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.”