Claudius Maximus, the judge in the case
Was Apuleius a philosopher? A sophist? Both?
Is this text a verbatim transcript of Apuleius’s speech?
Honor and Humiliation in the Apologia
Was Apuleius poor in wealth or words?
Was Apuleius a threat to the community?
The tightly tessellated tiles create a mosaic of Apuleius’ wicked purposes
Clepsydra – keeping time during the trial
Claudius Maximus, the judge in the case
Keith Bradley, "Law, Magic, and Culture in the 'Apologia' of Apuleius," Phoenix 51.2 (1997): 203-223, at pp. 215-216.
At the time of his governorship the proconsul was about sixty years of age and was bringing to a culmination a lifetime of patient devotion to the government of Rome and the service of the Caesars. Decorated by the emperor himself in Trajan's doomed attempt to conquer the Parthians, he had governed armed provinces on the Danube both before and after his consulship, and in Italy he had supervised one of the peninsula's great trunk routes and at Rome had administered the city's public works. He was typical of the administrative elite of his age, a man who knew how to parley loyalty to the emperor into personal political success and social advancement. Closely tied to the court of Antoninus Pius, he moved in the company of such influential contemporaries as M. Cornelius Fronto, the confidant of Marcus Aurelius, and L. Lollianus Avitus, his immediate predecessor in Africa. In addition, Claudius Maximus was a man of intellectual capacity, with special interest in Stoic philosophy, and it was this that had brought him directly into touch with the imperial family. In the first book of the Meditations, Marcus speaks of him as one of the three men he was most grateful ever to have known, and he pays Maximus the special tribute of having learned from him a whole catalogue of moral virtues that reflects very favorably on Maximus's own character--"mastery of self and vacillation in nothing," for example. He was one of those, it has been said, in whom Marcus particularly valued "the qualities of consistency and balanced character.
Was Apuleius a philosopher? A sophist? Both?
Harrison, S. J. Apuleius: A Latin Sophist. 2000. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.
One of these problems [“of the sharp competition amongst contemporary sophists in the Greek world”] was whether to proclaim oneself a sophist or a philosopher; generally speaking, most Greek sophistic intellectuals felt obliged to choose one name or the other. Apuleius, on the other hand, though he never uses the word sophista of himself, can freely compare himself both implicitly and explicitly with the great sophists of the fifth century, a characteristic sophistic move, while also maintaining his status as a philosophus Platonicus. Such things were clearly permissible in the Latin West, where the cultural polemics of the Greek Mediterranean found only a distant echo. But though Apuleius proclaimed himself a philosopher, his status as a star performer in Carthage, his obvious self-promotion and cult of his own personality, and his prodigiously displayed literary and scientific polymathy plainly allow us to designate him a Latin sophist. Id. at 38.
Is this text a verbatim transcript of Apuleius’s speech?
Winter, Thomas Nelson. “The publication of Apuleius’ Apology.” American Philological Association, Vol. 100 (1969) 607-612.
There is external evidence, partly from other sources and partly from Apuleius himself, to indicate that the speech could have been recorded and published by stenographers. Id. at 607.
. . .
Practical use of shorthand for the recording of spoken Latin is known from 63 B.C. to the ninth century. The technique is known from extant shorthand copies and was once revived for experimental purposes. Louis Prosper Guénin, stenographer to the French Senate, discovered, after experimenting with various stylus points, that stenography with stylus and wax tablet was indeed practicable. After some practice, he found himself able to record orations five hours nonstop on wax tablets . . . The word used to express "record by shorthand" is excipio . . . Id. at 608.
. . .
Throughout all we know of his life, Apuleius was famous enough as an orator to attract exceptores (stenographers), whether their motive was profit or self-improvement. Id. at 611.
. . .
Apparently it was Apuleius' normal experience that he could edit nothing once it had passed his lips, for by then stenographers had got it down, and could be trusted to see to it that anyone who wanted to could read it . . . Apuleius describes his experience with stenography in the ninth section of his Florida, a passage whose significance seems to have been overlooked . . . Apuleius' public, then has the advantage of him in that they may read and examine at their leisure whatever Apuleius says in his public appearances . . . The ninth fragment of the Florida, then, is a strong indication that every speech we possess of the great orator was published not by Apuleius but by enterprising stenographers, and indicates that we probably have in the Apology not some augmented or "improved" version, but the ipsa oratio which Apuleius gave at his trial. Id. at 607.
Harrison, S. J. Apuleius: A Latin Sophist. 2000. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.
It seems fundamentally unlikely that the text we possess is an essentially unrevised version of the speech Apuleius gave at the trial. This is not because of its length, which at a reading time of three hours, with further time added for hearing evidence and witnesses, is not unreasonable for a Roman forensic speech, at least in a published version; it is not much longer than Cicero’s Pro Cluentio and shorter than the (undelivered) Third Verrine. The strongest argument for extensive revision between delivery and publication, a regular practice of ancient orators such as Cicero, is the complex texture of the speech, stuffed with allusions to philosophical and literary texts. While the memory of Apuleius, a professional performer, for quotations was no doubt good, the copious number of allusions and the careful way in which they are applied to the argument strongly suggest that the text we have is a final post-trial version finely honed by Apuleius for circulation rather than the ipsa oratio of the court-room. Id. at 42.
. . .
Indications in the text that the speech is an exact transcript of what was said at the trial, such as space for the reading of evidence and references to time running out (28.1, 37.4, 69.6-8, 94.8) could simply be the trappings of the original forensic context inserted for verisimilitude in a later reworking, just as in the highly elaborated undelivered speeches of the actio secunda of Cicero’s Verrines. Id. at 42.
Thomas D. McCreight, "Exemplum or Historiola?: Literature and Magic in Apuleius’ Apology," Syllecta Classica 15 (2004): 153-175, at pp. 158-159:
The Apology purports to be a speech given in Apuleius’ own defense on the serious charge of practicing sorcery, delivered in the Tripolitanian city of Sabratha in 158 C.E. before the provincial governor Claudius Maximus. There is a range of scholarly opinion about the “reality” of the speech. Some see it as a stenographic account of an actual trial; others insist it was revised or rewritten after delivery to put it in its current form; some maintain there was no real trial, but that this is a fictional speech like Isocrates’ Antidosis or Gorgias’ Defence of Palamedes. As Hunink points out, there is no external evidence to safely confirm or falsify any of those positions. He therefore elects to treat it simply as it appears, as a finely wrought “literary performance.” I incline towards his view; whatever the relationship between the events leading to its writing and the form in which it has come down to us, we are left with an elaborate and allusive literary tour de force.
Leonardo Costantini, Magic in Apuleius’ « Apologia »: understanding the charges and the forensic strategies in Apuleius’ speech. Beiträge zur Altertumskunde; 373. Berlin; Boston (Mass.): De Gruyter, 2019, p. 15
I agree, however, with the majority of the scholars, who argue that the text underwent a process of revision before its publication, which might have not substantially affected the form of the delivered speech, as Bradley suggests. Furthermore, that the Apologia could not be a fictional speech is shown by the fact that it differs considerably from declamations, given the precise references to real people, its length, and the complexity of the allegations rebutted. I want to stress that the possibility of the historical existence of the trial should not be seen as a hindrance, but as an additional element to appreciate the rhetorical grandeur of Apuleius and his ability to over come even the most dangerous situations with his magniloquence.
Honor and Humiliation in the Apologia
Kehoe, Thomas J., and Frederik Juliaan Vervaet. 2015. “Honor and Humiliation in Apuleius’ Apologia.” Mnemosyne 68 (4): 605–40.
This study . . . uses the Apologia as a window into the culture of Roman provincial high society by examining Apuleius' motivations for demanding his accusers bring formal charges against him, as well as the social factors that pushed the preceding conflict to such a dramatic climax. The main contention of this inquiry is that the actions of both Apuleius and his enemies reveal the paramount importance of honor as a cultural driver of conflict, and particularly its vocalization in the parry and riposte of insults and humiliation that ultimately resulted in a theatrical courtroom confrontation. Id. at 605.
. . .
The Apologia is ostensibly the record of Apuleius' defense against employing malignant magic for personal gain. An example of soaring oratory and rhetoric from the Second Sophistic and one of the few forensic pieces from the early Empire to survive to the present-day, the Apologia has gained significant attention for the insights it provides into matters of law, magic, and rhetoric. It is also, however, a slanted, but highly useful, a conflict between venerable members of the African municipal aristocracy. Id. at 606.
Was Apuleius poor in wealth or words?
McCreight, Thomas D. “The ‘Riches’ of Poverty: Literary Games with Poetry in Apuleius’ Laus Paupertatis (Apology 18).” In Paideia at Play: Learning and Wit in Apuleius, edited by Werner Riess, 89–104. Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & Groningen University Library, 2008, at pp. 92-93.
As was usual in Roman criminal cases, Apuleius responds in varying levels of detail to many different so-called accessory or subsidiary charges. These were things apparently alleged by the accusers in order to blacken his reputation. Their often questionable relevance to the actual case presented no obstacle to their being introduced; most ancient criminal trials were based upon the general “character” of the accused, and all evidence even tangentially pertinent could be adduced. The “accessory charge” that is the focus of this paper is Apuleius’ putative poverty, and the allegation that he is gold-digging, i.e., illicitly prospecting for the widow’s fortune because he is penurious himself. Apuleius uses a number of strategies to undercut this allegation by the prosecution; I will focus below on some literary strategies he employs.
One final prefatory comment: pauperitas for the Romans did not mean what “poverty” means for us. For members of the ruling class (that is, Apuleius and his likely intended readers) it meant something like ‘modest means,’ not real subsistence or day-to-day, hand-to-mouth penury, which were designated by penuria or egestas. That is to say that the entire discussion takes place in an upper-class set of expectations and code-words. The poverty that Apuleius talks of here is contrasted with the staggering wealth of the highest classes who consumed literature like his; it did not mean genuine scraping for subsistence.
Was Apuleius a threat to the community?
Leonardo Costantini, Magic in Apuleius’ « Apologia »: understanding the charges and the forensic strategies in Apuleius’ speech. Beiträge zur Altertumskunde; 373. Berlin; Boston (Mass.): De Gruyter, 2019, p.181 and p.196
8.7 Conclusion
It has been discussed so far that the arguments of this charge were indeed serious and potentially threatening, and this has not been noted in earlier studies. To cause someone’s death with a defixio was, in fact, a crime punishable by death under the Lex Cornelia de sicarris et veneficis. Even though the prosecution might not have accused Apuleius of having caused Pontianus’ death overtly, it would have appeared to everyone in court that putting magical objects - and likely describing their placing with the language of defixionum tabellae - inside a lararium, would not have remained without consequences: the premature death of Pontianus would have been the obvious side-effect of Apuleius’ supposedly impious act. From analysing this section of the defence it has been possible to reconstruct an additional feature of Apuleius’ goetic portrait, as given by his enemies: he was not only the lascivious seducer of Pudentilla, but also the goetic magus who could harm people with spells, and even kill Pontianus with his noxious arts. He was, therefore, a threat to Oea and to the household and to the patrimony of the Sicinii. This description fittingly introduces the following allegation, which concerns the goetic rites that Apuleius and his friend Appius Quintianus performed at night violating the house of Iunius Crassus and, more precisely, the shrine where his household deities were kept.
The tightly tessellated tiles create a mosaic of Apuleius’ wicked purposes
9.7 Conclusion
The examination of this section enables us to get a better understanding of the function of this accusation within the body of the charges. All the Preliminary Charges which have been discussed so far can be seen as the tightly tessellated tiles of a bigger mosaic depicting Apuleius’ skills in the goetic type of magia to attain different wicked purposes; not only the seduction of Pudentilla, but the falling sickness of people in Oea, the death of Pontianus and - last but not least - the illness of Crassus. This allegation, in particular, repeats and merges some features of the previous ones: the eerie feathers recall the sacrifice of hens at Apol. 47.7; and the fact that Apuleius allegedly caused Thallus’ and the woman’s epilepsy at Apol. 42.3 - 52 could be compared with Crassus’ malady. But, above all, the magical implication of this charge mirrors that of the desecration of Pontianus’ lararium. With these two serious accusations, the attackers wanted to emphasise how Apuleius’ goetic influence had to be stopped, since it affected Crassus’ well-being and Pontianus’ life. The subtle insinuation is that the next in line to suffer from the maleficia of the magus could have been the younger Sicinius Pudens, the legitimate heir of the Sicinii’s patrimony and the official accuser of Apuleius. In order to complete this gloomy portrayal, the prosecution added a final point claiming that Apuleius’ capacity to consult the dead, a notorious conventional feature of any practitioner of magic.
Clepsydra – keeping time during the trial
(see 28.2; 37.16; 46.12; 94.21)
James Ker, “Drinking from the water-clock: time and speech in imperial Rome.” Arethusa (2009) 279-302.
“. . . ipsa fluens dum verba fluunt . . .” [myself flowing while words flow] So speaks the clepsydra (water-clock) in the fourth- or fifth-century century collection entitled Aenigmata attributed to Symphosius. In addition to its play upon the flow of water and flow of words, the [poem] captures the twofold, law-like authority with which the clepsydra is invested when used in the courtroom: first to license speech, then to impose silence. Id. at 279.
. . .
The judicial clepsydra, as a unit for regulating the relative time of speeches within a trial, must be distinguished from the water-clock (horologium ex aqua) more generally, which could also be referred to with the term "clepsydra" but was more capacious and continuous and sometimes equipped with hydraulic mechanisms . . . Judicial clepsydrae appear to have been simple outflow vessels that could be used to provide an iterable unit of time within a given trial. The standard clepsydra allowed the speaker a quarter of a Roman hour, though adjustments could be made to increase its capacity. While we do not have any direct accounts of how water was measured out or happened when each clepsydra ran dry (were multiple clepsydrae line up in a row?), it is easy to imagine that there was a routinized procedure that ensured transparency. Id. at 283.
John S. McNown, “When Time Flowed: The Story of the Clepsydra.” Journal of the Societe Hydrotechnique de France No. 5 (1976): 347-353.
Water clocks are known as clepsydrae, the word coming from Greek words meaning to steal water. The first syllable is like that in the word kleptomaniac. The elemental clepsydra worked like an hour glass and was considered "a thief of water". The period required for an amount of water to escape through a small hole in a vessel was a measure of time. Some clepsydrae had the heroic size of public fountains, others were portable. Some were ornate and served as gifts for kings and emperors, some were small and are sometimes referred to as stop watches. Id. at 347.
. . .
Clepsydrae may be as old as sun dials. Both devices have been used for thousands of years. The oldest water clock to have been found in good shape was used in upper Egypt about 1400 BC. Id. at 347.
. . .
The sun, with or without a sun dial, gave only a rather crude indication of time during the day, and the stars served in the same manner at night. Both were limited in accuracy by the slowness of the turning of the earth and the lack of astronomical instruments. The clepsydra, being independent of the earth's motion, was a more flexible instrument . . . The first clepsydra was probably a unit timer like the hour glass and the egg-timer. The one used to restrain the loquacious Romans was a brass bowl with a small hole in the bottom. It was floated on a larger container of water at the beginning of the speech, and as time passed, water seeped through the hole into the bowl. When the bowl filled and sank, time was up! Some senators were reported to have bribed the time keepers to put a little dirt in the opening so as to reduce the rate of flow and lengthen the time for their speeches. The system was soundly based on fluid mechanics, but it was not safe from tampering. Id. at 348.
For more information:
Danielle Allen, “A schedule of boundaries: an exploration launched from the water-clock, of Athenian time.” Greece & Rome, Vol. 43, No. 2 (1996): 157-168.
Zheng-Hui Hwang, Hong-Sen Yan, and Tsung-Yi Lin, “Historical development of water-powered mechanical clocks.” Mech. Sci., 12 (2021): 203–219.