ONIAS'S TEMPLE

There was a town on the eastern branch of the Nile, a town with a temple in which not one but a pair of lions were worshipped. The lions symbolized the deities Shu and Tefnet, a brother-and-sister pair, who were also a husban-and-wife. They were the children of Atum, the great lord of nearby Heliopolis. As a couple, they were commonly referred to as ruti and piloted the Heavenly Barge of Morning and Evening—that barge with which the souls of the dead had to merge by the use of special prayers in order to soar freely above the mortal earth.

This is how things had stood in ancient times, under the old Egyptian pharaohs. In time, the temple fell into disuse and around 160 BC, the Macedonian King of Egypt, Ptolemy VI, gifted its grounds to a foreigner named Onias.

That Onias was a Jew, a descendant of an illustrious family of high priests. He fled from Judea when the Syrian king Antiochus, then the ruler of the whole of Palestine, gave custody of the Temple of Jerusalem to another family, one more submissive to his will. Long enemy of Antiochus, Ptolemy gave a warm welcome to the Judean exile. And the exile, in turn, wishing to repay the king for his hospitality, proposed an extraordinary plan:

Since Antiochus had desecrated the Temple of Jerusalem, it seemed right and proper to erect a new Jewish temple elsewhere, outside of that king’s reach. And if so, then why not do this on Egyptian soil? Thereby, Ptolemy would win over all the Jewish opponents of Antiochus: why, many would probably leave Palestine and settle on the Nile precisely because they here would be allowed to serve their Lord God in peace and in accordance with the Law.

Ptolemy decided that the plan made political sense and granted to Onias that unused plot of land in Leontopolis. Construction work began immediately, with the support of at least some members of the Jewish diaspora—a diaspora so numerous in Egypt. The temple itself was built in the shape of a tower, 60 cubits high. An altar was set up for the offering of animals, modeled on the altar of Jerusalem. Superb liturgical robes were prepared. Only the seven-branched candlestick that had stood in the Temple of Jerusalem was absent. In its place, a giant lamp, forged of pure gold, was suspended from the ceiling on a chain of wrought gold.

The temple grounds were surrounded by a wall of fired brick, and the gate was framed with stone pylons, modeled on those of Egyptian temples. The cost of the maintenance of the temple and of the daily offerings was covered by the income of a plot of arable land graciously granted by the king.

The very existence of the temple in Leontopolis went against the ancient Judean tradition which held that legitimate sacrifices to the God of the Jews could only be made in one place—in the Temple of Jerusalem on Temple Mount—and that only huses of prayer (synagogues) could exist outside the holy city. The political claim of Judea aside, many Jews of Judea were afraid that the new center of worship might cause religious division, dilute the sense of Jewish unity, and reduce the revenues of the Temple and of the city of Jerusalem—which both earned from the Jews of the diaspora.

As it happened, the hopes and ambitions of Onias and his king were not fulfilled and no mass migration from Judea took place: Judea soon gained full independence, the Temple of Jerusalem was reconsecrated and functioned successfully for several decades, well into the Roman times. And yet, the colony of Leontopolis lived on for many generations, and its memory has survived to this day in the Arabic name of the place: Tel-el-Yehudiyeh—Jews' Hill.

Numerous remains of the settlement persist in the form of inscribed tombstones. Today, they are chiefly housed in the museums of Cairo, Alexandria, Louvre, and Saint Petersburg.

The inscriptions are in Greek, and the names of the deceased are sometimes Greek (Aristobulus, Alexander, Onesimus, Glaukias, Theodora, Arsinoe, Demas, Nicanor, Hilarion, Philip, Dositheus, Nicomedes, Elpis); sometimes Hebrew (James, Joseph, Judas, Samuel, Jesus, Nathan, Onias, Barchias, Rachelis, Joannes, Eleazar (that is to say, Lazarus), Sabbataeus, Sambaios; and sometimes formally Greek, but really Judean: Salamis (Salome), Marin (Mary), Irene (a translation of Salome, meaning Peace).

Here are typical epitaphs from Leontopolis:

“Eleazar, noble and popular, aged thirty. (Died) year Two of Caesar, 20th Mehir”.

By our reckoning, then, Lazarus died on 14 February 28 BC. (The “Caesar” of the inscription, is Octavian, who later became Emperor Augustus).

Another inscription, missing its top, is more eloquent:

“You who loved your brothers, who loved your children, who was kind to all, goodbye! May the earth cradle you gently. She died aged about 45. Year 19, which some people reckon as Year 3, the 5th of Pachon.”

This double dating allows us to establish, that the woman whose name we do not know, died in 35 BC, on April 30, during the reign of the infamous Queen Cleopatra VII, the last ruler of independent Egypt, the beloved of Antony.

Several longer inscriptions remain:

“O passerby, cry for me, a mature girl. I lived a blissful life in luxurious chambers. I had my whole trousseau ready for my wedding, but I died prematurely. Instead of a marriage bed, this gloomy grave awaited me. When the clatter of wedding knockers rang out, it announced my death. Like a rose in a garden full of dew, Hades suddenly snatched me away. Passerby, I was only twenty.”

The opening and closing lines of the inscription are verisified. Other inscriptions are all in verse:

“Passenger, I am Jesus, son of Phameios. I descended to Hades at the age of 60. Mourn for me all of you, me, who has suddenly departed into the abyss of ages to dwell hereafter in the dark. Cry also you, o Dositheus! You, of all, should shed the most painful tears for you are now my successor since I have died without issue. All of you who gather here, weep for unfortunate Jesus!”

From Aleksander Krawczuk's "Rome and Jerusalem", the concluding volume of the Jewish Trilogy

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQXD4HGK

Illustration by Jean-Claude Golvin, a French archaeologist and architect. He specializes in the history of Roman amphitheaters and has published hundreds of reconstruction drawings of ancient monuments. Golvin is a researcher with the CNRS at the Bordeaux Montaigne University.

THE NERO CONSPIRACY THEORY

But did Emperor Nero really die? Did he really commit suicide by stabbing himself in the throat? Were those really his ashes in the grand porphyry sarcophagus in the tomb of the Domitians on the Hill of Gardens, just outside the city walls?

Several months had passed since the events of early June 68, and almost everyone in the capital was asking himself such questions. And—incredibly—many answered them in the negative. For whatever reasons, many inhabitants of Rome did not want to believe in Nero’s death and burial and said: our lord lives, bides his time, and will return soon!

The rumor went about that Nero, with the help of a few of his most trusted freedmen, had staged his suicide, cremated a substitute corpse, and escaped, and that he did this only to mislead the assassins sent to kill him. Of course, he had had to act that way—he had no choice—because all had abandoned him: some out of fear, others from stupidity. But he escaped and is currently hiding someplace, perhaps in Italy, perhaps overseas. And he is awaiting the opportune moment to return. And then he will return and reassume the reigns of power. And soon! It is clear that neither Rome nor the provinces will endure the abomination of senile Galba’s rule. As someone rightly said about that fellow: “he might be fit to rule, except last time he looked, he ruled already.”

Others yet refused to believe the story of Nero’s suicide on other grounds, saying:

“Nero was a coward. There is no way he would have killed himself. And since no one boasts about having killed him and no one demands the bounty on his head, perhaps Nero is not dead after all?”

Finally, the suspicious asked who had witnessed the cremation of Nero’s body and the placement of his ashes in the tomb of the Domitians (the Domitians’ tomb was the emperor’s family tomb). And--(how very suspicious)—the witnesses had been three women: they were his nurses, Ecloge and Alexandra; and Acte, a concubine he had rejected many years ago but who still loved him dearly. The three spared no effort and expense to make the funeral as dignified as possible, and contributed to it over two hundred thousand sesterces of their own money. Acte probably gave the most, as she was an extremely wealthy woman thanks to Nero’s favor: she had extensive estates, magnificent villas, and swarms of servants.

The three women cremated a body and collected its ashes in a snow-white cloak shot with gold thread—the very cloak Nero had worn at the New Year’s celebrations six months before his tragic end. But whose body was it? Was it really Nero’s? Only they knew—and they knew because Nero had trusted them. Could it be that they spent all that money on the funeral in order to give the false impression that the body of the lord of the Empire was being buried while the lord himself was hiding somewhere else?

Sporus had also stood by the burning pyre. Once upon a time, Nero had decided to make a girl of him. He ordered him castrated and then married him, formally and ceremonially, as his wife (in Greece, of course, as Rome would not have stood for such kinky stuff). The boy-girl had also been present at the scene of the suicide. All this made excellent material for mockery:

“What trustworthy witnesses to the cremation and burial! Three freedmen—a concubine and two wet nurses—and a eunuch! How can anyone believe such witnesses? The whole thing is a farce, though, admittedly, very entertaining. As befits a great artist.”

Such and similar talk was heard among the people who had suddenly been deprived of the very sweetness, the very meaning of life: blood games, chariot races, song and dance performances. And also of the joy of gossiping about palace intrigues, crimes, and orgies—there were no such topics with Galba, the octogenarian killjoy.

Oh, those wonderful times of their beloved Nero—they were missed sorely. Wreaths and fresh flowers were often found on the white altar slab before the porphyry sarcophagus in the Domitian tomb. Often, the flowers were laid by people who claimed that the sarcophagus was empty or contained a stranger’s remains. They still wanted to give an expression to their feelings of attachment to the memory of their beloved emperor.

In the Forum itself, right next to the main Rostrum, images of Nero were secretly placed at night. His edicts also appeared there—edicts in which the still-alive Emperor announced in a threatening tone: “I will reappear soon to take revenge on all those who have betrayed me and my people!”

And it was as if Fate itself had wanted to encourage such hopes: Galba, the man who had overthrown Nero, reigned for barely half a year. On January 15, 69 AD, soldiers of the imperial guard—the Praetorians—murdered him in the Forum. They did this as part of a coup staged by one of Galba’s earliest supporters, Otho. Except, this Otho had once been one of Nero’s closest friends. In 58 AD, Nero took his beautiful wife, Sabina Poppea, and sent him to honorary exile in Lusitania as governor of a province covering more or less the territory of today’s Portugal and western Spain. From that distant land on the Atlantic, Otho returned to Rome with the new emperor, Galba. He had helped him come to power, but only in passing, only to start an intrigue against him at the earliest opportunity. He bribed the Praetorian guard to kill Galba and elevate him instead.

During the same month of January 69 AD, a month stained by treachery and the blood of Galba, frightening news reached the capital: the armies on the Rhine had rebelled. In the first days of 69 AD, they acclaimed one Aulus Vitellius—governor of Lower Germania—as emperor. And so the Empire, deprived of the bliss of Nero’s rule, was threatened with divine punishment: the worst of all wars, a civil war. Those who claimed that the moment of return was at hand were right: were Nero alive, all he needed to do was to show himself, and all would flock to him for safety.

On the Island of Kythnos

And now, as if responding to these calls, in February 69 (bundles of spring flowers—humble violets—were being placed on the altar in the Domitian tomb at that time), the news broke that Nero had revealed himself in the East, somewhere in Greece or Asia Minor. Yes, that Nero, our Nero, the true Nero: the same face and posture, the same hairstyle, quite long and loose at the back, and even his eyes were similar: grey and attentive, if somewhat nearsighted. Of course, he played the kithara and sang beautifully. That he revealed himself in the Greek East was fully understandable. After all, he had always declared that he loved the Greeks most of all.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQXD4HGK

OF BATHS AND BISHOPS

There was a community of nuns in Hippo Regius. Saint Augustine watched over their affairs through their superior, his sister. Now, it so happened that a certain scandalous quarrel among the congregation of the pious matrons broke out for reasons common and frequent in every age: animosities of personal nature. The dispute was submitted to the bishop for adjudication. He issued his decision in 423 in a long letter to the congregation—a kind of detailed instruction on the rules of religious life.

This document was to play an enormous role in the following centuries as the basis for the rules of various monastic orders. But here we are only interested in a short fragment of it, with a very prosaic content.

"You should wash your clothes by yourselves or let your servants wash them, but only at the discretion of your mother superior so that the excessive desire for a clean dress does not stain your soul with inner filth. And let the washing of the body and the use of the baths not be continuous! Ablutions should occur at the usual intervals, that is, once a month. If, however, a sickness should force a sister to wash her body, let her wash on the doctor’s orders without grumbling. And if she still does not want to, let her do what she must do for the health of the body at the order of the mother superior."

This principle, worded so sharply and stated so clearly, had important implications for the personal hygiene of various groups and communities and, later, of the whole society. Its influence was all the more significant as the statements of another man of great holiness and immeasurable learning strongly supported it. He also lived in the times of Saint Augustine and was famous as one of the most distinguished Latin writers of his time.

Saint Jerome, a native of the border regions between Dalmatia and Pannonia, was older than the bishop of Hippo Regius by over a dozen years. The two men, although exchanging letters, did not really like each other—as is often the case with prominent representatives of the same generation and the same ideological orientation.

After much travel, Jerome settled in Palestine, in Bethlehem. There he presided over a community of monks, welcomed pious pilgrims, and studied and wrote. Among the vast oeuvre of Saint Jerome, one work stands out as most important for the subsequent history of the Church and the entire European civilization: his revision and final edition of the Latin translation of the Bible, the so-called Vulgate.

(Augustine was to criticize sharply some of the wording of that edition). And with all this work, the learned hermit still found time to conduct extensive correspondence. In it, he gave encouragement and advice on various matters related to religious life. And, in a letter to a matron named Leta, who had asked for instructions on how to raise her daughter, he wrote:

"I am not a friend of bathing in an adult girl at all. She ought to feel ashamed of her body and hate the sight of her own nakedness. For if she mortifies her body with wakefulness and fasting; if she wishes to extinguish the fire of lust and the heat of intellectual ferment with the frost of restraint; if she seeks to disfigure her natural beauty by deliberate cultivation of dirt, why should she, acting as if for opposite reasons, kindle the sleeping flames with the heat of the bathhouse?"

FROM Aleksander Krawczuk "The Last Olympiad, Twilight of Antiquity"