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The Combat of the Horatii and the Curiatii, by Jean-François Janinet (c. 1752 – 1814) after Jean-Jacques-François Le Barbier I (1738 – 1826)

By
thehistorianshut
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This artwork, created by the French artist Jean-François Janinet (c. 1752 – 1814) after Jean-Jacques-François Le Barbier I (1738 – 1826), re-creates a story from the early folkloric history of the ancient kingdom of Rome and its interactions with the nearby community of Alba Longa. Historically, Alba Longa is thought to have been a significant settlement well before 1,000 BCE and remained a powerful city in Italy until the 7th century BCE, when it was presumably challenged by Rome and ultimately destroyed around 600 BCE. While we will never know specific details of the conflict between Rome and Alba Longa, writers such as Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE) preserved the conflict, albeit in a dramatic and embellished fashion, within their works on the folklore of early Rome.

In his History of Rome, Livy alleged that the war between Rome and Alba Longa began because of a cattle dispute—both cities were reportedly stealing the livestock of the other and neither side wanted to return the stolen property. War was eventually declared because of the issue, but before battle commenced, the leaders of the cities agreed to an odd solution—the war would be settled with a duel between chosen champions of each city. Oddly enough, both Rome and Alba Longa chose as their champions sets of triplet brothers—the Horatiii and the Curiatii. According to Livy, there was some debate about which group of brother belonged to which city, but most accounts of the tale placed the Horatii in the Roman camp.

Both the Horatii and the Curiatii agreed to fight to the death on behalf of their homelands, and the showdown was facilitated by the construction of a special arena that was put together by the two armies. The duel, narrated dramatically by Livy, allegedly began to the sounds of trumpets and cheers—it was quite the raucous event as the fight ensued. To the horror of the Romans, their Horatii triplets began the fight terribly. The Roman brothers fell in quick succession until only one, Publius Horatius, was left alone to face all three Curiatii siblings. Nevertheless, by using expert footwork, patience, and well-placed blows, the lone Roman was able to evade his enemies until an opportune moment arrived, allowing him to counter-attack and slice through his three pursuers, dropping one after the other as they carelessly raced toward his readied blade. With the duel over, the Albans were said to have made momentary peace with Rome.

This ancient tale of the duel between the Horatii and the Curiatii is the story that is re-created in Jean-François Janinet’s artwork. It should be said, however, that although the artwork focuses on the combat of the tale, there is much more to the story of the Horatii and the Curiatii than just the duel, itself. As added drama, legend claimed that the rival triplets were all about to be brothers-in-laws before the duel occurred, for a sister of the Roman Horatii had been recently engaged to marry one of the Curiatii brothers. Despite the close relationship between their two clans, the rival sets of triplets agreed to fight, for the theme to Livy’s tale was that the city is more important than love and family. Emphasizing the tragic nature of the duel, the would-be groom from the Curiatii brothers was said to have shown up to the fight proudly wearing a cloak that had been lovingly made for him by his betrothed. The token, however, did not help him, as the Curiatii brothers, including the one that was engaged to be married, were all killed in the duel.

In a disturbing epilogue to the tale, the lone victor of the duel, Publius Horatius, was said to have gone on to murder his sister who had been formerly engaged to marry the slain Curiatii brother. Horatius was reportedly acquitted with almost no punishment after the murder. Adding insult to injury, it soon turned out that the Curiatii triplets, the two Horatii brothers and their tragically slain sister all ironically died for nothing, because the Albans eventually resumed their hostilities against Rome after the duel. In response to the end of the truce, Rome once again went to war and this time destroyed the city of Alba Longa.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Sources:

Chuang Tzu

By
thehistorianshut
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Chuang Tzu (c. 370-287 BCE)

“The understanding of the men of ancient times went a long way. How far did it go? To the point where some of them believed that things have never existed—so far, to the end, where nothing can be added.”

  • From Chuang Tzu: Basic Writings (section 2), translated by Burton Watson. (Columbia University Press, 1996).

The Bizarre Medieval Reputation Of The Abasgi People For Producing Most Of Constantinople’s Eunuchs

By
thehistorianshut
-

Regions often can acquire interesting reputations, such as being known for having intricate ceremonies and populations of great warriors, or being sea-faring people with magnificent artists. The Abasgi people, however, from the north-eastern shore of the Black Sea, did not become famous due to any of those aforementioned national traits. Instead, the Abasgian region was designated with the uncomfortable reputation of being the producers of the best eunuchs in Europe. By the early medieval reign of Emperor Justinian of Constantinople (r. 527-565), a great portion of the eunuchs employed in the Roman / Byzantine Empire had long been sourced from Abasgia. According to Procopius (c. 6th century), a historian from Constantinople, many of the Abasgi eunuchs may have been unwilling participants put under the knife to be sold in a gruesome, but lucrative, industry that padded the pockets of Abasgian rulers. Emperor Justinian, despite having eunuchs serving in serval important positions in his own court, ultimately endeavored to put a stop to the Abasgian eunuch industry. On Abasgian eunuchs and Justinian’s attempts to stop the regional practice, Procopius wrote:

“[T]he Abasgi dwell along the coast, and their country extends as far as the mountains of the Caucasus…[T]hey have suffered most cruelly at the hands of their rulers owing to the excessive avarice displayed by them. For both their kings used to take such boys of this nation as they noted having comely features and fine bodies, and dragging them away from their parents without the least hesitation they would make them eunuchs and then sell them at high prices to any persons in the Roman territory who wished to buy them… And it was in consequence of this that the most of the eunuchs among the Romans, and particularly at the emperor’s court, happened to be Abasgi by birth. But during the reign of the present Emperor Justinian the Abasgi have changed everything and adopted a more civilised standard of life. For not only have they espoused the Christian doctrine, but the Emperor Justinian also sent them one of the eunuchs from the palace, an Abasgus by birth named Euphratas, and through him commanded their kings in explicit terms to mutilate no male thereafter in this nation by doing violence to nature with the knife” (Procopius, The Wars, 8.3.12-19).

The Abasgi people, understandably, were said to have welcomed Justinian’s intervention with gratefulness. Abasgian rulers and eunuch traders, however, were not content with losing their lucrative trade. Unfortunately for the emperor, subsequent diplomatic campaigns that Justinian attempted in hopes of integrating Abasgia into his empire ended up backfiring, giving the Abasgian rulers enough momentum to launch a rebellion. As told by Procopius, “Roman soldiers sent by the emperor began to be quartered among them very generally, and they sought to annex the land to the Roman empire, imposing certain new regulations upon them. But because these were rather severe the Abasgi became exceedingly wroth” (Procopius, The Wars, 8.9.10-11). In response to the rebellion that occurred in Abasgia, Emperor Justinian unleashed his military against the region. According to Procopius’ account, the rebellion was crushed and the region faced devastation.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Miniature of Emperor Justinian from the Digestum Vetus (BL Arundel 484, f. 6), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons, Europeana, and The British Library).

 

Sources:

Picus And Circe, By Luca Giordano (c. 1634-1705)

By
thehistorianshut
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This painting, by the Italian artist Luca Giordano (c. 1634-1705), was inspired by the ancient tale of Picus, a man of myth or legend who was said to have ruled a kingdom in Italy. Picus allegedly was one of the most handsome men of his age, and he had countless lustful admirers from both the mortal and immortal communities. Yet, of these willing women, Picus devoted himself only to one—she was a nymph named Cánens, and to her, Picus remained steadfastly faithful.

As is given away by Lubieniecki’s painting and its title, King Picus unfortunately had an encounter with the magically-masterful goddess, Circe. Since Picus was the handsomest man in the land, the sight of him naturally filled Circe with desire. She succumbed to her attraction and instantly decided to have a go at seducing him. Calling on all of her magical knowledge and power, Circe conjured an illusory animal to lure King Picus away from any guards and attendants. She similarly summoned darkness and mist to blind Picus’ kingdom while she tried to charm the king. Unfortunately for Circe, all of her magic and planning was for naught; when the goddess revealed herself to Picus and tried to seduce him, the faithful king rejected her advances. Scorned Circe, however, would have her revenge. The Roman poet, Ovid (c. 43 BCE-17 CE), described what happened next:

“[Circe shouted] ‘You’ll learn what a woman in love who is injured
can do; and Circe is surely an injured woman in love!’
The sorceress then turned twice to the west and twice to the east;
she struck the young king with her wand three times, and she spoke three spells.
Picus took to his heels but soon was surprised to discover
himself running faster than usual. Wings had sprung from his body!
A new type of bird had suddenly joined the forests of Latium”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, 14.384-390)

It is this tale of Circe turning King Picus into a bird that Luca Giordano re-creates in his painting. King Picus can already be seen with feathers sprouting from his body, and unfortunately for the king, the transformation would only become more extreme. Once the spell had run its course, Picus found himself completely metamorphosized into a woodpecker. Most shocking to the avian king was the new addition of a beak on his face. So the story goes, it was his hatred of (or confusion over) this new body feature that caused the kingly woodpecker to begin pecking on tree trunks.

 

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Sources:

Dante Alighieri

By
thehistorianshut
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Dante Alighieri (c. 1265-1321)

“The bad state of the modern world is due—
as you may see, then—to bad leadership;
and not to natural corruption in you.”

  • From The Divine Comedy (Purgatorio, Canto XVI, approximately lines 104-106) by Dante Alighieri, translated by John Ciardi (New American Library/Penguin Group, 1954, 1961, 1970).

The Myth Of The Rebuilding Of Pelops

By
thehistorianshut
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Several ancient mythological figures, according to the tales told about them, were reportedly torn apart and put back together again by their loved ones. The Egyptian god, Osiris, is one famous example, whose body was said to have been torn apart and scattered, only for most of the pieces to be gathered up and brought together again so that Osiris could rule over the dead. Similarly, the wine god, Dionysus, according to one version on his story, was lured away from the safety of his powerful father, Zeus, and was ripped into pieces and eaten by Titans. A goddess (different accounts name Athena, Rhea or Demeter) was able to salvage Dionysus’ beating heart, which was then delivered to Zeus. The lightning god was then able to impregnate Semele with that heart, bringing Dionysus back to life. Finally, as the title of the article gives away, Greek mythology also told that a figure called Pelops, too, had the unpleasant fate of being torn apart and then brought back to sentience. Instead of being regrown like Dionysus, Pelops’ experience was more like Osiris’ tale of being put back together again like a puzzle. Yet, like the story of Humpty-Dumpty, those who are torn apart often can’t be perfectly put back together again.

No story about being torn apart is pleasant, but Pelops’ story is especially cruel because the culprit was Pelops’ own father. Pelops’ dad was Tantalus—a wicked and mischievous Lydian king who came up with the horrific idea of murdering his own son and making meals from the body so as to serve the dishes to the gods as a test of their omnipotence (for he planned to not disclose the origin of the mystery meat to the gods until after they ate). Fully committed to his plan, Tantalus carried out the gruesome scheme of having his son butchered and transformed into an inconspicuous feast. The gods, omnipotent or not, answered Tantalus’ dinner invitation and arrived for the banquet, not giving any hint at that time if they had suspicions. Before long, however, the godly guests finally spoke out that there was something amiss about the feast and they uncovered the terrible secret behind the mystery meat. Nevertheless, their detective work did not, it seems, come to a conclusion before some exploratory bites were unfortunately taken from the food. After arresting Tantalus, the gods decided to put Pelops back together again and resurrect him from death. Yet, there was a predicament—a few nibble-fulls of Tantalus’ body were unfortunately missing and irretrievable. The gods, therefore, decided to patch the victim’s body up with ivory. The Roman poet, Ovid (c. 43 BCE-17 CE), narrated the scene:

“[Tantalus] dismembered the boy,
and the gods (so they say) reassembled the limbs. The rest was recovered,
and only the part which unites the neck with the upper arm
had been lost. A piece of ivory set in the empty space
could serve the purpose as well, and Pelops was fully restored”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, book 6, approximately lines 407-411)

And so, after being killed, butchered and partially eaten, Pelops was reassembled and resurrected, with ivory replacing what was missing. Pelops’ father, Tantalus, was not so lucky. Instead, the murderous king was sentenced to perpetual torment in the realm of the dead, where food and drink was kept tortuously just beyond his grasp. Fittingly, Tantalus left a linguistic legacy of words such as ‘tantalize,’ ‘tantalized’ and ‘tantalizing,’ that refer to mixed feelings of desire and torment caused by a yearning for a coveted something that is just out of reach. Unlike Pelops, Tantalus would not be saved.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Prometheus Moulding Man from Clay, by Constantin Hansen (c. 1804-1880), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Statens Museum for Kunst.).

 

Sources:

  • Metamorphoses by Ovid. Translated by David Raeburn. Penguin Classics; Revised Edition, 2004.
  • Apollodorus, The Library of Greek Mythology, translated by Robin Hard. New York, Oxford University Press, 1997.

The Death Of Saint Louis, By Ary Scheffer (c. 1795-1858)

By
thehistorianshut
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This painting, by the Dutch artist Ary Scheffer (c. 1795-1858), was inspired by the death scene of Saint Louis, more commonly known as King Louis IX of France (r. 1226-1270). Originally a child-king, Louis’s early reign was secured by his formidable mother, Queen Blanche, who successfully crushed scores of conspirators and rebels in a series of wars and stabilizing operations. Louis IX grew up to be pious, just and fair, while also maintaining a skill for warfare and negotiation that served him well when he was inclined to fight. He fended off several invasions from his English rival, King Henry III (r. 1207–1272) and then led the Seventh (c. 1248-1254) and Eighth (c. 1270) Crusades. King Louis IX fell ill and died while campaigning in Tunisia during Eighth Crusade. That death scene in Tunisia is what Ary Scheffer strove to re-create in his painting. For sources, the artist might have turned to the more historically-oriented Life of Saint Louis by the biographer, John of Joinville (c. 1224/1225-1317), or more folklore-embellished texts like the Golden Legend of Jacobus de Voragine (c. 13th century). John of Joinville’s account of the king’s death was as follows:

“The king took to his bed, feeling sure that he would soon pass from this world to the other. He called for my lord Philip, his son, and commanded him to uphold, just as he were making out his will, all the teachings he was leaving him…When the good king had given his instructions to his son my lord Philip, his sickness began to worsen grievously. He asked for the sacraments of the Holy Church and was seen to receive them in sound mind and with proper understanding, for when he was anointed and the seven psalms were said, he spoke the verses in response…After this the king had himself laid in a bed covered with ashes and placed his hands on his chest; as he looked toward Heaven he returned his spirit to our creator…” (John of Joinville, Life of Saint Louis, sections 739-757).

Jacobus de Voragine’s Golden Legend recorded a similar telling of the king’s death, describing Louis’ last-minute teachings for his son, which were followed by sacraments, psalms and invocations of saints. Similarities aside, Ary Scheffer may have picked up a specific detail from the Golden Legend. Namely, a statement that King Louis IX reportedly died while “stretching his arms in [the] manner of a cross” (Jacobus de Voragine, Golden Legend, 7.30). Such is the scene that Ary Scheffer re-creates—it shows King Louis IX on his deathbed in 1270, with his arms crossed, surrounded by his son, the future King Philip III of France (r. 1270-1285), and various courtiers.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

Cai Ze (recorded by Sima Qian)

By
thehistorianshut
-

Cai Ze (c. 3rd century BCE)

“‘The sun at its height moves on, the moon when it’s full starts to wane. Things when they flourish must decay.’ This is the constant rule of Heaven and Earth.”

  • From the Records of the Grand Historian (Shi Ji 79) by Sima Qian (c. 145-90 BCE). Sima Qian attributed this quote to Cai Ze, a minister in the ancient kingdom of Qin. The translation used here is by Burton Watson (Columbia University Press, 1993).

The Tale Of The Ancient Roman Leaping Lovers At Lake Como

By
thehistorianshut
-

Pliny the Younger (c. 61/62-113)—a prolific letter-writing lawyer, statesman, and advisor in all things dealing with finance and inheritance—was one day yachting about Lake Como when an accompanying friend began regaling the party on the ship with a local legend about a couple who met a most peculiar end. Pliny, as the eager pen pal that he was, made sure to record the legend and sent a copy of the tale in a letter to at least one friend, Calpurnius Macer. The letter was a short and compact piece, but it contained a full accounting of the leaping lovers tale of Lake Como, which no doubt intrigued Calpurnius Macer or any other friend to which the story was sent.

As the story goes, an anonymous married man and woman (the protagonists of the tale) lived in a lakeside house on the shores of Lake Como. The residence was so close to the water’s edge that the bedroom of the home was said to have been built over the water. In that abode, the unnamed man and woman lived in presumed happiness or contentment for many years. Yet, things began to change when the man later acquired a most unfortunate ailment—he developed suspicious “ulcers” all over his manhood. His wife, of course, found out about the ulcers, and this discovery caused a drastic change in the woman’s behavior. Pliny did not speculate if the suspicious private ulcers that afflicted the man, but not his wife, might have originated from unfaithful conduct on the part of the man. Whatever the case, when the wife learned of her husband’s condition, it put her in a morbidly dark mood. In that state of mind, the woman began speaking in words of doom and hopelessness about the ulcers, calling them uncurable and saying it would be better for the man to take his own life than continue living with the condition. As the story goes, the effect of the woman’s depressing speeches were inconsistent on her husband, with the man sometimes being swayed and other times remaining hesitant. In the end, however, the woman got her way and dragged her husband to a watery grave. Unfortunately, the dragging was quite literal. Pliny the Younger’s account of the story was as follows:

“I was sailing on our Lake Como with an elderly friend when he pointed out a house with a bedroom built out over the lake. ‘From there,’ he said, ‘a woman of our own town once threw herself with her husband.’ I asked why. The husband had long been suffering from ulcers in the private parts, and his wife insisted on seeing them, promising that no one would give him a more candid opinion whether the disease was curable. She saw that there was no hope and urged him to take his life; she went with him, even led him to his death herself, and forced him to follow her example by roping herself to him and jumping into the lake” (Pliny the Younger, Letters, 6.24).

Such was the bizarre tale that Pliny heard during his leisurely sailing trip around Lake Como. After discovering her husband’s condition, the wife dramatically tied herself to her husband and threw herself off their lake-overhanging home. Neither the woman, nor the man tied to her with rope, survived the plunge into the unforgiving water. Pliny and his source did not say if there had been witnesses at the time of the incident, but, whether from witnesses, a note, or from the tied-up state of the bodies, the locals were able to piece together the story of what happened. Due to the man’s suspicious ulcers and the wife’s ultimate action of tying up her husband and dragging him to his death, one might suspect the unfortunate incident was a revenge killing, and it is a convincing theory. Pliny the Younger, however, took the stance in his own letter that it was a heroic case of a wife wanting to selflessly follow her husband into a willing death. Either way, it is a legend, and legends have room for interpretation.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Algae And Boniface, By Alexandre Cabanel (c. 1823–1889), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Cleveland Museum of Art).

 

Sources:

  • The Letters of Pliny the Younger, translated by Betty Radice. New York: Penguin Classics, 1963, 1969.

St. Genevieve Of Brabant In The Forest, By George Frederick Bensell (c. 1837-1879)

By
thehistorianshut
-

This painting, by the American artist George Frederick Bensell (c. 1837-1879), was inspired by the medieval legends of Saint Genevieve of Brabant. Not to be confused with the earlier 5th-6th century St. Genevieve of Nanterre, the artwork’s subject—St. Genevieve of Brabant—was a later medieval legendary figure who reportedly lived around the 8th or 9th century. According to the tales about her, Genevieve of Brabant was married to Count Siegfried, the ruler of Treves and Brabant. Their marriage proved fruitful, and they soon had a newborn son named Schmerzenreich or Scherzenreich. Yet, the family soon was torn apart by rumor and paranoia.

As the story goes, Count Siegfried succumbed to suspicions that Genevieve had been unfaithful and that the newborn son was not his child. The saintly woman, of course, was innocent of the charges. Nevertheless, engulfed by his fears, Count Siegfried ultimately decided to condemn Genevieve of Brabant and her child to death. Following the count’s orders, authorities arrested Genevieve and the child, yet the executioners could not bring themselves to kill the innocent pair. Instead, the merciful captors released the saintly mother and child into the wilderness, giving them a chance for survival.

Legend told that Genevieve and her son made a home within a cave in the Ardennes. Genevieve was not much of a hunter-gatherer, but fortunately for her, she became one of the many legendary figures who was said to have been cared and provided for by nature—in Genevieve’s case, a roe deer brought whatever supplies were needed. These bizarre living arrangements were not short-term. Quite the opposite, Genevieve and her son supposedly remained in the Ardennes cave for around six years. Such are the circumstances involved in George Frederick Bensell’s painting, which depicts St. Genevieve of Brabant and her son with their guardian deer at the wilderness refuge they found in the Ardennes. The deer eventually played a part in reconciling Genevieve and her son to Count Siegfried. The count, who regretted his actions and had finally discovered that the rumors about his wife’s infidelity were unfounded, was one day out on a hunting trip when he spotted a roe deer that was acting peculiarly. The brave deer stayed in sight, but out of range, of the hunter’s bow. Through that dangerous method of luring the count into the Ardennes, the deer ultimately was able to bring Count Siegfried to the cave where his wife and son were hiding. As the count was by then repentant and clear of his doubts, the reunion went well and St. Genevieve and her son were finally able to end their long exile.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

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