The Tale of Gycia of Chersonese

(taken from Constantine Porphyrogenitus, in the era of Diocletian)

The king of the Bosporus, Asander, made this plot to conquer the city of Chersonese. (He wished revenge on the city, for the Chersonese army had humiliated his soldiers in battle.) Hearing that Lamachus the president of Chersonese had a fair daughter named Gycia, the king proposed that his eldest son should marry her and so put an end to the hostility between the two kingdoms. The Chersonites agreed, but only on the condition that the king's son must come and live at Chersonese, never returning to visit his father or setting foot again in the kingdom of Bosporus. So it was agreed; Lamachus gave his consent, and the prince came to Chersonese and was married to Gycia.

Lamachus was a wealthy man. Gold and silver were his, maidservants and manservants beyond the counting, and beyond the counting also were his beasts: horses and cattle, sheep and goats. His house was a marvelous thing, bigger than the palace of King Asander; he welcomed the prince to it with pride, knowing how it shone by comparison. This house took up four whole wards of the city in length and breadth, had its own postern in the city wall and four towered gates with fair wickets through which Lamachus' shepherds and grooms brought his herds in every night. Indeed, each kind of beast came in by its own gate. But the greatest treasure of his house was his daughter, Gycia.

Only in length of years was Lamachus not blessed by the gods. Two years after Gycia was married, he died and left her alone with the prince, master and mistress of all that wealth.

A further year passed. Now Zethus son of Zethon was the president of Chersonese, and Gycia came before him with a petition. She was not desirous of making a display, but wished to keep her father's memory bright; she asked grace of the elders of the city, that she might yearly all her life long make a feast on the anniversary of Lamachus' death. There would be a holiday for all the people in the city, and all the men of Chersonese, their wives, children and households would lay aside their work, make merry and dance, each in their own wards. In this proposal she was encouraged by her husband the prince, she said, and the two of them would pay all the expenses of the feast . . . and in this proposal, the city elders granted her wish and blessed her.

But her husband's approval was all a scheme. In secret, he was conspiring to destroy Chersonese.

The first feast was held and was a great success, and the prince laughed in his heart and praised his wife. For he had already sent a trusty slave to his father's kingdom, with this message: "From time to time, upon the pretext of bringing me presents, send me ships with sturdy young soldiers disguised as the rowers. Let them wait at Symbolon, and I will bring the soldiers and the presents alike into Chersonese. Then in daylight in the sight of all, I will send the young rowers away and they will hide till dark in the meadows nearby, and then I will bring them round by sea to the harbor of Susa and let them in by the postern gate."

So they did. A few young men at a time, he smuggled soldiers into the house, and in time he had two hundred Bosporans hidden in his wife's cellar--only waiting for the annual feast to burst forth, burn and slay, and no loyal Chersonite in the house knew of it or even suspected.

Now a slave-girl, trusted by Gycia, had been lazy at her work and was shut up with her spinning as a punishment. By chance, the chamber she was locked into was directly above the cellar full of soldiers. In spinning she happened to drop her spindle-whorl and it rolled into a hole in the pavement; to reach it, she pulled up a brick, and through the hole she saw armed men playing at knucklebones silently beneath her. So, equally silently, she put back the brick and when she was released, she brought Gycia to the room and showed her the sight.

Then Gycia, saying that the slave-girl's offense was foreordained of Heaven that this treachery might be laid bare, took her back into yet closer confidence and commanded her to keep the secret . . . but she herself told two trusty kinsmen the whole matter. These summoned the city elders to a private meeting, bidding them send three good men of ability to do as Gycia commanded, for the good of all Chersonese. All this, they swore, was a weighty matter, and of great moment to the state.

When the three men came, she first made them swear (in the name of the elders and the city's folk) that when she died, she should be buried in the midst of Chersonese. This was a hero's burial, for common folk in Greek cities were always buried outside the walls; only heroes were laid to rest in tombs within the polis. After they so swore, she told them of the soldiers, and said she had a plan. They were not to forego the approaching feast, but to celebrate with moderation . . . so she would feign to seem tired on that day and go to her bed early, and they would pretend to do the same, as would every servant she had. But really they were all to hurry outside, and while the prince was gloating over the treachery to come, they were to pile wood around the house of Lamachus and stand by with kindled brands and drawn swords. Then, she said, she would come out last of all; and she would tell them just what to do.

The feast-day came. All over Chersonese, the citizens danced and reveled in their wards. In the house of Lamachus, Gycia vied with her husband in pressing wine upon all; only she had bade her chambermaids be sober and herself drank watered wine from a purple goblet but plied her husband withal. So when the citizens appeared weary she made her husband go to rest before the usual time; this he did gladly but had not dared seem eager himself to suggest. He laid himself down in his wife's bed and pretended to be sound asleep, and while he snored loudly, Gycia and her maids stole around the house, locking all its different doors and taking away the keys. And they took all of Gycia's jewels and money, donning the jewelry as if for the revels and hiding the coins in the folds of their garments. Last of all, Gycia locked her bedroom door. Then she and her maids went quietly out through the great gate and gave the citizens the signal to compass the house with fire. And the house was burnt and everything within it.

When the grateful citizens of Chersonese wished to rebuild her beautiful house for her and refurbish it with all its former treasures, Gycia would not allow it. Rather she bade them make a dunghill of the place where such treachery was plotted. And the site is called the look-out of Lamachus until this day, but the citizens raised two statues of brass in the city street, to praise Gycia who saved them all but spared nothing of her own. One showed Gycia in modest attire, revealing to the people her husband's plot. The other showed her in martial array, attacking the plotters. Below these the tale was written, and whoever in Chersonese wished for the fame of loving fair virtue, would vie to clean the letters and make clear the writing.

Now after some time had passed and Stratophilus son of Philomusus was chief ruler of Chersonese, Gycia in her great wisdom wished to make trial of the Chersonites, whether they would remember their oath and bury her in the midst of the city. So she took counsel with her maids and feigned to be dead; and her maids mourned her and spread the word that she had died and asked in what place she should be buried. Whereupon the Chersonites took no account of their oath, but carried her without the city to bury her. And when the bier was set down at the place of tombs, Gycia sat up and spoke: "Is this," she asked, "your promise under oath? Is this how you keep your word?" Then the Chersonites, shamed by their own ill-faith, prayed her to pardon their misdeed and to cease from reproaching them. So they swore a second oath to bury her in the midst of the city and this indeed they kept; for during her own lifetime they all worked together, set up her altar-tomb in the marketplace and raised her a third statue plated in gold, which they placed by the tomb-door in memorial. There it stood until the city itself had perished.

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