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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According to medieval legend and folklore, the region of Trento Italy played host to a curious swarm of large locust-like insects around the years 591 and 592. Much to the surprise of the locals, this particular infestation of hungry bugs turned out to be far less destructive to the local farmland than was usual. As the story goes, the locusts were considerate guests—or picky eaters—and they curiously avoided the produce of cultivated land in favor of wild seeds and grasses in uninhabited lands. The tale of these odd insects was recorded by Paul the Deacon (c. 720-799), who, in his History of the Lombards, wrote, “There came also in the territory of Tridentum [Trento] a great quantity of locusts which were larger than other locusts, and, wonderful to relate, fed upon grasses and marsh seeds, but hardly touched the crops of the fields. And they appeared also in like manner the following year” (Book IV, chapter 2). These ‘wonderful’ locusts of legend apparently did not return to Trento for a third year.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Swarm of Locusts, by Jan Luyken (1649-1712), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).
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This painting, by the German artist Abraham Schöpfer, 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 army shown above is meant to be that of Lars Porsena, an Etruscan king of Clusium, who besieged Rome during that transitional and formative period in which Rome would change 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 and allowed a new government to form. Obscure truth aside, Lars Porsena and the city of Rome are enemies in the painting above.
Now for the other figure named in the title—Mucius Scaevola. This person, fully named Gaius 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. A depiction of Gaius Mucius Scaevola can be seen holding his arm above 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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Gregory the Great was elected pope of the Roman church in 590, at a time of calamity and chaos. Just before his ascension, the city of Rome was dealt a devastating one-two punch by merciless mother nature. First, the waters of the Tiber flooded, causing damage and destruction in the holy city. After this initial watery disaster began to subside, a new catastrophe steadily engulfed the city of Rome. This second disaster was a plague, which quickly spread in the city, even reaching Pope Gregory’s predecessor, Pelagius II (r. 579-590), who died of the illness. Present to witness these events was a certain deacon named Agiulf, who had been sent by Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594) to Rome to obtain saint relics. Agilulf’s first-hand account of the flood and plague was recorded by Bishop Gregory in his Ten Books of Histories, also commonly known as the History of the Franks:
“On his return from the city of Rome with the relics of the Saints, my deacon (Agiulf) told me that the previous year, in the month of November, the River Tiber had covered Rome with such flood-water that a number of ancient churches had collapsed and the papal granaries had been destroyed, with the loss of several thousands of bushels of wheat…As a result there followed an epidemic, which caused swellings in the groin. This started in January. The very first to catch it was Pope Pelagius…Once Pelagius was dead a great number of other folk perished from this disease. The people then unanimously chose as Pope the deacon Gregory” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, X.1).
Although the papal leader changed, the deadly course of the plague did not. By April, the epidemic in Rome had become much worse, driving the newly empowered Pope Gregory to desperate action. Naturally, he thought that the best way for him to cure his city was through religion, not medicine. In particular, Pope Gregory thought that the plague would lessen or disappear if the people of Rome made a grandiose display of penitence. With this in mind, the pope organized a three-day event that culminated in congregations from seven churches in the city all launching simultaneous processions, their separate routes ultimately combining together at the Basilica of Saint Mary. Hopeful victims who were already afflicted with plague evidently joined these processions, yearning for a miracle. This led to morbid sights of ill people collapsing to the ground in the middle of the parades. The aforementioned Deacon Agiulf witnessed the grand finale of the odd three-day event, and, once again, his report was recorded for posterity by the bishop of Tours:
“When he had finished speaking, Gregory assembled the different groups of churchmen, and ordered them to sing psalms for three days and to pray to our Lord for forgiveness. At three o’clock all the choirs singing psalms came into the church, chanting the Kyrie eleison as they passed through the city streets. My deacon, who was present, said that while the people were making their supplication to the Lord, eighty individuals fell dead to the ground. The Pope never once stopped preaching to the people, nor did the people pause in their prayers” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, X.1).
Despite the eighty or more people dying during the procession, and the unknown further numbers who contracted the illness during the multi-day event, these parades orchestrated by Gregory the Great were considered a success by 6th-century contemporaries. In fact, a legend soon emerged that the Archangel Michael appeared before the marching congregations (or at least to Pope Gregory) and rid the city of the plague—this tale led to the naming of the Castel Sant’Angelo (formerly Hadrian’s Mausoleum), which was where the archangel was allegedly sighted. Nevertheless, no serious modern medical experts would be likely to encourage a seven-fold public procession in the middle of a pandemic or epidemic.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Section from The Climbing of the Capitol with the Grey Horse of the Newly Elected Pope, painted by Johannes Lingelbach (c. 1622-1674), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).
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This painting, by the Italian artist Gasparo Diziani (c. 1689-1767), draws its inspiration from an event that occurred during the remarkable reign of Alexander the Great of Macedonia (r. 336-323 BCE). In particular, Gasparo Diziani’s artwork re-creates a scene that occurred after the Battle of Issus in 333 BCE, where Alexander defeated the forces of Darius III of Persia. As the Persian ruler was chased off the battlefield, he had to leave behind his camp, as well as anything and anyone that had been in it at the time of the battle. Unfortunately for the defeated Persian king, he had left many of his loved ones in that camp, including his mother, wife and children. Therefore, when Darius was defeated and forced to flee, his family was subsequently captured by Alexander the Great. Arrian (c. 90-173+), a Roman biographer of Alexander, wrote, “Darius’ headquarters were stormed and captured; his mother was taken, together with his wife (who was also his sister) and his infant son; in addition to these, two of his daughters fell into Alexander’s hands with a few noble Persian ladies who were in attendance upon them” (Anabasis Alexandri, Book 2, chapter 12). When Alexander the Great became aware that he had captured the family of Darius, the first thing that he did was to send one of his companions to reassure the captives that Darius was still alive. On another day, he visited the captured Persian royals in person and made sure that they were kept safe. This meeting between Alexander the Great and the captive Persian royals is what inspired the painting above. Darius’ family remained with Alexander the Great until around 331 BCE, when he left them behind in the city of Susa.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Around 1028, Canute the Great—ruler of England (since 1016) and Denmark (since 1019)—announced his intention to further expand his power by seizing control of Norway. The Norwegian throne, however, was not vacant. It was ruled by King Olaf II, who began his reign around 1015. Nevertheless, King Olaf was vulnerable. For one, there was growing unrest in Norway over King Olaf’s centralization of government power, which was to the detriment of local jarls and chieftains. Furthermore, people of all classes in Norway were irked by King Olaf’s crusades to forcibly Christianize the Norwegian population. On top of these troubles, the Norwegian king was also seemingly worried about the state of his treasury. Olaf tried to press Iceland and the Faroe Islands into paying him tribute, but the people there always managed to talk or sabotage their way out of sending any money to Norway. This did not bode well for King Olaf, as he would need a great deal of treasure to keep his troops happy for a showdown with mighty Canute. Therefore, to gather funds in a more direct and reliable way, King Olaf II sent out tax collectors and other agents to bring in some revenue. One of these agents was reportedly a certain Karli of Halogaland, who was tasked with sailing up and around Norway, Sweden and Finland to enter the White Sea, where he was meant to engage in the fur trade with the Finns and Rus. When everything was bought and sold, King Olaf would receive at least fifty percent of the gross sale, leaving the rest to be split between Karli’s crew.
Karli of Halogaland, as the story goes, did not sail alone on his journey. He invited his brother, the merchant Gunnstein, to join the crew for the northern odyssey. They set to sea together on a ship crewed by a reported twenty-five other sailors. As they sailed along the coast, the brothers collected royal taxes and resources which they would later put to use in their fur trade haggling. Karli and Gunnstein were not very stealthy as they made their way up the shoreline, so news of the purpose of their mission leaked out. As the brothers sailed along the northern waters of the Halogaland region, a powerful local chieftain named Thorir the Hound (or Tore Hund) reached out to them, informing the brothers that he would sail his own ship with them to the fur markets along the White Sea. As the story goes, Thorir the Hound chose a large hybrid ship as his vessel for the voyage. It was just as effective in war as it was in trade, and it reportedly held a crew of around eighty men.
Karli, Gunnstein, and Thorir, on their two ships, rounded the bend of the Scandinavian Peninsula and followed the coastline down into the White Sea. There, they rowed into the Dvina River, which is accessible from the southeast section of the sea. Along the river were towns with thriving fur markets, and the Norwegians called the region Bjarmaland. After disembarking at an unnamed city along their river route, the Norwegians went about their business. Karli’s aim was to safely maximize profits for King Olaf with the king’s own resources and funds that had been entrusted to him. Gunnstein and Thorir, however, were there for themselves and sold off their own goods and purchased coveted furs and pelts. When great amounts of wealth and goods had been traded between the Norwegians and the locals, Karli, Gunnstein, and Thorir returned to their ships and began sailing back toward the White Sea.
Although the official trade mission had been completed, the Norwegians decided to loiter in the region for a time to make some more money through less courteous means than trade. Karli, Gunnstein, and Thorir now shed their peaceful demeanors as merchants and instead embraced the more violent and lawless role of Viking raiders. As the story goes, the Norwegians did not consider themselves numerous enough to directly assault a town—they were only two ships and approximately 100 men strong, after all. Yet, they had somehow learned of the existence of a walled temple or tomb in the region that was poorly guarded, but had a fair amount of treasure. Deciding to strike at this weaker target, the Vikings disembarked near the location of the site, and made their way to the temple or tomb by foot. The Icelandic scholar, Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179-1241), described the supposed scenery and defenses of the compound, stating, “They came to a large clearing, and in it was a tall wooden palisade with a gate in which it was locked. Six of the natives were set to guard the palisade every night, two of them every third part of it” (Heimskringla, Saint Olaf’s Saga, chapter 132). As the story goes, the site inside the palisade was dominated by an earthen mound, as well as a sizable statue of a deity which the Norwegians called, Jómali—a label which is thought to have been derived from jumala, the Finnish word for god. The treasure that the Norwegians sought was said to have been on or in the earthen mound, and further wealth could be found in the form of offerings left to the statue of the deity.
Karli, Gunnstein, Thorir, and their crews reportedly waited until a change in the guard occurred at the gate of the compound. Utilizing the brief lapse in security, the nimblest of the Vikings allegedly ran up to the walls of the compound and used their axes as hooks, so as to hoist themselves up and over the barricade. These infiltrators then rushed to open the gate, letting in the less acrobatic raiders. Still hoping to avoid a fight, the Vikings went to work as stealthily as possible, quietly collecting all of the gold and silver that they could find at the earthen mound. Of all the treasure, however, the choicest pieces were with the god’s statue. The tale of this lucrative heist was described by the aforementioned Snorri Sturluson:
“They went to the mound and took out of it as much gold and silver as they could and carried it away in their garments…Thórir turned back to Jómali and snatched the silver bowl from his lap. It was filled with silver coins. He poured the silver into his kirtle and inserted his arm in the handle of the bowl, then left by the gate…Then Karli ran up to Jómali. He saw that he had a thick necklace around his neck. Karli swung his axe and cut in two the thong with which the necklace was fastened in the back of Jómali’s neck. That blow was so violent that Jómali’s head came off. The crash was so loud as to seem a marvel to all. Karli snatched the necklace, and then they made off” (Heimskringla, Saint Olaf’s Saga, chapter 132).
According to the tale, Karli’s smashing of the statue not only alarmed his own Viking comrades, but it also alerted the nearby local guards that there were intruders inside the palisade walls. As noises of frenzied commotion drew nearer to the compound, the Vikings realized that the local defenders were much more numerous than they thought. All agreed it was time to go, and quickly at that. Fortunately for the fleeing Norwegians, they had enough of a head-start on the furious mob of locals that they were able to stay out of range of any projectiles thrown or launched in their direction. Nevertheless, they were hotly pursued all the way back to water, and the Vikings were said to have barely had enough time to clamber back onto their ships.
Although a battle with the locals had been avoided, conflict and killing would unfortunately still occur. Any time the Vikings anchored their treasure-laden ships at an island to camp for the night, they inevitably began to argue about how they should divide the loot. For one, Karli wanted to give King Olaf a cut of the stolen wealth. This annoyed Thorir the Hound because he was no fan of the king—in fact, he would become one of the rebellious chieftains who would contribute to King Olaf’s undoing. Karli and Thorir continued fighting about the division of the loot over multiple days as they sailed back around the Scandinavian Peninsula. According to the tale, this continuous argument finally spiraled out of control one day while the Vikings were camped on an island off the northern coast of Norway. Once again, Karli and Thorir were at an impasse, but this time Thorir’s anger got the better of him. Grabbing a spear, Thorir the Hound impaled Karli with the weapon, killing him. This murder was witnessed by Karli’s brother, Gunnstein, who, instead of fighting Thorir’s much larger force then and there, decided to flee with his murdered brother’s crew.
Gunnstein and those who followed him rushed to their ship and put out to sea. Thorir and his men boarded their ship, too, and quickly started pursuit. Slowly but surely, Thorir the Hound began closing in on his target. Gunnstein evidently decided make landfall at Senja island and was able to hide with the help of the locals. Thorir the Hound found Gunnstein’s ship, but he could not find the man or his crew. Instead of scouring the island for the witnesses to his crime, Throrir decided to take all of Gunnstein’s cargo and then sink the hiding man’s ship. After Thorir the Hound had sailed away, Gunsteinn and his crew left the island on rowboats that were generously loaned to him by the islanders. Gunnstein eventually reached the court of King Olaf and told the monarch about all that had transpired. Olaf, interestingly, decided to only make Thorir pay fines for his crimes. As told by Snorri Sturluson, “He set forth these terms for compensation: that Thórir was to pay the king ten marks in gold, and to Gunnstein and his kinsmen another ten marks, and for the robbery and destruction of property still another ten marks” (Heimskringla, Saint Olaf’s Saga, chapter 139). Thorir the Hound was said to have easily been able to pay this fine, with much wealth still left to him afterwards. Regardless, he never liked King Olaf in the first place and being forced to pay a fine only deepened his loathing for the monarch. After paying up, Thorir the Hound was said to have immediately sailed away to join the court of Olaf’s rival, Canute the Great.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Illustration from the book, Valdmer the Viking, by Hume Nisbet (published 1893), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the British Library.jpg).
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This painting, by the Dutch artist Godfried Schalcken (c. 1643–1706), depicts the tragic end to the ancient Greek myth of Cephalus and Procris. Like many other artists who painted mythological scenes, Godfried Schalcken decided to follow the account of the Roman poet Ovid (43 BCE-17 CE). The poet’s account actually combined the tales of two different Cephaluses. Ovid’s first ingredient in his tragic concoction was the myth of Hermes’ son, Cephalus, who became the lover of the goddess, Dawn (Eos or Aurora). This tale was blended with a separate myth about a different Cephalus (fathered by King Deionus of Phocis), who married the Athenian princess, Procris. Ovid wove the two narratives together by rewriting the story to have Procris’ husband be abducted by Dawn. Cephalus eventually broke free from Dawn and returned to his wife, but not before he had allowed himself to be unfaithful. Projecting his own weakness onto his wife, Cephalus feared that his beloved Procris might have also lapsed into infidelity during his absence. The mutual suspicions that resulted from Cephalus’ divine dalliance led to husband and wife taking a break from one another, with Procris momentarily running off to join the huntresses of the goddess Artemis (or Diana). Yet, Cephalus eventually won back Procris’ trust and she returned to resume married life.
As a reconciliation gift, Procris gave her husband presents of hunting gear, including a fine javelin. These gifts, however, would bring about tragedy. Putting his presents to good use, Cephalus started spending more and more time out hunting. He spent so much time out in the wilds that Procris soon began to question if her husband might be chasing something other than wild game during his absences. As had happened with Cephalus before, Procris let her fears get the better of her, and she ultimately decided to stealthily spy on her husband during one of his hunting trips. Ovid, narrating through the viewpoint of Cephalus, described the sad story of what happened that day:
“Another disturbance, this time the rustle of fallen leaves.
A beast on the prowl, I decided, and sent my javelin flying.
Procris was there under cover and, clutching her wounded breast,
cried out in pain. When I recognized the voice of my faithful
wife, my own wife, I rushed like a madman towards the sound.
I found her dying, her clothes all stained and spattered with blood”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, 7.840-845)
Such is the scene that Godfried Schalcken re-created in his painting. It shows Cephalus kneeling over his mortally wounded wife. The bloodied point of the javelin that dealt the killing blow can be seen resting just above Procris’ foot at the lower right corner of the painting.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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