Children in Antiquity: Perspectives and Experiences of Childhood in the Ancient Mediterranean 1138780863, 9781138780866

Citation preview

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“I applaud the editors of this volume! They have successfully put a spotlight on the importance of studying the roles children played in the ancient world.Through this new lens, they show that innovative observations can be made concerning ancient religion, funerary practices, the family, women and gender, and the value systems of ancient societies. In addition to covering a range of Mediterranean time periods and cultures, the editors provide us with essays that investigate a single time period from different angles; the reader will thereby be able to acquire the most holistic understanding of the subject possible. Perhaps most precious of all, these essays show that studying children can offer rather moving glimpses of the lived emotions of ancient individuals.” —Susan Lupack, Macquarie University, Australia “Childhood in Antiquity is the most broadly based study of ancient Mediterranean children to date, employing the most diverse set of sources to understand them. It is the most chronologically and geographically diverse set of essays about children from the ancient Mediterranean, and is a very useful and broad contribution to the study of ancient children.” —John H. Oakley, The College of William and Mary, USA “This informative volume, immersive in range and depth, represents a stellar effort to synthesize and advance our knowledge of ancient childhood in the eastern Mediterranean. Its emphasis on variability in the experience, conceptualization and representation of childhood, its crosscultural perspectives, and its attention to both certainties and gaps in our understanding are salutary. Lucid and engaging, all essays offer glimpses into distinct but interrelated sets of issues and will stimulate scholarly interest and further research.” —Ada Cohen, Dartmouth College, USA

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CHILDREN IN ANTIQUITY

This collection employs a multi-​disciplinary approach treating ancient childhood in a holistic manner according to diachronic, regional and thematic perspectives. This multi-​disciplinary approach encompasses classical studies, Egyptology, ancient history and the broad spectrum of archaeology, including iconography and bioarchaeology. With a chronological range of the Bronze Age to Byzantium and regional coverage of Egypt, Greece and Italy, this is the largest survey of childhood yet undertaken for the ancient world. Within this chronological and regional framework both the social construction of childhood and the child’s life experience are explored through the key topics of the definition of childhood, daily life, religion and ritual, death, and the information provided by bioarchaeology. No other volume to date provides such a comprehensive, systematic and cross-​cultural study of childhood in the ancient Mediterranean world. In particular, its focus on the identification of society-​ specific definitions of childhood and the incorporation of the bioarchaeological perspective makes this work a unique and innovative study. Children in Antiquity provides an invaluable and unrivalled resource for anyone working on all aspects of the lives and deaths of children in the ancient Mediterranean world. Lesley A.  Beaumont is Associate Professor of Classical Archaeology at the University of Sydney. Her many publications on children in classical antiquity include Childhood in Ancient Athens: Iconography and Social History (Routledge 2012). She co-​organised the 2015 international conference on “Children in Antiquity” at the University of Sydney and co-​curated the accompanying Nicholson Museum exhibition. Matthew Dillon is Professor of Classics and Ancient History at the University of New England, Armidale, Australia. He has written extensively on Greek religion and society. Nicola Harrington is an Egyptologist and Honorary Research Associate of the University of Sydney. She received her DPhil from the University of Oxford, and her doctoral thesis formed the basis of the monograph Living with the Dead: Ancestor Worship and Mortuary Cult in Ancient Egypt (2012). Her research interests include religion, childhood and mental illness in antiquity.

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Rewriting Antiquity

Rewriting Antiquity provides a platform to examine major themes of the ancient world in a broad, holistic and inclusive fashion. Coverage is broad both in time and space, allowing a full appreciation of the selected topic rather than an exclusive view bound by a relatively short timescale and place. Each volume examines a key theme from the Ancient Near East to Late Antiquity, and often beyond, to break down the boundaries habitually created by focusing on one region or time period. Volumes within the series highlight the latest research, current developments and innovative approaches, situating this with existing scholarship. Individual case studies and analysis held within sections build to form a comprehensive and comparative overview of the subject enabling readers to view matters in the round and establish interconnections and resonance across a wide spectrum. In this way the volumes allow new directions of study to be defined and provide differing perspectives to stimulate fresh approaches to the theme examined.

Titles in the series: Sex in Antiquity Exploring Gender and Sexuality in the Ancient World Edited by Mark Masterson, Nancy Sorkin Rabinowitz, James Robson Women in Antiquity Real Women Across the Ancient World Edited by Stephanie Lynn Budin and Jean Macintosh Turfa Disability in Antiquity Edited by Christian Laes Children in Antiquity Perspectives and Experiences of Childhood in the Ancient Mediterranean Edited by Lesley A. Beaumont, Matthew Dillon and Nicola Harrington

www.routledge.com/​Rewriting-​Antiquity/​book-​series/​REWRITEANT

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CHILDREN IN ANTIQUITY Perspectives and Experiences of Childhood in the Ancient Mediterranean

Edited by Lesley A. Beaumont, Matthew Dillon and Nicola Harrington

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First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 selection and editorial matter, Lesley A. Beaumont, Matthew Dillon and Nicola Harrington; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Lesley A. Beaumont, Matthew Dillon and Nicola Harrington to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-​in-​Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Beaumont, Lesley A., editor. | Dillon, Matthew, 1963– editor. | Harrington, Nicola, editor. Title: Children in antiquity : perspectives and experiences of childhood in the ancient Mediterranean / edited by Lesley A. Beaumont, Matthew Dillon and Nicola Harrington. Description: London ; New York, NY : Routledge/Taylor & Francis Group, 2021. | Series: Rewriting Antiquity | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2020026744 (print) | LCCN 2020026745 (ebook) | ISBN 9781138780866 (hardback) | ISBN 9781315542812 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Children–Mediterranean Region–History–To 1500. | Children–Mediterranean Region–Social conditions. | Social archaeology–Mediterranean Region. | Mediterranean Region–Antiquities. Classification: LCC DE61.C4 C45 2021 (print) | LCC DE61.C4 (ebook) | DDC 305.230937–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020026744 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020026745 ISBN: 978-1-138-78086-6 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-54281-2 (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by Newgen Publishing UK

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For our beloved children and the other special young people in our lives. And in memory of Mark Golden, a pioneer of childhood studies in classical antiquity.

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CONTENTS

List of figures  List of tables  List of contributors  List of abbreviations 

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Introduction: investigating the ancient Mediterranean ‘childscape’  Lesley A. Beaumont, Matthew Dillon and Nicola Harrington PART I

What is a child? 

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1 The ancient Egyptian conception of children and childhood  Nicola Harrington

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2 What is a child in Aegean prehistory?  Anne P. Chapin

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3 Ideological constructions of childhood in Bronze and Early Iron Age Italy: personhood between marginality and social inclusion  Elisa Perego

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4 Defining childhood and youth: a regional approach to Archaic and Classical Greece: the case of Athens and Sparta  Lesley A. Beaumont

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5 The child in Etruscan Italy  Marjatta Nielsen

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6 Children and the Hellenistic period  Mark Golden 7 Roman childhood revisited  Véronique Dasen

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8 From birth to rebirth: perceptions of childhood in Greco-​Roman Egypt 121 Lissette M. Jiménez 9 Looking for children in Late Antiquity  Geoffrey Nathan 10 From village to monastery: finding children in the Coptic record from Egypt  Jennifer Cromwell PART II

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Daily life 

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11 The child’s experience of daily life in ancient Egypt  Amandine Marshall

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12 Changing states: daily life of children in Mycenaean and Early Iron Age Greece  Susan Langdon

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13 Children in early Rome and Latium  Sanna Lipkin and Eero Jarva

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14 Being a child in Archaic and Classical Greece  Robert S.J. Garland

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15 The daily life of Etruscan babies and children  Larissa Bonfante

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16 Being a child in the Hellenistic world: a subject out of proportion?  Christian Laes

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17 Different lives: children’s daily experiences in the Roman world  Fanny Dolansky

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18 Children as instruments of policy in Hadrian’s Egypt  Myrto Malouta

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19 Daily life of children in Late Antiquity: play, work and vulnerability  Ville Vuolanto

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PART III

Religion and ritual 

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20 “Child in the nest”: children in Pharaonic Egyptian religion and rituals  283 Kasia Szpakowska 21 Children and Aegean Bronze Age religion  Ute Günkel-​Maschek

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22 Initiating children into Italian Bronze and Early Iron Age ritual, religion and cosmology  Erik van Rossenberg

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23 Children in Archaic and Classical Greek religion: active and passive ritual agency  Matthew Dillon

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24 Children in Etruscan religion and ritual  Jean MacIntosh Turfa

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25 Children’s roles in Hellenistic religion  Olympia Bobou

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26 Children in Roman religion and ritual  Janette McWilliam

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27 Children, religion and ritual in Greco-​Roman Egypt  Ada Nifosi

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28 The child in Late Antique religion and ritual  Béatrice Caseau

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Contents PART IV

Death 

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29 Child, infant and foetal burials in the Egyptian archaeological record: exploring cultural capacities from the Predynastic to Middle Kingdom Periods (c. 4400–​1650 BC)  Ronika K. Power 30 “Do not say ‘I am young to be taken’ ”: children and death in ancient Egypt: Second Intermediate Period to the Late Period  Jessica Kaiser

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31 Children and death in Bronze Age and Early Iron Age Greece  Chrysanthi Gallou

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32 Children, death and society in Late Bronze Age and Iron Age Sicily  Gillian Shepherd

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33 Children and death in Archaic and Classical Greece  Vicky Vlachou

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34 Infancy and childhood in funerary contexts of Early Iron Age Middle Tyrrhenian Italy: a comparative approach  Francesca Fulminante and Simon Stoddart

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35 Child death in the Hellenistic world  Nikolas Dimakis

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36 Death of a Roman child  Hugh Lindsay

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37 Death of a child: demographic and preparation trends of juvenile burials in the Graeco-​Roman Fayoum  Kerry Muhlestein and R. Paul Evans 38 Infant mortality, Michael Psellos and the Byzantine demon Gillo  Lynda Garland

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Contents PART V

Bioarchaeology 

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39 The bioarchaeology of children in Greco-​Roman antiquity  Kathryn E. Marklein and Sherry C. Fox

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40 Infancy and childhood in Roman Egypt: bioarchaeological perspectives  Sandra M. Wheeler, Lana Williams and Tosha L. Dupras

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41 “The greatest of treasures”: advances in the bioarchaeology of Byzantine children  Chryssi Bourbou

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Index 

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FIGURES

1.1 A young boy turns and reaches towards his mother as they approach the deified Queen Ahmose Nefertari. Detail of the mortuary stele of Ramose from his tomb chapel (TT 250) at Deir el-​Medina, Thebes, c. 1400 BC  1.2 Lute player with tattoos of the god Bes on her thighs. Tomb of Nakhtamun (TT 341), Sheikh Abd el-​Qurna, Thebes, c. 1260 BC  1.3 Musicians and a young dancer in the tomb of Djeserkareseneb (TT 38) at Sheikh Abd el-​Qurna, Thebes, c. 1400 BC  2.1 Girls in Minoan and Cycladic art  2.2 Boys in Minoan and Cycladic art  2.3 Children in Mycenaean art  3.1 Bronze Age cemetery of Casinalbo  4.1 Lakonian bronze figurine of long-​haired, naked female, c. 550 BC  4.2 Lakonian bronze figurine of short-​haired, naked female, c. 550 BC  4.3 Lakonian bronze figurine of beardless, short-​haired, naked male, 550–​540  BC  4.4 Lakonian bronze figurine of beardless, long-​haired, naked male, c. 540 BC  4.5 Attic red figure kylix by Peithinos depicting youths with incipient facial hair as the lovers of smaller and younger smooth-​cheeked boys, c. 500 BC  5.1 Farewell and reunion between children and adults. Alabaster sarcophagus relief of the wife of Laris Flave, late 3rd century BC  5.2 A family assembly taking leave of the deceased. Alabaster cinerary urn relief, 2nd century BC  5.3 Chiusine terracotta urn and lid, late 2nd century BC  7.1 Set of amber amulets and cattle teeth from the tomb of a six-​month-​old child  xiv

15 18 19 28 30 37 52 67 67 70 71 72 84 84 87 110

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7.2 The bust of the young L. Vibius Felicio Felix placed between his parents  7.3 Plaster mould of Claudia Victoria  8.1 Funerary portrait of a boy, unknown provenance, c. 150–​200 CE  8.2 Funerary shroud of a youth, from Sheikh Abd el-​Qurna, c. early 3rd century CE  9.1 Child charioteer, racing wading birds, c. 300 CE  9.2 Diptych of Stilicho with Serena and Eucherius, c. 395 CE  10.1 SB Kopt. IV 1709, an alimony petition  10.2 The monastery of Apa Phoibammon at Deir el-​Bahri  10.3 Child’s tunic  11.1 Ceramic vessel in the shape of a woman breastfeeding a child. New Kingdom (18th Dynasty)  11.2 Boys looking after heaps of grain and frightening away birds with sticks. Saqqara, Tomb of Meryneith. New Kingdom (18th Dynasty)  11.3 Ostracon incised with a school exercise consisting of several lines of the same hieroglyph (neb, representing a basket without handles). From the Ramesseum (Temple of Millions of Years of Ramesses II). New Kingdom, Western Thebes  12.1 Sherd with warrior, horse, and son, from Xeropolis, c. 725 BCE  12.2 Terracotta mask from Tiryns, c. 700–680 BCE  12.3 Ritual scene on pithos from a child’s tomb, Pyri cemetery, Thebes, c. 720–700 BCE  14.1 Boy runs towards woman to escape being beaten by sandal-​wielding man. Attic black-​figure lêkythos, Sandal Painter, c. 550 BCE  15.1 Etruscan mirror. Conception of Dionysos. Tinia and Semla, 4th century BC  15.2 Seal impression on bucchero sherd from Poggio Colla (Mugello), 6th century BC  15.3 Bronze statuette of child with bird and bulla. “Putto Graziani”, 300–200 BC  15.4 Amber amulet with mother carrying daughter, 5th century BC  15.5 Vel Saties and Arnza, “little Arnth.” François Tomb, 4th century BC  15.6 Banquet scene. Tomb of the Painted Vases, Tarquinia, c. 500 BC  17.1 School scene. Roman relief from Neumagen (Noviomagus), Mosel, late 2nd century BC  17.2 Slave girls dressing their mistress’ hair. Tomb relief from Neumagen, c. 235 AD  17.3 Sarcophagus showing cupids and boys at play, late 3rd century AD  19.1 A boy with a puppy. Mosaic detail from the Central Hall of the Great Palace, Istanbul, late 5th/early 6th century CE  20.1 Carved hippopotamus tusk, also known as a “wand”. Late Middle Kingdom  20.2 Middle Kingdom “paddle-​doll” from Asasif, Thebes  xv

114 115 129 130 136 136 154 156 158 169 172

174 182 183 184 206 216 217 221 221 223 225 250 251 252 277 285 290

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Figures

20.3 Figured ostracon showing a woman cradling an infant who is presented with a mirror and kohl tube by a nude girl. New Kingdom period  21.1 (a) Seated ivory toddler from Palaikastro, Late Minoan I; (b) Late Minoan lentoid sealstone  21.2 Gold ring from Mycenae  21.3 Xeste 3, Akrotiri, Thera: goddess and crocus-​gatherers  23.1 Two parthenoi decorate beasts for sacrifice. Athenian red-​figure skyphos, c. 450–​425 BC  23.2 Two youths at a sacrifice; one a free citizen, one a naked slave. Athenian red-​figure oenochoe, c. 425 BC  23.3 A slave-​boy present at a goat sacrifice to Demeter. Athenian marble relief, mid-4th century BC  23.4 A marble votive relief depicting a family worshipping a seated Asklepios and his daughter Hygieia, second half of the 4th century BC  23.5 A boy gestures in adoration at the gods Artemis and Dionysos. Marble votive relief from Athens, c. 350–​300 BC  24.1 Incised scene from the Tragliatella oinochoe, c. 630–​600 BC: daughter and husband say farewell to the deceased Thesathei  24.2 Tomb of the Monkey, Chiusi, c. 480–​470 BC: left wall, funeral games with costumed pair: mature man and boy  25.1 Votive relief depicting sacrifice scene  25.2 Statue of boy, from Eleusis  25.3 Statue of girl, from Messene  26.1 Amulet, red jasper, 3rd century AD. Side A: Ouroborus encircling a uterus with a seven-​bitted key. Side B: ἐπὶ πόδια: ‘stand up/​onto your little feet’  26.2 Painted frieze from the tomb of the Greek doctor named Patron, depicting members of his familia on the day of the Feralia. From a tomb of first century BC on the Via Latina, Rome  26.3 Painted frieze depicting women and children worshipping in a sanctuary setting. Columbarium,Villa Doria Pamphili, Rome, Augustan period  27.1 Harpocrates. Egyptian terracotta sculpture, 1st–​2nd century AD. Height: 12.7 cm  28.1 Saint Demetrius and the children (church of Saint Demetrios, Thessaloniki)  29.1 CIF burials: frequency distribution by site types  29.2 CIF burials: frequency distribution of grave good provision  29.3 CIF burials: frequency distribution of grave goods by categories  32.1 Map of Sicily, indicating sites mentioned in the text  32.2 The “honeycomb” effect of numerous tomb openings in cliff faces in the Pantalica North Necropolis 

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291 301 304 305 331 335 336 337 339 348 350 359 364 365 372 378 379 388 405 418 418 419 457 458

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Figures

32.3 Plan of Sep. 32–​34, Pantalica North West. Section A contained four children; Section B one adult; and Section C two adults  32.4 Plan of Sep. SC 241, Pantalica South  32.5 Miniature vases from Sep. SO 166, Pantalica South  33.1 Child burial in clay larnax. From Athens, Amerikis Street  33.2 Drawing of the funerary scene on a white-​ground lekythos  33.3 View of the burial amphorae from the slope of the hill of Kylindra, Astypalaia  34.1 The location of Early Iron Age Latium vetus (marked ‘Latins’ on the map) and Etruria in central Italy  34.2 The funeral as rite of passage according to Arnold Van Gennep  34.3 Suggrundaria at Lavinium, 8th‒7th century BC  36.1 A freedman family group, funerary relief  36.2 The funerary altar for Minicia Marcella, AD 105–106  36.3 The funerary monument set up by Rufius Decibalus to his son Rufius Achilleus, 2nd century AD  37.1 Fag el-Gamous cemetery: depth of burials  37.2 Fag el-Gamous cemetery: spatial distribution of juvenile (newborn, infant, child) and adult burials  37.3 Fag el-Gamous cemetery: cluster burial of an adult female with a newborn  37.4 Fag el-Gamous cemetery: cluster burial involving an adult female, two infants, and a newborn  37.5 Fag el-Gamous cemetery: distribution of cluster burials involving juveniles and adults  37.6 Burial wrapping of adults and juveniles  37.7 Cordage use in adult and juvenile burials  38.1 Bronze amulet from the 6th century AD found at Acre. A standing, nimbate figure (Solomon or Arlaph) holds a whip over a nude figure crouching in front of him (Gillo or Abyzou)  38.2 Amulet with Holy Rider and Virgin Enthroned, 5th–7th century AD  39.1 Geographical distribution of five Classical period (480‒300 BCE) sites discussed in chapter review  39.2 Geographical distribution of six Roman period (0–​500 CE) sites discussed in chapter review  39.3 Active porotic hyperostosis on ectocranial surface of juvenile cranial vault  39.4 Variation in stable nitrogen isotope ratios (δ15N (‰)) relative to age at death from Isola Sacra necropolis (1st to 3rd centuries CE) in Rome, Italy  40.1 Map of the Kellis 2 cemetery showing the area of excavation and details of two excavated tomb structures 

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461 462 463 475 478 480 489 490 492 520 525 530 538 539 539 540 540 542 543 552 553 569 570 573 575 584

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Figures

40.2 Photographs of Kellis 2 juveniles showing the variation in preservation of burial linens, soft tissues, and skeletal remains  41.1 Mortality patterns of the Alikianos sample  41.2 Non-​adult δ15N and δ13C values by age group, expressed in terms of per mil elevation relative to their sites’ adult female means  41.3 Alikianos, skeleton 011. External surface of the right temporal bone and greater wing of the sphenoid showing extensive new bone formation, porosity and some evidence of bone hypertrophy 

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585 596 600 603

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TABLES

1.1 List of terms for child/​children in ancient Egyptian texts  12 3.1 Numbers of child and adult burials reported from some cemeteries of Bronze Age and Iron Age Italy  49 3.2 Percentages of child burials in cemeteries of Middle Bronze Age to Early Iron Age northern Italy  51 3.3 Number of child and adult burials reported from some cemeteries of Iron Age Italy  54 13.1 Distribution of textile tools according to age in burials at Osteria dell’Osa, 950/​925–​580  BC  198 27.1 Magical Greek and Demotic papyri mentioning child mediums and methods of divination  392 32.1 Late Bronze Age to Iron Age chronologies for Sicily  459 34.1 Latium vetus: demographic distribution of 1091 burials in analysed sample  491 34.2 Latium vetus: distribution of 123 sub-​adult (infant and child) burials within the inhabited area or in formal cemeteries  492 34.3 Latium vetus: distribution of infant and child burials according to funerary ritual  493 34.4 Latium vetus: distribution of infant and children burials according to tomb structure  493 34.5 Cemetery of Quattro Fontanili at Veii: demography of burial population 497 34.6 Status classes identified by Pacciarelly at the necropolis of Quattro Fontanili in Veii  497 40.1 Age and sex distributions (adult) of individuals analyzed from the Kellis 2 cemetery  586 41.1 Non-​specific periostitis in non-​adult samples (individuals affected)  597 41.2 Cribra orbitalia and porotic hyperostosis in non-​adult samples (individuals affected)  601 xix

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CONTRIBUTORS

Lesley A.  Beaumont is Associate Professor of Classical Archaeology at the University of Sydney, Australia. Her many publications on children in classical antiquity include Childhood in Ancient Athens: Iconography and Social History (2012). She co-​organised the 2015 international conference on “Children in Antiquity” at the University of Sydney and co-​curated the accompanying Nicholson Museum exhibition. Olympia Bobou is Postdoctoral Fellow at Aarhus University, Centre for Urban Network Evolutions, Denmark. Her research interests include the art and archaeology of ancient childhood and family life, use of public spaces and the material culture associated with religious spaces. Larissa Bonfante (1931–2019) graduated with a BA from Barnard College, MA from the University of Cincinnati and PhD from Columbia University. A Classicist, archaeologist, Etruscologist and art historian, she was best known for her great scholarly contribution and many publications on the Etruscans. At the time of her death she was Professor Emerita of Classics at New York University. Chryssi Bourbou is a bioarchaeologist at the Ephorate of Antiquities of Chania, Hellenic Ministry of Culture, Greece. Her research interests include the study of ancient and Byzantine childhood. She is the author of Health and Disease in Byzantine Crete (7th–​12th centuries AD) (2016). Béatrice Caseau is Professor of Byzantine History at Sorbonne Université Paris, France and senior member of the Institut universitaire de France. She is the author of several books and numerous articles on the Late Antique and Byzantine family, food, culture and religion. Anne P.  Chapin is Professor of Art History and Archaeology at Brevard College, North Carolina, USA. She has published widely on Aegean fresco painting and serves on the senior staff of the Gournia Excavation Project, Crete, Greece.

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Contributors

Jennifer Cromwell is Senior Lecturer in Ancient History at Manchester Metropolitan University, UK. Her research focuses on daily life in Egypt in Late Antiquity and Egyptian monasticism, based particularly on the Coptic textual record. Her monograph, Recording Village Life: A Coptic Scribe in Early Islamic Egypt, was published in 2017. Véronique Dasen is Professor of Classical Archaeology at Fribourg University, Switzerland. She has published widely on motherhood and childhood, medicine and magic. She leads the research project Locus Ludi. The Cultural Fabric of Play and Games in Classical Antiquity funded by the European Research Council under the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation programme (grant no. 741520). Matthew Dillon is Professor of Classics and Ancient History at the University of New England, Armidale, Australia. He has written extensively on Greek religion and society. Nikolas Dimakis is State Scholarships Foundation Postdoctoral Fellow at the University of Athens, Greece. He specializes in the funerary archaeology of Classical to Roman Greece. His research interests also include childhood and gender archaeology, the archaeology of religion, and terracotta lamps. Fanny Dolansky is Associate Professor of Classics at Brock University, Canada, where she teaches Latin and Roman history. Her research primarily concerns the Roman family, children and childhood. She has published on domestic festivals, education, toys and play. Tosha L. Dupras is a bioarchaeologist who specializes in paleopathology, juvenile osteology and stable isotope analysis for the interpretation of diet, origin and mobility. She works on materials from Egypt, Sudan, Lithuania and Southeast Asia and uses all sources of information to reconstruct life history and social identity. R. Paul Evans is Assistant Professor of Molecular Biology in the College of Life Sciences at Brigham Young University, USA. A member of the Brigham Young University Egypt Excavation Project, he publishes on human remains and DNA from Graeco-​Roman and Christian cemeteries including Akhmim and Fag el-​Gamous. Sherry C. Fox is Adjunct Professor at the School of Human Evolution and Social Change at Arizona State University, USA. Her collaborative edited volumes New Directions in the Skeletal Biology of Greece (2009) and Archaeodiet in the Greek World (2015) are published in the Hesperia Supplement Series. Francesca Fulminante is Adjunct Professor at the University of Roma Tre, Italy, and Senior Research Fellow at Bristol University, UK. She has published extensively on the socio-political landscape of early Rome and Italy, and also infancy/childhood and gender issues, and their reciprocal interaction. Chrysanthi Gallou is Associate Professor in Aegean Archaeology and Director of the Centre for Spartan and Peloponnesian Studies at the University of Nottingham, UK. Her research interests include the archaeology of death, children and childhood in prehistoric Greece and Spartan archaeology.

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Contributors

Lynda Garland was previously Professor of Ancient and Medieval History at the University of New England, Australia and is now Honorary Research Professor at the University of Queensland, Australia. Her main research interests are in the areas of Byzantine Studies, the Crusades and Ancient History. Robert S.J. Garland is the Roy D. and Margaret B. Wooster Professor Emeritus of the Classics at Colgate University, USA. He has published several books and articles on ancient Greek religion and society including, most recently, Athens Burning and How to Survive in Classical Greece. Mark Golden (1948–2020) graduated with a BA, MA and PhD from the University of Toronto, and taught Classics for many years in the Department of Classics at the University of Winnipeg, Canada, retiring in 2015 as Emeritus Professor. Mark is best known for his seminal work Children and Childhood in Classical Athens (1990), which was re-issued as a second edition in 2015, indicating how it still dominates the field of childhood studies for classical Athens. He was also well known for his work on ancient Greek sport and athletics (Sport and Society in Ancient Greece, 1998) and was a key figure in international scholarship. Mark passed away peacefully in April 2020. Ute Günkel-​Maschek received her PhD from the University of Heidelberg’s Institute of Classical Archaeology, Germany. An expert in Aegean Bronze Age art and archaeology, she leads a post-​doctoral research project on Minoan gestures at Heidelberg. Her interests lie in developing new methodological approaches to understanding Bronze Age Aegean art and imagery. Nicola Harrington is an Egyptologist and Honorary Research Associate of the University of Sydney. She received her DPhil from the University of Oxford, and her doctoral thesis formed the basis of the monograph Living with the Dead: Ancestor Worship and Mortuary Cult in Ancient Egypt (2012). Her research interests include religion, childhood and mental illness in antiquity. Eero Jarva is docent of Classical archaeology at the University of Oulu, Finland. He has conducted archaeological excavations on the ancient Latin sites of Ficana and Crustumerium and in Rome (Forum Romanum) discovering, inter alia, child burials. Lissette M.  Jiménez is Assistant Professor in Museum Studies in the School of Art at San Francisco State University, USA. Her publications and research include museum and curatorial studies, postcolonial and decolonial museum theory, gender and childhood in ancient Egypt and ancient Egyptian art and archaeology, with a focus on Greco-​Roman period commemorative funerary practices and material culture. Jessica Kaiser received her PhD in Egyptology and bioarchaeology from the University of California Berkeley. She currently directs the Abydos Temple Paper Archive Project with colleagues from Berkeley and Egypt. Christian Laes is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Manchester, UK. He studies the social and cultural history of Roman and Late Antiquity, paying particular attention to the human life course. Research and writing for this chapter was carried out as Senior

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Contributors

Research Fellow (2014–​2016) at the Institute of Advanced Social Research of the University of Tampere. Susan Langdon is Professor Emerita of Greek Art and Archaeology at the University of Missouri, USA. She is author of Art and Identity in Dark Age Greece, 1100–​700 BCE (2008) as well as articles on iconography, pottery and children in early Greece. Hugh Lindsay is Senior Lecturer in Classics and Ancient History at the University of Newcastle, Australia. He is acknowledged internationally as an expert in Roman social history, with three monographs and over sixty book chapters and journal articles. His work focuses particularly on Roman adoption, death and funerals. Sanna Lipkin is an archaeologist and currently works as Academy Research Fellow at the University of Oulu, Finland. She specialises in the archaeology of identities and childhood in pre-​Roman Italy, as well as in clothing and textile production. Myrto Malouta is Assistant Professor of Greek Papyrology at the Ionian University, Corfu. She studied Classics at University College London, UK, and received her doctorate from the University of Oxford, UK. Her interests include papyrology, Roman history, the history of Graeco-​Roman Egypt, Greek and Latin palaeography and Egyptology. Kathryn E. Marklein is Visiting Assistant Professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Louisville, USA. She has ongoing projects in Turkey, Israel and Georgia, USA, and has published chapters in Bioarchaeology and Social Theory volumes and articles in American Journal of Physical Anthropology, Current Anthropology and PLOS ONE. Amandine Marshall completed her PhD on Egyptian childhood, published in a trilogy Maternité et petite enfance en Égypte ancienne, Être un enfant en Égypte ancienne and L’enfant et la mort en Égypte ancienne, now forthcoming in English with the American University of Cairo. Other publications include L’Atlantide: un mythe de l’Égypte antique?, Auguste Mariette and Les momies égyptiennes (with R. Lichtenberg). Janette McWilliam is Director/​Senior Curator of the R. D. Milns Antiquities Museum and Lecturer in Classics and Ancient History at the University of Queensland, Australia. Her current research focuses on Roman social and political history, particularly Roman children, childhood, gender and Latin epigraphy. Kerry Muhlestein is Professor and Associate Chair of the Department of Ancient Scripture at Brigham Young University, USA. He is Vice President of the Society for the Study of Egyptian Antiquities, Senior Fellow of the William F. Albright Institute for Archaeological Research and Director of the Brigham Young University Egypt Excavation Project. Geoffrey Nathan is Honorary Senior Lecturer in the School of Humanities and Languages at the University of New South Wales, Australia, and Lecturer in Roman and Byzantine History at the University of California, San Diego. He specializes in Late Antique social history and has published extensively on the Roman family.

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Contributors

Marjatta Nielsen is based in Copenhagen and lectures widely on the Etruscans. She is Foreign Member of the Istituto Nazionale di Studi Etruschi ed Italici and was formerly co-​editor of Acta Hyperborea. Her research focuses on late Etruscan sculpture and social aspects of the Etruscan civilization, especially women, couples and families. Ada Nifosi is Lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Kent, UK. She has published on ancient Egyptian religion and on the status of women and children in Greco-Roman Egypt. Elisa Perego is an Honorary Research Associate at the Institute of Archaeology at University College London, UK, where she obtained her PhD in 2012. In 2017–2019 she was a Marie Sklodowska-Curie Fellow at OREA (Austrian Academy of Sciences). Her main research interests include archaeological theory, Mediterranean archaeology and social marginality. Ronika K. Power is Associate Professor of Bioarchaeology at Macquarie University, Australia, an Honorary Research Fellow of the McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research at the University of Cambridge, UK and a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries London and Royal Society of New South Wales, Australia. Gillian Shepherd is Director of the A. D.Trendall Research Centre for Ancient Mediterranean Studies and Senior Lecturer in Classics and Ancient History at La Trobe University, Australia. Her research areas include ancient Greek settlement in Sicily, and burial customs and childhood in antiquity. Simon Stoddart is Reader in Prehistory in the Division of Archaeology and Fellow of Magdalene College, University of Cambridge, UK. He has directed many research projects in the Mediterranean and the United Kingdom. He has most recently published on Etruscan identity and rural settlement. Kasia Szpakowska is Associate Professor of Egyptology at Swansea University, UK, and Director of the Ancient Egyptian Demonology Project: Second Millennium BCE. Her research focuses on ancient Egyptian private religious practices, dreams, gender and the archaeology of magic. Jean MacIntosh Turfa is Consulting Scholar at the University of Pennsylvania Museum, USA, Foreign Member of the Istituto di Studi Etruschi ed Italici. Italy, and author/​editor of Divining the Etruscan World, The Etruscan World and Women in Antiquity (with Stephanie Budin). Erik van Rossenberg received his MA and PhD degrees in archaeology from Leiden University, The Netherlands. His research focuses on the Bronze and Iron Ages in Italy, but he is also deeply interested in archaeological theory and methodology in general. Vicky Vlachou is member (Belgian) of the Ecole française d’Athènes, Greece, and a scholar of the Early Iron Age Aegean. She is the editor of Pots,Workshops and Early Iron Age Society: Function and Role of Ceramics in Early Greece (2015). Ville Vuolanto is Lecturer in History at the University of Tampere, Finland. He has published a number of works on the family and children in the Roman and early Medieval periods. His xxiv

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Contributors

latest book is Children and Asceticism in Late Antiquity: Continuity, Family Dynamics and the Rise of Christianity (Routledge 2015). Sandra M. Wheeler is a bioarchaeologist specializing in the analysis of foetal, infant and child remains from archaeological contexts. Her research synthesizes information from the biological, sociocultural and natural environments to shed light on ancient children’s health, life and death experiences, including mortuary practices. Lana Williams is a bioarchaeologist specializing in human osteology and stable isotope analysis of human tissues for the interpretation of diet and health status. Her research focuses on issues of seasonality, fertility and ancient lifeways and mortuary practices.

xxv

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ABBREVIATIONS

AA Archäologischer Anzeiger ActaArch Acta archaeologica ActaInstRomFin Acta Instituti romani Finlandiae ad loc. ad locum Ael. VH Aelianus Varia Historia AEMTh Archaiologiko Ergo Makedonias Thrakes Aeschin. Aeschines AEThSt Archaiologiko Ergo Thessalias kai Stereas AHR American Historical Review AI Archaeology International AJA American Journal of Archaeology AJAH American Journal of Ancient History AJP American Journal of Philology Altorient. Forsch. Altorientalische Forschungen AM Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung Amb. Ep. Ambrose Epistula Amb. Inst. Ambrose De institutione virginis AmerAnt American Antiquity AmJHumBiol American Journal of Human Biology AmJPhysAnthropol American Journal of Physical Anthropology AnalRom Analecta Romana Instituti Danici Anc. Soc. Ancient Society Andoc. Myst. Andocides On the Mysteries AnnuRevAnthropol Annual Review of Anthropology ANRW Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt AntCl L’Antiquité classique AntK Antike Kunst Anth. Pal. Anthologia Palatina ap. apud AP3A Archaeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association xxvi

xxvi

Abbreviations

Apoph. patr. Gelasius Apophthegmata patrum Apul. Apol. Apuleius Apologia AR Archaeological Reports Ar. Ach. Aristophanes Acharnians Ar. Clouds Aristophanes  Clouds Ar. Lys. Aristophanes Lysistrata Ar. Vesp. Aristophanes  Vespae ARA Annual Review of Anthropology Aratus Phaen. Aratus Phaenomena ARC Archaeological Review from Cambridge Arch. Journ. Archaeological Journal ArchDelt Archaiologikon Deltion ArchEph Archaiologike Ephemeris ArchPF Archiv für Papyrusforschung und verwandte Gebiete Arist. Ath. Pol. Aristotle Constitution of the Athenians Arist. Hist. An. Aristotle Historia Animalium Arist. Pol. Aristotle Politics Arn. Adv. Nat. Arnobius Adversus nations ArtB Art Bulletin ASAE Annales du Service des Antiquités de l’Égypte ASAtene Annuario della Scuola archeologica di Atene e delle Missioni italiane in Oriente Ath. Athenaeus August. Ep. Augustine Epistulae August. Conf. Augustine Confessions August. De civ. D. Augustine De civitate Dei August. Enarr. Ps. 48 Augustine Enarrationes in psalmos 48 August. Serm. Augustine Sermones Aur.Vict. Epit. De Caes. Aurelius Victor Epitome de Caesaribus Auson. Ep. Ausonius Epistulae Auson. Grat.act. Ausonius Gratiarum actio Auson. Parent. Ausonius Parentalia Av. Fab. praef. Avienus Fabulae, praef. Avitus Epist. Avitus Epistulae BABesch. Bulletin antieke Beschaving BACE Bulletin of the Australian Centre for Egyptology BAR British Archaeological Reports Bas. Epist. Basil Epistulae Bas. Reg. fus. Basil Regulae fusius tractatae BASOR Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research BASP Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrologists BAssBudé Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Budé BCH Bulletin de Correspondence Héllenique BICS Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies of the University of London BIFAO Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale de Caire BJb Bonner Jahrbücher des rheinischen Landesmuseums in Bonn und des Vereins von Altertumsfreunden im Rheinlande xxvii

xxvi

Abbreviations

BMC

R.S. Poole, Catalogue of the Greek coins in the British Museum 1873-​ BMGS Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies BMMA Bulletin of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York BSA Annual of the British School at Athens BullCom Bullettno della Commissione archeologica Comunale di Roma ByzZeit Byzantinische Zeitschrift c. circa CAJ Cambridge Archaeological Journal Cass. Dio. Cassius Dio Cass. Var. Cassiodorus  Variae Cat. Catullus CBd Campbell Bonner Magical Gems Database: www2. szepmuveszeti.hu/​talismans2/​ Cel. Med. Celsus De Medicina Censorinus DN Censorinus De die natali ch. chapter Chron. D’É Chronique d’Égypte Cic. Att. Cicero Epistulae ad Atticum Cic. Clu. Cicero Pro Cluentio Cic. Div. Cicero De divinatione Cic. Fin. Cicero De Finibus Cic. Har. resp. Cicero De haruspicum responso Cic. Leg. Cicero De legibus Cic. Off. Cicero De officiis Cic. Tusc. Cicero Tusculanae disputationes CIE C. Pauli et al., Corpus inscriptionum etruscarum (Rome 1964 (repr. of Leipzig 1893–​1936)) CIL Königlich Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, Corpus inscriptionum latinarum (Berlin 1893–​) CJ Codex Justinianus ClAnt Classical Antiquity ClothTextRes J Clothing and Textiles Research Journal CMS F. Matz, Corpus der minoischen und mykenischen Siegel. Berlin: Verlag G. Mann, 1964–​ Columella Rust. Columella De re rustica CPhil. Classical Philology CQ Classical Quarterly CR Classical Review CReA-​Patrimoine Centre de Recherches en Archéologie et Patrimoine CTh Codex Theodosianus Cyr. Scyth. Vita S. Sabas Cyrillus Scythopolitanus Vita S. Sabas Dar. Sag. C. Daremberg and E. Saglio, Dictionnaire des antiquités grecques et romaines. Paris: Hachette, 1875. DE Discussions in Egyptology De Pach. et Theod. De SS. Pachomio et Theodoro paralipomena Dem. Demosthenes DHA Dialogues d’histoire ancienne xxviii

xxxi

Abbreviations

DialArch Dig. Dio Cass. Diod. Sic. Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. DOP Doroth. Gaza Didasc. EchCl EpigAnat

Dialoghi di Archeologia Digesta Dio Cassius Diodorus Siculus Dionysius Halicarnassensis Antiquitates Romanae Dumbarton Oaks Papers Dorotheus Gazaeus Doctrinae Echos du Monde Classique: Classical Views Epigraphica Anatolica: Zeitschrift für Epigraphik und historische Geographie Anatoliens Epiph. Epiphanius EtrStud Etruscan Studies Eur. Hyps. Euripides Hypsipyle Eur. Med. Euripides  Medea Eur. Tro. Euripides Trojan Women Euseb. Hist. eccl. Eusebius Historia ecclesiastica Euseb. Vit. Const. Eusebius Vita Constantini Expedition Expedition: Bulletin of the University Museum of the University of Pennsylvania FGrHist F. Jacoby, Fragmente der griechischen Historiker. Berlin: Weidmann, 1923-​ fig. figure FIRA S. Riccobono, Fontes Iuris Romani AnteIustiniani. Florentiae: Barbera, 1941. fol. folio Fronto Ep. Fronto Epistulae Gai. Inst. Gaius Institutiones Gal. Hyg. Galen De Sanitate Tuenda GaR Greece and Rome Gell. NA Aulus Gellius Noctes Atticae G’HelKer Proceedings of the G’ Epistemonike Synantese gia tin Ellenistike Keramike,Thessalonike 1991. Athens 1994. GM Göttinger Miszellen GRBS Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies Greg. Naz. Carm. Gregorius Nazianzenus Carmina Greg. Naz. Or. Gregorius Nazianzenus Orationes Hdt. Herodotus H’HelKer Proceedings of the H’ Epistemonike Synantese gia tin Ellenistike Keramike, Ioannina 2009. Athens 2014. Hipp. Berol. Hippiatrica Berolinensis Hist. Aug. Sept. Sev. Historia Augusta, Septimius Severus Hor. Ars P. Horace Ars Poetica Hor. Carm. Horace Carmina Hor. Epist. Horace Epistulae Hor. Sat. Horace Satirae HSCP Harvard Studies in Classical Philology I. Cret. 4 Guarducci, M. Inscriptiones Creticae opera et consilio Friederici Halbherr collectae, vol. IV. Rome: Libreria dello Stato, 1950. xxix

xxx

Abbreviations

ICUR IG IG II²

Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romanis M. Fraenkel, Inscriptiones Graecae (Berlin 1895–​) Kirchner, J. ed. Inscriptiones Graecae II et III: Inscriptiones Atticae Euclidis anno posteriores, 2nd Ed. Berlin: De Gruyter 1913–​1940. IG XII.3 von Gaertringen, F.H. ed. Inscriptiones Graecae XII. Inscriptiones insularum maris Aegaei praeter Delum, 3. Inscriptiones Symes, Teutlussae,Teli, Nisyri, Astypalaeae, Anaphes,Therae et Therasiae, Pholegandri, Meli, Cimoli, Berlin 1898. With von Gaertringen, F.H. ed. Inscriptiones Graecae, XII, 3. Supplementum. Berlin 1904. ILS Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae intro. Introduction Isaiah Asc. Abba Isaiah Asceticon Isid. Etym. Isidorus Etymologiae J Archaeol Method Th Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory J. Archaeol. Sci. Journal of Archaeological Science J.Anthropol.Res. Journal of Anthropological Research J.Hum.Evol. Journal of Human Evolution J.Soc.Archaeol. Journal of Social Archaeology JAnthArch Journal of Anthropological Archaeology JARCE Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt JbAC Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum JDentRes Journal of Dental Research JEA The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology JECS Journal of Early Christian Studies JEgH The Journal of Egyptian History Jer. Apol. c. Ruf. Jerome Apologia Adversus Libros Rufini Jer. Ep. Jerome Epistulae Jer. Comm. in Isa. Jerome Commentariorum in Isaiam prophetam JFA Journal of Field Archaeology JHS Journal of Hellenic Studies JIH Journal of Interdisciplinary History JJP Journal of Juristic Papyrology JMA Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology JNES Journal of Near Eastern Studies JÖB Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik John Chrys. De sac. John Chrysostom De Sacerdotio John Chrys. De statuis John Chrysostom Homiliae De statuis John Chrys. Hom. in Col. John Chrysostom Homiliae in Epistolam ad Colossenses John Chrys. Hom. in Cor. John Chrysostom Homiliae in Epistolam ad Corinthios John Chrys. Hom. in Eph. John Chrysostom Homilia in Epistolam ad Ephesios John Chrys. Hom. in Gal. John Chrysostom Homilia in Epistolam ad Galatas John Chrys. Inani glor. John Chrysostom De Inani Gloria et de Educandis Liberis John Chrys. Virg. John Chrysostom De Virginitate John Mosch. Prat. spir. John Moschus Pratum spirituaIe Joseph. AJ Josephus Antiquitates Judaicae Joseph. Ap. Josephus Contra Apionem JQR Jewish Quarterly Review JRA Journal of Roman Archaeology xxx

xxxi

Abbreviations

JRS Journal of Roman Studies JSav Journal des savants JSSEA Journal of the Society for the Study of Egyptian Antiquities Justin Apol. Justin Martyr First Apology Juv. Sat. Juvenal Satires JWarb Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes KMT KMT: A Modern Journal of Ancient Egypt Lactant. Div. Inst. Lactantius Divinae Institutiones LC Late Cycladic Leo Ep. Leo Epistula LH Late Helladic Lib. Or. Libanius  Oratio LIMC Lexicon iconographicum mythologiae classicae. Zurich: Artemis, 1981–​2009. LM Late Minoan LRL Late Ramesside Letters LSCG Suppl. Sokolowski, F. 1962. Lois Sacrées des cites grecques: Supplément, Paris: de Boccard. Lucil. Lucilius Lucr. Lucretius Lys. Lysias M. Aur. Med. Marcus Aurelius Meditations MAAR Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome Macrob. Comm. in Som. Scip. Macrobius Commentarii in Somnium Scipionis Macrob. Sat. Macrobius Saturnalia Mart. Martial MBGAEU Mitteilungen der Berliner Geselschaft fur Anthropologie, Ethnologie und Urgeschichte MdI Mitteilungen des Deutschen Ärchäologischen Instituts MDIK Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Abteilung Kairo MÉFR Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire de l’École française de Rome MÉFRA Mélanges de l’École française de Rome, Antiquité Men. Dys. Menander Dyskolos Men. Pk. Menander Perikeiromenē MH Middle Helladic Min. Fel. Oct. Minucius Felix Octavius MIO Mitteilungen des Instituts für Orientforschung MM Middle Minoan MMA Metropolitan Museum of Art MonInst Monumenti inediti pubblicati dall’Instituto di corrispondenza archeologica MusHelv Museum Helveticum n. note Nep. Att. Nepos Atticus Nic. Dam. Nicolaus Damascenus Nor. Archaeol. Rev. Norwegian Archaeological Review nos. numbers xxxi

xxxi

Abbreviations

NSc Notizie degli scavi di antichità O. ostracon OED Oxford English Dictionary OGIS Orientis Graeci inscriptiones selectee OJA Oxford Journal of Archaeology OpRom Opuscula Romana Ov. Am. Ovid  Amores Ov. Ars am. Ovid Ars amatoria Ov. Fast. Ovid  Fasti Ov. Met. Ovid Metamorphoses Ov. Tr. Ovid Tristia P. papyrus Pallas Pallas: Revue d’études antiques Pass. Perp. et Felic. Passio Perpetua et Felicitatis Paul. Pell. Euch. Paulinus Pellaeus Eucharisticus Paulus Sent. Paulus Sententiae Paus. Pausanias PBSR Papers of the British School at Rome PDM Papyri Demoticae Magicae = H.D. Betz, The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1986. Pers. Persius Pers Sat. Persius Satires Petron. Sat. Petronius Satyrica PGM Papyri Grecae Magicae = H.D. Betz, The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1986. Pind. Nem. Pindar Nemean Odes Pind. Pyth. Pindar Pythian Odes pl. plate Pl. Euthyd. Plato Euthydemus Pl. Leg. Plato  Leges Pl. Phd. Plato  Phaedo Pl. Resp. Plato Respublica Pl. Tht. Plato Theaetetus Pl. Ti. Plato Timaeus Plaut. Aul. Plautus Aulularia Plaut. Epid. Plautus Epidicus Plin. Ep. Pliny (The Younger) Epistulae Plin. HN Pliny (The Elder) Naturalis Historia Plin. Pan. Lat. Pliny Panegyrici Latini Plut. Aem. Plutarch Aemilius Paulus Plut. Alex. Plutarch Alexander Plut. Ant. Plutarch Antonius Plut. Arist. Plutarch Aristides Plut. Cat. Min. Plutarch Cato Minor Plut. Cic. Plutarch  Cicero Plut. De Lib. Plutarch De liberis educandis Plut. Demetr. Plutarch Demetrius xxxii

xxxi

Abbreviations

Plut. Lyc. Plutarch Lycurgus Plut. Mor. Plutarch Moralia Plut. Num. Plutarch  Numa Plut. Quaest. Rom. Plutarch Quaestiones Romanae Plut. Rom. Plutarch Romulus Plut. Sol. Plutarch  Solon Plut. Thes. Plutarch Theseus Plut. Ti. Gracch. Plutarch Tiberius Gracchus PM A.J. Evans, The palace of Minos at Knossos, vols. I-​IV. London: Macmillan 1921–​1935. PMG D.L. Page, Poetae Melici Graeci. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1962. PoDIA Proceedings of the Danish Institute at Athens Pollux Onomast. Pollux Onomasticon Polyb. Polybius P&P Past and Present PP La parola del passato Prakt Praktika tes en Athenais Archaiologikes Etaireias Proc. Bell. Procopius Caesarensis De Bellis Prop. Propertius Prosper Ep. ad Ruf. Prosper Epistula ad Rufinum Prud. C. Symm. Prudentius Contra Symmachum Prud. Peristeph. Prudentius Peristephanon Ps.-​Athan. Virg. Pseudo-​Athanasius De Virginitate Ps.-​Athan. Vita Syncl. Pseudo-​Athanasius Vita Syncleticae PZ Prähistorische Zeitschrift QArchEtr Quaderni del Centro di studio per l’archeologia etrusco-​italica Quint. Inst. Quintilian Institutio Oratoria RA Revue archéologique RC Religion Compass RÉA Revue des études anciennes RÉByz Revue des études byzantines RÉG Revue des études grecques RHE Revue d’histoire ecclésiastique S.Afr.Archaeol.Bull. South African Archaeological Bulletin SB Sitologen Papyrus, London, British Library Pap 1575 ScAnt Scienze dell’Antichita: Storia, archeologia, antropologia (Rome) schol. Scholiast or scholia SEG Supplementum epigraphicum graecum (Leiden 1923–​) Sen. Clem. Seneca (The Younger) De clementia Sen. Cons. Marc. Seneca (The Younger) De consolatione ad Marciam Sen. Constant. Seneca (The Younger) De constantia sapientis Sen. Controv. Seneca (The Elder) Controversiae Sen. Ep. Seneca Epistulae Sen. Prov. Seneca (The Younger) De Providentia Sep. sepolture (grave) Sepp. Sepolture (graves) Serv. Ad. Aen. Servius On the Aeneid Serv. Ad. Ecl. Servius On the Eclogues xxxiii

xxxvi

Abbreviations

SHA Sid. Apoll. Epist. SIG SIG³ SIMA SIMA-​PB SkrAth

Scriptores Historiae Augustae Sidonius Apollinaris Epistulae W. Dittenberger, Sylloge inscriptionum graecarum (Leipzig 1883–​) W. Dittenberger, Sylloge inscriptionum graecarum (Leipzig 1915–​1924) Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology and Literature: Pocketbook Skrifter utgivna av Svenska Institutet i Athen (Acta Instituti Atheniensis Regni Suecaie) Sociol Q The Sociological Quarterly Sor. Gyn. Soranus Gynecology Sozom. Hist. eccl. Sozomen Historia ecclesiastica SSBAR Soprintendenza Speciale per il Colosseo, il Museo Nazionale Romano e l’Area Archeologica di Roma Stat. Silv. Statius  Silvae ST’HelKer Proceedings of the ST’ Epistemonike Synantese gia tin Ellenistike Keramike,Volos 2000. Athens 2004. Suet. Aug. Suetonius Divus Augustus Suet. Calig. Suetonius Caligula Suet. Claud. Suetonius Divus Claudius Suet. Gramm. et rhet. Suetonius De grammaticism et rhetoribus Suet. Iul. Suetonius Divus Iulius Suet. Nero Suetonius  Nero Suet. Tib. Suetonius Tiberius Stob. Flor. Stobaeus Florilegium Symm. Epist. Symmachus Epistulae Synes. Cyr. Dio Synesius Cyreniensis Dio Tac. Ann. Tacitus Annales Tac. Germ. Tacitus Germania Tac. Hist. Tacitus Historiae TAPA Transactions of the American Philological Association TAPhA Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association Tert. Ad nat. Tertullian Ad nationes Tert. De anim. Tertullian De testimoniae animae Tert. De bapt. Tertullian De baptismo Tert. De idol. Tertullian De idololatria Theocritus Id. Theocritus  Idylls Theod. Cyrrh. Hist. relig. Theodoret of Cyrrhus Historia religiosa Theophr. Char. Theophrastus Characteres Theophr. Hist. pl. Theophrastus Historia plantarum Theopomp. Theopompus Historicus ThesCRA Thesaurus cultus et rituum antiquorum, Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2004–​2012. Thuc. Thucydides Tib. Tibullus trans. translated TravMém Travaux et Mémoires Ulp. Dig. Ulpian  Digest

xxxiv

xxxv

newgenprepdf

Abbreviations

UPZ

U. Wilcken, Urkunden der Ptolemäerzeit (ältere Funde). Berlin: Walter de Gruyter 1927–​1934. Val. Max. Valerius Maximus Varro Ling. Varro De Lingua Latina Varro Log. 1 Varro, Logistorici 1. Catus de liberis educandis Varro Res Divinae Varro Antiquitates rerum humanarum et divinarum Verg. Aen. Vergil  Aeneid W.Chr. L. Mitteis and U. Wilcken, Grundzüge und Chrestomathie der Papyruskunde, I Bd. Historischer Teil, II Hälfte Chrestomathie. Leipzig-​Berlin,  1912. WorldArch World Archaeology WZGSR Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift. Gesellschafts-​und sprachwissenschaftliche Reihe Xen. Hell. Xenophon Hellenica Xen. Lac. Xenophon Constitution of the Lacedaimonians Xen. Oec. Xenophon Oeconomicus Xen. Symp. Xenophon Symposium Zen. Zenobius Z’HelKer Proceedings of the Ζ’ Epistemonike Synantese gia tin Ellenistike Keramike, Aigio 2004. Athens 2011. Zos. Hist. Zosimus Historia ZPE Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

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1

INTRODUCTION Investigating the ancient Mediterranean ‘childscape’ Lesley A. Beaumont, Matthew Dillon and Nicola Harrington

In recent years, the study of childhood in antiquity has come into its own with the publication of numerous monographs, handbooks, conference proceedings and collected volumes on the subject (see, for example:  Colón 2001; Mustakallio et  al. 2005; Stearns 2006; Crawford and Shepherd 2007; Harlow and Laurence 2010; Aasgaard and Horn 2017). Though not restricted to antiquity, the publication from 2009 onwards of the journal Childhood in the Past has also provided another important venue for publication of relevant research. In addition, a number of museum exhibitions have also explored the theme of children in the ancient world (see, for example: Gourevitch et al. 2003; Neils and Oakley 2003; Dasen 2004; Dasen 2019). Indeed, in association with the preparation of this present volume, a 2015 display on Children in Antiquity:  Greece and Egypt was mounted by Beaumont, Harrington and Richards in the Nicholson Museum at the University of Sydney: https://​sydney.edu.au/​museums/​collections_​ search/​#search-​results&view=details&modules=eevents&irn=332&id=42e1 With this increasingly rich array of scholarship in mind, why therefore did we embark on the preparation of this current volume? To date, the valuable work that has been undertaken on childhood in antiquity has been variously defined by thematic or methodological approaches: thus, for instance, childhood death or education, or the archaeology of childhood (see, for example: Sofaer Derevenski 2000; Too 2001; Baxter 2005; Bacvarov 2006; Guimier-​ Sorbets et al. 2011; Lally and Moore 2011; Hermary and Dubois 2012; Nenna 2012; Romanowicz 2013; Bloomer 2015; Coskunsu 2015; Crawford et al. 2018; Marshall 2018). Other studies have focused on the young in culturally specific contexts: much, for example, has been written on children in the Greek or Roman worlds though significantly less research has been conducted on the young in Egypt or in pre-​Roman Italy, a state of affairs which this volume seeks to address (see, for example:  Neils and Oakley 2003; Rawson 2003; Dixon 2005; Cohen and Rutter 2007; Hennessy 2008; Laes 2011; Beaumont 2012; Evans et al. 2013; Laes et al. 2014; Golden 2015; Laes and Vuolanto 2017; Ariantzi 2018; Carroll 2018; Harrington 2018; Marshall 2018; Tabolli 2018). What also until now has remained elusive in scholarship is the systematic application of a diachronic, multidisciplinary and comparative regional approach which, via the more holistic investigation of ancient literary, iconographical, documentary and archaeological sources, facilitates the illumination of adult perspectives on, and the juvenile experience of, childhood across time and interrelated cultures. This volume therefore attempts to do just that

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for the ancient Mediterranean world, and specifically for the societies of Greece, Italy and Egypt from the Bronze Age to Byzantium.This is not of course to say that the array of ancient literary, iconographical, documentary and archaeological sources is evenly available across these societies and time periods. In Italy, for example, evidence pertaining to children in the pre-​Etruscan period is dominated by the mortuary context, while by contrast in the same period in Egypt, as Kaiser in this volume notes (Chapter 30), children are underrepresented in the mortuary record. Textual and documentary sources relating to children are similarly unevenly available across the societies and time periods under study: only Egyptian sources offer diachronic evidence while in written records from Greece and Italy children occasionally appear only from the sixth and fifth centuries BC onwards, with references to them later becoming more plentiful in the Roman and Byzantine periods. Predicated on the chronological and regional framework of ancient Greece, Italy and Egypt between the Bronze Age and Byzantium, this volume is structured thematically around the culturally specific definition of childhood (Part I), children’s daily life experience (Part II), the young in the context of religion and ritual (Part III), and children and death (Part IV). Within each of these thematic sections, a chapter is devoted to each of nine chronological/​regional divisions, namely: Pharaonic Egypt, Bronze and Early Iron Age Greece, Bronze and Early Iron Age Italy, Archaic and Classical Greece, Etruscan Italy, the Hellenistic world, Graeco-​Roman Egypt, Rome, and Late Antiquity/​Byzantium. A tenth chapter is also added to Part I in order to provide an introduction to the children of the much understudied society of Coptic Egypt (Cromwell, Chapter 10). Part V comprises three chapters dedicated to the bioarchaeological study of children’s remains. This is a specialised area of research that has in recent years begun to add much to our understanding of the lives, treatment, health and demise of the young, and which deserves the attention of all ancient historians and archaeologists who attempt to engage with past childhoods. The three chapters in this section provide an introduction to the bioarchaeological evidence of children in Egyptian society, the cultures of Greece and Rome and the world of Late Antiquity/​Byzantium. The resulting volume is a wide-​ranging spatio-​temporal collection of essays that allows us to explore ancient Mediterranean childhood at both the micro and macro levels. At the micro level, the reader may, for example, wish to engage with the definition, perception and experience of childhood within a particular chronological period or, alternatively, diachronically across a specific culture. At the macro level, the volume enables us to begin to explore ‘big picture’ issues: to investigate trends, disparities and developments across the ancient Mediterranean world in the social construction, treatment and experience of childhood. Some of the most notable ‘big picture’ items to emerge from the chapters in this volume, and on which we now proceed to offer commentary in this introductory chapter, concern disparities and similarities in the ways that ancient Mediterranean societies defined children and childhood, the analysis and interpretation of mortuary evidence to illuminate the place and value of children within their living communities, and important indications for productive future directions that scholarship on children in the ancient Mediterranean might take. While the chapters in this volume make abundantly clear that the definition of children and childhood was (and still is) culturally and temporally highly variable, and also subject to filters of gender and socio-​economic status, they simultaneously highlight the existence of a number of diachronic pan-​Mediterranean common perceptions concerning the sub-​division of the youthful life stage into three major phases. The first of these treats the period between birth and the child’s third year as a discrete phase of life. In Egypt the conclusion of this early childhood phase was marked by the first haircut, the cessation of weaning, and the inclusion of 2

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deceased offspring in extra-​mural cemeteries rather than their intra-​mural deposition beneath the house floor as was the case for younger counterparts (Harrington, Chapter 11). In Classical Greece, the incorporation of children in their third year for the first time as active participants in the religious ritual of the Anthesteria similarly recognised an important life stage transition, signifying the increasing integration of the young into communal life (Beaumont 2012: 69–​ 84). In Italy, the inclusion of young children in formal cemeteries from their fourth year onwards also points to a comparable shift in their developing status as community members (Perego, Chapter 3; Fulminante and Stoddart, Chapter 34). Bioarchaeological studies further confirm the significance of the third year of life across many ancient Mediterranean societies, with evidence indicating the cessation of weaning around this time (Marklein and Fox, Chapter 39;Wheeler et al. Chapter 40; Bourbou, Chapter 41). However, though this third-​year life-​stage threshold is a commonly observable feature of many ancient Mediterranean societies, it is not universally present and in the Bronze Age Aegean and Etruscan Italy it seems to be replaced by an early-​life-​stage milestone that was reached in the child’s fifth year (Chapin, Chapter 2; Turfa Chapter 24). The seventh year of life –​the year in which the milk teeth were (and still are) commonly lost  –​was acknowledged as constituting a second major watershed in a child’s life by many of the ancient societies of Egypt (Harrington, Chapter  1), Greece (Beaumont, Chapter  4), Rome (Dasen, Chapter 7; Dolansky, Chapter 17), and Byzantium (Nathan, Chapter 9;Vuolanto, Chapter 19). It was from this time that the gendered life course took on greater significance, and it was correspondingly now that formal education commenced for male offspring of elite families. Multiples of seven years (hebdomads) were further seen as significant in Greek and Roman society in structuring older childhood, and even the adult years (Beaumont, Chapter 4; Dasen, Chapter 7). Puberty, the last of the three commonly recognised phases of youth, was therefore frequently conceived of as being reached socially, if not always also biologically, by males around their fourteenth year. Notably, however, many of the ancient Mediterranean societies under consideration perceived female puberty as having an earlier onset, and/​or the ensuing transitional phase between female puberty and adulthood as being shorter-​lived, than in the case of males (for Greece, Beaumont Chapter 4; for Rome, McWilliam Chapter 26; for Late Antiquity, Nathan Chapter  9 and Vuolanto Chapter  19). In this respect, Roman Egypt was markedly different, with both males and females being considered to have attained legal adulthood at age 14 (Malouta, Chapter 18). Elsewhere female adulthood seems to have commonly been attained not long after puberty via the transformatory agency of marriage, ensuing pregnancy and the birth of the first child. With the exception of Roman Egypt, the male transition to full adult status was considered by the societies of Greece, Rome and Byzantium to have extended into the third decade of life: although in Classical Greece boys were granted citizenship at eighteen, the full rights and responsibilities of adulthood were not conferred until age 30 (Beaumont, Chapter  4), and in Roman Italy adulescentia (adolescence) was considered to extend until at least age 21, with legal responsibility reached only at age 25 (Dasen, Chapter 7). In Late Antique society, while childhood legally ended at 20 for inheritance purposes, full adulthood might not be attained until 25 (Nathan, Chapter 9). In attempting to explain this commonly existing discrepancy in the duration of male and female childhood and sub-​adulthood across many ancient Mediterranean societies we might consider three possible contributing factors: first the protection of legitimate lines of inheritance via the early marriage and realisation of the childbearing capacity of females, second the necessarily longer gestation of the male’s capacity to take his place in the public and political as well as domestic arena, and third perhaps an attempt to alleviate potential generational tensions between fathers and sons by lengthening the period of constrained adult ‘apprenticeship’ for males (Beaumont forthcoming). 3

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In order to illuminate the cultural perception of discrete life stages within childhood –​such as infancy/​early childhood, older childhood and puberty as discussed above –​the authors in this volume mine the available ancient literary, documentary, archaeological and iconographic evidence. One particularly interesting observation to emerge especially from analysis of the iconographic sources highlights the pan-​Mediterranean significance of the youthful growth, styling and cutting of hair. Whether reviewing evidence from dynastic Egypt (Harrington, Chapter 1; Nifosi, Chapter  27), Minoan Crete and Akrotiri (Chapin, Chapter  2; Günkel-​Maschek, Chapter  21), Etruscan Italy (Nielsen, Chapter  5), Archaic and Classical Greece (Beaumont, Chapter 4), or Greco-​Roman Egypt (Jiménez, Chapter 8), it becomes clear that the absence, presence, length or specific styling of hair was regarded diachronically and cross-​culturally as an important marker and indicator of the progressive stages of youth. Similarly, observations by Harrington (Chapter 1) and Szpakowska (Chapter 20) of the metaphorical and iconographical association of birds with the young in Egyptian society echo suggestions made elsewhere by Beaumont, Woysch-​Méautis and Holtzmann that the bird was also used as an iconographic signifier of youth in ancient Greece (Holtzmann 1972:  79; Woysch-​Méautis 1982:  39–​53; Beaumont 2012:  190–​191). Such observations highlight the interrelation of the cultures of the ancient Mediterranean world and encourage us to consider Mediterranean childhoods not only as discrete societal constructs but also at the same time as constituent parts of a wider interconnected cultural context. Diachronically across the Mediterranean, one of the biggest shifts to occur in ancient perceptions of the characteristics and nature of children and childhood can be identified in the transition from pagan to Christian religion. During the pagan era many ancient Mediterranean societies regarded children as incomplete adults, being physically weak and vulnerable and lacking in knowledge and the capacity for reason (see for example: Harrington Chapter 1 on Egypt; Golden Chapter 6 on Greece). As Caseau points out, however, the advent of Christianity resulted in children being presented in a different and positive light and even, in view of their perceived trusting and simple natures, being held up as a model for adults to follow (Caseau Chapter 28). Indeed, Jesus was after all himself regularly depicted in infant form. The arrival of Christianity also signalled a move towards rejecting the practice of infant exposure and infanticide by Greco-​Roman society, which had previously endorsed this; children, according to Christian theology, were deemed to have souls and should therefore be raised (Nathan Chapter  9 though qualified by Vuolanto, Chapter  19). Even in the pre-​Christian period it was not, however, the case that exposure and infanticide were acceptable practices across the whole of the ancient Mediterranean world, and here the attempt by members of Egyptian and Etruscan society to raise all children contrasts markedly with the selective child rearing practices of Greece and Rome (for Egypt –​Marshall, Chapter 11; for Etruria –​Bonfante, Chapter 15; for Greece –​Golden, Chapter 6;Vlachou, Chapter 33; Marklein and Fox, Chapter 39; for Rome –​ Dasen, Chapter 7; Lipkin and Jarva, Chapter 13; Lindsay, Chapter 36). In this context it is worth noting corresponding cultural variations in the timing of the naming of the infant: this constituted an important ritual that recognised the child’s personhood and therefore its right to life and its acceptance into the family. In Egypt, where children were named immediately following birth, personhood was granted automatically (Marshall, Chapter 11; Power, Chapter 29). In Greek and Roman society, on the other hand, physical birth did not equate to social birth, with social recognition and acceptance of a new life being delayed until it was qualified by the enaction of the naming ceremony that took place, variously, some time between the fifth and tenth day after birth (McWilliam, Chapter 26; Lindsay, Chapter 36). Only then was it guaranteed that the infant would be raised –​if, that is, it survived the many serious natural risks that led to a high early childhood mortality rate (L. Garland, Chapter 38). 4

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Interestingly, in the Christian period the naming of the child might be delayed until the fortieth day after birth or even until the child’s third year (Vuolanto, Chapter  19). It would therefore seem that once biological and social birth became aligned, the urgency to name the child was no longer felt and the naming ceremony therefore became incorporated into later ritual celebrations of childhood. In the case of those societies considered in this volume for which we do not possess ancient literary or documentary sources to help with determining the age at which personhood was conferred on the young, a number of contributors in this volume turn to the evidence of the mortuary context. Perego, for example, notes the common absence or scarcity of perinatal and neonatal formal burials during the Italian Bronze Age and Early Iron Age periods, and contrasts this with the presence at many sites of the formal burial of children older than about three years (Perego, Chapter 3). Similarly Fulminante and Stoddart note the general underrepresentation of infant and child burials in Early Iron Age Middle Tyrrhenian Italy (Fulminante and Stoddart, Chapter 34), while Lipkin and Jarva, like Perego, note that those children who did receive burial in communal necropoleis in the area of Rome and Latium during the Early Iron Age were mostly older than three years (Lipkin and Jarva, Chapter 13). Where burials under the age of three or four do occur, they are often suggrundaria, or intramural, burials made within the settlement. Similarly for Mycenaean Greece, Chapin and Gallou note the underrepresentation of children in organised extra-​mural cemeteries and draw attention to the exclusion from these of infants in their first year, who were instead buried within or near settlements (Chapin, Chapter 2; Gallou, Chapter 32). Shepherd, too, observes the underrepresentation of children, especially those under one year of age, in the rock cut cemeteries of Late Bronze Age and Iron Age Sicily (Shepherd, Chapter  32). Many of these authors view this differential treatment of children in the prehistoric mortuary context as suggestive of the delayed or graduated conferral of personhood on the young and their corresponding gradual integration into society. However, all are cautious of simplistically equating children’s personhood, or lack thereof, with their presence or absence from formal cemeteries and note not only other possible contributing factors (such as family status or, in the case of Early Iron Age Greece, the emerging socio-​political context of the nascent polis, for which see Gallou, Chapter 31 and Dimakis, Chapter 35), but also the highly marked and significant regional and temporal variability of children’s treatment in the mortuary sphere. If all agree on one thing, it is that the further study of mortuary evidence still has much to tell us about children’s place in the context of the particular societies to which they belonged. This brings us finally to consideration of what the chapters in this volume indicate as significant and productive directions that future scholarship on children in the ancient Mediterranean world might seek to explore. The regional, and even local, variability just noted in children’s mortuary treatment is variously stressed also in the context of the socially constructed boundary between juvenile and adult status, and of the perception, treatment, representation and experience of the juvenile state, by Chapin, Beaumont, Langdon, R. Garland and Laes (Chapters 2, 4, 12, 14 and 16). Intensified investigation therefore of the intra-​regional variability of ancient perspectives and experiences of childhood in Mediterranean societies would certainly produce higher resolution insights into children’s place within their particular societal, and even potentially their household, contexts. In advancing this line of approach it will be particularly important to recognise, and work with, the multiplicity of childhoods that existed within even a single society. As many of the contributors to this volume observe, gender, socio-​economic class and juridical status all impacted on the social perception and lived experience of children (see, for example, R. Garland Chapter 14). The childhood of male, female, rich, poor, socially elite, disadvantaged, 5

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slave, disabled, bastard, orphaned and adopted individuals all differed markedly within the same community. We need therefore to attempt to find ways to explore these different childhoods that will take us beyond an understanding only of the childhoods of the elite classes. Though this is certainly challenging since the ancient literary, documentary and iconographical sources refer mainly to children possessed of higher socio-​economic status, the archaeological and bioarchaeological evidence by contrast does not consciously discriminate in favour of those at the upper end of the social scale. Indeed as a relatively recent and rapidly developing area of research, bioarchaeology promises to continue to shine a great deal of new light on the lives of the ancient Mediterranean’s juvenile population. As demonstrated by the contributions included in Part V of this volume, aspects of juvenile diet, health, trauma, paleopathology, and mortality can be accessed via the analysis of bioarchaeological evidence for all demographic strata (Marklein and Fox, Chapter 39; Wheeler et al., Chapter 40; Bourbou, Chapter 41). Even ancient child abuse may be identifiable from the presence of intentional trauma witnessed by skeletal fracture patterns (Wheeler et al., Chapter 40). In working with the broader range of archaeological evidence available to us, it behoves us to heed and emulate the admirable approach that van Rossenberg advocates in this volume: he does not seek simply to ‘find’ or identify children in the archaeological record, but rather to assume their inevitable presence in ancient society and consequently to analyse and interpret material culture in relation to this (Chapter  22). This approach, combined with recognition of the agency of children, presents new horizons for researchers in ancient childhood studies attempting to identify the footprint of children in material culture and ancient society. One area in which juvenile agency has already begun to be explored is religion:  in this volume Szpakowska (Chapter 20), Dillon (Chapter 23), Bobou (Chapter 25) and Nifosi (Chapter 27) all examine children’s agency in the ritual context. Other contributors urge us to also investigate children’s agency in aspects of their daily life such as play, education and socialisation, for while adults attempt social reproduction and continuity via the young, it is the young who are often responsible for introducing change and challenging the accepted and expected way of doing things (Langdon, Chapter 12; Lipkin and Jarva, Chapter 13; Laes, Chapter 16; Vuolanto, Chapter 19). Power in this volume, meanwhile, leads the way in employing funerary evidence to suggest the considerable agency of children in Egyptian society of the Early Dynastic to Middle Kingdom periods (Chapter 29). In closing, we hope that this volume in Routledge’s Rewriting Antiquity series, in meeting its brief to present the latest cutting-​edge research on perspectives and experiences of childhood in ancient Egypt, Greece and Italy, contextualised within a diachronic and multidisciplinary framework, will do much to stimulate further innovative investigations into the ‘childscape’ of Mediterranean antiquity.

Note 1 All chapters cited are from this volume, unless otherwise stated.

References Aasgaard, R. and Horn, C. with O.M. Cojocaru. 2017. Childhood in History: Perceptions of Children in the Ancient and Medieval worlds. New York: Routledge. Ariantzi, D., ed. 2018. Coming of age in Byzantium: Adolescence and society. Berlin: De Gruyter. Bacvarov, K., ed. 2008. Babies reborn: Infant/​child burials in pre-​and proto-​history. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports International Series 1832.

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Introduction Baxter, J.E. 2005. The archaeology of childhood. Children, gender and material culture.Walnut Creek.Altamira  Press. Beaumont, L.A. 2012. Childhood in ancient Athens: Iconography and social history. London: Routledge. Beaumont, L.A. forthcoming. Dismemberment, decapitation and disposal:  ancient Greek narratives of children at risk. Journal of the History of Childhood and Youth. Bloomer, W.M., ed. 2015. A companion to ancient education. Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. Carroll, M. 2018. Infancy and earliest childhood in the Roman world:  ‘A fragment of time’. Oxford:  Oxford University Press. Cohen, A. and Rutter, J.B., eds. 2007. Constructions of childhood in ancient Greece and Italy. Princeton, NJ: American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Colòn, A.R. with Colòn, P.A. 2001. A history of children: A socio-​cultural survey across millennia. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Coskunsu, G., ed. 2015. The archaeology of childhood: Interdisciplinary perspectives on an archaeological enigma. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Crawford, S. and Shepherd, G. 2007. Children, childhood and society. Oxford: Archaeopress. Crawford, S., Hadley, D.M., and Shepherd, G., eds. 2018. The Oxford handbook of the archaeology of childhood. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dasen, V., ed. 2004. Naissance et petite enfance dans l’Antiquité. Actes du colloque de Fribourg, 28 novembre–​1er décembre 2001. Fribourg: Academic Press. Dasen,V., ed. 2019. Ludique. Jouer dans l’Antiquité. Gent: Snoeck. Dixon, S. 2001. Childhood, class and kin in the Roman world. London: Routledge. Golden, M. 2015. Children and childhood in Classical Athens, 2nd ed. Baltimore, MD:  Johns Hopkins University Press. Gourevitch, D., Moirin, A. and Rouquet, N. 2003. Maternité et petite enfance dans l’Antiquité romaine. Catalogue de l’exposition. Bourges, Museum d’histoire naturelle, 6 novembre 2003–​28 mars 2004. Bourges:  Service d’archéologie municipal. Grubbs, J.E. and Parkin, T.G. 2013. The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. New York: Oxford University Press. Guimier-​Sorbets, A.-​M. and Morizot, Y., eds. 2011. L’enfant et la mort dans l’Antiquité:  novelles recherches dans les nécropolies grecques: le signalement des tombes d’enfants: actes de la table ronde internationale organisée à Athènes, École Française d’Athènes, 29–​30 mai 2008. Paris: De Boccard. Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. 2010. A cultural history of childhood and family in antiquity. Oxford:  Berg Publishers. Harrington, N. 2018. Representations of children in ancient Egyptian art. In: S. Crawford, D. Hadley and G. Shepherd (eds), The Oxford handbook of the archaeology of childhood. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 539–​556. Hennessy, C. 2008. Images of children in Byzantium. London: Routledge. Hermary, A. and Dubois, C., eds. 2012. L’enfant et la mort dans l’Antiquité, III. Le matériel associé aux tombes d’enfants. Actes de la table ronde internationale organisée à la Maison Méditerranéenne des Sciences de l’Homme (MMSH) d’Aix-​en-​Provence, 20–​22 janvier 2011. Marseille: Editions errance, Centre Camille Julian. Laes, C. 2011. Children in the Roman Empire: Outsiders within. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Laes, C., Mustakallio, K. and Vuolanto, V., eds. 2015. Children and family in Late Antiquity: Life, death and interaction. Leuven: Peeters. Laes, C. and Vuolanto, V. 2017. Children and everyday life in the Roman and Late Antique world. London: Routledge. Lally, M. and Moore, A., eds. 2011. (Re)thinking the little ancestor: New perspectives on the archaeology of infancy and childhood. Oxford: Archaeopress. Marshall, A. 2018. L’enfant et la mort en Egypte ancienne. Toulouse: Mondes Antiques. Mustakallio, K., Hanska, J., Sainio, H.-​L. and Vuolanto,V., eds. 2005. Hoping for continuity: Childhood, education and death in antiquity and the Middle Ages. Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae. Neils, J. and Oakley, J.H., eds. 2003. Coming of age in ancient Greece: Images of childhood from the Classical past. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press and Hanover: Hood Museum of Art. Nenna, M.D., ed. 2012. L’Enfant et la mort dans l’Antiquité, II.Types de tombes et traitement du corps des enfants dans l’Antiquité Greco-​romaine. Actes de la table ronde internationale organisée à Alexandrie, Centre d’etudes Alexandrines, 12–​14 novembre 2009. Alexandria: Centre d’Etudes Alexandrines. Rawson, B. 2003. Children and childhood in Roman Italy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Romanowicz, P., ed. 2013. Child and childhood in the light of archaeology. Wroclaw: Chronicon. Sofaer Derevenski, J., ed. 2000. Children and material culture. London: Routledge.

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Beaumont, Dillon and Harrington Stearns, P.N. 2006. Childhood in world history. New York: Routledge. Tabolli, J. (ed.) 2018. New methods and data for the archaeology of infant and child burials in pre-​Roman Italy and beyond. Nicosia: Astrom Editions. Too,Y.L. (ed.) 2001. Education in Greek and Roman antiquity. Leiden: Brill. Vuolanto,V. 2015. Children in the ancient world and the early Middle Ages: A bibliography. www.hf.uio. no/​ifikk/​english/​research/​projects/​childhood/​bibliography.pdf

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PART I

What is a child?

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1 THE ANCIENT EGYPTIAN CONCEPTION OF CHILDREN AND CHILDHOOD Nicola Harrington

Historical and anthropological sources indicate that childhood is a sociological phenomenon and not simply “the time between birth and puberty” as defined by the OED. The concept of “childhood” as a cultural construction (as opposed to just biological immaturity) has been highlighted by Prout and James, who note that it is neither a natural nor universal feature of all societies, but rather a specific structural and cultural component of many of them (Prout and James 1990:8). Halcrow and Tayles draw attention to the need to consider different age types, specifically: physiological or biological age (based on biological changes in the body), chronological age (time since birth), and social age.The latter they define as the “culturally constructed norms of appropriate behavior and status of individuals within society for a given age” (Halcrow and Tayles 2011: 335).These norms are apparent in Egyptian society; for example men could be ostracised for inebriation that resulted in crawling on the floor like “a little child” (Lichtheim 1976: 137). In this chapter I will draw together sources from the dynastic period of Egyptian history (c. 2575–​332 BC) to present a broad overview of the perception of children from infancy to puberty. The data is limited: we know little about how male childhood was defined, less about that of females, and almost nothing about the attitudes of the non-​elite to their children. Burials and epitaphs indicate that children were loved and wanted, though in art their often unrealistically diminutive size compared with elite adults suggests an inferior status equal to that of servants (cf. ancient Greece: Beaumont 1995: 358). Iconographically, general physical stages of growth and development are indicated by clothing, gestures, anatomy, hairstyles, and markers such as tattoos, while the large number of written terms for children, specific protective spells and magico-​medical texts, along with the existence of child deities is suggestive of an interest in and concern for the young.

Terminology Ancient Egyptians had a range of terms for non-​adults, most of which cannot be accurately attributed to a given age (e.g. Gardiner 1957; Faulkner 1962; MacDonald 1994: 56–​7; Feucht 1995:  518–​520; Toivari-​Viitala 2001:  197–​201; Marshall 2013:  70, table  9; Eyre 2014:  295). Examples are shown in Table 1.1.

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Nicola Harrington Table 1.1  List of terms for child/​children in ancient Egyptian texts Transliteration

Translation

nxn(t) xt, xii x aai wDH tA HsAw, HaA Xnw sDty xrd Xpry Mswt, ms, mswtt sA, sAt

Newborn, young, youth, childhood (placenta hieroglyph) Young child (placenta hieroglyph) (To be a) child (placenta hieroglyph) Very young, unweaned child; “wailing one”? (Ben Hinson, pers. comm. 2015) Weaned child/​to wean Figurative for infant, child: literally “fledgling” Children, child, infant, boy Child Child, possibly from root sDn “to carry a child” Child/​to be a child (generic) Children (generic); literally “ones (who) come into being” Children, child, girl; from msi, “to give birth to” Son, daughter. sA is also used for “pupil” in the context of teachers and their students Boy, young son/​daughter; from Srr, (to be) small, short, junior, younger, meagre Girl, small daughter (also small in sense of “insignificant”) Young man, from rnp(y), young/​be young Young man/​woman, child (in age or behaviour) Youth, adolescent Youth, adolescent; literally “stripling”

Sri, Srit ktt, sAt ktt rnp Hwn(t) id(w), idiit mnH

There are also special terms for royal and divine children (Marshall 2013: 70, table 9), and additional terms expressing filiation. In contrast to the diversity of words related to “child” and “childhood”, kinship terms are limited, suggesting that the Egyptians placed considerable importance on the young and their general developmental stages. Most terms are followed by the “child” determinative (ideogram), a figure with the index finger of one hand to its mouth (or “in his mouth” according to some translations of the Pyramid Texts), seated on an invisible lap (Gardiner 1957: 443, A17). This generic posture was established by the Old Kingdom (2575–​2134 BC), and continued to be characteristic of the sun god in the form of Horus-​the-​ Child despite its decline in the depiction of mortal children from the Middle Kingdom (2040–​ 1640 BC) onwards (Marshall 2013: 32). The finger-​to-​mouth gesture, perhaps the equivalent of self-​pacifying by thumb-​sucking, along with reaching out for and turning towards adults, is suggestive of uncertainty as well as the vulnerability of children that is reflected in the multitude of medico-​magical texts designed to keep them from harm (Luiselli 2015: 647; Szpakowska, this volume).This defencelessness is also expressed in the use of bird-​related terms (“in the egg” [in-​utero], “in the nest”, “fledgling”, e.g. Leitz 1999: 72), which probably derive from a symbolic association with Horus in infantile form (Hr-pA-xrd, later Harpocrates; see also the Great Hymn to the Aten: Murnane 1995: 114). In addition, the egg hieroglyph was used from the Middle Kingdom to express filiation (Gardiner 1957:  474, H8), and birds held by or nestled in the hands of children seem to be a visual indicator of youth that was later adopted by the ancient Greeks (Beaumont 2012: 190–​191).The god Amun appeared at the dawn of time as a goose and Re/​Horus as a falcon, reinforcing this avian connection with youth and new life (cf. Classical Greece: Beaumont 1995: 354). Dorothea Arnold (1996a and b: 56, 108) has even suggested that the bald elongated heads of royal children in Amarna Period art (c. 1353–​1335 BC) are meant to be “egg-​shaped” because the princesses are embodiments of divine creation. Child gods are 12

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The ancient Egyptian conception of children

universally boys, perhaps because according to myth the earliest gods were male, and many child deities were linked with them in some way: Horus to Re, Ihy to Horus or Re, Nefertum to Re and Horus, and Shed to Horus. The only child demon, Shaqeq (or Sehaqeq), is also male and wandered the earth inflicting headaches. His foreign name and those of his parents link them to the disordered world beyond Egypt’s borders (Edwards 1968: 158; Lucarelli 2010: 3;Vandier d’Abbadie 1959, pl. cxxxvii, no. 2950; Szpakowska, this volume). Few texts, literary or documentary, deal specifically with childhood. One didactic text (P Insinger) divides an individual’s lifetime into four decades from childhood to old age, while another (P. Sallier I) apportions the same number of partitions (though not necessarily years) to the life of a soldier:  infant, child (Sri), stripling (mnH; used as skirmishers in battle) and adult (rmT: Toivari Viitala 2001: 191). A number of tomb autobiographies provide an idea of life stages too, at least in elite contexts. For example, the High Priest of Onuris, Anhurmose at El-​Mashayikh claimed that he was “excellent as a weanling, clever as a child, discerning as a boy, intelligent as a humble youth” (Frood 2007:  109). On his statues at Karnak, the high priest of Amun Bakenkhonsu stated that he spent four years as an “excellent youngster” and eleven as a “youth” and trainee stable-​master for the king before entering into the priesthood (Frood 2007: 41). Texts such as these suggest that at least four or five age categories pertaining to childhood were noted in some way –​baby, weanling, child, boy, youth –​after which point individuals moved into the realm of adulthood and the roles and responsibilities that accompanied it. Bakenkhonsu also claims to have been a follower of the god Amun in Karnak Temple as a weanling (Luiselli 2015: 645). The existence of a specific word for “weaned child” (wDH) indicates its importance to the Egyptians as a stage of childhood development. In the autobiography in his tomb at Zawyet Sultan, the high steward Nefersekheru describes his life from birth to puberty (Frood 2007: 144–​5): I have been a silent one since I descended from the womb, One who came as a child of perfect form. I [spent my youth of] ten years As a child upon the arm of my father, And I was taught to write. After this because of my wisdom, I was (so) skilled that [I]‌went forth [from school] to the Mansion of Life. I purified myself there in order to serve His Person [the king]. If Nefersekheru’s education began once he was able to begin to read, around the age of four, he would have entered the priesthood when he was pubescent, which accords with Bakenkhonsu’s account of his early life.

Characteristics of children and childhood The characteristics attributed to children in extant textual sources are mostly negative, but the corpus is limited and the same source may provide ambivalent messages. For example, the Saite funerary stele of Isenkhebe (Leiden V 55: Lichtheim 1980: 58) describes the young girl as faultless and happy (“one who loved gaiety”), while simultaneously afraid of the dark and dependent (“too young to be alone”). In the tomb chapel of Petosiris at Hermopolis (c. 4th century BC), his son Thothrekh says that he was a “small child snatched by force” and that no one could protect him (Lichtheim 1980: 53). This epitaph was clearly written by adults, and thus represents the helplessness of both the child and his family. Those who died young were 13

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said to be denied peace in the afterlife, compounding the sense of injustice and highlighting the cruelty that could be inflicted by the gods (Lichtheim 1980: 59). Children are considered to be impressionable, learning by observing others, and potentially disrespectful to their parents, elders and teachers (Lichtheim 1976:  161, 168; 1973:  191). The burden of responsibility for good behaviour seems to fall on the child rather than the parent, as exemplified in the Old Kingdom Instruction of Ptahhotep (Lichtheim 1973: 66): If you are a man of worth And produce a son by the grace of god, If he is straight, takes after you, Takes good care of your possessions, Do for him all that is good, He is your son, your ka [spirit] begot him, Don’t withdraw your heart from him. But an offspring can make trouble: If he strays, neglects your counsel, Disobeys all that is said, His mouth spouting evil speech, Punish him for all his talk! Some texts indicate that an individual may be fated before birth, for example with guilt, wisdom or leadership qualities (see Lichtheim 1973: 67, 124, 116, 226), but this is probably more of a narrative device than evidence for a strong belief in predestination (Baines 1994: 48). The inability of non-​adults to regulate their emotions is suggested in certain nicknames, such as Inherkhau’s grandson Inherkhau “the violent”, who is depicted in Theban Tomb 359 with his arms raised apparently in the act of slapping his grandmother’s knees (Mekhitarian 1980: 68). A  tendency towards impatience is hinted at in a market scene in the 4th Dynasty tomb of Niankhkhnum and Khnumhotep (Moussa and Altenmüller 1977: pl. 24), in which a prepubescent girl asks her younger sister if she would like to go home, perhaps suggesting that the child is showing signs of boredom. To be childlike was to be inexperienced and afraid of strangers (Wente 1990: 196), mentally and physically weak and vulnerable to dangers. In this sense, the attitudes of Egyptian officials may be compared with those of Plato and Aristotle who considered children younger than seven to be “irrational, excitable, difficult to deal with, physically weak and intellectually limited” (Rousselle 2005:  63). The physical weakness of children is noted disparagingly in didactic texts (e.g. P. Lansing: Lichtheim 1976: 171), and in an 18th Dynasty letter a servant girl is said to be unsuitable for work because she is “only a child” (Papyrus Louvre 3230b: Peet 1926; cf. Wente 1990: 92, no. 117). The ignorance of the young is noted in P. Insinger, which states that prior to the age of ten, children do not understand the difference between life and death, and are thus unaware of potentially perilous situations (Lichtheim 1980: 199). An example of childish curiosity ending in tragedy is recorded in a Greco-​Roman letter from Oxyrhynchus, which states that an eight-​year-​old slave boy fell from a window and died while trying to view dancers during a festival (Grenfell and Hunt 1903: no. 475). Young scribes were recognised as capable of learning, but also considered lazy and disinterested to the point where corporal punishment was sometimes insufficient to induce the desire to learn (P. Lansing: Lichtheim 1976: 169). This lack of self-​discipline is noted in texts such as the Middle Kingdom Satire of the Trades, where young scribes are cautioned against leaving the schoolhouse and roaming the streets (Lichtheim 1973: 190), and in P. Lansing against drinking beer, wasting time with “idlers” and visiting prostitutes (Lichtheim 1976: 171).The unreliability 14

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of children is also alluded to in a letter from Deir el-​Medina, in which a boy is sent to collect water but does not return (McDowell 1999: 29). Children, particularly young boys, were used as messengers but were not always dependable, sometimes garbling or embroidering the message (O. Deir el-​Medina 328: McDowell 1999: 29; Satire of the Trades: Lichtheim 1973: 190). Yet the negative attributes assigned to children can also be identified in the actions of adults. For example, in the Tale of the Blinding of Truth by Falsehood, schoolchildren mock a boy for having no father, while in a letter from Deir el-​Medina a man is derided for being unable to make his wife pregnant (Wente 1990: 149; McDowell 1999: 148). Both situations –​fatherlessness and impotence –​are contrary to social norms in which a complete household constitutes father, mother and child (ideally a son), a frame of reference reinforced in the existence of divine triads, such as that of Amun, Mut and Khonsu in Thebes. The ratio of young children to adults depicted in tomb scenes is very low (Whale 1989: 254). They appear most often in funeral processions, fishing and fowling and agricultural scenes, and as recipients of offerings with their parents. Children are more commonly shown on votive and mortuary stelae in the company of close relatives and, as in tombs, they are never depicted alone (see for example Fig. 1.1). Iconographic indicators of the characteristics of non-​adults are limited, but dependence is suggested in some tomb scenes and stelae, where children turn to adults as if for reassurance and reach for their hand or hold onto their wrist, finger or arm (e.g. Lacau 1909: pl. 30; Bruyère 1926: pl.VI;Tosi and Roccati 1972: 292, no. 50069; Bryan 1996: 31, fig 9; Arnold 1996b: 114, fig. 111; Roehrig 2005: 237, cat. 163). In the Amarna Period, the curiosity of the royal family’s offspring is shown on domestic stelae in the depiction of a princess investigating the uraeus ornament on her mother’s crown, and in the apparent delight of another girl receiving an intricate earring from her father (Freed 1999:  111, fig.  73; Foster

Figure 1.1  A young boy turns and reaches towards his mother as they approach the deified Queen Ahmose Nefertari. Detail of the mortuary stele of Ramose from his tomb chapel (TT 250) at Deir el-​Medina, Thebes, c. 1400 BC Source: After Bruyère 1927: pl. VI

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1999: 106, fig. 70). Pictorial sources indicate that children were encouraged to be adventurous in certain contexts such as climbing trees to pick dates (Marshall 2013: pl. xlvi, fig. 73), and that they were industrious in agricultural work, at least in an ideal world. The well-​known scene in the tomb of Menna (TT 69, Hartwig 2013) showing two teenage girls fighting in the fields over spilled corn is a rare glimpse into the more turbulent side of adolescence. The modern Western assumptions that play and toys are an intrinsic part of childhood has coloured the analysis of material culture: items that are buried with children, miniatures and objects that have no obvious function in the adult world are often identified as toys. Sutton-​ Smith highlighted the ambiguity of the nature and concept of play; that they mean different things depending on context, time and the age of the child (Sutton-​Smith 1997). All images of ancient Egyptian children “playing” can be interpreted as part of ritual activities or preparation for later roles in life, from the enigmatic “hut game” to juggling and wrestling (Janssen and Janssen 1990: 57–​63). Ethnographic data shows that the innate propensity to play may be channelled into work-​related activities, and that toys produced by adults for children often specifically reflect sociocultural values passed from one generation to the next (Andrade Lima 2012: 63; cf. Plato, Laws 1.643 B).

Childhood markers and “rites of passage”: Physical development, body modification, dress and relative social status The representation of children’s physical development In Egyptian art there is a general lack of differentiation between the physiques of infants and adults: there was no need to replicate childlike bodies or behaviour because the figures represented children not as they were but how they were meant to be, based on the order-​ versus-​chaos model of formal Egyptian artworks (but cf. the Amarna Period, as above). This may explain the spindly limbs and gestures of foreign children since they were part of the chaotic realm and as such need not conform to artistic convention (e.g. Huy, TT 40: Mekhitarian 1980: pl. I). The development of three-​dimensional figures of crawling infants in the Middle Kingdom suggest a change, if not in ideology, then in the way childhood was expressed pictorially. However, aside from Petrie Museum UC 16613 and Swansea W 291 (Marshall 2013, pl. xviii, no. 30), infants are not shown crawling or learning to walk. In New Kingdom formal art (tomb scenes, stelae, and statuettes) puberty is primarily indicated in girls by their secondary sexual characteristics (breasts and pubic hair), and in the wearing of short kilts by boys.

Body modification Hair Of all the forms of body modification, the styling, cutting and shaving of hair is the most common. In his discussion of shaving rites, Saul Olyan makes an important point: the manipulation of hair may send different context-​specific messages, but in each case “they effect a change in an individual’s status and serve as a public, temporary marker of this status change” (Olyan 1998: 621). The key point is that change is temporary. Modifications to head and facial hair are also visible: everyone can see the intended message –​the group with which the individual identifies or is affiliated. In Egyptian art, foreigners are distinguished by their clothes and skin colour as well as their hair, though certain hairstyles seem to have been adopted for Egyptian children to mark a specific life stage. “Asiatic” styles are worn both by foreigners and by Egyptian girls emulating them in specific ritual contexts, perhaps as a result of an association 16

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with the liminal or exotic, in the same way that Nubian dancers and dwarfs may be present in “birth bower” scenes (Szpakowska, this volume). These patterns indicate that rather than being part of a ritual of separation (for which see van Gennep 1961: 53–​54, 167), hair cutting could in some situations be more of a rite of assimilation or incorporation. Ethnographically, hair modifications are a means of identifying with an age group, status, gender or ethnic background. The first haircut that probably accompanied the cessation of the weaning process at aged three (Instruction of Any: Lichtheim 1976: 141; cf. Wheeler et al., this volume) can be seen as a step on the child’s path to independence from its mother (Eyre 2014: 295): according to van Gennep’s theory of the symbolism of cutting, whether of the umbilical cord, hair or skin, this represents an act of separation (van Gennep 1961: 50–​53). This change in status is also suggested by burial practices: unweaned infants were sometimes interred beneath house floors, whereas older children were buried outside settlements in the same manner as adults (see Kaiser, this volume). During the (iconographically) gender neutral period prior to puberty, boys and girls are depicted with hoop earrings and other jewellery (Freed et al. 1999: 8, cat. 174; Robins 1999: 57; Marshall 2013: 104–​106). Earlobe piercing was performed around the same time that the child’s head was shaven in a distinctive pattern leaving tufts of hair on the scalp (see e.g. Pashedu, TT 3:  Zivie 1979:  pl. 22; cf. van Gennep 1961:  167). Evidence of the ceremonial nature of hair cutting is found in the presence of small mud balls in domestic, religious and mortuary contexts, some of which contained “infantile” hair (Blackman 1925: 65; Markowitz 1999: 259, cats. 188, 189). While naming ceremonies are generally thought to have occurred shortly after birth, it is possible that children were named sometime afterwards, once they were perceived to be beyond the dangerous period when many infants died. The naming ceremony may have involved making offerings to deities in return for the survival of the child, and the dedication of part of the child –​its hair –​may have formed part of this reciprocal relationship.The shaved tufts continued to be worn until around the age of seven when they were replaced by the side-​lock, a long ponytail or braid at the side or back of the head. Side-​locks were a symbol of childhood from the Old Kingdom onwards (see e.g. Marshall 2013 for examples), and conveyed aspects of divinity by association with Horus as well as Hathor, who by the 12th Dynasty bore the epithet “She of the Plait” (Gillam 1995: 234). As side-​locks and wigs do not seem to have been worn by the lower classes (but see Robins 1999: 63), both were likely to have been indicators of social status as well as age. The assumption that the side-​lock was cut off in its entirety fits with the iconography of males, but as girls are not commonly shown as bald, it seems likely that a different dedication ceremony marked any comparable “coming of age” rite. The long lock of hair worn by pubescent girls perhaps indicates that cephalic hair was allowed to grow naturally rather than being cut. However, in funerary scenes and occasionally at banquets, girls and adolescent females may be shown bald headed (TT 82: Davies and Gardiner 1936, pl. XVII). In banqueting scenes the baldness of children and adults (female musicians and “servants”, e.g. Louvre D60/​ N 3319: Andreu-​Lanoë 2013: 274, 277) might be symbolic of ritual purity, though this portrayal seems to have been a rare and short-​lived phenomenon of the early 18th Dynasty (c. 1450 BC). Banquet scenes from this period are a rich source of iconographic information about the distinctions made between girls and women. Robins (1999:  67, 69)  suggests that household servants had the same hairstyles as the women they served, while female labourers are depicted with their hair undressed and often unkempt because hair was used to distinguish between rich and poor and between different non-​elite groups. An alternative interpretation may be that the “servants” (at least in most banquets) instead represent the next generation, which fits with the idea of the tomb as a place of continuous regeneration: they (along with the ageless and often 17

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anonymous women that they serve) are a symbol of the life cycle, and particularly the central, most productive part where incapacity through extreme youth or infirmity has no place.

Tattoos Unlike hairstyles (and, to some extent, ear piercing), tattooing and scarification are permanent and may have been considered as rites of passage for certain girls: there is no evidence that boys or men were tattooed in pharaonic Egypt. Pubescent musicians and dancers, with pubic hair, breasts, and Bes tattoos on their thighs are found in the form of mirror handles and statuettes, as well as in tomb scenes, paintings on domestic shrines, and images on faience bowls dating to the New Kingdom (1550–​1070 BC:  Brooklyn Museum 60.27.1; Pennsylvania Museum E10349A and E10349B; TT 341:  Davies and Gardiner 1948:  pl. xxviii; Meskell 2002:  115, fig.  4.7; see Fig.  1.2 in this chapter). The first clear evidence for tattooing derives from the Middle Kingdom. It may have been a custom imported from Nubia by the women in King Nebhepetre Mentuhotep’s “harim” (Bianchi 1988: 24; Pinch 1993: 213; Tassie 2003: 92), and it seems to be primarily associated with the goddess Hathor (see Morris 2011:  81; Watson 2016). Three priestesses of Hathor were found buried in the north court of Mentuhotep’s 11th Dynasty mortuary temple at Deir el-​Bahri: all had tattoos in the form of dotted lines and lozenge patterns (Pinch 1993: 213), similar to those found on contemporary “fertility dolls”. Ellen

Figure 1.2  Lute player with tattoos of the god Bes on her thighs. Tomb of Nakhtamun (TT 341), Sheikh Abd el-​Qurna, Thebes, c. 1260 BC Source: After Davies and Gardiner 1948: pl. xxviii

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Figure 1.3  Musicians and a young dancer in the tomb of Djeserkareseneb (TT 38) at Sheikh Abd el-​ Qurna, Thebes, c. 1400 BC Source: Facsimile copy by Charles K. Wilkinson. Tempura on paper. © The Metropolitan Museum of Art 30.4.9, Rogers Fund 1930. www.metmuseum.org

Morris concluded that these “fertility dolls” and schematic wooden “paddle dolls”, some of which also have tattoos, represent khener-​dancers (Morris 2011). These women were members of a troupe of ritual entertainers dedicated to Hathor, and Morris suggests that small “dolls” denote young “trainees” (see Szpakowska, this volume). The range of hairstyles and clothing is reminiscent of the group of musicians and dancers depicted in the much later tomb of Djeserkareseneb (TT 38; Morris 2011: 91; see Fig. 1.3). In terms of the definition of childhood, tattoos literally marked pubescent females for a lifetime of ritual service to the gods, not unlike the process of circumcision as the male equivalent of initiation into the priesthood.

Circumcision The assumption that circumcision was widely practised in ancient Egypt is not well supported: there are no documented references from the Old Kingdom and only one unequivocal tomb scene (Ankhmahor at Saqqara) showing a man, not a child, undergoing the procedure (Roth 1991: 66).Two texts from the First Intermediate Period, three from the Middle Kingdom and one from the New Kingdom also mention circumcision, and then there is a hiatus in the evidence until the 25th Dynasty.The First Intermediate Period stele of Uhu states that 120 men were circumcised (sab-​k(w)) during a single ceremony (Eyre 2014: 297). It is possible that as such ceremonies and the accompanying feasting were expensive; group ceremonies were special events (and thus worthy of commemoration in the tomb of Ankhmahor: Roth 1991: 71–​2; cf. van Gennep 1961: 25). The financial outlay may explain why young men, not boys, were circumcised, but it may also have been a stage in the transition to manhood. Group ceremonies assisted in social bonding, such as admission to a certain phyle (see Roth 1991 for discussions 19

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of the phyle system; cf. Kennedy: 1978: 160 for 20th century Nubian circumcision ceremonies as community events relating to social solidarity and identity). Rites of passage were therefore flexible and not based entirely on age or status, a differentiation van Gennep (1961: 85) refers to as “social puberty” versus “physical puberty”.

Dress, undress and life stage If “we speak silently, signaling layers of meaning through our clothing” (Blum Schevill 1991: 3), what does the depiction of children as nude from birth to puberty say about Egyptian concepts of childhood, and why does the archaeological record seemingly contradict the imagery (e.g. Janssen and Janssen 1990: 32–​37)? The nakedness of infants and children may, like the finger-​to-​ mouth pose, be intended to express the concept of children as vulnerable and junior in status. The distinction drawn by van Gennep (1961: 66) between social and physical puberty is significant because if menarche marked the transition to womanhood, this could take place anywhere between ten to sixteen years, depending on climate, diet, occupation and heredity. The onset of the equivalent for boys (spermarche) would also have been inconsistent, within the range of twelve to sixteen years (Berk 2006: 198). If marriageable status was based on the ability to conceive children, age alone cannot have been the main transitional point between childhood and adulthood, particularly since (at least according to one Ramesside letter) manhood was partially defined by the ability to make women pregnant (O. Berlin 10627: Wente 1990: 149). The expression Ts mDH, often translated as “tying (on) the fillet”, is found in a small number of autobiographical texts and relates to a ceremony for male youths in which they were inducted into a bureaucratic role (Feucht 1995: 238–​245; Eyre 2014: 295). Exactly what this involved or how it originated is unclear, but a translation of “girdle” instead of fillet is more appropriate; it probably refers to the knotted belt at the top of the kilt as worn by adult males. In his autobiography Ptahshepses states that he was a youth (idw) who tied on the girdle during his education among the royal children of the palace (Dorman 2002: 101; for the “children of the kap”, see Marshall, this volume). A passage in the Satire on the Trades (P. Sallier II) indicates that maturity is marked by the wearing of a linen kilt (Eyre 2014: 296): When he has begun to grow (wAD) –​he is still a child (Hrd) –​(but) he is (formally) greeted. He is sent to carry out missions (wpwt); before he returns, he has dressed himself in a dAiw-​garment [loin-​cloth/​kilt]. The knot-​tying ceremony would presumably have been part of a traditional process through which the boy (nude) symbolically becomes a youth (kilted) and thence a man (with girdle). In the Pyramid Texts, the tying of the girdle is said to take place on the same day as the cutting of the hair lock (Wendrich 2006: 256), which may indicate that at this point the boy, prepared for his next life stage through his childhood education, is given his first job and thereby changes status from youth to adult. The nudity of pubescent girls in New Kingdom art contrasts with that of the Middle Kingdom, when adolescent girls are shown dressed from at least the waist down with girdles worn over long skirts (e.g. BM EA 2572, and Szpakowska, this volume). Along with the common depiction of nude adolescent girls in the 18th Dynasty (Harrington 2018: 543), another change in the representation of young females is seen in the following dynasty. For example, in the tomb of Djehuty (TT 45; 18th Dynasty, c. 1425 BC) dresses were painted over the previously nude bodies of serving girls by the secondary owner, Djehutyemheb, in the 19th Dynasty (c. 1290 BC:  Mekhitarian 1980:  70), thereby adjusting the images to fit with the conventions 20

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of the time. During this period, prepubescent girls with long side-​locks are shown wearing adult-​style clothing (e.g. Tosi and Roccati 1972: 273 [Turin 50031], 299 [Turin 50085]), and boys (elite and royal) were depicted in a kilt as well as with a side-​lock, suggesting that these youths are also prepubescent, and that the rules of decorum  –​what was considered appropriate for age and social position  –​had changed, and to some extent reverted to the Old Kingdom style where children were represented as miniature adults (e.g. TT 210 and the relief of Amunwashu: Hofmann 2004: 77, fig. 95; 35, fig. 39).

Relative social status, social class and gender Social status Social status is commonly marked in iconography by the relative size of figures: in tomb scenes, particularly those of the Old Kingdom, even the tomb owner’s eldest son and successor may be shown on a diminutive scale. The transference of office from one generation to the next is implied in vignettes where a child (usually male) holds onto the staff of his father and/​ or mimics his actions (e.g. Tomb of Ti:  Steindorff 1913:  pl. 94). The child is the symbol of continuity, sustaining the lineage as well as the responsibility for maintaining mortuary cults and thereby the afterlife wellbeing of his parents, even if in some cases these children may be fictive (e.g. Nakht, TT 52: Harrington, 2018). The manner in which children hold the leg of their father in fishing and fowling scenes may be intended as a display of the parent–​child bond, in the same manner that occasional scenes of siblings embracing, or of kings being embraced by gods, are indicative of particularly close relationships. In formal contexts (banquets, offering scenes), rank is indicated by position: being seated is more prestigious than standing (Robins 1999:  60), thus offering bearers or “servants” are shown standing while the recipients (tomb owner and his wife) are seated.Young children may be shown standing even when they are among the recipients of cult offerings (e.g. Harrington 2013: 143, fig. 55), and adolescents or young adults are sometimes seated on low stools beside their parents, emphasising their junior status. A good example of this hierarchy is found in the tomb of Sennedjem (TT 1, Deir el-​Medina: Shedid 1994: 42, 68) where the tomb owner and his wife (seated) receive libations from their eldest son (standing). Beneath the chair stand a son and daughter: the son is naked with a full side-​lock, while the girl has a much longer side-​lock but full adult dress, suggesting that she was of marriageable age when she died; she holds a bird in one hand, a symbol of childhood, and a water lily in the other, emblematic of regeneration. Seated in front of them is another adult couple, and kneeling beneath the chair is a woman identified as their daughter; she is shown in the same clothes, wig and unguent cone as the other adult women, but is junior in relation to her parents so is shown in a subordinate position.

The impact of social class and gender One of the main correlations between gender and social hierarchy in terms of Egyptian childhood is formal education: in general neither girls nor non-​elite boys had access to scribal schools, which meant that the bureaucracy was run almost exclusively by men from privileged backgrounds (but see Wente 1990: 181 (girl), 86 (male slave), and Toivari-​Viitala 2001: 189). There is very little direct evidence of the informal education of young girls or the sons of peasants, and it is generally assumed that they spent much of their life in the vicinity of the house with female relatives learning how to carry out domestic chores, manual labour and crafts (for a comparable process in ancient Rome, see McWilliam 2013). Children could be involved 21

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in local cults as suggested by votive cloths dedicated to the goddess Hathor at Deir el-​Bahri (e.g. Pinch 1993: fig. 10B) and by texts that mention “children of the temple”. It seems that children were considered to be able to influence the gods in assisting those in need, and were taken to sacred places in order to strengthen the petitions of the adults they accompanied (LRL 1; Wente 1990: 179). Servants and labourers were part of the Egyptian workforce from at least the First Intermediate Period, but the expansionist policies of New Kingdom kings saw an influx of prisoners of war who became slaves and conscripts (Loprieno 2012: 2). Captured children were routinely separated from their families, although special allowance was made for women with unweaned children, particularly sons, who seemed to fetch a higher price from slave traders (P. Bankes I:  Wente 1990:  130). The same policy was practised in the ancient Near East (Mendelsohn 1946: 80). Children born into a household as the result of a relationship between two slaves or a maidservant and the house owner were slaves by default, but in some instances were treated as family members, adopted, educated and freed (Davies and Toivari 1997: 74; Loprieno 2012: 10). The Restoration Stele of Tutankhamun mentions the manumission of male and female slaves, along with singers and dancing girls who had been slaves assigned to grinding grain in the palace; they were “purified” in order to enter temple service (Loprieno 2012:  11). Certain allowances were made for slave children, as indicated in an 18th Dynasty letter (P. Louvre 32306; Wente 1990: 92), but in general they were commodities to be bought, sold (or hired from the state) and exploited (cf. ancient Rome: Sigismund-​Nielsen 2013: 287).

Conclusions As Sofaer Derevenski (1994: 13) points out, children do not move suddenly from the social category of “child” to that of “adult” without a transitional phase, and this period in Egypt, as in most societies, was marked by alterations in outward appearance beyond the purely biological, and most likely by rituals and celebrations that accompanied life stages. It is difficult to generalise about the specific definitions of children and childhood across more than 2000 years of a civilisation that, while superficially static, changed and remodelled itself repeatedly through time. The artistic depiction if not the perception of children changed and developed, with gender neutrality in the form of nudity from birth to puberty being synonymous with childhood by the 18th Dynasty. Based on surviving Egyptian documentary, iconographic and archaeological evidence, stages of sociocultural childhood development may be divided into approximate age groups, based roughly on biological changes:  birth (“baby”) to three (“weanling”), four to seven (“child”), eight to puberty (“boy” or “girl”) and puberty (“youth”), but the precise timing of any age/​stage-​based rites is likely to have varied from one individual or community to another. The overall lack of interest in children shown in literature, iconography (other than work and religious activities) and documentary evidence (with few references beyond health or employment), suggests that on a formal level childhood was defined as a series of stages of integration into the workforce and productive social life. Biases in the evidence may limit our ability to provide definitive conclusions about how the majority of the population viewed children and childhood, and how children themselves felt and experienced the world around them. But as Prout and James (1990: 8) point out: “Comparative and cross-​cultural analysis reveals a variety of childhoods rather than a single and universal phenomenon”. Despite its limits, sufficient data remains to indicate that the characterisation of youth in ancient Egypt was nuanced in ways that are not entirely unlike the conceptions of children and childhood in the present day. 22

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References Andrade Lima, T. 2012. The dark side of toys in nineteenth-​century Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Historic Archaeology 46, 3: 63–​78. Andreu-​Lanoë, G. 2013. L’art du contour: le dessin dans l’Egypte ancienne. Paris: Louvre éditions, Somogy éditions d’Art. Arnold, D. 1996a. The workshop of the sculptor Thutmose. In:  D. Arnold (ed.), The royal women of Amarna: images of beauty from ancient Egypt. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 41–​83. Arnold, D. 1996b. Aspects of the royal family image during the Amarna Period. In: D. Arnold (ed.), The royal women of Amarna: images of beauty from ancient Egypt. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 85–​119. Baines, J. 1994. Contexts of fate: literature and practical religion. In: C. Eyre, A. Leahy and L. Montagno Leahy (eds), The unbroken reed: studies in the culture and heritage of ancient Egypt in honour of A.F. Shore. London: Egypt Exploration Society, 35–​52. Beaumont, L.A. 1995. Mythological childhood: a male preserve? An interpretation of Classical Athenian iconography in its socio-​historical context. The Annual of the British School at Athens 90: 339–​361. Beaumont, L.A. 2012. Childhood in ancient Athens: iconography and social history. London: Routledge. Berk, L.E. 2006. Child development (7th edn). Boston: Pearson International. Bianchi, R. 1988. Tattoo in ancient Egypt. In: A. Rubin (ed.), Marks of Civilization: artistic transformations of the human body. Los Angeles: Museum of Cultural History, University of California, 21–​28. Blackman, W.S. 1925. An ancient Egyptian custom illustrated by a modern survival. Man 25: 65–​67. Blum Schevill, M. 1991. The communicative power of cloth and its creation. In:  M. Blum Schevill, J.C. Berlo and E.B. Dwyer (eds), Textile traditions of Mesoamerica and the Andes:  an anthology. New York: Garland,  3–​15. Bruyère, B. 1926. Rapport sur les fouilles de Deir el Médineh (1924–​1925). Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale. Bruyère, B. 1937. Rapport sur les fouilles de Deir el Médineh (1934–​1935): Deuxième Partie: La Nécropole de l’Est. Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale. Bryan, B.M. 1996. In women good and bad fortune are on earth: status and roles of women in Egyptian culture. In: A.K. Capel and G.E. Markoe (eds), Mistress of the house, mistress of heaven: women in ancient Egypt. New York: Hudson Hills Press, 25–​46. Davies, B.G. and Toivari, J. 1997. Misuse of a maidservant’s services at Deir el-​Medina (O. CGC 25237, recto). Studien zur Altägyptischen Kultur 24: 69–​80. Davies, N. de G. and Gardiner, A.H. 1948. Seven private tombs at Qurnah. London: Egypt Exploration Society. Davies, N.M. and Gardiner, A.H. 1936. Ancient Egyptian paintings (3 volumes). Chicago:  University of Chicago Press. Edwards, I.E.S. 1968. Ḳenḥikhopshef ’s prophylactic charm. Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 54:155–​160. Eyre, C. 2014. Funerals, initiation and rituals of life in pharaonic Egypt. In: A. Mouton and J. Patrier (eds), Life, death, and coming of age in antiquity: individual rites of passage in the ancient Near East and adjacent regions. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, 287–​308. Faulkner, R.O. 1962. A concise dictionary of Middle Egyptian. Oxford: Griffith Institute. Feucht, E. 1995. Das Kind im alten Ägypten:  Die Stellung des Kindes in Familie und Gesellschaft nach altÄgyptischen Texten und Darstellungen. Frankfurt: Campus. Foster, J.L. 1999. The new religion. In: R.E. Freed, Y.J. Markowitz and S. D’Auria (eds), Pharaohs of the sun: Akhenaten, Nefertiti,Tutankhamun. London: Thames and Hudson, 97–​109. Freed, R.E. 1999. Art in the service of religion and the state. In:  R.E. Freed, Y.J. Markowitz and S. D’Auria (eds), Pharaohs of the sun: Akhenaten, Nefertiti, Tutankhamun. London: Thames and Hudson, 110–​129. Frood, E. 2007. Biographical texts from Ramessid Egypt. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Gardiner, A.H. 1957. Egyptian grammar:  being an introduction to the study of hieroglyphs. Oxford:  Griffith Institute. Gillam, R.A. 1995. Priestesses of Hathor: their function, decline and disappearance. Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 32: 211–​237. Green, L. 1996. The royal women of Amarna:  who was who. In:  D. Arnold (ed.), The royal women of Amarna: images of beauty from ancient Egypt. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 7–​15. Grenfell, B.P. and Hunt, A.S. 1903. Oxyrhynchus Papyri volume III. London: Egypt Exploration Fund. Halcrow, S.E. and Tayles, N. 2011. The bioarchaeological investigation of children and childhood. In: S.C. Agarwal and B.A. Glencross (eds), Social bioarchaeology. Chichester: Wiley-​Blackwell, 333–​360.

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Nicola Harrington Hall, H.R.H. 1914. Hieroglyphic texts from Egyptian stelae & c., in the British Museum, part 5. London: British Museum. Harrington, N. 2013. Living with the dead:  ancestor worship and mortuary ritual in ancient Egypt. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Harrington, N. 2016. Eighteenth Dynasty banquet scenes: ideals and realities. In: C.M. Draycott and M. Stamatopoulou (eds), Dining and death: interdisciplinary perspectives on the “funerary banquet” in art, burial and belief. Peeters: Leuven, Paris, 129–​172. Harrington, N. 2018. Representations of children in ancient Egyptian art. In: S. Crawford, D. Hadley and G. Shepherd (eds), The Oxford handbook of the archaeology of childhood. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 539–​556. Hartwig, M. 2013. The tomb chapel of Menna (TT 69): the art, culture, and science of painting in an Egyptian tomb. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. Hofmann, E. 2004. Bilder im Wandel: Die Kunst der ramessidischen Privatgräber. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. Janssen, J.J. and Janssen, R. 1990. Growing up in ancient Egypt. London: Rubicon Press. Jeffreys, D. 2003. All in the family? Heirlooms in ancient Egypt. In:  W.J. Tait (ed.), ‘Never had the like occurred’: Egypt’s view of its past. London: UCL Press, 197–​211. Kennedy, J.G. 1978. Circumcision and excision ceremonies. In: J.G. Kennedy (ed.), Nubian ceremonial life. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 151–​170. Lacau, P. 1909. Stèles du Nouvel Empire. Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale. Leitz, C. 1999. Magical and medical papyri of the New Kingdom. London: British Museum Press. Lichtheim, M. 1973. Ancient Egyptian literature: A book of readings I: The Old and Middle Kingdoms. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Lichtheim, M. 1976. Ancient Egyptian literature:  A book of readings II:  The New Kingdom. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Lichtheim, M. 1980. Ancient Egyptian literature: A book of readings III: The Late period. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Loprieno, A. 2012. Slavery and servitude. In: W.Wendrich, J. Dieleman, E. Frood and J. Baines (eds), UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology. http://​escholarship.org/​uc/​item/​8mx2073f Lucarelli, R. 2010. Demons (benevolent and malevolent). In: W. Wendrich, J. Dieleman, E. Frood and J. Baines (eds), UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology. http://​escholarship.org/​uc/​item/​1r72q9vv Luiselli, M.M. 2015. Tracing the religion of the voiceless: on children’s religion in pharaonic Egypt. In: H. Amstutz, A. Dorn, M. Muller, M. Ronsdorf and S. Uljas (eds), Fuzzy boundaries: Festschrift für Antonio Loprieno, vol. 2. Hamburg: Widmaier, 641–​654. MacDonald, D.N. 1994. Terms for “children” in Middle Egyptian:  a sociolinguistic view. Bulletin of the Australian Centre in Egypt 5: 53–​59. Markowitz, Y.J. 1999. Hair ball (cats. 188, 189). In:  R.E. Freed, Y.J. Markowitz and S.H. D’Auria (eds), Pharaohs of the sun: Akhenaten, Nefertiti,Tutankhamun. London: Thames and Hudson, 259. Marshall, A. 2013. Être un enfant en égypte ancienne. Monaco: Rocher. McDowell, A.G. 1999. Village life in ancient Egypt: laundry lists and love songs. Oxford: Oxford University Press. McWilliam, J. 2013. The socialization of Roman children. In: J. Evans Grubbs and T. Parkin (eds), The Oxford handbook of children and education in the classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 264–​285. Mekhitarian, A. 1980. L’enfant dans la peinture thébaine. In: A. Théodoridès, P. Naster and J. Ries (eds), L’enfant dans les civilisations orientales. Leuven: Peeters, 65–​73. Mendelsohn, I. 1946. Slavery in the ancient Near East. The Biblical Archaeologist 9, 4: 74–​88. Meskell, L. 2002. Private life in New Kingdom Egypt. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Meskell, L. 1999. Archaeologies of social life: age, sex, class etc. in ancient Egypt. Oxford: Blackwell. Morris, E.F. 2011. Paddle dolls and performance. Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 47: 71–​103. Morris, I. 1987. Burial and ancient society: the rise of the Greek city-​state. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Moussa, A.M. and Altenmüller, H. 1977. Das Grab des Nianchchnum und Chnumhotep. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. Murnane, W.J. 1995. Texts from the Amarna period in Egypt. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Olyan, S.M. 1998. What do shaving rites accomplish and what do they signal in Biblical ritual contexts? Journal of Biblical Literature 117, 4: 611–​622. Parker Pearson, M. 1999. The archaeology of death and burial. Stroud: Sutton Publishing Limited.

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The ancient Egyptian conception of children Peet, T.E. 1926. Two Eighteenth Dynasty letters:  Papyrus Louvre 3230. Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 12: 70–​74. Petkov, J.L. 2014. Child and infant burials in New Kingdom Egypt: a Gurob case study. Unpublished MA thesis. Monash University. Pierrat-​Bonnefois, G. 2003. Cimetière est du village ou cimetière à l’est de Deir el-​Médineh? In:  G. Andreu (ed.), Deir el-​Médineh et la Vallée des Rois: La vie en égypte au temps des pharaons du Nouvel Empire. Paris: Éditions KhÉops: Musée du Louvre, 49–​65. Pinch, G. 1993. Votive offerings to Hathor. Oxford: Griffith Institute. Power, R.K. 2011. From the cradle to the grave:  child, infant and foetal burials in the Egyptian archaeological record from Early Dynastic Period to the Middle Kingdom (ca. 3300-​1650 BC). Unpublished PhD thesis. Macquarie University. Prout, A. and James, A. 1990. A new paradigm for the sociology of childhood? Provenance, promise and problems. In: A. James and A. Prout (eds), Constructing and reconstructing childhood: New directions in the sociological study of childhood. London: Falmer Press. 7–​32. Robins, G. 1999. Hair and the construction of identity in ancient Egypt, c. 1480–​1350 BC. Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 36: 55–​69. Roehrig, C.H. 2005.Vase in the form of a kneeling woman holding a child (cat. 163). In: C.H. Roehrig, R. Dreyfus and C.A. Keller (eds), Hatshepsut from queen to pharaoh. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 236–​237. Roth, A.M. 1991. Egyptian phyles of the Old Kingdom: the evolution of a system of social organization. Chicago, IL: Oriental Institute. Rousselle, R. 2005. Father avoidant, mother dependent: the first seven years of a child’s life in Classical Greece. The Journal of Psychohistory 33, 1: 62–​95. Shedid A.G. 1994. Das Grab des Sennedjem: ein Künstlergrab der 19. Dynastie in Deir el Medineh. Mainz: Phillip von Zabern. Sigismund-​Nielsen, H. 2013. Slave and lower-​class Roman children. In:  J. Evans Grubbs and T. Parkin (eds), The Oxford handbook of children and education in the classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 286–​301. Sofaer Derevenski, J. 1994. Where are the children? Accessing children in the past. Archaeological Review from Cambridge 13, 2: 7–​20. Spieser, C. 2008. Cercueils d’enfants dans l’Egypte ancienne et tardive. In:  F.G. Jener, S. Muriel and C. Olària (eds), Nasciturus, infans, puerulus vobis mater terra: la muerte en la infancia. La Rioja: Diputació de Castelló, 501–​538. Steindorff, G. 1913. Das Grab des Ti. Leipzig, J.C. Hindrichs. Sutton-​Smith, B. 1997. The ambiguity of play. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Tassie, G.J. 2003. Identifying the practice of tattooing in ancient Egypt and Nubia. Papers from the Institute of Archaeology 14: 85–​101. Toivari-​Viitala, J. 2001. Women at Deir el-​Medina: a study of the status and roles of the female inhabitants in the workmen’s community during the Ramesside period. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor vet Nabije Oosten. Tosi, M. and Roccati, A. 1972. Stele e altre epigrafi di Deir el-​Medina, n. 50001 –​n. 50262. Turin: Museo Egizio di Torino. Vandier D’Abbadie, J. 1959. Catalogue des ostraca figurés de Deir el Médineh, Vol. 4. Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale du Caire. Van Gennep, A. 1961. The rites of passage. M.B.Vizedom (trans). Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Watson, T. 2016. Intricate animal and flower tattoos found on Egyptian mummy. Nature 533, 7602. www. nature.com/​news/​intricate-​animal-​and-​flower-​tattoos-​found-​on-​egyptian-​mummy-​1.19864 Wendrich, W. 2006. Entangled, connected or protected? The power of knots and knotting in ancient Egypt. In: K. Szpakowska (ed.), Through a glass darkly: dreams and prophecy in ancient Egypt. Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales, 243–​269. Wente, E.F. 1990. Letters from ancient Egypt. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Whale, S. 1989. The family in the Eighteenth Dynasty of Egypt: A study of the representation of the family in the private tombs. Sydney: Australian Centre for Egyptology. Wheeler, S.M. et al. 2011. Childhood in Roman Egypt: bioarchaeology of the Kellis 2 Cemetery, Dakhleh Oasis, Egypt. In: M. Lally and A. Moore (eds), (Re)thinking the little ancestor: new perspectives on the archaeology of infancy and childhood. Oxford: Archaeopress, 110–​121. Zivie, A.P. 1979. La tombe de Pached à Deir el-​Médineh (nº 3). Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale du Caire.

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2 WHAT IS A CHILD IN AEGEAN PREHISTORY? Anne P. Chapin

What was a “child” in the Aegean Bronze Age (c. 3000–​1000 BCE)? What was “childhood”? Any attempt to address these questions requires a bold excursion into the unknown. Childhood studies are relatively new to scholarship, and even newer to the field of Aegean prehistory. As such, a few definitions are in order. First, for the purposes of this chapter, a child is defined as “a person between birth and full growth; a boy or girl;” and childhood as “the state or period of being a child” (www.dictionary.com). These definitions encompass the growth and development of the young human mind and body, the ever-​changing social being that is a child, and the specific cultural constructions of childhood, which vary according to time and place. Second, the prehistoric Aegean includes the Greek (Helladic) mainland, (Minoan) Crete, and the Cycladic Islands, including Thera. Each region is characterized by its own local distinctiveness, yet similarities in material culture throughout the Bronze Age also permit the identification of a broadly Aegean cultural koine. Despite its rich material remains, the study of Bronze Age Aegean archaeology presents many challenges. Historical accounts and works of literature do not survive, and documentary evidence (inscribed on clay tablets) is generally bureaucratic in focus. Scholars are faced with significant uncertainty when seeking to identify Minoan and Mycenaean social and economic structures, and systems of belief remain even more elusive. Even the terms “Minoan” and “Mycenaean” are sweeping modern designations for the Bronze Age populations of Crete and mainland Greece; the names these people used to refer to themselves remain unknown. Undaunted, this chapter investigates prehistoric concepts of “child” and “childhood” as illuminated by surviving evidence. Indications for the social constructions of childhood are reviewed, as are the phases of childhood and their transitional boundaries. The impact of social class and gender is also considered. This study builds on previous investigations. Hilde Rühfel (1984:  13–​30), Barbara Olsen (1998), Jeremy Rutter (2003), Irene Papageorgiou (2008), and Stephanie Budin (2011) have identified and assessed much of the artistic and documentary evidence. Frescoes from Akrotiri, Thera, (which preserve the greatest concentration of childhood imagery) have been studied for evidence of age grades, rituals, and rites of passage (e.g. Marinatos 1984); similar approaches have been brought to Minoan imagery (e.g., Koehl 1986; 2000; 2016). The burgeoning interest in gender archaeology has contributed to the study of girls and women in Aegean society (e.g. Kopaka 2009; Olsen 2014). Additionally, mortuary data is now yielding intriguing insights into Mycenaean cultural constructions of childhood (Gallou 2004; Lebegyev 2009). 26

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Before the palaces: the Early Bronze Age Aegean The Neolithic period (c. 6500–​3000 BCE) is characterized by the foundation of agricultural communities, followed in the Early Bronze Age (c. 3000–​2000 BCE) by increasing social complexity and specialized craft production. In these conditions, the labor of children would have been important to the economic wellbeing of families and communities, even though it may be difficult to identify in the archaeological record (Baxter 2005: 22). Children likely would have labored in fields, tended animals, assisted with textile production, performed household chores, and cared for younger siblings. With craft specialization came advanced knowledge of a particular trade. Miniature metal tools discovered in child burials of the Early Bronze Age, for example, could indicate the deceased child’s apprenticeship in metallurgy (Marangou 1991). Craft workshops of the Early Bronze Age typically incorporate residential spaces, which suggests that craft specialization was organized by family. By inference, older family members would have trained younger family members in the knowledge of their craft. By this view, children were learners and practitioners of craft production who contributed to their family’s economic wellbeing. Individual children’s public identities probably lay with their family and occupation. Other sources of information remain limited. Mortuary data is constrained by limited publication, incomplete preservation of children’s remains, varied burial practices across the Aegean, and the use of communal graves or reuse of graves for more than one burial. Additionally, children are rarely represented in art. Early Cycladic marble figurines depicting females seem to express sexuality and fertility, yet only one fragmentary work shows an adult holding a child (Rutter 2003: 34, fig. 4). A class of figurines known as kourotrophoi, which depict adults holding infants, are so rare that the figure type may have been rejected by the peoples of the Aegean (Budin 2011:269–​325. See however Günkel-​Maschek, this volume). Evidence for social attitudes towards children, such as rituals marking stages of maturation from infancy to adulthood, has therefore not yet been detected.

Constructions of childhood in the period of the Minoan palaces The rise of monumental buildings (“palaces”) on Crete heralds a new phase in social and economic development for the peoples of the Aegean, one that is characterized by the emergence of administrative bureaucracies and writing, economic expansion and increased trade, and greater contact with foreign cultures such as Egypt and Syria (Dickinson 1994: 60–​73). The Protopalatial period of MM IB–​II (c. 1900–​1750/​1650 BCE) marks the beginning of the Minoan palatial system with large palaces built at Knossos, Phaistos, and Malia. This is followed by the florescence of Minoan culture in the Neopalatial period of MM III–​LM I  (c. 1750/​ 1650–​1490/​1450 BCE), when elite members of society enjoyed privileged access to significant economic resources. Some of this wealth was spent on images of children made from luxury materials and presented in elite social contexts.

The artistic evidence: a typology of Minoan and Cycladic age grades Mortuary evidence for Minoan children and for Minoan cultural constructions of childhood is obscured by the poor preservation of bones and by communal funerary practices featuring secondary burial. Analyses of human remains, however, demonstrate high mortality rates among both infants and children under the age of five years and among women of child-​bearing age (McGeorge 2013; Budin 2016: 595–​596). Perhaps accordingly, maternity and motherhood are 27

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almost never selected as subject matters for Minoan art (Budin 2016: 596). Images of children, however, have long been recognized, and with the discovery and publication of the Theran frescoes (many of which depict children and adolescents), identifying youthful age grades became an important aim of scholarship. Starting in the 1980s, social indicators of age such as hairstyle and costume were employed by scholars to produce age grade typologies, but often with conflicting results (e.g., Davis 1986: fig. 1; Koehl 2000: fig. 11.1; Doumas 2000). It is argued here, as also in previous investigations by the author (Chapin 1997–​2000; 2007; 2009; generally supported by Günkel-​Maschek 2014, see also in this volume), that evidence for age grades is present in the naturalistic depiction of human growth and physical development exhibited by images of children, and that these physiological indicators of growth are supported by culturally constructed markers of age grade, such as costume and hair style. The following catalogue organizes artworks into age grades based on a review of their individualized depictions of body proportion. However, a note of caution: while modern, scientific studies have produced much information on human growth and development, including average ages at which children enter different developmental stages, in reality, no child is perfectly average and each matures at his or her own individual rate. The years assigned to each age grade discussed below may therefore not correspond exactly to the development of individual children or to the premodern rates of growth and development assumed for Minoan children.

Girls Images of girls and women fall into five age grades (Fig. 2.1): early childhood (age 1–​5 years), middle childhood (age 6–​11 years), early adolescence (age 12–​14 years), late adolescence (age 15–​17 years), and adulthood. No images of female infants have yet been identified. The beginning and ending ages of each phase discussed below are somewhat flexible, as individual growth rates vary and some children mature more rapidly than do others. Girls in early childhood (1–​5 years). The Ivory Triad, discovered on the acropolis at Mycenae on the Greek mainland, but likely a Minoan creation, depicts two women with a young child, until recently (mis)identified as a boy (Marinatos and Hirmer 1960: pls. 218–​219; Rehak 2007: 219–​ 221). The child’s large head and torso, short arms and legs, and small size, together with its distinctive pose leaning on the knees of the two women, suggest the appearance and actions of a toddler, about two to three years old. The child wears a long tunic; her identification as a girl is

Figure 2.1  Girls in Minoan and Cycladic art Source: Drawing: A. Chapin

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based on the observation that Minoans generally clothed their female children regardless of age (Rehak 2007: 221). However, in the Chania Museum on Crete is a bronze figurine of a young girl, completely nude, standing in a pose of adoration with one hand to her forehead (Fig. 2.1a) (Papageorgiou 2008: 90, fig. 7). The girl’s body proportions (large head, soft torso, and short arms and legs) suggest an age of about 4–​5 years. Her head is shaved except for a back hair lock. Other images of young girls are found in glyptic art, but their small scale precludes naturalistic detail (Rutter 2003: 41–​42, figs. 16–​19). The famous gold signet ring from Mycenae depicting a cult scene, probably of Minoan manufacture, includes two tiny female figures (Rutter 2003: 42, 43, fig. 19; see also Günkel-​Maschek this volume, Fig. 21.2). Assuming that symbolic size was not intended (the convention is rare in Aegean art), then a comparison with modern childhood growth charts indicates the two girls are very young, perhaps three to four years in age. A Neopalatial sealing from Ayia Triada, Crete, depicts a woman in flounced costume accompanied by two small figures, similarly dressed and standing hip high (Rutter 2003: 42, fig. 18). A comparison with modern childhood growth charts indicates the two girls are also young, about four to five years old. Seals from Mochos, Crete, and Mycenae (also likely made on Crete) show somewhat taller girls who reach adult waist height (Rutter 2003: 42, figs. 16–​17; CMS II.3: 218; CMS I:159), as does a gold signet ring of probable Minoan manufacture found in the newly discovered grave of the “Griffin Warrior” at Pylos (Davis and Stocker 2016: 640–​643, fig. 10). Each girl is flat chested in comparison with her buxom adult female attendant, and comparisons with modern childhood growth charts suggest they depict girls about five to six years in age. Girls in middle childhood (6–​11  years). Two LC I  Theran frescoes depict girls in middle childhood. The Veiled Girl of Xeste 3, Akrotiri, has slim body proportions (Fig. 2.1b) (Doumas 1992:  pl. 107). Her chest is hidden from view thus concealing breast development, but her height is about 85 percent that of the physically mature Necklace Swinger painted in the same room. A comparison with modern childhood growth charts made by the author suggests that the Veiled Girl should be about ten to eleven years old, a figure that compares well with estimates made using hair style as a guide (most recently, Günkel-​Maschek 2014: 122–​123; see also on this figure Günkel-​Maschek this volume). The “Priestess” of the West House frescoes likewise shows no breast development, has slim body proportions, and sports a partially shaved hairstyle (Doumas 1992: pl. 24). Both girls seem to be depicted on the threshold of puberty. Girls in puberty/​adolescence (12–​17  years). Pubertal development begins and ends earlier in girls than it does in boys, and before modern industrialization, children of both sexes grew more slowly. The ages given below are approximate, based on comparisons with early modern historical data. Early adolescence (12–​ 14  years). The four Crocus Gatherers of Xeste 3 are depicted in the early stages of pubertal development, as indicated by their budding breasts (Fig.  2.1c) (Doumas 1992:  pls. 116, 122, 129; Chapin 1997–​2000:  8–​16; see also this volume Günkel-​ Maschek: Fig. 21.3).These girls wear Minoan-​style flounced costumes and jewellery; the head-​ shaving of childhood has ended, as indicated by hair stubble and short curls. Late adolescence (15–​17  years). The Enthroned Goddess, Wounded Woman, and Necklace Swinger of Xeste 3 display the developed breasts of adolescents about 16–​17 years old, but not the heavy breasts of mature women (Figs. 2.1d, e) (Doumas 1992: pls. 100, 122, 131; Chapin 1997–​2000: 20–​23; see also Günkel-​Maschek this volume).Their hair is long (though some hair locks of childhood are in evidence), and their flounced costumes and transparent gowns accentuate the curves of their sexually mature bodies. Of similar age may be the young ladies of the LM I Grandstand Fresco from Knossos (PM III: pls. XVI–​XVII); these figures are characterized by hourglass figures, narrow waists, well-​rounded hips, and tight bodices that imply swelling 29

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breasts indicated by nipples. Their nubile youth is emphasized by the inclusion in this crowd of an older woman with sagging breasts.

Boys Images of males fall into seven age grades (Fig. 2.2): infancy (less than 1 year), early childhood (age 1–​5 years), middle childhood (age 6–​11 years), early adolescence (age 12–​14 years), middle adolescence (age 15–​17 years) and late adolescence/​early adulthood (age 18–​21 years), and adulthood.

Figure 2.2  Boys in Minoan and Cycladic art Source: Drawing: A. Chapin

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Infant boys (less than 1 year). With its short, chubby arms and legs, thick torso, and oversized, round head, the Crawling Baby from the Psychro Cave on Crete, captures the likeness of a healthy infant about seven to twelve months old (Fig. 2.2a) (Boardman 1961: 8, 11 no. 22, pl. 3d; Neils and Oakley 2003: 37, 237–​238; Chapin 2009:178).The child’s sex is not indicated, but nudity generally signifies boyhood in Neopalatial Minoan art. The crawling action is observed from life. Boys in early childhood (1–​5 years). The ivory Seated Boy from LM I Palaikastro, Crete, with sex clearly rendered, depicts a young child reaching for an object, short legs akimbo (Fig. 2.2b; see also this volume Günkel-​Maschek: Fig. 21.1a) (Bosanquet and Dawkins 1923: 125–​127, fig. 107, pl. XXVII; Budin 2011: 278). His large head and low chin are set on a short neck and long torso, and together describe the physical development of a toddler aged about one to two years old (Chapin 2009: 178). The stippling on his scalp renders a shaved head, and recalls an ivory head of a child from Archanes, Crete (Sakellarakis and Sapouna-​Sakellaraki 1997: 709, fig.  819). Two other figurines from Crete also depict children of toddler age (Papageorgiou 2008: 89). Somewhat older is the ivory Standing Boy from Palaikastro (Fig.  2.2c) (Bosanquet and Dawkins 1923: 125–​127, fig. 107, pl. XXVII; Budin 2011: 278). He has the large round head, short neck, and long soft torso of very young children, but slimmer arms and legs –​features which suggest an age of about four to five years (Chapin 2009: 178). The Yellow Ochre Boy from Xeste 3 also has a large round head, long and thick torso, and soft belly (Fig.  2.2d) (Doumas 1992: pl. 109). He stands waist-​high to the late adolescent Clothbearer (Fig. 2.2i), which indicates an age of about five (Chapin 2007:  239–​240). His yellow ochre skin is a departure from the usual red and white skin tones of the Aegean color convention for males and females, and may indicate his extreme youth. The earliest naturalistic image of a Minoan child is the head of a boy found on a Protopalatial seal impression in the MM IIB Hieroglyphic Deposit of the Knossos palace, imagined by Sir Arthur Evans to be the portrait of an infant prince (PM I:  8–​9, fig.  2b, 271–​272, fig.  201b; Rutter 2003: fig. 7). The round skull and slim neck with undeveloped musculature are consistent with early childhood. Boys in middle childhood (6–​11  years). Theran painting preserves three images of boys in middle childhood, all nude and painted with red skin. One boy, painted on a miniature scale, stands behind a woman in the Arrival Town of the Flotilla Fresco, in the West House (Doumas 1992: pl. 38).The boy has a slim body and stands to the height of the woman’s chin; comparison with growth charts suggests he is aged ten to twelve. Similar but painted on a larger scale are the two Boxing Boys of Building Beta (Fig. 2.2e) (Doumas 1992: pl. 79). Their large heads, narrow shoulders, slim arms and legs, and protruding bellies describe the physiognomies of boys aged six to ten years (Chapin 2007: 240–​241). Boys in adolescence (12–​21 years). As is well documented by scientific studies of human growth and development, boys grow on average for a longer period of time than do girls and, as a result, reach physical maturity at a later age (Tanner 1990). Neopalatial artists paid close attention to the changing physical proportions of male adolescent/​pubertal growth and development. Early, middle, and late phases are all recognizable. Exact beginning and ending ages of each developmental phase are somewhat difficult to define, however, as individual growth rates vary and some boys mature more rapidly than do others. Early adolescence (12–​14 years). A miniature fresco fragment from Knossos representing nude boys, perhaps playing a game, depicts the long legs and slim body proportions of early adolescence (PM III: pl. XXVa). Boys of similar body type face one another on the LM I Chieftain Cup, from Ayia Triada, Crete (Fig. 2.2f, g) (Marinatos and Hirmer 1960: pls. 100, 102). Long 31

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legs, short torsos, light musculature, and relatively narrow shoulders characterize them both as pubertal, aged 12–​14  years (Chapin 2009:  179–​180; contra Koehl 1986). These youths are clothed and armed with weapons, but their hairstyles are different, perhaps defining different social status. From the West House of Akrotiri come two large-​scale frescoes of nude Fisherboys (Fig.  2.2h) (Doumas 1992:  pls. 18–​19). The better-​preserved youth displays the broadening shoulders, increasing musculature, but undeveloped genitals of boys aged 12–​ 14 (Chapin 2007: 241–​242). Towards the end of this phase, by age 14 in modern terms, some boys will have already matured into stages of pubertal development associated with middle adolescence (Tanner and Whitehouse 1982: 27; Tanner 1990: 215, fig. 215). Middle and late adolescence (15–​17 and 18–​21 years). These age grades are represented in a Theran fresco of three boys with a man in Room 3b of Xeste 3, two of which are identifiable as teenage youths (Doumas 1992: pl. 109–​111). The Cupbearer is the shorter of the two and presumably younger. His relatively small head, narrow waist, long legs, and developing genitalia describe the body proportions of a youth in the midst of adolescent growth, probably aged 14/​ 15–​16 (Chapin 2007: 243–​244). His companion, the Clothbearer, is taller and distinctively older (Fig. 2.2i). His shoulders are proportionately the broadest of all Theran youths, and his waist is narrow, giving him the triangular torso of idealized adult Minoan males. In modern terms, his age would be about 16–​17 (Chapin 2007: 244–​245). Late adolescence or perhaps early adulthood is represented by the ivory Palaikastro Kouros, generally interpreted as a cult image and dated to LM IB (Fig. 2j) (MacGillivray, Driessen, and Sackett 2000; see also this volume Günkel-​Maschek).This figure’s shoulders are proportionately broader than those of the Clothbearer, while his waist remains slim. His musculature, however, is light compared to the fully mature male athletes of the Boxer Rhyton from Ayia Triada (Fig. 2.2k) (Marinatos and Hirmer 1960: pls. 106–​107). He wore a loincloth and codpiece (now missing), and his “Mohawk” hairstyle signifies pre-​adult social status. Other figures seem generically “youthful.” These include the runners (short-​haired, nude) and the line of youths (short-​haired, loincloths) painted in the Flotilla Fresco of the West House, Akrotiri (Doumas 1992: pl. 38); a line of youths with long hair and wearing loincloths in the Sacred Grove and Dance Fresco from Knossos (PM III: pl. XVIII); and the bull leapers of the Taureador Fresco from Knossos (the gender of the white athletes is much discussed; see Rutter 2003: 42–​43).

Discussion: Minoan constructions of childhood The age grade typology presented in Figs. 2.1 and 2.2 indicates that Minoan and Theran artists and patrons alike recognized and consciously depicted different stages of childhood growth and development. How these stages were understood from a cultural perspective is investigated  below.

Age grades, hairstyle and costuming Most contemporary scholars working on Minoan and Theran art equate the variety of hairstyles worn by boys and girls of different ages with rites of passage.These rites, it is argued, were marked in part by hair cutting rituals (for summary, see Koehl 2000). However, no artwork depicts these events, and no single sequence of haircuts readily accounts for all the hairstyles depicted. The result has thus been a confusing array of age grade typologies (e.g., Davis 1986: fig. 1; Koehl 1986: fig. 1; 2000: fig. 11.1; Doumas 2000) and limited progress for understanding Minoan childhood.

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The typologies presented above, however, organize the images into age grades that are consistent with one another in terms of physiological growth and development; this structure reveals more variation in youthful hairstyle and costuming than has previously been recognized (see also Chapin 2009: 180–​181). The youngest children, both male and female, have shaved heads with one or two hair locks; but boys in early adolescence (aged 12–​14) wear an assortment of hair styles: the Fisherboys have partially shaved heads with two short hair locks, the Swordbearer on the Chieftain Cup has short hair, and the Staffbearer has long hair, yet all physiologically belong to the same age grade. It is possible that Aegean hairstyles communicated information on social class or profession in addition to age. Additionally, the truism that girls are clothed whereas boys are nude cannot always be correct, at least for the Cretan evidence. The figurine in the Chania Museum depicts a nude girl (Fig. 2.1a), while the Chieftain Cup (Fig. 2.2f–​g) and the Palaikastro Kouros (Fig. 2.2j) both show adolescent males in clothing. More information is therefore needed to better understand the artistic evidence.

Rites of passage and gendered social roles Nannó Marinatos was among the first to investigate Aegean art, beginning with Theran frescoes, in terms of age grade, gendered activity, and rites of passage (Marinatos 1984; 1993). Her iconographic investigations of youth and gender influentially framed the frescoes of Xeste 3, Akrotiri, as depicting a ritual initiation of girls (Crocus Gatherers) through service to an Enthroned Goddess (Marinatos 1984:  64; see also Günkel-​Maschek this volume). Marinatos likewise saw the Wounded Woman’s injured foot as evidence for a bloody initiation, while Ellen Davis argued for possible marriage rituals (Marinatos 1984:  81; 1993:  205–​209; Davis 1986: 402–​403). The scene with three youths in the company of an adult man, also in Xeste 3, has been interpreted as a rite of passage into adulthood (a robing ceremony) and as preparations for marriage (Doumas 1992: 130; Koehl 2000;Vlachopoulos 2007). Marinatos also emphasized the ritual iconography of other Theran paintings. In her view, the Boxing Boys engage in a ceremonial contest of strength and the Fisherboys present their fish in a sacred context in the West House (Marinatos 1984: 35–​38, 109–​112). Robert Koehl proposed that Minoan and Theran societies were organized by age grade and argued for Minoan initiation rites for aristocratic adolescent boys based on a comparison between the Chieftain Cup’s iconography and historical evidence for initiation rites (Koehl 1986; 2000). Koehl also interprets homoerotic scenes of youths with men as evidence for age-​g rade rites of passage (Koehl 2016). The present author suggests that Minoan and Theran social constructions of gender, both male and female, were reinforced through ritual (Chapin 1997–​2000; 2007).

Education Less recognized in the images of the young are indications of childhood education. Though adults are not usually depicted with children, instruction by older individuals can be inferred: the Fisherboys’ choice catch (tuna and dolphin fish) implies training in deep sea fishing, and the presentation of saffron in Xeste 3 suggests lessons in herbal preparation. The Boxing Boys demonstrate lessons and training in sport and combat, and the youths of the Chieftain Cup exhibit military preparedness. That these skills were considered worthy of artistic depiction suggests adults of the Minoan palatial period socially constructed a childhood embracing advanced education and/​or training for both girls and boys, with ritual demonstrations of acquired abilities in peer groups. Further, the presence and absence of jewellery may indicate relative social rank,

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and one Boxing Boy wears no jewellery. This could indicate that boys from elite and non-​elite backgrounds received specialized athletic and military training. Nannó Marinatos has shown that the Minoan ideal of manhood was the victorious warrior/​athlete (Marinatos 2005). The Boxing Boys demonstrate that training towards this ideal began in middle childhood (Chapin 2007: 251–​252).

Children and families Family relationships are difficult to identify from archaeological remains. Images of nuclear families remain unknown (Rutter 2003: 49), and it is possible that Minoan families were matrilineal and matrilocal (Driessen 2010). Minoans were similarly unresponsive to kourotrophic imagery, popular in contemporary Egypt (Budin 2011: 275–​276). By way of explanation, Barbara Olsen suggests that Minoans preferred to present women in public roles, without children, rather than in their domestic capacity as mothers and caregivers (Olsen 1998: 390). An exception would be the Ivory Triad found at Mycenae, which has not one but two young women looking after a child. A scene from Xeste 3 similarly depicts a grown man with three boys; the different ages of the youths, and the relationship between the Yellow Ochre Boy and the Clothbearer, imply bonds of kinship, but whether or not the painting depicts a father with three sons is unknowable. Likewise, it is tempting to suggest that the four mature women painted in procession in Xeste 3 are the mothers of the four Crocus Gatherers, but such possibilities remain speculation.

Children as social actors Children above toddler age are depicted engaged in public and/​or communal action, whether it was honouring the god(s), joining in collective ritual, playing a part in palatial pageantry, training for combat and sport, or practicing the arts of war. This is a childhood as defined and directed by older individuals (even when they are not depicted), and as such, the scenes offer information about the ambitions of older members of Minoan society for their youth. Additionally, the artworks show children among themselves, performing rituals and competing in sport. These scenes depict children in peer cultures of youths in which children themselves are social actors, learners, and practitioners of culture.

Conclusions: what was a Minoan child? Artistic evidence from the period of the Minoan palaces supports the notion that Minoans and Therans alike perceived sequential and developmental stages for childhood and adolescence, beginning with infancy and ending with the transition to adulthood. The youngest children, infants and toddlers, were depicted in undirected, age-​appropriate activities such as crawling and grasping objects, but by three to four years of age, girls began to engage their wider social world through simple ritual activity, as seen in the figurine of a young girl standing in a position of worship (Fig. 2.1a) and the glyptic art works depicting young girls in the company of adult females. Older children aged from six to eleven, both girls and boys, participate in events that demonstrate childhood education in religion, and boys commenced training in sport/​combat. With puberty, girls passed through a ritualized, phased transition to adulthood. As indicated by the iconography of the Xeste 3 frescoes, in the first phase girls in early puberty entered the service of the Enthroned Goddess; later, when pubertal growth and development was complete, a bloody initiation marked the transition to womanhood, perhaps in preparation for marriage (Chapin 1997–​2000). For boys, the artistic evidence is more ambiguous.Theran boys are depicted 34

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with the nudity and partial head shaving of childhood through late puberty (ages 16–​17) which implies a long period of sub-​adult social status. On Crete, however, much younger adolescents (ages 12–​14) adopted adult costuming traditions (e.g., the Chieftain Cup) while maintaining youthful hair styles even when on the verge of adulthood (e.g., the Palaikastro Kouros). The socially constructed beginning of adulthood, then, may have varied by region. For Budin, the Minoan interest in children was as valued members of society, and the precious nature of the materials used to depict them connects childhood imagery with elite social status (Budin 2011: 282). Yet childhood education and socialization also emerge as important adult priorities, for girls and boys alike, and communal activities both with and without supervision by older individuals suggests that children of the Neopalatial Aegean were perceived as social actors who were both learners and practitioners of cultural knowledge.

Mycenaean constructions of childhood The destruction of all palaces on Crete except Knossos at the end of LM IB (c. 1490/​1450 BCE) marks the end of Minoan hegemony and the rise of Mycenaean power. Knossos came under Mycenaean rule, and for two centuries (LH IIIA–​B, c. 1400–​1200 BCE), Mycenaean palatial centers thrived at Mycenae, Tiryns, Thebes, Pylos, and elsewhere. As early Greek speakers the Mycenaeans were ethnically distinct from the Minoans, yet they adopted and adapted numerous elements of Minoan culture for their own use (Dickinson 1994: 73–​86).

Mycenaean evidence Despite being limited, evidence for Mycenaean constructions of childhood is more diverse than the Minoan evidence. There are fewer recognizable images of children, yet documentary and funerary data contribute to a broader picture of Mycenaean childhood.

Linear B tablets Documentary evidence for children can be found on Linear B tablets from the palaces at Knossos and Pylos (Ventris and Chadwick 1973:  155–​168; Olsen 1998:  383–​384; 2014; Gallou 2010; Budin 2011: 317–​322).These tablets were used by officials to administer palace activities, and thus offer information on children connected with these functions. About 200 tablets record children as members of family units, as recipients of rations, and in workshops of specialized laborers. At Pylos, boys and girls are counted with their mothers; at Knossos, children are further distinguished by sex and age: younger girls, older girls, younger boys, and older boys. At both palaces, women are listed with children of both sexes; when older, the boys were sent to male work groups, presumably to learn a trade, while older girls remained with the women. The departure of the boys seems to indicate that Mycenaean male childhood ended with the onset of adolescence. The Pylos tablets indicate that children worked. Boys and girls are listed as corn grinders and boys are identified as measurers of grain. Children were active in the textile industry (as flax workers, in carding, spinning, sewing, and weaving), and they performed household tasks, such as bath-​pouring, serving, and sweeping. Palm prints preserved on clay tablets from Knossos belong to children aged eight to twelve, whose job it was to shape blank tablets for scribes (Sjöquist and Åström 1991: 25–​28, 30–​33, fig. 30). Given the evidence for child labor, Chrysanthi Gallou suggests that items found in Mycenaean children’s burials, such as grinding stones, loom weights, or pierced shells, refer to the work children performed in life (Gallou 2010: 164–​165). 35

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Funerary evidence Mortality rates were high for Mycenaean children (Budin 2016: 598–​600), and burial practices for these children demonstrate considerable variety and change through time (Cavanagh and Mee 1998; Gallou 2004; 2005), yet Judit Lebegyev’s interpretation of burials from the formative phases of Mycenaean culture (MH–​LH I and LH II) supports the identification of three Mycenaean age grades: infancy (up to 1–​2 years), early childhood (1 to 5–​6 years), and later childhood (older than 5–​6  years) (Lebegyev 2009). Infants were excluded from organized extramural cemeteries and were buried within, or near, settlements; their separation from adults may reflect a special position in Mycenaean society  –​a liminal state in which the youngest children were not yet fully incorporated into public society (Cavanagh and Mee 1998: 129; Lebegyev 2009: 28). Their formal burial, however, would seem to indicate that they were viewed as embodied individuals, and it is possible that post-​birth rituals had already been conferred upon newborns (Muskett 2008:  46). After the first year, but before children reached five to six years in age, burial practices for children shift: children were buried more often within organized extramural cemeteries, sometimes in complex grave types (e.g., built cists), and were more often given special burial gifts such as miniature vases, seashells, and bird-​shaped askoi. For Lebegyev, this differential treatment of may reflect the growing incorporation of children into the broader community, perhaps through initiation rites. The deposition of genderless goods may indicate that gendered social roles had not yet been embraced by the youngest children (Lebegyev 2009: 28–​29). Some Early Mycenaean child burials are extraordinarily rich, such as the child covered in a gold suit in Shaft Grave III in Grave Circle A at Mycenae. These children likely acquired their social status through family (Muskett 2008:  42). At five to six years of age, children (particularly in the LH II period) were more often buried in organized extramural cemeteries with gendered grave goods, thus signalling the adoption of gendered identities. In the later phases of the Mycenaean period, children were placed in separate tombs or in the dromoi of family tombs –​a physical separation which may signify their special, non-​adult social status (Cavanagh and Mee 1998: 129; Muskett 2008: 43).

Artistic representations Mycenaean images of children and adolescents fall into three age grades: infants, young children (up to 5–​6 years old), and early adolescence (about 12–​14 years). Images from middle childhood (6–​11  years old) remain unrecognized in the artistic record. The most detailed images are recognizably female; depictions of boys have not been identified. As in Minoan art, Mycenaean images of children are generally made of expensive materials and found in elite social contexts. Infants (children aged less than 1 year). In contrast to the Minoans, Mycenaean artists depicted babies in the arms of adults (Fig. 2.3a) (Budin 2011: 299–​317). Some 80 terracotta kourotrophoi, variants of Mycenaean phi, psi, and tau figurines, are known from a variety of archaeological contexts, mostly in the Argolid and on the island of Aegina. The majority date to LH III, are small in size (H. 10–​20 cm), handmade, mass-​produced, decorated with red or brown paint, and depict female figures (French 1971). Forms are abstract, faces are schematic, and flaring bases suggest women’s skirts. For Rutter these figures represent maternity (Rutter 2003:  47); for Budin at least some represent divinities (Budin 2011: 314; Budin 2016: 604–​605); and for Olsen the meaning(s) of kourotrophoi depends on their context (Olsen 1998: 384–​388). An exceptional

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Figure 2.3  Children in Mycenaean art Source: Drawings: a: M. Terrell; b and c: E. Birolin

kourotrophos, found at Mavrospelio on Crete in LM II contexts but incorporating elements of Mycenaean cultural and artistic influence, has recently been interpreted not as a mother holding a child, but as an adolescent girl carrying an idol of a young male god (Budin 2011: 287–​290, 295–​299). Early childhood (girls aged 1–​5  years). A  newly restored fresco from Tiryns offers an unambiguous representation of a girl, uniquely in the company of men perhaps serving as palanquin bearers (Fig.  2.3b) (Maran, Papadimitriou, and Thaler 2015:  108 fig.  6, 109). White skin and female costume establish gender, and details of physiognomy describe youth: she is short relative to her male companions, standing just below hip height, and she has a large head relative to her body. The slight roundness of her chest looks female, but there are no indications of breasts or nipples. These signs of growth and development suggest an age of about three to four years. Interestingly, the figure’s waist-​length hair suggests that some Mycenaean girls grew their hair from birth, in contrast to Minoan and Theran head-​shaving practices for pre-​adolescent children. The new Pomegranate Bearer Fresco, also from Tiryns, may depict a child of even younger age, holding floral offerings and carried by an adult woman (Papadimitriou, Thaler and Maran 2015).White skin and flounced costume identify the figure as female, and a lack of breast development signifies childhood, but it is not certain whether the artist intended to depict a living, breathing individual or an effigy carried in ritual procession. If a living child is intended, then its diminutive size indicates great youth, perhaps two to three years in age. Her shoulder-​length hair is consistent with this age and supports the notion posited here that some Mycenaean girls grew their hair from birth. An intriguing presentation fresco from the LH IIIB Southwest Building at Mycenae depicts another small female figure, perhaps a girl, held in the hand of a larger female figure

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(Kritseli-​Providi 1982: pl. 6a; see also Papadimitriou, Thaler, and Maran 2015: 196). White skin, small size relative to the hand holding it, and a lack of breasts indicate youth and female gender; the red-​dotted yellow tunic also supports a female identification. But the distinctive position of the supporting hand, which pinches the girl’s unnaturally stiff skirt between the thumb and fingers, indicates that the figure represents not a child but a hollow figurine made from a hard material. Paul Rehak suggested that the figure might have been painted with a partially shaved hair style similar to that of the Veiled Girl from Akrotiri, Thera, discussed above (2007:  222, fig. 11.13), but a new drawing by Suzanne Peterson Murray, made after personal inspection of the painting fragments, shows that the figure has black hair held in place by a red fillet (Murray 2016: 79, 101 n. 134, fig. 3.41). Images of young girls survive in relief media as well. Two gold foil ornaments found in Shaft Grave III at Mycenae preserve frontal female figures clothed in flounced skirts; their large round heads, short necks, and short arms and legs describe the pudgy proportions of toddlers or slightly older children (Marinatos and Hirmer 1960: pl. 105; Rehak 2007: 217). Pairs of similarly squat female figures with no discernible breast development decorate three ivory mirror handles found in tombs at Mycenae (Rehak 2007: 218–​291, fig. 11.10; Marinatos and Hirmer 1960: pls. 220, 221). For Rehak, their short curly hair and possibly calf-​length skirts suggest comparison with the Xeste 3 Crocus Gatherers from Akrotiri,Thera (Rehak 2007: 218), but for this author, their stocky proportions describe significantly younger children. Their short curly hair, in comparison to the long locks of the painted figures from Tiryns, could suggest variability in Mycenaean hair style within age grade. Middle childhood (girls aged 6–​11 years). Mycenaean depictions of girls in mid-​childhood have not yet been recognized. Girls as depicted seem to be either older or younger than middle childhood. Early adolescence (ages 12–​14). An adolescent girl is recognizable in yet another newly restored fresco from Tiryns (Fig. 3c) (Maran, Papadimitriou, and Thaler 2015: 105–​106, fig. 4). Identified as one of two women in procession, the figure’s traditionally Aegean costume displays a much smaller breast than is typical of Mycenaean painting. Indeed, the bright red nipple and areola (indicated by a ring of black dots) suggest a girl of breast budding age, about twelve years old. Long locks of hair fall to her waist and hips, but details of her scalp are not preserved. Other Images. Images of children, schematic in style and difficult to place into an age grade, have been catalogued by Georgina Muskett (2008: 39–​41) and include a possible mother-​and-​ child scene painted on a Pictorial Style krater from LH IIIB Tiryns (AR 1982–​1983: 28, fig. 45) and a small figure on a LH IIIA2 krater from Klavdhia, Cyprus (Vermeule and Karageorghis 1982:  30). Some LH IIIB painted terracotta larnakes (chests used as coffins) from Tanagra, Boeotia, depict children either as mourners in family funerals or as the deceased (Rutter 2003: 48). Abstract and schematic in style, this imagery looks forward to the prothesis scenes (i.e., a laying out of the dead) of the Late Geometric period.

Discussion: Mycenaean constructions of childhood The documentary, archaeological, and artistic evidence supports the identification of four age grades in Mycenaean childhood:  infancy (the youngest children, up to 1  year in age as suggested by artistic representation or perhaps even 1–​2 years in age as indicated by funerary evidence), early childhood (1 to 5–​6 years), middle childhood (5–​6 to 11), and early adolescence (12–​14), after which Mycenaean teenagers may have been culturally perceived as adults. In life, genderless infants were depicted in the arms of kourotrophoi and, in death, they were buried separately from older individuals, suggesting a liminal status in which infants were not 38

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fully incorporated into public society. Early childhood is documented by Linear B tablets from Knossos, frescoes from palatial settings depicting girls in flounced costumes, and funerary evidence in which young children of elite social status received rich grave goods whereas others did not. Middle childhood is indicated by the Knossos tablets and mortuary remains. The transition to puberty (i.e., the end of childhood) is implied by the departure of boys to all-​male work groups in the Linear B tablets and by artworks showing pubertal girls, notably the fresco from Tiryns of a finely dressed girl experiencing breast budding. That these age grades reflect the social lives of children is a question explored by Georgina Muskett, who postulates a series of ceremonies marking stages in the lives of young Mycenaean children that parallel historical rites of passage held for Athenian children in the Classical period (Muskett 2008; see also Rehak 2007: 223–​224). Further reading of the evidence, however, is challenging. From artworks and burials it may be surmised that girls of elite birth held privileged positions in Mycenaean society.They dressed in flounced costumes and processed in public ceremony in the company of adults, both male and female. But children of non-​elite birth –​the boys and girls who lived as palace dependents –​ labored at menial tasks for meagre food rations. As they grew older, they learned the trade of their parents.

Conclusions: what was Mycenaean childhood? Documentary, funerary, and artistic evidence indicates that Mycenaean Greeks recognized four stages of childhood (infancy, early childhood, middle childhood, and the transition to puberty). These age grades compare remarkably well with the Minoan evidence and suggest the possibility of cultural similarity in concepts of childhood. Artistic evidence suggests that at least some young Mycenaean girls grew their hair uniformly long in a manner that differs from the head-​ shaving practices for youths of the Neopalatial era. However, indications of a Mycenaean cultural construction of later adolescence are lacking, and it is possible that Mycenaean teenagers adopted adult social roles. Notably, too, images of boys remain missing from the artistic record. Future directions for research include continued study of documentary evidence and mortuary remains, and a closer review of Mycenaean artworks for images of children. With more information, greater insight into Mycenaean attitudes toward childhood may emerge.

References Baxter, J.E. 2005. The archaeology of childhood: Children, gender and material culture.Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira. Boardman, J. 1961. The Cretan collection in Oxford. The Dictaean Cave and Iron Age Crete. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bosanquet, R.C. and Dawkins, R.M. 1923. The unpublished objects from the Palaikastro excavations, 1902–​ 1906. London: Macmillan. Budin, S.L. 2011. Images of woman and child from the Bronze Age: Reconsidering fertility, maternity, and gender in the ancient world. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Budin, S.L. 2016. Maternity in the Bronze Age Aegean. In:  S.L. Budin and J.M. Turfa (eds), Women in Antiquity: Real women across the ancient world. London: Routledge, 595–​607. Cavanagh, W. and Mee, C. 1998. A private place: Death in prehistoric Greece. SIMA 125. Jonsered: Åströms. Chapin, A.P. 1997–​2000. Maidenhood and marriage: The reproductive lives of the girls and women from Xeste 3, Thera. Aegean Archaeology 4: 7–​25. Chapin, A.P. 2007. Boys will be boys: Youth and gender identity in the Theran frescoes. In: A. Cohen and J.B. Rutter (eds), Constructions of childhood in ancient Greece and Italy. Princeton, NJ: ASCSA, 229–​255. Chapin, A.P. 2009. Constructions of male youth and gender in Aegean art: The evidence from Late Bronze Age Crete and Thera. In: K. Kopaka (ed.) Fylo: Engendering prehistoric “stratigraphies” in the Aegean and

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Anne P. Chapin the Mediterranean (Aegaeum 30). Liège and Austin, TX: Université de Liège and University of Texas at Austin, 2009, 175–​182. Davis, E.N. 1986.Youth and age in the Thera frescoes. AJA 90, 399–​406. Davis, J.L. and Stocker, S.R. 2016. The Lord of the Gold Rings: The Griffin Warrior of Pylos. Hesperia 85, 627–​655. Dickinson, O. 1994. The Aegean Bronze Age. Cambridge: Cambridge University. Doumas, C. 1992. The wall-​paintings of Thera. Athens: The Thera Foundation, Petros M. Nomikos. Doumas, C. 2000. Age and gender in the Theran wall paintings. In: S. Sherratt (ed.), The wall paintings of Thera, vol. 2. Athens: The Thera Foundation, Petros M. Nomikos, 971–​981. Driessen, J. 2010. Spirit of place: Minoan houses as major actors. In: D.J. Pullen (ed.), Political economies of the Aegean Bronze Age. Oxford: Oxbow, 35–​65. French, E. 1971. The development of Mycenaean terracotta figurines. BSA 66: 101–​187. Gallou, C. 2004. More than little perishers: Child burials and the living society in Mycenaean Greece. Ethnographisch Archäologische Zeitschrift 45: 365–​375. Gallou, C. 2005. The Mycenaean cult of the dead. Oxford: Archaeopress. Gallou C. 2010. Children at work in Mycenaean Greece (c. 1680–​1050 BCE):  A brief survey. In:  L. Brockliss and Montgomery, H. (eds), Childhood and violence in the western tradition. Oxford:  Oxbow, 162–​167. Günkel-​Maschek, U. 2014. Time to grow up, girl! Childhood and adolescence in Bronze Age Akrotiri, Thera. In: S. Moraw and A. Kieburg (eds), Mädchen im Altertum/​Girls in Antiquity. Münster: Waxmann, 117–​133. Koehl, R.B. 1986. The Chieftain Cup and a Minoan rite of passage. JHS 106: 99–​110. Koehl, R.B. 2000. Ritual context. In: J.A. MacGillivray, J.M. Driessen, and L.H. Sackett (eds), The Palaikastro Kouros: A Minoan chryselephantine statuette and its Aegean Bronze Age context. London: The British School at Athens, 131–​143. Koehl, R.B. 2016. Beyond the “Chieftain Cup”: More images relating to Minoan male “rites of passage”. In R.B. Koehl (ed.), Studies in Aegean art and culture: A New York Aegean colloquium in memory of Ellen N. Davis. Philadelphia, PA: INSTAP Academic Press, 113–​132. Kopaka, K. (ed.) 2009. Fylo: Engendering prehistoric “stratigraphies” in the Aegean and the Mediterranean (Aegaeum 30). Liège and Austin, TX: Université de Liège and University of Texas at Austin. Kritseli-​Providi, I. 1982. Τοιχογραφίες του θρησκευτικού κέντρου των Μυκηνών. Athens: NP. Lebegyev, J. 2009. Phases of childhood in Early Mycenaean Greece. Childhood in the Past 2: 15–​32. MacGillivray, J.A., Driessen, J.M. and Sackett, L.H. (eds). 2000. The Palaikastro Kouros: A Minoan chryselephantine statuette and its Aegean Bronze Age context. London: The British School at Athens. Maran, J., Papadimitriou, A. and Thaler, U. 2015. Palatial wall paintings from Tiryns: New finds and new perspectives. In:  A.-​L. Schallin and I. Tournavitou (eds), Mycenaeans up to date. Stockholm:  Svenska Institutet i Athen. Marangou, C. 1991. Social differentiation in the Early Bronze Age:  Miniature metal vessels and child burials. JMA 1: 211–​225. Marinatos, N. 1984. Art and religion in Thera: Reconstructing a Bronze Age society.Athens: D. and I. Mathioulakis. Marinatos, N. 1993. Minoan religion: Ritual, image, and symbol. Columbia: University of South Carolina. Marinatos, N. 2005. The ideals of manhood in Minoan Crete. In: L. Morgan (ed.), Aegean wall painting: A tribute to Mark Cameron. London: British School at Athens, 229–​240. Marinatos, S. and Hirmer, M. 1960. Crete and Mycenae. London: Thames and Hudson. McGeorge, P.J.P. 2013. Intramural infant burials in the Aegean Bronze Age: Reflections on symbolism and eschatology with particular reference to Crete. In: O. Henry (ed.), Le mort dans la ville. Istanbul: Institut français d’études anatoliennes Georges Dumézil,  1–​19. Moraw, S. and Kieburg, A. (eds). 2014. Mädchen im Altertum/​Girls in Antiquity. Münster: Waxmann. Murray, S.P. 2016. Patterned textiles as costume in Aegean Art. In: M.C. Shaw and A.P. Chapin (eds), Woven Threads: Patterned Textiles of the Aegean Bronze Age. Oxford: Oxbow Books. 43–​103. Muskett, G. 2008. Rites of passage for young children in Mycenaean Greece. Childhood in the Past 1: 38–​48. Neils, J. and Oakley, J. (eds). 2003. Coming of age in ancient Greece: Images of childhood from the classical past. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Olsen, B.A. 1998. Women, children and the family in the Late Bronze Age: Differences in Minoan and Mycenaean constructions of gender. World Archaeology 29: 380–​392. Olsen, B.A. 2014. Women in Mycenaean Greece:  The Linear B tablets from Pylos and Knossos. Abingdon: Routledge.

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What is a child in Aegean prehistory? Papadimitriou, A., Thaler, U. and Maran, J. 2015. Bearing the Pomegranate Bearer: A new wall-​painting scene from Tiryns. In: H. Brecoulaki, J.L. Davis and S.R. Stocker (eds), Mycenaean wall painting in context: New discoveries, old finds reconsidered. Athens: National Research Foundation/​Institute of Historical Research, 173–​211. Papageorgiou, I. 2008. Children and adolescents in Minoan Crete. In:  M. Andreadaki-​ Vlazaki, G. Rethemiotakis and N. Dimopoulou-​Rethemiotaki (eds), From the land of the labyrinth: Minoan Crete, 3000–​1100 BC, vol. 2: Essays. New York: Alexander S. Onassis Public Benefit Foundation, 89–​95. Rehak, P. 2007. Children’s work: Girls as acolytes in Aegean ritual and cult. In: A. Cohen and J.B. Rutter (eds), Constructions of childhood in ancient Greece and Italy. Princeton, NJ: ASCSA, 205–​225. Rühfel, H. 1984. Kinderleben im klassischen Athens: Bilder auf klassischen Vasen. Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern. Rutter, J. 2003. Children in Aegean prehistory. In: J. Neils and J.H. Oakley (eds), Coming of age in ancient Greece: Images of childhood from the classical past. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 30–​57. Sakellarakis, Y. and Sapouna-​Sakellaraki, E. 1997. Archanes:  Minoan Crete in a new light. Athens:  Ammos Publications. Sjöquist K.-​E. and Åström, P. 1991. Knossos: Keepers and kneaders. Göteborg: Åströms. Tanner, J.M. 1990. Foetus into Man: Physical growth from conception to maturity, rev. and enl. ed. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Tanner, J.M. and Whitehouse, R.H. 1982. Atlas of children’s growth:  Normal variation and growth disorders. London: Academic Press. Ventris, M. and Chadwick, J. 1973. Documents in Mycenaean Greek, 2nd ed. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press. Vermeule, E. and Karageorghis, V. 1982. Mycenaean pictorial vase painting. Cambridge, MA:  Harvard University Press. Vlachopoulos, A. 2007. Mythos, logos and eikon. Motifs of early Greek poetry in the wall paintings of Xeste 3. In: S.P. Morris and R. Laffineur (eds), Epos: Reconsidering Greek epic and Aegean Bronze Age archaeology (Aegaeum 28). Liège and Austin, TX:  Université de Liège and the University of Texas at Austin, 107–​118.

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3 IDEOLOGICAL CONSTRUCTIONS OF CHILDHOOD IN BRONZE AND EARLY IRON AGE ITALY Personhood between marginality and social inclusion Elisa Perego

Introduction This chapter discusses the social standing of children in Bronze and Early Iron Age Italy through the lenses of personhood theory (Perego 2012a; 2016). It also proposes some theoretical and methodological reflections on the study of childhood in past societies, a growing area of research in archaeology (e.g. Moore and Scott 1997; Finlay 2000; Sofaer Derevenski 2000; Kamp 2001; Baxter 2005; Carroll 2011; Carroll and Graham 2014; Zanoni 2016). The period under consideration covers the late third, second and early first millennia BC. In Italy, this time-​span saw the spread of increasingly complex forms of socio-​political organization (e.g. Cardarelli 2010), which culminated in the rise of urbanism and statehood in some areas of the peninsula (e.g. Capuis 2009; Riva 2010; Fulminante 2014; Scopacasa 2015). While these processes of development were far from linear, and enormous regional variability existed, socio-​political and economic change had a significant impact on the negotiation of identity, social inclusion and social marginality in this period of tumultuous transformation (Perego 2014a; 2014b; Perego and Scopacasa 2016). In this chapter, therefore, I use “personhood” as a theoretical framework through which to approach ideas of social integration and social exclusion involving children in this crucial period for human development in antiquity. As discussed below, the concept of personhood allows for great flexibility in exploring dynamics of social inclusion and marginalization, which help go beyond standard discussions of rank and status in the study area.While defining personhood is a controversial topic in archaeology, anthropology, philosophy, medicine and law (e.g. La Fontaine 1985; Fortes 1987; Lamb 1997; Fowler 2004; Morgan 2006; Perego 2015), a crucial aspect of this debate focuses on what “being human” means and on the culturally variable factors that may regulate the acquisition of full social integration in any given society (Conklin and Morgan 42

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1996; Morgan 2002; 2006; Perego 2016). The analysis of the funerary evidence from late prehistoric Italy presented below will contribute to the ongoing personhood debate by providing further evidence that notions of personhood (including child personhood) are indeed socially constructed, culturally variable and in flux.

Theoretical framework Ethnographic research suggests that “persons” are commonly defined as those individuals  –​ generally but not necessarily humans  –​granted by the group full or partial membership in society (e.g. Conklin and Morgan 1996:  662). Criteria for membership are embedded in dynamics of power negotiation and reside in context-​related beliefs about the body, the self and the individual’s correct location in socially accepted relationships. In any given society dominant discourses of social categorization and normalization promote viable ways of being meaningfully “human” and discriminate possible deviations (Greenhalgh 2003:  199). Personhood, therefore, is not automatically granted to all human beings. Humans are definable as biological entities that are not necessarily integrated into the social group and may be denied key rights and responsibilities in society, including the right to live. Persons are humans –​ and sometimes other inanimate or animate beings –​who are socialized into their culture and granted normative social value (e.g. Ingstad and Whyte 1995: 11; Morgan 2002). Personhood can be granted to various degrees, and augmented or revoked during the individual’s life course. Forms of attenuated personhood, perceived as such by the subject or socially sanctioned, often recur in case of disability, mental illness, senility, and other conditions of social marginality including, potentially, infancy and childhood (Ingstad and Whyte 1995; Lamb 1997; Morgan 1997; Desjarlais 1999; Greenhalgh 2003). The concept of personhood among the contemporary African Tallensi as understood by Fortes (1987; Morris 1994: 123–​130) provides an example of the complexity of such forms of social categorization. Among the Tallensi, the bon vor is the basic living entity composed of body (neng bin) and breath (vohem). Beyond being living entities, some animals such as antelopes and sacred crocodiles may possess human-​like qualities and a soul (sii). Humans (nisaal) are living beings who possess both soul and self (meng). However, humans are not necessarily “persons” (nit). The acquisition of personhood is a gradual process deeply embedded in social dynamics of power and control. Full personhood can be achieved only by men who have fulfilled a range of social obligations including the acquisition of political influence, old age and ancestorhood. Women, the insane and –​significantly –​children are not conceived as complete persons and may remain minors for their entire lives. Increasing scholarly attention has been paid to the construction of personhood at the extreme margins of human existence: when life comes into being at birth, and when it comes to an end at death (Kaufman and Morgan 2005; Morgan 2006). Both the beginning and the end of life are often conceived as liminal phases in which the boundaries between different states of existence are broken and renegotiated in terms of dominant discourses of power and control. Beginnings entail malleable processes of attribution of personhood to pre-​social beings –​ foetuses, newborns and children –​whose status as meaningful humans is often contested and at risk. Endings involve the transformation of living beings into other entities –​nonpersons, ancestors and ghosts –​whose new social role is subject to intense negotiation and reassessment (Kaufman and Morgan 2005: 319). Scholarship has come to distinguish between biological and social death, the latter occurring when individuals are stripped of personhood and cease to be functional members of society. Social death is not necessarily linked to biological death, but can occur either after or before. 43

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Biologically dead individuals can retain or even acquire their full personhood as ancestors (La Fontaine 1985: 135; Fortes 1987: 193), while living people can be denied membership in society when their personhood is retrieved, for example through incarceration and social stigma. Ethnographic surveys on the social status of infants have highlighted how the attribution of personhood to foetuses, neonates and children is a highly situational process (e.g. Conklin and Morgan 1996; Rigdon 1996: 546–​7; Morgan 1997; 2002). Personhood can be granted at different stages of the infant’s development, either before birth, at birth or sometime after birth. Many societies with high infant mortality rates distinguish between biological and social birth, the former being the moment in which infants leave the maternal womb, the latter occurring when children are formally acknowledged as persons, given a name and entitled to formal burial rites if they die. The equation between biological and social birth is more common in societies with low infant mortality rates, where the delaying of personhood is not necessary to provide emotional security against the unavoidable loss of children (Scheper Hughes 1993; Morgan 2002). As seen in the following paragraphs, the notions of social birth and delayed personhood may be useful in contextualizing the archaeological evidence from Bronze and Early Iron Age Italy. By contrast, in contemporary Western societies, where infant death rates are low, public discourse over the attribution of personhood to immature individuals focus on the social status of foetuses and embryos, with ideologically driven debates over abortion, women’s rights and maternal personhood (Bordo 1993; Heriot 1996; Morgan 1996; Hennessy and Cliath 2004). A review of archaeological and anthropological case studies, which I carried out for my doctoral thesis (Perego 2012a), has suggested that relations between mortuary rituals and practices of ascription of personhood often exist. In particular, the adoption of deviant funerary practices, mistreatment of the corpse, denial of formal burial and interment outside formal cemeteries may indicate that the deceased was deprived of personhood or granted only partial membership in society (on Final Bronze Age to Early Roman Veneto: Perego 2012a; 2014a; 2016, with bibliography). A fundamental assumption of the present work, therefore, is that the analysis of burial practices can shed some light on the degree of personhood granted to individuals, although this connection is neither linear nor easy to ascertain, and social practices relating to personhood may vary significantly in different cultural contexts. Scholarship has variously discussed the burial practices associated with foetuses, stillborns and young children. As such individuals are often conceived as nonpersons or incomplete persons, the funerary rituals they receive are generally –​but not universally –​minimal or absent, or different from those granted to adults (Morgan 2002). For example, in her work on infancy and marginality in Brazil, anthropologist N. Scheper Hughes (1993) has described the lack of grief for children in the deprived shantytown of Alto do Cruzeiro c. 1960–​1980. There, where infant mortality was high, and motherhood often coerced, the mother’s emotional response to her baby’s death was, according to Scheper Hughes, almost absent. Many deaths were never formally recorded, especially those of stillborns and late abortions. Until recently, unbaptised children of any age were stigmatized as “pagan” creatures and covertly buried outside formal cemeteries. Even when infants were baptised, their funerals were carried out by children, with minimal adult involvement. Poor children were buried in communal areas without special rites. This indifference towards infant death was justified by the widespread belief that neonates were “in transit”  –​they were human beings not yet rooted in their own household, which they left abruptly when too weak to survive. Moreover, dead children before proper burial were considered liminal entities needing no tears. They were neither human beings nor little angels: rather they were spirit-​children struggling to abandon the world and negatively affected by their mother’s grief. By contrast, the increasing tendency to grant personhood to stillborns 44

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and foetuses in many Western countries, has promoted the creation of new burial rites and sophisticated forms of remembrance for these subjects (Garattini 2007; Peelen 2009).

Methodological issues As noted above, the investigation of personhood in past societies poses considerable challenges, especially for non-​literate communities such as those of late prehistoric Italy. No simple equation can be drawn between burial practices and the personhood status of past human beings. While assessing age-​specific mortality rates and funerary practices (such as, potentially, infants’ exclusion from formal burial: Morgan 2002; below) may help cast light on past practices relating to child personhood, some crucial methodological issues are worthy of further discussion.

Personhood and archaeological theory 1. Definitions of “personhood” in anthropology, philosophy and archaeology may vary. For example, the idea of “personhood theory” presented in this chapter mainly draws on work carried out in American and feminist-​inspired anthropological, legal and medical research (see especially the work by L.M. Morgan); by contrast, archaeological research on personhood (e.g. Fowler 2004) has taken a slightly different path by focusing on the “modes” (types) of personhood that might have existed in past societies (discussion in Perego 2015). 2. Funerary rituals do not necessarily mirror the social status (e.g. Parker Pearson 1999) and/​or the personhood status (Perego 2012a; 2016) of an individual in life, which might be intentionally altered, or disguised, by the adoption of specific burial practices. For example, as we shall see below, high status children might be buried in the formal cemetery and with the attire of adults only to underline family status, while potentially being treated as minors or nonpersons in life. 3. The ascription of personhood is a fluid process entailing the continuous renegotiation of an individual’s standing in society (Morgan 2006). Burial, therefore, may only represent a crystallization of a subject’s personhood status, which was in flux during the individual’s life. As noted above, death itself may bring about changes in people’s personhood (Kaufman and Morgan 2005), which may be reflected in burial. Secondary burial, for example, may bring about further changes both in the ideological construction of a dead individual’s identity, and their personhood status, as determined by the agency of the living and possibly in relation to forms of social death occurring later than biological death. 4. The attainment of personhood may be linked to various facets of an individual’s identity, physiological condition and social role (e.g. age, gender, ethnicity, rank, health), which should prompt a consideration of the overall context of deposition (including location of burial, presence and typology of grave goods, body treatment, bioarchaeological evidence). While this has not been possible for the present chapter, such studies are strongly encouraged for future research in the Italian context.

Funerary and field archaeology 1. The loss of human remains in the field may potentially affect our interpretation of past rituals connected to personhood. While the issue of poor sub-​adult preservation due to bone fragility is thorny (Lewis 2013:  23–​6), poor excavation techniques, a lack of interest in childhood archaeology, the perceived absence of neonatal remains in past cemeteries (Lewis 2013: 20) and a focus on the most conspicuous grave assemblages (that in some contexts 45

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were reserved for adults) may affect the study of neonates and children in the archaeological record or the publication of relevant evidence. 2. The lack of systematic excavations of settlement contexts in many Italian areas, where young children were sometimes/​often buried (Modica 2007; Zanoni 2011; 2016), may further hamper the identification of such subjects in the burial records. Another issue to consider is the possibility that children were granted funerary rites that are archaeologically invisible, but were still perceived as meaningful by their burying group. The reliability of past excavation methods in the Italian context has also been called into question, especially for the handling of osteological material (e.g. Cuozzo 2016, 13). This impacts on the availability of the potential sample, especially since many major Italian cemetery sites were excavated in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. 3. The possibility, often discussed in Italian archaeology (for a recent review see Perego and Scopacasa 2016), that non-​ elite or subordinate groups may have been partially/​ largely excluded from formal burial may limit our exploration of childhood in the context under study to elite or “middle class” social groups. Among the sites sampled here, this might be especially the case of Verucchio (Di Lorenzo et al. 2016).

Biology and bioarchaeology 1. Notable issues exist in archaeology and bioarcheology regarding the terminology used for defining “childhood” and the age classes it comprises. Halcrow and Tayles (2008) have noted the existence of “different ‘types’ of age” (e.g. physiological or biological age; chronological age; social age), whose definition is not always appropriately addressed or specified in archaeological and bioarchaeological research.This issue is relevant to some Italian studies on the period considered here, and make it difficult to compare the data from different burial sites (Di Lorenzo et al. 2016). 2. Childhood illness, malnutrition, neglect and abuse may slow down development, and are known to compromise biological, neurological and psychological processes (Martorell 1997; 1999; Cozolino 2002; with long-​term implications in midlife: Slopen et al. 2016, 90). For example, traumatized children displaying common symptoms of abuse (e.g. anxiety, motor hyperactivity, behavioural impulsivity, sleep issues and hypertension:  Perry et  al. 1995) may be subject to social exclusion and re-​victimization (for a general study on present-​ day survivors: Spatz Widom et al. 2008). Abnormalities in cognitive, behavioural, biological and social patterns may be key in deterring or delaying the attribution of personhood to survivors.This in turn may play a significant role in shaping burial patterns. Children believed to be different from others, for example, might be denied proper funerary rituals if they die, even when healthier children of the same age were not. In communities where poor nutrition, disease and/​or violence might have been rampant, the socio-​biological consequences of such phenomena for both children and parents may have had a bearing on large-​scale conceptions of social integration and child personhood (for example, because of delayed/​ compromised maternal/​paternal–​infant bonding, or for the negative response of diseased/​ traumatized/​abused parents to pregnancy or motherhood/​fatherhood; see the case of Alto de Cruzeiro in Scheper Hughes 1993).

Evidence from Bronze Age and Early Iron Age Italy Given the permissible word limit for this chapter, I propose to undertake a preliminary discussion of selected funerary data from northern and central Italy. My work is not intended to offer 46

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a full overview of the evidence available from the sampled sites. Rather, I aim to foster discussion among scholars on the issues of marginality and personhood studies in Italian archaeology (see Perego and Scopacasa 2016). My focus in this chapter is on practices of inclusion in, and exclusion from, the formal burial ground as a ritual means potentially adopted to negotiate/​delineate child personhood in the funerary arena. Following seminal work by I. Morris (1987) on ancient Attica, analyses of the demographic and social representativeness of past cemeteries have gained increasing importance in funerary archaeology (Cuozzo 2016: 7–​8). Such research highlights how funerary policies based on discrimination and marginalization reserve formal burial only for selected categories of people.This selection is usually grounded in criteria such as the gender, rank or, indeed, the age of the deceased (for recent research on Italy: Zanoni 2011; 2016; Perego 2014a; 2016; Cuozzo 2016; Scopacasa 2016). As children may represent around 50 per cent of the population in agricultural societies predating the developments of modern medicine (Morris 1987; Chamberlain 2006; Becker 2007; estimates of ancient child mortality may vary between 30 and 70 per cent: Lewis 2013: 22), the lack or scarcity of child burials in past funerary sites represents one of the clearest indicators of selectivity in formal burial (Cuozzo 2016, 8). A preliminary overview of selected funerary sites from northern and central Italy has allowed some important inferences about children’s social standing in late prehistory and proto-​history. Funerary evidence from the Early Bronze Age (c. 2300–​1650 BC) is patchy and/​or inconspicuous in many regions of Italy, including northern Italy. A crucial issue at stake is the possible adoption of funerary rites that did not necessarily result in the creation of large formal cemeteries like those attested in later periods. In contexts where formal cemeteries are attested, anomalous burials of sub-​adults outside the cemetery area have been occasionally reported and discussed (Saracino et al. 2014, with bibliography). Nonetheless, the available evidence is too scanty to address the issue of child personhood in these communities. The Early Bronze Age, therefore, is not considered in this review (see, however, van Rossenberg, this volume). A growing focus on the formalization of burial in large cemetery areas intentionally set up for disposing of the deceased is noted in northern and central Italy from the Middle and Recent Bronze Age period (c. 1650–​1200/​1150 BC; cf. especially the evidence from the Terramare settlement system in north-​east Italy: Cardarelli 2010). Formal cemetery burial might, therefore, at this time have acquired a more significant role in delineating degrees of social inclusion and social marginalization, or in disguising the extent of existing social inequality. As I discuss below, notable variability in burial practice is attested at both the intra-​and inter-​site level, which may point to the existence of complex and variable forms of negotiation of personhood, identity and status in the study area. In terms of funerary representativeness, scholarship has noted the absence or scarcity of perinatal and neonatal subjects (between birth and one year at death) in many burial contexts in Middle (c. 1650–​1350/​1300 BC), Recent Bronze (c. 1350/​1300–​1150 BC) and Final Bronze Age (c. 1200/​1150–​1000 BC) northern and central Italy (e.g. Vanzetti 2010:  201; Cavazzuti 2011; Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014; Trucco et al. 2014: 29; Vanzetti and Borgognini Tarli 2003 report similar trends in a number of cemeteries of southern Italy; for the approximate chronology in northern Italy: Cardarelli 2010). In view of the funerary data available, some scholars have also suggested that children about one to three years of age may have often (but not always) been excluded from formal cemetery burial, or granted burial rituals that were different from those reserved for adults and older children (e.g.Vanzetti 2010: 201; Cavazzuti 2011; Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014: 700–​1). By contrast, formal burials of children older than about three years of age at death have been reported at many burial sites from the study area, such as Roccoia di Farnese, Cavallo Morto di Anzio and Lucus Feroniae in Latium and southern Etruria (Angle et al. 2004; Aspesi and Pasquini 2014; Trucco et al. 2014); Pianello di Genga in the Marche 47

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(Vanzetti 2010); Montata di Reggio Emilia and Casinalbo in Emilia Romagna (Cavazzuti 2011; Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014); Olmo di Nogara, Bovolone, Scalvinetto di Legnago and Frattesina di Fratta Polesine in Veneto (e.g. Salzani and Colonna 2010; Cavazzuti 2011; Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014; Cardarelli et al. 2015; Tables 3.1, 3.2). Another crucial issue in this period of ritual innovation and variability was the choice of the burial rite, which directly affected the funerary treatment of children in the study area. This issue is especially relevant to the mid-​to late second millennium BC, which saw the progressive spread of cremation in many European regions (Rebay-​Salisbury 2012). In northern Italy, cremation is preferred in Emilia and the area west of the Mincio River from the Middle Bronze Age onwards; by contrast, inhumation still coexisted with cremation in the Recent Bronze Age cemeteries located between the Mincio and Adige Rivers (Cardarelli 2010: 450). The spread of cremation in this period has attracted significant scholarly attention and has been variously connected to critical changes in religious and social beliefs about the body, the person and the destiny of the soul (e.g. Rebay-​Salisbury 2012; Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014 with bibliography). Notably, research on Middle and Recent Bronze Age northern and central Italy has suggested that perinatal individuals and children under the age of about one or two to three years were widely (but not entirely) excluded from cremation rites (Table 3.1). Even when subjects in this age range were buried in the formal cemetery, they were generally inhumed and not cremated (e.g. Vanzetti and Borgognini Tarli 2003:  359; Cavazzuti 2011; Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014; Trucco et al. 2014: 29;Tables 3.1 and 3.2). At Olmo di Nogare, for example, children under the age of around three appear to have been excluded from cremation rites. However, numerous child burials are attested among the 488 sampled inhumations, with perinatal and neonatal depositions representing 12 per cent of the inhumation sample, and the percentage of infantes 1 (i.e. individuals aged up to approximately 6 or 7 years at death) rising to 25 per cent of the inhumed individuals (Cavazzuti 2011: 170; Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014: 700; a revision of the osteological data is currently underway;Table 3.2). Even more interestingly, at the nearby site of Franzine Nuova di Villa Bartolomea, neonates may have represented 22 per cent of the inhumation sample (Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014). As for the sporadic presence of infant cremations in the formal burial ground, some cases have been reported at Casinalbo (Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014: 700) and Cavallo Morto (Angle et al. 2004: 139). At Cavallo Morto, a one-​to two-​year-​old child was cremated and deposited in a large urn with a violin-​bow fibula:  a ritual usually reserved for adults. The custom of granting sophisticated burial rites to infants became more common in the late second and first millennium BC (Nizzo 2011; Cardarelli et al. 2015 on Frattesina; Di Lorenzo et al. 2016), and has been suggested as reflecting more complex social structures, with increasing importance being granted to inherited rank and certain lineages in the local communities (e.g. Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014; Trucco et al. 2014). If the scarcity of infant burials in the sampled sites is not dramatically influenced by the potential loss of these children’s bones, these trends might point to the existence of fairly well established (but perhaps not overtly rigid) thresholds for sub-​adults to acquire various (and incremental) degrees of social significance. The foetal and neonatal stages appear to have been the ones in which the attainment of personhood was more precarious and at risk. A crucial step towards social integration might have occurred about one to three years of age, when children start to appear (or appear more consistently) in the burial record or to be granted cremation rites. Crucially, this age stage corresponds to a phase of major physiological and social development for sub-​adults (e.g. rapid brain growth, development of language, potential cessation of breastfeeding), which might have increasingly prompted their recognition as valuable members of their group. The status of children as persons or, at least their representation as such in the 48

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Table 3.1  Numbers of child and adult burials reported from some cemeteries of Bronze Age and Iron Age Italy Site

Region

MNI C= cremation I= inhumation

Age classes MNI per age class Inf1

Inf2

Juv.

Ad.

349 C= 349 123 C= 123 45 C= 28 I= 17

52

34

30

233

17

14

11

81

4

2

7

32

Lucus Feroniae RBA Cavallo Morto Late RBA Pianello di genga FBA

Lazio

13 C= 13 17 C= 17 104 C= 104

1

3

1

8

2

2

2

11

Lazio Marche

39

65

Bibliography

Few Inf1 might have been younger than 2 and even 1 years at death Only 2 Inf1 might have been around or younger than 2 years at death Inf1 and 2 represent 21% of cremation sample (TABLE 2). The youngest individual was c. 2 years at death. No child burial found in inhumation sample: the latter is not a random sample as only burials with grave goods were analysed The only Inf1 was older than c. 2 years at death One Inf1 was around 1–​2 years at death According to Vanzetti, it is probable the absence of neonates (0–​1 year at death) and the scarcity of children (1–​3 years at death)

Cavazzuti 2011; Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014 Cavazzuti 2011 Cavazzuti 2011

Trucco et al. 2014 Angle et al. 2004 Preliminary data analysis in Vanzetti 2010

(continued)

Bronze and Early Iron Age Italy

Emilia Romagna Emilia Romagna Veneto

49

Casinalbo MBA –​ RBA Montata MBA –​ RBA Scalvinetto MBA –​ RBA

Observations

50

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Table 3.1  Cont. Site

Region

MNI C= cremation I= inhumation

Age classes MNI per age class Inf1

Inf2

Juv.

Ad.

Observations

Bibliography

Veneto

38 C= 19 I= 19

7

3

1

27

The youngest individual in cremation sample was c. 3 years at death; the youngest in inhumation sample was c. 1 at death. These data contributed to the larger sample analysed in Cardarelli et al. 2015 (TABLE 2)

Salzani and Colonna 2010

Frattesina Narde II FBA –​ EIA

Veneto

174 C= 174

22

8

13

131

No child under 2 at death is found in this sample. These data contributed to the larger sample analysed in Cardarelli et al. 2015 (TABLE 2)

Cavazzuti 2011

Cerveteri Monte Tosto Alto 1997 FBA –​ EIA

Lazio

4 C= 4

1

-​

1

2

Inf1 was between birth and 1 year at death and dated to the FBA

Trucco et al. 2000

MNI = minimum number of individuals Reported age classes: Inf1 (infants) = individuals under six or seven years at death; Inf2 = individuals between seven or eight and twelve to fourteen at death; juv. (juveniles) = individuals between thirteen to fifteen and twenty-​one at death; ad. (adults) = individuals older than twenty-​two at death (the classification system may vary in different studies) Chronology: MBA = Middle Bronze Age; RBA = Recent Bronze Age; FBA = Final Bronze Age; EIA = Early Iron Age

Elisa Perego

50

Frattesina Narde I and II FBA –​ EIA

51

Bronze and Early Iron Age Italy Table 3.2  Percentages of child burials in cemeteries of Middle Bronze Age to Early Iron Age northern Italy Site

Region

Chronology

Rite

MNI

Infans1

Infans2

Inf. total

Juvenis

Adultus

Casinalbo Montata Olmo Bovolone Scalvinetto Narde I Narde II Ponte Nuovo Borgo Panigale Palazzo Emo Via Tiepolo Verucchio

Emilia R. Emilia R. Veneto Veneto Veneto Veneto Veneto Veneto Emilia R. Veneto Veneto Emilia R.

MBA-​RBA MBA-​RBA MBA-​RBA MBA-​RBA MBA-​RBA FBA-​EIA FBA-​EIA EIA EIA EIA EIA EIA

C C I I C C* C* C* C C+I C+I C

349 123 488 26 28 266 206 77 165 42 30 296

14.9% 13.8% 25.2% 23.1% 14% 16%** 20%*** 24.6% 28% 19.1% 10% 23.9%

9.7% 11.3% 7.5% 7.7% 7% 3% 7%

24.6% 25.1% 32.8% 30.8% 21% 18% 27% 24.6% 40% 23.8% 10% 23.9%

8.6% 8.9% 5.9% 19,2% 11% 5% 8% 11.6% 7% 7.2% 16.4% 76.1%

66.8% 65.8% 58.8% 49,9% 68% 76% 65% 63.6% 53% 69% 73.3%

12% 4.7% 0%

Note: 2.6% of individuals from Olmo are undetermined and excluded from the sampled age classes; C = cremation; I = inhumation * some rare inhumations may be included (one from Ponte Nuovo); ** of which 7% were under 2 years at death; *** of which 8% were under 2 years at death Source: Modified and updated after Cavazzuti and Salvadei 2014, Tab. 17

funerary sphere, seems more established (albeit not necessarily fully assured) for individuals older than about three years of age, who are often well represented in the sampled cemeteries and were sometimes granted relatively conspicuous grave assemblages (e.g. Cardarelli et  al. 2015: 443–​4 on Frattesina). In the Final Bronze Age, cremation became the largely predominant, and in places the exclusive, burial rite in the study area. The exclusion from cremation rites of children under about two years of age seem to have continued at some burial sites such as Pianello di Genga (Vanzetti and Borgognini Tarli 2003: 359;Vanzetti 2010: 201). However, the deposition of infant cremations in formal cemeteries has been reported elsewhere, such as at Narde di Frattesina in Veneto (Cardarelli et al. 2015), Montetosto Alto di Cerveteri in Latium (Trucco et al. 2000: 488) and Pozzuolo di Veio in southern Etruria (Trucco et al. 2014: 29). While some neonatal burials emerged at Frattesina (Fig.  3.1), the analysis of a sample of around 470 graves from Narde have indicated that, overall, children remained underrepresented there (Cavazzuti 2011, 167; Cardarelli et al. 2015, with some differences noted between the burial sites of Narde I and II; Table 3.2). The presence of some rare inhumations at Frattesina has been linked to the potential marginality and incomplete social integration of those who were not granted cremation, including adults (cf. Salzani and Colonna 2010; Perego 2014b; Saracino et al. 2014), a trend that in Veneto would become more evident in the Iron Age (Perego 2014a; 2016; Perego et al. 2015). Overall, this evidence points again towards the possibility that in Bronze Age Italy humans became persons incrementally, with the successful passage through infancy and early childhood representing a crucial threshold for the attainment of personhood (or at least its symbolic enactment in the funerary arena). Age, however, might not have been the only criterion determining, or deferring, social integration, with people’s social rank, role and relations presumably being additional determinants.

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Elisa Perego

A

Female tomb Infant tomb Stone marker

B

N

t.157 0

1m

Figure 3.1  Bronze Age cemetery of Casinalbo (Modena, Emilia Romagna): A. Reproduction of a characteristic burial pit with a ceramic urn. B. Plan of a segment of burial plot K/​a notable for the presence of female and child tombs only. Tomb 157 (t.157) did not contain any skeletal remains and has been considered a cenotaph Source: Drawn by E. Perego after Le Urne dei Forti. Storie di Vita e di Morte in una Comunità dell’Età del Bronzo. Guida alla Mostra 2014. Firenze: All’Insegna del Giglio (pp. 49, 64)

Comparable dynamics of ritual exclusion, often involving individuals in the perinatal and neonatal stage, has been noted for the first millennium BC; in the Roman period, the available written sources confirm the incomplete social integration of infants and little children, which might determine their exclusion from formal cemetery burial (Bartoloni 2003:  103; Becker 2007; Carroll 2011; Zanoni 2011; Carroll and Graham 2014). In the early first millennium BC, a scarcity or lack of perinatal, neonatal and child burials has been reported from Tyrrhenian and southern Villanovan cemeteries such as Villa Bruschi Falgari di Tarquinia (Vargiu et al. 2010), Osteria dell’Osa (Bietti Sestieri 1992; Nizzo 2011, 57), and possibly Quattro Fontanili di Veii (Nizzo 2011: 61). In particular, overviews of the evidence from Latium Vetus have suggested that children up to around four years of age were denied burial rites, or buried in the settlement (Modica 2007; Nizzo 2011; Fulminante and Stoddart, this volume).While further research would be desirable on this issue, Nizzo (2011) has suggested that it was only at the end of the eighth century BC that children, including some neonates, started to be included more regularly in the cemeteries of Tyrrhenian Italy; there, they were sometimes granted sumptuous funerary rites, presumably intended to underline family rank. In some contexts, children were also buried in the tomb, or even in the same cremation urn, together with other children or adults. Among the most significant contexts are Verucchio in Emilia Romagna (Di Lorenzo et al. 2016; Fulminante and Stoddart, this volume) and many centres of Veneto (Perego 2012b; more recently: Onisto 2014). This ritual practice was probably intended to underline the increasing importance of certain lineages in the burying community (Di Lorenzo et al. 2016; also Nizzo 2011 on Tyrrhenian Italy) and/​or the social meaningfulness of these children as members of some privileged (or, at least, fully socially integrated) families (Perego 2014a). Notably, however, a great variability in burial practice is attested in this period across the peninsula with some cemetery sites, especially from northern Italy, reporting a higher ratio of sub-​adult burials and even the presence of neonates among those granted normative burial rites (e.g. Borgo Panigale and Verucchio in Emilia Romagna: Cavazzuti 2011; Di Lorenzo et al. 2016; 52

53

Bronze and Early Iron Age Italy

on Veneto, see for example Onisto and Marsotti 2005: 115; Onisto 2014: 224; Tables 3.2 and 3.3). At the important Villanovan site of Verucchio, recent osteological analysis of around 250 cremation graves (many of which contain more than one individual) has allowed the identification of a minimum of 71 children (Di Lorenzo et. al. 2016).This sample includes children under the age of three and neonates associated with lavish grave assemblages similar (or even richer) than those granted to adults: In Verucchio … children are definitely not excluded from formal burial already in the Early Iron Age … When considering the ritual practice and grave assemblages, there is no clear difference between the tombs of adults and children. Childhood does not seem to have been considered as a distinct category in the context of burial. Children seem to have been recognized from an early age as members of the social group and treated as such … The funerary treatment given to children at Verucchio can be read as a projection of social expectations about the children’s future role and status in the community. High-​standing families at Verucchio had very clear ideas about what their children should grow up to be and the funerary context afforded an ideal venue for these ideas and expectations to be expressed to an audience of onlookers. Di Lorenzo et al. 2016, 134 This brief overview of the Early Iron Age evidence seems to confirm the incremental nature of personhood in late prehistoric and proto-​historic Italy. Infancy and childhood prove again to be crucial and vulnerable times both biologically and culturally: even at sites where some young children and neonates were buried in the formal cemetery, these age classes may remain underrepresented in the funerary record (Tables 3.2 and 3.3). As for the Bronze Age, regional and chronological variability appears to have existed in the negotiation of young children’s personhood status, or at least its representation in the funerary sphere. In a period of increased socio-​ political complexity and more hierarchical social order, the spread of graves with an explicit elite character testifies to the further development of a funerary ideology openly discriminating between individuals. The attribution of an elite identity to young children, including some neonates, their deposition in the formal cemetery and their interment with family members, disclose a social context in which relationality and interconnectedness among high-​standing groups might have represented crucial aspects of ideologies of personhood more overtly based on discrimination and inequality.

Discussion and conclusion In this chapter, I have discussed the idea of personhood as a major theoretical framework for investigating issues of social inclusion and social marginalization in the funerary record of late prehistoric and proto-​historic northern and central Italy. While my review of the evidence has been largely preliminary, the concept of personhood has provided a useful research tool for exploring the issue of child burial, and the often-​reported absence or scarcity of infant graves in the cemeteries of Bronze Age and Early Iron Age Italy. As the ethnographic and anthropological studies mentioned above indicate, exclusion from formal burial rituals suggests that neonates and young children may have been conceived as nonpersons, or granted only minimal personhood. While some methodological issues may hamper our investigation of the funerary record, the large-​scale funerary trends apparently at work in late prehistoric Italy seem to indicate that personhood there was acquired incrementally and not granted to all. It is therefore likely that these communities, probably marred by 53

54

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Table 3.3  Number of child and adult burials reported from some cemeteries of Iron Age Italy Site

Region

MNI C= cremation I= inhumation

Age classes MNI per age class Inf1

Inf2

Observations

Juv.

Ad.

9

49

12

86

Veneto

77 C= 66 I= 1

19

Borgo Panigale c. 9th cent BC

Emilia Romagna

165 C= 165

47

20

Padua Palazzo Emo 9th –​8th cent BC

Veneto

42 C= 30 I= 12

8

2

3

29

Padua Via Tiepolo 9th –​8th cent BC Verucchio 9th –​7th cent BC

Veneto

30 3 C= 27 I= 3 296 71 C= 296? The presence of some possible I is reported

-​

5

22

Emilia Romagna

Note: For MNI and the reported age classes see Table 3.1

225

At least one individual was Onisto and Marsotti 2005 under 1 year at death. Most children are in the Inf1 sample. The only inhumation was an Inf1 The Inf1 sample includes Cavazzuti 2011 some perinatal and neonatal burials Inf1 (0–​7 years) sample Onisto 2014 includes at least one 0–​1 individual and one around 2 at death Onisto 2014

Inf1 (0–​3 years) sample Preliminary data in Di includes c. 20 individuals Lorenzo et al. 2016 (with some neonates). Ratio of adults to sub-​ adults varies in different chronological sub-​phases

Elisa Perego

54

Ponte Nuovo 10th –​9th cent BC

Bibliography

55

Bronze and Early Iron Age Italy

high infant mortality rates, came to distinguish between biological and social birth, with the latter possibly occurring some months or even some years after childbirth.The age threshold for accessing formal burial in a cemetery, or being granted normative burial rites, may offer some insights into the age threshold for achieving personhood –​or some degrees of it –​in the communities considered in this chapter. The great variability in burial rites from late prehistoric Italy also sheds light on the complexity of practices relating to child personhood in this period and their variability over time. In particular, the presence of perinatal and infant burials in some cemeteries may suggest that these burying communities were more willing to grant their offspring full or partial social inclusion. Overall, the funerary evidence from late prehistoric and proto-​historic Italy points to social practices that resonate well with L.M. Morgan’s observations on foetal and child personhood in modern rural Ecuador: Nascent persons are brought into being slowly, through processes rife with uncertainty and moral ambiguity. Adults are slow to assign individual identity and personhood to the not-​yet-​born and the newly born. These criaturas, as they are often called, bear little resemblance to disembodied, technologized, visualized, personified, and revered U.S. fetuses. These unknown, unknowable criaturas may teeter on the cusp of personhood for months before being fully welcomed into a human community. Morgan 1997: 329 Variability in mortuary practice, documented in both the Bronze and the Early Iron Age, even in the same cemetery, may in part relate to the mourners’ individual choices in disposing of their dead and conceptualizing the social standing of their children. The individual agency of parents and small-​scale kinship groups may be linked to the existence of conflicting beliefs about life and death, and different degrees of emotional attachment to the little dead. Parent–​child bonding, and the attainment of partial/​full personhood at certain specific stages of development, might have also been influenced by socio-​cultural or biological factors that have been impossible to fully address in this contribution and which might indeed be problematic to ascertain in the burial record: for example, a child’s biological sex, birthright, health status or delayed physical or psychological development. As Morgan notes about Ecuadorian personhood: The trajectory of personhood need not necessarily be linear, because people cannot predict the many influences that bring each person into being … Incipient personhood is understood as openly ambiguous and variable, its character perennially liminal, amorphous, and irresolvable … A criatura said to be formed (and thus una persona) by six months’ gestation may be said at birth to be “little more than an animal” until it is baptized. Morgan 1997: 346–​347 The study of mortuary rites may also open crucial windows into power dynamics that go well beyond people’s individual agency and emotional response to death. As shown by many ethnographic and anthropological studies, social practices relating to personhood –​and the attribution of social meaningfulness to children –​are political acts of the utmost importance in many societies worldwide. In present-​day Western societies, for example, conflicting social beliefs about the social standing of foetal subjects have resulted in intense struggles about women’s rights, abortion and the role of politics and religion in society (Bordo 1993; Heriot 1996; Morgan 1996; 2006; Hennessy and Cliath 2004). 55

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While our knowledge of Early Bronze Age Italy’s society and funerary rites is hampered by a relative lack of burial evidence, more interesting observations are possible for the later periods. Between the late second and the early first millennia BC, for example, nascent urbanism and increased socio-​political complexity were related to the spread of new funerary practices –​and forms of social control –​in many areas of the peninsula (Perego and Scopacasa 2016). In some cases, such as in Veneto, burial rites seem to have been used to delineate forms of extreme ritual marginalization and violent erasure of personhood (e.g. Perego 2014a; 2016; Perego et al. 2015), which were potentially displayed to the arguably extreme degree of human sacrifice (Ruta Serafini and Michelini 2013). Exclusion from formal cemetery burial and/​or normative burial rites, therefore, might have represented an important means to delineate/​negotiate the personhood status of an individual in the ritually charged arena of the funeral. While scholarship has variously commented upon the underrepresentation of children in many Early Iron Age Italian cemeteries (e.g. Nizzo 2011), exclusion from formal burial was not necessarily the norm in this period. Significantly, the inclusion of some elite children (including neonates) in the formal burial ground, and their association with extremely lavish grave assemblages, was possibly intended to underline the high social status of these children’s families  –​as well as these children’s significance and integration as the beneficiaries of powerful social connections and relations. Ideas of personhood, age and social inclusion were therefore manipulated by these powerful social groups to suit their needs and display their authority, in the funerary arena. In these contexts, the idea of childhood –​or the rejection of such a notion –​was an ideological construction that may not directly relate to how children were actually treated or “conceptualized” in their daily lives. Overall, this review of a late prehistoric funerary sample supports claims by scholars that notions of personhood, including child personhood, are not universal and vary cross-​culturally. While we must be careful in linking directly personhood and funerary practice, the study presented here has shown that archaeology is well equipped to contribute to the wider personhood debate in the humanities and social sciences. In particular, archaeological analysis may be useful to investigate the development of practices relating to personhood in the longue durée and in a cross-​cultural perspective. It is hoped, therefore, that further research on this topic will be done in both Italian archaeology and archaeology more in general.

References Angle, M., Di Gennaro, F., Guidi, A. and Tusa, S. 2004. La necropoli ad incinerazione di Cavallo Morto (Anzio, Roma). In L’Età del Bronzo Recente in Italia. Atti del Congresso Nazionale. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio, 125–​140. Aspesi, M. and Pasquini, G. 2014. Tombe a Camera del Bronzo Medio. Rituali di Deposizione e Rituali di Celebrazione. In: N. Negroni Catacchio (ed.), Preistoria e Protostoria in Etruria. Paesaggi Cerimoniali. Ricerche e Scavi. Atti dell’Undicesimo Incontro di Studi. Milan: Centro Studi di Preistoria e Protostoria, 129–​141. Bartoloni, G. 2003. Le Società dell’Italia Primitiva. Lo Studio delle Necropoli e la Nascita delle Aristocrazie. Rome: Carocci. Baxter, J.E. 2005. The archaeology of childhood: Children, gender, and material culture.Walnut Creek: Altamira  Press. Becker, M.J. 2007. Childhood among the Etruscans: Mortuary programs at Tarquinia as indicators of transition to adult status. Ada Cohen and Jeremy B. Rutter (eds) Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy. Hesperia Supplement 41, 281–​292. Bietti Sestieri, A.M. 1992. The Iron Age community of Osteria dell’Osa: A study of socio-​political development in central Tyrrhenian Italy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bordo, S. 1993. Are mothers persons? Reproductive rights and the politics of subjectivity. In S. Bordo and L. Heywood (eds), Unbearable weight: Feminism, Western culture and the body. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 71–​97.

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Bronze and Early Iron Age Italy Capuis, L. 2009. I Veneti. Civiltà e Cultura di un Popolo dell’Italia Preromana. Milan: Longanesi. Cardarelli, A. 2010. The collapse of the Terramare culture and growth of new economic and social systems during the Bronze Age in Italy. Scienze dell’Antichità 15, 449–​520. Cardarelli, A., Cavazzuti, C., Quondam, F., Salvadei, L. and Salzani, L. 2015. Le necropoli delle Narde di Frattesina:  Proposta per una lettura delle evidenze demografiche, rituali e sociali a partire dai dati archeologici e antropologici. In G. Leonardi e V. Tinè (eds), Preistoria e Protostoria del Veneto. Florence: Instituto Italiano di Preistoria e Protostoria, 437–​445. Carroll, M. 2011. Infant death and burial in Roman Italy. Journal of Roman Archaeology 24, 99–​120. Carroll, M. and Graham, E.-​J. (eds). 2014. Infant health and death in Roman Italy and beyond (Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 96). Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology. Cavazzuti, C. 2011. Aspetti Rituali, Sociali e Paleodemografici di Alcune Necropoli Protostoriche a Cremazione dell’Italia Settentrionale. Unpublished thesis: Università degli Studi di Ferrara. Cavazzuti, C. and Salvadei, L. 2014. I resti umani cremati della necropoli di Casinalbo. In A. Cardarelli (ed.), La Necropoli della Terramara di Casinalbo, 669–​707. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. Chamberlain, A. 2006. Demography in Archaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Conklin, B.A. and Morgan, L.M. 1996. Babies, bodies and the production of personhood in North America and a native Amazonian society. Ethos 24(4), 657–​694. Cozolino, L. 2002. The neuroscience of psychotherapy: Building and rebuilding the human brain. New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Cuozzo, M. 2016. Theoretical issues in the interpretation of cemeteries and case studies from Etruria to Campania. In E. Perego and R. Scopacasa (eds), Burial and social change in first-​millennium BC Italy: Approaching social agents. Gender, personhood and marginality. Oxford: Oxbow, 3–​30. Desjarlais, R. 1999. The makings of personhood in a shelter for people considered homeless and mentally ill. Ethos 27(4), 466–​489. Di Lorenzo, G., von Eles, P., Manzoli, L., Negrini, C., Poli, P. and Rodriguez, E. 2016.Verucchio. The social status of children: A methodological question concerning funerary symbolism and the use of space within graves. In E. Perego and R. Scopacasa (eds), Burial and social change in first-​millennium BC Italy: Approaching social agents. Gender, personhood and marginality. Oxford: Oxbow, 111–​138. Finlay, N. 2000. Outside of life: Infant burials from Cillin to Cist. World Archaeology 31(3), 407–​422. Fortes, M. 1987. Religion, morality and the person: Essays on Tallensi religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fowler, C. 2004. The archaeology of personhood: An anthropological approach. London: Routledge. Fulminante, F. 2014. The urbanization of Latium Vetus: From the Bronze Age to the Archaic era. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Garattini, C. 2007. Creating memories:  Material culture and infantile death in contemporary Ireland. Mortality 12(2), 193–​206. Greenhalgh, S. 2003. Planned births, unplanned persons: “Population” in the making of Chinese modernity. American Ethnologist 30(2), 196–​215. Halcrow, S.E. and Tayles, N. 2008.The bioarchaeological investigation of children and childhood: Problems and prospects. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 15: 190–​215. Hennessy, J. and Cliath, A.G. 2004.You’ve come a long way baby. Citizens at conception? Prenatal personhood and SCHIP eligibility. American Behavioral Scientist 47(11), 1428–​1447. Heriot, M.J. 1996. Fetal rights versus the female body: Contested domains. Medical Anthropology Quarterly 10(2), 176–​194. Ingstad, B. and Whyte, S.R. 1995. Introduction. In B. Ingstad and S.R. Whyte (eds), Disability and culture. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1–​38. Kamp, K.A. 2001.Where have all the children gone? The archaeology of childhood. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 8, 1–​34. Kaufman, S.R. and Morgan, L. 2005. The anthropology of the beginnings and ends of life. Annual Review of Anthropology 34, 317–​341. La Fontaine, J.S. 1985. Person and individual: Some anthropological reflections. In M. Carrithers, S. Collins and S. Lukes (eds), The category of the person. Anthropology, philosophy, history. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 123–​140. Lamb, S. 1997. The making and unmaking of persons: Notes on aging and gender in north India. Ethos 25(3), 279–​302. Lewis, M. 2013. The bioarchaeology of children:  Perspectives from biology and forensic archaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Elisa Perego Martorell, R. 1999. The nature of child malnutrition and its long-​term implications. Food and Nutrition Bulletin, 20(3), 288–​299. Martorell, R. 1997. Undernutrition during pregnancy and early childhood: Consequences for cognitive and behavioral development. In:  Young, M.E. (ed.), Early child development:  investing in our children’s future. Amsterdam: Elsevier Science BV: 39–​83. Modica, S. 2007. Rituali e Lazio Antico. Deposizioni Infantili e Abitati. Milan: CUEM. Moore, J. and Scott, E.C. (eds). 1997. Invisible people and processes: Writing gender and childhood into European archaeology. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Morgan, L.M. 1996. Fetal relationality in feminist philosophy:  An anthropological critique. Hypathia 11(3),  47–​70. Morgan, L.M. 1997. Imagining the unborn in the Ecuadoran Andes. Feminist Studies 23(2), 323–​350. Morgan, L.M. 2002. When does life begin? A Cross-​cultural perspective on the personhood of fetuses and young children. In W.A. Haviland, R.J. Gordon and L.A.Vivanco (eds), Talking about people: Readings in contemporary cultural anthropology. Boston, MA: McGraw-​Hill, 35–​46. Morgan, L.M. 2006. “Life begins when they steal your bicycle”: Cross-​cultural practices of personhood at the beginnings and ends of life. Journal of Law, Medicine and Ethics 36(2), 193–​218. Morris, B. 1994. Anthropology of the self: The individual in cultural perspective. London: Pluto Press. Morris, I. 1987. Burial and Ancient Society:  The Rise of the Greek City-​State. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press. Nizzo, V. 2011. “Antenati bambini”. Visibilità e invisibilità dell’infanzia nei sepolcreti dell’Italia tirrenica dalla  prima età del Ferro all’Orientalizzante:  Dalla discriminazione funeraria alla costruzione dell’identità. In V. Nizzo (ed.) Dalla Nascita alla Morte:  Antropologia e Archeologia a Confronto. Atti dell’Incontro Internazionale di Studi in Onore di Claude Lévi-​Strauss. Rome: E.S.S. Editorial Service System,  51–​94. Onisto, N. 2014 I resti ossei provenienti dalle necropoli di Palazzo Emo-​Capodilista-​Tabacchi e di Via Tiepolo-​Via San massimo a Padova. In Gamba, M., Gambacurta, G. and Ruta Serafini, A. (2014) (eds), La Prima Padova. Le Necropoli di Palazzo Capodilista-​Tabacchi e di Via Tiepolo-​Via San Massimo tra il IX e l’VIII a.C. Padova: La Tipografica, 223–​230. Onisto, N. and Marsotti, S. 2005. La necropoli a incinerazione di Ponte Nuovo (Verona). Dati preliminari dello studio antropologico. Notizie Archeologiche Bergomensi 13, 113–​123. Parker Pearson, M. 1999. The archaeology of death and burial. Stroud: Sutton. Peelen, J. 2009. Reversing the past: Monuments for stillborn children. Mortality 14(2), 173–​186. Perego, E. 2012a. The construction of personhood in Veneto (Italy) between the Late Bronze Age and the Early Roman period. Unpublished thesis: University College London. Perego, E. 2012b. Family relationships in late Bronze Age, Iron Age and early Roman Veneto (Italy). Preliminary considerations on the basis of osteological analysis and epigraphy. In R. Lawrence and A. Stromberg (eds), Families in the Greco-​Roman World. London: Continuum, 121–​142. Perego, E. 2014a. Anomalous mortuary behaviour and social exclusion in Iron Age Italy: A case study from the Veneto region. Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 27(2), 161–​185. Perego, E. 2014b. Final Bronze Age and social change in Veneto: Group membership, ethnicity and marginality. Mélanges de l’École française de Rome 126(2). Perego, E. 2015. Bodies and persons. In A. Gardner, M. Lake, and U. Sommer (eds), Oxford handbook of archaeological theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Perego, E. 2016. Inequality, abuse and increased socio-​political complexity in Iron Age Veneto, c. 800–​500 BC. In E. Perego and R. Scopacasa (eds), Burial and social change in first-​millennium BC Italy: Approaching social agents. Gender, personhood and marginality. Oxford: Oxbow, 273–​309. Perego, E., Saracino, M., Zamboni, L. and Zanoni,V. 2015. Practices of ritual marginalisation in protohistoric Veneto: Evidence from the field. In Z.L. Devlin and E.J. Graham (eds), Death embodied: Archaeological approaches to the treatment of the corpse. Oxford: Oxbow Books, 129–​159. Perego, E. and Scopacasa, R. (eds). 2016. Burial and social change in first-​millennium BC Italy: Approaching social agents. Gender, personhood and Marginality. Oxford: Oxbow. Perry, B.D., Pollard, R., Blakely, T., Baker, W. and Vigilante, D. (1995). Childhood trauma, the neurobiology of adaptation and ‘‘use-​dependent’’ development of the brain:  How ‘‘states’’ become ‘‘traits’’. Infant Mental Health Journal 16, 271–​291. Rebay-​Salisbury, K. 2012. Inhumation and cremation: How burial practices are linked to beliefs. In: M.L.S. Sørensen and K. Rebay-​Salisbury (eds), Embodied knowledge: Historical perspectives on technology and belief. Oxford: Oxbow,  15–​26.

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Bronze and Early Iron Age Italy Rigdon, S.M. 1996. Abortion law and practice in China: An overview with comparisons to the United States. Social Science and Medicine 42(4), 543–​560. Riva, C. 2010. The urbanisation of Etruria: Funerary ritual and social change, 700-​600 BC. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ruta Serafini, A. and Michelini, P. 2013. Offerte e Sacrifici al Limite dell’Antica Padova. Hesperia 30, 1190–​1223. Salzani, L. and Colonna, C. (2010) (eds) La fragilità dell’urna. I rrecenti scavi a Narde, necropoli di Frattesina (XII–​IX sec. a.C.). Catalogo della mostra. Rovigo: Museo dei Grandi Fiumi Saracino, M., Zamboni, L., Zanoni,V. and Perego, E. 2014. Investigating social exclusion in late prehistoric Italy: Preliminary results of the “IN or OUT” Project (Phase 1). Papers from the Institute of Archaeology 12(1),  1–​12. Scheper Hughes, N. 1993. Death without weeping.The violence of everyday life in Brazil. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Scopacasa, R. 2015. Ancient Samnium: Settlement, culture and identity between history and archaeology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Scopacasa, R. 2016. Falling behind: Access to formal burial and faltering élites in Samnium (central Italy). In E. Perego and R. Scopacasa (eds), Burial and social change in first-​millennium BC Italy: Approaching social agents. Gender, personhood and marginality. Oxford: Oxbow, 227–​248. Slopen, N., Chen,Y., Priest, N., Albert, M.A. and Williams, R.D. 2016. Emotional and instrumental support during childhood and biological dysregulation in midlife. Preventive Medicine 84, 90–​96. Sofaer Derevenski, J. (ed.) 2000. Children and material culture. London: Routledge. Spatz Widom, C., Czaja, S.J. and Dutton, M.A. 2008. Childhood victimization and lifetime revictimization. Child Abuse and Neglect 32(8), 785–​796. Trucco, F., D’Ercole,V. and Cavazzuti, C. 2014. L’introduzione del rito incineratorio in Etruria meridionale: la necropoli dell’età del Bronzo Recente di Lucus Feronie. In L. Mercuri and R. Zaccagnini (eds), Etruria in progress. La ricerca antropologica in Etruria meridionale. Rome: Gangemi, 24–​30. Trucco, F., Mieli, G. and Vargiu, R. 2000. La scavo 1997 nella necropoli di Monte Tosto Alto. In N. Negroni Catacchio (ed.), L’Etruria tra Italia, Europa e mondo mediterraneo. Ricerche e scavi. Milan: Centro Studi di Preistoria e Archeologia, 483–​494. Vanzetti, A. 2010. Considerazioni su dati antropologici, aspetti demografici, elementi di corredo della necropoli di Pianello di Genga. In V. Bianco Peroni, R. Peroni, and A. Vanzetti (eds), La necropoli del Bronzo Finale di Pianello di Genga. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio, 199–​216. Vanzetti, A. and Borgognini Tarli, S. 2003. Alcuni problemi relativi alle sepolture ad incinerazione della tarda età del Bronzo in Italia centrale e meridionale, affrontati a partire dalle determinazioni antropologiche. In Atti XXXV Riunone Scientifica IIPP. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio, 345–​365. Vargiu, R., Mancinelli, D., Paine, R. and Trucco, F. 2010. Condizioni di vita e stato di salute a Tarquinia (Vt) nella fase iniziale della prima età del Ferro. In N. Negroni Catacchio (ed.), L’Alba dell’Etruria. Ricerche e Scavi. Milan: Centro Studi di Preistoria e Archeologia, 247–​255. Zanoni, V. 2011. Out of place: Human skeletal remains from non-​funerary contexts: Northern Italy during the 1st Millennium BC. Oxford: Archaeopress. Zanoni, V. 2016. Youth on fire? The role of sub-​ adults and young-​ adults in pre-​ Roman Italian Brandopferplätze.  In E. Perego and R. Scopacasa (eds), Burial and social change in first-​millennium BC Italy: Approaching social agents. Gender, personhood and marginality. Oxford: Oxbow, 249–​272.

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4 DEFINING CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH A regional approach to Archaic and Classical Greece: the case of Athens and Sparta Lesley A. Beaumont

Childhood in our present-​day context is defined by national and international legislation, which attempts –​though often fails –​to establish homogeneous boundaries and protections for young people below the age of 18, whether male or female, rich or poor. Such was not the case in ancient Greece, where gender and social class were critical variables in determining how long childhood lasted and what experiences the growing child was exposed to. That multiple childhoods existed in ancient Greece is therefore without doubt. What, however, we often overlook is the geographical factor, the happenstance of where and into which Greek society the child was born. While much of my research to date on ancient Greek childhood has focused on Athens (Beaumont 1996, 1998, 2000, 2003a, 2003b, 2012, 2013), in this chapter I seek to expand on this earlier work in order to take a comparative approach to childhood at Athens and at Sparta in the Archaic and Classical periods, and to thereby evaluate the impact of regionalism on the definition, perception, treatment and representation of the juvenile state in the ancient Greek world. A broad approach that incorporates the evidence of relevant Archaic and Classical period literary and archaeological, especially iconographic, sources is required. However, while for Athens there is ample evidence, in the case of Sparta primary sources are more restricted. From Athens come ancient literary references to children in Athenian rhetorical, philosophical and dramatic texts, as well as images of the child on figure-​decorated pottery, funerary and votive reliefs and in the form of terracotta figurines (Beaumont 2012; Golden 2015). The excavation and publication of children’s graves adds further valuable evidence (Houby-​Nielsen 2000; Lagia 2007). At Sparta, our major relevant ancient literary sources were written by non-​Spartans: the Constitution of the Lakedaimonians was penned by Xenophon, whose own sons had undergone the agoge at Sparta, while the Politics of Aristotle (Book VIII) provides some additional commentary and information. The archaeological record meanwhile has to date afforded little in the recovery of Spartan child burials (Themos and Zavvou 2010). In iconography, it is the art of the Lakonian metalworker that affords our richest cache of evidence, with bronze votive figurines (Herfort-​Koch 1986), so-​called “karyatid mirrors” (Keene Congdon 1981) and vessel attachments (Herfort-​Koch 1986) not infrequently presenting the image of youthful males and females. Less rich, but important nonetheless, is the evidence of Lakonian figured vase painting, 60

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stone votive and funerary reliefs and terracotta figurines and plaques (Lane 1933/​34; Stibbe 1972 and 2004; Pipili 1987 and 1998; Kaltsas 2006; Stroszeck 2014; Salapata 2014). This chapter will first examine the ancient written evidence for the definition, perception and treatment of male and then female children and youths at Sparta and Athens, before evaluating what new insights a study of the comparatively less well known iconographic sources can shed on Spartan/​Athenian regional similarities and differences. As far as possible, only ancient literary evidence of Archaic and Classical period date is included, in order to avoid questions about how far later ancient literary sources (such as Plutarch on Sparta) relate to the earlier period under discussion. Given the limitations of space and also the nature of the available evidence, this study treats only the offspring of the Spartan and Athenian elite classes.

The presentation of male childhood and youth at Sparta and Athens in the ancient literary sources As Aristotle in Book VII of the Politics attests (1337a), it was commonly held that the human life span was naturally divisible into sequential seven-​year periods (Overstreet 2009). This hebdomadal system is clearly evident at both Athens and Sparta, where the period from birth to the seventh year was regarded as the early childhood stage, and the subsequent period from the seventh year to puberty as the time when formal education and training was begun (Arist. Pol. VII.1336b). Throughout these years in both places, the same term of juvenile reference –​pais –​ was also employed (Golden 1985). Thereafter at Athens, civic adulthood was attained at 18, while at Sparta young adult status was achieved at 20 (Sealey 1957; Carter 1967; Golden 1979; Ducat 2006: 101–​112). However in both cases, full citizen rights –​such as eligibility for jury service and membership of the boule or council at Athens, and eligibility for holding state office and exercising financial responsibility at Sparta –​were not granted until the male reached his 30th year and left the volatility of youth behind him (Ducat 2006: 105–​107; Golden 2015: 34 n. 71). There was, then, remarkable agreement in the Athenian and Spartan perception of the developmental stages of male childhood and youth. However, at the same time there existed a fundamental difference between them in the treatment of minors in the second and third hebdomads of life, that is between the ages of about seven and twenty, at least in the case of the offspring of full Spartiate citizens and of the Athenian socio-​economic elite. Between birth and the seventh year, boys at Athens and Sparta spent their early childhood in the domestic context. From the seventh year, education in both cities became, together with participation in religious ritual, one of the main agents of the socialisation and maturation of the young male. However, the organisation and focus of the educational experience differed markedly between the two places. At Sparta, it was the state that provided the boys with, and indeed required them to participate in, the agoge (Xen. Lac. II-​IV; Arist. Pol.VIII.1337a), which constituted a form of military cadetship. What is less clear is whether boys at Sparta received training in literacy and music as part of this state sponsored education, or whether this was a matter for private arrangement and payment by the individual families (Ducat 2006: 61–​62, 119–​121, 263–​264). Under the agoge system, the lads were grouped into ilai, or companies, each under the leadership of one of their peers and supervised by the paidonomos, or state appointed citizen official (Xen. Lac.II.2). Under their instruction, the boys underwent a training programme that focused on exercise and physical endurance while being provided with only a single garment of clothing even in winter (Xen. Lac. II.3–​4), and the requirement to go barefoot (Xen. Lac. II.3). They were also allocated only restricted food rations (Xen. Lac. II.5–​ 6), a measure which Ducat suggests probably implies that the boys ate communally under supervision (Ducat 2006: 83). If they remained hungry, they were encouraged to steal further 61

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sustenance without getting caught (Xen. Lac. II.6–​7). Harsh physical punishment was meted out to boys who fell short of the stringent requirements of their training (Xen. Lac. II.2). This included the whipping of those boys apprehended for thieving (Xen. Lac. II.8–​9). At Athens, by contrast, education was organised along private and civil lines, with tuition in literacy, music and athletics being available to those boys whose families could pay private tutors for as many, or as few, lessons as they could afford (Plato Protagoras 326C). Only from the mid-​fifth century BC did the Athenian state take on itself the cost of educating those boys whose fathers had died fighting for Athens (Stroud 1971: 288–​290). The general lack of involvement and engagement by the Athenian state in the education of the young was commented on by Xenophon who contrasted the Athenian father’s habit of entrusting his own son to the supervision of a slave paidogogos, with the Spartan state’s practice of placing the boys under the watchful eye of the state-​appointed citizen paidonomos (Xen. Lac. II.2). However, in both the Athenian civil and the Spartan military educational contexts, one particular aspect of youthful training remained equally important: competition. This might take the form of being pitted against one’s peers in agonistic competitions in music, recitation or athletics, often in a ritual context. In both places winning was important, not only as an individual competitor but also as a member of a peer group, especially as a member of a chorus. The greatest such events at Athens took place in the context of the Great Dionysia and the Apolline Thargelia festivals (Wilson 2000 and 2007), while at Sparta youthful male choruses performed at the Apolline Hyakinthia and Gymnopaidiai festivals (Pettersson 1992; Ducat 2006). In addition at Sparta, contests were held to test physical endurance and fighting skills: the most famous of these was the cheese-​stealing ritual which boys enacted in the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia while being whipped by their opponents (Xen. Lac. II.9). Another such trial took place in the agora at Sparta on the occasion of the Gymnopaidiai festival when the boys, exposed to the full heat of the sun, were required to perform physical exercises (Plato Laws I.633c). At Athens, by contrast, nude pyrrhic or armed choral performance at the Panathenaia was the closest that the boys came to ritualised fighting or tests of endurance (Delavaud-​Roux 1993; Lonsdale 1993: 137–​168; Ceccarelli 1998). The arrival at puberty was, for both Athenians and Spartans, a significant stage in the male youth’s journey towards adulthood and, occurring around the thirteenth or fourteenth year of life, coincided more or less with his passage to the third hebdomad (Arist. Hist. An. VII.581a11-​ 581b7; Hopfner 1938: 228–​229; Eyben 1972; Garland 1990: 167–​168; Golden 2015: 24 and n. 21). Here Xenophon observes that, with the exception of Sparta, it was at this time that the youth’s formal education ceased (Xen. Lac. III.1). Xenophon may, however, as part of an attempt to exaggerate Spartan difference, have been making a sweeping generalisation that did not necessarily hold true for every non-​Spartan Greek community nor for every socio-​economic group within these communities. Aristotle, for example, counters Xenophon’s view when he advocates that education should be divided from seven to the age of puberty, and from puberty to twenty-​one (Arist. Pol. VII.1336b): and indeed that at least some young Athenian males from elite socio-​economic backgrounds continued their formal education into their third hebdomad is attested by the evidence of Attic red figure pot painting, where both pre-​pubescent and adolescent males engage in instruction in literacy or music (Beaumont 2012: 137).While, therefore, some Athenian boys would have been released from the schoolroom around the age of puberty, it would seem that others continued their education. It is also likely at this time, at least for the sons of those families that could afford it, that the Athenian youth’s athletic training intensified (Beaumont 2012: 137). By contrast at Sparta, the transition from boyhood to adolescence was more marked with Xenophon reporting that under the agoge system it was now that the boy was promoted from the ranks of the paides to those of the paidiskoi, whereupon the tasks and duties required of him by the state were markedly increased (Xen. Lac. III.1–​3; Ducat 2006: 81–​94). 62

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At both Athens and Sparta during his third hebdomad, an adolescent youth might become the subject of a paederastic relationship with an older male (Xen. Lac. II.13–​14; Cartledge 2001; Ducat 2006: 164–​168; Golden 2015: 49–​52). In both places this provided the youth with an adult citizen male role model outside his own family and thus contributed to the process of his socialisation. While in neither place was this an institutionalised ritual, its fundamental importance at Sparta was in introducing the boy to a common mess or male dining club, a syssition or phidition, membership of which would subsequently be required of him as an adult citizen Spartiate (Xen. Lac. III.5; Arist. Pol. II.1271a). Similarly at Athens, while youths did not gain the right to recline and participate in the symposion as drinkers until they reached the age of majority, it is nevertheless possible to suggest on the basis of the surviving iconographic evidence that adolescent males may have been allowed to assist with the evening’s activities, though without imbibing or reclining (Beaumont 2012: 126; Wecowski 2014: 34–​35). Modesty was a characteristic demanded of both Athenian and Spartan boys. Xenophon comments that Spartan paidiskoi were required to walk in silence with downcast eyes and with their hands hidden underneath their himation (Xen. Lac. III.4–​5). This description bears an extraordinary resemblance to the images of many of the boys and adolescent youths we find represented on Athenian figured vessels who wear a himation tightly wrapped about their body, enveloping their hands and sometimes drawn up behind to partly cover the head (e.g. Beaumont 2012: fig 4.7). Late adolescence was marked at Athens by an important maturation ritual, the koureion, when the hair of boys, probably in their sixteenth year, was cut during the festival of the Apatouria (Labarbe 1953; Cole 1984; Garland 1990:  179–​180; Golden 2015:  23–​24). This festival was celebrated by the phratries, or ancestral kinship groups of Attica, membership of which was a prerequisite for citizenship. The symbolic cutting of the boy’s hair was accompanied by an oath sworn by his father to his kin group that his son was legitimate, and thereby paved the way for the youth’s subsequent formal presentation in his eighteenth year to the members of the deme, or township, to which he belonged and whose responsibility it was to examine his eligibility for conferral of Athenian citizenship according to his legitimacy, free born status and attainment of the age of majority (Arist. Ath. Pol. 42.1; Rhodes 1981: 495–​502; Whitehead 1986: 97–​104; Robertson 2000; Lape 2010: 192–​198; Kamen 2013: 97–​98). In the Spartan context, Stephen Todd (1996: 37) has commented that “The transition from boy to man was generally less marked … than in many poleis”. However, Nigel Kennell (1995: 126–​129; 2010: 172) suggests that the aforementioned ritual contest recorded by Xenophon (Lac. II.9) that took place in the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia, in which one group of boys attempted to steal cheeses from the altar while being driven off with whips by another group, may perhaps be identified “as a violent rite of passage” that marked the end of the paidiskos stage and transition in the twentieth year of life to the young adult stage of the hebontes (Kennell 2010: 172). It has further been suggested by Pettersson that the infamous Spartan krypteia may have constituted a rite of passage for youths transitioning from the paidiskos to the hebon stage of life (Pettersson 1992: 45–​48, 80–​85). Our limited knowledge of the operation of the krypteia in the Classical period comes from Plato, who in the Laws (I.633b-​c) describes an endurance test which, by challenging the participants to survive alone in the countryside, without shoes, bedding or servants, aimed to develop andreia (courage or bravery) in the male. This certainly bears all the hallmarks of the symbolic shedding of one social persona and the consequent transition by trial to a new mature identity. However, Plato does not specify the age group involved. Becoming a young adult hebon appears to have brought with it membership of a common citizen mess and eligibility for military service (Ducat 2006: 101–​112). As earlier mentioned, life as a hebon did not, however, convey full Spartiate citizen rights on the newly adult male. 63

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Throughout the third decade of life, he remained ineligible to hold state office and to exercise financial responsibility. In addition, the paidonomos continued to wield authority over him (Xen. Lac. 4.6), highlighting his transitional status between childhood and fully realised manhood (Kennell 2013: 386). Similarly at Athens, the newly adult male’s full citizen rights and responsibilities were curtailed until his thirtieth year: not until then was he eligible for jury service or membership of the boule, both of which required a soberness of mind and evenness of temper that was perceived as developing only with full maturity (Cantarella 1990). And when, at least by the fourth century BC if not earlier, the Athenian ephebeia or two-​year period of military training and service was instituted for newly adult males in their eighteenth year, many of the civic and legal obligations and rights that the young men had just received on becoming enfranchised were then suspended for the duration of their ephebate (Arist. Ath. Pol. 42.3–​5). All of this evidence, from both Athens and Sparta, makes clear that the boundary between male childhood and adulthood was constructed in accordance with dichotomous and organic principles that recognised the complex relationship between the juvenile and mature states.

The presentation of female childhood and youth at Sparta and Athens in the ancient literary sources Following this brief overview of the similarities in the Athenian and Spartan perception of the developmental stages of male childhood and youth, set against the many contrasts in their respective treatment of the second and third hebdomads of life, we will now turn our attention to a comparative study of girlhood in Archaic and Classical Athens and Sparta. At Athens, daughters of wealthy citizen families spent much of their childhood in the domestic context, learning from their mother and other female relatives skills in spinning, weaving, home-​keeping and caring for younger siblings. If, and when, any instruction in literacy occurred, it probably did so in the home setting, either under the instruction of private tutors or of the girls’ own more formally educated brother(s) or of the household paidagogos who, in accompanying the family’s son(s) to lessons may himself have developed basic literacy (Beaumont 2012: 146–​147). Arrival at puberty confirmed the girl’s biological potential to bear children, thereby transforming her social status into that of a marriageable parthenos, or maiden. This state of partheneia, or female adolescence, seems to have been short-​lived, with many girls becoming brides while still in their mid-​teens (Golden 2015:  84 and n.  107; Ingalls 2001). Marriage was often followed swiftly by childbirth, which signalled the end of the transitional adolescent phase and the beginning of adult womanhood. Athenian female childhood, and adolescence in particular, was commonly therefore considerably shorter than that of their male counterparts. By contrast with Athens, Xenophon tells us that the daughters of Spartiate citizens were not trained in the domestic arts of textile production –​this being left to slave women –​but rather received a physical education that would strengthen their bodies and would, in due course, result in their producing healthier children themselves (Xen. Lac.I.4). Xenophon further makes reference in the same passage to the institutionalisation of physical exercise for females in the establishment of agonistic racing contests and “trials of strength”. Quite what these “trials of strength” comprised, he does not say; however, Euripides in the Andromache (595–​601) speaks of Spartan girls wrestling as well as running, while Aristophanes in the Lysistrata (82) makes reference to Spartan women’s skill in performing the bibasis, which involved jumping vigorously to touch the buttocks with the heels (Robertson 1977). Both Ibykos (Campbell 1991, Ibycus 339) and Euripides (Andr. 595–​601) pass comment on the naked thighs thus revealed by the sporty girls of Sparta. As for more cerebral training, Plato’s Protagoras (342D) refers to the 64

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paideusis or education, of Spartan females and points specifically to their skills in verbal expression and philosophia. As at Athens, so at Sparta, the transition from childhood to pubertal maidenhood, or partheneia, was of great significance. For both Spartan and Athenian parthenoi, participation in ritual performance was of central importance in effecting their socialisation and maturation. At Athens this commonly took the form of adolescent girls being appointed to the important role of kanephoros, or sacred basket bearer, in public festival processions to the sanctuaries of the gods (Roccos 1995; Dillon this volume). Maidens also performed group dances in the communal ritual context, both in honour of the gods and also on secular occasions such as weddings. Some girls even performed pyrrhic, or armed, dances for Artemis (Beaumont 2012: 168–​169). At Sparta parthenic ritual performance focused on choral involvement. Alkman’s seventh century Partheneion provides us with early evidence for maiden choruses, while in the fifth century Euripides (Helen 1465–​1475) makes reference to the performance of such choruses at the Hyakinthia. Aristophanes, too, describes long-​haired maiden choruses who danced by the banks of the Eurotas River (Ar. Lys. 1295ff.) While therefore, as in the case of male juveniles, Spartan and Athenian perceptions of the developmental stages of female childhood and youth exhibit agreement, a number of marked differences are apparent in the treatment of these life stages for the offspring of at least elite families. At Athens, the girl’s maturation was in civic and secular terms an essentially unsung affair, though was celebrated and facilitated by the roles and activities she undertook in the religious sphere. At Sparta, by contrast, the education of the young female was formalised by the state via the incorporation of physical and choral training and competition within both civic and ritual contexts; her socialisation and maturation was therefore a far more public affair. How long female adolescence lasted at Sparta is harder to determine. Only Plutarch (Lyc. 15.4), writing hundreds of years later, makes reference to Spartan females marrying when they had fully matured, though whether we can retroject this evidence back into earlier periods is uncertain. It is therefore hard to determine if female adolescence in Archaic and Classical Sparta extended throughout much of the second decade of life or if, instead, it had as brief a duration as that experienced by daughters of well-​to-​do Athenian families (Cartledge 1981: 94–​ 95). However, what would seem to be the common principle in both places is that for the female the threshold between adolescence and adulthood was not a fixed age-​specific transition, experienced by all girls at the same time, but rather a passage from one life stage to the next that might occur variously during the teenage years and which depended for its realisation upon the already achieved adult status of the groom. Having considered the ancient literary evidence for the definition and treatment of childhood and youth at Athens and Sparta during the Archaic and Classical periods, I  now turn my attention to the evidence of the iconographic sources. Given the acutely under-​studied Spartan iconographical evidence for male and female juveniles, I provide references below to all relevant published Lakonian images known to me.

The presentation of female childhood and youth in Spartan and Athenian iconography In iconographic terms, most of the extant Lakonian iconographic evidence for the young female figure consists of small scale bronzes dated to the sixth century BC, with the addition of a few stone votive reliefs, terracotta figurines and ceramic figured vessels. The bronze figurines largely comprise freestanding figures offered as votives in sanctuaries, bronze vessel attachments, and so-​called karyatid mirror supports whose archaeological find-​context is less well known. All 65

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the images –​bronze, stone and clay alike –​seem to largely ignore the earlier childhood phases and focus instead on the older juvenile female. These images can be divided into four main iconographic types: 1. Long-​haired standing girls clothed variously in long chiton, chiton and himation, or peplos (Herfort-​Koch 1986: K25, K26, K28, K30, K31, K33, K34, K36, K52, K53; Tod and Wace 1906: nos. 450 and 553.10; Kaltsas 2006: no. 31; Kaltsas and Shapiro 2008: no. 69). 2. Long-​haired running girls clothed in short chiton or exomis (Herfort-​Koch 1986: K48-​K50; Arrigoni 1985: pl. 4). 3. Long-​haired standing naked girls (Herfort-​Koch 1986:  K54, K56 (see Fig.  4.1 in this chapter), K57-​K59, K65, K70; Boehlau 1898: pl. XI; Charbonneaux 1958: pl. VII.5; Keene Congdon 1981: no. 2). 4. Short-​haired standing naked girls (Herfort-​Koch 1986: K60, K61, K66, K68, K71, K72 (see Fig. 4.2 in this chapter)). The first group of long-​haired, clothed and standing girls appears already in the early seventh century BC. Many of them come from known sanctuary contexts, including the Menelaion, Artemis Orthia, Athena Chalkioikos, Epidauros, Eleusis and Olympia. All are modestly draped in long garments, and may variously wear no headdress or a polos or a wreath. From the middle of the sixth century they may carry a flower bud or an unidentified round object. One figure, clad in peplos and wreath (Herfort-​Koch 1986: K34) also wears a necklace and plays cymbals. In contrast to the long-​and short-​haired naked figures, none of the long-​haired clothed girls wear a baldric. The second group of long-​haired running girls were once attachments on bronze vessels, two of which were dedicated in the sanctuaries of Apollo at Delphi and of Zeus at Dodona (Herfort-​Koch 1986: K49; Arrigoni 1985: pl. 4). All date to the sixth century BC. Most of the girls wear a short chiton that reaches to the mid-​thigh, but one (Herfort-​Koch 1986:  K50) wears an exomis (or short tunic) which leaves her right breast bare. The third group of long-​haired standing naked girls largely comprises bronze karyatid mirror supports and a smaller number of bronze freestanding figures. To these may also be added a fragmentary Lakonian figure-​decorated cup, depicting three nude long-​haired girls bathing by a river (Boehlau 1898: pl. XI). The images span the sixth century BC. Whilst naked, almost all of them wear either a diadem or polos, many wear a necklace, and about half sport a baldric slung across the torso and from which hang what may be amulets. From the middle of the sixth century they may carry a flower bud or unidentified round object, while one plays cymbals and another the flute (Herfort-​Koch 1986: K56 (see Fig. 4.1 in this chapter), K70). The final group of short-​haired standing naked girls is made up of both bronze karyatid mirror supports and freestanding figures, all of which date to the second half of the sixth century BC (see Fig. 4.2 in this chapter). Most of them wear a diadem or wreath, and about half sport a necklace and baldric. One figure plays the cymbals, another holds a flower bud, and a third a pomegranate (Herfort-​Koch 1986: K60, K61, K71). How might we interpret these four groups of figures? The difference in hair length is, I suggest, significant in view of the evidence of the Aristotelian Constitution of the Lakedaimonians that short hair was the hallmark of the adult Spartan female (Dilts 1971: 18). Plutarch (Lyc. 15.5) later adds that it was on a Spartan bride’s wedding night that her long hair was cut and thereafter kept short. Although the mortal adult female is not a commonly occurring figure in Lakonian iconography, when she does appear she is modestly draped and frequently veiled and performs the anakalypsis gesture of veil raising or lowering to indicate her married status. It is, therefore, reasonable to conclude that our bare-​headed and long-​haired figures of Spartan females, whether clothed or 66

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Figure 4.1  Lakonian bronze figurine of long-​haired, naked female, c. 550 BC Source: National Archaeological Museum, Athens 7548, Photographic Archives, photographer: K. Xenikakis. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/​Archaeological Receipts Fund

Figure 4.2  Lakonian bronze figurine of short-​haired, naked female, c. 550 BC Source: National Archaeological Museum, Athens 15897, Photographic Archives, photographer: K. Xenikakis. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/​Archaeological Receipts Fund

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naked, depict the adolescent parthenos. As for our naked short-​haired figures, while their shorn state points to their maturity, their nudity is at odds with the otherwise consistently modest draping of adult women in Spartan iconography. I would therefore like to propose that these figures present the viewer with older maidens on the verge of transition from adolescent parthenos to adult gyne. If such an interpretation is correct, then we might perhaps even muse whether these objects may have been gifts or offerings intended to mark and celebrate the eve of marriage. In the case of our long-​haired running girls, these figures recall the earlier discussed ancient literary testimonies of Xenophon, Euripides and Ibykos, who refer to Spartan girls running races, in the course of which they revealed their naked thighs. While all four extant figures wear a short garment, only one (Herfort-​Koch 1986: K50) reveals her right breast. This variation may perhaps indicate that while three of the figures reference the agonistic athletic events engaged in by young females at Sparta, the fourth bare-​breasted girl may represent a Spartan contestant in the Heraia games for parthenoi at Olympia where Pausanias (5.16.3) later described their appearance thus: ‘their hair hangs down, a tunic reaches to a little above the knee, and they bare the right shoulder as far as the breast’ (trans. Jones and Ormerod 1926). The iconographic evidence for female childhood and youth at Athens is more plentiful than that for Sparta, particularly so during the Classical period when our Lakonian evidence becomes more sparse. Also by contrast with Sparta, the most common media utilised for the representation of the juvenile female are figure-​painted pottery, stone reliefs and free-​standing figures, and terracotta figurines. These artefacts were used variously in the domestic, funerary and votive contexts. While infant and pre-​pubescent girls certainly become more visible in Athenian iconography during the Classical period, it is nevertheless the case that throughout both the Archaic and Classical periods it is, as at Sparta, the image of the adolescent parthenos that is most commonly represented and celebrated. As in Lakonian iconography, the two most significant indicators of juvenile life stage for the Athenian female concern the representation of hair and dress. Also as at Sparta, a significant event that took place on the eve of a girl’s marriage was the cutting of her hair, with some of the bride-​to-​be’s shorn locks being dedicated to Artemis (Pollux Onomast. 3.38; Anth. Pal. 6.276, 277). Thereafter following her wedding, the female’s hair was restrained and not infrequently obscured by a veil or other form of head covering. In Athenian iconography, the adult woman is accordingly represented with her hair bound up on her head. Like the Spartan woman, she is modestly draped and may be veiled and perform the anakalypsis gesture. Athenian pubescent females are represented throughout the Archaic and Classical periods either with long flowing hair or with a long braid. Over time we may observe a development in the garments they wear (Roccos 1995 and 2000; Beaumont 2012: 32–​34, 40–​41). In the sixth century BC the sculpted kore wears a peplos or chiton and himation, while her counterpart in two-​dimensional images painted on Athenian pottery sports a special kind of long mantle that falls over her shoulders and arms while carrying on her head a sacrificial basket: both mantle and basket distinguish her as a maiden kanephoros appointed, as earlier noted, to participate in a public festival procession in honour of the gods. From the mid-​fifth century, the mantle worn exclusively by the parthenos in both painted and sculpted images comes to be shown as being pinned on her shoulders, leaving her arms uncovered. By the fourth century BC, the pubescent female may be identified not only by this shoulder-​pinned mantle that now falls down her back, but also in some cases by the combination of this garment together with a high-​waisted girdle and chest bands worn atop her peplos. Given that in the late fifth and fourth centuries BC, Athenian painters and sculptors represent prepubescent females as figures of reduced stature clothed in a long or short chiton held in place by a high girdle and also commonly by chest cross bands, it would seem that the high girdle and cross bands point to the youth of the wearer. 68

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At the same time, we have images of pubescent female figures with shoulder-​pinned back mantle who lack the high girdle and cross bands, and who instead hold the mantle up towards the face in the anakalypsis, or bridal, gesture. Analysis of these varying representations suggests the nuanced artistic expression of the Athenian conceptualisation of progressive stages within female adolescence, determined according to both biological and social criteria: from the newly pubescent parthenos, wearing shoulder-​pinned back mantle, high girdle and cross bands, to the older maiden approaching her marriage, performing the anakalypsis gesture with the very same mantle. Indeed, we may propose that this latter figure in Athenian iconography should be regarded as the social counterpart of the short-​haired naked female figure already considered in Spartan iconography: for while these two figure types contrast markedly in their physical manifestation, in their discrete regional cultural contexts both represent parthenoi on the verge of adult womanhood. Finally, before leaving the subject of the presentation of female childhood and youth in Athenian iconography, I would like to comment briefly on the images on a well-​known series of black-​figure krateriskoi, or miniature kraters, from a number of sanctuaries of Artemis, including those at Brauron and Mounychia (Beaumont 2012: 174–​186). These depict naked and dressed girls who run in the vicinity of a burning altar and/​or a palm tree. The evidence of the ancient literary sources (Hamilton 1992: 149–​171) places these images in the context of the Artemisian Arkteia festival celebrated by girls between the ages of five and ten and which functioned as a preparatory ritual for the onset of menarche, which would effect their transition from childhood proper to the state of pubertal maidenhood and their consequent eligibility for future marriage followed by childbirth. Some of the running girls are dressed in a short chiton and call to mind the similar Spartan bronze figurines previously discussed. Similarly the nude state of some of the long-​haired females on the krateriskoi finds a parallel in the Lakonian figurines. However, whereas the ancient literary and iconographic evidence indicates that juvenile female agonistic competition was a well-​established and common element of life at Sparta, athletic performance and female nudity represent an inversion of normal female behaviour and deportment at Athens. We should not, therefore, be tempted to equate the Spartan and Athenian images, and I have elsewhere suggested that the running girls on the krateriskoi do not participate in a race, but rather a ritual chase in which they flee from the wrath of virgin Artemis in anticipation of their contravention of her code of sexual purity as a result of the future marital relations and childbirth that menarche will herald (Beaumont 2012: 180–​183).

The presentation of male childhood and youth in Spartan and Athenian material culture As was the case with the presentation of the juvenile female figure, the Lakonian iconographic evidence for the youthful male figure comprises many small-​scale bronzes, some of which were found in the sanctuaries of Athena Chalkioikos, the Amyklaion, Apollo Hyperteleatas at Phoiniki, Apollo Korythos at Longas, Olympia, Delphi and the Athenian Akropolis. They date mostly to the middle and second half of the sixth century BC. By contrast, however, with the presentation of the young female figure, her male counterpart also more commonly appears on other figured media, including Lakonian black figure vessels, terracotta votive plaques dated to the sixth to fourth centuries BC from the sanctuary of Agamemnon and Kassandra at Amyklai (Salapata 2014) and a few stone reliefs. In all cases, the figures may be identified as juveniles thanks to the absence of facial hair, the hallmark of full adult males, who appear bearded in Spartan iconography. The youthful images can be divided into two main iconographic types: 69

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Figure 4.3  Lakonian bronze figurine of beardless, short-​haired, naked male, 550–​540 BC Source: National Archaeological Museum, Athens 7547, Photographic Archives, photographer: A. Meliarakis. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/​Archaeological Receipts Fund

1 . Beardless, short-​haired and usually naked males 2. Beardless, long-​haired and usually naked males The first group of short-​haired figures commonly stand (Herfort-​Koch 1986:  K84, K85, K121; Tod and Wace 1906: p. 104 fig. 4; Kaltsas 2006: nos. 109 and 112), or may be seated on a horse (Herfort-​Koch 1986:  K119, K120; Stibbe 2004:  nos. 122, 152, 292)  or, once, on a rock (Kaltsas 2006: no. 126). The second group of long-​haired figures also commonly stand (Herfort-​Koch 1986: K78-​K81, K83, K86, K98, K99, K102, K105), in one case kneel (Herfort-​Koch 1986:  K105), or may be seated on a horse (Stibbe 1972:  no.  219; Pipili 1987: nos 213–​215; Stibbe 2004: no. 135).The horse riders may possibly reference the youths who Polykrates in his History of Sparta tells us paraded on horses at the Hyakinthia festival at Amyklai (FGrHist 588 F1). Four short-​haired and two long-​haired figures wear a distinctive head dress (Herfort-​Koch 1986: K89, K91, K92 (see Fig 4.3 in this chapter), K94 (see Fig. 4.4 in this chapter), K95; Stroszeck 2014: no. 7) that may depict the palm wreath that Athenaios (15.678b–​c) reports was worn by the leaders of the naked choruses that performed in the agora at Sparta in the Apolline Gymnopaidiai festival. A number of the short-​haired boys are shown preparing or serving wine (Herfort-​Koch 1986: K113; Pipili 1987: no. 194; Salapata 2014:  R30, SEA 1/​160):  others, it has been suggested (Herfort-​Koch 1986:  K110, K111) were depicted pulling a heavy object such as a cart behind them, and in one case we see a fifth-​century grave stele decorated with the image of a seated semi-​draped youth resting his head in his left hand in a gesture of mourning (Kaltsas 2006: no. 126). Among the long-​haired figures, a few engage in athletic activities such as throwing the discus or running (Herfort-​ Koch 1986:  K87, K109, K122), others stand at a krater holding drinking vessels or flute (Lane 1933/​34: pl. 48a; Stibbe 1972: no. 308; Stibbe 2004: no. 161), or engage in hunting or carrying a corpse from the battlefield (Stibbe 1972: nos. 218 and 220). 70

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Figure 4.4  Lakonian bronze figurine of beardless, long-​haired, naked male, c. 540 BC Source: National Archaeological Museum, Athens 6174, Photographic Archives, photographer: K. Xenikakis. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/​Archaeological Receipts Fund

What then might be the significance of the difference in the hair length of the figures? Xenophon (Lac. 11.3), when discussing the Spartan military, notes that those warriors who had passed the age of hebe were allowed to wear their hair long because it made them “look taller, more dignified and more terrifying” (trans. Bowersock 1971). Spartan iconography corroborates this by depicting bearded adult men as sporting long hair. Although scholars have debated what is meant by the “age of hebe” (David 1992; Ducat 2006: 110), it most likely in this context refers to the life stage transition that the Spartan male underwent at the age of twenty, when he was promoted from the rank of paidiskos to become, for the next decade of his life, one of the hebontes. This therefore suggests that our beardless short-​haired and long-​haired figures present us with two different age groups, the former representing the adolescent paidiskos and the latter the fledgling adult hebon.The hebon’s previously noted transitional status between child and fully realised adult thus found physical and artistic expression via incorporation of the beardlessness of the younger paidiskos and the long hair of the adult male. The iconographic evidence for male childhood and youth at Athens is more plentiful than that for Sparta, and extends across the Archaic and Classical periods. The most common media utilised for the representation of the male juvenile are Athenian black and red figure pottery, stone reliefs and freestanding figures, and terracotta figurines, variously serving funerary, votive and domestic functions. Male infants, pre-​pubescent boys and adolescent youths all appear in Athenian imagery (Beaumont 2012: 37–​42). Infants are usually depicted as small, often naked figures, who may wear a string of protective amulets slung across the chest. They may be held by an adult or, sit, kneel or crawl. Prepubescent boys may by the late sixth and early fifth century BC be divided into a younger and older group: the younger group, comprising children of approximately ages three to seven, are usually naked and play with their toys or pets in the domestic context. The older group of boys, comprising children of approximately age seven to the teenage onset of puberty, are frequently draped, commonly in a tightly wrapped himation and appear in schoolroom or associated scenes. Alternatively, they may be nude in an 71

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Figure 4.5  Attic red figure kylix by Peithinos depicting youths with incipient facial hair as the lovers of smaller and younger smooth-​cheeked boys, c. 500 BC Source: Photo: bpk/​Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin F2279/​Johannes Laurentius

athletic setting. Pubescent or adolescent paides are taller than prepubescent boys and smaller than adult males and epheboi, and lack facial hair. They may be naked in an athletic context and are frequently the focus of erotic interest on the part of older males. However, it is above all in Athenian iconography the stage of fledgling manhood, immediately following the male’s arrival at civic and legal adulthood in his eighteenth year, that is distinguished and celebrated. As at Sparta, so at Athens, the possession of a beard was a mark of manhood. In iconography the mature male is shown as bearded while the boy is depicted as smooth-​cheeked. Some figures, however, sport incipient facial hair; since many of these youths are depicted as the erastes, or lover, of younger boys (Fig. 4.5) or participate in post-​symposion revelry or wear armour and carry weapons as citizen soldiers, this would suggest that they have already attained the age of majority. The representation of sprouting facial hair in Athenian iconography can therefore be identified as a feature indicating the earliest stage of manhood, marked by the attainment of citizen status in the eighteenth year of life and extending into the early twenties, when Aristotle tells us that the young man’s full beard materialised (Arist. Hist. An. VII.I. 582a 32–​3). These fledgling men, who are referred to in the ancient texts as meirakia, neaniskoi and epheboi (Cantarella 1990), were deemed to have entered the period of their physical prime and consequently often appear in Athenian art as naked figures, such as those presented by the monumental Archaic stone kouroi. In Athenian as in Spartan iconography we are therefore able to identify the use of specific iconographic features –​beardlessness combined with long hair at Sparta, incipient facial hair at Athens –​in order to visually express what was clearly deemed to be a significant and transitional stage of the young male’s life between late adolescence and full manhood. In contrast to Spartan iconography, the representation of kephalic hair length at Athens is inconsistent in the case of male juveniles. Though, as earlier observed, we know from the ancient literary sources of the important place occupied by the adolescent hair-​cutting ritual of the koureion, it was certainly not the only occasion on which the boy’s hair was cut: Athenian youths might also offer their locks to Apollo at Delphi (Theophr. Char. 21; Plut. Thes. 5.1-​2), Pausanias (1.37.2) cites Homer as evidence of the antiquity of the tradition of boys dedicating

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their hair to the River Kephissos, and epheboi dedicated their hair to Herakles (Ath. 494–​5; Hesychius sv ‘oinistêria). While ritual hair cutting was, therefore, undoubtedly an important feature of an Athenian boyhood and youth, it is, perhaps not unsurprisingly given the numerous possible occasions when cutting might take place, very difficult to make a link between these cultural practices and corresponding iconographical indicators of age. E.B. Harrison has, however, been able to detect in the case of a number of sculpted figures of paides the presence of a long uncut lock of hair, sometimes knotted, on the front of the head, and the corresponding absence of this lock on young adult male figures such as the Archaic kouroi (Harrison 1988; van Hoorn 1909: 38–​51; Klein 1932: 36; Leitao 2003: 118–​120).

Conclusions The stated aim of this chapter was to evaluate the impact of regionalism on the definition, perception, treatment and representation of the juvenile state at Athens and Sparta during the Archaic and Classical periods. What may we conclude? The ancient literary and iconographic sources indicate close agreement between both societies regarding their definition and perception of the developmental stages of male and female childhood and youth. In both states, the period from birth to the seventh year was regarded as the early childhood phase, while from the seventh year formal training and education began for males of elite social status. The attainment of puberty marked another significant stage in male maturation and socialisation, and led a few years’ later to arrival at the age of majority; this varied slightly between the two societies, being eighteen at Athens and twenty at Sparta. However, acquiring citizenship and attaining full adult manhood were not one and the same thing, and both Athens and Sparta recognised an extended and transitional phase of male youth that lasted through the third decade of life. Doubtless these years involved passing through graded stages towards full adulthood: in iconography it is the earliest of these young male adult stages that is celebrated by the presentation in Athenian figured art of youths with incipient facial hair, and in Spartan visual imagery of beardless youths sporting manly long hair. That this concept of an extended juvenile developmental period for elite males was common not only to Athens and Sparta but also to many other Greek states is perhaps suggested by the agonistic age categories used to order the entrants in a number of athletic competitions held throughout the Greek world. While some competitions, such as the Olympic and Pythian Games, offered only two entrant categories for paides or boys and andres or men, others such as the Nemean and Isthmian Games divided the competitors into three groups: paides (boys), ageneioi (unbearded), and andres (men) (Crowther 1988; Frisch 1988; Golden 1998: 104–​112; Pfeijffer 1998; Beaumont 2012: 27–​28, 139). Based on the evidence presented in this chapter, I  suggest that the ageneioi comprised the fledgling adult youths we see in the iconographic sources, already citizen males and yet still in the process of emerging from social adolescence. Both Athens and Sparta also laid a critical emphasis on the female adolescent phase, and again developed discrete and culturally specific iconographic types for the representation of this highly significant life stage. As yet chaste virgins, they represented the future of Spartan and Athenian society via their potential to bear the next generation. Their appropriate socialisation and maturation was therefore of critical importance in ensuring that this led to a desirable marriage and the consequent production of healthy offspring. Both Spartan and Athenian iconography represent graded stages of the parthenic state, with younger and older phases being identifiable according to hair length and nude or clothed state at Sparta, and according to hair length and dress type at Athens.

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At Athens and Sparta it may thus be observed that for both males and females the growth and treatment of hair was a matter of great significance in defining and displaying age and life stage status (David 1992; Leitao 2003). In contrast to the substantial agreement between the Spartan and Athenian definition and perception of the developmental stages of male and female childhood and youth, there nevertheless existed fundamental differences between the two societies in their treatment of these life phases during the Archaic and Classical periods. This was in large part a result of the more formalised and institutionalised approach to its juvenile population adopted by the Spartan state. The Spartan agoge, or militaristic state training programme for males between about seven to twenty years of age, laid emphasis on the development of toughness, endurance, cunning and, most importantly, bravery (Arist. Pol.VIII.1338b), and marked the age of puberty by promotion from the ranks of the paides to those of the paidiskoi. While at Sparta this state sponsored training was open only to the sons of full Spartiate citizens, Athenian education operated along civil and private lines and was accessible to any male youth whose family could afford to pay for it: lessons might cease at puberty or continue into adolescence if enough funds were available. And yet, in spite of the marked differences between the militaristic/​civic and compulsory/​ optional education systems that operated at Sparta/​Athens, significant cultural commonalities may also be observed: namely the importance of individual and group competition and religious participation, sexual education and socialisation via encouragement of a paederastic relationship with an older male and, perhaps not surprisingly in this context, the requirement that both Spartan and Athenian boys and adolescent youths exhibit great modesty in public. Marked differences existed in the treatment of the female offspring of high status families at Athens and Sparta. At Athens a girl’s training focused on the home and domestic activities such as spinning and weaving, and required on the occasions that she ventured beyond the home that she dress and behave modestly. By contrast at Sparta, domestic training was rejected in favour of sporting activity and the development of physical strength, athletic and choral competition was encouraged and, in these contexts, modesty was rejected and replaced with more utilitarian scanty clothing or even nudity. The Spartan girl’s maturation was therefore a more public affair than that of the young Athenian female. Nevertheless, both states placed a high premium on religious and ritual participation as an agent of socialisation for their society’s future wives and mothers. This chapter has demonstrated that a shared Greek heritage and identity underpinned the definition and perception of the developmental stages of male and female childhood and youth at Athens and Sparta. At the same time, however, the structure and ethos of these two regional societies had developed over time along distinctly different trajectories. Given that the appropriate socialisation and maturation of the young is fundamental to maintenance of the inter-​generational status quo, it is consequently not surprising that each society treated and represented the young according to its own discrete social codes and artistic criteria. As Pikoulas has recently observed, “It is perhaps no exaggeration to say that whatever Sparta achieved” was due to its treatment of its children (Pikoulas 2006: 27). The same may surely be said of Athens.

References Arrigoni, G. 1985. Le donne in Grecia. Rome: Laterza. Beaumont, L.A. 1995. Mythological childhood: A male preserve? An interpretation of classical Athenian iconography in its socio-​historical context. BSA 90: 339–​361. Beaumont, L.A. 1996. Constructing a methodology for the interpretation of childhood age in classical Athenian iconography”. Archaeological Review from Cambridge 13.2: 81–​96.

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Defining childhood and youth Beaumont, L.A. 1998. Born old or never young? Femininity, childhood, and the goddesses of ancient Greece. In: S. Blundell and M. Williamson (eds), The sacred and the feminine in ancient Greece. London: Routledge,  71–​95. Beaumont, L.A. 2000. The social status and artistic presentation of adolescence in fifth century Athens. In: J. Sofaer Derevenski (ed.), Children and material culture. London: Routledge, 39–​50. Beaumont, L.A. 2003a. The changing face of childhood. In: J. Neils and J. Oakley (eds), Coming of age in ancient Greece: Images of childhood from the Classical past. New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press and Hood Museum of Art, 111–​150. Beaumont, L.A. 2003b. Changing childhoods? The representation of children in Attic figured vase painting”. In: B. Schmaltz and M. Soldner (eds), Griechische Keramik im kulturellen Kontext. Akten des Internationalen Vasen-​Symposions in Kiel von 24 bis 28.9.2001. Münster: Scriptorium, 107–​110. Beaumont, L.A. 2012. Childhood in ancient Athens: Iconography and social history. London: Routledge. Beaumont, L.A. 2013. Shifting gender: Age and social status as modifiers of childhood gender in ancient Athens. In: T. Parker and J. Evans-​Grubb (eds), Handbook of childhood and education in the Classical World. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 195–​206. Boehlau, J. 1898. Aus ionischen und italischen Nekropolen. Leipzig: Teubner. Bowersock, G.W. 1971. Trans. Constitution of the Athenians. In: E.C. Marchant and G.W. Bowersock, trans. Xenophon in seven volumes VII Scripta Minora. London and Cambridge, MA: William Heinemann and Harvard University Press. Campbell, D.A. 1991. Greek Lyric III. Stesichorus, Ibycus,Simonides, and others. Cambridge, MA:  Harvard University Press. Cantarella, E. 1990. Neaniskoi. Classi di eta passage di “status” nel diritto ateniese. MÉFRA 102.1: 37–​51. Carter, J.-​M. 1967. Eighteen years old? BICS 14: 51–​58. Cartledge, P. 1981. Spartan wives: Liberation or licence? CQ 31: 84–​105. Cartledge, P. 2001.The politics of Spartan pederasty. In: P. Cartledge, Spartan Reflections. London: Duckworth, 91–​105. Ceccarelli, P. 1998. La pirrica nell’antichità Greco romana: Studi sulla danza armata. Pisa: Editorialie Poligrafici Internazionali. Charbonneaux, J. 1958. Les bronzes Grecs. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Cole, S. 1984. The social function of rituals of maturation:  the Koureion and the Arkteia. ZPE 55: 233–​244. Crowther, N.B. 1988. The age category of boys at Olympia. Phoenix 42: 304–​308. David, E. 1992. Sparta’s social hair. Eranos 90: 11–​21. Delavaud-​Roux, M.-​H. 1993. Les danses armées en Grèce antique. Aix-​en-​Provence: Université de Provence. Dilts, M.R. trans. 1971. Heraclidis Lembi. Excerpta Politiarum. Durham, NC: Duke University. Ducat, J. 2006. Trans. E. Stafford, P.-​J. Shaw and A. Powell. Spartan education.Youth and society in the Classical period. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Eyben, E. 1972. Antiquity’s view of puberty. Latomus 31: 677–​697. Frisch, P. 1988. Die Klassifikation der παîδες bei den griechischen Agonen. ZPE 75: 1179–​1185. Garland, R. 1990. The Greek way of life. London: Duckworth. Golden, M. 1979. Demosthenes and the age of majority at Athens. Phoenix 33: 25–​38. Golden, M. 1985. ‘Pais, ‘Child’ and ‘Slave’. AntCl 54: 91–​104. Golden, M. 1998. Sport and society in ancient Greece. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Golden, M. 2015. Children and childhood in Classical Athens. 2nd ed. Baltimore, MD:  Johns Hopkins University Press. Hamilton, R. 1992. Choes and Anthesteria: Athenian iconography and ritual. Ann Arbor, MI:  University of Michigan Press. Harrison, E. 1988. Greek sculptured coiffures and ritual haircuts. In:  R. Hägg, N. Marinatos and G.C. Nordquist (eds), Early Greek cult practice:  Proceedings of the fifth international symposium at the Swedish Institute at Athens, 26–​29 June, 1986. Stockholm: Svenska Institutet i Athen, 247–​254. Herfort-​Koch, M. 1986. Archaische Bronzeplastik Lakoniens. Münster: Boreas. Houby-​Nielsen, S. 2000. Child burials in ancient Athens. In: J. Sofaer Derevenski (ed.), Children and material culture. London: Routledge, 151–​166. Hopfner, T. 1938. Das Sexualleben der Griecher und Römer I. New York: AMS Press. Ingalls, W. 2001. Paidia nean malista: When did Athenian girls really marry? Mouseion 1, 17–​29. Jones, W.H.S. and Ormerod, H.A. 1926. Pausanias. Description of Greece,Vol. II: Books 3–​5 (Laconia, Messenia, Elis I). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Lesley A. Beaumont Kaltsas, N. (ed.) 2006. Athens –​ Sparta. New York: Alexander S. Onassis Public Benefit Foundation. Kaltsas, N. and Shapiro, A. 2008. Worshiping women:  Ritual and reality in Classical Athens. New  York: Alexander S. Onassis Public Benefit Foundation and National Archaeological Museum, Athens. Kamen, D. 2013. Status in Classical Athens. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Keene Congdon, L.O. 1981. Caryatid mirrors of ancient Greece. Mainz am Rhein: von Zabern. Kennell, N.M. 1995. The gymnasium of virtue. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Kennell, N.M. 2010. Spartans: A new history. Chichester: Wiley-​Blackwell. Kennell, N.M. 2013. Boys, girls, family, and the state at Sparta. In: J. Evans Grubb and T. Parkin (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press: 381–​395. Klein, A.E. 1932. Child life in Greek art. New York: Columbia University Press. Labarbe, J. 1953. L’age correspondant au sacrifice du κούρειον et données historiques du sixième discourse d’Isée. Bulletin de l’Académie royale de Belgique: Classe des Lettres 39: 358–​394. Lagia, A. 2007. Notions of childhood in the Classical polis: Evidence from the bioarchaeological record. In:  A. Cohen and J.B. Rutter (eds), Constructions of childhood in ancient Greece and Italy, Hesperia Supplement 41, 292–​306. Lane, E.A. 1933/​34. Lakonian vase painting. BSA 34: 99–​189. Lape, S. 2010. Race and citizen identity in the Classical Athenian democracy. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press. Leitao, D.D. 2003. Adolescent hair-​growing and hair-​cutting rituals in ancient Greece:  A sociological approach. In: D. Dodd and C.A. Faraone (eds), Initiation in ancient Greek rituals and narratives: New critical perspectives. London: Routledge, 109–​129. Lonsdale, S.H. 1993. Dance and Ritual Play in Greek Religion. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Overstreet, R.L. 2009. The Greek concept of the “Seven stages of life” and its New Testament significance. Bulletin for Biblical Research 19.4: 537–​563. Pettersson, M. 1992. Cults of Apollo at Sparta. The Hyakinthia, the Gymnopaidiai and the Karneia. Stockholm: Svenska Institutet i Athen. Pfeijffer, I.L. 1998. Athletic age categories in victory odes. Nikephoros 11: 21–​38. Pikoulas, Y. 2006. Sparta: The eighth to the late fifth century BC. In: N. Kaltsas (ed.), Athens –​ Sparta. New York: Alexander S. Onassis Public Benefit Foundation, 24–​28. Pipili, M. 1987. Laconian iconography of the sixth century BC. Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology. Pipili, M. 1998. Archaic Laconian vase-​painting: Some iconographic considerations. In: W.G. Cavanagh and S.E.C. Walker (eds), Sparta in Laconia. Proceedings of the 19th British Museum Classical colloquium held with the British School at Athens and King’s and University Colleges, London 6–​8 December 1995. London: British School at Athens, 82–​96. Rhodes, P.J. 1981. Commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Robertson, B. 2000. The scrutiny of new citizens at court. In:  V.J. Hunter and J.C. Edmondson (eds), Law and social status in Classical Athens. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 149–​174. Robertson, M. 1977. Jumpers. The Burlington Magazine 119 (887): 78, 81–​88. Roccos, L.J. 1995. The kanephoros and her festival mantle in Greek art. AJA 99: 641–​666. Roccos, L.J. 2000. Back mantle and peplos:  The special costume of Greek maidens in fourth century funerary and votive reliefs. Hesperia 69: 235–​265. Salapata, G. 2014. Heroic offerings: The terracotta plaques from the Spartan sanctuary of Agamemnon and Kassandra. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Sealey, R. 1957. On coming of age in Athens. CR NS 7: 195–​197. Stibbe, C.M. 1972. Lakonische Vasenmaler des sechsten Jahrhunderts V. Chr. Amsterdam: North Holland. Stibbe, C.M. 2004. Lakonische Vasenmaler des sechsten Jahrhunderts V.  Chr. Supplement. Mainz am Rhein: von Zabern. Stroszeck, J. 2014. Laconian red figure pottery: Local production and use. In: S. Schierup and V. Sabetai (eds), The regional production of red figure pottery:  Greece, Magna Graecia and Etruria. Aarhus:  Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 137–​155. Stroud, R.S. 1971. Greek inscriptions. Theozotides and the Athenian orphans. Hesperia 40, 280–​301. Themos, A. and Zavvou, E. 2010. Recent finds of child burials in the area of ancient Sparta from Protogeometric to Roman. In: A.-​M. Guimier-​Sorbets and Y. Morizot (eds), L’enfant et la mort dans l’antiquité I. Paris: De Boccard: 227–​241. Tod, M.N. and Wace, A.J.B. 1906. A catalogue of the Sparta Museum. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

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Defining childhood and youth Todd, S.C. 1996. Athens and Sparta. London: Bristol Classical Press. van Hoorn, G. 1909. De vita atque cultu puerorum monumentis antiquis explanato. Amsterdam: de Bussy. Wecowski, M. 2014. The rise of the aristocratic Greek banquet. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Whitehead, D. 1986. The demes of Attica, 508/​7 –​ca 250 BC: A political and social study. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Wilson, P. 2000. The Athenian institution of the Khoregia? The chorus, the city and the stage. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wilson, P. 2007. Performance in the Pythion: the Athenian Thargelia. In: P. Wilson (ed.), The Greek theatre and festivals. Documentary studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 150–​182.

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5 THE CHILD IN ETRUSCAN ITALY Marjatta Nielsen

As in most ancient societies, the surviving record of Etruscan childhood was entirely created by adults –​images, inscriptions, burials, and material related to religious practices. Moreover, the relevant ancient literary sources were written by Greek and Roman authors, who did not have much first-​hand knowledge of the Etruscans, let alone of their children. In the case of the Etruscans, it is also particularly difficult to draw dividing lines between “everyday life” and religious activities, so this contribution about how we can identify Etruscan children –​according to their size, clothing, hairstyle, ornaments, and age-​g roups –​cannot avoid overlapping with other contributions on the Etruscans in the present volume. On one hand this is thanks to the Etruscans themselves, renowned as they were for their dedication to religion; on the other hand it results from the provenance of the surviving archaeological material, which mostly comes from tombs and sanctuaries. In these contexts, much of the material was specifically designed for funerary or ritual use, but especially from tombs also come objects which had originally been produced for, and used by, living people. The civilization of the Etruscans, covering most of the first millennium BC, was not immutable, their language being the only constant feature (e.g. Torelli 2000; Turfa 2013; Bell and Carpino 2016). The absence of related languages was, however, no barrier for their interaction with the surrounding world. Their international contacts were far-​reaching, both within and beyond pre-​Roman Italy, as witnessed by Etruscan objects which have found their way to large areas of the Mediterranean region and beyond, just as “foreign” objects were brought to Etruria. However, the power balance changed through time, from Etruscan domination of large parts of Italy, to their subordination by the Romans. In this world, the goals and conditions for raising Etruscan children were in constant change, together with the reshaping of society itself. In periods of expansion down to early fifth century BC, family life must have been affected by the absence of fathers. Later, family unity seems to have been closer. In the last centuries BC there were still Etruscans who insisted on family ties, in spite of Roman expansion which threatened the whole society. In this chapter, the question of how to recognize children in Etruscan visual arts according to their stature, clothing, and hairstyle, will be treated within the chronological framework of the “Etruscan millennium”, that is the first millennium BC. As we shall see, over these centuries children emerge from almost total invisibility, to be represented by ever richer evidence. In the

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four last centuries BC, rich epigraphic material makes it possible to place children in the context of their families, an issue which will be treated in a separate section.

Before the art of writing: a boy warrior of the “Villanovan” culture (c. 900–​720 BC) The pre-​literate Iron Age “Villanovan” culture got its name from nineteenth century excavations undertaken at Villanova near Bologna. This culture prevailed in the very same areas where the Etruscans would later live, whether in “Etruria proper” (between Rome and Florence west of the Apennines), in the Po-​Valley or in Campania. These Iron Age “pre-​Etruscans” lived in village communities, some of them quite large, and mostly on the same sites where Bronze Age finds have come to light, and on which large cities would develop later on. The cemeteries point to egalitarian societies, though with increasing focus on family groups centred around the grave of a common ancestor. Their military organization seems to have been quite efficient. Their exchange relations were extensive to north, south, east, and west (Bartoloni 2003 and 2013). In Villanovan “art”, some of the geometrically rendered decorations contain human figures, barely recognizable as such. From the end of the period in the late eighth century BC we have, however, the first depiction of a child. It constitutes part of the figured decoration of a wheeled stand, which comes from a rich female grave in the necropolis of Olmo Bello (tomb 2)  at Bisenzio (Paribeni 1928). The plastic figures decorating the stand provide an image of village life, with hunting, farming, and warfare as the main activities (Cupitò 2003). On horizontal bars on the four sides of the stand appear figured groups: one depicts a duel, another a ploughman, a third a male warrior with a helmet and a large, round shield, and by his side a female figure carrying a water jar on her head. On the fourth side of the stand are again shown a warrior and a woman, but with the addition of a boy, who stands as tall as the warrior’s shoulder. The boy wears a perizoma, or loin cloth, and holds a small, oval shield. The details are somewhat blurred (as seen in Iaia 2013: 86–​87, fig. 9b), but many scholars see some heavy petting going on between the adult couple, in spite of his spear and her water jar (Haynes 2000: 21–​24). This high-​status object can hardly have been created with the lady’s burial in mind, but rather for her wedding with a chieftain, to place herself at the centre of ritual activities in the village. In this case the boy should represent their future son, expected to follow in his father’s footsteps as a warrior. Among surviving Villanovan bronze shields, not all are of adult size. Furthermore, whatever the size, some of them have rattling pendants attached around the edges in order to make a lot of noise: for example, the big shield from Casale Marittimo, tomb A (Esposito 1999: 41). We may, therefore, imagine that much of the military training of youths involved armed, rhythmic dance. In this microcosm we do not see the artistic representation of any girls, but to judge from spinning whorls and other textile tools deposited in their tombs, girls were trained to spin at an early age (Nielsen 1998: 69–​73; Esposito 1999: 62–​65; Bartoloni 2000: 271–​280; Gleba 2009 and 2013, with references).

The wide world of the orientalizing period and an angry girl (c. 720–​575 BC) In the Orientalizing period great changes took place in the very same areas where Villanovan culture had prevailed. Foreign contacts were intensified and extended. From now on, the

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terminology used for Etruscan chronology corresponds, by and large, to that employed for the Greek and the Mediterranean world. The widened horizons brought about urbanization, the formation of city-​states, alphabetization, artistic and other cultural borrowings, and accumulation of enormous wealth and power in a few hands (Bartoloni et  al. 2000; Bartoloni 2006; Sannibale 2013). The earliest inscriptions all turn up in formerly Villanovan areas and are written in Etruscan, a language very different from any other in the ancient world (Bonfante and Bonfante 2002; Agostiniani 2013). Children and adults alike now learned to read and write. Costly writing equipment –​ivory tablets and ink-​bottles provided with abecedaria and syllabaries –​helped in learning the art of writing (Bagnasco Gianni 1996, 1999 and 2000; Sassatelli 2000; Bruschetti et al. 2016). A child, this time a girl, is shown among the scenes on an Etrusco-​Corinthian wine jug from a chamber-​tomb at Tragliatella in Caeretan territory (Martelli 1987: 102, 270–​272; Amann 2000: 130; Haynes 2000: 97–​99; Fiorini 2008; Torelli 2008: 174 and 2011: 152–​153; Bonfante 2013:  435; Cerchiai 2013:  136, 139 no.  128; cf. Bonfante and Turfa this volume, and Turfa Fig. 24.1). She comprises part of a small family group, which seems to describe the farewell between a man, a woman, and the girl, all identified by shaky inscriptions: the shaky incisions make them all look very angry! The man’s name ought to be Mamarke, but was misspelled as Amnuarke. The woman is Thesathei (the correct form would be Thesanthei), and between them there is a little girl, Velelia (first written “Veelia”, but the forgotten L was then added). These misspellings demonstrate difficulties in mastering the art of writing. All three names are Etruscan, but a labyrinth called Truia, which is depicted and inscribed in the image, gives a link to the Greek world –​to Homeric Troia, or to Theseus and the Cretan labyrinth: this was the period when Greek myths made their advent in Etruria, and were thereafter never to lose their spell. The scenes –​which also include unequivocal sex scenes between two couples, as well as horsemen, a row of warriors, and others –​show a clear narrative intention and have inspired many interpretations, seen variously from the perspective of Greek mythology (the story of Theseus), or funerary ideology, or discussing the origins of the Roman lusus Troiae or youths exercising in formation riding. I myself perceive a biographical narrative, telling the life-​stories of two brothers, their exploits in the wide world, and their marriages.The little Velelia is half the size of the adults, but she has the same kind of diagonally checkered dress and shoulder length hair as the adult women do. The “normal” hairstyle for young girls and adult women in this period seems to have been the back-​braid, but that was not a female prerogative. Two stone statues from Casale Marittimo, probably representing male youths wearing loin-​cloths and a belt, and with no breasts, also have their hair collected in back-​braids (Maggiani 1999: 34–​39).

Becoming visible: children of the masters of central Italy (c. 575–​475 BC) The Archaic period was the true heyday of Etruscan power, urban culture, and art.The Etruscan city-​states were still based on monarchic structures, but not all wealth was expended on elite lifestyle and burials. Temples were also constructed for the benefit of the community, huge engineering works secured clean water and drainage, and banqueting became an important tool for internal and international relations (Rathje 2013). Ruling-​class males tended to bond together beyond family boundaries in associations that cultivated their common interests. Tomb paintings in particular provide colourful glimpses into the ideal life and afterlife imagined by the Etruscans (Steingräber 1986 and 2006:  63–​127). Through paintings, tomb chambers were transformed into banqueting halls or out-​door festive venues. Often children 80

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and young people are shown in various activities. Girls bind garlands; boys serve, play music, learn to perform, tame or ride horses, assist athletes or themselves exercise. In “The Tomb of Fishing and Hunting” at Tarquinia we see boys and youths having a great time fishing and hunting.Whatever the level of symbolic messages, the pictures also give a glimpse of life beyond elite circles (Cerchiai 2014: 36–​38; Pizzirani 2014: 70, 75). Sometimes there are errors in rendering children at an appropriate scale, not necessarily due to intentional use of perspective, but because for example of difficulties in combining representation of the height of adult persons standing on the ground level with that of boys as horse-​ riders, where they often appear no bigger than babies, as for example in the Campana Tomb at Veii (Steingräber 1986: pl. 197). Small figures present in tomb paintings have often been interpreted as young slaves, inferior size being equated with inferior status (on this question see Weber-​Lehmann, 2018). While a multitude of servants was certainly a sign of the wealth of the household, some of these small figures may represent the family’s own children and young people being trained in social skills, such as banquets, dance, music, sports, or practical skills such as horse-​taming.The phenomenon of lending children to peer households was also known in Rome (Amann 2000: 165, n. 215). Certainly participation in rituals required early training. Small figures wearing bearded masks were members of professional troupes (Steingräber 1986: pl. 194, 273–​275; cf.Turfa this volume, Fig. 24.2), and professional performers –​an Etruscan speciality –​were trained from childhood on (Thuillier 2013). Boys do not seem to obey any rules for their hairstyle: we see short, neck-​length or shoulder-​ length hair of different colours, according with the Etruscan taste for variation.Young girls had mostly long hair. At puberty or when married, much of a female’s hair was covered by a tutulus, a tightly fitting cap, which left long strands of hair to fall down the shoulders and back. As to clothes, small boys and youths are mostly represented nude. It is to be questioned whether this corresponded to real habits, or was an aesthetic borrowed from Greek vase-​painting. Some boys have short tunics, others wear longer tunics and elegantly draped cloaks, while girls are always clad, mostly in simplified versions of adult women’s colourful and costly looking clothes  –​tunics and cloaks of different lengths and patterns. Shoe-​tips are pointed, and in dance the shoes enhance the choreography, together with elegant hand movement. Numerous examples of all these variations in hairstyles and clothing are evident in wall-​paintings of the Archaic period (Steingräber 2006: 54–​122). The terracotta group of Leto carrying the little Apollo, which constitutes part of the roof-​ ridge decoration of the Portonaccio temple at Veii, is perhaps the only example of the representation of an infant from this period (Haynes 2000: 208). What remains of the Apollo figure are the hem of his short tunic and legs that are all too muscular for his small stature.This may be due to artistic inaccuracy, or alternatively the strong legs might refer to his divine status. Recently a large-​eyed head with curly hair has been proposed to belong to this child Apollo (Lulof 2011: 120–​121; Lulof and Winter 2011).

Set-​back for the Etruscans and closer family unity (c. 475–​300 BC) During the Classical period, tyrants and monarchs had been expelled almost everywhere in the ancient world, not only the Etruscan kings from Rome but also, with a few unpopular exceptions, those ruling the Etruscan city-​states. The former rulers were substituted by magistrates elected from a narrow circle of elite families, who surrounded themselves with clients and other kinds of supporters. Rome began to show its military muscles, with her nearest neighbours the first victims. Nevertheless, in Etruscan tombs banquets continued to be represented, though for a 81

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while women were shown sitting on the end of their husbands’ couches, instead of reclining with them (Nielsen 2009: 82–​87). The Greek inspired custom was abandoned later on. In the Tarquinian “Tomb of the Shields” of the Velcha family, a young girl is fanning her lady at the banquet (Steingräber 1986: pl. 146; 2006: 188, 202; Bonfante this volume). Her short hair has often been considered to be a sign of slave status. True, she is missing her lady’s crown and she is wearing a simple, ungirt tunic, but her fair and curly hair is cut in the same manner as that of her lady; her jewellery is of the same type, though less opulent, and her boots are identical with those of the adult woman. Again we have here a possible case of the family’s own daughter being trained in social skills (Weber-Lehmann 2018). As in the Greek and Latin/​Italic world, the cutting of hair now formed part of girls’ transition rites when entering puberty: her physical power was directed from growing her hair to developing her body. The short-​cut hairstyle was retained by most women as adults. The old tutulus, or tight fitting cap, had gone out of fashion. Brides are shown with a big crown on their heads. Women’s and young girls’ faces were flanked by the thick curls that were too short to reach the neck, and only a few covered the short neck-​hair with a Greek-​style sakkos. All this variety is evident in mirror engravings, in votive heads and statues dedicated in sanctuaries, and in wall-​paintings of the Classical period (Steingräber 2006: 128–​243; Weber-Lehmann 2018). Developing young girls’ bodies also required physical exercise. To the late Classical/​early Hellenistic period belong representations of young girls exercising, naked or wearing shorts and caps, alone or together with male youths. The motif is known from Etruscan bronze mirrors, from other toilet articles and from Etruscan vase-​painting as well as from Attic red-​figure vases, brought to the Etruscan market (Nielsen 2003). As for boys, their hair was now shorter, reaching only to the neck (Steingräber 2006: 130–​ 179). Since adult men wore beards, we can identify boys and youths by their smooth chins. They still appear either nude or with nude upper bodies, although tunics and cloaks of different lengths and patterns do appear (Steingräber 2006: 133–​179, 209, 236). To judge from artistic representations, steps towards the custom of swaddling babies were first taken in the Classical period. A funerary statue from Chianciano Terme shows a female figure sitting with a rather big baby, loosely wrapped in a blanket, on her lap (cf. Amann 2000: 207; Bonfante 2013: 438; Bonfante this volume). We will return to the custom of swaddling babies in the next section of this chapter.

The last three centuries BC: loss of political power and renewed family values In Etruria the last three centuries BC, corresponding to the Hellenistic period in the Greek world, meant repeated wars against Rome, with losses of territories and the gradual Romanization of Etruria. From the Etruscan side, much effort was expended in order to prevent cultural losses. In spite of lost wars, close contacts with the outside world were maintained, including the Hellenistic World. An expression of family unity and identity can be seen in the presence of large family tombs, designed to house the burials of several generations together, some of these tombs remaining in continuous use to the end of Etruscan civilization (Nielsen 1988–​1989, 1989, 2002, 2013 and 2015). The bulk of material is overwhelming. Children were also buried in these tombs, although their representation remained always lower than the probably high infant mortality rate would suggest should be the case. Children were variously buried anonymously in adults’ urns or sarcophagi, others in purpose made receptacles. We can identify these because of the short size of the sarcophagus, because of a name in diminutive, or because their age 82

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was provided in the inscription. The youngest one so identified is a girl of five from Norchia (Nielsen 1988–​1989: 96, n. 24). Some tomb paintings depict children as family members when the tomb was decorated, and not necessarily because of their early death. In Tomb 5636 at Tarquinia is shown a group of four persons and two death demons in front of the gate of Hades: two adults and a small boy are all pointing towards a bigger boy, who must be the newly deceased (Steingräber 2006: 262, 274–​275). In the Golini Tomb I near Orvieto the whole family is shown gathered at a banquet in Hades, with long inscriptions containing the members’ cursus honorum and family relations. From these inscriptions we conclude that the Etruscan word for brother was ruva. Among the male members of the family is shown Vel Leinies, a boy of seven, who is standing near reclining adults. He is clad in an ankle-​long, white tunic with red stripes. While we are told he is aged seven, he is represented as a taller and older figure. In the absence of other titles, his elogium consists of family relations: his brother (the tomb founder), father and grandfather (Colonna 2014: 35, the fig. to the right; Pizzirani 2014b: 74, pl. XII). How do the children depicted on the lids of their cinerary urns or sarcophagi appear? (Herbig 1952: passim). Some look like adults (e.g. Moretti and Sgubini Moretti 1983: 98), others have chubby cheeks and smiling faces (cf. Nielsen 1988–​1989:  64–​66). As adult men were now beardless, they are less easily distinguished from boys. Quite young children have shortish, thin and slightly wavy hair, as if it were uncut (cf. Fig. 5.3), which is also the case with votive bronzes and terracottas (Cristofani 1990: 238–​241). Somewhat older boys normally have the same kind of short or neck-​length hair as adult men have. The ritual of cutting girls’ hair at puberty seems to have been abandoned, as they are now represented with a knot at the neck (cf. Fig. 5.2) –​if the detail is visible at all because of the veil they wear (e.g. Moretti and Sgubini Moretti 1983: 94). The choice of attributes, which children are shown holding in their hands, is more restricted than the pets and toys appearing on Greek funerary stelai: birds for boys and girls, pomegranates for girls as well as for adult women, while balls were for boys only (e.g. Moretti and Sgubini Moretti 1983: 99). There is also one boy holding a satyric half-​mask and a hare (Herbig 1952: no. 123). Later, also books were common attributes for boys (cf. below). A list of children’s lid figures from Volterra is provided by Nielsen (1988–​1989: 94–​95, n. 6; no. 5, also van Beek 2011: 131). A very popular motif on late-​Etruscan urn reliefs was the final farewell with all the family grouped around the deceased ready for the departure. In some of these scenes are shown individuals who are tightly wrapped in cloaks which only leave their eyes visible. This was a way of indicating that they were already dead, and that the family reunion took place in the Afterlife (Fig. 5.1) (Nielsen 1988–​1989: 68). Because of the broad format, there is more space for the family groups than on Attic grave stelai. In spite of the rather uniform impression many of these scenes give, the workshops producing these reliefs were very open to following the customers’ wishes, and there is consequently a great variety in the number, gender, and sizes of the persons in question (Fig. 5.2) (Maggiani 2014: 62; Turfa this volume). Among votive gifts from sanctuaries are many terracotta statuettes of infants, swaddled tightly as if they were stiff mummies, but their smiling faces show that they are very much alive. (cf. Bonfante and Turfa this volume). At times their heads are covered with a flaring edge of the cloth. The Etruscans had probably followed the advice of Greek medical writers who recommended swaddling in order to “stretch out the limbs of infants” (Sommer and Sommer 2015: 76, with refs.). Tightly swaddled babies remained calm and passive, slept a lot and needed less feeding. This was an obvious advantage for the carers, however swaddling carried a risk of causing serious disease or even the infant’s death (Celuzza 2011:  40–​44; cf. Sommer and Sommer 2015: 75–​76, 173, n. 134). 83

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Figure 5.1  Farewell and reunion between children and adults. The father, sitting on a folding chair to the right, is embraced by the biggest child; to their left, a woman totally wrapped in a cloak has probably passed away earlier, but a small boy tries to hold her; the smallest child is preventing a cloaked woman leaving, while the woman to their left is greeting a fourth woman, again wrapped in cloak as if deceased. The scene contains different generations, living and dead. Alabaster sarcophagus relief, belonging to the anonymous wife of Laris Flave, late third century BC Source: Volterra, Museo Guarnacci, inv. 123. After Brunn and Körte 1916: pl. 54:19

Figure 5.2  A family assembly taking leave of the deceased. From right to left, a woman shaking hands with a man, a small child touching his cloak; another woman holds an infant; a young girl and a man appear together; a horseman is ready to carry the deceased away. Relief on an alabaster cinerary urn, second century BC Source: Volterra, Museo Guarnacci, inv. 122. After Brunn and Körte 1916: pl. 62:8

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When released from their swaddling, many figures of infants and toddlers –​in bronze or in terracotta –​were dedicated to sanctuaries (Bonfante and Turfa this volume). Boys may be represented naked or in short tunics, in order to show that they were boys (Cristofani 1990: 238, 240–​241). Both swaddled babies and older children are often heavily laden with jewellery such as neck-​r ings, armlets, bracelets, and ankle rings, but most often a necklace with one or more amulet capsules or bullae (Cristofani 1990: 238, 240–​241; van der Zon 2011: 93; also Turfa this volume). Some young children, boys and girls, were depicted with a new, Greek-​style children’s coiffure: the hair was drawn back from the forehead and plaited all the way to the back of the head, thus preventing uncut hair falling down in front of the eyes (e.g. Cristofani 1990: 240; van der Zon 2011: 93).

The Augustan age in northern Etruria: a renaissance for Etruscan children By the end of the Augustan period even the most stubborn Etruscans, with a few exceptions, had given up their age-​old language and substituted it with Latin. A Volterran boy, Setre Cneuna, who died at the age of fourteen, is represented on the lid of his cinerary urn. His name was still written in Etruscan on the tablet in his hand. The late date of the last workshops producing cinerary urns at Volterra is based on the presence of female hairstyles of the Second Triumvirate and the Augustan period (Nielsen 2015). Setre Cneuna probably wore a real bulla necklace round his neck: now only two holes remain where its ribbon was attached (Nielsen 1975: 361–​ 362, fig. 38; one of the holes is seen in the cover illustration of Roncalli 1985). Another contemporary boy, the twelve years old Aulus Caecina Selcia, has a bulla round his neck, a bunch of tablets in one hand and a stylus in the other, but his name is given in Latin (Nielsen 2015: 282–​283, fig. 9; cf.Turfa this volume). He looks as if a serious illness had brought him to the grave, but meagre physiognomies were also a characteristic feature of the workshop for adults (Nielsen 1975: 350–​358). In this very late Volterran material, bookscrolls and writing tablets were as popular for boys as for adult men (Nielsen 1975: 326–​379). This focus on books may have been an expression of insistence on the written tradition, in which several first century BC Etruscans, such as Cicero’s friend Aulus Caecina from Volterra, were involved as a way of transmitting their knowledge of the age-​old disciplina etrusca to Latin speakers. Yet by the end of the Augustan age, the use of the Etruscan language came to an end, and there was no longer a need to copy and recopy their books, and so direct Etruscan literary sources were lost. What as a result survives, is thanks instead to Greek and Roman authors, who looked at the Etruscans with foreign eyes.

Children in their family context Among the ancient Greek writers was the fourth century BC historian, Theopompos of Chios, who states that the Etruscans raised all their children without knowing who their fathers were (in Athenaeus 517d–​518a, quoted and discussed by Amann 2000:  177–​183; Bonfante 2013:  426–​438; Bonfante and Turfa this volume). This claim does not however correspond with the information provided by rich epigraphic material from late Etruscan chamber tombs from the last four centuries BC, which give quite another picture of the Etruscans’ concern for keeping a record of family relations (Nielsen 1988–​1989 and 2002).Their onomastic system was particularly informative (Amann 2000: 80–​93, with references). Both boys and girls had a first name (not only a number or the female form of the family name, which was the Latin usage!). The family name, gentilicium, was inherited from the father, and the girls retained that name also when married. The father’s first name was 85

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likewise mentioned. A  personal or inherited nick-​name, cognomen, may have made up part of the onomastic formula, more often for men than for women. A very common element was the matronymikon, the mother’s family name. Married women often mention their husband’s name, though the opposite never happens. This precision gives us much material for working out detailed genealogies. Further, in southern Etruria and at Volterra, the age at death was often mentioned in funerary inscriptions, while in Chiusi we only have one such example, that of a thirteen-​year old boy, Tiuza Tius (CIE 1304; Rastrelli 1985: 121; Steingräber 1986: 276). In his name, we meet the Etruscan suffix for diminutive, –​za, applied to his family name (while the genitive form points to his father). More often the suffix is added to a child’s first name. The suffix –​za was used for both boys and girls, while –​cu, refers only to girls. In earlier periods, inscriptions of children’s names are absent, with the exception of the previously discussed girl Velelia on the Tragliatella jug. The girl Ranza Curunei was buried in the second tomb of the Curunas family in Tuscania (Moretti and Sgubini Moretti 1983: 93–​94, no. 7; Nielsen 1988–​1989: 59). Her age is not given, but the sarcophagus is only 124 cm long, too short for an adult person. In the image that appears on the sarcophagus lid, she wears adult female clothes, including a veil, and has an earnest expression, but chubby cheeks. In addition to the normal adult jewellery of earrings and a neck ring, she has a lenticular bulla on her breast (the missing ribbon must have been painted). In the early second century BC, when Ranza Curunei was buried, the bulla could still be used by girls: originally it was a universal amulet for men, women, children and animals, and only later was restricted to boys (Nielsen 2015: 280–​282, with references; cf. Turfa this volume). Tuscania, situated in the Tarquinian hinterland, is the only one of the late Etruscan towns that presents equal numbers of male and female stone sarcophagi (elsewhere, the percentages are about 60/​40 in men’s favour), and where children, both boys and girls, received stone sarcophagi (Nielsen 1988–​1989: 56–​57). The use of the diminutive forms of names did not necessarily stop at a certain age, and the youngest among siblings may have retained it to adult age. On the Chiusine sarcophagus relief representing Hasti Afunei’s family, only adult persons are shown: the lady herself, her father and mother, as well as three brothers, including Larza Afuna, probably married to Larthi Purnei, who is likewise present in the scene (Nielsen 1988–​1989: 86; de Angelis 2015: 386, pls. 116b, 180). The number of children of course varied from family to family. While daughters tended to vanish to their husbands’ tombs, the ideal was that brothers kept together and were housed in the same tomb (Nielsen 1988–​1989: 85). A child’s place in the family tree seems to have been of great importance for the Etruscans. An inscription on the book-​scroll in the hands of Laris Pulenas’ sarcophagus lid figure from Tarquinia enumerates not only his titles, but also his ancestors in three generations (Nielsen 2002:  95; Maggiani 2014:  60). Obviously here we are dealing with an older man, but one’s place in the continuum of generations was certainly taught to children too. The Roman satirist Persius, born in Volterra but educated in Stoic philosophy in Rome, scorns his own pride in tracing his Etruscan family tree for thousand generations (Persius Sat. 3.28; Nielsen 2002: 89). Grandparents played a special role in the upbringing of grandchildren (Sommer and Sommer 2015: 47–​48, 61–​62).That was especially true if the parents were absent or dead. In late Etruria, inscriptions show that both men and women in their twenties were sure to get a proper memorial, because of the tragic event of their death as young parents. For women, another peak of commemoration falls when they died as grandmothers (Nielsen 1988–​1989: 76). The costly “Amazon sarcophagus” from Tarquinia was furnished with two inscriptions, telling that the person buried in the sarcophagus was Ramtha Huzcnai, Larth Apaiatru’s grandmother. Even the grandson’s title, zil eteraia (probably corresponding to praetor iuventutis), is repeated 86

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twice (Nielsen 1988–​1989: 81; Agostiniani 2007). Apart from being the grandmother’s pride, he may have been the one who had paid for the extraordinary monument. The grandson’s title deserves a comment, too, since it points to the fact that also Etruscan youths were organized in associations, headed by leaders (for a discussion on the term, see Maggiani 1996: 120; for the phenomenon in the Hellenistic world, Chankowski 2010; for Republican Rome, Morel 1976; Néraudau 1979). To return to the question of close ties with the grandparents, a Volterran youth,Vel Ceulna, was buried in a cinerary urn, whose relief shows him hovering in the air ready to meet his grandparents in the afterlife. The painted inscriptions are badly preserved, but at least we can discern the terms ati nacna and apa nacna, designating grandmother and grandfather. The young man’s parents may have found comfort in the idea that their son would join his grandparents in the afterlife (Nielsen 1988–​1989: 83; Maggiani 2014: 65–​66). Some grandparents were also so proud of their offspring that their number is mentioned in their funerary inscriptions: for example,Vel Alethnas who died at 66, had among his merits that he had three children and six grandchildren (CIE 5816; Herbig 1952, no. 209; Amann 2006: 7). One more family term is clanti, referring to adoption. The adopted person (usually male) used the gentilicium of his new family, but the act of adoption is expressed by the term clanti, with the addition of his original family name in the genitive. Clanti may therefore be translated as “the [natural] son” of someone (Amann 2006: 2–​3, with references). As an example we can take the Chiusine urn and lid from the late second century BC, now in the Nicholson Museum at The University of Sydney (Fig. 5.3: CIE 4417, corrected by Trendall 1948: 394, no. 1020). The inscription has been published as coming from Perugia, but both the type of the terracotta urn and the name “Manthvate” are known from Chiusi. There is no guarantee that the lid belonged originally to the urn it now sits on, but it is of a type designed for boys, and the inscription gives the first name in diminutive, “az” being a short form for Arnza. In Etruria, the phenomenon of adoption appears late, in the late second/​first century BC. As in Greece and

Figure 5.3  Chiusine terracotta urn and lid. The association of urn with lid is not certain, but the hand-​ modelled body of the figure on the lid has a mould-​made child’s head, and the inscription on the upper edge of the urn refers to an adopted boy: az:petru.manthvate.clanti (the little Arnth Petru, natural son of Manthvate). The urn’s mould-​made relief shows the duel between the Theban brothers, Eteocles and Polyneices, a very popular motif, produced in huge quantities. Late second century BC Source: NMR.1020 Nicholson Museum, The University of Sydney. Photo courtesy of the Nicholson Museum

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Rome, certain precarious demographic and economic circumstances (such as the turbulent first century BC) created a necessity of “borrowing” sons, including adults, from others to secure the family continuity (cf. Corbier 1999).

In conclusion: children and continuity In ancient societies family continuity and legitimacy of children were very important issues. However, Greek and Roman writers let us understand that the question of biological legitimacy was not of overarching importance for the Etruscans, while the Etruscan epigraphic material witnesses their focus on family continuity. Another concern of theirs was the continuity of Etruscan culture, especially the foundational disciplina etrusca, the doctrine of perceiving the world, interpreting the will of gods, and predicting the future. The whole package was believed to have been dictated by Tages, a small child of an old man’s wisdom, who appeared at Tarquinia at the dawn of their history (Cic. Div. 2.50). The doctrine and its books had been handed down from generation to generation, while the visual representations of youths learning the art of soothsaying appear from the fourth century BC onwards (cf. Turfa this volume). Perhaps it is no coincidence that books became the standard attribute for men’s and boys’ lid figures in the course of the first century BC, at the same time as Etruscan scholars were translating their books into Latin.This part of the Etruscan civilization would have a long afterlife among the Romans. In chronologically surveying representations of Etruscan children, we may state that their number increased through time, from next to nothing in the early periods, to ever richer later evidence. Throughout, small size is the most distinctive feature for children of different ages. Our two earliest surviving figures of children –​a boy depicted on a late eighth century wheeled stand from the necropolis of Olmo Bello and a girl on an Etrusco-​Corinthian wine jug from Tragliatella  –​are included in representations of village life or biographical narration, while from the sixth century BC onwards children and youths are shown as a contributing element in Etruscan social life through their training in social, ritual and practical skills. The depiction of boys’ clothing, or lack of it, did not necessarily correspond to actual habits, while girls are always shown fully dressed, more or less like adult women, but without the cap which covered the married woman’s head. In the fourth century BC, girls’ hair was cut short at puberty, a habit which was abandoned later on. Physical training seems to have belonged to both male and female youths’ activities. In the last centuries BC much stress was laid on healing cults, including the offering of votive gifts related to procreation and healthy babies –​likewise a condition for continuation of the family.

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Marjatta Nielsen Lulof, P.S. 2011. The Etruscan Pantheon. In: P.S. Lulof and L. van Kampen (eds), Etruscans. Eminent women, powerful men. Amsterdam: WBooks, 116–​122. Lulof, P.S. and Winter, N. 2011.Young Apollo: a new reconstruction of an acroterial statue from Veii. In: P. Lulof and C. Rescigno (eds), Deliciae Fictiles IV. Architetctural terracottas in ancient Italy. Images of gods, monsters and heroes. Oxford: Oxbow books, 505–​507. Maggiani, A. 1996. Appunti sulle magistrature etrusche. Studi Eruschi 62, 95–​138. Maggiani, A. 1999. Le statue di Casale Marittimo. In:  A.M. Esposito (ed.), Principi guerrieri. La necropoli etrusca di Casale Marittimo. Milan: Electa, 33–​39. Maggiani, A. 2014. L’Aldilà etrusco in età ellenistica. In: G. Sassatelli and A. Russo Tagliente (eds), Il viaggio oltre la vita. Gli Etruschi e l’Aldilà tra capolavori e realtà virtuale. Bologna: Bononia University Press, 60–​69. Martelli, M. (ed.) 1987. La ceramica degli Etruschi. Novara: Istituto Geografico De Agostini. Morel, J.-​P. 1976. Sur quelques aspects de la jeunesse à Rome. In: L’Italie préromaine et la Rome républicaine, vol. 2. Rome: École Française de Rome, 663–​683. Moretti, M. and Sgubini Moretti, A.M. (eds) 1983. I Curunas di Tuscania.Viterbo: Cassa di Risparmio della Provincia di Viterbo. Néraudau, J.-​P. 1979. La jeunesse dans la littérature et les institutions de la Rome républicaine. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Nielsen, M. 1975.The lid sculptures ofVolaterran cinerary urns. In: P. Bruun (ed.), Studies in the Romanization of Etruria. Rome: Bardi, 267–​408. Nielsen, M. 1988–​1989. Women and family in a changing society: a quantitative approach to late Etruscan burials. Analecta Romana Instituti Danici 17–​18: 53–​98. Nielsen, M. 1989. La donna e la famiglia nella tarda società etrusca. In: A. Rallo (ed.), Le donne in Etruria. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 121–​141. Nielsen, M. 1998. Etruscan women: a cross-​cultural perspective. In: L. Larsson Lovén and A. Strömberg (eds), Aspects of women in Antiquity. Proceedings of the first Nordic symposium on women’s lives in Antiquity (Gothenburg 12–​15 June 1997). Jonsered: Paul Åströms Förlag, 69–​84. Nielsen, M. 2002. “… stemmate quod Tusco ramum millesime ducis …” (Persius Sat. 3.28):  family tombs and genealogical memory among the Etruscans. In:  J. Munk Højte (ed.), Images of ancestors. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 89–​126. Nielsen, M. 2003. Fit for fight, fit for marriage: fighting couples in nuptial and funerary iconography in late Classical and early Hellenistic periods. In: L. Larsson Lovén and A. Strömberg (eds), Gender, cult, and culture in the ancient world from Mycenae to Byzantium. Proceedings of the second Nordic symposium on gender and women’s history in Antiquity (Helsinki, 20–​22 October 2000). Sävedalen: Paul Åströms förlag, 38–​53. Nielsen, M. 2009. United in death: the changing images of Etruscan couples. In: E. Herring and K. Lomas (eds), Gender identities in Italy in the first millennium BC. Oxford: Archaeopress, 79–​95. Nielsen, M. 2013. The last Etruscans: family tombs in Northern Etruria. In: J.M Turfa (ed.), The Etruscan world. London: Routledge, 180–​193. Nielsen, M. 2015. New times, old customs.Tradition and renewal of Etruscan funerary culture from the late Republic to the early Empire. In: J. Fejfer, M. Moltesen and A. Rathje (eds), Tradition.Transmission of culture in the ancient world. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press University of Copenhagen, 269–​299. Paribeni, R. 1928. Capodimonte –​Ritrovamento di tombe arcaiche. Notizie degli scavi: 434–​467. Pizzirani, C. 2014. Il mare nell’immaginario funebre degli Etruschi. In: G. Sassatelli and A. Russo Tagliente (eds), Il viaggio oltre la vita. Gli Etruschi e l’Aldilà tra capolavori e realtà virtuale. Bologna: Bononia University Press,  70–​79. Pizzirani, C. 2014a. Verso una nuova lettua ermeneutica della Tomba Golini I  e della pittura funeraria orvietana. Studi Etruschi 77: 53–​89. Rastrelli, A. 1985. La produzione in terracotta a Chiusi. In: A. Maggiani (ed.), Artigianato artistico in Etruria. Milan: Regione Toscana /​Electa, 100–​118. Rathje, A. 2013. The banquet through Etruscan history. In: J.M Turfa (ed.), The Etruscan world. London: Routledge, 823–​830. Roncalli, F. (ed.) 1985. Scrivere etrusco. Milan: Electa. Sannibale, M. 2013. Orientalizing Etruria. In:  J.M Turfa (ed.), The Etruscan world. London:  Routledge, 99–​133. Sassatelli, G. 2000: Il principe e la pratica della scrittura. In: G. Bartoloni, F. Delpino, C. Morigi Govi and G. Sassatelli (eds), Principi etruschi tra Mediterraneo ed Europa.Venice: Marsilio, 307–​316. Sassatelli, G. and Russo Tagliente, A. (eds) 2014. Il viaggio oltre la vita. Gli Etruschi e l’Aldilà tra capolavori e realtà virtuale. Bologna: Bononia University Press.

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The child in Etruscan Italy Sommer, M. and Sommer, D. 2015. Care, socialization and play in ancient Attica. A developmental childhood archaeological approach. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Steingräber, S. 1986. Etruscan painting. Catalogue raisonné of Etruscan wall paintings. New  York:  Johnson Reprint Corporation. Steingräber, S. 2006. Affreschi etruschi. Dal geometrico all’ellenismo. San Giovanni Lupatoto: Arsenale editrice. Thuillier, J.-​ P. 2013:  Etruscan spectacles:  theater and sport. In:  J.M. Turfa (ed.), The Etruscan world. London: Routledge, 831–​840. Torelli, M. (ed.) 2000. Gli Etruschi. Milan: Bompiani. Torelli, M. 2008. Roma e le città etrusche. Preistoria e storia di un rapporto. In:  M. Torelli and A.M. Moretti Sgubini (eds), Etruschi: le antiche metropoli del Lazio. Milan: Electa, 168–​179. Torelli, M. 2011. Rome and the Etruscans cities. In: P.S. Lulof and L. van Kampen (eds), Etruscans. Eminent women, powerful men. Amsterdam: WBooks, 146–​154. Torelli, M. and Moretti Sgubini, A.M. (eds) 2008. Etruschi: le antiche metropoli del Lazio. Milan: Electa. Trendall, A.D. 1948. Handbook to the Nicholson Museum, Sydney. 2nd ed. Sydney: University of Sydney. Turfa, J.M. (ed.) 2013. The Etruscan world. London: Routledge. van Beek, R. 2011. Etruscan stone sculpture. In: P.S. Lulof and L. van Kampen (eds), Etruscans. Eminent women, powerful men. Amsterdam: WBooks, 130–​132. van der Zon, T. 2011. Etruscan jewellery, elegant and sophisticated. In: P.S. Lulof and L. van Kampen (eds), Etruscans. Eminent women, powerful men. Amsterdam: WBooks,  92–​93. Weber-​Lehmann, C. 2018. Kinder oder Sklaven? Zur Darstellung von kleiner Menschen in der etruskischen Grabkunst. In: L. Aigner-​Foresti and P. Amann (eds). Beiträge zur Sozialgeschichte der Etrusker (Akten der internationalen Tagung Wien, 8-10.6.2016).Vienna: Holzhausen, 267–277.

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6 CHILDREN AND THE HELLENISTIC PERIOD Mark Golden

My aim in this chapter is to consider the difference that the Hellenistic period made to the Greek concept of childhood, to adults’ attitudes towards children, and to the lives of the children themselves. How was a Greek child characterized in the Hellenistic period, roughly defined as the years between the deaths of Alexander the Great in 323 BCE and of Cleopatra in 30 BCE? Well, how was a Greek child characterized before? Louise Pratt has recently offered a succinct summary of the portrayal of children in Archaic and Classical Greek literature, stressing the centrality of the three Ps: pathos, precocity and play (Pratt 2013). There is evidence for each of these characteristics in Hellenistic sources too. For pathos, we may consider the gravestone of Nicopolis of Smyrna, dated to the first quarter of the second century BCE (Schlegelmilch 2009: 72–​73; Bobou 2015: 110, fig. 48). Her epitaph reads (Peek 1955: no. 1512; 1960: no. 228): With your endearing chatter you used to amuse your parents, as lisping speech came from your mouth. But cruel Hades took you from your mother’s lap at the age of two, sweet Nicopolis. Farewell, baby, may light dust cover your body, strong sprig of Sarapion. Nicopolis’ tombstone provides an example of precocity too, since (as is common on such monuments) she is depicted as older than she was, not as a two-​year-​old, but as a young woman clad in a chiton and himation, and accompanied by a much smaller servant who carries her hat. Callimachus provides a less mortal and even more striking example of precocity in his Hymn 4, to Delos. Here Apollo is still in his mother’s womb when he threatens Thebes for its refusal to supply Leto with a place to give birth to his twin sister Artemis and himself, warns Leto off the island of Cos and prophesies the future birth of King Ptolemy II Philadelphus there. As for play, Hellenistic tombstones show both boys and girls with playthings of many kinds:  from pet dogs, hares and birds, to dolls, balls, knucklebones and wheeled push-​toys. Contemporary poetry has something to contribute here too, not Callimachus this time, but Apollonius of Rhodes. The start of Book 3 of his Argonautica presents Eros and Ganymede playing at knucklebones, ‘as boys in the same house will’ (3.118). Eros, triumphant, snickers as Ganymede loses his last two dice and stomps off. Then, in Richard Hunter’s words, ‘The whole

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miserable set of events which will culminate in the killing of Medea’s children can take place only because Aphrodite succeeds in bribing her awful son with the promise of a pretty ball’ (Hunter 1989: 24). There is pathos here as well as play, since the scene is meant to stress the difference between gods and humans in addition to their surface similarities. But Apollonius captures the playful innocence of children along with their thoughtless cruelty. (We find the same combination in Boethus’ famous late third-century BCE statue of a boy strangling a goose; Schlegelmilch 2009: 90, fig. 1.) Aside from these characteristics of pathos, precocity and play, children were regarded in all periods as models of a physical weakness and lack of judgement. So the third-​century BCE poet Euphorion of Chalcis writes that, ‘not even newborn children seek mighty Orion in vain –​ that’s how well-​known the location of the constellation is’ (Euphorion F67 Lightfoot = Schol. Aratus Phaen. 324, Martin 1974: 240.9). Of course, there is a fourth P which is relevant here: proportionality. It may well be true that children in Hellenistic texts were represented as sharing the attributes of children of earlier periods. But Hellenistic Greeks may have stressed pathos, or perhaps play, more, even much more, than their predecessors, and that would make quite a difference. Unfortunately, such a statistical evaluation is out of our reach. Nevertheless, many scholars seem quite confident that the death of Alexander ushered in or coincided with an increased prominence for children or with a new and generally more positive attitude towards them (Bobou 2018b: 371; Czapla 2006: 65; Green 1990: 359; Lane Fox 1986: 363; Rühfel 1984: 187). Each of these scholars discusses different evidence, each has a different end in view, yet all agree that children became more interesting and more important to society in the Hellenistic period. The classic statement of this view is Hans Herter’s, now almost ninety years old: The Hellenistic poets were the first to put children at centre stage as they are and for their own sakes … and the art of the period swarms with true depictions of real children, from whose amusing conduct the Greeks of that time must have taken special pleasure. Herter 1927: 251 Nor (according to still other scholars) was this new interest limited to what Herter mentions: literature and art. Hellenistic medicine is said to have developed a distinctive therapeutic regime for children, an early paediatrics, something absent from the earlier Hippocratic Corpus (Bertier 1990). However, whatever Hellenistic doctors’ practices were, there is reason to believe that there was no tradition of extensive writing on childcare –​paediatrics as a literary genre –​until the time of Soranus in the second century CE (Bolton 2015: 278–​280). It has also been observed that the very young were admitted to Dionysian mysteries because of the, ‘sentimental love of children which begins in the Hellenistic Age’ (Lambrechts 1957). These are the conclusions of good and experienced students of Greek culture and history; they may be right. But five problems with the evidence suggest that we should be cautious in accepting them. Before I take up these problems, I caution that (like most of the scholars I have mentioned here, I ignore a fifth P –​polymorphosity) my discussion will for the most part ignore distinctions between rich and poor, free and slave, city and country, boys and girls, children of different ages, Greeks and those who shared the Hellenistic kingdoms with them, as well as the vagaries of individual family settings and styles (cf. Beaumont 2003: 81; Parca 2013: 480).

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First problem: gaps in the literary sources Firstly, there are simply too few continuous series of data which extend from one period to another. These gaps are especially noticeable when literary genres are considered. Theocritus’ idylls have no extant predecessors. There are ample remains of the tragedies of the Classical period, but only exiguous fragments of Hellenistic examples. Enough remains to indicate that these were different in many respects (Kotlińska-​Toma 2015: 1–​43): subjects included current events and contemporary public figures, as well as marginal myths; the chorus was smaller and perhaps absent altogether when plays were presented in abridged versions; stage and scenery featured rich decorations; the language lost its dialectical colour –​tragedy was now a panhellenic phenomenon; and the metre of dialogue was remarkably free of substitutions of short syllables for long ones. But there is nothing left to show that children were represented on stage more often or differently than before. There are tantalising traces of one particularly pertinent type of text, the lullaby, in both Archaic and Hellenistic poets (Colesanti 2014: 102–​106; Karanika 2014: 160–​164). Lullabies were certainly heard by more Greeks than were, say, Pindar’s epinicians, and likely understood by more too. And of course they were directed at babies and other young children. Is this why none survive? Or is it because they were composed or at least transmitted by women, and that transmission was oral? In any case, the versions that exist, in the male poets Simonides (PMG 543) and Theocritus (Id. 24.7–​9), are as alike as they are different, and the chorus’s invocation to Sleep in a play from the Classical period, Sophocles’ Philoctetes (827–​832) shares ‘the structure and language of a lullaby,’ although it is delivered on behalf of an adult male (Ussher 1990: 138 ad loc.).

Second problem: are there differences between classical and Hellenistic authors and artists? Differences that can be demonstrated between the Classical and Hellenistic periods may stem from the aims and intentions of individual authors and artists, rather than from any sweeping social change. So the Hellenistic historian Polybius is (quite consciously) more similar to his great Classical predecessors Thucydides and Xenophon in the lack of prominence and portrayal of children in his work than either is to their near contemporary Herodotus, mainly because Polybius, like them, foregrounds political and military history (Golden 1997). Hymns for the gods, as old as the Archaic Homeric Hymns, and later prominent among the surviving poems of Callimachus, offer another test case. There is no doubt that Callimachus’ hymns reveal a keen interest in the infancy and childhood of gods and heroes –​even in their foetuses, in Apollo’s case. Do they provide what Herter identified, the presentation of children for their own sake? We should recall that the Homeric Hymn to Hermes is largely concerned with the early childhood of that god. Callimachus’ poems may pay homage to that strain of the literary tradition. Other explanations are possible too (Ambühl 2005:  5–​8). For example, Callimachus’ hymns may represent a nostalgic desire to escape from the turbulence of the times, or be another instance of the realism –​or at least willingness to touch on themes and groups outside the ambit of high culture in earlier periods –​which is found in Hellenistic terracotta figurines of beggars, street people, dwarves and hunchbacks, and in the shepherds and working girls of Theocritus. Or perhaps the youthful gods and heroes mark a further development of the antiheroic and ironic treatment of myth so often identified in Euripides’ and then Apollonius’ figure of Jason; on this reading, children are used to undercut the stature of the heroes of myth. (This trope, depending as it does on their insignificance, would seem to run counter to the view that they were now more highly valued than before.) Annemarie Ambühl has subjected Callimachus’ child gods and 94

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heroes to a full-​length examination and concluded that they mostly serve his literary purposes (Ambühl 2005). Playing on two meanings of neos, ‘new’ and ‘young’, Callimachus prefers to make divine and heroic protagonists younger as a way to define himself against the poetic tradition. In a sense, such an emphasis coincides with Callimachus’ interest in aetiology and origins of many kinds: how did gods and heroes become what they are? Moreover, it allows him to imagine a stage when their attributes and activities had not yet become canonical but were free to develop in other directions, much as Callimachus himself claims a right to innovate as a literary artist. Among more particular parallels for which Ambühl argues, Hymn 1 to Zeus outlines how Zeus opposes and then integrates the old order of deities, as Callimachus will rival and then join the Greek literary canon  –​and thus like Zeus become immortal. Both god and poet change the world in which they operate (Ambühl 2005: 232–​233). Another example illustrates Callimachus’ refashioning of earlier poetry for his own purposes. In the Archaic Homeric Hymn to Apollo, the god indicates his special sphere shortly after his birth (131–​132); Callimachus (as I noted above) shows him as a prophet still earlier. Callimachus’ younger Apollo, then, has more prophetic power than the earlier version of the god, just as Callimachus himself is newer and has more powerful poetic gifts. And while his Apollo chooses the sterile island of Delos for his birthplace and so makes it paradoxically productive, Callimachus rejects epic but writes poems no less rich for appearing meagre (Ambühl 2005: 324–​336). There is much for specialists in Greek poetry to debate in the details of Ambühl’s very impressive book, but, to my mind, she succeeds in showing how Callimachus’ emphasis on and portrayal of divine and heroic children can be explained by his literary concerns and need not be read as responses to a broader sociocultural shift in sentiment or (in Herter’s terms) as reflective of an interest in children for their own sake. Moreover, Ambühl demonstrates that much of what Callimachus writes draws on Greek poetry of the Archaic and Classical periods –​not just the Homeric Hymns but epic, lyric, drama too. Similarly, Callimachus’ funerary epigram for the Phrygian wet-​nurse Aischre is careful to put the dedicator’s name, Mikkos, in a prominent position; the name, a dialect variation of mikros, ‘small’, reminds readers of when he was a baby. But the epigram makes use of conventional motifs too (Callim. Anth. Pal. 7.458; Cannevale 2012). Ambühl’s ideas on Callimachus’ use of the childhood gods and heroes have since been affirmed and applied to the work of Apollonius and Theocritus as well by Gyburg Radke (Radke 2007). Sabine Schlegelmilch too doubts that the presence of divine and heroic children in Alexandrian poetry is evidence for a shift in mentalité, though she places it in another context, that of Egyptian traditions and their political use by the Ptolemies (Schlegelmilch 2009: 154–​256).

Third problem: Hellenistic attitudes towards children are evident earlier As this indicates, much of what has been taken as characteristic of the Hellenistic attitude towards children is also evident earlier. Children begin to appear on funerary stelae in the 450s (Beaumont 2003: 73–​74); Attic choes and white ground lekythoi feature babies with large heads and chubby limbs just a generation later (Beaumont 2012: 73, 200; Bobou 2015: 1); terracotta types depicting children become more common from the late fifth century BCE onwards (Bobou 2015:  88). Gravestones from Hellenistic Delos share the conventions of Classical Athenian iconography (Le Dinahet 2001: 95, 97; cf. Latini 2011: 69–​70). Even Herter, in his last pronouncement on the subject, recognised ‘forerunners’: Tanagra figurines, the vase painter Pasias and Euripides (Herter 1993: 372). More recently, Lesley Beaumont and Olympia Bobou have prudently subtitled sections of their discussions about the depictions of children, ‘Children 95

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in Late Classical and Hellenistic Art’ (Beaumont 2003: 77) and, ‘Late Classical and Hellenistic Types’ (of terracotta figurines; Bobou 2015: 88) in recognition that the fourth century BCE was, in Brunilde Ridgway’s words, ‘a Hellenistic period ante litteram’ (Ridgway 1990: 4).

Fourth problem: developments affected only part of the Hellenistic world Some developments affected only a part of the Hellenistic period or some portion of the much expanded Greek world. Anna Lagia studied burial practices involving children in two Athenian cemeteries and discovered that they did indeed reveal a change over time, but one which occurred at the end of the third century BCE, not the fourth, and so cannot be neatly fitted into the usual periodisation of Greek history. Lagia concludes that children are treated similarly in the late Classical and early Hellenistic periods and then again in the late Hellenistic and early Roman (Lagia 2007). Nikolas Dimakis’ chapter in this volume illustrates the bewilderingly varied ways in which dead children were treated and commemorated across the regions of Old Greece (cf. Dimakis 2019). In art, new varieties in the depiction of children in clay and marble begin to appear only in the mid-first century BCE, in response to the demands of purchasers among the Roman elite (Schlegelmilch 2009: 123–​149). Other innovations, in the realm of cult, may be the initiatives of powerful individuals and even more limited in place and time. Berenice II introduced rituals to commemorate her young daughter (also named Berenice) into the Ptolemies’ ritual calendar in 238 BCE, creating a memorial for the girl and, at the same time, providing a means to make the queen more sympathetic as a mourning mother (OGIS 56; Clayman 2014:  167–​168). A  cult of Apollo on Geronisos, a small island near Cyprus, may –​though this is quite speculative –​be built around a rite of passage for boys who were weaned and so had left infancy behind. It is further speculated that it was instituted by Cleopatra VII to mark the birth of her son Caesarion and, like him, was not long lived (Connelly 2007).

Fifth problem: broad generalisations Finally, broad generalisations, useful and even necessary though they are, run the risk of eliding important disagreements and debates within historical periods. Take philosophy. New schools of thought became prominent in the Hellenistic period: Stoicism, Epicureanism and Cynicism. Do these evince a new interest in or attitudes towards children? As for interest, it must be recognised that Greek thinkers of the Classical period say quite a bit about children –​they seem to have found them interesting. Moreover, the most famous and influential among them, Plato and Aristotle, do not always agree. (Plato, for example, seems to disapprove of children’s crying as an inadequate means of communication, while Aristotle thinks it aids in an infant’s growth: Pl. Leg. 7.792a, cf. Resp. 10.604c, Arist. Pol. 7.1336a35.) As for their Hellenistic counterparts what remains of Stoic and Epicurean writings is sufficient to suggest that children were observed closely and figured in arguments of various kinds, for example on the origins and nature of early human societies (Lucr. 5.1011-​1023). But again differences are to be discerned.The Stoics thought that the love of children is natural (a belief supported in some sources by the view that newborn babies are so distasteful that otherwise no one would care for them: Plut. Mor. 496). Epicurus disagreed: nonetheless, even some of his followers took the Stoic side of this debate (Alesse 2011; Roskam 2011). The picture that results is too complex to admit clear conclusions about attitudes towards children. In any case, there is no evidence that the ideas of artists, poets and philosophers had any effect on the mass of the Hellenistic Greek population as a whole. There are some art forms 96

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which may reflect a broader spectrum of society.Tombstones, for example, were produced on an industrial scale.Those who wrote the verses inscribed upon them were rarely among the literary elite, yet their sentiments must have satisfied those who bought them. It is interesting, therefore, that the naming of the deceased as ‘heroes’ is a feature of the Hellenistic period and that most of these heroes are children, adolescents, or young adults (Wypustek 2013: 93–​95, 190). Is this a mark of higher status? Only in a way: the practice is an extension of the tendency to show dead children as older than they were, another means to ascribe remarkable qualities to those who had not yet demonstrated any. At any rate –​and this seems of cardinal importance –​none of these conceptual shifts (even assuming that we can be confident in them) made any difference in the lives of children themselves. It is time to move from the history of childhood, of attitudes and concepts, to the history of children. Where might such changes be looked for? Linguistic usage might offer clues. It seems clear that the incidence and meanings of the most common words for ‘child’ (pais, paidion, teknon) in our texts alter after the Classical period (Stanton 1988; Dickey 2004). Pais, predominant before, gives way to the others in letters written on papyrus and is there used almost exclusively to refer to slaves. Such a shift might well be significant, if it could be correlated with some social or institutional movement. But, as Eleanor Dickey remarks in regard to these letters, ‘some forces are at work here that have not yet been successfully identified’ (Dickey 2004: 129). Three other possible areas where we might detect changes in children’s lives are: the exposure of newborns, the adoption of infants and younger children and boys’ athletic competitions. These will be discussed below in rough order of the child’s life course. In each case, I will conclude that evidence for change is inadequate. I will then finish up with a brief treatment of an area of Greek life in which we can however make a case for a meaningful change in children’s circumstances: education.

The exposure of newborns A number of scholars have offered opinions on the rate of exposure of newborns in the Hellenistic period and its causes. LaRue van Hook thought of the Hellenistic Greeks as unworthy and decadent descendants of their glorious Classical forebears and adduced a tendency to expose newborns more often as a symptom for this diagnosis (van Hook 1920: 144); van Hook’s estimation of relative rates of exposure has recently been revived in an (unpublished) thesis (Roubineau 2014: 146 n.9). To the contrary, Marieluise Deissmann-​Merten argues that a belief in the child’s right to life, a new development of this epoch, made exposure, long accepted as the prerogative of the household’s kyrios, morally problematic for the first time (Deissmann-​ Merten 1984: 276–​281). Robert Sallares agrees with van Hook on the question of the rate of exposure but, writing from a very different perspective, ascribes the cause to demography rather than to morals:  as the population grew too great to be sustained in the late fourth century BCE and the decades that followed, exposure became common –​and for the first time at that (Sallares 1991: 151–​160). It might be possible to reconcile these different conclusions: as the effects of their growing numbers became more serious and more apparent (Sallares), the Greeks first resisted a change in their customs on moral grounds (Deissmann-​Merten), only to yield to necessity and even embrace it (van Hook). But, once again, it is the inadequacy of the evidence which offers the most likely area of agreement. It is true, as Deissmann-​Merten notes, that exposure is a recurring element of the plots of New Comedy. But though these plays are generally accurate in referring to the legal frameworks of marriage, inheritance and so on at Athens –​essential details of many stories –​they cannot be regarded as reliable indicators of the frequency of exposure (or of the prevalence of unidentified 97

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sexual partners, suppositious children and kidnapping). These are the unaccustomed contretemps which titillated audiences then, as they do today. As for the passage on which Deissmann-​ Marten places most weight, in Menander’s Samia (129-​143a), Demeas has just announced his intention to throw his hetaira and the baby boy he believes to be hers out of his house when his son Moschion, the boy’s real father, objects. These lines do not explicitly argue for a newborn’s right to live or say anything about exposure. Rather, as so often, the playwright is concerned to present a variation of a tragic theme: the arbitrary nature of conventions such as the distinction between legitimate children and others (like the hetaira’s baby) in a world in which the gap between gods and mortals puts social cleavages, important thought they may seem, into their correct context. In the end, the baby is saved and its mother is revealed to be a citizen woman, an outcome made all the happier by the risks the child has run. It is noteworthy here that a grown-​up foundling in another play by Menander makes no reference to the right to live when she asks her father why he exposed her brother and herself (Men. Pk. 801); the tone does not even appear to be reproachful (Gomme and Sandbach 1973: 522 ad loc.). A sacred law from first-century BCE Ptolemaïs in Egypt may require the partner of a woman who exposes a child to undergo a purification period of fourteen days before entering an unknown sanctuary, but the prohibition, linked to those for illness, miscarriage and parturition, is to be ascribed to ritual rather than moral concerns (SEG 42.1131; Rowlandson 1998: 65 no. 40). Our quantitative data is limited to lists which show widely disparate numbers of boys and girls in the families of mercenaries granted citizenship in late third-​century BCE Miletus (Kawerau and Rehm 1914: 173–​202 nos. 33–​38). These skewed sex ratios have been explained by the frequent exposure of girls (Pomeroy 1983; Petropoulou 1985: 128–​130, 177–​199; Brulé 1992). However, even if it were justified in letting the families of mercenaries stand for those of all Greeks at this time, the ratios show a strong tendency to become more equal the older the children are. They should therefore be explained as reflecting a practice of failing to register girls until they began to matter, as they reached marriageable age, rather than as evidence of demographic realities (Scheidel 2010: 2–​3; Evans Grubbs 2013: 91; Roubineau 2014: 151–​152). Besides, suppose that the practices of the mercenaries were widespread and the sex ratios reliable evidence: they might be the result of an increase in the exposure of girls alone, while the rate of exposure overall remained stable or even dropped.

Adoption A number of Athenian lawsuits during the Classical period concern or mention the adoption of children (Isaeus 5.6–​7, 11.8ff., 41, [Dem.] 43.12 and 77, 58.31). It is possible that such adoptions were quite common. One Theozotides proposed that adopted sons should be excluded from the ceremony that honoured war orphans at the City Dionysia and, if his motive was to save money, there must have been more than a few boys who qualified (Lys. F6 Gernet and Bizos 1926; Stroud 1971; Slater 1993). But the adoptions known from the lawsuits were normally carried out only after the adopter’s death. Moreover, writing as I am in the middle of a US presidential election campaign, I wonder whether Athenian democratic politicians pioneered the present-​ day practice of advocating pointless or impractical policies in order to make an ideological appeal? In any case, the usual view is that the preponderance of evidence from the lawsuits is reliable: Classical Athenians preferred to adopt young adults, on the grounds that these were more likely to have shown their true natures and to survive than children; the interests of the adopter were paramount (Rubinstein 1993: 13–​14, 62–​76; Lindsay 2009: 59–​60). However, in the eastern Mediterranean provinces of the Roman Empire, the adoption of infants and young 98

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children seems to have been the norm, apparently in order to offer a destitute or orphaned child a home (Huebner 2013: 522, 526). Such a shift would make a tremendous difference in the lives of children, perhaps of many children. But can we be sure that it occurred? And can we date it to the Hellenistic period if it did? Unfortunately, the available evidence does not permit us to answer these questions. We have no information on the age of adoptees outside Athens in the Classical period, and nothing on Athenian adoptee ages in the Hellenistic.

Athletic competition Athletic competition was always an important activity for Greek men of all ages, a means for boys (at least from the elite classes, who make up the great majority of athletes whose origins can be identified) to gain prominence and prestige from the Archaic period onwards. One indication: even boys’ gloios, the mixture of sweat, dust and oil scraped off an athlete’s body after exercise or competition, was in demand for its healing powers (Hipp. Berol. 81.1, 96.4; Oder and Hoppe 1924). There are some indications that their opportunities for victory and its rewards increased during the Hellenistic period. For one thing, there was a, ‘huge explosion in the number of Panhellenic festivals’ featuring athletic competition at that time, beginning in the third century BCE (Parker 2004: 11). For another, the role of boys in existing games also became more prominent. The pankration for boys was admitted to the Olympic programme only in 200 BCE. The Pythian games may have added a third age class, for ageneioi, ‘beardless youths’, in the third century BCE –​some of these will have been under the age of majority (Ebert 1965; see also Beaumont this volume). A  local Athenian festival, the Theseia, had three categories of competitor among paides, ‘boys,’ after its reorganisation in the second century BCE (IG II2 956–​ 958, 960–​962, 964–​965; Kennell 1999); three divisions for boys are attested at a competition on Hellenistic Teos as well, and other festivals elsewhere, both panhellenic and local, had two (Kennell 1999: 252). It is possible that the greater number of opportunities for competition for young athletes improved the performance of some at least as they grew older. Our very imperfect data include the names of seven boys who won as both paides and men in the great panhellenic games in the third century BCE alone, while there are only seven to ten known from the traditional date of the founding of the Olympic festival in 776 BCE down to the time of Aristotle (Maróti 2005). On the other hand, a trend towards earlier specialization enabled athletes to become periodonikai, winners at all four major crown games, earlier than ever –​after which many seem to have abandoned competitive athletics altogether (Bertolín Cebrián 2013). Can this enhanced access to athletic success be ascribed to a change in contemporary attitudes towards, and evaluations of, children (Papalas 1991: 167)? Certainly they would not have figured as they did in such an important area of activity if they were despised or denigrated. Nor, however, can we see a new interest in children as the spur for the foundation of new festivals. The multiplication of age classes may be explained by the desire to even the playing field, since the category of paides might normally include boys from 12 to 17 years of age (Frisch 1988: 181). However, size and physical development must always have played a part in assigning younger competitors to an age-​class in a world without birth certificates and with many different local demarcations of the year (Petermandl 2012: 90–​91). I incline to an explanation which focuses on opportunity as well as motive (Golden 1998: 107–​110). In the most prestigious games, those open to all-​comers, locals often appear disproportionately among the winners in boys’ events; this implies that the organisers, aware of the extent of their home-​field advantage, saw a relatively easy way to garner distinction for their native city. (This is the same reasoning which led Canada to plump for the inclusion of curling as a demonstration sport at the 1988 winter Olympics in Calgary.) Boys from more distant regions would need the company of an adult 99

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family member for the journey, the training period –​thirty days at the Olympics –​and the festival, a total of perhaps six weeks. In the early fifth century BCE, Pindar rebukes the parents of Aristagoras of Tenedos because they did not let him test the ability he had shown against local competition at far-​away Delphi and Olympia (Pind. Nem. 11.19–​29), but many parents in his time and later would surely have approved their caution. Turning to the addition of events for boys it is significant that, whatever contemporary Greeks thought of children, the Olympics, the most important festival, did not add a third age-​ class for ageneioi or even let boys run the diaulos or dolichos footraces, established though they were in the Pythian programme since its inception. It is in fact equestrian events which make up the majority of new events at both Olympia and Delphi from the fourth century BCE on: these were contests only the rich and powerful could hope to win and they had influence on those in charge of the festivals to give themselves a better chance. Note that these new events also included horse-​and chariot races for young competitors: colts.

Education Despite my scepticism, however, there is one area in which I do think that change can be seen, and a change for the better at that, in the lives of children in the Hellenistic period. This is in education. Sparta boasted a state-​supported and state-​run system of education, now usually called the agoge, for both boys and (likely) girls, and late evidence credits the much earlier lawgiver Charondas for a state-​sponsored programme of literacy for the panhellenic Greek colony of Thurii in the mid-​fifth century BCE (Diod. Sic. 12.12.4). The norm in Greek communities, however, was for individual heads of the household to make whatever arrangements they saw fit for their children’s schooling, contracting with private entrepreneurs who in turn set their own fees and curriculum; the Classical Athenian community was involved only insofar as it passed legislation meant to keep boys out of the reach of sexual predators (Aeschin. 1.9–​12). But beginning in the late third century BCE, a number of members of the Greek elite –​royalty and private citizens –​set up endowments for the schooling of children, to be administered by the communities in which they lived. The first of these benefactions we hear of, by one Polythrous, son of Onesimus, consisted of a gift of 34,000 drachmas for the education of freeborn children of Teos (SIG3 578 = Joyal et al. 2009: 134 no. 6.8). The inscription which records this endowment is extraordinarily detailed, outlining provisions for the appointment of a supervisor on the part of the community, for the hiring of teachers (three grammatodidaskaloi, ‘teachers of letters,’ one for each level of instruction; two paidotribai; a kitharistes; three instructors in weapons), for their pay (including instructions for what to do in an intercalary month), for their duties, for the required examinations and where they are to take place. The inscription specifies that the grammatodidaskaloi are to teach girls as well as boys. Other endowments and similarly careful arrangements are attested for Miletus (by Eudemus, SIG3 577 = Joyal et al. 2009: 135 no. 6.9, 200/​199 BCE), for Rhodes (by King Eumenes of Pergamon, Polyb. 31.31, 161/​0 BCE), for Delphi (by Eumenes’ brother Attalus, SIG3 672 = Joyal et al. 2009: 139 no. 6.13, 160/​59 BCE). These initiatives should be viewed as examples of the broader phenomenon of euergetism which marked the Hellenistic period as a whole and resulted, among much else, in the funding of most new gymnasia by kings and rich gymnasiarchs rather than by political communities (Meier 2011: 174–​176). They were thus not motivated, primarily at least, by a new interest in children. Nor was the fact that schooling was now made more accessible popular with everyone among the elite. Polybius, our source for Eumenes’ largesse, grouses that such a gift might be acceptable from a friend if a man were in tight straits for a while, but anything would be better than begging for money to pay teachers when times are good. But other fathers must have been 100

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grateful for the money they saved or, in some cases, for the chance to educate their children longer than they could otherwise afford. Can traces of any benefit for the children themselves be discerned? Men as a group always dominate among our sources and among those that interest them; it is therefore improbable that we could discern any change in their lives due to these endowments. Nor do we know any individual careers which began with an unexpected entry into, or stay at, school. About women there is more to say. The numbers of female musicians, most (so far as we can tell) of citizen birth, who won prizes at festivals or performed before other audiences during the Hellenistic period is striking (Loman 2004: 63–​68). Pasi Loman, the most recent scholar to collect the evidence, notes that identifiable competitive or professional musicians of earlier periods are almost all male since, ‘education was vital for learning to play an instrument, let alone for mastering it to the point of being able to win competitions’ (Loman 2004: 66). Was this record of success a direct result of endowments which allowed more girls to study mousike? Only the arrangements for Teos explicitly refer to the teaching of girls, and that is in grammata only.There is no evidence for girls’ learning to play musical instruments in schools elsewhere in the Hellenistic period, though a fragmentary and undated inscription from Pergamon includes lyric poetry, poetry sung to musical accompaniment, among the competitions in which girls took part (Hepding 1910: 436, no. 21; Ippel 1912: 277–​278, no. 1). It is therefore imprudent to ascribe women’s new prominence in competitions and concerts to any change in their formal education. However, we hear in addition of quite a number of female poets, scientists, scholars, philosophers and artists (Pomeroy 1977). Some of these, among the artists especially, have famous fathers; in modern terms, they were probably home-​schooled (Pomeroy 1977:  53). But Polythrous was not the only philanthropist to include girls in his benefactions; and though Opramoas’ gift (if he is the donor) for the education (and the feeding!) of both boys and girls at Xanthus in Lycia is dated to the mid-​second century CE, there surely were others earlier (SEG 30: no. 1535; Kokkinia 2000). Furthermore, there is other evidence for girls learning their letters in school during this period (Cribiore 2001:  74–​101; Mantas 2012). It is from among these that some of the creative and scholarly Hellenistic Greek women we meet in our sources must have come.

Conclusions As this chapter has shown, changes affecting childhood and children were less sudden and pervasive in the Hellenistic period than some have assumed. But changes there certainly were, which enriched the lives of girls and then women in particular (cf. Bobou 2018a: 147).

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7 ROMAN CHILDHOOD REVISITED Véronique Dasen

In search of Roman childhood In his essay on L’enfant et la vie familiale sous l’ancien régime (1960), Philippe Ariès argued that childhood could not be viewed as a separate stage of human life before the modern period.This provocative assumption gave a welcome stimulus to ancient historians. Thanks to the seminal work of several scholars (e.g. Eyben 1993 [1977]; Manson 1978; Néraudau 1984; Rawson 1986; Wiedemann 1989; Bradley 1991; Dixon 1992; Coulon 2004 [1994]; Laes 2011), the history of Roman childhood has today become a field of research in itself. An anthropological and multidisciplinary approach, comparing written, iconographic, and archaeological information, has produced important results. Roman children’s perception of the world is still impossible to reconstruct, but the view that adults had of them has been thoroughly explored. It is now currently admitted that childhood was identified as a distinct stage, aetas, in the Roman life cycle, with its own nature, pursuits, qualities, and defects. Roman children were not reduced to the status of incomplete and inferior beings, lacking self-​determination; distinct abilities and experiences, different from those of adults, were attributed to them. Every stage, including childhood, must be relished, says Horace in the first century BC: ‘you must note the manners of each age, and give a befitting tone to shifting natures and their years ... we shall ever linger over traits that are joined and fitted to the age’ (Hor. Ars P. 156–​178). Individual pace should be respected: ‘I would not want even maturity to come too soon, or the must to become tart straight away in the vat; in this way it will bear its years better and improve with age’, writes Quintilian in the first century AD about his young pupils (Quint. Inst. 2.4.9). The high mortality rate in the Roman period (one in two children reached adult age; see e.g. Parkin 2013) did not generate indifference towards the very young. On the contrary, an increasing amount of evidence testifies to a state of anxiety for the survival of small children who could be genuinely mourned if they passed away (Caroll 2014; Laes 2014). Methodologically, one should be aware that the available sources are fragmentary, often with an elite and male bias; they offer access predominantly to the destiny of freeborn, wealthy, and desired children. We also seldom capture the extent to which attitudes varied according to the living conditions, urban or rural, of children. The darker side of Roman society will not be addressed here, but it should not be forgotten (Bradley 1991: 103–​124; Laes 2014). It was a world of sharp contrasts and raw realities, which are also part of a definition of Roman 105

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childhood. Votive rites could thus be accomplished for a desired foetus, perceived as a potential individual in utero (Dasen 2013; Dasen 2015: 115–​152), but the life of an unwanted child had no value; the human status of an unborn child was not officially recognised, and abortion was a crime against the father only, not the child (Kapparis 2002). Newborn babies could be freely killed or abandoned at birth; exposure was a ubiquitous practice, and foundlings would be brought up as slaves (Corbier 2001; Evans Grubbs 2010; 2013). Far from sharing present Western concern for children’s rights, physical threats and corporal punishment were prevalent in Roman education (e.g. Legras 2008), and young slaves could be submitted to humiliation, violence, and sexual abuse (Laes 2014: 155–​166). The focus of this chapter is on the better-​known category of children who were expected and cared for. We will review a selection of their characteristics in the life span from birth to puberty, and the place adults assigned to them. Philosophers and medical writers established clear-​cut systems of dividing the life cycle into stages based on numbers, such as seven in the Hippocratic hebdomads, also used in the Roman period, or five as in Varro, with five stages of fifteen years (on these systems, see e.g. Eyben 1973; Laes 2011: 86–​97). In the hebdomad system, first comes infantia, early childhood, until seven, then pueritia, late childhood, ending at fourteen, followed by adulescentia, until twenty-​one. In Varro, however, adulescentia ended only at thirty, the age for the quaestorship (ap. Censorinus DN 14.2). In daily life, though, the different phases in a child’s development were not focused on specific ages, as has been shown (Rawson 2003: 134–​145). For girls, pueritia, childhood, ended with marriage that was legally allowed at twelve, but usually took place in the late teens, allowing a form of adolescence (Alberici and Harlow 2007). Boys’ first transition took place between thirteen and sixteen at the Liberalia, when they abandoned the bulla and donned the toga virilis (Dolansky 2008): the second transition occurred at seventeen when entering military service, but they became legally responsible only at twenty-​five (Rawson 2003: 134–​145).Within this very broad age categorisation, we will follow a flexible conceptualisation, and consider first the main characteristics of infantia, from birth to the loss of milk teeth at about seven, looking also for the response of parents to secure the health of the child, before exploring the next step of pueritia until the onset of puberty at around age fourteen, pueritia being a stage characterised by an intense construction of identity in order to meet social expectations.

Infantia Shaping and bonding At this time of high child mortality rates (Parkin 2013), the image of early childhood was marked by vulnerability, infirmitas: ‘Infants just born, parui, lie helpless, as if absolutely inanimate’ (Cic. Fin. 5.15.42).The intertwining of life and death at birth is best symbolised by the yarn that the midwife tied around the severed umbilicus cord after determining if the newborn child was fit to live (Sor. Gyn. 2.10–​11 [79–​80]); she thus knotted the entry into human life, attaching the thread of life that Lachesis her divine human counterpart has just started to spin (Dasen 2009; 2015: 223–​247). The newborn infant may appear defenceless, as in the famous pessimistic description by Lucretius: Then further the child, like a sailor cast forth and the helplessness of the child by the cruel waves, lies naked upon the ground, speechless, in need of every kind of vital support, as soon as nature has spilt him forth with throes from his mother’s womb into 106

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the regions of light, and he fills all around with doleful wailings –​as is but just, seeing that so much trouble awaits him in life to pass through. De Rerum Natura 5.222–​227 The emergence of a specific vocabulary for infants in the time of Augustus demonstrates an increasing sensitivity that reveals forms of emotional investment. Beside paruus, paruulus, puppa, puppus, new terms appear, such as annuclus for the one-​year baby, and bimus or bimulus for the two-​year-​old child (Manson 1978; 1983). Ancient paediatrics did not exist as such, but a number of medical texts refer to specific pathologies according to physiological steps, such as Celsus’ De medicina and Pliny’s Natural History (see e.g. Bertier 1996; Hummel 1999; Mudry 2004; Bradley 2005). The best preserved source on the care of the newborn baby is Soranus of Ephesus (second century AD), who details how to look after the child (Gourevitch 1994; Holman 1997; Dasen 2011, 2016). The softness of its body is compared with wax, and the first task is to protect and model it by various means. The first bath completes the separation from the womb, cleansing all traces of uterine life. Sprinkling powdery salt should harden the skin, whereas the use of perfumed oil and aromatic plants such as mallow or fenugreek introduced the child into a new smelling universe (Sor. Gyn. 2.12–​13 [81–​82]). After the bath came swaddling, which aimed at preventing distortions in the limbs. Its use was recommended during a period of forty or sixty days, depending on the child’s constitution. Its style also implies attention to sex differentiation: ‘In females, one should bind the parts at the breast more tightly, yet keeping the region of the loins loose, for in women this form is more becoming’, says Soranus (Gyn. 2.15 [84]). Massages similarly should perfect the baby, modelling, ‘every part so that imperceptibly that which is not yet fully formed is shaped into its natural characteristics’ (Gyn. 2.12 [32]). A fast of one or two days was recommended, as the newborn child was assumed to be still full of intra-​uterine food, ‘which it ought to digest first’ (Gyn. 2.7 [17]). The child was given only tepid water mixed with honey. The mixture is symbolically meaningful. Honey is a heavenly product, used to preserve food from decay. Honeyed water was believed to offer the best treatment to a newborn child, securing its health, warding off malefic influences, and granting divine inspiration (Borgeaud 2004). The baby was very slowly introduced to human food. After the first days’ fast, the newborn drank maternal or nurse’s milk. In wealthy families, the mother did not breastfeed the child, a task that would exhaust her in a manner not appropriate to her social status. Hiring a wet-​nurse (in Greek tithene, tithe, trophos, in Latin nutrix), usually a slave, was also a means of securing a regular supply of milk for the baby (Sor. Gyn. 2.18 [87]). The physical and moral formation of the child began with breastfeeding (Dasen 2015: 249–​ 279). The choice of the wet-​nurse should ideally be carefully planned. Human milk was not considered to be a neutral product. Its properties were regarded as being similar to those of sperm because it was thought to come from the menstrual blood that fed the baby in utero. It could thus influence the physical and moral development of the child. In his address in favour of maternal breastfeeding, Favorinus of Arles (second century AD) explains: ‘just as the power and nature of the seed are able to form likenesses of body and mind, so the qualities and properties of the milk have the same effect’ (ap. Gell. NA 12.14–​15). Mnesitheus recommends hiring relatives, or women who physically resemble the mother (ap. Oribasius, Libri incerti 15.7–​8). Some also believed that, ‘a woman who is going to feed a male must have given birth to a male, if a female, on the other hand, to a female’, fearing, ‘for the male to become more feminine or for the female to become more masculine’ (Sor. Gyn. 2.20 [89]). Advising the use of several wet-​nurses may have implicitly been aimed at limiting their physical and moral influence 107

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on the child (Sor. Gyn. 2.20 [89]). No bad habit should start in early childhood, when all first impressions are printed in the child’s mind as in wax. Favorinus condemns those who make no distinction and corrupt ‘the nobility of body and mind of a newly born human being, formed from gifted seeds, by the alien and degenerate nourishment of another’s milk’, especially if, ‘[the wet-​nurse] is dishonest, ugly, unchaste and a wine-​bibber’ (ap. Gell. NA 12.17). Parental ambitions should start with the choice of a Greek wet-​nurse: ‘And she should be a Greek so that the infant nursed by her may become accustomed to the best speech’ (Sor. Gyn. 2.19 [88]).The education of the elite is bilingual, and the learning of Greek can thus begin early, explains Quintilian (Inst. 1.3–​4): As soon as his son is born, the father should form the highest expectations of him. He will then be more careful about him from the start … First of all, make sure the nurses speak properly … These are the first people the child will hear, theirs are the words he will try to copy and pronounce.We naturally retain most tenaciously what we learned when our minds were fresh … So do not let the child become accustomed, even in infancy, to a type of speech which he will have to unlearn. Little is known about Roman children’s emotional experience, but extant sources show that nursing created bonding. Favorinus notes that, ‘the child’s own feelings of affection, fondness, and intimacy are centred wholly in the one by whom it is nursed’; he does not hesitate to compare the women who dry up their milk to those who abort, and the child fed by a wet-​nurse to an abandoned child (ap. Gell. NA 12.23). The child is deprived of a food familiar since the maternal womb.This pre-​birth intimate link explains that mothers feed their young,‘with a livelier affection and greater care, as loving them inwardly’, asserts Plutarch (De Lib. 5). The sharing of milk generates a form of kinship that continues beyond childhood. The lex Aelia Sentia (4 AD) allowed a minor under twenty years to grant freedom to their slaves in specific cases (Ulp. Dig. 40.2.13). All those who shared the intimacy of the young child are enumerated: the teacher, the wet-​nurse, the milk-​brother, and the alumnus. In epitaphs, the wet-​nurse often appears among the members of the family of their deceased infant; a minority are still slaves (Bradley 1991: 13–​102). Several inscriptions also unite the memory of milk-​brothers or sisters, freed or slaves (collactaneus, collacteus, suntrophos, trophimos). Some achieved social advancement, such as Tuscus, foster-​brother of Nero (Suet. Nero 35.10; Corbier 1999: 1280–​1284). In Roman Lugdunum, L. Claudius Rufinus had a tombstone erected for himself and those who comprised his family, his wet-​nurse Marciana and his milk-​sister Verina (2nd–​3rd cent. AD; CIL 13.2104; Dasen 2015: 270–​271, fig. 9.3).

Amulets and transitions Medical doctors were usually powerless to master diseases that killed the very young. The frailty of young children was addressed by other means, such as amuletic devices (Dasen 2003; 2015: 281–​318; 2015a). Charms usually combine the power of the material, such as bone, gold, or amber, and of crafted shape. Little is known about the occasion of their offering. Most of them come from tombs, but they aimed primarily at protecting the living. Their generic names express the idea of attachment and physical contact, in Greek periammata (‘worn around the body’), in Latin ligatura (‘bound’), alligatura (‘tied’), or amuletum (‘worn on the body’), and remedies, praebia, as Varro explains: ‘Praebia, ‘amulets’, from praebere ‘providing’, that he may be safe, because they are prophylactics to be hung on boys’ necks, in collo pueris’ (Ling. 7.107).

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Small, cheap or costly, they evidence hopes for survival and parental bonding. In comedy, they serve as tokens allowing the recognition of lost children (e.g. Plaut. Epid. 639–​640). Some charms contribute to the construction of a gendered and social identity. The most prestigious is the gold bulla that was traditionally reserved for freeborn boys (Palmer 1989; Haack 2007; de Cazanove 2010). As a token of free birth, it protected boys against sexual assaults (Plut. Quaest. Rom. 101). Its abandonment ritually marked the end of the first phase of childhood at the Liberalia. As a locket, it also contained medicine or phylacteries, a papyrus or metallic sheet inscribed with a prayer against fever or other diseases (Palmer 1989: 66–​67; Dasen 2015: 309–​ 313; Dasen 2015a: 194–​195). The lunula, in the shape of a moon crescent, is found in tombs of children of both sexes, and of women. In his Greek Lexicon (sixth century AD), Hesychius describes it thus: ‘Selenis, an amulet (phylacterion) at the neck of children’. The scholium of Gregory of Nazianzus On Baptism (fourth century AD) comments: ‘Periammata: the bits of coloured thread round wrists, arms, and necks; and moon-​shaped plates of gold, silver or cheaper material, which foolish old women fasten upon infants’ (Migne 1858: 907B–​C). The shape of the crescent moon relates symbolically to the protection of growth in general. It had a more specific meaning for women, as the monthly menstrual cycle was believed to correspond with that of the moon. Some shapes and materials may have been intended as remedies for specific diseases. According to humoral medicine, all changes in habits can cause health issues. Birth is thus a dangerous passage. Similarly, the introduction of solid food, associated with the eruption of the first teeth, at about six or seven months (Sor. Gyn. 2.46[115]; Gal. Hyg. 1.10), and weaning, at about two or three years are a source of anxiety (Redfern and Gowland 2011; Powell et al. 2014; Dubois 2019).Teething is the first major transition.The change of food implies change of status, as the infant progressively takes its place in the life of the community by sharing family food. A fragmentary Hippocratic treatise, On Dentition, dating to the Roman period, is devoted to teething. The most feared symptoms were ulceration of the gums, fevers, spasms, and diarrhoea. These disorders are harmless in themselves, but could quickly degenerate with dramatic consequences. Celsus (first century BC/​AD) explains that aphthous ulcers are innocuous for adults, but can be lethal for sucklings as they hamper proper feeding (Cel. Med. 6.11.3). The teething process was thus an object of great attention in folk medicine. Teething can ‘kill’: the saying is kept in many languages; ‘Soon todd [toothed], soon with God’, warns a seventeenth-​ century proverb (Howell 1659: 4). Patricia Gaillard-​Seux (2012) collected some twenty-​three references to amulets for the teething of infants in authors of the Roman Imperial period. Pliny the Elder’s Natural History lists about a dozen amulets for averting or relieving the symptoms. Most remedies use real teeth and function according to sympathetic magic.The teeth of a range of strong or symbolically qualified animals are much valued, such as wolf ’s, dog’s, mole’s and dolphin’s teeth, usually attached to the body (adalligati) to ease the teething process (Plin. HN 28.257–​258, 30.20-​22; 32.48). In Roman Gaul, the large number of charms found in children’s graves evidence parental concern. Most infants died during the crucial period of alimentary change, between six months and about three years (Bel 2012: 205, fig. 9). Various types of animal teeth, worn as pendants, are found. The inhumation of a six month old child from Nîmes/​Nemausus is exemplary (Fig. 7.1). It includes an amuletic set composed of three cattle teeth (Fig.  7.1:  16, 17, 18), three amber charms depicting a hare, a fish, and an imitation of a tooth (Fig. 7.1: 12, 13, 19) (Dasen 2015: 314–​315, fig. 10.18). The set could refer to the child’s health problems. Each of them evokes remedies described by Pliny. Probably because of its impressive teeth, the hare played an important role in folk medicine relating to teething:  hare’s brain was thus prescribed for

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Figure 7.1  Set of amber amulets and cattle teeth from the tomb of a six-​month-​old child Source: Nîmes/​Nemausus. © Stéphane Lancelot, Inrap

rubbing the gums of infants to ease teething, and gums could be scarified with a needle-​like bone from its body, whereas hare’s rennet was injected in the ear in order to relieve toothache (Plin. HN 28.178–​179; 259). Similarly, the fish could refer to the power of dolphin’s teeth: ‘The gums and the teething of infants are helped very much by a dolphin’s teeth reduced to ash and added to honey, and also if the gums are touched with a tooth itself. As an amulet a dolphin’s tooth removes a child’s sudden terrors’ (Plin. HN 32.137). The third element looks like an artificial large tooth. Did it imitate the tooth of a rare and impressive animal, like the wolf? ‘The tooth of a wolf tied on as an amulet keeps away childish terrors and ailments due to teething’, reports Pliny (HN 28.257). The power of the animals is combined with the quality of the material: amber, a resin of mysterious origin with numerous therapeutic qualities, especially good for children against fevers, jaundice, and vesical lithiasis (Plin. HN 37.51–​53). Three cattle teeth complete the set. It could be a variant of another recipe transmitted by Pliny: ‘The first teeth of horses to fall out make the cutting of teeth easy for babies who wear them as an amulet, a more efficacious one if the teeth have not touched the ground’ (HN 28.258). 110

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Did the family mark with amulets the eruption of the first tooth or its first loss? Ancient authors are silent. The teething process was perhaps placed under the patronage of a specialised divinity. Among the Indigitamenta listed by Varro (Res Divinae ap. Gell. NA 6.16.4; Aubert 2004), many divine entities watch the child, its cradle (Cunina), its growth (Carna, Ossipagina), and its first steps (Statina). Was the teething process watched by Educa or Rumina, or is it possible that Dentina is missing from the list?

The constraints of pueritia Social expectations intensify with the growth of the child. Quintilian advises an early start to reading and writing, using the special memory capacity of children, ‘which not only already exists in little children, paruis, but is then at its most retentive’ (Inst. 1.1.19). A good observer of children’s vivacity and love of play, he suggests turning study into an enjoyable matter: ‘Let it be a game’, ‘lusus hic sit’ (Inst. 1.1.20). Play and games can provide useful means of training: ‘There are even some games which are useful for sharpening the wits, for example competitions in which they ask one another all sorts of little questions. Character reveals itself too more naturally in games’ (Inst. 1.1.3), an equation that fits with the double meaning of the Latin word ludus: ‘play’ as well as ‘school’ (cf. Dolansky 2017). Besides formal training at school, children learned religious, political and all sorts of knowledge by attending and imitating their parents (Wiedemann 1989: 143–​175; Prescendi 2010).The difference between children’s and adults’ pursuits may appear to be thin, as Seneca comments: For while children are greedy for knuckle-​bones, nuts, and coppers, these are greedy for gold and silver, and cities; while children play among themselves at being magistrates, and in make-​believe have their bordered toga, lictors’ rods and tribunal, these play in earnest at the same things in the Campus Martius and the forum and the senate; while children rear their toy houses on the sea-​shore with heaps of sand, these, as though engaged in a mighty enterprise, are busied in piling up stones and walls and roofs, and convert what was intended as a protection to the body into a menace. Sen. Constant. 12.2 Education also consisted in training children to restrain their alert but unstable nature, dominated by emotions (Hor. Ars P. 157–​160). The control of laughter belongs to this training, as iconography reveals. Since the first century BC, depictions of children on reliefs or as busts were characterised by a common feature that may surprise the modern viewer. All exhibit serious and sober facial expressions that contrast with the expected light-​heartedness of their young age. This feature is shared by children of both sexes and from different social levels, from the circle of the imperial family to slaves. It can partly be explained by the funerary function of tombstones as private monuments but with a public dimension, where the expression of emotions would not be appropriate. Signs of familial affection are restricted to a few gestures (Mander 2011). Not all depictions, however, come from funerary contexts. This detached expression has also been interpreted as an absence of sensitivity towards childish features. Serious expressions would reflect the ‘pushy parents syndrome’, as coined by Mary Beard (Beard 2012; see also Huskinson 1997). Most commissioners are former slaves who invested their pride and expectations of personal and social achievements in their offspring. Children not only have sober faces:  they are dressed like adults. The contrast between the real age and the portrait may be very marked. In the time of Hadrian, boys are often depicted wearing a paludamentum, a cloak alluding to their future military career, like Quintus Fabius 111

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Proculus depicted on a marble altar as a seven-​or eight-​year-​old child, but who died at nine months and twenty-​four days (AD 100–​110; CIL 6.17557; Backe-​Dahmen 2006: no A19, pl. 14d; Mander 2013:  no 68). This approach, however, does not imply viewing the child as an imperfect adult. It can also be part of a mourning strategy aiming at completing the child’s destiny, and reflecting the parents’ emotional investment. The material deposited in children’s graves also evidences this concern, as it often anticipates their social role (Dasen 2010). The sober expression of children could contribute to the construction of their social, freeborn, identity. It reflects a conception of education aimed at controlling not only the body, but also the soul of children, viewed as soft as wax, like their body: ‘Require that the teacher shape their tender characters as if he were moulding a face from wax with his thumb’, Juvenal advises (Satires 7.237–​238). In particular, the expression of emotions, such as anger, but also laughter, must be controlled because it infringed the modestia and prudentia expected of a future citizen. By contrast, no educational concern is manifested toward the vernula, the slave born in the house. As Francesca Mencacci demonstrated (2010), their vices are considered distracting. Seneca the Younger describes the separate expectations of free children and young slaves living in the same domus: ‘our children please us by their modesty, modestia, but slave-​boys by their forwardness, licentia; that we hold in check the former by sterner discipline, while we encourage the latter to be bold’ (Sen. Prov. 1, 4, 6). The impudentia of a slave was not only sought after, but trained, as Seneca the Younger explains. An excessive behaviour amuses without hurting the master: ‘For this purpose some people buy young slaves because they are pert, and they whet their impudence and keep them under an instructor in order that they may be practised in pouring forth streams of abuse; and yet we call this smartness, not insult’ (Sen. Constant. 11.2–​3). The expected set of qualities ensuring a good reputation for free children comprises modestia, ‘modesty’, pudicitia, ‘restraint’, and verecundia, ‘reserve’.This is completed by pietas, ‘piety’, respect for parents and gods. A  good education will be severe, and secured by a flawless and tough teacher: ‘We must look for a tutor in Latin rhetoric whose school shall combine a strict training (severitas) along with good manners (pudor) and, above all, a moral standard (castitas)’ advises Pliny the Younger (Ep. 3.3.4). Cato the Younger is a model, according to Plutarch: ‘We are told that from his very childhood Cato displayed, in speech, in countenance, and in his childish sports, a nature that was inflexible, imperturbable, and altogether steadfast … It was altogether difficult to make him laugh, although once in a while he relaxed his features so far as to smile; and he was not quickly nor easily moved to anger, though once angered he was inexorable’ (Plut. Vit. Cat. Min. 1.1). The possession of moral virtues was associated with physical beauty. Acilianus’ self-​control, verecundia, was thus paired with his physical beauty, pulchritudo (Pliny Ep. 3.14). These moral qualities are transmitted by the portraits of children, often qualified in the epitaph as pientissimus (cf. ‘Titus Flavius Alcis, who lived for six years, six months, and sixteen days’; CIL 6.18088; Backe-​Dahmen 2006: no A28 pl. 17d; Mander 2013: no 106). These features reveal the added value in young slaves’ portraits, like the verna Martialis, who died at two years, ten months, and seven days (AD 98–​117; Rawson 1997: 227, fig. 9.12). The secret of his melancholic beauty relies on the fact that he exhibits the restraint and gravitas of a freeborn child (Dasen 2017). In a similar way, Juvenal boasts of the beauty of the face of a young slave, composed of decency, pudor, like a freeborn child (Juv. Satires 11.154–​155). Literary sources often refer to the way a servile origin can be betrayed by a discriminating behaviour, as shown by the example of Trimalchio and his family (Garrido-​Hory 2008). Emancipation from the servile past involved learning codes of conduct that freedmen would struggle to assimilate. On tombstones, the visual discourse of the portrait completes that of the epitaph. Deprived of the solemn laudatio funebris at the forum that could not be performed for a child, the parents 112

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held less formal eulogies at the grave and chose epitaphs as a means to praise and remember the untimely dead (cf. Nielsen 1997; King 2000). They had neither office nor major deeds to advertise, but the family could record precocious intellectual accomplishments, emphasised by the sober expression and posture of the child. Q. Sulpicius Maximus, the freeborn son of ex-​ slaves, Q. Sulpicius Eugrammus and Licinia Ianuaria, thus lived eleven years, won a competition in Greek poetry, and is depicted as a promising orator on his marble altar (AD 94–​100; CIL 6.33976; Rawson 1997: 223, fig. 9.9; 2003, 17–​22, fig. 1.1; Mander 2013: 151, no 50, fig. 130). Some epitaphs describe the potential of the deceased. Instead of past deeds, poems anticipate future successes. The memory of the little Marcianus, who died at seven, survives on a marble relief in the form of a schoolboy in pallium and tunic, exhibiting a bulla, token of his free birth, and holding a scroll beside a capsa, a scroll case. A  long carmen describes his growing talents, ‘cut off by fate’:  ‘How great my promise would have been, had not destiny carried me off. The Muses had granted to me as a boy, puer, that I should be eloquent’ (126 AD; CIL 6.7578; Rawson 2003:  159, fig. 5.1; transl. Mander 2013:  no 81). Anticipation is also present in the description of his funeral, evoking those of the important political figure he could have become. Many people attended the burial, suggesting survival in collective memory: ‘With what devotion and in what great crowds all the people in the Via Sacra came. They wept and followed my funeral procession in a huge throng’. A neighbourhood, ‘of all descriptions coming from all directions’ was present, and the day was called ‘a calamitous day’ (dies feralis). The absence of children’s informal images also expresses the notion that childhood is a hazardous stage. Carefree pleasure is potentially dangerous, because it attracts envy, phthonos, which can kill. Thoughtlessness occurs in allegorical portraits of children transformed into Eros/​Cupid, that neither disease, nor death itself, can affect. Cupids are fearless substitutes who can be depicted engaged in all sorts of activities, boldly gesturing, wittily laughing and smiling (cf. Néraudau 1984: 243–​246; Dasen 2017). The sober faces of Roman children also refer to another cultural notion: in Roman society, childhood could be appreciated as a dulcissima aetas, ‘the happiest days’ of one’s life (Plin. Ep. 2.18.1), but it was not a lost paradise, nor a period of full carefreeness. It was a period of training the body and the soul. As in the physiognomical texts, their reserved facial expression and their posture compose a discourse on their psychological and moral qualities, marking the transition to manhood.These features conform to the codes of self-​presentation of the male elite as expressed in the paideia of the Second Sophistic (Gleason 2008). These codes further belong to the longue durée. In the Renaissance, the famous treatise of Erasmus De civilitate morum puerilium (1530), A Handbook on Good Manners for Children, continues to attach great importance to the regulation of laughter since childhood: Raucous laughter and uncontrollable giggles that rock the whole body, and for which reason are known as shaking, are not appropriate at any age, but especially in youth. … If something happens that’s so funny that you can’t help but laugh like this, make sure you cover your face with a napkin or a hand. transl. E. Merchant, 2008

The memory of children and familial identity Children’s imagines Children were socially modelled to fit the aspirations of their families, but in return they also played an important role in the construction of familial identity, in élite and non-​élite circles (Dasen 2010a). In traditional Roman aristocratic circles, family memory was preserved by use 113

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Figure 7.2  The bust of the young L. Vibius Felicio Felix placed between his parents Source: Marble relief (75 × 95 × 21 cm). Rome, Musei Vaticani, inv. GC 2109. Neg. D-​DAI-​ROM 43.429. Photographer: C. Faraglia

of wax portraits of ancestors, imagines maiorum, which depicted powerful male office holders; they were kept in the atrium, the most public part of the house, sheltered in a wooden cupboard (Flower 1996: 40–​46). In the late Republican /​early imperial period, freedmen families adopted aristocratic habits of commemoration (Petersen 2006). On funerary reliefs, they are often depicted as busts, real or imaginary, in order to display personal achievement and respectability (D’Ambra 2002: 224–​230). The role of children appears especially significant. On the mid-​Augustan monument of the Vibii (13 BC–​AD 5), the bust of the young L. Vibius Felicio Felix is placed between his parents (Fig. 7.2). The child is shown only in the abridged form of a portrait bust, not as a person (CIL 6.28774; Backe-​Dahmen 2006: no R15, pl. 6a; Mander 2013: no 14; see also the Vettii, Mander 2013: no 4, fig. 57). Did the Vibii want to show that they owned precious objects, such as portrait busts (D’Ambra 2002: 226)? The function of the depiction may be deeper. The severe and dignified expression of the child reveals the parents’ ambition. They compensate for the absence of prestigious ancestors by valuing their freeborn descendants, placing their pride not in their earlier, but in their future lineage. The child, who may be still alive, thus becomes a substitute for patrician ancestors. The importance of children appears also in domestic spaces. Parents ordered portraits in various materials, as did M. Aquilius Regulus for his lost son. Pliny the Younger (Ep. 4.7) explains that he ordered a profusion of imagines of the boy in order to keep his memory alive: statues (statuas) and busts (imagines) of him by the dozen; immediately all the artisans in Rome are set to work. In colours, wax, bronze, silver, gold, ivory, marble, the young Regulus is depicted again and again. 114

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Figure 7.3  Plaster mould of Claudia Victoria (H. 18 cm) Source: Lugdunum. Photo © J.-​M. Degueule

Children’s portraits could also be taken directly from the child’s face through moulding, as in the ancient aristocratic practice. A series of plaster moulds found in funerary contexts (second to fourth centuries AD) preserves the facial features of children, mostly girls, from non-​élite families. The earliest dates to c. AD 70–​15, and was found in the stone sarcophagus of a girl in Lyon (Lugdunum). An inscribed stela gives her name, Claudia Victoria, and her age, ten years, one month, and eleven days. The father’s name is unknown, possibly because he was a soldier not allowed to marry, and the girl bears the name of her mother, Claudia Severina (Fig. 7.3) (Dasen 2010: 125, fig. 5.4). Two other plaster moulds come from the mausoleum of a wealthy freedman, C. Valerius Herma, in the Roman necropolis of Saint Peter in the Vatican (c. AD 160–​ 180; Mielsch and von Hesberg 1995: 143–​208; Dasen 2010: 126–​131, fig. 5.5–​5.6). Inscriptions inform us that Valerius Herma constructed this tomb for himself, his wife Flavia Olympia, daughter of Titus, his daughter Valeria Maxima, who lived twelve years, his son C.  Valerius Olympianus, who died at the age of four years, five months, thirteen days, and his freedmen, freedwomen, and their descendants. The moulds belonged to the children mentioned in the inscription or to other members of his domus, such as the alumni, Caius Valerius Asiatus, who lived two years, eleven months, and three days, and Caius Appaienus Castus, who lived eight years, ten months, and twenty-​eight days. The asymmetrical position of the lips of the small girl may indicate that she had a cleft lip, or was perhaps some device placed in her mouth? The latest example is the mould of a baby, a few months old, discovered in Paris in 1878 in a stone sarcophagus dating to the third to fourth centuries AD (Dasen 2010: 131–​132, fig. 5.8). A round hole appears in the middle of the lips, as if a straw had been inserted in the mouth to facilitate breathing; the child was perhaps still alive when the mould was taken. These moulds may thus witness the appropriation of élite habits in non-​élite families which ordered cheap realistic plaster or wax portraits of their children. C. Valerius Herma was himself a freedman with a special taste for self-​representation. He multiplied various types of family portraiture in the mausoleum: stucco standing portraits in niches, marble reliefs, and plaster busts of 115

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adults and children (Mielsch and von Hesberg 1995: 143–​208). Inexpensive children’s wax or plaster portraits were thus part of the various types of imagines displayed in Roman households. In non-​élite families, which appropriated aristocratic habits, they answered specific needs. They were the means for constructing the memory of families who invested their ambitions in their descendants and substituted their own children for illustrious ancestors.

Remembering children Wax and plaster portraits witness the desire to keep alive a faithful memory of the facial features of the child at its real age. True likeness could help to alleviate the pain of the loss. The father of a nine year-​old-​girl, Asiatica, complains because the features, voltus, of his beloved alumna have forever disappeared, and he hopes to see her face again when reunited in death: ‘My consolation will be that soon I shall see you’ (CIL 11.3771; Bellemore and Rawson 1990: 1–​19, esp. 8). Similarly Statius evokes the pain endured at the sight of the face, ora, of a beloved young son destroyed by the flames of the pyre (Silv. 3.3.8-​12); the desperate husband of Priscilla orders portraits of his wife sculpted in wax, ivory, gold, and in painting, in order to bring back her shade from the pyre (Stat. Silv. 5.1.8-​9). The consolation of mimetism, however, has its limitations. Likeness can hurt by providing a too vivid sense of loss. A poem in the Palatine Anthology regrets the skill of the painter who rendered too faithfully the features of the deceased Theodote (Anth. Pal. 7.565). A less expert artist would have alleviated the pain. Lucan (first century AD) describes how the parents of twin brothers suffer to see the surviving son; his view is a daily reminder of the dead child: ‘The wretched parents, no longer puzzled by the likeness, recognised the one survivor but found in him a source of unending sorrow; for he keeps their grief ever present and recalls his lost brother to their mourning hearts’ (Civil War 3.605–​608; Dasen 2005: 260). Similarly, Fronto’s grandson revives the loss of another child: ‘For in his lineaments I behold the other whom I have lost, I seem to see a copy of his face and fancy that I hear the very echo of his voice. This is the picture that my grief conjures up of itself. But not knowing the dead child’s face I fret myself away with imagining what he was like’ (Fronto Ep. 6). In his Consolation to Marcia, Seneca the Younger contrasts the reactions of Livia and Octavia at the death of their sons. Livia never ceased to proclaim the name of Drusus, and to talk about him: ‘she had him pictured everywhere in private and public places’ (Sen. Cons. Marc. 6.3.1-​2). At the death of Marcellus, Octavia, ‘remained during her whole life as if she was at the funeral’, she turned away from the living: ‘Not a single portrait, imago, would she have of her darling son, not one mention of his name in her hearing; she hated all mothers … she spurned the poems that were written to glorify the memory of Marcellus and all other literary honours, and closed her ears to every form of consolation’ (Sen. Cons. Marc. 6.2.4). Idealisation may have represented a soothing compromise. Posthumous portraits could be willingly idealised. In art, as in epitaphs, the figure of a winged Cupid could substitute for that of the real child, as on the marble cippus of L. Papirius Speratus who lived three years and three months (mid to late second century AD; CIL 6.23797; Mander 2013: no 122). Suetonius reports that a son of Agrippina and Germanicus died when he had reached boyhood, puerascens, a most witty child, insigni festivitate. His name is not preserved but Livia dedicated a portrait of him in the guise of Cupid, effigiem habitu cupidinis, in the temple of Venus on the Capitolium; Augustus himself had another portrait placed in his bedroom, ‘and used to kiss it fondly whenever he entered the room’ (Suet. Calig. 7). In a more subtle way, Pliny the Younger invites Vestricius Spurinna to instruct him in writing a memorial for his deceased son. As a painter or a sculptor is directed when he makes a portrait, 116

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‘so I hope you will guide and inform my hand’. Retouching is not deceitful; on the contrary, it contributes to making an immortal picture (Plin. Ep. 3.10.6). Commemorative portraits, verbal, painted or sculpted, thus conveyed a physiognomic likeness made according to adjustments and conventions, such as the gravitas of young children that reflected family expectations. Lack of verism should not be interpreted as a lack of skill, but as a choice. Making the choice of excessive likeness was not a necessary one. The favour of Cupids in late Republican and Imperial Roman art thus should still be explored as a reflection of the sensitivity towards the lively natural behaviour of childhood, that could not be expressed in formal portraits.

Conclusion This survey shows that far from being ‘a preparatory stage for adulthood, to be traversed as rapidly as was biologically reasonable, and nothing more’ (Finley 1989: 5), Roman childhood was seen as a separate stage in the life cycle, composed of several steps, each with physical and intellectual qualities and defects, as was the case for the other ages of life. A number of authors describe how adults enjoyed the specific attitudes of young children, girls as well as boys, such as their smiles, babbling, vivacity, and remarkable memory capacities. In his Consolations to his Wife, Plutarch records the pleasure provided by her two-​year-​old daughter, as she was herself ‘the most delightful thing in the world to embrace, to see, to hear … a surprising natural gift of mildness and good temper’ (Mor. 608c-​d). These characteristics explain medical and educational concern; a body and a soul soft like wax could be shaped and trained since early childhood in order to meet social expectations. The omnipresence of death was thus a source of anxiety, reflected by constant care –​medical, religious, and magical –​placing children under the patronage of various deities. Growing up was not perceived as a continuum: the process was composed of steps associated with the gradual integration into the family and society, often marked by ritual acts that amuletic charms may reflect.

Acknowledgements This research is part of Locus Ludi. The Cultural Fabric of Play and Games in Classical Antiquity (grant no 741520) funded by the European Research Council under the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation programme (www.locusludi.ch).

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8 FROM BIRTH TO REBIRTH Perceptions of childhood in Greco-​Roman Egypt Lissette M. Jiménez

Introduction The study of children in the ancient world is fraught with problems, in part because the concept of childhood is defined by adults and explored through relationships between adults and children (Pudsey 2013: 484; see Cohen 2007). Likewise, divisive views about childhood, such as those presented in Philippe Ariès’ book Centuries of Childhood:  A Social History of Family Life, highlight the potential inaccuracies of our modern historical (and adult-​centered) interpretations (1962). Ariès argued that there was no distinction between the phases of childhood and adulthood in the premodern era and that high child mortality rates resulted in parental indifference toward their offspring, who had “neither mental activities nor recognizable bodily shape,” as “the little creatures” precariously navigated a “marginal zone” between life and death (1962: 128–​133, 38–​39). Ariès believed that the “callousness” of the Roman practice of exposure of newborn children demonstrated parents’ feelings of indifference toward the overall concept of childhood and an emotional divestment from their children (1962: 39).While some scholars of the ancient world have espoused a variety of similar views undoubtedly influenced by the work of Ariès, others have found it difficult to ignore the plethora of literary and pictorial evidence indicating that temporally and culturally specific concepts of childhood existed in the ancient world and that parents often had a marked investment in their children (Ariès 1962; for discussion of views on childhood influenced by Ariès, see Cohen 2007: 6–​11). The convergence of various cultural traditions with specific ideas and views about the distinct nature of a child in Ptolemaic and Roman Egypt complicates our understanding of an underlying conception of childhood (Archard 1993: 21–​28; Pudsey 2013: 484–​485). Nevertheless, the abundant textual, archaeological, and visual material culture from these periods illuminates the experiences of children and the characteristics of childhood in ancient societies. Two types of evidence, in particular, provide information about children and childhood in Greco-​Roman Egypt: textual sources regarding unborn and living offspring and pictorial representations of deceased children. Evidence suggests non-​adults were meaningfully distinguished from adults through the use of age-​specific terms in literature and visual markers in pictorial representations (for terms related to children, see Dickey 2004; Parkin 2010; Parca 2013: 466). This chapter will focus on the written and visual evidence as a means of understanding the social construction of childhood. Together, the textual and visual sources elucidate the role of children within 121

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family and society and reveal how society—​shaped primarily by adults—​perceived children in Greco-​Roman  Egypt.

From conception to birth Conceiving a child The first century CE Demotic literary text of Setne II (P. BM 604) (British Museum EA10822,1) is written on the verso of two reused Greek land-​register papyri from Crocodilopolis (circa 46–​47 CE) and recounts the miraculous conception and birth of Setne-​Khaemwaset’s son Si-​ Osire (Lichtheim 1980: 125–​127; Simpson 2003: 470–​471). The beginning of the story is lost, but based on what is preserved in the text, it is clear that the tale begins with Setne and his wife Mehusekhe’s desire to conceive a child. As a result, they have turned to the gods in prayer (Lichtheim 1980: 138). It is revealed to Mehusekhe in a dream that she should make a potion of melon vines, drink it, and have intercourse with her husband on that very night. Mehusekhe did as she was instructed, and “when [her time of purification came she had] the sign [of a woman who has conceived. It was announced to Setne, and] his heart was very happy on account of it. He [hung] an amulet [on her] and recited a spell to her” (Lichtheim 1980: 138). In a dream, Setne is told that his wife will give birth to a son named Si-​Osire. Shortly after, Mehusekhe gave birth in accordance with Setne’s dream, and Si-​Osire was “[put] at the breast, /​… [they] cradled [him] and nurtured him” (Simpson 2003: 472). The story of Setne gives an intimate portrait of a married couple trying to conceive a child and the emotion connected with the eventual pregnancy and birth of their son. It is clear from the text that both Setne and Mehusekhe longed for a child, and it is plausible that they had been trying to conceive for quite some time before seeking divine intervention. It was not uncommon for an individual to visit a local oracle and summon divine advice.The Predictions of Astrampsychos, an oracle book with designated questions and answers, preserves a series of responses that attest to anxiety regarding conception, childbirth, and the potential death of the mother and child (Rowlandson 1998: 282–​284, no. 218). For example, one might ask “Will I beget children?” and receive a collection of responses that range from “You are going to beget children now” to “You have the lot of a childless person” (Rowlandson 1998: 283–​284, no. 218). Literary and textual evidence details the concerns associated with conceiving and birthing a child. The emotion surrounding this period in a couple’s life may also have been motivated by social and economic interests. Greco-​Roman marriage and divorce contracts document the exchange of practical provisions such as property, and how a wife and her children would inherit these personal assets in the event of divorce or widowhood (Malouta 2012: 289–​292). Likewise, issues related to a wife’s infertility or the inability to produce a male heir and questions of who would care for a couple or individual in old age were serious economic concerns (Pomeroy 1997: 193–​194; Malouta 2012: 291–​292). Several legal documents and marriage contracts (Adam 1983: 10; Rowlandson 1998: 165–​172, 289–​290, no. 224) record specific pregnancy stipulations requiring a husband to support a mother and her child if the couple divorces while his wife is pregnant (Parca 2013: 478–​479; also see Parca 2012). Parca aptly notes that these types of clauses in marriage agreements, which were drawn up before the birth of children,“affords another view on the central importance of children in Ptolemaic family and society” (2013: 479).

Protecting the infant The colorful narrative of the Setne tale describes the precautions both Setne and Mehusekhe took to protect their child during pregnancy. Amulets fashioned out of faience, metal, or stone 122

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with figures of the protective deity Bes, or Isis nursing her son Harpokrates, were meant to safeguard the wearer. A  Greco-​Roman jasper amulet (Kelsey Museum of Archaeology 26110) depicts Isis seated on a throne nursing Harpokrates on one side and a bearded figure of Bes, the traditional protector of women and childbirth, on the other. Inscribed on both sides of the talisman are incantations that possessed magical power in the arrangement of the letters that would have protected the wearer as the words were recited aloud (Bonner 1950: 11–​12, 258, no. 30). Amulets such as these were worn by women during and after pregnancy to magically safeguard the mother and child. The literary image of Mehusekhe nursing Si-​Osire mimicked the image of Isis nursing her son and protected the two as they proceeded through a perilous time in the infant’s life. Personal letters between family members support the notion that births were celebratory occasions in Greco-​Roman Egypt. A  second century BCE letter (P. Munich III 57)  from a mother to her daughter Tryphaina who has just given birth, captures the woman’s excitement over learning about the birth of her granddaughter (Rowlandson 1998: 291–​292, no. 225): If you are well, it would be as (I wish). I pray to the gods to know that you are healthy. We received the letter from you in which you (Tryphaina) announce that you have given birth to your child. I kept praying to the gods every day on your behalf. Now that you have escaped, I am spending my days in the greatest joy … Don’t hesitate to name the little one “Kleopatra”. The author of the letter is overjoyed to hear of the successful birth, and she even suggests a name for the newborn child that shows a family connection with the Ptolemaic Dynasty and its Macedonian heritage (Bagnall and Cribiore 2006: 76–​77). This text underscores the level of affection family members felt toward newborn infants and the emotional strength and support provided by their involvement. Textual evidence details familial involvement and anticipation over the prospective and successful births of children.The notion that parents were guarded and reserved when it came to the birth and life of a child due to concerns about infant mortality is not an accurate assumption.

Lived experiences of children A child’s first birthday Given the high mortality rates of children in Greco-​Roman Egypt, environmental factors along with social and cultural childcare practices determined the survival of a child during the first year of his or her life (Pudsey 2015:  218). The risk of illness and death at an early age was a primary concern for families with young children, as evidenced by a fourth century CE magic formula (P. Lund IV 12) for a young girl who is ill (Pudsey 2015: 218). Consequently, celebrations of milestones such as a first birthday were important social events centered around children. Nursing contracts and letters dating to the second century CE show that people were eager to celebrate the first birthday of a child, which was called genethlia or genesia among the Greeks residing in Egypt (Rowlandson 1998: 296–​297, no. 232; Parca 2013: 272). Guests and family members were invited to feast and commemorate the child’s first year of life. In a letter from Oxyrhynchus (P. Oxyrhynchus XXXVI 2791), Diogenes invites a guest to dine for the first birthday of his daughter. Monserrat suggested that the first birthday of some elite children during the Roman Period was ritualized, and the festivities were held in reserved rooms of temples such as the Serapeum (1996: 33–​34). However, Parca notes that the documentation for 123

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such birthday celebrations in the Ptolemaic Period is scarce, with the exception of a mid-​third century BCE letter (P. Cairo Zenon. 3.59419 and P. Cairo Zenon 4) where Demetrios reminds Zenon to serve wine, a suckling pig, and bread and cakes for the genethlia (or birthday) of his “little” Demetrios (Parca 2013: 472).The ample textual evidence suggests that ritualized birthday celebrations were a more common occurrence in the Roman Period than in the Ptolemaic Period. In both instances, however, the first birthday of a child provided an occasion for family and friends to gather socially and engage in shared customs as a means of strengthening and unifying the family and community around a shared interest: the well-​being and survival of a member of their society (Parca 2013: 472).

Education and child–​parent relationships For most children in Greco-​Roman Egypt, education began at home. Family members and parents, particularly fathers, provided instruction to children that supplemented lessons from school teachers or acted as a substitute for formal schooling when cost was an insurmountable factor (Cribiore 2001: 102–​105). Education was privately organized, and depending on the means of the family, the responsibility fell on the parent to secure a teacher, send the child away to be educated if more sophisticated instruction was not available locally, and cover the associated costs (Benaissa 2012: 528; Cribiore 2001: 111). Literacy was a means through which a family could assert their status and facilitate upward social mobility and professional advancement for their offspring. Given the significant amount of time and resources invested in the education of a child, parents felt a sense of urgency and anxiety over the status of their child’s education (Parca 2012: 474; also see Bagnall and Cribiore 2006: 76–​77). Care and concern for children often appear in letters relating to the education of a child (see P. Michigan 8.464). A second century CE letter (P. Oxyrhynchus III.531) from Cornelius to his son Hierax studying in Oxyrhynchus demonstrates the extent of a father’s involvement in his son’s education. Cornelius reminds his “dearest” son that “everyone in the household salutes you … pay attention only to your books, devoting yourself to learning, and they will bring you profit …” (Cribiore 2001: 115–​116). The father continues his letter with details of allowances of money and supplies and advice to his son regarding proper attire and social conduct. Despite being away from home, young students needed practical advice and assistance from parents who maintained a level of supervision from a distance. While it is easy to impose our own modern biases on reading the personal correspondence between a parent and child, it remains clear that parents asserted a strong interest and engagement in the education of their children (Cribiore 2001: 105). There are few examples of letters written by children, but these types of exchanges give important insight into the often elusive lived experience of non-​adults in Greco-​Roman Egypt (for additional examples, see Huebner 2013:  66–​72). The ages of the children writing the letters are not explicitly stated, but it is likely that they were pursuing secondary studies and were roughly between the ages of twelve and fifteen years old (Benaissa 2012: 529–​530; Parca 2012: 474). In their correspondence with parents, children express concerns over the well-​being of the family, tuition expenses, and provisions from home (Cribiore 2001: 116–​117). A second century CE letter written by the student Thonis to his father Arion captures the boy’s frustration and angst (Cribiore 2001: 110): I have written you five times and you wrote back only once, never mentioning your health, nor have you come to visit. Though you promised me … I send greetings to

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everybody in the family … Goodbye, my lord and father, may you be well, together with my brothers free from harm. (Postscript) Remember my pigeons. SB III.6262 In his letter, Thonis conveys a sense of abandonment, homesickness, and dissatisfaction with his father who has not kept in touch and has not come to visit him (Cribiore 2001: 111–​113; Pudsey 2013: 504). It must be noted that only the male child perspective is gleaned from the evidence of letters written by young students, since only some elite girls received an education and studying away from home was not an option afforded to females (Cribiore 2001: 104).

Child apprenticeships and household interactions Attending school was not a reality for most children in Greco-​Roman Egypt. Oftentimes children were informally educated at home and were expected to learn a trade-​specific craft or to work full-​time on the family farm and thus contribute to the household income (Huebner 2013: 75). First century CE apprenticeship contracts document that boys, freeborn or slaves, could be sent out to learn a craft such as weaving, metalwork, flute-​playing, hairdressing, or embalming (Cribiore 2001:  82; Huebner 2013:  76–​77). Apprenticeship contracts detail the duration of work, number of holidays, food provisions, and wages paid to a family in exchange for a child’s labor (Huebner 2013: 76). Although not as common, girls, most of whom were slaves, also received training in weaving and shorthand-​writing (Cribiore 2001: 82). For families undergoing economic hardships, children could be forced into multi-​year apprenticeships in return for a loan that would be deemed to be paid back in full once the services rendered were complete (Huebner 2013: 77–​78; for examples, see P. Oxyrhyncus 67.4596 and P. Oxyrhyncus 31.2586). In such cases, children were not allowed to leave their master’s house and worked without receiving wages. A third century BCE letter (P. Columbia. 3.6) from a mother named Simale details the mistreatment of her son Herophantos by an individual named Olympichos. Grief-​stricken, Simale recounts that she had been prevented from seeing her son, and once she was reunited with him, she “found him lying down in a hardly laughable state … But when Olympichos arrived he said that by beating him rotten he would make him—​or that he had already made him—​as someone who was already nearly decent” (Bagnall and Cribiore 2006: 100). The overseer’s attitude toward the child is reflective of a societal mind-​set in which child laborers were viewed as a commodity. Herophantos’ household would have considered him an economic asset, and it was in the family’s best interest to assure the child’s health and secure payment for his labor. In his study of child beating in Roman antiquity, Laes suggests that “it may have been usual to accustom the child to the world of work and labour by the use of physical persuasion, taking it as a rule of thumb never to damage children in such a way that they become useless for work” (2005: 87). One can only surmise the composition of Simale and Herophantos’ family. Bagnall and Frier have used Roman census returns to study household size and composition and posit that the average size of a household in an Egyptian village was 4.82 persons, with the average size of an urban household being slightly lower at 4.3 persons (Bagnall and Frier 1994: 57–​66; Nevett 2011:  24–​25; Heubner 2011; Malouta 2012:  296–​297). Forty percent of all people lived in multi-​family households and thirty-​five percent lived in nuclear families (Bagnall and Frier 2006: 60; Huebner 2011: 77–​78). Nevett’s study of archaeological evidence from the sites of Karanis in the Fayum and Kellis in the Dakhleh Oasis, along with textual documentation,

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establishes that households were relatively fluid and “clear distinctions may not have been drawn between individuals and groups with or without biological relationships” (2011: 29). In other words, the textual and archeological evidence shows that “the majority of the people [in Greco-​Roman Egypt] lived in multiple-​family households consisting of several married couples together with their offspring” (Huebner 2011: 90). Children lived with a considerable number of adults such as parents, step-​parents, aunts and uncles, and occasionally grandparents too (see Pudsey 2013: 490–​500). Census documents indicate that children (especially non-​elite children in Roman Egypt) experienced a domestic life surrounded by other non-​adults, typically more than four related or unrelated children, who may have been siblings, cousins, lodgers, and even slaves (Thompson 2002 and 2006; Pudsey 2013: 494). In terms of socialization, children were exposed to intergenerational relationships that directly contributed to their cognitive and social growth over time.

Gendered initiation rites If the child survived, puberty was the next celebrated period in his or her life. According to Montserrat’s study of sex and society in Greco-​Roman Egypt (1996: 36): puberty seems to have been defined in terms of sexual maturation around the standard age of thirteen or fourteen, though this is not the case with all societies; puberty is essentially a social or cultural construct of what it is to be “adult”, and therefore puberty rituals can take place long before or after the bodily signs of adulthood are manifested, as early as six or as late as twenty years old. The circumcision of males was a ritual with roots in Pharaonic Egypt (see Harrington, this volume), but the practice did not persist in the Ptolemaic Period, “perhaps in response to the Greek revulsion for circumcision” (Montserrat 1996: 37). In the Roman Period, the practice was not performed at the age of puberty and was only mandatory for members of the priestly class, but the process involved lengthy bureaucratic procedures that required obtaining permission from the high priest (Montserrat 1996: 37; see P.Tebtunis II 292). Scholars debate whether female circumcision was actually practiced in Greco-​Roman Egypt and whether it would have paralleled the rite of male circumcision (Knight 2001; Huebner 2009; for arguments against the practice of female circumcision, see Montserrat 1991: 47–​49; 1996:  41–​48). It is difficult to ignore the many observations of female genital mutilation recorded by Classical writers and historians such as Strabo, Herodotus, and Diodorus (Huebner 2009:  156–​ 164). According to these sources, various levels of female circumcision were practiced on girls around the time of their menarche as a means of curbing their sexual desire and as a precondition to marriage that would have ensured fidelity (Huebner 2009: 155–​156). Huebner convincingly argues that the rite of female genital mutilation was related to the celebration of the therapeuteria, a festival held for a girl at the time of puberty. Third century CE dinner invitations from Oxyrhynchus document requests from fathers to privately dine on the occasion of their daughters’ therapeuteria (Montserrat 1991: 45–​46; Huebner 2009: 150–​153). Regardless of whether or not the ritual of female genital mutilation and the therapeuteria were related events, both of these occasions were rites of passage for young girls at the time of puberty. These celebrations with family and friends were exceptional, since festivities other than weddings and births were so rarely granted to females. Nevertheless, the celebration of the therapeuteria was significant because it was a social gathering marking a girl’s transition into

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womanhood and was meant to establish the family’s standing within the local community (Huebner 2009: 151). The male counterpart to the therapeuteria is said to be the mallokouria, the ritual of hair-​ cutting associated with civic status for young males (Monserrat 1991: 45–​46; Montserrat 1996: 39–​41). Wearing the sidelock of youth and the shearing of the lock as a symbol of transition from childhood to adulthood has its origins in Pharaonic Egyptian tradition (see Harrington, this volume; see also Beaumont, this volume, for the significance of hair cutting and growing in Archaic and Classical Greece). Unlike the therapeuteria, which took place in a private home, the mallokouria was a larger ritualized event that often took place in public spaces such as the Serapeum of Alexandria (see P. Oxyrhynchus XLIX 3463). The public nature and the ritualization of the cutting of the hair implies that this was an important rite of passage for young elite boys transitioning towards adult citizenship in Hellenistic Egypt.

The death of a child Child mummies and family burials Many children did not often survive long enough to experience adulthood in Greco-​Roman Egypt. The treatment afforded to deceased children exposes the nature of personal relationships within families and within the larger community (Pomeroy 1997: 100). Funerary art, in particular painted portraits and shrouds, along with archaeological evidence presents an intimate picture of the identities, lives, and deaths of children in Roman Egypt. Since mature family members were responsible for coordinating funerary arrangements, the portraits of deceased children reveal adult perceptions of them, along with the appropriate social customs used to commemorate premature death. The considerable expense and care dedicated to the funerary preparations for a child are indicative of a family’s relationship with the young individual and representative of a society’s conception of the child’s life and death. Deir el-​Medina tomb 1407, known as the Pebos family burial, is a second to third century CE family burial for a central individual, Pebos, son of Krates, and his extended family lineage. Tomb 1407 was located in the cellar of house C3, which contained five vaulted coffins, one reused Third Intermediate Period coffin, and two mummies (Bruyère and Bataille 1936–​ 1937: 150). The five vaulted coffins were inscribed in Greek with names and genealogies, and record that at least two generations of individuals from the Pebos family were interred together (Montserrat and Meskell 1997: 188). One coffin inscription indicates that two pre-​adolescent youths, a boy named Psenmont and a girl named Sarapias, died at the age of eleven (Riggs 2005: 214). Although these two children shared one coffin, each was carefully wrapped in linen bandages and adorned with intricately decorated gilded masks (Riggs 2005: nos. 109 and 113). Despite sharing a single coffin, there is no discernible distinction between the treatment of their burial when compared to that of their adult family members. Their burial ensemble is carefully crafted, and they were likely placed within a single coffin due to their smaller stature, similar age, or the fact that they were buried on the same day. Riggs (2005: 215) also notes that the masks are almost identical in manufacture and decoration, which implies that the mummies were prepared together. A rare example of a double infant burial dating to the second century CE from Thebes is a coffin constructed and painted specifically for two young individuals who died during the first few years of their lives (National Museum Scotland A. 1956.357 B; see Sheridan 2000). In this instance, the two children were mummified and wrapped in fairly coarse linen and laid to rest in a painted double coffin constructed to fit the bodies of two small deceased 127

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individuals. Like the burials of Psenmont and Sarapias, it is possible that these two infants were related and died together. These examples are noteworthy since they illustrate how the burials of children received the same care and attention as those of adults. Returning to the example of the Pebos family tomb, the treatment of deceased children can also be seen in the presence of a small mummified child resting on top of the mummy of a woman with whom he shares a coffin (Bruyère and Bataille 1936–​1937: Pl. IV). The inscription on the coffin only identifies the woman as “the daughter of Herieus” and the child as “Krates, son of Pebos”. It has been suggested that this woman is the wife of Pebos and the child is his son (Bruyère and Bataille 1936–​1937; Montserrat and Meskell 1997:  190–​191). Unfortunately, the coffin’s inscription does not provide details about her age, the child’s age, or the dates of their deaths. The child’s mummy was wrapped in linen bandages like the rest of the Pebos family mummies, but he was not given a decorated mask, unlike the other two children in the tomb. Despite the lack of a funerary mask, the name of the boy was recorded in the coffin inscription, and the body of the child was carefully wrapped and nestled between the breasts of the deceased female. Even if the woman was not the child’s mother, it is significant that the child was laid to rest with a maternal figure who was meant to care for him after death; the child was not left alone. Unfortunately, the mummies were unwrapped in the field and only the coffin panels with inscriptions and mummy masks were preserved, making it impossible to know more about the mummification and treatment of the children’s bodies. Nonetheless, the archaeological and textual materials indicate that the identities of the Pebos family children were remembered through coffin inscriptions, and their physical bodies were carefully preserved for eternity.

Child portraits and apotropaic imagery Relationships between family members and children remain intact even in death. The careful treatment of a child’s burial is apparent in the elaborately painted mid-​to-​late second-​century CE funerary portrait of a child in the J. Paul Getty Museum (78.AP.262) (Fig. 8.1). The portrait, which would have been secured to the mummified body of the child, depicts a young boy with a shaved head except for two small locks above the forehead and a gold ornamented sidelock of youth on his right side. His dark, overlarge, and irregular eyes are lined with kohl, which was used “to ward away the evil eye and to encourage good health for the wearer” (Ikram 2003: 251). A gold and garnet studded amulet case is suspended around his neck by a simple black band, perhaps of leather. The boy wears a creamy-​white tunic with a purple clavus and a mantle on his left shoulder decorated with a horizontal H-​motif (Walker and Bierbrier 1997: 99–​100, no. 61; Thompson 1982: 40–​41, no. 5; Borg 1998: 68–​69, no. 81).The “shadows” beneath the boy’s eyes and “the pallor” of his skin is suggestive of “mortal illness” (Walker and Bierbrier 1997: 100). The child died prematurely, and it is easy to project our own interpretation of his physical health onto the portrait, but without the mummy of the boy, we will never know the cause of his death. Nevertheless, his hairstyle and amulet yield more direct clues about his health and his family’s attempt to heal the young boy. Ikram suggests that the boy’s unusual tufted hairstyle is a type of Egyptian healing remedy where parents would allow the hair to grow until the child was cured from illness (2003: 249–​250; for parallels, see the shroud of a boy in the British Museum EA 6715). Once the child was deemed healthy, the hair would be ritually cut and offered. It is also possible that the tufted hairstyle was a way of magically protecting a child and drew a connection between the child and the child-​god Harpokrates, who was also depicted with a similar hairstyle (e.g. the statuette of Horus the Child in the Bibliotheca Alexandrina Antiquities Museum 01/​027/​14702, and the fresco of 128

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Figure 8.1  Funerary portrait of a boy, unknown provenance, c. 150–​200 CE Source: The J. Paul Getty Museum 78.AP.262 (digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Context Program)

Isis breastfeeding Horus at Karanis; Harrington: pers. comm. 2016). Furthermore, the amulet worn around the child’s neck was meant to hold papyri with magical spells to protect him from diseases, spirits, and the evil eye (see a papyrus amulet against fever, P.Tebtunis II 275).The young boy was never healed, and despite significant efforts, his family was unable to keep him from premature death. By commissioning a funerary portrait with magico-​medicinal imagery of the boy with tufted hair wearing an amulet and kohl-​lined eyes, his family expressed their care and concern for his well-​being in the afterlife.

Adolescent funerary shrouds and social commemoration An early third-​century CE funerary shroud (British Museum EA 6709) of a youth from Sheikh Abd el-​Qurna represents another type of funerary treatment afforded to adolescents and displays social, religious, and conceptual dimensions of childhood in Greco-​Roman Egypt (Fig. 8.2). The elaborately decorated funerary shroud was discovered intact with the mummy of a boy aged twelve to fifteen years (see Filer 1997). The shroud depicts a young boy with curly black hair, rounded face, and overlarge eyes. There are no traces of a beard on his youthful face, suggestive of his prepubescent age. He wears a white tunic decorated with reddish clavi. A total of fifteen vignettes are presented on the shroud with seven on either side of the central figure and one below his feet. Each image is highly specific and nuanced, with scenes to the left of the portrait representing an account of the youth’s death and the feelings associated with his untimely loss, while the scenes to the right of the portrait depict the youth’s journey to the afterlife and his rebirth in idealized form (Jiménez 2014: 160). The images on the viewer’s left side faithfully reproduce Greek iconographic traditions adapted for Egyptian burial practices, and the images on the right express the Egyptian conception of death. Three scenes on the left side demonstrate the grief and social loss of the boy’s premature death while emphasizing the importance of maternal love. The scenes are to be read counterclockwise beginning from the viewer’s top left and circling around the central figure. The third register from the top presents an image of the goddess Nemesis, who can also be interpreted as the boy’s mother. Walker and Montserrat suggest that the position of the figure close to the boy’s head is significant, since family mourners appear in equivalent positions on other late 129

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Figure 8.2  Funerary shroud of a youth, from Sheikh Abd el-​Qurna, c. early third century CE Source: British Museum EA 6709 (© Trustees of the British Museum)

Roman shrouds (1998:  18; for a comparable example, see Louvre AF 6486 in Parlasca and Seeman 1999: 299–​301, no. 199). These figures communicate grief over the social and physical loss of the deceased, and thus have a paramount position in the social commemorative narrative constructed by the scenes flanking the central image of the boy (Jiménez 2014: 162). The second register from the bottom presents two seated female figures: Isis suckling Horus and Nephthys in a gesture of mourning with her cheek resting on her right hand (Walker and Montserrat 1998: 18). The themes of maternal protection and sustenance along with grief are clearly displayed. Directly below, a scene depicts a Hellenized version of the goddess Hathor seated before a sycamore fig tree while holding her breasts. Walker and Montserrat posit that the figure’s rolled-​down brown tunic is indicative of a person in mourning and suggest that this figure is also intended to represent the mother or wet-​nurse of the deceased (1998: 18–​ 19). Overall, the significant presence of female figures, who may represent the boy’s mother or maternal figures from his life, expresses a desire to continue to protect and nourish the deceased. Together with the scenes on the right side depicting traditional Egyptian funerary themes of lustration and the transfiguration of the deceased, the iconographic scheme presents a coherent narrative illustrating the rebirth of the deceased and his family’s desire to mourn and commemorate his untimely death.

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Conclusion Not all parents in antiquity evaded their parental duties; on the contrary, most were acutely aware of the vulnerability of childhood and the fragility of children’s lives (Parkin 2010:113). Cultural traditions, economic circumstances, and the desire to perpetuate the family line were strong motivating factors in the decision to conceive and raise children in the ancient world. Parents were expected to provide food and shelter, education, and moral guidance for their children in addition to celebrating milestones with family and friends (Huebner 2013:  66). Children represented the future of the family, and in raising their offspring, parents devoted themselves to nourishing and protecting them both physically and mentally. Households and extended family members openly celebrated the successful birth of a child and displayed excitement and emotional attachments through personal correspondence with family. For both elite and non-​elite children, textual sources from the perspectives of adults and occasionally children highlight childhood uncertainty and the parental and familial concern that was necessary for their survival. Children were educated, and young boys in particular were sent to study away from home in the hope of achieving status and upward mobility for the family. Non-​elite children were still cared for by their families, but from a young age bore the heavy responsibility of contributing financially to the household through apprenticeships and manual labor. Puberty signaled a time when boys and girls were initiated into a larger social community and were no longer perceived as children.Young boys became Hellenized citizens or members of a priestly class, and young girls were celebrated as they reached an age appropriate for marriage and childbearing. While the Greco-​Roman concept of childhood in Egypt had a series of socially constructed developmental life stages associated with schooling and work, coming-​of-​age celebrations distinguished childhood from adulthood. In death, children’s bodies and burials were treated similarly to those of their adult family members. Decorated coffins, masks, portraits, and shrouds, along with properly mummified bodies and funerary inscriptions, established connections between families and their deceased children. Painted portraits immortalized the images of children who died prematurely. Hellenistic naturalism and apotropaic imagery enabled artists and those commissioning the portraits to capture lifelike images of children and to protect them on their journey into the next world. Funerary shrouds not only commemorated deceased children, but also showed the importance of social mourning and maternal connections. These carefully crafted funerary images communicated affection and a continued desire to nurture children in the afterlife. Overall, textual and visual material culture from Greco-​Roman Egypt conveys valuable information about the life experiences of children and provides a unique insight into the perception of childhood from birth to rebirth.

References Adam, S. 1983. La femme enceinte dans les papyrus. Anagennesis 3: 9–​19. Archard, D. 1993. Children: rights and childhood. London: Routledge. Ariès, P. 1962. Centuries of childhood:  A social history of family life. R. Baldick (trans.). New  York:  Alfred A. Knopf. Bagnall, R.S. and Cribiore, R. 2006. Women’s letters from ancient Egypt, 300 BC–​AD 800. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Bagnall, R.S. and Frier, B.W. 1994. The demography of Roman Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Benaissa, A. 2012. Greek language, education, and literary culture. In: C. Riggs (ed.), The Oxford handbook of Roman Egypt. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 526–​542.

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Lissette M. Jiménez Bonner, C. 1950. Studies in magical amulets: Chiefly Graeco-​Egyptian. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Borg, B.1998. “Der zierlichste Anblick der Welt …” Ägyptische Porträtmumien. Mainz am Rhein: Phillip von Zabern. Bruyère, B. and Bataille, A. 1936–​1937. Une tombe gréco-​romaine de Deir el Médineh [1]‌. 36:145–​174. Cohen, A. 2007. Introduction:  childhood between past and present. In A. Cohen and J. Rutter (eds), Constructions of childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy. Hesperia Supplement 41. Princeton, NJ: American School of Classical Studies, 1–​22. Cribiore, R. 2001. Gymnastics of the mind: Greek education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Dickey, E. 2004. Rules without reasons? Words for children in papyrus letters. In: J.H.W. Penney (ed.), Indo-​European perspectives: Studies in honour of Anna Morpurgo Davies. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 119–​130. Filer, J. 1997. If the face fits:  A comparison of mummies and their accompanying portraits using computerised axial tomography. In: M.L. Bierbrier (ed.), Portraits and masks: Burial customs in Roman Egypt. London: British Museum Press, 121–​126 and pls. 44–​46. Huebner, S.R. 2009. Female circumcision as a rite de passage in Egypt: Continuity through millennia? JEgH 2: 149–​171. Huebner, S.R. 2011. Household composition in the ancient Mediterranean: What do we really know? In: B. Rawson (ed.), A companion to families in the Greek and Roman worlds. Oxford: Wiley-​Blackwell,  73–​91. Huebner, S.R. 2013. The family in Roman Egypt: A comparative approach to intergenerational solidarity and conflict. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ikram, S. 2003. A possible explanation for the tufted hairstyle depicted in the ‘Fayum’ portrait of a young boy (J.P. Getty 78.AP.262). JEA 89: 247–​251. Jiménez, L.M. 2014. Transfiguring the dead:  The iconography, commemorative use, and materiality of mummy shrouds from Roman Egypt. Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of California, Berkeley. Knight, M. 2001. Curing cut or ritual mutilation? Some remarks on the practice of female and male circumcision in Graeco-​Roman Egypt. Isis 92: 317–​338. Laes, C. 2005. Child beating in Roman antiquity. In:  K. Mustakallio, J. Hanska, H-​L. Sainio and V. Vuolanto (eds), Hoping for continuity:  Childhood, education and death in antiquity and the Middle Ages. Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae: 75–​89. Lichtheim, M. 1980. Ancient Egyptian literature volume 3:  The Late Period. Berkeley, CA:  University of California Press. Malouta, M. 2012. Families, households, and children. In: C. Riggs (ed.), The Oxford handbook of Roman Egypt. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 288–​304. Montserrat, D. 1991. Mallokouria and therapeuteria:  Rituals of transition in a mixed society? BASP 28: 43–​50. Montserrat, D. 1996. Sex and society in Graeco-​Roman Egypt. London: Kegan Paul International. Montserrat, D. and Meskell, L. 1997. Mortuary archaeology and religious landscape at Graeco-​Roman Deir el-​Medina. JEA 83:179–​197. Nevett, L. 2011. Family and household, ancient history and archaeology: A case study from Roman Egypt. In: B. Rawson (ed.), A companion to families in the Greek and Roman worlds. Oxford: Wiley-​Blackwell, 15–​31. Parca, M. 2012.Violence by and against women in documentary papyri from Ptolemaic and Roman Egypt. In: H. Melaerts and L. Mooren (eds), Le rôle et le statut de la femme en Égypte hellénistique, romaine et byzantine. Actes du colloque international, Bruxelles-​Leuven 27–​29 novembre 1997. Paris: Peeters: 283–​296. Parca, M. 2013. Children in Ptolemaic Egypt: What the papyri say. In: J. Evans and T. Parkin (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 465–​483. Parkin, T. 2010. Life cycle. In: M. Harlow and R. Laurence (eds), A cultural history of childhood and family in antiquity. London: Bloomsbury Publishing, 97–​114. Parlasca, K. and Seemann, H. 1999. Augenblicke: Mumienporträts und ägyptische Grabkunst aus römischer Zeit. Frankfurt: Klinkhardt and Biermann. Pomeroy, S.B. 1997. Families in Classical and Hellenistic Greece:  representations and realities. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Pudsey, A. 2013. Children in Roman Egypt. In: J. Evans and T. Parkin (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 484–​509.

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From birth to rebirth Pudsey, A. 2015. Children in Late Roman Egypt: family and everyday life in monastic contexts. In: C. Laes, K. Mustakallio and V.Vuolanto (eds), Children and family in Late Antiquity: Life, death and interaction. Leuven: Peeters, 215–​234. Riggs, C. 2005. The beautiful burial in Roman Egypt:  Art, identity, and funerary religion. Oxford:  Oxford University Press. Rowlandson, J. (ed.) 1998. Women and society in Greek and Roman Egypt: A sourcebook. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sheridan, J.A. (ed.) 2000. Heaven and hell and other worlds of the dead. Edinburgh:  National Museum of Scotland. Simpson, W.K. (ed.) 2003. The literature of ancient Egypt: An anthology of stories, instructions, stelae, autobiographies, and poetry. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Thompson, D.J. 2002. Families in early Ptolemaic Egypt. In: G. Ogden (ed.), The Hellenistic world: New perspectives. London: Classical Press of Wales and Duckworth, 137–​156. Thompson, D.J. 2006.The Hellenistic family. In: G.R. Bugh (ed.), The Cambridge companion to the Hellenistic world. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 93–​112. Thompson, D.L. 1982. Mummy portraits in the J. Paul Getty Museum. Malibu: The J. Paul Getty Museum. Walker, S. and Bierbrier, M.L. 1997. Ancient faces. London: British Museum Press. Walker, S. and Montserrat, D. 1998. A journey to the next world: The shroud of a youth from Roman Egypt. Apollo 148: 15–​19.

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9 LOOKING FOR CHILDREN IN LATE ANTIQUITY Geoffrey Nathan

When I was as a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. I Corinthians 13:11, King James Version With uncharacteristic brevity, Paul’s first letter to the Christian community at Corinth in the mid-​first century CE raises interesting questions about what it meant to be a minor in the ancient world, as well as what childhood meant in a broader, almost epistemological sense. In modern society, childhood is defined by a complex combination of biological, psychological and socially determined markers, but it is equally true that these vectors marked the course of ancient childhood as well. What differentiates the ancient from the modern understanding of the concept is how those vectors were plotted. Paul’s letter also invites questions about Christianity’s influence on these concepts, an issue that became increasingly important after the legalisation of the religion in the early fourth century. While Christians wrote about childhood and were concerned with the welfare of children almost from the religion’s inception, their ideas about the child and child rearing practices gained little visibility until Late Antiquity; for the most part, their ideas surrounding the young were for internal consumption (Bakke 2005; Horn and Martens 2009). The complex confluence of Christian and “traditional” Graeco-​Roman culture was a process of accommodation; and it was moreover one wherein a number of similar ideas about the under-​aged and child-​ rearing practices indicated the degree to which the new religion functioned within a broader sociocultural continuum.

Where and how to find the child in Late Antiquity Ever since the publication of Philip Ariès’ L’Enfant et la famille sous l’Ancien Régime in 1960, social and cultural historians have questioned his assertion that the concept of childhood is largely a modern invention. Stressing the brutality of life, high infant and child mortality, and a number of social mores that marginalised the under-​aged, Ariès focused on the transition from the medieval to the modern world. And while there have been a number of criticisms of his argument and much of it is now rejected particularly with reference to the ancient world, 134

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his study offers two points that remain significant. First, the concept of childhood, as noted above, was to a large degree culturally determined. Second, much of our understanding about childhood and children comes from the adult world. This is manifest in the surviving evidence concerning the child in Late Antiquity. In the case of the surviving literature, we must depend considerably upon Roman and canon law, offering “official” definitions for children and childhood, and about which more will be said below. Medical texts devoted considerable space to birth, early nutrition, and childhood diseases (for nutrition, e.g. see Beauchamp 1982; Lascaratos and Poulakou-​Rebelakou 2003: for childhood illnesses see Ramoutsaki, Dimitriou and Kalmanti 2002a‒g). The works of educators, such as Priscan of Caesarea’s Institutes, offer some insights about the expectations of learning and its relationship to becoming an adult. And the proper (and improper) comportment of children, mostly from Christian writers, was a literature geared to adults. A celibate and childless cleric like Jerome, for example, could offer advice to the aristocratic matron Laeta on how best to raise her infant daughter, Paula (Jer., Ep. 107; Katz 2007). Finally, personal and anecdotal information about childhood sometimes came from authors’ experiences of their own youths, as in the case of Augustine’s Confessions, Paulinus of Pella’s Eucharisticos (Thanksgiving), or the works of the rhetorician, Libanius; or alternatively through family members and friends, as is the case with Gregory of Nyssa’s vita (saint’s life) of his sister Macrina, or in the correspondence of the Gallic aristocrat, Sidonius Apollinaris. These offer specific details of the under-​aged not generally discussed in more generic forms of literature. It is from these writers, for example, that we hear mention of the existence of junior civic organisations for boys in pubertas (fourteen and older), such as the Neoi in Alexandria, offering some awareness of a youth community (Athanasius Historia Arianorum. 48). As can be inferred, however, almost all of this literature was written by men and all by adults. And as with previous eras, these writers for the most part were from the educated elite of late Roman society (although there were a few exceptions amongst Christian authors). Equally significant, almost all of the material that survives about children was written for adults. With the notable exception of the Testamentum Porcelli (The Will of Piglet), a humorous parody of Roman wills written to amuse schoolboys, there is practically no known children’s literature (Jer. Comm. in Isa. xii:praef.; Schmidt 1989: S. 257, § 550.2; on defining children’s literature, Kline 2003: 2–​4). The Fables of Avienus, a collection of 42 tales probably written around 400 CE, might have interested a younger audience, but Avienus himself described his work as a literary exercise for the learned and dedicated it to the antiquarian Macrobius (Av. Fab. praef.). These limitations apply equally to the visual arts. Quite apart from the long held practice of employing putti in various contexts, children were depicted in the surviving art sporadically and usually not for the purpose of illustrating childhood. This represents a break from the earlier Classical era, where children were visualised more often in the context of daily life and real life activities (Mander 2012). While there might be images of children fancifully or humorously partaking in adult affairs, such as in an early fourth-​century mosaic in a Sicilian villa at Piazza Amerina depicting children in chariot races pulled by birds (Fig. 9.1), they more often reflect the conceits of those who commissioned the work than represent any authentic experience (Elsner 1998: 44–​45). Even when real people are depicted, such as Eucherius in a fifth-​century diptych of his parents Stilicho and Serena, his image serves to illustrate the need of children within the family rather than the child itself (Fig. 9.2; see Kampen 2009: 123–​138). A notable exception, discussed more below, are a series of fifth-​century mosaics depicting the education of an otherwise unknown boy, Kimbros. But even these mosaics, while accurately reflecting some aspects of childhood and perhaps the unique experiences of the boy himself, 135

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Figure 9.1  Child charioteer, racing wading birds, c. 300 CE Source: commons.wikimedia.org/​wiki/​File:Villa_​del_​Casale_​-​_​char_​echassiers.jpeg

Figure 9.2  Diptych of Stilicho with Serena and Eucherius, c. 395 CE Source: After Pierce and Tyler (1932)

are highly stylised, filled with allegorical figures, and are difficult to interpret (Marinescu, Cox and Wachter  2007). Thus, understanding both children and childhood from the surviving written and visual material is an attenuated process. The archaeological evidence to some degree supplements the literary and artistic evidence, with the period of Late Antiquity being rich in the number 136

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of surviving child burials. As we shall discuss below, there are a number of gravesites devoted to late term embryos, neonates, and younger children under the age of seven to eight—​ suggesting that the seventh year divide between infancy (infantia) and childhood (pueritia) articulated in the written sources was reflected in burial practices. The survival of so many children’s remains offers considerable insight into child activities, health, and mortality, as well as some indication of an ideology of childhood and its commemoration in death. Grave goods can also supplement our understanding for special concerns and fears for the under-​ aged in death. On the other hand, many young children throughout the entire Roman period often were left without formal memorials, even though they represent a high percentage of human remains (see final section of this chapter). Moreover, funerary inscriptions from Late Antiquity offer unique challenges. The so-​called epigraphic habit changed markedly in the years following the legalisation of Christianity. While in the Classical period (c. 100 BC–​235 CE), both Roman children and adults might merit lengthy epitaphs, a shift towards shorter, less descriptive notices became increasingly the norm by the late fourth century. While commemoration in the late ancient world certainly continued, inscriptions became increasingly restricted to more urban and hence Romanised spaces (Effros 2010:  80–​81). While there have been problems with understanding and interpreting funerary epigraphy from the Classical era, this adds a further layer of complexity to interpreting late Roman remains (Seminar für Alte Geschichte und Epigraphik, Universität Heidelberg 2009). In sum, to paraphrase John Donne, we see children, their lives and their agency through a glass darkly. Childhood, as a distinct period of the lifecycle, is in contrast far better attested. When considering the under-​aged in Late Antiquity, we must keep in mind this important distinction and recognise that we are much more likely to be able to say something meaningful about an ideological construct than an accurate reflection of a child’s reality and experiences.

Children and childhood in theory It is perhaps significant that only in Late Antiquity are the distinct periods of childhood firmly established, at least in law: infancy ended at the age of seven and legal puberty, or more precisely the age of marriage for boys and girls, was set at fourteen and twelve respectively (CTh viii:18:8). This age of consent seems to have been based, at least for girls, on the age at which menses began or was imminent (although there are from Classical Rome a small percentage of girl brides commemorated at even younger age. Hopkins 1964–​65; Shaw 1987b). For purposes of inheritance, childhood legally ended at twenty (CTh viii:1:14 and 7:21; cf. Macrob. Comm. in Som. Scip. i:6:71), although late ancient jurists seem to suggest that girls might inherit at eighteen since they entered “pubertas” two years earlier than men (CTh ii:17).While full adulthood might not come until 25 years of age, well past its equivalent in the modern world, an issue which shall be discussed below regarding tutorships, the law recognised degrees of intellectual, social, and of course legal capacity (CTh ii:6:2 and especially ii:17). Law, as in our own society, often provides a formal framework for understanding the lifecycle. It also institutionalised, like the modern world, the idea of growing up as a process and in particular the complex delineation between child and adult. The law, moreover, is also the single largest source for children and childhood for this, and indeed all, periods in Roman history. The amount of legislation focusing on inheritance and testamentary issues, for example, represents a plurality of Justinian’s Digesta, as well as making up significant portions of the Codices Theodosianus and Iustinianus. Other, earlier works also offer valuable insights into how childhood was conceptualised, along with specific remedies and 137

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allowances for those who may have needed special protections as citizens without complete legal agency (for example, the Codices Gregorianus and Hermogenianus). That said, the law of course in many ways reveals nothing about the reality of children or even childhood. Most surviving legislation from Late Antiquity is comprised of constitutiones (general laws) which can have obscure purposes; alternatively juristic writings define the principles of Roman law. Even when we have specific cases (usually in the form of imperial rescripts—​ official responses to legal petitioners), understanding the context is extremely difficult. For example, although the Codices Gregorianus and Hermoginianus, both compiled in the reign of Diocletian (284–​305 CE), include close to 1150 rescripts from his reign (many of which deal with the under-​aged), most lack clear provenance (Corcoran 2000: 25–​74). And most importantly, laws do not reveal anything about actual behaviour.What law can provide is an ideological pastiche representing the state’s interests, which people could either follow or ignore. An important supplement to this “official” ideology of childhood can be found in the patristic writings of Late Antiquity, which grew exponentially after the legalisation and patronage of Christianity under the emperor Constantine (reigned 306/​13–​336 CE). While both the law and this new religion shared some common interests, probably as products of a broader Mediterranean cultural milieu (Huebner and Nathan 2016:  passim), there were also some significant differences. Christian thought on childhood was not only articulated in the treatises and homiletics produced by clerics of the age, but also in the formal development of canon law, which served as an important analogue to Roman jurisprudence. Unlike civil law, the canons dealt with children less often, but they were not completely ignored and by the early sixth century there were a number of areas of interest to the Church as an institution, including a child’s physical and spiritual welfare. Let us start with the state’s understanding of childhood. Rome’s government throughout its existence remained largely consistent in its perception of children, and its own responsibilities towards their wellbeing and protection. Imperial legislation accordingly focused primarily on protecting legitimate, free (and freed) children. From a strictly legal perspective, legitimate children continued the family line, ensuring succession from one generation to another: the Digest notes they are heres (heirs) and thus successors to all the rights and properties of the deceased (Dig 50:16:24). This was more than simply assuming wealth or inheriting a name; it also meant inheriting a social status that helped to define a Roman in his or her majority. While of course the law permitted all sorts of variants of, and modifications to, heir-​ship, mostly to ensure that citizens had legal beneficiaries, the production of legitimate citizens was the principle purpose of marriage. This in part explains why paternal authority, patria potestas, although weakened and almost meaningless by the sixth century, was never formally abolished until the publication of the Byzantine law code, Basilika, in 892 (Novella VI 25;Vial-​Dumas 2014). Thus, the state was most concerned with ensuring the rights of minors when it came to matters of property. Throughout the imperial period, Roman jurists created a complex and sophisticated set of inheritance laws to permit parents and parent surrogates a number of mechanisms to leave their wealth in ways most beneficial to their successors.To take one simple example: the extremely ancient concept of a paterfamilias’ heirs automatically inheriting property equally in the case of intestacy was formally extended to mothers with the Senatusconsultum Orfitianum in 178 CE, even though in law women technically had no natural heirs. In addition to rules of inheritance, there was considerable legislation governing the protection of minors’ wealth should they be under their own legal power (sui iuris), whether through legal emancipation or as orphans. Current estimates suggest that close to 20 per cent of children under the age of 14 were fatherless (Scheidel 2009). Financial guardianship (tutela fiduciaria) was the state’s greatest concern and often the law surrounding guardians (both tutores 138

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for the prepubescent and curatores for those between 12/​14 and 25 years of age) fell into two categories: preventing a pupillus from squandering his or her inherited wealth and protecting that minor from the guardian himself (in Constantine’s reign alone see CTh iii:30:2, 4 and 5; see also CTh viii:12:1:pr). Thus, in any financial transaction, a guardian might be required to give an account of any business done in a minor’s interest (CJ iii:21:1). Once they reached puberty, adulescentes might have considerably more latitude, but a curator would continue to serve both as a protector of a minor’s interests and to represent him or her in legal affairs. The state even gave minors broad legal recourse in the case of financial neglect or misconduct by a guardian; notably, Justinian granted former minors three years’ grace to bring charges after their guardianship had ended (CJ iii:1:11). These rules probably had broad impact. While curatores were likely limited to the elite (in theory from the late second century they became automatically assigned by the state to all sui iuris adolescents; SHA Marc. Aur., 10:12; but cf. Huebner and Ratzan 2009: 16–​17), tutores were found amongst the humiliores—​the great mass of Rome’s common people. Protection of children on occasion extended beyond the financial. Constantine, for example, made the intentional killing of one’s child illegal, ending the ancient right of ius vitae necisque (the power of life and death) (CTh ix:15:1). Constantine also ordered that slave children not be separated from their parents, although this seems to have applied only to state-​owned slaves (CTh ii:25:1; see Nathan 2000: 71; see also John Chrys., Hom. in Eph. 22:2 (PL 62:158)). And late Roman emperors continued to forbid sale of free children into permanent slavery (CTh iii:3:1), only permitting temporary servitude to pay off family debts (although a 25-​year term was possibly legal—​Aug., Ep. 10*:2). Preserving the integrity of a minor’s place in the family, in sum, went hand in hand with ensuring a child assumed his or her proper place in adulthood. Additionally, the political unrest and social dislocation that marked much of the late fourth and fifth centuries created new crises for the state and new areas upon which to legislate in regards to children.The rise in refugees, attested to in much of the literature, affected all members of a populace, but children received special attention. Sometimes there were broad laws that protected the status of all dislocated peoples, such as when Honorius forbade the enslavement of Illyrians fleeing to Italy in 408, or his nephew Theodosius II’s law reaffirming that coloni (free persons tied legally to the land they farmed as tenants), could not be sold into slavery for any reason (CTh x:10:25 and v:6:3). Sometimes they were quite specific, as in the case of a law (novella) of Valentinian III. It permitted parents to sell their children into slavery so that they might survive the famine caused by Attila’s invasion of Italy in 451 CE, on the understanding that parents would get the first opportunity to purchase their sons’ and daughters’ freedom and that under no conditions were those minors to be taken overseas (Novella Valentiniani III 37:1). In sum, the Roman state saw children as an integral component of the family, not separate from it.Yes, childhood had certain legal limitations merited by mental and intellectual capacity, and thus deserved special protections from financial and other types of dangers.Yes, the general wellbeing and safety of the child were important. But the goal ultimately was to ensure the continuation of the line of succession. Even earlier child-​oriented social programmes in the Empire, such as the alimenta system instituted by Trajan in the second century CE, were to ensure enough minors would reach adulthood to man Rome’s legions, a utilitarian and paternalistic goal (Plin. Pan. Lat. i:26:5–​6; see also Plin., Ep. vii:18 or ILS 977 and IG:Rom i 449 for private alimenta schemes). A child was only important in its potentiality as an adult. Little wonder that the Theodosian Code devoted an entire section on “ungrateful children” (CTh viii:14). Turning to society at large and Christians in particular (the two not being entirely synonymous until the late fifth century), children and childhood were conceptualised in broader ways. While Roman parents throughout the imperial period did see their children as their 139

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successors, they were also something more than just possible heirs; they were also objects of love, concern, and responsibility. Christian authors from the beginning had seen children as fully human, in the sense that they had souls, and thus merited care in ways that differed from the past (Bakke 2005 2005:15–​22; Horn and Martens 2009:6–​9). From the start, a parent had to accept the obligations of care, regardless of circumstance. Drawing upon Jewish tradition, the intentional death of a newborn had been censured since the religion’s earliest days. The late first-​century Didache (Teaching), for example, explicitly condemned abortion, infanticide, and exposure as forms of murder (Did. ii:2). Later authors such as Lactantius in the fourth century explicitly linked exposure and the purposeful killing of infants (usually those with gross physical defect) to other forms immoral killing, including gladiatorial combats (Lactant., Div. Inst. vi:20). Some went further, and suggested the danger that exposure could potentially lead to incest, should an exposed child be raised as a prostitute (Justin Apol. 27–​29)! Jerome’s distasteful comments about Jews “multiplying like vermin” (vermuculi) precede his exhortation that Christians be fruitful and multiply (Jer. Comm. in Isa. 3:2 and 48:17–​8). Eventually, the state followed suit when Justinian in 541 permitted the abandonment of children only in churches and that such acts permanently ended any legal connection between family and child (Novella Justiniani cliii). Irrespective of the histrionics of Christian rhetoric, children were to be accepted as a gift and raised under almost all circumstances (Evans Grubbs 2009). Moreover, while Christians believed, as did most Romans, that children were not adults with the capacity for reason and action, the notion of the soul could pose unique problems. Baptism, the means by which Christ’s grace and redemption was formally placed upon a neophyte, had since its early days been a rite mostly performed upon adults, who were fully cognizant of its significance. Baptism of the young was discouraged: Augustine’s mother, Monnica, for example, had refused her teenage son the sacrament when he grew deathly ill, fearing the consequences should he recover and sin while under divine grace (August. Conf. i:11:17). But such reticence was problematic given the high mortality rates of children, especially in the first year of life. Fears about infants growing ill and dying unbaptised became a growing concern; Prosper of Aquitaine plainly stated its significance: “they shall have no share in the kingdom of God” (Prosper Ep. ad Ruf. 12). By the beginning of the fifth century, that concern extended to those children who might be separated from their parents and die through kidnapping, war, or some other misfortune. The sixth synod of Carthage in 401 CE was thus the first to prescribe immediate baptism for children who had been separated from their families and whose future/​ status was therefore unsure (Carthage, canon 7). Later, Pope Leo, partially as a response to Vandal raids, oversaw another council in 447 for bishops of Sicily and ordered the same policy (Leo Ep. 16). Indeed, a majority of fourth and fifth century canon laws dealing with children focused on this key sacrament. By the end of the fifth century, baptism for infants had largely become a standard practice in the Church. Moreover, like the state, the Church, too, mirrored the interest in discouraging the enslavement of free children: one of the earliest surviving canons ordered permanent excommunication to parents who sold their children into slavery, comparing it to pandering (Elvira, canon 12). The Church moreover reinforced its concern for children separated from family (either as orphans or by personal circumstance) by offering practical aid: the first orphanage opened in Constantinople in the mid-​fourth century, with an administrator apparently appointed by the emperor himself (CJ 1:3:30 and 33; Miller 2003; Nathan 2012). This unique facility, however, was part of a much broader network of support throughout the Empire, geared to the care of orphans and widows.There are attestations in Cappadocia, Syria, Palestine, North Africa and Italy for xenodochia—​technically hospitals, but closer to hostels or charitable houses—​and poorhouses 140

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(Dey 2008). Monasteries, too, were by the early fifth century increasingly becoming places in which either children were pledged or abandoned (Boswell 1988). Apart from ensuring care for these children, as Gaudentius of Brescia noted in one Sunday sermon probably delivered in the 390s, orphaned and abandoned oblates often provided new numbers for the clergy (Gaudentius Sermo viii (PL 20:271)). Such sentiments were analogous to the state’s utilitarian perspective about children. More to the point, such support fulfilled Jesus’ admonitions—​again, taken from an earlier Jewish tradition—​on specific protections for widows and orphans. More broadly, Christians as well as Romans in general often saw children as tabulae rasae (‘blank slates’). They needed both practical and moral shaping. In most circumstances, raising and educating a child was practical:  both boys and girls ought to be trained in a craft that would serve them in life. In Late Antiquity, this was not only a practical measure, but often also the law: from the fourth century onwards, the state in a number of key industries (many of them state monopolies) mandated that children continue in their parents’ trades (e.g. CTh 12:19:1; 14:7:1; Novellae Majoriani 7 and 9–​17:passim). For the elite, the matter was somewhat more complex. The traditional system of formal education continued, and there were some attempts to supplement that in the Christian context. Augustine, for example, wrote On Christian Doctrine, discussing how certain types of education (notably rhetoric) could help in the interpretation and understanding of Scripture. Much later, in the second half of the sixth century, Cassiodorus in an educationally impoverished Italy wrote the Divine and Secular Institutes, basically an annotated bibliography of important religious and secular works that should be read, as well as outlining a curriculum that would later form the Seven Liberal Arts. Such training was needed, irrespective of whether a child was destined for a civic life, a clerical one, or remaining a private citizen (privatus). The spiritual moulding of children was no less important. Original Sin, as it developed in Late Antiquity, was thought to have an impact on all humanity. Children were not free of its power: Augustine had noted that young children often became jealous and violent when vying for a mother’s attention (August. Conf. i:7). Fostering proper moral inclinations thus became as important as any other training for life.While fathers in theory had the responsibility of a child’s worldly education and might reinforce it through corporal punishment (Nathan 2000: 143–​ 149), mothers seem to have been invested with a child’s moral tutelage. From the beginning, such teaching was created through close bonding, where new mothers were supposed to suckle and wean their infants themselves:  fourth-​and fifth-​century clerics discouraged the use of wet-​nurses, common especially amongst the wealthy. Writing to the church at Vercellae, for example, Ambrose in 396 encouraged mothers to breastfeed their own children; it was not just nourishment, it was a form of love (Amb. Ep. 63:108). This contradicted medical opinion of the day: the fourth-​century physician Oribasius had recommended a delay of breastfeeding for several days—​an idea repeated by physicians and midwives well into the seventh century—​and gave advice on how to pick wet-​nurses (Bourbou and Garvie-​Lok 2009: 70–​73). Not doing these things was deemed a lack of concern for an infant’s welfare. But Christian thinkers saw it differently: Augustine understood that milk was a gift from the divine that came through the mother (August. Conf. vii:18). Such personal care extended into childhood, as Christian authors urged mothers to keep a close eye on their progeny. That same letter from Ambrose insisted that mothers teach their children how to be in the world, but not of it; and how to love God more than life (Amb. Ep. 63: 108–​111). Monnica was an extreme case in point, looming large in Augustine’s childhood and extending her concern well into adulthood. But a woman’s moral rectitude should serve as a guide and an example to shape a young Christian in training and to focus on the heavenly kingdom. The massive production of letters, homilies and full-​blown treatises surrounding 141

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women’s chastity and rectitude often focused on women as mothers. This even translated into the political sphere: Pulcheria, the elder sister of the emperor Theodosius II, for example, used her virginity as a rationale to serve as caregiver and de facto regent for her infant brother (Holum 1982:  79–​111). The patristic authors of Late Antiquity understood how the psychology of mother-​child bonding might be put to good use in the forming of a child’s spiritual self. In sum, like the state, Christian concern for children was ultimately their survival, in this world and the next. There was a clear understanding that childhood was a distinct stage in life, with distinct needs through infancy, childhood, and adolescence. But there was little recognition of children as individuals and a tendency to see the stages of a young person’s life in terms of training rather than development.

Children in life Apart from disease and mortality, which we will discuss in the next section, a child’s life was not necessarily an easy one.We must remember that a large majority of the population lived in rural regions, for the most part surviving through farming at or near subsistence level. The ubiquity of the coloni (again, Rome’s tenant farmer class legally tied to the land and lacking the freedom of movement) is an indication of this traditional way of life becoming semi-​institutionalised in Late Antiquity. And while slavery continued in some rural regions of the Empire, especially around the Mediterranean, the enslaved probably did not experience radically different daily lives. For most children living in the Empire’s vast countryside—​whether slave, free, or somewhere in between—​life would have been circumscribed by these economic and social realities. Children of the urban poor probably fared little better. The Church’s widespread financial and material aid to the poorer members of its congregations indicated their relatively precarious position. Eusebius, for example, noted that by the third century the Church in Rome was regularly providing support for 1,500 of its members, many of whom were orphaned children (Euseb. Hist. eccl. vi:43:11). Undoubtedly this was not sufficient. And as there were no prohibitions against child labour, minors from an early age were put to work, either through indentured service or in a parent’s trade. Some of that indentured service might be learning a skilled profession, such as was the case of Viccentia, a goldsmith (aurinetrix) who died when she was nine (ICUR iv:12053). Or they might be indentured to carry out basic physical labour; we have, for example, multiple funerary inscriptions for children employed, sadly and ironically, as gravediggers (fossores). Even the Church made use of the physical labour of minors: monastic houses included work as part of the essential upbringing of their oblates (e.g. Benedict’s Rule 37 and 70). And young slaves (servuli) are attested to in service of the secular clergy (August., Ep. 98:6). Such work had clear physical impact: the remains of many children from Late Roman Dalmatia and Pannonia, to cite one well studied example, show many indications of physical stress—​notably fractures, periostitis, and joint trauma—​all consistent with heavy labour (Šlaus 2008). For those children from families of greater means, lives of labour and poverty were more distant possibilities. While they were susceptible to many of the communicable diseases and epidemics that affected the population as a whole, wealthier minors were less likely to develop a number of conditions associated with malnutrition. Amongst the very wealthiest, particularly those residing on great rural estates, life could be idyllic:  Paulinus of Pella speaks of a boyhood of horseback riding, hunting, and making light of his teachers (Eucharisticos ll. 141–​ 154). And the children of Rome’s urban elites, the curiales, resided in large homes with slaves and ample material comforts, something confirmed at many archaeological sites (Lavan, Özgenel and Sarantis 2007:  417–​515). Even when a parent died or was not present, a child might 142

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have a complex network of relatives to help support and educate him (Huebner and Ratzan 2009: passim). The Gallic poet, Ausonius, for example, could call his uncle Arborius a father and a mother (pater et genetrix), a protector and a mentor (Parentalia v:8). And when Libanius’ father died, leaving his mother in dire financial straits, two maternal uncles helped to raise him and his two brothers; and his favourite, Phasganius, even left him a house to help alleviate his poverty (Oratio 1:4–​5 and 12–​13; Epistula 115). Formal education was also a privilege of the more affluent. Young boys and girls might be taught the elements of knowledge by a paedogogos, usually a slave tutor. We know of wooden alphabet blocks and common learning songs (Jer. Ep. 107). At the age of six or seven, boys and girls both might receive formal education, although girls were almost exclusively tutored in the home. Augustine and Jerome’s descriptions of their own schooling leave no doubt that the process had not greatly changed in centuries: learning was largely by rote, with a prescribed set of authors (including, but not limited to, Cicero and Virgil in the West and Homer and Demosthenes in the East). To that, Christians added Scripture and some patristic authors (August. De Doctrina Christiana; see also Jer. Ep. 107:9–​12). Primary education was carried out by a magister ludi or litterator and later a grammarian; memorisation and copying of famous literary passages was often the method, reinforced by corporal punishment. Beatings were a well-​established part of a boy’s educational experience: teachers possessed the ferula (switch) to maintain their students’ focus and the scutica (whip) to punish them for misbehaviour (Auson. Ep. 22:29–​32; Bonner 1977:  142–​145). Mosaics depicting the aristocratic boy Kimbros include Philios, apparently a litterator, beating the boy’s exposed bottom (Marinescu, Cox and Wachter 2007:  fig.  5.2). Christian caritas did not extend in these circumstances: theologians argued minors learned through pain and punishment (August. De civ. D. xxi: 14). Even doctors like Oribasius believed that by the age of six or seven children would be receptive to learning and to pain (Liber incertus 39:3–​5; 35:5). Nor sadly was this limited to school-​age children: Libanius mentions a paedagogus constantly beating his ward and pupil (Epistula 1188:3–​4).True, some classical teachers and philosophers disparaged the practice, but they were in a minority (Quint. Inst. i:3:13; see also Plut. De Lib. 14 and 19). Augustine vividly remembered his beatings many years later, as well as the stinging laughter from his parents when he complained (August. Conf. 1:9). But it must be remembered that boys of all classes and stations were also subject to physical punishment within their own houses, something fully supported in Roman law (Dig. xlviii:19:16:2). Higher education was available in the larger cities of the Empire, but for many in smaller metropolises, travel might be necessary. For his first lessons in rhetoric, Augustine spent several years in Madaurus, a city some 40 kilometres from his hometown of Thagaste. Wishing for advanced education, he later moved to Carthage. Basil of Caesarea had a similar trajectory:  beginning in Pontus, he moved several hundred kilometres to Caesara Mazaca during his teens and on finally to Constantinople. Changing teachers might be frequent: the Kimbros mosaics show the boy under the apparent tutelage of many different instructors (Marinescu, Cox and Wachter 2007). For children who showed talent, such travel was not only an exercise in education, but an opportunity for networking and social advancement: when he was thirteen or fourteen, for example, Jerome travelled from his native Dalmatia to Rome to study rhetoric and philosophy, where he eventually ingratiated himself into influential Roman clerical, and later senatorial, circles (Rebenich 1992: 21–​32, 154–​180; Kelly 1998). Such opportunities were rarely, if ever, open to girls from wealthy families, whose lives certainly did not follow the same trajectory. They were educated almost exclusively at home, optimally focusing on moral virtue and domestic skills. While all children were expected to be married when it suited their respective families, marriage came earlier for girls as a rule and 143

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formal education remained an ancillary pursuit (Vuolanto 2015). Christianity did offer them the option of virginity and permanent avoidance of marriage, but Basil of Caesarea writes that this was not a decision a girl was fit to make until she was sixteen or seventeen (Epistula 199:18). Thus, consecrated virginity may have not often been an option for elites, as the case of Melania the Younger makes clear: she was forced into marrying Pinian at fourteen and bearing children, in spite of her desires to do otherwise. But irrespective of marriage or the veil, the degree of learning girls received might vary greatly:  Faltonia Betitia Proba’s Virgilian Cento Concerning the Glory of Christ shows considerable literary sophistication and Classical learning; the fourth-​ century pilgrim Egeria’s Travels, on the other hand, displays a Latin much more influenced by the parlance of her day. Despite education and the advantages of relative material comfort, children from wealthier and socially important families could exist in precarious circumstances. Augustine, for example, languished for a year at home while his parents struggled to gather enough capital for their son to study at Carthage (Shaw 1987a). We have already mentioned Libanius’ childhood, where his widowed mother feared unscrupulous guardians, intent on defrauding her children of the small wealth they still possessed (Lib. Or. 1:1–​5). Losing a parent might also interrupt, delay, or even potentially end a boy’s schooling and sever part of his social support network (Cribbiore 2009). Or should a child decide to do something extreme, as when the adolescent Stagirius chose to become a monk against the wishes of his father, there might be both social and psychological repercussions. John Chrysostom’s De Providentia was dedicated to the young man, with an exhortation, consoling him on account of his father’s reaction and because of his own fragile mental and physical health. Moreover, irrespective of status or location, certain dangers had special significance to most children. Food shortages were frequent and it has been suggested that famine may have struck on average one year in three (Rovira-​Guardiola 2012). Its prevalence notwithstanding, there is overwhelming evidence for continuous food crises in different parts of the Empire at any one time (Stathakopoulos 2003). Large urban centres would be especially vulnerable, as they were dependent upon imports to feed their residents. And while some cities such as Rome and Constantinople might have access to steady sources of food, those systems, too, were susceptible to both natural and manmade emergencies: Alaric’s first siege of Rome in 408 resulted in starvation and epidemic (Zos. Hist. v:40). As we shall discuss in the next section, food shortages would in particular impact on the health and development of children, and not just the poorer ones (Garnsey 1988). Finally, rich or poor, the political and social upheavals of the fourth through sixth centuries had profound effects upon children, whether in the city or country. Salvian’s accounts of the Visigothic incursions in Gaul, for example, made specific mention of widows and their children having both to flee their homes and being liable for the accrued taxes if they managed to return. One of Salvian’s express concerns was the inability of children to inherit even the meagre properties their families might own (De Gubernatione Dei v:3–​8). Indeed, children might be specifically targeted: the bishop of Theodoret of Cyrrhus (in modern Syria) wrote on behalf of Maria, a young girl who had been seized by Vandal slave traders on her father’s estates in North Africa and subsequently shipped east to be sold as chattel (Theodoret Epistula 70). Such dislocations seem to have become increasingly common by the mid-​fifth century: Victor of Vita, with no undue surprise, describes his personal encounter with an old woman from a prominent family, wandering destitute in the countryside of Byzacena with her very young granddaughter (Historia persecutionis Africanae Provinciae ii:30). As the most vulnerable members of society, the trauma of dislocation, both physical and psychological, would have fallen disproportionately on minors. 144

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These realities had an impact upon the view of childhood and kept it from being overly idealised. As Augustine noted, many would prefer to die than to return to infancy again (De civ. D. xxi:3). What children themselves may have thought can only be surmised.

Children in sickness and in death One of the realities of the pre-​modern world was the prevalence of child mortality. There have been a number of studies that have assessed the dangers of disease, malnutrition, and natural and manmade disasters in Late Antiquity, and throughout the ancient world (Brunt 1971; Bagnall and Frier 1994; Scheidel 2001; Hansen 2006; Carroll 2017). A makeshift gravesite in an abandoned villa near the small town of Lugnano in Teverina serves as a poignant example of such mortality. There, one summer in the early fifth century saw the burial of almost 50 late-​ term embryos and neonates, all victims of malaria (Soren and Soren 1999). Such outbreaks were surely common: Rutilius Namantianus (De reditu suo ll. 277–​284), Sidonius Apollinaris (Epist. i: 5:6–​9), and others mention the prevalence of malaria and other diseases in the more rural regions of Italy and elsewhere. Such events were not only common, but often linked to annual seasonal changes (Shaw 1996). As such, there is ample evidence for infant and child mortality, both in the literature and in the archaeological record. Fulgentius of Ruspe, writing in the late fifth and early sixth centuries, noted that children under forty days of age were normally buried in a suggrundarium (niche) rather than more elaborate forms of internment—​a practice apparently going back at least to the first century CE (Fulg. Expositio sermonum antiquorum 7; Plin. HN vii: 72; Juv. Sat. xv: 139. See also Lipkin and Jarva this volume). The word itself suggests semi-​informal burials near villas, houses, and workshops, a concept borne out at Lugnano and elsewhere. That infants and young children were buried separately—​and this seems true in both the eastern and western Mediterranean—​is manifest in the scarcity of infant remains at other late ancient cemeteries. For example, the Romano-​British gravesite in Lankhills, Hampshire includes practically no infant and early childhood internments (Clarke 1979; Baldwin 1985). In contrast, a number of burial sites in Britain and throughout the entire Roman period show evidence of graveyards dedicated to infantes. Some scholars have even suggested a correlation between neonate cemeteries and the rise of Christianity, at least in Britain (Watts 1989). Such segregation was due in part to a practice that had long been established in certain areas of the Mediterranean: we know in places such as Gabii in Latium, the practice goes far back into the archaic age (Becker and Nowlin 2011; Baker, Dupras and Tocheri 2005). The possibility of ritual pollution and the danger of malevolent forces carrying off other children must have contributed to their isolation. The tradition of not naming infant girls and boys until the seventh and eight days respectively after birth (or until the tenth day in the Greek tradition) was another feature; and they were not considered fully “persons” until they could walk or talk (see Perego this volume). Finally, the expense of commemoration and child mortality was undoubtedly connected: funerals and the cost of formal memorials could be considerable. The ubiquity of child deaths would make such remembrances financially difficult—​a fact perhaps reinforced by the relatively low number of Christian children’s sarcophagi even in Rome itself (Huskinson and Huskinson 1996). That said, children under the age of ten were sometimes interred with toys (often dolls, possibly votive in nature), jewellery, clothing, and other accoutrements. In the case of jewellery, its inclusion seems related to an interest in protecting the child in death: copper and iron bracelets, some engraved with crosses, are a common grave good found particularly in the eastern Mediterranean from the fifth century onward (Pitarakis 2009: 190–​193). Moreover, the 145

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remains of animal sacrifices—​often small dogs and puppies, traditionally associated with the cult of Hecate—​are also common, such as those found at Poggio Gramignano. This not only suggests an interest in protecting both the dead in the afterlife and the living from evil, but the survival of certain pagan rituals (and perhaps beliefs) well into the fifth century (Soren and Soren 1999: 619–​631). Finally, as a methodological point concerning these very young burials, it is important to remember that in places of continuous, multi-​century habitation, buildings and urban topography often go through considerable change. Small or even individual interments must be treated with considerably more caution than dedicated graveyards and necropoleis. With this caveat in mind, what we can still note is that these burials both separately and cumulatively seem to represent a plurality of the extremely young in comparison to older children, articulating a much higher rate of infant mortality than child mortality overall.The so-​called “five year bump” (a steep rise in childhood survival from the fifth year of life) seems to be fully in evidence: the late ancient burial site of Kellis in Egypt—​rare in that both children and adults are buried together—​substantiates this demographical reality (Tocheri, Dupras, et al. 2005). Quite apart from the dangers associated with natural mortality, we should return to the intentional killing of newborns. Despite both the religious and state condemnations discussed earlier, infanticide was and continued to be an extreme form of family planning in the ancient world and beyond. It is possible that some cases were indirect, as in the case of exposure where a child might not be claimed. Far more than child mortality, infanticide rates are impossible to estimate even approximately; and there has been considerable scholarly debate on its prevalence in the classical world (e.g. Engels 1980 vs. Harris 1982). But it is probable that with legal criminalisation of intentional infanticide in 374 CE, it became rarer or was at least carried out with greater circumspection. Christian opinion on the practice, moreover, had also turned it into an immoral act; we have discussed how the monasteries began the practice of accepting orphans and even children with parents as oblates. We have also mentioned Constantine’s law, ending paternal potestas in the case of an exposed child, in an apparent attempt to discourage the practice. Still, family planning endured: Late Antique medical texts such as one pseudoepigraphically ascribed to Cleopatra included elixirs for inducing abortions (Riddle 1992: 100–​101). The reasons for infanticide remained constant in antiquity: physical or mental defect, economic necessity, and questions of paternity. There is also a fair amount of literary evidence to suggest that female neonates were more likely to be exposed (Pomeroy 1975: 69–​70, 164–​165). However, we should not conclude that sexual choice was targeted at girls solely, as we possess circumstantial evidence that boys might be chosen in certain social conditions. A Late Antique bathhouse that probably served as a brothel in Ashkelon in Judaea contains a burial site of approximately 100 neonates. The size and ratio of male skeletons to female ones, almost 3:1, suggests not only infanticide, but one in which male newborns were more likely to have been killed—​perhaps to support the bathhouse’s use as a brothel (Faerman and Bar-​Gal 1998). If an infant made it through its first years, there were a number of diseases that could have an impact on children’s health and life expectancies. The first-​century medical writer, Celsus, for example, noted that dysentery was much more common in young children, and that adolescents were most susceptible to consumption (De Medica, ii:8:30 and ii:1:21; and ii:1–​5). Indeed, paediatric health often took up a large part of the medical literature: the seventh-​century doctor Paul of Aegina, for example, devotes much of the first book of his medical Compendium to newborns and the diseases of childhood. While infant mortality seems to have been the most dangerous time of life, broader child mortality is in evidence and, largely with the exception of infants, children in the first ten years of life are the most heavily commemorated compared to other age groups. 146

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The physical remains indicate that the observations of doctors were well founded. Apart from physical trauma that might be experienced from hard labour, accidents or intentional injuries, the young were especially susceptible to a wide number of chronic and fatal diseases. Osteological and odontological evidence from Croatia in Late Antiquity and the early medieval period, for example, indicates leprosy, tuberculosis, and possibly treponemal diseases present in sub-​adults (Šlaus 2008). Clearly, as with the case of Lugnano in Italy, there might be certain disease vectors that affected local populations for limited periods, but in general child remains show a broad exposure to a number of perennial diseases, exacerbated by a number of social, economic, and environmental conditions. For example, overcrowding and general poverty created greater health hazards in cities than in more sparsely populated regions of the Roman world. The plague that decimated Constantinople in the early 540s CE is a case in point. Famine and insufficient nutritional intake, too, as we have mentioned, impacted the poor and the young (and old) disproportionately. Not only could malnutrition affect fertility and growth, skeletal and dental analysis reveal a host of associated health problems. Dental caries, porotic hyperostosis (spongy cranial bone tissue), bone loss, and excessive plaque deposits are all visible in remains found at Pigi Athinas near Mt. Olympus (Tritasaroli 2014). Evidence of infantile scurvy and rickets are found in both child and adult skeletons at almost every late ancient burial site. There may even be some circumstantial evidence to suggest that Christian childrearing behaviours exacerbated a child’s susceptibility to diseases. A large number of children interred in Roman Dorchester seem, to judge from their east-​west oriented burials, to have been Christian, while others seem to have been “pagan”. Comparative analysis of these skeletal remains shows a much higher incidence of disease associated with malnutrition amongst the Christian group than in the pagan one: these include evidence of bone fracture, scurvy and porotic hyperostosis. This has been tied to early weaning and other deleterious “Christian” practices. Both groups, however, exhibit anaemia and rickets, suggesting (again) a broader prevalence of malnutrition in the population (Lewis 2010; Fuller, Molleson et al. 2006).These differences might also in part be the product of economic and social disparities between the interred (but cf. Laes 2011: 28–​ 79). Taken as a whole, the unfamiliarity with hygiene, cramped living conditions in many cities, food shortages, and a basic (and often incorrect) understanding of science all contributed to a high degree of child health problems and death. Little wonder that an entire discourse on the death of children and the consoling of parents emerged in patristic thought (Doerfler 2019).

Conclusion The child in Late Antiquity remains elusive. Its personal experiences, its agency and its perspective on the world remain largely unknown. To an adult living during that time, these concerns would seem inconceivable and bizarre, or at best misplaced. For Romans, childhood was not something romanticised, nor were children deemed more important by virtue of their relative defencelessness. It was enough that all recognised childhood as a distinct stage in the lifecycle, something to be survived more than enjoyed. There were both theoretical and practical conceptualisations of the earliest stages of life and an awareness of its fragility. That merited protecting children, not understanding them.

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Looking for children in Late Antiquity Kelly, J.N.D. 1998. Jerome: His life, writings and controversies. Peabody, MA: Duckworth. Kline, D.T. 2003. Medieval literature for children. New York: Routledge. Laes, C. 2011. Children in the Roman Empire: Outsiders within. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lascaratos, J. and Poulakou-​Rebelakou, E. 2003. Oribasius (Fourth Century) and early Byzantine perinatal nutrition. Journal of Pediatric Gastroenterology and Nutrition 36.2: 186–​9. Lavan, L., Özgenel, L. and Sarantis, A. 2007. Housing in Late Antiquity: From palaces to shops. Leiden: Brill. Lewis, M.E. 2010. Life and death in a civitas capital: Metabolic disease and trauma in the children from Late Roman Dorchester, Dorset. American Journal of Physical Anthropology 142.3: 405–​416. Mander, J. 2012. Mors immatura. Portraits of children on Roman funerary monuments in the west. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Marinescu, C., Cox, S. and Wachter, R. 2007. Paideia’s children: Childhood education on a group of Late Antique mosaics. In: B. Cohen and J.B. Rutter (eds), Constructions of childhood in ancient Greece and Italy, Hesperia Supplements 41. Princeton, NJ: The American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 101–​114. Miller, T.S. 2003. The orphans of Byzantium. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. Nathan, G. 2000. The family in Late Antiquity: The rise of Christianity and the endurance of tradition. London: Routledge. Nathan, G. 2012. Orphanages. In:  R. Bagnall, K. Broderson, C.B. Champion and A. Erskine (eds), The encyclopedia of ancient history. London: Wiley-​Blackwell, 4942–​4944. Pierce, H. and Tyler, R. 1932. L’art byzantine. Paris: Librairie de France. Pitarakis, B. 2009. The material culture of childhood in Byzantium. In: A.-​M. Papakonstantinou and M. Talbot (eds), Becoming Byzantine:  Children and childhood in Byzantium. Cambridge, MA:  Dumbarton Oaks Press, 167–​252. Pomeroy, S. 1975. Goddesses, whores, wives and slaves:  Women in Classical Antiquity. New  York:  Shocken Books (2nd ed. 2011). Ramoutsaki, I.A., Dimitriou, H. and Kalmanti, M. 2002a–​g. Management of childhood diseases in the Byzantine period, parts 1–​7. Pediatrics International vols 44.3: 335–​337, 338–​340; 44.4: 460–​462, 463–​ 464; 44.5: 547–​548, 549–​550, 551–​552. Rebenich, R. 1992. Hieronymus und sein Kreis:  prosopographische und sozialgeschichtliche Untersuchungen. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Riddle, J. 1992. Contraception and abortion from the ancient world to the Renaissance. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Rovira-​Guardiola, C. 2012. Famine and food shortages, Greece and Rome. In: R. Bagnall, K. Broderson, C.B. Champion and A. Erskine (eds), The Encyclopedia of Ancient History. London: Wiley-​Blackwell. Scheidel, W. 2001. Debating Roman demography. Leiden: Brill. Scheidel, W. 2009. The demographic background. In: S. Huebner and D. Ratzan (eds), Growing up fatherless in antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 31–​40. Schmidt, P.L. 1989. Handbuch der lateinischen Literatur der Antike, Bd. 5. Munich: Beck Verlag. Seminar für Alte Geschichte und Epigraphik, Universität Heidelberg 2009. The epigraphic culture(s) of Late Antiquity. Heidelberg: Internationales Wissenschaftsforum Heidelberg. Shaw, B. 1987a. The family in Late Antiquity: The experience of St. Augustine. P&P 115.1: 3–​51. Shaw, B. 1987b. The age of Roman girls at marriage. Some reconsiderations. JRS 77, 30–​46. Shaw, B. 1996. Seasons of death: Aspects of mortality in Imperial Rome. JRS 86: 100–​138. Šlaus, M. 2008. Osteological and dental markers of health in the transition from Late Antique to the Early Medieval period in Croatia. American Journal of Physical Anthropology 136.4: 455–​469. Soren, D. and Soren, N. 1999. A Roman villa and a Late Roman infant cemetery: Excavation at Poggio Gramignano, Lugnano in Teverina. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Stathakopoulos, D. Ch. 2003. Famine and pestilence in the Late Roman and Early Byzantine Empire: A systematic survey of subsistence crises and epidemics. Birmingham: Ashgate Press. Tocheri, M.W., Dupras,T.L., Sheldrick, P. and Molot, J.E. 2005. Roman period fetal skeletons from the East Cemetery (Kellis 2) of Kellis, Egypt. International Journal of Osteoarchaeology 15.6: 326–​341. Tritasaroli, P. 2014. Human remains from Pigi Athinas, Greece, 1999–​2011. Bioarchaeology of the Near East 8: 125–​137. Vial-​ Dumas, M. 2014. Parents, children, and law:  Patria Potestas and emancipation in the Christian Mediterranean during Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages. Journal of Family History 39.4: 307–​329. Vuolanto,V. 2015. Children and asceticism in late antiquity: Continuity, family dynamics and the rise of Christianity. Farnham: Ashgate. Watts, D. 1989. Infant burials and Romano-​British Christianity. Archaeological Journal 146.1: 372–​383.

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10 FROM VILLAGE TO MONASTERY Finding children in the Coptic record from Egypt Jennifer Cromwell

Coptic in a multicultural and multilingual land Coptic was the last form of the indigenous Egyptian language, written in a modified Greek script. It was used to record matters pertaining to daily life from the fourth to tenth centuries, with the seventh and eighth centuries marking a high point in such documentary production, and literary texts continuing to be produced for centuries afterwards. These centuries span the very Late Roman, Byzantine and Islamic periods in Egypt. The Egyptian language therefore existed alongside Greek and Arabic, which constituted the official languages of the country’s administration, as well as other minority languages. It was also spoken and written by Nubian groups, and so was not confined solely to Egypt’s boundaries. ‘Coptic’ also refers to Egyptian Christianity, which separated from the Roman church in the mid-​fifth century, following a series of Christological disputes. Christianity was, however, present in Egypt much earlier, in an environment in which various other religious ideas and systems existed, principally Gnosticism and Manichaeism, with texts for both of these movements being written in Coptic. One of the most famous features of early Christianity in Egypt is monasticism, with Egypt being home to the founding fathers of different monastic practices: St. Antony (ascetic or hermitic monasticism) and St. Pachomius (cenoebitic or communal monasticism). Monastic literature was not only recorded in Coptic, but also Greek, and texts were translated into Latin and Arabic. ‘Coptic’, therefore, is not a straightforward term. ‘Coptic Egypt’ does not define a chronological period, and Egyptian Christianity was not recorded using only this form of the Egyptian language. Rather Coptic was used by certain peoples to record a range of texts, literary and non-​literary (i.e. daily life texts, including letters, lists, accounts, legal documents), religious and secular. This written record only presents part of the picture of life in Egypt during these centuries, and so only one part of the lived experience of children. When it comes to non-​textual evidence, it is a much harder task to divide objects into Coptic or Greek. Even though artefacts found in Egypt from the fourth to eighth centuries are often labelled as ‘Coptic’ (rather than Roman, Byzantine or Islamic), instead we are dealing with Egyptian artefacts. Treating the material record from these centuries more broadly as ‘Late Antique’ removes the preconceived 150

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notions of ethnicity and culture with which Coptic, Greek, Roman or Islamic are loaded. It is therefore problematic to speak of the ‘Coptic’ material record, as, once we move away from the linguistic distinctions, it is more difficult and indeed inappropriate to divide Egypt into distinct groups. In what follows, therefore, the evidence is largely restricted to the Coptic written record, supplemented by other object types that survive from this time, which serve to flesh out the world of Egyptian children between the fourth and tenth centuries AD.

The textual evidence Over 6,500 Coptic non-​literary texts survive from the seventh and eighth centuries. These derive from both secular and monastic environments and during these two centuries Coptic texts outnumber the surviving body of Greek material, in contrast to the previous centuries for which Greek dominates. This is largely the result of the survival of a vast corpus of material from western Thebes in southern Egypt, focussing on the village of Djeme and the monastic settlements built upon the Theban mountain range, often referred to as the ‘holy mount of Djeme’. Approximately half of the surviving texts come from this single region. This means that this village and its surrounding monasteries dominate our record of this period. Much less survives from more important towns and cities, including Aphrodito and Hermopolis. However, it should be noted that for both of these sites, a large body of Greek material survives, while by contrast the use of Greek at Thebes is almost negligible. The Coptic evidence from the Hermopolite nome is dominated by the texts from the monastery of Apa Apollo at Bawit. The village of Kellis in the Dakhleh Oasis is an important outlier in both chronological and geographical terms. The body of Coptic and Greek texts from this site, unearthed only at the end of the twentieth century, dates to the fourth century AD and comes from a largely Manichean context. Several areas, well-​known from the Greek sources, are currently absent in the available Coptic evidence.The town Oxyrhynchus and the villages of the Fayum, perhaps the two places about which most is known in Roman Egypt, do not figure in the following discussion. This may well change in coming years. For example, several hundred Coptic texts have survived from Oxyrhynchus, but are yet to be edited and published (Clackson 2007). In the context of early Christian Egypt, this town is certainly important and highlights the issue of dividing a study about life in Egypt along linguistic lines. The Fayum was home to monastic institutions throughout this time, the best known of which is the monastery at Naqlun. Other important sites have also produced Late Antique material, notably Tebtunis (including fourth to eighth century houses, a cemetery and Coptic texts), but these also are yet to be studied in detail; for a preliminary report on its Late Antique remains, see Gallazzi 2010. The literary record includes a broad range of genres. Children occur in early monastic literature, including the Sayings of the Desert Fathers (the Apophthegmata Patrum). This corpus survives mostly in Greek, although Coptic versions exist of some texts: in what follows the Greek evidence will be drawn upon, as it is so closely entwined with the Coptic record and Egyptian monasticism. For the study of children, the hagiographic record (that is, the biographies of saints) presents the idealised childhood of religious figures. The youth of Shenoute, the famous abbot of the White and Red monasteries at Sohag, is known from his Life, written by his disciple, Besa, which survives entirely in the Bohairic dialect of Coptic. Shenoute was also the author of a large body of writing in Sahidic Coptic, which includes his monastic regulations. Preceding Shenoute, the Life of Pachomius, the founder of communal monasticism, survives in Coptic, Greek, and Arabic, while his monastic rules only survive in their complete form in Latin (with fragments in Coptic and Greek). For monasticism in these centuries, 151

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the Coptic evidence does not always survive in full, meaning that other evidence has to be used to fill the gaps. To this evidence can be added the epigraphic record, which mainly comprises funerary stelae and wall inscriptions; the latter largely come from monasteries.The archaeological record is difficult to employ, for the reasons already stated, but also because so few Late Antique domestic sites have been excavated. While the archaeology of Egyptian monasteries has received new attention and vigour since the end of the last century, it is still difficult to identify spaces that may have been used for children. The written evidence, which survives in such large quantities in Egypt, is therefore the primary source of information.

Identifying children While children appear in Christian art in churches and monasteries throughout Egypt, this is restricted to religious figures, dominated by the Christ Child. Outside this context, portrayals of people, let alone children, are rare. One such example is the mural of Elisabeth and her daughter in the small church in the village Djeme (Wilfong 2002: 96). Mother and daughter are shown in orant (prayer) position and have similar hairstyles and clothing. The unnamed girl is shown as a smaller version of Elisabeth herself. In order to find children in the textual evidence, the vocabulary of childhood and youth is key. The standard Coptic word for child, shere, is derived from earlier Egyptian khered (see Harrington, this volume). However, whereas earlier Egyptian made a distinction between being a child and being somebody’s child (sa for son, sat for daughter), there was no such difference in Coptic: shere was son or boy, while sheere was daughter or girl (and shere was used generically for child, regardless of gender). With such a broad use of this term, how can we identify children? There are a small number of key words and phrases: • Shere shem: The adjective shem, meaning small or young, indicates that the child in question is young. This is the most common designation. • Koui: Literally meaning ‘little’, koui is used of children, but not necessarily young children. The term can refer to younger adults, in particular to unmarried but sexually mature individuals (perhaps the equivalent of teenagers). In monastic contexts, the term is used of children (see Delattre 2007: 48), but can also be used of adults, in which case it refers to their humility: ‘the less’ or ‘the humble’. • Lelou shem: This term seems to be used of older children, and is often translated as ‘youth’ or ‘maiden’. However, in one of Shenoute’s short monastic rules (rule 398; the numbers of specific rules discussed throughout this chapter follow those in Layton 2014), it is used as the equivalent of shere shem, showing that there is some fluidity in the terms. • Her-​shire: Literally, this term refers to a little or young servant, and in practice it seems to be used to refer to an older child. In the Panegyric on Macarius of Tkoou, by Dioscorus of Alexandria, a her-​shire (in the dialect of this text, a hel-​shiri) is described as being twelve years old (fol. 159; see Amélineau 1888: 158). In Shenoute’s writings, we find further definitions of what constitutes a child. Here, children are defined in terms of their maturity. Younger children are those who have not yet come of age (the Greek term elikia is used) and are unable to reason (rule 412) and do not understand sin (rule 492). A couple of points complicate matters. In O.Lips.Copt. 24, a Theban priest, Mark, writes to Papnoute and Elisabeth concerning a sheere shem who has left her husband and is now living 152

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with them (it is not explicitly stated, but it is probable that they are her parents). How young was this girl, who remains unnamed in the letter? Garland, in the current volume, discusses the case of a Byzantine encomium for a girl who died at the age of nine, who is described as being at the point of marriage. Perhaps, in this instance, a bride who is also a sheere shem may be a girl on the cusp of puberty, and so had not reached full maturity, or had only just reached this age. Importantly, this highlights the potential for youths, who today would be considered prepubescent children, to fill adult roles, by today’s Western standards. In monastic contexts, two factors serve to cloud matters.The language of monastic hierarchy is presented in terms of family and age. A senior monk, especially in the literary evidence, is an old person (ello), while a novice is a child (shere). The superior of a monastic community was the Father (eiot), the brethren were Brothers (son) and a junior monk (not necessarily a novice) writing to a senior is a Son (shere). However, Shenoute’s consistent use of shere shem in his writings indicates that such references are indeed to children. Some care is therefore required, and the context in which these terms appear is key to understanding the age and position of the individuals involved.

Family sizes and orphanhood Late Antique Egypt lacks the kind of demographic information available for the first to third centuries CE for which we have the census, recorded in fourteen-​year intervals: even though the surviving record is only partial, there is nothing of comparable detail from later centuries. Other sources do, however, provide an idea of family sizes in villages down the Nile. From eighth century Aphrodito, a number of papyri record the problem of tax evasion. Whole families were caught fleeing their village and were returned to their local authorities. As part of these documents, the families in question are listed, naming all members of the family. In each case, these are the nuclear family unit, comprising parents and their children. Three documents provide this information, P.Lond. IV 1518, 1519, and 1521, of which the first is the longest, containing the details of six families, and is complete. In the following list, m and f denote the gender of the person named. Parents

Children

Total

Apollo (m), Stephanous (f) Apollo (m), Mariam (f) Philotheos (m), Theodora (f) Mena (m), Rachel (f) Tekrompia (f) Elisabeth (f)

Andreas (m), Rebecca (f) Simeon (m) Tekysis (f), Collouthos (m), Antheria (f) Stephanous (f), Martha (f) Antonios (m), Staurophane (f) Philotheos (m), Mary (f)

Four (two children) Three (one child) Five (three children) Four (two children) Three (two children) Three (two children)

Families with two children are the most common. However, these groups may simply reflect the children living in the natal home at that moment in time, excluding any older children who may already have married and either formed their own household or joined another.These lists also do not include the age of the individuals, and so how old these children are is unknown. From the village of Djeme in western Thebes, thanks to the detailed archives that survive for a number of families, we can reconstruct quite extensive genealogical trees, notably those of the family of the sisters Elisabeth and Abigaia (Wilfong 2002:  48), Germanos (Cromwell 2013: 217), as well as others (Till 1962: 233). We see here three to five children within a family. As these legal texts largely deal with property concerns and disputes between adult family 153

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Figure 10.1  SB Kopt. IV 1709, an alimony petition (P.Vindob. K 950) Source: © Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Papyrussammlung

members, these genealogies involve only those children that survived to adulthood. Such family sizes are supported by a letter from the Hermopolite region, SB Kopt. IV 1709 (Fig. 10.1), in which a woman complains of her ex-​husband: ‘I had three children with him before I became ill. God knows that after I became ill, I had another [child]’. On the other hand there are children without families. The difficulty of growing up fatherless is captured in an emotional outburst on a funerary stele from Antinoe, SB Kopt. I 464, by the deacon John. ‘O Death, the name that is bitter in everybody’s mouth, who cuts off, who sunders parents from their children and children from their parents’. As a boy, John’s father died, leaving him to grow up alone with his mother, resulting in an arduous and miserable upbringing. ‘Let everybody who loves to weep come here and lament rawly at the wretchedness of my youth’. Orphans (orphanos) are discussed in a number of letters, many of which derive from western Thebes. These form part of a larger corpus of documents, in Greek, from Late Antique Egypt that concern orphans (for which see Kotsifou 2009). Many of these letters are written to or between monastic figures. In O.Brit.Mus.Copt. I Add. 23, the nun Maria writes to Apa Cyriacus, asking him to pray for the (unnamed) orphan that had been left in her care, following the death of his father. The priest Victor writes to the monk Damian asking for his decision regarding the children of the late Stephen in O.Medin.HabuCopt. 141. It is not explicitly stated, but it is possible that Victor wanted the children to enter Damian’s community (for children in monasteries, see below). Death of the parent was not the only cause for orphanhood, parents could also abandon their children, as seen in O.CrumVC 92.The woman Tshemshai writes to a monk asking for his involvement in the case of a young girl whose mother left her, taking away all her belongings. She asks for the village official to be sent to intercede, to recover the little girl’s things, ‘because she is an orphan’. Monastic and church figures were not the only source of support for orphans. The child’s wider family could form the immediate support network. In most instances, such a situation was not recorded, but a letter from Kellis deals with this scenario. Pegosh writes to his brother Pshai in P.Kellis VII 73 about the care of two orphaned girls.While the details are hard to follow, it seems that following their mother’s death, their uncle suggested Pegosh as guardian for one of them. Pegosh was happy to assume this responsibility and ‘take care of her like a daughter’, but his own youth (he must himself only be a young man, as he is labelled koui) was a hindrance and he required permission from the head of the family to allow this to take place. As Pegosh was in the Nile Valley at this time, rather than in the Oasis, he had to write to his brother about the matter.When such distance was not an issue, it was less likely for such topics to be discussed 154

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between family members in writing.The outcome regarding such children in these cases therefore left no mark in the textual evidence.

The first years Apart from incidental information and fragmentary allusions, no texts discuss childbirth, premature birth or miscarriage, in marked contrast to pharaonic Egypt (see most recently Töpfer 2014). The exceptions to this are recipes and spells designed to care for women’s sexual organs (the breasts and womb), to aid conception and to protect pregnant women and infants. A papyrus from Thebes, buried in a monk’s cell at Dra Abu el-​Naga, contains a recipe for conception: ‘To make a woman become pregnant: Utter it [i.e. the spell at the beginning of the papyrus] over dates of a virgin palm, and give them to her that she may eat them, and she will become pregnant. Utter it on the twenty-​ninth of the month’ (translation by Meyer; Meyer and Smith 1994: 272). Another spell, invoking God and the miraculous pregnancy of Sarah (Genesis 17:15–​21 and 18: 9–​15), was created to be used by a man to ensure the pregnancy of a woman (Meyer and Smith 1994: 176). An amulet was produced for a pregnant woman, Sura daughter of Pelca, to drive away evil forces that could affect her and her unborn child, as well as any children that she might bear in the future. ‘Cast forth from her every evil force … Cast them away from her and away from all her children until she bears them, and away from all her dwellings, immediately and quickly! Do not permit them ever to visit her or the child with whom she is pregnant for approximately two hundred miles around’ (translation by Smith; Meyer and Smith 1994: 120 ff.). For further such spells, see the references in Wilfong (2002: 73 n.9). One corpus of legal documents from eighth century Thebes is concerned entirely with children: the twenty-​five child-​donation documents (P.KRU 79–​103) concerning the monastery of Apa Phoibammon at Deir el-​Bahri (Fig. 10.2). In those texts that include a background narrative to the donation, we see that conception is accredited to God, that there was a genuine fear for child mortality and that God was also the source of child illness, most often as a punishment for the sins of the parents: ‘the good God, by whose hand everybody exists, cast a severe illness upon our beloved son Panias, because of the extent of our sins’ (P.KRU 85.10–​12); ‘When the mercy of God commanded and my son was born to me, I considered my sins and decided that, should he live, I will donate him to the monastery of Apa Phoibammon for the salvation of my soul. However, when the little boy grew up and was healthy, I wanted to break the vow that I had drawn up with God and his Saint. Afterwards, the little boy fell into a deep and very severe illness’ (P.KRU 96.17–​27). Illness could also be demonic in origin. Pesyntius, the boy at the centre of P.KRU 97, had an accident as a child: ‘the Devil threw our son onto the fire’. Sebastian Richter (2005: 260) has suggested that this is a metaphor for an epileptic fit. Whether this is the case or not, the illness left the child weak, so weak that he was unable to leave the monastery even after he recovered. Another glimpse into childbirth and child illness that this corpus provides is our only documentary evidence of a premature birth.The woman Tachel gave birth to her son, Athanasios, ‘in his seventh month’ (P.KRU 86). Tachel determined that, should he live (should ‘God save him from death’), she would dedicate him to the monastery. As is the common narrative in these texts, Athanasios did survive, at which point his mother changed her mind, inducing the wrath of God, who is identified as the source of his illness. However, a few lines later, after he was taken to the monastery, his illness is described as demoniacal (a daimon-​illness). The boy survived, at least long enough to be donated. How old these boys were at the time of their donation is not stipulated, and it is not stated if they were donated immediately after their recovery from illness. They presumably were not 155

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Figure 10.2  The monastery of Apa Phoibammon at Deir el-​Bahri. Photograph showing the remains of the monastery before they were removed at the end of the 19th century Source: Carter photograph 15 © The Egypt Exploration Society

infants and had been weaned. As with other periods in Egypt’s history, as well as the rest of the Mediterranean world, children were breastfed typically for between two and three years. The evidence for this in Coptic texts is restricted to the literary record. In a discourse on the life of the Holy Virgin, Mary, we are told that she was breastfed for three years: ‘And when three years were over, the child [sheere shem] was weaned from her mother’s milk’ (Discourse on Mary Theotokos by Cyril, Archbishop of Jerusalem, Fol. 7b; see Budge 1915: 55 and 633). In turn, Mary breastfed the infant Jesus until he was three years old, as recounted in the Discourse of Apa Epiphanius on the Holy Virgin (Budge 1915: 136 and 714) and in the surviving Bohairic version of On the Falling Asleep of Mary (Robinson 1896: 65). These literary accounts correspond with the Greek documentary evidence from Roman Egypt. A corpus of wet-​nurse contracts exists, written in Demotic (a pre-​Coptic phase of the Egyptian language) and Greek and covering over three centuries, from 15 BCE to 305 CE. The contracting period for the wet-​nurses ranged from six months to three years, with two years being the most common period (see Bradley 1980 for an overview of this material). Recent analysis of the burials from Kellis 2 cemetery, based on analysis of dental enamel and dentine from both juveniles and adults, confirms that infants were breastfed exclusively for the first six months, followed by a gradual weaning process, during which time cow and/​or goat milk could have been introduced, which ended at age three (Dupras et al. 2001; Dupras and Tocheri 2007). An early weaning age may have resulted from the mother having problems expressing milk, if a wet-​nurse was not available or could not 156

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be afforded. A Coptic spell, to be recited over something sweet that the mother would then eat, addresses this very problem (Meyer and Smith 1994: 307). The age at which children were baptised is not stated. Returning to the case of the abovementioned premature baby, Athanasios, he was baptised only after he started to grow. This suggests that parents may have waited to make sure their child survived the initial dangers of childbirth, but it is dangerous to extrapolate from this one isolated example. In an unfortunately damaged letter from the Hermopolite region, a priest, Constantine, writes to his bishop, in part about the difficulties of baptizing certain children: ‘their children. The matter is difficult for me!’ (P.Lond.Copt. I 1121).The reasons for the problems are not recorded, or at the least are lost, and nothing is said of the age of the children involved. It is unclear whether other references to baptisms are for children or adults, including the setting up of a baptismal tank (kolumbethra) in the holy mount of Djeme (P.Mon.Epiph. 157) and the baptism festival (O.Crum 61, P.Mon.Epiph. 565a). A word-​list from the Theban area provides Greek and Coptic words connected with baptism, highlighting the importance of this holy sacrament (Hasznos 2011).

The lived experience In villages Djeme, in western Thebes, is the village for which we have the strongest architectural and textual record, broadly dated to the seventh and eighth centuries.Wilfong (2002: 1–​22) provides the best overview of the site. During the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, hundreds of papyri and thousands of ostraca were found here. Excavations in the 1920s provided information for more than 130 mudbrick houses, which complements the written sources, allowing us to identify certain domestic spaces. However, identifying spaces for children is a different matter. The texts do not refer to dedicated rooms for children and it is likely that in such a small, cramped settlement no such space existed, with rooms being multipurpose and intended for several members of the household. Other material remains recovered from Djeme are quite limited. For Late Antiquity, the village Karanis in the Fayum provides more material, and children are slightly more visible there in the archaeological record.Wilfong (2014: 87–​92) presents a collection of toys from the village, or items that may be toys, together with other objects with which they were found, including a wooden horse and dolls. Model furniture from the site may also have been used for play (see also Bénazeth 2014: 231–​232). The same range of objects was most likely used in all Egyptian villages during these centuries. Egypt’s arid climate, in addition to preserving a vast body of written material, also preserves other object types that do not survive elsewhere, and Egypt is particularly famed for the volume of textiles that have survived from antiquity (Thomas 2007; Fluck and Helmecke 2014). In terms of clothing, loose-​fitting tunics and shawls are the most common garment type worn by all ages. Tunics often are plain linen items or sewn from dyed linen with embroidered, woollen ornaments (Fig.  10.3). In the University of Pennsylvania Museum is a collection of about 500 textiles that are reputed to come from Lahun. While this collection includes many typical garments, it is remarkable for the large number of entirely woollen garments.These are brighter than their linen counterparts, dyed in bright red, green, and blue. As Bazinet 1993 remarks, these clothes create the image of street scenes filled with colour, with children in particular clad in the brightest, most colourful items. Many museum collections around the world abound with textile fragments, including complete items (e.g. Cromwell 2011; Fluck and Helmecke 2014: 243). In the written sources, children are elusive, as they did not pay taxes and were not involved in economic transactions. Furthermore, when we do find them in texts, it is usually as a result 157

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Figure 10.3  Child’s tunic; 1931.46.14 Source: from the collections of Bolton Library and Museum Services © Bolton Council

of unusual situations. While we can picture brightly garbed children playing in the streets of villages and towns, concrete evidence for their formative years and their training and education is wanting. Most children would have learned family trades within their household, and, in societies with a high degree of illiteracy, it is erroneous to think of children attending school. Texts that deal with training were therefore drawn up when instruction was received and paid for outside of the family. A small number of contracts survive in which boys and girls were apprenticed to men and women, for different periods of time (for the more extensive Greek evidence, see the references in Kotsifou 2009: 349). The age of the children, once again, is not stated. Vuolanto (2003:  198) argues that, in practical terms, children only became profitable for work from the age of ten. This may, however, have depended on the nature of the work in question and on the nature of the contract, and the situation for boys and girls may have been different. O.CrumVC 19, from Elephantine, is a contract between a priest Sarapamon and a woman Djendjor concerning his (unnamed) daughter. She is apprenticed to Djendjor for two years, but the nature of the work is not stated. Another two-​year contract, SB Kopt. I 45, is for plaiting. The woman Sara apprenticed her daughter, Tapnoub, to Maria and paid her three carats (which equates to one-​eighth of a gold coin, the equivalent of the Latin solidus). Should Maria have failed in her duties as tutor, she was to pay twice that amount as a penalty. For boys, the surviving evidence is slightly different.The two above texts are written on ostraca and are rather informal affairs. By contrast, the only Coptic apprenticeship document that survives, P.Brit.Mus.Copt. I 1065, is a longer contract written on papyrus. It is written between the carpenter Shenoute and his apprentice, whose name is lost. The contract is for one year and, in return for his labour, the apprentice was paid in grain and wine (the two staples of the time). In P.Lond.Copt. I 1063, a man, Petra from Hermopolis, contracted another man and his apprentice to do certain work. Five lines of text are illegible, so the nature of the work and any particulars about the apprentice are lost. The payment for this labour is in wine, for both men. The apprentices of a jar-​seller (a designation to be understood as a producer and seller of jars) are mentioned in a letter from the Hermopolite nome, P.Ryl.Copt. 369: ‘See and compel his apprentices! Get surety that they 158

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will work for him, especially while he is in Touhô’. Perhaps the jar-​seller’s young apprentices were known for their lack of discipline, especially when their master was not present. While the evidence in Coptic is scanty, what exists points at a more formal type of apprenticeship for boys than for girls. Most of our evidence of learning to read and write comes from monastic contexts, as will be discussed in the next section. While it is likely that some village children were taught by monks, there is no definitive evidence in support of this.Two ostraca bearing witness statements concern the same contract between a priest Isaac and a man Pheu (Spiegelberg 1903: 67–​68; Boud’hors 2016). Pheu was engaged to teach Isaac’s son to read and write; once the process was complete, Pheu received one tremis (one-​third of a gold coin). Within the village Djeme, analysis of the legal documents produced in the village shows that the sons of professional scribes often also became scribes, but it is difficult to determine with confidence whether their fathers or somebody else trained them (Cromwell 2012). Nevertheless, this pattern of sons following in their fathers’ paths is surely applicable to most families in the country, regardless of occupation. Children in servile roles are attested in two corpora, from Kellis and western Thebes. It is difficult to determine whether these children were slaves or servants, as the terminology involved is ambiguous, but the evidence points towards the former. In a postscript to P.Kellis VII 64, Marie asks her brother Pshai to send her a new girl, referred to only as koui, as she has given Jenapollo, presumably her previous servant, to a husband.The same term, koui, is used of another girl, whom the writer wants to sell, but appears to be hindered by the current laws that do not permit this (P.Kellis VII 77). The Greek equivalent of koui, neanis, is used in P.Kellis VII 69 for a girl who is used as surety against the delivery of certain items. Each of these texts indicate that household slaves are in question here: they could potentially be sold off, married off or used as collateral. How old these girls were is not stated; the use of koui/​neanis may indicate an older girl, one who has reached puberty but is unmarried. The child-​donation deeds from Thebes, which have already been mentioned, provide evidence of child slavery, in this instance of boys, within a monastic context. The boys donated to the monastery of Apa Phoibammon at Deir el-​Bahri were not intended to become monks. Their state was as that of ‘an old slave’ (P.KRU 90.7 and 98.7) and of ‘a slave bought for money’ (P.KRU 82.16). If they were to leave the monastery, anything that they produced by their own labour was to be given to the monastery (P.KRU 89.42–​44) and, should they get married and have children, their children would inherit their condition (P.KRU 95). Their tasks within the monastery, which are listed in some documents, were menial, largely connected with the cleaning and upkeep of the monastery. In return, they would be housed, clothed and fed.This is not to say that none of these children went on to become monks, but this was not the original intention of the donations. There is ample evidence from other contexts for children living in monasteries who were destined to become monks.

In monasteries Shenoute, the famous abbot of the White and Red monasteries, first entered a monastic community as a child. As a youth, he worked with a shepherd who tended his father’s flock. Instead of returning home from the fields at night, Shenoute lowered himself into a well and prayed to God, with the water up to his neck and his ten fingers held upright in orant pose, like ten flaming lamps. After the shepherd discovered him he told Shenoute’s father to take his son back, as he was not worthy of the boy. Shenoute was then sent to his maternal uncle, Pjol, who was head of a monastic community. Pjol welcomed him as ‘my Father and archimandrite’, recognising his holy potential (Shenoute’s youth is recorded in his Life; see the translation in 159

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Bell 1983).While the topos of ‘holy childhood’ is part of the hagiographisation of the childhood of great religious figures (Caseau 2009; Papaconstantinou 2008: 179), with these stories prefiguring their later spiritual life, they still present an idealised image of childhood (see also the anecdote from the Patriarch Athanasios’ childhood in Caseau 2009: 153, and the early life of Theodore, Pachomius’ successor, in Schroeder 2009: 328–​329). In Shenoute’s case, his Life also provides literary evidence of children in Egyptian monasteries who were to become monks. One important point from Shenoute’s youth is that it was his parents who entered him into his uncle’s community. This is one way to account for children in monasteries, although parents may have had varying reasons, for example the child’s education. Another reason for their presence was the monastic care of orphans. The non-​literary evidence has already been discussed above; Crislip notes the evidence from the Pachomium and Shenutean literature and stresses the role played by monasteries from the fourth century as ‘a haven for orphans” (Crislip 2005: 134–​135). In O.Brit.Mus.Copt. I 66, a man enters his daughter into a convent, stressing that she should not be returned to him, seemingly as a result of his own poverty: abandonment of children in monasteries by parents unable to care for them is another possible reason. A small number of stories from the Sayings of the Desert Fathers show adult monks bringing their children with them (references in Schroeder 2009: 319). While in each of these cases the boys went on to become monks, this is not to say that all orphans or children of monks joined the monastic community. Nevertheless, they certainly were present in monasteries almost from the beginning of the movement in Egypt. At what age could children enter monasteries? This is a complex issue for, as we have seen, children were present for different reasons: education, labour and to become a monk. There is also a secondary point: while parents may have given their offspring to monasteries, the children themselves later had to confirm that way of life. Presumably the children donated to the monastery were not given when they were infants: they needed to be old enough to perform their menial tasks. One boy, another Shenoute (P.KRU 93), was old enough to flee to Cairo to escape being given to the monastery; for this Shenoute, at least, life in a monastery was not such an attractive option.This Shenoute had presumably reached the age of being able to reason, and so was a mature child. None of the relevant material provides ages for the children, beyond these incidental and fleeting suggestions. In the literary record, one story in the Life of Matthew the Poor recounts how a woman came to Matthew, begging him to pray to God, that He may grant her a child. If God were to bestow this gift upon her, she would donate the child, ‘once I have weaned it from my breasts’ either to a monastery, if a boy, or a convent, if a girl (text and French translation in Amélineau 1895: 720). While this may be a purely rhetorical device, it does raise the possibility that very young children lived in monasteries. The First Greek Life of Pachomius comments that it is easier for children to attain a state of perfection than for adults, as long as they are obedient from an early age: ‘For ground that has been cleared is ready to be planted with vines step by step, but fallow land can scarcely be planted with good seed after it has been cleaned with great toil’ (translation from Veilleux 1980: 331). St. Basil the Great, the fourth century bishop of Caesarea, made it clear that children were not to be considered brethren immediately. He also noted that girls could not make a decision about their virginity until they had mastered their senses, which was not until they were 16 or 17 –​some years past the age of puberty (see Silvas 2005: 200–​201).Whether this can be extrapolated to all monasteries in Egypt is not certain, but Shenoute’s references to children who have mastered judgement and reason may be seen as the equivalent of this statement. Separation of children from the rest of the brethren is suggested in the evidence from the Hermopolite monastery of Apa Apollo at Bawit. SB Kopt. IV 1780 mentions a ‘cell of the

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children [literally ‘little ones’:  koui]’. This text’s provenance is not certainly Bawit, but other texts definitely from the monastery refer both to such a space and to an experienced monk in charge of children. For example, an inscription on one of the monastery’s walls mentions ‘Isaac, Father of the little ones [koui]’ (Maspero and Drioton 1932: 95, no. 249). Delattre and Maspero and Drioton provide other attestations of this title, the number of which indicates that children formed a regular, and not insignificant, part of the community (Maspero and Drioton 1932: 95, no. 249; Delattre 2007: 69). Not only were children kept separate, the monastic rules of Shenoute show that special consideration was given to them in different areas of community life. It should be noted that these rules did not apply to older children who had developed judgment: these youths were subject to the same regulations as the elder brethren (rule 420). In general, children were protected from the harsh rigours of monastic life, in particular fasting and labour. No senior members were to force children to do their physical labour for them (rule 329) and they were not to be ordered to collect or gather (rule 398). Even the jobs assigned to boys and girls were not to be undertaken without supervision. Rule 210 shows that one task carried out by boys was to spread out soaked reeds for the gathering, while girls would light the lamp for the morning gathering and collect wool (rule 211), but only as long as a senior figure accompanied them. Several rules protect children against being touched, or touching others, whether for medical or more sinister reasons (see Layton 2014:  60). These highlight the potential dangers that children might have faced, but also the dangers that they posed to the monastic way of life. Children as a form of temptation is a recurring theme in the Sayings of the Desert Fathers (Schroeder 2009: 336–​337). While children received special treatment, they were to behave appropriately at all times. They were not to laugh (564) or play with elders (419, 568), and were to be obedient constantly (53), echoing the emphasis on obedience found in Pachomius’ Life. Throughout their time in monasteries, children were to be instructed in the ways of monastic life. The Tenth Sahidic Life of Pachomius dictates what they should be taught and in what order. First, they were taught that they were created by God, as was the rest of the known universe, and how they should bless Him. After that came psalms, to learn by heart, and other books of Holy Scripture. Finally, they were to know God’s will, His law, and what pleased Him (Veilleux 1980:  451–​452). Pachomius’ monastic rules stressed the importance of literacy. All those learning to read and write would learn first syllables, verbs, then nouns, before moving onto the Scriptures, which should comprise at least the New Testament and the Psalter (Veilleux 1981: 166).This process was surely that applied to anybody receiving an education from a monastery. A large body of writing exercises (‘school texts’) have survived from throughout Egypt, many of which come from monastic contexts. However, these were not all necessarily written by children. Pachomius’ rule applied to everybody wanting to become a monk, whether young or old.

Death Death comes as the end, even if it is all too soon.The archaeological evidence for burials during this period is treated in part by Muhlestein and Evans in this volume. In addition to the Fayumic evidence that they deal with, which extends as late as the seventh century, the fourth century cemetery at Kellis has also yielded important evidence for foetal, infant, and juvenile burials. Wheeler et al. 2011 examine the causes of death of the child remains in Kellis 2 cemetery, where they account for 61 per cent of the total interments. The Coptic written evidence, including

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letters and inscriptions, is not extensive, but expresses a range of emotional responses to the death of children, and of children dying at different ages. Two letters from Thebes, between lay people and monks, mention the death of children. Both are very fragmentary, but some particulars can be discerned. A  woman, Esther, writes to a monk of the grief felt by her soul at the death of her children and seeks advice: ‘Please, instruct me … I bear my children … they die. Perhaps [I]‌am doing something wrong. Please, send me guidance by which I  can proceed’ (P.Mon.Epiph. 194). As she mentioned multiple child deaths, she may be referring to miscarriages, still-​births or infant deaths. In an even more fragmentary letter, a man, Moses, writes to several monks: ‘pray for [me, because] I have committed many sins … [my?] children died’ (P.Mon.Epiph. 209). This reference to his sins recalls the child-​donation deeds discussed earlier, in which the sins of the parents are cited either as a reason for donating the child or for illnesses struck down upon them –​moral rather than physical faults are blamed. Infant mortality was certainly a grave concern, and spiritual guidance and protection were common to try to protect against it. A prayer to St. Leontius of Tripoli, written on papyrus (P.Ryl.Copt. 100), asks to ensure the birth of a living child (Meyer and Smith 1994: 125). A tomb stele of unknown provenance was produced for a girl called Drosis (Engelbach 1932; Cramer 1941: 20–​22).While her age at death is not stated, an analogy is provided through which we can deduce that she died shortly before puberty. ‘If a young plant is protected by reeds and it comes to the time of bearing fruit, and if it happens that the flooding season occurs, so that the waters rise above the level of the bank and kill it, grief will then descend upon its owner … since the plant has departed in its youth, before it bore its fruit. This is the case of this young girl on coming to the time of bearing fruit. Suddenly, she was carried away, she was taken while she was in her youth’. The materiality of her funerary stele may reflect the sudden and unexpected nature of her death. While on first sight, it appears to be broken –​the top left part of the arch is broken off –​the inscription is in fact complete and covers the entire surface of the stele, not only the rectangular section that had originally been carved in its centre. With an unexpected death, her family may not have had the time to have a new, high-​quality item produced and instead purchased whatever slab was available in the mason’s workshop and had that inscribed (alternatively, its form may reflect the family’s wealth, or lack thereof; this may have been all they could afford).The text also exposes the grief of the family.Their daughter was taken abruptly from them and she left behind her parents and a brother whose pain is described as a fire that needed to be extinguished. This level of emotion is in stark contrast to a letter from Kellis (P.Kellis VII 115). The writer, Tegoshe, writes to her brother Pshai and apologises for not having come to visit him in the Nile Valley, but she had been ill and the children of one Nonna had fallen ill and died.This is relayed in the most matter-​of-​fact manner. It is later repeated in a postscript directed towards her sister Tapshai. Here she adds that, when she had been about to go to the Valley, together with somebody who might be her daughter, but may have been a servant (she is not referred to by name, only as koui, as in the texts concerning slaves from Kellis discussed above), the young girl also died.The lack of a response to these tragedies may be the result of a lack of space on the papyrus, rather than any lack of emotion. The solitary outburst from Tegoshe, ‘I am powerless’, may be an exclamation at her inability to combat fate, but it may also be an apology that she is unable to overcome these setbacks to her plans.These deaths all appear to have occurred within a short period of time. This may be a result of an epidemic in the village (through which Tegoshe herself fell ill and developed pus), or it may reflect general mortality rates. As already noted, analysis of the human remains at Kellis 2 cemetery shows that over three-​fifths of interments were of children (Wheeler et al. 2011). 162

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Conclusion The Coptic written evidence and the archaeological remains of Late Antique Egypt provide glimpses into different facets of childhood. One of the overriding features of the material discussed in this chapter is that children typically only enter the sources in exceptional circumstances, in situations that took them away from their home, whether because of sickness, work or death. And childhood biographies were written only for exceptional individuals, such as the archimandrite Shenoute. For the most part, children in Egyptian villages and monasteries went about their lives without need or care for recording their affairs. Yet, the difficulties that they faced and the concerns of their parents were universal in the pre-​modern world.

References The sigla used for ostraca, papyri and inscriptions conform to the Checklist of Editions, which is updated regularly at papyri.info/​docs/​checklist. Amélineau, E. 1888. Monuments pour servir à l’histoire de l’Égypte chrétienne au IVe et Ve siècles. Paris: Ernest Leroux. Amélineau, E. 1895. Monuments pour servir à l’histoire de l’Égypte chrétienne au IVe, Ve, VIe, et VIIe siècles. Deuxième fascicule. Paris: Ernest Leroux. Bazinet, M. 1993. Coptic dress in Egypt: The social life of medieval cloth. In: Textiles in daily life: proceedings of the third biennial symposium of the Textile Society of America, September 24–​26, 1992. Earlevill, MD: Textile Society of America, 73–​80. Bell, D.N. (trans. and intro.). 1983. The life of Shenoute by Besa. Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications. Bénazeth, D. 2014. Objects of daily life. In: G. Gabra (ed.), Coptic civilization: Two thousand years of Christianity in Egypt. Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 217–​236. Boud’hors, A. 2016. Apprendre à lire et à écrire: Deux documents coptes revisités. In: T. Derda, A. Łatjar, and J. Urbanik (eds) Proceedings of the 27th International Congress of Papyrology, Warsaw, 29 July–​3 August 2013. Warsaw: Raphael Taubenschlag Foundation, 1027–​1039. Bradley, K.R. 1980. Sexual regulations in wet-​nursing contracts from Roman Egypt. Klio 62: 321–​325. Budge, E.A.W. 1915. Miscellaneous Coptic texts in the dialect of Upper Egypt. London: Oxford University Press. Caseau, B. 2009. Childhood in Byzantine saints’ lives. In:  A. Papaconstantinou and A.-​M. Talbot (eds), Becoming Byzantine: Children and childhood in Byzantium. Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 127–​166. Clackson, S.J. 2007. Coptic Oxyrhynchus. In: A.K. Bowman, A. Coles, N. Gonis, D. Obbink and P. Parsons (eds), Oxyrhynchus: A city and its texts. London: Egypt Exploration Society, 332–​341. Cramer, M. 1941. Die Totenklage bei den Kopten:  Mit Hinweisen auf die Totenklage im Orient überhaupt. Vienna: Hölder-​Pichler-​Tempsky. Crislip, A.T. 2005. From monastery to hospital: Christian monasticism and the transformation of health care in Late Antiquity. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Cromwell, J. 2011. 48. Child’s tunic. In:  C. Routledge (ed.), Quest for immortality:  The Bolton Museum collection. Taipei: Chiang Kai-​shek Memorial Hall Museum, 58. Cromwell, J. 2012. Following in father’s footsteps: The question of father-​son training in eighth century Thebes. In: P. Schubert (ed.), Actes du 26e Congrès international de papyrology. Genève, 16–​21 août 2010. Geneva: University of Geneva, 149–​157. Cromwell, J. 2013. Keeping it in the family: Property concerns in 8th century Thebes. JNES 72.2: 213–​232. Delattre, A. 2007. Papyrus coptes et grecs du monastère d’apa Apollô de Baouît conservés aux Musées royaux d’Art et d’Histoire de Bruxelles. Brussels: Académie royale de Belgique. Dupras, T.L., Schwarz, H.P. and Fairgrieve, S.I. 2001. Infant feeding and weaning practices in Roman Egypt. American Journal of Physical Anthropology 115: 204–​212. Dupras, T.L. and Tocheri, M.W. 2007. Reconstructing infant weaning histories at Roman Period Kellis, Egypt using stable isotope analysis of dentition. American Journal of Physical Anthropology 134: 63–​74. Engelbach, R. 1932. A  Coptic memorial tablet to a young girl. Studies Presented to F.  Ll. Griffith. London: Oxford University Press, 149–​151 and pl. 14. Fluck, C. and Helmecke, G. 2014. Egypt’s post-​pharaonic textiles. In: G. Gabra (ed.), Coptic civilization: Two thousand years of Christianity in Egypt. Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 237–​260.

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Jennifer Cromwell Gallazzi, C. 2010. Umm-​ el-​ Breigât (Tebtynis) 2004–​ 2008:  Gli scavi nel settore bizantino. Rendiconti 144: 183–​208. Hasznos, A. 2011. A Greek-​Coptic glossary found at TT 65. In: E. Bechtold, A. Gulyás and A. Hasznos (eds), From Illahun to Djeme: Papers presented in honour of Ulrich Luft. Oxford: Archaeopress, 81–​85. Kotsifou, C. 2009. Papyrological perspectives on orphans in the world of Late Ancient Christianity. In: C.B. Horn and R.R. Phenix (eds), Children in Late Ancient Christianity. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 339–​373. Layton, B. 2014. The canons of our fathers: Monastic rules of Shenoute. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Maspero, J. and Drioton, E. 1932. Fouilles exécutes à Baouît. Le Caire:  Institut français d’archéologie orientale. Meyer, M.W. and Smith, R. 1994. Ancient Christian magic:  Coptic texts of ritual power. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Papaconstantinou, A. 2008. Child or monk? An unpublished story attributed to John Moschos in MS Coislin 257. BASP 45: 171–​184. Richter, T.S. 2005. What’s in a Story? Cultural Narratology and Coptic Child Donation Documents. JJP 35: 237–​264. Robinson, F. 1896. Coptic Apocryphal Gospels: Translations together with the texts of some of them. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schroeder, C. 2009. Children and Egyptian monasticism. In: C.B. Horn and R.R. Phenix (eds), Children in Late Ancient Christianity. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 317–​338. Silvas, A.M. 2005. The Asketikon of St Basil the Great. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Spiegelberg, W. 1903. Review of: W.E. Crum, Coptic ostraca. Orientalistische Literaturzeitung 6: 59–​70. Thomas, T.K. 2007. Coptic and Byzantine textiles found in Egypt:  Corpora, collections, and scholarly perspectives. In:  R.S. Bagnall (ed.), Egypt in the Byzantine world, 300–​700. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 137–​162. Till, W.C. 1962. Datierung und Prosopographie der koptischen Urkunden aus Theben.Vienna: Hermann Böhlaus Nachf. Töpfer, S. 2014. The physical activity of parturition in ancient Egypt: Textual and epigraphical sources. Dynamis 24, 2: 317–​335. Veilleux, A. (trans. and intro.). 1980. Pachomian Koinonia.Volume one: the life of Saint Pachomius and his disciples. Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications. Veilleux,A. (trans. and intro.). 1981. Pachomian Koinonia.Volume two: Pachomian chronicles and rules. Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications. Vuolanto,V. 2003. Selling a freeborn child: rhetoric and social realities in the Late Roman World. Ancient Society 33: 169–​207. Wheeler, S.M., Williams, L., Dupras, T.L., Tocheri, M. and Molto, J.E. 2011. Childhood in Roman Egypt:  Bioarchaeology of the Kellis 2 Cemetery, Dakhleh Oasis, Egypt. In:  M. Lally and A. Moore (eds), (Re)thinking the little ancestor:  New perspectives on the archaeology of infancy and childhood. Oxford: Archaeopress, 110–​121. Wilfong, T.G. 2002. Women of Jeme: Lives in a Coptic town in Late Antique Egypt. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Wilfong, T.G. (ed.). 2014. Karanis revealed: Discovering the past and present of a Michigan excavation in Egypt. Ann Arbor, MI: Kelsey Museum of Archaeology.

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PART II

Daily life

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11 THE CHILD’S EXPERIENCE OF DAILY LIFE IN ANCIENT EGYPT Amandine Marshall

It is often said that writing about ancient Egyptian children’s lives is a difficult task because the textual and iconographic sources mainly represent the way in which adults perceived children  –​with a preconceived set of ideals about the concept of childhood  –​rather than accurate information provided on or by children themselves. Everyday life as perceived and experienced by non-​adults is also largely invisible in the literary, pictorial and archaeological records, and the sources we do have are limited in scope and demonstrate genuine, if unintentional, bias. In ancient Egypt, women and men only obtained real social status in the community when they became parents, and if couples were unable to have children they could adopt orphans and bring them up as their own. In antiquity, various health conditions made life particularly precarious, and children’s lives often ended very abruptly regardless of their social background. If we assume that approximately 30 per cent of infants died during the first year of life (Stockwell 1984; Lewis and Gowland 2007: 117), every birth was a cause for concern, with particular attention focussed on the neonate and his/​her survival. In this chapter, evidence for the child’s experience of everyday life will be presented and analysed from birth onwards. The sex of the child and the social class into which he or she was born defined their life path to a great extent and influenced their place in the community, as well as their daily activities and access to education. The examples set by parents shaped children’s views of the world, and this had implications for the structure and maintenance of Egyptian civilisation through the passing of knowledge and experience from one generation to the next.

Coming into Egyptian society: birth and nurture Birth Egyptian women usually gave birth squatting on two or four sun dried or fired mud bricks, helped by midwives, doctors and women from their circle of acquaintances (Marshall 2015: 100).When the child was successfully delivered, midwives immediately performed essential procedures –​like cutting the umbilical cord and removing mucus from the mouth of the newborn child to prevent him/​her from suffocating –​matched by magic rituals which acted as rites of passage and changed the status of the baby. Then the child received a name as part of 167

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the rite of separation from his mother, which transformed him from an anonymous being and gave him an official place in his family and the wider community. Names given to children can be classified into twelve categories (Ranke 1935; Marshall 2015: 133–​140): those connected to the birth, names referring to a god, a king, a quality, a job, a vegetable, an animal, an object or a place, patronymic names, imprecatory names (generally against the foreign invaders, e.g. Ruru: “Against them, against them!” and Tchabastetimu: “May Bastet grab them!”) and finally, names of foreign origin (Guentch-​Ogloueff 1941: 117–​133). Egyptians believed that the fate of each person was sealed by the gods on the day of his birth. Some specific divinities had the potential to change the future of the newborn child: Shai, personification of the abstract notion of fate, whose name means “The One who Determines”; Meskhenet, personification of birth bricks on which Egyptian women delivered their babies; Renenutet, a cobra goddess associated with the agricultural cycle and a personification of good fortune; Reret, a hippopotamus goddess whose name means “nursemaid”; and the Seven Hathors, bovine goddesses responsible for announcing the fate decided by the gods. Birth predictions were based on an almanac known as the Calendar of Lucky and Unlucky Days, which dates from at least the Middle Kingdom (c. 2100–​1775 BC: P. Illahun: Griffith 1897: pl. 25 (n° XVII/​3); P. Sallier IV: Chabas 1870; The Cairo Calendar No. 86637: Bakir 1966; P. Budge: Leitz 1994). Days were divided into three periods with the qualifier of “good” or “bad”. On many occasions, the fate of children born on a particular day was specified, including the general age when and/​or how, the individual was going to die. The study of these daily predictions reveals that what is registered was immutable from one year to another and concerned the whole population without social, sexual or geographical distinction. Once the fate of the newborn child was indicated it was irreparably fixed. However, even if children were predestined to die, parents would do everything in their power to save them with the help of doctors, magicians and priests. Doctors conducted tests to establish the viability of the neonate during the first hours of his life. Some medico-​magical texts show that Egyptians based interventions on particular physiological signs that alerted them to grave problems (for example, shouts uttered by the child or hypotonia of the eyeballs: P. Ebers: Bardinet 1995: 450–​451). Some practices could be fatal for the newborn child, such as the recommendation of making him swallow a piece of the placenta (P. Ramesseum IV: Bardinet 1995: 451), a source of numerous infections. Doctors fought to save the child in spite of negative test results: these tests are the medical counterpart of the predictions announced by the gods and those in the Egyptian horoscopic calendar. Threats to the health and life of the child included natural and supernatural causes, mainly inflicted by demons and ghosts for which very young children were a main target. Magical papyri provide a number of incantations intended to protect the child and to push away evil, since it was apparently too powerful to be completely eradicated. In the same way, amulets of varied forms, colours and materials were hung on the limbs and around the neck of the infant, and magicians could resort to particular apotropaic objects including “magic wands” (Helck 1986: 1355; Szpakowska this volume). These flat blades were made from hippopotamus tusks and engraved with characters and objects from a well-​defined magico-​religious directory. The earliest examples of magic wands date to the Middle Kingdom, and they continued to be made until the beginning of the New Kingdom. We know very little about how these objects were used: were they ritually brandished in the air to threaten ghosts, spirits and other malevolent beings? Were they used to draw a protective circle around the place of childbirth or birth bricks? The only thing we are assured of, thanks to the engraved inscriptions and the iconography, is that these objects played a particularly important role at the time of childbirth and focused after the birth on the vulnerable newborn child. The protection given by these particular 168

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artifacts was effective via the object itself (such as being made from the ivory of the formidable hippopotamus and having a weapon-​like shape), the power supposed to emanate from the divinities depicted, the representations calling on the power of gods, genies, fantastic creatures, dangerous animals and solar symbols, as well as any apotropaic spells written above them. The name of the infant could be engraved to direct the protective power of the object towards the child. In some cases, the child’s name is followed by a genealogical name which is always that of the mother (e.g. MMA 08.200.19: “Minhetep, life, prosperity, health; born of the princess Sat-​Sobek”. Arnold 1992 : 47, 69–​70).

Nurture In all societies, breastfeeding is perceived as the most natural and economic way to feed a baby in the first months of his life (Fig.  11.1). However, the duration of breastfeeding and weaning varies according to culture, society, family, economy and the needs of the child as well as those of individual women.Two wisdom texts, the second one (P. Louvre E 3.148: Jonckheere 1955:  215) being inspired by the first (P. Bulaq 20, 18:  Vernus 2001:  250), are intended to remind the Egyptian of the dedication of his mother who did not hesitate to bring him up and to breastfeed him during three long years. One must not consider the duration of breastfeeding

Figure 11.1  Ceramic vessel in the shape of a woman breastfeeding a child. New Kingdom (18th Dynasty) Source: Paris, Musée du Louvre, N 969 (AF 6643). © Courtesy of Roger Lichtenberg

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for three years as the general rule. The maxims always contained propaganda and were aimed at inculcating in young people the rules of wisdom, respect and obedience: in the Instruction of Any the purpose is to remind the Egyptian of all the respect he has to show to his mother who made so many sacrifices for him and gave so much of her time and energy to raise him during the long period of dependence during his early childhood. It is an ideal duration which was not necessarily in compliance with reality. In addition, a wet nurse could be employed to feed the child for a variety of different reasons, including the illness or death of the mother; her inability to lactate; insufficient, infected or unsuitable milk; or simply comfort reasons. Women could raise the status of their families by becoming wet nurses for royal children, and they are sometimes depicted in their husband’s tombs with young princes on their knees (Ockinga and Binder 2013: 510–​511). That human milk was the main source of nutrients for infants remains an indisputable point, but in some cases, ancient Egyptians would resort to using animal milk (mainly cows’ milk as goats’ milk is strong-​flavoured and donkey milk was probably disregarded because of the association between this animal and Seth, the god of chaos). Furthermore, milk was obviously not the only food consumed by infants. As a supplement to human or animal milk, infants received diluted porridge, and solid food was gradually introduced into their diet. Surviving early childhood did not, however, necessarily mean sharing in the same meals as adults. A New Kingdom text known as The Myth of the Sun’s Eye (de Cenival 1988: 9), refers to a simple diet made from bread and dates, and in the Ptolemaic Period, two other texts, one by Diodorus Siculus (I. 80), the other one by Theophrastus (Hist. pl. IV. 8) also mention the coarse and basic food given to the young. This suggests that Egyptian children had to reach a certain age before they were allowed to share the same food as adults. Elsewhere I have analysed the possible use of feeding-​bottles in antiquity, but the need for them is a preconceived idea based on modern Western practices and it is advisable to definitively move away from it (Marshall 2015: 184–​ 189).The well-​known example of a “feeding cup” with similar imagery to that found on magic knives dating to the Middle Kingdom (MMA 44.4.4. Quirke 2015: 202, no. 133) seems to be an exception, and since very few other artifacts of this type have been discovered to date, there is insufficient evidence to generalize about the use of these cups in daily life.

Play and education The life of ancient Egyptians was marked from a young age by degrees of stress that varied according to their social background. However, hard living conditions were not incompatible with recreation and play. While play is essential in the intellectual and physical development of the child, it is completely absent in literature and rarely represented on the walls of tombs. This is because the world of children did not interest the elite men, who produced literary, autobiographical and artistic works: our knowledge of the universe of toys, games and leisure activities is based essentially on archaeological data, which is not only very incomplete but also difficult to identify with any certainty. Children had at their disposal diverse toys that we can classify into four major categories: ceramic rattles for the youngest (perhaps also made from vegetable material, in which case those of the pharaonic period are not preserved), dolls (of wood, rags and/​or clay), models of animals (generally in fired clay) and articulated toys (usually in wood and showing animals, working characters or people on chariots with mobile wheels). This overview is limited, because it is obvious that children in antiquity, like those of today, amused themselves with ephemeral or short-​lived objects, for example, simple sticks and unbaked clay, which is not evident in iconography and which would be very difficult to identify today as “toys”, even if they were preserved. 170

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Toys were not the only entertainment of children.Young Egyptians practiced numerous games with balls and marbles (for example several groups of stone marbles were found in the square of the Ramesseum school on the West bank of Thebes: Leblanc 2008: 261–​265), as well as the tip cat, a popular game still played at the beginning of the 20th century in Egypt under the name of shabbat battat (Ammar 1954: 151). This game was also very popular in England in the 19th century, so the Egyptologist William Flinders Petrie (1927: 58) was able to identify the ancient Egyptian version from two elements: a stick and a small wooden piece of more or less diamond-​ shape. A small hole in the ground holds the piece of wood (cat) in a vertical position.The player, provided with the tip, had to strike the cat to send it in the air, then had to succeed in striking it again to send it as far as possible before it touched the ground (Ammar 1954: 151). This game was designed to increase the agility and reaction time of the players. The Egyptian climate also allowed the children to play outdoors most of the year. Some rare scenes in Old Kingdom tombs show boys having fun in racing games complicated by seated children providing a barrier with their stretched out arms and legs, over whom it was necessary to jump (Touny and Wenig 1969: figs. 30–​31); balance games where the children climbed on the back or shoulders of their companions (Touny and Wenig 1969: fig. 32); or trials of strength by a team or pair. Finally, we can suppose that children most probably played, just like adults, fashionable board games including mehen, with a board representing a coiled snake; senet, with a board of 30 compartments played by two; and game of hounds and jackals with a board of 58 holes. These games were not only for entertainment, but also had ritual significance, so they could have been part of the enculturation process of teaching and learning about religious beliefs through play (see Harrington, this volume).

The role of education in socialisation and enculturation With the vast majority of children not going to school, it fell to the family to take care of the education of their offspring. Textual sources are biased as well as incomplete because the only writings which mention family education are extracts from wisdom literature, documents that were probably accessible only to affluent members of society. The texts are silent regarding the socialisation and enculturation of girls, but provide some information about the education boys received from their father or teacher. Several passages of the Instructions (The Instruction of Any: Vernus 2001: 143; Wisdom of Ptahhetep: Vernus 2001: 108, 110 and 111) are intended to remind literate Egyptians that it was their duty to educate their male offspring. In the ideal world, the teaching of values and moral principles was passed on from generation to generation, but we have little evidence to show that this was always the case regardless of social status. The purpose of paternal instruction was to transmit to the son the fundamental principles of maat (divine order and justice), instil obedience, ensure that he was grateful for this teaching when he reached adulthood and to make his son a man he would be proud of. In parallel with this familial education, children were expected (once they were old enough to be able to walk and understand what they were told) to participate more actively in family life through small tasks. Household duties were many, especially in large families, and distributed according to the age and the capacities of each person. A letter from the New Kingdom (P. Louvre E 3.230: Peet 1926: 71; Glanville 1928: 309) mentions a maidservant who was given tasks not suited to her young age. This text shows that some Egyptians tried to take into account the age of children by entrusting them with tasks according to their capacities while, at the same time, other adults cared little about overburdening them. This letter also indicates that children could work for people other than members of their family, and that they participated in the economic life of the household from a very young age. 171

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Figure 11.2  Boys looking after heaps of grain and frightening away birds with sticks. Saqqara, Tomb of Meryneith. New Kingdom (18th Dynasty) Source: © Courtesy of Amandine Marshall

Children learnt, first of all, by observing adults and by being requested to complete small tasks:  for instance, the offspring of the farmer was entrusted with the sowing of fields, the gleaning of cereals, the supervision of cattle, donkeys, poultry and goats, the picking of vegetables and fruit and the transport of tools, foodstuffs or prepared food, as well as scaring away birds that tried to peck at freshly planted or harvested seeds and crops (Fig. 11.2). The fundamental help children supplied to the economy of the country must not be underestimated. They were entrusted with many simple jobs which allowed the adults to concentrate on heavier and more difficult work. Besides, their small size and their light weight were assets for picking fruit from the branches of trees, and the boundless energy of the young must have been highly valued by adults when running in fields to catch animals or scare off birds was required. Craftsmen’s children quickly became their father’s apprentices, helping them physically in any sort of tasks or working autonomously, for example in the production of vases or in the preparation of shabtis, or funerary figurines. Over time, the child took a more and more important place in the community of workers as his physical and intellectual abilities developed, until the day when, as a teenager, he was completely integrated into his new functions. As for the boys of the more privileged classes of the population who had the opportunity to go to school, they were given an education which supplemented the one that they had already received, allowing them to follow the same career path as their fathers and maintain the social status of their families. The male offspring of elites and state employees, such as scribes and priests were, just like the offspring of the lower classes, destined to follow the career paths of their parents. In order to enhance the education they received in the family setting, privileged children were educated in two specific places: the at seba(yt) (literally “the place of instruction”) and the per ankh (literally “the House of Life”). The oldest mention of the at seba(yt) (Tomb 5 at Assiut: Edel 1984: 109) dates to the First Intermediate Period (c. 2200–​2010 BC). In a text dating to the Middle Kingdom (c. 2010–​1760 BC:  Maystre 1938:  69), now known as The Satire of the Trades, and copied many times in antiquity, an Egyptian named Khety related the story of when he travelled to the city of Memphis by boat in order to accompany his son Pepy to the “school of books” in the royal palace (presumably to join the “children of the kap”, for which see e.g. Meltzer 2001). The fact that Khety, himself scribe and teacher apparently living in a province distant from Memphis, had the opportunity to send his son to study among the children of the elite in the palace of his sovereign, Senusret I, suggests that this school was perhaps the unique official educational institution of the country at that time. Other schools are mentioned in Egyptian texts, such as that of Deir el-​Medina (the village of the craftsmen tasked with constructing and decorating the tombs of the pharaohs, their wives and officials in the 172

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Valleys of the Kings, Queens, and Nobles: Černy 1939: 10), but to date no school building has been formally identified in archaeological excavations at or near this site. Several Egyptologists have debated the age at which children began their instruction in the at seba(y). Proposed ages vary from four years to ten years old (Maystre 1938: 66; Korostovtsev 1962: 34; Desroches Noblecourt 1986: 189; Piacentini 1999: 7; McDowell 2000: 219; Höber-​ Kamel 2011: 5; Warnemünde 2011: 19). This variability reflects the lack of documents indicating the specific age at which children were authorised to attend school, and it is difficult to identify a legal or official age, especially in a country where temporal markers were rare and where people (particularly the illiterate) only had a vague idea of their own age. Given that learning how to write constituted an obligatory and major part of school instruction, it may be unreasonable to conclude that children’s education began at four or five years of age (but see Harrington, this volume). The earliest references to the per ankh date to the royal decrees of Pepy II (Gardiner 1938:  160) who reigned during the Old Kingdom (c. 2600–​2200 BC). These textual testimonies appear to be much earlier than those which mention the schools, but future discoveries may show that they were created concomitantly. Houses of Life are particularly well known in the New Kingdom (c. 1550–​1076 BC). Two of them were discovered by archaeologists at the sites of Tell el-​Amarna (Pendlebury 1951: 115), the city of the controversial pharaoh Akhenaten, and at the Ramesseum (Leblanc 2004: 93–​101), the temple of Millions of Years of Ramesses II on the west bank of Thebes. In addition, multiple administrative and bibliographical texts as well as the titles of some state employees refer to them repeatedly. In the temples of Millions of Years of Amenhotep II and Merenptah, archaeologists discovered a significant number of school/​ apprentice ostraca, but have not yet identified the exact location where the teaching took place. According to the preserved texts, Houses of Life were administratively and architecturally integrated into an important temple and welcomed the children of dignitaries and high officials:  the offspring of elites intended for intellectual professions in specialised disciplines like theology, architecture, human and animal medicine, astronomy and diplomacy. Moreover, several Houses of Life developed more particular specialties in some domains and thus became major centres throughout the country. For instance, the House of Life of Sais, and to a lesser extent, those of Abydos and Tell Basta, were considered as training the best doctors in the country (Habachi and Ghalioungui 1971: 71). At Heliopolis, on the other hand, scribes were trained as draftsmen and administration for the quarries.The area of competence of these places of education was not limited to the instruction meant for pupils and students. Some Houses of Life constituted real centres of knowledge and its transmission, with extensive libraries as well as apprentices dedicated to the copying of papyri dealing with sacred sciences, such as religion, magic and astronomy. The pupils who studied in Houses of Life stayed for many years and probably received a similar, basic education common to all the Houses of Life, where reading and writing occupied an essential place. The later choice of training in a specialized subject was doubtless bound to the professional vocation of the individual. Although textual sources seem to indicate that children received first instruction in the at seba(yt) and that the per ankh constituted a second stage in school apprenticeship, this is applicable only in the cases where these two establishments were situated in a close geographical area. It is not impossible that Houses of Life were a substitute for “elementary” schools when there were none nearby. A unique text appears to suggest that the son of peasant farmer was able to obtain formal tuition (P. Anastasi V: Černy 1939: 10), but it is advisable to remain very careful about the interpretation given to this testimony due to the possible propaganda it transmits. In ancient Egypt social classes were, and remained, strongly divided. However, even if access to schooling were not reserved for the social elites and those of particularly high intellect, peasants 173

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Figure 11.3  Ostracon incised with a school exercise consisting of several lines of the same hieroglyph (neb, representing a basket without handles). From the Ramesseum (Temple of Millions of Years of Ramesses II). New Kingdom, Western Thebes Source: © Courtesy of Christian Leblanc

would have no motivation to send their children to school and lose valuable members of the workforce. There were also logistical problems to consider, such as the distance that children (and their parents) would have to travel, and the physical availability of schools. Epigraphic testimonies unanimously hint at the instruction of male children. While the absence of formal proof does not allow us to generalise about this situation, the fact remains that a very large majority of officials, and most (if not all) high administrative, religious or political roles were occupied by men.We do not know how women who required literacy for their roles and responsibilities were educated. It is also impossible to know the complete range of subjects taught at school for two simple reasons: Egyptologists work essentially from pupils’ drafts, and textual sources relate almost exclusively to written documentation and not oral instruction and learning techniques (Fig. 11.3). We therefore do not know if the youngest pupils received different forms of teaching, such as a particular emphasis on oral recitation. Pupils seem to have begun their learning of writing with hieratic, the cursive script derived from hieroglyphs, and many stopped at this basic “literacy teaching” because hieratic was the writing of the administration. Others, including the priests or draftsmen responsible for writing texts on tomb walls, may have ended their instruction with the learning of hieroglyphs. In Houses of Life, teachings, except basic modules in writing and mathematics, had to differ according to the intended workplace, their specialties and the social standing of the pupils. For example, future astronomers had no need to learn medicine, and architects-​to-​be did not need to receive detailed theological training in order to excel in their profession. The young hero of the Tale of the Blinding of Truth by Falsehood took part in a range of sports including wrestling at school (P. Chester Beatty II: Gardiner 1932: 32; compare Marshall 2014: pl. xxxvi, fig. 58), which suggests that emphasis was placed on both physical and intellectual development. It is, however, important to consider the category of pupils who would most likely have been provided with physical education. Let us not forget that children did not go to school for soul-​searching and to become enlightened; they went there for two reasons –​to perfect their education and to learn the skills needed for their future employment. Therefore, 174

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we can conclude that the physical education of pupils was reserved for a certain elite which excluded the offspring of the officials responsible for general administration. In ancient Egypt the imposition of authority and physical violence were part of everyday life. The disciplinary methods were strongly inculcated in the foundations of education with severe and brutal penalties: slaps, beatings and use of the “obstacle” (a wooden instrument imprisoning the feet of the pupil) were common (P. Anastasi IV and V, P. Turin A: Vernus, 2001: 380, 381, 385). A scribe even explains in a papyrus (P. Anastasi III: Vernus 2001: 379) that the ears of pupils are (metaphorically) located on their back and it is only by striking them that they finally hear the instructions of their tutors. The violence that accompanied formal education shows that teachers were free to physically correct or punish children, even the offspring of the elite. Our knowledge of the instruction of students in official contexts is limited, and the finer details of education are still mostly unknown. Both places of education, the school and the House of Life, only welcomed boys from the nobility and the professional classes (officials and priests). The purpose of these establishments was to educate the dignitaries’ offspring, and especially to train those who would later contribute to the good management of the religious, administrative and political institutions of the country. The social disparity of this school population compared with the rest of society resulted in quite clearly divided vocations, which explains the more specialised studies delivered in Houses of Life.

The importance of gender and social class in daily life All cultures have diverse attitudes towards biological sex and gender, which may be more or less marked and/​or justified. Egyptian society is notable in that it placed an importance on life regardless of the sex or disability of the child, and did not practice infanticide or the exposure of newborns. One often reads that Egyptians preferred to have a boy than a girl, but the reality was more finely nuanced. Certainly, only a boy could succeed his father in the family business, only the son had the means to take care of his elderly parents and only a (wealthy) male child could provide a lavish funeral for his father and ensure the maintenance of his mortuary cult. But the need for a son did not mean that girls were unwanted: for example, votive offerings in the shape of female child-​like figurines were offered to the gods (Petrie 1903: pl. V; Dreyer 1986: 103; Schlögl and Lüthi-​de-​Gottrau 1978: fig. 91). At the end of the New Kingdom and during the Third Intermediate Period, oracular amuletic decrees (rolls of papyrus inscribed with the words of divine oracles: e.g. Edwards 1960: 47, 86, 115) also attest to the desire for children of both sexes: multiple copies ask the god(s) to ensure that the (named) woman conceives “male and female children”. The ideal household comprised both boys and girls because a complete family unit was associated with the concept of maat –​cosmic and universal balance –​a fundamental element of Egyptian society (Marshall 2014: 60). It is incorrect to think that girls had no purpose in the eyes of their fathers. In the absence of boys or sometimes in addition, girls could be relied on for physical tasks, such as work in fields, as shown in iconographical and textual sources (Hawass and Maher-​Taha 2002: pl. XXV; P. Anastasi II: Caminos 1954: 51). Finally, let us not forget that because ancient authors were all men, it is normal that they focused on the importance they granted to their own sex: if the textual sources and imagery had emanated from women, there is no doubt that it would have been different. Although levels of literacy among women were probably low, the existence of a goddess of writing, Seshat, the counterpart of Thoth, suggests that, as Meltzer (2001: 24) points out : “the idea of a literate female figure was not incongruous to the ancient Egyptians even in very early times”. 175

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Diverse accounts indicate that children were enlisted in the army from a very young age. In the Saqqara tomb of Horemheb (general of the armies of Tutankhamun), a scene depicts two boys carrying out tasks inside a military camp (Martin 1991: 56–​57, fig. 22). In addition, texts dating from the First Intermediate Period and especially from the New Kingdom mention the recruitment of young children into the army (Instruction to Merikare: Vernus 2001: 43; P. Anastasi II, Anastasi III, Anastasi IV, Anastasi V, Sallier I and Turin: Caminos 1954: 14, 50, 169, 235, 304, 317 and 477). The main role of the boys was to help their superiors, for example by running errands, until they reached puberty when they were officially enrolled into the military. The way this recruitment was practised, by force or voluntarily, cannot be deduced from textual sources. Indeed, it is possible that some of the poorest families chose to spontaneously hand over one or more of their young boys to the military administration so they could be cared for by the Egyptian state and did not die of malnutrition. It is difficult to imagine that military recruitment involved children from the upper classes of society, given the harsh conditions involved.

Conclusions The world of infants and children is not apparent in Egyptian documents because it did not interest men in antiquity, and it is men who left behind them written and visual testimonies, not women. The preference for boys, a common feature of many societies, was related to their role as successor to their father’s social position and career, and the expectation that men would be responsible for looking after their elderly parents and providing a mortuary cult for them. This does not mean that girls were subject to overt discrimination: quite the opposite, since the model of the ideal family including daughters as well as sons is shown, for example, in fishing and fowling scenes on tomb walls or in statuary groups. The number of offspring was valued, as Egyptian wisdom texts testify: “Happy the man whose children are many, He is saluted on account of his progeny” (Lichtheim 1976: 136). Whether rich or poor, male or female, children were apparently expected to perform the same roles in society as their parents, roles that were often gender specific. Respect for life was one of the characteristics of Egyptian society, and all children, male, female, healthy, sickly or handicapped, were welcomed without discrimination in their home and accepted equally by the community. But this respect for life does not mean that children were well treated because of their young age, as indicated by the corporal punishment they encountered at school and in military camps. This violence directed towards non-​adults seems to have been widespread regardless of social class.

References Ammar, H. 1954. Growing up in an Egyptian village. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Arnold, D. 1992. The Pyramid complex of Senwosret I: South cemeteries of Lisht,Volume 3. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Bakir, A. el-​M. 1966. The Cairo calendar No. 86637. Cairo: General Organization for Government Printing Offices. Bardinet, T. 1995. Les papyrus médicaux de l’égypte pharaonique. Paris: Fayard. Caminos, R. 1954. Late-​Egyptian miscellanies. Providence: Lund Humphries. Černy, J. 1939. Late Ramesside letters. Brussels: Fondation égyptologique Reine élisabeth. Chabas, F. 1870. Le calendrier des jours fastes et néfastes. Paris: Maisonneuve et Cie. de Cenival, F. 1988. Le mythe de l’œil du soleil. Leipzig: Gisela Zauzich. Desroches Noblecourt, C. 1986. La femme au temps des pharaons. Paris: Stock. Dreyer, G. 1986. Elephantine VIII: Der Tempel der Satet. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern.

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The child’s daily life in ancient Egypt Edel, E. 1984. Die Inschriften der Grabfronten der Siut-​Gräber in Mittelägypten aus der Herakleopolitenzeit. Opladen: Westdeutscher. Edwards, I. 1960. Hieratic papyri in the British Museum I. London: Trustees of the British Museum. Gardiner, A. 1932. Late-​Egyptian stories. Brussels: Fondation égyptologique Reine élisabeth. Gardiner, A. 1938. The House of Life. JEA 24: 157–​179. Glanville, S. 1928. The letters of Aahmōse of Peniati. JEA 14: 294–​312. Griffith, F. 1897. Hieratic papyri from Kahun and Gurob I. London: Quaritch. Guentch-​Ogloueff, M. 1941. Noms propres imprécatoires. BIFAO 40: 117–​133. Habachi, L. and Ghalioungui, P. 1971. The “House of Life” of Bubastis. Chron. d’É XLVI: 59–​71. Hawass, Z. and Maher-​Taha, M. 2002. Le tombeau de Menna [TT. N°  69]. Cairo:  Supreme Council of Antiquities. Helck, W. 1986. Zaubermesser. In:  W. Helck and W. Westendorf (eds), Lexikon der Ägyptologie VI. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1355. Höber-​Kamel, G., 2011. Das Kind bei den Alten Ägypten, ein Überblick. Kemet 20 (4): 4–​6. Jonckheere, F. 1955. Un chapitre de pédiatrie égyptienne: l’allaitement. Æsculape 36: 203–​223. Korostovtsev, M., 1962. Pistsy Drevnevo Egipta. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo vostochnoy literatury RAN. Leblanc, C. 2004. L’école du temple ât-​sebaït et le per-​ânkh (maison de vie) à propos de récentes découvertes effectuées dans le contexte du Ramesseum. Memnonia XV: 93–​101. Leblanc, C. 2008. Labet el-​Al ou Bawawah: un jeu d’adresse égyptien vieux de plusieurs millénaires. In: L. Gabolde (ed.), Hommages à Jean-​Claude Goyon. Cairo: Institut français d’Archéologie orientale, 261–​265. Leitz, C. 1994. Tagewählerei. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Lewis, M.E. and Gowland, R. 2007. Brief and precarious lives: Infant mortality in contrasting sites from medieval and post-​medieval England (AD 850–​1859). American Journal of Physical Anthropology 134, 1: 117–​129. Lichtheim, M. 1976. Ancient Egyptian literature,Vol. II. Berkeley: University of California Press. Marshall, A. 2014. Être un enfant en Égypte ancienne. Monaco: Le Rocher. Marshall, A. 2015. Maternité et petite enfance en égypte ancienne. Monaco: Le Rocher. Martin, G. 1991. The hidden tombs of Memphis. London: Thames and Hudson. Maystre, C. 1938. Un exercice d’écolier égyptien sur un ostracon du musée d’Art et d’Histoire. Genava XVI: 66–​71. McDowell, A. 2000. Teachers and students at Deir el-​Medina. In: R. Demarée and A. Egberts (eds), Deir el-​Medina in the third millennium AD, EgUit XIV. Leiden: Peeters, 217–​233. Meltzer, E.S. 2001. Children of the kap: Upwardly mobile, talented youth in ancient Egypt. Seshat 3: 20–​26. Ockinga, B. and Binder, S. 2013. Fragments of an Amarna-​age stele in the Teti Pyramid Cemetery North. Études et Travaux 26: 502–​516. Peet, E. 1926. Two Eighteenth Dynasty letters –​papyrus Louvre 3230. JEA 12: 72–​76. Pendlebury, J. 1951. The city of Akhenaten, III. London: Egypt Exploration Society. Petrie, W.M.F. 1903. Abydos II. London: Quaritch. Petrie, W.M.F. 1927. Objects of daily use. London: British School of Archaeology in Egypt. Piacentini, P. 1999. Les scribes et l’école dans l’égypte pharaonique, Isis 6: 6–​18. Quirke, S. 2015. Feeding cup. In: A. Oppenheim, D. Arnold, D. Arnold and K. Yamamoto (eds), Ancient Egypt transformed: The Middle Kingdom. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Ranke, H. 1935. Die Ägyptischen Personennamen. Munich: J.J. Augustin. Rochholz, M. 2002. Schöpfung, Feindvernichtung und Regeneration. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Schlögl, H. and Lüthi-​de-​Gottrau, E. 1978. Le don du Nil:  art égyptien dans les collections suisses. Basel: Universität Basel. Stockwell, E. 1984. World population: An introduction to demography. London: F. Watts. Strouhal, E., Vachala, B. and Vymazalová, H. 2014. The medicine of the ancient Egyptians. Oxford:  Oxford University Press. Touny, A. and Wenig, S. 1969. Der Sport im Alten Ägypten. Leipzig: International Olympic Editions. Vernus, P. 2001. Sagesses de l’Égypte pharaonique. Paris: Actes Sud. Warnemünde, G. 2011. “Es geht nichts über die Bücher”: Schule und Ausbildung im Alten Ägypten, Kemet 20, 4: 16–​21.

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12 CHANGING STATES Daily life of children in Mycenaean and Early Iron Age Greece Susan Langdon

Children in Homeric epic are richly sketched as poignant victims, indulged toddlers, awkward teenagers, and heroes-​to-​be. The depth and nature of the parent–​child bond provide a powerful thread that runs throughout the poems (Ingalls 1998; Pratt 2007). Cultural perceptions of children as generally fearful, foolish, and limited in comprehension are indirectly revealed through adults who are portrayed as childish, nepios. Of course, Homer’s children will grow up to become warriors and princesses, and must be taken seriously in all their elite potential. By contrast, Hesiod’s pragmatic farmer, who is ever wary of hungry dependents, has a rather different take on their nature and value (Falkner 1989). The contrasting perspectives of these poets arise in part from literary genre, but they also remind us that adult perceptions and children’s life experiences were shaped by class, gender, and the realities of rural, village, and palace life. Seeking evidence of children’s daily lives in the Greek Late Bronze and Early Iron Ages requires not just awareness of those parameters but also caution against assumptions of universalizing and modernist notions of childhood. Nevertheless, information from disparate contexts and categories –​ranging from skeletal remains, used toys, and handpicked grave goods to clumsily formed crafts and pictorial representations of the young in ritual settings –​can be combined to create a representative understanding of daily experiences shared by many children of the period. Traditional approaches to social archaeology focus on the normative activities of adults (typically male and of early maturity), while requiring additional argumentation and proof to establish the presence of children (Baxter 2005; Sofaer 2007). Yet simple logic suggests that young people of all ages were everywhere. Ancient demographic patterns should lead us to expect that the under-​18 set comprised a large percentage of any village population (Langdon 2013; Parkin 2013). It is important to distinguish between archaeological evidence of children, such as their physical remains, their handicrafts, and other vestiges of their activities, and their broader cultural visibility, including the nature and level of their involvement and representation in community life. Both of these latter aspects are tied to the socio-​political value of the family or household unit and might be expected to reveal the impact of systemic political transformation from the Late Bronze to the Early Iron Age. But how much impact did such transformation really have on children’s lives? To paraphrase an important question, did children experience their own Early Iron Age renaissance? The warrior-​based activities of palace elites and Dark Age villages, despite their many differences, suggest a social dynamic in which young adult and 178

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mature males, through absence and attrition, comprised only a minority population, placing children, women, and the elderly as the typical face of the community. The young would have been assimilated early into the stream of economic production and ritual traditions. More fundamentally during the Geometric period, the social and political transformation of the nascent poleis involved integration of the household with new public institutions and external authorities. These developments required adjustments to gender hierarchies that would have been grounded in child rearing and played out in the rituals and materials of socialization.While such material is most clearly seen in the contexts of burials and religion, children would have felt these forces in their daily lives as they learned to internalize gender and establish their identity. Three principles offer a starting point for investigating the daily lives of children in early Greece: (i) anticipating their archaeological presence rather than setting a prohibitively high bar of proof; (ii) assuming their greatest visibility to be in certain archaeological contexts, especially funerary and ritual settings; and (iii) focusing on the material mediation of gender. Regrettably, what we can see of children archaeologically has only a little to do with their own actions and much to do with adult activities and idealizing representations of the young: yet as it represents the world they grew up in, we can hope to extrapolate certain experiences. Children in the Mycenaean world tend to be represented within a family context, primarily in family tombs and burial groupings and listed on Linear B personnel tablets paired with a parent, usually the mother (Gallou 2010). The near absence of young people in art says more about the Mycenaeans’ restrictive use of imagery than their perceptions of children. These patterns stand in marked contrast with Minoan and Theran communities, which conscientiously tracked the growth of their young population through age grades made visible by shaved scalps and hair locks and by clothing styles (see this volume, Chapin). Youthful cohorts were depicted in various media participating in age-​related rituals that emphasized their membership in a social community rather than family and individual identities (see this volume, Günkel-​ Maschek). Throughout the post-​Mycenaean centuries the visibility of children rose steadily through both material culture that was created on their behalf and their increased representation in the institutions of the community. Evidence relating to symbolic modes of representation, ritual images, and work experiences allows us glimpses into children’s gendered socialization, training, and expected roles in community life. Protective symbols express adult perceptions of the nature and status of family. Since visual evidence for the Early Iron Age is more abundant than for the Bronze Age but not universally representative, this chapter concludes with a brief overview of the potential of a regional approach to the further study of children.

Nurturing the young: a view to attitudes It might seem obvious that families and communities would have a vested interest in the successful rearing of thriving infants, and that these concerns should appear in both material accommodations and figural representations. These are, however, modernist assumptions. Patterns of iconography and use contexts suggest early Mediterranean communities had complicated relationships with childbirth and human fertility. In fact, issues of politics, social order, and economy could take precedence over concerns with familial fertility and protection. A case in point is the kourotrophos, the maternalistic image of a (usually) female caregiver holding a child. The presence or absence of such iconic images in a culture reveals much about socio-​political perceptions of children, family, gender roles, and notions of the individual in society. Kourotrophic images found throughout Late Bronze Age Egypt and the Near East were powerful symbols of status, divinity, and good fortune (Budin 2011). Minoan Crete and Thera, 179

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by contrast, did not develop a kourotrophic motif. Babies and children were depicted in images that were public, prestigious, religious, and palatial, but notably not private or domestic (see this volume, Chapin and Günkel-​Maschek). These patterns are thought to reflect a broader lack of interest in representing family groupings in the Minoan world (Olsen 1998; Rutter 2003; Budin 2011). By contrast, the kourotrophic theme gained a significant foothold in Greece through the Mycenaean terracotta figurine tradition, with figure groups in which a standing adult female holds a small child against her chest; rarer variations show two children, a child with two women, or the female seated (see this volume, Günkel-​Maschek). The humble terracotta material, a few iconographic details (e.g., a polos), and occurrence in both domestic and ritual contexts support their interpretation as nurturing goddesses and divine symbols of maternity. Their use in graves, houses, and shrines permeated Mycenaean culture with the image of female-​gendered childcare. They may also have helped to underpin a new focus on the family unit, which is also seen in the consistency of keeping children with their mothers in the labor force as attested by the Linear B tablets at Pylos and Knossos (Olsen 1998). Similarly, the rare and moving depictions on larnakes at Tanagra showing women placing children in their coffins are often cited for their unprecedentedly emotional content and focus on the child’s death (Rutter 2003: fig. 28). The divine parallel of the kourotrophic goddess potentially offered women an avenue of empowerment in their newly visible “official” capacity as child nurturers, but it can also be understood as reinforcing a restrictive definition of women’s roles bound to domestic chores (Olsen 1998). The woman-​ and-​ child image disappeared from visual culture after the demise of the Mycenaean palaces, but in some places a kourotrophic sentiment can be detected in scenes of animals or fantastic beasts feeding their young.The LHIIIC pictorial pottery of Lefkandi, Euboea, was particularly rich in scenes of nurture, which were often juxtaposed with ritual activity. An alabastron features several animals with their young, including a pair of griffins feeding their babies in a nest, a family group of goats, and a stag with a spotted fawn on its back regarding a sphinx (Evely 2006: pl. 60 B10). Bird families and their nestlings appear on other vessels (Evely 2006: pl. 67 G2). On a pictorial krater a large sphinx stands protectively over its baby beside a ritual scene; on another, a human counterpart to this image preserves a small child standing between two large males striding around a bowl or krater (Evely 2006: pl. 68 P8). The cultural motif of the vulnerable young placed under the protection of supernatural animals, particularly sphinxes and centaurs, emerged during the twelfth to the eighth centuries, and was strongly but not exclusively represented at Lefkandi. As a mixed human-​animal being, the centaur was a potent liminal crosser of boundaries between life and death. The Lefkandi terracotta centaur of c. 900 BCE was one of the earliest manifestations of this new cultural motif. Its head was placed in Toumba T. 1, together with small jewelry items that suggest a girl’s grave, while its body was found not ten feet away in adult tomb T. 3 alongside several unusual goods and gifts, including a broken wheeled toy animal (Popham and Sackett 1979: pls. 167–​70, 251–​53). It is easy to imagine a significant, perhaps family relationship between the two burials. A spidery-​looking branch-​waving centaur on a Submycenaean pyxis from a child’s burial in the Kerameikos is one of the earliest Athenian specimens (Langdon 2008: 99, fig. 2.14). In the following centuries, centaurs began to appear in Athenian children’s graves as terracotta figurines and imagery on grave gifts (Kourou 1991, Guggisberg 1996, Xagorari 1996). The centaur eventually became the quintessential kourotrophic being in early Greek culture, given mythic scope in the legendary figure of Cheiron, the mentor of heroes, and ritual scope in its representation across objects used in connection with coming-​of-​age activities (Langdon 2008: 95–​110). Near the end of the eighth century the child-​carrying female makes a halting reappearance. An Attic (or Boeotian) terracotta seated female holding an infant (c. 700–​675 BCE) likely 180

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represents an enthroned goddess (Neils and Oakley 2003:  225 cat. 22). A  small number of Geometric bronze and terracotta figurines depicting a goddess riding a horse is known primarily in the Peloponnese. In one bronze example the figure carries a boy on her lap, significantly not an infant and perhaps even an adolescent.The horse may mark her as either a chthonic deity carrying the youth to the underworld or a goddess with a rising ephebe in her care, and seems to have been influenced by images from as far away as the Caucasus (Papageorgiou 2005). These kourotrophic goddesses remain rare in Greece; the general disassociation of the child from a maternal figure, who was supplanted by the ultra-​masculine centaur, obscured for all ideological purposes the female role in the survival and prosperity of the community. At a time when concerns regarding paternity and property were rising and every pregnancy was a mortal risk, human fertility issues likely fell to the private provenance of women and found little public outlet that would have left archaeological traces.

Gendering the young Children do not have their gender thrust on them from birth but gradually acquire it over time and through active practice. Much of this would have occurred through processes that left no archaeological trace: listening to myths, oral histories and family stories, watching the appearance and behavior of others (children as well as adults), participating in a range of household, social and religious activities.Yet material culture is critical to the process. Children (and adults) interact throughout their lives with objects laden with cultural values, materials that help to create and maintain social and gender differences and connections. In a gendered society “material culture … must carry gendered nuances” (Sofaer 2007: 91). The community’s consensual structure and its mediation of gender and identity are transmitted through the concrete goods of daily life, and necessarily punctuated by rituals that “contain the drift of meanings” (Douglas and Isherwood 1979:  43–​47). In a nearly universal pre-​industrial pattern of social development, children are born into a female domestic world in which girls will stay and boys must depart. For early Greek culture, this asymmetry played out in both the nature of gender discourse and the contexts in which it was deployed. Although the generally unbroken development from the Early Iron Age into the more familiar image-​and text-​rich Archaic world aids in interpreting the evidence, the earlier societies must be understood as successfully functioning systems in their own right and not simply the incompletely formed versions of Archaic communities. Because gender is consonant with class, it is not surprising that the Early Iron Age burials with gender-​specific grave goods were also among the wealthiest. Girls’ burials and the gendering of grave goods can be theorized through the regular association of certain objects with jewelry and correlations with older sexed female burials and the absence of contradictory male burial assemblages (Strömberg 1993; Langdon 2008: 130–​143; Alexandridou 2016). The well-​ published cemeteries of Attica and Euboea provide the clearest bodies of evidence, although the same patterns have appeared in other regions. Assemblages of grave goods associated with girls from pre-​adolescents to teenagers began in Athens and Lefkandi around 1000 BCE and developed over the next three centuries, especially in Attica. Items included both body ornamentation and symbolic objects of terracotta: specifically, little gold or silver hair spirals and small bracelets, decorative boxes, bird askoi (flasks), models of wool baskets (kalathoi), granaries, dolls with string belts and jointed legs, and pairs of model laced boots (e.g. Popham and Sackett 1979: pl. 137; Xagorari-​Gleissner 2005: 63–​71, Gr. 19; Langdon 2008: figs. 3.2–​3.6). By the later eighth century the dolls, boots, and chests were replaced by terracotta pomegranates and baskets, and in richer graves, gold diadems and boxes with horse figurines on the lid (the latter 181

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Figure 12.1  Sherd with warrior, horse, and son, from Xeropolis Source: Drawing after Popham and Sackett 1979, pl. 54, 259. Reproduced with permission of Marcus Rautman. c. 725 BCE, Eretria Museum inv. ME 16635

also found with older women). Few burials contained all of the items, but many have several of them. In general these material symbols evoke the gendered playthings and apparel of girlhood, preparations for marriage, and the myth of Persephone’s fraught passage out of maidenhood, themes that will become common tropes in Archaic and Classical funerary culture. They likely emerged at this time as a response to shifting social and physical boundaries, when concerns for family status and honor found an outlet in a newly restrictive definition of feminine nature and roles. This pattern of girls’ burials has no clear male correlate. Boys are archaeologically elusive in Early Iron Age funerary contexts, without clear gender-​linked grave goods or rich assemblages. Images of boys taking their place alongside their fathers are rare but not unknown. A remarkable sherd from Xeropolis preserves a small male figure holding with one hand a horse’s rein and the hand of a tall warrior with his other (Fig. 12.1). The intimate handholding gesture suggests the figure is a boy, presumably the warrior’s son, rather than a “squire,” as he has been called (Coldstream 1981: 245), and his sword marks him as an adolescent or rising ephebe. The chariot frieze on an Attic grave krater includes one vehicle in which a small figure stands with the warrior in the chariot box (Langdon 2015b: 223 fig. 12.5).The pair is aligned with the funeral bier in the panel directly above, linking the child to the deceased. The inescapable message seems to be that the legacy of the heroic deceased lives on in his son. Exposure to the heroic role model could begin at a very young age. An Athenian child’s cup with a feeding spout features an image of dogs harassing a noble lion that is revealed only when the empty cup is turned over (Langdon 1993: 66–​8, cat. 11). Whether it came from the burial of a boy remains unknown but highly probable. The simile of the lion-​like hero runs throughout Homer, and depictions of lion fights tend to be juxtaposed with warriors in Geometric art. Boys’ passages through adolescence and beyond took place in public venues, particularly sanctuaries where maturation rituals and iconography involved displays of hunting, fighting, and athletic prowess. Initiatory rituals to separate boys from their mothers’ world often involve changes of appearance (e.g., haircutting, new 182

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Figure 12.2  Terracotta mask from Tiryns Source: Photograph: Tsimas, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Athens (DAI-​ATH-​1970/​1387). All rights reserved. c. 700–​680 BCE, Nauplion Museum inv. 4509

clothing, a first sword), and trials of courage. At the Sanctuary of Hera at Tiryns, for example, votive offerings included terracotta shields and monster masks thought to represent gorgons, items that might have been used in mock fights (Fig. 12.2).

Children in rituals Early pictorial imagery usually appeared on objects used in ritual contexts to carry an ideological value or enhancement of the activity for which the object was used. It is therefore not necessarily a useful index of real-​life experience. Nevertheless, it can give useful glimpses into important aspects of children’s socializing activities. Death was an inescapable feature of life from which children were neither excluded nor “protected.” Funeral gatherings provided a critical opportunity for transmitting community customs and values, family histories, and behavioral protocols. The participation of the young in funeral rituals required learning properly gendered behavior and acceptable demonstrations of grief. Accordingly, the Athenian Late Geometric grave-​marker amphorae and kraters carried prothesis scenes displaying the deceased lying in state on his or her bier surrounded by family and friends in gestures of mourning. The painters of these vessels seem to have planned the formulaic scenes to include family specifics (Langdon 2015b). Few scenes are identical, and many include children of different ages. Their presence in a funerary gathering was a powerful statement of generational continuity but, remarkably, these small figures also reveal an acknowledgement of children’s emotions and greater allowance for their venting of grief. In addition to infants seated on laps and youngsters standing among the women, other children appear more actively engaged with the deceased, whether in prescribed rituals or in natural outbursts. Some are shown touching the legs or underside of the bier, or standing beside the corpse, caressing, feeding(?), or even sitting on it (Ahlberg 1971: figs. 1c, 19, 22, 25; Langdon 2015b). These arresting images recognize the strongly emotional responses of those too young to understand the nature of death. Such seemingly naturalistic details are certainly given not for the sake of immediacy: the unchanging permanence of the image is the very point of these scenes. The socially constructed emotions of the adult mourners demonstrate the full observance of proper ritual procedures in hastening the deceased to the realm of death, while the children’s open grief more effectively express familial attachment and the lasting legacy of the deceased. 183

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If the lavish Geometric mourning scenes typified only certain communities of Attica, the motif of religious rituals found a wider popularity. Some of the earliest sanctuaries in Greece show evidence of a special cultic attention to children, and were likely sites for locally observed passage or maturation rites. These are frequently corroborated by the further development of historically attested child-​or youth-​related festivals at these same sites. Evidence can come in the form of votive offerings, potentially symbolic items like dolls and small-​scale jewelry such as hair spirals, miniature and even child-​produced pottery. Sanctuary pottery with images of women and young girls offering textiles may connect dedications of weaving equipment with the young (Huber 2003: pl. 28 C41). In some cases pictorial evidence offers glimpses of festivals that involved elements of separation and reincorporation, especially leaving and returning to the city from a rural shrine, as seen in imagery that includes children and young adults performing and processing (Xagorari-​Gleissner 2005:  fig.  2d; Langdon 2008:  pl. 3.26, 3.27). It is likely that major cults in these communities were originally overseen in the earliest stages by a small number of elite families and only later were organized by the city-​state into what we know as historical festivals. Some of the early sanctuaries that fit such a profile include cults of Hera (Argive Heraion, Tiryns, Mycenae), Artemis (Brauron, Mounychia, Orthia), Apollo (Amyklai, Eretria, Thebes), Alea (Tegea), Aphaia (Aigina), and Hermes (Kato Symi). Further on a pithos from a child’s (girl’s?) grave at Thebes, an elaborate event is played out in which a boy performs to a man’s lyre beside a small girl and a woman who nearly touches his hand: it is difficult not to read them as a family (Fig. 12.3). Elements of the gathering, including the child participants, procession of women around the pithos, and a river-​like borderline, are reminiscent of the historically attested Daphnephoria, an adolescent-​focused civic festival that ritually connected the city of Thebes to Apollo’s sanctuary across the Ismene River (Langdon 2008: 182–​183). A rich vein of iconographic images depicts scenes of singing and dancing in which the figures are small or are marked by age-​related elements. Such performances were one of the most popular themes in Late Geometric iconography, and appear in nearly every region or site that developed a pictorial tradition (Tölle 1964). Their popularity suggests that training in singing and dancing was an important component in the rearing of children to take their part in the social-​bonding events and the major religious festivals of community life. The scenes vary according to source and context. Small leaping boys bring up the rear of the procession on a krater rim from the Argive Heraion (Ahlberg–​Cornell 1988: fig. 19), or on a sherd from Argos they take their turn while the men clap time (Ahlberg-​Cornell 1988: fig. 17), while on a

Figure 12.3  Ritual scene on pithos from a child’s tomb, Pyri cemetery, Thebes Source: Photograph: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Athens (DAI-​ATH 73/​2447). All rights reserved. c. 720–​700 BCE, Thebes Museum, inv. BE 469

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skyphos from Eretria they dance with weapons (Verdan 2013: pl. 92, 289) or leap alone beside an outsized lyre (Ahlberg-​Cornell 1988: fig. 31); on a sherd from the Athenian Agora, an adult holds up a small boy before musicians or clappers (Ahlberg-​Cornell 1988:  fig.  21a). Others perform songs to a lyre played by an adult male on Late Geometric pottery from the Eretrian Apollo Sanctuary, the Athenian Acropolis, and in a bronze figurine group from Crete, possibly from Kato Symi (Langdon 1993: 239–​41, cat. 101; Ahlberg-​Cornell 1988: fig. 16;Verdan 2013: pl. 99, no. 366). On a bronze band from Olympia a boy performs to a lyre in what appears to be a family group with two parents (Furtwängler 1890: pl. XVIII, 296a). These hard-​won skills were not just honed for religious events, but were part of the gendered socializing of everyday life. In contrast with the energetic and active boys, the participation of girls in rituals tends to be encompassed by demure line dances, a major motif of Geometric art known in nearly one hundred examples (Langdon 2008: 158–​182). In these scenes the dancing girls wear belts, carry branches, garlands, or wreaths, and are surrounded by an unusual array of flora and fauna (waterbirds, flowers, snakes, frogs) that place the religious festivals in countryside sanctuaries. The neck of an Attic hydria from Merenda features a line of thirteen females holding hands and branches, headed by a small girl standing on her own raised ground line (Tölle 1964: pl. 6a). Their adolescent or maidenly identity is often announced through a two-​or three-​string belt or girdle.

Work, education, and training Ordinarily, children in the labor force can only be inferred from theoretically strategized approaches to archaeological material. An important exception is provided by the Linear B personnel series tablets that record both boys and girls working alongside their mothers. At Pylos the ratio of women to children nearly approaches 1:1, but is lower at Knossos, with closer to a 3:1 ratio (Olsen 1998; 2014, Gallou 2010). While the Pylos system does not differentiate children by age, at Knossos they are distinguished by both sex and general age groups. Girls seem to have remained with the women as they grew, while there is evidence that boys eventually grew out of female tasks and into male-​gendered activities. On some Knossos tablets certain boys termed PE VIR, “last year’s men” (i.e., sons who have recently come of age), are sent to join their fathers, presumably for the purpose of training in specialized activities. The tablets reveal a range of work in which children participated, including textile production, cereal grinding, and various household chores. Child-​sized palm prints preserved on of some the clay tablets suggest that they assisted the scribes, perhaps as a stage in scribal training.Tools such as grinders, awls, and spindle whorls placed in child graves may reveal chores for which the deceased had responsibility in life (Gallou 2010), while many common tasks, such as gathering and preparing food, babysitting, tending livestock, and collecting crops remain archaeologically undetectable. Weaving was a necessary and valued activity, and it is unsurprising to find royal and elite women at the loom or distaff in Homeric poetry (Od. 2, 93; 6, 306; Il. III, 125–​128). Princess Nausicaa doing laundry is more unexpected (Od. 6, 25–​98), but suggests that everyday chores with more social aspects transcended the boundaries of status. While these tablets attest palace-​supported work forces, in other communities craft production was organized around household enterprises, in a continuum that extended well into Archaic times. Promising attempts have been made to identify the involvement of child apprentices in Mycenaean, Cypriote, and Geometric Greek pottery through fingerprints, use contexts, and typical physical and cognitive development stages (Hruby 2011; Langdon 2013; 2015a; Gagne 2014). Ethnographic ceramic studies on middle-​range societies, especially in the 185

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American Southwest, Africa, and India, have provided criteria by which ancient child-​produced pottery might be recognized (Roux 1989; Kamp 2001; Wallaert-​Pêtre 2001; Crown 2002). The value of such efforts goes beyond simply identifying the presence of children in a workshop or at a site. Studying the unskilled efforts of young apprentices provides us with insights into teaching methods and learning environments, which have implications for a community’s openness to change, rate of stylistic evolution, sources of stylistic or iconographic innovation, and corrections to anachronistic models of craft production (Langdon 2015a). This method has revealed potentially child-​made pottery dedicated at a number of early Greek sanctuaries and placed in child graves (Langdon 2013).

Regional variation Beyond these general categories of evidence, strategies for the socialization and incorporation of children into community life developed variously among different regions and sites, though it is Athenian materials and images that dominate the surviving evidence. The following brief survey illustrates locally specific patterns in Early Iron Age communities where their material culture makes such investigations possible. The current state of our knowledge of the Late Bronze Age mainland does not allow a comparable overview but we should expect similar variations among Mycenaean communities. Attica: It comes as little surprise, given its affinity for figural imagery and ceramic ingenuity, that from Protogeometric though Geometric times Athens developed a rich and varied material culture that routinely included children. Grave gifts for the young included feeding cups, rattles, and wheeled zoomorphic pull-​toys (Guggisberg 1996; Xagorari 1996). Older girls might receive a range of symbolic terracotta objects evocative of their future roles as bride and eventual mother (see above). Mourning scenes on Late Geometric grave pottery depicted children of various sizes and ages in apparent family groupings around the corpse (Langdon 2015b). While these are best known in the elite cemetery plots of the Kerameikos and Dipylon, the imagery soon appeared as far away as Marathon, Thorikos, and Merenda (Rombos 1988; Xagorari-​Gleissner 2005; Vlachou 2011). As noted above, Attic vase painters were also leaders in depictions of dance and festival scenes, which have been found on pottery from numerous workshops and sites. The Kerameikos cemetery has a number of child graves with pots apparently produced by young apprentices (Langdon 2013). Euboea: Both directly and symbolically children were prominently represented in Euboean culture, particularly at Lefkandi/​Xeropolis and Eretria. The tradition of nurturing themes in Lefkandi LHIIIC pictorial pottery (see above), which includes one of the only known depictions of a child in this period, was prelude to a continuing interest in representing the concerns of the young. By Protogeometric times the wealthy graves of the Lefkandi cemeteries shared with Athens the symbolic materials associated with girls (see above). The Lefkandi centaur arises in this milieu of funerary protection for the young, and is perhaps a legacy of such Mycenaean funerary images as the sphinxes attending the passage to the underworld on the sides of Tanagra larnakes (Kramer-​Hajos 2015: 630 Table 1 nos. 8, 24, 27, 28, 40; 639 fig. 4). Children could be included among the most important burial groups, as seen in the Eretria West Gate area (Blandin 1998). The sanctuaries of Apollo and Artemis at Eretria have both yielded votive objects (miniature child-​produced vessels, dolls, hair spirals, centaur seals) and imagery (various dances, boys performing to lyres, girls in cult scenes) that claim these as sites significant for the maturation and the raising of children in the community’s ritual life (Huber 2003: pls. 19, 28, 79, 80, 100, 114; Verdan 2013: pl. 99, 365, 366, 374, pl. 100, 156, 289, 304).

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By the Late Geometric, Euboean figural pottery was being made primarily for sanctuary and domestic rather than funerary use, and this brings us closer to daily life. Its substantial iconography features practical aspects of horse breeding as well as a metaphorical use of horse rearing to parallel aspects of human society, with pedagogical implications for the raising of youths into the ranks of hippobotes, the horse-​training elites (Simon and Verdan 2014). Boeotia:  Although incompletely explored owing to the presence of the modern city, Thebes had a rich Geometric ceramic figural repertoire that involved a variety of dances, jointed doll-​like figurines, and a tradition of child cemeteries, which are promising for the future study of children. The Late Geometric child cemetery at Pyri near Thebes yielded the burial of a child (with pottery suggesting a girl) in a pithos decorated with a scene of festival procession involving children, which is a likely precursor to the later Daphnephorion (see Fig. 12.3). Argolid: Graves in the Argolid show no special categories of goods for children, just as adult burials are not as strongly gendered as in Attica. The sanctuaries of Hera at both Tiryns and the Argive Heraion, by contrast, accommodated concern for the young through age-​related rituals. A  votive pit at Tiryns contained an accumulation of ritual material that included terracotta gorgon masks and shields (Langdon 2008: 56–​57, 66–​81, figs. 2.1, 5, 8). At the Argive Heraion perhaps our earliest depictions of a pais amphithales appear in what seem the precursor to the festival of Hera Argeia, a celebration of the nuptial goddess that also served as a maturation ceremony for youths through Hera’s kourotrophic role (see above). Laconia: The Spartan Sanctuary of Apollo at Amykles played a dual role as gathering place for regional tribes and as a site of male maturation ceremonies during the festival of the Hyakinthia (Pettersson 1992; de Polignac 1995: 64–​67). Thematic imagery on the Late Geometric pottery at the site, including centaurs and flagellation, as well as the presence of miniature offering vessels that look child-​made suggest that the kourotrophic aspect of the Apollo cult was already well established by the eighth century (Vlachou 2015: 121 fig. 6). Aegean islands: Graves of young girls containing model boots, dolls, hair spirals, bird askoi, and other symbolic materials have been found from the tenth through early eighth centuries on Skyros (under Euboean influence), Kos, Rhodes, and Naxos (e.g., Kourou 1999).The eighth century material culture of the islands is less iconographically diverse than that of Athens and Euboea, but by c. 700 and into the seventh century the development of decorated pithoi brought into the families’ daily lives many of the themes that exhibit developed gendered values: lines of dancers, centaurs, gorgon-​beheading, warriors and battle, lion hunts. The renowned Mykonos pithos with its panels of child slaughter must have been a deliciously horrifying object for children to grow up around. Aside from entertainment, its unusually eloquent statement of the warrior’s code of honor  –​and the consequences of failure  –​carried important pedagogical values (Ebbinghaus 2005). Crete: Kato Symi was continuously occupied from Middle Minoan to Roman times with cultic activity attested epigraphically by the sixth century BCE as being conducted in honour of Hermes and Aphrodite. Votive offerings include bronze and terracotta figurines and cutout plaques depicting hunters, pairings of youths with mature men, self-​flagellation, centaurs, musical performance, and a distinctive form of chalice (Marinatos 2003). The iconographic focus of the cult on hunting, wilderness, and drinking has been linked to Dorian tradition, found as well in Sparta and other Peloponnesian sites. Based on both material evidence and extrapolations from later texts, the rituals of maturation at Kato Symi seem to have involved youths sojourning in the wilderness for military and survival training, and returning with proofs of their skills to be accepted into the ranks of adult feasting cohorts (Langdon 2008: 89–​95).

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Conclusion A number of significant points emerge from this diverse assemblage of evidence. In Mycenaean times juveniles are visible only in the care of adults or protected by the goods in their graves. That they labored at various crafts alongside adults we know only through the accidental preservation of the Linear B tablets. If they took part in public or community events, there was no visual record. The likelihood is that Mycenaean children had no public persona, just as households probably held little political meaning. By the eighth century the presence of children in mourning and ritual scenes asserts them as an inevitable and necessary part of the everyday life of the community, partners in its stable future. From here we can propose some answers to the question with which we began: were children directly impacted by the profound political transformations of the age? The Early Iron Age saw an enhanced gender dichotomy, detectable in the material culture associated with socialization and maturation. The proliferation of figural arts is key. Imagery and ritual materials have the power to naturalize an ideological message, even more so when the message is veiled in mythic or divine authority. Both girls and boys were affected by the intensification of masculine claims to superiority in their daily freedoms, access to knowledge and experiences, behavioral expectations, and sense of self. Along with the development of myths focused on girls’ tragedies, the visual arts and grave goods evoked feminine qualities of vulnerability, value, and exclusiveness in constructing a concept of the parthenos, the virgin, one of the most enduring legacies of the Early Iron Age to Greek culture. The concept of female chastity had an impact not only on female freedom but also on male lives, where it fostered a new level of political accountability to the community by the head of the household. In the new poleis, this became an important source of social stability. (Elite) boys were pressed to a heroic model and expected to carry the burdens of protecting household and community while redirecting heroic violence into peacetime competitions through athletic and musical contests, hunting, and status-​making offerings. The concern for socializing the young into increasingly strict gender roles may lie behind the kourotrophic emphasis of many early Greek cults. The widespread appearance of certain kinds of maturation-​related festivals, rituals, and offerings suggests that social needs were driving cultic agendas. Finally, to the extent that children’s cultural visibility is an indicator of social structure and household politics, regional variation may be the next frontier in research on the young. The sentimental nuances of Homeric epic may be obscured in the archaeological record, but what we find instead are the tangible vestiges of children’s activities and adult concerns for bringing up properly socialized youngsters —​misshapen little pots in sanctuaries, a cup’s painstakingly wobbly lines, a companion centaur in a grave, a gorgon mask that tested a boy’s nerve. It is important to consider all the evidence together, or we wrongly recreate a rising generation of passive receptacles of a transmitted culture. Traditional societies survive to the extent that they can be nimble and innovative behind a mask of continuity. That innovation relies to a large extent on the open minds, fresh views, incomplete understandings, and quick wits of the young. Allowing for children’s agency grants them a role in creating, not just passively assimilating, their society.

References Ahlberg, G. 1971. Prothesis and ekphora in Greek Geometric art. Göteborg: Paul Åström. Ahlberg-​Cornell, G. 1988. Games, play and performance in Greek geometric art. ActaArch 58: 55–​86. Alexandridou, A. 2016. Funerary variability in late eighth-​century BCE Attica. AJA 120: 333–​360. Baxter, J.E. 2005. The archaeology of childhood: Children, gender, and material culture.Walnut Creek: Altamira  Press.

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Changing states Blandin, B. 1998. Recherches sur les tombes à inhumation de l’Hérôon d’Erétrie. In:  M. Bats and B. d’Agostino (eds), Euboica: l’Eubea e la presenza euboica in Calcidica e in Occidente. Naples: Centre Jean Bérard, 135–​146. Budin, S.L. 2011. Images of woman and child from the Bronze Age: Reconsidering fertility, maternity, and gender in the ancient world. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Coldstream, J.N. 1981. Some peculiarities of the Euboean Geometric figured style. ASAtene 59: 241–​250. Crown, P. 2002. Learning and teaching in the Prehispanic American Southwest. In:  K.A. Kamp (ed.), Children in the Prehistoric Puebloan Southwest. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 108–​124. de Polignac, F. 1995. Cults, territory, and the origins of the Greek city-​state. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Douglas, M. and Isherwood, B. 1979. The world of goods: Towards an anthropology of consumption. London: Routledge. Ebbinghaus, S. 2005. Protector of the city, or the art of storage in early Greece. JHS 125: 51–​72. Evely, D. 2006. Lefkandi IV. The Bronze Age: The Late Helladic IIIC settlement at Xeropolis. London: British School at Athens. Falkner,T.M. 1989. Slouching toward Boeotia: Age and age-​grading in the Hesiodic myth of the five races. ClAnt 8: 42–​60. Furtwängler, A. 1890. Olympia. Ergebnisse der von dem Deutschen Reich veranstalteten Ausgrabung 4.  Die Bronzen. Berlin: A. Asher & Co. Gagne, L. 2014. Learning to make pottery: A look at how novices became potters in Middle Bronze Age Cyprus. BASOR 372: 19–​33. Gallou, C. 2010. Children at work in Mycenaean Greece (ca. 1680-​1050 BC):  A brief survey. In:  L. Brockliss and H. Montgomery (eds), Children and violence from the Greeks to the present. Oxford: Oxbow Books, 162–​167. Guggisberg, M.A. 1996. Frühgriechische Tierkeramik. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. Hruby, J. 2011. Ke-​ra-​me-​u or Ke-​ra-​me-​ja? Evidence for sex, age and division of labour among Mycenaean ceramicists. In: A. Brysbaert (ed.), Tracing prehistoric social networks through technology. London: Routledge, 89–​105. Huber, S. 2003. Eretria XIV: L’aire sacrificielle au nord du sanctuaire d’Apollon Daphnéphoros. Gollion: École suisse d’archéologie en Grèce. Ingalls, W.B. 1998. Attitudes towards children in the Iliad. EchCl 42, n.s. 17: 13–​34. Jameson, M.H. 1990. Perseus, the hero of Mykenai. In: R. Hägg and G.C. Nordquist (eds), Celebrations of death and divinity in the Bronze Age Argolid. Proceedings of the sixth International Symposium at the Swedish Institute at Athens, 26–​29 June 1986. SkrAth 4, 38: 213–​222. Kamp, K.A. 2001. Prehistoric children working and playing: A Southwestern case study in learning ceramics. Journal of Anthropological Research 57: 427–​450. Kourou, N. 1991. Aegean Orientalizing versus Oriental art: The evidence of monsters. In: V. Karageorghis (ed.), The civilizations of the Aegean and their diffusion in Cyprus and the eastern Mediterranean, 2000–​600 BC. Larnaca: Pierides Foundation, 110–​123. Kourou, N. 1999. Anaskaphes Naxou:  To notio nekrotapheio tis Naxou kata ti geometriki periodo. Athens: Bibliothēkē tēs en Athēnais Archaiologikēs Hetaireias 193. Kramer-​Hajos, M. 2015. Mourning on the larnakes at Tanagra: Gender and agency in Late Bronze Age Greece. Hesperia 84: 627–​667. Langdon, S., ed. 1993. From pasture to polis:  Art in the age of Homer. Columbia:  University of Missouri Press. Langdon, S. 2008. Art and identity in Dark Age Greece, 1100–​700 BCE. New York: Cambridge University Press. Langdon, S. 2013. Children as learners and producers in early Greece. In: J. Evans-​Grubbs and T. Parkin (eds), Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 172–​194. Langdon, S. 2015a. Geometric pottery for beginners:  Children and production in early Greece. In:  V. Vlachou (ed.), Pots, workshops and Early Iron Age society: Function and role of ceramics in early Greece. Études d’archéologie a l’Université Libre de Bruxelles, CReA-​Patrimoine vol. 7. 21–​36. Langdon, S. 2015b.The ends and means of childhood: Mourning children in early Greece. In: G. Coşkunsu (ed.), The archaeology of childhood:  Interdisciplinary perspectives on an archaeological enigma. Proceedings of the Institute for European and Mediterranean Archaeology Third Visiting Scholar Conference. Buffalo:  State University of New York, 217–​233.

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13 CHILDREN IN EARLY ROME AND LATIUM Sanna Lipkin and Eero Jarva

Researching the role of children in early Rome and Latium is challenging, as there is minimal archaeological material indicating the presence of children in settlement contexts. The existing evidence on children consists mostly of infant tombs dated between the Early Iron Age and Archaic periods (c. 900–​480 BC. Modica 2007; see also De Santis et al. 2008; van Rossenberg 2008). Children’s influence in the daily life of communities is also often overlooked, largely due to the difficulty of recognizing children in archaeological materials (Soafer Derevenski 2000: 8; Baxter 2005:  8). Furthermore, understanding childhood through archaeological materials cannot be approached with the same methods that may be used in other social sciences or in the discipline of history, as the material itself is highly fragmented (settlement contexts) and affected by religious and symbolic thoughts (burial and other religious contexts). Nevertheless, through the exploration of different analytical approaches and materials it is still possible to explore the status of children and their daily activities in early Rome and Latium. This chapter will present a general overview of some aspects of childhood in early Rome and Latium (c. 900–​480 BC): the birth, death and exposure of infants, nurture, youthful age and gender as it is manifested through clothes, play and education, as well as everyday tasks of children. These themes will be specifically approached through the lens of archaeological data, with later ancient literary evidence utilized as a complementary and comparative source of information. Historical sources often idealize the children’s status, and rarely address the daily life experience of children themselves. While these later written sources may not always relate to earlier times, some features such as modes of feeding and care of infants, remained relatively unchanged for a very long time. Evidence from ethnographic analogies also helps us in reconstructing the life and death of children. A word should also be said about utilizing ancient funerary evidence to extrapolate an individual’s roles in everyday life. The fact, for example, that children were mourned suggests that even small infants had been bestowed important status within their families, and that their enculturation was already in process prior to their death. If we browse through necropolis materials we quickly notice that, particularly during the Orientalizing Period (c. 725–​580 BC) children received grave goods and were dressed in a fashion consistent with adults of the same sex.

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Birth, death and infant exposure Children formed a statistically significant, and therefore important, demographic component in the communities to which they belonged, and ethnographic data suggest that approximately one third of the population would have been under fifteen years old (Chamberlain 2000: 207–​ 208). Additionally, it has been estimated that the number of pregnancies for a woman varied in premodern societies from seven to seventeen, and that the child mortality rate was about 50 percent, with the highest rates among the youngest individuals (Bietti Sestieri and De Santis 2000:  8–​10, figs. 3–​4; Chamberlain 2000:  207–​208; Nizzo 2011:  53; Parkin 2013:  41–​42). The high rates of child mortality would have inevitably influenced the cultural perception of childhood. Nuclear families with children surviving infancy were presumably small, mostly with two to three children (Rawson 1986: 1–​15). As families had a number of children and it was expected that many of them would die, it might be assumed that children’s status was not very well grounded. However, the archaeological record suggests that the situation was not straightforward.There was no single way to bury children, and different traditions were followed.The child burials in the necropoleis, most of which are inhumations of children four years or older (De Santis et al. 2008: 734–​737), represent either middle-​class or elite burial practices (for the evaluation of the social status of burials, see Bietti Sestieri 1992: 491–​513; Bietti Sestieri 1992a: 119–​140; Gusberti 2008: 647, n. 47). The social status of the deceased is seen through the presence, or lack, of precious materials, the amount of grave goods and whether farewell rituals such as banquets were organized at the funeral (Rathje 1983). Children included in the necropoleis were usually buried in similar fashion to adults, but peculiarities exist. For example, it has been suggested that some Early Iron Age enchytrismos burials discovered in ovoid vases laid horizontally in a pit would have belonged to first-​born male infants (Bietti Sestieri 1992a: 110; Bietti Sestieri and De Santis 2000: 79–​80, fig. 92). To a large extent, however, children have not been discovered in the common burial grounds, or necropoleis, of the settlements in question. For example at Osteria dell’Osa the mortality rate of individuals six years old or less is only 8 percent: for children less than twelve years of age the mortality percentage is 6 percent (Lipkin 2012: table 4.1). These percentages do not meet with the aforementioned expected child mortality rates, probably because dead infants were mainly buried in the settlements. It may also be possible that some of the children were buried in lots reserved specifically for children, as seems to have occurred in the Crustumerium Road Trench burial plot, where only child burials have been found (Jarva 2014). So far such necropoleis have not been found elsewhere in Latium or Rome. Infant graves which are located near dwellings within settlements are usually identified as those of children under two or three months old (Modica 2007: 187–​198). These recall the ancient description of suggrundaria (suggrunda = the eaves), referring to burials of children less than 40 days old (Fulgentius, Expositio sermonum antiquorum 7). Occasionally, children who died when they were several years old were also buried near dwellings (De Santis et al. 2008: 731–​732, table 3). For example, among the thirty-​two child burials analyzed from the Ficana excavations, half of the children had lived less than two months, one of them being a neonate/​stillborn and one a fetus, whereas the oldest child had lived about four years (Becker 1996). Archaic suggrundaria burials without grave goods seem routine, but earlier burials include grave goods, which indicate that the deceased was of middle-​or high-​class status (Modica 2007; Becker and Nowlin 2011). Fetal deaths raise the question of possible childbed mortality. The mortality of young women aged twenty years or more was, for example, very high in the Monte Del Bufalo necropolis of Crustumerium and at Osteria dell’Osa (Bietti Sestieri 1992a: 110–​114; Catalano et  al. 2013). Furthermore, already between eleven to nineteen years of age the number of 192

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deceased girls exceeds that of boys (Bietti Sestieri 1992a: 110–​114; Catalano et al. 2013), which recalls the later Roman practice of allowing the marriage of girls in their teenage years (see e.g. Treggiari 1991: 39–​43; see also Cassius Dio 54.16.7 on Augustan law where the minimum age of ten years was fixed for betrothal of girls with the marriage taking place two years later). In comparison to necropolis data, infant/​child burials in settlement contexts in early Rome and Latium provide a substantially different view in terms of cultural perception regarding child deaths, commemoration and possibly emotions associated with the children. For example, children and infants could be buried outside the small huts and houses where they had lived and where everyday chores were accomplished, including metalworking (Jarva 2001; Lugli 2001), textile working (Lipkin 2012: 24, 40–​46, 58) and food preparation. This gives us an impression that these dead infants held special meanings according to which it was desired that they stay close to the living, and they were commemorated within a familial sphere of life. Different burial practices at the necropoleis and the settlement sites may be regarded as representing different developmental stages that children were considered to go through (Modica 2007; Lipkin 2012: 85). Anthropological identifications of children’s ages are applicable to archaeological research regarding different age groups. However a child’s chronological age based on teething or other osteological methods of analysis does not necessarily agree with the physical age, based on physical capacities and the muscular strength or size of the child, as these may vary according to genetic make-​up, nutrition or health (Cole and Cole 1996: 480–​484). As socialization is culture specific and occurs simultaneously with personality formation, biological maturation and cognitive development (Cole and Cole 1996: 382–​424), social age categories may be different from the chronological age categories used in Table 13.1. As the majority of the burials at settlement sites belong to infants a few months in age (Becker 1996; Modica 2007: 187–​198), we may assume that these infants lacked the physical, emotional or social characteristics that older children had in order to be buried in a different location. The occasional older children buried in settlement contexts were predominantly less than four years of age (Modica 2007: 187–​198), and possibly shared similar features as the younger infants. Ancient written sources, including the tale of Romulus and Remus (Livy 1.4.6–​7, Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.79.4, see Meurant 2000 with references), suggest that infanticide was practiced in this region. A tradition citing regulations specified by Romulus states that abandoning disabled children would have required acceptance by the nearest neighbors. Abandoning male and the first-​born of the female children was forbidden (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 2.15.2; The Laws of the Twelve Tables, 4.2.3, 451 ordered the killing of a monstrous son). However, not all children born with physical defects were killed as babies in antiquity (Dasen 2009: 201). In spite of this, in some instances a disabled child buried below the eaves could have died violently, similarly to the child possibly with Downs syndrome who died at the age of 12–​14 years in Rome (Equus Domitiani, Modica 2007: 225; cf. Filippi 2008). The fate of female children was likely problematic when considering child abandonment in antiquity (see e.g. Pomeroy 1975:  164–​165; Harris 1994; Rawson 2005:  6–​8; cf. Engels 1980), though abandonment of children in out-​of-​the-​way locations leaves little if any archaeological record. There is also a suggestion of the sacrifice of children in the ancient written sources (Macrob. Sat. 1.7.34–​35), and some infant burials discovered in early Rome have been interpreted as sacrifices carried out as propitiation for destruction of defensive walls or other structures (Filippi 2008; Carafa 2008; Carandini 2008; for critique see De Santis et al. 2008). While some children encountered violence, abandonment and minimal mourning at their funerals, many infant burials, such as those discovered in the road cutting area of Crustumerium, include markers which took both time and physical effort to construct (Willemsen 2014: 163–​165), and serve as evidence of the care and dedication of their makers (Jarva 2014; see also Willemsen 193

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2014: 163–​165). Later Roman sources also indicate that younger children were mourned for a shorter period of time than older children (Plut. Num. 12.2; see also Cic. Tusc. 1.39).The concurrent burials of infants both among the adults in the necropoleis and also within the settlement sites, cannot be thoroughly explained, though such different practices apparent in the archaeological record may represent differential treatment of children according to their social status.

Nurture Breastfeeding was the main mode of nutrition in the early life of children (Parkin 2013: 50–​ 58). Archaeological finds from the Early Iron Age include occasional pottery feeders (Belelli Marchesini 2006: 227, cat. II.219–​224; Alessandri 2013: fig. 28.2, 5–​6), but if those contained unpasteurized animal milk it could have proved fatal for the babies (Parkin 2013: 53). Weaning practices have been explored in Ficana suggrundaria burials where nineteen infants (0–​14 months old) were analyzed for the strontium isotope, which is not common in human milk. The strontium values were shown to increase with age, suggesting that non-​milk foods, namely plants, were introduced into the diet when children were a few months old. Furthermore, the greater concentrations of strontium detected in burials in fossa graves containing bronze items by comparison to those in pot and tile burials which lacked bronze grave goods, suggest that the first group of infants and their mothers consumed more plants and/​or fish and molluscs in their diet (Vuorinen et al. 1990: 250–​251). Availability of fish in the diet of middle-​class children is confirmed by fish bones in Via Sacra tomb I in Rome (c. 650 BC, Gjerstad 1956: 125, fig. 128). Remains of grains and vegetables in early Rome and Latium (Brandt 1996: 401–​403, Costantini and Giorgi 2001) suggest that at least for the children of elite populations versatile nutrition was available. The classical triad included in the Roman sacrifice of animals, suovetaurilia, of pig, sheep/​goat and cattle was central in animal based nutrition, although wild animals were utilized to a varying degree (De Grossi Mazzorin 2001, 2004).

Dress as an indicator of age and gender In general, the gendered roles that boys and girls were expected to fulfill in the future are visible in their burials, particularly through elements of their dress in addition to the inclusion of occasional weapons for boys and numerous textile tools for girls. Textiles themselves have rarely been preserved, and the fragments that do survive are too minute in order to comprehend the general appearance of the funerary attire (for textiles in Latium and Rome, see Lipkin 2012: 70–​77, Appendix 2). Despite this, the preservation of textiles can reveal important aspects of the attire, such as the material or quality of the fabrics and their colors and use of decorative elements such as ribbons. For instance, one lozenge fibula (SSBAR inv. 566472) in an infant burial (6–​12 months of age) from Crustumerium included a pseudomorph, or cast of textile preserved on the surface of the fibula as a result of the corrosion process, that witnesses the use of a tablet-​woven band at the edge of the cloth the fibula was once used to fasten. Furthermore, other elements of children’s attire, such as brooches, present the possibility to explore differences in dress according to various aspects of identity such as rank and gender (Iaia 2007; Lipkin 2014). Even though funerary attire was perhaps not actually worn when alive, it most likely at least recalled the clothes used in life. Placement of brooches in burials suggest how clothes were fastened on the deceased, and what sort of clothing items s/​he wore. In order to reveal differences in clothes between male and female children, as well as between adults and children, children’s dress items, brooches and other accessories, and their placement in the burials in settlement site contexts and in necropolis burials in Osteria dell’Osa (Bietti 194

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Sestieri 1992; Modica 2007) were analyzed for this chapter. In the case of children, sex identification based on osteological material is extremely difficult (Humphrey 2000: 196), and as the osteological materials were preserved to varying degrees, data on the sex of the children is not available for the material discussed here. Identification of the children’s gender in Osteria dell’Osa is based on grave goods and our knowledge of grave goods commonly associated with either female or male adults (Bietti Sestieri 1992). In general adult female burials identified predominantly through osteological analysis included more accessories such as spirals, decorative rings possibly sewn to clothes and jewelry, than did male burials. During the Latial II period (c. 950–​850 BC) a typical adult female costume included large rings by the ears (possibly earrings or decorative elements attached to a fabric headdress) and one or two arch fibulae (fibula ad arco ingrossato) which fastened a cloth, possibly a mantle, on chest or more commonly on abdomen. Beads, metallic rings and rivets were an important part of female attire. Most of the female burials from age groups ranging from infants to juveniles included small arch fibulae which most probably fastened small and light clothes. The youngest children had only these small fibulae, whereas juveniles more commonly had two different size fibulae, one larger than the other.These have been found very close to one another and perhaps fastened the same cloth. It is likely that the clothes of boys differed from those of girls. In comparison to their female counterparts, most male child burials had few indications of attire, with metal rings or brooches being found very rarely. Boys’ attire included only one fibula of serpentine type (fibula serpeggiante), which possibly fastened a mantle on the upper part of the chest. In adult burials, single brooches have also been found by the pelvis or one side of the body. During the Latial II period, the attire of the youngest boys was at least somewhat different from adult men, as no brooches are apparent before the ages of seven to nine years (Bietti Sestieri 1992; Modica 2007). It is possible that a mantle was a piece of clothing worn by adult men, not boys, or that boys’ mantles were fastened with something else than an elaborate brooch. Clothing in Latium and Rome changed gradually during the succeeding Latial III (c. 850–​ 730/​720 BC) and IV periods (c. 730/​720–​580 BC). Brooches on female dresses now had a bow or leech (sanguisuga), lozenge (losanga) or boat (navicella) shape, or they were arch fibulae with amber or bone discs (Bietti Sestieri1992; Modica 2007). They fastened most likely a mantle and/​or a chiton in varying ways: most often on both shoulders and/​or on the chest, and occasionally on the head. In middle class or elite burials brooches generally increased in number consonant with the increasing age of the individual; juveniles may have had as many as eight brooches (for example Tomb 178 in Bietti Sestieri 1992: 821–​823, fig. 3c.7–​9). Brooches in male child or juvenile burials were again rare in comparison to adult men, with only a couple of examples with a dragon shaped bow (fibula a drago) found singularly on the upper part of the chest (Ficana 3b–​c, Tomb 9, 3.5 months and Osteria dell’Osa, Tomb 552, c. 15–​16 years; Brandt 1996, 145–​148; Bietti Sestieri 1992: 848–​849, fig. 3c.64.11). Our current knowledge of material culture thus indicates that female and male clothes were fastened with different kinds of brooches and on different parts of body. Girls’ attire comprised similar elements to the attire of adult women, but young boys’ clothes seem to have been different from those of men as brooches, most likely attaching a mantle, are rare. As we have very few actual textiles preserved and in fact no clear illustrations depicting clothes of Latins and Romans, we cannot as yet fully comprehend the types or the colors of clothes worn during this era.

Play As socialization of children is largely gender based (Soafer Derevenski 1997:  194), we may approach childhood through examining the roles which both boys and girls were assigned. 195

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Enculturation through play, education and work were among the most important activities through which children learned their future roles. Dice and gaming pieces remodelled from pottery sherds are known among archaeological finds from central Italy (Gjerstad 1966:  402, 452, fig.  123.14; Brandt and Rathje 1980:  cat. no. 72). At least one die is directly connected to children as it was found in an Archaic child burial in Ardea (Modica 2007: pl. 113). Games played with cuboid dice and with knucklebones, both connected to Trojan legends (Paus. 10.31.1, Homer. Il. 23.88), were common in antiquity. The daughters of Pandareos are also mentioned as playing with knucklebones (Paus. 10.30.2). Furthermore, girls playing with knucklebones are recorded in Greek and Roman art (Salza Prina Ricotti 1995: 47–​48, 76–​79, figs. 39, 57–​58; cf. also Plin. HN 34.55). While settlements in early Rome and Latium contain few items which can categorically be defined as “toys”, a rattle, likely used as a toy or for calming a child (Salza Prina Ricotti 1995: 18–​24), has been found beneath the “Romulean” defensive wall on the north slope of the Palatine in a pit interpreted as the tomb of a sacrificed female child (Brocato 2000). Additionally, some miniature items including textile tools and vessels found in the burial of a two year old infant at Guidonia, Le Caprine, and dating to the Final Bronze Age may, in addition to being markers of high rank, have been toys for the girl at least in her afterlife (Guidi and Zarattini 1993: 191–​193). The everyday objects surrounding children were a crucial part of their lives, and although toys involve parents’ attempts to enforce the norms expected of particular gender or rank, children were not merely passive consumers of toys. It is, for example, possible that children made toys of their own and remodeled them. We may also assume that the social reality of children was reflected by their actions based on their needs and roles (Wilkie 2000: 101–​102, 110–​111). Ethnographic evidence gathered in Mexico from the Mayan Zinacantec group testifies that girls as young as three or four played with toy looms, a form of vocational training, before learning to weave on a real loom at around six years old (Greenfield 2000: 81). We may therefore interpret the occasional textile implements even among the youngest female children in the funerary material from early Rome and Latium as an evidence for girls becoming acquainted with their future chores, perhaps through play (see Table 13.1 for such evidence at Osteria dell’Osa; Lipkin 2012: 84–​87). By the age of three to four years children are capable of learning and taking part in everyday household chores (Lipkin 2012: 86–​87). Perhaps their physical capacity to control their own movements and their increasing ability to take care of themselves resulted in children of this age becoming more highly valued, thus now leading to their burial more commonly among the adults rather than within the settlement sites or in other spaces reserved for younger children.

Everyday tasks The importance of children’s work for the community should not be underestimated. Saller (2007: 109) suggests that children learned their parents’ profession and skills through watching them and finally trying by themselves. Household work was an important part of children’s life, especially in those families that had no slaves (Saller 2007: 108). Occasionally knives have been found in child burials, suggesting that children used them to cut and carve food, threads, wood etc.: examples of such knives have been found in Osteria dell’Osa Tombs 174 and 175 belonging respectively to a girl of approximately fifteen years of age and a boy of about four years of age (Bietti Sestieri 1992: 820, 844–​845, figs. 3c.4 and 3c. 57). Their significance in the burials may have also been ritual, as in the road cutting area of Crustumerium, where an iron

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knife (SSBAR inv. no. 566533), associated with numerous glass beads and small aryballoi and alabastra in Protocorinthian/​Etrusco-​Corinthian style (Jarva 2014, fig.  4), was found in the burial of a new-​born or premature baby. Funerary goods buried with the juveniles at Osteria dell’Osa clearly indicate girls’ future roles as women responsible for the time-​consuming production of family textiles. As can be seen in Table 13.1, about 40 percent of the juvenile, or adolescent, population (21 individuals from total of 54) was buried with so-​called multiple textile tool sets (Bietti Sestieri 1992a: 109–​116; Lipkin 2012: 90–​91). These sets include spindle whorls used for producing varying kinds of threads and spools used in tablet weaving, a technique which produces decorative bands used on the edges of clothes. Apparently learning specific and often complicated spinning and weaving techniques was a task for juvenile girls. Furthermore, 61 percent of all juvenile burials, most of which could not be sexed osteologically (Bietti Sestieri 1992) contained at least one textile tool (Table 13.1). This may either indicate higher mortality rates for female youths or that some male juveniles participated in activities related to textiles. The latter possibility is supported by the osteological remains in Tomb 317 of a 13 +/​-​2.5 years old male associated with a spindle whorl and an arch fibula associated with female gender at Osteria dell’Osa (Period IIA, c.  900–​830 BC. Bietti Sestieri 1992: 105, 621–​622, no. 317). This is a good example of the diversity of the archaeological evidence and the complexity of identifying sex and gender based on funerary materials. Textile-​making was one of the virtues of a Roman woman (Festus 96), and the archaeological material from early Rome and Latium suggests that this holds true during the earlier periods as well (Lipkin 2012: 87–​92). Crucial differences existed in household work undertaken, dependent on both the rank and skills of the women and girls. Many tools found in the highest ranking burials are unusable, suggesting that while textile working was regarded as a virtue, it was not necessarily part of an upper-​class female’s daily routines (Lipkin 2012: 87–​ 92). In contrast, middle-​class burials contain both simple spindle whorls, indicating spinning as part of daily routine, and specialized textile tools which suggest both advanced skills and a possible profession (Lipkin 2012: 109–​110). While these tools provide excellent evidence to discuss the discourse between ideal virtues and actual practice among middle-​and upper-​ class girls and women, the general lack of poor individuals’ burials leaves little opportunity to understand their lives, although the possibility of slave work should not be excluded. Slaves are so far indistinguishable in the archaeological data, but written sources offer a glimpse into their lives. Dionysius of Halicarnassus (3.49.3; 50.6) tells that the early Romans, after plundering and burning the cities of their enemies, sold the inhabitants  –​including children –​as slaves. The available archaeological data makes reconstructing the tasks and expectations for male children much more difficult, as brooches and very rarely weapons or pottery are the only distinctive male grave goods. The simple globular flask is also distinctive to all male age groups during Period II at Osteria dell’Osa (Bietti Sestieri 1992a: 10), and one sword has been found in a burial of a seven year old male child in Castel di Decima (Colonna et al. 1976: 259; Nizzo 2011:  59–​60). In addition, unpublished Orientalizing child burial materials from the Road Trench excavation area at Crustumerium include a few weapons (SSBAR inv. nos. 516549, 566462, 566503). These graves have been found in a possible child burial plot inside or very close to the settlement (Jarva 2014). Nevertheless, as with their female counterparts, boys were also a functioning part of the labor force, for example on farms or in construction work. In this capacity, boys had the potential to complete the less skilled and physically demanding chores associated with work, as later indicated by Columella (Rust. 11.2.44) when saying “one boy-​ worker will trim a iugerum (2523 m2) of vineyard in a day”.

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Sanna Lipkin and Eero Jarva Table 13.1  Distribution of textile tools according to age in burials at Osteria dell’Osa, 950/​925–​580 BC Age group

Infant (1–​6 years) Child (6+ years) Juvenile (11+/​12 to 19+ years) Adult (20–​40 years) Mature adult (40+ to 60 years) Old (60 + years)

No. of burials containing 1 spindle whorl

No. of burials containing multiple textile tool sets

No. of burials containing bronze distaff or spindle

Percentage of all burials within age group containing textile tools

2

4

14%

2

4

18%

12

21

2

61%

65

23

7

38%

19 31

2 2

2 1

26% 40%

Source: Lipkin 2012: ­tables 4.1, 4.3, 4.4; Bietti Sestieri 1992

Education Unlike the evidence for “learning by doing”, there is very little evidence for formal didactic education. Women must have had an important role in the introduction of writing in central Italy, as the first inscribed alphabets have been found on textile tools (Bagnasco Gianni 1999; Ambrosini 2000). Furthermore at the necropolis of Gabii, Osteria dell’Osa, the earliest recorded inscription in Italy, “eulin” (Bietti Sestieri 1992:  687, fig.  3a270), possibly meaning “good at spinning” (see Pausanias 8.21.3; Bietti Sestieri et al. 1991: 83–​88; for alternative readings see Ridgway 1996; Ampolo 1997; Colonna 2005), was found on a jar possibly used as a thread container while spinning. With this information in mind, it is not surprising why Romulus and Remus were according to Plutarch (Rom. 6.1) taken to Gabii “to learn the letters and the other branches of knowledge which meet for those of noble birth”.

Conclusions Current archaeological research gives us few starting points in the research of the status and everyday life of the children in early Rome and Latium and, at present, the picture we can reconstruct is more concrete for girls than it is for boys. Different burial traditions evidence the varying status of children, with children being treated differently according to their age, gender and physical ability/​disability (Table 13.1). Even though children were likely exposed and perhaps even sacrificed, the majority of the data suggest that children were cared for. Children were also socialized early as is witnessed by their funerary attire and the different roles assigned to them even at their death.

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Children in early Rome and Latium Pomeroy, S.B. 1975. Goddesses, whores, wives, and slaves: Women in classical antiquity. New York: Schocken Books. Rathje, A. 1983. A banquet service from the Latin city of Ficana. AnalRom 12: 7–​29. Rawson, B. 1986. The Roman family. In B. Rawson (ed.), The family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives. London: Croom Helm, 1–​157. Rawson, B. 2005. The future of childhood studies in Classics and Ancient History. In: K. Mustakallio, J. Hanska, H-​L. Sainio and V.Vuolanto (eds), Hoping for continuity: Childhood, education and death in antiquity and the Middle Ages. Rome: Acta instituti romani Finlandiae 33, 1–​11. Ridgway, D. 1996. Greek letters at Osteria dell’Osa. OpRom 20: 87–​97. Saller, R.P. 2007. Household and gender. In: W. Scheidel, I. Morris and R. Saller (eds), The Cambridge economic history of the Greco-​Roman world. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 87–​112. Salza Prina Ricotti, E. 1995. Giochi e giocattoli. Rome: Quasar. Soafer Derevenski, J. 1997. Engendering children, engendering archaeology. In: J. Moore and E. Scott (eds), Invisible peoples and processes, writing gender and childhood into European archaeology. London:  Leicester University Press, 192–​202. Soafer Derevenski, J. 2000. Material culture shock: Confronting expectations in the material culture of children. In: J. Sofaer Derevenski (ed.), Children and material culture. London: Routledge, 3–​16. Treggiari, S. 1991. Roman marriage:  Iusti Coniuges from the time of Cicero to the time of Ulpian. Oxford: Clarendon Press. van Rossenberg, E. van. 2008. Infant-​child burials and social reproduction in the Bronze Age and Early Iron Age (c. 2100–​800 BC) of central Italy. In: K. Bacvarov (ed.), Babies reborn: Infant-​child burials in pre-​ and protohistory: Proceedings of the XV World Congress (Lisbon, 4–​9 September 2006). Oxford: Archaeopress, 161–​173. Vuorinen, H.S., Tapper, U. and Mussalo-​Rauhamaa, H. 1990. Trace and heavy metals in infants, Analysis of long bones from Ficana, Italy, 8–​6th century BC. Journal of Archaeological Science 17: 237–​254. Wilkie, L. 2000. Not merely child’s play: Creating a historical archaeology of children and childhood. In: J. Sofaer Derevenski (ed.), Children and Material culture. London: Routledge, 100–​113. Willemsen, S. 2014. Into the light: A study of the changing burial customs at Crustumerium in the 7th and 6th centuries BC. Groningen: Groningen Institute of Archaeology 2014 (www.rug.nl/​research/​portal/​en/​ publications/​into-​the-​light(9653e506-​fa9f-​4771-​863b-​6698c98b2ef6).html).

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14 BEING A CHILD IN ARCHAIC AND CLASSICAL GREECE Robert S.J. Garland

You Greeks are forever children and there is not an old man among you. Plato Timaeus 22b5 (trans. Garland) So observed an Egyptian priest in conversation with the Athenian lawgiver Solon. When Solon asked what he meant, the priest explained that Greeks do not have the maturity of Egyptians, their psuchai (souls) are immature, so they behave like children. Though he did not know it, his observation serves as an insight into the demography of Greek society, where children vastly outnumbered adults. It is that insight that forms the backdrop to this discussion. What was it like to be a child in Archaic and Classical Greece? The question is an impertinence. How can an adult truly know what it is “like” to be a child? Do we not lose the ability to inhabit the world of the child as soon as we become adults? Is it not the case that all that we retain of childhood is the memory of moments, rather than of a state of being? And even if some degree of identification is possible in principle, how can we imagine what it was like to be a child of a culture so foreign to our own as that of ancient Greece? The case, however, is not hopeless.What is known for a fact is that Greek children were subject both to demographic and economic imperatives on the one hand, and to cultural constraints on the other, and that these forces powerfully conditioned their impressions, imaginings, anxieties, and aspirations. It was these imperatives and constraints that prompted them to develop a specific sense of reality and equally to accommodate themselves effectively within it, so that their lives were an amalgam of these often contradictory forces and dictates. Archaic and Classical Greek culture was, in a word, decisive in the moulding of the child. Philippe Ariès in Centuries of childhood: A social history of family life (1962), claimed that the pre-​modern world had no concept of childhood as a distinctive, integral, and in some sense isolated stage of life. Though that view is no longer universally accepted, I take as my starting point that childhood in Archaic and Classical Greece was idiosyncratic in a number of ways. That said, it also needs to be acknowledged that the lives of children were anything but uniform since there were multiple ways of “being a child.” Apart from the obvious differences of gender and social status, illegitimate, orphaned, adopted, and disabled children all experienced the world in highly distinctive ways, as of course very markedly, did slave children, whether born into that condition or captured in war. Nor should we assume similarity across the 1,000

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plus city states of which we have record. The experience of citizen children in Sparta was very different from that of citizen children in Athens, even though there were many similarities. For one thing males achieved citizen status at 18 in Athens but at 20 in Sparta (see Beaumont, this volume). And what of helot children? What can it have been like to grow up in the knowledge that one’s father, perhaps one’s whole family, might be or had been murdered without warning and for no better reason than they were helots? (Plut. Lyc. 28; Thuc. 4.80.2-​5; Vidal-​Naquet 1986: ch. 5). Athens and Sparta apart, however, it is impossible to factor into this brief survey variables consequent upon regionalism. Both the literary and artistic evidence must be treated with caution. In artistic representations, children become more visible in the Classical period than they had been in the Archaic period, though I am uncertain what can be deduced about their lives from that fact. It would certainly be naïve to infer that this necessarily implies that children became more prominent socially or more valued emotionally. Another caveat:  almost all the literary data was written by élite males who for the most part refer to children only incidentally, an indication that their lives were perceived as, “not being appropriate subject matter for the world of public discourse” (Beaumont 2013: 196). Most of this data, moreover, is several centuries later in date than the period under consideration. Though children have some prominence in Attic tragedy, their primary function in that genre is to highlight familial and civic values, by emphasising that household and state are reliant on the rising generation for their prosperity, welfare, and security.They are therefore endowed with a symbolic, rather than a personal identity. Finally, the following needs to be taken into account: such literature as there is tends to reveal more about boys than it does about girls; the overwhelming bulk of it relates to Athens and Sparta (Sparta perceived through the eyes of non-​Spartans, it should be added); children are encountered primarily in the sphere of religion; no author evokes a picture of children in the home; and we do not possess a single statement from a child. Much of what follows, therefore, is based on deductions about the world of children that are founded on our knowledge and understanding of the circumstances that shaped the larger world of their existence.

Demographic imperatives Demographic imperatives dictated the experience of every child. Though mortality is likely to have been considerably higher among children of poorer families, primarily because of poor nutrition and greater competition for limited resources, all children would have been equally vulnerable to bacterial infection due to the lack of knowledge of the importance of hygiene and the sterilization of eating and drinking vessels and implements. Life was a struggle for survival from birth onwards, especially in the first week as Aristotle notes, and this fact above all shaped a child’s consciousness (Arist. Hist. An. 7.588a8). Recently Tim Parkin (2013: 46–​50) has estimated that the infant mortality rate (i.e. the number of deaths that occur within the first year of life) in the ancient world was 200 per 1000, and early childhood mortality 350 per thousand (i.e. the number of deaths that occur between the second and sixth years of life). In some places it was no doubt higher. Artemidorus, writing at the beginning of the second century CE, cites the example of a family that lost seven children in earliest infancy (Oneirokritikon 5.73). In the Classical period, a child’s chances of reaching adulthood are reckoned to have been no better than 50 per cent (Oakley 2003: 163). Highly approximate though these estimates are, they provide a background to the child’s experience. Many children would lose one or more sibling, as well as young playmates, in early life and close friends in adolescence.They would also be aware of the fragility of their own lives, at least at a subconscious level. Since, moreover, in peacetime

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almost everyone died at home, children would regularly be exposed to the onset of death, as well as to the concept of death as a public and domestic spectacle. Few children would have attained adulthood without the loss of at least one parent. A very sizeable number would have lost both. A small and favoured minority would have known their grandparents. Hence the importance in Athens of paides amphithaleis or “children blooming on both sides,” i.e. children with both parents alive, who served at festivals and weddings. The fact that such children constituted a special and highly valued category is indicative of the special favour they enjoyed, and hence of their rarity (Garland 2013: 218–​ 19). Every child would be aware of the peril that beset its mother when she went into labour. Medea pronounces that she would rather go into battle three times than give birth once (Eur. Med. 250–​51). Though she does not indicate whether this is due specifically to the trauma of labour or to the risk to her life, even young children would react to the anxiety that childbirth produced in the family, while many older children would have experienced that anxiety themselves. If the mother died, her offspring’s world altered radically. That is true in any culture but especially so in one like ancient Greece, where such a high premium was placed on the preservation of the oikos. On becoming a widower, many fathers would have been under pressure to re-​marry, especially if they had only daughters or only one son, in order to guarantee the continuation of the family line. So a large proportion of children would have been required to transfer their affections to a stepmother, some no doubt quite abruptly –​a circumstance that often created tensions in the household (Watson 1995: 50–​91; Golden 2015: 121, with n. 10 for a list of citations of hostile references to stepmothers). Since, moreover, life expectancy for a man was approximately 45 years of age and the average age for a man to wed was around 30 (Garland 1990: 210–​213, 245–​247), many children are likely to have lost their fathers before they were out of their teens. However, in light of a recent estimate that there were 20 per cent more widows than widowers (Golden 2015: 118), probably many more children grew up either with their mother or, if she remarried, with their mother and their stepfather. Because of the gender bias of Greek society, widows with daughters were far less likely to attract husbands than widows with sons. Given the much lower life expectancy of women, approximately 35, many children would also have lost their mothers in their teens. In a society where so many children became orphans, adoption, memorably described by the Athenian speechwriter Isaeus (2.13) as, “the only refuge against isolation and the only possible consolation in life for childless persons,” was commonplace. Adults, however, were preferred to children, and boys to girls. Some boys were adopted to provide support for their adoptive fathers in old age, others to become apprentices so that the family business would carry on. Occasionally boys were adopted even when their parents were living, in which case they were required to sever ties with their biological fathers, though not with their mothers (Rubinstein 1993). Sometimes, too, in Archaic Greece well-​to-​do or aristocratic boys were temporarily placed in another household of the same social standing, where they might form a close attachment to a boy or youth of their own age. An example is Patroclus, who bonded with Achilles in the home of his father Peleus (Homer Iliad 23.83–​92, see also 9.481–​2). A consequence of the low life expectancy is that society was shaped in a child’s image. A far larger percentage of the population would have been under the age of 15 than is the case today in the developed world –​approximately one-​third compared with only 19 per cent (Parkin 2013: 41). Accordingly, children were far more in evidence than they are in our increasingly greying world. Not only did they dominate the demographic landscape, but they also lived a considerably larger percentage of their total years as children than is the case today.

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Economic constraints A Greek childhood was not an inviolable status that had to be safeguarded and secluded. That was not possible. Given the economic constraints under which many families laboured, their offspring would have been required to contribute to the welfare of the household as soon as they were capable of productive work, perhaps as early as age seven. Life took on a practical aspect at a tender age, as children learned the hard distinction between leisure and work. A very large number of families existed at subsistence level and even those that possessed at least one slave would have benefited appreciably from the services of minors. In families without slaves a child’s workload would have been extremely arduous (cf. Arist. Pol. 6.1323a). In a world where destitution and famine were a haunting reality, girls often had to toil as laboriously as boys, performing a variety of menial tasks, many of them backbreaking (Arist. Pol. 7.1333a8; Men. Dys. 333–​34; Pl. Resp. 7.540e-​541a; Plut. Sol. 22.1; Golden 2015: 28–​31). We may suspect, too, that girls were more commonly exposed than boys owing to the fact that they were economically burdensome to their families, being less productive and having to be provided with a dowry (Patterson 1985: 103–​123). Boys of low social status commonly learnt a specialised craft by working alongside their fathers. We tend to think of the children of the poor as primarily performing domestic chores or working in the fields, but the range of activities they undertook was much broader. Boys apprenticed as farmers, merchants, masons, cobblers, potters, and so on. Only the childhood of the élite was not characterised by work. As a result, children’s lives often intersected with those of adults to a greater degree than is the case in our society. While we regard the exploitation of child labour as abusive, that was certainly not the case in antiquity. On the contrary, it was a way of incorporating children into the household and the community. The world of the slave child was intensely bleak. Boys were often condemned to work in the quarries or mines, while from puberty onwards girls often faced a life of prostitution. Only a small minority grew up in a domestic environment (Panjabi 2009: 421–​464).

Vulnerability to accident, illness and physical abuse The world of the child as depicted in Greek art appears largely untroubled, even serene. Images of carefree children at play predominate (Sommer and Sommer 2015: 105–​146). Yet in reality being a child was at least as perilous, if not more so, as being an adult. Even if children survived a life-​threatening disease, there was a high degree of likelihood that they would become permanently debilitated. Ailments that were rife in the ancient world include cholera, dysentery, malaria, pneumonia, rabies, scurvy, typhus, and typhoid (Garland 2010: 20–​21). Girls were more at risk than boys since they tended to be undernourished (Golden 1990: 94; Parkin 1992: 98). There are no indications that children were less subject to disease in an “advanced” society such as Athens than in a conservative one like Sparta. Children living in urban centres were at least as vulnerable as those living in rural areas, partly due to the lack of sanitation and the absence of any notion of quarantine for contagious diseases. Pediatrics was not recognised as a branch of medicine according to the Hippocratic Corpus, so there is little literary evidence of childhood diseases such as measles, chicken pox and scarlet fever, though they may well have been common. With few exceptions we may suspect that children were left to cope with their illnesses unattended by a physician (Dean-​Jones 2013: 108–​124). The abuse of minors was commonplace. If an exposed girl was rescued, it was highly probable that she would be raised as a prostitute. The prosecutor in Demosthenes’ speech Against Neaera (59.18-​19) reports how the mistress of the future courtesan trained her and six other 205

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Figure 14.1  Boy runs towards woman to escape being beaten by sandal-​wielding man. Attic black-​ figure lêkythos, Sandal Painter, c. 550 BCE Source: Museo Civico Archeologico di Bologna Inv. MCABo 15. Photo courtesy of Museo Civico.

small children to become prostitutes and profited from their earnings till the age when they were no longer in their prime. Indeed some forms of what we would call abuse were sanctioned by law. Up until the time of Solon a child could be sold into slavery by its father or legal guardian. Even later a father (or a brother) could enslave a daughter (or sister) whom he caught having sex before wedlock (Plut. Sol. 13.3, 23.2). It is not improbable that in some Greek communities poor families sold their children into slavery. If a child was the victim of abuse within the family, no legal redress was available. To what degree was corporal punishment the accepted norm, inflicted on children either because of their unruliness or backwardness? With what severity was it administered and by whom? Aristotle advocated punishment in the form of,“marks of disgrace (atimia) and beatings,” in the case of boys up to the age when they are permitted to recline at table, i.e. about 16 (Pol. 7.1336b 9–​11). Did parents conform to this stern precept or were they more indulgent? In Sparta the educational system known as the agôgê institutionalised corporal punishment (Xen. Lac. 2.2, 2.8; Cartledge 2001: 83–​88 for the agôgê). Corporal punishment was also administered in Athens, though with what frequency and severity is unknown. In Aristophanes’ comedy Clouds, Pheidippides beats his father in reprisal for past beatings (lines 1409–​1429). The subject occasionally occurs on Attic vases, an example being a black-​figure lêkythos (or oil-​flask) dated 550 BCE, which is the name vase of the Sandal Painter.The painter is so-​called because the vase depicts a boy running towards a woman in order to escape being beaten by a man wielding a sandal (Fig. 14.1). Mythology abounds in tales of incest, infanticide, the eating of children’s flesh, and other horrors perpetrated against children. Examples include the slaying of her children by Medea, Cronus devouring his babies for fear they would supplant him, Heracles slaughtering his children in a fit of madness, Laius nailing his son’s ankles together before exposing him, and so on. But how reliable (if at all) is mythology as a guide to the level of violence perpetrated towards children in Archaic and Classical Greece? Though the evidence indicates that the Greeks fully understood that relationships between parents and children can erupt into violence, it is also conceivable that such tales might also reflect parental fears for their children’s welfare. Violence and abuse were not the only perils that children faced. The ancient world was hardly baby-​proofed and the absence of any practical safeguards made toddlers in particular extremely vulnerable. Fire was a constant hazard, since households had an unprotected hearth. 206

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Animals, including reptiles, were another source of danger, as the myth of the infant Heracles strangling the snakes sent by Hera demonstrates. Children were particularly at risk in wartime. Thucydides describes the slaughter of the children belonging to a town called Mycalessus by some Thracians as, “the fullest, most sudden, and most terrible disaster that ever befell the city” (7.29.5). No doubt war crimes of this sort occurred with some frequency. As today, tragically, children were also subject to random acts of violence. When Kleomedes of Astypalaia was accused of cheating in a boxing match, he became so enraged that he tore down a pillar that supported the roof of a school, thereby killing all 60 children inside (Paus. 6.9.6-​8). Illegitimate children were at risk because of their marginalised status. This stigma no doubt took a variety of forms, in some cases involving violence to their persons. Disabled children faced an even greater challenge. In a society that saw little value in promoting the virtue of compassion if it came at the expense of the interests of the whole-​bodied, many disabled individuals were subjected to mockery, especially by their peers. Even so, as Christian Laes (2013:  139–​140) has shrewdly pointed out, they may well have been integrated into their families to a greater degree than they are today, since they often performed menial tasks that required no expertise.

Relationship between parents and children In every human society the relationship between parents and children is as elusive as it is complex, and it can only be treated cursorily here. To begin with, it should not be supposed that the relationship between a parent and her or his son was the same as with the daughter. The degree of parental affection in a society that manifests a high incidence of child mortality is a key topic that has stimulated considerable discussion. Aries’ (1962: 38–​40) assumption that in pre-​industrialised societies it reduced the affection parents exhibited towards children has been challenged in a pioneering article by Mark Golden (1988: 152–​63). Why should it not have had the opposite effect? Herodotus, moreover, implies that Persian fathers invested emotionally in their children, since he praises the practice of not bringing boys into their presence until their fifth year with the humane intent of “sparing them the distress that would result if they died during the nursing period” (1.136.2). Presumably his Greek audience would have been expected to reflect on the pain they themselves might have experienced at the death of a young son and to look with favour on this pragmatic solution. Revealing, too, is the opprobrium that the orator and politician Aeschines heaps on his opponent Demosthenes for going about his business as normal even though his daughter had been dead only six days. “The man who hates children, who is a bad father, would not make a trustworthy leader of the people,” he scornfully asserts (3.78) –​a telling remark, even if it is trimmed for the political arena.The evidence of documentary papyri, though late, also provides compelling evidence of the grief parents experienced at the death of a child. Children were rarely commemorated on gravestones and the rites conducted on their behalf were far less elaborate than those conducted on behalf of adults, but we cannot assume from this that their deaths made little impact on their parents. Nor, as Mark Golden (2015: 75) notes, does the (likely) prevalence of exposure of newborns in Athens reveal anything about the Athenian response to the death of a child whom its parents chose to raise. However, the fact that there are about five times as many Archaic and early Classical tombs commemorating boys as there are girls suggests that the loss of a son was lamented more than that of a daughter (Humphreys 1983: 126 n.18). Being without offspring was regarded as a miserable existence since, “all humans are child-​ loving” (Eur. Heracles 634–​636) and, if Greek tragedy is anything to go by, a common recourse for the childless was to pay a visit to an oracular shrine, as Xuthus does in Euripides’ Ion. At least 207

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one mother is known to have died of a broken heart when her eight-​year-​old son died (IG II2 12335, dated c. 360). Especially valued were “only” children, first-​born, last-​born, and those born to elderly parents (Garland 1990: 147–​148). There are, moreover, clear indications that the physical welfare of children weighed heavily on their parents’ minds. Immediately after birth, children were placed under the protection of kourotrophoi:  child-​nurturing deities. The Athenian deity most commonly accorded the title kourotrophos was Gê or Gaia, “Earth,” though it is also associated with Artemis, Hera, Leto, and Apollo. The role of kourotrophoi commenced at birth, as we see from the fact that they were thought to be present at the birth of Zeus (Strabo Geog. 10.3.11; 10.3.19). There are also a number of dedicatory reliefs to deities who were invoked for the health and safety of children. A protection for the newborn was to string a cord over its right shoulder and under its left arm that was fitted with baskania (amulets) in the form of pendants (Beaumont 2012: 62–​63). Children’s prominence in religious ritual, not least ritual connected with the home, may provide further evidence of concerns for their welfare. All this said, it cannot be assumed that parents, even though deeply affected by the loss of a child, necessarily experienced it with the same degree of intensity that we would regard as “normative.” Some allowance must be made for the numbing regularity with which such an event occurred, as Keith Bradley (2013: 648) has pointed out. At the same time it should be borne in mind that in a society which did not make any state provision for its elderly, and one too which set great store in burial and the tending of the grave by family members, children represented a bulwark against the anxieties, challenges and ravages that accompany old age (Garland 1990: 261–​262 with references: 339–​340). In many families, therefore, children would have been regarded as insurance for the future and their parents would have promoted their welfare partly from an instinct for self-​preservation. Since Greek society was patriarchal, it is often alleged that daughters were regarded with less favour than sons, as is the case today in “peasant” society (Pomeroy 1995: 69–​70). Herodotus notoriously observed of the Persian king Cleomenes that, “he died childless, leaving only a daughter called Gorgo” (5.48).While this is likely to have been often the case, gender distinctions no doubt varied from society to society, as they did from family to family. Only in Sparta, however, do we hear of daughters being permitted to inherit wealth in their own name –​a practice that contributed to Aristotle’s claim that, “two-​fifths of the land is owned by women” (Arist. Pol. 1270a23). Evidence is lacking to indicate how parents collaborated in childrearing. Though fathers were frequently absent from the home, and perhaps for extended periods when on campaigns abroad, we cannot assume due to the patriarchal nature of Greek society that mothers were the dominant influence, and it may well be that fatherless boys were encouraged to spend time with their uncles and male cousins.

Caregivers The duties of childrearing were widely distributed in Greek society. The well-​to-​do employed wet nurses and paidagôgoi. The latter were often superannuated slaves or slaves unfit for other work. On observing a slave break his leg Pericles is said to have commented, “There’s a new paidagôgos” (Hieronymus of Rhodes fr. 19 Wehrli). One of the duties of a paidagôgos was to accompany his charge to school and sit beside him in the classroom. The attachment that built up between children and their servile caregivers often evolved into a lifetime attachment, as the literary evidence amply indicates. Consider the bond that exists between Odysseus and his nurse Eurycleia in the Odyssey, or that between Phaedra and her nurse in Euripides’ Hippolytus.When 208

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the Athenian general Themistocles sought to entrap the Persian fleet at Salamis, he entrusted the delicate task to his paidagôgos Sicinnus (Hdt. 8.75). Though there is little evidence for paidagôgoi outside Athens, the fact that Xenophon commends the Spartan lawgiver Lycurgus for prohibiting parents to use their services suggests that the practice was widespread (Lac. 2.1-​2; cf. Plut. Lyc. 16.4-​6). By contrast Spartan boys over seven years of age were placed under the supervision of an older boy known as a paidonomos or “boy supervisor” (see Beaumont, this volume). The practice of engaging the services of caregivers should not be interpreted as evidence of parental indifference. On the contrary, it may well reflect the belief that these professionals, as we might term them, possessed superior childrearing skills, coupled with the expectation that they would devote undivided attention to their charges, and in consequence protect them against accident or injury. Often it would be they who provided stability in a child’s life, notably when she or he was bereaved of family members, further strengthening the emotional ties between freeborn and servile. Indeed the question arises whether slave attendants sometimes competed with or even supplanted a parent’s role. Plato’s complaint that a slave could undermine a father’s authority by taking the mother’s side when she complained about her husband suggests as much (Resp. 8.549e). Aeschylus in Libation Bearers goes so far as to suggest that Orestes’ nurse Cilissa was the “real” mother of the infant Orestes by having her reminisce wistfully about his bowel movements. He was, “my life’s labour,” she observes (line 749). Older siblings, chiefly girls, also played a major part in childcare. Electra in Sophocles’ play of that name goes so far as to claim that it was she who reared her brother Orestes (lines 1143–​1148).

Play The evidence for children’s play is mainly confined to artistic illustrations and toys recovered from graves. In the early Archaic period, representations of children appear mainly in mythological scenes, but by the late sixth century they appear with greater frequency in scenes of everyday life (Beaumont 2003). In the Classical period they become prominent in a wide variety of artistic media and they are depicted in a much wider range of activities, albeit chiefly play-​related (Oakley 2013: 147–​171). Play, it can be noted, has the potential to function as a counterweight to the harsh realities that shaped and conditioned a child’s life. These depictions of children are also illustrative of the degree of concentrated focus that Classical artists gave to their behaviour. Fascinating though this data is, however, it does not allow us to enter the mindset of the child or determine how play was culturally contingent. Plato (Leg. 1.643bc) saw play as capable of fulfilling a vital role in the moulding of personality and the development of technical skills. “So the child who is going to be a good builder should play at building toy houses,” he wrote, “and the child who is going to be a good farmer should play at tilling the land, so the one who is rearing the child must provide him with toys that imitate real objects.” This recommendation implies that parents and caregivers had the inclination and the time to supervise children’s play, for which there is little supportive evidence. With whom did children play? Was it chiefly with their neighbours or with their siblings and cousins? Did they have play dates? Did they have sleepovers? Nothing is heard of such phenomena, though the sources would hardly reveal such mundane facts of life. In the countryside the possibilities of interacting with other children must have been limited. When not working, many children surely spent long hours either alone or with their carers. Though boys were presumably permitted to play with other boys, did girls enjoy the same freedom? Around the age of six, boys were released from the confines of the women’s quarters (Garland 1990: 134). No such 209

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release awaited girls. Plato’s recommendation that boys and girls should dance together, “naked to the extent that decency permits” –​the practice allegedly adopted in Sparta –​so as to become better acquainted, is unlikely to have set a trend in Athens (Leg. 771e-​772a).

Education As Protagoras asserts in Plato’s dialogue of that name (326c):  “The sons of the richest men go to school at the earliest age and leave at the latest.” Schooling in Athens, however, was voluntary. The state’s lack of involvement in education is indeed striking, but so far as is known there was no public education system anywhere in the Greek world except in Sparta, where the educational system known as the agôgê was in reality an extended preparation for military service (Ducat 2006; Beaumont, this volume). It is impossible to estimate what percentage of the Greek population was formally educated in the way in which we understand that concept today, though it was undoubtedly only a small minority. Reading and writing were key accomplishments in Athens and elsewhere, though in Sparta boys only learnt, “as much as was necessary,” according to Plutarch (Lyc. 16.6). It is unlikely that many fathers would have bothered to educate their daughters, though the iconographical data suggests that some girls did learn to read and write (Dillon 2013:  397). Such education as they received was probably provided in the home. Much of their time was spent learning handicrafts, such as spinning and weaving. Sparta again was the exception in that girls were not trained in textile production, though they did participate in competitive athletics (Xen. Lac. 1.4; Paus. 3.13.7, 3.16.1; Plut. Lyc. 14). In Athens, informal methods of education were key, even in the case of males. One such method was participation in the symposium, whose competitive atmosphere provided a vehicle for the display of musical talent, political discourse, and familiarity with literature, as well as with an aptitude for gamesmanship. Whether the Spartan sussition or pheidition, dining club or mess, provided similar wide-​ranging opportunities is unknown (Xen. Lac. 5; Plut. Lyc. 12; Fisher 1989: 26–​50). Another informal method was provided by participation in religious festivals, in which children were often assigned prominent roles. It remains, however, one of the greatest unexplained mysteries as to how Athens produced not only poets of the calibre of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, but also audiences that were capable of appreciating plays of extraordinary linguistic and thematic complexity at a single sitting.

Socialisation Every child, both male and female, underwent socialisation from an early age. No child was excluded from polis-​directed rituals, which meant that conformity to civic values was the norm. The mental landscape of the child was one of sharp divisions between male and female. Greek society placed great emphasis upon the acquisition of appropriate gendered profiles by both boys and girls and this contributed significantly to the construction of their social identity. Boys were required to take their place in the public arena, both as citizens and as soldiers, whereas girls were required to confine themselves to the private sphere on their path to becoming wives and mothers. This, however, seems to have been less true of Sparta, where girls were not exclusively confined to the home. Given the early age at which girls married, the full attainment of their gendered identity was accompanied by a more violent separation from childhood than was the case with boys. Indeed many girls wed shortly after the onset of puberty and consequently gave birth within the space of a year. The effects of this abrupt severance from childhood must in some cases have been little less than traumatic, as the myth of the abduction of Persephone by 210

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Hades would seem to suggest. Incidentally, though most girls married in their mid-​teens, those who were still unmarried at the age of eighteen and above were still regarded as parthenoi –​ the term that applied to a female as many as ten years their junior –​whereas those who married at the age of fourteen, say, were instantly elevated to the level of gunê, “woman” or “wife” (see Beaumont, this volume). One of the principal ways by which socialisation took place in Athens, and no doubt in many other city-​states, was through rites of passage, whereby the rising generation was initiated first into the family or oikos, next into the peer group, then into the phratry, and lastly into the civic body. Oddly, however, Athenian boys did not undergo any rite of passage at puberty. Both boys and girls underwent socialisation through participation in religious observance, and it is this religious aspect of children’s lives that is best documented in the ancient literary record. Children were prominent both because of their relative lack of exposure to blood, sex and death; and, no less important, because of parental anxiety regarding their vulnerability (Garland 2013: 207–​226). In the home participation in religious ritual was not confined to freeborn children. On the contrary, servile children also participated, being formally incorporated into the oikos through a religious ceremony, as was a newborn child or bride. In addition, there were a number of cults in which children performed religious roles, including those of priest and priestess (Garland 2013: 216–​219; Dillon, this volume). In Athens, for instance, a very small number of parthenoi performed important tasks connected with the worship of Artemis and Athena. Both boys and girls were enrolled in choruses that competed against members of their own homêlikia (age-​group) after what was a surely gruelling selection process. The training that the peer group of choristers underwent would no doubt have been extremely rigorous and would have included indoctrination into civic values. Though participation was mainly limited to the children of the élite, it is possible that a few places were reserved for the offspring of the thêtes, the lowest property-​holding class. Musical competitions constituted one of the few ways in which the rising generation encountered members of the opposite sex, since dating was strictly forbidden, though mostly we hear of single-​sex choirs, such as the choir of adolescent girls for which the Spartan poet Alcman wrote the Partheneion or “Maiden-​song,” possibly for a festival in honour of Hera (Calamé 1997). Activities of this sort also gave them the opportunity to extend their social network (Garland 2013: 219–​220). Youths aged 18 prepared for military service by undergoing two years of training in an institution known as the ephebeia. Though the programme only became compulsory in 338 BCE, its origins may well be considerably older (Casey 2013: 418–​43; Arist. Ath. Pol 42.3–​5). Children played a major role in the handling of death and burial, as we see from depictions of the prothesis or laying out the body, of the ekphora or transport of the body to the place of interment, and of periodic visits to the gravesite (Oakley 2003: 163–​173). In prothesis scenes, young children are depicted in close proximity to the corpse, grieving openly, while youths sing the valediction to the dead and girls demonstratively tear their hair (McNiven 2007: 90–​91). Children also participated in sacrifices and other rituals conducted in the home, as we see from their presence on votive reliefs (Lawton 2007: 41–​60).

Sexual awakening In the case of young males, given the availability of prostitutes and slaves, I stand by my description of their world as one of, “exuberant, guilt-​free phallocentricity” (Garland 1990: 207), notwithstanding the fact that Aristotle inveighed against premature sexual activity and the perils of self-​abuse (Hist. An. 7.581b12-​21). It is unclear whether fathers played a supervisory part in introducing their sons to sex. Homosexual liaisons between boys and older men were largely 211

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countenanced in Archaic and Classical Athens, perhaps in some cases even encouraged, though it is unclear at what age a boy was deemed ready to engage in such a relationship. In Plato’s Symposium (181de), Pausanias recommends that boys should not enter a homosexual liaison until they reach the age of discretion, presumably around puberty. It seems the majority of such relationships were symmetrical. Typically the erastês (“lover”) was considerably older, sometimes by a decade or more, than his erômenos (“beloved”). We should not, however, assume that all such liaisons were sexual or that sexual gratification was the primary objective. Liaisons between boys of the same or similar age may actually have been frowned upon. When a youth called Critobulus became enamoured of his school-​friend Clinias, Critobulus’ father transferred him to the care of Socrates (Xen. Symp. 4.23–​24). Both boys and girls were sometimes forced into prostitution, as in the case of seven infant girls who were acquired by a freed slave called Nicarete specifically for this purpose (Dem. Against Neaira 59.18-​19). A girl’s sexual awakening was largely a taboo subject, evidently too delicate to speak of openly since there is virtually no reference to it. The Arkteia festival, where girls aged between 5 and 10 “played the bear” (arkteuein) in honour of the virgin goddess Artemis, may have been conceived in order to contain their emerging sexuality (see Dillon, Beaumont, this volume). Even if this interpretation is correct, however, only a small minority of upper-​ class girls participated. Though little is heard about premarital pregnancy, it must have occurred, notwithstanding the opprobrium that it surely aroused. We may suspect, too, that the offspring of such a union would usually have been exposed, unless the father agreed to marry the pregnant girl. But what happened to the girl who had brought disgrace upon her family? Some must have been rejected or worse, though we hear nothing about such a situation. Consensual premarital sex may have been more prevalent among the poor, who lacked the means to supervise their daughters closely. It is also likely that emotional attachment was more frequently a motive for marriage among the poor than it was among the well-​to-​do, since financial considerations had little to play in the choice of a partner.

Conclusions Death was omnipresent in the world of the child, visible in the home and in the community at large. Children would experience the loss of close family members and friends from infancy onwards and acquire an acceptance of the ever-​present reality of death. Many of their closest relatives died. Friendships with peers were regularly severed by death. Life-​threatening diseases and other dangers beset them constantly, irrespective of socio-​economic status. But this bleak picture was not the whole of life. To offset these imperatives, support was provided by the immediate and extended family, by one’s peer group, and by society as a whole. Both at familial and at state level strategies existed to foster a strong sense of belonging. Children identified with their peers to a very pronounced degree, a fact which strengthened them at moments of crisis. In Sparta, peer bonding was so strong that it replaced familial ties in intensity. Children progressed to adulthood through a series of corporately managed rites of passage, more extensive in the case of boys, more disruptive in the case of girls. Group religious activity was central to their lives and occupied a major element in their upbringing. Thus when tragedy struck, children did not face it alone. Life taught them to be prepared for violent upheavals and to adapt to changing circumstances at a moment’s notice. Archaic and Classical Greece was a young person’s world, even, in a real sense, a child’s world. Children were highly visible and, though they had no legal or political status, they were by no means marginalised, as proven by their centrality to the welfare of home and state, as well as by their prominence in

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religious ritual. In conclusion, it was a society largely composed of children in which the elderly constituted a small minority.

References Ariès, P. 1962. Centuries of childhood: A social history of family life. London: Cape. Originally published as L’enfant et la vie familiale sous l’Ancien Régime. Paris: Plon, 1960. Beaumont, L.A. 2003. The changing face of childhood. In: J. Neils and J.H. Oakley (eds), Coming of age in ancient Greece: Images of childhood from the classical past. New Haven: Yale University Press, 59–​83. Beaumont, L.A. 2012. Childhood in ancient Athens. Iconography and social history. Oxford: Routledge. Beaumont, L. A. 2013. Shifting gender: age and social status as modifiers of childhood gender in ancient Athens. In: J.E. Grubbs, T. Parkin, and R. Bell (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 195–​226. Bradley, K. 2013. Envoi. In: J.E. Grubbs, T. Parkin, and R. Bell (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 644–​659. Calamé, C. 1997. Choruses of young women in ancient Greece: Their morphology, religious role, and social function. Trans. by D. Collins and J. Orion. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield. Cartledge, P.A. 2001. Spartan reflections. Berkeley: University of California Press. Casey, E. 2013. Educating the youth: The Athenian ephebeia in the early Hellenistic era. In: J.E. Grubbs,T. Parkin, and R. Bell (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 418–​438. Dean-​Jones, L. 2013. Introduction: the absence of therapy for children in the Corpus Hippocraticum. In: J.E. Grubbs, T. Parkin, and R. Bell (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 108–​124. Dillon, M. 2013. Engendering the scroll: girls’ and women’s literacy in Classical Greece. In: J.E. Grubbs, T. Parkin, and R. Bell (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 396–​417. Ducat, J. 2006. Spartan education: Youth and society in the Classical Period. Trans. by E. Stafford, P. Shaw, and A. Powell. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Fisher, N.R.E. 1989. Drink, hybris and the promotion of harmony in Sparta. In: A. Powell (ed.), Classical Sparta: Techniques behind her success. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 26–​50. Garland, R.S.J. 1990. The Greek way of life. London: Duckworth and Co. Garland, R.S.J. 2010. The Eye of the beholder:  Deformity and disability in the Graeco-​Roman world. 2nd ed. London: Bristol Classical Press. Garland, R.S.J. 2013. Children in Athenian religion. In: J.E. Grubbs, T. Parkin, and R. Bell (eds), 2013. The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 207–​226. Golden, M. 1988. Did the ancients care when their children died? GaR 28:152–​163. Golden, M. 2015. Children and childhood in Classical Athens. 2nd ed. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Humphreys, S.C. 1983. The family, women and death: Comparative studies. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Kennell, N.M. 2013. Boys, girls, family, and the state at Sparta. In: J.E. Grubbs, T. Parkin, and R. Bell (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 381–​395. Laes, C. 2013. Raising a disabled child. In: J.E. Grubbs, T. Parkin, and R. Bell (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 125–​144. Lawton, C.I. 2007. Children in Classical Attic votive reliefs. In: A. Cohen and J.B. Rutter (eds), Constructions of childhood in ancient Greece and Italy. Princeton: The American School of Classical Studies, 41–​60. McNiven, T.J. 2007. Immature gestures in Athenian vase painting. In:  A. Cohen and J.B. Rutter (eds), Constructions of childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy. Princeton:  The American School of Classical Studies,  85–​99. Oakley, J.H. 2003. Death and the child. In:  J. Neils and J.H. Oakley (eds), Coming of age in ancient Greece: Images of childhood from the classical past. New Haven: Yale University Press, 163–​194. Oakley, J.H. 2013. Children in Archaic and Classical Greek art: a survey. In: J.E. Grubbs, T. Parkin, and R. Bell (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical World. Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 147–​171.

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15 THE DAILY LIFE OF ETRUSCAN BABIES AND CHILDREN Larissa Bonfante

What was Etruscan children’s daily life like, and how do we know? As with other aspects of Etruscan life, there is very little ancient literary evidence. Because of the absence of Etruscan literature, our evidence about the daily life and the role of Etruscan children in Etruscan society comes almost exclusively from iconography and archaeology. We know that children were important, both for the poorer families who left ex-​votos in sanctuaries seeking blessings for their children’s health, and for the continuity of the aristocratic families of Etruscan society. Images of mothers and babies in Etruscan art, as well as of older children, together with their graves containing the toys and jewelry and gifts that the bereaved parents sent off with them, tell us that both sons and daughters were valued and cherished by their parents, and that the unfolding phases of their young lives were celebrated. The following chapter is organized according to the age groups which appear in Etruscan art and which were often marked by initiation ceremonies and special celebrations: birth and infancy, toddlerhood, older childhood, and adolescence.

Births and babies Aside from a quote from Theopompos to be discussed below, there are no specific references to Etruscan children in classical literature. But we can understand some of the differences in attitude between Greek and Etruscan ideas about birth by looking at mythology. Greek depictions of divine births eliminate or downplay the role of the mother. When Greek myth demoted goddesses in favor of the male gods, putting the supreme power in the hands of Zeus, it also gave over to this god much of the childbearing function normally attributed to the female. This is true especially for two of the children of Zeus, Athena and Dionysos (Hesiod Theogony 886–​900; Burkert 1985: 142–​143; Gantz 1993: 83–​84; Loraux 2013: 130–​133).When applied to males giving birth, Greeks preferred to see the event as a metaphor for the creative mind, the idea of male pregnancy being used by Greek thinkers to think through intellectual problems (Leitao 2012). By contrast, Etruscan art emphasized family values. Tinia, the Etruscan Zeus, unlike Greek Zeus, was normally a faithful husband. His love for his wife Uni (Greek Hera, Roman Juno) is illustrated on several inscribed mirrors where they appear as a young, nude couple in an

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Figure 15.1  Etruscan mirror. Conception of Dionysos. Tinia and Semla Source: London, British Museum. (ES 1.81.2). Fourth century BC. After E. Gerhard, Etruskische Spiegel. Vol. 1. Allgemeines und Götterbilder. Berlin, Reimer Verlag, 1843

amorous embrace (Haynes 2000: 42; De Grummond 2006: 58–​59, Fig. IV.8). As for children, Etruscan families are shown as unfazed by the unusual births of Greek myth. Thus a mirror depicts Tyndareus and Leda in a close-​knit family group looking fondly at the egg from which the baby Helen will hatch (Bonfante and Swaddling 2006: 15, Fig. 3). Etruscan mythological iconography, however, shows a preference for the physical reality of conception and childbirth with female mothers. Accordingly, a scene on an engraved Etruscan bronze mirror of the fourth century BC shows the conception of the great god Dionysos as an actual sexual union, as Semla lifts up her skirt in order to have intercourse with Zeus (De Grummond 2006: 59; Bonfante 2013: 434–​438) (see Fig. 15.1). Etruscan religion also emphasized the birth and health of children. Many sanctuaries all over Etruria and Latium, beginning in the late Archaic period and proliferating in the fourth and third centuries BC, were dedicated to cults of goddesses who protected newborns and small children (Haynes 2000: 361–​363). Here were offered statuettes of mothers with babies, as well the anatomical ex-​votos collected by doctors in modern times (Turfa and Becker 2013: 857–​ 858, 861–​862, 866–​868; Recke 2013: 1074–​1076; Nagy 2013: 996–​997). Realistic depictions of actual childbirths are exemplified by two remarkable recent representations of a type previously unknown in Italy, or in the classical world in general, with the baby actually emerging from the mother’s body. The first appears on a tiny seal impression on a sixth-​century bucchero fragment excavated at the Etruscan site of Poggio Colla, in the Mugello (Fig. 15.2) (Perkins 2012: 146–​201; Turfa and Becker 2013: 862, Fig. 47.2). The crouching mother is portrayed giving birth; her knees and one arm raised. Another remarkable birth scene on a newly discovered situla from Alpago in the Veneto, shows the mother standing up, supporting herself on posts as the baby emerges from her body (Gangemi 2013: 282–​285, 293–​294, Cat. 6.9, Fig. on p. 290). A potential and highly symbolic reference to childbirth is presented by an intriguing recent interpretation of otherwise mysterious large bronze circlets or flat rings, some of which are decorated with a geometric pattern.The rings were found in wealthy graves of the seventh century BC, on or near the stomach of important Etruscan women: another appears in the burial of the Vix Princess, in the Loire valley in France. Because of their position on the women’s lower torsos, they have been thought to be symbols of childbirth, signifying that the woman has given 216

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Figure 15.2  Seal impression on bucchero sherd from Poggio Colla (Mugello), sixth century BC Source: Image by kind permission of Greg Warden, Southern Methodist University excavation

birth to princes. As such they attest to the importance of childbearing and children for the aristocratic, elite families in the world of early Italy. The appearance of one of these rings on the body of the Vix Princess seems to be a sign of Etruscan influence in Celtic Europe (Bartoloni 2008: 30–​34, Figs. 2–​12; Bonfante 2013: 436).

Raising the child And the Etruscans raise all the children that are born, not knowing who the father is of each one. Theopompos, 43 In the fourth century BC, the Greek historian Theopompos expressed surprise at a number of aspects of Etruscan life and society that contrasted with those of Athens. Among these were the greater public presence of the women, and the absence of infanticide. Greek attitudes concerning the exposure of children at birth differed from those of the Etruscans and other non-​Greeks. In Rome, infanticide was not common in Rome during the Republic (Harris 1994: 1–​22). Like the Etruscans, Jews and Egyptians were said to rear every child that was born to them (Joseph. Ap. 2.5, and 2.202. On Egyptians, Diod. Sic. 1.80.3; Strabo, Geography 17.2.5). We are also told that the Germans did not limit the number of their children, and considered it shameful to expose them to die (Tac. Germ. 19). In the case of the Etruscans, their wealth and resources would have allowed them to indulge a love of children and avoid resorting to exposure of newborn babies, as was the custom for ancient Greeks during much of their history (Glotz, in Daremberg Saglio, s.v. expositio. Pomeroy 2002: 34–​37, 47–​48, 102). The quotation above, implying that Etruscan women could raise any of their children on their own, might be based on a real situation, if their laws allowed them to bring up their own children regardless of the status of the father. In both Athens and Rome, it was the father who decided whether a child should be brought up, exposed to die or raised as a slave; in Sparta it was the state (Pomeroy 2002: 47–​48, 102). An Etruscan upper-​class woman may, by contrast, have been able to pass on her status, and her property, to her children (Torelli 1997: 52–​86 especially 77; Pomeroy 2002: 48, 90–​91 for possible Spartan examples). Indications of a different legal context might be related to the use of matronymics in Etruscan epitaphs, though these occur far less frequently than patronymics, and the fact that Etruscan 217

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women had their own names, in contrast to their patriarchal neighbors, the Romans, where daughters simply took their fathers’ name:  Cornelius/​ Cornelia, Lucretuis/​ Lucretia, Julius/​ Julia. Etruscan women, like men, had a praenomen: examples include Tanaquil, Ramtha, Thana (Bonfante and Bonfante 2002: 89–​90).

Nursing and kourotrophoi Once the child is born, the natural first act of the mother is to nurse it at her breast. This image is known by the Greek term kourotrophos, which refers to an adult figure, usually a female, a mother, or at least a mother-​substitute or caretaker, holding or nursing a child. It is often used as an attribute or even an epithet of a goddess who protects children (Burkert 1985: 41, 184). The image of the woman and child is so familiar to us in Western art from representations of the Virgin Mary with the Christ child (Steinberg 1996: 128–​133) that we tend to take for granted its interpretation as a universal symbol of maternity, and of the close physical and emotional bond between mother and child. But the motif of the kourotrophos was not universal. It was, in fact, relatively rare in comparison to other images of women in most of the ancient world, and served a number of different symbolic functions (Budin 2011: 1–​2). The image, rare in Greece, is a favorite one among Etruscan votive figurines and appears on larger figures as well (Bonfante 1984: 1–​17; 1989b: 85–​106; 1997: 174–​196. Nagy 2013: 993–​1006; 2016: 219–​222). Because the image evokes strong reactions from the viewer, it is rarely used simply to depict scenes of daily life: when it does appear, in antiquity and down to recent times, its principal significance is a religious one. Like male nudity and the sexual organs, the female breast is a powerful taboo; this explains why the nursing motif was essentially absent in Athens, except in a ritual or votive context (Bonfante 1989a; Beaumont 2012: 52–​54). When an image is so potent, there are two possibilities: it can be ignored and suppressed, or it can be used to signify a vitally important idea or emotion.The importance in Italy in the art of all periods of the figure of the female kourotrophos contrasts with its absence in the official state cults of the Greeks –​though not in more personal religious worship, where ancient practices survive into much later times (Burkert 1985:  41, 184). Such a taboo, which involved a sexual component (Beaumont 2012: 52–​54), was clearly related to the strict division between male and female citizens in Athenian society. Heroic infants, and infants on Greek vases, are regularly male (Beaumont 1995: 339–​361). Images of the “Holy Family” with father, mother, and child, are almost unknown as a motif in Greek art: Greek myth, as well as art, shows divine children handed over to foster mothers or tutors to be nursed by nymphs or animals (Hadzisteliou-​Price 1978). The chances of mythological babies being nursed by their own mothers were slim. Clearly, this reluctance on the part of the Greeks to show this act, so natural in real life, stems from psychological reasons. Male-​dominated Greek society looked upon nursing and the baring of the breasts with revulsion and dread. Two strong taboos were involved, nudity and milk. The latter taboo made mother’s milk, on the other hand, a powerful magic and strong medicine, used by Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans—​and no doubt by Etruscans, though we have no information on that account (Laskaris 2008: 459–​464. For Greek nursing mothers and lactation, see Pedrucci 2013b). In contrast with the situation in Greece, images of kourotrophoi and nursing mothers are frequent in Italy from the eighth century on, and continue well into Roman times. Images of women either nursing the baby, or holding it in their arms or on their laps, are by no means limited to the Etruscan world: examples are found throughout Italy, in Latium, Campania, and throughout the former Greek colonies of southern Italy and Sicily (Bonfante 1989b: 85–​106; 218

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Pedrucci 2013a). These images are three-​dimensional, and they come in all sizes. The earliest image appears on a bronze horse trapping from an eighth century woman’s tomb at Decima, in Latium, near the border of Etruria, where it had been deposited along with the chariot that indicated the high status of the deceased (Bonfante 1989b:  86–​87; 1997:  177, Fig.  41). Represented are two naked human figures, a woman nursing a child and a man with two birds pecking out his eyes. We have no idea who they are. They are probably meant to represent divine figures, perhaps from Etruscan myth, rather than a human couple; but they demonstrate the importance of the motif, which already occurs in early times. The large-​scale statues of kourotrophoi that appear in the art of Italy in many different contexts emphasize the importance of the motif. An Archaic kourotrophos statue representing Leto with the baby Apollo in her arms stood on the rooftop at the temple at Veii: a divine image presiding over the faithful (Haynes 2000: 208–​209). The later, fourth-​century Mater Matuta from Chiusi, a large figure of an enthroned goddess with a baby, was funerary (Haynes 2000:  296–​298). An interesting manifestation of this choice is the life-​size standing statue of a woman with a baby from Volterra, the so-​called Maffei kourotrophos (Haynes 2000:  357, Fig.  279; Bonfante and Bonfante 2002:  168, Source 51, Fig.  47). These figures all hold the babies, but do not nurse them. Purely Italic is the life-​size sixth-​century funerary limestone statue of a woman nursing two babies from Megara Hyblaea in Sicily (Bonfante 1989b: 87, pl. XXXV). Clearly in Etruscan religion the need for such images inspired artists and craftsmen to invent new models and modify old ones, breaking through the classical prohibition against representing nursing mothers and viewing the naked female breast. The various media in which these images appear demonstrate different ways of showing affection in Greek and Etruscan art. Italian statues of kourotrophoi emphasize the physical closeness of Italian mothers and their babies, while on Greek vases, affection is mostly expressed by the intense looks exchanged between Greek lovers, or nurses and babies (Beaumont 2012, Fig.  3.27—​a woman holds a baby as they look at each other intently). In Etruscan painted tombs, husbands and wives at banquets gaze into each other’s eyes, and also reach out to each other affectionately as they recline together on the banqueting couches (Bonfante 1989b, 95, pls. XLIV, XLVIII).

Images and life of toddlers and children Just as nursing was all-​important for babies, so was the critical moment of weaning.Weaning was a crucial moment at a time in history when breastfeeding was well-​nigh universal: bottle-​fed babies were few and far between, and rarely survived. For the infant, mother’s milk has many advantages: the child enjoys immunity from illnesses by the mother’s (or wet nurse’s) antibodies, and is assured of a properly balanced nutrition, without the danger of infection that is presented by milk from a bottle or biberon (Fildes 1986: 299–​350). The spike in childhood mortality between the ages of 2 and 5 is most likely attributable to weaning practices.Taken off mother’s milk, the children have a double potential for death: insufficient resistance to infection, especially from food-​borne pathogens, and insufficient nutrient and caloric intake from the replacement food. On the other hand, the mother loses calcium from nursing the baby, with resulting dental and bone loss (Budin 2016: 596). In both ancient and modern times, the choice between breast and bottle feeding is fraught with controversy. 219

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Even in relatively recent times the moment of weaning, either from the mother or when children who had been sent out to the country to be raised by wet nurses came back home, was a crucial stage in the child’s development (Freud 1910). The ages between two and five seem to have marked the normal time of weaning. In classical and Roman times it may have been two years, when the child was more likely to survive (Beaumont 2012: 54, citing the second-​ century author Sor. Gyn. 2.21.46). But in Etruscan art, some of the children still nursing at the breast are so large that this seems to indicate they were older (Bonfante 1989b: p. XXXIII, 1–​2). Before the ages of five and half, children throughout Etruria are rarely found buried in the adult necropoleis; they are buried in separate, special cemeteries (Becker 2016: 199). Comparisons with Greek customs, which are better known to us, help us to understand the Etruscan situation. The Anthesteria ceremonies, which marked the third year of life for Athenian toddlers, indicated the importance of this age in Attica. Scholars widely agree that the small choes jugs associated with the festival were given as gifts to toddlers, who received their first drink of wine from them (Hamilton 1992). This symbolic gesture—​drinking from a vessel —​ alluded to the child’s successful completion of the weaning process. Votive statuettes of children seated, crouching, or crawling, have been found in sanctuaries in Etruria, Cyprus, and Greece, dating from the fourth to the first century BC (Beer 1993–​1994). The many representations of such older children and toddlers, both boys and girls, were probably created to mark, with a coming of age ritual, this crucial moment in the life of the child, when the bullas of the boys and the body jewelry the children sometimes wear were given to them. These were not just ornaments or status symbols, but apotropaic devices intended to protect them while they were still in a vulnerable state of childhood. Sometimes when they grew up, young Etruscan men wore bullas on their arms to ward off the evil eye. (See too the amber amulet of mother and little girl, below.) Then, as well, the inscriptions that marked some children’s bronze statues, dedicating them to the gods, would call down the gods’ protection upon them. The third-​century bronze statuette of a seated boy known as the Putto Graziani holds a pet bird with outspread wings; he is naked and wears a bulla, and on his right leg an inscription dedicates the statue to the god Tec Sans (Fig. 15.3) (Haynes 1985: 319, No. 192. For the bulla, Bonfante 1973, s.v.). Nudity was natural for children, who were not yet sexual beings, but the nude or dressed appearance of a child distinguished between the genders. Thus on the statuettes of toddlers, the boys are naked while the girls are dressed. For the Greeks, nudity was the proper costume for citizen males in the gymnasium. The Etruscans, like other non-​Greek peoples, rejected the classical Greek custom of public male nudity, with the exception of selected real-​life contexts illustrated in art (Bonfante 1989a: 543–​570). Nudity in Etruscan art was the costume of athletes, entertainers, dancing girls, or prostitutes. It was also the proper costume of Etruscan male children and slaves (Bonfante 1993: 47–​55). In the scene of the banquet on the wall painting of the tomb of the Leopards from Tarquinia (c. 470 BC), the boy serving the reclining family members is naked because he is a slave, and he is at work (Steingräber 1986: 105, No. 81. On the nakedness of slaves, see Pucci 2005: 235–​240, esp. 235–​237; Rathje 2013: 826). In Etruscan art, women and little girls are very visible, reflecting the reality of the more public role that women played in Etruscan life. (Greek art also illustrates images of little girls taking part in various ritual activities with their mothers: Lewis 2002: 19–​35). Particularly interesting are three tiny carved amber figures of mothers and daughters. One in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, only two and a half inches high, dates from the fifth century BC and shows a woman, dressed in a flowing Ionic chiton, carrying a child on her shoulder (Fig. 15.4). It is unusual to see such a large child held by the person we suppose to be her mother. This is not a baby, nor is it nursing. Its subject has been described as a mother with a “nude child”, who was assumed to 220

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Figure 15.3  Bronze statuette of child with bird and bulla, “Putto Graziani” Source: Vatican Museum Inv. No. 12107. 300‒200 BC. After J. Martha, Manuel d’Archéologie étrusque et romaine. Paris, Quantin, 1884: 61, Fig. 27

Figure 15.4  Amber amulet with mother carrying daughter Source: Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rogers Fund, Inv. 17.230.52. Fifth century BC 221

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be a boy (De Puma 2013: 273, Cat. No. 7.51. Picene or Etruscan?). In fact, however, it is a girl. The tiny female figure wears a chiton that falls in soft folds down to her right elbow. Judging from her size and the way she is dressed, the little girl, whose head is unfortunately lost, looks to be three or four years old. She is dressed like her mother, in an Ionic chiton with long overfolds; this could be a realistic note, since clothing that was draped would have allowed children to be dressed in larger garments, with extra cloth to grow into. Another two amber figures of mothers and daughters, also of the fifth century, are in the J. Paul Getty Museum collection. Here again the two little girls are dressed like their mothers. They all have mantles open in front, something like modern capes, worn over simple chitons. The first mother, just a little over five inches tall, wears a hat, while the second group of mother and daughter (31/​4 inches tall) wear their mantles pulled up over their heads. At the feet of the second little girl is an image of a plump bird, perhaps a goose (Causey 2011: 80–​81, Fig. 38, and 116–​117, Fig. 56; Causey 2012: Cat. Nos. 1 [Inv. 77.AO.84] and 2 [Inv. 77.AO.85]). These images carved in the form of mothers holding little girls were precious amulets, worn in life as pendants and placed in the tomb after death. These figures were placed in the tombs of women, and probably represent the votaries rather than kourotrophic divinities. The pendant might have been commissioned to commemorate the coming of age ritual that was such an important event in a little girl’s life. After having been worn by her as a grown woman, it went with her to her grave. Or it could have been worn by her mother, who kept it as an image of her child. Later, children’s cinerary urns and sarcophagi of the fourth through first centuries BC showing boys and girls of different ages document a difference between northern and southern Etruria in terms of the representation of the children’s gender: while baby girls appear in the southern cities, almost all the sculpted babies found in Volterra and Chiusi in the north are boys (Nielsen 1989: 132). It is hard to say whether this reflected a different attitude in various cities toward girls and boys in real life, or whether it was simply a different artistic convention.

Adolescents Older children are also represented.These adolescents regularly appear in the company of adults, and are usually recognized by their smaller stature. In a few cases they are distinguished from their older partners by their lighter skin color, closer to the light flesh tones of women than the ruddy, brown color of the men. It is not always easy to differentiate children from slaves. As we have already seen, nudity is the proper costume both of Etruscan boys and of slaves at work. Though free children and slaves might also be dressed the same way, and though they were all raised together in the same household, there were important legal differences between them. In Rome, language reflects these differences, for Latin distinguishes the Roman liberi (“freeborn children”) from the children (pueri) of slaves or liberti (“freedmen”). Those who are liberi, “free”, are the “nurslings,” or filii, who have been nursed at home (from felare, “to suckle, to nurse”). In Etruscan, the word for children is husur, or husiur, and epitaphs identify someone as a clan (son) or sec/​ seχ (daughter). A gloss preserved in Hesychius reports that the Etruscans also called a child agaletora (ἀγαλήτορα παῖδα Τυρρηνοί) (Bonfante and Bonfante 2002: 186 No. 802. Hesychius s.v. agaletora). The word is not Etruscan, however, since the Etruscan alphabet did not use the letters o and g. It is more likely to be a Greek word, related to galakt-​(milk): meaning something like “no longer drinking milk” (Bonfante and Bonfante 2002: 216). But it is hard to say whether these terms mean that a free child was distinguished from a slave child in the Etruscan language, as was the case in Latin. 222

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The nuclear family, with father, mother, and child appearing together, is shown for example on the seventh-​century Tragliatella urn (Haynes 2000: 97–​99;Turfa this volume, Fig. 24.1).The interpretation of many details of the scenes incised on this Etruscan urn is controversial. The man and the woman might have been inspired by seventh-​century representations of Theseus and Ariadne, as she hands the hero the ball of thread that will save him and the Athenian youths from the Minotaur’s Labyrinth. The smaller figure between them could then originally have been meant to represent Ariadne’s nurse. But on the Etruscan urn all the figures are given Etruscan names, so that we know they were meant to represent real people. The small figure is Velelia, standing with her father, Mamarce, and her mother, Thesathei, in a family portrait executed by the artist who was commissioned to carry out the decoration of the vase (Martelli 1987: 270–​272, No. 49. For different interpretations see Nielsen and Turfa, this volume). A scene on the wall of the Tomba del Barone may also represent a formal family portrait of father and mother with their son. Father and son are dressed the same way, with pointed, ankle-​ high boots, and a short Etruscan rounded tebenna, the ancestor of the toga and, in Etruscan art, a sign that they are still alive. (The dead, by contrast, wear the rectangular Greek himation.) The stately woman seems to be the principal figure in the scene. She has been variously interpreted as the dead woman taking leave of her husband and child, a priestess calling down blessings on the survivors, or even a goddess or mythological figure (Steingräber 1986: 285, No. 44; Haynes 2000: 224, Fig. 183). Etruscans raised their children to take their place in society, and the society we see reflected in the iconography we have been looking at is an aristocratic one. Most interesting in the context of this aspect of the Etruscan world of children is the figure of Arnza, “little Arnth,” standing next to Vel Saties in the fourth-​century François Tomb from Vulci—​is this his assistant, his servant, a dwarf, or his son? (Fig. 15.5). Like so many of the images we are looking at, its

Figure 15.5  Vel Saties and Arnza, “little Arnth.” François Tomb Source: Vatican Museum. Fourth century BC. © DeAgostini Picture Library\Scala, Florence

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interpretation is controversial. As the boy (for that is who I think he is) releases the bird from which the seer reads the omens, he is being educated by his father to follow in his footsteps, and is learning the language of omen-​reading from the flight of birds (Steingräber 1986: 377–​378, No. 178, Fig. 185; Haynes 2000: 280–​281, Fig. 227). The greater visibility of images of Etruscan babies and children reviewed in this chapter is due to the fact that they belonged to the upper stratum of society that could afford to have its members portrayed in their family graves or in the sanctuary context.These aristocratic families could also afford to have their slaves dress as well as the masters, as the story about Porsenna’s secretary illustrates: Livy tells us that he was mistaken for Porsenna and was killed instead of the king because the Etruscans dress their slaves as well as free men (Livy 2.12). Aristocratic children were raised to take their place in Etruscan society; they participated in the life of adult men and women, and both girls and boys took part in initiation ceremonies, and special celebrations were a way of introducing them into that society. A passage from the fourth-​ century historian Theopompos, quoted in Athenaeus’ later scandal-​mongering compilation, Deipnosophistae, or Sophists at Dinner, describes Etruscan banquets as follows: the Etruscans raise all the children that are born, not knowing who the father is of each one. The children also eventually live like those who brought them up, and have many drinking parties, and make love with all the women. When they come together in parties with their relations, this is what they do: first, when they stop drinking and are ready to go to bed, the servants bring in to them—​ with the lights left on!—​either hetairai, party girls, or very beautiful boys, or even their wives. When they have enjoyed these, they then bring in young boys in bloom, who in turn consort with themselves. And they make love sometimes within sight of each other, but mostly with screens set up around the beds; these screens are made of woven reeds, and they throw blankets over them. And indeed they like to keep company with women: but they enjoy the company of boys and young men even more. Theopomp. in Ath. 517d‒518a. Lefkowitz and Fant 2005: 88–​89, No. 100; Bonfante 1986, 235 Here are all the standard charges and clichés of Greek truphe or Roman luxuria—​ the love of ease and pleasure, the lust and luxury characteristic of the barbarian way of life, the fancy barbers and emphasis on physical beauty, the promiscuity, the wild parties, and lack of modesty. Notable are the charges of frequent nudity, and of pederasty. A pederastic relation is definitely represented in one of the two symplegmata, or erotic embraces, in the sixth century BC Tomba dei Tori in Tarquinia, in which a man with darker skin is having intercourse with a lighter-​ skinned youth (Steingräber 1986: 350, No. 120; Bonfante 1996: 160–​162, Fig. 66). Two other representations of older men with younger men might show father and son together. In the case of a couple reclining on a couch together in the fourth-​century Sarteano Tomb, the lighter-​skinned youth could be reunited with his father in the Afterworld. The two men in the Hescana Tomb are dressed alike and have the same skin color, but here the dark hair of one man might indicate that he is older than the light-​haired youth he is kissing. (For the Hescana Tomb, see Turfa this volume.) The existence of pederasty involving youths and older men in Etruria is a controversial question. Even the two figures kissing in the Sarteano Tomb could be related by kinship rather than be lovers: it was customary for Romans to kiss their 224

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Figure 15.6  Banquet scene. Tomb of the Painted Vases, Tarquinia, c. 500 BC Source: Watercolor copy by G. Gatti, MonInst IX, 1869–​73. Florence, Museo Archeologico

relatives—​in modern times, “kissing cousins,” an American idiom, was based on such a custom (Minetti 2006: 30–​33, Figs. 32–​33). A comparison of this description with the picture derived from archaeological discoveries and Etruscan art also allows us to distinguish some of the reality behind the scandal-​mongering gossip of the Greek historian. It is a reality that emphasizes families and children, and the ideals of the aristocratic society into which the Etruscan children of sixth-​century Tarquinia were born, in contrast to the all-​male, adult symposia of Attic vase painting. The Archaic tomb paintings of Tarquinia also illustrate the realities and conspicuous consumption of aristocratic celebrations and ceremonies, and the banquet scenes painted on their walls offer striking parallels to the banquets described by the Greek author Theopompos. But they had a different character. In the Tomb of the Painted Vases, for example, the wall painting on the rear wall has an intimate air, with a married couple and the children seated alongside them (Fig.  15.6) (Steingräber 1986: 353–​355, No. 123).The daily life of aristocratic Etruscan children was apparently less separate from that of their parents than was the case in Greece, and we see children being included in the animated, colorful atmosphere and the joie de vivre of the banqueters, together with their fathers and mothers reclining together on elegant couches covered in bright textiles, while youthful slaves bustle around them serving wine from huge containers, or sit nearby preparing fresh garlands.

Conclusion We can find out many things about Etruscan children and their parents from archaeology, which has preserved for us their graves as well as votive offerings made to ask the gods for their safe birth, health, and wellbeing. Unfortunately, death in childbirth and infant mortality were high, and parents’ hopes were often unfulfilled. Because of low survival rates, children until the age of weaning and somewhat beyond, three to five years old, did not yet belong to the world of adults, and were often buried apart from their families (Turfa and Becker 2013: 857–​858; 2016, 802–​803).Votive offerings in the form of swaddled babies, nursing infants at the mother’s breast, 225

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and toddlers show us images of such small children, while vase paintings and tomb paintings picture older children as well as young slaves together with adults in banquets or other activities. Most important, here as in other aspects of Etruscan life, are the aristocratic nature of their society, which valued the family life and the children that represented the continuity of great families, and the wealth that allowed them to bring up children without having to limit population growth by exposing them at birth, as was often the case in Greece.

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Larissa Bonfante Pedrucci, G. 2013a. L’Isola delle “madri.” Sacra publica et privata 2. Rome: Scienze e Lettere. Pedrucci, G. 2013b. L’allattamento nella Grecia di epoca arcaica e classica. Rome: Scienze e Lettere. Perkins, P. 2012. The bucchero childbirth stamp on a late Orientalizing period shard from Poggio Colla. EtrStud 15: 146–​201. Pomeroy, S.B. 2002. Spartan women. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pucci, G. 2005. Detrahis vestimenta venalis. Iconografia della vendita di schiavi nell’antichità e oltre. JRA 18: 235–​240. Rallo, A. (ed.). 1989. Le donne in Etruria. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Rathje, A. 2013. The banquet through Etruscan history. In:  J.M. Turfa (ed.), The world of the Etruscans. London: Routledge, 823–​830. Rawson, B. (ed.). 2013. Blackwell companion to families in the Greek and Roman worlds. Oxford: Blackwell. Recke, M. 2013. Science as Art: Etruscan Anatomical Votives. In: J.M. Turfa (ed.), The world of the Etruscans. London: Routledge, 1068–​1085. Steinberg, L. 1996. The sexuality of Christ in Renaissance art and in modern oblivion. 2nd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Steingräber, S. 1986. Etruscan painting. Edited by David Ridgway, Francesca Serra Ridgway. New  York: Johnson Reprints. Torelli, M. 1997. Il rango, il rito e l’immagine:  Alle origini della rappresentazione storica romana. Saggi di Archeologia. Milan: Electa. Turfa, J.M. 2006.Votive offerings in Etruscan religion. In: N. de Grummond and E. Simon (eds), The religion of the Etruscans. Austin: University of Texas Press, 90–​115. Turfa, J.M. (ed.). 2013. The world of the Etruscans. London: Routledge. Turfa, J.M. and Becker, M. 2013. Health and medicine in Etruria. In:  J.M. Turfa (ed.), The world of the Etruscans. London: Routledge, 855–​884. Turfa, J.M. and Becker, M. 2016. Health and medicine for Etruscan women. In: S.L. Budin and J.M. Turfa (eds), Women in Antiquity: Real women across the ancient world. London: Routledge, 797–​809. Vagnetti, L. 1971. Il Deposito Votivo di Campetti a Veio. Florence: G.C. Sansoni. Van Gennep, A. 1909. Les rites de passage. Paris: Émile Nourry. Warden, P.G. 1983. Bullae, Roman custom and Italic tradition. OpRom 14: 69–​75. Weber-​Lehmann, C. 1998. Die Auspizien des Vel Saties:  Ein Kinderspiel. In:  R.F. Docter and E.M. Moormann (eds), Proceedings of the XVth International Congress of Classical Archaeology, Amsterdam, July 12–​17, 1998. Amsterdam: Allard Pierson Museum 449–​453.

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16 BEING A CHILD IN THE HELLENISTIC WORLD A subject out of proportion? Christian Laes

Introduction: some thoughts on Hellenism, continuity and change Traditionally, Classical philology has explained the Hellenistic attention to children and family life by a nostalgic longing for sentiment and pureness: something that the aristocratic citizens of the increasingly cosmopolitan city-​states were hoping to find in nature, the simple country life, and the joys of childhood and family life. The reason for this new aristocratic longing is explained by the decline of direct political and military involvement in the city-​states, which in the new cosmopolitan environment were taken over by autocratic rulers, who relied on mercenary forces. Already in 1927, Hans Herter emphatically stated that Hellenistic poets and artists were the first to put children at centre stage. The Hellenistic period was full of ‘true’ depictions of ‘real’ children, in whose amusing conduct Greeks of that time must have taken special delight (Herter 1927: 251). The views of this leading scholar and professor of Classical philology at the University of Bonn were incorporated into introductions on the Hellenistic period up until the present day, and countless handbooks for secondary schools and larger audiences have repeated similar statements, linking the cosmopolitan tendencies and the consequent individualism of the period to new trends in philosophy, mostly to Epicureanism and Stoicism. In this, historians of ancient art often took the lead, referring to the almost baroque or rococo Hellenistic preference for lively detail or the picturesque, pointing to chubby Cupid-​like babies, depictions of childlike gestures of outstretched arms, and child play –​even at a morbid level in the case of the child strangling a goose (Rüfhel 1984). Playful innocence, along with thoughtless cruelty, is the best way to describe this (see Golden, this volume). Some of these motifs referred to very persistent realities of life, such as the crouching boys coping with a snake which symbolised the mortal risks to which childhood was exposed (Caneva and Delli Pizzi 2014: 515). Historians of Greek literature added to the picture (Lane Fox 1986). Hellenistic genres such as the epigram or the idyll repeatedly express positive attitudes towards children, even the joy experienced by the gods of the Underworld when they welcomed into their kingdom a child who died at a young age (Vérilhac 1978–​1982; Wypustek 2013). Recently, a splendid book on children in the Hellenistic world represents a significant change in these perspectives, produced by a leading Classical archaeologist versed in Greek art. By comparing images of children 229

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in reliefs, terracotta figurines, and marble statutes, Olympia Bobou shows that children and childhood became more prominent in the visual material record from the late fifth century B C (so a little earlier than the beginning of the Hellenistic period), and she reiterates the view that this was a time during which children became [my emphasis] a matter of parental and state concern (Bobou 2015). Behind all this is a deeply engrained progressist view of history. After all, Johann Gustav Droysen (1808–​1884) who coined the term Hellenismus was a dedicated Prussian follower of Hegel. In his conceptual framework history is ultimately progressive, such as the spread of enlightened Greek culture and civilisation all over the world after the conquests of Alexander the Great, fertilising the cultures of the East and creating a unique fusion (Thonemann 2016: 6). Such progression evidently demands leaps forward and marked change. As far as family and children are concerned, ancient historians have more than once been tempted to search for such leaps. Childhood is said to have been ‘discovered’ in Rome in the second and first century B C (when Hellenistic art and literature found their way to Rome; Manson 1978; 1983) during the Pax Romana of the Antonine period (Rawson 2003), or in Late Antiquity due to Christian thought and practice (Bakke 2005). Nobody has written more strongly against such simplified schemes of continuity and change than Mark Golden (1992; 1997), and he has done so again in a most convincing way in the present volume (endorsed by new studies such as Golden 2013; 2016; Pratt 2013; Bonnard, Dasen and Wilgaux 2017). Indeed, the problems in claiming change in the Hellenistic period (but also in other periods) are considerable: there are too few continuous series of data to compare one period with another; the aims and intentions of individual authors, thinkers and artists are not necessarily indicative of social change; earlier evidence for so-​called Hellenistic attitudes can be found in the Classical or even Archaic periods; some developments only affected some regions of the expanded Greek world; and ultimately historians eager to find change run the risk of eliding important disagreements and differences within a specific historical period. To clarify the vexed question of continuity or change, it is of crucial importance to state clearly what is meant and intended when applying such concepts. Indeed, change can occur on very different levels. One may imagine people’s everyday lives being profoundly altered: by the intervention of a new political regime, by natural disasters, by migration, war, or socio-​ economic circumstances, with a considerable impact on society. Another level is the so-​called popular mentality: a mindset which can be discerned by reading asides, puns or jokes in literature, looking at visual representations or studying folkloric traditions –​in all, things which are quite easily perceived by travellers, but so difficult for the time-​travellers that ancient historians inevitably are. A third level consists of the views of medical doctors, philosophers, theologians, artists, scientists. For the study of antiquity, such views are quite readily available, as a considerable part of the texts which have survived concern this level of theoretical thinking. Obviously, the different levels cannot and should not be strictly separated: interaction occurs in different directions. But the main point for the issue at stake here is that changes may occur on one level, while on another level hardly any change is perceived. In other words, it is perfectly possibly to have both continuity and change in the same period, and there is no need for oversimplifying schemes (Vovelle 1982). This chapter is very much about the ‘ground level’ of daily life. Therefore, it also takes into account vital ‘material’ questions such as demography, habitation and migration. In addressing these questions, I  follow the ‘classic’ scheme of most handbooks on the Hellenistic period. I focus firstly on the vast Seleucid empire, with special attention to the Greek cities of Asia Minor. After this, I proceed with Antigonid Macedonia and Greece in the Hellenistic period, with Ptolemaic Egypt, and with the Parthian and Bactrian kingdoms of east Asia. I intend to 230

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offer glimpses of childhood experiences of daily life –​anecdotal stories and fragmented pieces of evidence which point to possible changes in the lives of children in an area which is geographically vast and culturally considerably heterogeneous. For these five regions, I concentrate on distinctive features which can be explained by specific conditions of the Hellenistic period. Indeed, picturesque depictions of children and their playful activities are found in Greek literature from Homer up to the Roman period (Pratt 2013), and it is not my intention to repeat such references here. Nor will I delve into archaeological research on toys, for balls, wheeled toy-​horses, puppets and many other objects for play are found from the Early Geometric period up to Roman times. Again, one wonders about certain variations in space and time. Wheeled horses, for example, are present in child graves from Athens in the Geometric period, as well as in the Hellenistic and the Roman periods, but not in the Classical era. Can we correlate this with certain events which took place in a specific time frame? Or does coincidence of archaeological finds play a role, since it can be assumed that children of all periods played with such objects (Golden 2015a: 148–​150; see also Lillehammer 2015; Sommer and Sommer 2015)?

Asia Minor in the Seleucid empire During Hellenistic times, Asia Minor counted hundreds of Greek poleis, many of which have been extensively excavated. In fact, demographers estimate that up to 40 or 50 percent of the population lived in cities (but mind the existence of small entities and ‘agrocities’) –​an unseen process of urbanization and, as it has been labelled, ‘Mediterraneanization’ (Morris 2005a), with intensified economic and cultural exchange in an environment which was more densely populated than ever before (Price 2011; Bonnard, Dasen and Wilgaux 2017: 21–​22, 168–​169). Inscriptions from these cities number in the tens of thousands, all compiled in critical, scholarly editions. One might expect from this an immense potential for the study of the daily lives of children, but the results are meagre to say the least. First, the issue of housing: space and social relationships in the Greek oikos have been the subject of comparison between the Classical and Hellenistic periods, with the material from Asia Minor being prominently investigated (Trümper 2011). It now appears, judging from the remains of over 300 houses dating from 800 to 300 B C from all over the Greek world, that Greek houses were rather substantial, spacious and well built: as Ian Morris put it, ‘fourth-​century Greek houses were large and quite comfortable, even by the standards of developed countries in the early twenty-​first century’ (Morris 2005: 147; Golden 2012: 186–​187; 2016: 10). Surely, this must have had some effect on children’s lives, but it is hard to say what exactly. Furthermore, rural areas have hardly been excavated and farmers have left far fewer traces of housing and habitation, and yet the vast majority of the population lived in the countryside. The same holds true for smaller houses in the cities, or those less soundly built: these leave much less trace in the archaeological record. Much depends also on how a household was composed: even the roomiest house can feel crowded if there are enough people in it, or if the space is allocated unevenly. Given the number of well-​sized and comfortable Greek houses found in both Asia Minor and in Greece, at least a corresponding proportion of the children in the Hellenistic world were reasonably well-​off as far as living space was concerned. But there is no evidence that such conditions would have distinguished them from their predecessors who lived some decades or centuries before in the Classical period (Kron 2005; Ober 2010). Large-​scale migration and deracination are processes that immediately come to mind when considering the Hellenistic period. Indeed, scholars have claimed that in the wake of Alexander’s and his successors’ campaigns and wars, hundreds of thousands of men, ex-​soldiers, and their families, must have settled in newly conquered territories or newly founded cities. To any 231

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historian from the late Middle Ages or later periods, the claim about ‘hundreds of thousands’ must sound strikingly vague.Yet it is the closest possible estimate for the Hellenistic period. No archives or censuses for Asia Minor survive; no statistics are available or possible. For the city of Miletus, there is nevertheless a case which is somewhat better documented. In the years 234/​ 3 and 229/​8 BC a group of 1,000 Cretan soldiers were persuaded to come to Miletus in order to provide military assistance. Only 400 of their names survive on an inscription, in which 78 men were said to be accompanied by ‘families’. Upon their own request, and after the Milesians had consulted the oracle of Didyma, they were naturalised as Milesian citizens and given land in Myous, a small neighbouring polis which belonged to the territory of Miletus (Wiegand 1913: 1.3, 33–​38; van Bremen 2003: 319–​320). How massive was this migration? Again, this is not known, but as 10,000 inhabitants for the Milesian territory would certainly be a rather optimistic guess, the number of 1,000 soldiers plus families was considerable. At least, they were granted minimal equipment and shelter for it, or even quarters to live? (See Thompson 2006: 100 on the uncertain meaning of stegna in the inscription.) In 201 BC, the Macedonian King Philip V forced the Milesians to give up Myous, which had to be given to the neighbouring city of Magnesia. Suddenly, the Cretans found themselves without land. After 30 years, they apparently still existed as a separate entity. Returning to Crete was an option, but from a decree of the city of Gortyn, one of their home cities, it is known that such repatriation was refused, at least for those who had acquired Milesian citizenship (I. Cret. 4.176, lines 34–​38). How should one imagine growing up as a Cretan immigrant child in the years 230 to 201 BC in Miletus? Was the status of outsider marked by different looks, or different ways of talking Greek? Did it entail prohibition of intermarriage and thus only being allowed to marry within one’s own community? Most probably not, since Hellenistic Miletus had an extensive range of marriage options for its citizens. While marriage with a husband or wife of an old Milesian family was probably standard for most citizens, under the act of sympoliteia other groups were granted citizenship, so that marriage with them was possible without prejudice to the children’s status (Thompson 2006: 99–​100). In any case, the decision of Philip V had a serious impact on the lives of these Cretan families in Miletus. Scholars have referred to another case of Hellenistic ‘social engineering’ and interference with family lives, when between 323 and 313 BC , under the instigation of the satrap of Caria (who was allied to King Antigonos Monophthalmos), the cities of Latmos and Pidas were forced to enter into a union or sympoliteia. For the purpose of mixing the two citizen bodies together, two extraordinary measures were taken: a rigorous prohibition of civic endogamy and a concomitant obligation to marry (that is to give one’s daughter in marriage) exclusively someone from the other city. In this case, the Latmians were required to provide enough quarters to the Pidasians (Blümel 1997; van Bremen 2003: 315–​317; Thompson 2006: 100). This is, however, the only attested case of such far-​reaching autocratic interference, and the measure was only for the first six years of the union. It is not even certain whether it was not rather the two cities themselves who had devised the provision. And when life returned to normal, the usual rules of endogamy assuring citizenship and confirming the networks of phylai and phratriai would continue to exist, as they had for centuries in all Greek poleis. Next to migration, the subject of education and schools comes to the mind as a possible indicator of change in the Hellenistic era (see also Golden, this volume). Indeed, from the early third century BC and mostly in the Seleucid empire, there is evidence for royalty and private citizens setting up endowments for the schooling of children. An inscription from Teos in Asia Minor (now Turkish Siǧacik) from around 200 B C mentions the donation of 34,000 drachmas by one Polythrous to his home town (SIG³ 578).The annual interest of approximately 11.5 percent amounted to 3,900 drachmas, which were used to ensure the education of ‘all freeborn 232

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children of the city, both boys and girls’. A paidonomos, who had to be at least 40 years of age, was in charge of the enterprise. Every year, the children were divided into three grades, and three teachers or grammatodidaskaloi were appointed: the teacher of the first grade was paid 600 drachmas a year, the one who taught the second 550 drachmas, and the third grade teacher 500 drachmas. Furthermore, two sports teachers or paidotribai were recruited (each for 500 drachmas), as well as a music teacher or kitharistēs (for 700 drachmas). The upper grades were also provided with a trainer for archery and javelin (250 drachmas), and in addition a hoplomachos who taught fighting in armour (300 drachmas). Scholars have expressed great enthusiasm at these and similar inscriptions (similar arrangements are known in Miletus and in Rhodes –​see Joyal, McDougall and Yardley 2009: 134–​138). Though rich in detail, however, the text from Teos does not provide answers to fundamental questions which occur almost spontaneously to any contemporary reader. It is not clear at all which subjects were taught to girls and boys in the three successive levels. Nor is it known whether during instruction the groups were mixed. Moreover, there is no indication of the ages of the pupils. Concerning the size of the classes, the document merely stipulates that if the teachers disagreed about this matter, the decision was with the paidonomos. Did the teachers somehow benefit from larger groups, or did they rather complain about too large a number of students in a class? Again, it is not known what was the population of Hellenistic Teos, but 5,000 to 6,000 people seems a reasonable estimate. For such a size, the number of free boys and girls between ten and 15 years might have been around 600.This is an impossibly large number for three class groups, indicating that ‘all freeborn children of the city’ probably pointed rather to those of the elites, or surely those who were economically better off. The teachers’ salaries were perhaps not spectacular, taking into account that a skilled day labourer could earn about one drachma per day. But nowhere is it written that the parents of Teos contributed nothing themselves to this education. Payment from the parents was possibly a nice extra for the teachers, who might in such case profit from a higher number of students, especially when it is considered that a part of their salaries was anyway assured by city funding (Laes 2014: 30–​31). Be this as it may, scholars have repeatedly pointed to the increasing number of ‘learned’ women in literary and mainly epigraphic evidence from the Hellenistic era on.This is surely the case for girls and women who are mentioned as artists, musicians, scholars or poets dedicated to the Muses (Pomeroy 1977; Loman 2004; Mantas 2012). Again, with fitting methodological caution required due to the paucity of the evidence (see Golden, this volume), it is possible to suggest that more children in general, and more girls particularly, benefitted from euergetic programs which were proudly advertised by Hellenistic benefactors. In the context of boys’ education, one should also think of other initiatives, such as building programs in which new gymnasia were promoted, restored or funded. Finally, another factor of change can be suggested which is again linked to the euergetism of the Hellenistic kings. Hellenistic inscriptions show an increasing number of noble women represented as benefactors. This was not a new phenomenon, however, and earlier examples go back to the fifth century BC, but it indicates that by the Hellenistic period the dominance of the great benefactors had become so great that they could even parachute their female relatives into civic offices (Thonemann 2016: 132–​133). There was another meaningful change in the course of the second century BC, when inscriptions began to place emphasis on the families of those who governed (van Bremen 1996; 2003). Before, it was unheard of to include a man’s wife and children in any honours of public commemoration.Whether it was a male or a female who was represented as a benefactor, they were presented as ideal ‘citizens’, and therefore as acting or donating on their own. It is only in the wake of Hellenistic royals who presented themselves consistently as a couple en famille with children, that new epigraphical habits developed. Indeed, 233

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moreover, the language of power used by the rulers of Asia Minor, the Seleucid monarchs, was very much a language of the oikos.The royal family mirrored the structure of the standard Greek family unit, with the king as husband and father, the queen as wife and mother, the princes and princesses as children and the kingdom as a household (Coloru 2012). Following these royal examples, local euergetai (benefactors) were also represented as loving fathers and mothers of the city, who took care of their ‘beloved children’, instead of advertising themselves as doing well to fellow citizens. How far all this influenced the way people actually interacted in their own families remains again a matter of speculation (Thompson 2006: 97 mentions royal emphasis on familial tenderness being reflected lower down the social scale). Surely, a child in the cities of Asia Minor found itself surrounded by images and representations of ideal and loving families by the rich and from the royal sphere. And statues or images of cute babies and Eros-​like children were all around. What this actually meant for a child’s experience of the world is left to our imagination. But it might have raised emotional expectations which were different from those of some centuries before. Reactions to this must have been diverse, while social class and cultural background undoubtedly also played their part.

Macedonia and Greece It is revealing that the surviving evidence for childhood in Asia Minor can almost entirely be transposed to Greece and Macedonia in the Hellenistic period. Studies of housing in a well-​ excavated city at Olynthus point very much to the same material conditions (Trümper 2011). Large public educational endowments are also attested for Delphi in 160/​159 B C by Eumenes’ brother Attalus (Joyal, McDougall and Yardley 2009: 139). The Hellenistic imagery of children and childhood as it is found in art and literature is largely the same in Asia Minor and Greece (Bobou 2015).The comparative study of themes and motives in metrical epitaphs from the two regions points to very similar tendencies (Cairon 2007). Of course, large population movements with the founding of colonies in territories with little Greek background did not exist as a phenomenon in Greece or Macedonia, but migrants moving out were the cause of a certain scale of depopulation of rural areas of old Greece by the late Hellenistic period, as attested by various archaeological surveys (Davies 2006). So, was there anything such as a distinctive Hellenistic Greek or Macedonian childhood? During the Classical period, the city state of Sparta came closest to the idea of providing state education to all its citizens, boys and girls. This should be understood as giving instruction to sons and daughters of the elite male homoioi (‘equals’). By the second half of the third century B C , the number of Spartan homoioi had dramatically declined from about 3,000 in the early fourth century B C to approximately 700.While in a dramatic episode Cleomenes III (236‒222 B C ) introduced radical reforms, banning many of the old Spartan institutions, reassigning parts of the state land to perioikoi and freeing 6,000 helots, affairs returned to ‘normal’ after Cleomenes’ defeat by king Antigonus III of Macedonia in 222 B C (Cartledge and Spawforth 2002: 35–​53). One can imagine the burden imposed on young Spartans of the elite during the Hellenistic period. They were forced to keep up the appearance of the Classical and centuries-​old Spartan education, once the glory of their polis. The political situation in Sparta would only deteriorate for the worse. In Roman times, the traditional whipping at the altar of Artemis Ortegia/​Orthia, originally linked to the stealing of cheese in order to become dexterous warriors, became a spectacle of blood. Tourists from all over the empire came to watch the strange ceremony –​at that moment no more than some hundred homoioi were left (Cic. Tusc. 2.34; Plut. Arist. 17.8).

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Up to the Hellenistic period, the Argead Macedon royal family had been polygamous, a fact that made them barbarians in the eyes of Greek writers (Ogden 1999). The Hellenistic royal dynasties continued this practice (Ogden 2011: 93–​96). While the rulers of the East and Egypt received no public censure for this, since the cultural environment approved of polygamy and the elites had practised it for several centuries, the house of Lysimachus and the Macedonian Antigonids who claimed Greece must have stood out as strange and extravagant outsiders, since the practice was largely unknown to Greek customs and traditions. Equally outrageous to Greek eyes was the public flaunting of one’s relationship with a courtesan. Yet, Demetrius I Poliorcetes was not afraid to do so during his second visit to Athens. The enormous amount of money the Athenians had to provide for him was eventually due to be spent … on soap for his beloved Lamia and her courtesan associates (Plut. Demetr. 27). Such stories about the decadent behaviour of Hellenistic monarchs functioned as the reverse of their self-​promotion as ideal Greek fathers, taking care of their subjects who all belonged as children to their oikos. As such anecdotes circulated, they must have reached the ears of Greek children. Despite the new monarchs’ continuous efforts to appear as true Greek benefactors (Thonemann 2016: 49–​68 on Demetrius), those attached to the Athenian Golden Age must have realised the profound change in the political and cultural climate. Meanwhile, most elite Greek children of the Hellenistic period continued to attend schools and public places as they did centuries before. The gymnasiarchic law of Macedonian Beroia (early second century BC) mentions pedagogues supervising their wards and guarding them against unwanted sexual advances (Gauthier and Hatzopoulos 1993). It is Demetrius Poliorcetes who is said to have taken advantage of an Athenian boy, Democles the Beautiful. As the boy did not want to yield to his many suitors, he shunned the palaestra and the gymnasium, and was accustomed to go to a private bathing-​room for his bath. Demetrius had watched him and came upon him when he was alone (Plut. Demetr. 24). Though this marked him as a lustful tyrant, at least this behaviour would not have been marked as non-​Greek, since also the Classical Athenian community had passed legislation (attributed to Solon 594 B C) meant to keep boys out of the reach of sexual predators in the neighbourhood of gymnasia and palaestras (Aeschin. Oration 1.9–​12).

Ptolemaic Egypt No region appears better documented to illustrate changing conditions of childhood and family life in Hellenistic times than Ptolemaic Egypt. Various Ptolemaic administrative registers in Greek and Demotic record Egypt’s adult inhabitants, their occupation and livestock and the tax they had to pay.Yet, after thoroughly scrutinising the available material, Dorothy Thompson and Willy Clarysse came to the conclusion that there was no single model for the Hellenistic family that can cover all the evidence (Clarysse and Thompson 2009 vol. 2:  314–​317; Thompson 2006: 94). For household size, it has been revealed that just over one-​third of Greek households in Egypt included more than five adults –​one even counted 22 persons (Thompson 2006: 102). The average size of Egyptian families tended to be somewhat smaller. Both Egyptian and Greek children were most likely to live in a nuclear family unit, followed by the extended family (Clarysse and Thompson 2009, vol. 2: 314–​315; note again that the Hellenistic tax lists only record adults). Houses in Egypt seem generally to have been quite crowded, and a considerable part of life was lived outside, in the community or in the open spaces which were shared among the different houses. In Roman times, the census records provide much more detailed information, not the least because the census includes children and the age of the inhabitants. It

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is suggested, however, that there was no significant difference between Hellenistic and Roman times, as far as the physical layout of houses, numbers of cohabitants or household composition are concerned (Huebner 2013: 38–​46, with a very useful table on household composition in various preindustrial societies on p. 46). In Egyptian households of the Hellenistic period, polygamy was an accepted practice. It was, however, unacceptable to Greeks, who won through in the end: in the papyri, polygamy disappears (Clarysse and Thompson 2009 vol. 2: 299–​300). In the Roman census material, no polygamy is visible. Family experiences of children in Hellenistic (and Roman) Egypt might have been markedly different from other regions as a result of yet another practice: marriages between biological brothers and sisters. Greek colonisation of Egypt after the conquest of Alexander was a possible reason for this. The Greek colonists were faced with a local population cherishing their own deeply rooted cultural traditions and institutions, which had survived for thousands of years. Settlers wanted to marry other Greek women, who were not that easily found. Many of the Greek home communities condoned marriage between half siblings, so the step to full sibling marriage was quite easily taken (Golden 2012: 185) in a cultural surrounding which had known the practice for centuries. Indeed, ancient Egypt (as well as Iran) knew the custom of brother-​sister marriage, also outside royal families. This challenge to the sociobiological view of a universal incest avoidance has been proven to be a system which allows survival and continuation of a population, though such commitments must surely have generated more children with congenital defects than was the case in other regions (Scheidel 1996: 20 states that about 50 per cent of the babies born of brother-​sister relationships die prematurely or suffer from relatively serious disabilities, see also Shaw 1992; Scheidel 1997). Sabine Huebner has questioned the consensus about brother-​sister marriages, pointing to the fact that these were actually alliances between participants in a pattern of adoption and marriage (Huebner 2007; responses by Remijsen and Clarysse 2008; Rowlandson and Takahashi 2009 with response by Huebner 2013: 175–​187). In another study, Huebner pointed to the persistence of one other phenomenon of the longue durée: the circumcision of girls, which existed from Pharaonic Egypt up to early Islam and present day Egypt, and which might be implied in three Greek papyri from the third century C E concerning the so-​called therapeuteria, a family get-​together in honour of young, unmarried girls to which relatives, neighbours and friends were invited (Huebner 2009). Given the very strong continuity of the practice, circumcision would indeed have been a drastic and quite distinctive feature for girls living in Hellenistic Egypt, while male circumcision was mostly frowned upon by the Greeks as something for Jews or native Egyptians. Ptolemaic Egypt also opens a fascinating window on issues of bilingual education and multicultural contact (Papaconstantinou 2010). Greeks had been living in Egypt from the sixth century B C on, mainly in the neighbourhood of Memphis. In the fifth century B C, Herodotus still recognised people from a small community of Chemmis located in the Thebaid as Greek: they knew the typical Greek myth of Perseus (in fact, they claimed this hero originated from them), and they still celebrated a Greek festival (Hdt. Hist. 2.91). By the fourth century B C , the community of the so-​called Hellenomemphites had so strongly assimilated with the Egyptians that they had almost completely lost their Greekness, though they still called themselves Greeks (Tovar 2010: 19–​20). Matters were quite different when colonists arrived after Alexander’s conquest of the country. Learning the Egyptian language and assimilating with local cultures was the least concern of the Greek immigrants. King Ptolemy IV is said to have addressed his Egyptian military troops by means of interpreters (Polyb. 5.83), and about the Egyptian ruler Cleopatra it is said that she, unlike the former Ptolemaic kings, mastered the Egyptian language –​in fact, the word ‘dialect’ 236

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is used –​while she also had not forgotten the Macedonian way of pronouncing Greek (Plut. Ant. 27.4). In the same way, Greek children in Hellenistic Egypt continued to study Greek in an education system that was entirely directed at acquiring Greekness and copied what had previously existed elsewhere. Countless school papyri containing exercises survive:  Homer, Greek tragedies (mainly Euripides) and fables were favourites on the reading lists (Cribiore 1996; 2001). Attending the gymnasia and practising Greek sports was another exclusive feature of Greekness for young men, and this was also the case in Egypt (Laes and Strubbe 2014: 53–​54). The use of Demotic Egyptian was mainly reserved for temple service and administrative business between Egyptians. There are quite a few examples of bilingualism amongst Egyptian scribes who reached a high level of proficiency in the Greek language, and examples are known of Egyptian children making their first efforts in learning and writing Greek (as in attempting to write their name in Greek characters, see Tovar 2010: 32–​33; see Clarysse and Thompson 2009: vol. 2: 126–​127 on ‘Egyptian teachers’ as Egyptians who taught Greek as a foreign language through the medium of Egyptian). The opposite situation is seldom attested, though it must have occurred. In UPZ 1.148 (mid-​second century BC) a mother possibly praises her son because he has started to write Egyptian characters. This would be a great benefit to him, as he would be able to teach the slaves of the medical school of Faloubetis, thereby assuring him an income up to his old age. The school was probably linked to an Egyptian temple (Tovar 2010: 34). Surely, other Greek children must have picked up the spoken Egyptian language in a more informal way and in everyday life contexts. Mixed marriages also existed. Such linguistic contacts, however, mostly did not make it into the written records, the only surviving sources for this topic. Papyrological archives sometimes offer other glimpses of Hellenistic childhood in Egypt. Consider the case of the Greek Ptolemaeus, who lived as a katochos in the priest’s residence of the Sarapieion in Memphis between 172 and 152 B C (Thompson 2012: 197–​246). There has been endless debate about the exact meaning of the word katochos, but for the present chapter it is enough to state that Ptolemaeus had some special devotion and obligations towards Sarapis, a god who was an Hellenistic creation: a combination of the holy bull Apis and Osiris, brother of Isis. He had entered the sanctuary in 172 BC, when he was about 30 years of age, resided in the small temple of Astarte and was not supposed to leave the territory. Despite this, he stayed in contact with his native village Psichis, where his father lived together with Ptolemaeus’ three brothers, one of whom named Apollonius was only born in 174 B C . After the death of his father Glaucias in 164 BC, Ptolemaeus inherited the house, took up his responsibilities as the oldest son and supported his three brothers in a violent quarrel with neighbours, who apparently had tried to take advantage of the situation by taking part of the property as their own and stealing or demolishing the furniture (UPZ 10). Young Apollonius, at that time an early teenager, acted as a ‘go-​between’ for Psichis and the Sarapieion. At times, he went there to supply his brother katochos with food, and he even wrote some Greek letters for him. In 158 B C he joined Ptolemaeus in the sanctuary, only to leave after some months to become a soldier. His pay would now ensure his brother Ptolemaeus, whom he regularly called ‘father’, of a certain income. Before that, Ptolemaeus had often been short of money. Still, he took care of his priestly duties. When his old friend Hargynoutis had been left by his wife, she sent her new partner Philippus in order to kill her former husband. In a dramatic event, Hargynoutis managed to escape by jumping into the river and reaching a small island. He was picked up by a boat, but eventually died of grief in Heracleopolis, hundreds of kilometres south of Memphis in the year 164 B C (UPZ 18 and 19). At his death, he left young twins,Thaues and Taous, two girls who were nearly seven years of age at that time. Hargynoutis’ brothers managed to take his body from Heracleopolis to Psichis, but his former wife simply 237

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refused to pay for the burial. She had taken all the belongings, and moreover had kicked her twin daughters out of the house. The uncles now took their nieces to the Sarapieion, where the girls arrived by fortune at the right time. On 6 April 164 B C the Apis bull had died, which meant a period of 70  days of mourning ceremonies in the bustling, colourful and always crowded sanctuary. Female priests played the role of Isis and Nephtys, the mythological twin deities who mourned their brother Osiris. The little twin girls could not have come at a more opportune moment. Ptolemaeus even claimed divine dreams had predicted their arrival. After their quite sudden initiation into priestly life, they remained at the sanctuary for another six years. It is not clear whether they were free to move around. Surely, in the beginning, it must have been a challenge for Ptolemaeus to sustain them, since the mother was persistent in her refusal to return to them their paternal inheritance. In the end, his efforts were rewarding. Thaues and Taous eventually received their share, which must have been quite substantial, given the fact that in 160 B C they were able to lend their ‘father’ and patron Ptolemaeus the sum of 5,000 drachmas (UPZ 85). One wonders how life must have been for these little priestesses in the Sarapieion. In his archives, some written in Demotic (UPZ 70 and 77), Ptolemaeus has recorded a dozen of his own dreams in which the twins play a prominent role.With paternal care, he dreams about their attending the classes of a schoolteacher named Tothes. In another dream, the beauty and attractiveness of both girls are mentioned to a degree that modern readers feel somewhat uncomfortable with. In one dream, Ptolemaeus’ youngest brother Apollonius, who could hardly have been some years older than the girls, claims to have had sex with Thaues. Be this as it may, the twins disappear from the archive by the year 158 BC . By then they were approximately 15 years of age. They must have left their benefactor Ptolemaeus and the Sarapieion: they may well have married. Up to 152 BC, the year of his death, Ptolemaeus never mentions them again. The Ptolemaeus archive is just one of the tantalising dossiers which offer glimpses of a childhood experience that could in any case not have taken place before the Hellenistic period. As with nearly all the ancient sources, the voices of the children themselves are missing. But at least one has the feeling of coming quite close to the lived experience of a world which in the end seems very different from ours.

Central Asia: the Seleucid and the Parthian empire, Bactria and Indian kingdoms While the Cretan soldiers mentioned above were invited by the Milesians, most of the migration in the Hellenistic world was regulated by a remarkably intense colonisation program, which was strongly developed in the first half of the third century B C by the first Seleucid kings. Milesian colonists moved to Seleuceia/​Tralleis in Caria, a group of individuals was sent from Ephesus to Seleuceia on the Eulaios/​Susa in far-​away Persia, and settlers from the town of Magnesia on the Meander ended up in places like Antioch near Pisidia, Seleuceia on the Eulaios/​Susa, Antioch in Persis, or even at settlements in Bactria, roughly present-​day Afghanistan. All this was part of a program aiming to turn the heterogenous Seleucid kingdom into a New Macedonia or a New Greece. Yet the Graeco-​Macedonian colonists were not a segregated community in their new settlements. Moreover, Greekness was not an exclusive status. Non-​Greek groups could aspire and achieve citizenship, natives might become ‘Macedonians’ (the term did not exclusively refer to ethnicity). There was no systematic plan of submission or isolation of other ethnic groups. Processes of acculturation and assimilation took place, and flexible cultural identities abounded, in the use of double names, multiple languages or diverse gods (Coloru 2013). To a Greek child, born of settlers or simply accompanying its parents, all this must have been an exciting 238

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experience, full of multicultural encounters and challenges. Again, no sources come even close to describing such experiences. An anecdote mentions Seleucus I as suffering from homesickness and wanting to spend his last years in Macedonia (Nymphis of Herakleia FGrHist 434 F1). Ancient writers were obviously not interested at all in the feeling of homesickness amongst migrants, unless in the case of a king, where the story is used to reflect his political project of the Macedonisation of the whole territory. But of course, one may imagine such feelings occurring in Greek migrant children. Obviously, there were more than enough tokens of Greekness to make their new city recognisable, even familiar. But there was a different cultural environment.There is no better example of this than a first century BC epigram, which somehow and quite positively reflects such feelings. Meleager, raised in what would be nowadays Lebanon (Tyre) and Jordan (Gadara), and who spent his old age in Greece (on the island of Cos), testifies to his attachment to life, to love, to culture and Muses … and different languages: Go noiselessly by, stranger; the old man sleeps among the pious dead, wrapped in the slumber that is the lot of all. This is Meleager, the son of Eucrates, who linked sweet tearful Love and the Muses with the merry Graces. Heavenborn Tyre and Gadara’s holy soil reared him to manhood, and beloved Cos of the Meropes tended his old age. If you are a Syrian, Salam! If you are a Phoenician, Naidius! If you are a Greek, Chaire! (Hail) and say the same yourself. Anth. Pal. 7.419 Meleager; translation: W.R. Paton After Alexander the Great, the spread of Greek culture did not stop at the western fringes of Asia Minor. Seleucid foundations went far into Mesopotamia, the Iranian plateau and into Central Asia, with Aï Khanoum, in present-​day north east Afghanistan, as the best known and furthermost example of a Greek settlement founded by Seleucus I. When the Seleucids lost Central Asia to the Bactrians in the mid-​third century B C, Greco-​Bactrian culture continued to flourish in several cities, so that Hellenistic influences were strong even when the Kushans in the first century AD took over from the Hellenised Iranian elite. Also in the middle of the third century BC, the Parthian Arsacid kings took over from the Seleucids in Iran, but again their art and culture were greatly influenced by Greek traditions, to the extent that even the late ancient Sassasian empire was not completely closed to Greek influences. All these regions have been extensively studied in specialised books and journals, though they remain sadly unknown to the average student of classics (who might do well to consult Martinez-​Sève 2003; Coloru 2009 for the Bactrians and Wiesehöfer 1998 for the Parthians). Yet, as far as children and childhood are concerned, the evidence is meagre to the point of being frustrating.There are no intriguing case stories of multicultural encounters as in the Greek papyri from Egypt.There is not even a single clue of information concerning schools in Parthian or Bactrian times, and Indo-​Iranian scholars usually refer to Pahlavi treatises from later Sassanian times.These texts only provide information about the education of boys at the Iranian courts, for whom reading and writing, sacred texts, astrology, physical education and training in courtly arts (such as playing musical instruments or playing chess) were part of the curriculum (Tafażżolī 1997). During his expeditions in Central Asia, Alexander the Great is said to have chosen 30,000 boys who had to learn the Greek language and be trained to use Macedonian weapons (Plut. Alex. 47.6). The anecdote is no doubt apocryphal, though the message behind it is important. On a funerary monument in Aï Khanoum, dated to the first half of the third century B C , and dedicated to Cineas of Thessaly, the founder of the settlement, one reads in perfect Classical Greek the following Delphic maxim which mirrors views on the human life course as they 239

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had existed for ages in Greece (Yailenko 1990; see also Bernard 2007; Thonemann 2016: 3–​4; 91–​97): As a child, learn good manners as a young man, learn to control the passions in middle age, be just in old age, give good advice then die, without regret. In Kandahar, ancient Alexandria in Arachosia in the south of Afghanistan, one finds a beautiful epigram from the second century BC which, in astonishingly vivid detail and most elegant Greek, narrates the life of a man named Sophytos. He was merely a teenager, having profited from a distinguished education in both military arts and the Muses, when the flourishing house of his ancestors was destroyed by a sudden and fatal disastrous event. He left his hometown, supported by someone else’s money. As a merchant, he visited many places and acquired a vast fortune. After innumerable years, he returned to Kandahar, to the great joy of his friends. So he rebuilt his parental home, and his grave inscription proudly advertises his success, which he hopes will be continued by his children and grandchildren. The name Sophytos is a Hellenised form of a Sanskrit name, and the region of Arachosia has been known to be under Indian influence with King Asoka and his successors during the third century B C . After this, the Greco-​ Bactrian kings took over, and Sophytos might briefly allude to this period of political vendetta, when his Indian family fell into disgrace (Bernard, Pinault and Rougemont 2004). Only to know a little more detail about Sophytos would be worth more than reading dozens of scholarly publications on everyday life in the Hellenistic world. Schooled in a profoundly Greek way, in a family with Indian roots and surrounded by an Iranian environment, he became a traveller who saw many cities of the Hellenised world. At his return, he confirmed his success in a thoroughly Greek way. How did he educate his children? And his grandchildren? His and their childhood really was an Hellenistic childhood, in many senses of the word. Would they have taken over Greek practices upon which Iranian or Indian countrymen frowned? In the same way as for Aï Khanoum, it can be asked whether ethnicity was in the end that important to the inhabitants, who were keen to ‘act Greek’ in some contexts, but were attached to local cultural practices in other situations. There surely was not anything like an ethnically based apartheid in these cities (Thonemann 2016: 94–​95). On the other hand, some of their childhood concepts and practices came close to those of the Greek world: pregnancy and childbirth customs and rituals, legal rights of children, early marriage patterns for girls, filial obligation, child work (Rose 1991; Shaki 1991). Such phenomena seem to belong to overall patterns of education and childhood, rather than being strictly Hellenistic ones.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have examined specific aspects and features of children’s lives in the Hellenistic period. Asking about Hellenistic childhood means raising an even more fundamental question. Was there such a thing as a Greek childhood? With all due caution and taking into account factors such as social class, gender and geographical environment, I am inclined to answer affirmatively. There was indeed a shared common culture, based on language, political institutions, education, art, religion and festivals –​this Greekness must have been experienced also by children. The wider the area under research and the more diverse the sources, however, the more difficult definitions become. As such, one can speak about Roman childhood, a sort of belonging to 240

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the Roman empire and the Romanitas which was instilled into children. But for Late Antiquity, the question has rightly been asked whether one should not rather talk about Roman families and quite diverse Roman childhoods (Laes, Mustakallio and Vuolanto 2015). Matters become even more intricate at the level of daily life: here, elements of the longue durée are strongly present and persistent, no matter whether Greek, Hellenistic, Roman or Late Antique childhood is examined (Laes and Vuolanto 2017). So was there any such reality as a Hellenistic childhood in daily life? Mark Golden has pointed out the immense difficulties in using the concept of Hellenism. Proportionality and polymorphosity are key terms of Golden’s critique. To this, I  have added the difficulty of applying a concept, which essentially belongs to the level of art and literature, to a much broader field. Indeed, for this particular field of daily life, I suggest that for a great majority of children, nothing actually changed in the Hellenistic period. Their childhood lives did not significantly differ from that of centuries before. But this was a time of political changes and population movements. Dorothy Thompson has aptly summarised the Hellenistic family experience as a local compromise, with an overall importance of Greekness in a world where boundaries in practice became fluid, and at the same time the option to ‘go native’, with mixed marriages and close contacts between different cultures (Thompson 2006: 107–​108). For some children, such factors certainly made a change. Moreover, many children and families were faced with forms of representation in the form of honorary inscriptions, gravestones or statues which represented childhood and family life in a new and previously unseen sentimental way. So, while it is somewhat out of proportion to make a claim for the existence of ‘a Hellenistic childhood’ in daily life, it still nevertheless makes sense to study children and their lives in the thrilling and exciting world of the Hellenistic period. Some glimpses of otherness and difference may be perceived. Claiming change is often just a matter of balance, but it remains a rewarding exercise (Golden 2016).

Acknowledgements I would like to take the opportunity to thank Omar Coloru and Mark Golden for their most appreciated help for various aspects of this chapter.

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17 DIFFERENT LIVES Children’s daily experiences in the Roman world Fanny Dolansky

At dawn I awoke from sleep. I got up from the bed. I sat down. I took gaiters, boots; I  put on my boots. I  asked for water for [my] face; I  wash [my] hands first, then I washed [my] face. I dried [myself]. I took off [my] night-​clothes; I took a tunic for my body. I put on my belt. I anointed my head and combed [my hair]. I put around my neck a mantle; I put on an outer garment, a white one, [and] on top I put on a hooded cape. I went out of the bedroom with [my] pedagogue and with [my] nurse to greet [my] father and mother. I greeted them both and kissed them, and then I came down out of the house. I go off to school. I entered [and] said, ‘Hello, teacher!’ and he himself kissed me and returned the greeting. My [slave] boy who carries the case of books handed me writing-​tablets, a stylus-​case, a ruler. Sitting in my place, I rub out [the previous contents of my tablets.] I rule lines following the model; when I have written I show [my work] to the teacher … When called to [do] a reading, I listen to explanations, meanings, persons. When asked, I answered grammatical questions: ‘To whom is he speaking?’ ‘What part of speech [is it]?’ I declined the genders of nouns, I parsed a verb.When we had done these things, [the teacher] dismissed [us] for lunch. Colloquia Monacensia-​Einsidlensia 2a-​j, p-​s; trans. Dickey 2012: 104–​108, slightly modified This description of a child’s morning routine comes from a colloquium, a bilingual Latin and Greek schoolbook dating from the first century AD or perhaps somewhat earlier. The text was originally intended for Roman children in the West, then modified later that century or early the next for those speaking Greek. The history of the text and its date, recently examined by Dickey (2012: 51–​52, 95–​97), have limited bearing for this discussion.What is important instead is the group of scenes described which likely would have been recognisable over several centuries and in various parts of the Roman Empire as typical elements from a day in the life of a Roman child. To be more precise, the text concerns a boy, and if we look more closely, two boys: the narrator-​protagonist who appears to be of some social standing, and the slave boy who accompanies him to school, then recedes from view.The passage highlights this chapter’s central theme of difference and its connection with three factors in particular: juridical status, gender, and socio-​economics.These factors significantly affected the lives of Roman children on a daily basis, shaping their experiences by either affording or denying them opportunities in education, 244

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leisure, social interactions within the home and beyond, as well as emotional, material, and even physical security. The socialisation and enculturation of the youngest members of Roman society differed markedly whether the children in question were slave girls, poor freeborn boys, or senators’ sons. Although there seem to have been some commonalities that transcended differences, such as children’s fondness for play or their frequent experience of death, what being a Roman child entailed on a day-​to-​day basis was determined almost entirely by the circumstances into which one was born. This chapter takes as its point of departure the two boys and the details of their lives included in the passage above. It then gradually expands outward in two different but complementary directions. It begins with the boys’ most immediate worlds in terms of family life, then addresses a range of possible interactions and experiences within the domestic context for other children by considering differences in gender, juridical status, and socio-​economics, drawing on evidence for historical children from the age of Cicero through to the Antonines. The discussion then moves outside the domestic sphere to children’s interactions with age-​mates and adults in the course of schooling, training, work, and play. It concludes with a brief account of children’s experiences within the wider community in the context of social and religious rituals in civic spaces. In a single chapter, it is not possible to engage with the daily experiences of children at each stage of childhood from infancy to adolescence. Rather than treat each stage cursorily, using the characters of the colloquium as my focus then broadening the scope to include other boys and girls, I  concentrate on the period of pueritia (childhood) from about age seven to the early or mid-​teens when socio-​religious rituals such as marriage or the toga virilis ceremony, biological age, or a combination thereof marked the end of childhood (Dolansky 2008; Caldwell 2014:  134–​165). Admittedly, the picture of Roman childhood presented is limited and also impressionistic, as different types of evidence concerning different parts of the Empire are woven together. Certainly children’s experiences must have varied according to place and time, just as they varied depending on juridical status, gender, and socio-​economics, which this chapter illustrates.

Life in the domestic sphere The narrator-​protagonist, a schoolboy, clearly comes from a family of some means, as he has at least two presumably servile attendants –​a pedagogue (paedagogus) and a nurse (nutrix) –​in addition to the slave boy who accompanies him to school. The full text of this colloquium includes few direct interactions with these household slaves, yet in other colloquia slaves feature more prominently as the recipients of the schoolboy’s commands throughout the day. Scholars have noted how these school exercises both reflect and helped to reinforce the schoolboy’s position as a young master who already had some authority over slaves and would one day have dominion over an entire household (Bradley 1994a: 26; Bloomer 1997: 72). The schoolboy mentions his parents but they come second to his pedagogue and nurse. This is not surprising as many children –​and not only those from the upper classes –​seem to have spent considerable time in the care of different childminders throughout childhood, some developing bonds with these individuals that could be strong and long-​lasting (Bradley 1991:  47–​48; 1994b:  137–​138). Children of both sexes from affluent families might have a series of caregivers, beginning with a nutrix who nursed and cared for them as babies and might continue to look after them beyond infancy, later assuming the role of educatrix (‘child rearer’) or paedagoga (‘pedagogue’) as the years progressed (Bradley 1991: 27). Men were also directly involved in childcare as nutritores and educatores (‘child rearers’), paedagogi (pedagogues), as well 245

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as some with very specific job titles such as a cunarius (‘cradle rocker’) who looked after the emperor Nero in infancy in addition to two female nurses (CIL 6.37752; Bradley 1991: 38). Though the schoolboy has both a nurse and a pedagogue, more often it seems that a pedagogue would have taken over from the nurse in the supervision of a child’s daily routine at some stage, perhaps around the time the child began formal studies which sometimes entailed attending school outside the home: conventionally at age seven for boys. The pedagogue’s responsibilities primarily concerned practical and moral education, in particular cultivating behaviour befitting the child’s gender and status, as well as ensuring the child’s physical and moral well-​being when outside the home (Bradley 1991: 51–​55). Girls as well as boys sometimes had pedagogues, such as 12-​year-​old Minicia Marcella whom Pliny (Ep. 5.16.3) reports was quite fond of her paedagogi. Most pedagogues attending girls were men, but three women are known from inscriptions at Rome (Rawson 2003: 166–​167), and four others from elsewhere in the empire, most of whom were associated with the imperial family and other members of the elite (Laes 2011: 115). While the colloquia offered pupils opportunities to expand their vocabulary by practising variations within a set scene, such as selecting different pieces of clothing to wear or foods to eat, they naturally present only some possible scenarios from a greater multitude. This becomes apparent when considering the schoolboy’s family as he mentions his parents but no siblings or other relatives. That both of his parents are living is not implausible, yet demographic reconstructions for Roman society suggest that as many as 25 per cent of children would have already lost their father by the age of ten –​a conceivable age for this boy given his level of schooling –​and 20 per cent would have already lost their mother (Saller 1994: 48–​65). Many widowed spouses, perhaps even most, remarried. Among the upper classes, remarriage was also common following divorce, which appears to have been easy and frequent in the late Republic and early Empire. It was not unusual for men and women in the upper orders to marry at least twice as adults, producing children from each union with the result that many upper-​class children had a complex web of relations consisting of biological parents and siblings, step-​parents, step-​siblings and half-​siblings, in addition to more extended relations by blood and marriage (Bradley 1991:  156–​176). In tracing the marital histories of Sulla and Marcus Antonius –​perhaps exceptional figures for each married five times, but illustrative nonetheless –​Bradley (1991: 138) has demonstrated well how the practice of serial remarriage could repeatedly reconfigure a child’s familial network, potentially leading to ‘a high degree of emotional uncertainty and dislocation’. Although divorce does not seem to have incurred stigma, the dissolution of a marriage was not always simple, and Roman children must sometimes have been caught in the middle. Children normally remained with their father after divorce, but as Evans Grubbs (2005: 36–​42) has shown based on second and third century AD legal sources, custody battles could ensue with women claiming their former spouses were unfit to raise their children, and conflicts over paternity and child support are also recorded. A combination of literary evidence and demographic reconstructions allows for further informed speculation regarding the shape the fictional schoolboy’s family could have assumed. He may have had a sibling, just as Minicia Marcella did who is said to have bolstered her sister during her own serious illness (Plin. Ep. 5.16.4). He may even have had more than one sibling, though high rates of infant and child mortality, as well as the danger of maternal death in childbirth or shortly thereafter, militate against the likelihood that he had a large group of full siblings. Stories of remarkable fertility such as Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, giving birth to 12 children, should be read with caution, for not all of these children survived and only three of the Gracchi lived into adulthood. Such large numbers of biological siblings were rather unusual. Fronto’s sad recollection (Ep. 221.1) on his grandson’s death that he himself had lost

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five of his six children during his lifetime was likely a more common experience with many children growing up without siblings. Fronto claims that he never had a child born to him except while he was grieving another and never had any living child to console him upon the death of another. Comparable losses are not known within the Cicerones’ circle, but no siblings are recorded either for the younger Quintus or Attica, the daughter of Cicero’s close friend Atticus (Bradley 1991: 177–​204). When children did have siblings, they might be close in age, but various factors could also result in a gap of several years or more between siblings, as was the case with Cicero’s children Tullia and Marcus. Tullia was 11 or perhaps 14 when Marcus was born, and already married for the first time and out of her father’s house when Marcus was merely a toddler. Consequently, she ‘fulfilled none of the roles of a coeval growing up in the same household –​neither playmate nor confidante, with no shared friends or teachers’, as Rawson (2003: 248) noted. Yet Marcus had a virtual sibling in his cousin Quintus, as the two were only a year apart and at times reared together. In fact, Cicero wrote of ‘sharing’ his children with his brother Quintus and vice versa, a practice that seems to have extended to Attica as well (Bradley 1991: 185; Cic. Att. 12.6a, 12.1.2, 12.13.1). Tullia and Marcus seem to have had regular interactions with a paternal uncle and his wife in the elder Quintus and Pomponia, and with Atticus who was connected through marriage as Pomponia’s brother and may have functioned as a surrogate uncle to some extent. We know nothing about the schoolboy’s extended family but can reasonably imagine him having some aunts and uncles. Most Roman children, regardless of status, would have had few, if any, living grandparents, which suggests that if a child was fortunate enough to have a surviving grandparent, their relationship might have been special (Parkin 2011: 285). Fronto (Ep. 1.12) gushes about his grandson who shared his name and certain character traits, commenting on the little boy’s fondness for grapes and small birds. An inscription from North Africa for a woman named Postumia Matronilla calls her ‘a most devoted grandmother’ (CIL 8.11294); perhaps she played a prominent role in her grandchildren’s lives, possibly even helping to raise them, as was the case for Quintilian’s son who was brought up by his grandmother after his mother died (Inst. 6 pr. 8). In just over 20 per cent of the households recorded by Egyptian census returns, which represent a range of socio-​economic strata, grandmothers and grandfathers are attested living with their grandchildren (Pudsey 2013:  494, 499). Papyrus letters also reveal the important role grandparents could play especially in caring for children when one or both parents was absent due to death, military service, or other circumstances (Pudsey 2013: 499–​500). At various levels of society, children might experience separation from their father while the latter was fulfilling military service or political responsibilities. Cicero took Marcus and Quintus, then in their early teens, with him in 51 BC when he was appointed governor of Cilicia for a year; the decision might have been motivated by the fact that he had already endured a year’s separation from them during his exile in 58 BC and because the post also offered many opportunities for the boys’ development (McWilliam 2013: 271).Yet not all fathers were able or willing to bring their children overseas, and many appointments lasted much longer than a year as governors and legates could be away for several years, commanders-​in-​chief for as many as five or six, leading to lengthy periods of separation for children from their fathers (Treggiari 2007: 80). Turning to the slave boy mentioned briefly in the colloquium passage, it is considerably more difficult to attempt to recreate what his experiences of ‘family life’ might have entailed. Certainly it would have been radically different from that of his young freeborn master and probably also substantially different from the experiences of lower-​class freeborn or freed children who may

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have had limited resources but rights and freedoms denied to slaves. For the slave boy, the adult characters in the scenes would have had entirely different significances for him than for the schoolboy. The man and woman greeted in the morning were his master and mistress in whose eyes he was property, not progeny. If he were born within the household (a verna), then his early years likely would not have been characterised by the sort of trauma and instability other young slaves seem to have suffered who were bought at slave markets. Owners tended to prize vernae over other slaves, so they ‘may often have grown up in relatively stable and materially secure circumstances’ (Bradley 1994a: 49; cf. Sigismund-​Nielsen 2013: 293–​294). For many slave children, their beginnings were considerably less favourable. Contracts of sale from different parts of the Roman world record the purchase of relatively young children such as six-​year-​old Passia and eight-​year-​old Narcissus (FIRA iii.87; see also Laes 2008: 243). The bill of sale for a ten-​year-​old girl named Abaskantis (P. Turner 22) reveals how tumultuous the lives of enslaved children might have been. Described as Galatian, Abaskantis was already far from her birthplace when she was sold at Side in Asia Minor in AD 142, yet her next destination was Alexandria in Egypt (Bradley 1994a: 2). By the time Abaskantis reached the age attributed to the schoolboy, she had already lived in several parts of the empire and at least two households. Slave children could easily be wrenched from their biological families, not sold with parents or siblings, or severed from a household in which they had grown accustomed, and perhaps developed ties to fellow slaves (Flory 1978). Their lives were thus marked by instability, uncertainty, and fragility. Just as the number of possible permutations for the schoolboy’s family life are considerable, so too are those for a child such as the slave who accompanies his young master to school. While we cannot ignore the basic fact that slavery was a cruel and dehumanising institution, some slaves seem to have fared better than others. In addition to vernae who are thought to have been treated more favourably by their master, some slave children are thought to have had close relationships with freeborn children in the household if they nursed from the same wet-​nurse (called collactanei or ‘milk-​mates’). Such relationships may have resulted in a better quality of life for the slave children involved, at least in their earliest years. Though the bond between slave child and freeborn may have been limited to infancy or early childhood, the connection with the same nursing woman could have yielded a relationship of ‘quasi-​familial character’ (Bradley 1991: 154) whose importance for the slave child, perhaps permanently separated from parents and siblings, should not be underestimated. Regardless of their particular circumstances, freeborn and slave children both participated regularly in religious rituals within the household, often as observers, though sometimes assuming more active roles, such as in rites to the lares, the household’s tutelary deities. In several Campanian houses, paintings adorning shrines to these gods show children serving as sacrificial attendants called camilli/​ae. A scene from a modest Pompeian house (I.13.2) attributed to Sutoria Primigenia portrays 13 adults and children –​seemingly an entire household –​attending a sacrifice conducted by the paterfamilias.While most of the group observes, one boy holds an offering dish and stands near the paterfamilias; scholars have identified him as a member of the slave familia (Fröhlich 1991: 261; George 1997: 317 n. 41; Clarke 2003: 78), but he may represent the paterfamilias’ son since freeborn children frequently served as camilli (Wiedemann 1989: 183–​184; Rawson 2003: 213, 274). Some festivals also afforded opportunities for children’s participation, such as the Terminalia in late February. Ovid (Fast. 2.645–​652) describes a father building an outdoor altar, which the mother supplies with embers from the hearth; their son holds baskets that presumably contain offerings and sacrificial implements while their daughter presents cut honeycombs after a sacrifice of grain is made.

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School, work, and play Prior to commencing formal studies around the age of seven, a child of status similar to the schoolboy would already have started learning at home through play with educational toys, such as letters crafted from ivory or boxwood (Quint. Inst. 1.1.26; Jer. Ep. 107.4). Quintilian (Inst. 1.1.4-​9) placed considerable emphasis on the home environment for the development of aristocratic children, noting that very young children would likely emulate the speech of nurses, as well as slave children, in the household. He further advised that paedagogi be highly educated to oversee children’s early learning, and likewise fathers and mothers since children modelled parental speech.When children began more serious studies, some attended schools while others remained at home with tutors. Cicero engaged Aristodemus of Nysa, an esteemed grammarian and rhetorician, who tutored Marcus in 59 BC when he was nearly six (Cic. Att. 2.7.4). Attica had a slave paedagogus who was responsible for her elementary education when she was about five or six, and girls from privileged backgrounds in Egypt also enjoyed private education, as papyrus letters attest (Hemelrijk 1999: 21–​22; Cribiore 2001: 94–​97). While upper-​class girls may have generally acquired basic reading and writing skills at home, limited evidence suggests that other freeborn girls sometimes attended schools (CIL 10.3969; Mart. 9.68.1-​2). After spending two or three years mastering the basics of reading and writing, a child would then move on to grammaticê, the stage at which the colloquium schoolboy is found. He now focused on developing skills in reading, writing, and speaking under the direction of a grammaticus who used poetic texts, especially the Homeric epics, to teach grammar, pronunciation, linguistics, and history. A late second century AD relief from Neumagen depicts such a scene, with three male pupils and their teacher (Fig. 17.1). At this level, too, it was not unusual for the elite to employ professionals in their homes rather than send their children to schools. Thus Attica’s secondary education was overseen by Q. Caecilius Epirota, a famous grammaticus (Suet. Gramm. et rhet. 16.1), and Augustus hired the distinguished scholar Verrius Flaccus for his grandsons Gaius and Lucius (Suet. Gramm. et rhet. 17). After a few years studying grammaticê, aristocratic boys then proceeded to study rhetoric, usually when they were in their early to mid-​teens, though no fixed age was set (Quint. Inst. 2.1.7). In contrast, most upper-​class girls would probably not have received training in rhetoric since they were unable to participate in the law courts or politics as speakers. In the colloquium excerpt, the schoolboy’s interactions with his teacher and his morning at school appear relatively positive, yet sources detail some rather negative associations with schooling in general and teachers in particular. Martial (9.68) characterises the elementary school teacher (ludi magister) as a man hated by boys and girls alike, because he shouts at and beats them during their lessons. Some Romans disapproved of corporal punishment for freeborn children, yet other issues seem to have been of more concern (Cribiore 2001: 65–​73; Rawson 2003: 175–​ 177). Quintilian (Inst. 1.2.2-​5) reports that those who had their sons educated at home worried mainly about corruption at school by a teacher of bad character, or that their sons would not receive sufficient individual attention. He felt such worries were valid but did not outweigh the benefits of group learning, and noted that a child’s morals could be corrupted by the wrong sort of teacher at home or school, by which he seems to mean some form of sexual impropriety. This was apparently the reason both for dismissing Attica’s grammaticus Epirota (Suet. Gramm. et rhet. 16.1), and for the public declaration by Tiberius and Claudius that Q. Remmius Palaemon was unfit to teach boys or young men (Suet. Gramm. et rhet. 23.2). Perhaps because of the prevalence of these concerns, those who were free from scandal celebrated that fact: for example, the ludi magister Furius Philocalus’ Augustan-​era epitaph from Capua boasts that he behaved with the highest morality towards students (CIL 10.3969; Rawson 2003: 160–​161; Laes 2011: 127). 249

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Figure 17.1  School scene. Roman relief from Neumagen (Noviomagus), Mosel. Trier, Rheinisches Landesmuseum inv. no. 180a 2. Late second century AD Source: Alinari/​Art Resource, NY

Yet for many children in the Roman world, formal education, even with its problematic elements, was beyond the family’s means once a certain stage was achieved, and for some, it was entirely out of reach. Boys from modest backgrounds might complete some studies with a grammaticus before the need to acquire more practical skills to earn a living and support their family became a priority. The less affluent age-​mates of the schoolboy were perhaps only a couple of years away from starting work as apprentices to learn useful trades such as stonemasonry, which the second century AD writer Lucian (Somnium 2) claims was his initial trajectory. Apprenticeship contracts from Egypt generally began when children were 12 or 13 and mainly document arrangements for training freeborn boys and slave boys and girls in weaving, though there is evidence for other occupations learned through apprenticeships including construction, copper-​smithing, and shorthand (Bradley 1991: 107–​111). Many slave children, however, seem to have received specialised training at earlier ages, which is not surprising since the Digest (7.7.6) indicates that children could be put to work by the age of five. Nine-​year old Viccentia, a gold worker (CIL 6.9213), was already a skilled artisan at her death, and Melior, a slave calculator (accountant), was celebrated for his great expertise when he died at 13 (CIL 14.472). It is impossible to appreciate fully what daily life might have been like for young slaves, but if the stipulation in apprenticeship contracts that they work from sunrise to sunset is any indication, then for many their days were long and arduous.Work was a constant in slave children’s lives, yet experiences must have varied considerably depending on whether they served in wealthy, urban households, on agricultural estates, or under other circumstances. Both slave children and poor 250

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freeborn children are known to have worked in gold mines in Dacia and Lusitania where the work was strenuous and dangerous (Laes 2008: 250–​252). In contrast, the tremendous degree of specialisation in urban households probably resulted in some slave children filling posts that did not require great physical effort (Treggiari 1975; Bradley 1994a: 61–​65). Slaves who served as readers and copyists presumably relied mainly on intellectual abilities, such as those boys on Atticus’ staff who were prized for being extremely learned as well as handsome (Nep. Att. 13.3). Nomenclatores, of which the younger Pliny (Ep. 2.14.6) had two in their early to mid-​teens, were responsible for announcing guests’ arrival to the house. On rural villae, tasks for slave children involved long hours and probably greater exertion, as they included feeding and caring for livestock, pruning and trimming vineyards, and assisting with collecting the harvest (Bradley 1991:  114; Laes 2008:  247). One might be tempted to think that those toiling on agricultural estates had a more difficult existence than those in urban households. Yet, as the examples adduced by Laes (2008: 257–​258) of masters’ cruelty and caprice toward young slaves in urban contexts should remind us, all slaves were vulnerable and lived daily with the threat, if not actual experience of, violence, humiliation, and degradation. The tranquil scene on a tomb in Neumagen depicting slave girls at their mistress’ toilette (Fig. 17.2) may have had some basis in reality, but probably the literary stereotype of the saeva

Figure 17.2  Slave girls dressing their mistress’ hair. Tomb relief from Neumagen Trier, Rheinisches Landesmuseum inv. no. NM 184, c. AD 235 Source: HIP/​Art Resource, NY

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domina (‘cruel slave mistress’) did as well, whose angry outbursts were especially directed at her hairdressers and maids (Ov. Ars am. 3.235–​244, Am. 1.14, 12–​18; Juv. 6.487–​495). One association with Roman childhood that seems to have transcended differences in juridical status, gender, and socio-​economics was children’s interest in play, even if their access to toys and games, and leisure time, would have varied greatly. For the Romans, play was synonymous with being a Roman child. Artemidorus (3.1) insisted that dreams of children playing dice, knucklebones, or counters were not unfavourable because ‘it is customary for children to be always playing’. Moreover, children were thought capable of creating their own fun without purpose-​built toys. The stoic philosopher Epictetus (Discourses 3.13.18) admired how children ‘gather up potsherds and dust and build something or other, then tear it down and build something else again; and so they are never at a loss as to how to spend their time’. Children of both sexes and different juridical statuses are frequently connected in literature and art with animals, especially dogs, as playmates and companions, some of which were pets (Bradley 1998; Mander 2013: 37–​42). Tertia, Aemilius Paullus’ young daughter, was heartbroken over her puppy Persa’s death, though it was interpreted as an omen of her father’s victory over the Macedonian king Perseus (Cic. Div. 1.46.103, Plut. Aem. 10.3–​4). Juvenal writes of a rural slave boy running with his ‘puppy playmate’ (conlusione catello, Juv. 9.60–​61). For boys around the age of the schoolboy, rule-​based games predicated on chance combined with strategy and physical strength were popular, such as games that involved rolling or throwing nuts to land in particular places or guessing their correct number (Wiedemann 1989:  152). Scenes on children’s sarcophagi that depict boys engaged in such games tend to be lively and dynamic compositions that portray animated, even heated interactions (Huskinson 1996: 17, 89; Dolansky 2017: 124–​125). This is evident in the activities depicted on the lid of a late third century AD sarcophagus in the Museo Chiaramonti (Fig.  17.3). Toner (2017:  101–​105) has recently argued that participation in games with nuts, dice, and knucklebones was not merely fun for boys but important to their socialisation, for they required physical and intellectual dexterity, especially with respect to arithmetic calculations, and success necessitated honing skills into expertise. He also notes how gaming highlighted the importance of status in Roman society, which was the case for many childhood games. Literary sources report a variety of games involving status differentiation and imitation of adult roles that entailed the exercise of power and privilege such as playing at judges, magistrates, even kings. Although Wiedemann (1989: 150–​151) regarded these as games ‘children’ found appealing, most evidence points specifically to boys, particularly upper-​class boys. Play, therefore, like other spheres of life, offered opportunities to rehearse and consolidate one’s social position.

Figure 17.3  Sarcophagus showing cupids and boys at play Source: Vatican Museums: Museo Chiaramonti inv. no. 662. Late third century AD. Alinari/​Art Resource, NY

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Children of both sexes may have also enjoyed wooden yo-​yos, spinning tops, marbles, and balls made from leather or textiles. Freeborn boys tend to be connected with these playthings in literature (e.g., Verg. Aen. 7.378–​383; Plut. Cic. 17.2-​3; Sen. Constant. 12.2; Suet. Aug. 83), but visual evidence indicates some were also used by girls, such as balls. Girls appear playing ball games alone or in small groups which they may have played partly for the health benefits associated with them (Dolansky 2012: 277; 2017: 125).The inclusion of dolls in burials for girls ranging in age from about seven to late teens may reflect the enduring appeal of these toys over the course of girlhood. Given the apparent costliness of some surviving archaeological examples that were intricately carved from ivory, these particular dolls seem likely to have belonged to more affluent girls of a status commensurate with, or higher than, that of the schoolboy (Dolansky 2012: 259), while girls from less affluent backgrounds may have played with cloth dolls instead, in the fashion of ones found in Egypt (Janssen 1996; Dolansky 2012: 265–​267). It is not clear whether boys and girls played together, as neither ancient authors nor artists portray them interacting in the course of games or with toys. Presumably because interests as well as gender expectations diverged as children grew older, boys and girls at some point ended up playing separately. On sarcophagi that depict groups of boys and girls at play within the same composition, they do not mingle. In a late third century AD sarcophagus in the Museo Chiaramonti (inv. no.  1304), details such as the presence of a curtain by the group of girls suggest their game is occurring indoors while the boys are outside (Huskinson 1996: 17). The girls, however, also appear older, so age may be a factor influencing the distinct locations as well as styles of play, since they also seem rather sedate while the boys are very energetic and physical with one another (Dolansky 2017: 124–​125). In literature, boys are envisioned at play inside and outside the house. They use empty atria and aulae (inner courtyards) for spinning tops and twirling around columns until dizzy (Verg. Aen. 7.378–​833; Juv. 5.138–​139; Lucr. 4.400–​404). Not surprisingly, spaces outside the home seem to have been popular. Thus, prior to Octavian’s victory at the Battle of Actium in 31 BC, boys reportedly spent two days staging street battles in Rome in which the ‘Octavians’ beat the ‘Antonians’ (Dio Cass. 50.8.6). Horace (Sat. 2.3.247, Epist. 1.18.60-​64), Seneca (Constant. 12.2), and Minucius Felix (Octavius 3.5–​6) all imagine boys building sand castles, staging mock naval battles, and skipping shells or potsherds at ponds or lakes. Graffiti found at several domestic and civic sites in Campania may offer further insights into where children played. Using the height and content of figural graffiti as the main criteria, Huntley has identified 161 graffiti at Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Stabiae that she believes are the works of children –​primarily drawings of animal figures, ships and boats, gladiatorial equipment, and human figures. Just over 40 per cent were found in domestic spaces, many in rooms and wings off front halls. Huntley (2011: 81) suggests that such corners and alcoves would have afforded privacy from supervision, though this raises questions about which children would have made the drawings and when, since freeborn children were often in the care of servile childminders and slave children presumably would have had some adult oversight as well. She posits that the graffiti in two bath complexes at Pompeii and one at Herculaneum could be the work of children (presumably freeborn or freed) visiting with their parents or slave attendants, while drawings in the changing rooms could have been made by slave children responsible for watching bathers’ possessions and amusing themselves in the meantime (Huntley 2011: 85–​86). A similar scenario has been proposed for the Villa San Marco at Stabiae. Drawings attributable to children are concentrated in rooms associated with the villa’s baths, and particularly in one very small portal room thought to have been used to control temperature and access between the baths and the corridor (Baldwin, Moulden and Laurence 2013: 156). The authors of a recent study speculate that the drawings may have been created by individuals waiting to 253

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serve the bathers (Baldwin, Moulden and Laurence 2013:  163). Three cubicula deemed service rooms also have a high incidence of figural graffiti suggestive of the presence of children. These rooms are ‘among the most controlled, hidden, and marginalised spaces within the study area’ (Baldwin, Moulden and Laurence 2013: 163), and so perhaps natural places to escape the watchful eyes of adults while at play.

Social and religious rituals Spare time, in Seneca’s estimation (De ira 2.21.6), was important for freeborn boys, provided leisure (otium) did not lead to idleness or inactivity. Yet once the hours spent on studies were accounted for and some time allotted to play, boys probably did not have much opportunity to be idle, as various social and religious rituals would have filled many remaining moments in a typical day. The colloquia, like the one with which this chapter began, generally include an afternoon visit to the public baths among a schoolboy’s activities. Before boys reached puberty they might go with their fathers, but Cicero (Off. 1.129, Pro Clu. 141) indicates that this practice ceased once boys grew older because of propriety; they then went with their paedagogi (McWilliam 2013: 275). Freeborn boys and girls attended spectacles in the theatres, amphitheatres, and circuses, but children of both sexes had to be accompanied by an older relative for night-​time entertainments (Suet. Aug. 31.4). The need to contribute to the household economy probably would have limited substantially the opportunities lower-​class freeborn and freed children had to enjoy these leisure activities, while for many children of servile status places like the baths may well have been associated mainly with labour. Freeborn boys might spend some of their time shadowing their fathers in preparation for adulthood. Some colloquia include scenes in which the schoolboy accompanies his father to the forum where he witnesses public trials and private judicial matters (Dionisotti 1982: 104–​105, 118–​119). Augustus revived the Republican practice of allowing senators’ sons to attend senate meetings as soon as they received the toga virilis, which usually occurred in their early to mid-​ teens, so they could gain familiarity with public affairs sooner (Suet. Aug. 38.2;Val. Max. 2.1.9; Plin. Ep. 8.14.4-​6). By that age, boys from more modest backgrounds would have commenced apprenticeships to learn viable trades or they might be working already, while some girls, especially from elite families, could be betrothed or even married, perhaps with a child or more of their own. As Rawson (2003:  311–​335) has shown, there were many opportunities for children to experience the pomp of civic ceremonies, which offered considerable entertainment value while simultaneously helping to shape civic identity and foster solidarity. The calendar was rich in festal days as nearly every month featured at least one prominent civic festival, in addition to extraordinary public celebrations such as triumphs and domestic observances. Many civic festivals included a public procession or other ritual component that surely would have captivated young viewers. The Lupercalia on 15 February readily comes to mind with its nearly naked luperci running along Rome’s Sacred Way, lashing nubile women with goatskins to encourage fertility (Ov. Fast. 2.425–​448; Plut. Rom. 21.3–​5; August. De civ. D. 18.12). Similarly, the Megalensia in early April would have been appealing when Magna Mater’s magnificent cult image –​the goddess in her turreted crown riding in a chariot pulled by lions –​was paraded through the streets by her eunuch priests who sang hymns in Greek, played drums, flutes, and cymbals, and begged alms from passersby (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 2.19.3-​4; Ov. Fast. 4.179–​186, 215–​220). Some civic ceremonies offered opportunities for children to be active participants, not merely observers. During Augustus’ staging of the Secular Games in 17 BC, choruses of boys 254

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and girls, 27 of each, sang a special hymn before the temple of Apollo on the Palatine and on the Capitoline hill. Although there is only conclusive evidence for children’s choirs again performing in the Secular Games under Domitian in AD 88 (Mantle 2002: 86), it is plausible that they also had significant roles in the celebrations under Claudius (AD 47) and Septimius Severus (AD 204), as Rawson contended (2003: 317). Children’s choirs were likewise prominent in ceremonies to mark Caligula’s dedication of a temple to the deified Augustus in AD 37, and when Vespasian began restoration of the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline in AD 70. Yet participation in all these instances was limited to freeborn children, and those in the choirs had to be patrimi et matrimi specifically, that is children who had both parents living, which was a somewhat exclusive group given the prevalence of death in Roman society (Mantle 2002: 87, 105–​106).

Conclusions Rather than searching for the Roman child and a corresponding set of activities, this chapter has instead advocated embracing difference as a guiding principle in the study of Roman childhood and the effort to recover and reconstruct experiences that characterised children’s lives and filled their individual days. Beginning with the child’s domestic situation and gradually moving outward to other spheres of interaction including school, work, and play, it has been argued here that the experiences and opportunities available depended almost entirely on the child’s juridical status, gender, and socio-​economic circumstances. Even when children of similar backgrounds are considered, however, the evidence usually points to diversity not uniformity. The topic of schooling among the freeborn, and particularly the upper classes, illustrates this well: some children received education at home, others in schools, but lengths of time differed and both positive and negative outcomes are recorded, especially in terms of interactions with teachers. Civic religious ceremonies offer another example: the majority of children regardless of status were observers, but even among the freeborn, eligibility for singing in choirs often depended on having two living parents, thereby excluding many. Much remains that is not known and possibly will never be known about the lives of Roman children, even those from the upper classes whose lives are better documented. Evidence for conflict in the domestic sphere, for example, including spousal and child abuse, raises questions about how common such dynamics were in Roman households and to what extent these were part of some children’s regular, perhaps even daily experiences (Dixon 1997; Clark 1998; Laes 2005). Similarly, sources offer occasional glimpses of children who had physical or cognitive disabilities, but what their typical days entailed must largely remain a matter of speculation (Laes 2013). Certainly there were many aspects of children’s lives that were beyond their control but had the potential to shape them profoundly, distinguishing and differentiating them in the present and for the future.

References Baldwin, E., Moulden, H. and Laurence, R. 2013. Slaves and children in a Roman villa: Writing and space in the Villa San Marco at Stabiae. In: G. Sears, P. Keegan, and R. Laurence (eds), Written space in the Latin West, 200 BC to AD 300. London: Bloomsbury, 153–​166. Bloomer, W.M. 1997. Schooling in persona: Imagination and subordination in Roman education. ClAnt 16: 57–​78. Bradley, K.R. 1991. Discovering the Roman family. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bradley, K.R. 1994a. Slavery and society at Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bradley, K.R. 1994b.The nurse and the child at Rome: Duty, affect and socialisation. Thamyris 1(2): 137–​156.

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Fanny Dolansky Bradley, K.R. 1998. The sentimental education of the Roman child:  The role of pet-​keeping. Latomus 57(3): 523–​557. Caldwell, L. 2014. Roman girlhood and the fashioning of femininity. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press. Clark, P.A. 1998. Women, slaves and the hierarchies of domestic violence: The family of St Augustine. In: S. Joshel and S. Murnaghan (eds), Women and slaves in Greco-​Roman culture. London: Routledge, 109–​129. Clarke, J.R. 2003. Art in the lives of ordinary Romans. Berkeley: University of California Press. Cribiore, R. 2001. Gymnastics of the mind: Greek education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Dickey, E. 2012. The colloquia of the Hermeneumata Pseudodositheana. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press. Dionisotti, A.C. 1982. From Ausonius’ schooldays? A schoolbook and its relatives. JRS 72: 83–​125. Dixon, S. 1997. Conflict in the Roman Family. In: B. Rawson and P.Weaver (eds), The family in Italy: Status, sentiment, space. Canberra: Oxford University Press, 149–​168. Dolansky, F. 2008. Togam virilem sumere: Coming of age in the Roman world. In: J. Edmondson and A. Keith (eds), Roman dress and the fabrics of Roman culture. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 47–​70. Dolansky, F. 2012. Playing with gender: Girls, dolls, and adult ideals in the Roman world. ClAnt 31(2): 256–​292. Dolansky, F. 2017. Roman girls and boys at play: Realities and representations. In: C. Laes and V.Vuolanto (eds), Children and everyday life in the Roman and Late Antique world. London: Routledge, 116–​136. Evans Grubbs, J. 2005. Children and divorce in Roman law. In: K. Mustakallio, J. Hanska, H.-​L. Sainio and V. Vuolanto (eds), Hoping for continuity: Childhood, education and death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 33–​48. Flory, M.B. 1978. Family in familia: Kinship and community in slavery. AJAH 3: 78–​95. Fröhlich, T. 1991. Lararien-​und Fassadenbilder in den Vesuvstädten. Mainz: P. von Zabern. George, M. 1997. Repopulating the Roman house. In: B. Rawson and P. Weaver (eds), The Roman family in Italy: Status, sentiment, space. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 299–​319. Hemelrijk, E.A. 1999. Matrona docta:  Educated women in the Roman élite from Cornelia to Julia Domna. London: Routledge. Huntley, K. 2011. Identifying children’s graffiti in Roman Campania. In: J.A. Baird and C. Taylor (eds), Ancient graffiti in context. Routledge: New York, 69–​89. Huskinson, J. 1996. Roman children’s sarcophagi. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Janssen, R. 1996. Soft toys from Egypt. In: D.M. Bailey (ed.), Archaeological research in Roman Egypt. Ann Arbor: Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series, 231–​239. Laes, C. 2005. Childbeating in antiquity: Some reconsiderations. In: K. Mustakallio, J. Hanska, H.-​L. Sainio and V.Vuolanto (eds), Hoping for continuity: Childhood, education and death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 75–​90. Laes, C. 2008. Child slaves at work in Roman antiquity. Ancient Society 38: 235–​283. Laes, C. 2011. Children in the Roman Empire: Outsiders within. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Laes, C. 2013. Raising a disabled child. In: J. Evans Grubbs and T. Parkin (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 125–​144. Mander, J. 2013. Portraits of children on Roman funerary monuments. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press. Mantle, I.C. 2002. The roles of children in Roman religion. GaR 49(1): 85–​106. McWilliam, J. 2013.The socialization of Roman children. In: J. Evans Grubbs and T. Parkin (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 264–​285. Parkin, T. 2011. The Roman life course and the family. In: B. Rawson (ed.), A companion to families in the Greek and Roman worlds. Malden: Blackwell, 276–​290. Pudsey, A. 2013. Children in Roman Egypt. In: J. Evans Grubbs and T. Parkin (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 484–​509. Rawson, B. 2003. Children and childhood in Roman Italy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Saller, R.P. 1994. Patriarchy, property and death in the Roman family. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press. Sigismund-​Nielsen, H. 2013. Slave and lower-​class Roman children. In:  J. Evans Grubbs and T. Parkin (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 286–​301.

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18 CHILDREN AS INSTRUMENTS OF POLICY IN HADRIAN’S EGYPT Myrto Malouta

During one of Hadrian’s travelling campaigns in AD 130, his beloved Antinous fell into the Nile and drowned.1 The emperor established a cult for him, which spread throughout the eastern parts of the empire, and founded a city in his name—​Antinoopolis—​a Greek-​style polis, the fourth in Egypt after Naucratis, Alexandria and Ptolemais.Though the foundation of the city of Antinous was primarily presented as a commemorative gesture, it also fitted Hadrian’s urbanization plan, intended to strengthen the administrative network of the province. It was located accordingly in Middle Egypt, where there was no other Greek city. The Romans, having kept the Ptolemaic administrative system virtually unchanged, used centres of Hellenism strategically to facilitate administration, which was largely in the hands of the Greek elite (the term “Greek” having become a status designation by the Roman period rather than an indication of ethnicity). In the drowning of Antinous, Hadrian established a foundational myth that was very fitting within the Egyptian context, reminiscent as it was of the myth of Osiris, which would identify Antinoopolis from the outset as an important new urban centre (Schubert 1997:  121–​123). He furnished the city with monumental public buildings, colonnaded streets, temples and a large theatre, as well as a long road connecting it to the Red Sea coast. Equal care was shown in the selection of the population, and Hadrian tried to consolidate the identity of the Greek polis by ensuring that the settlers were also identified as Greeks, drawn from the other Greek cities of Egypt. Incentives were offered to make them assume Antinoite citizenship and eventually relocate to Antinoopolis, in the form of privileges, which would improve the status and legal position of Antinoite citizens and relieve them of several restrictions and financial burdens (Schubert 1997: 123–​125). According to their privileged status, Antinoites were exempt from several taxes, notably the poll tax, which was in accordance with the current practice regarding Roman citizens and some of the citizens of the other Greek cities (Jördens 2012: 250–​254). They were also not liable for some import duties. Furthermore, when legal conflicts arose, Antinoites had the right to summon their opponents to solve their disputes in Antinoopolis, while they were not obliged to carry out compulsory work in the form of liturgies outside their own city (Zahrnt 1988: 690–​693). The privileges were not restricted to the first generation of Antinoites, but were passed down from generation to generation; indeed they were reaffirmed by Antoninus Pius (as is evident 258

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in the fragmentary but quite detailed P.Würzb. 9) and only seem to have lost their force after the Constitutio Antoniniana extended Roman citizenship to all free inhabitants of the Roman Empire in AD 212. What is more, besides the inheritable character of all these privileges, some of them were specifically aimed at families. Antinoites were given the right of epigamia, which allowed an Antinoite man to marry a non-​Antinoite woman, or an Antinoite woman to marry a non-​Antinoite man, and pass on their preferential civic status to their children (Schubert 1990: 26–​27). This was not the case with other elite statuses, which usually required proof that both parents were members of a privileged group in order to admit their offspring to the same group. Epigamia was therefore designed specifically to help Antinoites retain and pass down their status, by allowing their issue to assume Antinoite status even if one of their parents was Egyptian.The only similar right is found in Alexandria, though it was offered a lot more grudgingly and only applied to the mother, not both parents. According to the Gnomon of the Idios Logos, the children of an Alexandrian woman who unwittingly married an Egyptian man were allowed to become Alexandrian citizens, as long as both parents registered their issue: Ἀστὴ συνελθοῦσα Αἰγυπτίῳ κατ᾽ ἄγνοιαν ὡς ἀστῷ ἀνεύθυνός ἐστιν. ἐὰν δὲ καὶ ὑπὸ ἀμφοτέρων ἀπαρχὴ τέκνων τεθῇ, τηρεῖται τοῖς τέκνοις ἡ πολιτεία.

An Alexandrian woman who unwittingly marries an Egyptian man is free from liability. Also, provided both parents file a registration for their children, then the children are allowed to retain (Alexandrian) citizenship. Gnomon of the Idios Logos 47 (trans. Malouta) But the privilege that most directly affected children is Hadrian’s bequest of an alimentation fund for Antinoite children. In the light of the evidently strategic move of founding Antinoopolis, and by comparing this bequest to similar cases we know from Egypt and Italy, I  try in this chapter to evaluate the aims and objectives of such acts of ostensible indulgence and the ways that family privileges and obligations could be used by the imperial government as means to political ends. I aim to show that the case of family privileges in Antinoopolis is connected to a wider range of urban ideology that used families and children as instruments of policy. Several inscriptions have been found, and are still being found, in Antinoopolis. However, none of them preserve references to Hadrian’s alimentation programme, whereas, as we shall see below, the main source of information regarding the alimentary funds that were in operation in the Italian peninsula are the extensive inscriptions found in the cities which received the benefits. Similarly, private initiatives that were in operation in some cities of Asia Minor are acknowledged in dedicatory inscriptions (Zuiderhoek 2009: 16–​17). Moreover, despite the rich papyrological finds of Antinoopolis, the papyrological evidence for Hadrian’s programme is scant, though it is at least remarkably unambiguous. We only have two papyri, which contain, with small differences, the same formulaic text, but in them the programme is clearly described (P.Fam.Tebt. 33 and SB XVI 12742). The papyri were written during the reign of Antoninus Pius, submitted in February AD 151 and September AD 157 respectively, and both follow the same formula, according to which Hadrian is identified as the founder of the city, who gave the citizens a number of privileges, one of which was an alimentary fund for all Antinoite children as long as they were registered by their parents within 30 days of their birth. The main part of the text of the better preserved document reads as follows: Πε[τ]ρώνιος Μαμερτῖνος ὁ ἡγεμονεύσας φανε̣ρὰς ἐποίησεν ἡμῖν τὰς ὑπὸ τοῦ θεοῦ /​ [Ἁδριανοῦ το]ῦ̣ κα̣ὶ̣ [ο]ἰκιστοῦ τῆς πόλεως ἡμῶν εἰς ἡμᾶς εὐεργεσίας καθʼ ἃς

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Myrto Malouta ἐβουλήθη τρέφεσθαι τὰ τῶν Ἀντινοέων /​[τέκνα τὰ] ἀ̣πογ̣ραφόμενα ὑφʼ ἡμῶν τῶν γονέων ἐντὸς ἡμερῶν τριάκοντα ἀφʼ ἧς ἐὰν γένηται ἀπὸ τῶν προσερ-​/​ [χομένω]ν εἰς τοῦτο συνχωρ[η]θέντων ὑπʼ αὐτοῦ χρημάτων καὶ ἄλλων προσόδων. ἀπογράφομαι οὖν τὸν γεν-​/​ [νηθέντα] μ̣οι υἱὸν.

Petronius Mamertinus, former prefect, made known to us the benefits granted to us by the deified Hadrian, the founder of our city, by which he directed that the children of Antinoites who are registered by us, their parents, within thirty days of their birth should be maintained from the proceeds of funds granted by him for this purpose and from other revenues. I therefore register the son born to me. P.Fam.Tebt. 33, 3–​7.Translation by Bell (1933: 520–​521) with minor adjustments The second papyrus is in a rather poor state and the restoration of the text heavily depends on the first and much better preserved document, but what is left of it at least serves as confirmation of the contents: Πετρώνιος Μαμερτῖνο̣[ς ὁ ἡγεμονεύσας] /​[φανερὰς ἐποίησεν ἡμῖν τὰς ὑπὸ] τοῦ θεοῦ Ἁ̣δριανοῦ ε[ἰ]ς ἡμᾶς εὐεργεσίας κ[αθʼ ἃς ἐβουλήθη] /​[τρέφεσθαι τoὺς τῶν Ἀντινοέων π]αῖδας ἀπ[ογρα]φ̣ο̣μέν̣ους ὑφʼ ἡμῶν τῶν γ[ονέων ἐντὸς ἡμερῶν] /​[τριάκοντα ἀφʼ ἧς ἐὰν γένηται ἀ]πὸ τῶν [εἰς τοῦτο συ]ν̣χωρη̣θέ̣ν̣των χρη̣[μάτων καὶ ἄλλων προσόδων] /​ [-​ca.?-​]τ̣ων. ἀπ[ογραφόμεθ]α οὖν καὶ αὐτοὶ τὸν [γεννηθέντα -​ca.?-​] /​ [-​ca.?-​ μοι υἱὸν

Petronius Mamertinus, former prefect, made known to us the benefits granted to us by the deified Hadrian, by which he directed that the children of Antinoites who are registered by us, their parents, within thirty days of their birth should be maintained from the funds granted for this purpose and from other revenues.We therefore register the son born to … me. SB XVI 12742, 6–​11. Based on the translation by Bell 1933: 520–​521, with minor adjustments It follows that this privilege was given to all children that had the right to Antinoite citizenship and depended upon the parents registering them in the first 30 days of their lives. This deadline closely follows Roman practice, and is not attested in other Greek cities of Egypt (see Sanchez-​ Moreno Ellart 2010: 101). A possible confirmation of this deadline comes from P.Vindob. Bosw. 2, a much later example of the registration of an Antinoite child which is dated to AD 247–​248. Although the registration was submitted in a timely manner in accordance to the 30-​day deadline, namely when the child in question was 25 days old, the alimentary fund is not offered here as a reason for the timing of the registration and probably no longer existed at this time, as seems to be the case with most privileges after the Constitutio Antoniniana. Two further documents are associated with this practice, but do not adhere to the 30-​day deadline, for reasons that can be explained. A record of enrolment to citizen status for Antinoite children, P.Fam.Tebt. 30, submitted in May AD 133, seems to follow a different formula, most likely due to the fact that the father of the children in question had only just been given Antinoite citizenship himself, thus it is not so much a case of late registration of his two children (one of whom is a seven-​year-​old boy, so his birth was long before the foundation of Antinoopolis), but rather a different procedure by which they were to acquire citizenship. In the second document, P.Mich.Michl. 1 [=SB XII 11103], submitted in June AD 155, the declarant registers his son when he was ten months and ten days old.This document belongs to an archive 260

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in which we also find a record of the son’s epicrisis (registration for acceptance to privileged status), submitted in AD 168–​169, when the son was 14 years old (SB IV 7427). The father is known from other documents, so it may be possible to identify a reason for this delay, namely that he seems to have quite recently acquired his Antinoite status as a veteran: he appears in P.Mich. VI 428, dated to February AD 154, as the buyer of a house in Karanis and is described as apolysimos apo hippikes strateias (released from service in the cavalry), and not yet as Antinoite. The archive does not help us establish an exact date for the father’s acquisition of Antinoite citizenship, through which his son would also benefit from inheritable privileges and citizenship, but, similarly in a way to P.Fam.Tebt. 30, if we take the date of P.Mich.VI 428 as a terminus post quem for his acquisition of citizenship, the 30-​day deadline would have certainly already been missed, as his son would have been at least four months old already. It is interesting to note that, of the two proper registrations which highlight this procedure, in the first document, P.Fam.Tebt. 33 (though not the second, SB XVI 12742), the registration is only carried out by the father; this seems to go against the principle that both parents had to attest to the status of their offspring, found in birth and status declarations of other cities. One might wonder whether this innovation had something to do with the right of epigamia, since in Antinoopolis it would be enough for one parent to attest to his or her Antinoite status. In fact both parents happen to have Antinoite citizenship in this case, but the lapse from the normal formula may show a more relaxed attitude. The process of registration for participation in the alimentary programme of Antinoopolis is thus closely connected to the system of birth registration, the exact purpose and practice of which is still a matter of debate. Consensus has been reached in that registrations of children are not merely a demographic exercise, in so far as they do not seem to be compulsory, but are closely connected to status registrations (Nelson 1979; Jördens 2012); that is, parents registered their children in order to enrol them in a particular class of citizens of high status, but were not obliged to do so only to give notice of the birth of a child, which was of no consequence to the administration until that child became 14 years of age and started paying taxes. This consensus caused the terminology regarding such documents to move away from the formerly current “birth declaration” to the more general “registration of a child” or the more specific “application to register a child in a privileged class” (Sanchez-​Moreno Ellart 2010: 94). The case of Antinoopolis can be seen as strengthening this theory, since the connection between birth declarations and status is more direct, and explicitly stated in the first two cases mentioned above (Sanchez-​Moreno Ellart 2010: 94, 100–​101). The exact procedure and types of additional documents required in the whole registration process is highlighted by a small archive of only three papyri, of which the one that comes first chronologically is the less well preserved of the two documents of which part is quoted above, SB XVI 12742. This text and two more that followed (SB XVI 12743 and 12744), and are connected in terms of content, form an archive of registration documents for a boy named Philantinoos also known as Isidoros (Pintaudi 1983). The earliest one, dated to 28 September AD 157, is, as we saw above, the initial registration of Philantinoos, his so-​called birth declaration, which functions also as an application for the alimentation programme. Another text was composed and submitted one month later, on 27 October AD 157, which constituted his registration, and confirmation, as a citizen of Antinoopolis (SB XVI 12743). And about 14 years later came the final acceptance of his status, in the form of registration and acceptance into the ephebate (SB XVI 12744). These three documents were obviously preserved by the parents of Philantinoos and then presumably by himself as proof of status and must be typical of the steps that second-​generation (and later) Antinoites had to follow in order to acquire such status, as well as the privileges that accompanied it. 261

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It is quite unusual that such a small number of documents can shed such clear light on an institution. Since Antinoopolis is usually treated as a rather sui generis case, many of its attributes, including the privileges as a whole and the alimentary fund in particular, are not usually regarded as part of a wider set of policies which, allowing for local adjustments, was applied empire-​wide. Thus, while the abovementioned papyri are very helpful regarding the way the programme functioned on a practical level, one has to look beyond Antinoopolis in order to try and understand it in the light of Roman civic ideology. To that end, it would be useful to compare the programme with the corn-​doles of Egypt and the alimentary funds of Italy. There is extensive evidence, in the form of a large papyrus archive published in the 1970s, of a well set-​up corn-​dole in Oxyrhynchus in the 3rd century AD (The Oxyrhynchus Papyri XL; SB XII 11263), while there is a reference to an almost contemporary corn-​dole in Alexandria mentioned by Eusebius (Hist. eccl. vii 21.9). There are also indications of a similar dole in Hermopolis (W.Chr. 425), the earlier phase of which is the earliest known in Egypt, since three papyri that mention it place it in the reign of Nero (Kraut 1984: 180–​187). The Oxyrhynchite dole was distributed to different classes of citizens, including the ones higher up the social hierarchy, and the later Hermopolite evidence confirms that eligibility to receive the dole was decided on the basis of citizenship and high status. Thus, similarly to the case of Antinooopolis, there is no reason to think that the Oxyrhynchite and later Hermopolite doles were aimed at addressing production shortage or to help the poor. This is in contrast to the earlier Hermopolite case in which the applicants state that they find themselves without wheat, which may be symptomatic of the economic depression in Egypt at this time (Kraut 1984: 182). The case of Alexandria is not well documented and a safe conclusion cannot be drawn, but it would be plausible to suggest that it may be a similar situation to the Oxyrhynchite and later Hermopolite doles, given the emphasis on citizenship matters in Alexandria. From the above it would seem that the ad hoc nature of the earlier Hermopolite dole should set it apart from the later practice of the same city, and indicate that perhaps a more general system of corn-​dole started in the 3rd century, while earlier handouts could address specific needs (Garnsey 1988: 266). On the one hand, there is much to differentiate the Antinoite programme from the 3rd century corn-​doles: the evidence does not fit their pattern chronologically, it seems more targeted in terms of purpose and was probably not only restricted to wheat but was a general fund for food distribution. But on the other hand it is not entirely unconnected, since all these cases could be described as attempts to consolidate an already privileged status by award of extra benefits, specifically food allowances. Therefore, the main characteristics that set the alimentary programme of Antinoopolis apart are, first, that it is the only one of the Egyptian cases where the beneficiaries were exclusively children, and, second, that it seems more like a personal gift from the emperor than the abovementioned “institutional” doles. As far as the former is concerned, Duncan-​Jones suggests that P.Oxy. XL 2941 and 2942 indicate that there was a siteresion (grain ration), like the one in Oxyrhyncus and also in Antinoopolis, directed at adults, alongside the alimentary scheme for children (Duncan-​Jones 1982: 383, supplementary note 290). The latter has been best described by Zahrnt, who has claimed of the alimentary scheme of Antinoopolis that it should be considered a show of favour rather than a privilege (Zahrnt 1988:  696). Whether it had an expressly institutional outlook or it was set up as a personal gift, it was not, however, an isolated case, as Roman emperors were known to carry out such benefactions in Italy and abroad. It was in fact one of the imperial gestures that members of the elite chose to emulate as they sought self-​aggrandizement. So the offer of such gifts was not restricted to the emperor, but was also attested of private individuals, mostly in cities of the Italian peninsula, but also in the East (Nicols 2014: especially 104–​108). 262

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Children, who were overall absent from documentary evidence and public matters, were thus brought to the fore through the institution of alimentary schemes, which became a common type of benefaction from the time of Nerva onwards and are often recorded in inscriptions as well as in literary sources (Jones 1989: 189). A very helpful detailed description of such a scheme from the point of view of the benefactor can be found in one of the letters of Pliny (Ep. vii 18). In this letter, which is addressed to Caninius Rufus, the author gives advice regarding the best way to manage the sum of money that his friend had bequeathed to the inhabitants of Comum. After rejecting a couple of possible courses of action as potentially ineffective—​which probably suggests that they had been tried by other affluent benefactors who carried out similar acts of euergetism—​he suggests something that he states he has done himself, namely that Caninius should set up a maintenance grant for children, by binding some of his land in a rental scheme, which would ensure a steady income for the beneficiaries (Sherwin-​White 1998: 422–​424). The claim that these sorts of schemes started with Nerva comes from Aurelius Victor (Epit. de Caes. 12, 4), where he briefly enumerates the emperor’s efforts to lighten the financial burdens of cities, including the procurement of public expenses to feed children in need in the towns of Italy (for a discussion on the meaning of “need” here, see Purcell 2007: 434). Trajan extended the practice in Italy and Hadrian further carried it out in the provinces (Rawson 2001: 36). According to the Historia Augusta (Hadrian 7.8), Hadrian in general increased the amounts of the alimentary programmes for boys and girls established by Trajan, and much of Hadrian’s legislation can be interpreted as an active attempt to benefit children and families (see Rawson 2001: 34–​35). Several Italian towns are known to have been in receipt of such gifts, either from inscriptions that mention the fact or because we find there the sort of magistrates who were responsible for the administration of alimentary schemes (see Duncan-​Jones 1982, appendix II, 340 for a list). In fact there must have been many more. From studying the documented cases it follows that the alimentary schemes, when they were not an outright gift, depended on a quite sophisticated system of loans made to landowners, the interest of which financed the scheme (Duncan-​Jones 1982, 290): a feature associated with the suggestion that Pliny made to Caninius in the letter mentioned above. The most detailed texts we have concerning the practice in Imperial Italy are the bronze inscriptions from Veleia and Ligures Baebiani dated to the reign of Trajan (CIL ix 1455 and xi 1147). From the inscriptions it is evident that the alimentary programme in these two areas took the form of loans given to large landowners, who in turn undertook to issue the appropriate amount to the beneficiaries. The origins, purpose and exact workings of the system of the alimenta has been much debated. (For the main discussions see Bourne 1960; Duncan-​Jones 1964; Garnsey 1968; Lo Cascio 1978; Champlin 1981; Duncan-​Jones 1982: ch. 7; Woolf 1990; Criniti 1991; Grainger 2003: ch. 5.) The data we have comprise the value of the land they have declared, as well as the sum they received from the state. The bronze inscription from Veleia is the better preserved of the two and of slightly later date, and preserves the number of children-​ beneficiaries in the town, which was 300. The one from Ligures Baebiani does not preserve this information, but it is evident that the land-​holdings involved were overall smaller and that the system was less advanced than the one in Veleia. In contrast to the two best documented Italian cases, in Antinoopolis there is no indication that a numerus clausus, or maximum number of admissible entrants, was in place, beyond the prerequisite of Antinoite status and timely registration thereof. Thus the evidence suggests that at least in the first couple of generations of Antinoites, all their children were potentially eligible to partake in the alimentary scheme. Based on Pliny’s assertion in his Panegyricus (28.5) that by effective implementation and addition to the alimentary scheme Trajan managed to increase the population of Italy, it has been 263

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proposed that the main purpose of the alimentary scheme in Veleia was to boost the birth rate (Duncan-​Jones 1964: 127). It is doubtful, however, to what extent we should take this claim at face value here, given the nature of the text, which is mostly meant to praise excessively the emperor’s achievements. The theme of Trajan’s positive demographic impact on his subjects is prevalent in other parts of the text, so it is rather more likely that it is emphasized here for the same laudatory purpose (Roche 2011: 56–​57). The earlier secondary literature concerning this phenomenon emphasized the link between the alimentary programmes and poverty (see e.g. Bourne 1960). This view has been heavily disputed more recently, mostly as an interpretation offered by later Christian writers who judged by their own times, and according to the notion of charity, which was inherent in their doctrines, but not in imperial ideology (see e.g. Woolf 1990: 204–​207). The chance to offer cheap loans to landowners must have been of at least equal importance, given that both Nerva and Trajan expressed an acute interest in boosting agriculture in Italy (Duncan-​Jones 1964: 127). But in the cases of Veleia and Ligures Baebiani, it may well be the case that the permanent loan to landowners involved in the alimentary schemes was more of an onus than a benefit, as seems to be the case in a letter of Pliny to Trajan (Ep. X 54–​55), where he points out that the current interest charged on such loans was too high, and might have to be lowered in order to make an investment of this sort more inviting, unless the emperor saw it fit to make it compulsory. Trajan, this being Pliny’s portrayal of him, is of course shown to choose the first option in his reply. But apart from this letter, there is no other indication of an effort to accommodate the interests of the investors in such transactions. It would seem more likely that in fact the alimentary loans may have been given on a compulsory basis, while evidence is not conclusive as to whether they would have been provided at a rate that the landowners would favour anyway, or if they might have found cheaper loans but were obliged to take these ones (Duncan-​Jones 1982: 298). Besides, even if the scheme was meant as a subsidy, it is clear that the system was not affected in a “humanitarian” way that would suggest aid be directed towards the smaller landowners: on the contrary, small landowners were not eligible to receive the loans (Duncan-​Jones 1982: 297). In any case it is plausible that at the rate the loan was offered it would have neither caused serious damage, nor have been of serious benefit to the landowners. It is quite telling, however, that all the inscriptions dedicated to the benefactors are set up by the recipients of the alimentary handouts, not the landowners that participated in the loan schemes (Woolf 1990: 199–​200). Outside Italy, it seems that the first emperor to bring the alimentation schemes to the East was Hadrian—​Antinoopolis and Athens being the only cases in the provinces—​while from the later 2nd century several inscriptions mark similar schemes funded also by wealthy private individuals (Jones 1989: 189; if Jones’ restoration of the inscription from Attaleia is right, then we have a very close parallel). The papyrological evidence concerning Antinoopolis, as mentioned before, is quite clear regarding the identity of the beneficiaries and their parents’ obligations, but reveals nothing regarding the source of the funds required for the scheme. The system followed in Athens is quite similar to the loans and interest system attested in Veleia and Ligures Baebiani, according to the inscription found in the Athenian agora (IG II–​III2 2776; Day 1973: 221–​ 235). But no such inscription has been found in Antinoopolis and the papyri that mention the scheme only refer to “funds granted by [Hadrian]” and “other revenues”, without giving away anything more specific. I  would hazard the suggestion that if a system based on loans was also in place in Antinoopolis, and if it was as extensive as the two Italian inscriptions suggest, we would expect some indication of it in the papyri, given that Antinoopolis is relatively well documented papyrologically. Furthermore, the implementation of such an intricate loan scheme, which depended largely on the availability and sound administration of cultivable 264

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land in the city’s territory, seems unlikely at least in the first few years of the city’s foundation. The papyrological evidence suggests that the territorial setup of Antinoopolis had not been very clearly established from the start, and was only formed gradually through the acquisition of lands formerly belonging to the neighbouring city of Hermopolis (Malouta 2012: 466–​467), so it would seem unlikely that there could be, from the outset, a fixed landholding configuration upon which one might base such an elaborate scheme. Similarly, we do not know what the age limit was for the receipt of the alimentation scheme in Antinoopolis. Presumably, as it was expressly meant for children, it ceased once the beneficiary was no longer a child in legal terms. So it would seem most plausible to assume that it followed the principle of 14 years, at which age people were legally considered adults and liable to pay the poll tax (notwithstanding that Antinoites were in fact exempted from the poll tax). In the case of the aforementioned Philantinoos alias Isidoros, the last document in the small archive discussed above, by means of which he was registered as ephebe, must also have marked the end of his eligibility to receive the alimentary handout. In Italy there was a differentiation in the age limits for boys and girls, traditionally based on the perceived ages of sexual maturity, but it is impossible to know whether this was the case in Antinoopolis (Laes 2011: 278–​280). Regarding the start of the eligibility period, presumably it started from birth, hence the 30-​ day curfew to register children to the programme. It has been suggested that “eligibility dated from the time of the declaration” (Corbier 2001: 65) and though obviously participation in the scheme expressly depended on a timely declaration, I do not think there is enough evidence to suggest this. In fact, if one were to draw a conclusion from the existing evidence—​a rather risky attempt one must admit, given that we only have the two papyri—​it would seem that parents, while keeping to the 30-​day rule, were in no hurry to register their children, as one is registered at 20 days and the other at 25. In conclusion, while the case of Antinoopolis, at least based on the evidence found so far, does not seem to match exactly either the rest of the Egyptian alimentation programmes or the Italian examples, there are some common features, which, I believe, underline the main reasons behind their establishment. For one, it would seem that the emperor in these alimentary programmes diverges from his usual state identity to work almost under the guise of a private initiative. In the case of Hadrian this certainly seems to be so on the basis of the surviving evidence. Athens after all had been on the receiving end of considerable attention on the part of Hadrian, while Antinoopolis was his own creation, and a most strategic one in terms of effectuating his political agenda on many levels. So like many of the Italian alimentary funds, that of Antinoopolis might best be seen as the imperial version of personal patronage. In agreement with Woolf (1990: 210–​211), I avoid the term “government alimentary schemes”, often used in the secondary literature, because I  concur with the view that the alimentary programmes were more in line with personal patronage, albeit on behalf of the emperor himself, than with administrative processes. It may be quite telling that similarly to the Roman inscriptions recording municipal patronage, which document the names of other magistrates who played a role in the implementation of an act of patronage, the text of the two papyri also mentions the name of the praefect of Egypt. In this way the sense of gratitude involved in patronage is also extended to him. Besides, in the case of Antinoopolis Hadrian may well have also had an extra reason to add the alimentary programme to his provision of privileges for the citizens of his new foundation: alimentary programmes were typically used in honouring members of the imperial family, both alive and dead (see e.g. SHA Alex. Sev. 57.4–​7). So this may have been yet another attempt to insinuate Antinous into the pantheon of the imperial family—​though admittedly a subtler attempt compared to the boy’s deification and extensive dissemination of his portraiture. 265

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In most of the abovementioned cases of alimentary funds for children, and certainly in the one recorded in Antinoopolis, children are clearly being used as instruments of policy, their welfare being only the ostensible aim behind the funds’ implementation. Still, it would make sense to wonder if through studying the evidence concerning the funds we could learn anything more regarding the daily lives of those children, or if at least we could discern what effect, if any, these policies may have had on them. Focusing on the case of Antinoopolis, I think it is clear that the nature and paucity of the evidence makes it difficult to draw either qualitative or quantitative conclusions about the impact of the alimentary schemes on children’s lives. But, given the form of most of these funds, it would be plausible to suggest that the funds themselves would not have had a profound effect on their lives, seeing as they were an added bonus to an already privileged position. I hope it is clear from all the cases presented here that these imperial funds have nothing to do with charity. The earliest Hermopolite documents are not so much an exception as an altogether different operation, also involving grain distribution but for specific reasons—​ unforeseen shortage of wheat—​and, possibly, to various elements of the population according to need. In every other case, participation in the scheme depended on status, usually high status. Thus inclusion in a group that received alimentation from the emperor was yet another method of status differentiation within Roman society, as it symbolized acceptance through patronage and placed one within the hierarchical order that defined it (Woolf 1990: 215, 202). If indeed the point was to extend to parts of Italy the privilege of frumentatio (grain dole) that was already functioning in Rome (Woolf 1990: 211), then it only takes this practice one step further to apply it to selected parts of the provinces, within the same rationale of urban patronage. Consequently, it would seem that the case of Antinoopolis, rather than being treated in isolation as unique, might in fact be rather telling regarding the rationale of Roman alimentary schemes as a whole. It forms part of a tight network of similar acts of patronage, placed squarely within the sphere of Roman urban ideology and strict social hierarchies. In addition, the fact that the alimentary handouts were directed at children may have functioned as a rather literal reminder of the emperor’s role as pater patriae, an aspect of the programme that was especially emphasized in the relevant coinage (Rawson 2001: 23–​24 and 26–​33), as well as in inscriptions, such as those that celebrate Trajan’s munificence to the youth of Italy (see e.g. CIL IX 5825 from Auximum). All in all, it seems that Hadrian, in his effort to create a very strictly Greek polis, used quite Roman means indeed.

Note 1 An earlier version of this chapter was presented at the conference “Aspects of Family Law in the Ancient World: A Cross-​cultural Perspective”, organized by University College London, April 2015.

References Bell, H.I. 1933. Diplomata Antinoitica. Aegyptus 13: 514–​528. Bourne, F.C. 1960. The Roman alimentary program and Italian agriculture. TAPhA 91: 47–​75. Champlin, E. 1981. Owners and neighbours at Ligures Baebiani. Chiron 11: 239–​264. Corbier, M. 2001. Child exposure and abandonment. In:  S. Dixon (ed.), Childhood, class and kin in the Roman world. London: Routledge, 52–​73. Criniti, N. 1991. La Tabula Alimentaria di Veleia. Parma:  Deputazione di Storia Patria per le Province Parmensi. Day, J. 1973. An economic history of Athens under Roman domination. New York: Arno Press. Duncan-​Jones, R. 1964. The purpose and organisation of the Alimenta. PBSR 32: 123–​146. Duncan-​Jones, R. 1982. The economy of the Roman Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Children in Hadrian’s Egypt Garnsey, P. 1968. Trajan’s Alimenta: some problems. Historia 17: 367–​381. Garnsey, P. 1988. Famine and food supply in the Graeco-​Roman world: Responses to risk and crisis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Grainger, J.D. 2003. Nerva and the Roman succession crisis of AD 96–​99. London: Routledge. Jones, C.P. 1989. Eastern alimenta and the inscription of Attaleia. The JHS 109: 189–​191. Jördens, A. 2012. Status and citizenship. In:  C. Riggs (ed.), The Oxford handbook of Roman Egypt. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 247–​259. Kraut, B.H. 1984. Seven Heidelberg papyri concerning the office of the Exegetes. ZPE 55: 167–​190. Laes, C. 2011. Children in the Roman Empire: Outsiders within. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lo Cascio, E. 1978. Gli Alimenta: l’agricoltura Italica e l’approvvigionamento di Roma: Rendiconti della Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, classe di scienze morali, storiche e filologiche 33: 311–​351. Malouta, M. 2012. Antinoopolis and Hermopolis: A tale of two cities. In: P. Schubert (ed.), Actes du 26e Congrès international de Papyrologie, Genève 16–​20 aout 2010. Geneva: Librairie Droz, 465–​469. Nelson, C.A. 1979. Status declarations in Roman Egypt. Amsterdam: Hakkert. Nicols, J. 2014. Civic patronage in the Roman Empire. Leiden: Brill. Pintaudi, R. 1983. Diplomata Antinoitica:  I certificati di Φιλαντίνοος ὁ καὶ Ἰσίδωρος. Aegyptus 63(1/​ 2): 105–​110. Purcell, N. 2007. Rome and Italy. In: A.K. Bowman, P. Garnsey and D. Rathbone (eds), Cambridge ancient history (2nd edition), Vol. XI: The High Empire, AD 70–​192. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 405–​443. Rawson, B. 2001. Children as cultural symbols: Imperial ideology in the second century. In: S. Dixon (ed.), Childhood, class and kin in the Roman world. London: Routledge, 21–​42. Roche, P. 2011. The Panegyricus and the monuments of Rome. In:  P. Roche (ed.), Pliny’s praise:  The Panegyricus in the Roman world. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 45–​66. Sanchez-​Moreno Ellart, C. 2010. ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως: The Greco-​Egyptian birth returns in Roman Egypt and the case of P. Petaus 1–​2. ArchPF 56: 91–​129. Schubert, P. 1990. Les Archives de Marcus Lucretius Diogenes et textes apparentés. Bonn: Rudolf Habelt. Schubert, P. 1997. Antinoopolis: Pragmatisme ou passion? Chron. D’É 72(143): 119–​127. Sherwin-​White, A.N. 1998. The letters of Pliny:  A historical and social commentary. Oxford:  Oxford University Press. Woolf, G. 1990. Food, poverty and patronage: The significance of the epigraphy of the Roman alimentary schemes in early imperial Italy. PBSR 58: 197–​228. Zahrnt, M. 1988. Antinoopolis in Ägypten. Die hadrianische Gründung und ihre Privilegien in der neueren Forschung. ANRW II 10(1): 669–​706. Zuiderhoek, A. 2009. The politics of munificence in the Roman Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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19 DAILY LIFE OF CHILDREN IN LATE ANTIQUITY Play, work and vulnerability Ville Vuolanto

Introduction What was it like to be a child in the Greco-​Roman cultural sphere in Late Antiquity (here: c. 250 to 600 CE)? Children engaged with their physical and social environments, formed their identity and negotiated their place in the world through their interaction in the contexts of play, work, education, religion, household and the local community. This setting is scrutinised here from the perspective of the children themselves, with the aim of demonstrating that it is not possible to find one, single, shared experience of childhood: that is, the way of being a child in the late Roman world. Instead, children became acculturated to the roles proper for them according to their social status, gender and family situation. Childhood was often cut short by death, of children themselves or of their parents, and among the common people children’s lot was to contribute to the family economy early on in their life. Still, while children’s own culture is difficult to capture, children’s everyday life, especially how they passed their free time, was not fully predetermined by adult expectations. Studies of modern childhood until the early 1990s concentrated on socialisation, but now the perspective has shifted to agency-​based theories: the claim is made that children have an active role in their growing and learning processes, transforming and renewing the cultural heritage they were born into.Thus, childhood and children’s culture are worthy of study in their own right, not merely because children will become adults some day (Honig 2009; Vuolanto 2017: esp. 11–​14). Scholars of the Roman and Late Antique world have shown increasing interest in the issue of the agency of children and the experience of childhood. Attempts have been made to consider the children’s perspective, to ask what children actually did in their everyday life, how they experienced their physical and social environments, and what children’s culture was like (Vuolanto 2014; Laes and Vuolanto 2017).What has proved to be very important for the study of ancient children is the growing awareness of the variation in the lives of children –​due to gender, age, birth order, health, differences in socio-​economic status and family structures, and variations in religious beliefs and practices, and regional and ethnic circumstances. Culturally, childhood ended with marriage and puberty, which commonly took place some years later than the legal lower limits for marriage:  12 for girls, and 14 for boys (Laes and 268

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Strubbe 2014: 50–​60). For women, or girls, marriage took place most often in their late teens, among the elites some years earlier in their early teens, and in the eastern Mediterranean even before that age. The first pregnancy would definitively mark the end of childhood. Males usually married some five to ten years later than females, but among the elites the variation was wider, from the early teens to the early 30s. Some, however, now remained unmarried, something unheard-​of in the earlier Roman world (Laiou 1993: 167–​172;Vuolanto 2015a: 96–​101). Although there are more sources from Late Antiquity depicting children’s everyday lives than from probably any earlier phase of history, this information  –​except for the archaeological material –​is transmitted via older, elite men who used narratives of children, and the possible recollection of their own childhoods, to propagate their own agendas. Moreover, in elite ideology children (especially sons) were needed most of all in order to continue the line, the honour and renown of their parents, ancestors and the family more generally (Vuolanto 2015a: 34–​40). Thus, there were inevitably differences between the ideological elite views on childhood, more down-​to-​earth attitudes, and any actual childhood experiences. The discussion below does not seek to find one common and shared daily life of children in general, but attempts to bring forth the differing ideals, attitudes and experiences at various levels of discourse and social life.

Birth, religion and early life It would be impossible to separate religious practices from the everyday life of the Late Antique child. Prayers and various rituals to safeguard children surrounded their lives from the moment of their birth onwards, both in non-​Christian and in Christian traditions (Rawson 2003: 108–​ 110; Horn 2016: 301–​302). If the child was sick, it was first and foremost necessary to pray to gods –​or saints among the Christians –​for help and recovery. Among the traditional, religious help was sought from the local diviners or at a temple of Aesculapius/​Asclepius; Christians would travel to the shrines of the local saints. From such a pilgrimage, it was usual to bring back eulogia (‘blessings’), that is, private relics and objects, like ampullae with blessed water, to protect children from danger and to keep them in good health (Bowes 2005: 196–​199; Trout 2005: 178). For example, Theodoret of Cyrrhus recounts how he was cured as a child when he wore a belt given to his mother by Peter the Hermit (Theod. Cyrrh. Hist. relig. 9.15). Amulets, cross pendants and specific rituals were used to protect children from disease and demons in early Christian contexts. Decorations in children’s clothes or their toys could also have apotropaic functions. Some stroked the foreheads of their children with mud to protect them against evil spirits, some washed their children ‘in polluted water and water from the arena’ or bound Gospel verses onto the necks of children (Ps.-​Athan. Virg. 95; John Chrys. De statuis 19.14; Holman 2015; Harlow 2017). Baptism as such was regarded as a most powerful remedy for any kind of illness. Nevertheless, even the most devout of Christian families in Late Antiquity would postpone the baptism of a child if there was no immediate threat of death (Bakke 2005: 230–​246). Gregory Nazianzen, himself of a Christian family and baptised as an adult, complained that parents would use amulets and incantations instead of baptism as a ‘medicine of exorcism’. He writes, however, that if there were no particular threats to a child’s health, the best time for baptism would be at the age of three (Greg. Naz. Or. 40, 7 and 27). In the early Byzantine world parents were expected to baptise their children on their 40th day of life, but if there was a risk of death this was to take place already on the eighth day. This represents a continuation of the older traditions, since in Roman culture purification (lustratio) and naming took place on the eighth day (for boys, on the ninth), while in the Jewish tradition boys were circumcised and named when they were eight 269

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days old, though girls were named immediately after birth (Congourdeau 1993;  Yarbrough 1993; Rawson 2003: 109–​111). In the Christian tradition, the local practices of name-​g iving continued throughout Late Antiquity. Even Tertullian, who otherwise was critical about the dangers of syncretism between Christianity and the dominant polytheistic culture(s), accepted the use of the traditional name-​ giving practices (Tert. De idol. 16.1–​2). Thus, most children, regardless of their religious affiliation, would have been given their names on their eighth or ninth day. There were local rituals to ascertain the right name: John Chrysostom refers to the Antiochian practice of lighting lamps in the table, naming them and then giving the name of the longest burning lamp to the child. Chrysostom urged parents to forget these customs and name their children after saints (John Chrys. Hom. on 1. Cor. 12, 13). This clearly was not a standard practice at that time, as children were usually named after their older relatives. Names were used to honour deceased and sometimes living relatives, highlighting the role of the child as a member of a certain family unit and the continuity of the lineage.Thus, for example, the four sons of Ruricius, bishop of Limoges at the end of the fifth century, were named after their maternal grandfather, maternal grand-​uncle, paternal uncle and paternal grandfather (Mathisen 1999:  23–​24). A  man who died childless would have his name and memory uprooted from the world, and face oblivion. Indeed, through the commemoration and continuation of the name, it was possible to gain personal continuity, and even a kind of immortality (Vuolanto 2015a: 186–​203). Augustine crystallises this mentality, encapsulating the significance of children in the pre-​modern world: ‘Happy are those who leave behind children to succeed them and take over their possessions. He has had children, he is not dead’ (August. Enarr. Ps. 48, 1.14). All these examples reflect the worries of the parents in a world with extremely high mortality. The time immediately after the child’s birth, and its first years, were periods when the infant was at high risk. The mother’s bad health, careless treatment of the child by nurses or, most commonly, various diseases from common infections to the results of drinking polluted water, caused between one-​fifth and one-​third of children to die during their first five years (Pilkington 2013: 33–​35; Horn 2016: 301 with further references). In name-​g iving, and through baptism, a child became a member of a community, kinship group and family. Although the children’s agency would naturally not be central here, these acts formed a threshold: in crossing it, the child was given the basic constituents for his or her processes of identity formation and socialisation. Since naming was seen as an important turning point in the individual’s social birth (Laes 2014), it was possible to abandon, sell or give away a child only before that. Abandoned (or sold) children did not need to disappear from the lives of their parents; abandonment in particular was often ‘a neighbourhood phenomenon’, with children being picked up by other community members. Infanticide too occurred, but to a much lesser extent than abandonment. In Late Antiquity, and with the rise of Christianity, attitudes against these practices hardened, although it is impossible to say if there was any actual change in everyday behaviour. In any case, these phenomena certainly did not disappear during Late Antiquity (Vuolanto 2003;Vuolanto 2011; Evans Grubbs 2013).

Education and household relationships Fathers were in charge of organising the upbringing of their children and selecting their paedagogi and teachers, while everyday care was seen as the task of mothers, other female relatives and the slaves of the household. Among the elites, formal education was to begin after the sons reached their seventh year. As John Chrysostom claimed (Inani glor. 18), every man would 270

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take the greatest pains to train his son in the arts and literature and speech. Indeed, various anecdotes indicate the strong commitment of fathers in directing the future of their children. For example, Synesius, bishop of Cyrene, personally took care of his son’s elementary education, while Symmachus, a Roman senator, claimed to have started to learn Greek together with his son (Synes. Cyr. Dio. 4; Symm. Epist. 3.20). The need for parental support in learning was well understood by the late Roman writers, even if it cannot be ascertained whether it was always available in daily life (Jer. Ep. 128.1 and 107.4; Sid. Apoll. Epist. 4.12.1-​2). The direct involvement of elite fathers, however, seems to have been an exception, and more often children were entrusted to the care of professional educators and teachers to be educated (Salzman 2002: 158–​ 159; see e.g. Paul. Pell. Euch. 68–​80). Sometimes the relationships with these home educators continued well after their formal duties had ended; Gregory Nazianzen, for example, relates that his paedagogus (childhood tutor) followed him to Athens when he commenced his studies there in his late teens (Anth. Pal. 8.142–​146). Education was a serious part of elite formation and identity, and discipline was hard. Punishment, and especially the continuous fear of violence in schooling, is a pervasive element in the autobiographical texts of Late Antiquity, and often the only point worth mentioning about the years of schooling. Even Jerome, whose childhood ‘memoirs’ cover only a few sentences, manages to sketch a picture of a child who seeks refuge on his grandmother’s lap in order to escape the beating of a schoolmaster (Jer. Apol. c. Ruf. 1.30; Laes 2005: 80–​83;Vuolanto 2013: 52). Violence and child maltreatment were also features in other educational environments: there is, for example, a story about a novice in a monastery who is kicked in the head by a master, and a shoemaker who knocked out his apprentice’s eye (Apoph. patr. Gelasius 3 and Dig. 9.2.5.3, with Graumann 2017: 271 and n. 43). These pedagogical approaches were not suited to assist children in learning. Augustine, for example, remembers his problems in learning Greek while fearing the blows of his teacher. In his case, however, the will to learn was not extinguished (August. Conf. 1.14). Even more generally after all, most probably over 10 per cent of the late Roman population was able to read (Haines-​Eitzen 2009: 247–​250). There is also a singular story about the problems and joys of learning from the pen of the mid-​sixth-​century ascetic and writer, Dorotheus of Gaza. Many will probably recognise here the symptoms of a bookworm: When towards the end of my childhood I was learning to read, at the beginning I used to wear myself out by working at it too hard and when I went to take up a book I was like someone going up to stroke a wild animal. As I persevered in forcing myself to go on, however, God came to my assistance and I became so engrossed in reading that I did not know what I was eating or drinking, or how I slept. Doroth. Gaza Didasc. 10.2. (trans.Wheeler 1977) Fathers were in charge of the initiation of elite sons into city life, business meetings and litigation in the forum and bathing. Children, at least boys, attended various theatrical and gladiatorial spectacles, initially with their parents and attendants, and later on with their own friends. The presence of children at various fighting shows was a quotidian occurrence in late fourth-​ century Cappadocia (Bas. Epist. 66; Synes. Cyr. Dio. 4; August. Conf. 1.19 and 2.3; Dionisotti 1982: 102–​105). Similarly, hunting and the acquisition of elementary military skills were part of the social abilities required of elite youth. When doctors told the aristocratic teenager Paulinus of Pella to study less, he started to hunt with his father –​an arrangement which also suited his father well. Paulinus seems to have cultivated a close relationship with his father, whom he later commemorated warmly (Paul. Pell. Euch. 121–​53; see also e.g. Avitus Epist. 95). 271

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These kinds of stories about close relationships between fathers and children were, however, in the minority. Much more often the relationship was remembered as distant, or even as coloured by fearfulness. Although John Chrysostom urged fathers that their sons should ‘rather at all times fear blows but not receive them’ (Inani glor. 30), fathers were described as authoritative, using both corporal punishments and other measures to keep their children at bay, such as not allowing the child to leave the house nor to sit at the dinner table (Shaw 1987: 17–​26; Laes 2005:  81). Augustine’s father is a good example of this tendency (August. Conf. 3.4.7, 9.9.19), while Gregory Nazianzen depicts his father as ‘tyrannising’ him (Greg. Naz. Or. 7, 9). Only the father’s death seems to have given more freedom for the sons (Vuolanto 2013: 68). The authoritative but caring family father is strongly present in the depictions of actual family circumstances, but certainly not all children remembered their father’s behaviour in retrospect as having been benevolent or loving (Joye 2012: 238–​239). Many children in Late Antiquity lost their fathers when quite young, and the list of widows who took care on their own of the upbringing and education of their children is long (Vuolanto 2015a: 121–​123). In Late Antiquity, starting at least from the early fourth century if not earlier, widowed mothers were also legally permitted to take the guardianship of their children, although they were obliged to ask for a (male) guardian for them if they remarried (Vuolanto 2002: 214–​ 218).Thus, simultaneously as remaining a widow became culturally more and more appreciated because of the rise of ascetic forms of Christianity, the influence of mothers over their children was more and more acknowledged (Vuolanto 2013: 59–​63). Monnica’s relationship with her son Augustine is again a good example, culminating in the marriage she arranged for him when he was more than 30 years old (August. Conf. 6.15.25). Similarly, John Chrysostom, Theodoret of Cyrrhus and the Cappadocian Fathers all depict their mothers taking care of both their religious and secular education (John Chrys. De sac. 1.5; Bas. Epist. 204.6, 210.1, 223.3; Greg. Naz. Carm. 2.1.118-​122, 424–​454; Theod. Cyrrh. Hist. relig. 9.9, 10, 15). Libanius highlighted his mother’s love and role in his education by referring to her principles in upbringing: ‘A loving mother should never sadden her children in any way’ (Lib. Or. 1, 27;Vuolanto 2013: 59–​63). In the texts of the autobiographical writers of Late Antiquity, references abound to storytelling, and especially stories concerning the family heritage. Libanius, for example, relates that his great-​g randfather had a vision about the violent death of his sons, and Augustine had heard stories about the childhood of his mother and her father, some narrated by his mother’s old nurse (Lib. Or. 1.2; August. Conf. 9.8.17). Theodoret of Cyrrhus refers to stories he had heard (mainly from his mother) during his childhood and youth about his mother’s youth, about the miraculous events surrounding his own birth and about the interventions of the nearby hermits in the lives of various household members (Theod. Cyrrh. Hist. relig. 9.9, 10, 14 and 13.16–​17). On the other hand, ecclesiastical writers were afraid that the wrong types of stories, related both to traditional Roman culture with classical myths, and to the fairy world of ghosts, talking animals and witches, would not only not stop children crying, but would also familiarise them with the wrong types of images and values. Parents were to tell pleasant biblical and family tales to children personally, in the midst of their daily tasks (Horn 2005: 111–​112). Even if the reason for writing these stories down was linked to the need to create credibility by reference to family heritage, and to find arguments and exempla about situations not covered by historical anecdotes, it is evident that children lived in an environment rich in stories, both historical and imaginary.These socialised them to certain cultural and religious values, and to their own family background (Vuolanto 2013: 66–​69). One consequence of high mortality was that children often lacked a mother or father. It can be surmised that all children encountered death and frequently lost close significant others in their near environment during their early years –​adults, siblings and friends. Death could 272

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also affect children through family storytelling and through biblical stories. Of particular relevance here was the story and the liturgical celebration of the feast of the death of the children of Bethlehem. Both the lived experience and the stories heard could have created emotionally stressing situations for the children (Horn 2016: 301–​304). In numerous cases, grandparents, uncles and aunts took care of the practical, legal and emotional needs of fatherless and motherless children and brought them up. Libanius’ mother carefully listened to the opinions of her brothers (his uncles: Lib. Or. 1, 2 and 13), and in the case of Ausonius, although he was not orphaned, both his grandmother and his uncles and aunts had a decisive significance in his childhood and student years –​and also at the emotional level (Auson. Parent. 3.8–​10; 3.19; 5.9–​10; 6.12, 25.9-​10). In particular, the paternal uncle is sometimes presented as an authoritative, even frightening figure, whose duties included holding his nephews in check, or ‘taming’ them, as Augustine points out (Serm. 302.21.19). In practice, however, there seems not to have been any systematic difference between the roles of maternal and paternal relatives in their young relatives’ lives. Demographic realities limited the number of people who were available, and emotional and economic factors played their part in the choice of emergency guardians (Pudsey and Vuolanto 2017). For many children, sibling relations must have been significant. These, however, have left little trace in the available sources; it was a literary convention that siblings in particular –​and more generally, relatives who were still alive –​were to be written about only very sparingly (Vuolanto 2013: 64–​65). Nevertheless, the flourishing of metaphors for brotherhood and sisterhood to denote nearness, belonging and trust in Late Antiquity points to the importance of these relationships (Vuolanto 2015a: 69–​80), one result of which can also be seen in the significance of uncles and aunts in the lives of their young relatives. In their earliest childhood, children were taken care of by their mother, or, among the wealthier people, by wet-​nurses. Nurses were constant companions for elite children by night and by day, and their influence on girls could continue well beyond childhood (Bradley 1994; Joye 2012: 233–​234). Other slaves and servants would also have played significant roles in the lives of their owners’ children. When John Chrysostom was giving an example of what kind of stories to tell to children, he took up the story about Esau and Jacob. When Jacob fled to the desert ‘alone’, he pointed out that ‘he had no one with him, no slave or nurse or tutor or anyone else’ (John Chrys. Inani glor. 46). The word ‘alone’ would convey the sense that there were no family members, but it was still necessary in his explanation specifically to exclude other household members. Indeed, since children’s contacts with other people were strictly controlled among the elites, the most significant companions for children were often their caretakers and age peers among the household staff. Paulinus of Pella, for example, learned Greek while playing with the slaves of his home, and Monnica thanked the old servant of her parents’ household for the upbringing she had had, and for the stories about the childhood of Monnica’s father (Paul. Pell. Euch. 75–​78; August. Conf. 9.8.17-​18). In particular, the girls of the elite had very little freedom, and their sphere of living was limited to the household. John Chrysostom gives the everyday experience of an elite father watching over his daughter as a reference in his discussion on virgins. As a rule, if the daughter goes out, it is only at dusk (not in the daytime, not at night), and she is never in the presence of men. Social life was to be minimal, and even going to church was carefully regulated. In this guardianship, the father was helped by the daughter’s mother, nurse and maids. More generally, children were constantly accompanied by servants and slaves, both at home and outside of it (John Chrys. De sac. 3.17; Berger 1999: 47–​50;Vuolanto 2013; Laes and Strubbe 2014: 209–​213). In general, it was marriage  –​and sex  –​which functioned as the rite of passage to the adult life within a new household for girls across the Roman world. Roman girls were ideally 273

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virgins at marriage. Sexual integrity was at the centre of female virtue and, already in the pre-​Christian context, women were expected to stay at home, and be modest (pudica) and chaste (casta): this ideology did not change in Late Antiquity (Harper 2013: 37–​42; Wilkinson 2015: 58–​59). Young men, in turn, were expected to be introduced both to public life and to sexual experiences well before their marriage, and even when an unmarried lifestyle became an option in Late Antiquity, this did not mean that those men opting for this were sexually inexperienced, as for example the lives of Libanius or Augustine show (Harper 2013: 52–​65). There is little information concerning any open conflicts between children and parents. If disagreements arose, they were to be solved out of sight: in a culture much preoccupied with the issues of honour and shame, domestic conflicts should not become public matters (Hatlin 2014: 75–​97; Vuolanto 2015a: 126–​127). On some occasions, however, it was not possible to conceal the loss of the authority of the family head: Augustine (Ep. 35.4) writes about a North African girl who had been re-​baptised by the Donatists against the will of her parents. The father had used blows in order to persuade the girl to return to the Catholic communion. In hagiography, however, the topos of family conflict was pervasive: the claim of piety for Christian saints required that they had fulfilled the requirement on the Gospel of Matthew (12.48) to leave behind the earthly family:  ‘Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?’ (Vuolanto 2015a: 102–​113). Even in the conflict narratives, however, the differing gender expectations can be seen: for example, when Syncletica’s parents were about to marry off their oldest son, he ran away to a monastery, but when they wanted to marry off Syncletica, she was to stay. She was able, however, to postpone the final decision by using different excuses until her parents died; she was then able to commence her ascetic striving (Ps.-​Athan. Vita Syncl.  7–​12).

Work and play Elite children did not need to work in order to earn their living, but it was important to introduce the children into their future roles. A part of Theodoret of Cyrrhus’ upbringing was that he carried food to the hermits on the mountain (Hist. relig. 13.3). Some boys would carry letters to friends and patrons; this both showed honour for the addressee and initiated these children into public life by enabling them to meet new acquaintances (e.g. Bas. Epist. 260.1). It seems that in large households, girls followed their mothers’ example and were given little tasks to introduce them to the working of a house. Thus, for example, when Monnica was a little girl, she was sent to the cellar by her parents to draw wine from the cask, ‘as was the custom’ (August. Conf. 9.8.17-​18). These tasks would also have found their way into play: John Chrysostom tells a story about a little girl imitating her mother in taking care of the household: she had her little treasures in a small case which she locked in a closet, and guarded the key (John Chrys. Virg. 73). Much of a child’s cultural knowledge was acquired not from professional educators, nor even from studying, but from lived experience, storytelling and imitation. Children absorbed the relevant information for their future life (with the proper gender roles) by following their family members and working with them in the household, workshops and fields. This was even more pronounced among the common people, as children were expected to acquire the skills and knowledge needed in their working life primarily from their parents, continuing their family traditions by also inheriting their occupations. There were no vocational schools (Vuolanto 2015b). The late second-​century Infancy Gospel of Thomas presents a six-​year-​old Jesus helping his mother to carry water, but as an eight-​year-​old helping his father sow wheat and assist in the carpenter’s shop (Aasgaard 2009: ch. 11–​13). This story also demonstrates how boys were expected to move away from the sphere of women to that of men later in their childhood. 274

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In the ancient world, work done by children was an everyday phenomenon. Working ensured that children would acquire the skills necessary to support themselves (and their families) later on. Putting a child to work outside the household made it possible for the child to be socialised in their community’s norms, values and expected modes of behaviour in ways not possible inside the households, while also temporarily limiting the size of the family. This is especially true of apprentice contracts that also offered children a better position than other kinds of working agreements. Child work was an important tool in family strategies. Outside the elite, when there was an urgent need of money, there were often no alternatives to the use of children and their work as collateral. For most children, working away from home was the first opportunity to be at least temporarily on their own, away from the surveillance (for good or ill) of their everyday caretakers and guardians (Vuolanto 2015b: esp. 109–​110). Most children worked in the household or in the agricultural context, both in their parents’ fields and as seasonal aids on large estates. Carrying water and fuel, and taking care of the animals, seem to have been tasks suitable for children already well before their tenth birthday. Apprentices were older, often in their early teens, and engaged in different artisan crafts, such as weaving, stonecutting, smithing or barbering (Laes 2011: 189–​216;Vuolanto 2015b: 102–​107). Two cases from the sixth-​century Life of S. Sabas by Cyril of Scythopolis illustrate both the variety of child work and the anecdotal nature of how these occupations come to our knowledge: Sabas himself, when he left home at the age of eight for monastic life, worked in the monastery garden (ch. 3). The Life also mentions a certain Auxentius, an apprentice to a plasterer, who fell from a cliff about 50 feet high, but survived because of the divine intervention of the saint (ch. 82). This case tells also of the dangers present in the lives of young people; a large variety of accidents are recorded in the Roman and Late Antique world. Small children might fall out of upper floor windows, bigger ones drown or be hit by city traffic. Dog, snake and other animal bites seem to have been not uncommon (Leyerle 2013: 563–​564; Graumann 2017: 270–​274). Working had its dangers, too, as there was often no-​one to protect children against overwork, violence, or sexual harassment. This was the case especially if children were working as sureties for their parents’ loans, a rather common fate. Children would work as de facto slaves if the parents were not able to pay back their debts. For example, in Ravenna in the 560s a father had given his daughter Procla to work to repay a debt, but when the father died the daughter was still working. In this situation, her older sister, Martha, managed to free her from the first master, who was overworking the girl. As this manoeuvre, however, required a new debt, Procla, now 15, needed to start working for another man (Vuolanto 2003: 193–​196). More regularly, however, parents handed over their children to work as servants in foreign households or even in monasteries (Cass. Var. 8.33.4; Schroeder 2009: 333–​336). Here too, problems could easily arise, as in case of a Syrian girl who was harassed by her master, an army officer (Theod. Cyrrh. Hist. relig. 9.12). Slavery was a lot that befell many children. They were expected to work for their masters as early as possible, at least from the age of five or six. Legally speaking, there was no such thing as a slave family. This made children very vulnerable to being separated from their parents and friends at any time. Indeed, it is known that slave children sometimes travelled very widely with slave dealers in the Mediterranean area. For example, in Egyptian papyri from Oxyrhynchus there appear slave children who originally came from Mesopotamia and Roman Mauretania (P.Oxy. XLII 3053; P.Oxy. L 3593). In some cases, slavery and being away from home did not mean separation from near relatives. In a late series of documents from the Apion estates, slaves are found as seasonal labourers working as family groups, with boys working with their brothers, fathers and uncles (P. Princ. II 96 r. col I). Tasks given to slave children included shepherding, 275

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cutting the vine, collecting fruits and wood, hay stacking and various crafts like weaving, shoemaking or showbusiness. There were also children who carried out various tasks requiring hard labour, like laundry work or mining. The experience of being a slave child would imply sexual abuse and humiliation. Even if overtly harsh treatment of slave children need not have been the rule, it was at least always a possibility and a cause of fear (Laes 2008). Working from early on cut childhood short. Still, there was time for play, sometimes in the midst of work, as when shepherd boys were playing Eucharist during their meal break (John Mosch. Prat. spir. 196; Leyerle 2013:  562–​563). Children had dolls  –​everything from stick and rag dolls to ivory ‘Barbies’ with moving limbs  –​and toy soldiers and toy horses, chariots, spinning-​tops and hoops. It seems to have been normal that boys and girls played together and often shared the same toys. Games, among rich and poor, included most of all knucklebones, board games and different kinds of ball games. Nuts were regularly used as gaming pieces and were frequently depicted in scenes with children playing and gaming (Horn 2005: 102–​104, 107–​108; Dolansky 2017: 118–​123). Still, in these depictions, girls are often represented as playing quietly together, while it was a common idea that boys would fight with each other. These games came to symbolise childhood in visual representations in the Roman world (Dolansky 2017:  123–​133). Augustine, for example, says that he played various fierce games with his friends; unfortunately, he does not reveal anything about the rules, only that it was possible to circumvent them by cunning (August. Conf. 1.9.15, 1.18.30). In a sermon on fasting, in turn, the anonymous author mentions that children brought games to church, such as marbles, nuts and balls (Caseau 2017: 221). Already babies had crepundia, strings with small toys or charms, and rattles, which were recommended for soothing infants (Horn 2005: 95–​116; Dolansky 2017: 119). Little children could also be carried around on one’s back by their older playmates, or they could enjoy their life playing in the water, ‘joyfully in the manner of a child’ (August. Conf. 9.8.17; Pass. Perp. et Felic. 2.3–​4). Pet animals seem to have been rather common, especially among the wealthier families, although the bulk of the (visual) evidence comes from the earlier Roman Empire (Bradley 1998; Dolansky 2017: 125–​129). In particular, pet puppies –​such as the one depicted with a boy squeezing it in a fifth-​century mosaic from Istanbul (Fig. 19.1) –​and birds seem to have been common. Libanius (Or. 1, 4–​5) mentions rearing doves as his hobby during his childhood. Elite youth could also have horses, hounds and hawks for hunting (Paul. Pell. Euch. 141–​153). Play often took place on streets and backyards, and this is the background to many stories that refer to children’s play. The seventh-​century Life of Symeon the Fool depicts little girls dancing and singing mocking songs in the street (ch. 26). Augustine’s childhood play in the streets of Thagaste is well known, with games, and pilfering and trading of food and little treasures (August. Conf. 1.18.30; 2.8.16). In Late Antiquity, children are often depicted as stealing fruit (apples, figs, and pears) from gardens (De Pach. et Theod. 28; Cyr. Scyth. Vita S. Sabas 3; August. Conf. 2.4–​2.10). No doubt this refers to a phenomenon which actually existed, even if these stories are known because this was a rhetorically suitable way of depicting the ‘good’ protagonist’s fallen nature without more serious charges. Different kinds of role play were common, with the central figure being ‘a general’, ‘a judge’ or ‘a bishop’, depending of the context of play (John Chrys. Hom. in 1. Cor. 1, 3(6); Hist. Aug. Sept. Sev. 1.4; Sozom. Hist. eccl. 2.17). Theodoret of Cyrrhus even describes a play in which ‘a little girl dressed in rags put her friends into stitches of laughter by exorcising them’ (Theod. Cyrrh. Hist. relig. 9.9.13-​16). Sometimes these plays had a bad ending, as when children were playing ‘Goths and Romans’ near Rome in the sixth century, and the boy playing Vitigis died because the other children did not let him loose when they ran away (Proc. Bell. 5.20.1). Children were certainly able to be cruel on purpose: a fifth-​century story refers to a 276

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Figure 19.1  A boy with a puppy. Mosaic detail from the Central Hall of the Great Palace, Istanbul, late fifth/​early sixth century CE Source: Great Palace Mosaic Museum, Istanbul. Photo: Reidar Aasgaard, with permission

child who had fastened a sparrow’s leg with a thread; when the bird tried to fly away, the child would bring it down again (Isaiah Asc., Disc. 8.3). A more serious image is given by Prudentius, depicting a martyr (and a schoolteacher) stabbed to death by his pupils with their styli (Prud. Peristeph. 9).

Conclusion At an early age, children were intimately acculturated to proper practices and culturally valid beliefs by their parents and other family members, as they were carefully integrated into the sphere of the family and the gods/​God. The cases presented above show children who had absorbed values and forms of behaviour from the society around them, both from adult culture and from their own peer culture. Children were able to apply these freely to their own activities, putting into practice what they had learned about social roles and hierarchies, while simultaneously building up their own identities. Since children fulfil adult expectations incompletely and according to their own temperament, in constant interaction both with their peers and with adults, there is always some place for change and even for resistance, despite the social constraints (Vuolanto 2017: 16–​18). Both working and especially playing are forms of socialisation, but they also offer forums for children’s own agency to develop. Children both renew the adult world and create a new one for themselves. Children learned the community’s rules and traditions in constant interaction with a considerable number of people, of both free and servile backgrounds. Parents, siblings and –​in elite families –​household servants formed the most intimate social circle for children. Relationships with mothers are depicted with nearness and affection, whereas fathers were, in general, rather distant and sometimes even frightening figures. Indeed, mothers are depicted as the crucial persons for the intellectual and spiritual development of their sons, contrasting with the ideologically 277

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expected roles reserved for them in the patriarchal late Roman cultural milieu, especially in transferring the cultural values and family traditions from one generation to the next. Among scholars of early Christianity, there has been much interest in the influence which the rise of Christianity may have had on attitudes towards children and on their actual lives (e.g. Bakke 2005; Horn and Martens 2009; Leyerle 2013). Rather than seeing any diachronic change in attitudes and practices, however, it is important to be increasingly open to the inevitable variation in the perceptions of children and their living conditions: geographically, and in terms of gender, social status and health. Unfortunately, it has not been possible here to discuss differences that were due to variation in local cultures, but clearly there were immense differences in the standards of living among children. Similarly, differences in upbringing and social interaction in the case of boys and girls are evident, reflecting the gendered expectations for their societally expected family roles. For most of the population, and especially for girls, there was no intervening time between childhood with play, and adulthood with work and marriage. Only elite males could have enjoyed any freedom of youth (for example, going regularly out with friends) as a separate period of a life course. Individual children’s experiences varied tremendously. For the most, however, childhood was characterised by care, play and roaming around  –​and by vulnerability. Children were vulnerable physically to illnesses, accidents and even abuse; they were also vulnerable psychologically, not least because in Late Antiquity children’s experience of violence was a constant threat, and the death of their nearest kin was always a possibility, and all too often a reality.

References Aasgaard, R. 2009. The childhood of Jesus: Decoding the apocryphal infancy Gospel of Thomas. Eugene: Cascade. Bakke, O.M. 2005. When children became people:  The birth of childhood in early Christianity. Minneapolis: Fortress. Berger, T. 1999. Women’s ways of worship: Gender analysis and liturgical history. Collegeville: The Liturgical Press. Bowes, K. 2005. Personal devotions and private chapels. In:  V. Burrus (ed.), Late ancient Christianity:  A people’s history of Christianity. Minneapolis: Fortress, 188–​210. Bradley, K.R. 1994.The nurse and the child at Rome: Duty, affect and socialisation. Thamyris 1(2): 137–​156. Bradley, K.R. 1998. The sentimental education of the Roman child:  The role of pet-​keeping. Latomus 57: 523–​557. Burrus,V. (ed.) 2005. Late ancient Christianity: A people’s history of Christianity. Minneapolis: Fortress. Caseau, B. 2017. Resistance and agency in the everyday life of Late Antique children (3rd‒8th c. CE). In: C. Laes and V.Vuolanto (eds), Children and everyday life in the Roman and Late Antique world. Oxford: Routledge, 217–​231. Congourdeau, M.-​H. 1993. Regards sur l’enfant nouveau-​né à Byzance. RÉByz 51: 161–​176. Dionisotti, A.C. 1982. From Ausonius’ schooldays? A schoolbook and its relatives. JRS 72(1): 83–​125. Dolansky, F. 2017. Roman girls and boys at play: Realities and representations. In: C. Laes and V.Vuolanto (eds), Children and everyday life in the Roman and Late Antique world. Oxford: Routledge, 116–​136. Evans Grubbs, J. 2013. Infant exposure and infanticide. In: J. Evans Grubbs and T. Parkin (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world. New York: Oxford University Press, 83–​107. Graumann, L.A. 2017. Children’s accidents in the Roman Empire:  The medical eye on 500  years of mishaps in injured children. In: C. Laes and V.Vuolanto (eds), Children and everyday life in the Roman and Late Antique world. Oxford: Routledge, 267–​286. Haines-​Eitzen, K. 2009. Textual communities in Late Antique Christianity. In: P. Rousseau (ed.), A companion to Late Antiquity, Chichester: Wiley-​Blackwell, 246‒257. Harlow, M. 2017. Little tunics for little people: The problems of visualising the wardrobe of the Roman child. In: C. Laes and V. Vuolanto (eds), Children and everyday life in the Roman and Late Antique world. Oxford: Routledge,  43–​59. Harper, K. 2013. From shame to sin: The Christian transformation of sexual morality in Late Antiquity. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Daily life of children in Late Antiquity Hatlin, J.F. 2014. Honour and domestic violence in the late Roman west, c. 300–​600 AD. Trondheim: NTNU. Holman, S.R. 2015. Martyr saints and the demon of infant mortality: Folk healing in Early Christian pediatric medicine. In: C. Laes, K. Mustakallio and V.Vuolanto (eds), Children and family in Late Antiquity: Life, death and interaction. Leuven: Peeters, 235–​255. Honig, M.-​S. 2009. How is the child constituted in childhood studies? In: J. Qvortrup, W.A. Corsaro and M.-​S. Honig, The Palgrave handbook of childhood studies. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 62–​77. Horn, C.B. 2005. Children’s play as social ritual. In: V. Burrus (ed.), Late ancient Christianity: A people’s history of Christianity. Minneapolis: Fortress, 95–​116. Horn, C.B. 2016. Children and the experience of death in Late Antiquity and the Byzantine world. In: C. Laes and V.Vuolanto (eds), Children and everyday life in the Roman and Late Antique world. Oxford: Routledge, 300–​317. Horn, C.B. and Martens, J. 2009. ‘Let the little children come to me’: Childhood and children in early Christianity. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. Joye, S. 2012. Filles et pères à la fin de l’Antiquité et au haut Moyen Âge. Des rapports familiaux à l’épreuve des stratégies. In C. Badel and C. Settipani (eds), Les Stratégies familiales dans l’Antiquité tardive. Paris: de Boccard, 239–​266. Laes, C. 2005. Child beating in Roman antiquity: Some reconsiderations. In K. Mustakallio, J. Hanska, H.-​ L. Sainio and V. Vuolanto (eds), Hoping for continuity: Childhood, education and death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 75–​89. Laes, C. 2008. Child slaves at work in Roman antiquity. Anc. Soc. 38: 235–​283. Laes, C. 2011. Children in the Roman Empire: Outsiders within. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Laes, C. 2014. Infants between biological and social birth in antiquity: A phenomenon for longue durée. Historia 63(3): 364–​383. Laes, C. and Strubbe, J. 2014. Youth in the Roman Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Laes, C. and Vuolanto, V. (eds) 2017. Children and everyday life in the Roman and Late Antique world. Oxford: Routledge. Laiou, A. 1993. Sex, consent and coercion in Byzantium. In: A. Laiou (ed.), Consent and coercion to sex and marriage in Ancient and Medieval societies. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 167–​172. Leyerle, B. 2013. Children and ‘the child’ in early Christianity. In:  J. Evans Grubbs and T. Parkin (eds), The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the classical world. New York: Oxford University Press, 559–​579. Mathisen, R. 1999. Ruricius of Limoges and friends: A collection of letters from Visigothic Aquitania. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Pilkington, N. 2013. Growing up Roman: Infant mortality and reproductive development. JIH 44(1): 1–​35. Pudsey, A. and Vuolanto,V. 2017. Being a niece or nephew in an ancient city: Children’s social environment in Roman Oxyrhynchos. In: C. Laes and V. Vuolanto (eds), Children and everyday life in the Roman and Late Antique world. Oxford: Routledge, 79–​95. Rawson, B. 2003. Children and childhood in Roman Italy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Salzman, M. 2002. The making of a Christian aristocracy:  Social and religious change in the Western Europe. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Schroeder, C. 2009. Children in Early Egyptian Monasticism. In:  C.B. Horn and R.R. Phenix (eds), Children in Late Ancient Christianity. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 317–​338. Shaw, B. 1987. The family in Late Antiquity: The experience of Augustine. P&P 115: 3–​51. Trout, D. 2005. Saints, identity, and the city. In: V. Burrus (ed.), Late ancient Christianity: A people’s history of Christianity. Minneapolis: Fortress, 165–​187. Vuolanto, V. 2002. Women and the property of fatherless children in the Roman Empire. In P. Setälä, R. Berg, R. Hälikkä, M. Keltanen, J. Pölönen and V.Vuolanto, Women, wealth and power in the Roman Empire. Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 203–​244. Vuolanto,V. 2003. Selling a freeborn child: Rhetoric and social realities in the late Roman world. Anc. Soc. 33: 169–​207. Vuolanto, V. 2011. Infant abandonment and the Christianization of Medieval Europe. In: K. Mustakallio and C. Laes (eds), The dark side of childhood in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Oxford: Oxbow, 3–​19. Vuolanto V. 2013. Family relations and the socialisation of children in the autobiographical narratives of Late Antiquity. In:  L. Brubaker and S. Tougher (eds), Approaches to the Byzantine family. Aldershot: Ashgate,  47–​74. Vuolanto,V. 2014. Children in the Roman world: Cultural and social perspectives. A review article. Arctos 48: 435–​450.

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Ville Vuolanto Vuolanto,V. 2015a. Children and asceticism in Late Antiquity. Farnham: Ashgate. Vuolanto, V. 2015b. Children and work:  Family strategies and socialisation in Roman Egypt. In:  K. Mustakallio and J. Hanska (eds), Agents and objects:  Children in premodern Europe. Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 97–​111. Vuolanto, V. 2017. Agency, experience, and the children in the past:  The case of Roman childhood. In:  C. Laes and V. Vuolanto (eds), Children and everyday life in the Roman and Late Antique world. Oxford: Routledge,  11–​24. Wheeler, E.P., trans. 1977. Dorotheos of Gaza: Discourses and sayings. Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications. Wilkinson, K. 2015. Women and modesty in Late Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Yarbrough, O.L. 1993. Parents and children in the Jewish family of antiquity. In: S.J.D. Cohen (ed.), The Jewish family in antiquity. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 39–​59.

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PART III

Religion and ritual

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20 “CHILD IN THE NEST” Children in Pharaonic Egyptian religion and rituals Kasia Szpakowska

The surviving archaeological record from ancient Egypt is notoriously biased, with texts and images highlighting the role of men. But even taking into account ancient Egypt’s presumed high infant mortality rate, children made up a large part of the population. One census of a sample of 30 houses at the village of Deir el-​Medina recorded 42 percent of the population as children (Toivari-​Viitala 2001: 190). As most of the adult male population spent days at a time working in the Valley of the Kings and living in a separate settlement nearby, it was the elderly, women, and children who maintained domestic cults and daily religious practices.This scenario was likely carried out in towns and villages throughout ancient Egypt. With formal education restricted to a small minority, the responsibility for not only perpetuating religious beliefs and rituals (Lesko 2008:  206) but for also modifying them belonged to the average household, including the children. While not as conspicuous as adults, children are a ubiquitous feature in ancient Egyptian tomb scenes, where their role in cultic activity may be passive or active. Less visible, but no less essential, was their role in household religious activities performed for the benefit of the living. Some of these rituals were designed to protect children, perhaps the most vulnerable members of society. The perception of infants as utterly helpless and unable to fend for themselves was eloquently expressed in literary sources by comparing non-​adults, whether human or divine, with a nestling. One spell for protection addresses the child as a “chick” and asks “are you hot in the nest?” (Borghouts 1978: Spell no. 91). In Osirian myths, Isis describes herself as “pregnant with her nestling” (Assmann 2001: 132–​2), while in spells ailing infants were identified with her son, Horus the Child, who is referred to in some spells as “in the nest” (Borghouts 1978: Spell nos. 34, 91). In this chapter I will explore the role of children as both subjects and agents of religious activity in pre-​Hellenistic Egypt, particularly in rituals for the living.

The child as subject The conceptualization of childhood is culture-​specific. In some societies children, particularly infants, can by their very nature be considered as partially divine. Gottlieb (2004) notes that the West African Beng believe that it takes years for children to leave the realm of the afterlife. The process is gradual, with newborns being fully immersed in the afterlife until the loss of the 283

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umbilical cord stump, at which point they begin the journey towards personhood.This explains why infants of around three years of age are so passive—​watching the world around them, but not able to understand it. They are still in-​between the worlds and it is not for a few more years that they decide to remain in this life. In ancient Egypt, neonates and infants were perceived as particularly vulnerable to hostile demonic agents and were protected by specialized divinities, benevolent supernatural beings, rituals, and dedicated paraphernalia. Ancient Egyptians developed a veritable industry of protective incantations and implements, especially from the 2nd millennium onwards, encouraging these liminal entities to fight on the behalf of the very young who had not yet fully become incorporated into the ordered world. While the most common spells in pharaonic times targeted venomous scorpions and snakes, the relatively large number of prescriptions designed to assuage the ailments of children is remarkable. One corpus, known by Egyptologists as “Spells for a Mother and Child”, explicitly targets children as the subjects of the rituals (Borghouts 1978: 41–​44). The best known of these are on Papyrus Berlin 3027 (Yamazaki 2003), which provides 21 separate ritual instructions.The performer is not specifically identified, but the assumption is that the mother would have been the one performing the rituals, or that she too was being offered the same protection as her vulnerable child, with a third-​party ritualist enacting the spells. Most of them explicitly mention a young child. Some refer to the protection of an unborn child still in the womb of his mother, and clearly protect the mother as well. The child in these is viewed as particularly vulnerable to a host of external agents, as a “child in the nest”. Supernatural entities were blamed for numerous symptoms such as fever, pain, stomach or headache, eye problems, pus, blistering skin disease, infection, unquenchable thirst, sneezing, or leakage from orifices, for which there was no obvious visible external cause. Even today these are difficult to diagnose, and for a mother faced with a crying, feverish child (or worse, one too weak to cry), it might have seemed as if her offspring was possessed and being attacked by a demonic entity from the inside out.The list of beings blamed for the assaults on children is impressive, with Yamazaki (2003) conveniently providing a list of 22 such beings, including one (Isheshy) who was personified to the extent that she was given a personal name as were her parents. Her family’s ethnicity was given as “Asiatic”, thus casting the blame on foreigners (a practice found in a number of the texts; see below). Surely, an ancient Egyptian would not wish to harm a child, therefore the source of the problem must have been external—​from outside the ordered realm. In ancient Egypt medicine and religion were inextricably intertwined. Cures were enacted within a mythological landscape, wherein the healer embodied a divinity (often Isis, regardless of the gender of the healer) and the patient her divine child Horus (again regardless of gender of the human patient). Yamazaki categorized the specific methods in Papyrus Berlin 3027 as consisting of requests or prayers, identification of either the individual, the body or its parts with a deity, analogies with mythical episodes or historiola, pacification of gods, and the use of ingredients antagonistic to the invading demons (Yamazaki 2003: 4–​7). A range of items were employed which can still be found in museum collections, including simple rope bracelets, knotted carefully to bind any demonic entity wanting to get too close to the vulnerable child (Wendrich 2006), semi-​precious beads (some of which were made into bracelets, amulets, seals), and linen bandages. Others, such as animal bones, herbs, and honey are less likely to survive or be identified. Most of these will have had flexible uses in the mundane world as well as being channels for divine energy. That the power and health of the child was central to, and the focus of, the rituals is further supported by a number of related ritual implements designed for its protection. One particular category stands out: incised hippopotamus tusks (Fig. 20.1) known as “wands” (Roberson 2009; Quirke 2016) or “apotropaia” (Altenmüller 1965). Most surviving examples date to the late 284

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Figure 20.1  Carved hippopotamus tusk, also known as a “wand”. Late Middle Kingdom Source: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rogers Fund 1908 (08.200.19), www.metmuseum.org

Middle Kingdom (1850–​1700 BCE), a time that featured the development of specialised artefacts such as cuboid ivory rod fragments, decorated birthing bricks (Wegner 2009), and clay or faience cups with pinched spout that had analogous functions, as indicated by their strikingly similar iconography. They were decorated with a parade of unusual beings that take a range of forms, from a single animal head or a weapon, to whole animals (particularly crocodiles and snakes), composite beings composed of recognizable human, object, and animal parts, and fantastic hybrid beasts recognizable in other mythologies such as griffins, serpopards, and sphinxes. These were objects that could be animated by depicting them with eyes or feet. Bes-​and Taweret-​images were also popular. Many of them wield implements such as butchers’ knives or hold or spit out snakes, and their specific function is clear from the carved tusks that were inscribed with texts. One identifies a Bes-​image as “the fighter” (Polz and Voß 1999: 390–​399), while others mention “protection in the day; protection in the night” (Metropolitan Museum of Art 30.8.218  –​ inscription translated by author). Others specify that the tusks and their images exist to protect the child(ren) of a named woman, or simply have the (male) child’s or mother’s (or nurse’s) name inscribed by them (Szpakowska 2008: 27–​30). Their use as devices for the protection of women and children seems likely, and indicates that the other objects with similar iconography likely had a similar function. Many of the tusks show wear at one end, suggesting they were used to draw a circle on the floor around a mother during and after childbirth, newborns, and infants, thus safeguarding the vulnerable humans within the confines of the sacred space. Liminal beings fully armed for protection and repulsion manned this defensive perimeter. A similar function can be proposed for the other objects as well. The cups, for example, are small, and have spouts that could have been used for feeding. Their contents were protected from hostile enemies that might otherwise infiltrate a child (or another vulnerable individual unable to feed himself). The birth brick (meskhenet in Egyptian) and ivory rods were similarly decorated to ensure full protection during childbirth. While only a single surviving brick is 285

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currently known, the wear patterns together with textual and representational evidence indicate that ancient Egyptian women gave birth while squatting on birth bricks. While the exact manner in which rods were used in rituals is unknown, Wegner suggests that they acted as miniatures of the bricks, extending their protective power and acting as “magical conduits of protective energy that may have extended both to and from meskhenet bricks” (Wegner 2009). In these cases, the iconography they bear transports these objects from the realm of the mundane into that of the sacred.The supernatural beings created a protective boundary that would be safe for those within but which was impermeable to the damned. While the identity of the ritual practitioner is unclear (possibilities include a midwife, another woman, a relative, or priest), it was the child who was at the heart of an industry designed to safeguard it while he or she was still in a vulnerable state. Another object type that placed children at the forefront of religious ritual was the oracular amuletic decree (OAD). During ancient Egypt’s Third Intermediate Period (1069–​715 BCE) a series of these were dedicated to the wellbeing of children specifically (Edwards 1960; Wilfong 2013). The content of each decree was a series of promises to keep the named owner safe from a variety of problems and difficulties that could affect the living. These included diseases and health problems, dangers that could be met both while travelling and on a daily basis (such as venomous creatures and accidents), both foreign and domestic practitioners of magic, and the wrath of gods, hostile demons, malignant spirits, and even bad dreams. The parents or guardian of the child would take the decree (and perhaps the child) to the shrine of the preferred deity: the papyri were prepared in advance with a space left blank ready for the insertion by an intermediary or priest of the name of the god(s) who would ultimately be responsible for the oracle (Wilfong 2013: 298, n. 19). Here again, while the adults commissioned the decrees, their creation was driven by a need to safeguard children. However, in a broader sense, the children can be considered as agents, indirectly exerting pressure on existing practices, with needs that required the development of new strategies that were implemented by adults (Leming 2007).

The child as agent In New Kingdom tomb scenes of mortuary rituals, children are frequently depicted alongside adults as part of the procession mourning the deceased (Harrington 2007: 56–​57). As was the case with adults, while women and girls appear more often than males (Werbrouck 1938), both genders were actively involved. The children in these are both prepubescent (recognizable by their hairstyle and their nude state) and post-​pubescent (differentiated from the adults only by their size) (see Harrington, this volume). Millward (2013) lists their gestures that indicate mourning as including raising the arms either in an arch above the head or to the face, pulling their own hair, and walking forward in a hunched posture. Two other gestures were only performed by women and girls—​those of bending down to pick up dust or dirt, and of exposing their breasts. The fact that all the gestures used by children are identical to those of adults suggests that the actions function in the same way in the enactment of the mortuary ritual, regardless of the age of the participants, and that children learnt by direct participation and imitating adults, thus passing traditions from one generation to the next. Children also acted as porters in funeral processions, helping to carry objects to the tomb for their final deposition. These include bouquets of flowers, furniture, and containers (Harrington 2007: 57; Luiselli 2015: 646). In banquet scenes, prepubescent girls provide adult guests with unguents, libations, and food as well as water for washing their hands (Mekhitarian 1980; Harrington 2007). In tomb scenes, children are present at the ritual of “breaking the red pots”. The destruction of these pots during funerals may have been considered necessary in order to 286

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repel the dead, or perhaps they represented “polluted” objects that now required ritual killing (Harrington 2013: 39). In one scene, three children grieve in the company of women, while a weeping woman at the back of the group faces away from the deceased and other mourners and holds a red pot in her hands, arms out straight, ready to smash the vessel (Harrington 2013: 40, fig. 15; Tomb of Amenemheb TT  44). In addition, children appear on tomb reliefs and stelae in scenes where the family makes offerings to a deceased relative. In many of the scenes collected by Whale (1989) in her study on family relationships as represented in 18th Dynasty tombs, small figures appear in the presence of adults providing offerings to their deceased parent(s). However, even when named, it is often difficult to determine whether they should be understood as children, or as servants, due to their smaller size and (lack of) clothing. An example of this type of active scene was painted on a linen funerary cloth from the Ramesside period (1250–​1070 BCE: British Museum EA65347, accessible through the online catalogue at www.britishmuseum.org). An adult woman named Iy stands in front of (or beside) her prepubescent brother Penpare who carries a large papyrus frond in his hand. Iy pours libations on an offering as well as over her deceased mother who sits upon a chair sniffing a blue water lily. While the adult is the one doing the pouring, the child is also actively involved. His legs are shown one in front of the other, as if he is about to step forth in order to present the frond to his deceased mother. From the New Kingdom on, children took part in direct worship of deities. Royal children are often depicted taking part in rituals instigated and primarily performed by their father the pharaoh. Non-​royal children are also depicted. One example is a limestone stela found under the stairs of a house in the Main City of Amarna (Obj. 21/​424; CAM 1921.279). The stone is cut roughly, and left unfinished. The stela depicts an upright hippopotamus being, wearing a modius and Hathor crown with a sun disk in the middle. This particular iconography suggests that the divine being should be identified as Taweret, rather than Iret or Reret who also can take the hippopotamus form. A woman wearing a linen dress with an unguent cone on her head stands before the goddess offering incense. Behind her follows a young boy with sidelock, dressed in a kilt and offering a small bouquet. Taweret often appears in contexts related to household or healing cults, and is possibly being appealed to here on behalf of the sick child. Others have suggested the woman is giving thanks for the successful birth of this son (Capel and Markoe 1996: catalogue 16; Freed, Markowitz, and D’Auria 1999: catalogue 179), but Stevens (2006: 312) suggests that the woman presents the child to encourage Taweret to protect him, or to ensure his future fertility, thus making the child the subject of Tawaret’s attention rather than the mother. Regardless, the child is depicted here equally involved with the adult in a ritual performance or an act of worship. New Kingdom tomb scenes often feature the entire family giving libations before the deceased and gods. The children are easily recognizable by their lack of clothing and smaller size, but they can also hold offerings just like adults. In the tomb of Userhat (TT51) one child brings a duck while another offers a bouquet to Thutmosis I  and Queen Ahmose (Davies 1927:  Fig.  39). Children also appear on stelae, dedicated by both men and women. Luiselli (2015) provides other examples, while noting that the young seem to be part of community celebrations in much the same way as modern children participate in religious festivals. Few texts explicitly describe children’s involvement as petitioners or in other religious roles. A letter from Lahun mentions a musical troupe and requests to “have the beautiful girl-​children of the mortuary temple … brought to stand as a jubilating crowd” (Wente 1990: 77). Another letter suggests that pleas and praise directed to the gods by children can help to convince deities to safeguard adults.The author of the letter is a man who finds himself unwell while abroad. He asks his community to pray for him a few times a week, and to 287

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call upon Amon to bring me back, for I have been ill since I arrived north and not in my normal state … As soon as my letter reaches you, you shall go to the open court of Amon of the Thrones of the Two Lands, taking the little children along with you and flatter him and tell him to keep me safe. Wente 1990: 179; Luiselli 2015 This text also implies that children (at least those of the elite) could have had regular access to the courtyard area of a temple and that this area was not restricted to the priesthood (Griffin 2013). However, rather than referring to a large temple, this could instead allude to the courtyard of a smaller community chapel. Nevertheless, this indicates that children could be involved in the direct petition of a god in a formal religious context. Tomb scenes where children jubilate, dance, and sing along with a crowd of adults corroborate these texts. While they may not have held formal titles, children were often portrayed playing an active role as ritual dancers. Singers, dancers, and musicians appear in scenes depicting rituals carried out on behalf of divinities and the dead. Scenes of girls and boys singing and dancing in ritual processions alongside adults—​usually women, though men can also appear and are listed in temple attendance records—​are relatively common, particularly in tomb decorations. The role of these activities in a religious context was not considered as “entertainment”, but rather as integral to the success of the ritual as were the words and gestures performed by priests (Szpakowska 2008: 142). Meyer-​Dietrich (2009: 4) explains “dance is embodied knowledge, communicated and acted out by being performed as a dance”. Even today, from the traditional religions of East Africa (such as the Bantu of Somalia) to the Sufi whirling dervishes and ecstatic Pentecostals, rhythm, dancing, and singing are used to enter a liminal state that makes the divine world more accessible. The ancient Egyptian Instructions of Any advises the reader to observe the feast of your god, and repeat its season, God is angry if it is neglected … Song, dance, incense are his foods, receiving prostrations is his wealth; the god does it to magnify his name, but man it is who is inebriated. Gardiner 1959; Lichtheim 1976: 136 This is also expressed in a hymn sung to Hathor during her festival: Come Golden Goddess you who feed on hymns, because the nourishment of your heart is dancing.You who shine on the celebration at the time when the lamps are lit, who are satisfied by dancing in the deep of night, come wander about in the place of intoxication, in that pillared hall of happiness. DuQuesne 2005: 12 These passages emphasize that while song and dance caused ordinary people to reach a state of sacred intoxication, they were as essential for the continued wellbeing of the gods as food was for mortals. The performers’ special status is marked by the wearing of specialized clothing and distinctive hairstyles with, once again, the children recognizable by their smaller size and slightly different clothing. A recurring motif in dances devoted to Hathor is the representation of one or more young boys (though the age is not always clear) wearing an obvious leonine mask, marking their liminal state and transformational identity (Wilson 2011).The individual is always part of a wider scene that includes boys, girls, and older women in particular, vigorously dancing as part of the Festival of Drunkenness (Horváth 2015). 288

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Children also appear in scenes with adult ritual “chantresses”. This title was held by women who played an important role in a range of religious events including festivals (such as the Festival of Drunkenness, sed-​festival of kingship and Beautiful Feast of the Valley, divine processions, and daily temple rituals (Onstine 2005)). Girls were able to participate fully, just like the adults. Miniaturized versions of the adults, they perform the same actions, use the same gestures, and may hold the same ritual objects. In scenes of exuberant joy and triumph, they hold the “festive branch” either on their own, or along with adults (Benderitter 2016: Tomb of Meryra; Neferhotep TT 49: Davies 1933: pl. xviii). Children also contribute to the creation of sacred music that pleases and pacifies the gods while providing the background and rhythm for ritual participants to enter an ecstatic state. Boys and girls play instruments such as castanets (Galvin 1981: 217–​218) and clappers of wood or ivory. They used objects such as the menat and sistrum which were restricted to cultic activities. Both were usually associated with the cult of the goddess Hathor, but were certainly used in other cults as well, such as that of Amun in the New Kingdom. The menat was a heavy crescent-​shaped necklace made up of many strands of beads, which were bundled together at the end and attached to two long strings of larger beads, fastened to a counterpoise (often made of metal such as bronze). The smaller beads were mostly made of faience, as well as a smattering of other colorful stones such as carnelian, agate, jasper, and even gold. Usually the worshipper would hold the menat by the counterpoise in one hand. While scenes of children holding the menat in this way are unusual (but see e.g. TT 100: Davies 1943: pl. 63), at least one tomb depicts a young boy, along with two men, each of whom wears a menat around the neck while holding castanets (Davies 1920: pl. XXIII; Galvin 1981: 217–​218). Galvin emphasizes that these objects do not indicate that they are “priests of Hathor” and that their role was merely to provide rhythm. However, there is no reason to suggest that the rhythm section of the sacred musical performance was of any less importance than the others were. A sistrum was often held in the other hand. The sistrum was an instrument usually made of bronze with a narrow loop or arch, with rods bearing little disks placed between them. The handle was often in the shape of a goddess, particularly Hathor or Bastet. Both sistra and menats when gently shaken would create a soft tinkling and swishing sound designed to pacify the deity, and encourage her to welcome the approach of clergy and worshippers (Capel and Markoe 1996: 97–​102). The portrayal of these objects in the hands of children is significant, for until the 21st Dynasty (see Niwiński 1988 for examples of these) children were not necessarily given formal titles associated with the professional clergy and their religious role is thus more difficult to ascertain. Titles are given to sons and daughters, but these may refer to adult offspring, rather than younger children, unless made explicit by means of a determinative. The tomb of Neferhotep (TT 49)  in Thebes provides an example of scenes depicting a whole range of religious activities in which at least one child participates. Davies (1933: 40) describes some of the children as being “dragged” there by their parents, but this may be more of a reflection of the time in which Davies lived, rather than the attitudes of ancient Egyptians. The fact that children, particularly young girls, were members of real cultic staff and not simply symbolically depicted is corroborated by archaeological finds as well. Recent discussions suggest that wooden “paddle dolls” (Fig. 20.2), previously interpreted as playthings, concubine figures, or fertility votives to stimulate rebirth in the afterlife, were in fact modeled after royal cultic performers. Morris (2011) argues that these were often interred in groups to represent real musical troops (khener performers) that could then accompany the king to the afterlife. The role of the khener, like that of the chantresses, was religious, not secular, and appeared in scenes related to cults of the king, divinities, and the dead. One of the groups of paddle dolls includes a figure markedly smaller than the rest and, unlike the others, unpainted. Morris suggests that 289

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Figure 20.2  Middle Kingdom “paddle-​doll” from Asasif, Thebes Source: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rogers Fund 1931 (31.3.35a,b), www.metmuseum.org

this “child” doll was added to ensure that the assemblage accurately reflected the makeup of an actual khener troop, which would have incorporated a child. A young girl known to be a khener dancer was buried at Lisht with greater care and wealth than was usual for one of her social status, testifying to her importance and the significance of these musical troupes in general (Morris 2011). She was interred with a group of truncated female figurines (often interpreted as having the same use as paddle dolls). One of these was smaller than the others, and could perhaps have represented the girl herself. Morris provides other examples of young girls buried with these “dolls” indicating these were tombs of young khener dancers (Morris 2011). Both the truncated and the paddle figurines often had hair made of mud and stones that would have made a soft rattling sound when shaken, much like the menat. The important religious role played by children is also indicated by the shrine-​burials at the Middle Kingdom mortuary complex of the pharaoh Nebhetepre Mentuhotep II (c. 2061–​2010 BCE) of six young women who were priestesses and wives of the king (Morris 2011). Five of them were explicitly titled as “priestess of Hathor”. The prominent placing of their titles suggests that this was the role for which they wanted to be remembered, and which they would continue in the afterlife. One of the girls, however, did not have titles. Based upon the similarity of her burial style with that of the others, Morris suggests that this young child also retained that position, but died too young (three to five years of age) to have had a chance to actually execute her role. Conceivably, had she survived for a few more years she too would have had those titles formally engraved in her tomb. Exceptionally, centuries later in the Third Intermediate Period

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(1070–​664 BCE), children with the titles such as “pure”, “chantress”, and “god’s father” (a title of priestly rank) do occur, demonstrating that at that time children were able to have formal priestly titles (Niwiński 1989: 39; Onstine 2001: 81). Children also feature prominently in an idiosyncratic rite of transition during the New Kingdom. Figured ostraca from Deir el-​Medina depict a woman either on a bed or sitting on a stool within a structure that might be a portable or temporary pavilion (Backhouse 2012). It is the latter, called “women in pavilions or outdoor locations” by Backhouse (and wochenlaube by Brunner-​Traut 1955), that are most relevant for this discussion.These pavilions are similar to those found in images of divinities, as well as kings, at times surrounded by convolvulus vines, demarcating these locations as religious zones (Weiss 2009: 8–​9). These scenes include children, either depicted as infants held in the arms of the women or as servants offering mirrors and kohl tubes (in which case they perhaps are meant to represent nubile young women rather than children) (Fig. 20.3). The specific purpose of the ritual remains uncertain. It could represent a celebration of a successful delivery and the neonate’s (and mother’s, though it is uncertain if the woman is a mother or wet-​nurse) survival of the crucial first few days after birth; an initiation of the woman’s transition from being solely a child-​bearer to being reintegrated back into the broader community; or a welcoming of the infant into society (Friedman 1994; Miller 2009; Backhouse 2012). The ritual implements in these scenes are most frequently a mirror and a kohl stick held by the same person, suggesting that even though their precise meaning and use remains obscure, in this context the seemingly mundane objects were imbued with ritual

Figure 20.3  Figured ostracon showing a woman cradling an infant who is presented with a mirror and kohl tube by a nude girl. New Kingdom period Source: O. Louvre E2533. After Vandier d’Abbadie 1937: pl. LII, 2339

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potency that was central to the activation of the ritual. In scenes of “women on beds” the objects are usually depicted underneath the bed, which includes a protective Bes-​image as part of the motif. In the “women in pavilions” scenes, however, the ritual implements are actively presented to the woman (and infant?) by a girl, and occasionally boy (Janssen and Janssen 2007: 7). Most of the young attendants are depicted nude (for the significance of “nude” imagery in marked contexts see Asher-​Greve and Sweeney 2006) and with distinctive pony-​tails worn very high on the head, or shaved with a tuft on top. The hairstyles of both adult subject (tripartite hairstyle held up with a headband) and child agent (high pony-​tail or tufted) are idiosyncratic and restricted to this ritual alone, marking it as unique. Whether or not the ritual was played out in a public setting (the scenes do not include observers or priests), the fact that it was depicted at all reveals that having a young girl being an active ritual practitioner was an acceptable practice. Because the girls are young, wearing very little, and presenting objects, they are often presumed to be “servants”, but servant girls in other contexts lack the peculiar hairstyle. The nudity could simply be encoding their youth, rather than indicating a lack of status. The offering of gifts is just as ritualistic, and imbued with meaning, as in the case of the presentation of implements by the sem-​priest to the deceased during the “opening of the mouth” ceremony, though here the priest’s specialized role is marked by the wearing of a leopard skin rather than a specific hairstyle. If Wegner (2009) is correct in suggesting that midwives embody the goddess Hathor herself while attending the birthing woman, the girls in this ritual could also be channeling the same ritual magic (heka). Whether or not the performer of this ritual was a priestess in training, or if it was a girl selected via a different process is unclear—​the agent of this ritual was much younger than the subject. Here, it is the child who plays the active role, not the adult. There may have been many more rituals involving children than those noted here, but these are difficult to discern. Texts that refer to children are not always specific as to their age, and a better translation in these instances might be “offspring”, a term that reflects genealogy, rather than chronological age.

The child as otherworldly being Children, being in one sense malleable liminal beings, were occasionally selected to represent and thus embody benevolent and malevolent supra-​human beings themselves, both divine and demonic. In some cases, it seems child gods are included in order to complete the triumvirate constellation of a divine family—​father, mother, and child. Examples include Atum, Mut, and Khonsu; Ptah, Sekhmet, and Nefertum; and Osiris, Isis, and Horus. In other cases, the child itself is the focus. The offspring of gods emphasize their divine nature, having within them some of the nature of their parents, but with the addition of the unpredictability, rebelliousness, and vulnerability of children. This is particularly epitomized by Horus the Child in the Osirian mythological cycle, who travels with his mother Isis throughout Egypt’s Delta region. There, like any inquisitive human child, he has a predilection for wandering off and getting into trouble, and was particularly prone to burns and venomous stings and bites from scorpions and snakes. Luckily, through her great magic, Isis is able to heal him.These stories resonated with the Egyptians and set a precedent for their healing incantations, wherein the healer embodies Isis, and the patient personifies the child Horus (see for example P. Chester Beatty III r. 10.10–​19; Gardiner 1935; Szpakowska 2010). Eventually, Horus the Child himself becomes the main deity responsible for protecting individuals from wild animal attacks, venom, and general illness. From the Late Period (747 BCE–​CE 395) onwards, Horus cippi became ubiquitous sacred objects used in homes and temples alike (Draycott 2011). The stela-​shaped cippi are decorated on the 292

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front with a relief of Horus the Child standing on crocodiles, often holding snakes, scorpions, or gazelles in his hands, with a Bes mask depicted above him. The area surrounding the god as well as the back of the stela were covered in apotropaic spells. While in this case the child-​deity is specifically referred to as Horus, in other cases (such as a spell to ward away nightmares in P. Leiden I 348 v.2) it was enough to call upon a deity known simply as “The Child” (Borghouts 1971; Szpakowska 2010). The concept of a demonic child, in the sense of one with hostile intentions, is rarely expressed. Exceptions can be found in healing spells that blame named malevolent beings as the source of suffering. Usually, hostile demons are referred to as anonymous hordes, but in two spells the entity blamed for the affliction seems to be a child with the parentage provided—​a negative counterpart to the divine triumvirate family. The names of both demons feature repeated syllables and determinatives used to specify names of foreign origin or of the damned. Both are also described as being Asiatic and Nubian—​thus foreigners. In one spell to heal a child (P. Berlin 3027 D), the blame is cast on an “Isheshy” daughter of “Ititi” whose father is Osiris. In this case, the demon is adjured to leak out of the child’s skin and orifices. The other being, “Sehaqeq”, is a personification of headaches. His mother is named either as “Nedjerhesmem” or “Hetjasmem”, and his father as “Djewbesht” (Azzam 2009). Sehaqeq appears in three written sources (Gardiner Ostracon 300, BM EA10731, Leipzig Ostracon 42), the latter of which includes a drawing alongside the incantation. The represented being has some of the characteristics of a human child, such as being nude and having a patch of hair on his otherwise bald head, but his body parts are described in the text with words reserved for animals and objects, such as “paw” instead of “arm” and “nut” instead of “head”, while his tongue is described (and depicted) as in his anus. Borghouts (1999: 162–​163) suggests that this serves to further emphasize that he is inhuman and liminal.While his form is thus in many ways that of a child, it is also clearly meant to represent a distortion of everything a child should be. Sehaqeq is also unusual in that his name, as well as being determined by the sign used for hostile demons, also has the determinative of the falcon Horus on a standard, used for divine beings, emphasizing his nature (like that of any child) is still in flux.

The child as religious player It is now recognized that the borders between play and games, religion and education, toys and ritual items are fuzzy, culture-​specific, and need to be re-​evaluated if we are to understand the role of children in ancient and modern religions. Bado-​Fralick and Norris (2010:  141–​ 146) note that the formal characteristics that mark ritual versus play are often the same. Both involve wearing special clothing, using phrases that indicate that something special is about to be described (such as “once upon a time”), and using special objects.The similarities are so close that there really is no clear definition of what constitutes play, which is easier to recognize by what it is not (Bado-​Fralick and Norris 2010: 127–​136). The same situation exists with debate surrounding distinctions between dolls and divine figurines, toys and votives. Ancient board games, such as senet and mehen, are now acknowledged as serving important religious functions (Piccione 1990 a, b).The same is true of other objects that also fit into the categories of play and toys. Dice and icosahedra found in Graeco-​Roman Egypt inscribed with the names of Egyptian deities were likely to have been used for divination or oracles (Minas-​Nerpel 2007; Tait 1998). The distinction between “doll”, sacred “statuette”, or “figurine” is in large part based on the perception of the interpreter and, when the function is known, is strongly influenced by both the gender and age of the object and its user. While male figurines tend to be identified as representations of divinities or kings and thus objects of power, female figurines (especially 293

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those with obviously marked pelvic regions and truncated legs) are vigorously debated, and sometimes ultimately assigned to the categories of sexuality and fertility—​automatically being assumed to belong to the domain of exclusively female needs and domestic practices—​or dismissed as concubines or as the playthings of children (for more nuanced interpretations see Tringham and Conkey 1998; Pinch and Waraksa 2009; Waraksa 2009; Marshall 2012:  252). These traditional interpretations seem to ignore their archaeological context. Morris (2011: 102) notes that in general they are more frequently found in graves and houses at sites with royal mortuary temples or temples closely identified with the cult of the dead king (Lisht, Kahun, Hawara, Heliopolis, Abydos, Abusir = forty four dolls) than at sites without such structures (Kubban, Deir el-​Bersha, el-​Matarya, and Esna = six dolls total). A similar dichotomy can be found in interpretations of small mud figurines shaped into the forms of barely identifiable animals (usually quadrupeds and more rarely birds). Their archaeological contexts, when known, include tombs, shrines, military complexes, and domestic contexts. Preliminary interpretations labeled them as “toys” for children, while later investigations took into account their final depositional contexts and highlighted their ritual use by adults (Tooley 1991; Quirke 1998). Objects, however, are multivalent and rarely proscribed to a single specific use or indeed user. Today, children are taught myths associated with rituals such as that of Christmas by setting up household nativity scenes. Some town centres even go so far as to have large-​scale “models” set up with real animals available for children to stroke—​teaching and enculturating children through active engagement. In today’s multi-​cultural societies, we are surrounded by religious toys, from Hindu lunch boxes and “Karma cards”, to heroic divine action figures and “Armor of God” play set outfits (Bado-​Fralick and Norris 2010: ix–​x). Today these are marketed and packaged in a way that leaves their target audience in no doubt. Remove the packages, labels, and context, and we are left with sacred figurines, divinatory tools, and ritual clothing. In ancient Egypt, handling animal and anthropomorphic figurines familiarized young members of society with religious icons that would play such an important role at the level of both household cults and more formal religion, thus blurring the boundaries between play, ritual, and education. All family members, including children, may also have participated in cultic actions from an early age, including being responsible for the deposition of a votive offering or even the creation of ritual objects themselves (Szpakowska 2016). Differentiating the work of older, inexperienced apprentices from that of talented young children imitating their elders and preparing to be productive members of the labor force is nearly impossible (Wileman 2005). Creating and then playing with figurines helped to re-​enact ritual and impart myths as well as stories and tales. Even if they are basic by today’s standards, “games and toys not only reflect values and customs, worldview and expectations, stereotypes and biases” (Bado-​Fralick and Norris 2010: 14), but they are also an important means of transmitting traditions and cultural mores, and even of instilling fears, desires, and social expectations into each successive generation (Szpakowska 2008). At the same time, recent anthropological work reminds us that children are not purely passive receptacles absorbing information (Schwarzman 2006; Bado-​Fralick and Norris 2010). Highly inventive, they experiment with changing rules, pushing boundaries, and are active participants in the community following their own agendas and wishes. Religious play (re-​enacting rituals, 294

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for example) becomes a safe environment for inquisitive questioning and interrogating—​ behavior that in other circumstances might even be considered subversive.

Conclusions Religion was (and is) embedded in everyday experience and life. Temples functioned as economic institutions, storehouses of wealth, repositories of recorded knowledge, and centers of learning as well as housing gods. Rituals can be playful, myths humorous as well as solemn, while dance is as effective a medium for epiphanies as prayer. For all aspects of life in ancient Egypt, boundaries were fuzzier than those we attempt to maintain today. As Meskell (1999: 260) has noted in her discussion of sexuality in ancient Egypt, a clear-​cut separation between the state of being “grown-​up”, such as exists in much of the modern West, and the idea of a sheltered “ ‘sacred’ category of childhood”, a concept that is very much restricted to norms embedded within modern Western society (and even then it is certainly not universal) should not be applied to ancient Egypt. In ancient Egypt children were not segregated from adults—​ they participated actively in society, played essential roles within the community, and were fully integrated in expressions of religious belief. Unveiling them is difficult not only because children’s interactions with adults usually remain outside of the official record, but also because their interactions are more usually with physical objects than text, which have their own interpretive issues (Ridgley 2012). Children presented offerings (particularly plants) that would be placed on offering tables, or hung on divine statues and ancestor busts as garlands (Szpakowska 2015: 285). They participated in rituals essential to the wellbeing of the gods, and thus the communities. Children jubilated, danced, sang, created music, re-​enacted sacred dramas, wielded sacred implements, and thereby actively generated maat (divine/​cosmic order).There is no reason to suggest that they were simply “imitating” the adults. Rather it seems as though the age of the ritual practitioner was largely unimportant.Whether performed by the very young, the mature or the very old, it was the enactment of the correct procedures that mattered. While it seems that in spells and rituals designed for healing, the child played a purely passive role—​the patient/​focus of actions performed by another—​she can also be considered an “active patient” as noted by Quirke (2015: 183). Even at a young age, children can be responsible for clothing and bedecking themselves, drinking and eating on their own. A child could choose to continue wearing a knotted bracelet, or an amulet containing a protective decree from the gods, create a divine figurine, or even invent her own talisman. In ancient Egypt, as in cultures elsewhere, there was no separate and strict distinction between everyday and religious life, no stark border between a human and a sacred realm. Beings that what we would call “supernatural”, both hostile and benevolent, were numinous and ever-​present. Their fluid, liminal nature meant that children were especially close to the divine world, but they were also ever on the verge of chaos, and particularly vulnerable to demonic assaults. Non-​adults needed to be contained and controlled because of their nature; their own behavior was not yet fully integrated within the bounds of order. Notably, prepubescent children are not usually represented as performing on their own, but are instead part of a group of adults, or at least older children. Even during the application of rituals designed to protect the child, an adult (probably the mother or nurse) was included within the umbrella of protection. Perhaps the presence of at least one adult was essential, while that of the children desirable in order to augment the ritual’s effectiveness.The ancient Egyptian child was viewed as vulnerable, like a fledgling still in the nest, but still able to contribute to religious practices as part of her lived experience.

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Kasia Szpakowska Schwarzman, H.B. 2006. Materializing children:  Challenges for the archaeology of childhood. AP3A 15: 123–​131. Stevens, A. 2006. Private Religion at Amarna: The Material Evidence. Oxford: Archaeopress. Szpakowska, K. 2008. Daily Life in Ancient Egypt: Recreating Lahun. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. Szpakowska, K. 2010. Nightmares in ancient Egypt. In: J.-​M. Husser and A. Mouton (eds), Le cauchemar dans l’Antiquité: Actes des journées d’étude de l’UMR 7044 (15–​16 Novembre 2007, Strasbourg). Paris: de Boccard,  21–​39. Szpakowska, K. 2015. Snake cults and military life in New Kingdom Egypt. In: E.B. Banning,T.P. Harrison and S. Klassen (eds), Walls of the Prince: Egyptian Interactions with Southwest Asia in Antiquity: Essays in Honour of John S. Holladay Jr. Leiden: Brill, 274–​291. Szpakowska, K. 2016. Infancy in a rural community:  A case study of early childhood at Lahun. In:  P. Kousoulis and N. Lazardis (eds), The Proceedings of the Xth International Congress of Egyptologists. Leiden: Peeters, 885–​898. Tait, J. 1998. Dicing with the gods. In: W. Clarysse, A. Schoors and H. Willems (eds), Egyptian Religion: The Last Thousand Years. Studies Dedicated to the Memory of Jan Quaegebeur. Leuven:  Uitgeverij Peeters en Departement Oosterse Studies, 257–​263. Toivari-​Viitala, J. 2001. Women at Deir el-​Medina: A Study of the Status and Roles of the Female Inhabitants in the Workmen’s Community During the Ramesside Period. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut Voor Het Nabije Oosten. Tooley, A. 1991. Child’s toy or ritual object? Göttinger Miszellen 123: 101–​111. Tringham, R. and Conkey, M. 1998. Rethinking figurines: a critical view from archaeology of Gimbutas, the “goddess” and popular culture. In: L. Goodison and C. Morris (eds), Ancient Goddesses: The Myths and the Evidence. London: British Museum Press, 22–​45. Vandier d’Abbadie, J. 1937. Catalogue des ostraca figurés de Deir el Médineh: nos 2001–​2733. Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale. Waraksa, E.A. 2009. Female Figurines from the Mut Precinct: Context and Ritual Function. Fribourg: Academic Press Fribourg. Wegner, J. 2009. A decorated birth-​brick from South Abydos:  New evidence on childbirth and birth magic in the Middle Kingdom. In: D.P. Silverman, W.K. Simpson and J. Wegner (eds), Archaism and Innovation: Studies in the Culture of Middle Kingdom Egypt. Philadelphia: Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, Yale University and University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, 447–​491. Weiss, L. 2009. Personal religious practice: House altars at Deir el-​Medina. JEA 95: 193–​208. Wendrich, W. 2006. Entangled, connected or protected? The power of knots and knotting in ancient Egypt. In: K. Szpakowska (ed.), Through a Glass Darkly: Magic, Dreams and Prophecy in Ancient Egypt. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 243–​269. Wente, E. 1990. Letters from Ancient Egypt. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Werbrouck, M. 1938. Les pleureuses dans l’Égypte ancienne. Brussels: Edition de la Fondation Égyptologique. Whale, S. 1989. The Family in the Eighteenth Dynasty of Egypt: A Study of the Representation of the Family in the Private Tombs. Sydney: Australian Centre for Egyptology. Wileman, J. 2005. Hide and Seek: The Archaeology of Childhood. Stroud: Tempus. Wilfong, T.G. 2013. The oracular amuletic decrees: a question of length. JEA 99: 295–​300. Wilson, P. 2011. Masking and multiple personas. In: P. Kousoulis (ed.), Ancient Egyptian Demonology: Studies on the Boundaries between the Demonic and the Divine in Egyptian Magic. Leuven: Peeters, 77–​89. Yamazaki, N. 2003. Zaubersprüche für Mutter und Kind: Papyrus Berlin 3027. Berlin: Achet.

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21 CHILDREN AND AEGEAN BRONZE AGE RELIGION Ute Günkel-​Maschek

From infancy to the end of adolescence, children were part of the religious life of the Bronze Age societies of Minoan Crete, the Cycladic island of Thera, and Mycenaean Greece. Interest in the study of children and childhood has markedly increased among Aegean Bronze Age archaeologists over the past decades, and the “evidence for the activities, appearance, and social roles of Aegean prehistoric children”, fragmentary and “unevenly distributed … through time and space” as it is, has been brought together in a number of articles (Rutter 2003, esp. 48. Cf. Olsen 1998; Rehak 2007; Papageorgiou 2008; Budin 2010). Building upon these studies, this chapter collects and spotlights the evidence for a range of non-​funerary religious practices that were carried out either by, or for, children of all ages in Aegean prehistory. From the Late Neolithic period until the end of the Late Bronze Age, infants, children and adolescents continuously appear in the records of religious practice and imagery. The majority of sources originate from the late Middle and Late Bronze Age, indicating a clear geographical shift from the Middle Minoan III/​Late Minoan I period (ca. 1700‒1450 BC), when the palatial workshops on Crete and the heavily influenced painters on the nearby island of Thera produced their finest works, to the Late Helladic IIIA/​B mainland (ca. 1400‒1200 BC), when the rise of the Mycenaean palaces generated a considerable increase in artistic production. The focus on art as the primary source of information about the participation of, and the care for, children in non-​funerary religious rituals compensates for the almost total absence of explicit evidence from other archaeological sources. Our understanding of children’s importance for Aegean Bronze Age religion is further hampered by the lack of written sources. Linear B, though mentioning children in other respects (Olsen 1998; Rutter 2003), remains silent about any active or passive roles of children in religious ceremonies. On the other hand, numerous attempts have been made to explain religious scenes depicted in Aegean Bronze Age art by drawing analogies with myths, rites and ceremonies known from the historical periods of ancient Greece and Crete (e.g. Marinatos 1984; Koehl 1986, 2000; Vlachopoulos 2007). Though distant in time, they clearly suggest the persistence of some child-​related religious concepts and practices throughout the centuries, such as the veneration of a goddess concerned with female adolescence and motherhood, but they also bring out the peculiarities of others, such as the possible existence of child sacrifice in Minoan Crete.

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Infants and toddlers in Aegean Bronze Age religion There are a few archaeological artifacts from the Cyclades, Minoan Crete and Mycenaean Greece which can be taken as evidence for non-​funerary religious practices in which the well-​ being of infants and children was sought for by other members of society.

The Cyclades A marble fragment depicting an infant small girl’s body, grasped round the waist by the outstretched hands of a larger, otherwise entirely lost figure, provides evidence of what may once have been an Early Cycladic figurine of the kourotrophos type (Getz-​Gentle 2001: 34–​35, pl. 26c; Rutter 2003:  34–​35, fig.  4). Although any religious functions and uses of Cycladic figurines remain enigmatic, the fragment bears witness to the fact that infants occasionally did receive attention within the figurines’ contexts of use. As with the later Mycenaean kourotrophos figurines (see below), concern for an infant’s well-​being may well have been one aspect of meaning of this unique piece of Early Cycladic sculpture. On the other hand, no evidence has come forward so far of infants and toddlers in non-​ funerary religious activities among the rich archaeological and iconographic records of the Middle and Late Cycladic period.This is all the more surprising when one considers that animals nurturing their young were depicted in early Late Cycladic art: for example, swallows feeding their nestlings (Doumas 1999: 135, figs. 97–​99) and a cow nursing her calf (Vlachopoulos and Zorzos 2014: 195, pl. 67a) in the wall-​paintings of building Xeste 3, Akrotiri, a building specifically designed to accommodate religious rituals for adolescent girls, women and “their” goddess, as will be further explored below.

Minoan Crete A small number of bronze figurines depicting infants and toddlers come from Minoan peak sanctuaries and sacred caves, where they had been deposited as votive offerings. The famous bronze figurine of a seven-​to-​twelve-​month old crawling infant with a shaved head was reportedly found in the Psychro Cave (see this volume, Fig. 2.2a). Of two further bronze figurines depicting toddlers, one is without provenance, whereas the other was unearthed at the peak sanctuary on Mount Juktas (Rutter 2003: 37; Papageorgiou 2008: 89; Budin 2010: 25). It is likely that the figurines of infants and toddlers were placed at these sites by parents or other older members of the family, perhaps to ensure divine protection and good health. Since the majority of anthropomorphic statuettes from peak sanctuaries depict adults and body parts, which highlight health and fertility as a major concern of peak sanctuary ritual, it is reasonable to assume that the bronze toddler from Juktas was dedicated for similar reasons (Budin 2011: 283). Moreover, the detailed rendering of the infants’ heads indicates recent shaving of the hair. Since hair-​growing and cutting was an important element of Cretan and Theran maturation rites, the cutting (and dedication?) of the infant’s (first) hair might have been especially celebrated (cf. Koehl 2000: 137) and thus presented another occasion on which figurines of infants and toddlers were dedicated at peak sanctuaries and in sacred caves during the Minoan Neopalatial period. Figurines made of ivory showing boys with shaven heads at different stages of early childhood have come to light in palatial and settlement contexts at Palaikastro and Archanes (Rutter 2003: 38, figs. 8, 9; Papageorgiou 2008: 89–​90, figs. 3, 4; Chapin 2009: 178). From a pillared hall in Palaikastro, Building Block S, comes a group of two ivory figurines: a four-​or 300

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Figure 21.1  (a) Seated ivory toddler from Palaikastro, Late Minoan I; (b) Late Minoan lentoid sealstone Source: (a) Drawing by U. Günkel-Maschek, after Rutter 2003: 38, fig. 8; (b) Geneva Musée d’Art et d’Histoire 1962. 19775. Drawing by Ute Günkel-Maschek, after CMS X, no. 261

five-​year-​old boy standing upright with one arm close to the body, the other one missing, and a seated ivory toddler, both with shaved heads (Fig. 21.1a). A Late Minoan I lentoid sealstone (Fig. 21.1b) may help to illuminate the conceptual context of the seated toddler from Palaikastro. It shows a seated female figure reaching out with one hand towards a male figure standing in front of her. Two symbols, a sheaf of wheat and a figure resembling the profile view of the Palaikastro ivory toddler are in the air above. Although reading Minoan glyptic images with “hovering symbols” still poses considerable problems, the depiction of a couple expressing its desire or gratitude for a baby may come close to the original meaning of the scene. It has also been interpreted in a mythological sense, with the child being “the desired outcome of sacred marriage, and the sheaf of wheat [being] the equivalent in the agricultural realm” (Marinatos 1993: 191), a scenario with parallels in Greek religion and myth. The gemstone may have been worn as a personal amulet for the creation or protection of a young family. In any case, the depiction apparently associates the subject of the Palaikastro ivory toddler to human or divine couples, fertility and the desire of giving birth to a child. This connection could indicate a religious significance and use of such ivory figurines in more private rituals, which took place within the context of settlements like Palaikastro and addressed the creation and welfare of a family’s offspring.

Mycenaean Greece Religious concern for the well-​being of children and the family may also have found an expression in the kourotrophic imagery of Late Helladic Greece, though this was certainly only one aspect of the multiple meaning and use of the clay figurines commonly found in Mycenaean Greece. Although their history goes back to the Late Neolithic period (Rutter 2003: 34, fig. 1), the age of popularity of kourotrophos figures started in Late Helladic IIB and reached its peak in the Late Helladic IIIA and IIIB period (Budin 2011: 299–​325). They were part of the ritual depositions of the so-​called “Phi”, “Psi” and “Tau” figurines made in settlement contexts, at sanctuary sites and in tombs, mainly on the Greek mainland (see Pilafidis-​Williams 1998: Appendix III for a full list). Of the 78 kourotrophoi known to date, the distinct majority came to light at Mycenae and at Aphaia on Aigina. The figurines have been variously interpreted as children’s toys that were placed alongside the deceased in child burials, or as votive offerings that were deposited 301

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at sacred spots within building and settlement contexts or in sanctuaries to express “a wish for motherhood, or alternatively, thanks for having achieved this goal” (Rutter 2003: 46–​47; for a summary of interpretations see also Budin 2011: 301–​302). Besides the most frequent type of an adult female holding an infant in her arms, variations exist in the form of the adult’s body in the form of the “Phi”, “Psi” or “Tau” type figurines, or in the rendering of the theme to include seated kourotrophoi as well as figural groups consisting of two female adults with one child or of one female adult with one or two children and a parasol (from Mycenae and Aigina; cf. Rutter 2003:  46). In contrast to the Minoan preference for dedicating single figurines of infants and toddlers, treating them as the only objects of religious attention by showing them detached from their family environment, the usage of Mycenaean kourotrophoi figurines attaches more importance to the role of the adult carer, and thus to the family environment, and expresses the wish for the child’s well-​being in direct relation with the figure of its mother or nurse (Rutter 2003: 49). A suggestion of the divinity addressed by the users of kourotrophos figures is given by their frequent devotion at the sanctuary site on Aigina, where no less than 13 kourotrophos figures have been found. Also among the finds were representations of children, if the relatively rare type of the miniature “Phi” figurine without breasts has been interpreted correctly (Pilafidis-​ Williams 1998: 8–​9, 137). The divinity worshipped at the Bronze Age open-​air hill sanctuary on Aigina has been identified as a female deity connected with children, childcare, and with fertility in both human and agricultural contexts (Pilafidis-​Williams 1998:  137–​143). Both the kourotrophoi and the miniature “Phi” figurines thus appear to have been devoted at the Aigina sanctuary to ensure divine protection, health, and welfare for the worshippers and their offspring. Moreover, the quantitative concentration of kourotrophoi at Aphaia on Aigina and at Mycenae, with almost all of the Aigina kourotrophoi being imports from the Argolid (Pilafidis-​Williams 1998: 135, 167) and exhibiting shared iconographic features like the occasional parasol, point to the relative prominence of a religious cult addressing a female deity for the protection of children, adolescents, and of women in their roles as mothers in the Argolid and nearby areas.

Children and adolescents in Aegean Bronze Age religion Mycenaean Greece Mycenae The religious concept of a female deity venerated by women, children and mothers that was witnessed by the Mycenaean clay figures also found its way into Late Helladic IIIB palaces and cult buildings. Fragments of wall-​paintings found in and near the Late Helladic IIIB Cult Center at Mycenae depict a seated female, who is commonly identified as a goddess, holding, or being presented with a miniature-​sized female figure (Rehak 2007: 222; Jones 2009).The identification of this small figure as either a living girl or an idol continues to be debated, although a preference to identify her as a living girl can be noted in recent scholarship (e.g. Rehak 2007; Jones 2009). The girl is raising her head and gazing at the woman in front of her; her arms are held in a gesture of offering. The scene perhaps conveys the idea of dedicating a girl by placing her literally in the hands of a goddess (Immerwahr 1990:  119; Rehak 2007:  222). The findspot of the fragments at the Mycenae Cult Center, where also fragments of a processional woman known as the Mykenaia, who offers a beaded necklace, have come to light (cf. Jones 2009), suggests that they once decorated a sacred space in which especially girls and women participated in religious activities addressing a female deity. The yellow colour of the little girl’s 302

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dress recalls the predilection for this colour (which could be produced by dying with crocus saffron) in other Aegean Bronze Age representations connected to coming-​of-​age ceremonies (e.g. the veil of the Girl with the Veil in Xeste 3 at Akrotiri, Thera). The dedication of girls at the Mycenae Cult Center may thus have been connected to coming-​of-​age rituals, when girls were symbolically committed into the tutelary care of a female deity.

Tiryns Fragments of medium-​sized and life-​sized wall-​paintings from the Upper Citadel at Tiryns include representations of females at different ages from girlhood to adulthood, who belonged to procession scenes decorating important rooms in the Late Helladic IIIB palace (Papadimitriou, Thaler and Maran 2015; Maran, Papadimitriou and Thaler 2015). In the medium-​sized paintings, at least two women are carrying little girls with floral offerings in their hands –​a scene reminiscent of the little girl given into the hands of a deity at Mycenae. The women are followed by slightly smaller female figures, possibly older adolescents, dressed in yellow robes and holding parasols. In one case a still smaller, and therefore younger, female adolescent carrying a bird is walking behind the yellow-​robed adolescent (Papadimitriou, Thaler and Maran 2015: fig. 2). Other fragments show a little, flat-​chested girl walking in front of a group of male adults, whereas another stylistically related fragment depicts a group of processional women, with arms held in the same position as the girl, but with more developed breasts (Maran, Papadimitriou and Thaler 2015: figs. 4, 6). The differences in dress –​flounced skirts and bodices worn by the younger girls and women with accentuated breast development, bordered robes worn by the women carrying the girls and by the assisting older adolescents –​most likely denote differences in the social status of the figures. On one hand, we see members of the palatial elite with their traditional festive dress, which emphasized the female bodily and sexual development and, moreover, conveyed a certain relation to female deities who usually wear the same dress. On the other hand, the bordered robes are likely to denote the females sheltered by parasols as ritual agents, possibly priestesses with their yellow-​robed assistants (cf. Papadimitriou, Thaler and Maran 2015: 188). The Tiryns wall-​paintings thus fundamentally add to our understanding of Mycenaean religious processions with female participants: at an early age, girls were presented by priestly women, if not outright initiated into a community of adolescents (and women) presenting themselves as votaries of a tutelary goddess; later on, they took part in the same event on their own behalf, some as offering-​bearers, others as assistants to priestly women.

The Mycenae gold ring A golden signet ring from Mycenae (Fig. 21.2) reflects this topical prominence of girls and women making floral offerings to goddesses in another, yet again purely elite medium. The engraving shows a procession of two female adults approaching a female figure sitting next to a tree, who, because of her seated position, is commonly identified as a goddess. One of the adult women is holding lilies; the other one has just delivered a bunch of poppies to the goddess.Two small-​sized female figures, presumably children or early adolescents, are depicted in the immediate vicinity of the goddess: one of them is touching the tree, the other one offers crocuses to the goddess.The scene thus once again corroborates the idea of Mycenaean girls’ close relationship with, if not outright their participation in, an early form of “service” to a female goddess. The same goddess appears as the recipient of offerings made by adult women approaching her in procession. The recurring emphasis on their bodily and sexual development (see the rendering of women’s breasts on the Mycenae gold ring, in the Tiryns frescoes and in the fresco 303

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Figure 21.2  Gold ring from Mycenae Source: Athens National Archaeological Museum 992. Drawing by U. Günkel-​Maschek, after CMS I, no. 17

of the Mykenaia from Mycenae) implies that the protection of females to ensure a successful maturation into adulthood was one of the goddess’s main responsibilities.

Akrotiri, Thera The crocus-​gatherers and the goddess of building Xeste 3, Akrotiri, Thera The veneration of a female divinity by girls, women and mothers was also the topic of the wall-​ paintings which decorated the first floor of the Late Cycladic I building Xeste 3 at Akrotiri, Thera (Fig. 21.3). Here the goddess, attended by a griffin, appears as the focal point in a communal autumn festival centering around the gathering of crocuses. Girls dressed in ornate costumes and jewellery go up into the rocky hills and fill their baskets with flowers of saffron-​ crocus, transport them towards a built platform, and empty the baskets into a large container. A blue monkey acts as an intermediary between the earthly environment of the girls and the supernatural sphere of the goddess, to whom he hands over a bunch of saffron threads (cf. Marinatos 1987). This scene formed the focus of the large wall-​painting which decorated the walls of the spacious polythyron hall on the first floor of Xeste 3 (Doumas 1999: 158–​167). The figure of the seated goddess was placed behind a pier-​and-​door partition wall, the openings of which helped to regulate the viewing of the divine figure during the rituals taking place in this part of the building (Günkel-​Maschek 2014: 123–​127). Both the rocky landscape with crocus-​gatherers and a marshy landscape populated by ducks and dragonflies characterised the heavily symbolic environment of the goddess and, at the same time, formed the setting for anyone who took part in rituals focusing on her appearance. This was the place where adolescent girls encountered “their” tutelary goddess in religious ceremonies. And it was also the place approached by adult women and mothers, who were depicted on the adjacent corridor, carrying bunches of flowers and baskets filled with saffron threads to present them as offerings to the goddess (Vlachopoulos 2007: pl. 30). The appearance of the goddess further helps us to understand her defining aspects and domains of responsibility. Her hair-​style combines the main features of the hairstyles worn by 304

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Figure 21.3  Xeste 3, Akrotiri, Thera: goddess and crocus-​gatherers Source: Reconstruction by U. Günkel-​Maschek; based on Doumas 1999: 152–166, figs. 116, 122, 129

the girls of different age stages who are represented in the fresco programme of building Xeste 3: like the youngest girl, the Girl with the Veil depicted on the north wall of the Lustral Basin on the ground floor, she wears the locks of childhood above the forehead and on top of the head; like the crocus-​gatherers on the walls next to herself, she wears the diadem and shaved sideburn areas of pubescence; finally, the long hair falling over her back connects her to the late adolescent females, the Seated Woman and the Girl with the Necklace, depicted again on the north wall of the Lustral Basin (Rehak 2007: 210; Günkel-​Maschek 2014: 126 with figs. 4 and 5). Her skirt shows the typically short, juvenile form, whereas her bodice reveals advanced breast development (Rehak 2007:  211–​212). Crocus flowers decorating her bodice and her cheek symbolically relate her with the crocus-​gatherers on the adjacent walls, with all three female figures on the walls of the Lustral Basin, and with one of the matronly women approaching on the walls of the nearby corridor (Doumas 1999: 168, fig. 131; cf. Rehak 2004: 86–​94). Her jewellery is further imbued with symbolism: the lunate beads of her bracelet “might be a direct allusion to her role as nurturer and protector of the flower-​picking girls” (Rehak 2007: 210–​ 211); the necklace beads in the shapes of ducks and dragonflies echo the dragonflies and ducks populating the marshy landscape, as well as the dragonflies fed by swallows to their young in the aforementioned wall-​painting from the same building. A connection between the goddess and the natural world, with special reference to the reproductive cycle of life, was therefore implied and may have served affirmative and educational purposes for girls and women taking part in religious rituals performed in her honour. The depiction of the seated deity as an “eternal virgin” and “mistress of nature” strongly recalls later concepts of goddesses venerated by adolescent girls, women and mothers, and often enough the Thera goddess has been compared with later Artemis (Rehak 2004, 2007) or Demeter (Marinatos 1984:  72; Vlachopoulos 2007:  111–​116). As for the Bronze Age, the goddess flanked by a griffin certainly was the tutelary goddess of youthful and adult females in the Theran community. Her presence was of central importance to the rituals carried out on 305

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the first floor of building Xeste 3, where the wall-​paintings recall the autumn festival, in which groups of lavishly dressed but barefoot girls went out of the town and climbed up the hills to gather saffron-​crocus for their goddess. This “service” to the goddess, as well as the suggested familiarization with the medicinal and healing properties of saffron, point to the existence of a religiously framed social institution, which was designed to prepare Theran girls for marriage and child-​bearing (cf. Rehak 2007: 223–​224;Vlachopoulos 2007: 111).

Religious activity in front of tree-​shrines A tree-​shrine, stained with blood, marked the focal point of activities in the Lustral Basin of Xeste 3 (Vlachopoulos 2007: pl. 27a). The Theran Lustral Basin copied a Minoan prototype of ritual space and was one of the key areas of ritual ceremony in the building. The religious significance of tree-​shrines, or altars, which are often topped with so-​called horns of consecration, is widely accepted and confirms the religious context of the activities located in front of them (e.g., Marinatos 1984: 74–​75; Marinatos 1993: 181–​184).The function of the sunken area was, it is suggested, connected to female fertility, blood-​shedding, and defloration, so dramatically expressed by the image found here of a Seated Woman with an open skirt and depicted as bleeding (Doumas 1999:  136–​137, fig.  100; cf. Davis 1986:  402–​403; Rehak 2004:  94; Vlachopoulos 2007:  112–​114; Günkel-​Maschek 2014:  126–​127). On the same wall next to her, and also staring into the direction of the tree-​shrine, the Girl with the Veil embodied the transitional stage from childhood to early adolescence (see also this volume, Fig. 2.1b). She is the youngest girl represented in the wall-​paintings of the building, wearing a youthful variant of the girls’ festive dress, the flounced skirt and bodice, and showing the hair-​style of advanced childhood with short, curvy locks above the forehead and on top of the head and long locks growing out of a partially shaved scalp. The decoration of her top with crocus flowers, the symbol par excellence of the goddess, who was the focus of events located on the upper storey of the same building, anticipates the girl’s upcoming duty of gathering crocus for the deity. Comparison with her future peers also reveals that the cutting of the childhood locks must have been part of her initiation, though no evidence exists as to any subsequent ritual deposition or dedication of these locks. In addition, a cord-​like belt became part of the pubescent girls’ dress and may have been donned on the same occasion, to mark the completion of the girls’ entrance into the new age group. The Girl with the Veil’s transitional state, however, was emphasized by a yellow, possibly saffron-​dyed, veil with red dots or beads, which together with the skirt and crocus-​decorated bodice may have been part of a ceremonial dress donned at the event of her initiation (cf. Chapin 2001: 16; Rehak 2004, 2007; Günkel-​Maschek 2014: 123).The depiction of the Girl with the Veil pinpoints the location of related ceremonies either within the Lustral Basin and in front of the tree-​shrine or in the polythyron-​hall outside the Lustral Basin, from where the depiction of the Girl with the Veil was visible through the pier-​and-​door partition (Marinatos 1984: 82–​83, fig. 57; Günkel-​Maschek 2014: 119, fig. 2). In building Xeste 3, then, Theran girls may have been initiated into the community of adolescents and women, who were under the tutelary aegis of a goddess and continued to frequent the building to venerate her during adolescence and beyond. Another female figure, the so-​called Girl with the Necklace, was depicted on the wall next to the downwards stairs of the Lustral Basin (Doumas 1999: 138, fig. 101). A garland made of saffron threads, draped across her upper chest and over her shoulders, signifies her earlier activity as a crocus-​gatherer for the goddess. Her advanced age is indicated by a fully developed breast and long-​g rown hair, though the latter still shows the now long-​g rown back lock of earlier adolescence. It is further accompanied by significant changes in her appearance: a hair band bound 306

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to a knot with loop above the forehead replaces the former diadem, and she wears no longer the belt that had been part of the dress of the crocus-​gatherers. These changes in the appearance of the Girl with the Necklace suggest that she had already reached an advanced stage of puberty, the onset of which may have been celebrated with a dedication of the belt and diadem and with a new hair-​style. As a late adolescent, she is now ready for the next and final rite of passage to adulthood. The position of the Girl with the Necklace on the wall next to the steps makes her literally approach the events taking place in the sunken area and in front of the tree-​shrine depicted on its east wall.The beaded necklace she is carrying in her hand may well have been an offering made to the goddess on this occasion. On the wall of the sunken area itself, the Seated Woman embodied the idea of a fertile and reproductive female and dramatically represented the social transition from adolescence to adulthood (Günkel-​Maschek 2014). The tree-​shrine was also visible from the adjacent room to the west, which was separated only by a low balustrade from the Lustral Basin itself. Thus, both spaces were designed as a unit to accommodate rituals in front of the tree-​shrine. The neighbouring area was accessible via a corridor with wall-​paintings showing male figures approaching in procession. The detailed rendering of their bodily development is accompanied by varying hairstyles to represent the individual age-​g rades experienced by pre-​adult Therans during adolescence (Chapin 2009). The naked figures in procession are carrying a cup, a large bowl and a piece of cloth towards a pre-​adult, dressed male handling a hydria (Doumas 1999: 146–​147, figs. 109–​111), implying some act of ritual cleansing and libation upon entering the area in front of the tree-​shrine. Altogether, the spatial arrangement suggests the accommodation of rituals in which men and women participated together to mark the end of adolescence in Theran society. Thus, the celebration of marriage could well have been one of the ceremonies the building had been designed for (cf. Davis 1986: 402–​403; Koehl 1986: 139–​141).

Offering fish and incense in the West House at Akrotiri Another public festival was chosen by the owner of the West House at Akrotiri, Thera, to shape an appropriate framework for ritual activities located in Room 5 of this building (cf. Marinatos 1984: 34–​61; Doumas 1999: 45–​85). The miniature scenes in the upper zone of the walls show a marine festival, with a procession of lavishly decorated ships arriving at a Minoan town. Large-​sized representations in the vertical panels below complement the religious nature of the event. Two adolescent Fisherboys present strings of common dolphinfish, and since this species is generally difficult to catch, it has been argued that the autumnal fishing of dolphinfish was a feat to be accomplished by Theran male adolescents in honour of a divinity (Papageorgiou 2000: 964–​966; cf. Marinatos 1993: 216–​217; see also this volume, Fig. 2.2h). On the right-​hand jamb of the door leading into Room 5, the girl known as the Young Priestess was depicted. She carries an incense burner and places threads on it, thus making an offering of incense (Doumas 1999:  56, fig. 24 Papageorgiou 2000:  959–​964). The locks of childhood on the otherwise shaved head designate her as an age-​mate of the Girl with the Veil from building Xeste 3, with whom she also shares a saffron-​yellow garment as the major element of her ceremonial dress.The offering of incense may have been another way of pleasing the Theran goddess with saffron, and it is certainly no coincidence that this religious duty was fulfilled by the girls of Theran families. The offerings of both incense and dolphinfish strengthen the efficacy of the religious rituals performed in Room 5. The fact that the children and adolescents were entrusted with making the offerings confirms the importance allocated to them in fulfilling religious duties in Theran society (cf. Papageorgiou 2000). 307

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Minoan Crete Girls in religious contexts A certain popularity of the crocus motif among specifically female items like hairpins and faience models in the shape of decorated dresses has also been noted in Minoan Crete (Rehak 2004). However, no divinity has been unambiguously identified as having been decidedly connected to girl children and adolescents. Children actively engaging in religious activity only rarely occur in Cretan art, and they are remarkably absent from the Minoan palaces, the centres of religious cult in the Minoan towns. Neither have children older than infants been recognized among the hundreds of anthropomorphic clay figurines found at Minoan peak sanctuaries, a distinctive feature of Minoan religion used mainly from the Middle Minoan until the end of the Late Minoan I period (Rutter 2003: 36). If child-​sized figures are depicted in religious scenes, these are “chiefly female, which reflects the important role played in rituals by adult women of the Minoan elite” (Papageorgiou 2008: 90). The rendering on a gold ring found recently at Pylos of a small female figure presenting an oblong curving object to a taller one sitting on a throne (Davis and Stocker 2016: 645–​646, fig. 12) now joins the representations of a short-​skirted figure raising an oblong object before a seated female on a sealing from Khania (CMS V Suppl. 1A, no. 177), and of a short-​skirted figure offering a rhyton to a seated woman on a sealing from Ayia Triada (CMS II.6, no. 8), which have been identified as depictions of girls making offerings to a seated goddess (Rehak 2007: 216–​217; cf. Marinatos 1993: 160). Girls also appear in a series of glyptic scenes where they perform together with an adult female. A gold ring (Davis and Stocker 2016: 641, fig. 10), a sealing made by a metal ring (CMS II.6, no. 1) and two lentoid sealstones (CMS II.3, no. 218; I, no. 159) each depict a group of two small female figures framing a large one. The girls in the seal images have been interpreted variously as “younger novices, instructed by the high priestess into the secrets of the cult” (Marinatos 1993: 188), or as “a pair of young acolytes” (Rutter 2003: 42) participating in some sort of dance. The ring impression and the gold ring identify this group as being located in front of a tree-​shrine. A similar tree-​shrine has already been encountered as the focus of rituals in the Lustral Basin of building Xeste 3, Akrotiri. Bearing in mind that this architectural form had been borrowed from Minoan Crete, it becomes obvious that similar ideas existed both on Crete and on Thera regarding the joint performance of rituals by girls and late adolescent (or adult) females in front of tree-​shrines. Moreover, all three figures are wearing wreaths with wing-like excrescences around their necks, some sort of long streamer hanging nearly to the ground behind their back, and double belts around their waists. The importance of some elements of female dress such as belts in Minoan Crete and Thera is reflected by their often very detailed representation on female figures and figurines, but also as objects per se (Rehak 2004: 95). The seal images just mentioned thus represent a very specific type of ceremonial dress worn by girls and women alike on the occasion of a particular type of ritual ceremony in front of tree-​shrines. Another religious performance is represented by a unique bronze figurine of a little girl, now in Khania (Papageorgiou 2008: 90–​91, fig. 7; see also this volume, Fig. 2.1a). She is the only female bronze figurine from the Aegean Bronze Age who is completely nude. Her head is shaved apart from a small curl on the back, resembling the hair-​style of the youngest crocus-​ gatherer from Xeste 3. The girl raises her hand to the forehead, performing the so-​called adoration gesture well known from bronze figurines of adult votaries. Although the circumstances

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of its dedication remain elusive, the bronze figurine proves the early familiarization of girls from Minoan elite families with the religious practices of the day.

Boys in religious contexts In contrast to girls, who can be recognized among Minoan glyptic images and bronze figurines, representations of young boys fulfilling religious duties are remarkably absent from Minoan imagery. Leaving aside the possibility that the now missing right arm of the four-​or five-​ year-​old standing ivory boy from Palaikastro was once raised to the forehead in the so-​called adoration gesture, it was apparently only at an advanced adolescent age that male figures started to perform in activities with an established religious context. Male figures depicted as bull-​leapers, hunters, boxers and in processions on Minoan relief-​ carved stone vessels, and also figurines and statuettes of boxers, worshippers and armed males, have been variedly described as “youthful” due to their bodily details (e.g. Säflund 1987; Marinatos 2005). Although, in many instances, it is debatable whether adolescents or a Minoan male “in the prime of his adult life” (Koehl 1986: 103) are represented, contests between man and man, or between man and animal, are likely to have been part of Cretan boys’ education and may have been connected to rites of passage (Säflund 1987; Marinatos 1993:  212–​220; 2005; Koehl 1986, 2000). Religious contexts are indicated by the columns, altars or “horns of consecration” marking the environment of these contests. Moreover, clay figurines of youthful boxers found at the Minoan open-​air sanctuary at Kophinas (Rethemiotakis 2001: 124–​129, figs. 137, 138)  and those of armed male youths from the Petsofas peak sanctuary (cf. Budin 2010: 11–​12; Koehl 2000) may have been dedicated by members of late adolescent age-​g roups. Furthermore, Minoan relief-​carved stone vessels of ritual shape and use, on which exclusively male protagonists appear in depictions of contests and processions, may have been specifically designed for usage in male ceremonies (Marinatos 2005). In two cases, adolescent boys are represented. On the “Harvester Vase”, a stone libation vessel from Ayia Triada, five adolescent boys, recognizable from their smaller size, bring up the rear of the procession of “harvesters” on the stone rhyton, a distinctive form of Minoan libation vessel (Blakolmer 2007). The initiation of a decidedly younger male figure to the age-​group of long-​haired boxers and bull-​leapers is depicted on the so-​called “Chieftain Cup”, a Late Minoan I relief-​carved stone chalice from Ayia Triada (Koehl 1986; see also this volume, Fig. 2.2f–​g). It has been argued that this initiation ritual marked the beginning of a stage in life during which the younger male would undergo a period of seclusion, hunting and feasting in the country, before he returned to take on adult roles in society (Koehl 1986). Hunting bulls and sacrificing agrimi were challenges that also had to be overcome by their age-​mates on the neighbouring island of Thera. Such images formed the main theme of the wall-​paintings in the entrance vestibule of building Xeste 3 (Vlachopoulos 2007: 108–​109, pl. 26). The discovery of hundreds of pairs of horns of sacrificed animals, primarily of goats, in a building bordering the small square outside the same vestibule corroborates the fact that animal sacrifice took place in this part of the settlement (Vlachopoulos 2007: 109). Allusion to sacrifice is also made by the tree-​shrine, stained with blood, which was depicted on the eastern wall of the Lustral Basin in Xeste 3 itself, where it constituted the shared focus of joint male and female rituals (see above). In this way, animal sacrifice was directly related to the ceremonial events in front of the tree-​ shrine, which for Theran males and females marked the transition to social adulthood through marriage. If Cretan males pursued a similar cycle of age-​g rade initiations, the Chieftain Cup most likely depicted the event of an adolescent’s entry into the Cretan community of pre-​adult males, who figured so prominently as bull-​leapers, boxers and hunters, before they entered 309

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the next stage through marriage. Interestingly, the shape of the Chieftain Cup resembles the clay and stone chalices which have been unearthed by the thousands at the later sanctuary of Hermes and Aphrodite at Kato Syme on Crete (Koehl 1986: 107–​108; 2000: 137–​138). The shape of the Chieftain Cup thus suggests a link between the depicted scene and a sanctuary whose connection to male rites of passage persisted from the Bronze Age well into the historical period.

The Palaikastro Kouros The outstanding role of a male adolescent in Minoan religious ritual is represented at its best by the so-​called Palaikastro Kouros, a chryselephantine statuette found in many pieces in a Late Minoan IB destruction context (MacGillivray, Driessen and Sackett 2000; see also this volume, Fig. 2.2j). His partially tonsured head and bodily proportions identify him as a male in late adolescence and an age-​mate of the Clothbearer, the oldest male figure shown in the procession approaching the Lustral Basin area of building Xeste 3, Akrotiri (Chapin 2009: 180; Koehl 2000: 134–​137). His body posture with the hands-​on-​chest gesture parallels Middle Minoan clay figurines of male armed youths, recognizable by their hair-​locks, which were dedicated at the close-​by peak sanctuary at Petsofas.They are commonly interpreted as representations of human votaries. Due to its scale, its high-​value material and its discovery in a shrine, the Palaikastro Kouros is, however, identified as a divinity, representing, perhaps, the Megistos Kouros praised in the Diktaian Hymn from the later Eteocretan town of Palaikastro (MacGillivray and Sackett 2000). In any case, the statuette attests the existence of a religious cult focusing on a divine or heroic adolescent male in Minoan Crete, and in the Palaikastro region in particular. Although its meaning and use may have changed over the course of the Middle and Late Bronze Age, the importance of this type of figure is still reflected in the Late Minoan II figural group known as the Mavrospelio Kourotrophos, in which a female figure presents an idol of the Megistos Kouros (Budin 2009:  8–​16). Furthermore, it found its way into glyptic depictions of the “Master of Animals”, where it was accompanied by “horns of consecration”, winged agrimi and genii (CMS V, no. 201), lions (CMS II.3, no. 193) or canines (CMS II.8, no. 248), supporting the figure’s identification as a god or hero (Marinatos 1993: 169; Budin 2011: 99–​100; Aamodt 2012: 43). The history of the Palaikastro Kouros, however, ended in the Late Minoan IB destruction of the shrine building, when he was shattered to fragments in an intentional act of violence.

The sacrificial killing of children and adolescents in Minoan Crete This iconoclastic destruction of the Palaikastro Kouros was not the only instance of ‘killing’ an adolescent in Minoan culture. As noted earlier, archaeological evidence connecting children with non-​funerary religious ritual is hard to find outside the repertoire of Aegean Bronze Age imagery. There are, however, certain extraordinary cases of skeletal remains of children and adolescents which could be the result of human sacrifice in Minoan Crete (see generally Rutter 2003: 36; Hughes 1991). In the southwesternmost chamber of a building at Anemospilia, on the northern slope of Mount Juktas, which suffered massive earthquake destruction in Middle Minoan IIIA, the body of an approximately 18-​year-​old man has been found lying on a raised platform and identified by the excavators as the remains of a human sacrifice (Sakellarakis and Sapouna-​Sakellaraki 1981). Furthermore, in a Late Minoan IB destruction context at Knossos, the bones of four “pre-​adolescent children, two of which could be aged accurately to twelve 310

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and eight years respectively” have been found together with remains of sacrificed sheep (Wall, Musgrave, and Warren 1986:  esp.  378). Cutting marks on both the human and the animal bones indicate the removal of flesh for cooking and led to the reconstruction of combined human and animal sacrifice. At Khania, excavation in a courtyard area near the west entrance of the palatial building recently unearthed a Late Minoan IIIB deposit containing seeds, the bones of sheep/​goat, a pig and two oxen, as well as parts of a young woman (Andreadaki-​ Vlazaki 2015). In all cases, the deposits immediately preceded major destructions of the sites, and the possibility that, in Minoan Crete, children and adolescents were killed and sacrificed together with animals at times of crisis cannot be ruled out. In the case of Knossos and Khania, the remains of the allegedly sacrificed children and adolescents were deposited together with bones of animals treated in the same ways as the human victims. Questions remain, however, as to whether these cases really do represent “human sacrifices” at all and, if so, whether these were offered to divinities or heroes and whether they were forms of ritual killing which were reserved for extreme cases of crisis, such as ongoing severe seismic activities or warlike operations (Hughes 1991: 2–​ 3). After all, it is at least possible that the idea of sacrificing children and adolescents in order to appease superhuman powers existed in Bronze Age Crete and thus became part of the mythical age which was still remembered in the historical periods of ancient Greece.

Conclusion Despite the fragmentary nature of the archaeological evidence, children had a well-​defined place in the world of Aegean Bronze Age religion. From the age of infancy onwards, maybe even before they were born, their well-​being was sought in the religious dedication of figurines such as the statuettes of infants and toddlers on the island of Crete, and the kourotrophoi in the early Cyclades and on the Greek mainland.The nature of these dedications reflects two different approaches as to how the youngest members of society were brought before their gods: on one hand, as social individuals and members of their peer-​g roup in Minoan Crete, where the infant’s statuette was left to receive divine benevolence; on the other hand, as part of a family structure seeking, it seems, a more family-​related blessing in Greece and the Cyclades. It was only upon entering adolescence that children took on active roles in religious rituals. The predominance of girls performing in rituals addressing a female deity has been noted across all areas of the Late Bronze Age Aegean. With images as our main source, the depictions of girls’ religious performances in wall-​painting not only inform us about the participants and the divinity, but they also indicate that the decorated building itself was visited and used by girls, helping us to further pinpoint locations where girls carried out religious activities within built environments of the Late Bronze Age Aegean. On the other hand, the frequent depiction in seal imagery of girls presenting objects to a seated female reveals the general importance of girls in the religious worship of that same divinity, in particular as these images were used both as personal décor and in administrative processes. In Crete and Thera, boys and male adolescents are shown in ritual activities such as processions, athletic combats or the hunting, killing and sacrificing of animals, the religious nature of which can often be deduced from surrounding settings and contexts. Unlike the girls, they are never shown en face with any divinity. The assemblages of figurines from Minoan Crete, however, offer intriguing evidence to suggest that male youths made votive offerings at sanctuary sites. Furthermore, there was a male god or hero of late adolescent age whose worship may have been particularly popular with young male members of Minoan society.Together with the remains of sacrificed animals linked to the rituals performed in building Xeste 3, Akrotiri, it becomes clear 311

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that, while female adolescents are predominant in images of religious activity, traces of religious practices performed by male adolescents can clearly be detected in the archaeological records of shrines, sanctuaries and settlements. This evidence may also help to explain the apparent absence of boys and male adolescents from Mycenaean religious contexts which, if not purely a matter of poor preservation, may equally be due to a different nature of religious practices which, unlike those of girls and women, left little to no traces in Mycenaean religious imagery.

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22 INITIATING CHILDREN INTO ITALIAN BRONZE AND EARLY IRON AGE RITUAL, RELIGION AND COSMOLOGY Erik van Rossenberg

Introduction The evidence for the role of children in ritual and religion in the Italian Bronze and Early Iron Age is prehistoric in character. Textual sources are absent altogether, unlike the situation in Bronze Age Greece and Pharaonic Egypt. Another research bias is the scarcity of direct evidence in the iconographic and archaeological records for children as ritual agents and/​or performers. Such scarcity is even more pronounced if we keep the duration of the period under discussion in mind, since in the Italian context the Bronze Age (c. 2200–​1000 BC) and Early Iron Age (c. 1000–​700 BC) lasted about one and a half millennia (Bietti Sestieri 2010). Most direct evidence for children is found in funerary contexts, both as individual burials in formal cemeteries and in places that were not strictly reserved for burial, such as inside caves or within settlements (Perego, and Fulminante and Stoddart, this volume). These latter forms of burial were sometimes adopted for specific age groups only. They betray the intersections of funerary, religious and domestic practices that we should expect in prehistoric life (Brück 1999), but are easily overlooked if our focus is on formal cemeteries alone. In an attempt to get closer to the lived experience of children and adolescents, I will be looking for places where their initiation into religion, ritual and cosmology took place. Here I  distinguish between religion and ritual as practice, and cosmology as a culturally specific body of knowledge and ideas about how the world is constituted:  cosmological principles underlie religion and ritual as well as social life. From the perspective of socialisation and enculturation, iconographic evidence can be linked to places where children learnt how gendered notions of adult personhood intersected with cosmology. Keeping in mind the complexities of the interpretation of child-​related artefacts (Camp 2008), I will discuss figurines and miniatures from the perspective of becoming familiar with how the world works, in both social and cosmological terms. Finally, I will try and extend our view of the large formal cemeteries that emerged as a social arena in the Early Iron Age as a result of aristocratic competition for status (Bartoloni 2003), to include a consideration of the initiation of children into how the world works. 314

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Burial outside cemeteries The trend recounted in big picture narratives of Italian Bronze and Early Iron Age religion is a change from ritual practices of deposition focused on caves and lakes in the Bronze Age to the emergence of proper sanctuaries in the Early Iron Age, with symbolic investment in funerary contexts and an increase in ritual practice in settlements in the Final Bronze Age as a transformative phase (Guidi 2015). This timeline accords with the scholarly discourse on the development of social complexity focused similarly on the Bronze-​Iron Age transition and early state formation towards Archaic society (Pacciarelli 2000; Bietti Sestieri 2010). The selective focus on what happened at this transitional stage makes the deep history of Bronze Age cave use in Neolithic and Copper Age religious practices, which were performed not infrequently in the same caves (Pacciarelli 1997), seem insignificant. Similarly, a concern with change seems to disregard the possibility that the presence of burials and human remains in settlements was a diachronic phenomenon and can be regarded as a relatively unchanging characteristic of Bronze and Early Iron Age domestic religion (Bartoloni and Benedettini 2007/​2008).

Children in caves Selective burial of children in Italian caves is a funerary tradition that can be traced back at least a few millennia before the Bronze Age to the Neolithic period, for instance in Abruzzo (Skeates 1991). Children were also part of Copper-​Early Bronze Age traditions of cave burial, in some cases involving sub-​adult individuals in greater numbers than adults, for instance in Tuscany (Cocchi Genick 1998: 362). This should be compared, however, with the expectation of higher mortality rates for infants and children in pre-​modern times. This is seldom reflected in the actual demographics of cemeteries in Italian prehistory and would indicate an age threshold for inclusion (or selection against children) in formalised funerary practices (Fulminante and Stoddart, and also Perego, this volume). In this respect, the Early Bronze Age cemetery at the rock shelter of Romagnano Loc in Trentino is an exceptional case comprising predominantly sub-​adult age groups. It includes burials of three foetuses, 15 neonates (