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The Deadly Plague Procession Of Pope Gregory The Great

By
thehistorianshut
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Gregory the Great was elected pope of the Roman church in 590, at a time of calamity and chaos. Just before his ascension, the city of Rome was dealt a devastating one-two punch by merciless mother nature. First, the waters of the Tiber flooded, causing damage and destruction in the holy city. After this initial watery disaster began to subside, a new catastrophe steadily engulfed the city of Rome. This second disaster was a plague, which quickly spread in the city, even reaching Pope Gregory’s predecessor, Pelagius II (r. 579-590), who died of the illness. Present to witness these events was a certain deacon named Agiulf, who had been sent by Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594) to Rome to obtain saint relics. Agilulf’s first-hand account of the flood and plague was recorded by Bishop Gregory in his Ten Books of Histories, also commonly known as the History of the Franks:

“On his return from the city of Rome with the relics of the Saints, my deacon (Agiulf) told me that the previous year, in the month of November, the River Tiber had covered Rome with such flood-water that a number of ancient churches had collapsed and the papal granaries had been destroyed, with the loss of several thousands of bushels of wheat…As a result there followed an epidemic, which caused swellings in the groin. This started in January. The very first to catch it was Pope Pelagius…Once Pelagius was dead a great number of other folk perished from this disease. The people then unanimously chose as Pope the deacon Gregory” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, X.1).

Although the papal leader changed, the deadly course of the plague did not. By April, the epidemic in Rome had become much worse, driving the newly empowered Pope Gregory to desperate action. Naturally, he thought that the best way for him to cure his city was through religion, not medicine. In particular, Pope Gregory thought that the plague would lessen or disappear if the people of Rome made a grandiose display of penitence. With this in mind, the pope organized a three-day event that culminated in congregations from seven churches in the city all launching simultaneous processions, their separate routes ultimately combining together at the Basilica of Saint Mary. Hopeful victims who were already afflicted with plague evidently joined these processions, yearning for a miracle. This led to morbid sights of ill people collapsing to the ground in the middle of the parades. The aforementioned Deacon Agiulf witnessed the grand finale of the odd three-day event, and, once again, his report was recorded for posterity by the bishop of Tours:

“When he had finished speaking, Gregory assembled the different groups of churchmen, and ordered them to sing psalms for three days and to pray to our Lord for forgiveness. At three o’clock all the choirs singing psalms came into the church, chanting the Kyrie eleison as they passed through the city streets. My deacon, who was present, said that while the people were making their supplication to the Lord, eighty individuals fell dead to the ground. The Pope never once stopped preaching to the people, nor did the people pause in their prayers” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, X.1).

Despite the eighty or more people dying during the procession, and the unknown further numbers who contracted the illness during the multi-day event, these parades orchestrated by Gregory the Great were considered a success by 6th-century contemporaries. In fact, a legend soon emerged that the Archangel Michael appeared before the marching congregations (or at least to Pope Gregory) and rid the city of the plague—this tale led to the naming of the Castel Sant’Angelo (formerly Hadrian’s Mausoleum), which was where the archangel was allegedly sighted. Nevertheless, no serious modern medical experts would be likely to encourage a seven-fold public procession in the middle of a pandemic or epidemic.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Section from The Climbing of the Capitol with the Grey Horse of the Newly Elected Pope, painted by Johannes Lingelbach (c. 1622-1674), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).

 

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The Family Of Darius Pleading To Alexander, Painted By Gasparo Diziani (c. 1689-1767)

By
thehistorianshut
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This painting, by the Italian artist Gasparo Diziani (c. 1689-1767), draws its inspiration from an event that occurred during the remarkable reign of Alexander the Great of Macedonia (r. 336-323 BCE). In particular, Gasparo Diziani’s artwork re-creates a scene that occurred after the Battle of Issus in 333 BCE, where Alexander defeated the forces of Darius III of Persia. As the Persian ruler was chased off the battlefield, he had to leave behind his camp, as well as anything and anyone that had been in it at the time of the battle. Unfortunately for the defeated Persian king, he had left many of his loved ones in that camp, including his mother, wife and children. Therefore, when Darius was defeated and forced to flee, his family was subsequently captured by Alexander the Great. Arrian (c. 90-173+), a Roman biographer of Alexander, wrote, “Darius’ headquarters were stormed and captured; his mother was taken, together with his wife (who was also his sister) and his infant son; in addition to these, two of his daughters fell into Alexander’s hands with a few noble Persian ladies who were in attendance upon them” (Anabasis Alexandri, Book 2, chapter 12). When Alexander the Great became aware that he had captured the family of Darius, the first thing that he did was to send one of his companions to reassure the captives that Darius was still alive. On another day, he visited the captured Persian royals in person and made sure that they were kept safe. This meeting between Alexander the Great and the captive Persian royals is what inspired the painting above. Darius’ family remained with Alexander the Great until around 331 BCE, when he left them behind in the city of Susa.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

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The Tale Of A Temple-Tomb Heist By Viking Traders

By
thehistorianshut
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Around 1028, Canute the Great—ruler of England (since 1016) and Denmark (since 1019)—announced his intention to further expand his power by seizing control of Norway. The Norwegian throne, however, was not vacant. It was ruled by King Olaf II, who began his reign around 1015. Nevertheless, King Olaf was vulnerable. For one, there was growing unrest in Norway over King Olaf’s centralization of government power, which was to the detriment of local jarls and chieftains. Furthermore, people of all classes in Norway were irked by King Olaf’s crusades to forcibly Christianize the Norwegian population. On top of these troubles, the Norwegian king was also seemingly worried about the state of his treasury. Olaf tried to press Iceland and the Faroe Islands into paying him tribute, but the people there always managed to talk or sabotage their way out of sending any money to Norway. This did not bode well for King Olaf, as he would need a great deal of treasure to keep his troops happy for a showdown with mighty Canute. Therefore, to gather funds in a more direct and reliable way, King Olaf II sent out tax collectors and other agents to bring in some revenue. One of these agents was reportedly a certain Karli of Halogaland, who was tasked with sailing up and around Norway, Sweden and Finland to enter the White Sea, where he was meant to engage in the fur trade with the Finns and Rus. When everything was bought and sold, King Olaf would receive at least fifty percent of the gross sale, leaving the rest to be split between Karli’s crew.

Karli of Halogaland, as the story goes, did not sail alone on his journey. He invited his brother, the merchant Gunnstein, to join the crew for the northern odyssey. They set to sea together on a ship crewed by a reported twenty-five other sailors. As they sailed along the coast, the brothers collected royal taxes and resources which they would later put to use in their fur trade haggling. Karli and Gunnstein were not very stealthy as they made their way up the shoreline, so news of the purpose of their mission leaked out. As the brothers sailed along the northern waters of the Halogaland region, a powerful local chieftain named Thorir the Hound (or Tore Hund) reached out to them, informing the brothers that he would sail his own ship with them to the fur markets along the White Sea. As the story goes, Thorir the Hound chose a large hybrid ship as his vessel for the voyage. It was just as effective in war as it was in trade, and it reportedly held a crew of around eighty men.

Karli, Gunnstein, and Thorir, on their two ships, rounded the bend of the Scandinavian Peninsula and followed the coastline down into the White Sea. There, they rowed into the Dvina River, which is accessible from the southeast section of the sea. Along the river were towns with thriving fur markets, and the Norwegians called the region Bjarmaland. After disembarking at an unnamed city along their river route, the Norwegians went about their business. Karli’s aim was to safely maximize profits for King Olaf with the king’s own resources and funds that had been entrusted to him. Gunnstein and Thorir, however, were there for themselves and sold off their own goods and purchased coveted furs and pelts. When great amounts of wealth and goods had been traded between the Norwegians and the locals, Karli, Gunnstein, and Thorir returned to their ships and began sailing back toward the White Sea.

Although the official trade mission had been completed, the Norwegians decided to loiter in the region for a time to make some more money through less courteous means than trade. Karli, Gunnstein, and Thorir now shed their peaceful demeanors as merchants and instead embraced the more violent and lawless role of Viking raiders. As the story goes, the Norwegians did not consider themselves numerous enough to directly assault a town—they were only two ships and approximately 100 men strong, after all. Yet, they had somehow learned of the existence of a walled temple or tomb in the region that was poorly guarded, but had a fair amount of treasure. Deciding to strike at this weaker target, the Vikings disembarked near the location of the site, and made their way to the temple or tomb by foot. The Icelandic scholar, Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179-1241), described the supposed scenery and defenses of the compound, stating, “They came to a large clearing, and in it was a tall wooden palisade with a gate in which it was locked. Six of the natives were set to guard the palisade every night, two of them every third part of it” (Heimskringla, Saint Olaf’s Saga, chapter 132). As the story goes, the site inside the palisade was dominated by an earthen mound, as well as a sizable statue of a deity which the Norwegians called, Jómali—a label which is thought to have been derived from jumala, the Finnish word for god. The treasure that the Norwegians sought was said to have been on or in the earthen mound, and further wealth could be found in the form of offerings left to the statue of the deity.

Karli, Gunnstein, Thorir, and their crews reportedly waited until a change in the guard occurred at the gate of the compound. Utilizing the brief lapse in security, the nimblest of the Vikings allegedly ran up to the walls of the compound and used their axes as hooks, so as to hoist themselves up and over the barricade. These infiltrators then rushed to open the gate, letting in the less acrobatic raiders. Still hoping to avoid a fight, the Vikings went to work as stealthily as possible, quietly collecting all of the gold and silver that they could find at the earthen mound. Of all the treasure, however, the choicest pieces were with the god’s statue. The tale of this lucrative heist was described by the aforementioned Snorri Sturluson:

“They went to the mound and took out of it as much gold and silver as they could and carried it away in their garments…Thórir turned back to Jómali and snatched the silver bowl from his lap. It was filled with silver coins. He poured the silver into his kirtle and inserted his arm in the handle of the bowl, then left by the gate…Then Karli ran up to Jómali. He saw that he had a thick necklace around his neck. Karli swung his axe and cut in two the thong with which the necklace was fastened in the back of Jómali’s neck. That blow was so violent that Jómali’s head came off. The crash was so loud as to seem a marvel to all. Karli snatched the necklace, and then they made off” (Heimskringla, Saint Olaf’s Saga, chapter 132).

According to the tale, Karli’s smashing of the statue not only alarmed his own Viking comrades, but it also alerted the nearby local guards that there were intruders inside the palisade walls. As noises of frenzied commotion drew nearer to the compound, the Vikings realized that the local defenders were much more numerous than they thought. All agreed it was time to go, and quickly at that.  Fortunately for the fleeing Norwegians, they had enough of a head-start on the furious mob of locals that they were able to stay out of range of any projectiles thrown or launched in their direction. Nevertheless, they were hotly pursued all the way back to water, and the Vikings were said to have barely had enough time to clamber back onto their ships.

Although a battle with the locals had been avoided, conflict and killing would unfortunately still occur. Any time the Vikings anchored their treasure-laden ships at an island to camp for the night, they inevitably began to argue about how they should divide the loot. For one, Karli wanted to give King Olaf a cut of the stolen wealth. This annoyed Thorir the Hound because he was no fan of the king—in fact, he would become one of the rebellious chieftains who would contribute to King Olaf’s undoing. Karli and Thorir continued fighting about the division of the loot over multiple days as they sailed back around the Scandinavian Peninsula. According to the tale, this continuous argument finally spiraled out of control one day while the Vikings were camped on an island off the northern coast of Norway. Once again, Karli and Thorir were at an impasse, but this time Thorir’s anger got the better of him. Grabbing a spear, Thorir the Hound impaled Karli with the weapon, killing him. This murder was witnessed by Karli’s brother, Gunnstein, who, instead of fighting Thorir’s much larger force then and there, decided to flee with his murdered brother’s crew.

Gunnstein and those who followed him rushed to their ship and put out to sea. Thorir and his men boarded their ship, too, and quickly started pursuit. Slowly but surely, Thorir the Hound began closing in on his target. Gunnstein evidently decided make landfall at Senja island and was able to hide with the help of the locals. Thorir the Hound found Gunnstein’s ship, but he could not find the man or his crew. Instead of scouring the island for the witnesses to his crime, Throrir decided to take all of Gunnstein’s cargo and then sink the hiding man’s ship. After Thorir the Hound had sailed away, Gunsteinn and his crew left the island on rowboats that were generously loaned to him by the islanders. Gunnstein eventually reached the court of King Olaf and told the monarch about all that had transpired. Olaf, interestingly, decided to only make Thorir pay fines for his crimes. As told by Snorri Sturluson, “He set forth these terms for compensation: that Thórir was to pay the king ten marks in gold, and to Gunnstein and his kinsmen another ten marks, and for the robbery and destruction of property still another ten marks” (Heimskringla, Saint Olaf’s Saga, chapter 139). Thorir the Hound was said to have easily been able to pay this fine, with much wealth still left to him afterwards. Regardless, he never liked King Olaf in the first place and being forced to pay a fine only deepened his loathing for the monarch. After paying up, Thorir the Hound was said to have immediately sailed away to join the court of Olaf’s rival, Canute the Great.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Illustration from the book, Valdmer the Viking, by Hume Nisbet (published 1893), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the British Library.jpg).

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Cephalus And Procris, Painted By Godfried Schalcken (c. 1643–1706)

By
thehistorianshut
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This painting, by the Dutch artist Godfried Schalcken (c. 1643–1706), depicts the tragic end to the ancient Greek myth of Cephalus and Procris. Like many other artists who painted mythological scenes, Godfried Schalcken decided to follow the account of the Roman poet Ovid (43 BCE-17 CE). The poet’s account actually combined the tales of two different Cephaluses. Ovid’s first ingredient in his tragic concoction was the myth of Hermes’ son, Cephalus, who became the lover of the goddess, Dawn (Eos or Aurora). This tale was blended with a separate myth about a different Cephalus (fathered by King Deionus of Phocis), who married the Athenian princess, Procris. Ovid wove the two narratives together by rewriting the story to have Procris’ husband be abducted by Dawn. Cephalus eventually broke free from Dawn and returned to his wife, but not before he had allowed himself to be unfaithful. Projecting his own weakness onto his wife, Cephalus feared that his beloved Procris might have also lapsed into infidelity during his absence. The mutual suspicions that resulted from Cephalus’ divine dalliance led to husband and wife taking a break from one another, with Procris momentarily running off to join the huntresses of the goddess Artemis (or Diana). Yet, Cephalus eventually won back Procris’ trust and she returned to resume married life.

As a reconciliation gift, Procris gave her husband presents of hunting gear, including a fine javelin. These gifts, however, would bring about tragedy. Putting his presents to good use, Cephalus started spending more and more time out hunting. He spent so much time out in the wilds that Procris soon began to question if her husband might be chasing something other than wild game during his absences. As had happened with Cephalus before, Procris let her fears get the better of her, and she ultimately decided to stealthily spy on her husband during one of his hunting trips. Ovid, narrating through the viewpoint of Cephalus, described the sad story of what happened that day:

“Another disturbance, this time the rustle of fallen leaves.
A beast on the prowl, I decided, and sent my javelin flying.
Procris was there under cover and, clutching her wounded breast,
cried out in pain. When I recognized the voice of my faithful
wife, my own wife, I rushed like a madman towards the sound.
I found her dying, her clothes all stained and spattered with blood”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, 7.840-845)

Such is the scene that Godfried Schalcken re-created in his painting. It shows Cephalus kneeling over his mortally wounded wife. The bloodied point of the javelin that dealt the killing blow can be seen resting just above Procris’ foot at the lower right corner of the painting.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

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The Sad Greco-Roman Origin Myth Of Amber Gemstones

By
thehistorianshut
-

Ancient peoples created origin myths for all sorts of objects—amber gemstones included. Greco-Roman storytellers created a sad myth about the origin of the honey-colored stone, connecting its origin directly to the gods. According to their tale, the creation of amber was linked to a depressing series of events surrounding the sun-god, Helios. As the story goes, Helios and a female deity named Clymene had a son named Phaëthon, as well as many daughters (known collectively as the Heliades). Phaëthon was a tragically presumptuous and arrogant figure, who had an unhealthy eagerness to prove himself a worthy heir to his sun-god father. Phaëthon’s excessive need to put his self-worth to the test eventually led him into disaster. According to myth, Helios was convinced or tricked by his son to relinquish control of the sun for a day. Phaëthon wanted to prove that he, like his father, could successfully steer the chariot of the sun on its daily celestial journey. Hoping to succeed in his endeavor, the ambitious youth readied the chariot of the sun and its fire-breathing horses, then set off on a doomed journey that would have grave repercussions for himself and his family. Not long into his flight, Phaëthon was said to have lost control of his father’s chariot, and as a result, the untamed sun set the earth alight. To protect the world, the highest god, Zeus, had to disable the chariot with a bolt of his mighty lighting. Although this saved the planet, it also killed Phaëthon. While the rest of the gods rejoiced, Helios, Clymene, and the Heliades mourned for their lost loved one.

A new chapter in the story soon began when Clymene and the Heliades tracked down the site where Phaëthon’s remains fell. They built him a tomb and spent months grieving at the youth’s resting place. The bizarre tale of what happened next differs from storyteller to storyteller, with some describing it as a mercy, others framing it as a punishment, and still other storytellers describing it as a neutral and spontaneous occurrence. Whatever the case, Phaëthon’s sisters, the Heliades, were said to have been suddenly transformed into poplar trees while they mourned for their brother. The Roman poet, Ovid (43 BCE-17 CE), skillfully described the sad metamorphosis of the Heliades:

“The sisters had done their lamenting as usual (constant practice
had turned into a habit), when Phaëthusa, the eldest,
wishing to sink to the ground, complained that her feet had gone cold
and rigid. When lovely Lampátië tried to come and assist her,
her limbs were suddenly rooted fast to the place where she stood.
A third who was making ready to tear her innocent tresses,
found she was plucking off leaves. Then one of her sisters moaned
that her legs were caught in the grip of a tree trunk, just as the other
woefully cried that her arms were changing into lengthy branches.
To crown their amazement, bark began to enclose their loins,
and gradually covered their bellies, their bosoms, their shoulders and arms,
till all that appeared was their pleading mouths calling out for their mother.
What was a mother to do but scurry about back and forth,
wherever her impulse led her, and kiss their lips while she could?
It wasn’t enough. She attempted to strip the bark from their bodies
and break the young branches off with her hands, but all that emerged
was a trickle of human blood, like drops from an open wound.”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, 2.345-360).

By the end of their transformation, the once humanoid bodies of the Heliades were completely changed into full-fledged poplar trees. From their earlier forms, all that the Heliades retained was the ability to bleed from their wounds and weep sappy tears from their newfound bark. As the story goes, these teardrops from the distraught Heliades poplars became the first pieces of amber.  On this, Ovid wrote, “the tears flowed on; as they dripped from the new-formed poplars, the sun’s rays set them to beads of amber, which fell in the gleaming river, who sent them to be worn by the brides of Látium” (Metamorphoses, 2.364-366). The Heliades and their saplings reportedly kept up their tradition, annually mourning over Phaëthon together. A Greek-Sicilian historian by the name of Diodorus Siculus (c. 1st century BCE) continued this story, writing, “These poplars, at the same season each year, drip tears, and these, when they harden, form what men call amber, which in brilliance excels all else of the same nature and is commonly used in connection with the mourning attending the death of the young” (Diodorus Siculus, Library of History, 5.23).

Of course, the tale recounted here is simply an origin myth, and even the aforementioned Diodorus Siculus bluntly stated that “the creators of this fictitious tale [about the Heliades amber] have one and all erred” (Library of History, 5.23). In reality, amber is fossilized resin that takes millions of years to form. Nevertheless, the story of the mourning Heliades and their amber tears remains interesting and worth retelling.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Etruscan amber artifact and an amber stone, both [Public Domain] via Creative Commons, Smithsonian, and the MET.jpg).

 

Sources:

  • Metamorphoses by Ovid. Translated by David Raeburn. Penguin Classics; Revised Edition, 2004.
  • The Library of History, by Diodorus Siculus, edited by Giles Laurén (Sophron Editor, 2014).
  • https://www.britannica.com/science/amber

The Legend Of The Infant Servius Tullius, Painted By Bonifacio de’ Pitati (Bonifacio Veronese, c. 1487–1553)

By
thehistorianshut
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This painting, created by the Italian artist Bonifacio de’ Pitati (aka Bonifacio Veronese, c. 1487–1553), depicts a legend from the life of King Servius Tullus of Rome, traditionally dated to have ruled the city from 578 to 534 BCE. According to ancient folklore, Servius showed signs of greatness even in his infancy. These omens, so the story goes, piqued the interest of Servius’ predecessors, King Tarquinius Priscus (said to have ruled c. 616-578 BCE) and Queen Tanaquil, convincing them that Servius Tullius would be a worthy heir to rule Rome. Bonifacio Veronese, in his painting, re-creates the most famous of the miraculous omens that was said to have occurred in the infancy of the future king. Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE), a Roman historian, recorded the tale:

“A little boy named Servius Tullius was lying asleep, when his head burst into flames. Many people saw it happen. The noise and excitement caused by such an extraordinary event came to the ears of the king and queen, and brought them hurrying to the spot. A servant ran for water and was about to throw it on the flames, when the queen stopped him, declaring, so soon as she could make herself heard, that the child must on no account be disturbed, but allowed to sleep till he awoke of his own accord. A few minutes later he opened his eyes, and the fire went out” (History of Rome, 1.39).

Such is the story behind the scene that Bonifacio Veronese put on canvas. It shows the Roman masses, including King Tarquinius Priscus and Queen Tanaquil, gathering to view the miracle. All that is missing is the servant who was stopped short of dowsing the infant with a bucket of water. According to legend, after omens such as the one shown in the painting, King Tarquinius Priscus and Queen Tanaquil decided to bring Servius Tullius into their family by letting him become their son-in-law.

For formatting purposes, the image featured above was cropped. Bonifacio Veronese’s wide wide artwork in its entirety can be seen below:

 

 

 

 

Written by C. Keith Hansley

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Machiavelli

By
thehistorianshut
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Machiavelli (c. 1469-1527)

“Men are so simple and so ready to obey present necessities, that one who deceives will always find those who allow themselves to be deceived.”

  • From The Prince (chapter 18) by Machiavelli, translated and printed by the Henry Regnery Company, 1948.

The Tale Of King Guntram And The Sleepy Assassin

By
thehistorianshut
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King Guntram of Burgundy (r. 561-593) lived in a complicated time. He ruled one piece of the Merovingian Dynasty’s sprawling empire, split between several kings from the same dynastic family. In his early reign, he shared the empire with three other brothers, who each controlled their own kingdoms. By 584, Guntram was the last remaining member of this original kingly quadruplet. For the rest of his reign, the Merovingian Empire was divided between old King Guntram and two of his young nephews, Childebert II (r. 575-596) and Chlotar II (r. 584-629).

King Guntram, trying to be the responsible patriarch of the dynasty, made it one of his missions to keep peace between Childebert’s Austrasian branch of the family and Chlotar’s Neustrian side. His job was made all the more difficult because the mothers of the two young kings were both highly competent women who despised each other. The incredibly hostile relationship between Fredegund (Chlotar’s mother) and Brunhild (Childebert’s mother) can be quickly summarized by stating that Fredegund killed Brunhild’s sister, and that each woman likely had a role in having the husband of the other assassinated. The mutual loathing between these two queens was passed on to their sons, keeping a feud between the branches alive for decades. Although Guntram could not halt all of the intrigues between the ever-scheming Fredegund and Brunhild, he did manage to put a stop to the open civil wars that often plagued the Merovingian Dynasty, instead redirecting his young kinsmen to fight outside threats such as the Visigoths and the Lombards.

Around 587, however, King Guntram began to suspect that Fredegund was plotting something with the Visigoths that might disrupt the internal peace of the realm. He reportedly searched the properties of people that he suspected might have been helping Fredegund send her secret dispatches. Nothing incriminating was alleged to have been found in these searches, yet Queen Fredegund nevertheless decided to send envoys to King Guntram in order to patch up their fraying relationship. Events soon unfolded that would make people wonder if the envoys were truly there for a mission of peace. What allegedly happened next was recorded by Gregory of Tours, a bishop and historian who was an acquaintance of the king. Gregory wrote:

“For some reason or other which I do not understand, they [Fredegund’s envoys] hung about for some time in their lodging. The next day came and the King set off for early-morning communion. As a candle was being carried before him, a man was observed sleeping in a corner of the oratory, just as if he were drunk, his sword girt round him and his spear resting against the wall. When he saw this, the King exclaimed aloud. It was not natural, he said, for a man to be asleep in such a place in the dread horror of the night. The man was seized, he was bound with leather thongs and then he was put to the question to discover what he meant by this behavior” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, VIII.44).

The suspicious napper was said to have been interrogated under torture, and he apparently gave a confession to the extent that he had been hired as an assassin by Fredegund’s envoys. Whether this was a genuine confession or if the unfortunate sleeper said what he did simply to make the torturers cease their craft is unknown. Whatever the case, when King Guntram heard the confession, he had the captive tortured even more, before tossing him into a prison. As for the suspicious envoys, they fared much better than the sleeping man. Instead of torture and prison, Fredegund’s diplomats were merely banished from Guntram’s sight.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Aeneas, painted by Salvator Rosa (c. 1615–1673), placed in front of a darkened wall, both [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

 

Sources:

  • The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.

Amphitrite Or Allegory Of The Element Water, Painted By Georg Engelhard Schröder (c. 1684-1750)

By
thehistorianshut
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This painting, by the Swedish artist Georg Engelhard Schröder (c. 1684-1750), draws its inspiration from the Greek sea-goddess, Amphitrite. Two sides to water can be seen in this painting. The image of motherhood reflects how water supports life, while the stormy sky and shadowy depths around the family scene conversely warns of the dangers posed by unmerciful nature. As for the story of the goddess, Amphitrite, she was married to her fellow sea deity, Poseidon. Although she at first resisted the sea god’s proposal, she eventually agreed to the marriage, and as can be seen in the painting, the two deities had a family together. On this family, the scholar known as Pseudo-Apollodorus (c. 1st-2nd century) wrote, “Poseidon married Amphitrite, and had as children Triton and Rhode” (Library, 1.4). Such is the gist of Georg Engelhard Schröder’s painting.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

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The Deadly Consequence For Leaders Of Nepete Who Disappointed Rome

By
thehistorianshut
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According to Roman tradition, the city of Rome was sacked by a large force of Gallic Senones in the year 390 BCE. Brennus, the leader of these Gallic troops, was said to have defeated a Roman army at the Allia River and then subsequently besieged Rome before the city’s military could reorganize. In all accounts, Brennus and his army breached the city limits, and according to Roman tradition, the only section of the city that he could not conquer was the Citadel of Rome. The story of what happened next differs depending on which ancient historian or antiquarian is being read. As the story goes, Brennus was either bought off in negotiation or fought off in battle (or a mix of the two) by the holdouts in the Citadel, who soon gained the added leverage of reinforcements and allied support. Whatever the case and the cause, the Gallic army soon departed from Rome, likely selling themselves as mercenaries to the powerful tyrant, Dionysius of Syracuse (r. 405-367 BCE), who was then waging war against Rome’s ally, Caere.

Although Roman tradition portrays the sack of Rome as a near-apocalyptic event, the Gallic attack in actuality seemed to harm little more than Rome’s pride, as well as a great deal of their movable property and treasures. In fact, Rome still had enough might and manpower after the sack of their city to promptly send out multiple armies to attack or intimidate rivals and allies of questionable loyalty. This reasserting of dominance was indeed needed, for Rome’s long-time rivals among the Etruscans and Volscians began poking and prodding at Roman territory, testing to see how weakened Rome really was after their ordeal with the Gauls. Unnamed Etruscan cities reportedly took bold action, mobilizing to attack and besiege Rome’s strategic allies, Sutrium and Nepete. These cities sent messengers to call for help, and in response, a Roman army was sent to push back the Etruscans.

As the story goes, Rome first went to the aid of Sutrium. When they arrived at the city, there was fighting in the streets between the people of Sutrium and Etruscans who had breached the walls. Appearing in the cliché nick of time, the Roman army joined the battle and helped the defenders of Sutrium drive off the Etruscan attackers. When the battle was won and the city was secure, the Romans then moved on to Nepete.

Just like at Sutrium, Etruscan attackers were able to force their way into Nepete before the Romans arrived. Yet, unlike at Sutrium, the Romans did not reach the city in time to save the day. Fighting alone against the besieging force, Nepete was forced to surrender. When the Roman army finally arrived at the outskirts of the city, the battle was already over and the city had fallen. Nevertheless, Napete was strategic for Rome and they intended to take it back. According to ancient accounts, the Romans somehow made contact with the people of Nepete, instructing the locals to remain unarmed so as to distinguish them from their occupiers. After that instruction had been given, the Romans scaled the walls and stormed the city. The story of the recapture of Nepete was recounted by the historian, Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE), who wrote, “The Etruscans were killed, whether armed or not; the ringleaders of the town’s surrender were also executed, but the innocent people were given back their possessions and the town was left with a garrison” (History of Rome, 6.10).

As can be ascertained from Livy’s quote, the Romans held a grudge against the leaders of Nepete for not fighting it out to the death against the besieging army. Those in power who had proposed, or agreed to, the idea of capitulating to the besieging army were summarily executed by the Roman military. Finally, as added insult, Rome left a force of Roman troops in Nepete, who would not only be keeping an eye on the border, but also on the allied city, itself.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Roman Battle Scene, By Sébastien Bourdon (c. 1616-1671), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the National Museum in Sweden).

 

Sources:

  • The History of Rome by Livy, translated by Betty Radice. New York: Penguin Classics, 1982.
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