply decides that he has made a mistake, and
wants to fix it. The fact that Apollo does not allow him the opportun-
ity to make good his repentance highlights both the ambiguous
status of Apollo throughout the play—we must remember that he is
identified with Orestes, who is morally dubious at best40—and that of
Neoptolemus. It is useful to keep in mind here the importance to the
Greeks of making the right decision in the first place that has been so
influential on critics like Kovacs.41 Neoptolemus’ emotion leads him
to attempt reparation for his misdeed. Further, as Kamerbeek (1943:
53) notes, Neoptolemus was not killed by Orestes in all versions of
this story, which renders it all the more remarkable that Euripides
has chosen to portray Hermione as leaving with her homicidal
cousin.42 In Euripides’ version, Neoptolemus goes to Delphi solely
to offer recompense for his prior wrongdoing, and it is because of his
apology that Orestes is able to work against him. Indeed, we might
want to see this as further evidence about the ambiguous nature of
remorse, which can allow one’s enemies a foothold. Ancient remorse
can indeed be recuperative, but it can also be dangerous.
The Andromache, then, like the Iliad, offers a normative example
of an agent who reconsiders his act and finds it wanting in itself: there
is no evidence to suggest that Neoptolemus had any motivation for
apologizing to the god other than his own newfound conviction that
he had done wrong. The play also contains another agent who
displays behaviours recognized by her audience as belonging in the
same category of regretted action. In Hermione’s case, however, later
events suggest that the display was probably feigned. This sophisti-
cated manipulation of the conventions of regret suggests that the

40
De Jong (1990: 381) notes that Apollo denies Neoptolemus the opportunity to
‘show repentance’, while Johnson (1955: 10) observes that ‘Apollo deals in pain and
unintelligible hardship’. See too Kamerbeek (1943: 54), Steidle (1968: 131), and
Pòrtulas (1988: 299) on the guilt of Apollo.
41
While Kovacs (1980: 79) may well be right to suggest that it is Neoptolemus’
apology which dooms him (cf. Gibert on portrayals of regret in tragedy, 1995: 29), the
audience need not agree with the divine in this matter and may still find his behaviour
redemptive and the god’s disturbing (Allan 2000: 248 and n. 68). Gibert (1995: 63)
notes that ‘the two characters, who in this play do not get what they deserve, are
contrasted in part by the way they change their minds’.
42
On the differing ancient versions of Neoptolemus’ death, see Fontenrose (1960:
212–13) and Woodbury (1979: 96 with n. 4).
96 Hermione’s Feigned Regret
concept was familiar enough to the Greeks for them to be comfortable
with the possibility of a character using it for her own purposes, and
also shows us the importance of taking a wider context into account
when we are evaluating whether a display of remorse has met our own
standards.
 4

Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s

Fruitless Remorse

This chapter looks at a historical example of a man whose strategic

display of remorse in one case, whether sincerely felt or merely
feigned, proves extremely useful to him in achieving larger goals
and defusing an unpleasant situation. The fact that his remorse
has no lasting effect encapsulates the ancient view of the emotion,
which sees it as, at its very best, of only temporary value. Interestingly,
where we might expect a disjunction between the treatment of
Hermione’s patently insincere display of remorse and Alexander’s
putatively sincere display, the sources suggest that neither was par-
ticularly beneficial.
Alexander the Great’s drunken murder of his friend Cleitus, serves,
in all of the historians, as a nexus for questions about the fundamental
nature of the king’s character. As it is told, the story contains both
Homeric and tragic elements; the assimilation of Alexander to Achilles
and Heracles makes his actions larger than life.1 Such mythologizing
results partly from Alexander’s own self-fashioning, partly from his
impressive accomplishments, and partly from his historians’ willing-
ness to buy into a portrait of him as something greater than human, but
it means that we should not expect to find out what actually happened.
It complicates matters even further that no eyewitness accounts have
survived, and that Alexander quickly became a virtual mirror for the
contemporary anxieties of those writing about him.2

1
Homeric: Carney (1981: 158); tragic: Mossman (1988: passim); cf. Pelling (2002:
201–3) on Dionysiac imagery in Plutarch’s Alexander.
2
On the original (no longer extant) Alexander historians, see Pearson (1960) and
Bosworth (1988: 2–10). See especially Badian (1975: 280), with bibliography, on how
Alexander-narrative ‘embodies the philosophy of a person or of an age as no other
98 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse
I begin with a composite sketch of the facts drawn from all sources.
At a drinking party in the autumn of 328 bce, Alexander and/or his
courtiers praise and compare his own deeds favourably to those of his
father Philip (Curtius 8.1.22–3), or alternately, mock soldiers recently
defeated at Marakanda (Plut. Alex. 50.5). Others grow annoyed at this
and one of them, Cleitus ‘the Black’,3 instead praises the deeds of the
Macedonians, especially those who fought under Philip (of whom
he was one: Curtius 8.1.38; in Arrian, Cleitus starts the argument,
4.8.5–6) or objects to the denigration of Macedonians in front of
barbarians (Plut. Alex. 50.5–9).4 Alexander grows angry and orders
Cleitus out (Plut. Alex. 50.10, Curtius 8.1.39). Cleitus reminds Alex-
ander that he saved his life at the battle of Granicus (Curtius had
begun his story with this reminder, 8.1.20, and repeats it at 8.1.41;
cf. Plut. Alex. 50.11; Arr. 4.8.6–7), whereupon an enraged Alexander
(Curtius 8.1.43, Arr. 4.8.7) searches for a weapon. In some versions
his friends physically restrain Alexander, and in Plutarch, before
Alexander seeks a weapon, his friends begin to brawl while the
older men try to halt the fracas and Alexander makes disparaging
but sotto voce comments about the barbarity of the Macedonians
(Alex. 51.3–4). Cleitus objects and Alexander loses his temper and
throws fruit at him (Alex. 51.5). In two of the historians, Cleitus leaves
(in Plutarch unwillingly, Alex. 51.8); he either returns (Plut. Alex.
51.9) or Alexander goes to find him (Curtius 8.1.49–50).
The enraged Alexander (Curtius 8.1.51–2) kills his friend Cleitus
and immediately regrets it (Plut. Alex. 51.10, ÆæÆıŒÆ in Arr. 4.9.2).

ancient figure has’; see too Whitmarsh (2002: 175–6 and n. 6). On contemporary
influences on the extant historians, see Atkinson (1980: 58–67), Stadter (1980:
60–114), Bosworth (1988, esp. pp. v, 16, and 137–9), and for some thoughts on
what Alexander means for Plutarch, Wardman (1955: passim, but esp. 97). Green
(1991: 550 n. 21) well notes the difficulties in sifting through the accounts of ‘such a
significant vignette as this’. On Arrian’s sources, see Bosworth (1988: 38–60), and for a
case study of how much contemporary colour Curtius might have added, Bosworth
(2003: 168, 185–7).
3
Carney (1981: 155) suggests that some of Cleitus’ family were involved in the
defeat at Marakanda, which would render him particularly sensitive to criticism of the
events surrounding it. But even if this is not so, Cleitus, as part of the old guard, could
easily have resented aspersions cast upon it.
4
Bosworth (1988) ad 4.8.4 connects this event (and Cleitus’ frustration) to
Alexander’s appointment of him to the satrapy of Bactria and Sogdiana, which was
‘no doubt intended to rid the court of an eminent and uncomfortable personage’.
Heckel (2003: 203) draws attention to the importance of Cleitus’ early support for
Alexander and sees evidence for his gradual removal from power (Heckel 2003: 220
and 222).
 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse 99
In Arrian, Cleitus neither backs down nor leaves and Alexander kills
him, in front of everyone (4.8.8). This difference is important: in
Curtius, Alexander goes to find Cleitus, which suggests at least some
degree of premeditation, while in Plutarch and Arrian we are given a
crime of passion, with Cleitus in the former deliberately provoking an
already enraged Alexander. The latter exculpates Alexander (and his
friends) by suggesting that things happened too quickly for anyone to
intervene. Curtius’ story is less ambiguous: Cleitus remembers his
place, and is wary of the king’s anger: non suae, sed regis irae memor
(8.1.51); he says that he is leaving, whereupon Alexander kills him.
Arrian reports the version of Aristoboulos, who blames Cleitus.
Aristoboulos is closer to the other historians than Arrian’s preferred
version, as he adds Cleitus’ forced departure and voluntary return
(4.8.9). Despite their superficial similarities, then, the three sources
present the death in rather different ways, and with different impli-
cations for Alexander’s character.
After the death, the three authors detail suicide attempts and
copious weeping combined with a death wish that is eventually
overcome only by one or more advisers. Most of the sources mark
the death of Cleitus as the beginning of a change for the worse in
Alexander, although they sometimes also suggest that remembrance
of this case led him to greater forbearance in the future.5 But in no
source does the death of Cleitus and Alexander’s consequent display
of remorse bring about any real change in his behaviour, except
perhaps for the worse. The historians, in general, admire Alexander,
even when they must detail his most aberrant deeds, and they are at
some pains here to soften their interpretations, often at the cost of
plausibility. Modern and ancient Alexander historians also agree that

5
Curtius notes that after the murder of Cleitus, liberty was eliminated (libertate
sublata), and so the companions dared not object to Alexander’s marriage to Roxane
(8.4.30); cf. Curtius 10.1.39–42 on Alexander’s increasing readiness to believe in
conspiracies (where he suggests that success can change one’s naturam). Arrian
connects the Cleitus incident to the introduction of proskynesis (4.9.10; see Sisti and
Zambrini 2004: ad loc.). On the other hand, at Curtius 8.12.18, Alexander remembers
how badly, quam aegre, he bore the killing of Cleitus and so restrains his anger;
cf. Plutarch Alex. 13 on Cleitus and Thebes and 41.1 on how he bore well his friends’
bad behaviour. Plutarch’s introduction to the story places the blame on his evil genius
(ı ıåÆfi , 50.1), while also mentioning his anger and drunkenness. Arrian dates the
changes in Alexander earlier; according to him it is Cleitus’ annoyance at Alexander’s
behaviour that precipitates the incident (4.8.4), something Arrian finds blameworthy
in Cleitus (4.9.1).
100 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse
the death of Cleitus marks the end of the parrhesia (free speech) that
had up to this point characterized relations between Macedonian
kings and courtiers (Carney 1981: 158; Green 1991: 365–6; Heckel
2003: 222), and view it as emblematic of a generation gap between
Philip’s advisers and Alexander’s (Green 1991: 362).
The three main authors who discuss the incident are not far apart
from one another in time, probably spanning just over 100 years.
They share an imperial context, but little else: they write under
different emperors, in different places, and in two different languages.
Their own experiences of empire surely influence their understanding
of Alexander’s behaviour, but each seems generally favourable to the
king.6 For each author, Alexander’s murder of Cleitus is awkward: for
Arrian and Plutarch, it undermines a positive portrait, and they are
forced to conclude that Alexander is at least partly to blame. In
Curtius, by contrast, the story is told vividly and accusingly but
undercut by a general statement on human frailty.
Recent scholarship on Curtius notes his focus on kingship and
courtiers.7 His picture of Alexander fits well into what has been called
the ‘hostile Latin tradition’.8 So we should not expect Curtius to be

6
Other sources are much more hostile; see, e.g. Seneca Clem. 3.25.1 on Alexander
as the cruel murderer of his friends and as like a wild animal and Ira 3.17.1–2 on his
murder of Cleitus and throwing Lysimachus to the lions (with discussion in Spencer
2002: 100–5). Aelian, writing about a generation and a half later, refers to Alexander’s
drunkenness, which suggests that it had already become canonical (Varia Historia
3.23l). And the much later Scriptores Historiae Augustae has Severus Alexander
modelling himself on his namesake but explicitly eschewing his great drunkenness
and brutality towards his friends (Sev. Alex. 30.3). For Cicero, the murder of Cleitus
had served as a key example of regret for one’s anger (TD 4.79), and Lucian has (the
dead) Philip chastising his son about the death of Cleitus (Dial. Mort. 12/14.3).
7
Baynham (2007: 430). On Curtius’ dating, see Devine (1979: 148), Atkinson
(1980: 19–57, who opts for publication under Claudius), and Baynham (1998: 8,
Vespasianic or Claudian). See too Atkinson (1998: 3472) on the author’s views as
reflective of what we might expect of a ‘novus homo in the Principate’. Hamilton
(1988: 447, 451–6) believes that Seneca Minor had read Curtius, and supports a
Caligulan/Claudian date. McQueen (1967: 24–6) compares our author with known
Curtii Rufi of the Claudian period; see Atkinson’s more extensive survey (1980: 50–57).
8
See the citations in n. 5 above, as well as Seneca on how the Cleitus incident made
Alexander want to die, and that, indeed, he should have (intellecto facinore mori
voluit, certe debuit, Ep. Mor. 83.19). Valerius Maximus discusses Alexander’s habit of
killing his friends (9.3. ext. 1; but cf. the mention of Callisthenes’ death at 7.2.ext. 11a,
which faults his inability to keep his mouth shut), neglect of religion (1.1.ext. 5),
superbia in claiming Ammon as his father, disdain of Macedonian customs, and
allowing himself to be worshipped (9.5.ext. 1), but also his constantia in trusting his
doctor even after he had been warned against him (3.8.ext. 6), amicitia in referring to
 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse 101
overly favourable to the king, although his well-documented interest
in questions of character will stand us in good stead.9 Curtius’
narrative of the death of Cleitus focuses on the excess of Alexander’s
anger: he becomes so angry that he would have had difficulty
restraining himself even if he were sober (but he is not), tantum
irae conceperat rex quantum vix sobrius ferre potuisset, 8.1.43; he
immediately has recourse to violence, 8.1.45; he ignores the courtiers
begging him to stay his hand, 8.1.48; finally, Cleitus backs down and
prepares to leave but the king kills him anyway, 8.1.51–2. The narra-
tive portrays Alexander as the standard bad (or mad) Roman em-
peror, who invites his friends to dinner only to murder them. But
Curtius’ next chapter begins with a generalizing statement on the
frailty of the human spirit,10 which suggests a certain degree of
mitigation of the king’s behaviour. The description that follows,
theatrical in the extreme, has the king berating himself and then
trying to turn the murder weapon on himself (8.2.4). After a weepy
(8.2.5) and sleepless night (8.2.6), the king has the body brought
to him and laments over it. Once the body is removed, the king
intends to starve himself to death (8.2.11). Eventually, the Macedo-
nians decree that Alexander has done the right thing in killing Cleitus;
he spends a further ten days maxime ad confirmandum pudorem
(primarily for securing/proving his shame, 8.2.13). Curtius leaves
it unclear how he intends confirmandum to be taken, but the word
most readily suggests that Alexander is staging some sort of pudor-
performance. The king is to blame, but so, it is hinted, are his
courtiers and soldiers, who, in an orgy of obsequiousness, insist that
he has done no wrong.
Perhaps surprisingly given the cynicism expressed in this incident,
Curtius’ king elsewhere rethinks or even regrets his past actions, as

Hephaistion as another Alexander (4.7.ext. 2), kindness to his subjects (5.1.ext. 1), and
cupiditate gloriae (seen by Valerius as a good thing; 8.14.ext. 2). So for him the picture
is more balanced than elsewhere in the Roman Alexander tradition; see Bloomer
(1992: 98–107), esp. 104–5 on Valerius’ probable sources (Trogus and Curtius).
9
See e.g. Badian (1958: 153). Curtius is also sometimes accused of incoherence
(Carney 1981: 154), and often viewed as sensationalistic (Baynham 1998: 6). But see
Errington (1978: 108), who notes that ‘Curtius often shows a much sharper under-
standing of what mattered in politics than our other sources’.
10
Male humanis ingeniis Natura consuluit, quod plerumque non future, sed trans-
acta perpendimus, ‘Nature has considered poorly in the case of human natures, insofar
as we usually think about our deeds after we commit them and not before’ (8.2.1).
102 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse
do others, and in most of these cases there is no suggestion of
insincerity.11 Aside from the Cleitus episode, Alexander’s paenitentia
or pudor are presented as genuine and receive little comment. The
prevalence of paenitentia in Curtius, especially when combined with
the excursus at 8.2.1 about human limitations, suggests that his
Alexander merely falls victim to an all too natural tendency to act
before thinking. And yet, the presentation of the king’s behaviour
after the death of Cleitus undermines the sincerity of his performance
(Baynham 1998: 189): he may display paenitentia merely in order to
further his own designs.12 Even when genuine, pudor and paenitentia
bring no positive effect.
Although Curtius blames Alexander in part for the death of Clei-
tus, he also sees Cleitus as partially responsible. Wherever the blame
ultimately lies, Curtius focuses on Alexander’s repeated regret for his
behaviour, depicting it as too late and without benefit; in this he
comes to resemble the Persian king (Baynham 1998: 199). In fact,
the comparison between Alexander and Darius, implicit in Curtius’
work, is crucial: both men, however repentant at their failures, are
ultimately corrupted by power (Baynham 1998: 138). They continue
to fail, so they continue to need paenitentia. We might conclude that
Curtius sees paenitentia and pudor as, at their best and sincerest, a
way of putting off inevitable moral decline by drawing attention to
failings, and at their worst, merely a way of manipulating others.13
Plutarch is particularly concerned with the development or revela-
tion of character (see below, pp. 197–9). His Life of Alexander teems

11
At 5.3.21, Alexander feels pudor for having put his men in a dangerous situation;
at 5.7.11, the king paenituisse burning Persepolis; and at 7.7.23, he feels pudor at
having his superstitious nature become known. And of course, after the death of
Cleitus, the king’s solitude gives him ample room for remorse liberioremque paeni-
tentiam solitudo eliciebat (8.2.3). Paenitentia and conscientia regularly appear in
Curtius: the men who have been mutilated (5.5.10 and 24); the Bessus/Nabarzanes
plot (5.10.8, 13, and 15, all feigned, and 5.11.7); the wicked (6.10.14); Philotas’ desire
for Alexander not to feel paenitentia for trusting him (6.10.15); Sisimithenes (8.2.29);
Epimenes (8.6.23); defeated people (8.8.10); Dioxippus (9.7.26; on this episode, see
Baynham 2007); the Macedonians (10.5.11).
12
So, for instance, Bessus and Nabarzanes display false paenitentia in order to fool
others (see previous note).
13
Curtius does not emphasize the death of Cleitus, but by both foreshadowing (e.g.
3.12.19) and referring back to it (e.g. 8.7.4; Alexander’s own regret that he was ‘forced’
(coegisset) into killing Cleitus at 8.8.7; 8.8.22 when Callisthenes is killed), demon-
strates that for him, it serves as a touchstone for evaluation of Alexander.
 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse 103
with regret.14 Before Plutarch’s tale of Cleitus is told, it is discounted
as evidence of the king’s character: Plutarch claims that the death of
Cleitus was Alexander’s ‘punishment’ for destroying Thebes,15 a city
sacred to Dionysus; this apologetic tone pervades the episode (Alex.
13.3, 50.1; Hoffman 1907: 29 n. 3). Plutarch assures his reader that
Alexander is not as bad as he seems: the story does reflect poorly upon
him, but indicates more the king’s misfortune (and the evil genius of
Cleitus) than his flawed nature (50.1). Moreover, the incident is
precipitated not by anger or inebriation, but by generosity: Alexander
has some delectable fruit that he wants to share with Cleitus, so the
latter comes in mid-sacrifice (others subsequently sacrifice on his
behalf to try to expiate the religious fault thereby incurred, 50.2–3).
So before the story actually begins, we are informed that Alexander
treats his friends well and that Cleitus is impious.
Once the quarrel arises, Cleitus behaves badly and is hustled
away, only to return for the last word, an insulting quotation from
Euripides (51.6–8). This is the last straw for poor Alexander, who
seizes his spear, kills Cleitus, and immediately lets go his anger
(51.9–11); he then tries to kill himself with the spear, but his
bodyguards prevent him and carry him to his room (51.11; cf.
Mor. 449e, where he is lupei, in grief). He spends the night
lamenting, crying so much as to lose his voice (52.1). Plutarch’s
Alexander is a man of great spirit (
ªÆºŁı), first of anger and
then of grief beyond normal bounds. He refuses to be comforted
by his friends, but eventually, Aristander the soothsayer reminds
him about an evil omen presaging some such disaster (52.2) and
tells him that he need not worry about justice or law, since he
instantiates both. Insofar as there is a villain in Plutarch’s portrait,
it is Aristander, because he encourages Alexander not to take his

14
At 11.4, Alexander seeks to give the Thebans a chance to repent (
ØÆ,

ÆƺºØ) their foolish opposition of him, but they do not take it (this
opportunity appears also at Arrian 1.7.7). After he has punished Thebes, the remem-
brance of his treatment of the Thebans ‘made him gentler’ with many others
(æÆfi 
æ PŒ OºªØ, 13.2). Alexander threatens Darius, but feels metameleia
(


ºŁÅ) when Darius’ wife dies in childbirth (30.1). Alexander burns Persepolis
on the whim of a courtesan, but soon feels metanoia, (

Å
, 38.4) at his decision
(also at Curtius 5.7.11).
15
One of the oddest elements of the story of Cleitus is the way the historians seem
to regard it as a misfortune for Alexander rather than Cleitus: see too Arrian’s
introduction to the story at 4.8.1 and his summary at 4.9.1.
104 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse
deed more seriously.16 His advice makes Alexander feel better in
the moment, but has a detrimental effect on his future behaviour
(52.3–4).
Plutarch presents the king as thoughtful (e.g. at Alex. 7.1, Philip
realizes that the young Alexander is best led to his duty by reason, c
ç Ø . . . ÞÆ
fi ø 
IªÅ e ºªı æe e ), as regularly
learning from mistakes and checking his temper (e.g. 13.2, where
remembrance of his harsh punishment of Thebes renders him gent-
fi 
æ, to Athens and other cities,17 and 41.1 where Alexander
ler, æÆ
tolerates the behaviour of friends who have begun to speak badly of
him, ºÆ çÅ
E), and as capable of being genuinely regretful for ill-
conceived plans (e.g. he fels metanoia, 

Å
, after the burning of
Persepolis, 38.4). Plutarch can sometimes positively value regret as a
sign of moral development, especially in the young, but it is still
surprising to find it so prevalent in the Life.18 It is apparently the
best Plutarch can do with the awkward situations Alexander’s behav-
iour presents. In the case of Cleitus, as elsewhere in his biographies,
Plutarch gives good psychological motivation for the events he
depicts (T. Brown 1949: 238; Pelling 2002: passim). Alexander has
lost his temper, but in this case, it is not really his fault. But in the
event that neither the portrait of a culpable Cleitus nor the moral
progression of a quasi-philosophical Alexander proves convincing,
Plutarch offers a third option: his story interweaves hints of religious
foreboding.19 If the murder was divinely ordained, it cannot be
Alexander’s fault. For Plutarch, Alexander can never be to blame;
the incident reflects an unfortunate juxtaposition of divine interven-
tion, bad judgement (Cleitus’), and poor timing.20

16
Cf. Plut. 781a–b, where Anaxarchas, who consoles Alexander, is accused of
encouraging him to acts of injustice.
17
This is all the more significant a depiction if, as Hamilton (1969: ad loc.) suggests,
Alexander’s decision was based on expediency.
18
See below, p. 199 for details.
19
On the ways this divine interference works to exculpate Alexander, see Green
(1991: 549 n. 12). Arrian also includes the possibility of divine anger; in Justin and
Curtius, Alexander worries after the death that perhaps he has offended a god. As
Hammond (1993: 90) notes, ‘[t]here is no suggestion by Curtius that this idea was
anything more than a mental aberration’. McQueen (1967: 34–5) connects this to the
divine intervention by Hera in Heracles’ murder of his wife and children.
20
Plutarch writes about Alexander elsewhere, and fits his portrayal of Alexander to
his goals in each work, but rarely contradicts the portrait he has painted in the Life: he
imagines that Alexander was angry with Cleitus not because he was drunk, but
 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse 105
Despite his admiration, Plutarch fully recognizes Alexander’s am-
bivalent nature. Following his regular practice in the Lives, he leaves
moral judgements to the reader (Wardman 1955: 107; T. Duff 1999:
55–60, 65; Whitmarsh 2002: 179 and 190–1 on this Life in particular),
even when he does portray a darker side. In Alexander’s case, Plu-
tarch is sensitive to the ways his inner loss of control parallels an
outward increase in drinking (B. F. Harris 1970: 194–5; Whitmarsh
2002: 182–3 and 187 on the importance of feasting and drinking in
the Life). More generally, the king’s spirit (Łı) turns out to be both
good and bad; Plutarch sees that the positive and negative features of
Alexander’s character can be reconciled, even if he cannot himself fully
reconcile them (Wardman 1955: 97, 100). Plutarch has other things to
say about metameleia and metanoia (see below, pp. 197–9), and from
these we may conclude that he was well aware of the problem. Curtius
had foreshadowed the issue, as had Alexander himself, through his self-
fashioning as Achilles (T. Brown 1949: 240); that hero was also notori-
ously incapable of controlling his anger. Perhaps in reaction to this,
Plutarch has cast the king in a tragic mould.21 Alexander’s feelings, for
Plutarch, become a further indication of his greatness; like his anger,
his remorse is too grand for judgement, so Plutarch does not judge.
Arrian is often thought to be the most reliable of our sources
(Badian 1958: 153), but his tale of Cleitus is somewhat disappointing.
After noting that the death of Cleitus brought great suffering to
Alexander (pathema, 4.8.1; Cleitus, presumably, got off easy), Arrian
tells the story rapidly; scholars suggest that this reflects his discomfort
at having to tell it at all. It begins with an omitted sacrifice to
Dionysus, to whom the day is sacred. Instead, Alexander sacrifices
to the Dioscuri (4.8.2). This event, combined with Alexander’s newly

because Cleitus was correcting him in public (Mor. 71c). Cleitus is a bad friend, so he
is punished with death. The Virtues of Alexander (an encomiastic and probably a
youthful work) makes no reference to the death of Cleitus, but 337e–f focuses on
Alexander’s temperance, and, more significantly, 338a speaks of the arrogance of
Cleitus, who proclaimed himself Poseidon. 339f mentions, again, Alexander’s restraint
in keeping quiet for seven years his suspicions of courtiers. Cleitus, the present absence
in these passages, argues against Alexander’s self-control, so he is mostly ignored,
intruding only as a foil to Alexander’s piety. Plutarch gives Alexander credit for both
his grief and his attempt at suicide after the death of Cleitus (On Moral Virtue 449e).
But Table Talk I, a lighthearted work, deems ‘silly’ (çºıÆæFÆ) the notion that
Alexander’s drinking was merely about conversation and good fellowship (623d–f).
21
Cf. Mossman (1988: 89) on the similarities between Alexander’s murder of
Cleitus and Euripides’ Heracles.
106 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse
acquired habit of ‘increasingly barbaric’ drinking, ÆæÆæØŒ
æ,
suggests to Alexander’s friends a comparison between their king and
the twin gods, and then between him and Heracles, in each of which
the gods are slighted (4.8.3). At this blasphemy, Cleitus cannot
keep quiet (Arrian suggests that he should have remained silent,
especially since they were at a symposium, 4.8.5) and claims that
Alexander’s greatness derives primarily from his Macedonian soldiery
(see Bosworth 1995: ad 4.8.5 on Arrian’s minimizing of this theme).
Alexander’s feelings are hurt by this behaviour, and it only gets
worse when the courtiers compare his father unfavourably to him,
because Cleitus then praises Philip at the expense of Alexander, and
then berates Alexander (K

ØÇÆ), reminding the king that he
owes his life to Cleitus (4.8.6–7). Arrian finds this behaviour repre-
hensible; he says that Cleitus ‘even raised his [life-saving] right hand,
stretching it forth pompously’ (ŒÆd c 

Øa c Æ F ÆæH
IÆ
ÆÆ, 4.8.7), and asserts that Alexander could not bear Cleitus’
drunken licentiousness and arrogance (c ÆæØÆ 
ŒÆd oæØ,
4.8.7) and leapt up to strike him. It is not immediately clear
why Cleitus’ behaviour calls for such an immediate and violent
response22—for if Cleitus could keep his mouth shut, so too could
Alexander—but Arrian seems sure that it does (cf. Bosworth 1995: ad
loc., who sympathizes). Cleitus does not stop his arrogant behaviour
(PŒ IØÆØ æÇÆ, 4.8.7), and Alexander, after calling for his
bodyguards, who do not respond, seizes a spear and strikes Cleitus
with it. Arrian mentions the version of Aristobulus, according to
whom ‘the fault was Cleitus’ alone’ (˚º
ı b ª
 ŁÆØ ı c
񒑒, 4.8.9; cf. Sisti and Zambrini 2004: ad loc.), because he had
been forcibly removed from the room but returned to confront
Alexander again. Even here, in the most mitigating account, Alexan-
der seems to have come after him; he meets with Cleitus as the latter
returns, calls him by name, and kills him (4.8.9; see Bosworth 1995:
ad loc.). The fact of Cleitus’ return is given more prominence than
Alexander’s going to find him, but both men seem bent upon further

22
But it may well be the case that irascibility was required of rulers; on ‘anger-
performances’ on the part of leaders, mostly designed to increase their authority, see
W. V. Harris (2001: 234 and 415), with the suggestion that Alexander’s anger was
often calculated at 235, and discussion of the Cleitus incident at 235–6. And, as David
Konstan reminds me (personal communication), Cleitus is precisely the sort of person
(an inferior) from whom insult is likeliest to lead to anger; cf. Konstan (2001: 43 and
73–4) on Arist. Rhet. 1378a33.
 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse 107
hostile interaction. Arrian, characteristically, finds fault with the
courtier who cannot keep his temper in his cups and not with the
king who cannot keep his.
Arrian interrupts his narrative to offer judgement: ‘I personally
blame Cleitus in every way for his arrogance to his own king’ (ŒÆd Kªg
˚º
E b B oæ
ø B K e Æ ØºÆ e ±ıF 
ªÆºø d
çÆØ, 4.9.1). He concludes by expressing his pity (NŒ
æø) for
Alexander, who fell victim to anger and drunkenness.23 Arrian also
praises the king (KÆØH), insofar as he realized the cruel deed (‹Ø
ÆæÆıŒÆ ªø åºØ æª KæªÆ 
) he had done. Some
authors, he continues, say that he tried to kill himself with the spear
(4.9.2). But most omit the suicide attempt and have Alexander taking
to his bed and bemoaning the death, calling upon Cleitus and his
sister and not eating for three days (4.9.3–4). It is unclear which
aspects of this behaviour render it worthy of Arrian’s admiration.
Arrian then returns to the theme of neglected sacrifice: the death of
Cleitus is officially understood as caused by Dionysus. Alexander duly
sacrifices to the god and begins eating again, ‘not unwilling for the
misfortune to be referred to the wrath of a god instead of his own
viciousness’ (K
d Pb ÆPfiH ¼ŒØ q K BØ F Ł
ı Aºº Ø j
c ±ıF ŒÆŒÅÆ IÆçæ
ŁÆØ c
ıçæ, 4.9.5). Immediately
after this sentence, which raises more prominently than any other
version the possibility that Alexander bears the full brunt of the blame
and is deliberately manipulating public opinion to his own advantage,
Arrian once more asserts his praise of the king (
ªÆº d KÆØH,
4.9.6), ‘because he did not speak boldly for his evil or act as its
champion and advocate, becoming more evil still than the wrong he
has done’ (e 
IÆıŁÆØ Æ ŁÆØ Kd ŒÆŒfiH, 
æ Å 
ήd

ıªæ ŒÆŒÆ Ø ª
 ŁÆØ F ±ÆæÅŁ, see Bosworth 1995:
ad loc. on the translation). Arrian continues, ‘Instead, being a man,
he agreed that he had made a mistake’ (Iººa
ıç ÆØ ªaæ KÆØŒÆØ
¼Łæø ª
ZÆ). Arrian offers another explanation, but before
discussing it, it is important to note that nowhere in Arrian’s text
does Alexander explicitly take responsibility for his deed, despite the
credit he receives here for so doing. Instead, a by now familiar incident
is introduced: Anaxarchus makes fun of the king and reminds him that

23
On the philosophical underpinnings of Arrian’s pity, see Bosworth (1995)
ad loc., and on Arrian’s habit of editorializing throughout this section, Stadter
(1980: 106).
108 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse
he can do whatever he likes (4.9.7). Arrian, like our other authors,
editorializes, saying that even if this statement made Alexander feel
better, it was not helpful if it really did encourage Alexander in his
behaviour (ŒÆŒe b ªÆ, ‰ Kª çÅØ, K

æª Æ ŁÆØ º

æø fi
ήd 
EÇ Ø j ‹ø fi 

ı
å
, 4.9.8). Without much transition,
Arrian moves to the issue of proskynesis, which he seems (plausibly
enough) to connect to the quasi-divine authority newly granted Alex-
ander by Anaxarchus (cf. Bosworth 1995: ad loc.).
Arrian’s story shares with Plutarch’s a multiple explanation: he
shifts the responsibility first onto Cleitus, for not keeping his mouth
shut, then onto the god Dionysus, and finally onto Anaxarchus.24
Only in his grief is the king allowed to be an agent, but this is soon
overshadowed by theatrics. Of his two summaries of the event,
Arrian’s first exculpates Alexander from blame, while the second
includes a ‘bad flatterer’ scene, reinforcing the vignette’s main mes-
sage that all those who live under a king should be careful how they
behave. Oddly, Alexander receives credit both for recognizing his bad
behaviour and for amending it without actually doing either; this
reads as if it may be a concession to Plutarch’s interpretation of the
king as a traveller on the path of virtue. Because the killing of Cleitus
is such a big mistake, some display of remorse is needed, and so it is
duly supplied.
The conclusion to Arrian’s tale is its crowning peculiarity; here he
alludes only obliquely to Cleitus. Arrian notes that Alexander may
have on occasion acted in haste or anger, but immediately observes
that this is not a significant flaw (P 
ªºÆ Ł
ÆØ ªøª
), and states
that it is ameliorated by his repentance (
ƪHÆØ), which is unique
to him among the kings ‘of old’ (H ºÆØ Æ Øºø, 7.29.1, the
passage also notes the danger that flatterers pose; see Bosworth
1995: ad 4.8.3). This metagnonai derives from Alexander’s innate
nobility (ª
ÆØÅ). Arrian then claims that most men, if they
know (ªø Æ) they have done wrong, hope to conceal it by
defending their actions. This is bad, as the sole remedy for wrong-
doing (YÆ Ø ±ÆæÆ) is to admit it (›ºª
E) and make clear one’s
repentance (
ƪت ŒÆ).25 Those who have suffered feel better

24
See Bosworth (1995) ad loc. on Anaxarchus’ responsibility for the rest of
Alexander’s deeds.
25
This passage prefigures one in the Tabula of Cebes, in which metanoia and
metameleia provide the sole pathways to true education (11.1, 35.4; see below,
pp. 192–3). See too on this ‘philosophical’ trend).
 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse 109
if the wrongdoer agrees that he has done wrong and if he is upset
(IåŁ
, 7.29.2).26 He suggests too the likelihood that one who is
upset at his wrongs will not commit the same flaw again (though he
does not claim this for Alexander).
Immediately after the death of Cleitus, Arrian states that he
‘praises’ Alexander for his remorse. Bosworth (1988: 146–7) suggests
that this statement is unparalleled in philosophical literature up to
Arrian’s time,27 but we have seen traces of it in Aristotle, where it is
explicitly tied to a reformation of behaviour. Placed where it is in
Arrian, the statement smacks of special pleading, as there is little
likelihood—and much evidence to the contrary—that Alexander
drank less or kept his temper better in the future; we may share
Bosworth’s surprise that a former pupil of Epictetus should allow
himself such moral gymnastics.28 Further, Arrian’s suggestion that
the blame for the death actually lies with Dionysus sits peculiarly with
our notions of remorse, as we understand remorse to encompass the
acceptance of responsibility. These two features of his discussion
contradict one another.29
Here at least, Arrian seems more concerned with writing panegyric
than with examining the moral issues. While Arrian suggests that all
parties are to blame for the death of Cleitus, he also does everything

26
Compare Arist. Rhet. 2.3.5 on forgiveness as granted to those who admit
(›ºª
E) that they have done wrong (discussed above, p. 32).
27
It is certainly not to be expected from a Stoic. On the Stoic tradition about
Alexander, see Fears (1974: 120–1); as he notes, it is primarily Roman. As Bosworth
(1988: 146–7) notes, remorse ‘was a sine qua non of moral improvement, and,
according to Seneca and Plutarch, one of the primary functions of philosophy was
to inculcate a consciousness of error and desire for moral improvement. But remorse
was not a virtue in itself; good cannot be generated from ill, any more than a fig-tree
from an olive. At best Alexander’s remorse at Cleitus’ death might be seen as a sign
that he was not beyond redemption but had the capacity for improvement. For
Arrian, however, the capacity for remorse is an actual virtue, and he does not seriously
expect improvement. There would have been more rash acts had Alexander lived, and
they would have been mitigated by more repentance.’
28
See Fears (1974: 122–3) on the awkwardness of this passage in light of (what is
thought to be) traditional Stoic doctrine about offence and reparation. On Epictetus’
failure to make his pupils into ‘true Stoics,’ see Brunt (1977: 21–2, 31–2). Brunt also
notes that positively valued repentance is not a feature of Stoicism (1977: 38) and
discusses other ways Arrian fails to judge Alexander as a Stoic would (1977: 39–48).
29
Bosworth (1988: 152, 147) sees Arrian as morally sophisticated; cf. Bosworth
1995: 45, 47; Carney (1981: 154), however, notes that Arrian’s ethical remarks are ‘not
very perceptive’, observing that he downplays the political aspects of the quarrel in
favour of a one-sided portrait of an angry Cleitus.
110 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse
possible to clear Alexander’s name, from a lengthy discourse on the
positive aspects of the king’s remorse to claiming that the gods were
really to blame. Arrian here adopts the regular attitude of philoso-
phers of his time, holding the king to a lower standard and focusing
his advice on courtiers, whom it behoves to keep watch over their
behaviour.30
A final noteworthy feature of Arrian’s treatment of the Cleitus
episode is its placement; the tale occurs in book 4, in the middle of
a group of stories that problematize the favourable portrait of Alex-
ander offered by the rest of the work.31 Some have seen this place-
ment as part of Arrian’s generally apologetic trend.32 But the isolation
and juxtaposition of these incidents, some out of chronological order,
makes it difficult to agree that they are so arranged in order to help
them to avoid notice, especially when their placement locates them in
the middle of the work. Rather, while Arrian seeks to distance himself
from them, he recognizes the incidents as problematic; he explains
them by carefully preparing the reader and then by inserting his own
opinions at every turn. Arrian is willing to detail the most damning
instances of Alexander’s excesses, but he does everything he can to
mitigate them. He presents in the end a favourable portrait,33 with the
hint that Alexander is simply not susceptible to the kinds of moral
judgements normally applicable (Bosworth 1988: 135; Baynham
1998: 101–2).34 Arrian’s portrait of Alexander, in its explicit praise
of the king, is the most favourable of the narratives.

30
This is similar to Stadter’s (1980: 109–10) notion of a dual purpose to the
incident, and indeed perhaps the history: for courtiers like Cleitus and Callisthenes,
the message is to remember their place, and Alexander the king ‘is discovered to have
found that self-knowledge which it was the object of philosophy to encourage’.
31
Stadter (1980: 83, 103–4); Bosworth (1988: 63); Baynham (1998: 67 n. 35). The
stories are the mutilation of Bessus, the murder of Cleitus, and conspiracy of the
Pages.
32
Bosworth (1975: 4 and 21; 1988: 63–4); the latter discusses the peculiar diction of
the passage: whereas much of the rest of the narrative happens vividly, this is reported
in indirect discourse. Stadter (1980: 114) suggests that this grouping of Alexander’s
evil deeds seeks to make the strongest possible case against the king in the interests of
impartiality, but its location allows for much mitigation; Arrian’s analysis and the rest
of the narrative undermine harsh judgement. See too Curtius 7.4.19 on the similarities
between Bessus and Gobares and Alexander and Cleitus.
33
For a similar interpretation, see Bosworth (1995: 8): ‘Arrian reproves the
standard faults in Alexander’s character, as he was bound to do in the interests of
truth and moral utility (7.30.3), but the reproof is curiously limited.’
34
e.g. at 7.29.2. See too the immediately surrounding passages, which insist that all
of Alexander’s actions, good as well as bad, must be placed into the balance; Arrian
 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse 111
Justin, who epitomizes the Augustan writer Pompeius Trogus,
treats the episode too, but because of scholarly uncertainty about
both when he lived and how active a role he played in composing
his history,35 I have chosen to treat him separately, with only the
briefest of analyses, in order to show another view of the king’s
remorse. Justin’s tale focuses attention on the king’s emotions,36
and coheres with other versions; in detail it has most in common
with that of Curtius. The story begins with a party, at which the deeds
of Philip are negatively compared to those of Alexander, but this time
by Alexander himself (Justin 12.6.2). Cleitus defends the previous
king, and angers Alexander so much that he slaughters him (adeo
regem offendit, ut telo a satellite rapto eundem in convivio trucidaverit,
12.6.3). Then Alexander taunts Cleitus’ corpse. He lets go his anger
and thinks of what he has done (satiatus caede animus conquievit et in
irae locum successit aestimatio, modo personam occisi, modo causam
occidendi considerans, 12.6.5). His deed disgusts him (piget), and he
mourns the killing of a friend who meant him no harm (innoxium,
12.6.6).37 Turned from madness to anger and remorse, he wants to
die (eodem igitur furore in paenitentiam quo pridem in iram versus
mori voluit, 12.6.7). He embraces the corpse, touching its wounds and
removing the spear, which he would have turned on himself but for
the intervention of his friends. He feels renewed remorse at the
thought of Cleitus’ sister, his own nurse (12.6.9–10). This, remark-
ably, prompts thoughts of other friends he has killed (12.6.14) and he
comes to the sobering conclusion that he is not as dangerous in battle
as in revel (non armatus in acie quam in convivio terribilior, 12.6.13).
Eventually, the whole army (exercitus universi) begs that he not
destroy them all, since he has led them among the barbarians and
they cannot survive without him (12.6.16); he is only calmed down by
Callisthenes (12.6.17). According to Justin, Alexander is a mass of

himself is willing to blame (K
łÅ) some of Alexander’s acts, but admires

(PŒ ÆN åÆØ ŁÆıÇø) the man as a whole, 7.30.3.
35
Syme (1988: 365) dates Justin to c.390 ce, after Trogus was rediscovered, but
Yardley (2003) argues for a date of c.200 ce. It had been long thought that Justin
simply excerpted, i.e. that anything in Justin could be assumed to be verbatim in
Trogus, but this is no longer agreed; see Yardley (2003) especially 3–5, on Justin’s
originality.
36
Cf. Hammond (1983: 104) on the rhetorical nature of Trogus’ source.
37
See Yardley (2003: 21 and 43) for linguistic parallels to Livy 39.43.4, Flamininus’
killing of a Gaul at dinner.
112 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse
emotions: pride, violent rage, disgust, remorse, inwardly turned
anger, finally a maudlin rehearsal of the results of emotions past.
He can do nothing to calm himself, so relies upon the army (whose
pragmatic appeal may suggest that they have grown weary of the
king’s self-indulgence)38 and his philosopher. The fact that his army
needs to remind him that they are in a delicate situation underlines
his lack of self-control. For Justin, then, Alexander’s remorse is
explicitly pointless and self-indulgent.
Examination of this incident has resulted in a range of Alexanders.
For some, the death of Cleitus is one of several blots on an otherwise
good ruler, while for others, it marks the beginning of a downward
spiral. Curtius’ description offers the least alleviation, while the other
sources provide a variety of extenuating circumstances. Curtius
seems to suggest that this is the kind of behaviour one expects of a
king, whereas the two later sources focus more attention on the ways
in which others were at fault. Despite their differences, in all of
the sources Alexander is portrayed as displaying a grand, ‘kingly’
remorse. Alexander’s remorse performance may well be meant, either
by his historians, or by him, to be reminiscent of Achilles’ extravagant
mourning of Patroclus. But the fact that each historian includes some
mention of remorse suggests that they all know what remorse is
supposed to look like, and that it belongs here, even if they are not
equally confident of its authenticity, or that it brings any benefit.
Alexander’s display of remorse, as the sources note, does not provide
an impetus for life-change (although the very fact that they draw
attention to this suggests that such a change was seen as a possibility,
however remote). Given the implausibility that remorse will lead to
any beneficial effect, perhaps it does not matter very much whether its
performance is sincere.39 Public apology and displays of remorse can,
as with Agamemnon’s apology in the Iliad, be efficacious whether
their audiences conceive of them as genuine or not.
Alexander’s performance of remorse actually strengthened his
position, a fact which the historians emphasize by putting it immedi-
ately before the issue of proskynesis. Modern scholarship usually

38
It is, however, comparable to the role of the army in Curtius; cf. Hammond
(1983: 146); Badian (1962: 198).
39
See Roisman (2003: 319) on the incident, a treatment which helpfully refuses to
distinguish between real and feigned—for a personality like Alexander the two seem
so tightly intertwined that such an exercise yields little fruit.
 Killing Cleitus: Alexander’s Remorse 113
concurs with Roisman in seeing in his actions some degree of sincer-
ity that shades gradually into playacting (2003; e.g. Green 1991: 365;
Baynham 1998: 189). Some, picking up on hints in the ancient
sources, suspect Alexander of conniving at the death of Cleitus
(Badian 1962: 197).40 Badian sees Alexander’s handling of the death
of Cleitus as a masterful stroke which solidified his position and
assured him control over the army even if he chose to dress like a
Persian and marry a barbarian, both of which he soon did (Badian
1962: 198).41 But it is noteworthy that when Alexander tried a similar
tactic at the Hyphasis mutiny, it did not work (Errington 1978: 112);
Plutarch claims that on this later occasion Alexander sulked in his
tent e ı ŁıÆ ŒÆd OæªB (from despair/ill-temper and anger,
Alex. 62.3). Alexander’s attempt to repeat his trick suggests, whether
his remorse was initially sincere or not, that he had learned that it
could be useful; by blaming himself so vehemently Alexander might
be able to avoid censure by others. So too, we have seen in this chapter
a confusion between sincere and insincere which supports the notion
that ancient sources are not terribly interested in the distinction.

40
And others: Cauer (1894) provides the locus classicus for connecting the deaths
of Philotas, Cleitus, and Callisthenes.
41
See too Badian (1961: 16) and Green (1991: 362) on the ‘reign of terror’ attested
in Curtius and Arrian.
 5

Comedy Means (Almost) Never

Having to Say You’re Sorry

Given that the plots of Greek and Roman New Comedy regularly
feature sons who swindle their fathers out of money for prostitutes
and commit rape and other asocial behaviours, we might expect the
regret of the young to feature prominently. But, because comedies are
generically required to have a happy ending (at least for the young
male characters),1 an apology, even a patently insincere one, is all that
is required for the young men’s situations to be resolved. These plays
trivialize the emotion of remorse, suggesting a kind of ‘boys will be
boys’ attitude towards youthful indiscretion. In other plays, the
fathers of these young men are guilty of misbehaving in the same
ways as their sons, and, particularly when they do not immediately
give way to the next generation, they merit harsher punishment.
Regret is ‘extorted’ from these men as a public way of indicating
their lowered status. These two aspects of comic remorse are, in many
ways, a confirmation of what we might have expected. But, there are
also a limited number of cases in which the expression of remorse by
fully adult males is positively valued, so the final portion of the
chapter concentrates on these examples in order to broaden our
understanding of how remorse functions in private life; in addition
to being publicly degrading, remorse can be a useful means of recap-
turing intimacy among loved ones.

1
As Rosivach (1998: 40) notes, the plays have no interest in the wishes of the
women in them, aside from providing them husbands, whether they want them or
not. And, as we shall see, the fathers of young men attain only a very limited reward,
and usually only when they give in to their sons’ whims.
 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry 115
The first thing to observe about New Comedy is that the plots, and
not just the plots, are extremely formulaic.2 There is often an adu-
lescens who has involved himself with a young woman to whom he is
not married. In certain cases, she is a prostitute, and the involvement
was mutual, and in others she is eventually found out to be a citizen,
and so was the victim of the young man’s eagerness,3 in which case he
marries her. Occasionally the young man falls in love with the young
woman without having first raped her.4 There is often the necessity of
money to obtain the young woman from her pimp or owner, money
which the young man never has. He is also lacking in mental
resources, and so a variety of other characters get involved: the clever
slave, who devises and implements a confidence trick to obtain the
money, the mark, often the young man’s father but sometimes a
pimp, and various other blocking characters (the self-important sol-
dier, the ‘loyal’ slave) and assistants (the young man’s friend, other
slaves). Eventually, all works out, and a marriage often occurs (Peter
G. Brown 1993). Comedies are often compared to modern television
situation comedies in their predictability (e.g. McCarthy 2000: 8), and
there is something to this. For the audience usually knows how the
plots will be resolved, and not only because of their repetitiveness:
often (but not always), the prologue explains exactly what will
happen, if not how. Further, the costumes, names, and masks of the
characters are indicative of their roles (Handley 1969: 30; Webster
1974: 89–99), such that the audience would have known at first sight
which character was the clever slave and which the old man.
Another key point is that the comedies are designed to be funny
(Sandbach 1977: 125), especially those of Plautus (Duckworth 1952:
190; E. Segal 1968: 1). Menander and Terence seem to have been less
interested in the kind of verbal play and slapstick humour that
characterizes Plautus, but in the latter there are to be found many

2
As Terence himself observes; cf. Andria 8–12, on the similarities of two Menan-
drian plays. See too Sandbach (1977: 62) on the lack of originality as a constitutive
feature of comedy, with Duckworth (1952: 140–75) for an outline of the most
common plots. This does not, however, mean that the plays are without suspense
(Duckworth 1952: 218–27).
3
For brief but cogent discussion of the generic topos of rape, see Gomme and
Sandbach (1973: 32–4), and on Chaerea’s rape in Terence’s Eunuch (both more
violent than usual and premeditated), Brothers (2000: 31).
4
See Rosivach (1998: 14) on the fact that the free woman must (nearly) always
have been raped, in order to retain audience sympathy for her. For those who are
extremely poor, or raised as/by courtesans, the situation is different.
116 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
scenes drawn out purely for comic effect. This helps with interpret-
ation—when characters are mocked, they are not those for whom the
play encourages sympathy, and the stereotyping inherent in the
portrayals of certain kinds of people, like old men,5 need not reflect
reality in order to be instructive (or, for that matter, funny).
I have claimed that young men in comedy sometimes express
regret for their misdeeds. Indeed, Plutarch, in a brief discussion of
dinnertime entertainment, has one of his characters say that in
Menander, affairs with prostitutes, if they are reckless and bold
(NÆÆd ŒÆd ŁæÆ
EÆØ), bring a lesson in self-control ( øçæØ E)
or regret (
ÆÆØ, 712c) to the young men. Plutarch points to a
noteworthy aspect of Menandrian (and Terentian, though he does
not mention him) young men; in general, their displays of remorse
include elements that encourage belief in their sincerity, particularly
when they are compared to the regretful young men in Plautus, who
tend to display regret only after they have been caught, and only in
order to avoid punishment. We cannot know if the remorse perform-
ances of the young men are sincere, not only because they are fictional
characters, but because the genre does not encourage such specula-
tion. As with other ancient genres, comedy is usually more interested
in moving on from mistakes than in moralizing or showing changed
behaviour. That said, however, in Menander and Terence, young men
seem to be more fully integral members of their communities, and so
their feelings are assumed to be genuine.
Our first Menandrian adulescens, Moschion in the Samia, is too
ashamed (ÆN åÆØ, 47 and 48) to discuss his rape of Plangon, a
neighbour; in fact, he never actually admits to it, saying instead ‘the
girl got pregnant’ (KŒ]Å
  ÆE, 49), and that his audience can
deduce what came before from this result. Yet even here, he suggests
that he is ashamed although it is of no use (Y ø  ÆN åÆØ | ‹’]
Pb Zç
º, 47–8).6 Events show that he is primarily worried about

5
On old age in antiquity, see e.g. Finley (1989), and, for literary treatments, the
volume in which that essay appears. But, as will become apparent, the age of the senex
seems often to be exaggerated for comic purposes.
6
As the bracket above indicates, the ‘› ’ (but only that word) has been supplied by
the editor rather than appearing in manuscripts, and it has no effect on the sentence’s
meaning. So too, part of the word ‘got pregnant’ is an editorial supplement, but a
certain one given the action of the play. Gomme and Sandbach (1973) ad loc. suggest
the phrase here be translated disjunctively, i.e. along the lines of ‘but perhaps—[no,]
I am ashamed . . .’.
 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry 117
consequences rather than believing that he has done something
objectively wrong (Zagagi 1994: 116, Omitowoju 2002: 201). Fear of
his father motivates Moschion, as it does a great many young men in
comedy.7 This does not, of course, necessarily mean that he is insin-
cere in his feelings, particularly given the ancient tendency to conflate
guilt and shame (above, p. 27), but in a move that is standard in
comedy, it downplays the trauma of the rape in favour of the physical
consequence of a baby (which always, in the genre, results from a
sexual encounter). Critics do sometimes worry that Moschion’s ex-
pression of shame is too abbreviated to be genuine (Heap 1998: 121),
but they also observe that the rape ‘contrasts sharply with his past
moral conduct’ (Zagagi 1994: 116). So we are encouraged to see his
behaviour as aberrant and his repentance as a return to the norm.
Still, Moschion’s emotion, while it is recognizable to us, is far more
about homosocial bonds, about trust between fathers and sons, than
about morality. Had there been no baby, Moschion would probably
have faced no consequences and might well have felt no shame. On
the other hand, as Lape (2004a: 142) notes, despite the frequency of
comic rape, this is our solitary example in Menander ‘in which the
protagonist both problematises his own behavior from the outset and
expresses remorse for it’. We might, without much trouble, convince
ourselves that Moschion has learned his lesson and will henceforth be
an upstanding citizen.8 This is in keeping with a now familiar ancient
view of the educative function of remorse in the young, and also
makes a certain amount of common sense. However we understand
it, something good has come out of Moschion’s unpleasant feeling,
and, as with Neoptolemus’ remorse in the Philoctetes, I would suggest
that this is related directly to his age. He has behaved in a foolish
manner, but learned from his mistake, and so he is not punished very
severely.
The second Menandrian example of a remorseful adulescens has
been much discussed in the critical literature, as it seems to some
scholars to offer a counter to the otherwise dominant double standard
of sexual morality. Charisios, the young man of the Epitrepontes, has

7
It should be said, nonetheless, that the relationship between Moschion and his
father seems to be significantly closer than is normal for comedy; each acts almost as a
friend to the other; see J. Grant (1986: 177–8) on their friendship, and below, p. 131 on
the apology of Moschion’s father.
8
Comic rape is always the result of sexual desire, so the provision of a wife for the
rapist (usually the rape victim) solves his difficulties.
118 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
raped a young woman who turns out, unbeknownst to them both, to
be his wife. Now, five months after the marriage, she delivers a baby,
upon hearing of which, he feels he cannot continue the marriage. The
play is very fragmentary, but it seems that Charisios accepts that his
wife’s baby is the result of rape (i.e. and not seduction, which would
be a different matter), and the baby has already been exposed. So his
objection to remaining married is unclear; it seems to derive neither
from jealousy nor practicality. Some have wanted to see him as
rejecting her as ‘damaged goods’, and this is possible, but by no
means certain; we simply do not know enough about sexual morality
in this time to determine whether such a notion is anachronistic or
plausible. In the meantime, Charisios discovers that his rape of an
unknown woman has resulted in a child as well, although he mis-
takenly believes that his victim is a prostitute. He overhears his wife
defending him in spite of his neglect of her, and disobeying her
father’s orders to leave him (though both father and daughter imagine
that Charisios will continue his relationship with the prostitute and
support her child). This generosity of spirit moves him, and his slave
reports a speech by Charisios in which he blames himself for his
selfishness in mistreating his wife when he too is the father of a
bastard (888–99); it may or may not be significant that this speech
is reported rather than performed. He refers to his rape with the
phrase › º
 MåÅŒÆ (‘How miserably I suffer’, 891), a peculiarly
passive way of describing his activity,9 although the accusation of
himself as ±ºØæØ (villain, wretch, 894), and his explicit admission
that he has done something wrong (ØF æª K

ØæªÆ ,
having wrought such a deed) admit greater responsibility. Charisios
himself appears on stage, bemoaning his own hypocrisy in blaming
his wife for what was not her fault (IŒ Ø ªıÆØŒe IåÅ’, 914)10
when he has suffered similarly (here, KÆØŒÆ, ‘I have stumbled’,
wavers between acceptance and denial of responsibility).
Although scholars continue to debate the implications of this
scene, it is clear that Charisios feels no regret about the rape qua

9
As Gomme and Sandbach (1973) note ad loc., the verb is likely to be euphemis-
tic, but this minimizing is itself important to the characterization of Charisios; cf. too
Iıå fiÅ ’¼ı’KŒ
ށ (for her, in the same unfortunate situation) of his wife at 898,
which reinforces the (false) parallelism between the two.
10
Gomme and Sandbach (1973) see him as denouncing his ‘past priggish self-
righteousness’ (363). This is, of course, the same verb as he had used for himself, but it
is clarified by the adjective ‘unwilling’.
 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry 119
rape (otherwise there would be no need for the additional infor-
mation about his own child to change his mind). The realization
that he too has had an unwanted bastard provides him with the
necessary sympathy to take his wife back.11 He is indeed disingenuous
in suggesting that he and his wife are in a similar situation (Konstan
1994: 223), given that his ‘suffering’ was very much his own fault, but
the play seems little concerned with this (to us, key) difference, and
however limited we may find his feelings, they do inspire him to
behave better towards his wife. Both Moschion and Charisios express
regret for their behaviour (although not for the reasons we might
expect), and in the world of Menander, this seems to entitle them
each to marriage and a child. These are among the more positive
results of regret in ancient texts, however little the emotion coheres
with modern paradigms. It is important to note, however, that both
men are portrayed as very young; their expressions of remorse may
contain only the status of contingent virtue.
In Plautus, the regret of young men can be characterized as mech-
anical; in fact, it is often so attenuated as to be nearly invisible, and it
is patently manufactured by them for the occasion at hand. Perhaps
most significantly, it occurs not in monologue, as it does for Menan-
der, but in dialogue with an authority figure; the social nature of the
performance is thereby emphasized and any internal aspects elided.
So, for instance, in the Aulularia, the adulescens Lyconides apologizes
to Euclio for the rape of his daughter, but only after he thinks Euclio
has already discovered her illegitimate child (733–4). The two men
are speaking at cross purposes, for Euclio thinks that Lyconides has
stolen money from him, so the ensuing discussion revolves around
the comical confusion between corrupted daughter and missing gold.
Lyconides offers to ‘keep’ what he has ‘taken’ (755–6), but eventually
confesses somewhat more unambiguously (789–806), claiming, in the
abstract, that ‘a man’ who has done something of which he is
ashamed (pudeat, 791) is always eager to clear himself, and asks to
marry the daughter after offering hints as to what has happened; he
then tells Euclio that he should not mourn on his daughter’s wedding

11
Walton and Arnott (1996: 108); Sommerstein (1998: 102); K. Pierce (1998: 133);
and Omitowoju (2002: 178–81). Contra, Fantham (1975); Konstan (1994: 223–4).
Heap (1998: 122) suggests that Charisios’ expression of remorse is ‘heartfelt’, but also
observes that this may derive from the fact that ‘his actions as a rapist have become
known’. And, as Lape (2004a: 142 n. 10) reminds us, the text is fragmentary, so any
conclusion about Charisios’ motives must be provisional (cf. Konstan 1994: 148–51).
120 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
day, especially when he has just become a grandfather. Once Euclio
leaves, Lyconides utters a self-satisfied monologue, demonstrating
that his shame was conventional; his unwillingness even to admit
that it is his shame provides an early hint that we ought not to be
looking for real emotion.12
Similarly, and even more perfunctorily, Philolaches in the Plautine
Mostellaria is too afraid (se metuere, 1125) to speak to his father about
his misdeeds (wasting family resources and swindling his father). He
sends his friend Callidamates to plead his case; the latter claims that
Philolaches is ashamed (pudet, 1153, dispudet, 1166). Callidamates
argues that the folly of youth should be pardoned (stultitiae adules-
centiaeque eius ignoscas, 1157–8), claims that Philolaches is not alone
in blameworthiness (1159), and assures Philolaches’ father that his
friends will repay the debt (1161). The fact that he will suffer no
financial loss presumably softens up the old man (Duckworth 1952:
245), who says that his son’s shame is punishment enough (si hoc
pudet . . . supplici habeo satis, 1165). Humour—and point—is added
when the clever slave answers his master’s assertion that he will be
whipped with a query about whether his own shame will be sufficient
to exonerate him from punishment (tamen etsi pudet? ‘Even if I’m
ashamed’? 1167).13
Errant young men are handled rather differently in Terence. In his
Adelphoe, which contains a scene similar to the Plautine examples
above, the young man Aeschinus himself expresses his feelings to his
father, and they are presented as sincere: ita velim me promerentem
ames dum vivas, mi pater, | ut me hoc delictum admisisse in me, id
mihi vehementer dolet | et me tui pudet (‘Father, I would like for you
to love me—but only if I deserve it—as long as you live. It pains me
grievously that I have allowed this charge against myself, and I am
ashamed before you’, 681–3). One of the differences between this and
similar comic apologies in Plautus is that this young man apologizes
directly to his own father, rather than having a friend take care of it
for him. Further, while the Plautine son is generally willing to be
loved even if he does not deserve it, this Terentian example seeks to

12
Konstan (2010: 50–1) sees in this passage the closest antiquity comes to apology
and forgiveness, but finds it similarly unsatisfactory (though for different reasons).
13
The answer is, of course, no, but the slave is ultimately forgiven, as always in
comedy (see below, p. 126, on how the senex can sometimes use this convention to his
own advantage).
 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry 121
be worthy of his father’s love; it is his own poor return of his father’s
care that seems to upset him. We might reasonably expect a real
change of behaviour after such a statement. Here again, it is signifi-
cant that this statement is placed in the mouth of a young man, who is
still developing as a character.
So too, in Terence’s Phormio, even as Antipho expresses his fear of
being caught by his father, he observes that his fear is the result of his
own misbehaviour (153–60). He is urged to behave so as not to allow
his father to think that he ‘has earned his guilt’ (commeruisse culpam,
206). But he knows that he has done wrong (peccatum meum), so
cannot face his father (217–18). In these two Terentian treatments of
the subject, the young men seem genuinely remorseful, and not as if
they are seeking lenient treatment through apology.14 We might
explain this, as I did above with Menander, by referring to their
youth: they are at a point in their lives where they are still learning
practical morality, and leniency is therefore situationally as well as
generically appropriate. This is a valid interpretation, but I will offer
another at the end of this chapter, suggesting that father/son relations
fall into the sphere of private life in a way that husband/wife (or
father-of-wife) relations do not.
The example of the Eunuch notwithstanding,15 the regret of young
men in Menander and Terence is usually presented as more or less
genuine, and as deriving from good motives, whereas in Plautus, it is
perfunctory at best, or omitted altogether.16 But, while the young men
in Menander and Terence show greater moral sensitivity, in all cases,
the adulescens must merely hint at his own remorse in order to be
forgiven. In Plautus, this is because there is greater indulgence for the

14
In the Terentian Hecyra, however, which has a plot similar to Menander’s
Epitrepontes, the young man who has doubted his previously raped wife expresses
no remorse about the trouble he has caused; he thereby loses any claim to our
compassion (Goldberg 1986: 152, who sees this as one reason why the play was
originally unsuccessful).
15
The Eunuch, deemed by most to be the least ‘Terentian’ of Terence’s plays,
features a young man who disguises himself as a eunuch to rape a slave woman.
Rather than expressing regret, he is jubilant about his deed (550–2; we are later told of
his violence after the rape, 645–6), and when she is discovered to be freeborn, he does
not apologize, but instead schemes to marry her (K. Pierce 1998: 135), even when he is
scolded (864–5). His father has no authority, coming in only at the end to ratify all
that has been done.
16
See, for instance, the Trinummus, where the son is not even required to
apologize (1181), but does immediately agree to a marriage proposed by his father
(1183); resolution can occur without apology.
122 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
foibles of youth,17 and in comedy as a whole the young men are
usually unobjectionable barring their one indiscretion. Second,
comedy must have a happy ending—a disinherited son simply will
not do. This is accomplished in different ways: the plays of Plautus are
on the side of the young men, who act in a carnivalesque world where
there are few consequences for misbehaviour, so it is inappropriate
that they be punished. For the other two playwrights, the greater
indications of sincerity found in the young men’s performances of
remorse guarantees their essential worthiness, and suggests that they
have learned their lesson.
While the expression of a young man’s regret sometimes brings a
plot to its conclusion, and his misdeed always forgiven on the
grounds of youth or the aberrance of the behaviour, old men’s regret
tends to be less beneficial in its effects. The Plautine senex expresses
regret in a similar situation to the young man, that is, once he has
been foiled in a plan to have an affair, sometimes one in direct
competition with his son.18 There is little sympathy for such fathers,
and the moment when their misdeeds catch up with them is usually
the most unpleasant scene in the comedies. The senex amator, the
elderly lover, does not appear in many plays, but his is a vivid role.19
He does not appear at all in the extant plays of Menander or Terence
(Duckworth 1952: 246; Ludwig 1968: 170–1; Conca 1970: 84). There
are admittedly fewer of their plays than of Plautus’, but their avoid-
ance of such a humiliating role for a paterfamilias is characteristic of
what many see as their greater interest in decorum. But Plautus offers
ample material in four plays, treated here in increasing order of
degeneracy.20 Each of these Plautine old men is humiliated, and his

17
In this, Plautus is part of a trend in Graeco-Roman culture as a whole, which is
extremely tolerant of youthful behaviour.
18
On the senex, see Duckworth (1952: 242–9), with the amatory senex at 245–7.
There is a rich comic tradition of humiliating old men, although the Greek texts have a
greater tolerance for the eventual triumph of the old men. It is not clear why the
elderly should be so comical, but plausible suggestions have been made about a
generation gap (see, for instance, Strauss 1993: 153–66), and about the need to escape
from the power of the paterfamilias (E. Segal 1968: passim).
19
On the centrality of the senex in Plautus, see Pierson (1971: 34), who notes that
21 per cent of the characters in his plays are old, of whom 74 per cent are men.
20
There are, of course, other instances of old men who behave, or at least speak,
lecherously (e.g. Cist. 307–8, Stichus 538–73), but they do not form major plot points,
nor do they compete directly with their sons. On the misbehaving senes in the Rudens
and Miles Gloriosus, see Biancho (2003: 66–7), and for a discussion of the senex
 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry 123
humiliation seems to be in direct proportion to the play’s judgement
of his guilt, which in turn depends upon how much he has interfered
with his son’s love affair.
The Bacchides features a son who expresses shame through a letter,
but he does so solely in order to further a plot to defraud his father
Nicobulus of more money, Bacch. 1007, 1013–16). Nicobulus, how-
ever, who presents himself as a pillar of society, and who is furthermore
not immediately willing to forgive his son his indiscretion (cf. 1017,
prius te cavisse ergo quam pudere aequom fuit, ‘it would have been
better to have been careful then instead of being ashamed now’) is soon
brought to his knees.21 The other senex in the play, Philoxenus, claims
to be a liberal father, one who has sowed his own wild oats and so
indulges his son in the hopes that he will grow out of this irresponsible
phase. Now, however, he fears that his son is irredeemable (Bacch.
1076–86). Both men are standard ‘blocking characters’, impeding
successful resolution of the plot. The two men determine to summon
their sons out from the den of iniquity, so they confront their sons’
mistresses (prostitutes and sisters, both named Bacchis). What follows
is the seduction of the old men by the two Bacchises (1118–206). The
sisters make clear that they find the old men repellent (e.g. 1152), but
succeed admirably in rendering them incapable of resistance. The
‘liberal’ father, Philoxenus, is revealed to be so indulgent to his
son because of his own lecherous impulses, and the ‘strict’ father,
Nicobulus, loses moral high ground when he proves unable to resist
the wiles of Bacchis any better than his son did.22 The play ends with
an assertion that the old men are both worthless (nihili) and guilty
of outrage ( flagitium), apparently in allowing themselves to become
amorous at their old age (canis capitibus, 1207–8).23 But in this

amator in Plautus, Ryder (1984: e.g. 181), who focuses primarily on the differences
between the senes.
21
This is a standard ancient response to the expression of regret; it is only because
Nicobulus finds himself in a comedy that his reaction is problematic.
22
See Lacey (1978–9: 133) on the ‘striking similarities between the fathers and
sons’, which he plausibly views as Plautus’ addition to his Greek original, and below,
p. 128, on the competition between fathers and sons which implicitly equates them. In
addition, the roles of the two sons and two fathers are likely to have been doubled,
which (even with the use of masks) may well have encouraged the spectator to see
similarities in them (thanks to Kenneth Reckford for this insight).
23
The play, uncharacteristically for Plautus, does not offer any redemption at all;
there is no sense that the young men will mature; indeed, they have brought their
fathers down with them. As W. S. Anderson (1993: 28) notes, the prostitutes, although
124 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
play, the humiliation of the old men is restrained; they have been
shown up as grotesque hypocrites, but their behaviour is exonerated
to some degree because they did not voluntarily compete with
their sons. So these men, unlike those to follow, have no reason to be
remorseful.
The senes of the Bacchides do not have wives (at least, no wives are
mentioned), and, probably more importantly, they did not choose to
be their sons’ rivals, so they are not punished. More frequent in
Plautus, however, is the plot featuring a married senex who is the
amatory rival of his son. In the Mercator, the son Charinus is shamed
by his father into giving up a love affair, and becomes a merchant
(80–6). Having made a great deal of money on his trip, he also fell in
love (again) and purchased a slave to be his mistress. He has now
returned, but is embarrassed to tell his father about the situation,
assuming that he would again object (107–8). Although he does not
know it, Charinus is in a more powerful position than the adulescens
usually is, since he owns his mistress; even better, he has used his own
money (Anderson 1993: 37). But shame leads him to deceive his
father, telling him that he has purchased the woman as a housemaid.
The father, Demipho, is taken with her (199–203, 260–5), and the two
become unwitting rivals, with each claiming that he has a ‘friend’ who
wants to purchase her (367–468). The father outwits the son, and
establishes the slave with his friend in the house next door. The
trouble this causes need not detain us (667–740), but the use made
there of the ‘dirty old man’ motif confirms that it could be counted
upon for laughs. Eventually, Demipho discovers that the young
woman is his son’s mistress (974), at which point he immediately
apologizes, relinquishes all claim to her, and begs his friends to make
peace between himself and his son (991–4). He also swears that he
will never attempt another affair (1000). The fact that Demipho has
reversed his earlier behaviour, not merely in giving up the girl, but in
proposing to dictate to his son about love affairs, means that he can be
rewarded, and the immediacy of his response to the knowledge that
his son is interested in the same woman proves, as far as the logic of
the play is concerned, that he is not a bad man. As a reward for his
good behaviour, the characters in the play decide that his wife need

they could easily be portrayed as degenerate, ‘emerge as superior, in wit and vitality, to
the fathers, and not in the least inferior to them in morality’.
 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry 125
never know of his misdeed.24 So here as well, there is no need for
remorse, and everyone can save face.
Our next play, Asinaria, features Demaenetus, who claims to be a
good guy, a father who asks why he ought to become angry with his
son, ‘like the other fathers do’ (patres ut faciunt ceteri, 50) simply
because the son has taken up with the prostitute next door. He thinks
his behaviour is the best way to be loved (amari, 67), and says that his
own father helped him in his love affairs, ‘buying me, his own son, for
himself by favours’ (beneficiis me emere gnatum suom sibi, 72). While
this kind of father may be delightful to a son, he wreaks havoc with
the plot, since the normal blocking character refuses to block. We
may also question his morality: he is married to a rich wife, who
controls the money,25 so he urges his son’s slave to defraud his wife
(91 and passim). This accordingly takes place, and then Demaenetus
shows his true colours. If we had been suspicious about his reasons
for wanting to help his son—Plautine fathers do not generally want to
be friends, and the notion of buying a son’s affection is repellent to
them—these suspicions are confirmed in full when he demands a
share of his son’s prostitute (735–38); in fact, he gets to have her
first.26 Perhaps most grotesquely, in the final act, the son is forced to
watch while father and prostitute share a couch; Demaenetus seeks
not only to have his son’s girl, but to make him agree that it is for the
best (829–30). Things look bad for the adulescens, but someone tells
his mother, who spies on father, son, and prostitute before taking the
old man home in disgrace. The play ends with the young couple alone
at last.
Given that Demaenetus is (nominally) the head of household, we
might imagine that he suffers the greatest humiliation possible in
comedy when he receives a public dressing-down from his wife,
but Lysidamus, the senex amator of the Casina, behaves even more

24
There is, however, punishment for Demipho’s the next-door neighbour, who
has agreed to house the woman. His wife comes home unexpectedly, and his inter-
action with her is decidedly unpleasant (Duckworth 1952: 167). Perhaps this serves as
a displacement of Demipho’s punishment, so that he does not require any (McCarthy
2000: 68).
25
Demaenetus refers to her as behaving patres ut consueverunt, as fathers usually
do (79).
26
As Konstan (1983: 49, 51) notes, this is an ‘extraordinary’ alteration in behav-
iour, but one prepared for by the immorality of the father at the start of the play. The
deliberate cheating of his own wife marks him as degenerate, and even his slave loses
respect for him (111–13).
126 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
outrageously, so is humiliated even more. Here again, father and son
are rivals for the same woman, believed to be a slave, though she is in
reality free. Both father and son seek to win Casina by proxy, each
through his own slave. Lysidamus is the most unregenerate of the
amatory senes, since he knowingly competes with his son, so his
punishment is the most severe. He arranges for the wedding of
Casina to his slave (353–425), and, after a mock wedding ceremony
(815–36), leads the bride off to the house next door. Unbeknownst to
him, ‘Casina’ is really the rival slave, who beats him.27 The papyrus is
mutilated in this area (see MacCary and Willcock 1976: ad 921–8),
but it is clear that Lysidamus has received much the worse of the
encounter, and he escapes from the house to face the amusement of
his household.28
Caught between the violent slave and his wife, Lysidamus chooses
to face her.29 He has left his staff and his cloak inside, and wears only
a chiton, garb which marks him as a slave.30 At first, Lysidamus
attempts to brazen it out, but soon realizes that he has been defeated
(the text is again fragmentary). He suggests that his wife is mistaken,
that such lecherous behaviour is uncharacteristic of him, but soon
admits that he has done wrong, and asks for forgiveness. He is quickly
forgiven, as he must be, and the play ends abruptly.31 Lysidamus’
expression of regret, such as it is, results from circumstances rather
than any recognition of wrongdoing.
Many find the ending of the play unsatisfactory, and some have
suggested influence from farce or contaminatio (Duckworth 1952:
206; Forehand 1973: 251; O’Bryhim 1989: 90–3). Others point
to Lysidamus’ appropriation of the role of ‘clever slave’ as a tactic
which means he must go unpunished. Since the slave who has
been caught with ‘Casina’ shows more authentic-looking remorse,
and also worries about his reputation, some suggest that the two men

27
On the significance of Lysidamus’ beating, see Rei (1998: 92).
28
As Cody (1976: 474–5) notes, the elements of transvestism and homosexuality
incoroporated into the play are not regularly found in this kind of comedy, but are
characteristic of Atellan farce. On Pappus, the ‘foolish old man’ of Atellan farce, see
Duckworth (1952: 11) and Minarini (1995: 5).
29
MacCary and Willcock (1976) ad 950, who note that Lysidamus again co-opts
the role of the ‘clever slave’; see too W. Fitzgerald (2000: 81–6).
30
On cloak and staff as the identifying features of senex in comedy, and the
implications of the chiton, see Rei (1998: 103).
31
On the necessity for forgiveness of the ‘comic slave’, see W. Fitzgerald (2000: 86)
and McCarthy (2000: 77–121, esp. 109 and 112).
 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry 127
have changed places (Cody 1976: 458–9; Forehand 1973: 247; and
McCarthy 2000: 112 and n. 75). This alteration in the roles of master
and slave may necessitate Lysidamus’ forgiveness (O’Bryhim 1989:
98–101), but it is in fact a further degradation. Further, in those plays
where the slave is excused a beating, it is usually with the understand-
ing that this lenience will last a single day; tomorrow, he will be in
trouble again. Lysidamus is forgiven, his wife claims, only in order
to allow the play to end (1005–6).
Throughout the play Lysidamus has been belittled and his author-
ity undermined: his tricks to obtain Casina are underhanded and
unworthy of a paterfamilias; his argument with his neighbour (591–
612, caused by his wife in order to interfere with his plans) is undigni-
fied at best; his interaction with the maid Pardalisca about the ‘sword’
Casina will use on her bridegroom points up his cowardice (621–713;
McCarthy 2000: 109); and the homosexuality scenes mark him as
lecherous and subservient to his own slave (733ff.; Cody 1976: 454;
Ryder 1984: 185; and McCarthy 2000: 102). In the play’s final scene,
where Lysidamus, dishevelled and unclothed, is confronted by his
wife and household, there are difficulties over the attribution of lines
(MacCary and Willcock 1976: ad 976); if Pardalisca speaks, his
humiliation will be complete: when a man’s own maid berates him,
he has hit rock bottom. But even if she doesn’t, she is present as a
spectator.32 Lysidamus is the only amatory senex who apologizes and,
where a modern audience might see this as providing some mitiga-
tion for his behaviour, it seems rather to form a key part of his
degradation. If male heads of household do not express regret, then
seeing one do so will be an impressive display of how far he has
degenerated from his appropriate role.
The boundaries of old age, both in Roman comedy and out of it,
are fluid. The senes of comedy are often assumed to be aged.33 But
their age is often exaggerated in comedy, presumably to create a more
striking contrast between fathers and sons.34 If Roman men marry in

32
Lysidamus’ ‘role has gradually changed from paterfamilias to henpecked hus-
band, outcast from his family, coward, slave, cinaedus, fugitive, and finally a pathicus
dominated by women’ (O’Bryhim 1989: 101).
33
On the physical characteristics of old age as portrayed in Roman drama, see
Coleman-Norton (1947: 33), and for a discussion of linguistic characterization of
senes in Terence, Maltby (1979: 136) and passim.
34
The case of Periplectomenus in Plautus’ Miles Gloriosus proves the point. He
does not have sons to compete with, and so he is portrayed as somewhere between
128 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
their late twenties (a plausible age according to recent models)35 and
have children soon after, the father of an adulescens (eighteen?) will
be in his late forties or early fifties.36 There is not much intrinsically
funny about a middle-aged man who is amorous,37 and men in their
forties might well prove formidable competitors. Men of this age are
likely to remarry if they find themselves without a wife, and may well
marry women much younger than themselves, thus competing with
younger men. Turning all comic fathers into doddering senes, how-
ever, renders them comical38 and makes the winner, and the loser,
obvious. In this as in other ways, comedy defuses issues of genuine
concern (McCarthy 2000: 39, 67, 99).39
The senex amator is by definition ridiculous (Duckworth 1952:
165; Anderson 1993: 79; Biancho 2003: 55); he is grotesque because of
his age (Minarini 1995: 7–13; Biancho 2003: 16–20), and portrayed as
crazy (Biancho 2003: 23–30), bestial (MacCary and Willcock 1976:
31–2; Biancho 2003: 30–47), and smelly (O’Bryhim 1989: 95). That he
be so humiliated is a function of his age, but not only this. The plays
do not, as a whole, favour adultery,40 but the punishment of the senex

young and old. He is referred to in the text as senex (135, 166, 649; cf. 618, 621, 623,
626), and is described as a friend of the young man’s father, with white hair (631) but
because he does not have children, and is not portrayed as sexually active, he is not
depicted insultingly (Biancho 2003: 105; presumably he wears the mask of the senex).
He objects to being characterized as Acherunticus (‘One-foot-in-the-grave’), and
discourses on his good qualities, which include keeping his hands off other people’s
girls (652); however risible the claim, it distinguishes him from other Plautine senes.
35
Saller (1994: 41) suggests that men’s age for marriage in Rome was likely to be in
their late twenties, except in the senatorial class, when it would have been about five
years younger.
36
Duckworth (1952: 243) describes the senes as ‘men somewhat past middle age,
presumably in their fifties or early sixties’. See Strauss (1993: 67) on the relative ages of
fathers and sons in Athens.
37
See, for instance, the sensitivity with which the ‘senex’ Demeas’ relationship with
his concubine is portrayed in Menander’s Samia.
38
The locus classicus for old age as a time free from sexual desires is Plato, Rep.
329a–d; see too Cicero, Sen. on how lacking the desire for sex is pleasant (14.47), and
Mercator 290–8 on the decrepitude of Demipho, and the preposterousness of his
falling in love at his age.
39
On the issue of father–son rivalry in comedy, see Wehrli 1967–9: 56–69, and on
Roman myths of father–son conflict, W. V. Harris 2001: 310–11.
40
As is shown by the Menaechmi, where, as Fantham (1975: 71) notes, the attempt
at adultery by a younger man is foiled. See McCarthy (2003: 67–9) on the ways the
(twin) brothers of the play are split, one into an adulescens, who enjoys the favour of
the prostitute paid for by the other, the other a married senex, who is frustrated in his
desires.
 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry 129
for his sexual desires serves as a way of reaffirming the appropriate-
ness of those of the adulescens. Yet the fact that Plautine old men
display even less regret than their sons, and only after they are caught,
suggests that fathers and sons are more similar than different, at least
in Plautus; the sexual incontinence of fathers excuses that of their
sons (Konstan 1983: 20). We see this most explicitly in the Bacchides,
but also in other plays, where, as Konstan suggests, the genre is intent
on presenting fathers in competition with their sons (rather than, as is
perhaps more plausible, vice versa), and in arenas in which they are
not likely to win (Konstan 1983: 20).
Terence, as we have noted, is not interested in the plot of the
lecherous but apologetic old man. The Phormio, however, treats of
the regret of a sexually degenerate father, but in it, the father in
question has misbehaved long ago, when he was a youth (Fantham
1975: 71).41 His brother explains that he got drunk and raped a
woman, who had a child. He supported his second family, but
never again touched the mother of that daughter (1016–19).42 Just
as Terence’s sons display regret for their misdeeds in a way that
makes their Plautine counterparts seem insincere, so too the scene
between Chremes and his wife, lengthy and uncomfortable (990–
1054), points up by contrast the unsatisfactory nature of senex apolo-
gies in Plautus. Chremes’ wife asserts first that Chremes has no right
to criticize his son for keeping a mistress, and second, that she has not
yet decided whether to forgive her husband; she will allow her son to
make the decision (1040–6). As with Lysidamus in the Casina,
Chremes’ expressions of regret do not mitigate his punishment; if
anything, they show how much trouble he is in.
Aside from the Phormio, however, which is a special case in
that a regretful senex is punished by his wife for behaviour in the
past, Terence focuses instead on relationships between fathers and
sons, and generally portrays fathers as misguided but caring.43 In the

41
See, however, his wife’s comment that he was already a senex fifteen years earlier,
when he raped the woman in question (1023). This is likely to be exaggeration, as
comedy very rarely features senes who obtain their sexual desires, and there is no senex
rapist in extant New Comedy.
42
See the similar scenario in Cistellaria, where a visiting adulescentulus rapes a girl,
returns to his home town and marries a relation, but when she dies, returns and
marries the woman he raped earlier (173–8; cf. Rosivach 1998: 24).
43
On the importance of the father–son relationship in Terence, see Fantham 1971:
970; MacCary (1971: 324); Lape 2004b: 35; J. Smith (2004: 84).
130 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
Heautontimorumenos, in fact, regret does seem to have a positive, if
limited, role. After having caught his son Clinia in an affair, his father
Menedemus was so harsh to him that Clinia ran away to serve as a
mercenary (95–117). Menedemus now regrets his behaviour and
punishes himself by doing manual labour on his farm (Heaut. 62–5).
The shame of the young man brings about the regret of his father. As
with many of Terence’s plays, the focus is on how to raise children;
Menedemus has experimented and discovered to his cost that he was
too cruel. Here he contrasts with his next-door neighbour Chremes,
who, although he is free with advice, proves to be incapable of dealing
with his own son’s rather more complicated affair with an expensive
prostitute. The sons are friends, and Clinia has returned but fears his
father’s anger. Menedemus is overjoyed, and decides he will give his
son anything, but Chremes persuades him that such a lack of discipline
would be dangerous, so the two fathers decide that Clinia ought to trick
his father out of the money he wants in order to preserve appearances.
Menedemus’ regret (paenitens, synopsis, 3) is short-lived, and is
rewarded by the return of his son. Regret, however, is a leitmotif
throughout the play: Menedemus’ son, as Chremes notes, displays the
proper shame (pudentis, 120) at his behaviour. Later, when Menede-
mus’ son Clinia comes on the scene, he thinks he has disgraced
himself (pudet, 260, but only because he believes that in his absence
his girlfriend has become corrupted). But despite Chremes’ belief that
father and son have not been truthful enough with one another, it is his
own son who has been deceiving him (908) and who must eventually
be brought to renounce his activities (1057), but only after his father
has been swindled out of money and he himself nearly disinherited.
The play thus begins with the regret of an old man, regret which
derives from excessive harshness in the raising of his son, and from
that son’s recognition that he has behaved shamefully. Yet as the play
continues, Menedemus’ behaviour starts to seem more and more
reasonable; he did not, after all, expect his son to run away, and is
so delighted with Clinia’s return as to make clear that his severity was
motivated by love. The play ends with the regret of a different young
man (1043–4; Fantham 1971: 977), who has alienated his father by
bringing his mistress into the house, and who has also cost the family
a lot of money for a mercenary prostitute who does not love him.44

44
See Lord (1977: 192) on the way the adulescens’ regret is not voluntary, but
rather performative, and compelled by a trick of his father, who threatens to disinherit
 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry 131
He eventually agrees to marry, and is given some choice in the matter,
but this is a far cry from the normal ‘happy ending’ given to the comic
adulescens (Duckworth 1952: 156). The play’s focus on two fathers
and two sons enables one to illuminate the other. By seeing Chremes’
difficulties with his son, Menedemus has learned that his own son
could have been much worse, and he has regained both his son’s love
and his authority in the household.45 His emotion, however, was not
totally pointless, as it marks him as deserving a good relationship with
his son; so too, the son’s shamefaced departure suggests that he has
been properly raised and deserves happiness (141). Such a positive
role for regret appears elsewhere in Greek and Latin literature, but not
frequently.46
There is perhaps a prefiguration of the positive role for paternal
regret in Terence in one Menandrian play, and in a scenario similar
to that of the Heautontimoroumenos. Moschion of the Samia,
earlier looked at as an example of the truly remorseful adulescens
(pp. 116–17), has a father Demeas, who for good but mistaken reasons
suspects that his son has had an affair with his own live-in concubine.
In a scene unparalleled in New Comedy, Demeas apologizes to his
son for misjudging him (690–712); he points out that, even when
he thought Moschion had betrayed him, he tried to preserve his
reputation and suggests that Moschion focus rather on all his father
has given him than on his single mistake. His son does forgive him,
which enables that son to marry the girl of his dreams, but the
play’s emphasis on the feelings of the father is striking. Like Terence’s
Menedemus, Demeas shows regret where he might choose to con-
tinue being angry, and in both cases, this choice allows the bond
between father and son to be reaffirmed.
Sons are clearly the heroes in Plautine comedy, all the more so
when they have defeated their fathers through the agency of the
clever slave (Anderson 1995: 178). The regret of the adulescens in
Plautus is perhaps no more genuine than that of most senes, but it is

him. We might want to characterize this as ‘Plautine’ regret. Anderson (1995: 176)
observes that Terence prefers his fathers to retain their authority, even when it is at the
expense of their sons.
45
Critics generally believe that Terence approves of Menedemus’ parenting skills,
especially by contrast to Chremes’ (e.g. Webster 1974: 38; Fantham 1971: 978).
46
Chremes, on the other hand, learns nothing from the example provided, and
makes just the same mistake as had Menedemus (Goldberg 1986: 142).
132 Comedy: Never Having to Say You’re Sorry
immediately rewarded. The Plautine senex, on the other hand, is
punished in proportion to his misdeeds, and is sometimes explicitly
left without any authority in his house. For Plautus, then, regret, like
the recognition tokens that prove a girl marriageable, is primarily a
tool whereby the plot can be advanced, and nobody is particularly
interested in discerning its authenticity. In Terence and Menander, by
contrast, even when sons obtain their fondest wishes, they usually do
so without the triumphant defeat of the senex that is so much a
feature of Plautus. They generally recognize that they have done
some wrong, and manifest more authentic-seeming behaviour that
we might characterize as remorse. Their fathers usually do not display
any regret, being normally more in the right than in the wrong, but in
most of the cases where they do, their regret serves to cement the
unity of the family and to point up their care for one another, rather
than to advance the plot. So too, sons apologize in situations which
point to a genuine relationship between themselves and their fathers
which is not predominantly status-based.
This is a strikingly different notion from the views of regret and
remorse advanced heretofore; up to this point, I have suggested that
an ancient viewpoint sees remorse as invariably degrading to the one
who expresses it. The difference here derives from the fact that
we have up until now been discussing the public sphere; in intimate
family situations, it seems to be the case that apology and regret are
seen as helpful in healing a rift. We must keep in mind that ancient
marriages were not normally understood to be the permanent uniting
of two families; what looks to us like a single family unit (husband,
wife, child) would have been seen in antiquity as two separate families
intersecting at a single point. This, I think, explains why comic fathers
benefit from expressing remorse to their children, and vice versa, but
comic husbands do not gain from expressing remorse to their wives.
The display of remorse by adult male heads of household to their sons
is still capable of being understood as status-lowering, and indeed,
this may be why it is effective: because it is in the private sphere, it is
not permanently damaging to one’s public status; yet it serves as a
way of demonstrating to sons that their own inferiority to their
fathers is situational, not permanent.
 6

Ovid and the Coercion of Remorse

from Above

It has already been observed that courtroom speeches from antiquity

do not provide a locus for the expression of remorse because ancient
defendants were, for the most part, disadvantaged by the admission of
guilt. This chapter examines a quasi-legal case, in which the accused
deploys strategies from legal rhetoric to emphasize his innocence and
to suggest that his accuser ought more properly to have remorse for
his own misdeeds than to coerce it from others.1 We focus on the
figure of Augustus as he appears in the exile poetry of Ovid. The poet
portrays himself as innocent but attempting to apologize (for what he
knows not), and the emperor as vicious, as having done many
regrettable things but feeling no remorse. What emerges is a drastic
fission between remorse and responsibility, with the fault on one side
and the forced performances of regret on the other. The exile poetry
offers a furthest remove from a modern understanding of remorse,
for in it, responsibility is divorced from action. That this is so reflects
in part standard Roman oratorical practice, which suggests that a
defendant both claim innocence and mitigating circumstances, in
order to cover all possible bases. But it also reflects Ovid’s portrait
of a world gone wrong: he is punished, though not improved, by the
extortion of assertions of remorse, while the emperor, who might
derive some benefit from feeling remorse, is incapable of doing so,
and immune to punishment.

1
For a study of remorse words in Greek oratory, which suggests that remorse there
is conspicuous by the lack of it displayed by one’s opponents, who thus become
doubly vicious, see Fulkerson (2004).
134 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above
Ovid was relegated to the city of Tomis (modern Constanza,
Romania) by the emperor Augustus in the year 8 ce, for two causes,
a carmen and an error.2 As it happens, we have no contemporary or
near-contemporary information about this event that does not derive
from Ovid, so insofar as we seek truth, we must reconstruct events
from his (polemical) poetry. Ovid is tantalizing but nothing more on
the error;3 although presumably the more important reason, it was a
secret. The carmen, by contrast, is exhaustively examined; Ovid
devotes almost the entirety of Tristia 2, his defence via an open letter
addressed to Augustus, to a discussion of it. Scholars differ in their
interpretation of this strategy, some holding it to be a smokescreen
designed to obscure the real issue, and some assuming that it must be
significant since Ovid focuses on it. Despite repeated pleas by the poet,
both to Augustus and to friends powerfully placed, the emperor never
relented. Augustus’ successor, Tiberius, did not rescind his adoptive
father’s sentence4 and Ovid died some years after Augustus, still in
exile.5
Rather than examining the poetry as the historical record of Ovid’s
life in exile, this chapter studies certain aspects of the ways Ovid
presents Augustus’ reaction to him, his own apologies to Augustus,
and the offence(s) which caused the rupture. This portrait is not
wholly coherent, but certain themes do emerge, and they suggest
that Ovid’s attempts to placate the emperor fail because of Augustus’
inhumanity. It is always hazardous to use a single source, and the
dangers of reading this relationship solely through Ovid’s poetry are

2
Tr. 2.207. For a historical study of exile see Grasmück (1978: 135–7) on Ovid’s
relegation; on exile as it appears in the literary imagination, Doblhofer (1987: 201–15
on Ovid), Claassen (1999), and Gaertner (2007: introduction and ch. 8).
3
Exhaustive rehearsal of the possibilities in Thibault (1964, covering a period up to
the mid-1960s) and Verdière (1977: thereafter). Some, by contrast, see the error as less
significant than the carmen; cf. e.g. Gordon Williams (1978: 60). Among those who
attempt to determine the historical truth, I have found most insightful Rogers (1966)
and Green (1982).
4
For a useful discussion of imperial patronage and amicitia as they apply to Ovid,
see Fantham (1996: 70, 74, 81), and Helzle (1989: 22–30), with 27–8 on Ovid’s chances
of pardon from Tiberius. As he notes, the lack of an attested relationship between the
two men is perhaps noteworthy given Tiberius’ intellectual leanings; see P. E. Knox
(2004: 9–12) on Tiberius’ relationship to the authors of his reign, and 15–17 for the
suggestion that Ovid had inadvertently offended Tiberius by praising Germanicus.
5
His final book of poems (EP 4.6.16) mentions Augustus as dead, and a reference
to the suffect consul of 16 ce (EP 4.9.4) provides the last datable reference in Ovid’s
exile poetry.
 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above 135
acute because, although Augustus did indeed exist outside the exile
poetry, his depiction within it is such that he might not have recog-
nized himself.6 The ‘Augustus’ of the exile poetry and his relationship
to the ‘Ovid’ of the exile poetry are nothing but a series of poetic
fictions.7 While this is a generally acknowledged fact, its full ramifi-
cations have been missed.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the exile poetry contains Ovid’s most
explicit discussions of mistakes and their forgiveness. But before
discussing the ways Augustus and Ovid appear in relation to one
another in the exile poetry, I draw attention to a fact that is surprising:
although there are many mentions of Ovid’s offence and examples of
self-exculpation or mitigation, the vocabulary of paenitentia appears
only rarely in connection with Ovid’s error.8 We have seen that
remorse and regret can, indeed often do, appear without explicit
lexical markers, but Ovid’s avoidance of them is noteworthy.9 It is

6
As J. Henderson (1997: 149) notes, Ovid’s success in controlling his audience’s
reception of Augustus is directly related to his status as ‘the victim of the Caesars’
epoch’. Several have noted the particular difficulties of exile under an emperor; see
Claassen (1999: 103) on the exile’s ‘first instinct . . . to exculpate himself ’, an instinct
which is ‘potentially dangerous’. So too Gaertner (2007: 16): exiles ‘were still under the
rule of the authorities that had banished them. Wishing to return, they had to
plead their case without accusing the emperor of having banished them unjustly.’
O’Gorman (1997: 103 and passim) draws parallels between the similar personae of
Augustus and Ovid as exemplified in the exile poetry.
7
Videau-Delibes (1991: 13–14). As Argenio (1971: 51) usefully reminds us, Ovid is
above all else rhetorical in his poetry. That the exilic poetry has been seen as an
exception perhaps points rather to its effectiveness. See too Gaertner (2007: 4) on the
commonplace nature of complaints about exile, which mitigates against reading them
as psychological outpourings, and Malaspina (1995: 35–40) on the ways Ovid plays
with reality in the exilic poetry. G. D. Williams (1994: 162) notes that ‘just as this
portrait of Ovid is created by the poet himself, so also is the portrait of Augustus. To
take sides with the self-caricature of the poet against his caricature of the emperor may
be to enter into the spirit of the poem, but it is not criticism’ (cf. O’Gorman 1997: 115).
8
Discussion of Ovid’s use of piget and paenitentia words elsewhere in the corpus at
Fulkerson (2012a: n. 9).
9
‘Apologies’ and discussions of regret: paenitet: Tr. 2.316 (paenitet ingenii iudicii-
que mei, the only use of paenitet for his mistake), 4.9.4 (to a friend, who will be sorry
someday), EP 1.1.58–60 (generic discussion; the gods often lessen punishment for
those who repent, followed by an assertion that Ovid does), 2.3.14 (most people
paenitet doing good deeds if they receive no reward), 3.2.47 (Ovid’s interlocutor not
ashamed of his homeland); piget: Tr. 5.1.8 (Ovid is sorry to have written his poetry,
but primarily because he has been punished for it), EP 2.6.14 (Ovid’s friend should not
be sorry to have helped), 3.9.19 (Ovid does not like editing his exilic works). The
examples in EP 1.1 are noteworthy, as they are an explicit claim to repentance. See
Helzle (2003) ad loc., and Gaertner (2005) ad loc. for a discussion, which finds Ovid
insincere based on stylistic and logical grounds, and reads it as ‘burlesque’.
136 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above
always difficult to judge tone in Ovid, and nowhere more so than in
the exile poetry; he has been seen as grovelling in the hopes of
palliating the emperor’s anger,10 and also as thumbing his nose at
his oppressor.11 Although I incline more to the latter view, this is an
issue, which no amount of rereading the texts can resolve: the poetry
itself is deeply divided on the issue, and on many others (Thomsen
1979: 37). From the question of whether there is anyone to speak
Latin to in Tomis (yes and no), to statements that he has plenty of
money (or none), to claims that a letter takes either ten days or a year
to arrive in Rome (Claassen 1990: 71), there is no reliable story to
reconstruct. The majority of Ovid’s exile poems are certainly subject
to being read as indications of hostility towards the emperor. But this
impression, which most contemporary readers are likely to share,
does not get us closer to ‘reality’, for the exilic poetry also depicts its
author as a paranoid, manic figure (Thomsen 1979, G. D. Williams
1994, 1996, and 2002: 341). ‘Ovid’s’ feelings may reflect simply his
own delusions.
As Dowling (2006: 105–22) notes, the exilic corpus offers unparal-
leled insight into how clementia worked in the Augustan period.12

10
G. D. Williams (1994: 160) for bibliography. Important discussions of the history
of reception at Videau-Delibes (1991: 233), Drucker (1977; he argues the ‘flattery’ thesis
most fully), and Marache (1958). Evans (1983: 10–30, 13) argues for a ‘nonpolitical’
reading of the exile and the poetry, and sees in the Ex Ponto the beginnings of a new
attitude towards the emperor; there are similar thoughts in Voulikh (1968: 380–1), who,
however, argues for a genuine ‘revolt’ on the part of Ovid but denies that it has political
implications. Gordon Williams (1978: passim) treats themes of imperial panegyric in
Latin literature beginning with Ovid; while he finds them regrettable indices of the
downfall of ‘golden age’ Latin, he also admires Ovid for inventing such ingenious ways
of fitting panegyric into the kind of poetry he was interested in writing (e.g. 80, 85, 86,
97; 99 suggests that Augustus might have approved of the exile poetry). For a modified
version of this thesis without the condemnatory tone, see Helzle (1989: 26 n. 38):
‘I cannot see, however, that the sheer number of occurrences of this “Leitmotiv” [of
the divinity of Augustus] can be generally unflattering, even though this may be true in
isolated instances.’
11
Wiedemann (1975) argues for a third possibility, that Ovid intended his exilic
corpus, especially Tristia 2, not for Augustus but for influential Romans, who, upon
reading his work, will exert their influence with the emperor (see too Marg 1959). Neither
of the other possibilities excludes this, but Ovid would be taking the risk of further
offending the emperor by suggesting that he does not have sufficient faith in him.
12
For a study of how the historical Octavian/Augustus strategically deployed
clementia in times of need, see Dowling (2006: esp. pp. 55–72); she notes that, unlike
Sextus Pompey’s blanket clementia, it was only ever for Augustus a temporary
strategy, adopted either to combat Pompey, or once the pardoned individuals became
unthreatening and/or useful.
 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above 137
She persuasively argues that Ovid’s treatment of imperial clementia
demonstrates it to be arbitrary (‘whimsical, irrational, and unpredict-
able, entirely the opposite of the image Augustus would like to
convey’, 111).13 My own reading coheres with this understanding of
Augustus, and expands upon it to suggest that Ovid’s hostility to-
wards the emperor manifests itself in other ways as well. Augustus, to
put it baldly, is the primary concern of the exile poetry; even when he
remains unmentioned, he lurks in the background.14 We therefore
begin with how Ovid names Augustus in the exile poetry, as it
provides a useful point of entry into discussion of his role there.
Ovid regularly writes of ‘Caesar’ (and uses the phrase Caesaris ira),
and sometimes princeps (again, sometimes in the construction prin-
cipis ira); rarely he is called Augustus or something else.15 This is not,
however, how Augustus is most often referred to; Ovid instead
metaphorically likens Augustus to the gods or a god in general, and,
less often, to Jupiter; unlike such references in the Metamorphoses,
these are rarely signposted as other than the literal truth (Scott 1930:
52). Augustus/Jupiter is also regularly associated with his imperial
thunderbolt, which has destroyed Ovid.16

13
See too Barsby (1978: 43): ‘The repeated references to Augustus’ clemency, if not
openly casting doubt on the emperor’s possession of that virtue, at least emphasise his
unreasonableness in not extending it to Ovid.’ McGowan (2009: 2 and passim) focuses
on the ‘apparently abject submission’ of the poet.
14
Lechi (1988: 119), with 124ff. on Augustus/Jupiter. Citroni (2000: 345–68) notes
the constant presence of Augustus in the exile poetry, to the extent that he is
sometimes referred to simply by an otherwise unidentified 3rd person (cf. e.g. Tr.
3.6.8). His omnipresence is reminiscent of that of the elegiac puella, whose anger/
greed/indifference are a constant theme of elegy even when they are not explicitly
invoked by the poet. For an in-depth study of the Augustus of the exile poetry, see
Drucker (1977) passim and Videau-Delibes (1991: 233–64); the former discusses at
length many of the passages I include in the immediately following notes.
15
Complete citations for this and the following footnotes can be found in Fulk-
erson (2012a: Tables I–III). Caesar and the adjectival Caesareus appear 36 times in the
Tristia and 23 times in the EP (twice probably and once certainly of Tiberius).
Caesaris ira appears 11 times in the Tristia and 11 times in the EP. Princeps:
3 times in Tr.; once in EP. Principis ira: 3 times in Tr.; 4 times in EP (once probably
of Tiberius). Other human denotations: Augustus 6 times in Tr. (once presumably of
Tiberius); pater patriae once in Tr.; pater optime once in Tr.; caelestis vir once in Tr.;
ira viri: once in EP; iudicis ira once in EP 3.3.76; vindicis ira once in EP.
16
Augustus is called deus/divus 8 times in Tr., 6 times in EP. Ira dei (and
variations, including irato deo and ira deorum) occur 8 times in Tr., 3 times in EP.
Dei clementia occurs once in Tr.; numen 8 times in Tr. and 8 times in EP; numinis ira,
numen iratum, and the like 4 times in Tr. and 5 times in EP. Caesar conjoined with
some divine word occurs twice in the EP. Discussion of the gods, with Augustus
138 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above
This nomenclature is of great significance. Ovid portrays Augustus
as literally inhuman, such that he must be a god, and a particularly
cruel one because unappeasable. Ovid claims that there is no point in
his continued worship of gods who do nothing for him (Tr. 3.13.23),
but he nonetheless persists. Roman religious practice is predicated
upon comprehensible rules for the interactions between gods and
men, rules, which Augustus does not obey.17 The fact that the ‘god’
Augustus does not know certain things (e.g. about Ovid’s poetry, in
Tr. 2.213) undercuts claims about his divine omniscience (e.g. EP
1.2.71 and 1.7.43, Gaertner 2005 ad locc.); it also draws a contrast
between the affable, worshipful poet and his stern, irrational god;
Ovid presents himself as willing to believe the best about Augustus as
he provides evidence of the worst.18
Ovid shows the ignorance and cruelty of Augustus as he outlines his
own victimhood and good character. For instance, Tristia 1.3, the
poem describing Ovid’s farewell to his wife, can plausibly be read as
staking a claim about the moral rectitude of his marriage; although
Augustus’ legislation lauds the marriage-bond, his actions show him as
willing to tear apart families with no good cause (not to mention the
irregularities of his own personal life, which Ovid skirts around).19 The

assumed to be one of them occurs 6 or 7 times in Tr. and 9 times in EP. Phrases with
caelestia and the like occur once in Tr. 2.213 and twice in EP. Prayer is addressed to
Augustus once in the Tr., and other gods (unlike Augustus) forgive when they see
wrongdoers repent once in EP. Direct references to Augustus as Iuppiter occur thrice
in Tr. and twice in EP; Iovis ira twice in Tr.; comparisons of man and god 6 times in
Tr. EP 3.1, a letter to his wife, contains the sustained metaphor of Livia as Juno.
Notably, in Tristia 2, Augustus is compared directly to Jupiter rather than being
designed a deus. Divine lightning, with or without mentions of Jupiter, occurs 12
times in Tr. and 3 or 4 times in EP. On Augustus as god and man, see McGowan
(2009: 63–92), with Fears (1981: 56–66) on the cult of Jupiter under Augustus, and
P. White (1993: 166–71) on the relationship of god to man.
17
This ‘divine periphrasis’ of the emperor continues the trend of the Metamor-
phoses, wherein Jupiter had been implicitly compared to Augustus (e.g. Met. 1.175–
6), but it is significantly more pointed here given that Ovid is dealing with a man
whose behaviour is a matter of public record and who might be held accountable for
it. See McGowan (2009: 8) on Augustus as ‘an angry god of retribution’.
18
So too, as many have noted, Ovid repeatedly insists to his less sanguine corres-
pondents that the emperor is fair, and that they need not fear for their own safety
(Oliensis 1997: 178–9, G. D. Williams 2002: 367); cf. e.g. Tr. 3.7.21–2 and 27–30 and
EP 3.6. Yet he also presents himself as having been relegated for little provocation, so
others might well be wary.
19
On the marital indiscretions of Augustus, see Suet. Aug. 69. For this interpret-
ation of 1.3, I am indebted to a look at an early draft of Stephen Hinds’ commentary
on Tristia I. See Fairweather (1987: 193–6) for a discussion of the similarities between
 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above 139
real criminal is not Ovid or his poetry, which have little effect in the
world, but the emperor, who can destroy a wholesome marriage at a
hypocritical whim. So too, near the start of Tristia 2, Ovid offers
instructions on how the emperor could most usefully model himself
on Jupiter: even Jupiter, he says, does not hurl his thunderbolts at every
human error, for if he did so, he would soon be weaponless (33–4);
further, his anger, though terrifying, is of short duration and is followed
by sunny skies (35–6).20
Yet the comparison between Augustus and Jupiter is significant
primarily for its construction of Augustus as an angry man/god; anger
is the single most distinctive characteristic of Augustus in the exile
poetry.21 He is also sometimes mentioned as gentle or mild, but not
nearly as often, and not nearly as convincingly.22 The prevalence of
Augustus’ anger has often been noted, but its importance has not;
critics seem to believe that Augustus really was angry simply because

the Res Gestae and Ovid’s ‘autobiographical’ Tristia 4.10, and in particular the ways
Ovid’s three marriages parallel Augustus’. Where she reads this as a covert appeal to
the similarities between the men, we might also compare and contrast.
20
For brief but insightful discussion of this passage, see W. T. Avery (1957: 247–8).
21
The ira of Augustus is ‘un leitmotiv’ according to Drucker (1977: 82) and
Videau-Delibes (1991: 236), both following Marg’s (1959) influential study; see too
Syme (1978: 223). Indeed, just as Ovid is tristis, so Augustus is iratus (see e.g. Tr. 1.1
and 3.1 on the poet’s fear). For discussion of the nuances of ira (from ‘annoyed’ to
‘seething with rage’), see W. V. Harris (2001: 68–70). Discussions of the anger of
Augustus in Ovid’s exile poetry are at Drücker (1977: 44–61, 82–6), Lechi (1988:
125ff.), and Videau-Delibes (1991: 235–43) (the first draws attention to the epic
connotations of anger, and the consequent heroization of the suffering protagonist).
Some critics suggest that Ovid seeks to make the matter personal (Marg 1959: passim;
Marache 1958: 415). In addition to the mentions of Caesar/principis/ numinis/dei ira
cited above in nn. 15–16, ira and the related adjective and verbs (iratus, irascor), all
pertaining to the emperor’s current or potential anger, are found 15 times in Tr. and
10 times in EP with reference to the emperor, 9 times in Tr. and 4 times in EP of anger
more generally, often of kingly and/or foolish anger; offendo is used of Augustus
5 times in Tr. and thrice in EP (see Gaertner 2005: ad EP 1.10.42, who suggests
offensum be translated ‘resentful’ and notes that the verb is not normal with deities).
Syme (1978: 223) too notes the prevalence of Augustus’ ira in the exile poetry,
connecting it with the Vergilian ira of Juno (cf. Scott 1930: 58–60).
22
Emperor’s mildness, often in conjunction with anger or with an immoderate
punishment: 4 times Tr., 6 times EP. Imperial clementia, past or potential, occurs
4 times in Tr., thrice in EP. Augustus is also termed lenis (10 times Tr., 4 times EP,
nearly all prospective rather than actual); mitis (9 times Tr., 11 times, here mostly
actual rather than potential. 2.2.41). Perhaps more dangerously given the nuances of
the word, the mitigation of Augustus’ anger is sometimes termed mollis (4 times in
Tr., twice in EP).
140 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above
Ovid says he was.23 About the state of the actual emperor’s emotions
in relation to Ovid we have no information; he might well have
continued to be angry with Ovid until the end of his life, given up
his anger at some point, or never been angry in the first place. But by
fashioning the emperor not as a ruler who relegated him for a specific
reason and had no cause to change his mind, but as an enraged deity
barely in control of his own emotions, loosing thunderbolts with
reckless abandon, Ovid manipulates the situation to his own advan-
tage: anger is detrimental, dangerous, and unmanly.24 So too, Augus-
tus may not have liked the Ars; one reason for mentioning it as a
cause of relegation, however, is to emphasize the fact that Augustus
held a grudge for an extremely long time. Ancient theorists of anger
believed that the virtuous man would either get revenge quickly or
not at all, so Ovid’s claim that Augustus seethed—for six to ten years,
depending on the publication date of the Ars—is extremely pointed.
To present Augustus as irrationally angry not only undermines the
emperor’s pretensions to self-control, it removes the exile of Ovid
from the realm of logical explanation. Why was Ovid relegated? Not
for a carmen, not for an error, but because the emperor was in a bad
mood. To the extent that Ovid persuades us of the reality of the
emperor’s anger, discussion of his punishment and hopes of remis-
sion must centre not upon what he has done or deserved, but upon
how the emperor feels; as with his treatment of the error (below,
pp. 143–4), this strategy minimizes both Ovid’s agency and his
culpability. The Jupiter passage from Tristia 2 does not say that
Jupiter’s anger is inappropriate, but implies that it is mitigated by
respite; so too, the poem claims, Augustus might relent (although he
never actually does). Shortly after that passage, Ovid draws a con-
trasting picture of himself as a wielder of power: as a centumvir, Ovid
served as judge, and was so fair (sine crimine) that nobody was angry
with his decisions (deque mea fassa est pars quoque victa fide, 95–6).
Where the emperor is subject to rage, Ovid is calm.25

23
So e.g. W. V. Harris (2001: 247), in an otherwise exemplary study of imperial
anger control: he presents Augustus as ‘greatly annoyed’; Syme (1978: 214) and
McGowan (2009: 5, 82, 193, 206, 209 and passim), to take a classic and a recent
study, treat Augustan anger as a given. It is not that this is impossible, merely that
Ovid has good reason to lie.
24
On the ‘womanishness’ of ancient anger, see Nagle (1984) on the Metamor-
phoses and W. V. Harris (2001: 264–82).
25
Ovid does claim to be angry a few times in the exile poetry: Tr. 4.1.101, 4.9.10,
and 4.10.64 describe Ovid’s anger at his situation. The second results in a poetic threat
 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above 141
The comparison to Jupiter might or might not have raised eye-
brows in Ovid’s day:26 many great Romans chose ‘tutelary deities’ for
themselves, and there is some evidence that Julius Caesar was called
‘Iuppiter Iulius’ shortly before his death (Weinstock 1971: 12; cf. too
L. R. Taylor 1931: 68–71 for the assimilation). As Zanker (1988)
notes, this divine comparison was not entirely a one-way street:
Augustus, the senatorial class, the equites, and the plebs each played
a role in the evolving perception of Augustus as the supreme ruler of
the world.27 Through the accidents of preservation, Ovid happens to
offer our best evidence for the conception of Augustus as Jupiter
(Scott 1930: 53–8). His comparisons go further than any of his extant
predecessors, but they differ in degree, not kind. Most of the
‘Augustan’ poets had died some time before Augustus became so
established in his position that comparisons to Jupiter became patent

which is undermined in its first lines (if his unnamed enemy pateat paenituisse tui, he
will immediately forgive, but if not . . . ), while the first and third instances describe his
destruction of his own poetry; how much more wholesome than principis ira! On the
poetry’s concern with just vs unjust punishments, see McGowan (2009: 3 and passim).
26
The matter is much debated and probably insusceptible of resolution. Horace’s
Odes 1.2, written in the mid-20s bce, shows itself comfortable with speculating about
which god Augustus most resembles (cf. Odes 3.3.9–12 on Augustus’ association with
Pollux and Hercules and Odes 4.5.29–36 on his divine attributes), and Odes 3.5.1–4,
Vergil’s Eclogues 1.6, and Prop. 3.4.1 refer to Octavian/Augustus as deus or Jupiter
himself, while Prop 3.11.66 assures Rome that with Augustus around, even Jupiter
need not be feared. Human beings are referred to as dei in Plautus, Caecilius, and
Cicero. The question is, of course, to what extent literature reflects real life: Gordon
Williams (1978: 159–69) discusses imperial divinity in literature, arguing that it is
merely a theme, and not necessarily to be connected with actual religious practices; he
also notes that it is a theme of ever-increasing popularity (cf. Drucker 1977: 58).
Wallace-Hadrill (1993: 79), by contrast, and more persuasively, suggests that the poets
were simply commenting on a feature of life. For a recent and persuasive treatment of
the nuances of emperor worship, see Gradel (2002: 26, 29, 72 and passim); for an
overview of Augustan cultic practices and ideology, Clauss (1999: 54–75); and for
discussion of Vergilian and Horatian precedents, P. White (1993: 171–82) and
McGowan (2009: 65–6), with 102 on the possibility that such divine assimilation
was unwelcome to Augustus.
27
‘What is quite clear is that Augustus understood the enormous political poten-
tial of manipulating religious sentiment, and that he was deft and sensitive in
exploiting it’ (Wallace-Hadrill 1993: 80). See Kuttner (1995: esp. 53–68) for a suggest-
ive discussion about Augustus’ role in the dissemination of propaganda, e.g. ch. 1 on
the types for the image of Augustus. Galinsky (1996: 19) offers a nuanced portrait of
how the world changed under Augustus, especially insofar as he was interested in
effecting real transformation rather than simply accumulating power. For the argu-
ment that Ovid was likely by class to have been loyal to Augustus and his family, and
that the exile poetry reflects the feelings of an ‘outraged loyalist’, see Millar (1993).
142 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above
and, presumably, commonplace. Because Ovid is the only extant poet
of his generation to have survived to the end of Augustus’ rule, we
cannot know whether he continued a trend or started one. The
evidence suggests that the comparison was more or less inert by the
time of the Tristia, but that Ovid (characteristically) revivified it by
exploring its implications and by adducing specific mythological
actions of Jupiter as models, notably, his unexpected and terrifying
thunder.
In addition to portraying Augustus as the angry and unrepentant
god Jupiter, Ovid portrays himself as both abject in apology and
unnecessarily victimized.28 His expressions of guilt and regret are
oddly juxtaposed with assertions that anyone who knew the true
story would not find him blameworthy. Despite being flagged in
Tristia 2 as unmentionable, discussions of Ovid’s error recur fre-
quently throughout the exilic corpus. Exploration of what Ovid did
wrong, whether it was really so wrong, and whether it could have ever
been forgiven by the imperial household, has proven compelling to
many. The very announcement of a secret that cannot be told but
which is hinted at in a variety of ways begs for further probing. This is
not an accident: by offering tantalizing clues of the matter he was
‘forbidden’ to reveal, Ovid does all he can to draw attention to it.29
This too is a trick learned from the orators, and an effective one at
that.
Here too Ovid is not wholly consistent. His misdeed is referred to
as culpa, error, crimen, peccatum, vitium, and stultitia.30 But Ovid,
although he is reus, has lived a life sine labe, and his act is explicitly

28
Luca Grillo (private communication) reminds me that Ovid’s strategy is familiar
from Roman oratorical practice; one simultaneously maintains innocence and argues
for mitigation (examples at Cic. Mil. 6, 61 and 30, 72–83, 98; Cael. 6–8 and 32–43;
theory in Cic. Inv. II.29.86–90 and especially Quint. Inst. 4.5.13–15).
29
As Ovid might have expected, but surely beyond his wildest expectations,
scurrilous speculation has been rife for two thousand years, and shows no signs
of stopping. See n. 3, above, for an entrée into the morass.
30
Culpa and culpare related to Ovid 16 times in Tr., 15 times in EP 4.6.15, 4.14.23
and 30 (Ovid has committed no culpa against the people of Tomis, but has culpetur
the land); error and errare 11 times in Tr., 6 times in EP; crimen, both affirmed and
denied 24 times in Tr., 5 times in EP (Ovid uses crimen to mean ‘charge made against
me’ (OLD 1) more often than he admits any fault by this word, but when referring to
others, he broadens the usage to mean something closer to ‘cause for reproach’ or even
‘crime’ (OLD 2 and 3)); peccatum/peccare related to Ovid 9 times in Tr., 9 times in EP;
vitium admitted twice in Tr., once in EP, and denied once in EP; stultitia, stultus, etc.
(referring to Ovid/the Ars or asserting it by preference to some other term) 4 times in
 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above 143
denied to be scelus or facinus; the verb nocens only once has Ovid as
its subject.31 Obviously, some of these ways of referring to his act are
more serious than others, and, as we might expect, Ovid concentrates
on error, crimen (a semi-technical term that takes note of the fact that
an accusation has been made), and stultitia. Occasionally, we are told
that Ovid deserved a much more severe punishment, but this sugges-
tion is generally juxtaposed with the implication that he has actually
done nothing wrong.
Vocabulary is one of Ovid’s primary strategies for minimizing his
offence, for far from reserving these words to talk about his misdeed,
he uses them to treat hitches in social intercourse. For instance, the
fact that he has not received a letter from a friend is culpae crimina
(he hopes falsae, and really due only to mail difficulties; Tr. 5.13.25–
6). He addresses poems to a friend without including his name (Tr.
4.4.10 and EP 3.6.45–6); this is called a culpa or something vix
excusare posse. He nearly wrote Sextus’ name in his earlier exile
poetry (error at EP 4.1.13, crimen at 20). He worries that he may be
inaccurate in the details of his triumph poem (erratum, EP 3.4.44),
and recognizes infelicities in his exile poetry (culpa at Tr. 5.7.60,
peccat, error, peccem, and crimen at EP 3.9.6 and 11–14, vitium at
Tr. 1.7.39, EP 3.9.5, 4.12.15, 4.13.14 [the Muse], 4.15.32). In a poem of
despair, he terms his previous requests for help a peccandi which will
soon end (EP 3.7.10). He insists pecasse fatebor if Sextus Pompey
was not willing to have a poem addressed to him (EP 4.1.5), and
assures Gallio that not sending a letter to him upon hearing of the
death of his wife would be a crimen . . . vix excusabile (EP 4.11.1).32

Tr., 5 times in EP; cf. too EP 2.2.17 (non sapiens), with Galasso ad loc.). The word,
presuming as it does a lack of criminal intent, is obviously a better choice than e.g.
nefas. For places where Ovid draws a distinction between these terms, see Tr. 1.3.37
and 4.1.23–4 and EP 1.7.44 and 1.6.25–6 with Gaertner (2005) ad loc. On Ovid’s use of
legal language in the exile poetry, see McGowan (2009: 41–5), and on the legal issues
involved in his punishment, 37–62, 133.
31
Reus twice in Tr., twice in EP (but like crimen, it refers both to someone who has
been unjustly accused, and to someone who is guilty); sine labe twice in Tr., thrice in
EP; denied to be scelus/sceleratus, usually with alternate terminology offered 9 times
in Tr., twice in EP; not a facinus 4 times in Tr., twice in EP; nocens referring to Ovid in
the negative once in EP.
32
In this poem, Ovid looks to be (finally) telling all: Gallio, crimen erit vix
excusabile nobis, where erit is a clue that we are not rehearsing past history. Ovid
sometimes refers to his deeds as excusable (EP 1.7.41, 3.9.33, both inexcusable and
excusable at Tr. 1.9.64–5); his exilic poetry too requires excuse (Tr. 3.14.52, 4.1.2), as
does a neglectful friend (4.7.26).
144 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above
Ovid utters verissima crimina against the land of Tomis, but the
Tomitians themselves bring a novum crimen against his poetry be-
cause they find it insulting (EP 4.14.29 and 42). This last example at
least is surely meant to be humorous, and I suspect that most of the
other occurrences of these words are too, however much Ovid pre-
sents himself as sincerely affected by the cognizance of his own
mistakes. Such frivolous and trivializing uses of the vocabulary of
his major misdeed suggests that it too was slight; minor gaffes of
etiquette, failure to properly edit his own work, and laziness in
sending a letter can hardly be properly described with the same
language as Ovid’s offence against the emperor. Or can they?
Ovid’s refusal to spill the beans about his error may well have some
external cause, but his secrecy also arouses curiosity about the imper-
ial household and may even suggest that he is not entirely sure what
his mistake was; his sometimes inconsistent statements about his own
behaviour imply that It (whatever It was) wasn’t important enough
for him to remember in detail; he does take seriously flaws in com-
position or perceived neglect of friendships, but this imperial error
remains fuzzy. More importantly, to the extent that we find reason-
able the portrait of an irrationally angry emperor and an unfairly
victimized subject, we lose interest in hearing the other side of the
story: we can simply trust Ovid that the emperor has magnified a
minor issue out of all proportion. The repeated mentions of the error
both encourage his audience towards salacious speculation and paint
a picture of Ovid as carefully, painstakingly examining the matter to
discover whether and how he might have been at fault.
As in the implicit example of Ovid’s experience as a judge,
the message here is surely didactic:33 Ovid has cleared his own
conscience through self-scrutiny; if only the emperor would undergo
the same process, he would come to see that he had acted rashly. His
remorse might, all but uniquely in the ancient world, even bring
about a positive result. The power differential between the two men
makes Augustus’ lesson all the more important: Ovid’s deeds are

33
This is a strategy that appears throughout the exile poetry. For instance, when he
mentions the friends who deserted him in his time of need, Ovid claims that he cannot
remain angry at them; his candor favours them to such a degree that he thinks them
blameless, frightened rather than disloyal (EP 3.2.15–22; cf. G. D. Williams 1996: 127
on the similar pointedness of the Ibis’ offer of mercy in exchange for apology). Such
generosity of spirit cannot but make the emperor seem cruel and suspicious by
contrast.
 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above 145
minor, and involve few real consequences, but the emperor must
learn to think before he acts, given the scope of his influence and so
the effects on his innocent subjects. The Augustus of the exile poetry
is the worst kind of tyrant: he grows angry for no reason, and remains
so even after numerous attempts are made to conciliate him by his
victim, a victim who is moreover not certain what he has done, so
who rehearses his actions in search of something to atone for.34
Ovid apologizes while suggesting that he has committed no wrong;
even his use of paenitet and piget is sparse. This must be read back
onto his portrayal of Augustus: a man who would punish another so
arbitrarily is unjust, and it is outrageous that Ovid is forced to
apologize for (what he suggests is) a small incident. Ovid’s Augustus
remains angry, and irrationally so, continuing to punish with every
passing hour at Tomis (and they pass so slowly . . . ). Repeated pleas to
friends to intercede prove unavailing. Is it that Ovid’s friends are lazy?
Possibly (e.g. EP 3.1.31–42 and 65–6, to his wife), but often they are
simply afraid (a leitmotif; e.g. EP 3.6): the emperor is such a terrifying
personage (look what he did to Ovid—for nothing) that only a
devoted, or foolhardy, friend will approach him. Ovid’s reassurances
that the emperor is not so bad have little effect by comparison to the
‘reality’ of his own circumstances.35 Depending upon your point of
view, and of course on the actual nature of the error (but about this
you cannot know), Augustus is likely to seem at best stupid, and at
worst, irrational.36
Ovid’s strategy for presenting the matter of his guilt is at perhaps
the farthest remove we have seen from that of Neoptolemus. Rather

34
As Dowling (2006: 113, 118) notes, the repeated pleas for imperial clementia
serve primarily to draw attention to the fact that there has been none. She concludes
that Ovid cannot have really expected his words to have effect; instead, he was setting
the record straight about the arbitrary cruelty of the emperor in the eyes of posterity
(120–1). See too Nugent (1990: 243): ‘Ovid’s own stance fluctuates between abject
sycophancy and overconfident self-assertion, while his portrayal of Augustus as a very
god on earth and the most clement of individuals is hardly credible, juxtaposed as it is
with the cruelty of the situation in which he has placed the poet’.
35
See Oliensis (1997: 179): ‘Ovid can always claim (and the claim cannot be
refuted) to be engaged in a good-faith attempt to correct his friends’ “unaccountable”
misapprehension of the imperial character. The aura of paranoia, secrecy, and dis-
simulation produced by Ovid’s reluctant deletions purports to reflect, indeed to be a
reflex of, the atmosphere of Augustus’ Rome.’
36
See G. D. Williams (1994: 179) for other disquieting notes, among them the
amatory vocabulary that seeps into his (putatively apologetic) discussion of the error,
and Videau-Delibes (1991: 266) on Augustus as cruel puella.
146 Ovid: The Coercion of Remorse from Above
than accepting responsibility, he refuses to admit that he has com-
mitted the offence; indeed, he all but refuses to acknowledge that
there has been an offence. He misleads his audience into focusing
attention on a minor (or non-existent) crime and minimizes his own
role even in that. But, most significantly, he posits himself as the
victim of a monster who is not even human enough to regret his
misdeeds. If remorse in the ancient world is generally pointless, Ovid
seems to suggest that its absence can be positively vicious. This
chapter, therefore, usefully complicates the portrait that has been
drawn thus far, offering evidence for an understanding of the con-
ventions of remorse that is sophisticated enough to allow for their
manipulation.
 7

Nero’s Degenerate Remorse

Our next chapter on a regretful individual also focuses on a king.

After arranging for the murder of his mother Agrippina, our sources
claim that Nero was haunted by deep regret. These sources, Tacitus,
Suetonius, and Dio (two historians and an imperial biographer), each
write over a generation later than the emperor.1 Despite the assump-
tion that his emotion was genuine, not feigned, our sources nonethe-
less view it as more or less fruitless. Each author who tells of Nero’s
regret has a slightly different opinion of what it signifies, as we can see
through examination of the other figures to whom they attribute
regrets.
When Nero first becomes emperor, he is eighteen, and Tacitus
paints a picture of harmonious leadership between Seneca, unofficial
adviser to the emperor (amicus principis) by virtue of having been his
tutor, and Burrus, the praetorian prefect;2 the two men between them
guide Nero’s youthful steps to good effect and universal acclaim
(Ann. 13.2). Whether his mother Agrippina murdered her husband,
the emperor Claudius, or not (the sources are unanimous in finding

1
There are also numerous, if oblique, comments in the writings of Nero’s courtier
Seneca. See e.g. Ronald Martin (1981: 207–13), M. Griffin (1976: 37–8 and 235–7),
and Champlin (2003: 37–52) on the sources for the later Julio-Claudians. Elsner and
Masters (1994) suggest that the historical sources for Nero are more or less useless. In
addition to that volume, which attempts to read against the grain, B. Henderson
(1905), Manning (1975), and Champlin (2003), particularly the latter, offer useful
accounts that show the coherence of Nero’s policies rather than reading them as the
result of increasing irrationality.
2
Dio 61.3.3 and 61.4.1. The significance of the praetorian prefect lies in his role as
chief of the imperial bodyguard (and commander of the troops stationed in Rome);
the two men provide an ideal (or idealizing) balance between military and civilian
virtue. For Burrus’ appointment to the post, due to Agrippina, see Tac. Ann. 12.42.
148 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse
her guilty),3 she almost certainly arranged matters so that Nero, three
years older than Claudius’ son Brittanicus, seemed the obvious—
indeed, the only—successor. Agrippina is portrayed by the sources
as having expected more political power than she received, and so as
pushy, resentful, and dangerous (an indicative anecdote in Ann. 13.5;
Dio sees her as more influential for longer).4 The (s)mothering of
Nero by Agrippina is an important theme in the story of Nero, but,
despite familial tensions, Nero began as a popular emperor, who
emphasized Julio-Claudian continuity but also improvement.5
Yet there are troubling signs from the start. Early in the reign,
Brittanicus died; the sources again suggest murder, this time by
Nero.6 Four years later (in 59), unable to bear her attempts to rule
him, Nero decides to have his mother killed, in an utterly improbable
manner involving a collapsible ship.7 The ship does collapse, but
Agrippina receives only a small wound and swims to safety, aware
of the attempt on her life. Agrippina is accused of treason and killed,
but it is claimed that she killed herself once her plot was detected. In
62, Nero divorced and then killed his wife, Claudius’ daughter Octa-
via.8 In between arranging for murders, Nero began to perform as an
artist and athlete in increasingly public venues, performances which
our sources find repugnant (e.g. Ann. 14.14–16).

3
Tac. Ann. 12.66–7, Dio 61 [60].34.1–3; in the latter, it is brought on by Claudius’
realization of her scheme: he begins to favour Brittanicus, so Agrippina poisons him.
Tacitus suggests that it is Narcissus who begins to favour Brittanicus. Suetonius tells a
similar story to Dio: Claudius signa quaedam nec obscura paenitentis de matrimonio
Agrippinae deque Neronis adoptione dederat (Claud. 43.1). He says it is generally
agreed (convenit, 44.2) that Claudius was poisoned, and that Agrippina was probably
responsible (44.1). Suetonius claims that Nero was at least indirectly responsible for
his death (Nero 33.1). See Champlin (2003: 44–6) for discussion of what we can know.
4
Barrett (1996) is useful on Agrippina’s policies, suggesting that the sources err in
seeing a formal alliance between Seneca and Burrus against Agrippina; there is, in his
view, likelier to have been uneasy détente between all three.
5
See e.g. Ann. 13.4–5, M. Griffin (1976: 129–71 and 1984: 55–60, 98); Barrett
(1996: 152).
6
Dio 61.1.1 and 61.7.4; he sees this as a turning point (61.7.5). Suetonius adds as
an additional motive jealousy of Brittanicus’ voice (Nero 33.2; cf. Josephus BJ 2.250).
7
Suet. Nero 34.2–3, Tac. Ann. 14.1–9, Dio 62 [61].12–13. Tacitus and Dio connect
the murder of Agrippina with Nero’s desire to divorce Octavia and marry Poppaea,
but this did not happen until several years later. See Barrett (1996: 181) on why Nero
wanted to kill Agrippina, and 187–8 on the shipwreck.
8
Ann. 14.59–64, Suet. Nero 35.1–2 (including several failed attempts at strangling),
Dio 62.13.1. For public opinion of the idea of divorcing Octavia, cf. the pseudo-
Senecan Octavia, in which all decent people express horror.
 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse 149
Eventually, and without much attempt at logical connection in
most of the narratives, plots against his life, either real or manufac-
tured, move Nero towards ever more tyrannical responses. The most
notable of these, in 65, involves a wide spectrum of conspirators, or so
the range of people executed or forced to suicide argues. The sources
suggest that some of them were innocent, and that Nero used the
conspiracy as an excuse to dispose of them; these purges continue
throughout the year. Among these extraneous people, probably,9 was
Seneca, whom Nero instructed to kill himself. If Seneca was not
involved in the plot, Nero may have thought he was, or he may
have been eager for an excuse to be rid of a man who he must have
known could not approve of his behaviour.10 Nero continued to
perform and to lose touch with the empire. Eventually, it was not a
single plot, but a series of dissatisfied generals who overthrew Nero,
some of them in fear of their own lives, some from patriotic motives.
The emperor, abandoned by his followers, killed himself in the year
68, initiating a year-long civil war.11
The nature of our sources, and of the end of Nero’s reign, is such
that it is impossible to find unbiased information about him: the new
Flavian dynasty, established in 69 ce after the chaos following the
death of Nero, took great pains to discredit its predecessor. Nero is
therefore portrayed as alternately monstrous and mad; either way, his
deeds are the inverse of what is expected from a good emperor. Our
sources, all of which were written after the anti-Neronian propaganda
had taken effect, make little attempt to see the emperor as making
rational decisions, resorting instead to stereotypes. Interestingly,
however, they do make clear that Nero remained popular among
the people for at least a full generation after his death. Despite (or
because of) the difficulty of finding unbiased narratives about Nero,

9
Dio sees Seneca as a leader of the Pisonian conspiracy (62.24.1); Suetonius omits
him (Nero 36). Modern historians, following Tacitus, are less sure, suggesting that
Seneca was not directly involved, but that he knew a plot was afoot (Ann. 15.65). On
the conspiracy, see Ann. 15. 48–59 and 66–71, with the death of Seneca at 60–4.
10
While I am suspicious of the psychologizing often to be found in both ancient
and modern narratives of Nero, our sources do seem to present Nero as eager for
approval on both the artistic and the personal levels, so Seneca’s attempt to retire may
have been seen by him as a slap in the face.
11
Details at Suet. Nero 40–9 and Dio 63.22–9. M. Griffin (1984: 185–8) concludes
that Nero might have survived and continued to rule through concerted effort.
150 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse
modern historians generally follow their ancient sources.12 So it is
standard to see Nero’s rule as starting well and sliding into inexorable
decline. But imperial narratives, following the dictum that an em-
peror’s first day of rule is his best, regularly suggest this as a plotline.13
In addition to this general tendency, Nero is particularly liable to a
devolutionary narrative, since we have a quotation from a later figure
that has often been seen as providing evidence of Neronian decline:
Trajan is on record as saying that the (or a) quinquennium Neronis
was superior to the majority of other emperors’ entire reigns (Epitome
de Caesaribus 5, see Hind 1971: 490–2 for bibliography). Much has
been built on this, but Trajan’s statement is not specific enough to
support the claims usually made for it. It is usually assumed that
Trajan must mean the first five years, because those are the ones
moderns like best, but there is no evidence for this—or any—specific
dates. Hind (1971: 488, 492) suggests rather that Trajan’s preferred
quinquennium is likelier to have been the middle part of Nero’s reign,
60–5, which encompasses Nero’s most prominent achievements in
building and expansion, two activities dear to Trajan’s own heart (but
see Murray 1965: 54–6 for suspicions of Victor). In fact, the achieve-
ments mentioned by the Epitome are precisely those that fall within
the middle years. Those years, horrifyingly to our historians, are also
the ones in which Nero murdered his wife and forced a significant
portion of the senatorial class to suicide. If Hind is correct, this is
salutary evidence of the bias of our sources, and suggests that we must
be extremely careful who we trust for evidence about Nero. Although
Tacitus and Suetonius are writing under Trajan, they offer a different
viewpoint, one that focuses on imperial degeneration.

12
Champlin (2003), among the best recent studies of Nero, reads against the grain,
reinterpreting some of Nero’s most apparently aberrant behaviour in the light of
certain conventions Nero may have been seeking to model himself on. His study
provides an extremely useful corrective to our hostile historians, who see only degen-
eracy and madness.
13
So, for instance, Tacitus’ Tiberius (see Gill 1983). Suetonius’ biographies are also
structured so as to give this impression; he tends to list first positive imperial qualities
and achievements, and then character flaws and failures. So, although he avoids dates,
the narrative flow suggests a chronological deterioration (M. Griffin 1984: 83). So too
Dio, whose initial characterization of Caligula claims that those features which looked
at first like virtues were all revealed to be vices (59.3.1); his Claudius is ekakuneto
(made worse) not by his infirmities, but by his wives and freedmen (60.2.4, this is
nearly the first thing mentioned about him).
 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse 151
The focus in our sources on Nero’s obsession with public perform-
ance to the exclusion of his imperial duties provides an entertaining,
if potentially misleading, tale. Yet there is also poignancy in the
narrative, particularly in Nero’s end: abandoned and deluded, Nero
can barely manage to kill himself. The portrait as a whole (particu-
larly Suetonius’) is rather that of a life wasted than a monster, a
tragedy instead of a horror show, as comparison with narratives of
Caligula suggests. And the juxtaposition in Tacitus between Seneca
the philosopher and Nero the tyrant makes the tale all the more
unfortunate, since Nero had the opportunity to be so much more
than he was. This regret for what might have been is brought sharply
into focus when we examine how the sources present Nero’s feelings
upon the death of his mother.14 His nightmares and haunting visions
show the emperor to be more complex than stereotypes of him allow.
In Tacitus, Nero is eager to kill his mother, and only later thinks of
the ramifications (14.10):
Sed a Caesare perfecto demum scelere magnitudo eius intellecta est.
reliquo noctis modo per silentium defixus, saepius pavore exsurgens et
mentis inops lucem opperiebatur tamquam exitium adlaturam.
But only once the crime was finally done was its gravity understood by
Caesar. For the remainder of the night he remained, sometimes fixed
and silent, more often leaping up in terror and out of his mind, and he
awaited the light which would signal his doom.
Unfortunately, any hope of real improvement deriving from Nero’s
feeling is quashed by the congratulations of the military, spurred on
by Burrus; the potential consequences manifest themselves only in
Nero’s nervous imagination. Nero remains cautious for some time,
and is troubled, some say, by the sound of a trumpet and lamenta-
tions (et erant qui crederent sonitum tubae collibus circum editis
planctusque tumulo matris audiri, 14.11; see Dio, below). Tacitus
does not suggest how long Nero had these feelings, but he ends the
description of the murder with the editorial comment that the
gods, despite omens showing their displeasure, did not care enough
about Nero’s crimes to punish him (14.12). Eventually, senatorial
servility encourages Nero to become wholly depraved (14.13; com-
pare Alexander’s courtiers above, pp. 107–8). Both of these themes

14
See Champlin (2003: 90–103) for a discussion of how Nero frames the public
reception of his matricide through the lens of mythology.
152 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse
are important for Tacitus, whose narrative focuses on an amoral
world in which the gods refuse to intervene and the Senate sinks to
ever lower depths of adulation.
Suetonius says that after the murder, Nero (Nero 34.4):
Neque tamen conscientiam sceleris quanquam et militum et senatus
populique gratulationibus confirmaretur, aut statim aut umquam postea
ferre potuit, saepe confessus exagitari se materna specie verberibusque
Furiarum ac taedis ardentibus. Quin et facto per Magos sacro evocare
Manes et exorare temptavit. Peregrinatione quidem Graeciae et Eleusinis
sacris, quorum initiatione impii et scelerati voce praeconis summoventur,
interesse non ausus est.
was never, either then or afterward able to bear the consciousness of his
crime, although he was reassured by the congratulations of the military
and the Senate, often confessing that he was being disturbed by the
spectre of his mother and the blows and burning torches of the Furies.
For which reason, he attempted to summon her Manes and plead with it
through a rite done by the Magi.15 And indeed, on his journey in
Greece, he did not dare to take part in the Eleusinian Mysteries, at the
beginning of which, the ungodly and criminal are warned away by the
voice of a herald.
Suetonius emphasizes the effects of the murder on Nero again near
the end of his life (Nero 46.1):
Terrebatur ad hoc evidentibus portentis somniorum et auspiciorum et
ominum, cum veteribus tum novis. Numquam antea somniare solitus
occisa demum matre vidit per quietem navem sibi regenti extortum
gubernaculum trahique se ab Octavia uxore in artissimas tenebras et
modo pinnatarum formicarum multitudine oppleri, modo a simulacris
gentium ad Pompei theatrum dedicatarum circumiri arcerique pro-
gressu; asturconem, quo maxime laetabatur, posteriore corporis parte
in simiae speciem transfiguratum ac tantum capite integro hinnitus
edere canoros.
So too, he was terrified by manifest signs in dreams, auspices, and
omens, both old and more recent. He had never before been accus-
tomed to dream, but once his mother was slain he saw in his sleep
himself steering a ship, and the helm wrenched from him, and that he
was dragged by his wife Octavia into the deepest darkness and that he

15
As possible support for the veracity of this passage, we have Pliny the Elder
claiming Nero as a one-time devotee of magic, until he learned that it was ineffective
(Pliny NH 30.14–17).
 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse 153
was covered over with a swarm of winged ants, and then, that he was
surrounded and stopped in his movement by the images of the nations
dedicated in the theatre of Pompey. A Spanish horse, in which he
especially delighted, was changed in the latter part of its body into the
shape of an ape, and it gave out musical whinnies from its head, the only
remaining part.
Portents follow, presaging his doom (46.2–3): the Mausoleum of
Augustus opens and a voice calls his name, the Lares fall to the ground,
he is given as a present a depiction of the queen of the underworld, and
a number of things are said which have ominous double meanings.
There is a lurid, unrealistic quality to the entire passage. Suetonius does
sometimes include divine signs, but the sheer number of them, and
Nero’s nightmares, are unique.16 But, like Tacitus’ brief but intense
terrors, Suetonius’ more long-lasting ones are fruitless. Even after his
first description of Nero’s fright, where we might expect them to have
some effect, the biographer notes that Nero added the murder of his
aunt to matricide (Iunxit parricidio matris amitae necem, 34.5).
In Dio too, Nero suffers an attack of conscience after murdering his
mother (62 (61).14.4):
ήd B
fi b ıºBfi ÆFÆ K 
غ
, ÆPe b ÆE 
ı
d K

Ææ

u 
ήd
ΠB
PB K
ÆØÆø IÆÅA, ŒÆd 
Ł’ æÆ e
ƺªªø  Øø º
ØŒ Ø ŒÆd ŁæıH
 KŒ F åøæı K fit
a B ªæØÅ O A Œ
Ø Måı H K
ØÆF. Øe ŒÆd ¼ºº

fi X
Ø, ŒÆd K
Øc Œ’ÆÆFŁÆ a ÆPa ÆPfiH ıÆØ
, ¼ºº
KºŒø

Ł Æ.
Although he told the Senate these things [about Agrippina’s guilt], he
himself was during the nights so agitated as to jump suddenly out of
bed, and by day, when he heard trumpets sounding something military
and clamorous from the region in which the bones of Agrippina lay, he
was terror-stricken. For which reason he would go elsewhere, and when
there too the same thing happened, struck senseless, he would move
elsewhere.
For Dio too, these are merely short-term effects, for Nero soon
realizes that there are no other consequences for his act, and, thanks
to continued flatteries, he becomes worse in other ways (Œ’ IŒ ı
ºf å
æø ŒÆd K a ¼ººÆ Kª
, 62.11.1).17

16
On Suetonius’ use of portents, see Wallace-Hadrill (1995: 189–96).
17
Dio does, however, claim that Romans rejoiced at Nero’s deed because, like
Seneca before them, they assume this will ensure divine intervention (62.15.1).
154 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse
On the one hand, there is nothing surprising about this portrayal,
relatively uniform in the sources: killing one’s mother might well
provoke remorse, if anything does, and we can share our authors’
frustration that it was ineffective.18 It may even be the case that they
are influenced by the tradition of Alexander’s fruitless remorse,
however different the two rulers are in other ways. On the other
hand, depicting Nero as haunted by his misdeeds contradicts the
generally held notion that our authors portray Nero as a monster,
as we can see by examination of where else they attribute remorse and
regret. The notion that the historians have inserted scenes of regret,
however brief, out of some sense of psychological verisimilitude
(surely Nero must have felt something like this?) is belied by their
careful deployment of the vocabulary among other emperors. While
the sources each describe Nero’s regret, they do so for different ends.
A number of Nero’s predecessors on the throne are characterized
as having life-regrets, particularly by Suetonius: so, for example, Julius
Caesar is presented as thinking of suicide after losing a key battle
(Suet. Jul. 36),19 and puderet his own extravagant taste in slaves so
much that he did not allow their purchase prices to be entered into his
household accounts (Jul. 47). Augustus is described as showing pae-
nitentia about the proscriptions (Suet. Aug. 27.2; cf. Sen. Clem. 1.11.1
on his performance of many deeds ad quae invitus oculos retorque-
bat). At the end of his life Claudius displays signa paenitentis about
Agrippina and Nero’s usurpation of the place of Britannicus (Suet.
Claud. 43).20 Suetonius is, on the whole, favourable to both Caesar
and Augustus (less so to Claudius21). Combined with the fact that of
the post-Neronian biographies, it is Titus, universally beloved, who is

18
As far as the factual basis for Nero’s remorse, we cannot speculate. Champlin
suggests that Nero may have presented himself as haunted by Furies in order to
highlight similarities to the (justified) matricide Orestes (2003: 96, 99).
19
Cf. too the (true?) claim that Augustus considered suicide from despair at a
famine (Pliny NH 7.149).
20
There are few other uses of paenitentia in Suetonius: Tiberius (in his ‘good’
phase) claims that he will not paenitet having Senate as a master; various armies have
paenitentia for their misdeeds (Cal. 9, Galba 10.5, Otho 2).
21
In Suetonius, Claudius’ second thoughts are primarily present in the narrative as
a motive for his murder, so they are perhaps less significant as an indicator of
character. Suetonus’ Claudius is, however, regularly characterized as inconstant, so a
likely candidate for regret: cf. e.g. his mira varietate animi in rendering judgements
(Claud. 15.1) and his censorship, held inaequabiliter varioque et animo et eventu
(16.1).
 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse 155
said to have a single significant regret at the end of his life (Tit. 10.1,
though Suetonius tells us that nobody knew what it was22), this
should suggest to us that paenitentia is not fit for all emperors.
Indeed, although their regrets are worthy of embarrassment, they
do not seem to be of the order of murdering one’s parent.
There is one potential counter-example: Vitellius paenitens his
frantic burning of the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, but
both the burning and the repentance seem to be acts of desperation
at the end of his reign (Vit. 15.3). Interestingly, the other imperial
examples all use the word paenitentia, while Suetonius speaks of
Nero’s conscientia, a word used elsewhere only during Vitellius’
murder of his son: he pretends (as Nero did with his mother) that
his son commited suicide ex conscientia of a murder attempt against
his father (Vit. 6). So for Suetonius, paenitentia and conscientia
appear in primarily positive lives, while in the case of Vitellius,
and possibly Claudius, they offer a late and fruitless attempt at
amelioration.
The theory that conscientia and paenitentia have for Suetonius
positive aspects, and that for bad emperors, they serve to normalize
aberrant behaviour, is rendered more plausible when we observe that
Caligula, Suetonius’ favoured candidate for most monstrous emperor,
is only said to display remorse once, and then falsely (paenitentiam
simulans). This occurs when he sells some of the imperial property
(Cal. 39.1–2), and his motive is to raise prices by showing himself
sorry to have to part with family treasures. The disjunction between
Caligula and Nero in terms of regret is perhaps surprising, for the two
emperors, at first look, have quite a bit in common: both were young
when they assumed the throne, both raised poorly and with bad
influences.23 Historically, Nero seems even to have modelled his
behaviour on that of his uncle. We might therefore expect Suetonius’
Nero to be simply Caligula redux. Yet Caligula is a monster, one who,
Suetonius claims, prides himself on his IØÆæ
łÆ (immobility;
Calig. 29.1). Nero, by contrast, is regularly said to act out of terror,
particularly when he becomes violent (M. Griffin 1984: 104 and n.).

22
Most have connected it to Domitian’s accusations, whatever they were, at Suet.
Dom. 2.3.
23
Mention is made of Nero’s poor upbringing (possibly mitigating?) at Nero 6.3,
and see Seneca’s prophetic dream that he is tutoring Caligula instead of Nero at Nero
7.1. Wallace-Hadrill (1995) draws attention to the similarities between the two lives at
120, but also observes differences at 142, where Caligula is considered much worse.
156 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse
Suetonius’ focus on Nero’s fear and tortured regrets makes the overall
portrait of him rather different from that author’s Caligula: it has the
effect of humanizing him as it shows the unfortunate side to his
decisions. Where the biographer’s Caligula embraces erratic behav-
iour and violence, his Nero seems instead to seek guidance. His
regrets and nightmares show Nero to be not as monstrous as he
might at first appear.24 Suetonius’ attempts at amelioration are not
thorough, and there are signs that he believes Nero’s reign would have
continued to degenerate (notably at Nero 43.2, where the emperor
eschews poisoning the Senate and setting beasts loose on them non
tam paenitentia as because he doubts its efficacy; and the fire of 64,
which Suetonius suggests was deliberate, 38).25 Yet, taken as a whole,
Suetonius’ Nero is more pathetic than evil.
Tacitus does not regularly attribute regret to emperors, and when
he does, it brings about no positive change. Despite its lack of
ameliorative effect, Tacitean imperial regret does have a function,
that of reaffirming moral order. Tiberius, Tacitus’ primary example of
a ‘secret sinner’, begins harmlessly enough: he regrets an outburst
(Ann. 1.74), and then regrets the Senate’s misdoings (5.4), both
idiomatic usage that need not signify genuine emotion. Later he is
tormented by the knowledge of his crimes, as Tacitus claims in
discussion of a letter he has written claiming that he doesn’t know
how to respond to a charge against a friend (adeo facinora atque
flagitia sua ipsi quoque in supplicium verterant, 6.6). The section ends
with the claim that Tiberius tormenta pectoris suasque ipse poenas
fateretur (himself confessed the torments in his breast and his own
sufferings). This is all the more interesting if Levick (1978) is right to
argue that Tacitus has misunderstood the letter. But Tacitus’ Tiberius
only gets more depraved. So Tacitus, at least if his Tiberian narrative
is any indication, does not see remorse as redemptive, but rather as a
further indicator of degeneracy in an already bad emperor, or pos-
sibly as the internal price one has to pay for being so wicked. We do

24
Wallace-Hadrill (1995) draws a helpful distinction between Tacitus and Sueto-
nius that may be useful for us: where Tacitus is constantly on the alert for hypocrisy,
Suetonius’ method is to compile evidence of deeds. So Nero’s ‘gesture’ at remorse, if it
originates with himself, provides encouraging signs that he does know right from
wrong.
25
Cf. too the statement at 1.2 that Nero degenerated from the good qualities of his
ancestors.
 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse 157
not have Tacitus’ narrative of the reign of Caligula;26 the Annales
begin in the middle of the Claudian period, but without any remorse
of that emperor (not even, as in Suetonius, regret over the erasure of
Britannicus, Ann. 12.64).
Once we reach Tacitus’ Nero, however, regret takes on a key role,
one which confirms the impression of the Tiberian books that it is not
even a limited virtue. Interestingly, paenitentia is at first only indir-
ectly attributed to the emperor. First, Agrippina is unwilling to wait
for Nero to regret his lowborn mistress Acte (neque paenitentiam filii
aut satietatem opperiri, 13.13); she attacks him with the result that he
draws further away from her. Then, Nero is said by Tacitus to have a
guilty conscience about the murder of Brittanicus, which leads him to
attempt to buy off his friends as a way to seek forgiveness (sceleris sibi
conscio et veniam sperante, 13.18). When Nero feigns reconciliation
with his mother in order the better to kill her, Agrippina’s retainer
Acerronia believes, joyfully, that he is actuated by paenitentiam
(14.5). Finally, in a reversal of attribution, Nero claims that Agrip-
pina’s murder is in fact a remorseful suicide (luisse eam poenas
conscientia, quasi scelus paravisset, she paid the penalty to her
conscience, as if she had planned a crime, 14.10; cf. 14.11 for more
specific charges against her). Nero’s regret is also alluded to, ob-
liquely, at 14.62 when Anicetus, the man responsible for Agrippina’s
death is mentioned: Tacitus claims that he fell out of favour quia
malorum facinorum ministri quasi exprobrantes aspiciuntur (because
the agents of evil deeds are looked at as accusers, 14.62).27 Later, in
the temple of Vesta, Nero is said to be repente cunctos per artus
tremens, seu numine exterrente, seu facinorum recordatione num-
quam timore vacuus (suddenly taken with quaking throughout his
limbs, either from a divinely inspired terror or [because he was] never
free from fear at the memory of his evil deeds, 15.36). At this sign,
whether divine or not, Nero abandons for the moment his proposed
trip to Greece. Both the offensive sight of Anicetus and the trembling

26
In Agricola 13, Tacitus claims that Caligula repented of his plan to invade Britain
and so cancelled it ingenio mobili paenitentiae; here too, as with Tiberius, repentance
leads to no good, and we might want to extrapolate from this passage to suggest that
the Annales’ Caligula was a victim of paenitentia.
27
There is a similar notion after the discovery of Pisonian conspiracy, where Nero
is astonished that mention is made of his murder of his mother and other evil deeds,
being ‘accustomed to commit crimes but not to hear about them’ (qui ut faciendis
sceleribus promptus, ita audiendi quae faceret insolens erat, 15.67).
158 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse
in the temple of Vesta, obliquely connected to Nero’s remorse, are
significant plot points, for Anicetus is soon convinced to accuse
himself and Octavia of adultery (thus bringing about his exile and
her death), and Nero’s eventual trip to Greece is what precipitates
his fall.
Their regrets don’t by any means make Tacitus’ Tiberius or Nero
into more likeable characters, and Agrippina deploys regret in ways
that are manipulative and unedifying. In fact, their use or suffering of
pangs of conscience makes all three characters even more repugnant
than they would otherwise be. Yet Tacitus also seems to believe in the
genuineness of their remorse, perhaps envisioning it as just suffering
in return for their misdeeds. Nero does not live long enough to hide
his sins from humanity, but Tiberius’ misery is a leitmotif of Tacitus’
narrative of the latter part of his reign. So Tacitus continues the
standard ancient narrative of regret as simply another character
flaw, but also uses it as a form of poetic justice.
Dio, writing in a later period, does attribute regret to certain
characters, and seems to share with Tacitus the view that remorse is
generally pointless, though for him, it does not seem even to have the
marginally satisfying role of serving as punishment.28 His Livia, in a
lengthy speech to Augustus on his rule, offers a general statement at
55.21.3 in favour of leniency, claiming that those who are forgiven

ÆF Ø. But once he reaches the imperial period, Dio has little to
say about regret or even second thoughts. Augustus, relying upon his
ØÆ (here, good conscience, 53.9.2), restores the republic; after his
speech, some senators are suspicious at his 
ÆÆ fi (change of
purpose, 53.11.2). Sejanus regretted not instigating a rebellion when
he was consul (

ªªø Œ
, 58.8.3; presumably he believes he
would have had greater support then, so this is not anything like
remorse). Claudius is said to order various deaths but to forget, and
then Kº
E 
ήd 

ªªø Œ
 (to be pained and change his
mind about them, 60.14.2; cf. Suetonius, whose Claudius is too addled
to remember the death—ordered by him—of Messalina, Claud. 39.1).
Asiaticus, who is innocent, is thought by Claudius to have confessed
to his crimes Øa e ı
Øe ŒÆ
ªøŒÆØ (61 [60].29.5). In Dio, as in

28
The people regularly 
ƺ
Ø, 
Æø or 
ƪªø Œø their decisions in
Dio (usually poor: Zon. 8.2, Zon. 8.18, 15.31, Zon. 9.7, Zon 9.14, 24.39.1, 40.37.3, plus
military citations, below, p. 174). On the nuances of remorse words in Dio, see below,
ibid.
 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse 159
Tacitus, it is when we reach Nero and Agrippina that regret becomes
more prominent.29 The claim that Agrippina wanted her son to be
emperor even if he killed her is followed by the statement that she
later regretted it (ı 
Æ
Ø, 61.2.2). Dio’s Seneca and Burrus,
like Tacitus’ Agrippina, assume that Nero will 
ƺÅÆØ his
youthful follies and eventually become a responsible ruler (61.4.2);
like Tacitus’ Agrippina, they are wrong. But Nero has pangs of
conscience after murdering his mother (62.14.4, quoted at p. 153).
Just before his death, Nero 

ªø Œ
 Kç’x K
ºŒ
Ø, ŒÆŁ
æ
¼æÆŒ Ø ÆPH ØB ÆØ ı
 (‘thought better of the things he
had dared, as if he had the power to make any of them undone’,
63.28.4). This comment, redolent with frustration, suggests that Dio
finds Nero’s regret tedious and ineffective. At any rate, there is no
significant distinction drawn between Caligula and Nero in spite of
the latter’s regret,30 nor is the intensity of Nero’s emotion paralleled
by any other imperial figure. Very few other emperors, good or
bad, are said by Dio to regret anything. In addition to Augustus and
Claudius, mentioned above, only Otho is connected to remorse: when
his rebellion is not going well and after unsuccessful sacrifices, he

ƪÆ declaring himself emperor (63.7.1).
Each of our sources on Nero’s remorse views it in a slightly
different light. Tacitus seems to see it as a character flaw, showing
its subject’s degeneracy, but perhaps also serving as a punishment.
Suetonius claims it as a mitigating factor in the assessment of wick-
edness. Dio views remorse as simply a waste of time, or a sign of
weakness. Such variation is significant, given that the three men are
working in the same tradition and from the same sources, and
suggests that each had a different understanding of how Nero’s regret
could most usefully be deployed to support their views of him. For
Tacitus and Dio, Nero’s emotion is indicative of his evil, and for

29
Interestingly, remorse words rarely appear in the final twelve (post-Neronian)
books: there is only a brief passage without context, probably from a speech, in which
someone urges a policy of forgiveness similar to Livia’s (74.17.6) and the potential
ή 
ÆB ÆØ of Elagabalus’ soldiers, who, however, are not reached by Macri-
nus in time (79.39.4).
30
Dio emphasizes the mutual hatred between Caligula and the people (59.13.3–7;
cf. 59.23.8, 24.1), but this is the only important difference; his Nero deliberately sets
fire to Rome not in order to rebuild it, but to destroy the city entirely (62.16.1). Dio
recounts the incident of Caligula’s sale of imperial property, but does not mention his
feigned remorse (59.21.5–6).
160 Nero’s Degenerate Remorse
Suetonius, who sees Nero as not so bad (or at least, not so bad as
Caligula) it helps to add detail to a stark picture. For Suetonius, at
least, the regret of ‘good’ emperors suggests that it can mitigate poor
decisions or negative aspects of character, even if it provides no
permanent effect. As with Alexander, then, the sources about Nero
suggest that regret among people of high status is at worst an add-
itional outrage, and at best, pointless, but this chapter also suggests
that remorse can be interpreted in a variety of different ways to
cohere with pre-existing views of the person who displays it.
 8

Command Performance: Mutiny

in the Roman Army

Whereas previous chapters have examined an individual act, charac-

ter, or generic stereotype, this one focuses on a how a collective entity
is presented in a series of incidents. The regret of the Roman army
gradually comes to be seen by Roman historians as a necessary aspect
of post-mutiny reconciliation. This chapter thus provides a final facet
to our understanding of regret, for it shows that in some circum-
stances, even a display of regret that is recognized as feigned (or one
that is extorted or simply attributed) will do. Moving chronologically
through instances of army insubordination, we shall discover that our
sources at first focus almost entirely on generals, and only gradually
display interest in the army itself. This is a tendency all the more
marked given that the authors we shall be studying are writing at
different times from one another. It is not the case that later authors
simply pay more attention to the army, but rather, that they portray the
Romans themselves as increasingly recognizing the importance of the
army as a group. With this growing attention to the collective comes a
notion that the army’s role in mutiny is not simply to rebel and be
punished, for ancient historians begin to notice its emotions, and also
how generals can manipulate those emotions to their advantage.
Our sources do not say so, but presumably they would see the
necessity of focusing on armies as a bad thing, as a result of decreasing
standards of discipline. This vision of the army as degenerating over
time may well reflect reality, for the Romans believed in the ideal of
the citizen-soldier1 and many of them deplored the move in the late

1
This means that allies are usually elided in ‘army’ narratives aside from battle
descriptions; they play a similarly small role in mutinies, although we might have
expected them to be blamed for leading Romans astray.
162 Mutiny in the Roman Army
Republic towards a professional class of soldiers. It is also likely,
however, that the characterization of the army as ‘formerly’ com-
prised of the citizenry and ‘now’ reduced to recruiting the lowest of
the low stems from the nostalgic impulse found even in our earliest
historians. Some have pointed to the importance of Roman citizen-
ship to the characterization of the army, since the military is (at least
nominally) the same as the citizenry, and have suggested that the
spread of citizenship necessarily brings about its dilution.2 But at least
some of our sources see a degree of legitimacy in the complaints of
citizen-soldiers.3 Whether the officer class who had to cope with
expressions of army dissent in volatile situations would have agreed
with this or not is another matter.
It is clear that the historians of Rome have little difficulty assimi-
lating mutinous soldiers to riotous plebs.4 So I offer a brief summary
of attitudes towards the common people of Rome. All ancient writers
view ‘the people’ as fickle and irrational.5 Ancient historians tend to
see the army as a crowd barely kept in check by its leaders, Polybius’
discourse on its efficiency notwithstanding.6 The sources suggest that

2
Historically, the Romans had recruited from their own citizens, while the auxil-
iaries were from Italian stock; the late Republic, however, saw both a professional-
ization of the army and a broadening of its recruitment, and many of our sources
comment on the increase of lower-class and ‘barbarian’ soldiery.
3
First articulated by Messer (1920: 174), and followed by Goldsworthy (2000:
21, 48), who explicitly connects this to the fact that the Romans had an army
comprised of citizens. See too Carney (1996: 22) on the importance of popular
assemblies to the presumed legitimacy of mutinies and MacMullen on the community
among the legions (1984: esp. 227). See, however, Popov (2008: p. iv; cf. 57) on
mutinous speech as ‘the one category of soldier speech that is uniformly presented in a
negative light in ancient literature’.
4
In Tacitus’ Histories, for instance, the word vulgus is regularly used to depict
soldiers (Newbold 1976: 85, with characterizations of the military vulgus at 86–7). On
the assimiliation of soldiers to rustici (both as objects of anxiety), see Kneppe (1994:
337–48).
5
e.g. Smelser (1963: 222–69), Rudé (1964: 9–10, 252–4), Canetti (2000) passim.
Ancient examples are legion: on the fickleness of the people, Curt. 9.4.22 (omnis
multitudo, but especially militaris), Tac. Hist. 1.80.2; Ann. 1.29.3, etc. For helpful
modern readings of ancient collective behaviour, see Brunt (1966: 26), Ash (1999),
Chrissanthos (1999), and Manolaraki (2003), on the army, and Yavetz (1969: 4–7) on
the plebs; On the rational aspects of crowd behaviour, see Smelser (1963: 15–17 and
72–3), with 222–69 on hostile crowd action.
6
Polybius 6.6.19–42 has the full description; see too Josephus BJ 3.99–101 on the
rarity of mistakes by the Roman army and 3.72–5 on its emotionlessness (and
effectiveness). Some have suggested that the tension in Polybius is deliberate—the
Roman army is efficient because of its procedures and in spite of its soldiers.
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 163
armies, like other collectives, are in need of discipline in order to keep
them obedient. But the differences between armies and other collect-
ives are significant: unlike the demos, armies have sworn an oath to
obey their leaders,7 and armies have weapons and military training, so
when they do not obey, they become a serious threat. Further, armies
are taught to use violence unreflexively, and are regularly placed
under conditions of extreme pressure in ways that crowds are not.
Finally, armies cannot usually be disbanded, as crowds can, by calling
in the army. So the army is a kind of ‘supercrowd’, incorporating
many of its most volatile elements. The position of the army vis-à-vis
its leaders is also important: while individual members of the upper
classes may sometimes have personally needed to cope with a crowd,
many of them will have been sent out without any leadership experi-
ence. The most effective Roman generals were able to build fellow-
feeling among their soldiers (Lendon 1997: 240–2), but many were
unsuccessful (cf. e.g. the Lucullus of Dio 36.16.1–3, who could not
control his men). So the focus of our sources on the necessity for
generals of knowing how to relate to their soldiers is unsurprising.8
What is surprising is the increasing attention paid by the historians to
the soldiers themselves when they do not obey orders, and to the
emotions they display before and after expressing their discontent in
acts of mutiny.
I shall be using the word ‘mutiny’, but nomenclature is a matter of
opinion: a mutiny is, by definition, an act of insubordination, which
automatically assumes that the soldiers are wrong.9 Given the sym-
pathies of our historians, this is less problematic than it might be, for
although they are sometimes willing to grant that soldiers have reason

7
Many historians of Roman mutinies see the sacramentum as key: Chrissanthos
(1999) passim, Brice (2003: e.g. 57).
8
For a single, but instructive example, see Eckstein (1995: 138) on Polybius’
interest in instructing generals, and his focus on ‘the imposition of order and a
sense of mission upon thousands of men’ as ‘one of the essences of generalship’
(1995: 162).
9
E. Rose’s (1982: 561) helpful definition of mutiny as ‘collective military insubor-
dination, a revolt of troops against lawfully constituted military authority’ still leaves
room for interpretation. Chrissanthos (1999) lists and describes Republican mutinies,
and Manolaraki (2003: 9–56) discusses literary topoi of mutiny narratives. On acts of
military disobedience as attempts at definition, communication, or interpretation, see
Watson (1997) passim. L. Smith (1994: 244) outlines the ways in which, through
mutiny, soldiers shape policy, and E. Rose (1982: 572) notes that modern mutiny is
nearly always successful.
164 Mutiny in the Roman Army
for complaint, they rarely see mutinies as justified.10 So I understand
‘mutiny’ to be what a Roman general or historian would call these
incidents, keeping in mind that the soldiers might see things differ-
ently.11 Because of this presumption by our sources, ancient mutiny
narratives are occasions for generals to display leadership12 rather than
opportunities for addressing injustice:13 the army rebels, for some
reason (or for no reason), and its general handles it well or poorly,
thereby accruing glory or shame for himself. Of the underlying causes
little more is said, as if armies were forces of nature. Indeed, metaphors
emphasizing both irrationality and natural phenomena are extremely
common in mutiny narratives.14
But the sources regularly suggest that armies had compelling,
sometimes desperate, reasons for mutiny, and also that they were
later willing to be convinced that they had made a mistake, often
despite the fact that nothing had changed. Instead, the experience
itself seems to purge the army of its disease, at least until next time;
the army remains unstable and subject to irrational forces. Indeed, the
very frequency of occurrences of mutiny by the soldiery, which might
be understood to indicate genuine structural problems, is instead
offered by our sources as evidence of their greed.15 Modern historians

10
There are, of course, exceptions here as well: Livy’s account of the conflict
between Appius Claudius the decemvir and Verginius features an army which
displays proper outrage and so brings about a beneficial, just result (3.50–1).
11
For a discussion of lexical nuances of seditio, the normal word in Latin to
describe a mutiny, see Milani (2000), and, on sedition as a political conception,
Osthoff (1952: 102–9).
12
Cf., notably, Livy’s praise of Hannibal for maintaining a mercenary army in
foreign lands for thirteen years without a single mutiny (28.12.3–5).
13
See too Rosenstein (1990) passim on the related Roman habit of blaming defeats
on soldiers rather than generals. It is noteworthy that a general is very rarely blamed
for a mutiny; even comments that the soldiers mutinied because they had too much
free time (as we shall see below) reflect more negatively on the men than on their
leaders. This is precisely the opposite of modern theorizing about mutinies, which
focuses on the aberrance of a mutiny and sees it as a failure of leadership: ‘the military
establishment tends to believe that if it does occur, it must be someone’s fault’ (E. Rose
1982: 563).
14
Tacitus is, as so often, an exception; for his sophisticated characterization of
different armies in mutiny, see the studies of Ash (1999) and Manolaraki (2003). On
irrationality and disease imagery in mutinies, see most notably Woodman’s (2006:
312–27) discussion of the mutinies of 14 ce, and for the army as the sea and/or a
storm, Manolaraki (2003: 26–9).
15
Messer (1920: 159–60) claims that there were ‘many’ mutinies in the Republic;
Pekáry (1987) lists 100 revolts in 200 years of the empire; Brice (2003: p. v) suggests
that military unrest was a regular feature of the Roman army, and uses Smelser (1963)
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 165
of mutiny believe that acts of insurrection have specific, rational
goals, and that they occur in specific circumstances, such as unbear-
able stress and/or trauma, food and pay shortages, poor commanders,
and the like.16 Ancient sources, by contrast, suggest that the soldiery
is always close to insubordination. This renders all the more note-
worthy their willingness to record grounds for the soldiers’ com-
plaints, even when they suggest that they are mere pretence.17
Despite the bias of the sources, these hints are often extremely useful
in understanding the motivation of armies in mutiny.
Mutinies in the Roman army tend to happen under the auspices of
leaders rather than occurring spontaneously, a fact in keeping with
the ancient belief that it is implausible for a crowd to act under its
own volition.18 It is also extremely convenient for generals, who
would prefer to punish the fewest number of soldiers possible while
maintaining discipline.19 Our sources usually present this punish-
ment as cathartic, and as most effective when the soldiers themselves
get involved; the scapegoating and violence that usually occur at the
end of a mutiny look like a necessary step in its dissolution (Brice
2003: 93).
This chapter discusses four instances of army indiscipline that
ancient historians suggest result in increasingly unambiguous dis-
plays of collective regret: Fabius Maximus and his master of the horse
(217 bce); Scipio’s army at Sucro (206 bce); Caesar’s army at Pla-
centia (47 bce); and the armies that rebelled upon the accession of
Tiberius (14 ce). These are among the better-known mutinies of
Roman history, and some are paradigmatic; indeed, Germanicus

to argue that the army was structurally conducive to such events, because soldiers had
no other means to express grievances (63, 455). Yet, as with Roman slave revolts, the
interesting question may well be why there were so few, not why there were so many.
16
See especially Watson (1997: 156–8), who adds failures in leadership and
changing standards of behaviour as non-physical causes.
17
Keppie (1984: 145), following the ancient sources, sees a chronological move
from laudable motives for mutiny, such as ‘desire for discharge by men who merely
wished to go home’ to ‘greed’. The soldiers are characterized as becoming worse and
worse, and demanding more of the historian’s attention.
18
On the tendency for actions of collectives to be attributed to leaders (or to be
corrected by them), see Yavetz (1969: 7) and, for an illustrative ancient example,
Tacitus Hist. 1.28 (a distinction between what leaders will do and followers will allow).
Modern theorists of mutiny also tend to locate blame as narrowly as possible (E. Rose
1982: 569).
19
Brice (2003: 93, 217, 453) notes that the normal, and most effective, response to
a mutiny is isolation and punishment of those deemed responsible.
166 Mutiny in the Roman Army
refers to earlier ‘famous’ mutinies in his own speech to rebellious
soldiers in 14 ce, and we shall find certain similarities of language or
of tactics in generals’ handling of mutinies. It is unclear to what extent
this should be understood as coincidence; literary manipulation or
allusion are also likely factors. So we should not necessarily expect to
discover how individual mutinies occurred or were quelled in the
Roman army, only how historians (and their audiences) expected
these events to occur.20 For our purposes, this is not a shortcoming;
‘typical’ mutinies can tell us a lot about how the army began to be
seen as a powerful and emotional force.
Our first example occurs in the year 217 bce, and is narrated by
Polybius, Livy, and Plutarch.21 Shortly after the disastrous Roman
loss against Carthage at Lake Trasimene, Fabius Maximus is named
dictator, with Minucius Rufus as his master of the horse.22 Fabius is a
cautious general (Polyb. 3.89.2), which worries Hannibal (Livy
22.12.5, 23.2, Plut. Fab. Max. 5.3) and annoys his own men, particu-
larly Minucius Rufus (Livy 22.12.11, 23.3, Plut. Fab. Max. 5.2). Fabius
has plenty of supplies, and knows that Hannibal does not, so decides
upon a policy of attrition (Polyb. 3.89.9, Plut. Fab. Max. 2.5 and 5.1).
Hannibal attempts to goad him into giving battle, but is unsuccessful
(e.g. Livy 22.12.6–7, Plutarch 5.4). Minucius Rufus, characterized by
Livy as violent and headstrong ( ferox rapidusque) and by Plutarch as
intemperately desirous of battle (çغÆåH IŒÆæø, 5.4), loses
patience with Fabius’ tactics, and badmouths him to the troops

20
Certain historians attempt to plot the course of a ‘typical’ mutiny; while this is a
laudable goal, I am not sure it is realizable given the state of our evidence. It is clear
that Romans often thought of themselves in terms of their past (particularly their
family histories) and that they tended to believe that the same sorts of historical events
were likely to reoccur, so, even aside from the literary and imitative aspects of writing
history (on which see the still controversial Wiseman 1979 and Woodman 1988), our
historians are likely to create parallels. That said, I am indebted to Chrissanthos
(1999) and Brice (2003) for their studies of individual instances of dissent and for
their attempts to create coherent theories of ancient mutiny; Chrissanthos (1999:
166–74) is particularly useful on its causes.
21
There are brief mentions of the event in other sources, but none adds much:
Silius Italicus says that the Senate would soon luerent damnata of naming Minucius
co-dictator (Punica 7.514), and the fragments of Diodorus have Hannibal calling
Fabius a coward, but insisting that he refused to be bullied by Roman disapproval into
fighting (26.3.1). Finally, Minucius’ failure taught the Romans that Fabius’ policy was
correct (26.3.3).
22
See Livy 22.8.6 for the irregularity of the procedure; he was elected by the people
since there was no consul available. This form of election, despite what follows,
suggests that Fabius had a great deal of popular support.
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 167
(Polyb. 3.90.6, Livy 22.12.12, Plut. 5.4). The troops are not even
permitted to prevent allied farms from being burned (Polyb.
3.90.10–92.7, Livy 22.14.1–3), and the Livian Minucius expresses his
outrage at this too (22.14.4–14). The soldiers prefer his strategy to
that of Fabius, and word reaches Rome that they have a general who
will not fight.
Fabius is called to Rome, and pleads with Minucius to continue his
(Fabius’) policy (Polyb. 3.94.9–10, Livy 22.18.8–10; cf. Plut. 8.1).
While Fabius is away, Hannibal manipulates Minucius into a battle
which is barely won by the Romans and at great cost, but which is
represented by Minucius as a tremendous victory (Polyb. 3.103.1–2,
Livy 22.24.14, Plut. 8.3). The Senate decides to split the command
between the dictator and his master of the horse, an unprecedented
and disrespectful act.23 Fabius defends himself in the Senate, but
to little effect (Livy 22.25.12–16), and then returns to the army.
Minucius suggests that the two men alternate their commands;
Fabius persuades him instead to divide the army, in the hopes that
he can at least preserve half of it (Livy 22.27.5–10, Plutarch 10.3; in
Polybius it is Minucius’ choice). Hannibal is overjoyed (Polyb.
3.104.1, Livy 22.28.1–2), and he makes short work of the army of
Minucius, luring it into one of his characteristic ambushes (22.28.3–9;
Plut. 11.1–4).
The Livian Fabius has time for a quick quip about the rapidity of
Minucius’ fall into disaster. But he also says that he plans to gain a
confession from the citizens of their error (extorqueamus confessio-
nem erroris civibus, 22.29.2). He saves the army merely by sending
in reinforcements to intimidate the Carthaginian soldiers. Plutarch
includes a near-identical Fabian comment about how little time
Minucius has taken to prove himself incompetent, but makes it
clear that Fabius speaks out of anguish (Åæ 
ºÅ

 ήd


Æ ªÆ, ‘he smote his thigh and groaned deeply’, 12.1).24

23
Polybius 3.103.4 says that they are named co-dictators, but Livy is somewhat less
explicit (22.25.10). Livy casts aspersions on Gaius Terentius Varro, the man who urges
passage of the decision (22.25.18–26.4), and who will shortly be responsible for the
disaster at Cannae. Plutarch represents Fabius as threatening to punish Minucius for
disobeying orders; the putative ferocity of his anger alarms the people, who then vote
to split the command (9.1–3).
24
This may well be the tone in Livy as well, but it is difficult to tell. The fact that his
speech begins with ita est, ‘there it is’, may suggest that he has been smugly waiting for
disaster.
168 Mutiny in the Roman Army
Polybius stops there, observing that those present realized that
Minucius had put them into danger and Fabius had saved their
lives (3.105.8–10). Both Livy and Plutarch present Minucius as prop-
erly chastised; he announces to his men that he is still ‘learning to
command’, so needs to ‘obey a man of wisdom’ (dum imperare
discimus, parere prudenti in animum inducamus, Livy 22.29.9; cf.
Plutarch 13.1–2). To Fabius’ surprise, Minucius arrives at his camp
with his legions and salutes him as ‘father’, announcing that he
resigns his command to him (Livy 22.30.1–5, Plut. 13.3–4).25
For Polybius it is enough that the soldiers have learned their lesson;
he wastes no further words on them. Yet Polybius is not lacking in
interest in moral issues26 or in characterizations of collectives.27 He
simply does not consider the soldiers worth his attention. So too Livy,
who sees them as mere appendages of their leader. Even when Fabius
says he will ‘extort a confession’ (22.29.2), it is from the men as
citizens, not as soldiers. It is the citizens who have voted Minucius
into command who are at fault. Plutarch’s Fabius does not even spare
a thought for the citizens, focusing instead on inspiring his soldiers
for battle.
Despite the absence of lexical markers, the incident, as Livy and
Plutarch present it, is a genuine example of remorse, containing the
admission of fault, self-blame, and apology. For our sources, particu-
larly Plutarch, the tale is one of proper come-uppance for the unruly
Minucius, and the only real actors are Fabius, Minucius, and Hanni-
bal. The soldiers have technically done nothing wrong: they were
following the orders of a legitimate commander when they marched
into battle. But the sources hint that their muttered complaints had

25
While it is not clear that the Fabian strategy could have won the war, it was
certainly the proper behaviour for the short term, and all of our sources present it as
such. On Fabian ‘strategy’, see Eckstein (1987: esp. pp. xi–xii and xxii), who argues
that our ancient sources are correct in their presentation of generals’ individual
personalities as the fount of major policy decisions.
26
See, most comprehensively, Eckstein (1995). Polybian statements about regret
are most regularly expressed in general contexts: e.g. one’s own conscience is the
witness most to be feared (P
d ªaæ oø h
æı K d ç
æe h
ŒÆªæ

Øe ‰  
Ø  ŒÆØŒF ’ K ÆE Œ ø łıåÆE, 18.43.13); traitors are
troubled by their consciences (18.15.13); one should not destroy utterly the crops of
one’s enemies, but instead leave a space for regret, 
Æ
º
Æ ŒÆƺ
Æ 
(23.15.1).
27
In general, Polybius shares the ancient contempt for the masses, but he is able to
distinguish among them (Champion 2004: 188–9, 220).
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 169
effect in Rome and undermined senatorial faith in Fabius, leading to
the loss of half of his command. This is not a mutiny, but the
dissension among the leadership28 foreshadows much more serious
incidents of military dissent, in which soldiers begin to arrogate to
themselves the right to choose their own commanders.
Our next incident is a mutiny of the soldiers under Scipio (later
Africanus) in the year 206 bce.29 Polybius introduces it by a general
excursus on sedition (11.25.1–8). He means us to understand Scipio’s
behaviour as exemplary, even though he draws attention to the fact
that Scipio was in IæÆ and ı åæÅ Æ (perplexity and an awk-
ward circumstance, 11.25.1; cf. Livy 28.25.8 and M. Williams 2001:
143–4). As it happens, Scipio’s handling of this mutiny becomes the
‘gold standard’—many later mutinies, including the two following in
this chapter, refer implicitly to this one.30 There is good reason for
this, because Scipio manages to achieve a perfect blend of caution and
severity, preserving the rest of the army and isolating the wrongdoers.
Despite his initial confusion, Scipio knows just what to do, and in a
short time, all is fixed.
The mutiny begins in the middle of the Hannibalic wars. Despite
some limited victories, the Roman soldiers remain intimidated by
Hannibal’s tactics.31 Further, there is not enough food to eat and they
have not seen home for a long time (or been paid).32 But the soldiers
are apparently, if grudgingly, willing to put up with their lot, for the

28
Livy is regularly concerned with instances of the nobility working against one
another through manipulation of the people; presumably, he sees this as a significant
cause of the end of the Republic. Chrissanthos (1999: 45) says that historically,
mutinies are punished more regularly and more severely when officers are unified.
29
For a recent historical treatment of the mutiny, see Chrissanthos (1997). Our
extant sources (Polybius, Livy, Appian, and Dio) are uniformly pro-Scipio; the latter
three seem to derive from a lacunose treatment in Polybius (Walbank 1967: ad Polyb.
11.26.1), but the majority of the narrative is present in excerpt form. The fact that
book 11 is comprised of excerpts does mean that we may be missing important
elements of the original. On the transmission and collection of Polybian excerpts,
see Moore (1965), and for the argument that all four authors agree in the most
significant particulars, Salmon (1986: 80).
30
Chrissanthos (1997: 173) suggests that this event is, for Polybius, ‘a model
demonstration of how to deal with a mutiny’ (cf. Chrissanthos 1999: 87 and
Moscovich 1988: 108).
31
See Scullard (1970: 39–67) for a more detailed discussion of context.
32
As Chrissanthos (1999: 86) notes, the pro-Scipionic tradition has caused this
mutiny to be misunderstood; it was not a function of greed. Anachronism among later
writers is also likely to have played a role, for mutinies under various emperors seem
often to have had roots in a desire for donatives.
170 Mutiny in the Roman Army
mutiny is precipitated only by the news of Scipio’s illness, which is
reported to be much more serious than it actually is (Livy 28.24.1–2
and 15, Zon. 9.1033). This is not, and most of our sources know it,
simply opportunism, for the soldiers did have genuine grievances.
Further, without Scipio’s overwhelming personality and able general-
ship, the soldiers might well have been afraid of being trapped in
Spain.34 Both Roman soldiers and Spanish allies believe that Scipio
will die (or is already dead), and so take thought for their own
interests. Many of his Spanish allies revolt, and the 8,000 soldiers
camped near Sucro erupt in full mutiny.35 Livy notes that they merely
used this as an excuse; they had long been disloyal because of licentia
arising from diutinum otium and because of the dearth of opportun-
ities for plunder (28.24.6); cf. Zon. 9.10. Yet some of our sources, even
as they accuse the soldiers of treachery, make clear that they had very
real grounds for dissatisfaction (details noted above, p. 169; Livy
28.24.7–8 (stated in such a way as to undermine their validity),
Zon. 9.10).
The mutiny begins slowly, but builds to a climax. Livy and Appian
present a topsy-turvy world, with the soldiers issuing orders rather
than obeying them and electing their own tribunes (28.24.11 and 13–14;
Iber. 6.7.34). They plan to extort money from allies and plunder
enemy cities (Livy 28.24.16), but the men can find nobody to confirm
Scipio’s death, so their leaders lose confidence. Soon messengers
bring word of Scipio’s recovery (Livy 28.25.3); according to Dio and
Appian, Scipio himself sends a letter, which pretends to forgive them
(Zon. 9.10; Appian Iber. 6.7.34). The men calm down and, in Livy,
express their grievances to the messengers. Notably, Livy calls these
complaints aequa, reasonable, and the tribunes agree to report them,
as they reassure the men that these are not irreparable, or even
serious, problems (28.25.7).

33
Certain books of Dio exist for us only in selections from Zonaras, a 12th-century
Byzantine excerptor. The convention is to assume that anything in Zonaras was in
Dio, but to use Zonaras’ numbering. For a brief discussion, see Millar (1964: 2–4).
34
There is a version much more hostile to the soldiers presented in Appian, who
claims that the soldiers received messengers and money from Mago, a Carthaginian
general. Appian’s soldiers are the lowest of the low, for they treat with the enemy.
Appian Iber. 6.7.34 seems to suggest that the soldiers mutiny against Marcius, a
commander not otherwise mentioned in the narratives of this mutiny. But, as the
soldiers do not seem to object to him personally, this is not a significant difference.
35
For the number, see Livy 28.24.5 and Dio 16; Zon. 9.10. Dio claims that the allies
revolted only after learning of the mutiny (Zon. 9.10).
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 171
Once Scipio announces that the army should come to New Car-
thage to receive its pay (and begins collecting money from allies for
that purpose, Polyb. 11.25. 9, Livy 28.25.9), the mutiny more or less
dies out. Scipio decides to be mild and to punish only the thirty-five
ringleaders of the mutiny, rather than a larger number. He announces
an expedition by the army at New Carthage, which makes the soldiers
at Sucro think that they will not be punished, because they will be the
only soldiers present (Livy 28.26.4, Polyb. 11.26.6–7, alluded to at
Zon. 9.10). When they arrive at New Carthage for their pay, the
tribunes (senators in Appian) are each assigned some of the leaders
of the mutiny, whom they isolate and capture. The army that has
pretended to march out of camp remains nearby, and when the
mutinous soldiers (minus their leaders) assemble (Livy 28.26.13),
the first group of soldiers surrounds them and Scipio himself appears
in good health. The ringleaders are brought in, and Scipio delivers a
lengthy shaming speech which, in effect, suggests to the soldiers that
they mutually agree to blame only a few men lest he have to punish all
(Livy 28.27.6–12, Polybius 11.29.9–13;36 in Dio and Appian he simply
announces his decision).37 In Livy, Scipio emphasizes the seriousness
of their behaviour and their betrayal of Rome;38 Polybius’ speech
contains these elements, but concentrates more on the soldiers’ in-
gratitude. The Livian Scipio reiterates his belief that the soldiers must
have been mad (insanistis, Livy 28.27.11 and 29.3), and suggests that
they all forget the matter (obliviscamini, obliviscar, Livy 28.29.6),
provided that they first show paenitentia (si erroris paenitet, satis
superque poenarum habeo, Livy 28.29.7). The Polybian version offers
forgiveness to the innocent, but reserves the right to punish the guilty
(11.29.12–13); there is no mention of a revulsion of feeling.39 Appian

36
On the differences between Polybian and Livian speeches, see Walbank (1967:
ad loc. ii: 308) and Manolaraki (2003: 26–7), focusing on Livy’s use of the imagery of
disease and insanity. Moscovich (1988: 108) notes that the ‘emphasis of Polybius’
account is upon the fear which Scipio instilled in the mutineers’, by contrast to Livy,
who appeals to their better feelings.
37
Cf. e.g. Livy 28.27.11–12 on the way multitudo omnis is quiescent until venti et
aurae cient; so too the soldiers are guiltless of the acts suggested by their leaders;
Polybius 11.29.8–10 offers the same metaphor, but at greater length, as a ‘universal
excuse’ for their behaviour.
38
Scipio calls his soldiers ‘citizens’, foreshadowing Caesar’s use of that loaded
word (28.27. 4; Manolaraki 2003: 34).
39
Polybian collectives can have metameleia, but the word does not usually seem
to signify remorse; it is instead used to express a change of mind based on grounds
172 Mutiny in the Roman Army
and Zonaras replace these Scipionic speeches by a brief quotation.40
Immediately thereafter, the loyal army makes a terrible noise and the
ringleaders are brought before the soldiery and beheaded. Both Po-
lybius and Livy note that the mutinous soldiers were too frightened to
object, and that they re-swore their military oath. This does not appear
in Zonaras or Appian,41 who instead add soldierly indignation at the
punishments of the ringleaders, which provokes further punishment
(IÆÅ ø b ÆPH, ŒÆd f ı æÆØÆ ÅŁ ÆØ ç Ø
Ææƌƺø f KØçŁ
ªªı
PŁf Œ
Ø ƒ åغÆæåØ,
‘when the soldiers cried out and asked their fellow-soldiers to help
them, the tribunes immediately killed those who answered back’, App.
Iber. 6.7.36, Ø
 H Ææ
ÅŒø IªÆÆŒ Æ
 KŁæÅ Æ,
ıåf ŒÆd KŒ
ø KŒºÆ
, ‘some of those present were vexed and
made an outcry, and he punished many of them’, Dio 16, Zon. 9.10);
Appian claims that the soldiers then stood in sullen silence (Kç’  ıåÆ
q ŒıŁæøF, App. Iber. 6.7.36).
So the mutiny is over and the ringleaders have been punished.
Scipio has clearly handled the mutiny well, and only Livy and Dio say
that he pays the soldiers (28.29.12, 9.10). This may be an oversight in
our other authors, or it may be an indication of their assessment of
the success of Scipio’s tactics. Scipio immediately provides the ‘expi-
atory deaths’ he had requested (Livy 28.27.6 and 16) by punishing the
rebellious allies (Livy 32.2–5).
Dio and Appian’s versions, which blamed the soldiers from the
start, are not interested in redemption; in fact, they seem to suggest
that the soldiers remain recalcitrant, and are only restrained from
further mischief by fear. Polybius seems more concerned with the

of expediency; cf. e.g. 1.39.14, 2.53.6 (possibly with a moral nuance; cf. Walbank
1967: ad loc.), 4.50.66, 15.33.3, 27.10.3, 15.26a.2, (again possibly with some moral
tone). Metanoia seems more regularly in Polybius to signify changes of mind with
a moral component: e.g. 4.66.7, 5.16.2, 33.12.6. Sunoida is often used to denote a
guilty conscience: e.g. the Carthaginians do not consider asking for pardon,
knowing (full well) what they have done, ı
Ø
 ç Ø a 
æƪÆ,
1.84.11; Thoas, knowing what he has done, ı
g ±ıfiH a 
ªÆªØÆ, flees
to Knidos, 30.8.6.
40
Given Dio’s habit of including lengthy speeches, it seems plausible to assume
that some such harangue as is in Livy might have been omitted by Zonaras, so I use his
name instead of Dio’s here.
41
See the previous footnote on the possible distinction required between Zonaras
and Dio.
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 173
effectiveness of Scipio’s speech and punishment.42 Only Livy has
Scipio suggest to the soldiers that their paenitentia will rectify the
situation, but the Livian soldiers are not actually given an opportunity
to express this putative paenitentia, perhaps because Scipio still lacks
confidence in them.43 Instead he presumes it, and reinforces the
message with a terrifying spectacle illustrating the alternative. So
even here, there is no interest in genuine reconciliation. This mutiny
is transitional, in that the soldiers’ emotions have some role to play,
but there is a vast difference between this and later mutinies in respect
of the interest displayed in the emotions of the soldiers.
Livy, then, makes clear that paenitentia is expected of the soldiers,
but never gives them an opportunity to display it. And in fact, based
on Livy’s normal usage of paenitentia, this is just what we might
expect. For, while Livy does know how to treat the internal moral
motivations of his actors, he does not normally use the word paeni-
tentia to do so.44 Livy prefers other ways of expressing what we would

42
See Chrissanthos (1997: 173) on the way Polybius neglects the actual mutiny in
favour of hagiography. For a nuanced understanding of Polybius’ treatment of the
Aemilian family, see Eckstein (1995: 9–10).
43
As Kaster (2005: 78) puts it, Scipio, by invoking the concept of paenitentia,
Scipio is forcing his soldiers to see themselves coming up short.
44
Livian paenitentia regularly appears after decisions that seem inexpedient, and it
also seems to signify that the agents are willing to admit that they have made a
mistake. So, for instance, Fabius would prefer the Aequi to repent rather than going to
war (paenitere sua sponte), and if they do, they need fear no reprisals (si paeniteat,
3.2.4). The people aetatis maxime paenitebat the age of Scipio after they have given
him the command (26.18.11). More to the point, the Tusculans claim to have manifest
repentance (tam evidenter paenituerit, 6.26.7) such that even if they have done wrong,
they should be safe from reprisals; the people of Caere, seeing their own weakness,
repent their raid on Romans and surrender to them (paenitebat, 7.20.2).
A Carthaginian leader sarcastically asks Hanno if they should paenitet winning, and
he says yes, for he sees the further implications (23.12.6 and 9–10). After the Caudine
forks and the Roman repudiation of the terms there made, the Samnites suggest the
impossible: if the Romans paenitet their surrender, let them replace their legions and
fight the battle again (9.11.3); this is a particularly interesting instance because it is
literally a case of ‘taking something back’ or ‘wishing it undone’. So too, Marcellus
chastises his army, telling them they should pudere ac paenitere ending a battle before
it is won (27.13.5). Similar uses of paenitentia appear at 6.23.9, 6.30.3, 9.18.12, 9.42.5,
23.10.10, 30.28.10, 30.30.30, 31.31.10, 34.31.19, 34.54.8, 35.25.8, 36.9.7 (a threat: if the
Thessalians do not support Antiochus, extemplo paeniteret), 42.13.3, 44.10.2 (orders
to burn the dockyards at Thessalonika carried out slowly, paenitentia relinquens
locum, which did in fact appear), 44.38.4, 45.10.11 (the nuances between paenitet
and pudet). It can occur in generalizing statements: hurrying to punishment leaves no
locus paenitendi aut regressus ab ira, (opportunity for repentance or stepping back
from anger, 24.26.15). Paenitentia follows after plans made too swiftly, but comes
seram atque inutilem (31.32.2; cf. the generalizing Polybian quotations above, at
n. 39). Paenitentia is in Livy only felt for something that is one’s own fault: others
174 Mutiny in the Roman Army
call remorse.45 Livy’s Scipio is not attributing remorse to the soldiers;
he is simply presenting them with the option of agreeing that they
have made a mistake, so translations of this use of paenitentia as
‘repent’ therefore import a notion that is absent. Livy is thus not so
different from the other sources as he might have seemed, except in
his (forward-looking) interest in Scipio’s manipulation of the soldiers.
Further, his version seems most favourable to the soldiers, although
even he is not interested in their redemption.46
In this instance, like that of Minucius Rufus, Polybius seems not to
be interested in the soldiery; his primary aim is to describe the
competence of Scipio. Appian had presented the soldiers as traitor-
ous, accepting money from a Carthaginian enemy, so they are merely
cowed into submission. Dio, as we shall see, can present individuals47
and collectives48 as regretful, but he does not see that as an appropri-
ate emotion here. We might want to attribute the absence of regret
here to Dio’s excerptor Zonaras, but Dio seems to see the issue as very
clear: the soldiers are given no chance to redeem themselves, because
they were motivated by greed at the beginning of their mutiny and are
merely angry at being frustrated in their aims. One reason for this
may be that Appian and Dio are influenced by more recent incidents
of military dissent into finding the soldiers blameworthy. Yet there is
more to it, because, as we shall see, both do see a later group of
soldiers as suffering a genuine change of feeling.

feel verecundia, not paenitentia, on behalf of Philopoemen (39.49.11); and it is felt

only retrospectively; cf. Philip’s evil deeds, which were committed at the time non sine
magno pudore regis (40.22.11).
45
Usually with conscientia: after he has denied sending a letter asking for help,
Appius alone knows (ex conscientia, 10.18.9) whether the letter was really sent; so too
the Spanish provinces who act propter conscientiam culpae and have ex conscientia
culpae metus (28.19.1 and 10) and the men of Astopa, who set themselves on fire to
avoid a worse punishment, conscientia scelerum (28.22.5). There is similar language of
the wicked Campanians: should the Romans paeniteat punishing them? No: even they
cannot complain (31.31.10), for they know their own guilt (conscientia scelerum,
31.31.14).
46
Livy’s interest may derive from his belief that the Hannibalic wars offer an
example of the praiseworthy Roman capacity for coming together to defeat a danger-
ous foe; despite some real differences, Romans could still unite.
47
e.g. when Hannibal regrets not attacking Rome after Cannae (‰ ±Ææg


º
, 15, Zon. 9.1).
48
See e.g. 9 (Zon. 8.2) on the Tarentine 
ƪø Œ for inviting Pyrrhus into
their city, and Roman 
ƺ of their choice of Scipio, because they fear his youth
(15; Zon. 9.7) and their 
ƺ allowing Hannibal to sail home (17; Zon. 9.14).
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 175
It is with Caesar’s two major mutinies, one at Placentia in 49 and
one in Campania in 47, possibly the most famous from antiquity, that
we see most clearly the difficulties with our sources. For the narratives
tell them very differently: Caesar himself omits them, and other
authors conflate the mutiny of 47 with that of 49.49 But it is fairly
certain that there were two separate mutinies, although I shall focus
only on the second. These mutinies, particularly the second one, are
often seen as providing an ideal example of Caesar’s generalship, for
the sources suggest that he quelled it with the single word, Quirites
(‘citizens’). Yet modern historians suggest that the mutiny of 47 was
an extremely serious matter, and that Caesar was forced to give in to
nearly every one of his soldiers’ demands in order to get them to
continue fighting.
Both of the mutinies are described by Dio and Appian; the first is
referred to by Suetonius, and the second by Cicero (Att. 11.22.2), the
author of the Bellum Africum (19), Frontinus (4.5.9), Plutarch (Caes.
51.1)50 and Suetonius (Jul. 70); Livy probably treated them, but we
have only a brief summary of the second in Per. 113. Lucan conflates
the two mutinies, seeming to detail the first, but including the Quirites
of the second.51

49
See Chrissanthos (1999: 74) for Caesar’s motivation, and Fantham (1985) for
Lucan’s. For bibliography on the possibility of a lacuna in Caesar’s text, see Van
Stekelenburg (1976: 46 n. 19).
50
See too Plutarch’s discussion of an incident in 48: the soldiers first grumble
about the hard work but then, when they reach Brundisium to discover that Caesar
has sailed without them, revile themselves for failing him (KŒŒØÇ Æıf æÆ
IŒÆºF
, Caes. 37. 8; cf. Fantham 1985: 131).
51
In Lucan (5.237–373), the soldiers are loyal, but weary of bloodshed (manus
satiatae sanguine tandem 5.243), but there are other causes: either a temporary lull in
the fighting which had made them less interested in battle, or greed (5.244–8). Lucan
makes clear that his Caesar is not afraid (5.301–4, 318), and is in fact pleased at their
irrational rage. He confronts the soldiers, daring them to attack him, and assures them
that he does not need them, just as the ocean does not need the rivers that flow into it.
He thanks the gods for allowing him this chance to replace such greedy and useless
soldiers, and dismisses them all, except the ringleaders, who are to be executed. The
men are cowed by this, although Lucan now tells us that Caesar was afraid his speech
might not work (5.368–9); in the event, the soldiers offer up the ringleaders and return
to duty. See Van Stekelenberg (1976) for a discussion of the similarities between Dio
and Lucan, which he suggests derive from Livy’s version of events, and Manolaraki
(2003: 47–50) for a fascinating discussion of the ways Lucan’s narrative fashions the
soldiers as rationally trying to end the civil war and Caesar as infecting the men with
his madness.
176 Mutiny in the Roman Army
I describe, briefly, the mutiny at Placentia in the year 49, for most
sources agree that its incomplete resolution resulted directly in the
mutiny two years later. Dio tells us that ‘some soldiers’ (the ninth
legion) mutinied, claiming exhaustion but really out of pique at not
being allowed to plunder. They imagine that Caesar needs them, so
decide to extort benefits from him in exchange for continued service.
Appian says that they were angry with their officers for needlessly
extending the war, and for holding back on promised rewards (BC
2.47.191). But Caesar, looking towards his future safety (I çƺ
Æ

ή, Dio 41.26.2), calls all of his soldiers together (in Appian, he
must go to them, which he does with all speed, 2.47.192). Most of
Dio’s narrative is occupied by this speech (41.27–35.4), which assures
the soldiers of Caesar’s affection and reminds them that it is disgrace-
ful to take a benefit which they will later 

ªHÆØ (41.27.3). He
goes on to explain that they have no reason for mutiny: there are no
shortages of food; their rewards far outweigh their efforts; his chas-
tisement is minimal. It is all the fault of a few troublemakers, who
dishonour the entire army52 and make Caesar look bad by compari-
son to Pompey. The rest of the army should hate these men. Caesar
himself will never yield place to these bullies who think to dictate to
him, when he has made them what they are. Who wants such men as
comrades in any case?
Appian’s speech is similar, but shorter:53 after reminding the army
of their rewards and their oath, he announces a decimation of the
ninth legion, whereupon their officers beg him to relent. He eventu-
ally agrees to decimate only the 120 ringleaders (Appian 2.47.195). In
Dio, at the end of his speech, Caesar distributes lots for decimation,
but he has arranged things so that the most troublesome soldiers will
draw the lots. These are executed, and Caesar dismisses the rest of the
legion, which immediately 
Æ Æ
 its act and wants to serve
again (41.35.5). There is no emotion mentioned in Appian, just a cry
(Łæı b IŁæø, 2.47.195), although ŁæB is itself an extremely
vivid word. Yet Caesar’s soldiers do feel metanoia in Appian, after
their defeat at Dyrrachium (2.63.262 and 2.64.265), and demand

52
Disease imagery occurs at 41.29.1: in a body, as in an army, the damaged parts
must be removed before they can infect the rest.
53
See Van Stekelenberg (1976: 49 n. 48) for a comparison of the two speeches; he
prefers Dio’s characterization to the reproach he sees in Appian’s (50), although he
views the former as naïve (53).
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 177
punishment; they soon defeat Pompey’s armies at Pharsalus. We
might even want to see the metagnonai of Dio and (especially) the
metanoia of Appian as causing this victory.
The second mutiny, occurring roughly two years later in Campa-
nia, is almost certainly a result of the soldiers’ continuing dissatis-
faction; none of their earlier demands had been met (Chrissanthos
2001: 68). Yet where modern historians see cause and effect, the
ancient sources characterize Caesar’s soldiers as doubly disloyal.
Dio begins by explaining that Caesar had been generous to his
officers, but that the legions felt cheated of their share (42.52.1).54
So they nearly kill the praetor in charge (42.52. 2) and then follow
him to Caesar, killing others (cf. Appian 2.92.387 on Sallust). Appian
presents the mutiny in the context of civil unrest that is calmed by
Antony at Rome; immediately afterwards, a mutiny among the
legions occurs (2.92.386, cf. Livy Per. 113 and a probable allusion at
Plut. Ant. 10.1); the impression that plebs and soldiers are equally
volatile and need no reason to rebel is here reinforced.
Dio represents Caesar as afraid to send his bodyguard against
them, fearing that they too might mutiny (42.52.3). He allows them
to enter Rome, unarmed but for their swords, and they voice their
complaints (excessive dangers and paltry rewards) and demand to
be released from service (Dio 42.53.1–2; Appian says that they
are owed rewards from Pharsalus and that they are being kept beyond
their allotted years, 2.92.386–7). Dio assures us that this is a bluff
and suggests that the soldiers are holding themselves hostage against
Caesar’s proposed invasion of Africa. Caesar promises 1,000 drachmas
to each man, whereupon they say that they want money, not promises.
Things seem more dangerous in Appian, for Caesar stations loyal
soldiers around his house and around the city gates. Caesar disregards
the warnings of his friends and faces them in person (2.92.388).
This move seems to give him a tactical advantage, for when he asks
the soldiers what they want, they are surprised into silence, and too
abashed to mention the money, settling instead for demanding dis-
charge, but with the hope that he will offer them a bribe to continue
(2.93.389). Caesar discharges them (IçÅØ, 2.93.390), and promises

54
Chrissanthos (1999: 130–1) suggests three main causes for this mutiny: the
soldiers’ length of service, their lack of pay, and the perception that Caesar’s clementia
(he freed many of his enemies rather than punishing them) increased the duration of
the war.
178 Mutiny in the Roman Army
them the rewards he will give to the soldiers who do continue with
him. Dio’s Caesar calls the soldiers ‘Quirites’ and discharges them, but
his presentation rather misses the punch of Appian (see below).
Dio, writing in Greek, then explains that this means that Caesar
thinks of the soldiers as citizens. At this calling of their bluff, the
soldiers are alarmed and immediately back down, asking to re-enlist
(Æ
ØøŁ
 çÅŁ
 
c Łø  Ø 
Øe 

º, ŒÆd
ººa b ƒŒ


 ÆPe
r , ººa b ŒÆd Kƪª
ºº
Ø ŒÆd
ı æÆ

Ø ƒ KŁ
ºÆd ŒÆd e º
 Ø Øƺ

Ø
 å, ‘being humbled and fearing that they might suffer some-
thing awful, they changed their minds, and with many supplications
begged him and spoke to him, announcing many things, and in
particular that they promised willingly to fight with him, and that
they would finish up the war all by themselves’, Dio 42.53.4). In
Appian, the promised generosity of Caesar makes them ashamed
(ÆNg ÆPŒÆ A Ø KØ
, 2.93.391), and they are jealous of the
soldiers who will share in Caesar’s triumph, not to mention the booty.
Dio’s Caesar continues to call their bluff, discharging both those
present and those who have not served their full terms, for, as he says
(emphatically), Pb ªaæ Pb Æ Ø H, ‘I really don’t need you
at all’, (42.53.6). But he insists that he will pay them the promised
rewards, in order that nobody will think him ungrateful. The implied
contrast between his behaviour and theirs is pointed and deliberate.
Dio’s Caesar even allots land to the soldiers and offers to pay them
part of the money immediately and part, with interest, later. At this,
they are both cowed (literally ‘enslaved’, ıºø 
, 42.54.2) and
grateful, and Caesar declares that they are free of obligation to each
other and then invites any soldiers who are willing to rejoin him. All
of them alike (
 ›ø) re-enlist, but Caesar takes the oppor-
tunity to rid himself of those ÆæÆå
Ø (troublemakers, 42.55.1)
who know how to farm (Brunt 1962: 81). Those who could not farm,
Caesar destroyed through various pretexts in the African campaign
(42.55.3; cf. 43.14.1).
Appian presents the soldiers as embarrassed into silence at this
point, hoping that Caesar will change his mind and allow them to re-
enlist. It is only at the urging of his friends, however, that Caesar
speaks, and his first words are ºÆ Id æÆØøH, ‘citizens, and
not soldiers’ (2.93.392). But his speech goes no further in Appian, for
the soldiers cannot bear it, and shout out that they 
Æ
E their
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 179
behaviour and beg him to retain them (2.94.393). Caesar walks away
from the platform, whereupon they redouble their cries, asking for
punishment. He stages his indecision, and eventually makes up his
mind to allow them to serve, all except the tenth legion, by whose
behaviour he is extremely disappointed. Nonetheless, he will share his
booty with them, and give them land allotments too. All the soldiers
except those of the tenth rejoice. These beg for decimation, but
Caesar, seeing that they have IŒæØH 
ÆFÆ, ‘truly repented’,
forgives them as well, and they set off for Africa (2.94.396).
Dio’s Caesar is a tough cookie, never giving in for an instant, and
even using the mutiny to free himself of undesirable soldiers. And, as
it happens, he does not give much up this time either; it is uncertain
how many soldiers were discharged with bonuses and land, but it
cannot have been many. As for the others, Caesar merely claims that
he will reward them without actually doing so; in reality, he simply
eliminates them later on.55 Appian’s Caesar is a tougher cookie yet,
and his narrative mentions no discharges, replacing them with threats
of decimation.56 Again, as with Scipio’s mutiny, Dio’s soldiers are not
explicitly emotional, but it is clear that the manipulation of their
emotions has become a key element in the handling of a mutiny,
and also that Dio feels Caesar has handled the situation beautifully.

55
See Suetonius, Jul. 67.1, for the general principle of strictness: Caesar punished
deserters and mutineers with severity, but overlooked other faults. Our sources
do suggest that this was Caesar’s standard policy, for the mutinying ninth legion
at Placentia was also discharged only to be reinstated (Suet. Jul. 69). For Caesar’s
legendary control over his men, see e.g. BG 1.41.1, where he reassures the army with
just a few words.
56
As Chrissanthos (1999: 135) notices, none of the leaders of this mutiny is
punished at the time, which suggests the weakness of Caesar’s position. He views
the historical narratives as either attempting to whitewash a serious situation or
misled by Caesar’s reputation for effectiveness; either way, the result was not, in his
view, a success (2001: 73). See too Plutarch, who says that people criticized Caesar for
punishing the soldiers only by calling them citizens, and then for rewarding them with
money and land (Caes. 51.1). Other sources which allude to the mutiny make clear
that they consider Caesar to have handled it admirably: Suetonius claims that sedi-
tiosissimum quemque were punished by loss of future rewards (each of the most
rebellious, Jul. 70), and Frontinus uses the incident as an example of how mutinies
should be quelled, claiming that Caesar concealed his fear and, minaci vultu, gave
discharge to those who asked it. But soon, exauctoratos paenitentia coegit satisfacere
imperatore obsequentioresque in reliqua opera se dare (paenitentia forced those who
had been discharged to make amends to their general and to offer themselves more
obligingly for the remainder of the work, Strat. 1.9.4).
180 Mutiny in the Roman Army
Appian describes the soldiers with the word he uses to delineate a
moral aspect to change of mind, metanoeo,57 and is more interested
in their emotions than we might expect from his practice in previous
sections. Further, Appian depicts the soldiers as explicitly claiming
metanoia for themselves, which suggests that this is the emotion
Caesar would want them to feel (possibly encompassing both genuine
repentance and fear/awe at Caesar’s power?); when he forgives them,
it is because he sees that they really do feel metanoia (again, likely a
combination of repentance and realization that this is the best solu-
tion). In both authors, then, we have come a long way from the mere
intimidation of soldiers: Dio presents intimidation plus manipula-
tion, and Appian has the soldiers themselves enact their submission
to Caesar’s will. Both of these tendencies reach their full flowering in
our final mutiny.
For the mutinies under Drusus and Germanicus in 14 ce we have a
wealth of information, at least by comparison to previous incidents.
They are in fact two separate mutinies, both of which will here be
considered. Tacitus discusses them at greatest length, but they are also
treated, more briefly, in Dio, and mentioned by Suetonius (in a
number of places) and Velleius Paterculus. The description in Tacitus

57
Metanoia is not exclusively moral in Appian, but all moral regret is denoted by
metanoia: for practical metanoia, cf. the metanoia of Carthage at their past follies (Lib.
8.52.225), Roman metanoia for their ill-advised attack on Hasdrubal (Lib. 8.102.482),
Sulla’s shaming reminder to Mithridates that he didn’t 
Æ
E the war until he
began to lose (Mithr. 12.58.238), the Senate’s 

ı for not accepting Caesar’s
proposals now that it appears too late (BC 2.36.143), Caesar 
ÆH killing the
tribunes (BC 2.109.454), Octavian’s army is discharged, but, given the difficulties of
agricultural life, x 
Zåº Iƺ 

ı, and returns (BC 3.42.174), the
army has 
ØÆ ŒÆd  about killing Sextus Julius (possibly meant to be two
distinct emotions, BC 3.77.314 and 4.58.252), the Senate’s metanoia about its conces-
sions to Octavian (from context, probably regret rather than remorse, BC 3.90.371,
and their metanoia is confirmed at 3.91.373), Octavian promises his soldiers they will
not 
Æ
Ø staying with him (BC 5.129.536). For metanoia with a moral tinge, cf.
the metanoia of Caesar’s soldiers for a military failure (BC 2.64.265), the joint
metanoia of Caesar and Pompey immediately before Pharsalus (BC 2.77.324, the
people’s metanoia about voting amnesty to the liberators (BC 2.143.598), the meta-
noia of the people about the trust they have put in Antony (BC 3.39.162), the
ÆNıı 
e ±æÅÆ ŒÆd 
ÆFÆ of Brutus’ soldiers (BC 4.131.549),
the soldiers 
Æ
Ø killing Nonius after they are not punished for it (BC 5.16.66).
The context of our passage, plus the number of moral episodes of metanoia, suggest
that it is not merely expedience that the soldiers worry about. Appian seems to use
metameleia and metamelei without a moral tone (Syr. 11.16.70, BC 2.29.113,
3.38.153), indeed, as almost a synonym for metagignosko (BC 1.39.176, 2.91.382,
4.130.547, 5.141.588).
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 181
is rich; in fact, Annales 1 is our single fullest source on mutiny in the
Roman army,58 encompassing a wealth of detail. The treatment of
these mutinies is the culmination of trends we have seen in previous
incidents.
These mutinies differ from the others here treated in that there is a
potential for civil discord inherent in both the timing and the person-
nel involved, and most of our sources make this explicit in the case of
Germanicus, insofar as he is offered the imperial throne by the
soldiers.59 The narratives make it difficult to determine the historical
truth: Tacitus, for instance, has often been seen as using the two
mutinies as a vehicle for drawing invidious comparisons between
Drusus and Germanicus (or even Germanicus and Tiberius), but it
is by no means obvious that one has quelled his mutiny in a way
superior to the other.60 We begin in Pannonia. The death of Augustus
and accession of Tiberius lead to a public holiday in the legionary
camps (ob iustitium aut gaudium intermiserat solita munia, Ann.
1.16.2); Tacitus’ narrative begins with the sort of anti-soldier preju-
dice familiar from Livy’s rendition of the Scipionic mutiny. The
soldiers are lazy and greedy, and they listen receptively to the com-
plaints voiced by a certain Percennius, who had been the leader of a
theatrical claque before joining the army (Kneppe 1994: 340–1).
Tacitus paints an exaggerated portrait, suggesting that the soldiers
are not merely unhappy about length or conditions of military ser-
vice, but about the very fact of service (1.17.1). While some soldiers
may have regretted the military life, there is no evidence in other
sources that this would precipitate mutiny. Indeed, it might well
have been a source of shame and so have remained private. Other

58
Manolaraki (2003: 2) makes a similar point about his Histories, which are an
almost unbroken narrative of consecutive mutinies.
59
Tac. 1.35.3–4, Dio 57.3.1, 5.1–2, and 6.1. See too Velleius and Suetonius, who
make clear that they view the two mutinies as revolutionary (2.125.1–2; Tib. 25.2–3,
Cal. 1.1, 9.1, and 48.1–2 (the latter author focusing particularly on Germanicus)). This
‘selection’ of Germanicus as emperor is likely to be anachronistic, reflecting the
practice of later armies, but, as M. Williams (1997: 51 and 54) notes, Germanicus is
a plausible challenger to Tiberius.
60
This is a key difference, as our other sources are in general favourable to the
army leaders. Velleius seems to prefer Drusus’ handling of the mutiny (2.125.4). On
the comparison between Drusus and Germanicus, see e.g. Walker (1952: 129–30),
Yavetz (1969: 110, favourable to Germanicus); Woodman (2006: 311 and 327, critical
of Germanicus); M. Williams 1997: 64, agnostic, but cf. 60, which favours Germani-
cus). On Germanicus and Tiberius, see Syme (1970: 254); Pelling (1993); and Walker
(1952: 160–1).
182 Mutiny in the Roman Army
complaints are more familiar: the men are underpaid, abused by their
superiors, receive no recognitions for valour, and should have been
discharged long ago. Finally, they compare themselves to the praetor-
ian guard, who had an easier life and were paid double.61
Their commander, Junius Blaesus, does his best to calm the men,
and agrees to send his son to Rome to make the soldiers’ complaints
known. In Tacitus, he warns the mutineers that they will soon have
paenitentia (1.18.6), and he is right. But first, they engage in acts of
violence (1.20.1), resisting arrest, disobeying orders, attacking and
killing centurions, and expelling officers. Drusus arrives, and the men
issue demands. Drusus equivocates, which enrages them, whereupon
they attack one of his entourage (1.27). Luckily for Drusus, there is a
waxing and waning eclipse that night, which terrifies the superstitious
men (1.28.3).62 The Pannonian soldiers are ripe for emotional ma-
nipulation, for they have displayed a wide variety of emotional states
on their own. We thus find in Tacitus a logical extension of the
standard stereotypes about the people: they are ill or mad, and need
a doctor/general to cure them (Woodman 2006). Drusus displays the
admirable consistency of a good officer, and suggests through mes-
sengers that individual soldiers, for their own good, reconsider. They
do so, explicitly (‘why not instead be first with our paenitentia?’, ita
primi ad paenitentiam sumus, 1.28.5, say the representatives of Dru-
sus as they circulate among the men). So the mutiny more or less
falls apart. Drusus determines that severity is the best policy, and
the leaders of the mutiny are tricked, handed over, or killed by
the soldiers, who are demoralized by the bad weather at their make-
shift camp (Ann. 1.29.4–30.1, Dio 57.4.4–5). Tacitus presents Drusus’
actions as effective; the men accept his suggestion that they show their
paenitentia and he thereby regains control over them. The emotions

61
As often, the grievances of the soldiers seem to have been legitimate (Dudley
1968: 136 and 144). Wilkes (1963: 268) suggests that a primary cause of discontent
was the fact that the soldiers had heard that they were to be given land in Pannonia,
rather than some more desirable location, upon discharge. As Keppie (1984) notes,
the military was in the process of changing from a temporary to a permanent career;
not all soldiers would have known this, or liked it. See too Keppie (1984: 170) on the
effects to the army, both psychological and financial, of the Varus disaster.
62
On the similarities between this passage and Lucan’s account of Caesar’s mutiny,
see Goodyear (1972) ad 1.25.1 with citations; he believes that both men are simply
using ‘a common stock’ of mutiny topoi, but also that Caesar’s mutiny was so well
known that it was likely to have influenced the description of other mutinies.
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 183
of the soldiers, particularly their paenitentia, have become central to
the narrative. But their paenitentia does not seem to have any moral
component; rather, Drusus capitalizes upon the lucky accident of a
lunar eclipse to exploit the men’s poor rationality for his own ends
(Dudley 1968: 138; Fulkerson 2006a: 173).
Neither the German legions nor their leader are so fortunate, and
their mutiny is both more serious and treated at greater length by
both Tacitus and Dio (and these two features reinforce one another,
Fulkerson 2006a: 176). There are a number of important differences
between the two: there are more soldiers affected, Germanicus him-
self (more popular than Drusus) is a commander already in Germany,
and there are lower-class recruits fresh from Rome who are immoral
and unused to army life. Upon Germanicus’ arrival, the men feign
regret, appearing before him ‘with eyes cast to the ground, as if in
paenitentia’ (deiectis in terram oculis velut paenitentia, 1.34.1), but
they are only playacting, and they soon begin to voice their com-
plaints: wounds, paltry pay further eroded by the necessity of bribes,
time-wasting and difficult work, excessive service, and the still-delayed
legacy from Augustus. Things escalate, and are barely returned to
control, and then only by Germanicus’ friends, who hustle him away
from the men. Dio mentions that the men have the same grievances as
the Pannonian legions, but adds that they prefer Germanicus to
Tiberius (ºf F !Ø
æı Œæ
ø ›æ
 ZÆ, 57.5.1) and so
salute him as emperor. Tacitus elaborates the scene more fully, but
both authors portray Germanicus as attempting to quell the mutiny
by threatening to kill himself. In both authors, there is a wisecracking
soldier, who offers his own sword as being sharper, and so Germani-
cus abandons this expedient for another, a forged letter from Tiberius
granting the men their demands and doubling Augustus’ bequest to
them (Ann. 1.36.3–4, Dio 57.5.3). Dio suggests that this was a suc-
cessful move, Tacitus that the soldiers saw through it and continued
to make demands.
A senatorial legation soon arrives, and brings further troubles, for
the soldiers assume they have come to undo the benefits extorted
from Germanicus (Ann. 1.39.3, Dio 57.5.5). They riot, nearly killing
some senators, whom Germanicus, according to Tacitus, quickly
dismisses (1.39.9). For Dio, this is the culmination of the mutiny; he
claims that once the senators were sent away, the army grew quiet
( åÆ Æ) and had such a change of heart (K  ÆÅ ª


ƺc qºŁ, 57.5.7) that they killed some of the leaders of the
184 Mutiny in the Roman Army
mutiny and handed the rest over for punishment.63 Tacitus includes a
spectacular scene, in which Germanicus stages a vignette reminiscent
of that found in a captured city (velut in urbe victa facies, 1.41.1): he
sends away his family and the other women in the camp to the Treviri
for safety. He then delivers a speech which chastises the men for their
madness and insubordination, reminds them of the benefits they have
received in the past, and attempts to shame them into better behav-
iour. This speech succeeds, and the army begs for forgiveness. Then,
as in Dio, the soldiers punish some of the ringleaders themselves, and
hand over the rest. Their paenitentia has finally arrived,64 and the
German legions soon engage in battles to build up their confidence
and to purge the emotions aroused by the mutiny. Germanicus too
has quelled his mutiny, though with greater cost. In Dio, the emo-
tional aspects of the mutiny are downplayed, but he does see genuine
change in the soldiers. The Tacitean Germanicus, by contrast, has
provided his soldiers with an emotional spectacle reminiscent in
some ways of Scipio’s careful staging of his confrontation with the
legions, but also one which appeals to emotions other than fear. In
Tacitus, we see the most vivid interaction between general and sol-
diery yet.
I have examined four incidents in which armies have rebelled, and
have traced a chronological tendency towards greater interest in the
soldiers, rather than the effectiveness of their leaders. Where our
sources represent generals of earlier mutinies (e.g. Scipio) as simply
meting out punishments without regard to the feelings of the men,
the treatments of Caesar and Germanicus depict those generals as
carefully manipulating the soldiers’ emotions into a state that could
reasonably be construed as remorse. Its sincerity is of little moment;
what matters is that the general can convince the men, or vice versa,
that a convincing display of paenitentia/metanoia is vital to wiping
the slate clean. So not only is it possible for our sources to depict
armies as displaying repentance, they have a remarkably sophisticated
understanding of its use to attain joint goals, whatever their beliefs of

63
See Malloch (2004: 198–9) for further differences between the versions of
Tacitus and Dio, and for the argument that what is usually seen as discrete traditions
is a matter of literary choice.
64
The word does not appear again in Tacitus’ narrative, but it has been fore-
shadowed first in the Pannonian mutiny and then in the German legions’ pretence of
paenitentia. Suetonius claims that the German soldiers were ad paenitentiam versi at
the sight of Germanicus’ son (Cal. 9.1).
 Mutiny in the Roman Army 185
the genuineness of army feeling. Presenting an army as regretful for
bad behaviour serves as an implicit, forced promise that it will not
happen again. The chronological shift, too, is significant, as it coheres
with a broader shift in the empire towards interest in the soldiery in
its own right, and as a locus of power.
 9

Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman

This chapter explores the connections between the dearth of remorse

displays in ancient literature and the necessity to appear consistent.1
My research has suggested both that ancient agents are exceedingly
unlikely to admit regret for public acts, in public situations, and
that adults are more inhibited in their expressions of remorse than
younger people. In their public roles, therefore, high-status adult men,
the people about whom we know the most in the ancient world, seem
to have two good reasons not to admit they have anything to regret,
or even reconsider. This hypothesis, I believe, goes a good part of
the way towards explaining why the modern remorse scenario seems
so rare in the ancient world, and both aspects of it derive from the same
cause, a belief that consistency in character and behaviour is a virtue,
and its opposite, vicious. I therefore first discuss the ways status seems
to inhibit remorse, and then discuss ancient views of consistency,
primarily through Plutarch.

1
A note on vocabulary: I have avoided using the word ‘constancy’ to describe the
behaviour seen as appropriate in antiquity, preferring instead ‘consistency’, which
I intend in a loose, non-technical sense. Although the words are certainly related,
there are, I think, significant differences between them: one can be constant to a larger
goal, which might lead to an instance of inconsistent behaviour, or the sacrificing of a
smaller goal. Our sources value, in its broadest sense, the characteristic of consistency,
of being ‘the same’. Further, I do not discuss the Greek and Latin vocabulary of
consistency because the meanings of these terms are generally uncontested even if the
nuances are not; the same event can be framed as either dangerously fickle or
admirably flexible depending on who evaluates it (for a single example, see Thucydi-
des’ Mytilenean Debate). But, although many of the words for consistency and its
opposite, versatility, are unambiguous in appraisal (e.g. Latin levitas, ‘fickleness’ and
Greek bebaios ‘firm, durable’), some words (e.g. polutropia) can be seen as both
positive and negative, as, of course, can the characteristic itself (Gibert 1995: 13–17,
22–3).
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 187
The notion that certain categories of people are more likely to
express remorse than others has been present, but perhaps under-
emphasized, in previous chapters. For instance, the fictional Her-
mione seems to be viewed as doubly likely to express remorse given
her youth and gender. So too, Neoptolemus in the Philoctetes and the
young men of comedy are also explicitly marked off as not mature,
which might make their expressions of remorse culturally more
acceptable than if they had been fully adult men.2 Furthermore, if it
is correct, as I shall argue it is, that high-status men see great value in
remaining ‘firm’, in order for things to function, it might conse-
quently be necessary for those around them to give way, showing
themselves to be ‘soft’ and ‘pliable’. Stereotypes about the hasty
and poor decision-making of the young and women reflect societal
expectations, and thereby help to reinforce the status quo. They also
create a distorting lens; when a woman or a pre-adult man makes a
decision, it is likelier to be viewed as flawed—and those making such
decisions may well receive more pressure to change them. Finally, it is
probably no coincidence that the places I have found young people to
express remorse are literary, rather than historical incidents; these
seemingly normative instances may obscure genuine difficulties, in
real life, for those who need to apologize: if everyone knows that those
with lower status apologize and express remorse, it may be difficult
for certain individuals to ‘lower’ themselves to do so, whatever their
actual situation. This likelihood is heightened if they know that they
will eventually assume the status of fully adult males.
This perception about status is, however, not simply stereotype. It
must reflect some aspect of ancient reality, even if no individual would
be willing to admit its application to his or her own person: the young
in ancient sources characteristically behave in ways that require apol-
ogy and revision, and this is intimately linked to the fact that youth is
also a time for learning and progress.3 With maturity, it seems, comes
the responsibility to have got it right the first time. For instance,

2
On the ancient, especially the Stoic, focus on adulthood, and the importance of
the transition to it, see Gill (2006: chs. 3.2 and 33, esp. 140–5, 154–6, 158, 163–4).
3
On youth as a time for improving one’s character, see Aristotle NE 1146a18–21
and 1151b17–22 (on Neoptolemus, with further discussion see Ch. 2 n. 38), and Gill
(1983: 475–6). And, on Aristotle’s connection of hasty behaviour to the young see
Rhet. 1389–90 (for Aristotle’s view that shame is a feature of youth, see above, nn. 33–4).
I suspect that living women’s decision-making receives so little attention in our
sources because it would have been relatively rare for a woman to make significant
188 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
I believe that Nero proved so maddening to our sources because he was
both young and occupying a position where maturity was needed.
There is probably also a difference, mostly obscured by our sources’
focus on great men and their deeds, between what happens in public
and what happens in private. We can see hints that suggest a greater
willingness to apologize in familial scenarios, notably in my discus-
sions of fathers and sons in New Comedy.4 And it may seem obvious
that any public figure, ancient or modern, must strive for consistency
to at least a certain degree; others will have difficulty knowing what
she stands for otherwise, and will find troubling (perhaps even
treacherous) substantial changes in behaviour. Political supporters
want to know that they can trust an individual to do what he says he
will, and ancient societies are so structured as to make most high-
status men into public figures. Further, there is a value in predict-
ability: we like to know what to expect in our dealings with others,
whether they be leaders, spouses, co-workers, or pets.
Yet there is a flip side: although consistency is a highly valued
attribute in the modern world as well, people can also be faulted when
they refuse to change. When, for instance, circumstances alter, or new
information is available, it can be dangerous to maintain one’s previ-
ous position. So both steadfastness and flexibility are beneficial at
different times and in different situations.5 Again, so much is uncon-
troversial. But, despite the fact that neither will always give the best
results, the classical worlds of Western antiquity seem almost inevit-
ably to privilege consistency over its opposite. This chapter offers
evidence that changes of mind are in and of themselves seen as
problematic to our ancient sources, particularly when they occur in
public figures. By contrast, the modern world values consistency, but
also recognizes circumstances in which flexibility is more effective.
We are perhaps more nuanced, but we may lose something by refus-
ing to recognize the legitimacy of demands for consistency.
The disjunction between ancient and modern viewpoints may
result in part from the modern habit of distinguishing between

decisions. But such examples as Medea offer a literary way to explore these issues; see
Foley (2001: 107–299) for discussion of female decision-makers in Greek tragedy.
4
For discussion of private apology and reconciliation in ancient comedy, see
Konstan (2010: 50–2 and 67–73).
5
This may also vary by role: for instance, we prefer our doctors and lawyers to be
able to react to changed circumstances with changed behaviour, but our politicians to
be steadfast about the ‘big issues’ (thanks to Svetla Slaveva-Griffin for the formulation
of this observation).
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 189
character and behaviour: one can be an integrated person while still
changing one’s mind.6 Indeed, such a person is probably more inter-
esting, and more genuine, than one who appears wholly predictable.
Such a distinction between inner and outer is certainly present in
ancient sources, but it is rarely a subject of explicit discussion. In
general, ancient authors seem to believe that a change of behaviour,
even for what is recognized as a good reason (e.g. changed circum-
stances or the necessity of appeasing the popular temper) bespoke
some larger, often troubling, inconcinnity within the self.
I have been suggesting that the ancient observer would have seen
many forms of change as problematic,7 and would have expected to
see behavioural change primarily in those of low status, either because
of their station in life, their gender, their age, or some other incap-
acity.8 Indeed, those who are not disadvantaged formally in these
ways often seem to ‘explain away’ their own behavioural changes as
not really falling into the category of change for one reason or
another. So a primary reason for the dearth of remorse in our ancient
sources is the high value placed upon consistency. After mentioning a
sample of the many other instances, selected primarily to illustrate the
range and prevalence of the material, I examine a single case, the Lives
of Plutarch, as an extended example.9

Plato’s Lysis 214d and Aristotle NE 1159b8–9 claim that the wicked
are unstable and so never alike, even to themselves. Vergil’s Aeneid

6
See Miller (2003: 109–10 and 226 n. 26) on the simultaneous modern beliefs that
character is readily changeable and that people are reliably stable, along with the
moral work each does in societies.
7
See Gibert (1995: 16 and 22–3) for a sophisticated discussion of the ways Greek
tragedy both problematizes and accepts change, and on Athenian views of change of
mind. The recent book of D’Angour (2011) on Athenian mentalité dismantles the
commonly held assumption that the Athenians disvalued all aspects of innovation,
but also provides evidence that certain forms of change were indeed frowned upon.
One, indeed, perhaps the most important of these, was personal behavioural change,
which was acceptable only in a very limited set of circumstances, and which seems
always to have required explanation.
8
See the similar distinctions drawn in W. V. Harris (2001: 264–336), chapters
which focus on the anger of women, anger in family relationships, and the master/
slave dynamic, especially p. 275 on some cultural results of viewing anger as a
‘woman’s problem’. In the modern world, by contrast to other emotions, anger is a
privilege of those in power (see esp. Spelman 1989: 264 and 267).
9
For other examples, see pp. 10, 40, and 42 n. 137.
190 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
4.569–70 notes the dangers of a mutabilis femina. While the Vergilian
passage is more famous, and adumbrates the status issues involved in
being allowed to maintain a coherent character, the philosophical
examples encapsulate a key ancient philosophical view about consist-
ency, which is that it is only possible to the virtuous person. We might
understand the wicked as consistent in their behaviour too (consist-
ently bad, always doing exactly the opposite of what the good
would do), but ancient philosophers invariably assume that the
non-virtuous are constant only in that they are always at odds with
themselves, and so liable to erratic and dangerous shifts in behaviour.
This notion is particularly valuable to us because it is, for the most
part, unexamined: our sources, both philosophical and non-
philosophical, repeatedly suggest that consistency (congruency,
non-contradiction, stability) forms a cornerstone of the successful life.10
Although this notion is prevalent, it is most explicitly discussed in
Platonic philosophy. The Republic, for instance, argues that virtue is a
harmony of the soul, in which each part performs its proper task.11
That such integration is valuable in itself is, again, simply assumed.
A ‘reason-ruled’ harmony may well appeal because of its inherent
simplicity, but the integrative model is never really challenged, and
the opposite is always depicted as inconstant.12 Neither ancient

10
See too Aristotle NE 1099a12–14 on the conflict of pleasures in most people,
1100b1–21 on the happy man as unchangeable, and 1154b29–31 on the vicious man
as changeable.
11
For this notion, see Gill (1996: ch. 4, esp. 240–75), and D. C. Russell 2005: 60–1,
134–5, 153, and 219 on Plato’s ‘holistic’, ‘rationally incorporating’ conception of
happiness. On the unity of Platonic virtues, see Irwin (1995: 41–4, 226–7); 231–3
note the vital importance of stability. See too Gill’s (2006: 12–13) conception of
‘holism’ in both Plato and Aristotle and Stoic thought (80, 207–8). There is much
complexity in Plato’s view of how exactly the parts of the soul cohere. But what is clear
is that Plato always favours harmony, and that he equates it with consistency (see, e.g.
Rep. 4 and 8–9, with Phdr. 246a1–248b5, 253c7–256e2 on the struggle between
elements, and Price 1995: 42 on the dangers of ‘contrary desires’). Gill (1996:
245–51 and 272–4, with nn. and citations) argues that Plato and Aristotle advocate
cohesion and not control, which latter is a result of imperfected virtue. See Lorenz
(2006) passim, for a discussion of conflict between the parts of the Platonic soul, and
Plato Rep. 442c9–d2 on harmony, and 554d9–e6 on disharmony in the soul;
351e–352a on disharmony in the state and soul.
12
See Plato’s ‘defective kinds’ of person, especially the democratic man, who is
torn in different directions by his desires (Rep. 561a–d with Gill 1996: 258–60 on the
timocratic man, and Rep. 439e–440b on the sufferings of Leontius). These desires are
presumed to be insatiable, so the person who does not control them is under constant
stress from their impetus (Rep. 581b3–4, 590b8 with Price 1995: 60–3). It is anything
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 191
philosophers nor their contemporaries take seriously the counter-
proposition that a vicious soul could be similarly well managed,
with each of its parts conducing to a single evil end.13 Those ‘oppon-
ents of virtue’ who argue against Socrates in the dialogues are
defeated as soon as it is shown that their models of the satisfactory
life do not contain a single, coherent guiding principle; even such
interlocutors as Thrasymachus, advocating complete injustice, do not
manage to envision it as a unified whole (e.g. Rep. 360d–361b; see too
Callicles Gorg. 491d–494b). This is related to the Platonic notion that
the best things are those which are most permanent, that is, which
change least (see e.g. Rep. 380e–381a; Phaedo 78c–e adds the notion
that the fewer parts, the better),14 but this principle of simplicity
seems to hold outside Platonic philosophy as well.
The belief that fixity is admirable seems so powerful that it even
occurs in the revision, however slight, of one’s own views after they
are publicly known. So, for example, Quintilian observes: et fortasse
tutissimum erat famae modo studenti nihil ex eo mutare quod multis
annis non sensissem modo verum etiam abprobassem (Inst. 3.6.63–4,
‘and indeed, perhaps it would be safest if I were concerned only for
my reputation to change nothing of those things which I had not only
believed in for many years, but even approved’). Quintilian, although
he is making a minimal reclassification of one part of his system,
seems acutely aware of the dangers he faces. Yet he is willing to take
this risk because of his dedication to the subject; he adduces the
examples of Cicero, who condemned some of his own early writings,
and of Hippocrates, who once admitted a misdiagnosis. And, he says,
continued study is likely to lead to improvement of knowledge (65).

but irrelevant that the tyrannical soul will be most prone to ‘disorder and regret’
(taraches kai metameleias, Rep. 577e1).
13
Reason-ruled psyche: Plato Rep. 441d–444e, 589c–592b; see too Gill (1996:
245–60). See Irwin (1977: 227–39) for discussion of the notion that the ‘defective’
souls do seem to have a single, unified purpose; he suggests that Plato would solve this
objection by pointing to the fact that in them, rationality is in the service of non-
rational desire (a kind of splitting). Irwin (1995: 205–22) discusses conflict within the
soul. See too D. C. Russell (2005: 36) on the possibility of satisfying certain sets of
vicious desires.
14
See too Aristotle NE 1105a30–34 on the necessity of an unchangeable character
to a virtuous act, and Introduction, n. 31, on the happy man. Incontinence always
leads to regrets (but the incontinent person is superior to the self-indulgent, who is too
depraved even for regret; NE 1150b29–35). D. C. Russell (2005: 97–8) discusses the
Phaedo passage.
192 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
But nobody need repent having studied with Quintilian in the past
(ita neminem didicisse paeniteat, 65), for, as he states, his alteration
is primarily a reorganization of the same material. This elaborate
fencing-about for such a small matter suggests how much more
dangerous a larger alteration might seem.
To be sure, ancient sources contain the recognition that persistence
in ignorance is foolish. In a similar context to Quintilian, Cicero
claims that he will be happy to change his sententiam if someone
points out an error in his collation of previous rhetorical theory: non
enim parum cognosse, sed in parum cognito stulte et diu perseverasse
turpe est, propterea quod alterum communi hominum infirmitati,
alterum singulari cuiusque vitio est attributum (Inv. 2.3.9, ‘for it is
not having insufficient knowledge, but persisting a long time in
insufficient knowledge that is shameful; since the one is assumed to
be a disease common to all, but the other is assumed to be a flaw
particular to an individual’). Adaptability can be praised—although
Cicero does not actually change his views here; he merely states that
he might be willing to do so if he were provided with good enough
reasons.
Counter-examples to the claim that behavioural change was nor-
mally seen as problematic can certainly be found, but they do not
undermine the validity of the paradigm. One primary category of
citations which value change is those philosophical passages, many
already cited above in different contexts, which attempt to claim for
remorse-like emotions the possibility of moral improvement; I note
in particular the passages cited in Introduction, n. 61, particularly
those from Plutarch (also discussed below, p. 198 and n. 32), Democ-
ritus fr. 43 (n. 83), and Aristotle NE 1178b4–20 (with1128b10–35 on
the limited value of aischune, and Introduction, n. 31). So for
those interested in advocating for moral progress, both change
(= self-improvement) and metameleia/paenitentia (= seeing a need for
improvement) can be positive. Amendment of character, in a philo-
sophical context, is at least a step in the right direction. At the same time,
such passages are rare, and they are rarer still outside philosophers.
A single example, illustrative of a strand not much present in
our extant sources, is the Tabula of Cebes (usually dated to the first
or second century ce).15 This text shows a surprising tolerance for

15
The dating is primarily based on its language; see Fitzgerald and White (1983:
3–4).
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 193
metanoia, viewing it as the start of amendment. The work as a whole
is a description of human life, with personifications of various qual-
ities. It claims that if Metanoia encounters one who has suffered, she
releases him from ills and introduces him to Doxa and Paideia
(11.1).16 This passage is often pointed to as the first place where a
pagan concept of ‘repentance’ appears, and it is usually assumed to be
influenced by Judaeo-Christian sources. This may well be so, but we
have already seen hints of a positive valuation for metanoia and
metameleia in earlier philosophical texts. I suspect the Tabula may
simply represent a larger strand of barely extant philosophical think-
ing that differed sharply from popular morality; it can be combined
with Ciceronian and Senecan notions (discussed at pp. 38–43) in
order to provide the dimmest outline of a philosophical viewpoint.
For, although public men seemingly could not afford to concede that
their prior decisions had been mistaken, such renunciation was, at
least in theory, almost a requirement for ancient philosophers, given
that no man is born a sage. If there is any place in pagan antiquity
where we might find an assertion that amendment was necessary for a
better life, it is likely to be philosophy. Even here, however, the notion
is not as prevalent as we might expect.17
Further, many of the non-philosophical passages in which flexibil-
ity is praised, or in which someone of high status claims to change his
mind, seem to be undercut by other sources, or are otherwise prob-
lematic. For instance, Theognis 213–18 praises the virtues of the
octopus, which undulates and changes colour according to circum-
stance.18 But Athenaeus 7.316f and 317f suggest that the octopus
changes colour through fear, which undermines Theognis’ more
neutral interpretation. Ovid’s Ars Amatoria 1.755–62 and 769–90
discuss the versatility of lover-cum-hunter in a way that is tongue-
in-cheek, but which presumably reflects a genuine feeling that differ-
ent circumstances may sometimes call for different behaviours. That
said, the context (adultery, probably) is hardly one to give great

16
Fitzgerald and White (1983) observe ad loc. that the usage is surprising, but note
that the Cynics sometimes seem to see metanoia as a positive turning point (n. 40 with
citations). 35.4 uses metameleia with no apparent difference in meaning.
17
Indeed, that our ancient philosophical narratives de-emphasize such ‘conversion
narratives’ may well be a function of popular mistrust of them. Alcibiades is a solitary,
and only a partial exception (see Introduction, n. 61).
18
Significant words: Theog. 213–14 poikilon ethos.
194 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
confidence that flexibility is a virtue overall. Finally, Horace Ep. 1.8 is
written by a man satisfied with nothing (quae nocuere sequar, fugiam
quae profore credam; | Romae Tibur amam ventosus, Tibure Romam,
‘I pursue what has been harmful, I flee that which I think will help:
like a wind, I love Tibur when I am at Rome, and Rome when I am at
Tibur’). Horace’s assertion of ‘first-person fickleness’ is extremely
rare. This poem, in fact, is addressed to Celsus, serving Tiberius in
Armenia as a scriba, and apparently a self-satisfied one; he is being
encouraged to think more carefully about his own position and
especially whether he should be quite so pleased with himself; Horace
presents himself as an (exaggerated, and quite possibly blameworthy)
exemplar in order to underline the point.19
Here again, the picture is not wholly one-sided: the virtuousness of
constancy is also occasionally challenged, again, primarily by phil-
osophers. Aristotle NE 1151b observes that some people are exces-
sively tenacious, holding on to a principle for its own sake, simply to
show their dominance (Goold 1994: 180). Seneca too, although he
generally emphasizes the importance of consistency, of not acting in
anger, and of behaving in such a way that one can look back without
distress,20 is also sensitive to the negative nuances of consistency

19
There is, of course, much more to be said about this poem and about Horace’s
exquisite sensitivity, here and throughout his work, to status and the respect due to
others. My interpretation follows, generally speaking, that of R. Mayer (1994) ad loc.
Horace plays with this notion elsewhere; see e.g. the example of Davus, the slave of
Sat. 2.7, who accuses Horace of spouting the philosophy of simplicity and self-
sufficiency only when he lacks dinner invitations.
20
On Senecan constantia, see Star (2006), who also draws attention to its positive
and negative aspects. See e.g. Brev. Vit. 10.3 with G. D. Williams (2003) ad loc.; he
notes that Seneca’s assumption that the levitas of the occupati (loosely, ‘people who
busy themselves’, normally with public affairs) will pull them in different directions.
The varying nature of their desires will mean that they regularly regret past actions,
and, significantly, this regret does not diminish over time (G. D. Williams 2003: 178).
Of Seneca’s numerous criticisms of fickleness, see particularly those in De Tranqui-
litate (2.7–8, and 2.13). As a general rule, the human mind is mobilis enim et inquieta
(fickle and restless). See too Cons. Helv. 6.6, Ep. Mor. 13.6 (levitas is foeda), 20.6, 47.21,
52.2 and Ep. Mor. 120.22 (magnam rem puta unum hominem agere. Praeter sapientem
autem nemo unum agit, ceteri multiformes sumus, ‘believe that it is a great thing to
behave as one man. Nobody behaves in a unified manner but the wise man; the rest of
us are many-shaped’). This letter as a whole forms a key component in understanding
the value Seneca placed on consistency; cf. Inwood (2005: 149, 259, 265, and 293).
Other instances, some referring explicitly to paenitentia as deriving from inconstantia,
at Brev. Vit. 10.2–3 and 12.1, Ira 3.7.2, Otio 1.3, Vita Beata 2.3, and Ben. 1.1.4.
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 195
when it necessitates continuing in an evil course.21 To valorize con-
sistency above all else runs the risk of encouraging the young to
choose their modus vivendi before they are advanced enough to
know what is right. And Seneca suggests that changed circumstance
or knowledge can be sufficient reason to change one’s behaviour.22
But despite these counter-examples, it is normally the worrying
aspects of change which are invoked in particular incidents. So, to
take a famous example, Pericles’ claim in Thucydides to be the same
(› ÆP, 2.61.1), is clearly designed to end the discussion: the Athen-
ians owe it to him and to themselves also to be ‘the same’, and
deviation is dangerous. That his claim to be ‘the same’ does not clinch
matters is only part of why this subject is so interesting. For he claims
to be the same precisely in a context in which there is debate about
whether change is the right thing; the war has been more difficult
than expected, and the Athenians are reconsidering. So too, Thucydi-
des’ Mytilenean debate, or rather, Cleon’s speech in it, privileges fixity
of opinion over all other goods.23
It is also important to note that change is not itself always universally
recognized: for some, change may feel like stability, and sometimes
aspects of continuity are emphasized by preference to perceived alter-
ations. The repeated ‘restorations’ of the Roman Republic are but one
noteworthy example: one man’s ‘same’ness is another’s revolution.

21
So e.g. Tranq. 14.1 (exhortation to becoming facilis, while being on the alert
against levitas; particularly the chestnut utrumque infestum est tranquilitati, et nihil
mutare posse et nihil pati (each is opposed to tranquility, both the incapacity to change
and the incapacity to bear up)); many levitate vexantur ac taedio adsiduaque muta-
tione propositi (are plagued with fickleness and weariness and a constant change of
purpose, Tranq. 2.6), but there are also those qui non constantiae vitio parum leves
sunt sed inertiae (who are not changeable enough, because of the fault not of
constancy but of laziness). Otio 3.1 claims that it would be best of all never go have
to change one’s opinion; unfortunately, the search for truth means that we sometimes
must. This may well be connected to his hopes for Nero: his self-appointed task, we
might say, is to inculcate virtue into Nero, but also to render him sensitive to the
necessity for re-examining the foundations of his virtue. See e.g. Ep. Mor. 7.6, where
the tener animus (young mind) cannot hold fast to its good character unless it has
positive models for emulation.
22
See Inwood (2005: 106–7) for the argument, based on just this issue, that Seneca
is less interested in developing rules than in offering advice for life as lived: ‘acknow-
ledgement of how a positive moral trait such as determination can be situationally
inappropriate makes a striking contrast to the common picture of Stoic endurance: on
this Stoic view, constant reassessment of the pay-off in any situation is called for’.
23
For discussion of the ambiguous role of flexibility in the debate, see Fulkerson
(2008: 128–44).
196 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
I have already suggested that there is no obvious reason to prefer
consistency over flexibility; in fact, both are essential to living life
well. The key is to know which is appropriate when. Ancient sources
sometimes recognize this, but they are nonetheless more likely, as a first
reflex, to disvalue change than to see it as beneficial. The modern world
views change itself as a positive thing (‘progress’, ‘evolution’, and
‘improvement’; compare the ambivalence of res novae). This is not
only a result of technology or the industrial revolution, although it
must surely be related. Modern valuation of change is part of a much
larger discourse that involves self-improvement, personal and emer-
gent relationships with a Protestant God, and Romantic notions of
individualism.24 To view the self as an ever-evolving work of art is
emphatically not an ancient perspective (Gibert 1995: 23). We seem
sometimes to value improvement over getting it right in the first place;
the distance one has travelled can itself be a mark of virtue. Greeks and
Romans, by contrast, believed that you owed it to yourself and others to
know the right thing in the first place, so that you didn’t need to keep
tinkering. To be the kind of person who behaves differently in the same
circumstances was seen as absurd, even dangerous.

I move now to more sustained discussion of a single author, as a way
of drawing out some of the implications suggested above. Plutarch’s
interest in character makes him an ideal source for exploring how
important consistency of behaviour was for public figures. Despite his
relative lateness in the classical tradition, his own views are emblem-
atic of a general trend in antiquity to disvalue and suspect change
except in very particular circumstances. Plutarch provides a nuanced
view about whether flexibility of behaviour is a sign of political
astuteness or the lack of a moral core, but, generally speaking, he
finds such changes disturbing, and worthy of attention. He adopts
several strategies for coping with perceived inconsistencies in public
personae, including explaining them away as preventing greater flaws,
ignoring them, either by focusing attention on other characteristics,
or by omitting certain incidents, displacing the charge onto other

24
Change for the sake of change seems to be a wholly modern phenomenon. See
Miller (1993: 109) on a similar view of change as anxiety-producing in the Icelandic
sagas. Again, D’Angour (2011) is extremely useful on this topic in Athens, and offers
much more nuanced discussion than I can here.
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 197
characters within the Life or onto the subject of the Life with which it
is paralleled, or bringing in more consistent figures as character
witnesses (each discussed at further length below).25 Generally speak-
ing, like many others in classical antiquity, he seems to find change
more palatable when it occurs early in a life, that is, when it can be
seen as a part of character development rather than as occurring in
fully formed adults.
Because Plutarch believes that, once formed, a character was ‘rela-
tively determinate and stable’,26 he is uncomfortable explaining dras-
tic changes of behaviour in his subjects, or even indecision about
important issues.27 He finds positive change more explicable (Syn.
Cimon/Lucull. 1.4), but he has difficulty with character disintegration.
Sometimes he suggests that extreme circumstances can erode charac-
ter, and sometimes that virtue which is not completely developed is
more easily undermined than that which is.28 But for Plutarch, this
is explanation, not exculpation: men ought to ensure that their virtue

25
He also sometimes fashions the parallel Lives so that they will seem more similar
to one another, juxtaposes subjects in order to bring out key features (at the expense,
that is, of others), or uses his subjects as stereotypical exempla of particular virtues (or
vices) (Stadter 1975 passim; T. Duff 1999: 54).
26
Quotation from Gill (2006: 413); see too Mor. 781f, D. A. Russell (1966: 85); Gill
(1983: 474, 478–80); Wardman (1984: 106, 114, 132); Swain (1989a: 62); Frazier
(1996: 11). Contra, Brenk (1977: 183), on the possibility ‘that tragedy changes
character’. As D. A. Russell (1966a: 145) notes, this problem is not new to Plutarch
(citing Plutarch’s mention of Theophrastus in Per. 38.2 and Polybius 9.22–3). T. Duff
(1999: 119) notes the difficulties posed by Plutarch’s comment that Marius acts
‘ “contrary to his own nature” ’; cf. too Pericles, who also acts against his nature in
behaving democratically (7.3), and who changes (9.1) once he has the city under
control (15.1–3). See too Wright (2008: 136–50) on Plutarch’s views of moral pro-
gress, and T. Duff (2008) on the two alternate models of education and character
development in Plutarch.
27
U. Wilamowitz-Moellendorf (1922: 70). For Plutarch character only exists when
it is manifested in action, and one person should have a single character throughout
his life. See Frazier (1996: 87) on the moral reprehensibility for Plutarch of anomalia
in statesmen, which ought to have been eliminated in their youth (and further
discussion below). On the related topic of how the subjects of the lives make decisions,
see Frazier (1995: 148–9), who observes that Plutarch, except in rare cases, attributes
decisiveness and resolution to heroes; they have usually already made up their minds
(1995: 150–1; cf. Wardman 1984: 114). On the necessity of explaining degeneration,
see Gill (2006: 416).
28
Wardman (1984: 106, 133–8); Swain (1989a, 65–8). This is especially a problem
in the Sertorius: see (Gill 1983: 479–81), Swain (1989a: 66–8). Brenk (1977: 179)
suggests that Sertorius forced Plutarch to develop a new theory in which ‘great
unexpected blows of tyche’ could lead to slippage in incomplete virtue. So too, Philip
V (Arat. 51.4; cf. Gill 1983: 479; 2006: 415; Swain 1989a: 66), and probably Sulla as
well (Sulla 30.6; Swain 1989a: 66–8). For the phenomenon, see D. A. Russell (1966:
84); Wardman (1984: 138–9); Swain (1989a: 66). Gill (1983: 482–5 with nn.) has
198 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
is sufficiently developed before they enter public life.29 This notion
goes some way towards explaining why Plutarch, like many other
ancient figures, has difficulty interpreting remorse and shame posi-
tively; their presence illustrates primarily that one has not thought
things through, has prematurely committed to action.30
In addition to what we might consider major structural problems
in individual characters, Plutarch seems also to be troubled by behav-
ioural change, and even by flexibility in the light of changed circum-
stances. My contention in the remainder of this chapter is that
Plutarch sees instances of inconsistent behaviour as problematic,
and that he generously tries to minimize them, especially when they
occur in subjects he otherwise admires. Outside the Lives, Plutarch
makes clear that he views consistency of all sorts as a good thing, and
the reverse as a bad thing.31 This positive assessment of consistency
does not, however, preclude a place for remorse-like feelings in moral
life. So, for instance, in On Compliancy, Plutarch notes that those
who are ashamed (ÆN åı
Ø) of past behaviour have the same
faults as everyone else, but their pain signals development (528d).
The unpleasantness of metanoia (
ÆFØ ŒÆd ÆŒø fi ) is a
(contingent) benefit (536d) precisely because it shows progress.32

understood Tacitus’ Tiberius in a similar way. See too Gill (2006: 412–21) on
Plutarch’s focus on stability of character.
29
Plutarch also believes, however, that ‘complete virtue’ is nearly impossible
(Cimon 2.5; cf. Babut 1969: 301–4). So entering into public life can be both a signal
of maturity, and, in some cases, a touchstone of it. See T. Duff (2008) for a study of
the importance of proper education to the development of virtue; he suggests that
the Lives offer a more ‘static’ conception of character, whereby youthful anecdotes are
indicative of the man, and that Plutarch’s philosophical works are by contrast more
interested in the development of character (e.g. 1 and 22–3). So too, T. Duff (2008: 19)
draws attention to the necessity in biography of focusing on action. T. Duff (1999: 49)
also notes the importance for Plutarch of Plato’s ‘great natures’ and the danger of their
perversion (Rep. 491b–495; see too T. Duff 2008: 2 and n. 7). Alexander is likely to fall
into this category, as, perhaps, does Sertorius.
30
See Gill (2006: 416–17), with additional bibliography at nn. 25 and 27, about
adulthood as necessitating an unchanging, stable character.
31
So, for instance, Political Precepts notes that a statesman should be invariable
and unchanging in his prohairesis when he enters upon public life (¼æ
 ήd
ı 
Ł
, 799b, with T. Duff 1999: 39 on prohairesis as meaning ‘character’ in
Plutarch).
32
In the philosophical text How to Determine Progress in Virtue, Plutarch notes
that struggling with your faults, particularly if you are wretched over your errors
(Iºª
Ø ±ÆæÆ ŒÆd ŒÆŒÇ
Ø, 82c), is beneficial precisely because it suggests
improvement; cf. too 84d and 85e and the Platonic question about the amendment of
faults (often focused, as it is in the first of these citations, around Socrates and
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 199
But Plutarch also knows that this feeling can be taken too far: we are
told in On the Slow Vengeance of the Gods that the phaulos is
constantly full of metameleia about his deeds, because he has an
erratic spirit (556d).
These apparently contradictory statements can be reconciled if
we understand Plutarch to be assuming a disjunction between the
behaviour expected of young and adult of the kind I have been sug-
gesting is operative throughout antiquity.33 For the young, metameleia
is an unpleasant and sometimes necessary step, but in an adult,
it demonstrates inconsistency and imperfect virtue; we shall see a
man like this in the Lives, and Plutarch sees adult metanoia as a
serious shortcoming (below, pp. 200–2).34 Indeed, this fits in well
with Plutarch’s belief that one must complete one’s education in virtue
before entering public life (Wardman 1984: 114; cf. Frazier 1995:
148–9 and T. Duff 2008). So while the Moralia, taken as a whole,
support a Stoic notion that allows to metameleia and metanoia the status
of contingent virtues, helping to demonstrate and solidify moral pro-
gress, the Lives presume that character is fully formed and so, in them,
regretful looking back indicates not progress but regress. For Plutarch, as
for most other ancient authors, it would be better not to make poor
decisions in the first place than to waste time dwelling on them.
For example, Antony, almost uniquely among the subjects of
Plutarch’s Lives, does feel regret, but it has no beneficial effect on
him; instead, it emphasizes his inconsistency of character. Like Nero
as he appears in some authors, in fact, Antony’s remorse makes

Alcibiades). See too the Pythagorean Golden Verses, which advise the examination of
one’s deeds at the end of every day, and Seneca’s allusion to one philosopher who did
this (Introduction, n. 127, with discussion at Ker 2009: 170).
33
So, for instance, Mor. 452d characterizes metanoia as one of the typical emotions
of young men, and suggests that it can be used in instruction. For a different but not
incompatible distinction between models of education (‘static’ vs. ‘developmental’) in
the Lives as opposed to the Moralia, see T. Duff (2008, esp. p. 21). His notion is that
the Lives presume more or less fully developed character, and so judgement, while the
Moralia allow for learning and improvement; this stems in part from the different
nature of biography and philosophy.
34
Metanoia and metameleia are reserved almost exclusively for villains in the
Lives: Tigranes (
ØÆ, Lucull. 22.4); Alexander (a special case; 


ºŁÅ, Alex.
30.1 and 


, 38.8); Seleucus (

Å
, Demetr. 52.4); Bocchus (
ØÆ,
Marius 10.5); Artaxerxes (
ƺ
Ø, Artax. 18.8 and 


Ø, 24.8); Galba
(
Æ
E, Galba 6.6). Tyrants are also notoriously fickle even when they are not
remorseful: Ptolemy (Cato Min. 35.5); kings in general (Pyrrhus 12.7); Lydiades
(Aratus 30.7).
200 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
things even worse. We are told that when Antony realized his errors
(ÆN ŁÆø fi b H ±ÆæÆø), he felt strong metanoia (Ant.
24.10), which led him to compensate those he had wronged (æe
ÆPf K
ºªÅ Ø f IªøÅŁÆ). But there is no sugges-
tion that he has learned anything from his feelings, and the plural
indicates a characteristic behaviour rather than a single event; Antony
was often making mistakes and often trying to fix them. A similar
feeling appears later in the Life, when Antony unsuccessfully besieges
Samosata. After failing to take the city, he gives up, feeling ashamed
and repentant (K ÆN åfi Åb ŒÆd 
ƪ
Ø, Ant. 34.7). So, far from
having the recuperative effect it sometimes can, the only effect of this
emotion in Antony is to divert his energy from the completion of his
task. Although Plutarch narrates only the single instance of the failed
siege, his first mention of Antony’s metanoia as regularly occurring
undermines any positive import: Antony’s shame does not, as it
might well have, lead him to continue the siege. Instead, he gives
up, so his emotion is wholly pointless. Antony’s Life is negative,35 in
part, because he is so constructed as to feel emotions such as meta-
noia even as an adult; this emotion leads him to dangerous inconsist-
encies of character, and to undoing what he has done (or to leaving
undone what he should do). Such a portrait is very different from the
modern view, which holds these emotions, however tardy, to be at
least partially recuperative.
The other example in the Lives of a hero whose metanoia is
described at length supports this connection between remorse and
inconsistency. Plutarch clearly admires the Corinthian Timoleon,
who devoted the latter part of his life to slaying tyrants. But his Life
begins with a disquieting incident, one which nearly renders him
unknown to posterity. Timoleon has a brother with tyrannical aspir-
ations (Timol. 3.6). Although Timoleon attempts to dissuade him, his
brother takes over the citadel of Corinth (4.4). Timoleon again speaks
to him (4.6), but when he is unsuccessful in convincing him to
abdicate, stands aside36 while two friends kill his tyrant-brother

35
See Demetr. 1.5, where Plutarch admits to including ‘one or two pairs’ which
exemplify kakian). Demetrius and Antony are clearly meant, as the statement appears
in the introduction of their Lives.
36
Diodorus 16.65.4 says Timoleon killed his brother himself; Nepos 20.1.4 agrees
with Plutarch, but has Timoleon standing guard rather than merely observing the
killing. Plutarch may have chosen this less-active role to emphasize Timoleon’s
(culpable) lack of commitment in this portion of the Life.
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 201
(4.8). Some of the people are happy and some sad (5.1–3); most upset
of all is Timoleon’s mother, who refuses to speak to him. Deeply
affected, he tries to starve himself to death, but is prevented by his
friends and so lives in solitude in the country (5.4) until called upon
to serve the public interest nearly twenty years later (7.1–3).37
That this is not for Plutarch merely a youthful anecdote, designed
to show how much Timoleon hates tyrants, is demonstrated both by
his self-imposed exile and by the excursus on instability of character
in chapter 6 of the Life. Again, a character flaw manifests itself in and
as inconsistent behaviour. Plutarch uses Timoleon’s conflicted feel-
ings as evidence for a lack of fixity in his character, claiming that they
serve as a counter-example of how one must be firm in order to avoid
being swayed by the praise and blame of others. We must not only act
nobly but have a conviction that is single and fixed (Ø ŒÆd
I
ø, 6.3) in order to act with true virtue. To regret noble
actions once they are complete suggests that one was doing them for
the wrong reasons, like those who eat for pleasure instead of nourish-
ment. For, the passage continues, metanoia renders a noble act into a
shameful one: one should always feel the same about one’s deeds.38
Timoleon has a long and illustrious career killing tyrants, but the
prominent placement of this discussion about his inability to stand by
his decision undermines, or at least raises worrying implications,
about those future heroics (see Wardman 1984: 109–11 on the ways
Timoleon’s revisiting of his initial decision discredits it and suggests
‘a degree of infirmity’ in his behaviour, and on the importance in
Plutarch of loyalty to one’s beliefs).
The story of Timoleon is also told in Diodorus, who details his
attempts to dissuade his brother but then says he put him to death
(16.65.4). Diodorus makes no mention of the emotional aftermath,
instead asserting that Timoleon was sent to Sicily to help the Sicilians

37
Nepos attests to the anger of Timoleon’s mother, as well as his thoughts of
suicide, but goes no further (20.1.6).
38
Plutarch engages, almost uniquely in antiquity, with the issue of making deci-
sions without perfect knowledge; he states that even this should not cause regret, and
gives two examples of men who were steadfast enough not to regret their decisions
even when they turned out badly: Phocion is glad to have given the advice he did
although the Athenians won without him, and Aristides the Locrian does not regret
(c 
ƺ
ŁÆØ) having told Dionysius the tyrant that he would rather his daughters
die than marry him, even after Dionysius kills them (Timol. 6.3–4).
202 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
overthrow their tyrant.39 As Talbert notes, time is a bit fuzzy in this
life,40 so it is difficult to know what to make of this nearly twenty-year
gap, although the limited evidence suggests that Plutarch is correct.41
Plutarch is not likely to have made it up, given his admiration for
Timoleon and his usual avoidance of wholly invented anecdotes
(Pelling 2002: 152–6). But he certainly seems to regard this period
of idleness, and the emotion which prompted it, as a grave shortcom-
ing, perhaps in part because it prevented Timoleon from achieving
even more; the synkrisis claims that his excessive regard for public
opinion rendered Timoleon lacking in greatness (Syn. Aem./Timol.
2.6). So in the Lives as elsewhere, Plutarch generally approves of fixity,
although he is also aware that it can cause problems when taken to
extremes.42
The story of Timoleon is all the more noteworthy given how hard
Plutarch often works in other Lives to avoid treating inconsistency as
a character flaw. I discuss four other figures in Plutarch who are often
seen as troublingly inconsistent, at least by their contemporaries:
Themistocles, Demosthenes, Cicero, and Alcibiades, the first and
last at somewhat greater length. In the case of the first, Plutarch is
able to positively value his changeful behaviour because he sees it

39
Diodorus’ version makes more sense of the anecdote, told also in Plutarch
(Timol. 7.2), that the Corinthians would consider him a tyrannicide if he succeeded
in Sicily, a brother-killer if he failed.
40
Talbert (1974: 13–14). Nepos says merely ‘meanwhile’, interim (20.2.1), without
giving any indication of how much time has passed.
41
For the (no-longer extant) sources on Timoleon, see Westlake (1952), and on
the difficulties of chronology, Talbert (1974: 44–51). Teodorsson (2005: 217) finds it
‘simply not credible’ that Timoleon lived as a private individual for almost twenty
years; Swain (1989b: 321) asserts that Plutarch is correct. See Westlake (1952: 1–9) on
the legend of Timoleon inherited by Plutarch, and (1952: 61) suggesting that it is ‘far
easier to believe that Diodorus has somehow overlooked an interval of twenty years
between the murder of Timophanes and the arrival of the Syracusan embassy than
that Plutarch, or his source, has invented it’.
42
A few obvious examples: Cato the Younger, although admirably steadfast
(1. 3–5, 2.3–7), is also seen to be less effective as a politician because of his nature
(Phoc. 3.1–3, Cat. Min. 8.4–5, 44.11–45.2, 50.2–3) and even blamed for causing civil
war through his stubbornness (Cat. Min. 30.9–10, 31.2–3). Dion is too harsh, or
rather, his austerity is misunderstood by the people (Dion. 8.1, 32.5); he also refuses to
punish an enemy, valuing justice over expedience, and pays for it later (47.3–8;
48.6–49.7, 53). Brutus’ severity is praised (6.7–9, 29.4–7), but he too does not kill an
enemy when he should (Antony; Brut. 18. 3–6; cf. Phocion’s dangerous naivety, which
comes from assuming that others are like himself, Phoc. 32.7–10). See too Precepts
818a–b on the dangers of excessive severity, which can be connected to (over-)
fixedness.
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 203
as being harnessed in the interests of the state. His portrayal of
Themistocles is, in fact, exquisitely sensitive to the positive nuances
of behavioural instability. In youth, Themistocles was unstable
(Iƺ43 and I ŁÅ, 2.7), but through training he improved,
though he was still excessively covetous of honour (çغØÆ 3.4, 5.3,
çغØÆ 18.1; cf. his happiness at being honoured by the people
at 17.4).44 But his ambition does not lead him to behave selfishly, as
his generous surrender of command to the Spartans in the service of
the greater good shows early in the Life (7.3).45
In fact, as his description of Themistocles’ devious behaviour
towards the Ionian Greeks shows (9.2; cf. Hdt. 8.22), Plutarch is
careful to demonstrate Themistocles as remaining just this side of
the immoral, and always in the service of his country. So his tricki-
ness, his ability to change with different circumstances, though per-
haps not ideal in the abstract, was nonetheless beneficial. Perhaps
there is nothing troubling about his deceit of the Persian king (12.3–8
and 16.5–6; cf. Hdt. 8.75, Diod. 11.15.4–17.4, and Nepos 2.4.3–5):
lying to one’s enemies is not necessarily despicable.46 Yet he also
manipulates the Athenians into trusting their navy (10.1–4),47 and
then the allied forces into giving battle in spite of themselves at the
place and time he deems best (12.3–8), and the Spartans into sup-
porting Athenian rebuilding (19.1–2). He steals from allied baggage
in order to supply the troops with money (10.6–7), and even devises a
plan to burn the allied ships at (20.2). These are at least potentially
disturbing behaviours in their changeability, however tenuous Athen-
ian alliances were.48

43
The word anomalos will also prove key to Plutarch’s understanding of Alcibi-
ades (16.9, see too T. Duff 1999: 230). Nepos has a similar phrase, contrasting
Themistocles’ flawed youth with his later achievements (2.1.1). On Themistocles’
anomalia, see T. Duff (2008: 8–9).
44
Plutarch is well aware of the dangers of excessive philotimia (T. Duff 1999:
83–4); his Life of Marius is a case study of the tragedy of ambition. T. Duff (1999: 62)
suggests that Themistocles’ ‘great nature’ excuses his vice, especially as he improves
before reaching adulthood; I believe the latter is far more significant.
45
Herodotus’ narrative includes more stories than Plutarch’s which involve The-
mistocles in the taking of money, sometimes illicitly; cf. e.g. 8.4–5, 111–12.
46
David Konstan draws my attention to the Stoic position that lying for one’s
country is well within the realm of virtuous action for the sage (SVF 3.148; cf., more
extensively, Quint. 12.1.38–44).
47
Hdt. 7.143 contains the story without the trickery.
48
The subject of military deception is a complex one; it seems to have been
considered acceptable when practised against enemies. If its result is successful, it
can be acceptable even on allies, but it might still be considered problematic. See e.g.
204 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
In the case of the Persian king, Plutarch brings one of his most
honourable heroes to bear to disambiguate the situation, a feature not
present in our other narratives: Aristides ‘the Just’ comes by, gives
Themistocles his approval for the lie (KÆØ Æ e ¨
Ø ŒºÆ,
Them. 12.8), and then helps to disseminate it.49 This guest endorse-
ment by the irreproachable Aristides suggests that Plutarch is well
aware that Themistocles’ behaviour could bear a negative interpret-
ation. So too, when Plutarch’s Themistocles outsmarts the Persians
again through the same trick of a deceitful message (16.4–6), he gets
the approval of Aristides first.50 But here Plutarch is disingenuous, for
his Aristides agrees only that it would be best if the Persian king left
Europe, not that Themistocles should lie to him to bring this
about. Plutarch characterizes the scheme as due to phronesis on the
part of Themistocles and Aristides, but Aristides has little to do with
it (16.6).51 There are a number of other incidents traditionally
ascribed to Themistocles but not mentioned in the Life, such as his
deceit of the Spartans while the Athenians build their long walls;
Plutarch’s elision of these may suggest unwillingness to emphasize
this characteristic.
This is not to suggest that Plutarch is unclear about which kind of
man is to be preferred: when Themistocles comes up with the idea of
burning the ships of the allies in order to ensure Athenian naval
supremacy, the people leave the decision to Aristides, who pronounces
it both profitable and unjust (ºı Ø
º
æÆ and IØŒøæÆ, 20.2),
and so they reject it.52 Plutarch’s normal practice is to be more gener-
ous to his heroes when they are the subject of the Life; the rest of the
time, they serve as foils for others. So Aristides 2.2 asserts that the two
men were opposed in character, with Themistocles there characterized
as impetuous and unscrupulous (ÆFæª), Aristides as firm in

Philop. 13.6, in which that hero uses guerrilla warfare, but only against the Cretans
(known for these tactics).
49
In Herodotus, Aristides merely passes along the message that the Greeks are
surrounded (8.79–81).
50
Cf. Hdt. 8.110, Diod. 11.19.5–6, and Nepos 2.5.1, none of whom mention
Aristides.
51
Herodotus, by contrast, suggests that Themistocles helped the Persian king in
case he later needed him (Hdt. 8.109).
52
In Diodorus, the story is attached to the building up of the Peiraieus into a
harbour, and Aristides and Xanthippus are the two men chosen by the assembly to
judge Themistocles’ plan; they approve it, so it is done (11.41–2).
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 205
character and leaning towards justice; there is no question which
Plutarch admires more.53
But for Plutarch, the dangers posed by Themistocles’ deviousness
are neutralized by his loyalty to Athens. Even after his ostracism, he
refuses to become a traitor, despite having lost his good reputation
because of (unfounded) suspicions of treachery (23.3–4; cf. Thuc.
1.135–6 and Diod. 11.54–5). Instead, he flees to the king of the
Molossians, a personal enemy (24; cf. Thuc. 1.136.2, Diod. 11.56,
and Nepos 2.8.3–4, who has him as a friend), and from there makes
his way to the Persian king, who had set a price on his head (26.1,
27.1). He impresses the king, and asks for a year to learn the language
so that he may advise the king without making use of interpreters
(29.5–6 and Thuc. 137.4 and Nepos 2.9.4; in Diodorus, Themistocles
must learn Persian in order to defend himself against his enemies,
11.57.5–6).54 The advice he offers is mostly ‘about Greek affairs’ (
æd
H ‘¯ººÅØŒ æƪø, 29.5; cf. 30.1); Plutarch displays no
recognition that this might be viewed as treachery by his countrymen,
and offers no details.
Plutarch’s description of Themistocles’ death also carefully avoids
its worrying aspects, maintaining that the general was consistent to
the end. Once the Athenians had given aid to the Egyptians in their
revolt from the king, Themistocles was called upon to help him make
war on the Greeks (31.4–5). Themistocles, not feeling anger at the
Athenians for their exile of him, was unwilling to do so, partly
because he was daunted by the enormity of the task given the quality
of Greek leadership, but ‘especially’ (e  º
E , 31.5) to preserve
the reputation he had won from his earlier deeds. So, in order not to
harm either the king or his country, he killed himself (31.5–7). This,
as far as Plutarch is concerned, proves that he was never a traitor.55

53
Here again, Plutarch is nuanced: he is well aware that admirable behaviour does
not always lead to success: like Themistocles, Aristides too is ostracized—in fact, he is
ostracized because the people find his probity of character tedious (e.g. Aristid. 7.1–2,
5–6, though Plutarch there lays the blame for his ostracism on the shoulders of
Themistocles). But cf. Aristides’ exilic prayer at 7.6, which is precisely the opposite
of that uttered by Themistocles’ paired life, Camillus.
54
Thucydides seemingly follows Herodotus in the belief that Themistocles later
claimed his two ‘Persian ruses’ as designed to help the king, 1.137.4. As K. Mayer
(1997: 189, 204) notes, Plutarch’s version suggests that he sees Themistocles as
learning Persian not to save his own life but to Hellenize the barbarians.
55
Contra the Thucydidean tradition, which has Themistocles offering to help the
king make war on Greece (1.138.2, and cf. Nepos 2.10.2) and then dying a natural
206 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
In Diodorus, by contrast, the story is more dramatic but the question
of loyalty is never posed: Themistocles makes the king swear that he
will march on Greece only if accompanied by him, and then commits
suicide (11.58.2–3, told by some of the historians, ØØ b H
ıªªæÆçø). But Diodorus himself seems to believe that Themisto-
cles died naturally (11.58.1).56 In the case of Themistocles, then,
Plutarch is able to positively value flexibility of behaviour, but he is
careful to make clear that it is not the same as flexibility of character
(however difficult the two are to distinguish in practice): Themisto-
cles was always acting in the interests of the Greeks, even when
different circumstances caused him to appear different.57 And, in
those cases where suspicions arise, Aristides comes along to assure
everyone that Themistocles’ behaviour, while questionable, is in the
end acceptable on moral grounds.
Plutarch adopts a different strategy for the Life of Demosthenes,
who is elsewhere regularly accused of disgraceful political weath-
ervaning.58 Here, he mostly ignores the damaging charge, so my
discussion will necessarily be more speculative. Early in the Life he
makes the explicit claim, contra Theopompus, that Demosthenes was
steadfast in character (Dem. 13.1). Theopompus’ accusation that
Demosthenes was unstable (IÆØ) is answered at some length,
first by simple denial (once he had in fact adopted a policy, he stuck to

death, although some say that he poisoned himself when he realized he could not
make good on his promise (Thuc. 1.138.4). Nepos gives a variety of testimonia about
his death before accepting the Thucydidean version (2.10.4). H. Martin (1961: 336)
suggests that Plutarch’s confidence in Themistocles derives in part from his under-
standing of his character: he knows that there are charges of adikia against Themisto-
cles but does not believe them, because Themistocles is more interested in his honour
(çغ) than in temporary advantage. For Plutarch’s habit of interpreting the
behaviour of his characters according to psychological verisimilitude, see Pelling
(2002: 155–6) and Wardman (1984: 166–8).
56
As Lenardon (1978: 199) notes, none of these stories about Themistocles’ death
is likely to be true, a fact which does not matter for our purposes.
57
Cato Maior, Aristides’ Roman counterpart, complicates Plutarch’s picture of the
nature of flexibility. He is presented as obsessively obstinate in his decisions, as when
he claims to feel metameleia for only three things in his life (all trivial, 9.9). This is
perhaps comic exaggeration, but it makes the point well: Cato is of such fixed
character that when he examines his life, this is all he can find objectionable.
58
See e.g. Aeschines 2.7, 17–18, 36–7, 45–6, 49–50, 53–4, 57, 62, 66, 109–11,
121–2, 130, 153, 2.52, 60–4, 73, 75, 80–1, 97, 100–1, 125, 141, 145–6, 148–51,
161–2, 214, Dinarchus 1.17–18, 26, 35–6, 41, 94–5, Hyperides 5 fr. 5, cols. 20–1 (my
list includes only accusations of inconsistency and treachery, not of bribery or
cowardice, which also occur regularly as explanations for Demosthenes’ policy shifts).
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 207
it throughout his life) and then by pointing to the fact that he gave up
his life in order not to abandon a policy. As persuasive counter-
examples, Plutarch adduces three men who shamefully switched
sides through necessity, bribery, or fear (13.3–4). Demosthenes,
reiterates Plutarch at the conclusion of this excursus, was unchanging
(I
ƺı, 13.4). Plutarch is disingenuous, particularly in the
claim that Demosthenes’ suicide was a principled one.59 So too it is
perhaps strictly correct on his part to suggest that once Demosthenes
had chosen this policy he stuck with it to the end of his life, but his
phrasing obscures the fact that the policy was precisely the opposite of
the one he had been advocating.60 As we have noted, changeability is
often in the eye of the beholder, but the length of Plutarch’s attempt
to assure his reader that Demosthenes was not inconsistent offers
further evidence that it was not a positive characteristic.
When Plutarch comes to treat Cicero, the Life parallel to Demos-
thenes, he is very clear about his subject’s main flaws: he wants to
be praised and has an (excessive) desire for glory (6.5). This intro-
ductory section does not mention fickleness, although Cicero was also
accused of it,61 and this omission may be designed in order to avoid
reminding the reader of Demosthenes’ potential difficulties in that
area. But in this case Plutarch did not choose to omit unfavourable
incidents; although there is no explicit discussion of fickleness as a
characteristic, the Life contains many examples of Cicero’s lack of
fixity, focalized through characters in the narrative as well as through
Plutarch: Cicero defends Crassus and then attacks him two days later

59
After his latest opposition to Macedon upon the death of Alexander in 323, fear
of retaliation from Antipater provoked the Athenians to pass a sentence of death on
Demosthenes (28.2). While I do not mean to belittle Plutarch’s treatment of the death
(29), Demosthenes was simply choosing to anticipate the fate that awaited him.
Plutarch’s implication at the start of the Life that he might have recanted his policy
and chosen to live is implausible, and might well derive from the rhetorical tradition
surrounding the death of Cicero.
60
Modern historians too often have difficulty justifying Demosthenes’ behaviour;
see e.g. Cawkwell (1978: 94); Badian (2000: 36); Sealey (1993: 156); Harding (2000:
247); and, most explicitly, Pickard-Cambridge (1978: 292–3).
61
See [Sallust] In M. Tullium Ciceronem Oratio, which attacks the orator on a
variety of fronts, including inability to stick to a decision (5 and 7); Dio 39.63.5, who
calls him automolos (‘a turncoat’). In addition to the incidents Plutarch notes, he is
also criticized for his defences in 54 of erstwhile enemies Vatinius and Gabinius. For
his own defence of his behaviour, see Fam. 1.9, which explains that others have
changed their alliances first, and QF 3.6.5, QF 3.9.1, Att. 4.5, and Rab. Post. 19, 33,
which extol Cicero’s cleverness and note that Pompey had reconciled the enemies.
208 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
(25.2); Caesar is frustrated by Cicero’s vacillation 30.4–6; Cicero is
overly sensitive to the effects of public opinion (31.5) and does not
bear his exile manfully, instead regularly setting sail and returning in
the hopes of recall (32.3–4; cf. Wardman 1984: 44); at the start of the
civil war, Cicero gives advice to both Caesar and Pompey (37).62 After
Cicero has made up his mind to join Pompey, he is blamed for it by
Cato (38.1). This upsets Cicero, who claims to be sorry he’s come
(
ƺ
ŁÆØ, 38.2). After the defeat at Pharsalia, Cicero (not unrea-
sonably) thinks the war is over, and is called a traitor by young
Pompey (æÅ, 39.2, an event which appears only in Plutarch).
He is reconciled with the victorious Caesar, and praised by him as
being most like Pericles and Theramenes (39.6).63 Finally, at the end
of Cicero’s life, he again changes policy, first leaving Rome and public
life, then returning (43.3–4; cf. Moles 1988: ad loc.). He is tricked by
Octavian into supporting a monarchy though he had always opposed
them (45–6, with harsh criticisms of Cicero by both Brutus and
Plutarch himself). Even at the end of his life, Cicero and his brother,
both proscribed, change their minds about their plans so many times
that they are each caught and put to death (47.4–7).64 The end of
Cicero is tragicomic in its focus on Cicero’s lack of fixed purpose;
Plutarch may hint that a more decisive Cicero might have fared
better.
Plutarch makes the case that Cicero is harmed by his (excessive)
desire to be honoured; it causes him to magnify his own exploits and
denigrate the abilities of others, which in turn leads to poor judge-
ment. At the same time, he also draws attention to other flaws, like
Cicero’s inappropriate sense of humour (mentioned at Cic. 5.6, but
recurring throughout) and his instability of character. This latter
characteristic is only alluded to by Plutarch, but he provides so
many examples that we are entitled to see it as a leitmotif, one
Plutarch may have found too damaging to draw much attention to,
particularly given his admiration for the parallel figure of Demos-
thenes, who might be tarred by the same brush. In this pair of Lives,
Plutarch adopts a dual strategy: for Demosthenes, he explicitly

62
But Plutarch sees this as a reasonable, even praiseworthy, thing, however much
Cicero was drawn in both directions, as his letters make clear (Bº K Ø B
fi ªfiÅ
ººa ÞØÆ Ł
d K’ Iç
æÆ ŒÆd ı ÆŁ Æ, 37.2).
63
As Moles (1988) notes ad loc., the comparison with Theramenes is ‘surely
(despite P.) double-edged’.
64
There is no such hesitation in Appian’s account (BC 4.19).
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 209
disavows inconsistency, and he displaces the charge onto Cicero, but
mutes it.
Plutarch’s final strategy, adopted for the Life of Alcibiades, is one of
displacement, not to a paired life, as from Demosthenes to Cicero, but
to others within the Life. Despite Alcibiades’ apparently uncontrol-
lable polutropia,65 which we would expect to make him into a wholly
negative figure given what Plutarch elsewhere suggests, the Alcibiades
of the Life is more sinned against than sinning, serving as a mirror of
the demos that made him.66
For Plutarch, the people (demos) are fickle in their decision-
making, and therefore dangerous.67 The instability of the common
people is a leitmotif of the Lives, and does not vary much even among
those of different nationality or ethnicity.68 The people are important
in Plutarch, to be sure, and they regularly mirror the vices and (less

65
Plutarch tells us that later in life (o 
æ), his character had many dissimilar-
ities and changes (IØÅÆ . . . ŒÆd 
ƺa), as is appropriate for one whose
life is characterized by great deeds and various luck (K æªÆ Ø 
ªºØ ŒÆd åÆØ
ºıæØ, Alc. 2.1). See also 24.4, which mentions ºæ ŒÆd 
æØe ÆPF
B 
ØÅ (‘versatility and excessiveness of his cleverness’) as arousing the
admiration of the satrap Tissaphernes. Here the ‘lateness’ of Alcibiades’ changes
renders them especially problematic.
66
Gribble (1999: 269) too notes that adaptability of character is key to Plutarch’s
portrait of Alcibiades, but believes that the author views his subject’s flexibility ‘in a
wholly negative light’ (270). He does, however, contextualize Alcibiades’ behaviour
with reference to the people, concluding that Alcibiades’ kolakeia (flattery) of the
demos is a natural, indeed inevitable, reaction to their flattery of him (274). See too
Verdegem (2010: 269–78) on Alcibiades’ adaptability and on Plutarch as ultimately
sympathetic (esp. 367–8, 397–8 on Alcibiades’ ‘tragic’ downfall), T. Duff (2003: 94) on
‘circumstances’ as at least partly responsible for Alcibiades’ changeability, K. Mayer
(1998: 234) on the selectiveness of Plutarch’s account.
67
Aalders (1982: 30 and n. 90); Saïd (2005: 11–18). And, of course, Plutarch is not
alone in this perception; see above, pp. 162–3 on the historians’ regular characteriza-
tion of the masses.
68
Saïd (2005: 7). There are, of course, nuances (see next note for an example),
but the point still holds. Sometimes the good statesman, understanding their flaws, is
able to outsmart the demos (e.g. Them. 12.1–3 and 18.4; Arist. 13.3). Other times,
when they are not well managed, the people become dangerous to themselves (Them.
28.5–6; G.Gracc. 18.2) and especially others (Them. 22.1 and 22.4; Cam. 12.1–2, 18.6,
31.1–3; Nic. 11.5; Cim. 16.4, 17.6; Per. 10.2 and 37.1–2; Phoc. 14.5, 16.6; Coriolanus
13.4, 20.5, 29.3; G.Gracc. 16.7; Lucull. 33.2–5, 34.1–4). Occasionally, the people are
well behaved, but usually this is credited to a single, consistent individual, as under
Cato the Elder (Cat. Mai. 18.2–19.5); once, they are constant under their own impetus
(Dem. 21.2; cf. Wardman 1984: 172–3). Plutarch’s other works also characterize the
demos as fickle; cf. e.g. Athenians (126e and 799b–c), Carthaginians (196d), Spartans
(239e), Salmanticans (248e), and Egyptians (380a).
210 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
often) virtues of the hero in whose Life they appear.69 Only in the
Alcibiades, however, are they given such an important role. The
Athenians of Alcibiades’ time are portrayed as uniquely capable of
making the same mistake over and over. For, led by his enemies, they
condemn and exile Alcibiades (20.5, 21.7–22.4)70 despite the lack of
coherence in the accusations against him (20.8), but then think better
of this decision (
ƺ
ŁÆØ, 25.2). They recall him (27.1), and he
returns in glory (32.1–5), but, after many successes which tip the
balance of the war in Athens’s favour, his deputy Antiochus loses a
battle (35.6–8), and Alcibiades, deposed from his generalship, once
again fears the people (36.5). Later, once they are defeated, they
consider their second wrath (c 
ıæÆ . . . Oæª) against Alcibi-
ades to have been their biggest mistake (38.1).
So Alcibiades, whom we might have expected to be a dark horse,
becomes for Plutarch an example of the tragic effects of inconsistency
on a statesman rather than in one.71 While many have found Plu-
tarch’s Alcibiades baffling, even incomprehensible, Plutarch seems to
suggest that the pathologically indecisive Athenians deserved such an
Alcibiades, who reflected back to them their own most problematic
characteristics. In addition to portraying the demos as dangerously
inconsistent in their repeated exile of Alcibiades, Plutarch seems to

69
So, for instance, Crassus, whose own inconsistencies of character (Crass. 7.8,
Syn. Nic./Crass. 2.1) lead to the inconsistent behaviour of others towards him: his
inconstancy and uncertainty make him easy prey for the deceitful Parthians, and he
and his army are disgracefully slaughtered in one of Rome’s greatest military disasters
(the description fills over half of the Life; see Crass. 16–31, particularly 23.3 where he
cannot make up his mind about how to deploy his troops). There is a sense in which
Crassus’ fate is merely bad luck, but Plutarch suggests that it also derives from his
character flaws (cf. Wardman 1984: 110). On the Athenian demos in the Lives, see
Pelling (1992: 18–25 and 2000: 52–6); he notes that Plutarch subtly alters the portrait
of the demos depending on the subject of the life. The demos in the Life of Nicias is, by
contrast, a different animal (although it is the same demos, since the two men are
contemporaries): it misbehaves, but Nicias is able to avoid most of its ill effects by the
strenuous application of games, exhibitions, and religious dedications (Nic. 3.2).
Nicias shares with Alcibiades an excessive concern with the people’s opinion (Nic.
5.1, 6.1–2; cf. too 8.3, where his lack of control over the people allows Cleon to degrade
the speaker’s platform). In Plutarch’s view, this flaw combines with his superstitious
nature to render Nicias wholly ineffective.
70
Plutarch also draws attention to Alcibiades’ restraint in not causing the navy to
mutiny when he is summoned back to Athens for his trial (21.6); cf. his noble
behaviour in not allowing the sailors to abandon their posts in Ionia (26.5–6).
71
On Plutarch’s view (unlike Nepos’) that Alcibiades’ sole goal is to shine, ‘le désir
de briller’, a trait from which all of his inconsistencies derive, see Frazier (1996: 87).
 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman 211
attribute to it most of Alcibiades’ flaws.72 He describes Alcibiades as a
man of ººH . . . ŒÆd 
ªºø ÆŁ, many and great passions, and
goes on to say that the most powerful of those were e çغ
، and
e çغæø, a love for rivalry and of being first (2.1). Yet Plutarch
later describes these innate qualities (here called çغØÆ and
çغ
Æ, love of honour and good reputation, 6.4) as exacerbated
by those corrupters (ØÆçŁ
æ
) who used his desire to be popular
to manipulate him into serving them.73 So even the standard charge
that Alcibiades failed to receive a proper education can be seen as the
fault of his city—he might have, if only they had not thrust him into
public life too soon.74
Again, when Plutarch details Alcibiades’ uncanny ability to
model himself to his surroundings, what could easily have been
wholly negative is given a positive spin: Alcibiades had the power
ı

ØF ŁÆØ ŒÆd ıÆŁ
E E KØÅ
Æ Ø ŒÆd ÆE
ØÆÆØ, O
ıæÆ æ
ø fi æa F åÆÆغ (‘to assimilate
himself and ape the behaviours and lives [of others], turning himself
in more distinct changes than a chameleon’, 23.4). But, Plutarch
continues, a chameleon cannot become white, and Alcibiades could
associate with good and bad; he imitated all.75 With this statement
Plutarch implies that Alcibiades would have turned out better if he
had lived in a better city; his fate is thus ultimately the fault of the
demos that did not give him better companions.76 Perhaps surpris-
ingly, given what he says elsewhere about flexibility and particularly

72
There are hints of this in contemporary authors as well (Ar. Frogs 1431 with
Bloedlow 1991: 64; Plato Alc. I 132a1, Rep. 491d–492c and 493d–495c; Xen. Mem.
1.2.16).
73
Coriolanus must also deal with a fickle populace, but its power is not empha-
sized to the degree of that of the people of Athens, and the inconstancy is split between
people and Senate: once Coriolanus has pillaged Antium with an army of volunteers,
the citizens repent refusing to serve under him (13.4); after the people have voted to
exile Coriolanus, the Senate repents giving them the power to do so (20.5); finally, the
people want him back, but the Senate is not sure it does (29.3).
74
On this charge, see Gill (2006: 418–19), and on education in general in Plutarch,
Pelling (2002: 301–38) and T. Duff (2008).
75
See the similar assessment at Nicias 9.2, that Alcibiades contained the seeds of
both good and evil.
76
The question of Alcibiades’ treachery is never explicitly raised by Plutarch (see
K. Mayer 1997: 60–1), but he may use the story of Phrynichus, who is no better, to
suggest that Alcibiades differs from his countrymen only in the success which attends
his deceptions (Alc. 25.5–10).
212 Plutarch on Consistency and the Statesman
about Alcibiades,77 Plutarch refuses to condemn him in the Life for
this flaw. The expectation that Alcibiades will fall through his own
ambition is partly borne out by the narrative, but Plutarch seems
more interested in how such a great figure was undone by the demos.
What many of our sources see as Alcibiades’ amorality is understood
by Plutarch as a tragic combination of his ambition and the inability
of the Athenian people to make up their minds, and he views the
latter as primarily responsible. So too, although Alcibiades is not
actually young (or, at least, not for long), he is regularly characterized
by Plutarch and others as occupying a youthful role in Athenian
society (see e.g. Alc. 1.4 and Wohl 1999). If I am correct about the
importance of the distinction between young and adult in Plutarch’s
thinking, this too may help to exculpate him: the Athenian people
thrust him into public life at an exceedingly young age, before he was
sufficiently prepared, and he was simply never able to make up for the
deficiency.
To Plutarch, changing one’s mind was serious business indeed, for
he seems for the most part to understand changes of behaviour as
representing or signifying changes of character, usually towards the
worse. In the young, Plutarch suggests that examination of past deeds
can fulfil a valuable role, but when the subjects of his Lives display
such behaviour, it never does them—or anyone else—any good. Adult
males are more or less required to be consistent, and when they are
not, their changes of mind serve as further indications of their
degeneracy rather than mitigations of it.

77
i.e. that his ability to mould himself to external circumstances was a bad thing
(Mor. 52e–f ). For other examples, see Athenaeus 12.534b–535: Satyros on the changes
of Alcibiades. See too hints in Nepos 7.1.4: idem, simul ac se remiserat neque causa
suberat quare animi laborem perferret, luxuriosus, dissolutus, libidinosus, intemperans
reperiebatur, ut omnes admirarentur in uno homine tantam esse dissimilitudinem
tamque diversam naturam. Here at least, there is the suggestion that this is an
admirable trait.
 10

Conclusion

LATE ANTIQUITY, CHRISTIANITY, AND THE

CONVERSION OF EMOTION

The late antique period has, up to this point, only been touched upon.
Readers may imagine that the increasing influence of the monotheis-
tic religions changes, in significant ways, the expression and perhaps
even the feelings of regret and remorse. Taken over a broad historical
sweep, this is absolutely true, but the beginnings of those changes are
elusive, and older paradigms remain relevant for at least several
centuries. The break between pagan and Christian emotion was not,
at least in these early stages, so pronounced as one might expect. The
story of how remorse becomes viewed as uniquely Christian, and
repentance as a virtue, is best left for another book, written by someone
more qualified to do so,1 but I want to return to the narrative of
Theodosius’ anger and remorse with which I began this book as a
way of outlining some of the major issues involved in this change.
Perhaps the first important point to note about that story is that such a
conflict, insofar as it is religious, could not have happened much earlier
than this period; pagan political representatives of the Roman state
were also religious representatives, and, although prior conflict was
certainly framed in religious terms, it did not play out in quite this
fashion (Liebeschuetz 1990: 1).
Because Theodosius is both a public figure and a Christian, there
are (at least) two ways to understand this scenario (described at
pp. 1–2): one I shall call ‘pagan’, the other ‘Christian’. In the ‘Christian’

1
See e.g. Hunt (2004) on tears of contrition in the Syrian and Byzantine church
fathers.
214 Conclusion
version, we have a traditional narrative of sin and repentance. The
emperor loses his temper and so falls away from virtue, but makes full
confession before God and does his penance. That he needed a bishop
to remind him to do so perhaps signifies only his importance and so
the Church’s interest in his soul.2 Despite having to perform public
penance, Theodosius got off easy, particularly given the severity of
contemporary penitential practices,3 but, as he had sinned only from
temper, not through an evil will, this is perhaps reasonable. By his
willingness to submit himself to the will of God, as filtered through an
earthly representative, Theodosius provides a powerful exemplum for
others, and offers a key moment in the development of the Christian
history of repentance. But the sense that one has not lived up to one’s
goals or one’s role, whether as a child of God or a Roman statesman,
may have manifested itself in somewhat more public ways in the
Church than in the pagan world, where, as this book has argued, it
seems usually to have been a thing to hide and quickly move on from.
Or perhaps the leniency of his penance merely draws attention to
the fact that Ambrose is skating on very thin ice indeed when he calls
an emperor to task. My ‘pagan’ interpretation,4 rehearsing a by now
familiar scenario, features a negotiation between two powerful men
over how to cope with a mistake, but also, a negotiation about what
makes a mistake a mistake and who gets to call it one. Without the
prompting of Ambrose, Theodosius might never have admitted that
he had done anything wrong. But with the bishop’s intervention,
Theodosius might well have felt himself compelled to enact a convin-
cing performance of repentance, both on the Christian front (for
being forbidden to attend church left his soul in danger), and on
the pagan (for he had publicly been called to account). And he did so
in both Christian and secular terms, first by doing penance, and
second by enacting a law to ensure that he would not be able to
make the same mistake again. This law might itself be understood as a

2
As Konstan (2010: 105) notes, the early Church valorizes repentance, and with it,
full acceptance of responsibility, as a means to erase one’s sins.
3
On the other hand, note the visually striking nature of Theodosius’ penance,
which is likely to have been extremely memorable to those who saw it (Gaddis 2005:
112).
4
In this vein, Peter Brown (1992: 111) emphasizes Ambrose’s decision to play the
role of a (pagan) philosopher and invoke parrhesia in his dealings with the emperor;
the Church is still at this point in its history very willing to take models where it can
find them, despite struggling to show itself wholly other.
 Conclusion 215
way of refusing to allow the Church to dictate his actions, or as a
bowing to necessity. Indeed, we might want to follow Peter Brown
(1992: 109) in believing that the ‘anger’ of Theodosius was in this
instance largely illusory, and that his decision to have the Thessalo-
nicans killed derived from careful policy. But the Church has every
reason to want to present Theodosius as ‘angry’, for anger is recog-
nizably a sin, and they have authority over sins.5 And indeed, once
Theodosius decides to recant his behaviour, for whatever reason, he
too may prefer to have it understood as deriving from a lack of
emotional control, and not a lack of concern for Christian lives.
The ‘pagan’ interpretation makes very clear, in a way that the
‘Christian’ cannot do, that this is a contestation over power. As one
of the earliest occasions when the Church intervened in politics, the
incident is crucial, and it is no wonder that the church historians
detail it as extensively as they do; in part the narrative seeks to
naturalize the practice of emperors taking orders from church au-
thorities.6 The importance of examining the incident through a pagan
lens is that it reminds us, however sincere the performance of pen-
ance by an emperor, that in the ancient context it inevitably also
involves a symbolic lowering of his status, an admittance that he is
‘the kind of person’ who got it wrong the first time around and so who
needs correcting. Like Nero, Theodosius may well have been viewed
by some of his contemporaries, and not only Christian ones, not as a
god-fearing emperor, but as a man who made a decision (however
positively or negatively that decision should be evaluated), and then
undermined himself by undoing that decision. We can here see, at
least in potential, Christian concerns interacting with more trad-
itional pagan thought structures.7

5
This is supported by Ambrose’s claim in De Obitu Theodosii 12–13 that Theo-
dosius became angry, but got over it quickly. On imperial anger, a key issue through-
out the empire, see W. V. Harris (2001: 204–8 and 229–63).
6
See Peter Brown (1992: 109) on Theodosius’ ‘dangerous habit of giving way to
bishops’.
7
The similar incident a year earlier at Callinicum (388/9), known to us from
Ambrose Ep. 74 and Ep. Ex. 1.26–8, has also been read as Ambrose’s manipulation of
Theodosius’ piety for political ends (Matthews 1975). But McLynn (1994: 307)
believes this is simply a result of Ambrose’s careful manipulation of events: those in
church ‘had merely seen the emperor grant, after due consideration, the bishop’s
fulsome plea for mercy. The unusual setting and dramatic climax to the intercession
served only to give greater publicity to Theodosius’ gesture of benevolence.’
216 Conclusion
Or perhaps indeed, neither of these interpretations is quite enough
by itself. Given that all of our discussions of the incident derive from
Christian sources, they may elide certain elements of the story,
preferring instead a narrative that valorizes Ambrose’s authority
over the secular power (McLynn 1994: 291–2, 315). Instead of either
my ‘pagan’ or my ‘Christian’ readings, both of which involve some
sort of struggle, McLynn suggests that in fact the situation is likelier to
have been a joint performance, which served both men’s interests.8
He reads the incident as a genuine but innocent mistake, one which
damaged the emperor’s reputation (1994: 315). In his interpretation,
the troops got out of hand and killed innocent bystanders. The
emperor, as usual, was blamed for their behaviour, and had to
pretend that his imperial anger had softened, and he had counter-
manded the offer, but too late (318–22). But people were still outraged.
So Ambrose contrived a solution which worked to everybody’s benefit:
‘if he responded to the terms presented by Ambrose and professed his
penitence with the appropriate tears, he would be granted reconcili-
ation with God’ (McLynn 1994: 326). The two men’s ability to negoti-
ate this delicate situation, and to trust each other, resulted in substantial
gains for both: Ambrose became known as a man who was not afraid to
speak truth to power, and Theodosius as a pious Christian emperor. By
admitting to ‘sin’ Theodosius opened up the possibility of redemption,
and of moving beyond the distressing incident (McLynn 1994: 327).9
And Ambrose, by orchestrating the scene, gained considerable political
influence. This is not, of course, to suggest that either man was
deliberately insincere, merely that religious and political interests in
this case dovetailed nicely.
My first chapter treated a similar incident, the quarrel between
Agamemnon and Achilles. Theodosius is assuredly not Agememnon.
But the distance between the two men is perhaps not so great as it
might seem. Both found themselves trapped by circumstances into
being ‘in the wrong’ because they had not judged public opinion
properly. (Theodosius may indeed simply have been the victim of
his army’s eagerness for bloodshed.) It may be the case that both were

8
The point is also adumbrated by Liebeschuetz (1990: 164–5), who notes that
Theodosius humbled himself ‘as a strategy’.
9
As McLynn (1994: 328) notes, the strategy was wildly successful: the massacre at
Thessalonica is never told apart from the narrative of imperial sin, penance, and
redemption.
 Conclusion 217
surprised to find that they had powerful, and ultimately, more per-
suasive, opponents, who then forced them to revise their claims: in
the one case, a single warrior, in the other, either a single bishop or
the overwhelmingly negative weight of public opinion. And both
suffered some degree of negative attention from the revision of their
claims, though here Theodosius is far more successful, because a
Christian context is developing in which what might have been seen
as his weakness can also be presented as his great strength.
Ambrose is also assuredly not Achilles, although my ‘pagan’ inter-
pretation allows him to be viewed as a principled objector to wrong-
doing, or a highly self-conscious public figure, acutely aware of any
threats to his own prerogatives and willing to use any means to re-
establish his authority. But we might also think of him as a more
successful version of Nestor, if indeed he did orchestrate the details of
reconciliation rather than simply advising or demanding it. Add-
itional work from Nestor ‘behind the scenes’, however, would not
necessarily have healed the breach between Achilles and Agamemnon
in such a way as to prevent the Iliad from happening, for the Homeric
world does not seem to offer much opportunity for this kind of
reimagining of behaviour that was negatively valued. Had Agamem-
non been persuaded to apologize earlier, publicly, and in a way that
demonstrated his humbling of himself before a greater power, Achil-
les might well have been appeased, but Agamemnon might have lost
so much face as to become ineffective as a leader. It is only in the late
antique world, when all men, even those of the greatest status, are
seen as inferior to a single divinity, that such self-abasement can
provide a source of power. This, I suspect, is the root of the change
that occurs between the pagan reluctance to admit wrongdoing and
the early Christian focus on universal sinfulness. Had Ovid and
Augustus, for instance, been living in a Christian world, the poet’s
pleas might have been framed rather differently, and might have had
a different effect, and had Nero had the option of purging himself of
his feelings of guilt in a way acceptable to all, we might have a wholly
different historical understanding of him.

FINAL (RE)CONSIDERATIONS

A book of this sort is difficult to end, and not simply because writing
it has taught me much about the beneficial aspects of revision. If
218 Conclusion
I have succeeded in my most modest aim, the reader will now be more
attuned to context in the translation of remorse words, and will
realize even the most nuanced of translations of these words may
not capture their full range of meaning. In addition to drawing
attention to context, I have also sought to focus attention on role,
arguing that high status inhibits the expression of remorse. As a
result, the kinds of people seen as most likely to make mistakes, and
so most likely to be faced with the aftermath of a poor decision, are
not usually adult men of the upper classes. I have discerned a prevail-
ing trend in ancient literature against changes of mind, and have tried
both to demonstrate that consistency was much preferred over adapt-
ability, and to explain why. Finally, I have attempted to incorporate
those insights into several passages in which a modern audience
might expect remorse-like behaviour; in general, ancient scenes do
not provide one, or do not provide one in ways that fully satisfy us, so
I have explored the different reasons why.
I have focused on public life because that is where the majority of
our evidence comes from, but I would imagine that private life was
not terribly different, and that expressions of regret there too were
dependent upon status; presumably it was easier for women and
slaves to apologize, given that they were considered eminently sus-
ceptible of making mistakes.10 When people of higher status and
greater maturity were forced to revise decisions, they seem to have
resorted to any number of tricks to explain, or explain away, their
apparent inconsistencies, as do the authors who write favourably
about them.
Because in antiquity changes of mind are rarely conceived of as
resulting from simple lack of information (in which case, culpability
might be mitigated), any alteration from one’s purpose seems to
have been viewed as proving that one had made a mistake, either
through viciousness, weakness, or carelessness, and so was treated as
a much more serious matter than it is in some societies, like our own
(though even in modern Western societies it is exceedingly rare for a
politician or other public figure to apologize, so my dichotomy is
somewhat overstated). Instead of the modern valorization of revision

10
See too above, p. 12. W. V. Harris (2001) presents a coherent picture of anger
displays as a feature of lower-status individuals, among whom women and slaves
feature prominently. We might imagine that remorse displays would be similar, but
there is simply not enough evidence to do more than speculate.
 Conclusion 219
of important issues and of narratives that portray progress, the an-
cients were much more concerned with getting it right the first time,
or at least with asserting that they had got it right. That flexibility
equalled fickleness seems to have been so deeply felt a belief that
even correction of mistakes was rarely acknowledged as such, and, as
a result, remorse-like emotions such as paenitentia and metanoia are
regularly devalued and assigned to lower-status characters.
At the same time, we have seen a positive valuation for the expres-
sion of remorse in a few, limited contexts, primarily philosophical.
The possibility for amendment of character is a desideratum for the
young, but it becomes increasingly fraught with negative implications
as the young become fully adult. And for every Democritus, there are
a dozen Ciceros. So too, the modern belief that remorse is a perman-
ently life-altering emotion that is felt with every breath is not one
shared with the ancients, who are, for a variety of reasons, much more
likely to move on than to dwell on past mistakes.
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CA Classical Antiquity
CJ Classical Journal
CP Classical Philology
CQ Classical Quarterly
CR Classical Review
CW Classical World
GRBS Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies
G&R Greece and Rome
JHS Journal of Hellenic Studies
JRS Journal of Roman Studies
PCPS Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society
TAPA Transactions of the American Philological Association

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 Index Locorum

Aelian 2.143.598: 180 n. 57

VH 3.231: 100 n. 6 3.38.153: 180 n. 57
Aeschylus 3.39.162: 180 n. 57
Eum. 771: 27 3.42.174: 180 n. 57
Sup. 405–6: 87 n. 23, 88 n. 25 3.77.314: 180 n. 57
PV 437: 87 n. 22 3.90.371: 180 n. 57
Aeschines 3.91.373: 180 n. 57
2.7: 206 n. 56 4.19: 208 n. 64
2.17–18: 206 n. 56 4.58.252: 180 n. 57
Ambrose 4.130.547: 180 n. 57
De Obitu Theodosii 12–13: 215 n. 5 4.131.549: 180 n. 57
34: 1 n. 1 5.16.16: 180 n. 57
Ep. 51: 1 5.129.536: 180 n. 57
74: 215 n. 7 5.141.588: 180 n. 57
Ep. Ex. 1.26–8: 215 n. 7 Iber. 6.7.34: 170 and n. 34
11:1 n. 1 6.37.6: 172
Andocides Lib. 8.52.225: 180 n. 57
1.149.12: 27–8 8.102.482: 180 n. 57
2.6: 34 Mithr. 12.58.238: 180 n. 57
Andronicus Syr. 11.16.70: 180 n. 57
SVF 3.434.32–3: 27 n. 83 Aristotle
Antiphon EE 1240b22–4: 9–10
2.4.12: 33 MM 2.11.50: 10 n. 31
Appian NE 1099a12–14: 190 n. 10
BC 1.39.176: 180 n. 57 1105a30–4: 191 n. 14
2.29.113: 180 n. 57 1105a31–5: 10 n. 31
2.36.143: 180 n. 57 1110b18–19: 30–1 n. 92
2.47.191: 176 1110b20–1111a21: 30–1 n. 92
2.47.192: 176 1128b10–12: 11
2.47.195: 176 1128b10–35: 192
2.63.262: 176 1128b11–35: 11 n. 33
2.64.265: 176, 180 n. 57 1128b15–21: 11 and n. 34
2.77.324: 180 n. 57 1146a18–21: 187 n. 3
2.91.382: 180 n. 57 1146a19: 11 n. 33
2.92.386: 177 1146a20: 79–8 n. 38
2.92.386–7: 177 1150b29: 10 n. 31
2.92.387: 177 1150b29–35: 191 n. 14
2.92.388: 177 1151b: 194
2.92.389: 177 1151b17–22: 187 n. 3
2.92.390: 177 1151b19: 79 n. 38
2.93.391: 178 1154b29–31: 190 n. 10
2.93.392: 178 1166a28–9: 10 n. 31
2.94.393: 179 1166b24: 10 n. 31
2.94.396: 179 1168a32–4: 79 n. 38
2.109.454: 180 n. 57 1178b4–20: 11 n. 33, 192
246 Index Locorum
Aristotle (cont.) Cicero
Poet. 1453a1–5: 83 Att. 4.5: 207 n. 61
1454a22–8: 67 10.4.5: 42 n. 138
1454a32–7: 67 n. 4 10.8.7: 47 n. 149
Rhet. 1380a14–15: 16 n. 48, 31–2 11.22.2: 175
1383b–85a: 11 n. 33 13.20.4: 42 n. 138
1389–90: 187 n. 3 Caec. 5: 42 n. 139
1389a3–b12: 11 n. 33 Cael. 6–8: 142 n. 28
Aristophanes 32–43: 142 n. 28
Frogs 599: 87 Cat. 1.17: 42 n. 137
1431: 211 n. 72 2.13: 42 n. 137
Arrian 3.10–11: 42 n. 137
1.7.7: 103 n. 14 3.13: 42 n. 137
4.8.1: 103 n. 15 Cluent. 158–9: 42 n. 139
4.8.3: 106, 108 25: 42 n. 137
4.8.4: 98 n. 4, 99 n. 5 De Or.1.209: 39 n. 124
4.8.5: 106 Fam.1.9: 207 n. 61
4.8.5–6: 98 3.26: 47 n. 149
4.8.6–7: 98, 106 Fin. 1.51: 41 n. 135
4.8.7: 106 1.53: 41 n. 135
4.8.8: 99 2.53–4: 41 n. 136
4.8.9: 99, 106 2.53–5: 41 n. 135
4.9.1: 99 n. 5, 103 n. 15, 107 Inv. 2.3.9: 192
4.9.2: 98, 107 2.28.86–90: 142 n. 28
4.9.3–4: 107 Leg. 1.14: 38
4.9.5: 107 2.9: 41 n. 135
4.9.6: 107 2.15: 41 n. 135
4.9.7: 107–8 2.17: 41 n. 135
4.9.8: 108 Mil. 6: 142 n. 28
4.9.10: 99 n. 5 30: 142 n. 28
7.29.1: 108 61: 41–2 n. 136, 142 n. 28
7.29.2: 108–9, 110 n. 34 64: 41–2 n. 136
7.30.3: 110 n. 33, 110–11 n. 34 72–83: 142 n. 28
Athenaeus 98: 142 n. 28
7.316f: 193 Mur. 61: 38 n. 121
7.317f: 193 ND 1.5: 39 n. 124
12.534b–535: 212 n. 77 3.85: 41 n. 135
Augustine 3.95: 41 n. 135
City of God 5.26: 1 n. 1 Off. 1.33: 38 n. 133
Confessions 4.3: 44 n. 146 Para. Sto. 18: 41 n. 135
5.3: 44 n. 146 Phil. 2.88: 42 n. 137
Pis. 33: 42 n. 137
Bellum Africum 19: 175 43: 41 n. 135
44: 42 n. 137
Caesar 95: 41 n. 135
BC 2.32: 37 QF 3.6.5: 207 n. 61
BG 1.41.1: 179 n. 55 3.9.1: 207 n. 61
Chariton Rab. Post. 19: 207 n. 61
3.3: 33 33: 207 n. 61
Chrysippus Rosc. Amer. 65: 42.137
SVF 3.548–56: 19 n. 60 67: 41 n. 135
 Index Locorum 247
Rosc. Com. 46: 41 n. 136, 42 n. 139 8.4.30: 99 n. 5
Sen. 14.47: 128 n. 38 8.6.23: 102 n. 11
TD 3.26–7: 38 8.7.4: 102 n. 13
3.61: 38 n. 121 8.8.10: 102 n. 11
3.68–70: 38 n. 121 8.8.22: 102 n. 13
3.77: 20 n. 61, 38 n. 121 8.8.7: 102 n. 13
4.45: 38 n. 121 8.12.18: 99 n. 5
4.61: 20 n. 61 9.7.26: 102 n. 11
4.79: 38 n. 122, 100 n. 6 9.4.22: 162 n. 5
Vat. 3: 42 n. 137 10.1.39–42: 99 n. 5
28: 42 n. 137 10.5.11: 102 n. 11
33: 42 n. 137
40: 42 n. 137 Democritus
41: 42 n. 137 fr. 43D–L: 27 n. 83, 192
Verr.1.3: 42 n. 139 Dinarchus
2.3.132: 42 n. 137 1.17–18: 206 n. 58
2.3.141: 42 n. 140 1.26: 206 n. 58
2.5.74: 42 n. 137 1.35–6: 206 n. 58
Codex Theod. 9.40.13: 2 n. 3 1.41: 206 n. 58
Curtius 1.94–5: 206 n. 58
3.12.19: 102 n. 13 Dio
5.3.21: 102 n. 11 8.2: 158 n. 28, 174 n. 48
5.5.10: 102 n. 11 8.18: 158 n. 28
5.5.24: 102 n. 11 9: 174 n. 48
5.7.11: 102 n. 11, 103 n. 14 9.1: 174 n. 47
5 .10.8: 102 n. 11 9.7: 158 n. 28, 174 n. 48
5.10.13: 102 n. 11 9.10: 170, 170 n. 35, 171, 172
5.10.15: 102 n. 11 9.14: 158 n. 28, 174 n. 48
5.11.7: 102 n. 11 15: 174 n. 47 and n. 48
6.10.4: 102 n. 11 15.31: 158 n. 28
6.10.15: 102 n. 11 16: 170 n. 35, 172
7.4.19: 110 n. 32 17: 174 n. 48
7.7.23: 102 n. 11 24.39.1: 158 n. 28
8.1.20: 98 39.6.5: 207 n. 61
8.1.22–3: 98 36.16.1–3: 163
8.1.38: 98 40.37.3: 158 n. 28
8.1.39: 98 41.26.2: 176
8.1.41: 98 41.27.3: 176
8.1.43: 98, 101 41.27–35.4: 176
8.1.45: 101 41.29.1: 176 n. 52
8.1.48: 101 41.35.5: 176
8.1.49–50: 98 42.52.1: 177
8.1.51: 99 42.52.2: 177
8.1.51–2: 98, 101 42.52.3: 177
8.2.1: 101 n. 10, 102 42.53.1–2: 177
8.2.3: 102 n. 11 42.53.4: 178
8.2.4: 101 42.53.6: 178
8.2.5: 101 42.54.2: 178
8.2.6: 101 42.55.1: 178
8.2.11: 101 42.55.3: 178
8.2.13: 101 43.14.1: 178
8.2.29: 102 n. 11 53.9.2: 158
248 Index Locorum
Dio (cont.) Epictetus
53.11.2: 158 1.4.10: 20 n. 61
55.21.3: 158 2.11.1: 20 n. 61
57.3.1: 181 n. 59 2.2.35: 33
57.4.4–5: 182 Ench. 34: 33 n. 101
57.5.1: 183 Euripides
57.5.2: 181 n. 59 Andr. 49–55: 94 and 94 n. 39
57.5.3: 183 142–6: 89
57.5.5: 183 147: 89
57.5.7: 183 231–2: 89
58.8.3: 158 491–2: 89
59.3.1: 150 n. 13 492–3: 86 n. 18
59.13.3–7: 159 n. 30 766–801: 84
59.21.5–6: 150 n. 30 804–15: 86–7, 89
59.23.8: 159 n. 30 805: 87 n. 20, 88 and n. 26
59.24.1: 159 n. 30 954–6: 89
60.2.4: 150 n. 13 1003–4: 94 n. 37
60.14.2: 158 1106–8: 94 n. 37
61[60].29.5: 158 1163: 94 n. 37
61[60].34.1–3: 148 n. 3 Andr. Hypoth. 1: 86 n. 19
61.1.1: 148 n. 6 Andr. Hypoth. 2: 81
61.3.3: 147 n. 2 Hercl. 236: 87
61.4.1: 147 n. 2 Orest. 396: 22 n. 68, 35, 87 and n. 21
61.4.2: 159 632–716: 87
61.7.4: 148 n. 6
61.7.5: 148 n. 6 Frontinus
61.22:159 Strategmata 1.9.4: 179 n. 56
62[61].12–13: 148 n. 7 4.5.9: 175
62.14.4: 159
62.15.11: 153 n. 17 Gellius
62.16.1: 150 n. 30 1.3.2: 38
62.24.1: 149 n. 9 Gorgias
63.7.1: 159 Helen 6: 52
63.22–9: 149 n. 11
63.28.4: 159 Heliodorus
74.17.6: 159 n. 29 9.20.5: 28
79.39.4: 159 n. 29 Herodotus
Dio Chrysostom 1.86: 34
34.18: 33 7.143: 203 n. 47
Diodorus 8.4–5: 203 n. 45
11.15.4–17.4: 203 8.22: 203
11.19.5–6: 204 n. 50 8.75: 203
11.41–2: 204 n. 52 8.79–81: 204 n. 49
11.54–5: 205 8.109: 204 n. 51
11.56: 205 8.110: 204 n. 50
11.57.5–6: 205 8.111–12: 203 n. 45
11.58.1: 206 Hesiod
11.58.2–3: 206 Works and Days 96: 17–18 n. 56
16.65.4: 200 n. 36, 20 Homer
26.3.1: 166 n. 21 Iliad 1.22–3: 52 n. 6
26.3.3: 166 n. 21 1.131–47: 52
30.6: 28 1.148–71: 52
Dion.Hal. 1.172–87: 53
9.27.5: 28 1.188–214: 52
 Index Locorum 249
1.274–84: 53 19.181–3: 61
2.378: 54 n. 10 19.186: 61
4.349–55: 53 n. 8 19.187–8: 61
4.355–63: 53 n. 8 19.199–214: 63
4.365–402: 53 19.303–57: 63
4.412–18: 54 19.408–17: 63 n. 43
9.34–5: 54 Horace
9.112–13: 54 Odes 1.2: 141 n. 26
9.113: 56 n. 18, 58 3.3.9–12: 141 n. 26
9.115–16: 60 3.5.1–4: 141 n. 26
9.116: 55 4.5.29–36: 141 n. 26
9.119: 55 Ep. 1.8: 194
9.120–57: 55 Sat. 2.7: 194 n. 19
9.121–30: 55 n. 14 Hyperides
9.160–1: 55 5 fr 5 cols 20–1: 206 n. 56
9.161: 55 n. 16
9.163–4: 55 Isaeus
9.164: 56 n. 18 1:19: 19 n. 58
9.198: 56 n. 20
9.307–429: 57 n. 23 John Chrysostom
9.308–429: 57 Hom. 8.2.8: 25 n. 76
9.369–72: 58 n. 29 Josephus
9.378–97: 57 BJ 1.81: 28
9.410–16: 57 n. 23 1.84: 28
9.433–523: 57 1.555: 33
9.502–12: 58 n. 29 2.250: 148 n. 6
9.515–23: 55 3.72–5: 162 n. 6
9.523: 57 3.99–101: 162 n. 6
9.529–99: 57 Justin
9.554: 58 n. 27 12.6.2: 111
9.606–19: 57 12.6.3: 111
9.624–42: 57 12.6.5: 111
9.645–6: 57–8 12.6.6: 111
11.791–803: 62 12.6.7: 111
15.59–77: 62 12.6.9–10: 111
16.21–45: 63 12.6.13: 111
16.49–100: 63 12.6.14: 111
16.60–3: 63 n. 41 12.6.16: 111
18.20–7: 63 12.6.17: 111
18.32–4: 63
18.77–126: 63 Livy
18.314–42: 63 3.2.4: 173 n. 44
19.56–73: 60 n. 36, 63 3.50–1: 164 n. 10
19.59–62: 63 4.17.5: 43 n. 141
19.76–84: 60 n. 34 6.23.9: 173 n. 44
78–82: 60 6.26.7: 173 n. 44
19.85–138: 60 6.30.3: 173 n. 44
19.86: 60 7.20.2: 173 n. 44
19.86–7: 60 9.11.3: 173 n. 44
19.94: 60 9.18.12: 173 n. 44
19.137–8: 60–1 9.42.5: 173 n. 44
19.146–53: 63 10.18.9: 174 n. 45
250 Index Locorum
Livy (cont.) 28.29.12: 172
11.12.5: 166 28.32.2–5: 172
22.8.6: 166 n. 22 30.28.10: 173 n. 44
22.12.6–7: 166 30.30.30: 173 n. 44
22.12.11: 166 31.31.10: 173 n. 44, 174 n. 45
22.12.12: 167 31.31.14: 174 n. 45
22.14.1–3: 167 31.32.2: 37, 173 n. 44
22.14.4–14: 167 34.31.19: 173 n. 44
22.18.8–10: 167 34.54.8: 173 n. 44
22.24.14: 167 35.25.8: 173 n. 44
22.25.10: 167 n. 23 36.9.7: 173 n. 44
22.25.12–16: 167 39.43.4: 111 n. 37
22.25.18–26–4: 167 n. 23 39.49.11: 174 n. 44
22.27.5–10: 167 40.22.11: 174 n. 44
22.28.1–2: 167 42.13.3: 173 n. 44
22.28.3–9: 167 44.10.2: 173 n. 44
22.29.2: 167, 16 44.38.4: 173 n. 44
22.29.9: 168 45.10.11: 173 n. 44
22.30.1–5: 168 Per. 113: 175, 177
23.2: 166 Lucan
23.3: 166 5.237–373: 175 n. 51
23.10.10: 173 n. 44 5.244–8: 175 n. 51
23.12.6: 173 n. 44 5.301–4: 175 n. 51
23.12.9–10: 173 n. 44 5.318: 175 n. 51
24.26.15: 173 n. 44 5.343: 175 n. 51
26.18.11: 173 n. 44 5.368–9: 175 n. 51
27.13.5: 173 n. 44 Lucian
28.12.3–5: 164 n. 12 De Salt. 84: 33
28.19.1: 174 n. 45 Dial. Mort. 12/14.3: 100 n. 6
28.19.10: 174 n. 45 Lucretius
28.22.5: 174 n. 45 3.1018: 43 n. 141
28.24.1–2: 170 4.1135: 43 n. 141, 44 n. 145
28.24.5: 170 n. 35 5.1151–60: 43 n. 141
28.24.6: 170 Lysias
28.24.7–8: 170 3.7: 28
28.24.11: 170 3.10: 28
28.24.13–14: 170
28.24.15: 170 Marcus Aurelius
28.24.16: 170 8.2: 33 n. 101
28.25.3: 170 8.53: 33 n. 101
28.25.7: 170 Menander
28.25.8: 169 Dysk. 12: 28
28.25.9: 171 Epitr. 888–99: 118
28.26.4: 171 891: 118
28.26.3: 171 894: 118
28.27.4: 171 n. 38 914: 118
28.27.6: 172 Sam. 47–8: 116 and n. 6
28.27.6–12: 171 49: 116 and n. 6
28.27.11: 171 690–712: 131
28.27.11–12: 171 n. 37
28.29.3: 171 Nepos
28.29.6: 171 2.1.1: 203 n. 43
28.29.7: 171 2.4.3–5: 203
 Index Locorum 251
2.5.1: 204 n. 50 4.15.32: 143
2.8.3–4: 205 Met. 1.175–6: 138 n. 17
2.9.4: 205 Tr.1. 1: 139 n. 21
2.10.2: 205 n. 55 1.3: 138 and n. 19
7.1.4: 212 n. 77 1.3.37: 143 n. 30
20.1.4: 200 n. 36 1.7.39: 143
20.1.6: 201 n. 37 1.9.64–5: 143 n. 32
20.2.1: 202 n. 40 2.33–4: 139
New Testament 2.35–6: 139
2 Cor. 7: 8–11b: 33 n. 100 2.95–6: 140
Luke 15: 7: 17 n. 54 2.207: 134 n. 2
2.213: 138
Ovid 2.316: 135 n. 9
Ars 1.755–62: 193 3.1: 139 n. 21
1.769–90: 193 3.7.21–2: 137 n. 18
2.592: 37 3.7.27–30: 137 n. 18
EP 1.1.58–60: 135 n. 9 3.14.52: 143 n. 32
1.2.71: 138 4.1.2: 143 n. 32
1.6.25–6: 143 n. 30 4.1.101: 140 n. 25
1.7.41: 143 n. 32 4.2.23–4: 143 n. 30
1.7.43: 138 4.4.10: 143
1.7.44: 143 n. 30 4.7.26: 143 n. 32
1.10.42: 139 n. 21 4.9.4: 135 n. 9
2.3.14: 135 n. 9 4.9.10: 140 n. 25
3.2.47: 135 n. 9 4.10: 138–9 n. 19
2.2.17: 143 n. 30 4.10.64: 140 n. 25
2.6.14: 135 n. 9 5.1.8: 135 n. 9
3.1.31–42: 145 5.7.60: 143
3.1.65–6: 145 5.13.25–6: 143
3.2.15–22: 144 n. 33
3.4.44: 143 Paulinus
3.6: 137 n. 18, 145 V. Ambr. 24–5: 1 n. 1
3.6.45–6: 143 Pausanias
3.7.10: 143 1.30.1: 33
3.9.5: 143 Philo
3.9.6: 143 Abr. 17.26–7: 46 n. 147
3.9.11–14: 143 Deus 33: 40 n. 130
3.9.19: 135 n. 9 72: 40 n. 130
3.9.33: 143 n. 32 Fuga 99: 46 n. 147
4.1.5: 143 157–60: 46 n. 147
4.1.13: 143 Leg. 40: 35 n. 108
4.1.20: 143 165: 35 n. 108
4.6.15: 142 n. 30 Legat. 2.60: 25 n. 76
4.6.16: 134 n. 5 Praem. 15: 46 n. 147
4.9.4: 134 n. 5 Q. Gen. 1.93: 40 n. 130
4.11.1: 143 2.13: 46 n. 147
4.12.15: 143 2.54: 40 n. 130
4.13.14: 143 Somn. 2.108–9: 46 n. 147
4.14.23: 142 n. 30 2.292: 46 n. 147
4.14.29: 144 Spec. 1.103: 46 n. 147
4.14.30: 142 n. 30 1.187: 46 n. 147
4.14.42: 144 1.242: 46 n. 147
252 Index Locorum
Philo (cont.) 735–8: 125
Virt. 175–86: 46 n. 147 829–30: 125
Philodemus Aul. 733–4: 119
de Ira 15.9–15: 27 n. 83 755–6: 119
19.1–5: 19 n. 58 789–806: 119
Plato 791: 119
Alc. I.132a1: 211 n. 72 Bacch. 1007: 123
Gorg. 472: 29 n. 87 1013–16: 123
476–8: 29 n. 87 1017: 123
491d–494b: 191 1076–86: 123
509: 29 n. 87 1118–1206: 123
Laws 671c: 29 n. 87 1152: 123
727c: 31 n. 94 1207–8: 123
861–3: 30 n. 91 Cas. 353–425: 126
863e–64a: 19 n. 59 591–612: 127
866d–e: 29–30 621–713: 127
867b: 30 733: 127
934a: 29 n. 87 815–36: 126
934a–b, 862: 29 921–8: 126
941c–942a: 36 n. 114 950: 126 n. 29
Lysis 214d: 189 976: 127
Phaedo 78c–3: 191 1005–6: 127
113e–114a: 29 Cist. 173–8: 129 n. 42
Phdr. 246a1–248b: 190 n. 11 307–8: 122 n. 20
253c7–256e2: 190 n. 11 Merc. 80–6: 124
Prot. 322d: 36 n. 114 107–8: 124
324a–b: 29 199–203: 124
325a: 36 n. 114 260–5: 124
Rep. 329a–d: 128 n. 38 290–8: 128 n. 38
331c5–9: 19 367–468: 124
351e–352a: 190 n. 11 667–740: 124
360d–361b: 191 974: 124
380e–381a: 191 991–4: 124
441d–444e: 191 n. 13 1000: 124
442c9–d2: 190 n. 11 Miles 135: 128 n. 34
491b–495: 198 n. 29 166: 128 n. 34
491d492c: 211 n. 72 618: 128 n. 34
493d–495c: 211 n. 72 621: 128 n. 34
554d9–e6: 190 n. 11 623: 128 n. 34
561a–d: 190 n. 12 626: 128 n. 34
577e1: 191 n. 12 631: 128 n. 34
589c–592b: 191 n. 13 649: 128 n. 34
590b8: 190 n. 12 652: 128 n. 34
Symp. 215d1–216c3: 20 n. 61 Most. 544: 43 n. 141
[Pl.] 1125: 120
Definitions 415e: 34 n. 105 1153: 120
Plautus 1157–8: 120
Asinaria 50: 125 1159: 120
67: 125 1161: 120
72: 125 1165: 120
79: 125 n. 25 1166: 120
91: 125 1167: 120
 Index Locorum 253
Stichus. 538–73: 122 n. 20 52.2: 103
Trin. 1181: 121 n. 16 52.3–4: 104
1183: 121 n. 16 62.3: 113
Pliny (the Younger) Ant. 10.1: 177
Ep. 9.21.1: 37–8 24.10:200
Pliny (the Elder): 34.7: 200
NH 7.149: 154 n. 19 Arat. 30.7: 199 n. 34
18.26: 37 Aristid. 2.2: 204
29.74: 43 n. 141 7.1–2: 205 n. 53
30.14–17: 152 n. 15 7.5–6: 205 n. 53
Plutarch 7.6: 205 n. 53
Alc.1. 4: 212 13.3: 209 n. 68
2.1: 209 n. 65, 211 Artax. 18.8: 199 n. 34
16.9: 203 n. 43 24.8: 199 n. 34
20.5: 210 Brutus 6.7–9: 202 n. 42
20.8: 210 18.36: 202 n. 42
21.6: 210 n. 70 29.4–7: 202 n. 42
21.7–22.4: 210 Cam. 12.1–2: 209 n. 68
23.4: 211 18.6: 209 n. 68
24.4: 209 n. 65 31.1–3: 209 n. 68
25.2: 210 Caes. 37.8: 175 n. 50
25.5–10: 211 n. 76 51.1: 175, 179 n. 56
26.5–6: 210 n. 70 Cato Mai. 9.9: 206
27.1: 210 18.2–19.5: 209 n. 68
32.1–5: 210 Cato Min. 1.3–5: 202 n. 42
35.6–8: 210 2.3–7: 202 n. 42
36.5: 210 8.4–5: 202 n. 42
38.1: 210 30.9–10: 202 n. 42
Alex. 7.1: 104 31.2–3: 202 n. 42
11.4: 103 n. 14 35.5: 199 n. 34
13: 99 n. 5 44.11–45.2: 202 n. 42
13.2: 103 n. 14, 104 50.2–3: 202 n. 42
13.3: 103 Cic. 5.6: 208
23.5: 109 n. 26 6.5: 207
30.1: 103 n. 14, 199 n. 34 28.2: 207–8
38.4: 103 n. 14, 104 30.4–6: 208
38.8: 199 n. 34 31.5: 208
41.1: 99 n. 5 32.3–4: 208
50.1: 99 n. 5, 103 37: 208
50.2–3: 103 37.2: 208 n. 62
50.5: 98 38.1: 208
50.5–9: 98 39.2: 208
50.6–8: 103 39.6: 208
50.10: 98 43.3–4: 208
50.11: 98 45–6: 208
51.3–4: 98 47.4–7: 208
51.5: 98 Cim. 2.5: 198 n. 29
51.8: 98 16.4: 209 n. 68
51.9: 98 17.6: 209 n. 68
51.9–11: 103 Coriol. 13.4: 209 n. 68, 211 n. 73
51.10: 98 20.5: 209 n. 68, 211 n. 73
52.1: 103 29.3: 209 n. 68, 211 n. 73
254 Index Locorum
Plutarch (cont.) 339f: 105 n. 21
Crass. 7.8: 210 n. 69 380a: 209 n. 68
16–31: 210 n. 69 449e: 103, 105 n. 21
23.3: 210 n. 69 452c–d: 20 n. 61
Dem. 13.1: 206 452d: 199 n. 33
13.3–4: 207 528d: 198
13.4: 207 536d: 198
21.2: 209 n. 68 556d: 199
28.2: 207 n. 59 623d–f: 105 n. 21
29: 207 n. 59 712c: 116
Demetr. 1.5: 200 n. 35 781a–b: 104 n. 16
52.4: 199 n. 34 781f: 197 n. 26
Dion. 8.1: 202 n. 42 799b–c: 209 n. 68
32.5: 202 n. 42 818a–b: 202 n. 42
47.3–8: 202 n. 42 Nic3.2: 210 n. 69
48.6–49.7: 202 n. 42 5.1: 210 n. 69
53: 202 n. 42 6.1–2: 210 n. 69
Fab. Max. 2.5: 166 8.3: 210 n. 69
5.1: 166 9.2: 211 n. 75
5.2: 166 11.5: 209 n. 68
5.3: 166 Per.7.3: 197 n. 26
5.4: 166, 167 9.1: 197 n. 26
8.1: 167 10.2: 209 n. 68
8.3: 167 15.1–3: 197 n. 26
9.1–3: 167 n. 23 37.1–2: 209 n. 68
10.3: 167 38.2: 197 n. 26
11.1–4: 167 Philop.13.6: 203–4 n. 48
12.1: 167 Phoc.3.1–3: 202 n. 42
13.1–2: 168 14.5: 209 n. 68
13.2–4: 168 16.6: 209 n. 68
G. Grac. 16.7: 209 n. 68 32.7–10: 202 n. 42
18.2: 209 n. 68 Pyrr.12.7: 199 n. 34
Galba 6.6: 199 n. 34 Syn. Aem./Timol. 2.6: 202
Lucull. 22.4: 199 n. 34 Syn. Cim./Lucull. 1.4: 197
33.2–5: 209 n. 68 Syn. Nic./Crass. 2.1: 210 n. 69
34.1–4: 209 n. 68 Them. 2.7: 203
Marius 10.5: 199 n. 34 3.4: 203
Mor. 52e–f: 212 n. 77 5.3: 203
71c: 104–5 n. 20 7.3: 203
75b–76a: 20 n. 61 9.2: 203
81c: 20 n. 61 10.1–4: 203
82c: 20 n. 61, 198 n. 32 10.6–7: 203
84d: 198 n. 32 12.1–3: 209 n. 68
85e: 198 n. 32 12.3–8: 203
84d: 20 n. 61 12.8: 204
85e: 20 n. 61 16.4–6: 204
126e: 209 n. 68 16.5–6: 203
196d: 209 n. 68 16.6: 204
239e: 209 n. 68 18.4: 209 n. 68
248e: 209 n. 68 18.11: 203
337e–f: 105 n. 21 19.1–2: 203
339a: 105 n. 21 20.2: 203, 204
 Index Locorum 255
22.1: 209 n. 68 18.43.13: 168 n. 26
22.4: 209 n. 68 23.15: 28
23.3–4: 205 23.15.1: 168 n. 26
24: 205 27.10.3: 172 n. 39
26.1: 205 30.8.6: 172 n. 39
27.1: 205 33.12.6: 172 n. 39
28.5–6: 209 n. 68 P.Oxy. 1608.82–4: 47 n. 149
29.5: 205 Procopius
29.5–6: 205 Anecd.17.5: 33
30.1: 205 Propertius
31.4–5: 205 3.4.1: 141 n. 26
31.5: 205 3.11.66: 141 n. 26
31.5–7: 205 Publilius Syrus
Timol.3.6: 200 194: 43 n. 141
4.4: 200 231–2: 44 n. 143
4.6: 200
4.8: 201 Quintilian
5.1–3: 201 Inst. 3.6.63–4: 191
5.4: 201 3.6.65: 191, 192
6.3: 201 4.1.45: 37 n. 120
6.3–4: 201 n. 38 4.5.13–15: 142 n. 28
7.1–3: 201 11.1.56: 37 n. 120
7.2: 202 n. 39 11.1.81–3: 37 n. 120
Polybius 12.1.38–44: 203 n. 46
1.39.4: 172 n. 3 12.1.42: 37 n. 120
1.84.11: 172 n. 39
2.53.6: 172 n. 39 Rufinus
3.89.2: 166 HE2.18: 1 n. 1
3.89.9: 166 11.18: 2 n. 2
3.90.6: 167
3.90.10–92.7: 167 Sallust
3.94.9–10: 167 BC14.3: 43 n. 141
3.103.1–2: 167 15.4: 43 n. 141
3.103.4: 167 n. 23 34.2: 43 n. 141
3.104.1: 167 35.2: 43 n. 141
4.50.66: 172 n. 39 58.2: 43 n. 141
4.66.7: 172 n. 39 Jug.31.10: 37
5.16.2: 172 n. 39 35.4: 43 n. 141
6.6.19–42: 162 n. 6 [Sallust]
9.22.3: 197 n. 26 In Cic. 5: 207 n. 61
11.25.1: 169 7: 207 n. 61
11.25.1–8: 169 Seneca
11.25.9: 171 Ben.1.1.4: 194 n. 20
11.26.1: 169 n. 29 1.11.4: 43
11.26.6–7: 171 1.44.1: 43
11.29.9–13: 171 2.4.1: 40 n. 133
11.29.12–13: 171 3.17.3: 44 n. 143
11.29.8–10: 171 n. 37 4.21.5: 44 n. 143
15.26a.2: 172 n. 39 4.34.4: 40 n. 130
15.33.3: 172 n. 39 4.35–6: 40 n. 130
18.15.13: 168 n. 26 4.38–9: 40 n. 130
18.43: 35 n. 108 5.1.3: 40 n. 133
256 Index Locorum
Seneca (cont.) 2.13: 194 n. 20
6.4.6: 40 n. 133 3.4: 44 n. 143
6.23.1: 40 n. 130 5.2: 39 n. 128
7.2.2: 39 n. 129 14.1: 195 n. 21
10.2–3: 194 n. 20 Vit. Beat. 2.3: 194 n. 20
10.3: 194 n. 20 7.4: 39 n. 130, 40 n. 131
12.1: 194 n. 20 8.3: 40 n. 131
Clem.1.1.1: 44 n. 143 9.4: 40 n. 131
1.11.1: 154 17.3–4: 40 n. 130
1.11.2: 40 n. 130 20.4: 44 n. 143
1.9.10: 43 n. 143 SHA
1.13.3: 43 n. 143 Sev. Alex. 30.3: 100 n. 6
1.15.5: 43 n. 143 Silius Italicus
3.25.1: 100 n. 6 Punica7.514: 166 n. 21
Cons. Helv. 6.6: 194 n. 20 Sophocles
Cons. Pol. 6.3: 40 n. 13 Ant. 279: 87 n. 22
Ep. Mor. 7.6: 195 n. 21 1261–9: 46 n. 148
13.6: 194 n. 20 1317–25: 46 n. 148
20.6: 194 n. 20 El. 581: 33
23.6: 40 n. 131 Phil. 83: 67
23.7: 44 n. 143 83–5: 77
27.2: 40 n. 131 86–95: 69
28.9: 20 n. 61 90: 69
28.9–10: 39 n. 127 96–9: 69
47.21: 194 n. 20 117: 69
52.2: 194 n. 20 147: 69
56.9: 40–41 n. 133 757: 71
68.14: 39 804–12: 69 n. 9
74.15: 40 n. 130 806: 69, 70, 72
83.2: 39 n. 127 839–42: 72
83.19: 100 n. 8 842: 73 n. 22
90.34: 40 n. 131 895: 71
92.29: 39 902–3: 71
105.7–8: 43–4 n. 143 908: 71
115.18: 39–40 n. 130 950: 75
120.22: 194 n. 20 961–2: 73 n. 23
Ira1.7.4: 39 n. 125 965: 69 and n. 9, 70
1.18–2–3: 40 n. 130 969: 71
1.18.3: 39 n. 126 974: 71–2
1.19.5: 39 n. 126 983: 72 n. 19
2.6.2: 39 n. 125 1011–12: 72
3.5.4–6: 39 n. 125 1095–1221: 72
3.7.2: 194 n. 20 1224: 73
3.17.1–2: 100 n. 6 1225: 73
3.36–8: 39 n. 127 1234: 73
Med. 170: 37 1244: 73
Otio1.3: 194 n. 20 1245: 73
3.1: 195 n. 21 1246: 73
7.3: 40 n. 131 1248–9: 73
Tranq.2.7–8: 194 n. 20 1270: 73
 Index Locorum 257
1271–2: 73 Tacitus
1310: 71 n. 14 Agr. 13: 157 n. 26
1440–1: 79 Ann. 1.16.2: 181
Sozomen 1.17.1: 181
HE 7.2.5: 1, 2 1.18.6: 182
Stobaeus 1.20.1: 182
3.20.67: 33 n. 101 1.25.1: 182 n. 62
Suetonius 1.27: 182
Aug. 27.2: 154 1.28.3: 182
69: 138 1.28.5: 182
Cal. 1.1: 181 n. 59 1.29.3: 162 n. 5
9: 154 n. 20 1.29.4–30.1: 182
9.1: 181 n. 59, 184 n. 64 1.34.1: 183
29.1: 155 1.35.3–4: 181 n. 59
39.1–2: 155 1.36.3–4: 183
48.1–2: 181 n. 59 1.39.3: 183
Claud. 15.1: 154 n. 21 1.39.9: 183
16.1: 154 n. 21 1.41.1: 184
39.1: 158 1.74: 156
43: 154 5.4: 156
43.1: 148 n. 3 6.6: 156
44.1: 148 n. 3 12.42: 147 n. 2
44.2: 148 n. 3 12.64: 157
Dom. 2.3: 155 n. 22 12.66–7: 148 n. 3
Gal. 10.5: 154 n. 20 13.2: 147
Jul. 36: 154 13.4–5: 148 n. 5
47: 154 13.5: 148
67.1: 179 n. 55 13.13: 157
69: 179 n. 55 13.18: 157
70: 175, 179 n. 56 14.1–9: 148 n. 7
Nero 1.2: 156 n. 25 14.5: 157
6.3: 155 n. 23 14.10: 151, 157
7.1: 155 n. 23 14.11: 151, 157
33.1: 148 n. 3 14.12: 151
33.2: 148 n. 6 14.13: 151
34.2–3: 148 n. 7 14.14–16: 148
34.4: 152 14.62: 157
34.5: 153 15.36: 157
36: 149 n. 9 15.48–59: 149 n. 9
38: 156 15.60–4: 149 n. 9
40–9: 149 n. 11 15.65: 149 n. 9
43.6: 156 15.66–71: 149 n. 9
46.1: 152–3 15.67: 157 n. 27
46.2–3: 153 Hist.1.8.2: 162 n. 5
Otho 2: 154 n. 20 1.28: 165 n. 18
Tib. 25.2–3: 181 n. 59 Terence
Tit. 10.1: 155 Adelph. 681–3: 120
Vit. 15.3: 155 Andr. 8–12: 115 n. 2
15.6: 155 Eun. 550–2: 121 n. 15
SVF 3.148: 203 n. 46 645–6: 121 n. 15
864–5: 121 n. 15
Tabula of Cebes 11.1: 108 n. 25, 193 Heaut. syn. 3: 130
35.4: 108 n. 25, 193 n. 16 62–5: 130
258 Index Locorum
Terence (cont.) 2.61: 27
95–117: 130 2.61.1: 195
120: 130
153–60: 121 Valerius Maximus
206: 121 1.1ext.5: 100 n. 8
217–18: 121 3.8ext.6: 100 n. 8
172: 37 4.7ext.2: 101 n. 8
260: 130 5.1ext.1: 101 n. 8
908: 130 8.14ext.2: 101 n. 8
990–1054: 129 5.90fin: 37
1016–19: 129 7.2ext.11a: 100 n. 8
1040–6: 129 9.3ext.1: 100 n. 8
1043–4: 130 9.5ext.1: 100 n. 8
1057: 130 Varro
1023: 129 n. 41 Sat. 239: 10 n. 32
Tertullian Velleius
De Paen. 1.4–5: 37, 2.125.1–2: 181 n. 59
40 n. 132 2.125.4: 181 n. 60
9.2–6: 32 n. 97 Vergil
Theodoret Aen. 1.545: 37
HE5.11: 1 n. 1 4.569–70: 189–90
5.18: 1 n. 1 Ecl. 1.6: 141 n. 26
Theognis Victor
213–18: 193 and n. 18 Epit. de Caes. 5: 150
Thucydides
1.135–6: 205 Xenophon
1.136.2: 205 Anab. 1.6.7: 28
1.137.4: 205 and n. 54 Mem. 1.2.16: 211 n. 72
1.138.2: 205 n. 55 2.6.23: 19 n. 58
1.138.4: 206 n. 55
2.10.4: 206 n. 55 Zonaras (see under Dio)
 Index of Greek and Latin
Note: citations include all words with the same root (so ira covers iracundus, irascor,
iratus, etc.). The English equivalents of Greek and Latin words will also often appear
in the subject index.
Greek
aidos 10 n. 31, 12 and n. 35, 35–6, 35–6
n. 113, 36 n. 114, 44, 53, 68 n. 6
aischune 10 n. 31, 35 and n. 110, 73 and
n. 22, 111 n. 34, 115, 191, 198, 200
aitios 61 n. 37
algos 35, 44 n. 145, 70–1 and n, 12, 72,
85–7, 86 n, 19, 87 n. 23, 88 and
n. 24, 90, 91 and n. 32
ate 54–5, 55n. 13, 58 nn. 28–9, 59–61
and nn.
hamartia 2, 91 and n. 33
megalothumos 103
metagignosko 33–4, 73 and n. 23, 75
and n. 30, 108, 158 and n. 28,
159, 176–7, 180 n. 57, 200
metalgeo 35; see also algos
metameleia 2, 9–10, 10 nn, 31–2, 11,
18, 25, 26 and n. 79, 27–32 and
nn., 36 and n. 117, 89 n. 28,
40 and n. 130, 43, 103 n. 14, 105,
108 n. 25, 158 n. 28, 168 n. 26,
171–2 n. 39, 174 nn. 7–8, 191 n. 12,
192–3, 193 n. 16, 199 and n. 34,
201 n. 39, 205 n. 57, 208, 210
metanoia 1–2, 18, 26 n. 79, 27 n. 83,
32–3 and nn., 36 n. 117, 40 n. 130,
48, 86 n. 19, 103 n. 14, 104, 105,
108 n. 25, 158 and n. 28, 159 and n. 29,
172 n. 39, 176–7, 178, 180 and n. 57,
184, 193 and n. 16, 198–9,
199 nn. 33–4, 200–1, 219
nemesis 57 and n. 25, 61
pathos 27 n. 83
polutropia 186 n. 1, 209 and n. 65
suggnome 16 n. 48
sunaisthesis 34–5
suneidesis 34–5 and n. 106
sunesis 34–5, 34 n. 106, 35 n. 108,
87 n. 21
sunnoia 1–2, 34–5 and 35 n. 109, 86–7,
86 n. 19, 87 n. 20
sunoida 34–5, 158, 168, 172 n. 39
thumos 30, 31 n. 94, 37–8, 58 n. 27, 105,
see also megalothumos
Latin
conscientia 41–3 and nn., 102 n. 11, 152,
155, 157, 174 n. 54
constantia 100 n. 8, 194 n. 20, 195 n. 21
crimen 140, 142, 142–3 n. 30, 143
and n. 32, 144
culpa 44, 121, 142 and n. 30, 143,
174 n. 45
dedecus 44
error 134, 135, 140, 142–5,
145 n. 36, 167
facinus 143 and n. 31
inconstantia 10 n. 32, 42 n. 137,
194 n. 20
innoxius 111
ira 13 n. 36, 36 n. 115, 38 n. 122, 99,
111, 112, 137 nn. 15–16,
173 n. 44
levitas 40, 42 n. 137, 186 n. 1, 194 n. 20,
195 n. 21
noceo 44, 143 and n. 31
paenitentia 25, 26 n. 79, 36–40 and
nn., 43, 44, 48, 102 and nn. 11–12, 130,
135 and nn. 8–9, 141 n. 25, 145, 154
and n. 20, 155, 156, 157 and
n. 26, 171, 173 and nn. 43–4, 174
n. 56, 179, 182–4, 184 n. 64, 192, 194
n. 20, 219
peccat 121, 142 and n. 30, 143
piget 44, 111, 135 nn. 8–9, 145
pudet 26 n. 79, 37, 42, 44 and n., 101,
102 and n. 11, 119, 120, 130, 154, 173
n. 44, 174 n. 44
reus 44, 142
scelus 143 and n. 31, 152, 157 and n. 27,
174 n. 45
stultitia 142–3, 142 n. 30
vitium 142–3
 Subject Index
Achilles 7, 50–65 and nn., 67, 97 and
n. 1, 105, 112, 216–17
Aeschinus 120
Agamemnon 7, 50–62 and nn., 64, 112,
216–17
agent-regret 23–4 and nn.
Agrippina 147–60 and nn.
Alcibiades 19–20 n. 61, 46 n. 149,
193 n. 17, 198–9 n. 32, 202,
203 n. 43, 209–12 and nn
Alexander 38 n. 122, 91–113 and
nn., 151, 154, 160, 199 n. 34
Ambrose 1–2, 214–17 and nn.
Andromache 80–1, 81 n. 4, 82 n. 7,
83–4, 89, 94 n. 39
anger 2, 4, 5, 15, 18–19, 29–30, 31–2,
39 nn. 125–6, 52–3, 56 n. 19, 57–8,
58 n. 29, 63 and n. 41, 98–9, 99 n. 5,
101, 103–4, 105, 106 and n. 22, 108,
111, 113, 131, 136–7, 138 n. 17,
139–40, 139 n. 21, 140 nn. 23–5,
144–5, 167 n. 23, 173 n. 44, 174, 175
n. 51, 189 n. 8, 213, 215 and n. 5,
216, 218 n. 10
Antipho 121
Antony 199–200, 202 n. 42
apology 6, 7, 8, 12, 16 n. 46, 18 n. 57,
21 n. 63, 21, 51, 54–6, 54 n. 10,
58 and nn. 28–9, 59 n. 32, 60–2,
62 nn. 39–40, 64, 67 n. 5, 68, 84,
112, 114, 120 n. 12, 120, 121 and
n. 15–15, 129, 132, 133–4, 135 n. 9,
142, 144 n. 33, 168, 183, 187–8,
188 n. 4, 217
Aristides 204–5 and nn.
Aristotle 9 and n, 28, 10 and n. 31,
11 and n. 33, 16 n. 48, 20 n. 61,
30–1 n. 92
army, Roman 161–85 and nn.
Augustus 43 n. 143, 133–46 and nn., 154
and n. 19, 158, 159, 217
barbarians, and remorse 18, 98
bears, avoiding 4
Brittanicus 148 and nn. 3 and 6,
154, 157
Burrus 147 and n. 2, 148 n. 4, 159
Caesar 154, 165, 175–80 and nn.,
182 n. 62, 184, 208
Caligula 151, 155–6, 155 n. 23, 157 and
n. 26, 158 and n. 30, 160
change of behaviour, character, or
mind 6 n. 20, 8, 9–12, 10 n. 32, 17,
40 n. 130, 49, 66 and n. 1, 67 n. 4,
69, 73–4, 85, 88 n. 27, 99, 121,
124, 174, 178, 183, 187–9,
189 nn. 6–7, 191–2, 196,
197–210 and nn., 218
Charinus 124–5 and nn.
Charisios 117–19 and nn.
Chremes 129 and nn., 130–1 and
131 n. 45
Christianity 1–2, 20, 32 n. 97,
32–3 n. 100, 33, 34 n. 106, 37,
44 and n. 146, 46 n. 147, 213–17
and nn.; see also index locorum
under individual authors
Chrysippus 19 n. 60
Cicero 9, 20 n. 61, 38–9 and nn.,
46 n. 149, 141 n. 26, 202, 207–9
and nn.
Claudius 147–8, 148 n. 3, 150 n. 13,
154–5, 154 n. 21, 158, 159
Cleitus 38 n. 122, 97–113 and nn.
Clinia 130–1 and nn.
community, context of 18, 16 n. 46,
18 n. 57, 21 and n. 66, 29, 57,
71 n. 14, 115
conscience 34–5, 35–6 n. 113, 41–3
and nn., 52, 68 n. 6, 74, 75 n. 29,
87 nn. 21–2, 153, 158, 159,
168 n. 26, 172 n. 39
consistency 7–8, 10 n. 31, 11,
40 n. 131, 49, 75 n. 29, 182,
186–9 and nn., 190–6 and nn.,
197–210 and nn., 218
Coriolanus 211 n. 73
 Subject Index
criminals, and remorse 7 and nn.,
16–17, 16 n. 52, 17 nn. 47–8 and 53,
20–1 n. 63, 22, 29–31, 157 and n. 27
criminal (Ovid as) 138–9, 146
decision-making, see mistake
Demaenetus 125 and nn.
Demeas 128 n. 37, 131
Demipho 124–5 and nn.
Demosthenes 202, 206–7 and nn.
Domitian 155 n. 22
Drusus 165–6 and nn., 180–3 and nn.
emotion, ‘basic’ or universal 4
cultural aspects 4–5
definition of 3–4
display of 5 n. 14, 6, 8, 161, 163,
173, 182, 186
education of 5 and n. 15
judgment of 5, 9, 20–1 and n. 64
lexical 12 and n. 35, 13, 25
research 3–5 and nn.
somatic aspects 4
see also under specific emotions
emotional control 5 see also anger
Epictetus 20 n. 61
Euclio 119–20 and nn.
Fabius Maximus 165–9 and nn.
familial relationships, and remorse 55
and n. 16, 67, 71, 93, 98 and n. 3,
100 n. 6, 106, 111, 114, 117 and n. 7,
118, 121, 123 n. 22, 125, 128 n. 39,
129–30, 129 n. 32, 131–2, 158, 188,
189 n. 8, 218
fear 4, 85 n. 116, 117, 145, 151, 153, 172,
178, 179 n. 56, 182, 193
forgiveness 6 n. 18, 7, 16 n. 48, 25 n. 76,
60, 62 n. 40, 120 n. 12, 126–7, 131,
135, 138 n. 16, 157, 170, 184,
see also reconciliation
Freud, Sigmund 16 n. 49
Furies 152, 154 n. 18
gender, remorse and 12, 18, 47, 115 and
n. 4, 127 and n. 32, 187 and n. 3, 189
and n. 8, 218 and n. 10, see also
under individual women
Germanicus 165–6 and nn., 180–1 and
nn., 183–4 and nn.
guilt (emotion of) 14 and n, 36, 15, 22,
27 and n. 81, 35, 64, 117, 123, 142
guilt-culture 50 n. 1
261
Helen 82 and n. 7, 93 and n. 36
Heracles 77–8, 77 n. 35, 97 and n. 1, 106
in Euripides: 26 and n. 78, 105 n. 21
Hermione 80–96 and nn., 187
hope 17–18 and nn.
inconstancy 154 n. 21, 162 and n. 5, 164,
194 n. 20
Iphigeneia, sacrifice of 24 n. 72, 67 n. 4
Jews 32–3 n. 100, 34 n. 106, 35 n. 108,
46 n. 147
Livia 158, 159 n. 29
love 15
Lyconides 119–20 and nn.
Lysidamus 126–7 and nn., 129
Menander 115–19 and nn., 121, 131
Menedemus 130–1 and nn.
Menelaus 80, 81 n. 4, 84
Minucius Thermus 166–68, 167 n. 23
mistakes, and remorse 6, 8–9, 14, 15,
17–18, 19, 60, 68, 91, 95, 104, 108,
115, 117, 126, 144, 135, 164, 174,
193, 213–14 and nn., 216, 218
Moschion 116–17 and nn., 131
Neoptolemus 66–79 and nn., 80, 81 n. 4,
84, 85 and n. 15, 87 n. 22, 88 and
n. 26, 145, 187 and n. 3
Nero 147–60 and nn., 188, 195 n. 21,
199, 215, 217
Nestor 53 and n. 8, 54 and n. 11, 55–6
and n. 18, 62, 217
Nicoboulos 123–4 and nn.
Octavia 148 and nn. 7–8, 158
Odysseus 46 and n. 149, 53 nn. 7–8,
55 and n. 17, 56 and n. 22, 58 n. 28,
61–2, 67
Orestes 80, 81 n. 4, 82 nn. 7–8, 83, 89,
92–3, 95
Otho 189
Ovid 133–46 and nn., 217
Patroclus 62–4 and nn.
penance, Christian 1–2, 213–16,
see also repentance
Philoctetes 66–79 and nn.
Philolaches 120
philosophical views, of remorse 8,
11, 32, 45–6, 52 n. 4, 108 n. 25,
262 Subject Index
109–110, 110 n. 30, 190, 192, 219,
see also under individual schools
Philoxenus 123–4 and nn.
pity 69–70, 78 n. 36, 83 n. 10, 92 n. 35,
107 and n. 23
Plato 19 and n. 59, 28–31, 36 n. 114, 38
Plautus 115, 119–29 and nn., 131 n. 44,
141 n. 26
pleasure, as leading to remorse 31 n. 94,
39 n. 129
private life, see familial relationships
progress (moral) 6, 19–20 and 19 n. 61,
31, 40, 45, 74 n. 26, 76, 78 n. 36,
108 n. 25, 109 n. 27, 123 n. 23,
191–3, 196, 197 n. 26, 198–9,
198 n. 32, 212, 218–19
psychology 7, 14 and n. 41, 16 and
n. 50
ancient 14 and n. 40, see also under
individual authors
public life 8, 76, 112, 114, 186–8, 213–17
and nn., 218; see also status
punishment 16 n. 48, 18 n. 57,
20, 29 and nn., 47, 48, 85,
86 n. 18, 93, 114, 122, 129,
133–4, 145, 179
reconciliation 7, 157, 161, 173, 188 n. 4,
see also forgiveness
regret 6, 7, 8, 10, 12 n. 35, 13, 17, 19,
23–4 and nn., 32, 36, 48, 67, 95–6,
98, 100 n. 6, 101–4, 114, 115, 119,
121 n. 15, 122, 123 n. 21, 126, 127,
129, 130–1 and n. 44, 132, 142, 147,
151, 154–6, 157–9, 165, 161,
168 n. 26, 174, 180 n. 57, 181, 183,
185, 186, 191 n. 14, 194 n. 20, 199,
201 and n. 38
definition 23–4
remorse 1, 5–6, 7, 13, 14, 15–22, 23,
24–5, 26, 36–7, 44–9, 50, 62–4,
67–8, 74, 77–9, 90, 92–3, 94–6,
97, 105, 108–10, 109 n. 27,
111–12, 114, 117, 118, 119 n. 11,
remorse 121, 124, 125, 126–7,
122 and n. 1, 144, 146, 154, 156
and n. 24, 157–8, 168, 174,
180 n. 51, 184, 187, 189,
198–9, 213–17, 218–19
definition 15
reparation, as key part of remorse 21,
51, 59, 77
failed attempts at 94–5, 134, 145
successful 64, 68, 74, 77–8, 80, 216
repentance 17 n. 54, 22–3, 25 n. 76, 29,
30 n. 90, 36, 77, 84, 85 n. 15, 86, 88,
94–5, 102, 108, 109 n. 28, 138 n. 16,
155, 157 n. 26, 180, 184, 200,
214–17 and nn., see also penitence
definition 22–3
responsibility 52 and n. 4, 59–61,
59 n. 32, 61 n. 38, 64, 100–2,
106–7, 108, 109, 112, 118, 119,
120, 133, 146
revenge 30, 38 n. 123, 63
Scipio 165, 169–74 and nn., 184
Seneca the Younger 20 n. 61, 39–40 and
nn., 43–4 and 43 n. 143, 147 and
n. 1, 148 n. 3, 149 and n. 9, 151,
153 n. 17, 159, 155 n. 23
shame 11 and n. 34, 13–14, 14 n. 36,
15, 27 and n. 81, 35, 116 and n. 6,
75 nn. 27 and 29, 117, 120, 123,
124, 130–1, 164, 178, 181, 187 n. 3,
198, 200
shame-culture 13–14, 13–14 n. 36, 50 n. 1
sincerity (of remorse) 1, 7, 8, 9–10, 14
and n. 41, 15, 16 nn. 48 and 51,
20, 21 nn. 63 and 65, 47, 51, 59,
62 n. 40, 64–5, 70–1 n. 12, 81, 84,
85–6, 89, 90, 92–3, 94, 97, 102, 107,
112–13, 114–15, 117, 119, 121, 122,
126–7, 132, 147, 158, 161, 168, 180,
184–5, 215–16
slaves and slavery 12, 125 n. 26,
126–7, 127 n. 32, 189 n. 8,
218 and n. 10
clever slave 115, 120, 120 n. 13, 125,
126–7, 126 nn. 29 and 31, 131
stability, see consistency
status 7, 8, 12, 18, 31–2, 51–4, 51 n. 3,
54 n. 12, 57–61, 57 n. 26, 64, 114,
127, 132, 160, 186–9, 193, 215–17,
218, see also public life
Stoicism 19 n. 60, 27 n. 83, 33 n. 101,
36 nn. 114–15, 39–40 n. 130,
109 nn. 27–8, 187 and n. 2,
190 n. 11, 194–5, 203 n. 46
see also index locorum under
individual authors
suicide, threats of 22, 63, 89, 91 and
n. 34, 99, 100 n. 8, 101, 111, 148,
149, 150, 157
 Subject Index
Terence 115–16 and nn., 120–1 and
nn., 129–32 and nn.
Themistocles 46 and n. 149, 202–6
and nn.
Theodosius 1–2, 213–17 and nn.
Tiberius 134 and n. 4, 150 n. 13,
154 n. 20, 156, 158, 165, 181
and nn. 59–60, 183
Timoleon 200–2 and nn.
Titus 154–5
263
Trajan 150
Vitellius 155
youth, and remorse 11 n. 34, 15,
16 n. 51, 29 n. 87, 47–8, 66–7,
68 n. 7, 76 and n. 31, 79, 80, 93,
104, 114–15, 117, 119, 120, 121–2,
122 n. 17, 128, 186–7 and nn. 2–3,
188–9, 189 n. 8, 197, 199, 212