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.”