Cybele

On March 22, with spring and the sailing season getting under way in the ancient world, one of the festivals that would have been celebrated was that of the Great Mother Goddess, Cybele.

The following excerpt is from the first Publius Ovidius mystery, Poetic Justice. Freshly-arrived in Tomis, the town where he was exiled, our hero Ovid takes part in the local celebrations, going to the harbour with his friend Avitius and servants Baucis and Philemon:

The ship reached the quay and a procession lined up to escort the pine tree to the Temple of Cybele. Ranks of men in togas and Greek robes led the way, then some shaven headed priests carried the tree in its own special transport, a box with carrying poles attached. Behind were dancers, and the rhythmic clashing of tambourines was soon heard as the procession came near.

It was quite a small tree, thought Ovid, as the procession marched past. They really should have fixed it more firmly in the box, it was lurching from side to side quite violently, the green branches occasionally dipping as though to brush the hands of the crowd as arms stretched out to it. He hoped the goddess would be pleased, though this seemed an inadequate offering for a goddess as demanding as Cybele. The prayer from the end of Catullus’ great Attis poem ran through his mind,

Great goddess Cybele, lady of Dindymus,

Let all your raging be far from my home, mistress,

Make others run wild, drive others to madness.

“I really don’t need that sort of madness in my life,” thought Ovid soberly. “The madness of ecstasy, of a complete surrender to the gods. The Great Mother of Samothrace would not be satisfied with anything less than a couple of bulls and some ecstatic self-mutilation from her priests.”

Memories from the disturbing ceremony were still fresh in his mind, and Ovid couldn’t help a shudder. One day he must ask Baucis and Philemon how they had reacted. Maybe.

As the procession went in up the hill, the crowds fell in behind it and shuffled along in time to the tambourines with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Baucis was thoroughly enjoying herself, swaying and clapping as she thumped her feet down, and Philemon maintained a dignified march while looking strangely distant from the whole thing. Ovid let the noise wash over him, but there was a rhythm under the crowd’s constant noise that began to intrigue him. He identified the lighter metallic clashes coming from the tambourines ahead of him, with a gritty trampling of many feet just a moment later. As he focused on these sounds, he lost awareness of his surroundings: the noise enveloped him, and he let it carry him. He was surprised when the crowd came to a halt. The small market square of Tomis was full and everyone faced north. It took him some time to see that the modest building in front of them was the temple of Cybele.

“The tree is being presented to the Goddess,” whispered Baucis. “We have to wait and see if she accepts the offering.”

Cybele did not keep them waiting. Scarcely had Baucis stopped speaking when one of the priests came out on to the top step of the temple — and Ovid had to crane his neck to see the man even so — and cried out in Greek, “The goddess is gracious!”

And with that, the crowd went wild. Hugs and tears and cries of thanks poured from Ovid’s neighbours and many people actually jumped up and down. Even Avitius might have wiped his eyes and Ovid was unsurprised to find that his cheeks were wet with tears that he could not remember shedding. The crowd started to disperse, splitting in two at the entrance to the marketplace and dancing down the road towards the line of bars that lined the road on either side. Their own small party was carried away, and they went where they were taken, until the numbers thinned to the point where they could choose their own way.

“Only one place to go now,” said Avitius. “Let me stand you all a drink.”

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