Like everyone who watches What We Do In The Shadows, I adore Guillermo. And I was thinking, the OG vampire hunter in D&D was… the Cleric. Literally, the class evolved from a Gygax home game where someone played a vampire, so to balance things out a Van Helsing type was introduced on the spot. At the time they were already thinking to add a priest type, a divine magic-user, and in the end they bundled the two concepts together. So in a sense, Turn Undead preceded the spells. (AFAIK but I don’t have an impeccable source to show you, so let me know if you do.) In any case, Turn Undead became a defining feature of Clerics, and if you had a vampire to fight, that’s who you’d call.
But in fiction, symbols that make vampires hiss and recoil just work, regardless of who’s holding them, and vampire hunters aren’t spell-slingers. They do their research, they gather their tools, and they fight skillfully and fast enough to stake a fucking vampire. What I’m saying is, by all rights they should be Rogues. Unfortunately, for many editions D&D got stuck on the notion that sneak attack targets “vital organs” and therefore doesn’t work on half the monster manual, and certainly not on undead. So while visual media started portraying vampire hunters as more and more agile and fast, to keep up with their foes’ inhuman speed in action sequences, D&D didn’t follow, and didn’t support or provide lore for vampire-hunting Rogues.
Then 5th edition did away with that pointless restriction, and Rogues can totally sneak attack undead, so by now, friends, players, DMs, we have NO excuse. There are many ways to build a badass vampire hunter in 5e, mind you, and I’m not saying you should pigeonhole anything, but also let’s not ignore the obvious.
A fast (Cunning Action), elusive (Uncanny Dodge), and skilled (a ton of proficiencies + Reliable Talent) bastard, who knows how to aim a stake to the heart (sneak attack). Now that’s a Vampire Hunter.
So as I was saying, Guillermo is a Rogue, and how can someone be so adorable and so badass at the same time, it’s amazing. And that’s what I like most, he’s a perfect example of a kind of Rogue that’s very dear to my heart: he’s unassuming.
That’s better than sneaky. He’s not in stealth mode, you can see him plain as day, and you take one look at him and don’t perceive him as a threat. OH BUT YOU SHOULD.
There’s an oft-quoted passage in Terry Pratchett’s Soul Music illustrating the mentality of Ankh-Morpork and the practical genius (or extremely efficient common sense, if you will) of Lord Vetinari:
“Shortly before the Patrician came to power there was a terrible plague of rats. The city council countered it by offering twenty pence for every rat tail. This did, for a week or two, reduce the number of rats – and then people were suddenly queuing up with tails, the city treasury was being drained, and no one seemed to be doing much work. And there still seemed to be a lot of rats around. Lord Vetinari had listened carefully while the problem was explained, and had solved the thing with one memorable phrase which said a lot about him, about the folly of bounty offers, and about the natural instinct of Ankh-Morporkians in any situation involving money: ‘Tax the rat farms.’”
So this actually happened (minus the taxing) in Vietnam under French colonial rule, aka French Indochina, around 1900. There was an outbreak of the bubonic plague, brought by rats which hopped on the new colonial trade routes along with all the people, and then shacked up in Hanoi’s brand new sewers – ironically built to improve the city’s hygiene. They found no predators there but plenty of food, so they multiplied like an invasive species. And they carried the plague, to both cities. (Hanoi, in typical colonial fashion, was separated to the “European city”, spacious and luxurious, and the Vietnamese one, with all the overcrowding you expect. But that was only topside: the sewer system ran through the whole city.)
So rats were immediately identified as a lethal threat, and locals were hired for the extremely unpleasant and dangerous task of going through the sewers and killing them. When that wasn’t enough (rats multiply… a lot), someone had a bright idea:
“To fight the infestation citywide, the colonial administration added vigilantes to its team of professional killers. Appealing to both civic duty and to the pocketbook, a one-cent bounty was paid for each rat tail brought to the authorities (it was decided that the handing in of an entire rat corpse would create too much of a burden for the already taxed municipal health authorities). Unfortunately, this scheme backfired. Despite initial apparent success, the authorities soon discovered that the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. As soon the municipal administrators publicized the reward program, Vietnamese residents began to bring in thousands of tails. While many desk-bound administrators delighted in the numbers of apparently eliminated rats, more alert officials in the field began to notice a disturbing development. There were frequent sightings of rats without tails going about their business in the city streets. After some perplexity, the authorities realized that less-than-honest but quite resourceful characters were catching rats, but merely cutting off the tails and letting the still-living pests go free (perhaps to breed and produce more valuable tails).
Later, things became even more serious as health inspectors discovered a disturbing development in the suburbs of Hanoi. These officials found that more enterprising but equally deceptive individuals were actually raising rats to collect the bounty. One can only imagine the frustration of the municipal authorities, who realized that their best efforts at dératisation had actually increased the rodent population by indirectly encouraging rat-farming. Evidently, this was not what the French had in mind when they encouraged capitalist development and the entrepreneurial spirit in Vietnam. Faced with such fraudulent schemes, the colonial regime scrapped the rat bounty program. In the end, the campaign failed miserably.”
What I find fascinating is that, as far as I can tell, the article I cited above is the one which introduced English speaking audiences to that incident, and it was written 9 years after Soul Music. So in all likelihood,Terry Pratchett didn’t know about it. (At least, that’s my best guess.) But he may have know similar ones, from fact or fiction.
There’s an anecdote that in Delhi under British colonial rule, the government offered a bounty for dead cobras. This led directly to cobra-breeding, and their population dramatically increased. [x]
I saw someone claim that the exact same thing with the rat tails happened in early 20th century Brazil, with the efforts of Oswaldo Cruz to battle the bubonic plague. I don’t know if it checks out or if it’s a myth. [x]
There was apparently an old joke about Ioannis Metaxas, the Greek fascist dictator (late 1930s), that he went to Bulgaria on a state visit, and saw forests everywhere and was very impressed, so he asked the King of Bulgaria “how do you do it? how do you get so many forests? we hardly have any!”. The King said “easy, I shot all the goats.” The dictator comes back to Greece and proclaims a bounty for goatheads. Immediately everyone starts breeding goats. [x]
From the Autobiography of Mark Twain: “Once in Hartford the flies were so numerous for a time, and so troublesome, that Mrs. Clemens conceived the idea of paying George a bounty on all the flies he might kill. The children saw an opportunity here for the acquisition of sudden wealth. … Any Government could have told her that the best way to increase wolves in America, rabbits in Australia, and snakes in India, is to pay a bounty on their scalps. Then every patriot goes to raising them.” [x]
And there’s probably more. What I didn’t find in any of them was taxing the farms. That’s probably all Pratchett.
A dark lantern was a type of hand lantern with a sliding shutter, so that the person holding it could adjust how much light it shed, if any. In the early modern period, it was very useful for thieves and assorted shady people lurking about in the dark. Court records even mention them as evidence: “he had a Dark-Lanthorn, and a bunch of Pick-lock Keys”, we read in an Old Bailey report from the 1680s. (The variant lanthorn was “folk etymology based on the common use of horn as a translucent cover”.)
In 1605, Guy Fawkes was caught red-handed under the Parliament with 36 barrels of gunpowder, a slow match, and a dark lantern, and today that lantern can be seen at the University of Oxford.
A 1787 fencing manual tells us that the shady people who carried dark lanterns would use them in combat to suddenly blind their opponent. I’m not sure we should take that too seriously, given that you need both hands to open or close the shutter while holding the lantern, which would make a Stab Surprise unpractical. Maybe it was a generic “grab literally anything in your off-hand” move, without mucking about with the shutter, or maybe the trick was “distract them and run”. Or it’s wholly made up, who knows. (I don’t trust anything fencing manuals tell us about the criminal underworld.)
The other type of people who found dark lanterns useful was cops. By the Victorian era they were more or less standardised, and policemen carried them on patrol.
Here’s a detailed description from Dark Lantern Tales: “Typical dark lanterns were about the size and shape of a small modern thermos bottle, and had a fount for oil in the bottom. A cap with a wick (or wicks) was mounted directly to the top of this reservoir, and in most models the cap also served as a port to fill it. In the cylindrical body of the lantern, a shutter could be rotated to block light from coming through a large “Bull’s Eye” lens on the front. At the top of the lantern was a vent that allowed exhaust from the flame to exit but retain the light. These distinctive vents were usually made with two metal disks that were stamped into flutes that taper to the middle. The effect is sort of a ruffled top to the whole device. At the back of the lantern were wire handles to protect the user from the hot sides (policemen and watchmen kept them lit for upwards of six hours while on patrol), and usually a clip to hang the lantern on the user’s belt. There are anecdotes that describe patrolmen keeping a lit lantern on their belt beneath their great coat to stay warm in very cold weather.”
Dark lanterns found their way in D&D too. In 5e, the list of adventuring gear includes “hooded lanterns” which do something similar, though you can only reduce the light, not hide it completely. Of course, for the groups that even bother with lighting conditions, the problem is more often solved by asking your friendly spellcaster to cast Light on a pebble or something, and hiding it or holding it at your convenience. And earlier, in 3.5, “Dark Lantern” was an Eberron prestige class (a modified assassin), and also a magic item from Tome of Magic which created shadowy illumination.
In a nutshell, Fritz Leiber invented the Thieves’ Guild, and D&D pilfered it. As for where Leiber got the inspiration, we can certainly speculate.
The OG Thieves’ Guild is located in the city of Lankhmar, where Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser (the OG fantasy rogue) operate. It’s first mentioned in the short story “Thieves’ House” (1943), which was later republished in the collections Two Sought Adventure (1957) and Swords Against Death (1970). Ankh-Morpork and its own Thieves’ Guild (which hilariously operates like a proper historical guild, recognised and regulated by the state) is inspired by Lankhmar, too.
“The house had a bad reputation. People said it was the den in which the thieves of Lankhmar gathered to plot and palaver and settle their private bickerings, the headquarters from which Krovas, the reputed Master Thief, issued his orders—in short, the home of the formidable Thieves’ Guild of Lankhmar.”
The Guild is powerful, merchants pay tribute to it, and Krovas the guildmaster just hates it when independent thieves attempt to make a buck, too. In the story, said independent thieves are our (anti-)heroes, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. And that notion of a trade monopoly obviously comes from historical guilds, whose entire point was that no one was allowed to practice a trade unless they were members of the relevant guild.
So where did Fritz Leiber get the idea of a Thieves’ Guild? We can’t know for sure, but his parents were Shakespearean actors and he was into Elizabethan theatre, and do you know the book The Rogues and Vagabonds of Shakespeare’s Youth? If Leiber did, he knew rogue literature, and that explains both Thieves’ Guilds (not the term, just the content, the term is all his) and Thieves’ Cant.
English rogue literature is an early modern (rather than anything medieval) and largely urban genre, which appears around 1600 with pamphlets describing the wicked ways and language of beggars, thieves, and conmen, all out to get the upstanding, respectable, and all too gullible good people of (usually) London. Around 1700, the first cant dictionaries appear, and Daniel Defoe’s Moll Flanders (1722) is probably the first novel of the genre. Meanwhile, there are a lot of plays that are at least inspired or informed by it, from Shakespeare himself to John Gay’s The Beggars’ Opera.
Now, if we take the early Elizabethan pamphlets at face value (and we should NOT, since all our sources were outsiders who aimed to shock – and titillate! – their law-abiding audience), thieves and beggars were organised in associations or fraternities with strict hierarchies. There were ranks and offices, and elaborate initiation rites and oaths to the devil, and codes of conduct and chains of command, and even kings of thieves with prima nocta privileges. And lots and lots of greed.
Most of that is bullshit, it’s made up or wildly exaggerated. Some of it makes a lot of sense, though, if you take out the fanciful stuff. A certain level of organisation is necessary for urban crime to work. After all, thieves need fences and beggars need real estate (I mean, they need to call dibs on their spots and somehow ensure that other beggars will respect that). And we should keep in mind that rogues (people without masters) and vagabonds (people without homes) were a world apart from respectable society: not only did they not enjoy whatever protections the state extended to its subjects, but they were considered criminal elements merely for existing without masters and without homes. So their only recourse was each other. A fraternity where all the thieves of London somehow worked together is mere fancy, but there was certainly a lot of mutual aid (if you were lucky) and internal exploitation (if you weren’t).
As we move on to the 1700s, London’s criminal underworld booms as much as the city itself, and the pamphlets (and now the newspapers!) have plenty of material to talk about. And for a hot second, there arguably is a thieves’ guild, run by a sinister guildmaster, a criminal mastermind who controls the thieves of London with one hand – and with the other, serves law-abiding people and retrieves their stolen property for but a small fee. His name is Jonathan Wild, and like Lankhmar’s Krovas, he hates it when independent thieves try to make a living in his city. And also he’s an utter bastard.
The infamous Thief-Taker General and his elaborate organisation may have been an inspiration for Fritz Leiber’s Thieves’ Guild, or perhaps it was second-hand from Professor Moriarty, who was also partly inspired by Jonathan Wild.
The Court of Miracles
In 1939, four years before “Thieves’ House” was published, a very important film came out: The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It included a colourful depiction of the Court of Miracles “where the scoundrels of Paris collect in a lair”, to quote another version. That must have been an influence, so let’s see what it was about.
The Court of Miracles really existed in Paris, and it wasn’t just one, there was a whole mess of them in the general vicinity – except that all this was happening in the 17th century and Victor Hugo took some liberties and projected it back to the 14th. And what he described was a heavily mythologised version of the real thing.
The real thing was, more or less, a collection of slums. It’s where the excess of people went in a city whose population had just exploded. Paris had become a sprawling metropolis again, coming back from the disasters of plague and war, and attracting people from all over. So where will all the rejected and marginalised go? It’s quite simple: if there’s no housing they’ll make a shanty-town and shack up there, and if there’s no jobs they’ll resort to begging and petty crime. What else are they supposed to do? Meekly starve? Fuck you, they won’t.
Out of that reality, we got a mythologised literary version of the Court of Miracles, much like the rogues of England were treated in the pamphlets. Again we read about complex hierarchies, a Prince of Thieves and a King of Beggars, elaborate initiation rites, and a secret thieves’ cant – the argot. And crucially, this underworld has a space of its own: a lair, a den, a headquarters. This feature doesn’t appear in English rogue literature, but Leiber’s Thieves’ Guild has it (it’s in the title!), and so does any D&D-related or inspired thieves’ guild, so I think it’s not a stretch to attribute it directly to the Court of Miracles.
The 1939 film, inheriting Victor Hugo’s anachronisms and liberties, portrays the Court of Miracles as a single, fixed, and secret place in the middle of medieval Paris (which had abruptly become the largest city in western Europe in the 1300s, but then the Black Death hit). The portrayal is stunning and memorable. The scene where the hapless Gringoire is asked to demonstrate his thieving skills by balancing on one leg on a stool and pickpocketing a mannequin full of little bells is iconic. This is the stuff that inspires whole genres, and I believe it did exactly that. The roguish side of Sword & Sorcery and Dungeons & Dragons owes a lot to English rogues and vagabonds, but we shouldn’t overlook their enormous debt to The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Meanwhile, in 17th century Istanbul, the Thieves’ Guild (“the corporation of thieves and footpads who… pay tribute to the two chief officers of the police”) and the Beggars’ Guild (which had a “sheikh”, i.e. a leader, a guildmaster) once joined a very official procession of the guilds on the city streets. Or at least, that’s what The Book of Travels says. But all the research I’ve read about Ottoman guilds considers this passage uncovincing. There certainly may have been thieves and beggars in the procession, but they didn’t have a legally recognised guild – an esnaf.
Spanish picaresque novels had been around since the mid-16th century, and Cervantes describes something like a thieves’ guild in Seville. A French jargon of thieves, along with assorted poetry and literature, is attested from the 15th century. Rogue characters/anti-heroes appear in Arabic literature from the 9th century, and the early emergence of big cities in the Islamic world leads to various associations of thieves and beggars in places like Cairo and Baghdad. A loose co-fraternity of rogues, the Banu Sasan, pops up in every corner of the Arabic world, from al-Andalus to India.
There’s a lot of material out there, and I barely scraped the surface. Our earth is big and rogues are the salt of the earth, and wherever there’s property there’s also thieves, and whenever a city raises domes and spires to the heavens, that city’s outcasts will converge to its underbelly and mingle and, well, associate. It’s only natural. If you decide to include a Thieves’ Guild in your D&D setting, your character backstory, or your worldbuilding, you can draw inspiration from anywhere, as long as you know where to look and are willing to do a bit of digging.
However, I don’t think Leiber or Gygax were too familiar with… most of that. So as far as the D&D origins of Thieves’ Guilds are concerned, I believe we should stick to Fritz Leiber, English rogue literature, the Court of Miracles, and whatever kernel of historical truth lies behind them. And there you have it.
The word coney(or coni, cony, etc) meant “rabbit”, and from there, presumably because rabbits aren’t the brightest animals, it came to mean “simpleton, naive person”. And in (thieves’) cant, coney-catchers were the rogues who scammed these persons, by cheating at cards or dice, or with various rackets and confidence tricks. So the coney, the rabbit, was the mark.
Alternatively, maybe the word coney-catcher came first, “by a metaphor, taken from those that rob warrens, and conie-grounds, using all means, sleights, and cunning to deceive them, as pitching of haies before their holes, fetching them in by tumblers, &c.”, and from there coney ended up meaning “mark” as well as “rabbit”.
Often a coney was someone from the country who just came to London, and wasn’t wise to the ways of the big city. Now that’s an easy mark. Rogues could spot them from a mile away, from how they dressed and talked and behaved (they must have looked so lost, imagine someone from a village crossing the London Bridge for the first time, an enormous bridge with a ton of buildings on it, and beyond that a sprawling cityscape: it must have been bewildering), and would immediately approach them and offer help, promise entertainment, etc. And then they’d fleece them.
So the rabbits in the picture, rolling dice and playing cards and getting hooked, are the victims that the rogues “caught”. And the top row, if I’m not mistaken, shows what’s in store for the rogues who get caught: the judge, the whip, and the gallows.
summary / translation of the 1924 short story “Ο Κάτω Κόσμος” (The Underworld) by Andreas Karkavitsas
A sailor comes back to his native island after many years on the sea, sporting a brand new suit, and as he’s walking home it starts to rain. He doesn’t want his new suit to get wet, it’s all he has. So he looks around, sees there’s nobody else on the road, strips naked, puts the suit in a bag, and keeps walking. He’s a sailor, he can handle some rain on his skin.
When the rain stops, he takes the suit back out and puts it on, and at that point he meets the Devil. (Technically it’s a devil, as in one of many demons.) The devil marvels how this man’s clothes are dry after heavy rain, out in the wilderness and with no shelter in sight. The sailor says “I know a trick”, the devil says “teach me your trick!”, the sailor says “only if you let me shag you”. The devil balks at that, since mortals have tricked him before. One time he transformed to a donkey to scare some children in a village, but the children caught him, rode him, and since there were too many of them to ride on his back, they shoved a stick up his ass and climbed on that too. Darn kids. But in the end the devil agrees. So the sailor shags the devil, and then tells him what he did to keep his clothes dry: he put them in a bag. That was all? The devil is furious but of course there’s nothing he can do, a deal’s a deal.
Years pass and the man dies, and since he’s a sailor, he naturally goes straight to hell. In front of the gate, there’s scores of people waiting to get in, all the fine society, lords, gentlemen, bishops. Behind the gate, there’s fire and brimstone and demons with pointy instruments. And on guard duty that day is that particular devil, who sees him and starts yelling “noooo, don’t let that one in, send him away, he’s the one who shagged me, he’ll shag us all!”. So the devils kick him out of hell.
The sailor then goes to heaven, Saint Peter wouldn’t let him in but he slips in anyway. It’s nice there, but it’s boring, so he starts stirring some shit up. He tells one saint “hey, it’s none of my business, but why aren’t you sitting next to Jesus? that Saint Anthony who got the seat of honour, methinks he suffered a lot less than you for our Lord!”. He keeps spreading discord like that, and soon there’s murmurs and complaints, and finally a huge brawl breaks out in heaven, saints pulling each other’s beards, harps breaking on heads, it’s a mess. God wakes up and he’s pissed, he grabs a bullwhip, whips them all to shape and then bellows “WHO STARTED THIS?”. Everyone points at the sailor, and god kicks him out of heaven.
So now the sailor is banished from heaven and hell, and he can’t go back to the land of the living because he’s dead. Now what? He scratches his head and says “you know what? fuck the lot of you”. He plucks all the hairs off his body, head, arms, chest, everything (he is apparently a very hairy dude), and he weaves them to a sail. He cuts off a tree branch that was hanging outside the wall of paradise, fashions it to a pole and sticks it to the ground. Then he pulls the sail over the pole, and pitches his tent right there in the void, between heaven and hell, fearing neither god nor devil.
And though I don’t know his name, I’ll pour one out for that man who showed us the way: when I die, I’ll be heading straight for my tent. So fuck heaven, fuck hell, and long live all the sailors!
[originally posted on tumblr; please note that this retelling is exceedingly liberal, and there’s not a single instance of the word “fuck” in the original]
Not really. The army was (and in some places, sadly still is) called in to suppress civil unrest from time to time, but regular police work was never their job. They were basically part-time riot cops with lethal weapons. That didn’t mean you could stop a random soldier and say “excuse me sir, this guy stole from me or whatever, please investigate and arrest him and take him to a judge”. Exception: armies were often sent to capture and/or kill rural bandits, but I consider that a special case. Rural banditry is a category on its own, very complicated, and these military operations often played out like civil war more than police work.
The classic example of policing without police is the medieval English hue and cry – the expectation was that when a crime is committed, the victim will cry out or someone else will spot it and cry out, and people will apprehend the criminals and bring them to justice. I say medieval, but it lasted well into the modern period. There’s nothing even vaguely resembling a professional police force in England before 1750, and it will take a long while before that evolves to what is now recognisable as a professional police force. (Which in turn will spread over many parts of the world, while another large part of the world will copy or inherit the Napoleonic model. I mean, it’s all very very recent, a 19th century thing.)
Now, and this may cause some understandable confusion, in many places (England included) there are offices that seem to perform some police functions. But they don’t constitute a police force. Sometimes their jurisdiction is tiny (a single village, or a few blocks in the city) and they have no coordination with colleagues elsewhere, sometimes their jurisdiction is larger and they can’t possibly keep track of what’s going on, sometimes they do patrols in their spare time without pay and still need to work for a living so please don’t expect much of them, sometimes they’re strictly nightwatchmen and no one’s there to “fight crime” during the day, sometimes they’re contractors who run a protection racket for all intents and purposes, sometimes they hold administrative positions and may or may not form a posse (that generally ends up being another gang) on their own initiative, sometimes they’re the armed guards of a specific person and will only “fight crime” against said specific person and their family and estate, and so on.
And even when you have professionals, people paid by the state to “keep the peace”, they’re often no more than intermediaries for the “hue and cry” process: the neighbours caught the pickpocket and brought him to the constable, the constable brought him to the judge, the judge sentenced him to hang, and the hangman pulled the rope. So who’s the criminal? A question for the ages.
So in any case, rule of thumb: when you read about sheriffs and constables and policemen (whether these are the actual terms or the English translations of offices from somewhere else in the world), if it’s 18th century or earlier, it’s NOT police as we know it today. It’s something else, less powerful, not centralised, with limited scope and duties, and often ENTIRELY optional.
These are some of the most famous female brigands of Italy. By coincidence, they were all born on the same year, and their criminal activities took place during and after the complete mayhem that was the Unification of Italy.
The first four photos are of Michelina Di Cesare (1841–1868), the next three are of Maria Oliverio (1841–1879), and the last two of Filomena Pennacchio (1841–1915), on the left, along with her two friends and accomplices Giuseppina Vitale and Maria Giovanna Tito.
In Italy, like in Spain, female bandits were uncommon but not unheard of, especially in such tumultuous times. These three women had very different reasons to become outlaws: Michelina was basically driven by poverty, Maria hacked her own sister to pieces with an axe because she “slandered” her (it’s pretty fucked up if you ask me, but that’s Honour™ for ya: talk shit, get brutally murdered), and Filomena got tired of getting beaten by her husband and stabbed him to death with a pin. So rather than stick around and get caught (or starve), they all chose a brigand’s life.
There’s a lot of complicated context here re: the political situation, but post-Unification brigandage in Italy is a whole field of history in itself, so I won’t get into it. Let’s just say that all three of them operated (more or less) against the new regime, being vaguely pro-Bourbon, and leave it at that. Though I should note that, much like Royalist highwaymen during the English Civil War or pretty much anyone during the Mexican Revolution, people often became robbers first and found a political justification later, especially if there was a faction willing to offer them support in exchange for doing some dirty work or another.
Behind the camera / posing for the camera
But I want to talk about the photographs themselves. These aren’t candid shots, they are photo-shoots, and I am endlessly fascinated by bandit portraits. It’s a whole genre, these portraits, there were tons of them taken in the late 19th and early 20th century, from South America to the Mediterranean and from Eastern Europe to China, wherever bandits thrived and photographers were around. (And I suppose with North American gunslingers too, but y’all already know about those, right?) The bandits stand in front of the camera and pose, rarely with a frown, often with a smile, always with a gun and just brimming with pride.
And I always wonder, what’s the story behind the picture? How did the photographer meet the bandit in the first place, and how did he feel directing a dangerous outlaw? (”Stand over there, head a bit to the right, hold the rifle higher, now hold still please.”) Was he scared? Excited? How did they come to an agreement? Who had to convince whom? And for that matter, who directed whom? Portraits are traditionally credited to the photographer, but any photographer worth his salt will tell you that it’s really a collaboration, and that they can’t possibly take what their subject won’t give.
So sometimes the whole thing was the photographer’s idea, perhaps backed by a newspaper or other publication. It would be too generous to call it “photojournalism”, it was mostly sensationalist tabloids looking for a quick buck. Other times the bandits went and hired a photographer entirely of their own initiative, to construct their public image by themselves and/or to keep the photos as a private memento. There are accounts of bandits basically kidnapping a photographer and marching him through the wilderness to their hideout, where he is treated like an honoured guest – and also forced to take their portraits, or else. Common props (other than guns) are bandoliers, knives, and various trophies. Sometimes they even take an action pose, pretending to be mid-fight, or hiding for an ambush. Sometimes it’s important to shoot on location and depict them in their element, commanding their realm (a very common moniker for bandits is “King of the Mountains”). The possibilities are endless.
And there’s just something so inherently boastful and defiant, to cheerfully pose for a portrait with a smile and a gun and a price on your head.
As for the photo-shoots of these Italian brigantesse, we know the story of two of them. The first one, of Michelina Di Cesare, was shot very professionally in a studio in Rome. Her photos circulated a lot in the press, and were used as propaganda for her, and her gang, and indirectly the Bourbon loyalists (who may have paid for them). That’s probably why she isn’t wearing her normal clothes, but a traditional peasant costume: she’s dressed up as a folk heroine. Sometimes bandits just had to be media-savvy.
The second one, of Maria Oliverio, was unusually taken after her capture (during which she was injured in the arm). It’s unclear whose idea it was, but she was sentenced to death and then pardoned by the king, her sentence commuted to life in prison. As for the third one, of Filomena Pennacchio and friends, we don’t know how it came to be but it’s pretty ironic, considering that Filomena eventually surrendered and collaborated, leading to the arrest of those same friends she posed with. She was sentenced to 20 years in prison, and eventually did 8.
Maria Oliverio’s post-capture photos (the second set) are remarkable. It’s hard to imagine that they were taken without the consent and supervision of the authorities, so I find it extremely strange that they are actual portraits, the kind which glorifies the bandit, rather than the standard gory post-mortem photographs which police so gleefully distributed after they killed (or executed) bandits. These aimed instead to demystify and ridicule and straight up defile the body, turn the person to a thing, strip the bandit from agency, dignity, sometimes even clothes. (Michelina Di Cesare, who was killed in battle, got that treatment too.) But that’s also a whole field of research in itself (just look up bibliographies for “the criminal corpse”, it’s… quite depressing, really), so I won’t get to it either. Perhaps Oliverio’s captors were vaguely pro-Bourbon too, and that accounts for the strangely flattering photo-shoot, who knows.
“From bases on the Barbary coast, North Africa, the Barbary pirates raided ships traveling through the Mediterranean and along the northern and western coasts of Africa, plundering their cargo and enslaving the people they captured.” [wikipedia]
Sometimes people get the impression that the pirates of Barbary were the only pirates and slavers in the Mediterranean, and everyone else was trying to trade peacefully, poor things. And I cannot stress enough how that is NOT the case. At the height of Barbary’s power, maritime raiding was normal, casual, and basically the default for pretty much everyone who sailed that sea, while buying stolen goods (including people) from pirates was a fundamental part of the economy.
Like, the English ship that carried the new ambassador to Istanbul and the ascension gift for the new sultan in ~1600 kept delaying “to take prizes, including some belonging to Ottoman subjects” – which is freaking hilarious. That’s how casual it was. Or, around the same time, the Grand Master of the Order of Saint John (aka the Knights Hospitaller) wanted to give a gift to the Pope, and offered 100 Turkish slaves, taken by piracy. No sweat.
Now, to be fair, the Barbary pirates (or corsairs – it’s complicated) made a living almost exclusively from piracy, whereas Venice and the Ottoman Empire etc also traded normally, and exported their own goods and all that. So a good comparison would be with the aforementioned Knights Hospitaller, who were sitting atop a massive slave market in Malta, and other than raiding ships and coastal settlements, did absolutely nothing productive. Of course, they had the pretext of holy war. But then again, so did Barbary, and neither was as adamant to protect their own and only fight infidels in practice as they were in theory.
Here are the reasons why we have (still!) a biased narrative where evil Barbary pirates disrupt Mediterranean trade all by their lonesome:
The primary sources are extremely uneven, for both facts and perspectives.
Perspectives: Western sources include many memoirs and testimonies of people who were enslaved by Barbary pirates, and then were freed or escaped. (Like Cervantes.) We have zero such memoirs by Muslims, and yet we know they were enslaved and sold and bought, ending up as slave workers in agriculture, or domestic slaves, or galley slaves. Same thing for memoirs of corsairs themselves. First person narratives are a huge deal.
Facts: So hey, you know how court documents are a super important source for anything crime-related? For that to happen, the courts need to keep documents, and they generally only do that when there’s a concept of legal precedents, and jurists/judges need to reference them later. Well, the Ottoman legal system held legal precedents SO high, that scribes scraped all the factual information off court cases (who did what to whom, where and when) and kept only the result that judges would need (“when Ottoman subjects of Christian faith fall prey to Ottoman pirates of Muslim faith, the state must compensate them by so-and-so”). And poor historians try to piece together what the heck happened to result in such a guideline. It ain’t easy!
Language: Comprehensive histories of piracy in the Mediterranean were written by people who couldn’t read Ottoman and Arabic documents at all, and didn’t have access to translations either.
Orientalism, duh. As Said summarised it, it’s all “Oriental despotism, Oriental splendour, cruelty, sensuality”, oh my.
There’s an emphasis on late 18th-early 19th century (when the Eastern Question (TM) arises, the Ottoman Empire has basically started to collapse and doesn’t even know it, and Barbary is like a relic stuck to practices that make increasingly less sense in the new balance of powers) – but you can’t extrapolate from that particular mess back to previous centuries, when the balance of powers was a giant clusterfuck.
So, to illustrate WHO exactly was committing piracy in the Mediterranean, I wrote a little song for you (with apologies to Cole Porter).
Turks do it, Greeks do it Pirates and privateers do it Let’s do it, let’s raid some ships
In Spain the best upper sets do it Arabs, Englishmen and French do it Let’s do it, let’s raid some ships
In Malta Knights of Saint John do it Not to mention corsairs Folks from up north do it Think of the renegades
Some Genoese in the breeze do it People say in Venice even geese do it Let’s do it, let’s raid some ships
Tunisians in Barbary do it Ottomans in the White Sea do it Let’s do it, let’s raid some ships
Fishermen, lords, rich and poor do it Christians, Muslims and Jews do it Let’s do it, let’s raid some ships
Corsicans in the Big Blue do it It will shock you, I know The navies too do it Isn’t that what they’re for?
Shipwreckers in shallow reefs do it All the sailors in this fucking sea do it Let’s do it, let’s raid some ships!
P.S. Couldn’t fit in the lyrics: Catalans, Albanians, Sicilians, Armenians, Algerians, Egyptians, Florentines, Moroccans, Flemings FROM THE TOP OF MY HEAD.
Diogenes of Sinope (c. 412 – 323 BCE) was like the Oscar Wilde of his time. His snark was immensely popular, and for centuries after his death, if you wanted to say something sarcastic and make people pay attention, you’d just go ahead and say it and attribute it to him. (Which is why it’s so hard today to determine what Diogenes actually said and what he didn’t.) Alternatively, you could write a book with Diogenes as the protagonist, maybe another Cynic as well, and use them as your snarky mouthpieces.
That’s what Lucian of Samosata (c. 125 – 180 CE) did, in his Dialogues of the Dead. These take place in Hades, and feature the philosophers Menippus of Gadara (3rd century BCE) and Diogenes, now dead, snarking from the Underworld and pumping the cynicism to eleven. And I remembered this wonderful satirical work while I was reading an old article in Dragon Magazine about Olidammara the Laughing Rogue, the classic D&D deity (in the Greyhawk pantheon) of thieves, beggars, and bards. It says:
“Shrines of Olidammara’s faith are far more common than temples and may be found in urban or rural areas. Usually the shrine is just a pile of stones or an outdoor alcove bearing his mark where worshippers can pour an offering of wine or leave a bit of tasty food and a few copper coins. It is not considered an affront to the god for someone truly poor to take these coins, although stories exist of misers being punished for daring to take what is not their due.”
This bit about poor people pilfering offerings from a god’s shrine was familiar. In Dialogues of the Dead, when Menippus dies, he gets immediately in trouble with Charon, the boatman, because he’s supposed to have coins for the fare and he emphatically doesn’t. (He’s a Cynic, being penniless is his thing.) When Charon insists to be paid, Menippus wisely explains that he cannot give what he doesn’t have, and when he gets frisked, all he has to show are lupin beans and a “Hecate’s supper”. Now lupin beans are basically livestock food, humans only resort to them when destitute. And Hecate’s supper? Well Hecate was the goddess of roads among other things, and she had shrines in street corners (particularly where three roads meet). People left offerings there every month “and these offerings were at once pounced upon by the poor, or, as here, the Cynics.”
It’s not clear what Hecate thought about this plundering of her shrines, or what people imagined she thought. It’s abundantly clear that the hungry didn’t particularly care. But Olidammara approves as much as Menippus (and Lucian), which is pleasing. And that’s not the only parallel.
2. The rich remember
Olidammara drops some aphorisms
“Hoarded gold is no treasure. A man who lives alone with all of his money in a vault is poorer than a penniless man surrounded by merriment. What is the point of money and fine things if you cannot use them to bring you happiness? Better to spend your gold on food, wine, and music than let your mouth, ears, and mind go numb from nothingness.”
“A cage of gold is still a cage. A man surrounded by valuable things may think he is happy, but if he cannot leave his home for fear of his possessions being stolen, and cannot touch them for fear they might break, he is not actually happy. Take the man’s things so he is no longer bound to them and can be free to live as nature intended.”
Meanwhile in Hades, Diogenes messages the living
To Menippus the Cynic: If mortal subjects for laughter begin to pall, come down below, and find much richer material; it is the best of sport to see millionaires, governors, despots, now mean and insignificant; you can only tell them by their lamentations, and the spiritless despondency which is the legacy of better days.
To the rich: O vain fools, why hoard gold? why all these pains over interest sums and the adding of hundred to hundred, when you must shortly come to us with nothing beyond the dead-penny?
and Shades of rich men file a complaint against Menippus
CROESUS: Pluto, we can stand this snarling Cynic no longer in our neighbourhood; either you must transfer him to other quarters, or we are going to migrate. Midas here, and Sardanapalus and I, can never get in a good cry over the old days of gold and luxury and treasure, but he must be laughing at us, and calling us rude names; “slaves” and “garbage,” he says we are. And then he sings; and that throws us out. In short, he is a nuisance.
MENIPPUS: All perfectly true, Pluto. I detest these abject rascals! Not content with having lived the abominable lives they did, they keep on talking about it now they are dead, and harping on the good old days. I take a positive pleasure in annoying them. Well, you scum of your respective nations, let there be no misunderstanding; I am going on just the same. Wherever you are, there shall I be also; worrying, jeering, singing you down. Yours was the presumption, when you expected men to fall down before you, when you trampled on men’s liberty, and forgot there was such a thing as death. Now comes the weeping and gnashing of teeth: for all is lost! You do the whining, and I’ll chime in with a string of KNOW THYSELVES, best of accompaniments.
3. And then they diverged
Of course, Olidammara isn’t all Cynic. Cynics rejected wealth and luxury altogether and snubbed everything not necessary for survival, in the name of (basically) independence. The Laughing Rogue, on the contrary, wants you to grab all the finer things in life with both hands, and have a good time.
“The kernel of Olidammara’s philosophy is that life should be enjoyed, for a life of misery and boredom is a life wasted. Mortals should laugh, enjoy the company of friends and the playing of music, taste good food, and drink good wine. Although he is not a hedonist and doesn’t believe that mortals should be, he knows that a lifetime of meat, fruit, wine, and song is better than a a life of bread, water, and silence (unsurprisingly he has no ascetic or monk worshippers). His faithful should treat music as the art it is and strive to be as skilled at it as their patron. People should make jokes and laugh when the joke is on them, and try to avoid misery, temperance, and solemnity, for they are the greatest poison to the soul. He encourages people to practice occasional mayhem not for its own sake but to add excitement to boring lives and rattle the self-built cages of materialists.”
And, to return full circle to Hecate’s supper, Olidammara is something more than that. He discovered a source of fulfillment, joy, and bliss that all the squabbling philosophers in the time of Diogenes somehow failed to grasp. That shifty thieving scoundrel is sharing.
Olidammara’s Aphorism: “What is good alone is better with others. Any pleasurable thing is greater when you can share it with someone else. A fine wine is sweeter when raised in toast to a friend. A romantic song is stronger as a duet. A good meal is more savory when shared with a hungry man. A memory is richer when reminiscing with someone who was there.”
And you know what? I’ll drink to that.
[All excerpts about the Laughing Rogue are from the article “Core Beliefs: Olidammara” by Sean K. Reynolds (Dragon #342, 2006). All excerpts of Dialogues of the Dead are from The Works of Lucian of Samosata, transl. Henry Watson Fowler and Francis George Fowler (1905).]