About the Work
The Apologia is a speech of self-defense delivered by the second-century North African writer and philosopher Apuleius before the Roman proconsul Claudius Maximus. The work survives as a record of a trial in which Apuleius was accused of the capital charge of practicing magic to secure the affections and fortune of a wealthy widow, Aemilia Pudentilla, whom he had married. The text is a rhetorical tour de force, blending legal argument, philosophical exposition, literary quotation, and personal invective. It is one of the few complete forensic speeches to survive from the Roman imperial period and offers a vivid portrait of provincial life, social tensions, and intellectual culture in Roman North Africa during the mid-second century A.D.
The book also includes the Florida, a collection of excerpts from Apuleius’ public lectures and declamations, which provides additional insight into his rhetorical style, philosophical interests, and the cultural life of Carthage and other North African cities. The translation by H.E. Butler, which forms the basis of these notes, was based on Helm’s text for the Apologia and Van der Vliet’s text for the Florida, both published by Teubner, with divergences noted in footnotes. Butler acknowledged the assistance of Abt’s commentary on the magical portions of the Apologia, along with articles in Schanz’s history of Roman literature and Pauly-Wissowa’s encyclopaedia, and Hildebrand’s earlier commentary.
The circumstances of the trial are reconstructed in the introduction. Apuleius was a native of Madaura, a Numidian town that was a flourishing Roman colony. His father had held the highest municipal office and left him a substantial inheritance of two million sesterces. After studying at Carthage and Athens, where he pursued philosophy, rhetoric, geometry, music, and poetry, Apuleius traveled extensively, spending much of his patrimony. He visited Alexandria and, on returning from Egypt, fell sick at Oea, where he encountered the wealthy widow Pudentilla and her family. The marriage that followed provoked opposition from her late husband’s brother, Sicinius Aemilianus, and another relative, Herennius Rufinus, leading to the accusation of magic that Apuleius answers in this speech.
Context
The Apologia was delivered in the mid-second century A.D., during the reign of the emperor Antoninus Pius or early in the reign of Marcus Aurelius. Apuleius was born around 125 A.D., a date estimated from his statement that he was a fellow student at Rome of Aemilianus Strabo, who became consul in 156 A.D., and from his marriage to Pudentilla around 155 A.D., when she had barely passed the age of forty. The trial took place before Claudius Maximus, proconsul of Africa, a man whom Apuleius praises for his justice and learning.
The social and legal context is essential to understanding the speech. Magic was a capital offense under Roman law, and accusations of sorcery were a common weapon in personal and political disputes. The charge against Apuleius was that he had used incantations, love-philtres, and mysterious rituals to induce Pudentilla, a widow of thirteen years, to marry him despite his being younger than she and less wealthy. The prosecution, led by Aemilianus and instigated by Rufinus, sought to portray Apuleius as a dangerous magician who had insinuated himself into a wealthy household for financial gain.
The intellectual context is equally important. Apuleius presents himself as a Platonic philosopher, and much of his defense rests on the claim that his interests and practices—studying fish, examining mirrors, writing verse, preserving religious emblems—are consistent with philosophical inquiry and traditional piety. He repeatedly invokes the authority of Plato, Aristotle, Pythagoras, and other Greek thinkers to demonstrate that his conduct is that of a learned man, not a sorcerer. The speech thus reflects the broader cultural tensions of the period between Greek philosophical culture and Roman legal and social expectations, as well as the suspicion with which intellectual pursuits could be viewed by the uneducated.
The Florida, which follows the Apologia in the collected works, consists of excerpts from Apuleius’ public lectures delivered primarily at Carthage. These fragments display his rhetorical virtuosity and his engagement with a wide range of topics, from the nature of the soul to the habits of parrots, from the history of music to the virtues of provincial governors. They confirm the impression given by the Apologia of a man deeply immersed in the literary and philosophical culture of his age.
Structure of the Book
The Apologia follows the conventional structure of a Roman forensic speech, though Apuleius adapts it to the peculiar circumstances of his case. The opening address to Claudius Maximus establishes the speaker’s confidence in the proconsul’s justice and his own innocence, while dismissing the prosecution’s slanders as the hired venom of professional accusers. Apuleius then proceeds to refute a series of preliminary charges designed to blacken his character before turning to the substantive accusation of magic.
The first group of charges concerns Apuleius’ personal appearance and eloquence. The prosecution had mocked him as “a philosopher of the most elegant appearance and a master of eloquence not merely in Latin but also in Greek.” Apuleius responds by disclaiming beauty—he describes his hair as tangled, twisted, unkempt like tow, knotted and matted beyond unraveling—and by arguing that eloquence is no crime, citing the comic poet Statius Caecilius that “innocence is eloquence itself.” He then addresses the charge arising from his verses about tooth-powder, a brief poem sent to a friend named Calpurnianus, which the prosecution had recited with laughter. Apuleius turns the accusation aside by noting that Calpurnianus had requested the powder and by arguing that cleanliness, especially of the mouth, is a virtue for a free-born gentleman.
A substantial section is devoted to the charge that Apuleius was excessively concerned with his appearance, particularly his use of mirrors. He cites the Lacedaemonian Agesilaus, who refused to have his portrait made, and Socrates, who urged his followers to view themselves in a glass as a moral discipline. He then launches into a detailed discussion of the physics of mirrors, citing Epicurus, Plato, Archytas, and the Stoics on the nature of visual emanations and reflection, and mentions Archimedes’ monumental volume on the subject. This leads to a broader defense of philosophical inquiry as a legitimate pursuit.
The charge of poverty is next. Apuleius welcomes it, arguing that poverty is philosophy’s handmaid, and cites famous Romans who gloried in few slaves: Marcus Antonius the consul, Carbo, Manius Curius, and Marcus Cato. He also cites Greek examples—Aristides, Phocion, Epaminondas, Socrates, Homer—to show that poverty has been the mother of great deeds.
The central portion of the speech addresses the actual charge of magic. Apuleius first asks the prosecution to define a magician. If the word is the Persian term for priest, then there is nothing criminal in being a priest with knowledge of ceremonial law. He cites Plato’s description of Persian royal education, in which a prince is taught “the magic of Zoroaster the son of Oromazes,” defined as “no other than the worship of the gods.” If, on the other hand, a magician is one with power over the gods, then the accusers would be foolish to attack such a person. He notes that many natural philosophers have been called magicians, including Epimenides, Orpheus, Pythagoras, and Ostanes, and congratulates himself on this company.
He then rebuts specific charges: buying fish for magical purposes, possessing a mysterious object wrapped in a handkerchief, manufacturing a wooden image of a skeleton, and using a boy for divination. The fish charge occupies considerable space, as Apuleius demonstrates his knowledge of ichthyology, citing Quintus Ennius’ poem on dainties and Aristotle’s anatomical investigations. He argues that fish are for eating, not magic, and that even if they had magical uses, acquiring them does not make one a magician. The handkerchief charge is dismissed as absurd—the object was a bundle of religious emblems from his initiations into various Greek mysteries, wrapped in linen because wool is forbidden to followers of Orpheus and Pythagoras. The wooden image, he reveals, was not a skeleton but a statuette of Mercury, commissioned openly from a reputable artist and displayed in court for all to see. The boy Thallus, allegedly bewitched, was in fact an epileptic who had suffered fits long before Apuleius came to Oea.
The second half of the speech is devoted to the marriage itself. Apuleius retraces the events leading to his union with Pudentilla, describing her long widowhood, the pressure exerted by her father-in-law to marry his son Sicinius Clarus, and the eventual consent of her son Pontianus to the match with Apuleius. He attributes the prosecution to the machinations of Herennius Rufinus, whom he savagely attacks as a pander, a former stage dancer, and a man who squandered his ill-gotten wealth. He defends Pudentilla’s age—she was barely past forty, not sixty as the prosecution claimed—and explains why the marriage contract was signed at her country house: to avoid the expense of another public distribution of money and the wearisome dinner-parties customary for newlyweds. He presents the marriage settlement as generous to Pudentilla’s sons, with the dowry of 300,000 sesterces reverting to them if she died without children.
The speech concludes with Apuleius summarizing his rebuttals in a series of terse phrases—cleaning teeth is cleanliness, looking in mirrors is philosophy, writing verse is permitted, examining fish follows Aristotle, worshipping wood follows Plato, marrying obeys the law, an older wife is nothing commoner, marrying for money is refuted by the documents. He expresses confidence in Maximus’ judgment and declares that he prefers condemnation by the proconsul to disapproval by “so good and so perfect a man.”
The Florida excerpts that follow are arranged thematically rather than narratively. They include comparisons of the philosopher to religious wayfarers, anecdotes about Socrates and the silent youth, the story of the piper Marsyas and his contest with Apollo, the tale of the piper Antigenidas, the decree of Alexander forbidding anyone to counterfeit his likeness, a eulogy of the proconsul Severianus, reflections on providence and the order of the cosmos, a description of the parrot and its habits, the story of Crates the Cynic and his renunciation of wealth, and a detailed description of a temple of Juno and a statue of Bathyllus. The collection ends with material on Pythagoras’ education and philosophy.
Detailed Section-by-Section Summary
The Translator’s Preface and the Life of Apuleius
Butler opens his translation with a brief note on his method, stating that he has relied on Helm’s text for the Apologia and Van der Vliet’s for the Florida, both from the Teubner series, with any divergences noted in the footnotes. He acknowledges making a few expurgations, which he admits may have been unnecessary, and credits the commentary of Abt for the magical portions of the Apologia, along with the works of Schanz and the articles in Pauly-Wissowa’s encyclopedia, and Hildebrand’s earlier commentary.
The introduction then turns to the life of Apuleius, pieced together from his own works, chiefly the Apologia, the Florida, and the final book of the Metamorphoses. He was a native of Madaura, a flourishing Roman colony in Numidia, where his father had held the highest municipal office of duumvir and left him a substantial inheritance of two million sesterces. His birth date is uncertain, but it is estimated to be around 125 A.D., as he was a fellow student of Aemilianus Strabo, who became consul in 156 A.D., and he was considerably younger than his wife Pudentilla, whom he married around 155 A.D. His full name, Lucius Apuleius, is generally accepted, though the authority for the praenomen is late and may derive from his identification with the hero of his own novel.
His education took him first to Carthage and then to Athens, where he immersed himself in philosophy, rhetoric, geometry, music, and poetry. After leaving Athens, he traveled extensively, spending much of his patrimony, and he speaks as an eyewitness of the temple of Hera at Samos and a visit to Hierapolis. Returning from the East, he came to Corinth, where, if we accept his identification with the hero Lucius, he fell into the hands of Isis’s priests and was initiated into her mysteries. The goddess then bade him go to Rome, where he dwelt for a year as a worshipper at her temple, before visions compelled him to seek initiation into the mysteries of Osiris as well. This second initiation strained his finances, which he supplemented by practising as a lawyer. At Rome, he met Aemilianus Strabo and Scipio Orfitus, who would later become proconsuls of Africa.
Returning home, he likely wrote the Metamorphoses, or Golden Ass, based on a lost Greek work, which he expanded with sensational stories, most notably the tale of Cupid and Psyche. He did not settle in his native town, however, and on a visit to Alexandria, he fell sick at Oea on his return from Egypt. There lived a wealthy widow, Aemilia Pudentilla, with two sons, Sicinius Pontianus and the younger Sicinius Pudens. Pontianus, who had been Apuleius’s friend from their shared lodgings in Athens, called on him at the house of mutual friends. The family situation was complex: Pontianus’s grandfather had threatened to disinherit the boys if their mother remarried, hoping she would wed his own son, Sicinius Clarus. She was betrothed to this boorish old man but delayed the marriage until her father-in-law’s death. Once the sons inherited their father’s property, Pudentilla was free to marry, and Pontianus, whose own expectations depended on his mother’s fortune, saw Apuleius as a heaven-sent step-father. He persuaded Apuleius to stay in his mother’s house, and after Apuleius gave a public lecture at Oea, Pontianus begged him to marry Pudentilla. After deliberation, Apuleius consented, though she was over forty and had been a widow for thirteen years, and he soon came to love her for her virtues and intelligence. The marriage, however, brought no peace, as Sicinius Aemilianus, another brother of her first husband, and Herennius Rufinus, the disreputable father-in-law of Pontianus, opposed it.
The Opening Address to Maximus
Apuleius begins his defense by addressing Claudius Maximus, expressing his reliance on the judge’s justice and his own innocence, and hoping that his friend Lollius will speak in his defense. He claims that Aemilianus deliberately accuses an innocent man, having already been convicted of lying in a case before the Prefect of the city. He argues that good men avoid repeating sins, while depraved men repeat offenses with increased confidence, and he compares honor to a garment that is worn more carelessly as it ages. He states that he must refute all slanders before addressing the actual indictment, pleading not only his own cause but the cause of philosophy itself, which resents even slight slurs. He dismisses the recent “drivelling accusations” of Aemilianus’s advocates as “interested vapourings, bought at a price,” and acknowledges the practice of professional accusers letting out “the venom of their tongues” for hire. He must briefly refute these slanders lest his silence imply admission, and he argues that while even the guilty feel anger at ill report, the good and innocent find undeserved charges doubly vexatious because their ears are unused to insult. He asks that the blame for rebutting frivolous charges fall on his accusers, not himself.
The Charge of Elegant Appearance
Apuleius recalls that at the commencement of the indictment, Tannonius Pudens said: “He, whom we accuse in your court, is a philosopher of the most elegant appearance and a master of eloquence not merely in Latin but also in Greek!” Apuleius wishes these reproaches were true, quoting Homer’s Paris in reply to Hector: “The most glorious gifts of the gods are in no wise to be despised; but the things which they are wont to give are withheld from many that would gladly possess them.” He argues that philosophers are not forbidden handsome faces, citing Pythagoras, the first to take the name “philosopher,” who was the handsomest man of his day, and Zeno of Velia, who was the most striking in appearance of his generation. But Apuleius disclaims such a defense: nature gave him a commonplace appearance, and literary labour has reduced him to a lean habit, destroyed his complexion, and impaired his vigour. His hair, which they claim he grows long for attraction, is tangled, twisted, and unkempt like tow, knotted and matted beyond unraveling, because he never combs or parts it.
The Charge of Eloquence
Apuleius says that if eloquence were his, it would be no wonder given his lifelong devotion to literature, spurning pleasures and toiling night and day to the neglect of his health. But his opponents need fear nothing from his eloquence, for he claims aspiration rather than attainment. He cites the aphorism from Statius Caecilius that “innocence is eloquence itself,” and on that assumption he yields to none, for he has never harboured thoughts he fears to utter. His eloquence is consummate because he has held all sin in abomination and uttered no word or deed he fears to discuss publicly. He will now discuss his verses, which they recited with absurd and illiterate laughter.
The Tooth-Powder Verses
They read a brief verse letter to Calpurnianus about tooth-powder. Apuleius notes that Calpurnianus, producing the letter as evidence, blinded himself to sharing any reproach, since the verses show that Calpurnianus had asked for the tooth-cleaning powder. The verses describe sending “a powder rare to cleanse thy teeth withal,” made of “Arab spices fine,” promising ivory sheen, smoothing swollen gums, and sweeping away food relics. Apuleius asks what is disgusting in matter or manner, unless he is blamed for sending Arabian-spice powder to Calpurnianus, for whom it would be more suitable to “Polish his teeth and ruddy gums” as Catullus says, after the filthy Iberian fashion.
The Seriousness of Mouth-Cleaning
Apuleius notes that some listeners laughed when the orator condemned his tooth-powder administration with fiercer indignation than poison. He argues that it is a serious charge to say a man won’t allow dirt on his person, especially the mouth, which is used for kissing friends, conversation, public speaking, and prayer in temples. Speech is the prelude to action, proceeding from “the barrier of our teeth,” quoting the greatest of poets. He says that those who care for speaking should attend to the mouth as the “soul’s antechamber, the portal of speech.” Nothing is less seemly for a free-born gentleman than an unwashen mouth. Man’s mouth is exalted in position, conspicuous to the eye, and eloquent in use, whereas in beasts, the mouth is low, near food and path, hardly conspicuous save when dead or biting. No part of man catches the eye sooner when silent, or more often when speaking.
Challenge to Aemilianus
Apuleius asks Aemilianus whether he washes his feet, and if so, whether feet deserve more attention than teeth. If Aemilianus never opens his mouth save for slander, Apuleius advises him to ignore his mouth, rub his teeth with funeral-pyre charcoal, and not wash with common water—let his guilty tongue rot in filth. He asks: should your tongue be fresh when your voice is foul, or like the viper employ snow?
The Mirror and the Philosopher
The speaker presents two alternatives regarding personal appearance: either follow the Lacedaemonian Agesilaus, who refused to have his portrait painted or carved due to lack of confidence in his looks, or accept universal custom welcoming portraiture in sculpture and painting. He questions why one should prefer a marble portrait over a silver reflection, or a painting over a mirror. He cites Socrates, who urged followers to view themselves in a glass—the handsome to avoid dishonoring their bodies with black hearts, the less handsome to conceal bodily meanness with virtue’s glory. Socrates thus used the mirror as moral discipline.
The Reading of His Own Works
Apuleius begins this portion of his defense by having a passage from his own book read aloud, requesting that the water-clock be stopped during the reading. He explains that his volumes describe only fishes, carefully distinguishing those born from sexual union from those spontaneously generated from mud, and discussing the mating seasons of each species. He sets forth the natural distinction between viviparous and oviparous creatures, translating the Greek terms zootoka and ootoka into Latin, along with the causes and organic differences between them. He offers to read Latin writings on the same science, containing rare knowledge and names unknown to the Romans, translated from Greek into Latin mintage. He challenges Aemilianus to name any Latin author who used such terms, listing a host of Greek names: Selacheia, malacheia, malakostraka, chondrakantha, ostrakoderma, karcharodonta, amphibia, lepidota, pholidota, dermoptera, steganopoda, monere, and synagelastika. His Latin translation is then read aloud to the court.
The Philosopher’s Right to Knowledge
Apuleius asks whether it is disgraceful for a philosopher, a disciple of Plato and not a rude Cynic, to possess such learning. He cites Quintus Ennius, who wrote a poem on dainties enumerating countless fish species, and recites lines naming places and their fish: Clipea’s sea-weasels, Aenus for “mice,” Abydos for oysters, Mitylene and Ambracian Charadrus for sea-comb, Brundisian sargus, Tarentum’s sea-boar, Surrentum’s sword-fish, Cumae’s blue fish, Scarus, Nestor’s home, Corcyra for cuttlefish, acarne, sea-skull, purple-fish, murex, mice of the sea, and sea-urchin. Ennius is not blamed by the learned for such knowledge, so Apuleius should not be blamed for describing things known to few.
The Dissection of Fish
He then turns to medicine, claiming he seeks remedies in fish, as nature distributed remedies throughout all created things. A philosopher uses them to assist fellow men, not for money. He notes that Homer says doctors of old cured wounds by magic song, as when Ulysses’ blood was stayed by a chant. Nothing done to save life can be accused. His adversary asks why he dissected the fish brought by his servant Themison. Apuleius says he writes treatises on the organs of all animals, investigating Aristotle’s works on anatomy. He inspected many fish openly before all, showing the small fish called a sea-hare to many bystanders. This fish contains twelve bones like a sucking-pig’s knuckle-bones, linked like a chain in its belly, otherwise boneless. Aristotle, who recorded the small sea-ass as having its heart in its stomach, would have mentioned this. He argues that dissecting a fish is no crime for a philosopher, no more than for a butcher or cook. He contrasts eating fish, a greater crime for a philosopher, with inspecting them. Augurs may explore livers of victims; so may a philosopher, who is high-priest of every god. He praises Maximus and himself for admiring Aristotle. He notes the contradiction in his accusers’ case: they say he sought his wife by charms from the sea, yet acknowledge he was in the midmost mountains of Gaetulia, where fish cannot be found. He mentions reading Theophrastus’ “On beasts that bite and sting” and Nicander “On the bites of wild animals,” which could have led to poisoning accusations. He credits Aristotle and his master Plato, who says such investigations are “a delightful form of amusement which they will never regret.”
The Boy Prophet and the Magic of Divination
He moves to a new accusation: that he took a boy to a secret place with a small altar and lantern, bewitched him with incantations, causing him to fall and lose his wits. The accusers did not add that the boy uttered prophecies, which is the prize of magic. He cites Varro, a philosopher of high learning, who recorded that at Tralles, inquiry into the Mithridatic war was made by magic, and a boy gazing at an image of Mercury in a bowl of water foretold the future in a hundred and sixty lines of verse. Varro also records that Fabius, having lost five hundred denarii, consulted Nigidius, who by incantations inspired boys to indicate where a pot with part of the money was hidden, and that one denarius had come to Marcus Cato the philosopher, who acknowledged receiving it from a lackey as a contribution to the treasury of Apollo. Apuleius doubts whether to admit the truth of such stories, though he believes Plato that divine powers exist midway between gods and men, controlling divination and magic. He opines that the human soul, especially when young and unsophisticated, may be lulled by music or sweet smells into slumber, returning to its primal immortal and divine nature, and thus predict the future. If such faith is put in them, the prophetic boy must be fair, unblemished, shrewd, and ready of speech. As Pythagoras said, not every wood is fit to carve into the likeness of Mercury. He asks who was that healthy, handsome boy he deemed worthy. Thallus, whom they mentioned, needs a doctor, being epileptic with fits twice or thrice daily, ulcerous face, bruised head, dull eyes, distended nostrils, stumbling feet. He claims Thallus is continually lying down from seizures or weariness. His incantations did not overwhelm Thallus, who had fits long before Apuleius came to Oea. Fellow servants spit on Thallus and avoid eating or drinking with him.
The Nature of Epilepsy
The speaker continues his medical explanation of epilepsy. The chief cause is when flesh is melted by fire into a thick, foaming humour. This generates a vapour; compressed heat causes a white, eruptive ferment. If this ferment escapes the body, it causes eczema and blotches on the breast but permanently cures the epilepsy, trading a sore disease of the spirit for slight bodily disfigurement. If the corruption is contained, it mingles with black bile, runs through the veins, floods the brain, and weakens the rational part of the spirit enthroned in the head. During sleep it does less harm; when men are full of meat and wine, it causes a choking sensation, a herald of the disease. If it attacks when awake, men fall down, swooning. The disease is called the ‘Great sickness,’ ‘Comitial sickness,’ and ‘Divine sickness,’ matching the Greek hiera nosos (holy sickness), because it outrages the rational, most holy part of the soul. He addresses Maximus, invoking Plato’s theory that epilepsy is caused by pestilential humour overflowing into the head. He asked the woman whether her head felt heavy, neck numb, temples throbbing, ears full of noises. She acknowledged noises more frequent in her right ear, proving the disease had gone home, since right-side organs are strongest and infection there leaves little hope of recovery. Aristotle recorded in his Problems that epilepsy beginning on the right side is difficult to cure. The speaker omits Theophrastus’s opinion on epilepsy but notes his treatise on convulsions; Theophrastus also wrote that newts’ skins remedy fits, but newts devour the skin unless snatched away. He cites these philosophers and their books to show that philosophers learn causes of remedies and diseases naturally. Since the woman was brought for examination and cure, and this was right, his opponents must either call healing magic or confess their accusations false, absurd, and epileptic.
Aemilianus the True Epileptic
The speaker turns on Aemilianus, calling him the real sufferer from falling sickness, as his false accusations have failed and cast him down. Bodily collapse is no worse than intellectual collapse. Aemilianus thinks himself sane because he is not confined, but his frenzy is compared to Thallus’s: Thallus confines his frenzy to himself, Aemilianus directs his against others; Thallus distorts his eyes, Aemilianus distorts the truth; Thallus contracts his hands, Aemilianus contracts with his advocates; Thallus dashes against the pavement, Aemilianus against the judgement-seat. Thallus errs unconsciously in sickness; Aemilianus commits crimes knowingly, bringing false accusations and denouncing innocent men.
The Mysterious Handkerchief
The speaker addresses the accusation about a mysterious object wrapped in a handkerchief among the household gods in Pontianus’s house. Aemilianus confessed ignorance of its nature or appearance, admitted no one saw it, yet asserted it was magical. The speaker parodies the argument: ‘It must have been this, because I do not know what it was.’ If Pontianus lived, he would say he did not know. The freedman in charge of the keys, a witness, never examined the objects, though he opened and shut the doors daily, entered the room often, and saw the cloth lying unprotected. The speaker argues it is absurd that magical objects were left unguarded. He asks whether they should believe Aemilianus, whom he has never seen save in court, over Pontianus, who lived under the same roof, or the freedman who had every opportunity. If Aemilianus had gotten the handkerchief, the speaker would deny the magical nature of anything produced from it. He gives Aemilianus leave to invent; even if he produced something, the speaker would argue it was substituted, given as a remedy, a sacred emblem, or bidden by a vision. He criticizes Aemilianus for asking the accused for explanations instead of proving charges. If this precedent is followed, any man could be indicted for sorcery: writing a petition on a statue’s thigh, breathing silent prayers, or not praying, making votive dedications, offering sacrifice, carrying sacred plants. Whatever is concealed at home will be called magical.
The Sacred Emblems of Initiation
The speaker acknowledges the handkerchief and answers Aemilianus’s question.
The Challenge to Pudens and the Marriage at the Country House
The speaker turns to the “most dutiful of sons,” Pudens, and challenges him to deny the facts of his mother’s conduct. After writing those ironic words about her sanity, Pudentilla summoned her sons and daughter-in-law and lived with them for about two months. During this time, the speaker insists, she displayed the utmost shrewdness, examining the accounts of her bailiffs, grooms, and shepherds with great care. She also earnestly warned her son Pontianus to be on guard against the designs of Rufinus, and she rebuked Pudens severely for publishing her letter without reading it honestly. It was only after these events that she married the speaker at her country house, as had been agreed earlier.
The reason for marrying at the country house near Oea was practical. Pudentilla had recently distributed 50,000 sesterces to the people on the occasion of Pontianus’ marriage and Pudens’ assumption of the garb of manhood. A fresh concourse of citizens demanding largesse was to be avoided, as were the wearisome dinner-parties customarily imposed on newlyweds. The speaker tells Aemilianus this is the whole reason the marriage contract was signed at a country house—to avoid squandering another 50,000 sesterces and to escape dining with Aemilianus or at his house. He notes that the Julian marriage-law contains no clause forbidding marriage in a country house, and argues it is of better omen for offspring to marry in the country—on rich soil, greensward, among standing crops, beneath the elm that weds the vine. He cites the comic line “That in the furrow children true be sown” and notes that ancient Romans like Quintius and Serranus were offered wives, consulships, and dictatorships in the open field.
Pudentilla’s True Age
The speaker refutes Aemilianus’ claim that Pudentilla married at sixty. Her father acknowledged her in documents preserved in the public record office and his house. The speaker hands these to Aemilianus, asking him to examine the linen strip, the seal, the consuls’ names, and count the years. He says Aemilianus gave her sixty years, then offers to reduce this to fifty-five, then to fifty, then multiplies five years by four and subtracts twenty, concluding Pudentilla has barely passed her fortieth year. He calls the falsehood insolent, suggesting twenty years’ exile as worthy punishment. He argues that the gesture for forty is the simplest—holding out the palm—so there is no room for error. The only hypothesis is that Aemilianus, believing her thirty, added consuls at two per year.
The Motive for Magic
The speaker asks Rufinus and Aemilianus what he had to gain by persuading Pudentilla to marry him through love philtres and incantations, even assuming he were a consummate magician. He notes that many accused persons clear themselves by showing their life’s character makes the crime incredible. He waives this right, however, and says he will prove there is not the slightest ground for suspecting sorcery. If they can discover one trivial reason for him to woo Pudentilla for personal advantage, he is ready to be any magician—Carmendas, Damigeron, Moses, Jannes, Apollobex, Dardanus, or any sorcerer from Zoroaster and Ostanes till now. The speaker notes the disturbance caused by naming magicians. He considers whether to prove he met these names in public libraries, or argue that knowing sorcerers’ names differs from practicing their art, or—relying on Maximus’ learning—disdain to reply. He chooses the last and proceeds.
The Dowry and Settlement
The accusers disparaged Pudentilla’s age and appearance, denouncing him for greed. The speaker says the deeds of settlement will show his conduct was the opposite: the dowry was small, made over as a trust not a gift, and the marriage occurred on condition that if Pudentilla died without children, the dowry went to her sons Pontianus and Pudens; if she left one child, half went to that offspring and half to the sons of the first marriage. The total is 300,000 sesterces, with reversion to Pudentilla’s sons. He contrasts Rufinus, who borrowed 400,000 sesterces to dower his daughter, with Pudentilla, content with 300,000, and himself, who refused richest heiresses and cares only for his wife.
The speaker argues that a beautiful maiden, even poor, is amply dowered—she brings a fresh untainted spirit, beauty, and virginity, which can never be repaid. A widow, if divorced, leaves as she came, brings nothing she cannot ask back, and is suspicious; if widowed by death, the evil omen minimizes her attractions; if divorced, she has one of two faults—intolerable or insolent. Thus widows offer larger dowries; Pudentilla would have done the same had she not found a philosopher indifferent to her dowry.
His Conduct as Step-father
The speaker says if he were avaricious, he would have sown strife between mother and sons. Instead, he urged Pudentilla to pay her sons the money demanded, in the shape of farms at a low valuation, and to surrender fertile lands, a large estate. He calls Claudius Maximus, his assessors, and those standing before the tribunal to witness that the boy’s moral decline is due to his uncle Aemilianus and Rufinus, the candidate for becoming his father-in-law. Apuleius declares he will count it a blessing that this step-son has lifted the burden of superintending him, and will never again intercede for him with his mother.
The Will and the Son’s Offenses
He recounts that when Pudentilla, ill after the death of her son Pontianus, was writing her will, he struggled to prevent her disinheriting the boy for his outrageous insult to her. He prayed earnestly, threatened to leave her, and begged her to conquer her wicked son by kindness; she complied. He regrets smoothing Aemilianus’ path to wealth. He notes Aemilianus’ confusion, since he expected Apuleius to covet the inheritance or seek revenge. Apuleius says he was proof against both temptations, contending for his wicked step-son with his mother “as a father might contend against a stepmother.”
Apuleius asks for the will made by the mother for her unfilial son, noting each word was preceded by his entreaty. He orders Maximus to break open the tablets, saying the son is heir and Apuleius gets only a trifling complimentary legacy to avoid the absence of the husband’s name. He addresses the son directly, saying the will is “undutiful” in excluding the devoted husband, but argues she really leaves her fortune to the greedy Aemilianus and matchmaking Rufinus. He lists the son’s offenses: attempting to shut him out of the house at Pontianus’ funeral, resenting being made co-heir, deserting him in grief, uttering insults, dragging his name through law-courts, using letters to besmirch his fame, and accusing him on a capital charge. He challenges the son to open the will to prove his mother’s insanity.
The Farm Purchase and Final Rebuttals
Apuleius casts the tablets at Maximus’ feet, declaring indifference to Pudentilla’s future wills. He says the son is now his own master and must plead with his mother himself. He claims to have refuted the charge of attempting to secure the inheritance. He addresses the accusation of buying a farm with his wife’s money: a tiny property was bought for 60,000 sesterces by Pudentilla in her own name, with her name in the deed and taxes paid in her name. Corvinus Celer, the state treasurer, and Cassius Longinus, Pudentilla’s guardian and trustee, are present; they give evidence confirming this.
Apuleius asks Aemilianus what he has failed to refute, questioning what he had to gain by magic—a small dowry, refunding her dowry to her sons, presenting her property to them while leaving him nothing. He notes the will leaves the heir to the son she quarrelled with, not himself. He challenges his accusers to invent some motive, asking what Apuleius sought from Pudentilla: not her beauty, not her wealth—denied by marriage settlement, deed of gift, and will. He mocks their silence, recalling their opening: “This is the man, most excellent Maximus, whom I have resolved to indict before you.” He asks why they didn’t add “my teacher, my step-father, my mediator.” He rebuts charges with two words each: cleaning teeth is cleanliness, looking in mirrors is what philosophers should do, writing verse is permitted, examining fish follows Aristotle, worshipping wood is so Plato did, marrying obeys the law, an older wife is nothing commoner, marrying for money is answered by the documents. He concludes he has rebutted all charges and slanders, done nothing to impair philosophy’s honour, and awaits Maximus’ estimate with confidence, preferring condemnation by the proconsul to disapproval by “so good and so perfect a man.”
The Florida: On Eloquence and Philosophy
The speaker compares himself to religious wayfarers who pray at sacred groves; entering the city’s walls, he asks favour and makes an address, listing various shrines that most pass by. Socrates told a handsome silent youth, “Say something, that I may see what you are like,” holding that men are seen with the mind’s eye, not bodily vision. Apuleius contrasts this with the Plautus soldier’s line about witnesses, reversing it to prefer ears over eyes. He compares human sight unfavorably to the eagle’s, which soars to heaven’s floor and sees all prey below.
Hyagnis, father and instructor of Marsyas, was first to separate hands, fill two pipes with one breath, and finger stops with either hand. Marsyas, a barbarous Phrygian, challenged Apollo; the Muses and Minerva judged.
The Muses’ Draught and the Debt to Carthage
The speaker turns to a comparison of the legendary musicians Orpheus and Arion, noting that both were driven by necessity rather than the pursuit of honor. Orpheus soothed savage beasts, while Arion charmed creatures already disposed to compassion. The speaker would admire them more had they directed their talents toward pleasing men, for such solitary song suits only birds—the blackbird, the nightingale, and the swan. A song meant to profit boys, youths, and greybeards must be delivered amid a great multitude, as the speaker now does in praising the virtues of Orfitus. He commends the proconsul who tempered his desires, granting boys abundance, young men merriment, and old men security. Addressing Scipio directly, the speaker confesses that either his own bashfulness or Scipio’s modesty may silence him, yet he touches upon a few virtues and calls upon the saved citizens to recognize them.
A Discourse Before the Carthaginians
The speaker offers a formal discourse before the people of Carthage, congratulating the city for its learned citizens. In a theatre, he argues, one must disregard the marble, the stage boards, the columns, the gables, the fretted roofs, and the tiers of seats—likewise the mime, the comedy, the tragedy, the rope-walker, the juggler, and the dancer. Only the orator’s discourse and the presence of the audience truly matter. Just as poets shift their scenes—the tragic poet invoking Liber on Cithaeron, the comic poet Plautus transporting his audience to Athens—so the speaker shifts his scene to Carthage’s senate-house or public library. He wishes his words to match the magnitude of the assembly. The old saying holds true: no prosperity is unmixed, and every rose bears a thorn. The readier the audience is to praise, the greater his awe. He has spoken fluently before strangers but hesitates before his own folk. He made his home in Carthage as a boy and spent his student days there; his philosophy was inspired there and matured at Attic Athens. For six years his voice in both languages has been familiar to them, and his books’ praise derives from their favourable judgement. Modesty hinders him before fellow citizens, while truth speaks freely among strangers. He praises the Carthaginians as his parents and first teachers, repaying his debt not as the sophist Protagoras stipulated—and never received—but as the wise Thales did, without stipulating.
Protagoras and Euathlus
The speaker recounts the tale of Protagoras, a sophist and contemporary of the physicist Democritus, from whom he learned. Protagoras made a bargain with his pupil Euathlus: payment was due when Euathlus won his first suit. Euathlus learned all the methods of argument, then refused either to plead or to pay. Protagoras sued him, propounding a dilemma: if Protagoras wins, Euathlus pays by condemnation; if Euathlus wins, he pays by contract, having won his first suit. The jury admired the argument. Euathlus turned it back upon his master: if he wins, he is acquitted by the court; if he loses, he is released by contract, having been defeated in his first case. The arguments entangle like brambles, thorns of equal length. The speaker leaves Protagoras’ reward to the shrewd and greedy.
Thales of Miletus
The speaker then praises Thales of Miletus, the most remarkable of the seven sages. Thales first discovered geometry, investigated nature, and observed the stars. With few lines he found the revolution of years, the winds, the wanderings of the stars, thunder, the zodiac’s slant, the sun’s turnings, the moon’s waxing and waning, and the shadow of eclipse. In old age he evolved a theory of the sun’s revolution, which the speaker himself has proved by experiment. Thales taught this theory to Mandraytus of Priene, who offered recompense. Thales asked only that Mandraytus not claim the theory as his own but proclaim Thales as its discoverer. That recompense has been paid to this day and shall be paid to eternity. Such is the recompense the speaker pays Carthage, boasting himself her nursling and praising her learning, wealth, and gods. He will speak of the god Aesculapius, who honours Carthage’s citadel. He will sing a hymn in Greek and Latin, prefaced by a dialogue in both tongues in which Sabidius Severus and Julius Persius speak—men bound to each other, to the city, and to the public weal, distinguished for learning, eloquence, benevolence, moderation, energy, and career. They rival each other only in their love for Carthage. The dialogue begins with a fellow student of Athens demanding of Persius, in Greek, the subject of the speaker’s previous day’s declamation in Aesculapius’ temple. Severus joins, speaking Latin, while Persius, though a Latin master, speaks Attic.
The Physician Asclepiades
The speaker tells of the physician Asclepiades, greatest after Hippocrates, who first discovered wine as a remedy by noting pulse symptoms. Returning from his country house, he saw a funeral procession. No one answered his question, so he went nearer. He snatched the man from death’s jaws—limbs covered with spices, mouth filled with unguent, anointed for the pyre. Asclepiades perceived life still in him, cried out “He lives! Throw down your torches!” Some believed, some mocked. Despite the opposition of the relations, perhaps hoping for an inheritance, he persuaded them to delay the burial. He carried the man home, revived his spirit, and called forth the hidden life with drugs.
The Cups of the Muses
A wise man’s saying holds that the first glass quenches thirst, the second makes merry, the third kindles desire, and the fourth brings madness. But the Muses’ draught reverses this: the more cups one drinks, the better. The first cup is the reading-and-writing master’s, redeeming from ignorance; the second, the literature teacher’s; the third, the rhetorician’s eloquence. Most drink these three. The speaker drank others at Athens: poetry, geometry, music, dialectic, and philosophy’s nectar. Empedocles composed verse, Plato dialogues, Socrates hymns, Epicharmus music, Xenophon histories, and Xenocrates satire. Apuleius cultivates all arts and worships all nine Muses.
The Fable of the Crow and the Fox
The speaker states he has complied with the request of certain persons who begged him to speak extempore. He fears he may suffer the fate of the crow in Aesop’s fable: in attempting to win a new species of glory, he may lose what he has already acquired. He recounts the fable. A crow and a fox caught sight of a morsel of food simultaneously and hurried to seize it. Their greed was equal, but their speed was not. The fox ran, but the crow flew, outstripping the quadruped and forestalling him. The crow, rejoicing at his victory, flew into a neighbouring oak and sat on the topmost bough. The fox, unable to hurl a stone, launched a trick instead. Coming to the foot of the tree, he praised the crow with cunning words, calling him “Apollo’s bird.” He praised the crow’s body as exquisitely proportioned, neither too small nor too large; his plumage soft; his head sharp and fine; his beak strong; his wings, keen eyes, and claws. The fox then spoke of colour: two transcendent hues exist—blackness of pitch and whiteness of snow, the colours distinguishing night and day. Apollo gave white to the swan and black to the crow. The fox wished the crow had a voice like the swan’s sweet song, so that so fair a bird might not live voiceless—the darling of the god of eloquence, yet mute and tongueless. Hearing this, the crow, though possessing so many qualities, was seized with desire to utter as loud a cry as possible, so the swan might not have the advantage. Forgetting the morsel in his beak, he opened his mouth to its widest extent, losing by his song what his wings had won him. The fox recovered by craft what his feet had lost. The speaker reduces the fable: the crow, to prove himself musical—for the fox pretended absence of voice was the sole slur on his beauty—began to croak and delivered the spoil to the enemy who had ensnared him.
Transition from Greek to Latin
The speaker says he has long known what the audience’s demonstrations demand: that he should deal with the rest of his material in Latin. He remembers that at the very beginning, when the audience was divided in opinion, he promised that neither party—those insisting on Greek nor those insisting on Latin—should go away without hearing the language he desired. He proposes they consider his speech has been Attic long enough; it is time to migrate from Greece to Latium. They are now almost half through the inquiry, and the second half does not yield to the first part delivered in Greek. It is as strong in argument, as full of epigram, as rich in illustration, and as admirable in style. With this promise of a bilingual performance fulfilled, the speaker concludes his address, having defended his character, his philosophy, and his art before the court of Claudius Maximus, leaving his judges and audience to weigh the force of his words.
Main Arguments
The central argument of the Apologia is that Apuleius is innocent of the charge of magic, and that the accusation arises from malice, envy, and greed rather than any evidence of wrongdoing. Apuleius develops this argument through several distinct lines of reasoning.
First, he argues that the very definition of magic is ambiguous. If “magician” is the Persian word for priest, then there is nothing criminal in being one. He cites Plato’s account of Persian royal education, in which the prince is taught “the magic of Zoroaster the son of Oromazes,” defined as “no other than the worship of the gods.” If, on the other hand, a magician is one who has power over the gods, then the accusers would be foolish to attack such a person, since no precaution could guard against divine power. Either way, the charge is incoherent.
Second, he argues that the specific acts cited by the prosecution are innocent and explicable. Buying fish is for scientific study, not sorcery; he sought rare fish to investigate their anatomy, following Aristotle. The verses about tooth-powder are a harmless poem about dental hygiene. The mirror is an instrument of philosophical inquiry and moral discipline. The wooden image is a statuette of Mercury, commissioned openly and displayed publicly. The handkerchief contains religious emblems from his initiations into Greek mysteries. The boy Thallus is an epileptic whose fits predate Apuleius’ arrival. Each accusation is met with a factual explanation that removes any suspicion of magic.
Third, he argues that even if some of his activities might seem unusual, they are consistent with the life of a philosopher. He cites the examples of Pythagoras, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and other thinkers to show that philosophical inquiry encompasses the study of nature, including fish, mirrors, and other phenomena. He quotes Plato’s Phaedrus on the “place higher than heaven” and Plato’s Laws on the proper materials for offerings to the gods, arguing that his wooden image of Mercury is more pious than a golden one would be.
Fourth, he argues that the marriage to Pudentilla was not motivated by greed. He presents the marriage settlement, which provided a modest dowry of 300,000 sesterces with reversion to Pudentilla’s sons, and the deed of gift by which he surrendered property to them. He notes that he refused richer heiresses and cared only for his wife’s virtues. The prosecution’s claim that he sought her fortune is refuted by the documents, which show that he gained nothing from the marriage and in fact acted generously toward his stepsons.
Fifth, he argues that the prosecution is motivated by the malice of Herennius Rufinus, a man he describes in the most vituperative terms. Rufinus, he claims, had hoped to control Pudentilla’s fortune through his son-in-law Pontianus and was furious when the marriage to Apuleius thwarted his plans. Rufinus is portrayed as a pander, a former stage dancer, a squanderer of inherited wealth, and the organizer of the entire prosecution.
Finally, he argues that his conduct throughout has been that of a philosopher and a gentleman. He has not sought wealth, he has not abused his step-sons, he has not used magic, and he has nothing to hide. He invites the court to examine the evidence—the will, the marriage settlement, the statuette of Mercury—and to judge him on the facts rather than on the slanders of his enemies.
Key Concepts
The Apologia is built around several key concepts that recur throughout the speech and give it intellectual coherence.
The first is the definition of the philosopher. Apuleius presents himself as a Platonic philosopher, and he repeatedly contrasts the true philosopher with the false accusers who misunderstand philosophy. The philosopher is devoted to learning, to the study of nature, to the pursuit of virtue, and to the worship of the gods. He is not ashamed of poverty, not concerned with appearances, not afraid of inquiry. The philosopher’s eloquence is “innocence itself,” as Statius Caecilius said. The philosopher is the “high-priest of every god,” as Apuleius says when defending his right to inspect the entrails of fish.
The second key concept is the distinction between magic and religion. Apuleius argues that what the prosecution calls magic is in fact the worship of the gods. He cites Plato’s definition of magic as “the worship of the gods” in the Persian royal education, and he argues that the emblems he preserves from his initiations are religious talismans, not magical charms. He contrasts his own piety with the impiety of Aemilianus, who has never prayed, never frequented a temple, never raised his hand to his lips at a shrine, and is called Charon for his truculence and Mezentius because he despises the gods.
The third key concept is the study of nature. Apuleius defends his investigation of fish, mirrors, and other natural phenomena as legitimate philosophical inquiry. He cites Aristotle’s anatomical works, Theophrastus on beasts that bite and sting, Nicander on the bites of wild animals, and Archimedes on mirrors. He argues that a philosopher should know the causes of things, including the causes of diseases and remedies. His dissection of fish is no more a crime than a butcher’s or a cook’s work.
The fourth key concept is the nature of the soul. Apuleius discusses the Platonic doctrine of divine powers midway between gods and men, and he offers a theory of divination in which the human soul, especially when young and unsophisticated, may be lulled into a state in which it returns to its primal immortal and divine nature and predicts the future. He also provides a detailed medical explanation of epilepsy, describing it as caused by a pestilential humour overflowing into the head, and citing Aristotle’s Problems on the difficulty of curing epilepsy that begins on the right side.
The fifth key concept is the proper use of wealth. Apuleius argues that poverty is philosophy’s handmaid, and he cites numerous examples of great men who were poor. He presents his own conduct as generous and disinterested: he refused richer heiresses, he urged Pudentilla to pay her sons the money they demanded, he surrendered fertile lands to them, and he received only a trifling legacy in her will. The contrast with Rufinus, who squandered his inherited fortune and borrowed money to dower his daughter, is stark.
The sixth key concept is the importance of cleanliness and personal dignity. Apuleius defends his tooth-powder verses by arguing that the mouth is “the soul’s antechamber, the portal of speech,” and that nothing is less seemly for a free-born gentleman than an unwashen mouth. He extends this to a general argument about the care of the body, citing Socrates’ use of the mirror as a moral discipline.
Themes
Several deeper themes emerge from the Apologia and the Florida excerpts, giving the work significance beyond its immediate legal context.
The most prominent theme is the defense of the philosophical life against popular misunderstanding and hostility. Apuleius presents himself as a man devoted to learning and virtue, surrounded by enemies who mistake his pursuits for sorcery and his poverty for greed. The speech is thus an apology for philosophy itself, an attempt to vindicate the philosopher’s way of life before a court that represents the broader society. This theme resonates with the tradition of philosophical apologetics from Socrates onward, and Apuleius explicitly invokes the company of philosophers who were called magicians—Epimenides, Orpheus, Pythagoras, Ostanes—as well as the “demon” of Socrates and the “good” of Plato.
A related theme is the tension between Greek intellectual culture and Roman social expectations. Apuleius is a North African who writes and speaks in both Latin and Greek, and he repeatedly demonstrates his mastery of Greek philosophy, poetry, and science. His accusers, by contrast, are portrayed as rude, unlettered barbarians who cannot read Greek and who mock what they do not understand. The speech thus dramatizes the cultural divisions of the Roman empire, in which Greek learning could be both admired and suspected.
Another theme is the power of rhetoric and the nature of persuasion. The Apologia is itself a rhetorical performance, and Apuleius is acutely aware of the power of words. He quotes Homer, Catullus, Vergil, Ennius, and many other poets; he puns on words; he parodies his opponents’ arguments; he uses irony and invective with equal skill. The speech is a demonstration of eloquence as a form of self-defense, and it implicitly argues that the ability to speak well is a mark of innocence rather than guilt.
The theme of marriage and family runs through the second half of the speech. Apuleius defends his marriage to Pudentilla as a union based on love and virtue rather than money, and he portrays himself as a devoted step-father who interceded with his wife on behalf of her ungrateful son. The contrast between his own conduct and that of Rufinus, who exploited his daughter and son-in-law for financial gain, highlights the theme of proper family relations.
The theme of piety and religion is also central. Apuleius presents himself as a man initiated into many mysteries, preserving religious emblems, worshipping the gods, and following the teachings of Plato on the proper way to honor the divine. His accusers, by contrast, are impious men who despise the gods and mock religious practices. The speech thus participates in the broader religious discourse of the second century, in which traditional piety, mystery cults, and philosophical theology coexisted in complex ways.
Finally, the Florida excerpts develop themes of wisdom, eloquence, and the order of the cosmos. Apuleius compares the philosopher’s eloquence to the songs of birds, which sing only at set times, whereas the philosopher’s wisdom is ready at all times. He describes the order of providence, which governs mountains, plains, rivers, and meadows, and gives birds flight, reptiles crawling, beasts running, men walking. He celebrates the achievements of great artists and thinkers—Hippias of Elis, who made everything he wore, including his ring and his oil-flask; Crates the Cynic, who renounced his fortune for freedom; Pythagoras, who fled the tyranny of Polycrates and sought wisdom in Egypt. These themes reinforce the portrait of Apuleius as a philosopher and rhetorician devoted to the life of the mind.
The Author’s Conclusions
The Apologia concludes with Apuleius’ summary of his rebuttals and his confident appeal to the judgment of Claudius Maximus. He has, he claims, refuted every charge and slander: cleaning teeth is cleanliness, looking in mirrors is philosophy, writing verse is permitted, examining fish follows Aristotle, worshipping wood follows Plato, marrying obeys the law, an older wife is nothing commoner, marrying for money is refuted by the documents. He has done nothing to impair philosophy’s honor, and he awaits Maximus’ estimate with confidence, preferring condemnation by the proconsul to disapproval by “so good and so perfect a man.”
The conclusion is thus a statement of faith in the justice of the court and in the power of truth to prevail over slander. Apuleius does not know the outcome of the trial—the speech ends before the verdict—but his final words express the hope that his innocence will be recognized. The speech is, in effect, a testament to the philosopher’s confidence in the rationality and fairness of the legal process, and to his belief that a life devoted to learning and virtue will ultimately be vindicated.
The Florida excerpts that follow do not present a single conclusion but rather a series of reflections on wisdom, eloquence, and the good life. The collection ends with material on Pythagoras, who fled Samos at the beginning of Polycrates’ reign and sought wisdom in Egypt. This final image of the philosopher as a seeker after truth, willing to leave his homeland and travel to foreign lands in pursuit of knowledge, serves as a fitting conclusion to the volume as a whole. It reinforces the portrait of Apuleius as a man devoted to philosophy, and it suggests that the life of the mind is the highest good.
Significance
The Apologia is significant for several reasons. It is one of the few complete forensic speeches to survive from the Roman imperial period, and it offers a vivid and detailed portrait of provincial life in Roman North Africa during the second century A.D. The speech provides valuable evidence about the legal system, social relations, and cultural tensions of the period, and it illuminates the ways in which accusations of magic could be used as weapons in personal and family disputes.
The speech is also significant as a document of the Second Sophistic, the movement of Greek and Latin rhetoric and literature that flourished in the second century. Apuleius was one of the leading figures of this movement, and the Apologia displays all the characteristic features of sophistic rhetoric: the display of learning, the quotation of poetry, the use of invective and irony, the careful construction of arguments, and the performance of eloquence as a form of self-presentation.
The work is significant for the history of philosophy as well. Apuleius presents himself as a Platonic philosopher, and the speech contains important discussions of Platonic doctrine, including the nature of the soul, the existence of divine powers midway between gods and men, and the proper way to worship the gods. The speech also provides evidence about the reception of Plato in the second century and about the ways in which philosophical ideas could be deployed in legal and rhetorical contexts.
The Florida excerpts are significant for the light they shed on Apuleius’ career as a public lecturer and on the cultural life of Carthage in the second century.
