by León, Vicki
Section VII
For the Love of It—Pure Passions
Callipygia Worship:
Rear end fixation
Oh, to live in ancient Greece and never have to say: Do you think my butt looks too big in this tunic?
Greek males, especially the Athenians, adored the booty beautiful. Greeks even had a special word for it: callipygian, “with beautiful buttocks.” For those girls cursed with too-slender tushes, the Greeks invented posterior enhancers, apparently a padded number that lifted and tightened the rear view.
Long-ago Greeks had exacting standards but open-minded tastes. The buttocks in question could be female. Or male. They could belong to a teen working out in an all-male gymnasium, or to an exquisite nude statue of Aphrodite, goddess of love.
In fact, some of the major artistic hullaballoo that occurred in the third century B.C. can be chalked up to a stylistic breakthrough moment in sculpture. That is when an unknown master created a bronze of the love goddess, carrying loads of sexily folded draperies while looking over her shoulder at her shapely bare tush. The original has disappeared, but a very good first century B.C. Roman copy in marble called the Kallipygean Venus can be ogled at Naples’ marvelous museum.
Speaking of gorgeous behinds, the Greek city of Syracuse on the island of Sicily seems to have had well-endowed citizens. A famous story in Athenaeus’s Sages at Dinner tells of an island farmer who had two daughters. They began quarreling as to which had the more handsome hiney—and took their dispute into the street. A young man (the kind with a rich old father) just happened to be cruising by, and they persuaded him to vote. Back then, you could do things like that and not get arrested.
He chose the buttocks of the older sister, falling in love with the rest of her at the same time. Naturally there was a younger brother; when he heard his bro rhapsodize about the shapely derrieres, he had to see. Straightaway he fell in love with the body parts of the younger sister. Daddy, being rich, tried to get his sons to marry some upper-class dames, arguing that there must be some good-looking tushes in that crowd. The love-smitten brothers remained adamant, and their dad eventually gave in, marrying his sons to their callipygian true loves.
And the sisters? Endowed with brains as well as fine hindquarters, they quickly commissioned a temple to the Fair-buttocked Aphrodite, in which stood a cult statue—possibly the original of the one still seen in the Naples Museum. The religious cult of the Fair Buttocked in Syracuse had staying power, too; centuries later, Christian author Clement of Alexandria put it on his “shamefully erotic examples of pagan religious art” list.
Around 350 B.C., famed Athenian sculptor Praxiteles created a staggeringly beautiful, completely nude Aphrodite—the first ever seen. He’d done it as a commission for the Greek islanders on Kos; they, however, got huffy about the nudity and refused it. Unperturbed, Praxiteles took it back and sold it to the eager citizens of Knidos. He’d also made a clothed Aphrodite—which the folks on Kos received. The model for both statues was Phryne, a saucy hetera whose rich curves made her the Marilyn Monroe of her day.
On Knidos, the locals built a special temple to house the sculpture; soon, the novel beauty of a nude goddess of love became a tourist attraction. And a sexual attraction, according to one account. One young fan became so entranced that one night he hid himself within the temple, later manfully attempting to make love to the naked Aphrodite. Evidently he had a buttock fixation as well, since a stain allegedly appeared on the statue’s luscious rear thigh, where it remained ever after.
To create statues of the love goddess, Greek sculptors used live models, such as the hetera Phryne. The Marilyn Monroe of her day, her lush figure included beautiful buttocks—always a crowd-pleaser with the Greeks.
Etruscan Amore:
Open affection, Etruscan style
Way back in 590 B.C. or so, an Etruscan married couple named Tanaquil and Tarquin rolled into the two-bit town that was Rome at that time. As they gazed at their new home, an eagle swooped, removed Tarquin’s hat, then returned it to his head. His wife Tanaquil kissed him. “It’s a sign from the gods! You’re going to rule this joint, honey!” Those may not have been her exact words, but her demonstrative love—and her ability to read omens and bird signs, called augury—were typical traits and skills of Etruscan women. Although a man of humble origins, Tarquin did become Rome’s fifth king, ruling with his queen for thirty-seven years.
Researchers still argue over the origins of the Etruscans and their still-enigmatic language. What’s no longer an enigma, though, is the status of women in their culture and the wonderfully warm nature of male-female personal relations. Visual evidence of it glows from the astonishing murals found in Etruscan tombs, as well as on grave goods, bronze sculpture, mirrors, jewelry, and other artifacts.
Etruscan men and women from all walks of life, not just the elite, enjoyed the social mixing of the sexes and expected to have marriages of equals. They also had unembarrassed views about nudity and a frank appreciation of tenderness and love.
What a contrast the Etruscan pictorial evidence and these views were to those of the Greek and Romans! Although the latter two cultures had a keen interest in erotic pleasures, sought love, and experienced it, all too seldom was plain old garden-variety tenderness shown or written about.
Unsurprisingly, they expressed horror at the “decadent” doings of the Etruscans. Greek author Theopompus got quite lathered up about the Etruscan lifestyle. His rumor-based ranting is by turns hysterical and openly envious. The inclusion of women at parties! The wild dancing! The nudity! The promiscuity! Much of what he said is probably pure fiction, but his terror about the autonomy of Etruscan women is real. An excerpt: “Sharing wives is an Etruscan custom. The women take particular care of their bodies and exercise often, sometimes along with the men … It is not a disgrace for them to be seen naked. They do not share their [dining] couches with their husbands but with other men who happen to be present, and they propose toasts to anyone they choose. They are expert drinkers and very attractive.”
Although Greeks, Romans, and other cultures engaged in a stunning array of sexual activities, the Etruscans of Italy were nearly unique in demonstrating tenderness and affection as well.
Other authors added their own spurious assertions. In his comic plays of the second century B.C., Roman playwright Plautus claimed that before marriage, Etruscan women sold their bodies in order to collect a dowry.
Around A.D. 40, Roman emperor Claudius wed his first wife, a woman with Etruscan antecedents; later he wrote a long history of the Etruscans which did not survive. If it ever turns up, the work of Claudius might prove a balanced look at a long-ago culture both passionate and dispassionate.
Etruscan women may have been the first truly emancipated females in early history. They routinely dined with their men (and guests), socialized with their friends, moved about in public, and freely offered their opinions (and sometimes their favors). On bronze sculpture and other art, married couples are portrayed as gently caressing and touching the faces of their loved ones. In addition, they appeared to be very caring mothers, judging by the multiplicity of art objects depicted a mom tenderly breast-feeding her child.
The autonomy and freedom of movement of Etruscan women was extraordinary; so was the local custom of giving and receiving hands-on affection. It is hard to reconcile these beautifully depicted gestures of love and affection with the hard reality of other Etruscan traditions—such as gladiatorial matches, which originated in the funeral games held for Etruscan nobles.
Perpetua, Christian Martyr:
Blood lovingly shed
Once Rome’s most feared enemy, the city of Carthage on the North African coast had a fighting force and a love of violence second to none. At length, the Roman army defeated these powerful Phoenicians. To make sure Carthage would never pose a problem again, in 146 B.C. they razed the city to the ground, salting the earth so that nothing would grow.
Three centuries later, however, Rom
an emperor Hadrian reconstituted the city, and by A.D. 200 Carthage was again a thriving metropolis. In addition, it became the setting for an unusual story of love, courage, and martyrdom.
As a youngster, Perpetua got a good education and a tender upbringing from her doting Carthaginian parents. They lived in swanky comfort, enjoying the amenities of a typical Roman city, as Carthage now was, and pledging allegiance to the emperor, as all citizens of the empire now did.
After Perpetua married, she became part of the young matrons’ circle. Somewhere along the line, though, she fell in love with the Christian movement. Not only that, she persuaded her African servant Felicity to convert. Her husband and parents could have tolerated this aberration but for one thing: hard-core Christians refused to pay even lip service to the emperor. (Here’s a prime example of how words change meaning over time: this refusal was labeled “atheism,” which back then meant “denial of the [pagan] gods.”)
At that time, Septimius Severus of Lepta Magna on the North African coast was emperor. Unlike some Caesars we could name, Severus wasn’t a bad guy. He loved his wife Julia Domna and doted on his two sons, counting on them to follow him in office. Geta, the elder by one year, was his special pet.
As had earlier emperors, Severus worried about the growing Christian movement and the audacious behavior of some of its adherents. To quell it, in 202 he passed a law that forbid Christians to openly promote their faith.
By now Perpetua was a very vocal activist, proselytizing on the streets of Carthage. Conflict with the authorities was inevitable. When the twenty-two-year-old got arrested for religious agitation, she was a new mother, breast-feeding an infant. The authorities also arrested four male activists and Perpetua’s maid, a now heavily pregnant Felicity.
A number of women became early Christian martyrs, but only Perpetua documented her ordeal. While imprisoned for eight months, she kept a diary; on her day of execution, she handed it off to a fellow Christian, who recorded the grisly details of Perpetua’s martyrdom.
The original meaning of the word martyr is “witness,” and that is what Perpetua and others like her set out to do: to suffer and possibly die rather than give up their faith. And to do it publicly, so that others would in turn be witnesses. Christian activists were routinely sentenced to be thrown to the wild beasts in the gladiatorial arena. Their willingness to undergo such torture showed the strength of their belief.
In the dank, overcrowded Carthage prison, Perpetua and her Christian companions received word of their sentence date. They were joyous but stressed out over Felicity, who would not be able to appear in public (and thus miss out on martyrdom) if she were still pregnant. After an intense group prayer session, Felicity finally went into labor and gave birth to a little girl in their cell, three days before their arena date.
On a clear March day, this small band of Christians marched into the amphitheatre of Carthage. All wore brave smiles, and Perpetua was singing. (Neither infant was present, having been taken in by relatives or friends.)
The true horribleness of death by wild beasts was that most carnivores will not attack humans on demand; thus the Romans resorted to starving and/or abusing the animals. At times, they simply trussed the human victim to the wild animal—itself a victim, since no animals ever left the arena alive.
First, several of the men in Perpetua’s group were dispatched by a fierce leopard and an aggressive bear. But when Perpetua and new mother Felicity came into the center of the arena, members of the audience were sickened at the sight of milk leaking from the breasts of the lactating women, both of them naked. After the crowd protested, the two young mothers were taken out of the arena, given tunics to wear, and returned.
A wild heifer entered the arena, and tossed Perpetua into the air. She was unhurt. The heifer then attacked Felicity and knocked her savagely. More animals were released, but failed to kill the two women and one man remaining.
At length, all three were made to climb upon a platform where a gladiator waited to dispatch them. His sword missed with the first stroke; Perpetua cried out, then positioned his sword on her neck for the final blow.
She died with extraordinary courage, expressing her love for her god and her joy at going to meet other martyrs in heaven.
As this sanguinary event unfolded, the emperor who had set it in motion was busy celebrating. It was the fourteenth birthday of his well-loved son Geta. As was the custom, the executions of both the beasts and the martyrs represented a sacrifice, made on the boy’s birthday, to ensure his health and prosperity. It was in vain. Emperor Severus would pass away in six years. And that same year, Geta would die at the hands of his own brother.
A Roman citizen, Perpetua loved Christianity and longed for martyrdom. She left behind a journal documenting her activism and death in the gladiatorial arena of Carthage.
Octavia & Mark Antony:
Mother love trumps the rest
What happens when the mother of the century meets the world most flagrant, testosterone-filled lover and fighter? If it’s Rome in the first century B.C., they marry. But first, a little background.
Talk about male virility and fertility—over the course of fifty-six vigorous years, Mark Antony married (and/or formed serious relationships) with five women, several of them simultaneously. It couldn’t have been easy to please them or maintain a regular visitation schedule, given the sailing times and road distances between Rome, Greece, and Egypt. Not one to shirk his responsibilities, multitasker Mark also conducted business on the move (he would have adored cell phones) and took care of his aged mother by dragging Mom along.
And these five simply represented his legal wives and key lovers! In his youth, Mark made love to a spectacular variety of ladies. One special squeeze was a singer-hoofer-mime-actress named Lycoris. With her, he traveled by litter throughout Italy, in a procession of wine-quaffing, music-playing disreputable characters carousing together.
To warm up nuptially, he wed a freedwoman named Fabia about whom little is known—solely a mention in Cicero’s letters. Mark was also fooling around with Fulvia Flacca Bambula (yes, that really was her name), at that time married to a scandalous patrician named Clodius Pulcher.
At age thirty-nine, Mark Antony married his first cousin Antonia, which lasted just two years until he caught her in an affair with his best friend and kicked her out. They had a daughter together.
A year later, Mark entered into marriage number three with Fulvia, now widowed and a mother of three. Their blended family included four kids. Theirs was a tempestuous relationship; Fulvia possessed political moxie, sexual desire, and wealth in abundance; so did Mark, although he ran through his money much faster than she did. In short order, the couple produced two sons. After Caesar’s assassination rocked Italy, Mark and Fulvia became even more powerful, thanks largely to the generous terms of Julius Caesar’s will.
At the same time Queen Cleopatra VII, who’d been in Rome as a guest of Julius Caesar, was anxious to return home. Before she scuttled back to Egypt, however, Cleo decided to get into Mark’s good graces by loaning him money. It was partly a bribe to shore up her position as queen of an independent Egypt, and partly because she thought it wise to bankroll one of the likeliest male contenders to rule Rome in the future.
Three years later, she and Mark Antony rendezvoused again, in Asia Minor, ostensibly to discuss the status of her land as a client state. Chemistry took over, and Mark became besotted with Cleopatra. He bedded her, the result of which was the birth of twins in due course.
Once Fulvia caught wind of all this, she exploded with anger. While she was frantically fighting a small war against Octavian on Mark’s behalf, there he was, sleeping with some hussy! Irate, Fulvia died of an illness in May of 40 B.C., at which time Mark Antony and Octavian sat down to an informal bull session to see if they could come to terms before all-out war.
Mark ungallantly blamed the recent hostilities on his newly dead wife, but found it hard to brush away his sexual alliance with the
queen of Egypt. (Secretly, Octavian was probably delighted, since most of Rome already hated Cleopatra, and she made a perfect pretext to go to war.)
Octavian himself had his own weighty family problems, which the ever-ready Mark agreed to solve. He had a sister, Octavia, who was moping around, newly widowed, heavily pregnant, and mourning her husband of fifteen years. The obliging Mark married Octavia in the fall of that same year. With her three children, the household now numbered at least nine youngsters from a variety of connubial events.
Things went swimmingly for three years, at least from Octavia’s point of view. She loved children, producing two more, and loved Mark, even though he was pushing fifty by now.
But Mark suffered from a chronic itch. And now only Cleopatra could scratch it. He began to commute to Egypt, resulting in another young’un on the way for Cleo— and demands from the Egyptian queen for a more permanent relationship.
After a hurtful divorce from Octavia in 36 B.C., Mark Antony settled in with his fifth wife (not recognized as such by the Romans, of course) in Egypt. Their fateful challenge to Rome met with failure and humiliating defeat in 31 B.C. The two lovers (Mark aged fifty-six, Cleopatra at thirty-nine) committed suicide and were buried together.
Octavia, the emperor’s sister, had five children and two husbands, the second being Mark Antony. After the Cleopatra debacle, this compassionate woman also adopted all of Mark’s kids from prior marriages.
