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The Bizarre Tale Of A Goblin That Gave Away Free Drinks In The Reign Of Charlemagne (Video Edition)

By
thehistorianshut
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In this medieval history video essay, we discuss a tale about a friendly goblin who made some mischief in a town within the realm of Charlemagne. The video is based on our earlier article, The Bizarre Tale Of A Goblin That Gave Away Free Drinks In The Reign Of Charlemagne, but the work has been edited and rewritten here for a video format. The transcript of the narration is provided under the embedded video.

Notker the Stammerer, a monk and scholar from the 9th century, recorded a bizarre tale about a mischievous goblin that appeared in a medieval French city during the reign of Charlemagne, who ruled the Frankish Carolingian Empire between 768 and 814. Notker was one of two major contemporary biographers of Charlemagne. The first was Einhard, an intellectual from Charlemagne’s court, who wrote the earliest biography about the great king, completing it sometime during the 820s. For the religious time in which it was written, Einhard’s text was remarkably secular, focusing on the actions and demeanor of Charlemagne rather than the state of Christendom in Charlemagne’s empire. Several decades later, Notker the Stammerer decided to publish his own commentary about the great king’s reign, completing his work in the 880s. As a monk, Notker strove to give the church a more significant position in his account of Charlemagne’s life. In fact, he filled nearly the entire first book of his text, The Deeds of Charlemagne, with odd tales that occurred between the great king and his local bishops. These bizarre stories, told to Notker by a certain cleric named Werinbert, were unfortunately often left devoid of names and dates, so it is difficult to assign any historical validity to Notker’s first book. Nevertheless, the strange tales are immensely entertaining and can give a window of insight into what some 9th-century people believed. It is in this curious first book of Notker’s Deeds of Charlemagne that the amusing tale of the Goblin can be found.

Notker’s Goblin tale took place in a region of France that was suffering from a drought. During that troubled time, there was a greedy bishop (whose name was left anonymous) who used the opportunity to make money by exploiting the thirst of the public. The bishop opened up his warehouse to those under his care, but charged unfair prices for his provisions. The greed of the bishop and the desperation of the townspeople apparently caught the attention of a supernatural being. According to Notker, a mischievous goblin or hobgoblin entered the area to tempt the bishop’s neglected flock.

As the story goes, the goblin announced its presence by launching a campaign of home invasions throughout the town. It broke into houses and workshops to play with peoples’ belongings. In particular, the creature had a fondness for the shops of the town’s blacksmiths, where it spent nights noisily drumming upon the anvils. As sightings of the goblin became more numerous, word spread around the town that the creature could be banished by simply making the sign of the cross. One day, a certain haunted homeowner (who was likely a blacksmith) decided to try this method to banish the goblin from his home, but, before the sign could be completed, the creature made an interesting counter-offer. The goblin promised that, if he was allowed to stay, he would fill whatever container was left to him (no matter the size) with an alcoholic beverage on a nightly basis. On this, Notker the Stammerer wrote, “Then a demon or hobgoblin whose function was to spend time on games and in deceiving men had the habit of coming to the house of a blacksmith and spending the night playing with his hammers and anvils. When the master of the house tried to protect himself and his possessions with the sign of the holy Cross, the hairy creature replied: ‘If you don’t stop me playing in your shop, mate, bring your tankard here and you will find it full every day’” (Notker the Stammerer, The Deeds of Charlemagne, 1.23). The offer was especially tempting because of the drought that was plaguing the town. Therefore, the homeowner agreed to the proposal and handed over to the goblin the largest tankard or flask that he possessed.

As the goblin promised, each morning the tankard was filled with wine. For several days this went on; while the rest of the town paid outrageous prices to the bishop for supplies, the unnamed homeowner received free wine from the goblin. Nevertheless, all good things must end. After an unknown amount of time, the tankard disappeared and the goblin was nowhere to be seen. That same day, the bishop announced that he had caught a demon in his wine cellar. According to Notker, the bishop had discovered that barrels of wine from his cellar had been cracked open and spilled on the floor each night. After the thefts kept occurring, the bishop eventually suspected that a foul spirit was the culprit. With this in mind, the bishop made a trap by setting up crosses and sprinkling holy water around the wine cellar. In the end, the unsuspecting goblin somehow found himself cornered in the bishop’s wine vault and was apprehended by the local authorities the next morning.

According to Notker, the so-called goblin or demon looked fairly human when it was caught, albeit a bit hairy. Interestingly enough, the supernatural being was apparently flogged for its crime of thievery. In a wholesome scene at the end of the story, when the goblin was being led away for punishment, he expressed sadness and remorse for losing the tankard that was entrusted to him by the homeowner, whom the goblin considered to be a friend. Notker wrote, “He was led before the people as a thief and publicly flogged. As he was beaten he said: ’Woe is me, woe is me, for I have lost my mate’s tankard’” (Notker the Stammerer, The Deeds of Charlemagne, 1.23). So ended tale of the curiously endearing goblin, who ironically came across as a much more likable character than the bishop.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Sources:

  • Two Lives of Charlemagne, by Einhard and Notker the Stammer, translated by David Ganz. New York: Penguin Classics, 2008.

Art & stock video
All of the artworks and stock clips used in the video were labeled as Public Domain or free use at the time of the video’s creation.

Music
Folk Round by Kevin MacLeod is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 license. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/
Source: http://incompetech.com/music/royalty-free/index.html?isrc=USUAN1100357
Artist: http://incompetech.com/

The Ancient Olympic Games And How Fighter Tournament Brackets Were Selected

By
thehistorianshut
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Ancient Greeks held their Olympic Games in the hilly environs of Olympia, along the Alpheus River in the region of Elis, Greece. The Games were part of a larger religious festival honoring the god Zeus, and the administrative offices of the Olympic Games were located in Olympia’s Altis precinct, where the temples of Zeus and Hera were located. Traditionally, the Games were said to have been founded by storied figures from legend or mythology, such as the conquering King Pelops who lent his name to the Peloponnese (and won a chariot race in his myths) or his famous descendant, Heracles, the mighty demigod adventurer.

Myth and legend aside, the first properly-documented Olympic Games sport event reportedly occurred in 776 BCE (considered the 1st Olympiad), at a time when only a sprinting competition took place. This early original race was said to have been the stadion—a sprint spanning about 200 meters or 656 feet. A certain Coroebus, a cook from Elis, won that particular inaugural race. According to the Chronicon (or Chronicle) of the historian Eusebius (c. 260-339 CE), in which he recorded centuries of Olympic victors and their sports, wrestling was added to the Olympic Games in the 18th Olympiad (c. 708 BCE), along with pentathlon. Eurybatus of Laconia was the first victorious wrestler in the documented Olympic Games. Boxing was added to the Olympic Games in the 23rd Olympiad (688 BCE), with the first champion of that sport being Onomastus of Smyrna, who went on to become an ancient authority and rule-maker for how the sport of boxing was conducted. A four-horse chariot race was added to the Games in the 25th Olympiad (680 BCE), with the first victor being Pagon of Thebes. In the 33rd Olympiad (648 BCE), the sport of pankration (or pancratium)—a dangerous ancient form of mixed martial arts—was introduced to the Games, and Lygdamis of Syracuse was the first champion of that sport. Horse racing was added to the games at the same time. After that, new forms of horse races and foot races (including one where competitors raced in armor) were introduced to the Olympic Games over the next centuries.

Introducing sports to the Olympic Games is one thing, but setting up the panhellenic competition structure and creating a large-scale tournament bracket system is another. The concept of a competitor receiving a bye for the first round of competition was implemented for the occasions when an odd number of competitors showed up for the contest. By the time of the Roman Empire, tournament bracket positions and recipients of a bye pass were decided by lots pulled from a covered receptacle. The writer, Lucian of Samosata (c. 120-180+), wrote a clear description of this system—at least for wrestling and pankration competitions. Lucian wrote:

“Well, are you also aware how they draw lots for the pairs in the wrestling matches and the pancratium?…They put out a silver urn, dedicated to the god, into which are thrown small lots, the size of beans, engraved with letters. There are two marked alpha, two beta, two gamma, and so on with the rest, if there are more entrants, two lots always having the same letter. Each athlete comes up, prays to Zeus, and puts his hand into the urn to take one of the lots. After him comes another man, and there is a guard standing by each who holds his hand and doesn’t allow him to read the letter he has drawn. When they all have their lots the chief officer, I think, or one of the judges themselves (I can’t remember), goes round and inspects the lots of the entrants, who are standing in a circle, and thus he matches the two who have drawn the alpha lots for the wrestling or pancratium, and so likewise with the two betas and the other matching letters. This is the procedure if there are an even number of entrants, like eight or four or twelve; but if they are an odd number, five or seven or nine, he adds an extra lot with an odd letter on it which has no matching letter. Whoever gets this has a bye, and waits until the others have competed, for he has no matching letter” (Lucian, Hermotimus or On Philosophical Schools, section 39).

In the undocumented era of the Olympics before the 1st official Olympiad, the powerful demigod hero, Heracles, was said to have won both the wrestling and pankration tournaments during a single sport festival. Naturally, many athletes wished to re-create this feat, but it proved to be an elusive achievement. According to Eusebius’ list, it was not until the 142nd Olympiad in 212 BCE that a fighter finally succeeded in this Herculean task. This Olympian was Caprus of Elis, who was dubbed “second after Heracles” for his achievement (Eusebius, Chronicle, Book II, The Greek Olympiads, entry for 142th Olympiad/212 BCE).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Olympic illustration, labeled VOL 135 and Punch, by Linley Sambourne (20th century), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons, Europeana, and Heidelberg University Library).

Sources:

Alf and Yngve, from the Ynglinga Saga, by Ernst Josephson (1851 – 1906)

By
thehistorianshut
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This illustration, by the Swedish artist Ernst Josephson (1851 – 1906), alludes to the legendary sibling-kings, Alf and Yngve, from ancient and early-medieval Swedish and Norwegian folklore. According to legend, the two rulers hailed from the ancient Yngling Dynasty, which traced its origins back through folklore, legend and myth all the way to the Norse gods. A narrative about this interesting dynasty was included in the Heimskringla (History of the Kings of Norway) by Snorri Sturluson (1179-1241). In the lengthy text, which starts with the Ynglinga Saga (Saga of the Ynglings), Snorri Sturluson wrote that Odin and the Norse gods migrated from a location near the Black Sea and eventually traveled across eastern Europe to ultimately settle in Sweden, where Odin founded a kingdom. The kingdom was eventually handed over to Njord, and then to Njord’s son, Frey, who ruled the kingdom under the alias of Yngvi. It is from the Yngvi name that the Yngling Dynasty allegedly received its name. After these Norse god-kings relinquished control of their earthly kingdom to increasingly human successors, the realm fell out of its golden age and the dynasty members became prone to bizarre, violent, and unnatural deaths. Alf and Yngvi (also spelled Yngve), approximately the 14th and 15th kings from the Yngling Dynasty in Snorri Sturluson’s estimation, were no exception to the Yngling curse.

Alf and Yngvi, according to Snorri, were sons of a certain King Alrek. This Alrek ruled as co-king to his brother, Eirík, and the siblings enjoyed competing in all sorts of sports and activities. Spurned on by their competitive spirits, Alrek and Eirík were said to have decided to compete in a fist-fighting competition and continued their brawl until both lay dead from their exchanged blows. Alrek’s sons, Yngvi and Álf, did not learn from their father’s mistakes. Whereas Alrek and Eirík competed in sports, Yngvi and Álf instead competed for a woman.

King Alf, the story goes, was married to a beautiful woman named Bera. As was not uncommon in ancient and medieval royal circles, their marriage was likely arranged, driven by politics and power instead of love. Consequently, Alf and Bera had marriage troubles. The strained relationship between the married couple was contrasted by Bera’s close friendship with her husband’s brother, Yngvi. Alf became angry and jealous that Bera would stay up late chatting into the night with Yngvi whenever he sailed into town. Alf eventually confronted his wife about this and, during the heat of their argument, Bera admitted that she thought Yngvi would make a better husband than Alf. On this tale, Snorri Sturluson wrote:

“She answered that it was better for a woman to marry Yngvi than Alf, and as she often said that, he grew most furious. One evening Álf came into the hall when Yngvi and Bera sat together on the high-seat, talking. Yngvi had a sword on his knees. His men were very drunk and had not noticed the king come in. King Álf went up to the high-seat, drew his sword from under his cloak, and ran his brother Yngvi through with it. Yngvi leapt up, drew his sword and gave Álf his death blow; and both fell dead on the floor” (Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla, Ynglinga saga, chapter 21).

Ernst Josephson’s illustration brings this tale to life. He shows Yngvi and Bera flirtatiously sitting on the high-seat, including the detail of the sword resting across Yngvi’s legs. Just to the side of them, the viewer can see stealthy King Alf drawing his sword from behind his cloak, ready to strike down his brother. Just like their father, who died fighting his brother, so too did these two siblings bring about each other’s deaths with their swords. Ironically, the brothers were reportedly buried together in a single burial mound on the Fýri Plains.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Sources:

Pliny the Younger

By
thehistorianshut
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Pliny the Younger (c. 61/62-113)

“[A]nyone giving a reading must beware of eccentricity either in himself or in the audience he invites.”

  • The Letters of Pliny the Younger (6.15), translated by Betty Radice. New York: Penguin Classics, 1963, 1969.

Ancient Carthage’s Commemorative Military Armbands

By
thehistorianshut
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Since before the dawn of the written word, mankind has always cherished leaving behind memorials, inscriptions, trophies, monuments, and other kinds of symbolic instillations and accolades that present lasting honor to heroes and their deeds. Military achievements especially garnered such awards of distinction, with ancient rulers commissioning all sorts of stelae, pillars, arches, reliefs, and plaques to commemorate successful battles and campaigns. Public monuments aside, many people long for more personal and portable mementos and remembrances. One such civilization was Carthage, the greatest Mediterranean rival of the Roman Republic. Carthaginian warriors, as observed by their neighbors, were reportedly awarded arm rings to represent their participation in a military campaign. You could tell a seasoned warrior apart from a greenhorn based on the number of rings they had on their arm. Aristotle (c. 384-322 BCE), the famed ancient Greek philosopher and scholar, commented on this, stating, “In some places there are also laws designed to foster military virtue, as at Carthage, where men reputedly receive decorations in the form of armlets to the number of the campaigns in which they have served” (Aristotle, The Politics, Bekker page 1324b). This ancient custom of commemorating and honoring military service and achievements lives on in the persisting modern use of patches, medals, citations, and similar military decorations.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Hannibal crossing the Alps, by Charles Allan Winter (1869-1942), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

  • The Politics by Aristotle, translated by T. A. Sinclair and revised by T. J. Saunders. London: Penguin Classics, 1962, 1992.

Titus Manlius Torquatus Kills A Leader Of The Gauls, Taking His Golden Necklace, Illustrated by An Unknown 14th-century Artist

By
thehistorianshut
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This manuscript illustration from the National Library of the Netherlands was created by an unknown 14th-century artist. Although the artwork visually depicts late medieval knights in suits of plate armor, the subject of the artwork is much more ancient in origin. Medieval knightly art style aside, the illustration actually harkens back to the ancient Roman Republic, and re-creates a tale that supposedly occurred in the 4th century BCE.

Around the year 361 BCE, the city of Rome received disturbing intelligence reports that a Gallic army was loitering along the Via Salaria (Salt Road), at a position where the road bridged over the Anio river. At that time, the Romans were extra cautious and vigilant, because the city of Rome had been recently pillaged sometime between 390 and 386 BCE by a similar rogue Gallic army. With the sack of Rome still fresh in their memories, the Romans reportedly decided at that time to appoint a dictator to quickly mobilize an army and preemptively confront the Gallic warband before it could do any harm.

Among the Romans mobilized for that showdown with the Gauls was a young man named Titus Manlius, who was the son of a former dictator. He speedily marched with the Roman army to the Anio river, where the Romans set up camp across from the Gauls. The tale of what happened next was preserved in two main sources, the History of Rome by Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE), as well as the Attic Nights by Aulus Cornelius Gellius (whose source in this case was the 1st century BCE annalist, Claudius Quadrigarius). As the story was a centuries-old legend even in the time of these ancient Roman historians, their accounts naturally differed in certain details. Yet, the core elements of the story aligned in both versions of the tale.

Camped at opposite ends of a bridge over the Anio, the Gallic and Roman forces became firmly entrenched and at a standstill. The two sides launched small skirmishes, testing the strength of the other side, but both armies knew a large-scale assault across the bridge would be costly for the attacker. With no end to the standoff in sight, one of the leading fighters within the Gallic army proposed a legendary solution to decide the fate of the battle—a duel. Both accounts of the incident agreed that the Gallic champion was the one who initially made the proposal. This mysterious Gaul was unfortunately left unnamed in both versions of the story. The Roman champion, however, as the artwork title gives away, was none other than Titus Manlius.

In the Roman accounts of the duel, the fight between the Roman and Gallic champions was presented like a David and Goliath story. To use Livy’s description, the challenger was “a Gaul of enormous size” (History of Rome, 7.9), whereas Titus Manlius was a man with “a moderate physique for a soldier and was nothing special to look at…” (History of Rome, 7.10). The two were also quite different in the way they went into battle. Titus Manlius reportedly took a practical approach, gearing himself with equipment such as a common infantryman’s shield, as well as a sword designed like those used in the Iberian Peninsula. The Gaul, in contrast, was said to have been decked out in jewelry and ornamentation.

Our ancient sources disagreed, however, about just how much gold the Gallic champion wore during the duel. Aulus Cornelius Gellius, citing the annals of Claudius Quadrigarius, claimed, “a Gaul came forward, who was naked except for a shield and two swords and the ornament of a neck-chain and bracelets…” (Attic Nights, IX.13). Livy, on the other hand, drastically increased the Gallic warrior’s splendor, claiming he was “resplendent in multi-coloured clothing and painted armor inlaid with gold” (History of Rome, 7.10). Whatever the case, whether the Gaul wore gold only as jewelry, or if he brought a set of gilded armor to the duel, it evidently left an impression on the Roman observers.

In addition to his accessories, the Gallic champion’s behavior also stood out to the Romans. In both versions of the tale, the Gallic warrior was presented as a figure who was quite loud, occupying himself before the duel by flinging insults at the Romans or shouting out war songs. Most memorable of all, however, was an incident where the Gallic champion stuck out his tongue at the Roman army—a curious move that was preserved in both accounts of the story. In the version preserved by Gellius, it was the episode of the tongue-wagging that inspired Titus Manlius to accept the duel.

By all accounts, the Gallic champion was the stronger of the two fighters. Yet, quick-thinking Titus Manlius, like any successful underdog, had a brain that could find a route to victory despite unfavorable odds. Rather than rely on mere strength and brute force, he developed a much simpler, but bold, strategy to use speed, mobility, and agility to his advantage in the duel. Simply put, his game plan was to close the distance between him and his opponent as quickly as possible, hoping to slip in between the Gallic warrior’s sword and shield. Once this was accomplished, all he had to do was keep stabbing with his sword until the Gallic warrior was dead.

According to Livy’s account, Titus Manlius only had to charge forward once, as he managed to tackle and stab the Gallic champion in the same series of movements. In the version of Aulus Cornelius Gellius, however, Titus had to successfully pull off the move at least twice, closing the gap and stabbing the Gallic champion in different locations each time. Whatever the case, the strategy worked and Titus Manlius emerged victorious.

After the duel was over, Titus Manlius, was known to have looted the body of his opponent, taking the gold ornamentation that the Gallic warrior had worn into battle. It is this action that the medieval illustration re-creates. Titus Manlius’ conduct while removing the loot, however, was another area of dispute among the storytellers. In Livy’s account, Titus “spared the corpse of any abuse, despoiling it only of a torque, which, blood-spattered as it was, he put on his own neck” (History of Rome, 7.10). In the alternative account, however, the victor of the duel was much more aggressive in the way he obtained the neck ornament. Aulus Cornelius Gellius’s account stated, “he cut off his head, tore off his neck-chain, and put it, covered with blood as it was, around his own neck” (Attic Nights, IX.13). Given that the fallen knight in the illustration still has his helmeted head on his shoulders, the artwork seems to follow the account of Livy. This act of acquiring the golden torque is, according to legend, how the Roman hero acquired the Torquatus addition to his name, Titus Manlius Torquatus.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Sources:

Livy

By
thehistorianshut
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Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE)

“Perseverance is necessary in all kinds of warfare, but most of all in sieges.”

  • The History of Rome (Book 5, section 6) by Livy, translated by Aubrey de Sélincourt. New York: Penguin Classics, 2002.

Domitius Tullus—An Ancient Roman Scrooge Who Left A Posthumous Legacy Of Good Will

By
thehistorianshut
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Domitius Tullus was an incredibly wealthy Roman who possessed great quantities of land, money, and valuable artworks around the time of the 1st and 2nd centuries. During his lifetime, he had a monstrous reputation (made worse by an even more monstrous physical appearance) and was known for being guarded with his emotions, rarely showing public affection for his relatives or friends. He was in no way miserly, as he bought new properties in his lifetime and added statuary gardens to his estates, but his lavish spending was seen as self-serving and in no way altruistic. He seemed to have been a skilled businessman and estate manager, for he did not squander his wealth, but rather amassed a giant horde of coins, land, and valuable assets to hand down to his heirs. Yet, the gossipers in Rome could only wonder how the disagreeable old man would ill-treat his relatives in his last will and testament upon the inevitable day that he died.

Domitius Tullus’ family life was peculiar, to say the least, starting with his own upbringing. Tullus, and his brother Lucanus, were the sons of an unnamed landowner who fell out of favor and influence in Rome. In the midst of their father’s legal woes, the brothers were adopted by the immensely wealthy Domitius Afer, who ironically had been the leading harasser of Tullus’ and Lucanus’ biological father. Tullus and Lucanus jointly inherited properties and wealth from both their adopted and biological fathers. Meanwhile, Lucanus married a daughter of wealthy Curtilius Mancia, and this daughter was evidently her father’s heir. Lucanus and his wife had a daughter together, but not too long after the birth, Lucanus and his father-in-law became embroiled in a bitter feud. What happened is unclear—perhaps Curtilius Mancia’s daughter died, or maybe he disowned his own daughter to cut Lucanus out of the inheritance. Whatever the case, Curtilius Mancia did not want Lucanus to control the family inheritance. In the familial drama that ensued, Lucanus’ daughter was removed from her father’s custody, and Curtilius Mancia (her grandfather) made her his heir. At that time, however, Lucanus’ brother, Domitius Tullus swooped in and adopted his niece, Lucanus’ daughter. Tullus restored his brother’s access to his daughter, but Lucanus ultimately died an early death, leaving his share of the Domitius fortune to Tullus.

After the death of his brother, Tullus gained control over the entire Domitius family fortune, and due to his adoption of his niece, Tullus also stood as guardian over Curtilius Mancia’s properties. Additionally, Domitius Tullus had married a highborn aristocrat widow with children from a previous marriage. She, no doubt, brought Tullus further wealth and profitable connections. Tullus was atop this financial empire when his health took a terrible and repulsive plummet for the worse. What exactly was wrong with him is unknown, but the illness deformed his limbs and severely impacted his mobility. He became chronically bedridden, and in the end, fell to worsening states of infirmity. Pliny the Younger (c. 61/62-113), Tullus’ contemporary, spared no detail in vividly describing the man’s terrible condition. In addition to labeling him an “object of disgust,” Pliny went on to write: “Crippled and deformed in every limb, he could only enjoy his vast wealth by contemplating it and could not even turn in bed without assistance. He also had to have his teeth cleaned and brushed for him—a squalid and pitiful detail…” (Pliny the Younger, Letters, 8.18).

Tullus was not able to father any children of his own before his ailing health left him incapacitated. He did not hold this against his wife, but instead clung to her more closely during his time of failing health. His wife, for her part, steadfastly supported her infirm spouse, earning equal admiration and sympathy from a Roman public that contrastingly looked upon Domitius Tullus with suspicion and disgust.

When Tullus inevitably died, the public wondered what the seemingly uncharitable, selfish and inhospitable old man would do with his wealth. Did he allocate his money to pay for a lavish funerary scheme with monuments and gladiator games to honor himself? Who did he choose as his heir—his wife and her children from a previous marriage, or his adopted daughter and her family? Gossipers conversed throughout Rome about which branch of the family, if any, would be enriched and which relatives would be spurned in the inheritance. Additionally, even though Tullus did not officially adopt any more children into his family, other figures had worked their way into the ailing man’s life, and rumor mills churned out theories about which of these mysterious fellows might benefit from unorthodox bequeathments. The aforementioned figure, Pliny the Younger, listened and partook in the gossip eagerly, for he was a lawyer who specialized in wills and finances.

When Domitius Tullus’ last will and testament became public, Pliny and his fellow gossipers were shocked. Instead of megalomaniac funerary projects or ruthless disinheritances, Tullus’ will turned out to be much more generous and denoting of affection than anyone had expected. According to Pliny the Younger, Domitius Tullus chose his niece (and adopted daughter) as his primary heir.  On this, Pliny wrote, “Domitius Tullus has proved himself to be much better in death than life. Although he had encouraged legacy hunters, he left as heiress the daughter he shared with his brother (he had adopted his brother’s child)” (Letters, 8.18). Although his primary heir was his adopted daughter, he did not neglect his surviving wife’s wellbeing. She was likely the second biggest beneficiary of his will, receiving country estates and a sizable allotment of funds. Pliny wrote, “So this will is all the more creditable for being dictated by family affection, honesty, and feelings of shame; and in it Tullus acknowledges his obligations to all his relatives in return for their services to him, as he does to the excellent wife who had borne with him so long. She has inherited his beautiful country houses and a large sum of money, and deserved all the more from her husband for having been so severely criticized for marrying him” (Letters, 8.18). Domitius Tullus also made sure not to forget his adopted grandchildren and greatgrandchildren in his will. Pliny stated, “He also left a great many welcome legacies to his grandsons and to his great-granddaughter; in fact, the whole will is ample proof of his affection for his family, and so all the more unexpected” (Letters, 8.18). All in all, it was a generous, reasonable, and positive last will, accompanied by loving and compassionate words for his family from the late patriarch of the family.

Given the revelations of the last will and testament, Pliny and the other gossipers were forced to reevaluate their perception of infamous Domitius Tullus. Even if he had been a disagreeable and dislikable grouch to Romans outside of his family, onlookers had to acknowledge there might have been another kinder, gentler and loving side to the grumpy old man that was only seen by his family. Whatever the case, Pliny and other critics conceded that Domitius Tullus left behind a legacy of good will in his last testament.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Marble portrait of a man from a Roman funerary relief, dated 1st century BCE, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the MET).

Sources:

  • The Letters of Pliny the Younger, translated by Betty Radice. New York: Penguin Classics, 1963, 1969.

Death of Saint Louis, by Pierre Paul Léon Glaize (1842 – 1932)

By
thehistorianshut
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This painting, by the French artist Pierre Paul Léon Glaize (1842 – 1932), was created for the Église Saint-Louis d’Antin (Church of Saint-Louis d’Antin). It is a death scene of the historical figure, Saint Louis, more commonly known as King Louis IX of France (r. 1226-1270). Originally a child-king, Louis’s early reign was secured by his formidable mother, Queen Blanche, who successfully crushed scores of conspirators and rebels in a series of wars and stabilization operations. Despite his rough childhood, Louis grew up to be pious, just and fair, while also maintaining a skill for warfare and diplomacy that served him well when he was faced with conflict. He fended off several invasions from his English rival, King Henry III (r. 1207–1272) and then led the Seventh (c. 1248-1254) and Eighth (c. 1270) Crusades. During that final Eighth Crusade, King Louis IX fell ill and died while campaigning in Tunisia. To envision this historical event, the artist might have turned to the more historically-oriented Life of Saint Louis by the biographer, John of Joinville (c. 1224/1225-1317), or more folklore-embellished texts like the Golden Legend of Jacobus de Voragine (c. 13th century). John of Joinville’s account of the king’s death was as follows:

“The king took to his bed, feeling sure that he would soon pass from this world to the other. He called for my lord Philip, his son, and commanded him to uphold, just as he were making out his will, all the teachings he was leaving him…When the good king had given his instructions to his son my lord Philip, his sickness began to worsen grievously. He asked for the sacraments of the Holy Church and was seen to receive them in sound mind and with proper understanding, for when he was anointed and the seven psalms were said, he spoke the verses in response…After this the king had himself laid in a bed covered with ashes and placed his hands on his chest; as he looked toward Heaven he returned his spirit to our creator…” (John of Joinville, Life of Saint Louis, sections 739-757).

Jacobus de Voragine’s Golden Legend recorded a similar telling of the king’s death, describing Louis’ last-minute teachings for his son, which were followed by sacraments, psalms and invocations of saints. Similarities aside, Pierre Paul Léon Glaize may have picked up a specific detail from the Golden Legend. Namely, a statement that King Louis IX reportedly died while “stretching his arms in [the] manner of a cross” (Jacobus de Voragine, Golden Legend, 7.30). It is this scene that the painter re-creates. King Louis IX can be seen on his deathbed in 1270, with his arms crossed, surrounded by his son, the future King Philip III of France (r. 1270-1285), and various attending courtiers.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Sources:

Winston Churchill

By
thehistorianshut
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Winston Churchill (c. 1874-1965)

“Once the process of heresy-hunting pervades an army, true comradeship dies. Officers are promoted not for professional knowledge but for being glib in the party patter. Pretence infects every rank and every unit. A bad officer gets on by mouthing orthodox political doctrines.”

  • From Sir Winston Churchill’s “It’s Not All Over Yet” (dated February 17, 1938), included in Winston S. Churchill Step By Step: Political Writings 1936-1939 (Bloomsbury Publishing, 2015).
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