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There was a community of nuns in Hippo Regius. Saint Augustine watched over their affairs through their superior, his sister. Now, it so happened that a certain scandalous quarrel among the congregation of the pious matrons broke out for reasons common and frequent in every age: animosities of personal nature. The dispute was submitted to the bishop for adjudication. He issued his decision in 423 in a long letter to the congregation—a kind of detailed instruction on the rules of religious life.

This document was to play an enormous role in the following centuries as the basis for the rules of various monastic orders. But here we are only interested in a short fragment of it, with a very prosaic content.

“You should wash your clothes by yourselves or let your servants wash them, but only at the discretion of your mother superior so that the excessive desire for a clean dress does not stain your soul with inner filth. And let the washing of the body and the use of the baths not be continuous! Ablutions should occur at the usual intervals, that is, once a month. If, however, a sickness should force a sister to wash her body, let her wash on the doctor’s orders without grumbling. And if she still does not want to, let her do what she must do for the health of the body at the order of the mother superior.”

This principle, worded so sharply and stated so clearly, had important implications for the personal hygiene of various groups and communities and, later, of the whole society. Its influence was all the more significant as the statements of another man of great holiness and immeasurable learning strongly supported it. He also lived in the times of Saint Augustine and was famous as one of the most distinguished Latin writers of his time.

Saint Jerome, a native of the border regions between Dalmatia and Pannonia, was older than the bishop of Hippo Regius by over a dozen years. The two men, although exchanging letters, did not really like each other—as is often the case with prominent representatives of the same generation and the same ideological orientation.

After much travel, Jerome settled in Palestine, in Bethlehem. There he presided over a community of monks, welcomed pious pilgrims, and studied and wrote. Among the vast oeuvre of Saint Jerome, one work stands out as most important for the subsequent history of the Church and the entire European civilization: his revision and final edition of the Latin translation of the Bible, the so-called Vulgate.

(Augustine was to criticize sharply some of the wording of that edition). And with all this work, the learned hermit still found time to conduct extensive correspondence. In it, he gave encouragement and advice on various matters related to religious life. And, in a letter to a matron named Leta, who had asked for instructions on how to raise her daughter, he wrote:

“I am not a friend of bathing in an adult girl at all. She ought to feel ashamed of her body and hate the sight of her own nakedness. For if she mortifies her body with wakefulness and fasting; if she wishes to extinguish the fire of lust and the heat of intellectual ferment with the frost of restraint; if she seeks to disfigure her natural beauty by deliberate cultivation of dirt, why should she, acting as if for opposite reasons, kindle the sleeping flames with the heat of the bathhouse?”

FROM Aleksander Krawczuk “The Last Olympiad, Twilight of Antiquity“

Jerusalem seen from Mount of Olives, the way Pompey first saw it in 63 BC. Taken from The Holy Land, Syria, Idumea, Arabia, Egypt, and Nubia, a travelogue of 19th-century Palestine and the magnum opus of Scottish painter David Roberts. It contains 250 lithographs by Louis Haghe of Roberts’s watercolor sketches.

It was first published by subscription between 1842 and 1849. It was the nineteenth century’s most expensive, most successful, and most durable publication.

From your translator

THREE SHORT NOTES IN THE STYLE OF THE AUTHOR

1. When I set out to translate the two Krawczuk books about the love of Emperor Titus and Queen Berenice (Titus and Berenice, 2023, Rome and Jerusalem, upcoming), I was unsure whether to translate the first volume of the trilogy as well—the book you are holding in your hand now. While the story of the First Jewish War is relatively little known, Herod the Great has had perhaps two score biographies in English. Why publish another?

But rereading Herod, King of the Jews with that question in mind, I realized that Krawczuk brings something unique to the well-known biography. First of all, he brings his highly readable style, of course, which is a joy in itself and which I hope I manage to convey here well enough to motivate you to learn Polish and read him in the original.

Secondly, better than any author I have read, he couches the history of Herod within the parallel history of Rome, laying bare for the modern reader how the two histories intertwine, the limits within which Herod had to work, and the surprising significance of little Palestine in the larger Roman imperial politics.

But, above all, Krawczuk allows the reader to sense something that a British or an American reader may not readily intuit: how small nations see their own fate and survival in the shadow of great empires. The fact that the good professor wrote this book under Russian occupation, at an ancient institution of learning of a recalcitrant client nation of the Russian Empire, gives his observations vital relevance: in many ways, Poles are Eastern Europe’s Jews.

2. While working on the text, I became aware of another dimension of the story. When editing, I read my text aloud to my Japanese friends—who are cultured and cosmopolitan but not necessarily very familiar with minor aspects of the history of the Roman Empire. But as I read my text to them, they suddenly burst out with a surprise of recognition. When, in one of the early chapters, the name of Judah Maccabee came up, they exclaimed: “Do you mean the guy from the Handel oratorio?” “Well, yes,” I said. “The very same.” Soon enough, we came across Mithridates of Pontus. “Mitridate Re di Ponto! Mozart!” my audience exclaimed. Just two lines lower came: “Vivaldi’s Farnace!” This went on for some time until my friends finally reconciled themselves to the fact that they were reading a story somehow fundamental to the consciousness of Western Civilization. By the time Aeneus made an appearance in the chapter on Herod saving Troy, my friends said nothing. One got up and put on the Purcell.

3. The back cover of this book features a reproduction of a fragment of Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s The Massacre of the Innocents. The Bruegel family firm produced many versions of this painting (possibly as many as 14), but only this one, owned by the British Royal Collection, is thought to be by Pieter Senior himself. One of its previous owners, Rudolph II, the Magician Emperor and a connoisseur of panting, had it overpainted to hide the images of dead and dying children. Contemporary reality delivered enough of that.

Tom Pinch

Ardennes National Park

Luxembourg

Berenice, by Philippe Cherry (1759-1833), engraved by Pierre Michel Alix (1762-1817), taken from the 1802 edition of Recherches sur les Costumes et sur les Théâtres de toutes les nations, tant anciennes que moderns ([Research on the Costumes and Theaters of all Nations, Ancient as well as Modern]) first published by M. Drouhin, Paris 1790. The drawing illustrates the 1670 play by Jean-Baptiste Racine.

From the translator

TWO SHORT NOTES IN THE STYLE OF THE AUTHOR

It is probably in keeping with the encyclopedic style of Professor Krawczuk for your translator to append two cultural notes to this delightful book.

1. In the year 1670, at the height of glory of Louis XIV, before rebellions and unlucky wars dimmed somewhat the brilliance of the Sun-King, his cousin and sister-in-law, Henriette d’Angleterre, daughter of the unlucky Charles I of England, and wife of Phillip d’Orleans, staged a bloodless duel: a head-to-head confrontation between two court dramatists, the aging Pierre Corneille (1606-1684) and the up-and-coming Jean Racine (1639-1699), both of whom she commissioned to produce a play on the subject of Berenice, Queen of the Jews. Performed a week apart at the end of November 1670, the two plays caused a furor, a loud war of words and pamphlets between two cultural (and, therefore, as always in France, political) factions—the supporters of either one or the other author. It was a war conclusively won by the new man.

Broken by his defeat, Corneille never wrote another play. For Racine, this victory marked his rise to power. In 1672 he was elevated to a seat in the Academie and went on to compose, in short order, his greatest plays: Bajazet (1672), Mithridate (1673), Iphigénie (1674) and Phèdre (1677).

The French ruckus sent a veritable cultural tsunami across the shores of European courts, all of which rushed to stage their own versions of the story, whether in dramatic or operatic style. As a result, the sheer volume of “Titus and Berenice” output deposited in the deep layers of European heritage is staggering while Racine’s play remains on the playbill in France until this day. As a result, most Europeans have heard of Titus and Berenice: the title rings a bell even if most can no longer say which church is tolling.

2. Pieter Bruegel (also Brueghel or Breughel) the Elder (1525?–1569) was the most significant artist of Dutch and Flemish Renaissance, a painter and printmaker known for his landscapes and peasant scenes (so-called “genre painting”); he pioneered the use of both subjects as the main focus of large paintings. He was a huge commercial success during his lifetime and founded a dynasty of sons and grandsons who continued the business, often copying their founder’s designs. Hapsburg Emperor Rudolf II, the famed alchemist and art connoisseur, was a great admirer and collector of his work, which is how the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna has come to feature a special room hung with twelve huge Pieter Breughels, including The Fall of Icarus, The Tower of Babel, The Hunters in the Snow, and The Peasant Wedding. It is, in my opinion, one of the most profoundly moving museum rooms in the world.

Tom Pinch

Ardennes National Park

Luxembourg

The illustrations featured in Herod are taken from The Holy Land, Syria, Idumea, Arabia, Egypt, and Nubia, a travelogue of 19th-century Palestine and Middle East and the magnum opus of Scottish painter David Roberts. The book contains 250 lithographs by Louis Haghe of Roberts’s watercolor sketches. It was first published by subscription between 1842 and 1849, in two separate publications: The Holy Land, Syria, Idumea and Arabia and Egypt and Nubia. William Brockedon and George Croly wrote much of the text, Croly writing the historical, and Brockedon the descriptive portions.

The book has been escribed as “one of the art-publishing sensations of the mid-Victorian period. It exceeded all other earlier lithographic projects in scale, and was one of the most expensive publications of the nineteenth century and it has “proved to be the most pervasive and enduring of the nineteenth-century renderings of the East circulated in the West.” Prints from the series continue to be sought after and command very high prices–high three to low four-digits: a very high price for a nineteenth century print.

The print is the Oasis of Ein Gedi, near Qumran, on the Dead Sea.

There have been scores of books on the topic of Herod. Is there any reason to have another one?

Oh, yes! 

First of all, no other biography of Herod situates him within the Graeco-Roman milieu like this book does. For whatever reason, all books on Herod are somehow near-sighted. Somewhere on the periphery of the action appear large-looming figures–Pompey, Caesar, Crassus, Antony, the Parthians. Their motivations are unclear; why they should care for Palestine and Judea is uncertain; how and why Herod has to maneuver is a mystery. This book gives us the global perspective we need to understand the man and his works. It also explains how and why what happened in provincial little Palestine impacted the grand politics of Rome.

Second, in beautiful and vivid language, this book evokes the harsh geographic realities of Palestine. Why was Jericho important? Why did the separate national identity of Samaria matter? Who were the Nabateans? What was the significance of the port of Caesarea?What was it like to be there then?

Finally, there is the old Krawczuk touch: an easygoing and yet profound reflection on the biography of a politician and his posthumous reputation; and the fate of a small nation buffeted by the ambitions of great empires and the seemingly irresistible force of globalization.

Not an Italian, yet is Aleksander a master of the sprezzatura–the artful “off-the-cuffness” hiding surprising depths within a seemingly throwaway comment. As Rameau would have put it, hiding art with art.

And then there is the prose. Just hear this:

THE SHADOWS OF TWILIGHT

PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY

Speaks Ecclesiastes

“I made me great works; I builded me houses; I planted me vineyards; I made me gardens and orchards, and I planted trees in them of all kind of fruits; I made me pools of water, to water therewith the wood that bringeth forth trees: I got me servants and maidens, and had servants born in my house; I had great possessions of great and small cattle above all that were in Jerusalem before me. I gathered me also silver and gold, and the peculiar treasure of kings and of the provinces. I gat me men singers and women singers, and the delights of the sons of men, as musical instruments, and that of all sorts. So I was great, and increased more than all that were before me in Jerusalem: also my wisdom remained with me. And whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from them, I withheld not my heart from any joy; for my heart rejoiced in all my labor: and this was my portion of all my labor.

Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labor that I had labored to do: and, behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun.”[1]

Tradition ascribes these words to King Solomon. In reality, this book of sadness was composed no more than two centuries before Herod. Its Hebrew title is Kohelet, meaning “The Preacher.” It quickly gained popularity and is still one of the best-known books of the Bible, perhaps because in every person’s life, there comes a moment when she or he will agree with the words of The Preacher: “Oh, vanity of vanities! And all is vanity!”

Herod probably heard this chapter often: it seemed written for him. Who knows if, upon hearing it, the king did not object: Why should I consider my deeds vain and futile? Here they are! They will last forever!

And yet, his time was coming to an end.

[1] Ecclesiastes 2:4-11

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By the time we arrived, the mukuari had been in full swing for several hours. It had little to do with the usual ceremonial dances, and although the participants performed dance movements to the loud rhythm of the drums, the essence of the ceremony consisted not in dancing but in something else: in mutual flogging. All the dancers wore various hideous masks, and as they danced, they dealt each other painful blows with barbed rods.

The purpose of the rite seemed clear: first, to appease the soul of the deceased by showing him what suffering his death had caused to the living, and, secondly, to drive his soul away with a display of ferocious violence. All adult men were required to take part in the dance, and it was to last non-stop for twenty-four hours.

Looking at the dancers in their terrifying masks, yelling and howling, and incessantly flogging each other, and hearing the powerful rhythm of drums made a huge impression. The whole performance seemed to draw everyone into a kind of whirlpool, overpower the soul, impose a strange hypnotic trance: everyone seemed to be as if under a spell.

After watching the dance for a while, I asked Manauri who was sitting next to me:

“Do all men take part in the mukuari? Is there no exception?”

“No. There is no exception. All adult men must dance. I danced in the morning, at the very beginning.”

And he showed me where the barbed rods had torn his skin.

“And I?”

“You, Yan?” he echoed my question and fell deep in thought.

Several elders sat under the toldo along with us: Mabukuli, the chief of the Turtles, Yaki, the head of the Arakanga, and Konauro of the Caimans. They now debated amongst themselves whether I should participate in the rite but did not come to a clear judgment: the deceased sorcerer had had a powerful spirit and strained himself greatly to destroy me, yet my magic had proven stronger than his and I had defeated him. Was the sorcerer’s soul even capable of threatening me now?

“Most certainly not,” replied some leaders, convinced of my magic power, while others shook their heads doubtfully.

Lasana, sat behind me and listened to the debate with wrapped attention without saying a single word. I looked at her:

“And you, Lasana, what do you say to this?”

“I think you should dance,” she replied without the slightest hesitation.

“Do you think Carapana can still harm me?” I asked surprised.

“No. You have defeated his evil spirit and he cannot harm you anymore.”

“Then why dance?”

“In order to…” she began and hesitated searching for the correct expression. “To show that you are with us in body and soul.”

Her words elicited a murmur of appreciation among the chiefs.

“A smart woman,” someone said.

“Very well then,” I said and I ordered Lasana to bring me my jaguar skin. If my fellow Arawaks were going to whack me with those barbed rods, I was not going among them without some protection.

When she returned, I threw the skin over my head and back and tied a liana around my waist, to make sure the thing would not flap around as I danced. The beast had been a monster and my head fit completely into its skull so that I looked out through the beast’s eye sockets. Someone gave me a stout rod, but I demanded another for my left hand. If those fellows were going to whip me, I was not going to take it lying down.

“Very well, take two rods,” Manauri agreed, admonishing me at the same time: “But remember, the more heavily you lay your rod on someone, the more respect and honor you show him.”

Apparently, the dancers reserved the most respect and honor for me, because as soon as I jumped into their midst and they recognized me by the jaguar skin and my height, they began to lay about me with gusto. I was not amiss in showing my own honor and respect to them. The skin of the jaguar reached only to my calves, and my legs were bare below, so my companions quickly discovered my weak point and went for my shins and calves mercilessly. In order to protect myself, I jumped in all directions while trying not to fall out of the rhythm imposed on us by the drums, but for all my dodging, I still I got a pretty good whipping.

The dance, though apparently chaotic and confused, nevertheless followed a certain order: namely, the dancers moved about in a circle about thirty paces in diameter. To complete the ritual, it was enough to complete one circumambulation. So, by the time I finally found myself again opposite the toldo, I had done duty: I dealt with fury the last blows to right and left and jumped out of the circle.

The drums, as if to honor my departure, went into a deafening coda, then went back to normal tempo, and I went back to my seat among the elders. Everyone expressed polite appreciation for my performance.

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