Aristotle (c. 384-322 BCE)
“The living creature consists in the first place of mind and body, and of these the former is ruler by nature, the latter ruler.
In the 6th century, there lived within the city of Bordeaux a boy named Anatolius. There, he was known to have been apprenticed to a local merchant. When he reached the young age of twelve, Anatolius reportedly decided to abandon the commercial life, and instead embark on a new trial phase of religious isolation. The merchant that was employing the boy evidently agreed to the plan, and released Anatolius from his duties so that the youth could become a hermit. Given permission to pursue his religious dreams, Anatolius scoured the city for an ideal place to begin his life as a holy recluse. Oddly enough, he was drawn to Bordeaux’s ancient crypt and decided to set up camp in a corner of the catacombs.
As the story goes, the boy’s whim turned into a long-term lifestyle change. After entering the catacombs at the age of twelve, Anatolius reportedly remained there for years. Life in the dark crypt soon took a great mental toll on the child. Before long, Anatolius’ mind began playing tricks on him, and he came to believe that demons were with him in the catacombs, attacking him from within and without. As if demons were not enough, Anatolius also soon imaged that spirits of saints were also coming down to his dark abode to harass him in his solitude. These perceived attacks from both demonic and holy forces in the underground drove young Anatolius insane. Falling into madness, he began ranting and raving so loud that he could be heard by bystanders outside of the crypt, and he also reportedly started vandalizing the catacomb in which he lived. Noticing these drastic changes in the young hermit, people in Bordeaux finally decided to drag Anatolius out of the crypt and find him help. Unfortunately, this intervention came after Anatolius had been living in the catacombs for a remarkable eight years.
As Anatolius had a particular reverence for Saint Martin, his friends brought him to Tours, where St. Martin’s tomb was located. Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594) was the local bishop at that time, and he learned of Anatolius’ story when the youth arrived in the city. In his Ten Books of Histories, also known as the History of the Franks, he wrote down what he heard about the hermit’s backstory:
“The boy entered this cell and there he remained for eight years or more, content with very little food and drink, and spending all his time in vigils and prayers. A great panic then seized him and he began to shout that he was being tortured internally. The next thing which happened, or so I believe, was that, with the help of some of Satan’s legions, he moved the square stones which formed his prison, knocked down the wall, and then clapped his hands together and shouted that he was being burned through and through by the holy men of God” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, VIII.34).
As reported by Gregory, Anatolius remained in the care of the clergymen of Tours for about a year. The sunlight, change of scenery and personal contact with humanity did the youth much good, and he noticeably recovered during his stay in Tours. Yet, after Anatolius returned to Bordeaux, his madness was said to have returned.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Saint John the Baptist as a Child, painted by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (1617–1682), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).
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This painting, clearly hinted at by the title of the artwork, purports to re-create the reaction of the Roman dictator, Julius Caesar, upon his learning of the death of his rival, Pompey. To set the scene, Julius Caesar had just defeated Pompey at the decisive Battle of Pharsalus in 48 BCE. Pompey, after being defeated, fled to the city of Alexandria in Ptolemaic Egypt, an independent (but heavily indebted) kingdom that had a complex relationship with Rome. The political climate of Egypt in 48 BCE would have been familiar to a Roman—like Rome, Egypt was in a civil war. Holding Alexandria at that time was King Ptolemy XIII, but he was in a militant struggle with his older sister (and wife), the famous Queen Cleopatra. Unfortunately for Pompey, when he sailed into Alexandria, King Ptolemy’s court knew that the downfallen general was currently losing his war against Julius Caesar. Therefore, King Ptolemy and his faction devised a plan that they hoped would gain them favor with Caesar, who could be a powerful ally and a terrible enemy. Consequently, when Pompey arrived in Egypt, he did not find sanctuary, but instead was killed by Ptolemy’s agents. After the Roman general’s death, the assassins reportedly took the dead man’s head and preserved it so they could show it to Julius Caesar once he, too, arrived in Egypt.
Julius Caesar wrote carefully-crafted commentaries on his wars, but, curiously, he showed little emotion over the killing of Pompey. He did call it a murder, and made no statements of approval for the assassination, but he hardly allowed into his own writings any of the outrage, disgust and horror that Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée included into his painting of the scene. For such emotions, one must instead go to the Greek-Roman biographer, Plutarch (c. 50-120), whose Life of Pompey and Life of Caesar, from the larger collection of The Parallel Lives, fit the artist’s scene to a much greater degree. Plutarch, in his Life of Pompey, dramatically narrated Julius Caesar’s discovery of his rival’s fate, writing, “This was the end of Pompey. But not long afterwards Caesar came to Egypt, and found it filled with this great deed of abomination. From the man who brought him Pompey’s head he turned away with loathing, as from an assassin; and on receiving Pompey’s seal-ring, he burst into tears” (Life of Pompey, chapter 80). This was a terrible first impression for King Ptolemy XIII to make on Julius Caesar, who would go on to align himself with Ptolemy’s sister and rival, Cleopatra.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Ingjald of Hefne (reportedly lived around the 9th and 10th century)
“There is more honor in accumulating little by little than in reaching for the sky and ending up flat on your face.”
Emperor Wu of the Han Dynasty (r. 141-87 BCE) might be best known for expanding his empire in every direction through conquest, but he also made great political and legal powerplays within his preexisting land. He was always on the lookout for ways to increase the strength of the central Han government at the expense of the empire’s vassal kings and princes. Citing misconduct and treacherous behavior among the semi-autonomous noblemen (sometimes real and other times manufactured), the emperor took every chance to remove the kings and princes from power, dissolve their realms, and reform the regions into provinces that were controlled by the central government. Even if a nobleman was lucky enough to not have his personal domain dismantled, Emperor Wu was also known to have stripped such survivors of the right to appoint their own lesser officials, meaning it was the central government that vetted and appointed people to fill those regional posts. As Emperor Wu expanded the central government’s jurisdiction of control, the Han court had to also grow its bureaucracy in order to govern and administer the new provinces. Yet, when the government started implementing this lengthy network of ministers and officials, some interesting problems began to occur that were awkward to explain to the emperor.
Gongsun Hong, a veteran official who had been in Emperor Wu’s court since 140 BCE, was the man who brought up the problem with his liege. At the heart of the issue, so the story goes, was the style in which Emperor Wu’s edicts were written. The emperor, like many other ancient figures from cultures all over the world, was known to weave throughout his sentences many phrases and quotes from famous classic texts, such as poems, sacred writings, philosophies and histories. Unfortunately, his method of including such quotations into his messages evidently had the effect of harming the clarity of the edicts. It was a daunting task for many of the newly-hired officials in the provinces to decipher what it was that the emperor was actually calling for in his dispatches. The problem was also amplified by the central government’s hiring practices—in their rush to fill the many vacant positions in the newly acquired provinces, the government had begun filling positions with people who were not well versed in the Chinese classics. For such officials, the emperor’s cryptic edicts, with their archaic phrases and quotes, were all the more baffling.
Gongsun Hong, when he brought up the problem with the emperor, was very careful in how he explained the issue. Emperor Wu’s Grand Historian and palace secretary, Sima Qian (c. 145-90 BCE), preserved the report that Gongsun Hong submitted to the emperor. Praising the ruler and disparaging the bureaucracy, the report stated:
“We have respectfully examined the edicts and laws which have been handed down to us by Your Majesty and we find that they distinguish clearly the provinces of heaven and man and combine the best principles of ancient and modern times. Their wording is stately and orthodox, their instructions profound, and the bounty displayed in them most beautiful. Nevertheless we, being petty officials of shallow understanding, have been unable to spread them abroad and therefore they have not been fully publicized and understood by those throughout the empire” (Sima Qian, Shi Ji 121).
Gongsun Hong did not submit his report simply to be the bearer of bad news; instead, he also proposed a solution to the problem within the same report. He did not suggest that the emperor change the style of his edicts, but rather insisted that the central government reform its hiring practices. If the officials hired by the Han government were better versed in the Chinese classics and other influential texts, then they posed a much better chance of deciphering the meaning behind the choice of quotations within the emperor’s edicts. The emperor agreed, and from then on, a new emphasis was placed on hiring officials with profound knowledge of classic writings.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Scene from the Classic of Filial Piety series, produced in Song dynasty (960-1279) China, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).
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This illustration, created by the French artist Jean Colombe (c. 1430–1493), depicts an event that occurred during the First Crusade (c. 1095/1096-1099). The scene is set in 1098, not long after the Crusaders captured the city of Antioch, when a man named Peter Bartholomew appeared before the leaders of the Crusade with a miraculous story. He claimed to have had experienced a vision of Saint Andrew, and during that mystical experience, the saint allegedly showed Peter the location of a relic that would come to be known as the Holy Lance. According to Peter Bartholomew, the Holy Lance—a spear used by the Romans to determine if Jesus was truly dead after his crucifixion—was apparently hidden underground within a building that the Crusaders called the Church of St. Peter. Count Raymond and the Bishop of Puy went with Peter Bartholomew to investigate the church, and they indeed found a spear buried on the premises. The legitimacy of the relic was debated greatly, however, even among the crusaders. This story of the Holy Lance’s discovery was recorded in histories written in the early 12th century, such as The Gesta, The Chronicle of Raymond d’Aguilers, and The Chronicle of Fulcher of Chartres. The last of the listed texts contained the most concise account of the lance:
“After the city was taken, it happened that a Lance was found by a certain man. When it was discovered in a pit in the ground of Saint Peter’s Church, he asserted confidently that, according to the Scriptures, it was the one with which Longinus pierced Christ in the right side. He said that this had been revealed by Saint Andrew the Apostle. When it had been found, and he himself had told this to the Bishop of Puy and to Count Raymond, the Bishop thought it was false, but the Count hoped it was true. Upon hearing this, all the people, rejoicing, glorified God for it, and for almost a hundred days it was held in great veneration by all, and handled gloriously by Count Raymond, who guarded it. Then it happened that many of the clergy and people hesitated, thinking it was not the Lord’s Lance, but another one deceitfully found by that foolish man” (Chronicle of Fulcher of Chartres, Book I, chapter 18).
Jean Colombe drew upon such quotes in creating his illustration, which shows the Bishop of Puy inspecting the Lance after it was dug up from the ground. As hinted at in the passage quoted above, Peter Bartholomew’s discovery inspired many doubts and suspicions. In 1099, such skepticism finally caused Peter Bartholomew to undergo a trial by fire in hopes of proving his claims. His trial, however, backfired—he was mortally wounded by the fire, bringing the validity of his discovery into even more doubt.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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A man named Hermogenes is known to have held the position of magister in the early reign of Emperor Justinian of Constantinople (r. 527-565). Specifically, his name pops up from time to time in records of Justinian’s war with Kavadh I of Sāsānian Persia (d. 531), during which time Hermogenes served as a military commander and an envoy, often working in coordination with Justinian’s most talented general, Belisarius. During the time that Hermogenes worked with Belisarius, he likely also became acquainted with the historian, Procopius, who served as a secretary and legal advisor to the general during the Persian campaign. Unfortunately for Hermogenes, his exposure to Procopius would later come back to haunt him, for the historian eventually decided to write down a bizarre and unflattering story about the magister’s son, Saturninus. The tale in question was included in Procopius’ Anecdota (or Secret History), a posthumously-published collection of nasty rumors, conspiracies, scandals, general criticisms and character assassinations of powerful people who were active during the reign of Justinian.
As the story goes, before Hermogenes’ death in the 530s, he had arranged a marriage for his son, Saturninus. Although Hermogenes died during the negotiations, the engagement proceeded as planned; Saturninus was going to be married to his second cousin, a woman reportedly of great character and beauty. Saturninus, personally, wanted the marriage to go forward, and the bride’s father, Cyril, also approved of the match—as to the opinion of the bride, herself, Procopius remained silent. Whatever the case, the engagement between Saturninus and his fiancé was approved and they went through the steps of selecting a venue, formulating a list of guests, and setting a date for their wedding. Yet, a formidable outside force would soon appear to disrupt the marriage.
While the groom was eagerly preparing to marry his fiancé, the imperial couple of Constantinople were apparently setting up an entirely different marriage for Saturninus. Empress Theodora was reportedly the driving force behind the move, as it was a daughter of her friend, Chrysomallo, that the royals insisted Saturninus must marry. According to Procopius’ account (which is without a doubt embellished), the emperor and empress decided to make the switch on the very day of Saturninus’ wedding to Cyril’s daughter. As the bizarre story goes, Saturninus and his bride had just finished their wedding ceremony and were about to enjoy their wedding night when, all of a sudden, agents of the empress rushed in to abduct the groom. Procopius dramatically narrated the peculiar tale, writing, “No sooner had they shut themselves in the bridal chamber than Theodora seized the groom and carried him off into another one, where in spite of his heartbroken protestations he was married to Chrysomallo’s daughter” (The Secret History, 17).
Unfortunately for Saturninus, the tale only gets stranger from here on out. As the story goes, the kidnapped groom was understandably greatly unhappy with how his wedding day turned out. He took every chance available to complain about the way he had been treated, and eventually took up the dishonorable habit of venting his anger on the innocent wife that he had been forced to marry. He began insulting his spouse in public, often with indecent and libelous remarks. Yet, these rude outbursts severely backfired. Saturninus’ maltreatment of his spouse was said to have greatly angered Empress Theodora, as she was quite a defender of women’s rights compared to 6th-century standards. According to Procopius’ again largely-embellished account, Theodora believed that Saturninus was behaving childishly, and she therefore devised an appropriate punishment for him. The empress, Procopius claimed, “ordered her servants to bend him over like any schoolboy. Then she gave his behind a fearsome beating and told him not to talk such nonsense in the future” (The Secret History, 17). Perhaps the punishment worked, for no further bizarre tales of Saturninus were recorded after this strange episode.
Once again, it should be noted that Procopius’ Secret History was a book filled with gossip, rumor, and character assassination. The tales he told in the text, including the one repeated here, should not be taken at face value. Yet, even if the historical accuracy and honesty of the tale are in doubt, the lively story can still be enjoyed, if only for the sake of enjoyment, itself.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Illustration of the wedding of Ashot and Miroslava, from the 12th-century Madrid Skylitzes manuscript, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).
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This circular illustration, by the Norwegian artist Gerhard Munthe (c. 1849–1929), depicts the demise of a king from the semi-legendary Yngling Dynasty of Sweden. Specifically, the figure riding on the horse is a representation of King Dag, who, according to the Ynglinga saga by the Icelandic scholar Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179-1241), was approximately the tenth king from the Yngling Dynasty. As told in the saga, King Dag apparently met his end while campaigning in Gotland, where he was assassinated by a pitchfork-wielding slave. Snorri Sturluson recorded this peculiar death scene:
“In the evening King Dag returned with his army to the ships after having slain many and taken many prisoners. But as they were crossing the river, at a place called Skjótansfjortd or Vápnaford; a work slave ran out of the woods on to the river bank and hurled a pitchfork into their flock. It struck the king on his head, and he fell straightaway from his horse and was dead” (Heimskringla, Ynglinga saga, chapter 18).
Such is the scene that Gerhard Munthe re-created in the image featured above. It shows the moment just before the king’s head was skewered by the flying pitchfork. Poor King Dag, unfortunately, was far from the only ill-fated ruler from the Yngling Dynasty. Check out our article, HERE, about the many peculiar and unnatural deaths faced by the members of this legendary family.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Machiavelli (c. 1469-1527)
“One ought never to allow a disorder to take place in order to avoid war, for war is not thereby avoided, but only deferred to your disadvantage.”
