Sunshu Ao (7th-6th century BCE)
“If orders are issued too frequently to the people they will not know which ones to obey.”
Ancient Greek writers who were exposed to the ancient Persian court were intrigued by a curious garment that was said to have been used when Achaemenid Kings of Kings met with their courtiers. At times, so the story goes, the Persian king would force his guests to wear a certain item of clothing, called a corê, which acted like a straightjacket, preventing anyone with ill intentions from using their arms in any harmful way. This was mentioned by the scholar and mercenary, Xenophon (c. 420-350 BCE), who claimed that his Persian acquaintance, Cyrus the Younger, put one of these corê sleeves to good use. In his Hellenica, Xenophon wrote, “Cyrus put to death Autoboesaces and Mitraeus, the sons of Darius’ sister (daughter of Xerxes, the father of Darius). He did this because they failed to push their hands through the corê —a gesture that is made only in the presence of the king. (The corê is a kind of sleeve, longer than the cheiris, and anyone with his hands inside it would be incapable of doing anything” (Xenophon, Hellenica, II.1.8). Xenophon might have personally seen this garment himself, as he fought in Cyrus’ failed campaign to become king in 401 BCE. Alternatively, he could have learned of the corê from the writings of his contemporary, Ctesias, who was a doctor in the court of Artaxerxes II (r. 404-359/358 BCE).
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Illustration inspired by a wall from the Palace of Artaxerxes II, printed by Friedrich Richter (c. 1822-1873), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the New York Public Library).
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This painting, by the English poet and artist William Blake (c. 1757-1827), depicts the Biblical tale of King Saul of Israel (dated to the 11th century BC) meeting with the so-called Witch of Endor. As the story goes, King Saul went to the Witch of Endor—a necromancer—on the eve of a battle with his persistent foe, the Philistines. Saul wanted the witch to conjure the spirit of the then recently deceased Samuel, a prophet and military leader who had first supported King Saul’s reign, but died denouncing Saul’s kingship. The Witch of Endor agreed to the task and succeeded in summoning Samuel’s spirit for a conversation with King Saul. It is a scene described in the First Book of Samuel:
“Then the woman asked, ‘Whom shall I bring up for you?’
‘Bring up Samuel,’ he said.
When the woman saw Samuel, she cried out at the top of her voice and said to Saul, ‘Why have you deceived me? You are Saul!’
The king said to her, ‘Don’t be afraid. What do you see?’
The woman said, ‘I see a ghostly figure coming up out of the earth.’
‘What does he look like?’ he asked.
‘An old man wearing a robe is coming up,’ she said.
Then Saul knew it was Samuel, and he bowed down and prostrated himself with his face to the ground.”
(1 Samuel 28: 11-14, NIV version)
Such is the scene that is occurring in the painting by William Blake. It shows King Saul prostrating himself before the summoned ghost of Samuel. Unfortunately for the king, the late prophet’s newest prophecy was not a good one. As the story goes, the summoned Samuel told Saul that the forces of Israel would be defeated in the upcoming battle with the Philistines, and that Saul and his sons would be killed. Samuel’s prediction proved true, but the defeat of King Saul paved the way for the ascendance of King David.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Droctulft was an intriguing figure from the 6th century. He was said to have been a man of Alamanni or Suebic birth who, in his youth, was somehow adopted into the culture of the Lombard people that invaded Italy in 568 and seized a large portion of the Italian peninsula from the Empire of Constantinople. Droctulft assimilated into the society of the Lombards, fashionably growing out a long beard and becoming an accomplished warrior. His many days on the battlefield evidently left a mark, possibly leaving Droctulft’s face mutilated. These descriptions were preserved in an inscribed epitaph (now lost) at the Church of San Vitale in Ravenna. Thankfully, the Lombard historian, Paul the Deacon (c. 720-799) recorded the words of the epitaph for posterity. On Droctulft’s origins and appearance, the epitaph bluntly, but lovingly, stated:
“First with the Longobards he dwelt, for by race and by nature
Sprung from Suavian stock, suave to all people was he.
Terrible to be seen was his face, though in heart he was kindly,
Long was the beard that grew down on his vigorous breast.”
(Paul the Deacon, History of the Lombards, 3.19)
Droctulft was a highly capable man, and he proved his worth in military and administrative duties. Due to the meritocratic nature of the early Lombard kingdom, Droctulft’s competence and accomplishments eventually led to him being named as a duke (or dux)—a title that gave Droctulft military, judicial, and law enforcement powers in his allotted region. Unfortunately, little is known about where Droctulft’s dukedom was situated. Nevertheless, he ruled his domain well and managed to hold his own during an interesting time period when the Lombard dukes were left unchecked in a prolonged, monarch-less intermission between the reigns of King Cleph (r. 572-574) and King Authari (r. 584-590). Although there was apparently no unifying king in that gap from 574 to 584, that did not mean that the Lombards were idle.
Droctulft and other prominent Lombard dukes, such as Faroald in Spoleto, Euin in Trento and Zotto in Benevento, continued militarily expanding their power in Italy during the kingless intermission period. One example occurred in 579, when Duke Faroald of Spoleto captured the port town of Classis, which was adjacent to Ravenna—the seat of power for Constantinople’s imperial governors in Italy. Like Duke Faroald, Droctulft was also actively battling against the regions of Italy that were still controlled by Constantinople at that time. Yet, in one of his campaigns, Droctulft was captured by the imperial forces. This was reportedly a pivotal moment in Droctulft’s life. He evidently held his fellow dukes to be in some way responsible for his captivity, either because he thought they betrayed him around the time of the battle, or he otherwise resented that the dukes did nothing to ransom or rescue him after his imprisonment. Whatever the case, after Droctulf negotiated his own release from prison, he curiously was more angry at his fellow Lombard dukes than at his actual imperial captors over the imprisonment ordeal. These growing negative emotions against his Lombard peers would eventually cause Droctulft to defect and join the imperial side of the conflict in Italy. Fortunately for the rebellious duke, fate would soon bring into Italy an ideal wave of chaos that could be quite advantageous to a defector such as Droctulf.
In 584, Emperor Maurice of Constantinople (r. 582-602) and the Frankish king, Childebert II (r. 575-595), negotiated a military alliance against the Lombards. Emperor Maurice reportedly paid 50,000 pieces of gold to King Childebert II in order to entice the Franks to launch a major invasion into the Lombard-controlled section of Italy. This possibility for a coordinated onslaught of Frankish and imperial attacks concerned the Lombard dukes enough that they decided to put their divided lands once more under a central monarchal government. During their deliberations, the dukes elected King Authari (r. 584-590) to the throne, and a majority of the Lombard dukes reportedly agreed to relinquish half of their possessions to the new king, for the upkeep of the monarch, his court, and the protection of the realm.
By the time that King Authari was elected as leader of the Lombards, Duke Droctulft was ready to make his move. It is difficult to ascertain exactly how and when he finally broke away from the Lombards, but Droctulft is known to have defected with his loyal followers to the imperial forces in Italy before the end of the very first year of King Authari’s reign in 584. After switching sides, Droctulft did not hide or retire. Instead, he offered his military knowledge and experience to the imperial forces and waged war openly against the new Lombard monarch. There would be plenty of fighting, for King Authari, as it turns out, proved himself to be a competent defender of the Lombard realm. After Authari and the Lombards survived the lackluster Frankish invasion of Italy in 584 with little trouble, Authari then redirected his military against the sections of Italy that were still controlled by Constantinople. Authari and Duke Droctulft were known to have clashed in a siege at Brexillus (Brescello), where the renegade duke aided the imperial defense of the city. In that showdown, Authari won the day and Droctulft had to flee the city before it fell to the Lombards. The beaten duke withdrew to Ravenna, where he plotted his revenge.
When Droctulft arrived at Ravenna (still in 584), he found the that the imperial forces were consolidating and building ships for an upcoming military operation. Still bitter about being forced to flee from Brexillus, Droctulft quickly insisted that he be a part of the campaign. The imperial officers consented to his joining, and, by most accounts, the defector duke became a leading commander of the operation that would soon ensue.
When the fleet at Ravenna was prepared, it sailed against the nearby port town of Classis, which had been conquered by the Lombards a few years earlier. The former Lombard nobleman played a major role in the attack’s planning and execution, and when the operation resulted in the recapture of the port, Droctulft was credited with orchestrating the victorious campaign. This evidently impressed Emperor Maurice, who decided to keep utilizing Droctulft as a general against the Lombards, and later, against the Avars. His battles against these foes were remembered in the epitaph at the Church of San Vitale, which stated:
“[Droctulf] Conquers and overcomes numberless Langobard bands,
Vanquishes also in lands of the East the impetuous Avar,
Seeking to win for his lords victory’s sovereign palm”
(Paul the Deacon, History of the Lombards, 3.19).
Although Droctulft was sent abroad to places such as Sirmium (in what is now Serbia), he eventually returned to Italy and apparently settled at Ravenna. By the end of his life, he had won respect and renown for himself, and the people of Ravenna seemed to have genuinely appreciated him. This mutual bond between Droctulft and Ravenna can be felt in the often-mentioned epitaph:
“Loving the standards of Rome and the emblems of the republic,
Aid unto them he brought, crushing the power of his race.
Love unto us he bore, despising the claims of his kindred,
Deeming Ravenna his own fatherland, dear to his heart”
(Paul the Deacon, History of the Lombards, 3.19).
Droctulft died in Ravenna sometime after the year 606. His body was placed in a sepulcher at the Church of San Vitale, in Ravenna. Besides the tomb’s epitaph and the writings of Paul the Deacon, Droctulft made an appearance in the work of the Byzantine historian Theophylact Simocatta (c. 7th century) and was also recommended in a letter by Pope Gregory the Great (r. 590-604).
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Illustration of a Lombard, dated between 1712-1714, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum.jpg).
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This painting, by the Italian artist Sebastiano Conca (c. 1676-1764), features King Philip II of Macedonia (r. 359-336 BCE) and his heir, the famed Alexander the Great (r. 336-322 BCE). There is little context as to which event this scene is meant to represent. Based on the age of Alexander and the courtly setting of the painting, it might be depicting events around 338 or 337 BCE, when father and son had a dramatic family dispute. That year, Philip II married a Macedonian noblewoman named Cleopatra. Polygamy was an accepted practice for Macedonian kings, but this did not stop teenage Alexander and his mother, Olympias, from feeling slighted. Heated sparks flew as early as the wedding banquet. The Greek-Roman biographer, Plutarch (c. 50-120) described the awkward celebration:
“Their quarrel was brought to a head on the occasion of the wedding of Cleopatra, a girl with whom Philip had fallen in love and whom he had decided to marry, although she was far too young for him. Cleopatra’s uncle Attalus, who had drunk too much at the banquet, called upon the Macedonians to pray to the gods that the union of Philip and Cleopatra might bring forth a legitimate heir to the throne. Alexander flew into a rage at these words, shouted at him, ‘Villain, do you take me for a bastard, then?’ and hurled a drinking-cup at his head. At this Philip lurched to his feet, and drew his sword against his son, but fortunately for them both he was so overcome with drink and with rage that he tripped and fell headlong” (Plutarch, Parallel Lives, Life of Alexander, chapter 9).
In protest and self-preservation, Alexander and his mother, Olympias, withdrew from Macedonia. To King Philip’s credit, he did regret threatening his son once the anger and drunken haze subsided. Alexander soon returned to Philip’s court and a working relationship resumed between the strained father and son. Due to the cordial atmosphere in Sebastiano Conca’s painting, it is likely the reconciliation that he depicts in his artwork.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Like many figures from ancient mythology, the origin story of the blind prophet, Teiresias, could vary depending on the storyteller, location, and century. One of the alleged oldest versions of the tale—supposedly dating from the time of Hesiod (c. 8th century BCE)—was quite an odd and entertaining myth, involving a couple of copulating snakes, a sex change, and a divine debate over a bawdy topic. This unique saga was set in motion when Teiresias went on a fateful stroll through a mountainous forest in Greece. During his hike, the mythical man reportedly interrupted two snakes who were making slithery, serpentine love in the privacy of the woods. For reasons unknown, Teiresias’ first action upon seeing this sight was to attack. He charged at the smitten snakes and gave them a whack with his walking stick. According to some versions of the myth, his blow even killed the female snake. This assault against nature, however, would have consequences. An unknown magical being (perhaps a surviving snake) cast a spell on Teiresias—he was transformed into a woman.
Teiresias reportedly remained a full-fledged woman for just under eight years. During that time, he was quite adventurous with his new body, and as the Roman poet Ovid (c. 43 BCE-17 CE) claimed, Teiresias “experienced love from both angles” (Metamorphoses, 3.323). Nevertheless, Teiresias still desired to return to his original form. In his quest to regain his manly shape, the mythical figure returned back to the scene of his transformation. Once again in the mountainous forest, Teiresias amazingly found another pair of coupling snakes, with one or both of the serpents being the same as before. History repeated itself—Teiresias charged at the serpentine sweethearts and bopped them over the head with a walking stick. In response to the battering, magic was once more cast at Teiresias, but this time, the spell turned him back into a man. With that, Teiresias’ sojourn as a woman was over.
Just when Teiresias thought he could put this phase of his life behind him, the Greek gods decided to prolong the tale. As the story goes, the gods Zeus and Hera were having an intense argument and, after hearing about Teiresias’ transformations, they thought he would be a perfect third opinion. The debate that they wanted Teiresias to weigh in on was over which sex, man or woman, experienced more pleasure in bed. Zeus proposed it was women, while Hera said it was men. As Teiresias had personal insight from both perspectives, he was called in to be the tiebreaker. Teiresias decided to rank the experiences on a scale of 1 to 10. Ultimately, he agreed with Zeus, and as quoted in a fragment attributed to Hesiod, Teiresias explained that if the circumstances were right, “a woman’s sense enjoys all ten in full” (fragment from The Melampodia, preserved in Scholiast on Homer, Odyssey, x. 494). Hera was bitter that the third party had sided with Zeus, and as an act of revenge, she struck Teiresias with blindness. Zeus did not cure his ally’s sight, but he lessened the blow by granting Teiresias the gift of clairvoyance.
Such is one origin myth for Teiresias’ blindness and wisdom. In an alternative version, Teiresias was blinded for revealing secrets about the gods to mankind. Another story claimed he was blinded after seeing Athena naked—she somewhat forgave him, and although she did not restore his sight, she gave him wisdom and the ability to talk to wildlife. Whatever the case, Teiresias was destined to be blind and wise.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Scene of Teiresias, produced by the workshop of Hendrick Goltzius, dated about 1615, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).
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This painting, by the Swedish artist Otto Wallgren (c. 1795-1857), purports to depict an interaction between Emperor Nero (r. 54-68) and his advisor, Sextus Afranius Burrus. Commander of the Praetorian Guard and a chief counselor to the emperor, Burrus was a member of a triumvirate of advisors who acted as stabilizing influences on Nero’s violent and flamboyant tendencies. His colleagues on that tripartite panel included the philosopher Seneca, as well as Nero’s mother, Agrippina the Younger. Agrippina did not get along with the two men, but the philosopher and the Praetorian worked well as a team. As described by the historian, Tacitus (c. 56/57-117), “These two men, with a unanimity rare among partners in power, were, by different methods, equally influential. Burrus’ strength lay in soldierly efficiency and seriousness of character, Seneca’s in amiable high principles and his tuition of Nero in public speaking. They collaborated in controlling the emperor’s perilous adolescence” (Tacitus, Annals of Imperial Rome, XIII.2). Nevertheless, Nero began to find these restraining influences on his reign to be irksome. The emperor’s mother, Agrippina, was the first to go—Nero ordered her assassination. Although Sextus Afranius Burrus and Agrippina were not friends, Burrus reportedly argued against the planned assassination. Tacitus quoted Burrus as saying, “the Guard were devoted to the whole imperial house and to Germanicus’ [Agrippina’s father] memory; they would commit no violence against his offspring” (Annals of Imperial Rome, XIV.7). Perhaps it is this attempt to talk the emperor out of the assassination that is depicted above by Otto Wallgren. Nevertheless, Nero overruled his advisors and successfully had his mother murdered in the year 59. Burrus would soon follow her, dying of vague causes in 62, as would Seneca, who was forced to commit suicide in the year 65.
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Dante Alighieri (c. 1265-1321)
“The noise
Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind,
That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name,
Shifting the point it blows from.”
Emperor Wu of the Han Dynasty (r. 141-87 BCE) and his ministers, in hopes of eradicating crime and corruption, concocted a legal quagmire that came to be known as the Concealment Law. The premise was simple—it decreed that if crime went unreported and unpunished, then everyone involved in the failure of bringing the criminals to justice would be held responsible. Yet, there was a catch to the concealment law; failure to report and apprehend criminals was punishable by death. Emperor Wu’s Grand Historian, Sima Qian (c. 145-90 BCE), described the edict, writing, “the government promulgated the so-called concealment law, which stated: ‘If bandits arise and their presence is not reported, or if the full number are not arrested after their presence is reported, everyone responsible, from the 2,000 picul officials down to the lowest clerks, will be executed’” (Shi Ji 122). Although the purpose of the law was to spur on officials to hunt down criminals, the concealment law in actuality was said to have done the exact opposite. Due to the steep price of failure, officials reportedly decided that their lives would be more secure if they hid the existence of crimes rather than trying (and possibly failing) to round up all the wrongdoers. The aforementioned courtier, Sima Qian, continued in his analysis of the concealment law, stating, “the number of bandits began to gradually increase again, but both the higher and lower officials conspired to conceal the fact and sent false reports to the central government in order to save themselves from involvement with the law” (Shi Ji 122). Of course, people are not homogenous. Even if there were some officials who behaved as Sima Qian alleged, there were undoubtedly other law officers who pressed on with their duties despite the risk.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Duke Wen of Jin Recovering His State, Painted By Li Tang (c. 1070s–1150s), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the MET).
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This painting, by the Italian artist Salvator Rosa (c. 1615-1673), features an ancient myth involving the messenger god Hermes (or Mercury) and the giant watchman, Argus. As the story goes, the clash of Mercury and Argus was a proxy war between the ever-feuding divine couple, Zeus (or Jupiter) and Hera (or Juno). As a prelude to the scene unfolding in the painting above, Argus had been tasked by Hera with watching over a special cow. This bovine prisoner, however, was actually the nymph, Io, who had been sexually assaulted by Zeus and then transformed into a cow to hide the crime. Suspicious Hera rightfully believed there was more to the cow than met the eye, and that was why she placed the nymph-animal under Argus’ watch. Zeus, feeling sorry about the trouble he had caused his victim, called up the messenger-god Hermes and sent him on a mission to free the transformed nymph at all costs. Hermes would succeed in his task, and, according to the account of the Roman poet, Ovid (43 BCE-17 CE), the messenger-god used a unique tactic to win the day. Hermes was said to have blandly narrated for Argus the myth about the nymph, Syrinx, being chased by the god Pan—a chase that ultimately resulted in Syrinx transforming into marsh reeds to escape the god’s clutches. Due to the messenger-god’s dull narration, Argus could not help but fall asleep mid-tale. Hermes fatally punished the sleeping figure for his rude inattentiveness. Ovid described the event:
“When he saw that his enemy’s drowsy eyes had all succumbed
and were shrouded in sleep…[a]t once he stopped talking and stroked the sentry’s
drooping lids with his magic wand to make sure he was out.
Then he rapidly struck with his sickle-shaped sword at his nodding victim
Just where the head comes close to the neck…”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, I.714-717)
Such is the present and future of the scene painted by Salvator Rosa. Although Hermes freed Io of her captivity under Argus, the messenger-god could not spare the nymph from the increasingly suspicious Hera. The queen of the gods eventually sent demon-like entities to haunt the escaped cow, and restless Io was said to have wandered under her supernatural duress all the way to Egypt. Fortunately, around the time that she reached the Nile, Zeus was said to have been able to finally appease Hera’s wrath, allowing Io to at last return to a humanoid shape.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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