Horatius at the Bridge

The Romans had stood up to their last king, Tarquin, and expelled him. Well, Tarquin had actually been outside of the city, on campaign with the army, when a group of nobles in Rome declared him deposed. However, the Roman army sided with their city rather than their king, and Tarquin and his family were forced to seek shelter among friends elsewhere. Tarquin was an Etruscan, a civilised people to the north of Rome, so he sought shelter among his Etruscan friends. He convinced one of these more ambitious kings to help him regain this throne.

This time, the Romans faced more than just an outraged but powerless king: they faced a mighty Etruscan army. As their enemies marched towards the north banks of the Tiber River, the Romans attempted to hold them off, but were pushed across the bridge there. The Etruscans surged forward, hoping to cross the bridge and enter Rome.
Only one Roman warrior, Horatius the One-Eyed, remained on the bridge to hold it and allow the Romans to retreat. Two of the Roman commanders, seeing the danger, rushed forward to support him. The three men held off the Etruscan troops, sending their enemies hurtling wounded or dead into the river, while the last of the Romans made it to safety. However, Horatius’ two companions were unable to sustain their defence and urged the One-Eyed to retreat too. He refused, and instead told them that the bridge must be destroyed.

Tommaso Laurenti, "Horatius at the Bridge", 1587-1594
(Capitoline Museums, Rome)

As the planks and beams of the bridge were torn up, Horatius stood fast on the bridge and single-handedly held the foe. He received numerous wounds but took his stand behind a pile of his dead enemies. Finally, as the bridge began to fall away, Horatius cried to the spirit of the Tiber to protect him, jumped fully armed into the water and swam to the Roman shore. He was met with loud cheers from his comrades, who lauded him for his bravery and dedication to his duty.

Tarquin was denied his city and his Etruscan friends, after unsuccessfully besieging Rome, looked for easier pickings elsewhere. Horatius, badly wounded and disabled by the battle, was honoured with a statue, rations and land to farm. He became a byword among the Romans for fearless dedication to his country.

Etruscan helmet, c. 400-300 BC
(Penn Museum, Philadelphia)

Alcmene and Zeus

People said that Alcmene was the most beautiful woman in the world. They praised her dark eyes. They admired her height. They celebrated her wisdom. She was thought by many to be the equal of a goddess, although Alcmene was careful not to credit this, for she knew what happened to those who vied with the gods. However, she attracted the attention of one of who was himself a god—indeed the king of the gods. Zeus had a habit, a reputation, of taking whomever aroused his lust, and his attention had fallen on the famed Alcmene.

One night Alcmene received a visit from her husband. Except that it seemed that this was her husband magnified, mightier than he had ever been. Alcmene’s caution was aroused, perhaps for no reason, but the things he told her in detail put her at ease and she accepted him into her bed. And for the second night. And for the third night. When her husband came to her the next night, saying he had arrived from a long journey, she was surprised.

“Nonsense, you have been with me for the last three nights!”

“Not at all! What is this dream you have had?”

However, even the secrets of the gods are not always well kept, and the couple discovered exactly whom Alcmene’s paramour had been. Unfortunately, the secret was also revealed to Hera, the wife of Zeus, so often shamed by her adulterous husband. Alcmene was not safe from her wrath, and it was only through trickery that the mortal was able to deliver this son of Zeus.

To attempt to avert the further anger of the goddess, the child was named Heracles, “the glory of Hera”. She, however, was not mollified and Hera was the bane of Heracles his whole life.

Alcmene, detail, Italian red figure vase, c. 360–320 BC
(British Museum, London)

The Curious Case of Prince Antiochus

The prince was ill. Lethargic. He swooned. He had seemingly lost the will to live. This prince was Antiochus, heir to King Seleucus, who had seized the central and eastern provinces of the vast empire that had fractured upon the death of Alexander the Great. Seleucus desired a stable dynasty to perpetuate his kingdom. However, his heir was not only ailing but was now refusing food. The royal physician was sent to investigate.

The physician was a wise man who not only observed the symptoms but also the patient. He suspected Antiochus was lovesick but was not sure for whom. Over the next few days, as he attended the prince, he noticed that symptoms like stammering, palpitations, flushes, swooning and darkened vision worsened every time he was visited by Seleucus’ queen. This was not Antiochus’ mother but a girl— Stratonice—whom, still a teen, the king had married a few years before to cement a marriage alliance. The physician correctly deduced that Antiochus was smitten by this woman, only a few years his junior, but unable to express let alone consummate his love.

Coin of Antiochus as King Antiochus I Soter.
Observse shows goddess Victory.

The cunning physician knew that the king loved his son greatly but was naturally cautious about revealing the exact object of the prince’s desire to him. So he revealed to Seleucus that Antiochus was suffering extreme sickness of love but pretended that the prince was in love with his own wife. When the king begged the doctor to give up his wife to Antiochus, the physician asked the king if he would do the same if it would save his son. The king tearfully confessed that he would give up his whole kingdom to save his son. Only then did the doctor reveal to the king the love of Antiochus for Stratonice.

Thus it was that, out of his great love for his son, Seleucus gave up his young wife to his son to heal his love sickness. And Antiochus did indeed recover, made Stratonice his bride and was made regent over half of his father’s kingdom. The wily physician was esteemed thereafter by both father and son.

Strangely, Stratonice’s thoughts about this arrangement have not been recorded.

Jacques-Louis David, "Antiochus et Stratonica", 1778
(École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris)

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The Twins and the Wolf

A girl who was supposed to be a virgin fell pregnant. Her father was a man who was supposed to be a king. Her twin sons were babies who were supposed to die. Their saviour was an animal who should have eaten them.

The boys’ uncle, Amulius, had usurped the throne from his brother, the rightful king. Although his brother was too powerful to have killed, Amulius engineered the death of his nephew, the rightful heir. He then had his niece, Rhea Silvia,  committed as a virgin priestess to avoid any descendants of his brother being born. His rule seemed secure.

Although Rhea Silvia remained faithfully virginal, Amulius’ usurpation could not go unchallenged. The god Mars visited the priestess and, whether he seduced or overpowered her, she had little real choice in the matter. Although she covered her pregnancy with excuses of illness, it became apparent that she seemed to have broken her vow of virginity. Rhea Silvia was imprisoned and her twin sons were taken from her after their birth.

Peter Paul Rubens, "Mars and Rhea Silvia", 1616/17
(Liechtenstein Museum, Vienna)

Amulius ordered the boys to be drowned in the nearby Tiber River. However, the river was in flood and the servants could not reach the main stream. The basket containing the infants was left in the swirling eddies and they were carried downstream, where they washed up on the riverbank. It was at this point that a second unseen intervention took place. A she-wolf was drawn to the crying of the babies. Was she sent by the gods? Instead of devouring them, she took pity on these human cubs and brought them to her cave lair to suckle them.

It was thus that the babies were discovered by an old shepherd. The foundlings were taken home to the shepherd’s childless wife and they were raised as their own. The boys were given the names Romulus and Remus and grew into brave and charismatic young men. Unknown to the old couple, these children of Mars would go on to avenge their mother and grandfather and then found the city which would later rule the world on the site where the wolf had suckled them—Rome.

"The Capitoline Wolf", medieval wolf with twins added around 1471
(Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome)

Oedipus Comes to Thebes

King Laius and Queen Jocasta of Thebes had a baby son. As the city rejoiced, the king sent messengers to the oracle of the god Apollo at Delphi to receive news of this baby’s future. In time the messengers returned and, the next day, delivered their news to the king and queen. They did not, however, wear the faces of men who had good news but looked grey-faced and ashen. The king’s herald summoned the messengers to present the god’s message to Laius. Stepping forward, the chief messenger’s voice faltered with emotion, but was loud so that all could hear:

“Apollo decrees a terrible fate for this child. The god foresees that he will kill his father and marry his mother!”

The king and queen recoiled, aghast at this message. The queen broke down in tears but the king, after some thought, rose and spoke his mind: “This must not be! I resolve that this child must be banished from our midst and left exposed in the wild to die!” The child’s ankles were pierced to prevent him crawling to safety, and Laius entrusted him to his head shepherd to leave at the mercy of the wild beasts and elements on the surrounding mountain slopes.

Salvator Rosa, "Infant Oedipus Rescued", 1663
(Royal Academy of Arts, London)

As the shepherd climbed the hills with the child in his arms, he felt sorrow for him and did not wish this innocent child to die. Thus it was that, when he reached the heights, he met a shepherd from the neighbouring city of Corinth, and gave the baby into this man’s care. Corinth seemed far from Thebes and any chance of fulfilling the child’s terrible fate.

The Corinthian shepherd named the baby “Oedipus”, or “Swollen-Feet”, because of the damage to his ankles. He was eventually given into the care of the childless king and queen of Corinth, who adopted the baby as their own. Oedipus grew up there, seemingly blessed by the gods with strength, beauty and wisdom, unaware that he had been a foundling, let alone his true parentage.

However, the fate decreed by the gods cannot be thwarted. In time, Apollo revealed to Oedipus his terrible destiny. Thinking that the king and queen of Corinth were his real parents, he fled the city. At a crossroads in the countryside, he encountered a man in a chariot. Oedipus resented the way that this stranger commanded him, a prince of Corinth, to stand aside. He defied the man, who descended from his chariot to teach this insolent youth a lesson. For who was this youth to stand in the way of Laius, king of Thebes? Unwittingly, Oedipus fought his father, who was killed by the son he had once banished from his city. Unknowingly, the young man had just fulfilled half of the terrible prophecy.

After some days, Oedipus decided to settle in the city of Thebes, where he would conceal his identity as the prince of Corinth. He found a city in mourning, for its king had been killed while on a journey. The city promised to offer the kingship to whomever could rid it of the monstrous sphinx that inhabited the roads above the city. Oedipus did this and was acclaimed king by a joyous city. As the new king, he married the widowed queen, Jocasta. Oedipus had attempted to flee his fate but had fled straight into its fulfilment, for he was now married to his mother.

"Oedipus Kills Laius", Roman period painting from Egypt
(Egyptian Museum, Cairo)

Fabius the Delayer

When Hannibal of Carthage descended from the Alps into Italy, the Romans did not know what had hit them. The first Roman army to oppose him was swept aside by the banks of a frozen north Italian river, and another and its commanding consul ambushed and annihilated by the shores of a lake in Umbria. Panic gripped Rome as it seemed that nothing could save it from defeat.

Carthaginian silver half shekel showing war elephant.

In their alarm, the Romans resolved to appoint a dictator—an ancient office which gave its holder almost supreme authority. They chose Fabius, a man with a reputation for quiet steadiness and resolved caution. The dictator realised Hannibal’s military genius and the unpreparedness of Roman legionaries to defeat him. Therefore, rather than facing him in head-on battle, Fabius used his troops to harass the Carthaginians, picking off smaller units and cutting their lines of supply. Unfortunately, the Romans soon began to tire of Fabius’ delaying tactics against Hannibal; certain Roman politicians, including the dictator’s own lieutenant, pushed for a more aggressive strategy to smash the invaders. Fabius was derisively nicknamed “The Delayer”.

. B. Hagenauer, Fabius Cunctator, 1777
 (Schönbrunn Palace, Vienna)

The consuls elected for the next year were confident in their abilities and led out Roman and allied troops to smash Hannibal in a full-scale confrontation. They found the Carthaginian army at Cannae in southern Italy. The Romans outnumbered their enemy and were eager to attack. Hannibal, however, lured his attackers into envelopment by his smaller army, which hemmmed in the Romans on all sides and killed tens of thousands of them, including one of the consuls. It was Rome greatest defeat, not to be surpassed for the 500 years, and some of Rome’s Italian allies rushed to join the invaders. Tragically, Fabius’ strategy of avoiding full battle with Hannibal was vindicated.

When news of the defeat reached Rome, envoys were sent to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphi and human sacrifices were even made in the forum. It was Fabius who restored calm, walking the streets and assuring the people. He was now called “The Delayer” with honour rather than derision, and it was his tactics the Romans adopted for the next 14 years of war with Hannibal, wearing down the Carthaginians and winning back Italian allies. The Romans realised that prudent steps, rather than foolhardy heroism, are often necessary for success.

Orpheus and Euydice

I am Orpheus, son of a king and a muse, pupil of Apollo and the greatest of singers. I taught humans to make music and play the lyre. My music charmed animals, birds and fish, made trees and rocks dance, and caused mighty rivers to change course. My songs have tamed wild men and beasts. I voyaged with Jason, silenced the sirens and taught men divine secrets. No mortal was my equal in the art of music.

"Orpheus", Roman mosaic, c. AD 200–250
(Regional Archaeological Museum Antonio Salinas, Palermo)

However, all such achievements are nothing compared to the love I had for the beautiful Eurydice. Words and song almost fail the passion and devotion she inspired in me. However, our time together was fated to be short. On our wedding day, while my beloved was dancing with the nymphs, she was bitten by a snake. I saw her fall and I rushed to her side; already, however, the serpent’s poison had robbed her of life.

My distress knew no bounds, and I expressed it as best as I could, in song. Such singing came from the depths of my grief and were said to crystalise sorrow and grief in the hearts of all who heard me: men, spirits and the gods themselves. These divinities were so moved by my song that they told me the way to the realm of the dead and counselled me to sing my grief before its king and queen.

Barring the way to the abode of the dead was the great hound Cerebus. However, I sang gently to lull it to sleep. Thus armed with song, I descended and came before the dread thrones of Hades and Persephone, the Lord and Lady of the Dead. There I sang of my grief and abandon at losing my beloved Eurydice, and so moved them that they granted her to return with me to the land of sunshine and life. However, they laid on me one condition: I was not to look back at her while in the land of death. If I did, she would remain a wraith and be snatched back to the shades.

So I was reunited with my beloved Eurydice and we began the ascent to the land of the living. All that journey I could hear her ghostly tread behind me. Finally, we reached the cave entrance that leads to our world. I leapt into the sunshine rejoicing and turned to my beloved. However, she had not yet exited the cave and thus had not fully left the kingdom of Hades. I saw her only a brief second before she was snatched back to the shades of the dead and I found the way barred to me: no mortal may go that way twice. It seemed to me that she had died anew.

Now I, Orpheus, wander and sing of her who was life to me, whom I tried to restore to life but, because of my rash impatience, was denied a second chance of life. I thus live my sorrow and await death when I will go to be with her.

Auguste Rodin, "Orpheus and Eurydice", 1893.
(Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York)

The First Marathon

“Marathon” was not originally a race: it was a coastal plain north of Athens. It was anonymous until the Persian king sent an army to punish some Greeks, including the Athenians, for supporting rebellion within his empire. While this army was but a portion of the power available to the Great King, it seemed to the Greeks a mighty fleet of barbarians.

The Persians gave notice of their arrival by sacking another city which had supported rebellion. When news reached Athens that the Persians were approaching, they sent their star runner, Phidippides, to Sparta to beg for assistance. While crossing the mountains, Phidippides is said to have encountered the god Pan, who reproached the Athenians for not offering him due worship: he had so often been useful to them and may yet be of use.

Two days after leaving Athens, the runner reached Sparta. While they were the greatest military power in Greece at that time, the Spartans were exceedingly superstitious and told Phidippides that they could not march straightaway as they were in the middle of an important religious festival. Perhaps they were also reluctant to get in the way of the Persian quarrel with Athens?

Greek and Persian warriors, Attic red figure kylix, 5th century BC
(National Archaeological Museum, Athens(

The runner raced this news back to Athens who, with only one small ally, sent warriors to meet the Persians at Marathon, where the invaders had beached their ships. Amazingly, the Athenians—a small people on the fringes of the greatest empire at that time—defeated the Persians, who took to their ships. Many Athenians attributed the rout to Pan, who they believed spread panic throughout their enemies.

To bring news of the victory back to Athens, Phidippides raced the 42 km (26 miles) back to the city. However, having gasped out the good news, the exhausted runner fell dead. The modern marathon, named after the battle and in honour of Phidippides, covers the exact distance he ran.

Cosmas Tsolakos, "The Marathon Runner", 1997.
(Marathon Road, Rafina, Greece)

Achilles and Penthesilea

The war of the Trojans against the invading Greeks had dragged on for many years and the Trojan king was desperate to dislodge the Greeks from the walls of his city. He sent a hopeful plea for help to the Amazons, the great nation of warrior women far to the north. Could they drive away the Greeks where others had failed?

The Amazon queen Penthesilea responded gladly to the summons. While she was a daughter of an Amazon, her father was the war god himself, Ares. She had received news from the fighting at Troy over the years and longed to distinguish herself in the greatest war of her age. Thus she gathered around herself a select band of Amazon warriors and set sail for Troy to aid the Trojans and win glory for herself and for her people.

The first the Greeks knew of their arrival was the band of Amazons smashing into their army. Penthesilea and her companions hacked their way through the ranks of the Greeks, despatching many warriors who had previously distinguished themselves against the Trojans. The battle fury of her divine father and the warrior prowess of her people was upon her, and the Trojan women cheered her coming from the walls of their city.

Achilles kills Penthesilea, black figure Attic amphora
by Exekias, c. 540–530 BC (British Museum, London)

Hearing of the commotion and seeing the flight of terrified warriors, Achilles, the greatest of the Greek warriors, strode fully armed towards the melee. He was himself son of a goddess and his sword and spear had sent many of the greatest Trojans and their allies down to the dead. Achilles was well aware that the life remaining to him was short and that he would not return from Troy. However, he continued to pit his honour as a warrior above his safety or life. Thus, he stepped forward to face the Queen of the Amazons.

Penthesilea the Amazon, daughter of Ares, rushed forward to engage Achilles but found her match in this Greek. Although she fought hard and valiantly, she was overcome by her opponent’s skill, strength and bravery. Finally, she felt cold steel enter her breast and her hot blood spill out. Achilles removed her helmet to gaze upon this marvel, this woman warrior. Doing so, he looked into Penthesilea’s eyes, and fell in love.

No woman had before conquered the heart of Achilles, but the dying Penthesilea did. Perhaps it was fitting that this warrior should steal his heart. He held her in his arms, smeared in her blood, as she died on the battlefield. Achilles felt part of him die with her as the mourning Amazons carried her body away: he realised that he had killed the only woman he could have truly loved.

Karl Ludwig Hassmann, "Achilles and Penthesilea", c. 1900
(private collection)