Cumaean Sibyl - Prophetess of Rome | 3V
Elihu Vedder, The Cumaean Sibyl, 1876, oil on canvas. Detroit Institute of Arts, Founders Society Purchase, Merrill Fund, 57.235.
11th Century BCE, Cave of the Sibyl, Cumae
“Now carved out of the rocky flanks of Cumae
lies an enormous cavern pierced by a hundred tunnels,
a hundred mouths with as many voices rushing out,
the Sibyl’s rapt replies. They had just gained
the sacred sill when the virgin cries aloud:
“Now is the time to ask your fate to speak!
The god, look, the god!”
When wooing mortal women, the god Phoebus Apollo had a charmingly simple technique.
As the god of knowledge, amongst many other things, he would gift the object of his affection the power of prophesy, granting them his ability to glance into the future. It was a simple enough promise of his favour, and cost him nothing.
His reasoning was equally simple: what mortal woman would refuse his lust after being offered such power?
On occasion, however, the technique failed as the mighty deity often neglected to gauge the interest of his intended love, and gave gifts that were unwanted, only to be surprised by ingratitude when his advances were refused.
For the god, this seemed unfair and verging on sacrilegious.
On one occasion, after the Trojan priestess Kassandra rejected him, Apollo left her with the unparalleled power of prophecy, but cursed her to never be believed.
Another of Apollo’s fancies was the enigmatic woman who became the Sibyl in the dark tunnels of Cumae.
It is unknown what she was called when she was young and beautiful, although possibilities include Amalthaea, Demophile, Taraxandra, or Deiphobe, daughter of Glaucus (himself a mortal fisherman turned sea-god of prophesy).
No matter what her name or linage was, she became the target of Apollo’s lust, and he began his charm offensive. One evening, as the pair sat together on the beach, Apollo, in the heat of passion, promised her two gifts: the power of prophecy, and any other of her choosing. Being young and spirited – full of the love of merely being alive – the Sibyl chose the first thing that came into her mind. Reaching down, she scooped up a handful of sand from beside her feet, and asked to be allowed to live as many years as grains of sand she held.
The god granted it.
Yet, even with these gifts, the Sibyl refused to surrender her virginity at his command. Infuriated by her obstinance, Phoebus Apollo reminded her that, while she had been granted many more years of life than most nations could hope for, she failed to ask for everlasting youth.
Thus the Sibyl of Cumae grew to old age, and continued living ever on.
Seeking to learn the future for themselves or their loved ones, anxious pilgrims would make their way down the tunnel carved into the rockface of Cumae. Deep in the inner chamber, perched on her tripod, enwreathed by a haze of incense, the Sibyl sang their fates.
That voice boomed through the tunnel and out into the light, and all marvelled at her presence; her voice as immutable as the crashing waves on the rocks of Cumae.
When she didn’t sing the fates, she’d write symbols on oak leaves representing the prophecies that came to her in frantic trances. She’d place these by the door of the cave for the supplicants to decipher themselves. If the leaves were blown by the wind, it was fate’s hand at play and not for her to reorder.
Her most famous visitor was the hero Aeneas, fleeing the destruction of Troy, and searching for a new home for his Trojan refugees. He’d been told he must seek out this Sibyl if his people were ever to find safe harbour, but he must be wary of her leaves. He needed to hear the prophecy, and not abandon the fate of his people to the mercy of the wind.
Aeneas begged Apollo and the all-knowing Sibyl to allow the Trojans to find a home in Latium. As his plea echoed down the tunnel, he watched as a mighty battle took place within the Sibyl’s breast. Seizing the Sibyl’s voice from her, Apollo prophesised that there will be wars and bloodshed, the Tiber will foam with blood, but in all their suffering the Trojans must not moan or shrink back, rather they should face it and eventually they will build a city here more mighty than the one they left.
Then the god departed, leaving the Sibyl panting and breathless atop her tripod.
After hearing this doom-laden prophecy, Aeneas pondered how he would face the challenges ahead, and thought of his wise father, Anchises. Knowing of the Sibyl’s insight, he asked her if she could guide him through the Underworld to consult his father on what he must do for his people. To Aeneas the Sibyl was like a goddess, and he swore that his people would build her a shrine if she’d only grant him this favour.
Charmed by the young hero – as an old woman by the flattery of an innocent boy – she promised to take him to the Underworld, and out again, but he must first pluck a golden bough from a tree in a nearby glade. If he is able to simple detach the bough from its tree, it will prove fate is with him, and he can use it as a gift for Proserpina, queen of the Underworld.
Aeneas and the Sibyl (C.1800) by Unknown - Courtesy of the Yale Center for British Art (ArtUK.org)
As the Sibyl waited for Aeneas to retrieve the golden bough, she considered the path they were to take: first to Lake Avernus, then past the wailing Cocytus’ pools and Styx’s marsh, then they must get passage from Charon the ferryman across to the realm of the dead, next – avoiding the horrors of Tartarus – she must guide Aeneas to the Elysian Fields, where the good dance and listen to the music of the gods; and finally they must leave by the ivory gate of false dreams sent up to the living.
The Sibyl was adept at the path, having received an education of sorts from Hecate, goddess of necromancy. Moreover, she needn’t fear the Underworld as her curse prohibited her from staying – she could only visit.
It was invigorating to leave her cave for a change, and be active in pursuing Aeneas’ destiny on this crucial stage of his journey. As a guide, the Sibyl would not merely be a singer of fate, but part of it…
6th Century BCE, Rome, Roman Kingdom
“It is said that during the reign of Tarquinius another very wonderful piece of good luck also came to the Roman state, conferred upon it by the favour of some god or other divinity; and this good fortune was not of short duration, but throughout the whole existence of the country it has often saved it from great calamities.”
From the ridgetop city of Alba Longa, founded by Aeneas’ son Ascanius, the Latin League formed, conquered, and grew. A dozen or more generations of Trojan descended kings ruled before the cold-blooded usurper, King Amulius, fatefully ordered the death of his twin grandnephews, Romulus and Remus.
Growth had turned to stagnation and decay, and providence’s gaze turned from Alba Longa to follow these infants abandoned on the shores of the Tiber. In time, suckled on the teat of a cave-dwelling she-wolf, they grew and conquered. United, Romulus and Remus overthrew King Amulius before seeking a site for their own city. Strife flared, Romulus struck down Remus, and the city of Rome was founded upon the Palatine Hill.
A new dynasty, a Roman dynasty, ruled by the Tiber’s shore.
King after king could sit secure under their crown through claims of unbroken descent from Aphrodite, from Aeneas, from Mars, from Romulus. Gods and heroes. Yet such mighty figures of myth would not forever hold sway on this earth. The Gods gradually retreated from direct interference; heroes turned from demigods to mere men, and the blood of the Roman kings was diluted.
Over half a millennium had passed since the Cumaean Sibyl led Aeneas on his journey through the Underworld, and the Sibyl recalled her fondness for the young hero, and his promise of a shrine.
Elihu Vedder, The Cumaean Sibyl, 1876, oil on canvas. Detroit Institute of Arts, Founders Society Purchase, Merrill Fund, 57.235. (Cropped)
What had become of it?
Travelling from her cave in Cumae, she sought out Aeneas’ descendants, and arrived at the palace of King Tarquinius the Proud in Rome.
The Sibyl, ancient and proud – a good match for Tarquinius – brought with her nine books of prophecy, written in her own hand, which she offered to the king for a great sum of gold. After all, what price can be put on knowing how to confront future calamity? It may have been a great sum she asked for, but not an unjust price.
With these nine books, Rome would find itself unrivalled – an eternal city forever holding dominion on the Tiber’s shores.
The Sibyl asked the king if he would have them, and Tarquinius, in front of all his court, laughed at the old woman and refused her offer without a moment’s consideration.
Offended by the tone of the king, the Sibyl told him that it was she who had escorted his ancestor, Aeneas, through Underworld, and was therefore worthy of respect. This only caused the king’s laughter to boom louder in his hall.
Once the echoes of his laugh had abated, he accused her of being a mad old woman; perhaps the sad mother of a son who died in some battle against him.
It was pride against pride, and Tarquinius would not be outdone by a crookback old crone.
Nevertheless, the Sibyl, hardened to the lack of foresight in mortals, and ever unpredictable, decided to give him another chance. Yet now it had become pride against pride, and she would not be outdone by this young fool. To counter his mockery the Sibyl calmly, in front of the king and his court, burned three of the books. Then, after watching their pages blacken and turn to dust, she offered the remaining six to Tarquinius at the same price.
Again he chuckled – albeit quieter now – and declined.
Again she burned three of the books.
Knowing the value of these texts, the Sibyl would not give them to one who underrated them. When she offered the final three books for the original price, the king’s famed pride was eclipsed by uncertainty.
Cautiously, he consulted his council, and it was decided they would purchase the remaining books for whatever the Sibyl asked.
Once the Sibylline Books were in his possession, proud Tarquinius organised a great celebration of Rome’s new acquisitions, displaying all the pomp and grandeur of a military victory.
Meanwhile, the Sibyl of Cumae returned to her cave, rich, and pleased that she could still, at such a mighty age, handle kings and shape nations…
1st Century CE, Cumae, Roman Empire
“But now my more fruitful time has turned its back on me, and old age comes, with tottering step, that must be long endured. Though I have now lived seven centuries, three hundred harvests, three hundred vintages, still remain to be seen, to equal the content of the dust. The time will come when the passage of days will render such body as I have tiny, and my limbs, consumed with age, will reduce to the slightest of burdens. I will be thought never to have loved, and never to have delighted a god. Phoebus too perhaps will either not know me, or will deny that he loved me. I will go as far as having to suffer transformation, and I will be viewed as non-existent, but still known as a voice: the fates will bequeath me a voice.”
“Then the Sibyl! I saw her at Cumae with my own eyes hanging in a jar; and when the boys cried to her, ‘Sibyl, what would you?’ she’d answer, ‘I would die,’ – both of ‘em speaking Greek.”
The Sibylline Books – the remaining three – were consulted in times of dire anxiety by the Roman king, whose dynasty may have lasted had he acquired all nine. After the fall of Rome’s final king, the books became guarded sacred artefacts of the Senate to be interpreted when the Roman Republic faced impending disaster.
The Sibyl’s oracles found their promised shrine beneath the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus; underground in a stone chest and watched over by a priesthood, whose members were free of all other military and civic duties. No other Roman outside this priesthood could read the oracles, nor copies of them be made.
In the early years, when King Tarquinius still sat on the Roman throne, and only two citizens and two slaves formed this priesthood, one man amongst these, Marcus Atilius, betrayed this sacred trust. Atilius was accused of copying a few sentences of prophecy – for what purpose it is unknown. His punishment was swift. He was charged as a parricide – aligning this breach of trust with the murder of one’s own parents – and he was tied into a leather sack and thrown into the Tyrrhenian Sea.
These Sibylline Books were Rome’s salvation, and they could not allow even a line to fall into the hands of their enemies, nor the auguries sow fear into the hearts of their citizens.
Cumaean red-figured pottery amphora (350BCE-330BCE) by the CA Painter - © The Trustees of the British Museum
After standing for four centuries, on 6th July 83 B.C.E., while Sulla’s second civil war raged through the streets of the crumbling Republic, the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus burned to the ground. There was no warning, the books mute when it came to their own destruction.
The spiritual heart of Rome was burnt and hollowed out.
From the ashes, the temple was reconstructed and emissaries sent throughout the Mediterranean to find oracles that could serve as a new Sibylline library. These, however, were not like the Sibyl of Cumae’s originals. They did not tell of the fate of Rome, but were the recorded Sibylline verses of many people and places.
In Cumae, a voice that once boomed out of many cave mouths, now echoed hollowly in a jug. The Sibyl was ancient, yet Apollo’s blessing would not allow her to die. The grains of sand in her hour glass still trickled away and piled up.
Still, under the reign of Emperor Nero, pilgrims were shown this jug, and each listened to its rasping words that became more perplexing and cryptic than ever; their meaning impenetrable.
At long last, when even her voice had faded, the Sibyl was finally permitted to make her home in the Underworld. She was no longer the guide to Aeneas, able to visit but not rest. At last she could meditate on the past and present, and not be constantly beset by muddled, snatched fragments of prophetic futures.
References
Classical
· The Aeneid by Virgil, trans by Robert Fagles (London: Penguin Books, 2006)
· De Divinatione by Cicero, trans by W. A. Falconer <https://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/e/roman/texts/cicero/de_divinatione/1*.html>
· Metamorphoses, Book XIV by Ovid, trans by A. S. Kline <https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Latin/Metamorph14.php#anchor_Toc64108194>
· Roman Antiquities by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, trans Alfred R. Allinson <https://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Dionysius_of_Halicarnassus/4C*.html>
· The Satyricon by Giaus Petronius, trans by Alfred R. Allinson (Paris: Carrington, 1902)
Modern
· ‘The Acoustic of Cumaean Sibyl’ by Gino Iannace and Umberto Berardi, Acoustical Society of America, 11 October 2017 <https://asa.scitation.org/doi/pdf/10.1121/2.0000606>
· ‘Deiphobe or What’s in a Name?’ by D. W. Blandford, Proceedings of the Virgil Society 27, 2011 <http://digitalvirgil.co.uk/pvs/2011/part11.pdf>
· Greek and Roman Necromancy by Daniel Ogden (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004)
· The Road to Delphi by Michael Wood (London: Chatto & Windus, 2004)
· Rome’s Own Sibyl: The Sibylline Books in the Roman Republic and Early Empire by Susan Satterfield, PhD thesis for Princeton University (November 2008)
· Sibyls: Prophecy and Power in the Ancient World by Jorge Guillermo (London: Duckworth Publishers, 2013)
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