Picture Postcard #10 – The Drums of War

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They woke me in the night,

As I lay beside my wife.

The Drums of War sounded,

Bound am I, to Ares’ call.

I have laid aside my himation and scrolls,

My loathing for brutality.

Instead, I don thorax, greaves and crested helm.

I take up my hoplon, spear and sword,

And join the muster of hard men.

The enemy swarm from afar,

Like stinging locusts to rape our land.

With hundreds and thousands of sharpened teeth,

The beast closes in,

Seeks our deaths.

But our strength holds.

Our wall of oak, and bronze, and iron will.

Shield to shield we stand.

We press forward

Into the jaws of Hades.

To the Drums of War I fight.

My shield pushing, my spear thrusting, slicing.

Face to face with the foe,

Walking over the offal-strewn earth.

The dead and the dying blanket the ground,

Their groans a deadly chorus

For the Drums.

Push, and thrust, and cut and push!

Gods, see me!

Gods, protect me and mine!

I fear not the hoary face of Death.

But I would live a while longer,

Before I cross to the other shore

Of that sad, black river. 

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* Illustration by Peter Connolly

source: Greece and Rome at War (page 22)

Picture Postcard #9 – Pythia

The Games had run their course. Delphi had emptied, its song having been sung.

When the last pilgrim emerged from the temple, red-eyed and shaking, I stepped forward with a young goat under my arm and a laurel branch clutched in my hand.

A hunched priest led me to an altar where I rinsed my hands and face with Castalian water, and made my offering to Apollo. The goat flinched when its throat was slit and soon slept in a pool of its own blood.

I fanned myself with the laurels as the priest’s knife cut with precision, his old hands unshaking.

He nodded and I was led down the flight of steps where another priest muttered instructions that I did not hear.

It was dark but for a sputtering torch in an ancient bracket upon the wall.

Above, in the cella and outside, the smell of incense was sweet, the marble white and gleaming in the sun upon the mountainside.

But as I went deeper into the earth, my legs heavy as lead, the walls were of deepest green and black, the smoke not sweet but acrid and overpowering.

A humming drummed in my ears, my mind… my heart… my…

Love…

There she sat.

The girl I had loved in my youth.

The woman I had married.

When I entered the sanctum to see her in the sacred tripod, the blood-red veil shading her once-bright and dancing eyes, I knew she was no longer mine.

I had intended to plead with the god for my Love’s life, to promise a thousand statues or the fall of enemy nations if I could but have her back.

As the question formed upon my trembling lips the fumes suffocated me where they rose out of that black fissure.

My laurels fell and shrivelled, and the god told me to leave.

To leave…even as a single tear bled from those black eyes…for me…for us.

I do not regret my actions beyond the sanctuary boundaries. The noose upon that olive wood branch was tight, and hugged me like a friend.

Now I am free to wander the silver slopes of Parnassos…to wait for the day Apollo releases my Love.

Then…then we shall be together again.

My request granted.

Picture Postcard #8 - Punic Ghosts

I have travelled over sea and sand to this ancient place.

My footsteps upon this cursed ground, these sad streets, are heavy,

For I walk in ancient Carthage.

Not the brilliant white ruins of antiquity for this place.

No.

Here, every street and stone, root and rock, weep for the past.

I am choked as I walk, heavy of heart for all the whispers about me.

From the salt-sown earth about the Bursa Hill,

The men, women and children of Carthage scream, and wail, and cry.

For all time.

 “Carthago delenda est” said the Roman.

And so it came to pass.

As I walk the streets, burned by the flames of ages past,

An incessant whispering of ghosts in my ears,

The bloody words resonate with the tramp of legionary hobnails.

“Carthago delenda est” – Carthage must be destroyed.

I walk among Roman ruins as well, for time has no favourites.

Build upon the ruins of the fallen they might,

But Rome too is dust in Carthage.

The walls and pillars of the Caesars crumble and decay, the mosaics fade.

Punic and Roman voices are caged together here…forever.

As the wind whips dust among the ruins,

And the sea laps the shore,

I weep for the forgotten people of this place,

Of Carthage.

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If you interested in Carthage, there is a great trilogy by author Ross Leckie that is worth checking out. 

Recently, I also enjoyed watching the documentary Carthage - The Roman Holocaust. I'm not sure about some of the theories in this documentary but it does make a good case and takes the viewer to some spectacular locales. Well worth an hour and a half of your time. I was inspired to look through some of my old photos of Tunisia after watching this documentary and was thus inspired write this picture postcard.

Thanks for reading!

Picture Postcard #7 - Unto the Goddess

At midsummer, the island earth bakes beneath Helios’ gaze. Insects whirr, peasants retreat to their hovels and animals laze in orchard shade.

Hues of green, brown and ochre blanket the fertile valley from salt sea to rocky peak. Splashes of yellow and orange, purple and red abound amid tangles of ivy and grape vine.

As the fiery sun at last dips into the western waves, a hush falls over all, a sigh to melt troubled limbs and sorry spirits. Crickets join the chorus and the lady Selene rises silver and full.

When the fire within the temple kindles, it is time.

At the edge of a grove, a young satyr sits on a moss-covered rock. His eyes take in the moon, the valley and the temple before he closes them and raises his reed pipe to his lips.

The music is soft and sweet as the dew that gathers upon the ground about his hooves. Night comes on and the constellations wink.

From all directions comes laughter like crystal water, the voices of Nymphs, Naiads and Dryads come to frolic beneath the full moon and pay homage to their lady. They skip and dance and twirl, barefoot upon the dewy grass with crowns of flowers in their long-flowing hair.

More satyrs come, jumping with excitement, mischievous grins beneath craggy brows topped with ivy and grape vines. They crash onto the scene to embrace the spirits of wood, field, grove and stream.

Cries of delight and jollity lift into the sky and they all spin and laugh and lift olive wood cups brimming with wine to their lips.

Cornucopia overflow with the fruits of the land and baskets of bread, tenderly made of the goddess’ grain, pass among the throng.

Then the centaurs come down out of the mountains, dark and lean and warlike. But this night, their cudgels lay at home. They come to celebrate, to shake the earth with their rhythmic dance - war made merry.

The torches are burning bright and the music reaches a fevered crescendo as flute, tambourine, aulos, systrum and drum rise and fall with the voices of all. Faster and faster the gathered whirl and laugh and jump and roll…

Until it all stops.

Upon the road, lit by moonlight, approach the Kouros and Kore. They are young and beautiful and loving, new blossoms to the world about them.

The gathering parts for them, a sea of smiles and admiration as they approach the temple where offerings pile high against the walls. Before the door, a throne is set and the Kouros and Kore kneel before it.

All sound goes out of the world as the goddess steps out of her house, her bare feet soft upon the marble step, barely touching the blades of grass beneath her as she steps down.

Demetra.

All know her here, love her. And she loves them, and gives to them.

The goddess’ white robes flow about her like a clinging mist and her wheat-gold hair falls in perfect strands down the length of her back. Her head is high and proud, and the stars spin in her sky-blue eyes.

A hand upon the cheek of the Kouros and Kore welcomes youth to the gathering and all bow before the goddess as she sits with the youths to either side.

The goddess smiles and laughs, a sound to lift the hearts and spirits of all. She nods and the revels explode once more in the midsummer night.

There is yet time before the dawn and the heat of day, for song and dance, for laughter and love.

Demetra smiles and all is well with the world…

Picture Postcard #5 - The Heavens

“What does it all mean, Chiron? What is up there in the Heavens?”

“You ask not easy questions.” The centaur laughed as he approached his young pupil where he lay on his back in the grass, hands laced behind his shaggy head of hair. “Tell me what you think is up there.”

“I don’t know. That is why I am asking you.” The boy wrinkled his nose, focused on the myriad stars pocking the night sky. “If I had to guess, I would say they are torches to light the way for gods and men in the dark. Does anyone live up there?”

The centaur smiled and looked up. He had always longed for those answers himself.

“Some say that there are gods living among the stars. That the heroes of the past dwell there for all eternity as examples for men to be reminded of, to follow.”

“Might there be other worlds? Would it not be a great adventure to be among the stars with so much room around you?”

“You have an imagination about you! It would be an adventure. However, what should concern us is the moment and how we live our lives. You are young and the world stands before you, just as the heavens do now. You just can’t see the world from here where you lie in the grass.”

“I do want to see it, Chiron. So much.”

“I promise you, Jason, you will see it. But first you must learn. There are many wonders to behold in the heavens, but the wonders of this earth are, I assure you, infinitely more fascinating. Adventure attends the curious youth.”

The boy smiled and looked up again.