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This is just a quick, but very exciting announcement – I am VERY pleased to be able to say that For the Most Beautiful will be coming to the US soon with Pegasus Books! Exact dates to be confirmed. I am so excited to reach out to all of you in the US and can't wait for For the Most Beautiful to make its way across the pond!
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You can also read Emily's blog, "Missives from Iris", online at www.irisonline.org.uk/index.php/blog Cleopatra is something of an icon of our culture. How many people haven’t heard of Cleopatra’s famous suicide? Her infamous affair with Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony? Her kohl-rimmed eyes and irresistible sex appeal? But how much do you really know about Egypt’s last queen? Take the quiz below to find out – you might be surprised by what you learn! (Answers are at the bottom of the page) 1. How many children did Cleopatra have? A) None. B) Two. C) Four. D) Six. 2. What was Cleopatra’s actual title? A) Cleopatra VII Philopator B) Cleopatra the Great C) Cleopatra III Euergetis D) Cleopatra I 3. How many languages did Cleopatra speak? A) Only Egyptian. B) Latin and Egyptian. C) Seven different languages. D) Fifteen different languages. 4. Who was Cleopatra’s first husband? A) Julius Caesar. B) Mark Anthony. C) Alexander the Great. D) Her brother. 5. Which of these images represents Cleopatra? As you’ll notice, there’s actually quite a lot wrong in our understanding of Cleopatra. She wasn’t just a beauty or a femme fatale – she was highly political, with a fancy title to her name. She was smart, highly educated, and was the only one of her family to have learnt Egyptian, the language of the people she ruled (Cleopatra and her family were Greek by descent). She travelled widely when she was young, even going on a trip to Rome with her father, Ptolemy XII. At only eighteen years old, she married her own younger brother, Ptolemy XIII, to get to the throne. When things didn’t go too well for the newly married couple (rather unsurprisingly), Cleopatra coolly convinced the most famous Roman general, Julius Caesar, to side with her in a civil war against her brother by getting herself carried into Caesar’s rooms rolled up in a bit of sacking. The pair became lovers, and Cleopatra became pregnant with Caesar’s child, whom she later called Caesarion (“little Caesar”) after his father. It wasn’t, Plutarch tells us, that Cleopatra was that beautiful; but men just didn’t seem to be able to resist her. "For her beauty, as we are told, was in itself not altogether incomparable,” Plutarch says, “nor such as to strike those who saw her; but converse with her had an irresistible charm, and her presence, combined with the persuasiveness of her discourse and the character which was somehow diffused about her behaviour towards others, had something stimulating about it. There was sweetness also in the tones of her voice; and her tongue, like an instrument of many strings, she could readily turn to whatever language she pleased..." When her great gamble fell through, however, and Caesar was murdered in the Roman Senate House on the Ides of March, Cleopatra took advantage of events yet again to ensure her safety and the safety of her country. Sailing across the Mediterranean in a luxury yacht, she met with one of the new rulers of the Roman Republic, Mark Anthony. Dressed up in the guise of the goddess of love, Cleopatra must have made quite an impression on the notoriously pleasure-loving Mark Anthony. But she obviously decided it wasn’t enough. So she invited him to a feast, determined to impress him with her wealth and glamour in a rather more unusual way. Calling for a glass of sour wine, she casually took off her earring – one of the largest pearls in the ancient world – and dropped it into the drink. The pearl dissolved, and Cleopatra drank it, showing Mark Anthony just how much wealth Egypt had to spare – they could even drink it! Mark Anthony was instantly smitten. The two fell in love, married, and had three children together: a pair of twins, Alexander Helios and Cleopatra Selene, and a son, Ptolemy Philadelphus. Only when Cleopatra’s second gamble fell through, and Octavian defeated Mark Anthony at the Battle of Actium, did the queen admit defeat. She committed suicide only moments after her husband: dramatic to the last, faithful to her husband and her country, a queen to the very end. So does this sound like the Cleopatra you know? Most likely not. All the signs point to a Cleopatra who was, in fact, faithful to both the husbands she chose, a powerful and dedicated ruler who put the needs of her country before her own, and not even particularly beautiful – just very good company (to paraphrase Plutarch). So was Cleopatra a seductive siren or a good queen? Perhaps we’ll never know. But it seems, to me at least, that there’s rather more about Cleopatra than initially meets the eye. ANSWERS: 1. C 2. A 3. C 4. D 5. All have been identified with Cleopatra, but the only one that we know for sure represents her is the coin (B), as it bears her name. Can you find it? (Hint: it’s just above her head, to the left)
You can also read Emily's blog, "Missives from Iris", online at www.irisonline.org.uk/index.php/blog Happy New Year! As the days start to get longer again and we start to look forward to summer in the not-too-far-distant future, I wanted to take you back a bit for a look into the past. Because, while New Year might for you mean a lot of fireworks and even more resolutions (most of which have fallen by the wayside already), the celebration of the New Year actually goes all the way back to Roman times. (They didn’t have fireworks then, though, and I’m pretty sure the Romans were just as bad at keeping resolutions as we are.) In fact, celebrating the New Year on January 1st has a bit of a bloody history to it. We’ve all heard of Julius Caesar, the famous first emperor of Rome who was murdered in the Senate for trying to become a tyrant. But what you might not have known is that Caesar, amongst his bloody campaigns and power-mongering, also engaged in a bit of home affairs. In fact, what Caesar decided Rome really needed was a new calendar. The trouble is that there aren’t exactly 365 days in a year, but 365 and a little bit. Now, before Julius Caesar, the Roman year lasted 355 days, and then, every now and then when they were running behind things a bit, the Romans would add in an extra month to make the time up. Not very convenient really, is it? Well, Caesar had a plan. Caesar’s idea was to divide the year into 365 days, rather than 355, and then simply add an extra day to the month of February every four years. That’s what gives us leap years today. And he also decided that it was much more sensible to celebrate the new year on the 1st January, rather than on March 1st, when the Romans used to celebrate the coming of spring. Much more logical, if you think about it. Julius Caesar’s calendar (today called the ‘Julian Calendar’) took effect in 45 BCE. But if you’ve done your homework, you know what happened next. Yes, that’s right: on the ides of March, 44 BCE, Julius Caesar was murdered (and, paradoxically, only a few weeks after the old New Year celebration. Good timing, Brutus). It was a difficult time for the newly formed empire, and having a new calendar in place can’t have made it easier. But when the senate voted to make Julius Caesar a god, they decided to do in on the first of January, as an official recognition of his achievement in making the new calendar, and the beginning of the new year. So the celebration of the New Year on January 1st originally began with Julius Caesar turning into a god; and yet, the name of the month January actually comes from another Roman god – but not Julius Caesar (he got July). This is Janus, the two-headed god who guarded doorways and who could look both forwards and backwards – forwards, to the year to come; and backwards, to the year that had gone. What do you think – if Janus could have looked forwards to us now, in the future, would he still have recognised the New Year’s celebrations from his own days? I like to think so. You can also read Emily's blog, "Missives from Iris", online at www.irisonline.org.uk/index.php/blog Thank you for all your responses! I hope you enjoy visiting your favourite sites in the continuation of the walking tour below… It’s 75 CE. You’re a merchant from Rome who has come to buy some fish sauce in Pompeii. Rufus, a merchant from Pompeii, has just finished giving you a tour of the city and has left you by yourself at the Herculaneum Gate. You’re trying to work out how to get back to the harbour before the sun sets. Below is a map of your route so you can follow where you are. You look around you. With Rufus gone, you’ve got absolutely no idea how to get back to the harbour, and you’re starting to worry that, if you’re not there in time, your ship might leave without you. You turn around and hurriedly shove a few denarii into the hand of the nearest fish sauce seller, grab a basket full of pots of the stinking sauce, and make your way towards the gate.
I came into the city through one of the gates in the city walls, you reason with yourself, trying not to drop the basket of fish sauce as a crowd of noisy party-goers push past you. So, if I follow the city walls, that should take me back to where I started – eventually. You try to ignore the creeping feeling in your stomach as you imagine what will happen if the ship leaves for Rome without you. Scrambling a bit on the stone steps, you make your way up the rampart beside the Herculaneum Gate and onto the city walls. You hoped you’d have a good view from here, but the walls on the rampart are high enough that you can’t make out anything except a partial view over the sprawling city, full of high tenement blocks that blot out the darkening sky. You look right and left, then, not knowing which way to go, you toss one of your last denarii. The head of the Emperor Vespasian. Left, then. You set off along the walls, trying to keep your basket level. Occasionally, you pass a massive fortified gate set in the walls, and you check to see if you can make out the river Sarno and the harbour; but there are only dry, dusty roads leading away from these gates, to the shadowy hulking mass of Mount Vesuvius to your left, its flanks lit gold in the sunset. It’s starting to get a bit colder, and you hunch your shoulders around your ears. This can’t be right. You’ve been walking for a good half hour, and still, no sign of the harbour. When you reach the fourth gate, you decide that you must have gone the wrong way. You can see the main road that you and Rufus walked down only a few hours ago, stretching out below you like a yellow ribbon; and, slightly to the left of the road, a tavern, its oil lamps burning brightly and invitingly. Without thinking about it, you scramble your way down the slope beside the gate and make your way towards the tavern. At least you can ask someone there for directions; and you wouldn’t say no to a good honey cake, either. As you push open the door, the sound of chatter and laughter reaches your ears, and the delicious smell of roasting meat. You pass the bar, with its jars full to the brim of sweet red wine, and a few tables where men are sitting and playing dice. At one end of the room, serving a couple of men who look like they could be gladiators, you spot a woman with curled red hair who is carrying a tray with goblets of watered wine. “Excuse me,” you say, approaching her cautiously. She turns around. “Are you looking for a room?” she says, putting one hand on her hip. “Or just a meal?” “Oh, no, I’m not here to buy,” you say quickly, hitching your basket up higher. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my way. I need to get back to the harbour.” She smiles at you. “Not often we get someone here at Julia Felix’s who doesn’t want to buy,” she says, setting down her tray and taking you by the arm, leading you over to the door. “This is the most popular tavern in town. You’re lucky you stumbled on us and not somewhere else.” She points across the street, to a bar packed with half-drunk men, some of them in the midst of a brawl. “Anyway,” she says, and she leans out of the door and shades her eyes against the setting sun, “you’ll want to follow the main road that way,” she points down the road, away from the walls, “all the way through the city. Don’t turn at any of the crossroads, and don’t get distracted when you hit the forum.” She gleams a smile at you. “Just keep straight on. That should take you to the gate to the harbour alright.” You thank her and give her another denarius for a honey cake before you take your leave. After a few blocks of houses, you suddenly recognise where you are. This is the very crossroads you passed with Rufus! There, on the right, are the baths, and on the left behind that high wall must be the house of Lucius Popidius Secundus! You start to quicken your footsteps. Any moment now you’ll be in the Forum, and then it’s only a matter of time until… As the road starts to slope down towards the harbour, you almost whoop with joy. You’ve just spotted the Porta Marina. You hurry down the slight hill and through the gate, the traffic much less busy now than it was when you arrived. You give a sigh of relief. Your ship is there, floating on the water, just where it was a few hours ago. You hurry towards it, waving at the captain and pointing at your basket. “Did you have to wait for me?” you ask breathlessly, heaving your basket on board and preparing to climb onto the ship, too. The captain squints down at you. “We’ve got an hour left till we leave,” he says, staring at your sweaty face and dust-covered hands. “I hope you didn’t hurry here.” You rub your forehead irritably. An hour left! All that rushing for nothing! Your stomach gives a loud grumble, and you think ruefully that you could have stopped in Julia Felix’s tavern for a whole meal. The irritation must show on your face, because the captain smiles. “Don’t worry,” he says. “There’s a perfect place to relax before we go. Over there,” and he points towards a large porticoed building, built right on the harbour edge. “The Suburban Baths. You’ve got time for a quick dip to wash off all that sweat and dust before we head for Rome.” You thank him and make your way over towards the building. The entrance is quiet and dark, and you step immediately into the changing room. The walls are covered in paintings of couples in lewd positions. You smile as you place your clothes in a locker beneath a couple who seem to be particularly enjoying themselves. What an innovative way to make sure you remember where you put your clothes, you think to yourself. After a tour through the baths, which involves a plunge into a cold pool, a sweating session in the boiling hot caldarium and a massage and a scrape-down in the tepidarium, you feel much more kindly towards Pompeii than you did an hour or so ago. You retrieve your clothes without any problems, and make your way back to the ship. The sun is just about to set as you climb aboard and stow your basket of fish sauce carefully in the hold. “So,” the captain asks as one of the ship’s boys draws up the anchor and he hoists the sail, ready to leave, “how did you like Pompeii?” You smile as you watch the lights of Pompeii, reflected in the water of the Sarno river, drifting into the distance. “It’s not the biggest city you’ll ever see,” I say, quoting Rufus with a smile, “but then, I think I agree with my friend – it makes up in liveliness what it lacks in size.” And, with that, you turn around towards the prow of the ship and look out to sea. You can also read Emily's blog, "Missives from Iris", online at www.irisonline.org.uk/index.php/blog Take this survey online now to vote which monuments in Pompeii YOU want to visit on next week's tour! The two most popular sites will be included in next week’s guided tour through Pompeii! It’s 75 CE. You’re a merchant from Rome who has come to buy some fish sauce in Pompeii. Rufus, a merchant from Pompeii, is giving you a tour of the city. Below is a map of your route so you can follow where you are. You have just arrived in front of a large aristocratic house, which Rufus has told you belongs to one of Pompeii’s most important aristocrats: Lucius Popidius Secundus. You look at the huge bronze doors, and feel a shiver run down your spine, even though the day is hot. “Who lives there?” Rufus gives a snort. “Lucius Popidius Secundus,” he says derisively, though he lowers his voice to a whisper and looks around him all the same. He gives you a knowing look. “There are plenty of stories I could tell you about him, my friend. “He’s from one of the oldest families in Pompeii. Look,” Rufus says more loudly, and he points to an election notice painted up on the front wall in red. “Fabius and Sula ask that you elect Gaius Cuspius Pansa and Lucius Popidius Secundus as aediles,” he reads aloud, tracing it with his finger. “That’s Lucius Popidius all over,” he says, lowering his voice back to its conspiratorial tone. “Says he’s Pompeii’s man through and through, but really, he’s just in it for the power.” You don’t really understand what Rufus means, so you peer through the large bronze doors instead which are standing slightly ajar, and catch sight of a long corridor leading into a large hall with a fountain playing at the centre. Behind it, you can just glimpse a couple of beautiful colonnaded gardens filled with statues and – in one – even a swimming pool. “It’s very grand,” you admit. “Some of the senators in Rome would give a lot for a house like this.” Rufus looks pleased and leads you on. A few streets down you stop again and stare in delight. “But this is just like Rome!” you exclaim. You are staring at a large amphitheatre, with arched walls towering up overhead. It sounds like the gladiators are training: you can hear the sounds of swords clashing against shields, the whoosh of nets and tridents and the shouts of the trainer, urging the gladiators on. You turn excitedly to Rufus. “The Emperor Vespasian is building one in the very centre of Rome, it will be the largest amphitheatre the world has ever seen.” Rufus looks a little hurt, so you add quickly, “But of course, this one’s very big too.” And it’s true. As you quickly scan the structure, you guess that it will hold around 20,000 people – not a bad audience to watch the gladiatorial games. “The only one in Campania that’s larger is at Capua,” Rufus boasts, his smile coming back. Then he looks up at the sky and the sun, which is sinking west behind the mountain. “It’s getting late,” he says. “We should probably make our way over to the Herculaneum Gate if you want to get your fish sauce in time before the shops close.” You nod, and you make your way back up another long street. You twist your head right and left to see everything – the bustling bars doling out wine from large jars set in the counters; the bakeries, where donkeys wearily walk round and round to grind the grain and ash-smeared bakers hurry in and out to deliver their customers’ loaves; you even spot a couple of single rooms in the basements of some of the shops where heavily-painted women are leading men in behind a curtain, giggling. “Is Pompeii always this busy?” you ask, walking nimbly across the stepping stones as you cross a road. Rufus smirks. “Always,” he says, turning a corner and making his way onto a curved road – one of the only ones you’ve been on that wasn’t on the grid system, you realise. You think that this must be the oldest part of the town, built before the grid system came in from Greece. “Here you are.” He stops short. To the right of you is an odd, triangular-shaped block of houses – squeezed in, you realise, between the old curved street and the new straight ones. It’s filled with factories, all of them with tanks sunk in the ground full to the brim with water. You bring your hand immediately to your nose. “Ugh – it stinks!” Rufus laughs. “Fish sauce tastes better than it smells,” he admits. “But Pompeii’s Herculaneum Gate has the best in town. You won’t do better than here.” You turn your head to the left and see, at the end of the street, another large gate leading out of the city, and a milestone labelled “Herculaneum: 10 miles.” It must be another town around the Bay, you think. “Well, this is where I leave you.” You realise that Rufus is talking to you, and turn back to look at him. He’s grinning at you and has his hand held out again. “Good luck with your sauce,” he says jovially, “and give my regards to your father.” “I will, I will,” you say, shaking his hand again. “Thank you for the tour.” He waves your thanks away as if he’s swatting a particularly large fly. “It’s nothing. You’ll be able to find your way back again?” he asks. You gaze back down the crooked street, past the crowds of bustling merchants and the endless bars and houses that all look the same. “I — well —” You look back at Rufus, about to ask him for directions to the harbour. But he’s already gone, disappeared into the crowds of Pompeiians swarming down the street. You sigh. You suppose you’ll have to find your way back by yourself. How will you get back to the harbour? YOU decide! Take this survey online now to vote which monuments in Pompeii YOU want to visit on your way back to the harbour! The two most popular sites will be included in next week’s walking tour. Check back for more adventures in Pompeii! You can also read Emily's blog, "Missives from Iris", online at www.irisonline.org.uk/index.php/blog I once spent two summers digging in Pompeii as an archaeologist. As someone whose only experience of the Classical world thus far had been books and verb tables, I thought it’d be a good experience to get my hands dirty and see where all the objects we study actually come from. Pompeii is unique among all ancient sites. After the eruption of the volcano Mount Vesuvius in 79 CE, the city was buried in layers of ash that preserved it perfectly until its discovery 1700 years later. Visitors to the site can see beautiful paintings, as vividly colourful as they were to the Romans; a loaf of bread that was left in the oven; even the bodies of the tragic victims who did not escape the eruption. Pompeii is like a time capsule from the past, bringing to life an ancient city in all its shabby glory, taking us closer to the world of the Romans than we’ve ever been before. There’s something about Pompeii that captures the imagination in a way nowhere else in the ancient world does. As participants of the dig, we were allowed to enter the site a full hour before the tourists did. I used to take advantage of that hour when I had the city to myself to explore the deserted streets and empty houses of Pompeii, and to imagine how it must have been to live there, two thousand years ago. So, this week, I’m going to give you my guided walking tour to Pompeii. Above is a map of your route to get you started. Make sure you keep it handy as you make your way around the city – it can get confusing! Before we begin, though, I’m going to send you back two thousand years, to the year 75 CE. You are a Roman merchant who has come to Pompeii hoping to buy some of Pompeii’s famous fish sauce so you can sell it back in Rome (hopefully for a big fat profit). You’ve had an easy journey down the coast of Italy from Rome, following the shoreline until you reached the beautiful Bay of Naples with its sparkling blue sea, colonnaded villas nestled around the bay and pleasure yachts cruising the waters. You marvelled at the gigantic mountain, Vesuvius, that towers over it all, with its slopes covered in vineyards and its peak stretching up to the sky – the tallest mountain you’ve ever seen. At the mouth of the river Sarno your ship continued its journey inland towards the southern slopes of Vesuvius, until, at last, you reached a busy port full of bustling merchants, boats large and small jostling to get their place in the dock. You have arrived in Pompeii. “Move out the way, move out the way.” You can hear a strident voice calling over the noise of the seagulls and the cries of sailors and chattering merchants. You look up. A large, portly man with a big belly and a sunburned face is pushing his way through the crowds, gesturing to you and calling your name. “You – over there!” he shouts to you, gesturing again. “Come on up here!” He holds out a large hand and pulls you out of your ship onto the quayside. You sway a little, not used to being on land again after your long journey, and he catches you with a laugh. “Rufus,” he says, holding out a hand. “I can see you’re a Roman. Not used to being at sea, eh?” You smile as you take the hand that’s being held out to you and shake it. “I don’t mean to be rude, Rufus, but — who are you?” Rufus chuckles again. “I’m a friend of your father’s,” he explains. “He wrote to me that you’d be coming and that you’re new to these parts, asked me to give you a tour of the city, show you the ropes and so on. Shall we go?” He motions over to a ramp up to a large gate, and you fall into step beside him as you walk up into the city. “This is the Porta Marina,” he says, gesturing up to the huge gate. “It’s the main gate from the harbour up into the city.” You squeeze to the side as an enormous cart trundles past, ringing a bell to warn pedestrians to get out of the way. “How many gates are there into the city?” you ask, once the cart has made its way past and down into the port. Rufus rubs his chin, and you can see he’s counting up the gates. “Seven,” he says, after a while. “Oh, wait, no, I forgot the Herculaneum Gate – eight, then.” He pauses. “It’s not the largest town on the bay, Pompeii, and it’s certainly not the biggest you’ll ever see – but it makes up in liveliness what it doesn’t have in size.” You’ve come out from under the gate now, and are walking uphill into the city on a road paved with large stones. To your right is an ornate temple covered in marble, with tall fluted columns and white-robed priests milling around the steep front steps. “The Temple of Venus,” Rufus says, seeing where you’re looking. “But that’s old. The one you really want to see is the Temple of Isis.” He raises his eyebrows and gives a low whistle. “We won’t have time for it today, but it’s worth a visit, trust me.” You’re just wondering why when you round a corner, and suddenly – quite unexpectedly – you emerge into a large open space. A colonnade runs around it, and at the other end, you can just make out another temple, smaller than the Temple of Venus but just as impressive, set against the backdrop of Mount Vesuvius. People are milling around everywhere selling their wares, and you can hear sellers calling out everything from freshly baked bread to custom-made shoes. “This would be a good place to look for fish sauce,” you say, more to yourself, but Rufus shakes his head. “You want to go to the Herculaneum Gate for that,” he says, and he leads you forwards into the crowds of people. “This is the Forum,” he shouts over the humdrum noise of buyers and sellers, lawyers and priests. “It’s the heart of Pompeii. Great place, the Forum. You can do anything and meet anyone here.” You nod. You’ve been to the Forum in Rome many times, you know how it serves as the beating heart of the city, housing the law courts, markets, temples, shops and council houses. But this one is very different – more organised than the Roman Forum, you think. At least this one doesn’t have centuries-old mythical monuments littering it all over the place. You busy yourself with fighting your way through the crowds until you reach the other side of the Forum and the crowds thin a bit. Rufus is sweating and mopping his brow with a dirty cloth. “Phew,” he says. “I’m always glad when I reach the Main Street. It’s great for business, the Forum, but it can get a little —” Another cart passes by, clanging its bell, and you miss the rest of the sentence. After a little while walking down the street in silence, you come to a crossroads, with a magnificent set of baths on the left. Rufus doesn’t pay them any attention though. He’s pointing to a large pair of doors on the opposite side of the road, set in what looks like a pretty plain wall. “Doesn’t look like much, does it,” he says with a knowing smile, seeing the look on your face. “But that’s the house of one of the oldest families in Pompeii.” You look at the huge bronze doors, and feel a shiver run down your spine, even though the day is hot. “Who lives there?” Rufus gives a snort. “Lucius Popidius Secundus,” he says derisively, though he lowers his voice to a whisper and looks around him all the same. He gives you a knowing look. “There are plenty of stories I could tell you about him, my friend.” Continued on Thursday– come back to find out where Rufus goes next! You can also read Emily's blog, "Missives from Iris", online at www.irisonline.org.uk/index.php/blog It’s a question every Classicist has been faced with at one time or another. You’ve just met a friend you haven’t seen for a few years, say. “And what are you up to now?” they ask politely. “Oh — I study Classics,” you say, a little apologetically. They look a bit bewildered. Sometimes they venture a guess: “Classical music?” “Shakespeare?” Even — “Classic cars?” (I’ve had that one myself.) “No,” you say patiently. “Classics. It’s the study of the civilisations of the ancient world. You know, ancient Greece and Rome. I read their literature, study the history, that sort of thing.” Now the look of polite bewilderment has turned into incredulity. “You mean you actually read ancient Greek?” they say. Your heart sinks. You can feel the question coming. You ready yourself for it. And then it happens. “So tell me – why do you study a dead language?” Every student of Latin or Greek has to learn to cope with this question. Not only that, they have to have an answer ready to draw from their pockets whenever it’s sprung upon them – and believe me, it happens in the places you least expect it. I’ve been accosted with it everywhere from petrol stations and driving tests to job interviews. So how do you give friends, colleagues and potential employers the sure-fire answer to exactly why you study Classics – one that will bowl them over with your intelligence and wit, and, at the same time, show them that the study of the ancient world is still absolutely relevant? Read on for a couple of ideas that should get you started the next time someone drops the ‘Why Classics’ question. Learning Languages A good one to start with is the basic fact that ancient Greek and Latin are fantastic toolkits for understanding language better. Few of us have a good understanding of English grammar – after all, we’re brought up speaking it, not reciting verb tables. When you learn Greek and Latin grammar, you start to learn your own grammar at the same time; which means you get to be the annoying person who always corrects everyone else’s syntax. There’s also the fact that the roots of so many English words come from ancient Greek and Latin, which gives you a huge advantage in knowing fancy words other people don’t (it also helps in winning Balderdash). And many of the Romance languages – Italian, Spanish, French – are descended from Latin, making it hugely easier to pick them up once you’ve got a bit of Latin behind you. Another big advantage of learning Greek and Latin is that it broadens your perspective on language more generally. With English so widespread in the modern world, it’s a humbling and valuable experience to try to get under the skin of another language from scratch. It makes us appreciate what foreign speakers go through when they try to learn our language. And it invites us to begin to understand how relative language is to culture – how different cultures have different words to express the concepts that mean something to them, and how we can begin to understand them in our own languages and our own ways. Logic Anyone who’s done any ancient Greek will confirm this for you in a heartbeat: to learn a dead language, you need to have a highly sharpened sense of logic. The only way you can possibly learn all those irregular verbs is to get a grip on the patterns underlying their structure. I still have my grammar notes from school with all the different conjugations of Greek verbs colour-coded according to tense, person, voice and mood! Let’s just say you have to learn logic pretty quickly to wrap your head around Classics. It’s a quality that’s highly valued in many professions, from finance to business to law – and it’s something that learning Latin and Greek gives you the chance to develop early on. A Broad Expertise When people ask you exactly what Classics is, their first guess when you tell them you study Ancient Greece and Rome is normally, in my experience, that you read the literature of the Greeks and Romans (most people have usually heard of Homer). But all of us know that Classics is so much more than that. Studying Classics, you can be expected to know everything from the style of Alexander the Great’s hairdo and how it was depicted on coins, to the philosophical arguments of Socrates, to the origins of modern language in Indo-European roots, as well as some pretty funky myths. We do everything from language, literature and linguistics to philosophy, history, art and archaeology; and it’s one of the things which I think sets Classics apart. It’s hard to find many other subjects that ask you for such a broad skill set – which means that Classics can provide invaluable training for a whole range of different interests. Cultural Sensitivity I already touched on this one earlier, but it bears repeating. One of the great things about studying Classics is that it doesn’t just cover the languages, as many people think – it’s the study of an entire culture (actually, two entire cultures). Being exposed to how other people, who lived in a very different time and place from our own, thought, wrote, talked, drew, philosophised, ate, prayed, partied and slept gives you a tremendous window onto the varieties of culture. It makes you comfortable with different gods and different religious practices. It allows you to accept and analyse alternative gender norms to our own with a critical, rather than a prejudiced, eye. Often I have found myself taking friends and relatives around the Classical galleries in some museum or other and being asked in tones of scandalised shock about some of the ruder depictions on vase paintings or in statues. Even more often, I have become so used to these depictions that I hardly notice them, and have to recall my own prejudices when I first started studying Classics in order to understand why my friends are so offended. Being in touch with cultures other than our own forces us to confront our own prejudices and assumptions, again and again. And that, in my opinion, is the first step to letting those assumptions go, and starting to go a little bit deeper into what it really means to be a human on this planet. Understanding Historical Patterns Isaac Newton, the famous physicist, once remarked that, “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” (His comment is also etched around the edge of two pound coins, just in case you need to whip it out at unexpected moments.) The quotation goes to the heart of history and why we study it. Not only do our historical and cultural achievements rest on the discoveries of the past, as Newton put it; our mistakes are, more often than not, repetitions of the mistakes that were also made by the figures of history. By “standing on the shoulders of giants”, as Newton did, we gain an invaluable perspective on the way that history unfolds, in both good times and bad. The opportunity Classics provides us with is particularly unique in this respect. We can look back to the past from our present vantage point, survey the Classical period and the enormous impact it had on later European civilisation. And we can also climb up onto the shoulders of some of the Classical giants – Cicero, Homer, Augustus – and get inside their heads. What was Augustus thinking when he fought the Battle of Actium and defeated the last remaining opponent to his rule and brought about the end of the Republic? Who was Homer, and why did he decide to commemorate the story of Achilles’ wrath? Why did Cicero make the choices he did – and how would modern politicians face similar dilemmas? Learning From The Past And so this brings me to my final point: the way in which Classics enables us to learn from the past. Some scholars would disagree, but it is my belief that, whilst cultures and historical events may change around us, humans remain largely the same. By comparing ourselves to the people of the past, we can begin to explore how and if humans change. We can start to investigate what we share: what interests us, what we’re passionate about, what we find frightening, what motivates us, what we hate, what we love. We can start to understand what it is that makes us human, and explore the big questions that ultimately underpin every search for knowledge in every book that has ever filled the shelves of a library: the question of why we’re here, how agency and history (or free will and fate, put it whichever way you like) interact, what, if anything, is our relationship to the divine, and, last but not least, the question of how to live the good life. Now that, I think, is something worth learning. Wouldn’t you agree? You can also read Emily's blog, "Missives from Iris", online at www.irisonline.org.uk/index.php/blog When I was asked to write a blog for Iris Online about all things classical my first thought was: how on earth, from all the hundreds of thousands of facts and artefacts and stories we have about the Classical world, am I meant to choose what to write about? And so, after many scrapped drafts and a quick bike ride to my local museum for inspiration, I thought I’d simply start by sharing with you what I’m passionate about: the women of the ancient world. Some of you already know that I’ve recently written a historical-fiction novel, telling the story of the Trojan War from the perspectives of two of the women who loved, lived and lost during one of the most famous battles of all time. I want to share with you why I believe it’s so important to keep thinking about and interpreting the women of the ancient world, and why they still matter today. Contrary to everything we’re told in history books, classical women were smart, they were sexy, and they definitely knew their own minds. Remembering that, and starting to see the world through their eyes, opens up a very different vista onto the past than any you might have seen before – and in turn, makes us see our world with new eyes. So here are a few of my heroines and their stories. THE WAR HERO My first heroine has to be Briseis, one of the main characters who appears in my novel. She comes up in the first book of Homer’s Iliad, one of the most famous works of Ancient Greek literature, as Achilles’ war-prize. In the famous quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon that opens the poem, Agamemnon forces Achilles to hand over his prize, the captive slave Briseis. Achilles responds by leaving the war in a fury of rage. The story of the Iliad is set – and it’s all because of Briseis. She might be an unusual choice for my first heroine – she’s a fictional character, after all – but I believe she exemplifies one crucial reason why women of the ancient world need to be remembered: as victims of war. There’s actually a backstory to Briseis’ character hidden between the lines of the Iliad that dramatically changes the way we think about her. Homer mentions that, before she was captured by Achilles, she was a princess in one of the cities around Troy and was married to a nobleman called Mynes. During the sack of the cities around Troy, her three brothers and her husband were all killed by Achilles. It was only then that she was taken as Achilles’ prize to the Greek camp. Briseis’ story is vitally important, I believe, because it gives us an alternative viewpoint on the legend of the Trojan War. It’s a very different world from Achilles’, with his debates on honour and glory. To see the Trojan myth through the eyes of a woman who has lost everything is to truly understand what’s at stake in a war. And that matters as much now as it ever did. THE POET OF LOVE One of the things we often come across in Classics is that writers are almost always male, and that, by and large, they usually tell stories about men. But Sappho is the exception. Sappho was a female poet who lived on the island of Lesbos in around 600 BCE. And although we only have fragments of her poetry, they are enough to give us an idea of the extraordinary nature of her work. With Sappho, we start to come across a very different voice from that of her predecessor, Homer – and one that is fully capable of holding up its own against him. There’s a fantastic poem (16) where she reacts and responds to Homer’s epic, and replaces it with some of her own concerns. Sappho opens with these words: There are some who like war: cavalry, infantry, or navy, they'll say it's the most stunning sight on earth they've ever seen. I say that it's what- ever someone loves. (My translation) This is a radical shift. Before Sappho, the only proper subject of literature was war. But Sappho turns it around. As Helen loved Paris and crossed the world to be with him, she goes on to say in the rest of the poem, so she is in love with Anactoria. The message is clear. For Sappho, the Trojan War isn’t about Achilles, as we saw above with Homer. It’s about the passion of Helen and Paris, and Sappho’s longing for her own lover. In other words, for Sappho, as for Briseis, the Trojan War can be and is a woman’s story. So Sappho is essential in that, like Briseis, she gives us a different narrative of the ancient world; but this time she does it with her own voice. For the first time, the woman’s tale is being told. Life in the ancient world is revealed as not just all about war and battle and politics and men – it’s also about love, and heartbreak, and women, and marriage. It is a breakthrough moment. For the first time in ancient literature, the female voice is speaking up. THE POLITICIAN After Sappho you might be forgiven for thinking that the world of women was all love and marriage and rainbows. Well, my next choice is Livia, and her life was a world away from Sappho’s lovestruck song-making on the Greek islands. Now, I have to admit I’m biased in choosing Livia as my final heroine. She’s been a personal favourite of mine, ever since I first received I, Claudius for Christmas over ten years ago. But then, anyone who’s read Robert Graves’ sparkling portrait of Livia can’t help but love her for the shrewd politician and cutthroat villain he makes her out to be. But what are the real facts about Livia? Born in 59 BC into the turbulent years of the late Roman Republic and the triumvirate of Pompey, Crassus and Caesar, Livia grew up at the heart of the Roman civil war. Originally married to a staunch Republican and with two children by him, she met a dashing young general, Octavian (later Augustus, the first Roman Emperor). Octavian apparently fell in love with her at first sight, divorced his own wife, Scribonia, and forced Livia’s husband to divorce her. The couple were immediately married. A few years later Octavian became Augustus, and Augustus became Emperor. Eventually, after Augustus’ death, Livia’s son by her first husband, Tiberius, would become the second Roman Emperor – and so the first to continue the hereditary monarchy that would last for the next 400 years. Whatever the facts really were, Livia clearly wielded a huge influence over one of the greatest political figures of the ancient world and helped to forge the Roman Empire out of the ashes of the Republic. Her determination to get her son into power (even if she didn’t use all the means Robert Graves attributes to her) ensured the continuation of the monarchy and shaped the Roman Empire for hundreds of years to come. So here are our three women: the war hero, the poet of love, and the politician — three extraordinary and passionate women, who were quite capable of making a splash on the historical record. Until a few years ago, however, the traditional view ran that the women of the ancient world were hidden in the background, without much ability to do anything and certainly no opportunity to affect events around them. Thankfully, that point of view is now changing. Since the publication of Sarah Pomeroy’s Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves in 1975, the study of ancient women has burst into life. Women like Briseis, Sappho and Livia are now making their way into the school curriculum. Their stories are being examined in scholarship, rediscovered in fiction, presented in documentaries. The women of the ancient world are, at last, reclaiming their place in history.
Looking at my heroines, I’d say it’s a story well worth telling. Wouldn’t you? |