The following excerpt from Nadya Williams, Christians Reading Classics, is published with permission from Zondervan Academic.
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Sometime in the mid-fourth century BC, a young man, Ariston, was walking home one evening from the shrine of Persephone in Athens. Suddenly, a middle-aged man named Konon along with his son and a couple of other associates jumped him. They shoved him in the mud, stripped him of his clothes, and beat him up to within an inch of his life:
“They left me in such a poor condition that I could neither stand up nor speak. And as I lay there I heard them saying many dreadful things. Much of it is abusive and I should hesitate to repeat some things in your court; but one thing, which is evidence of his arrogance and an indication that he was the leaer in the whole business, I shall tell you. He crowed in imitation of victorious cocks, and the rest urged him to flam his elbows against his sides by way of wings” (Demosthenes 54.8-9, in Carey, Trials from Classical Athens).
Ariston admits that he had a dispute with Konon’s sons during their service in garrison duty together a couple of years earlier, but the present attack had no other provocation. And so, when he finally recovered, Ariston brought a charge of assault. However, he notes in the speech that he could have pursued the even more serious charge of hubris.
We previously encountered hubris in the tale of the Persian king Xerxes lashing the Hellespont after the sea had destroyed his pontoon bridge. When the Greeks subsequently defeated him, they saw their victory in part as divine punishment on Xerxes for his hubris—a pride that rivaled the gods.
We also see Konon exercising such a pride here in his unprovoked attack upon a law-abiding private citizen. His hubris is demonstrated by his crowing like a rooster in triumph over the respectable young man whom he had just bloodily beaten. This instance of hubris is not only an offense against the gods but also a violation of the city’s laws. Konon’s nose-thumbing reveals his conviction that he can do whatever he wants without any consequences. Consequently, this offense is not just against Ariston and his dignity but against the entire city of Athens.
As we look at the words that had the most power in Athenian forensic oratory, the clearest way to sum them all up is the slogan made famous by The Three Musketeers: “All for one, and one for all.” The emphasis that the offense in question is not just against one individual but against the entire city appears frequently in Athenian courtroom speeches. Each time, the speaker reminds his listeners that his pursuit of justice is not just for himself but for the rest of his fellow citizens. Citizens whose actions are defined by their vices rather than virtues deserve to face repercussions—especially when they abuse good citizens. If these villains are left unchecked, who knows whom they will attack next—this person could be you!
Therefore, words of power in the democratic law courts emphasized the citizens’ desire to see justice as a collective shared endeavor. Sure, selfish citizens just wanted to win their case—who doesn’t? But in trying to achieve a legal victory, they ironically used a more collective and enthusiastic language of citizenship than perhaps anywhere else.
For most Athenian law cases, all we have is either the speech from the prosecution or the defense, and we often do not know how the case turned out. But based on common themes and tactics used in surviving speeches, we can see trends of what was effective. One of the most common types of evidence used is character testimony, which was often based on the person’s past military record. A good citizen honorably served with distinction, while a bad citizen was clearly a coward. Why did character testimony—the recitations of virtues or vices of citizens—work so well when presented in court?
I’ve often described the Athenian democracy as a fishbowl to my students. Everyone knew everyone else’s business, seeing it as relevant for the city-state. Virtues and vices were public knowledge for the simple reason that good citizens are good for the city, whereas bad citizens are not. Consequently, people had a long collective memory of different individuals’ virtues and vices. Even decades after someone’s despicable offense that was never prosecuted—e.g., shirking military duty of getting into a drunken brawl in an alleyway—that old offense might be used against that individual in court in a completely different case. We commonly believe today that people can change (a concept rooted in the Christian reliance on the Holy Spirit regenerating believers), but the Greeks did not agree with this idea. A good person is a good person—always. However, someone wicked will always show his true colors in the end—puppy-kicking included.
But although the Athenian forensic speechwriters used impressive and powerful words, we ultimately see the limitations of human language in pursuing justice. The uncertainty of our knowledge in reading these speeches only highlights this further. Such speeches contain eloquent words, and surely many of them achieved their aim, winning the day at court for the speaker. But did each person rightly win each trial? We just don’t know. But we can safely assume, knowing the sinful nature of human beings, that at least sometimes the winning rhetoric in antiquity—juts as today—is not the words of justice. One can speak powerfully and win a case without being on the side of justice.
By contrast, we know that God’s justice is perfect and he knows the hearts of men, as Solomon notes during his prayer of dedication when the ark of the Lord was first brought into the newly built temple. In this prayer, Solomon particularly emphasizes God’s role as the only true judge, the one who can administer justice perfectly in a way that we never can (1 Kings 8:31-53). It does make sense. This is who God is—the only one whose speech is so powerful that it created the world and everything in it.
