Scones, Pizza, and an Epic Fail

Browsing the admirable @rogueclassicist Twitter feed recently, I was interested to read an extract from a cookbook, posted by US academic and classicist Angela Taraskiewicz.  And a remarkably erudite cookbook it was: its recipe for currant tea scones noted that the first written appearance of the word scone was in “an early sixteenth-century translation of the Aeneid  by the Scottish poet Gavin Douglas.”

Could this proto-scone be a Scots rendering of the phrase adorea liba in Aeneid book VII, Angela wondered? She was referring to lines 109-110 (adorea liba per herbam/subiciunt epulis), where the Trojans are having an outdoor meal and put these liba on the grass as platters for their various meats.

Gavin Douglas

According to C T Lewis’ Elementary Latin Dictionary, adoreum is the Latin for spelt; libum is a cake or pancake (C T also helpfully provides a recipe, recommending “flour, made up with oil or milk, and baked,” though he doesn't say for how long); and  Douglas does indeed translate the lines into Middle Scots thus:  

The flowr sconnys war set in, by and by/ With other mesis, sik as wer reddy...

It should be a matter of deep national pride for Scotland that the first complete translation of Virgil’s Aeneid done in the British Isles, and indeed in any Germanic language, was in Scots. Gavin Douglas, at the time Provost of the Church of St Giles, later Bishop of Dunkeld, composed it at the behest of his patron, Henry, 3^rd Lord Sinclair; it was completed in 1513, which turned out to be an interesting year for both men.

A flavour of Douglas’ translation may be had from the epic's famous opening lines:

The batalis and the man I wil discrive / Fra Troys boundis first that fugitive/ By fait to Ytail come and cost Lavine/ Owr land and sey kachit with mekil pyne/ By fors of goddis abufe, from euery steid/ Of cruell Juno throu ald remembrit fede.                                                                                                                                                 

Even if it may be argued there are better translations per se, Douglas’ Eneados has a case to be considered the most vigorous, vital and, well, fun rendition of the epic poem: not only does it have scones, but it also includes the first written occurence of the exclamation Wow! 
 

But let us to return to our scones, and their crucial role in the narrative structure of the Aeneid. As we have seen, they appear early in Book VII, when the Trojans are celebrating landfall in Italy: for the first six books, which are Virgil’s hommage to Homer’s Odyssey, Aeneas has been wandering the Mediterranean in search of a new home, even going so far as to visit the Underworld for help; the remainder of the work will follow the Iliad in describing a land war and battle of champions. An apparently insignificant joke about dough becomes the fulcrum upon which are balanced the Odyssean and Iliadic halves of the Aeneid.

Back in Book III, Aeneas and his refugees from Troy land on the Strophades, in the Ionian Sea. They are delighted to see that the island is populated with tasty-looking livestock, and set about barbecuing a few. Unfortunately, the island is also home to the Harpies, monstrous birds of prey with a female human face. Like hungry seagulls spying a chip wrapper, they descend upon the Trojans’ lunch and then generally crap all over the picnic. Aeneas tells his men to gather all the gear up, and they move elsewhere; no sooner do they get the charcoal alight again, when the dread creatures return. This time the hungry Trojans fight back, chasing them off with sword and shield.

The head Harpy, Celaeno (a drery prophetes, says Douglas) perches on a rock and somewhat huffily addresses the Trojans:  "So you’re willing to fight us over stolen meat? You try to drive us innocent Harpies from our own home? Well hear this: you may reach Italy, but you will never have your own city until you have suffered such starvation that you will chew your own tables.” And with that, the feathered femme fatale flies off. This curse puts a bit of a crimp on the party, and the Trojans make sail from the Strophades without delay.

A deep-fried half-pizza supper

The pay-off to this tale comes four books later. On arrival in Latium, the Trojans celebrate with an outdoor feast in honour of Jupiter: as we have seen, they place thin scones on the grass and heap meat and wild fruits on top. I have very fond memories of this scene: way back in the early 70s, halcyon era of glam rock and the orange Cambridge Latin Course, my esteemed Classics teacher, Mr Lennox, describing the Trojan outdoor cuisine, informed us that this sort of thing was eaten to this very day in Italy, and it was called a pizza: he had been to Naples and had actually seen one with his own eyes. Now as it happened, we were already aware of the concept, since Pieroni’s, the local chip emporium, had recently introduced us to the half-pizza supper, a semi-circular lump of tomato puree-smeared dough, deep-fried in chip fat, doused in salt and vinegar and wrapped in the pages of the Irvine Herald. So we could in fact well imagine the pleasure the hungry Trojans took from their pepperoni feast.

Having scoffed the toppings, the Trojans are still hungry, and set about eating the crusty square base: Ne spair thai not at last, for lak of meat/ Thar fatal four-nukit trynschour for to eyt. Ascanius, Aeneas’ young son, blurts out a joke: “Heus! etiam mensas consumimus”

 “Och!” quod Ascanius, “how is this befall?/ Behald, we eyt our tabillis up and all!”

Now, this is a beautiful little narrative set-up and pay-off that signals the turning point of the Aeneid. The wandering is at an end; but the war for a homeland is yet to begin. The scene is full of wit, charm and dramatic irony, as the audience enjoys Virgil’s call-back to the curse of Celaeno, the Harpy-in-Chief: that the price of a home would be desperate starvation. We are relieved that such a dire curse is dispelled so painlessly; we are amused that the mask of tragedy has unexpectedly been turned to a smiley face; we are delighted that an evil omen is defeated by a child’s innocent remark that they had been so hungry that they had eaten their tables.

Except that Virgil, apparently, seems to have forgotten all about the blood-curdling Harpy prophecy in Book IV; instead, he gives Aeneas a portentous aria: Hail, land promised by fate and hail, to you, trusty gods of Troy! Here is our home, here is our own country! Aeneas then explains at length that his father Anchises had told him that all this would happen. He even quotes his dad verbatim: Son, when you’re in a strange land and you get so hungry that you devour your own tables:

Ramembir, in that place, or near fast by/ To found thy first cite with thi hand.

One can imagine this fairly obvious error in the storyline puzzling not only to the Trojan veterans of the Strophades adventure; but also the more attentive of the real-life audience. It is, literally, Virgil's epic fail.

Trojan picnic

How to explain such an egregious continuity error? I suppose it’s possible that he could simply have forgotten, over the course of composing four books-worth of hexameter verse, that the original comment was made by Celaeno. Possible, but highly unlikely: the pizza/scone/table incident is a watershed in the poem, and Virgil had taken the trouble to establish its significance.

A more likely explanation is that Virgil changed his mind mid-composition, but died before he was able to make the consequential amendments elsewhere in the work. According to his biographer Donatus, Virgil’s dissatisfaction with the incomplete work was such that he ordered the poem to be destroyed after his death. Augustus himself countermanded the instruction and had it published. Doubtless the emperor was a genuine poetry lover; but the Aeneid also had powerful propaganda value to the ruling Julian regime.

The pizza/scone incident is sandwiched (sorry) between two other big set-pieces: the procession of future Roman heroes in Book VI, and the description of the scenes from future Roman history on Vulcan’s shield in Book VIII.

In Book VI, Aeneas’ visit to the underworld culminates in his late father Anchises showing him a long queue of noble souls who have undergone a sort of Platonic metempsychosis and are awaiting reincarnation as future Romans. Chief among them are members of the Julian dynasty: Augustus Caesar, his adoptive father Julius Caesar; and his nephew and prospective heir, Marcellus. Of divine heritage, they will restore a golden age to Rome:

Cum of the goddys geneology and kyn/ Quhilk sall agane the goldin warld begyn.

Anchises also sets out his famous mission statement for Rome, a sort of ethical genocide policy: parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos: spare the defeated and destroy the proud in war.

Aeneas’ mother, the goddess Venus, also has something to contribute regarding her descendants’ role in Roman greatness. In Book VIII she brings him armour and a shield, on which are engraved depictions of the most significant events in future Roman history. Forty lines suffice to cover from the time of Romulus to the Catilinarian conspiracy; no fewer than fifty-eight are devoted to the Battle of Actium and Octavian/Augustus’ triumph over Mark Antony and Cleopatra, thus confirming him as sole ruler of the Empire.

Having so deliberately highlighted Rome’s destiny, and identified the current imperial family with the hero Aeneas and the gods themselves, Virgil perhaps reconsidered the source of the prophecy associated with the establishment of the city.  Rather than allow the foundation of Rome to be heralded by a birdwoman of ill omen -almost an obscene parody of the Roman eagle- the messenger becomes father Anchises and, by some unexplained logic, Jupiter himself. Virgil, or perhaps his political masters, decided Rome should have a more exalted foundation myth.

You lookin' at me, Antony?

There is however a third possibility: one modern school of thought perceives an anti-Augustan and anti-imperialist line concealed within the poem, and interprets the contradictions and continuity errors as indications of this alternative Virgilian “personal” narrative as opposed to the “official” state propaganda narrative. In this analysis, Virgil at times deliberately paints an unattractive portrait of Aeneas, and by association, Augustus: Aeneas’ human sacrifice of Latin prisoners of war, and the vindictive slaughter of his enemy Turnus are coded criticisms of Augustus’ behaviour in the Civil Wars. This killing, the final brutal act of the entire epic, leaves snowflakes such as myself with seriously ambiguous feelings towards the hero we have sailed and fought with for twelve long books. The death of the helpless Turnus undermines the poet’s mission statement for Rome: the arrogant opponent has been vanquished, but the defeated enemy has certainly not been spared.
There can be no doubt that the Aeneid ends on a rather sour note.

The spreit of lyfe fled murnand with a grane/ And with disdeyn vnder dyrk erth is gayn.

 But it's a bit of a stretch to say that this proves that Virgil was a sort of literary fifth-columnist within the Principate. The very attractiveness of the theory should give us pause, lest wishful thinking persuade us that Virgil mirrors our own 21st Century liberal mores. Perhaps, in his depiction of the liquidation of Turnus, Virgil was trying to make a point about dictatorship and the violent suppression of opposition; on the other hand, he may simply have been anticipating Lenin's apocryphal line about omelettes and eggs. We'll never know.

Aeneas and a war crime.

More about Douglas' translation, in the context of the year 1513, next time.

The Sibyl, "The Waste Land" and Hollywood

Σιβυλλα τι θελεις;… αποθανειν θελω*

Sibyl, what do you want? … I want to die.

At the end of the last post, we looked at this quotation from Petronius’ Satyricon, which is featured in the epigraph of The Waste Land. In this post (dedicated to my Advanced Higher English class) we will have a closer look at the Sibyl, and the theme of prophets and prophecy in the first part of the poem, The Burial of the Dead. Along the way there will be a slight digression onto the subject of my favourite TS Eliot-related film.

Sibyls (sibyllae), or prophetic priestesses of Apollo, were to be found in various locations in the ancient world. The most significant in Roman legend was the Sibyl of Cumae, who turned up at the door of Tarquinius Superbus, the last king of Rome, in the form of an old woman. She offered to sell him nine books of prophecies, which she claimed would provide valuable advice whenever the city of Rome found itself in danger. The Sibyl’s asking price was too much for the king, however, and he declined the offer; whereupon the Sibyl threw three of the books onto the throne room’s fire, and asked for the same price for the remaining six. Tarquinius was, unsurprisingly, even less inclined to part with the cash; the Sibyl then lobbed another three volumes into the flames, maintaining her original price, but now for only a third of the goods.**

Lucretia

Never play poker with a man called Doc, or argue with a Sibyl. His bluff called, Tarquinius cracked and agreed to purchase the three remaining books at the full RRP. Although the books did apparently prove useful to Rome throughout the coming centuries, they did not help King Tarquin the Proud very much: not only was he a poor poker player, he was also a thoroughly bad egg (the clue is in the name, perhaps); he was driven out of Rome after forcing himself on Lucretia, the wife of a Roman nobleman; ironically, he died in exile at Cumae. The monarchy had lost its authority, and kings were no longer welcome: Rome became a republic - for five hundred years, anyway.

According to Ovid, Metamorphoses XIV, 101 ff. the Cumaean Sibyl had become a grumpy old woman as a result of an incident involving Apollo. She explains to Aeneas that she had been propositioned by the god, who had asked her to name her own price for her affections:

ego pulveris hausti
ostendens cumulum, quot haberet corpora pulvis,
tot mihi natales contingere vana rogavi;
excidit, ut peterem iuvenes quoque protinus annos.

I pointed to a pile of dust, and stupidly asked that the number of my birthdays should equal the specks of the dust; but I failed to ask that I should stay youthful.

The Sibyl's Cave, Cumae

So the Sibyl was destined to live for a thousand years: and without the benefit of L’Oreal or Olay, she wrinkled and withered away until she was so tiny she could live inside a jar:  which was where Trimalchio claimed to have seen her in the 1^st Century CE. Exhausted by unnatural old age, and having witnessed centuries of the follies of mankind, her only wish was to be allowed to die.

So in choosing this text as the epigraph to The Waste Land, TS Eliot was perhaps suggesting that as a poet/prophet (the Latin word vates means both) he shared the Sibyl’s ennui and general world-weariness. At the ripe old age of thirty-four, Tom Eliot is figuratively sick to death of the twentieth century.

Petronius had not been his first pick for the epigraph: the early drafts were headed by a quotation from Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness:

“Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision, – he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath –
"The horror! The horror!"

These are the last words of Kurtz, a highly intelligent and well-intentioned European who has come to Congo to export ivory, but allows himself to worshipped as a god by an African tribe, and has taken part in their gruesome rituals. He appears to the narrator to have gone insane.

The meaning of this quotation is not dissimilar to the words of the Sibyl: Kurtz has witnessed such horrors that he is ready to die; he is, like the Sibyl, at least partly responsible for his own predicament.

Eliot was persuaded by the unofficial editor of The Waste Land, Ezra Pound, that Conrad was not sufficiently “weighty” as a writer to provide the introduction to the poem. According to his widow, Eliot regretted his decision to drop Conrad; he later went some way to making amends by citing another quotation from Heart of Darkness as the epigraph of The Hollow Men.

The Waste Land and Heart of Darkness were, incidentally, reunited half a century later in the form of Francis Coppola’s war movie masterpiece Apocalypse Now (1979).  The action of Conrad’s novella is transferred to Vietnam, where Kurtz is a renegade American colonel who is worshipped as a god by an irregular army of indigenous people. The US Army High Command believes him to be insane, and sends a special forces captain, Willard, upriver with orders to assassinate him.

Coppola conflates Conrad’s tale with the Fisher King imagery of The Waste Land: in the Arthurian legend which gives the poem its title, the land is barren because its king is sickly and weak; in Apocalypse Now, the “insane” Kurtz is a symbol of the madness destroying Vietnam.

Whether Kurtz is truly insane, or is in fact the only character who offers a clear analysis of the war, by the end of the movie he, like the Sibyl, wants to die. Rather than be cured by the questing knight, Willard, he is killed by him. We are reminded of an earlier Italian version of the myth which links the strength of the king with the land he rules: that of the Rex Nemorensis, the King of the Wood, in which continued fertility requires human sacrifice:

The Golden Bough, JMW Turner

 In this sacred grove there grew a certain tree round which at any time of the day, and probably far   into the night, a grim figure might be seen to prowl. In his hand he carried a drawn sword, and he kept peering warily about him as if at every instant he expected to be set upon by an enemy. He was a priest and a murderer; and the man for whom he looked was sooner or later to murder him and hold the priesthood in his stead. Such was the rule of the sanctuary. A candidate for the priesthood could only succeed to office by slaying the priest, and having slain him, he retained office till he was himself slain by a stronger or a craftier.

                                                                                          JG Frazer, The Golden Bough, chapter 1

Just in case we don’t make the connection, while Kurtz awaits his end, he recites The Hollow Men, and reads Frazer’s The Golden Bough and Jessie L Weston’s From Ritual to Romance, both of which are cited by Eliot as formative influences on The Waste Land.

The Golden Bough takes its title from the wood of a tree in the “sacred grove” which the would-be priest would have to break off before attempting to kill the incumbent. This sacred wood also has a connection with the Sibyl: when, in Virgil’s Aeneid VI, Aeneas wishes to visit his late father in the Underworld, he is told by the Sibyl that it’s easy to get there, not so simple to come back; only the golden bough of a magical tree will provide him with a return ticket on Charon’s ferry.

In addition to acting as tour guide to the Underworld, the Sibyl also offers Aeneas a number of prophetic observations, including a vision of war:

...bella, horrida bella
et Thybrim multo spumantem sanguine cerno

 I see war, terrible war, and the River Tiber foaming with much blood'

  Virgil, Aeneid VI 86-87

(Incidentally, these lines, or a mistranslation of them, are probably Britain’s best-known Virgilian verses, having become a sort of shorthand for anti-immigration politics and predictions of disaster.)

The prophetic imagery of the epigraph continues into the first part of The Waste Land, The Burial of the Dead:

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.            The title, The Burial of the Dead, is taken from a rite in the Book of Common Prayer; dust, as in ashes to ashes, dust to dust, symbolises what will become of us after death; but here the dust is also an allusion to the legend of the Sybil, where it paradoxically symbolises life, even if it is a long, painful and undesired life. There is also a passing reference to a biblical prophet, Ezekiel: Son of man,   You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images In the Old Testament, the phrase son of man frequently refers to Ezekiel, who has a vision of a Valley of Dry Bones. Perhaps Eliot sees himself as the prophet/poet, confronted by the disarticulated bones of his poem? The prophecy imagery now turns to the Madame Sosostris, the Tarot reading, horoscope delivering, clairvoyante; who, despite her various abilities to tell the future, was unable to predict a common cold. Through his ironical depiction of this psychic fraud with her wicked pack of cards, Eliot seems to suggest that his credulous twentieth century society is debased even in its choice of prophets. Nevertheless, Madame Sosostris’ Tarot cards predict a number of characters who will feature elsewhere in The Waste Land. In the next blogpost we will look at the central role of the prophet Tiresias in the poem. *   Footnote 1: Transliterated,  Sibylla, ti theleis?... Apothanein thelo ** Footnote 2: In The Godfather Part II, the Sibyl’s uncompromising negotiating strategy is adopted in reverse by Michael Corleone. Faced with a demand for a huge bribe in return for a gaming licence, Michael’s (ultimately successful) counter-offer is less than nothing. The film was directed by…Francis Coppola.

Some kind of terrible, terrible fall

As discussed in the previous post, Greek and Roman religious belief was that the dead inhabited an underground kingdom, overseen by various chthonic deities such as Hades, Persephone and Charon. Unlike the Judaeo-Christian tradition of a subterranean Hell dedicated to the punishment of sinners (aka the burny fires, as my Presbyterian mum pleonastically called it), the classical Underworld was the final destination of us all, good and bad, just and unjust.

Punishment was certainly available for those who merited it, however; and it was meted out in the place called Tartarus. According to Hesiod’s Theogony (8^th or 7^th Century BCE), Tartarus (originally created by the gods as a prison for the troublesome Titans) is situated as far beneath us as we are beneath heaven:

τόσσον ἔνερθ᾽ ὑπὸ γῆς, ὅσον οὐρανός ἐστ᾽ ἀπὸ γαίης:
τόσσον γάρ τ᾽ ἀπὸ γῆς ἐς Τάρταρον ἠερόεντα.
ἐννέα γὰρ νύκτας τε καὶ ἤματα χάλκεος ἄκμων
οὐρανόθεν κατιὼν δεκάτῃ κ᾽ ἐς γαῖαν ἵκοιτο:
ἐννέα δ᾽ αὖ νύκτας τε καὶ ἤματα χάλκεος ἄκμων
ἐκ γαίης κατιὼν δεκάτῃ κ᾽ ἐς Τάρταρον ἵκοι.

Hesiod, Theogony 721-725

…as far beneath the earth as heaven is above earth; for so far is it from earth to Tartarus. For a bronze anvil falling down from heaven nine nights and days would reach the earth upon the tenth: and again, a bronze anvil falling from earth nine nights and days would reach Tartarus upon the tenth.

Incidentally, the Greek here for anvil (akmōn) has the same root as the word acme (meaning summit or peak); a linguistic link serendipitously developed by Chuck Jones some two-and-a-half millennia after Hesiod.

John Milton was probably alluding to Hesiod’s cosmology when, in Paradise Lost, the Archangel Raphael tells of the rebel angels falling “nine days” from Heaven into Hell. Milton presumably imagined that a rebel angel would fall twice as fast as a bronze anvil: obviously he was unaware of Galileo’s then recent proposal that bodies falling in a vacuum will fall with uniform acceleration.

Angel or anvil, nine days is an awful long time to be falling. Obviously it is a poetic trope, an expression of the metaphysical distance between the living and the dead, or the blessed and the damned. But to our post-Galilean and post-Newtonian (and post-Jonesian) world, it seems ridiculously exaggerated, not to say impossible. As a matter of interest, I tried to work out roughly how far away Hesiod’s Heaven and Hell might actually be if they were to be considered in terms of physical, rather than mythological cosmology: unfortunately, my brain very soon began to overheat, what with having to take into account the gravitational constant and all, so I gave up and am going to rely on this guy’s calculation of 65,800 kilometers.

In order to then get to Tartarus, the anvil must presumably fall through a hole in the Earth (diameter 12,742 km) and drop out the other side. Assuming it landed with a splash at the entrance to the River Acheron, in present–day Epirus, it would have popped out of the South Pacific antipode like a Trident missile and end up in Tartarus after travelling a further 53,058 km through space. Coincidentally (?), this is about the distance from Earth that a putative space elevator would have to extend in order for an object attached to it to achieve escape velocity.   

To confuse matters even further, Virgil (never one to allow Roman Epic to be outbid by the Greeks) claims that Tartarus is double this distance:

...tum Tartarus ipse
bis patet in praeceps tantum tenditque sub umbras
quantus ad aetherium caeli suspectus Olympum.

Aeneid VI 577-579

...Tartarus itself stretches down into darkness, twice the flying distance from heavenly Olympus.

Milton’s Tartarus is even trickier to locate. A curious blogger came to the conclusion that an angel falling for nine days to Earth would have to begin the drop somewhere on the far side of the Moon. Milton also tells us that Hell is:

…As far removed from God and light of Heaven
As from the centre thrice to th' utmost pole.

At first glance this would seem to suggest that the distance from Heaven to Hell is three times the radius of the Earth, or 19,113 km. This would imply that a rebel angel falls at 88.4 kph, which is coincidentally (?) just on the legal side of the average speed limit on the real road to Hell*. So not really very rebellious after all. Such calculations assume that Hell, as in the classical tradition, is somewhere under the Earth’s crust. But in Paradise Lost, the banishment of the rebel angels to Hell precedes the creation of Earth: their “dungeon horrible” therefore cannot be terrestrial and subterranean. Nevertheless, Milton’s pole and centre probably refer to the distance from the Earth’s pole to the centre of Heaven.

Blake: Casting the Rebel Angels into Hell

So Milton follows, and trumps, the classical writers: in a sort of poetic grade inflation, Hesiod locates Tartarus the same distance as Heaven is to Earth; Virgil goes with twice that distance; and Milton three times as far.

Our classical tourists in the Underworld, Odysseus and Aeneas, have slightly different takes on the geography of the home of the damned. In the Odyssey, Tartarus seems to be open-plan in the style of Camp X-Ray: from his rocky viewpoint, Odysseus can observe the torment of various hubristic ne’er-do-wells:

·       Tityos the giant (condemned to Tartarus for the attempted rape of Apollo’s mother): he is stretched out on the ground and his liver is eternally pecked by a pair of vultures.

·       Tantalus (food issues: he killed and cooked his own son, then tried to serve Junior to the gods at a banquet): he is eternally thirsty and hungry; he stands in a stream beneath a fruit tree, but is prevented from consuming either.

·       Sisyphus (generally taking the piss out of the gods, but in particular chaining up Death with the consequence that nobody could die): sentenced to endlessly roll a stone up a hill, only to see it roll back down again from the top.

Sisyphus, Ixion and Tantalus

The Aeneid, as always, has to be a bit more ornate: Tartarus has triple walls, a massive iron tower and a gate made of toughened steel. Aeneas can hear the howls of anguish and the crack of the lash, but is not permitted to enter to see for himself. Luckily, his companion, The Sibyl, has previously had a guided tour and fills our hero in on the various villains within. It is of course a longer list than Homer managed, and includes in addition to the usual suspects the hubristic ingrate Ixion.

Ixion, king of the Lapiths in Thessaly, was a thoroughly bad lot. According to Pindar (Pythian Odes 2) and other sources, he was the first human to kill his own relative (having murdered his father-in-law in a dispute about money). He was shunned by all mankind for this crime, but Zeus took pity on him and brought him home to Olympus. Ixion repaid the Zeus’ uncharacteristic good deed by trying to seduce his wife, Hera. When the god found out about this, he decided to deceive the deceiver by making a 3D model of Hera from a passing cloud: Ixion promptly did the deed with this blow-up doll named Nephele, then boasted of his supposed success with the goddess.

Rubens: Ixion and Nephele

In punishment for this egregious breach of houseguest etiquette, Ixion was bound to an eternally-revolving wheel of fire and dumped in Tartarus. In an odd postscript, the nebulous sex-toy gave birth to the race of the centaurs, half human and half horse.

In the Aeneid, the Sibyl’s description of Ixion’s punishment is a bit puzzling: she describes Ixion seated nervously beneath a tottering rock; there is a banquet spread before him, but he is unable to reach it because of a menacing Fury. This is the punishment associated with Tantalus: almost all other sources (including Virgil himself in the Georgics IV 484) have Ixion on a wheel. One commentator has explained the discrepancy away by suggesting that the Sibyl is giving an impressionistic description of the scene,  “a confused sense of terrors inextricably blended,” but this seems a bit like special pleading. Perhaps even Virgil, like Homer, nods occasionally.

More about the ungrateful Ixion in the next post.

* Correction: the E6 now bypasses Hell and goes straight to Trondheim airport.