(Brill's Plutarch Studies, 10) Jeffrey Beneker, Craig Cooper, Noreen Humble, Frances B. Titchener - Plutarch's Unexpected Silences - Suppression and Selection in The Lives and Moralia-Brill (2022)

Plutarch’s Unexpected Silences
Brill’s Plutarch Studies
Editors
Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta (University of Groningen)

Delfim F. Leão (University of Coimbra)
Editorial Board
Lucia Athanassaki
Mark Beck
Ewen L. Bowie
Timothy Duff
Rainer Hirsch-Luipold
Judith Mossman
Anastasios G. Nikolaidis
Christopher Pelling
Aurelio Pérez Jiménez
Luc van der Stockt
Frances B. Titchener
Paola Volpe Cacciatore
volume 10
The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/bps

Plutarch’s Unexpected
Silences
Suppression and Selection in the Lives and Moralia
Edited by
Jeffrey Beneker
Craig Cooper
Noreen Humble
leiden | boston
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Beneker, Jeffrey, editor.

Title: Plutarch's unexpected silences : suppression and selection in the Lives and
Moralia / edited by Jeffrey Beneker [and 3 others].
Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2022] | Series: Brill's Plutarch studies, 2451-
8328 ; volume 10 | Chapters in this book all derive from papers delivered at a
meeting of the Canadian and USA sections of the International Plutarch
Society. | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: lccn 2022001512 (print) | lccn 2022001513 (ebook) |
isbn 9789004514249 (hardback ; acid-free paper) | isbn 9789004514256
(ebook)
Subjects: lcsh: Plutarch. Lives–Congresses. | Plutarch. Moralia–Congresses. |
Plutarch–Technique–Congresses. | Narration (Rhetoric)–Congresses. | Silence
in literature–Congresses. | lcgft: Literary criticism. | Conference papers and
proceedings.
Classification: lcc pa4385 .p68 2022 (print) | lcc pa4385 (ebook) |
ddc 937.0099–dc23/eng/20220419
lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022001512
lc ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022001513
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issn 2451-8328
isbn 978-90-04-51424-9 (hardback)
isbn 978-90-04-51425-6 (e-book)
Copyright 2022 by Jeffrey Beneker, Craig Cooper, Noreen Humble and Frances B. Titchener. Published by
Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands.
Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink,
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This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

To the memory of Rex Stem
∵
Contents
Notes on Contributors ix
Introduction 1
Jeffrey Beneker, Craig Cooper, Noreen Humble and Frances B.
Titchener
part 1
Silence and the Narrator
1 When Hermes Enters: Towards a Typology of the Silences of Plutarch’s

Narrator and Their Uses in Characterization 11
Eran Almagor
2 Plutarch’s Narratorial Silences in the Dion 36

Michael Nerdahl
3 The Unspoken Bridge between Philosophy and Politics: Plutarch’s De

genio Socratis 50
Bernard Boulet
part 2
Silence as a Literary Technique
4 The Quiet Life: Silence in Plutarch’s Demetrius 65

Thomas C. Rose
5 Fine-Tuning Portraits in the Lives: Omissions that Clarify the Lessons in

Leadership 81
Susan G. Jacobs
6 Plutarch’s Silence about the Relationship between Military Success and

Political Virtue in Sulla and Caesar 102
Rex Stem†
viii contents
7 The Repulsae of Aemilius Paulus in Plutarch’s Aemilius 117

Colin Bailey
8 A Life in Pieces: Plutarch, Crassus 12.1–16.8 138

James T. Chlup
9 What about the Gold-Digging Ants? The Silences and Irony of Plutarch’s
De Herodoti malignitate 151
Charles W. Oughton
part 3
Silencing the Past and Present
10 Plutarch’s Avoidance of Philip v 173

Brad L. Cook
11 Silence of the Lions: Exploring Plutarch’s Omissions on Chaeronea 188

Chandra Giroux
12 What Your Best Friend Won’t Tell You: Thucydidean and Plutarchan
Silences on Sicily 210
Christopher Pelling
13 Silencing Sparta 223

Noreen Humble
14 The Peek-a-Boo Presence of Aeschines in Plutarch’s Demosthenes 245

Craig Cooper
15 Plutarch on the Christians: Why So Silent? Ignorance, Indifference, or

Indignity? 263
Frederick E. Brenk
16 Plutarch’s (Unexpected?) Silence on Jewish Monotheism 282

Joseph Geiger
General Index 295

Index Locorum 298
Notes on Contributors
Eran Almagor
is the author of studies on Plutarch and other Greek imperial-era writers
(Strabo, Josephus). His interests include the history of the Achaemenid Empire
and its image in Greek literature (especially in Herodotus and Ctesias),
Plutarch’s works (mainly the Lives), and the modern reception of antiquity
(particularly in popular culture). He is the author of Plutarch and the Persica
(Edinburgh University Press, 2018), and is co-editor of Ancient Ethnography:
New Approaches (Bloomsbury, 2013) and The Reception of Ancient Virtues and
Vices in Modern Popular Culture (Brill, 2017).
Colin Bailey
is Associate Professor of Classics at MacEwan University. He has published
papers on Dio Chrysostom, Plutarch of Chaeronea, and Roman Republican his-
tory. He is co-editor (with A. Kemezis and B. Poletti) of The Intellectual Climate
of Cassius Dio: Greek and Roman Pasts (Brill, 2022). His research interests focus
on early imperial Greek literature and interactions between Greece and Rome.
Jeffrey Beneker
is Professor of Classics at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. His publi-
cations include The Passionate Statesman: Eros and Politics in Plutarch’s Lives
(Oxford, 2012), The Rhetorical Exercises of Nikephoros Basilakes (2016) and The
Byzantine Sindbad (2021) for the Dumbarton Oaks Medieval Library, and
Plutarch: How to Be a Leader (Princeton, 2019). He is co-editor of The Discourse
of Marriage in the Greco-Roman World (Wisconsin, 2020).
Bernard Boulet
is a retired professor of philosophy from Sainte-Foy College and from the Great
Books program at Laval University, Quebec City. His main research interests
are the comparison between ancient and modern political philosophy, and the
relationships between philosophy, politics and religion. He is editor for Collec-
tion Résurgences and co-author of books on Plato, Machiavelli, and Descartes.
He is co-founder of the Cercle du Savoir where he now teaches.
Frederick E. Brenk
is one of the founders of the International Plutarch Society. From 1982 to 2011
he taught at the Pontifical Biblical Institute, Rome, where he became professor
ordinarius. He has published In Mist Apparelled: Religious Themes in Plutarch’s
x notes on contributors
Moralia and Lives (Brill, 1977), and with David E. Aune, Greco-Roman Culture
and the New Testament (Brill, 2012). Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta and Delfim Leão
(eds.), Frederick E. Brenk on Plutarch, Religious Thinker and Biographer (Brill,
2017) recently appeared. Forthcoming is Plutarch on Literature, Religion, and
Life (Brill, 2022).
James T. Chlup
is Associate Professor of ancient history at the University of Manitoba. He
is the co-editor (with Conor Whately) of Greek and Roman Military Manu-
als: Genre and History (2020) and the author of articles and chapters on Livy,
Plutarch, Onasander, Caesar and Frontinus. His major project is a commentary
on Plutarch’s Crassus.
Brad L. Cook
is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Mississippi. He writes var-
iously on ancient biographical traditions, e.g., “The Essential Philip” (GRBS,
2005), “A Watery Folktale in the Alexander Romance” (SyllClass, 2009), and
“Petrarch’s Reading of Cicero’s Letters” (C&M, 2012), with ongoing focus on
Demosthenes, e.g., “Athenian Terms of Civic Praise in the 330s B.C.” (GRBS,
2009), “Swift-boating in Antiquity” (Rhetorica, 2012), “ ‘He’s a Scythian!’ The
‘Birther’ Attack in Classical Athens” (forthcoming), and a chapter in The Oxford
Handbook of Demosthenes (2019) on the ancient and Byzantine biographies of
Demosthenes, about which a book-length study is nearing completion.
Craig Cooper
is Professor of Classics in the Department of History at the University of Leth-
bridge, where he previously served as Dean of Arts and Science. His research
and teaching focus on Greek History, Athenian Law, Greek Oratory and
Rhetoric, Ancient Biography and Plutarch. His works include Epigraphy and
the Greek Historian (2008); “Making irrational myth plausible history: Polybian
intertextuality in Plutarch’s Theseus” (2007); “Aristoxenus, Περὶ Βίων and Peri-
patetic Biography” (2002), and his 2001 translation of Hyperides in The Oratory
of Classical Greece: Vol. v: Dinarchus, Hyperides, Lycurgus. He is currently work-
ing on translation and commentary of Demosthenes 36, 45, 46.
Joseph Geiger
is Shalom Horowitz Professor of Classics Emeritus at The Hebrew University of
Jerusalem. He is the author of over one hundred learned articles, ranging from
historiography and biography to intellectual history, with forays into Talmudic
studies and classical topics in art and literature. His books include Cornelius
notes on contributors xi
Nepos and Ancient Political Biography (1985), Masada ii: The Latin and Greek
Documents (with H.M. Cotton, 1989), The First Hall of Fame: A Study of the Stat-
ues of the Forum Augustum (2008), and Hellenism in the East: Studies on Greek
Intellectuals in Palestine (2013). He has been a Visiting Fellow of Corpus Christi
College, Oxford, and a Visiting Professor at Heidelberg and Yale.
Chandra Giroux
completed her PhD at McGill under the supervision of Hans Beck and Dar-
ian Totten in 2021 on Plutarch’s Chaironeia: The Local Horizon of World Empire.
She also holds an MA in Classical Studies from the University of Ottawa and
an MA in Greek and Roman Archaeology from Newcastle University. She is
the editor of Plutarch: Cultural Practice in a Connected World (Teiresias Sup-
plements Online forthcoming), which explores the theme of Plutarch and his
representation of local worlds in relation to the Roman Empire through the
lens of culture.
Noreen Humble
is Professor of Classics at the University of Calgary and Associate Director of the
Calgary Institute for the Humanities. Her research centers on Xenophon and
Plutarch, both in their contemporary setting and in the early modern period.
She is the author of Xenophon of Athens: A Socratic on Sparta (Cambridge, 2021),
the editor of Plutarch’s Lives: Parallelism and Purpose (Classical Press of Wales,
2010), and the co-editor (with Pat Crowley and Silvia Ross) of Mediterranean
Travels (Legenda, 2011).
Susan G. Jacobs
is an independent scholar who focuses on Plutarch’s Parallel Lives and the guid-
ance they provide to leaders. She began to study Plutarch after completing
a doctorate in Economics at Duke University and spending 20 years in fore-
casting and strategic planning. Drawing on this background, she examined
Plutarch’s deterrent Lives in her doctoral thesis in Classics at Columbia Univer-
sity and subsequently expanded this analysis in Plutarch’s Pragmatic Biogra-
phies: Lessons for Statesmen and Generals (Brill, 2017). Her current project,
Plutarch’s Supporting Cast in the Lives, explores the characterization and roles
of major figures who are not the subject of a biography.
Michael Nerdahl
is Senior Lecturer in the Department of Classics at Bowdoin College. In addi-
tion to publishing several essays on Plutarch’s Lives that examine the rela-
tionship between the biographer’s narrative strategies and his moralism, he
xii notes on contributors
is an avid designer and promoter of games in the college classroom, creat-

ing student-centered, role-immersion experiences with settings like the Trojan
War, the Senate of the mid-Republic, and the court of Nero.
Charles W. Oughton
is Assistant Professor in Classical Studies at Brigham Young University. His
research focuses on ancient historiography and biography, with emphases on
the response to the Greek historiographic tradition in Rome and the modern
reception of the ancient historians. He has won several teaching awards, includ-
ing an award from the Texas Language Center as the Best Foreign Language
Instructor at UT-Austin, and has recently had two of his students win the Phin-
ney Prize as the top performing Beginning Greek students on the College Greek
Exam.
Christopher Pelling
is Emeritus Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford University. His books include
Literary Texts and the Greek Historian (2000), Plutarch and History (2002),
Twelve Voices from Greece and Rome: Ancient Ideas for Modern Times (with
Maria Wyke, 2014), Herodotus and the Question Why (2019), and commentaries
on Plutarch’s Antony (1988) and Caesar (2011), Herodotus 6 (with Simon Horn-
blower, 2017), and Thucydides 6 and 7 (2022). He is now working on a further
commentary on Plutarch’s Alexander.
Thomas C. Rose
is Assistant Professor of Classics at Randolph-Macon College. His recent work
includes articles on kingship, ruler-cult, and military technology in the early
Hellenistic period. He is currently completing a commentary on Plutarch’s
Demetrius.
Rex Stem
was Associate Professor of Classics at the University of California, Davis. He
was educated at Harvard (BA, 1991), University College, Oxford (MSt, 1992) and
Michigan (PhD, 1999). His publications include The Political Biographies of Cor-
nelius Nepos (Michigan, 2012), a new edition of Francis Kelsey’s Julius Caesar:
Commentaries on the Gallic War (Michigan Classical Press, 2017), and numerous
articles on Roman biography, historiography, oratory, and political thought. He
served as chair of the program in Classics at Davis, where he was widely rec-
ognized as an outstanding teacher and mentor to many students. Rex passed
away on October 21, 2020.
notes on contributors xiii
is Distinguished Professor of Classics and History and Director of the Classics
Program at Utah State University where she has taught since 1987. She has been
a Fulbright Research Fellow in Leuven, Belgium (2003), as well as spent a term
in residence there as a visitor (2010). She was a Visiting Scholar at the University
of Crete in Rethymno (2017) and is Secretary of the International Plutarch Soci-
ety as well as co-editor of the journal Ploutarchos. She is also the co-editor of
numerous volumes on Plutarch or Plutarch scholars, including the forthcoming
Cambridge Companion to Plutarch.
Introduction
Jeffrey Beneker, Craig Cooper, Noreen Humble and Frances B. Titchener
In his essay on talkativeness, Plutarch turns to a verse from Sophocles to illus-

trate the power of holding one’s tongue: “Quiet, my child, for silence has much
to offer” (ὦ παῖ, σιώπα· πόλλ’ ἔχει σιγὴ καλά, De gar. 502E, Soph. fr. 81 Lloyd-
Jones). Plutarch himself was not likely garrulous, but he did write voluminously
and, at first glance, appears to have believed that Sophocles’ advice applied to
speech but not to writing. In fact, he spared very few words: his extant corpus
contains nearly one million of them, and the Lamprias catalogue shows that
he wrote many more.1 His wide-ranging oeuvre is likely the result of his equally
wide-ranging intellectual interests. In speaking of Plutarch’s sizable and varied
“problems” literature, for example, Robert Lamberton asserts that its produc-
tion was “driven by Plutarch’s constantly restless curiosity as he inquired into
everything, interrogated everything in the world around him.”2 Much, if not all,
of what he discovered through inquiry and interrogation appears to have found
expression in his writing. Plutarch, it seems, had something to say about every-
thing.
He could, however, distinguish between quantity and quality. He argued
that a political leader, to offer just one example, was obligated to give public
speeches that were not simply noisy and rabble-rousing, but which fostered sta-
ble government and were infused with good sense and wise judgement (An seni
789D). Plutarch must have felt a similar obligation when he put pen to paper
himself, for he always tackled weighty subjects, such as religion, politics, ethics,
and nature, and he dared to advise and admonish those around him, including
family, friends and Roman officials. His writings on political leadership, which
some consider to include not only essays from the Moralia but also the biogra-
phies of the Parallel Lives, are especially broad, and they demonstrate Plutarch’s
conception of the influence and necessity of the written word.3 This concep-
tion is crystalized in the so-called “Letter to Trajan” that introduces his Regum
et imperatorum apophthegmata.4 The letter’s authenticity has been disputed,
1 The Thesaurus Linguae Graecae contains over 900,000 words in works attributed to Plutarch.
2 R. Lamberton, Plutarch (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001) 25.
3 On the Lives as lessons in leadership, see e.g., S.G. Jacobs, Plutarch’s Pragmatic Biographies:
Lessons for Statesmen and Generals in the Parallel Lives (Leiden: Brill, 2018).
4 For the letter’s importance and an argument for its attribution to Plutarch, see M. Beck,
“Plutarch to Trajan: The Dedicatory Letter and the Apophthegmata Collection,” in P.A. Stadter
© J. Beneker, C. Cooper, N. Humble and F.B. Titchener, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_002

2 beneker, cooper, humble and titchener
but its contents nonetheless express a sentiment with which Plutarch agreed:
words speak louder than actions. Great deeds, such as those illustrated in the
Parallel Lives, can be helped along by chance, while great men can be foiled by
fortune. But a collection of the “decisions and utterances” (ἀποφάσεις καὶ ἀνα-
φωνήσεις) of great leaders allows the reader “to observe the intellect of each
man” (τὴν ἑκάστου διάνοιαν ἀποθεωρεῖν, Reg. et imp. apophth. 172D) regardless of
the man’s success or failure in the fickle world of war or politics. These decisions
and utterances are by etymology either revealed (ἀπόφασις) or spoken aloud
(ἀναφώνησις), not hidden or kept silent. Moreover, they must be preserved in
writing, as they were in Plutarch’s Lives and his collections of sayings, to be
observed and so to exert their influence over others. Literary silence, it seems,
had little to offer Plutarch and his readers.
And yet, there are facts and events that Plutarch knew but chose not to relate.
Why, for instance, does he not mention that he was a Roman citizen and took
the name Mestrius from his patron? We learn of that only from an inscription
that happens to survive at Delphi. He does reveal that he lived in a small Greek
city of little renown (Dem. 2.1–2), where he performed unglamorous public ser-
vice, such as overseeing the maintenance of the streets (Praec. ger. reip. 811BC),
but also that he had connections in Rome (De tranq. an. 464E) and even lec-
tured there (De cur. 522E). Why not bolster this profile even more by touting
his Roman citizenship and Italian name? R.H. Barrow suspects that Plutarch
suppressed his Roman identity in his writing because he wanted to present
himself as Greek. “And it is as a Greek that he wishes to write and as Greek
that he wishes to be known–Plutarch, the son of Autobulus of Chaeronea,
for many years priest at Delphi, sometime archon eponymous and telearch
of Chaeronea.”5 In this reading, Plutarch is crafting a persona through the
omission of information that might have changed his readers’ perception of
him, and that perhaps would have caused them to interpret his writing differ-
ently.
It is possible, however, that the book or essay in which Plutarch discussed
his Roman citizenship has simply been lost. Even so, there are other instances
where we can be more certain that Plutarch has written less than he knows.
He knows, for example, that Julius Caesar was said to have seduced Servilia,
& L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Sage and Emperor: Plutarch, Greek Intellectuals, and Roman Power
in the Time of Trajan (98–117ad) (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2002) 163–173; see also
P.A. Stadter, “Setting Plutarch in his Context,” in P.A. Stadter & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Sage
and Emperor: Plutarch, Greek Intellectuals, and Roman Power in the Time of Trajan (98–117ad)
(Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2002) 1–26.
5 R.H. Barrow, Plutarch and his Times (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1967) 12–13.
introduction 3
the half-sister of Cato Minor and mother of Brutus, and was even rumored to
have been Brutus’ real father (Ca. Mi. 24; Brut. 5). Nonetheless, he declines to
mention this information in his Caesar, and he passes over various other affairs
as well, preferring to present his subject as driven to acquire power and undis-
tracted by love.6 And he goes much further with Caesar. Christopher Pelling
has shown that Plutarch deliberately silenced important information to avoid
drawing connections between events in Caesar’s life and the contemporary
career of the emperor Trajan. He appears to omit Caesar’s planned campaign
against Dacia and his adoption of the young Octavius, for example, precisely
to avoid drawing parallels with Trajan’s Dacian campaign and his adoption by
Nerva. As a result, Plutarch “does not make his narrative any more relevant to
his own times than to any other.”7 Here, then, silence does have something to
offer. By keeping Caesar’s affairs and his parallels with Trajan out of his read-
ers’ minds, Plutarch can focus them instead on the lessons that he wishes to
communicate, and he can ensure that those lessons will remain relevant when
both he and his emperor are long gone.
Since Plutarch knew a lot and loved to communicate what he knew, the
moments when he pulled his punches are especially significant. In May 2019,
the Canadian and USA sections of the International Plutarch Society invited
scholars to meet and to identify more of those moments when, while reading
the Parallel Lives or Moralia, they were surprised that Plutarch had left some-
thing out. The scholars who participated cast their focus upon those passages
that foiled their expectations and whose silence invited a closer examination.
They questioned, for example, odd omissions of authors and works, and people
and places, especially those that Plutarch must have known, and they exam-
ined Plutarch’s reticence to offer a comment in places where he usually would.
The premise is that by exploring these various avenues, we not only enrich our
understanding of Plutarch’s narratorial and compositional choices, the com-
plexities of his moral outlook, and his philosophical leanings, but we also elu-
cidate the broader literary world of which Plutarch was a part.8 This volume,
therefore, demonstrates how Plutarch’s choices reflect not just his own under-
standing of the past and present, but also the broader cultural and literary
practices of the Greco-Roman world during the early empire.
6 J. Beneker, “No Time for Love: Plutarch’s Chaste Caesar,” GRBS 43 (2002/2003) 13–29.
7 C. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Caesar: A Caesar for the Caesars?” in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History
(Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 255–256.
8 Cf. C.S. Chrysanthou, Plutarch’s Parallel Lives: Narrative Technique and Moral Judgement
(Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018) 12–13, who connects Plutarch’s use of silence to narrative techniques
employed generally by writers of prose fiction.
The chapters in this book all derive from papers delivered at that meet-
ing, which was held in Logan, Utah, under the aegis of Frances Titchener and
with the hospitality of Utah State University. We have arranged the chapters
according to three general categories that illustrate how Plutarch exploited
silence in both the Lives and Moralia. The contributors have focused espe-
cially on Plutarch’s interpretation of the past in his biographical and histor-
ical works, but they also examine his writing about philosophy, religion and
ethics. We are not claiming that this volume is an exhaustive study of silence
in Plutarch. However, the contributors offer a range of examples that demon-
strate the breadth and complexity of silence in a variety of works, and they
connect their studies to current scholarship. The volume, therefore, represents
an important contribution to Plutarchan studies for its illumination of an ele-
ment of Plutarch’s method that has yet to receive scrutiny.
The first section, “Silence and the Narrator,” begins with Eran Almagor’s
study of Plutarch’s role as narrator in the Lives. Almagor argues that Plutarch
in many instances remains silent about certain details and events in order to
reflect his characters’ own ignorance. To achieve this effect, Plutarch as nar-
rator indicates to the reader either directly or indirectly that information has
been withheld; for example, he might omit commonly known facts, or, in cases
where the information is less obviously missing, he may overtly call atten-
tion to the omission. The effect is to cast a Life’s protagonist in a certain light
and to guide the reader’s interpretation. This introductory study paves the way
for two further chapters that also engage with Plutarch’s narrative technique.
Michael Nerdahl asserts that critical ellipses in the Dion are integral to the
narrative structure of the Life and, as Almagor argued, that they affect the
reader’s interpretation of historical events. However, Nerdahl underscores a
different approach taken by Plutarch in this Life. He argues that by engaging
in covert narratorial silence, that is, by leaving “gaps” in the narrative, where
readers might expect to receive information, Plutarch invites his readers to fill
in these gaps for themselves. Thus, Nerdahl shows, the text is open to interpre-
tations that are generated from each reader’s expectations and personal con-
text. Bernard Boulet tackles the problem of the bifurcation found in De genio
Socratis, which is split between a narrative of the overthrow of Theban tyrants
and a seemingly unrelated discourse on Socrates’ daimonion. Though Plutarch
does not make his aim explicit, Boulet proposes that the text as a whole com-
prises a critical examination of Epaminondas in his role as philosopher and
statesman, and that this examination is accomplished especially through com-
parison with Socrates. In this case Plutarch as narrator steps back, and readers
are left to infer for themselves the link between the historical narrative and the
philosophical treatise, and thus to reach their own conclusions.
introduction 5
The second section, “Silence as a Literary Technique,” extends the discussion

of narrative with six chapters that focus on how Plutarch uses silence to char-
acterize individuals and to shape the overall structure of several of his works.
The first two chapters primarily examine Greek Lives. Thomas C. Rose demon-
strates that Plutarch, in his Demetrius, has suppressed material about the hero
that would elicit the reader’s approval and admiration in order to shape the
Life into a negative example, as promised in the prologue. Moreover, Demetrius
himself remains essentially silent in his own Life, as Plutarch gives the best dia-
logue to other characters and reinforces the readers’ negative impressions of
Demetrius. Susan Jacobs, in readings of Alcibiades, Agesilaus, and Fabius Max-
imus, shows how Plutarch omits well-known events while characterizing these
leaders. By omitting information from much-read historians, such as Thucy-
dides, Xenophon, and Livy, Plutarch simplifies the portraits of his subjects and
so sharpens his focus on the lessons of leadership that he intends to convey in
these Lives.
Next come three chapters devoted exclusively to Roman Lives. Rex Stem
takes on the moral paradox of Sulla and Caesar by questioning how Plutarch
could characterize these statesmen as morally deficient but nonetheless praise
their great military success. Moving beyond previous scholarship, Stem argues
that Plutarch had such respect for military achievement that it caused him to
remain silent about his characters’ faults when he described their careers as
generals, even as he criticized their actions as politicians. Colin Bailey explores
Plutarch’s distortion of Aemilius Paulus’ experiences while running for consul,
arguing that he omits electoral losses early in Aemilius’ career while high-
lighting, or even inventing, a later loss. Plutarch, Bailey argues, is creating an
Aemilius who is different from that of Polybius and Livy, who portrayed the
Roman statesman as ambitious and eager to hold power. Plutarch, by contrast,
is presenting a man who can serve as an example of virtue and is pointedly not
ambitious in the way that other historians have presented him. Bailey further
argues that Plutarch has distorted the historical record, especially to create a
contrast between Aemilius and his powerful military opponent, Perseus, king of
Macedon. James Chlup discovers a similar distortion in Crassus, demonstrating
that Plutarch has compressed a fifteen-year portion of Marcus Crassus’ career
(from 70 to 55 bce) so as to emphasize his lack of influence in Roman politics
during a crucial period. Conversely, Plutarch devotes essentially half of the Life
to the ill-fated Parthian campaign, which further reinforces Crassus’ failure and
his inability to compete with his political rivals.
In the final chapter of this section, Charles Oughton turns from the Lives
to the Moralia. He argues that in De Herodoti malignitate, glaring omissions in
Plutarch’s argument leave him open to the very criticism that he levels against
Herodotus. This implied criticism in turn gives the essay an ironic tone and
undermines Plutarch’s own critique of Herodotus. Instead of taking the histor-
ical criticism at face value, Oughton proposes that we are meant to read the
treatise as a literary satire that in fact comments on the state of historiographic
criticism in Plutarch’s day.
The book’s third and final section, “Silencing the Past and Present,” builds
on the second to consider even greater modifications to the historical record.
Brad Cook studies the near total omission of Philip v, king of Macedon, from
Plutarch’s Lives and Moralia. Despite his long and storied career, Philip plays
essentially no role in Plutarch’s biographical or ethical works, a stark contrast
to the frequent appearances of other Macedonian and Hellenistic kings, such
as Philip ii, Demetrius, and of course Alexander. Cook does not argue that
Plutarch could have written a Life of Philip but did not, but that he had a special
disdain for Philip, feeling moral outrage at what he considered to be a depraved
character, and so he essentially suppressed his role in the history of his times.
Chandra Giroux explores Plutarch’s connection to his hometown of Chaeronea,
tackling in particular the question of why Plutarch declines to describe the
place in any detail, even though it features prominently in many of the his-
torical events that he narrates. Giroux catalogues the silences and argues that
Plutarch appears to have been creating, or projecting, a truly local Chaeronea,
rather than a city that frequently found itself at the center of significant inter-
national events. Christopher Pelling explores the complementary narratives of
Athens’ Sicilian campaign that are found in Thucydides and Plutarch. He shows
that Plutarch followed Thucydides carefully, but often supplemented silences
in his source text and at times remained silent himself about events that Thucy-
dides documented. These additions and subtractions, Pelling argues, reveal not
only Plutarch’s own interests and techniques but also important features of
Thucydides’ text that a modern critic still needs to address.
Two further chapters consider more specifically what has been lost as the
result of Plutarch’s omissions. Noreen Humble examines Plutarch’s account of
Spartan customs in Lycurgus, which despite in many cases being his own cre-
ation, nonetheless have been taken as authentic for centuries. Plutarch’s selec-
tion of material and the popularity of his imaginary Sparta, Humble
argues, reflect an imperial-era recreation of the Classical city and its society.
This recreation, in turn, has fueled modern perceptions that have been taken
up by a range of people, from academics to nationalist politicians to gun rights
advocates. Craig Cooper, in a reading of Demosthenes, shows that Plutarch gives
a prominent role to Aeschines, Demosthenes’ political opponent, and uses
him as a source, but at the same time he frequently ignores important details
that Aeschines could have provided from his speeches. These silences, Cooper
introduction 7
argues, are determined by Plutarch’s narrative technique and compositional

method for the Life. He aimed to portray a Demosthenes who possessed some
of the faults alleged by Aeschines, such as cowardice and venality, but was not
willing to adopt the comprehensive condemnation that Demosthenes’ oppo-
nent offered.
A final pair of chapters tackle the question of why Plutarch fails to explore
Jewish religion in any detail and does not mention Christians at all. Fred Brenk
asks why we find no discussion of Christians or Christianity in Plutarch, even
though he engages with other religions in works such as Quaestiones convi-
vales and was in close contact with Romans who were dealing with Christian
communities. Brenk looks to Plutarch’s coverage of Judaism for comparison
and suggests that his preference for timeless questions and ancient sources lie
behind his silence on Christianity. Joseph Geiger homes in on a related and
more particular silence in Plutarch’s works, his apparent lack of interest in
monotheism. Despite his detailed discussion of Jewish ritual and his argument
for associating the God of the Jews with Dionysus, he passes over completely
the religion’s most distinctive trait, namely its rejection of the polytheism. As
does Brenk, Geiger sets this omission into the larger context of Plutarch’s works
and demonstrates the limits of his intellectual and cultural interests.
Works Cited
Barrow, R.H., Plutarch and his Times (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1967).
Beck, M., “Plutarch to Trajan: The Dedicatory Letter and the Apophthegmata Collec-
tion,” in P.A. Stadter & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Sage and Emperor: Plutarch, Greek
Intellectuals, and Roman Power in the Time of Trajan (98–117 ad) (Leuven: Leuven
University Press, 2002) 163–173.
Beneker, J., “No Time for Love: Plutarch’s Chaste Caesar,” GRBS 43 (2002/2003) 13–29.
Chrysanthou, C.S., Plutarch’s Parallel Lives: Narrative Technique and Moral Judgement
(Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018).
Jacobs, S.G., Plutarch’s Pragmatic Biographies: Lessons for Statesmen and Generals in the
Parallel Lives (Leiden: Brill, 2018).
Lamberton, R., Plutarch (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001).
Pelling, C., “Plutarch’s Caesar: A Caesar for the Caesars?” in C. Pelling, Plutarch and His-
tory (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 253–265.
Stadter, P.A., “Setting Plutarch in his Context,” in P.A. Stadter & L. Van der Stockt (eds.),
Sage and Emperor: Plutarch, Greek Intellectuals, and Roman Power in the Time of Tra-
jan (98–117 ad) (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2002) 1–26.
part 1
Silence and the Narrator
∵
chapter 1
When Hermes Enters: Towards a Typology of the

Silences of Plutarch’s Narrator and Their Uses in
Characterization
Eran Almagor
Just as fascinating as the question regarding the material Plutarch opts to

include in his biographies in the so-called digressions is the inquiry into what
he unexpectedly chooses to omit, as well as when and why he does so.1 In both
cases, it would seem, the reasons are literary and artistic. Apart from the use
of silences and omissions to abbreviate material and advance the plot,2 the
ancients were aware of the rhetorical power of what is left unsaid, that is, how
silences speak.3 For instance, Quintilian (Inst. 2.13.12–13) appreciates the effects
of a speaker holding back information, and compares this device to conceal-
ment in painting. Quintilian refers specifically to the effect of suppressing the
details of the emotions of the figures presented.4 Similarly, John Chrysostom in
his commentary on Acts speaks about filling gaps in knowledge by the reader of
1 The ancient Greek proverb referred to in the title of this chapter appears in Plutarch’s
essay De garrulitate 502F: “When silence occurs in an assemblage they say that Hermes
has joined the company” (Helmbold trans., Loeb Classical Library). On Plutarch’s digres-
sions, see E. Almagor, “But This Belongs to Another Discussion: Ethnographic Digressions
in Plutarch,” in E. Almagor & J. Skinner (eds.), Ancient Ethnography: New Approaches (Lon-
don: Bloomsbury, 2013) 153–178; G. Roskam & S. Verdegem, “ ‘This Topic Belongs to Another
Kind of Writing’: The Digressions in Plutarch’s Life of Coriolanus,” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam &
F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing (Leuven: Leuven
2 Cf. Quint. Inst. 4.2.67: “… there may be some [points] which you should pass over in silence
… this is sometimes done for the sake of brevity” (… aliqua etiam tacenda … quod fit non-
numquam brevitatis quoque gratia); cf. Luc. Hist. Conscr. 56. See also C. Pelling, “Plutarch’s
Adaptation of his Source-Material,” JHS 100 (1980) 127–128 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch
and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 91–93], on chronological compression
and telescoping.
3 Cf. L. Toker, Eloquent Reticence: Withholding Information in Fictional Narrative (Lexington:
University Press of Kentucky, 1993) 1, 5–8.
4 Cf. Plin. NH 35.36.73; Cic. Orat. 74; Val. Max. 8.11, ext. 6. Cf. V. Platt, “Orphaned Objects: The
Phenomenology of the Incomplete in Pliny’s Natural History,” Art History 41 (2018) 505, on
“programmatically ‘incomplete’ paintings.”
© Eran Almagor, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_003

12 almagor
the work.5 In these examples, the silence and omission are those made by the
painter, the speaker, the writer. The claim is that what is unseen or unwritten
is consigned to the assessment of the spectator or reader to complete. In this
sense, these statements may be regarded as early formulations of the reader-
response theory.6
It is not far-fetched to claim that Plutarch was aware of this rhetorical and lit-
erary device himself. Like the speaker’s persona, who sometimes remains silent
in order to create a great rhetorical impact,7 so Plutarch also employs his nar-
rator’s silences to affect his audience. In the traditional theoretical division
between author and narrator, the first is always silent; the author’s voice can-
not be heard in the work unless through the literary mask of the narrator, who
speaks for him or her.8 Thus, when an author mutes his narrator at various cru-
cial points, this also serves as pronouncing the author’s mind.9 In particular,
as is argued here, this device is used by Plutarch to achieve the characteriza-
tion of the main protagonist. In this chapter, I shall focus mainly on the Lives
and on silences which Plutarch signals to us as such, both directly and indi-
rectly.
Broadly speaking, the silences of Plutarch’s narrator can be divided into two
main types:
(i) when the narrator is shown to be actually withholding or omitting infor-
mation.
(ii) when the narrator tells us that he is doing so, that is, when he openly pro-
fesses to being silent, in general or over a certain point.
5 Homily on Acts 55; PG 60, p. 382. Cf. J.L Magness, Sense and Absence: Structure and Suspension
in the Ending of Mark’s Gospel (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986) 123; D. Marguerat, “The Enigma
of the Silent Closing of Acts (28, 16–31),” in D.P. Moessner (ed.), Jesus and the Heritage of Israel,
vol. 1 (Harrisburg, Pennsylvania: Trinity Press International, 1999) 284–304.
6 According to this theory, the meaning of the literary texts is constructed and imparted by the
readers. See H.R. Jauss, Literaturgeschichte als Provokation (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verla, 1970);
W. Iser, “Indeterminacy and the Reader’s Response in Prose Fiction,” in J. Hillis Miller (ed.),
Aspects of Narrative (New York: Columbia University Press, 1971) 1–45, and “The Reading Pro-
cess: A Phenomenological Approach,” New Literary History 3 (1970) 284–285.
7 See also Olympiodorus in Grg., lecture 4.449d4: “One should observe that [rhetoric] persuades
not only through speech, but also by silence.”
8 See A. Fludernick, An Introduction to Narratology (London: Routledge, 2009) 31, 56; W.
Schmidt, Narratology: An Introduction (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009) 48; I. de Jong, Narratology
and Classics: A Practical Guide (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014) 17–19.
9 This chapter addresses the narrator’s silence in the recounting or arranging of the material,
not the reticence of the other fictional figures in the works, including the respective protag-
onists.
when hermes enters 13
The first type includes three sub categories:

(i.1) Intertextual silence which occurs when the narrator violates the expec-
tations of the reader for certain information based on external accounts
in texts assumed to be known to the reader.
(i.2) Narrational silence, when the reader understands from the structure or
content of the narrative itself that some details are skipped over.
(i.3) Intratextual silence, which happens when the reader detects that some-
thing has been passed over through a comparison with other Lives or with
the synkrisis. This variety is intra-textual, since all the Lives belong to a sin-
gle project and were meant to be read together, as if they were one text.
1 Intertextual Silence
The examples mentioned in this section address only texts which are extant
today, yet to the ancient reader there were obviously other works available for
comparison with Plutarch’s account, which have not survived. Bearing in mind
this fact, we have to acknowledge that the device of Intertextual Silence may
have been employed within Plutarch’s works in more cases than we are able to
be aware of today.
One notable example for this type of silence appears at Agesilaus 23. In this
chapter, the narrator twice passes over Xenophon’s account in the Hellenica.
In the first case of silence, the narrator elides many details which Xenophon
relates (HG 4.8.12–22; 5.1.6, 25–29, 35–36) concerning the road towards the
King’s Peace (387/6bce) and its implications. This diplomatic achievement
came after Artaxerxes ii abandoned his alliance with the Athenians and Conon
in favor of cooperation with the Spartans, while the latter on their part formally
deserted their position advocating autonomy for the Greeks of Asia.10 The
narrator here skips over the first, failed peace initiative of 392bce, the arrest
of the Athenian general Conon, the mission of the Spartan Thibron against
the Persians, and all the naval activities of the Spartan Antalcidas (Plu. Ages.
23.1–4):11
10 X. HG 5.1.31 (cf. 4.8.14). See also D.S. 14.110.2–4; Isoc. Panath. 106; D. 23.140.
11 See D.R. Shipley, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Life of Agesilaos (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1997) 275: “Plutarch apparently attaches the second, successful, mission to the pre-
liminaries of the first, which was inconclusive.” Cf. D.M. Lewis, Sparta and Persia (Leiden:
Brill, 1977) 146–147. Note all translations of Plutarch’s Lives are by Perrin in the Loeb series,
unless indicated otherwise.
14 almagor
When Conon and Pharnabazus with the Great King’s fleet were masters
of the sea and were ravaging the coasts of Laconia, and after the walls of
Athens had been rebuilt with the money which Pharnabazus furnished,
the Lacedaemonians decided to make peace with the king of Persia. To
that end, they sent Antalcidas to Tiribazus, and in the most shameful and
lawless fashion handed over to the King the Greeks resident in Asia, on
whose behalf Agesilaus had waged war. Agesilaus, therefore, could have
no part at all in this infamy. Antalcidas was his enemy, and put forth all
his efforts to make the peace because he saw that the war enhanced to the
utmost the reputation and power of Agesilaus.
This silence creates an ideal image of the Spartan king Agesilaus ii as an

alleged solitary voice in Sparta against the Persians and against the King’s
Peace. Antalcidas is presented merely as a diplomat, not a man of war, in a sup-
posed opposition to Agesilaus. Antalcidas is also displayed as the driving force
of this agreement, with which Agesilaus, so the narrator tells us, had nothing
to do.12 This ideal image, however, is soon shattered once the narrator does use
Xenophon in the second half of that chapter (Plu. Ages. 23.5–8):
By threatening with war the Greeks who were unwilling to accept the
peace, he [Agesilaus] forced them all to abide by the terms which the Per-
sian dictated, more especially on account of the Thebans, his object being
to make them weaker by leaving Boeotia independent of Thebes. This he
made clear by his subsequent behavior. For when Phoebidas committed
the foul deed of seizing the Cadmea in a time of perfect peace […] he
[Agesilaus] did not scruple to come to the help of Phoebidas, and to say
openly that they must consider whether the act was serviceable or not;
for that which was advantageous to Sparta might well be done indepen-
dently, even if no one ordered it. And yet in his discourse he was always
declaring that justice was the first of the virtues.
First, the narrator takes from Xenophon (HG 5.1.32–34) both the fact that Age-
silaus utilized the other clause of the settlement, namely, the one guaranteeing
autonomy for all other Greeks outside Asia Minor (except Lemnos, Imbros, and
Scyros). Hence, Agesilaus did not fully oppose the clauses of the King’s Peace,
12 Shipley, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Life of Agesilaos, 277 (cf. 278), suggests that Plutarch’s
interpretation was influenced by recalling Xenophon’s claim (Ages. 2.21) that in another
context, the Spartan king was opposed to a peace (until he forced Corinth and Thebes to
restore sympathizers with Sparta).
but rather used it in particular to harm Thebes.13 Second, the narrator adopts
the portrayal, also taken from Xenophon (HG 5.2.29, 32; 5.4.1), that Agesilaus
did not condemn Phoebidas for seizing the Cadmea in Thebes (in 382bce), but
rather thought that what was advantageous to Sparta was proper behavior.14
The contrast between the ideal ethical image of Agesilaus (i.e., a believer in the
primacy of justice) and reality, in which the only relevant criterion for him is
state interest, is made dramatic by paralleling it with another disparity in the
chapter which Plutarch has artificially created. That latter disparity is between
the ideal image of the Spartan king as a panhellenist opposing the King’s Peace
and the real Agesilaus who utilized it. That latter inconsistency was created
by disregarding Xenophon’s text in one place and attentively adhering to it in
another.
The narrator’s initial silence involves a choice, since his selection of material
results in the disappearance of certain features and details from the account.
This choice reflects and highlights the moral choice of his protagonist. Agesi-
laus chooses to disguise an action done in the interest of Sparta and presents it
as compatible with the high ideal of justice. In a similar way, the narrator por-
trays Agesilaus as a steadfast anti-Persian by silencing certain details. Yet, oth-
ers would see Agesilaus’ actions for what they truly are: abandoning the Greeks
of Asia15 and violating international law for the sake of Sparta’s power and
his own ambition. Plutarch in fact cleverly uses the narrator’s silence to point
at the narrow vision of the main character himself, who cannot see that his
own behavior contradicts the high ideals he professes to espouse. The silence
thus signifies a blind-spot, where the protagonist is partially oblivious to his
own vices. Specifically, when Agesilaus eventually supports the King’s Peace,
he backs what the narrator explicitly presents as “infamy,” in the same way that
when the Spartan king comes to the help of Phoebidas, he actually assists what
the narrator overtly calls a “foul deed.”
In the second case of silence in that same Agesilaus chapter, the narrator
again ignores Xenophon’s account (HG 5.2.33–35), namely, the section where it
is clear that the person who suggested that Sparta keep a guard in the Cadmea
13 For Agesilus’ involvement in the peace proposal, see R.E. Smith, “The Opposition to Age-
silaus’ Foreign Policy,” Historia 2 (1954) 277 n. 6; Lewis, Sparta and Persia, 145 n. 61; P. Car-
tledge, Agesilaos and the Crisis of Sparta (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987)
195–198; C.J. Tuplin, The Failings of Empire (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1993) 84, for Agesilaus’
involvement in the peace proposal; cf. G.L. Cawkwell, “Agesilaus and Sparta,” CQ 26 (1976)
66–71.
14 Cf. X. HG 5.2.32. Cf. Shipley, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Life of Agesilaos, 280–281.
15 Spartan betrayal of the Greeks in Asia: see Lys. 2.57; Isoc. Paneg. 120, 175, 178–180; Panath.
59, 106; D.S. 15.9.5; 15.19.1, 4; Plu. Ages. 23.2, Art. 21.5; cf. Philoch. FGrHist 328 F 149a.
16 almagor
was the Theban Leontidas (Xenophon’s Leontiades) and not Agesilaus. Instead,
the narrator condemns Agesilaus for this very suggestion (Ages. 23.11):
Yet in his acts he no longer observed these opinions, but was often carried
away by ambition and contentiousness, and particularly in his treatment
of the Thebans. For he not only rescued Phoebidas from punishment, but
actually persuaded Sparta to assume responsibility for his iniquity and
occupy the Cadmea on its own account, besides putting the administra-
tion of Thebes into the hands of Archias and Leontidas, by whose aid
Phoebidas had entered and seized the acropolis.
Readers well acquainted with Xenophon would see this verdict as unfair and
Plutarch as willfully ignoring relevant data.16 But Plutarch’s unjust historio-
graphic treatment matches Agesilaus’ own injustice towards the Thebans and
the picture created is in fact more truthful to the hero’s character, although
admittedly not faithful to Xenophon’s text.
The narrator’s two silences in this chapter, therefore, reflect on Agesilaus’
character. (i) The first silence is useful in stressing two of Agesilaus’ features:
(a) his self-delusion of being a man of moral ideals on the one hand, an
image established through silence and disregard of Xenophon’s account, and
(b) his problematic demeanor on the other, a description effected by the use
of Plutarch’s source, Xenophon, and highlighted by the contrast between it
and the previous image. (ii) Through the second silence, Plutarch achieves
two aims in the characterization of his protagonist by analogy: (a) the nar-
rator’s unfairness towards the Spartan king only underscores Agesilaus’ own
unscrupulous position towards others (Thebans); (b) the fact that the narrator
is willing to ignore information for literary purposes (of characterization) mim-
ics Agesilaus’ willingness to disregard all moral criteria for political purposes, if
it is in the benefit of Sparta.
2 Narrational Silence
The Alexander–Caesar provides us with two examples of narrational silence. It

is related to the perceived junction of the two Lives. As is well known, it has
been suggested that these texts were damaged and that there is a lacuna at the
16 See Shipley, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Life of Agesilaos, 281: “Plutarch does not use
Leontiadas to absolve Agesilaus from this responsibility.”
point where the two were allegedly once joined.17 This view has become such
an orthodoxy that we may overlook the fact that it is essentially an interpreta-
tion of the text as we have it.
The material data is telling. The earliest fragmentary papyrus (second/third
century CE) contains parts of the text of Caesar 1.1–6, as known from the
later manuscripts.18 At the end of the first line of the apparent first column,
at its right hand side, there seem to be the first word and the first syllable of
the second word known to open the medieval manuscripts of the Life (τ]ην
Κιν[να). This might imply that at least 13 or 14 letters are missing from the
first line,19 and that the medieval manuscripts lack an initial section. Several
options are possible. As John Lundon rightly claims, it is striking that the first
words of the medieval tradition appear in the first line of the first column of
the papyrus. Since the missing letters would allow for one or two words at
most, Lundon suggests that they were none other than the Life’s title (ΙΟΥΛΙΟΣ
[or ΓΑΙΟΣ] ΚΑΙΣΑΡ).20 This would imply that there is no lacuna at all in our
extant manuscripts. Alternatively, there is the option that a larger portion of
the Caesar’s beginning is lost, signifying the disappearance of at least one col-
umn from the papyrus.21 This, however, is unlikely. Lundon astutely casts doubt
concerning a suggestion which “implausibly presupposes that our entire tradi-
tion ultimately descends from this particular copy of the Life already bereft of
its beginning.”22 It is the third option that is of notable interest. Presumably, the
scribe expressed his perception that something was missing from the text. This
17 Cf. B.G. Niebuhr, Vorträge über römische Geschichte, vol. 3 (Berlin: Reimer, 1848) 28–29. For
the text of the Alexander, see C. Pelling, “Plutarch, Alexander and Caesar: Two New Frag-
ments?” CQ 23 (1973) 343–344. For the Caesar, see C. Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2011) 129–132.
18 The text is P.Köln 1.47 fr. A = B. Kramer & R. Hubner (eds.), Kölner Papyri, vol. 1, (Opladen:
Westdeutscher, 1976) 104–105; now part of the reedited P.Köln 13.499 (together with P.Duk.
inv. 773) by M. Gronewald et al. (eds.), Kölner Papyri (P. Köln) Band 13 (Paderborn: Schön-
ingh Verlag, 2013) 4–23.
19 See G. Indelli, “I papiri plutarchei: qualche osservazione,” Atene e Roma 40 (1995) 50.
20 J. Lundon, “P.Köln xiii 499 and the (In)Completeness of Plutarch’s Caesar,” ZPE 185 (2013)
109. This option is attractive, especially given that the papyrus roll may have contained
this biography alone, and was not joined to the preceding one. See Lundon, “P.Köln xiii
499,” 110 n. 20, who attributes this separation to the length of the Caesar papyrus (13 m. at
least); P.A. Stadter, “The Proems of Plutarch’s Lives,”ICS 13 (1988) 277; T. Schmidt, “Plutarch
and the Papyrological Evidence,” in S. Xenophontos & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), A Com-
panion to the Reception of Plutarch (Leiden: Brill, 2019) 86, on the Alexander reaching
approximately 16m. long. Contra Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 130.
21 Lundon, “P.Köln xiii 499,” 109. Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 129, already suggested that “per-
haps it was the papyrus itself that suffered the crucial damage.”
22 Lundon, “P.Köln xiii 499,” 110 n. 21.
18 almagor
he did through a visual sign, that is, by indenting the first line of the Caesar to
the right.23 The scribe may have been convinced of the presence of a lacuna,24
but the reasons he had for believing this were perhaps merely his impression
from the abrupt opening of the Life.
If the third option is true, then the papyrus’ scribe was in no way placed in
a better position to judge the matter than are modern readers, and his assess-
ment is not superior to theirs. This brings us to the second piece of evidence,
which is the text itself. The swift narrative of the beginning introduces Caesar
when he is a young man and already married, during Sulla’s reign. The narrator
is completely silent with regards to Caesar’s birth or childhood, and the reader
infers this silence by a comparison to other biographies, where these compo-
nents are found,25 especially in the parallel biography of Alexander. Caesar’s
family and name are not mentioned, contrary to the reader’s expectations. The
absence of these details led scholars from the nineteenth century onward to
postulate a lost introductory passage, or at least a few words missing.26 More-
over, the first sentence lacks the particle δέ which usually appears in the shift to
the second biography in a pair. Stylistically, the uniqueness of the grammatical
construction (although in itself syntactically sound), and the oblique introduc-
tion of the protagonist of a second Life, have also been pointed out as indicating
that the extant opening of the biography allegedly starts in mid-sentence.27
Yet, what if the present text is more or less as Plutarch designed it to be
read?28 All things considered, the details that are supposedly missing are
23 Cf. E. Almagor, “‘Read after Burning’: The End of the Library of Alexandria According to
Plutarch (Caesar 49),” in C. Rico & A. Dan (eds.), The Library of Alexandria: A Cultural
Crossroads of the Ancient World (Jerusalem: Polis Institute Press, 2017) 284. Perhaps it was
inserted after the initial letters of the title “Γ. ΚΑΙΣΑΡ.” The convention of indenting a line
to indicate an apparent lacuna is known. Cf. L. Pearson, “Notes on the Text of Plutarch, De
Malignitate Herodoti,” AJPh 80 (1959) 255–275, for another text of Plutarch.
24 Cf. Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 129: “Perhaps its scribe may be indicating knowledge of a gap.”
Cf. C. Pelling, “Notes on Plutarch’s Caesar,” RhM 127 (1984) 33, for the possibility of a miss-
ing leaf in the archetype.
25 See C. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives,” JHS 99 (1979) 85 [reprinted
in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 13]: “It is prob-
able, too, that the initial lacuna contained some further details of Caesar’s boyhood.”
26 See Niebuhr, Vorträge über römische Geschichte, 28–29; K. Ziegler, “Plutarchstudien,” RhM
84 (1935) 387–390. Cf. Pelling, “Plutarch, Alexander and Caesar,” 343–344, and Plutarch:
Caesar, 129–130. Pelling believes he has found parts of the lost sections in paraphrases
of the Byzantine Zonaras’ Epitome, yet these passages could easily be derived from other
sources; cf. M. Manfredini, “Due codici di excerpta plutarchei e l’Epitome di Zonara (ii
parte),” Prometheus 19 (193) 18–22.
27 See T.E. Duff, “The Structure of the Plutarchan Book,” ClAnt 30 (2011) 268–269.
28 Cf. R. Flacelière & E. Chambry, Plutarque, Vies. Tome ix, Alexandre–César (Paris: Les Belles
Lettres, 1975) 130.
included in the text later on (e.g., Caesar’s family: Caes. 1.2, 7.3, 9.3; childhood:
17.6 etc.).29 Moreover, the fact that Suetonius’ Divus Iulius begins at exactly the
same point (1.1: Caesar’s refusal to divorce Cornelia) makes the assertion that
nothing is really lost in the beginning of Plutarch’s Life more compelling.30 Sue-
tonius may have been influenced by Plutarch’s order, or otherwise both authors
may have relied on the same source. Lundon argues that the fact that Cae-
sar’s opening sentence (as well as Alexander’s last) is syntactically complete
is hard to tally with the proposal that sheets have fallen out between the two
biographies.31 Lastly, the particle δέ is undeniably absent in three other biogra-
phies which are the second in a pair (Antony, Marius, Romulus), so its absence
in the Caesar is explicable. It would thus seem that the text is not lacunose.
Plutarch probably wanted to create an impression that the narrator omitted
some details.32
The literary use of silence can also be seen at the end of the parallel biog-
raphy Alexander, since the argument for the material loss of the final passages
or sentences of that Life is even weaker. No evidence has ever been suggested
for this case, and it is based solely on intuitions and interpretations.33 A com-
parison with other biographies, and in particular the Caesar, highlights the
narrator’s silence on events after the death of Alexander. Typical here is the
response of modern readers who feel that something is lost:
Is it possible that Plutarch ended the account of the life of Alexander

the Great with this […] incomplete account of his idiotic step-brother,
who was nothing but a tool in the hands of the ambitious Diadochi,
but remained silent of the fate of the Roxane, his later-born son and his
mother Olympias […] after he had already started the report? It is impos-
sible.34
29 Cf. Lundon, “P.Köln xiii 499,” 107, 109 n.9, on Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 130.
30 Pace J. Briscoe, “Plutarch’s Lives: Review of Robert Flacelière and Émile Chambry: Plu-
tarque, Vies, tome ix, Alexandre–César,” CR 27 (1977) 178 (“it must simply be coincidence
that the beginnings of both lives have been lost in the course of transmission”); T.E. Duff,
Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999) 253 n. 42;
Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 130–131. Yet a coincidence in the accidental material loss of the
beginnings of the two works up to the exact same point in the text is highly unlikely.
31 Lundon, “P.Köln xiii 499,” 109.
32 In achieving this effect, he proved successful. Cf. Ziegler, “Plutarchstudien,” 387.
33 See Ziegler, “Plutarchstudien,” 387–390; J.R. Hamilton, Plutarch, Alexander: A Commentary
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969) 217; Pelling, “Plutarch, Alexander and Caesar,” 344; but cf.
Manfredini, “Due codici di excerpta plutarchei,” 22–23.
34 Ziegler, “Plutarchstudien,” 388–389. Hamilton, Plutarch, Alexander, 217, sees these reflec-
tions as “strong arguments,” but they are surely subjective and idiosyncratic.
20 almagor
It is […] improbable that Plutarch would end the biography without

relating the fates of Roxane and Olympias.35
Yet, if something does indeed appear missing, should we be surprised that a Life
of Alexander ends abruptly? In such an artistic representation, the readers are
reminded that the life of the Macedonian king himself terminated prematurely.
Moreover, this ending underscores the fact that Alexander’s achievements still
left something to be desired, and stamps an impression of loss or failure. In
particular, this presentation reflects Alexander’s complex character in which
restraint is paradoxically conjoined with ambition, vanity and excess.36 The
narrator on the one hand forcefully brings the biography to a close, and is silent
over certain events that are beyond the scope of Alexander’s life proper. Never-
theless, on the other hand, he appears to aim at broader goals (e.g., in speaking
of Arrhidaeus), and through that very silence only highlights the fact that the
lengthy biography is left open-ended and requires more information on Alexan-
der’s heritage.
The same can be said on the device used in the Caesar. By letting his narrator
pass over Caesar’s childhood and begin the Life with Cinna and Sulla, Plutarch
throws into relief the motif of sole-rule, especially given that the fourth word is
in fact based on monarch (μοναρχήσαντος), which is important to portray Cae-
sar’s backdrop and to foreshadow his own later aspirations.37 Yet, this silence is
conducive also in terms of characterization. Above all, should we be surprised
that the portrayal of a Roman statesman who was always impatient and swift,
always short of time,38 always in a race against time,39 would begin by the nar-
rator in a parallel manner in medias res?
35 I. Petrovic, “Plutarch’s and Stone’s Alexander,” in I. Berti & M. García Morcillo (eds.), Hel-
las on Screen: Cinematic Receptions of Ancient History, Literature and Myth (Stuttgart: Franz
Steiner, 2008) 170 n. 48.
36 It is an inventive way to settle the positive and negative sides of Alexander in Plutarch’s
biography. See A.E. Wardman, “Plutarch and Alexander,” CQ 5 (1955) 100–101. It is the same
paradox by which Alexander is said to have a passion for philosophy (Alex. 8.8).
37 As Duff, “The Structure of the Plutarchan Book,” 269, admits. Cf. Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar,
132, and Lundon, “P.Köln xiii 499,” 109.
38 For the motif of hastiness in Plutarch’s biography as characteristic of its hero, see Caes.
1.8, 5.8, 11.6, 13.1–2, 17.7, 17.8, 19.9, 32.8, 37.6, etc. Cf. Pliny (NH 7.25.91) on Caesar’s prac-
tice to dictate and listen at the same time. Caesar is described as improperly reading or
answering letters and petitions while present in political or public circumstances (Suet.
Aug. 45.1; Nic. Dam. FGrHist 90 F 130.79). Cf. the fitting title of J. Beneker, “No Time for
Love: Plutarch’s Chaste Caesar,” GRBS 43 (2002/2003) 13–29. Of course, Caesar’s lack of
time was the reason why he did not read the papyrus roll handed to him on the Ides of
March, which disclosed the plan of his assassination (Caes. 65.1–3).
39 Cf. Caesar’s discontent (Caes. 11.5–6) upon reading the history of Alexander at an advanced
Since Plutarch presents almost everything about Caesar’s career as publicly

shared,40 in a biography which focuses on the public aspects of its protagonist
more than the personal elements of his life,41 should we be surprised that the
Life begins immediately with Caesar’s first appearance on the public scene? The
ostensible silence is artistic. It not only highlights the absence of several facets
of Caesar’s life,42 but it also creates an abrupt opening, indicating, as it seems,
Caesar’s vice of impatient ambition.43
3 Intratextual Silence
It is generally acknowledged that the Parallel Lives were meant to be read as

one text (whether a pair or more than one pair).44 It is therefore not surprising
age and realizing that he had not achieved any brilliant success yet. Since Suetonius (Iul.
7.1) and Dio Cassius (37.52.2) date this anecdote to 69–68 bce (cf. Pelling, Plutarch: Cae-
sar, 183), it may be that by postponing it to 61–60 bce Plutarch makes Caesar appear even
more desperate for timely achievement. Famously, Caesar manipulated time in devising
the new calendar (Plin. NH 18.57.211; Plu. Caes. 59; Suet. Iul. 40; Dio Cass. 43.26; Censor.
Die Nat. 20.8–11).
40 E.g., his ambition for power (Caes. 4.7–9, 11.4–5, 28.1–3), the means he takes to achieve it,
including the courting of people (14.3). Caesar discusses his plans with his soldiers (43.1).
The bitterness felt against him (37.5–8, 38.7, 56.7, 57.2, 60.1) is clear, and Caesar’s fear of
his future assassin Cassius is known (62.9–10). Caesar’s corpse is exposed to all (68.1), and
even his avenging spirit is incarnate and visible (69.2).
41 This is close to what Pelling, “Plutarch’s Adaptation of his Source-Material,” 135–139 [re-
printed in Pelling, Plutarch and History, 102–107], sees as the biography’s historical or
political interest, which “leads in the Caesar to the suppression of themes and emphases,”
among them “Caesar’s personal, especially sexual, habits.”
42 Thus, the alleged omission of Caesar’s early life and family might be comparable, for
instance, to the silence in the Caesar concerning the “unchaste letter” from Cato’s half-
sister Servilia to Caesar (Ca. Mi. 24.1–3, Brut. 5.2–4; Pelling “Plutarch’s Adaptation of his
Source-Material,” 137 n. 56)—itself a token of the third category of silence.
43 Cf. Almagor, “‘Read after Burning’,” 284 n.139: “Conforming to its protagonist’s character,
who is incessantly in a rush, Caesar’s Life comes to life immediately, through a textual
‘Caesarean birth’, as it were.”
44 For combined reading of Lives, see P.A. Stadter, “Plutarch’s Comparison of Pericles and
Fabius Maximus,” GRBS 16 (1975) 77–85; G.W.M. Harrison, “The Semiotics of Plutarch’s
Συγκρίσεις: The Hellenistic Lives of Demetrius–Antony and Agesilaus–Pompey,” RBPh
73 (1995) 91–104; J. Beneker, “Thematic Correspondences in Plutarch’s Lives of Caesar,
Pompey, and Crassus,” in L. de Blois et al. (eds.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s Works, Vol-
ume ii: The Statesman in Plutarch’s Greek and Roman Lives (Leiden: Brill, 2004) 315–325.
B. Buszard, “Caesar’s Ambition: A Combined Reading of Plutarch’s Alexander–Caesar and
Pyrrhus–Marius,” TAPA 138 (2008) 187, prefers to “combine pairs for which a synthetic
reading produces a richer, more satisfying interpretation” and warns of “spurious com-
binations” (212).
22 almagor
to find that Plutarch’s readers might see that some details are omitted in one
biography while present in another. Readers also note that events, stories or
features which are mentioned in the formal synkrisis of a pair are absent in the
Lives themselves. In order to examine this use of silence, let us compare one
point in two biographies we have explored so far, namely, the Agesilaus and
Alexander.
In the Alexander, the narrator is completely silent about the war of Agis iii
against Antipater in the Peloponnese (331bce), which culminated in the Battle
of Megalopolis where the Spartan king lost his life. Yet, the armed resistence to
Antipater, led by Agis, was an important event which might have determined
the course of the Asian Campaign had Agis been ultimately victorious.45 In
the summer of 331 Agis launched an attack in which he was able to defeat
the Macedonian strategos Corrhagus;46 later he commanded 20,000 foot sol-
diers and 2,000 cavalry, against an army outnumbering his own armed forces.47
The number of casualties in the battle (5,300 of Agis’ soldiers and 3,500 on the
Macedonian side) shows that it was hard fought.48 Alexander was aware of the
increasing trouble in Greece during his second presence in Phoenicia (spring
331 bce), and consequently sent Amphoterus to deal with it.49 While staying in
Susa (December 331), he sent 3,000 talents with Menes of Pella for the purpose
of the war (Arr. An. 3.16.9–10).50 These facts indicate Alexander’s own concerns
45 See G. Wirth, “Alexander zwischen Gaugamela und Persepolis,” Historia 20 (1971) 626;
E. Badian, “Agis iii,” Hermes 95 (1967) 181. K. Nawotka, Alexander the Great (Newcastle:
Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2010) 221, argues that “one cannot doubt that the possi-
bility of Antipater being defeated would have led to the collapse of the Argead hegemony
over Greece [and put …] an end to the unfinished war in Asia, for in such an eventuality
even Alexander would not have been able to stop his soldiers from returning home.”
46 Aesch. 3.165; Din. 1.34; D.S. 17.62.6–8; Badian, “Agis iii,” 181, 183–184; Hamilton, Plutarch,
Alexander, 87.
47 D.S. 17.62–63; Din. 1.34; cf. Just. 12.1.11. On the size of the armies, see Badian, “Agis iii,” 182;
Hamilton, Plutarch, Alexander, 78; N.G.L. Hammond, The Genius of Alexander the Great
(Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1997) 117; P. Cartledge, Alexander the
Great: The Hunt for a New Past (New York: Vintage, 2004) 97; E.M. Anson, Alexander the
Great: Themes and Issues (London: Bloomsbury, 2013) 199 n. 7.
48 D.S. 17.63.3; Curt. 6.1.16; cf. Just. 12.1.8.
49 Arr. An. 3.6.3; Curt. 4.8.15. See Badian, “Agis iii,” 181, 184; E.N. Borza, “Fire from Heaven:
Alexander at Persepolis,” CPh 67 (1972) 236; R.J. Lane Fox, Alexander the Great (New York:
Penguin, 1973) 223–234; A.B. Bosworth, “The Mission of Amphoterus and the Outbreak of
Agis’ War,” Phoenix 29 (1975) 30–31, 35.
50 Cf. D.S. 17.64.5. December: Badian, “Agis iii,” 185; Wirth, “Alexander zwischen Gauga-
mela und Persepolis,” 620; Hammond, The Genius of Alexander the Great, 113. Yet, accord-
ing to Diodorus, this happened in Babylon (November 331); cf. Borza, “Fire from Heaven,”
240–242. According to Bosworth, “The Mission of Amphoterus,” 35, “there is no evidence
about the matter.51 Surprisingly, the affair is only briefly dealt with by our extant
sources, and this was probably the case in the material available to Plutarch.
The event fleetingly appears, however, elsewhere in Plutarch’s Lives.52 In the
Agesilaus it is told in a digression, within a framework which draws attention
to the fact that Agesilaus ceased his campaign in Asia and returned to Greece
when the Corinthian War began, by contrast to Hannibal, who was barely able
to obey the summons to come back home and to Alexander, who did not even
contemplate it (15.6):
Alexander actually went so far as to jest when he heard of Antipater’s

battle with Agis, saying: “It would seem, my men, that while we were con-
quering Darius here, there has been a battle of mice there in Arcadia.”
In the context of the Agesilaus, therefore, Alexander’s scorn towards Agis (and
Antipater),53 shown in the comparison of the war to the famous mock-epic
“Battle of the Frogs and Mice,” is not to the Macedonian king’s credit and appar-
ently displays his notorious hybris.54 The narrator’s silence over the entire affair
that Alexander had heard of the war before he sent Menes.” Information on Megalopolis
had obviously not yet arrived (pace Wirth, “Alexander zwischen Gaugamela und Persepo-
lis,” 630), and this must have happened between November/December 331 and the time
Alexander was on his way to pursue Darius (May 330).
51 Cf. Badian, “Agis iii,” 188: “Alexander was taking Agis seriously now […] the Greek war
was in the forefront of Alexander’s thought;” J.R. Hamilton, Alexander the Great (London:
Hutchinson University Library, 1973) 78: “Alexander no doubt judged it politic to be gener-
ous to Athens in view of the dangerous situation in Greece” (cf. Diod. 17.62.7); E. Badian,
“Alexander in Iran,” in I. Gershevitch (ed.), Cambridge History of Iran, Volume 2 (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985) 446: “the long stay at Persepolis [was …] the
effect of uncertainty and anxiety over what was happening in Greece;” cf. P. Green, Alexan-
der of Macedon 356–323bc: A Historical Biography (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1991) 277, 280.
52 I shall not deal here with its brief appearances in Agis–Cleom. 3.3 or Dem. 24.1–2, for
they do not mention Alexander. The latter passage basically goes back to the criticisms of
Demosthenes by Aeschines (3.164–167, 254) and Dinarchus (1.34–36); cf. Badian, “Agis iii,”
172–173, 182–183; G.L. Cawkwell, “The Crowning of Demosthenes,” CQ 19 (1969) 176–178;
Nawotka, Alexander the Great, 222.
53 Anson, Alexander the Great, 129; R.A. Gabriel, The Madness of Alexander the Great: And the
Myth of Military Genius (Barnsley: Pen and Sword, 2015) 88.
54 Cf. Arrian’s comparison (An. 5.7.1) of Alexander to Xerxes, Cleitus’ complaint (4.8.4), the
allusion to Icarus (7.20.5); cf. Curt. 4.10.3, 8.7.13. The meaning here is that while Alexan-
der’s campaign is worthy of a Homeric epic (cf. Arr. An. 1.12.1), that of Agis merits a
mock-epic. See T.R. Martin & C.W. Blackwell, Alexander the Great: The Story of an Ancient
Life (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) 77. On the “Battle of the Frogs and
Mice,” see M.L. West, Homeric Hymns, Homeric Apocrypha, Lives of Homer (Cambridge,
24 almagor
in the Alexander appears to chime with this very disparaging sentiment. Yet,
once Plutarch’s reader is aware that the narrator in the Alexander disregards
Agis’ war presumably because he allegedly concedes its unimportance, Agesi-
laus’ return to Greece is seen in a different light by comparison. Now the extent
of Agesilaus’ failed and inconsequential Asiatic expedition is highlighted. In
that case, the reader of the Agesilaus would see the narrator’s praise given to
its hero for his return to Greece as ironic, mocking, as it were, the Spartan king’s
impaired perception of his actual negligible standing. Alexander’s jibe pointing
to the war of Agis, Agesilaus’ grandson, as a “battle of mice” is indeed alluded to
in one of the last scenes in that biography. During Agesilaus’ campaign in Egypt
as a mercenary (Ages. 36.9; cf. Apoph. Lac. 214DE; Nep. Ages. 8.2–3), the Egyp-
tians laugh when they see the Spartan king for what he is. They are amazed at
the unexpected sight of a lame old Spartan king clad in simple dress, and cite
the parable of the mountain that gave birth to a mouse.55
At the same time, however, noticing the narrator’s silence concerning this
event in the Alexander after reading it in the Agesilaus would indicate to Plu-
tarch’s audience that the Macedonian king is lacking something. Unlike Agesi-
laus in relation to Sparta, Alexander has no privileged position of one place
towards which he ultimately gravitates and is repeatedly drawn.56 This cen-
tripetal pull appears to be the cause and source, not only of Agesilaus’ weak-
ness, vice, and failure, but also of his virtue and of his strength.57 The reader
would thus note that for Alexander, Greece does not play this central role,58
and he is not attached to it in a similar fashion, a fact which would account
Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2003) 229–237, 262–293. Plutarch (De Her. mal.
873F, if this is not an interpolation; cf. Suda π 1551) attributes its composition to the
fifth-century bce poet Pigres of Halicarnassus; J. Wackernagel, Sprachliche Untersuchun-
gen zu Homer (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1916) 188–196, suggests a much
later date (pre-Augustan), yet cf. L. Bliquez, “Frogs and Mice in Athens,” TAPA 107 (1977)
11–25.
55 Cf. Athen. 14.616d; Aesop no. 520 Perry. Cf. Shipley, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Life of
Agesilaos, 382, who believes Plutarch may have been the first to introduce the Egyptian
or Greek parable into Agesilaus’ context (cf. Ages. 2.4). Noteworthy is Plutarch’s shorten-
ing of the title βατραχομυομαχία (“battle of frogs and mice”) to μυομαχία (“battle of mice”),
corresponding to the parable at the end.
56 See E. Almagor, “Greatness Measured in Time and Space: The Agesilaus–Pompey,” in
A. Georgiadou & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), Space, Time and Language in Plutarch (Berlin:
De Gruyter, 2017) 148–152, 155.
57 For instance, Agesilaus’ obedience to laws and authority and his defence of his country in
370 bce (Ages. 4, 15, 34) are virtues.
58 Cf. A.R. Burn, Alexander and the Hellenistic Empire (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1947)
174: “Greece seemed very small and far away to Alexander now.”
for the ensuing cultural flexibility of Alexander and his campaign.59 Another
point which stresses Alexander’s distance from the Hellenic world is the mat-
ter of a different perspective. In the Agesilaus, Plutarch adopts the Greek point
of view which sees the Macedonians from the outside, and presents the devas-
tating wars in Greece as only benefiting an external power like Macedonia (cf.
Ages. 15.4). In the Alexander, he does not follow that viewpoint, but rather one
in which the Greeks are seen as the “others.”60
Dionysiac forces are the most noticeable influences operating on Alexan-
der, whether externally, in the form of the deity itself which controls the king
as well as sets him loose,61 or internally, as shown in Alexander’s own pas-
sion for drinking.62 A description of Agis’ war might have been an interesting
literary exercise in presenting Alexander as being pulled in different direc-
tions, Greece (reason/restraint) and the east (passion).63 Yet, Plutarch’s picture
is more sophisticated, in being another instance where silence is paradoxi-
cally joined with excess. Through the narrator’s silence, an external barrier
is removed and Alexander is left to pursue his ambition unimpeded, straight
to the dramatic scene of the conflagration of the royal palaces in Persepolis
(Alex. 38) and from there to the immersion in the east, which would see his
59 For ancient criticism of Alexander’s medizing, see Arr. An. 4.14.2, 7.6.2, 5; Curt. 8.7.1–6; Plu.
Alex. 51.2–5; Just. 12.5.2–3. Cf. T. Whitmarsh, “Alexander’s Hellenism and Plutarch’s Textual-
ism,” CQ 52 (2002) 186, 190–191: Alexander is both Hellenizing barbarians and barbarizing
Hellenes.
60 E.g., Alex. 9.2, where Alexander takes part in the Battle of Chaeronea against the Greeks.
61 J.M. Mossman, “Tragedy and Epic in Plutarch’s Alexander,” JHS 108 (1988) 92, is not entirely
correct in stating “for Plutarch, external factors destroyed Caesar, whereas internal forces
worked on Alexander, as they did on Demetrius and Antony.” On the offense made against
Dionysus and the consequent retribution, see Plu. Alex. 13.4, 75.6. Cf. D.S. 17.1: κζ. Cf. Ephip-
pus ap. Ath. 10.434b; Dio Chrys. Or. 64.20; Paus. 8.7.8. Cf. Curt. 8.2.6, Arr. An. 4.2.5. See
J.M. O’Brien, Alexander the Great: The Invisible Enemy (London: Routledge, 1992) 229–230;
E. Koulakiotis, “Plutarch’s Alexander, Dionysos and the Metaphysics of Power,” in T. Howe
et al. (eds.), Ancient Historiography on War and Empire (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2017) 236–
241.
62 Cf. Plu. Alex. 4.7–8, 23.8, 38.1–8, 50–51 (esp. 50.9), 67.6, 67.8, 70.1–2, 75.3–6, De ad. et am.
65B, De Al. Magn. fort. 337F, 339F, Quaest. conv. 623DF, see also Alex. 6.5; Curt. 5.7.1, 6.2.5,
9.10.27; Arr. An. 4.8.2, 4.9.1, 7.24.4; D.S. 17.100.2, 106.1, 110.7, 117.1–2; Just. 9.8.15. cf. Sen. Ep.
83.19, 23, De ben. 1.13; Ath. 12.538a; Ael. VH 2.41, 3.23. The beginning of this depiction is in
Chares (ap. Plu. Alex. 70.1–2 and Ath. 10.437ab) and Ephippus (ap. Ath. 3.120de, 10.434ab).
See O’Brien, Alexander the Great, 6–8, 98–99, 216, 252 n. 13. Pace Plu. Alex. 23.1–2, which is
surely ironic.
63 See Borza, “Fire from Heaven,” 236: “Alexander was caught between his Asian commitment
and the Greek uprising. How the king would maintain a balance between these problems
forms one of the more interesting stories of his career.”
26 almagor
destruction. The narrator thus assumes a Dionysiac role (as it were) in remov-
ing a hindrance to Alexander and in facilitating Alexander’s uncontrolled and
destructive hybris through his silence.
4 Professed Silence (Herodotean Silence)
The final type addressed in this chapter consists of cases where Plutarch’s nar-
rator announces his silence outright. Since this literary device is used so fre-
quently by Herodotus (for various purposes), let us also call it a Herodotean
Silence.64 Plutarch employs the device in two ways. In the first, like Herodotus,
the narrator promises, but apparently does not deliver, a discussion of an issue
in a separate special work. Herodotus may have envisioned a book on Assyria,65
but never succeeded in fulfilling this undertaking,66 or else these Assyrian Logoi
were composed and then disappeared.67 Successive generations, however, have
apparently projected these pledges as lies, and employed this sort of broken
promise to serve ironic literary goals.68 There are two notable instances in
which Plutarch lets his narrator assure the audience that certain information
will be found in Lives which the biographer is yet to write, and hence will be dis-
carded in his present works. One is in the Marius (29.12): “But what great good-
will and esteem Metellus enjoyed during his exile, and how he spent his time
in philosophical studies at Rhodes, will be better told in his Life.” The context is
the exile of Quintus Caecilius Metellus Numidicus (cos. 109 bce), orchestrated
64 Cf. D. Lateiner, The Historical Method of Herodotus (Toronto: University of Toronto Press,
1989) 59–75; D. Boedeker, “Herodotus’s Genre(s),” in M. Depew & D. Obbink (eds.), Matri-
ces of Genre: Authors, Canons, and Society (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University
Press, 2000) 109–110.
65 Cf. Hdt. 1.106.2, 1.184.
66 R. Drews, “Herodotus’ Other ‘Logoi’,” AJPh 91 (1970) 181–191; S. Zawadzki, “Herodotus’ Assyr-
ian History,” Eos 72 (1984) 253–267; D. Asheri, A. Lloyd & A. Corcella, A Commentary on
Herodotus: Books i–iv (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007) 203–204.
67 See G. Huxley, “A Fragment of the Assyrioi Logoi of Herodotus,” GRBS 6 (1965) 207–212;
J.G. MacQueen, “The Assyrioi Logoi of Herodotus and their Position in the Histories,” CQ
28 (1978) 284–286.
68 Cf. Lucian’s parody of the enthnographic genre in authors like Herodotus, the Verae his-
toriae, which ends (2.47) with a blatant falsehood: “What happened in the other world
I shall tell you in the succeeding books.” A later reader commented in the margin: “And
the ending is the biggest lie with its unsubstantiated promise.” See V. Popescu, “Lucian’s
True Stories: Paradoxography and False Discourse,” in M. Futre Pinheiro et al. (eds.), The
Ancient Novel and the Frontiers of Genre (Eelde: Barkhuis, 2014) 55: “The empty promise
becomes itself a text without truth, without reality, bringing to a perfect end the bigger
text essentially devoid of truth.”
by Marius’ allies in 100 bce.69 Through his silence, the narrator suppresses the
description of Metellus’ exile and his presence in the biography. In fact, in a
tongue-in-cheek presentation, the narrator “banishes” Metellus as well, by cast-
ing the story of his exile outside the Life to a different work. The only way to
appreciate Plutarch’s artistry here is to assume that a Metellus was never really
planned. It is this understanding that would portray the narrator’s promise as
an intentional lie, somewhat similar to Marius’ deceitfulness recounted in that
chapter (Mar. 29.5: he “regarded lying as part of a man’s excellence and abil-
ity”). Marius pretends to oppose the clause in the tribune Saturninus’ agrarian
law, which forces the senators to take an oath to abide by it or face banishment
(from the Senate);70 his opposition is intended solely to trick Metellus (Mar.
29.4) into a perilous position.71 When the narrator betrays the readers’ trust
into believing that a biography of Metellus will be written, his conduct is simi-
lar to that of Marius. The latter also betrayed Metellus Delmaticus (cos. 119), his
former patron (cf. Mar. 4.4), Metellus Numidicus (28.6), his commander during
the early Jugurthine war (7.1),72 other senators (Mar. 29.5) and his allies.73 At
the same time, despite seemingly praising Metellus, Plutarch also underscores
his faults through the promise of an unwritten biography: his vanity, passivity
and the political unsuitability of his uncompromising position.74
The other example of this type of Herodotean silence is more sophisticated
and actually appears in a Herodotean context, that is, the essay De Herodoti
malignitate (866B): “All the other brave deeds and sayings of the Spartans that
Herodotus has omitted, I shall describe in my Life of Leonidas.” In this treatise,
Plutarch characterizes Herodotus as malicious and supplies eight signs to prove
it. The relevant flaw here is the fourth (855EF), that is, the choice of the worse
alternative account, when two or more versions of the same incident are avail-
69 Cf. Cic. Pro Sest. 37, 101; Liv. Per. 69.2; Val. Max. 3.8.4, 4.1.13; Vell. Pat. 2.15.4; App. BC 1.31.
70 See E. Gruen, “The Exile of Metellus Numidicus,” Latomus 24 (1965) 577.
71 See, however, F. Robinson, Marius, Saturninus, und Glaucia (Jena: Anton Kämpfe, 1912)
75–80. Consequently, by refusing to leave the Senate and the threat of a trial, Metellus was
forced into exile; see E. Gabba, “Ricerche su alcuni punti di storia mariana,” Athenaeum 29
(1951) 21–22.
72 Also in condemning and in demanding the execution of Turpillius, an ally of Metellus
(Mar. 8.3–5; cf. Sall. Jug. 66–69).
73 Cf. Cic. Pro Rab. 28; App. BC 1.32. Cf. E. Badian, Foreign Clientelae 264–270 B.C. (Oxford:
74 See B. Buszard, “The Decline of Roman Statesmanship in Plutarch’s Pyrrhus–Marius,” CQ
55 (2005) 491: “It demonstrates […] the narrow limits of his concern. [… He] hopes that the
state will somehow improve itself and recall him in chagrin.” Also: “a frightening inabil-
ity to deal with unprincipled opposition. [… His] inflexible personal virtues […] create a
weakness for his enemies to exploit.”
28 almagor
able. In particular, the narrator accuses Herodotus of dimming the glory of the
heroic deed of the Spartan king Leonidas in Thermopylae (866A) by altogether
omitting a more creditable version. Instead of Herodotus’ account (7.225.2–3),
in which Leonidas and his men were encircled and fought to the end in the
narrows of the pass, Plutarch’s narrator mentions another, in which the Spar-
tan king pushed forward at night and reached the Persian camp, “almost as far
as the king’s own tent,” intending to kill Xerxes. Leonidas and his men searched
in vain for the Persian monarch in that huge host, and were finally surrounded
and killed.75 It is at this point that the narrator promises to include all the
brave actions and sayings of Spartans in a different work.76 Thus, Herodotus is
accused of being silent in two respects: he ignores the correct story of Leonidas’
heroism, and he supresses the noble deeds and sayings (866D) of the Spar-
tans.77 Ironically, the narrator’s silence in the essay, which is supposed to testify
to the extent of Herodotus’ illegitimate silence in his history and characterize
him as malevolent, in effect replicates the historian’s practice. Corresponding
to the general ironic tenor of the treatise, Plutarch here, as indeed through-
out the essay, makes the narrator display the exact same faults he censures in
Herodotus.78
The second way the professed silence is used by Plutarch in characteri-
zation echoes Herodotus’ overt assertions that he withholds information.79
Plutarch does it repeatedly, for example, when he lets his narrator openly ignore
75 This version is also found in D.S. 11.9.2–10.4 and Just. 2.11.11–18, and may derive from a com-
mon source (perhaps Ephorus). N.G.L. Hammond, “Sparta at Thermopylae,” Historia 45
(1996) 8, suggests Ephorus adopted here “an imaginative and flamboyant account.” See
also J.F. Lazenby, The Defence of Greece 490–479 B.C. (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1993) 7,
142; A.J. Bowen, Plutarch: The Malice of Herodotus (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1992) 133.
If M.A. Flower, “Simonides, Ephorus, and Herodotus on the Battle of Thermopylae,” CQ 48
(1998) 370–372, is correct that the ultimate source for this picture was one of Simonides’
poems, then the likelihood that this version is entirely fictional increases.
76 That the Leonidas biography was not to be written can be gathered from the correspon-
dence between the alternative story of Leonidas’ effort of reaching out to the Persian camp
and the narrator’s reference to his own effort to set out and write an external work. Both
attempts, so it seems, involve an additional effort and seem to come to naught: Leonidas’
endeavor of a counter-offensive in Thermopylae and the biographical project, undertak-
ing to describe it.
77 Herodotus denied Leonidas speech. See V. Zali, Reshaping Herodotean Rhetoric: A Study
of the Speeches in Herodotus’ Histories with Special Attention to Books 5–9 (Diss., University
College London, 2009) 222–224.
78 Cf. E. Almagor, “Plutarch,” in C. Baron (ed.), The Herodotus Encyclopedia (Oxford: Wiley–
Blackwell, 2021) 1147. See also Oughton in this volume.
79 E.g., Hdt. 1.14.4, 1.51.4, 1.177, 2.47.2, 2.123.3, 2.171.2, 7.224.1. See inventory in Lateiner, The His-
torical Method of Herodotus, 69–75.
evidence (e.g., Pel. 16.7). An interesting case is silence with respect to previous
authors, as for example, in the Artaxerxes (8.1):
Since many writers have reported to us this battle, and since Xenophon
brings it all before our eyes, and by the vigor of his description makes his
reader always a participant in the emotions and perils of the struggle, as
though it belonged, not to the past, but to the present, it would be folly
to describe it again, except so far as he has passed over things worthy of
mention (πλὴν ὅσα τῶν ἀξίων λόγου).
Here the narrator states he will not repeat Xenophon’s description and will
remain silent with regard to overlapping details on the Battle of Cunaxa
(401 bce); instead, he will only write of items which his predecessor ignored.80
Ostensibly, this is Plutarch’s policy elsewhere (cf. Nic. 1.5), which goes back to
Herodotus.81 In fact, the narrator gradually diminishes the value of Xenophon’s
account. First, by mentioning the name of the battle site which his precursor
refrained from doing (Cunaxa, Art. 8.2) he gives the impression that Xenophon
was careless. Second, and more devastating to an evaluation of Xenophon’s
depictions, in the next chapter Plutarch refuses to utilize Xenophon’s report
for a different reason (9.4):
As regards the death of Cyrus himself, since Xenophon makes simple and
brief mention of it, because he was not present himself when it happened,
there is no objection perhaps to my recounting, first what Deinon says
about it, and then what Ctesias says.
While the outcome may be the same—Xenophon’s account of the battle is not
used by Plutarch’s narrator—the second rationale spells out that Xenophon
was not really present at the scene of Cyrus the Younger’s death and was actu-
ally dependent on the description of others (evidently, Ctesias’ Persica).82 The
narrator’s second silence thus completely transforms the nature of Xenophon’s
80 The outcome is an ironic reversal of Xenophon’s own promise to ignore details elsewhere
(HG 4.8.1): “I will describe such of the events as are worthy of record, while those which
do not deserve mention (τὰς δὲ μὴ ἀξίας λόγου) I will pass over” (Brownson trans.).
81 Hdt. 6.55: “we will omit these things, since others have told about them; but the things with
which other narrators have not dealt, of these I will make mention” (Macaulay trans.).
82 See E. Almagor, “Ctesias and the Importance of his Writings Revisited,” Electrum 19 (2012)
31–32; E. Almagor, Plutarch and the Persica (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2018)
42–46, 94–97, 115–119. Ctesias himself, of course, was also not present at the scene of the
battle, since he was treating the king (Art. 11.3).
30 almagor
narrative, from being too vivid to being redundant. Xenophon himself is now
indirectly characterized as a derivative author, presenting an account of occur-
rences which he did not experience himself, but which he nevertheless dis-
played in a lively manner for the readers to engage as if they were participants
themselves. There is also a subtle criticism of Xenophon’s insincerity, since
he did not declare that he was not present.83 The ingenious way in which
Xenophon’s words and character are converted within a span of two chapters
is relevant to the plot line of the Artaxerxes and one of its central themes.
The Persian king, to satisy his love of glory, appropriated the credit for Cyrus’
death (14.5, 16.2), although he had been removed from the battle site after being
wounded, and had neither been present at Cyrus’ death scene nor even aware
of his brother’s end (11.3, 12.2–3, 13.1). Similarly, Xenophon adopted the account
of another (Ctesias). The thin line between truth and lie/fiction is at the core of
the biography.84 The incredible manner in which Artaxerxes transformed the
big lie that he killed Cyrus into truth is akin to the way Xenophon’s account is
transformed before our very eyes from truthful and realistic to one that implies
disingenuousness and artificiality. The way Plutarch achieved this is through
the use of the same device to discard both truth and insincerity, i.e., the narra-
tor’s silences.
5 Conclusion
Despite the fact that the major part of Plutarch’s writing career appeared at
a time when one could allegedly think what one wished and say what one
thought (Tac. Hist. 1.1), he chose to leave many matters unsaid and to employ
silence on both the overt and covert levels of his narrative. As I hope to have
shown in this chapter, the reason for this was the artistic aim of highlighting
features of the character of the protagonist. The four types of silence which
Plutarch had his narrator employ, and which were addressed here, differ in
the degree to which authorial reticence is plain or not. The most obvious case
is when the narrator asserts his silence (the type called Professed Silence or
Herodotean Silence). Less evident is the case in which details in one biography
83 Although one can easily gather that from his narrative. The Greeks were pursuing the flee-
ing barbarians in the royal left wing (X. An. 1.8.19, 21; 1.10.4). See G. Wylie, “Cunaxa and
Xenophon,” AClass 61 (1992) 126–130.
84 Cf. Almagor, Plutarch and the Persica, 48, 98, 122–123. This contrast is especially significant
in a Persian setting, given the Zoroastrian belief in the cosmic division between drug (the
Lie, or disorder) and its opposite principle, aša (or Old Persian Arta), Truth or order.
or part of the pair of Lives (the formal comparison) are absent in other biogra-
phies or the Lives themselves (called here Intratextual Silence). The remaining
two variants of silence are more difficult to establish, and concern cases in
which information is assumed to be absent in comparison with external texts
(named Intertextual Silence)—discernible when these are extant—or from the
nature of the narrative itself (the Narrational Silence).
Curiously, it is the first kind of silence by which Plutarch would be charac-
terized himself in the following century after his death, in Philostratus’ letter
to the late empress Julia Domna (Ep. 73):85
My empress, persuade Plutarch […] not to be annoyed at the sophists […]

If you cannot persuade him, then you in your wisdom and craft know
what epithet must be bestowed on such a person. I myself can tell you
what that epithet is—and yet I cannot.
This playful presentation of the deceased Plutarch testifies to the centrality of

the use of silences by the biographer. It also bears witness to its function in
characterization, since a tacit epithet is said to be applied to Plutarch. In this
chapter we have seen that Plutarch employs silence largely to indicate not only
the respective protagonist’s flaws but also the way he is unaware of their exis-
tence. Other aims may include pointing at the circumstances of which the hero
is oblivious to his shortcomings, or, on the historiographic level, at the inade-
quacies of the sources at Plutarch’s disposal. Plutarch probably expected his
readers to grasp both the instances of reticence and their narratological signif-
icance. It is by this interpretation of his works that Plutarch continues to speak
through his texts, thereby complicating (as realized by Philostratus long ago)
and indeed questioning the belief that “the rest is silence.”
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Fran Titchener for the wonderful gathering and the editors
of this volume for their tremendous work.
85 Translation by R. Penella, “Philostratus’ Letter to Julia Domna,” Hermes 107 (1979) 161–168,
slightly amended. On the presentation see G. Anderson, “Putting Pressure on Plutarch:
Philostratus, Epistle 73,” CPhil 72 (1977) 43–45; K. Demoen & D. Praet, “Philostratus, Plu-
tarch, Gorgias and the End of Plato’s Phaedrus,” CQ 62 (2012) 436–439.
32 almagor
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chapter 2
Plutarch’s Narratorial Silences in the Dion

Michael Nerdahl
Plutarch is an artful storyteller. His inventiveness as a writer extends to multi-

ple methods of narration, including, of course, the use of silence. The type of
silence employed by Plutarch, which I discuss in the following pages, is what I
call narratorial silence, similar to what Wolfgang Iser calls a “gap.” As Iser notes,
“whenever the flow is interrupted and we are led off in unexpected directions,
the opportunity is given to us to bring into play our own faculty for establish-
ing connections—for filling in the gaps left by the text itself.”1 Such “gaps,” as
Iser also notes, are capable of being filled in different ways, allowing a poten-
tially inexhaustible number of interpretations.2 Thus, by narratorial silence, or
a “gap,” I refer to the absence of narration where we might expect or antic-
ipate clarification, continued description, or supplementation.3 While Iser is
concerned with the concept of the “gap” in fiction, the technique is fully avail-
able to the historian, for whom the demands of what to include and how to
tell the story are, as Hayden White and Irene de Jong have stressed, essentially
no different than the demands for the writer of fiction.4 To make the leap from
history to biography is then rather a small one; as Philip Stadter has written,
Plutarch has essentially “reshaped historical narrative into biography.”5 And, as
has been argued in many recent studies, Plutarch’s consideration of elements
1 W. Iser, “The Reading Process: A Phenomenological Approach,” New Literary History 3.2 (1972)
284–285.
2 W. Iser, The Implied Reader (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974) 280.
3 In the lingo of graphic novels and comics, the “gap” is analogous to the “gutter,” the space
between panels in the textual/visual story. See, e.g., S. McCloud, Understanding Comics: The
Invisible Art (New York: Paradox Press, 1999) 60–93.
4 H. White, “The Historical Text as Literary Artifact,” in R.H. Canary and H. Kozicki (eds.), The
Writing of History: Literary Form and Historical Understanding (Madison: University of Wis-
consin Press, 1978) 60; I. de Jong, Narratology & Classics: A Practical Guide (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2014) 171. As de Jong (168) puts it, in summarizing the conclusions of Gér-
ard Genette, “in general narrative devices can cross over from factual to fictional genres and
back again. Sometimes the factual or fictional status of a text can be determined only on the
basis of paratextual information, such as its title.” See also G. Genette, Fiction et diction (Seuil:
Éditions du Seuil, 1991) 65–93.
5 P.A. Stadter, “Biography and History,” in J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman
Historiography, vol. 2 (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2011) 539.
© Michael Nerdahl, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_004

plutarch’s narratorial silences in the dion 37
like focalization, reader expectation, and manipulation of time in compos-

ing his biographies is remarkably modern, dynamic, and multi-faceted.6 In an
attempt to illustrate the depth of Plutarch’s authorial sophistication, I will out-
line three instances in which Plutarch makes use of “gaps” in the Dion in ways
that add to the richness of his subjects’ moral portraits.
1 A Silent Verdict: Dionysius i and His Mother-in-Law
The first example of a type of narrative silence illustrates the self-reflective

moralizing Plutarch is famous for promoting.7 In a section early in the work
where Plutarch provides political and familial background to the Syracusan
court under Dionysius i, he writes (Dion 3.6):
It is said (λέγεται)8 that [Dionysius i] married both his wives on one day,
and that no one ever knew which one he first slept with, but that he con-
tinued to divide the rest of his time with each equally … Aristomache lived
with Dionysius as his wife for a long time without having a child, although
he was eager to have children by her. In any event he put the mother of
his Locrian wife [Doris] to death, having accused her of bewitching Aris-
tomache.
The silence that Plutarch offers us here is a lack of clarification: he does not
state whether the accusation of the tyrant is true or not. Plutarch is no stranger
to letting a reader draw their own conclusions.9 However, he frequently adds
6 For Plutarch’s demands on his reader as “remarkably modern,” see especially D. Konstan,
“Birth of the Reader: Plutarch as a Literary Critic,” Scholia 13 (2004) 8. For additional investiga-
tions into Plutarch’s techniques and his expectations for his readers, see C. Pelling, “Plutarch,”
in I. de Jong, R. Nünlist & A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek
Literature: Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative, Volume i (Leiden: Brill, 2004) 403–422; T.E. Duff,
“Plutarch’s Lives and the Critical Reader,” in G. Roskam & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Virtues for the
People: Aspects of Plutarchan Ethics (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2011) 59–82; M. Beck,
“Time and Space in Plutarch’s Lives,” in A. Georgiadou & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), Space,
Time and Language in Plutarch (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017) 25–40; C.S. Chrysanthou, Plutarch’s
Parallel Lives: Narrative Technique and Moral Judgement (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018).
7 As Chrysanthou, Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, 2, states, unfilled “gaps” are one of several devices
used by Plutarch that effectively increase “readers’ engagement with moral evaluations, sen-
sitizing them to exploratory parallels and wider contexts that inform their act of judging.”
8 On Plutarch’s nuanced use of λέγεται as a historiographical tool, see B. Cook, “Plutarch’s Use
of λέγεται: Narrative Design and Source in Alexander,” GRBS 42.4 (2001) 329–360.
9 On which see Duff, “Plutarch’s Lives and the Critical Reader,” 67–72.
38 nerdahl
commentary or context to an ambiguous passage. For example, when L. Aemil-

ius Paulus’ soldiers accuse him of vicious treatment, Plutarch notes that in
reality they were upset that he had not allowed them to raid the Macedonian
treasury (Aem. 30.4). In Cato Minor, Plutarch notes an accusation that Cato was
unwilling to compromise for the greater good, and then he also records Cato’s
own response to such an accusation (Ca. Mi. 50.2–3). Thus, Plutarch will typi-
cally steer the reader to a judgment, or supply additional context that is meant
to provoke serious reflection on the claim.10
However, in this instance, Plutarch offers no extra information to guide our
conclusion or provide context, creating a “gap” in the scene, as he lets the anec-
dote stand on its own. Timothy Duff notes that presentations lacking overt
comment serve to “suggest, illustrate, confirm, or amplify character traits.”11 Yet,
what are those traits? Is this an example of aristocratic scheming and plotting,
or simply a paranoid tyrant exercising his will? Plutarch leaves both possibil-
ities open so that the reader, left without confirmation of one judgment or
the other, is amenable to a multi-valent interpretation.12 Thus, the cruelty of
killing an innocent mother-in-law, if true, anticipates Dionysius i’s command
that Plato be killed or sold into slavery (Dion 5.6). On the other hand, when we
read of all the ways courtiers like Philistus manipulate Dionysius ii against Dion
and Plato later in the Life (11.4–12.3), the pharmacological scheming of a jeal-
ous mother-in-law in a tyrant’s court does not seem so far-fetched either. Thus,
by remaining authorially silent, Plutarch allows multiple options for interpre-
tation to linger, and the reader fills in the reflective “gap” with data confirm-
ing both possibilities. The anecdote condemns the ruthlessness of Dionysius i,
whose tyranny’s harshness is famously characterized by its “adamantine bonds”
(7.6; 10.4), while also condemning the insidious poisoning of persons, and by
extension, minds, that goes on later in the loose and licentious courts of un-
philosophical tyrants.
10 Some noteworthy examples of this approach can be found at Per. 24.1, 25.1; Alex. 33.10;
Pyrrh. 23.5; Sull. 6.12.
11 Duff, “Plutarch’s Lives and the Critical Reader,” 66.
12 This presentation is similar in method and effect to what E. Baragwanath, Motivation
and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008) 240–288, describes for
Herodotus in her detailed examination of Xerxes.
2 Silence, Suppression and Intertext: Dion’s Exile
Another instance of narratorial silence, in this case related to the royal court of
Dionysius i’s son and successor, has to do with Dion’s exile, which begins after
Dionysius ii has, at Dion’s insistence, brought Plato to Syracuse. Although the
tyrant takes an instant liking to Platonic philosophy, “filling the court with dust
from mathematic practice” (13.4), Dion, whose value to the tyrant has skyrock-
eted, is vehemently accused by members of the court of plotting to overthrow
the government. Dionysius, convinced of Dion’s guilt, decides to send him into
exile, so he escorts him to the coast and—without allowing him to defend
himself—puts Dion on a boat and orders him to be deposited in Italy. Plutarch
notes that the citizens perceive the exile as cruel; the courtiers are delighted to
have him gone, and the citizens now eagerly await what they believe will be a
“revolution and speedy change in the government” (15.1).13 The episode and its
immediate consequences thus anticipate a narrative that will seem to explain
the action of our protagonist, who will effect a change for the better in Syracuse.
Thus, the stage seems to be set for an explication of Dion’s revolutionary
reaction to his exile. In fact, as I have written elsewhere, Plutarch’s use of exile
scenes are particularly important instances for revealing the character of his
heroes.14 Coriolanus, for example, condemned by the people after an arrogant
tirade against the plebs in his trial, goes into exile from Rome boiling over
with silent fury, a rage that will provoke him to vengefully lead a Volscian army
against the Romans (Cor. 21.1–3). Demosthenes also goes into a self-imposed
exile in Troezen or Aegina after being convicted of accepting a bribe where “he
endured his exile shamefully … looking back towards Attica in tears, so that
sayings of his are remembered which are not fair to nor harmonious with the
boldness that marked his statecraft” (Dem. 26.5). In each case, there are exten-
sive or explicit details that underscore each man’s character as they meet with
the misfortune of exile.
However, the episode of Dion’s exile from Sicily is not followed by an imme-
diate depiction of the hero’s actions, but Plutarch instead keeps the narrative
on events at the court of Dionysius. Indeed, Dion’s exile scene is peculiar for
Plutarch’s narratorial silence.15 In the Dion, the protagonist’s actions and loca-
13 On such use of focalization in Plutarch, cf. Duff, “Plutarch’s Lives and the Critical Reader,”
64–67, 71–72.
14 M. Nerdahl, “Exiling Achilles: Reflections on the Banished Statesman in Plutarch’s Lives,”
CJ 107.3 (2012) 331–353.
15 Compare Dion’s absence from the narrative upon being exiled to Plutarch’s narrative
technique in Aristides (7–8): Aristides’ ostracism is immediately followed by an ellipsis
40 nerdahl
tion for the next two chapters are unstated; the focus is on Dionysius ii, the
people of Syracuse, and Plato, who remains behind, guarded jealously by the
tyrant. As with the narrative concerning the truth and legitimacy of Diony-
sius i’s execution of his mother-in-law, where the reader must fill in the “gap”
and reflect on the significance and truth of Dionysius’ accusation, here—at
least initially—Plutarch also requires the reader to similarly imagine what Dion
is doing, and as the people of Syracuse anticipate a swift change, the delay in
reporting Dion’s goings-on is a bit peculiar, creating an unexpected narrative
tension.
In fact, it is not until Plato returns from Syracuse to Greece that we hear
about Dion. At chapter 17 Plutarch describes what Dion does when Plato
returns—still leaving unstated what Dion has been doing since he set sail from
Syracuse. After describing how Plato attempts to keep Dion in Athens at the
Academy, and wishes to soften his temperament through contact with men of
a more temperate bent, Plutarch adds the following (Dion 17.6–8):
Dion also made regular visits to other cities, both studying and attending
religious festivals together with the noblest and most statesmanlike men,
revealing in his interactions with them nothing offensive or tyrannical
or a character easily compromised, but rather demonstrating his mod-
eration, virtue, and courage, as well as an elegant intimacy in literature
and philosophy. On account of this he generated a competitive goodwill
towards him among everyone, not to mention public honors and decrees
among the cities. In fact, the Lacedaemonians even named him a Spar-
tan citizen, unconcerned that they might anger Dionysius, even though
at that time he was their dedicated ally against the Thebans.
First, one will note that there is rather a large “gap” here: wasn’t Dion dropped
off in Italy? How did he arrive in Greece? And was Dion waiting in Athens
for Plato when the latter arrived, or did Plato send for him or fetch him upon
his own return to Greece? Since Plutarch provides no explicit answers, the
reader has to fill in the blanks. Based on the text, the reader can exclusively
judge Dion’s behavior upon exile by what Plutarch tells us he does after Plato’s
arrival. As the passage implies, Plutarch’s depiction of Dion in Hellas is quite
positive: the Syracusan is spending his time in exile productively, gathering
friends, procuring allies, and even being named a citizen of Sparta in spite of
covering three years and a vociferous defense of his actions while in exile, which Plutarch
refers to analeptically.
the Lacedemonians’ relationship with Dionysius. Given no other explicit infor-

mation about Dion’s behavior in exile, the reader will likely project this noble,
philosophical, patient Dion onto the missing details of his early exile.
Of course, the image the reader creates of Dion is likely not to be solely
influenced by the current narrative. Plutarch’s is not, after all, the only account
of Dion’s life. The Chaeronian is knowledgeable about his predecessors and
uses a vast array of material to infuse his biographies with his particular moral
and ethical direction.16 And since Plutarch has high expectations for his read-
ers and anticipates that they have familiarity with his subjects through other
works, he recognizes that such works will doubtless influence interpretations
conducted by readers of his Lives. So, for example, the accounts of Diodorus
Siculus and Nepos may well form a foundation for a reader of the Dion. In dis-
cussing Dion’s exile, their narratives contain no “gap” between exile and action,
but both present Dion as immediately making preparations for war (D.S. 16.6;
Nep. Dion 4).17 But history and biography are not the only possible intertextual
comparanda: as Alexei Zadorojnyi has noted, Plato’s Seventh Letter, written by
Plato to the friends of Dion after the latter’s death, forms the “bedrock inter-
text” of the Dion.18 Yet, while the general picture of Dion in the Letter correlates
with Plutarch’s version, such as noting that Dion was in the Peloponnesus and
did not initiate his campaign until after Plato’s return from his third visit to
Sicily (Epist. 7.350b–c), Plutarch provides more details about Dion’s friends,
how he spends his time in Greece, and he also gives a different catalyst for why
Dion finally declares war on Dionysius, claiming the final straw was the forced
remarriage of his wife (Dion 21.1–22.1) rather than anger over the inhospitable
treatment of Plato (Epist. 7.350c). Plutarch’s awareness of the literary tradition
surrounding Dion’s banishment thus gives him the opportunity both to rely on
that tradition and to play with the reader’s expectations of his own narrative
based on their knowledge of other sources. Plutarch includes an in-text focal-
ization on the citizenry’s thoughts to recall the tradition espoused by Diodorus
and Nepos—that Dion prepared for war immediately—while mostly adhering
to the Platonic version, which he ends up modifying and supplementing with
additional information.
16 On this, see M.T. Schettino, “The Use of Historical Sources,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion
to Plutarch (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) 417–436.
17 Diodorus’ narrative is particularly dramatic and differs in many details from Plutarch’s
version (most notably, that Dion has fled to avoid being charged of a capital crime) but is
quite explicit in relating the immediate actions of Dion in Greece post exile.
18 A.V. Zadorojnyi, “The Ethico-Politics of Writing in Plutarch’s Life of Dion,” JHS 131 (2011)
149.
42 nerdahl
So, by delaying the depiction of Dion’s actions in exile rather than contin-
uing to place the narrative focus on him, Plutarch assigns the reader multiple
analytical tasks: first, the reader fills in the “gap” of Dion’s immediate actions
in exile with a supposition, and then, when the reader receives no informa-
tion about Dion’s early exile, but is only told what Dion subsequently does, the
reader must revisit their earlier interpretation. As noted, there are both intra-
and extra-textual influences on the reader’s supposition: the focalized expecta-
tions of the citizens (15.1) and the accounts of Diodorus and Nepos lend weight
to a vision of Dion as preparing for war. The reaction of other exiles in the Lives,
like Coriolanus or Demosthenes, may also influence the reader’s consideration.
And, of course, Plato’s Seventh Letter may encourage the reader to expect that
Dion is not waging war yet but is in Greece. Yet they will still be unsure what
exactly Dion is doing and more importantly (as I discuss in the next section)
with whom he is doing it.
At length the reader discovers that Dion has spent his time in exile gregar-
iously, philosophically, and productively, to some extent corroborating Plato’s
account. Indeed, Plutarch gives details that emphasize how Dion matches the
paradigm of the unruffled good man in exile as expressed in the De exilio.
The affection the Greeks feel for him reinforces Plutarch’s specific claim that
“those who are not burdened by [foolish] thoughts admire the good, even if
they are poor or foreigners or exiles” (607A). Now, once the reader has finally
learned what Dion has been doing, they are likely to ask if they drew a wrong
or incomplete conclusion about Dion, and why their conclusion was wrong or
incomplete: the “gap” Plutarch creates here in Dion’s early exile works as what
Leona Toker calls a “mirror,” where missing details are supplied by the reader’s
imagination, and may subsequently initiate a process of what she terms “error,
anagnorisis, and reorientation,” a process very much consonant with Plutarch’s
moralistic aims.19
19 L. Toker, Eloquent Reticence: Withholding Information in Fictional Narrative (Lexington:

University Press of Kentucky, 1993) 5, 8. On this reflective nature of Plutarch’s moral aims
and how it occurs, compare the famous programmatic statement at Aem. 1.1–4, as dis-
cussed by T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1999) 30–34; P.A. Stadter, “The Rhetoric of Virtue in Plutarch’s Lives,” in L. Van der
Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 500–506
[reprinted in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2015) 237–243]; P.A. Stadter, “Mirroring Virtue in Plutarch’s Lives,” Ploutarchos n.s.
1 (2003/04) 89–96.
3 Silence and “Proper Name Paralipsis”: Dion, Callippus, and

Heracleides
Readers of the Dion know that, upon his return to Syracuse, the noble exile’s
coup is initially successful. He then experiences a brief backslide before tri-
umphantly driving Dionysius ii and his supporters out of Syracuse but is ulti-
mately betrayed by a friend. That friend, according to Plutarch, is a fellow
named Callippus.20 For my final example of narratorial silence, I will discuss
how and speculate why Plutarch creates another consequential interpreta-
tive “gap” around how and when this figure is introduced into the narrative
sequence of the Life, citing a parallel example from the text itself to illustrate
how, thematically, Plutarch’s use of narrative silence underscores moral inter-
pretations of Dion’s character.
Plutarch relies on various techniques when bringing characters important to
the narrative into his biographies. Some figures, like the Roman subjects in his
late Republican Lives, Alcibiades in the Nicias, and Hannibal in the Marcellus
and Fabius—just to list a few examples—are particularly famous, or appear in
multiple Lives, and so Plutarch does not always provide information explaining
who they are. But figures consequential to a Life are commonly introduced in
one of two ways. First, he tends to give information essential to the character’s
role in the protagonist’s life at their initial appearance. An example of this tech-
nique is in the Cicero regarding the titular hero’s nemesis Clodius (Cic. 28.1–2).
Another approach Plutarch uses is to characterize the figure as critical to the
story (sometimes proleptically) before continuing with the chronological nar-
rative, as depicted in the Antony with Cleopatra (Ant. 10.3).
Yet, in bringing Callippus into Dion’s narrative, Plutarch uses a form of
“Proper Name Paralipsis,” a term coined by Richard Gerrig. According to Gerrig,
in fictional narratives, when a character is introduced to the story with a proper
name attached, a reader is trained to anticipate the subsequent relevance of
that figure later in the text.21 For example, an author who refers to “an acquain-
tance” signifies something less vital to the reader than identifying the figure as
“Callippus.” Also, when an author explicitly names a figure without providing
pertinent details, they suppress expected information. Such paralipsis, Gerrig
argues, creates an unresolved tension for the reader, and, in fact, heightens the
20 Diodorus agrees that his betrayer was Callippus (16.31.7); Nepos gives the name Callicrates
(Dion 8–9). Plato (Epist. 7.333e–334c, 351c–e) leaves Dion’s treacherous Athenian friend
unnamed.
21 R. Gerrig, “Readers’ Experiences of Narrative Gaps,” Storyworlds 2 (2010) 25.
44 nerdahl
focus on such a character.22 I propose that Plutarch is aware of this potential

impact on the reader and uses it in the Dion to powerful effect.
In fact, Plutarch’s use of such Proper Name Paralipsis in the Dion is actually
doubly pronounced: in the Life, he uses this form of paralipsis twice in intro-
ducing Callippus, the man who brings about Dion’s downfall.23 The first time
Callippus appears, while Dion is in exile in Greece, we learn only that Dion
lives in the upper city of Athens with Callippus, “one of his acquaintances”
(τινὶ τῶν γνωρίμων), while spending time in the country with an intimate friend,
Speusippus (17.2–3). Plutarch does provide some supplemental information
about Speusippus, but nothing further—for the moment—about Callippus.
When Callippus appears again, it is after Dion has entered Syracuse at the head
of his mercenary army, returning at last from the banishment Dionysius had
imposed on him (28.3). We learn Dion is accompanied by his brother Mega-
cles and this fellow Callippus, both garlanded in celebration of victory. Again,
expository information about Callippus is absent, though Plutarch will explain
the treatment and role of Megacles in Syracuse in the subsequent chapter (29.1–
4).
When Callippus finally receives his due, it is not until the last few chapters
of the Life. Here he is re-introduced with a surprising amount of detail (Dion
54.1):
Now, Dion had a certain companion from Athens named Callippus, who,
Plato says, became acquainted to him, not from a shared education, but
from experiencing the mysteries together and a companionship arising
from extended personal contact. He had a share in Dion’s campaign and
was honored such that he even entered Syracuse beside him as the first of
all his companions, garlanded for being distinguished and notable in the
recent struggles.
22 Gerrig, “Readers’ Experiences of Narrative Gaps,” 26–29.

23 The nearest examples I can find to how Plutarch uses paralipsis with Callippus in the Dion
are Hagnonides in the Phocion, who is identified only as “an informer” (συκοφάντης, 29.3)
in his initial appearance, though he will lead the charge in accusing Phocion of treason
later (33.3–5, 34.5), and Scipio Nasica in the Tiberius Gracchus, whose first appearance is
marked only as opposing Tiberius’ initial legislation, surrendering completely to his hatred
of Tiberius (δεδωκότος ἑαυτὸν τὴν πρὸς ἐκεῖνον ἔχθραν ἀφειδῶς, 13.3). Both of these figures,
though their important later roles are not proleptically explained in their initial appear-
ances, nevertheless are presented in ways indicative of their future actions, and, in fact,
are never “fleshed out” or given a full background like Callippus is later in the Dion, as I
discuss below.
In essence, Plutarch re-narrates Callippus’ two previous appearances in the

Life, providing small variations and adding some previously unnoted details.
The passage serves as a peculiar “repeating analepsis” of something the reader
has already encountered. Yet the peculiarity is increased because Plutarch dis-
cusses the figure as if he had made no previous appearance in the Life or as if
the reader has no memory of the figure. However, as Gerrig has noted regarding
examples of Proper Noun Paralipsis, readers are more likely to “maintain atten-
tion” on such unresolved named figures like Callippus.24 So, what could be the
desired impact of such a seemingly unnecessary description here?
As Mark Beck has argued in an essay about Plutarch’s manipulation of
time in his narratives, “usually analepses serve to introduce past events that
have been suppressed (paralipsis) into a context later in the narrative which
enhances their significance.”25 Such significance becomes abundantly clear
now, as the reader discovers that this Callippus, who seemed so unimportant
earlier in the narrative, has designs on ruling Syracuse. He proposes to Dion that
he go undercover among Dion’s forces to weed out any traitors, but he actually
uses Dion’s support to recruit people for his own coup (54.3–5). His efforts cul-
minate with Dion’s murder and the installation of Callippus himself as tyrant
of Syracuse for the next thirteen months.
I suggest that Plutarch’s silence—or use of Proper Name Paralipsis—con-
cerning Callippus creates a potent interpretative “gap” for the reader. The for-
mal “introduction” of Callippus in these final chapters may well confuse the
reader, who should remember that this character has already made two appear-
ances in the text. Whatever interpretation the reader has supplied for Callippus
as Dion’s roommate from chapter 17 and for Callippus as a garlanded ally in
chapter 28 now must be reevaluated in light of Callippus the traitor. What was
their relationship like? How is the reader supposed to retroactively make sense
of this man who at first seemed to be Dion’s friend, host, and comrade-in-arms,
and of Dion’s reliance on him?
Before giving my own interpretation, I want to note that Callippus is not
the only example of this sort of Proper Name Paralipsis in the Dion. Hera-
cleides, an anti-tyrannical democrat, also appears early on, also without clear
explanation as to his later importance in Dion’s life. Prior to Dion’s exile, we
discover that there are “charges made to the tyrant against Dion, claiming that
he had consulted with Theodotes and Heracleides about a potential revolu-
tion,” charges which help lead to Dion’s eventual exile (12.1). Heracleides, like
24 Gerrig, “Readers’ Experiences of Narrative Gaps,” 28.

25 M. Beck, “Plutarch,” in I. de Jong & R. Nünlist (eds), Time in Ancient Greek Literature (Lei-
den: Brill, 2007) 408.
46 nerdahl
Callippus, vanishes from the narrative, then reappears at chapter 32, arriving
in Syracuse—also from Greece; apparently, he had been banished, too!—in
order to help Dion establish a new government after the removal of Dionysius.
We then receive a rather thorough description of the contentious relationship
between Dion and Heracleides, who is characterized as “irresolute, fickle, and
not to be relied upon” (32.3). The two had, in fact, feuded in exile while in the
Peloponnesus and Heracleides actually decided to assail Dionysius’ forces sep-
arately, with his own fleet. Unsurprisingly, then, Heracleides repeatedly causes
all sorts of problems for Dion, stealing goodwill from the people by his charm
in contrast to Dion’s severity, and he is eventually the main reason why Dion
has to abandon Syracuse for Leontini for a while (32.2–5).
Consequently, when Dion returns to Syracuse from Leontini to once more
save his countrymen from their own Heracleides-provoked foolishness, he ulti-
mately feels compelled to have Heracleides put to death (53.5). Though in
practical terms this is a defensible act, Dion becomes deeply depressed, as he
feels that he has betrayed his philosophical principles.26 Significantly for the
purposes of our narratological examination, Heracleides’ death immediately
precedes the re-introduction into the narrative of the treacherous Callippus in
the very next chapter. This is unlikely to be a coincidence. In Heracleides, Dion
is ultimately shown to underestimate the fellow’s pretensions even though they
had a contentious relationship in Greece, and it causes him to lose Syracuse
once, and nearly lose it a second time. Heracleides is all too meaningful a
harbinger of Dion’s imminent downfall at the hands of Callippus.
Like Heracleides, who vanishes from the text only to later play an impor-
tant, antagonistic role, Callippus enters and vanishes from the text through the
use of the same narratological sleight of hand. As with Heracleides, we have
someone from earlier in the narrative becoming Dion’s antagonist. And, like
Heracleides, the true nature of Callippus is underappreciated by Dion. As Plato
says in the Seventh Letter, Dion could not conceive of the danger of Callippus,
“though the fact that a storm was coming would likely not escape his notice, still
the monstrous and unexpected strength of such a storm, once underestimated,
would overwhelm him with its violence” (Epist. 7.351d). Plutarch’s presentation
of Callippus generates the same sort of image. Yet Plutarch does not co-opt
Plato’s words to make this argument, but relies on his own lack of words, or
26 J. Opsomer, “Virtue, Fortune, and Happiness in Theory and Practice,” in G. Roskam & L. Van
der Stockt (eds.), Virtues for the People: Aspects of Plutarchan Ethics (Leuven: Leuven Uni-
versity Press, 2011) 166, stresses these principles quite clearly, ones which Dion sticks to in
the face of significant pressure. So, the fact that he ultimately puts him to death is morally
poignant.
silence, about Callippus’ importance. Through the use of narrative “gaps” he

creates via his peculiar use of paralipsis, Plutarch poignantly underscores the
character, indeed one of the key flaws, of Dion. Dion has routinely been criti-
cized for his “unsociable demeanor” (Dion 7.3) and for the fact that he has a “sort
of prickly character and a harshness both incompatible with casual conversa-
tion and not easy to deal with” (8.2). I propose that the text itself substantiates
such commentary. That is, the text disregards and abandons Heracleides and
Callippus, only to be ambushed by them later, much like Dion is. The text’s own
reluctance to shed light on Dion’s eventual antagonists mirrors the reluctance
(or inability) of Dion to get to know them. Indeed, the “gaps” in the text repre-
sent the holes in the otherwise exemplary actual figure of Dion.
4 Conclusion
What I hope to have shown through these three analyses is how dynamically
Plutarch can employ different types of narratorial silence or “gaps.” He omits
explicit explanation or confirmation about alternative motives when Diony-
sius i executes his mother-in-law in order to illuminate the character of the
Syracusan court; he abandons the narrative of Dion in exile, forcing the reader
to draw a conclusion about Dion’s character that likely needs to be revised or
adjusted by later information; and he makes use of Proper Name Paralipsis in
the Life to meta-narratively illustrate the causes of Dion’s fall at the hands of
his betrayer, Callippus, while also outlining his flaws like an artist employing
negative space. In leaving these dynamic “gaps” for the reader to fill in and to
reconsider, Plutarch demonstrates the sophisticated usage of yet one more tool
from his toolbox that furthers the moralistic, educational program of his Lives.
While such “gaps” exist throughout Plutarch’s works, the uses highlighted here
are particularly poignant because they are techniques that apply specifically
to the Dion. That is, these are not approaches he will use in every biography,
rather, they are evidence that Plutarch employs different modes in different
Lives, as Duff has observed.27 Plutarch’s unique and thematically suitable por-
trayal of Dion through the use of narrative silence shows just how creative a
moral biographer and, indeed, storyteller he is.
27 Duff, “Plutarch’s Lives and the Critical Reader,” 73.

48 nerdahl
Works Cited
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Press, 2008).
Beck, M., “Plutarch,” in I. de Jong & R. Nünlist (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Literature
(Leiden: Brill, 2007) 397–411.
Beck, M., “Time and Space in Plutarch’s Lives,” in A. Georgiadou & K. Oikonomopoulou
(eds.), Space, Time and Language in Plutarch (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017) 25–40.
Cook, B., “Plutarch’s Use of λέγεται: Narrative Design and Source in Alexander,” GRBS
42.4 (2001) 329–360.
de Jong, I., Narratology & Classics: A Practical Guide (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2014).
1999).
Duff, T.E., “Plutarch’s Lives and the Critical Reader,” in G. Roskam & L. Van der Stockt
(eds.), Virtues for the People: Aspects of Plutarchan Ethics (Leuven: Leuven University
Press, 2011) 59–82.
Genette, G., Fiction et diction (Seuil: Éditions du Seuil, 1991).
Gerrig, R., “Readers’ Experiences of Narrative Gaps,” Storyworlds 2 (2010) 19–37.
Iser, W., “The Reading Process: A Phenomenological Approach,”New Literary History 3.2
(1972) 279–299.
Iser, W., The Implied Reader (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974).
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Nerdahl, M., “Exiling Achilles: Reflections on the Banished Statesman in Plutarch’s
Lives,” CJ 107.3 (2012) 331–353.
Opsomer, J., “Virtue, Fortune, and Happiness in Theory and Practice,” in G. Roskam &
L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Virtues for the People: Aspects of Plutarchan Ethics (Leuven:
Leuven University Press, 2011) 151–173.
Pelling, C., “Plutarch,” in I. de Jong, R. Nünlist & A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees,
and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature: Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative, Vol-
ume i (Leiden: Brill, 2004) 403–422.
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Plutarch (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) 417–436.
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Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 493–510 [reprinted
in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2015) 231–245].
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Stadter, P.A., “Biography and History,” in J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and
Roman Historiography, vol. 2 (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2011) 528–
540.
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University Press of Kentucky, 1993).
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The Writing of History: Literary Form and Historical Understanding (Madison: Uni-
versity of Wisconsin Press, 1978) 41–62.
Zadorojnyi, A.V., “The Ethico-Politics of Writing in Plutarch’s Life of Dion,” JHS 131 (2011)
147–163.
chapter 3
The Unspoken Bridge between Philosophy and

Politics: Plutarch’s De genio Socratis
Bernard Boulet
Comme il y a des hommes qui ne sortent jamais de l’ enfance, il y

en a d’autres qui, pour ainsi dire, n’y passent point et sont hommes
presque en naissant. (Rousseau, Émile)
∵
No other essay in Plutarch’s corpus draws such immediate attention to the
author himself. What was he thinking? Why did he combine two such con-
trasting stories? The dissonant structure of the dialogue, where politics and
philosophy are like oil and water, leaves the reader perplexed. The prima facie
lack of unity forces us to scrutinize Plutarch’s intention, his particular way of
bridging the divide between philosophy and politics, even his art of writing. De
genio Socratis points to Plutarch himself.
Plutarch’s essays are diverse in texture and form. Some are political in nature:
De Alexandri Magni fortuna aut virtute presents a noble portrait of Alexander
to inspire the Roman emperor. Other texts are philosophical: De E Delphico
compares the Pythagorean youth of Plutarch to the Platonic maturity of his
teacher Ammonius. In De genio Socratis, Plutarch places side by side his two
familiar protagonists, the philosopher and the statesman. He sets them in the
same house, but their interests are so far apart that it begs the question: how
does Plutarch reconcile the two? The dialogue seems to be a defining essay for
our author.
Epaminondas is, of course, the hero of the dialogue, yet that cannot be, since
Socrates is the eponym hero. If this seems ambivalent, it is all on Plutarch: his
text is puzzling and lends itself to various interpretations. Daniel Babut offers
a reading of the dialogue that presents the noble Epaminondas as the pure
philosopher in the role of the philosopher statesman.1 But with Christopher
1 D. Babut, “Le dialogue de Plutarque Sur le démon de Socrate. Essai d’ interprétation,” Bulletin
de l’Association Guillaume Budé 1 (1984) 55–60.
© Bernard Boulet, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_005

the unspoken bridge between philosophy and politics 51
Pelling, I find there might be something less than perfect in Epaminondas:

he might very well be the picture-perfect model of soberness, but I wonder if
this noble statesman understands the limits of soberness in politics.2 In moral
virtue he is a paragon, but in a political crisis he refuses to be a player, and in
philosophy, more specifically, he is a pupil, not a teacher like Socrates. In the
company of speakers such as Simmias, Epaminondas is a listener. This does
not take away from his statesmanship: Epaminondas remains, for Plutarch, the
epitome of the noble statesman, at least in the confines of civil government.
I want to examine, therefore, the link between Socrates and Epaminondas,
the bridge between philosophy and politics, and the rapprochement between
Athens and Thebes.
1 The Natural Divide
The De genio Socratis is a narration. Epaminondas’ brother, Caphisias, while

on a diplomatic mission in Athens, is approached by a few Athenians who
wish to learn the course of events in the recent Theban uprising against the
pro-Spartan regime. They are, fittingly, the sons of the Athenian rebels who,
some thirty years earlier, overthrew the Thirty Tyrants in Athens. The paral-
lel is amusing: in Thebes now, as in Athens then, the pro-Spartan rule was
defeated.
But Caphisias’ account interweaves two disconnected stories with widely
different interests, and the author never mentions why he chose this bifocal
structure for his dialogue. Imagine having the story of the Boston Tea Party
intermingled with a discussion on angels. In Plutarch’s dialogue, the historical
event is the Theban rebellion of 379: on that suspenseful day in Thebes, in a cer-
tain house, conspirators prepare an assault on their tyrants. Time, and timing,
is of the essence for these conspirators. In the same house, a few philosophers
explain the nature of Socrates’ daimonion, and daimones in general: it is a time-
less discussion taking no notice of the events of the day.3 The philosophers, in
their discussion, never mention the conspiracy; the conspirators never turn to
2 C. Pelling, “Parallel Narratives: The Liberation of Thebes in De Genio Socratis and in Pelopidas,”
in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work: “Moralia” Themes in the “Lives”, Features
of the “Lives” in the “Moralia” (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008) 552–553.
3 See F. Brenk, “Time as Structure in the Daimonion of Sokrates,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.),
Plutarchea Lovaniensia. A Miscellany of Essays on Plutarch (Berlin: Peeters, 1996) 29–51, for
the role of time in De genio Socratis.
52 boulet
the philosophers for advice or divine signs. It is as if Plutarch writes a philo-

sophic dialogue with his right hand and paints a historical drama with his left,
and never the twain shall meet, and yet the two do meet in a single text under a
single title.
A subtle unifying theme of the whole dialogue is the human experience in
divine signs.4 However, for both groups, the political and the philosophic, this
experience is dramatically different. The philosophers explain that a divine
sign is actually a thought that is communicated from a superior intellect to
a gifted soul: this is intelligent enlightenment. The conspirators, on the other
hand, talk of uncertain omens, strange dreams, and vague signs that stir fear in
their hearts, offering no real guidance: this is confused divination and super-
stition. Is there a connection between philosophical thought and confused
divination? Is there a common source for the signs that guide the philosopher
and the signs that guide the statesman?
And why is there a two-fold experience in divine signs? We learn from the
philosophers that it lies partly in the daimones themselves and partly in the
diversity of human souls. A daimon, or the daimonion, does not inspire all mor-
tals in the same manner. Theanor, the Pythagorean stranger, explains (593B):5
Those above us put their brand, as it were, on the best of the herd and
think that these deserve some particular and special guidance, control-
ling them not by reins or halters but by reason through the medium of
secret signs which are entirely unknown to the many and the common
herd.
I note that no bridle is needed here to guide the best souls. Simmias had
expressed the same idea: “the intellect of the higher being guides the gifted
soul, which needs no blow, touching it with its thought” (588E). Again, no vio-
lent action is needed. The world is, by divine intellect or by nature, divided
into gifted souls and ordinary souls, and only the gifted, who are very few, are
enlightened without jolts, without rein or bridle, but by the gentle touch of
the superior intellect. The daimonion inspires easy understanding to the gifted
few and leaves ordinary souls, like the conspirators and their tyrants, struggling
with a chaotic mix of confused divination and short-sighted prudence. It is fas-
4 See D. Babut, “La part du rationalisme dans la religion de Plutarque: l’exemple du De genio
Socratis,” ICS 13.2 (1988) 431–456, for an acute analysis of divine signs in De genio Socratis.
5 Translations of the De genio Socratis are from D. Russell, “Περὶ τοῦ Σωκράτους δαιμονίου (text
and translation),” in H.-G. Nesselrath (ed.), Plutarch. On the Daimonion of Socrates (Tübingen:
Mohr Siebeck, 2010) 18–81. Translations of passages from the Lives are from the Loeb editions.
cinating to notice, as the narration alternates between the conspirators and

the philosophers, how the mood shifts accordingly, from quiet conversation to
anxious quibbling.
The dialogue as a whole, then, portrays a natural divide between gifted souls
and ordinary souls, and between the sphere of rational philosophy and the
world of irrational politics.
2 Epaminondas
Plutarch, however, does not leave it at that. He does not let philosophy and poli-
tics remain strangers, not in his corpus as a whole, and not in this dialogue. If he
did, and if all logos were left in the care of the daimonion and nothing more were
done, it might very well be that gifted souls and ordinary souls would remain
worlds apart, there being no help from the superior intellect to create friend-
ship between the rational and the irrational. Prospero would remain in his
study and Antonio would act, and they would remain indifferent to each other.
But in reality, statesmen and philosophers live in the same city and walk the
same streets; they are bound to meet, either in distrust or in dialogue. Plutarch
seems to point, in his dialogue, to some form of Socratic bridge between phi-
losophy and politics. And Epaminondas is the perfect student of this Socratic
bridge.
Let us examine Epaminondas. He is a most earnest student of philosophy,
and his rigorous training in self-control is remarkable. Remarkable but puz-
zling. It elevates him above all other statesmen in Thebes, yet it reveals that
he is not the stuff that gifted souls are made of: firstly, because these attain
virtue and wisdom with the greatest ease, which is not the case for Epaminon-
das, and secondly, because his rearing and training in philosophy originated
in Lysis, and therefore in speeches, that is to say in the audible and imperfect
words of a human being. Socrates, on the other hand, was enlightened through
the inaudible words of a daimonion.6
To some commentators, these differences are of no consequence, since
Epaminondas applies in life the same wise principles as Socrates. But I am
reminded of artists who like to set up their easel in a museum to copy the work
of a great master: their copy might be similar to the original, but the original is
of unmatched beauty. A good swimmer, who copies the style of Michael Phelps,
6 Epaminondas received a “remarkable and exceptional education” (576D) from Lysis, and not
the “private and exceptional education” given by the superior intellect to “divine and excep-
tional men” (589C). But see Babut, “Le dialogue de Plutarque Sur le démon de Socrate,” 57.
54 boulet
does not really measure up to the One and Only, and does not become the god
of the Olympic pool.
Epaminondas and Socrates differ in intellect and therefore in education.
Epaminondas has long trained himself to rein in his desires, as he himself
explains: “it is on the intrusive, unnecessary desires, my friend, that we need
to deploy the full force of exercise, and work to eradicate them by restraints
and inhibitions, as they are brought under control by reason” (584EF). We feel
the will and resolve of the man!
Such training was not the learning of Socrates who was left from an early
age to the guidance of his daimonion, as prescribed by an oracle to his father
(589EF):
It told the father to let Socrates do whatever came into his mind, and not
to force or divert the boy’s impulses, but give them their head … because
(I suppose) he had within himself a guide for life better than any number
of teachers and tutors.
Socrates needs no training, contrary to Epaminondas who compares himself to

an athlete preparing for the event.7 Socrates is always fit and forever performing
at his event.
The image of bridle and rein runs through these passages. Socrates gives
free rein to his impulses, while Epaminondas was taught “right from the start”
(585D) to rein in his impulses and repress them.8 Socrates, a natural student of
wisdom, and Epaminondas, a willful student of wisdom, do not have the same
natural impulses nor the same soul. There are three types of intelligence, we
are told.9 Socrates is of the first kind: he understands by himself. Epaminondas
is of the second: he understands when one explains to him. His father rightly
describes him as “insatiable in learning and listening” (592F). Epaminondas is a
great listener: he has especially learned from his teacher Lysis “not to complain
of poverty” (584B).
7 A. Georgiadou, “Epaminondas and the Socratic Paradigm in the De genio Socratis,” in L. Van
der Stockt (ed.), Plutarchea Lovaniensia. A Miscellany of Essays on Plutarch (Berlin: Peeters,
1996) 121, has noted this opposition: “[Epaminondas’] freedom from passion appears as the
result of his philosophical training. Socrates’ freedom from passion is inherent in his gifted
nature, since he has been guided by the daimonion from the first stages of his life.” But she
then concludes that Epaminondas, through his training, achieves the same privileged relation
with the daimonion as Socrates.
8 Epaminondas, not Socrates, would be the “perfectly bridled” soul obeying the voice of his
daimon in 592A. See Babut, “Le dialogue de Plutarque Sur le démon de Socrate,” 70.
9 See Hes. Op. 293–297 and Arist. EN 1.4.1095b2–13.
But poverty is not always a good companion. Plutarch, in his Pericles (16.7),
declares: “The life of a speculative philosopher is not the same thing, I think,
as that of a statesman.” A philosopher can live in poverty, but wealth is a nec-
essary commodity for political life, and one most noble in order to do good
deeds. And what a coincidence! Theanor has come to Thebes just hours before
the assault on the tyrants, offering Epaminondas a small fortune. It seems a
most appropriate gift at a most fortunate time, like a shipment of arms arriv-
ing in a city on the brink of war.10 But Epaminondas refuses the gift, because
poverty is really his “kindly nurse” (583D).11 We are left wondering if he really
wishes, like Socrates, to live a life of contemplation or if his main motive is more
likely a personal pride in self-control. And I seem to hear the daimon of Plutarch
whispering in my ear the famous rebuke against Phocion, who held to personal
virtue more than to the higher justice of the city (Phoc. 32.4). Theocritus does
well, it would seem, to admire the patriotic Charon who, in “great necessity”
(576F), has the courage “to do the honorable thing” (576E) in ridding the city of
its tyrants.12 To put it in the context of Plutarch’s Rome, a man like Epaminon-
das could not bring himself to kill a Roman emperor, but a man like Charon
would kill Domitian.13 True honor, in extraordinary circumstances, might have
to go the extra mile in the basic interest of the city (Plu. Alc. 31.7–8). But by the
same token, Thebes, after recovering its freedom and rightful regime, did well
to honor Epaminondas as the better statesman. Ordinary justice must be the
norm, and Epaminondas places it front and center. Moral judgment, under his
rule, will not bear the stain of civil strife.
This steadfast moral judgment, in Epaminondas, is upheld through unflinch-
ing moral habits. With the greatest zeal, he pushes his “philosophical training”14
to the point of abstention: abstention from pleasures in what is allowed (585A),
and abstention in wealth and fame (584F). This abstention, far removed from
the golden mean, is for him the best guarantee of virtue. There is something
heroic in his self-control, but there is also something that does not sit right with
Greek virtue. And it comes to the fore in his earnest defense of “continence”
10 See 584A, where Epaminondas makes this very analogy, which ironically applies to his
situation.
11 From Hom. Od. 9.27.
12 See J. Geiger, “Intertextuality in the De Genio Socratis: The Role of Epaminondas,” Mnemo-
syne 72.5 (2018) 6–9, for the theme of the removal of tyrants in De genio Socratis.
13 See Pelling, “Parallel Narratives,” 547, for a parallel between the killing of the Theban
tyrants and the killing of Julius Caesar, and for a discussion on the difficulty of such a
moral judgment.
14 Georgiadou, “Epaminondas and the Socratic Paradigm,” 121. Training in moral virtue was
also encouraged by Pythagoreans, as Epaminondas points out (585A).
56 boulet
(ἐγκράτεια, 585A). While continence comes easy to Socrates, Epaminondas is

ever struggling to vanquish his desires, never reaching the point of serenity
where the golden mean becomes easy and even pleasurable.15 He remains in
combat mode, keeping up his guard by refusing all gifts of money. This noble
warrior maintains “moral purity,”16 but I do not see him as a gifted soul to whom
virtue is easy. I rather have the impression that one is born a gifted soul, as was
Socrates.17 The Athenian philosopher, free from the obsession of moral purity,
would have the quietness of soul, in the event of great political necessity, to
judge what must be done.
Again, the preferred image to distinguish gifted souls from ordinary souls
is the metaphor of bridle and rein: gifted souls are guided by logos without
constraint, while ordinary souls need constraints. Interestingly, later in the nar-
rative, we fall upon an argument between a horseman and his wife over a bridle:
the horseman desperately wants to ride in all haste to bring a message to the
Theban exiles arriving secretly from Athens, but his wife has lent out the bridle
to a neighbor. A very unbridled argument ensues! It might not be coincidental
that the best horse in Thebes cannot be ridden without a bridle. This might be
a suggestion that human beings, even the well-bred Epaminondas, are in need
of bridle and rein. The exception would be divine souls like Socrates.
Plutarch nonetheless presents Epaminondas as the noblest of statesmen,
nurtured in one of the best philosophic schools of ancient Greece. And if he
does not completely measure up to Socrates in divine inspiration, he emu-
lates him on several points. In debate, he imitates Socratic dialectics; in his
way of life, he prefers Socrates’ poverty to Theanor’s money (583D); in poli-
tics, he will not commit an unjust act, which again reminds us of Socrates; he
stayed in Thebes during the Theban tyranny, as did Socrates under the Thirty
Tyrants. Although Epaminondas was in fact the student of Lysis, his character
15 In Aristotle, perfectly acquired continence is pleasurable and is called moderation (EN 7).
16 Babut, “Le dialogue de Plutarque Sur le démon de Socrate,” 60: “pureté morale.” Moral
purity, for Babut, seems to pave the way to “purity of the mind” (61). This is, precisely,
the crux of the problem. Purification was, in Socrates’ case, the work of the superior intel-
lect, the daimonion, but for Epaminondas, it came about through listening to Lysis (to his
voice while he was living and to the voice of his daimon now that he is dead). A pupil of
the daimonion learns purity of the mind directly, while a pupil of a daimon learns mainly
through moral purity (594A).
17 Georgiadou, “Epaminondas and the Socratic Paradigm,” 121 (following M. Riley, “The Pur-
pose and Unity of Plutarch’s De genio Socratis,” GRBS 18 [1977] 257–273), seems to acknowl-
edge, in Epaminondas, a Socratic calming of the soul: “We may suppose, then, as Riley
argues, that when all inborn and accidental desires calm down, the soul may be as easily
guided by the daimonion as Socrates’ soul was from birth.”
and manner pay homage to Socrates. So much so, that Babut and others call
him the “Boeotian Socrates.”18 But for all these similarities, Epaminondas still
never claims to receive guidance from a daimonion or even a daimon.
To summarize my characterization of the great statesman: Epaminondas,
though not one of the excellent souls, is a most enthusiastic student of philos-
ophy, showing all the self-control and frugality of the best rearing in philosophy.
Plutarch nudges his readers into admiring this outstanding Theban statesman
as the best of men guided by philosophy. These noble depictions of a less than
perfect soul are part of the enigma of this dialogue. The slight philosophic defi-
ciency in Epaminondas prompts us to look beyond him to Socrates in order to
discover the portrait of the true philosopher.
3 Socrates
Socrates and his daimonion appear in the title of the work. After a few brief
encounters and exchanges on that fateful morning in Thebes, some conspira-
tors kick off a question that will be pursued by the philosophers: was Socrates’
daimonion a lie or was it really something divine? Socrates becomes the person
of interest, not Lysis. The Thebans wish to discuss the daimonion of Socrates,
not the daimon of Lysis, nor even Pythagorean daemonology for that matter.
From the outset, on that landmark Theban day, in that frantic Theban house,
there is a turning towards Socrates, and thus a certain turning away from Lysis
and the Pythagoreans. The garrulous Theocritus, a Theban seer who would
have reveled, one would expect, in Pythagorean rites and superstition, declares
that nothing in Pythagorean divination is as impressive and divine as Socrates’
daimonion (580C). And the straight-shooting Galaxidorus credits Socrates for
having cleansed philosophy of all the superstitions that Pythagoras and Empe-
docles had attached to it (580C). They would both like to know what Socrates
thought of his daimonion, and they turn to Simmias for first-hand informa-
tion, since Socrates had met his fate twenty years earlier, and Simmias was his
companion (580D). Simmias remains so true to his master that Galaxidorus,
addressing him, uses the expression “your Socrates” (580B).19 Simmias, then, is
the main speaker.20
18 Babut, “Le dialogue de Plutarque Sur le démon de Socrate,” 57.

19 Your is plural here (ὑμέτερος), surely to include Cebes, Simmias’ close friend. Both are the
special interlocutors of Socrates in Plato’s Phaedo.
20 P. Donini, Plutarco: Il demone di Socrate (Rome: Carocci, 2017) 36, also considers Simmias
as the best philosopher among all the characters of the dialogue.
58 boulet
As for the Pythagorean philosopher, Theanor, he does not know Socrates

first-hand and never even mentions Socrates or his daimonion. He is really a
stranger to the discussion on Socrates’ daimonion and will remain a bystander
for some time.21 Only after Simmias has explained the workings of the daimo-
nion in souls like Socrates, and only after he has related the myth of Timar-
chos, is Theanor invited to join the discussion. He will give his account of dae-
monology in general, and in apt Pythagorean fashion, he will present the notion
of rebirth with expressions like “countless births” and “passing from body to
body” (593F).
But Simmias, the Socratic Simmias, speaks first. He does not mention re-
birth, does not even touch upon the afterlife.22 He tells of how he and his
friends, discussing privately the little that Socrates was willing to say on dae-
monic signs, came to the conclusion that Socrates’ daimonion was not really
a voice but “the apprehension of a thought which made contact with him in
some extraordinary way” (588D). This perceptive interpretation, which limits
itself to the workings of the daimonion in this life, defines Socrates’ daimonion
as a rational inspiration.
After this sober and humanistic account of the daimonion, Simmias recalls,
as an afterthought and with great skepticism, the myth of Timarchus. This
Timarchus told of a dreamy flight he made in a somewhat Pythagorean world
of daimones.23 The myth mentions rebirth and thus recovers what was dropped
in Simmias’ speech proper. But were I a Pythagorean, I should feel somewhat
belittled, since Pythagorean daemonology is reduced here to the rank of a
myth.24 Indeed, daemonology, in this myth, is presented in a dreamlike vision
and through a mysterious voice: it is not the inaudible communication of the
21 Babut, “Le dialogue de Plutarque Sur le démon de Socrate,” 60, sees Theanor as the key
speaker on daimones and suggests that his speech would be the keystone to the whole
structure of the dialogue.
22 In Plato (for example, in the Phaedo), Socrates discusses the afterlife, but here Simmias
does not go there. Theanor seems aware of Simmias’ reluctance when he says, smiling at
Simmias, that Lysis is happy where he is.
23 Theanor talks of daimones in Pythagorean manner, while Simmias talks of the daimonion
in Socratic manner. Daimones, like guardian angels, are assigned to different living beings,
but they are the souls of former mortals, the best of men. The daimonion, in contrast, is
a divine being of the nature of an intellect, inspiring divine thoughts to sensitive souls
like Socrates. Daimones train or bridle the souls that are most docile; the daimonion, on a
higher plane, inspires gifted souls without constraint. Theanor perceives in Epaminondas
the presence of the same daimon that had guided Lysis; this would not be of the same
order as the daimonion that inspires Socrates.
24 See Donini, Plutarco: Il demone di Socrate, for an interesting analysis of the place of
Pythagoreanism in this dialogue and within Platonic philosophy.
superior intellect during a mortal’s wakeful hours. The more credible theory
remains Simmias’ own abridged and more sober view of the daimonion.25
Soberness, in this dialogue, is a Socratic trait. According to Galaxidorus,
Socrates, contrary to the Pythagorean manner, “accustomed [philosophy] to
come to her senses [by facing reality] and to pursue the truth with sober reason”
(580C): philosophy must “teach the good and the expedient rationally” through
“demonstration” (580A), not through “dreams, visions, and such pretentious
nonsense” (579F). Polymnis, a long-time host of Lysis, discredits “empty affec-
tation and pretentiousness” and applauds the “truthfulness and simplicity”
(581B) of Socrates. Even Epaminondas, in his arguments for not taking part in
the first assault, is all soberness of reason: his spotless reputation, he says, will
reassure the Theban people in the victory over the tyrants (594BC). One would
expect all these Thebans to focus on Lysis and his ways, but they now all come
together as admirers of Socrates. This is Plutarch’s doing.26 His characters pay
homage to the sober Socrates. On the very day of the Theban overthrow, Lysis’
daimon, that Theanor would have us perceive in Epaminondas, is overshad-
owed by the daimonion of Socrates.
To be fair, Plutarch owes much to Pythagoras, more than just his youthful
enthusiasm for philosophy, as can be seen in the Numa and in a number of
his essays.27 But the problem with Pythagoreans is their way of wrapping their
philosophical ideas, when speaking in public, within expressions of divination.
We see this in Theanor, the Pythagorean stranger. He has learned of Lysis’ death,
he says, through dreams (585E). He has come, prompted by “certain dreams and
vivid visions” (579E), to “offer libations to old Lysis at his tomb” (579D). He men-
tions a special burial rite a Pythagorean must receive to reach his blessed end
(585E). He had “the intention of collecting the remains of the body and taking
them to Italy, unless some divine opposition to this occurred during the night”
(579F). And this sign did come (585F): “It was evening,” he tells, “I poured a
25 This might be a key to the reading of the Phaedo. As Judith Mossman suggests (“A Deadly
Hush,” presentation at the Utah Conference of 2019), Cato did not read the Phaedo with
Socratic soberness, and his death had none of the serenity surrounding Socrates’ death.
See also Geiger, “Intertextuality in the De Genio Socratis,” 1–5, for intertextuality between
De genio Socratis and the Phaedo.
26 Another tell-tale stroke of Plutarch’s pen is the slight imperfection with which he endows
Lysis’ soul (585F): “His soul had already been judged and released to another birth, allot-
ted now to another daimon.” Perhaps this new daimon would be a better guide in his new
life.
27 See J. Dillon, “Pythagoreanism in Plutarch,” in H.-G. Nesselrath (ed.), Plutarch. On the
Daimonion of Socrates (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010) 139–144, and Donini, Plutarco: Il
demone di Socrate.
60 boulet
libation, and summoned Lysis’ soul to return and reveal how I should go about
this. In the course of the night, I saw nothing, but I seemed to hear a voice bid-
ding me ‘not to move the unmovable.’”
Lysis’ daimon, Theanor reports, has spoken to him in an audible voice. But
we have learned from Simmias that a daimonion communicates, not through
voices and visions, but through inaudible words, and this would have been the
manner of Socrates’ daimonion. More generally, Socrates is never said, in this
dialogue, to rely on speaking voices or dreams or special rites. For funeral rites
in particular, if we may refer to Plato’s Phaedo, Socrates laughed when asked
how he wished to be buried. The same soberness can be found in Epaminon-
das, his brother Caphisias, and their father, who never invoke omens, dreams,
or voices as does Theanor. This prominent Theban family, in spite of being
schooled by Lysis, a Pythagorean, does not exhibit the Pythagorean taste for
divination. Their manner of speech is not Pythagorean.
The teacher of soberness is Socrates. He draws his interlocutors to various
attempts at sensible reasoning. He is living proof, in his daily conversations,
that philosophy can be about sober reason. His open encouragement to ratio-
nal speech makes him a better teacher than Pythagoras. Education (it is the
theme here) is the word used by Galaxidorus when he tells Simmias (580B):
“your Socrates seems to me to have adopted a more philosophical style of edu-
cation and argument, by choosing this simple and unaffected approach as a
mark of liberality and love of truth.” Education should be comparable to the
work of former swimmers who assist beleaguered swimmers (594A). Socrates
transforms philosophy by becoming a helpful and generous rescuer. He is, as
Plato writes (Euthyphro 3d), truly philanthropic: he cannot help but talk to
everyone in his usual dialectical manner. Pythagoreans, on the contrary, feed
the minds of the many with myths and superstition, and only in private do they
teach a rational love of truth. They are like lifeguards throwing paper buoys at
drowning swimmers. Socrates, followed by Plato, introduced a more sensible
approach to education. This is reflected in the two riddles mentioned at the
beginning of the De genio Socratis: the first one tells of strange ancient Egyptian
letters, the second poses the geometrical problem of doubling the volume of an
altar. The answer to the pair of riddles is the same: through them both, the god
is alluding to “the Greeks’ neglect of education” (579C) and encouraging them
to philosophize “with the aid of the Muses and of reason” (579A), not with the
confusion of superstition. Both riddles are meant as a lesson for all Greeks. And
so, philosophers must learn to speak and converse sensibly beyond the walls of
their schools.
The city of Thebes seems to have heeded the advice of the riddles, for they
have quit their dislike of discussion and argument (575E). Epaminondas him-
self does not shy away from a debate with Theanor, and he gives sensible argu-
ments to justify the part he will play in the political tempest at hand. But for all
his virtue and good judgment, this Theban hero is not self-taught, he did not
receive enlightenment directly from the superior intellect. He needed to hear
it from a human voice, from the voice of a philosopher in the flesh. This philoso-
pher was Lysis, although one would swear, looking at Epaminondas, that it was
Socrates.
4 Conclusion
Plutarch’s De genio Socratis is an enigma, a riddle encouraging his readers

to philosophize. Can the natural divide between philosophy and politics be
bridged? Can one stand between the rational lovers of speeches and the irra-
tional lovers of action, and, with the power of a daimon, supplement each
and bind them together? In his effort to bridge the divide, Plutarch calls upon
Socrates, not Lysis nor Pythagoras. “The Socratic project,” writes Pelling, “could
be seen as finding the right way of engaging in politics rather than avoiding
politics completely.”28 The right way, as seen in Epaminondas, is with “sober
reason,” not with the theatrics of superstition which breeds fear and hap-
hazard action. Plutarch’s defense of sober reason becomes the link between
his two heroes, between Epaminondas, the sober student, and Socrates, the
sober teacher. In his dialogue, Plutarch has endowed the city of Thebes with
a Socratic touch. And if we were to search for a Boeotian Socrates, I would cast
my vote for Simmias, who is the authority on Socrates’ daimonion. Or perhaps
the title belongs to Plutarch himself who, more actively interested in politics,
has brought into Boeotia, into Thebes, and to Epaminondas himself, the influ-
ence of the daimonion of Socrates.
Works Cited
Babut, D., “Le dialogue de Plutarque Sur le démon de Socrate. Essai d’ interprétation,”
Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Budé 1 (1984) 51–76.
Babut, D., “La part du rationalisme dans la religion de Plutarque: l’exemple du De genio
Socratis,” ICS 13.2 (1988) 431–456.
Brenk, F.E., “Time as Structure in the Daimonion of Sokrates,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.),
28 C. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Socrates,” Hermathena 179 (2005) 133.

62 boulet
Plutarchea Lovaniensia. A Miscellany of Essays on Plutarch (Berlin: Peeters, 1996) 29–

51.
Dillon, J., “Pythagoreanism in Plutarch,” in H.-G. Nesselrath (ed.), Plutarch. On the Dai-
monion of Socrates (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010) 139–144.
Donini, P., Plutarco: Il demone di Socrate (Rome: Carocci, 2017).
Geiger, J., “Intertextuality in the De Genio Socratis: The Role of Epaminondas,” Mnemo-
syne 72.5 (2018) 1–12.
Georgiadou, A., “Epaminondas and the Socratic Paradigm in the De genio Socratis,” in
L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Plutarchea Lovaniensia. A Miscellany of Essays on Plutarch
(Berlin: Peeters, 1996) 113–122.
Pelling, C., “Plutarch’s Socrates,” Hermathena 179 (2005) 105–139.
Pelling, C., “Parallel Narratives: The Liberation of Thebes in De Genio Socratis and in
Pelopidas,” in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work: “Moralia” Themes in
the “Lives”, Features of the “Lives” in the “Moralia” (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008) 539–556.
Riley, M., “The Purpose and Unity of Plutarch’s De genio Socratis,” GRBS 18 (1977) 257–
273.
Russell, D.A., “Περὶ τοῦ Σωκράτους δαιμονίου (text and translation),” in H.-G. Nesselrath
(ed.), Plutarch. On the Daimonion of Socrates (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010) 18–81.
part 2
Silence as a Literary Technique
∵
chapter 4
The Quiet Life: Silence in Plutarch’s Demetrius

Thomas C. Rose
Early in the Demetrius Plutarch offers an anecdote to illustrate that his sub-
ject was naturally kind and a loyal friend, at least in the beginning.1 Demetrius’
father Antigonus is troubled by a dream portending great things for his son’s
friend Mithridates, and, after swearing Demetrius to silence, Antigonus reveals
that he intends to kill the young man. Demetrius devises a way to honor his
oath and save his friend (4.3–4):2
Although he did not dare to make a sound or use his voice because of
his oath, he gradually drew Mithridates away from his friends, and, when
they were alone, with the butt-spike of his spear he wrote on the ground
so that his friend could see it, “Run, Mithridates!”
Mithridates takes this written warning to heart. He flees by night to Cappado-

cia and survives to found the kingdom of Pontus. As for Demetrius, his first act
of any consequence is to swear an oath of silence.3 His first words save a life,
though they cannot actually be articulated; after all, “he did not dare to make
a sound or use his voice.” Demetrius’ part in the flight of Mithridates provides
a fitting introduction to a Life in which silence plays a pivotal role. This paper
is an exploration of that silence—or rather, those silences, since silence in the
Demetrius operates in diverse ways in multiple registers. Strategies of silence
are evident in Plutarch’s tendency to diminish Demetrius’ achievements, his
suppression of material that might elicit the approval of readers, and his fail-
ure to acknowledge his sources. The Life’s most striking silence, however, lies in
its curious distribution of direct speech: Plutarch’s Demetrius, for all his flam-
boyance and spectacular ambitions, is a subject with virtually nothing to say. I
suggest that all of these silences work together in support of Plutarch’s ethical
and pedagogical aims in the Demetrius and its Roman pair, the Antony.
1 The qualifying “in the beginning” (Demetr. 4.1) is rather ominous. Henceforth all textual ref-
erences are to the Demetrius unless otherwise noted.
2 All translations are my own.
3 Demetrius kisses his father and sits next to him in an anecdote (3.2), but he does not speak
or otherwise act.
© Thomas C. Rose, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_006

66 c. rose
The Demetrius–Antony pair offers a revision of the moral program of the

Lives. In the formal prologue, the Lives of Demetrius and Antony are explicitly
identified as negative examples meant to discourage imitation (1.6), and thus
occupy a singular position in Plutarch’s biographical project.4 Plutarch justifies
the decision to insert “bad and blameworthy” (1.6) examples into his “models of
lives” (1.5) through a rather elaborate series of analogies and vignettes illustrat-
ing the pedagogical value of negative examples. Just as the Spartans compelled
helots to guzzle great quantities of unmixed wine (ἄκρατον) and then paraded
them in the dining halls of their young men as an object lesson in the dan-
gers of inebriation (1.5), Plutarch trots out Demetrius and Antony to illustrate
the hazards of a lack of self-restraint (ἀκρασία).5 These are men who “behaved
recklessly and were conspicuous for evil in the power they wielded and in their
great undertakings.” The Demetrius details its subject’s triumphs and disasters,
and these oscillations of fortune are intensified by pervasive theatrical imagery
and several striking comparisons of Demetrius to a tragic actor (18.5–6, 34.4,
41.5, 44.9).6 The primacy of tyche works against complex characterization and
the Life is a relatively straightforward portrait of sudden decline from a promis-
ing beginning.7 Plutarch’s Demetrius is a man of extraordinary gifts, but those
gifts are perverted by the incessant flattery of sycophants, especially in Athens,
4 Plutarch actually speaks of composing “one or two pairs” (1.5) as negative examples, but evi-
dently decided that the Demetrius–Antony pair was sufficient. We know for certain of only
one pair that has been lost—the Epaminondas–Scipio—and Plutarch’s treatment of these
two men, the great Boeotian hero Epaminondas in particular, was almost certainly enco-
miastic. He at least intended to write biographies of Metellus and Leonidas, but it is most
unlikely that either of these would have been “negative.” But Demetrius and Antony are hardly
Plutarch’s only morally suspect subjects, and A.V. Zadorojnyi, “Tragedy and Epic in Plutarch’s
Crassus,”Hermes 125 (1997) 172, suggests that the final series of Lives, including Nicias–Crassus,
Alcibiades–Coriolanus, Pyrrhus–Marius, and Agis, Cleomenes and the Gracchi all engage with
men whose lives provide models to be avoided.
5 Akrasia is identified as the common failing of Demetrius and Antony in the concluding
synkrisis (Comp. Demetr. et Ant. 4.6). On akrasia as a defining characteristic in the pair, see
R. Lamberton, Plutarch (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2001) 131–133.
6 On the theatricality of the Demetrius, see esp. P. de Lacy, “Biography and Tragedy in Plutarch,”
AJP 73 (1952) 159–171; A. Mastrocinque, “Demetrios tragodoumenos: propaganda e letteratura
al tempo di Demetrio Poliorcete,” Athenaeum 57 (1979) 260–276; P. Thonemann, “The Tragic
King: Demetrios Poliorketes and the City of Athens,” in O. Hekster & R. Fowler (eds.), Imagi-
nary Kings: Royal Images in the Ancient Near East, Greece and Rome (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner,
2005) 63–86; A. Chaniotis, Θεατρικότητα καὶ δημόσιος βίος στὸν ἑλληνιστικὸ κόσμο (Exarchia: Παν-
επιστημιακές Εκδόσεις Κρήτης, 2009) 111–128.
7 C. Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) 24–25;
S.G. Jacobs, Plutarch’s Pragmatic Biographies: Lessons for Statesmen and Generals in the Paral-
lel Lives (Leiden: Brill, 2017) 330–331.
the quiet life: silence in plutarch’s demetrius 67
where he is showered with an unprecedented array of divine honors. He even-

tually abandons restraint in his private affairs, fails his subjects by neglecting
the administration of justice, and devotes his talents to ends that are anything
but virtuous: sex, spectacular display, and his insatiable drive for conquest. This
moral degeneration alienates Demetrius from his subjects and allies, and leaves
him increasingly vulnerable to the caprice of fortune (35.3):
Fortune does not seem to have taken such major and sudden turns for any
other king; and in the career of no other does fortune seem to have been
so often transformed. Fortune laid him low and lifted him up, brought
him from triumph to humiliation, and from obscurity once more to the
heights of power.
1 Omissions and Minimizations in the Narrative
Demetrius Poliorcetes was an accomplished commander and gifted tactician

whose innovative approach to the attack and defense of fortified cities brought
the poliorcetic arts to their fullest expression in the early Hellenistic Age.8
Since, however, the Demetrius offers a model of how not to live, Plutarch often
diminishes or ignores Demetrius’ considerable achievements. We need par-
allel accounts and evidence to detect omissions or minimizations, of course,
and Plutarch is our only narrative source for many events in the last two
decades of Demetrius’ career. Even so, compiling a catalogue of derogations
and elisions poses no great challenge. Plutarch omits Demetrius’ successful
invasion of Cilicia in 3109 and his victory in a significant land battle near Cypri-
ote Salamis in 306.10 The brief mention of Demetrius’ sacred war against the
Aetolians in 289 (41.1) serves merely as a prelude to defeat at the hands of
Pyrrhus (41.2–4) and Plutarch ignores its successful conclusion—the restora-
tion of access to Apollo’s sanctuary at Delphi for all Greeks.11 These erasures
strengthen the portrait of Demetrius as a general who achieved little of lasting
significance (19.4, 22.1, 33.3).12 They can also heighten the tragic tenor of the
8 On the military career of Demetrius, see esp. P. Wheatley, “The Implications of ‘Polior-
cetes’: Was Demetrius the Besieger’s Nickname Ironic?” Histos 14 (2020) 152–185.
9 All dates are bce.
10 Cilicia: D.S. 20.19.5; Salamis: D.S. 20.47.2–4.
11 See F. Lefèvre, “Traité de paix entre Démétrios Poliorcète et la confédération étolienne (fin
289?),” BCH 122 (1998) 109–141.
12 For lucid analysis of the ways in which Plutarch’s presentation of Demetrius as a deterrent
68 c. rose
narrative: Plutarch skips over the Thessalian campaign of 302,13 a major offen-
sive which saw Demetrius nearly destroy Cassander, thus juxtaposing a cata-
logue of Demetrius’ worst excesses in Athens (24–28) with his account of the
disastrous Antigonid defeat at Ipsus in 301 (29).14
More noteworthy is Plutarch’s refusal to credit Demetrius for the tactical
acumen and mastery of siege craft that earned him the sobriquet Poliorcetes,
“Besieger of Cities.”15 He concedes that Demetrius constructed warships and
siege machinery capable of inspiring awe and dread in his enemies (20.9, 21.4),
but we never see any of these machines deployed effectively. As a general,
Plutarch’s Demetrius has style to burn but little substance; he is “better at
preparing a force than using it” (20.1), and his colossal flagship appears only
as a venue for a wedding banquet (32.3). In the one siege that Plutarch narrates
at any length, the spectacular but ultimately unsuccessful assault on Rhodes
(21–22), Demetrius achieves “nothing worthy of mentioning” (22.1), and the
lengthy description of Demetrius’ mammoth (and idle) siege tower, the so-
called “city-taker” (21.1–4), is an ekphrasis on a stage prop.16 Elsewhere, the bril-
liantly executed amphibious attack by which Demetrius seized Piraeus in 307
is chalked up to luck and the incompetence of his adversaries (8.4–6)17 and the
devastating direct assault on the walls of Arcadian Orchomenos is omitted.18 In
Plutarch’s account (25.1), Demetrius liberates Sicyon, Argos, and Corinth in 304
by paying off the garrisons that occupied them, but we know from other sources
that Sicyon fell to another coordinated amphibious assault (D.S. 20.102.2–3),
Argos was seized in a daring night attack,19 and Demetrius overcame deter-
example has influenced subsequent assessments of the Besieger’s career, see now Wheat-
ley, “The Implications of ‘Poliorcetes’,” 157 and passim.
13 Reported at D.S. 20.110.
14 The juxtaposition of hybris and nemesis is noted by Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony, 25.
15 On Demetrius as a master of poliorcetics, see D.S. 20.92.2–4; T.C. Rose, “Demetrius the
Besieger (and Fortifier) of Cities: A Case Study in Early Hellenistic Siege Warfare,” in
J. Armstrong & M. Trundle (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Sieges in the Ancient Mediterranean
(Leiden: Brill, 2019) 169–190; Wheatley, “The Implications of ‘Poliorcetes’,” compiles a cat-
alogue of more than 40 cities besieged and/or taken by Demetrius in the period 311–285.
16 Cf. D.S. 20.91.2–7, 20.95.1–4.
17 Cf. D.S. 20.46.
18 Cf. D.S. 20.103.5–6.
19 L. Moretti, Iscrizioni Storiche Ellenistiche, vol. 1 (Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1967) no. 39;
M. Piérart, “Note sur l’alliance entre Athènes et Argos au cours de la première guerre
du Péloponnèse: à propos de Thucydide i 107–108,” MH 44 (1987) 175–180; A. Chaniotis,
“Gedenktage der Griechen: Ihre Bedeutung für das Geschichtsbewußtsein griechischer
Poleis,” in J. Assmann & T. Sundermeier (eds.), Das Fest und das Heilige. Religiöse Kontra-
punkte zur Alltagswelt (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Mohn, 1991) 137.
mined resistance to storm Acrocorinth, perhaps the most formidable position

in all of Greece (D.S. 20.103.1–3).
Comparison with Plutarch’s detailed accounts of Aratus’ attacks on these
same three sites is instructive.20 In his breathless treatment of Aratus’ noc-
turnal assault on Corinth (Arat. 24), Plutarch highlights the strategic impor-
tance and virtual impregnability of Acrocorinth—any attempt to storm the
lofty, heavily fortified site is “clearly hopeless” (Arat. 17.1)—and describes Ara-
tus’ capture of the citadel as the last truly great deed in Greek history.21 The
radically different treatment of parallel material demonstrates the degree to
which Plutarch’s presentation and interpretation of events could be shaped by
his didactic agenda. While Demetrius provides a deterrent example, the Aratus
was written so that the man’s descendants “might be raised hearing and read-
ing about the qualities they should imitate with a member of their own family
providing the model” (Arat. 1.5). As a result, the reader whose acquaintance
with the careers of Aratus and Demetrius does not extend beyond Plutarch
might well conclude that the former was the more accomplished Besieger, even
if his attacks on fortified cities were less spectacular. By studiously avoiding
Demetrius’ exploits in the realm of siegecraft, Plutarch effectively undermines
the legitimacy of his ἐπίκλησις (“surname”). Late in the Life he suggests that the
title was less a badge of honor than a stain marking Demetrius as a champion
of injustice (42.10–11):
But Demetrius took pleasure in being known by a surname antithetical to

that of the king of the gods. For Zeus holds the titles Guardian of the City
(Polieus) and Protector of the City (Poliouchos), but Demetrius, Besieger
of the City (Poliorcetes). In this way Demetrius, by the exercise of brute
force, allowed evil to usurp the place of the good, and he bound up his
reputation with injustice.
2 Suppressing Sources
The ways in which Plutarch highlights, minimizes, or ignores material in the

service of characterization raise the issue of sources. Plutarch sometimes cites
his source for a given historical episode or anecdote, and occasionally reveals
20 Sicyon: Arat. 5–9.2; Argos: Arat. 27–29.4; Corinth: Arat. 21–24.2.

21 “But I would say that this (the capture of Acrocorinth) was the very last and latest achieve-
ment of the Greeks, and that it was on par with their best, not only in daring, but also in
the good fortune that attended it, as events at once made clear” (Arat. 24.2).
70 c. rose
whether he accessed an author directly or through an intermediary.22 In the

Demetrius, he does neither. He alludes once each to Sappho and Empedo-
cles, and on several occasions to Plato; he quotes Homer, Archilochus, Pindar,
Aristophanes, Timotheus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Philippides; he mentions
a prose work by Lynceus of Samos and a comedy by Demochares of Soli; he
puts passages from Euripides, Sophocles and Aeschylus into the mouths of
Antigonus, Demetrius, an anonymous Theban wit and an unnamed soldier.23
The quotations given in Plutarch’s own authorial voice illustrate the breadth
of his learning, but the tragic quotations attributed to historical actors in the
Life may represent material Plutarch found already embedded in the narratives
of his sources.24 But who were these sources? Virtually all of the material that
forms Plutarch’s historical narrative in the Demetrius is unattributed. With the
exception of two excerpts from a comedy by Philippides that Plutarch presents
as representative of historical reality (12.7, 26.5),25 he does not acknowledge a
single source for these portions of the work.26 This might come as something
of a shock for the reader who completes the Alexander before turning to the
biography of his most colorful Successor: in the former Life, Plutarch cites no
fewer than two-dozen historical authorities.27
Plutarch seems to draw on diverse, perhaps opposing, source traditions for
the Demetrius. The tone of the historical narrative is sometimes sympathetic
to Demetrius, while the abundant anecdotal material is almost unremittingly
hostile. In an important paper published in 1951, Waldo Sweet argued that
Hieronymus of Cardia is the ultimate source for the “historical framework”
of the Life, with the exception of events in Athens, which are drawn chiefly
from the Atthidographer Philochorus; the abundant, often scurrilous, anecdo-
22 J. Hornblower, Hieronymus of Cardia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981) 67–68.

23 Antigonus (14.3), the Theban (45.5), and the soldier (46.10) cleverly adapt passages (Eur.
Phoen. 396; Eur. Bacc. 4–5; Soph. Oed. Col. 1–2) to suit the circumstances, while Demetrius
(35.4) apparently quotes directly from a lost play of Aeschylus (TrGF III F 359).
24 G. Marasco, “Introduzione alla biografia plutarchea di Demetrio,” Sileno 7 (1981) 36.
25 The events described in the second fragment are corroborated by other sources, but some
or all of the material in the first are comic exaggerations or inventions: P. Paschidis,
Between City and King: Prosopographical Studies on the Intermediaries between the Cities
of the Greek Mainland and the Royal Courts in the Hellenistic Period (322–190bc) (Paris: Dif-
fusion de Boccard, 2008) 119–120.
26 He mentions Lynceus’ account of a dinner party arranged by Lamia (27.4) but does not
quote from it; nor indeed does he give any indication that he has seen it.
27 J. Powell, “The Sources for Plutarch’s Alexander,” JHS 59 (1939) 229–230; J.R. Hamilton,
Plutarch, Alexander. A Commentary (Bristol: Bristol University Press, 21999 [1969]) xlix–
liii; N.G.L. Hammond, Sources for Alexander the Great: An Analysis of Plutarch’s Life and
Arrian’s Anabasis Alexandrou (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993) 5–163.
tal material dealing with Demetrius’ ethos, on the other hand, derives mainly
from Duris of Samos.28 Sweet’s conclusions were shaped by his adherence to
the now discredited view that Plutarch did little original research and relied
almost entirely on intermediate sources (Mittelquellen) or recent syntheses,29
but his identification of the ultimate sources for the Demetrius remains plausi-
ble, and scholars generally agree that Plutarch draws, directly or indirectly, and
to a greater or lesser degree, on Hieronymus, Philochorus, and Duris.30
Plutarch’s unacknowledged reliance on the shadowy Duris is an important
component of silence in the Demetrius and merits further attention. The thirty-
six surviving fragments of Duris’ Macedonian history (BNJ 76 F 1–15 and 35–55)
are remarkable for both their heavy-handed moralizing and the sensationalism
of the narrative.31 A general hostility to all of Alexander’s Successors is readily
evident, as is Duris’ tendency to diminish the stature of great personalities by
stories of scandal and private vice.32 Duris’ dramatic style, love of poetic quo-
tations, and emphasis on reversals of fortune, costumes, and moral lessons has
often been dubbed “tragic history.”33 Although the associated theory that Duris
was the originator and prime exponent of a “tragic” school of historiography
adapting Peripatetic theories of tragedy to history writing was debunked long
ago,34 the theatrical quality of Duris’ surviving fragments is undeniable.35
28 W. Sweet, “Sources for Plutarch’s Demetrius,” CW 44 (1951) 178–179. Sweet argues that
Plutarch relied on an anonymous author who distilled the historical works of Hierony-
mus of Cardia and the Atthidographer Philochorus into an annalistic epitome. Plutarch,
so Sweet contends, interleaves material he found in this generally favorable annalistic epit-
ome with a collection of anecdotes mined primarily from Duris of Samos’ history of the
period.
29 Sweet, “Sources for Plutarch’s Demetrius,” 177. For a convincing demonstration that
Plutarch actually read many of the authors he cites, see C. Theander, Plutarch und die
Geschichte (Lund: Bulletin de la Societe royale des lettres de Lund, 1951).
30 E. Manni, Plutarchi Vita Demetrio Poliorcetis (Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1953) xvii–xxiii;
R. Flacelière & E. Chambry, Plutarque, Vies. Tome xiii: Démétrios–Antoine (Paris: Les Belles
Lettres, 1977) 10–13; Hornblower, Hieronymus of Cardia, 67–70; Marasco, “Introduzione alla
biografia plutarchea di Demetrio”; O. Andrei & R. Scuderi (eds.), Plutarco. Vitae parallele:
Demetrio e Antonio (Milan: BUR, 62011) 42–49; L. Santi Amantini, C. Carena & M. Man-
fredini (eds.), Plutarco. Le Vite di Demetrio e di Antonio (Milan: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla,
1995) xxi–xxiv.
31 F. Pownall, “Duris of Samos and the Diadochi,” in V.A. Troncoso & E. Anson (eds.), After
Alexander: The Time of the Diadochi (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2013) 43.
32 Pownall, “Duris of Samos,” 52–53.
33 So, Jacoby FGrHist 2C 117–118.
34 F.W. Walbank, “Tragic History: A Reconsideration,”BICS 2 (1955) 4–14; F.W. Walbank, “His-
tory and Tragedy,” Historia 9 (1960) 216–234.
35 A. Chaniotis, “Empathy, Emotional Display, Theatricality and Illusion in Hellenistic Histo-
72 c. rose
Duris’ work elicited wildly divergent reactions in antiquity: Phylarchus imi-

tated his style and mined his work for material on the Successors,36 but Poly-
bius never mentions him; Didymus criticizes him for “indulging in marvels,”
while Cicero lauded Duris as a homo in historia diligens.37 Plutarch was firmly
in the camp of the detractors. In the Demosthenes (23.4), he contrasts Duris’
account of events after the destruction of Thebes with those of “the more reli-
able authorities,” while those who say that Eumenes had ties of guest friendship
with Philip ii “give a more plausible version” than Duris, who claimed humble
origins for Eumenes (Eum. 1.1–3). Most damning is Plutarch’s devastating cri-
tique of Duris’ reliability in the Pericles (Plu. Per. 2–3 = BNJ 76 F 67). He claims
that Duris’ account of the aftermath of the Samian revolt of 440 “turns these
events into a tragedy,” and he “appears to lie” when he accuses Pericles and the
Athenians of carrying out atrocities on Samos (although Plutarch cannot resist
relating some of the more gruesome details of Duris’ account). None of this
comes as a surprise for Plutarch, however, since “Duris does not customarily
ground his narrative in truth, even when he has no personal interest in events;
it seems more likely that here he has given a dreadful portrayal of the misfor-
tunes of his native land to slander the Athenians” (Per. 28.3).
Despite his low estimation of Duris’ methodology and reliability, Plutarch
cited him as a source in the Lives of Pericles, Alcibiades, Alexander, Lysander,
Phocion and Demosthenes,38 and it seems clear that he is an unacknowl-
edged source for the Demetrius. Plutarch’s description of Demetrius’ fabulous
wardrobe, including a cloak emblazoned with the signs of the zodiac (41.6–
8) corresponds almost exactly with Duris Fragment 14 (BNJ 76 F 14 = Athen.
12.535E–536A); epigraphic evidence demonstrates that the Dionysia in Athens
was renamed as the Dionysia and Demetrieia, but both Duris and Plutarch refer
to the festival as the Demetria (BNJ 76 F 14; Demetr. 12.1); Plutarch’s preoccupa-
tion with Demetrius’ clothing suggests the influence of Duris (9.7, 44.9); his
account of Demetrius’ final alcoholic days in captivity (52.5) may be drawn
from Duris (BNJ 76 F 15), who seems to have claimed that Demetrius drank
himself to death;39 finally, the description of Demetrius’ funeral ceremony off
riography,” in A. Chaniotis & P. Ducrey (eds.), Emotions in Greece and Rome: Texts, Images,
Material Culture (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2013) 67–69; C. Baron, “Comedy and History,
Theory and Evidence in Duris of Samos,” Histos Supplement 6 (2017) 211–239.
36 Jacoby FGrHist 81; R.B. Kebrick, In the Shadow of Macedon: Duris of Samos (Wiesbaden:
Franz Steiner, 1977) 11.
37 Didym. de Demosth. 12.50 = BNJ 76 T 7; Cic. ad Att. 6.1.18 = BNJ 76 T 6.
38 In addition to the passages cited above, see Alc. 32.2; Lys. 18.3; Alex. 15.2, 46.2; Phoc. 4.3;
Dem. 17.10, 19.3.
39 F. Pownall, “Duris of Samos (76),” in I. Worthington (ed.), Brill’s New Jacoby (Leiden: Brill
Online, 2009) F 15.
Corinth (53.1) strongly resembles an account of the dramatic return of Alcibi-

ades to Athens which Plutarch attributes to Duris (Plu. Alc. 34.2 = BNJ 76 F 76).
Duris’ moral program consistently links luxury, extravagant display and exces-
sive drinking with both political and military failure.40 In both tone and recur-
ring themes, the Demetrius resonates powerfully with the surviving fragments
of Duris, and it seems almost certain that Plutarch’s depiction of Demetrius
owes much to the Samian historian.
Plutarch was fully alive to the biases of contemporary sources, and he recog-
nized the obstacles that hostile sources placed in the way of historical research.
“Truth,” he tells us in the Pericles, “is so elusive and hard to capture by research,
since those who come after the events in question find that the passage of time
occludes their proper perception of them; while contemporary research into
men’s deeds and lives, partly through envy and hatred and partly through indul-
gence and flattery, corrupts and distorts the truth” (Per. 13.16). After relating
some scandalous accusations leveled at Alcibiades by Antiphon, Plutarch con-
cedes that “these things are perhaps unworthy of belief, since they come from
one who admits that he abused Alcibiades out of hatred” (Plu. Alc. 3.2). Such
sensitivity is nowhere evident in the Demetrius. Plutarch uncritically includes
material drawn from the comic poet Philippides, a friend and courtier of Lysi-
machus (12.8; IG ii3 1 877), Demetrius’ most bitter rival, and is clearly reliant,
perhaps heavily so, on Duris, an authority whose objectivity and veracity he
savages elsewhere. For many modern commentators this is at best methodolog-
ical inconsistency, at worst bald hypocrisy.41 Waldo Sweet protested that “a man
of Plutarch’s unquestioned integrity would not have made extensive and unac-
knowledged use of an author whom he knew to be unreliable”, arguing that
Plutarch must have used Duris unwittingly.42 Robert Kebrick agreed, declaring
that if Plutarch consciously relied on Duris, “then his credibility as a historical
critic must be severely challenged.”43 But it is unlikely that these accusations
would have given Plutarch a moment’s pause: his primary goals, at least in the
Demetrius, were ethical and didactic, not historical, and the scandalous anec-
dotal material that originated in the work of hostile historians or in the courts of
Demetrius’ enemies suited his purposes perfectly. In crafting a portrait of a man
40 Pownall, “Duris of Samos (76).”

41 Criticism of this sort has a venerable history: E. Meyer, Forschungen zur alten Geschichte,
vol. 2 (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1899) 66–67, and F. Leo, Die griechisch–römische Biographie
nach ihrer litterarischen Form (Leipzig: Teubner, 1901) 175–177, both censured Plutarch for
ambivalence.
42 Sweet, “Sources for Plutarch’s Demetrius,” 181.
43 Kebrick, In the Shadow of Macedon, 60.
74 c. rose
“conspicuous for evil” Plutarch quite naturally sought out material highlighting
Demetrius’ vices. If he found this material in the work of less credible authors,
even those whom he had previously censured or deemed unreliable, so be it.
Subjecting his sources to the degree of scrutiny he applies in other Lives with
different goals could only undermine his primary aims. If Plutarch’s Demetrius
is to be convincing as a negative example, his reliance on discreditable sources
must be suppressed. Thus, no mention of Duris in the Demetrius.
3 The Silent Subject: Direct Speech in the Demetrius
We have seen that Plutarch gives an account of Demetrius’ career that is shorn
of many highlights and based on sources that he chooses not to reveal. But it is
Plutarch’s distribution of direct speech that makes the most powerful contribu-
tion to the negative characterization of his subject, and scrutiny of that speech
reveals the Life’s most striking and unexpected silence—that of Demetrius
himself. Indeed, the Demetrius is liberally spiced with witty remarks and reveal-
ing sayings, but these are almost always put into the mouths of others. We hear
most often from the elder Antigonus, who is ever ready with a joke or a clever
adaptation of a passage from the tragic poets. This accords well with Antigonus’
unusual prominence in the biography of his son—his name is the first word in
the text (2.1)44 and Plutarch begins the concluding synkrisis with the claim that
Demetrius’ power and fame were “acquired and handed down to him by his
father” (Comp. Demetr. et Ant. 1.1). In one of the more poignant passages in the
Life, Plutarch records Antigonus’ last words. Routed in battle and deserted by
most of his troops, the old king bravely faces the approaching enemy and pro-
fesses confidence in his son to the very end: “Demetrius will come to my aid”
(29.7). But Demetrius does not deliver his father; the old man falls in a hail of
javelins and his corpse lies abandoned by all but a single retainer (29.8). The
image lingers, and Antigonus’ last words echo as a testament to the fatal con-
sequences of his misplaced faith.
The elder Antigonus is not the only memorable speaker in the Life. The
philosopher Stilpo (9.10), the poet Philippides (12.9), Seleucus and the physi-
cian Erasistratus (38.6–8), Demochares (24.10), Demetrius’ son Antigonus
Gonatas (40.3), even the hetaera Mania (27.10) all display their wit and wis-
dom in direct speech. Demetrius is generally silent, or his speech is reported
44 The first word, that is, in the Demetrius proper; the first chapter is the formal prologue to
the Demetrius–Antony pair.
indirectly, even though Plutarch had ample opportunity to put words in the
mouth of his subject. Pompeius Trogus seems to have recorded a long speech
by which Demetrius convinced the Macedonians to acclaim him as king (Justin
16.10–17). In Plutarch’s parallel account he says nothing: we are told there was
“no need for long speeches” (37.2) and the Macedonians elevate Demetrius only
because there is no other acceptable candidate to hand. In a brilliant set piece,
Demetrius enters the Theater of Dionysus through the parados, “just like the
tragic actors” (34.4), to address the assembled Athenians, but Plutarch sum-
marizes his speech in indirect discourse.45 When Demetrius and his army are
reduced to desperate straits in Cilicia, he writes to Seleucus “a letter amount-
ing to a lengthy lamentation for his fortune” (47.3), but Plutarch does not
quote from it. He speaks 48 words in the Life, including articles and parti-
cles. That paltry sum is reduced to 37 if we exclude his quotation of Aeschy-
lus and his written warning to Mithridates. Seleucus (44 words) surpasses this
total in a single exchange with the physician Erasistratus (37.7–8); Antigonus
(84 words) is given nearly twice as much direct speech, and he dies halfway
through the Life. In those moments when he is drowned out by his father and
his rival, Demetrius is reduced to a minor player in the tragedy that bears his
name.
Direct speech in the Antony warrants its own investigation, but suffice it to
say that Antony, like Demetrius, is often subordinated within his own Life by
the distribution of direct speech. Antony says very little (72 words; 54 if we
exclude the quotation from a letter to Octavian), and Cleopatra (222 words),
whose appeal is explicitly linked to her extraordinary rhetorical and linguis-
tic power—her tongue is likened to “an instrument with many strings” (Ant.
27.4)—more than triples his total output. If we extend the comparison to other
Lives, we find that Demetrius is more laconic than Lycurgus (42 words)46 or
Lysander (120 words);47 his protégé Pyrrhus (187 words) is a regular chatter-
box in comparison, despite his purportedly deformed jaw and lack of teeth
45 Although, in a different account of the same events (Reg. et imp. apophth. 183B), Plutarch
records, in direct discourse, Demetrius’ generous response to an Athenian pedant who
corrects the king’s grammar!
46 Lycurgus himself speaks very little, but his Life features a great deal of direct speech, most
of it from Spartans testifying to the wisdom and efficacy of Lycurgus’ reforms. Plutarch
evinces little confidence in the sayings attributed to his most chronologically distant sub-
jects (Lyc. 19.4). For example, Theseus is never directly quoted, nor is Romulus, although
his ghost addresses a patrician on the road outside Rome (Rom. 28.2–3).
47 Demetrius is in fact more laconic than any of Plutarch’s Spartan subjects: Agesilaus speaks
374 words (of which 18 are quotations from his letters), Agis 83 words and Cleomenes 201
words (184 if we exclude a quotation from one of his letters).
76 c. rose
(Pyrrh. 3.6). Indeed, all of Plutarch’s Hellenistic subjects are given more direct
speech than Demetrius. This is hardly unexpected in the case of Alexander or
the famous Attic orators, Demosthenes and Phocion,48 but even Eumenes (171
words), in the shortest Life of all, has considerably more to say than Deme-
trius.49 In fact, Demetrius is so taciturn that an examination of every word he
actually speaks in the Life will not detain us long.
1. After storming Megara and ejecting Cassander’s garrison, Demetrius
extends every courtesy to the philosopher Stilpo, although his troops
seem to have engaged in some looting. As Demetrius prepares to return
to Athens he proclaims, “Your city, Stilpo, I leave in freedom.” “You speak
the truth,” replied Stilpo, “for you haven’t left behind any of our slaves”
(9.9–10).
2. Plutarch records in succession two exchanges between Demetrius and the
hetaera Mania. In the first, he asks Mania’s opinion of another courtesan,
the legendary Lamia: “What do you think of her?” Mania replied, “she’s
an old woman, King.” And at another time, when some delicacies were
served up, and Demetrius said to Mania, “Do you see how many gifts I
get from Lamia?” “My mother,” said Mania, “will send you more if you are
willing to sleep with her” (27.10–11).
3. Just before the climactic Battle of Ipsus, Demetrius is visited by Alexan-
der in a dream. When Demetrius informs the great conqueror that “Zeus
and Victory” (29.2) will be his watchwords, Alexander storms off to aid
Demetrius’ rivals—“Alexander and Victory” was evidently the correct
response.
4. After yet another reversal, he rails against Fortune with a quotation from
Aeschylus: “It’s you that puffs me up, you that burns me down” (35.4).
5. He springs a plot against Cassander’s son Alexander with a curt order: “kill
the one who follows me” (36.12).
6. He snaps at his son Antigonus Gonatas in a dispute over the mounting
casualties in his siege of Thebes: “Why, father, are we allowing the lives of
these men to be squandered for no reason?” But Demetrius was furious,
and said, “Why does it bother you? Or do you owe rations to the dead?”
(40.4–5).
7. His last reported words come in an exchange with a Spartan embassy con-
48 Demosthenes speaks 215 words (213 if we exclude the salutation of his suicide note to
Antipater). Alexander and Phocion both speak considerably more than Demosthenes, but
I have not tallied the output of either.
49 Philopoemen, in another very short Life, speaks 61 words. The Aratus was not written as
part of the Parallel Lives, but Aratus (91 words), too, speaks more than Demetrius.
sisting of a single ambassador: “What do you mean? Have the Lacedaemo-

nians sent only one envoy?” The Spartan replied, “Yes, King, for one man.”
(42.3).
Plutarch uses speech to reveal character and expects his readers to scrutinize
the speech of his biographical subjects.50 In a famous passage from the pro-
logue to the Alexander–Caesar (Alex. 1.2–3), he maintains that “a little matter
like a phrase or some jest” often reflects character more clearly than epic battles
and sieges of cities.51 As a model and a precedent, Alexander looms large in the
Demetrius, and Demetrius almost always fares poorly in comparison.52 This cer-
tainly holds true in the realm of direct speech, and not just because Alexander
has so much more to say than Demetrius. Plutarch allows Alexander’s character
to be revealed directly by what he says about himself,53 especially in the early
chapters of the Life. We know that Plutarch’s Alexander is regal (Alex. 4.10),
ambitious (Alex. 5.4), precocious and preternaturally self-confident (Alex. 6.2–
4), sensitive to perceived slights (Alex. 9.8), possessed of a philosophical nature
(Alex. 14.5) and aware that mere wealth cannot confer kingship (Alex. 20.13)
because Alexander tells us as much. But there is little to learn from Demetrius’
own rhemata and paideia, and little doubt that Plutarch meant for his readers
to note and be troubled by this lack of ethopoeia. Unlike Alexander, Demetrius
does not define himself in his own words; instead, his inadequacies are high-
lighted by his interlocutors. Demetrius is almost invariably left speechless in
exchanges, outwitted by a prostitute (#2) and out-Laconized by a Spartan (#7).
Stilpo’s riposte (#1) reveals the absurdity of Demetrius’ single noble pronounce-
ment. The one instance in which Demetrius gets the last word, his exchange
with Gonatas before Thebes (#6), serves only to illustrate his callousness. His
nocturnal interaction with Alexander betrays a man that cannot even speak
effectively in his dreams (#3). After the one-man Spartan embassy skewers
50 B. Buzsard, “The Speech of Greek and Roman Women in Plutarch’s Lives,” CP 10 (2010) 85.
51 T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999)
17–20, warns against taking this passage as a programmatic statement for Plutarch’s bio-
graphical project, but the Demetrius–Antony pair does follow it quite closely; cf. Pelling,
Plutarch: Life of Antony, 12.
52 G.W.M. Harrison, “The Semiotics of Plutarch’s Συγκρίσεις: The Hellenistic Lives of Deme-
trius–Antony and Agesilaus–Pompey,” RBPh 73 (1995) 92–93, argues that all of Plutarch’s
Hellenistic subjects are compared, implicitly and explicitly, to standards established in the
Alexander; cf. S. Asirvatham, “The Memory of Alexander in Plutarch’s Lives of Demetrios,
Pyrrhos, and Eumenes,” in T. Howe & F. Pownall (eds.), Ancient Macedonians in Greek and
Roman Sources: From History to Historiography (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2018)
217–218. On the role of Alexander in the Demetrius, see esp. Lamberton, Plutarch, 130–134;
Asirvatham, “The Memory of Alexander,” 219–229.
53 Hamilton, Plutarch, Alexander, xlviii.
78 c. rose
Demetrius’ pretensions to majesty with a two-word reply (#7), the king never
speaks again. He has nothing to say as he aims to recapture the lost empire
of his father and assembles a force “the likes of which no one had possessed
since the time of Alexander” (44.1), and nothing to say when this grand scheme
comes crashing down. He is given no final words before he drinks himself to
death as a captive of his former son-in-law Seleucus (52.5). Demetrius’ rela-
tive silence throughout the Life, like his singular vulnerability to the whims of
fortune,54 suggests both a certain lack of agency and a fundamental inauthen-
ticity;55 the complete absence of his voice in the final eleven chapters heightens
the effect.56 His inability to speak for himself works in concert with the persis-
tent theatrical imagery and the minimization of his successes to amplify the
sense that Demetrius is simply going through the motions, adopting in turn
the roles of dutiful son, divine king and would-be world conqueror, but find-
ing success and contentment in none. Plutarch’s Demetrius is the cherished
son who fails his father, the pale imitation of Alexander who achieves little, the
acting king without any lines to deliver.
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de Lund, 1951).
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East, Greece and Rome (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2005) 63–86.
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Walbank, F.W., “History and Tragedy,” Historia 9 (1960) 216–234.
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chapter 5
Fine-Tuning Portraits in the Lives: Omissions that

Clarify the Lessons in Leadership
Susan G. Jacobs
In the scholarship on the sources and techniques Plutarch employed in com-

posing the Parallel Lives, it is generally agreed that Plutarch worked with a vari-
ety of sources and selected the incidents and details that would spark reflection
and self-improvement in his readers.1 In the process, Plutarch included some
incidents, excluded others, and embellished or perhaps even independently
inserted still more. In the end, the Lives illustrate both the influence of moral
virtues or flaws on a leader’s decisions as well as the connection between those
decisions and their consequences for the statesman and his state. In making
these connections between moral character, political or military actions and
the subsequent benefit or injury to the state, Plutarch provided lessons in effec-
tive and ineffective leadership that his readers could apply in their own careers
in imperial service or in provincial roles. Individual Lives tend to highlight
1 For discussions of Plutarch’s objectives in the Lives, see C. Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) and “The Moralism of Plutarch’s Lives,” in
D.C. Innes, H.M. Hine & C. Pelling (eds.), Ethics and Rhetoric: Classical Essays for Donald Rus-
sell on his Seventy-Fifth Birthday (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995) 205–220 [reprinted in
C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 237–252]; T.E. Duff,
Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), “Plato,
Tragedy, the Ideal Reader and Plutarch’s Demetrius and Antony,” Hermes 132 (2004) 271–
291, and “Plutarch’s Readers and the Moralism of the Lives,” Ploutarchos n.s. 5 (2007) 3–18;
P.A. Stadter, “The Proems of Plutarch’s Lives,” ICS 13.2 (1988) 275–295, “Plutarch’s Lives: The
Statesman as Moral Actor,” in A. Schrader, J. Vela & V. Ramon (eds.), Plutarco y la historia.
Actas del v simposio español sobre Plutarco (Zaragoza: Prensas de la Universidad de Zaragoza,
1997) 65–81 [reprinted in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 2015) 215–230], “The Rhetoric of Virtue in Plutarch’s Lives,” in L. Van der Stockt
(ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 493–510 [reprinted
in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 231–
245], “Plutarch’s Lives and their Roman Readers,” in E.N. Ostenfeld (ed.), Greek Romans and
Roman Greeks: Studies in Cultural Interaction (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2002) 123–135
[reprinted in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2015) 45–55], and “Mirroring Virtue and Plutarch’s Lives,” Ploutarchos n.s. 1 (2003/2004) 89–
95; and S.G. Jacobs, Plutarch’s Pragmatic Biographies: Lessons for Statesmen and Generals in
the Parallel Lives (Leiden: Brill, 2017).
© Susan G. Jacobs, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_007

82 jacobs
particular qualities of character and a narrow set of political or military chal-

lenges, while de-emphasizing other qualities or challenges faced by the hero.
The question at the center of the present analysis is, therefore, as follows:
how did Plutarch use silence regarding particular details or episodes in the his-
torians to amplify the themes he intended to emphasize in a Life? In particular,
I will ask how Plutarch’s silences about details in Thucydides, Xenophon and
Livy enabled him to more effectively convey the intended lessons in leadership
in Alcibiades, Agesilaus and Fabius Maximus. I will begin with brief discussions,
first, of the various reasons Plutarch might omit well-known details or episodes
and, secondly, of the components of what I call ‘lessons in leadership’ that
are brought into sharper focus through Plutarch’s silences. Then, I will exam-
ine incidents described in the historians that were excluded from Alcibiades,
Agesilaus and Fabius Maximus and how these omissions clarify the lessons in
leadership in each of these Lives.
1 Reasons for Silences on Details from Histories
Plutarch’s comments distinguishing lives from history make it clear that his
Lives would not include all the details found in histories but would present
those episodes that gave insight into the character of the hero.2 While he states
this explicitly at Alexander 1.1–3 and Galba 2.5, the principle would apply to all
the Lives. Indeed, in some Lives Plutarch abbreviates his own account of a battle
and refers readers to historical accounts for additional detail, as, for example,
at Fabius 16.6 where readers are referred to histories for more particulars about
events after Cannae. By being selective about incidents which were included
or excluded, Plutarch could create a stronger image of his heroes’ strengths
or weaknesses by minimizing or eliminating actions that illustrated the oppo-
site.
Another reason for silence is to prevent duplication of material already dis-
cussed in another Life. For example, at Cato Minor 54.10, Plutarch refers readers
to Pompey for details about Dyrrachium, and at Alcibiades 13.9, Plutarch refers
to a broader discussion of the ostracism of Hyperbolus elsewhere (Nic. 11). Sim-
2 See Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 13–51, for a discussion of this topic. Additional analysis of insights
from the prologues can be found in Stadter, “The Proems of Plutarch’s Lives”; T.E. Duff, “How
Lives Begin,” in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work: “Moralia” Themes in the
“Lives”, Features of the “Lives” in the “Moralia” (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008) 187–208, “The Struc-
ture of the Plutarchan Book,” ClAnt 30.2 (2011) 213–278, and “The Prologues,” in M. Beck (ed.),
A Companion to Plutarch (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) 187–208.
fine-tuning portraits in the lives 83
ilarly, brief treatment of major battles in one Life may reflect that the battle was
more fully described in another. Thus, Pharsalus is treated in Pompey, but not
in Antony; and Leuctra is barely mentioned in Agesilaus, having been covered,
presumably, in Epaminondas, which is referenced at Ages. 28.6. Such omissions
are common in groups of Lives whose heroes were contemporaries, as in the
case of Lysander, Epaminondas, Pelopidas and Agesilaus, and of Marcellus and
Fabius Maximus, not to mention the Roman Lives of the late Republic, as shown
by Christopher Pelling.3
Finally, omissions enable Plutarch to magnify specific strengths or weak-
nesses and sharpen the similarities or differences versus the hero in the paired
Life. Often, Plutarch reports only one motive when several are presented in
the history or does not mention setbacks or failures in an area where Plutarch
wants to emphasize competency. Fabius’ opposition to Scipio, which will be
discussed below, is one example.
2 Lessons in Effective Leadership
The key concern for the analysis here is how such silences impact the lessons in
leadership that Plutarch provides in his Lives. Plutarch’s lessons in leadership
comprise guidance both in cultivating moral character and in solving the prac-
tical problems of political and military leadership. I have listed below the areas
of concern for statesmen as discussed in Praecepta gerendae reipublicae, which
addresses not only the need to cultivate one’s reputation for moral integrity, but
also the challenges of managing relations with the people, colleagues, oppo-
nents, and foreign entities:4
1. Establishing a reputation for moral integrity (800B–801B)
2. Eloquence and persuasiveness (801C–804C)
3. Relations with the people (799B–801B, 818A–824A)
4. Managing friendships (807A–809A)
5. Managing enmities and rivalries (809B–811A)
6. Sharing power with others (811B–813D)
3 See, for instance, C. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Adaptation of his Source-Material,” JHS 100 (1980)
127–140 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002)
91–116] and “Plutarch and Roman Politics,” in I.S. Moxon, J.D. Smart & A.J. Woodman (eds.),
Past Perspectives: Studies in Greek and Roman Historical Writing (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 1986) 156–187 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical
Press of Wales, 2002) 207–236].
4 In the public arena, cultivating moral character is important not only for its own sake—to
ensure that a leader is being guided by reason rather than passion or appetite—but also
because it fosters a trustworthy reputation and ready acceptance of a leader’s advice.
84 jacobs
7. Conducting diplomacy with an overlord (813D–816A)

8. Cooperating with colleagues (816A–817F)
Each of the Parallel Lives highlights a few of these challenges while de-empha-
sizing others, and across the entire series each challenge is addressed from var-
ied perspectives. Thus, for example, relations with the people is a central topic
in Pericles, Fabius Maximus, Coriolanus, Alcibiades, Phocion and Cato Minor,
but each Life presents the hero confronting a different situation—such as a
city amidst prosperity, crisis, or civic unrest—and variously illustrates how
relations with the people are impacted by a reputation for virtue or vice, by
willingness or refusal to compromise, and by toleration or resentment of oppo-
nents. Ultimately, lessons in leadership come from the combined insights from
these Lives.
Similarly, a range of pragmatic challenges faces military leaders in the Lives,
as listed below. Although Plutarch did not write a “Military Precepts,” he does
portray the same universal challenges of military command that are presented
in works by other authors, such as the Strategicus of Onasander and the Strate-
gemata of Frontinus, as can be seen in the following list (with the relevant
references to those authors in parentheses):
1. Moral traits that build trust (Onas. 1–2)
2. Ways to inspire troops (Onas. 13, 14)
3. Interaction with officers (Onas. 2.1)
4. Forming an advisory council (Onas. 3)
5. Handling prisoners (Onas. 38, 42)
6. Stratagems before battle (Front. 1)
7. Stratagems during battle (Front. 2)
8. Stratagems for sieges/defense (Front. 3)
Further, pragmatic challenges include deliberating about engaging the enemy
or avoiding battle; identifying tactics suitable to the forces and geography at
hand; overcoming unexpected setbacks; and assessing the strengths and weak-
nesses of one’s adversary. Thus, for instance, Plutarch across the Lives often
describes a hero deliberating ahead of battle, such as Aemilius Paulus before
Pydna (Aem. 17), Pompey before Pharsalus (Pomp. 66–67), and Fabius and Mar-
cellus when they face Hannibal (e.g., Fab. 5.1–3; Marc. 24.1–2).
3 Silences That Clarify the Lessons in Leadership
To assess the impact of omissions on the lessons conveyed in specific Lives, I

will compare details included in the Lives with those included in historians.
Thus, Alcibiades is compared with Thucydides and Xenophon’s Hellenica, Age-
silaus with Xenophon’s Hellenica, and Fabius Maximus with Livy. The central
question is how Plutarch’s omissions influence the reader’s perception of the
hero’s moral qualities or his effectiveness in political leadership or military
command. Furthermore, to what extent does this ‘fine-tuning’ facilitate com-
parison and contrast to the qualities of the hero in the paired Life as well as to
the heroes across the entire series.
3.1 Alcibiades
To examine the effects of omitting details from historians, we turn first to Alcibi-
ades. While the Coriolanus-Alcibiades pair has no prologue that could provide
a summary overview of Alcibiades as a leader, Praecepta gerendae reipublicae
includes one such comment, when Plutarch uses Alcibiades to illustrate the
principle that a leader must cultivate his moral character because people care
about what leaders do in their private as well as public lives (Praec. ger. reip.
800D):5
What need is there, for instance, to speak of Alcibiades, who, though he

was the most active of all the citizens in public affairs and was undefeated
as general, was ruined by his audacious and dissolute habits in private life,
and, because of his extravagance and lack of restraint, deprived the state
of the benefits of his other good qualities.
Here, Plutarch echoes Thucydides’ comment (Th. 6.15.4) that, even though
Alcibiades managed the affairs of the war excellently, Athenians were so
offended by his private life that they entrusted the state to others and “brought
it to ruin.”6 This perception that Alcibiades’ outlandish conduct in private life
undermined his effectiveness as a leader is central to the Life as well, where
Plutarch, at Alcibiades 16.1–3, describes the divided opinion that pushes Alcibi-
ades from power at critical moments for Athens.
The synkrisis points to additional areas of effective leadership that are
emphasized in this pair of Lives: relations with the people (Comp. Alc. et Cor.
1.3–4), generalship (1.1–2), conduct in exile (2.8–9), and willingness to recon-
cile with one’s state (2.5–6). In all these areas—but especially in their conduct
in exile and willingness to reconcile—Plutarch’s silences about certain details
in Thucydides help sharpen the contrast he draws between the two men.7
5 Translations are my modifications of those found in the Loeb editions.

6 Discussion of this passage can be found in C. Pelling, “Plutarch and Thucydides,” in P.A.
Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the Historical Tradition (London: Routledge, 1992) 10–40 [reprinted
in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 117–142].
7 See Appendix A for a full list of the silences.
86 jacobs
First, with respect to Alcibiades’ record as a general and military strategist,

the omissions lend credibility to the notion that Alcibiades was invincible as a
general and that Athens was ruined because he was not in command. Plutarch
weeds out details in Thucydides that show Alcibiades’ errors in military judg-
ment. For instance, in the Sicilian debate (Alc. 17), Plutarch focuses only on
Alcibiades’ dreams of conquest, but leaves out Thucydides’ account of Alcibi-
ades’ misconceptions about the nature of a war in Sicily, in which Alcibiades
argued that Athens would face forces which were disorganized and inexperi-
enced and that Sicilian cities would readily join Athens’ cause (Th. 6.48, 50,
52)—notions challenged by Nicias (in Thucydides) as dangerous mispercep-
tions (Th. 6.20–21). Plutarch is also silent about Alcibiades’ initial failures to
quickly win over Messina and Camara as allies on arrival in Sicily (Th. 6.50, 52),
fostering the impression that Alcibiades’ expectations were unrealized only
because of his recall to Athens (a perception attributed to the people at Alc.
32.3–4).
In presenting Alcibiades’ conduct in exile, Plutarch selectively excludes
details to skew emphasis away from the first exile and toward Alcibiades’ efforts
to aid Athens during the second. Plutarch abbreviates coverage of Alcibiades’
actions in Ionia and leaves out Thucydides’ details about events in Chios,
Teos and Miletus (Th. 8.14–19). However, for the period after Alcibiades’ recall,
Plutarch describes each of the major battles fought on behalf of Athens, as
described in Xenophon.8 By scaling back the account of Alcibiades’ actions
against Athens, Plutarch amplifies his victories on behalf of Athens and makes
his praiseworthy conduct at Aegospotami more prominent in the Life and
synkrisis.
Finally, with regard to Alcibiades’ efforts to secure his recall, Plutarch omits
a variety of details associated with Alcibiades’ interactions with Tissaphernes.
He sidesteps the theatrics that dominate Thucydides’ account of how Alcibi-
ades tried to manipulate the Athenians to recall him by promising to secure
Tissaphernes’ fleet (Th. 8.52–56). Instead, Plutarch simply states that Alcibi-
ades “held out the hope that he might bring Tissaphernes over to be their
friend” (Alc. 25.5). Moreover, Alcibiades’ actions to engineer a breakdown in
Athens’ negotiations with Tissaphernes—by inflating the demands on Athens
to unacceptable levels (Th. 8.56)—is totally left out. These omissions not only
8 Again see Appendix A. Similarly, Plutarch only refers to Alcibiades’ advice to Tissaphernes to
scale back his assistance and let the two sides wear themselves out (Alc. 25.1–2) without pro-
viding Thucydides’ details of Alcibiades’ advice to reduce sailors’ pay, limit access to money,
and hold back the fleet (Th. 8.45.2–8.56; cf. Alc. 26.1–6).
reinforce the impression that Alcibiades was biding his time, longing for recall
to the native city he loved, but also set up a cleaner contrast with Coriolanus’
relentless efforts to harm Rome.
3.2 Agesilaus
In contrast to Alcibiades, Plutarch’s Agesilaus includes more embellishments
of Xenophon’s Hellenica than silences: essentially, Plutarch overlays the basic
sequence of events in Xenophon with motives and causal links that validate the
comparisons in the synkrisis. Nevertheless, there are a few points worth men-
tioning.
First, as in the case of Alcibiades, the criticisms of Agesilaus in Praecepta
gerendae reipublicae as a man who mistreated his mentor, Lysander (Praec. ger.
reip. 805F) and who, in the affairs of Phoebidas and Sphodrias, distorted jus-
tice to the detriment of Sparta (807F; 808B), are both echoed in the synkrisis.
Agesilaus’ mistreatment of his mentor, Lysander, the prime deterrent example
mentioned in the Praecepta, is cited in the synkrisis as an area in which Age-
silaus’ conduct contrasts unfavorably to Pompey’s treatment of Sulla (Comp.
Ages. et Pomp. 1.3); similarly, the criticism of Agesilaus for helping his friends
circumvent justice is echoed in the synkrisis (Comp. Ages. et Pomp. 1.6).
Neither of these points is impacted by silences.9 However, in the area of mili-
tary acumen and enmity towards Thebes—topics which are not emphasized in
the synkrisis—Plutarch’s use of silences to fine-tune the portrait in the Life can
be seen.10 First, with respect to Agesilaus as a general, Plutarch largely follows
Xenophon in depicting Agesilaus’ strategies and victories in Asia, but he leaves
out the defeat of Agesilaus’ cavalry in one incident in Asia (HG 3.4.13–14), as
well as details that illustrate proficiency in generalship in areas such as encour-
aging soldiers (at HG 3.4.16–18 and 4.2.5–6), deceiving the enemy (5.4.48) or
moving troops out of danger (6.5.18–19). Such silences reinforce the percep-
tion of Agesilaus as unconquered and keep the spotlight on the opportunity
lost in Asia when Agesilaus was recalled.11 Secondly, Plutarch magnifies Age-
silaus’ conflict with Thebes by abbreviating or leaving out his actions against
the Corinthians (HG 4.5.3–4), Acarnanians (4.6.5–12), Phleians (5.3.10–25) and
Thespians (5.4.55). The portrait of Agesilaus as central to issues of war or peace
9 Other points of comparison highlighted in the synkrisis include the following: Agesilaus’
ready obedience to orders from Sparta (Comp. Ages. et Pomp. 2.5–6); his use of laws to ben-
efit his city rather than himself (2.3–4); his refusal to abandon the city (3.4–5); and that he
chose his own time for battle (4.1).
10 See Appendix B for the full list of omissions.
11 A point also expressed at Ages. 15.4.
88 jacobs
with Thebes is further aided by suppressing details in Xenophon that attribute

decisions to Sparta, not to Agesilaus, such as the debate before the Spartan
assembly over how to deal with Phoebidas (HG 5.2.33–34). By presenting Agesi-
laus, as the decision maker, Plutarch can more directly tie the battle of Leuctra
to Agesilaus’ relentless animosity towards Thebes, the central lesson of the
Life.
3.3 Fabius Maximus

Unlike Coriolanus–Alcibiades and Agesilaus–Pompey, the Pericles–Fabius Max-
imus pair includes a prologue which provides an initial statement about the
qualities of Fabius as a leader (Per. 2.5):
The men were alike in their virtues, and more especially in their mildness
and justice, and by their ability to endure the follies of their peoples and
of their colleagues in office, they proved to be of the greatest service to
their countries.
These qualities are central themes in the Life and are reiterated in the synkrisis
in the comparison of Fabius’ and Pericles’ relations with the people (Comp. Per.
et Fab. 1). In the area of military acumen Fabius and Pericles were about evenly
balanced (Comp. Per. et Fab. 2.2), but in relations with rivals, Fabius’ relations
with Minucius give him an edge versus Pericles (Comp. Per. et Fab. 3.1–2). In
contrast, Fabius is deemed inferior to Pericles in terms of his ability to exercise
influence (Comp. Per. et Fab. 3.3–4) and his foresight as a general (2.3). The valid-
ity of these conclusions in the synkrisis is reinforced by Plutarch’s considerable
selectivity in omitting details or whole episodes from Livy. At the same time,
Plutarch’s silences also impact the presentation of the competition between
Fabius and Hannibal, which is depicted as a one-on-one athletic contest. This
theme is first found where Plutarch reveals Fabius’ attitude toward Hannibal
(Fab. 5.1):
By thus fixing the thoughts of the people on their relations with Heaven,
Fabius made them more cheerful concerning the future. But he himself
put all his hopes of victory in himself, believing that Heaven bestowed
success by reason of excellence and practical judgment (wisdom and
valor), and turned his attentions to Hannibal.
At several points in the Life, Plutarch uses athletic metaphors to describe the
contest between these generals (Fab. 5.4 and 23.2–3). Selective exclusion of
details in Livy help Plutarch emphasize this one-on-one competition.
Omissions in three areas are especially important.12 First, to keep the narra-
tive focused on Fabius’ actions as a general, Plutarch omits a variety of details
about Fabius’ roles in Rome. Plutarch weeds out actions by Fabius that are
administrative, such as ordering people outside the city to burn farms and crops
(Livy 22.11.4–5; 23.32.13–16), as well as episodes in which Fabius exercises his
influence as a senator. For instance, Plutarch does not report Fabius’ advice
that the initial election of consuls for 214 be re-done and that seasoned gen-
erals be selected, with the result that Fabius and Marcellus were then elected
(Livy 24.8.1–20); or his efforts to reconcile Livius and Claudius, the consuls for
207 who ultimately defeated Hasdrubal with their combined consular armies
(Livy 27.35.5). Plutarch’s streamlining creates a firmer basis for the assessment
in the synkrisis that Fabius lacked influence in Rome and in this area was infe-
rior to Pericles.
Plutarch also leaves out a wide array of Fabius’ military exploits and thereby
heightens the focus on his one-on-one contest with Hannibal. Most of Fabius’
actions during the period covered in Marcellus are omitted—even including
Marcellus’ efforts, at Fabius’ request, to distract Hannibal while Fabius re-took
Tarentum (Livy 27.12.1–3). The dynamics with Hannibal are further amplified by
omitting details about Hannibal’s policies toward prisoners and other strate-
gies in Italy (Livy 22.53–61). Similarly, the prominence of the episode with
Minucius is magnified by scaling back details about Fabius’ relations with the
troops—such as inspiring them (Livy 22.12.10) or solving critical problems on
campaign.13
Finally, Plutarch’s criticism of Fabius’ lack of foresight vis-à-vis Scipio (Comp.
Per. et Fab. 2.3–4) is rooted in silences regarding key details reported in Livy in
Fabius’ speech in opposition to Scipio (Livy 28.40.2–42.22). First, Fabius’ refer-
ence in that speech to the defeat of Hasdrubal by the combined consular forces
of Claudius and Livius in 207 is not mentioned by Plutarch, although Fabius
refers to this success when he asks Scipio why it is better to take on Hanni-
bal with one army in Carthage when he could defeat him in Italy with two.
In Livy, this suggestion by Fabius indicates less rigidity in the strategic options
Fabius was willing to consider than is presented by Plutarch in the Life. Instead,
Plutarch characterizes Fabius’ opposition to Scipio as motivated by envy and
fear of attacking Hannibal—the two charges that, in Livy, Fabius himself in
his speech anticipates will be unfairly cast against him. As a result, Plutarch
12 See Appendix C for key omissions.

13 Moreover, Fabius’ observation of religious rites (such as taking auspices and his dedica-
tion of the Temple of Venus of Eryx) are also left out, keeping attention on the strategic
moves Fabius adopts vis-à-vis Hannibal.
90 jacobs
presents Fabius as inflexible in his strategic thinking and vulnerable to passion,

creating a strong basis for claiming in the synkrisis that Pericles was superior in
the area of foresight.
4 Conclusion
This analysis of details and episodes omitted from the Lives of three states-
men suggests that silences vis-à-vis the historians can play a significant role in
adding validity to Plutarch’s lessons in leadership in each Life. Thus, Alcibiades’
portrayal as a lover of Athens and invincible military commander whose abili-
ties were undermined by his private life is reinforced by the omission of details
about Alcibiades’ flawed military thinking, his actions on Sparta’s behalf, and
his self-serving theatrics in engineering his recall. Similarly, by scaling back
details on Agesilaus’ effectiveness in all areas of generalship and omitting mil-
itary exploits against cities other than Thebes, Plutarch is able to focus on Age-
silaus’ effectiveness in winning victories, the lost potential of his recall from
Asia, and the destructive effects of his relentless anger and resentment toward
Thebes. Finally, by leaving out Livy’s descriptions of Fabius’ actions as an influ-
ential advisor in Rome and omitting Fabius’ strategic arguments against Sci-
pio, Plutarch can both magnify aspects of Fabius’ generalship versus Hannibal
and create a lesson in flawed strategic thinking that will reinforce the claim
about Pericles’ superiority in foresight. Thus, just as Plutarch’s embellishments
add emphasis and adjust the motives behind actions and consequences that
flow from them, his silences leave out material that would dilute the impact
of the episodes Plutarch wants the reader to retain. By using both techniques,
Plutarch shapes his portrait of each hero to resonate not only within each pair
of Lives but also across the entire series, as exempla of the moral qualities and
pragmatic insights that produce effective leadership in any era.
Works Cited
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Duff, T.E., “Plato, Tragedy, the Ideal Reader and Plutarch’s Demetrius and Antony,” Her-
mes 132 (2004) 271–291.
Duff, T.E., “Plutarch’s Readers and the Moralism of the Lives,” Ploutarchos n.s. 5 (2007)
3–18.
Duff, T.E., “How Lives Begin,” in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work:
“Moralia” Themes in the “Lives”, Features of the “Lives” in the “Moralia” (Berlin: De
Gruyter, 2008) 187–208.
Duff, T.E., “The Structure of the Plutarchan Book,” ClAnt 30.2 (2011) 213–278.
Duff, T.E., “The Prologues,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Malden, Mas-
sachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) 187–208.
Pelling, C., “Plutarch’s Adaptation of his Source-Material,” JHS 100 (1980) 127–140
2002) 91–116].
Pelling, C., “Plutarch and Roman Politics,” in I.S. Moxon, J.D. Smart & A.J. Woodman
(eds.), Past Perspectives: Studies in Greek and Roman Historical Writing (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1986) 156–187 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and His-
tory (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 207–236].
Pelling, C., “Plutarch and Thucydides,” in P.A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the Historical
Tradition (London: Routledge, 1992) 10–40 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and His-
Pelling, C., “The Moralism of Plutarch’s Lives,” in D.C. Innes, H.M. Hine & C. Pelling
(eds.), Ethics and Rhetoric: Classical Essays for Donald Russell on his Seventy-Fifth
Birthday (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995) 205–220 [reprinted in C. Pelling,
Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 237–252].
Stadter, P.A., “The Proems of Plutarch’s Lives,” ICS 13.2 (1988) 275–295.
Stadter, P.A., “Plutarch’s Lives: The Statesman as Moral Actor,” in A. Schrader, J. Vela &
V. Ramon (eds.), Plutarco y la historia. Actas del v simposio español sobre Plutarco
(Zaragoza: Prensas de la Universidad de Zaragoza, 1997) 65–81 [reprinted in P.A.
Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 215–
230].
Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 493–510 [reprinted
2015) 231–245].
Stadter, P.A., “Plutarch’s Lives and their Roman Readers,” in E.N. Ostenfeld (ed.), Greek
Romans and Roman Greeks: Studies in Cultural Interaction (Aarhus: Aarhus Univer-
sity Press, 2002) 123–135 [reprinted in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 45–55].
Stadter, P.A., “Mirroring Virtue and Plutarch’s Lives,” Ploutarchos n.s. 1 (2003/2004)
89–95.
92 jacobs
Appendix A: Thucydides and Xenophon vs. Alcibiades—Omissions

of Incidents Involving Alcibiades in Thucydides and Xenophon’s
Hellenica
Early Career
1. Alcibiades and Argos fail to take Epidaurus (Th. 5.53): Not in Plutarch
2. Alcibiades persuades Athenians to inscribe on a pillar that Sparta broke its oath
(Th. 5.56): Not in Plutarch
3. Alcibiades persuades Athenians to convey Helots to Pylos to plunder (Th. 5.56):
Not in Plutarch
5. Alcibiades denounces Argos-Sparta truce and calls for reviving war (Th. 5.61): Not
in Plutarch
6. Alcibiades seized 300 pro-Spartan Argives in Argos; sends to islands (Th. 5.84):
Not in Plutarch
Sicilian Expedition (omissions weed out greed as motive; amplify Alcibiades’ profi-
ciency as general/politician)
1. Alcibiades elected general along with Nicias and Lamachus (Th. 6.8): Alc. 18.1
2. Alcibiades criticized by Nicias as too young and self-interested (Th. 6.12–13): Not
in Plutarch
3. Alcibiades is the most zealous in urging the expedition (Th. 6.15–18): Alc. 17.2–4
a. Desire to answer Nicias’ criticism (Th. 6.15): Not in Plutarch
b. Desire to be made general and subdue Sicily and Carthage (Th. 6.15): Alc.
17.3–4
c. If successful, to advance his wealth and glory (Th. 6.15): Not in Plutarch
4. Alcibiades’ speech (Th. 6.16–18): Alc. 17.2–4
a. Worthy to command: horses/victories (Th. 6.16.1): Alc. 11.1–2
b. Provides choruses—glorifies city (Th. 6.16.3): Alc. 16.4
c. Equality with others (Th. 6.16.4): Not in Plutarch
d. Public acts benefit city—e.g., Mantinean alliance (Th. 6.16.6): Alc. 15.1
e. Why Sicily is not a formidable power (Th. 6.17.2–6): Not in Plutarch
f. Coming to the aid of allies will strengthen our empire (Th. 6.18): Not in
Plutarch
g. Youth and age together, plus activity, keep us strong (Th. 6.18.6–7): Alc. 18.1
5. Nicias argues against it again—refutes Alcibiades’ assessment of enemy (Th.
6.19–23): Not in Plutarch
a. Reviews resources of cities, horses, enjoyment of liberty (Th. 6.20): Not in
Plutarch
b. Risks with land army if Athenians don’t find allies (Th. 6.21): Not in Plu-
tarch
c. Need for great amounts of resources (Th. 6.22–23): Alc. 18.2–3 (sort of)
6. Rhegium remains neutral—a surprise (Th. 6.44–46): Alc. 20.2–3

7. Generals confer; Alcibiades and Lamachus side with Alcibiades’ plan, not Nicias
(Th. 6.47–50): Alc. 20.2–3
8. Alcibiades’ plan: first persuade Messina; it fails (Th. 6.48; 50): Not in Plutarch
9. Athenians first rejected, then supported by Catana (Th. 6.50–51): Alc. 20.2–3 (no
details)
10. Camarians first accept, then reject Athenians (Th. 6.52): Not in Plutarch
Exile in Sparta (omissions include details of military excellence and Alcibiades’ com-
plaints about Athens)
1. Alcibiades makes a speech to the Spartans about Sicily (Th. 6.88.10–92): Alc. 23.2
a. Explains complaint against Sparta (Th. 6.89.1–3): Not in Plutarch
b. City of Athens has been led into license (Th. 6.89.4): Not in Plutarch
c. Athens wants to eventually take the Peloponnese—so aid Syracuse (Th.
6.90–91.3): Not in Plutarch
d. Send a Spartan commander (Th. 6.91.4): Alc. 23.2
e. Prosecute the war here more openly (Th. 6.91.5): Alc. 23.2
f. Fortify Deceleia in Attica (Th. 6.91.6–7): Alc. 23.2
g. Alcibiades insistent on Deceleia and prosecuting war (Th. 7.18.1): Alc. 23.2
2. Alcibiades brings all Ionia to revolt (Chios, Teos, Miletus) (Th. 8.14–19): Alc. 24.1
(no details)
3. Alcibiades active in getting others to relieve siege of Miletus (Th. 8.26.3): Not in
Plutarch
Advisor to Tissaphernes (omission of stratagems in negotiations between Athens and

Tissaphernes)
1. Alcibiades’ advice to Tissaphernes (Th. 8.45.2–8.56): Alc. 25.1
a. Reduce sailors’ pay, make it irregular, don’t defend Chios (Th. 8.45.2): Not
in Plutarch
b. Bribe captains/generals of the city to get agreement (Th. 8.45.3): Not in
Plutarch
c. Send cities away asking for money (Th. 8.45.4–6): Not in Plutarch
d. Don’t hurry to end war; don’t bring up fleet (Th. 8.46.1): Not in Plutarch
e. Don’t provide pay for more Hellenes (Th. 8.46.1): Not in Plutarch
f. Don’t let power of sea and land be in the same hands (Th. 8.46.1): Alc. 26.8
g. Let the Hellenes wear each other out (Th. 8.46.2–4): Alc. 25.1
2. Alcibiades works to persuade Tissaphernes to become a friend of the Athenians
(Th. 8.52–53): Not in Plutarch
3. Alcibiades’ stratagem to make treaty between Tissaphernes and Athenians mis-
carries (Th. 8.56): Not in Plutarch
94 jacobs
a. Wanted Athenians to think Tissaphernes was persuaded but was demand-

ing more from them (Th. 8.56.2): Not in Plutarch
b. Speaking for Tissaphernes he makes extravagant demands (Th. 8.56.4): Not
in Plutarch
4. Alcibiades left out of effort to form oligarchy (Th. 8.63.3): Alc. 26.2
5. Androcles, banisher of Alcibiades, killed to please Alcibiades (Th. 8.65.2): Not in
Plutarch
6. Phrynichus convinced no oligarchy would recall Alcibiades—so joins it (Th.
8.68.3): Not in Plutarch
7. Army in Samos do not support oligarchy, trust Alcibiades will bring King (Th.
8.76): Not in Plutarch
8. Alcibiades recalled to Samos (Th. 8.81.1): Alc. 26.2–3
9. Alcibiades speaks to assembled army in Samos (Th. 8.81): Not in Plutarch
a. Deplores private misfortune in being banished (Th. 8.81.2): Not in Plutarch
b. Speaks at length on public affairs; incites hopes for future (Th. 8.81.2): Not
in Plutarch
c. Magnifies own influence with Tissaphernes (Th. 8.81.2): Not in Plutarch
d. Says that he will bring Phoenecian fleet to Athenians (Th. 8.81.2): Alc. 26.7
10. Alcibiades tells envoys from the 400 to reinstate Council of 500 (Th. 8.86.4): Not
in Plutarch
11. Alcibiades tells envoys to hold out and show bold face to enemy (Th. 8.86.7): Not
in Plutarch
12. Alcibiades sails with 13 ships to Aspendus regarding fleet (Th. 8.88): Alc. 26.8
a. Alcibiades probably knows Tissaphernes never meant to bring fleet (Th.
b. Alcibiades wanted to compromise Tissaphernes in eyes of Spartans (Th.
13. In Athens, message from Alcibiades strengthens resolve against peace (Th. 8.89):
Not in Plutarch
14. After scare by Spartans, Athenians recall Alcibiades (Th. 8.97): Alc. 27.1
Role from 410 bce on (only one omission)

1. Alcibiades at Abydos (HG 1.1.5): Alc. 27.2–5
2. Alcibiades imprisoned by Tissaphernes (HG 1.1.9): Alc. 27.7–28.1
3. Alcibiades’s actions between Abydos and Cyzicus (HG 1.1.11–15): Alc. 28.2–3
4. Alcibiades at Cyzicus (HG 1.1.16–22): Alc. 28.2–9
5. Alcibiades at Chalcedon (HG 1.3.1–12): Alc. 29.5–31.1
6. Alcibiades at Byzantium (HG 1.3.14–17; 20): Alc. 31.3–5
7. Alcibiades wants to return to Athens (HG 1.4.8): Alc. 32.1
a. Various stops en route to collect money, spy on Sparta (HG 1.4.11): Not in
Plutarch
8. City celebrating Plynteria at return; crowd gathers, say Alcibiades treated un-
justly (HG 1.4.12–16): Alc. 34.1–3, 5–6
9. Alcibiades waits to see family before he disembarks (HG 1.4.18): Alc. 32.2
10. Alcibiades speaks to assembly and is chosen general (HG 1.4.19): Alc. 33.2
11. Alcibiades leads procession to Eleusis (HG 1.4.20): Alc. 34.4–7
12. Alcibiades attacks Andros but does not capture it (HG 1.4.21): Alc. 35.1
13. Cyrus increases pay of Spartan sailors; Alcibiades must raise funds (HG 1.5.1–7):
Alc. 35.4–5
14. Alcibiades leaves Antiochus in charge; defeat at Notium; Alcibiades challenges
Lysander (HG 1.5.11–15): Alc. 35.6–7
15. Athens removes Alcibiades; elects other generals; Alcibiades leaves (HG 1.5.16–
17): Alc. 36.1–5
16. Alcibiades offers advice to generals ahead of Aegospotami (HG 2.1.25–26): Alc.
36.6–37.1
Appendix B: Xenophon vs. Agesilaus—Omissions of Incidents

Involving Agesilaus in Xenophon’s Hellenica
Hellenica, Book 3
1. Agesilaus’ cavalry is defeated by a unit of enemy horsemen (HG 3.4.13–14): Not
in Plutarch
2. Agesilaus offers prizes to those who excel and rewards hard training (HG 3.4.16–
18): Not in Plutarch
3. Persian King offers autonomy to cities in exchange for tribute (HG 3.4.25): Not in
Plutarch
4. Agesilaus made commander of army and fleet (HG 3.4.27): Ages. 10.9–10
a. Spartans believe unified force strengthens both parts (HG 3.4.27): Not in
Plutarch
b. Agesilaus orders islands and cities to build triremes (HG 3.4.28): Not in
Plutarch
c. Agesilaus appoints Peisander as Admiral (HG 3.4.29): Ages. 10.11
Hellenica, Book 4
1. Agesilaus spends winter in vicinity of Dascylium (HG 4.1.15–16): Not in Plutarch
2. Agesilaus offers prizes to induce soldiers to come back to Greece (HG 4.2.5–6):
Not in Plutarch
3. Agesilaus leaves a force to protect the cities and marches away (HG 4.2.7–8): Not
in Plutarch
4. Agesilaus told that Spartans won the battle; sends word to allies (HG 4.3.1–2): Not
in Plutarch
96 jacobs
5. Agesilaus hides truth; announces a Spartan victory (HG 4.3.13): Ages. 17.5
a. After victory sacrifice, soldiers win a skirmish (HG 4.3.14): Not in Plutarch
6. Agesilaus encounters enemy forces at Coronea (HG 4.3.15): Not in Plutarch
7. Agesilaus fools enemy and takes up advantageous position near Piraeum (HG
8. Agesilaus finds a way to keep his troops warm and well-fed (HG 4.5.4): Not in
Plutarch
9. Agesilaus leads expedition to Acarnania; plunders; leaves before sowing (HG
4.6.1–4): Ages. 22.9–10
a. Lays waste, captures livestock and slaves (HG 4.6.5–7): Not in Plutarch
a. Routs enemy after being attacked (HG 4.6.8–12): Not in Plutarch
a. Promises to return in spring; refuses to prevent sowing (HG 4.6.13–14):
Ages. 22.10
Hellenica, Book 5
1. Agesilaus forces Corinthians to dismiss garrison of Argives (HG 5.1.34): Not in
Plutarch
2. Agesilaus defends Phoebidas’ action as beneficial, not harmful (HG5.2.32): Ages.
23.5
a. Leontiades describes benefits to Spartan assembly (HG 5.2.33–34): Not in
Plutarch
3. Agesilaus besieges Phlius on behalf of exiles (HG 5.3.10–23): Not in Plutarch
4. Agesilaus resents Phlius’ surrender to Sparta, not him (HG 5.3.24): Not in Plu-
tarch
5. Agesilaus secures authority to set up commission to try citizens (HG 5.3.24–25):
Not in Plutarch
6. Agesilaus leads Spartans against united Athens and Thebes (HG 5.4.34–35): Ages.
26.1–4
a. Has Mt. Cithaeron occupied; warns cities to halt wars (HG 5.4.36–37): Not
in Plutarch
7. Agesilaus inflicts damage on Thebes and meets reverses (HG 5.4.38–41): Ages.
26.2
a. Finds way around stockade and lays waste to city walls (HG 5.4.38–41): Not
in Plutarch
8. Agesilaus leads Spartans back to Boeotia (HG 5.4.47–55): Not in Plutarch
a. Deceives Thebans as to his route (HG 5.4.48): Not in Plutarch
b. Lays waste; forces Thebans back to defend city (HG 5.4.49–54): Not in
Plutarch
9. Agesilaus stops in Thespiae and reconciles hostile factions (HG 5.4.55): Not in
Plutarch
Hellenica, Book 6
1. After Leuctra, Agesilaus still ill, so son Archidamus takes command (HG 6.4.17–
2. Agesilaus leads expedition to deter Mantineians from uniting (HG 6.5.4–8): Not
in Plutarch
3. Agesilaus advances to Mantinea; avoids battle; lifts spirits of army (HG 6.6.15–21):
Ages. 30.7
a. Offers battle; no response (HG 6.5.17): Not in Plutarch
b. Maneuvers army out of perilous situation (HG 6.5.18–19): Not in Plutarch
c. Leads army away before enemy appears (HG 6.5.20): Not in Plutarch
d. Expedition alleviates despondency from defeat (HG 6.5.21): Ages. 30.7
Appendix C: Livy vs. Fabius—Omissions of Incidents Involving

Fabius in Livy
Livy, Books 21–22: Fabius’ Dictatorship

1. Fabius leads embassy to Carthage; declares war (Livy 21.18.4–14): Not in Plutarch
2. Flaminius falls from horse on setting out (Livy 22.3.11): Fab. 3.1
a. Standard-bearer not able to pull standard out of ground (Livy 22.3.12–13):
Not in Plutarch
3. Battle at Lake Trasimene (Livy 22.4–22.6): Fab. 3.1–3.3
a. Hannibal draws up forces at Lake Trasimene (Livy 22.4.1–3): Fab. 3.1
b. Flaminius departs early in morning without reconnoitering (Livy 22.4.1–3):
Not in Plutarch
c. Prisoners promised release if surrender, then put in chains (Livy 22.5.12):
Not in Plutarch
4. Hannibal releases Latin prisoners; takes Romans into captivity (Livy 22.7.5): Not
in Plutarch
5. Reaction in Rome to news of disaster (Livy 22.7.6–14): Fab. 3.4
6. After Centenius’ contingent taken by Hannibal, dictator elected (Livy 22.8.1–5):
Not in Plutarch
7. Election of Fabius as dictator and Minucius as Master of Horse (Livy 22.8.6–7):
Fab. 3.6–4.1
8. Fabius takes care of military and administrative matters (Livy 22.11.1–5): Not in
Plutarch
a. Collects legions; gives orders for where to assemble (Livy 22.11.1–3): Not in
Plutarch
b. Issues edict that men in unfortified towns go to safety (Livy 22.11.4): Not in
Plutarch
98 jacobs
c. Orders districts in Hannibal’s path to burn farms and crops (Livy 22.11.5):
Not in Plutarch
9. Fabius positions army near Hannibal, but does not engage him (Livy 22.12.1–10):
Fab. 5.1–3
a. Keeps men encouraged through skirmishes (Livy 22.12.10): Not in Plutarch
10. Fabius sees discontent, but is confident and unfazed (Livy 22.15.1): Not in Plu-
tarch
11. Mancinus, inspired by Minucius, attacks Numidians; killed with army (Livy
22.15.3–10): Not in Plutarch
Livy, Book 22: After Fabius’ Dictatorship

1. New consuls, Atilius and Servilius, carry on war like Fabius (Livy 22.32.1–3): Fab.
14.1
2. New consuls Varro and Aemilius Paulus (Livy 22.35.3–4): Fab. 14.4
3. Negative omens before army heads out (Livy 22.36.6–9): Not in Plutarch
4. Aemilius’ attitude in response to Varro; states intentions (Livy 22.38.8–13): Not in
Plutarch
5. Fabius encourages Aemilius to be cautious; Aemilius’ response (Livy 22.38.19–
40.4): Fab. 14.4–7
6. Hannibal’s response to new consuls; happy because supplies low (Livy 22.40.5–
8): Not in Plutarch
7. Aemilius restrains soldiers, averting ambush; Varro objects (Livy 22.41.1–3): Not
in Plutarch
8. Hannibal tries ruse of empty camp to lure Varro; fails (Livy 22.41.4–42.12): Not in
Plutarch
9. Hannibal departs; army follows against advice of Aemilius (Livy 22.43.1–7): Not
in Plutarch
10. At Cannae, under Paulus, Romans resist Hannibal’s provocation (Livy 22.42.2–
11. Aemilius’ encounter with Lentulus at Cannae, death; Varro’s escape (Livy
22.49.6–15): Fab. 16.6–9
a. Lentulus told to tell senators in Rome to prepare for Hannibal (Livy
b. Lentulus to tell Fabius that he remembered his precepts (Livy 22.49.10):
Fab. 16.7
12. Reactions in Roman camp and escape to Canusium (Livy 22.50): Not in Plu-
tarch
13. Hannibal captures Romans; Scipio in Canusium; Varro in Venusia (Livy 22.53.1–
14. Mayhem in Rome (Livy 22.54.7–11): Not in Plutarch
15. Romans follow Fabius’ advice (Livy 22.55.1–56.1): Fab. 17.6–18.3

a. Send light-armed horsemen on Appian Way for info (Livy 22.51.4–5): Not
in Plutarch
b. Compel matrons to stay home; restrain lamentation (Livy 22.54.6): Fab. 18.1
c. Procure silence throughout the city (Livy 22.54.7): Not in Plutarch
d. See that bearers of any news were brought before praetors (Livy 22.54.8):
Not in Plutarch
e. Post sentries to keep anyone from leaving the city (Livy 22.54.8): Fab. 18.1
16. News from Varro: Hannibal not heading for Rome (Livy 22.56.1–3): Not in Plu-
tarch
17. Actions of Hannibal after Cannae; defection of Italian cities (Livy 22.58.1–61.10):
Fab. 17.1–4
a. Hannibal focuses on ransoming prisoners (Livy 22.58.1): Not in Plutarch
Livy, Books 23, 24

1. After Cannae, Hannibal heads south; receives alliance of cities (Livy 23.1.1–10):
Fab. 17.3–4
2. Military actions involving Marcellus in 216 (Livy 23.140): Not in Plutarch
a. Summary comparison of Marcellus and Fabius, 216–208: Fab. 19.1–5
3. Fabius elected pontiff (Livy 23.21.7): Not in Plutarch
4. Fabius quells inflammatory discussion of citizenship for Latins (Livy 23.22.7–9):
Not in Plutarch
5. Fabius requests permission to dedicate Temple of Venus of Eryx (Livy 23.31.10–
6. Marcellus abdicates consulship after thunder; Fabius is substituted (Livy
7. Fabius orders grain crops into fortified cities, or farms to be burned (Livy 23.32.13–
8. Fabius waits for favorable auspices to cross Volturnus (Livy 23.36.9): Not in
Plutarch
9. Fabius atones for prodigies, crosses Volturnus, re-takes cities (Livy 23.39.5): Not
in Plutarch
10. Fabius establishes camp in Suessula; sends Marcellus to Nola (Livy 23.39.7): Not
in Plutarch
11. Fabius ravages Campania; allows Asellus to face challenge of Taurea (Livy
23.46.9–47.8): Not in Plutarch
12. Fabius orders Marcellus to send men to Rome to reduce allies’ burden (Livy
13. Fabius fortifies Puteoli; heads to Rome to conduct elections for 214 (Livy 24.7.10):
Not in Plutarch
100 jacobs
14. After initial vote, Fabius advises re-do: selection of seasoned generals (Livy
a. Fabius warns Otacilius to silence his objections (Livy 24.9.1–2): Not in
Plutarch
b. Fabius and Marcellus elected consuls for 214 (Livy 24.9.3): Not in Plutarch
15. Fabius not suspected of greed for power because of the times (Livy 24.9.11): Not
in Plutarch
16. Fabius completes rites, conducts levies, expands fleet, departs (Livy 24.11.1–9):
Not in Plutarch
17. Fabius’ actions during consulship of 214 (Livy 24.12.1–43.5): Not in Plutarch
a. Plutarch makes general comments, then jumps to Tarentum: Fab. 19–20
18. Hannibal moves to vicinity of Capua; Fabius heads back to that area (Livy 24.12):
Not in Plutarch
19. Fabius comes to attack Casilinum, held by a Carthaginian garrison (Livy 24.14):
Not in Plutarch
20. Fabius and Marcellus debate whether to give up on Casilinum (Livy 24.19.1–7):
Not in Plutarch
a. Fabius says greater matters pending; Marcellus that repute at risk (Livy
21. Fabius lays waste, recovers cities in Samnium; sends deserters to Rome (Livy
22. Fabius conducts elections (in 214 for 213); Fabius’ son elected (Livy 24.43.5): Fab.
24.1
23. Fabius’ advice on dealing with deserter who wants to come back (Livy 24.45.5–6):
Not in Plutarch
Livy, Books 26, 27

1. Fabius advises against withdrawal from Capua to chase Hannibal (Livy 26.8.4–5):
Not in Plutarch
2. Fabius elected consul for 209, as mature, experienced, skilled in war (Livy 27.6.4–
3. Fabius and Flaccus hear complaints of Latins and allies (Livy 27.9.1–13): Not in
Plutarch
a. Plutarch offers another account of dealing with allies: Fab. 20
4. Fabius asks Flaccus and Marcellus to distract Hannibal (Livy 27.12.1–3): Not in
Plutarch
a. Asks garrison at Rhegium to attack Brutti and Caulonia (Livy 27.12.5–6):
Fab. 22.1–3
5. Fabius takes Manduria near Tarentum by storm; much booty (Livy 27.15.4–7): Not
in Plutarch
6. Fabius takes Tarentum (Livy 27.15.13–19): Fab. 22.2–4

7. Fabius defends captured Tarentines in Senate deliberations (Livy 27.25.1): Not in
Plutarch
8. Fabius takes initiative to reconcile consuls (Livius and Claudius) for 207 (Livy
9. Fabius advises Livius not to attack rashly, to learn enemy’s character (Livy
Livy, Books 28–30

1. Fabius gives speech opposing Scipio’s plan and assigning Africa as province (Livy
28.40.2–42.22): Fab. 25.3–26.2
a. Will be accused of inborn habit of delay (Livy 28.40.7): Fab. 25.2
b. Will be accused of envy (Livy 28.40.8): Fab. 25.3
c. Did not inveigh against Minucius; no need to compete now (Livy 28.40.10–
d. Natural order: peace in Italy, then war in Africa (Livy 28.41.8–12): Not in
Plutarch
e. Example of Athenian disaster in Sicily (Livy 28.41.17): Not in Plutarch
f. Livius and Claudius showed strength of combined armies (Livy 28.42.17–
g. Hannibal weaker in Italy than near Carthage (Livy 28.42.19): Fab. 26.4
2. Fabius talks against Scipio; urges investigation of Pleminius (Livy 29.19.4–7): Not
in Plutarch
3. Fabius chosen princeps for second time (Livy 29.37.1): Not in Plutarch
chapter 6
Plutarch’s Silence about the Relationship between

Military Success and Political Virtue in Sulla and
Caesar
Rex Stem†
Reading Plutarch’s Sulla can be morally upsetting. In chapter 6, for example,

where Plutarch describes Sulla as “inconsistent” and “at variance with him-
self” (6.14), he tells the story of how Sulla’s soldiers wrongfully killed one of
his legates and he not only did not punish the soldiers but even considered it
to his advantage because their guilt would increase their commitment to fight
for him (6.16–17). When Sulla sought to prevent one of his officers from being
a candidate for the consulship, and yet he entered the Forum with his support-
ers, Sulla ordered him killed, watched it happen, and then demanded that the
crowd release the killer without punishment (33.5–6; Comp. Lys. et Sull. 2.7).
Having decisively won the civil war and taken control of Rome, Sulla chooses
to deliver his first address to the Senate accompanied by the sounds of the
nearby execution of 6,000 prisoners (30.1–4). It becomes clear to the reader
that Sulla was a scoundrel, a bully, and a tyrant, and yet the narrative of the
Life also describes how Sulla never lost a battle, secured total power during and
after a brutal civil war, and died in his bed of poor health. He is never forced to
atone for his abuses; there is no sense of justice or reckoning. It is true that Sulla
dies of infection, with his flesh rotting and his body covered with lice (36.3–4),
and there is surely symbolic weight to the putrefaction present in the man-
ner of his death.1 Yet there remains a lingering sense of moral dissatisfaction
because things generally turned out to the advantage of a villain and Plutarch
does not invoke his authorial persona to address or mollify the reader’s outrage
1 See further T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1999) 194–197, who argues that Sulla’s bodily excesses are thematically featured in Sull.
2 and 35–36, bookending the narrative of his deeds and leading to the conditions of his death.
P.A. Stadter, “Paradoxical Paradigms: Lysander and Sulla,” in P.A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the
Historical Tradition (London: Routledge, 1992) 42–43 [reprinted in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and
his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 259–260], notes how the descrip-
tion of Sulla’s character correlates to his physical appearance, a point further developed at
Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 165–167.
© Rex Stem, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_008

military success and political virtue in sulla and caesar 103
and indignation at Sulla’s success. Given that Plutarch is a moralist, why does
he not condemn Sulla more openly?
This question has been approached before, and it has generated some valu-
able answers. Christopher Pelling, for example, has observed that Plutarch,
although he can be an explicit moralizer, can also be a descriptive moralizer;
i.e., he sometimes shows us what moral failures look like without condemning
each aspect of those failures.2 Such an exploration of, in this case, an inconsis-
tent character at variance with itself need not conflict with a reader’s sense that
much of what Sulla did was not morally justifiable. Philip Stadter reinforces
this point by reading Sulla together with the paired Lysander, for the focus on
the pair reveals how Lysander and Sulla are paradoxical paradigms who dis-
play both admirable and repulsive qualities at the same time, and yet whose
paradigms build on each other such that the features that only disturb in the
Lysander horrify in the Sulla.3 If we follow his reading, then our horror at Sulla’s
success is somewhat the point, for we can learn from it the costs of violent and
ruthless ambition. Timothy Duff suggests that Stadter did not go far enough
and argues that Plutarch is not just paradoxical but deliberately ambiguous in
the shaping of his moral lessons. In the case of the Lysander–Sulla, Duff argues,
the comparison reveals that Lysander is more virtuous but less successful polit-
ically than Sulla, while Sulla is more successful politically because he is more
ruthless.4 Duff’s reading provocatively answers the question of why Plutarch
2 See C. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Adaptation of his Source Material,” JRS 100 (1980) 127–140 [re-
printed in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 91–115],
and “The Moralism of Plutarch’s Lives,” in D.C. Innes, H.M. Hine & C. Pelling (eds.), Ethics
and Rhetoric: Classical Essays for Donald Russell on his Seventy–Fifth Birthday (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1995) 205–220 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Clas-
sical Press of Wales, 2002) 237–251]. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 162: “Plutarch seems to have been
unwilling … to write wholly negative Lives.”
3 Stadter, “Paradoxical Paradigms,” 41–55 [reprinted in Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Read-
ers, 258–269]; at 47–51 [reprint 265–269] Stadter writes: “Although the two Lives share major
features, Plutarch fashions a progression between the two. The features which only disturb
in the portrait of Lysander horrify in the Life of Sulla. … The Lysander–Sulla shows the reader
the much more ruthless and unthinking ambition which destroyed the heroes’ own cities.
… In pairing them, Plutarch brings out the peculiar blend of traits which they shared and
attempts to reveal the paradoxical combination of admirable and repulsive features in the
same men.” See further J.M. Candau Morón, “Plutarch’s Lysander and Sulla: Integrated Char-
acters in Roman Historical Perspective,” AJPh 121 (2000) 453–478.
4 Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 161–204; at 161–162 Duff writes that Plutarch’s “judgements are con-
tradictory, and the ethical status of the pair seems to remain deliberately ambiguous right
through to the end. … At the heart of this pair is a paradox: Lysander, though more success-
ful in virtue than Sulla, is ultimately unsuccessful in the affairs of state; Sulla, less successful
morally, succeeds in the affairs of state precisely because of his greater ruthlessness.”
104 stem
does not condemn Sulla for his moral failures, for he is suggesting that Plutarch
does not condemn Sulla because he recognizes that sometimes ruthless men
succeed because they are ruthless. But even if we grant that Sulla succeeded
because of his willingness to be excessively ruthless and violently ambitious,
why doesn’t Plutarch say that Sulla, even though successful, remains a negative
model for the reader? Why not acknowledge the success but still condemn it
because of the means by which it was achieved? Why would Sulla’s achieve-
ment remain ambiguous at the end of Plutarch’s biography?
One answer might be Fortune. That seems to have been Sulla’s own expla-
nation. Plutarch cites Sulla’s Memoirs for his assertion that Fortune was more
responsible for his success than his own excellence (6.7–9):5
In his Memoirs he writes that he had more success acting boldly on the
spur of the moment than after long deliberation, even when his achieve-
ments were assumed to have been the result of sound planning on his
part. Besides, to judge by what he says about his being endowed by his
nature for good fortune rather than for warfare, he seems to attribute
more to Fortune (Τύχη) than to his natural abilities (ἀρετή), and to make
himself entirely the product of this deity.
Sulla’s claim should have been deeply unsettling for Plutarch, for it suggests
that events are determined by Fortune, not by character, and so it is better to
be lucky than good or bad. It does not matter what kind of virtue you display if
Fortune decides you should win. But to accept this view—that winning comes
down to whom Fortune favors and so there is no reason to study history for
deeper factors—is to have no need for descriptive moralism or paradoxical
paradigms or provocative ambiguity. It would seem to negate what Plutarch
says are his purposes in the Parallel Lives.6 Thus I have to believe that Plutarch
himself does not believe it but reports it here because it was the cause of suc-
cess that Sulla offered in his Memoirs and it characterizes Sulla.
5 Translation from R. Waterfield & P.A. Stadter, Plutarch: Roman Lives (Oxford: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 1999) 180. Note how Sulla here associates himself with the daemon of “good fortune”
(Τύχη), whereas Plutarch at 4.6 invokes Euripides in order to associate him with the daemon
of “ambition” (φιλοτιμία). On the theme of Sulla’s felicitas in his Memoirs, see A. Thein, “Felic-
itas and the Memoirs of Sulla and Augustus,” in C. Smith & A. Powell (eds.), The Lost Memoirs
of Augustus and the Development of Roman Autobiography (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales,
2009) 87–109. On Fortuna as a conceptual deity in Republican Italy, see D. Miano, Fortuna:
Deity and Concept in Archaic and Republican Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018).
6 Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 13–51, offers a fine reading of Plutarch’s programmatic passages con-
cerning the Lives’ moral function, demonstrating how Plutarch tailors his claims according
to the literary requirements and historical resources for each Life.
The fact that Plutarch acknowledges in this passage that he is using Sulla as
a source is a possible second answer to my question of why Plutarch does not
more openly condemn Sulla. Everything that we can reconstruct about Sulla’s
Memoirs suggests that they were strongly biased in his favor, and so perhaps
some of that bias has filtered into Plutarch’s account and, through its favor-
able assessment of Sulla’s deeds, offset the parts of the biography where Sulla is
depicted less favorably.7 If so, then Plutarch’s ambiguity results from his failure
to offer a judgment about which of his sources offered the more accurate depic-
tion of Sulla.8 But from what we can see of Plutarch’s handling of his sources
elsewhere, even when he is dealing with a dominant source like Thucydides in
the Nicias or Dionysius in the Coriolanus, he controls his source and is not the
victim of it.9
7 Regarding Plutarch’s use of Augustus’ Memoirs, C. Pelling, “Was There an Ancient Genre of
‘Autobiography’? Or, Did Augustus Know What He Was Doing?” in C. Smith & A. Powell (eds.),
The Lost Memoirs of Augustus and the Development of Roman Autobiography (Swansea: Clas-
sical Press of Wales, 2009) 50, concludes that “in citations of an autobiography, … bias is to be
expected: an autobiography will be assumed to be casting its author in the best possible light.”
For the tradition of memoirs and political autobiography in antiquity, see G. Marasco (ed.),
Political Autobiographies and Memoirs in Antiquity (Leiden: Brill, 2011).
8 See further R.G. Lewis, “Sulla’s Autobiography: Scope and Economy,” Athenaeum 69 (1991)
509–519; C. Smith, “Sulla’s Memoirs,” in C. Smith & A. Powell (eds.), The Lost Memoirs of
Augustus and the Development of Roman Autobiography (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales,
2009) 65–85; W.J. Tatum, “The Late Republic: Autobiographies and Memoirs in the Age of the
Civil Wars,” in G. Marasco (ed.), Political Autobiographies and Memoirs in Antiquity (Leiden:
Brill, 2011) 163–174; H. Flower, “The Rapture and the Sorrow: Characterization in Sulla’s Mem-
oirs,” in R. Ash, J. Mossman & F.B Titchener (eds.), Fame and Infamy: Essays for Christopher
Pelling on Characterization in Greek and Roman Biography and Historiography (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2015) 209–223. On Plutarch’s use of the memoirs, see E. Valgiglio, “L’autobi-
ografia di Silla nelle biographie di Plutarco,” Studi Urbinati di storia, filosofia, e letteratura 49
(1975) 245–281; T.C. Brennan, “Sulla’s Career in the Nineties: Some Reconsiderations,” Chiron
22 (1992) 106–111; P.A. Stadter, “Plutarch’s Omission of Sulla’s Reforms,” Ploutarchos 16 (2019)
69–76. For what little can be said about Plutarch’s other sources in Sulla, see B. Scardigli, Die
Römerbiographien Plutarchs: Ein Forschungsbericht (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1979) 89–91; Water-
field & Stadter, Plutarch: Roman Lives, 172–173; M.T. Schettino, “The Use of Historical Sources,”
in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014)
428.
9 On Thucydides in Nicias, see further Pelling in this volume; on Coriolanus, see D.A. Russell,
“Plutarch’s Life of Coriolanus,” JRS 53 (1963) 21–28; and on Pollio in Caesar, see C. Pelling,
Plutarch: Caesar (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 36–47. For reconstructions of Plu-
tarch’s method, see C. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives,” JRS 99
(1979) 91–96 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales,
2002) 19–26]; P.A. Stadter, “Before Pen Touched Paper: Plutarch’s Preparations for the Parallel
Lives,” in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015)
119–129.
106 stem
So let me turn to a third factor in this passage, where Plutarch says that Sulla
reports that he was endowed by nature for Fortune rather than for war. This
phrase suggests that Sulla understands success in war as the factor in his career
that needs to be explained, since everything else follows from that success. This
emphasis was also noticed by Stadter, who comments that the Sulla is “gen-
erally critical of Sulla’s character, while recognizing his extraordinary military
skill.”10 What Sulla gets credit for in Plutarch are his military victories, whereas
his actions in his personal life and in politics are described negatively. One
might say, then, that Sulla’s character was blameworthy except when involved
in winning wars, and so the ambiguity of the Sulla revolves around the fact
that Sulla’s military victories suggest good qualities of character, while his other
actions suggest the opposite. How, then, are we to balance military successes
against personal and political vices? How are we to weigh political victories
that display negative qualities of character against military victories that dis-
play positive qualities of character? Plutarch does not offer a direct answer to
this question.11
But Plutarch is not entirely silent. Implicitly I think he offers important clues,
and it is the argument of this chapter that Plutarch inherently values military
success in large-scale warfare to such an extent that extensive military victory
becomes an argument for greatness of character in its own right. Whatever
else a statesman might do, a string of notable successes in battle proves that
he has significant skills at leadership and command. Those skills are to his
credit and must be weighed accordingly, even when everything else about him
is unscrupulous, which can lead to an ambiguous overall assessment. Hence the
paradox of Sulla is not so much that his greater success was due to his greater
ruthlessness, as Duff would have it, but that the foul qualities of character that
10 Stadter, “Paradoxical Paradigms,” 43 [reprinted in Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers,
261]. Stadter further notes (53 n. 21 [reprint 262 n. 21]): “Although military skill is not a prin-
cipal interest of Plutarch’s, it underlies the influence and achievements of both his heroes.
If Lysander and Sulla had not been brilliantly successful in the military sphere, they would
not have gained the power that they wielded so forcefully. Sulla’s greater military skill
(cf. 42[4].1, 43[5].6) contributed in no small part to the viciousness of his behavior, since
he could not be limited by rival armies.”
11 As Professor Jeff Tatum pointed out to me at the conference, the Aratus also allows for an
approach to this question: the subject possesses a contradictory nature and left his own
Memoirs; see further P.A. Stadter, “The Love of Noble Deeds: Plutarch’s Portrait of Ara-
tus of Sicyon,” in R. Ash, J. Mossman & F.B. Titchener (eds.), Fame and Infamy: Essays for
Christopher Pelling on Characterization in Greek and Roman Biography and Historiogra-
phy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 161–175; W.J. Tatum, “Greece for the Greeks:
Plutarch’s Aratus and Greek Chauvinism,” in F. Marco Simón et al. (eds.), Xenofobia y
Racismo en el Mundo Antiguo (Barcelona: University of Barcelona, 2019) 69–83.
defined the personal and political aspects of his life were balanced and some-
what neutralized by his successful military campaigns.
One way to give some weight to this claim is to consider the structure of the
Sulla, which falls into three main sections, with chapters 1–10 outlining Sulla’s
controversial rise, chapters 11–29 documenting Sulla’s military successes in for-
eign and then civil wars, and chapters 30–38 describing Sulla’s autocratic final
years. The opening chapters alternate between negative aspects, such as his
decadent and sensual way of life (1–2), and positive achievements, such as his
military successes during the foreign wars fought by Marius (3–4). These oppo-
sitions establish the paradoxical tone of the Life, as can be clearly felt when
Plutarch transitions in chapter 4 from his positive narration of Sulla’s wartime
leadership skills to a Euripidean warning about the extreme dangers of exces-
sive ambition (4.6).12 Important discussions of Sulla’s conception of his Fortune
and Plutarch’s judgment of his inconsistent character follow in chapter 6, as
already noted, but Sulla’s rivalry with Marius continues to shape the narrative
through chapter 10. When the episode climaxes with Sulla’s march on the city of
Rome, Plutarch relates the taking of the city rather briefly (9), focusing primar-
ily on Sulla’s willingness to use fire as a means of forcing his way into the city
regardless of whether those that suffered from it were guilty or not (9.12–13).
Reducing his narrative to this one image of Sulla, at such a crucial historical
moment, deftly maintains Plutarch’s paradoxical tension, for it thematically
captures Sulla’s superior ability to outmaneuver his enemies and capture the
city at the same time that it demonstrates how his uncontrolled ambition made
him willing to burn down everything in order to possess it.
At the end of chapter 10, Sulla departs from Rome without attempting to
impose his authority upon the city because of his haste to fight Mithridates,
and in chapters 11–29 the Life narrates Sulla’s actions as a military comman-
der. These chapters, while still including anecdotes suggesting Sulla’s faults, are
largely a demonstration of Sulla’s ability to win. In the campaign against Athens
(11–14), for example, Plutarch describes Sulla as acting aggressively, advancing
the war effort by means of many risks, many battles, and great expenditures
(12.3), “for a terrible and inexorable passion to capture Athens possessed him”
(13.1).13 This passion will inspire excessive actions, such as the cutting down of
the sacred groves and the seizing of the treasures of Epidaurus, Olympia, and
Delphi (12.4–6), for which Plutarch criticizes Sulla at some length (12.9–14). By
12 Plutarch names Euripides but does not quote him; presumably he is thinking of Phoenis-
sae 531–534. See further Stadter, “Paradoxical Paradigms,” 44–45 [reprinted in Stadter,
Plutarch and his Roman Readers, 261–262]; Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 196.
13 Translations are my own unless otherwise specified.
108 stem
comparison, however, Aristion, tyrant of Athens, is depicted as an irredeemably

poor leader (13.2–5; cf. the depiction of Sulpicius and Marius vs. Sulla in 8),
offering some justification for Sulla’s excesses. Moreover, when the decisive
opportunity arrives, Sulla’s passion rendered him ready to recognize it: as soon
as he learned of a weakness in the city’s defenses, he took the information seri-
ously, went in person at night to inspect the spot, recognized the vulnerability,
and got to work (14.2). Indiscriminate killing followed, measured by the extent
of the city covered in blood (14.5–6), but the reader cannot deny Sulla’s effec-
tiveness.14
Against Archelaus, described by Plutarch as the greatest of Mithridates’ gen-
erals (11.5), Sulla wins his biggest victories. When Archelaus was planning to
use his superior numbers and control of the sea to cut the Romans off from
their supplies, Sulla is said to comprehend the state of things much better than
Archelaus (15.2), and so he moved his forces to the open plains of Boeotia,
despite his inferiority in cavalry. Plutarch notes that many criticized Sulla for
this move (15.3), but subsequent events will prove his judgment correct. Once
camped in Boeotia, when the enemy’s overwhelming numbers and the flash-
ing of their armor were intimidating his men (16.2–5), Sulla cleverly set them
digging ditches for two days until they preferred to fight (16.9–13). In the first
set battle, near Chaeronea, Sulla adopted a two-pronged strategy, having some
forces maneuver by means of a little-known path to a position above the enemy
while Sulla attacked frontally on the plain (17.9–14). The attack from the height
dislodged the enemy with great casualties and sent them in panic back to the
main force (18.1–3). Sulla’s timely charge prevented the enemy chariots from
having the space to be effective (18.4–7), and the Romans forced their way
into hand-to-hand combat. Archelaus then made a move to surround Sulla’s
left wing, but redirected toward the right wing when he realized that Sulla was
bringing reinforcements to the left. Another enemy commander resumed the
attack on the Roman left, with Sulla suspended between the attacks. This is the
moment of decision: Sulla halted, in doubt about which direction to go (19.4).
Then, “having decided to take up his own position again” (19.5), he sent most
of his reinforcements to the left while taking some with him back to the right.
His arrival on the right turned a fight into a rout, after which Sulla returned to
his left where he also found the enemy in flight (19.5–6). The victory is depicted
as massive, with only “one of so many myriads” (19.7) of the enemy troops sur-
viving. Sulla claimed to have lost only twelve men, Plutarch notes, and so he
14 Note also how, at Comp. Lys. et Sull. 4.7, Plutarch declares Sulla’s capture of Athens to be
more impressive than Lysander’s. For the theme of Sulla’s military superiority to Lysander,
see further Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 199–200.
dedicated his victory monuments to Mars and Victory and Venus, “in the belief
that he won the war no less because of good fortune than because of ability
and strength” (19.9). Such a claim again reflects Sulla’s confidence in Fortune
(see 6.7–9, quoted above), but it does not correspond well to the narrative that
Plutarch has written. What Plutarch shows us is that the generalship Sulla dis-
played during the course of the campaign placed him in a position to win.
Nor is this Sulla’s only defeat of the allegedly mighty Archelaus. The enemy
is reinforced back up to their original numbers and the war is resumed on the
plain near Orchomenus (20). Sulla sought to dig trenches near the enemy camp
in order to limit the movement of their cavalry, and when the enemy attacked,
both the diggers and their guard flee in confusion (21.1–2). Sulla saves the day
(21.3–4):15
At this Sulla himself leapt off his horse, grabbed a standard, and pushed
his way through the fugitives into the ranks of the enemy, shouting as he
went, “Were I to die here, Romans, it would be a noble death; but as for
you, when men ask you where you betrayed your commander, remember
to tell them it was at Orchomenus.” These words of his made the fugitives
turn back to face the enemy, and when two cohorts from the right wing
came to his assistance, he led them in a charge and routed the enemy.
The pattern then repeats twice more, with Sulla sending his men to work on
the ditches, then pushing back the enemy attack. The third time the rout is
total, the enemy camp is taken, and Sulla achieves his second major victory
over Archelaus (21.5–9). One could argue, as perhaps Sulla did, that his ability
to survive his solo charge against the enemy was due to Fortune, but Plutarch’s
narrative suggests that it was his courage and leadership that rallied his men to
support him.
Some of Sulla’s finest moments, as Plutarch himself says in the synkrisis
(Comp. Lys. et Sull. 5.3–4), come when he is negotiating peace terms, first with
Archelaus (22.4–9) and then with Mithridates (24.1–6, the tone of which is
anticipated at 23.6–10). He handles both of them confidently and rebukes them
in principled harangues (22.6–7, 23.7, 24.3–4) that cause each of them to admit
his greater authority and accept his terms.16 These are political skills as much
as military skills, but since they function as the codification of his victories and
15 Translation from Waterfield & Stadter, Plutarch: Roman Lives, 198.

16 Compare also Sulla’s handling of the ambassador from the Parthian king, the first time
Rome and Parthia engaged in formal diplomatic relations, in which he awarded the cen-
tral seat to himself and did not defer to Parthian power (5.8–10).
110 stem
the formal end of the war, they represent his final acts as the commander of the
war against Mithridates.
Freed of his foreign war, Sulla returned to Italy to regain his political posi-
tion, knowing that he would have to fight his way through several large armies
between Brundisium and Rome. Plutarch narrates this campaign quickly (27–
29), structuring it in accordance with the favorable omens that Sulla claimed in
each case. Indications of Sulla’s excellence as a commander still emerge, such
as when he routed the younger Marius without even properly organizing his
troops into their battle lines: he wins “by the strength of their shared enthusi-
asm and the force of their fully realized courage” (27.10). On another occasion
Sulla deceives Scipio with talk of brokering a peace and uses the lull to win
over Scipio’s troops without a fight, after which Sulla is said, with begrudging
admiration, to have a fox and a lion dwelling in his soul.17
These chapters of military narrative form a notable contrast with the final
chapters in the biography (30–38), which are almost wholly negative in their
characterization: a narrative of tyranny, capricious large scale killing, feast-
ing, sex, and the indelible image of Sulla’s rotting flesh (36.3–4).18 After a the-
matic rendering of Sulla’s inconsistent character in the opening ten chapters,
in other words, the Life bifurcates into a largely positive section narrating mili-
tary accomplishments followed by a largely negative section narrating political
tyranny and personal excess. The Life then ends without resolving the opposi-
tion. The closest that Plutarch comes to offering a summary judgment of Sulla
appears at the end of his synkrisis of Sulla and Lysander (Comp. Lys. et Sull. 5.6),
where he emphasizes, as Duff stresses,19 that Sulla won bigger while Lysander
had more virtues. As a reader of the pair seeking to make my own tally between
the two, it seems to me that if Sulla had not achieved significant military victo-
ries, there would be very little in Plutarch’s Life to redeem him.20
17 This is a shared quality across the pair: Lysander is also said to excel at deceit and is quoted
to the effect that the fox must be deployed when the lion is not sufficient (Lys. 7.5–6; but
note also Comp. Lys. et Sull. 3.2).
18 Chapter 30: transition from civil war to political tyranny; the killing of 6,000 while speak-
ing to the Senate. Chapters 31–34: proscriptions, killings, dictatorship, triumphs, Sulla
Felix. Chapters 35–38: feasting, drinking, new wife, actors; disease, death, funeral; good
fortune to the end. See Stadter, “Plutarch’s Omission of Sulla’s Reforms,” for discussion of
Plutarch’s significant omission of Sulla’s political reforms as dictator.
19 See the excellent discussion of Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 200–204, which examines both the
surprising framing in the synkrisis and the dissonance of the synkrisis with the Lives.
The range of themes raised by Plutarch, as brought out by Duff, significantly exceeds the
dichotomy on which I am focusing in this paper.
20 It is worth noting, as Professor Mark Beck pointed out to me at the conference, that
Plutarch speaks more kindly of Sulla elsewhere. At Pomp. 8.2–4, for example, Plutarch
The Caesar offers an illustrative comparison. In his commentary on that Life,

Pelling assigns it to the descriptive end of the spectrum of Plutarch’s moralism,
and indeed judges Plutarch’s moral voice within it to be “strangely muted.”21
This muted sense of judgment is somewhat similar to that in the Sulla, a sim-
ilarity perhaps related to the many parallels between the careers of Sulla and
Caesar. Both men had controversial political careers, and turned from victories
in foreign wars to victories in civil wars, after which they became dictators and
sought to reform their states. This same basic story in the two Lives causes the
structure of the Caesar to break down in ways similar to the Sulla.
The first fourteen chapters of the Caesar document his political rise, i.e.,
up through his consulship and his departure for the Gallic War. These chap-
ters generally present Caesar in negative political terms, as a demagogue who
lavished spending on the people (e.g., 5.8, 6.7). At 4.4–7 Plutarch comments
that no one tried to stop him in the beginning because they thought he and
his wealth would fizzle out, and they waited too long to engage.22 Once consul
and allied to Pompey and Crassus, Plutarch says that Caesar did reckless and
shameful things, making public his loyalty to the people and not the Senate
(14.2–5). But at chapter 15 the narrative and the tone changes drastically, and
Plutarch wants the reader to understand why (15.1–4):23
That is the end of Caesar’s story before the Gallic Wars. The period that
followed—that of the wars he fought, and the campaigns by which he
tamed the land of the Celts—marks a new start, and it is as if he had
begun a new way of life, a new path of achievement. He showed himself
as good a warrior and commander as any of history’s greatest and most
respected generals.
This claim suggests what was only implied in the Sulla, namely that impressive
military achievement can mitigate or even overcome harmful political activity.
presents Sulla as a mentor to the young Pompey, while at Praec. ger. reip. 806E Sulla is
a mentor not just to Pompey, but to the whole next generation. Plutarch chose not to
include this aspect of Sulla’s legacy in the Sulla, which demonstrates that omission can
be as important as inclusion when Plutarch shapes his presentation of his biographical
subject.
21 Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 19; see further 18–24; at 21 Pelling writes: “Plutarch’s principles of
ethical generosity might seem to call for [the] big historical perspective to be emphasized;
but Caesar is simply not that sort of Life. It is, though, a very ‘historical’ Life in other ways.”
22 Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 144, notes that it is Sulla, “attuned to autocracy as he is,” who first
senses the danger Caesar poses (Caesar 1.4).
23 Translation from Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 87.
112 stem
Chapters 15–17 form a sort of panegyric of Caesar’s skills as a commander: no

one fought more battles, killed more of the enemy, or inspired his soldiers to
victory better than he. Chapters 18–22 make vivid the contrast between Caesar
the brilliant military commander and Caesar the corrupting politician. After
two chapters of very positive narration of Caesar’s first two campaigns of the
Gallic War (18–19), Plutarch pauses at 20.1–3 to explain that after the first cam-
paign season Caesar went back to the border of Italy to continue his demagogy
(20.2). But then news of the Belgic revolt arrives, and we get another paragraph
on his military excellence, in which Plutarch says that he grabs a shield, runs
to the front, and saves the Roman force from massacre (20.4–10; cf. Sull. 21.3–
4, quoted above). The following winter, Caesar ends up in Luca and secures for
himself even more money and an extension of his command (21.3–9). But then
Caesar goes to face a new German threat, and then to Britain, and then on to
the greatest of the Gallic wars against Vercingetorix (22–27). By the end of the
Gallic War narrative, we hear no more about Caesar’s demagoguery, but instead
we learn at 28.1 that the only thing that remained for Caesar was to overcome
Pompey. The rise of the admirable military man has blocked our view of the
shameful demagogue.
The narrative of the civil wars from 49–45 bce then comprises the next
twenty-eight chapters, which read much like a narrative history would. The
tone of the civil war narrative often deplores Rome’s lamentable condition, but
the narrative also makes clear that Caesar was the superior commander. Cae-
sar’s victories accrue seemingly inevitably and the once demagogic politician
emerges at 57.1 with dictatorial tyranny. He was, of course, a more gentle master
than Sulla, yet was assassinated for it, hence the final sections of these two Lives
read rather differently even though they both share narratives of autocracy and
death.
A further feature of the Caesar is significant when thinking about it relative
to the Sulla, and that is the importance of omens and portents. Before and after
the battle of Pharsalus (Caes. 43.3–6, 47), Plutarch includes a list of omens that
predicted or confirmed Caesar’s victory, part of a larger general sense in this Life
that the hand of the divine is felt at particularly significant historical moments.
Plutarch also includes a list of portents on and around the Ides of March (63),
and he even suggests (66.1) that the fact that Caesar died at the feet of a statue
of Pompey indicates that the gods were directing events. If we are being urged
to accept that Caesar’s downfall was somehow divinely ordained, then to some
degree his rise was as well. His remarkable run of military victories, in other
words, was part of a larger divine plan.24
24 See Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 373, 465–466, 479. For broader discussion, see F.E. Brenk,
The Sulla can easily be understood on the same model. It very regularly
includes the omens that confirmed Sulla’s victories and in several places
Plutarch notes that Sulla himself included an account of these omens in his
Memoirs. Sulla does not know which gods favored him, of course, and so he
names Fortune as their agent. As I have argued above, I do not think that
Plutarch would have accepted such a dominant role for Fortune, given the
importance of individual character for his biographical project in the Paral-
lel Lives, and yet his piety was somehow activated by Sulla’s Memoirs since he
often chooses to include the many omens by which it seemed that Sulla’s vic-
tories were sanctioned by the gods.25 Thus the fact that Plutarch drew upon
Sulla’s Memoirs, as well as the fact that Sulla was quick to attribute his successes
to Fortune in those Memoirs, may indeed be significant for Plutarch’s ultimate
ambiguity about Sulla’s character and achievement. Once a series of military
successes is perceived to be the product of both human character and divine
will, then their biographical significance becomes hard to dismiss.
Let me now return to the question with which I started, namely why Plutarch
does not condemn Sulla morally and openly declare that his might did not
make him right. The answer I am suggesting is that, for Plutarch, Sulla’s vic-
tories were real and seemingly divinely supported. Plutarch can thus only have
respect for those victories, even when they do not align with the personal and
political qualities that Sulla displayed in the other arenas of his life. Plutarch
does not approve of the savagery with which Sulla used his victories in the civil
war, but the fact that he earned those victories cannot be held against him. The
scales end up close enough to balanced that Plutarch chose not to add weight
to one side or the other. Accordingly, the moral ambiguity that we readers feel
at the end of the Sulla is the result of Plutarch’s silence about the relationship
between military success and political virtue.
In Mist Apparelled: Religious Themes in Plutarch’s Moralia and Lives (Leiden: Brill, 1977)
184–213; S. Swain, “Plutarch: Chance, Providence, and History,” AJP 110 (1989) 272–302;
F.B. Titchener, “Fate and Fortune,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Malden,
Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) 479–487.
25 P.A. Stadter, “Plutarch and Apollo of Delphi,” in R. Hirsh-Luipold (ed.), Gott und die Göt-
ter bei Plutarch: Götterbilder–Gottesbilder–Weltbilder (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005) 207–210
[reprinted in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2015) 91–94], suggests Plutarch’s ambivalence about the divine support for Sulla.
Yet also note the conclusion of C. Smith, “L. Cornelius Sulla,” in T.J. Cornell (ed.), The Frag-
ments of the Roman Historians, vol. 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013) 286: “Sulla’s
portrayal of his divinely assisted and deeply patriotic defense of the troubled republic was
not effectively challenged in surviving ancient historiography.”
114 stem
That silence is only quietly felt at the end of the Caesar, perhaps because that
Life overwhelms its criticism of Caesar’s demagogic politics with praise for his
greatness as a military commander. Even so, Plutarch remains notably reticent
in the final chapter of the Life, when he wonders whether Caesar’s success in
achieving total power was worth it (69.1):26
Caesar died after living fifty-six years in all, outliving Pompey by a little
more than four years. He had sought dominion and power all his days,
and after facing so many dangers he had finally achieved them. And the
only fruit it bore him was its name, and the perils of fame amid his envious
fellow-citizens.
The effect of total power on the victorious general is also a topic Plutarch evades
in the Sulla. One of the most striking passages in the Life comes at the point of
transition from the end of the civil wars to the beginning of Sulla’s tyranny,
when Sulla has 6,000 prisoners executed while he addresses the Senate (30.1–
4) and Plutarch comments that everyone in Rome now realized that they had
merely exchanged the tyranny of Marius for the tyranny of Sulla (30.5). This
leads Plutarch to offer an inconclusive reflection on the effects of absolute
power on personal character (30.6):27
Naturally, then, his conduct brought discredit on positions of great power,

on the grounds that they made it impossible for people to retain their
original characteristics, but were bound to make them capricious, vain,
and cruel instead. However, whether a person’s change of circumstances
causes an actual change and alteration in his nature, or whether power
allows evil tendencies that had previously lain hidden to emerge, is a
question that would more properly be settled by another treatise.
I find it significant that the only two options considered here are that absolute
power changes one for the worse or that it allows one’s evil to emerge, for this
framing of the question thereby implicitly eliminates the possibility that abso-
lute power could enhance virtues of character. But this is as close to Plutarch’s
view as I can get in the Sulla and Caesar. Although this passage shows that
he was keenly aware of the tension between the power that accrues because
of military victories and the effects of that power upon personal and political
character, it also reveals that he was not prepared to resolve that tension.
26 Translation from Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar, 127.

27 Translation from Waterfield & Stadter, Plutarch: Roman Lives, 209.
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Brill, 1977).
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103–158.
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Historical Perspective,” AJPh 121 (2000) 453–478.
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on Characterization in Greek and Roman Biography and Historiography (Oxford:
Lewis, R.G., “Sulla’s Autobiography: Scope and Economy,” Athenaeum 69 (1991) 509–519.
Miano, D., Fortuna: Deity and Concept in Archaic and Republican Italy (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2018).
Marasco, G. (ed.), Political Autobiographies and Memoirs in Antiquity (Leiden: Brill,
2011).
Pelling, C., “Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives,” JRS 99 (1979) 74–96
2002) 1–44].
Pelling, C., “Plutarch’s Adaptation of his Source Material,” JRS 100 (1980) 127–140
2002) 91–115].
Pelling, C., “The Moralism of Plutarch’s Lives,” in D.C. Innes, H.M. Hine & C. Pelling
(eds.), Ethics and Rhetoric: Classical Essays for Donald Russell on his Seventy–Fifth
Birthday (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995) 205–220 [reprinted in C. Pelling,
Pelling, C., “Was There an Ancient Genre of ‘Autobiography’? Or, Did Augustus Know
What He Was Doing?” in C. Smith & A. Powell (eds.), The Lost Memoirs of Augustus
and the Development of Roman Autobiography (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales,
2009) 41–64.
Russell, D.A., “Plutarch’s Life of Coriolanus,” JRS 53 (1963) 21–28.
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Beck, 1979).
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Plutarch (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) 417–436.
Smith, C., “Sulla’s Memoirs,” in C. Smith & A. Powell (eds.), The Lost Memoirs of Augus-
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Götter bei Plutarch: Götterbilder–Gottesbilder–Weltbilder (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005)
197–214 [reprinted in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford
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2015) 119–129.
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R. Ash, J. Mossman & F.B. Titchener (eds.), Fame and Infamy: Essays for Christo-
pher Pelling on Characterization in Greek and Roman Biography and Historiography
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 161–175.
Stadter, P.A., “Plutarch’s Omission of Sulla’s Reforms,” Ploutarchos 16 (2019) 69–76.
Swain, S., “Plutarch: Chance, Providence, and History,” AJP 110 (1989) 272–302.
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Wars,” in G. Marasco (ed.), Political Autobiographies and Memoirs in Antiquity (Lei-
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1999).
chapter 7
The Repulsae of Aemilius Paulus in Plutarch’s

Aemilius
Colin Bailey
Plutarch’s Aemilius passes over much of the political career of Lucius Aemil-
ius Paulus in silence, offering only the briefest sketch of his life and career
before his second consulship in 168 bce and the Third Macedonian War. Among
the details which Plutarch omits in the biography are several repulsae which
delayed Aemilius’ first consulship until 182bce, years after he was first eligible
for the office. This is not simply Plutarch wishing to avoid reporting a fail-
ure on the part of his subject, for he, and he alone of our sources, does note
a later repulsa, suffered sometime before Aemilius’ second consulship. Nor is
it a matter of Plutarch having had access to relatively few sources on Aemil-
ius, for he had access to and used Polybius and Livy,1 among others, the latter
of whom specifically notes and even emphasizes Aemilius’ repeated electoral
defeats. The omission of the early repulsae and the addition of a later one—
or more likely, as I will suggest, the chronological transposition and conflation
of the three early repulsae into one later repulsa—are deliberate strategies on
Plutarch’s part, by which he distinguishes his Aemilius from earlier accounts of
the man.
Livy’s Aemilius, derived from Polybius, is clearly ambitious, standing for the
consulship repeatedly and perhaps even expecting it as his due (Livy 39.32.6).
At the beginning of his second consulship, Aemilius insists that, having been
appointed to the war against Perseus, the Senate and the people of Rome
should leave him to wage the war as he sees best; he offers a similar speech to
his officers and soldiers in Macedonia. When his soldiers find fault with him for
not leading them against Perseus immediately upon their arrival at Pydna after
a half-day’s march, Aemilius reiterates his belief that, as an experienced gen-
eral, he knows what is best for his army and that his officers and soldiers should
accept his judgment.2 These speeches are not, in themselves, unreasonable, but
taken together they suggest that Livy’s Aemilius is particularly concerned that
1 S.C.R. Swain, “Plutarch’s Aemilius and Timoleon,” Historia 38.3 (1989) 317.
2 Aemilius’ speech in the Senate: Livy 44.22.1–15 (cf. Polyb. 29.1); his speeches to the army and
officers: Livy 44.34.1–5, 44.36.12–13, 44.38.1–39.9.
© Colin Bailey, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_009

118 bailey
his decisions not be challenged or criticized. He is a firm disciplinarian, provok-

ing complaints from at least some of his soldiers. The lengthy dispute back in
Rome over whether Aemilius should be permitted to celebrate his triumph over
Perseus was led by soldiers who were dissatisfied with his distribution of the
spoils of war and displeased with the consul’s strictness while on campaign.3
Livy’s Aemilius was certainly capable, dutiful, and ambitious, but he is far from
being an exemplum virtutis: he is notable largely only for his early failures to
win the consulship and his later victory in the Third Macedonian War.
Plutarch’s Aemilius is, unsurprisingly, much more fully developed, but more
than that, he is also transformed from Livy’s depiction, becoming very clearly
an exemplum virtutis.4 He remains dutiful and capable, but the ambition which
drove Livy’s Aemilius back to the polls repeatedly is virtually absent in the
Life, replaced instead by a persistent philosophical attitude, as Aemilius con-
sistently reflects upon the nature of Fortuna and the nature of human life.5
Plutarch could not very well omit entirely Aemilius’ repeated repulsae, not only
because he used Polybius and Livy as major sources for the biography, but also
because Aemilius’ repulsae were well-known to our other sources, including
Valerius Maximus: the early repulsae were not obscure bits of antiquarianism
3 The debate over Aemilius’ triumph: Livy 45.35.5–39.20 (cf. Aem. 30.4–32.1).
4 This is not to say that Plutarch’s Aemilius is faultless, though cf. R. Scuderi, “Perseo, ultimo
sovrano di Macedonia, nella biografia Plutarchea di Emilio Paolo,” Acta Classica Universi-
tas Scientiarum Debreceniensis 40–41 (2004–2005) 55–64. As P.A. Stadter, “Mirroring Virtue
in Plutarch’s Lives,” Ploutarchos n.s. 1 (2003/2004) 90, notes: “None of Plutarch’s protago-
nists is perfect … and many of the heroes are distinctly unattractive.” Cf. also P.A. Stadter,
“The Rhetoric of Virtue in Plutarch’s Lives,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and
Praxis in Plutarch (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 500–501. Aemilius, though he is, like Sertorius,
rendered as a stoic sage-like figure, nonetheless retains faults in Plutarch’s account: he is
parsimonious, brutal in his sacking of Epirus, and indifferent to Perseus’ pleas for mercy;
cf. L.A. García Moreno, “Paradoxography and Political Ideals in Plutarch’s Life of Sertorius,”
in P.A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the Historical Tradition (London: Routledge, 1992) 132–158,
and S. Xenophontos, Ethical Education in Plutarch: Moralising Agents and Contexts (Berlin: De
Gruyter, 2016) 161–168.
5 Livy does acknowledge Aemilius’ views on fortune and the changeability of human life (e.g.,
his speech on the deaths of his two younger sons, Livy 45.41.1–12; cf. D.S. 31.11.1–3), but his
Aemilius’ knowledge and comprehension are not as extensive as in Plutarch (e.g., Livy reports
that one of Aemilius’ military tribunes, C. Sulpicius Galus, predicted and explained the eclipse
of June 21, 168 bce, on the eve of the Battle at Pydna, where Plutarch credits Aemilius him-
self with that explanation [Livy 44.37.5–9; Aem. 17.7–13]). Aemilius is, of course, not the only
biographical subject whom Plutarch rewrites: cf. R. Evans, “The Misleading Representation of
Dion as Philosopher-General in Plutarch’s Life,” in P.R. Bosman (ed.), Intellectual and Empire
in Greco-Roman Antiquity (London: Routledge, 2019) 102–115 on Dion, and García Moreno,
“Paradoxography,” on Sertorius.
the repulsae of aemilius paulus in plutarch’s aemilius 119
that Plutarch might have missed. They were, rather, known details of Aemil-
ius’ life which Plutarch chose to omit in favor of a later, possibly unhistorical,
repulsa because they were not helpful in shaping his image of Aemilius as a
stoic, traditional Roman in contrast both to his predecessors in the consulship,
as Plutarch represents them, and to later ambitious Romans.6 Plutarch treats
the tradition of Aemilius’ ambition and failure to win the consulship in such a
way that it becomes a praiseworthy core element of his character.
The historical Aemilius’ desire for and pursuit of both of his consulships may
not be in themselves signs of a major failing in his character, but the small
number of men who secured a second consulship in the first half of the sec-
ond century suggests that those who pursued an iteration were all the same
unusually ambitious.7 Plutarch, for the most part, downplays such ambition
in the image of Aemilius with which he presents us. By passing over Aemil-
ius’ early repulsae in silence and reporting only his oft-expressed desire and
candidature for a second consulship, Plutarch invites us to consider the nature
of Aemilius’ ambition. He demonstrates that Aemilius’ career was driven by
a desire to be of service to the state, unlike other Romans, who sought their
own gain, and unlike the Macedonian king Perseus, whose ambition was sat-
isfied at the expense of his brother’s life and his father’s health. Aemilius, in
Plutarch’s account, desires a second consulship, but accepts his defeat and does
not pursue it relentlessly. Plutarch could not very well deny that Aemilius was
ambitious, but he attributes to Aemilius a defeat in his pursuit of a second con-
sulship in order to demonstrate that this ambition was neither unbounded and
6 Plutarch’s interest in Aemilius as an example of traditional Roman values is apparent in other

aspects of his presentation as well, not least his account of Aemilius’ eschewal of common
methods of winning favor with the populace and his activities as augur, among others (Aem.
2.6, 3.4–5). Although Plutarch suggests that Aemilius’ predecessors in the Third Macedonian
War had conducted their campaigns very poorly, Quintus Marcius Philippus, cos. ii 169, at
least, achieved a number of diplomatic successes, and his unexpected advance on Macedonia
allowed Aemilius to begin his own campaign from a much stronger position (Livy 44.6.1–17);
cf. S.P. Derow, “Rome, the Fall of Macedon and the Sack of Corinth,” in A.E. Astin et al. (eds.),
The Cambridge Ancient History. Volume viii: Rome and the Mediterranean to 133 B.C. (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 21989) 312–315.
7 Only three men attained a second consulship in the second century before the Third Macedo-
nian War: Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus (205 and 194), Marcus Aemilius Lepidus (187 and
175), and Quintus Marcius Philippus (186 and 169). Then there were five more before the Third
Punic War: Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus (177 and 163), Caius Popilius Laenas (172 and 158),
Marcus Claudius Marcellus (166, 155 and 152), Caius Marcus Figulus (162 and 158), and Pub-
lius Cornelius Scipio Nasica (162 and 155). On the second consulships of Figulus and Nasica
within ten years of their first, see n. 37 below and T.C. Brennan, The Praetorship in the Roman
Republic, 2 volumes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) 647–652.
120 bailey
destructive, as Perseus’ was, nor internally divisive, as the ambitions of some

earlier and later Romans were. The repulsa, as reported by Plutarch, serves as
an opportunity for Aemilius to display his virtues, so that it is significant not as
a historical event in Aemilius’ career but rather as an ethopoetical moment in
the development of his character.
1 Plutarch’s Silence on the Early Repulsae
According to Plutarch, Aemilius enjoyed a very successful early career: he

defeated a large field to win the aedileship, after which he secured an augur-
ship (3.1–5),8 and then served as praetor in Spain in 191 with consular status,
where he easily defeated the local tribesmen and secured the surrender of some
250 towns (4.2–3).9 Plutarch interrupts his account of Aemilius’ early political
career at this point to note his marriages and children (5), before reporting the
first consulship, in 182 (6.1–7)—but he makes no mention of a defeat in Spain
during his praetorship, of the repeated attempts and failures which preceded
this first consulship, or of his participation in the decemvirate sent to assist
Gnaeus Manlius Vulso in the implementation of the Treaty of Apamea between
189 and 188.10 The omission of these details suggests a continuity in Aemilius’
career and successes up to his first consulship. The introduction of domestic
and marital details before the first consulship may acknowledge a period of
time between the praetorship and the consulship but allows Plutarch to imply
that this time of absence from public life was not a result of a stalled political
career or of any failures. It was instead an absence chosen by Aemilius himself,
which allows Plutarch to suggest, without great detail, Aemilius’ devotion to his
family.
Plutarch’s near silence on Aemilius’ early private and domestic life is not in
itself surprising. He appears to have had little material to draw on, so much
so that his account of Aemilius’ youth and education, brief as it is, appears to
be modelled on and drawn from Polybius’ account of the education of Scipio
Aemilianus.11 In addition, while Plutarch is very interested in childhood and
8 Unless otherwise indicated, all parenthetical citations refer to Plutarch’s Aemilius.

9 Cf. R. Develin, The Practice of Politics at Rome 366–167 B.C. (Brussels: Latomus, 1985) 93;
P. Tensey, “A Note on the Repulsae of L. Aemilius Paullus (cos. 182, 168),” Athenaeum 99.1
(2011) 185. Livy reports only the activities of Aemilius and his fellow patrician aedile,
M. Aemilius Lepidus, with no mention of other contestants for the office (35.10.11–12). On
Aemilius’ praetorship, cf. Livy 36.2.6, 37.46.7–9, 37.57.5–6.
10 Livy 37.55.7, 38.38.1, 38.44.9–46.15; Polyb. 21.24.9. Tensey, “A Note on the Repulsae,” 186.
11 S.C.R. Swain, “Hellenic Culture and the Roman Heroes of Plutarch,” JHS 110 (1990) 132–133
education, his interest in the youth of his biographical subjects tends towards
those aspects which set the pattern for virtue or vice in later life.12 Plutarch’s
brief comments on Aemilius’ youth do precisely this: his refusal to plead cases
and to solicit popular favor (2.6; 3.6) anticipate both his announced reluctance
to take up the second consulship (10.3) and his address to the assembly after he
was assigned to the war (11.1–2):13
Aemilius, having gathered an assembly of the citizens, said he had sued

for his first consulship because he himself wanted office, but for his sec-
ond because they wanted a general; wherefore he was under no obligation
to them; on the contrary, if they thought the war would be carried on
better by another, he resigned the conduct of it; but if they had confi-
dence in him they must not make themselves his colleagues in command,
nor indulge in rhetoric about the war, but quietly furnish the necessary
supplies for it, since, if they sought to command their commander, their
campaigns would be still more ridiculous than they were already.
Aemilius’ concern here, as in Plutarch’s initial introduction, is not popular-

ity, but rather the responsibilities of the office and province to which he has
been assigned. Similarly, his concern with conducting the war successfully,
rather than in such a way as to enhance his own reputation, confirms the ini-
tial comment on his youth, that he was unconcerned with the common means
of distinguishing oneself but nevertheless showed himself to be a great man
in a generation of outstanding men. Brief though it is, Plutarch’s account of
Aemilius’ youth anticipates these aspects of Aemilius’ character, and we do
not require more detail from his early private and domestic life to understand
Aemilius’ later attitudes. What Plutarch tells us is sufficient to set the pattern
for Aemilius’ adulthood.
[reprinted in B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1995) 240–241].
12 Cf. C. Pelling, “Aspects of Plutarch’s Characterization,” ICS 13.2 (1988) 257–258 [reprinted
in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 283–284];
C. Pelling, “Childhood and Personality in Greek Biography,” in C. Pelling (ed.), Characteri-
zation and Individuality in Greek Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990) 191–232
[reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 301–
338].
13 Cf. Livy 44.22.1–23.15, where the speech is delivered outside the Curia, and Polyb. 29.1.1–
3. Xenophontos, Ethical Education in Plutarch, 157–160, considers the place of this and
Aemilius’ other two speeches in the Life. All translations are drawn from the Loeb Classical
Library editions of Plutarch and Livy.
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But Plutarch’s brevity on Aemilius’ early political life is perhaps more sur-
prising, both because of Plutarch’s early stress on Aemilius’ success in dis-
tinguishing himself amidst a generation filled with outstanding Romans and
because Aemilius’ early career was not without its successes. Yet most of his
adult career becomes little more than a preamble to the conquest of Macedo-
nia, which Plutarch cites as his main claim to fame (38.1). Given the prologue
of the Aemilius–Timoleon pair, we should, perhaps, expect this, too: Plutarch
reminds us at the very beginning that he carefully selects his information and
does not report everything.14 The Third Macedonian War should loom large
in this Life. Plutarch’s mirror simile in the prologue of this pair has been dis-
cussed and analyzed at length,15 but it is worth stressing here that Plutarch is
very intentionally creating an image of Aemilius in this Life. He is offering us
a reflection consisting of characteristics and traits which he has chosen for us,
and only those which he has chosen. We should expect to have a very carefully
curated account of Aemilius’ career, with all extraneous events omitted, and
other events presented to their greatest effects. This does not, however, mean
that what Plutarch has chosen to leave in silence—or near silence—is not sig-
nificant. Since Plutarch also expects his reader to reflect upon the actions of
his subjects,16 the reader must also consider his authorial decisions of what to
include, what to omit, and how to arrange his material.
Consequently, although the defeat of Perseus in the Third Macedonian War
may well have been Aemilius’ main claim to fame, we should not assume that
this is Plutarch’s only reason for omitting Aemilius’ time as a decemvir assist-
ing Vulso in Asia, or his triumph over the Ligurians, earned during his first
consulship in 182.17 Nor should we assume that Plutarch simply could not find
any report of Aemilius’ activities in the period between his praetorship and
first consulship; Aemilius is, after all, active in Livy’s pages. In the same way,
14 Cf. Plu. Alex. 1.1.

15 Cf. T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1999) 30–34; Stadter, “The Rhetoric of Virtue;” Stadter, “Mirroring Virtue;” A.V. Zadorojnyi,
“ὥσπερ ἐν ἐσόπτρῳ: The Rhetoric and Philosophy of Plutarch’s Mirrors,” in N. Humble (ed.),
Plutarch’s Lives: Parallelism and Purpose (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2010) 169–195.
16 Stadter, “The Rhetoric of Virtue,” 500.
17 We hear of Aemilius’ Triumph over the Ligurian Ingauni from Livy (40.34.7–9), who was
probably using Polybius, as was Plutarch. Plutarch mentions the fact that Aemilius was
a two-time triumphator at Aem. 5.8, but only in passing. The failure to mention this Tri-
umph explicitly is noteworthy, but easily explainable: Aemilius’ second Triumph was the
one that really mattered, as it was the Third Macedonian War which, in Plutarch’s opinion,
tells us everything that we need to know about Aemilius. For Aemilius’ activity against the
Ligurians, see Livy 40.25.1–28.9.
Plutarch’s omission of Aemilius’ early repulsae may not simply be a result of

his desire to show Aemilius as successful throughout his career, all the more so
since he does include a repulsa, which no other source mentions. It behooves
the reader to consider the omission in greater detail. Plutarch must have been
aware that his reader (both the dedicatee Sosius Senecio and the more gen-
eral reader) will have known more details about Aemilius, such as that he took
several years to reach the consulship following his praetorship despite a very
active pursuit. Tensey has noted that part of the nine-year interval between
Aemilius’ praetorship and consulship was due to practicalities. Aemilius was
prevented from standing for the consulship suo anno by the fact that he was still
in Spain when the elections for 189 were held, and he missed the elections for
188 and 187 since he was serving on the decemviral commission to assist Vulso
in Asia.18 When he was finally able to stand for the consulship, he failed, and
Livy (39.32.6) reports that in the campaign for 184, Aemilius, Quintus Fabius
Labeo, and Servius Sulpicius Galba were all “seasoned candidates who, after
earlier defeats, were now seeking an office they felt to be all the more rightfully
theirs for having been initially refused them.” Aemilius finally won the consul-
ship for 182, having by that time been rejected yet again in the campaign for
183 when Labeo won. Livy emphasizes the length of time it took Aemilius to
reach the consulship at this point, observing that his colleague as aedile, Mar-
cus Aemilius Lepidus, had held the consulship four years earlier, after being
defeated twice (Livy 39.56.4). We read in De viris illustribus that Aemilius failed
to win the consulship three times (56.1–2). Tensey argues that he was most
likely rejected in the elections for 186 or 185, for 184, for 183, and, finally, for
171.19 Plutarch, however, was not primarily concerned with the dates of Aemil-
18 Tensey, “A Note on the Repulsae,” 185–186; Livy 37.55.7, 38.38.1, 38.44.9–46.15; Polyb. 21.24.9.
19 Tensey, “A Note on the Repulsae,” 187, suggests that the electoral defeats may have been
a result of a defeat during his praetorship (Livy 37.46.7–9). There are, however, many
reasons that might account for Aemilius’ early failures. N. Rosenstein, “War, Failure, and
Aristocratic Competition,” CPh 85.4 (1990) 255–265, argues that military defeat during the
praetorship did not significantly hurt one’s chances in the consular elections. We might
also note that Aemilius may have made an influential enemy when he, along with L. Furius
Purpereo, opposed Cn. Manlius Vulso’s request for a triumph (Livy 38.44.9–46.15). Further-
more, the memory of Aemilius’ parsimoniousness with the spoils from the campaigns in
Spain during his praetorship (Aem. 4.4) may have lingered in the memory of the voters in
the comitia centuriata. Ultimately, though, failure to win the consulship was not unheard
of at the time: Quintus Fulvius Flaccus (cos. suf. 180) also failed three times (Livy 40.37.5–
6). Marcus Aemilius Lepidus had had his candidacy denied by Marcus Fulvius Nobilior
twice, before finally gaining the consulship in 187 (Livy 40.46.14). Tensey, “A Note on the
Repulsae,” 188, accepts Plutarch’s report of an additional repulsa before the second con-
sulship, placing it in 171 bce.
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ius’ offices, let alone the dates of the early repulsae or the trivial fact that he had
been rejected several times—these are not helpful in understanding Aemilius’
character, in Plutarch’s estimation. They may even undermine the image that
Plutarch offers us.
Aemilius’ dedication to winning his first consulship, and even his “having
made it clear that he was desirous of a second consulship” (6.8), hints at the
ambitious figure of Livy’s account, where in the 180s Aemilius is an insistent,
stubborn, and even entitled would-be consul. The historical Aemilius was all
the more ambitious if Tensey is correct in his speculation that Aemilius’ divorce
from Papiria, which Plutarch places between his accounts of the praetorship
and first consulship (5.1–5),20 allowed him to marry into “a wealthier, and per-
haps better connected family” and finally secure the consulship for 182bce.21
To seek the highest office so persistently and to pursue it through divorce
and remarriage is more appropriate to the ambitious dynasts of the first cen-
tury.22 By omitting Aemilius’ tenacious ambitions, and focusing on the story of
a chafing sandal to explain Aemilius’ divorce and remarriage, though, Plutarch
makes the divorce purely domestic, with no suggestion of political motives.
This also supports his earlier assertions that Aemilius was interested neither in
“wheedl[ing his] way into the good graces of the general populace” (2.6), nor in
using “his first command [his praetorship] as an opportunity to court appoint-
ment to a second, as almost all his contemporaries used to do” (3.6). Plutarch’s
Aemilius does not stoop to popularity tactics, to buying votes, nor, one would
expect, to seeking politically advantageous marriages. A persistent ambition
for the consulship may have associated Aemilius with the later dynasts, or
even with the likes of Marius and Catiline, whose ambitions proved divisive
in several ways. Of course, Aemilius’ subsequent career had none of the prob-
lematic elements of the dynasts, Marius, or Catiline, but a persistent pursuit
could nonetheless point to an underlying danger or render Aemilius a prefig-
uration of the coming crisis, neither of which would serve Plutarch’s purpose
in the Aemilius. By omitting mention of the early repulsae and the dogged pur-
suit of the consulship which caused them, Plutarch prevents these associations
from undermining his image of Aemilius, retaining him as an embodiment of
Roman virtues.
20 Cf. Con. praec. 141A.

21 Tensey, “A Note on the Repulsae,” 187–188. It must be noted, though, that Aemilius was also
connected to the Cornelii Scipiones, as his sister Aemilia was married to Scipio Africanus
(Aem. 2.5; Livy 38.57.6). Papiria was the daughter of Gaius Papirius Maso (cos. 231); her
brother or cousin Lucius Papirius Maso was praetor urbanus in 176; he does not appear to
have reached the consulship.
22 Cf. Plu. Caes. 14, Ca. Mi. 52.4–9.
2 The Plutarchan Repulsa
Plutarch’s silence on the early repulsae suggests that his hapaxical report of
the later repulsa, before Aemilius’ second consulship may be significant to
our understanding of Aemilius, but not simply because omitting the early
repulsae creates the impression of continual successes. The repulsa which
Plutarch does report also contributes to the idealized image of Aemilius which
Plutarch offers. Following his first consulship, and his triumph over the Liguri-
ans, Plutarch states that (6.8)
afterwards Aemilius often made it clear that he was desirous of a second

consulship, and once actually announced his candidacy, but when he was
passed by and not elected, he made no further efforts to obtain the office,
giving his attention to his duties as augur, and training his sons, not only in
the native and ancestral discipline in which he himself had been trained,
but also, and with greater ardor, in that of the Greeks.
The second consulship was undoubtedly more significant for Aemilius and
Rome than the first, given the significance of the Third Macedonian War, but
Aemilius’ desire to hold a second consulship recalls the ambitions apparent in
Livy’s Aemilius. Plutarch, however, counters that similarity by associating the
repulsa with this second consulship. Aemilius went into a voluntary retirement
of sorts following this repulsa, accepting his defeat and devoting himself to the
education of his children and the performance of his duties as augur (6.8–10).23
This shift to domestic affairs parallels Aemilius’ implied absence in the 180s,
which Plutarch also fills with domestic matters, omitting potentially telling
aspects of Aemilius’ career. From Livy (43.2.5–11), for example, we know that
Aemilius was active in the 170s, as he took part in a senatorial investigation of
the treatment of the Spanish provinces in 171: alongside Caius Sulpicius Galba,
Aemilius represented the people of Further Spain in the prosecution of Marcus
Matienus—an activity which Plutarch might easily have turned into a demon-
stration of Aemilius’ attention to the public welfare. But he shows us instead
a retiring Aemilius who does not need public acclaim. Plutarch also suggests
that this retirement lasted for a significant length of time, by shifting his atten-
tion away from Aemilius and Rome to affairs in Macedonia: while the war with
Perseus brews, Aemilius is out of the public eye (7–10), as well as the reader’s
23 On Plutarch’s interest in the education of his subjects, and particularly of his Roman
subjects, cf. Swain, “Hellenic Culture and the Roman Heroes of Plutarch,” 129, 134–136
[reprinted in Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives, 234–235, 244–247].
126 bailey
eye. When Aemilius does return to the forefront of Plutarch’s account, it is not
because of his continual pursuit of the consulship, but rather because of the cit-
izens’ recognition of his virtues in comparison with the incompetence of the
consuls in recent years. Plutarch makes it clear, though, that when Aemilius
returned, it was because he was summoned back by the people, not because of
his desire for a second consulship (10.3–4):24
At first he was for declining (ἐθρύπτετο) the appeals of the multitude, and
tried to avert their eager importunities, saying that he did not want the
office (ὡς μὴ δεόμενος τοῦ ἄρχειν); but when they came daily to his house
and called him forth into the forum and pressed him with their clamors,
he yielded; and when he presented himself at once among the candidates
for the consulship, he did not appear to come into the Campus in order
to get office, but as one who brought victory and might in war and offered
them to the citizens.
Plutarch’s ἐθρύπτετο suggests that Aemilius may have been coy in his initial
declining of the consulship, and this may hint at a sense of self-entitlement.
The addition of the regular visitations by the populace and Aemilius’ eventual
yielding to the persuasions of his friends, though, allows us to take Aemilius’
initial rejection, and the reason for that rejection (ὡς μὴ δεόμενος τοῦ ἄρχειν) as
sincere. That is, Plutarch presents us with an Aemilius who was initially inter-
ested in, but had no compelling need for, a second consulship. He is not angry or
resentful at the voters’ earlier rejection of him; he simply is not driven by ambi-
tion. Where other commanders whom Plutarch accuses of “courting a second
command during the first” (3.6) seek to benefit themselves from the Repub-
lic, Aemilius, when he enters the forum, offers himself and his abilities to the
Republic, if it wishes to make use of him. He presents himself as a general to be
used, not as a general who is owed another office. Plutarch’s Aemilius has no
need of further campaigns and victories, in contrast to Livy’s indefatigable and
entitled Aemilius.
Philip Stadter has suggested that in describing the repulsa which occa-
sioned this return Plutarch may have been thinking of the repeated repulsae
of the 180s.25 Pelling has shown in his analysis of the late Republican Lives
that such conflations can be deliberate on Plutarch’s part, identifying a number
of chronological transpositions which, among a series of other compositional
24 Cf. Plu. Cam. 37.1–2.

25 Ad loc. Aem. 6.8; R. Waterfield & P.A. Stadter, Plutarch: Roman Lives (Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1999) 444.
techniques, support or emphasize the particular point or moral of an individ-

ual biography.26 Although we do not have a series of contemporary Lives—
that is, historically and compositionally contemporary Lives—in this case to
offer comparative material, we may nonetheless be able to see Plutarch here
introducing a chronological transposition if we consider the effects that such
a transposition has on the representation of Aemilius’ character.27 Although
such a transposition would misdate (and conflate) Aemilius’ repulsae, this does
not undermine Plutarch’s account of Aemilius or his career. While Plutarch
cannot dispense with historical truth entirely in his accounts of his subjects,
he is far more concerned with motivations, moral problems and dilemmas,
and character than he is with, in this case, chronological precision.28 That is,
Plutarch’s placement of the repulsa may offer insight into a truth about Aemil-
ius’ character which is more important for our understanding of him than the
number and dates of his electoral defeats. That is, in his account of Aemilius’
repulsa, Plutarch offers us truth of character rather than historical truth. In
fact, the late repulsa and the voluntary withdrawal which followed it contribute
to Plutarch’s image of Aemilius in several significant ways: they contribute to
the parallel with Timoleon in the Greek half of this pair and so to the moral
theme of the pair; they distinguish Aemilius from rejected candidates; and they
enhance the contrast with Perseus which runs throughout the Life.
26 C. Pelling, Plutarch: Life of Antony (Cambridge: Cambridge: University Press, 1988) 33–36;
C. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Adaptation of his Source-Material,” JHS 100 (1980), 127 [reprinted in
C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 91].
27 Plutarch’s adjustment of chronology may also be visible in other sections of the Aemil-
ius. For example, he comments that Aemilius provided for his sons, among other tutors,
“overseers of horses and dogs, and the teachers of the art of hunting” (6.9). If Plutarch is
thinking here of Polybius, who reports that, after defeating Perseus, Aemilius allowed his
son Scipio to train and hunt in the Macedonian royal hunting preserves (Polyb. 31.29.5–
7), we may see him combining distinct periods of Aemilius’ education of his sons into a
single episode.
28 Cf. K. De Temmerman, “Ancient Biography and Formalities of Fiction,” in K. De Tem-
merman & K. Demoen (eds.), Writing Biography in Greece and Rome: Narrative Technique
and Fictionalization (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016) 13; M. De Pourcq &
G. Roskam, “Mirroring Virtues in Plutarch’s Lives of Agis, Cleomenes and the Gracchi,” in
K. De Temmerman & K. Demoen (eds.), Writing Biography in Greece and Rome: Narrative
Technique and Fictionalization (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016) 163–164,
176, stressing that truth and accuracy cannot be entirely sacrificed without undermining
the validity of Plutarch’s moral points, but that Plutarch nonetheless does not overly con-
cern himself with all of the details.
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3 Aemilius and Timoleon
Like Aemilius’ career, Timoleon’s included a long absence from the political
center.29 He had enjoyed a successful career in Corinth before the killing of his
brother, Timophanes, who had attempted to make himself tyrant of the city.
In grief and ignominy, under a cloud of suspicion that he himself had been
involved in the murder, Timoleon “gave up all public life, and for a long while
did not even return to the city but spent his time wandering in great distress
of mind among the most desolate parts of the country” (Tim. 5.4). After twenty
years, he returned by popular demand to lead a Corinthian expedition to Sicily
in 344 bce.30 Timoleon’s conduct during his absence provokes Plutarch’s obser-
vation that “unless [men] acquire firmness and strength from reason and phi-
losophy for the activities of life, [they] are unsettled and easily carried away by
casual praise and blame, being forced out of their native reckonings” (Tim. 6.1).
Timoleon fails to exert a self-control and self-awareness which would allow
him to endure this change in his fortune with the equanimity which, since the
Timoleon is the second life in this pairing, the reader has already seen Aemil-
ius display: when his younger sons die just before and after his triumph (35.2),
Aemilius does not despair, but rather offers comfort to the Roman people (36).
Personal loss does not overwhelm Aemilius in the same way that it does Tim-
oleon (or, within the Aemilius, Perseus). Nor does a political defeat prompt
despair in Aemilius, as he continues to perform (and perform well) his duties as
augur and as the educator of his sons. Both Aemilius and Timoleon face a loss
of public esteem, but Aemilius continues his cultivation of virtue and service,
while Timoleon withdraws fully. The placement of the repulsa before Aemilius’
second consulship thereby contributes to Plutarch’s major thematic moral in
the Aemilius–Timoleon pair. It is an opportunity for Aemilius to show how one
should respond to an unfavorable shift in fortune.31
29 On the thematic connections and parallels between Aemilius and Timoleon, cf. Swain,
“Plutarch’s Aemilius and Timoleon,” and “Chance, Providence, and History,” AJP 110.2 (1989)
272–302; W.J. Tatum, “Another Look at Tyche in Plutarch’s Aemilius Paullus–Timoleon,”His-
toria 59.4 (2010) 448–461.
30 H.D. Westlake, “Dion and Timoleon,” in D.M. Lewis et al. (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient
History. Volume vi: The Fourth Century bc (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 21994)
708–711, notes that the size of the initial expeditionary force sent to Sicily under Timoleon
(10 ships and 700 mercenaries) suggests that the Corinthians may not have been particu-
larly supportive of the request for support from Syracuse, though that may have changed
following Timoleon’s initial successes on the island. Plutarch’s purpose, though, is to sug-
gest the esteem in which the Corinthians held Timoleon.
31 This is not to say that Plutarch sought to equate the reasons for Aemilius’ and Timoleon’s
withdrawals, only that their behavior during their retirements is contrasted.
In addition, the withdrawal which follows the repulsa allows Plutarch to

emphasize that both Aemilius and Timoleon were sought out and given author-
ity by their fellow citizens; they did not actively seek it for their own per-
sonal interests but were rather esteemed by their fellow citizens on account of
their virtues. This allows Plutarch to suggest again that his Aemilius does not
need constant political success and glory, as Livy’s Aemilius seems to. Plutarch
acknowledges Aemilius’ ambition, as we have seen, but his acceptance of the
repulsa suggests that he, unlike Marius or Catiline, for example, pursues ambi-
tion in an acceptable manner. His second consulship becomes a duty, not sim-
ply an object of ambition and not something “all the more rightfully [his] for
having been initially refused” (Livy 39.32.6).
Reporting the repulsae of the 180s and the ambitious pursuit of the consul-
ship which occasioned them would confirm Livy’s image of Aemilius; emphasis
on a later repulsa—or, rather, a chronologically displaced repulsa—stresses
that Aemilius was ultimately recognized by his fellow citizens as better able
to lead the Roman legions than those men who had been preferred over him
in earlier elections, precisely because he did not need the constant approval of
the electorate. His ambition becomes a means of serving the Republic, not of
serving himself and thereby undermining the Republic. Plutarch’s decision not
to report the early repulsae and his addition of a repulsa in the late 170s both
contribute to this more selfless image of Aemilius.
4 Aemilius and Roman ‘Exiles’
Beyond the Timoleon, Aemilius’ withdrawal may also remind us of several

of Plutarch’s earlier and later subjects who had gone into political exile, not
because Aemilius’ withdrawal is to be seen as exile, but rather because of the
ways that he, Coriolanus,32 Camillus, and Cicero responded to their losses of
popular approval and support. Coriolanus, rejected in his own bid for the con-
sulship, threatened the concord of the city because (Cor. 15.4–5)
he had indulged the passionate and contentious side of his nature, with
the idea that there was something great and exalted in this, and had not
32 While the Coriolanus may have been composed after the Aemilius, the two men’s
responses to exile/withdrawal may still be informative. On the relative dating of these
two Lives, see C.P. Jones, “Towards a Chronology of Plutarch’s Works,” JHS 56 (1966) 66–68
[reprinted in B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1995) 106–111].
130 bailey
been imbued, under the influence of reason and discipline, with that
gravity and mildness which are the chief virtues of a statesman. Nor did
he know that one who undertakes public business must avoid above all
things that self-will which, as Plato says, is the “companion of solitude”;
must mingle with men, and be a lover of that submissiveness to injury
which some people ridicule so much. But since he was ever a straightfor-
ward man and obstinate, and since he thought that conquest and mastery
in all things and at all times was the prerogative of bravery, rather than of
effeminate weakness (which breaks out in anger, like a swelling sore, from
the troubled and wounded spirit), he went away full of indignation and
bitterness towards the people.
Coriolanus’ anger and resentment led him to oppose all popular actions, until
he was eventually accused by the tribunes of usurping the authority of the
Republic. During his exile, he led the Volsci against Rome. His is a self-centered
conception of the state, reminiscent more of Livy’s Aemilius, who also expected
the consulship as his due, than of Plutarch’s Aemilius, who, on the other hand,
harbors no indignation or bitterness towards the Roman people after his single
repulsa. Rather, he accepts the decision of the people and trains his sons for
their own future military careers, and remains ready to serve the Republic.
Camillus, faced with condemnation for misappropriation of the spoils of
war, prayed (Cam. 12.4)33
that, if with no justice, but through the wantonness of the people and
the abuse of the envious he was now being driven from his country, the
Romans might speedily repent, and show to all men that they needed and
longed for Camillus.
He withdrew from the city, in the belief that he was the victim of envious, not
just, fellow citizens. Plutarch explicitly notes the similarity to Achilles, thereby
stressing that Camillus, like Coriolanus, could not appropriately bear his anger.
His resentment is, perhaps, not as problematic as Coriolanus’ given the impli-
cation that his curse will only come into effect if he has been treated unjustly,
but it nevertheless points to a greater concern for his own status than we see in
Aemilius.
33 While Aemilius will not be accused of misappropriation, it is perhaps worth noting that
Plutarch particularly stresses Aemilius’ scrupulousness in matters of money (e.g., Aem.
4.4–5, 28.10–13), and that his soldiers were upset at how little of the royal treasury he
shared with them (30.4).
Cicero, though he did not fail in his bid for the consulship, nonetheless faced
a comparable loss in public standing and reputation when he was confronted
with accusations of the illegality of his execution of Lentulus, Cethegus, and
others involved in the Catilinarian conspiracy. Though he retained the support
of some members of the aristocratic elite, Cicero nonetheless adopted public
mourning, advertising his grief and, like Camillus, his own importance to the
state. While in exile in Greece (Cic. 32.5),
he passed his time for the most part in dejection and great grief, looking
off towards Italy like a disconsolate lover, while in his spirit he became
very petty and mean by reason of his misfortune, and was more humbled
than one would have expected in a man who had enjoyed so lofty a disci-
pline as his.
Once he lost his public prominence and public opinion turned against him,
Cicero had no strength to face the reversal in his fortune and his exile became
unbearable.34
Aemilius, of course, was not exiled, voluntarily or otherwise, but therein
lies the significance of this comparison: Coriolanus, Camillus, and Cicero, all
face rejection by the populus and react emotionally and not philosophically,
selfishly taking the rejection as an indication of disrepute and, in the cases of
Coriolanus and Camillus, as an insult to be avenged. Aemilius, though, takes
the opportunity to focus on other responsibilities, interests, and leisure—his
roles as augur and father—without conflating himself with the state or per-
sisting in his candidacy, emphasizing his selflessness. He allows Plutarch to
show how one ought to respond to rejection and reversals of fortune and
how one ought to behave as a virtuous citizen.35 Aemilius lacks Coriolanus’
wrath, Camillus’ need for revenge, and Cicero’s dejection, as well as Timoleon’s
34 While Cicero himself looked back upon his exile to offer commentary on the nature of
the Roman Republic (see S.T. Cohen, “Cicero’s Roman Exile,” in J.F. Gaertner [ed.], Writing
Exile: The Discourse of Displacement in Greco-Roman Antiquity and Beyond [Leiden: Brill,
2007] 109–128), Plutarch uses his exile simply to illustrate Cicero’s inability to cope with
the loss of public acclaim and recognition and the depth, or lack thereof, of Cicero’s philo-
sophical convictions when faced with unexpected changes in fortune.
35 Cf. Plu. De exilio 604C; H.-G. Nesselrath, “Later Greek Voices on the Predicament of Exile:
From Teles to Plutarch and Favorinus,” in J.F. Gaertner (ed.), Writing Exile: The Discourse of
Displacement in Greco-Roman Antiquity and Beyond (Leiden: Brill, 2007) 96–97. On exile
as a topos providing for a period of intellectual transformation, cf. T. Whitmarsh, Greek Lit-
erature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2001) 136–138, 159–161.
132 bailey
despair. Aemilius does not require his fellow citizens to recall him to restore his
equanimity, for he has the understanding to ensure that he did not lose it with
his repulsa.36 This gives him an authority within the narrative to instruct the
defeated Perseus (26.9–12), his officers (27), and the Roman people (36.4–9) on
the nature of Fortuna. His equanimity in the face of an electoral defeat may also
recall his speech to the people demanding that they not criticize his conduct
of the war and suggests in hindsight that that speech was simply a reflection
of Aemilius’ practicality, with none of the potential presumption that appears
in Livy’s version. Aemilius’ authority to lecture his officers and to bar the peo-
ple from critiquing his conduct of the campaign is possible because the repulsa
occurs in the 170s rather than the 180s, when Aemilius’ repeated efforts at the
consulship would have made him more akin to the ambitious and proud Cori-
olanus, Marius, or Catiline, without a demonstrated philosophical conception
of Fortuna or of service to Rome. Transposing the repulsa allows Plutarch to
show his biographical subject displaying his philosophical awareness of For-
tune, offering his children an education, and showing himself to be indifferent
to public acclaim and recognition. This renders his rumination on the change-
ability of human life believable and laudable rather than simply pedantic.
5 Aemilius and Perseus
Finally, a repulsa before the second consulship contributes to the characteri-

zation of Aemilius by enhancing the contrast with Perseus. Seeking a second
consulship after a rejection may easily be seen as a mark of clear ambition,
especially given the small number of men who iterated that office and the
debate over iteration more generally which appears to have been taking place
in the middle of the second century bce.37 Aemilius’ desire for a second con-
36 Plutarch may intend us to think of Camillus, who was recalled following defeat and disas-
ter arising from military commanders who, like Aemilius’ immediate predecessors, were
too concerned with retaining the good will of the electorate (Cam. 18.6).
37 Brennan, The Praetorship in the Roman Republic, 647–652. The only consuls who iterated
within ten years of their first consulship in the first fifty years of the second century did
so under unusual circumstances: C. Marcius Figulus and Scipio Nasica were required to
lay down their consulship of 162 following the discovery of irregularities in the election.
Although they were listed as cos ii for 156 and 155, respectively, they were not actually hold-
ing the office for a second time. Marcellus’ third consulship in 152 following his second in
155 (itself following a first in 166) may have provoked a ban on consular iteration alto-
gether. The dissatisfaction which his third consulship occasioned would seem to suggest
a lack of agreement among the senators about whether he should have been exempted
from the rule.
sulship does not become a sign of personal, unbounded ambition, though, in

part because we hear of Perseus’ desire for his father’s throne immediately
after Aemilius’ repulsa. Plutarch, following Livy and Polybius, depicts Perseus’
desire for the throne as murderous ambition and unrestrained greed, but sug-
gests that Aemilius’ desire for the consulship is simply an ambition to serve
Rome and end the war for the good of all. Plutarch insists that we consider the
two men’s ambitions in light of one another by shifting our attention, imme-
diately after describing Aemilius’ repulsa and his focus on the education of
his sons, from Rome to Macedonia. He refers to Rome’s wars with Philip v
and Antiochus iii, but then looks even farther back, to the beginnings of the
Antigonid dynasty. His survey of Perseus’ ancestors is brief, but significant all
the same, in part because it is not strictly necessary. Plutarch does not pro-
vide a summary of Philip v’s ancestors in the Flamininus, though he must have
had the resources available to provide such a summary.38 Plutarch, then, saw
some value in providing an account, however brief, of the Antigonid dynasty
at this point: it is more important for the reader to know Perseus’ ancestors
than it was to know Philip’s. By listing Perseus’ ancestors, Plutarch extends
Aemilius’ narrative absence, but he also creates the impression, true or not,
of relatively smooth succession within the Antigonid dynasty and establishes
a series of paradigmatic ancestors for Perseus, all the way back to Alexander
the Great and Philip ii. Perseus, however, interrupts that smooth line of suc-
cession, as he becomes the cause of Philip v’s death.39 Perseus indirectly kills
his brother and his father in his ambition for the throne, fearful that Demetrius
38 Plu. Flam. 2.3–4. Jones, “Towards a Chronology of Plutarch’s Works,” 67–70 [reprinted in
Scardigli, Essays on Plutarch’s Lives, 108–111], suggests that the Flamininus may have been
composed before the Aemilius. Plutarch’s use of Hieronymus of Cardia and Polybius must
have given him the means to discuss the beginnings of the Antigonid dynasty and Philip’s
ancestry already in the Flamininus, but he appears to have chosen not to do so, with
the result that Philip in Flamininus exists as a single king, where Perseus in the Aemil-
ius is carefully presented as a member, the last member, of a dynasty. The added detail
about Perseus’ ancestry cannot be ascribed simply to additional reading by Plutarch, even
though the Aemilius–Timoleon pair may not have been in Plutarch’s original plan—as
argued by J. Geiger, “Plutarch’s Parallel Lives: The Choice of Heroes,” Hermes 109 (1981)
87–88, 99–100 [reprinted in B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1995) 168–169, 184]—as the additional research must have focused on
Aemilius, rather than Perseus.
39 Aem. 8.9: “Philip died of grief and misery … when he realized that he had wrongly killed
one of his two sons, Demetrius, as a result of lies told by his other son, the inferior one.” Cf.
Livy 40.5.2–16.3, 20.3–24.8, Polyb. 23.7.1–7. On the death of Demetrius, cf. also F.W. Wal-
bank, Philip v of Macedon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1940) 246–247, 250–
254; R.M. Errington, A History of Macedonia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990)
211.
134 bailey
would be favored over him. Even before the summary of Perseus’ ancestors,
though, Plutarch provides a summary treatment of the first few years of the
Third Macedonian War, in which Perseus gained a couple of important victo-
ries. Those successes are undermined by the “inexperience and cowardice” of
generals who “conducted their campaigns ridiculously and disgracefully, suffer-
ing more harm than they inflicted” (7.1–2).40 Only after demonstrating Perseus’
failure to live up to his paradigmatic ancestors and insinuating that his suc-
cesses were a result of incompetent Roman generals does Plutarch return to
Rome and Aemilius being summoned to his second consulship.
The contrast is clear: Aemilius would like a second consulship, but his ambi-
tion is within limits. He will accept being passed over by other, less capable
candidates, without concern for popular favor. Perseus’ ambition, on the other
hand, knows no bounds. Aemilius’ ambition is thereby shown to be appropri-
ately restrained and pursued because it is directed towards the well-being of
Rome as a whole. Perseus, threatened by a better candidate for the throne, lit-
erally lies and murders his way to power. Aemilius, passed over in favor of lesser
candidates, accepts the opinion of his fellow citizens and finds other ways to
demonstrate his virtue.
6 Conclusion
Plutarch’s report—his hapaxical report—of a repulsa before Aemilius’ second

consulship demonstrates Aemilius’ character far more clearly than the ear-
lier repulsae could have. The report of Perseus’ succession to the Macedonian
throne, which comes immediately after Plutarch’s account of Aemilius’ repulsa,
downplays the ambition implicit in Aemilius’ desire for a second consulship:
unlike Perseus, Aemilius is not controlled and directed by his ambition. Rather
than an overly ambitious senator, Aemilius becomes a consularis content with
his earlier successes—despite the fact that those successes were not important
enough for Plutarch to elaborate on and so were insufficient to define him.
His readiness to retire calmly and to devote himself to intellectual and reli-
gious responsibilities shows him to be very far from the ambitions of those few
men who did hold second consulships in the first half of the second century;
from later Romans whose ambitions and persistence in seeking office posed
dangers to the Republic; and from other exiles in the Lives, whose ambitions
transformed political rejection into personal injury and insult.
40 On Plutarch’s treatment of Aemilius’ predecessors in the command against Perseus, cf.

n. 6 above.
Seeking a second consulship twice might seem to blur the image of Aemil-
ius as not personally or politically ambitious. But Plutarch must have known
that Aemilius had suffered multiple repulsae in his career and surely could not
have omitted all mention of these lapses in his success. Plutarch’s silence on
the first few repulsae suffered by Aemilius is not unreasonable, as he notes
late in the biography that it was the successful conquest of Macedonia which
made Aemilius a great hero of the Republic in the eyes of the Romans (38.1).
That conflict, and the defeat of Perseus himself, was, for Plutarch, the event
which is “most important and most beautiful to know” (1.2) in our understand-
ing of Aemilius. There was little to gain by reporting the stalling of Aemilius’
career between his praetorship and consulship, but a transposed repulsa before
his second consulship combines with the earlier silence to reinforce Plutarch’s
construction of Aemilius’ virtue, and to downplay any suspicions of his ambi-
tion. Livy reports Aemilius’ repeated attempts at the consulship and the repul-
sae as indicators of his ambition and, perhaps, as oddities of trivia, but Plutarch,
by transposing and collapsing the early repulsae of the 180s into a single repulsa
before the second consulship suggests that it actually offers important insight
into Aemilius, or into his version of Aemilius, at least. He transforms a poten-
tially negative aspect of Aemilius’ character into a signal and even fundamental
virtue.
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chapter 8
A Life in Pieces: Plutarch, Crassus 12.1–16.8

James T. Chlup
Plutarch’s biography of M. Licinius Crassus has, lamentably, not fared well in

the court of scholarly opinion.1 The accusation of biographical misadventure
rests primarily on the disconcertingly cursory narrative of Crassus’ career from
end of the Spartacan War to his departure for Syria, a period of sixteen years,
counting inclusively (70–55bce). This is very surprising given that during said
period Crassus held two consulships, the censorship, was part of an alliance
with two particularly influential colleagues, and served as part of the leadership
of the Optimate faction in the Senate (not to mention his alleged entanglement
in a failed, violent coup d’état).2 To be sure, Plutarch is not the only author to
situate Rome’s most infamous plutocrat and failed imperialist away from the
front row of the political theater: for instance, Appian in his Civil Wars is also
regrettably parsimonious on Crassus’ activities in this period.3
While one customarily indulges a historian license to interpret the past,
to ascribe prominence or de-emphasize the contributions of individuals and
the importance of events as one believes appropriate according to profes-
sional judgement, the biographer, however, surely accepts the responsibility to
produce a thorough—that is, a notionally complete—account of the subject.
1 Note, e.g., the evaluation of C. Pelling, “Plutarch and Roman Politics,” in I.S. Moxon, J.D. Smart
& A.J. Woodman (eds.), Past Perspectives: Studies in Greek and Roman Historical Writing (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986) 161 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History
(Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 208]: “Crassus … is a peculiarly lightweight and
anecdotal Life. Plutarch evidently decided—wisely enough—that is was simply impossible
to write a serious historical biography of Crassus.”
2 There has been some effort to postulate Crassus’ activities during this period: see A. Garzetti,
“M. Licinio Crasso, l’uomo e il politico iii: Dal primo consolato al triumvirato,” Athenaeum 20
(1942) 12–40; A. Garzetti, “M. Licinio Crasso, l’uomo e il politico iv: Il triumvirato,” Athenaeum
22 (1944) 1–19; A. Garzatti, “M. Licinio Crasso, l’uomo e il politico v: Il convegno di Lucca e
il secondo consolato di Crasso,” Athenaeum 22 (1944) 20–34; B.A. Marshall, Crassus: A Politi-
cal Biography (Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert, 1976) 49–137; A.M. Ward, Marcus Crassus and
the Late Roman Republic (Columbia, Missouri: University of Missouri Press, 1977) 99–288. This
effort has not always found scholarly favor: see on Marshall and Ward, E.S. Gruen, “M. Licinius
Crassus. A Review Article,” AJAH 2 (1977) 117–128.
3 The only substantial section to feature Crassus as a front-line actor is the narrative of the
Spartacan War and Pompey’s and Crassus’ first consulship (App. BC 1.14.116–121).
© James T. Chlup, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_010

a life in pieces: plutarch, crassus 12.1–16.8 139
Reading Crassus necessitates confronting Plutarch’s decision not to compose

a full(er) narrative of this pivotal period of Crassus’ career, despite evidence
within the Life itself and from other Lives that he could have done so. In the
case of Crassus, it appears that the unexpected silence is also an unnecessary
one.
1 Plutarch on Crassus, 70–55 bce
Plutarch restricts his narrative of Crassus’ political career to what one can, in a
most generous sense, describe as a bare-minimum narrative; it reads almost as
a bullet-point summary.4 Crassus’ consulships of 70 and 55 frame the narrative
(Crass. 12, 15–16), which leaves the events of 69–56 very highly compressed into
the two remaining chapters. In Pompey, the consulship of 70 marks a turning
point for its subject, and, in turn, frames how one should read that biography
as a study in the challenges of shifting from military to political leadership.5 In
Crassus, however, the consulship presages a narrative of inaction. For instance,
Plutarch draws attention to Pompey’s and Crassus’ failure to co-operate—that
is, a narrative of inaction—and their feigned reconciliation. This may serve as a
metatextual cue: Plutarch self-excuses not writing a fuller account of their con-
sulship and Crassus’ political influence that would surely follow therefrom.6
Crassus’ sacrifice to Hercules and his feast for the people (which Plutarch
records earlier at 2.3, a rare instance of Plutarch repeating himself within the
same Life, and which appears quite odd in this biography) stands in place of
the restoration of the tribunate and the restoration of jury courts to the Equites.
Accidental or deliberate, Plutarch’s omission of these is quite surprising.7 While
the consuls’ reconciliation at the end of their term at least portrays Crassus as
possessing political adroitness, it is, arguably, a red herring, since Plutarch does
4 W. Steidle, “Plutarchs Biographien des Cicero und Pompeius,” GB 17 (1990) 166–167. Garzetti,
“M. Licinio Crasso, l’uomo e il politico iii,” 12–33, suggests that Plutarch intends for the reader
to turn to other Lives to fill in gaps. If so, then surely one or more cross-references would be
in order.
5 T.W. Hillard, “Plutarch’s Late-Republican Lives: Between the Lines,” Antichthon 21 (1987) 19–
48; S.G. Jacobs, Plutarch’s Pragmatic Biographies: Lessons for Statesmen and Generals in the
Parallel Lives (Leiden: Brill, 2018) 250–274.
6 M.A. Beck, “Time and Space in Plutarch’s Lives,” in A. Georgiadou & K. Oikonomopoulou
(eds.), Space, Time and Language in Plutarch (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017) 30.
7 Garzetti, “M. Licinio Crasso, l’uomo e il politico iii,” 16. Cf. Pomp. 21.4, 22.3. The second passage
is conspicuous by Plutarch’s use of a singular verb—ἀπέδωκε—to suggest that the restoration
of the tribunate was Pompey’s act alone.
140 chlup
not provide further examples (in fact, he counteracts this when he describes
Crassus’ impolitic excitement at his planned Parthian campaign at 16.1–2).
Plutarch then vaults—this seems a better descriptor than “skips lightly,”
as one scholar describes it—to Crassus’ censorship five years later, where,
for a second time, Crassus achieves nothing, again due to difficulties with
his colleague (13.1–2). Crassus had two targets here: enfranchisement of the
Transpadani and the annexation of Egypt. Plutarch only notes the latter, which
makes sense, since one could read it as connected to Crassus’ avarice (though
Plutarch does not specifically explain it as such). A second and then third tem-
poral gap occur after a brief interlude on the Catilinarian conspiracy (13.3–5),
where Plutarch narrates back-to-back the formation of Crassus’ alliance with
Caesar and Pompey and its renewal at Luca (14) in a “single woolly chapter.”8
The third ‘interval’ between 60 and 56 is particularly salient to understand-
ing this section of Crassus, since it marks where Plutarch’s main (probable)
source for the later Roman Lives, Asinius Pollio, begins: ex Metello et Afranio
consulibus (“from the consulship of Metellus and Afranius,” that is, 60). If Pol-
lio did ascribe to Crassus an active role in Roman politics, then Plutarch surely
would have expanded this section for the years 60–56, and he would then have
found it necessary to expand the earlier narrative.9 It cannot be too much to
expect that Pollio would have something here on Crassus’ political targets, or
possibly a qualitative statement on Crassus’ relevance in the political sphere,
which, if not positive, Plutarch could paraphrase. Such an inclusion could
deflect concerns about the exiguous nature of the narrative here.
Plutarch decelerates sharply in the final two chapters of this section when
he describes Crassus’ and Pompey’s second consulship (especially the violence
in the election campaign) and the vivid scene in which the tribune Ateius
attempts to thwart Crassus’ departure from Rome (15–16).10 Plutarch inserts
Crassus’ excitement for his future campaign into the center of this episode
(16.1–2) as the author’s gaze shifts abruptly and firmly forward to Parthia. In his
apparent haste for the Euphrates, he omits an event that he later inserts into
8 Pelling, “Plutarch and Roman Politics,” 161 [reprinted in Pelling, Plutarch and History, 209].
9 One might find a faint trace of Pollio’s disregard for Crassus at Ca. Mi. 31, where Plutarch
describes the formation of the alliance without naming Crassus. On Pollio, or a narra-
tive based upon his narrative, as Plutarch’s source for some of the later Roman Lives, see
C. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives,” JHS 99 (1979) 84–85 [reprinted
in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 12–13]. On the
unlikelihood of Pollio as a source for Crassus, see J.T. Chlup, “Plutarch’s Life of Crassus and
the Roman Lives,” SCI 32 (2013) 109–110.
10 On narrative acceleration (or telescoping) and deceleration, see Beck, “Time and Space in
Plutarch’s Lives,” 26–30, whose discussion includes Crassus.
the synkrisis, describing Crassus striking Lucius Annalius for opposing Pom-
pey’s and Crassus’ provincial assignments (Comp. Nic. et Crass. 2.3).
In one instance—the coverage of the Catilinarian conspiracy (13.3–5)—
one could argue that the paucity of detail in this section is not problematic.
Plutarch narrates this event thrice elsewhere—in Cicero, Caesar, and Cato
Minor—with subtle differences in each Life.11 Here, however, he only includes
the information that is directly pertinent to Crassus: his providing Cicero with
evidence for the plot and Cicero’s claim to have ex post facto evidence of Cras-
sus’ collaboration.12 Plutarch notes only that the majority opinion at the time
was disinclined to believe the accusation, which perhaps he uses as an excuse
to avoid elaboration.
It is important to note that this section does not constitute the whole of
Plutarch’s assessment of Crassus in this period. He problematizes his narra-
tive of 70–55 when appraising Crassus’ relationship (or rivalry) with his future
colleagues Caesar and Pompey (7). Plutarch’s premature placement of this
discussion occurs probably due to Pompey’s entrance into the Life a few sen-
tences earlier in the description of Pompey’s and Crassus’ actions in Sulla’s
service (6.5), and so he maximizes Pompey’s and Caesar’s presence in Crassus,
strengthening the impression of Crassus as someone defined by the threat of
being overshadowed by another.13
More importantly, Plutarch contradicts what he implies in the later nar-
rative by portraying Crassus as an active agent—“he entered cautiously into
political activities” (ὑπεδύετο τὴν πολιτείαν)14—which he combines with money
lending and legal work (7.2). Highly problematic is Plutarch’s assigning Crassus
the role of political chameleon, shifting back and forth between Pompey and
Caesar, each of whom aligns himself with the Optimates and Populares respec-
tively (7.7–8). The narrative does not provide evidence for this: that is, Plutarch
should somewhere articulate Crassus’ having a position on an issue, and then
changing it to the opposite, shifting from supporting an Optimate to a Popu-
laris position and then vice versa on another issue (see also below).15 Apart
11 C. Pelling, “Plutarch and Catiline,” Hermes 113 (1985) 311–329 [reprinted in C. Pelling,
12 The narrative in Crassus is too brief to establish a relationship with the others, though the
most important fact, Crassus’ providing the evidence to Cicero, does appear at Cicero 15,
but not in Cato Minor or Caesar, since it is not directly pertinent to either.
13 R. Seager, “Individual Rivalries in Plutarch’s Late Republican Lives,” PLLS 13 (2008) 323–
325; K. Weggen, Der lange Schatten von Carrhae: Studien zu M. Licinius Crassus (Hamburg:
Kovač, 2011) 183–184.
14 Unless otherwise noted, translations are based on the Loeb editions, lightly modified.
15 Cf. Pelling, “Plutarch and Roman Politics,” 161–163 [reprinted in Pelling, Plutarch and His-
tory, 208–209].
142 chlup
from being a narrative garnish, the explication of the expression “had hay on
his horn” efficiently illustrates Crassus’ inclination to confront vigorously those
who oppose him, but most importantly it implies Crassus’ regular attendance
in political debates (7.8). Plutarch also mentions this at Quaestiones Romanae
280F–281A, where he notes that Caesar was the first to challenge forcefully
Crassus in debates. This clearly connects the anecdote to the 60s, when Cae-
sar is emerging as a figure of political relevance. The omitting of Caesar in the
version in Crassus is very odd indeed given what Plutarch writes in the previous
sentences.
2 Traces of a Better Crassus?
The discomfiture created by the narrative of the 60s and early 50s in Crassus
stands at odds with evidence from within the Life itself and other Lives of the
Late Republic, which indicate Plutarch’s awareness that Crassus’ role was not as
inconsequential as the narrative might suggest. A few passages from the early
chapters arguably adumbrate for a better Crassus. First, Plutarch’s thorough dis-
cussion of Crassus’ affluence (2) demonstrates good knowledge of the broad
historical tradition on his subject, and the references to Archidamus and Mar-
ius (including a quotation from the latter) suggests an attempt to contextualize
Crassus in a wider debate on wealth that cuts across the Plutarchean oeuvre.16
Second, Plutarch notes Crassus’ zeal to serve as an advocate, including when
others—he specifically names Cicero, Caesar, and Pompey—declined to do so
(3.3–4). This mention clearly relates to the 60s and 50s. Had Plutarch reiter-
ated it at any point after the account of Crassus’ first consulship (he instead
does this prematurely at 7.2), with or without specific detail (that is, references
to specific cases), he could explain that this occupied Crassus’ time when not
engaged in direct political activities.
Third, the first narrative episode (which attracts some attention as “enter-
taining” and “outstanding,” as Hillard describes it)17 in the Life features Cras-
sus’ self-imposed exile in a cave in Spain during the Cinnae dominatio (4–5).
16 In the case of Archidamus, Plutarch repeats what he notes elsewhere (and possibly ear-
lier): Cleom. 27.1; Reg. et imp. apophth. 190A; Apophth. Lac. 219A. The reference to Marius is
probably a misidentification: at Reg. et imp. apophth. 194E Plutarch ascribes the quotation
to one Manlius Curius. Of course, it could be that Marius too said it, but interestingly it
does not appear in Marius.
17 Hillard, “Plutarch’s Late-Republican Lives,” 23.
One might describe this as a product of “cross-fertilization,”18 as Plutarch read

this story in Fenestella (whom he names here as the source) when writing
another Life, most likely Sulla.19 While this anecdote centers more on Vibius as
an amenable host than as insight into Crassus’ salad days, its relative expansive-
ness (two Teubner pages for an event that lasted eight months, as Plutarch notes
at 6.1) creates an expectation of narrative-pace that implies a thorough biog-
raphy. Added to the earlier treatment of Crassus’ wealth, these are important
indications that Plutarch was not wholly disinterested in writing a competent
biography. At the very least they suggest that there was information—in this
instance esoteric, but surely also more practical—about Crassus prior to his
consulship available, should Plutarch desire to search for it.
Lucullus and Cicero, in fact, provide evidence of Plutarch’s greater awareness
of Crassus’ relevance in Roman political life and culture than Crassus suggests.
While Crassus is not one of Lucullus’ political rivals in the latter’s Life,20 he does
seem to be Lucullus’ potential heir when he ‘retires’ (Luc. 42.4–5):
[Lucullus] thus released to Crassus and Cato the rivalry and contest for
great and highest power, since it was both dangerous and inglorious. For
those suspicious of the power of Pompey put forward Crassus and Cato
on behalf of the Senate when Lucullus declined the position of leader-
ship.
The passage explicitly casts Crassus in the role of an actor about to (re)enter the
theater, and it reveals Plutarch’s cognizance of Crassus as desirous of political
influence. Plutarch contradicts here what he writes in that problematic passage
of Crassus: the Crassus of Lucullus is firmly in the Optimate group, not shift-
ing between factions. Most critically, the passage contributes to the theme of
Crassus’ rivalry with Pompey, providing evidence of Crassus’ efforts against his
former (and future) colleague. One cannot expect Plutarch to narrate that here,
though the reader might expect this to serve as notice that he will do so later
18 Pelling, “Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives,” 82–83 [reprinted in Pelling,
Plutarch and History, 10–11].
19 G. Delvaux, “L’annaliste Fenestella et Plutarque,” LEC 57 (1989) 127–146; M.G. Angeli
Bertinelli et al., Plutarco. Le vite di Nicia e di Crasso (Milan: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla, 1993)
334–335.
20 Seager, “Individual Rivalries,” 330–332, prefers Pompey; cf. A. Keaveney, Lucullus: A Life
(London: Routledge, 1992) 159–161, 164; M. Tröster, Themes, Character, and Politics in
Plutarch’s Life of Lucullus: The Construction of a Roman Aristocrat (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner,
2008) 93–97.
144 chlup
(in Crassus). That Plutarch does not mention Crassus’ actions during Pompey’s
impending return from the East, then, is a glaring deficiency in Crassus.21
However, there is at least a hint of Crassus and Cato as rivals in Crassus.22
Caesar argues that should Pompey and Crassus decline to reconcile, a different
alliance will emerge: Cicero, Catulus, and Cato (14.2). Further, when Crassus
and Pompey finally declare their intention to seek their second consulship,
Cato encourages Domitius to stand, arguing that Pompey and Crassus aim for
tyranny (15.3–4; cf. Ca. Mi. 41.1–3). In Cicero, Plutarch explores the relationship
between Crassus and Cicero in an extensive passage (Cic. 25.2–26.2):23
[Cicero] made a successful speech from the Rostra lauding Marcus Cras-
sus and another, equally successful, a few days later denouncing him.
When Crassus said, “Was it not you yourself who were praising me there a
few days ago?” he said, “Aye, it was a rhetorical exercise in pleading a bad
cause.” And one time when Crassus exclaimed that no Crassus at Rome
had lived longer than his sixtieth year and afterwards was retracting this
and saying, “What could have come over me when I said this?” Cicero
remarked, “You knew that that was what Romans would like to hear and
for this reason you were speaking to please the crowd.” When Crassus
said that he agreed with the Stoics that the good man is wealthy, he said,
“Watch out in case their doctrine is, rather, that everything belongs to the
wise man.” Crassus had a bad reputation for stinginess with money. When
one of Crassus’ sons, who was thought to bear resemblance to Axius and
on account of this caused a scandal for his mother with respect to Axius,
was well received as he delivered a speech in the Senate, Cicero was asked
his opinion and replied, “He was axios of Crassus.” When Crassus was
about to depart for Syria, he wished to make Cicero a friend rather than an
enemy and as a gesture of goodwill said that he wished to dine with him,
and Cicero readily hosted him. A few days later, when some colleagues
approached him about Vatinius’ desire for a reconciliation and friendship
(for he was an adversary), he said, “Surely Vatinius does not want to dine
with me also?” This was his opinion of Crassus.
21 M.T. Schettino, “Modello storico, eroico e tragico in Plutarco: il caso della Vita di Crasso,”
in A. Barzanó et al. (eds.), Modelli Eroici dall’Antichà alla Cultura Europea (Rome: L’Erma
di Bretschneider, 2003) 273.
22 Pace Seager, “Individual Rivalries.”
23 The translation here (lightly modified) is from A. Lintott, Plutarch: Demosthenes and Cicero
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); see ibid., 166–167, and J.L. Moles, Plutarch: The Life
of Cicero (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1988) 173, on this passage as it figures in Cicero.
It is quite odd that none of the five anecdotes above recur in Crassus, since at
least a few would complement what Plutarch writes in that Life.24 Whereas the
reference to Crassus in Lucullus discussed above relates to politics, in Cicero,
Plutarch provides a more intimate study, shedding light on Crassus’ character.
First and foremost, the anecdote about Crassus’ misunderstanding of the
Stoics and the wise man being wealthy is directly relevant to Crassus’ main
character trait, “avarice” (φιλαργυρία), as it would enhance the analysis of Cras-
sus wealth (2). The possible infidelity of Crassus’ wife and the fact that one of
his sons may be illegitimate could complement possible examples of Crassus’
own extra-material relations, of which Plutarch mentions two in Crassus: the
alleged involvement with the Vestal Licinia (1.4–5, which also appears at De
capienda ex inimicis utilitate 89E) and the unnamed women during Crassus’
exile in Spain (5). The anecdote on the mortality of the Crassi complements
the humorous exchange between Crassus and King Deiotaurus, where Crassus
mocks the Galatian for building a new city despite his age, to which Deiotau-
rus replies that Crassus himself is in his autumnal years, amplified by Plutarch
when he adds that Crassus looks much older still (17.1–3). Inclusion of Cicero’s
barb would have enhanced this exchange, underlining Crassus’ latent (or real)
awareness of his mortality.
3 Plutarch’s Crassus and the Parallel Lives
The communis opinio is that Lucullus and Cicero were composed early in the
Parallel Lives project, so, therefore, they constitute Plutarch’s preliminary
hypothesis on Crassus.25 Did Plutarch at this point intend to compose Crassus?
24 Weggen, Der lange Schatten von Carrhae, 198, suggests that the source here is a collection of
Cicero’s sayings about others, arranged by person. If so, it is indeed odd that Plutarch had
this source at hand when writing Cicero but not when writing later Lives, not just Crassus.
25 Plutarch refers to Demosthenes–Cicero as the fifth pair (Dem. 3.1). C.P. Jones, “Towards a
Chronology of Plutarch’s Works,” JRS 56 (1966) 68 [reprinted in B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on
Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995) 111], places Cimon–Lucullus before
that (either the second, third, or fourth pair); Nicias–Crassus fits as the sixteenth pair
at the earliest. G. Delvaux, “Plutarque: chronologique relative des Vies Parallèles,” LEC 63
(1995), 103, agrees about the early placement of Cimon–Lucullus; he places Nicias–Crassus
no earlier than the eleventh pair, but specifically as the fifteenth (105, 109). The analysis
of the cross-references by A.G. Nikolaidis, “Plutarch’s Methods: His Cross-references and
the Sequence of the Parallel Lives,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F.B. Titchener (eds.), Historical
and Biographical Values of Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Professor Philip A. Stadter
by the International Plutarch Society (Málaga: Universidad de Málaga; Logan, Utah: Utah
State University, 2005) 312–313, places Crassus as the last of the six later Roman Lives that
146 chlup
Or did he forget what he wrote about Crassus in these earlier Lives? While the
later Roman Lives that Plutarch composed after Lucullus and Cicero indicate the
biographer’s increasing knowledge of the history of the Late Republic,26 Cras-
sus appears to betray a change of historical perspective with respect to Crassus’
historical significance. No one would fault Plutarch for revising his opinion,
especially if there was a considerable temporal gap between writing these Lives
and Crassus, and if additional sources that he read entailed a revisitation of his
earlier appraisal.
An easy answer—perhaps too easy—would be to hypothesize that Cras-
sus is not, in fact, Plutarch’s intended final version, but a pre-publication or
incomplete draft: a hypomnema.27 The incongruity between the first and sec-
ond halves of the Life noted earlier raises this possibility. So too does the anec-
dote from the synkrisis about Crassus striking Lucius Annalius, as a revised
draft would surely entail Plutarch relocating the incident to the Life itself (see
above). One might speculate that Plutarch composed the Parthian narrative
first, working in the first instance from, say, the source that he used for the
Parthian narrative in Antony, which he may have written immediately before
Crassus.28 His intention was then to draft the first half, where, perhaps unex-
pectedly, he struggled (or lost motivation) to find material to complete the
pre-Parthian narrative to the same standard. In circulating his draft to friends,
he may have hoped for directions to additional material and inspiration. The
Parthian narrative in Crassus is indeed a double-edged sword: its expansive-
ness, literary sophistication, and the quite vivid conclusion suggests the poten-
tial for this Life on the one hand and exposes the problematic nature of the first
half on the other.29
Pelling, “Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives” [reprinted in Pelling, Plutarch
and History], suggests Plutarch wrote together. Angeli Bertinelli et al., Plutarco. Le vite di
Nicia e di Crasso, xxviii, place Nicias–Crassus in the second half of the collection, noting
its probable publication close to Alcibiades–Coriolanus. The charts in Jones, “Towards a
Chronology,” 69–73 [reprinted in Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives, 115–123], allow
for at least a few years between the writing of Lucullus and Cicero and Crassus, which is
sufficient time for someone as busy as Plutarch to forget or for his thinking to evolve. Schet-
tino, “Modello storico, eroico e tragico in Plutarco,” 274, provides 114 or 115 as the probable
date, linking it specifically to the commencement of Trajan’s Parthian campaign.
26 As Pelling, “Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives” [reprinted in Pelling, Plutarch
and History], argues. Cf. Steidle, “Plutarchs Biographien des Cicero und Pompeius,” 165–
172.
27 Chlup, “Plutarch’s Life of Crassus,” 117–118.
28 Cf. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives,” 87 n. 96 and 88 [reprinted in
Pelling, Plutarch and History, 15 n. 96 and 16]; Hillard, “Plutarch’s Late-Republican Lives,”
21 n. 11; Angeli Bertinelli et al., Plutarco. Le vite di Nicia e di Crasso, xliv.
29 D. Braund, “Dionysiac Tragedy in Plutarch, Crassus,” CQ 43 (1993) 468–474; A.V. Zadorojnyi,
Each Life exists in a series of relationships with other Lives; therefore, an

enlarged Crassus would reverberate across the Parallel Lives. The thematic
correspondences between Pompey, Caesar, and Crassus, for instance, indicate
Plutarch’s desire that one read them side-by-side-by-side; therefore, an amelio-
rated Crassus could more tightly tether them.30 Enumerating more fully and
giving due weight to Crassus’ political reputation and achievements would
enhance understanding of Pompey and Caesar as political agents: they are
men of historical significance because they have an individual such as Cras-
sus as a colleague. In a few instances, Crassus affords Plutarch the opportunity
to include information that does not appear elsewhere, and a longer Crassus
could provide more such occasions.31 Moreover, both Pompey and Caesar con-
tain at least a few passages, which, if repeated or expanded in Crassus, would
create an additional link between the Lives and present a more thorough pic-
ture of Crassus. For instance, in Pompey, Crassus and his sons’ retreat from
Rome, along with their money, in reaction to fear that Pompey will march
on the city upon his return from the East. Crassus’ possible motive, Plutarch
observes, is to accentuate hatred of Pompey (Pomp. 43.1–2). This episode could
strengthen even further both themes of Crassus: avarice and rivalry with Pom-
pey. Moreover, if one reads Cato Minor as the exploration of the unrealized
potential to make a direct impact on politics—as Plutarch insinuates in Cras-
sus when he observes that “Cato’s reputation was greater than his power, and
men admired him more than he had influence over them” (7.7), a phrase, to be
sure, that can apply to Crassus as his own Life suggests—then a more thorough
narrative of Crassus as political actor might underscore that message.32
However, a better Crassus could potentially have consequences for the Life
itself, and, by extension, Nicias–Crassus as a pair, possibly loosening the link
“Tragedy and Epic in Plutarch’s ‘Crassus’,” Hermes 125 (1997) 169–182; C.S. Chrysanthou,
Plutarch’s Parallel Lives: Narrative Technique and Moral Judgement (Berlin: De Gruyter,
2018) 116–120; G.O. Hutchinson, Plutarch’s Rhythmic Prose (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2018) 187–210.
30 J. Beneker, “Thematic Correspondences in Plutarch’s Lives of Caesar, Pompey, and Cras-
sus,” in L. de Blois, J.B.T. Kessels & D.M. Schenkeveld (eds.), The Statesman in Plutarch’s
Works, Volume ii (Leiden: Brill, 2005) 315–325; Chlup, “Plutarch’s Life of Crassus,” 110–114.
31 In addition to the information about Crassus’ possible involvement with Catiline, Plutarch
records Caesar’s utterance about Crassus’ possible pleasure upon learning of his capture
by pirates, although this does not appear at the appropriate point in Caesar (1.8–2.7) where
it would be “distracting,” as C. Pelling, Plutarch: Caesar (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2011) 138, suggests. Its inclusion in Crassus helps convey Caesar’s sense of humor, as well
as exposing Crassus’ attitude towards his “friends.”
32 Plutarch alludes to Cato’s presence on the periphery rather than at the center of Roman
political life at An seni 797A. Jacobs, Plutarch’s Pragmatic Biographies, 389–414, reads Cato
Minor as a study of one who works between political leaders and fellow citizens.
148 chlup
between them. An elaborated narrative of the 50s, for instance, might have
forced Plutarch to re-evaluate his presentation of Crassus, shifting away, even
if only slightly, from being a “negative” Life.33 Indeed there are elements of a
positive presentation: for example, 3.1–4 on Crassus as a dinner-host and his
indefatigable efforts as advocate.34 However, the overarching theme is Crassus’
“rapacity” (φιλοπλουτία, the word that Plutarch uses at 2.1), which Plutarch sit-
uates front and center in the Life (1.4–2.10; 6.6–9), and for which the Parthian
narrative is an extended metaphor.35 Crassus’ political activities might indi-
rectly point to a contradictory (that is, positive) character trait, which would
dilute Crassus’ desire for wealth for its own sake. With such a tonal change,
it may have run counter to Plutarch’s moral purpose in the Life.36 However, as
noted earlier, there are at least a few instances where Plutarch could have made
more of Crassus’ avarice through expanding the pre-Parthian narrative, making
it appear much more as a near all-consuming character trait.
Most critically, a longer Crassus might complicate Plutarch’s modus scribendi
for Nicias, where he justifies not providing an exhaustive narrative by declar-
ing his desire not to re-narrate Thucydides and Philistus (Nic. 1.5).37 A longer
Crassus—admittedly it would probably need to be longer by a significant
amount—might insist upon a longer Nicias, which would force Plutarch to
revisit his commitment not to overlap with existing narratives (a counterexam-
ple might be Agesilaus–Pompey, where the latter Life is considerably longer). If
Plutarch wrote Crassus to provide a pair for Nicias (and not vice-versa, as Titch-
ener suggests),38 then crafting a more elaborate Crassus would seem counter-
intuitive. Plutarch’s statement at Nicias 1.5 to narrate “quickly, with no unneces-
sary detail,” therefore, functions as a pre-emptive, albeit not entirely deliberate,
restriction on Crassus: he would cover sparsely the parts of Crassus’ career that
are not directly pertinent to exploring Nicias and Crassus as a pair. From a his-
torical perspective, then, it could very well be, in fact, all about the military
defeats, Sicily and Parthia respectively (as Nicias 1.1 efficiently exclaims), and
everything else is narrative foreplay.
33 The use of quotation marks acknowledges that Plutarch does not formally create such
a subcategory in the Parallel Lives. Demetr. 1.2, however, raises the possibility that some
biographies provide models for the reader specifically to seek not to emulate.
34 See also Weggen, Der lange Schatten von Carrhae, 177–182.
35 See, for example, Angeli Bertinelli et al., Plutarco. Le vite di Nicia e di Crasso, xxix–xxxi;
Weggen, Der lange Schatten von Carrhae, 170.
36 This is what Marshall, Crassus: A Political Biography, 177, speculates to be the main reason
for the brevity of the account on the 60s and early 50s.
37 On Plutarch’s declarations that he does not wish to write (or rewrite) history in the Parallel
Lives, see Chrysanthou, Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, 29–31.
38 F.B. Titchener, “Why Did Plutarch Write about Nicias?” AHB 5 (1991) 153–158.
4 Conclusion
Perhaps lurking not so inconspicuously in the discussion is a sense of frus-

tration that comes from reading Crassus. This is because one optimistically
presumes that Plutarch would seek to write the best possible biography in every
instance. In this assumption, therein may lay part of the problem: the standards
for an author as exceptional as Plutarch are very high. On the Roman side, Pom-
pey, Caesar, and Antony reveal the exceptional standard that Plutarch could
achieve. Crassus serves as an occasion where, unfortunately, he does not meet
that standard, despite hints, from other Lives and even passages within Crassus,
that he could have crafted a fuller biography.
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Plutarch’s Works, Volume ii (Leiden: Brill, 2005) 315–325.
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chapter 9
What about the Gold-Digging Ants? The Silences

and Irony of Plutarch’s De Herodoti malignitate
Charles W. Oughton
This volume and the conference that preceded it took as its theme “Plutarch’s
unexpected silences.” One Plutarchan work that warrants a discussion of its
silences is the treatise De Herodoti malignitate. Plutarch’s apparent excoriation
of Herodotus troubles and fascinates scholars, in part, due to its unexpected
silences. The narrator fails to make the critiques or even praises that we might
expect, that is, those that correspond to either the ancient or modern critics of
Herodotus. And, of course, the ancient and modern perspectives on Herodotus
do not line up themselves.1 While Fehling and his so-called “liar school” make
reference to seeming absurdities like Herodotus’ story of ants in India that leave
behind gold dust in the detritus around their nests (3.102–105), such ancient
historians as Megasthenes (FGrHist 715 F 23) and Nearchus (FGrHist 133 F 8)
include the gold-digging ants in their own accounts of India.2 And, as we now
1 For a survey of the reception of Herodotus in antiquity and his influence on authors in the
time of Plutarch, see S. Hornblower, “Herodotus’ Influence in Antiquity,” in C. Dewald &
J. Marincola (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Herodotus (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 2006) 306–318.
2 The term “Liar School” is, of course, taken from W.K. Pritchett, The Liar School of Herodotus
(Leiden: Brill, 1993), which was a counter-study to D. Fehling, Herodotus and his ‘Sources’:
Citation, Invention, and Narrative Art, trans. by J.G. Howie (Liverpool: Francis Cairns, 1989).
Fehling (pp. 96–102) examines the logos of the gold-digging ants in a discussion of Herodotus’
“regard for credibility” and concludes that the “story itself can scarcely be regarded as a gen-
uine oriental one. It is based on Herodotus’ own idea that gold is plentiful among all the
peoples on the periphery of the world” (p. 97). Fehling also includes the example in his list
of “Fictive Proofs” (p. 129) and “Motif-repetition” (p. 201). Pritchett, The Liar School, 90–94,
critiques Fehling’s label of “fictiveness” attached to the story by demonstrating the range of
zoological vocabulary used in other historians. For additional discussion of the complicated
nature of Herodotus’ methods and source citations and the relationship between truth and
fiction in the Histories, see P. Cartledge & E. Greenwood, “Herodotus as a Critic: Truth, Fic-
tion, Polarity,” in E. Bakker, I.J.F. de Jong & H. van Wees (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Herodotus
(Leiden: Brill, 2002) 351–371; S. Hornblower, “Herodotus and his Sources of Information,” in
E. Bakker, I.J.F. de Jong & H. van Wees (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Herodotus (Leiden: Brill,
2002) 371–386; and E. Baragwanath & M. de Bakker, “Introduction,” in E. Baragwanath & M. de
© Charles W. Oughton, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_011

152 oughton
know, the story itself could likely be derived from the Himalayan marmot.3
Arrian’s Indica provides an illuminating discussion of the tradition that demon-
strates an enduring enthusiasm for it in the second century ce (Ind. 15):4
Concerning the ants, Nearchus says that he himself did not see an ant of
the sort which others have noted as coming from India but that he did see
many of their hides that were brought to the Macedonian camp. Megas-
thenes, on the other hand, records that the logos about the ants (ὑπὲρ τῶν
μυρμήκων τὸν λόγον) is true, that they are the ones that dig up the gold,
not for the sake of the gold itself, but naturally in their digging through
the ground to create their dens, just as our smaller ants do as they dig a
little of the earth. But the Indian ants—for they are larger than foxes—dig
up the earth in proportion to their size and the earth there bears gold and
that is how the Indians get their gold. But Megasthenes records hearsay
and since I do not have any more accurate information to write about
this, I willingly leave off (ἀπίημι ἑκών) the logos about the ants (τὸν ὑπὲρ
τῶν μυρμήκων λόγον).
While Arrian here cites only Nearchus and Megasthenes, the Herodotean tradi-
tion is not absent from the text. Arrian’s description of the ants as “larger than
foxes” (εἶναι γὰρ ἀλωπεκέων μέζονας) directly mirrors Herodotus’ lexical choice
(ἀλωπέκων δὲ μέζονα, 3.102.2). Additionally, the entire project of the Indica takes
its cue from Herodotus, from his Ionic dialect to his running style.5 Although
Arrian refuses to directly weigh in on the accuracy of the tale, its presence
here, the way that he labels the story as “the logos about the ants” on multi-
ple occasions, and his desire to simply move on from it demonstrate an expec-
Bakker (eds.), Myth, Truth, and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012)
1–56.
3 M. Peissel, The Ant’s Gold: The Discovery of the Greek El Dorado in the Himalayas (London:
Collins–Harvill, 1984). K. Karttunen, India in Early Greek Literature (Helsinki: The Finnish
Oriental Society, 1989) 171, and “The Ethnography of the Fringes,” in E. Bakker, I.J.F. de Jong &
H. van Wees (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Herodotus (Leiden: Brill, 2002) 457–474, also notes the
presence of the idea of the “ant-gold” in Indian sources (Mahābhārata 2.48.4 and Manoratha-
pûraṇî 2.239.21) and discusses the growth of this story in the Greek historiographic tradition.
5 On Arrian’s Indica and the author’s intention in writing, see F.F. Schwarz, “Arrian’s Indike on
India: Intention and Reality,” East and West 25 (1975) 181–200. On the relationship between
Arrian and Megasthenes in the Indica, see A.B. Bosworth, “Arrian, Megasthenes, and the
Making of Myth,” in J.A. López Férez (ed.), Mitos en la literature griega helenística e imperial
(Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 2004) 299–320.
what about the gold-digging ants? 153
tation for its inclusion. Given how the nearly-contemporary Arrian shows his
awareness of the famous debate about the ants, Plutarch’s failure to address so
famous a controversy may be regarded as an “unexpected silence.”6 In addition
to Plutarch’s lack of a direct discussion of the ants, the discrepancy between
these types of Herodotean logoi that seem to be absurdist fiction to modern crit-
ics such as Fehling but are regarded as must-have narratives by ancient authors
highlights the gap between ancient and modern approaches to the Herodotean
methodology.
To proceed, then, it is imperative to contextualize the treatise within its his-
torical and literary contexts. Modern scholarship has drawn a wide range of
conflicting conclusions on the text. In the past the essay was not treated as
serious historical criticism or was dismissed as a spurious text due to its sur-
prising take on Herodotus that does not always seem to accord with Plutarch’s
relationship with the historian in the Lives.7 However, the discrepancy between
the Plutarchan persona that is a frequent citer and admirer of Herodotus and
a second, more critical, persona that can attack Herodotus for malice has been
described as resulting from his Platonist suspicions of historians as practition-
ers of imitatio.8 In a similar vein, N.B. Kirkland has shown how Plutarch’s lan-
guage within the treatise fits well with the Platonic and Aristotelian ideas he
expresses elsewhere and demonstrates the careful connection between a text
and the perceived character of its author.9 John Marincola, on the other hand,
has pointed out that Plutarch’s treatise is best understood when compared to
contemporary historiographic debates centered on flattery and bias rather than
truth and fiction.10 Or, as C. Sierra has argued, the treatise fits well within the
6 D. Asheri, A. Lloyd & A. Corcella, A Commentary on Herodotus: Books i–iv (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2007), on the Herodotean passage (3.102) in question, describe the logos
of the ants as “one of the most famous Herodotean mirabilia; modified and enlarged, the
story enjoyed great success in antiquity until the late Roman period.” The commentary
there provides, in addition to those noted above, several other ancient texts that relate
this tradition.
7 See L. Pearson & F.H. Sandbach, Plutarch: Moralia, Volume 11 (Cambridge, Massachusetts:
Harvard University Press, 1965) 2–7, for the former view; for the latter, see K. Ziegler,
“Ploutarchos von Chaeronea,” RE 21.1 (1951) 636–962, who discusses Plutarch’s extensive
familiarity with Herodotus and notes the historian’s frequent appearances in the Moralia.
8 J. Hershbell, “Plutarch and Herodotus: The Beetle and the Rose,” RhM 136 (1993) 143–163.
9 N.B. Kirkland, “The Character of Tradition in Plutarch’s On the Malice of Herodotus,” AJPh
140 (2019) 477–511.
10 J. Marincola, “Plutarch’s Refutation of Herodotus,” AncW 25 (1994) 191–203, and “Plutarch,”
in J. Marincola, On Writing History from Herodotus to Herodian (Harmondsworth: Penguin,
2017) 293–332. Cf. also H. Homeyer, “Zu Plutarchs de malignitate Herodoti,” Klio 49 (1967)
181–187.
154 oughton
context of the debates of the Second Sophistic which aim to renegotiate the
Greek tradition within the Roman Empire.11 By contrast, J.M. Candau Morón
contends that the treatise is a staged performance piece, in the model of
ancient diatribes, the contents of which matter little and bear little concern
with exposing or debating reality.12
Despite these explanations that place the De Herodoti malignitate within
its larger literary-historical context, the treatise proves troublesome even just
within the context of the Plutarchan corpus.13 As noted above, Plutarch is not
consistent in his attitude toward Herodotus. He can praise and cite the his-
torian in one text and then accuse him of malice here. Christopher Pelling
has shown that the inconsistencies can often be explained due to the generic
qualities of each work, whether it be the measured approach to Herodotus in
some Lives or a glowingly positive one in his treatise on Epicurus.14 In addi-
tion to his changing attitudes toward Herodotus, Plutarch directly censures the
kind of task he completes with the De Herodoti malignitate in another text, the
De curiositate, where he claims that compiling a laundry list of a person’s or
author’s faults is unbecoming and useless (De cur. 520AB):15
If someone were to go through the writings of the ancients and pick out
the worst (τὰ κάκιστα) of the things in them and keep a book compiled
from these … would not that person be worthy of the tragic curse: “Go on
11 C. Sierra, “Plutarco contra Heródoto: razones de una censura,” Talia Dixit 9 (2014) 23–46.
12 J.M. Candau Morón, “Citazioni storiografiche nel de Herodoti Malignitate de Plutarco. Ide-
ologia, retorica, e conflitti d’identità,” in M. Berti & V. Costa (eds.), Ritorno ad Alessandria.
Storiografia antica e cultura bibliotecaria: tracce di una relazione perduta (Rome: Tored,
2013) 261–276.
13 Only the argument of C. Chrysanthou, “Plutarch and the ‘Malicious’ Historian,” ICS 45
(2020) 49–79, that Plutarch frames the treatise as an invitation to his readers to question
and to examine the “paradoxes involved in history” (p. 73), like the persona he presents
elsewhere, finds common ground between Plutarch’s De Herodoti malignitate and the
Lives or other texts from the Plutarchan corpus.
14 C. Pelling, “Truth and Fiction in Plutarch’s Lives,” in D.A. Russell (ed.), Antonine Litera-
ture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990) 19–52 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and
History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 143–170], and “De Malignitate Plutarchi:
Plutarch, Herodotus, and the Persian Wars,” in E. Bridges, E. Hall & P.J. Rhodes (eds.),
Cultural Responses to the Persian Wars: Antiquity to the Third Millenium (Oxford: Oxford
15 On this passage and its relationship to the De Herodoti malignitate, see Pelling, “De Malig-
nitate Plutarchi,” 155, who writes that this “seems equally out of character for Plutarch to
be so carping” and concludes that the discrepancy is part of a generic malleability exhib-
ited by Plutarch, whose works display “a microcosm of the different sorts of tune that the
Persian Wars and its great historian could suggest” (p. 162).
and die if you are picking out the misfortunes of men”? But even without
the curse, keeping a treasury of others’ faults (ἁμαρτημάτων) of this type
is unbecoming and useless.
If Plutarch’s silence toward the expected praise and criticism of Herodotus in

the De Herodoti malignitate leaves us surprised at his unexpected tone and
there is so little consistency in his views toward Herodotus elsewhere, what
can we make of the treatise? In this chapter I argue that the narrator weaves a
layer of irony into the De Herodoti malignitate, as Plutarch commits in his attack
on Herodotus the very errors that he claims the historian should have avoided.
While Pelling and H. Ingenkamp have both shown places in the Lives or in other
works of the Moralia where Plutarch commits the same or similar offenses with
which his narrator charges Herodotus in the De Herodoti malignitate,16 these
parallels are spread between various texts and one need not assume that the
reader is aware of the De Herodoti malignitate when reading those texts. How-
ever, I contend that the narrator’s own malice is evident within the treatise in
such a way that it can be deduced largely from within the text itself and does not
require more than a rudimentary knowledge of Herodotus.17 As such, this chap-
ter aims to demonstrate that the De Herodoti malignitate can be read as ironic
on its very surface. The irony present in the text then shows that the treatise is
a literary play making a comment on the state of historiographic criticism in
Plutarch’s day more so than on the actual legacy or reception of Herodotus.
Plutarch lays out eight lines of critique against Herodotus in the opening
chapters (855B–856D) of his treatise. These eight qualities are summarized
below.
A. A preference for “very unpleasant” (δυσχερεστάτοις) words
B. Including “discreditable” (κακόν) details that are not relevant to the
account
C. Omitting the “fine and noble” (καλοῦ … κἀγαθοῦ)
16 Pelling, “Truth and fiction in Plutarch’s Lives,” and “De Malignitate Plutarchi.” H.
Ingenkamp, “De Plutarchi Malignitate,” in J. Opsomer, G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.),
A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing (Leuven: Leuven University Press,
2016) 229–242.
17 As we know well from studies of methods of ancient citations, it is inappropriate and
anachronistic to focus heavily on exact citations. A.J. Bowen, Plutarch: The Malice of
Herodotus (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1992) 5–9, deals with the issues of citation within
the work directly. Additionally, G. Ragogna, “Alcune considerazioni sul de Herodoti malig-
nitate di Plutarco,” Patavium 19 (2002) 23–41, has shown that Plutarch’s running style of
reference to the Histories in this treatise is a functional part of Plutarch’s approach and is
a deliberate attempt to invoke Herodotus’ own style of citation.
156 oughton
D. A preference for the “less creditable” (χείρονι) of two versions of an event

E. A preference for the “less creditable” (χεῖρον) “cause” (αἰτίαν) or “intention”
(διάνοιαν) behind an event
F. As reasons for success: money instead of “valor” (ἀρετῆς), “with ease”
(ῥᾳδίως) instead of with difficulty, or luck instead of “intelligence” (φρο-
νίμως)
G. “Indirect” (πλαγίως) “attacks” (διαβολαῖς): meaning the historian articu-
lates the charges but then withdraws the claims (because, for instance,
they are not believable)
H. “Mixing praise with the criticism” (τοῖς ψόγοις ἐπαίνους τινὰς παρατιθέντες)
so that the accusations seem more convincing
I have assigned these criteria letters (A–H) to which I refer throughout this
chapter. Plutarch’s choice of words that lie behind these criteria contain a mix-
ture of ethical terminology (ἀρετῆς, διάνοιαν, ῥᾳδίως)—and, indeed, a number
of scholars have given the label of “ethical treatise” to the De Herodoti maligni-
tate18—political-philosophical terminology (καλοῦ … κἀγαθοῦ), rhetorical ter-
minology (διαβολαῖς, ψόγοις, ἐπαίνους, δυσχερεστάτοις), more typical historio-
graphic terminology with an emphasis on causation (αἰτίαν) or on ensuring
or feigning credibility,19 and somewhat Sophistic terminology (Plutarch here
often contrasts the good with the bad, the better with the worse: κακόν, καλοῦ …
κἀγαθοῦ, χείρονι, χεῖρον). Criterion G, which describes a literary-critical praeteri-
tio whereby aspects are raised only to be said to be ignored, represents a com-
mon rhetorical device. W. Seavey, additionally, has shown how Plutarch uses
legal technical language in the passages that follow these criteria.20 Throughout
these chapters, the narrator cites or mentions various historians, rhetoricians,
sophists and dramatists. In short, Plutarch has used a wide range of tools for
literary criticism and engaged with an extensive list of genres in his search for
Herodotean malice. To show the narrator’s irony then, I will go through a few
examples from the treatise where he commits these very offenses.
To begin, let us look at what Plutarch says about successful endeavors in an
author’s works. As the narrator lays out in criterion F, if a historian claims that
someone finds success because of the ease of their tasks, or with money in place
of valor, or without intelligence, the historian is guilty of malevolence. Plutarch
18 For example, J. Boake, Plutarch’s Historical Judgement with Special Reference to the de
Herodoti malignitate (Diss., University of Toronto, 1975), and Pearson & Sandbach,
Plutarch: Moralia, 6.
19 As Marincola, “Plutarch’s Refutation of Herodotus,” has pointed out.
20 W. Seavey, “Forensic Epistolography and Plutarch’s De Herodoti malignitate,”Hellas 2 (1991)
33–45.
readily admits that Herodotus has a high reputation as an author, but to what
does Plutarch attribute this success? In the opening and closing paragraphs
of the treatise, he provides some explanation. The De Herodoti malignitate
opens with Plutarch’s bold assertion: “Even the style of Herodotus, Alexander,
has deceived many as it is simple (ἀφελής) and easily (ῥᾳδίως) runs its course
between deeds without any effort (δίχα πόνου, 854E).”21 Plutarch here describes
Herodotus’ success with language parallel to that used in criterion F (856B),
where he claims that attributing achievements to ease makes an author guilty
of malice. The language used in these two passages has direct verbal parallels:
“easily” (ῥᾳδίως) appears in both passages, as does a variation on the idea of a
perceived lack of effort (δίχα πόνου, 854E; σὺν οὐδενὶ πόνῳ 856B). The pairing
of these two synonymous expressions (ease and lack of effort) in each passage
emphasizes the connection between Plutarch’s evaluation of Herodotus’ style
and his own criterion for malice.
Another of the components of criterion F disparages successes said to be
earned “without intelligence” (μὴ φρονίμως, 856B). At the end of the treatise,
Plutarch notes an additional explanation for the success of Herodotus. As part
of his final summary, just before the infamous “Rose-Beetle” simile, Plutarch
uses a Homeric line to accuse the historian of writing as an untrustworthy poet
(874B): “There is grace and cleverness and elegance to his tales, and he speaks
his story as a bard does, not so much with knowledge of it, but sweetly and
elegantly.” While less of a direct lexical parallel than the previous example, the
tenor of Plutarch’s charge here focuses on Herodotus acting less with knowl-
edge than with charm. I will return to the Homeric quote (Od. 11.368) employed
here at the end of the chapter, but for now consider that Plutarch bookends his
treatise with claims that Herodotus has found success in two of the three ways
that the treatise proposes are malicious reasons to give as explanations for oth-
ers’ achievements.
As for the third component of criterion F, that efforts made “for the sake of
money” (χρήμασι) are malicious, Plutarch recalls the rumor of a payment made
to Herodotus by the Athenians in exchange for his flattery (862AB).22 The nar-
rator also returns to this theme shortly thereafter when he mentions Herodotus
being rebuffed when he asked the Thebans for a similar bribe (864CD). While
the narrator ultimately questions the truth value of the rumor of the payment
21 D.A. Russell, Plutarch (London: Duckworth, 1973) 60, and Bowen, Plutarch: The Malice of
Herodotus, 4–13, provide useful discussions on Plutarch’s style within this treatise.
22 Pelling, “De Malignitate Plutarchi,” 159–160, explores other complications with Plutarch’s
mentions of bribes here and his treatment of the rumored payment made to Themistocles
by the Euboeans in that Life (Them. 7.6–7).
158 oughton
by the Athenians, there are two mitigating factors that complicate Plutarch’s
mention of the rumor. First, Plutarch questions the rumored bribe because
Herodotus makes a mistake about the dates surrounding the battle of
Marathon and Phidippides’ run in his narrative (6.106.1). This mistake, to
Plutarch, is said to “aid Herodotus against the charge that he took a pay-
ment from the Athenians since he flattered them” (862A). Second, even though
Plutarch notes that the mistake “aids” (βοηθεῖ) and thereby exonerates the his-
torian, Plutarch closes the discussion with a citation for the rumor: Diyllus,
an Athenian whom Plutarch notes is a “historian not to be slighted” (οὐ τῶν
παρημελημένων ἐν ἱστορίᾳ, 862B). Regardless of how Plutarch evaluates or com-
plicates the veracity of the rumor, the mention of Herodotus receiving a bribe
for his flattery hints at the idea of a monetary exchange lying behind his suc-
cess. Additionally, as the narrator raises the charge of bribery only to drop it
again because it is unbelievable, he directly commits the offense laid out in cri-
terion G, whereby the malicious author “takes back and withdraws (what they
have said) and says that they do not believe those things which they wish you
to believe” (856C). Plutarch’s withdrawal of the charge, adorned with the men-
tion of an error committed by the historian and bolstered by the citation of a
purportedly reputable historian, constitutes the exact kind of indirect attack
that the narrator describes as malicious in criterion G.
For most of the discussion that follows I focus on examples drawn from the
portions of the treatise that contain Plutarch’s repudiation of the Herodotean
narratives of Marathon and Thermopylae and, for the most part, avoid exam-
ples that deal with the harms Plutarch says the historian perpetrated upon
Boeotia for two reasons. First, Plutarch’s attack on the earlier mytho-historical
narratives within the Histories fails to recognize the fundamental shifts that
happen in the Herodotean narrative as he moves from the distant to the more
recent past; this avoids the more readily available targets and instead focuses
the analysis on the portions of the treatise that might appear to be more even-
handed and fair at first glance.23 Second, these latter parts of the treatise are
those most often taken as serious historiographic criticism for the reasons I
just mentioned; so, showing the malice of these portions is essential to demon-
strating how the irony underlies the whole of the treatise.
Among these sections then, Plutarch notes Herodotus’ claim that the Athe-
nians are the saviors of all Greece (864A). Of lesser importance is the fact that
the quotation of Herodotus brought up here (7.139) actually comes from a pro-
23 Plutarch’s failure to address the shift in the Herodotean narrative is itself a larger under-
lying issue in the treatise that, to my knowledge, has not been explored and warrants
additional study.
lepsis, where Herodotus has moved forward in time to think about the end
result of the Greco-Persian wars, a frame that the Plutarchan narrator fails to
mention. Plutarch mentions this example of Herodotean praise in an attack on
the historian’s fondness for mixing criticisms into his praise as an example of
criterion H (864A):
But he has made the Athenians of great importance in his narrative and
he has proclaimed that they are the saviors of Greece—and, at any rate,
he does so rightly and justly (ὀρθῶς γε ποιῶν καὶ δικαίως)—except that he
adds on slanders to these praises (βλάσφημα προσῆν τοῖς ἐπαίνοις).
The phrase “he does so rightly and justly” provides an unnecessary praise of
Herodotus’ writings. Even had Plutarch wanted to note that Herodotus is cor-
rect that Athens saved Greece, saying that the historian speaks “justly” is hardly
appropriate, in Plutarch’s own accounting, since the narrator remarks just a few
lines later (864AB):
It is clear that he was not saying this for the praise (ἔπαινον) of the Atheni-
ans, but instead he was praising (ἐπαινῶν) the Athenians so that he might
speak ill (ἵνα κακῶς εἴπῃ) of all the others.
The purpose clause—“so that he might speak ill”—leaves no doubt as to

Plutarch’s interpretation of Herodotus’ intention.24 The recurrence of words for
praise here reinforce the connection with the praises mentioned above (ἐπαί-
νοις, 864A). When he finds such a malevolent purpose behind the Herodotean
praise of Athens, the narrator cannot therefore be expected to voice genuine
support for the label of “just” that he uses above. In that instance, then, the
entire phrase “he does so rightly and justly” is best interpreted as being added
to lend a little more weight to his criticism by granting the narrator the appear-
ance of being fair in his assessment. As the Plutarchan narrator says himself
in his explanation of criterion H, the issue of malice arises when praises are
added for the purpose of making the censure “believable” (856D). Note, too,
how Plutarch here violates criterion H in his examination of a Herodotean
example of that same criterion.
Plutarch also takes issue with Herodotus for his accounting of the final stand
of the Greeks at Thermopylae and the death of Leonidas. Like the example just
24 As Plutarch considers Herodotus’ intention in praising the Athenians merely to speak ill
of the other Greeks, he also violates criterion E by attributing his actions to the “intention”
(διάνοιαν) that pertains “to the worse” (πρὸς τὸ χεῖρον) explanation (855F).
160 oughton
discussed, Plutarch commits in his analysis of the Histories the very offense he
aims to demonstrate in this section of the treatise. Here, I suggest that Plutarch
omits the good and noble from his critique on Herodotus (criterion C) and also
includes discreditable but irrelevant facts (criterion B) (866A):
Herodotus, by saying in his narrative of the battle that they all fell in the
narrows around the Hill (αὐτοῦ πεσεῖν πάντας … ἐν τοῖς στενοῖς περὶ τὸν
Κολωνόν), has also dimmed (ἠμαύρωκε) the greatest deed of Leonidas. But
this happened in another way.
Plutarch’s entire record of the Herodotean narrative of the final stand and
Leonidas’ death consists of a mere nine words: “they all fell in the narrows
around the Hill.” The narrator omits all of the good and noble deeds that
Herodotus does include in his account of the final stand. He makes no men-
tion of the noble and heroic—one could even say Iliadic—struggle over the
body of Leonidas (7.225.1); no mention of the remaining Greeks fighting with
their hands and teeth when all other tools of war were lost to them (7.225.3); no
mention of Eurytus being led into battle by his helot after he lost his sight and
then charging into the thickest of the fighting while blind (7.229.1); no men-
tion of Megistias insisting to stay for the battle despite Leonidas’ dismissal of
the seer (7.221). In fact, in the discussion that follows, Plutarch instead notes
two other anonymous Spartans who refused to leave when asked to do so and
claims that Herodotus omits such a narrative (866CD). The Plutarchan narra-
tor has omitted—not just downplayed—all of these fine and noble deeds from
Herodotus’ account.
Instead, to provide the competing narrative that Plutarch mentions above
(866A), he gives a brief account of the infamous night-raid made into the Per-
sian camp. We of course also know this story from Diodorus (11.9.4–10.4), who
got it from Ephorus.25 Plutarch provides the Spartan raiders with a noble death
wherein they were “surrounded (περιχυθέντων) by the barbarians on all sides
(πανταχόθεν) and were slain” (866B). The words Plutarch uses here recall those
25 H. van Wees, “Thermopylae: Herodotus versus the Legend,” in L. van Gils, I.J.F. de Jong
& C. Kroon (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative: Thermopylae, Cannae, and
Beyond (Leiden: Brill, 2018) 19–53, considers the relationship between Herodotus’ narra-
tive of Thermopylae and the competing tradition arising from Ephorus. M. de Bakker, “A
Narratological Comparison of Herodotus and Diodorus on Thermopylae,” in L. van Gils,
I.J.F. de Jong & C. Kroon (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative: Thermopylae,
Cannae, and Beyond (Leiden: Brill, 2018) 54–90, compares the versions of Herodotus and
Diodorus directly.
from Herodotus’ account of the final stand: “some (of the barbarians) tore
down (συγχώσαντες) the wall and others came around from all sides (πάντο-
θεν)” (7.225.3).26 The narrator, however, has taken this stand out of the morning
light of the battle in Herodotus and placed it in the narrative of the raid “by
night” (νύκτωρ, 866A), shrouding the story in darkness, which is ironic given
that Plutarch accuses Herodotus of “dimming” (ἠμαύρωκε, 866A) the noble
deeds of Leonidas in the Histories. Then, surprisingly, the narrator moves on
with the following claim (866B):
Whatever other bold enterprises and sayings of the Spartiates he has left
out in addition to this one, will be recorded in my Life of Leonidas. But it
is not too bad an idea to go over a small number of them even now.
Of course, regardless of whether or not Plutarch did in fact write it, we do not
have the Leonidas to compare to what is here. In the next few lines, however,
the narrator provides several quips of various Spartans, all of which we also
find in his works Apophthegmata Laconica and Lacaenarum apophthegmata.27
The narrator provides no indication here at all that Herodotus does, in fact,
record another famous Spartan saying in his narrative of Thermopylae, that
of Dienekes who will “fight in the shade” made by the multitude of Persian
arrows (7.226). Plutarch does not take issue with which sayings of the Spar-
tans Herodotus chooses to include; the treatise instead omits all of Herodotus’
record of laconic wit and hints that none of it was there.
The narrator concludes his criticism of the Herodotean Thermopylae with a
notice that turns toward the sayings that Herodotus has not omitted from other
parts of the Histories (866CD):
No one would have rebuked another author for having left out (παραλι-
πόντος) these matters, but the one that drew up and recorded the flatulent
retort of Amasis and the driving of the thief’s donkeys and the offering of
the wineskins and many other things like that would not seem to have
passed over noble deeds and beautiful sayings because of carelessness or
oversight but because he is neither well-disposed nor just toward some.
26 R. Beekes, Etymological Dictionary of Greek, 2 volumes (Leiden: Brill, 2009) 1627 and 1654
respectively, notes that χέω and χώννυμι derive from the same PIE root, *gheu–, “to pour.”
27 R.J.A. Talbert, Plutarch on Sparta (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1988) 106–108, discusses the
possible origins of these collection of Spartan sayings, which likely predate Plutarch. See
further Humble in this volume.
162 oughton
Plutarch turns his attention here to two stories from Herodotus’ Egyptian
logoi (2.162.3 and 2.121).28 He makes no mention of the fact that Herodotus often
couches his Egyptian narrative with phrases meant to limit its potential truth
value. For instance, the entire Rhampsinitos passage (2.121) to which Plutarch
refers here is given in an extended indirect speech of over one hundred lines.
The Plutarchan narrator need not have looked so far and wide for examples of
Herodotus providing such extensive and perhaps unnecessary details. More rel-
evant critiques could have been found within the Thermopylae narrative itself,
whether it be the various explanations for Ephialtes’ death (7.213–214) or the
description of the rock of Heracles of the Black-Buttocks as the starting point of
the Anopaia path (7.216). These digressions intrude in the Thermopylae narra-
tive itself and would therefore be more fitting examples for Plutarch to address.
Instead, Plutarch turns back toward what he sees as Herodotean howlers from
episodes in the Egyptian logoi that are less credible and even less relevant to
the discussion at hand, which is, in his own estimation, a violation of crite-
rion B. In his description of this criterion, Plutarch notes that “digressions and
diversions in history are more appropriate in myths (μύθοις) and in ancient leg-
ends (ἀρχαιολογίαις)” (855CD). By his own account, then, Herodotus’ inclusion
of these tales of Egyptian antiquity are more suitable digressions for the Histo-
ries than those found in the Thermopylae narrative itself.
Plutarch again commits the sort of literary-critical praeteritio noted in crite-
rion G as he considers the Herodotean account of Marathon (862CD):
Let it be ignored (ἀφείσθω) that he called the Eretrians slaves although

they had shown their daring and love for distinction to be no more lack-
ing than any other of the Greeks and had suffered things not worthy of
their courage. And as for the fact that he slandered (διαβεβλημένων) the
Alcmeonids, among whom were the most important of families and most
highly esteemed men, that is a lesser matter (ἐλάττων λόγος).
The narrator raises both of these concerns only to dismiss them, an exam-
ple of the “indirect attack” noted in criterion G. While there are several more
instances of praeteritio throughout the treatise (e.g., 856D, 862AB), this pas-
sage warrants further discussion because it has two of these praeteritiones in
28 A. Lloyd, “Egypt,” in E. Bakker, I.J.F. de Jong & H. van Wees (eds.), Brill’s Companion to
Herodotus (Leiden: Brill, 2002) 415–435, shows how Herodotus frames his entire account
of Egypt through a decidedly Greek lens, thereby distorting the truth. Pritchett, The Liar
School of Herodotus, 243–254, examines various sources cited by Herodotus in the Egyp-
tian logoi at length.
quick succession and because Plutarch here raises the question of the Alcme-
onids.29 In three other instances (858BC, 862F, 863B) the narrator brings up
the Herodotean attack on the Alcmeonids and in only one of those instances
(862F) does he mention Herodotus’ ultimate exoneration of the family (6.123).
In dismissing these accusations, Herodotus twice calls the story “something
fantastical” (θῶμα, 6.121.1 and 6.123.1) and labels it as “slander” (διαβολήν) to
which he does not ascribe (6.123.1). And yet, Plutarch’s description of the
charges against the Alcmeonids suggests that the slander arose from Herodotus
himself (862D). Even where Plutarch does note Herodotus’ acquittal of the fam-
ily, he dismisses the defense as a pretense (862F) and notes that the charges
themselves thereby constitute an indirect attack. Additionally, the sole inclu-
sion of the exoneration, even downplayed as it is, is embedded between the var-
ious references to the Alcmeonid controversy such that the last thing Plutarch’s
reader hears about the charges against the family (at 863B) leaves the impres-
sion that Herodotus does in the end defame the Alcmeonids. The Herodotean
relationship with the Alcmeonids and the truth behind the shield signal is
markedly complex, but the Plutarchan narrator’s several mentions of the
debate here lend credence to the idea that Herodotus supported the attack on
the family. The structure and overall effect of Plutarch’s account of this contro-
versy shows how the narrator himself has a preference for the “less credible” or
the “worse” version of an event in Herodotus—a violation of criterion D.
In the examples above, I have explored several places throughout the De
Herodoti malignitate where the narrator commits the same errors with which
he charges Herodotus and, at times, where he commits the exact error for
which he is simultaneously attacking the historian or even incorporates
Herodotean language into his criticisms. The combined effect of these attacks
reveals an underlying web of irony woven throughout the treatise. Despite the
extent of the irony, the trend in scholarship has been to take the treatise seri-
ously. And, the ironic aside, there is a great deal of accuracy and seriousness
still within the treatise that has been the source of the prevailing scholarly
opinion. The combination of irony with an underlying serious truth points
to satire. I contend, then, that Plutarch’s treatise is a satirical take on the
historiographical-critical treatises that we know were circulating in the ancient
world. Apart from Lucian’s How to Write History, most of these are unfortu-
nately lost and it can be difficult to recognize satire when you do not have the
29 E. Baragwanath, Motivation and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford: Oxford University Press,

2008) 27–34, discusses the Alcmeonid saga in Herodotus, and also addresses Plutarch’s
response as a reader of Herodotus (pp. 9–20).
164 oughton
reality to which it responds. The tone of outward irony masking a core truth,
however, points in this direction.
Lucian, moreover, provides a fitting point of comparison for this study. The
pepaideumenos of the Second Sophistic was adept at composing playful liter-
ary treatises.30 Lucian has been shown to exhibit in his texts clever satirical play
with anecdotes, to weave into them elements drawn from fabulists and myth,
or to create a literary substructure that can carry a joke across multiple texts.31
This sophisticated literary play extends into his historiographic works as well.
Lucian’s How to Write History presents a complicated picture of the relation-
ship between truth, historian and literary critic.32 While Lucian parades Thucy-
dides as the master of even-handed impartiality, he also claims the historian
began his task to follow in Herodotus’ footsteps (Hist. Conscr. 41–42).33 Lucian,
too, extends lavish praise on Herodotus in his Herodotus or Aëtion and models
his On the Syrian Goddess directly on Herodotus’ work, down to the style and
30 G. Anderson, The Second Sophistic: A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire (London:
Routledge, 1993) 47–85, describes the endeavors of the pepaideumenos and his engage-
ment with the Classical tradition and analyzes (pp. 171–199) the various playful compo-
nents of his activities. For an example of the term in a context apposite to our discussion,
see Lucian Hist. Conscr. 44.
31 See, respectively, G. Anderson, “‘It’s How You Tell Them’: Some Aspects of Lucian’s Anec-
dotes,” in A. Bartley (ed.), A Lucian for Our Times (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Schol-
ars Publishing, 2009) 3–10; G. Anderson, “Lucien fabuliste: à la recherche de quelques
thèmes populaires,” in A. Billault (ed.), Lucien de Samosate: actes du colloque international
de Lyon organisé au Centre d’Études Romaines et Gallo-romaines les 30 septembre—1er octo-
bre 1993 (Paris: Diffusion De Boccard, 1994) 13–17; G. Anderson, “Some Aspects of Lucian’s
Use of Myth,” in J.A. López Férez (ed.), Mitos en la literature griega helenística e imperial
(Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 2004) 233–243; and K. Sidwell, “Damning with Great Praise:
Paradox in Lucian’s Imagines and Pro Imaginibus,” in K. Sidwell (ed.), Pleiades Setting:
Essays for Pat Cronin on his 65th Birthday (Cork: Department of Ancient Classics, Univer-
sity College Cork, 2002) 107–126.
32 R. Porod, “Lucian and the Limits of Fiction in Historiography,” in A. Bartley (ed.), A
Lucian for Our Times (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009) 29–46,
demonstrates how Lucian takes a surprising hardline approach to the nature of truth, his-
tory and narrative, even surpassing the posture of Polybius. Furthermore, Porod’s analysis
shows a second layer of meaning interwoven by Lucian into the treatise that combines his
historiographic and Cynic values but is only accessible to the educated reader. A. Bartley,
“Lucian’s Contemporary Dialects,” in A. Bartley (ed.), A Lucian for Our Times (Newcastle
upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009) 183, notes the irony in the Hist. Conscr.
33 For a discussion of the problems presented by Lucian’s relationship to Thucydides else-
where, with a focus on the Verae Historiae, see A. Bartley, “The Implications of the Recep-
tion of Thucydides within Lucian’s ‘Vera Historia’,” Hermes 131 (2003) 222–234. Anderson,
The Second Sophistic, 101–132, shows how the pepaideumenos engages with history and
historiography as a typical part of his arsenal.
dialect.34 The language he uses to describe the “beauty of [Herodotus’] words”

(κάλλος τῶν λόγων, Herod. 1) mirrors that which he claims should be employed
by the ideal historian, that “his diction (λέξις) be elevated by the beauty of
the things under discussion (τῷ κάλλει … τῶν λεγομένων)” (Hist. Conscr. 45).
A common model of these playful literary treatises of the Second Sophistic,
the adoxon, heaps praise onto things “normally disreputable or worthless.”35
Plutarch, conversely, frames his discussion of Herodotus in the De Herodoti
malignitate as a serious literary treatise that aims to censure the celebrated his-
torian. Plutarch has, in essence, inverted the inversion of the adoxon: he faults
Herodotus where others praise him, while the playful narrators of the Second
Sophistic extol where others criticize.36
To conclude then, let us return to the quotation from the Odyssey that
Plutarch makes at the end of the treatise (discussed above). In the same breath
that Plutarch accuses Herodotus of acting like a sweet-singing poet he uses a
zoological simile (874B):
There is grace and cleverness and elegance to his tales, and he speaks
his story as a bard does, not so much with knowledge (ἐπισταμένως), but
sweetly and elegantly. Doubtless, these are the things that charm every-
one and lead them on. We must be on guard against his slander and abuse
which, like the beetle among the roses, lies concealed within soft and gen-
tle figures.
There are likely very few more ironic ways to slander someone as a poet than
by using an obscure entomological simile. As Anderson has demonstrated, a
paradoxical and amusing animal narrative is a frequent component of literary
play during the Second Sophistic; so too is the trend of engaging with Homer.37
34 See Lucian’s expression of praise for Herodotus at Herod. 1–2. Bartley, “Lucian’s Contempo-
rary Dialects,” considers Lucian’s choice of dialect and style in the de Syria Dea, as well as
its genre, and concludes that Lucian holds Herodotus “in high regard” (p. 183). J. Lightfoot,
Lucian: On the Syrian Goddess (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003) 86–87, notes the
problems that have arisen due to the idea of satire in the de Syria Dea and shows (p. 199)
how Lucian creates a web of pastiche and parody popular in his day.
35 Anderson, The Second Sophistic, 171.
36 For a full discussion of the various facets of adoxa and the various elements that they
entail, see Anderson, The Second Sophistic, 171–186. Ancient examples of the adoxon are
found in the original sophists (e.g., Gorg. Hel. or Pal.) and the authors of the Second Sophis-
tic (e.g., Luc. Musc. Enc.), among others. Fronto (Laudes fumi et pulveris 3) provides a
formula for the types of things an author can compare in the adoxon to make the praise
unexpected.
37 Anderson, The Second Sophistic, 186 and 174–176 respectively.
166 oughton
In the quotation drawn from the Odyssey, however, Plutarch also reveals the
irony within his treatise, at least to those like the pepaideumenoi who can rec-
ognize the reference. If we examine the original context in the epic, Plutarch’s
choice of this line becomes more complicated. The quotation comes from
Odyssey 11, in Alcinous’ reply to Odysseus after the hero has shared the lengthy
tale of his wanderings (11.363–369):
Odysseus, in no way at all (οὔ τί) do we see one that is a cheat (ἠπεροπῆά)
and a trickster (ἐπίκλοπον) when we look at you, as are those many men
that the dark earth nourishes spread far and wide, those that assemble lies
(ψεύδεά τ’ ἀρτύνοντας) from things that no one might see (τις οὐδὲ ἴδοιτο).
But you have a beauty (μορφή) to your words and nobility in your heart.
You told your story with knowledge (ἐπισταμένως) as does a bard.
Here Alcinous praises Odysseus for speaking both beautifully and truthfully.
Alcinous explicitly removes Odysseus from among the ranks of the liars and
cheats. As Plutarch makes his accusation against Herodotus with a line from
this speech, he clips the last foot-and-a-half from the quotation of Alcinous—
which is in itself an act of silence—and which would be apparent to anyone
with a basic understanding of dactylic hexameter.38 Furthermore, he must add
a negating οὐ to ἐπισταμένως at the end of the quotation. The epic comparison
and the equation of Odysseus to Herodotus, Alcinous to Plutarch is itself ironic
then. This irony is only apparent when the audience knows the quotation, but
Odysseus’ bard-like tale among the Phaeacians is not an unknown narrative
from the Odyssey. The silencing of more than a metrical foot of the line would
also encourage the engaged reader to explore or at the very least ponder its
original epic provenance. The pepaideumenoi, the literary-minded individuals,
toward whom Plutarch aims the treatise certainly would have known the quo-
tation. The Alexander to whom the treatise is addressed, who could perhaps
be the Alexander included in Plutarch’s Quaestiones convivales, is shown there
to be a “sufficiently learned” (φιλόλογος ἐπιεικῶς, Quaest. conv. 836F) man.39
But, to any among Plutarch’s audience who are aware of the Homeric citation,
38 Plutarch follows the end of the quotation “… ἐπισταμένως” with “μὲν οὔ …,” thereby creating
a metrical impossibility within the strictures of hexameter.
39 B. Puech, “Prosopographie des amis de Plutarque,” ANRW II.33.6 (1992) 4833–4835, details
what can be said of the Alexander in Quaestiones convivales and concludes that the dedica-
tee of the De Herodoti malignitate could be the same person. Bowen, Plutarch: The Malice
of Herodotus, 105, discusses some of the questions concerning the identification of the
Alexander addressed in each treatise.
whether it be many or a proud few, the quotation reveals the irony behind the
whole treatise and exhibits the author’s engagement with the kind of paradox-
ical literary play better known among his later contemporaries.
Acknowledgements
This paper has benefitted greatly from the discussions with those at the origi-
nal conference and in conversations since, as well as from the feedback of the
anonymous reader. I am indebted to their suggestions. All mistakes that remain
are my own.
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part 3
Silencing the Past and Present
∵
chapter 10
Plutarch’s Avoidance of Philip v

Brad L. Cook
Philip v, born in 238/7bce, became king at seventeen, three years younger

than Alexander the Great, and reigned until 179bce, more than three times
as long as Alexander’s thirteen-year rule. He spent at least thirty-four of his
forty-two years as king crisscrossing the Balkan peninsula, with naval forays
into both the Adriatic and the Aegean, and he engaged with a host of famous
commanders, kings, and Roman consuls. Despite all his extraordinary activi-
ties, he not only did not become the subject of one of Plutarch’s Lives, but his
presence in those Lives where he did play a role—almost always as a villain—
is as scanty as possible, and, more noticeable is his near complete exclusion by
Plutarch from his Moralia.1 In effect, Plutarch’s treatment of Philip’s extraor-
dinary career and character is tantamount to silence. This relative silence is
certainly not explained by a lack of material or sources, nor by some sim-
ple opposition to monarchs or to Macedonian monarchs in particular.2 Even
more odd than choosing to overlook Philip’s long and varied military and
political career, Plutarch completely disregarded Philip’s successful governance
of Macedon under Roman domination, an accomplishment that even Poly-
bius could praise.3 For the generally amiable Plutarch, willing to release even
Nero from eternal punishment (De sera num. 567F–568A), Philip had crossed a
threshold into moral corruption of an inexcusable profundity. The nature and
depth of that moral corruption are on display in the few passages in the Lives
where Philip is present and in his seven rare appearances in the Moralia.
Plutarch’s choice of figures for his Parallel Lives is complicated, and there is
any number of reasons for the absence of a Life of Philip v. He already had an
1 Compare Plutarch’s treatment of Nicias; see A.G. Nikolaidis, “Is Plutarch Fair to Nikias?” ICS
13 (1988) 319–333, esp. 319.
2 On the presence of Philip ii, Alexander, Demetrius Poliorcetes and Antigonas Gonatas in
the Plutarchan corpus, see F.W. Walbank, “Polybius’ Perception of the One and the Many,” in
I. Malkin & Z.W. Rubinsohn (eds.), Leaders and Masses in the Roman World: Studies in Honor
of Zvi Yavetz (Leiden: Brill, 1995) 207–208 [reprinted in F.W. Walbank, Polybius, Rome and the
Hellenistic World: Essays and Reflections (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002) 217–
218].
3 Especially Polyb. 18.33.1–7 and 25.3.9–10; see A.M. Eckstein, Moral Vision in the Histories of
Polybius (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995) 97–98, 214.
© Brad L. Cook, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_012

174 cook
accomplished Macedonian king in the immense Alexander, which runs over

twice the average length of the Lives.4 There is also the negative Life of Philip’s
great-grandfather, Demetrius Poliorcetes, paralleled with Marc Antony. That
pair is uniquely introduced by Plutarch as negative examples from which we
can learn as we learn from opposites, as a doctor studies diseases or a musi-
cian discord (Demetr. 1.2–3). Since, as Plutarch explains, “prudence, justice,
and wisdom” form judgments about good things and bad things, knowledge
of both are needed for those who would “live aright” (Demetr. 1.4). Yet, these
Lives are not wholly negative, as Plutarch ends the introduction with an obser-
vation from Plato that “great natures also produce great vices as well as great
virtues” (Demetr. 1.7).5 Such language about Demetrius may make one think
also of Philip ii, another figure for whom Plutarch did not write a Life.6 It must
be noted, though, that Philip ii appears fairly frequently in the Moralia, often
in a positive light, and even in the Lives, where he appears only on occasion, he
is not always just waging war and drinking. In the Demetrius, for instance, the
Macedonians who find Demetrius to be haughty and neglectful, recall fondly
how “reasonable and approachable” Philip ii was in daily matters of gover-
nance (Demetr. 42.6). Philip ii also appears in other positive, or at least clever,
anecdotes scattered throughout the Plutarchan corpus, with an abundance of
thirty-two anecdotes in the Regum et imperatorum apophthegmata alone, from
which Philip v is wholly absent.
Plutarch uses Philip in three Parallel Lives and in the independent Aratus.
He appears at some length in Plutarch’s Aratus and Flamininus as well as occa-
sionally in the Philopoemen and, briefly, but most interestingly, in the Aemilius
Paulus. Plutarch drew his data for these Lives mostly, it appears, from Polybius,
4 Alexander is 102 pages in the Teubner edition, but the average length of the Lives is 49 pages.
5 Drawing on Plato R. 491e; see T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford:
6 Duff, Plutarch’s Lives, 59, suggests that among the “bad men” avoided by Plutarch were “Pau-
sanias, the fifth-century regent of Sparta, and Philip ii of Macedon, father of Alexander,
or Philip v.” So too G. Zecchini, “Polibio in Plutarco,” in A. Pérez Jiménez & F.B. Titchener
(eds.), Historical and Biographical Values of Plutarch’s Works: Studies Devoted to Professor
Philip A. Stadter by the International Plutarch Society (Málaga: Universidad de Málaga; Logan,
Utah: Utah State University, 2005) 518, appends Philip ii in his explanation of Plutarch’s avoid-
ance of Philip v due to “il disinteresse e la disistima del Beota per la Macedonia ellenistica”
(“the Boeotian’s distinterest and disregard for Hellenistic Macedonia”). But see C. Colon-
nese, Le scelte di Plutarco: Le vite non scritte di greci illustri (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider,
2007) esp. 11–17, for a study of Philip ii’s presence in the Parallel Lives, and, more broadly,
J.-N. Corvisier, Philippe ii de Macédoine (Paris: Fayard, 2002) 313–316, on Plutarch’s view of
Philip ii, in an appendix entitled “Plutarque: une biographie avortée?” (“Plutarch: a biogra-
phy aborted?”).
plutarch’s avoidance of philip v 175
but the curious epitome in the Aemilius Paulus has a few details that appear
to set it apart from Polybius.7 Most of the Aemilius Paulus is taken up with the
Third Macedonian War (171–168bce), in which Philip’s son, Perseus, king since
Philip’s death in 179bce, was defeated and the kingdom divided into four states
subject to Rome. To introduce Perseus, Plutarch gives a preçis of Macedonian
history, and says the following of Philip (Aem. 8.4–9):8
Philip became king after him and, while still young, blossomed forth in
those best characteristics of kings and was expected to bring Macedonia
back to its ancient glory and could alone resist the power of the Roman,
which was already rising up against all. [5] When he was defeated in
a great battle at Scotussa [Cynoscephaelae, 197 bce] by Titus Flamini-
nus, he initially cowered and turned over everything in his control to the
Romans and was delighted at receiving a mild punishment. [6] But later,
finding it unpleasant and thinking that to be king as a favor from Romans
was more fitting for a captive who delighted in being well kept than for
a man of sense and spirit, he began planning for war and was making
secret and cunning preparations. [7] He allowed the cities on the main
roads and along the coast to become weak and deserted so that he could
be disregarded while he gathered together a great force inland; he filled
the countryside there, the garrisons, and towns with an abundance of
weapons, wealth and men in their prime, and was training for war and
doing so, as it were, in secret. [8] He had weapons for 30,000 troops put
away in reserve, eight million medimnoi [twelve million bushels] of grain
stored up and enough money to keep ten thousand mercenaries defend-
ing the country for ten years. [9] But, before he could set these in motion,
he died out of pain and grief, realizing that he had put to death one of his
sons, Demetrius, unjustly, because of the slander of the other, less worthy
son.
That less worthy son, Perseus, suffered from many failings, according to
Plutarch, foremost of which was a ruinous “stinginess” (φιλαργυρία). In the con-
flict with Aemilius, this stinginess crops up again and again to ruin Perseus
and Macedon, and in spite of Philip’s hard work to prepare those resources for
the future conflict. In itself, Plutarch’ portrait of Philip, as an abashed captive,
chafing at his collar, represents him as ignoble, though he is presented as more
successful than his son.9
7 See F.W. Walbank, Philip v of Macedon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1940) 285.
9 Walbank, Philip v of Macedon, 223–257. See also Bailey in this volume.
176 cook
Plutarch says far more about the Second Macedonian War (200–196bce) in
his Flamininus but surprisingly very little about Philip (Flam. 2–12).10 In the rel-
evant eleven chapters, Plutarch uses the first to introduce Flamininus’ “upright
nature” (2.5) and the last three to show his success in “freeing” Greece (10–12).
When the armies first meet at a pass held by Philip, the focus is on Flamininus’
success in turning the pass and Philip’s scorched-earth retreat (3–5.2), which
Plutarch uses to stress Flamininus’ generous treatment of the Epirotes and the
Thessalians and the resulting rumor that “the Romans had come not to fight
against the Greeks, but for the Greeks against the Macedonians” (5.8). Then,
in the events leading up to Cynoscephalae and at the battle itself, the only
detail about Philip is that he happened to give his battle exhortation unwit-
tingly from the top of a polyandrion, which so disturbed him that he avoided
battle that day (7.7). In the battle itself, the Roman victory arises from the failure
of the right wing of the Macedonian line to maintain continuity with its center
and Flamininus’ timely redirection to exploit that gap. Philip escapes, leaving
Plutarch to report more about Flamininus’ difficulties with his Aetolian allies
(8–9). The very little that we are told about Philip has served to reveal how
successful Flamininus was as a commander and statesman. Only later, when
assessing Flamininus’ character and his ability to speak with elegant sharpness,
does Plutarch bring up an example of moral failing on Philip’s part, his habit of
killing his friends (17.5).11
In the Aemilius and Flamininus, Philip is introduced as an enemy who
becomes, ostensibly, an ally. In the two Greek Lives in which he appears, he
starts as an ally but turns into a poisoner. His role in Plutarch’s Philopoe-
men, which parallels the Flamininus, is slight. Philopoemen, some fifteen years
older than Philip, was away in Crete as a mercenary commander during the
first decade of Philip’s reign. In 209bce, the year following his return, when
Philopoemen was elected strategos of the Achaean League for the first time,
Plutarch speaks of a shift by the League away from the policy of Aratus, who
had died in 213bce, and his reliance on “Macedonian arms,” those of Ptolemy,
Antigonus Doson and Philip, called “foreign guardians” by Plutarch (Phil. 8.4–
5). Though a historian would consider this self-sufficiency of the League as a
boon to Philip, since it relieved him of having to come south every time Sparta
caused trouble, Plutarch reports that Philip sent assassins to kill Philopoemen,
10 See C.P. Jones, Plutarch and Rome (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971) 94–98, on Plutarch’s
revising of Polybius here; see also A.V. Zadorojnyi, “King of his Castle: Plutarch, Demos-
thenes 1–2,” The Cambridge Classical Journal 52 (2006) 102–127, esp. 114–118.
11 Cf. Plu. Reg. et imp. apophth. 197A, discussed below, which derives from Polyb. 18.1–10; see
Walbank, Philip v of Macedon, 159–162.
some time in the late 200s. Pausanias also reports this accusation as fact, and
both authors say that rumors of this failed attempt spread and Philip “was
hated” by the Greeks (12.2).12 It seems plausible that this rumor was contem-
porary, possibly invented by Philopoemen to rouse opposition in the Achaean
League against Philip and Macedon.13 The accusation tapped into an old wish
for Greek independence, as well as an anti-Macedonian leaning and a suspi-
cion of Hellenistic rulers employing underhanded means, all issues of signif-
icance in Philip’s day, and still so in Plutarch’s. His belief in, and use of, the
rumor serves his account of Philopoemen’s career and fits with his earlier, more
detailed account of Philip in his Aratus.
Philip v’s only extended presence in Plutarch’s Lives is in the Aratus, a text
prior to the Greek-Roman comparative project of the Parallel Lives.14 A promi-
nent comparison between tyranny and democracy does appear within the text.
In his hometown of Sicyon, Aratus’ father Cleinias had been “chosen,” Plutarch
says, along with a certain Timocleides, to govern Sicyon after the murder of the
most recent tyrant, Cleon. After a decade of their apparently non-tyrannical
governance—though we are told specifically of Cleinias’ personal ties to “the
kings” Ptolemy ii and Antigonus Doson (Arat. 4.2)—in 264, when Timocleides
happened to die, a certain Abantidas murdered Cleinias and “made himself
tyrant,” attempting in the process to capture and kill the seven-year-old Aratus
(2.2). This complexity in Aratus’ background must be kept in mind while pro-
gressing through Plutarch’s exhilarating account of Aratus’ freeing of Sicyon
from a local tyrant (4–10) and his freeing of Corinth from a Macedonia gar-
rison (17–24). Yet, even before Philip appears in Plutarch’s narrative, Aratus
12 Cf. Paus. 8.50.4 and Just. Epit. 29.4.11.

13 So R.M. Errington, Philopoemen (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969) 70–75.
14 Plutarch refers to Aratus in Phil. 8.6, which may be one of the earliest Lives; see C. Pelling,
“Aspects of Plutarch’s Characterization,” ICS 13 (1988) 264–267 [reprinted in C. Pelling,
Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 288–291]; briefly, Duff,
Plutarch’s Lives, 68; E. Almagor, “The Aratus and the Artaxerxes,” in M. Beck (ed.), A
Companion to Plutarch (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) 278–291 (cf. E.
Almagor, “A Literary Passage: Polybius and Plutarch’s Narrator,”Histos Supplement 8 [2018]
171–209, and “How to Do Things with Hellenistic Historiography: Plutarch’s Intertextual
Use(s) of Polybius,” in T. Schmidt, M. Vamvouri & R. Hirsch-Luipold [eds.], The Dynamics
of Intertextuality in Plutarch [Leiden: Brill, 2020] 161–172); P.A. Stadter, “ ‘The Love of Noble
Deeds’: Plutarch’s Portrait of Aratus of Sicyon,” in R. Ash, J. Mossman & F.B. Titchener
(eds.), Fame and Infamy: Essays for Christopher Pelling on Characterization in Greek and
Roman Biography and Historiography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 161–176; and
W.J. Tatum, “Greece for the Greeks: Plutarch’s Aratus and Greek Chauvinism,” in F. Pina
Polo, F. Marco Simón & J. Remesal Rodríguez (eds.), Xenofobia y racismo en el mundo
antiguo (Barcelona: Edicions de la Universitat de Barcelona, 2019) 69–83.
178 cook
had invited Antigonus back to Corinth “to barbarize the Peloponnese with
Macedonian garrisons and fill Acrocorinth with Illyrian and Celtic arms” (38.6).
Though Aratus looks to have called for Macedonian help to oppose Cleomenes
and Sparta, Plutarch expresses an extremely different view here: “those who
take Greek birth into account at all” would prefer the lowliest Spartan to the
foremost Macedonian (38.7). When Philip enters Plutarch’s narrative, then, he
already has two strikes against him: he is a Macedonian and an autocrat. It
becomes clear later in the narrative that Philip’s personal, moral crimes against
Aratus are what fully reveal him as truly villainous for Plutarch.15
Plutarch first mentions Philip when, “not yet even a young man”—he was
sixteen—, he was sent south in 222 bce by Antigonus Doson to become
acquainted with members of the Achaean League and told “to pay the utmost
attention to Aratus and through him to deal with the cities and become known
to the Achaeans” (Arat. 46.2). Plutarch reports that “Aratus received him and
took care of him such that he sent him back to Macedonia full of goodwill
toward him and admiration and eagerness for Greek affairs” (46.3). The jux-
taposing of Greek and Macedonian here may seem insignificant, but in light of
what happens between the two men, as Plutarch sees it, the juxtaposing is omi-
nous. Following the death of Antigonus Doson in 221bce, the Aetolians were so
devastatingly successful in their invasion of the Peloponnese that the Achaean
League “stretched forth its hands to Macedonia” and called on Philip for help,
hoping that they would find him easy to manage “not least because of Philip’s
goodwill and trust in Aratus” (47.6). To what extent Philip fulfilled these hopes
after his eventual arrival in the Peloponnese, and of his many actions through-
out the Social War of 220 to 217bce, Plutarch says little. Instead, he tells us of
a struggle over who would influence the young king the most, his Macedonian
advisors or Aratus (48.1–3), with Aratus’ dominance, for the present, in 218 bce,
winning him the reputation of being “a good tutor not only for a democracy
but also for a monarchy” (48.4). Philip was twenty and is being presented like a
teenage pupil, but even more implausible is seeing Aratus as a tutor, like Aris-
totle to young Alexander, when Aratus had more in common with Philip ii.
At this point in the narrative, in 217bce, Aratus still has another four years to
live, but the role of Philip in the remaining few pages of the Life is so great that
it is as if the rest of Aratus’ life serves as an epitome of his character. Philip was
roused by his success and overflowed with great desires, Plutarch says, “and his
15 Note the emphasis on the political issues of the Life in Stadter, “ ‘The Love of Noble Deeds’:
Plutarch’s Portrait of Aratus of Sicyon,” on the ethnic aspect in Tatum, “Greece for the
Greeks: Plutarch’s Aratus and Greek Chauvinism,” and on the moral aspect in Almagor,
“The Aratus and the Artaxerxes.”
innate baseness (κακία), forcing aside an outward appearance that was con-
trary to his nature, was coming to the surface and, little by little, laying bare
and revealing his character” (Arat. 49.1). Plutarch’s metaphoric language makes
it clear that Philip’s “innate baseness” was his true self, and this uncovering
of baseness occurs under just such circumstances, as Plutarch says elsewhere:
“power and position stir up every passion and uncover every base characteris-
tic” (Comp. Dem. et Cic. 3.2). In Philip’s case, though, Plutarch presents his moral
baseness, his abuse of Aratus’ hospitality and seduction of the younger Aratus’
wife, as Philip’s “first unjust act”; his “exasperation with Greek politics” comes
second to this moral crime (Arat. 49.2). As evidence of Philip’s frustration with
affairs in Greece, Plutarch turns to presenting the situation that develops in
Messene in 215/214 bce.
Civil strife had erupted in Messene and Philip is said to have fueled the
slaughter rather than stop it (49.3–5). Plutarch then details how Aratus and
his son arrive and express their displeasure with Philip’s negligence, especially
the younger Aratus. Philip “yelped often” while being reprimanded but oth-
erwise “bore submissively what was said as if he were a mild-mannered sort
of person and politic by nature” (50.3). This is not a terribly incriminating
scene, and, as Plutarch notes that Aratus junior was a lover of Philip, perhaps
we are to take this scene as Plutarch’s praise of the younger Aratus as setting
morality above personal interest, something learned from his father.16 In the
much longer scene that follows, in which Philip quietly leads the elder Ara-
tus up to the high point of Messene to offer sacrifice and to decide whether
to base a garrison there, Aratus’ eloquence wins over Philip against the advice
of Demetrius of Pharos, a point in Aratus’ favor. But Aratus now shuns Philip’s
court, withdrawing from the role of elder advisor, “fearing to be infected with a
foul reputation from the things” that Philip was doing, namely his “most shame-
ful” naval failure against the Romans (in Illyria), his openly “unjust” attack
(the following year) on Messenia, and his “injustices in the women’s quar-
ters” (51.2–3). And Plutarch insists that what seems to be “a great and most
unexpected change” in Philip, from being “a mild king and prudent young
man to a licentious man and ruinous tyrant,” was not actually a change (μετα-
βολή), but the revealing of a “baseness” that had been long kept out of sight
“because of shame and fear,” that is, of Aratus and of his disapproval (51.4–
52.1).17
16 On the other hand, if he fell in love with Philip, is it any surprise that his wife did as
well?
17 Cf. the role of shame and fear in Polybius’ account of the episode at Messene (7.12.8–10).
180 cook
In the remaining few chapters of the Aratus, Plutarch nearly talks more
about Philip than about Aratus, lamenting how Philip killed Aratus, who was
then fifty-eight, with poison and then drove to madness the younger Aratus
(52–54). The claim about poisoning Aratus is found also in Polybius and was
apparently believed by Aratus himself as he lay dying.18 Plutarch’s moral con-
demnation of Philip can also be found in Polybius, who prefaces his account
of Philip’s purported murder of Aratus: “and against his most near and dear
friends he displayed the height of foulness” (Polyb. 8.12.1). Yet, however much
Plutarch draws on Polybius for his moral condemnation of Philip, he makes no
use of Polybius’ complicated but clear praise of Philip’s politics, particularly for
his management of affairs under Roman domination.19 Philip’s long reign and
his varied career of interactions with Rome over those very decades that are
of such interest for the study of Roman expansion surely should have served
Plutarch’s goal of illustrating for his Greek contemporaries the ups and downs
of managing political life under Roman rule. Plutarch’s effort to avoid Philip as
much as possible is explained by the political, ethnic, and above all moral hos-
tility to Philip on display in the Aratus. Philip’s betrayal of Aratus, of his wise
tutelage and generous hospitality for the teenage prince, his eventual violation
of that hospitality like some modern-day Paris and his supposed poisoning of
his erstwhile mentor, so offended Plutarch that he chose to suppress Philip’s
military and political accomplishments.
If Philip v’s near absence from the Lives, Aratus excepted, is surprising, his
relative exclusion from the Moralia is startling. There are a mere seven pas-
sages, and some of those are the slightest of passages. I present them in order
of their appearance in the canon as we now have it. The first passage, perhaps
appropriately for what we have seen of Plutarch’s view of Philip, is found in De
adulatore et amico. Philip’s very brief appearance in the essay is not as one who
suffers at the hands of flatterers but rather as one who kills the honest advisor,
the very opposite of a flatterer. When such a person appears in the court of a less
than noble ruler, these anti-flatterers cannot help but “be grieved and express
annoyance at the failings of their friends” (De ad. et am. 53E). Three historical
examples are listed of such honest advisors who were “destroyed” by the pow-
18 Polyb. 8.12.1–5, with F.W. Walbank, A Historical Commentary on Polybius, 3 volumes

(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1957–1979) vol. 2, 87–88.
19 See Polybius’ praise of Philip, after Cynoscephalae, as one who “in ruinous circumstances”
became “discreet and sensible” (Polyb. 18.33.4–7), and especially the epitome at the begin-
ning of Perseus’ reign, describing Philip as “the most untrustworthy and unlawful of all
people, but when the winds of fortune blew against him, he was the most moderate of all”
(Polyb. 25.3.9–10).
erful men they served: Dion by Dionysius i, Sam[i]us by Philip, and Cleomenes
by Ptolemy i, though it should be noted that Dion was merely exiled, while
the other two were executed. The first pairing clearly suits Plutarch’s princi-
ple: Dion spoke truth to power, political and moral truth, surely, and Dionysius
just as surely resented it, a contrast illustrated by Plutarch’s Dion and other pas-
sages in the Moralia. Of Samus, we learn from Polybius that he was a σύντροφος
of Philip, a companion since childhood, whose primary claim to fame, such as
survives, was to have wittily adapted a line from Euripides’ Supplices to praise
Philip for his attack on Thermum in 218 bce, the chief sanctuary of the Aeto-
lians, in vengeance for their sacking of Dion, the chief sanctuary of Macedon:
“Do you see where the bolt of Zeus/of Dion has struck?” (ὁρᾷς τὸ δῖον οὗ βέλος
διέπτατο, Polyb. 5.9.5). Thirty-five years pass before we hear of him again, in sur-
viving quotations from Polybius, being put to death in 183bce. His execution,
though, is part of a group affair—“Admetus, Pyrrhicus and Samus, and those
executed with them” (Polyb. 23.10.8–9)—which is thought to have been Philip’s
reaction to a large-scale conspiracy focused on putting Philip’s pro-Roman son
Demetrius on the throne.20 Samus’ death, then, was about politics, not about
his moral annoyance with Philip. The paralleling of Cleomenes of Naucratis
with someone like Dion is even less plausible. He was a rapacious satrap of
Egypt for almost a decade before Ptolemy took control of Egypt and had him
executed, and how he was a friend or even acquaintance of Ptolemy, much less
at all like Dion, is utterly absent from surviving sources.21 The questionable
characters of Samus and Cleomenes make Plutarch’s juxtaposing of Philip v
and Ptolemy to Dionysius i a case of guilt by appearing in an inappropriate tri-
colon, revealing a prejudice of Plutarch’s against Philip v.
The second brief appearance of Philip v is in Plutarch’s Coniugalia prae-
cepta. In speaking of harmony in marriage, Plutarch reports that “a certain
woman, when Philip was trying to draw her to him unwillingly, said, ‘Let me go!
Every woman is the same when the light is out.’” (Con. praec. 144EF). Plutarch
observes that this is “a good response to adulterous and licentious men,” by
which he unmistakably means men like Philip—and an assumption is being
made, in light of passages below, that Plutarch is speaking of Philip v, and not
Philip ii. Plutarch, though, is not using this terribly negative anecdote merely
to shock his reader with disgust for someone like Philip; he uses the unpleas-
20 On Polyb. 5.9.4, see Walbank, A Historical Commentary on Polybius, vol. 2, 547; and on
23.10.8–9, see Walbank, A Historical Commentary on Polybius, vol. 3, 231–232.
21 For the ancient sources and scholarship on Cleomenes, see E. Baynham, “Cleomenes of
Naucratis, Villain or Victim?” in T. Howe, E.E. Garvin & G. Wrightson (eds.), Greece, Mace-
don, and Persia (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2015) 127–134.
182 cook
antness of the scene to jolt our attention away from the lust of a Philip for a
physically attractive woman and toward the unseen “prudence, fidelity, sub-
mission and affection” of a virtuous wife (Con. praec. 144F). The anecdote serves
as a shocking foil, and, though it is the woman’s witticism that prompts its use,
the expression of disgust about adulterous and licentious men, such as Philip,
fits into a pattern found in later passages.22
Philip’s third appearance in the Moralia is in the Regum et imperatorum
apophthegmata, but not as one of the chosen kings and commanders. He
appears solely as the butt of that saying of Titus Flamininus in his Life that
was briefly noted above (Flam. 17.5). In the Life Plutarch had not presented the
saying in its historical context, but his avoidance of it makes Flamininus’ quip
seem very damning rather than simply clever. From Polybius we hear the full
details. In late 198bce, amidst the Second Macedonian War, Philip requested
a conference, at which, before Flamininus spoke, all Rome’s allies (Attalus, the
Rhodians, the Athamanians, the Aetolians, and, as of a month or two earlier, the
Achaeans, Philip’s former allies) listed their complaints against Philip. When
he requested a written version of these many complaints because he is “all
alone” and needs a text to help him think through his response before the next
day (Polyb. 18.7.3), it is then that Flamininus makes his clever comment. Not
a word of this complex context appears in Plutarch’s Flamininus nor here in
the Moralia. In fact, we are told that Philip requested some Roman hostages
to guarantee his safety, as he was “all alone,” to which Flamininus responded:
“You have made yourself alone by killing your friends and relatives” (Reg. et
imp. apophth. 197A). Polybius reveals the plausible, historical reason for Philip’s
request: Flamininus and the leaders of these many allies all have particular
demands, and he, a single leader, needs time to prepare responses to each.
Flamininus’ quip is clever under any circumstance, but is it relevant to Philip’s
request? If Flamininus sought to appear critical of Philip before his own allies,
he certainly appeared so centuries later to Plutarch. But in this Moralia version
of the anecdote, the request for hostages has made Philip look not only mur-
derous of those around him but also paranoid, a characteristic in accordance
with what we have already seen of Plutarch’s view of him.
Philip’s fourth appearance in the Moralia returns to the theme of licentious-
ness found in the second passage, and here it is certain that Plutarch means
Philip v as he is called Philip “son of Demetrius.” Writing about the women
of the island of Chios in Mulierum virtutes, Plutarch eulogizes them for their
22 On Plutarch’s views of marriage, see G. Tsouvala, “Love and Marriage,” in M. Beck (ed.), A
Companion to Plutarch (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) 191–206.
courageousness in aiding in the defense of their city (Mul. virt. 245BC). The
scene presents Philip besieging by land the city of Chios, an ahistorical addi-
tion to his actual naval assault on the island in 201 bce.23 The women display
their bravery by bringing “stones and missiles” to the men defending the walls,
which they hastened to do because Philip had promised to give to any Chian
slaves who deserted to him both their freedom and the wives of their former
masters. This bizarre offer, labeled by Plutarch as “barbarous and outrageous,”
filled the women with “an amazingly fierce anger”—and they were aided by
their very slaves—which resulted in Philip’s defeat. Amidst the many accounts
of sexual improprieties of men in Mulierum virtutes, this one alone combines
moral baseness with military defeat, the whole of which is an invention but
unquestioned by Plutarch because it accords so well with what he believes of
Philip’s base character.
A conversation in Plutarch’s Quaestiones convivales preserves the fifth men-
tion of Philip, one which at first appears at odds with the others. The topic
under discussion is the remarkable talent for recalling a line of poetry suited for
an unexpected occasion. The story goes that when a guest of King Demetrius,
Philip v’s father, was reluctant to recite some poetry after dinner, Demetrius
sent Philip, “who was still a boy,” over to the guest. We are not told what the
very young Philip said to the guest, but the guest promptly recited a line and a
half of an otherwise unknown iambic trimeter: “Raise this boy for me in a man-
ner worthy of Heracles and of us all” (Quaest. conv. 736F). This witty line from
the guest honors the boy and the father, who, like previous Antigonids, and
most Macedonian nobility it seems, fashioned themselves descendants of Her-
acles.24 The anecdote, though, shows us a boy, innocently following his father’s
amusing ploy to fulfill his role as host of a pleasant drinking party. Nothing sin-
ister is to be found here. Yet, one recalls Plutarch’s contrast in Aratus of the
“mild king and prudent young man” who revealed himself as a “licentious man
and ruinous tyrant” (Arat. 51.4) and wonders whether this quaint scene stirs bit-
ter memories for Plutarch of the notorious reputation that Philip had among
some Greeks.25
23 Resulting in a complicated naval engagement, which cost Philip about half his fleet and a
shocking loss of men, dead and captured.
24 C. Edson, “Macedonica,” HSCP 51 (1940) 125–126, figs. 1–2; also C. Edson, “The Antigonids,
Heracles, and Beroea,” HSCP 45 (1934) 213–246; on Philip’s coinage, see N.G.L. Hammond,
“The Reigns of Philip v and Perseus,” in N.G.L. Hammond & F.W. Walbank, A History of
Macedonia, Vol. 3: 336–167 B.C. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988) 461–468.
25 Also, of Heracles’ dark side in Plutarch, possibly, see T.E. Duff, “How Lives Begin,” in
A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work: “Moralia” Themes in the “Lives”, Features
of the “Lives” in the “Moralia” (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008) 202–203, on Plu. Them. 1.3.
184 cook
With his sixth mention of Philip, Plutarch returns to the topic of licentious-
ness, where again Philip is a secondary figure in the anecdote. In Amatorius,
Plutarch writes about husbands pandering their wives to men of power. Phayl-
los and Nikostratos, two leading politicians at Argos, a city whose strategic
importance generated great desire in outsiders for alliances, which, in turn,
stirred internal political strife, were at odds when Philip v arrived in town.
Their civil strife takes an unusual form when Nikostratos sets a lookout on
Phayllos’ house to keep him from sending his beautiful wife to visit Philip
and influence him to favor Phayllos in local politics. Phayllos defeats Nikos-
tratos by dressing his wife up in the boots, cape, and distinctive beret-like
kausia of Macedonian soldiers and sending her out to visit Philip (Amatorius
760AB). The outrage should be against Phayllos, but Philip and his licentious
desire are what are remembered, at least for Plutarch in his select passages on
Philip.
The final mention of Philip occurs at the very opening of De Herodoti malig-
nitate. Plutarch begins that long, moralizing complaint against Herodotus with
a general warning about the pleasing style with which Herodotus fools us into
trusting “his character and other absurdities” (De Her. mal. 855A). Without
explanatory connection he adds: “Philip used to say to the Greeks who were
deserting him and allying themselves with Titus that they were getting them-
selves a smoother but also more permanent (slave’s) collar.” Herodotus is the
smoother collar, Plutarch explains, and the rough collar is Theopompus, who,
we are left to conclude, did not lure any readers into liking his narrative with his
less than pleasant style.26 This rather convoluted comparison—just as the bit-
ter but straight-talking Theopompus is like Philip, so then the smooth-tongued
but malicious Herodotus is like a Roman(!?)—leaves us to wonder whether
some complaint is being made against the Romans. Be that as it may, since
the essay is an accusation about the underhanded twisting of history, our old-
est source for something like this anecdote about Philip is Polybius. He reports
that a summary version of the terms to be imposed on Philip was circulated and
the Aetolians were suspicious that certain cities currently garrisoned by Philip
would not be set free but would receive Roman garrisons in place of Philip’s.
They complained that “the Romans were themselves taking over from Philip
the shackles of Greece and that an exchange of master was occurring, not a
liberation of the Greeks” (Polyb. 18.45.6). This account was certainly known to
Plutarch because he uses it in his Flamininus (10.2):
26 Plutarch is less vague in his comment at Lys. 30.2 (= FGrHist 115 F 333).
When the ten commissioners whom the Senate had sent to Titus advised
him to free the other Greeks but to keep garrisons in Corinth, Chal-
cis and Demetrias as security against Antiochus, the Aetolians excitedly
stirred up the cities with accusations, telling Titus to loose the shackles of
Greece—for this is how Philip was accustomed to speak of these cities—
and asking the Greeks whether they delighted in having a heavier slave’s
collar but one that was smoother than the old one and whether they were
impressed by Titus as a benefactor because after loosing their feet he had
bound their neck.
Whether the collar was introduced by Plutarch, as well as the shifting of the
shackles from feet to neck, or by an earlier author, the metaphoric complaint
must have been started by the Aetolians. But with the transference of the
saying into Philip’s mouth, we should speak perhaps not of Herodotus’ sweet-
sounding malice but of Plutarch’s, who has, for the sake of his strange parallel,
made Philip refer to himself as an enslaver of the Greeks. The Aetolians, Philip’s
inveterate enemy, would delight in insulting Philip, but I can think of no sur-
viving passage in which Philip speaks of himself in this way.
Whenever Plutarch took up his pen to write a declamation, a dialogue, an
essay, or a Life, there was always in the background a general dislike of autocrats
(a dislike that Plutarch saw in Polybius),27 and his dislike could be even greater
if the autocrat was a Macedonian.28 But however great his political opposition
and ethnic prejudice against him, it is his moral abhorrence of Philip that keeps
him out of Plutarch’s writing, as is overtly clear in the presentation of Philip in
those few Lives where he is permitted and in these very rare appearances that
Plutarch grants him in the Moralia. In those few Lives where he is found, the fig-
ure heralded in his youth as “a sort of universal darling” of Hellas (Polyb. 7.11.8),
ends up like that ruinous lion-cub raised as a house pet, who grew up to be a
scheming, back-stabbing, or rather poison-dispensing, licentious, self-serving
monster. So, in these few passages in the Moralia, what is presented to us is
Philip’s violation and corruption of those human characteristics that Plutarch
so cherished, the trust of a friend, the respect for wise elders, the love of one’s
wife and family. As he describes Philip’s fate at Aratus 54.4, so Plutarch was fol-
lowing Zeus’ lead, imposing on Philip’s memory the punishment imposed on
Philip by Zeus himself, god of guests and friends, wiping out Philip’s kingdom
and family, though Plutarch tried to do so with silence.
27 Walbank, “Polybius’ Perception of the One and the Many,” 207–208.

28 See S.C.R. Swain, “Plutarch’s De fortuna Romanorum,” CQ 39 (1989) 516.
186 cook
Acknowledgements
To the organizers of the conference and this volume I owe thanks for the impe-
tus for this essay; to the participants at the conference, I am appreciative for
advice that prompted expansion and improvements; to Kerri J. Hame I owe
continuous thanks for help from formulation to finish.
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chapter 11
Silence of the Lions: Exploring Plutarch’s

Omissions on Chaeronea
Chandra Giroux
In the Introduction to A Companion to Plutarch, Mark Beck rightly points out

that Chaeronea “… elegantly represented the stimulating intersection of his-
tory, topography, and memory.”1 This is mainly a result of Chaeronea being
the location of numerous battles in antiquity, the two most famous being that
of Philip ii’s victory over the Hellenic alliance in 338bce and Sulla’s victory
during the First Mithridatic War in 86 bce. For most, Chaeronea is defined by
these famous confrontations and then forgotten, unsurprisingly given that it is
a small polis of which we know little of the history. But what about Plutarch?
How does he, a man so devoted and committed to his home, a man who is very
aware of its unique characteristics, and a man for whom Chaeronea was not
just the site of war, but the epicenter of his family, affairs and life, represent his
native city? What can we, so divorced from his time, yet married to its recon-
struction, learn from what he tells us? And, perhaps most interestingly, what
does Plutarch choose for us to forget, and why?
This chapter will explore how Plutarch preserves Chaeronea in his works by
looking at what he says about his city in both the Parallel Lives and the Moralia,
and by addressing the methodologically difficult question of what he passes
by in silence. I will undertake three main inquiries: first, when Plutarch men-
tions Chaeronea overtly, why does he do so? Secondly, what do his silences in
his presentation of Chaeronea reveal about what he sees as important to the
shared memory of his local world? And finally, why does Plutarch not mention
local markers that seem to play a leading role in his hometown and its land-
scape? Investigating this will help us unravel how Plutarch wished his city to be
presented and reveal some hints as to his overall motivation in writing about
his birthplace and its inhabitants. I will argue for the possibility that Plutarch’s
omissions may be part of an intentional construction of Chaeronea, an identity
forged and projected by Plutarch, in which forgetting and omissions become
as important to the narrative of his hometown as his overt discussions. More
1 M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) 3.
© Chandra Giroux, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_013

silence of the lions 189
specifically, I wish to suggest that Plutarch’s omissions concerning Chaeronea

are based in a desire to present his polis in a pro-Roman light.2
To demonstrate this, I will first survey theories associated with forgetting
and silence. This will be followed by a brief discussion of the history and geog-
raphy of Chaeronea, to identify what we know of its history and institutions.
Lastly, I will combine context and theory to investigate how Plutarch presents
Chaeronea, both in his overt discussions and in his silences.
1 Theories of Silence and Forgetting
Theories on forgetting and silence are necessarily associated with those of

memory. Studies of collective memory owe much to the seminal work of Mau-
rice Halbwachs, who defines collective memory as the creation of shared ver-
sions of the past that focus upon the formulation of a current group’s identity.
He explains that because this identity is concerned with the current group’s
interests, the collective memory of that group necessarily alters through time to
reflect their changing needs while simultaneously emphasizing their continu-
ity.3 In this way, the constructed collective memory of a group helps to provide
its members with hope for the future.4
2 A point argued from multiple angles in C. Giroux, Plutarch’s Chaironeia: The Local Horizon of
World Empire (Diss., McGill University, 2021).
3 M. Halbwachs, Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire (Paris: Librairie Félix Alcan, 1935) esp. 369–
401, as well as p. 320, for the modification of memory over time, and p. 391 for memories as
being both an inseparable part of, and yet also separate from, chronological frameworks. For
more on collective memory and its attributes, see M. Halbwachs, The Collective Memory, trans.
by F.J. Ditter Jr and V.Y. Ditter (New York: Harper & Row, 1980) 43, 80–86, 118–120, 140, and 156–
157; M. Bommas, “Introduction,” in M. Bommas (ed.), Cultural Memory and Identity in Ancient
Societies (London: Bloomsbury, 2011) 3; A. Erll, Memory in Culture, trans. by S.B. Young (Basin-
stoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011) 14–17; and J.K. Olick, “Collective Memory: The Two Cultures,”
Sociological Theory 17 (1999) 334. Memory as a language of images is another important con-
versation to understanding constructed group narratives, and was the focus of Aby Warburg’s
unfinished Mnemosyne, which has been explored and explained by E.H. Gombrich, Aby War-
burg: An Intellectual Biography (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 21986 [1970]) 281–306,
and C.D. Johnson, Memory, Metaphor, and Aby Warburg’s Atlas of Images (Ithaca: Cornell Uni-
versity Press, 2016). For individuals and their role in collective memory, see T.J. Anastasio et
al., Individual and Collective Memory Consolidation: Analogous Processes on Different Levels
(Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2012) 55. For the contexts in which collective memo-
ries are constructed, see S. Price, “Memory and Ancient Greece,” in B. Dignas & R.R.R. Smith
(eds.), Historical and Religious Memory in the Ancient World (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2012) 17.
4 It also simultaneously creates “others” through the peculiarities in a group’s self-projected
190 giroux
One crucial aspect of both establishing a collective memory for a group and
for its success as a narrative is forgetting. In an opposite and complementary
manner, forgetting is described as a silencing of the past.5 To forget, or to collec-
tively silence, is the threat of turning memory into nothingness,6 thus enabling
groups to negotiate politically.7 Vered Vinitzky-Seroussi and Chana Teeger have
divided these silences into overt and covert expressions. They define overt
silences as those which are completely absent from speech and narrative,
whereas covert silences are those that are hidden by mnemonic talk, making
them difficult to detect. For these scholars, overt and covert silences must also
be defined through their presumed intention. In other words, silences aimed at
memory and silences aimed at forgetting.8 For example, the practice of damna-
tio memoriae may be seen as a sort of “speaking silence,”9 one that is overt in its
intention to erase. Another overt silence, this time aimed at remembrance in
order to highlight achievements, is detected in Augustus’ biography when he
refuses to mention Caesar’s conspirators by name, referring to them instead as
Caesar’s murderers.10 We may also, perhaps, point to a covert silence aimed at
image in relation to another; on which see J. Assman & J. Czaplicka, “Collective Mem-
ory and Cultural Identity,” New German Critique 65 (1995) 127–129, 131. See also M.A. Hogg,
“Social Identity and the Psychology of Groups,” in M.R. Leary & J.P. Tangney (eds.), Hand-
book of Self and Identity (London: Guilford Press, 22012 [2003]) 504–506, and D. Páez &
J.H. Liu, “The Collective Remembering of Conflict and its Role in Fueling an Ethos of
Conflict in Society,” in E. Halperin & K. Sharvit (eds.), The Social Psychology of Intractable
Conflicts (New York: Springer, 2015) 61–63.
5 V. Vinitzky-Seroussi & C. Teeger, “Unpacking the Unspoken: Silence in Collective Memory
and Forgetting,” Social Forces 88 (2010) 1103.
6 G. Lucas, “Forgetting the Past,” Anthropology Today 13 (1997) 9.
7 Price, “Memory and Ancient Greece,” 27–28. See also, H. Flower, The Art of Forgetting: Dis-
grace and Oblivion in Roman Political Culture (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina
Press, 2006), who sees memory sanctions in the Roman world as being an active agent in
political change as a result of a desire to control the past.
8 An example of an overt silence aimed at memory would be the modern practice of a
moment of silence, something that partially interrupts our physical selves and forces us
to remember. This differs from overt silences aimed at forgetting, which is something that
is not spoken of or brought to attention. Covert silence to remember, on the other hand,
allows a group to move beyond a troubling past, which occasionally “involves complete
sidelining of aspects of the narrative,” but other times hints at issues not explored. Covert
silence to forget tends to be hidden and hard to critique, because it is “covered and hidden
by much mnemonic talk.” On this see Vinitzky-Seroussi & Teeger, “Unpacking the Unspo-
ken,” 1108–1115.
9 S. Huskey, “Ovid’s (Mis)Guided Tour of Rome: Some Purposeful Omissions in Tr. 3.1,” CJ 102
(2006) 24, explains that circumlocution and omission in literature have the same effect as
damnatio memoriae and abolitio nominis.
10 Mon. Anc. 2, as pointed out by Huskey, “Ovid’s (Mis)Guided Tour of Rome,” 24.
remembering in Plutarch’s omissions of the Trajanic years. This is covert rather

than overt because references to Trajan are masked, but scholars have managed
to pick up hints of Plutarch’s perception of these years throughout his narra-
tive.11
There remains, however, a point of concern. One of the difficulties with
understanding silences and their role in the creation of collective memory
and its narratives is not only detecting their presence, but also that silence
is culturally specific and changes (sometimes frequently) over time.12 We are
undoubtedly far removed from Plutarch, his cultural frame of reference, and
a full understanding of his time. However, as this volume aims to show, it is
possible to discover patterns of silence in Plutarch that form part of his literary
idiosyncrasies.13 In order to trace a pattern for Plutarch’s silences on Chaeronea,
however, we must first detail what we know of this small Boeotian town.
2 Chaeronea
Chaeronea’s importance is first and foremost grounded in its topography.

Plutarch tells us (Cim. 1.1) that Chaeronea was the first polis14 that the Boeotians
11 See P.A. Stadter, “Plutarch and Trajanic Ideology,” in P.A. Stadter & L. Van der Stockt (eds.),
Sage and Emperor: Plutarch, Greek Intellectuals, and Roman Power in the Time of Trajan
(98–117 ad) (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2002) 227–241 [reprinted in P.A. Stadter,
Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 165–178], who
points to Numa, Solon, and Publicola as containing hints of the previous emperor. Al-
though C. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Caesar: A Caesar for the Caesars?” in C. Pelling, Plutarch
and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 253–265, finds potential evidence
of circumlocutions in relation to Dacia (possibly to avoid the link with Trajan’s Dacian
campaign), he provides a word of caution at reading too much into this, preferring
to see Plutarch as being concerned with timeless themes, rather than contemporary
debates.
12 This, in combination with the incomplete nature of our evidence for ancient Greece,
makes it impossible to map the functions and meanings of the silences in full. See S. Mon-
tiglio, Silence in the Land of Logos (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000) 3–5.
13 Other scholars have explored patterns of silence in ancient authors. For example, see
Huskey, “Ovid’s (Mis)Guided Tour of Rome,” for a discussion on Ovid’s silences as being
politically motivated, or G.W. Most, “Memory and Forgetting in the Aeneid,” Vergilius 47
(2001) 148–170, for an interpretation of silence in Virgil.
14 Chaeronea is referred to as a polis in the ancient sources: both Hecataeus (FGrHist 1
F 116) and Thucydides (4.76.3, 4.89.2) give it this designation. As a result, M.H. Hansen
& T.H. Nielsen (eds.), An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis (Oxford: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 2004) 81, classify Chaeronea as a type A polis. Note that Chaeronea’s political
situation shifts throughout the ancient period. For example, Thucydides (4.76.3) and Hel-
192 giroux
founded as they migrated from Thessaly. Founding a polis in this location was
strategic: not only is it on an outcrop of Mount Parnassos, thus lending it some
natural defensive measures, but its position in the westernmost part of Boeo-
tia puts it on an arterial road that runs between northern and southern Greece,
while simultaneously linking it with its western neighbor, Phocis.15 Chaeronea
was thus a well-connected polis, and the lives of its inhabitants would have
been enhanced and informed by travelers and trade that passed through their
hometown.
In addition to the advantages that its location brought to its inhabitants,
Chaeronea’s position in the fertile Cephissus valley is also what made it a nat-
ural spot for battle. Plutarch certainly recognized the tactical advantages of its
open grounds.16 It is the combination of being in a plain and on an arterial
road that made Chaeronea such an important location for defending southern
Greece from those who passed Thermopylae.17 This also helps explain why the
looming monuments in Chaeronea are almost all linked to battles and defense.
For example, one of the largest remains in Chaeronea is the heavily fortified
acropolis,18 once again reflecting its role as a key defensive location for the
lanicus (FGrHist 4 F 81) describe Chaeronea as syntelically dependent on Orchomenus in

424 bce. Later, however, Chaeronea is described as an independent member of the Boeo-
tian League (Hell. Oxy. 19.3.394–396; IG vii 2724c.6), though we do not know when its rela-
tionship with Orchomenus was terminated. Cf. M.H. Hansen, “An Inventory of Boeotian
Poleis in the Archaic and Classical Period,” in M.H. Hansen (ed.), Introduction to an Inven-
tory of Poleis (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1996) 82; P. Funke, “Chaeronea,” in H. Cancik &
H. Schneider (eds.), Brill’s New Pauly, English Edition by Christine F. Salazar, 2006 (con-
sulted online 25 February 2019: http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/1574‑9347_bnp_e231070); H. Beck
& A. Ganter, “Boeotia and the Boeotian Leagues,” in H. Beck & P. Funke (eds.), Federalism
in Greek Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015) 132–157.
15 C.P. Jones, Plutarch and Rome (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), 3–4; E. Farinetti, Boeotian
Landscapes: A GIS-based Study for the Reconstruction and Interpretation of the Archaeo-
logical Datasets of Ancient Boeotia (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2011) 103; F.B. Titchener, “Fate
and Fortune,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–
Blackwell, 2014) 485.
16 See, e.g., Sull. 16.7, where Plutarch mentions the advantages of the area for a military camp.
Earlier, Plutarch references the fertile nature of Boeotia and the strength its plains offer to
cavalry and chariots (Sull. 15.2). For more on the Cephissus plain, see Funke, “Chaeronea,”
and J. Ma, “Chaeronea 338: Topographies of Commemoration,” JHS 128 (2008) 72. For
Plutarch and Chaeronea as the site of battle, see further below.
17 Some of the ancient battles include: 338bce (Philip); 245 bce (Aetolian League vs. Boeo-
tian League); 146bce (Metellus vs. Arcadians); 86bce (Sulla vs. Mithridates). Note that
Chaeronea was also the location of battles outside of antiquity, including one in 1311 (Cata-
lans vs. Franks) and others in 1823 and 1825 (Greeks vs. Turks).
18 Note, however, that this was also likely a part of a fourth-century bce Boeotian effort
region. Furthermore, the first famous battle on its soil took place in 338 bce and
is echoed in its two famous lieux de mémoire: the Lion of Chaeronea, a monu-
ment close to the acropolis that marks the resting place of the Theban Sacred
Band, and the Macedonian tomb, found in the plain. The power of these two
symbols, their placement as a sort of “intermonumental meditation,” and the
continued importance of their presence for the memory of the battle, is acutely
discussed by John Ma.19 I shall return to his viewpoint below. Lastly, we also find
trophies erected by Sulla for his victory in the second major important battle
at Chaeronea in 86 bce.20
Our modern interest in the town, therefore, seems based on, or perhaps even
conditioned by, the surviving visual reminders in Chaeronea’s landscape, all
of which, except for the rock-cut theatre,21 are dedicated to the commemora-
tion of conflicts. But Chaeronea was more than just a battleground. It had an
everyday life of its own that granted meaning to its inhabitants. It is difficult,
however, to find traces of this local discourse environment,22 not least because
there have been very few excavations there.23
to fortify the region, not just Chaeronea: J.M. Fossey & G. Gauvin, “Les fortifications de
l’acropole de Chéronée,” in J.M. Fossey (ed.), Papers in Boeotian Topography and History
(Amsterdam: J.C. Gieben, 1990) 116–118. For the phases of the walls, see J.M. Fossey, Topog-
raphy and Population of Ancient Boeotia (Chicago: Ares, 1986) 376–378.
19 Ma, “Chaeronea 338: Topographies of Commemoration,” 77–85.
20 For more on the trophies and their identification, see J. Camp et al., “A Trophy from the Bat-
tle of Chaeronea of 86B.C.,” AJA 96 (1992) 443–455; C.S. Mackay, “Damon of Chaeronea:
The Loyalties of a Boeotian Town during the First Mithridatic War,” Klio 82 (2000) 91–106;
and P. Assenmaker, “Les trophées syllaniens de Chéronée: une relecture de Plutarque, Vie
de Sylla 19, 9–10 à la lumière des découvertes archéologiques,” Latomus 72 (2013) 946–955.
Note an important discussion by Y. Kalliontzis, “Digging in Storerooms for Inscriptions,”
in N. Papazarkadas (ed.), The Epigraphy and History of Boeotia: New Finds, New Prospects
(Leiden: Brill, 2014) 333–372, in which doubt is cast on the identification of the trophy.
21 See O.A.W. Dilke, “Details and Chronology of Greek Theatre Caveas,” BSA 45 (1950) 20–
62; Hansen and Nielsen, An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis, 82; and M. Germani,
“The Theatre of Chaeronea and Rectilinear Koila,” Hypothekai 2 (2018) 97–105.
22 “Local Discourse Environment” as described by H. Beck, Localism and the Ancient Greek
City-State (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2020) 16–17, includes the dichotomy of
‘self’ and ‘other’ that could be projected differently but that always brought meaning to
those who shared in it, and it is found in two separate spaces: physical (subject to human
mobility) and imagined (ibid., 23–25). For more on localism, its theory and application,
see Beck, ibid. In this way, it ties into theories of collective memory and how a group of
individuals define themselves in relation to the world around them (see above).
23 J. Ma, “Black Hunter Variations,” PCPhS 40 (1994) 67; Farinetti, Boeotian Landscapes, 101.
For more on the archaeological work that has been conducted in Chaeronea, see R.M.
Dawkins, “Archaeology in Greece (1906–1907),” JHS 27 (1907) 286 (Neolithic remains);
W.K. Pritchett, “Observations on Chaeronea,” AJA 62 (1958) 307–311 (topography); and
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A few details can be gleaned from information in Pausanias (9.41.7), such

as that the inhabitants of Chaeronea grew flowers for medications in the fer-
tile soil of the Cephissus valley.24 It is possible that the healing industry of
Chaeronea was tied to its local shrines, which were dedicated to gods who
have healing properties.25 One of these shrines, that to the Egyptian gods, is the
location of numerous manumission decrees from the Hellenistic period.26 The
presence of the Egyptian gods in Chaeronea is part of a regional trend that was
common in Boeotia from the third century bce to the third century ce. These
Egyptian gods helped to forge a bond that provided a sense of community for
Boeotia under the Roman Empire.27
The literary evidence of healing sanctuaries, the physical remains of the the-
atre, and other incidental finds28 speak of a local life in Chaeronea that is far
more varied and complex than the polis being simply the locus of two impor-
tant battles. And so, it remains to be seen, does Plutarch frame Chaeronea as
more than a site of combat?
J.M. Fossey (ed.), Papers in Boeotian Topography and History (Amsterdam: J.C. Gieben,
1990) 250 (Roman remains). A small number of burials have also been excavated: Fossey,
Topography and Population of Ancient Boeotia, 379; A. Alexandropoulou, “Terracotta Fig-
urines from Cemeteries of Chaeronea in North Boeotia,” in A. Muller & E. Lafli (eds.), Fig-
urines de terre cuite en Méditerranée grecque et romaine 2—Iconographie et contexts (Vil-
leneuve d’Ascq: Presses universitaires du Septentrion, 2015) 349–355; V. Sabetai, “Female
Protomes from Chaeroneia (Boeotia),” in A. Muller & E. Lafli (eds.), Figurines de terre
cuite en Méditerranée grecque et romaine 2—Iconographie et contexts (Villeneuve d’ Ascq:
Presses universitaires du Septentrion, 2015) 149–163.
24 The plant life of Lake Copais is described by Theophrastus (HP 4.10–12). See also Jones,
Plutarch and Rome, 4; Fossey, Papers in Boeotian Topography and History, 265; and
Farinetti, Boeotian Landscapes, 51, 100.
25 E.A. Meyer, “A New Inscription from Chaeronea and the Chronology of Slave-Dedication,”
Tekmeria 9 (2008) 72, explains that Artemis and the Mother Goddess oversee childbirth,
Apollo and Asclepius are gods of healing, and the Egyptian gods also assume a heal-
ing function in Egypt. Unfortunately, no excavations of sanctuaries have taken place in
Chaeronea. For more on worship and sacred places in Chaeronea, see A. Schachter, The
Cults of Boeotia (London: Institute of Classical Studies, 1981) 43 (Apollo), 98 (Artemis), 107
(Mother of the Gods, Leucothea, the Muses, and Asclepius), 199 (scepter known as dory
made by Hephaestus for Zeus). For Dionysus and Heracles, see “Chronique des fouilles
et découvertes archéologiques en Grèce en 1951,” BCH 76 (1952) 224; Schachter, ibid., 173–
174, 200; Fossey, Papers in Boeotian Topography and History, 383; Meyer, ibid., 71–72; and
J.M. Fossey & L. Darmezin, “A Dedication and More Manumissions from Khaironeia,” in
J.M. Fossey (ed.), Epigraphica Boeotica ii. Further Studies on Boeotian Inscriptions (Leiden:
Brill, 2014) 191–192. See also Plu. Cim. 2, Dem. 19, Sull. 17; Quaest. Rom. 267D; Paus. 9.40.11–12.
26 A. Schachter, “Egyptian Cults and Local Elites in Boeotia,” in L. Bricault, M.J. Versluys &
P.G.O. Meyboom (eds.), Nile into Tiber: Egypt in the Roman World (Leiden: Brill, 2007) 364,
368.
27 Schachter, “Egyptian Cults and Local Elites in Boeotia,” 364.
28 See, e.g., the protomes from Chaeronea and their distribution patterns, which are dis-
3 Plutarch’s Chaeronea
Although he seems reluctant to divulge a lot of information about himself and

his roles in his local and regional environments, we are still able to learn addi-
tional details about Chaeronea through Plutarch’s writing. A quick glance at
his oeuvre shows that Chaeronea formed the background of Plutarch’s life as
a writer.29 He spent most of his life in his hometown,30 maintaining political
positions in the city,31 staying active in the community (even implying that he
was involved with street cleaning32), keeping his home in Chaeronea, marrying
a local woman and raising their children there,33 and perhaps naming one of
his sons Chaeron after the mythical founder of Chaeronea (Cons. ad ux. 609D).
Roughly speaking, Plutarch’s overt references to Chaeronea can be placed into
five broad categories: (1) displays of autopsy, (2) providing context for a passage,
(3) explicit mentions of the battles of Chaeronea, (4) mention of local religious
and other traditions, and (5) local memory of historical events, most easily
demonstrable through Plutarch’s recounting of the Damon episode (Cim. 1–2).
Plutarch unsurprisingly displays autopsy around Chaeronea in a multitude
of ways which overlap the other categories, in the sense that it is evident in his
passages on the battles as well as in his mentions of local memory, religion and
cussed thoroughly in Sabetai, “Female Protomes from Chaeroneia (Boeotia),” 149–163, or

evidence of a stelae industry in the polis in V.L. Aravantinos, The Archaeological Museum
of Thebes (Kifisia: John S. Latsis Public Benefit Foundation, 2010) 324.
29 As noticed, for example, by Jones, Plutarch and Rome, 3–10; D.A. Russell, Plutarch (Lon-
don: Duckworth, 1973) 16; A. Wardman, Plutarch’s Lives (London: Elek, 1974), 104; J. Buckler,
“Plutarch and Autopsy,” ANRW II.33.6 (1992) 4801–4806; and Titchener, “Fate and For-
tune,” 485–486. The number of discussions in Quaestiones convivales which take place in
Chaeronea is also interesting (Buckler, ibid., 4806). In one case, Plutarch even mentions
that there were a number of foreign visitors: 615CD (cf. 666D, 710B).
30 He tells us that he remains there, “… lest it become even smaller” (Dem. 2.2). Jones,
Plutarch and Rome, 3, calls this devotion to a small town “unusual.”
31 Praec. ger. reip. 811BC. See also Jones, Plutarch and Rome, 28, 43; P.A. Stadter, “Introduc-
tion: Setting Plutarch in his Context,” in P.A. Stadter & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Sage and
Emperor: Plutarch, Greek Intellectuals, and Roman Power in the Time of Trajan (98–117ad)
(Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2002) 4; and Titchener, “Fate and Fortune,” 485. R. Lam-
berton, Plutarch (New Haven, Connecticut: Yale University Press, 2001) 2, explains that
local families who learned to adapt to the Roman system, like Plutarch’s family, tended to
prosper politically.
32 He compares himself to Epaminondas, a telearchos concerned with street cleaning in
Praec. ger. reip. 811B; see Russell, Plutarch, 14.
33 Russell, Plutarch, 5, tells us that his wife’s father’s name was Alexion and that he was prob-
ably from Chaeronea. Plutarch speaks of him and his wife raising and educating their
children: Cons. ad uxor. 608C.
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traditions. Plutarch’s moments of autopsy for his polis are nonetheless impor-
tant to highlight because it is crucial not only for how Plutarch approaches
his writing, and thus how he approaches writing about Chaeronea, but also
because it helps unveil what he felt was important enough to need an autoptic
report.
Almost thirty years ago, John Buckler convincingly demonstrated how Plu-
tarch used his travels and local knowledge to find information for his writing.
Plutarch’s experience in Chaeronea, he argues, was invaluable for the informa-
tion that it conveyed about the battles fought on local soil.34 For example, after
relating the details of Sulla’s victory at Chaeronea and the help he received from
the Chaeroneans themselves (Sull. 17–19), Plutarch mentions the trophies that
still stand in his day to commemorate the event. One of these, he explains (Sull.
19.5), bears the names, in Greek, of Homoloïchus and Anaxidamus, who were
the heroes of the day. Indeed, it seems that Plutarch uses autopsy mainly to
relate something about the battles fought at Chaeronea. This focus implies an
emphasis for Plutarch: one not only of the importance of these battles and their
continued memory in the local landscape, but also of the heroics of his native
countrymen.
Frequently Plutarch casually gestures to Chaeronea as the location of a par-
ticular event or discussion.35 These references are all from the Moralia and are
far from casual in what we can learn from them. Take, for example, the pas-
sage in his Quaestiones convivales where Plutarch mentions that Sosius Senecio
was present in Chaeronea as a guest for Plutarch’s son’s wedding (Quaest. conv.
666D). Here we learn that Plutarch has a child who was married in Chaeronea,
a detail which reinforces in a performative manner his insistence that he and
his family remain there lest Chaeronea become any smaller (Dem. 2.2). But
we not only see a manifestation of his loyalty to his polis, we also gain some
understanding of the importance of Plutarch’s family: Sosius Senecio, a promi-
nent Roman politician who was, among other things, consul three times,36
attended Plutarch’s son’s wedding in what was, at that time, essentially a back-
34 Buckler, “Plutarch and Autopsy,” 4801–4803. For more on Plutarch and the battles of
Chaeronea, see below.
35 See, e.g., Quaest. conv. 615CD, 619B, 642F, 655E, 656C, 657E, 666D, 678C, 679E, 683B, 692B,
693F–694A, 696E, 710B, 717B.
36 For Senecio’s political positions, see K. Ziegler, “Ploutarchos von Chaeronea,”RE 21.1 (1951)
688; C.P. Jones, “Sura and Senecio,” JRS 60 (1970) 102; Russell, Plutarch, 10; B. Puech, “Proso-
pographie des amis de Plutarque,” ANRW II.33.6 (1992) 4883; and S.G. Jacobs, Plutarch’s
Pragmatic Biographies: Lessons for Statesmen and Generals in the Parallel Lives (Leiden:
Brill, 2017) 26. Note also Plutarch’s friendship with the prominent Roman, Mestrius Florus,
from whom he earned his Roman citizenship: see Syll.3 829A; Syll.3 842, 844A; cf.
water of Greece. In another section of the Quaestiones convivales we hear

that Diogenianus of Pergamum and Philip of Prusa were present for a din-
ner in Chaeronea (Quaest. conv. 710B). These men, from Asia Minor, came to
Chaeronea to sup with Plutarch.37 Clearly, although Plutarch did stay in his
small town, he was not suffering from a lack of knowledge, as he hints at in
Demosthenes 2, for in these contextual mentions of his everyday local horizon
he shows that he was not at a loss for distinguished guests, not even for those
from afar who could keep him abreast of happenings in the empire. Chaeronea
may have been a backwater, but it was still at a crossroads in Greece (see above),
which may help to explain why men from far away ended up dining at Plutarch’s
table. Yet, it is also possible that Plutarch’s presence in Chaeronea was another
draw for these men. Contextual passages of this sort, therefore, are important
not only for demonstrating that life in Chaeronea was connected to the outside
world, but also for revealing the influence exerted by Plutarch and his family.
The most frequent occurrences of the name of Plutarch’s hometown in
his own works, however, arise in relation to information about the battles of
Chaeronea. First, as we saw above, Plutarch takes pains to point out inscrip-
tions related to these battles. Not only does he mention the one that contained
the names of Homoloïchus and Anaxidamus, but he also briefly comments on
another of Sulla’s trophies naming the general and statesman as the “Beloved of
Venus” (Sull. 19.5, 34.2; De fort. Rom. 318D). Inscriptions which are extant today
are believed to be those that Plutarch saw and referenced.38 However, it is not
inscriptions about the battles at Chaeronea that occupy the largest place in
Plutarch’s oeuvre but actual narratives explaining the battles themselves, the
topography of the site and its relation to these conflicts, and the aftermath
of the encounters.39 It seems, then, that Plutarch’s focus for Chaeronea was
indeed on its battles and understanding the consequences for those involved.
Although Plutarch’s primary purpose in these passages seems to be to relate
information on the battles, they also convey a sense of the impact of these con-
flicts on the narratives that circulated among the inhabitants in Chaeronea
P.A. Stadter, “Friends or Patrons?” in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2015) 36; Ziegler, “Ploutarchos von Chaeronea,” 650.
37 Note that we also see Diogenianus visiting Delphi (De Pyth. or. 395A). It is therefore pos-
sible that the draw for Diogenianus—and other visitors of Plutarch’s in Chaeronea—was
Delphi and not sojourning with Plutarch, making Chaeronea a stop along the road. Never-
theless, Diogenianus and other people do come to see Plutarch in Chaeronea, aiding in his
ability to stay connected and expanding the local horizon of his hometown to the wider
Roman world.
38 For more on these trophies and who dedicated them, see the references in n. 20 above.
39 Battles and/or conflicts that take place on Chaeronea’s soil are mentioned by Plutarch in
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in Plutarch’s day. For example, Plutarch speaks of an ancient oak which was
still standing and called “Alexander’s oak” (Alex. 9.3); local tradition, it seems,
held that Alexander the Great pitched his tent below it before the battle of
338 bce. The importance of this tree to the people of Chaeronea is immediately
apparent through the longevity of the association of this place with Alexander.
Plutarch, consciously or unconsciously, ensures the posterity of the association
by relaying the information for his reader.
In another example, Plutarch explains the effect of the war between Octa-
vian and Antony on his countrymen and his great-grandfather and their mis-
treatment by Antony’s forces (Ant. 68.7–8). We see here an example of a local
narrative, one deeply personal to Plutarch. As with the example of the inscrip-
tion of Homoloïchus and Anaxidamus and the aid they gave to Sulla, this pas-
sage stresses allegiance to Rome through its clear opposition to Antony: not
only were the Chaeroneans forced under duress to supply Antony with grain,
but they did not stay and help him after his defeat. Plutarch thus appears
to present a narrative of loyalty between Chaeronea and the current Roman
regime.
Plutarch further mentions Chaeronea in relation to local traditions and reli-
gious practices to clarify and add to the narratives in both the Parallel Lives and
the Moralia. We find such things as explanations of the mythical foundations
of the city (Cim. 1.1; Sull. 17.4), a comment on the direction the city faces (De cur.
515BC), tales of local women running inns (De def. or. 412C), mentions of reli-
gious spaces and rites (Quaest. Rom. 267DE; Quaest. conv. 693EF, 694A, 696E;
Dem. 19.1–2; Sull. 17.4–5), and even discussions of nearby river names (Dem.
19.2). In Theseus 17.6, for example, Plutarch relates a local tradition of Ama-
zonian burials in Chaeronea by the river Haemon, which was, he relates, pre-
viously known as Thermodon. Through this tale, Plutarch grants his narrative
both the authority of Chaeronea’s local remembered past and also the allure
and antiquity of mythology by suggesting an Amazonian linkage. By beginning
this section with “it is said” he authoritatively draws on the local oral traditions
surrounding this space.
In another example, concerning local religious customs, we find Plutarch
connecting Chaeronea and Rome. Plutarch uses the local Chaeronean cult of
Leucothea to explain the practices of the shrine of the Latin Goddess Matuta
(Quaest. Rom. 267DE). This correlation enables his reader to relate Chaeronea
and Rome to each other and thus brings about an affinity between the two.
the following passages: Mor. 177E, 218EF, 240AB, 259D, 327C, 715C, 803DE, 837E, 838B,
840C, 845F, 848C, 849A; Ages. 17; Alex. 9; Ant. 68; Arat. 16; Cam. 19; Dem. 14, 21; Luc. 3,
11; Pel. 28; Phoc. 16; Sull. 11, 16–19, 22, 23; Thes. 27.
Displaying local memory of historical events is the final broad category of

overt ways in which Plutarch references his hometown. This is most evident in
his retelling of the Damon episode, found in the proem of the Cimon–Lucullus
pair (Cim. 1–2). In this tale, the local Chaeronean, Damon, refuses the affection
of the Roman commander wintering in Chaeronea. Since Damon was not able
to deter the Roman, he gathered a few of his friends and killed the commander
and his entourage while they were sacrificing in the market. Fearing the reper-
cussions from Rome, the council of Chaeronea condemned them to death, for
which Damon and his friends also killed them. Although Damon retreated to
the countryside, the citizens of Chaeronea managed to bring him back to the
polis, where he was subsequently killed.
The narrative of Damon’s story ends with a description of the local haunted
bathhouse where Damon was killed. Plutarch describes how it was walled up
because of phantoms that appeared after the murder. Even down to his day,
Plutarch relates, those who live around the bathhouse see eerie things and hear
alarming sounds (Cim. 1.8). This, Pierre Ellinger contends, is Plutarch’s way of
writing a sort of mini-Life for Damon that not only provides Damon justice for
his murder, but also helps Chaeronea and its people come to terms with their
past and their current Roman rule through Lucullus’ role as an advocate for
Chaeronea in this tale.40
This proem is very different from the other twenty that survive, so much
so that it has attracted much attention.41 The debate hinges on the fact that
it opens with a focus on Damon and not on an anecdote on the heroes of the
pair, Cimon and Lucullus, like the majority of other proems. Among the differ-
ent approaches to explaining this seeming anomaly, Philip Stadter argues that
this is a digression technique used by Plutarch to arouse interest in his read-
ers; similarly, Mark Beck contends that it is an example of insinuatio, where
the proem uses a novel story to wake up the audience, noting further that it
also serves as a negative behavioral model for the two Lives that follow.42 Ma,
on the other hand, focuses more on the local element in the story, suggesting
that Damon, living on the margins of civilized society, can be considered in the
black hunter paradigm, demonstrating that the anecdote is an example of folk-
40 P. Ellinger, “Plutarque et Damon de Chéronée: Une histoire, un mythe, un texte, ou autre

chose encore?” Kernos 18 (2005) esp. 301–310.
41 For a quick overview of this debate, see M. Beck, “The Story of Damon and the Ideology
of Euergetism in the Lives of Cimon and Lucullus,” Hermathena 182 (2007) 55.
42 P.A. Stadter, “The Proems of Plutarch’s Lives,” ICS 13 (1988) 290–291; M. Beck, “The story
of Damon,” 55–56. Cf. also T.E. Duff, “The Prologues,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to
Plutarch (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) 334.
200 giroux
lorization brought about by oral tradition.43 Regardless of which explanation

is correct, we are clearly witnessing the importance of local knowledge and the
local discourse environment permeating Plutarch’s works.
Whether or not there was a hidden motive for the inclusion of the Damon
narrative, it seems clear that Plutarch must have included this story of Damon
to introduce how Lucullus became involved with Chaeronea.44 Without Lucul-
lus, Chaeronea may not have survived Damon’s impetuous act of killing Roman
officials. Plutarch even explicitly states that the town still owes Lucullus for the
favour, and his description of the event is an attempt at repaying his country-
men’s debt (Cim. 2.1–3). Here, Plutarch not only changes his usual structure
of the proem to incorporate local tradition, but he even tells us that he chose
Lucullus as one of his earliest heroes on whom he wished to write because of a
local debt.
This proem can also be interpreted as a pro-Roman episode in the Paral-
lel Lives. The narrative is framed with flattery towards Lucullus. Plutarch could
have chosen to present this narrative as a wicked Roman corrupting the youth
of his hometown, with Damon acting as the hero who stands up to his oppres-
sor. But he does not. Instead, he chooses to present the upheaval as something
that is homegrown, a local problem caused by an unruly Chaeronean and even-
tually played out between two Boeotian towns, Chaeronea and Orchomenus.
Rome, in Plutarch’s scenario, is in no way to blame. Rather, it is the clemency
of Lucullus that saves the town. In this way, Plutarch uses this episode not only
to present the personal qualities of the two heroes he is about to discuss, but
also to recall indirectly the positive relationship of Chaeronea and Rome.
It seems, then, that our modern preoccupation of Chaeronea as the loca-
tion of famous battles meshes in some ways with how Plutarch presents his
town. Yet, it is also possible to read some of these passages45 as examples
43 Ma, “Black Hunter Variations,” 60.

44 Scholars that support this view include Jones, Plutarch and Rome, 3; G.B. Lavery, “Plutarch’s
Lucullus and the Living Bond of Biography,” CJ 89 (1994) 262; Mackay, “Damon of
Chaeronea,” 91; and C. Pelling, Rome in Crisis: Nine Lives by Plutarch (Harmondsworth: Pen-
guin, 2010) 106. M. Pretzler, “Pausanias and Oral Tradition,” CQ 55 (2005) 240, argues that
references to Chaeronea and to Boeotia more generally are evidence that Plutarch was
not above being patriotic. However, as Titchener, “Fate and Fortune,” 486, notes, he does
not sing its praises, but just makes it clear that his decision to reside there was one that
benefitted all.
45 For example, his mention of Sosius Senecio’s presence in the town (Quaest. conv. 666D),
his relating Latin and Chaeronean cult practices (Quaest. Rom. 267DE), Lucullus saving
Chaeronea (Cim. 2.1–3), and the mention of locals helping the Romans win a war (Sull.
16.8, 17.5–6, 18.1).
that not only emphasize the events and people that led to the survival of
his home, but also more covertly showcase the loyalty of Chaeronea to the
Romans. This is demonstrable through Plutarch’s mention of the inscription
of Homoloïchus and Anaxidamus with references to the help they gave Sulla,
through Chaeronea’s opposition to Antony, and thus its support of the future
Emperor Augustus, through the Damon narrative and Plutarch’s emphasis on
the debt his polis owes to Lucullus, and through moments of affinity that he
draws between Rome and Chaeronea, such as the explanation of religious
cult practices at the shrines of Leucothea and Matuta. The result of this tying
together of Chaeronea and Rome is a subtle sub-narrative of loyalty to Rome
which Plutarch seems to be crafting for his hometown. If, however, Plutarch
is indeed subtly dusting his narrative with a political statement concerning
Chaeronea and Rome, can we also read this political negotiation in his
silences?46
4 Plutarch’s Silences
Plutarch tends not to mention Boeotian religious sites and practices,47 but in
the one instance where he does describe a local cult, namely that of Leucothea,
he makes sure to link the local cult to a Roman practice, that of Matuta (see
above). The mention seems to have a political motive: to construct Chaeronea
as a pro-Roman polis through associative practices that show affinity between
the two peoples. If Plutarch’s mention of religious practices in Chaeronea,
therefore, can at least partially be seen to be constructed through political moti-
vation, can this apply also to his silences in this arena as well? For example, he
does not talk about the cult of the Egyptian gods. It could, of course, be because
this cult is not politically relevant to the current circumstances of Chaeronea in
relation to Rome, or because Egyptian gods are also a popular feature of Boeo-
tian worship at this time48 and so ubiquitous as to be not worth mentioning.
46 Plutarch does not use the technique of praeteritio in his narrative concerning silences on
Chaeronea. For Plutarch’s use of silence in his Moralia, see S. Xenophontos, Ethical Edu-
cation in Plutarch: Moralising Agents and Contexts (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016) 191.
47 Cf. Buckler, “Plutarch and Autopsy,” 4805–4806, who asserts that when Plutarch does men-
tion local practices or shrines “they are only of secondary importance in themselves and
instead enhance the flavor of the individual essays” (p. 4806). I suggest, however, that we
should see these mentions as purposeful and beyond a casual spicing of his narrative, for
the simple reason that they are unusual and thus must have been thoughtfully and pur-
posefully included to illustrate something that Plutarch believed to be important.
48 Schachter, “Egyptian Cults and Local Elites in Boeotia,” 364 (see also above). Buckler,
202 giroux
But if that is the case it makes his mention of the local cult of Leucothea all the
more striking. There may, indeed, be an oblique political motivation: Trajan was
involved in multiple building projects connected to Isis and Osiris,49 so it can
be cautiously stipulated that Plutarch’s omission of the Chaeronean cult of the
Egyptian gods may be related to his other silences on Trajan and, therefore, be
very political indeed. Not divulging any hint of the presence of Egyptian gods
in Chaeronea may be part of Plutarch’s desire to remove any potential link that
the reader may create between his home and the emperor’s policies.
Lack of political relevance and specifically any relevance to Rome may
be why he does not discuss more the everyday activities of the people of
Chaeronea. He is not, for example, creating a work such as that of Pausanias,
and thus it is not necessary for him to explain local activities. For this reason,
he does not speak of the growing of healing plants or sites in his hometown,
such as those of healing deities, unless they serve a function for his narrative
and/or support the political agenda he is building for his city. For when he
discusses daily affairs in Chaeronea, it is either in relation to Rome—such as
the Chaeronean cult to Leucothea being paralleled to that of the Latin god-
dess Matuta, which hints not only at loyalty, but also at a kind of kinship and
understanding—or to convey the importance and antiquity of his town and
thus maintain its relevance under Roman rule, as he claims he wants to do
(Dem. 2.2).
Plutarch’s tale of Chaeronea’s uncertain future after the actions of Damon
help to showcase the importance the Chaeroneans placed in maintaining
friendly relations with Rome. Concerning the political changes of Chaeronea
during the Mithridatic War, Christopher Mackay has argued that the Damon
narrative represents changing political power in the small town: when Damon
was invited back in, he asserts, it was because an anti-Roman faction gained
control and must have dismissed the charges of murder against Damon as well
“Plutarch and Autopsy,” 4815, argues that Plutarch was not interested in Egypt. If this is the
case, this may provide another explanation for his silence on Egyptian cults in Chaeronea.
However, the treatise De Iside et Osiride implies curiosity concerning Egyptian deities (and
Buckler, ibid., 4816, does agree that his interest only involves Egyptian religion). Therefore,
we must be cautious in assuming that his supposed lack of interest in a region translates to
a lack of interest in their culture and its impact on Greek practices and worship. For more
on Plutarch and the Egyptian gods, see F. Brenk, “Religion under Trajan. Plutarch’s Resur-
rection of Osiris,” in P.A. Stadter & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Sage and Emperor: Plutarch,
Greek Intellectuals, and Roman Power in the Time of Trajan (98–117ad) (Leuven: Leuven
49 Brenk, “Religion under Trajan,” 75.
as removed the pro-Roman faction.50 When it was clear that Sulla would win
the war, the town then murdered Damon, and possibly others, in order to show
their support; the community thus rallied together to downplay events and
to make them personal rather than political, hiding any disloyalty to Rome
by altering the narrative by omitting the political shifts and the possibility of
multiple actors beyond Damon.51 If this is the case, we can interpret Plutarch’s
silence on the changing allegiances of his hometown as a covert silence to set
aside a troubling past, one based on political hindsight.52 As such, Plutarch’s
silence hints at the compromise made by the Chaeroneans in how this story
would be told—one that would still be remembered, but in a more personal
vein by focusing it on one man, Damon, and the unwanted and forceful affec-
tions of one Roman officer towards him that was swiftly resolved by the people
of Chaeronea and, ultimately, by Lucullus.
In such an interpretation, it may be possible to extend Plutarch’s statement
that a subject must be presented with flaws to create a likeness (Cim. 2.4), a
statement that is given in the context of this narrative, from an individual to
a people, and thus representing not only the men in the Lives he is introduc-
ing, but also the Chaeroneans in the Damon tale. It can therefore be argued
that the distance created between Damon and the Chaeroneans—making use
of Ma’s argument that Damon is outside of the margins of civilized society and
Plutarch’s statement that Damon’s descendants are now in Phocis and removed
from Chaeronea (Cim. 1.9)—was a politically motivated choice to separate the
disloyal population of Chaeronea as well as to maintain a narrative of loy-
alty towards Rome. This fits Halbwachs’ idea of collective identity formation
being reliant on the needs and continuity of the current group,53 as the tale not
50 Mackay, “Damon of Chaeronea,” 94, 101–102. We have to keep in mind, however, that we do
not have any direct evidence from Plutarch or Chaeronea that can support this argument.
E.g., it is possible that the Chaeroneans recalled Damon for practical reasons, namely,
to stop him from ravaging the countryside (Cim. 1.7). Nonetheless, it remains interesting
that Plutarch does not relate why Damon was recalled but instead moves past this. In
either case, it appears that Plutarch preferred to present the story of Damon and Lucul-
lus from the point of view of individuals and in an indirect fashion, as a tale reflective of
Chaeronea’s loyalty to Rome.
51 Mackay, “Damon of Chaeronea,” 103. Mackay, ibid., 94–95, argues that, were it not for the
statue of Lucullus in the town, these political decisions would have been forgotten by
Plutarch’s day, but since the memorial remained in its landscape, the personal narrative
was continued to explain its presence.
52 See Vinitzky-Seroussi & Teeger, “Unpacking the Unspoken,” 1111–1112. For political hind-
sight and memory sanctions, see Flower, The Art of Forgetting, esp. 1–14.
53 Halbwachs, Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire, esp. 369–401. It also fits with the theory of
Assman & Czaplicka, “Collective Memory and Cultural Identity,” 127–129, 131, that cultural
204 giroux
only stresses the errors made as originating from only one man, ensuring that
Chaeronea maintains its loyalty to Rome, but we also see Plutarch emphasizing
aspects that lead to Chaeronea’s survival.54 Thus, the statue of Lucullus placed
symbolically in the agora (Cim. 2.1–3) creates a landscape of remembrance for
the people of Chaeronea, whereas the silences in Plutarch’s narrative become
subtle pieces of political negotiation.
So how do we, then, understand Plutarch’s silence on the most recognized
monument in his town, namely, the Lion of Chaeronea? For this marker is not
only imposing, but it is also related to the battles fought there, which Plutarch
is generally so eager to relate. Beyond descriptions of the battle, for example,
Plutarch mentions the bones of the fallen Athenians being brought back to
Athens for burial (Dem. 21.2), the tomb of the Macedonians (Alex. 9.2), and
how the Thebans were slaughtered by the Macedonian garrison (Dem. 23.1). He
thus does not shy away from speaking of the dead, or even of their burial, but
he remains silent on the Theban tomb.55 Perhaps the explanation is simple:
perhaps Plutarch does not mention it because it was an obvious monument
in Chaeronea and therefore any narrative about the battle would bring it to
mind. Buckler has suggested this as an explanation for Plutarch’s omission of
other monuments, particularly in Delphi.56 His silence, then, would be a covert
silence aimed at remembrance. But is it possible to read further into this? Did
Plutarch leave out the monument because it had become a sort of negative
example? Theban defiance in the battlefield led to the death of their troops—
something that could be excused, as we see with Plutarch’s remembrance of the
Athenian dead (Dem. 21.2)—but the provocation of Alexander afterwards was
less forgivable because it brought about the destruction of the city (Alex. 11.7–
12). As such, Plutarch’s silence on the imposing monument in his hometown
is not so much about forgetting the dead, but rather about echoing the sub-
sequent elimination of Thebes. The silence, then, projects Thebes’ sonorous
destruction.
memory is founded on its distance from the everyday to orient the present and provide
hope for the future. Here, Plutarch hopes that Rome will continue to support Chaeronea
and maintain its relative independence, since it is loyal to Rome and its empire and has
previously provided help (for example, in Sulla’s campaigns [Sull. 16.8, 17.5–6, 18.1]).
54 Plutarch also emphasizes Chaeronea’s survival in other parts of his work, such as the help
the Chaeroneans gave to Sulla.
55 Instances where one would expect the Lion to be mentioned: Dem. 23.2; Alex. 9.3, 12.4–5.
56 Buckler, “Plutarch and Autopsy,” 4810.
5 Conclusion
In a culture where the spoken word was everywhere,57 silences become even
more present, effective and stirring. Plutarch uses silence in his construction
of his native town of Chaeronea to create an image of it that matched the con-
cerns of the citizens of his age, one of continual loyalty and political allegiance
to Rome. Plutarch constructs the memory of his town as non-threatening and
peaceful, a town that cooperates and helps when it is needed. In many ways,
he speaks of Chaeronea not in terms of a place, but in terms of its people. His
silences on Chaeronea are therefore not based so much on a purposeful for-
getting, as on a boost to the reputation and remembrance of the Chaeroneans
as an ancient and loyal people. However, “silence, like memory, is unstable
and unpredictable.”58 And so, we have not completely forgotten the Lion, the
local cults, the possible political malleability of a small Boeotian town, or other
aspects of its history and daily life. But, like the enviable size of the Lion of
Chaeronea, these silences come to us in thunderous roars, crying out not only
for the dead of the plains of Chaeronea, but also for the actions of its people,
whether it be for or against Rome.
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chapter 12
What Your Best Friend Won’t Tell You: Thucydidean

and Plutarchan Silences on Sicily
Christopher Pelling
Thinking about Plutarch is so often a good way of thinking about Thucydides

too. It is a little like the relation of Shakespeare to Plutarch: looking at what
the later writer, there Shakespeare, does with his “source” obviously tells you
a lot about Shakespeare, but it tells you quite a bit about the earlier writer
too, not just what is changed for Shakespeare’s different genre—the stage—
but also what he decides will, with a little tweaking, do very well indeed. It is
the same with Plutarch himself when he takes over material from Thucydides.
A lot needs changing or dropping because Plutarch is writing biography rather
than history, and a certain amount needs adding because Plutarch senses that
Thucydides is silent about something that Plutarch knows and finds important;
but a great deal will do just fine. And it probably does all the finer because, even
though Thucydides is writing history rather than just Nicias’ story, for this final
phase of Nicias’ life the two come close to being the same thing. Plutarch him-
self makes the point at the beginning of the Life: the brilliance of Thucydides’
narrative defies imitation or competition, but still (Nic. 1.5)1
there is no way that I could pass over the actions that Thucydides and
Philistus have described, for these give a particularly telling indication2
of the man’s character and disposition, revealed as these were by so many
great παθῆ …
And that word παθῆ embraces not just the “sufferings” but also the turbulence
of the “emotions” that they evoked.
This takes me back to a topic I first addressed thirty years ago.3 I will try not
to go over too much of the same ground here as I concentrate on “silences,” both

2 This assumes the reading ⟨ἀπο⟩καλυπτομένην (U2) or ⟨ἀνα⟩καλυπτομένην, as C.P. Jones,
Plutarch and Rome (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971) 104 n. 4, prints, rather than the MSS καλυ-
πτομένην; for discussion see conveniently T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999) 25.
3 C. Pelling, “Plutarch and Thucydides,” in P.A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the Historical Tradi-
© Christopher Pelling, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_014

thucydidean and plutarchan silences on sicily 211
the silences in Thucydides that Plutarch tried to fill and Plutarch’s own silences
about something that he knew from Thucydides’ text. One point that is impor-
tant, if I was right in that earlier paper, is that it is not just Plutarch who knows
his Thucydides well, it is his audience too: he can rely on their knowing the
text so well that he can refer to “the lunch affair, as Thucydides described” (Nic.
20.8), and leave it without explaining further. That makes it a special case, or at
least an extreme case, among the Lives. Even in Coriolanus, probably the closest
parallel for an extended narrative based largely on one text, it is hard to think
that his audience would know a long tract of Dionysius of Halicarnassus as well
as they knew Thucydides here. Obviously, Plutarch faced a difficulty in telling
his readers and listeners a story that they already knew, and there are other
problems too, ones that he addresses explicitly in the Nicias proem. He is wary
of the example set by Timaeus, who thought he could show himself smarter
than Thucydides and more sophisticated than Philistus but in fact showed him-
self completely “a late learner and immature” (ὀψιμαθὴς καὶ μειρακιώδης)—a
fine mix of being too old to learn new tricks and still hopelessly callow.4 Instead,
he will (Nic. 1.5),
run through [those great deeds] rapidly and limit myself to the essen-
tials, to avoid seeming totally negligent and lazy; what I have tried to do is
gather things that most have missed, scattered as they are in other sources
or found on old dedications and decrees. That is not a matter of gather-
ing the useless type of historical information but the sort that is useful for
grasping a man’s character and typical behavior.
We can see what he means. This Life is particularly rich in such learned addi-
tions, even within the Sicilian narrative, which is something like two-thirds
based on Thucydides.5 A point against Thucydides, including an indication of
something he had missed, was one worth making: on one occasion Plutarch
explicitly notes that Thucydides left something out, in that case the names of
those who denounced the Hermocopidae (Alc. 20.6), and there are likely to
be other cases too where his audience would notice what he had done with
tion (London: Routledge, 1992) 10–40 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea:
Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 117–141].
4 This echoes Polybius’ remarks on Timaeus’ ὀψιμαθία and childishness (12.4b, 25k.2, 26.9, etc.);
cf. [Longinus] De sublimitate 3–4, with in particular D.A. Russell, [Longinus]: On the Sublime
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964) 73–74 on 3.4.
5 Pelling, “Plutarch and Thucydides,” 12–13 [reprinted in Pelling, Plutarch and History, 119].
212 pelling
Thucydides—an “I see what you did there” response.6 One of these comes just
a little later, when Plutarch gives a full treatment to the plea-bargain “Ando-
cides the orator” struck in prison (Alc. 21). Thucydides had mentioned this, but
simply talked of “someone” who was persuaded by a fellow-prisoner to “give
testimony, whether true or false” (6.60.2). This adds extra point to that explicit
mention of a Thucydidean silence at 20.6, for it can be taken as an alert to notice
that further silence a few sentences later. So here we are dealing not just with a
“source-relationship” but a more full-blown case of “intertextuality” or, perhaps
better, old-fashioned “allusion.”
That may also mean, though, that we need not always strain to find a clever
reason why Plutarch inserts something that Thucydides omitted: it is worth
doing for its own sake, provided it casts some illumination on the main fig-
ure’s story. That may, for instance, be why Plutarch inserts Demostratus into the
narrative of the 415 debate (Nic. 12.6; Alc. 18.3), drawing on Aristophanes’ Lysis-
trata (391–397) and maybe also on his knowledge of the decree itself.7 Such
cases can still be extremely illuminating. For instance, there is a fair amount of
non-Thucydidean religious material, especially in Nicias (13, 14.5–7, 24.6, 25.1),
some perhaps from Philistus and probably more from Timaeus:8 in the proem
Plutarch is scornful about Timaeus’ taste for such things (Nic. 1.2–3), but that
would not stop him from using it. Wherever he found it, we can see this as part
of Plutarch’s broader awareness that Thucydides is thin on the religious aspects
of the expedition. Many modern critics would share the view that Thucydides,
skeptical child of the sophistic age as he was, is unduly dismissive about the
genuine religious motives and dreads that were in people’s minds at the time.9
6 I discuss this sort of response to allusion or intertextuality at C. Pelling, “Intertextuality in

Plutarch: What’s the Point?” in T.S. Schmidt, M. Vamvouri & R. Hirsch-Luipold (eds.), The
Dynamics of Intertextuality in Plutarch (Leiden: Brill, 2020) 12–13.
7 So A.H. Sommerstein, Aristophanes: Lysistrata (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1990) 173 on Lys.
391–394, followed by S. Hornblower, A Commentary on Thucydides, 3 volumes (Oxford: Claren-
don Press and Oxford University Press, 1991–2008) vol. 3, 365. Plutarch knew Craterus’ collec-
tion of Athenian decrees: see P.A. Stadter, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Pericles (Chapel Hill:
University of North Carolina Press, 1989) lxix–lxx; E. Carawan, “Decrees in Andocides’ On the
Mysteries and ‘latent fragments’ from Craterus,” CQ 67 (2017) 418–419. Craterus, usually but
not always, included such details (Arist. 26.4).
8 Pelling, “Plutarch and Thucydides,” 12 and 32–33 n. 6 [reprinted in Pelling, Plutarch and His-
tory, 118 and 135 n. 6].
9 See, for instance, Hornblower’s identification of this as a weakness both of Thucydides, in
S. Hornblower, “The Religious Dimension to the Peloponnesian War, or, What Thucydides
Does Not Tell Us,” HSCPh 94 (1992) 179–197 [reprinted in S. Hornblower, Thucydidean Themes
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 25–53], and of Gomme’s commentary (Hornblower, A
Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 2, 10–13).
So that is a case where we might regard Plutarch as a sensitive reader of fifth-

century culture, in some ways more sensitive—despite the half a millennium
gap—even than Thucydides. Here I will concentrate on cases where Plutarch
comes out as a sensitive reader, not of fifth-century history, but of Thucydides
himself. Time and again, we can see him sensing a gap—a silence—in Thucy-
dides’ narrative that invites an explanation, and doing his best to provide one.
We might not always think he is right, but it is a very useful prompt to the mod-
ern reader to wonder what the explanation might be.10 Sometimes he draws on
other sources, but many cases have all the hallmarks of Plutarch’s own interpre-
tative imagination.
(a) One example might be the case of Menander and Euthydemus, the emi-
nently forgettable commanders of the first round of Athenian reinforcements.
These two are more prominent in Plutarch than they were in Thucydides, who
mentions only their appointment (7.16.1), then gives them minor roles in two
subsequent actions (7.43.2, 69.4). Contrast Plutarch (Nic. 20.5–6):
Nicias was unwilling to fight a naval battle. Now that so great a fleet was
sailing to their help, and Demosthenes was hurrying to them with his
reinforcements, it would be sheer idiocy (he said) to fight with a smaller
force and one that was so badly equipped. But Menander and Euthyde-
mus, newly promoted to office, were eager to outdo both generals: they
wanted to distinguish themselves before Demosthenes arrived and to sur-
pass anything that Nicias had managed.
So, they force Nicias’ hand, a sea-battle was fought, and the Athenians came off
worse. Now this may not be the only way of explaining it, but Plutarch has put
his finger on a real problem. Nicias—Thucydides’ Nicias, Plutarch’s Nicias, and
probably the real-life Nicias too—was cautious; he knew that Demosthenes
was soon to arrive with reinforcements; why should he offer a naval battle at
this stage rather than holding back a few days? Plutarch’s own answer may be
informed more by his presumptions about fifth-century big-men politics than
by anything he found in his sources. A little earlier he has offered something of
a similar explanation for another question he put to himself, why the Atheni-
ans had not decided to send reinforcements earlier, and answered it in terms of
“the envy of the leading men” (φθόνος τῶν πρώτων), who were envious of Nicias’
10 This procedure is thus similar to the use that E. Baragwanath, Motivation and Narrative in
Herodotus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008) 9–22, makes of De Herodoti malignitate
in treating Herodotean motivation. Plutarch identifies real problems even when his own
explanations and interpretations may not be ours.
214 pelling
track record of good fortune (20.1–2). That fits not merely his ideas about fifth-
century politics but also of politics anywhere, and is not too far from the world
of the Praecepta gerendae reipublicae. But, if it is his guess, it at least alerts us
to the oddity of that battle just before Demosthenes’ arrival, and he may even
be right. We need an answer even if it is not his answer.
(b) Another case would be his treatment of Lamachus, the third general ini-
tially appointed along with Nicias and Alcibiades. He was the one who, when
the generals debated strategy, was in favor of the up-and-at-them approach—
get in there, get at them, get the job done. “Most readers feel that Lamachos’
plan was right,” says Kenneth Dover,11 and there is good reason to think that
Thucydides at least admired the cut of the man’s jib.12 That is the impression
Plutarch gives, too: Nicias should not have spent time hankering after home,
but “it was necessary to close with the enemy straight away, attack them, and
test fortune on the battlefield” (Nic. 14.2).13 Still, Lamachus lost the debate, and
Plutarch wonders why he had so little impact on events even after Alcibiades
had been recalled and the three generals became two (Nic. 15.2; cf. Alc. 21.9;
Praec. ger. reip. 822E):
A little later Alcibiades sailed away, and then Nicias was effectively in con-
trol. Lamachus was a brave man of high morality who spared nothing
when in combat, but he was so poverty-stricken that whenever he went on
campaign he included in his accounts a small sum to cover his clothes and
boots. Nicias in contrast was a great figure, partly because of his wealth …
11 K.J. Dover, “Commentary on Books 6–7,” in A.W. Gomme, A. Andrewes & K.J. Dover, A
Historical Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 4 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970) 315.
12 This emerges from 7.42.3, when Demosthenes decides for more direct action on his arrival
in 413: “for when Nicias did not follow up the terror of his first arrival by attacking Syra-
cuse straight away but wintered in Catana, he was treated with contempt and forestalled
by Gylippus appearing from the Peloponnese with an army, which the Syracusans would
not even have sent for if Nicias had pressed on straight away.” The crucial point there is
the use of the indicative rather than oratio obliqua: this was not just Demosthenes’ percep-
tion, but Thucydides lends it his narratorial authority too. There are a few complications:
see the discussions of Dover, “Commentary on Books 6–7,” 419–421, and The Greeks and
their Legacy: Prose Literature, History, Society, Transmission, Influence (Oxford: Basil Black-
well, 1988) 74–82; of Hornblower, A Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 3, 622–623; and of C.
Pelling, Thucydides: The Peloponnesian War Book vii (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2022), 164–165. But approval of the mind-set seems clear.
13 Disapproval is similarly clear at Nic. 16.8: “the victory [in autumn 415] was a famous one,
but Nicias did not exploit it; after a few days he retreated to Naxos and spent the winter
there … so that the Syracusan spirits revived and they advanced on Catana, ravaged the
country, and burnt the Athenian camp. Everyone criticized Nicias for this.”
That is not from Thucydides. But it is again a response to something that is

in Thucydides, or at least an eloquent silence in his text: for after Lamachus has
cut such an impressive figure in that initial strategic debate, he then drops out
of the text completely and is not mentioned again for fifty chapters until the
engagement where he meets his death (6.101–103).14 Nicias dominates the nar-
rative focus, and it is he, for instance, who gives the speech before the first big
land-battle (6.68). Plutarch, then, is responding to an impression that Thucy-
dides’ text leaves, and asking himself why it is that Lamachus has so little of
the limelight. He can use that one piece of extraneous information, the anec-
dote about his clothes-allowance (maybe from Old Comedy or a commentary
on it?) and draw the conclusion that he lacked prestige because of his poverty.
That again chimes with Plutarch’s own preconceptions of what politics, any
politics at any time, tend to be like. He may be right.
(c) There are also a few occasions where we can see Plutarch so engaged
that he reconstructs a scene or an argument. When Demosthenes arrives on the
scene, Thucydides gives a full version of his thinking, which is along Lamachus’
lines15—let’s move quickly, and exploit the shock of our sudden presence. What
Thucydides does not tell us is what Nicias answered back, but Plutarch does:
don’t do anything rash, time is on our side, the enemy is running out of cash,
their allies will soon start melting away …; he throws in a few hints of his mys-
terious informants in Syracuse as well (Nic. 21.4). Similarly, Plutarch later con-
structs what Nicias would have said to Gylippus when pleading for mercy (27.5):
it is not for my own sake—I’ve been lucky enough in life—but for the others;
remember that war’s fortunes can be the same for everyone, and the Atheni-
ans treated you well when fortune favored them (i.e. over Pylos). In Alcibiades
he similarly works out what Alcibiades would have said five years earlier when
he tricked the Spartan ambassadors into concealing their plenipotentiary pow-
ers (Alc. 14.8; cf. Nic. 10.5). One senses the facility encouraged in Plutarch’s day
by the declamatory schools, putting people into historical or fake-historical sit-
uations and getting them to work out what they would say, but there is a real
14 Including times when the conduct of affairs seems very un-Lamachus-like. Cf. P. Green,
Armada from Athens (Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1970) 162, on the reasons Thucy-
dides summarizes at 6.71.2 for not following up the first battle: “It would be enlightening to
have Lamachus’ doubtless blunt and probably unprintable reactions.” Green, like Plutarch
(Nic. 16.8), assumes that the cautious thinking behind the withdrawal was due to Nicias.
15 As verbal echoes encourage the reader to notice: ἀφικόμενος γὰρ τὸ πρῶτον ὁ Νικίας φοβε-
ρός and τῆι πρώτηι ἡμέραι μάλιστα δεινότατός ἐστι τοῖς ἐναντίοις (7.42.3) echo τὸ γὰρ πρῶτον
πᾶν στράτευμα δεινότατον εἶναι (6.49.2). There is an earlier echo too at 6.63.2. Cf. V.J. Hunter,
Thucydides: The Artful Reporter (Toronto: Hakkert, 1973) 97; T. Rood, Thucydides: Narrative
and Explanation (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998) 169 n. 46.
216 pelling
sense of history in this too, bringing out how Thucydides’ account offers enough
material for these speakers to make a plausible case. What Plutarch does not do,
though, is reproduce speeches when Thucydides had already done the job for
him (any more than Sallust allows his Cicero to deliver a Catilinarian in the Bel-
lum Catilinae; giving speeches to Cato and Caesar is a different matter).16 That
would be old-hat, and he prefers to exercise his skills elsewhere.
So far, we have been looking at cases where he teases more out of Thucy-
dides’ own narrative to give an explanation or a verdict or a speech where
Thucydides did not. There are also passages where it is a question of finding
material elsewhere that Thucydides left out, and Plutarch is not just doing some
coloring-in but also adding a whole new frame. That too can evidently be a
thought-provoking prompt to a modern reader, as on the whole these are things
that Thucydides must have known. Why, then, did he leave them out?
(a) The first point is one already mentioned, and that is religion. This par-
ticularly affects his treatment of the Herms and Mysteries affairs in 415 (Alc.
18.4–19.7; cf. Nic. 13.3). It is fair to say that it is Plutarch, not Thucydides, who
better conveys the momentousness of these charges and why they were taken
so seriously.17 It was not the time to offend Hermes, god of travellers, nor Deme-
ter and Kore, so closely associated with Sicily.
(b) That coolness of Thucydides about the Herms and Mysteries may be rel-
evant to the second instance, the one where Plutarch himself marked a silence
(Alc. 20.6; see above): why doesn’t Thucydides name Andocides as the one who
turns evidence against his co-mutilators? He must have known who it was. Dif-
ferent scholars have suggested different answers.18 Perhaps Thucydides was just
impatient because, for him, it was all such a nonsense anyway. But in any case,
Plutarch again identifies a Thucydidean silence that requires some explana-
tion.
16 J. Marincola, “Speeches in Classical Historiography,” in J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to

Greek and Roman Historiography, vol. 1 (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2007)
129.
17 Pelling, “Plutarch and Thucydides,” 24 [reprinted in Pelling, Plutarch and History, 128].
18 W.D. Furley, Andokides and the Herms: A Study of Crisis in Fifth-Century Athenian Religion,
BICS Supp. 65 (London: Institute of Classical Studies, 1996) 52: protecting Andocides’
reputation. C. Pelling, Literary Texts and the Greek Historian (London: Routledge, 2000)
255–256 n. 4: “Andocides did not deserve the respect—even the literary immortality—
which naming him would have conferred.” Thucydides’ namings and non-namings are
hard to reduce to any simple scheme; see Hornblower, A Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 2,
135–137; T. Rood, “Thucydides,” in K. De Temmerman & E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Charac-
terization in Ancient Greek Literature: Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative, vol. 4 (Berlin: De
Gruyter, 2018) 153–156.
(c) A further issue is not strictly part of the Sicilian expedition itself, but
still relevant: the ostracism sometime between 417 and 415 of, as it turned out,
Hyperbolus.19 Plutarch tells the story not just in Nicias and in Alcibiades but
also, more briefly, in Aristides (Nic. 11; Alc. 13; Arist. 7).20 Thucydides knows
about the ostracism, as he mentions it later (8.73.3), and it was hardly irrele-
vant to his narrative, since if either Nicias or Alcibiades had been ostracized
the Sicilian expedition would have been very different, a point that Plutarch
himself makes very eloquently (Nic. 11.9). But there is not a word about it in
Thucydides where it belongs, wherever that may be. Why not? My own guess
would be that it would overlap too much with the grand debate over Sicily itself
at the beginning of Book 6; that is where he wanted to paint a more general
picture of how political divisions were playing out in this post-Periclean world,
and how the supporters of Nicias and Alcibiades fitted into that picture. But
there are other possible views too, perhaps even including the older “he would
have put it in if he had only lived long enough to go back and finish off Book 5”
approach. The important point again is that it is a good question, one prompted
by Plutarch, and one that a Thucydidean critic has to think about.
(d) And finally—the Peace of Nicias. Thucydides has plenty on that, includ-
ing all those documents early in Book 5. But he never actually calls it that,
though we do and according to Plutarch others did too, right down to his own
day (Nic. 9.9). Thucydides does say that Nicias was particularly keen on peace,
mirroring the role of Pleistoanax at Sparta, both for their own reasons (5.16.1): in
Nicias’ case it was to preserve his record of unbroken success, “wanting to leave
behind him a reputation for never bringing the city to harm”—words surely
written in ironic awareness of what was to come later. A year later Alcibiades
is offended because the Spartans chose to make the peace “through Nicias and
Laches” rather than himself (5.43.1). But that falls a good deal short of the praise
that Plutarch lavishes on Nicias, along with that insistence on the Peace’s name,
that also comes back in the synkrisis as Nicias’ great and “most Greek” achieve-
ment, one that quite outmatches Crassus’ warmongering imperialism (Comp.
Nic. et Crass. 2.7).
Plutarch’s own formulation carries a hint of why Thucydides might have
muted any emphasis on Nicias’ role, perhaps including that name, if indeed
it goes back to his own day (Nic. 9.9): “They thought that the peace was really
Nicias’ work, just as the war was Pericles’.”
19 On this see esp. P.J. Rhodes, “The Ostracism of Hyperbolus,” in R. Osborne & S. Horn-
blower (eds.), Ritual Finance Politics: Athenian Democratic Accounts Presented to David
Lewis (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994) 85–98, but the date is very uncertain.
20 There are interesting differences among the versions, which I discussed at Pelling, Literary
Texts, 49–52.
218 pelling
In Book 1 we can track some of the subtle techniques whereby Thucydides

counteracts the view that “this was Pericles’ war.” He sees the roots of it as going
way back beyond Pericles, right to the 470s and Themistocles; Pericles’ role is
in strengthening Athenian resolve at the final stage. Similarly with the peace:
it is Athens as a whole that is ready for it, just as Sparta is, and to personalize it
as “Nicias’ peace” would be to over-stress the role of just one human being. The
difference in approach from Plutarch’s biography, wedded as that is to Great-
Man thinking, is very clear.
There are other cases too where a silence just brings out how differently the
two authors, perhaps the two genres, make similar points. One cannot imag-
ine Thucydides telling the story of Athenians so entranced by the prospect of
Sicily that they traced out maps of the island in the gymnasium dust (Nic. 12.1;
Alc. 17.4), nor of Meton burning his house down to save his son from going
(Nic. 12.7–8; Alc. 17.5–6), nor of the Athenians capturing a catalogue of Syra-
cusan citizens and the seers worrying that this might be the fulfilment of an
oracle that “the Athenians will take all the Syracusans” (Nic. 14.5–7). Herodotus
might well have welcomed any or all of those; Thucydides sticks to generaliza-
tion, though in a way that is pretty extreme for him, talking of the desire (ἔρως)
that overcame everyone at the prospect (6.24.3). Thucydides is also at his most
graphic and pathetic when describing the sufferings in the quarries (7.87) and
the panic when the news reached Athens (8.1), but one cannot imagine him
telling the story of the traveler getting his hair cut in the Peiraeus and casually
commenting on how awful the disaster had been, with the thunderstruck bar-
ber abandoning his customer and running to the city to break the news (Nic.
30). Nor would he have told of the Athenian prisoners earning their freedom in
Sicily because they could sing the songs of Euripides (Nic. 29). That is impor-
tant structurally to Plutarch as the Nicias moves towards the Crassus, for the
Bacchae is going to be important in an even more gruesome way at the end of
the paired Life (Crass. 30). Thucydides ends Book 7 with an implied compari-
son too, with an echo of what Herodotus said about the Trojan War:21 his careful
characterization of this as “bigger than any previous Hellenic disaster that we
hear of” implies a further implied comparison with 480, a non-Hellenic one
that could be seen as bigger still. But Plutarch manages his own cross-cultural
comparisons in a different and more elaborate way.
21 “with total destruction, as they say” (πανωλεθρίᾳ δὴ τὸ λεγόμενον, Th. 7.87.6), echoing
Hdt. 2.120.5. There may be a further intratextual comparison suggested with the Egyptian
expedition of the 450s, as in each case “only a few” (ὀλίγοι ἀπὸ πολλῶν) escaped (7.87.6;
cf. 1.110.1). That was the previously biggest disaster for Athens itself.
So much for Thucydidean silences. There is an illuminating contrast here

with the novelist Chariton and his tale of Hermocrates’ daughter—he calls her
Callirhoe—and “Chaereas” the son of the helmsman Ariston (Th. 7.39.2): “the
reader is given the sense that the story is somehow located in the gaps in real
history.”22 Plutarch locates such gaps too, but we can see how Plutarchan biog-
raphy differs from fiction. Plutarch was reconstructing what was likely to have
happened even if it did not happen exactly in this way. Chariton was not.
What about Plutarch’s own silences? There are fascinating ones here too,
though I will not discuss them in so much detail, and they raise more ques-
tions than answers. It is understandable that Plutarch jumps over some of the
less spectacular fighting, for instance that in the last few pages of Thucydides
6, and omits material in line with the “law of biographical relevance,”23 for
instance, on Syracusan politics or on the Camarina debate. It is more striking
that Plutarch does not include Nicias’ extraordinary misjudgment during the
great Sicilian debate (Th. 6.19–24), where he urges an upgrade of the Athenian
armament in the hope that this would put the Athenians off. In fact, they jump
at the idea, thus ensuring that the disaster would be even greater when it comes.
Perhaps that is simply abbreviation, or perhaps Plutarch thought it would sit
uneasily with Nicias’ terror of the demos (Nic. 2.5, 5.7, 10.8, etc.) to have him try
to hoodwink them, but it is still odd. We might wonder too why he does not
make more of Thucydides’ own final judgement on Nicias, the man (he says)
whose practice of arete made him the least worthy Greek of the writer’s time
to end like this (7.86.6). Plutarch may exploit that, transposed into the gloomy
sympathy felt by his men for his “undeserved” suffering during the retreat as
they “reflected that this pious man who had done so many glorious things for
the gods was now sharing the fate of the worst and humblest of his men” (Nic.
26.6),24 but he might well have done more. Perhaps Nicias’ over-reaction to the
eclipse (De sup. 169A) just made it too hard for Plutarch to say that he did not
22 J.R. Morgan, “Make-believe and Make Believe: The Fictionality of the Greek Novels,” in
C. Gill & T.P. Wiseman (eds.), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World (Exeter: Exeter Univer-
sity Press, 1993) 199.
23 The phrase of D.R. Stuart, Epochs of Greek and Roman Biography (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1928) 78. It is more a “licence” than a “law,” as Plutarch often bends or
transgresses it when it suits him to do so; cf., e.g., C. Pelling, “Plutarch and Catiline,” Her-
mes 113 (1985) 322–323 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical
Press of Wales, 2002) 53–54]. Here, for instance, it is Plutarch rather than Thucydides who
has more on the victors’ celebration after their final victory (Nic. 27.8–28.6).
24 So F.B. Titchener, “Why did Plutarch write about Nicias?” AHB 5 (1991) 153–158, “Practi-
cal Rhetoric in Plutarch’s Nicias 26.6 and Thucydides 7.86.5,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.),
Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 519–526, and “Is Plutarch’s
Nicias Devout, Superstitious, or Both?” in A.G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s
220 pelling
deserve what happened to him;25 or maybe it was more a matter of his reser-
vations about Nicias’ final surrender (Comp. Nic. et Crass. 5.4), though those
were scarcely felt within the narrative itself.26 But why not discuss Thucydides’
verdict directly? Many after all have been ready to problematize it since,27 and
it would have been in Plutarch’s manner to do the same, just as he does with
Plato’s judgement on Themistocles (Them. 4.4–6) or Thucydides’ own on Peri-
cles (Per. 9.1). The puzzle remains.
The most telling literary criticism in antiquity is often the implicit sort, when
one gifted writer treads the same ground as a great predecessor and shows
how well he understands what the first one was trying to do even as he does
something different. That applies here even to silences. “Mind the gap” is a
phrase drummed into anyone travelling on the London underground, blaring
as it always does as a train approaches. Plutarch minded them too, and had his
own way of dealing with them. He hoped his readers would not be so grumpy as
to criticize his presumption in treading on Thucydides’ ground (Nic. 1.2). Such
a reader would be grumpy indeed.
Works Cited

Press, 2008).
Carawan, E., “Decrees in Andocides’ On the Mysteries and ‘latent fragments’ from
Craterus,” CQ 67 (2017) 400–421.
Dover, K.J., “Commentary on Books 6–7,” in A.W. Gomme, A. Andrewes & K.J. Dover, A
Historical Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 4 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970).
Work: “Moralia” Themes in the “Lives”, Features of the “Lives” in the “Moralia” (Berlin: De
Gruyter, 2008) 280–281.
25 That is Titchener’s explanation (see last note). Plutarch’s disapproval of Nicias’ response
to the eclipse is less strident at Nic. 23–24.1 and particularly at Comp. Nic. et Crass. 5.3 than
in De superstitione, but Nic. 24.1 gives a strong hint of it; cf. A.G. Nikolaidis, “Is Plutarch
Fair to Nikias?” ICS 13 (1988) 328.
26 Nikolaidis, “Is Plutarch Fair to Nikias?” 330–331, 333.
27 Notably Dover, “Commentary on Books 6–7,” 426 on 7.48.4: “Nikias’ pride and consequent
cowardice in the face of personal disgrace lead him to put forward as disgraceful a propo-
sition as any general in history: rather than risk execution, he will throw away the fleet
and many thousand of other people’s lives, and put his country in mortal peril.” See also,
however, his later remarks at pp. 461–464 for a more even-handed summing up. There are
also long discussions in Hornblower, A Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 3, 741–743, and in
Pelling, Thucydides: The Peloponnesian War Book vii, 255–257, all with references to other
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Pelling, C., “Plutarch and Catiline,” Hermes 113 (1985) 311–329 [reprinted in C. Pelling,
Pelling, C., “Plutarch and Thucydides,” in P.A. Stadter (ed.), Plutarch and the Historical
Tradition (London: Routledge, 1992) 10–40 [reprinted in C. Pelling, Plutarch and His-
Pelling, C., Literary Texts and the Greek Historian (London: Routledge, 2000).
Pelling, C., “Intertextuality in Plutarch: What’s the Point?” in T.S. Schmidt, M. Vamvouri
& R. Hirsch-Luipold (eds.), The Dynamics of Intertextuality in Plutarch (Leiden: Brill,
2020) 11–27.
Pelling, C., Thucydides: The Peloponnesian War Book vii (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
Rhodes, P.J., “The Ostracism of Hyperbolus,” in R. Osborne & S. Hornblower (eds.), Rit-
ual Finance Politics: Athenian Democratic Accounts Presented to David Lewis (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1994) 85–98.
Rood, T., Thucydides: Narrative and Explanation (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998).
Rood, T., “Thucydides,” in K. De Temmerman & E. van Emde Boas (eds.), Characteriza-
tion in Ancient Greek Literature: Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative, vol. 4 (Berlin: De
Gruyter, 2018) 153–171.
Russell, D.A., [Longinus]: On the Sublime (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964).
222 pelling
Sommerstein, A.H., Aristophanes: Lysistrata (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1990).

Stadter, P.A., A Commentary on Plutarch’s Pericles (Chapel Hill: University of North Car-
olina Press, 1989).
Stuart, D.R., Epochs of Greek and Roman Biography (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1928).
Titchener, F.B., “Why did Plutarch write about Nicias?” AHB 5 (1991) 153–158.
Titchener, F.B., “Practical Rhetoric in Plutarch’s Nicias 26.6 and Thucydides 7.86.5,” in
L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch (Leuven: Peeters,
2000) 519–526.
Titchener, F.B., “Is Plutarch’s Nicias Devout, Superstitious, or Both?” in A.G. Nikolaidis
(ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work: “Moralia” Themes in the “Lives”, Features of the
“Lives” in the “Moralia” (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008) 277–283.
chapter 13
Silencing Sparta
Noreen Humble
The way in which any author’s work is received is obviously beyond the author’s
control. The works of Plutarch are no exception, and the fact that we still read
him today hinges on the happy fact that many of his works survived until the
era of printing. That he was a favorite author of Chrysoloras, one of the key
figures bridging the Byzantine world and Italy in the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries and responsible for the first real school of Greek learning in Renais-
sance Italy, helped ensure that the Lives and Apophthegmata (where the bulk of
the material about Sparta can be found) were translated early on in the Renais-
sance and had a wide dissemination.1 In a worldzz eager for the new knowledge
brought by the translation of Greek works long out of circulation in the West,
the historical content of his works was as valued as the moral aspect, and while
interest over the centuries in the moral aspect has waned (at least outside aca-
demic circles), interest in his works for their historical content has ensured his
continuing popularity. One result is that, for better or worse, it is Plutarch’s
imperial-era representation of Classical Sparta, not Classical Sparta as repre-
sented in contemporary sources, which has dominated both in popular culture
and in intellectual history.
For example, consider the eleventh saying attributed to Leonidas (Apophth.
Lac. 225D): “After Xerxes had again written ‘Hand over your weapons!’ Leonidas
wrote in return: ‘Come and take them!’” (πάλιν δὲ τοῦ Ξέρξου γράψαντος, “πέμ-
ψον τὰ ὅπλα,” ἀντέγραψε, “μολὼν λαβέ”).2 Wherever one wants to position one-
self in the debate about how and when Plutarch’s Apophthegmata Laconica
were compiled (i.e. before the Lives as a resource to draw upon during their
composition, or afterwards extracted from the Lives),3 it seems likely that
1 On Plutarch in this period, see M. Pade, The Reception of Plutarch’s Lives in Fifteenth-Century
Italy, 2 volumes (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2007) vol. 1, 89–177 (and briefly
also M. Pade, “The Reception of Plutarch from Antiquity to the Italian Renaissance,” in
M. Beck [ed.], A Companion to Plutarch [Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014] 539–
540) and N. Humble, “Parallelism and the Humanists,” in N. Humble (ed.), Plutarch’s Lives:
Parallelism and Purpose (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2010) 237–265.
2 All translations are my own unless otherwise noted.
3 S. Hodkinson, Property and Wealth in Classical Sparta (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales,
2000) 38–41, discusses the debate with regard to the Apophthegmata Laconica, arguing that
© Noreen Humble, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_015

224 humble
this saying was not made up by Plutarch but had appeared in an earlier source.4
We know that Herodotus does not recount such an exchange, but beyond that,
all is speculation.5 It is worth pointing out, however, in view of what I will argue
below, that a search in the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae shows the phrase μολὼν
λαβέ popping up only one other time in extant Greek literature, and that is in
the collection of proverbs compiled by Michael Apostolius (c. 1420–1480),6 so
it does not seem to have been enormously popular at least prior to the early
modern period.
That is far from the case now. Since the publication of the graphic novel 300
by Frank Miller in 1999—in which the phrase was rendered as “come and get
it”7—and the subsequent blockbuster movie based on Miller’s work, 300—in
which the phrase was more accurately rendered by Gerard Butler “come and
they must have been composed as working notes for the subsequent composition of the Lives,
it being too coincidental, among other things, that the anecdotes frequently share the same
order but are rougher in the Apophth. Lac., and points to Plutarch’s own allusions to such a
practice (De coh. ira 457D, De tranq. an. 464EF). Independently, and from a completely differ-
ent starting point, the same arguments are made by M. Beck, Plutarch’s Use of Anecdotes in
the Lives (Diss., University of North Carolina, 1998) 119–191, and “Plato, Plutarch, and the Use
and Manipulation of Anecdotes in the Lives of Lycurgus and Agesilaus. History of the Laconic
Apophthegm,” in A. Pérez Jiménez, J. García López & R.M. Aguilar (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y
Aristóteles. Actas del v Congreso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999)
especially 184–185.
4 Though we can never be sure of this, without evidence of an original. See Beck, “Plato,
Plutarch, and the Use and Manipulation of Anecdotes,” 185 n. 62, for an argument that
Plutarch, modifying original source material found in Xenophon already at the stage of
the collection of Apophthegmata, further modified it again in a Life (Ages. 11.6). This holds
whether Plutarch was the first excerptor or not, unless the first excerptor had already modi-
fied Xenophon’s account.
5 Hodkinson, Property and Wealth in Classical Sparta, 41–45, argues that the Apophthegmata
Laconica (with the exception of those attributed to Lycurgus) are both post-classical and
likely predate the third-century bce Spartan revolutions. Herodotus’ was not the only version
of what happened at Thermopylae in circulation; an alternate version portraying the Spartans
as a suicide squad is preserved most fully in Book 11 of Diodorus Siculus, and goes back most
likely at least to Ephorus; on which see H. van Wees, “Thermopylae: Herodotus versus the
Legend,” in L. van Gils, I.J.F. de Jong & C. Kroon (eds.), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Nar-
rative: Thermopylae, Cannae, and Beyond (Leiden: Brill, 2018) 19–53. If the saying came from
this tradition, traces of it are no longer extant.
6 Michaelis Apostolii Paroemiae: nunc demum, post Epitomen Basiliensem, integrae, cum Petri
Pantini versione, eiusque & Doctorum Notis, in lucem editae (Leiden: Elzevir 1619) 13.29: Μολὼν
λάβε Λεωνίδας Ξέρξου γράψαντος αὐτῷ πέμψον τὰ ὅπλα ἀντέγραψε τοῦτο, δηλῶν, ὅτι ἑκὼν εἶναι οὐ
δώσει. The 1619 edition contains also a Latin translation and notes which identify the proverb
as coming from Plutarch, but this was not noted in the original publication of the Greek alone
in 1538.
7 F. Miller & L. Varley, 300 (Milwaukie: Dark Horse, 1999), at the end of Chapter 3.
silencing sparta 225
get them (i.e. our weapons)”—, there has been a significant surge in interest
in appropriating this phrase by far right groups in the United States of Amer-
ica, in particular by the gun lobby. It is not that this phrase had not surfaced
or been appropriated before, or elsewhere: for example, it certainly featured
also in the pre-internet 1962 movie 300 Spartans (for which the screenwriters
were sufficiently classically educated to have Richard Egan’s Leonidas speak the
phrase in Greek and then politely translate it for the Persian envoy, who then
orally relayed it back to Xerxes via a messenger—which is in fact more likely
than the suggestion of written correspondence in Plutarch’s original saying),
and it is inscribed on the plinth of a bronze statue of Leonidas erected in 1968
at the entrance to the sports stadium in the city of Sparta itself.8 The shifting
political landscape and the rise of populism, however, have contributed to its
broader dissemination at this point in history. So, for example, we find a com-
pany which disseminates right-wing paraphernalia entitled Molon Labe Indus-
tries and an elected Republican politician, Marjorie Taylor Greene, shortly after
the inauguration of Joe Biden as the forty-sixth president of the United States
in January 2021, proudly wearing in public, before a microphone, a mask embla-
zoned with MOLON LABE.9 The gun manufacturers SIG-Sauer, moreover, are
so confident in their customers’ abilities to read and understand ancient Greek
that the saying has been inscribed in Greek letters on their 1911 Spartan ii pis-
tol (which pistol you can also get in a more compact version as well, should
that be more desirable).10 Likewise t-shirt manufacturers have little doubt that
8 G. Kakourou-Chroni, “‘Relating to the Sculpture in my Town’: An Education Programme

Conducted by the Coumantaros Art Gallery, Sparta,” Sculpture Journal 19.1 (2010) 121–127,
is an interesting article which discusses a school program in Sparta set up to educate
children about the socio-historical background of Sparta by learning about its public
sculpture. Their initial survey showed that 90% of children were aware of this statue of
Leonidas, 45% were able to recognize another statue of Lycurgus but that was the extent
of their awareness of the public sculpture in the town (p. 121). While the author of the arti-
cle suggests that the high recognition factor of the statue of Leonidas was likely due to its
location in front of the main sporting grounds, I would suggest that the influence of the
movie 300 is likely at play here too.
9 A disturbingly more mainstream and very public appropriation of this phrase, which post-
dated the conference where this paper was first aired.
10 The crafting of history in support of the gun lobby and the Second Amendment is cap-
tured perfectly in P.G. Kokalis, “Molon Labe SIG Sauer M1911 Spartan: here’s one of the
most distinctive 1911s you can buy, and one that is especially timely in the current politi-
cal situation,” Shotgun News 67.10.1 (2013) 10–14. Though the author pays remarkably close
attention to Herodotus’ version of the battle (without mentioning Herodotus), he simply
inserts the eleventh saying of Leonidas as if it too was part of Herodotus’ story. The open-
ing caption, however, is pure rhetoric: “There probably was no better time for SIG to offer
the Spartan pistol which celebrates the Greeks’ last stand against the Persians at Ther-
226 humble
ΜΟΛΟΝ ΛΑΒΕ will be understood by the Greek-less in the world: a search

for “molon labe t shirts” on Amazon.com threw up (on March 26, 2021) over
1000 results, with the vast majority of them printing the phrase in Greek let-
ters, rather than in its transliterated form. And as in the United States, so also
elsewhere far right groups are found making use of this phrase: in Greece the
neo-fascist party Golden Dawn, and in Italy the Alleanza Nazionale.11
Plutarch is not, of course, responsible for the uses to which this phrase
has been put, but it is a fact that had this saying not, first of all, been pre-
served in Plutarch’s writings (whatever its original context), it would not now
be inscribed on t-shirts and pistols owned by countless individuals around the
world—a small example, just the tip of the iceberg, of how Plutarch’s choices
about how to portray Sparta have both effectively silenced Classical Sparta and
become entrenched in current popular culture. Our Sparta is Plutarch’s Sparta.
What I want to do in this chapter, therefore, is to look more closely at two key
features of Sparta as described by Plutarch in his Lycurgus: disdain for wealth
and children being the property of the state. Like the above saying of Leonidas
these features have persisted in modern imagination despite their absence in
Classical sources on Sparta, but unlike the saying of Leonidas, we can see traces
of competing narratives in the source material available to Plutarch (at least in
that which is still extant for us to examine). As M.-R. Trouillot has eloquently
and powerfully demonstrated, using the more recent historical example of the
late-eighteenth, early-nineteenth century slave revolt in his native Haiti, “any
historical narrative is a particular bundle of silences [and] the result of a unique
process.”12 It is Plutarch’s unique process, therefore, and what he silences in the
mopylae.” Along the same lines is “World premiere of political film: ‘MOLON LABE—
How the Second Amendment Guarantees America’s Freedom’,” PR Newswire, 15 Oct. 2013
(accessed 10 Nov. 2021): https://www.prnewswire.com/news‑releases/world‑premiere‑of
‑political‑film‑‑molon‑labe‑‑‑‑how‑the‑second‑amendment‑guarantees‑americas‑freedo
m‑228776551.html.
11 Myke Cole provides a good overview, with many other American examples, in an article
published online on August 1, 2019 in the New Republic (https://newrepublic.com/article/
154563/sparta‑myth‑rise‑fascism‑trumpism), and he shows a keen awareness of the dif-
ferences between what is definitely a myth and what might have been reality in Classi-
cal Sparta. A response ten days later in the Washington Examiner by Elad Vaida accuses
Cole of ahistoricism while itself being mired in just such an approach (https://www
.washingtonexaminer.com/opinion/just‑because‑you‑like‑sparta‑doesnt‑mean‑youre‑a‑f
ascist).
12 M.-R. Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston,
Massachusetts: Beacon Press, 22015 [1995]) 27. Power imbalances are also inherent, as
Trouillot makes abundantly clear, and obvious here in the mostly white Republican appro-
priation of Spartan militarism via Plutarch, as noted in the opening paragraphs.
course of it that I will unpick using these two examples. Then I will look at some
instances of how his particular narratives about these two points have been
appropriated in western European intellectual thought. Though Plutarch and
these later sources purport to be describing Classical Sparta, they are, in fact,
doing nothing of the sort. Plutarch’s cherry-picking of details from the sources
available to him resulted in a portrait of Sparta that is very much an idealized
composite.13 Indeed, the particular way in which Plutarch draws all his material
together results in a Sparta which Classical Spartans would barely have recog-
nized and his approach to his own source material is, in fact, no different from
the later appropriations of his work: he takes what he needs for his own pur-
poses and ‘silences’ the rest.
1 Spartan Disdain for Wealth
In his Lycurgus, over the course of several sections (Lyc. 8–10), Plutarch argues
that Lycurgus made wealth an object of no desire by instituting a series of leg-
islations with this as the end goal. First, there was a redistribution of the land
(Lyc. 8.3–4):
As he drove out unprovoked violence and envy and evil deeds and luxury
(ὕβριν καὶ φθόνον καὶ κακουργίαν καὶ τρυφήν), and those yet more deep-
seated and afflictive diseases of the state, wealth and poverty (πλοῦτον καὶ
πενίαν), he persuaded the Spartans to place their land into a common pot
and divide it again from the beginning, and so to live with one another, all
of them on an equal footing and with equal property, seeking first rank by
virtue alone, on the grounds that there was no other difference or inequal-
13 It is worth noting that this is not a point upon which scholars agree. There is significant
resistance to regarding Plutarch’s evidence as a construct even among Spartan scholars.
For a brief exposition of the problem, see M.H. Hansen & S. Hodkinson, “Spartan Excep-
tionalism? Continuing the Debate,” in S. Hodkinson (ed.), Sparta: Comparative Approaches
(Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2009) 492–493. C. Pelling, “Stereotyping Sparta, Stereo-
typing Athens: Herodotus, Thucydides, and Plutarch,” in L. Athanassaki & F.B. Titchener
(eds.), Plutarch’s Cities (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2022) 105–121, does argue that the
Sparta in Plutarch’s works “bears the marks of being Plutarch’s own,” but I would argue
that the aspects of Sparta which Pelling singles out as particularly Plutarchan—emphasis
on education, militarism and the negative aspects of philotimia/philonikia—are not in
fact Plutarch’s own but very much present in, and so taken from, the late Classical sources
Plato, Xenophon and even Aristotle. See further N. Humble, Xenophon of Athens: A Socratic
on Sparta (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021) 255–275.
228 humble
ity between men, except the sort delimited by censure for shameful deeds
and praise for good ones.
Thus, the rest of Laconia was divided into 30,000 lots among the perioikoi, while
the land in the city of Sparta was divided into 9000 lots, one for each Spartiate
(8.5). While he goes on to remark that there is some dispute about the actual
number of these lots, he does not dispute the basic principle of equal distribu-
tion of the land (8.5–7). Secondly, Plutarch reports that Lycurgus attempted to
divide up movable property in a similar way “in order that he might get rid of
inequality and unevenness altogether” (9.1). Resistance to this particular mea-
sure led Lycurgus instead to withdraw gold and silver from currency and ordain
the use of iron money only (9.2). Thirdly, he banished “useless and superfluous
arts” (9.4), so that “luxury (τρυφή) wasted away of itself” (9.6), helped of course
by the fact that iron money was effectively of no value (9.3). And then the final
measure “to attack luxury and remove the desire for wealth” (ἐπιθέσθαι τῇ τρυφῇ
καὶ τὸν ζῆλον ἀφελέσθαι τοῦ πλούτου) was that all men were required to dine
together on the same simple food in common messes (10.1). Plutarch pauses to
marvel at how truly great an achievement it was “to make wealth undesired,
as Theophrastus says, and even unwealth” (τὸ τὸν πλοῦτον ἄζηλον … καὶ ἄπλου-
τον ἀπεργάσασθαι)14 by means of these common meals and simple lifestyle, and
concludes by saying “that it was in Sparta alone, of all the cities under the sun,
that this much talked about thing was to be seen: wealth (πλοῦτον) being blind
and lying as lifeless and motionless as a picture” (10.2).
Throughout this discussion Plutarch does not disguise the fact that the
wealthy initially resisted these measures (Lyc. 9.1 regarding division of movable
property, and 11.1 regarding the common meals—though interestingly he does
not report any resistance to the redistribution of land) nor has he taken care
to eliminate language which points to economic inequality and the fact that
there were, all along, rich and poor Spartan citizens. For example, he notes that
when luxury died away “those possessing many things (τοῖς πολλὰ κεκτημένοις)
had no advantage,” but their wealth lay idle stored up at home (9.6), and “when
a rich man went to the same meal as a poor man” (ἐπὶ τὸ αὐτὸ δεῖπνον τῷ πένητι
τοῦ πλουσίου βαδίζοντος) he could neither use nor enjoy nor even see or display
his abundant means (10.3). Partly, I think, the reason for this is because such
language is firmly embedded in the discussions of Sparta by Plato, Xenophon
and Aristotle. The cumulative rhetoric of these few sections, however, leads the
14 Plutarch applies this bon mot of Theophrastus elsewhere in a non-Spartan context (De
cup. div. 527B) so it is impossible to know whether Sparta was originally in the mind of
Theophrastus.
reader to draw the conclusion that Lycurgus indeed managed through these
measures to establish that wealth was of no concern in Sparta. This is brought
home much later on when Plutarch comes to discuss the collapse of Sparta
(Lyc. 30.1):
When Agis was king, coinage first flowed into Sparta, and with the
coinage, greed and desire for wealth (πλεονεξία καὶ πλούτου ζῆλος) gained
a footing because of Lysander, who, though himself unable to be bribed
by money, filled his country with love of wealth and luxury (φιλοπλουτίας
καὶ τρυφῆς), and by bringing home gold and silver from the war also sub-
verted the laws of Lycurgus.
Lycurgan strictures, which removed or altered practices which would encour-

age desire for wealth, are undermined by Lysander who brings wealth back into
the city and in so doing reinvigorates love of wealth and luxury. The reversal of
Lycurgus’ greatest achievements bring about Sparta’s collapse.15
None of these separate aspects of Spartan life, such as equality of land own-
ership, a disdain for wealth, and an influx of wealth being the cause of Spartan
collapse are inventions of Plutarch, but equally they do not represent the situa-
tion in Sparta at the height of her power. For example, Stephen Hodkinson has
shown that the idea of equality of land ownership is linked to the third-century
bce social and economic revolutions of the Spartan kings Agis iv (244–241) and
Cleomenes iii (236–222). These two kings included an equal redistribution of
land among their program of reforms (Agis 8.1, Cleom. 11.1), justifying it and
their other reforms by arguing that they were restoring original Lycurgan prac-
tices, which had long fallen out of use.16 Though Plutarch himself is our prime
evidence for these revolutionary periods in Sparta’s history, the earliest echo
of this supposed practice of equally distributing land to citizens can be found
only as far back as Polybius (6.45).17 It has all the appearances, therefore, of
being an invented tradition.18 Similarly, the theory that the Spartans had hap-
15 This explanation is also elaborated upon in the other Spartan Lives, especially—and
appropriately—at Lysander 16–17.
16 Hodkinson, Property and Wealth in Classical Sparta, esp. 43–45. Note here that the influ-
ence of Plato’s Republic has also been detected behind how some of the reforms are justi-
fied as it is also in the next point below.
17 See Hodkinson, Property and Wealth in Classical Sparta, 29–30, and M.A. Lucchesi, Plut-
arch on Sparta: Cultural Identities and Political Models in the Plutarchan Macrotext (Diss.,
University of Oxford, 2014) 81.
18 As M. Flower, “The Invention of Tradition in Classical and Hellenistic Sparta,” in A. Powell
& S. Hodkinson (eds.), Sparta: Beyond the Mirage (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002)
230 humble
pily lived without any desire for wealth until an influx of wealth during the
ascendancy of Lysander, though it manifests itself earlier in the literature, is an
explanation which likewise post-dates Sparta’s collapse. As far as we can tell,
it is first expressed in Theopompus (380–315) and Ephorus (400–330), though
we are again reliant on Plutarch for this knowledge, since the evidence comes
from his Lysander (17).19
By contrast, in the work of those who lived a generation earlier and who had
lived through the Peloponnesian War, we see a very different picture. Plato and
Xenophon, for example, are completely in agreement that there was only ever
superficial social equality in Sparta and not economic equality; rather, wealth
was of great importance and keenly coveted, even if there were superficial
limits on display of the same. At the heart of their explanations for Sparta’s col-
lapse is the fact that secret coveting of wealth dissolves into open acquisition,
partly because of the limited education system which never inoculated the
Spartans against covetousness.20 Aristotle’s thoughts on this matter, although
he is contemporary with Ephorus and Theopompus, are closer to those of Plato
and Xenophon. He is very critical of inequality in property arrangements and
regards it, as well as covetousness and love of wealth, among the weaknesses
in the system before it collapsed.21 All three, therefore, trace the weaknesses in
Sparta back to what they regard as (or at least present as) original Lycurgan
legislation.22
Plutarch, however, has deliberately chosen not to follow Plato and Xenophon
(or Aristotle) on this particular aspect of Spartan life, though it is certain that
he knows their views, as the next example in particular will show. Rather, he
has privileged and recombined for his own purposes material from different
196, also demonstrates (as the concept is understood by E. Hobsbawm & T. Ranger [eds.],
The Invention of Tradition [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983]).
19 Hodkinson, Property and Wealth in Classical Sparta, 28–29, discusses the evidence, noting
that there is some corroboration to be found in Diodorus Siculus (e.g., 7.12.8 and 14.10.2),
whose main source for this period was Ephorus.
20 N. Humble, “Sparta in Xenophon and Plato,” in G. Danzig, D. Johnson & D. Morrison (eds.),
Plato and Xenophon: Comparative Studies (Leiden: Brill, 2018) 547–575.
21 Aristotle’s extended criticisms of the Spartan politeia are in his Politics (1269a29–1271b19),
on which see E. Schütrumpf, “Aristotle on Sparta,” in A. Powell & S. Hodkinson (eds.), The
Shadow of Sparta (London: Routledge, 1994) 338–341 (though he argues that Xenophon
belongs in the same camp as Ephorus), and Hodkinson, Property and Wealth in Classical
Sparta, 33–35.
22 Isocrates is a bit different. Though it is difficult to extract a coherent view from his
speeches, in which Sparta can appear as a positive or negative foil for Athens depending
upon the point being made, he seems to attribute Spartan collapse to greed and imperial-
ism. See Humble, Xenophon of Athens, 276–283.
traditions and different eras. By framing a whole series of Lycurgan legislation,

including equal division of land holdings (an invention of the third-century
bce revolutionaries), as though they were all put in place to banish a desire
for wealth, he can build up an idealized Sparta, the central feature of which—
disdain for wealth—is tragically overturned by their success in the Pelopon-
nesian War. This theme acts as a thread binding the Spartan lives together and
making us suspect, as Michele Lucchesi has argued, that Plutarch’s account of
Lycurgus’ social, political and economic reorganization of Sparta was drawn
with a view to his preferred version of the Spartan collapse,23 i.e. Plutarch has
cherry-picked his sources for legislation which not only puts the subject of
the biography in a noble light but which allows him to present the version he
prefers of Spartan collapse in a more dramatic light. None of these sources rep-
resent views held during the period of Sparta’s rise to power and hegemony. On
this point, therefore, Plutarch has very effectively silenced Classical Sparta.
2 Children as Property of the State
A second example of Plutarch describing Spartan life in a utopian fashion,

which likewise cannot be traced back to Classical Sparta, is seen in the follow-
ing passage (Lyc. 15.14–16):
For, first of all, Lycurgus believed that children were not personally
attached to their fathers, but were common to the state, and for this rea-
son he desired that citizens be born not from chance parents but from the
best. Next, he observed much folly and delusion about these things in the
laws of other people, who mate their dogs and horses with the best of the
breeding males, persuading their owners either by favors or money, but
lock up and guard their wives, thinking it right to engender children from
them alone, even if they (the husbands) are foolish, or past their prime,
or sickly, as though children born to those who first possessed and reared
them, would not be bad, if they had been born from bad parents, and the
reverse, good, if they happened upon such a origin.
No prior source on Sparta that remains to us expresses the idea that Spartan
children were the common property of the state, or, indeed, compares the
23 Lucchesi, Plutarch on Sparta, 64. Indeed, Lucchesi’s reading of all Plutarch’s Spartan Lives
as a macrotext helps us to see how this is key to understanding Plutarch’s view of Sparta’s
demise.
232 humble
Spartan polis’ eugenic concerns with animal husbandry. In particular, these

points are not evident in Xenophon’s Spartan Constitution, which is very clearly
Plutarch’s main narrative source in this section, especially for what just pre-
cedes the passage quoted above. Like Xenophon, Plutarch says that Lycurgus
required Spartan women to exercise in order to be better prepared for moth-
erhood (Lyc. 14.3; cf. Lac. 1.4), like Xenophon he notes that in Sparta unlimited
intercourse was forbidden (Lyc. 15.8–10; cf. Lac. 1.5), and most particularly, like
Xenophon, Plutarch notes that married women could be given to or chosen
by other men in their prime in order to beget strong children (Lyc. 15.12–13;
cf. Lac. 1.7–8). However, nowhere does Xenophon mention the dissolution of
the family: quite the contrary, as there are constant reminders of the central-
ity of the family unit throughout his treatise. For example, children from the
wife-swapping scheme can have no claim on the wealth of their father’s fami-
lies (Lac. 1.9) and any father can punish any child but extra punishment awaits
the child who then complains about this treatment to his own father (Lac. 6.1–
2). Further, eugenic practices are limited to noting the importance of women
exercising (Lac. 1.4) and of men and women mating in their prime (Lac. 1.5–6).
The one place where the two points expressed by Plutarch exist and do so in
close proximity, though in reverse order, is in the description of Plato’s ideal
politeia in Book 5 of the Republic. There the justification for restrictions on
mating practices, i.e. that the best parents will produce the best offspring, is
expressed in terms of common practice in the breeding of animals—in Plato
the examples are dogs and cocks, with horses mentioned briefly (R. 5.459a–
460a)24—and the regarding of children as the common property of the state
is a further measure then put in place, with great pains taken to make sure no
maternal-child bond will be created during the nursing process (R. 5.460b–d).
In this second example, then, though the broader context is clearly based
on material adapted from Xenophon’s Spartan Constitution,25 Plutarch appears
to have imported, wholesale, material from the ideal politeia in Plato’s Repub-
lic.26 There is debate, however, about the extent to which Plato’s ideal politeia
is based on Spartan practices. In book 8 the second-best regime, timocracy, i.e.
the one which is the first to degenerate from the ideal, aristocratic politeia, is
24 M. Manfredini & L. Piccirilli (eds.), Plutarco. Le Vite di Licurgo e di Numa (Milan: Arnoldo
Mondadori, 41998 [1980]) 59, note the similarity in their apparatus fontium but do not
discuss the implications.
25 Or even if Plutarch drew this idea from a later politeia document, Xenophon’s is the earli-
est expression of it that we can see.
26 Again, someone else might have imported this into a discussion on the Spartan politeia
before Plutarch, but on the basis of what remains to us we cannot see that, and there is
plenty of other evidence for Platonic influence in this particular biography of Lycurgus.
explicitly equated with Sparta and Crete (R. 8.544c, 8.545a), but it does not fol-
low from this that it is a straightforward matter to reconstruct Spartan practices
with any accuracy from the ideal politeia, any more than we can be certain of
reconstructing Spartan practices from Plutarch’s Lycurgus. But even for those
who want to see Sparta behind these proposed measures, there is not only
no direct evidence that Spartans considered their children the property of the
state but indeed the considerable evidence in Xenophon’s Spartan Constitution
indicates that they clearly did not.
A remark near the end of the Lycurgus seems to suggest that Plutarch did
in fact believe that Plato’s ideal politeia in the Republic was based on Sparta,
or at least it is usually interpreted this way (Lyc. 31.2): “this [i.e. Lycurgus’] pro-
posal for a politeia was taken up by Plato, as well as Diogenes [of Sinope] and
Zeno [of Citium].” Both Diogenes and Zeno wrote politeia literature, though
their works have long been lost. Snippets and summaries preserved by later
writers certainly show some thematic connections between the latter two and
Plato’s work. In terms of the point under discussion here, what Diogenes Laer-
tius writes about the views of Diogenes of Sinope is of interest (D.L. 6.72): “He
also maintained that women should be held in common, regarding no union as
a marriage but that of a man and a woman who have persuaded each other. And
for this reason he maintained that sons, too, should be held in common.”27 This
idea of children being held in common clearly resembles the state of affairs in
Plato’s ideal politeia, but there is still no certain indication that Sparta is the
inspiration for this practice for either of these authors. And again this is not
a feature of Spartan life in our earliest extended account of Spartan practices,
that found in Xenophon’s Spartan Constitution.28
27 Translation from J. Miller & P. Mensch, Lives of the Eminent Philosophers. Diogenes Laertius
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018) 292. It is interesting to note, I think, that if Sparta
was Diogenes’ inspiration, this point did not make its way into the tradition as presented
in Diogenes Laertius’ biography. Too often the anecdote at D.L. 6.59, despite the ambiguity
of its tone and that it is also elsewhere attributed to Antisthenes, is used as proof of Dio-
genes’ laconophilia; see, e.g., J. Moles, “The Cynics,” in C. Rowe & M. Schofield (eds.), The
Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Political Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 2000) 421, and M. Sirois, The Early Cynic Tradition: Shaping Diogenes’ Character
(Diss., Princeton University, 2014) 239. On the difficulty of interpreting this anecdote,
see N. Humble, “Sparta and the Socratics,” in C. Marsico (ed.), Socrates and the Socratic
Philosophies. Selected papers from SOCRATICA IV (Sankt Augustin: Academia, 2022) 55–
56. Diogenes Laertius also provides a brief summary of key aspects of Zeno’s Politeia but
holding children in common is not mentioned (D.L. 7.32–33).
28 D. Futter, “Plutarch, Plato and Sparta,” Akroterion 57 (2012) 50, concludes that Plutarch’s
Sparta corresponds with elements of Plato’s ideal politeia in the Republic on social and
economic organization, but the analysis is fundamentally flawed in its rejection of a con-
234 humble
There is, however, another way of understanding what Plutarch is trying to

accomplish in this passage. By suggesting that Plato, and after him Diogenes
and Zeno,29 were following Lycurgus, Plutarch increases Lycurgus’ importance
and prestige as a lawgiver, i.e. he was so important that the finest philosophers
imported his ideas into their thinking. This in turn further gives the stamp of
authority to his own version of the Lycurgan setup, in the same sort of way, for
example, that Galen argues that Plato follows Hippocrates in order both to con-
solidate his argument that the treatise On the Nature of Man is a genuine work
of Hippocrates and to increase Hippocrates’ stature by making Plato dependent
upon him.30
As with his depiction of the banishing of the desire for wealth, therefore,
Plutarch has again combined different sources to create his own particular take
on the matter of breeding and child-rearing practices in Sparta. Here, as far as
is possible to tell, Xenophon’s Spartan Constitution seems to be the core source,
but supplemented to good effect with material from Plato’s Republic which
does not actually seem to have been part of Spartan practice at all, but which
belongs purely in the realm of philosophical invention.31
sideration of whether or not Plutarch retrojects Platonic ideals onto the historical past
(p. 39).
29 The argumentation concerning influence usually ends up being rather circular. There
are clearly links between the work of these two philosophers and Plato’s Republic (see
briefly M. Schofield, “Epicurean and Stoic Political Thought,” in C. Rowe & M. Schofield
[eds.], The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Political Thought [Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 2000] 443–446), though the exact nature and tone is difficult to
assess without the actual works as a point of comparison. Likewise, from the time of the
Socratics on, Sparta clearly remains a touchstone in philosophical discussions about ideal
politeiai but not, in the case of Xenophon and Plato anyway, with undisguised admira-
tion. M. Schofield, Saving the City: Philosopher-Kings and Other Classical Paradigms (Lon-
don: Routledge, 1999) 52–60, argues for a close correlation between Zeno’s work and
Xenophon’s, but also hypothesizes (p. 180, n. 43) that Critias’ Spartan Constitution may
have been an even greater influence on Zeno. This is an interesting suggestion and one
which would make more sense, since it seems clear that Critias’ work was far more pos-
itive in tone than Xenophon’s, on which see Humble, Xenophon of Athens, 86–89, 93–94,
130–133, and Humble, “Sparta and the Socratics,” 61.
30 For this argument see J. Jouanna, “Galen’s Reading of the Hippocratic Treatise The Nature
of Man: The Foundations of Hippocratism in Galen,” in P. Van der Eijk (ed.), Greek Medicine
from Hippocrates to Galen. Selected Papers by Jacques Jouanna (Leiden: Brill, 2012) 313–
334 [Originally published as “La lecture du traité hippocratique de la Nature de l’ homme
par Galien: les fondements de l’hippocratisme de Galien,” in M.O. Goulet-Cazé (ed.), Le
commentaire entre tradition et innovation—Actes du colloque international de l’ Institut des
traditions textuelles (Paris: Vrin, 2000) 273–292].
31 These are not the only two sources being adapted in this portion of the work but they are
the two major ones.
The observations above only scratch the surface of how Plutarch adapts a
wide variety of source material from a wide variety of times and places, little
of which, on these two issues at least, can be shown to refer to the Sparta he
is purporting to recreate. Some of this may be a function of the distance from
which he approaches the subject and the fact that centuries of discussion about
Sparta’s rise and fall had passed since the latter happened. Plutarch is familiar
with this discussion and has to negotiate his way through it to come to his own
understanding of ‘historical’ Sparta in a way which also fits the parameters of
his biographical project. We might consider, by way of comparison, the argu-
ment of Ralph Hexter that Vergil and his educated audience could not help
but read Homer through past and present literary criticism.32 If we apply this
to Plutarch we might reframe it thus: that Plutarch and his educated readers
could not help but read Sparta through the lens of past and present philos-
ophizing and theorizing.33 Key, in Hexter’s view on Homeric scholarship, is
that “divergent opinions and interpretations circulated and were recognized
as clashing.”34 This undoubtedly was the case also with interpretations and
discussions of Sparta: Sparta was, and continues to be, an ambiguous model.
Plutarch sifted through the morass of material at his disposal and created his
own (mostly) coherent vision. Indeed the opening of the Lycurgus gives us
some proof that this was the case (Lyc. 1.1): “about Lycurgus the lawgiver, on
the whole nothing indisputable can be said, since, indeed, there are differing
accounts about his birth, his travels, his death and, above all, his work concern-
ing his laws and politeia.” From the very start Plutarch provides an excuse and
an apology and even a warning for the approach he is going to employ in this
Life.
32 R. Hexter, “On First Looking into Vergil’s Homer,” in J. Farrell & C.J. Putnam (eds.), A Com-
panion to Vergil’s Aeneid and its Tradition (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2010)
26–36, building on the work of Schlunk and Schmit-Neuerburg, creates a picture of Vergil
as actively engaging with past and contemporary ways of reading Homer, which at the
very least presents a salutary reminder for us of how much knowledge we lack about the
working and reading habits of the authors we continue to study. Plutarch’s collections
of Apophthegmata tell us something about his working habits but we are forced then to
speculate on his reasons for choosing and collecting what he did. Fodder for the Lives as
an explanation, in the end, only skims the surface.
33 For the influence of contemporary ideas about education on the treatment of the same
in the Lycurgus, see, e.g., P. Desideri, “Lycurgus: The Spartan Ideal in the Age of Trajan,”
in P.A. Stadter & L. Van der Stockt (eds.), Sage and Emperor: Plutarch, Greek Intellectuals
and Roman Power in the Time of Trajan (98–117ad) (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2002)
315–337.
34 Hexter, “On First Looking into Vergil’s Homer,” 31.
236 humble
3 Back to Reception
Plutarch’s rhetorical re-presentation of Sparta in the Lycurgus in particular, but

also across all the Spartan Lives, has effectively, ever since, dominated under-
standing of Sparta. Three examples of this follow. All connect with the aspects
of Plutarch’s presentation of Sparta which I have just discussed. In each case,
of course, like Plutarch, the following authors are appropriating and shaping
information on Sparta to benefit their own agendas, but in each case Plutarch,
and no other source, is very clearly their inspiration.
(1) Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778) was certainly familiar with Plutarch’s
Lives.35 He reports in his autobiographical work, Les Confessions, that he read
the Lives repeatedly as a boy in Jacques Amyot’s French translation,36 reporting
that “Plutarque surtout devint ma lecture favorite” (“Plutarch above all became
my favorite reading”).37 Rousseau also rather famously wrote in his Discours sur
les sciences et les arts:38
O Sparte! Opprobre éternel d’une vaine doctrine! Tandis que les vices con-
duits par les beaux-arts s’introduisaient ensemble dans Athènes […] tu
chassais de tes murs les arts et les artistes …
O Sparta! Forever pouring shame on frivolous doctrine. While all the vices
under the direction of the fine arts were together penetrating Athens […]
you were banishing from your walls both arts and artists …
The point about the banishment of arts and artists is a succinct paraphrase of
Plutarch’s Lycurgus 9.4. Plutarch’s Sparta in this instance provided Rousseau
35 A brief overview of the importance of Plutarch for Rousseau can be found in F. Frazier,
“The Reception of Plutarch in France after the Renaissance,” in M. Beck (ed.), A Compan-
ion to Plutarch (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) 551–553. More specifically
on Rousseau’s interest in Sparta, see E. Rawson, The Spartan Tradition in European Thought
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969) 231–241, and H. Mason, “Sparta and the French Enlighten-
ment,” in S. Hodkinson & I. Macgregor Morris (eds.), Sparta in Modern Thought: Politics,
History and Culture (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2012) 89–96 (though neither always
point out how frequently Rousseau’s Sparta is Plutarch’s Sparta).
36 Jacques Amyot’s translation of Plutarch’s Lives (Les Vies des hommes illustres grecs et
romains) was first published in 1559. On the impact of Amyot’s translation, see briefly
F. Schurink (ed.), Plutarch in English, 1528–1603, 2 volumes (Cambridge: MHRA, 2020)
vol. 1, 10–11.
37 Jean Jacques Rousseau, Les Confessions (Paris: Launette, 1782–1789) book 1, 5.
38 Text and translation from Mason, “Sparta and the French Enlightenment,” 90–91. The orig-
with an ‘historical’ example of a state which, unlike Rousseau’s own, was not
wallowing in decadence and luxury.39
(2) Nazi appropriation of Sparta centered on using it as a historical prece-
dent to support their eugenic and racial policies, to glorify war and to justify
their approach to education.40 In almost every case their justifications are
based on the description of Sparta found in Plutarch. The following exam-
ple, from “the first-ever textbook published by the Adolf Hitler School presses
at Kempten in 1940” entitled Sparta: Der Lebenskampf einer nordischen Her-
renschicht (Sparta: The Life Struggle of a Nordic Master-Caste),41 is clearly the
natural outcome of the practice of the state holding all children in common:42
[Lycurgus] accustomed [Spartan] citizens to have no desire for a private

life, nor knowledge of one, but rather to be like bees, always attached
to the community, swarming together around their leader, and almost
ecstatic with fervent ambition to devote themselves entirely to their coun-
try.
inal publication was Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discours sur les sciences et les arts (Geneva:
Barillot & fils, 1750).
39 See G. May, “Rousseau, Cultural Critic,” in S. Dunn (ed.), The Social Contract and The First
and Second Discourses of Jean-Jacques Rousseau (New Haven, Connecticut: Yale Univer-
sity Press, 2002) 257–265, for a discussion of this aspect of Rousseau’s work. See also
P. Cartledge, “The Socratics’ Sparta and Rousseau’s,” in S. Hodkinson & A. Powell (eds.),
Sparta: New Perspectives (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 1999) 324–325, specifically on
Rousseau’s use of Sparta as a foil for the decadence and luxury of his own day.
40 There are numerous works of scholarship investigating aspects of this, with H. Roche,
Sparta’s German Children (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2013) being the most impor-
tant and the most thorough. See also V. Losemann, “Sparta in the Third Reich,” in N. Bir-
galias, K. Buraselis & P. Cartledge (eds.), The Contribution of Ancient Sparta to Political
Thought and Practice (Athens: Alexandra Publications, 2007) 449–462; H. Roche, “Spar-
tanische Pimpfe: The Importance of Sparta in the Educational Ideology of the Adolf Hitler
Schools,” in S. Hodkinson & I. Macgregor Morris (eds.), Sparta in Modern Thought: Poli-
tics, History and Culture (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2012) 315–342; and S. Rebenich,
“Reception of Sparta in Germany and German-speaking Europe,” in A. Powell (ed.), A Com-
panion to Sparta (Malden, Massachusetts: Wiley–Blackwell, 2014) vol. 2, 685–703. S. Hod-
kinson, “Sparta and Nazi Germany in Mid-twentieth-century British Liberal and Left-wing
Thought,” in A. Powell & S. Hodkinson (eds.), Sparta: The Body Politic (Swansea: Classical
Press of Wales, 2010) 297–342, presents the Sparta–Nazi analogy from the point of view of
the British.
41 Roche, “Spartanische Pimpfe,” 315, who notes that this textbook was partly authored and
edited by Otto-Wilhelm von Vacano (1910–1997), who was better known as an Etruscan
archaeologist.
42 The translation is that of Roche, “Spartanische Pimpfe,” 332 (the original passage appearing
on p. 17 of the German textbook).
238 humble
It is equally clearly a close paraphrase of the following passage in Plutarch’s

Lycurgus (25.5):
And overall, he accustomed his citizens neither to wish nor to give their
attention to living private lives, but like bees, who are always united for
the common good and huddling with one another around their leader,
almost stepping beyond themselves out of enthusiasm and love of honor,
to belong entirely to the city.
Though most scholars dealing with the Nazi appropriation of Sparta mention
somewhere in their work how popular Plutarch’s work on Sparta was, they do
not actually always point out that this particular appropriation comes directly
from Plutarch’s Lycurgus, but rather just refer to it as being Spartan practice in
general, as though Spartan practice were some immutable thing and reported
consistently in all the sources43—further evidence of the ubiquity of Plutarch’s
vision of Sparta, which, as shown above, is very much his own particular con-
struct.
(3) Simone de Beauvoir (1908–1986) in her 1949 manifesto Le deuxième sexe,
likewise shows knowledge of Plutarch’s Lycurgus.44 The following most clearly
draws upon Plutarch’s discussion of women and children at Lyc. 14–15, though
it also incorporates material about Lycurgus’ supposed legislation to eliminate
the desire for wealth (the highlighted portions showing the reception of the
two points I have dealt with above):45
Puisque l’oppression de la femme a sa cause dans la volonté de perpétuer

la famille et de maintenir intact le patrimoine, dans la mesure où elle
échappe à la famille, elle échappe donc aussi à cette absolue dépendance;
si la société niant la propriété privée refuse la famille, le sort de la femme
s’en trouve considérablement amélioré. Sparte où prévalait un régime
43 Roche falls into this trap as well, though less often than others. For example, Plutarch is
only mentioned once in passing in both Losemann (“Sparta in the Third Reich,” 457) and
Rebenich (“Reception of Sparta in Germany and German-speaking Europe,” 687); in both
articles Sparta and Spartan institutions are presented as if they were unchanging and our
understanding of them uncontroversial.
44 See S. Scholz, “That All Children Should Be Free: Beauvoir, Rousseau and Childhood,”
Hypatia 25.2 (2010) 394–411, esp. p. 399, on Rousseau as one of Beauvoir’s favorite authors.
Frazier, “The Reception of Plutarch in France after the Renaissance,” strangely does not
include Beauvoir in her survey.
45 Simone de Beauvoir, Le deuxième sexe, 2 volumes (Paris: Gallimard, 1949) vol. 1, 147–148
(Part 2.3).
communautaire était la seule cité où la femme fût traitée presque à égalité

avec l’homme. Les filles étaient élevées comme les garçons; l’ épouse
n’était pas confinée dans le foyer de son mari: celui-ci n’était autorisé qu’ à
lui faire de furtives visites nocturnes; et son épouse lui appartenait si peu
qu’au nom de l’eugénisme un autre homme pouvait réclamer de s’ unir
à elle: la notion même d’adultère disparaît lorsque disparaît l’ héritage;
tous les enfants appartenant en commun à toute la cité, les femmes ne
sont pas non plus jalousement asservies à un maître: ou inversement on
peut dire que ne possédant ni bien propre, ni descendance singulière,
le citoyen ne possède pas non plus de femme. Les femmes subissent
les servitudes de la maternité comme les hommes celles de la guerre:
mais sauf l’accomplissement de ce devoir civique, aucune contrainte ne
restreint leur liberté.
Since the oppression of women has its cause in the will to perpetuate
the family and to maintain the patrimony intact, as far as she escapes
the family, she escapes also this absolute dependence. If society, in deny-
ing private property, refuses the family, the lot of women is considerably
ameliorated. Sparta, where a communal regime prevailed, was the only
city where women were treated almost as the equals of men. Girls were
raised like the boys, a wife was not confined to the home of her husband,
who was only allowed to make furtive nocturnal visits to her. His wife
belonged to him so little that in the name of eugenics another man could
claim the right to unite with her. Even the notion of adultery disappears
when patrimony disappears. Because all the children belong in common
to the whole city, women are no longer jealously enslaved to one master,
or, conversely we might say that possessing neither anything of his own,
nor individual descendants, the citizen no longer possesses a wife either.
Women undergo the constraints of maternity just as the men undergo
those of war, but except for the fulfillment of this civic duty, no impedi-
ment restricts their freedom.
It has been argued that Pierre Roussel’s scholarly work on Sparta, published in
1939,46 was her source,47 but there is no evidence of his critical investigation
here. It is far more likely that Beauvoir has used Plutarch’s Lycurgus directly,
46 P. Roussel, Sparte (Paris: E. de Boccard, 1939).

47 P. Schmitt Pantel & B. Wagner-Hasel, “L’Antiquité,” in I. Galster (ed.), Simone de Beau-
voir Le Deuxième Sexe: Le livre fondateur du féminisme moderne en situation (Paris: Hon-
oré Champion, 2004) 127, though they also do not consider other available possibilities
240 humble
as almost every point in this paragraph can easily be seen to derive from some
part of the Life (including the two sections I have just examined above) and
then molded to fit her agenda in this part of her work, which is to prove that
there are two prime causes in the oppression of women: the perpetuation of
the family and keeping patrimony intact.
Beauvoir is doing nothing other than what Plutarch did when he adapted
prior sources on Sparta for his own purposes in his Lives: the material is always
made to fit the agenda of the appropriator. And just as Plutarch’s Sparta has
dominated above all others, so has Beauvoir’s adaptation come to be accepted
uncritically. For example, it is the first piece of information on Spartan women
which readers of the popular sourcebook Women in the Classical World come
across—the only secondary source quoted in a textbook whose aim is to
present primary source material.48
4 Conclusion
There are many other examples of this phenomenon in popular culture, in key
works in intellectual history and in academic papers. Plutarch’s Sparta does
not always triumph, but it does so much more often than it ought to.49 Cer-
tainly some of his information can be shown to go back to and/or to apply to
fifth-century bce Sparta, but much of it shows signs of the way in which Sparta
captured the imagination in the centuries from its sudden collapse in the 360s
to Plutarch’s own day. What makes his narrative about Sparta more powerful
and more readily accepted as ‘history’ than, for example, Xenophon’s in his
Spartan Constitution?50 Partly it was because there is no real way of checking
his ‘facts,’ partly it is the compelling way he used the framing structure of a life-
such as F. Ollier, Le Mirage spartiate, 2 volumes (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1933–1943) or
E. Cavaignac, Sparte (Paris: Fayard, 1948).
48 E. Fantham et al. (eds.), Women in the Classical World: Image and Text (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1994) 56.
49 The startlingly memorable and somewhat brutal Spartan mother exhorting her son to
come home either carrying his shield or on his shield, which is found in different forms in
the Lacaenarum apophthegmata has also gained much traction and popularity over the
centuries. As with the other sayings (see n. 3 above), it is certainly a post-classical but
pre-Plutarchan construct. Regardless, it is its preservation in Plutarch’s writings which is
responsible for its vibrant afterlife. On this image see, e.g., M. Myszkowska-Kaszuba, “ ‘The
Only Women that are Mothers of Men’: Plutarch’s Creation of the Spartan Mother,” Graeco-
Latina Brunensia 19.1 (2014) 77–92.
50 Here I slightly adapt a question posed by Trouillot, Silencing the Past, 6: “what makes some
narratives rather than others powerful enough to pass as accepted history …?”
narrative (i.e. the narrative story of Lycurgus’s life is more memorable than the
dense philosophical questioning of Xenophon, so the medium helped to pro-
mote the message), partly it is because Xenophon is not taken seriously and
is viewed as a laconophile so, therefore, inherently untrustworthy on matters
Spartan,51 but most significantly, to come back to the point with which I opened
the chapter, it is because Plutarch’s work circulated much more widely in the
early modern period than did Xenophon’s Spartan Constitution. It was sheer
accessibility that granted it wide readership and an authoritative status.
Plutarch, of course, had his own reasons for delving into the Spartan past
and presenting it in the way that he did. He took what he needed for his own
purposes from earlier sources, adapting, combining and altering the material
as he required. In doing so he both came up with an idiosyncratic but memo-
rable portrait of this Greek polis, and, conversely, effectively silenced Classical
Sparta. Posterity has ensured that his Sparta is our Sparta, and the one now
invoked by populist politicians and gun advocacy groups as a powerful ‘his-
torical’ precedent for their extremist positions. Again, the words of Trouillot,
though used in the context of the believed cannibalism of Native Americans of
the Antilles, succinctly sum up this contemporary appropriation of Sparta: “the
fantasy has reached such significance for the West that it matters little whether
it is based on facts.”52
Works Cited
Beauvoir, Simone de, Le deuxième sexe, 2 volumes (Paris: Gallimard, 1949).

Beck, M., Plutarch’s Use of Anecdotes in the Lives (Diss., University of North Carolina,
1998).
Beck, M., “Plato, Plutarch, and the Use and Manipulation of Anecdotes in the Lives of
Lycurgus and Agesilaus. History of the Laconic Apophthegm,” in A. Pérez Jiménez,
J. García López & R.M. Aguilar (eds.), Plutarco, Platón y Aristóteles. Actas del v Con-
greso Internacional de la I.P.S. (Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1999) 173–187.
Cartledge, P., “The Socratics’ Sparta and Rousseau’s,” in S. Hodkinson & A. Powell (eds.),
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51 Though, indeed, he perhaps rather ought to be viewed with suspicion because of the sim-
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Athens, 251–275.
52 Trouillot, Silencing the Past, 8–9.
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chapter 14
The Peek-a-Boo Presence of Aeschines in Plutarch’s

Demosthenes
Craig Cooper
In this chapter I have two aims. My first aim is to establish what speeches
of Demosthenes and Aeschines Plutarch used directly for biographical infor-
mation. I suggest that Plutarch used only Demosthenes 18 and Aeschines 3 as
his primary, forensic sources in preparation for writing Demosthenes. His com-
ments about Demosthenes’ other speeches, which we find in the Life, seem to
reflect either his general knowledge of the orator, based on his wide reading of
Demosthenes, or a secondary source that provided Plutarch with bibliograph-
ical material on Demosthenes’ speeches. As Christopher Pelling comments,
when Plutarch came to compose Pericles, he “could exploit his recollections of
the comic poets, of philosophers (especially Plato), of Theophrastus, of Ion of
Chios. In no sense had he read these authors ‘for’ Pericles.”1 But as Philip Stadter
points out, although Plutarch was certainly familiar with fifth-century Greek
history, he may have reread certain authors in preparation for writing that Life.
Moreover, there was “no authoritative narrative source for much of Pericles’
life.”2 The same is also true for Demosthenes’ life, at least from a political per-
spective.3 And here Plutarch may have reread Theopompus, Duris, Marsyas,
and Aristobulus for historical details surrounding Demosthenes’ life,4 along
with other sources like Idomeneus and Hermippus. In the case of Hermippus,
it seems certain that he included bibliographical information in his literary
biography of Demosthenes, on which Plutarch could draw. Moreover, Plutarch’s
rhetorical training would have exposed him to a wide range of Demosthenes’
1 C. Pelling, “Plutarch’s Method of Work in the Roman Lives,” JHS 99 (1979) 74 [reprinted in
C. Pelling, Plutarch and History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002) 2].
2 P.A. Stadter, A Commentary on Plutarch’s Pericles (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina
Press, 1989) xlvi.
3 C. Cooper, “The Appearance of History: Making Some Sense of Plutarch,” in R.B. Egan &
M. Joyal (eds.), Daimonopylai: Essays in Classics and the Classical Tradition Presented to Ed-
mund G. Berry (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Centre for Hellenic Civilization, 2004)
39–42.
4 M. Flower, Theopompus of Chios: History and Rhetoric in the Fourth Century B.C. (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1994) 136–137, argues that Plutarch recalled Theopompus from memory.
© Craig Cooper, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_016

246 cooper
speeches, which he could draw upon from memory,5 but in preparation for
writing his political life of Demosthenes, the only speeches which he consulted
directly, I would suggest, were Demosthenes 18 (On the Crown) and Aeschines 3
(Against Ctesiphon). Although Aeschines 3 proves to be an important biograph-
ical source for the Life, Plutarch has deliberately chosen to include some details
from Aeschines but remains silent on others. The second aim of this chapter,
then, is to understand those silences.
1 Primary Speech Sources: Demosthenes 18 and Aeschines 3
At Demosthenes 15.5 Plutarch calls into question Idomeneus’ claim that

Aeschines was acquitted by 30 votes in the trial over his actions on the Sec-
ond Embassy to Philip. Plutarch states, however, that it is unclear whether
Demosthenes’ speech (D. 19) on the false embassy was ever delivered. He draws
this conclusion based, it would seem, on his own reading of Aeschines 3 and
Demosthenes 18: “But it would seem to hold no truth, if one must judge by
the speeches on the crown written by each man, for neither of them has dis-
tinctly and clearly mentioned the suit as actually coming to trial.” Plutarch’s
words suggest familiarity on his part with these two speeches, which serve
as important sources for Demosthenes’ life, and, as I argue, the only direct
forensic sources used in preparation for writing the Life. At least on two prior
occasions (17.3; 9.6) the two speeches, respectively, are unnamed sources of
information. We will return to these two passages in a moment. But the curi-
ous thing about Plutarch’s statement in 15.5 over the question of Demosthenes’
actual delivery of False Embassy is Plutarch’s concluding comment: “but rather
others, however, will have to decide this point.” Plutarch was clearly aware of
the controversy around the delivery of the speech, something which may have
been articulated by literary scholars commenting on Demosthenes 19, perhaps
someone like Caecilius of Caleacte, whom Plutarch has read (Dem. 3.1) or Her-
mippus, whom he has consulted for the Life.
I would argue that Hermippus provided much of the bibliographical mate-
rial about Demosthenes’ speeches that Plutarch includes in the Life. We know
Hermippus wrote a life of Demosthenes, which was included in his collection
5 On Plutarch’s rhetorical training as revealed in his writing, see D.A. Russell, Plutarch (Lon-
don: Duckworth, 1973) 18–41; P.A. Stadter, “Rhetoric of Plutarch’s Pericles,” AncSoc 18 (1987)
251–269; Stadter, A Commentary, liii–lvii; G.W.M. Harrison, “Rhetoric, Writing and Plutarch,”
AncSoc 18 (1987) 271–279; M. Beck, “Anecdote and the Representation of Plutarch’s Ethos,” in
L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) 15–32.
the peek-a-boo presence of aeschines in plutarch’s demosthenes 247
On the Pupils of Isocrates. Plutarch draws on Hermippus for his Demosthenes

and cites him directly on several occasions (FGrHist 1026 F 49, cf. Dem. 5.7;
F 51, cf. Dem. 30.1–2; F 52, cf. Dem. 11.4; F 54, cf. Dem. 28.3). From the frag-
ments of Hermippus (FGrHist 1026 T 1, 20; F 37, 44, 86) we can surmise that he
included, at least with some of his biographies, a catalogue of his subject’s writ-
ings.6 In the case of Isocrates, for instance, we know Hermippus included the
date of composition of each speech (F 44),7 and we may conclude the same of
Demosthenes’ speeches, which were likely arranged in chronological order by
Hermippus (F 89).8 Thus, when Plutarch came to preparing his Demosthenes,
and read Hermippus for that purpose, he would have had at hand a ready list
of Demosthenes’ speeches, along with their dates of delivery.
To understand the kind of bibliographical material Plutarch might have
derived from Hermippus and other literary biographers, we can compare
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, a contemporary of Caecilius of Caleacte. What
we learn from Dionysius is that literary biographers included a chronology
of Demosthenes’ speeches and notations on whether a particular speech was
delivered in court. So, for instance, in arranging Demosthenes’ speeches into a
chronological framework in his first letter to Ammaeus, Dionysius notes (Amm.
1.3) that he gathered this information “from the common histories, which those
who have composed lives of the men have left behind,” and later in the let-
ter (1.10) speaks of Demosthenes having composed the False Embassy, but not
of delivering it, as he did the Eighth Philippic. Earlier in the letter (Amm. 1.4)
Dionysius likewise mentions only that Demosthenes’ Against Meidias was com-
posed, and presumably not delivered in court. Certainly, the tradition existed
that the speech was never delivered (Ps.-Plu. Vitae x Orat. 844D; Phot. Bibl.
419a40) and Plutarch himself at 12.3–4 picks up on that tradition. He connects
it with the fact that at age 32 Demosthenes had “not yet the power or reputa-
tion in political matters,” and here Plutarch concludes (“it seems to me”) that it
was fear that persuaded Demosthenes to compromise with the man he hated
and heed those who intervened on his behalf. Plutarch’s conclusion may be his
own, but the bibliographical material about the actual delivery and chronology
of the speech may have come from a secondary source like Hermippus, who is
known to have included such material in his biographies.
6 J. Bollansée, Hermippos of Smyrna and his Biographical Works (Leuven: Peeters, 1999) 87, 163–
182, and Die Fragmente der Griechischen Historiker Continued IVA 3: Hermippos of Smyrna
(1026) (Leiden: Brill, 1999) for commentary on these fragments.
7 Bollansée, Die Fragmente der Griechischen Historiker, 377.
8 Bollansée, Die Fragmente der Griechischen Historiker, 586–588.
248 cooper
Plutarch’s discussion of Demosthenes’ motivations for not pursuing his pros-

ecution of Meidias is set in sharp contrast to the Demosthenes presented by
Plutarch at the end of the chapter 12, who “when he undertook as a noble
foundation of political activity the defense of Greeks against Philip, contend-
ing worthily in this, he quickly won a reputation and was raised to admiration
by his speeches and boldness so that he was admired in Greece and respected
by the Great King.” The contrast is between lack of political power, reputa-
tion, and fear on the one side, and reputation, boldness, and admiration on
the other. Plutarch’s characterization of this other, later Demosthenes caps off
the chapter, which begins with Plutarch noting that Demosthenes set off to
engage in politics after the outbreak of the Phocian War (i.e., the Sacred War,
356/5–347/6), “as he himself states and is possible to gather from the Philippics.”
Plutarch’s reference is to Demosthenes 18.18, which he has directly consulted.
Indeed, the language he uses, “after the outbreak of the Phocian war” (τοῦ
Φωκικοῦ πολέμου συνεστῶτος), echoes Demosthenes’ own language, “when the
Phocian war broke out (τοῦ γὰρ Φωκικοῦ συστάντος πολέμου) not through me,
for I was not yet active in politics.” Plutarch obviously concluded from Demos-
thenes’ own words, “for I was not yet active in politics,” that Demosthenes
entered politics sometime after the war started. The verbal echoes clearly indi-
cate that Plutarch consulted Demosthenes 18, but it appears unlikely that he
directly consulted the Philippics, despite his comments here that “some of
these were produced after they [the Phocians] were defeated and the earliest
ones [the First Philippic and the three Olynthiacs] touch on the most recent
events [of the war].” This is the kind of chronological detail that could easily
have been gathered from his literary source commenting on the chronology
of Demosthenes’ speeches. The same appears true of his remark on Demos-
thenes’ age at the time of his confrontation with Meidias, even though that is
something noted by Demosthenes in Against Meidias (21.154). But again, this
might be a detail that was derived from a literary source that listed Demos-
thenes’ speeches in chronological order and not directly from rereading the
speech itself.
In the case of the Philippics, when we look at other references to these
speeches in the Life we get the same impression that Plutarch has not (re)read
them at the time of composition. So at 13.4, when commenting on the style
of Demosthenes speeches, On the Crown (18), Against Aristocrates (23), Against
Leptines (20), and Philippics (4, 5, 9), Plutarch seems to be guided by the opinion
of Panaetius the Philosopher, who judged that most of Demosthenes’ speeches
were written with the good of the state in mind. Plutarch adds that in all these
speeches Demosthenes tries not to lead his countrymen to do what is easiest
and pleasant but what is honorable and fitting. Plutarch’s observation was likely
based on what he read in Panaetius, perhaps confirming his general knowledge

of Demosthenes’ speeches, rather than from directly reading these speeches
again.
To turn back to chapter 15, where we began this discussion. Plutarch begins
the chapter with the passive “it is said,” indicating that much of the mate-
rial on Demosthenes’ speeches which follows came either from memory or a
secondary source that talked about which speeches were delivered by Demos-
thenes himself and which were composed for others. So, at 15.1 it is noted that
Demosthenes 49, Apollodorus Against Timotheus, was written by Demosthenes
as were Apollodorus’ speeches against Phormio and Stephanus (D. 45; 46).
Plutarch adds the point that Demosthenes composed the speech for Phormio
(D. 36), “selling to the opponents (τοῖς ἀντιδίκοις) as it were from one and the
same cutlery-shop the knives with which to wound each other.” Plutarch makes
the same point in the synkrisis (Comp. Dem. et Cic. 3.5), where again he uses
the passive “it is said” to note that “to the reproach of Demosthenes he made
money from his eloquence, secretly writing speeches for the opponents (τοῖς
ἀντιδίκοις) regarding Phormio and Apollodorus and being accused in the matter
of the King’s money.” In this last comment, we might think of Aeschines 3.173,
where Aeschines slanders Demosthenes for disclosing his clients’ speeches to
their opponents (τοῖς ἀντιδίκοις) and references the King’s gold. But Aeschines
does not mention the specific cases, and I am left to wonder whether Plutarch
had to fill in the blanks based on his own common knowledge or information
found in some secondary work on Demosthenes which he used to supplement
what he had read in Aeschines 3.
For the remainder of his discussion of Demosthenes’ speeches (15.2),
Plutarch seems again to be drawing on a secondary source which included bib-
liographical material. So, his public orations against Androtion (22), Timocrates
(24), and Aristocrates (23) were written for others to deliver, before he entered
public life, “for it seems he produced these speeches when he was 27 or 28,”
a chronological calculation which he made from the ordering of the speeches
provided by his secondary source. But Plutarch goes on to tell us that Demos-
thenes delivered the speeches Against Aristogeiton (25) and Against Leptines
(20) “on behalf, as he himself says, of Ctesippus the son of Chabrias.” This last
remark should suggest that Plutarch himself had read Against Leptines, but if
my argument is right that Plutarch is working through some secondary source
that included bibliographical information on Demosthenes’ speeches, he may
have gotten this detail from that source, as we know from Dionysius of Hali-
carnassus that such works often included the first line of the speech, which
is precisely where Demosthenes himself notes (and again at 20.75) that he
decided to support the plaintiffs out of sympathy for the son of Chabrias. The
250 cooper
son’s name, however, is not actually given by Demosthenes, and so is a detail

provided from another source, which may also stand behind Plutarch’s anony-
mous report (“as some say”) that Demosthenes joined the prosecution as he
was pursuing Chabrias’ widow, the kind of salacious detail for which Hermip-
pus was known.9
What I have tried to show is that most of Plutarch’s knowledge on Demos-
thenes’ speeches did not derive directly from rereading those speeches in
preparation for the Life but could easily have been derived from a secondary
source on Demosthenes, like Hermippus, who is known to have included or
appended bibliographical material to his biographies, and, in the case of
Demosthenes, a catalogue of speeches in chronological order. The only
speeches which Plutarch seems to have read in preparation for writing the Life
were Demosthenes 18 (On the Crown) and the companion piece, Aeschines 3
(Against Ctesiphon), a point we can illustrate with some examples.
At Demosthenes 24.2 Plutarch notes that the Aeschines’ indictment against
Ctesiphon (Aeschines 3) was prepared in the archonship of Chaerondas a lit-
tle before the battle of Chaeronea, so in 338, but came to court ten years later
in the archonship of Aristophon. Plutarch has got his facts wrong or better yet
has been misled. Ctesiphon proposed his decree to crown Demosthenes in 336
(the archonship of Phrynichus) and the case came to court in 330. Plutarch
was misled by what he read in Demosthenes 18.54, where we find a spurious
copy of Aeschines’ indictment against Ctesiphon, in which the archon named
is Chaerondas.10 Obviously, the text, which Plutarch had consulted directly,
already included the spurious document on which he has made his erroneous
calculation.
At 17.3 Plutarch describes Demosthenes’ activities on embassy to various
Greeks states to garner support against Philip. Plutarch notes that Demos-
thenes brought almost all into a league against Philip and raised a mercenary
force of 15,000 footmen and 2,000 horse, apart from citizen troops. Plutarch
drew these details along with the catalogue of allies in Demosthenes 17.4
(Euboeans, Achaeans, Corinthians, Megarians, Leucadians and Corcyreans)
directly from Demosthenes 18.237. At Demosthenes 14.4, Plutarch describes
the Antiphon affair with details that he took over from Demosthenes 18.132–
133: that Antiphon was acquitted by the Assembly, brought before the Are-
9 Bollansée, Hermippos of Smyrna, 122.

10 On laws and decrees found in the speeches of Demosthenes, see M. Canevaro, The Docu-
ments of the Attic Orators (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), who, however, does not
discuss Aeschines’ indictment of Ctesiphon.
opagus, and convicted of promising Philip that he would set fire to the dock-
yards. Plutarch has mixed up some of the details, as he has Demosthenes
arrest Antiphon after his acquittal before the Assembly and personally bring
him before the Areopagus. Demosthenes, however, tells us that he arrested
Antiphon in the Piraeus and brought him before the Assembly, but is unclear
about his role in Antiphon’s arrest by the Areopagus. In any case the essential
details are there, and Plutarch has simply shifted the emphasis onto Demos-
thenes. His comment that Demosthenes’ political action regarding Antiphon
was aristocratic might be his way of redefining Antiphon’s accusation that
Demosthenes “behaved terribly in the democracy” in arresting him. At Demos-
thenes 9.6 Plutarch seems to interpret Antiphanes’ comic fragment, “he retook
as he took” (ἀπέλαβεν ὥσπερ ἔλαβεν, F 167 K-A), in light of what Aeschines
3.83 says about Demosthenes’ reaction to Philip’s offer of Halonnesus: “Demos-
thenes forbade us to take it, if he ‘gave it’ rather than ‘gave it back,’ quarrelling
over syllables.” Based on these few observations, the impression we are left
with is that Plutarch only seems to have directly used Demosthenes 18 (On the
Crown) and Aeschines 3 (Against Ctesiphon) for biographical information.
2 Aeschines’ Peek-a-Boo Presence
In the case of Aeschines, his presence looms large in the first twenty-four
chapters of the Life until his voluntary exile to Rhodes, the result of failing to
receive one-fifth of the vote in his suit against Ctesiphon. Plutarch references
Aeschines several times in these first chapters as a source, but he ignores at
times important details which Aeschines provides about Demosthenes. So, in
the second part of the chapter I would like to explore why Plutarch includes or
excludes what he does from Aeschines.
I begin with Demosthenes’ origins. At Dem. 4.1–2 Plutarch draws on two
sources, Theopompus and Aeschines. According to Theopompus, Demos-
thenes’ father belonged to the kaloi k’ agathoi. This is the first of several cita-
tions from Theopompus (BNJ 115 F 325–330), and it is possible, as scholars
argue, that Plutarch also derived from Theopompus the detail that Demos-
thenes’ father was nicknamed machairopoios because he owned an ergasterion,
employing slaves in the business of making knives (BNJ 115 F 325).11 It is cer-
tainly consistent with the types of slanderous remarks that Theopompus made
11 Flower, Theopompus of Chios, 137–138; W.S. Morison, “Theopompos of Chios (115),” in

I. Worthington (ed.), Brill’s New Jacoby (Leiden: Brill Online, 2014) F 325.
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about Athenian politicians and their backgrounds.12 But Demosthenes was not,
it seems, included in Theopompus’ digression, On the Athenian Demagogues, in
book 10 of the Philippica, which, it has been suggested, ended with the admin-
istration of Eubulus.13 The digression attacked the dissipated lifestyles of the
demagogues and their inappropriate use of private or public funds to bribe the
demos. Theopompus (BNJ 115 F 96c) describes Hyberbolus’ brother as a lamp
seller, which might suggest that he would include similar details about Demos-
thenes, but not necessarily as a way of criticism.14 In fact, at times, Theopompus
can give a rather sympathetic treatment of Demosthenes; his comment on
Demosthenes’ leadership preserved by Plutarch at Demosthenes 14.4 (BNJ 115
F 327), cannot at all, as Gordon Shrimpton has pointed out, be construed as crit-
icism.15 If Theopompus did not include details about the industrial background
of Demosthenes’ father, this leaves Aeschines (2.93), whom Plutarch cites next
for a different reference (about Demosthenes’ mother), as a possible source.
Aeschines 2.93, however, refers to Demosthenes in much more scurrilous terms
as “the bastard son of Demosthenes the machairopoios.”16 Even if the detail
on Demosthenes’ father came directly from Aeschines 2 and not, as scholars
suspect from Theopompus, given what Plutarch says later in Demosthenes 4
about Aeschines’ veracity, he would never have included any suggestion about
Demosthenes’ dubious legitimacy.
Although there is some question whether Plutarch had gotten his infor-
mation about the occupational background of Demosthenes’ father directly
from Aeschines, it seems certain that he had read Aeschines 3.171–172, which
12 W. Connor, Theopompus and Fifth-Century Athens (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University

Press, 1968) 164 n. 5.
13 Connor, Theopompus, 71–72; P.J. Rhodes, A Commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion
Politeia (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1981) 345; G. Shrimpton, Theopompus the Historian
(Montreal & Kingston: McGill–Queen’s University Press, 1991) 70–71, 171–173; by contrast
Morison, “Theopompos of Chios (115),” on F 325.
14 So, Flower, Theopompus of Chios, 137–138, but contrast F.S. Pownall, “Theopompus’ View
of Demosthenes,” in M. Joyal (ed.), In Altum: Seventy-Five Years of Classical Studies in New-
foundland (St. John’s: Memorial University of Newfoundland, 2001) 65.
15 Shrimpton, Theopompus, 172, followed by Flower, Theopompus of Chios, 139; Morison,
“Theopompos of Chios (115),” on F 325; but note the caution of Pownall, “Theopompus’
View of Demosthenes,” 66–67.
16 Elsewhere (3.171) the only thing that Aeschines was prepared to admit was that Demos-
thenes’ father was “free.” Demosthenes’ father had owned two factories, one employing
twenty slaves in the couch-making business and the other thirty-two slaves in the making
of knives; both factories seemed to have been housed in Demosthenes’ residence in the
Piraeus (Dem. 27.24–26), with A. Cox, Household Interests: Property, Marriage Strategies,
and Family Dynamics in Ancient Athens (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998) 139.
in fact is the source of every biographical account on Demosthenes’ mother.

However, Plutarch himself repeats very little of Aeschines’ slander, except
to say that Demosthenes’ mother was the daughter of a barbarian woman,
whose father, Gylon (Demosthenes’ maternal grandfather), had fled Athens on
a charge of prodosia. There are no other details: no mention of Gylon’s betrayal
of Nymphaeum in the Pontus, of his reward of an estate called the “Gardens,”
of the Scythian origin of his mother, as we find in Aeschines,17 or for that mat-
ter in later biographies (Lib. 293.14–28 Westermann; Zos. 297.11–25 W; Anon.
Vita 302.5–22 W), or of his mother’s name, Cleobule, as given by other biogra-
phers (Ps.-Plu. Vitae x Orat. 844a; Lib. 295.25; Zos. 298.17). Nowhere is her name
mentioned by Aeschines or by Demosthenes himself, and, therefore, it must
be a later biographical accretion, perhaps by Hermippus (FGrHist 1026 F 53a).
What we assume is that earlier biographers, like Hermippus, had already gath-
ered scattered and various notices on Demosthenes’ family, on the occupation
of his father and the Scythian origin of his mother, perhaps even referring to
the testimony of Aeschines. But the fact that Plutarch does not give Cleobule’s
name suggests that he was drawing directly on Aeschines in this instance and
not on an earlier biographical source. But why has Plutarch chosen to be silent
on certain other details found in Aeschines? I think Plutarch’s own words gives
us the reason: “I cannot say whether Aeschines is speaking the truth or only
slander and lies” (Dem. 4.2). Why repeat more if you are unsure of its truth?
Later in the same chapter, Plutarch mentions the guardians’ embezzlement
and mismanagement of Demosthenes’ estate but only by way of introducing
and accounting for Demosthenes’ type of education. Their neglect meant that
Demosthenes’ teachers could not be paid (similarly in Zos. 298.36 and Anon.
Vita 303.30) and partly explains why (4.4: “on account of this”), so Plutarch
concludes (“it seems”), Demosthenes did not pursue the traditional form of
education of a freeborn child (“types of instruction suitable and appropriate to
17 Aeschines claims that Gylon was impeached (eisangelia) and implies that he was con-
demned to death. This seems unlikely, as, according to Demosthenes 28.1–2, he had once
been a state debtor, suggesting a substantial fine for his involvement in the Nymphaeum
affair. The event took place in the concluding years of the Peloponnesian War. Gylon was
granted a large tract of land on the Asiatic side of the Bosporus, what Aeschines calls
the “Gardens,” by one of the ruling despots in the Crimean Bosporus. Cf. I. Worthing-
ton, Demosthenes of Athens and the Fall of Classical Greece (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2013) 11–12; A. Lintott, Plutarch: Demosthenes and Cicero (Oxford: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 2013) 49; D.M. MacDowell, Demosthenes the Orator (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2009) 16; R. Sealey, Demosthenes and His Time: A Study in Defeat (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1993) 96; H.A. Holden, Plutarch’s Life of Demosthenes (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1893) 48.
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a freeborn child”). This point seems to be contradicted by Demosthenes him-

self (18.257), who notes that in his childhood he had the opportunity to attend
respectable schools, but here Plutarch does not mean the classroom so much
as the gymnasium and palaestra, a point confirmed by the second reason he
gives for Demosthenes’ unusual scholastic pursuits: “because of his sickly and
soft body.” Accordingly, his mother would not let him work out in the palaes-
tra and his pedagogues would not force him. The idea that Demosthenes did
not frequent the gymnasium was ultimately based on Aeschines’ taunt (3.255)
that Demosthenes spent his time not in hunting and caring for the health of
his body but in practicing his art of hunting down men of property. In this case
Plutarch has chosen to accept Aeschines’ slander, as it accords with what he
read in his biographical source, Hermippus (1026 F 53c),18 who seems to be
behind the rest of the chapter, where we find a discussion about Demosthenes’
nickname Battalus, which Plutarch clearly links to Demosthenes’ sickly body
and the childhood taunts against him. Moreover, it accords with the accepted
tradition that Demosthenes had to overcome certain physical weaknesses in
becoming the outstanding orator that he was, something which Plutarch will
elaborate on later (Dem. 11).19
At Demosthenes 22.1–3 Plutarch describes Demosthenes’ reaction to the
death of Philip. Here he draws heavily on Aeschines. The point that Demos-
thenes had secret intelligence comes from Aeschines 3.77, where we are told
that Demosthenes had received information from the scouts of Charidemus
that Philip was dead before others had received the news, and pretended he
had a dream in which he received the news from Zeus and Athena. Plutarch
makes no mention of the gods but does speak of the dream, not as a preten-
sion but as something genuine on Demosthenes’ part, thus turning Aeschines’
slander into something positive about Demosthenes’ character, as he does with
the rest of Aeschines’ account. So, Plutarch repeats from Aeschines 3.77–78 the
detail that Demosthenes appeared in public splendidly dressed and wearing a
garland, though his daughter had only died six days before “as Aeschines says,
railing at him on this account and accusing him of hating his child (μισοτεκνία),”
a word taken over directly from Aeschines. For the remainder of the chapter
(22.3–7) Plutarch takes Aeschines to task, accusing him (22.3) of being “igno-
ble and soft” (ἀγεννὴς καὶ μαλακός) for despising the ability to bear such losses
18 See Bollansée, Die Fragmente der Griechischen Historiker, 422–424.

19 For this tradition see C. Cooper, “Philosophers, Politics and Academics: Demosthenes’
Rhetorical Reputation in Antiquity,” in I. Worthington (ed.), Demosthenes: Statesman and
Orator (London: Routledge, 2000) 224–245.
mildly and without sorrow (τὸ δὲ ἀλύπως φέρειν ταῦτα καὶ πρᾴως ἀπεδοκίμαζεν).
Although Plutarch does not consider the Athenian response to Philip’s death, to
garland themselves and offer thanks to gods, as honorable, he does, however,
commend Demosthenes for leaving aside his grief and going about his busi-
ness. In contrast to Aeschines’ ignoble effeminacy, he considers it a mark of a
“statesman-like and manly spirit” (πολιτικῆς καί ἀνδρώδους ψυχῆς) to concern
oneself with the good of the community, to find solace for domestic sorrow in
the public welfare and to preserve one’s dignity. As he concludes the chapter, he
has been led to say these things, “seeing that Aeschines has inclined and moved
many to effeminate pity by this speech of his” (ὁρῶντες ἐπικλῶντα πολλοὺς καὶ
ἀποθηλύνοντα τὸν Αἰσχίνην τῷ λόγῳ τούτῳ πρὸς οἶκτον).20 This is in contrast to
Demosthenes’ speeches, which stir and inflame (Dem. 16.1: ταράττοντος καὶ δια-
καίοντος), arouse (17.1: ἐγειρομένων), and embolden (18.2: παραθαρρύνας).
But in the next chapter (23) we encounter a dramatic reversal, a flaw in
Demosthenes’ character is suddenly revealed and the courage that had so char-
acterized his earlier actions and speeches quickly dissipates.21 Again, Plutarch
draws on Aeschines 3 for his account. Before looking at the chapter we need to
understand the historical context. In 335 bce, while Alexander was campaign-
ing in Thrace and Illyria, Thebes revolted against the Macedonian garrison
stationed in the Cadmea. Alexander’s unexpected return quickly put an end
to the uprising.22 The city was laid to waste, and the news of the destruction
of Thebes reached Athens, while the Athenians were celebrating the mysteries.
They at once abandoned their celebrations and began to move their belongings
from the country within the city walls. This is Arrian’s account (1.10). Accord-
ing to Arrian, the Athenians called an assembly. On the motion of Demades the
Assembly selected ten men who were known to be most amenable to Alexan-
der and sent them bearing the city’s congratulations on his safe return from
the Illyrians and Triballians and on his punishment of Thebes. Alexander gra-
ciously received the embassy but sent a letter demanding the surrender of
20 The reference is to Aeschines 3.

21 On character change in Plutarch see T.E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999) 25 n. 35, 228–230, 235–237; S.C.R. Swain, “Charac-
ter Change in Plutarch,” Phoenix 43.1 (1989); A. Wardman, Plutarch’s Lives (London: Elek,
1974) 132–140; D.A. Russell, Plutarch (London: Duckworth, 1973) 96, 125–126; D.A. Russell,
“On Reading Plutarch’s Lives,” G&R 13 (1966) 139–154 [reprinted in B. Scardigli, Essays on
Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) 75–94].
22 For an account of the destruction of Thebes and its aftermath see Worthington, Demos-
thenes of Athens, 279–283; P. Green, Alexander of Macedon, 356–323 B.C. (Berkeley: Uni-
versity of California Press, 1991) 143–151; A.B. Bosworth, Conquest and Empire: The Reign of
Alexander the Great (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) 195–197.
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Demosthenes and Lycurgus and their followers. According to Arrian, a second

embassy was sent and succeeded in prevailing upon the Macedonian king to
relent from his demand.
In Demosthenes 23 Plutarch provides us with his account of these events. He
mentions Alexander’s demand for the surrender of prominent Athenian politi-
cians, who in some accounts (Idomeneus and Duris) numbered ten, in others
eight.23 He also notes that there were two embassies: the first, as in Arrian, was
sent out immediately after the destruction of Thebes; the second followed an
acrimonious debate in the Assembly over Alexander’s demand. He adds details
not found in Arrian’s account, namely that this second embassy was headed by
Demades, who had been bribed by Demosthenes’ followers for five talents.24
In this last detail, Plutarch agrees with Diodorus (17.15.2–3) who also gives this
figure and, like Plutarch, notes Demades’ success in persuading Alexander to
relent.
Where Plutarch departs significantly from Arrian is in noting that Demos-
thenes was among those chosen for the first embassy but abandoned the mis-
sion at Cithaeron. There are two things that at once suggest that Plutarch has
conflated this embassy with an earlier one on which Demosthenes had served.
For one thing it seems unlikely that Demosthenes would have been considered
by the Athenians as “amenable to Alexander,” given his open hostility to Mace-
don and his active role in promoting the Theban revolt. According to Diodorus
(17.8.6), it was on Demosthenes’ motion that the Athenians voted to send troops
to aid the besieged Thebans. There were even reports (Plu. Dem. 23.1; D.S. 17.8.6;
Ps.-Plu. Vitae x Orat. 847C) that the orator had himself supplied the rebels with
arms. Secondly, according to Dinarchus (1.82), Demosthenes was steadfast in
his refusal to serve on any such embassy.25 Nor, is there any hint whatsoever in
Arrian that any members of the first embassy turned back.
23 On the question of the authenticity of these lists, see C. Cooper, “A Note on Antipater’s
Demand of Hyperides and Demosthenes,” AHB 7.4 (1993) 130–133, and “Idomeneus of
Lampsakos (338),” in I. Worthington (ed), Brill’s New Jacoby, (Leiden: Brill Online, 2014)
F 11 with earlier bibliography.
24 Justin (11.4.10) apparently followed a source that mentioned two embassies, for he
describes how Alexander’s anger was only mitigated secunda legatione. See A.B. Bosworth,
A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander, vol. 1 (Oxford: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 1980) 92. Plutarch also mentions two embassies in Phocion 17.4, but there notes
that Phocion headed the second legation, which seems unlikely, since he strongly advo-
cated giving into Alexander’s demands. The very purpose of that embassy was to persuade
Alexander to relent. But cf. Worthington, Demosthenes of Athens, 282, who suggests Pho-
cion served with Demades.
25 I. Worthington, A Historical Commentary on Dinarchus: Rhetoric and Conspiracy in Later
Plutarch, or his source,26 got his information from Aeschines 3.161, where
the orator refers to an embassy that Demosthenes abandoned at Cithaeron.
Aeschines notes that Alexander and his army were near Thebes at the time, and
immediately after mentioning the embassy itself, refers to Athens’ refusal to
surrender Demosthenes to Alexander. At first glance this could suggest the con-
text of the fall of Thebes, just the place where Plutarch puts it.27 But there are
some problems. Both Diodorus (17.4.4–7) and Justin (11.3.4) place the embassy
in the context of Alexander’s activities in Thessaly and Boeotia in 336, just
before the congress at Corinth and well before his Illyrian campaigns and the
attack on Thebes of the year 335.28 According to Diodorus, after Alexander
entered Boeotia and encamped near the Cadmea, the Athenians abandoned
their previous refusal to take the new king seriously, and sent an embassy bear-
ing belated congratulations on Alexander’s accession to the throne.29 It was on
this occasion that Demosthenes turned back at Cithaeron. He gives two reasons
for Demosthenes’ decision: either fear of Alexander, a motive also attributed to
him by Plutarch, or a willingness to appease the Great King. That Diodorus (or
his source) has in part drawn on Aeschines is clear from the fact that the orator
is quoted for evidence of Demosthenes’ venality (Aeschin. 3.173).30
The historian’s account is not at all inconsistent with what Aeschines
reports. The latter simply speaks of Alexander and his army being near Thebes
but not of its actual destruction, and so is likely referring to Alexander’s first
descent into Greece in 336. But in both accounts, there is some conflation,
which could lead one to confuse Alexander’s earlier activities with his later
Fourth-Century Athens (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1992) 252, suggests that
Dinarchus is alluding to the delegation sent to Alexander following the fall of Thebes and
rightly notes that the accounts in Arrian, Diodorus and Justin imply that Demosthenes
remained in the city; cf. Worthington, Demosthenes of Athens, 281.
26 A possible source was Aristobulus (BNJ 139 F3), who is quoted later in the chapter (Dem.
23.6) for the tale of the sheep and the wolves related by Demosthenes in the Assembly.
27 As does Worthington, Dinarchus, 252.
28 Though Holden, Plutarch’s Life of Demosthenes, 106, refers to these two passages, he fails to
explain how Plutarch has confounded the proceedings of 336 with those of the following
year.
29 Arrian (1.1.2–3) makes no mention of this embassy.
30 Cleitarchus is generally regarded as Diodorus’ source for book 17: L. Pearson, The Lost His-
tories of Alexander the Great (Oxford: Blackwell, 1960) 217–225; N.G.L. Hammond, Three
Historians of Alexander the Great (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983) 12–27;
V. Parker, “Source-critical Reflections on Cleitarchus’ Work,” in P. Wheatley & R. Han-
nah (eds.), Alexander & His Successors: Essays from the Antipodes (Claremont, California:
Regina Books, 2009) 28–55: with the caution of L. Prandi, “Kleitarchos of Alexandria (137),”
in I. Worthington (ed.), Brill’s New Jacoby (Leiden: Brill Online, 2016) F 1.
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actions after his return from Illyria. Diodorus (17.4.5–6) tells how the Atheni-
ans voted to have their belongings brought within the city, which, in Arrian’s
account, was precisely their reaction after hearing of the fall of Thebes.31
Aeschines refers to the Thessalians voting to march on Athens, which could
also suit the context of the Theban revolt.
The difficulty comes in that Aeschines has greatly compressed his account.
Such chronological compression, however, suits Plutarch’s biographical pur-
poses, since he is describing a dramatic reversal in Demosthenes’ character,
from one marked by courage to one marked by cowardice and fear. Aeschines
begins (3.160) with Demosthenes’ actions immediately after Philip’s death and
Alexander’s accession: to dedicate a shrine to Pausanias; to have the Boule ini-
tiate thank-offerings; to ridicule Alexander, first by nicknaming him “Margites”
and then by charging that he would never venture out of Macedonia. Next,
Aeschines mentions (3.161) the Thessalian vote to march on Athens, Alexan-
der’s initial anger, the encampment of his army near Thebes, and Demosthenes’
flight from the embassy. Finally, he alludes to Alexander’s demand for Demos-
thenes’ surrender after the fall of Thebes. The reference to Alexander’s “initial
anger” obviously alludes to his initial reaction to the revolutionary activities
that greeted him upon his father’s death. In this case the “Thessalian vote” must
belong in the context of the Thessalian Assembly that elected Alexander to
the archonship in the late summer of 336 (D.S. 17.4.1–2; Justin 11.3.1–2). This is
precisely the period of Alexander’s first expedition into Greece, when Demos-
thenes served on embassy. But Plutarch by following Aeschines has placed this
embassy in 335 in the context of the fall of Thebes.32 This is understandable
given the fact that Aeschines provides few chronological signposts. A refer-
ence to a Macedonian army outside Thebes could easily be taken to refer to
the Macedonian activities that led to Thebes’ destruction, especially when it is
so quickly followed by an allusion to Alexander’s demand for the surrender of
Demosthenes.
At both Demosthenes 23 and Alexander 11 Plutarch fails to mention the first
expedition into Greece that succeeded in securing Alexander’s recognition as
leader from the Thessalians and the Greeks.33 In the latter life, for instance,
31 As Bosworth, A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History, 92, notes, this was a common
response. The Athenians voted to do the same, after hearing of the destruction of Phocis
by Philip: D. 18.36; Aeschin. 3.80.
32 As does Worthington, Dinarchus, 252, who believes that Aeschines is alluding to the first
congratulatory embassy sent out in 335 after the destruction of Thebes.
33 J.R. Hamilton, Plutarch, Alexander. A Commentary (Bristol: Bristol University Press, 21999
[1969]) 28–29.
after mentioning Alexander’s accession to the throne (Alex. 11.1), he proceeds

immediately to describe the campaigns against the Triballi (11.2–3), followed
by an account of the siege and destruction of Thebes (11.4–6). The same thing
happens in Demosthenes. After describing Demosthenes’ happy reaction to the
news of Philip’s death (Dem. 22.1–2), where again he has consulted Aeschines
as a source, Plutarch quickly proceeds to give an account of the fall of Thebes
and its aftermath (23.1–5). This compression of chronology also leads to dis-
placement of events, both of which makes Demosthenes’ reversal appear even
more dramatic. Plutarch has Demosthenes (23.2) writing to Attalus and calling
Alexander “a boy and a Margites” in the same context as he has him instigat-
ing the Theban revolt, when clearly the former belongs to Demosthenes’ earlier
activities immediately after the death of Philip (D.S. 17.3.2; Aeschin. 3.160). We
find the same chronological displacement for the embassy on which Demos-
thenes served and abandoned at Cithaeron out of fear. Since Plutarch has cho-
sen not to describe Alexander’s activities of 336, the only appropriate place left
to report the embassy is the fall of Thebes, which location was suggested to
Plutarch by Aeschines.
3 Conclusion and Postscript
Although Plutarch has followed Aeschines’ account closely for his narrative in
Demosthenes 23, he has done so in such way as to illustrate Demosthenes’ dra-
matic change of character. Although at times he may suppress Aeschines’ more
scandalous remarks, at other times he repeats them more fully, but turns them
to his advantage. As we saw in Demosthenes 22, though following Aeschines
closely, Plutarch was critical of Aeschines for denouncing Demosthenes’ gaiety
after the news of Philip’s death. For Plutarch, Demosthenes’ ability to lay aside
his personal grief and direct his attention to public matters, was the mark of a
true statesman. But Plutarch was by no means uncritical of Demosthenes. He
accepts the criticism voiced by Demetrius of Phalerum that Demosthenes was
at times cowardly and venal (Dem. 14.2). In Plutarch’s opinion Demosthenes
fell short of the lofty principles that he voiced in his speeches: if bravery and
incorruptibility, he says, had accompanied Demosthenes’ “nobility of words,”
he would have been worthy of being ranked with Cimon, Thucydides and Peri-
cles (Dem. 13.4), the great leaders of the past. But he was not, and Demosthenes’
weaknesses could not be better illustrated than by his action on the embassy.
In Demosthenes 23, where Plutarch again follows Aeschines closely, we are
told that Demosthenes incited the cities of Greece to league together against
Alexander, speaking with the same kind of boldness that he used on earlier
260 cooper
occasions to stir and rouse the Athenians. At 23.2, we are told, he controlled
the bema and wrote letters stirring up Alexander’s generals in Asia. But when
Alexander arrived in Boeotia in force, Demosthenes’ boldness disappeared,
and, when the orator was chosen to serve on the embassy, he turned back at
Cithaeron in fear, and here Plutarch echoes Aeschines’ charge (3.161) of cow-
ardice, but chooses not to repeat Aeschines’ more scandalous allegation (3.162)
that Demosthenes used the services of Aristion, a beautiful young boy, who had
once lived in his house, to win the affections of Alexander and thereby secure
immunity for himself. Perhaps the same reticence that prompted Plutarch on
other occasions to ignore Aeschines’ more scandalous remarks was at work
here.
In any case, cowardice was not the only accusation leveled at Demosthenes
by Aeschines that we find repeated by Plutarch. The other was venality. As we
saw above, Plutarch consulted Aeschines 3.171–173 when he came to gather
details on the background of Demosthenes’ mother. In that portion of the
speech Aeschines speaks of the King’s gold. After Demosthenes squandered
his patrimony, alienated his clients by disclosing their arguments to their oppo-
nents, and wasted all the profits he made from politics, the King’s wealth now
“buoyed up” (ἐπικέκλυκε) Demosthenes’ extravagance, but even that proved
not be “sufficient” (ἱκανόν). Aeschines ties the King’s gold to Demosthenes’
profligate lifestyle, but Plutarch instead (Dem. 20.4) connects it with Demos-
thenes’ fame as an orator, which reached even the ears of the Great King, who
accordingly was prompted to send letters to his satraps instructing them to
offer money to Demosthenes in an effort to contain Philip’s ambition. Demos-
thenes’ venality was only exposed later during the Harpalus affair (25.2–3), after
Aeschines’ departure from the biographical scene. But as Plutarch signals back
in Demosthenes 14.2, though Demosthenes “was not corrupted by gold from
Philip and Macedonia,” he was nonetheless “accessible to and overwhelmed
(κατακεκλυσμένος) by gold washing down from Susa and Ecbatana.” Though he
was “most sufficient” (ἱκανώτατος) at praising the virtues of his ancestors, he
was not equal to the task of imitating them. Plutarch’s choice of words sug-
gests that he is thinking of Aeschines 3.173 here, when he alludes and points
ahead to Harpalus’ bribery of Demosthenes. Aeschines has once again peeked
out his head and broken the silence. And I am left to wonder whether Plutarch
was still thinking of Aeschines when he came to describe that scene and how
Demosthenes eyed with pleasure the gold cup.
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Harvard University Press, 1968).
Cooper, C., “A Note on Antipater’s Demand of Hyperides and Demosthenes,” AHB 7.4
(1993) 130–135.
Cooper, C., “Philosophers, Politics and Academics: Demosthenes’ Rhetorical Reputa-
tion in Antiquity,” in I. Worthington (ed.), Demosthenes: Statesman and Orator (Lon-
don: Routledge, 2000) 224–245.
Cooper, C., “The Appearance of History: Making Some Sense of Plutarch,” in R.B. Egan
& M. Joyal (eds.), Daimonopylai: Essays in Classics and the Classical Tradition Pre-
sented to Edmund G. Berry (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Centre for Hellenic
Civilization, 2004) 33–55.
Cooper, C., “Idomeneus of Lampsakos (338),” in I. Worthington (ed.), Brill’s New Jacoby
(Leiden: Brill Online, 2014).
Cox, A., Household Interests: Property, Marriage Strategies, and Family Dynamics in
Ancient Athens (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998).
1999).
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(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994).
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1991).
Hamilton, J.R., Plutarch, Alexander. A Commentary (Bristol: Bristol University Press,
21999 [1969]).
Hammond, N.G.L., Three Historians of Alexander the Great (Cambridge: Cambridge
Harrison, G.W.M., “Rhetoric, Writing and Plutarch,” AncSoc 18 (1987) 271–279.
Holden, H.A., Plutarch’s Life of Demosthenes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1893).
262 cooper
Lintott, A., Plutarch: Demosthenes and Cicero (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).
MacDowell, D.M., Demosthenes the Orator (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009).
Morison, W.S., “Theopompos of Chios (115),” in I. Worthington (ed.), Brill’s New Jacoby
Parker, V., “Source-critical Reflections on Cleitarchus’ Work,” in P. Wheatley & R. Han-
nah (eds.), Alexander & His Successors: Essays from the Antipodes (Claremont, Cali-
fornia: Regina Books, 2009) 28–55.
Pearson, L., The Lost Histories of Alexander the Great (Oxford: Blackwell, 1960).
2002) 1–44].
Pownall, F.S., “Theopompus’ View of Demosthenes,” in M. Joyal (ed.), In Altum: Seventy-
Five Years of Classical Studies in Newfoundland (St. John’s: Memorial University of
Newfoundland, 2001) 63–71.
Prandi, L., “Kleitarchos of Alexandria (137),” in I. Worthington (ed.), Brill’s New Jacoby
Rhodes, P.J., A Commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1981).
Russell, D.A., “On Reading Plutarch’s Lives,” G&R 13 (1966) 139–154 [reprinted in
B. Scardigli (ed.), Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) 75–94].
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Press, 1993).
Shrimpton, G., Theopompus the Historian (Montreal & Kingston: McGill–Queen’s Uni-
Stadter, P.A., “The Rhetoric of Plutarch’s Pericles,” AncSoc 18 (1987) 251–269.
Stadter, P.A., A Commentary on Plutarch’s Pericles (Chapel Hill: University of North Car-
olina Press, 1989).
Swain, S.C.R., “Character Change in Plutarch,” Phoenix 43.1 (1989).
Wardman, A., Plutarch’s Lives (London: Elek, 1974).
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ermann, 1845).
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Later Fourth-Century Athens (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1992).
Worthington, I., Demosthenes of Athens and the Fall of Classical Greece (Oxford: Oxford
chapter 15
Plutarch on the Christians: Why so Silent?

Ignorance, Indifference, or Indignity?
Frederick E. Brenk
There are three questions that immediately come to mind when we consider
Plutarch’s omission of the Christians from his work. First, did Plutarch know
nothing about them? Second did he have no occasion to write about them?1
Finally, did he know about the Christians and deliberately refuse to write about
them even though he had occasions to do so, that is, was it a conspiracy of
silence? In respect to the last question, it seems that in none of his extant works
would something about the Christians have been absolutely demanded by his
subject. We might also bear in mind that only about half of Plutarch’s works
are extant. He might have written about them elsewhere. Study of Plutarch’s
treatment of Judaism in his extant works, which somewhat parallels study of
Christianity, can offer important insights into why he might have been silent
about the Christians. Plutarch is one of the largest entries in Menahem Stern’s
catalogue.2 Even so, it is a relatively small entry. More surprising, perhaps, is
that his works contain so little about the Jews notwithstanding that the Jewish
Wars with Rome were some of the most prominent events in his life. These wars
involved not only the Flavians, with whom Plutarch had a somewhat ambigu-
ous relationship, but also Trajan, with whom he may have been on good terms.
These were sovereigns of Rome with whom Plutarch had strong links through
his friends.3
1 For an earlier treatment of this subject, see F.E Brenk, “Lo scrittore silenzioso: giudaismo e
cristianesimo in Plutarco,” in I. Gallo (ed.), Plutarco e la religione (Naples: M. D’Auria, 1996)
239–262.
2 M. Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, 3 volumes (Jerusalem: Israel Academy
of Sciences and Humanities, 1974–1984); on Plutarch, see vol. 1, 545–576 (550–562 on Quaes-
tiones convivales).
3 On Plutarch’s relationship with the Flavians and with Trajan, see P.A. Stadter, “Friends or
Patrons?” in P.A. Stadter, Plutarch’s Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015)
21–44. During the Flavian period, according to Stadter, Plutarch had good relations with sev-
eral Romans officials.
© Frederick E. Brenk, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_017

264 brenk
Plutarch rarely refers to contemporary political events in his works, but he

does so in a surprising place, at the end of his Amatorius.4 As proof of women
being as capable of love as men, Plutarch gives two rather long examples. One
of them, related at great length, involves the wife of a Gallic revolutionary
who took part in a war against Vespasian (770C–771C).5 Both the revolution-
ary, Sabinus, and his wife, Empona, were executed by Vespasian. At the end
of the exemplum, the wife, Empona, stands up to Vespasian, claiming that she
lived more happily in hiding and protecting her husband than the emperor did
on his throne. At this, Vespasian flies into a rage and orders her execution. The
event gives Plutarch’s son, who is the narrator of the work, a chance to men-
tion Empona’s two sons (771BC). One son had died fighting in Egypt, and the
other had recently visited them in Delphi. The historical background presum-
ably was Trajan’s war against the Jews in Egypt in 116–117.6 It would not have
been necessary, however, in the Amatorius to insert a digression on the revolt of
the Jews in Egypt. The insertion of the visit of the son does suggest, though, that
the war was meaningful to Plutarch, and with his normal curiosity in religious
and cultural matters among non-Greeks and Romans, he could have attempted
to learn something about the Jews and the revolt when it occurred. Moreover,
Plutarch made several trips to Rome, during which time he undoubtedly visited
the Colosseum and the Arch of Titus.7 Both monuments celebrated the victory
over the Jews in 70, and presumably brought large numbers of Jews to Rome
as slave workers in the construction of the Colosseum. The Colosseum was an
immense monument and must have been one of the most discussed buildings
in Rome during his visits there, another occasion for Plutarch to learn some-
thing.
4 See H.G. Ingenkamp, “Nichts echter Plutarchisches? Kritisches zum Amatorius,” Göttingische
Gelehrte Anzeigen 258 (2006) 190; F.E. Brenk, “Plutarch,” in C.S. O’Brien & J. Dillon (eds.), Pla-
tonic Love from Antiquity to the Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forth-
coming).
5 The war is related in Tac. Hist. 4.67.
6 The manuscripts give the name of the second son as Sabinus, from which point there appar-
ently is a lacuna in the text. Plutarch would probably have related the discovery of the father,
his arrest, and execution.
7 For Plutarch’s trips to Rome, see C.P. Jones, Plutarch and Rome (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1971) 20–25. Two visits may be dated to the 80s, and another possibly to 92 or 93. In
Publ. 15 Plutarch describes the opulence of Domitian’s palace, which was completed in 92.
plutarch on the christians 265
1 Plutarch’s Quaestiones convivales and Hecataeus
Most of what he wrote about the Jews appears in a few entries in the Quaes-
tiones convivales. The identity of the speakers here is important. One of them
for the Jewish section is Lamprias, Plutarch’s brother. Shortly before (4.4,
669CD), Lamprias mentions that his grandfather ridiculed the Jews for their
prohibition against pork, which prevented them from enjoying an excellent
delicacy. Lamprias passes over this comment to make his main point, that
seafood in general is a greater delicacy than food from animals. The com-
ment leads into the next question, concerning the Jewish prohibition regard-
ing pork.8 In the Quaestiones convivales, Lamprias is represented as rather
nasty and sarcastic at times, with very strong views, though generally these are
aligned with those of Plutarch. He also has a quick wit for jokes, especially ety-
mological ones.9 Most importantly, many of his comments in the Quaestiones
convivales are concerned with food or manners at table.10 With the exception
of the four questions 6–9, unrelated to the Jews, of which we only possess the
titles, Book 4 is, in fact, all about food or drink, while Book 5 continues with
“the pleasures of body and mind.”
The position of the second Jewish question, “Whether the Jews abstain from
pork because of reverence or aversion for the pig” (4.5, 669E–671C), is not as
unrelated as it might seem. It appears that Lamprias was chosen to begin the
discussion about the Jews because it concerned food. We would have expected
him to continue with the rest of the discussion, which is not completely about
food and drink, but suddenly an almost unknown participant, Callistratus, car-
ries on with Jewish customs. Neither he, the real Lamprias, nor the real Calli-
stratus presumably had any expertise in Jewish matters. The first part of the
discussion of the Jews, the prohibition from pork, might have come from a
Hellenistic work discussing food, while most of the discussion was evidently
derived from Hecataeus of Abdera, as Joseph Geiger believes.11 The place of the
8 Here I look only at Lamprias’ role in the Quaestiones convivales, though in De defectu orac-
ulorum he has a major, final speech. In the pseudo-dialogue De facie quae in orbe lunae
apparet he serves as a spokesman for Plutarch’s theories.
9 See K. Ziegler, Plutarchos von Chaironeia (Stuttgart: Alfred Druckenmüller, 1964) 9–11.
10 On this, see M. Vamvouri Ruffy, “Symposium: Physical and Social Health in Plutarch’s
Table Talk,” in F. Klotz & K. Oikonomopoulou (eds.), The Philosopher’s Banquet: Plutarch’s
Table Talk in the Intellectual Culture of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2011) 151–157; J. König, Saints and Symposiasts: The Literature of Food and the Symposium in
Greco-Roman and Early Christian Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012);
Y. Scolan, Le convive et le savant (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2017).
11 J. Geiger, “Plutarch, Dionysus, and the God of the Jews,” in L. Van der Stockt, F.B. Titchener,
266 brenk
second question (4.5, 669E–671C) can be justified by its discussion about wine
and the conclusion that the Jewish god is the same as Dionysus. Unfortunately,
a part of the manuscripts is missing at this point. The discussion possibly con-
tinued after this point. In what is extant, Geiger notes several items in Lamprias’
account (that is, probably Hecataeus’ account), that are found nowhere else in
Latin or Greek authors and required a good source.12
There are, however, other items which are patently false, such as the high
priest wearing a fawnskin and sporting the type of footwear called a kothornos
or “buskin.” This was a type of boot covering the foot and reaching to the mid-
dle of the leg and worn by the god Dionysus.13 Hecataeus wrote a work called
On the Egyptians, an exemplary account of the Egyptian country, culture, and
government, verging on Egyptomania. This work was the main source used
by Diodorus for his account of Egypt (1.10–98).14 Within Hecataeus’ On the
Egyptians was an excursus on the Jews, the first mention of them in a Greek
author. The erroneous statements mentioned by Geiger might not come from
Hecataeus, but from Plutarch or another source. Possibly, if he were aware they
were falsehoods, he might have placed them in the mouth of Lamprias to char-
acterize him as a bit ignorant and gullible about these matters. In Diodorus’
account of Egypt, based on Hecataeus, there are some errors, but it is impos-
sible to know whether the mistakes were those of Hecataeus or Diodorus.
Plutarch used Hecataeus for his De Iside et Osiride, though the main source
was the Egyptian priest Manethon. Griffiths has high respect for Hecataeus as
a source, noting that he lived in Egypt and had “serious claims on critical read-
H.G. Ingenkamp & A. Pérez Jiménez (eds.), Gods, Daimones, Rituals, Myths and History
of Religions in Plutarch’s Works: Studies Devoted to Professor Frederick E. Brenk (Málaga:
Universidad de Málaga; Logan, Utah: Utah State University, 2010) 211–220. R.S. Bloch,
Antike Vorstellungen vom Judentum: Der Judenexkurs des Tacitus im Rahmen der griechisch-
römischen Ethnographie (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2002) 29–41, who examines the Jewish
excursus of Hecataeus of Abdera as preserved by Diodorus Siculus (40.3.1–8), believes that
one cannot determine how far Diodorus revised Hecataeus, but that Diodorus possibly
shortened or reformulated the original text.
12 Geiger, “Plutarch, Dionysus, and the God of the Jews,” 212–215.
13 Geiger, “Plutarch, Dionysus, and the God of the Jews,” 214.
14 K. Meier, “Hecataeus (2) of Abdera,” in S. Hornblower & A. Spawforth (eds.), Oxford Clas-
sical Dictionary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 31996 [1949]) 671. Plutarch mentions
Hecataeus in three other places in his works. In Apophth. Lac. 218B, he is said to know
when to speak and when to be silent. In Quaest. conv. 4.3 (666E), he is quoted as believing
that a groom invites many persons to a wedding feast to demonstrate that the bride and
groom come from good families. In De Is. et Os. 353AB, he is cited for the pharaohs only
drinking a limited amount of wine, as prescribed by their sacred writings.
ers.”15 Plutarch offers thirty-three cases of Egyptian words and their meanings
in his work, but only one from Hecataeus. About eleven of these interpretations
are wrong or not attested, including one from Manethon, which seems to be
wrong. That from Hecataeus is correct.16 At least judging by this one example,
he seems to have been a reliable source. Griffiths does note that somewhere the
god Dionysus got inserted into the Isis myth and suggests that it could be from
Hecataeus or Eudoxos.17 More telling, Griffiths notes that Hecataeus treated
Osiris and Dionysus as the same deities and that he was noted for his use of the
interpretatio Graeca, the equating of deities in different cultures.18 In conclu-
sion, Hecataeus seems to have been an excellent source, although the authors
who used him may not have done so verbatim but by embellishing or adding
certain statements.19
One possible external reason for bringing in the Jews at this length in a dis-
cussion on food within Quaestiones convivales might have something to do with
the dedicatee of the work, Sosius Senecio, who is addressed in the preface to
each book. As a high-ranking official who began under Vespasian but ended
his career under Trajan, he might have been very interested in learning about
Jewish culture.20 The important considerations to take away from these texts,
however, is that the Jewish material is only introduced incidentally, that is, in a
discussion about food and drink; the speakers do not necessarily represent the
complete thought of Plutarch himself; and he might in fact be gently satirizing
them.21 In any case, Lamprias does not show any particular interest elsewhere
in the Jews, such as being capable of offering a comprehensive view of their
religion.
15 J.G. Griffiths, Plutarch’s De Iside et Osiride (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1970) 81–82.
16 Griffiths, Plutarch’s De Iside et Osiride, 106–110. The word from Hecataeus has to do with
the use of the name Amun in greetings.
17 Griffiths, Plutarch’s De Iside et Osiride, 98.
18 Griffiths, Plutarch’s De Iside et Osiride, 88; see also Geiger in this volume.
19 M. Pucci Ben Zeev, “The Reliability of Josephus Flavius: The Case of Hecateus’ and
Manetho’s Accounts of Jews and Judaism: Fifteen Years of Contemporary Research (1974–
1990),” Journal for the Study of Judaism 24 (1993) 234.
20 On Senecio, see Jones, Plutarch and Rome, 63; Puech, “Prosopographie des amis de Plutar-
que,” ANRW II.33.6 (1992) 4883–4885; Stadter, “Friends or Patrons?” 21, 36–42.
21 F.E. Brenk, “Plutarch’s Flawed Characters: The Personae of the Dialogues,” in J. Opsomer,
G. Roskam & F.B. Titchener (eds.), A Versatile Gentleman: Consistency in Plutarch’s Writing
(Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016) 89–100.
268 brenk
2 The Christian Population at the Time of Plutarch
The number of Christians in the world during Plutarch’s lifetime would have
had some influence on his knowing about them. Any estimates about the popu-
lation of Christians at a given time are mostly considered a guess. Rodney Stark,
in his book on the rise of Christianity, estimated a global Christian population
of 40,000 in 150, rising to 218,000 in 200, and 1.17 million by 250.22 This has
been regarded as a reliable number by some scholars. One specific issue con-
cerns the total population with which Stark is working, which is that of the
Roman Empire. In his estimate, even in 200, Christians would be only a small
fraction of the Roman Empire, perhaps 0.36 percent of the whole population,
or just a little more than one in three hundred. Stark’s figures and methods
have more recently been challenged, however, by another sociologist, Adam
Schor.23 Schor used different models to calculate the number of Christians. The
first one he calls the “Apostolic Mission Model (Cubic Growth).” The growth of
Christians would depend upon the preaching of the first Apostles and other
charismatic figures and then the clergy. Four examples are given for calculat-
ing the number of Christians at a given time. The numbers of the four examples
cited vary from 42,000 to 84,000 by the year 100, at the height of Plutarch’s
career.24 The second model is called “The Values Reproduction Model (Expo-
nential Growth).” In this model, the growth of Christians would not be based
on leadership but on that of “social values” offered by the Church. This model,
also with four results, estimates from 7,500 to 24,000 Christians at the end of
the first century.25 A third model, called “The Social Reaction Model,” has to do
with social relations among Christians or Christian praxis as an idealized com-
munity.26 The presence of Christians might not be noticed by governors, but by
“noisy neighbors.” Christianity would spread through ordinary social contact;
22 R. Stark, The Rise of Christianity: How the Obscure, Marginal Jesus Movement Became the
Dominant Religious Force in the Western World in a Few Centuries (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1996). Many of the statistics of Stark, a sociologist, have been ques-
tioned. His results depend, for example, on many Jews converting to Christianity; see also
W.V. Harris (ed.), The Spread of Christianity in the First Four Centuries: Essays in Explana-
tion (Leiden: Brill, 2005). L.W. Hurtado, Why on Earth Did Anyone Become a Christian in the
First Three Centuries? (Milwaukee: Marquette University Press, 2016), offers a bibliography
and summary of recent books and articles on the spread of Christianity.
23 A.M. Schor, “Conversion by the Numbers: Benefits and Pitfalls of Quantitative Modelling
in the Study of Early Christian Growth,” Journal of Religious History 33 (2009) 472–498.
24 Schor, “Conversion by the Numbers,” 474–478, esp. 477 and Table 1.
25 Schor, “Conversion by the Numbers,” 478–483, esp. 478–479 and Table 2.
26 Schor, “Conversion by the Numbers,” 483–493, esp. 483–484 and Table 3.
that is, people would tend to convert when their social relations tilted toward
the new community. According to this model, also with four results, the num-
ber of Christians in 100 would be somewhere between 4,800 and 7,500.
However, Schor believes that none of these models allows one to arrive at an
accurate number of Christians at any given time. Each of the traditional models
in his view is ill suited to some aspects of Christian religion or Roman soci-
ety, and if used improperly risks the danger of fallacious reasoning. Even so, he
regards them as important, since each one sheds a certain light on the growth of
the Church and opens new lines of inquiry.27 He advocates Network Theory as
the most fruitful type of research, in his section, “Towards a Network Model of
the Early Church.” He argues that all standard formal models treat Christian-
ity as a demographic with a clear membership. His proposed model regards
Christianity as a social network with an amorphous web of people bound by
“shared characteristics or sentiments” and not necessarily a sense of identity.
Factors might include a sharing of ritual actions, baptism, monotheism, the res-
urrection of Christ, and such things as brotherhood. Network Theory would not
give a precise count of Christians but would give a more nuanced account and
insight into the growth of Christianity. Christianity would spread through small
hubs attached to the larger network. This theory would have implications for
Plutarch’s possible knowledge of Christians, since their presence would have
spread in different ways into the society he knew and among his friends. Peo-
ple would be attracted to Christianity based on their existing connectivity, and
some of his friends, and even he, in some ways might be “connected” with them.
Christianity in this model would have “piggybacked” on existing associations
such as Roman civic structures, Jewish synagogues, and the web of patron-
client relationships that held together the Romans hierarchical structure.28
Christians in Plutarch’s day could be found in major urban centers. The
largest Christian communities were in six or so leading cities of the Roman
Empire, including Rome itself, Carthage, Alexandria, Ephesus, and Antioch.
Of these, however, Plutarch had not visited Carthage, though a friend was
from there, nor Antioch, and his stay in Alexandria may have been too brief
to encounter Christians. Christians possibly appeared on the Roman radar as
early as 44 or 45, when they were first designated as “Christians” in Antioch (Act.
Ap. 11:26).29 Though it is not stated that the Roman authorities called them that,
the name suggests that they did. The name Χριστιανοί (Christianoi) is basically
27 Schor, “Conversion by the Numbers,” 487–493, esp. 487–488, 491.

28 Schor, “Conversion by the Numbers,” 493–498, esp. 493–494, and Figure 4.
29 J.A. Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles (New York: Doubleday, 1998) 139.
270 brenk
a Latin formation, virtually identical with what the Romans called them, Chris-
tiani. At the time of Acts the oi in Christianoi probably was pronounced more
like Latin “i” than English “oi.” Greek names with Latin formations were popu-
lar in the Greek East in the Imperial period.30 One can imagine, though, that it
was convenient for Roman officials to use basically the same name to designate
groups for both the Eastern and Western part of the Empire.
When Paul came to Rome in 61, he found a Christian community established
there, perhaps by Peter. A little later Christians, according to a famous pas-
sage in Tacitus, were accused by Nero of having started the great fire of 64,
at which time, Christian tradition holds that Peter and Paul were executed.
They must have made many converts and acquired some notoriety before that.
Plutarch might have heard of Christians during his trip to Smyrna during the
reign of Nero, since quite early a Christian community was established there.31
He also wrote two works now lost, a Claudius and a Nero, in which Christians
might have been mentioned.32 Though these works would have used primarily
historical sources, from a biographical standpoint, the cruel and horrendous
execution of the Christians might have been excellent material for delineat-
ing Nero’s brutal and extravagant character, such as we find in Suetonius. In
his Claudius (25.4), Suetonius mentions Claudius expelling (apparently Chris-
tian) Jews from Rome.33 According to Acts, these included Aquila and Priscilla,
with excellent Roman names, whom Paul encountered at Corinth (Act. Ap.
18). The reference in Claudius is the only one we have to this expulsion of the
Jews from Rome outside Acts, which asserts that all Jews were expelled from
Rome. Luke probably did not want to put the Christians in a bad light, or per-
haps his source did not indicate that only Christians had been expelled. Paul
probably arrived at Corinth in 51.34 The trouble seems to have involved a distur-
30 F. Biville, “The Graeco-Romans and Graeco-Latin: A Terminological Framework for Cases

of Bilingualism,” in J.N. Adams, M. Janse & S. Swain (eds.), Bilingualism in Ancient Society:
Language Contact and the Written Text (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002) 100–102.
On code-switching and borrowing between Latin and Greek, see J.N. Adams, Bilingualism
and the Latin Language (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003) 18–29; for loan
words: 29–40; for bureaucratic code-switching: 399–403.
31 For the trip, see Jones, Plutarch and Rome, 5.
32 Plutarch’s first biographical works were a series of Lives of the Roman Emperors from
Augustus to Vitellius. Of these, only Galba and Otho survive; Tiberius and Nero are extant
only as fragments.
33 K.E. Shannon-Henderson, Religion and Memory in Tacitus’ Annals (Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 2019) 355, notes that Claudius is unparalleled in the Annals for his active
interest in traditional Roman ritual and cult.
34 Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles, 619–622. The date can be somewhat determined from
an inscription at Delphi of the year 52 mentioning Gallio.
bance between Jews and Christian Jews, that is between Jews and Jews “led by
a certain Chrestos.”35 Suetonius was a close friend of the younger Pliny, whose
famous letters to Trajan involved what to do with the Christians. Pliny helped
him buy a small property and interceded with the Emperor Trajan to grant Sue-
tonius immunities usually granted to a father of three, the ius trium liberorum,
because his marriage was childless (Ep. Tra. 10.95).
The same confusion between Jews and Christians seems to appear in Sueto-
nius’ Nero 16. More about them appears in Tacitus (Annals 15.44), where, unlike
Suetonius, he depicts Nero as clearly making Christians, not Jews (“the peo-
ple called them Christians”) scapegoats for the fire in Rome.36 Both of these
works appeared around the time Plutarch probably died. The horrendous pun-
ishment of the Christians for the supposed crime is described in some unforget-
table details.37 With possibly three trips to Rome after the fire, it seems incred-
ible that Plutarch might not have surveyed some of the immense damage it
wrought and admired the rebuilding which occurred after. He would certainly
have made many inquiries about it, and undoubtedly would have heard theo-
ries about the culprits. His curiosity about them should have been aroused. He
had many friends there, such as Sextius Sulla, who surely would have been well-
informed. If the passage in Tacitus is an interpolation or if Tacitus, influenced
by later developments, enhanced the passage by making Christians the alleged
culprits, then, naturally, Plutarch would possibly not have heard about Chris-
tians instigating the fire. There may, moreover, have been local persecutions
under Domitian, news of which might have reached Plutarch either in Rome
or in Greece. These are believed to be reflected in the New Testament Book of
Revelation, though most historians reject the idea that Domitian initiated an
empire-wide persecution.38
35 Chrestos, possibly pronounced “Christos” by Roman speakers using Greek at the time,
could simply mean someone named Chrestos (“worthy”) or, in the context, more probably
Christ, i.e., Christians were causing the disturbance. See Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles,
619–620.
36 Suetonius’ Nero was published in 119 and Tacitus’ Annals ca. 120, both at the end of
Plutarch’s life or even after he was dead.
37 For Tacitus, see R. Ash, Tacitus: Annals Book xv (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2018) 194. R. Carrier, “The Prospect of a Christian Interpolation in Tacitus, Annals 15.44,”
Vigiliae Christianae 68 (2014) 282–283, on the basis of being unable to defend the passage
as genuine, regards the reference to the Christians in it as a late interpolation. B.D. Shaw,
“The Myth of the Neronian Persecution,” JRS 105 (2015) 73–100, treats the passage as gen-
uine, but not as reflecting the situation of 64, but rather that of the Trajanic period (73).
The argument is based on the lack of evidence in other authors for the Christians having
started the fire.
38 Revelation is believed to have been written about 95, suggested by clues in the visions
272 brenk
3 How Plutarch Might Have Learned about the Christians
Brent Shaw has rejected the idea of Christians being accused of starting the fire
in Rome and being persecuted by Nero.39 If we accept Shaw’s argument, then
we must conceive of a different scenario for Plutarch. In Shaw’s reconstruction
there never was a persecution of the Christians by Nero nor were they accused
of having started the fire. According to Shaw, the passage in Tacitus was written
by him and is not an interpolation, but it reflects a situation much later, during
the time of Trajan, when Christians were beginning to be noticed and coming
under accusations of criminal behavior. This scenario would not negate any
knowledge by Plutarch of Christians so much as postpone it to the second cen-
tury, when he, or at least his Roman friends, would belong to the same milieu
as that of Tacitus and Pliny, when Christians had become a problem. Plutarch’s
major period of publication was during the reign of Trajan. One might won-
der, however, whether Tacitus would have so audaciously rewritten the history
of punishment for the fire. Tacitus not only describes tortures designed for
arsonists but also includes one which might fit Christians in particular (Ann.
15.44):40
Mockery of every sort was added to their deaths. Covered with the skins of
beasts, they were torn by dogs and perished, or were nailed to crosses, or
were doomed to the flames and burnt, to serve as a nightly illumination,
when daylight had expired.
Though suggestive, crucifixion was a common punishment, and not necessar-

ily reserved for Christians. The net result is that the punishments described
pointing to the reign of the emperor Domitian. See, e.g., J.J. Clabaeaux, “Revelation,” in
J.E. Aguilar Chiu et al. (eds.), The Paulist Biblical Commentary (New York: Paulist Press,
2018) 1576–1577, who cites D.A. Aune, Revelation 1–5 (Waco, Texas: Word Books, 1997) lvi–
lxx. Scholars no longer believe that there was a systematic Empire-wide persecution of
Christians in his time; see, e.g., R. Cristofoli, “Domiziano e la cosiddetta persecuzione del
95,” Vetera Christianorum 45 (2008) 67–90; D. Timpe, “Domitian als Christenfeind und die
Tradition der Verfolgerkaiser,” in J. Frey (ed.), Heil und Geschichte: Die Geschichtsbezogen-
heit des Heils und das Problem der Heilsgeschichte in der biblischen Tradition und in der
theologischen Deutung (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009) 213–242; M.B. Stephens, Annihi-
lation or Renewal? The Meaning and Function of New Creation in the Book of Revelation
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011) 143–145, 152.
39 Shaw, “The Myth of the Neronian Persecution.”
40 Translation from A.J. Church, W.J. Brodribb & M. Hadas, Complete Works of Tacitus (New
York: Modern Library, 1942).
here are not in themselves mockery of Christians.41 The possibility remains

open that a few Christians might have been executed by Nero and that Taci-
tus changed the story to be an enormous number of Christians, and apparently
only Christians.42 If so, the fire and its aftermath would not have given the
Christians much notoriety.
If ideas about the Christians were being largely circulated among elite
Romans at this time, and not earlier, we would still expect Plutarch to men-
tion Christians somewhere in his works. Naturally, if Christians were not being
accused of having started the fire, there would have been less chance of his
learning about them. There are some weaknesses in Shaw’s reconstruction.
Though recognizing the term Christianoi as being very suitable for Roman offi-
cialdom, he downplays the notice in Acts 11:26 that Christians were first iden-
tified as such in Antioch. He also dismisses the use of Christianos in Agrippa’s
speech to Paul in Acts 26:28.43 The other weakness is the possibility that later
apologists like Lactantius might have omitted the alleged role of Christians in
the fire, for fear that readers, especially anti-Christian ones, might suspect that
the story were true.
Even with Schor’s network approach, there seems to be a problem. Schor
notes how networks and patronage were important and that element appears
in one case in Acts, with the governor of Cyprus becoming a Christian (Act.
Ap. 13:14). However, more important to Acts seems to be the phenomenon of
Christians being persecuted, brought before judges, being punished, and even
executed. This offered publicity and would have drawn the attention of promi-
nent officials, even of the Roman governors. Presumably Paul’s case would even
be heard by the Emperor. A fruitful line of inquiry, then, is Plutarch’s associ-
ation with prominent Romans, as has been well documented by Bernadette
Puech and excellently studied by C.P. Jones and Philip Stadter.44 The following
names are very suggestive: L. Mestrius Florus, proconsul of Asia under Domi-
41 On the “charade” punishments, see K.M. Coleman, “Fatal Charades: Roman Executions
Staged as Mythological Enactments,” JRS 80 (1990) 64.
42 Professor Rhiannon Ash tells me that she would be inclined to accept Tacitus’ account,
but that he might have exaggerated points in it, including the link with the Christians,
and “would certainly have been capable of bending the truth to showcase a compelling
story.”
43 Shaw, “The Myth of the Neronian Persecution,” 88 n. 71.
44 B. Puech, “Prosopographie des amis de Plutarque,” 4831–4889; Jones, Plutarch and Rome,
48–58, 61–62; P.A. Stadter, “Plutarch: Diplomat for Delphi?” in L. de Blois et al. (eds), The
Statesman in Plutarch’s Works, Volume i: Plutarch’s Statesman and his Aftermath: Political,
Philosophical, and Literary Aspects (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 19–31 [reprinted in P.A. Stadter,
Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 70–81].
274 brenk
tian, probably in the year 88/89; Minucius Fundanus, suffect consul in 107, who
was born near Pliny’s birthplace and was a correspondent of that author; and
finally, Arulenus Rusticus, suffect consul in 92, who was a friend both of Pliny
and Tacitus.45 Tacitus was a slightly older contemporary of Plutarch, but there
is no evidence that Plutarch used him as a source.46 In contrast, Jones thinks
that both Tacitus and Suetonius may have read Plutarch’s works.47 The Histo-
ries began with the year of the four emperors and concluded with the end of
the Flavian dynasty. The fifth book, which is extant, was meant as a prelude
to the next book, on the Jewish War, and contained an ethnographic survey
of the Jews, including among other things praise for their monotheism, some-
thing which Plutarch never mentions.48 Tacitus had been a disciple of one of
Plutarch’s friends, Julius Secundus, and the younger Pliny helped his son, Naso,
in his attempt to enter the Senatorial order.
In any case, as Stadter has shown, Plutarch was linked with prominent
Romans in the administration of the Flavians.49 Some of his friends governed
provinces where problems with Christians may have arisen, similar to the dis-
turbances in Pontus, which Pliny describes. Under Domitian, Pliny had worked
with the prefect in Rome, where cases involving Christians would have arisen.
He wrote, however, in a letter to Trajan that he was never present at the trial of
a Christian (Ep. Tra. 10.96.1), but this does not necessarily imply that there were
no Christians brought before Domitian or that Pliny had heard of no case of this
type. In fact, A.N. Sherwin-White takes it to mean that Pliny had heard about
such cases.50 Thus, by the time of Trajan, or even earlier, some of Plutarch’s
friends were probably involved in legal cases which involved Christians.51 Some
45 For Minucius, see Jones, Plutarch and Rome, 58.

46 Tacitus was born ca. 56 and died after 118, while Plutarch was born sometime between 40
and 45 and died ca. 120 according to Jones, Plutarch and Rome, 136–137.
47 Jones, Plutarch and Rome, 61–62.
48 Tac. Hist. 5.5. Hist. 5 breaks off after this. It would have gone on to relate the destruction of
the temple in Jerusalem and the rebuilding of the Capitoline Temple. For Tacitus’ excur-
sus on the Jews, see Bloch, Antike Vorstellungen vom Judentum. On Plutarch’s silence about
monotheism, see Geiger in this volume.
49 See above, n. 3.
50 A.N. Sherwin-White, The Letters of Pliny: A Historical and Social Commentary (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1966) 694; see also C. Whitton & R. Gibson, “Introduction: Read-
ers and Readings of Pliny’s Epistles,” in R. Gibson & C. Whitton (eds.), The Epistles of Pliny
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016) 1–50; G. Woolf, “Pliny’s Province,” in R. Gibson &
C. Whitton (eds.), The Epistles of Pliny (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016) 442–460.
51 According to Sherwin-White, The Letters of Pliny, 695, Pliny must have been present for
the trial of Flavia Domitilla in 95 on a political charge that involved ἀθεότης (LSJ: “godless-
of his friends had a relationship with Pliny, who under Trajan wrote his famous
letter asking what to do with the Christians in Pontus.52 This is the earliest non-
Christian account of conflict with Christianity, earlier by five years than Taci-
tus.53 According to Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 3.127, 130), two other Christians were
put on trial under Trajan, Cleophas, the reputed brother of Christ, at Jerusalem
by the legate “Atticus,” and Ignatius of Antioch, who perished in the Flavian
Amphitheater in Rome.54
Overall, it seems impossible that Plutarch, with his interest in foreign reli-
gions, something shared by many governors of provinces, would not have heard
about Christianity from his friends and learned something about it. These offi-
cials would have been interested in Christians primarily from a legal and polit-
ical perspective, not that of religious historians, but, nonetheless, they seem to
have had broad interests as members of the elite and as indicated in Plutarch’s
Moralia. The texts such as Pliny’s Letters 10.96, Tacitus, Annals 15.44, and Sueto-
nius, Claudius 25, indicate that the disputes were becoming conflicts between
Christians and the Roman authorities rather than between Jews and Christians
as depicted in Acts. During the prime of Plutarch’s life, Roman officials were
making a clear distinction between Christians and Jews and were becoming
much better informed about Christians.
Another possible indirect contact of Plutarch with Christianity, theoreti-
cally, at least, would be through contacts of the Roman elite with members of
the local elite who had converted to Christianity. However, this evidence is not
very convincing for the first centuries. Among those in Acts are a city treasurer,
Sergius Paulus, and Dionysius the Areopagite. Hurtado mentions four persons,
but one of them can be dismissed, the dedicatee, Theophilus, of Luke (1:1–4)
and Acts (1:1), who in Luke simply is called “most excellent” (kratistos).55 The
second, Erastus, is called the treasurer (oikonomos) of the city (Ep. Rom. 16:23),
ness,” “atheism,” “neglect of the gods of the state”) and Judaic practices, a trial held before
the princeps or the Senate.
52 Sherwin-White, The Letters of Pliny, 691–713. See also K.M. Coleman, “Bureaucratic Lan-
guage in the Correspondence between Pliny and Trajan,” TAPA 142 (2012) 189–238, which
does not mention the letter about the Christians. P.A. Stadter, “Pliny and the Ideology of
Empire: The Correspondence with Trajan,” Prometheus 32 (2006) 62, 72, notes how Pliny,
while treating the Christians, wanted to comply with Trajan’s insistence on fairness rather
than coercion or imperial interests.
53 Sherwin-White, The Letters of Pliny, 693 with appendix v.
54 Sherwin-White, The Letters of Pliny, 695.
55 Translations in this paragraph are from The Holy Bible: New Revised Standard Version with
Apocrypha (New York: Harper Catholic Bibles, 2007); see also Hurtado, Why on Earth Did
Anyone Become a Christian, 39–43.
276 brenk
which might be of Corinth or Ephesus. Another is a certain Jew named Manaen

(a graecized form of Menachem), who had become a very active Christian and
is described as a syntrophos of Herod Antipas (Act. Ap. 13:1). The word literally
means “brought up with,” but could be as general as “one familiar to.” Dionysius
the Areopagite (Act. Ap. 17:34), after Paul gives his speech, was one of those who
“joined him and became believers.”56 Sergius Paulus, the proconsul of Cyprus
(Act. Ap. 13:12) after seeing the miraculous blinding by Paul of the false prophet,
Bar Jesus, “believed, astonished at the teaching about the Lord.”
A possibility of information about the Christians would be through contacts
of the Roman elite who were acquaintances of Plutarch, with Flavius Jose-
phus or other high-ranking Jews. In Acts 26:28, at the end of Paul’s speech
before Agrippa ii and his sister Berenice, explaining Christianity to them,
Agrippa admits to almost being convinced by Paul to become a Christian
(Christianos).57 Possibly Agrippa would have heard of or known Menachem,
the close friend of Herod Antipas, who grew up with him, and learned some-
thing about Christianity in this way before he met Paul at Caesarea (Act. Ap.
13.1).58 Agrippa in turn might have mentioned him to one of the Roman gover-
nors or officials. Agrippa was close to Josephus, who in 71, came to Rome in the
entourage of Titus, becoming a Roman citizen and client of the ruling Flavian
dynasty. While in Rome and under Flavian patronage, Josephus wrote his Jew-
ish War in 78 and Antiquities around 93 or 94, a time when Plutarch was in his
prime. Roman friends of Plutarch might have met Josephus or read his works.
The Antiquities mentions Christ twice. The first instance, called the Testimo-
nium Flavianum (18.3), is regarded by most scholars today as genuine, but with
a Christian interpolation, since it calls Jesus the Messiah and “wise teacher.”
The second instance (20.9), also considered genuine and somewhat dependent
upon the first, simply mentions the stoning to death of “James, the brother of
Jesus” under Herod Agrippa.59
56 Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles, 496–497, 499–504, 612–613, 653.

57 M. Girardin, “Review of D.M. Jacobson, Agrippa ii: The Last of the Herods (London: Rout-
ledge, 2019),”BMCR 2020.04.35 (2020), criticizes Jacobson for omitting the incident before
Agrippa in Acts.
58 Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles, 496–497.
59 R.E. Van Voorst, Jesus Outside the New Testament: An Introduction to the Ancient Evidence
(Grand Rapids, Michigan: Eerdmans, 2000) 83; P.L. Maier, Eusebius: The Church History
(Grand Rapids, Michigan: Kregel, 2007) 336–337, 509–511.
4 Plutarch’s Friends and Christians
Besides contact with Roman officials who were his friends, Plutarch would
probably have had to deal with the proconsul of Achaia on several occasions, as
Stadter has shown.60 Paul’s founding of the Christian community at Corinth in
51 is narrated in Acts 18. Trouble broke out between Jews in the synagogue there
and Paul in 51/52, and he was brought before the Roman governor. The apostle
Paul first visited the city in 49 or 50, when Gallio, the brother of Seneca, was
proconsul of Achaia. Paul resided there for eighteen months (Act. Ap. 18:1–18).
Here he first became acquainted with Priscilla and Aquila, who had left Rome
on the orders of Claudius and with whom Paul later traveled. In 51/52, Gallio
presided over Paul’s trial.61 Such disputes may have broken out later too. How-
ever, in his two letters to the Corinthians (written in 57), there is no hint of a
persecution at Corinth, nor of trouble between Christians and Jews or between
Christians and pagans. When he speaks of persecution and the like, he is only
speaking of himself, or of himself and his companions (e.g., at 1 Ep. Cor. 4:10).
He does exhort his flock to avoid taking cases between Christians to the civil
courts (6:1). A potential cause of trouble is his exhortation not to take part in
services at the Greco-Roman temples and not to eat sacrificed meat (9:10). He
also refers to the “idols,” that is the Greek and Roman gods, as “demons,” though
this line is weakly attested in the manuscripts (10:20).
The population of ancient cities was small by our standards, with the excep-
tion of Rome. Stark estimates a population of 100,000 in Corinth by 100, but
these figures may be arbitrary, since estimates of the population of ancient
cities often vary considerably between different scholars.62 Many of the citi-
zens included in the population of a city would live outside its walls. Even a
hundred Christians, however, could be very visible in a densely populated city
within the walls, especially if they refused to eat certain foods or to engage
in religious celebrations, either of the city or of the imperial cult. One of the
proconsuls of Achaia, Herrenius Saturninus was a close friend of Plutarch, to
whom Plutarch dedicated his anti–Epicurean treatise, Adversus Colotem.63 Not
only was he the dedicatee of the work, but Plutarch suggests that Saturninus
60 Stadter, “Plutarch: Diplomat for Delphi?” 28–29 [reprinted in Stadter, Plutarch and his
Roman Readers, 78].
61 Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles, 617–632.
62 E.g., estimates by different scholars for the stable population of Jerusalem at the time of
Christ vary from 10,000 to 100,000.
63 P.A. Stadter, “The Rhetoric of Virtue in Plutarch’s Lives,” in L. Van der Stockt (ed.), Rhetorical
Theory and Praxis in Plutarch (Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 495–497 [reprinted in P.A. Stadter,
Plutarch and his Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) 233–234]. Nine
278 brenk
engaged in literary and philosophical discussions with him.64 Another friend,

the elder Quietus, uncle of Avidius Nigrinus, had been proconsul of Achaia,
perhaps in 91/92. Plutarch had dedicated De sera numinis vindicta to him, and
together with Nigrinus’ father, the essay entitled De fraterno amore.65 Nigrinus
himself was a relatively close friend of Plutarch.66
Overall, it seems impossible that Plutarch, with his interest in religions,
something that he shared with many governors of provinces, would not have
learned the essentials about Christianity. This does not mean, however, that he
would have felt compelled to write about the new religion. Moreover, his avoid-
ance of contemporary topics and the use of old sources when treating foreign
religions, such as in De Iside et Osiride, might have hindered him from including
Christianity somewhere in his extant writings. This was true even of the Jewish
material in Quaestiones convivales, where references to contemporary topics
do appear. We must further remember that Plutarch’s extant works comprise
only about half of what he wrote, and that he might have mentioned Chris-
tians in his Claudius or Nero. Still, it seems virtually impossible that he would
not have known much more about Christians than he would have written in
those Lives, especially since Christians impacted the legal and political spheres
of his time. He may have found them somewhat mysterious, and, like other
Greco-Roman authors, regarded them as a threat to the dominant culture of
the Imperial period. Thus, it is not impossible that he engaged in a conspiracy
of silence against them, at least in his extant writings.
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chapter 16
Plutarch’s (Unexpected?) Silence on Jewish

Monotheism
Joseph Geiger
There is no need to justify, or even to explain, our interest in the attitudes of

the classical world towards Judaism, and subsequently towards Christianity.
However, besides the intrinsic interest in these religions there is a major addi-
tional benefit to be derived from studying Greek and Latin authors on Jews
and Judaism. Ancient Judaism and Christianity are vigorous religions that care-
fully attend to their history and traditions, and these left behind a rich array
of texts. Therefore, our knowledge on these subjects far exceeds what can be
learned from our surviving Classical sources. As a consequence, these sources
can serve us either as controls regarding the ancients’ knowledge of and interest
in certain matters or, alternatively, for the survival of the information in their
possession in our existing evidence. Now I think there is no call for a statistical
survey or a learned article to back up the assertion, that anybody contemplating
the religions of the ancient world compared to later times will consider in the
first place the contrast between the polytheistic world, or in common parlance
the “pagan world,” and that part of the modern world that is dominated by the
monotheistic religions, be it in the fashionable definition as Judeo–Christian
tradition, or the even more fashionable and inclusive one of Abrahamic reli-
gions.
Since Judaism was the oldest, and the first of the monotheistic religions, and
the first encountered by the Greeks and Romans, one would expect this aspect
of Judaism to occupy at least a central position in the discussions in our Clas-
sical sources. Plutarch, who has a number of obiter remarks on Jewish history
and traditions besides two discussions in Quaestiones convivales dedicated to
certain aspects of Judaism, is as good a case in point as any for this problem.
Not only was he a priest at Delphi and earnestly engaged with Greek religious
traditions and rituals, but he also had a keen interest in religious matters out-
side his own Greek, or Greco-Roman, world: his essay De Iside et Osiride is still a
significant major source for ancient Egyptian religion, though in that case Egyp-
tian sources can much less be expected to be used as controls than is the case
of Judaism. With Egyptian religion it is a generally accepted assumption that
Plutarch’s visit to Alexandria was a significant factor in conceiving his essay.
© Joseph Geiger, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_018

plutarch’s (unexpected?) silence on jewish monotheism 283
Similarly, in discussions on Plutarch and the Jews it could be argued that

he may have encountered and perhaps spoken to Jews not only on his travels
to Alexandria and to Rome, where sizeable communities existed, but perhaps
nearer at home: the first Jew attested in Greece lived in Boeotia in the third cen-
tury bce, as we learn from an inscription discussed by David Lewis.1 However,
this “first Greek Jew,” as Lewis designated him, would hardly impress with his
monotheism: he practiced incubation in the Temple of Amphiaraus at Oropus.
In any case it must be remembered that there is no reference or hint to any
encounter with Jews in Plutarch’s works, and as far as we can tell his informa-
tion on the nation and their customs and religious practices derives solely from
written sources—not at all a surprising state of affairs for such a bookish man.
In fact, on a previous occasion I attempted to trace his source on the question
of the God of the Jews, a question that will be pursued from a different angle
in this chapter.2 It is also remarkable that Plutarch’s total silence regarding the
emerging Christianity—for that remarkable fact he was called the silent writer
by Fred Brenk3—may be another result of his reliance on book-learning rather
than on observation of real life.4
But to return to the issue of monotheism: what we would expect from
Plutarch, when posing the question of who the God of the Jews is, and indeed
from any serious ancient discussion of this question, is at least a brief refer-
ence to monotheism, that is, a sketch of the Jewish religion as believing in one,
exclusive God with an exclusive cult, who cannot be physically imagined or
rendered, an eternal god who created everything except for himself. What we
get in Plutarch’s discussion instead of this almost self-evident description is
a mostly, though not always, accurate account of a number of rituals in the
Temple of Jerusalem and elsewhere, that may be interpreted as equating the
God of the Jews—that is, the special national god of the Jews, without any hint
at his exclusiveness—with Dionysus. Indeed, it has been observed, again by
Brenk, that “Plutarch lacks an appreciation of the finest elements in Judaism,
such as its monotheism, lofty concept of God, high moral code, and heroism
1 D.M. Lewis, “The First Greek Jew,” Journal of Semitic Studies 2 (1957) 264–266.
2 J. Geiger, “Plutarch, Dionysus, and the God of the Jews Revisited (An Exercise in Quellen-
forschung),” in L. Van der Stockt, F.B. Titchener, H.G. Ingenkamp & A. Pérez Jiménez (eds.),
Gods, Daimones, Rituals, Myths and History of Religions in Plutarch’s Works: Studies Devoted
to Professor Frederick E. Brenk by the International Plutarch Society (Málaga: Universidad de
Málaga; Logan, Utah: Utah State University, 2010) 211–220.
3 F.E. Brenk, “Lo scrittore silenzioso: giudaismo e cristianesimo in Plutarco,” in I. Gallo (ed.),
Plutarco e la religione (Naples: M. D’Auria, 1996) 239–262.
4 See J. Buckler, “Plutarch and Autopsy,” ANRW II.33.6 (1992) 4788–4830, and Brenk in this vol-
ume.
284 geiger
in maintaining the faith.”5 More blatantly, still, he does not notice, or at least
does not refer to, the very concept of monotheism, let alone its crucial impor-
tance.
This omission is the stranger because, to understate the case, Plutarch did
not lack an interest in theology. Among other works dealing with theolog-
ical issues, one may mention the Delphic dialogues, and perhaps above all
the speech assigned to Plutarch’s teacher Ammonius in De E apud Delphos.6
Indeed, Plutarch’s God—and this is not the place to enlarge on his henotheistic
tendencies—is a worthy subject for its own sake. Nor was Plutarch’s theological
interest confined to his own, Greco-Roman world: De Iside et Osiride displays
a fascination also with Egyptian theology, not only with myth, and to top it off
contains a theological digression concerned with Zoroastrianism.
To return to our main subject, pride of place in the discussion concerning
the God of the Jews belongs of course to interpretatio Graeca and Plutarch’s
use of it. It is this issue that will best bring out his interest in ritual as against
the theological problem of monotheism. Still, it is worth our while to examine
how Plutarch arrived at his interpretatio Graeca regarding the God of the Jews,
also because his literary art in Quaestiones convivales is not always sufficiently
appreciated. The stage is set at Quaest. conv. 4.4 (667C–669E), at the fashion-
able and luxurious spa of Aedepsus in Euboea, and the first topic discussed
is quite fitting to the setting, “Whether the sea is richer in delicacies than the
land.” The next question (4.5, 669E–671C), “Whether the Jews abstain from pork
because of reverence or aversion for the pig,” deals with one of the best-known
peculiarities of the Jews and is smoothly connected to the previous question.7
It is from this topic that we glide on to the inquiry that is our concern here,
about the identity of the God of the Jews, which appears to me to be by far the
most interesting of the discussions of that evening. This question (4.6, 671C–
672C) is the finale of this triad of problems raised at one sitting; the lost talks
in the remainder of the book (the titles survive) dealt with different themes.
This last conversation, “Who the god of the Jews is,” unfortunately miss-
ing its end, provides an excellent opportunity to observe Plutarch’s interest in
Jewish ritual as opposed to his ignoring the serious question of monotheism.
5 F.E. Brenk, “Plutarch, Judaism and Christianity,” in M. Joyal (ed.), Studies in Plato and the Pla-
tonic Tradition: Essays Presented to John Whittaker (London: Routledge, 1997) 103.
6 See, e.g., F.E. Brenk, “Plutarch’s Middle-Platonic God: About to Enter (or Remake) the
Academy,” in R. Hirsch-Luipold (ed.), Gott und die Götter bei Plutarch (Berlin: De Gruyter,
2005) 27–49.
7 In the introduction to the discussion, Plutarch calls pork the most appropriate (δικαιότατον)
meat.
On that earlier occasion dealing with this conversation, I argued that Plutarch
derived his quite extensive and sometimes exclusive knowledge of the cult in
the Temple of Jerusalem and of the functions and garments of the High Priest
from Hecataeus of Abdera. For the time being I shall leave open the question,
whether Hecataeus had already ignored the matter of Jewish monotheism, or
whether Plutarch despite his source never mentioned the fact that, albeit the
Jews practiced animal sacrifice in a manner quite similar to that of the Greeks
and Romans, they did so exclusively in the Temple of Jerusalem to their sin-
gle and particular God. It appears that there was no point in describing Jewish
animal sacrifice for its ritual—though appreciating its exclusiveness in being
dedicated to one god only would have given the readers an altogether deeper
insight into the essence of the nation. Also, the note on their worship in their
temples, universally understood as referring to synagogues, does not remark on
the absence of animal sacrifices in these places.
Could it be that Plutarch was just unaware of, or ignored, Jewish monothe-
ism, or else thought it insignificant? He gives the impression that he was
unaware in a passage from his philosophical treatise against the Stoics (De
Stoic. rep. 1051E; Stern vol. 1, 550).8 There Plutarch discusses the opinions of
the Jews and the Syrians on the gods without distinguishing between the two
nations regarding the multiplicity of gods; the passage is also coupled with ref-
erences to the “superstition” of the poets—again, hardly an indication of the
author’s awareness of Jewish monotheism. To pursue this question further, a
short digression on Greek and Latin authors on Jewish monotheism is required.
In parentheses it should be emphasized here that these authors do not neces-
sarily represent popular opinion and that the questions of the popular attrac-
tions of Judaism and of the question of it encouraging a mission are different
from the one pursued here.
In the excellent scholarly collection of Menahem Stern, there appear pas-
sages and fragments of over one hundred and sixty authors from Herodotus to
Late Antiquity.9 How many of these refer explicitly to Jewish monotheism? A
brief account is given by Plutarch’s contemporary Tacitus, at the beginning of
Book Five of the Histories, in an excursus on the Jews preceding the story of the
siege and destruction of Jerusalem, by far the longest description of Judaism in
Greek or Latin literature. He has the following to say on our subject (5.5.4):
8 When available, citations of ancient references to Jews and Judaism also include the cor-
responding entry in M. Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, 3 volumes
(Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974–1984). Translations are from
the Loeb editions.
9 See above, n. 8.
286 geiger
The Jews conceive of one god only, and that with the mind alone; they
regard as impious those who make from perishable materials representa-
tions of gods in man’s image; that supreme and eternal being is to them
incapable of representation and without end. Therefore, they set up no
statues in their cities, still less in their temples; this flattery is not paid
their kings, nor this honor given to the Caesars.
Still, even this exposition occupies but one section of the twelve-chapter long
excursus, and it by no means takes up a central position nor is it presented
as the most fundamental tenet of Judaism. Tacitus goes on, then, to reject the
views of those who identify the God of the Jews with Liber Pater because of
some external resemblances between Jewish worship and the worship of Liber.
Regrettably we do not possess any evidence for the acquaintance of the Greek
sage with the senatorial historian, or of their familiarity with each other’s writ-
ings.10 I do not think it absurd, however, to envisage the possibility that Tacitus’
remarks are indeed an attack on Plutarch’s identification of the Jewish God as
Dionysus: as far as we can tell the Histories and the Quaestiones convivales were
roughly contemporaneous, both written under Trajan. Evidently one would not
expect Tacitus to name a contemporary Greek author whom he criticizes. Nev-
ertheless, the idea of Tacitus criticizing Plutarch is not new. In fact, a number of
scholars have taken the reference to the Greek annals at the end of Book Two of
the Annals (“Graecorum annalibus,” 2.88) as referring to Plutarch. I admit that
I do have some difficulty with crediting Tacitus with labeling Plutarch’s works
as annales, but I do see in a more positive light other possible connections
between the two authors. Julius Secundus, who is mentioned by Plutarch, is
featured in Tacitus’Dialogue on Oratory; Plutarch may have met Tacitus’ friend,
the younger Pliny, with whom he shared Sosius Senecio as a common friend;
and Sosius Senecio’s acquaintance with Tacitus is possible. But above all, and
beyond the general possibility of acquaintance, also reckoning with Plutarch’s
visits to Rome, there is the distinct impression that Tacitus’ criticism is directed
at Plutarch. One notices of course the disapproval of those who equate the God
of the Jews with Liber Pater, that is, Dionysus. Even more specifically, Tacitus
refers to the ivy and the accompanying music of the feast (Hist. 5.5.5), also
details reported by Plutarch (Quaest. conv. 4.6, 671DE). But in addition, and
more importantly, there is Tacitus’ fairly accurate description of the basic tenets
of Jewish monotheism—so strangely missing from Plutarch’s discussion and
most naturally understood as criticism.
10 On the possibility that Plutarch and Tacitus knew each other, see Brenk in this volume.
We shall appreciate the respective stances of Plutarch and of Tacitus in

the following short survey. Tacitus was not alone and was preceded on some
aspects among Latin authors by Livy, who was aware that the God of the Jews
was anonymous and without physical description (Livy ap. schol. Luc. 2.593;
Stern vol. 1, 330), and by Lucan who knew that he was anonymous (Luc. 2.593;
Stern vol. 1, 459). Among surviving Greek writers Plutarch was not alone in his
ignoring the most basic and most important tenet of Judaism. In the exhaustive
discussion of Bezalel Bar-Kochva, “monotheism” appears twice only: once we
are told in the well-known passage of Clearchus of Soli cited by Josephus (Ap.
1.176–183) that “had [Aristotle] met the Jew and heard from him about the wis-
dom of the Jews, he would have referred in some way or other at least to Jewish
monotheism.”11 Well, he did not meet the Jew and he did not hear about their
wisdom. The second reference concerns the man sometimes called the Hel-
lenistic Aristotle: “In light of his theological views, it is only to be expected that
Posidonius would have sympathized with Jewish insistence on monotheism
….”12 This may well have been so, but it does not emerge from the underlying
source (J. Ap 2.79; Stern vol. 1, 145). Indeed, one may add that had Plutarch com-
mented on Jewish monotheism he may have found himself in sympathy with it.
This, in fact, is the gist of the argument that devotes a lengthy discussion to the
common ground between Plutarch and Christianity, even though that religion
is never mentioned by him.13 However, in light of his predecessors, and to be
sure of his source Hecataeus of Abdera, we should accept the fact that Plutarch
ignored Jewish monotheism while devoting two discussions, one of them quite
well-informed, to certain aspects of Jewish ritual and conduct.
Among later writers, when Christianity was already far from a curious nov-
elty, we find, for example, that Cassius Dio (37.17.2; Stern vol. 2, 349) knows not
only that the God of the Jews is anonymous and not physically represented,
but also that the Jews do not worship any of the other gods. Even this descrip-
tion does not, in our modern view, amount to more than monolatrism, that is,
exclusivity of worship. At any rate I wish here to emphasize that I am discussing
extant texts of Greek and Roman writers, not the attitudes of anonymous
masses, or of possible and actual converts and sympathizers. Nevertheless, it
may be remarked that ancient discussions concerning conversion to Judaism
or the various degrees of sympathy with it, to my knowledge, never mention
11 B. Bar-Kochva, Pseudo Hecataeus, “On the Jews”: Legitimizing the Jewish Diaspora (Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 2010) 48; cf. Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and
Judaism, vol. 1, 47–52.
12 Bar-Kochva, Pseudo Hecataeus, 397.
13 Brenk, “Plutarch, Judaism and Christianity.”
288 geiger
monotheism as such as one of its attractions. It is only in Jewish writings that

the acts of the God of the Jews cause conversion, as in the case of Achior ( Ju.
14:10).
I am not sure that I can give a full explanation of what seems to me a strange
attitude of Greek writers, and in particular Plutarch, to Judaism, but there is
one important aspect I would like to underline. It transpires that Plutarch’s
discussion of the God of the Jews and his equation of him with Dionysus is
a good example of interpretatio Graeca. Various parts of the ritual, the ivy, the
procession, the thyrsus, the wine, are paralleled with and explained by Greek
usage, though of course also some differences, such as the Jews’ abstention
from using honey in their sacrifices, are also remarked upon. Exotic details,
such as the High Priest’s garments, are accorded elaborate comment. Such
colorful descriptions do not diminish the force of the interpretatio Graeca. In
discussing Plutarch’s question, “Who the god of the Jews is,” we must be aware
of what he really had in mind: with which Greek god should we equate the
National God of the Jews? In a similar context, Tacitus with characteristic self-
confidence does not even deign to name the gods of the Germans other than
by their Roman names. Quod licet Iovi non licet bovi. Putting the question thus
obviously invalidates any effort to try and realize, let alone discuss or under-
stand, Jewish monotheism and its exclusivity. What is left is ritual: where does
Jewish ritual recall Greek practices, and in what details, preferably strange or
bizarre, do these rituals differ from Greek customs? And let us not forget: this
approach worked well enough in other cases—that is, to stay close to our sub-
ject, in Plutarch's own extensive discussion of Egyptian religion in De Iside et
Osiride. This is the approach in Quaestiones convivales. Interrogating why the
Jews abstain from pork (4.5, 669E–671C), for instance, is essentially a question
close to ritual—the customs and traditions of the people.
Ultimately, however, all the descriptions of Plutarch, and before him of
Hecataeus of Abdera, rest on observation, be it on first, second, or third hand.
This approach entails its own danger of misinterpretation. One example shall
suffice: Plutarch refers to the Fast, that is, the Day of Atonement, rather casu-
ally in his discussion of the God of the Jews (Quaest. conv. 4.6, 671C–672C).
Hecataeus of Abdera, Plutarch’s source (see D.S. 40.3.5–6), indeed calls the High
Priest “the messenger of God” and says that the Jews fall to the ground and
make obeisance to him when he announces the commandments of God, and
further Diodorus says (34–35.1.3; Stern vol. 1, 182) that it was lawful only for the
priests—he must mean the High Priest—to enter the Holy of Holies. Behind
these rather imprecise and confused reports lurks the most central, and even
mysterious event of ancient Jewish worship. The High Priest, donning special
garments used only on that day of the year indeed enters on this day only the
Holy of Holies and utters, once a year only, before the assembled people the
secret and ineffable Name of God while the entire congregation fall on their
faces. Thus, this fundamental proclamation of monotheism is, as far as we can
tell from our surviving texts, missed by both Hecataeus of Abdera and, in his
wake, by Plutarch, and is being replaced by misunderstandings and by inciden-
tal curiosities concerning the ritual.
As is well-known, the worship in the Temple could not have been observed
by Hecataeus, or in fact by any gentile, since the entry of gentiles to the com-
pound was forbidden. Hecataeus had to rely on oral reports from Jews. Did
his informant neglect to mention Jewish monotheism, the central tenet of the
faith, or when reporting the ceremonies of the Day of Atonement fail to appre-
ciate the significance of its most solemn event? It is imperative to make clear
what interpretatio Graeca is, as it is part and parcel of the ancients’ outlook on
the world. It was not the discovery that other, barbarian peoples worshipped
under different names the same gods as the Greeks. On the contrary the case
was axiomatic, and it was the facts that had to be accommodated to the theory:
barbarians worshipped the same gods as the Greeks; it is only the equivalence
that had to be found out. In the case of Dionysus and the God of the Jews this
was a far from convincing effort, as already Tacitus, an acute observer, and by
no means friendly to the Jews, had perceived. Of course, noting the general
resemblance between Greek traditions and rituals and those of foreign peoples
went hand in hand with recording the differences and noticing the more curi-
ous and remarkable facts peculiar to the various peoples. Anything that would
go completely against the grain of the theory would best be ignored. It is thus
that we learn from Hecataeus such rather recondite details as the Jews did not
use honey in their sacrifices, while it is nowhere hinted at that these sacrifices
were due to the one, exclusive and unnamed god, and that the only place sanc-
tioned for these sacrifices was His Temple in Jerusalem. I do not wish to pretend
to enter the minds of Hecataeus, Plutarch, or of any of the ancients, and assert
that they knowingly and willingly suppressed the most important fact about
Judaism, just because it was totally opposed to anything known to the Greeks
and did not fit their understanding of the world; it seems to me sufficient to
assume that a fact not looked for and not fitting into their worldview was just
passed over in silence. Indeed, the very concepts of polytheism and monothe-
ism were far from their minds. As for ritual, here there were not a few facts of
interest, and of, as one may say, comparative religion, to observe.
As a matter of fact, there were three Jewish ritual peculiarities on which the
various Greek and Roman writers remarked most often: their abstinence from
the flesh of pigs, their avoidance of work on the Sabbath, and circumcision.
Obviously pork was a major constituent of the ancients’, and certainly the Ital-
290 geiger
ians’, diet, but it is remarkable that almost no other rule of the many Jewish
dietary laws was known or at least remarked on. I have mentioned on that pre-
vious occasion the exceptional notice of Plutarch on the prohibition on the
flesh of hares in the first of his Jewish questions in Quaestiones convivales, but
on the other hand some other notices, even by such knowledgeable writers as
the Elder Pliny, are totally misleading, and on the whole there does not seem
to be any awareness of the amount and diversity of Jewish dietary laws or an
interest in them despite the existence of not a few dietary taboos also among
certain sections and groups of the Greeks and Romans. Also, circumcision, a
fairly widespread practice among the peoples of the Eastern Mediterranean,
was primarily associated with the Jews, probably because of their being the
most widespread group to practice it. Most interesting are the notices on the
Sabbath: this, indeed, was a Jewish institution with widespread political and
historical consequences, on which a number of ancient writers have remarked.
Interestingly enough, this was the Jewish practice that was to prevail, in a some-
what different form, in Christian Europe and to conquer, again in a somewhat
different form, the life routine of the entire modern world, monotheistic, poly-
theistic, atheistic, agnostic, or whatever.
However, it is the contrast between these ritual practices and Jewish
monotheism that is at the center of my interest. Certainly, the identity of the
imageless god worshipped in the Temple of Jerusalem intrigued several ancient
writers, and the mystery gave rise to explanations, sometimes as uncomplimen-
tary to the Jews as the libel that their god was an ass’s head. What I find most
remarkable about this issue is the fact that, to all appearances, ancient writers,
including men as intelligent and as knowledgeable about religious matters as
Plutarch, were interested in the ritual aspect only. It was the rituals by which
one was to determine who was the God of the Jews, rather than what amounts
in our eyes to the basic difference of their worship compared with the reli-
gion of the Greeks and Romans, their monotheism. This attitude is of a piece
with how Plutarch, along with what seems to me the unanimous view of the
ancients, regarded the Jewish and later, in a somewhat different form, the Chris-
tian religion. While in our eyes there exists a deep-rooted contrast between
the monotheistic religions and polytheistic, so-called “pagan,” antiquity, this
does not seem to reflect the perception of the Greeks and Romans. This was
of course in stark contrast to the Jews’, and later to the Christians’, own out-
look. Though Jews may sometimes have remarked, condescendingly or with
hostility, on a variety of pagan customs, it was the pagans’ polytheistic world
view and worship that drew almost all the fire. It was not the specific rituals
connected with their multiple gods that were despised by the Jews but rather
the very belief in their existence: any suspect ritual was examined in Rabbinic
literature only for the sake of finding out whether it amounted to idolatry, in
the details of idolatrous ritual per se they had no interest whatsoever.
Ignoring Jewish monotheism goes hand in hand with—or can be viewed as
the natural outcome of—another strange case of failing to notice something of
importance, viz., the Greco-Roman world’s total disregard of the Hebrew Bible,
including its Greek version, the Septuagint, which was available from the sec-
ond century bce. And not only the Hebrew Bible: the special version of history
completed for their enlightening, Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities, and his coining
the term theokratia, was similarly disregarded by pre-Christian antiquity, not to
mention the total ignoring of the voluminous oeuvre of Philo, despite its heavy
dependence on Greek philosophy. The simple—or simple sounding—reply to
all questions regarding Jewish customs, and I emphasize, customs rather than
beliefs, is that this was the Law of Moses, the mouthpiece of the one and exclu-
sive God of the Jews. Such a reply would of course be totally incongruous with
the starting point of Plutarch’s, in fact all Greeks’, enquiry, namely the interpre-
tatio Graeca. Moreover, the fact that the Jews were in possession of a sacred text
that prescribed all their rituals and customs—and a wide-ranging tradition of
their interpretation—was obviously at variance with Greek experience.
To turn to a silence wider than Plutarch’s. Did Greek and Roman writers
ignore the Hebrew Bible because its very existence and its standing with the
Jewish people was totally opposed to their world view, and in fact even to what
the Greeks could learn from all other peoples? Of course, I am not trying to say
that the Greeks intentionally decided to ignore the Book of the People of the
Book. It just may never have occurred to them that actually studying that book
and understanding its position with the people would provide the solution to
all their queries regarding, from their point of view, the strange rituals and cus-
toms of the Jews. Yet it was one thing to observe the customs of foreign peoples
and find similarities between them and Greek practices; it required a totally
different approach to try and study seriously the wisdom of barbarians.
In fact, the only writer prior to the ascendance of Christianity who left us
a reference, and even that not quite literal, to the Hebrew Bible, probably in
its Septuagint version, is the author of On the Sublime (De sublimitate 9.9; Stern
vol. 2, 361–365). Even this quotation is far from proof that the author had indeed
laid his eyes on the Hebrew Bible. Quoting the “legislator of the Jews” (sic) and
saying, “‘God said’—what? ‘Let there be light. And there was. Let there be earth.
And there was,’” is even less proof of acquaintance with the Pentateuch than
a Pompeiian graffito reading “arma virumque” is proof of its author’s acquain-
tance with the entire Aeneid.
Anyway, whatever the reasons we may assign to the ignoring of the Septu-
agint, in our modern view this may amount to a blatant dodging of a chance
292 geiger
to better understand what after all was a significant part of the Greco-Roman
world. With the Septuagint available, this disregard went beyond the Greeks’
refusal to learn foreign languages, a trait famously illuminated by Arnaldo
Momigliano.14 Nor am I convinced that ignoring the Hebrew Bible can entirely
be laid at the foot of what educated Greeks would consider as its sub-standard
language and style. Indeed, if Greeks maintained a prejudice against studying
Greek written by foreigners, this prejudice was not without basis: the language
and style of the Septuagint would not pass the test of Greek intellectuals—
most certainly not in the age of Atticism. Surely Josephus’ famous reliance on
style editors seems intended to thwart any future criticism of this sort.15 Still,
we do not possess evidence of anyone trying to read—and criticize—the Jew-
ish writings. I am aware that in this entire argument I am taking here the risk
of being regarded as returning to a rather old-fashioned view in highlighting
the ancients’ emphasis on ritual as against theology and doctrine; in the case
of Plutarch this seems to me to be a correct reading at least as far as foreign
civilizations were concerned.
Acknowledgements
Heartfelt thanks are due to the organizers of the conference and editors of the
volume, as well as to Lucia Athanassaki and Frances Titchener for a conference
they organized in 2017 in Crete, where I read an earlier version of this paper.
Works Cited
Bar-Kochva, B., Pseudo Hecataeus, “On the Jews”: Legitimizing the Jewish Diaspora
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010).
Brenk, F.E., “Lo scrittore silenzioso: giudaismo e cristianesimo in Plutarco,” in I. Gallo
(ed.), Plutarco e la religione (Naples: M. D’Auria, 1996) 239–262.
Brenk, F.E., “Plutarch, Judaism and Christianity,” in M. Joyal (ed.), Studies in Plato and
the Platonic Tradition: Essays Presented to John Whittaker (London: Routledge, 1997)
97–117.
Brenk, F.E., “Plutarch’s Middle-Platonic God: About to Enter (or Remake) the Academy,”
in R. Hirsch-Luipold (ed.), Gott und die Götter bei Plutarch (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005)
27–49.
14 A. Momigliano, “The Fault of the Greeks,” Daedalus 104.2 (1975) 15–18.

15 See T. Rajak, Josephus: The Historian and His Society (London: Duckworth, 22002 [1984])
46–49.
Buckler, J., “Plutarch and Autopsy,” ANRW II.33.6 (1992) 4788–4830.

Geiger, J., “Plutarch, Dionysus, and the God of the Jews Revisited (An Exercise in Quel-
lenforschung),” in L. Van der Stockt, F.B. Titchener, H.G. Ingenkamp & A. Pérez
Jiménez (eds.), Gods, Daimones, Rituals, Myths and History of Religions in Plutarch’s
Works: Studies Devoted to Professor Frederick E. Brenk by the International Plutarch
Society (Málaga: Universidad de Málaga; Logan, Utah: Utah State University, 2010)
211–220.
Lewis, D.M., “The First Greek Jew,” Journal of Semitic Studies 2 (1957) 264–266.
Momigliano, A., “The Fault of the Greeks,” Daedalus 104.2 (1975) 9–19.
Rajak, T., Josephus: The Historian and His Society (London: Duckworth, 22002 [1984]).
Stern, M., Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, 3 volumes (Jerusalem: Israel
Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974–1984).
General Index
Academy 40 Chaeronea, lion of 193, 204, 205
Acrocorinth 69, 178 Christianity 7, 263, 268–278 passim, 282–
Aemilius Paulus 38, 84, 117–135, 174–175 283, 287, 290–291
Aeschines 245–246, 249, 250, 251–260 Cicero 72, 129, 131, 141, 142, 144–145,
Agesilaus 13–16, 23–25, 87–88 216
Agis iii 22–25 Cithaeron 96, 256, 257, 259, 260
Alcibiades 73, 85–87, 90, 214, 215, 217 Cleomenes of Naucratis 181
Alcinous 166 Cleobule 253
Alcmeonids 162–163 Clodius 43
Alexander the Great 19–20, 22–26, 50, 76– collective memory 189–191, 193n22, 203
78, 173, 178, 198, 204, 255–259, 260 Conon 13–14
ambition 15–16, 20–21, 25, 103–104, 107, 118– Coriolanus 39, 42, 87, 129–131
120, 124, 126, 129, 132–135, 237, 260 Crassus 5, 111, 138–149 passim, 217
Amphoterus 22 Cunaxa, Battle of 29
Andocides 212, 216 Cyrus the Younger 29–30, 95
Antalcidas 13–14
Antigonus Doson 176–178 daimonion of Socrates 51–61 passim
Antigonus Gonatas 74, 76, 173n2 Damon 195, 199–201, 202–203
Antigonus Monophthalmos 65, 70, 74, 75 Demetrius Poliorcetes 5, 6, 25n61, 65–78
Antipater 22–23 passim, 173n2, 174
Aratus 69, 76n49, 106n11, 174, 176–180, 183, Demosthenes (d. 413 bce) 213–215
185 Demosthenes (384–322 bce) 6–7, 39, 42, 72,
Aristotle 178, 227n13, 228, 230, 287 76, 245–260 passim
Artaxerxes ii 13, 29–30 Diogenes of Sinope 233–234
Asinius Pollio 140 Dion 4, 36–47 passim, 118n5, 181
Athens 14, 23n51, 40, 44, 51, 56, 66, 68, 70, Dionysius i of Syracuse 37–38, 39, 40, 47,
72–73, 76, 85, 86, 90, 93–96, 107–108, 181
159, 204, 218, 230n22, 236, 253, 255, 257, Dionysius ii of Syracuse 38, 39–40, 41, 43,
258 44, 46
Dionysius of Halicarnassus 105, 211, 247,
Beauvoir, Simone de 238–240 249
Dionysius the Areopagite 275–276
Cadmea 14–16, 255, 257 Dionysus 7, 25–26, 72, 266–267, 283, 286,
Caecilius of Caleacte 246, 247 288, 289
Caesar 2–3, 5, 18–21, 55n13, 111–114, 140, 141– Duris of Samos 71–74, 245, 256
142, 144, 147, 190, 216
Callippus 43–47 Egypt 24, 60, 140, 162, 181, 194, 201–202,
Camillus 129–132 218n21, 264, 266–267, 282, 284,
Cassander 68, 76 288
Catiline 124, 129, 131, 132, 140, 141, 147n31 Epaminondas 4, 50–61 passim, 66n4,
Cato Minor 3, 21n42, 38, 59n25, 143–144, 147, 195n32
216 Eumenes 72, 76
Chaeronea 2, 6, 25n60, 108, 188–205 pas-
sim, 250 Fabius Maximus 83, 84, 88–90, 97–101
Chaeronea, Battle of 25n60, 195, 196, 197, fire in Rome 270–271, 272–273
204, 250 Flamininus, Titus 97, 175, 176, 182
296 general index
Fortuna/Fortune (see also tyche) 2, 66–67, Mithridates vi Eupator 107, 108, 109–110,
69n21, 71, 75, 76, 78, 104, 106, 107, 109, 188, 192n17, 202
110n18, 113, 118, 128, 131, 132, 180n19, 214, monotheism 7, 269, 274, 282–292 passim
215
Nazi appropriation of Sparta 237–238
Hecataeus 191n14, 265–267, 285, 287, 288– Nicias 86, 92–93, 148, 173n1, 210–220 passim
289
Helots 66, 92, 160 Odysseus 166
Heracleides 43–47
Hermippus 245–247, 250, 253, 254 Papiria 124
Herodotus 6, 26–30, 151–167 passim, 184, pepaideumenoi 164, 166
185, 218, 224, 225n10, 285 Perseus (son of Philip v) 5, 117–135 passim,
Hieronymus of Cardia 70–71, 133n38 175, 180n19
Hyperbolus 82, 217 Philip ii 72, 188, 192n17, 246, 250–251, 254–
255, 258–259, 260
Ipsus 68, 76 Philip v 6, 133, 173–185 passim
Philistus 38, 148, 210–212
Josephus 276, 287, 291, 292 Philopoemen 76n49, 176–177
Judaism 263, 274n51, 282–292 passim polytheism 7, 282, 289, 290
Julius Secundus 274, 286 Pompey 84, 87, 111–112, 114, 138–149 passim
Pydna, Battle of 84, 117, 118n5
King’s Peace 13–15 Pyrrhus 67, 75
Kölner Papyri 13 Pythagoreanism 50, 52, 55n14, 57–60, 61
Lamachus 92, 214–215 Rome 2, 39, 55, 75n46, 87, 89, 90, 97, 98, 99,
Leonidas 27–28, 66n4, 159–161, 223, 225, 100, 102, 107, 109n16, 110, 112, 114, 117–
226 118, 125, 130, 132, 133–134, 138, 140, 144,
Leontini 46 147, 175, 180, 182, 198–201, 202–204, 205,
Leucothea, cult of 194n25, 198, 201– 263, 264, 269, 270–271, 272, 274–275,
202 276, 277, 283, 286
Livy 5, 82, 85, 88–90, 117–135 passim, 287 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 50, 236–238
Lucian 26n68, 163–165
Lucullus 143, 199–201, 203–204 Samus (friend of Philip v) 181
Lysander 75, 87, 103, 106, 108, 110, 229–230 Servilia 2, 21n42
Lysis 53–61 passim Shakespeare 210
Simmias 51, 52, 57–59, 60, 61
Macedonian War, Second 176, 182 Social War (220–217bce) 178
Macedonian War, Third 117, 118, 119nn6–7, Socrates 4, 50–61 passim
122, 125, 134, 175 Sosius Senecio 123, 196, 200n45, 267, 286
Macedonians, tomb of 193, 204 Sparta 6, 13–16, 22, 24, 27–28, 40, 51, 66, 76–
Mania 74, 76 77, 87–88, 90, 92–96, 160–161, 174n6,
Marathon, battle of 158, 162 176, 178, 215, 217, 218, 223–241 passim
Marius 27, 107–108, 114, 124, 129, 132, 142 Speusippus 44
Matuta, shrine of 198, 201, 202 Suetonius 19, 270–271, 274, 275
Megacles 44 Sulla 5, 18, 20, 87, 102–114 passim, 141, 188,
Megalopolis, Battle of 22 192n17, 193, 196, 197, 198, 201, 203
Messene 179 Syracuse 36–47 passim, 93, 128n30,
Metellus, Quintus Caecilius Numidicus 26– 214nn12–13, 215, 218, 219
27, 66n4
general index 297
Tacitus 270–275, 285–286, 287, 288, 289 Trajan 3, 145n25, 191, 202, 263, 264, 267, 271,
Theanor 52, 55–56, 58–61 272, 274, 278n66, 286
Thebes 14–15, 16, 51, 53, 55, 56, 57, 60, 61, 76, Trouillot, M.-R. 226, 240n50, 241
77, 87–88, 90, 96, 204, 255–259 tyche (see also Fortuna/Fortune) 66, 78n54
Theodotes 45
Theopompus 184, 230, 245, 251–252 Vulso, Gnaeus Manlius 120, 122–123
Thermopylae, Battle of 28, 158, 159, 161, 162,
192, 224n5 Xenophon 5, 13–16, 29–30, 82, 87, 88, 224n4,
Thucydides 5, 6, 82, 86, 105, 148, 164, 210– 228, 230, 232–234, 240–241
220 passim, 259 Xerxes 23n54, 28, 38n12, 223, 225
Timaeus 211, 212
Timoleon 78n54, 127, 128–129, 131 Zeno of Citium 233–234
Index Locorum
Classical Authors
Aeschines Dinarchus
2.93 252 1.82 256
3.77–78 254
3.83 251 Diodorus Siculus
3.160 259 1.10–98 266
3.160–161 258, 260 11.9.4–10.4 160
3.162 260 16.6 41
3.171–172 252–253, 260 17.3.2 259
3.173 249, 257, 260 17.4.1–2 258
3.255 254 17.4.5–6 258
17.4.4–7 257
Antisthenes 17.8.6 256
Fragmenta (Kassel-Austin) 17.15.2–3 256
167 251 20.102.2–3 68
20.103.1–3 69
Aristophanes 34–35.1.3 288
Lysistrata 40.3.5–6 288
391–397 212
Diogenes Laertius
Arrian 6.72 233
Anabasis
1.10 255–256 Dionysius of Halicarnassus
3.16.9–10 22 Epistula ad Ammaeum
Indica 1.3 247
15 152 1.4 247
1.10 247
Athenaeus
Deipnosophistae Duris
12.535E–536A 72 Fragmenta (BNJ 76)
1–15 71
Cassius Dio 14 72
37.17.2 287 15 72
35–55 71
Chrysostom, John 67 72
Homily on Acts 76 72–73
55 11–12
Eusebius
Demosthenes Historia ecclesiastica
18.18 248 3.127 275
18.54 250 3.130 275
18.132–133 250–251
18.237 250 Frontinus
18.257 254 Strategemata
21.154 248 1–3 84
index locorum 299
Hermippus Livy
Fragmenta (FGrHist 1026) 22.11.4–5 89
37 247 22.12.10 89
44 247 22.53–61 89
49 247 23.32.13–16 89
51–52 247 24.8.1–20 89
53a 253 27.12.1–3 89
53c 254 27.35.5 89
54 247 28.40.2–42.22 89
86 247 39.32.6 117, 123, 129
89 247 39.56.4 123
Testimonia (FGrHist 1026) 43.2.5–11 125
1 247
20 247 [Longinus]
De sublimitate
Herodotus 9.9 291
2.121 163
2.162.3 163 Lucan
3.102–105 151 2.593 287
3.102.2 152
6.106.1 158 Lucian
6.121.1 163 Quomodo historia conscribenda sit
6.123 163 41–42 164
7.139 158–159 45 165
7.213–214 162
7.216 162 Megasthenes
7.225.1 160 Fragmenta (FGrHist 715)
7.225.3 160 23 151
7.229.1 160
7.221 160 Nearchus
7.225.2–3 28 Fragmenta (FGrHist 133)
7.226 161 8 151
Homer Nepos
Odyssey Dion
11.363–369 166 4 41
11.368 157
Onasander
Josephus Strategicus
Antiquitates Judaicae 1–2 84
18.3 276 2.1 84
20.9 276 3 84
Contra Apionem 13–14 84
1.176–183 287 38 84
2.79 287 42 84
Justin Pausanias
11.3.1–2 258 9.41.7 194
11.3.4 257
16.10–17 75
300 index locorum
Philostratus De fortuna Romanorum

Epistles 318D 197
73 31 De garrulitate
502E 1
Photius De genio Socratis
Bibliotheca 575E 60
419a40 247 576EF 55
579A 60
Plato 579C 60
Epistle 7 579DF 59
350b–c 41 580A 59
351d 46 580BD 57, 59, 60
Euthyphro 581B 59
3d 60 583D 55–56
Respublica 584B 54
5.459a–460d 232 584EF 54
8.544c 232–233 584F 55
8.545a 232–233 585A 55–56
585D 54
Pliny the Younger 585E 59
Epistulae ad Traianum 585F 59–60
10.95 271 588D 58
10.96 275 588E 52
10.96.1 274 589EF 54
592F 54
Plutarch 593B 52
1. Moralia 593F 58
Amatorius 594A 60
760AB 184 594BC 59
770C–771C 264 De Herodoti malignitate
An seni respublica gerenda sit 854E 157
789D 1 855A 184
Apophthegmata Laconica 855B–856D 155–156
225D 223–226 855CD 162
Coniugalia praecepta 855EF 27–28
144EF 181–182 856B 157
Consolatio ad uxorem 856C 158
609D 195 856D 159, 162
De adulatore et amico 858BC 163
53E 180 862AB 157–158, 162
De capienda ex inimicis utilitate 862CD 162
89E 145 862D 163
De curiositate 862F 163
515BC 198 863B 163
520AB 154–155 864A 158–159
522E 2 864AB 159
De defectu oraculorum 864CD 157
412C 198 866A 28, 160–161
De exilio 866B 27, 160–161
607A 42 866CD 160–161
index locorum 301
866D 28 2. Vitae
874B 157, 165 Aemilius Paulus
De sera numinis vindicta 1.2 135
567F–568A 173 2.6 121, 124
De Stoicorum repugnantiis 3.1–5 120
1051E 285 3.6 121, 124, 126
De superstitione 4.2–3 120
169A 219–220 5 120
De tranquillitate animi 5.1–5 124
464E 2 6.1–7 120
Mulierum virtutes 6.8 124, 125
245BC 182–183 6.8–10 125
Praecepta gerendae reipublicae 7.1–2 134
799B–801B 83 7–10 125
800B–801B 83 8.4–9 175
800D 85 10.3 121
801C–804C 83 10.3–4 126
805F 87 11.1–2 121
807A–809A 83 17 84
807F 87 26.9–12 132
808B 87 27 132
809B–811A 83 30.4 38
811B–813D 83 35.2 128
811BC 2 36 128
813D–816A 84 36.4–9 132
816A–817F 84 38.1 122, 135
818A–824A 83 Agesilaus
822E 214 15.6 23
Quaestiones convivales 23.1–4 13–14
666D 196 23.5–8 14
667C–669E 284 23.11 16
669CD 265 28.6 83
669E–671C 265–266, 284, 36.9 24
288 Agis
671C–672C 284 8.1 229
671DE 286 Alcibiades
693EF 198 3.2 73
694A 198 13 217
696E 198 13.9 82
710B 197 14.8 215
736F 183 16.1–3 85
836F 166 17 86
Quaestiones Romanae 17.4 218
267DE 198 17.5–6 218
280F–281A 142 18.3 212
Regum et imperatorum apophthegmata 18.4–19.7 216
172D 2 20.6 211–212, 216
197A 182 21 212
21.9 214
302 index locorum
Alcibiades (cont.) 12.2–3 30

25.5 86 13.1 30
31.7–8 55 14.5 30
32.3–4 86 16.2 30
34.2 72–73 Brutus
Alexander 5 2–3
1.1–3 82 Caesar
1.2–3 77 1.1–6 17–18
4.10 77 4.4–7 111
5.4 77 5.8 111
6.2–4 77 6.7 111
9.2 204 14.2–5 111
9.3 198 15–17 112
9.8 77 15.1–4 111
11.1–6 258–259 18–19 112
11.7–12 204 18–22 112
14.5 77 20.1–3 112
20.13 77 20.4–10 112
38 25–26 21.3–9 112
Antonius 22–27 112
10.3 43 28.1 112
27.4 75 43.3–6 112
68.7–8 198 47 112
Aratus 57.1 112
1.5 69 63 112
2.2 177 66.1 112
4–10 177 69.1 114
4.2 177 Camillus
17–24 177 12.4 130
17.1 69 Cato Minor
24 69 24 2–3
38.6–7 178 41.1–3 144
46.2–3 178 50.2–3 38
47.6 178 54.10 82
48.1–4 178 Cicero
49.1 178–179 25.2–26.2 144
49.2 179 28. 1–2 43
49.3–5 179 32.5 131
50.3 179 Cimon
51.2–3 179 1–2 195, 199
51.4 183 1.1 191–192, 198
51.4–52.1 179 1.8 199
52–54 180 1.9 203
54.4 185 2.1–3 200, 204
Aristides 2.4 203
7 217 Cleomenes
Artaxerxes 11.1 229
8.1–2 29 Comparatio Agesilai et Pompeii
9.4 29 1.3 87
11.3 30 1.6 87
index locorum 303
Comparatio Alcibiadis et Marcii Coriolani 15.3–4 144

1.1–4 85 16.1–2 140–141
2.5–6 85 17.1–3 145
2.8–9 85 30 218
Comparatio Demetrii et Antonii Demetrius
1.1 74 1.2–4 174
Comparatio Demosthenis et Ciceronis 1.5–6 66
3.2 179 1.7 174
3.5 249 2.1 74
Comparatio Lysandri et Sullae 4.3–4 65
2.7 102 8.4–6 68
5.3–4 109 9.7 72
5.6 110 9.9–10 76
Comparatio Niciae et Crassi 9.10 74
2.3 140–141 12.1 72
2.7 217 12.7 70
5.4 220 12.8 73
Comparatio Periclis et Fabii Maximi 12.9 74
1 88 18.5–6 66
2.2 88 19.4 67
2.3 88 20.1 68
2.3–4 89 20.9 68
3.1–2 88 21–22 68
3.3–4 88 21.1–4 68
Coriolanus 22.1 67–68
15.4–5 129–130 24–28 68
21.1–3 39 24.10 74
Crassus 25.1 68
1.4–5 145 26.5 70
1.4–2.10 148 27.10 74
2 142, 145 27.10–11 76
2.1 148 29 68
2.3 139 29.2 76
3.1–4 148 29.7–8 74
3.3–4 142 32.3 68
4–5 142 33.3 67
5 145 34.4 66, 75
6.5 141 35.3 67
6.6–9 148 35.4 76
7 141 36.12 76
7.2 141 37.2 75
7.7 147 37.7–8 75
7.7–8 141–142 38.6–8 74
12 139 40.3 74
13.1–2 140 40.4–5 76
13.3–5 140, 141 41.1–4 67
14 140 41.5 66
14.2 144 41.6–8 72
15–16 139, 140 42.3 76–77
304 index locorum
Demetrius (cont.) 7.3 47

42.6 174 7.6 38
42.10–11 69 8.2 47
44.1 78 10.4 38
44.9 66, 72 11.4–12.3 38
47.3 75 12.1 45
52.5 72, 78 13.4 39
53.1 72–73 15.1 39, 42
Demosthenes 17.2–3 44
2 197 17.6–8 40
2.1–2 2 21.1–22.1 41
2.2 196, 202 28.3 44
3.1 246 29.1–4 44
4.1–2 251 32.2–5 46
4.2 253 32.3 46
4.4 253–254 53.5 46
5.7 247 54.1 44
9.6 246, 251 54.3–5 45
11 254 Eumenes
11.4 247 1.1–3 72
12 248 Fabius Maximus
12.3–4 247 5.1 88
13.4 248, 259 5.1–3 84
14.2 259, 260 5.4 88
14.4 250 16.6 82
14.14 252 23.2–3 88
15.1–2 249 Flamininus
15.5 246 2–12 176
16.1 255 2.5 176
17.1 255 3–5.2 176
17.3 246, 250 5.8 176
17.4 250 7.7 176
18.2 255 8–9 176
19.1–2 198 10–12 176
20.4 260 10.2 184–185
21.2 204 17.5 176, 182
22.1–3 254, 259 Galba
22.3–7 254–255 2.5 82
23 255, 258–259 Lucullus
23.1 204, 256 42.4–5 143–144
23.2 259 Lycurgus
23.4 72 1.1 235
24.2 250 8–10 227–229
25.2–3 260 9.4 236
26.5 39 11.1 228
28.3 247 14–15 238–240
30.1–2 247 15.8–10 232
Dion 15.12–13 232
3.6 37 15.14–16 231–233
5.6 38 25.5 238
index locorum 305
30.1 229 Phocion

31.2 233 32.4 55
Lysander Pompeius
17 230 43.1–2 147
Marius 66–67 84
24.1–2 84 Pyrrhus
29.4–5 27 3.6 75–76
29.12 26–27 Sulla
Nicias 1–2 107
1.1 148 1–10 107
1.2 220 3–4 107
1.2–3 212 4.6 107
1.5 29, 148, 210–211 6 107
2.5 219 6.7–9 104, 109
5.7 219 6.14 102
9.9 217 6.16–17 102
10.5 215 8 108
10.8 219 9 107
11 82, 217 9.12–13 107
11.9 217 10 107
12.1 218 11–14 107
12.6 212 11–29 107
12.7–8 218 11.5 108
13 212 12.3 107
13.3 216 12.4–6 107
14.2 214 12.9–14 107
14.5–7 212, 218 13.1 107
15.2 214 13.2–5 108
20.1–2 213–214 14.2 108
20.5–6 213 14.5–6 108
20.8 211 15.2–3 108
21.4 215 16.2–5 108
24.6 212 16.9–13 108
25.1 212 17–19 196
26.6 219 17.4–5 198
27.5 215 17.9–14 108
29 218 18.1–3 108
30 218 18.4–7 108
Pelopidas 19.4 108
16.7 28–29 19.5 196, 197
Pericles 19.5–6 108
2–3 72 19.7 108
2.5 88 19.9 108–109
9.1 220 20 109
13.16 73 21.1–2 109
16.7 55 21.3–4 109, 112
28.3 72 21.5–9 109
Philopoemen 22.4–9 109
8.4–5 176 22.6–7 109
12.2 177 23.6–10 109
306 index locorum
Sulla (cont.) Divus Julius

23.7 109 1.1 19
24.1–6 109
24.3–4 109 Tacitus
27–29 110 Annales
27.10 110 2.88 286
30–38 110 15.44 271–272, 275
30.1–4 102, 114 Historiae
30.5 114 1.1 30
30.6 114 5.5.4 285–286
33.5–6 102 5.5.5 286
34.2 197
36.3–4 102, 110 Theopompus
Themistocles Fragmenta (BNJ 115)
4.4–6 220 96c 252
Theseus 325 251
17.6 198 327 252
Timoleon
5.4 128 Thucycides
6.1 128 5.16.1 217
5.43.1 217
Polybius 6.15.4 85
5.9.5 181 6.19–24 219
6.45 229 6.20–21 86
7.11.8 185 6.24.3 218
8.12.1 180 6.48–52 86
18.7.3 182 6.60.2 212
18.45.6 184 6.68 215
23.10.8–9 181 6.101–103 215
7.16.1 213
Ps.-Aurelius Victor 7.39.2 219
De viris illustribus 7.43.2 213
56.1–2 123 7.69.4 213
7.86.6 219
Ps.-Plutarch 7.87 218
Vitae Decem Oratorum 8.1 218
844A 253 8.14–19 86
844D 247 8.52–56 86
847C 256 8.73.3 217
Quintilian Vita Demonsthenis, Libanius

Institutio Oratoria 293.14–28 (Westermann)
2.13.12–13 11 253
295.25 (Westermann) 253
Suetonius Vita Demonsthenis, Anonymous

Divus Claudius 302.5–22 (Westermann) 253
25 275 303.30 (Westermann) 253
25.4 270
index locorum 307
Xenophon 5.3.10–25 87
Historia Graeca 5.4.1 15
3.4.13–14 87 5.4.48 87
3.4.16–18 87 5.4.55 87
4.2.5–6 87 6.5.18–19 87
4.5.3–4 87 Respublica Lacedaemoniorum
4.6.5–12 87 1.1–9 232
4.8.12–22 13 6.1–2 232
5.1.6 13
5.1.25–29 13 Zosimus
5.1.32–36 13–16 297.11–25 253
5.2.29 15 298.17 253
5.2.32 15 298.36 253
5.2.33–34 87–88
Biblical Texts
Old Testament 13:14 273

Judith 17:34 276
14:10 288 18 270
18:1–18 277
New Testament 26:28 273, 276
Luke 1Corinthians
1:1–4 275 4:10 277
Acts of the Apostles 6:1 277
1:1 275 9:10 277
11:26 269, 273 10:20 277
13:1 276 Romans
13:12 276 16:23 275–276

(Brill's Plutarch Studies, 10) Jeffrey Beneker, Craig Cooper, Noreen Humble, Frances B. Titchener - Plutarch's Unexpected Silences - Suppression and Selection in The Lives and Moralia-Brill (2022)

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(Brill's Plutarch Studies, 10) Jeffrey Beneker, Craig Cooper, Noreen Humble, Frances B. Titchener - Plutarch's Unexpected Silences - Suppression and Selection in The Lives and Moralia-Brill (2022)

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Plutarch’s Unexpected Silences

Brill’s Plutarch Studies

Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta (University of Groningen)

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/bps

Names: Beneker, Jeffrey, editor.

This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

1 When Hermes Enters: Towards a Typology of the Silences of Plutarch’s

2 Plutarch’s Narratorial Silences in the Dion 36

3 The Unspoken Bridge between Philosophy and Politics: Plutarch’s De

4 The Quiet Life: Silence in Plutarch’s Demetrius 65

5 Fine-Tuning Portraits in the Lives: Omissions that Clarify the Lessons in

6 Plutarch’s Silence about the Relationship between Military Success and

7 The Repulsae of Aemilius Paulus in Plutarch’s Aemilius 117

8 A Life in Pieces: Plutarch, Crassus 12.1–16.8 138

10 Plutarch’s Avoidance of Philip v 173

11 Silence of the Lions: Exploring Plutarch’s Omissions on Chaeronea 188

13 Silencing Sparta 223

14 The Peek-a-Boo Presence of Aeschines in Plutarch’s Demosthenes 245

15 Plutarch on the Christians: Why So Silent? Ignorance, Indifference, or

16 Plutarch’s (Unexpected?) Silence on Jewish Monotheism 282

General Index 295

is an avid designer and promoter of games in the college classroom, creat-

In his essay on talkativeness, Plutarch turns to a verse from Sophocles to illus-

© J. Beneker, C. Cooper, N. Humble and F.B. Titchener, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_002

The second section, “Silence as a Literary Technique,” extends the discussion

argues, are determined by Plutarch’s narrative technique and compositional

When Hermes Enters: Towards a Typology of the

Just as fascinating as the question regarding the material Plutarch opts to

© Eran Almagor, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_003

The first type includes three sub categories:

This silence creates an ideal image of the Spartan king Agesilaus ii as an

The Alexander–Caesar provides us with two examples of narrational silence. It

Is it possible that Plutarch ended the account of the life of Alexander

It is […] improbable that Plutarch would end the biography without

Since Plutarch presents almost everything about Caesar’s career as publicly

It is generally acknowledged that the Parallel Lives were meant to be read as

Alexander actually went so far as to jest when he heard of Antipater’s

4 Professed Silence (Herodotean Silence)

My empress, persuade Plutarch […] not to be annoyed at the sophists […]

This playful presentation of the deceased Plutarch testifies to the centrality of

Buszard, B., “The Decline of Roman Statesmanship in Plutarch’s Pyrrhus–Marius,” CQ

Plutarch’s Narratorial Silences in the Dion

Plutarch is an artful storyteller. His inventiveness as a writer extends to multi-

© Michael Nerdahl, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_004

like focalization, reader expectation, and manipulation of time in compos-

1 A Silent Verdict: Dionysius i and His Mother-in-Law

The first example of a type of narrative silence illustrates the self-reflective

commentary or context to an ambiguous passage. For example, when L. Aemil-

2 Silence, Suppression and Intertext: Dion’s Exile

the Lacedemonians’ relationship with Dionysius. Given no other explicit infor-

19 L. Toker, Eloquent Reticence: Withholding Information in Fictional Narrative (Lexington:

3 Silence and “Proper Name Paralipsis”: Dion, Callippus, and

focus on such a character.22 I propose that Plutarch is aware of this potential

22 Gerrig, “Readers’ Experiences of Narrative Gaps,” 26–29.

In essence, Plutarch re-narrates Callippus’ two previous appearances in the

24 Gerrig, “Readers’ Experiences of Narrative Gaps,” 28.

silence, about Callippus’ importance. Through the use of narrative “gaps” he

27 Duff, “Plutarch’s Lives and the Critical Reader,” 73.

Baragwanath, E., Motivation and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford: Oxford University

Stadter, P.A., “Mirroring Virtue in Plutarch’s Lives,”Ploutarchos n.s. 1 (2003/2004) 89–96.

The Unspoken Bridge between Philosophy and

Comme il y a des hommes qui ne sortent jamais de l’ enfance, il y

© Bernard Boulet, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004514256_005