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Aeneas On Delos, By Claude Lorrain (c. 1600-1682)

By
thehistorianshut
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This drawing, by the French artist Claude Lorrain (c. 1600-1682), was inspired by an episode from the Aeneid, an epic poem by the Roman poet, Virgil (c. 70-19 BCE). The Aeneid follows the journey of the Trojan hero, Aeneas, as he travels west after the Trojan War. In the passage that inspired the drawing above, Aeneas and his followers sailed to the Greek island of Delos. Aeneas’ arrival at the island was described by Virgil:

“Mid-sea there lies the sacred island of Delos,
loved by the Nereids’ mother, Aegean Neptune too.
Apollo the Archer, finding his birthplace drifting
shore to shore, like a proper son had chained it fast
to Myconos’ steep coast and Gyaros, made it stable,
a home for men that scorns the winds’ assaults.
Here I sail, and here a haven, still, serene,
receives our weary bodies safe and sound…
Landing, we just begin to admire Apollo’s city
when King Anius, king of men and priest of the god,
his brow wreathed with the bands and holy laurel leaves,
comes to meet us, spotting a long-lost friend, Anchises.
Clasping our host’s hands, we file toward his palace.”
(Virgil, Aeneid, Book 3, approximately lines 90-100)

It is this scene of Aeneas and his crew at the peaceful and picturesque island of Delos that Claude Lorrain attempts to channel in his drawing. Landscape and architecture dominate the artwork, with the human figures relegated to the lower left corner of the image. After planning out the art in drawings such as this one, Claude Lorrain would later go on to create his vision in a painting.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

The Pointed Death Of Count Waddo

By
thehistorianshut
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In the 6th-century, there lived a wealthy woman named Beretrude who somehow became a great landowner in the domain of the Franks and lorded over her territory from an impressive villa. She was an altruistic woman, who lent large sums to various churches and convents, but she still retained a personal fortune and a sizable estate until her dying day. Fittingly, the impressive matriarch, Beretrude, left as her heir a daughter—or, technically, her daughter’s husband. This spouse, however, was reportedly considered a foreigner to the Franks and Gallo-Romans who made up the majority of the population in the Frankish kingdoms. Therefore, the female heiress and her foreign husband were vulnerable to prejudice and discrimination from their neighbors. Count Waddo, a Frankish nobleman, quickly ascertained that the rich estate of the late Beretrude was now ripe for the taking. As a man with warriors and wealth, the count had the tools he needed to start taking over the estate and its villa in piecemeal fashion. Yet, in his greed, Count Waddo would underestimate the loyalty of the villa’s workforce to their original employers.

At first, Count Waddo tested the resolve of Beretrude’s heirs by pressuring the couple to surrender the horses that they had on their estate. To add weight to his demand, the count proclaimed that the horses had been stolen from his own stables. Beretrude’s heirs rejected the claim and refused to hand over a single horse. This unyielding stance infuriated Count Waddo, and he soon decided to occupy the late Beretrude’s villa by force. This peculiar episode was recorded by Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), who lived at the time that these events were reportedly occurring. The bishop colorfully claimed:

“Then Waddo and his men leapt on to their horses, and off they rode, sending another messenger on ahead to the bailiff to tell him to sweep the house out and to put covers on the benches. The bailiff took no notice whatsoever of these orders, but stood firm outside his master’s gate, with all the household, men and women, lined up beside him to await Waddo’s coming” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, IX.35).

When Count Waddo and his posse arrived at the villa to find that their prey was not going to go down without a fight, Waddo only became more aggravated. He called the estate’s bailiff over and commanded the man to comply with the written message sent earlier. The bailiff refused, and the man’s statements of loyalty to Beretrude’s heirs infuriated the armed nobleman even further. Sinking deeper into rage because of the defiant and stubborn crowd, Count Waddo let anger get the better of him. In the end, he pulled out a dagger and stabbed the bailiff to death. This murder, however, caused the population of the villa to go to war against the nobleman and his warband. During the fight, Waddo would become one of the casualties. The aforementioned Gregory of Tours continued the story in dramatic fashion: “[Count Waddo] raised his hand, struck the bailiff on the head with his dagger and knocked him down dead. When the murdered man’s son saw what happened, he hurled his javelin at Waddo and then rushed at him. The javelin hit him full in the stomach and stuck out behind his back. He fell to the ground and the crowd which stood all around began to stone him” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, IX.35). Despite being skewered by a spear and barraged by stones, Count Waddo was still alive—barely—so the small band of warriors that the count had brought to the scene now plunged into the chaos to pull their impaled leader away from the mob of estate workers. They succeeded in this task, bringing the gravely wounded count back to his family. Nevertheless, after having suffered such a wound, Count Waddo died from his injury.

Of course, the skirmish at the villa caused a feud between Count Waddo’s sons and the supporters of Beretrude’s heirs. The sons of the late count continued their father’s efforts to take over the villa and its surrounding lands. Instead of relying solely on threats and force, the count’s sons also brought their case before the kings of the Frankish Merovingian Dynasty. At first, Waddo’s sons had the backing of the kings, but when robberies, murders and other crimes soon started to become tied to the late count’s sons, royal support quickly dried up. In the end, all of the properties belonging to the sons of Count Waddo were seized by the crown. The repossessed land was eventually granted to Princess Clotild (daughter of the by-then deceased King Chilperic, r. 561-584), who needed a new home after having a falling-out with an abbess. Whether or not the estate of Beretrude’s heirs had been taken over by the sons of Count Waddo before they, too, were forced out of their own homes by the Frankish monarchs is unknown. Perhaps the heirs of Beretrude retained their property and lived out a happy life, but then again, many stories do not have cheery endings.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Illustration from a 14th century manuscript of the Chroniques de France ou de St Denis (labeled BL Royal 16 G VI, f. 420v in The British Library), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons.jpg).

 

Sources:

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

Thor, Hymir and the Midgard Serpent, illustrated by W.G. Collingwood (c. 1854 – 1932)

By
thehistorianshut
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This illustration, created by the English artist W.G. Collingwood (1854 – 1932), was produced in 1908 as a visual aid for an English translation of the medieval poem, Hymiskvida (or Hymir’s Poem), which was preserved in a 13th-century collection of Icelandic poems, known as the Poetic Edda. The Hymiskvida records an old myth involving the Norse god Thor and a giant named Hymir—the namesake of the poem. In the tale, Thor and Hymir go on a competitive fishing expedition. Hymir was a master angler, and his strength as a giant allowed him to reel in sea creatures as large as whales without much effort. Thor, not to be outdone, put on his own line a special ox-head lure that was sure to attract something that would put Hymir’s catches to shame. The Norse god intended to snag Jörmungandr, otherwise known as the Midgard Serpent, a giant sea serpent that encircled the world. The anonymous poet of the Hymiskvida described the scene:

“Thor, cunningly laid out his line.
The protector of humans, the serpent’s sole slayer,
baited his hook with the ox’s head.
The one whom the gods hate, the All-Lands-Girdler
from below gaped wide over the hook.
Then very bravely Thor, doer of great deeds,
pulled the poison-gleaming serpent up on board.
With his hammer he violently struck, from above
the hideous one, the wolf’s intimate-brother’s head.
The sea-wolf shrieked and the rock-bottom re-echoed,
all the ancient earth was collapsing”
(Poetic Edda, Hymiskvida, stanzas 21-24)

W.G. Collingwood’s illustration re-creates this event of Thor reeling the massive Midgard Serpent’s head toward the surface. The creature’s pointed teeth can be seen at the lower right section of the image, gripping the line that had been cast by Thor. This maritime clash between the mighty sea serpent and the powerful god quickly became a near-apocalyptic event. Yet, the showdown between the mythical foes was averted when Thor’s fishing line was cut by Hymir, or it otherwise broke because of the Midgard Serpent’s natural strength. Thor and the serpent would continue their fight at Ragnarök, where their epic duel would end in mutual destruction. For a more in-depth account of the myth of Thor, Hymir, and the Midgard Serpent, click HERE.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

  • Hymir’s Poem, an old poem which was preserved in the 13th-century Poetic Edda which was produced anonymously in Iceland. Translation by Carolyne Larrington (Oxford University Press, 2014).
  • The Prose Edda by Snorri Sturluson, translated by Jesse Byock. New York: Penguin Classics, 2005.

Lucan

By
thehistorianshut
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Lucan (c. 39-65)

“Among the thousand ways to die, only one is feared—
the one you’re about to die of.”

  • From Lucan’s Civil War (Book 3, between lines 710-720), translated by Matthew Fox (Penguin Classics, 2012).

Emperor Wu’s Palace Purge After A Tomb Robbery

By
thehistorianshut
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Around the year 116 BCE, Emperor Wu (r. 141-87 BCE) received the infuriating news that the tomb complex of his grandfather, Emperor Wen (r. 180-157 BCE), had been looted. Grand Historian Sima Qian (r. 145-90 BCE) commented on the scandalous heist, writing, “someone had broken into the funerary park of Emperor Wen and dug up and stolen the offerings of money that had been buried in the mausoleum” (Shi Ji 122). Emperor Wu wanted heads to roll for this sacrilegious crime, and if the thief could not be identified, then he wanted the negligent officials who had not properly protected the tomb to be punished. In particular, Chancellor Qing Di faced a great deal of pressure, for the task of making seasonal inspections of the funerary parks was among the many duties he had as chancellor. To try the case against Chancellor Qing Di, Emperor Wu selected his imperial secretary, Zhang Tang—one of the empire’s most prolific and skilled prosecutors. True Justice, however, did not necessarily coincide with the cases won by Zhang Tang’s legal prowess. Instead, he was known as an unscrupulous law official who had no problem with finding the innocent as guilty, and the guilty as innocent, depending on the whims of the emperor. Chancellor Qing Di knew this reputation well, and as the emperor was so furious about the tomb heist that had occurred under the chancellor’s watch, Qing Di suspected that Zhang Tang’s legal prosecution would be ruthless and ultimately fatal. Sensing this impending doom, the chancellor and his three chief secretaries (Zhu Maichan, Wang Chao, and Bian Tong) began scouring for a way to have Zhang Tang kicked out of government before he completed his case.

It did not take long for Qing Di and his secretaries to dig up some dirt on their foe. Despite the imperial secretary’s no mercy attitude toward his and the emperor’s enemies, Zhang Tang was quite caring toward his friends. Some of his closest comrades from his youth, it happened, were prominent merchants in the imperial capital. This friendship between the merchants and Zhang Tang continued even after he reached high office and, one way or another, some insider trading was committed. If the government was about to pass a law or edict that would affect the price of an item, Zhang Tang would sometimes let information slip to his merchant pals, allowing them to profit from the advance knowledge about incoming price changes. Qing Di and his secretaries, following up on these allegations, interrogated Zhang Tang’s merchant friends and received from them confessions and evidence about the imperial secretary’s economic tip-offs. This information was brought to Emperor Wu, but as he knew the information had been compiled by people with a vested interest in ousting Zhang Tang, the emperor had the matter looked at again by new investigators. When these officials, too, came to the same conclusion as Chancellor Qing Di’s inquiry, the emperor was finally convinced. As told by the aforementioned historian, Sima Qian, Emperor Wu sent a messenger to Zhang Tang who said, “Every charge that people have brought against you is backed by evidence! The emperor would hate to have to send you to prison. Instead he hopes that you will settle things for yourself!” (Shi Ji 122). Zhang Tang received the message loud and clear. He wrote an apology to the emperor and then took his own life in 116 BCE.

Although Zhang Tang was dead, the matter about the tomb robbery was still unresolved. In this, Zhang Tang would have the last laugh. Before his death, he apparently had pieced together a formidable case against Qing Di, and he even roped in the chancellor’s chief secretaries for punishment. Emperor Wu’s officials carried on the case, bringing increasing pressure onto Chancellor Qing Di. Ultimately, he, too, committed suicide. Qing Di’s death, however, did not save the chief secretaries, Zhu Maichan, Wang Chao, and Bian Tong. They were all executed.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Lacquered Chest created by an anonymous artist, dated to the 17th century, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).

 

Sources:

  • The Records of the Grand Historian (Shi ji) by Sima Qian, translated by Burton Watson. New York: Columbia University Press, 1993.

Mercury And Battus, Painted By Francisque Millet (c. 1642–1679)

By
thehistorianshut
-

This painting, created by the French artist Francisque Millet (c. 1642–1679), draws its inspiration from a myth about the god, Mercury (the Roman equivalent of Greece’s Hermes), and an unscrupulous opportunist named Battus, whose name can translate to something akin to ‘Chatterer.’ In the prelude to the encounter between the god and the talkative fellow, Mercury had stolen cattle from his fellow god, Apollo. As the story goes, only one witness saw the crime take place, and this single onlooker was gossipy Battus. Mercury knew he had been seen, so he found Battus in a rocky field and bribed him for his silence, offering the man a single plump cow from the stolen cattle as a hush payment. Battus accepted the deal, and as narrated by the Roman poet Ovid (43 BCE-17 CE), Battus said the fateful line, “‘Go safely on! This stone will inform on you sooner than I’” (Ovid, Metamorphoses, II.695-700). Mercury, however, was well aware of Battus’ reputation and decided to test if the man would keep his word. The god slipped out of sight, then used his divine powers to disguise himself with a new appearance and an altered voice. He returned to Battus and posed as the victim of theft, asking if the stolen cattle had been seen in the area. This time, the disguised god, Mercury, offered Battus two members of the herd—a cow and a bull—as payment if Battus had information that could lead to the recovery of the livestock. Battus could not resist the offer and broke his word, revealing the location of the cattle. The god now shed his disguise and called the man a treacherous liar and informer. It is this last scene, the test of Battus’ dubious trustworthiness, that Francisque Millet re-created in the painting above. Immediately after the events captured in Millet’s artwork, Mercury would go on to transform Battus into a piece of flint as punishment for his betrayal.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

Niccolò Machiavelli

By
thehistorianshut
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Niccolò Machiavelli (c. 1469-1527)

“It cannot be called virtue to kill one’s fellow-citizens, betray one’s friends, be without faith, without pity, and without religion; by these methods one may indeed gain power, but not glory.”

  • From The Prince (chapter 8) by Machiavelli, translated and printed by the Henry Regnery Company, 1948.

The Deadly Brawl Of Frankish Envoys In Carthage

By
thehistorianshut
-

Between the years 584 and 590, King Childebert II of Austrasia (r. 575-595) launched several invasions into the Lombard-controlled regions Italy, ruled at that time by King Authari (r. 584-590). King Childebert II was given financial support in his campaigns by Emperor Maurice of Constantinople (r. 582-602), whose forces were also combating Lombard influence in Italy. The emperor’s aid to King Childebert was quite generous, with one of the payments allegedly amounting to 50,000 pieces of gold. Yet, despite the monetary support and the military ableness of Childebert’s Frankish warriors, the campaigns he waged against the Lombards in Italy made little progress. As a result, the lines of communication between the king and emperor remained open for years, with envoys going back and forth. One such diplomatic mission—led by three men named Grippo, Bodegisil and Evantius—was sent by King Childebert II around 588 to negotiate for more financial and military coordination from Emperor Maurice in upcoming Frankish invasions of Italy. These envoys, however, would live up to the saying that the journey is more exciting than the destination. Before Childebert’s diplomats reached the imperial city, they found themselves engulfed in a deadly scandal that had the potential to fracture the partnership between the Kingdom of Austrasia and the Empire of Constantinople.

As the story goes, the Frankish envoys boarded a ship, intending to reach Constantinople by sea. During their voyage, the diplomats made a stop in the city of Carthage, which was, at that time, under Emperor Maurice’s control. The emperor’s Prefect of Africa was headquartered in that city, and the Frankish diplomats decided to wait in Carthage until the Prefect could help them schedule an audience with the emperor. While they waited, the diplomatic party and their guards lodged together in a single compound within the city, turning an inn into a small fortress.

Grippo, Bodegisil and Evantius, as well as their servants, mostly kept to themselves in their rented space, often drinking, but they were also known to frequent the local markets to browse what the city merchants were selling. One such shopping trip done by a guard assigned to Evantius, however, would throw the city into turmoil. The Frankish guardsman, it was reported, grabbed an item from one of the city’s merchants and fled without paying. Due to principle or price, the merchant tracked down the thief to the diplomatic compound and, as the thief had gone inside, the merchant decided to stake out the place. When the guilty guardsman next exited the building, the merchant was there to confront him about the theft. Ultimately, the merchant grabbed hold of the thief, signaling that he would not let go until he had justice for the crime. The guardsman, however, did not respond well to having hands laid on him—despite being in a city street with lots of witnesses, the guardsman drew his sword and killed the merchant.

After committing the murder, the guardsman slipped back inside the diplomatic compound to lay low. Sources from the Frankish side of the dispute, such as the writings of Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), claim that the lead envoys, Grippo, Bodegisil and Evantius, had no knowledge of the murder, and that they innocently partied within their lodgings, ignorant of the growing public outrage in the city of Carthage. Whatever the case, the diplomats chose to fortify themselves in their lodgings, and there they remained while the city folk outside their walls gathered into a militia and demanded that the Prefect avenge the slain merchant.

As the story goes, the Prefect indeed decided to pursue the case, and he reportedly led a rag-tag band of professional warriors and armed citizens to the lodgings where the Frankish envoys were staying. What happened next is difficult to assess. For some reason or other, the confrontation at the diplomatic compound turned into a deadly skirmish. Did the militia disobey the Prefect and attack without leave? Did the Frankish envoys refuse to cooperate with the Prefect and instead charged out to battle the hostile force? These questions are left unsatisfactorily answered in the medieval sources. Whatever the case, a battle erupted that day between the members of the Frankish delegation and locals of Carthage. The main entrance to the compound became the scene of carnage, as it was the bottleneck where both sides clashed. Despite the defensive advantages held by the diplomatic party, they were still greatly outnumbered, and they began to suffer heavy casualties. These included several of the leading envoys—both Bodegisil and Evantius were slain during the fight.

Grippo, the last surviving lead member of the diplomatic mission, somehow signaled to the Prefect that he wanted to call a truce and negotiate. If the militia and warriors of Carthage had been insubordinate up to this point, the Prefect now managed to get them under control and he successfully halted the assault on the Frankish diplomatic party. Talking instead of fighting, the envoy and the Prefect decided that the important relationship between their two lieges was more important than carrying on the day’s battle. Both sides agreed to cease hostilities, and the Prefect arranged for what remained of the diplomatic mission to be shipped out of Carthage and over to Constantinople as quickly as possible.

When Grippo reached Constantinople, he was given an audience with Emperor Maurice. The emperor showed no ill will toward the envoy; instead, he apologized about the unfortunate incident in Carthage, and assured the envoys that he would not let the incident go unpunished. He then reconfirmed his commitment to coordinating and supporting King Childebert’s campaigns against the Lombards, packed Grippo’s ship with gifts, and sent the diplomat back on his way to the lands of the Franks. Later, Emperor Maurice dispatched his own diplomatic party to the court of King Childebert II. The diplomats brought with them twelve prisoners who were supposedly involved in the incident at Carthage. Grippo, who was present when this intriguing group arrived, reportedly denied recognizing any of the prisoners and doubted they were related to the incident. Putting aside the vague identities of the prisoners, the envoys of the emperor explained that Childebert could do what he wanted with the twelve—the king could execute them to put the matter to rest, or he could accept a ransom payment of 300 gold pieces per prisoner, sparing their lives in exchange for money from the emperor. Fortunately for the twelve prisoners, King Childebert II decided to take the second option, accepting 3,600 gold pieces from Emperor Maurice and letting the mysterious prisoners go free.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Illustration from a 14th century manuscript of the Bible historiale complétée, labeled BL Royal 18 D VIII, f. 1 in The British Library, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons.jpg).

 

Sources:

Coriolanus At The Gates Of Rome, Painted By Franz Anton Maulbertsch (c. 1724–1796)

By
thehistorianshut
-

This painting, by the Austrian artist Franz Anton Maulbertsch (c. 1724–1796), was inspired by an ancient Roman Legend. Standing center stage by the tree is the artist’s representation of Gnaeus Marcius Coriolanus, a powerful figure in Rome who was said to have lived at the turn of the 6th and 5th century BCE. A distinguished warrior, politician, and a mastermind behind tactics of oppression used by the early Roman Republic’s oligarchical ruling class, Coriolanus was an extreme figure who was loathed by Rome’s commoners. In the end, however, the masses put Coriolanus on trial and, as the oligarchs deemed him to be a controversial liability, they allowed the trial to go forward, resulting in Coriolanus’ banishment.

Gnaeus Marcius Coriolanus did not take his exile lightly. Bent upon revenge, the banished warrior soon found asylum with one of the greatest enemies of the Roman people at that time—the Volscians—and offered his military experience to them as a general or advisor for their army. According to the Roman historian, Livy, Coriolanus masterminded a highly-effective Volscian invasion of the Roman Republic’s territory between 490-488 BCE, besieging Rome itself in the last year of the conflict. The Romans, however, had a secret weapon behind their walls—Coriolanus’ family, who were still residents of the city. Therefore, as the legend goes, all of Coriolanus’ family members and relations were sent out to negotiate for Rome. His mother was among the negotiators, as were his wife and children, all begging for him to end his siege of their beloved Rome. Livy described the scene:

“Coriolanus was profoundly moved; almost beside himself, he started from his seat and, running to his mother, would have embraced her had he not been checked by her sudden turn to anger…His wife and children flung their arms round him; the other women all burst into tears of anguish for themselves and their country, until at last Coriolanus could bear no more. He kissed his wife and the two boys, sent them home, and withdrew his army” (History of Rome, 2.40).

Such is the scene that inspired Franz Anton Maulbertsch’s painting. It shows Coriolanus being barraged by the pleas of his family members. Unable to go against his family, Coriolanus withdrew his army from the city, never again to return to Rome. For a more complete account of the story of Gnaeus Marcius Coriolanus, read our article, HERE.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

Madam Jia’s Awkward Encounter With A Boar

By
thehistorianshut
-

Madam Jia was a concubine of Emperor Jing (r. 157-141 BCE). She was not particularly high up in the hierarchy of women in the life of the emperor, but she did give him two sons, Liu Pengzu and Liu Sheng, who both became well-behaved princes or kings over sections of the Han Dynasty’s empire. Although they were given royal titles, Madam Jia’s sons were not frontrunners in the race to be heirs to the empire, nor was their mother a top contender to become the leading lady of the emperor. Nevertheless, there was always a possibility of a change. Jing’s consort, Empress Wang, was a perfect example, as she had replaced an earlier empress, and her son had replaced a previous heir. Therefore, concubines such as Madam Jia could retain some hope of possibly climbing up the hierarchy. Inspired by this glimmering chance of reaching the top, Madam Jia made sure to remain close to the emperor any time the opportunity was handed to her. One day, this inclination led her to join Emperor Jing on a memorable trip into Shanglin Park. It was an awkward adventure, however, that she wound likely have wanted people to forget.

As the story goes, Emperor Jing traveled with his entourage that day away from the comforts of civilization and brought them into the wilderness of the imperial park. After a period of exploring the forested reserve, Madam Jia politely slipped away from the group to relieve herself. She reached her destination and began her intended business, but while she was in that vulnerable state of nature, her privacy was disrupted by an uninvited guest—a wild boar came careening in her direction and charged right past the startled concubine. Boars, the killers of many a nobleman, are no joke, and Madam Jia did not take the creature’s presence lightly. Frightened and surprised, the concubine screamed out to the emperor and his attendants, who were waiting nearby. Emperor Jing was said to have commanded his guards to go save Madam Jia, yet as they knew she was likely in a state of undress, they hesitated. At that moment, the exasperated emperor reportedly made ready to charge in himself to rescue his concubine, but his attendants protested. An official named Zhi Du, in particular, held the emperor back, claiming that the boar was too dangerous for him to fight. The official also said some words that, as told by the historian Sima Qian (c. 145-90 BCE), Madam Jia would have found quite insulting. Zhi Du reportedly told the emperor, “If you lose one lady in waiting, we will bring you another! The empire is full of women like Madam Jia. But what about your majesty?” (Sima Qian, Shi Ji 122). Although Madam Jia would not have appreciated that statement, many in Emperor Jing’s entourage reportedly found it to be rather compelling.

Fortunately for Madam Jia, the wild boar seemed to be just passing through instead of actually attacking her. She reportedly survived the encounter unscathed. Therefore, after the boar had stampeded in a different direction, she was able to regain her composure and make herself presentable for returning to the emperor. Madam Jia awkwardly rejoined the main group, which had sent no one to aid her against the rampaging boar, and the drama of life in the imperial court continued.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Painted scene with Chinese women, from a dish dated to c. 1750 – c. 1799, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).

 

Sources:

  • The Records of the Grand Historian (Shi ji) by Sima Qian, translated by Burton Watson. New York: Columbia University Press, 1993.
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