Sappho
(said to have flourished in the late 7th and early 6th centuries BCE)
“Wealth without real worthiness
Is no good for the neighbourhood;
But their proper mixture is
The summit of beatitude.”
Crazily, it was claimed by multiple Greek-speaking writers, such as Aristophanes (c. 450-388 BCE) and Lucian of Samosata (c. 120-180+ CE), that a conventional punishment was used against adulterers that bizarrely involved radishes. Of course, the topic will be explicit, but, unfortunately, the risqué nature of the punishment comes not from the crime of adultery, itself, but rather the crudeness comes from the unfortunate way the authorities used the aforementioned radish. There is no elegant way of putting it—the radish was said to have been shoved up the rear-end of the convicted adulterer. Aristophanes lightly alluded to the supposed practice in his play, The Clouds, in which he wrote a person who was “detected as an adulterer” could be subjected to “suffer the radish” (Aristophanes, The Clouds, approximately between lines 1067-1085). Although Aristophanes left tastefully obscure what suffering the radish meant, the opposite approach was taken by the satirist, Lucian, who described the radish punishment in all of its uncensored absurdity. Lucian wrote of the peculiar radish punishment while commenting on the life of the philosopher, Peregrinus, who was “caught in adultery in Armenia, got a thoroughly good beating, and eventually managed to escape by jumping down from a roof, with a radish plugging his anus” (Lucian, The Death of Peregrinus, section 9). To the likely relief of the reader, there are no further quotes to recount, as the two passages mentioned above make up the bulk of the existent writings about the peculiar ancient radish punishment for adulterers. Hopefully, the radish stories were exaggerated, but, then again, it would not be the first or last time that humans created horrifyingly depraved techniques for punishment and torture.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Manuscript illustration labeled Cod. Ser. n. 2644, fol. 52r, Tacuinum sanitatis, Rafani, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons, Europeana and the Austrian National Library).
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This painting, created by the English artist Henry Gibbs (1630/31-1713), features a family that links the Greek myths and legends of Troy to the tales of ancient Rome. It is the Trojan hero Aeneas (along with his family) who can be seen escaping from his doomed homeland at the end of the legendary Trojan War. According to ancient Greek myth, Aeneas was a demigod, born of the goddess Aphrodite, and it was she who encouraged Aeneas to gather up his family and flee as the Greeks began ransacking and burning the Trojan capital. The hero obeyed his divine mother and rushed to collect his elderly father, his frightened wife and their young son while time remained to escape. Virgil (70-19 BCE), a poet from Rome, assumed the point of view of Aeneas and described in verse the scene featured here in the painting:
“So come, dear father, climb up onto my shoulders!
I will carry you on my back. This labor of love
will never wear me down. Whatever falls to us now,
we both will share one peril, one path to safety.
Little Iulus, walk beside me, and you, my wife,
follow me at a distance, in my footsteps.
…With that,
over my broad shoulders and round my neck I spread
a tawny lion’s skin for a cloak, and bowing down,
I lift my burden up. Little Iulus, clutching
my right hand, keeps pace with tripping steps.
My wife trails on behind. And so we make our way
along the pitch-dark paths, and I who had never flinched
at the hurtling spears or swarming Greek assaults—
now every stir of wind, every whisper of sound
alarms me, anxious both for the child beside me
and burden on my back.”
(The Aeneid, Book II, approximately lines 880-910)
In Virgil’s account, Aeneas’ wife later became separated from the rest and ultimately did not survive the sack of the city. Henry Gibbs’ artwork seems to follow this storyline, as Aeneas’ wife is being visibly grabbed by an assailant in the painting. In other accounts, however, she successfully survived alongside her husband. Virgil, in his poem, may have killed the poor woman off to allow Aeneas to uninhibitedly partner with new women that the Trojan hero would soon meet on his odyssey toward Italy, where, according to legend, Aeneas would become an ancestor of Romulus and Remus, who were said to have founded Rome.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Winston Churchill (c. 1874-1965)
“Anger and hatred nerve the arm of strife. But success should bring a mellow, genial air and, by altering the mood to suit the new circumstances, preserve and consolidate in tolerance and goodwill what has been gained by conflict.”
Ummidia Quadratilla was a prominent Roman woman who, by the end of her life, wielded a respectable amount of wealth and influence. She lived contemporaneously to the lawyer and statesman, Pliny the Younger (c. 61/62-113), who was a friend of the family and likely helped with the noblewoman’s last will and testament. As described by Pliny, Ummidia Quadratilla had a healthy work-life balance, always setting aside some time for rejuvenating doses of fun while she managed her valuable estate, acted as a matriarch to a her family, kept an eye on her grandchildren’s upbringing and also oversaw personal business interests. In some instances, she combined business and pleasure. According to Pliny the Younger, “She kept a troupe of mimic actors whom she treated with an indulgence unsuitable in a lady of her high position…” (Pliny the Younger, Letters, 7.24). The troupe of actors that Ummidia Quadratilla maintained were not only for her own enjoyment—they also gave public performances, doing so in prestigious venues and settings. Pliny recalled one prominent performance he attended alongside Ummidia Quadratilla’s grandson, Quadratus:
“The last Sacerdotal Games were opened by a performance of mime, and as we left the theatre together Quadratus said to me: ‘Do you realize that today was the first time I have seen any of my grandmother’s dancers?’ So said her grandson; but meanwhile people who were nothing to Quadratilla were running to the theatre to pay respects to her—though ‘respect’ is hardly the word to use for their fawning attentions—jumping up and clapping to show their admiration, and then copying every gesture of their mistress with snatches of song” (Pliny the Younger, Letters, 7.24).
Some key takeaways from the passage are—one, the impressive high praise and regard that the Roman public showed for Ummidia Quadratilla’s troupe of actors—and two, the curious revelation that the grandson, Quadratus, had been kept away and isolated from his grandmother’s business interests in the acting industry. This quarantining of Quadratus away from Ummidia Quadratilla’s favorite pastimes seemed to have been deliberately orchestrated by the Roman noblewoman, either of her own volition or perhaps after it had been suggested by concerned friends. Whatever the case, Quadratus was sent away whenever his grandmother wanted to indulge in her guilty pleasures of mimes and games. Pliny the Younger, who served as a mentor for Quadratus, mentioned this pattern of behavior, stating, “Once when she was asking me to supervise her grandson’s education she told me that as a woman, with all a woman’s idle hours to fill, she was in the habit of amusing herself playing draughts or watching her mimes, but before she did either she always told Quadratus to go away and work: which, I thought, showed her respect for his youth as much as her affection” (Pliny the Younger, Letters, 7.24). As a result, despite being raised in the household of a prominent patron of actors, Quadratus did not grow up as a theatre kid. His mentor, Pliny, was happy about that, as he seemed to have been partial to much more traditional forms of literature, poetry and oratory, instead of the mimicry that the Roman noblewoman patronized.
Wealthy and influential Ummidia Quadratilla reportedly lived to be around seventy-nine years old, when she unfortunately succumbed to a bout of illness. According to Pliny, an inheritance law expert who was likely well versed on the details of her estate, “She died leaving an excellent will; her grandson inherits two-thirds of the estate, and her granddaughter the remaining third” (Pliny the Younger, Letters, 7.24). Pliny had high hopes and expectations of Quadratus, and he pointedly did not elaborate on what became of the late Roman noblewoman’s band of mimic actors.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Gallo-Roman women, painted by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (c. 1836–1912), [Open Access] via Creative Commons and RKD Research).
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This artwork, painted by Peter Paul Rubens (c. 1577 – 1640), was inspired by stories about the ancient Roman kingdom and their unlucky neighbors, the Sabines. In particular, “The Reconciliation” was the end of an infamous series of incidents that were said to have occurred during the time of Rome’s founder, Romulus, whose mythical reign was traditionally dated to about 753-717 BCE. Romulus, according to the narrative told by the Roman historian Livy (59 BCE-17 CE), came to the conclusion that primitive Rome’s greatest existential threat was that “There were not enough women,” and that without boosting the female population of the fledgling city-state, Roman “greatness seemed likely to last only for a single generation” (Livy, Roman History, 1.9). In true ancient tribal warfare fashion, Romulus decided that the best way for Rome to increase its female population was to capture women from the nearby Sabine settlements. Therefore, the Romans concocted a plot to orchestrate a mass-abduction of Sabine women.
In order to lure women to Rome, Romulus and his people were said to have notified their Sabine neighbors that Rome would be hosting a religious festival. Unfortunately, curiosity was indeed piqued in nearby communities by the deceitful news of Rome’s upcoming festivities. Whole families visited Rome on the appointed day to partake in the religious worship and the accompanying entertainments that had been promised. The hoped-for day of family fun, however, turned into an infamous incident of chaos and trauma. As narrated by the historian Livy, “at a given signal all the able-bodied [Roman] men burst through the crowd and seized the young women. Most of the girls were the prize of whoever got hold of them, but a few conspicuously handsome ones had been previously marked down for leading senators, and these were brought to their houses by special gangs” (Roman History, 1.9).
As can be expected, the actions of Romulus and his Romans enraged the Sabines, and war quickly erupted between the two peoples. Nevertheless, the Sabine women, who had already begun to accept life in Rome after the initial shock of abduction, were conflicted by the war. According to legend, the Sabine women rushed out onto the battlefield, and putting themselves between the two armies, they forced the Romans and the Sabines to make peace and unite. It is this act of the Sabine women putting themselves between the two armies and ending the war that Peter Paul Rubens re-creates in his artwork.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Lao Tzu (c. 6th and 5th century BCE)
“Who can be at rest and yet, stirring, slowly come to
life?
He who holds fast to this way
Desires not to be full.
It is because he is not full
That he can be worn and yet newly made.”
Warrior monks of Japan’s medieval history are an intriguing and complex topic. From the mid 10th century to the latter 16th century, the monks of Japan were willing to don armor, pick up arms, and meet their religious and political threats in the field of combat. Both an inflictor and a receiver of violence, the warrior monks and their respective temples were heavily intertwined with Japan and the events of Japan’s chaotic feudal era.
Factions and Fighting (10th Century)
In the 10th century, multiple temples began a trend of militarization. The temples that stand out are the Tendai Buddhist temples of Enryakuji and Onjoji/Miidera located on Mt. Hiei near Kyoto, and the Kofukuji temple in Nara. In all times there are differences in opinions, so it should be no surprise to know that there were different factions among the temples. To keep things brief, we will focus mainly on the actions of the factions instead of their respective beliefs. The Ennin faction dominated Enryakuji Temple and the Enchin faction ruled Miidera. These two groups, as could be expected, were bitter rivals. In 970, the temple of Enryakuji began developing and maintaining a force of warrior monks; it would be a first step toward complications.
The temples coexisted with relative peace until the faction of Miidera tried to encroach on Enryakuji’s territory. In 998, a monk named Yokei was imposed as leader of the Enryakuji Temple. Yokei was not a sound fit to be abbot of the Enryakuji monks, as he was from the rival faction, and his presence naturally irritated the Enryakuji Temple’s own faction. To show their discontent with their new abbot, roughly two hundred monks of Enryakuji launched a violent protest in the city of Kyoto. Taking the hint, Yokei resigned from his position.
Unfortunately, the monks of Miidera continued to pressure the Enryakuji Temple to accept Yokei as the abbot, but his leadership was continually rejected. In 993, after twelve years of arguing about Yokei, Miidera had finally had enough of Enryakuji’s stubbornness and launched an attack. Once the pro-Yokei monks from Miidera forced their way inside their rivals’ compound, they burned the main temple complex to the ground. In response, the monks of Enryakuji went on their own rampage, burning forty shrines of the Miidera Temple’s faction. Having vented their frustrations on their rival’s flammable shrines, perhaps the rivalry could have dispersed peacefully. Nevertheless, the feud would only deepen further.
Pure Escalation (11th and 12th Centuries)
The later events of 1039 call to mind the saying that history repeats itself and that problems from the past can return with a fury. In 1039, the powers that be in Japan tried, once more, to place a monk from Miidera as the new abbot of the Enyrakuji Temple. Predictably, this action instantly ignited fierce opposition. As had happened in 993, Enryakuji monks prepared to protest. This time, however, many more than the original two hundred Enryakuji monks armed themselves for their cause. In fact, around three thousand monks reportedly left Enryakuji Temple, descended on Kyoto, fought through a guard of samurai and successfully demanded that the Daimyo (feudal warlord) of the powerful Fujiwara clan cancel the decision. After this, the Miidera Temple was invaded by rival warrior monks in 1074, 1081, 1121 and 1141, and their shrines were left to crumble and smolder.
The temples, though often at war, could also miraculously manage to work together against a common foe. The rival temples of Enryakuji and Miidera actually combined their forces in 1081 and 1117 to attack a third temple, the Kofukuji Temple in Nara. Similarly, Kofukuji and Miidera both lent their warrior monks to the Minamoto clan during the Gempei Civil War from 1180 to 1185.
Of all the warrior monks, one stood out to become a legend. His name was Benkei. He was a member of the Enryakuji Temple who was said to have set up camp at an abandoned shrine after being exiled. His legendary story reinforced the feud between Enryakuji and Miidera, as he supposedly stole a bell from Miidera to adorn the abandoned shrine he called his home. When Benkei realized that the ring of the bell was not pleasing, he returned the bell to the Miidera Temple by means of a powerful kick, sending the bell tumbling down Mt. Hiei to its former home. At some point, Benkei dueled the warlord Yoshitsune Minamoto, and after being bested, joined the warlord’s retinue. Benkei followed Minamoto until they both met their deaths in the battle of Koromogawa in 1189.
The Lotus Sect, Ikko-ikki and Warlords (15th and 16th Centuries)
In 1488, a Buddhist group called the Ikko-ikki took root in the region of Kaga and conquered surrounding provinces. Another new Buddhist force arrived in 1500 in Kyoto. Naming themselves the Lotus Sect, they constructed twenty-one fortified temples. They helped the Shogun’s forces in Kyoto repel an invasion from the Ikko-ikki in 1528, and went on the offensive against the same group six years later. The Lotus Sect only lost their power and influence when the warrior monks of Enryakuji Temple attacked Kyoto and destroyed all twenty-one of the sect’s fortified temples.
The 16th century was both the golden age, and the downfall, of the warrior monks. The main cause of their decline was the powerful warlord, Oda Nobunaga. In 1570, Oda handed the Enryakuji Temple a defeat unlike anything they had ever experienced—he encircled their compound and burned it to the ground. Around twenty thousand monks died that day.
Elsewhere, the warrior monks of the Ikko-Ikki brought the wrath of Oda Nobunaga upon themselves when they killed the warlord’s brother. In response, Oda waged war on the Nagashima Ikko-Ikki from 1571 to 1574. Oda herded his warrior monk opponents onto one island fortress—Nagashima Castle. The castle kept the defenders in as much as it kept the attackers out. Therefore, the Ikko-ikki had nowhere to run when Oda Nobunaga set bundles of flammable materials around the castle walls and set fire to the fortress, with the Ikko-ikki still inside. With the fall of Nagashima Castle, around twenty thousand more lives were lost to Nobunaga’s flames. In 1580, Oda subdued another Ikko-ikki force in the region of Ishiya Hanganji. This time, he let his foe surrender. Oda Nobunaga, in this case, should be given credit for style, as he reportedly made the Ikko-ikki leader sign the peace with blood and the Ikko-ikki compound was burnt for good measure. With the Enryakuji Temple burned, and the Ikko-ikki pacified, the warrior monks of Japan would never again be the same in terms of their past prestige and power.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Sources: (Kimono with Yoshitsune on horseback and Benkei, by an unknown artist, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).
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This painting, by the Flemish artist Frans Francken II (c. 1581-1642), was inspired by an ancient Roman legend set at the time of the birth of the Roman Republic, a date traditionally pinpointed at about 509 BCE. The armed force shown above served Lars Porsena, an Etruscan king of Clusium, who besieged Rome during the transitional and formative period in which Rome changed its government from a monarchy to a republic. Patriotic ancient Roman storytellers claimed that Porsena arrived at Rome just after the Roman people overthrew their monarchy—many modern historians are not so sure about this, and counter-propose that it might have been Lars Porsena’s army that toppled the Roman monarchy, allowing a new government to form. Obscure truth aside, the painting is set at a time when Lars Porsena and the city of Rome were enemies.
Now for the other figure named in the title—Gaius Mucius Scaevola. He is the man prominently displayed in the center of the artwork, stabbing a dagger into fire. Mucius Scaevola was a Roman aristocrat who volunteered to assassinate Lars Porsena. According to legend, he failed in his mission and was captured, but he did manage to stab Porsena’s secretary before being apprehended. The ancient Roman historian, Livy (59 BCE-17 CE), described the supposed interaction between Lars Porsena and his captured would-be assassin:
“Porsena in rage and alarm ordered the prisoner to be burnt alive unless he at once divulged the plot thus obscurely hinted at, whereupon Mucius, crying: ‘See how cheap men hold their bodies when they care only for honour!’ thrust his right hand into the fire which had been kindled for a sacrifice, and let it burn there as if he were unconscious of the pain. Porsena was so astonished by the young man’s almost superhuman endurance that he leapt to his feet and ordered his guards to drag him from the altar. ‘Go free,’ he said; ‘You have dared to be a worse enemy to yourself than to me’” (Livy, History of Rome, 2.12).
Such is the scene that is playing out in the painting. In it, Gaius Mucius Scaevola can be seen holding his dagger-wielding fist above the fiery coals, which burn on a stone pedestal. Porsena’s army watches the odd spectacle unfold, while Porsena, himself, prepares to have Mucius pulled away from the fire.
Written by C. Keith Hanlsley
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Lucan (c. 39-65)
“Either the creator of things,
when first flame abated and he obtained the reign
over rude and formless matter, fixed the causes
eternally—by which he holds all in order,
obeying the law himself—then partitioned
the world into ages, set limits for the fates;
or nothing is settled and fortune wanders uncertain,
twisting and turning events, and chance rules mortals.
May it be sudden, whatever you devise. Let
the minds of men be blind to future fate.
Leave them free to hope within their fears.”
