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Aventine Triad

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Aventine Triad (also referred to as the plebeian Triad or the agricultural Triad) is a modern term for the joint cult of the Roman deities Ceres, Liber and Libera. The cult was established ca. 493 BC within a sacred district (templum) on or near the Aventine Hill, traditionally associated with the Roman plebs. Later accounts describe the temple building and rites as "Greek" in style. Some modern historians describe the Aventine Triad as a plebeian parallel and self-conscious antithesis to the Archaic Triad of Jupiter, Mars and Quirinus and the later Capitoline Triad of Jupiter, Minerva and Juno. The Aventine Triad, temple and associated ludi (games and theatrical performances) served as a focus of plebeian identity, sometimes in opposition to Rome's original ruling elite, the patricians.

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  • ✪ Maiden, Mother, and Crone - Encyclopedia Hermetica: A Big History (Part 39)
  • ✪ Cultus Deorum - Encyclopedia Hermetica: A Big History (Part 37)


Good day everyone and welcome to Encyclopedia Hermetica: A Big History, Part 39 So we’re going to take up where we left off last lecture, and that was with the Roman Gods. The plan today then is to discuss the Roman Goddesses specifically. I’ll talk about predominantly about the Olympian Goddesses, those females of the Dii Consentes, and then I’ll finish off with a discussion of the Great Mother (the Magna Mater, or the Megala Meter), known in Rome as Cybele from about 205 onward. Before carrying on with the main goddesses of the Roman pantheon, I want to discuss a couple of goddesses who were quite important throughout the Roman world (at least they were important enough to have their own minor flamines). You’ll find that these goddesses don’t really have analogues in the Greek world, so they’re generally never discussed in these kinds of summary presentations. These goddesses are (from among many others I won’t go over) Carmenta, Flora, Furrina, Palatua, and Pomona. I won’t get into terribly much detail about them, but I’ll sketch out a quick profile for you here: Carmenta was a goddess of childbirth and prophecy – her name was derived from the Latin word “carmen” which means song, but with this subtle implication of a magical chant. She stood vigilant watch over mothers, children, and midwives. She was also said to have invented the Latin alphabet, what with all its magical connotations and abilities. It should go without saying with an audience like you guys that words have magical properties, they change the world around you – so it’s no surprise that all these concepts (words, songs, spells, protection) are all wrapped up into this one goddess. Next up we have Flora, who was a Latin response to the Sabine goddess of flowers and springtime. Now, Flora was just one from among several fertility goddesses in Rome, but Flora specifically was goddess of youth – I suppose it’s part of a lot of cultures, but there’s a lot of language in Latin which connects youth and plant-life, and this goddess is an embodiment of those ideas. Now we have Pomona, a wood nymph – whose name was derived from the word “pomum” (fruit). This particular goddess governed the concept of fruitful abundance. She was not so much the goddess of harvesting fruit as much as she was the goddess of growth itself. Pomona, like Flora, had her own lesser flamen and shrine at Rome. Next we have Furrina, who was a very obscure and ancient Roman goddess. Her cult dated to the earliest period of Roman history, being one of the fifteen gods who had their own flamen, but what she was all about is speculative. There is some evidence that Furrina was associated with spring water, and there’s been some attempts to linguistically link her name to the Indo-European root *bhr-u-n, Skr. bhurvan, which means the moving or bubbling of water, making it a cognate to Gothic word brunna, “spring,” or the Latin fervēre, from *fruur > furr by metathesis of the vowel, meaning to bubble or boil. This was the speculation of George Dumezil, who’s a rather old (and sometimes far-fetched) source, but I think in this case we may be able to trust his judgement. Lastly, before moving on, we’ve got Palatua, who was basically the goddess of the Palatine Hill. As was mentioned in previous lectures, it was not unusual for landmarks like hills and springs to each have their own residing gods – Palatua was one such goddess who found herself swept up into a place of great importance by virtue of the Palatine Hill’s importance geographically speaking. Aside from this nugget of information, there’s little else to say about her. Her cult, like those of Falacer or Volturnus (who I didn’t mention last lecture), dwindled in importance during the late republican period, and by the beginning of the Imperial era there were few, if any, followers aside from the flamen. So what we can see thus far emerging as a pattern is that the goddesses are all chiefly associated with sustenance – with the life-giving and life-maintaining forces. We’ll find that by and large, the Olympian goddesses were also largely (though not entirely) devoted to these concepts. The first of the Olympians I want to discuss who embodied these ideals first and foremost is Ceres – the goddess of grain, harvests, fertility and motherhood. In Greek she was known as Demeter, which literally just means “Mother Goddess.” Ceres was one of the many aspects of the Goddess, celebrated from time immemorial in Africa, on in through the Middle-East and into Old Europe. You could say Ceres was a highly tamed and civilized version of one of her parallel developments, Cybele. She was the Mother of Proserpina, who is the Latin equivalent to Persephone/Kore, the central character to the Alice-in-Wonderland-like katabasis myth which lay the heart of the Eleusinian mysteries. Ceres' name derives from the reconstructed Proto-Indo-European word *ḱerh₃-, which means "to satiate, or to feed." This is also the root for Latin crescere "to grow" or the English “create” and “increase.” Now we know this through Indo-European linguistics scholarship, which obviously the Romans had no conception of. Roman etymologists themselves believed Ceres to have come from the Latin verb gerere, "to bear, bring forth, produce", because of her agricultural and maternal dimensions. Ceres goes way back into the archaic period, as she was also worshipped by the Latins, the Oscans and Sabines (though less surely among the Umbrians and the Etruscans). Ceres was credited with the discovery of spelt wheat (Latin far – like the French word farine for flour); she was responsible for the gift of agriculture to humankind, and behind the idea for yoking oxen and ploughing fields – goddesses and cattle have a relation which goes way back to even pre-agricultural times. Before this gift of agriculture, the Romans believed, man had survived on acorns and wandered the world in a lawless wretched state. The undertaking of agriculture issued in that golden age of Saturn, which was of course but a stepping stone to Rome’s glory. Virgil gave her the epithet “legifera” (Law-bearing), a direct translation of Demeter's Greek epithet, thesmophoros. Now, all these associations with the agricultural dimensions of Roman life meant that Ceres was more concerned with the common farmer than with the elite aristocrat. That being said, Ceres was the patron and protectrix of plebeian laws, plebeian rights, and the goddess of their representatives to the senate, the plebeian Tribunes and aediles. These guys were instituted so the consuls couldn’t arbitrarily tamper with the laws of Rome. These positions were sacrosanct and inviolable – they were immune to threat or arrest, and whoever violated such protection had their property forfeit to Ceres. Ceres' temple, games, and cult were at least in part funded by fines imposed on those who offended such laws. Her Aventine Temple served as cult centre for the plebeian class specifically: not unlike the Metroon in Athens, it was a legal archive, a treasury, and possibly even law-court; this place may even have served as an asylum for those threatened with arbitrary arrest by patrician magistrates – temples were after all go-to places for asylum, and there’s no lack of legends about people being cursed by gods for attacking their devotees after they’d thrown themselves upon their altars for protection. Now since law-bearing Ceres created the first field and established its boundaries, she was the one who determined the course of lawful, sedentary, agricultural life. Crimes against someone’s fields were crimes against Ceres. Whoever let their flocks to graze on lands which weren’t theirs were fined “in the name of Ceres and the people of Rome” by the plebeian aediles. There were ancient laws from the Twelve Tables forbidding people from magically charming the crops of one’s neighbour into one's own fields; and even the death penalty was involved for people found guilty tampering with field boundaries. Any adult caught damaging or stealing crops was “to be hanged to Ceres.” Towards the end of the Second Punic War, around 205 BC, an officially recognised cult of Ceres and Proserpina was brought to Rome from southern Italy along with its Greek priestesses. In Rome, they maintained the ritus graecus Cereris and its priestesses were granted Roman citizenship so their prayers might not become a conflict of interest. The cult was based on the ancient, ethnically Greek cult of Demeter, most notably with regards to the wymyn’s only festival, the Thesmophoria. A year after they brought in the Ritus Cereris, patrician senators sent for cult of the Greco-Phrygian goddess Cybele to be brought to Rome and established as the Magna Mater. Like Ceres, Cybele was a manifestation of that pan-Mediterranean “earth goddess” motif, but Cybele in particular, with her ties to Mount Ida in Phrygia, had mythological ties to Troy, and thus to Aeneas, the mythological ancestor of Rome’s founding father. I’ll get back to the cult of Cybele at Rome at the end of the lecture. Now the last thing I want to say before I move on is that throughout the Republican period (and beyond), the Mystery Rites of Eleusis continued in Greece. Any Greek-speaking Italian could travel to Athens and undergo the initiation process, and many did. While Romans went through initiation at Eleusis and returned, it was the Roman Ceres they envisioned as the chief figure of this mystery drama – so when they came back to Italy after having been initiated, they brought back all that mystical baggage from Demeter and the mystery tradition at Eleusis, then inevitably tacked it onto the profile of Ceres. This was but another way the two respective goddess traditions were syncretized. In Book 4 of Virgil’s Aeneid, he glosses over the Demeter-Persephone-Hades story, but with the Latin equivalents standing in their place: “When Ceres sought through all the earth with lit torches for Proserpina, who had been seized by Dis Pater, she called her with shouts where three or four roads meet” – by this point in history we can safely say that all these figures Demeter/Ceres, Persephone/Proserpina, Hades/Dis Pater have already become indistinguishable one from another. OK moving on – next we’ve got the Queen of the Gods, Juno (Latin: Iūno, Etruscan: Uni, Greek: Hera). Since the time she’d been conjured out of Veii and brought to Rome through an evocation ritual, Juno was the mother-protector of the state. Before this, in Rome, she had the names Lucina, Mater, and Regina. Some think she was also known as Curitis before the evocatio of the Juno of Falerii, and that could be true. Together with Jupiter and Minerva, Juno Capitolina was worshipped as part of a sacred triad on the Capitoline Hill in Rome. According to mythology, she was a daughter of Saturn and both the sister and wife of Jupiter. Naturally, Juno had a particular place in the hearts of women in Rome. She was often depicted as a matronly woman sitting with a peacock, which was her sacred animal. The name “Juno” is believed to be connected to the Latin word iuvenis, or same word in English "youth", through a syncopated form iūn- (as in iūnior, "younger"). Juno was a goddess of marriage, and the idea that women were “the younger” in a relationship in ancient Rome should go without saying. Typically men married when they were in their late 30s or early 40s, and they’d generally marry girls who’d just begun menstruating – which in the relatively lutein-deprived environment of the ancient world, was around 14-16 years old. So this is probably what her name is all about: youth. Juno's theology is highly complex, even more so than the theology of most other goddesses in Rome. Juno had many epithets, names, and titles representing all her various facets. Virtually every step of womanhood had her own distinct Iuno – and these got real specific: one for example was Iuno Cinxia ("she who looses the bride's girdle"). One of her aspects was Iuno Moneta, and this is where we get our word Money, because her particular temple was used as Rome’s official mint and treasury. Iuno Moneta was a kind of military aspect of Iuno. As much as she was a youthful queen, she was also legendarily jealous and quick to wrath; Most of the Aeneid is based on Juno trying to thwart the Aeneas’ fleet as they flee from Troy, and all the shenanigans that she causes for them. From among all the cults of all the Italic Junos, there’s a distinct triad of concepts which are attributed to her: regality, military protection, and fertility – so, what do these three things have in common? Life – exuberant life. Now there’s really an overwhelming amount of things to say about Juno and all her various aspects… but something tells me this would get really dry – so I’m going to move on and if any of these details become relevant as we go forth, I can come back to them. Next up, we have Minerva, the second female of the Capitoline triad. Of all the goddesses of Rome, Minerva was the most masculine. Just like her Greek counterpart Athena, Minerva was a goddess of wisdom, warfare, and craft (from poetry to weaving). I actually think it’s fair to say that Minerva was really “a man’s woman.” She was always depicted as strong, young, and beautiful – but as the myth goes, she was born out of the head of Zeus, fully armed for battle. She is completely divorced from the maternal or the erotic principles that are characteristic of many other Roman goddesses – hence why she has to come straight from the mind of Zeus, the Father principle. The myth more specifically goes like this: After impregnating the titan Metis (whose name means Wisdom or Skill), Jupiter recalled a prophecy given to him long, long ago that he would one day be overthrown by his child (thus perpetuating the succession of the gods). Now, being afraid that their child would be the one to overturn the order of Heaven, Jupiter swallowed Metis whole (which seems to be a thing supreme gods like to do). Now, being immortal, Metis spent her days forging weapons and armour for her child while she waited to give birth inside the father-god. All this hustle and bustle inside of him left old Jove with a big headache, and so to relieve the pain, he ordered Vulcan to use a hammer and smash his head open. Vulcan did what he was told, and from the crater he produced in Jove’s head, Minerva emerged, fully equipped for war. This is how she’s always depicted – armed for battle, typically accompanied by an owl, who symbolizes wisdom. Now if Minerva and Diana seem to have a similar feel to you – what with their militant virginities, then it’s probably because of this: the name Minerva has its roots in an Italic moon goddess named *Meneswā ('She who measures' – in accordance with the calendrical tradition), and the Etruscans adopted the inherited Old Latin name, *Menerwā – so it is possible that they stem from a similar tradition. The Etruscan Menrva was part of a holy triad with Tinia and Uni, mirroring the Roman Capitoline Triad of Jupiter-Juno-Minerva. Next up we have Venus, who actually had a rather more tenuous place in Roman society than she did in Greek society. In Greek conception, Venus (who represents erotic love), was always having sex, but never having children… this was not her thing. In the Roman conception, however, she was basically the mother of the state – she was the mother of Aeneas. So in one facet she maintained the typical image of a young seductress embodying eroticism, born out of the froth of Saturn’s castration, and in another facet she had a matronly character, which you can see expressed rather disproportionately in Virgil’s Aeneid. The Mother of the State had to have some Pudicitia – some simultaneous sense of shame and dignity. We’re almost certain Virgil was a homosexual and I really like to speculate whether this fact somehow had an impact on his conception of the feminine erotic principle in his poetry. In any case, Venus was officially married to Vulcan, who was then eternally cucked by Mars (who was also the father of the state, by fathering Rome’s mythical founders Romulus and Remus). Rome could, therefore, be thought of as the union of Venus and Mars. Julius Caesar claimed Venus as his genetrix – the ancestress of his line. Her name was derived from the Latin word for sexual desire, venus, and that in turn probably came from the Proto-Indo-European root *wen- "to strive for, wish for, desire, love"). Venus has been described as "an ill-defined and assimilative" native goddess, combined "with a strange and exotic Aphrodite." In the sky she was embodied by that bright orange ball the Greeks called phosphoros, and the Latins called Lucifer. In astrology and western ritual magic, this planet would maintain all the elements of Venus the goddess – they were synonymous. The first temple to Venus we’re aware of was promised to Venus Obsequens ("Indulgent Venus") during the heat of combat against the Samnites. In good faith, it was dedicated in 295 BC, at a spot near the Aventine Hill. This temple was allegedly to be funded by fines imposed on local women for sexual misconduct. Its rites were likely based on the Greek Aphrodite cults, which by this point had already spread in various forms throughout the wider Greek world, including Italy. By 217 BC, during the early phases of the Second Punic War against Carthage (which we’ll try to cover at some point soon), Rome suffered a national disaster at the battle of Lake Trasimene. As was traditional during states of national emergency, the books of the Sibylline oracle were consulted, and these suggested that if Venus Erycina, the patron goddess of Carthage’s allies on Sicily, could be evoked out of her city of Eryx and made to come to Rome, Carthage might be defeated. Thus began the great game of spiritual-mimetic capture the flag. Rome sieged Eryx, offered its goddess a great temple, then literally captured her idol and brought it to Rome, where it was enshrined in a temple on the Capitoline Hill as one of Rome's twelve chief Olympians, the Dii consentes. Here she was stripped of her overtly Carthaginian characteristics, her Tanit or Astarte-flavour, and this so-called "foreign Venus" became Rome’s Venus Genetrix ("Venus the Mother", which I just discussed). The way the Romans spun it for themselves, this was the homecoming of an ancestral near eastern, therefore Trojan, goddess to her people. Rome's defeat of Carthage would only strengthen the idea that this Venus preferred being in Rome, not amongst filthy Carthaginian sympathizers. Now’s a good time to move on to Vesta, who was basically the opposite of Venus. Vesta (or as the Latins pronounced her name: Westa – analogous to the Greek Hestia – was a goddess of sacred space; she was the maiden goddess of the hearth, the home, and the family – now, how she can be a goddess of the family and a virgin is beyond me, but the Romans took this virginity thing very seriously. Chastity was conceived as the raw unspent potential to give birth, on account of some ill-defined concentration of life force – this in turn, through ritual, was transferred into flocks and fields: it was not unlike the idea of storing up sexual energy in Kundalini Yoga. Now a physical manifestation of this ‘life force’ was fire. Vesta's presence was symbolized by a sacred fire that was never, ever supposed to go out, and this burned eternally at her hearth as a symbol for the vitality of the state - this fire burned strong until 391 AD, when pagan worship was outlawed in Rome by the Christian Emperor Theodosius I. Her’s was the only round temple in Rome, and all forms of water were forbidden from being brought in. Now this fire, along with a number of other rites, was maintained by the Vestal Virgins, a cult of women who maintained chastity upon penalty of death by being walled in, while they served at Vesta’s hearth. This was literally Rome’s only indigenous fulltime priesthood – they were like pagan nuns who served 30 year terms, and their abbot was the Pontifex Maximus. Some scholars have liked to see a good deal of commonalities between the cult of Vesta and the sacred fire cults of Persia and India, with whose traditions the Vestals may share a common ancestor. Now here’s an interesting factoid about the Vestals: When you became a consul, you were assigned a group of elite bodyguards called Lictors. These guys’ job was, chiefly, to protect the two consults, and a large part of that meant clearing the streets as he walked around the city. They carried fasces (whence come the English words Fascist and Faggot) – these were not lethal weapons made up from bundles of sticks, into which they could insert axe heads –these they used to threaten people to get out of the way to make the consuls life much safer and easier. Now the only people in Rome who were exempt from getting beat if they didn’t move, were the Vestal Virgins. Now I don’t know what more to say about this factoid, but I think it’s interesting to say the least. But I digress… Alright, next we have Diana, the huntress, the actual Moon goddess of the Roman pantheon. She was equated with the Greek Artemis, and was therefore sister of Apollo as well. She was a kind of virginal nature god with an aspect toward child birth – it was said that a woman who died in childbirth was struck by the arrows of Diana. Diana was one of three virgin goddesses, alongside Vesta and Minerva. There’s a great myth which is rather well known of a hunter named Actaeon who happened to stumble upon the sight of Diana bathing, and as a result, he was torn apart by her hunting dogs – wrong place, wrong time, I guess – but this obviously gives us a sense of Diana’s unassailable chastity and inaccessibility. This is why she is always ever so far away, elusive, prowling atop high mountains and guarding sacred groves. Her name was related to the same word whence came the Greek word Zeus or the Latin words Deus and Iupiter), and that’s the Indo European *d(e)y(e)w – which has a connotation of bright shining, so presumably Diana is the Bright Shining goddess… that is the Moon. Since time immemorial, the Moon has been associated in Indo-European consciousness as the manifestation of the female principle – this would survive well into modern pop culture on through astrology and ritual magic. The moon governed the Month, she was a predictable cyclical entity, and therefore was closely tied by analogy with the monthly cycle of a woman’s menstruation, with the cycle of the tides, and with agricultural cycles. Now, I should mention here that the link here between women’s menstrual cycles and the Moon is coincidental and not causal – if it were causal, everyone would menstruate at the same time – it’s more that the rhythms appear to us to line up, like when two independent windshield wipers on a bus match their rhythm, or like when the beat of an Indian gamelan piece matches up before staggering again. If we look at the Olympian goddesses from a purely statistical point of view, we’ll see we have 3 dedicated to chastity, 1 dedicated to eroticism, and 3 dedicated to fertility, motherhood, and domesticity. This, at the very least, should show us that in the realm of ideals, there was a lot of anxiety about women’s sexuality – which was a sublimated form of anxiety about the paternity of children. Obviously chastity is not a factor worthy of reverence for male divinities – they just transformed into animals raped and took whatever they wanted – but for a goddess like Diana – her maidenhood was practically the essence of her being. Here I want to touch on this idea of “triplex goddesses” (of which there were many, but Hekate is probably the most well-known of these three-fold figures). I believe this whole three-fold thing is a hold-over from a much older time, before the Goddess motif was brought in from the East millennia ago and had become so fractured into individual figures along the lines of her three aspects “maiden, mother, and crone” – so if we have to imagine some sort of proto-goddess figure, she’d be like a 2-dimentional triangular jewel, with these three stages of womanhood as her facets. Overtime, these got broken down through local variability into totally distinct gods: so, for example, the Maiden aspect became a Vesta, a Diana, or a Minerva, while the Matron aspect became a Juno, or a Ceres, and so forth. The Romans intuited the shared origins of many gods, and they demonstrated this by the way they applied syncretism. So here’s an example, Catullus wrote a poem to Diana in which she is called by a number of names: Latonia, Lucina, Trivia, Luna, and most importantly to my point, Iuno (Juno – the wife of Zeus). How can Diana be the maiden goddess and the mother goddess? Well, it all goes back to this idea of the threefold goddess. It was almost like there was a kind of “indras web” of goddesses, where each node was like a multifaceted jewel which reflected aspects of each other goddess – that whole web, to be extremely reductionistic, we can call “The Goddess” – this is an impression, or an archetype. One Goddess, who, at least to the Romans symbolized this impression or archetype, the reconciler of all Goddesses, was the Mother of All the Gods, the Magna Mater. This was a Hellenized Mountain/Earth goddess imported from Phrygia (in modern day Turkey) which they called Ky-by-le (or Cybele in English). Both the Greeks and the Romans acknowledged the profound antiquity of she whom they understood to be ‘the Phrygian Mother.’ Now the chief figure in the Phrygian pantheon had been Ματαρ, the Mother, and from the 6th century onward, Greek religion had adopted this foreign goddess as Μήτηρ (alongside of, not instead of Demeter). She was often depicted in the presence of wild lions, birds and snakes, and was thus the mistress of savage nature, celestial flight and chthonic descent. In Phrygia she was venerated at door-shaped niches set with reliefs or freestanding images hewn from rocky mountainsides. Greek-speaking lands syncretized her with Ge, Gaia, Demeter, and particularly with Rhea, the mother of Zeus, who birthed the Sky Father in a cave on Crete. In the Latin world, she was identified with Ceres, Juno, Ops, and a whole number of other goddesses (including even Isis once Rome took Egypt, as we see in Apuleius’ Metamorphosis). Now the most ancient and unambiguous discoveries of the lion-flanked Goddess were those made at Çatal Hüyük in south-central Anatolia. This Early Neolithic town of hunter-gatherers had religious sanctuaries and community commons which may well have served for orgiastic ritual purposes; these rooms contained symbolic wall paintings, ancillary burials, ritualistic cattle-head trophies, and, most strikingly, wall reliefs of a single great goddess her with arms uplifted and legs spread open. Other excavated finds included female statuettes companied by a youthful consort, and the most famous female figure emerging from the site: a woman enthroned and giving birth flanked by lions. The level of continuity between the Great Mother of the historical period and the one depicted at Çatal Hüyük is remarkable: here we have clear proof of religious iconographical continuity between the Goddess of the Phrygians and the Anatolian Mother of Çatal Hüyük lasting well over 5,000 years. Now I’m not implying that there were any cults from classical Greece or Rome that ever practiced some wholly preserved and perfected ‘Neolithic’ cult, but the relative consistency of the goddesses and their rites throughout the whole Mediterranean basin seems to suggest that they all stem from a common ancestor (who probably came from the Near East, and who probably came from Africa before that). The parallels between the goddess of Çatal Hüyük and the Greco-Phrygian mother merely buttress the Greeks’ and the Romans’ idea that this goddess was older than all of their own gods. Over millennia, this rather consistent depiction of a Mother Goddess broke down into a wide range of local earth goddess variants, but she always maintained some degree of consistency. The widespread use of the name ‘Cybele/Kybebe’ as a blanket designation for many indigenous Anatolian mother goddesses occurred only in the West, on account of one particular variant goddess from the temple state of Pessinus having been imported by Rome in 205BC. There was a Trojan connection there which the Romans really got off on. Had some other local goddess variant been brought to Rome instead, it’s likely the name ‘Cybele’ would have never been raised to such heights as to become the mother of all the gods. The goddess Kubaba, from whom Cybele took her name, was merely a minor deity in the Hittite pantheon. There once existed dozens, even hundreds, of local Hittite goddesses in Anatolia of which we now know little more than their names and titles. We know of Inar(a), a Hattic goddess of wildlife not unlike the Greek Artemis; Halmasuit, worshipped as the deified throne (like Isis in Egypt); Kamrusepa, a goddess of magic and birth-rituals; and Kubaba who, over time, appears to have assimilated the functions of all of these goddesses. From at least the Old Babylonian period Kubaba had first been the city goddess of Carchemish. She was adopted into the Hittite pantheon when King Suppiluliuma I conquered and took over her city. After the fall of Hattusa, in the neo-Hittite period, Kubaba achieved high standing in northern Syria and south-eastern Anatolia corresponding with the increasingly important role of Carchemish. In the course of the early first millennium BC, Kubaba’s influence became widespread in Anatolia and was syncretized into the pantheon of the newly arrived Phrygians. From at least the 7th century BC and onward, the worship of the Phrygian Mother was spread abroad into Greece and its colonies by means of itinerant specialists. These played a key role in increasing number of votive monuments dedicated to the Mother Goddess throughout Magna Graecia, from Anatolia to southern Italy. There are some testimonies about these kinds of holy men, the Μητραγύρται or ‘beggars of the Mother’ who made a living by establishing her rites abroad. Aristotle mentions the Μητραγύρται as a pejorative equivalent to an Eleusinian priest, and one of his own disciples wrote how a destitute tyrant ended his life begging with his tambourine as a Μητραγύρτη. The myths of Zalmoxis, Orpheus, and even Zagreus/Dionysus themselves can be said to contain elements of these proselytizing types. These individuals were fundamentally ‘shamanic’ figures – they were ecstatics who imported foreign deities and stretched out the influence of foreign gods out well beyond the Anatolian mainland. Now, hallucination, madness, trance, dreams, and the sense of utter psychological abandon were in the jurisdiction of Μήτηρ (among many other things). Private sponsorship of Μήτηρ was widespread among the Greeks, and this was often prompted by dreams or visions. Pindar was said to have established a shrine dedicated to Μήτηρ in Thebes after he had a vision of the goddess’ statue walking around. Her cult was brought into Magnesia by Themistocles he’d been warned in a dream by the goddess of an assassination attempt. When struck with a wasting sickness and refusal to eat or sleep, the chorus of Troezenian women wonder if ‘the mountain mother,’the ματρὸς ὀρείας, had possessed Phaedra. Even the unwilling were disposed to becoming μητρόληπτος or one “seized by the Mother” – this was the Greek word for epilepsy, the so-called ‘sacred disease’ among the Latins. Out-of-body experiences, whether induced by drugs or by severe psychological perturbations are potentially very terrifying and life changing experiences; so in the ancient world, these kinds of episodes of temporary psychosis were associated with a divine origin. A Hippocratic treatise on epilepsy tells us that “if a patient roars or suffers convulsions on the right side, [the physicians] say the mother of the gods is to blame.” Now – along with Cybele came Cybele’s cult of eunuch priest(esses?), the galli. These individuals were very upsetting to Roman sensibilities, much it the same way many trans people are upsetting to contemporary conservative tendencies. They had crazy festivals with loud music which everyone in Rome perceived as irritating, they castrated themselves in public and threw their junk into people’s front doors, they slashed their arms and sprayed pine trees with their blood, they kept their hair long and oiled and often seduced men, they wore perfume and women’s clothes, and danced in the streets – they were alarming to people! Rome got so upset at the presence of Cybele’s priesthood (which, let’s not forget, they wanted there) that they banned anyone with Roman citizenship from self-castration, essentially cutting off Romans from joining the ranks of the galli. The Romans imposed a superstructure over the foreign cult, and they were subject to the decisions of the Quindecemviri. Despite this fact, it appears there was little difficulty in recruiting galli from outside the Roman world, since it was a somewhat profitable way of life which provided opportunities for social advancement for men who could not have had acquired it outside such a priesthood. Among those rooted deeply in the civic or familial life, self-dedication to the Goddess was no easy task. Something truly deep and insightful must have provoked the desire to relinquish one’s past life. In the myths associated with the mystery cults, ecstatic gods were often defined by their androgynous nature which had issued from a cosmic act of abscission. The mystery gods like Zagreus-Dionysus, Attis, and Osiris had themselves each suffered genital mutilation and death before returning to triumph over the grave. According to the 2nd century AD Naassene Gnostics, the dismemberment of Attis meant that he was abscised from the low earthly regions of creation and carried up to the eternal essence where he is neither female nor male but a new being, who is androgynous. The Great Mother’s consort Attis had castrated himself at the instigation of the Mother alone, establishing a ritual practice of self-castration. Castration and dependence on a sanctuary made apostasy impossible for the remainder of the eunuch’s life. Through this deed her devotees became both sons and, like Attis, lovers of Cybele. This practice was done in a state of trance, enthusiasm, in the frame of a ritual where the ‘candidate,’ encouraged by the other participants, was under the influence of flute music, suffumigations, and intoxication. By performing Attis’ fatal act, these priests identified themselves with Cybele’s beloved and took on the god’s name, as did the votaries of Dionysus who took the title of ‘Bakchos’ upon initiation. This dilemma is the theme which inspired the composition of Catullus 63, wherein Attis, following his castration, cries out: Am I now driven to be a servant of gods and Cybele's slave? Am I to be a maenad, am I to play that part, to be a sterile man? Am I to live in the cold, snow-coated place of green Ida? Am I to spend my life under the high mountain tops of Phrygia, where the hind is a forest dweller, where the boar is a wood rover? What I've done distresses me now, now I'm sorry. Catullus brings to life the ambivalence in an initiates’ mind concerning his decisions to offer himself to the Goddess’ service. Most importantly, he explicitly highlights the parallel between the eunuch of Cybele and the Dionysian maenad. The roman poet plays with the emotions of one now stranded on the other side of his own bloody deed, stuck with the assurance of a future life dedicated to the feminine, the ecstatic, and the other. Alright, well there’s oodles more to mention about Cybele, but I think I’ll leave it at that for now. If you’re really interested you can read my book “Shamanism and the Mysteries”. I think that about does it for today for the main portion of the talk…   So before finishing up for the day I’d like to shift gears a bit away from history and toward a contemporary issue which I see becoming more and more problematic. Given that this episode is exclusively dedicated to the feminine principles of Rome, I figured I’d mention it here. The problem I want to address here is the issue over the word quote-unquote “mansplaining” – a nebulous concept for which there are countless strong opinions but whose definition few can agree on. Now before everyone goes nuts over the port-manteaux, whether you’re for or against it, hear me out. As a person who’s looking to make a career of explaining things, and someone who also loves the tradition of learning things and then passing the knowledge on to other people – but who also happens to be a man – this term is worrisome to me. But I want to say from the outset that I don’t want to throw this baby out with the bathwater, and I think my position on this is reasonable. This is what this whole Hermeticism thing means to me – it’s about having your cake and eating it too by finding middle ground between extreme polarities. Now the other week I saw the admittedly great Roman historian Mary Beard write a little article outlining a little word-melee she’d had with UKIP billionaire Arron Banks. Some argument had flown, none of which – regardless of validity – were fit for the 140 character limit of Twitter. Now, I’m going to go ahead and say she was totally right in the points she was making against his, and he was totally off the mark… but the problem I had arose when, the next day, I read this article outlining HER perspective on the situation. In it, she described what had gone down and decried what Banks had done as act of “mansplaining” Roman history to her. Now what had happened was that he explained that the way *he* had learned things about the fall of the Roman Empire by parroting some really simplistic model he’d learned in school, and that view is that Rome’s “collapse” had come about by letting in too many migrants in. Now, I have literally no idea what Banks’ penis had to do with his opinions, and I’m not sure how much nuance you can tease out of a few brief Tweets, but let’s unpack this. Back to this word… mansplaining… Instead of totally denying people’s use of it, what I want people to do is to really think about this word before they use it, and apply it only within the narrow confines of its use. As far as I can tell, the general 3rd Wave Feminist view of mansplaining is when someone is explaining something (anything really) while being guilty of having a penis – there’s also “whitesplaining” and “ablesplaining” – so if you are an able bodied white male, you basically have no right to speak without being told to CHECK YER PRIV SHITLORD. If someone doesn’t like your tone? Ah, there it goes! Out come the Ad Hominem arguments, and the debate breaks down. Now, what Mary Beard very well COULD have done is taken a moment to write a reasonable article explaining why concepts like “Rome Fell” is a figure of speech and not a reality (we need to speak of change and transformation, not decline) – but she didn’t. Instead she attacked the person arguing against her… which she knows (all too well) is a fallacy! And then she went on to conclude with something along the lines of “sometimes experts know things” – and while I definitely don’t disagree with the sentiment, or that she certainly knows infinitely more than Banks on the subject, she should also know that this is an Argumentum Ad Auctoritatem (that is, to her own authority and the authority of the people in her club)… and she should be held accountable for this! It is extremely dangerous to prop up authorities, regardless of how much experience they have, since it inevitably stifles conversation once each side of an argument has propped up its own authority with the capability of dismissing the other. I know she knows this, so what the hell? Now… if I’m not going to totally reject this neologism, what am I going to say about it…. Well, I’ll say this much: “Mansplaining” as a concept, whether or not you like the word, does have a useful application, but that application has its limits: mansplaining arises specifically when a man is explaining a particular woman’s lived experience to that particular woman! It’s him telling her how it was for her. A man talking about history, even if he’s wrong, is not “mansplaining” – whereas a man talking about the pain of childbirth to a mother of four IS. If Arron Banks comes out and makes a fool of himself for making epistemological cartoons about Ancient Rome, that has literally nothing to do with a) the fact that he has a penis, or b) the lived experience of Mary Beard… Mansplaining is totally irrelevant here, regardless of how two-dimensional his views are. If Mary Beard were talking about her own personal feelings – the pain in her life, the hardships and struggles she had to go through EXCLUSIVELY ON ACCOUNT OF HER WOMANHOOD – and then some guy comes along and tries to make light of it when he has no idea what he’s talking about… THAT’S MANSPLAINING. It’s explaining to a woman how she feels about HER human condition AS a woman. That’s it. And you know what? That sin is universal – it has nothing to do with sex or gender – it’s called presumption, and every single person on this planet, regardless of any differentiating factor, is capable of falling into the idea that we all think and experience the world in the same way. Compassion begins with knowing that you CANNOT KNOW what other people go through – not pretending that you know, which is nothing more than bullshit virtue signalling used to bootstrap yourself into power. And now I want to take this a little further, because this is where we have to go with this argument – I should state here that what I say from here on out has nothing to do with the Mary Beard/Arron Banks debacle. This is a series about history, and so I’m going to keep it relevant to the discipline. Within academia, there’s a concept which has emerged from post-modern “standpoint theory” which has been pushed by Gender Studies departments into all the other Humanities, and that’s the idea that somehow – the marginalized are more “aware,” and therefore all “research should begin from the lives of the marginalized.” So, from this comes the idea that through a woman’s contemporary “lived experience” – she has more insight to speculate on matters pertaining to the “lived experience” of women in the past than men do. Well, my take on that idea is this: BULLSHIT. Now it’s a given that a woman is more likely to be mindful of the dangers of childbirth, violence, or other issues that may be in a man’s blindspot, but this does not automatically invalidate his arguments or give more authority to hers – rather, it provides a different model for analyzing a society – it’s a different piece of the puzzle. Indeed, it’s the great achievement of these departments to have brought this awareness to academia that didn’t exist in the older gender stratified institutions. But ultimately, your sex organ or your gender identity gives you as much insight into the minds of 3rd century BC women as mine gives me insight into (or legitimate empathy for) the horrors of being a male slave shackled up in silver mines: ZERO, ZILCH, NIL. “Lived experience” has become a sort of legitimizing interdisciplinary buzzword which does away with material evidence and statistics in favour of “muh feelings.” The definition I have for “lived experience” here is from the Geek Feminism wiki, and according to that it is “the first-hand accounts and impressions of living as a member of a minority or an oppressed group. So, in other words, they’ve literally victimized the very concept of “lived experience”. Oppressed people’s experiences are revelatory, whereas those of non-oppressed people aren’t. This claim is baseless – it’s a theory conjured up in the collective imagination – and the opposite is just as baseless: that the oppressed have, by virtue of being oppressed, a skewed and therefore less valid “lived experience”. Now, if you know anything about me, you know I’m all about the primacy of first-hand experience – but when it’s twisted like this, according to standpoint theory, I start to cringe. Reality is made up of ALL our concomitant “lived experiences” from a gnat’s to an Oil Company CEO’s. I should mention there’s a sort of self-destructive paradox to the very idea of scholarship about “lived experience” – since, if you’re talking about it, and it’s not your own “lived experience,” you’re probably just a good story teller. There is no way at all to deliver said “lived experience” by using mouth-noises scribbled onto paper, so what could you possibly have to say about it? Furthermore, if you are talking about your own “lived experience”, but you’re also the type of person who perceives aggression everywhere, then there’s no way of falsifying your claims – the world is however you imagine it, you’ll just take your a priori assumptions and work your way backwards like everybody else does. Alright, well even if were talking about the regular every-day conception of lived experience, we have to account for the fact that apart from a number of biological realities (most of which have been softened by developments in law, science, and technology), a western woman in the 21st century has no more understanding of what it meant to be a Roman woman 2,000 years ago, than a man does. Indeed, the average western woman now enjoys far more privilege and security than the average male under the thumb of Rome ever did, regardless of the inequalities that still exist. So ultimately, both men’s and women’s speculations need to be backed up with hard evidence equally – because if neuroscience has any light to shed on this, human intuition is notoriously WRONG – “anecdote” is not the singular form of “data.” I’m definitely not saying things in the here and now are perfect, but the perceived oppression, whether real or imaginary, which people face in 21st century so-called “Western” nations is incomparable to the barbarousness humans have inflicted on one another in the past… luckily for them, none of them are alive to be “splained” to about their plight. So please, if you’re listening to this and you’re the type of person who actually uses words like “mansplaining” (or any kind of -splaining for that matter) – cut it out, unless it’s highly relevant to the situation. The last thing we all want to do is create an environment for one another where we become so afraid to speak about anything that we say nothing, purely out of fear of being shouted down by sloganeering ideologues (or worse). Academia has often discarded words that became too loaded down with additional baggage due to their general use: perhaps mansplaining should be the next victim of its own popularity. Alright there’s my two cents on the issue – you’ve been listening to Encyclopedia Hermetica: A Big History, and I’m Dan Attrell



The Aventine relationship between Ceres, Liber and Libera was probably based first on their functions as agricultural and fertility deities of the plebs as a distinct social group. Liber had been companion to both Ceres and to Libera in separate and disparate fertility cults that were widespread throughout the Hellenised Italian peninsula, long before their official adoption by Rome – or rather, their partial assimilation, as Ceres' own cult appears to have been considered more tractable and obedient than Liber's. Their Aventine cults, reported in later Roman sources as distinctively Greek in character, may have been further reinforced and influenced by their perceived similarities to particular Greek deities: Ceres to Demeter, Liber to Dionysus (Roman Bacchus) and Libera to either Persephone (Roman Proserpina)[1] or Ariadne.[2] In keeping with Roman theology, the internal and external equivalence of the Aventine Triad remained speculative, broad and flexible. Long after its establishment, Cicero rejects the equivalence of Liber and Dionysus and asserts that Ceres is mother to Liber and Libera.[3][4]


The Aventine Triad was established soon after the overthrow of the Roman monarchy and establishment of the Republic.[5] Rome's majority of citizen commoners (plebs) were ruled by the patricians, a small number of powerful, landed aristocrats who asserted a traditional, exclusive right to Rome's highest religious, political and military offices. The plebs not only served in Rome's legions: they were the backbone of its economy – smallholders, labourers, skilled specialists, managers of landed estates, vintners, importers and exporters of grain and wine. Against a background of famine in Rome, an imminent war against the Latins and a threatened plebeian secession, the dictator A. Postumius vowed a temple to the patron deities of the plebs, Ceres, Liber and Libera on or near the Aventine Hill. The famine ended and Rome's plebeian citizen-soldiery co-operated in the conquest of the Latins. In 493 BC, a new built temple on or near the Aventine hill was dedicated to the Triad and Rome's first recorded ludi scaenici (religious dramas) were held in honour of Liber, for the benefit of the Roman people. Liber's festival, the Liberalia, may date from this time.[6]

Patrician dominance was manifest in the Capitoline Triad of Jupiter, Mars and Quirinus on the Capitoline Hill, at the heart of the city. The Capitoline temple lay within Rome's sacred boundary (pomerium). The Aventine lay outside it. In most versions of the Roman founding myth, this was the hill on which the unfortunate Remus lost to his brother Romulus in a contest of augury to decide Rome's foundation, name and leadership.[7] Postumius' vow has been interpreted as a pragmatic, timely recognition of the plebeian citizenry as a distinct social and political grouping with its own values, interests and traditions; the vow may have intended confirmation of the plebs and their deities as fully Roman, but its fulfillment focused plebeian culture and identity on a Triad of deities only part-assimilated into official Roman religion. Some aspects of their cults were still considered morally "un-Roman" by Rome's authorities. Thus the Aventine Triad gave the plebs what has been variously described by modern historians as a parallel to the official Capitoline Triad, and its "copy and antithesis".[8] Among other religious innovations based on his antiquarian interests, the emperor Claudius redrew the pomerium to encompass the Aventine.[9]


The plebs continued to establish and administer their own laws (plebiscita) and held formal assemblies from which patricians were excluded,. They elected their own magistrates and sought religious confirmation of their decisions through their own augury, which in plebeian religious tradition had been introduced by Marsyas, a satyr or silen in the entourage of Liber. Meanwhile, the plebeian tribunes, an emergent plebeian nobility and a small but growing number of popularist politicians of patrician ancestry gained increasing influence over Rome's religious life and government. Any person who offended against the sacred rights and person of a plebeian tribune was liable to declaration as homo sacer, who could be killed with impunity and whose property was, almost certainly, forfeit to Ceres.[10] Even so, official Ludi Cereales were not established until as late as 202 BC. Liber's festival and the Bacchic or Dionysian aspects of his cult were suppressed under the ferocious Senatus consultum de Bacchanalibus of 186 BC. The Liberalia rites were transferred to Cerealia; after a few years they were restored to Liber.[11][12]

Varro's complex, investigative Late Republican theology groups Ceres with Tellus and Venus, therefore (in Varronian reasoning) with Victoria; and Ceres with Libera, when the latter is understood as the female aspect of Liber.[13]

Cults and priesthoods

Evidence is lacking for the earliest priesthoods of the Aventine Triad, whether in joint or individual cult to its deities. The plebeian aediles, named after their service of aedes (shrine or temple) may have acted as cult priests for their community[14] and may have served Liber and Libera in this capacity. Ceres was served by a flamen Cerealis, usually a plebeian. His duties included the invocation of her assistant deities and cult service to the earth-goddess Tellus. From ca. 205 BC, a joint mystery cult to Ceres and Proserpina was held at the Aventine Triad's temple, in addition to its older rites.[15] This ritus graecus cereris recognised Libera as equivalent to Proserpina. Liber's involvement, if any, is unknown. Initiation was reserved to women, and the cult was served by priestesses of high social caste. According to Cicero, men were forbidden to look on Ceres' cult image;[16] this could imply the use of separate cult images, or the use of the same images in different, gender-segregated rites.[citation needed]


The Aventine Triad's temple was known by the name of its leading deity – thus, Roman sources describe it as the Temple of Ceres, though within it, each deity had a separate internal sanctuary (cella). The temple served as a cult centre for the patron deities of the plebs, a sacred depository for plebeian records and the headquarters for the plebeian aediles; the minutes or conclusions of senatorial decrees were also placed there, under the protection of Ceres as the guardian of laws on behalf of the Roman people.[17] While the original temple fabric and furnishings may have been funded in whole or part by its patrician sponsors, its cult images and perhaps its maintenance were supported partly through voluntary offerings and partly through the fines collected by the plebeian aediles from those who infringed plebeian civil and religious laws.[18] By the late Republic, it may have fallen into disrepair: Augustus undertook its restoration, which was completed by his successor Tiberius. Pliny the Elder's later description of its style and designers as "Greek" are taken as further evidence of continued plebeian cultural connections with Magna Graecia, officially funded well into the Imperial era. No trace remains of the temple building, and the historical and epigraphical record offers only sparse details to suggest its exact location.[19]

Notes and references

  1. ^ Cornell, T., The beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c.1000–264 BC), Routledge, 1995, p. 264: "We cannot be sure that these Greek features of the cult go back to the 490's BC, but the rest of the evidence makes it probable that they do; and the arguments that have been used to support a later date are extremely weak", contra Henri Le Bonniec, Le Culte du Ceres a Rome, Paris, 1958, p381 for the much later date of c.205 BC0, based on the Christian polemicist Arnobius, Adversus Nationes, 2.73: according to Cornell, Arnobius is a "highly unreliable" source for argument on the nature of the early Aventine cult.
  2. ^ The identification of the deified Ariadne with Libera occurs in Ovid Fasti III (cited in "Liber and Libera". Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc. April 20, 2018.) and also in Hyginus Fabulae CCXXIV.2.
  3. ^ Barbette Stanley Spaeth, The Roman goddess Ceres, University of Texas Press, 1996, pp.6 - 8, 44.
  4. ^ See also T.P. Wiseman, Remus: a Roman myth, Cambridge University Press, 1995, p.133 and notes 20, 22.
  5. ^ Dionysus of Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities, 6.17, records a tradition that the Triad was established at the recommendation of the Sibylline Books.
  6. ^ T.P. Wiseman, Remus: a Roman myth, Cambridge University Press, 1995, p.133.
  7. ^ T.P. Wiseman, Remus: a Roman myth, Cambridge University Press, 1995, 4-17, et passim.
  8. ^ Barbette Stanley Spaeth, The Roman goddess Ceres, University of Texas Press, 1996, 6-8, 92, citing Henri Le Bonniec, Le culte de Cérès à Rome. Des origines à la fin de la République, Paris, Librairie C. Klincksieck, 1958, for the Aventine cult with its central female deity as "copy and antithesis" of the early, entirely male Capitoline Triad, focused on Jupiter as Rome's supreme deity. When Mars and Quirinus were later replaced by two goddesses, Jupiter remained the primary focus of Capitoline cult. While the Aventine temple and ludi may represent a patrician attempt to reconcile or at least molify the plebs, Le Bonniec asserts their role in the religious, political and moral plebeian opposition to patrician domination throughout contemporary and later Republican history.
  9. ^ Clifford Ando, The Matter of the Gods: Religion and the Roman Empire (University of California Press, 2008), p. 118, citing Aulus Gellius 13.14.7.
  10. ^ Barbette Stanley Spaeth, "The Goddess Ceres and the Death of Tiberius Gracchus", Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte, Vol. 39, No. 2 (1990), pp. 185-186. The sacred status and functions of the plebeian tribunes are respected by Rome's entire divine community, but as protectress of plebeian rights, Ceres is entitled to the property of the homo sacer.
  11. ^ Beard, M., Price, S., North, J., Religions of Rome: Volume 1, a History, illustrated, Cambridge University Press, 1998, pp66 - 67, 93 - 96. For date of earliest recorded ludi Cereales, see Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, 30.39.8.
  12. ^ For a summary of the period, see Cornell, T., The beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c.1000–264 BC), Routledge, 1995, 258 - 271.
  13. ^ C.M.C. Green, "Varro's Three Theologies and their influence on the Fasti", in Geraldine Herbert-Brown, (ed)., Ovid's Fasti: historical readings at its bimillennium, Oxford University Press, 2002. pp. 78-80.[1]: citing Varro, Res Divina, Cardauns 208 as general commentary on the rationale for these groupings: sed potest... fieri ut eadem res et una sit, et in ea quaedam res sint plures - "but it can happen that a thing is unitary, while at the same time certain things in it are multiple."
  14. ^ Beard, M., Price, S., North, J., Religions of Rome: Volume 1, a History, illustrated, Cambridge University Press, 1998, pp. 64 -5.
  15. ^ John Scheid, "Graeco Ritu: A Typically Roman Way of Honoring the Gods", Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, Vol. 97, Greece in Rome: Influence, Integration, 1995, p. 23.
  16. ^ Cicero, In Verres, 2.4.108 et passim, cited by Olivier de Cazanove, in Rüpke, Jörg (Editor), A Companion to Roman Religion, Wiley-Blackwell, 2007, p 56.
  17. ^ Beard, M., Price, S., North, J., Religions of Rome: Volume 1, a History, illustrated, Cambridge University Press, 1998, pp. 64 -5. See also Cornell, T., The beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c.1000–264 BC), Routledge, 1995, p. 264.
  18. ^ Barbette Stanley Spaeth, The Roman goddess Ceres, University of Texas Press, 1996, p. 90.[2]
  19. ^ Barbette Stanley Spaeth, The Roman goddess Ceres, University of Texas Press, 1996, pp. 6-8, 86ff.
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