Peter Jones

Is evidence obtained under torture admissible in this country? Yes, argues Lord Justice Laws, as long as it comes from a state where Home Secretary David Blunkett has no powers to stop it, and he does not ‘promote’ or ‘connive at’ it. The ancients understood perfectly well that the value of evidence from torture could be flimsy, especially when it was to be used against other people (evidence from slaves under torture against their masters was not accepted by Romans, unless, for example, treason was involved). But this did not stop them using it far more widely than we ever would. There is, however, another principle at work. The notoriously severe Cassius Longinus (c. 140 bc) — famous for formulating cui bono?

How Francis Crick, discoverer of the structure of DNA, must be enjoying himself in the Underworld! He had so much in common with the early Greek philosophers. These thinkers, who were natural scientists rather than philosophers, debated what the world was made of and how it came to be as it was. They established some basic rules of scientific debate — that the world was rationally constructed and could therefore be understood by the use of reason and argument from hypotheses, and that supernatural explanations for the phenomena under discussion were not allowed. Crick would have thoroughly approved of all this, especially of the fact that some of these thinkers could be accused of being atheists (Crick had no time for religion).

When Plato writes about education, he comes up with a brilliant image of the master-pupil relationship: ‘After a long partnership in a common life, truth flashes on the soul like a flame kindled by a leaping spark.’ The Labour and Tory education manifestos have very little to say about this ‘rather dodgy’ (© C. Clarke) concept. They think the answer to school problems is to play about with systems and structures. The Roman professor Quintilian (c. ad 90) is the first ancient to think seriously about how schools work. He insists that a good school depends as much on the character and psychological understanding of the teacher as on the materials for instruction. He must be a man of scholarship and high principles, since pupils learn by example.

Aitios in ancient Greek means both ‘responsible’ and ‘culpable’. Since Greeks were well aware of the distinction, they would have much enjoyed the nuances of the Butler report and the responses to it. The Athenian orator Demosthenes (384–322 bc) comes up with some fascinating general statements about the problem. First, Demosthenes recognises that a wrong policy might be recommended because the relevant facts were not known and the situation was not understood.

As George Bush continues to battle with the problems of Iraq, he could do worse than read Virgil’s Aeneid (19 bc), in which Virgil applauds Rome’s world-wide dominion, but does not discount its human cost. Defeated by the Greeks, a band of now homeless Trojans under Aeneas flees the burning city and, assured by the gods that a new land awaits in the West, sets out on the high seas to find it. False leads take them to Crete and Sicily, and then a storm drives them to Carthage, where the queen Dido seems likely to persuade them to settle, till the gods warn Aeneas off and Dido commits suicide. After a visit to the underworld to visit his father Anchises, who reveals to him the whole future of Rome, Aeneas and his men arrive in Italy.

An American has done some ‘research’ to demonstrate what he claims no one has yet acknowledged: that hoi polloi know better than the experts. Ancient Greeks knew that some 2,400 years ago. In his dialogue Protagoras, Plato makes Socrates wonder how it can be that, when technical matters like ship-building are being discussed before the sovereign Assembly (all Athenian males over 18), the Assembly howls down anyone who is not an expert; but when state policy is being discussed, any Nikos, Stavros or Giorgios can stand up and have his say. Clearly, says Socrates, they don’t believe that ‘policy’ (unlike ship-building) can be taught, otherwise they would demand that only experts in ‘policy’ would be allowed a say.

As MPs prepare yet another raft of vital legislation relating to killer dogs, no, sorry, gun-control, no, ah yes, of course, the obesity ‘epidemic’ (or was it anorexia? no, that was a year or so back), they might do well to read what Plutarch (c.ad 110) has to say on the general issue. In one of his ‘Table Talks’, Plutarch and friends are trying to work out whether brand new diseases could come into the world — as some doctors claimed — and if so, how: from other worlds, or what?

How would Pericles have dealt with the problems facing America after 9/11? As rationally as ever, no doubt. The great Athenian statesman (c. 495–429 bc) controlled the Athenian Assembly so effectively from the 440s till his death that the Athenian historian Thucydides remarked that Athens at this time was a democracy in name only. Not that Pericles wielded any constitutional authority; the Assembly of Athenian males over 18 was sovereign, and it was only by his powers of persuasion that they accepted his policies. As Thucydides said, he ‘knew what was required’ in any situation, and was equally able to restrain the Assembly when it became over-ambitious, and rally it when spirits were low; but he never pandered to it.

Last week we considered a number of the arguments that ancient Greeks and Romans deployed to prepare themselves for death. Once dead, however, they had to be buried, and — more important still — someone had to eulogise them. For status-mad Romans, this was not something to be taken lightly; but help was at hand. Menander the Orator (c. ad 300), who is very sound on how to eulogise a harbour, suggests the following for a great man’s funeral. It all sounds quite ghastly. Encomia of the dead person, he tell us, should be based on the following topics: family, birth, nature, nurture, education, accomplishments, actions, Fortune, ending with consolation. Under ‘family’, the eulogist must stress that there is none more brilliant in the city.

Last week, we observed ancient attitudes to wanting to live for ever. Being against it, the ancients developed many ways of dealing with death. Since there were no scriptures or creeds in the pre-Christian world, there could have been as many beliefs about death as there were believers. What generally emerges from ancient Greek literature is that religion was all about success and failure in this life, and success depended on having the gods on your side. Consequently, if one dishonoured the gods by e.g., refusing to acknowledge them, one would not have to wait till the afterlife for punishment — it would be visited on you at once. Further, the gods, being immortal, had no part to play in the transition from life to death: only the god Hades had an interest in it.

A personal catastrophe strikes, and the cry goes up ‘Why me?’ and ‘Not fair’. The ancients knew all about this, and the 5th-century bc Greek historian Herodotus supplies an answer — of sorts. But first, back to Fronto. Marcus Cornelius Fronto (c. ad 95–166), orator and public servant, was a close friend of emperors, being appointed by Antoninus Pius (emperor ad 138–61) as tutor to the next emperor, the Stoic Marcus Aurelius (ad 161–80). Much of Fronto’s correspondence survives. In one of his many affecting exchanges with Marcus Aurelius, he bewails in ad 165 the loss of a beloved grandson. This, Fronto exclaims, is neither aequum (‘fair’) nor iustum (‘just’).

American interventions in the Middle East have led many commentators to regard the USA as a new imperial power. But there are many ways to control an empire, as the Romans knew. It is automatically assumed that Rome controlled its empire through its provinciae (a word whose origin is unknown, unless Mrs Wordsworth has been keeping it secret), i.e., having conquered a territory, the Romans moved in a governor complete with soldiers and a retinue of advisers to run the show, carving out deals with the local elites relating to taxation, the billeting of troops, legal institutions, etc. This is indeed a large part of the story, but not all of it. In fact, Rome was often slow, or even loath, to annex a territory.

Philip Pullman, author of the apparently anti-Christian His Dark Materials, and the Archbishop of Canterbury debated the significance of religion, and both enthusiastically agreed that ‘myth’ was an important feature of it. But why? The Greek word muthos originally meant ‘word, speech, message’. It gradually came to mean ‘significant story’. At the one extreme, these were stories that had strong traditional and communal significance because (for example) they ‘explained’ the nature of the human and divine worlds; at the other, they were straight inventions by philosophers to make a point (e.g. Plato’s muthos of Atlantis).

Statistics show that in the United States more people die in hospital because of medical blunders than from Aids, breast cancer and car accidents combined. But who carries the can? Ancient Greek doctors are remarkable for being prepared to describe their failures as well as their successes. We read of one Autonomus who ‘died from a head wound on the sixteenth day. The stone, thrown by hand, hit him on the sutures in the middle of the bregma (front of the head). I was unaware that I should trephine, because I did not notice that the sutures had the injury of the weapon right on them (this became obvious only later)...’ Then there was the young girl aged 12 who was hit by a door and had her skull broken.

The Gender Recognition Bill plodding its way through the House of Commons does not deal with hermaphrodites. Bad mistake. Hermaphroditus was the son of Hermes and Aphrodite. Ovid tells how the nymph Salmacis fell madly in love with him when she saw him strip and dive into a pool. She did the same, wound herself round him and, as he struggled to free himself, prayed that the gods would ensure that they were never parted. Her prayer was granted, and their two bodies were fused into one, so that they seemed ‘both male and female, and neither, at the same time’.

However one regards Mrs Gun after her betrayal of the Official Secrets Act — selfless heroine of Antigonean stature, or self-important, sanctimonious little twerp — her actions raise an important question: the security of the written word. In classical Greece, inter-state politics were usually carried out verbally, either by well-briefed ambassadors or by messengers with orders committed to memory. Personal letters between heads of state were long regarded with suspicion. First, they were seen as secretive; unlike a messenger, a letter could not blab about its contents to its fellows and, in a world where literacy was not universal, a sealed letter was a convenient way of keeping information from prying ears.

If atheism is now to be taught in schools in the RE slot, the Greek essayist Plutarch (46–120 ad) would want to teach superstition as well — to warn against it even more vehemently. In the ancient world, atheism was associated with the fifth-century bc Greek intellectuals known as the sophists. Claiming to be able to teach men how to make a success of their careers, they encouraged them not to be constrained by normal social conventions but to use logos (‘reason, argument’) to advance their cause, whatever the implications for traditional belief (nomos). As a result, religion in particular, which the Greeks acknowledged rested entirely on nomos, came under attack.

Parents who find the state education system unsatisfactory but cannot afford private schooling are getting together to hire tutors to teach their children at home. The Roman public servant Pliny the Younger (AD 61–112) would have applauded. Pliny was visiting his native town of Comum (modern Como) when he found out that the young son of a fellow citizen was being taught not locally but in faraway Mediolanum (Milan) — and he was not the only one. Baffled, Pliny remonstrated with the fathers for not raising their children in their native town where they belonged, adding that at home they could also be guaranteed to be properly brought up.

How would the ancient Athenians have handled the Hutton inquiry? They would not have needed one. Real democracies get to the nub with indecent haste. In the first place, the decision to go to war had to be agreed by the people’s Assembly (all male citizens over 18). It would have been ferociously debated. That decision made, the Assembly voted on the leaders they wished to put in charge. The Council, the Assembly’s steering committee (500 citizens over 30, selected by lot to serve for a year), then took on the job of ensuring that all the necessary resources, human and inanimate, were in place and functioning properly — especially the cavalry and navy.

Iain Duncan Smith, ex-leader of the Tory party, is evidently in a state of some depression at his humiliating rejection. Ancient philosophy must spring to his aid. Greek and Roman philosophers were primarily concerned with ethics: that is, they wanted to show their adherents what the good life was and, at a practical level, how to lead it. One of their most productive lines was dealing with failure and despair. On Tranquillity of Mind by the essayist Plutarch (46–120 ad) is a good example. He rejects the idea that tranquillity is best achieved by doing nothing, as if the best advice for a sick man was never to leave his bed.