Holding the Line Women, Ritual and the Protection of Rome[795]

Carin M. C. Green

The focus of this paper is the character of three archaic female deities whose shrines were located in the Circus Maximus at Rome. They are known by variants of the names Tutelina, Sessia, and Messia, and hereto­fore have been catalogued and then largely ignored.

The three goddesses, Sessia, Messia, and Tutilina, were honored with columns in the Circus Maximus, and statues were set on top of those col­umns. Their existence is confirmed by Livy (40.2.2) and Pliny (NH 18.8), and the names come to us from Pliny (NH 18.8), Tertullian (Spect. 8), and Augustine (CD 4.24), whose source may well be the late republican schol­ar Marcus Terentius Varro. Christian polemicists relish the etymological game the ancients played, and they take these names as what we call nomi­na agentis, names that define function at the lowest level. So Sessia, whose name could be construed as coming from the verb for sowing (sero), they said must be the goddess of sowing crops. Messia, whose name could be construed as coming from the word for the harvested crop (messis), must be a harvest goddess, and Tutilina, whose name means “guardian,” must - since she is associated with them - mean that she guards the crops.

However, in our sources quot capita tot nomina. There are almost as many variants of their names (which are clearly epithets) as authors who report them. All variants of the first two consistently reflect a concern with crops, or with marked and bounded land; the third name, Tutelina, is an epithet meaning “Guardian.” The use of epithets should not be surprising. Pliny, when speaking of very old rituals associated with Numa, the second king of Rome, and traditional founder of Rome’s religious practices,^[797] clearly refers to these three goddesses on columns in the Circus, though he calls them Segesta and Seia; while the third, he says, had profound reli­gious restrictions on being named at all “indoors” - presumably where he was when he dictated the passage, and where he had reasonable expecta­tions his readers would be when they read or heard the name.

Macrobius, on the other hand, tells us that naming any of them directly was a transgression serious enough to require expiation.^[798] An epithet such as “Seia” would be the protection against impiety, an escape clause, since deities must be called upon to be worshipped effectively. One addressed them by way of some function or characteristic, just as Juno and Diana were “Lucina,” “the midwife,” and Juno could be “Caprotina,” (“of the wild fig-tree”). It can be difficult for us to determine when an epithet be­longs to one deity only, or could be used for more than one, but in any case that does not affect my argument regarding the nature of these goddesses. Epithets were a way of addressing a divinity, and epithets could, of course, change as time and the circumstances of the worshippers changed. It is likely that our Sessia has become Pliny’s Segesta and Messia his Seia - though it could be the other way round. In any case, the crop or field refer­ence in each epithet remains. When direct naming was hedged about with powerful prohibitions, changeable epithets are the best protection against religious error.

However, presumably because it did not accord with the character of these goddesses as agricultural functionaries, Wissowa overlooked Pliny’s identification of these three as boundary goddesses. Yet Pliny was a Ro­man familiar with Roman religious practices, and must in any case be pre­ferred as a reporter of Roman religious thought over two much later, non­Roman, and very polemical Christian sources whose whole purpose was to ridicule Roman religion. Supporting evidence exists which makes it virtu­ally certain that they were boundary goddesses - for they were located on the most important sacred boundary in Rome, the pomerium. Tertullian^[799] indicates that their columns in the Circus were on the spina, the spine of the racecourse, and Livy supports this.^{[800] [801] Pliny does not specifically state that the boundary they guarded in the Circus was the pomerium,1 but this is a virtually certain conclusion.[802] The only stretch of the pomerium we actu­ally know[803] happens to be the particular portion that ran through the Circus from the bronze bull in the Forum Boarium to Consus’s altar, which was, as Tertullian says, at the meta, the turning point, of the Circus.[804]}

It follows that the line of the pomerium had to run directly through the Circus Maximus; indeed, that this part of the pomerium must also have been aligned with the spina, because the spina channeled the brook that drained the valley in which the Circus was set,^[805] and running water was one of the more powerful natural religious boundaries for the Romans as for others.^[806] It could be crossed only with the most rigorous ritual prepara­tion. The act of binding running water in any way, especially by covering it or even bridging it, had to be approached with careful religious prepara­tion. When the first permanent structure of the Circus was built, probably in the sixth century B.C.E., the stream may have been regulated but left open.^[807] This was where the altar of Consus was, and the shrines of our goddesses Sessia, Messia, and Tutelina.^[808] As the Circus became more elaborate, the necessity of respecting the water came into conflict with the desire to organize and monumentalize the spina.

So Sessia, Messia, and Tutelina were boundary goddesses. Their shrines were columns set up beside (over? in?) the Circus watercourse that defined a portion of the sacred boundary of Rome. The importance to the city of a boundary like the pomerium was enormous. As the Romans understood it, the divine punishment for moving a boundary stone began with pestilence, and proceeded through the destruction of the crops, tempests and whirl­winds, earthquakes, and ultimately to the kind of social discord that de­stroyed states.^[810] The boundaries protected the fertility, productivity, and well-being of the land, and that in turn meant security for the people. This is why the variant names of Sessia and Messia were so closely identified with the fruits of the land^[811] - not because they were concerned particularly with any crops or harvests, but because the security of the boundary was the literal and the metaphorical security for the fertility and productivity of the city.

Their companion, Tutelina, the Guardian, watched over the city, pro­tecting it by special emphasis on its boundary. These goddesses marked the line dividing civilization from wildness; they fixed the distinction between the productive orderliness of the city and the unregulated chaos of every­thing else; they separated the place of law from the territory without law. They established the boundary of the land the Romans had defended, and the boundary stood as evidence of their defense.^[812]

Sessia and Messia, as far as we know, had no other shrines. Tutilina, however, had a sacred grove near the far end of the Circus Maximus.^[813] Not surprisingly, she was readily associated with Hercules as one who protect­ed Romans,^[814] perhaps because she kept guard from one end of the Circus valley, and he from the other.

Boundary stones were celebrated at the Terminalia, on February 23.

The narratives for the Festival of the Handmaidens do not connect our boundary goddesses to the ritual, or place the ritual anywhere in particular, much less in the Circus. Nevertheless, there is good circumstantial evi­dence beyond the similarity of the name to support the identification. Part of that evidence, I believe, is the nature of the Festival of the Handmaid­ens. So, keeping in mind not only the presence of Sessia, Messia, and Tu­telina in the Circus on the pomerium, and remembering the goddess Tutilina’s grove near the Circus, let us look at the narrative of the Hand­maidens. You may decide for yourself whether or not this is a Festival that would rightly be celebrated in honor of goddesses who guard and secure the boundary of the city.

The most elaborate narrative of the festival is found in Plutarch’s biog­raphies of two early Roman leaders, Romulus and Camillus.^[818] His narrative is a mixture of the aetiological myth explaining the Festival, and a descrip­tion of what the participants do during the ritual reenactment of the myth.

The social context of the myth belongs to a period when the taking of women (or cattle, or other possessions) was a demonstration of military prowess. The Homeric epics are the loci classici for such social condi- tions,^[819] but Livy presents early Latium as equally a place where raids on any people who seemed vulnerable were the norm;^[820] and that is how ar­chaeologists and anthropologists see Latium of the ninth through seventh centuries.^[821]

Moreover, the Camillus narrative requires a most curious disjunction, since here the enemy demanding the women are not the Gauls, but rather a group of Latins allegedly capable of besieging Rome - even though the Romans are able to field a substantial army, and ultimately surround the Latin and Volscian forces, which otherwise never get anywhere near Rome.^[822] The Romans of the period were, as a matter of historical fact, not so weak that they could not muster an army sufficient to defend the walls of their city. Even Plutarch thinks the Tutela narrative is a fable.^[823] Fable it is, ritual fable, and it belongs to the period of the mythical foundation of Rome, that is to the time of Romulus. The Festival in all probability origi­nated in the archaic period, centuries before Camillus appeared.^[824] The ver­sion in which the death of Romulus is the cause of the crisis thus must be the older version, and the Camillus narrative an adaptation of it, no doubt occasioned by the spectacular importance of the ritual after the departure of the Gauls. Taking the death of Romulus as the cause of the crisis, then, the narrative of the Festival of the Handmaidens is as follows:

In the crisis after the death of Romulus, the Sabines realized the Ro­mans were vulnerable, and so brought their army to an encampment out­side Rome. They then demanded that the Romans hand over their women. The Romans were at a loss to know how to protect themselves without their leader and were afraid that they would have to yield. In this crisis, a woman named Tutela came forward and proposed a stratagem to the male elders, which they accepted. In the narratives as we have them, both Tutela and her companions are slaves. I have reservations about this, to which I will return. In the ruse as described, she and some other maid-servants (ancillae) plan to offer themselves to the enemy, as though they were truly being surrendered by the Romans. They come out of the city, followed by grieving mourners, to maintain the appearance of authentic surrender by the Romans.

Once the women are in the enemy camp they persuade the Sabines to celebrate their victory with a feast. Tutela and her fellow handmaidens then ply the enemy warriors with wine. When the Sabines are thoroughly drunk and have fallen asleep,^[825] Tutela climbs a wild fig tree and sends a pre-arranged signal (using a torch and hiding it with her cloak), at which point the Roman men burst out of the city, calling to each other and shout­ing the names most common among them: Gaius, Marcius, and Lucius, and so forth. The women join in the attack, and together they storm the Sabine camp and drive the Sabines away. Then they have a feast and celebrate their victory.

That is the myth. At the Festival, according to Plutarch, the men ran out of the city shouting the traditional names, and the women, who were slaves dressed as matrons, met them, jesting and joking, and there was a mock battle (which implies that the women took part in the fighting) followed by a feast.^[826] There were huts built, in whose shade the celebrants feasted. I suspect as well that the ritual must have been opened with a mock funeral procession for the women supposedly being handed over to the enemy, but Plutarch does not record it. That is the Festival of the Handmaidens.

In order that you can judge my contention that this is a Roman combat myth, let me summarize now, briefly, the structure of the combat myth as defined by Collins, Fontenrose, and others. The Enemy brings strife, what­ever is bad, destabilizing, productive of chaos. He (the Enemy being usual­ly, but not always, a he) is powerful and predatory, often sexually predato­ry. Opposed to him is a Champion, who is not as powerful, who needs help, and who is nearly defeated. In the end however, the Champion out­wits the Enemy through deceit, disguise or bewitchment, and the means of deceit frequently involves food or sex. The Champion’s victory signals the renewal of fertility, civilization, and success for the Champion’s people, and is marked by a religious celebration or festival.^[827]

There is no doubt the tale of the Handmaidens lacks the high drama of the combat myth as it appears in the story, say, of Zeus and Typhon, or in Near Eastern texts, or in the book of Revelation. Nevertheless, the Festival of the Handmaidens follows the pattern with quite exceptional fidelity. “The Sabines” are the archenemy, who take advantage of a period of vul­nerability of the Romans to encamp on their doorstep and demand women. This demand represents sexual predation of quite a straightforward sort, which, if successful, would destroy the fertility of the city of Rome (again in both a literal and a metaphorical sense) and eventually the city itself. One part of the stratagem may be that slave women dress up as their mis­tresses (probably a later adaptation), but that is less significant than the fact that all the Romans pretend to yield, and the women are actually going out as “secret agents” to infiltrate the enemy camp. This, it seems to me, is the principal, functional, deceit. The women then use their sexuality and their traditional function as preparers and providers of food to weaken the Enemy. They are the Champions, and when the Enemy is weak, their lead­er, Tutela, signals the Roman men, who rush out, and together they defeat the Sabines. The myth is confirmed annually with the Festival.

In the only previous extensive analysis of this Festival, Jan Bremmer,^[828] working on a suggestion by Fritz Graf, argued that it was a rite of reversal, like the Saturnalia, in which slaves were allowed to take the place of their masters. Bremmer’s analysis is formidable, and he is correct that there is a great deal of reversal in the rite, but there are points about it that he ne­glects which I think are significant. It existed as a regular part of the annu­al calendar of festivals under the protection of Juno Caprotina, about whom little is known except that she was a warrior goddess. Although slaves did fight, this fact was a matter of embarrassment to the ruling clas­ses, particularly in the ideological world of republican Rome. The most powerful argument against this rite being a reversal ritual for slave women is that patently it is a combat myth, and the women are warriors for the city. It is about enemies and possible disaster, and women as the champi­ons who save Rome.

The accounts of the festival in Varro^[829] and Macrobius^[830] make it clear that this is how the Romans themselves saw it. Varro says that at the Games of Apollo, celebrated a few days after the Festival of the Hand­maidens, “the women” were given a bordered toga for their service, as an enlightenment for the people (toga praetextata data eis Apollinaribus Lu­dis docuit populum).^[831] The Games were Roman, not Latin, and the women so honored must also have been Roman. Macrobius, while acknowledging the confusion about the origin of the festival, says that the celebration was in honor of the generous courage of the women's spirit in saving the peo­ple’s honor (in memoriam benignae virtutis quae in ancillarum animis pro conservatione publicae dignitatis). It is most unlikely that, to begin with, slave women were awarded a toga, a symbol of citizenship and Roman­ness, at a public festival, or that slave women’s virtus (courage) and ani­mus (spirit), both terms profoundly associated with the masculine realm of elite social behavior, would be the cause of an important festival or an oc­casion for enlightening the public.

It is significant that the Festival of the Handmaidens and its myth do not share any other characteristic with that other well-known festival of rever­sal, the Saturnalia. In the Festival of the Handmaidens, ritual is a means to a specific, ritually identified end, the security of the city. It is surprising enough that women are the Champions; it would be quite extraordinary if in the original myth and Festival, slave women were given ritual credit for saving Rome. It is an additional difficulty that only the women are said to be slaves. It seems unlikely a ritual would have arisen for slave women in which they were the partners and fellow fighters with male citizens. In fact, the word “ancilla,” with its masculine form “ancillus,” originally meant not a slave, but a male or a female servant or minister of a god - not quite a priest but certainly not a slave or even “servant” in the social sense.^[832] The comparable terms in classical Latin are camillus and Camilla. It must be considered a possibility that the Feriae Ancillarum was original­ly the “Festival of the God’s Women Servants.”

There is a high probability that the social changes occurring between the archaic period and, say, the fourth century (when the same rite was as­signed to the military hero Camillus), made Romans highly sensitive to allowing respectable women to perform in so sexually ambiguous a role. Archaic rituals did preserve archaic social values, and that could be embar­rassing. There were many different ways of dealing with this uncomforta­ble reality. Turning the performance over to slave women, and using that as part of the stratagem, is one way of preserving both the ritual and the reputation of respectable women.^[833] Once the term “ancilla” came to have the general meaning of a slave who was a lady’s maid, the transformation was further validated. Thus it is much more likely, it seems to me, that the use of slave women was a later adaptation,^[834] one that was not felt neces­sary for the men in the ritual.^[835]

However that may be, we must not lose sight of the fact that this is a Combat Myth, and a rather delightful one in its archaic joie de vivre. The festival’s celebratory conclusion is the total reversal of the crisis. The En­emy, who hoped to separate the women from the men, has been defeated; the women and the men fight together and then they celebrate together; the city is safe, and so is its future.^[836]

Is it possible, then, that Tutela, the woman who devises the stratagem to save Rome, and Tutilina the Guardian and boundary goddess, are one and the same? In his analysis of the ritual of the Black Hunter, Vidal-Naquet discusses the importance of the organization of symbolic space, as well as the significance of the eschatia, the “end-places” of a city, where the com­munity’s vigilance against the incursions of its neighbors must be fo­cused.^[837] For the Athenian ephebia, which is what he was analyzing, the “end-places” were out in the mountains far from the city. But, as Vidal- Naquet also points out, the symbolic or religious organization of space is what matters in such rituals, not the details of geography. The essence of the pomerium is that it is the ritual edge, the frontier, of the city. This is the appropriate place for the Handmaidens and the men of Rome to relive the moment when a crisis of weakness in the city is overcome and the en­emy defeated.

The narrative says that the original event happened looking out toward the enemy encampment. The ritual reenactment would then define that place, which is not identified. We are hampered by the fact that our most complete source is a Greek author, Plutarch. The only extended account we have in Latin, that of Macrobius,^[838] first emphasizes how well-known the festival is (tam vulgo notum est, “so well-known everywhere”)^[839] and then reiterates the lesson of the ritual: the courage of the women in their protec­tion of the state. Like Plutarch, he sees the historical cause of the festival as a response to the sack of Rome by the Gauls in the 390s or 380s b.c.e. When Macrobius was a young man, the Goths had inflicted a staggering defeat on the Romans at the battle of Adrianople (378 c.e.),^[840] and in the next half century the Goths, Alans, and Huns carried out their dismember­ment of the empire - a process which included the sack of Rome in 410 c.e. In such a world, the narrative of the Handmaidens, with the Gauls as the enemy, may have seemed far more relevant. Like Plutarch, Macrobius tells of the city in danger, the men helpless, the brave offer of Tutela (since he, like Plutarch, offers the alternative Greek name Philotis for her, he may be using the same source), the tricking of the Latins, and the signal to those in the city. He does not mention the men or their running out of the city, nor does he indicate a place for the ritual, and these must have been the parts that were best known, tam vulgo, everywhere.

The essential geographical elements are a gate, or gates, from which the men burst out with their shouting of names, and a nearby, ritually identi­fied “eschatia,” liminal area, which must be a section of the pomerium. There are city gates near the pomerium in the Forum Boarium, and the Por­ta Mugonia on the Forum side would be a possible site for the men to burst out of the city shouting. It is curious that the gate, or gates, were not spe­cifically named, for the action of the men must have depended upon some signal commemorating that given by the woman portraying Tutela. It is this, above all, that argues for a single gate, since multiple signals given at multiple gates around the city are contrary to the sense of the myth.

Our central problem may be our Greek texts - not that they are wrong, but that they are translating Latin without at the same time being perfectly clear about the specific meaning of words peculiarly associated with this ritual. Plutarch consistently uses pulai, gates, as the place out of which the men erupt.^[841] Pulai most commonly means city gates, but they can also be the gates of the carceres, the starting gates for chariots, in the Circus.^[842] However, the men are bursting out of the city, not into the Circus. And yet, there is a curious citation in Paulus’s epitome of Festus’s dictionary, in which he says, “the place in the circus from where the quadrigae start out, is called ‘oppidum,’ i.e. ‘the town.’”^[843] To a non-Latin speaker who did not know the ritual first hand, “bursting out of the gates of the town (oppi­dum)” would be readily equated with “bursting out of the gates of the city,” especially when the story is about early Rome which might once have been understood to have been a “town” (oppidum) rather than a city (urbs).

Calling the carceres the “oppidum” is part of early republican practice, as evidence from the mid-third century b.c.e. indicates, for the poet Nae­vius (quoted by Varro, LL 5.153) mocked a Dictator (a magistrate) who rode his chariot “all the way to town.” Varro makes the quotation to re­mind Romans that the Circus carceres were once called the “oppidum.” So it is possible, though not demonstrable beyond doubt, that in the ritual of the Festival of the Handmaidens, the men raced out of “the gates” of “the town” of the Circus - that is, the starting gates - at a signal to engage in a mock battle with the help of the women who had deceived the enemy.

There is also the fact that other gods in and around the Circus have similar protective and defensive significance. Consus, the god who advised Romulus, had his altar on the spina at the turning point.^[844] His most famous advice involved the trick that led to the taking of the Sabine women,^[845] which was also performed each year in the Circus at Consus’s August Fes­tival.^{[846] [847] Our ancient sources universally identify the taking of the Sabine women as the means by which Romulus assured Rome’s future fertility and wealth. And, as has often been noted, the Sabine Women of the Con­sualia provide the pattern for which the Festival of the Handmaidens is a most distinct reverse. In the Consualia, the Romans capture Sabine wom­en, but in the Festival of the Handmaidens, the Sabines/Latins try to take Romen women. This makes it even more probable that the two rituals were performed in the same space.}

There is a generally accepted image of Roman religion as a public ritual for male citizens. The women celebrated decorously at home, or in a few female-oriented public cults of only limited importance. In fact, in Roman religion, the women could hold the line against disaster and destruction. Just as the Sabine women, once Romulus’s men had captured them, be­came founders of the city with the men, the Handmaidens and the men to­gether defended their threatened city. Sessia, Messia, and Tutilina were the guardians, along with Jupiter and a whole host of other male and female deities. And every year in the Circus the whole city sat and watched this demonstrated in the regular procession of rituals and festivals that marked out the year.

One last word on the Combat Myth. It may seem that there is only a tenuous connection between Collins’s brilliant first monograph on the book of Revelation and this modest paper. Yet the contrast illustrates a great deal that is of significance to both our disciplines, which have too long been isolated from each other. The book of Revelation is a profound and complete text, whereas the Festival of the Handmaidens must be re­covered, piecemeal, from sources centuries later than its probable origins and its religious vocabulary (Tutela, Sessia, Messia, camillus, oppidum) must be teased out from scattered entries in ancient dictionaries. The book of Revelation has a rich and well-documented theological reception; the Handmaidens were barely understood by Plutarch, and heartily and effec­tively mocked and misinterpreted by Tertullian and Augustine.

Yet Plutarch was writing at about the time of the author of Revelation, and Tertullian and Augustine are no insignificant link between the two tra­ditions. In the book of Revelation, as Collins has demonstrated, the Com­bat Myth has a structural and symbolic function. In the Festival of the Handmaidens, the Combat Myth - the defeat of the enemy and the protec­tion of the city - is the solemn purpose underlying the rather jolly celebra­tion. We are reminded here that, distinct as they may be, the book of Reve­lation and the Handmaidens belonged to the same world, and were equally a part of the experience of many Romans who were also Christians or were familiar with Christian texts. Indeed, if we take Plutarch - Greek intellec­tual and Delphic priest - as an example of a Roman citizen whose knowledge of Rome was largely dependent on books and the accounts of others, it is striking that the Handmaidens were still known to him, even if not understood.

In 410, Alaric sacked Rome. Augustine^[848] and Orosius^[849] record with dismay that the Romans ran to the Circus for aid in such a crisis. In 442, Pope Leo was still lamenting that in such a disaster the Romans trusted the “pagan idols” in the Circus more than they trusted the martyrs.^[850] Among those “pagan idols” were the boundary goddesses in the Circus, Tutela, Sessia, and Messia, the ancient defenders of Rome. Even if the Saturnalia was written in the 380s, Macrobius, a contemporary of theirs, thought that the Festival of the Handmaidens (tam vulgo notum est - “known by every­one”) was still part of a vital religious reality in Rome. Every society must find new ways of meeting the Enemy in combat. Here in microcosm, in Rome, we see what was happening in thousands of different ways through­out the Mediterranean world. For several centuries the book of Revelation as part of the Christian Bible, in a great sense, and the Festival of the Handmaidens in a smaller (yet significant) way, both promised to show the way to security and safety, and they were both part of the great market ba­zaar of religions kept open by believers throughout the ancient Mediterra­nean world.

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