by Daisy Dunn
Now he leaned over the bed, with a horned head on human limbs, lowing with the voice of a bull, the very likeness of bullhorned Dionysos. Again, he put on a shaggy lion’s form; or he was a panther, as one who begets a bold son, driver of panthers and charioteer of lions. Again, as a young bridegroom he bound his hair with coiling snakes and vine-leaves intertwined, and twisted purple ivy about his locks, the plaited ornament of Bacchos. A writhing serpent crawled over the trembling bride and licked her rosy neck with gentle lips, then slipping into her bosom girdled the circuit of her firm breasts, hissing a wedding tune, and sprinkled her with sweet honey of the swarming bees instead of the viper’s deadly poison. Zeus made long wooing, and shouted “Euoi!” as if the winepress were near, as he begat his son who would love the cry. He pressed love-mad mouth to mouth, and beaded up delicious nectar, an intoxicating bedfellow for Semele, that she might bring forth a son to hold the sceptre of nectareal vintage. As a presage of things to come, he lifted the careforgetting grapes resting his laden arm on the firebringing fennel; or again, he lifted a thyrsus twined about with purple ivy, wearing a deerskin on his back—the lovesick wearer shook the dappled fawnskin with his left arm.
All the earth laughed: a viny growth with self-sprouting leaves ran round Semele’s bed; the walls budded with flowers like a dewy meadow, at the begetting of Bromios; Zeus lurking inside rattled his thunderclaps over the unclouded bed, foretelling the drums of Dionysos in the night. And after the bed, he saluted Semele with loving words, consoling his bride with hopes of things to come:
“My wife, I your bridegroom am Cronides. Lift up your neck in pride at this union with a heavenly bedfellow; and look not among mankind for any child higher than yours. Danaë’s wedding does not rival you. You have thrown into the shade even the union of your father’s sister with her Bull; for Europa glorified by Zeus’s bed went to Crete, Semele goes to Olympos. What more do you want after heaven and the starry sky? People will say in the future, Zeus gave honour to Minos in the underworld, and to Dionysos in the heavens! Then after Autonoë’s mortal son and Ino’s child—one downed by his dogs, one to be killed by a sonslaying father’s winged arrow—after the shortlived son of mad Agauë, you bring forth a son who shall not die, and you I will call immortal. Happy woman! you have conceived a son who will make mortals forget their troubles, you shall bring forth joy for gods and men.”
Envy struck Zeus’ wife Hera, who proceeded to strike pregnant Semele with a thunderbolt. The messenger god Hermes rescued the baby from his mother’s womb and gave him to Zeus to incubate in his thigh until he reached full term. Dionysus was therefore known as ‘Twice Born’.
INTRIGUES AT THE PALACE
Secret History
Procopius
Translated by Richard Atwater, 1961
The Secret History is one of the most salacious books from antiquity. Written by a prominent Christian historian, Procopius of Caesarea (c. AD 500–c. 554), in the mid-sixth century AD, it describes life in the Late Eastern Roman Empire under Emperor Justinian and his wife Theodora. While Procopius elsewhere documented Justinian’s wars and building projects without malice, in this book he let loose. Justinian is a cruel villain; Theodora a harlot. The author is no kinder in his characterisation of the wife of his patron Belisarius. Antonina, the daughter of a charioteer and theatre actress, is described as having used magic to charm Belisarius into marrying her, only to prove shamefully unfaithful to him. Procopius had served under Belisarius in Justinian’s war on the Vandals in North Africa, and his loyalty to his former commander is patent. The Constantine referred to in this story is an officer of Belisarius, and Photius is Antonina’s son by a previous relationship.
There was a youth from Thrace in the house of Belisarius: Theodosius by name, and of the Eunomian heresy by descent. On the eve of his expedition to Libya, Belisarius baptized this boy in holy water and received him in his arms as a member henceforth of the family, welcoming him with his wife as their son, according to the Christian rite of adoption. And Antonina not only embraced Theodosius with reasonable fondness as her son by holy word, and thus cared for him, but soon, while her husband was away on his campaign, became wildly in love with him; and, out of her senses with this malady, shook off all fear and shame of God and man. She began by enjoying him surreptitiously, and ended by dallying with him in the presence of the men servants and waiting maids. For she was now possessed by passion and, openly overwhelmed with love, could see no hindrance to its consummation.
Once, in Carthage, Belisarius caught her in the very act, but allowed himself to be deceived by his wife. Finding the two in an underground room, he was very angry; but she said, showing no fear or attempt to keep anything hidden, “I came here with the boy to bury the most precious part of our plunder, where the Emperor will not discover it.” So she said by way of excuse, and he dismissed the matter as if he believed her, even as he saw Theodosius’s trousers belt somewhat unmodestly unfastened. For so bound by love for the woman was he, that he preferred to distrust the evidence of his own eyes.
As her folly progressed to an indescribable extent, those who saw what was going on kept silent, except one slave, Macedonia by name. When Belisarius was in Syracuse as the conqueror of Sicily, she made her master swear solemnly never to betray her to her mistress, and then told him the whole story, presenting as witnesses two slave boys attending the bed-chamber.
When he heard this, Belisarius ordered one of his guards to put Theodosius away; but the latter learned of this in time to flee to Ephesus. For most of the servants, inspired by the weakness of the husband’s character, were more anxious to please his wife than to show loyalty to him, and so betrayed the order he had given. But Constantine, when he saw Belisarius’s grief at what had befallen him, sympathized entirely except to comment, ‘‘I would have tried to kill the woman rather than the young man.” Antonina heard of this, and hated him in secret. How malicious was her spite against him shall be shown; for she was a scorpion who could hide her sting.
But not long after this, by the enchantment either of philtres or of her caresses, she persuaded her husband that the charges against her were untrue. Without more ado he sent word to Theodosius to return, and promised to turn Macedonia and the two slave boys over to his wife. She first cruelly cut out their tongues, it is said, and then cut their bodies into little bits which were put into sacks and thrown into the sea. One of her slaves, Eugenius, who had already wrought the outrage on Silverius, helped her in this crime.
And it was not long after this that Belisarius was persuaded by his wife to kill Constantine. What happened at that time concerning Presidius and the daggers I have narrated in my previous books. For while Belisarius would have preferred to let Constantine alone, Antonina gave him no peace until his remark, which I have just repeated, was avenged. And as a result of this murder, much enmity was aroused against Belisarius in the hearts of the Emperor and all the most important of the Romans.
So matters progressed. But Theodosius said he was unable to return to Italy, where Belisarius and Antonina were now staying, unless Photius were put out of the way. For this Photius was the sort who would bite if anyone got the better of him in anything, and he had reason to be choked with indignation at Theodosius. Though he was the rightful son, he was utterly disregarded while the other grew in power and riches, they say that from the two palaces at Carthage and Ravenna Theodosius had taken plunder amounting to a hundred centenaries, as he alone had been given the management of these conquered properties.
But Antonina, when she learned of Theodosius’s fear, never ceased laying snares for her son and planning deadly plots against his welfare, until he saw he would have to escape to Constantinople if he wished to live. Then Theodosius came to Italy and her. There they stayed in the satisfaction of their love, unhindered by the complaisant husband; and later she took them both to Constantinople. There Theodosius became so worried lest the affair became generally known, that he was at his wit’s end. He saw it would be imposs
ible to fool everybody, as the woman was no longer able to conceal her passion and indulge it secretly, but thought nothing of being in fact and in reputation an avowed adulteress.
Therefore he went back to Ephesus, and having his head shaved after the religious custom, became a monk. Whereupon Antonina, insane over her loss, exhibited her grief by donning mourning; and went around the house shrieking and wailing, lamenting even in the presence of her husband what a good friend she had lost, how faithful, how tender, how loving, how energetic! In the end, even her spouse was won over to join in her sorrow. And so the poor wretch wept too, calling for his beloved Theodosius. Later he even went to the Emperor and implored both him and the Empress, till they consented to summon Theodosius to return, as one who was and would always be a necessity in the house of Belisarius.
But Theodosius refused to leave his monastery, saying he was completely resolved to give himself forever to the cloistered life. This noble pronouncement, however, was not entirely sincere, for he was aware that as soon as Belisarius left Constantinople, it would be possible for him to come secretly to Antonina. Which, indeed, he did.
Antonina continues her affair with the young man, aided by the Empress Theodora, who conceals him in the palace for her until his premature death from dysentery.
A MEETING WITH LADY PHILOSOPHY
The Consolation of Philosophy
Boethius
Translated by Queen Elizabeth I, 1593
Boethius was born in Rome in the late fifth century AD at around the time the last Western emperor was deposed. A Christian, he also had a keen scholarly interest in paganism, particularly ancient Greek philosophy, which he cultivated in his work. Boethius saw Italy come under the sway of an Ostrogothic king named Theodoric, under whom he served as magister officiorum (Master of Offices) until he was arrested on suspicion of being implicated in treasonous acts. It was while he was in his cell that Boethius wrote his Consolation of Philosophy. The dialogue, in which Boethius converses with a personification of Philosophy, was especially popular in the Middle Ages and Renaissance. Queen Elizabeth I produced the translation from which this extract comes in 1593 when she was sixty years old. Her decision to translate the text (provided here in a modern-spelling version) has sometimes been seen as a reflection of her anxieties and frustrations upon hearing that year of the conversion of King Henri IV of France to Catholicism. Boethius was ultimately tortured and executed.
Meter 1
[…]
The glory once of happy, greeny youth,
Now Fates of grunting age, my comfort all.
Unlooked-for Age, hied by mishaps, is come,
And Sorrow bids his time to add withal;
Unseasoned, hoary hairs upon my head are poured,
And loosèd skin in feeble body shakes.
Blessèd Death, that in sweetest years refrains,
But, oft called, comes to the woeful wights;
O with how deaf ear she from wretched, wries,
And wailing eyes, cruel, to shut denies.
While guileful Fortune with vading goods did cheer,
My life well nigh the doleful hour bereaved;
When her false look a cloud hath changed,
My wretched life, thankless abode protracts.
Why me so oft, my friends, have you happy called?
Who falleth down, in steady step yet never stood.
Prose 1
While of all this, alone in silence I bethought me, and tears-full
complaint in style’s office meant, over my head to stand a woman did
appear. Of stately face, with flaming eyes of insight above the
common worth of men; of fresh color and unwon strength, though
yet so old she were that of our age she seemed not be one. Her stature
such as scarce could be discerned, for somewhile she scanted her to
the common stature of men, straight she seemed with crown of head
the heavens to strike; and lifting up the same higher, the heavens
themselves she entered, beguiling the sight of lookers-on.
Her weeds they were of smallest threads, perfect for fine
workmanship and lasting substance as, after by herself I knew, was by
her hands all wrought. Whose form, as to smoky images is wont, a
certain dimness of despised antiquity overwhelmed. Of these weeds,
in the lowest skirts π, in the upper side a θ, was read, all woven.
And between both letters, ladder-wise, certain steps were marked, by
which, from lowest to highest element, ascent there was. Yet that self
garment the hands of violent men had torn and pieces such as get
they could, away they stole. Her right hand held a book, the left a
scepter.
Who, when she spied poets’ Muses standing by my bed, and to my
tears inditing words, somewhat moved, inflamed with gloating eyes:
“Who suffered,” quoth she, “these stage’s harlots approach this sick
man, which not only would not ease his sorrow with no remedies, but
with sweet venom nourish them? These they be, that with barren
affections’ thorns destroys the full ears of reason’s fruit, and men’s
minds with disease inures, not frees. But if of vain man, as vulgar
wonts, your allurements had deprived me, with less grief had I
borne it. For by such, our work had got no harm. But this man have
you touched, whom Stoic and Academic study brought out. Get you
away, Sirens, sweet till end be seen. To my Muses leave him for cure
and health.”
To this, the checked rabble, with look downcast with woe, with
blush confessing shame, doleful out of doors they went. But I, whose
sight, drowned in tears, was dimmed, could not know what she was,
of so imperious rule; and settling my eyes on ground, what she would
more do, in silence I attended. Then she, drawing near, on my bed’s
feet sat down. And viewing my look of heavy woe and with my dole
to the earth thrown down, in verses these, of my mind’s pain,
complaineth thus:
Meter 2
Oh, in how headlong depth the drowned mind is dimmed;
And, losing light, her own, to others’ darkness turns,
As oft as, driv’n with earthly flaws, the harmful care upward grows.
Once this man, free in open field, used the skies to view:
Of ros[y] sun the light beheld,
Of frosty moon the planets saw;
And what star else runs her wonted course,
Bending by many circles, this man had won
By number to know them all,
Yea, causes each: whence roaring winds the seas perturbs;
Acquainted with the spirit that rolls the steady world;
And why the star that falls to the Hesperia’s waters
From his reddy root doth raise herself;
Who that gives the spring’s mild hours their temper,
That with rosy flowers the earth be decked;
Who made the fertile autumn, at fullness of the year,
Abound with grape, all swoll’n with ripest fruits.
He, wonted to search and find sundry causes of hidden Nature,
Down lies, of mind’s light bereaved,
With bruisèd neck, by overheavy chains,
A-bowèd-low look, by weight-bearing
Driven, alas, the seely earth behold.
Prose 2
“But fitter time,” quoth she, “for medicine than complaint.” Then,
fixing on me her steady eyes: “Art thou the same,” quoth she, “who
once nourished with my milk, fed with our food, art grown to
strength of manly mind? On whom we bestowed such weapons as, if
thou hadst not cast away, had saved thee with invincible strength?
Dost thou me know? Why art thou dumb? Is it shame or wonder
makes thee silent?” But when she spied me not only still but
wordless and dumb, on my breast gently laid her hand. Said: “There
is no danger; he is entered in a lethargy, a common disease of mind
distract. He hath a little forgotten himself. Easily his memory will
return when first he hath remembered me. And, that he may, a little
let us wipe his eyes overdimmed with cloud of earthly things.” Thus
speaking, my eyes flowing with tears, folding her garment, she dried.
Meter 3
Then night o’erblown, the darkness left me,
And former strength unto my eyes returned.
As when the heav’ns astound with headlong wind,
And pole amidst the cloudy mists,
The sun is hid, and in the heav’ns appears no stars:
From high, the night on earth is spread.
The same if Boreas, sent from his Thracian den,
Doth strike and opens the hidden day.
Shines out, and with his sudden light, Phoebus, shaken,
With his beams strikes all lookers-on.
Prose 3
No otherwise, mists of my woe dissolved, to heaven I reached, and
raised my mind to know my curer’s face. Then, when on her I rolled
my eyes, and look I fixed, my nurse I saw, in whose retired rooms in
my youth I dwelt. “And how,” quoth I, “art thou come to the
solitariness of our exile, O pedagogue of all virtues? Fallen from the
highest step, shalt thou with me be tormented too with false