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Apollo and the Seasons, by Richard Wilson (c. 1714-1782)

This landscape painting was created by the Welsh artist, Richard Wilson (c. 1714-1782). As the title of the piece divulges, figures representing the divine personifications of the seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter) can be found in the artwork, as well as a depiction of the god, Apollo. Richard Wilson painted the Seasons as four young women, caught in the youthful act of holding hands and spinning in a circle. Apollo sits off to the left side of the canvas, lyre in hand, and he gestures as if he is singing to the whirling Seasons.

A similar scene can be found in the writings of the ancient Roman poet, Ovid (43 BCE-17 CE). In his myth-filled masterpiece, Metamorphoses, the poet described the Seasons and other related deities as courtiers inhabiting the palace of Phoebus (a name that commonly referred to both Apollo and the sun-god, Helios). Ovid wrote:

“Garbed in a robe of royal purple, radiant Phoebus
was sitting there on a throne which was glowing with brilliant emeralds.
Standing close on his right and his left were the Spirits of Day,
of Month and of Year, the Centuries and Hours at their equal intervals.
Also in waiting were youthful Spring with her wreath of flowers,
Summer naked but for her garland of ripening corn ears,
Autumn stained with the juice of trodden clusters of grapes,
And icy Winter, whose aged locks were hoary and tangled.”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, 2.23-30)

For the scene captured on canvas, Apollo and the seasons left behind their palace, and shook themselves free of their entourage of minor time deities. Summer decided to put on some clothes for the stroll through the countryside, and Winter rejuvenated her critiqued curls. As for Spring and Autumn, they set aside their respective flower wreath and grapes. Apollo, meanwhile, traded out his imperial purple wardrobe for garments in more humble shades of blue and orange. Yet, despite the presence of these deities dancing and singing before the body of water, it is the surrounding landscape and sky that brings the most power to the scene of the artwork.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

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Aristotle

Aristotle (c. 384-322 BCE)

“The truth is that men’s ambition and their desire to make money are among the most frequent causes of deliberate acts of injustice.”

  • From Aristotle’s Politics (Bekker page 1271a), translated by T. A. Sinclair and revised by T. J. Saunders (Penguin Classics, 1962, 1981, 1992).

The War Of Murderous Thormod The Strong And The Viking Olaf Brook

Olaf Brook (or Bekk) and Thormod the Strong were both killers from Norway who settled in Iceland during a period of time called the Age of Settlement (approximately c. 860-930). Olaf, for his part, had to flee his Norwegian homeland after being outlawed for murder. He first reportedly joined a convoy of Vikings, but he eventually sailed to northern Iceland, where he settled in the Ólafsfjörður region and made a home at a place called Kviabekk. As for Thormod the Strong, he also killed a man in Norway and decided to flee to Iceland to escape outlawry or a blood feud. He settled beside Olaf Brook, claiming land between the Siglufjörður and Héðinsfjörður regions of Iceland’s coastline, and he made a home at a place called Sigluness. Although the two men, Olaf and Thormod, had similar rough and rowdy backgrounds, their shared aggressive natures unfortunately did not lead to friendship. Instead, their violent personalities led to mutual hostility and bloodshed.

As the story goes, the murderous neighbors became embroiled in a land dispute over the dales between their homes. Details on the war between Olaf, Thormod, and their respective bands of followers are vague, but it was apparently quite a bloody conflict. The Icelandic Landnámabók (Book of Settlements) described Thormod the Strong’s actions during the feud, stating, “He quarrelled with Olaf Brook over Hvanndales and killed sixteen men before they were reconciled on the terms that each was to have the dales every other summer” (Landnámabók, Stulubók manuscript, chapter 215). As for how many men Olaf’s side killed, the text remains silent. Yet, for the conflict to end in a neutral sharing arrangement between the two violent men, it may be likely that Olaf Brook and Thormod the Strong had remained evenly matched during their war.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Illustration for Njal’s Saga, painted by August Malmström, (c. 1829-1901), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the National Museum in Stockholm, Sweden).

 

Sources:

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

The Siren, painted by Louis Loeb (c. 1866-1909)

This painting was created by the American artist, Louis Loeb (c. 1866-1909). Loeb’s mythological inspiration behind this artwork is clearly identified by his chosen title—The Siren. Traditionally, ancient Greek Sirens were said to have been monsters with the curious form of a woman’s head (and sometimes torso) fused onto the body of a bird. Rejecting such ancient descriptions, Louis Loeb and many other fellow painters chose to reinterpret Sirens as mermaids or seductive nymphs lounging on seaside shores. Whatever their shape, the defining feature of the Sirens was their bewitchingly beautiful voices. Songs performed by the Sirens proved irresistible to passing ships, luring unsuspecting and unprepared sailors to early deaths. Homer, who wrote of the Sirens in The Odyssey, described the deadly musical powers of these mythical beings:

“There is no homecoming for the man who draws near them unawares and hears the Sirens’ voices; no welcome from his wife, no little children brightening at their father’s return. For with their high clear song the Sirens bewitch him, as they sit there in a meadow piled high with the mouldering skeletons of men, whose withered skin still hangs upon their bones” (Homer, The Odyssey, book 12, approximately lines 40-50).

Such, then, is the power wielded by the woman seen in Louis Loeb’s painting. For extra effect, she seems to have an instrument beside her—perhaps a harp or a lyre—that she can use to accompany her already deadly voice. Fortunately, the Siren appears to have not caught any sailors on the particular day that the painting encapsulates. Instead, she stares out over the empty sea with a rather bored expression, waiting for her next encounter.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

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Legendary Monster Clouds Near Cyrene

Diodorus Siculus (c. 1st century BCE) was an ancient scholar from Sicily who compiled, combined, and (for the most part) chronologically organized the content of the works of earlier geographers and historians into a text called the Library of History. This text contains information on the myths, legends, folklore, and history that Diodorus scrouged up in Sicily, Egypt and Rome, and it serves as a great companion piece to the books of other ancient historians. For the time periods in which the existent works of such historians have become scarce, Diodorus’ Library can sometimes bridge the gaps. For this brief article, however, we will focus on a curious piece of folklore that Diodorus Siculus included in his Library—the tale of the monster clouds near Cyrene.

As told by Diodorus, people traveling in the vicinity of Cyrene (approximately modern Shaḥḥāt, Libya) and its nearby arid environments reported seeing frightening sights in the sky as they explored the region. What they saw, so the story goes, were shapes of massive creatures floating in the air, and these often-unnerving silhouettes seemed quite animated, to the extent that travelers felt they were being followed and harassed by living sky-beings. Diodorus Siculus wrote a colorful description of these supposed nebulous encounters:

“[A]t certain times, and especially when there is no wind, shapes are seen gathering in the sky which assume the forms of animals of every kind; and some of these remain fixed, but others begin to move, sometimes retreating before a man and at other times pursuing him, and in every case, since they are of monstrous size, they strike such as have never experienced them [before] with wondrous dismay and terror. For when the shapes which are pursuing overtake the persons they envelop their bodies, causing a chilling and shivering sensation, so that strangers who are unfamiliar with them are overcome with fear, although the natives, who have often met with such things, pay no attention” (Diodorus Siculus, Library, 3.50).

While most people might explain this story as something caused by clouds or fog, Diodorus Siculus decided to offer a lengthier analysis. Calling on the limited atmospheric sciences of his day, Diodorus provided his readers with an entertaining hypothesis. As for the monstrous shapes in the sky, the ancient scholar came to the conclusion that those were indeed clouds. Yet, for smaller silhouettes that seemed to chase travelers, Diodorus, was willing to believe those could have been driven by a living influence, for he was apparently of the opinion that a cloud “clings to such living creatures as accidentally come to be in the way” (Diodorus Siculus, Library, 3.51). Whether the sightings were caused by supernatural sky beings, cloud-covered animals, or simply active imaginations, it all led to an interesting legend.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Small Landscape,  painted by an unidentified 19th-century artist, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Smithsonian Institute).

 

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Aeneas And Achates On The Libyan Coast, Painted By Dosso Dossi (c. 1512 – 1542)

This painting, by the Italian artist Dosso Dossi (c. 1512 – 1542), was loosely inspired by a section from a poem called The Aeneid, written by the Roman poet Virgil (c. 70-19 BCE). Virgil’s poem tells the story of Trojan refugees, led by the hero Aeneas, who eventually resettled in Italy after being defeated in the Trojan War. Aeneas and his followers made a few stops along the way during their Italian-bound Mediterranean journey. Dosso Dossi, in particular, drew inspiration for the above artwork from a short scene in which Aeneas and his entourage took a brief rest on the Libyan coast, before heading on to the realm of Queen Dido in Carthage. Virgil wrote:

“So, concealing his ships
in the sheltered woody narrows overarched by rocks
and screened around by trees and trembling shade,
Aeneas moves out, with only Achates at his side,
two steel-tipped javelins balanced in his grip.”
(Virgil, The Aeneid, 1.374-378).

Such is the passage that provided the framework for Dosso Dossi’s painting. The details of the people and scenery featured in the artwork, however, seem to be from a time closer to the artist’s own age, rather than the wardrobe and architecture of the ancient world. Nevertheless, the title of the artwork remains “Aeneas and Achates on the Libyan Coast.”

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

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Aeschylus

Aeschylus (c. 525-456 BCE)

“God does as god decrees.
And still some say
that heaven would never stoop to punish men
who trample the lovely grace of things
untouchable. How wrong they are!”

  • Aeschylus, Agamemnon (approximately line 373-377), translated by Robert Fagles. New York: Penguin Classics, 1979.

The Hellish Origins Of The Word ‘Tantalize’

Words such as ‘tantalize,’ ‘tantalized’ and ‘tantalizing’ refer to mixed feelings of desire and torment caused by a yearning for a coveted something that is just out of reach. Such feelings were intimately known by a mythical or legendary figure named King Tantalus (or Tantalos). He was a wicked or mischievous Lydian king who spectacularly ran afoul of the gods. Tantalus’ fall had several stories. In some versions, he angered the gods by revealing heavenly secrets or items to mortals. Yet, the most popular tale was that he murdered his own son, and made meals from the body, which he then tried to serve to the gods as a test of their omnipotence. Fortunately, the gods discovered Tantalus’ scheme and they brought the murdered son back to life. As for Tantalus, he was sentenced to perpetual torment in the realm of the dead. His punishment was described by Homer (c. 9th or 8th century BCE), as well as by many other ancient poets and scholars over the following millennia. Common elements from these diverse accounts of Tantalus’ torment were summarized by a later scholar known as Pseudo-Apollodorus (c. 1st-2nd century) in a text called The Library:

“The punishment suffered by Tantalos in Hades is to have a stone suspended over him, and remain perpetually in a lake, seeing at either side of his shoulders fruit-laden trees growing by its bank; the water grazes his chin, but when he wants to drink from it, the water dries up, and when he wants to feed from the fruit, the trees and their fruits are raised by winds as high as the clouds” (Apollodorus, Library, E.2.1).

It is from this tormented figure, Tantalus, that the words ‘tantalize’ and ‘tantalizing’ derive. They operate almost like a simile or a metaphor, employed to refer to emotions and situations that are similar to Tantalus’ hellish predicament. Fine words, indeed, even if they allude to murder, cannibalism and torture.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (The Torment of Tantalus, by Bernard Picart (c. 18th century), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).

 

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Tapestry Of Artemis Accepting The Sacrifice Of Iphigeneia, by Salomon de Bray and Pieter de Cracht (c. 17th century)

This 17th-century tapestry was designed by Salomon de Bray and manufactured in the workshop of Pieter de Cracht. Their artwork re-creates a myth from an early part of the Trojan War saga—in particular, this scene is chronologically set after the abduction of Helen, but before the Greek fleet set sail to wage war against the Trojans. As the story goes, King Agamemnon of Mycenae (commander-in-chief of the Greek allies) had called together the forces of the Greeks at the port town of Aulis. The coalition was ready to depart on their long campaign across the Aegean, but the gods—especially Artemis—refused to grant the Greeks a favorable wind until a sacrifice was performed. She did not want an offering of wine, grain, or livestock, but instead requested a human sacrifice, and according to Agamemnon’s seer Calchas, the goddess would only be appeased by the sacrifice of King Agamemnon’s daughter, Iphigeneia.

Although Agamemnon was conflicted and disturbed by Calchas’ advice, he ultimately decided to go through with the sacrifice. It was a choice that was bitterly opposed by Agamemnon’s wife, Clytemnestra, yet she was powerless to stop her husband from allowing the seer to do his gruesome work. Aeschylus (c. 525-456 BCE), an Eleusinian playwright, described the sacrifice of Iphigeneia in a play called Agamemnon:

“Her father called his henchmen on,
on with a prayer,
‘Hoist her over the altar
like a yearling, give it all your strength!
She’s fainting—lift her,
sweep her robes around her,
but slip the strap in her gentle curving lips…
here, gag her hard, a sound will curse the house’—
and the bridle chokes her voice…her saffron robes
pouring over the sand
her glance like arrows showering
wounding every murderer through with pity
clear as a picture, live,
she strains to call their names…

What comes next? I cannot see it, cannot say.
The strong techniques of Calchas do their work.”
(Aeschylus, Agamemnon, approximately lines 230-250)

For the tapestry, special attention should be given to Aeschylus’ line about not being able to see or say how Iphigeneia’s sacrifice concluded. The question of ‘What comes next?’ was very real, for there were two ancient versions of the story. Aeschylus’ preferred tradition assumed that Iphigeneia was indeed killed during the sacrificial ceremony. In contrast, Euripides (c. 484-406 BCE), a junior contemporary of Aeschylus, followed an alternative narrative that claimed that Artemis swooped in to save Iphigeneia at the last moment, exchanging the young girl for a deer. Euripides wrote:

“Each one of us distinctly heard the sound of a blow, but none saw the spot where the maiden vanished. The priest cried out, and all the army took up the cry at the sight of a marvel all unlooked for, due to some god’s agency, and passing all belief, although it was seen; for there upon the ground lay a deer of immense size, magnificent to see, gasping out her life, with whose blood the altar of the goddess was thoroughly bedewed“ (Euripides, Iphigeneia at Aulis, approximately lines 1580-1590).

Such, then, are the stories that inspired the tapestry made by Salomon de Bray and Pieter de Cracht. Their artwork seems to follow Euripides’ version, with Artemis whisking away Iphigeneia and leaving behind a substitute sacrifice. Then again, if there is perhaps a body wrapped up in the bulbous cloth object near the sacrificial altar, it could mean that the artwork does depict Aeschylus’ account, and that Artemis has come only to collect Iphigeneia’s soul. Whatever the case, Iphigeneia’s parents never saw their daughter again.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

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Dictator Gaius Marcius Rutulus’ Surprise Destruction Of A Hostile Tarquinii And Falisci Military Camp Near Rome

Gaius Marcius Rutulus masterminded a decisive battle in the war between Rome and Tarquinii, two cities that had become openly hostile by the start of the 4th century BCE. Tarquinii was a prominent Etruscan city in ancient Italy, and its growing disharmony with Rome was presumably due to a Roman siege of another Etruscan city—Veii. This particular war between Rome and Veii is known as the Third Veientine War, traditionally dated to between 406 and 396 BCE. Although the various independent city-states of Etruria gave very little help to Veii during the conflict, Tarquinii was one of the Etruscan cities that evidently did sympathize with Veii’s plight, and, according to Roman sources, warriors from Tarquinii went so far as to raid Roman land around 397 BCE, while the Third Veientine War was still ongoing. Tarquinii’s marauders were not able to help the distressed Veientines (who were conquered in 396 BCE), but the raids attracted Rome’s wrathful attention, and the relationship between the Romans and the Tarquinienses began to deteriorate from then on. An escalation in the conflict between Rome and Tarquinii was inevitable, but the accumulating bad blood was contained to raids and small clashes for decades.

After the Gallic sack of Rome, dated between 390-386 BCE, Rome’s shaken power began to be tested by its neighbors. These regional power struggles between the various peoples and cities in ancient Italy continued for many years, and by the 350s BCE, the Romans were still at war with such enemies as Tibur, the Hernici, Privernum, Velitrae, the Falisci, and rogue Gallic warbands. It was during this same war-torn decade, too, that the war between Rome and Tarquinii escalated.

A breaking point reportedly occurred in 358 BCE, when, according to the Roman historian Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE), “the people of Tarquinii sent out a raiding force which penetrated into Roman territory, especially the part bordering on Etruria. The new consuls, Gaius Fabius and Gaius Plautius, demanded reparation, but to no effect, and so declared war on them, at the people’s bidding” (Livy, History of Rome, 7.12). Rome’s first years of open war against Tarquinii went incredibly poorly. In fact, Tarquinii’s military defeated the first Roman army that was sent out against them, and 307 Romans from this vanquished force were allegedly captured and later executed or sacrificed. This made Rome all the more eager to have revenge, but it was Tarquinii that had the momentum in the early years of the war.

According to Roman sources, the Tarquinienses worked closely with the Falisci, going so far as to build a coalition army in which warriors from Tarquinii and the Falisci marched together against Rome. By around 356 BCE, this coalition force was said to have pushed all the way to a place called Salinae, which was located just across the Tiber River from the main urban center of the city of Rome. It was at this precarious moment that the aforementioned Gaius Marcius Rutulus would enter the spotlight of history.

Faced by a hostile army at its doorstep, the city of Rome decided to fall back on its usual defensive mechanism—dictatorship. Gaius Marcius Rutulus was chosen as the man for the job, and quickly began gathering men and supplies for the defense of the city. While training his troops for impending battle, the dictator also made efforts to gather or manufacture a fleet of rafts that could be used on the Tiber. When these preparations were complete, Gaius Marcius Rutulus stealthily marched his army out of Rome and embarked on an impressive campaign against the Tarquinii and Falisci invaders. On the skirmishes and battles that ensued, the Roman historian Livy wrote:

“He marched out of the City and, putting his army across the Tiber on rafts, wherever he was led by reports of the enemy, he fell on a good many stragglers roaming about on both banks of the river who were raiding the countryside. He also captured the enemy’s camp in a surprise attack and took 8000 prisoners, and after killing or driving out of Roman territory all the rest, he was granted a triumph by the people, though without the Senate’s authorization” (Livy, History of Rome, 7.17).

After destroying the hostile camp at Salinae, capturing the alleged 8,000 prisoners, and forcing the remaining invaders out of Roman territory, Gaius Marcius Rutulus relinquished his dictatorial powers without issue. His brief campaign seemed to have been a major turning point in the war, for after Rutulus’ victory over the Tarquinii-Falisci camp, the Romans once again took the offensive against their enemies. Rome won another significant battle against Tarquinii around 354 BCE, after which the Romans reportedly executed 358 prisoners (as revenge against Tarquinii’s earlier execution/sacrifice of Roman captives). A truce between Tarquinii and Rome was finally reached in the year 351 BCE.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Roman Soldiers Fighting the Dacians, by Nicolas Beatrizet (c. 1515-1565), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the National Gallery of Art.jpg).

 

Sources:

  • The History of Rome (Rome and Italy) by Livy, translated by Betty Radice. New York: Penguin Classics, 1982.
  • The Beginnings of Rome by T. J. Cornell. New York: Routledge, 1995.