Eve and Daylight Savings Time

Anniversaries of Pompey's birth day and death day were a little over a month ago. Since then there has been a lackadaisical discussion of how likely it was that they would coincide and whether the death day was one day earlier than the birthday.

The discussion has been on Twitter and in the Ancient/Classical History Forum. Somebody has probably done a definitive study, but so far it has been more interesting to theorize and quote from English translations of Velleius Paterculus or Plutarch. The English public domain translation of the Roman historian says Pompey died on the eve of his birthday. This made me wonder if the Greek would have seen it the same way or whether the Romans started their days roughly the way we do, so the evening comes after the afternoon rather than being at the beginning of the new day.

If by evening is meant the start of the new day then for us (but not necessarily for Pompey's biographers) the birthday and death day probably don't coincide, but if Velleius Paterculus was saying that Pompey was killed on the evening of his birthday and evening is the end part of the day, then birth and death coincided. That is, of course, leaving aside the question of whether Paterculus knew. As I said, I imagine this has been done to tears by scholars who are spinning in their All Hallows Eve(ning) graves right now furious that I haven't even tried to JSTOR them. Similarly, they would be outraged that I am now wondering whether New Year's Eve was always the day before New Year's day and whether the birth of Jesus always happened the night before his birthday.

This weekend hosts another example of the problem we have with calendars. I wonder whether my DS and DH know which bus schedule to follow tonight. (Why is only half of tonight part of today?) Presumably they'll be catching one of the latest buses, but since Daylight Savings Time either begins or ends tonight (really, tomorrow morning at 1 a.m.), there is an extra hour. If they figure they'll catch the 1:30 a.m. bus, will it be there?


Pompey photo CC Flickr User Jens Vermeersch
Who took a bite out of his ear?

The Lost Throne

"Despite his lies, despite his flaws, despite his harshest critics, Schliemann was a visionary. A genius of epic proportions. At the time of his death, do you know how many languages he could speak? Twenty-two. Twenty-two languages."

"Jones whistled. "Now that's impressive. That's twenty-one more than Jon."

Sloppy, geeky, 5'9 D.J. Jones and wealthy, nimble, 6'4 Jonathan Payne, a pair of ex-elite special forces who have spent enough time together to know what the other is thinking, travel from St. Petersburg, Florida to the same-named city in Russia, and from there to Mt. Athos, hunting for one of Heinrich Schliemann's treasures. This is the basic plot or travelogue of The Last Throne, by Chris Kuzneski. It isn't the first adventure of D.J. and Jon, nor is it Kuzneski's first foray into the thriller genre, but it's easy to appreciate the odd couple's comraderie even without prior exposure, largely through the use of humor-laced dialogue.

D.J. and Jon aren't the only pair looking for the treasure, a relic of one of the lost wonders of the ancient world. One of their old friends from Interpol, big-chinned Nick Dial, who runs the homicide division, and a National Central Bureau agent, Marcus Andropoulos, are also on the hunt. Oddly, none of them knows what they are looking for. Nor do they know the other set is on the hunt until they almost accidentally kill each other in the darkness of a mountainside where men in hoplite gear assault them.

The Spartans come straight from the movie 300, and most references to ancient history are superficial, which helps avoid devastating historical errors, but the story is good, and for an escapist thriller with an ancient historical slant, it's worthy reading. If you prefer your history more scholarly even in your escapist lit, try Levin's The Last Ember.

Belisarius

One problem a reviewer has is finding a way to push aside the bile and just keep reading all the way to the end of a less than stellar book. If I have lots of time on my hands (can't remember the last time), I can do it, but it takes a long time to read a disappointing book because things like cleaning the toilet suddenly cease to be chores. If there isn't a dirty toilet, there are always surfaces to dust or a stray glass to wash. Normally, however, reviewing is just a small part of my work and I don't have inordinate time to waste finishing reading material that isn't worth recommending. There are exceptions, especially in books that start out strong and hold out ultimately failed promises of later glory. However, in general, if the first 50 pages don't cut it, rather than reading all the way through and giving a zero star review, I ditch the book.

When reading biographies of people about whom we have only limited details, there are many ways to pad the material that still allow the reader to feel as though he has gotten his money's worth. Everitt's biography of Cicero contained a wealth of data about Cicero's compatriots and books on King Tut or Nefertiti can supplement with data about the discovery of what little we do know. These books are ultimately readable even if slightly disappointing.

When I received Ian Hughes' Belisarius, I anticipated learning a great deal, so I accepted the fact that it would be at a slow pace, but I finally gave up. Belisarius makes his entry in the middle of the second chapter for about two pages before disappearing again for the third chapter which tells all about the Byzantine army. The fourth chapter introduces the Romano-Persian Wars in which Belisarius plays a minor part, but then the wars' narrative stops to introduce the same coverage as appeared in chapter 3, but this time for the Persian army. Chapters 3 and 4 are great for those who want to know about defensive armor, the increased reliance on archers, the battle plans for some of the engagements, and more. The fifth chapter is about the Nika Riots in which Belisarius plays a part and is occasionally mentioned. Oddly, the final section of the Nika Riots chapter is about Belisarius' marriage. In all, the disorganized first 69 pages of the book probably have 5 pages of Belisarius-related material.

That's not to say that someone with an abiding interest in military history wouldn't enjoy it and be able to make it through. The back cover has a recommendation from Adrian Goldsworthy. It's quite likely that there is more material on Belisarius coming soon, but I'm afraid I have other material to read and can't spend any more hours struggling through each page.

I wonder if other people who review books can gauge their reading-satisfaction level on the basis of how messy their houses are.

The Last Ember - Spherical Earth

It was a slow start on The Last Ember, probably the result of lack of familiarity with the genre. I've never read the DaVinci code, and while I have attempted Clancy and others under stern urgings from friends, I haven't made it through them, so I'm something of a spy(?) story novice. I think that's the genre. However, after back-tracking and highlighting all the names as they are introduced, I'm very much enjoying Daniel Levin's DaVinci Code-style book on the historian Josephus.

The idea behind the story is that Josephus was actually a very successful double agent responsible for a serious pro-Judaism mistake of the Roman Emperor Titus. The famous arch depiction of the menorah bears witness to this error since the menorah should have been larger than human and not curved. Berenice, who mysteriously disappears from the historical record, is also involved in the spy game.

Despite my positive feelings about the book, today's comment on The Last Ember is born of aggravation. I can't tell whether something more is implied or whether Levin is just wrong. If he's just wrong, I don't understand how he acquired such a great classical background, but missed this. If he is not wrong, then he is deliberately suppressing information. I'm hoping there is another option. Maybe there's something else going on that I'm missing. Here's the passage:

"It says 'orbis terrarum,' which means a round earth. That means this inscription couldn't have been written in the first century. The ancient scientific consensus was that the world was flat."

An exception is made in the next sentence for the scholars of Jerusalem, but what about Greco-Roman sphericists from Aristotle to Ptolemy?

Daniel Levin images courtesy of http://www.bookreporter.com/. Arch of Titus public domain image courtesy of Wikipedia.

Alexander and Coins

Photo CC Flickr User peterjr1961
Silver Tetradrachm of Eumenes I: Head of Philetairos, Gold Pentadrachm of Ptolemy: Portrait of Ptolemy I

Having just finished a leisurely read of Michael Grant's From Alexander to Cleopatra - The Hellenistic World, I now know something most people probably already know - that it was in the Hellenistic period that realistic portraiture developed and that this realism extended to coins. Furthermore, the successors of Alexander were the first to use portraits of the kings on their coins. My son says this wasn't just in the Greek world.

Google Books' preview of Graham Shipley's The Greek World After Alexander, 323-30 B.C. says that Lysimachus, one of Alexander's Successors, first put the face of Alexander on coins. I am not sure if this is true without qualification or whether earlier coins (from Alexander's lifetime) showed Hercules or other gods with the facial characteristics of Alexander. Shipley says it was Ptolemy who first went further than using the face of the almost-divine Alexander by using his own visage. Shipley also says that when Hellenistic kings used their faces on coins, they used their faces on the obverse and Alexander on the reverse.

Alexander gave stature to the coins, so his face was used for two centuries. Although the Ptolemies reduced the content of the standard for the silver drachma to 14.3 g, by 290, the Attic 17.2 g was the standard elsewhere.

Another Small Publishers Rant

Today I received a very offended email from someone who had asked to send me a review copy. Since some time earlier this year I have been turning down offers from small publishers, explaining that if I read an entire book that has been badly edited I will not be kindly disposed to it.

I may have to change that policy. It may be better for me to tell the person to send it, if he likes, but I will be forming an opinion of the book based on the whole package, from font to footnote style, and if I find more than a couple of jarring elements, even if there is an excuse -- like a non-native writer of English, I will dislike and possibly ridicule the book.

I also won't finish it. That's the part that is most grating to me -- that I've invested my limited book-reading time in something that's not ready for prime time. (Psst! Hire me as an editor if you want me reading your tripe! I could use the money and even if I don't do a great job, it's going to be an improvement.)

The inquiry letter from the writer or his publicist or his publisher (I can't be sure) wasn't long, yet I'm only going to quote a passage from it:

Do you want to provide you with a review copy? I would love to give me your thoughts on the material?

Rather than simply replying, I hunted down the site of the publisher of the book in question and the writers' other online references. He had carelessly provided citations sans URLs in the email. The publisher's site had a list of book topics, but no books in most of them, and the one book in more than one category. To me, that suggests a young publishing house or possibly a dummy publishing company set up for this one book. Coupled with the lack of URLs in the inquiry letter, grammatical errors and carelessness in the email, and something similar on the publishers' site, I thought my response was reasonable.

Here's the snarky response I received today:

I have to confess that I didn't expect your comments (virtually self-published and inevitable errors in the content) on the print version of the title without examining it first. I hope that in the future we will meet your reading standards.

Do you want to help me compose a beautiful, un-feather-ruffling canned email response to small publishers?

Poison King III

Chapter 4

Since Adrienne Mayor is a folklorist, her approach to the study of Mithradates is unusual. Just as Cleopatra's reputation was fixed largely by hostile Augustan-era Romans, so was Mithradates' reputation fixed by those the generation before. Mayor attempts to liberate Mithradates from that negative bias -- an eye-opening approach. For instance, from the pro-Republican Roman perspective/persona I've adopted for decades, it only recently penetrated my thick skull (on a second reading of Cornell) that "friend of Rome" might not be as much of a boon as it sounds. Mayor has mentioned more than once that friend of Rome was a liability, and will undoubtedly go into much more detail later. More directly connected with Mayor's interest in folklore, a main theme of Poison King is the mythic hero. Mayor thinks that as a result of both conscious patterning and cosmic accidents, Mithradates wound up with a perfect score on the mythic hero test.


The term mythic hero hails back to Otto Rank in 1914. While familiar with Rank, I don't remember the man who extended his work, Lord Fitzroy Raglan, 1936. In the appendix to Poison King, Mayor explains their mythic hero criteria. Rank had 6; Raglan 22. Mayor combines them to form a list of 23. I'm not going to copy the index, but to give a taste, here are the 6 from Rank, but quoted from Poison King:

1. Prophecy surrounds birth;
2. Divine, aristocratic, or royal parents;
3. Abandoned, given or sent away, separated;
4. Rescued or reared by foster parents or surrogates;
5. Return to the land of the father, proves his worthiness;
6. Claims royal birthright and wins honors.

A rare comet in 135 B.C. connected with Mithradates' conception and the survival of a lightning strike are two of the accidental heroic points.


Rank's third category forms chapter 4 of Poison King. When Mithradates was a teen, while his mother was ruling as regent for Mithradates and his younger brother, Mithradates, whom the mother preferred, the future Poison King set off with a band of followers to seek adventures. Well, maybe not adventure, but safety and support. Mayor named the chapter after Peter Pan, The Lost Boys. She posits a careful, drawn-out plan, that included building a credible hunting obsession so the youthful band would have an excuse to travel ever farther afield. In this way, they would be out of reach of the poison-administering hands of Mithradates' mother before anyone realized they had gone.

It was while the Lost Boys were traveling around, presumably sowing a few wild oats, as well as raking up allies, that they started working on poisons and antidotes. Mithradates hosted a rhododendron honey consuming competition among his boys. Rhododendron honey is poisonous -- as they knew. Salamanders were supposed to be (a)impervious to fire and (b)an aphrodisiac. Mayor thinks the boys may have run experiments.

After a year or so away, it was time to return, since Alexander became ruler when he was about 20, and Mithradates wanted to pattern himself on the godlike Greek hero-king. That's in Chapter 5.

Peter Pan Painting CC Flickr User the star trader