Uncategorized

How perverse of Krawczuk to end his story here without giving us the conclusion of the love of Titus and Berenice. Perhaps he wanted us to pick up Cassius Dio and find it for ourselves? But Cassius gives us very little. Four years after Vespasian seized the throne, Berenice and her brother, King Herod Agrippa II, came to Rome:

Berenice was at the very height of her power and consequently came to Rome along with her brother Agrippa. The latter was given the rank of praetor while she dwelt in the palace, cohabiting with Titus. She expected to marry him and was already behaving in every respect as if she were his wife, but when he perceived that the Romans were displeased with the situation, he sent her away. (Cassius Dio, Roman History, LXV 15).

That’s it.

Racine gives us more, imagining their good bye:

TITUS

N’accablez point, Madame, un prince malheureux ;

Il ne faut point ici nous attendrir tous deux.

Un trouble assez cruel m’agite et me dévore,

Sans que des pleurs si chers me déchirent encore.

Rappelez bien plutôt ce coeur, qui tant de fois

M’a fait de mon devoir reconnaître la voix.

Il en est temps. Forcez votre amour à se taire,

Et d’un oeil que la gloire et la raison éclaire,

Contemplez mon devoir dans toute sa rigueur.

Vous-même contre vous fortifiez mon coeur.

Aidez-moi, s’il se peut, à vaincre sa faiblesse,

À retenir des pleurs qui m’échappent sans cesse.

Ou si nous ne pouvons commander à nos pleurs,

Que la gloire du moins soutienne nos douleurs,

Et que tout l’univers reconnaisse sans peine

Les pleurs d’un empereur, et les pleurs d’une reine.

Car enfin, ma Princesse, il faut nous séparer.

BÉRÉNICE.

Ah cruel ! Est-il temps de me le déclarer ?

Qu’avez-vous fait ? Hélas ! Je me suis crue aimée.

Au plaisir de vous voir mon âme accoutumée

Ne vit plus que pour vous. Ignoriez-vous vos lois,

Quand je vous l’avouai pour la première fois ?

À quel excès d’amour m’avez-vous amenée ?

Que ne me disiez-vous : Princesse infortunée,

Où vas-tu t’engager, et quel est ton espoir ?

Ne donne point un coeur, qu’on ne peut recevoir.

Ne l’avez-vous reçu, cruel, que pour le render

Quand de vos seules mains ce coeur voudrait dépendre?

Which we might translate along these lines:

TITUS

Madame, do not kick a man when he is down.

And let’s not wallow in self-pity.

It’s cruel enough that this pain devours me

And robs me of my strength.

Instead, please remember that I have always

Obeyed the call of duty.

Now, such a time has come, and our love must yield.

Let’s examine with the eye of reason

My duty in all its cursed harshness.

Set your own grievance aside and try to help me here.

Strengthen my heart, drive away its weakness,

Stop my tears which, once they begin to flow, may never stop.

Or if we cannot stop them, then at least

May our pride in our own virtue sustain us in our grief.

Let all the world intuit unseen

These tears of an emperor and of his queen.

My Princess, we must part.

BERENICE

Oh, cruel man! How you wound my heart!

What have you done? I believed you.

I believed that I was loved! My soul, delighted in

Your sweet presence and lived only for you.

Where were your Roman laws then

When you first told me of your love?

Did you say: “Oh, unfortunate Princess,

How naïve are your hopes! Do not be deceived,

Do not give a heart that cannot be received.”

Did you receive it only to throw it away so

Without ever warning me?

Photo: Anne-Marie Duff in Berenice at the Donmar Warehouse, London. Photograph: Johan Persson

The Book (Rome and Jerusalem) is here:

Titus, engraving by unknown, after Aegidius Sadeler II, after Titian

To illustrate “Rome and Jerusalem” we decided to use “The Eleven Caesars” series of engravings by hand unknown, published in London by Thomas Bakewell, between 1700 and 1799 and placed in the public domain by the Wellcome Trust.

These engravings were themselves copies of the engravings by Aegidius Sadeler II’s (1570–1629), a Flemish engraver principally active at the Prague court of Rudolf II. They in turn were based on a series of painted half-length portraits of eleven Roman emperors made by Titian in 1536-1540 for Federico II, Duke of Mantua.

The imaginary portraits, inspired by the Lives of Caesars by Suetonius, were among Titian’s best-known works. The paintings were originally housed in a purpose-built room inside the Palazzo Ducale di Mantova. Bernardino Campi added a twelfth portrait in 1562. Between 1627 and 1628 the paintings were sold to Charles I of England by Vincenzo II Gonzaga in perhaps the single most famous collection acquisition in European history, and when the Royal Collection of Charles I was broken up and sold after his execution by the English Commonwealth, the Eleven Caesars passed in 1651 into the collection of Philip IV of Spain. They were all destroyed in a catastrophic fire at the Royal Alcazar of Madrid in 1734, and are now only known from copies and engravings.

https://amzn.to/4lplW5E

[Vespasian] was welcomed with great solemnity and enthusiasm. After all, he was the first emperor in history to visit the proud capital of Egypt. Yes, in August of 30 BC, Octavian entered its gates, by then the absolute ruler of the entire Empire, but he was not yet an Emperor: he was to receive the title of Augustus only three years later. Moreover, Octavian appeared on Egyptian soil not as a welcome guest but as a conqueror and victor over Cleopatra, the last rightful ruler of the country.

Thereafter, for almost a hundred years, no emperor appeared in Alexandria. It is true that Nero had had such an intention. Some preparations were even made, and a special bathhouse was built in which Caecinus Tuscus dared to bathe, paying for it with dismissal from office. However, political disturbances thwarted Nero’s plans for the historical journey up the Nile. And although in the last days of his reign, he hoped to escape to Egypt, and even went to Ostia and spent the night of June 8-9 in the Servilian Gardens, it was all too late. Neither did the self-proclaimed Nero from the island of Kythnos ever reach the shores of the Nile.

But Vespasian arrived in Alexandria also as the first Roman Emperor hailed here. The inhabitants were well aware of the importance of the act that had taken place in their city just six months earlier, on July 1, 69. They proudly proclaimed that they had done the right thing then and that both Fate and the gods had since favored their decision. The recent victory at Bedriacum clearly proved this.

News about the wonderful victory caused genuine joy among the masses. Everyone knew well what terrible revenge Vitellius would have taken on Alexandria if he had won: he would have crushed the city that had initiated the rebellion mercilessly! There were many reasons for sincere joy. This one was the most important among them: their emperor, who owed so much to Alexandria, was expected to shower the city with privileges and favors—and many of its representatives especially. Therefore, huge crowds gathered in front of the eastern gate and at the hippodrome to see their chosen as soon as possible and give him a stormy ovation. It was the same hippodrome in which, several months earlier, their Prefect Tiberius Alexander announced their new emperor to the people. And now here they stood: city aldermen, councilors and advisors, priests of all legally recognized cults, scholars of the Museon, representatives of guilds and charitable associations, as well as delegations from all the administrative districts across the country.

We have already mentioned the preserved fragments of the papyrus describing the ceremony. The Prefect, turning to the people, thundered:

“All power and might to our emperor!”

And to the people, he presented him as a deity who finally deigned to reveal himself:

“Here is Vespasian, our savior and benefactor, the emerging sun!”[1]

Of course, all these Greek terms: soter—savior, euergetes— benefactor, helios anatellon—the rising sun, had their own ancient tradition in the Hellenistic religion. They were generously and easily showered on almost every ruler because… they cost nothing. Fifty years earlier, the residents of Alexandria welcomed with those same monickers someone who was only a member of the ruling family.

He was Germanicus, appointed by Emperor Tiberius as the governor of the East. Terrified by these exaggerated titles, which could arouse suspicion on the part of the always distrustful emperor, Germanicus immediately reprimanded the flatterers with a threatening edict:

I accept the kindness you show me at every meeting. However, I firmly reject such epithets. They arouse envy by putting me on equal standing with the gods. They befit only the benefactor of all mankind, my father, and his mother (Tiberius and Livia). Your acclamations are an insult to their divinity. I forbid them. And if you are disobedient in this matter, I will never visit you again![2]

These terms—savior, benefactor, rising sun—were soon to be appropriated by Christianity. They would enter the liturgical language of the Church and remain part of it down to the present. Few, beyond a handful of researchers, are aware of their lineage, the circumstances and political implications of their original meaning, and what factors contributed to their widespread dissemination in the Greco-Roman world.

Vespasian, as emperor, was fully entitled to these divine names, and for the reasons already indicated, the Prefect’s invocation met with a lively response from the people. Tens of thousands of citizens of the metropolis filling the huge hippodrome responded with loud cheers and applause, loudly chanting and repeating over and over the Greek words:

Kyrie hemon, Euerget, Sebaste, Serapis!

That is:

“Our Lord, Our Benefactor, Augustus, Serapis!”

And Serapis was the most revered deity of Alexandria. There were also cries here and there calling Vespasian the son of the god Ammon or simply—a god.

Next, various important guests delivered short speeches, probably in Latin, since protocol contains the Latin words of the Prefect: “The Emperor says that he wishes you health!”

This line, too, was greeted with a storm of applause.

[1] Papyrus Fouad, 1, 8

[2] A.S. Hunt, C.C. Edgar, Select Papyri, v I,  II no. 211

https://amzn.to/4lplW5E

A labor of love. If you are following the series, tell me what you think. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQXGPGQ4

A warm wave of feeling overcame my heart, and I picked up the child and raised it high over my head. And then, speaking in Arawak so that all my friends could understand me, I delivered the best speech of my life:

“My beloved son Meru,” I said. “I’m filled with so much emotion that I must speak to you now, for I cannot wait, or my heart will burst. I speak to you now even though you cannot understand me, and it will be years before others repeat these words to you.

“You have a half-brother, a little older than you, a son of your mother and of a great brave warrior who died in battle on Robinson’s Island, and this brother you will always love dearly and honor and respect. And when you grow up, my son, my Hummingbird, you too will have a son, and that son will have a son, and his son will have a son, and a grandson, and a great-grandson. And they will all know that they are the descendants of a man called White Jaguar. And one day, one of these descendants will visit the place your father has come from, Virginia; or maybe even the country of his mother—Poland. And when he does, he will tell the people there about his ancestor, the White Jaguar. And he will tell them that White Jaguar was a great warrior, but more importantly, that he was a great friend of the Arawak nation. For more than war, he loved peace and friendship and this land of the Orinoco and all its birds, and fish, and animals, and all the people who live in it.”

There was a town on the eastern branch of the Nile, a town with a temple in which not one but a pair of lions were worshipped. The lions symbolized the deities Shu and Tefnet, a brother-and-sister pair, who were also a husban-and-wife. They were the children of Atum, the great lord of nearby Heliopolis. As a couple, they were commonly referred to as ruti and piloted the Heavenly Barge of Morning and Evening—that barge with which the souls of the dead had to merge by the use of special prayers in order to soar freely above the mortal earth.

This is how things had stood in ancient times, under the old Egyptian pharaohs. In time, the temple fell into disuse and around 160 BC, the Macedonian King of Egypt, Ptolemy VI, gifted its grounds to a foreigner named Onias.

That Onias was a Jew, a descendant of an illustrious family of high priests. He fled from Judea when the Syrian king Antiochus, then the ruler of the whole of Palestine, gave custody of the Temple of Jerusalem to another family, one more submissive to his will. Long enemy of Antiochus, Ptolemy gave a warm welcome to the Judean exile. And the exile, in turn, wishing to repay the king for his hospitality, proposed an extraordinary plan:

Since Antiochus had desecrated the Temple of Jerusalem, it seemed right and proper to erect a new Jewish temple elsewhere, outside of that king’s reach. And if so, then why not do this on Egyptian soil? Thereby, Ptolemy would win over all the Jewish opponents of Antiochus: why, many would probably leave Palestine and settle on the Nile precisely because they here would be allowed to serve their Lord God in peace and in accordance with the Law.

Ptolemy decided that the plan made political sense and granted to Onias that unused plot of land in Leontopolis. Construction work began immediately, with the support of at least some members of the Jewish diaspora—a diaspora so numerous in Egypt. The temple itself was built in the shape of a tower, 60 cubits high. An altar was set up for the offering of animals, modeled on the altar of Jerusalem. Superb liturgical robes were prepared. Only the seven-branched candlestick that had stood in the Temple of Jerusalem was absent. In its place, a giant lamp, forged of pure gold, was suspended from the ceiling on a chain of wrought gold.

The temple grounds were surrounded by a wall of fired brick, and the gate was framed with stone pylons, modeled on those of Egyptian temples. The cost of the maintenance of the temple and of the daily offerings was covered by the income of a plot of arable land graciously granted by the king.

The very existence of the temple in Leontopolis went against the ancient Judean tradition which held that legitimate sacrifices to the God of the Jews could only be made in one place—in the Temple of Jerusalem on Temple Mount—and that only huses of prayer (synagogues) could exist outside the holy city. The political claim of Judea aside, many Jews of Judea were afraid that the new center of worship might cause religious division, dilute the sense of Jewish unity, and reduce the revenues of the Temple and of the city of Jerusalem—which both earned from the Jews of the diaspora.

As it happened, the hopes and ambitions of Onias and his king were not fulfilled and no mass migration from Judea took place: Judea soon gained full independence, the Temple of Jerusalem was reconsecrated and functioned successfully for several decades, well into the Roman times. And yet, the colony of Leontopolis lived on for many generations, and its memory has survived to this day in the Arabic name of the place: Tel-el-Yehudiyeh—Jews’ Hill.

Numerous remains of the settlement persist in the form of inscribed tombstones. Today, they are chiefly housed in the museums of Cairo, Alexandria, Louvre, and Saint Petersburg.

The inscriptions are in Greek, and the names of the deceased are sometimes Greek (Aristobulus, Alexander, Onesimus, Glaukias, Theodora, Arsinoe, Demas, Nicanor, Hilarion, Philip, Dositheus, Nicomedes, Elpis); sometimes Hebrew (James, Joseph, Judas, Samuel, Jesus, Nathan, Onias, Barchias, Rachelis, Joannes, Eleazar (that is to say, Lazarus), Sabbataeus, Sambaios; and sometimes formally Greek, but really Judean: Salamis (Salome), Marin (Mary), Irene (a translation of Salome, meaning Peace).

Here are typical epitaphs from Leontopolis:

“Eleazar, noble and popular, aged thirty. (Died) year Two of Caesar, 20th Mehir”.

By our reckoning, then, Lazarus died on 14 February 28 BC. (The “Caesar” of the inscription, is Octavian, who later became Emperor Augustus).

Another inscription, missing its top, is more eloquent:

“You who loved your brothers, who loved your children, who was kind to all, goodbye! May the earth cradle you gently. She died aged about 45. Year 19, which some people reckon as Year 3, the 5th of Pachon.”

This double dating allows us to establish, that the woman whose name we do not know, died in 35 BC, on April 30, during the reign of the infamous Queen Cleopatra VII, the last ruler of independent Egypt, the beloved of Antony.

Several longer inscriptions remain:

“O passerby, cry for me, a mature girl. I lived a blissful life in luxurious chambers. I had my whole trousseau ready for my wedding, but I died prematurely. Instead of a marriage bed, this gloomy grave awaited me. When the clatter of wedding knockers rang out, it announced my death. Like a rose in a garden full of dew, Hades suddenly snatched me away. Passerby, I was only twenty.”

The opening and closing lines of the inscription are verisified. Other inscriptions are all in verse:

“Passenger, I am Jesus, son of Phameios. I descended to Hades at the age of 60. Mourn for me all of you, me, who has suddenly departed into the abyss of ages to dwell hereafter in the dark. Cry also you, o Dositheus! You, of all, should shed the most painful tears for you are now my successor since I have died without issue. All of you who gather here, weep for unfortunate Jesus!”

From Aleksander Krawczuk’s “Rome and Jerusalem”, the concluding volume of the Jewish Trilogy

Illustration by Jean-Claude Golvin, a French archaeologist and architect. He specializes in the history of Roman amphitheaters and has published hundreds of reconstruction drawings of ancient monuments. Golvin is a researcher with the CNRS at the Bordeaux Montaigne University.

But did Emperor Nero really die? Did he really commit suicide by stabbing himself in the throat? Were those really his ashes in the grand porphyry sarcophagus in the tomb of the Domitians on the Hill of Gardens, just outside the city walls?

Several months had passed since the events of early June 68, and almost everyone in the capital was asking himself such questions. And—incredibly—many answered them in the negative. For whatever reasons, many inhabitants of Rome did not want to believe in Nero’s death and burial and said: our lord lives, bides his time, and will return soon!

The rumor went about that Nero, with the help of a few of his most trusted freedmen, had staged his suicide, cremated a substitute corpse, and escaped, and that he did this only to mislead the assassins sent to kill him. Of course, he had had to act that way—he had no choice—because all had abandoned him: some out of fear, others from stupidity. But he escaped and is currently hiding someplace, perhaps in Italy, perhaps overseas. And he is awaiting the opportune moment to return. And then he will return and reassume the reigns of power. And soon! It is clear that neither Rome nor the provinces will endure the abomination of senile Galba’s rule. As someone rightly said about that fellow: “he might be fit to rule, except last time he looked, he ruled already.”

Others yet refused to believe the story of Nero’s suicide on other grounds, saying:

“Nero was a coward. There is no way he would have killed himself. And since no one boasts about having killed him and no one demands the bounty on his head, perhaps Nero is not dead after all?”

Finally, the suspicious asked who had witnessed the cremation of Nero’s body and the placement of his ashes in the tomb of the Domitians (the Domitians’ tomb was the emperor’s family tomb). And–(how very suspicious)—the witnesses had been three women: they were his nurses, Ecloge and Alexandra; and Acte, a concubine he had rejected many years ago but who still loved him dearly. The three spared no effort and expense to make the funeral as dignified as possible, and contributed to it over two hundred thousand sesterces of their own money. Acte probably gave the most, as she was an extremely wealthy woman thanks to Nero’s favor: she had extensive estates, magnificent villas, and swarms of servants.

The three women cremated a body and collected its ashes in a snow-white cloak shot with gold thread—the very cloak Nero had worn at the New Year’s celebrations six months before his tragic end. But whose body was it? Was it really Nero’s? Only they knew—and they knew because Nero had trusted them. Could it be that they spent all that money on the funeral in order to give the false impression that the body of the lord of the Empire was being buried while the lord himself was hiding somewhere else?

Sporus had also stood by the burning pyre. Once upon a time, Nero had decided to make a girl of him. He ordered him castrated and then married him, formally and ceremonially, as his wife (in Greece, of course, as Rome would not have stood for such kinky stuff). The boy-girl had also been present at the scene of the suicide. All this made excellent material for mockery:

“What trustworthy witnesses to the cremation and burial! Three freedmen—a concubine and two wet nurses—and a eunuch! How can anyone believe such witnesses? The whole thing is a farce, though, admittedly, very entertaining. As befits a great artist.”

Such and similar talk was heard among the people who had suddenly been deprived of the very sweetness, the very meaning of life: blood games, chariot races, song and dance performances. And also of the joy of gossiping about palace intrigues, crimes, and orgies—there were no such topics with Galba, the octogenarian killjoy.

Oh, those wonderful times of their beloved Nero—they were missed sorely. Wreaths and fresh flowers were often found on the white altar slab before the porphyry sarcophagus in the Domitian tomb. Often, the flowers were laid by people who claimed that the sarcophagus was empty or contained a stranger’s remains. They still wanted to give an expression to their feelings of attachment to the memory of their beloved emperor.

In the Forum itself, right next to the main Rostrum, images of Nero were secretly placed at night. His edicts also appeared there—edicts in which the still-alive Emperor announced in a threatening tone: “I will reappear soon to take revenge on all those who have betrayed me and my people!”

And it was as if Fate itself had wanted to encourage such hopes: Galba, the man who had overthrown Nero, reigned for barely half a year. On January 15, 69 AD, soldiers of the imperial guard—the Praetorians—murdered him in the Forum. They did this as part of a coup staged by one of Galba’s earliest supporters, Otho. Except, this Otho had once been one of Nero’s closest friends. In 58 AD, Nero took his beautiful wife, Sabina Poppea, and sent him to honorary exile in Lusitania as governor of a province covering more or less the territory of today’s Portugal and western Spain. From that distant land on the Atlantic, Otho returned to Rome with the new emperor, Galba. He had helped him come to power, but only in passing, only to start an intrigue against him at the earliest opportunity. He bribed the Praetorian guard to kill Galba and elevate him instead.

During the same month of January 69 AD, a month stained by treachery and the blood of Galba, frightening news reached the capital: the armies on the Rhine had rebelled. In the first days of 69 AD, they acclaimed one Aulus Vitellius—governor of Lower Germania—as emperor. And so the Empire, deprived of the bliss of Nero’s rule, was threatened with divine punishment: the worst of all wars, a civil war. Those who claimed that the moment of return was at hand were right: were Nero alive, all he needed to do was to show himself, and all would flock to him for safety.

On the Island of Kythnos

And now, as if responding to these calls, in February 69 (bundles of spring flowers—humble violets—were being placed on the altar in the Domitian tomb at that time), the news broke that Nero had revealed himself in the East, somewhere in Greece or Asia Minor. Yes, that Nero, our Nero, the true Nero: the same face and posture, the same hairstyle, quite long and loose at the back, and even his eyes were similar: grey and attentive, if somewhat nearsighted. Of course, he played the kithara and sang beautifully. That he revealed himself in the Greek East was fully understandable. After all, he had always declared that he loved the Greeks most of all.