Grief and the body: mourning in ancient Rome

Grief is a visceral experience, something that is felt deeply within the body, but grief is made apparent via the outer body. Two thousand years ago, the poet Virgil, in his great epic on the origins of Rome, imagined the immediate aftermath of the suicide of Amata, the Latin Queen: 

This description powerfully evokes an experience of loss, and much here seems instantly relatable, but what may be less familiar to us – though heavily dependent on our own cultural experiences – is the physicality of some of the reactions. The bereaved tear their cheeks, pull out hair, beat chests, rip clothing and dirty bodily surfaces. Violence against one’s own body, inflicting injury as a manifestation of emotional pain, is not something that is overtly displayed in all cultures. For Virgil’s original readers, the reaction to Amata’s death (a myth from Rome’s past) was perhaps intended to be a little shocking, yet it emphasised the expectation that grief was expressed through the body. 

Sarcophagus of Carrara marble with lid: young girl on her deathbed, surrounded by figures, among them her parents and a pet dog.

Such physicality was central to public mourning in ancient Rome. Body-centred displays were a feature of funeral rites, and women in particular hit their breasts, pulled their hair and lamented loudly. Other aspects such as ripping clothing and lacerating flesh, that Virgil noted, were less often seen, but there was an overall sense that the bodies of mourners were dishevelled, bruised, noisy and demonstrative, and the opposite of their usual selves. Roman mourners were debased and othered. 

Mourners were available for hire, and enslaved members of a Roman household could also be obliged to mourn.

Yet these bodily dimensions were not uniformly experienced by all, since other people’s bodies were exploited. Mourners were available for hire, and enslaved members of a Roman household could also be obliged to mourn. A sculpted relief, found in Rome and dating to the second century CE, provides insights into how different bodies were used. The image shows a laid-out corpse of a little girl, with seated figures flanking the death-couch, most likely representing her parents. The mum and dad, via their downcast gaze, hands supporting chins, hunched bodies and covered heads, appear still, sad and dejected. By contrast they are surrounded by others who seem active and noisy. At the foot-end of the couch a woman cups her hand to her mouth as if to amplify her cries, and others raise their arms, or touch their hair or have their hands to chests. We can’t be certain of the identity of the standing figures, but it is likely that these are enslaved or hired mourners. Bodily coding thus identifies different groups: the dignified seated parents are separate from the active and loud, lower-status, support crew. 

Does this suggest that in ancient Rome intense bodily expression in mourning was often a performance, and unrelated to real grief? Perhaps so, especially since images such as this are stylised interpretations. Yet the picture is clearly intended to stir the emotions, to arouse sympathy. In Rome bodily presentation in mourning may have been scripted and controlled, but this does not mean that it was not heartfelt, or that paid performers were not empathetic. Mourning, including its active physical dimensions, can be a way of working through grief, venting the pain, even if it involves spectating rather than direct participation. Grief physically hurts, and although that awful pain may not always be visible to others, in some settings and cultures the human body becomes a vital tool for communicating, representing and sharing grief.