Large and Finely Modeled Roman Bronze Stag, 1st Century AD

A large bronze walking stag with head held up and antlers curving up; cast mark to the top of the tail with hole in center; head detaches and with crenelated edges for securing. 22.2 kg, 85cm (33 ½").

The piece could have been a decorative piece for a villa garden, as seen in examples from Pompeii, Herculaneum and the area surrounding Vesuvius. The stag, along with the doe, was also sacred to the goddess Diana, and is seen in statues of her, most notably the cult image of the goddess at Ephesus. The stag was also sacred to the Gaulish deity Cernunos who was shown as a human/stag hybrid and was adopted by the Romans who set up a number of altars to the god in the province, most notably that found beneath Notre Dame cathedral in Paris that was set up by a guild of boat men, and now in the Musée National du Moyen Age, and which provides the only epigraphic evidence for the god’s name, which means ‘the horned one.’

Watch the video about this artifact here


Arch of the Sergii

Pula, Croatia

29-27 BCE

The arch commemorates three brothers of the Sergii family, specifically Lucius Sergius Lepidus, a tribune serving in the twenty-ninth legion that participated in the Battle of Actium and disbanded in 27 BCE . This suggests an approximate date of construction: 29-27 BCE. The arch stood behind the original naval gate of the early Roman colony. The Sergii were a powerful family of officials in the colony and retained their power for centuries.

The honorary triumphal arch, originally a city gate, was erected as a symbol of the victory at Actium. It was paid for by the wife of Lepidus, Salvia Postuma Sergia, sister of the three brothers. Both of their names are carved in the stone along with Lucius Sergius and Gaius Sergius, the honoree’s father and uncle respectively. In its original form, statues of the two elders flanked Lepidus on both sides on the top of the arch. On either side of the inscription, a frieze depicts cupids, garlands and bucrania.

This small arch with pairs of crenelated Corinthian columns and winged victories in the spandrels, was built on the facade of a gate (Porta Aurea) in the walls, so the part, visible from the town-side, was decorated. The decoration is late hellenistic, with major Asia Minor influences. The low relief on the frieze represents a scene with a war chariot drawn by horses.


Url edit: @carstaires

The Carstairs family ring is a silver ring with a careful etching of the crenelations of a castle tower around it.

Cortana is a shortsword that has been passed down through many generations of the Carstairs family, having been in the family for many centuries.

A thick stone parapet protected the outer edge of the rampart, reaching as high as Sansa’s chin, with crenellations cut every five feet for archers. The heads were mounted between the crenels, along the top of the wall, impaled on iron spikes so they faced out over the city. Sansa had noted them the moment she’d stepped out onto the wallwalk, but the river and the bustling streets and the setting sun were ever so much prettier. He can make me look at the heads, she told herself, but he can’t make me see them (A Game of Thrones, page 748.)

What I find so powerful about Sansa’s storyline is that she is completely stripped of any type of external agency. She has no control over where she goes, what she does, how she looks, or even what she looks at. Her strategy is generally to submit to this, but to find any point of internal agency that she can, i.e., holding onto control over her self. The distinction between looking and seeing is all about external/internal. Sansa must comply to the external demands, but she does not concede her control over her internal self. She chooses to look north at the prettier landscape, she chooses not to see her father’s face in the head she is shown. In my opinion, this is one of the few Sansa scenes the show gets absolutely right, with the “how long do I have to look?” line because it capture how she is able to perform the external function demanded of her, but internally detach from it as a protective measure.

Happy Valentine’s Day @fairytalesandtimetravel!!! I had so much fun talking to you this month, though I apologize for how infrequent it got as the school year decided to slam everything down on me. Now this is a bit more St. Patrick’s Day than Valentine’s, but I loved your prompt and pulled in some of my own experiences as well ;)

“Doesn’t this country know it’s summer?” Emma grumbled as she pulled her beanie more snugly around her ears.

Her new beanie, made with genuine Irish wool (dyed green, since Mary Margaret said it matched Emma’s eyes), because it was the end of June and Emma had foolishly believed that she could wear summer clothes on this trip around the British Isles.

But apparently Ireland hadn’t received the message that the summer solstice had passed two days before; the rolling green hills were capped with low-hanging gray clouds, blocking any sunshine from warming the air. Everyone had bought out the gift shop’s supply of wool sweaters and scarves the night before, after the news report that the next few days were sure to be more of the same. As she dubiously eyed the path up to the castle, Emma had yet to decide if there was a constant drizzle or if it was just that foggy, but either way the weather was chilly and damp.

And the most infuriating thing of all? The island still managed to be one of the most beautiful places she’d ever been to.

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Bronze Bust of Sassanid King (Shapur II), Persia, 4th Century AD

The Sassanid King Shapur II is represented by a cast bronze torso which originally belonged to a composite statue that showed him majestically enthroned, his finely articulated hands resting on a sword (cast separately and now lost). He wears a high, crenellated, tripartite crown with ribbons attached at the back and his forehead is encircled by a diadem adorned with two rows of pearl beads. He wears a tight-fitting, long-sleeved tunic marked by sinuous rills; over this, he wears a belt and halter, both double-beaded with pearls and clasped at the waist with a large circular medallion bordered with the same gems. He is richly outfitted in large bead-and-pearl earrings, pearl bracelets, and a heavy pearl necklace with two round jeweled pendants, one intact, the other preserving traces of a sun disc.  

The Sassanids were a Persian dynasty originating in Fars, who established a powerful empire that extended throughout the Iranian plateau between AD 224-226 and AD 651, making their capital at Ctesiphon. In western chronicles, the most celebrated event in Sassanid history was King Shapur I’s victory in AD 260 over the Roman emperor Valerian, who was taken prisoner along with several thousand of his soldiers. Comparison with similar stepped, crenellated crowns on coin portraits supports the identification of this bust as that of Shapur II (reigned AD 309-379) whose glorious seventy year tenure fortunately had a Roman eyewitness, the historian Ammianus Marcellinus, an officer in the army of Emperor Julian the Apostate.



Tone on tone cream satin brocade in a large-scale floral, 1-piece having sleeveless boned back-lacing bodice decorated around arm openings with scalloped white chiffon, crystal beads, silver sequins and metallic threads, beaded triangle below scoop neck, center front skirt panel with beaded slits to knee and crenelated hem backed in lace ruffles and pleated silk, skirt back having outward facing pleats flanking center inverted pleats and train.

Carew Castle, Wales

The present castle, which replaced an earlier stone keep, is constructed almost entirely from the local Carboniferous limestone, except for some of the Tudor architectural features such as window frames, which are made from imported Cotswold stone. Although originally a Norman stronghold the castle maintains a mixture of architectural styles as modifications were made to the structure over successive centuries.

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“Walk with me,” Joffrey commanded, offering her his arm. She had no choice but to take it. The touch of his hand would have thrilled her once; now it made her flesh crawl. “My name day will be here soon,” Joffrey said as they slipped out the rear of the throne room. “There will be a great feast, and gifts. What are you going to give me?”

“I … I had not thought, my lord.”

Your Grace,” he said sharply. “You truly are a stupid girl, aren’t you? My mother says so.”

“She does?” After all that had happened, his words should have lost their power to hurt her, yet somehow they had not. The queen had always been so kind to her.

“Oh, yes. She worries about our children, whether they’ll be stupid like you, but I told her not to trouble herself.” The king gestured, and Ser Meryn opened a door for them.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured. The Hound was right, she thought, I am only a little bird, repeating the words they taught me. The sun had fallen below the western wall, and the stones of the Red Keep glowed dark as blood.

“I’ll get you with child as soon as you’re able,” Joffrey said as he escorted her across the practice yard. “If the first one is stupid, I’ll chop off your head and find a smarter wife. When do you think you’ll be able to have children?”

Sansa could not look at him, he shamed her so. “Septa Mordane says most … most highborn girls have their flowering at twelve or thirteen.”

Joffrey nodded. “This way.” He led her into the gatehouse, to the base of the steps that led up to the battlements.

Sansa jerked back away from him, trembling. Suddenly she knew where they were going. “No,” she said, her voice a frightened gasp. “Please, no, don’t make me, I beg you …”

Joffrey pressed his lips together. “I want to show you what happens to traitors.”

Sansa shook her head wildly. “I won’t. I won’t.”

“I can have Ser Meryn drag you up,” he said. “You won’t like that. You had better do what I say.” Joffrey reached for her, and Sansa cringed away from him, backing into the Hound.

“Do it, girl,” Sandor Clegane told her, pushing her back toward the king. His mouth twitched on the burned side of his face and Sansa could almost hear the rest of it. He’ll have you up there no matter what, so give him what he wants.

She forced herself to take King Joffrey’s hand. The climb was something out of a nightmare; every step was a struggle, as if she were pulling her feet out of ankle-deep mud, and there were more steps than she would have believed, a thousand thousand steps, and horror waiting on the ramparts.

From the high battlements of the gatehouse, the whole world spread out below them. Sansa could see the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya’s hill, where her father had died. At the other end of the Street of the Sisters stood the fire-blackened ruins of the Dragonpit. To the west, the swollen red sun was half-hidden behind the Gate of the Gods. The salt sea was at her back, and to the south was the fish market and the docks and the swirling torrent of the Blackwater Rush. And to the north …

She turned that way, and saw only the city, streets and alleys and hills and bottoms and more streets and more alleys and the stone of distant walls. Yet she knew that beyond them was open country, farms and fields and forests, and beyond that, north and north and north again, stood Winterfell.

“What are you looking at?” Joffrey said. “This is what I wanted you to see, right here.”

A thick stone parapet protected the outer edge of the rampart, reaching as high as Sansa’s chin, with crenellations cut into it every five feet for archers. The heads were mounted between the crenels, along the top of the wall, impaled on iron spikes so they faced out over the city. Sansa had noted them the moment she’d stepped out onto the wallwalk, but the river and the bustling streets and the setting sun were ever so much prettier. He can make me look at the heads, she told herself, but he can’t make me see them.

“This one is your father,” he said. “This one here. Dog, turn it around so she can see him.”

Sandor Clegane took the head by the hair and turned it. The severed head had been dipped in tar to preserve it longer. Sansa looked at it calmly, not seeing it at all. It did not really look like Lord Eddard, she thought; it did not even look real. “How long do I have to look?”

Joffrey seemed disappointed. “Do you want to see the rest?” There was a long row of them.

“If it please Your Grace.”

Joffrey marched her down the wallwalk, past a dozen more heads and two empty spikes. “I’m saving those for my uncle Stannis and my uncle Renly,” he explained. The other heads had been dead and mounted much longer than her father. Despite the tar, most were long past being recognizable. The king pointed to one and said, “That’s your septa there,” but Sansa could not even have told that it was a woman. The jaw had rotted off her face, and birds had eaten one ear and most of a cheek.

Sansa had wondered what had happened to Septa Mordane, although she supposed she had known all along. “Why did you kill her?” she asked. “She was god-sworn …”

“She was a traitor.” Joffrey looked pouty; somehow she was upsetting him. “You haven’t said what you mean to give me for my name day. Maybe I should give you something instead, would you like that?”

“If it please you, my lord,” Sansa said.

When he smiled, she knew he was mocking her. “Your brother is a traitor too, you know.” He turned Septa Mordane’s head back around. “I remember your brother from Winterfell. My dog called him the lord of the wooden sword. Didn’t you, dog?”

“Did I?” the Hound replied. “I don’t recall.”

Joffrey gave a petulant shrug. “Your brother defeated my uncle Jaime. My mother says it was treachery and deceit. She wept when she heard. Women are all weak, even her, though she pretends she isn’t. She says we need to stay in King’s Landing in case my other uncles attack, but I don’t care. After my name day feast, I’m going to raise a host and kill your brother myself. That’s what I’ll give you, Lady Sansa. Your brother’s head.”

A kind of madness took over her then, and she heard herself say, “Maybe my brother will give me your head.”

Joffrey scowled. “You must never mock me like that. A true wife does not mock her lord. Ser Meryn, teach her.”

This time the knight grasped her beneath the jaw and held her head still as he struck her. He hit her twice, left to right, and harder, right to left. Her lip split and blood ran down her chin, to mingle with the salt of her tears.

“You shouldn’t be crying all the time,” Joffrey told her. “You’re more pretty when you smile and laugh.”

Sansa made herself smile, afraid that he would have Ser Meryn hit her again if she did not, but it was no good, the king still shook his head. “Wipe off the blood, you’re all messy.”

The outer parapet came up to her chin, but along the inner edge of the walk was nothing, nothing but a long plunge to the bailey seventy or eighty feet below. All it would take was a shove, she told herself. He was standing right there, right there, smirking at her with those fat wormlips. You could do it, she told herself. You could. Do it right now. It wouldn’t even matter if she went over with him. It wouldn’t matter at all.

“Here, girl.” Sandor Clegane knelt before her, between her and Joffrey. With a delicacy surprising in such a big man, he dabbed at the blood welling from her broken lip.

The moment was gone. Sansa lowered her eyes. “Thank you,” she said when he was done. She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.

Sansa VI, A Game of Thrones.

wagner1994  asked:

What is/are your favorite ASOIAF chapter(s) except the Dornish chapters?

EXCEPT the Dornish ones? I mean be it known “The Princess in the Tower” owns my ass. But if you insist. This is in no particular order

Brienne VI in AFFC 

“A daughter.” Brienne’s eyes filled with tears. “He deserves that. A daughter who could sing to him and grace his hall and bear him grandsons. He deserves a son too, a strong and gallant son to bring honor to his name. Galladon drowned when I was four and he was eight, though, and Alysanne and Arianne died still in the cradle. I am the only child the gods let him keep. The freakish one, not fit to be a son or daughter.”

Cersei VI in AFFC (I think that’s this one)

This is just…I love the exploration of POV bias here. It’s the one where she arms the Faith and is just so up her own ass about how fantastic she is and then she thinks she’s getting all her insults past Marg and junk. She’s such a fucking asshole, it’s great.

Jaime I in AFFC

The one where he’s standing vigil and kind of hallucinating. There’s just this absolutely wonderful, lyrical quality to the writing and it perfectly sets up his journey that he’s about to go on.

Eddard X in AGOT

ToJ fever dream, again with a lyrical quality, but the way that it’s utilized to frame the tension of internal and external honor is just…ugh. Kill me. It’s also his rather telling conversation with Cersei.

Sansa VII in ASOS

What do I want with snowballs? She looked at her sad little arsenal. There’s no one to throw them at. She let the one she was making drop from her hand. I could build a snow knight instead, she thought. Or even …

Cat X in AGOT

She was no stranger to waiting, after all. Her men had always made her wait. “Watch for me, little cat,” her father would always tell her, when he rode off to court or fair or battle. And she would, standing patiently on the battlements of Riverrun as the waters of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone flowed by. He did not always come when he said he would, and days would ofttimes pass as Catelyn stood her vigil, peering out between crenels and through arrow loops until she caught a glimpse of Lord Hoster on his old brown gelding, trotting along the rivershore toward the landing. “Did you watch for me?” he’d ask when he bent to bug her. “Did you, little cat?”

It’s not like there aren’t others I can gush about, but I’d say these sprang to mind without much thought at all.


Santa María Magdalena de Pazzis Cemetery – Old San Juan, Puerto Rico ­ – 1863 by Manuel Díaz on Flickr.

 The cemetery is located outside the walls of San Felipe del Morro Castle.

 1.  Cupola of the cemetery chapel with one of El Morro Castle’s sentry boxes in the background.

 2. The cupola seen between one of El Morro’s rampart crenels.

Chicago gothic
  • They built a secret machine under City Hall to make the city run, built it in the 1950s out of brick and iron and steam.  They feed it promises and money, and that’s not such a price to pay, to keep the machine running, to make the city run.  It only devours its own keepers.  It only gets that hungry once in a while.  Everybody knows it’s the machine that makes the city run.  Nobody knows how to turn it off.

  • You know somebody who knows somebody who knows where Al Capone is buried.  There are mobster mansions and legends of old shoot-outs everywhere, if you know where to look, but you don’t go looking.  Ghosts are for tourists.  You know where to look and you don’t go looking.  You don’t ever look.

  • You can’t trust the weather.  You check every morning to find out what season it is.  Yesterday, an enormous snowman melted in the eighty degree heat.  Today the flowers are all caked in three inches of frost.  In January, dead leaves skitter before autumn winds and spring crocuses bloom.  In April, you walk around in shorts in the middle of a blizzard.  You hold out hope for August.  Everybody says that snow in August is a myth, like the ghosts.  You’ll wear shorts in August in the snow anyway.

  • The river flows backwards now, most of the time, because we made it.  In August when it doesn’t snow, it rains, enormous clattering thunderstorms with lightning that strikes the tops of buildings again and again and again, fit to flood, and the river remembers what it used to be.  It flows backwards into the lake, just for a little while.  The lake always remembers.

  • The top six floors of that building are seventy years old, gray crenelated stone and brick.  The ground floor was only just built last week.  The elevators are new, but the stairwells are old, with pipes that creak like the old factory machines that used to make bread and fabric and paper.  Nobody takes the stairs.

  • You’ve never gone down to where the stockyards used to be.  They say the screams still linger in the air.  You wouldn’t know.  You don’t want to know.

  • This city burned to the ground once.  It was a sacrifice, a cleansing of all the history before.  They slaughtered thousands of animals a week and the streets ran with blood.  The mob spread blood and alcohol all around, but in the 1950′s, they built a machine under city hall to run the city and everybody pretends that at least, at least the machine keeps the city from needing blood.  When you hear a gunshot, you turn your head and don’t read the paper tomorrow morning.

  • You’ve never seen the monsters, so they must not exist.  They mustn’t.  If they do, then they’re down on Lower Wacker Drive or in the dark shadow-areas beneath the L tracks, bound by iron on all sides, or in the old post office, staring out and watching as hundreds, as thousands of cars go by.

  • You can’t trust the weather.  On foggy days, the clouds close in on all sides and disappear the tops of all the new chrome-and-steel skyscrapers.  On good days, they all come back when the fog lifts away.

  • This is the only real city.  New York is a story and all the people are made of metal and grime.  Los Angeles is a snowglobe fairyland and the people are plastic and suntan lotion covered in shine.  Chicago is real.  Everything that happens here is real.  Chicago is made of blood and cattle meat and stone.  Especially blood.

‘Hearing Voices’ - The Fairy Glen - Isle of Skye by Gavin Hardcastle - Fototripper
Via Flickr:
Imagine the chills I felt as for the second time I heard voices in the Fairy Glen - Scottish voices. This was my second visit to this mystical and enchanted Glen on the Isle of Skye on Scotland. The day before I felt sure I could just hear a faint conversation but as I stood atop the hill to survey the surrounding area not a soul could be seen. On the second day I’d completely forgotten about the mystery voices until once again they wafted my way. I couldn’t quite make out the words as they seemed to fade in and out, so I made a concerted effort to try strain my ears and listen harder. Again, the voices gently lapped over the crenellated hillocks and as I prepared to by awed by the magical whisperings of otherworldly fairies I finally heard this clear pronouncement. “Frae Fecks sake man, get yer feckin shayte together and pass me that feckin stack!” Magical, truly magical thought I. To this day I’m convinced it was the fairies and nothing to do with the middle aged man and boy working on a gate repair about half a kilometer away from the Glen. Enjoy Gavin Hardcastle

As I realized what I was looking at, through the rain and the past the traffic, I swallowed hard.  It was a stone fixture six stories tall, with crenelations on the roof and balconies, stone gargoyles at the corners and iron grilles on the windows. The entryway had wide stone stairs like a courthouse, with statues of rearing horses with wild manes on either side.  The name of the institution was etched into the stone above the doors.  The Brockton Bay Central Bank.  A virtual castle.


“In twenty minutes or so, we’re going to be leaving there, tens of thousands of dollars richer, the adrenaline rush of victory pumping through our veins,” Lisa’s voice was barely above a whisper, “Now tell me.  Can you visualize that?”

Not really.

“Yes,” I tried.

You’re talking to someone with a lie detector that should be better than Armsmaster’s. Half truths have been fine so far, but be careful.

Unless of course Lisa already knows.

“Liar,” she said.  Then she winked at me, “It’s okay.  An hour from now, you’ll be rolling in money and laughing about how pessimistic you were.  Promise.”

Told you so!

So is Taylor going to freak out internally about Lisa catching her in a lie?

Lisa pulled the van around to circle the block, then pulled into an employee parking lot behind a restaurant.

Apparently not so we can see it, at least.