The Dancing Plague Of Strasbourg

Both before and after the Renaissance, cities and towns in Europe were reportedly hit by epidemics of dance. Before you envision the scenes as something like a charming Broadway musical, know that the people affected by these odd epidemics truly believed themselves to be unwillingly forced to dance either by a supernatural curse or by some other strange disease. Of the areas affected by the peculiar dancing plagues, the city of Strasbourg suffered one of the worst cases and, thankfully for us, the bizarre event was well-documented and discussed by the historians and scholars of the time.

In July, 1518, the dancing plague of Strasbourg began when a certain Frau Troffea took to the street and spent the whole day in dance. She rested for only a few hours of sleep before continuing her dancing for another long day. She reportedly kept up this relentless schedule until her feet bled and she collapsed from exhaustion—and even then, she picked herself up and continued her dancing. Before long, other citizens of Strasbourg felt irresistibly drawn to the dance and they joined Frau Troffea in her daily routine. By August, there were reportedly no less than 400 people engaged in an endless dance on the streets of the city.

With hundreds of people dancing well past their physical limits, the leaders of Strasbourg knew their city was facing a major problem. At first, they thought that the epidemic could be brought to a quick conclusion by encouraging and supporting the dancers, hoping those affected would simply dance whatever was ailing them out of their systems. With this in mind, the officials of Strasbourg had a stage built, hired dance instructors, and even recruited musicians, turning the dancing plague into something like a music festival. Yet, as September neared and no end to the dancing was in sight, the leaders of Strasbourg began interpreting the dance in new ways. Some, through the ancient medical idea of bodily humors, believed that too much hot blood was the cause of the hysterical dancing. Others, inspired by the witch-crazed atmosphere of the Colonial Age, believed the dancing was the work of the Devil. Both sides, however, apparently agreed that the best way for the dancers to cool off their blood or rid themselves of demons was for the affected people to be forcibly sent off to a mountain shrine in order for them to pray for healing.

Either through prayer, or simply from the government crackdown on the dancers, the epidemic ended around September and the city finally returned to normalcy. The dancing fever, however, had by then taken a heavy toll. No formal death count was apparently recorded, but while the dancing plague was in full swing, several of the dancers were said to have dropped dead on a daily basis from over-exhaustion, heart failure or strokes.

Now that the understanding of medicine and psychology has progressed, several theories have been proposed to explain the bizarre dancing plague of Strasbourg. One of the early hypotheses was ergot poisoning. Ergot fungus, which can grow on cereals such as rye, can cause hallucinations and spasms when ingested. Yet, as the dancers showed no signs of bodily sickness or poisoning, this theory has been disregarded by many. One of the newest interpretations of the event is that the dancing plague was a case of mass-hysteria, or a psychogenic disorder, caused by an unhealthy atmosphere of stress and fear. The psychological pressures of famine, disease, and possibly the legend of St. Vitus (a saint who was said to miraculously make people dance), might have combined to produce the Dancing Plague of 1518.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Danse de noce, painted by Pieter Breughel the Younger (1564–1638), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• https://www.history.com/news/what-was-the-dancing-plague-of-1518
• https://www.britannica.com/event/dancing-plague-of-1518 
• https://listverse.com/2016/11/07/10-twisted-facts-about-the-dancing-plagues/ 
• https://www.pastmedicalhistory.co.uk/the-dancing-plague-of-1518/ 
• http://www.bbc.com/future/story/20161028-the-town-the-nearly-danced-itself-to-death  

The Reaction Of 10th-Century Constantinople To Conjoined Twins

In the mid-10th century, two travelers entered the city of Constantinople (modern Istanbul) and caused quite the stir. The pair were conjoined twins, and their unexpected arrival at the city was initially met with shock, and then hostility. John Skylitzes, an 11th-century historian, mirrored the feelings of his ancestors in his own statements about the event: “In those days a monstrous thing came to the imperial city from Armenia…males sharing a single belly, but they were driven out of the city as an evil portent” (Synopsis of Byzantine History, chapter 11, section 38). As for the date of the twins’ entry and exit from the city, Skylitzes only divulged that the event took place near the end of the reign of Emperor Romanos I (r. 919-944). Given the threats faced by the empire at the time—their precarious relationship with the Bulgarians, the raids of the Magyars into imperial lands (beginning around 934), and an attack by the Rus in 941—it is no wonder that the people of Constantinople wanted to rid themselves of whatever they perceived could cause bad luck.

After the conjoined twins left Constantinople, there was a power shift in the empire. Romanos’ predecessor was a child-emperor named Constantine VII who ascended to the throne in 913, reportedly at the age of seven. As the emperor was young, the empire was ruled by a regency council. Romanos I, who eventually became Constantine’s father-in-law, came to dominate the regency and usurped power in 919, pushing Constantine VII further and further into the background as the decades passed. In 944, however, Constantine VII backed a successful plot by Romanos’ sons to oust the old usurper, their father. Constantine followed up this success by rallying his supporters and arrested Romanos’ sons in 945, finally taking his rightful place as the sole emperor of Constantinople.

The conjoined twins from Armenia returned to Constantinople sometime after Constantine VII (r. 944-959) regained power. This time, the twins were more openly received. Instead of recoiling in horror and shock, the people of Constantinople now were apparently more curious than frightened and allowed the twins to live the rest of their days in the city. Eventually, one of the conjoined twins died, and intrigued physicians from Constantinople eagerly volunteered to separate the surviving conjoined twin from his deceased sibling. John Skylitzes recorded their bittersweet results: “When one of the twins died, some experienced doctors tried to excise the dead portion—and they were successful, but the living twin survived only a short while and then died” (Synopsis of Byzantine History, chapter 11, section 38).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (16th century painting of Constantinople by Sebastian Münster (–1552), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• A Synopsis of Byzantine History by John Skylitzes (c. 1040-1101), translated by John Wortley (Cambridge University Press, 2010).

The Great Escape Of Li Guang

In 129 BCE, Emperor Wu of China sent four generals on a surprise invasion into Xiongnu territory. Each general had a separate force and launched their incursion into enemy territory from different cities. Wei Qing, one of the emperor’s most talented generals, marched into Xiongnu land from Shanggu. Gongsun He and Gongsun Ao also lead invasion forces, the first from Yunzhong, and the latter from Dai Province. Finally, Li Guang—an unorthodox but fearsome general—led his forces out from Yanmen.

We Qing was the only one of the four generals to have a truly successful campaign (as he often did) and was said to have captured several hundred Xiongnu. Gongsun He, for his part, had an uneventful trip through enemy land, making virtually no contact with any foes. The campaigns of Gongsun Ao and Li Guang were also unimpressive, but their reputations were besmirched by worse than lack of contact with the Xiongnu; instead of not finding their foes, the latter two generals were intercepted by Xiongnu armies and were defeated. Gongsun Ao lost thousands of troops in Xiongnu territory and returned home in disgrace. Li Guang, unfortunately, fared even worse—he was not only defeated by the Xiongnu, but also captured alive.

According to Grand Historian Sima Qian (c. 145-90 BCE), who claimed to have personally seen Li Guang, the Xiongnu had a deep respect and fear of the general.  By this point, Li Guang (who had joined the army in 166 BCE) had been a thorn in the side of the Xiongnu for around three decades. His name was reportedly known by the Shanyu, the leader of the Xiongnu, and an order was disseminated among the Xiongnu to capture Li Guang alive. On the battlefield, the Xiongnu were able to identify Li Guang, and, realizing he was injured, they mended his wounds and carefully placed him on a litter suspended between two horses, intending to bring him back to their leader. Unfortunately for the Xiongnu, their captive’s wounds would soon prove to not be as debilitating as they thought.

Li Guang, when he was injured on the battlefield, reportedly attempted to play dead. The Xiongnu, however, found him and recognized that he was alive, forcing Li Guang to downgrade his plan to acting unconscious. Although the Xiongnu saw through his ploy to play dead, his impersonation of unconsciousness was more convincing. Apparently only minimal guards were placed near the litter carrying Li Guang, and the nearest warrior keeping an eye on the general was virtually a child. Sensing an opportunity to escape, Li Guang suddenly sprung up from the litter and jumped onto the youth’s horse. He also commandeered the boy’s bow before knocking the young Xiongnu warrior to the ground. Now equipped with a steed and a weapon, Li Guang began his great escape.

Although the general’s tactics in the previous battle were lackluster, Li Guang’s personal fighting prowess was famous, especially with the weapon he had just picked up—the bow. Capable of consistent near-miraculous shots, he was an ancient sniper. In addition, he was a cavalry officer, and was very familiar with horses. Therefore, with his bow and his horse, Li Guang had everything he needed to survive.

As soon as Li Guang made his move and began galloping frantically for Han territory, hundreds of Xiongnu charged after him in pursuit. The fleeing general, however, knew how to shoot from horseback and was able to take down anyone who rode too close. Through this combination of fleeing and shooting, Li Guang was able to successfully weave his way back toward friendly territory. The Xiongnu eventually gave up the chase, either because of Li Guang’s accuracy or the nearing Han border. Whatever the case, Li Guang eventually shed his pursuers, and was even able to herd together some survivors from his broken army before crossing back into Han lands. Yet, although he had survived this trial, another lay in the immediate future. Once he returned to the capital, the general would have to answer to the unforgiving Emperor Wu for his defeat and capture in battle.

When Li Guang reached the capital, he was quickly arrested by Han officials, as was Gongsun Ao, who similarly was defeated by the Xiongnu. The two were told that their conduct could merit execution, yet they were thankfully given the option to buy their freedom. Although they escaped the death penalty, they lost their military commands and government titles. After paying his own ransom in 129 BCE, Li Guang would continue to live as a commoner until around 127 BCE, when he was called back to duty by the emperor.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Drawing of man on horseback shooting an arrow from the New York Public Library, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Records of the Grand Historian (Shi ji) by Sima Qian, translated by Burton Watson. New York: Columbia University Press, 1993.
• http://www.chinaknowledge.de/History/Han/personsliguang.html  

Bishop Pappolus of Langres Was Said To Have Been Murdered By A Saint’s Spirit

Bishop Pappolus succeeded to the bishopric of Langres around 572. His path to the appointment was an odd one—Bishop Tetricus of Langres (r. 539-572) had died after falling into a vegetative state. While the ill Tetricus clinged to life, an archpriest was appointed to oversee the diocese. This regent ruler of the Langres church was also the recognized heir to the bishopric. The first archpriest was Munderic, yet he indulged in the politics of the Frankish Merovingian Dynasty and was eventually ousted by King Chilperic (r. 561-584). The next archpriest was Silvester, who, when Tetricus died in 572, did indeed succeed to the bishopric of Langres. Silvester, however, reportedly had a severe bout of seizures almost immediately after becoming bishop and died three days later. Only after the political ousting of Munderic, and the deaths of Tetricus and Silvester, did Pappolus (presumably still in 572) become the next Bishop of Langres.

Bishop Pappolus reportedly reigned over his diocese for eight years, and developed an impious and tyrannical reputation. His contemporary, Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), judged Pappolus’ rule in Langres as “extremely bad” and accused him of pilfering from church resources, as well as scattering the Christian flock (History of the Franks, V.5). Pappolus’ time as bishop was so atrocious, at least according to Gregory, that even spirits decided to intervene.

As the story goes, Pappolus was visited in a dream by the spirit of the late Bishop Tetricus around 580. Stern-faced and wielding a staff, the ghostly Tetricus reportedly proclaimed, “’What are you doing here, Pappolus? Why do you befoul my diocese? Why do you rob the Church? Why do you scatter the flock which was entrusted to my care? Off with you, resign from your bishopric, leave this neighborhood and go somewhere else far away!’” (Gregory of Tours, The History of the Franks, V.5). At the end of his tirade, the spirit of Tetricus readied his staff and gave Pappolus a powerful whack across the chest, which violently woke the poor clergyman from his nightmare. The next day, he presumably asked his fellow churchmen about what the dream may have meant, and these associates may have been Gregory’s sources. Whatever the case, Pappolus did not have long to deliberate, for the ghost’s visit was apparently not a suggestion, but an ultimatum.

According to the tale, the very next day after the dream, Pappolus began to feel strange. As time went on, the bishop’s symptoms became more and more painful. Gregory of Tours described the rumored last moments of the unfortunate Bishop Pappolus:

“While he was wondering what all this meant, he had the impression that his chest had been pierced and he suffered excruciating pain. He could not bear the sight of food and drink, and he made ready for the death which he felt to be near. What more can I say? On the third day he vomited blood and died” (The History of the Franks, V.5).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Witch of Endor painted by Nikiforovich Dmitry Martynov (1826–1889), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.

The Curious Backlash Against Queens In 9th-Century Wessex

A noblewoman named Eadburh seemingly caused a multi-generational backlash against the brides of kings in Wessex. She was the daughter of King Offa of Mercia (r. 757-796) and was given in marriage to King Beorhtric of Wessex in 789. Eadburh, like the royal women in Wessex who came before her, was given a queenly title, such as cuen or regina. After Mercia and Wessex were aligned because of the marriage, Offa and Beorhtric worked together to force Egbert, a dangerous claimant to the kingdoms of Kent and Wessex, into a prolonged exile in France. Yet, although the marriage agreement was mainly about the relationship between the monarchs of Mercia and Wessex, Eadburh soon showed herself to be a formidable woman in her role as queen—maybe too formidable for her time.

The actions of Queen Eadburh in Wessex are hard to decipher. In the initial commentary on the reign of her husband, King Beorhtric (r. 786-802), within sources such as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and the Chronicle of Florence of Worcester, nothing out of the ordinary is mentioned as occurring in the court Wessex. The entries in those chronicles from 787 to 802, the time in which Eadburh was queen, make no mention of Eadburh except to say that she was the daughter of Offa and the wife of Beorhtric. In fact, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle makes no more mention of her after recording her wedding. A century after Eadburh’s marriage, however, a Welsh monk named Asser recorded in his Life of King Alfred (written c. 893) several rumors that had festered in Wessex, and his source was none other than King Alfred the Great (r. 871-899). On the subject of Queen Eadburh, Asser wrote down the folklore and gossip known by Alfred:

“There was in Mercia in fairly recent times a certain vigorous king called Offa, who terrified all the neighboring kings and provinces around him, and who had a great dyke built between Wales and Mercia from sea to sea. Beorhtric, king of the West Saxons, received in marriage his daughter, Eadburh. As soon as she had won the king’s friendship, and power throughout almost the entire kingdom, she began to behave like a tyrant after the manner of her father—to loathe every man whom Beorhtric liked, to do all things hateful to God and men, to denounce all those whom she could before the king, and thus by trickery to deprive them of either life or power; and if she could not achieve that end with the king’s compliance, she killed them with poison” (Life of King Alfred, section 14).

What exactly inspired this reputation may never be known. Was she a spymaster who besmirched and assassinated her opponents? Did she put the interests of her homeland, Mercia, before that of Wessex? Perhaps, she was simply interested in politics and statecraft, and the courtiers of Wessex did not like her meddling in their affairs. Whatever the case, the impression she left on the noblemen of Wessex was incredibly negative.

King Beorhtric died in 802. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle made no mention of foul play, reporting simply that he ‘died.’ Asser, however, continued painting Eadburh as a careless poisoner, and claimed “Beorhtric himself is said to have taken some of that poison unawares” (Life of King Alfred, section 14). The man who succeeded Beorhtric to the throne of Wessex in 802 did not help Eadburh’s case—it was none other than Egbert, the man her father and husband had forced into exile. With the ascendance of King Egbert of Wessex (r. 802-839), Britain was no longer a safe place for Eadburh. She fled to France, where she joined a nunnery. Yet, Eadburh’s reputation only became more scandalous on the mainland. Asser concluded the unforgiving gossip about the refugee queen with these words:

“When at long last she was publicly caught in debauchery with a man of her own race, she was ejected from the nunnery on Charlemagne’s orders and shamefully spent her life in poverty and misery until her death; so much so that in the end, accompanied by a single slave boy (as I have heard from many who saw her) and begging every day, she died a miserable death in Pavia” (Life of King Alfred, section 15).

Whether or not the tales about Queen Eadburh’s life—the tyranny, poisonings, and scandals on the mainland—were truthful or embellished, the end result in Wessex was the same. Her behavior, whatever it may have been, shocked the noblemen of Wessex, and the subsequent backlash against the royal women in the kingdom was attributed as a response to Eadburh’s actions. Starting during the reign of King Egbert, the wives of the kings of Wessex in the 9^th century were stripped of their queenly titles of cuen or regina, and were more closely quarantined away from the political sphere than before the time of Eadburh. No other king’s wife was given the title of queen until King Æthelwulf of Wessex brought his Frankish bride, Judith (daughter of Charles the Bald), to his kingdom in 856 and pulled some strings to have her position recognized. Yet, Judith was the exception. No other king’s wife in Wessex was recognized as a queen in the 9th century.

By the end of the century, however, some courtiers in Wessex (especially foreigners or people originally from other parts of Britain) began to criticize the kingdom’s odd treatment of its queens. Asser (the aforementioned Welshman), himself, opened up his commentary on Queen Eadburh with these critical words against the custom of Wessex: “because many do not know (I suspect) how this perverse and detestable custom, contrary to the practice of all Germanic peoples, originally arose in Saxon land, I think I should explain it a little more fully” (Life of King Alfred, section 13). Thankfully, the status of royal women in Wessex began to improve in the 10th century.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: ('Fair Rosamund' painted by John William Waterhouse (1849–1917), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle translated by Benjamin Thorpe in 1861 and republished by Cambridge University Press, 2012.
• The Chronicle of Florence of Worcester translated by Thomas Forester. London: Petter and Galpin, originally published 1854. 
• Asser’s Life of King Alfred and Other Contemporary Sources translated, introduced and denoted by Simon Keynes and Michael Lapidge. New York: Penguin Classics, 2004.
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Egbert 
• https://www.ancient.eu/King_Egbert_of_Wessex/ 
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Aethelwulf  

The Vivid Feast Of Prince Seuthes of Thrace

Xenophon (c. 420-350 BCE) was one of those special ancient authors who not only wrote down for posterity the events of his time, but also recorded it in an absorbing way that pulls the reader into the atmosphere of daily life in his long-gone age. He did not simply discuss what the competing states were doing in his day, but also described in vivid detail the feelings and experiences of the people in these regions—the decadent lives of courtiers, the attitudes of common warriors, and the goings-on of civilians all fell into his scope. Xenophon’s insight into the different sections of society was greatly enlightened by his own colorful career. An Athenian scholar (who studied under Socrates), a landed aristocrat, and a mercenary captain who worked with royalty in Persia, Thrace and Sparta, Xenophon’s personal experiences gave his works incredible depth and life.

One such vivid scene of daily existence was Xenophon’s description of a feast hosted by Prince Seuthes of Thrace. The year was 399 BCE, and Seuthes had just hired the mercenary company to which Xenophon belonged. To celebrate their partnership, Seuthes invited the commanding officers of the mercenaries to a banquet with himself and his courtiers. In his Anabasis, which covered the mercenary company’s career from 401-399 BCE, Xenophon wrote down what he and his comrades saw as they joined the Thracians for the feast:

“The dinner guests included the most high-ranking of the Thracians who were there, the Greek generals and company commanders, and envoys from various communities. Once they had gone inside, they were seated for the meal in a circle, and then three-legged tables were brought in for everyone. There were about twenty of these tables and they were laden with slices of meat joined by skewers onto huge loaves of risen bread. For the most part, the tables were placed, according to Thracian custom, by each of the guests” (Anabasis, 7.3).

Along with the tables of food, the Thracian prince also provided each guest his own horn of wine, handed out by cup-bearers. The host also had on hand a band of musicians playing horns and trumpets, as well as some comedians or jesters, who were eventually given the stage in the course of the evening. When all the pieces of the banquet were in place, Xenophon watched with amusement as the Thracian prince started off the feast with an interesting local custom:

“Seuthes initiated the proceedings as follows: he picked up the loaves which had been served in front of him, broke them into small pieces, and tossed the pieces to whichever of the guests he felt like. Then he did the same with the meat, leaving himself only morsels. Once he had finished, everyone else who had a table placed near by did the same. But an Arcadian called Arystas, who had a prodigious appetite, could not be bothered with throwing pieces of food around: he just picked up a three-choenix-sized loaf, put some meat on his knees, and began to eat” (Anabasis, 7.3).

After everyone had their fill of the food, the drinking and socializing continued. In time, courtiers among the banqueters began to offer gifts to Seuthes. The presents greatly differed in size and value—a silver goblet, a carpet, a white horse and a slave were all reportedly handed over to Seuthes during the course of the evening. Xenophon, however, was caught off guard by the gift-giving and, having brought nothing, improvised a speech to make up for his lack of an offering. His gift, he claimed, would be the land and wealth soon to be delivered to Seuthes by the mercenary company.

As the drinking continued, the group became quite merry. By the end of the feast, Xenophon, who was “a little tipsy” (Anabasis, 7.3), gave a public and long-winded pledge of friendship to the Thracian prince. Yet, Xenophon was not the only one feeling jolly—he wrote, “Seuthes also stood up on his own, yelled out a war-cry, and with great agility performed a vigorous dance which simulated the dodging of missiles” (Anabasis, 7.3).

Although they were all evidently having a great time, the mercenaries kept a strict schedule. When the sun began to set, the mercenary officers at the banquet proclaimed that they had to take their leave to prepare their army’s nighttime security. After ceremoniously sprinkling out the last drops of wine from the feast, Prince Seuthes gave the mercenaries a counter-offer, suggesting that they set off on their campaign that very night. According to Xenophon, the mercenaries accepted the proposal and they all began their march around midnight.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Scene depicting Achilles from Pompeii, c. 1st century, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Anabasis Kyrou (The Expedition/Upcountry March of Cyrus) by Xenophon and translated by Robin Waterfield. New York: Oxford University Press, 2005.

The Bizarre Tale About A Magic Statue Linked To The Death Of Simeon I Of Bulgaria

Simeon I became ruler of the Bulgarians in 893 and greatly contributed to his peoples’ military and cultural ascendance. Showing no fear of his powerful neighbors in Constantinople, Simeon declared war on Emperor Leo VI as early as 894 in order to protect the trade rights of his Bulgarian merchants in Constantinople. From that time on, Simeon frequently declared war against Constantinople, expanding his own power and influence at their expense. Romanos I of Constantinople was finally able to bring Simeon into a semblance of peace in 924, and the Bulgarian leader took the opportunity to focus his efforts against the Serbs and Croats. In 927, Simeon’s impressive military career was dealt a heavy blow, when his army suffered a significant defeat in Croatia. Not long after that disappointing campaign, still in the year 927, Simeon I of Bulgaria suffered from heart failure, or of a heart attack, and died on May 27.

Common heart failure may be the traditional, accepted, and most likely cause of Simeon’s death, yet another version was recorded by the medieval historian, John Skylitzes (c. 1040-1101). Skylitzes’ account, mind you, is unlikely, far-fetched and folkloric, but the tale is nevertheless an enjoyable read.

According to Skylitzes, a certain astronomer (or more likely an astrologer) named John met with Emperor Romanos I (r. 919-944) in 927 and, based on whatever omens he could read from the alignment of the stars at that time, gave the emperor instructions on how to bring supernatural doom on Simeon I. The aforementioned John (the astrologer, not the historian) somehow determined that the life of the Bulgarian ruler was magically linked to a single statue that stood near the heart of Byzantium. This statue, John claimed, was none other than the statue of Arkadios, which could be found in a forum built on a hill to the west of the city of Constantinople. In order to harm Simeon, Emperor Romanos supposedly needed only to deface the statue. In particular, the mysterious astronomer or astrologer suggested that the emperor chop off the statue’s head. John Skylitzes tied this peculiar piece of folklore into the traditional story of Simeon’s death in the following way:

“An astronomer named John came to the emperor and said that if he would send someone to cut off the head of the statue standing above the apse of the Xerolophos and facing west, Simeon would immediately die—for his fate was magically linked to that of the statue. Convinced by this speech, [Romanos] had the head of the statue cut off and in that very same hour (as the emperor precisely discovered) Simeon died in Bulgaria, carried off by a heart attack” (Synopsis of Byzantine History, chapter 10, section 17).

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: Painting of a temple and Trajan’s Column painted by Hubert Robert (1733–1808), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons

Sources:

• John Skylitzes. A Synopsis of Byzantine History: 811-1057, translated by John Wortley. Original text c. 11th or early 12th century. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010.
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Simeon-I 
• https://www.encyclopedia.com/history/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/simeon-king-bulgaria 
• https://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/acref/9780195046526.001.0001/acref-9780195046526-e-5222