Ovid (43 BCE-17 CE)
“Soft words
Remove harsh door-chains. There’s magic in poetry, its power
Can pull down the bloody moon,
Turn back the sun, make serpents burst asunder
Or rivers flow upstream.”
In 49 BCE, Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon and ignited a war between his armed followers against the opposing forces of the Roman senate. As Caesar made the first move, he had preemptively made sure to position himself at a quick striking distance from the capital city of Rome. The oft-mentioned Rubicon was a small stream that, in Caesar’s day, marked the boundary between Cisalpine Gaul and Italy. Therefore, when he embarked on his famous crossing of the Rubicon, Julius Caesar was able to speedily send his forces charging against the city of Rome and occupy it at the beginning of the civil war. At that time, Caesar could not personally stay in Rome, for the war was still ongoing and he had battles to fight in Spain and Greece. Before he left, Julius Caesar appointed trusted lieutenants, such as Mark Antony, to keep an eye on Rome while the dictator campaigned elsewhere. Antony was one of Caesar’s best field officers, so he was sometimes called back to the front lines, such as at the decisive Battle of Pharsalus in 48 BCE, where Mark Antony played a prominent role. Yet, after the battle, it was back to overseeing Rome for Antony. He, however, was likely not the best choice needed for the nuanced task of keeping things calm in Rome. Mark Antony was a notorious partier and he gave off the impression that he did not take his administrative role there seriously, which annoyed other Romans (the occupied and allied alike) who were of more prim-and-proper stock. An example of Mark Antony’s conduct that perfectly epitomized his lackluster reputation as Rome’s caretaker was his involvement at a wedding of a certain actor named Hippias.
Hippias, despite the ongoing civil war, was living large in occupied Rome. Mark Antony allegedly brought many actors like Hippias into his inner circle during his stay in the Roman capital, and he used his war-wrought wealth to live the luxurious high-life with the prominent entertainers. Yet, Mark Antony was not the only host of the parties, and when Hippias happened to get married during the course of the Roman Civil War, the wedding celebration thrown for the occasion must have been epic. Mark Antony, of course, was invited to the feast, and he partied with the other guests long into the night. In fact, as the story goes, the party lasted throughout the dark hours and seamlessly continued into the morning. Although it must have been great fun, the length of the party posed a problem—the quite drunk and hungover Mark Antony realized he had to go see to his administrative duties in the Roman Forum. To his credit, he did go to work, for he managed to sway and stumble his way to the forum in a timely fashion. Yet, just as Mark Antony hurled himself into the public meeting place, he realized that his night of partying had caught up with him. The unsightly scene that reportedly unfolded was recorded by the Greek-Roman scholar, Plutarch (c. 50-120), who wrote, “it is said that he was a guest at the wedding of the actor Hippias, where he drank all night long, and then the next morning, when the people of Rome summoned him to the forum, he presented himself while he was still suffering from overindulgence and vomited into the cloak one of his friends held out for him” (Parallel Lives, Life of Antony, chapter 9).
After the death of Julius Caesar in 44 BCE, Antony’s reputation for antics such as these would come back to haunt his chances for supremacy in the Roman Empire. Serious Roman statesmen and more reserved Roman officers, disillusioned with Mark Antony’s behavior, flocked to the faction of Julius Caesar’s youthful great-nephew and adopted son, Octavian, who was a much more diplomatic and calculating character. In the end, Mark Antony was soundly defeated by his rival in 30 BCE, leaving the Roman Empire in the hands of Octavian (known as Augustus after 27 BCE).
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Scene from the Wedding of Messalina and Gaius Sillius, by Nicolaes Knupfer (c. 1645 – 1650), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).
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This curious platter, dated between the 18th and 20th centuries, features scenes from the Biblical life of Moses. One’s eyes might be drawn to the peculiar centerpiece of the platter, where it looks as if two lazer beams of light are exploding out from Moses’ head. Oddly enough, this was once a common way that Moses was depicted in art. The peculiar look came from a pesky translated line in the Book of Exodus that caused great annoyances for churchmen who wished to commission artistic renditions of Moses. The line in question is Exodus 34:35, which claims that Moses’ followers “saw that his face was radiant.” Early translators faced a dilemma regarding this line, as the Hebrew word for “radiated light” (Keren) could also be translated to “grew horns.” This latter interpretation of “grew horns” was unfortunately used in the 5th-century Vulgate Bible, produced by St. Jerome, and his awkward translation inspired many an artist to add horns to the top of Moses’ head. Many other artists, such as the craftsman of this platter, fused the two interpretations together, opting for awkward horns of light.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Lucian of Samosata (c. 120-180+)
“The fly has a life of ease and idleness, enjoying the fruits of others’ labours and finding itself a full table everywhere. Goats produce milk for it; the bee toils specially for flies and men; cooks season their dishes for it; it tastes the food of kings before they do, walking all over their tables and sharing their enjoyment of all that they feast on.”
Lucius Caesar was a contemporary relative of Julius Caesar and was the uncle of Mark Antony (as Lucius’ sister, Julia, was the mother of Antony). Unfortunately, Lucius did not have the trust or support of Mark Antony or his other influential kinsman, Octavian (later known as Augustus), after those two achieved great power in Rome. Despite the familial connections, Antony did not feel obligated to protect his uncle, Lucius, and Octavian (the great-nephew and adopted son of the late Julius Caesar) seemed to believe that Lucius could potentially threaten his own influence over the Caesar family and estate. As a result, when Antony and Octavian gained ultimate power in Rome by 43 BCE after forming an authoritative triumvirate, Lucius Caesar in no way benefitted from his family’s elevation to extreme power. Quite the opposite, he found himself in grave danger.
Octavian and Mark Antony, in their triumvirate arrangement, ruled with violence and brutality. The two strongmen often had disagreements during their uneasy alliance, but they both agreed on the grim idea of assassinating rivals and threats to their power. Unfortunately for Lucius Caesar, his name was evidently included on the list of people that the triumvirs wanted to kill. The list was approved, his location was confirmed, and killers were dispatched to hunt down Lucius. All might have seemed lost, but Lucius still had a potential savior. Whereas the men in his family forsook him, Lucius Caesar was said to have found a steadfast guardian in the form of his sister, Julia—Mark Antony’s mother. The story of Lucius, Julia, and their showdown with assassins was recorded by the ancient scholar, Plutarch (c. 50-120 CE), who wrote:
“Caesar [Octavian] gave up Cicero to Antony, while Antony yielded to him Lucius Caesar, who was Antony’s uncle on his mother’s side, and Lepidus was allowed to kill his brother Paullus (though some say that Lepidus gave up Paullus to Caesar and Antony when they demanded his death). I can think of nothing more savage and cold-blooded than this exchange…[Antony’s] uncle, [Lucius] Caesar, took refuge from the men who were harrying and hunting him in his sister’s house. When the assassins arrived and tried to force their way into her room, she stood in the doorway with her arms spread out and kept repeating in a loud voice: ‘You shall not kill Lucius Caesar without first killing me, the mother of your imperator.’ By this stratagem she managed to get her brother out of harm’s way and save his life” (Plutarch, Parallel Lives, Life of Antony, chapters 19-20).
Lucius Caesar, as the quote conveyed, narrowly managed to escape death. After learning that assassins were on his trail, he succeeded in going on the run before the killers could close in. During his harrowing flight, Lucius made his way to the home of his sister, Julia, who sheltered him from the ruffians in pursuit. Perhaps, Julia also pleaded Lucius’ case to the triumvirs and was able to have her brother’s name removed from the list of assassination targets. Whatever the case, as Plutarch stated, Julia reportedly saved Lucius Caesar’s life.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (The Death Of Caesar, painted by Jean-Léon Gérôme (c. 1824-1904), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and The Walters Art Museum).
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This painting, by Karl Pavlovitš Brjullov (c. 1799-1852), was inspired by the destruction of Pompeii after the catastrophic volcanic eruption of Vesuvius in the year 79. Fortunately for us, a written account was produced by someone who experienced the ancient eruption first-hand and copies of the report still survive to this day. The name of this ancient witness is Pliny the Younger (c. 61/62-113), whose uncle—Pliny the Elder (c. 23-79)—sadly died during the eruption. A friend of their family was the great Roman historian, Tacitus (c. 56-117+), and being his inquisitive self, he asked Pliny the Younger to write him a description of what happened during the volcanic eruption. Pliny accomplished this task by sending two separate letters to the historian, and he thankfully retained copies of the two letters for himself. Pliny’s hoarding of his own letters was important, because from Tacitus’ own writings, no information about Vesuvius can be gleaned except the faintest of references in his Histories. Instead, it was Pliny the Younger’s own personal copies of the letters that survived to become the most important eye-witness accounts of the Vesuvius eruption.
According to Pliny the Younger’s own recollection, he was seventeen years old when the Vesuvius volcano exploded. The two Plinys—Older and Younger—and their close family were staying at the nearby naval base of Misenum (modern-day Capo Miseno) at the time. In the days prior to the eruption, there had been mild earth tremors, enough to be noticeable, but not so violent as to cause alarm at the time. Yet, worry eventually began to build on an early afternoon when a strange plume of smoke began billowing out of Vesuvius, reaching great heights in the sky. Pliny wrote, “Sometimes it looked white, sometimes blotched and dirty, according to the amount of soil and ashes it carried with it” (Pliny the Younger, Letters, 6.16). Young Pliny’s influential uncle, who commanded the local fleet, quickly realized that the darkening skies boded trouble, and he rushed to mobilize the ships under his command and embark on rescue missions to help people in the endangered cities. It was a mission from which Pliny the Elder would not return.
Back in safer Misenum, the younger teenage Pliny and his mother were going through their own scary experiences. As the eruption worsened, an earthquake shook the region. Pliny the Younger wrote, “The buildings round us were already tottering, and the open space we were in was too small for us not to be in real and imminent danger if the house collapsed” (Letters, 6.20). By now, debris and smoke in the air was darkening the sky, which made the view of the volcano all the more foreboding. Pliny the Younger wrote, “Meanwhile on Mount Vesuvius broad sheets of fire and leaping flames blazed at several points, their bright glare emphasized by the darkness of night” (Letters, 6.16). From his survivable vantage point, teenage Pliny witnessed the volcano’s ash start raining down around him, covering the landscape. Writing on behalf of himself and his mother, he stated, “We were terrified to see everything changed, buried deep in ashes like snowdrifts” (Letters, 6.20). Yet, despite these memorable darkening skies, lava, fires and falling ash, something else left more of an impression on young Pliny. This was the pyroclastic flow and the waves of gas and ash that seemed to roll over the land and sea. Pliny the Younger wrote, “Soon afterwards the cloud sank down to earth and covered the sea; it had already blotted out Capri and hidden the promontory of Misenum from sight…I looked round: a dense black cloud was coming up behind us, spreading over the earth like a flood” (Letters, 6.20). This tsunami of ash buried cities, such as Pompeii and Herculaneum, killing thousands of people who had not yet fled the region. The body of Pliny the Elder was reportedly recovered two days after the eruption. This was lucky, as the remains of thousands of other victims of the volcano were entombed deep under the newly deposited ash and pumice.
Such, then, is the historical event that inspired Karl Pavlovitš Brjullov’s artwork. The painting focuses on the doomed masses, featuring them in the forefront of the artwork. As for the destruction of the city, itself, this can be seen in the background scenery of the image, where fire rains down on the burning structures, causing buildings to collapse and statues to topple. In the end, the city was fated to be buried in ash and the people in the artwork, like Pliny the Elder, would not have survived the violent eruption.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Søren Kierkegaard (1813-1855)
“If the one who is to act wants to judge himself by the result, he will never begin. Although the result may give joy to the entire world, it cannot help the hero, for he would not know the result until the whole thing was over, and he would not become a hero by that but by making a beginning.”
Pliny the Younger (c. 61/62-113)—a wealthy Roman lawyer, administrative official and statesman—once visited the region of Campania, where his friend, Pontius Allifanus, held considerable estates and influence. Pliny, during this latest trip to Campania, hoped that his friend, Pontius, would be in the city to host the visit. Nevertheless, when Pliny the Younger arrived in the region, he quickly discovered, to his great disappointment (and likely annoyance), that Pontius Allifanus was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, Pontius was not in any danger or trouble; he was simply seeing to matters elsewhere, and curriers could carry letters to his location and report back with Pontius’ responses. Although Pliny was happy that nothing had happened to his dear pal, he was nevertheless apparently quite put off, and maybe even a little bit angry, that his friend had not cleared his schedule to be present during Pliny’s stay in the region. His absent friend aside, Pliny’s Campania trip turned out to be not all that bad, for he found a curious way to console himself—he evidently reached a state of contentment by indulging in the local delicacies, and, to get back at his friend, he arranged for Pontius Allifanus to pick up the tab for the luxurious meals. Pliny the Younger explained as much in a ‘wish you were here’ styled letter to Pontius Allifanus, which read: “I know what has kept you from being here to welcome my arrival in Campania, but though absent in person you might have been here with all you possess, to judge by the quantities of town and country delicacies I have been offered in your name. I must own I was shameless enough to accept everything. Your servants begged me to do so and I was afraid you would be angry with us all if I refused” (Pliny the Younger, Letters, 6.28). Pliny further defended his feasting by insinuating that Pontius Allifanus had earlier made a friendly remark similar to ‘what’s mine is yours,’ and Pliny definitely made the most of this assertion while he was alone in Campania. Fortunately for Pontius Allifanus, Pliny the Younger promised that he would show more moderation the next time he visited his friend’s estate.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Bacchanalia, by Nicolas Bertin (1668-1736), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the National Museum in Warsaw).
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This tapestry, titled Caesar Defeats The Troops Of Pompey, was designed by Justus van Egmont (1601–1674) and woven by the workshop of Gerard Peemans (1637/39–1725) for a series of tapestries called The Story of Caesar and Cleopatra. The series commemorated scenes from the early military career of Julius Caesar, as well as events concerning Queen Cleopatra of Egypt after she became embroiled in the political quagmire of the Roman civil wars. That aside, this tapestry focuses on an event that occurred before Cleopatra and Egypt became entangled in the wars of the Caesars. In particular, the artwork above depicts Julius Caesar’s defeat of his rival, Pompey the Great, and it was only after Pompey was defeated on the battlefield that he and his pursuer would make the fateful decision to sail toward Egypt.
Julius Caesar’s armed conflict with Pompey the Great began in 49 BCE, and although it was a showdown between two military geniuses, the war between those two particular generals was actually relatively brief. Caesar, despite being usually outnumbered in his battles, pursued Pompey relentlessly from one side of the Mediterranean to the other, and by early 48 BCE, the focus of the war had shifted to Greece. As Julius Caesar chased Pompey deeper into the Greek lands, the two forces were drawn into the decisive Battle of Pharsalus (still in 48 BCE), which took place near the Enipeus River of Greece. Pharsalus was the knock-out blow that marked the victory of Julius Caesar over his rival Pompey the Great in the Roman Civil War. Although the tapestry’s title of ‘Caesar Defeats The Troops Of Pompey’ is vague and nonspecific, the artwork likely is meant to depict the Battle of Pharsalus, as it was this defeat that made Pompey no longer relevant in the civil war against Caesar.
Pompey, following Pharsalus, was defeated but not dead. After losing the battle, Pompey 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 (r. 51-47 BCE), but he was in a militant struggle with his older sister (and wife), the aforementioned Queen Cleopatra. If Pompey hoped to find shelter or an alliance in the court of Ptolemy, he was sorely mistaken. King Ptolemy and his advisors knew that the downfallen general was currently losing his war against Julius Caesar, and therefore they ultimately assassinated Pompey, hoping that his death would be applauded or rewarded by Julius Caesar. The plan backfired, however, and Julius Caesar instead sided with Cleopatra in the Egyptian civil war, setting up Caesar’s romance with the Egyptian queen, as well as the later relationship between Cleopatra and Mark Antony.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Aristotle (c. 384-322 BCE)
“He who asks law to rule is asking God and intelligence and no others to rule; while he who asks for the rule of a human being is importing a wild beast too; for desire is like a wild beast, and anger perverts rulers and the very best of men”
