I wrote this story for the 2025 Faculty Gathering of the College of Stoic Philosophers in Athens. An English audio recording is also available.
My goal was to learn how people lived and worked in ancient Athens at the time of Zeno of Kition. There are some good articles and videos on this subject. My basic idea was to depict a possibly typical daily routine of Zeno of Kition in his life and teaching: how he lived, slept, cared for himself, taught, healed, and how he died.
I embellished the whole thing with Zeno's teachings and anecdotes from the 7th book of Diogenes Laertius' “Lives and Teachings of Eminent Philosophers,” because some of the students will reappear as later philosophers and had previously studied with Zeno.
The storyline and information about the living conditions and customs of the time were compiled by me, while I enlisted the help of ChatGPT for the embellishment and “drama.”
Enjoy!
The first rays of sunlight slid gently over the houses of Athens, casting golden lines on the dusty stones of the Agora and giving the marble of the Stoa Poikile a dull glow. A rooster crowed somewhere in the alleyways, followed by the dull rumble of a handcart and the call of a baker offering fresh barley bread. The day began early with sunrise in the city of philosophers - and Zeno of Kition was already awake.
He was not lying on a soft bed, but on a simple mattress filled with reeds and dry fig leaves. The night had been chilly, but a woolen cloak had sufficed. Zeno had learned to make do with the bare essentials. He did not live in splendor, although many students and citizens of the polis held him in high esteem. His house was close to the agora, built simply but harmoniously. An inner courtyard with an olive tree formed the center, surrounded by small rooms: one for sleeping, one for conversations, a storeroom with supplies and papyrus scrolls. This was not always the case, as he came to the city as a foreigner (metöke, metice) and had to pay a special tax, metoikion, in order to enjoy the protection of the polis.
If he had had a wife, she would usually have slept in the gynaeceum and he in the andron; they would rarely have spent the night together.
Zeno got up, washed his face with water from an earthenware jug and rubbed his body with olive oil. No soap lather, no scent of lavender or laurel. Just the essentials. He wiped the oil off with a strigil - a curved piece of metal like the athletes used in gymnastics. Cleaning through friction, not luxury. Purity as part of virtue.
Shortly afterwards, Persaeus, who lived with Zeno in his house, also stood up.
Zeno dressed in a simple, undyed chiton (undergarment) made of linen. No jewelry, no embroidery. Philosophy demanded simplicity, and Zeno lived it. His chiton was simple but clean, folded and fastened at the shoulder with a brooch. For him, clothing was a transmission of the soul: free of excess, orderly, in keeping with its purpose.
Even before he left the house, he approached a small statue of Zeus in the corner of the courtyard. It is an expression of his connection with the cosmos. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and spoke softly:
“May I act today in accordance with the logos. May I take what comes like a part of the whole.”
He walked emotionlessly past the golden crown he had received from the Athenians and then opened the wooden gate. The day could begin. And Athens, in all its hustle and bustle, was already waiting for him.
Zeno's house was not a place of splendor, but of order. The building was made of mud bricks, covered with lime plaster. A simple wooden door beam, carved with his motto - “Live according to nature” - was the only thing that indicated the philosophical mindset of the occupant. The inner courtyard, the heart of the house, was surrounded by four columns - a peristyle, as was customary for wealthier Athenians, but kept simple in Zeno's house. An olive tree grew in the center, a symbol of wisdom and a source of oil, shade and contemplation.
The rooms were functional and versatile. The front room served as a reception and discussion room. A simple bench along the wall, a low table on which writing tablets lay - it was both a school and a place of dialectical practice. There were no pictures on the walls, but wax tablets with aphorisms: “Always act in accordance with nature.” - “Goodness is virtue alone.”
The dormitory was cramped, with only room for a mat, a water jug and a wooden chest with a spare chiton. In the storeroom there were dried figs, lentils, a clay pot with honey and oil, a sack of barley. Next to it: Papyrus scrolls lined up in clay cylinders - treatises by Stilpon of Megara, Polemon, or Xenophon's Memorabilia, through which his interest in philosophy began.
In an alcove stood a clay cup, a wooden spoon and a small stove made of clay bricks. Cooking was simple: stews made from pulses, seasoned with mint or thyme from the garden. Water was drawn from the cistern or fetched from the well. You will look in vain for tomatoes, as they were only brought to Spain at the beginning of the 16th century by the Spaniard Hernán Cortés after the conquest of Mexico
The windows were small and high, closed with wooden shutters. Glass was rare; the light was subdued, which was conducive to contemplation. The rooms cooled down overnight and provided shade during the day - not a luxury, but clever architecture and in the service of virtue.
The morning was still young when Zeno took a seat in his courtyard. He had set out a small wooden tray: A cup of diluted wine, a piece of coarse barley bread, some olives and dried figs. No excess, no luxury - rather an expression of what nature freely offers. “The wise man eats to live, not to enjoy,” he once told a student. And so he ate - slowly, mindfully, with a view of the olive tree gently swaying in the wind.
While Zeno was chewing, a young man entered the courtyard. Ariston of Chios, one of his regular students, greeted him respectfully and sat down next to him in silence. After a moment, he asked: “Master, if the wise must also be prepared to prefer illness to health as soon as circumstances demand it, what else distinguishes the ‘favored indifferents’ from mere empty opinions?”
Zeno put the bread aside, wiped the crumbs from his beard with the back of his hand and answered calmly: “When a wise man chooses illness to escape tyranny, he is still following reason, not mere inclination. Health is to be preferred at first according to nature - but as soon as it becomes a trap for injustice, it takes a back seat to virtue”
More students arrived - men of different ages, some with scrolls, others with simple wax tablets. One carried a small jug of water, another a bundle of fresh mint. Simple gifts, signs of respect.
The sun had now crested the horizon and cast its bright light on the whitewashed facades of Athens. Zeno stepped out onto the street. No pavement, no asphalt - the ground consisted of tamped earth, criss-crossed with traces of wooden cart wheels. The path to the Stoa Poikile, his “school without doors”, led him right through the heart of the city - across the bustling Agora marketplace, past altars, fountains and the noisy life of the polis.
In the air was the scent of olive oil and fresh bread, mixed with the pungent smell of the tanners' workshops and the fumes of animals being driven into the city by farmers. A donkey with a wicker basket came towards him, laden with clay jugs, a trader loudly shouted out his prices for dried fish: “Garos! Fresh from the port of Piraeus!” (fermented fish sauce)
Zeno walked along calmly. He did not allow himself to be distracted, but perceived everything like a spectacle of the cosmos. His steps were slow and deliberate. He thought briefly of the last visit of King Antigonos II Gonatas of Macedonia, who always liked to visit him.
An old beggar with a tattered chiton was standing on a street corner. A young disciple at Zeno's side wanted to give him a coin, but Zeno stopped him short. “Act out of respect, not out of guilt. Ask yourself: Does your gift benefit his virtue or your feelings?” The student remained silent, thought - and handed the man a piece of his bread instead.
They had now reached the agora. Merchants, officials, craftsmen, slaves and philosophers crowded between the porticoes. Men were loudly discussing new laws, a speaker on a platform was quoting from a decree. The columns of the Stoa Poikile gleamed dully in the light. Their painted murals - depictions of mythical battles and heroic deeds - provided an impressive backdrop for the silent pursuit of wisdom.
The talks were about to begin - as they did every day, open to anyone willing to examine their thinking. The Stoa was not a temple or a school in the narrow sense. It was a training ground for the soul. The philosophy and the teaching system at that time knew no weekends or holidays. Zeno did not work out of pressure, but rather out of a duty to spiritual and ethical perfection. Holidays provided an opportunity for reflection, teaching and social connection - a kind of recreation through knowledge.
The philosopher of ancient Athens was not a professor behind closed doors, a man of privilege or title lists. He was - at least according to the Stoic ideal - a citizen teacher, a public mentor, an examiner of souls. His “work” did not consist of writing books or giving lectures according to a fixed plan, but rather in constant dialog, in a lively exchange - often in the open air.
The Stoa was public, open to all. No entrance fee, no examination certificate. The only prerequisites: an alert mind and the willingness to be tested.
Teaching did not begin with syllabuses, but with a question. A young craftsman wanted to know how to endure injustice. An elderly woman, the widow of a shipbuilder, asked about the meaning of suffering. Zenon rarely answered directly. He asked counter-questions, referred to observations of nature, to the order of the cosmos. His goal was not knowledge, but transformation.
The lessons were not frontal, but dialogical. The students - including young Athenian citizens, foreigners, merchants, occasionally even slaves - often sat on the floor, leaning against the pillars, with wax tablets on their laps. Zenon stood or walked slowly between them, just as Socrates had once walked across the Agora.
His methodology was Socratic, but his content was new. Instead of mere ethics, he discussed the concept of oikeiosis - the natural appropriation of the world as a whole through reason. He spoke about prohairesis, the freedom of the inner will. On apatheia, the freedom from unreasonable affects. On cataleptic impressions, the ability to recognize true ideas. On Logos, the organizing principle in the cosmos.
A pupil read out a fragment of Xenocrates of Chalcedon: “Virtue is the only thing that is valuable in itself - everything else only on condition that it is in accordance with nature.” Zeno nodded, then said: “The ‘eudaimonic life’ is a life according to reason, independent of external goods.”
There were no exams, no diplomas Those who wanted to learn stayed. Those who felt their vanity had been hurt left. School was movement: Questions, writing, contradiction, silence. Some students later accompanied Zenon in conversations with politicians or at court hearings - as an exercise in philosophy in life.
Some took notes - so-called hypomnemata, small notebooks in which they collected teachings, examples and aphorisms. Zeno himself never wrote much. His teachings were preserved by pupils such as Persaios and Cleanthes - the former later an administrator, the latter his successor in the Stoa.
Other schools of philosophers also worked in the city: the Peripatetics in the Lykeion, the Epicureans in the Garden, the Platonists in the Academy.
When the sun was low at midday, Zeno would often end the round with a sentence like: “Don't think about what I said - listen what the logos says”
Then he would turn away - leaving his students alone with their thoughts. It was at these moments that the real teaching began: real life. Afterwards, some students trained their bodies naked in the gymnasium with the paidotribes. Others received lessons from their paidagogos, often a house slave. Others learned writing, reading, arithmetic or literature from the grammatistes; from the citharistes: music (lyre, flute) - music was seen as a way to build character. Education, character building and citizenship are linked. Education was not only about imparting knowledge, but also about ethical and social formation: paideia.
The sun was now high over Athens. The shadows of the columns had grown short, the pavement of the Agora began to shimmer. Zeno had finished his morning's lesson in the Stoa Poikile. He left the hall with inner calm and equanimity.
Back in his house, where the olive tree in the courtyard now provided inviting shade, Zeno sat down on a low wooden bench. Lunch was simple: a porridge made from barley and lentils, lightly seasoned with thyme, a piece of toasted bread, a few olives and a cup of water with a splash of vinegar - to cool the body, as the doctors recommended. Meat was rarely eaten, usually only at feasts or sacrificial rituals. The wise man avoided excess.
While he was eating, an older disciple approached him - Cleanthes, a pugilist and diligent water carrier. “Master,” said Cleanthes, ”if virtue is only possible through knowledge of reality - how am I supposed to recognize the order of the cosmos if suffering, injustice and chaos test me? Is it not steadfastness that shows me reality in the first place?”
Zeno put his spoon aside, leaned back and was silent for a moment. Then he said:
“Kleanthes, you already understand what you are asking. Because only those who carry the cosmos in their hearts can withstand the storm. Reality shows itself to those who persistently see - not only to those who judge wisely.”
The student nodded silently. Then he pulled out a wax tablet and made notes. For Zeno, reflection was part of every action - especially after eating. For the body was strengthened, but it was the soul that needed to be guided.
Later, when the city lapsed into the languid warmth of the afternoon rest, Zeno took a papyrus scroll from his chest: it is his oracle of Delphi. “take on the complexion of the dead” He read it quietly, almost in a whisper. Then he smiled “Who would have thought after my shipwreck that I would ever become a deserved metoks (resident without citizenship). My good life began with this saying of the Pythia.”
After teaching in the Stoa and a simple meal in the courtyard, Zeno began the part of the day that he particularly appreciated: the time of silent practice. No publicity, no questions from students - just a return to his own logos.
He went for a walk. On his way, his bowels began to bother him, so he entered the open area of one of the then still rare public latrines - a half-open facility with a marble cornice, beneath which were recessed stone benches with round openings. A narrow water channel gurgled between the seats, fed by a cistern above the Pnyx hill. He didn't have this luxury at home, only a latrine corner. Next to him was a shallow clay bowl with smooth, flat stones - pessoi - which is not toilet paper, but was used as such. He used the stone and washed his hands in a makeshift manner with water from a jug provided. Some had a small linen towel with them, but Zeno simply dried himself in the cool morning air. The latrine was functional: a clay pipe laid at an angle directed the flow of water under the seats and flushed the excrement into a collection channel outside the city.
Occasionally, a pupil would join him on his walk. Sometimes they were silent together. Sometimes the pupil would ask a question - for example: “My eye pain is unbearable. How can I ever see it as indifferent?” Zeno replied with an exercise: “I don't deny that pain is hard. But severe does not equal bad - it is only what it is. What makes it bad is our judgment of it.”
It was Dionysios of Herakleia (the renegade) - who studied with Zeno but later became a hedonist.
After the walk, Zeno returned to his house. There he read - mostly fragments from the pre-Socratics, or doctrines from his own pen. He thought nothing of mere book knowledge. He often read aloud, in a quiet voice, as if to make the Logos corporeal through his voice.
When the shade of the olive tree in the courtyard grew longer again and the gold of the afternoon light fell on the white walls, Zeno knew that the day was not yet over - but his foundation had been laid.
As the sun set, a new phase of the day began in Athens. The hustle and bustle of the agora died down, but in many houses people were now lighting oil lamps, filling water jugs and preparing simple meals. Zeno's house was also bustling with activity: Some of his students had announced their arrival - not for lessons, but to talk together. For Zeno, philosophy was not just a doctrine, but a way of life that also permeated social gatherings.
The andron, the men's room, was intended for this purpose. A rectangular room with a stone floor, surrounded by clinas - low couches with fabric covers on which the guests rested, half sitting, half lying down. In the center was a low table with simple clay cups and a jug of diluted wine. No music, no hetairas (love servants), no excess - Zeno's symposia would have been rather quiet in nature - if they had taken place in his house.
They greeted each other with a nod of the head. One of the students, a young Athenian named Philonides, brought dried dates; another, Hermon, had contributed some smoked fish and a few walnuts. No one boasted, no one pushed themselves forward. The meal was a sign of solidarity - not of abundance.
“What do you think distinguishes a wise man from someone who has read a lot but lives little?” Zeno asked the group.
The oldest of the guests, a former politician, replied: “Perhaps the courage to contradict oneself.”
“Or the silence when words become an escape,” added another.
The conversations moved freely - about ethics, about nature, about current events in the city. People laughed occasionally, but never at someone else's expense. Zeno paid attention to the tone.
People drank, but in moderation. Zeno regarded drunkenness as a loss of prohairesis, inner freedom of will. “Man,” Zeno once said, ”does not drink for pleasure, but for friendship - if he understands it rightly.”
As the lamps flickered and the evening drew in, Zeno rose to his feet. Without pathos, without solemnity. Just one last sentence: “May each of you return home with a truth that you have told yourselves.”
They said goodbye in silence. No applause, no farewell toasts. Just a feeling of inner peace - as if one had met not just a man, but the Logos.
The stars had risen over Athens. A small oil lamp burned in the courtyard, its light casting dancing shadows on the whitewashed walls. The noise of the city had faded - only the distant barking of a dog and the chirping of crickets accompanied the silence.
Zeno sat on his bench, wrapped in his coat. Next to him: a small wax tablet and a wooden stylus. The day was drawing to a close - and with it began the ritual that was not a pious duty for the Stoic, but a philosophical necessity: the evening self-examination.
No prayer in the usual sense. No supplication. But a conversation with himself - conducted in truth, clarity and gentleness.
"What did I think, say, do today? ”
"Was I guided by the Logos or driven by desire? ”
"Have I fulfilled my duty - to myself, to others, to the whole? ”
(Ok, this is mainly from Seneca)
He reviewed the day - not to seek guilt, but insight. He remembered a conversation with a citizen with whom he had become impatient. He asked himself: "Why? Which idea was stronger than my understanding?" He wrote down the sentence: "Practice what you teach. ”
At another point, he remembered that he had given an apple to a begging child, although he was actually skeptical. But the child's smile stayed with him.
He wrote down such thoughts - not as a chronicle, but as a mirror.
Afterwards, Zeno closed the tablet, did not blow out the lamp, but let it extinguish itself.
Breathing calmly, he lay down on his mat. No fear of dreams, no desire for special signs. Only one last thought accompanied him:
"I have lived. I have tried to live wisely. That's all the cosmos demands. “
Then he fell asleep - at peace with himself and the world.
The years had passed, and Zeno's beard was now streaked with silver. His gait had become slower, but his gaze was as clear as ever. Little had changed in the house - the olive tree in the courtyard was still firmly rooted, even if its growth had become more gnarled.
In his old age, his daily routine had become simpler, but not meaningless. He spoke less often in the Stoa, listened more. Younger philosophers like Cleanthes now led the discussions. Zeno sat in on them.
His body showed signs of deterioration: aching joints, fatigue, failing eyesight. But Zeno did not complain. For him, illness was not an evil, but an opportunity for exercise. “What the body loses, the soul can gain. "When sleep did not come, he contemplated. For pain, he could have used ointments with poppy seeds (opium) or a willow bark preparation (like aspirin). Some also anaesthetized themselves with wine. But he regarded pain as a test of virtue.
He spoke openly about death. Not with melancholy, but with clarity. “What is born dies. What dies was born. That is nature, not misfortune." His students were initially shocked by this sobriety. But they learned: For the Stoic, death is not the end - but completion. Just as the final chord of a symphony does not destroy the song, but completes it, so death was part of the order.
One quite normal day, as he was leaving the school he tripped and fell, breaking his toe. Striking the ground with his fist, he quoted the line from the Niobe: “I come, I come, why dost thou call for me?” and died on the spot through holding his breath.
Epilogue:
His home town honored him with a monument and we don't know if in Athens he was given a tomb on the Kerameikos. But Zeno's students honored him differently: by continuing to teach, continuing to ask questions, continuing to practice. Death had only taken his body - but his attitude had remained. As lived philosophy. As reason in human form. Until today.