by Jason Porath
I’m gonna make twice as fragrant a corpse, just you watch, thought Utz-Colel.
Eventually the day came for Utz-Colel to make good on her vow: she died a virgin and was praised for her lifelong chastity by admiring neighbors. But as soon as she was buried, a stink to end all stinks issued forth from her burial plot. This was a debilitating stench, an odor to reduce hardened souls to tears, to make the most vivacious pray for death, to make everyone wish for deliverance unto a world without scent. It done stanked up the place, y’all.
The origin of this fetid, fulsome funk? The Tzacam flowers now growing from Utz-Colel’s grave.
Now dead (or possibly transformed into a Tzacam flower, it’s a little ambiguous), Utz-Colel mulled over her life. Thinking that Xkeban had only done so well in death because her lifetime of sins had been so sexy (and thus, apparently, the best sins of all), Utz-Colel decided to emulate her sister’s lustiness in her own afterlife. However, lacking the emotional honesty that Xkeban brought to her love life, Utz-Colel became the Xtabay—a demon who waits under the ceiba tree, combing her hair with the spines of the Tzacam flower until she can seduce and kill wayward men.
• ART NOTES •
The girls are seen next to their respective flowers. Utz-Colel, in the foreground, has a pattern of spikes in her jewelry that mirrors the spikiness of the Tzacam flower.
Tomoe Gozen
(1157–1247, JAPAN)
The Samurai Who Made Samurai Flee
If you know anything about samurai, you probably know that they aren’t big on backing down. Battling to the death? Sure. Charging into certain doom? Absolutely. Ritual suicide? Race you to the knife closet.
But going one-on-one against a woman whom the history books describe as “a match for any god or demon?” No thank you.
Such was the hard-earned reputation of Tomoe Gozen, one of the only female Japanese warriors (onna-bugeisha) of medieval times. She grew up as the foster sister of Yoshinaka Minamoto, a samurai general with an eye on the shogunate. When the two reached adulthood and Yoshinaka began looking for lieutenants for his army, Tomoe was one of the first on the list. By that point, she’d won a reputation as a “warrior who could stand alone against a thousand,” mostly by winning a crap-ton of fights (that’s 9.7 buttloads for those of you on the metric system).
Now, it should be noted that Yoshinaka himself was not burdened with, shall we say, an excess of competency—leading one to question how much of his success was due to savvier associates such as Tomoe. Described as a “wild barbarian,” the would-be shogun made an early attempt to introduce himself to the aristocracy by burning down the emperor’s house, decapitating 100 of its defenders, and parading their heads around town. This was generally perceived as downright unneighborly.
With the help of Tomoe and his other lieutenants, Yoshinaka did eventually become shogun, but soon thereafter he had to flee from a rival’s invading forces. After a long-delayed departure (Yoshinaka dallied so long his servants literally started killing themselves outside his room to get him to leave), he left with 100 samurai. Charging through dozens of skirmishes, the force was a scant dozen people by the time they exited the city. Tomoe was one of those twelve. She was unscathed.
As they fled through the forest, Tomoe ran into a fearsome enemy general named Hatakeyama. Instead of running away, she continually charged at him, dodging his every attack. Her handiwork soon made it apparent to him that “this is no woman, this is a demon at work.” Given the potential shame from his imminent loss to a woman, Hatakeyama decided the most honorable thing to do was to run away—because not only was Tomoe definitely going to kill him, she would ruin his entire family name in the process.
He wasn’t wrong, as his fellow general Uchida proved shortly thereafter.
Upon finding Tomoe, Uchida ordered all of his soldiers to attack her, before eventually deciding to confront her himself. Determined to prove he was stronger, he walked his horse right up to hers and began grappling with her from the saddle. Almost immediately, he was outmatched. So he grabbed a knife, only to have her knock it away, yelling, “I am the combat instructor you need!”
She then grabbed him by the faceplate, slammed him onto her horse’s pommel, and cut off his head. This did not do wonders for his family’s honor.
Despite Tomoe’s heroics, Yoshinaka’s cause was lost, and he ordered her to retreat. After refusing to do so for several more skirmishes, she finally obeyed—but not before decapitating another enemy general on the way out, for good measure.
What happened to Tomoe after her days on the battlefield is unknown. One source claims she became a Buddhist nun, and another that she married an enemy general and had a family. The latter is less plausible (her life span barely matched up with that of the general named) and was probably dreamed up by someone who wanted to claim relation to her. Can you blame them?
• ART NOTES AND TRIVIA •
Although she mostly wore a helmet, after her fight with Hatakeyama, Tomoe let her hair down and put on a white hat. The design here is based on hats from Japanese horseback archers.
Traditionally, her armor is portrayed with brighter colors, and Tomoe herself with far more makeup. This armor design is based off a surviving coat of female samurai armor. Such armor was put on like a kimono, to preserve feminine modesty.
The pattern on her shoulder pads (it looks like three commas in a circle) is also called tomoe. Which may explain why she was called Tomoe. It was considered rude to refer to a woman by her given name. “Gozen” was an honorific title given to many Japanese women of ancient times.
Tomoe has her own Noh play, which is no small feat: there are only around 200 such plays in existence, and only 18 are devoted to the tales of warriors.
The number and names of Tomoe’s opponents differ based on the source. In some versions, she only fights one man, Honda no Moroshige (mentioned earlier as the man she decapitated on her way off the battlefield). In other versions, she’s given two other fights, against Uchida and Hatakeyama, whom she kills and lets go, respectively.
The historicity of Tomoe’s existence is (surprise) disputed by many scholars. While her story shows up in two major Japanese historical documents, said documents have variable historical accuracy. It is perhaps best to take the finer details with a pinch of salt.
Empress Theodora
(C. 497–548, TURKEY)
The Concubine Who Conquered Constantinople
Many of the women in this book were bad-mouthed in their lifetimes, but few experienced gossip taken to the hyperbolic levels accorded Theodora. Prior to becoming consort to Justinian I, emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, Theodora had come from one of the lowest rungs of society: she was a prostitute. But she rose above her origins through force of will, becoming one of the most influential—and controversial—empresses in history.
Theodora entered the world of sex work early in life. When her father, a bear trainer, died,* Theodora’s mother was left with little source of income. Theodora started working as an actress, a profession in those days that was nearly synonymous with sex worker. She proved quite popular, telling dirty jokes and taking onlookers’ flirtation in stride. Her most famous stage act was to dress as Leda—a woman from Greek mythology whom Zeus, in the guise of a swan, impregnated—and have specially trained geese nibble barley grains off her body. She was a decidedly raunchy gal.
Everything changed when she became mistress to Hecebolus, a governor of North Africa. After traveling with him to his homeland, Theodora found herself unexpectedly dumped, stranded a huge distance from her native Constantinople. So she turned to sex work to finance her trip back home. Upon returning, though, she had a religious conversion and swore off sex work permanently. She became a wool spinner near the palace, and it was in that role that she met Justinian.
Justinian was smitten by Theodora instantly. Wowed by her intelligence and ability to quote orators, he actually rewrote the laws of the land in order to allow him to marry her. She was equally enamo
red of him, insisting on banishment and harsh punishment (like being tossed into the sea) for those who were proven to have been plotting against him. Despite vicious rumors to the contrary, all evidence points to the two being faithfully monogamous to one another their entire lives.
Theodora took to the role of empress quickly. When an earthquake ravaged Antioch, she sent lavish gifts to help the citizens rebuild—and did the same numerous times for other cities experiencing natural disasters, like drought and famine. Against her husband’s will, she sheltered the religiously oppressed and talked Justinian into easing up on them. When Justinian contracted the Black Plague and was bedridden, she even took charge for a time.
Much of Theodora’s energy was spent on bettering the lives of women, in particular sex workers. She expanded the rights of women in divorces, established the death penalty for rape, gave mothers guardianship over their children in the case of divorce or the death of their husbands, and forbade the killing of wives for adultery. At one point she summoned all brothel owners in Constantinople, lectured them, and then bought all of their girls from them.* She then sent the newly freed girls back to their parents. When the brothels reopened soon after, she again tried shutting them down. Eventually, she built a convent called Metanoia (“repentance”), where ex-prostitutes could support themselves.
But for all the good she did for women, she was inarguably cruel to bureaucrats, keeping them waiting for interminable amounts of time. She schemed viciously against those who irritated her, causing the downfall of several key figures in Justinian’s government—among them, his finance minister and some of his best generals. Unwilling to chide her too much, Justinian never stopped her. Unfortunately, this was a key factor in causing some of his biggest plans, such as the recapture of Rome and the Western Roman Empire, to fall apart.
Theodora’s tough tactics made her a target for many, but for none more so than the scholar Procopius. In his Secret History, he makes the following outrageous claims:
• She would go to parties with 10 men, sleep with all of them, then sleep with another 30, and still be unsated.
• She would have abortions regularly and then boast of them in public.
• She had a massive spy network that she would use to kidnap and kill her opponents.
• She wished her nipples had holes so that she could use them for sex as well.
• She would run into the bridal chambers of the just-married on their wedding night and arrest the groom, just because she could.
• She was, in fact, a demon whose head left her body at night to vex the citizens of Constantinople.
• Other demons would come to her while she was having sex with clients, and she’d kick out her johns to have relations with said demons.
• She actually caused the earthquakes and floods for which she gathered aid.
In short, he was not a fan. His Secret History did not come to light until centuries later, by which time Theodora was unable to defend herself (or have Procopius banished). Not that it caused much of a stir—historians generally see the bitterness of the Secret History as saying more about Procopius than Theodora.
After she died of cancer in 548, she left behind a policy of religious tolerance within the Christian faith, a rebuilt Constantinople, and a grieving Justinian I.
• ART NOTES •
Theodora is here pictured offering a hand to a sex worker, in reference to her work on their behalf.
On the left side are some bureaucrats, who are both waiting for her (one has a handy hourglass wristwatch) and being attacked by her trained geese. On the right is Justinian I, coughing from the plague, in the palm of her hand.
The Hagia Sophia, seen behind Theodora, is one of the iconic symbols of Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul) and was rebuilt under her leadership. It does not have its four famous minarets here, as they were added later.
Rani Lakshmibai
(1828–1858, INDIA)
The Rebel Queen of Jhansi
In 1857, India got an unlikely icon in its struggle for independence from the British: a 28-year-old widowed mother of one. Within a year, she was leading thousands into an all-out war against British colonialists—often while carrying her child on her back.
Lakshmibai’s story starts in the heart of India, in the city of Jhansi. The ruler of the city, Gandaghar Rao, had spent years creating stability from political upheaval, in both the city and surrounding areas, and was eager to create a line of succession. To that end, in the grand Cinderella tradition, he picked the young Lakshmibai* from obscurity, married her, and soon had a child with her.
Except things didn’t go as planned. Their child died in infancy, and Rao became gravely ill. On his deathbed, Rao adopted a second child, Damodar, to be his heir. Then, one day short of Lakshmibai’s 26th birthday, Rao died.
From there, the Rani* of Jhansi’s problems only increased. The British East India Company, which had helped stabilize the region, had made an agreement with Rao’s predecessor to let any of his descendants rule—but they didn’t accept this adopted child as a legitimate heir. Lakshmibai argued her case like a veteran lawyer, poring over case studies and producing legal precedents, but was ultimately overruled. Jhansi was annexed, its military disbanded, and Lakshmibai’s royal court reduced to near-poverty.
Now, this was just one in a lengthy list of things the British* were doing to piss everyone off. A sampling of other offenses includes:
• Installing corrupt officials who would flagrantly steal from Indians.
• Outlawing Hindu rituals and banning access to certain temples.
• Establishing a slaughterhouse to kill cows, considered a sacred animal, in the middle of the city.
• Giving the predominantly Hindu infantry a new rifle that could only be reloaded by chewing through a bag doused in pig and cow fat. This weapon, the Enfield rifle, is a low-water point in both weapon design and multicultural understanding.
It should not be a huge surprise, then, that Indians began rebelling against the British. Lakshmibai had no part in the initial uprisings, but behind the scenes she began consolidating a power base for a larger entry into the conflict. She proved phenomenally good at this—within the span of two years she had established a mint, started manufacturing cannons, brought in soldiers of all faiths and backgrounds (including bandits who’d previously raided her lands), and established a first-rate spy network.
But she was not a standard-issue warlord by any stretch of the imagination. For one thing, her rule was marked by tremendous mercy and sympathy. She exempted the poor from taxes and had a thousand coats made for them. She sold her jewelry to pay her soldiers and ate only gruel.
She also integrated women deeply into her plans. She taught her female subjects sword fighting and horsemanship and led them in target practice—she herself was an expert in all three. During the sieges to come, the women who didn’t ride alongside the men would repair Jhansi’s walls at night, hidden under dark blankets. They also made platforms for the cannons and supplied a steady stream of cannonballs and gunpowder. Jhansi under Lakshmibai had a staggeringly egalitarian workforce.
Simultaneously, Lakshmibai remained a devoted mother to her adopted son, Damodar, whom she called Ananda (joy). She made him eat his vegetables and study hard, admonishing him to fight the British with pen and paper. By all accounts, he had quite the happy childhood, largely oblivious to the fact that his mother was conducting a war.
(And who says women can’t have it all?)
Unfortunately, Lakshmibai’s wartime compatriots weren’t operating at her level. During the months following her declaration of war (“I will not give up my Jhansi”), time and time again her allies would snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Much of the blame could be laid at the feet of the astoundingly incompetent Tatya Tope,* a bumbling rebel leader whose baffling military blunders caused the author of this book to audibly curse, repeatedly, while researching this entry. In the end, despite almost always outnumbering and often outgu
nning the British, Lakshmibai’s forces were usually defeated.
Eventually Lakshmibai had to abandon Jhansi, fleeing on horseback with Damodar strapped to her back—an image that has become her primary depiction.
The Brits were indescribably monstrous in all of this. A wandering ascetic later described the entire city of Jhansi under British rule as a cremation pyre. Indian women would drown themselves and their children to avoid a worse fate at the hands of the British soldiers. The British outlawed funeral rites and left 5,000 to 10,000 dead in the streets. Perhaps this was wartime hyperbole, but even if you only follow the British sources, it’s undeniable that the British committed war crimes.
Lakshmibai regrouped and kept fighting for months, but sadly, she eventually died in battle. She was shot while leading the cavalry in a charge against the British. As she lay dying, she instructed her companions to pay the troops by selling her belongings, to look after her son, and to not let the British defile her body. They cremated her on the spot and took Damodar into hiding.
In the years following, the British regained control of Jhansi, but it was not to last. The British East India Company was dissolved the same year Lakshmibai died, and India threw off Britain’s shackles for good a century later—a movement that Indian spy princess Noor Inayat Khan would aspire to assist. Rani Lakshmibai is now revered as a national hero of India. Her name and likeness grace universities, statues, songs, movies, parks, and even a military regiment.
• ART NOTES AND TRIVIA •
There’s a lot going on in this illustration.
While most images depict Rani Lakshmibai riding into battle, the truth is that she was a peace-loving person. So here she is prepping for the inevitable while her son plays and her poorer subjects are handed coats in the background.
