Illustrations featured in "Herod"

The illustrations featured in Herod are taken from The Holy Land, Syria, Idumea, Arabia, Egypt, and Nubia, a travelogue of 19th-century Palestine and Middle East and the magnum opus of Scottish painter David Roberts. The book contains 250 lithographs by Louis Haghe of Roberts's watercolor sketches. It was first published by subscription between 1842 and 1849, in two separate publications: The Holy Land, Syria, Idumea and Arabia and Egypt and Nubia. William Brockedon and George Croly wrote much of the text, Croly writing the historical, and Brockedon the descriptive portions.

The book has been escribed as "one of the art-publishing sensations of the mid-Victorian period. It exceeded all other earlier lithographic projects in scale, and was one of the most expensive publications of the nineteenth century and it has "proved to be the most pervasive and enduring of the nineteenth-century renderings of the East circulated in the West.” Prints from the series continue to be sought after and command very high prices--high three to low four-digits: a very high price for a nineteenth century print.

The print below is the Oasis of Ein Gedi, near Qumran, on the Dead Sea.

Aleksander Strikes Back!

There have been scores of books on the topic of Herod. Is there any reason to have another one?

Oh, yes! 

First of all, no other biography of Herod situates him within the Graeco-Roman milieu like this book does. For whatever reason, all books on Herod are somehow near-sighted. Somewhere on the periphery of the action appear large-looming figures--Pompey, Caesar, Crassus, Antony, the Parthians. Their motivations are unclear; why they should care for Palestine and Judea is uncertain; how and why Herod has to maneuver is a mystery. This book gives us the global perspective we need to understand the man and his works. It also explains how and why what happened in provincial little Palestine impacted the grand politics of Rome.

Second, in beautiful and vivid language, this book evokes the harsh geographic realities of Palestine. Why was Jericho important? Why did the separate national identity of Samaria matter? Who were the Nabateans? What was the significance of the port of Caesarea?What was it like to be there then?

Finally, there is the old Krawczuk touch: an easygoing and yet profound reflection on the biography of a politician and his posthumous reputation; and the fate of a small nation buffeted by the ambitions of great empires and the seemingly irresistible force of globalization.

Not an Italian, yet is Aleksander a master of the sprezzatura--the artful "off-the-cuffness" hiding surprising depths within a seemingly throwaway comment. As Rameau would have put it, hiding art with art.

And then there is the prose. Just hear this:

THE SHADOWS OF TWILIGHT

PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY

Speaks Ecclesiastes

"I made me great works; I builded me houses; I planted me vineyards; I made me gardens and orchards, and I planted trees in them of all kind of fruits; I made me pools of water, to water therewith the wood that bringeth forth trees: I got me servants and maidens, and had servants born in my house; I had great possessions of great and small cattle above all that were in Jerusalem before me. I gathered me also silver and gold, and the peculiar treasure of kings and of the provinces. I gat me men singers and women singers, and the delights of the sons of men, as musical instruments, and that of all sorts. So I was great, and increased more than all that were before me in Jerusalem: also my wisdom remained with me. And whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from them, I withheld not my heart from any joy; for my heart rejoiced in all my labor: and this was my portion of all my labor.

Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labor that I had labored to do: and, behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun."[1]

Tradition ascribes these words to King Solomon. In reality, this book of sadness was composed no more than two centuries before Herod. Its Hebrew title is Kohelet, meaning “The Preacher.” It quickly gained popularity and is still one of the best-known books of the Bible, perhaps because in every person’s life, there comes a moment when she or he will agree with the words of The Preacher: “Oh, vanity of vanities! And all is vanity!”

Herod probably heard this chapter often: it seemed written for him. Who knows if, upon hearing it, the king did not object: Why should I consider my deeds vain and futile? Here they are! They will last forever!

And yet, his time was coming to an end.

[1] Ecclesiastes 2:4-11

More fun with Arkady Fiedler!

By the time we arrived, the mukuari had been in full swing for several hours. It had little to do with the usual ceremonial dances, and although the participants performed dance movements to the loud rhythm of the drums, the essence of the ceremony consisted not in dancing but in something else: in mutual flogging. All the dancers wore various hideous masks, and as they danced, they dealt each other painful blows with barbed rods.

The purpose of the rite seemed clear: first, to appease the soul of the deceased by showing him what suffering his death had caused to the living, and, secondly, to drive his soul away with a display of ferocious violence. All adult men were required to take part in the dance, and it was to last non-stop for twenty-four hours.

Looking at the dancers in their terrifying masks, yelling and howling, and incessantly flogging each other, and hearing the powerful rhythm of drums made a huge impression. The whole performance seemed to draw everyone into a kind of whirlpool, overpower the soul, impose a strange hypnotic trance: everyone seemed to be as if under a spell.

After watching the dance for a while, I asked Manauri who was sitting next to me:

“Do all men take part in the mukuari? Is there no exception?”

“No. There is no exception. All adult men must dance. I danced in the morning, at the very beginning.”

And he showed me where the barbed rods had torn his skin.

“And I?”

“You, Yan?” he echoed my question and fell deep in thought.

Several elders sat under the toldo along with us: Mabukuli, the chief of the Turtles, Yaki, the head of the Arakanga, and Konauro of the Caimans. They now debated amongst themselves whether I should participate in the rite but did not come to a clear judgment: the deceased sorcerer had had a powerful spirit and strained himself greatly to destroy me, yet my magic had proven stronger than his and I had defeated him. Was the sorcerer’s soul even capable of threatening me now?

“Most certainly not,” replied some leaders, convinced of my magic power, while others shook their heads doubtfully.

Lasana, sat behind me and listened to the debate with wrapped attention without saying a single word. I looked at her:

“And you, Lasana, what do you say to this?”

“I think you should dance,” she replied without the slightest hesitation.

“Do you think Carapana can still harm me?” I asked surprised.

“No. You have defeated his evil spirit and he cannot harm you anymore.”

“Then why dance?”

“In order to…” she began and hesitated searching for the correct expression. “To show that you are with us in body and soul.”

Her words elicited a murmur of appreciation among the chiefs.

“A smart woman,” someone said.

“Very well then,” I said and I ordered Lasana to bring me my jaguar skin. If my fellow Arawaks were going to whack me with those barbed rods, I was not going among them without some protection.

When she returned, I threw the skin over my head and back and tied a liana around my waist, to make sure the thing would not flap around as I danced. The beast had been a monster and my head fit completely into its skull so that I looked out through the beast’s eye sockets. Someone gave me a stout rod, but I demanded another for my left hand. If those fellows were going to whip me, I was not going to take it lying down.

“Very well, take two rods,” Manauri agreed, admonishing me at the same time: “But remember, the more heavily you lay your rod on someone, the more respect and honor you show him.”

Apparently, the dancers reserved the most respect and honor for me, because as soon as I jumped into their midst and they recognized me by the jaguar skin and my height, they began to lay about me with gusto. I was not amiss in showing my own honor and respect to them. The skin of the jaguar reached only to my calves, and my legs were bare below, so my companions quickly discovered my weak point and went for my shins and calves mercilessly. In order to protect myself, I jumped in all directions while trying not to fall out of the rhythm imposed on us by the drums, but for all my dodging, I still I got a pretty good whipping.

The dance, though apparently chaotic and confused, nevertheless followed a certain order: namely, the dancers moved about in a circle about thirty paces in diameter. To complete the ritual, it was enough to complete one circumambulation. So, by the time I finally found myself again opposite the toldo, I had done duty: I dealt with fury the last blows to right and left and jumped out of the circle.

The drums, as if to honor my departure, went into a deafening coda, then went back to normal tempo, and I went back to my seat among the elders. Everyone expressed polite appreciation for my performance.

Come and get it!