The epic catalogue, a long, detailed list of object, places, or people, is a standard feature of the genre in ancient and modern poetry alike (e.g. the Iliad’scatalogue of ships, Paradise Lost’s catalogue of demons, The Faerie Queene’s catalogue of trees.) In Book IX of his Bellum Civile, Lucan puts a macabre twist on the trope: instead of cataloging heroes or troops, he describes a series of graphic snake deaths in the Libyan desert.
The Dipsas: The young man Aules … stepped upon a Dipsas, which twisted back its head and bit him. Hardly was there pain or a sensation of a bite, and even death’s appearance is not malignant and the injury does not look threatening. Look–the silent venom creeps along, and devouring fire eats away the marrows and with hot decay it sets the guts ablaze. The poison drinks up moisture spread around the vital parts and starts to parch the tongue on his dry palate; there was no sweat to pass along the tired frame, the stream of tears recoiled from the eyes. … Deep he probes for channels in the arid sand … salt water gives him pleasure but yet does not suffice. And he is not aware of the type of doom and death by poison, but thinks it thirst; and he steeled himself to open with his sword his swelling veins and fill his mouth with blood.
The Seps: A tiny Seps was fastened to the leg of miserable Sabellus; as it clung with cunning fang he tore it off and with his javelin pinned it to the sands. It is a serpent small in size, but so much bloody death no other brings. For the skin nearest to the wound burst, shrank back, uncovered pale-coloured bones; and now as the cavity gapes, the wound is bare without a body; the limbs are drenched with pus, the calves have melted, the knee was bare of covering, and even every muscle of the thighs dissolves, and the groin drips with black decay. The membrane which binds the belly bursts apart, and out melt the entrails; and not as much as there should be from an entire body melts into the ground. … All that makes a human being is uncovered by the unholy nature of the killer: the muscles, ligaments, the rib-cage, the chest-cavity, and everything concealed by vital organs lay exposed in death.
The Prester: Look, there comes a form of death the opposite of liquefaction. Nasidius, a farmer of the Marsian land, a scorching Prester struck. A fiery redness set alight his face, and swelling strains the skin, confounding all his features, their shape destroyed; now larger than his entire body and exceeding human size, the pus is exuded over all his limbs as the poison exerts its power far and wide; the man himself is out of sight, buried deep in bloated body, and his breast-plate cannot hold the swelling of his bursting chest. … No longer can the shapeless mass and torso with its jumbled bulk contain the swollen limbs. Untouched by beaks of birds and destined to provide for wild beasts a banquet not without danger, they did not dare consign the body to the tomb but ran away as it still grew, its limit not yet fixed.
The Haemorrhois: A cruel Haemorrhois sank its fangs into Tullus … His tears were blood; gore flows abundantly from whatever openings moisture uses; his mouth and spreading nostrils run with it; his sweat turns red; all his limbs are awash with his copious veins; his entire body is one wound.
Broken by the god: Book V of Lucan’s Pharsalia describes a scene of oracular possession. Kings no longer consult the oracle for fear of the future, and for years Apollo’s “awful” shrine has been barred shut, his oracles silent.
Now, a Roman statesman named Appius has sought out a prophecy. The unfortunate priestess, wandering carefree near a spring in a remote grove, has been seized and is about to be forced to prophesy. She is terrified: “For if the god enters her chest, her punishment, or her reward, is an early death for having received him; for the human body is broken by the sting and surge of the frenzy, and the assault of the god shatters the fragile spirit.” The passage is heavy with horse-breaking terminology and sexual imagery.
When she still paused and hesitated, the priest shoved her into the temple.
Trembling at the oracular depths of the inner shrine, she lingered by the entrance–imitating the god, she offered feigned words from a heart unstirred. But no garbled, inarticulate cry proved that her mind was inspired by the divine frenzy. … Her words did not tumble forth with a roar; her voice was not great enough to fill the space of the vast cavern; the laurel wreath was not raised from her head by her hair standing on end; the doors of the temple were unmoved; the trees were still and quiet—all these betrayed her dread at trusting herself to Apollo.
[Appius knows that she is only pretending, and violently threatens her.]
Completely terrified, at last the virgin took refuge near the tripods. She drew near to the vast chasm and hesitated there–and for the first time, her heart received the divine power, which the spirit of the rock, not exhausted after so many centuries, poured into her. At last Apollo mastered the heart of a Delphian priestess; as fully as ever in the past, he forced his way into her body, driving out her former consciousness, ordering whatever was human inside her to yield her heart to his disposal.
Frantic she raves through the cave, her neck bearing the weight of possession; Apollo’s fillets and garlands are dislodged by her bristling hair, and she whirls through the empty spaces of the temple. She scatters the tripods standing in her path, boiling over with fierce flame–enduring your wrath, Phoebus.
But you do not use the whip and spur alone, plunging fire into her vital organs. She must accept the bit as well: she is not permitted to reveal as much as she knows. All time is gathered up together, all the centuries suffocate her agonized chest, the endless progression of events lies open, all the future struggles to the light: prophecy wrestles with voice, struggling to be spoken. The first day of the world, and its last, the measure of the ocean and the number of grains of sand—all of these are before her.
…
The frenzy persists, and the god, whom she has not shaken off, still controls her, since she has not told everything yet. She still rolls fierce eyes, her eyeballs wandering all over the sky–now her expression is terrified, now it is savage and twisted; her features are never quiet. A fiery flush stains her face and the ghastly color of her cheeks. Her paleness is not like the color of one who is afraid, but of one who inspires fear. Her exhausted heart finds no rest, but as the swollen sea moans hoarsely after a northern gale dies down, voiceless sighs still heave her breast.
While she was returning to the daylight from that sacred glow in which she had seen the future, the shadow of unconsciousness cut in. For Apollo poured Stygian Lethe in her inward parts, which snatched the secrets of the gods from her. Then Truth fled her chest, and knowledge of the future returned to the tripod of the god. She collapsed, and could scarcely recover.
Hi guys, tumblr user en-theos here with a quick addition to my previous PSA. some people on this site are condoning necromancing dead soldiers for soothsaying purposes and while I fully support recycling and locally sourced forms of fortune telling, necromancing corpses is NOT a healthy way of doing so!! see corpses are full of miasma and should therefore stay dead. Hope this clears things up
hi, tumblr user en-theos here with a PSA. there’s a right way to consult about the fates of men and there’s a wrong way! the right way is killing priestesses by letting the gods possess them to the point of exhaustion, trauma and disintegration. the wrong way is eating corpse eyeballs! hope this clears things up
the wrong way is sacrificing foetuses! hope this clears things up
the wrong way is biting the tongue off off corpses! hope this clears things up
“Scared at last the maiden took refuge by the tripods; she drew near to the vast chasm and there stayed; and her bosom for the first time drew in the divine power, which the inspiration of the rock, still active after so many centuries, forced upon her. At last Apollo mastered the breast of the Delphian priestess; as fully as ever in the past, he forced his way into her body, driving out her former thoughts, and bidding her human nature to come forth and leave her heart at his disposal. Frantic she careers about the cave, with her neck under possession; the fillets and garlands of Apollo, dislodged by her bristling hair, she whirls with tossing head through the void spaces of the temple; she scatters the tripods that impede her random course; she boils over with fierce fire, while enduring the wrath of Phoebus. Nor does he ply the whip and goad alone, and dart flame into her vitals: she has to bear the curb as well, and is not permitted to reveal as much as she is suffered to know. All time is gathered up together: all the centuries crowd her breast and torture it; the endless chain of events is revealed; all the future struggles to the light; destiny contends with destiny, seeking to be uttered. The creation of the world and its destruction, the compass of the Ocean and the sum of the sands—all these are before her.”
Apologies for bringing this right back to the Victorians as per usual, but this is why Lady Franklin was who she became: you can’t divorce your husband when he’s the most famous Arctic ghost story the world’s ever heard (especially not when you were the one who made him that way, refusing to let him go quietly into that good Admiralty death list)
