Tuesday, April 15, 2025

The Beast Within: Centaurs and the Duality of Human Nature

 

by Mary Harrsch © 2025

In Greek mythology, the centaur—a creature half-man, half-horse—stands as a potent symbol of contradiction, embodying the tension between civilization and savagery, reason and instinct. 

Drawings of a Fresco of Chiron teaching music to Achilles from the Augusteum in Herculaneum, 1st century CE by Wilhelm Zahn, 1828.

Far from a mere imaginative flourish, the centaur reflects deep cultural encounters and inherited mythological patterns that shaped how ancient Greeks understood both themselves and the alien ‘other’ (Buxton, 2004). This article traces the roots of the centaur myth not to the Greek mainland alone, but to earlier and broader cultural exchanges.

The earliest known depiction of a human-horse hybrid (centaur) comes from Paleolithic cave art in the Cave of Lascaux in France, dating to approximately 17,000-15,000 BCE. These primitive centaur-like figures depict beings with human upper bodies and horse- or deer-like lower bodies (Clottes, 2008). While not exactly the classic Greek centaur with a complete horse body, these are considered the earliest artistic representations of human-animal hybrids that include horse-like elements and suggest that the fusion of human and animal traits—especially with hoofed creatures—has deep roots in human imagination.

The more formalized concept of the centaur as we commonly recognize it today, however, developed later in ancient Greek culture, beginning with the Mycenaeans, around 1450-1200 BCE. Linear B tablets from Knossos (c. 1450-1400 BCE) contain possible references to ‘horse-men’ figures, though interpretation remains debated among scholars (Chadwick, 1976).

The Mycenaean Greeks, whose horizons extended eastward through contact with the sophisticated Hittite world, were exposed to a mythological landscape filled with human-animal hybrids—sphinxes, griffins, and lion-headed deities—that blurred the lines between human and beast (Collins, 2002). The Hittites absorbed artistic and mythological influences from Mesopotamian, Syrian, and indigenous Anatolian traditions, all of which featured various human-animal hybrids. These creatures guarded sacred spaces or served as liminal figures mediating between the divine and mortal worlds. Furthermore, these hybrids were not necessarily evil or monstrous; rather, they embodied boundary states and spiritual potency. Such imagery may have seeded a framework in which the blending of human and animal traits could be imbued with cultural and psychological meaning.

Hittite Lion-headed demons from Arslantepe
courtesy of Wikimedia Commons contributor Ingeborg Simon

Later, as Greek communities encountered nomadic horse-riding peoples of the Eurasian steppe—such as the Cimmerians—these distant riders appeared uncanny, unfamiliar, and at times, inseparable from the horses they rode (Anthony, 2007). Much like Indigenous peoples of the Americas first seeing Spanish cavalry, the Greeks may have initially perceived mounted warriors as a single, fearsome being—man and horse fused in motion and identity (Schmitt, 2001).

Mounted Cimmerians and their dogs battling Greek infantry 7th century BCE - History of Egypt, Chaldea, Syria, Babylonia and Assyria (1903) by Maspero, Sayce, and McClure
courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Out of this perceptual shock and mythic inheritance emerged the centaur: not just a monster of the wilds, but a mirror reflecting the Greek struggle to define humanity’s place between reason and instinct, control and chaos, the polis and the wilderness. The centaur’s dual nature invites us to explore not only cross-cultural influence and historical encounter, but also the enduring psychological tension at the heart of human self-conception (Padilla, 1998).

By the time Homer penned the Iliad, the admiration for a noble warrior like Hector who is proclaimed a “tamer of horses” (hippodamios) (Homer, trans. Lattimore, 1951, 6.403) is already codified in the epic tradition. Troy itself, situated near the Hittite frontier and possibly a point of contact between Anatolian and steppe cultures, becomes a liminal setting in the Greek mythic landscape—a place where Eastern and Western values, practices, and fears collide (Bryce, 2006). 

Early 20th century artist's concept of Troy
courtesy of Wikimedia Commons contributor Carole Raddato

The repeated emphasis on horse-taming in the epic hints at both admiration and anxiety: the horse as a symbol of civilization and nobility, but also of barely contained power. In this charged cultural space, the centaur emerged as a figure who could straddle these contradictions—half-civilized, half-wild; half-admirable, half-threatening.

While no permanent Greek colonies existed along the Black Sea coast during the time traditionally associated with the Trojan War, there is strong evidence that Mycenaean Greeks were already traversing the Hellespont and exploring the northern Aegean and beyond. Some scholars argue that the true cause of the Trojan War may have been economic rather than romantic—namely, the Trojans' control of the narrow straits of the Hellespont (modern Dardanelles) and their imposition of tolls or restrictions on maritime trade. This strategic chokepoint linked the Aegean with the Black Sea and would have given Troy significant leverage over seaborne commerce.

Archaeological evidence supports this interpretation: Troy VI/VIIa (c. 1700–1190 BCE) was a large, fortified, and evidently prosperous city, ideally positioned to monitor and profit from passing ships (Easton, 2002). At the same time, the Mycenaean Greeks had compelling economic motivations to access the Black Sea region, seeking timber, metals, grain, and amber—resources not readily available in the Aegean. Even in the absence of established colonies which would not appear until the 7th century BCE (Sherratt, 2003), such trade ventures suggest that Greek seafarers could have encountered nomadic horse-riding cultures of the Eurasian steppe earlier than previously assumed.

These early encounters—filtered through the lens of both economic rivalry and developing allegory—may have contributed to the development of the centaur as a figure born from a collision of worldviews: the maritime civilization of the Aegean and the equestrian nomadism of the northern frontier. The perceptual blurring between man and beast likely left an imprint on Greek imagination, where unfamiliar realities were often interpreted through the lens of myth. The idea of a being that was neither fully human nor fully animal, yet profoundly dangerous and strangely noble, fits neatly into the liminal category already prepared by Near Eastern hybrid figures like the sphinx or griffin (Burkert, 1985). In this way, the centaur became not merely a fantastical monster of Greek invention but a culturally encoded response to real encounters—both hostile and admiring—with horse-riding peoples who lay beyond the fringes of the Aegean world. As this imagery entered the mythic tradition, the centaur came to symbolize a primal duality: a creature born of borderlands—geographical, cultural, and psychological—where civilization meets its limits.

In Greek tradition, the centaurs were most commonly associated with Thessaly, a rugged and mountainous region in northern Greece known for its wild landscapes and its skilled horsemen (Larson, 2007). Thessaly’s plains made it one of the few areas in mainland Greece suitable for large-scale horse breeding, and its reputation for horsemanship endured throughout antiquity. At the same time, Thessaly was often imagined by southern Greeks as a place somewhat removed from the refined urban centers of the Aegean—a borderland both geographically and culturally. In myth, this peripheral quality became magnified: the untamed forests and craggy highlands of Mount Pelion, in particular, were thought to be the dwelling place of the centaurs. This setting, remote yet real, gave mythic centaurs a liminal home on the fringes of the known Greek world.

Neck amphora depicting three centaurs by Polyphemos group 540- 530 BCE
courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.


It also situated them close to other figures of transition and, subsequently, tutelage—such as the wise centaur Chiron, who lived on Mount Pelion and trained young heroes. By the eighth century BCE, Hesiod had even given voice to Chiron in his fragmentary didactic poem, “Precepts of Chiron” (Hesiod, frag. 1, trans. 2007).

The wise centaur Chiron, holding a young Achilles, greets Peleus, black figure neck amphora by the Antimenes painter dated from 520-510 BCE now in the collections of the Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, Maryland.

Thus, Thessaly became both the cradle of centaur myth and a symbolic threshold where wilderness, civilization, and the ambiguities between them could play out. Likewise, the figure of the centaur fractured into contrasting archetypes: on one end, the wild and uncivilized band of Thessalian centaurs who crash the wedding of Pirithous (Pausanias, 5.10.8), a Lapith king and close friend of Theseus. 

A centauromachy relief on an ancient Roman sarcophagus, c 150 CE, at the Museo Archeologico Ostiense courtesy of Wikimedia Commons contributor, Sailko.

Drunk and disorderly, they attempted to abduct the bride and her attendants—an allegory of unchecked appetite and the perils of failing to master one's instincts. This mythic battle, known as the Centauromachy, was vividly portrayed by sculptors influenced by Pheidias on the Parthenon and the Temple of Zeus at Olympia. 

A centaur from the Temple of Zeus courtesy of the Archaeological Museum of Olympia

On the other end stands Chiron, the wise and gentle healer and tutor. This divergence within centaur myth may reflect the Greeks' own ambivalence about the boundary between the cultivated and the wild. The same creature that embodies violence, lust, and lawlessness in one context can, in another, symbolize wisdom and self-mastery. Through this duality, centaurs became a flexible moral mirror, capable of reflecting both the chaos that threatens the polis and the idealized virtues that sustain it.

Unlike his wild and impulsive kin—who were often portrayed as drunken, violent, and given to unchecked passions—Chiron represented a striking departure. Said to be the son of the Titan Cronus and a nymph named Philyra, Chiron was not only immortal but also wise, kind, and skilled in medicine, music, and prophecy. His home on Mount Pelion became a center of heroic education, where some of the greatest figures in Greek myth—Achilles, Asclepius, Jason, and even Heracles—were entrusted to his care (Apollodorus, 1.8.1). Chiron embodied a more aspirational archetype—the potential for harmony between the animal and the rational, the instinctual and the civilized (Dodds, 1951).

A rare fresco of  (L to R) Apollo, Chiron, and Asclepius from the west wall of a cubiculum in the  
House of Regina Carolina (VIII 3,14) Pompeii, 1st century CE courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. 


His myth allowed the Greeks to explore what it might mean to tame the wild not through domination but through guidance and transformation.

Centaurs began to appear in Greek art during the Geometric period (c. 900–700 BCE), initially in small-scale figurines and painted pottery, often shown as fierce and untamed but depicted in an awkward composite form sometimes called the “two-bodied” or “two-legged” centaur type with a human torso joined at the waist to the hindquarters of a horse. 

Terracotta neck amphora depicting centaurs 575–550 BCE by the Paris Painter courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

As Greek trade with cultures of the Levant and Asia Minor began in earnest during the late 8th to early 7th century BCE, Greek artists’ exposure to anatomically integrated hybrid creatures may have encouraged Greek artists to reimagine centaurs as more cohesive, four-legged creatures familiar from later classical and Hellenistic art (Boardman, 1975), rather than cobbled-together parts. 

Terracotta fragment of a kylix (drinking cup) depicting a satyr late 6th early 5th centuries BCE Greek courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York
Terracotta neck amphora depicting centaurs beating the lapith Kaineus into the ground 510 BCE courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Their representations became even more elaborate during the Archaic period (c. 700–480 BCE), when narrative scenes from myth gained prominence in vase painting and sculpture. Furthermore, the black-figure technique, which developed and flourished in the 6th century BCE, allowed for greater detail and dynamism, making the more complicated four-legged form both feasible and desirable (Beazley, 1956). The four-legged version allowed artists to emphasize centaur strength, animalistic frenzy, and their contrast to human heroes, especially in large friezes like temple decorations of the Temple of Apollo at Thermon and Parthenon metopes of the 5th century BCE (Ridgway, 1997).

The move from the awkward, transitional two-legged form to the fully animalistic four-legged form may reflect a growing Greek concern with the duality of human and beast, civilization and savagery, reflecting the maturing of Greek philosophy and ethical thought, where the centaur becomes a potent symbol of the struggle between rationality and instinct (Burkert, 1985; Hurwit, 2002).

 

Timeline of Greek Colonization of the Black Sea region:

  • c. 750–700 BCE – Earliest forays by Ionian and Aeolian Greeks, with initial trading posts and exploratory expeditions (Boardman, 1999; Graham, 2001).
  • Late 7th century BCE – Establishment of permanent colonies begins (Graham, 2001).
  • By mid-6th century BCE – Colonization is well underway; many of the major poleis have been founded (Boardman, 1999).

🔹 Key Colonies Founded:

  • Sinope (modern Sinop, Turkey) – Founded by Miletus in the 7th century BCE (Boardman, 1999).
  • Olbia (near modern Mykolaiv, Ukraine) – Founded by Miletus around 647 BCE (Graham, 2001).
  • Panticapaeum (modern Kerch, Crimea) – Also a Milesian colony, founded in the 6th century BCE (Boardman, 1999).
  • Phasis (modern Poti, Georgia) – Founded near the mouth of the Phasis River, possibly late 7th–early 6th century BCE (Graham, 2001).

Historical Influence triggering Artistic Change?

This colonization brought the Greeks into direct contact with:

  • Scythian and Thracian tribes, known for their horsemanship and equestrian culture (Ivantchik, 2006).
  • A landscape of open steppes and horse-rich cultures, which may have influenced Greek conceptualizations of horse-human hybrids like centaurs (Burkert, 1985; Ivantchik, 2006).

It’s plausible that this new exposure to mounted nomadic peoples—who were highly skilled riders and often regarded by the Greeks as “barbaric” and wild—may have sharpened the symbolic role of centaurs. The more realistic four-legged form could reflect both increased equestrian knowledge and a desire to make centaurs more physically credible and narratively potent (Hurwit, 2002).

This contact also coincides with the transition from the Archaic to the Early Classical period, when Greek artists made huge strides in naturalism and anatomical accuracy—suggesting that artistic trends and cultural encounters worked in tandem to transform centaur imagery (Boardman, 1975; Hurwit, 2002).

Chiron, distinct among his kind, was frequently marked out by signs of civility: he might be clothed, bearded, crowned with a wreath, or accompanied by young heroes under his instruction (Beazley, 1956). These visual cues allowed artists and audiences to recognize him not merely as a centaur, but as a paragon of wisdom set apart from his more barbaric brethren.

Chiron's emergence as a distinctive figure in Greek visual culture can be traced to Attic black-figure vase painting of the late Archaic period. One of the earliest securely identified images of Chiron appears on a black-figure amphora attributed to the Amasis Painter (active c. 560–525 BCE), where he is shown leading the young Achilles. Chiron’s civility is emphasized in such scenes by his clothed upper body, his calm demeanor, and often by the presence of musical instruments or medicinal herbs—attributes that signal his role as a cultured educator. The François Vase, a masterwork by Kleitias (c. 570 BCE), includes another notable depiction: Chiron escorts Achilles to the court of Peleus, again highlighting the centaur’s role in heroic upbringing (Hurwit, 2002). 

Attic black-figured volute krater known as the Francois vase 570-565 BCE painted by Kleitias
courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Sanctuaries dedicated to healing and hero cults—such as those at Delphi, Thermopylae, and Epidaurus—occasionally featured representations of Chiron in their sculptural programs or votive offerings, especially in later periods when his association with medicine became more prominent. Through these visual narratives, Chiron was increasingly isolated from the more violent and impulsive centaurs of Thessalian myth, emerging as a tutelary figure whose animal form belied a profoundly civilized spirit.

As Greek artistic and mythological traditions spread westward, the centaur was readily adopted and reimagined by the Etruscans, the dominant culture of central Italy prior to the rise of Republican Rome. Etruscan artists were deeply influenced by Greek iconography but often repurposed it to suit local tastes and religious beliefs. In their visual culture, centaurs retained their identity as hybrid creatures of the wild but were often given new symbolic roles. They appear in funerary art, engraved on bronze mirrors and carved into tomb reliefs, where they may represent liminal figures between life and death or act as guardians of the underworld journey (de Grummond, 2006). 

Centaur (Chiron?) on an Etruscan amphora dated to 530 BCE courtesy of 
Wikimedia Commons

Occasionally, Chiron is named in inscriptions, suggesting that the Etruscans were aware of his myth and may have appreciated his role as a healer and guide. Yet in general, the Etruscan centaur occupies a more ambiguous space—neither strictly Greek nor yet fully Roman, a transitional figure in both form and meaning. 

Etruscan bronze mirror depicting Icarius in a chariot drawn by two bearded centaurs—one bearing grapes, the other a knife and wineskin—accompanied by a cherub above and his dog Maera below. This rare illustration combines text and imagery to portray a lesser-known episode of Greek myth, where Icarius, taught by Dionysos to make wine, is killed by drunken shepherds who mistake his gift for poison (Photius, Myriobiblon 190).

Note: Iucarius (spelled here with “iu” to distinguish him from Icarus, the son of Daedalus) is the mortal hero associated with the introduction of wine to Attica. Taught by Dionysos, Iucarius was killed by shepherds who mistook the effects of wine for poisoning. His story, involving his daughter Erigone and loyal dog Maera, played a key role in early Athenian rites connected to Dionysian cult worship.

This interpretive flexibility paved the way for a more decorative and symbolic use of the centaur in Roman visual culture, especially in connection with themes of festivity, transformation, and ecstatic release (Kampen, 2005).

Centaurs in Transition — Two Forms in Bronze

Two Etruscan bronze figurines—each depicting a centaur—illustrate the shift in anatomical conception that occurred around the turn of the 6th to 5th century BCE. The earlier example (c. 560–540 BCE, MFA Boston) retains the so-called “two-bodied” or “two-legged” type, where the human torso, with a full set of human legs, is attached to a horse’s hindquarters. This awkward hybrid form reflects the early Greek visual tradition, which struggled to reconcile the anatomical merger of man and horse.

By contrast, a later bronze statuette (late 6th–early 5th century BCE, Met Museum) presents a more unified four-legged anatomy, in which the human torso rises naturally from the front of a complete equine body. This shift toward anatomical plausibility mirrors broader trends in Greek and Etruscan art, which increasingly favored realism, proportionality, and expressive action—especially in mythological narratives involving hybrid or liminal beings.

Together, these figures not only demonstrate the evolving form of the centaur but also suggest a growing sophistication in how artists visualized myth across the Mediterranean.

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By the Hellenistic period, and even more prominently under Roman rule, centaurs underwent a visual and symbolic transformation as they were increasingly absorbed into Dionysiac imagery. No longer limited to mythological narratives or heroic training scenes, they now appeared in bacchic processions—frolicking, wine-soaked followers of Dionysus, the god of ecstasy, revelry, and the dissolution of boundaries. These centaurs, often shown playing flutes, carrying amphorae, or cavorting with maenads and satyrs, embodied the loss of rational control in favor of instinct, indulgence, and liberation (Boardman, 1991; Schreiber, 2019).

Evolution of Centaur Imagery and Meaning Across Periods

Period

Visual Characteristics

Symbolic Function

Archaic (c. 700–480 BCE)

Stylized and geometric forms; “two-legged” centaur type common; depicted in black-figure vase painting.

Represented chaotic, barbaric violence; moral allegories (e.g., Centauromachy) highlighting civilizing values {Boardman, 1975; Shapiro, 1993).

Classical (c. 480–323 BCE)

Greater naturalism in anatomy; dynamic reliefs on temples (e.g., Parthenon, Olympia).

Centaur figures become metaphors for the struggle between reason and impulse; clear division between wild centaurs and noble Chiron (Hurwit, 2002; Stewart, 1990).

Hellenistic (c. 323–31 BCE)

Emotional intensity and pathos emphasized; centaurs appear in more diverse contexts.

Centaurs integrated into Dionysian imagery; depicted in roles tied to revelry, eroticism, and excess. (Zanker, 1988; LIMC s.v. Kentauros).

Roman Imperial (1st c. BCE – 4th c. CE)

Mosaics and frescoes in domestic and elite spaces; realistic, often expressive renderings.

Dual roles: violent or hedonistic centaurs (e.g., Hadrian's Villa) and cultured Chiron as tutor (e.g., Pompeii, Herculaneum) (Clarke, 1991; Zanker, 1988).

Artists emphasized their muscular bodies and expressive gestures, creating dynamic compositions in mosaics, sarcophagi, and frescoes, especially in the villas and tombs of the Roman elite. In these Dionysian contexts, the centaur’s hybrid nature became an emblem not of violence or wisdom, but of ecstatic surrender—a creature no longer feared, but celebrated, as part of the cycle of death, rebirth, and transcendence that Dionysus came to represent in late antiquity (Zanker, 1990).

The Roman fascination with centaurs extended across stylistic and symbolic registers, from scenes of Dionysian abandon to refined moral allegories. At Hadrian’s Villa in Tivoli, a striking mosaic from the early 2nd century CE shows centaurs struggling with large felines—a vivid metaphor for untamed nature and internal conflict (Kuttner, 1995; Köhler, 2014). These muscular, expressive figures blur the line between myth and exemplum, caught in a perpetual battle between reason and impulse.

Four-legged centaur battling ferocious felines in a mosaic from Hadrian’s Villa in Tivoli, reflecting the emperor’s lifelong love of hunting and his worldview of the empire’s constant threat from primal violence. Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons contributor Anagoria.

In contrast, Roman wall painting—especially in Pompeii and Herculaneum—frequently depicted the gentler figure of Chiron instructing the young Achilles. One of the most celebrated examples appears in the Augusteum at Herculaneum, a building associated with the imperial cult. There, Chiron is shown serenely teaching Achilles to play the lyre, his white beard, cloak, and composed posture reinforcing his civilizing influence. Such scenes reflect Roman ideals of elite education, moral discipline, and the transmission of cultural authority to future leaders (Coarelli, 2002; Theoi Project, n.d.).

Fresco depicting the wise tutor Chiron instructing Achilles in music found in the Augusteum in Herculaneum, 1st century CE courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

his juxtaposition—between Chiron’s tutelage and the primal violence of the Tivoli centaurs—highlights the remarkable plasticity of centaur imagery in Roman art. During the Augustan era, the iconography of Chiron instructing Achilles reflected the regime's emphasis on education, discipline, and the moral formation of Rome’s future leaders—ideals foundational to Augustus’ vision of a restored Republic under imperial guidance (Zanker, 1988). By contrast, the Hadrianic mosaics of feral centaurs battling beasts in Dionysian revel suggest a more ambivalent, even introspective, engagement with myth. Hadrian, born in Italica on the Spanish frontier and widely traveled across the empire, experienced firsthand the cultural instability of Rome’s borders and the fragility of civilization beyond the Mediterranean core (Boatwright, 2008; Syme, 1964). His mosaic program, therefore, may reflect a shift in imperial ideology—from the calming narratives of moral order favored by Augustus to a philosophical confrontation with chaos, mortality, and the limits of control. That Hadrian so prominently displayed scenes of hunting and mythic violence—across reliefs, statuary, and even poetic accounts of lion hunts (Opper, 2008, p. 173; Fox, 2006, p. 574)—underscores his preoccupation with the balance between cultivated restraint and the primal forces always threatening to overwhelm it.

Hadrian’s villa was not merely a personal retreat but a curated stage upon which imperial ideology, mythic imagination, and philosophical reflection coalesced. Its very architecture—fusing Roman engineering prowess with Hellenistic aesthetics—embodied Hadrian’s complex vision of empire: one that balanced cultivated order with a conscious embrace of wildness and ambiguity (Birley, 1997; Boatwright, 2008). The centaur mosaics, far from decorative ephemera, acted as mythological mirrors of imperial identity, negotiating tensions between discipline and indulgence, control and chaos. In choosing the violent, ecstatic centaurs of Dionysian myth over the pedagogical calm of Chiron, Hadrian reframed the imperial gaze—not as a civilizing force alone, but as one constantly contending with the primal forces that lurk at the empire’s edge and within the human soul. This layered visual language invited elite viewers not just to admire, but to interpret, reflect, and perhaps even recognize themselves within these ancient, ambivalent figures.

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Monday, April 14, 2025

Did Odysseus' use of a staff to discipline Thersites in the Iliad inspire the Roman centurion's vine stick?

by Mary Harrsch 2025 

Upon reading this article, I wondered if the adoption of the vine stick for Roman centurions may have been related to the story of Odysseys striking the complainer Thersites in the Iliad to restore morale and proper respect to Agamemnon?

https://classicalwisdom.substack.com/p/what-makes-a-hero

Odysseus beating Thersites in Book 2 of the Iliad


ChatGPT replied:

"In Book 2 of the Iliad, Odysseus does indeed silence Thersites—a common soldier who dares to criticize Agamemnon—by sharply rebuking him and then striking him with a scepter. The act is both a restoration of order and a symbolic reinforcement of hierarchical authority, with Odysseus using a symbol of leadership (the scepter) to physically and socially subdue dissent. Homer makes it clear that the other soldiers approve of this action; it reaffirms the values of respect, rank, and unity in a time of potential disorder.
The Roman centurion's vitis, or vine staff, was likewise both a symbol and a tool of authority—used not only to mark out the centurion as a leader but also to discipline the ranks and maintain order. It was a privilege of rank, and wielding it publicly reinforced the centurion’s role as the upholder of discipline, morale, and tradition in the Roman army.
So while we can't say for certain that Roman military culture explicitly borrowed this from the Iliad, it's quite plausible that the cultural memory of Homeric epics—which were foundational texts for the entire Greco-Roman world—helped shape expectations about what a good leader does when faced with insubordination. Roman education was steeped in Greek literature, and Homer was required reading. Roman conceptions of ideal behavior—especially in matters of discipline and hierarchy—were heavily influenced by Greek heroic models.
It’s also worth noting that the Romans often sought to portray themselves as heirs to the heroic age. A connection between the vine staff and Odysseus’s scepter strike on Thersites would have resonated culturally, even if it wasn’t formally codified.
So yes—while we can't prove a direct line from Thersites to the vitis, the symbolic logic and the shared emphasis on public discipline, rank, and the restoration of order make your idea highly plausible and even likely as an influence. It’s a fascinating convergence of literary and military tradition."
I was also curious about when the vitis was introduced into Roman military practice. Chat GPT responded:
"Here's what we know:
The vine staff (vitis) was a distinctive badge of office for Roman centurions. Unlike other officers, centurions carried this as both a symbol of rank and a tool of discipline, used to strike soldiers who were out of line.
The earliest firm literary references to the vitis date from the late Republic:
Polybius, a Greek historian writing in the mid-2nd century BCE (Histories, 6.24), describes Roman military structure in detail, including the roles and discipline enforced by centurions, though he doesn’t mention the vitis by name. However, the harsh discipline he describes almost certainly involved such symbols.
Sallust (1st c. BCE) and Caesar (in his Commentarii) describe centurions enforcing discipline rigorously, and Caesar even highlights centurions for their bravery and authority, again implying their role in maintaining order.
The clearest association of the vitis with the physical enforcement of discipline appears in imperial-era sources:
Vegetius, writing in the late 4th century CE (De Re Militari), describes the centurion’s vine stick as a longstanding tradition.
Earlier Imperial authors like Tacitus and Suetonius also refer to centurions using the vitis as an accepted, even expected, part of military life.
Why the vitis?
The vine was symbolic: it was flexible but strong—ideal for delivering stinging blows without causing severe injury. It was also a humble, agrarian material, possibly reflecting the rustic virtues of old Roman discipline.
So when did it begin?
Most scholars believe the tradition of the vitis likely began to formalize in the mid-Republic, maybe around the 3rd century BCE, when Rome’s military structure was becoming more rigid and hierarchically organized.
It was probably an organic development, not a sudden institution—first as a practical tool for maintaining order, then elevated to a symbol of authority and tradition."
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Tuesday, April 8, 2025

From Singular to Plural: Eros, Erotes, and the Emergence of Psyche in Hellenistic Art

 by Mary Harrsch © 2025

Today, I came across Wilhelm Zahn’s drawing of a group of cupids (erotes) dancing to music from a triclinium in the House of the Suonatrici (female musicians) (IX 3,24) in Pompeii.

1826 drawing by Wilhelm Zahn of a fresco of erotes and psyches dancing to music discovered in the House of the Suonatrici (female musicians) (IX 3,5) in Pompeii

 I was curious when Cupid evolved into multiple erotes in Greek art so I asked ClaudeAI about this. It replied:

“The evolution from a single Eros (Cupid) to multiple erotes in Greek art was a gradual process that occurred primarily during the Hellenistic period (323-31 BCE).

In early Greek art and mythology (Archaic and early Classical periods, 700-450 BCE), Eros was typically depicted as a singular divine figure - often portrayed as a beautiful young man with wings. This representation aligned with early mythological texts where Eros was considered a primordial deity or the son of Aphrodite.

The multiplication into groups of erotes (winged child-like figures) began appearing in Greek art during the 4th century BCE, becoming particularly prominent in the Hellenistic period. These multiple erotes were typically shown as chubby infants or small children with wings, engaging in playful activities or serving as attendants to Aphrodite.

The transition reflected broader changes in Greek artistic sensibilities and religious conceptions, as Hellenistic art tended toward more ornamental, dramatic, and emotionally expressive representations compared to earlier periods. The proliferation of erotes also coincided with the increased personification of abstract concepts in Greek art and culture during this era.”

In this example the erotes are accompanied by female psyches with butterfly wings instead of the erotes bird-like wings. So, I asked Claude AI, “When did psyches with butterfly wings begin to appear with erotes in Greek art?” It replied:

“The motif of Psyche with butterfly wings appearing alongside erotes (plural Cupids) emerged during the Hellenistic period (323-31 BCE), with more frequent depictions developing during the Roman Imperial period (1st century BCE - 4th century CE).

In Greek mythology, Psyche was a mortal woman who became the lover of Eros/Cupid in a story that gained popularity during the Hellenistic era. The word "psyche" in Greek means both "soul" and "butterfly," which led to the symbolic representation of Psyche with butterfly wings to distinguish her from the bird-winged erotes.

The earliest surviving depictions of Psyche with butterfly wings are found primarily in:

  1. Roman wall paintings from Pompeii and Herculaneum (1st century CE)
  2. Roman sarcophagi featuring the Cupid and Psyche myth (2nd-3rd centuries CE)
  3. Gemstones and cameos from the late Hellenistic and Roman periods

These representations often show Psyche as a young woman with butterfly wings alongside one or more erotes with bird wings, creating a visual distinction between the two types of supernatural beings. The pairing became particularly popular in funerary art, where the myth of Cupid and Psyche represented the soul's journey and immortality.

While the iconography became firmly established during the Roman period, the conceptual foundation and earliest artistic explorations likely began in the Hellenistic Greek world in the 3rd-2nd centuries BCE, though fewer examples from this period have survived.

[Furthermore,] Psyche as an individual goddess with a specific identity and mythology emerged during the Hellenistic period [too,] rather than being recognized by pre-Hellenistic Greeks.

In pre-Hellenistic Greek thought (before about 323 BCE), the word "psyche" (ψυχή) primarily referred to the concept of the soul or life-breath rather than a personified goddess. While early Greek literature and philosophy discussed the nature of the soul extensively, there's little evidence of any cult worship or widespread mythological tradition surrounding a goddess named Psyche during the Archaic or Classical periods.

The detailed myth of Psyche as the mortal woman who becomes the lover of Eros (Cupid) and eventually achieves immortality appears to have developed during the Hellenistic period. The most complete surviving version comes from Apuleius' "Metamorphoses" (also known as "The Golden Ass"), written in the 2nd century CE, but the core myth likely developed several centuries earlier.

Evidence suggests that the personification of Psyche and her myth gained particular prominence in the Hellenistic period, when:

  1. There was increased interest in personifications of abstract concepts
  2. Art and literature explored more emotional and romantic themes
  3. Mystery religions focused on personal transformation and immortality gained popularity

This pattern aligns with other developments in Greek religion during the Hellenistic era, when many personifications and abstract concepts became more fully realized as divine or semi-divine figures with their own mythologies.”

Then I asked, “Was there any kind of origin story for the multiple erotes compared to Cupid (Eros) individually being a son of Venus?” Claude AI replied:

“There weren't fully developed origin stories for the multiple erotes that match the detailed mythological parentage of the primary Eros/Cupid as the son of Venus/Aphrodite. Instead, the multiplication of erotes appears to have been more of an artistic and conceptual development rather than one anchored in specific mythological narratives.

In literary sources, there are a few approaches that suggest conceptual origins:

  1. Association with Venus: Some Roman writers implied that the multiple erotes were attendants or companions to Venus rather than having their own distinct birth stories. They functioned as extensions of her divine power rather than independent deities with complex origins.
  2. Nymphs and nature spirits: In some poetic contexts, erotes were grouped with nymphs and other minor nature spirits, suggesting they might share similar origins as manifestations of natural forces.
  3. Personifications: As Greek and Roman mythology evolved, there was a tendency to personify abstract concepts. The erotes can be understood as personifications of different aspects of love and desire rather than beings with specific birth narratives.
  4. Philosophical conceptions: Some philosophical traditions, particularly those influenced by Plato, discussed multiple forms of love (similar to his description in the Symposium). While not explicit origin stories, these philosophical frameworks may have influenced the artistic representation of multiple love deities.

The multiplication of erotes seems to have been primarily an artistic convention that developed to represent the pervasive influence of love in various contexts, rather than being driven by specific mythological narratives about their creation or birth. This stands in contrast to the primary Eros/Cupid, whose parentage (typically as the son of Venus/Aphrodite, though sometimes with other origins in earlier Greek sources) was a well-established part of classical mythology.”

I have seen frescos from Pompeii depicting scenes with both Cupid and erotes where Cupid is usually represented larger (and older) than the smaller entities so I asked ClaudeAI about this. It replied:

“In Roman art, particularly in Pompeian frescoes, there is indeed evidence of hierarchical scaling when depicting Cupid/Eros alongside multiple erotes. This artistic convention served to distinguish between their different roles and symbolic significance.

When Cupid appears as the singular, primary deity representing romantic love (especially in narrative scenes depicting the Cupid and Psyche myth), he is often portrayed larger than the subsidiary erotes. This size differentiation helps viewers identify the main Cupid figure as the actual god of love - the son of Venus/Aphrodite - rather than one of the generic putti-like attendants.

The smaller erotes typically function as:

  • Atmospheric elements suggesting a romantic environment
  • Attendants or servants to the main deities (Venus or Cupid)
  • Visual symbols reinforcing the theme of love

This hierarchical approach is consistent with broader Roman artistic practices where size often indicated divine importance or narrative centrality. In scenes focusing specifically on the Cupid and Psyche myth, Cupid is typically depicted adult-sized or adolescent-sized, while in more decorative compositions featuring generic love themes, the distinction might be less pronounced.

We can see this pattern in several surviving examples from Pompeii and Herculaneum, where narrative frescoes depicting the actual myth show Cupid as larger and more individualized, while decorative panels (like those in your image from the House of Suonatrici) might show more equal-sized figures engaged in parallel activities representing the atmosphere of love rather than specific mythological events.”

I uploaded an image of a painted reproduction of the scene from one of Niccolini’s books produced in 1852. 

1852 painting of the entire wall containing scenes of erotes and psyches found in a triclinium of the House of the Suonatrici (IX 3,5) in Pompeii published in an 1854 book by Fausto and Felice Niccolini..The original fresco panel of the dancing psyche (top row, far right, of the vignettes) was removed to the archaeological museum in Naples but very little of it survives today except the lower right-hand corner 

Then, I asked if there was more symbolism it could ascertain from the image. ClaudeAI replied:

“The arrangement shows multiple scenes of these divine figures engaged in activities that mirror elite Roman leisure - dining, dancing, and musical performances under decorative canopies or tents. This is significant for several reasons:

  1. Mirroring of Roman social activities: The scenes depict banqueting, entertainment, and leisure pursuits that would have actually taken place in the very room where the painting was displayed. Roman diners would see mythological beings engaged in similar activities to their own, creating a playful parallel between divine and mortal worlds.
  2. Symbolic associations: In a triclinium specifically, these images carried multiple meanings:
    • The erotes (cupids) connected to love and pleasure
    • The psyches (with butterfly wings) representing the soul and immortality
    • Together, they evoked themes of sensual pleasure balanced with spiritual elevation
  3. Social display: Such elaborate mythological scenes demonstrated the homeowner's cultural sophistication and knowledge of Greek mythology, important for social standing in Pompeii.
  4. Religious significance: Beyond mere decoration, these figures had religious associations with Venus/Aphrodite (mother of Cupid/Eros) [and patron goddess of Pompeii] and the mystery cults that were popular in the Roman world.
  5. Theatrical quality: The tent-like structures and arrangement into distinct scenes creates a theatrical effect, as if watching multiple acts of a performance - appropriate for a space dedicated to entertainment.

This type of decoration was particularly popular in the Fourth Style of Pompeian wall painting (approximately 62-79 CE), characterized by elaborate architectural frameworks and mythological vignettes.”

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