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The Tale Of How A Raven Determined The Winner Of An Ancient Duel Between A Gaul and A Roman

By
thehistorianshut
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A peculiar warband of Gallic warriors neared Roman territory around 350 BCE, marauding around the Latin and Volscian borderlands. The pillaging was too close to home for the Romans, so Marcus Popilius Laenas (one of Rome’s two consuls at the time) was sent to attack the Gallic force—he engaged them near a landmark called the Alban Citadel (or Heights) and forced the Gallic warband to retreat. Although the particular band of Gauls featured here had to withdraw, their odd adventures in Italy were far from over. As the story goes, the Gallic force regrouped for a time in the mountains and then quickly resumed their pillaging of the Latin and Volscian countryside. Curiously, at the same time, a fleet of Greek pirates was said to have been simultaneously raiding the Italian coast. Much to the amusement of the Romans, these newer Greek pirates from the sea reportedly clashed with the older band of Gallic raiders on land, igniting a peculiar skirmish between the two forces—yet a skirmish was all it was, and both of the dangerous forces survived the encounter intact. By 348 BCE, Rome decided to dispatch its military once again to face what was left of the Gallic warband. This time, Consul Lucius Furius Camillus was in command of the army, and he decided to camp his force in the Pomptine District, where he believed the Gallic warriors would eventually make an appearance.

Among the warriors in the consul’s army was a man named Marcus Valerius. He was an up-and-coming patrician who wanted to make a name for himself in war and statesmanship. Marcus Valerius received what he wished for, at least in the category of war and fame, for while he was present with the army in the Pomptine District, a huge Gallic warrior supposedly appeared before the Roman camp and challenged them to a duel. The Roman historian, Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE), described the legend: “While the Romans were quietly passing the time on guard duty they were approached by a Gaul who was outstanding for his great size and armor. He struck his shield with his spear, thereby obtaining silence, and then through an interpreter challenged someone to do battle with him” (Livy, Roman History, 7.26). Marcus Valerius jumped at this chance and rushed off to his commander, Lucius Furius Camillus, to receive permission to participate in the duel. The consul conceded, allowing Marcus Valerius to represent the Roman army in the fight to the death.

Unfortunately for the Gallic warrior, the duel would not be a fair fight. And the difference between the two was not even Marcus Valerius’ skill. Quite the contrary, as the peculiar story goes, the Roman warrior’s triumph in the fight was actually due to the intervention of a raven. The aforementioned historian, Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE) narrated the odd scene:

“[A]s the Roman engaged his adversary, a raven suddenly alighted on his helmet, facing the Gaul…Marvellous to relate, not only did the raven keep the perch it had once chosen, but as often as the struggle was renewed it rose up on its wings and attacked the enemy’s face and eyes with beak and claws, until he was terrified at the sight of such a portent; and so, bewildered as well as half-blinded, he was killed by Valerius. The raven then flew off out of sight towards the east” (Livy, Roman History, 7.26).

After this awkward and bizarre victory from Marcus Valerius and the helpful raven, both sides witnessing the duel were stunned. During this period of shocked silence, Valerius began looting the corpse of his defeated foe. Yet, this act was said to have brought the nearby Gallic warriors back to their senses. In short, they were not happy; perhaps they believed the involvement of the raven was cheating. Whatever the case, the Gallic warriors supposedly began charging at Valerius, which, in turn, caused the Roman army to also surge forward. Before long, a full-scale battle erupted. The fresh Roman army, however, was stronger and healthier than the remnants of the Gallic force that had been wandering around Italy for years. Leadership figures among the Gallic raiders perceived their own weakness and quickly called for a retreat. Consul Lucius Furius Camillus and the Romans apparently did not pursue the fleeing warriors, and instead began cheering for their champion who had won the duel. In the aftermath, Marcus Valerius’ name was elongated to include the word Corvus (raven), in honor of the memorable fight.  Marcus Valerius Corvus would go on to be elected as a consul of Rome between 4 or 6 times in the second half of the 4th century BCE.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

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Antiochus And Stratonice, Painted By Pompeo Batoni (c. 1708-1787)

By
thehistorianshut
-

This painting, by the Italian artist Pompeo Batoni (c. 1708-1787), was inspired by a tale from ancient history, and many of the characters in the scene can be identified through the written works of old historians. Lying sick in bed is young Antiochus (eventually Antiochus I Soter, ruler of the Seleucid Empire from 281 to 261 BCE). As the young prince is ill, a physician by the name of Erasistratus can be seen watching over the young man and checking his pulse. Across the bedside, the blue-cloaked man with the crown on his head is a representation of Seleucus I Nicator (r. 305-281 BCE), the worried father of Antiochus. Also in attendance is Queen Stratonice, depicted as the crowned woman dressed in red and white. She was newly married to Seleucus and had no relation at that time to Antiochus. Yet, that would all soon change, for the physician on the scene ultimately made a startling diagnosis and prescription for Antiochus’ condition.

As the story goes, the physician quickly discovered the cause of the prince’s illness once the onlooking crowd gathered in the room. In the opinion of the healer, Antiochus’ illness was a classic case of lovesickness, and the woman for whom the prince was pining after would cause a scandal in the Seleucid court. Pompeo Batoni depicts the physician, Erasistratus, in the act of proving his hypothesis, and his discovery would lead to both a divorce and a marriage. The ancient Greek-Roman biographer, Plutarch (c. 50-120), narrated the tale of what allegedly occurred in that room:

“[Erasistratus] perceived quite easily that he was in love, and wishing to discover who was the object of his passion (a matter not so easy to decide), he would spend day after day in the young man’s chamber, and if any of the beauties of the court came in, male or female, he would study the countenance of Antiochus, and watch those parts and movements of his person which nature has made to sympathize most with the inclinations of the soul. Accordingly, when any one else came in, Antiochus showed no change; but whenever Stratonicé came to see him, as she often did, either alone, or with Seleucus, lo, those tell-tale signs of which Sappho sings were all there in him, — stammering speech, fiery flushes, darkened vision, sudden sweats, irregular palpitations of the heart, and finally, as his soul was taken by storm, helplessness, stupor, and pallor” (Plutarch, Parallel Lives, Life of Demetrius, chapter 38).

Such is the scene that is occurring in the painting above. After this awkward incident, King Seleucus divorced himself from Stratonice in 294 BCE, and let her become the wife of Antiochus. Whether or not this is how their relationship truly began, the historical figures of Antiochus and Stratonice indeed married and had at least five children together.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

Pliny the Younger’s Dreamy Breakthrough Case As A Lawyer

By
thehistorianshut
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Pliny the Younger (c. 61/62-113) began his law career when he was eighteen years old and he made a name for himself in the Centumviral Court (Rome’s court that oversaw common/private/civil law cases). In particular, Pliny specialized in inheritance law and also gained a reputation as an expert in financial matters. Although Pliny’s career as a lawyer began in the reign of Emperor Titus (r. 79-81), it was not until the early reign of Titus’ brother and successor, Domitian (r. 81-96), that Pliny finally had his breakthrough case. It was a case involving a certain Junius Pastor, who was clashing in the Centumviral Court against acquaintances of the emperor. Pliny the Younger took the case, defending Pastor against the emperor’s friends. As he later revealed in his published letters, Pliny was unnerved at the prospect of confronting the powerful people who were targeting Junius Pastor. He was uncomfortable to the extent that he had serious thoughts of removing himself from the case. His worries even affected his sleep, as he reportedly had unnerving dreams concerning the case. Pliny the Younger wrote:

“I had undertaken to act of behalf of Junius Pastor when I dreamed that my mother-in-law came and begged me on her knees to give up the case. I was very young at the time, and I was about to plead in the Centumviral Court against men of great political influence, some of them also friends of the Emperor; any one of these considerations could have shaken my resolve after such a depressing dream…” (Pliny the Younger, Letters, 1.18).

Despite his worries and his negative dream (which was thought by many ancient peoples to be something worth heeding), Pliny gathered his courage and decided to continue championing Junius Pastor’s cause. He took on the powerful people in court and, fortunately for Pastor and his lawyer, no imperial leverage was applied to the outcome of the case. The fears of Pliny’s dreamland mother-in-law were unfounded. In the above letter, Pliny continued his story, writing, “I carried on, believing that ‘The best and only omen is to fight for your country’—or in my case for my pledge to Pastor, if anything can come before one’s country. I won my case, and it was that speech which drew attention to me and set me on the threshold of a successful career” (Pliny the Younger, Letters, 1.18). Curiously, Pliny mailed this story to his friend, the scholar Suetonius (c. 70-130+), who apparently was also suffering similar unnerving dreams relating to events and decisions in his own life.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (The Death of Sophonisba, attributed to Pierre Guérin (c. 1774-1833), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Cleveland Museum of Art).

 

Sources:

Sextus (The Son Of Pompey) Applying To Erictho, To Know The Fate Of The Battle Of Pharsalia, Engraved By Robert John Dunkarton (c. 18th century) After John Hamilton Mortimer (c. 1740-1779)

By
thehistorianshut
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This curious print was engraved by the 18th-century artist, Robert John Dunkarton, who copied the piece from a painting created by John Hamilton Mortimer (c. 1740-1779). Mortimer, in turn, had copied a fellow creator, named Lucan, for the idea behind the artwork. Lucan, however, was not a painter or an engraver. Instead, he was an ancient Roman poet who lived in the 1st century.

Lucan (c. 39-65) wrote an unfinished poem called Bellum Civile (or Civil War), which commentates on the events of the civil war that broke out in 49 BCE between the Roman factions of Julius Caesar and Pompey the Great. By early 48 BCE, the focus of the war had shifted to Greece as Julius Caesar pursued Pompey deeper into the Greek lands. Now, while this chase was ongoing, the poet Lucan would like us to believe that Pompey the Great’s son, Sextus, chose this exact moment to seek out the lair of a notorious Thessalian witch named Erictho. His purpose in this endeavor has been awkwardly hinted at in Robert Dunkarton’s bulky title for the print: “Sextus (the Son of Pompey) applying to Erictho, to know the fate of the Battle Of Pharsalia.” Simply put, Lucan’s plot here revolves around Sextus hiring the witch, Erictho, to perform a morbid necromancy spell, through which she would hopefully gain some supernatural insight from the realm of the dead about how the civil war between Caesar and Pompey would turn out.

Erictho agreed to perform the spell, and Lucan spared no detail in describing the ceremony that the fictional witch performed. She obtained an adequate corpse for a knowledgeable ghost to inhabit, and prepared the lifeless body for possession by filling it with fresh blood. In addition, a wide variety of bizarre and grotesque ingredients were used in the dressing and anointing of the corpse for the spell. For the necromancy to work, Erictho employed a noxious concoction derived of such materials as froth from a dog’s mouth, guts of a lynx, joints of a hyena, marrow from a stag, and skins shed by various snakes. Also included were more mythical ingredients, such as eyes from a dragon, ash from a phoenix, and poison from the moon. With a few added incantations and extra magical craft, Erictho was eventually able to summon a spirit to do her bidding. Lucan described the curious scene:

“With these declarations
she lifted her head and frothing mouth and saw
stand forth before her the shade of the cast-off corpse,
afraid of its lifeless limbs, those hateful confines
of its old prison. It dreads to enter that opened chest
and guts and innards ruptured by lethal wounds.
Poor man, unfairly stripped of death’s last gift—
to not be able to die! Erictho is astounded
that fates are so free to linger, and, angry at the dead,
she whips the motionless body with a living serpent,
and down the gaping fissures in the earth her spells
had opened up she barks at the ghosts of the dead,
disturbing their kingdom’s silence”
(Lucan, Civil War, Book 6, approximately lines 708-734)

It is this scene that John Hamilton Mortimer and Robert John Dunkarton seem to depict in their artworks. The image appears to show the ghostly shade looking on unconvincingly at the corpse that the witch laid out. Erictho, in response, has her intimidating snakes in hand, ready to use them to whip and lash the uncooperative spirit into compliance. Sextus, meanwhile, is shown with his companions across from Erictho, and they could only watch with wonder and fear as the strange spell continued on its unnatural course. Despite the shade’s early hesitancy, it would eventually possess the offered body and reveal vague secrets about the future. Yet, the Pompeian faction was already doomed. Pompey the Great suffered a decisive defeat at the Battle of Pharsalus in 48 BCE, and after subsequently being forced to flee, he was assassinated in Alexandria, Egypt, later that year. Sextus lived on to continue fighting against Caesar and his successor, Octavian/Augustus. Nevertheless, Sextus, too, was ultimately captured and executed in 35 BCE.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

Livy

By
thehistorianshut
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Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE)

“So strictly has our expansion been limited only to what we work for: wealth and luxury.”

  • The History of Rome (book 7, chapter 25) by Livy, translated by Betty Radice. New York: Penguin Classics, 1982.

Odd Arngeirsson’s Polar Revenge

By
thehistorianshut
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Odd was a son of a man called Arngeir, who had settled in northeast Iceland during the Age of Settlement (c. 860-930). In their claimed section of the island, Odd, and his siblings, Thorgils and Thurid, helped their father raise a flock of sheep. These sheep, however, would later lead to a great tragedy for the family.

As the story goes, on a day when the family’s sheep were grazing far from home, Arngeir discovered that a blizzard was closing in on his land. Fearing for his flock, the old shepherd took his son, Thorgils, and rushed out into the pastures in an attempt to herd his sheep to a safe location. Odd and Thurid (if she had not yet married) remained at home as the blizzard rolled in. They waited and waited, feeling a growing sense of worry as neither Arngeir or Thorgils returned.

When the blizzard had calmed and daylight lit the sky, Odd ventured out in search of his missing family members. Find them, he did, but it was unfortunately a gruesome sight. To Odd’s horror, he allegedly interrupted a hungry polar bear that was in the midst of ravaging the bodies of Arngeir and Thorgils. From this point on, Odd’s story transitioned into legend. The Icelandic Book of Settlements claimed, “[Arngeir and Thorgils had] been killed by a polar bear which was still at the prey when Odd came there. Odd killed it and brought it home, and the story goes that he ate the whole bear” (Landnámabók, Stulubók manuscript, chapter 259). This alleged indirect cannibalism—eating the creature that might have eaten pieces of Arngeir and Thorgils—supposedly had a great influence on Odd’s future. According to folklore and legend, Odd Arngeirsson ultimately gained an evil reputation and was suspected of wielding magical powers.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Drawing signed D. Viel, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).

 

Sources:

  • The Book of Settlements (Sturlubók version) translated by Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1972, 2006.

Augustus Orders the Closing of the Doors of the Temple of Janus, by Louis Boullogne the Younger (c. 1654-1733)

By
thehistorianshut
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This painting, by the French artist Louis Boullogne the Younger (c. 1654-1733), depicts a scene of great importance from the history of ancient Rome. Near the center of the painting, the red-cloaked figure can be identified as the great-nephew (and later adopted son) of the famous Roman dictator, Julius Caesar. After Ceasar’s death on the Ides of March, 44 BCE, this adopted relative—known then as Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus (now usually shortened to ‘Octavian’)—seized power in Rome by 43 BCE through a triumvirate pact with Mark Antony and Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. At first the triumvirs were content to work together to massacre their mutual enemies and threats, but rivalry and hunger for power eventually led the triumvirs into conflict. Lepidus, always the weakest link of the three, was forced out of the partnership at about 36 BCE, but his early exit ultimately spared him from the bloody showdown that was to come. Around 32 BCE, Octavian (from his base of power in Italy) declared war on Queen Cleopatra of Egypt (Mark Antony’s lover and ally). Antony and Cleopatra stood no chance against Octavian’s brilliant admiral, Marcus Agrippa, who had the ill-fated couple defeated and cornered by 30 BCE. Knowing they could not win or escape, Antony and Cleopatra took their own lives, leaving Octavian as the sole authoritarian ruler of the Roman empire. These historical details serve as an epilogue to Louis Boullogne the Younger’s painting.

Back in Rome, there was a temple known as the Janus Geminus, which was dedicated to the Roman deity, Janus—an enigmatic god of doors and doorways. Naturally, doors were important features involved in the god’s worship and ceremonies. Most famously, the Romans were said to have kept the doors of the Janus Geminus open whenever the state was at war, and as the Romans seemed to always be expanding and battling, the doors of the Janus Geminus remained open for the vast majority of Rome’s existence. Nevertheless, there were an anomalous few times when the temple doors were shut, and Octavian (who assumed the name, Augustus, in 27 BCE) was one such man who could achieve this rare feat. This event, which occurred after Octavian’s triumphal return to Rome following his defeat of Antony and Cleopatra, was described by the Roman historian, Cassius Dio (c. 163-235), who wrote, “the action which gave him more pleasure than all these honours was the formal closing by the Senate of the gates of the temple of Janus, which signified that the Roman people’s wars were at an end…” (Cassius Dio, Roman History, 51.20). It is this rare event that Louis Boullogne the Younger strove to re-create in paint.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

The Short-Lived Volscian City Of New Satricum

By
thehistorianshut
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In the first half of the 4th century BCE, the city of Satricum was unfortunate enough to be the target or site of many battles and military campaigns. Satricum was coveted by both the Romans and the Volscians, and during their struggles over the region, the envied city was violently captured and recaptured several times over. For a glimpse of the back-and-forth nature of Satricum’s existence, we can start at the year 386 BCE. That year, Rome captured Satricum from the Volscians. Roles reversed around 382 BCE, when the Volscians captured the city back from the Romans. Yet, Rome retook Satricum once again around 381 BCE, and needed to deploy more troops there to defend the region in 380 BCE. Satricum was back in Volscian possession around 377 BCE, when a peace arrangement was made between Rome and the important Volscian city of Antium. Despite peace with Rome, the city of Satricum was not spared in 377 BCE, for an unidentified Latin city attacked Satricum that year and allegedly burned the place to the ground. Reportedly, only a temple dedicated to a goddess known as Mater Matuta was spared. After the burning, the site of Satricum allegedly remained largely abandoned for decades.

Volscians—in particular, the city of Antium—remained interested in rebuilding Satricum, yet, they had to wait for an opportune moment to arrive. It was not until around 348 BCE that the people of Antium set in motion their long-delayed plan to bring the deserted city of Satricum back to life.  The Romans, at that time, were preoccupied by rogue Gallic warbands on land, fleets of Greek pirates at sea, and an outbreak of plague in the city of Rome, itself. Due to such distractions facing Rome, the city of Antium and other Volscians were able to work unimpededly for a time on rebuilding and repopulating Satricum. Yet, peace would not last.

As the story goes, it took only two years after Satricum was rebuilt for it to once again become a target of the Roman military. Rome apparently feared that Satricum would become a hub of Volscian and Latin resistance against the Romans. To deal with this potential threat before it became a real problem, the Roman Senate, around 346 BCE, authorized an army to seize or destroy the city. A Roman consul named Marcus Valerius Corvus reportedly led the army that was dispatched. His campaign was described by the Roman historian, Livy (c.  59 BCE-17 CE):

“Valerius [Corvus] was therefore ordered by the Senate to attack the Volscians before others joined them, and marched on Satricum. There he was confronted by the Antiates and the other Volscians who had made their forces ready beforehand to meet any move by Rome, and, as both sides had long been bitterly hostile to each other, fighting broke out without delay…But even the walls gave them [the Volscians] little confidence, for the city was encircled by Roman soldiers and was being taken by scaling ladders; so they surrendered, to the number of about four thousand soldiers besides a large number of non-combatants. The town was destroyed and burnt: only the temple of Mater Matuta was saved from the fire” (Livy, Roman History, 7.27).

History, therefore, repeated itself for the unfortunate city of Satricum. It was besieged, captured and ultimately set on fire. Once again, the temple of the Mater Matuta (as had happened during the previous fire) was the main feature of the region to escape the flames. Despite two years of life, the rebuilt city was returned to ashes. It was not over, however, for Satricum—by the end of the 4th century BCE, a notable Satrican community had reemerged and were granted Roman citizenship.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Claudius Civilis Storms The Roman Army At Vetera, Jacob Folkema (c. 1692-1767), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the New York Public Library Digital Collections.jpg).

 

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Croesus Showing His Treasures To Solon, painted by Caspar van den Hoecke (c. 1585-1641/1648)

By
thehistorianshut
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This painting, by the Flemish artist Caspar van den Hoecke (c. 1585-1641/1648), re-creates a legendary meeting between King Croesus of Lydia and the Athenian law-giver, Solon, who both flourished in the first half of the 6th century BCE. For information on the ancient story that inspired this scene, we can turn to the writings of Herodotus (c. 490-425/420 BCE) and Plutarch (c. 50-120 CE). Herodotus, in his Histories, wrote that “Solon left home and, after a visit to the court of Amasis [Ahmose II] in Egypt, went to Sardis to see Croesus. Croesus entertained him hospitably in the palace, and three or four days after his arrival instructed some servants to take him on a tour of the royal treasuries and point out the richness and magnificence of everything” (Herodotus, The Histories, 1.30). Plutarch’s later account is slightly different; he downplays the role of the servants to refocus the tale on the bejeweled figure of King Croesus. Plutarch wrote:

“[Croesus] was decked out with everything in the way of precious stones, dyed raiment, and wrought gold that men deem remarkable, or extravagant, or enviable, in order that he might present a most august and gorgeous spectacle. But when Solon, in this presence, neither showed any astonishment at what he saw, nor made any such comments upon it as Croesus had expected, but actually made it clear to all discerning eyes that he despised such vulgarity and pettiness, the king ordered his treasure chambers to be thrown open for the guest, and that he should be led about to behold the rest of his sumptuous equipment” (Plutarch, Parallel Lives, Life of Solon, 27.2-3).

Such is the scene that is playing out in the foreground of the painting. King Croesus, in his expensive regalia, points out to his guest the nearby hoard of treasures, which are haphazardly scattered over the table and floor. Solon, according to both Herodotus and Plutarch, acknowledged that Croesus had a great quantity of wealth, but instead of being impressed, Solon found the heaps of jewels and precious metals to be distasteful and dangerous. As the story goes, Solon tried to give Croesus a cautionary lesson on the wide-spread ancient Greek belief that great fortune can easily and unexpectedly plummet into terrible misfortune. This philosophy often was encapsulated by catchy sayings such as ‘don’t count a living person lucky or happy until they meet death with their wealth, happiness and reputation still unscathed.’ The Lydian king, however, did not take the lesson to heart; instead, he quite angrily expelled Solon from his court.

When Croesus’ luck, wealth and power ultimately did take a spectacular dive through the means of Cyrus the Great’s conquest of Sardis in 546 BCE, Croesus finally remembered Solon’s warnings. According to legend, Cyrus the Great of Persia decided to burn Croesus alive, and as the pyre was being lit, Croesus verbally lamented for all to hear that he wished he had listened to Solon. As told by Herodotus, “While Croesus was speaking, the fire had been lit and was already burning round the edges. The interpreters told Cyrus what Croeus had said, and the story touched him…made him change his mind and give orders that the flames should at once be put out…” (The Histories, 1.86). Caspar van den Hoecke re-created this later legend in the background of the painting (at the upper-right corner). According to legend, Cyrus ultimately spared Croesus’ life and kept him around as an advisor.

Written by C. Keith Hansley:

 

Sources:

Machiavelli

By
thehistorianshut
-

Machiavelli (c. 1469-1527)

“The first impression that one gets of a ruler and of his brains is from seeing the men that he has about him. When they are competent and faithful one can always consider him wise, as he has been able to recognize their ability and keep them faithful. But when they are the reverse, one can always form an unfavorable opinion of him, because the first mistake that he makes is in making this choice.”

  • From The Prince (chapter 22) by Machiavelli, translated and printed by the Henry Regnery Company, 1948.
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