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!”