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Origin Of The Word ‘Crusade’ And ‘Crusader’

When the First Crusade (c. 1095-1099) was launched, it was a new concept and became a new era. As is common in history, the labels applied to the event, such as ‘crusade’ and ‘crusader,’ were later inventions, coined by people who lived after the lifespans of those who were actually involved in the First Crusade. Although the terms were finalized and popularized about a century after the original war, the ideas and experiences that would eventually inspire the words ‘crusader’ and ‘crusade’ can be traced back to the writings of early participants in the event.

When Pope Urban II, at Clermont in 1095, proposed the concept that would become the First Crusade, he had not coined a specific name for the campaign he was envisioning. In his official speech and in letters, he described his idea as an armed pilgrimage or a God-approved, non-sinful war to reclaim the Holy Lands for Christendom. These core concepts influenced early names by which the participants identified themselves. Labels based on the Latin words iter (path/journey), expeditio (campaign/expedition), and peregrinatio (pilgrimage) were used to describe the event and the participants, and one of the most common plural terms for the people involved was peregrini (pilgrims).

Even though the cross (or more importantly embracing/wearing the sign of the cross) was not featured in these early naming conventions, it remained at the forefront of the minds of those who marched on Jerusalem. This is not surprising, as Urban II reportedly had his hordes of armed pilgrims sew crosses to their garments as a sign of their commitment to undertake the journey. Fulcher of Chartres (c. 1059-1127), who joined the First Crusade in the army of Count Robert Curthose of Normandy, Count Robert of Flanders and Count Stephen of Blois, mentioned the crosses that his comrades wore:

“Oh, how worthy and delightful to all of us who saw those beautiful crosses, either silken or woven of gold, or of any material, which the pilgrims sewed on the shoulders of their woolen cloaks or cassocks by the command of the Pope, after taking the vow to go. To be sure, God’s soldiers, who were making themselves ready for battle in His honor, ought to have been marked and fortified with a sign of victory” (Chronicle of Fulcher of Chartres, 1.4.4).

Although these sewn symbols were displayed prominently on the armed pilgrims who answered Pope Urban’s call, it took time for labels to be coined that referenced the crosses. By the late 12th century, new words inspired by the cross began to overtake the original talk of pilgrimages and expeditions carried out by pilgrims. Commentators of those later ages started using names such as the crosata or the croseria as a designation for the military campaign, and the participants who fought in the movement began to be overwhelmingly  referred to as crucesignatti, meaning “those signed with the Cross.” These terms, after further revisions and translations, led to the famous labels of Crusade and Crusaders.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Illustration of Louis IX from manuscript BL Royal 16 G VI, f. 404v, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the British Library.jpg).

 

Sources:

  • The First Crusade: The Chronicle of Fulcher of Chartres and Other Source Materials (Second Edition), edited by Edward Peters. Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1971, 1988.

Victory Of Alexander the Great Over Poros, King Of India, By Franciszek Smuglewicz (c. 1745-1807)

This painting, by the Polish-Lithuanian artist Franciszek Smuglewicz (c. 1745-1807), was inspired by a battle won by Alexander the Great (r. 336-323 BCE) at the end of his impressive career. Smuglewicz’s painting is set in the year 326 BCE, by which point Alexander had already conquered vast amounts of land. Long ago was the time when he pushed his way through Anatolia and trekked down the Mediterranean coast to Egypt. Years had passed since he relentlessly pierced through the Achaemenid Empire of Persia, defeating its King of Kings and claiming its land as his own. By 326 BCE, after the Achaemenid Dynasty was toppled and other vestiges of Persian resistance were crushed, Alexander the Great and his army had moved on to campaign in the borderlands of India. There, Alexander clashed with a local king who was known to the Greeks as Porus. The opposing forces met in the Battle of the Hydaspes, named after a river that commonly identified with the modern Jhelum River.

As told in the account of the battle written by the historian, Arrian (c. 90-173+), Alexander launched a three-pronged assault across the river and was able to successfully maneuver his cavalry and infantry to encircle Porus’ army. Porus had elephants on his side, but these creatures had a reputation for being fickle in battle, sometimes posing just as much of a threat to their own army as to the opposing side. Whatever the case, Alexander was able to contain and overcome the challenge posed by the elephants during the foray. Arrian described the battle:

“Among the [Indian] dead were two sons of Porus, Spiaces the local Indian governor, all the officers in command of the elephants and chariots, and all the cavalry officers and other commanders of high rank. The surviving elephants were captured…Throughout the action Porus had proved himself a man indeed, not only as a commander but as a soldier of the truest courage…It was only when he was himself wounded that he turned the elephant on which he rode and began to withdraw” (Arrian, Anabasis of Alexander, 5.18).

It is difficult to say what particular part of the battle Franciszek Smuglewicz wished to re-create in his painting. Based on the injured bejeweled man (dressed in white and gold colors) who is seemingly being lowered to the ground in the foreground of the artwork, the scene is likely connected to the actions of Porus’ family during the battle. Perhaps the artwork shows the death of one of Porus’ sons, or maybe the expensively-dressed figure is meant to be King Porus, himself, who suffered a non-fatal injury during the battle. The latter might be the better explanation, for Alexander the Great evidently admired the Indian king and, after accepting his surrender, Alexander let Porus continue to govern the local area. Alexander’s admiration of (and future plans for) King Porus might explain why the Greek warriors seem to be gently easing the regal Indian figure toward the ground.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

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Rudder-Gaut’s Impressive Walloping Of A Viking

A man named Gaut was in the entourage of a certain Thorir “Flap” Ketilsson, who decided to move to Iceland during a period of time known as the Age of Settlement (c. 860-930). During their voyage to the island, Thorir and his crew were reportedly harassed by a ship of Vikings, who wanted all the goods that the Iceland-bound settlers were carrying. It was during the ensuing tense standoff that Gaut made his mark. According to the Icelandic Book of Settlements, “[the] vikings came at them intending to rob them, but Gaut struck the forecastleman with a rudder, so the vikings sailed off” (Landnámabók, Stulubók manuscript, chapter 237).

Gaut apparently clobbered his Viking opponent to such an extent with the rudder that the remaining Vikings decided that the goods on Thorir’s ship were no longer worth the risk if they had to face Gaut; therefore, the pirates promptly sailed away. Gaut’s feat greatly impressed his comrades among Thorir’s crew, and they all began calling him Rudder-Gaut from that time onward. Further details about the life of Rudder-Gaut are vague, but he presumably remained in the entourage of Thorir Flap, who successfully settled in the Eyjafjörður region of Iceland.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Illustration till Herrauds och Bosa Saga, by Pehr Hörberg (c. 1746-1816), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the National Museum of Stockholm Sweden).

 

Sources:

  • The Book of Settlements (Sturlubók version) translated by Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1972, 2006.

A Forest With Apollo And Daphne, by Jean-Victor Bertin (c. 1767-1842)

This heavily-wooded landscape painting, by the French artist Jean-Victor Bertin (c. 1767-1842), alludes to the sad myth of Apollo and Daphne. In the dimly lit bottom-left corner of the painting, the two main figures of the myth can be seen. The first of the two is the Naiad nymph, Daphne, depicted as the fleeing woman dressed in blue. Daphne’s father was a minor river god, but even he would not be able to save her, for Daphne’s pursuer was the even mightier god, Apollo. Yet, in this particular myth, Apollo is not fully to blame for his aggressive actions. As the story goes, mischievous Eros (or Cupid) was the deity that set this unhappy series of events in motion.

According to myth, Daphne had the misfortune of being near Apollo and Cupid while the two archer-gods insulted each other in an argument over which of them had a better claim to their favorite weapon—the bow. Apollo won the verbal debate, but Cupid was eager to seek revenge through a palpable display of his power over desire. The Roman poet, Ovid (43 BCE-17 CE) described the event:

“[Cupid] beat his wings and cut a path through the atmosphere,
nimbly alighting upon the heights of shady Parnassus.
Once there he drew from his quiver two arrows of contrary purpose:
one is for rousing passion, the other is meant to repel it.
The former is made of gold, and its head has a sharp, bright point,
while the latter is blunt and weighted with lead [on] one side of the reed shaft.
That was the arrow which Cupid implanted in Daphne’s bosom;
the other was aimed at Apollo and smote to the core of his being.
Phoebus [Apollo] at once was filled with desire, but Daphne fled
from the very thought of a lover”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, 1.466-475)

In Jean-Victor Bertin’s painting, Cupid/Eros decided to leave the scene of the crime, leaving his victims to continue their battle of escape and pursuit. According to the myth, Apollo was faster than Daphne, and he was steadily gaining ground on her. Yet, although Daphne’s physical strength and endurance was lacking, her adamant resolve to stay free of Apollo’s clutches remained unwavering. Daphne’s determination to get away, however,  did not damper Apollo’s aroused mood. Ovid skillfully continued the tale:

“Flight made her all the more lovely; but now the god in his youthful
ardour was ready no longer to squander his breath on wheedling
pleas. Spurred on by desire, he followed the trail with new vigour.
Imagine a greyhound, imagine a hare it has sighted in open
country: one running to capture his prey, the other for safety.”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, 1.530-534)

In the end, the Naiad nymph had to take drastic action to escape her pursuer. As the story goes, Daphne thwarted Apollo’s desires by transforming herself into a laurel tree. Although Apollo could not fulfill his Cupid-inspired passions, his devotion to Daphne was said to have continued after her transformation through a newfound platonic affection for laurels.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

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Lucan

Lucan (c. 39-65)

“When faith and duty
desert, and our last hope is immorality,
let discord put an end to civil war.”

  • From Lucan’s Civil War (Book 5, between approximately lines 310-315), translated by Matthew Fox (Penguin Classics, 2012).

The Holy Dictatorship Of Publius Valerius Publicola

In the early centuries of the ancient Roman Republic, the people of Rome frequently relied on dictatorships to survive against existential threats. Early Republic dictatorships such as these traditionally lasted about six months, during which time Rome hopefully overcame the crisis it faced. Yet, the ancient Romans seemed to have had a broad definition for what qualified as an existential threat or crisis. If Rome was fighting a complicated war on multiple fronts, the early Romans might declare a dictatorship. If a hostile army or large rogue raiding party unexpectedly entered Roman territory, the early Romans might declare a dictatorship. If the plebeians were becoming too unruly at home around election time, early Romans might declare a dictatorship. These were common reasons for the Roman Republic to appoint dictators during the first couple centuries of its existence. A man named Publius Valerius Publicola, however, was proclaimed a dictator for a much more unique reason—he was given dictatorial power so that he could lead Rome and its neighbors in celebrating a holiday.

The year was 344 BCE, and the people of Rome at that time were reportedly experiencing ominous signs of extreme divine displeasure toward the Romans. As told by the Roman historian, Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE), “a shower of stones rained down and darkness spread over the sky in the daytime. The Books were consulted and, as the City was full of religious forebodings, the Senate decided to appoint a dictator to arrange a public holiday for religious observance” (Livy, Roman History, 7.28). Such was the mission that Publius Valerius Publicola was tasked with during his dictatorship.

Although the dictator’s goals here did not directly involve the military, he did apparently employ force at various times to further his religious objectives. For one, he and his allies in the Roman government reportedly carried out a crackdown on businesses that the gods supposedly found displeasing, such as moneylending. And since, as Livy claimed, “It was agreed that not only the Roman tribes but also neighboring peoples should offer supplication…” (Roman History, 7.28), Publius Valerius Publicola might have needed to call out the military to compel non-compliant cities to join the holiday celebrations.

Unfortunately, no more details about the dictator’s religious holiday were recorded. Similarly, no record was made on if the divine omens and signs improved in Rome after the celebration. Whatever the case, the dictatorship came to an end, and Publius Valerius Publicola relinquished his power.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (The Triumph of Marius, painted by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (c. 1696–1770), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the MET).

 

Sources:

  • The History of Rome (Rome and Italy) by Livy, translated by Betty Radice. New York: Penguin Classics, 1982.

Magnanimity Of Scipio, Painted By Gerard Hoet (c. 1648-1733)

This painting, by the Dutch artist Gerard Hoet (c. 1648-1733), re-creates a legend that was said to have occurred in Spain around the year 209 BCE. At that time, Rome and Carthage were clashing in the Second Punic War (c. 218-201 BCE), and a new Roman general named Publius Cornelius Scipio was beginning to gain momentum in Spain. Around that year (209 BCE), Scipio was able to conquer the city of New Carthage. During this siege and other similar battles, Scipio came into the possession of a great many captives, and it was in Scipio’s reported treatment of these prisoners that the seed of a legend took root. Although it was sadly not uncommon for prisoners and civilians under occupation to be faced with horrors and atrocities in the ancient world, Publius Cornelius Scipio was said to have decided to try kindness for a change. As told by the Greek historian Polybius (c. 200-118 BCE), “In Spain Publius Scipio, the Roman Commander, was spending the winter at Tarraco, and there his first achievement was to win the trust and friendship of the Spaniards by restoring the hostages to their various families” (Polybius, The Histories, 10.34). Gerard Hoet’s painting involves one particular captive that Scipio freed in Spain.

Unfortunately, the name of the captive at the heart of this legend remained unknown—only her looks and her connections were remembered by history. As the story goes, our mystery woman was the ultimate embodiment of feminine beauty, and she had been engaged to marry a certain Celtiberian chieftain, named Allucius, when she had the misfortune of falling into the hands of a Roman army. Describing the captive’s appearance, the Roman historian Livy (59 BCE-17 CE) wrote, “She was a young girl and so beautiful that everyone turned to look at her wherever she went” (Livy, Roman History, 26.50). Unfortunately, not all of these roving eyes had good wishes or intentions. The endangered captive’s parents and fiancée knew the danger that the young woman was in, and their concerns were likely not alleviated when they learned that the Roman general, himself, had taken special interest in her. But, in this case, their fears were thankfully unfounded.

Scipio, after investigating the background of the woman, reportedly came up with a plan that was both benevolent and beneficial to Rome’s political and military interests. According to the tale, Scipio invited the captive woman’s family and significant other to the Roman military camp and then proceeded to shock them all with kindness and generosity. Livy described the chaotic scene:

“Then the parents and relatives of the girl were sent for. They had brought with them a weight of gold sufficient for her ransom, and when they found she was being restored to them for nothing, they begged Scipio to take the treasure as a gift, declaring that they would be as grateful for his acceptance as they were for the restoration of the girl in her virgin innocence. In reply to their urgent treaties Scipio agreed to take it; then, having asked for it to be laid at his feet, he called Allucius and told him to take the gold and keep it for his own, saying ‘This is my wedding present, to be added to the dowry you will receive from your bride’s father” (Livy, Roman History, 26.50).

It is this tale that is re-created in the painting above. The unnamed beautiful captive is seen standing on the right side of the canvas. She looks across at her parents and relatives, who are presenting treasures that they hoped would pay for their loved one’s freedom. Publius Cornelius Scipio, however, refuses the wealth and instead frees the woman, free of charge. Allucius, thankful for the mercy and generosity that was shown, would later reportedly bring a warband of around 1,400 cavalry to aid the Romans. As for Publius Cornelius Scipio, he would continue battling the Carthaginians, ultimately defeating Hannibal at the Battle of Zama in 202 BCE. Not long after the battle, Carthage capitulated to the Romans and the victorious general received a new name—Scipio Africanus.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

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The Hilltop Battle Of Consul Popilius Of Rome Against A Gallic Army

According to the Roman historian, Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE), a Gallic warband wandered into Roman territory around 350 BCE, which caused alarm in the city of Rome. Such sporadic appearances of Gallic troops were a recurring problem for the Romans in the 4th century BCE, with the most famous incident being the Gallic Sack of Rome, which occurred sometime between 390 and 386 BCE. Understandably, the Sack of Rome caused the Romans to take much more seriously any news that arrived of nearby Gallic armies. In order to prevent another Gallic Sack of Rome from happening, the Romans decided to proactively engage any Gallic warbands that traveled too close to Roman territory, hopefully keeping the carnage in far-off fields of battle. Returning to the events of 350 BCE, when Rome learned that yet another Gallic warband had wandered too close for comfort, the Romans decided to employ the proactive seek-and-destroy policy that they had, by then, been using against Gallic armies for decades.

Marcus Popilius Laenas (one of Rome’s two consuls at the time) was put in charge of organizing and leading the Roman military response to the Gallic army. As the story goes, he pulled together four legions and set off to confront the invaders, who were camped in the vicinity of a place known as the Alban Citadel. When Consul Popilius arrived in the mountainous region, he claimed a hilltop for himself and began fortifying the slopes in view of the Gallic camp. As the story goes, the nearby Gauls perceived the Roman Consul’s decision to take a defensive stance on the hill as a sign of weakness or cowardice. Alternatively, maybe the Gallic commander believed the Romans would be distracted while they focused on setting up their camp.  Propelled by these interpretations, the unknown leader of the Gallic warband decided to go on the attack, and he sent his troops charging up the hill against the Romans while they were still building their hilltop fortifications.

Unfortunately, the leader of the Guals misjudged the ability of the Romans to multitask—for, despite their divided attention, the vast majority of Consul Popilius’ army was battle-ready when the assault began. Additionally, the Gallic commander also undervalued the often-clichéd, but quite deadly, advantage of the high ground. Therefore, although a portion of the Roman army was indeed distracted, the rest of the force was prepared for a fight and would be defending on highly favorable terrain. The aforementioned Roman historian, Livy, described the battle that reportedly occurred on the hillside that day:

“Without interrupting their work, on which the soldiers of the third line were engaged, the Romans opened the battle with their first and second lines who stood armed and ready for action in front of the working-party. In addition to their fighting spirit they had the further advantage of the rising ground, so that their javelins and spears did not fall without effect, as often happens when thrown on level ground, but were kept on course by their own weight, and all found their mark” (Livy, History of Rome, 7.23).

Consul Popilius and his legions easily fended off the Gallic charge, and the Romans quickly counter-attacked, fighting downhill against the wavering foe. The battle moved from the hillside slope to the plains below, where the Gallic troops were trying to regain some sense of order. Consul Popilius, once he reached the plains, briefly halted his army’s advance long enough to make sure that his troops were still well-ordered and cohesive; then, he gave his men a quick battle-speech and sent them off against the remnants of the Gallic army. Livy wrote, “Roused to further action by such stirring words, the Romans pushed back the leading maniples of the Gauls and then broke through to the main army in wedge formation” (Livy, History of Rome, 7.24). Before long, the Gallic warriors lost the will to fight and they began to scatter from the battlefield. The fleeing warriors of the warband abandoned their previous camp and instead seemed to head in the direction of the nearby Alban Citadel landmark. Consul Popilius considered pursuing the remnants of the vanquished foe, but as many of the Roman troops were wounded (including himself), Popilius and the legions instead opted to loot the deserted Gallic camp. Once the pillaging was complete, Marcus Popilius Laenas and his army returned home. After recovering from his battle wounds, Popilius was honored with a triumphal celebration in Rome in honor of his victory over the Gallic army.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Roman Commander Ordering Attack, attributed to Pietro da Cortona (c. 1596-1669), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Art Institute of Chicago).

 

Sources:

  • The History of Rome (Rome and Italy) by Livy, translated by Betty Radice. New York: Penguin Classics, 1982.

The Battle of Zama, By An Unknown 16th-century Artist

This curious painting was created by an unidentified 16th-century artist from the Netherlands. The anonymous artist either copied this scene from a work by the Italian painter, Giulio Romano (d. 1546), or instead referenced a print of Romano’s work that was created by the Dutch printmaker, Cornelis Cort (c. 1533-1578). Whatever the case, all of the artworks (be them originals, prints, or hand-painted copies) drew inspiration from the Battle of Zama, which was fought between Rome and Carthage in the year 202 BCE.

Leading the Roman forces at that time was a man named Publius Cornelius Scipio. He landed tens-of-thousands of Roman warriors in North Africa around 204 BCE to take the fight directly to Carthage in the closing years of the Second Punic War. Meanwhile, Hannibal Barca—Carthage’s brilliant general—was still menacing the Italian countryside, as he had been doing since 218 BCE. Hannibal’s sojourn in Italy, however, came to a close in 203 BCE, when he was called back to Africa to defend the heartland of Carthage against Scipio’s campaigns. Unfortunately for Hannibal, his recall put him on a reactive footing, allowing for Scipio and the Romans to position themselves on favorable terrain and to steer the course of the warfare to come. Additionally, the Romans and their Numidian allies at that time had a steep cavalry advantage over the Carthaginians—a weakness that Hannibal attempted to sure up with unruly war elephants. Despite the different numbers of horses and elephants, the Roman and Carthaginian forces were said to have been quite equal in manpower when they eventually met face to face at the Battle of Zama in 202 BCE.

A Roman historian named Livy (59 BCE-17 CE) dramatically described the scale and consequential nature of the battle: “[T]o decide this great issue, the two most famous generals and the two mightiest armies of the two wealthiest nations in the world advanced to battle, doomed either to crown or to destroy the many triumphs each had won in the past” (Livy, Roman History, 30.32). In the ensuing showdown, Scipio’s cavalry advantage proved vital, whereas Hannibal’s elephants apparently did less harm to the Romans than they did to his own army. The Greek historian, Polybius (c. 200-118 BCE), described the battle:

“Since they were equally matched not only in numbers but also in courage, in warlike spirit and in weapons, the issue hung for a long while in the balance. Many fell on both sides, fighting with fierce determination where they stood, but at length the [Roman aligned] squadrons of Masinissa and Laelius returned from their pursuit of the Carthaginian cavalry and arrived by a stroke of fortune at the crucial moment. When they charged Hannibal’s troops from the rear, the greater number of his men were cut down in their ranks, while of those who took to flight only a few escaped…” (Polybius, The Histories, 15.14).

Hannibal was one of the Carthaginians who lived to fight another day. Yet, after Zama, Carthage was compelled to sue for peace with Rome. In the ensuing negotiations, Carthage was forced to dismantle its navy, pay hefty quantities of war reparations, and formally cede Carthaginian territory in Spain to the control of the Romans. Such is the history behind the artwork featured above.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

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The Victory Of Women With The Legendary Spartan Lawgiver, Lycurgus

Lycurgus was a legendary figure attributed with shaping ancient Sparta’s laws and society sometime between the 9th and 6th century BCE. The most famous ‘Spartan’ reforms attributed to him were Sparta’s rejection of excess luxury and its increased attention to militancy. Yet, Lycurgus also stood out from fellow ancient Greek lawgivers by allowing women more freedoms and openness in Spartan society. Lycurgus’ philosophical rivals in Athens, however, did not agree with the level of autonomy and status that was given to women in Sparta.

Curiously, famous philosophers in Athens, such as Plato (c. 427-347 BCE) and Aristotle (384-322 BCE), went on the attack against Lycurgus over the issue of uncontrolled women. Plato questioned Lycurgus’ drive and conviction, stating, “The lawgiver ought to be whole-hearted, not half-hearted—letting the female sex indulge in luxury and expense and disorderly ways of life, while supervising the male sex” (Plato, Laws, Bekker page 806). As for Aristotle, he proposed for his non-Spartan audience that Lycurgus had planned to restrict the freedoms of women all along, but that the lawgiver had hesitated when the Spartan women began to resist his laws. Aristotle wrote, “It is said that Lycurgus endeavored to bring them under the control of his laws, but that when they resisted he gave up the attempt” (Aristotle, Politics, Bekker page 1270a). Nevertheless, sources more sympathetic to the Spartans refuted such claims, and instead wrote that women’s freedoms in Sparta were not due to negligence or defeat on the part of Lycurgus, but that it was all part of the societal plan. The great biographer, Plutarch (c. 50-120), directly called out Aristotle in this regard:

“Aristotle claims wrongly that he [Lycurgus] tried to discipline the women but gave up when he could not control the considerable degree of license and power attained by women because of their husbands’ frequent campaigning…Lycurgus, rather, showed all possible concern for them too. First he toughened the girls physically by making them run and wrestle and throw the discus and javelin. Thereby their children in embryo would make a strong start in strong bodies and would develop better, while the women themselves would also bear their pregnancies with vigour and would meet the challenge of childbirth in a successful, relaxed way. He did away with prudery, sheltered upbringing and effeminacy of any kind. He made young girls no less than young men grow used to walking nude in processions, as well as to dancing and singing at certain festivals with the young men present and looking on. On some occasions the girls would make fun of each of the young men, helpfully criticizing their mistakes” (Plutarch, Parallel Lives, Lycurgus, 14).

Contrasting with Plato and Aristotle, pro-Spartan sources such as Plutarch claimed that the freedoms and social elevation given to women in Spartan society were not an accident or a defect. Instead, it was a calculated decision meant to improve the people of Sparta and their future generations. Nevertheless, Lycurgus’ ideas were ultimately outshined by the philosophies of Plato and Aristotle—and their assertions that women needed to be controlled unfortunately gripped Western civilization for millennia.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Les Lois de Lycurgue, by Cholet and Favre Petitpierre, (c. 1802–1818), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Smithsonian Institute).

 

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