Chuang Tzu (c. 370-287 BCE)
“Only the Perfect Man can wander in the world without taking sides, can follow along with men without losing himself.”
Around the time Alexander the Great was born in the year 356 BCE, so too was born his trusty steed, Bucephalus. An obstacle, however, blocked the union of this star-crossed pair—Bucephalus was not born in Alexander’s homeland of Macedonia. Instead, Bucephalus was brought up in the herd of a horse breeder known as Philoneicus the Thessalian. Nevertheless, a momentous twist of fate occurred when Philoneicus eventually brought his equine wares to King Philip II (r. 359-336 BCE), the father of Alexander.
King Philip and young Alexander went to inspect the merchant’s horses, and, of course, all eyes were drawn to Bucephalus, the largest and strongest of the herd. As described by the Greek-Roman historian, Arrian (c. 90-173+), Bucephalus was “a big horse, high spirited—a noble creature; he was branded with the figure of an ox-head, whence his name—though some have said that the name came from a white mark on his head, shaped like the head of an ox. This was the only bit of white on his body, all the rest of him being black” (Anabasis of Alexander, 5.19). Besides being tall and spirited, Bucephalus was also incredibly unruly, acting aggressively to anyone who approached him during Philoneicus of Thessaly’s sales pitch. This behavior, in addition to Bucephalus’ exorbitant price tag of thirteen talents, made King Philip II want to reject the horse. That was when, as the story goes, teenage Alexander stepped in to tame the formidable horse. According to legend, Alexander discovered that Bucephalus’ behavior problems all originated from a fear of shadows. Therefore, when Alexander faced the horse toward the sun, so that all the scary shadows were behind them and out of sight, it caused Bucephalus to calm down enough to let Alexander successfully clamber up on the horse’s back. After this feat, King Philip II allowed his son to keep the horse.
Bucephalus would become the much-beloved primary warhorse of Alexander the Great (r. 336-323 BCE). The Macedonian king rode Bucephalus into battle before and after his invasion of Anatolia in 334 BCE, and they continued to battle together until Bucephalus died at the ripe old age of thirty not long after the Battle of the Hydaspes (c. 326 BCE) in the Punjab region. To honor his horse, Alexander reportedly founded a city called Bucephala. Historical tales and a city named after him, however, were not all that Bucephalus was said to have left behind as his legacy. According to legend, he also populated Persia and Afghanistan with supernatural horses.
As the story goes, while Bucephalus was trekking across the Middle East and Asia, he spent his rest and recreation time gallivanting with the local female horses. Of the many varieties of horses that Bucephalus interacted with on his long journey, he evidently had a special chemistry with those that he found in the Persian and Afghan lands. According to a peculiar tale, Bucephalus left many of the wild mares in that region pregnant with a rare and supernatural species of horse—unicorns. These unicorns, so the legend claims, were rounded up and the ownership of the rare horses were strictly monopolized by a single royal family in the region. This odd story was existent over a millennia later, when Marco Polo was traveling through the region now known as Afghanistan. He recorded the story in his book, The Travels, stating, “There used to be horses in this province that were descended from Alexander’s horse Bucephalus by mares that had conceived from him…they were all born with a horn on their foreheads” (The Travels, Book 2). As a conclusion to the tale, Marco Polo claimed that the unicorns were destroyed during a dispute between two branches of the royal family that owned the rare breed.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Virgin and Unicorn, painted by Domenichino (1581–1641), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).
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This image, created by an unknown artist, depicts the Fates (or Moirai) of Greek mythology. This trio of goddesses, as their name hints, oversaw the destinies of mortals. The ancient Greek poet, Hesiod (c. 8th century BCE) described their power, writing, “the Fates, to whom Zeus the resourceful gave the most privilege, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, [were those] who give mortal men both good and ill” (Theogony, approximately line 906). The 16th-century tapestry in which these goddesses made their cameo, shown above, was a visual representation of The Triumphs by the poet, Petrarch. Specifically, the scene shows the moment in the poem when Death triumphs over Chastity. Petrarch wrote:
“And a fair troop of ladies gather’d there,
Still of this earth, with grace and honour crown’d
To mark if ever Death remorseful were.
This gentle company thus throng’d around,
In her contemplating the awful end
All once must make, by law of nature bound;
Each was a neighbor, each a sorrowing friend.
Then Death stretch’d forth his hand, in that dread hour,
From her bright head a golden hair to rend,
Thus culling of this earth the fairest flower”
(Petrarch, The Triumphs, Triumph of Death, approx. line 103)
Such is the scene depicted in the tapestry. It shows the Fates (with modernized wardrobes granted them by the artist), at the death scene of Plutarch’s personification of Chastity. The fair troop of gentle ladies described in the poem, however, do not look too concerned about the death of poor Chastity within the tapestry.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Emperor Justinian (r. 527-565), ruler of Constantinople and its sprawling empire, was a conqueror who sent Roman armies back to North Africa, Spain, and Italy. He was also a patron of the arts who backed architectural feats such as the Hagia Sophia and a lawgiver whose codes and legal theories greatly influenced Western law. With such ambitions flitting through the emperor’s head, Justinian likely needed ample time to turn the whirling ideas in his mind into an implementable plan of action. Curiously, the emperor was said to have had a personality trait that gave him as much time as he needed to brainstorm. It was both a blessing and a curse, as Emperor Justinian was allegedly plagued by insomnia.
Justinian’s supposed sleeping habits were recorded by the historian, Procopius (c. 6th century), in a curious book called The Secret History. It is a text that should be taken with the proverbial grain of salt, as it was written in a libelously critical tone against the imperial couple and other leadership figures of the time. Much of the text is gossip, folklore, libel, or possibly satire—yet, there are enough gems of truth in the peculiar book to keep it historically relevant and valuable. Commenting jointly on Justinian’s eating and sleeping habits, Procopius wrote, “He had little need of sleep as a rule, and his appetite for food and drink was unusually small: he did little more than sample a morsel, picked up with his fingertips, before leaving the table” (The Secret History, chapter 13). Procopius went into further detail about the emperor’s alleged poor sleeping habits, writing, “after sleeping for perhaps one hour he would pass the rest of the night walking round and round” (The Secret History, chapter 13). Despite this alleged unhealthy lifestyle, Justinian lived a long life, even surviving exposure to the Justinianic Plague around 542. The long-lived emperor died at the ripe old age of eighty-three in 565.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Image of Emperor Justinian based on the mosaic at San Vitale (Ravenna) and produced by the Yorck Project; the background behind him was painted by Joseph Vernet (1714–1789), both [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).
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This hellish image was created by the artist, William Blake (c. 1757–1827), using an effective mix of ink, chalk, and watercolor paint. It depicts Cerberus, the famous three-headed hellhound of Greek mythology, who was tasked with keeping the dead from leaving the underworld. The ancient Greek poet, Hesiod (c. 8th century BCE), wrote an early description of the beast in his poem, Theogony:
“There, further on, stands the echoing house of the chthonic god, and in front of it a fearsome hound stands guard. He is pitiless, and he has a nasty trick: those who enter, he fawns upon with his tail and both his ears, but does not let them come out again, but watches, and devours whoever he catches going out of the gates” (Theogony, approximately line 767).
William Blake, for his artwork, decided to not turn to the ancients for inspiration on how to depict Cerberus, but instead drew on the vivid imagery of the Florentine poet, Dante Alighieri (c. 1265-1321). In the bottom left section of the artwork, Blake left the message “Hell Canto 6,” referencing Dante’s description of the mythical beast. The Poet wrote:
“Cerberus, cruel monster, fierce and strange,
Though his wide threefold throat, barks as a dog
Over the multitude immersed beneath.
His eyes glare crimson, black his unctuous beard,
His belly large, and claw’d hands, with which
He tears the spirits, flays them, and their limbs
Piecemeal disparts.”
(Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto VI)
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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A certain priest named Faustianus had the misfortune (or perhaps luck) to have his name put forward as a candidate for the bishopric of Dax by a strange character named Gundovald. This Gundovald was a pesky adventurer who claimed that he was a long-lost member of the Merovingian Dynasty, a powerful family that ruled over the various kingdoms of the Frankish Empire. Despite the fact that the Merovingian kings of the time adamantly rejected the adventurer’s claims, Gundovald boldly set out to grab a piece of the Frankish lands for himself. He appeared in Marseilles around 582 and became a great annoyance for the Merovingian kings.
During Gundovald’s years-long rampage, he gathered several rebellious dukes, counts and bishops to his cause. In addition to recruiting nobles and clergymen of questionable loyalties who were already in power, Gundovald also began setting up his own candidates in vacated government offices within the regions that he occupied. To bring the story full circle, the aforementioned Faustianus was one of these people that Gundovald put in power during his short adventure in France. Gundovald and his supporters were in Bordeaux at the time, and they discovered that the bishopric of Dax was vacant. The Merovingian kings were backing Count Nicetius to take up the position, whereas Gundovald and the bishops in his entourage put their support toward the priest, Faustianus. Moving quickly, Gundovald succeeded in having Faustianus installed as bishop of Dax, and he convinced Bishop Bertram of Bordeaux, Bishop Palladius of Saintes, and Bishop Orestes of Bazas to bless and consecrate the appointment.
Of course, Gundovald’s newfound regime would only last if he could win his war against the Merovingian kings, or at least survive until he could convince them to make a truce. This, however, did not happen, for Gundovald was captured and executed in 585 by the leading Merovingian ruler of the time, King Guntram of Burgundy (r. 561-593). After King Guntram finally rid the Frankish Empire of the pesky adventurer, the angry monarch moved quickly to punish those who had supported Gundovald. Those who displeased King Guntram the most were executed, but others faced much milder punishments. One such figure who got off easy was Faustianus—at a council of bishops convened by King Guntram at Mâcon in 585, the king and his supporters among the clergy did little but strip Faustianus of his title as bishop. The ire of the king was set more on the bishops, Bertram, Palladius, and Orestes, who had blessed and consecrated Faustianus’ appointment. In an interesting arrangement formed at the Council of Mâcon, these three bishops were forced to take responsibility for dragging Faustianus into the Gundovald mess. One of Guntram’s supporting bishops, Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), recorded how the bishops involved in the Dax incident were treated at the council, writing, “Faustianus, who had been inducted as Bishop of the town of Dax at the express command of Gundovald, was deposed, on condition that Bertram, Orestes and Palladius, who had given him the benediction, should supply him with food and should pay him a hundred gold pieces every year” (History of the Franks, VIII.20). After deposing Faustianus from the bishopric, the council named Count Nicetius—the Merovingian Dynasty’s original nominee—as the new bishop of Dax.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Ordination of Abbot Hugh of Saint-Denis from the Grandes Chroniques de France, c. 14th century, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).
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This curious image, created around 1902 by the artist Elmer Boyd Smith (c. 1860-1943), depicts one of the more humorous tales of Norse mythology. The grumpy-looking bearded man in the center of this image is the Norse god, Thor, whose natural strength and his beloved magical hammer, Mjölnir, made him perhaps the greatest warrior among the gods. In the prelude to the scene illustrated above, however, Thor’s mighty hammer was stolen, causing a great panic among the gods. Mischievous Loki aligned himself with the Norse gods in this tale, and he went out to scout for the hammer. His search proved fruitful, and he discovered that the hammer had been stolen by a giant named Thrym. Loki also learned the giant’s terms for the return of the hammer. It was a steep price—Thrym would only return the hammer if the goddess, Freyja, became his bride. As the story goes, Thor was at first more than willing to trade Freyja for the hammer, but the goddess raged at the idea and the other deities backed her, instead of Thor, in this instance. To Thor’s great annoyance, the gods concluded that Freyja should not be sent to the giant’s court, but instead that Thor, himself, should be dressed up in wedding garb for the mission of retrieving the hammer. Thrym’s Poem, included in the 13th-century Poetic Edda, described the godly deliberation that led to the scene illustrated above:
“Then Heimdall said, the whitest of the gods—
he knows the future as do the Vanir too:
‘Let’s tie on Thor a bridal head-dress,
let him wear the great necklace of the Brisings.
Let keys jingle by his side
and women’s clothing fall down over his knees,
and on his breast display jewels,
and we’ll put a pointed head-dress properly on his head!”
(Poetic Edda, Thrym’s Poem, stanzas 15-16).
Thor was not the only one who was given a makeover, for Loki was outfitted to look like Thor’s maid. They traveled to Thrym’s hall and participated in a marriage feast, where the disguised gods gave the giants ample opportunity to notice that something was amiss. Thor spent much of the evening glaring angrily at the giants, insulting anyone who tried to talk to him, while eating whole oxen and downing several barrels of mead. As the feast continued, the giants eventually made the poor decision to let the bride hold the stolen hammer. As can be expected, once Mjölnir was reunited with the annoyed and angry Thor, the wedding feast quickly turned into a massacre.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Margery Kempe (c. 1373-1439+)
“There is no gift so holy as is the gift of love, nor anything so much to be desired as love, for love may gain what it desires.”
