Hiatus

The author has temporarily put this blog on hold as she devotes all her writing time to finishing her novel, a historical fiction set in fourth-century Egypt.

Jesus Fish (Ichthys)

250 CE, Oxyrhynchus, Egypt

Around mid-afternoon on a tepid January day, Avitus’ city was greeted by the banter of clocking horse hooves. A magistrate under Emperor Decius had arrived in the marketplace atop a magnificent black Parthinian stallion, accompanied by two lictors riding honey-colored Spanish horses, and an entourage of some ten soldiers fortifying their back end. The lictors flaunted identical fasces—rods of bundled birch wood with a bronze blade projecting from its middle— which were carried over their left shoulders as symbols of Rome’s power. They dismounted and stood on either side of the magistrate, whose cream colored toga boasted the distinguished purple hem, impelling the people of Oxyrhynchus to gather around. The magistrate had come to sniff out those of the Christian faith, a religious sect growing in number whose adherents posed a great danger to the strength and stability of the empire.

Gesturing to draw close, the magistrate shouted, “Men, women, and children of Oxyrhynchus, faithful city of the Roman Empire, lend your ear so that I may tell, in a few words, of the constitution of your Imperium, which faces a distressing danger. Perhaps you have already heard about those derelicts who call themselves Christians, rejecting the gods of our forefathers in favor of some charlatan whom they call Christ, who has proclaimed himself the son of god, convincing the gullible with magic, incantations, and incredible stories, and using trickery and deceit to win over feeble minds. These Christians threaten the pax deorum; they will bring ruin to the earth and to our race!” he shouted.

Avitus had learned long ago of the pax deorum, a pact between man and the gods in which they agreed to preserve and protect the heavens and earth in exchange for man’s habitual prayer and sacrifice. To neglect these duties was to solicit the wrath of the gods, precipitating the decline, or even destruction, of humanity. Mimicking the words of their leader and namesake, these Christians were grossly insulting in their insistence that only their god held sway over the universe, and they were dangerous in their impious belief that their god was worthy of worship, but none others.

“Their pestilence is spreading like a cancer to all reaches of the Roman Empire, and it must be stopped,” the magistrate roared. The people of Oxyrhynchus looked around at one another, their eyes overwrought with suspicion, and their mouths overcome with gossip as they fell into the grips of speculation.

“I have come with an edict issued by Emperor Decius to seek out these rabble-rousers. For the safety of the empire, each inhabitant of this city will be required to make a public sacrifice attesting to your loyalty of our ancestral gods,” he said, knowing any Christian would refuse, for their sacred writing had laid down that he who sacrifices to other gods shall be utterly destroyed.

“Those of you who agree will receive certificates that will keep you safe from harm. Those who refuse will be executed—hung by a tree, stoned, or set ablaze,” the magistrate yelled, his words growing bolder as he spoke. “You will have until sundown tomorrow to visit me at the temple of Zeus where you may receive your certificate, or refuse and meet your death. We have men stationed at your city gates, so I advise no one attempt escape,” he said with a growl.

Avitus bowed out from the crowd and walked briskly toward his home, fearing he would soon be forced to forsake his life in the name of the Christian faith. Just outside the marketplace, he passed by a group of men bantering, their concern plainly written in the creases of their brows. Avitus approached them, hoping they could not discern his desperation.

“Good tidings, gentleman,” he said, casually drawing an arc in the sand with his foot. The men looked down to the ground with surprise. The old man standing to his right touched his toe to the sand and drew an arc mirroring his, creating the outline of a simple fish. All present drew a sigh of relief, knowing they were in good company—among Christians.

The fish symbol had been adopted by Christians in the first century, when persecutions against them first began, and was drawn on walls to designate meeting places, or used to distinguish friend from foe, as Avitus had done. The fish had biblical significance—several of Jesus’ twelve Apostles were fisherman; Jesus had commissioned the Apostles to go out and fish for people (Matt 4:19); and Jesus fed the five thousand with two fishes and five loaves (Mark 6:41)—but it also offered Christians a discreet symbol since the fish was also associated with pagan gods, being associated with Aphrodite and Isis, as well as the zodiac sign of Pisces. Christians even made an acronym of the Greek word for fish, ΙΧΘΥΣ (Ichthys): Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior (Ίησοῦς Χριστός, Θεοῦ Υἱός, Σωτήρ).

Avitus and his Christian comrades, choosing not to become martyrs like various of their fellow Christians had, quickly began plotting their escape from execution, planning to leave Oxyrhynchus as soon as the veils of night were drawn. If they could successfully sneak past the guards, they would venture to the countryside where the magistrate and his men would not bother to go. Some planned on purchasing a certificate of sacrifice on the black market, while others would simply wait out the persecution, though this was not the first, nor would it be the last time Christians were sought out and punished.




The Truth of the Matter: All the information given regarding the fish—its pagan associations, biblical significance, and its symbolic adoption and use by the Christians—is true. The information given regarding the persecution of Christians under Emperor Decius, including the requirement of public sacrifice in exchange for a certificate (called a libellus), is also true. Four of these certificates were, in fact, found near Oxyrhynchus, Egypt, dating to 250 CE, when this story takes place. It was also accurate to peg the Roman Empire’s hatred for the Christian faith to the fact that they threatened the pax deorum, though that is but one reason among many that Christians were persecuted in antiquity. The characters in this story are fictional.

Evil Eye

Circa 200 BCE, Rome, Italy

Marius was a notorious boxer. Spectators gazed upon him as if he were a god, some admiring his height, some his girth, but all in agreement that the rippling beneath his skin—a product of a bulging musculature—was a fantastical sight to behold. Still, his record was not without blemish. When matches were fought with cestuses—ox-hide gloves loaded with iron knots and nails—strength mattered less than a methodical swing. On one calamitous day, as Marius was bringing his fist around to bear on his opponents cheek, his arm was met with the torrential blow of a cestus that snapped his humerus bone clear in half.

With a damaged arm hanging limp at his side, Marius was unable to console his pregnant wife, Tullia, with a warm embrace as she cried hysterically for his pain, and their loss of income. A physician set Marius’ bones back into their correct position with a bone lever, and all would have been well by the birth of their first child, except the bones were improperly set, leaving Marius’ arm mangled, darting sideways in a disgusting manner. That was the end of Marius’ boxing career, and the beginning of a life of anger, resentment, and envy.

The day his son was born was to be one of great jubilation, but instead, Tullia forbade Marius from looking upon his child. For it was said that Marius possessed an evil eye.

“The glance of your eye may have an injurious effect, and this we cannot risk!” she insisted, hiding her newborn in a throng of blankets. She feared her son’s physical perfection would stir jealousy within her husband. “You know well that his young being—yet of weak and tender constitution—can be easily harmed by an invidious glance.”

It was well known, in Rome and throughout the civilized world, that when a man looks at what is excellent with an envious eye, a malignant influence darts out from his pupils and infects the air. The infected air penetrates the victim, being drawn in through the nose and mouth, and pollutes his body, causing potent injury or death.

“But we have strung a dozen amulets around his neck!” Marius pleaded. “The head of Jupiter, an eye, crocodile, swan, serpent, thunderbolt, phallus, lion—each one possessing its own protective quality. These will shield him in case envy is stirred within the inner recesses of my being,” he petitioned, but Tullia would not allow him a single look at his son.

Driven temporarily mad by his predicament, Marius rushed into their bedroom and rummaged though his wife’s jewelry box until he held two beautiful brooches in either hand. Unclasping their pins, he thrust one in each eye, feeling neither pain nor regret as the pins pierced his pupils—only relief. Rendering himself blind, Marius grinned, knowing he would soon be able to hold his newborn son.



The Truth of the Matter: The earliest known reference to the evil eye occurs on Sumerian clay tablets dating to the third millennium BCE. The evil eye was feared by numerous cultures in antiquity, including the Assyrians, Jews, Egyptians, and Muslims. During the Hellenistic and Roman periods, belief in the evil eye was widespread, and was cited by such authors as Aristophanes, Plutarch, and Plato. Within this story, the characters are fictional, but the information related regarding the evil eye is factual.

The Pyramids of Giza

Circa 350 CE, Memphis, Egypt

After trekking northward for three days, Ahmose neared the Nile Delta. It would be several months until the river indulged in its annual overflow, which coincided with the resplendent rise of Sirius in June, and several more months until the flood’s peak in September when murky, mineral-rich water engulfed and impregnated the river’s banks. But he could easily discern where the Nile Valley began—a stark line, which the flood rendered the year before, that offset the russet, rocky desert from dark, virile soil. Ahmose walked due east, wrestling with the weariness eager to creep into the marrow of his bones, until the sands of time coerced him to a propitious place, the edge of the Nile River.

In the distance, Ahmose could see the great pyramids, their polished white limestone casting off a powerful solar luminescence trumped only by the sun itself, to whom the pyramids, with their sun-ray shape and sunbeam gleam, paid homage.

“Praise the gods!” he said, falling to his knees and bowing to the earth.

Four days prior, Ahmose had been called in a dream from his hometown of Arsinoe in the Egyptian desert to the pyramids near the Nile Delta. On that night, a deep sleep had overcome him, like a midst covering the earth, and while in the folds of slumber, the god Orion, the great huntsman, had come to him. Ahmose had seen Orion once before, as a young boy, when Orion instructed him in the art of bow hunting, a craft which Ahmose excelled in, having become a celebrated antelope hunter among his townsmen. This time, however, Orion’s appearance was of a very different nature.

“Go north to the great pyramids, for it is there that your ultimate catch will be harnessed,” Orion had said.

Ahmose had learned of Orion’s connection to the ancient pyramids from his father who had spoken in wild gestures of a legend regarding three colossal pyramids situated near the Nile Delta. The three great pyramids, he had said, were an earthly reproduction of a stellar constellation—the constellation of Orion, god of hunting, also associated with death and the afterlife. The pyramids matched the three stars in Orion’s belt, both in alignment and proportion. They were a perfect imitation of their celestial counterpart, he had said.

Within each pyramid were burial chambers where ancient Egyptian royalty from the age of the pharaoh’s, thousands of years before Ahmose’s time, were laid to rest. From these chambers, airshafts extended leading to the pyramids’ exterior, and these shafts pointed directly toward the constellation of Orion, his father had said. The souls of the royal deceased would ultimately travel through these shafts, being projected directly toward Orion and into the afterlife on a straight path, easy and free of perils, unlike the fate all other souls who would need to embark on a dangerous journey through the underworld to get to the afterlife. The pyramids, his father had said, were not simply splendid tombs, but machines designed to aid the pharaoh’s journey to the distant stars. They were created to serve as the pharaoh’s gateway to the afterlife.

By the time night fell, Ahmose had journeyed to the base of the largest of the three pyramids. There he leaned in silence against its massive limestone blocks, staring up at the constellation of Orion, lying in wait for some further message or instruction. As Orion’s belt came into perfect alignment with the three pyramids, they seemed to shine brighter, so bright, in fact, that the entire plateau became illuminated by starlight. It was at that moment that Ahmose spotted a young woman, her wide hips and narrow waist accentuated by the silky black tresses running down to the small of her back, looking up at Orion with the same wonder in her eyes. When she caught sight of Ahmose, their gazes becoming locked upon one another, he immediately knew that she was the “ultimate catch” that Orion, the great huntsman, had been referring to.



The Truth of the Matter: The Orion correlation theory, which posits that the three greatest pyramids in the Giza complex were intentionally designed and built to correspond to the three stars in the belt of the Orion constellation, is a hypothesis in pyramidology first presented in the late 1980s. This story’s explanation of the reason for this correlation is true. The characters in this story are fictional.

Spartan

Circa 400 BCE, Sparta, Greece

Atreus danced for hours to the sound of jingling cymbals and castanets on his wedding day. He had just turned thirty years of age, and the time had come for him to marry. It was, in fact, mandated by the state.

Atreus’ bride had been captured by her bridesmaid and, in line with tradition, her head shaved bare to the scalp, a rite of passage signaling her entry into a new life. She was then dressed in menswear—a simple cloak of linen and a pair of oversized, open-toed sandals with a red tongue—before being laid down upon a bare mattress in a dark room.

“I wish you luck,” her bridesmaid whispered. “May the greatest of pleasures greet you this eve,” she said, giggling upon exit.

Atreus looked forward to visiting his new bride, whose belt he would unfasten with great pleasure. He would visit her with the same enthusiasm time and time again, for it was an escape from his austere and rigid mode of being—an escape from the Spartan way of life.

Atreus was reared from birth in the ways of self-discipline, like all men of Sparta. Once emerging from his mother’s womb, he was bathed in wine. He showed himself to be a strong child, not protesting like a weakling as two of his siblings had done; both were thrown into the chasm on Mount Taygetos with all other newborns of the feeble variety, as per the orders of the city’s elders. Atreus had been accepted into society where he would be meticulously cultivated into a Spartan citizen and soldier so that others across the Greek-speaking world might one day know his name; in this way, all men of Sparta were raised—as fighters and survivors.

At age seven, Atreus began his military training, leaving his home to live in a communal mess where youth underwent constant military drills—running, jumping, and weapons training of all kinds—and studied reading, writing, music, and dance. He was also taught to endure hunger and thirst, pain and hardship, fatigue and sleep deprivation.

Atreus was made to walk without shoes, bathe in the cold waters of the river Eurotas, and wore the same piece of cloth every day, receiving a new one from the state once a year, by which time every boy’s garment was ripped and worn thin. He slept on top of a mat of straw and reed cut from the riverbanks, without a blanket or headrest, and was often given broth in meager portions as his main meal. He was encouraged to steal food to help fill his belly, the state believing theft, and the stealth it required, to be a military exercise. Though if he were caught, Atreus would be punished, made to endure a harsh flogging, which he would be forced to suffer in silence lest he be beat again.

At age twenty, Atreus and his mess hall mates each entered a club, comprised of fifteen members, where emphasis was placed on cultivating a sense of brotherhood—reliance upon another. Thanks to his militaristic prowess, Atreus was accepted into the club Krypteia, which trained in the summer, winter, and spring months for combat in the months of autumn during which time his club declared war on the state’s helot population.

In the autumn, the state sent Atreus and his brothers out to the countryside where the helots—members of the slave population—lived, and were given a mere dagger to supplement their skills and cunning. They were instructed to kill any helot they encountered at night, advised to take food and any other useful furnishings, particularly clothing and potential weaponry, to help them survive the killing season. Atreus showed he was willing to kill, even at such a young age, proving to the Spartan leadership that he was worthy of joining their ranks.

Atreus had looked forward to his thirtieth birthday since childhood, for then he would be wed. When he first caught site of his bride, the light cascading down upon her when he open the door to her room, he was pleased. Almost every day of his wedded life, except at times of war, he would delight in an afternoon romp with his bride. Yet, as the sky dimmed each night, he would rush back to his barracks where, up until the ripe age of sixty, he was required to eat and sleep. Such was the Spartan way of life.



The Truth of the Matter: The fictional elements in this story are its characters.

Testimony

Circa 200 BCE, Rome, Italy

Herminius had been sitting in a crowded prison for days, pleading with the gods for mercy as he awaited trial in Rome’s court. He took solace in the friendship of a haggardly old man, his wrinkles etched deep by time, who stood accused of stealing another man’s sheep. The old man was distressed and heedlessly chewed his nails, which he bit down to the nubs, but his constant chatter kept Herminius’ mind occupied. He spoke incessantly of his innocence, though his accuser was of higher class and thus had the upper hand in court. If the old man simply agreed to having stolen the animal, he would pay his accuser the value of the property, but if he denied it and was still found guilty, he would have to pay double the value—an expense that would cost him his livelihood.

As for Herminius, he had taken out the eye of a surely youth after excessive flirting with his wife prompted a stern slug to the youth’s face, a slug made bolder, and stronger, by goblets of nectarous wine. He cracked the youth’s eye socket, but worse still, his spiked ring poked straight into the youth’s iris, filling his sight with a sickening mixture of blood and metal. His accuser was rumored to have forty-eight witnesses willing to testify—the maximum allowed—but it was uncertain whether the youth’s father would demand and eye for an eye, or if he would seek to recover the amount of profit lost from his maimed son’s now less-than-bright future employment prospects. Hermenius’ stomach turned as he pondered his fate, his body trembling and sweating in anticipation of his immanent encounter with Roman law.

Rome first established a code of laws in 450 BCE, during the time of the Republic, after a plebian revolt. The common people had demanded to know their rights. A ten-man commission was established and a list of laws and penalties drawn up, called the Twelve Tables, which made crime and punishment more transparent.

From the corner in which he sat, cradling his knees in sorrow, Herminius glanced up and around the prison, looking pitifully upon those in a worse predicament than he—those who faced the death penalty. Most kept their silence, not wishing to speak of the crimes with which they had been charged, though it was well known which trespasses carried such a grave sentence: crimes of violence, incendiarism, carrying a weapon with criminal intent, or purchasing, selling, or administering poison. Upper class citizens charged with such a crime were generally exiled for a given time and their property confiscated. Common people were brutally flogged or given a life’s sentence in the mines, though in the time of the Empire, they could request the arena where they would meet a grander and quicker death. Those from the lowest rungs of society would be buried alive, thrown from a cliff, crucified, impaled, or set aflame.

Without warning, a set of guards lifted Herminius by the arms.

“The court awaits you,” one of the guards said.

Herminius was brought to a rectangular building near the forum where a judge sat on an elevated seat at the far end of the room, and the jury, who ruled by majority vote, sat on benches on one side, opposite the witnesses.

The judge called Herminius’ accuser and the witnesses forward to take an oath swearing they would not speak falsely. Each man placed his right hand on his testis—placing one’s hands on something so sacred guaranteed the truth of one’s testimony—and each man took his oath. And so Herminius’ trial began, and several hours later, with many tears and pleas for appeal—of which none were ever allowed—the trial ended.



The Truth of the Matter: This is by far the most contested etymology addressed yet. Although many do not agree in an association between “testis” and “testimony,” some believe it to be true, and the relation was too amusing to ignore. One of the greatest pieces of evidence cited by scholars in support of this association comes from the Bible where it states, “And Abraham said unto his eldest servant of his house... Put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh, and I will make thee swear by the Lord...’” (Gen. 23:2–3, KJV). The vast majority of other details in this story—including the history of Roman law and the crimes and punishments listed—are true. The characters are fictional.

Olympic Games

396 BCE , Olympia, Greece

Cynisca was a Spartan woman whose brute mannerisms spoke less of her princess stature, and more to her tomboy nature. She was born shortly after the First Peloponnesian War between Sparta and Athens, and the Second War, which lasted twenty-seven years, consumed her adolescents and adulthood.

The Spartans were masters of combat—Sparta hailed itself a militaristic city-state where men underwent military training beginning at age seven, and the livelihood of women focused on fitness so they could easily handle childbirth and readily rear more soldiers. Cynisca had a natural aptitude for fitness—on account of her royalty and wealth, she spent her days riding horses, hunting, and practicing gymnastics and dance—though she breathed a great sigh of relief every four years when Sparta and the rest of the Greek-speaking world took pause from war to attend the Olympic Games.

“At last, we can take rest!” Cynisca exclaimed.

“But not you!” her brother teased. “This time, you must enter the games! I insist it be so!”

The Olympic Games, held every four years in Olympia, Greece, were first recorded in 776 BCE, though legend speaks to its existence well before. Sporting events—such as footraces, boxing, wrestling, equestrian events, and a pentathlon consisting of a jumping event, discus and javelin throws, a foot race, and wrestling—accompanied a day-long festival in honor of the mighty Zeus. In 680 BCE, the event of chariot racing was added to the games, and the Olympics became a two-day affair.

“The strength and gait of your horses is unparalleled!” her brother boasted, jostling Cynisca’s shoulders to galvanize her.

“Do not gloat on my behalf, dear brother. For words mean little,” she said, throwing his hands from her back. “Let me prove to the world that I am, indeed, a master of horses,” she said with a grin.

“So you are willing? You shall enter the games?” he asked with excitement.

“Yes! I shall enter a four-horse chariot team, run by the finest horses I have bred, with our most fit slave at the reigns!”

Cynisca’s brother gave her a stiff pat on the back before exiting the room, a nefarious smirk running across his face, for his encouragement had been motivated by deceit. He secretly hoped a woman’s win would discredit the sport of chariot racing, rendering it unmanly and unworthy of the Olympic Games. He detested the sport because its winners—those who received the laurel wreath prize and the great esteem that accompanied it—were not the men who drove the horses, but the wealthy patrons who owned them. Victors won based not on their own bravery and skill, but on the bravery and skill of others.

Women were not allowed to be athletes, let alone attend the games. The chariot race offered Cynisca the only means of participation, and she was overjoyed at the opportunity. As with each opening of the Olympic Games, the day’s events began with a lavish ritual slaughtering to the great god Zeus. Cynisca wore her most luxurious tunic for the festivities. When the sports themselves began, and all the women returned to their homes, Cynisca reported to the hippodrome to prep her chariot driver.

Her driver wore a long-sleeved tunic fastened with a simple belt. Two straps crisscrossed high on his back to prevent the material from ballooning during the race. It was due to the dangers of the sport that chariot racers wore a protective garment—it was the only Olympic event not performed in the nude.

Cynisca helped her driver get situated on his chariot, a sturdy, wooden cart with two wheels and an open back. Once the horses and cart were drawn behind their gate, she fastened the driver’s feet into place and bid him good luck.

“May my horses be swift-footed, and your dexterity unrivaled.”

“Praise Zeus!” the driver replied before fixing a stern gaze forward at the oblong racetrack.

When the starting gates dropped, which they did in staggered fashion so the inside lane did not receive benefit, the chariots bolted around the course, turning sharply around the bends. Some turned too fast, some too recklessly, causing spill after spill, but Cynisca’s driver remained unscathed until the end. When her chariot was first to cross the finish line, Cynisca lept for joy into her brother’s arms. He jumped in excitement too, believing his devious plan was on the cusp of fulfillment. But there was no truth to his plot.

Cynisca—the first woman to win at the Olympic Games—was honored by having a bronze statue of herself and a chariot placed in Olympia’s great Temple of Zeus. From that point on, she was worshipped as a hero and praised as having paved the road for other women victors at the Olympic Games.


The Truth of the Matter: Cynisca was indeed the first woman to win at the Olympic Games, and it was widely believed that her brother encouraged her entrance into the race to dishonor the sport. The description of people, places, and things is historical; this story’s fictional elements lie in its dialogue.

Friday the Thirteenth

Circa 450 CE, Tarentum, Southern Italy

“Let us set sail tomorrow, Friday, the thirteenth day of September!” Albus said, his adolescent voice cracking with excitement. It would be his first business trip from Italy to Egypt, where his father often sold their freshly pressed olive oil.

“We certainly shall not! I refuse to give myself over to the malign hands of Fate so easily!” his father, Tullius, said. “The sea shall not become our burial shroud, nor shall I risk the well-being of hundreds of jugs of olive oil, whose sale will feed our family for many months.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Albus asked.

“Friday the thirteenth is a day for tragedies,” his father said. “Sit, and I will explain why you must never embark on a new venture on the thirteenth day of any month if it happens to fall on a Friday.”

His son sat down upon a patterned rug of maroon, purple, and green triangles that softened the hard stone floor, and beside a simple square chest on which a copy of the Bible rested, alongside a small painted image of Jesus performing a miracle.

“Let us hearken back to the beginning of time. It is said that Adam ate the forbidden fruit of knowledge on a Friday, and so it was on this day that humanity became corrupt. God then punished Eve, the coaxer, and future female generations to come with menstruation, a cycle which occurs thirteen times a year,” Tullius explained.

“It is also believed that Cain murdered his brother Able on Friday the thirteenth, and the Great Flood began on a Friday. The Tower of Babel, too, built to commemorate the victory of humanity after the flood, was destroyed on a Friday.”

“Are these dates for certain?” Albus asked, his brows raised with skepticism.

“I believe they are, but if you need further convincing, we can turn to more recent events—those surrounding Jesus himself!” his father said. “Thirteen was the number of people present at our Savior’s last supper, attended by Jesus and his twelve apostles. Judas, the thirteenth member to arrive at the table, betrayed Jesus, a wretched soul he was, leading to the death of our Lord, whose crucifixion occurred on…”

“A Friday!” Albus shouted.

“Yes!” his father said. “And even the dregs of our society agree the number thirteen to be cursed. Witches gather in groups of twelve, for the thirteenth is said to be the devil!”

“What is it about the number thirteen that is so cursed?” his son wondered.

“I shall tell you,” his father answered firmly. “The number twelve has always been judged a complete number. There are twelve tribes of Israel, twelve labors of Hercules, twelve apostles of Jesus, twelve Grecian gods on Olympus, twelve signs of the zodiac, twelve months in a year, and twelve numbers on a clock. In exceeding twelve by one, we are beyond complete, and surely, that brings ill luck.”

Albus looked at his father with astonishment.

“For this reason, you will not see many ships set sail this Friday the thirteenth, nor will you see many people embark on new ventures—for they fear they are doomed from the start.”

The Seven Deadly Sins

390 CE, Tabennisi, Egypt

In the first year of his child’s life, Aesop developed an unquenchable love of gambling. As the sun peaked each day, he would take pause from his diligent craft of calligraphy to frequent the local theatre in his hometown of Karanis, situated south of Egypt’s Nile Delta. The sight of brawny gladiators mustering every drop of their beastly power to tear asunder their opponents intoxicated him. Aesop allied himself to certain of these men by soliciting their success through silver coins. Tragically and one by one, the men he had admired from afar fell to the sword, taking with them to the grave all of his wealth.

When a money collector barged into Aesop’s home and beat him and his wife with a cudgel, he was forced to pay for his sin. With an overflowing of tears, he sold their first and only born child into slavery. At the demand of his wife, he consented to divorce and left Karanis.

“I am going off to be a monk,” he had told his wife, convinced that only Christianity and the virtues it embraced could mend his life. His wife laughed and bade him never to return.

Each footstep out of town felt insurmountable as the weight of Aesop’s heartache bore down hard upon him. He passed through Karanis’ stone city gates and, to his good fortune, happened upon a caravan traveling south along the Nile River. For nine days, he traveled by camel train into the depths of Egypt until, reaching the great city of Thebes, the caravan disbanded.

Without delay, Aesop trekked east toward the famed monastery of Tabennisi until he was stopped by a colossal mud-brick wall that climbed up and out from the earth. The wall was five times his height and stretched five hundred paces to his left and five hundred paces to his right before bending back in on itself to ultimately form a circle. Inside the enclosure, the desert bloomed with hundreds of monks.

As Aesop approached the monastery door, the gravity of his circumstance became overwhelming and his stomach was sent tumbling. The door was slightly taller than he and made of rotting wood. With a deep sigh, Aesop gave it two firm knocks. It immediately cracked open, revealing a somber face with parched skin and eyes sunk deep beneath the brow.

“I wish to renounce the world,” Aesop said. “I beg you, receive me into your hermitage, that I may become a monk.”

Without a word spoken, the doorkeeper escorted him to the guest chamber situated just inside the monastery wall. It was a small and simple room containing a bare mattress, an oil lamp, and a small window no bigger than Aesop’s head over which a red cross was painted. The window looked out onto an olive tree.

For seven days, Aesop was forbidden to leave his chamber. The doorkeeper would visit three times daily—in the morning, afternoon, and at sunset—entering the guestroom carrying a tray of unsalted bread, cooked vegetables, and figs. The two would break bread together in absolute quietude—the doorkeeper explained silence of mouth and stillness of heart allowed the faithful to commune with the Lord and appreciate his fruits. After they put down every last morsel, the doorkeeper offered Aesop instruction in the language of the monks—Coptic—which he fittingly described as Egyptian vernacular expressed in Greek letters, and taught him the Lord’s Prayer and many other psalms for memorization. On the seventh day, the doorkeeper prepared Aesop for what was to come.

“You must think of the monastery as a spiritual battlefield on which the most veracious of demons, bent on the destruction of pious souls, bring all their weapons to bear. A fellow monk, Evagrius of Pontus, who has been buffeted by these demons for many years, pinpointed the eight most harmful that cause man to falter. They are the demons of gluttony, lust, avarice, sadness, anger, vainglory, pride, and acedia—these are the eight deadly sins,” he said.

Aesop listened in earnest.

“The demon of gluttony forces us to overindulge; lust creates a desire for inappropriate sexual intimacy; avarice spawns a desire for worldly goods for their own sake; sadness comes from the desire of not having what one wants, and the frustration that comes with it; anger involves the improper use of our motivations, which should always be used to thwart demonic assaults; with vainglory we seek the admiration of others to puff up the self; with pride we attribute all success or virtue only to ourselves, to the point where we reject God as the source of good things, wrongly finding the source to be within ourselves instead; and last, acedia, which we also call the noonday demon, strikes with a sense of boredom, making the monk feel like the day is dragging on or is too difficult, spawning a case of spiritual sloth. Do you understand these?” the gatekeeper asked.

“Some of them I understand all to well,” Aesop said.

“In this monastery, we train to quell these passions, to reject the wicked advances of demons that bind our souls in chains of sin. Those who can stand steadfast in virtue with unfettered souls can partake in divine and spiritual things, transforming themselves evermore in the image and likeness of God. It is that for which we toil,” he said.

“And it is that which I seek,” Aesop replied.

The gatekeeper then stripped Aesop of his secular clothes and dressed him in the monastic habit. Aesop would live out his life in the monastery, fighting against the eight deadly sins until his body became dead to demonic advances, and his soul ascended to God.

By the sixth century, the spiritual battlefield on which Aesop fought looked slightly different—Pope Gregory the Great reduced the list from eight to seven deadly sins, folding vainglory into pride, acedia into sadness, and adding envy—but the battle remains the same.

Dog Days of Summer

Circa 1st century CE, Ariccia, Italy

Marcellus strolled through his cornfield, becoming lost within a sea of green and yellow stalks that overran a corner of Ariccia, just south of Rome. He took a stalk of corn between his hands and pressed a blade to its shuck, creating a small vertical slit to catch a glimpse of his crop’s condition. He punctured a kernel with his fingernail—the liquid was clear, like water.

“Sirius, be merciful this year! Turn this water into milky nectar,” Marcellus pleaded, his head hanging heavy in remembrance of last year when a sultry summer had wrecked his corn, turning it to animal feed. “Let the dogs days of summer be kind,” he begged before resealing the shuck with the pressure of his palms.

Marcellus left his field and walked to the city center where the townspeople had gathered around a small shrine, beautifully strung with wreaths of fresh blooms and overwhelmed by votive offerings of gold vases, coins of silver, and bronze statuettes depicting dogs both small and large. It was a day of ritual sacrifice in honor of Sirius, the Dog Star—the brightest star in the constellation Canis Major—which arrived in the morning sky after many months of hiding behind the sun.

In the age of the ancient Egyptians, the annual arrival of the Dog Star, appearing around the summer solstice, was most welcomed. Sirius was the Nile’s watchdog: the star’s appearance signaled the immanent rise of the Nile River, which flooded the riverbanks and fertilized the Nile valley. As summer approached, Egypt’s priests would gather within temples dedicated to Isis, the goddess said to embody the power of Sirius. They would commune with her statue, oriented toward the Dog Star, keeping their eyes fixed on a jewel placed in the goddess’ forehead. When Sirius reemerged in the sky, peaking out from behind the sun just before dawn, its light shone upon the gem and caused it to glimmer. The priests then ran out from the temple, news of the Nile’s immanent rise being fresh on their lips.

But among the Greeks and Romans, the rise of Sirius, whose name means “scorching,” was not celebrated so much as feared. The star’s brightness, thought to be indicative of its overbearing heat, wielded the power of destruction—its heat was capable of shriveling crops and bringing ruin to farmers, families, and towns. In order to appease the Dog Star, and to stave off a season of devastating heat—known as the dog days of summer—the Greeks and Romans sacrificed a dog as soon as Sirius was spotted.

“Make way for the dog!” a priest yelled over the crowd, prompting Marcellus and his fellow townspeople to divide down the center. The priest’s assistant, dressed in a white tunic belted with a rope, approached with a ruddy dog in tow.

“Be glad, scorching Sirius,” the priest yelled as the dog, held down on an altar of stone, was slaughtered, its throat being cut with one swoop of a blade. The townspeople lifted their hands in jubilation. Cymbals clashed, castanets jingled, and a choir of youths began singing.

“May your sinister influences be averted by your delight in this sacrifice!” the priest yelled. “May the heat of your star be tempered, and the dog days of summer be mild.”

When in Rome

386 CE, Rome, Italy

Aetius to his friend Crispus, greetings.

I have stayed true to my promise and, within my first week in Rome, have sat down to write a detailed account of my experiences. From Arabia, it was a long journey, indeed—sixteen days and sixteen nights by caravan—being burnt up by the sun by day, and shivering beneath the stars at night.

For a portion of my journey, I was accompanied by a band of monks whose figures were disconcertingly frail beneath their cloaks of brown linen, though what they lacked in physic they made up for in disposition. They spoke to me of the grandeur of Rome, but what I have seen is something much greater still. They particularly reveled in stories about Rome’s customs, and warned me that they would surely differ from those in Arabia. One monk suggested that so long as they do not offend my morals, I adopt these customs myself and relax into the Roman way of life. He told a tale regarding one of his teachers, Augustine of Hippo, whom he called a religiously strict man. In his hometown of Milan, this Augustine performs fasts on Sundays, he said, but when visiting Rome, he fasts on Saturdays as the Christians in this city do. Augustine advised these monks do likewise, arguing that when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

On that note, let me use the letters on this page to relate some of the interesting customs I have experienced here in Rome; some I have partaken in, while others have simply made me gawk, gasp, or split my ribs with laughter.

The first concerns a custom regarding the dead. As we caravanned into Rome, we passed by a graveyard on the city’s outskirts. Within eye’s sight, a funeral was being held. Among the crowd of mourners, I noticed something most odd—various people in attendance were wearing life-like masks. An old burial custom was then explained to me. Upon death, the Romans take wax impressions of the face and then paint them to look like the deceased. These ancestral masks are dawned during funerals, put on by people dressed as the deceased relative, in order that the whole family—from parents to grandparents to great-grandparents—be in attendance.

I was also told of another burial custom practiced by those Romans who believe that in order to pass from earth to the underworld, souls are required to cross a river called Styx. During burial, they place a coin beneath the tongue of the deceased—it is said to be his ferry toll—so that he be rowed across this river. I can only pray the soul whose funeral we happened upon made it to his final destination as safely as we did ours.

Upon arrival in Rome, I sought out Horatius, whom, as you noted, is an eccentric man prone to riotous laughter. I have enjoyed keeping his company. He first saw to it that my belly was full. In my week here, he has insisted that I sample a variety of Rome’s delicacies such as peacock brains, pike livers, cock crests, lark tongues, bear, and lion. Most were delicious, though some were of such odd texture or taste they required I dose my mouth with wine to help swallow.

Together we also attended the baths, which are wondrous works of architecture. Here in Rome, they do not cleanse themselves with rough salts, as you and I, but they stroll through a series of rooms within a bathhouse, each one increasingly hotter, in order to facilitate sweating. Then they oil their skin and apply scraping tools—curved blades made of iron—in order to loosen the dirt, which ultimately dislodges in water. While husbands soak, wives and slaves launder their garments using, of all things, urine. Horatius said urine cuts through the lanolin of wool, and perhaps sensing my distaste, he was quick to add that garments are rinsed many times over with water before wearing.

We have also visited the theater, which was spectacular. Horatius explained beforehand that a purple-robed actor signifies a rich man. Similarly, a red costume indicates a poor man, yellow-clad actors are characters of the female gender, and a yellow tassel signifies a god. Such colorful indicators did, in fact, make the plot’s unfolding easier to follow. What I found most intriguing, however, was something Horatius said about characters who meet their deaths on stage. Sometimes those characters are played by criminals who have, in fact, been sentenced to death, and on that stage, he said, they actually die. He himself had seen a man being burned to death on stage, and another who was castrated, as this was the end met by the character he portrayed. Whether I believe him or not, I have yet to decide.

We have had one special meal outside the home with the woman Horatius plans to betroth, having placed a fine ring, made of gold set with a plump ruby, on her left hand. It resides on her fourth finger, as the Romans believe a nerve runs from this finger directly to the heart. She is a beautiful woman with fine taste, and she recommended we go to a restaurant with seafood I found to be of the highest quality. We sat in a dining room, its top open to the air, with a large pool at the center. The pool was divided into sections—one saltwater and the other freshwater—in order to house fish that thrive in both environments. The pool featured small holes along the border so the fish may take shelter during the intense part of daylight. We dined at sunset, when the fish swarmed the waters, racing after breadcrumbs being thrown at them. Each of us approached the pool and pointed to the exact fish we wanted to consume that evening, and mine was so delicious it whets my appetite still. Let us remember this style of dining, as I am certain our countrymen would welcome it to Arabia.

While we dined, Horatius told a fabulous story regarding Emperor Caligula, of whom both you and I have heard many tales—so strange was his demeanor. This tale was most fitting for our location, as it concerned the great god of the sea Poseidon. Caligula had decided to wage war on Poseidon in order to prove that he himself was as powerful as a god. He ordered Rome’s soldiers to storm the beach, insisting battle cries be bellowed as they marched, and demanded they throw spears and other weaponry into the sea at random. Needless to say, Poseidon won that battle. Onlookers were said to have merely rolled their eyes and, in continuing to follow the advice of the monks—when in Rome, do as the Romans do—I would have done the same.

In my next letter, I shall describe to you all the wonders I have seen here including the Coliseum, the Pantheon, and the Circus Maximus. Greet your wife and children. Horatius greets you, and we pray that you fare well.

Evocation

207 BCE, Rome, Italy

On a sultry summer day in the time of the Second Punic War, a hermaphrodite was born in Rome. A sickness overtook the city as news of the deformed birth spread, passing from lip to lip faster than kisses in a house of whores. The limbs of every Roman grew numb, some seized by an uncontrollable trembling, others recoiling into a ball, and yet others frozen in their steps—so fearful were Rome’s citizens over the severe divine displeasure announced by way of the hermaphroditic birth.

The odd child was immediately brought before Rome’s most esteemed diviners who sacrificed a bull and inspected its entrails to discern the will of the gods. “This child must be placed in a wooden chest, carried out to sea, and drowned,” one diviner said.

The priests of Rome, knowing the anger of the gods was great to have spawned such an oddity, claimed this was not enough; they demanded more be done. They ordered an elaborate procession be held in honor of Rome’s deities. Twenty-seven maidens would lead the march, their voices sending praises up to the heavens to the beat of their pattering feet, as the citizens of Rome followed in tow carrying incense to please divine senses.

As the maidens rehearsed their song, each one bringing a unique tone to the chorus, a violent bolt of lightening struck the towering temple of Juno, causing a massive outcry that reverberated throughout the city. With urgency, the city’s priests gathered within the temple, dotted with marvelously carved statues of Juno in terra-cotta, cypress wood, and marble.

“The displeasure of the gods is even greater than we imagined!” one priest cried.

“The lightening reigned down on this temple, the temple of Juno,” another noted. “Perhaps it is she that holds some grudge.”

The priests paced back and forth, held their heads between their hands, and looked to the heavens time and time again in search of answers.

“Behold!” one priest shrieked. “Queen Juno’s eyes have turned black!” he gasped, pointing to a statue of Juno that had been carried to Rome from the Etruscan city of Veii a century before. Her eyes, once bright, had turned as dark as night.

“Perhaps she received greater attention in Veii and is unsatisfied with her new seat in Rome,” the priest said.

One hundred years before, the Roman dictator Camillus had besieged the walled city of Veii, situated just north of Rome. Before sending his soldiers into battle, Camillus uttered an evocation to lure the city’s highest-ranking deity over to the side of the Romans.

“Queen Juno! The great goddess who, in this city, is also called Uni! I beseech you: Follow us to the city of Rome where you will receive a temple worthy of your majesty, a temple much grander than your seat here. Cease your protection of Veii and lend your support to the troops of Rome, so that we may conquer and bestow upon you gifts of plenty.”

With this prayer, Camillus had performed the ritual of evocation, asking the deity of a besieged city to withdraw their divine protection in order that Rome may conquer, offering in return a more splendid temple in Rome where the deity would be seated and worshipped by a better-endowed cult. Similar strings of words had been uttered many times before, by many Roman generals, in many enemy cities. And in this way, Rome became full of divine statues carried in from foreign cities, each deity having agreed to abandon their post to take seat in Rome.

“Queen Juno! I beseech you!” Camillus had yelled before motioning his troops to take up their swords. In a short amount of time, Veii’s city gates were pried open, and the Roman army conquered the city.

After Rome’s soldiers had plundered the goods of man, they approached Juno’s temple. They did so with upmost respect, not as plunderers, but as devotees. Camillus had selected a group of soldiers who, after performing ablutions and dressing themselves in white vestments, entered her sanctuary and, with bowed heads and reverent hands placed on her feet, asked, “Art though willing, Juno, to go to Rome?” A soft whisper bounced around the walls as Juno assented, “I am willing.”

The soldiers gently removed her from her pedestal, her statue light as a feather despite her figure being cast of stone. They carried her to Rome with ease, as if she were moving on her own accord. She was placed within the temple dedicated to Juno, which stood on top of Rome’s Aventine Hill, where she sat content until a hermaphroditic birth and a bolt of lightening announced otherwise.

Having surmised that Juno was not receiving the honors she was promised by Camillus’ evocation, the priests planned a lavish ceremony in her honor. They ordered all the maidens of Rome, and those living within ten miles of the city, to bring a donation from their dowries to the temple. From their riches, a most beautiful gold basin was crafted, processed by twenty-seven virgins in long robes singing hymns, and gifted to Juno. Two white cows of the finest stock were sacrificed in addition. When the diviners, after carefully inspecting their intestines and livers, announced that the bovine entrails told of contentment, priests and worshippers alike threw their hands to the heavens and shouted with joy. “Queen Juno once again smiles upon Rome!”

Life: Fate (Part 2 of 2)

Circa 2nd century CE, Athens, Greece

Sophia’s husband, Lycus, hung a freshly plucked olive branch outside their door, informing the neighborhood that Sophia had bore a boy. Despite a difficult labor, Sophia had recovered well, succumbing neither to fever nor heavy bleeds. She spent the first week with her son entangled in affectionate embraces, stroking his newborn skin with her fingertips, filling his face with a flurry of kisses, and feeding him milk from her heavy breasts.

Lycus’ relationship with his child was of a very different nature. He spent no time coddling the newborn, preferring to stare at him from a distance with a scrutinous eye that spoke more of skepticism than love. While it was the burden of the father to determine an infant’s worthiness in the first seven days after birth, Sophia found his treatment harsh in view of the circumstances—their child was neither illegitimate, unhealthy, nor deformed, and he was male. It was a blessing. Still, Sophia worried, for even on the day of their son’s birth, her husband had taken on a strange demeanor that foretold bad tidings. She prayed that by the seventh day, Lycus would smile upon their son.

The first week of life was a period of uncertainty, the burden of birth and life outside the womb being too heavy for many infant hearts to bear. For this reason, seven days were allowed to pass before newborns became recognized as individuals—bestowed a name during a family festival around the hearth that signaled their inclusion into the family and society. For infants who survived, and who were deemed worthy by their fathers, the festival was an occasion of great merriment.

Sophia imagined their home’s exterior being covered with olive branches. Friends and relatives would arrive once daylight had faded, bringing gifts of cuttlefish, marine polyp, and wine. Sophia imagined herself, along with her mother, sisters, the midwife and her attendants, undergoing a purification ritual, ridding themselves of the pollution of birth. Sophia would then dance around the family hearth, lifting her newborn on high, presenting him to the gods above, while the name of the child would finally be said aloud. Sophia imagined all this with intense longing, but in actuality, she could do nothing to help these events transpire for her son’s thread of life had already been drawn.

At the moment of each man’s birth and in counsel with the gods, the Fates—three sisters kneeling beside the throne of Zeus—busily draw man’s thread of life. The first sister, who oversees birth, spins out his thread from her distaff onto her spindle; the second sister, in charge of life, measures his thread with her rod; and the third sister, decider of death, cuts his thread with her shears. And in this way, the sisters, relaxed in white robes, spin, measure, and cut each man’s thread the moment he is born, determining his fate—his birth, his life, and his death.

Sophia sent innumerable prayers up to the Fates, hoping they would greet her by the hearth on the seventh day. But it seemed her prayers were muttered in vain. Lycus ordered their son be immersed in ice-cold water, so testing his temperament. “If he remains silent, he shall be called my son, but if he cries, he is not worthy,” he said. As the infant began weeping, Sophia shed tears to match, draining her bottomless grief.

“He is to be exposed,” Lycus ordered. Sophia opened her mouth to protest, but could only produce shrill shrieks from the depths of her throat. She threw herself onto her son, defying his fate, but Lycus promptly ripped her off.

“Stop your mad freak, woman!” he said, enraged. “Expose him, now!” he roared.

The family’s attendants quickly placed the child in a clay pot, carried him to the outskirts of town, and deserted him along a roadway—common practice for those not wishing to keep their babies. In this way, the parents bear no responsibility, for the child dies of natural causes—dehydration, exposure to the elements, or an attack of wild beasts. Some exposed infants were rescued by passers-by, adopted and raised as children or as slaves, though many were left for dead.

When he returned, Lycus found Sophia splayed out on the floor, patches of hair missing, having been ripped from her head in a show a grief. In whispers, she issued abuses against the gods, her voice growing bold as she addressed the Fates themselves. “His thread was cut almost as quickly as it was spun!” Sophia cried aloud before falling silent, lying limp and defeated.

But her temper was unwarranted, for her son’s thread of life was not cut short. A traveling caravan, having spotted the clay pot, took the infant into their care. They intended to raise him as a slave, though they would find the child so enjoyable he would, in time, become their adopted son.

Lycus would wonder for years to come whether the gods, insulted by Sophia’s slanders, had ordered the Fates to redraw her thread, for Zeus was known to intervene in the pre-ordained fate of man from time to time. But he surmised the gods knew she would react in such a callow manner and that, in fact, Sophia had died that day of a broken heart. For on the day her son was exposed, she had fallen to the floor, overcome by her sorrow, never again to rise. “It was her fate,” Lycus would say.

Life: Caesarian (Part 1 of 2)

Circa 2nd century CE, Athens, Greece

When Sophia keeled over, clutching her belly while calling out to Artemis, goddess of childbirth, the household immediately knew what was to come. Sophia’s mother and sisters quickly began smearing the house with black pitch to protect against evil spirits; her husband sought out the midwife and her attendants who would oversee the delivery, and also informed their physician, Soranus, who would be called in case of emergency.

“I pray I do not hear from you again today,” Soranus said.

The day was a blessing Sophia feared would never come. She had surmised herself a woman of barren womb, having been betrothed for three years with no signs of a rounding belly. And besides, she possessed a smaller than average-sized head (for she was a woman of petite stature) and, upon closely inspecting her features in a mirror, she noticed her forehead protruded, albeit ever so slightly—these were both markers of infertility.

When Sophia consulted Soranus, lamenting her inability to conceive amid a gush of tears, he calmly explained the inner workings of her body, noting that all the body’s canals opened to the stomach. He advised her to conduct a fertility test, one devised by the pyramid-building Egyptians, which entailed inserting a piece of garlic into the vaginal canal.

“If your breath does not reek of garlic by morning,” he said, “then you may have a blockage inhibiting conception. But if the smell of garlic emanates from your mouth, a baby you can bear.” The following morning, to her delight, Sophia’s lips smacked of garlic.

Three months thereafter, Sophia believed herself pregnant, having exhibited traditional signs of pregnancy—shivering after intercourse, a heaviness of limbs, swollen and tender breasts, and a cessation of menses. She was overjoyed and immediately called back Soranus to help her determine whether she was, indeed, pregnant. He had her drink a solution of honey and water at bedtime; a distended belly and cramps indicated pregnancy. Though the aftereffects were mild—her belly appeared slightly bloated, and she felt minor discomfort in her abdomen—a wide grin overcame Soranus.

“Be of good cheer! You are pregnant!” he said. Sophia burst into salvoes of shrieks and laughter, happiness bubbling out riotously from her every limb.

“Excite not too much,” Soranus quickly warned. “You must take precautions in order that your husband’s seed not dislodge.” Strong emotions, including her current jubilance, as well as sudden movements such as coughing, sneezing, and falling down, were all forbidden. She was also warned not to sit on hard chairs, leap, or lift heavy weights.

As Sophia entered into the second phase of her pregnancy, which began at forty days, Soranus told of bizarre food cravings that typically inflicted his patients—a desire for charcoal, earth, tendrils of the vine, and unripe fruit. And when the third phase of pregnancy came, he prescribed increased exercise, food, and sleep in order to build up Sophia’s strength. He also wrapped linen bandages around her belly for support, which she removed only to take baths of wine and sweet-water, said to calm the expectant mother’s mind.

When the pangs of labor began, in Sophia’s 42nd week of pregnancy, the household was well prepared. The midwife came equipped with an array of tools for delivery: olive oil for lubrication, goose fat for injection to soften the genitalia, warm water and sea sponges for cleansing, wool bandages for swaddling the infant, strong smelling herbs in case of fainting, and a birthing stool.

After a half day of laboring, the baby had begun its descent. Sophia was given a drink sprinkled with powdered sow’s dung to help ease the pain, and she drank it with haste. She was then placed in the birthing stool, a backless seat with a crescent-shaped hole through which the baby would be delivered. One assistant stood behind her, acting as a back support against which Sophia could comfortably push. The midwife, covering herself with an apron, stood before her. Sophia clenched the armrests and, once it was time, pushed. And she did so for three hours while the attendants pressed down on her abdomen, and the midwife spoke words of encouragement, offering instructions on breathing and pushing, and massaging her genitals to help ease the pain of delivery.

When, after the third hour of pushing, the baby’s head was still not in view, and Sophia looked pale and fatigued, her limbs shaking violently, Soranus was called to assist. He rushed through the door, looking most concerned, and feared the worst for his patient. He took Sophia’s husband aside and spoke in whispers of a procedure called a Caesarian that entailed cutting into the abdomen of the mother in order to rescue the baby, its name having derived from the great emperor Julius Caesar himself who was said to have been delivered in this manner.

“This procedure is typically done in cases where the mother has died, though it has been performed on living mothers who are in grave danger. None that I know, however, have survived,” he frowned. “Though the baby will surely be saved.” Sophia’s husband slumped in anguish.

Many centuries before, when the Greeks dominated the globe, they refused to perform such procedures, despite their god Asclepius having been extracted from the womb. The same taboo existed for the Romans. Shortly after the founding of Rome, a law had been passed requiring a mother to be dead before cutting a child from her womb. In time, however, Caesarians were performed on living mothers, but only in the final month of pregnancy, the danger to the mother being so great. As Rome came to rule the Greek-speaking lands, Caesarians became acceptable in places such as Athens as well.

“The crown!” the midwife yelled.

Soranus rushed to the midwife’s side. Together they encouraged Sophia to push with all the might she had left.

“Wrap your hands in papyrus or cloth, whichever you have brought with you,” Soranus said to the midwife. “Lest the slick newborn slip right through your hands!”

The midwife did as she was instructed and, after a few more pushes that left Sophia drenched in sweat, the baby was born.

“It is a boy!” yelled Soranus with delight. The room came alive with merriment.

The midwife swaddled the infant and cut the umbilical cord. She cleansed the baby, sprinkling him with a powdery salt to soak up the birth residue, and then rinsed the child thoroughly. All the while, the attendants cleared mucus from the nose, mouth, and ears. They smeared olive oil on the infant’s eyes to clear away any remaining birth residue, and placed a piece of wool soaked in olive oil over the umbilical cord stump.

With Soranus peering over her shoulder, the midwife inspected the boy, looking for deformities, ensuring the child had a robust cry, and then made the assessment that the child was healthy. Over the next seven days, however, Sophia’s husband would further inspect their son, making the ultimate decision on whether to keep the boy, or expose him.

To be continued…

Seeing the Light

360 BCE, Athens, Greece

“Shut your eyes. Make certain your lids do not flutter; let no light seep in. I want you to imagine on a black canvas, envisioning the tale I am about to unfold against an untainted backdrop,” Solon said.

Cyrus closed his eyes without a flicker of hesitation. He relished in Solon’s philosophical parables, learned while attending the exclusive Academy of Athens where he studied among giants such as Plato, Aristotle and Eudoxus.

“Darkness abounds,” Cyrus said with an air of impatience.

“This tale was conceived by Plato himself. I am certain that, upon hearing it, you will gain a deeper understanding of our nature, and the nature of the universe.”

“Carry on, then,” Cyrus insisted.

“Very well. Imagine people living in an underground, cave-like dwelling deep beneath the earth, its mouth open to the sky,” he began, lowering his voice in a theatric manner. “These people have lived there since infancy, held captive by heavy, iron chains, their stiff backs fixed against a wall, their heads and necks fettered so they can see only straight ahead, never side to side, their dispirited stares constantly fixed upon the wall before them.

Above and behind them, an enormous fire constantly burns, and between the prisoners and the fire lies a dirt path with a tall ledge. Now imagine, behind this ledge there are people carrying a menagerie of objects—statues of people and animals made from wood, stone, and every other sort of material. These people hold their objects above their crowns so, while they themselves are hidden by the ledge, their objects rise above it. In this way, they are like puppeteers holding up their puppets. With the fire blazing behind them, these objects cast shadows on the wall before the prisoners, creating a fantastic shadow play, the figures moving and talking as their puppeteers move and talk.

All their lives, the prisoners have watched shadows cast by men whom they cannot see, and they have listened to their echoes—this world of shadows is the only world the prisoners know, for they have never seen anything besides. It is reasonable, then, to conclude that the prisoners would believe that the truth is nothing other than those objects shadow-playing on the wall, is it not?” Solon asked.

“That is a reasonable conclusion,” Cyrus nodded.

“Imagine, then, what would transpire if one of these prisoners was released, set free from his fetters, and ascended out of the cave. Upon seeing the light, he would be cured of his ignorance.

He would wish to tell his friends, but when shouting down to them from the mouth of the cave, he would appear as a grotesque, unfamiliar shadow on the wall, his echo bouncing about the cave, its sound strange and muffled. The prisoners would not recognize their friend, nor comprehend what he says. And because they will not make the same ascent out of the cave, they will never know the truth of the world—they will never see the light. But, though they will not know that world, it is not any less real.”

“That is certainly so!” Cyrus said with exuberance.

“Herein lies the lesson,” Solon said. “Now listen close. The prison dwelling represents the material realm. The material world consists of the things we apprehend with our senses—but like the shadows in the cave, it is not the real world. It is a mere reflection, a cast of shadows, whose existence can be attributed to something much greater, namely, an unseen world. This unseen world can only be accessed through an upward journey of the soul, like the prisoner’s upward journey out of the cave from darkness to light, and comprehended not by way of our eyes and ears, but through our intellect.

And this is our truth, my dear Cyrus: Seeing the world’s material shell alone is like living in darkness, never apprehending the world’s true essence. And so, we must all strive to see beyond the material realm to grasp the true nature of things, to see the world itself rather than its shadows, and hereby, we too will see the light.”

Excruciating

Jerusalem, Judea, 70 CE

The Roman Army approached Jerusalem with fury, intent on razing the city to its foundation. As they approached, the populace fell thick into the throes of panic—even the dead were felt trembling in their sepulchers. The city’s fate had been set uncompromisingly for war.

Four years prior, the region had been excited into rebellion as a result of religious tensions between the Greeks, who ruled the province of Judea under the auspices of the Roman Emperor, and the Jews. One incident in particular—the sacrificing of birds before a local synagogue—incited the Jews to throw stones and fists at their pagan compatriots, the sacrifice having been judged an abomination.

Rome chose to ignore Judea’s quarrelling, and the Jews responded in kind—Jerusalem’s High Priest ceased prayers to the Roman Emperor. Shortly thereafter, when the vexing issue of Rome’s taxation came up for debate, Jewish cries of outrage and injustice grew louder, and bolder. The Jews began taking out their wrath upon ordinary citizens, and the Roman Emperor retaliated with force, sending troop reinforcements from neighboring lands to squash the Jewish uprising. In this way, the province of Judea was thrust into full violence.

The Roman Army had been ordered to take the capital city of Jerusalem, though victory did not greet them, and they failed to bring down the city’s defenses. The legions set up camp just outside the city walls, busying their hands by polishing their helmets and whetting their spears until, finally, their general hatched a masterful idea.

“Dig! Dig!” chanted the general, having commanded his soldiers to dig a trench around the city walls, which would then be encircled by a new wall. “Any cowards seeking to escape our siege will fall into this trench and be confined by walls on either side,” he boasted. “No rebel will escape his fate!”

When Roman soldiers began building a rampart to access Jerusalem, the Jews foresaw their slaughter. Under the protection of darkness, they began scaling the city walls, swarming like bees, seeking to escape their deaths. But they became entrapped, falling straight into the trench, caught between two sets of walls before being fished out by teams of Roman soldiers clutching them by their collars.

“You solicited your death when you defied Rome!” the general sputtered. “And now you shall meet it,” he said, waving the shackled prisoners toward a long series of vertical, wooden beams pegged against the newly built wall. It was there that they would be hung—crucified—like the vilest of criminals.

“Forget not to strip their clothes!” the general yelled, bringing a huff to the mouths of his soldiers. While urinating and defecating in public added to the shame of crucifixion, the soldiers suffered as well, being forced to endure the stench, and teeming flies that flocked to it.

After stripping them to their bare skin, the soldiers first beat the legs of their prisoners with iron clubs. They either broke their limbs or rendered them unusable so there was no fight left in them. The prisoners were next paired with a large, horizontal beam of Acacia wood, along which each prisoner’s arms were outstretched. Amid screams of pure agony, the soldiers drove tapered, iron nails just above their wrists, between the two bones of the forearm, and into the beam. The beams were then attached to the vertical planks suspended along the wall, and the feet nailed down for good measure. In this way, the Roman Army encircled the holy city of Jerusalem with crucified Jews.

Crucifixion had been practiced in ages of old, long before the Roman Empire, and the empire of the Greeks before it. Some 800 years before, in fact, the Persians were said to have crucified captured pirates, believing the earth was sacred and the burial of tarnished, criminal souls would desecrate the ground. Alexander the Great, who overran the Persian Empire, adopted several Persian customs, crucifixion among them. It was rumored that he crucified a discordant general, as well as a doctor whose treatment failed to restore life to a friend. But his most extravagant display of crucifixion came after a battle at Tyre, a Persian stronghold on the shores of the Mediterranean. Alexander had 2,000 combative Tyrian citizens crucified, their bodies hung with nails along an expansive stretch of sand, punishment for their refusal to surrender after an unusually lengthy and frustrating battle. But it was from the Carthaginians on the northern coast of Africa, where crucifixion was commonly imposed on generals after suffering massive defeat, that the Romans gained their knowledge of this practice, and throughout the Roman Empire, slaves, criminals and rebels—the dregs of society—were often forced to die in this most disgraceful way.

In the eyes of the rebels, the cruelty of their situation was amplified by the fact that Jewish law allowed only four modes of execution—stoning, burning, strangulation and decapitation—with crucifixion being strictly forbidden; their last breaths were drawn while defying their God’s law. The non-Jewish citizens of Judea beheld a cruelty of similar weight, being forced to witness Roman soldiers, who sought to amuse themselves, hang prisoners in different, compromising positions. Some were hung upside down, with their heads to the ground; others were pegged to an X-shaped cross with their legs wide open; and still others had their genitals impaled.

Commotion overtook the city as the crucified issued high-pitched howls, their pain excruciating (literally, “out of crucifying”). All the while, the soldiers reveled in laughter.

“Perhaps they should be thankful they will not be alive to see what is to come,” one soldier quipped. He cuffed his hand to his mouth, as if about to whisper, and then yelled, “Seeing that their Temple is now to be razed!” The howling along the wall grew louder, reaching a deafening pitch, compelling the soldiers to quickly build small fires along their path, the smoke asphyxiating the crucified, quieting their uproar as fast as it rose up.

Barbarians at the Gate

Rome, Italia, 452 CE

Valentinian III was the son, grandson, great-grandson, cousin and nephew (twice over) of Roman Emperors, but to his family’s chagrin, he inherited little, if any, of their kingly attributes. He was neither a great ruler nor a fine general, but he did, nonetheless, ascend the throne, becoming the Roman Emperor of the West. To the people’s delight, and their great luck, Valentinian’s mother proved a strong ruler, and his Master of Soldiers was well-endowed with military talents, desperately needed in the empire’s struggle against barbarian warlords who were attacking from every angle.

The empire had already been divided in two – the East and the West – each assigned its own emperor who found ruling a smaller swath of land more manageable in the face of barbarian encroachment. The emperors offered the barbarians land on which to settle in exchange for cooperation in military matters. But one tribe coming from the Far East, the barbarian nation of the Huns, seemed less interested in alliance, favoring conquest instead.

“Oh, mother, perhaps you worry too much about Attila. He was, after all, unable to take Constantinople,” Valentinian said, spitting a grape seed to the floor as he lied long on a plush, purple couch with ivory legs. His mother marched toward him with haste.

“If the heart of the Eastern Empire eludes him, would he not turn to the heart of the West?” she exclaimed, her cheeks burning with anger.

Atilla and his people had emigrated to Europe with malicious intent, using mounted archery and javelin throwing to overtake many lands, their dominion stretching from the Ural River in the east to the Rhine River in the west, and from the Danube River in the north to the Baltic Sea in the south. But when they marched upon the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, Constantinople, they were forced to admit defeat, unable to penetrate the city’s double walls. Rome’s fortification, however, was weaker.

“Offer them land in Italia’s northern provinces and be done with it,” Valentinian quipped.

“Have my words fallen upon deaf ears?” his mother cried. “Atilla does not want to be appeased. He wants to conquer!”

Valentinian snapped back, his tone over-bearing. “For now, we know he is occupied in Gaul where he is on the losing side of luck. So let us not worry until there is a rightful reason to worry.”

His mother sighed with discontent.

“In any case, I have not called you here to talk of Atilla,” Valentinian said, softening his voice. “I have great news to share regarding my lovely daughter, Honoria. I have arranged for her marriage,” he said, smiling sweetly.

His mother cocked her head with surprise.

“She shall wed a wealthy Senator, Aelius Grata.”

“And what does she say of this arrangement?”

“It is not her place to say anything, but as you know, Honoria’s stubborn heart could not help but raise a protest. She has barricaded herself in her room. She is weeping, I am sure, about all the injustices of her royal life,” he smirked.

On the opposite end of the palace, in a spacious, cylindrical room, Honoria sat hunched over a roll of parchment, furiously scribbling as she wept. With such sumptuous apple cheeks and foe-like eyes, she could have any man of her choosing. Aelius Grata, with his beastly appearance, was nowhere near her heart’s desire. To remedy her situation, and to spite her father, Honoria would write a letter to Atilla the Hun, asking him to come rescue her.

Upon receipt, Atilla shrieked, “We must march toward Rome!” He read Honoria’s letter with delight, interpreting her request as a marriage proposal whose dowry would entitle him to the Western Roman Empire. Atilla gathered his troops in Gaul and began marching south toward Rome.

When they arrived at the city’s wall, made of brick-faced concrete piled fifty feet high, Valentinian’s mother began panting, panic having seized her mind. “Oh Heavens! I warned of this!” she bellowed while racing like a maddened woman up and down the palace corridor.

Valentinian rushed to the window. “Barbarians at the gate! Barbarians at the gate!” he shouted.

Being utterly unprepared, for Rome’s troops were engaged elsewhere in the empire, Valentinian was forced to send three envoys, the Bishop of Rome among them, to negotiate peace with Atilla. The bishop spoke of divine punishment, which had been executed before on barbarians seeking to sack the great city of Rome. The bishop’s words stirred Atilla’s superstitious soul and he peacefully retreated, leaving Rome with a bitter heart.

Two years later years later, Atilla met his death. But it was not long after – less than twenty-five years – that the Western Roman Empire fell to a barbarian tribe. And when a man of Hunnic descent became Italia’s first barbarian king, divine wrath was nowhere to be felt.

Easter Eggs

33 CE, Rome, Italia

Mary Magdalene had been preaching across the Roman Empire for many months, having set off from Judea accompanied by a handful of friends and twice as many horses. She shared the good news of Jesus and the kingdom of God to all ends of the earth, being met with much anger and disbelief, for the empire was full of pagans. Having come to Rome, she sought counsel with Emperor Tiberius Caesar, with whom she received banquet due to her position as a woman of wealth. She had been welcomed into his palace on the Palatine Hill and seated inside a rectangular room with a colorful marble floor and exquisite mural paintings. As she waited, she thought back to the crucifixion of Jesus, remembering the anguish she felt as he suffered on the cross. But his defeat was, in fact, a victory.

Hundreds of moons before, as new foliage had begun springing forth from the dead of winter, Mary and her fellow disciples had stood beneath the cross on which Jesus hung. He had been arrested in Gethsemane, stood trial and was charged with sedition, having claimed to be the son of God, a blasphemous declaration in the eyes of the priests. He was flogged, crowned with thorns and made to carry a heavy wooden cross to the outskirts of the city, to the Place of the Skull, a field of public execution named for the hundreds of abandoned skulls strewn across its landscape. There he was nailed to a cross, crucified between two common criminals, and left to die from blood loss, dehydration or infection – whichever greeted him first.

The multitude mocked Jesus as he hung, some beat their breasts, but Mary simply wept. She had brought with her a handful of belongings – her cloak whose pockets were filled with various ointments, a basket of cooked eggs for hunger and a small vessel of water for thirst – and neatly laid them at the foot of the cross so she could weep into her hands. She grieved for six hours as Jesus hung limp on the cross until, at the third hour of daylight, his head fell to his chest and life left his limbs.

After Jesus had been taken down from the cross, Mary gathered her belongings. She saw her eggs had been painted red, the blood of Jesus having dripped down upon her basket. The sight of them – a testament to his suffering – made her sink further into sorrow and she wailed with anguish.

That evening, Joseph of Arimathea, accompanied by Mary and a group of women disciples, received the body of Jesus, which they would prepare for burial. They wrapped the body in linen and laid it in a tomb secured with the seal of a stone.

Days later, after observing the Sabbath, Mary and the women returned to the tomb of Jesus. Mary carried with her a mixture of myrrh and aloes, which they would use to anoint the body, water for thirst, and a basket of cooked eggs for hunger since they planned to stay and mourn. When they walked upon the tomb, the sealing stone had been moved and an angelic figure, white as light, told them that Jesus had risen, as he said he would.

As the women ran from the tomb, eager to tell the apostles the news, Jesus appeared to them. At that moment, all the eggs in Mary’s basket turned from white to blood red. She instantly understood: the painted eggs symbolized the blood he shed on the cross, their hard outer shells represented the tomb in which he had lain, and their cracking symbolized his resurrection. Mary whispered a prayer over her basket of eggs, in thanks to the Lord who stood before her who had imparted this knowledge to her.

“Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me,” Jesus said to the women.

Mary went and told the disciples what had happened. “He is not here but has risen!” she exclaimed. And this she declared to every man, woman and child she had encountered over the next many months, preaching the word of God and the news of the resurrection across the empire. And this, too, she planned to tell Emperor Tiberius Caesar.

When Tiberius entered the room, he was gloomy in appearance – his eyes sunken, his skin pale and his thin lips tense and tuned downward. Servants rushed to his side, offering the pair tea, almonds, small rolls and cooked eggs on beautiful dishes plated with gold. As they were served, Mary began explaining the events that had unfolded in Judea. “Jesus has risen!” she said.

Tiberius grumbled. “Jesus has no more risen than that egg is red,” he said, motioning to her plate. Mary’s face became flushed, exuberance having risen up in her, as her egg had miraculously turned red.

From that moment, the egg took on new meaning, becoming more than a symbol of rebirth – to Mary and her fellow Christians, the egg symbolized the rebirth of mankind. Prior to this, eggs had been given to friends during moments of rebirth – in the springtime, on birthdays and to celebrate the New Year – but Christians began gifting eggs to one another on the anniversary of Jesus’ resurrection. And while eggs had been boiled with flowers to change their shade, the color red came to represent the blood of Christ. And so, as Mary continued to preach the gospel of Jesus, Christians began the tradition of dying eggs in celebration of the resurrection of their Lord.

Backstab

Circa 10 BCE, Pompeii, Italia

Lucius took rest in the shade of his villa, distancing himself from summer’s stagnant heat, its dense, oppressive air lurking just outside his windows. He lived in one of Pompeii’s most elaborate villas, boasting twenty-four rooms built around a peristyle, open to the sky and framed by fluted Doric columns. The peristyle was of such massive size it housed a sycamore tree at its center, its mottled, exfoliating bark being the only ungroomed feature in the courtyard. Spread out over the grounds were fountains, most with carved heads of wild beasts spitting water, and bronze statues of cupids, satyrs and the gods with copper lips and silver teeth that shimmered in the sun. Lucius was a wealthy man, once a powerful politician in Rome.

The villa’s outer walls featured arched windows, the north-facing ones framing Mt. Vesuvius whose incline was thickly covered with red grapes, like moss on rock. The inner walls had painted architecture, mostly windows with idyllic views for added depth, while others were painted to look like marble. One room, however, featured genuine black marble walls – in this room, Lucius would meet with Rome’s lawmakers who sought his opinion on current affairs.

Lucius and his son entered the black marble room. They trod through a shallow splash pool set before the doorway, their feet making sloshing noises as their leather slippers became soaked. They walked beside their reflections, which sprung forth from the shiny, black marble walls that doubled as mirrors. And they meandered along the curved walls, past several simply carved niches in which Lucius would stand when discussing matters of politics. They approached the fountain at the room’s center, which his son admired for the many springs that arched out from its top before cascading into a large basin inhabited by miniature dolphins cast in bronze.

“Father, why is this room so strange?” Lucius’ son asked. “There is no other room like it in this villa.”

Lucius stared down at his son and smiled sweetly. “You have heard the tale of Julius Caesar, my boy,” he said, combing his son’s long, wild hair with his fingers.

“He was attacked by sixty fellow Senators who hid daggers beneath their cloaks. They say he was cut twenty-three times, stabbed in the back by his compatriots.”

“Forgive me, father, if I seem dense. But what does the assassination of Julius Caesar have to do with this room?” his son asked.

“My dear son, I shall speak plainly. The death of Caesar made it clear to every lawmaker in Rome – no one can be trusted. This is why this room is as it is. The splash pool at the doorway is so I can hear when anyone enters. The mirrored walls are so I can see all around me. This fountain and the rustle of its running water ensures no one can overhear my private conversations, and the niches in the walls are so I can stand somewhere with my own back protected. You can never know, my son, who might stab you in the back.”