CWENMÆRE: THE 'NIGHTMARE-QUEEN' AND THE CULT OF THE SEVERED HEAD

The True Picture of One Pict, by Theodor de Bry, 1588

You might ask: What in the name of Jack Pumpkinhead is the Cult of the Severed Head?  Don’t act like you’ve never heard of it.  It’s all around us, even in our so-called civilized era.  I mean, open your eyes.

There’s the famous scene from The Godfather when the movie director ends up with his prized stud’s head in his bed ‘cause he apparently refused an offer he couldn’t refuse.  There’s the harrowing episode at the end of Seven when Federal Express delivers a box to Brad Pitt, who opens it only to find the severed head of his beloved wife.  And there’s the now-hallowed mantra of Alice in Wonderland’s Queen of Hearts: “Off with her head!”

The King and Queen of Hearts,
by John Tenniel,
Illustration from Lewis Carroll's
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

The Cult of the Severed Head is everywhere nowadays.  So, why is it so unheard-of?  And what in the Sam Head – I mean, Hill – does it have to do with Queen Guinevere?

And why Cwenmære?  Well, Cwenmære means “Queen, or Woman, Nightmare”.  It’s an Old English name and idea.  You see, in Anglo-Saxon lore, the mære were nightmare-women who fell like incubi upon sleeping men.  (I am using it in my series, The Annals of Anavere, but not in The Tyrant and the Twins; it shows up in some of the later books).

In this case, the nickname was a piece of negative propaganda.  To the Anglo-Saxons, it must have sounded like one of Guinevere’s Welsh or Irish names: Gwenhwyfar or Guanhuamara, maybe.  Indicating that Guinevere was something more than just a mortal woman would have instilled a certain terror in her enemies.

Heck, maybe she gave herself the name, to keep people off her back.  (If she did, it didn’t work).

But, I’m using it as a handle bestowed upon her by her ancient foes, the Anglo-Saxons.  (I mean, your enemies have got to have something to call you, don’t they?  What do your enemies call you)?  They must have bequeathed her the name out of either fear or revulsion.  But, why would the Germanii – no strangers to guts and gore themselves – so fear and revile a British noblewoman like Guinevere, warrior-queen though she may have been?

Well, I’ll tell you why.  It seems that, in addition to being a queen, a warrior, and possibly a high priestess, Guinevere was a ghoul.  (Just kidding)!

But seriously, she does seem to have had a bad side to her.  Which you didn’t want to get on.  An ancient bad side, the kind that doesn’t exactly exist anymore, except beneath the psychological surface, in places most people won’t let you see.

I mean, how many Hannibal Lecters do you think are out there, just roaming the streets loose?  Sure, there are serial killers and crazies; but he was the exception, not the rule.  And in the fifth century, the Cult of the Severed Head seems to have been the rule…not the exception.

Anyway, the twentieth-century author, Norma Lorre Goodrich – who was an authority on both Arthur and Guinevere, as well as on the elusive Dark Age they lived in – says in her book King Arthur that Guinevere used to collect and carry around the severed heads of her enemies and “gaze upon them often”.  In the same volume, she also mentions that there seems to have been “little softening of Queen Guinevere’s manners”.  Not surprising, really, in an ancient warrior queen surrounded by enemies on all sides.  Most of us just spend our childhood fighting with our siblings.  Guinevere was lucky to have lived long enough to reach adulthood.

In another of her excellent Arthurian books, simply titled Guinevere, Goodrich adds that Guinevere “watched the sword over her head every day of her life”.  This is the sort of thing that produces Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and serial killers.

But was there more to it than that?  Was there another force at work behind Guinevere’s serial headhunting?

Guess what?  There was.

1861 Drawing of Pictish Sueno's Stone;
100-300 AD;
3rd Panel: Decapitated Soldiers

Both the Gaels and the Picts, from whom Guinevere seems to have descended, believed that the soul resided in the head.  If you took the head of an enemy in battle – which many of them did – you took that enemy’s power.  And embalmed it in cedar oil and carried it around dangling from the pommel of your horse and nailed it to the door of your house and kept it in a special chest in your house and took it out and showed it to guests.  And bragged about it.  A lot.

Apparently, headhunting was a real thing with these people.  One of the Irish tribes, the Ui Cennselaigh, was actually called “Descendants of the Headhunters”.

And they weren’t the only ones.  (The Gaels and the Picts, I mean).  The Britons, the Gauls, the Druids, the Scythians …even the “civilized” Romans tacked up severed heads over their gates as a warning.

Everyone was doing it, apparently.  (Headhunting, I mean).  It was a real Dark Age contact sport.

The White Tower, London;
Original Entrance, 1097 AD

The Britons had their Bran the Blessed, an old god-hero whose head is supposedly buried under the White Tower in London.  He’s so old that there’s no date for him, although he might be related to Brennus, a Gallic chieftain who attacked Delphi and died in 279 BC.  (But there’s really no severed head story associated with Brennus, so we don’t know if he’s related to Bran).  Either way, Bran the Blessed is a really famous old Welsh story about a severed head.

Celtic Wicker Man Engraving, 18th c.

Then there are the Druids, who supposedly hacked off their sacrificial victims’ heads with the same golden sickles they used to cut their sacred mistletoe.  They were pretty much wiped out by 200 AD, although there might have been later survivals of their religion.  The Druids seem to have left a cache of “bog bodies”: sacrificial victims thrown into various European bogs, whose bodies – and their ceremonial death-blow-wounds – are preserved by the bog peat.

Deal Crown, Possibly Worn by Druid, British Museum

And then there are the cephalophores.  The whatalophores, you may ask?  The cephalophores.  Ancient saints who lost their heads for Christ and then carried the severed heads around with them whilst preaching the good Word.

Statue of St. Denis, 3rd c. bishop
to the Parisii; Notre Dame Cathedral

Like St. Denis, who was executed on Mont St. Michel in the third century, picked up his head, and walked away preaching.  His admirers erected the Basilica of St. Denis on the spot where he finally collapsed.  The Basilica of St. Denis is where the kings and queens of France, including the headless Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette (ironic, isn’t it?), are buried.

But the stories that always fascinate me the most are the ones about the women headhunters.  Two in particular are more “head-takers” than “headhunters”, but as Robert Plant said, “The song remains the same”.  Ferocious women from ferocious warrior-tribes, who didn’t take any guff from anyone.  Or, if they did, they gave it back in equal or greater measure.  In each of these two cases: by taking the guy’s head.

The first anecdote is the story of the death of Cyrus the Great, king of the Persians.  It’s really the story of how he was killed: in battle, by a woman…and of what she did with his head.

Tomyris Plunges the Head of the Dead Cyrus into a Vessel of Blood,
by Alexander Zick

The ancient Greek chronicler, Herodotus, told a marvelous tale of Tomyris, the ferocious woman chieftain of the Massegetae, a Scythian tribe living south of the Aral Sea, between the Rivers Jaxartes and Oxus.  In the year 530 BC, Tomyris’ husband died, and she assumed leadership of the Massegetae.  She appointed her son, Spargapises, as her leading general.

Quick as ever to seize an opportunity, Cyrus the Great asked for the warrior queen’s hand in marriage.  Suspecting that the Persian king desired her land and not her hand, Tomyris refused.  So, Cyrus staged an invasion.

Now, as an aside: This is not the first time Cyrus has fought a Scythian woman.

Seventeen years earlier, he tried to take the land and gold of another group of Scythians, the Saca, and captured their king, Amorges.  Amorges’ wife, Queen Sparethra, fought Cyrus to a standstill, took some of his family members captive, and demanded her husband back.  Feeling sheepish, Cyrus agreed.

Eleven years after that, Cyrus attacked a second group of Saca.  (You’d really think he’d have learned his lesson by then.  But, no soap, Doc.  He hadn’t).  He fought and killed King Kydreias and then immediately asked his queen, Zarina, for her hand in marriage.

Zarina was no dummy.  Much as Tomyris would six years later, Zarina figured Cyrus wanted her for her money more than her looks, gave him the cold shoulder, and immediately married some other guy, some Median prince or something.

So now, here comes Trouble…again.  Some people never learn.  Certainly not Cyrus the Great.  He may been great at something (where else did he get that name?), but he obviously wasn’t great at learning from his mistakes.

Anyway.  Here he comes.

Well, he started off strong, by building bridges and towered war boats (whatever those are) on his side of the river.  Remember, the River Jaxartes is still acting as a convenient barrier, separating the Persians from the Massegetae.  The Persians have to cross it if they want to take the Scythians’ land…or women…or woman…or whatever.

But, so did Tomyris.  (Start off strong, I mean).

I mean, this lady!  First, she sent Cyrus a warning: “Get off my land!  No Persians allowed!”

And in so doing, she categorically and publicly stated that she believed he would ignore her warning anyway.  He did.  (Ignore it, I mean).

Then, Tomyris sent an invitation: “Meet me on my side of the river.  Two by the window.”  (JK).

No, the invite was not for a hot date.  (Well, it was about to get hot, but it wasn’t a date).

It was a formal invitation to combat.  The old kind.  You know: “Get over here, so I can kick your ass.”

And she set some parameters: “One day’s march from the river.  On the Massegetae side.  Be there.  Or be square.”

Now, here’s where things get interesting.  Chief among Cyrus’ councilors was a man most of you have heard of: Croesus.  You’ve heard the phrase: “Rich as Croesus”, haven’t you?

Well, at this point, Croesus wasn’t rich anymore.  He used to be.  Until…here comes Trouble.

A few years earlier, Cyrus the Great had attacked Croesus’ home country of Lydia, killed his son, caused his wife to commit suicide, usurped his kingdom, and taken him prisoner.  Croesus was no longer a wealthy, independent ruler.  These days, he was merely Cyrus’ loyal councilor.

Yeah, right.  And I’m the Queen of Sheba.

Anyway, Croesus advised Cyrus to agree to attack Tomyris and her Massegetae on her side of the river.

Get that?  They’re going to attack the enemy in the enemy’s territory on The Enemy’s Side Of The River.

Does anybody else think this is a bad idea?  And that maybe Croesus is serving Cyrus up a dish best served cold?

But maybe not.  Croesus was apparently a pretty smart man.  And he knew some of the Massegetae’s weird, little habits.

Like the one about not drinking wine.  Croesus knew that these barbaric Scythians usually only drank hashish or fermented mare’s milk.

Now, you may be asking yourself: “How is wine stronger than hashish, the stuff that brought us marijuana?”  Well, unmixed wine is stronger.  That is, wine that is not diluted with water.  In those days, it could get you really drunk and really sick…even really dead.

So, he advised Cyrus to set a trap.  The Persians staged a lavish encampment, complete with piles of booty and vats of unmixed wine.  In it, they left the weakest tenth of their troops.  (Read: Disposable Cannon Fodder).

And they left.  And moved ahead with the rest of their troops.  Like they were just going to honor their appointment with Tomyris.  Pretty smart, huh?

Meanwhile, Tomyris, who was also smart, sent her general-son, Spargapises, with one-third of her troops, on ahead of the main body of her army to scout.  As any scout worth their salt would, they found this great, luxurious, lolling campsite, sprawling out in the middle of nowhere.  And, as any scout worth their salt would not, they apparently weren’t the slightest bit suspicious of it.  They simply massacred the sitting-duck Persians who were there, made themselves at home, and got drunk on unmixed wine.

The main body of Cyrus’ army returned and took the smashed Scythians captive.  Including Tomyris’ son.

Well, we all know it’s not a good idea to get a woman mad at you.  Hell hath no fury.  Like a woman.  Period.

Tomyris was not the exception to this rule.  She, of course, heard of her son’s capture and the Persians’ treachery.  And, of course, she demanded his release.

Surprisingly, Cyrus complied.  He released Spargapises.

And Spargapises, ashamed of his drunken orgy and the trouble it had caused, killed himself.  This did not improve the already volatile relationship between his mother and the Persian king.

Tomyris promptly shot from “Outraged” to “Infuriated” on the Anger Scale.  Naturally, she publicly denounced Cyrus’ cowardly, so-called “victory”.  She swore vengeance.  And, once again, she challenged him: “Meet me in honorable, open combat.”

He accepted.  And rode out to meet her.  And in turn, the Massegetae rode out to meet him.

But this time, Tomyris wasn’t fooling around.  This time, the warrior-queen took the point and led the troops in person.

Cue ominous music: “Dum, duh, dum-dum…”

And guess what?  She kicked his ASS!!!

Herodotus reports it like a series of newspaper headlines: “TOMYRIS VICTORIOUS!”  “BIGGEST BATTLE ANCIENT WORLD HAS EVER SEEN!”  “PERSIANS SUFFER MASSIVE CASUALTIES!”  “BATTLE OF THE JAXARTES FIERCEST OF CYRUS’ LONG CAREER!”  “QUEEN TOMYRIS KILLS CYRUS THE GREAT!”

And she didn’t stop at that.  After all the treachery and the lies and the sneaking around and the death of her son, who could blame her?  I mean, this lady had had ENOUGH!

Tomyris ordered Cyrus beheaded and his body crucified.  And then she had her people bring the head to her.

Now, there is some confusion about exactly what she did next.  But not much.

Either: 1) She filled his severed (and apparently, hollowed-out) head with wine and drank the wine from it; or 2) She had a vat filled with the blood of her Persian enemies, dipped the severed-head-cup into that, and drank the blood out of Cyrus’ severed head.

(Try saying that ten times fast: Cyrus’severedheadCyrus’severedhead Cyrus’severedheadCyrus’severedheadCyrus’severedheadCyrus’severedheadCyrus’severedheadCyrus’severedheadCyrus’severedhead Cyrus’severedhead)…

Either way, Tomyris had the head defleshed or embalmed or both and kept it for the rest of her – presumably long – life, using it as a wine goblet.  She disdainfully left Cyrus’ crucified body on the battlefield as the corpse of a coward.

The moral of the story is: Never piss off a woman.  Or: Don’t drink unmixed wine.  Or: Don’t break your word.  Or just: Don’t mess with the Massegetae.

Or maybe it’s that ancient women were not to be trifled with.  They could kick some serious ass.  Even if you kicked theirs first.  Especially if you kicked theirs first.  That’s like kicking up a hornet’s nest.  They’ll sting you.  And you will lose.  Which is what happened with our next guest.

Chiomara was described by her contemporaries as “a woman of exceptional beauty”, “having good sense and intelligence”.  (This description much resembles the many descriptions of Guinevere, whose other name, Guanhuamara, much resembles that of Chiomara).  Chiomara was the wife of Orgiagon.  And she was a noblewoman of the Tectosages.

Silver Coin of the
Tectosages Volcae

The Tectosages were a sept of the Volcae Celts and one of three Galatian tribes in Asia Minor who fought in the Galatian Wars against Rome.  The name Volcae has been translated to mean everything from “agile” to “river-people” to “battle-hawk” to “hero”.  But my favorite rendition is uolco-, “wolf” or “errant wolf” or “errant warrior”.  Maybe Volcae indicated a lone wolf.  Or a mercenary.  Whatever its literal interpretation was, it seems to have been a metaphor for “badass”.

When the Tectosages sacked Delphi in 600 BC, the shell-shocked survivors reported seeing huge, wolflike battle-greyhounds that fought beside the Celts in battle.  These may have been Irish Wolfhounds, or else dogs that looked like wolves.  This might be the situation from which the name Volcae derives.

What all this means is that Chiomara descended from a line of people who fought alongside wolves in battle and were known as such themselves.  Who were, like, comfortable with that idea.

Having had a couple wolf-hybrids as pets, I can tell you that, while they are real loveys with their doting Mama, they can get ugly when they’re in fighting mode.  And when they’re in fighting mode, you don’t want to be anywhere near them.

Translation: This Roman flunky really shouldn’t have messed with the Galatian queen.

The tribal name Tectosages approximates to “land grabber” or “claim jumper” (no, not the restaurant).  It originally indicated “possession-seekers”.

So, what we have here is a warrior-clan – possibly nomadic, certainly scary – who weren’t afraid to fight for what they wanted.  They may even have been hired or enlisted by others as mercenaries.  A bunch of real tough-guys, apparently.

Back to the present.  Or at least, to 189 BC.  During the Galatian Wars of that time, Gnaeus Manlius Vulso, a Roman consul who was victorious in a battle against Chiomara’s Tectosages, took a number of captives, including the chieftain Orgiagon’s wife, Chiomara.  And he put a centurion in charge of his captives.

Long story short: The centurion propositioned Chiomara.  She rejected him.  He raped her.

Apparently, he was ashamed of himself for that.  Or overcome with remorse.  Or whatever.  Sin in haste.  Repent in leisure.

To make himself feel better, he offered to ransom the ravaged queen back to the Tectosages.  So, he sent one of Chiomara’s personal slaves with a message.  Her countrymen grabbed some gold and got on a horse, meeting Chiomara and her shame-faced captor at the appointed place.

While the rapist, obviously not so overcome with shame that he had forgotten how to count, was tallying his ill-gotten gains, Chiomara signaled to her kinsmen.  The ancient chroniclers don’t agree on the signal.  Plutarch says that she nodded; while Livy, possibly the more practical of the two, indicates that she merely told them what to do in her native Galatian so the Roman rapist would not understand.  Either way, the message was, “Off with his head!”

Chiomara wrapped the centurion’s severed head in the folds of her dress, picked up the ransom money (one presumes), carried the head home, and threw it at her husband’s feet.  She said it was right that only one living man should have had relations with her.

‘Nuff said with the severed head, though, really.  I mean, how much speechifying do you need to do when you’ve got a severed head to throw at someone?

Medieval Illustration fromSir Gawain and the Green Knight

That brings us to a little ditty about a pseudo-celebrity who everyone in the Arthurian cast of characters would have known, either personally or by reputation.  That someone is Sir Gawain.  The story is Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.  And it goes something like this:

The Date: New Year’s Day.  Arthur and his Court are feasting and exchanging New Year’s gifts.  In ancient times, New Year’s Day was dedicated to Janus, a pagan god of new beginnings.  But in the Middle Ages, when Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was written, New Year’s Day was celebrated in March and coincided with the spring equinox, an ancient, pagan festival.  So, too, in the Dark Ages, which are also known as the Early Middle Ages, when Gawain would have lived.

The Challenger: A giant green man, fully armored and carrying an axe.  The Green Knight seems to be some weird combination of many things: the Celtic god of the hunt, Cernunnos; a late druidic survival; a Dark Age judge of sorts; a cephalophore; or a harbinger of death, like the Grim Reaper.

The Contestant: Sir Gawain.  The biggest, burliest, sometimes stodgiest, possibly not the brightest, but certainly the most loyal of Arthur’s knights.  Gawain was known variously through the ages as King Arthur’s first knight, bearer of his Imperious, Excalibur; a hothead; a chauvinist; a warrior; a matricide; and King Arthur’s nephew and/or Queen Guinevere’s cousin, depending on which chronicler you believe.  Chances are, he was a real combination of archetypes.  Like all of us.  Anyway, he was a fighter.  It’s interesting that one of Gawain’s names – and like everybody else in the fifth century, he had a lot of them – is Gonfal or Gonvallus, which renders as Gon Fál in Old Irish, meaning “Scythe Wound”.  Interesting little tie-in, don’t you think?

The Challenge: The Green Knight challenges anyone in the Court to play a game with him: Strike him once with his axe and let him return the blow a year and a day later.

The Result: Gawain accepts the challenge – I told you he wasn’t the brightest – strikes the Knight with his axe, and cuts off his head.  The Knight leaves with the reminder that Gawain must meet him a year and a day hence at “the Green Chapel” for him to return the blow.  I mean, the guy just casually picks up his head and walks away, like one of the cephalophore-saints I mentioned earlier.  Hmmm.  I wonder if one tradition grew out of the other?

The Symbolism: Well, there are more symbols in this fairy tale than you can shake a stick – or an axe – at (a girdle, a ring, a fox hunt), but I’m not going to get into all of them here.  What we’re primarily concerned with here is the Cult of the Severed Head.  Which means: 1) Weapon; and 2) Death.

Relief of Roman Axe; Brescia, Italy

The Axe: It is notable that Gawain does not strike the Knight with his own weapon, but must instead use the Green Knight’s own axe.  Obviously the choice of weapon here is important.  Axes were connected with druidic ceremonies and judicial trials by combat (very popular in fifth century law), and are still associated with the Grim Reaper and Death.  It is clear that we have here a ceremonial weapon, and not some rusted-out, old battle axe (like me).  The use of this particular axe renders this an ancient ritual…not a party game.

Green: Although green is often associated with springtime, fertility, and rebirth, in Celtic, the word for green was the same as that for grey: glas.  Both were associated with death and decay.  Perhaps the deadly nature of this contest has something to do with the knight’s green visage, attire, and name.

Contemporaries: This is interesting, too.  Apparently, Gawain wasn’t the only fifth-century stud to be offered this challenge.  Although Bricriu’s Feast, in which Cú Chulainn is challenged to a beheading contest, was written down in the eighth century, Cú Chulainn is often said to have been a fifth-century, Irish warrior, or else a near contemporary of Guinevere’s.  Lancelot and Perceval, both nephews of the king, like Gawain, were challenged to and accepted a role in beheading games.

The whole thing makes you wonder.  Why would such a barbaric ritual crop up as a holiday game in the middle of a medieval fairy tale court?  Unless, the author unwittingly stumbled across an old, written source outlining an archaic ritual and “updated” it to suit his medieval audience?

I believe that Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is a survival of an ancient custom preserved in Medieval Romance.  I think that what we have here is some kind of Celtic Blood/Fertility Ceremony, maybe a renewal of the earth.  Like: “The blood you spill here today renews the earth, the crops, and women’s fertility for the coming year.  And, by the way: Let’s do it all again in a year and a day from now.”

Perhaps it was a rare ceremony, the kind only performed in extremis, like in case of flood or when the crops had failed the previous year.  Or maybe it represented a preemptive strike.  So the crops wouldn’t fail.

I think the pagan ritual was mitigated in later times to a ceremonial nick on the neck at the spring equinox.  Thus, it survived to evolve into some kind of courtly game played as a farce during the Easter/Pentecost or New Year’s season.

So, what we have here is the ancient, pagan, certainly barbaric, Cult of the Severed Head, in action at the Court and during the time of Arthur and Guinevere…or Cwenmære, the Nightmare-Queen.