Gerald of Wales was one of the greatest British writers of the Middle Ages, writing extensively on politics, literature, ethnography, and on himself. A man of many interests and linguistic competence in a number of languages, he felt himself sidelined in his desire to gain high office within the Church. His Speculum Ecclesiae and Gemma Ecclesiae hold a critical mirror up to the Church of his day, and contain much satirical humour. His works on the culture of Wales and Ireland, drawing on his own experiences and travels, are classics in their field. Gerald was also very learned in classical and patristic writings, often quoting St. Jerome who, like Gerald, suffered from a chip on his shoulder.

This chapter has a simple argument: Pliny’s Epistles is a work of many intertextual parts. Neither beholden to Cicero’s Epistles, its professed generic forebear, nor privileging ‘poetic memory’ over prose, it integrates a broad range of predecessors, old and new, verse and prose. In a larger study of Plinian intertextuality Whitton has argued that Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria is its unsuspected protagonist, with Tacitus’ Dialogus tightly caught up in the same weave. Rather than rehearsing those claims, he uses this short contribution to pick out some other ingredients to his mix. Three short passages (from Ep. 4.3, 5.16 and 7.1) include a long-forgotten reworking of Cicero’s Orator and hitherto unremarked imitations of Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura, Valerius Maximus’ Facta et Dicta Memorabilia and Tacitus’ Agricola. In examining these liaisons, the chapter exemplifies some modes and norms of Plinian imitatio and demonstrates that these works and authors all have a role in his pages (so, incidentally, adding to their reception histories). More broadly – if very selectively – it argues that Pliny’s generic self-positioning is a literary act of high ambition: for all its professed simplicity, the Epistles integrates a wide range of exemplary texts into its blend. We just need to start plumbing its depths.

This chapter analyses how Pliny absorbs the consolatory philosophy of Seneca. It focuses on his intertextual use of two of Seneca’s epistles (98 and 99) that treat death, arguing that Ep. 98 looms behind Corellius Rufus’ decision to die (1.12), and that Regulus’ display of grief following the death of his son (4.2) echoes Seneca’s condemnation of improper mourning practice in Ep. 99. The allusions reveal Pliny’s opportunistic engagement with Seneca’s philosophical consideration of grief, agreeing and disagreeing with his epistolary predecessor depending upon the specific circumstances of the bereavement. Both his absorption and rejection of Seneca’s arguments show that he could engage and apply philosophical concepts to express his own grief or criticise other’s.

This chapter analyses the relationship between the two Plinys by examining how the Younger integrates subjects known from the Elder’s Naturalis Historia in his Epistles. The Younger Pliny adapts the miracle stories to the epistolary genre by selecting individual ones from his uncle’s long lists. One elaborate example replaces scientific completeness and remains in the readers’ mind because of its emotional value for Pliny and the addressee. By presenting the miracles of Italy (a volcanic eruption, dolphins, lakes, and fountains in Ep. 4.30; 6.16; 6.20; 8.20; 9.33) and repeatedly highlighting his close relationship with his hometown Comum, Pliny shows alternatives to the wondrous phenomena of the world described in the Naturalis Historia and thereby distinguishes himself from his uncle. The Younger Pliny also reflects his uncle’s habit of writing at night (lucubratio) and serving the emperor by day. The chapter shows that the Younger Pliny choses his own time of day to write literature and unite the claims of otium and negotium, of leisure and work, which have a different importance for the two Plinys. In doing so, the Younger Pliny also underlines the differences that arise from his senatorial career and his uncle’s military success.

While the satiric representation of city life and particularly Horace’s Satires have been already acknowledged as relevant contexts for Pliny’s Ep. 1.9, its Horatian ‘numerological parallel’, Sat. 1.9, has been left out of consideration so far. This chapter aims at filling in that gap and reading Pliny’s letter 1.9 against the background of Horace’s Sat. 1.9. As it shows, Pliny’s urban interactions go hand in hand with the generic interactions performed by his epistle: while the city forces Pliny to interact with various anonymous interlocutors (ille, ille, and ille) and thus disturbs his otium and undermines his personal autonomy, the Horatian intertext makes the epistle interact with the genre of satire which restricts its literary or generic autonomy. Due to the sinistri sermones (‘unkind insinuations’, and also ‘ominous satire’?, 1.9.5) so typical for the urbs, Pliny’s position gets dangerously close to the roles of both ‘Horace’ and the ‘Bore’ in Sat. 1.9, and his epistle starts to change into a kind of satiric representation of his life in Rome, where everybody is everybody’s ‘bore’. Pliny’s letter 1.9 is thus not only a laudatio of countryside otium, but also an intertextual tour de force that shows us the satirizing effects of urban interactions.

In his obituary of Silius Italicus (Ep. 3.7), Pliny uses a series of apposite intertextual allusions drawn from a variety of sources (especially from Seneca’s Dialogi and Epistles, Cicero’s Epistulae ad Familiares and Hesiod) which help him denigrate Silius’ posthumous reputation. Pliny evokes several titles of Senecan works and thus virtually creates an epistolary library with a section containing Stoic best sellers. In this letter, Pliny absorbs Seneca’s Stoicism, prompts his readers to evaluate Silius’ character through the lens of Stoic discourses and to notice an inconsistency between Silius’ Stoic death and his un-Stoic way of life, while all the while associating the epic poet with Epicureanism. He has good reasons to undermine Silius’ reputation, since the latter was Pliny’s rival for the title of Cicero’s heir. However, at the same time Pliny differentiates himself from Seneca by rejecting some of his central ideas, as e.g. his idea that human life is not short. The negative insinuations against Silius are further accentuated by intratextual links with other letters addressed to Caninius Rufus.

Philosophical studies of the interpretation of sensory information have emphasized the central role of senses in the body’s experience of the world as well as highlighting the plurality and overlap in one’s sensory responses to it. This chapter investigates how far such concepts of experiencing space through a multisensory lens are valid for the ancient Roman villa residences of mainland Italy. Sensory responses to the Roman house have previously been restricted to examining sightlines within and outside the house, as well as movement and access within it. When we consider Pliny’s descriptions of his villas, Vitruvius’ guidance on developing a villa, or Seneca’s description of Scipio’s villa, however, it becomes clear that these residences could affect numerous sensorial responses. As such, foregrounding vision and movement above other senses experienced in the Roman domestic realm risks providing only a partial understanding of life in these residences. This chapter proposes the application of further theoretical frameworks, such as soundscapes and smellscapes, for studying the villa.

At the heart of Christianity lies an imperative to change. Following Jesus, becoming part of the movement, is about transformation: changing oneself, changing communities, indeed, changing the world. But then, we are all also subject to the imperative to survive: to accept, to adopt and adapt, to conform and to continue, to compromise, and to let be. Nothing reveals this paradoxical nature of the early church more clearly than the history of early Christianity and slavery.

Jennifer Glancy points out that scholars of early Christianity tend to have two distinct perspectives on slavery, the church, and society. While not contradictory, the two views, in essence, depict different trajectories of which one can be characterised as of descent and the other of ascent. According to one view, the Christian movement in the earliest years was a golden age for relations between women and men, slaves and slaveholders.

This final section of the book analyzes how elegiac tenderness was absorbed into a conservative, mainstream discourse on conjugal love. By the late first century CE, the Augustan elegists’ witty and subversive ideal of a life of love became a commonly accepted model for articulating, describing, and commemorating the emotional bond between spouses. The elegists’ ironic use of familial, marital, and domestic terminology to portray the poets’ ardent and illicit love affairs is now itself domesticated and deradicalized. In elite discourse, Pliny the Younger’s letters to his wife, Calpurnia, are an excellent example of the appropriation of the language of elegiac tenderness in the context of a traditional Roman marriage. But as with other aspects of the Roman aesthetic of tenderness, this form of conjugal self-fashioning was not an exclusively elite phenomenon. Both the Pompeian portrait of “Terentius Neo” with his wife and the Roman altar dedicated to Pedana by her husband Donatus demonstrate how a wide spectrum of Roman citizens adopted elegiac models for their own self-representation.

The chapter explores the styles of self-promotion available to elite Romans, ranging from frugal self-restraint and material sobriety to prodigial acts of civic generosity, and analyses the debates over and constraints on luxury and encouragement of frugality with respect to building projects and expensive heirlooms, not least those made of silver, from the late republic to the early imperial period. The chronologically and thematically wide-ranging investigation foregrounds in particular the enhanced social mobility that civil war and autocracy introduced into Roman society, including a discussion of why provincial newcomers such as Tacitus and Pliny the Younger affected particular enthusiasm for frugality and disapproved of luxury, as a way of positioning themselves as new arrivals within the ruling class of Rome.

The reigns of Nerva, Trajan, and Hadrian are notable both for the technical and aesthetic developments in architecture, as well as the significant amount of building work undertaken in Rome and across the empire. However, as far as can be determined, this activity was not accompanied by a surge of interest in architectural writing among Latin authors of the second century CE, who give little attention to such matters. This chapter aims to demonstrate that while there were shared frameworks for how Roman writers received and commented on buildings, the most important connection between them is what they do not say. This argument is developed through considering the apparent difference with Greek literature of the period, which includes conspicuously more complex discussions of buildings and attention to architectural detail. The case is made that this contrast is not due to a lack of interaction, but is rather a deliberate opposition between how Latin and Greek authors handle the subject. Arguably, this disconnection that is observable in literature also reflects the differing perceptions of architecture in the respective societies more widely.

Epistles 1.20 is an unorthodox plea for length in court speeches. It is also one of the two salient peaks of ‘Quintilian in Brief’, a whole letter modelled, selectively and unpredictably, on Quintilian’s chapter on style (Institutio 12.10). This chapter reads it in detail, for argument and for intertexture, and shows that it is an imitative tableau of unusual complexity, focused on Institutio 12.10 but ranging widely across Quintilian’s work and looking through ‘windows’ to Cicero’s Brutus and Orator. The letter – addressed to Tacitus – also engages obliquely but closely with his Dialogus de oratoribus; Pliny’s anonymous interlocutor, I suggest, is a version of Tacitus’ Aper. A postscript on Epistles 1.21 reads this short note about buying slaves as a wry miniaturisation of Institutio 11, and sharp intertextual annotation of Epistles 1.20 and its virtuosic imitatio.

Chapter 3 begins an inductive argument for establishing Quintilian’s presence in the Epistles and establishes a method for reading it. It considers ten brief liaisons in which Pliny culls an epigram, metaphor or other distinctive detail from the Institutio. I argue that these similarities show imitation, not accident, and situate them within an imitative culture where declaimers, poets and prose writers routinely borrowed and improved on each others’ sententiae. These encounters are routinely self-conscious, but not necessarily (I argue) systematic or invested in allusively taking position against Quintilian: their function is also, and importantly, aesthetic. Lexical signatures play a part, but a much more discreet one than usually supposed – suggesting that we might all do well to spend less time with concordances and word searches and more time reading for the idea.

This chapter reads the cycle of letters to Quadratus and Fuscus of which Epistles 7.9 (Chapter 8) forms the keystone. Epistles 6.11 introduces these two young men as the bright future of Roman oratory, with a fanfare constructed from Quintilian (Institutio 10) and Tacitus’ Aper (Dialogus). Epistles 6.29 is the partner to Epistles 7.9, matching but varying its imitation of Quintilian and Cicero, as Pliny continues playing praeceptor in surprising and arch ways. Epistles 9.36 and 9.40, describing his villa routine to Fuscus, constitute the twin sphragis of the collection. These deceptively simple letters take us to the core of Pliny’s self-styling as man and author, perofmed with pregnant imitations which confirm Quintilian’s very special, and very personal, role in the Epistles.

This short chapter first reviews the argument of the book, then goes back to beginnings. The Institutio opens with strong generic positioning, situating Quintilian’s project against Cicero’s Orator and Sallust’s Jugurtha. Pliny’s cover note (Epistles 1.1) operates more discreetly, but reveals itself, through precise reworking of Quintilian’s cover note to Trypho, as an infrared invitation to read this collection of letters as ‘Quintilian in Brief’. Further traces of Quintilian’s first and last prefaces (Institutio 1.pr. and 12.pr.) in Epistles 1.2 and 9.1-2 offer final, open-ended confirmation that the Insitutio is hard-wired into the Epistles from start to end: Latin prose imitation, in Pliny’s hands, is a very fine art.

Lupercus is addressed twice in Pliny’s collection, receiving two very different pieces of Quintilianic imitation. Epistles 9.26 is a partner-letter to Epistles 1.20 (subject of Chapter 6), arguing for audacity in oratory. It opens with another window imitation (Institutio 2 and De oratore), and proceeds – I suggest – to some especially free imitatio of Institutio 12.10, completing in quite different fashion the work begun in Epistles 1.20. Epistles 2.5 is a partner to Epistles 7.9 (subject of Chapter 8), and behaves differently again. A relatively short letter, it features dense, eclectic and wide-ranging imitation of the Institutio. More than that: with two more window imitations (Cicero and Seneca the Elder), I argue, the letter miniaturises Quintilian’s first book and styles itself as a belated proem to Pliny’s collection.