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The Bizarre Legend Of King Guntram Being Led To A Treasure By A Dream Reptile

By
thehistorianshut
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King Guntram of Burgundy (r. 561-593), even during his own lifetime, was rumored to be able to perform miracles. Guntram’s acquaintances in the church, including the bishop and historian Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), believed these rumors and recorded the gossip in their writings. Bishop Gregory, for his part, claimed that objects associated with Guntram (such as threads from his cloak) could be used to heal the sick. In his Ten Books of Histories, also commonly known as the History of the Franks, Bishop Gregory endorsed this tale of miracle healing and further alleged that the invocation of Guntram’s name had a powerful effect on evil spirits: “I accept this as true, for I have often heard men possessed of a devil call upon Guntram’s name when the evil spirit was in them, and through his miraculous powers confess their crimes” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, IX. 21). Such were the rumors that were circulating Europe in King Guntram’s own day. These tale would greatly influence the king’s legacy, for due to his warm relationship with the church and his several accounts of miracles, Guntram was able to be posthumously declared a saint. Naturally, after Guntram’s death, tales of the saint-king’s otherworldly exploits and abilities became more flamboyant. One of the strangest of these later legends was recorded in Lombard Italy two centuries after the death King Guntram. It is a really, really, really, bizarre story, involving a midday nap, an incredibly awkward reptile, and the discovery of a treasure.

For this next legend about King Guntram, we must go to the writings of the Lombard historian, Paul the Deacon (c. 722-799). He prefaced the story by stating, “Of him we may briefly insert in this history of ours one very remarkable occurrence, especially since we know that it is not at all contained in the history of the Franks” (Paul the Deacon, History of the Lombard, 3.34). This curious comment informs us that this legend was cultivated outside of the range of Bishop Gregory of Tours and his colleagues, for if they had known of this tale, they would have recorded it just as they had done with the stories of miracle healings and exorcisms. Food for thought, but we will continue.

Paul the Deacon’s tale is set in an unknown place and an unknown time during the reign of King Guntram of Burgundy. The only identifying features in the tale are a forest, a small brook, and a mountain. As the story goes, King Guntram and his entourage entered this mysterious region during a hunting expedition. Although the group was quite numerous, they evidently split up in the forest to go about their hunting, leaving the king with only one loyal and trusted guard. According to the legend, Guntram and his guard reached the aforementioned brook when the king was suddenly hit by a powerful wave of fatigue. Faced with this spontaneous onset of sleepiness, the king decided to take a nap. Having no cushion for his head, King Guntram awkwardly had his guard sit down to provide an emergency lap pillow. From this peculiar beginning, even stranger events would unfold. Paul the Deacon recorded the tale:

“When he went once upon a time into the woods to hunt, and, as often happens, his companions scattered hither and thither, and he remained with only one, a very faithful friend of his, he was oppressed with heavy slumber and laying his head upon the knees of this same faithful companion, he fell asleep. From his mouth a little animal in the shape of a reptile came forth and began to bustle about seeking to cross a slender brook which flowed near by. Then he in whose lap (the king) was resting laid his sword, which he had drawn from its scabbard, over this brook and upon it that reptile of which we have spoken passed over to the other side. And when it had entered into a certain hole in the mountain not far off, and having returned after a little time, had crossed the aforesaid brook upon the same sword, it again went into the mouth of Gunthram from which it had come forth. When Gunthram was afterwards awakened from his sleep he said he had seen a wonderful vision. For he had passed over a certain river by an iron bridge and had gone in under a certain mountain where he had gazed upon a great mass of gold” (Paul the Deacon, History of the Lombard, 3.34).

After King Guntram relayed his account of his dream vision, the loyal guard then told the king about the bizarre sight he had seen while Guntram was sleeping. To King Guntram, having a reptile slither in and out of his mouth apparently was not an issue, so they skipped over that topic and immediately moved on to reconciling the king’s vision to the path of the mouth-dwelling dream reptile. The iron bridge Guntram traversed in his vision was determined to have been the sword that the guard had laid down to let to the reptile cross the brook. And the mountain in the vision turned out to be…well…the nearby mountain beyond the brook. With these simple landmarks and trajectories to follow, Guntram and his companion were reportedly able to retrace the steps of the mysterious mouth-dwelling dream critter, eventually reaching a cave on the mountainside. In that cave, they reportedly found a massive hoard of treasure—all that was missing was a dragon to guard it.

King Guntram reportedly claimed this treasure for himself, but also set aside a great portion of the precious metals and gems to be donated to the church. According to the tale, he had an ornate gold-and-gem-covered canopy crafted for the tomb of St. Marcellus in Châlon-Sur-Saone. Paul the Deacon claimed that this canopy, supposedly built from the treasure that the old king’s mouth-dwelling dream reptile helped discover, was still in existence during his own lifetime in the 8th century. Whatever the truth might be behind this odd legend, it is an entertaining tale, indeed.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Image of the Dream of the Magi from the Psalter manuscript BL Arundel 157, f. 4v, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and The British Library).

 

Sources:

  • History of the Lombards by Paul the Deacon, translated by William Dudley Foulke (c. 1904). University of Pennsylvania Press, 1907, 1974, 2003.
  • The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.

The Sorrow Of Telemachus, Painted By Angelica Kauffmann (c. 1741–1807)

By
thehistorianshut
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This painting, by the Swiss artist Angelica Kauffmann (c. 1741–1807), depicts a scene of the sea deity, Calypso, and her entourage of five other nymphs, playing host to two important guests who appeared on Calypso’s island. One guest is the youth in tan or gold garments, sitting despondently at the table. This young man is Telemachus, son of the famous Greek hero, Odysseus (or the Roman Ulysses), whose adventures were told in Homer’s epic poem, The Odyssey. Behind Telemachus, a grey-haired and long-bearded figure can be seen. All of the other characters know the old fellow by the alias, Mentor, but the person is really the goddess Athena (or the Roman Minerva) in a magical disguise. Despite these characters, Angelica Kauffmann’s painting does not take its inspiration from a scene in Homer’s ancient epics, nor does it recreate any other ancient Greek or Roman myths about Telemachus, Athena/Minerva, and Calypso. Instead, the painting re-creates a scene from a book called The Adventures of Telemachus, published in 1699 by Archbishop François de Salignac de La Mothe-Fénelon of Cambrai (his name can thankfully be shortened to François Fénelon). In this curious Odyssey spinoff, François Fénelon expanded on and added to the escapades and experiences that Telemachus underwent while he waited for his father to return home from the Trojan War, including the encounter with Calypso seen above. François Fénelon’s prose narration of the scene shown above was as follows:

“[Telemachus and Mentor] returned to Calypso, who was waiting for them. The nymphs with braided hair and white vestments immediately served up a plain repast, but exquisite with regard to its taste and elegance. There was no flesh but that of birds which they had taken in their nets, or of beasts which they had killed with their arrows in the chase. Wine, more delicious than nectar, flowed from large silver vases into golden cups crowned with flowers. There were brought in baskets all the fruits which spring promises, and autumn lavishes on the earth. At the same time four young nymphs began to sing. They first sung the war of the Gods against the Giants; then the loves of Jupiter and Semele; the birth of Bacchus, and his education under old Silenus; the race of Atalanta and Hippomenes, who was conqueror by means of the golden apples gathered in the gardens of the Hesperides; at last the Trojan war was likewise sung, and the combats and wisdom of Ulysses extolled to the skies. The chief of the nymphs, whose name was Leucothoë, joined the harmony of her lyre to the sweet voices of all the others. When Telemachus heard the names of his father, the tears which ran down his cheeks gave a new lustre to his beauty. But as Calypso perceived that he could not eat, and that he was seized with grief, she made a sign to the nymphs; upon which they sung the battle of the Centaurs with the Lapithæ, and of the descent of Orpheus to hell to fetch his dear Eurydice from thence” (François Fénelon, The Adventures of Telemachus, Book 1).

Such is the scene that Angelica Kauffmann reproduced in paint. It shows, Telemachus and Mentor/Athena being wined and dined by Calypso, while the nymphs provide entertainment through music and song. The musical nymphs must have just reached their songs about the exploits and feats of Telemachus’ father, Odysseus, because Calypso is depicted in the act of holding out her hand, signaling for the musicians to move on to a less sensitive topic. Athena (disguised as old Mentor) can also be seen trying to reassure Telemachus by placing a supportive hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

Chief Joseph

By
thehistorianshut
-

Chief Joseph
(Nez Percé/Nimiipuu leader, c. 1840-1904)

“The white people have too many chiefs. They do not understand each other. They do not talk alike.”

  • Chief Joseph’s Own Story (paragraph 81), by Chief Joseph, originally published in 1879; republished with an introduction by Bishop W. H. Hare and General Howard’s Comment in The North American Review (1879). Reprinted by Kessinger Publishing, 2010.

The Fatal Ambush Of Publius And Gaius Manlius

By
thehistorianshut
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Two kinsmen named Publius and Gaius Manlius were elected as military tribunes of Rome around 379 BCE. They took office at a precarious time for the Romans. The city was still trying to recover from the physical and reputational damage caused by the Gallic Sack of Rome, which occurred sometime between 390 and 386 BCE. Although the pillaging of their city did not stop the Romans from remaining a great regional power, it did encourage Rome’s allies and subject states to question the status quo. Along with disgruntled allies and ambitious vassal cities, the Romans also had to deal with their persistent foe, the Volscians, who, after the Gallic Sack of Rome, renewed their periodic incursions into Roman territory. A curious partnership emerged between the Volscians and Latin cities, who started making more of an effort to push back against, and sabotage, Roman expansion in Italy. This would ultimately culminate in the Latin War (340-338 BCE), but that was well after the term in office of the two Manlii military tribunes mentioned above.

Publius and Gaius Manlius were reportedly tasked with overseeing the Roman response to threats posed by the Volscians in 379 BCE. For most of their term, there was little action to be seen. Publius and Gaius did reportedly set up a military camp in the frontier to guard against possible Volscian invasions, but the troops stationed there spent most of their time foraging, without ever seeing a Volscian warrior.

Despite there being no official Volscian invasion planned for that year, the Roman military camp was indeed being eyed with hostile intent. One day, while Publius and Gaius Manlius were personally overseeing the military camp, a messenger rushed in with an urgent letter that warned of an impending attack. Volscians, according to the message, were about to massacre Roman troops that were out a good ways from the camp on foraging duty. Receiving this missive, Publius and Gaius Manlius gathered a band of troops (leaving behind enough to guard the camp) and set off to support the vulnerable foragers. As the story goes, there was, truthfully, danger lurking around the vicinity of the military camp. Yet, according to Roman tradition and folklore, it was not really the Volscians who were the threat that year.

As it turned out, Rome’s unprotected scavengers were not the target. Instead, the mysterious assailants were reportedly really after the military camp’s leadership, as well as the outpost itself. It was all a plot—evidently, the message brought into the camp was fake intelligence, and the military tribunes reacted to the bogus information exactly as the plotters wanted them to. Therefore, when Publius and Gaius Manlius departed from the military compound with their reinforcements, they found themselves trapped in an ambush. Around the same time, the hostile forces also launched an attack on the leaderless and undermanned military camp. Unfortunately, the specific identity of the attackers, and exactly what happened next is vague. A Roman historian, Livy (59 BCE-17 CE), wrote the following unclear account of the odd two-part battle:

“[Publius and Gaius Manlius] sent out troops to forage, and when they supposed these to be surrounded, on receipt of a false report, they hurried to support them. They did not even detain the author of the story, a Latin enemy, who had deceived them in the guise of a Roman soldier. They fell into an ambush, and while holding out in an awkward position through the sheer courage of the troops, fighting back as they were cut down, the Roman camp which lay in the plain was attacked by the enemy on the opposite side. In both places foolhardiness and ignorance on the part of the generals proved their undoing; what survived of the good fortune of the Roman people was saved by the soldiers’ courage, which did not waiver even when there was no leader to direct it. When news reached Rome, the first thought was to appoint a dictator, but later, after it was reported that all was quiet among the Volscians and it was obvious that they had no idea how to make use of their victory and opportunity, even the army and generals there were recalled” (Livy, History of Rome, VI.30).

Taking it one piece at a time, this passage reveals that the Romans performed poorly in both the ambush and in defending the camp against assault. It is possible that both military tribunes died in the battle. Gaius Manlius’ name did not appear again after the ambush, yet another Publius Manlius did emmerge in records just over a decade later in 368 BCE. It is unclear, however, if they are one and the same, or if they just shared the same name. As for the outcome of the battle, the Romans deemed themselves to have lost it (bad enough for them to contemplate a dictatorship). They first believed it was the Volscians that had carried out the attack. Yet, after intelligence reports indicated that the Volscians had no war preparations to press their advantage after the battle, the Romans then began to suspect that it was a Latin city that orchestrated the attack. Ironically, the Volscians did reportedly invade Roman lands a year later, in 378.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (The Battle of Vercellae, by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (c. 1696–1770), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the MET.jpg).

 

Sources:

  • The History of Rome by Livy, translated by Betty Radice. New York: Penguin Classics, 1982.

Jupiter and Mercury visiting Philemon and Baucis, Painted By Jan van Noordt (c. 1623-1676)

By
thehistorianshut
-

This painting, by the Dutch artist Jan van Noordt (c. 1623-1676), was inspired by the Greco-Roman myth of a mortal couple, Philemon and Baucis, being paid a momentous visit by the gods, Zeus/Jupiter and Hermes/Mercury. Jan van Noordt’s representation of Zeus is the scantily-clad and jolly-looking man with the blue cloth draped over his lap. As for Hermes, he is the rather disinterested man with a helmet on his head and a red garment draped about his body. Finally, we can see the elderly couple, Philemon and Baucis, coming up behind Zeus with a basket of food.

As the story goes, the two deities mentioned above, Zeus/Jupiter and Hermes/Mercury, traveled in disguise through the hometown of Philemon and Baucis. With their godliness masked in mortal guise, the deities discovered that the people of the town, almost unanimously, would not show hospitality to strangers. Only one humble home stood as an anomaly in that most unwelcoming community—this refuge of generosity was the home of Philemon and Baucis. Whereas other households turned the gods away or refused to open their doors, this amiable couple invited in the disguised gods and played the role of the host to the best of their ability. This scene was described by the Roman poet, Ovid (43 BCE-17 CE):

“Jupiter once came here, disguised as a mortal, and with him
his son, the messenger Mercury, wand and wings set aside.
Looking for shelter and rest, they called at a thousand homesteads;
a thousand doors were bolted against them. One house, however,
did make them welcome, a humble abode with a roof of straw
and marsh reed, one that knew its duty to gods and men.
Here good Philémon and Baucis had happily passed their youth
and here they had reached old age, enduring their poverty lightly
by owning it freely and being content with the little they had.”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, 8.626-634).

Despite not having much at their disposal, Philemon and Baucis threw a feast for their guests, bringing whatever was available in or around the house to the table. This hospitality and generosity impressed the gods, and as it would soon turn out, the feast would be of great consequence to the lives of Philemon and Baucis. The two gods had been in the region to scout out a spot for a new temple, and Philemon and Baucis’ hometown was, to put it mildly, in the way of the divine plan. Mid-feast, the deities revealed their godhood to Philemon and Baucis. The gods then quickly ushered the two awed mortals out of town and led them to a mountain. With Philemon and Baucis safely stowed on a mountaintop, the gods called in a flood to wipe out the town—of all the houses in the community, only that of Philemon and Baucis survived the inundation. As the story goes, the site of the hospitable couple’s home was transformed into the temple that the gods wanted, and Philemon and Baucis spent the rest of their lives there, serving as priests.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Sources:

The Awkward Banquet Of Thorir Olvirsson

By
thehistorianshut
-

Thorir Olvirsson was an up-and-coming, youthful 11th-century Norwegian nobleman who cultivated a lot of good will with the people living in the regions around Trondheim, Norway. From local farmers, to powerful chieftains and jarls, many Norwegians saw promise in the young man. By the time he was a teenager, he had already won much praise and admiration from his peers.

Despite being held with high acclaim at such a young age, Thorir Olvirsson’s rise to prominence had been rocky. His father, Olvir of Egg, had resisted the aggressive Christianization policies of King Olaf II of Norway (aka Saint Olaf, r. 1015-1028), and Olvir was ultimately martyred around 1021 after he hosted traditional Norse religious celebrations without King Olaf’s permission. Along with Olvir’s life, King Olaf II also seized the executed man’s lands and wealth. This deprived Thorir Olvirsson and his surviving family members of their status and power. Yet, the family did not stay assetless for long. Thorir’s widowed mother married Kalf Árnason, another influential chieftain in the Trondheim region, and Kalf succeeded in regaining Olvir of Egg’s estates for his step-sons.

By 1028, Thorir Olvirsson was a promising eighteen-year-old young man, and a dramatic role-reversal was occurring between himself and King Olaf II. Whereas Thorir Olvirsson was becoming more popular and influential, King Olaf’s power in his own kingdom was quickly waning. At that time, Canute the Great—ruler of England and Denmark—was waging a campaign of conquest by diplomacy. He parked a massive, threatening fleet in Denmark, while also cultivating relationships with disgruntled chieftains and jarls in Norway. Canute’s offers of wealth, power, and a style of government that was less imposing than Olaf’s heavy-handed rule, proved to be enticing to many dissident denizens of Norway. King Olaf could not out-talk, out-fight, or out-spend his rival, Canute, and as a result Norwegians began defecting in droves to support the prospective usurper.

Thorir Olvirsson was one of the disgruntled nobles who was favorably considering Canute’s overlordship. He no doubt held a grudge against Olaf—after all, his father was executed by the king. Thorir eventually met with agents of Canute, and he reportedly received from them a golden arm-ring after their conversation. Gifts and sympathies aside, Thorir Olvirsson evidently tried to tow a neutral line while King Olaf still had some influence left in Norway. In keeping with this non-confrontational stance, Thorir Olvirsson even decided to host a feast for King Olaf. This feast, however, would prove to be disastrous for all involved.

As the story goes, Thorir Olvirsson made the fatal mistake of wearing his newly obtained golden arm-ring during the feast. As King Olaf knew that he, himself, had not given that pricey present to young Thorir, the distressed monarch quickly pieced together the arm-ring’s origins and its implications. Accusing Thorir of treason, Olaf had the popular eighteen-year-old nobleman arrested. Despite protests and offers of monetary payments by Kalf Árnason and other chieftains, King Olaf II promptly had Thorir Olvirsson executed for accepting a bribe from Canute.

In killing Thorir Olvirsson, King Olaf II also killed the remaining good-will he had in Norway at that time. When news of young, well-liked Thorir’s death spread, it further angered the already aggravated populace. As told by the Icelandic scholar, Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179-1241), “that deed created the greatest ill-will, both in Uppland Province and to no less degree north in the Trondheim District where Thórir had most relatives. And Kálf felt very keenly the slaying of this man, because Thórir in his youth had been his foster son” (Heimskringla, Saint Olaf’s Saga, chapter 166). At that time, however, it was Thorir’s brother, Grjotgard, who most vocally expressed anger—he raised a small rebellion and started waging war against King Olaf II. This impromptu rebel band, however, proved no match against King Olaf’s personal force of experienced fighters, and Grjotgard was reportedly killed in battle. Nevertheless, even with Grjotgard’s rebellion put down, Olaf still had to deal with Canute the Great and his huge army, mustered from England and Denmark. Olaf would need more than his personal entourage of loyal warriors to defeat this kingly rival. Yet, after his clash with the Olvirssons and their supporters, King Olaf found that few Norwegians were willing to follow him into battle against Canute. Unable to muster an effective army, Olaf II would flee Norway before the end of 1028.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Balders bål (ur Frithiofs saga), by August Malmström (c. 1829-1901), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the National Museum in Sweden.jpg).

 

Sources:

  • Heimskringla, by Snorri Sturluson and translated by Lee Hollander. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1964, 2018.

Apollo And Marsyas, Painted By Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (c. 1696-1770)

By
thehistorianshut
-

This curious painting, created by the Italian artist Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (c. 1696-1770), was inspired by the myth of Apollo and Marsyas. In this artwork, the god, Apollo, is represented by the scantily clad man with the white-colored cloth draped across his lap. As for Marsyas, he is shown as the satyr on the right side of the painting, seen carrying a reed pipe. As the story goes, the two entities met that day after Marsyas challenged Apollo to a music competition. Giovanni Battista Tiepolo displays this meeting and contest in a peaceful and non-violent manner. Unfortunately, this peace and non-violence would not last.

Apollo, as it turns out, was quite annoyed by Marsyas’ presumptuous challenge. He agreed to it, of course, but—as is typical of the gods—Apollo did not appreciate being tested. Such is the prelude to the peaceful scene shown above.

Marsyas, unfortunately, lost the music competition against the god, and when the challenger was defeated, Apollo took the opportunity to vent all of his pent-up wrath against the satyr that had tried to be his equal. Suffice it to say, Apollo did not show sportsmanship and grace in victory. Instead, he subjected Marsyas to a bloody and agonizing punishment—flaying. The Roman poet, Ovid (43 BCE-17 CE), vividly described what happened next.

“In spite of his cries, the skin was peeled from his flesh, and his body
was turned into one great wound; the blood was pouring all over him,
muscles were fully exposed, his uncovered veins convulsively
quivered; the palpitating intestines could well be counted,
and so could the organs glistening through the wall of his chest.”
(Ovid, Metamorphosis, 6.387-391)

Marsyas, of course, did not survive the flaying that was imposed on him. As the story goes, Marsyas’ many friends shed such a quantity of tears in mourning the loss of their loved one that a river was formed, carrying their grief to the sea. All of this pain and loss, however, was averted by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, as he froze the scene before any blood was spilt.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

Joan of Arc’s Holy Sword

By
thehistorianshut
-

Jeanne d’Arc (commonly known as Joan of Arc, c. 1412-1431) was the daughter of a peasant farmer named Jacques d’Arc and his wife, Isabelle, who lived in the village of Domrémy. Their home town was situated on the frontline of the wars between the Dauphin, Charles (later King Charles VII of France, r. 1422/1429-1461), and King Henry VI of England, who was allied to the Burgundians. Despite being raised in this tense and war-torn time, Jeanne found hope and confidence in the Church and the scripture it preached. Her religious zeal, however, skyrocketed in intensity when she turned thirteen years of age. It was at that young age that Jeanne d’Arc began hearing and seeing what she described as heavenly voices and the visages of spirits and angels. Following the urgings of these voices and semi-obscured saintly heads, teenage Jeanne d’Arc would embark on a wild and momentous journey, ultimately becoming a champion for Charles VII in war and politics.

Although Jeanne d’Arc claimed to have been contacted by many different angels and saints, her most frequent advisors were said to have been the spirits of St. Catherine of Alexandria and St. Margaret of Antioch. Besides advising Jeanne on her daily decisions and actions, the saintly visions also encouraged the young mystic to obtain certain items. For one, when Jeanne d’Arc commissioned a custom-designed banner to be made for her to carry into battle, she claimed that the flag’s layout had been explained to her by her advisory saints. Similarly, Jeanne’s voices led her to uncover a special sword.

Jeanne’s interesting episode with the sword occurred in 1429, not long after she met the Dauphin, Charles. While Jeanne was traveling near the city of Tours, she was said to have been tipped off by her talkative spirit-companions about the existence of a sword that was buried somewhere behind the altar of the nearby Church of Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois. After receiving this revelation, Jeanne delegated the task of retrieving the blade to an aid, who promptly set off to Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois to complete the holy scavenger hunt. The intel provided by the disembodied voices proved true, and a sword was indeed recovered. On February 27, 1431, after Jeanne d’Arc had been captured by her English and Burgundian enemies, she told her questioners about this story. The transcript of the interview read as follows:

“Asked how she knew that this sword was there, she answered that the sword was in the ground, rusted over, and upon it were five crosses; and she knew it was there through her voices, and she had never seen the man who fetched it. She wrote the clergy of the place asking if it was their pleasure that she should have the sword, and they sent it to her. Nor was it buried deep behind the altar, but she believed she wrote saying it was behind. She added that as soon as the sword was found the priests rubbed it, and the rust fell off at once without effort; a merchant, an armorer of Tours, fetched it. The local priests gave her a scabbard, as did those of Tours also; they made two in all, one of crimson velvet, in French de velous vermeil, and the other of cloth of gold. She herself had another made of very strong leather” (The Trial of Jeanne d’Arc, Fourth Public Session).

Many rumors swirled around France about the fate of this blade. Some claimed that the sword eventually broke, yet Jeanne d’Arc denied this tale when speaking to her interrogators. Instead, she merely stated that the sword was in her possession until she mysteriously decided to hide it somewhere in the vicinity of Lagny in the final months of 1429. In its stead, she began wielding a looted Burgundian blade which she assessed to be a better weapon in combat. Nevertheless, she continued to be quite fond of the holy sword she left behind. As Jeanne d’Arc told her interrogators, “She loved the sword, she said, since it had been found in the church of St. Catherine, whom she loved” (The Trial of Jeanne d’Arc, Fourth Public Session). The whereabouts of this blade are uncertain, as Jeanne d’Arc was not captured with it, and she reportedly did not leave it to her brothers.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

Queen Cleophis Offering Wine To Alexander The Great, By Gerard Hoet (c. 1648-1733)

By
thehistorianshut
-

This painting, by the Dutch artist Gerard Hoet (c. 1648-1733), was inspired by an episode from the life of the famous conqueror, Alexander the Great (r. 336-323 BCE). Although the scene looks quite Greco-Roman in style and character, the painting actually represents an event that was said to have occurred as Alexander the Great neared India. In particular, this scene occurred after Alexander and his warriors (shown on the left side of the painting) besieged a city called Massaga or Mazagae for several days in 327 or 326 BCE. Curiously, Gerard Hoet chose to paint the incident in a clean and bloodless manner. Unfortunately, that is not how the city fell into Alexander’s hands.

Looking at the civilians of Massaga or Mazagae crowding the right side of the painting, it is striking that they are almost all women, led by Queen Cleophis, displayed prominently in her white and blue dress. This is likely because much of the city’s male population was killed by Alexander during and after the siege. The battles involved in taking the city were costly, and even Queen Cleophis’ son, Assacenus—who led the defense—was among those who died in the fight. After Assacenus’ death, however, Queen Cleophis and the people of the city decided to surrender. As part of terms of surrender, the troops of Massaga or Mazagae were ordered to camp outside of their city walls. Queen Cleophis’ army reportedly did agree to this order, assuming that Alexander wanted to recruit them for future campaigns. Nevertheless, bloodshed would resume between the two sides.

Different ancient scholars blamed different people for the resumed violence. Whatever the case, it ended with Alexander the Great massacring the defenders who had come out of the city. The Roman biographer, Arrian (c. 90-173+), blamed the people of Massaga or Mazagae:

“Having no desire to fight against other Indians, they meant to desert under cover of night and desert to their homes. Their purpose, however, was reported to Alexander, and that same night he stationed his whole force in a ring around the hill, caught the Indians in a trap, and butchered them. He then seized the town, now undefended. Assacenus’ mother and daughter were among the prisoners” (Arrian, Anabasis of Alexander, IV.27).

An earlier historian, Diodorus Siculus (c. 1st century BCE), proposed a vastly different theory than that of Arrian. Rather than accuse the people of Massaga or Mazagae of trying to avoid military service under the man who conquered them, he instead claimed that Alexander the Great had never intended to recruit the local army, but instead lured them out of their walls to win a decisive victory and occupy the city. His account read as follows:

“A truce was concluded on these terms, and the queen, impressed by Alexander’s generosity, sent him valuable gifts and promised to follow his orders in everything. The mercenaries straightway under the terms of the truce left the city and encamped without interference at a distance of eighty furlongs, without an inkling of what would happen. Alexander, nevertheless, nursed an implacable hostility toward them; he held his forces in readiness, followed them, and falling upon them suddenly wrought a great slaughter. At first they kept shouting that this attack was in contravention of the treaty and they called to witness the gods against whom he had transgressed. Alexander shouted back that he had granted them the right to leave the city but not that of being friends of the Macedonians forever” (Diodorus Siculus, Library of History, 17.84).

Such, then, are the opposing theories of how Alexander the Great occupied Massaga or Mazagae. Whatever the truth might be, both sides agreed that siege had lasted for days and that the city’s troops were butchered outside of their walls. It was only after this sad epilogue that Alexander the Great and Queen Cleophis had their meeting, depicted above in Gerard Hoet’s painting.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

 

Sources:

Socrates

By
thehistorianshut
-

Socrates (c. 469-399 BCE)

“To fear death, gentlemen, is no other than to think oneself wise when one is not, to think one knows what one does not know. No one knows whether death may not be the greatest of all blessings for a man, yet men fear it as if they knew that it is the greatest of evils.”

  • This saying, attributed to Socrates, was recorded in Plato’s Apology (section 29a). The translation used here is by G. M. A. Grube, revised by John M. Cooper (Hackett Publishing, 2000).
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