Hey guys, tonight we begin with the
bizarre, ambitious, and sometimes
eyebrowfree world of medieval beauty
standards. A world where the goal wasn't
to look healthy, but rather like someone
who'd just been politely exercised. So,
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Now, dim the lights, maybe turn on a fan
for that soft background hum, and let's
ease into tonight's journey together. In
the medieval world, looking pale wasn't
a sign that you needed more sleep. It
was a fashion statement, a social flex,
a silent announcement to the world that
said, "I am too rich to ever see the
sun. Thank you very much."
Unlike today, where a healthy glow might
suggest yoga, smoothies, or a trip to
the coast, medieval beauty flipped the
script. Tan skin, that meant you worked
outside, which meant you were poor,
which meant gasp, manual labor, and
nothing said not beautiful in the 14th
century, like knowing how to milk a cow.
So, the paler you were, the higher your
perceived status. And when we say pale,
we don't mean a soft ivory glow. We're
talking translucent
porcelain with vascular undertones.
Skin so light it looked like you might
have been recently startled by a ghost
or were a ghost. Of course, nature
doesn't always cooperate, especially if
you were born with an actual working
circulatory system. So, people helped it
along. Noble women and even men
occasionally would apply white lead
powder to their faces. It provided that
signature corpse chic glow and as a
bonus slowly poisoned you. But beauty
has always had its price. Some would use
vinegar soaked cloths to bleach their
skin. Others applied a mixture of
crushed pearls and egg whites which not
only lightened the face but also had the
side effect of making one's cheeks feel
like a stale omelette.
Veins were sometimes painted onto the
arms and chest using blue pigment to
simulate delicacy because nothing says
noble like pretending your skin is about
to split open. Even literature got in on
it. Romantic poems described women as
pale as milk, white as snow, and once
one as the moon in winter, which is a
nice way of saying she looks like she
might faint. I love it.
This pale aesthetic wasn't just about
beauty. It was shorthand for class,
purity, and complete economic
disengagement with agriculture. If you
could afford to be fragile, you were
winning. Beauty in the Middle Ages often
required commitment. And by commitment,
we mean a slow, decorative form of
chemical warfare on yourself.
Because for those striving to achieve
that prestigious pale complexion, nature
just wasn't enough. So they reached for
makeup, specifically lead based white
face powder. Yes, lead, as in the thing
we now seal off old buildings for. But
back then it was considered cutting
edge. The result was a smooth, pale,
matte finish. The medieval equivalent of
highde foundation. It made the skin look
flawless and eventually feel very not
flawless. White lead powder was made by
combining vinegar and metal, then
allowing it to corrode into a white
crust that could be ground into a fine
powder.
Apply that daily and voila, you looked
like a luminous, delicate aristocrat
with a secret death wish. And if your
skin began to flake, blister, or fall
off in small diplomatic chunks, even
better. It meant the makeup was working.
Probably this wasn't a one product
routine either. Many added mercury based
rouge for color or chalk dust for more
staying power. Egg whites were brushed
over the face for a smooth glazed look.
Basically, if it came from a barn or an
alchemist shelf, someone had rubbed it
on their face in the name of elegance.
The downside, other than the obvious
slow poisoning, lead based products
caused everything from chronic fatigue
and skin ulcers to hair loss and
premature death, which is not listed on
most modern skinincare labels. But the
fashion endured
because if the choice was between dying
slowly and being mistaken for a peasant,
nobility often chose the scenic route to
the grave. Men weren't always immune
either. Some male courtiers also used
powders or skin treatments, especially
in the later medieval and early
Renaissance courts, where image mattered
almost as much as lineage, or at least
as much as smelling less terrible than
your rival.
Of all the medieval beauty trends, the
obsession with high foreheads may be the
most eyebrow raising, literally, because
people were removing their eyebrows for
it. A tall, smooth, uninterrupted
forehead wasn't just fashionable. It was
considered elegant, intelligent, and
divine. It was the architectural marvel
of the medieval face. The ideal forehead
said, "I spend my days reading psalms
and looking pensively out of castle
windows, not I own a shovel."
To achieve this noble look, women went
to extreme and frankly itchy measures.
Eyebrows were plucked out completely and
sometimes even scalp hair was removed
inch by inch to push the hairline
further back. This wasn't a trim. This
was a full-on forehead expansion
project. Medieval grooming manuals
advised women to use tweezers, hot
cloths, and depilitary creams made from
things like cat dung, quick lime, or
vinegar soaked leeches, all in the name
of showcasing a forehead that could
double as a sundial. The results were
striking.
Portraits from the time show women with
serene expressions and foreheads so vast
you could host a joust on them. Combined
with pale skin and soft facial features,
this highdome aesthetic became shorthand
for refined beauty. It wasn't all about
the face either. Fashion supported this
look. tight fitting hoods, wimples and
hennins, those famous cone-shaped hats,
all helped pull the hairline up, or at
least hide the part where your eyebrows
used to live.
And this wasn't just some isolated
castle trend. From England to France to
Italy, noble women leaned into the high
forehead style, while artists and poets
reinforced it by praising women whose
faces began somewhere near the crown of
the head. Of course, not everyone could
afford the time or tools to pluck
themselves into perfection. So, in a
moment of medieval ingenuity, some women
faked it by drawing their new forehead
slightly higher and covering the rest
with headbands or veils.
That's right. The Middle Ages had their
own version of contouring.
It just involved a lot more fabric. In
medieval Europe, eyebrows weren't just
underappreciated.
They were actively eliminated.
Modern trends may celebrate bold brows,
feathered arches, and Tik Tok tutorials,
but in the 14th and 15th centuries,
eyebrows were seen as unnecessary facial
clutter. To achieve the ideal look,
women plucked their eyebrows into near
non-existence or erased them entirely.
Why? Because a bare smooth forehead was
considered elegant and refined, and any
sign of actual hair growth interrupted
the aesthetic.
Eyebrows were basically seen as stubborn
weeds on the garden of the face.
Some went even further and shaved the
brow area completely, ensuring that not
a single strand interfered with their
alabaster highd glory. It's the sort of
commitment that would make modern beauty
influencers blink twice, mostly because
there were no brow pencils to draw them
back in. To remove the brows, medieval
women use tweezers, wax, pummus stones,
or for the especially brave, mixtures
containing quick lime, vinegar, or
arsenic. Yes, arsenic. Because nothing
says dedication to your look like
risking mild facial melting. This was
more than just a passing fad. Art from
the period, from illuminated manuscripts
to oil portraits, confirms the trend.
Noble women are frequently depicted with
smooth foreheads and expressionless eyes
framed by nothing but skin. The result
is either serene or slightly alien.
Depends on the lighting.
Interestingly, the no brow trend wasn't
entirely uniform. In some parts of
Europe, thin or lightly arched brows
persisted, especially as influences from
the Middle East and Byzantine Empire
filtered through trade and war. But by
and large, the message was clear. If
people can see your eyebrows, you're
doing it wrong. And this wasn't just for
women. Men, especially those close to
court life, occasionally trimmed or
groomed their brows as part of a larger
aesthetic of refinement,
though full removal was rare among
males, unless they'd lost them in a
particularly heated theological debate.
What this all tells us is that medieval
beauty ideals weren't about looking
natural. They were about looking
curated, symbolic, and just a bit
angelic. Angels, after all, rarely have
brows in art. Coincidence?
Possibly, but it worked for them. In the
Middle Ages, having a touch of color in
your cheeks was desirable. But like most
things in medieval life, there were
rules, social risks, and a vague chance
of damnation.
The ideal was a subtle blush, like you
just heard a mildly scandalous poem or
stepped outdoors for 30 seconds, but not
long enough to tan. Heaven forbid.
A gentle rose hue on the cheeks
suggested youth, fertility, and general
survival. All things that were
considered attractive, particularly if
you could maintain them past the age of
28. But you couldn't look like you were
trying. Applying rouge was considered
vain, and vanity was suspiciously close
to sin.
The church was not amused by women
smearing color on their faces, unless of
course they were nobility or doing it
humbly, which is a theological gray area
scholars are still trying to define.
Still, women improvised.
Common blush ingredients included
beetroot juice, crushed strawberries,
mulberries, or even coine, a deep red
pigment made from crushed insects. Yes,
bugs. Because beauty has never been
kind. Some rubbed their cheeks to get
that natural flush, while others used
mixtures of red ochre or wine sediment
dabbed carefully to avoid detection by
both clergy and judgmental neighbors.
For the wealthy, rouge could be made
from red lead or cineabar, both of which
were incredibly toxic.
But the logic went something like, "I
may die young, but I'll die pink
cheicked and socially respected.
Rouge was typically applied with cloth,
fingers, or whatever tool was available
that hadn't just been used to season a
stew. Mirror access was limited. So many
women relied on instinct, muscle memory,
or the occasional honest maid. Of
course, if your blush was too visible,
you might be accused of imitating
prostitutes or worse, French courtiers.
The horror. The goal was always modest
enhancement, not theatrical statement.
And if someone complimented your glow,
you were expected to deny everything and
mutter something about the wind. Even
nuns occasionally wore a touch of rouge
discreetly and supposedly only on feast
days. Because nothing says, "I serve the
Lord," like a tasteful dab of beetroot
behind the cloister. In medieval Europe,
if your hair didn't look like it had
been kissed by holy light or stolen from
a bottle angel, you were already
starting from behind.
Blonde hair in particular was the
medieval gold standard. It was
associated with youth, beauty, virtue,
and in case you needed divine backup.
The Virgin Mary was frequently painted
as a blonde, even though she was
geographically speaking almost certainly
not, but realism was less important than
radiance. If you were born blonde,
congratulations. You were considered
blessed and probably got out of a few
chores. But natural blondness didn't
last, especially in adulthood. So,
medieval women took matters into their
own hands and sometimes cauldrons.
Homemade hair lightening concoctions
included saffron, chamomile, ash, honey,
and lie. Applied liberally, then left to
bake under the sun in a method known as
sunbasking. It worked best if you had
the patience of a nun and the skin of a
salamander. Some recipes also included
urine, which was thought to help lift
color. whose urine. That part was less
regulated, but as long as it gave your
hair that celestial shimmer, it was
deemed worth it. Beauty is, and always
has been, a little bit disgusting. Hair
texture mattered, too. Loose, long, wavy
locks were the ideal, preferably
cascading down your back like a divine
curtain. But this luxury was reserved
for unmarried women. Once married, your
golden mane was to be hidden under
veils, nets, and head wraps. Because
apparently the moment you said, "I do,"
your hair became a national security
risk.
For noble women, hair was often braided,
twisted, or tucked into elaborate
styles, especially when attending court
or religious events. These hairstyles
were frequently accessorized with silk
ribbons, beads, or embroidery, just in
case you needed to remind the room you
didn't shear sheep for a living. Men
weren't left out either. While not quite
as judged, men with thick golden locks
were often romanticized in poetry and
art. Knights with flowing hair charging
into battle were the medieval version of
shampoo commercials. In medieval Europe,
hair was a lot like money. If you had
it, you didn't necessarily show it off
unless you were trying to get married.
Then suddenly it became a strategic
asset.
Unmarried women were encouraged to wear
their hair long and loose as a symbol of
purity and innocence, though not too
loose, unless you were going for the
ethereal forest maiden look, which was
only socially acceptable if you were,
say, an actual saint or being martyed.
Otherwise, a gentle braid would suffice.
But once married, your hair was
immediately banished from public view.
Congratulations, you now had a husband
and an obligation to wrap your locks
tighter than a monastery's wine budget.
Enter the world of veils, wimples, nets,
and kifs. A medieval wardrobe of modesty
that could make even the most radiant
blonde disappear under three layers of
beige linen. These coverings weren't
just modest, they were practical. They
protected hair from smoke, lice, and
unsolicited compliments from trouidors.
The most dedicated women layered their
coverings. A koif, a close- fitting cap,
might be worn under a veil, which could
then be pinned beneath a wimple that
wrapped under the chin. The effect, you
looked like a pious, well-bundled
sandwich, and that was the goal. But
fashion is rarely satisfied with just
function. As time went on, headwear got
more elaborate.
Nets were embroidered with gold thread.
Veils were starched into geometric
shapes.
Some noble women wore silken cages for
their braids, accessorized with jewels
and tiny bells, because nothing says
subtle beauty like jingling when you
turn your head. In many cultures,
concealed hair was tied to morality. A
covered head was seen as modest and
virtuous. Exposed hair on a married
woman, however, could get you compared
to a lady of the night, or worse, a
French woman.
Of course, some women rebelled. They
would let a little curl slip out or wear
translucent veils that technically
counted as covered while still letting
the world admire their carefully dyed
strands. Medieval loopholes were alive
and well. If medieval beauty had one
unspoken rule, it was this. Taller is
nobler. And we're not talking about your
legs. By the 15th century, women across
Europe began embracing a fashion trend
that quite literally elevated their
appearance. The hennin. You know the
one. Those towering coneshaped hats that
looked like they were designed by
someone who spent too much time around
church steeples. The hennin wasn't just
headwear. It was a social ladder you
wore. These hats could reach upwards of
2 ft. sometimes even more, especially
among the French and Burgundian elite.
The taller the hennin, the higher your
status, and the more doors you smacked
into on your way to dinner. Often made
from fine silk, velvet, or brocade,
hennins were structured with wire
frames, giving them that dangerously
aerodynamic shape. A sheer veil usually
cascaded from the tip, adding movement,
mystery, and a good chance of getting
caught in candles. Now, getting your
hair to fit under one of these things
was an art in itself. Hair was braided
and stuffed up into the cone, or
sometimes completely shaved around the
forehead. Forehead real estate, again,
to help the hennin sit properly. Comfort
was not part of the design brief, but
hennins weren't the only vertical
obsession. Some women wore heart-shaped
escopons, which looked like two
croissants glued to either side of the
head, or butterfly hennins, where veils
were spread out like wings. Great for
drama, not so much for rain. Outside of
nobility, most women stuck with veils,
linen caps, or cirlets. Simpler, less
dangerous, and less likely to be
mistaken for a siege weapon. Clergy and
conservative thinkers, as expected, were
less than enthused. They warned that
such ostentation invited vanity, sin,
and possibly neck strain. Still, hennins
remained popular among those who could
afford them, much like most terrible but
fashionable ideas throughout history.
And while men didn't wear towering
cones, they had their own style
statements. Think feathered caps, fur
trimmed hoods, and pointy shoes that
could double as fencing equipment.
In medieval times, a woman's ideal body
wasn't meant to be athletic, curvy, or
toned. No, the goal was to appear
delicate, demure, and possibly
recovering from a fainting spell.
The ideal figure was slim, soft, and
slightly ethereal, like someone who
lived on honeywater, courtly poems, and
perhaps one figure weak. Beauty manuals
didn't advise women to build strength or
endurance. The only lifting expected of
you was lifting your veil in a
flirtatious gesture, before swiftly
looking away, and maybe swooning.
But this wasn't about looking sickly, at
least not obviously.
The sweet spot was somewhere between too
weak to carry a bucket and still able to
play the loot while sitting.
A graceful, willowy figure was
associated with nobility, because of
course, if you were working, you'd have
broader shoulders, stronger arms, and
the misfortune of muscle tone. The
emphasis was on a narrow waist, soft
curves, and a general air of spiritual
exhaustion.
Waistlines on dresses were often cinched
just below the bust, an early version of
the empire waist to elongate the torso
and give the illusion of height and
fragility. And if that illusion needed
help, tight lacing was available. Not
quite corsets, those came later, but
tightly bound curtles and cir did the
job just fine. Being too thin, however,
wasn't the goal either. In times of
famine or plague, being very thin was a
red flag, as in that person might be
actively dying. A small hint of
roundness, particularly in the face or
hips, was considered healthy and
fertile.
Basically, if you looked like you could
survive winter and still be poetic, you
were in the sweet spot. Diet advice from
the time wasn't exactly balanced. Beauty
manuals recommended things like eating
fennel for digestion, rose petals for
breath, and drinking wine to improve
complexion.
Protein only if it had a feather still
attached.
Men, on the other hand, were allowed to
have more substance, broad shoulders,
strong legs, and the ability to carry a
sword without toppling over. But even
then, nobility preferred a lean frame
with refined posture, not brute
strength. In the Middle Ages, a woman's
eyes were her silent power. The medieval
version of sending a flirty emoji, only
with more spiritual implications and
slightly less blinking. The ideal
medieval eyes were large, clear, and
soulful, the kind that seemed to
whisper.
I'm full of virtue, and maybe just a
hint of melancholy.
Think of eyes that looked as if they had
personally witnessed the fall of man and
were still politely recovering.
Poets of the period couldn't get enough
of them. They described eyes as luminous
orbs, dew drops of heaven, or pools of
pure devotion. What they rarely said was
bloodshot, allergyridden, or I was up
all night churning butter. Light colored
eyes, blue or gray, were often idealized
in Northern Europe, associated with
innocence, purity, and the general
assumption that you hadn't seen too many
disturbing things, or at least pretended
not to.
In southern Europe, darker eyes were
admired, too, especially if they came
paired with a noble lineage and a good
dowy. Enhancing the eyes was
challenging. There were no medieval
eyeliner pens, just charcoal soot, and
optimism. Some women dabbed a little
black powder around the lashes to make
the eyes look bigger, risking
irritation, blurry vision, or starting
the world's first accidental smokey eye.
But most women relied on nature and
strategic lighting. Want to look more
wideeyed? Stand near a candle. Want to
look virtuous? Look downward at all
times, even if you trip over the cat.
Interestingly, slightly tearary eyes
were admired. It suggested emotional
sensitivity, piety, and perhaps that you
just finished praying or reading
something uplifting, like a 300line poem
about chastity.
Artificial tears weren't available, but
staring directly into smoke or enduring
mild public humiliation usually did the
trick. As for eye contact, it was a
delicate dance. Too much could be seen
as bold, flirtatious, or suspiciously
French. Too little, and you risked
seeming shifty or possessed. The trick
was to occasionally glance up from
beneath lowered lids, like someone who'd
memorized the Bible but wasn't about to
brag. Let's talk about something rarely
mentioned in medieval love poetry.
Breath. Specifically, what it smelled
like. While a knight might wax lyrical
about his lady's rose bud lips or
pearl-like teeth, he usually skipped
over what happened when those lips
opened. That's because medieval dental
hygiene was at best an aspirational
concept, and minty freshness wasn't
invented yet. Unless you count standing
near a herb garden and hoping for the
best.
Still, fresh breath was technically
considered desirable.
A gentle, sweet smelling mouth hinted at
youth, health, and that you probably
hadn't eaten garlic and eels for
breakfast, though statistically you had.
Medieval women did what they could. They
chewed parsley, fennel seeds, cloves,
cinnamon sticks, and occasionally twigs.
Not just for the taste, but to keep the
mouth tolerable.
Think of it as the premint version of
gum. It didn't sparkle your teeth, but
it made you slightly more kissable, or
at least less terrifying in close
conversation.
For those with access to apothecaries,
there were also herbal pastes and mouth
rinses made from sage, vinegar, and
myrrh. These were applied sparingly,
both because they were expensive and
because opening your mouth too wide in
public was considered a bit much.
Toothbrushing, as we know it, wasn't
standard. Instead, people wiped their
teeth with cloth, rubbed them with chalk
or crushed herbs, or used chew sticks,
small fibrous twigs that could scrub and
double as something to fidget with while
your suitor recited bad poetry. And
whiletosis wasn't exactly romantic, it
wasn't considered shocking either. After
all, everyone had bad breath to some
degree, and they all had bigger
problems, like surviving winter or
avoiding being burned as a heretic. For
noble women, the trick was to minimize
offense while maintaining grace.
Conversations took place at arms length.
Public affection was limited. And when
in doubt, fan yourself and look
contemplative.
Bonus points if you carried a small
pomander, a scented orb filled with
herbs to wave gently in your own
direction as needed.
In modern times, a great smile can
launch a thousand dating apps. In the
Middle Ages, a smile was a risky
endeavor, best used sparingly, like
spices or peasant revolts. Why? Well,
medieval dental hygiene wasn't exactly
flourishing. Teeth were important, yes,
but more for chewing bread than charming
suitors. Most people had teeth that
ranged from slightly questionable to
actively terrifying, especially by age
30. So, the fewer people saw them, the
better.
This wasn't entirely due to negligence.
Tooth decay was rampant thanks to diets
heavy in bread, porridge, and mead, and
lacking in toothbrushes, dental floss,
or literally any kind of fluoride. Sugar
wasn't widely consumed yet in most of
Europe, but even basic starches broke
down into tooth tarnishing misery. Also,
dental surgery at the time was
essentially an exorcism with pliers.
Despite this, a healthy smile was
quietly admired, just not loudly
celebrated.
White, even teeth were rare and seen as
a mark of youth and fortune and perhaps
a miracle. But people weren't going
around flashing big toothy grins like
medieval toothpaste commercials. In
fact, a demure closed lip smile was far
more fashionable. Think I might be
contemplating a sonnet rather than I'm
thrilled to be here. Some women even
used powders made of sage, salt, or
ground up coral to try and clean or
whiten their teeth. These methods were
mildly effective and mostly abrasive.
Imagine brushing with sand and hoping
for the best. But overall, teeth were
tolerated, not flaunted. Medieval art,
for instance, almost never depicts
open-mouthed smiles. Even saints and
angels usually keep their mouths
politely closed, as if they too were
quietly aware of the risks of showing
mers. Men weren't immune either. A
knight might win the heart of a lady
with his bravery and chiseled jawline,
but no ballad ever included the line,
"Hispids gleamed like ivory."
There's a reason trouidor sang about
eyes, hair, and hands, not breath, and
bite alignment.
When it came to medieval beauty
standards for men, the expectations were
oddly specific. You didn't need to be
chiseled like a Greek statue, but you
also couldn't look like you'd just
fallen off a hay cart. The sweet spot
was somewhere between ready to joust and
could write a poem about jousting
without actually doing it. The ideal man
was tall, lean, broad-shouldered, and
very importantly, nobly unbothered. Not
overly muscular, that suggested labor,
but not soft either. That suggested
laziness or too much me. You wanted to
look like you could swing a sword, but
only if the squire was busy. A defined
jawline, high cheekbones, and a straight
nose were all considered attractive.
Think prince in an illuminated
manuscript rather than village
strongman. A well-groomed beard or a
smooth clean shaven face was acceptable
depending on the region and era. But
either way, it needed to look
intentional, not like you'd been lost in
the woods for a week. Hair was typically
shoulder length and styled, especially
for noblemen. Curls were in fashion in
many courts, especially if they occurred
naturally or looked like they did.
Some men even used curling irons. Yes,
really. Small heated rods or herbal
rinses to enhance texture and shine.
Because nothing says I'm above manual
labor, like sitting for 45 minutes while
your page boy styles your fringe.
Clothing played a huge role in enhancing
the male silhouette. Padded shoulders,
cinched waists, and fitted tunics helped
create the ideal body shape with extra
emphasis on posture.
A nobleman did not slouch. He glided,
often with a hint of disdain. And if a
man did happen to be naturally muscular,
that was fine, as long as he wasn't
caught actually working with those
muscles. Fighting in wars was
acceptable. Hauling barrels was not.
Above all, the look was effortless. You
weren't supposed to try to be
attractive. You were simply born noble.
And that alone made you appealing.
a kind of medieval version of hot
without trying, except instead of a gym
membership, you inherited land and a
falcon. In an era where bathing was
technically optional and plumbing was
mostly a dream with a Latin name, scent
management became an art form. And not
the glamorous walk through a cloud of
Chanel number five kind of art, more the
maset and prey variety. To be fair,
people did bathe, just not as often as
we'd hope, especially depending on the
century, location, and plague frequency.
So, to keep from offending nostrils,
human and divine, medieval men and women
turned to the alactory power of herbs,
oils, and perfume pouches. Let's begin
with the commander. A small hollow ball
made of metal worn on a chain or pinned
to clothing and filled with strongly
scented herbs like cloves, rosemary,
cinnamon, sage, and occasionally
something ominously labeled powder of
roses. These weren't just for elegance.
They were portable smell shields. Think
of them as the medieval version of
walking around with a Freezy grenade.
The nobility also favored perfumed
gloves, handkerchiefs, and even scented
combs.
Everything was fair game for aroma
enhancement, including hair, which was
sometimes dowsted with floral waters or
vinegar infusions that smelled slightly
better than sweat and desperation.
Speaking of sweat, yes, people
absolutely sweated. Medieval garments
were heavy, summers were hot, and
deodorant was still several centuries
away from reinventing armpits.
The solution, layers of linen, which
absorbed sweat and could be washed more
frequently than the woolen or silk outer
garments. Some added herbal sachets to
their under layers, hoping to combat
odor with fragrant optimism. Bathous
were a thing, especially during the
early medieval and late medieval
periods, but access varied wildly. The
church eventually frowned upon communal
nudity, which really put a damper on
hygiene enthusiasm.
So many turned to dry bathing, which is
exactly as unrefreshing as it sounds.
Wiping yourself with a cloth, then
spritzing on scented water and
pretending that counted. And then there
were the overachievers, people who kept
flower petals in their shoes or stuffed
herbs in their bed linens to smell
vaguely like someone who had recently
seen a garden. In medieval Europe,
beauty wasn't just skin deep. It was
morally loaded. A well-composed face
could be a divine blessing, a social
weapon, or a trap set by the devil
himself. Sometimes all three before
breakfast. To be beautiful was to walk a
very fine line. On one hand, physical
beauty, clear skin, symmetrical
features, pale complexion, was
considered a sign of virtue. If you were
lovely, it meant you were blessed,
possibly chosen by God, or at the very
least unlikely to steal sheep. Poets,
preachers, and painters alike described
beauty as evidence of a pure soul.
But there was a catch. If you knew you
were beautiful, or worse, if you used
that beauty to your advantage, you
immediately became suspect. Vanity was a
sin, remember?
and showing too much interest in one's
appearance hinted at pride, seduction,
or worst of all, French tendencies.
Medieval sermons warned that women's
beauty could tempt men into sin, which
of course was entirely the woman's
fault. Eve set a precedent, and medieval
Europe ran with it for a solid thousand
years. A woman wearing makeup, showing a
bit of hair, or fluttering her lashes at
the wrong night, could easily find
herself accused of being everything from
immoral to outright demonic. Some even
believed that beauty could be an
illusion, a sorceress's disguise, a
glamour conjured by witches to lead
righteous men astray. This may sound
dramatic, but remember, this was a time
when bad weather could get you burned at
the stake.
Conversely, those who were plain or
ill-featured were sometimes assumed to
be morally deficient or just
unfortunate. The idea that outward
appearance reflected in a character
wasn't just popular. It was doctrine in
some circles. Beauty meant grace.
Ugliness meant punishment, illness, or
divine disappointment.
Of course, all of this made things
spectacularly confusing. Be beautiful,
but don't try too hard.
glow with virtue, but not so much that
it looks like pride, and above all,
never look more attractive than the
local lord's wife. That was a one-way
ticket to a silent convent or an
unusually convenient illness. So, in the
end, medieval beauty standards weren't
just about aesthetics. They were a
full-blown moral tightroppe, balancing
vanity, virtue, and whatever powdered
lead was left in your makeup kit. The
Persian immortals were more than just
elite troops. They were a statement, a
living symbol of imperial strength,
precision, and unyielding continuity.
Their origins trace back to the very
birth of the Akimmined Empire under
Cyrus the Great in the 6th century B.CE.
At a time when Persia was rapidly
transforming from a regional power into
a sprawling imperial juggernaut, Cyrus
understood something vital. An empire
needs a backbone. not just
administrators and governors, but an
elite force that could project
dominance, inspire loyalty, and suppress
rebellion with equal efficiency. Thus,
the immortals were born. The name
immortals wasn't just a bit of royal
flare. It was a logistical and
psychological masterpiece.
According to Heroditus, their strength
was always kept exactly at 10,000 men.
If one man died, fell ill, or was
wounded, he was instantly replaced. The
numbers never wavered. From the outside,
it seemed they could not be diminished,
could not be weakened, and above all
could not die. Whether myth or clever
bookkeeping, the image stuck, and the
name endured.
Immortality, in this case, wasn't about
individual survival. It was about the
eternal presence of Persian might. These
men weren't random conscripts. To be an
immortal meant being selected from among
the Persian nobility, or at least from
families of high status and proven
loyalty. Training began young.
Discipline was brutal. Loyalty to the
king unquestionable. They were expected
to be not just warriors, but exemplars
of aid values, order, obedience, and
composure under pressure. They were also
richly dressed, robes of fine materials,
scale armor beneath their garments, and
often armed with a spear, bow,
shortsord, and a wicker shield. Their
appearance was as calculated as their
tactics. Persian kings weren't just
sending warriors into battle. They were
sending a mobile political message
wrapped in silk and steel. From the
plains of Lydia to the deserts of Egypt,
wherever the Persian Empire expanded,
the immortals followed. They stood
behind kings, beside thrones, and at the
front of the battlefield.
If you saw them approaching, you didn't
just see soldiers. You saw the unbroken
heartbeat of the empire. Immortals
didn't blink. Immortals didn't retreat.
Immortals endured. And that's exactly
what made them terrifying. The
appearance of the Persian immortals was
no accident. It was psychological
warfare.
These men weren't covered headto toe in
gleaming bronze like Greek hoplights.
No, the immortals looked otherworldly,
like a wave of richly dressed shadows
sweeping across the land. Their uniforms
blended regal flare with military
function. They wore elaborately
embroidered tunics and trousers, often
dyed in rich reds and purples, colors of
nobility and command.
Beneath these lay a layer of scale armor
made of bronze or iron, flexible enough
for movement, but deadly in close
combat.
Their shields were made from woven
wicker, deceptively light yet able to
deflect arrows and absorb blows. Their
most distinctive element, however, was
their headdress, a soft felt cap called
a tiara, sometimes pulled over the face
to obscure identity.
Unlike the Greeks who glorified
individuality in armor and valor, the
immortals thrived in uniformity.
10,000 men moving in near silence, all
similarly armed and armored, created a
visual spectacle that overwhelmed the
senses. It was like watching a curtain
of death descend on the battlefield.
Each immortal carried a short spear, a
bow with a quiver of arrows, and a short
sword or a belt. But perhaps most
impressive was their ability to move
quickly and remain deadly in almost any
terrain. Their training emphasized
agility and endurance over brute
strength. They could march across entire
provinces without breaking formation.
And unlike many ancient forces, the
immortals were equally comfortable
fighting in open battle or serving as
imperial guards in royal courts. Their
equipment was light enough to ensure
swift deployment, but potent enough to
intimidate and destroy.
It wasn't about brute force. It was
about consistency.
About never failing, never staggering,
and never seeming vulnerable. And that
consistency, combined with the mystery
of their appearance, helped forge their
legend.
When they marched into battle, drums
would pound and dust would rise behind
them, but their expressions remained
eerily composed. No roaring, no
boasting, just eerie synchronized
precision. It was as though they were
not men, but machines crafted not in
flesh, but in discipline, ritual, and
fear. To face the immortals wasn't
simply to face death. It was to face a
concept that some armies didn't just
fight. They endured without pause or
pity. To be an immortal was not just a
job. It was a lifelong identity, a
status symbol, and in some ways a
sentence. While they were revered and
richly rewarded, the expectations were
immense. These men lived under constant
scrutiny. Their food, clothing, and
housing were all provided by the state,
but not out of kindness. It was to
ensure absolute control.
From the moment they entered the ranks,
they belonged not to their families, but
to the empire. Most immortals came from
Persian, Median, or Elomite nobility,
but lower ranking sons of loyal families
could rise into the ranks if they showed
exceptional discipline.
Training began in childhood, often
within militarymies attached to the
royal court. Boys learned archery on
horseback, how to endure pain and
hunger, how to march in step, and most
importantly, how to obey without
hesitation.
There was no room for glory seeking or
personal ambition. An immortal who stood
out too much was corrected. The
formation was sacred. Unity came above
all. Discipline ruled every corner of
their lives. They followed a strict
daily routine. Wake before dawn, drill
in silence, maintain weapons and armor.
Meals were eaten communally, always
modest, always nutritionally calculated
for endurance.
Meat, flatbread, dates, and wine were
staples. But luxuries were discouraged.
The empire needed warriors, not pampered
aristocrats. When not on campaign, the
immortals served as guards for the king
and his court. But even then, their
duties were more than ceremonial. They
stood watch for assassination attempts,
monitored nobles for disloyalty, and
maintained order in the most volatile
places of the empire. Their mere
presence could silence disscent in a
royal hall. They were the eyes and ears
of the Akeminid ruler, trained to detect
lies, sense fear, and act decisively.
Interestingly, they weren't entirely cut
off from family life. Immortals were
allowed to marry and maintain
households. However, they could be
summoned at a moment's notice. When duty
called, they left everything behind, no
questions asked. A man who hesitated
even once could be quietly replaced.
After all, the number always had to
remain at 10,000. No gaps, no delays. It
was this cold, efficient system that
ensured their mythos. They didn't just
fight with discipline. They lived in
discipline. They were tools of empire,
honed, polished, and sharpened until
nothing remained but duty. If Cyrus the
Great created the immortals, it was
Darius the Great who perfected them.
When Darius rose to power in 522 BCE
amid palace intrigue and assassination.
The immortals were the tool he used to
legitimize and stabilize his reign. They
were no longer just a personal guard.
They were an extension of royal
authority, woven directly into the
fabric of his expanding imperial
bureaucracy.
Darius understood that power didn't only
rest on military strength, but on the
illusion of order and inevitability.
And nothing projected that image more
effectively than the immortals. He
paraded them at festivals, had them
stationed prominently around his new
capital of Pipilis and sent them on
high-profile missions. They were always
visible, always composed, always the
same. 10,000 eternal faces of Persian
dominance. But Darius also reshaped
their tactical role. Under his
leadership, the immortals became a core
element of Persian combined arms
warfare. No longer just elite infantry,
they were often deployed alongside
archers, cavalry, and chariotry in
coordinated strikes.
Darius placed immense value on strategic
flexibility, and the immortals had to
adapt.
They trained more rigorously in ranged
combat, siege warfare, and battlefield
coordination.
Reports from later Greek observers
describe how they moved with terrifying
efficiency,
firing arrows in volleys while slowly
advancing behind their wicker shields,
never breaking formation. They also
became heavily involved in suppressing
rebellions.
Darius's empire stretched from Egypt to
the Indis Valley, and revolts were
frequent. The immortals were often the
first wave of retaliation in Elilum,
Babylon, and Cyia. They acted as both
punishment and message. The Empire is
watching, and the king's will is
inexhaustible. It was under Darius that
they earned a darker reputation. Not
just elite warriors, but instruments of
fear and retribution. Even their
iconography was elevated. Carvings at
Pepilolis show them in perfect lines,
stylized and identical, facing eternity
in stone. These weren't mere portraits.
They were propaganda.
Darius wanted every subject and visitor
to know. These men are always here,
always armed, and they do not die. Step
out of line, and you'll meet one or
10,000. Through Darius, the immortals
became more than a military unit. They
were institutionalized fear woven into
the royal image, deployed with surgical
precision and wrapped in gold threaded
silence. The Persian immortals reached
the height of their legend during the
reign of Xerxes the Great. And nowhere
was their reputation more fiercely
tested than at the narrow mountain pass
of Themropoly in 480 B.CE.
This battle, now mythologized through
centuries of art and cinema, wasn't just
a clash of armies. It was a symbolic
collision between two radically
different worldviews. Persian imperial
order versus Greek citystate defiance.
And at the center of the storm stood the
immortals.
When Xerxes invaded Greece with what
ancient sources claimed was the largest
army the world had ever seen, he brought
the immortals as his personal vanguard.
They didn't just guard him. They were a
scalpel in the heart of chaos.
Their reputation alone preceded them.
The Greeks had heard of the 10,000 who
never died, the elite troops who served
kings like gods and fought with flawless
precision.
At Thermopoly, they met resistance that
rattled their mythos. King Leonidis and
his few thousand Greeks, most famously
300 Spartans, held the narrow pass
against wave after wave of Persian
attacks.
On the second day of battle, Xerxes
ordered the immortals to break the Greek
line.
It was meant to be a crushing blow.
After all, these were the elite of the
elite. But what followed was not the
instant route Xerxes expected. The
immortals, skilled as they were, were
constrained by the tight geography of
the pass. Their boughs were nearly
useless in such confined space, and
their shorter spears couldn't reach past
the long dory of the Greek hoplights.
For hours they clashed with disciplined
Spartans who fought in tight
interlocking fallances, trained from
childhood for exactly this kind of
combat. The immortals suffered losses,
heavy ones. Heroditus noted, perhaps
with some glee, that they were no more
successful than the ordinary troops. It
wasn't just a military defeat. It was a
rupture in their image. The immortals
had always appeared untouchable, gods of
war in silk and scale. But at Thermop
they bled. They died. And for the first
time, the illusion of their immortality
cracked under the weight of Spartan
spears and Greek defiance. Yet even in
defeat, they remained terrifying.
They adapted. They regrouped. And they
marched again. Immortality, after all,
wasn't about invincibility.
It was about endurance.
The most fascinating part of the Persian
immortals wasn't just their training or
battlefield tactics. It was their
system. What truly made them immortal
wasn't magic or divine favor. It was
administration.
Cold, efficient, relentless bureaucracy.
When one immortal fell, whether in
battle due to illness or by retirement,
another took his place instantly. No
morning, no ceremony, just a seamless
substitution. The total number always
remained exactly 10,000.
This wasn't a poetic exaggeration. It
was by design. The Akimenid Empire ran
on logistics, and the immortals were the
prime example. They had a constantly
maintained pool of trainees and
understudies, young men being groomed to
fill vacancies the moment they appeared.
These replacements were kept in the
capital, supervised, drilled, and
rotated through lesser duties until
called up. This internal structure made
the immortals far more than a static
elite unit. They were a living system of
excellence, always regenerating, always
evolving.
To facilitate this, records were kept
with meticulous care. officers known as
hazarapatis, literally commander of a
thousand, oversaw recruitment,
discipline, and supply. There were 10
such commanders beneath the overall
leader of the immortals. Below them, a
web of subcommanders, scribes, and
quarter masters ensured every man had
the correct arms, rations, lodging, and
medical support. Lose a man in Egypt? A
replacement is dispatched from Soua. A
soldier breaks a leg during patrol in
Media. His successor is already packing
his gear. This machinery extended beyond
just military readiness. It was
psychological.
The illusion of 10,000 unchanging
warriors was a tool of imperial terror.
If you killed one, another immediately
stepped into his place. It didn't matter
who they were individually. The identity
was irrelevant. The presence was
eternal. Like a hydra of discipline and
silk, the immortals created the illusion
of unstoppable force because the machine
never paused to grieve. Even off the
battlefield, this system functioned
flawlessly.
If an immortal's family became disloyal
or politically compromised, he was
quietly removed and replaced. No
scandal, no drama. The line moved
forward as if nothing had changed. This
mechanism, so alien compared to the
glory seeking Greek ethos, was perhaps
the immortal's greatest strength, not
skill, not courage. But the cold
certainty that they could never truly
disappear.
While the Persian immortals are
remembered as warriors, they were also
something far subtler, diplomats in
armor. In the Aimemened worldview,
military force wasn't just about
conquest. It was about presence. And the
immortals were often deployed not just
to fight, but to be seen, to enter
foreign courts as living representations
of Persian elegance and power. Their
silken robes, gilded weapons, and
perfect discipline made them terrifying
in battle, but mesmerizing in peace.
When ambassadors arrived in foreign
lands, the immortals often accompanied
them, not for protection, but as
spectacle. Imagine a small elite escort
entering a Greek or Babylonian city. 10
men, perfectly synchronized, dressed not
in rough leather or bloodstained bronze,
but in fine tunics laced with gold,
silent and unreadable behind their soft
felt headdresses. They didn't shout or
threaten. They didn't need to. Their
very existence was a negotiation. In
Satropies provinces, immortals were
regularly stationed to remind local
governors where true power resided. They
rarely interfered with civil rule, but
they were always there watching. A
whisper of sedition could bring a squad
of them to a governor's door.
Rebellion in the provinces was often
stopped before it began simply because
the alternative facing the immortals was
too dreadful to consider. Even within
the royal court, their presence was
multifunctional.
They acted as ceremonial guards during
Nor's festivals, coronations, and
diplomatic receptions.
But behind the scenes, they monitored
courtiers, sniffed out treason, and
enforced the king's will with silent
efficiency.
Some historians argue they acted almost
like an internal intelligence agency, an
everpresent warning that loyalty was not
optional.
This dual identity, warrior and envoy,
enforcer and ornament, was part of their
genius. Unlike most elite units of
ancient times who lived for the glory of
battle alone, the immortals served a
much broader imperial strategy. War was
just one tool. Theirs was an empire held
together not just by swords, but by
symbols.
The immortals understood that fear and
awe are siblings. In foreign courts and
remote palaces, their arrival sent a
clear message. The king is watching. The
empire is eternal. and resistance is not
worth the cost. And in this way they
fought wars without ever unshathing a
blade. All empires age and so do their
legends.
By the later years of the Aminid Empire,
the immortals were still feared, still
respected, but no longer invincible.
The machinery that had once made them
immortal began to rust, not with a
dramatic collapse, but with slow,
creeping inefficiency.
As Persian kings grew increasingly
detached from the battlefield, more
concerned with courtly luxury and
intrigue, the immortals too began to
shift. From hardened warriors into royal
ornaments under kings like Artig Xerxes
and Darius III, the elite guard still
existed, still dressed the part, still
marched in perfect formation. But cracks
had formed. Recruitment standards
slipped. Political favoritism began to
seep into their ranks. Where once only
the most disciplined and loyal men were
selected, now nobles pulled strings to
place unworthy sons into the sacred
10,000.
The result was subtle but fatal.
Uniformity without spirit, discipline
without heart. This decay became
tragically obvious when Alexander the
Great launched his invasion of Persia in
334 B.CE.
At the battle of Galgamela in 331 B.CEE,
the immortals were deployed alongside
the Persian center to defend Darius III.
And although they fought with courage,
they could not hold against the tactical
brilliance and ruthless momentum of
Alexander's Macedonian failanks. They
were outflanked, outmaneuvered, and
overwhelmed. Worse yet, the myth didn't
survive the battle. For centuries, the
name immortals had inspired awe. But
Galgamela proved they were no longer
what they had been under Cyrus the Great
or Xerxes I.
The machinery of instant replacement
faltered. The backup system that once
made their losses invisible simply
wasn't in place anymore. The unit never
recovered.
When Alexander marched into Peplois and
took the royal palace, he walked into a
shell of an empire. The immortals
weren't there to defend it. The unbroken
line had finally been broken.
But their story didn't end with defeat.
Elements of the immortals lived on.
Alexander co-opted Persian traditions
into his army. Later in the Cisanian
Empire, a new elite force would rise,
sometimes even called immortals again by
historians.
Though not direct descendants, they
echoed the original myth. 10,000 strong,
elite, fearsome, eternal. Even in their
fall, the immortals left a blueprint.
They had shown the world how to build
not just an army, but a legend. The
Persian immortals may have vanished from
the battlefield, but their influence
never disappeared.
Long after the fall of the Akminid
Empire, the idea of an unbreakable elite
fighting force remained lodged in the
imagination of generals, kings, and
storytellers alike. Their legend endured
not because they won every battle, but
because they represented something
larger. The perfection of state
controlled power. An army that didn't
age, didn't question, and didn't falter.
When the Greeks described them, it was
with a mix of awe and suspicion.
Heroditus called them immortals, not
because they could not be killed, but
because they could not be seen to die.
Their replacements were immediate. their
presence eternal.
To the Greeks, this was eerie, almost
unnatural. They were used to war as a
chaotic, personal affair. The immortals
were something else, precise, faceless,
disciplined to the edge of humanity. In
Roman times, scholars still referenced
the immortals when speaking of ancient
power. Even Byzantine historians noted
the structure of the Persian elite guard
as something to be admired.
And in the early Islamic period, Arab
historians recounted tales of the 10,000
who had once guarded kings of old, their
spears glinting like a forest of silver
under the desert sun. The concept would
be revived again in the Cisanian Empire,
where an elite cavalry corps, sometimes
referred to by historians as the new
immortals, served as the empire's
armored fist. Though not directly
descended from the Akimenid unit, they
carried the same mission, embodying
imperial invincibility. Even Napoleon
Bonapart centuries later studied Persian
military organization and praised their
structure. Culturally, the immortals
seeped into myth. Modern media often
misrepresents them, turning them into
monsters, demons, or masked assassins.
But the truth was far more compelling.
They were human. terrifyingly human.
Ordinary men turned into instruments of
empire through relentless training,
psychological control, and a deeply
embedded system of continuity. They
didn't need magic to become legendary,
just consistency and silence.
Their greatest weapon wasn't their
sword. It was the idea that they were
always coming, an eternal shadow on the
horizon. And so the immortals live on in
stone carvings, in battle doctrines, and
in the whispered fears of those who know
that power, when well organized and
endlessly replaced, can become something
very close to immortality.
Before there were legends of Greek
Amazon, there were the Cythians, nomadic
warriors of the Eurasian step, feared
and respected from the Black Sea to the
Alai Mountains. Unlike most ancient
societies, Cythian women didn't stay
behind the tents weaving cloth or
raising children. They rode horses,
wielded bows, and went to war. And they
didn't just accompany men into battle.
They led and fought with lethal skill.
These were not exceptions. This was the
culture. Greek historians like Heroditus
were stunned when they encountered these
women. He described entire tribes where
women refused to marry unless they had
first killed an enemy in combat. His
words, originally intended as exotic
curiosities, have since found
archaeological proof.
Burial mounds called kireans scattered
across Ukraine, Kazakhstan, and southern
Russia have yielded astonishing finds.
the skeletons of young women buried with
bows, arrows, swords, and even
battleinflicted injuries.
One such discovery revealed a woman with
an arrow head lodged in her spine, her
body armored, her grave richly
furnished. These weren't ceremonial
weapons. They had been used, and so had
she. Cyian society was fundamentally
different from its contemporaries. Life
on the step demanded mobility and
resilience. Everyone, male or female,
had to ride, hunt, and defend the tribe.
Girls learned archery as young as boys
did. They wore the same leather
trousers, the same armor. They even wore
their hair and tattoos in similar
fashion, indistinguishable on horseback
under a storm of arrows.
This created a warrior culture in which
gender roles were fluid on the
battlefield, but strict off it. A cyian
woman could be deadly at full gallop and
then return home to fulfill ritual and
maternal duties.
The two roles were not in conflict. They
were complimentary. Greek myths of the
Amazon may have been inspired by
exaggerated encounters with Cyian women.
But while the Amazon of myth vanished
into fantasy, the Cyians were real. They
fought Persians, clashed with Greeks,
and terrified the Macedonians. And for
centuries they roamed the step with fire
and fury, men and women alike. In the
small West African kingdom of Dehomi,
modern-day Benin, an army of women once
struck fear into European colonizers,
rival kingdoms, and anyone foolish
enough to underestimate them. They were
known as the Aogi, but the French
nicknamed them the Dehomie Amazon,
comparison to the Greek myths. But these
warriors were very real. By the 18th and
19th centuries, the Agogoji had become
the standing royal guard of Dhomi's
king. But they weren't just guards. They
were elite infantry trained to kill, to
defend, and to never retreat. Initially,
they may have started as elephant
hunters or palace attendants, but over
time they evolved into a formal feared
military force.
Recruited as young girls, often chosen
for their strength or spirit. The
Agogoji were separated from families and
placed into intense training. Discipline
was total. They ran obstacle courses
filled with thorns, sparred with reel
blades, and swore oaths of celibacy and
absolute loyalty to the king. They wore
braided sashes and carried musketss,
machetes, and clubs. But their deadliest
weapon was psychological.
European observers during the 19th
century were shocked by their
fearlessness and brutality.
One French officer noted with unease how
a Dehomie Amazon rushed forward, ripped
open a man's throat, then calmly wiped
her blade. These were not symbolic
warriors. They were frontline shock
troops used in raids, battles, and
ambushes. During the Franco Dehomian
Wars in the 1890s, the Agoji went
toe-to-toe with French colonial troops.
Outnumbered and outgunned, they still
launched night raids, executed ambushes,
and fought street by street to defend
their kingdom. Their tenacity forced
French commanders to reconsider their
tactics and their assumptions about
gender in combat. But it wasn't just
their battlefield success that mattered.
The Dehomie Amazon existed in a deeply
patriarchal world, and yet they carved
out a space of total autonomy and
influence. They advised kings. They
performed ceremonial duties and they
shaped the kingdom's foreign policy not
from behind the scenes but with blades
in hand. Though the French ultimately
defeated Dhomi, the legend of the Agoji
never died. In fact, their legacy helped
inspire modern fictional warriors like
the Dora Milaj in Marvel's Black
Panther.
But truth, as always, is more impressive
than fiction.
In the shadowy pages of Japan's medieval
history, one woman rides through blood
and legend alike. Tommo Gozen, a samurai
warrior of the late 12th century. She
fought during the Genpe War, a brutal
civil conflict between the Minamoto and
Tyra clans that gave birth to the first
Shugunart.
Tommoay wasn't a symbolic figure or a
passive consort. She was a commander, a
swordsswoman, and an archer trained in
the deadly arts of the battlefield and
feared for her precision in combat. Her
story emerges most famously from the
hike monogatari, a war epic that blends
history with poetic flare. In it, Tommoy
is described as especially beautiful
with white skin, long hair, and charming
features.
But the next sentence drops the real
thunder.
She was also a remarkably strong archer
and as a swordsswoman she was a warrior
worth a thousand.
Beauty and lethality weren't
contradictions, they were fused. Tommoay
served under Minamoto no Yoshinaka, a
warlord and her possible lover during
his campaign to seize control of Kyoto.
She wasn't a camp follower or a
battlefield nurse. She was in the thick
of it, reportedly leading troops and
even slaying multiple enemies in single
combat. At the Battle of Awazu in 1184,
facing encirclement by rival Minamoto
forces, Yoshinaka ordered his last
stand.
Rather than flee, Tommoay chose to
fight. In one of her most famous
encounters, she's said to have
dismounted a charging enemy horseman,
wrestled him to the ground, and beheaded
him on the spot. She then calmly
remounted and continued into the chaos.
That moment, possibly embellished,
possibly true, has endured for centuries
as a symbol of her unmatched composure
and skill. But what happened to Tommo
after the war remains a mystery. Some
say she was captured and forced into
marriage. Others say she became a nun,
retreating into silence. Still others
believe she vanished like a ghost back
into the mists of legend.
Whatever the truth, the legacy of Tommo
Goen survived in theater, folklore, and
national memory. In a society built on
rigid gender roles and patriarchal
control, Tommo Goen stood apart,
bladeedrawn, head high, and utterly
unafraid.
She wasn't just fighting for her lord.
She was fighting for her right to exist
in a world that told her she shouldn't.
In the first century CE, the Roman
Empire was at its peak. disciplined,
organized, and seemingly unstoppable.
But then came Buudaca, a flame-haired
Celtic queen from Britannia, who nearly
brought the Roman machine to its knees.
Her name would echo through history as a
symbol of raw vengeance, national pride,
and the terrifying force of a woman with
nothing left to lose.
Buudaca was the wife of Prasutagus, king
of the Eini tribe in what is now eastern
England.
He was a client king under Rome, a
puppet ruler allowed to maintain power
as long as he kept the peace. But when
Prasutus died, Rome ignored his will and
moved to seize his lands outright. In
the process, Roman officials fgged
Budaca publicly and according to
Tacitus, raped her daughters. It was a
brutal humiliation designed to crush
rebellion. Instead, it lit a wildfire.
In 60 or 61 CE, Buudaca united several
British tribes and launched one of the
most ferocious revolts in Roman history.
And she wasn't a figurehead. Roman
accounts describe her leading her army
from a chariot, spear in hand, dressed
in a flowing tunic and a massive gold
torque around her neck. Her fiery hair
streamed behind her as she rode, calling
her people to war.
She was part priestess, part general,
and all fury.
Her forces descended on Camilum, modern
Colchester, burning it to the ground.
Next came Londinium, the seed of modern
London, where she slaughtered Roman
colonists and raised the city.
Historians estimate over 70,000 Romans
and sympathizers were killed in just a
few months. Her army left a trail of ash
and shattered arrogance behind them. But
the Romans under Governor Gas Swatonius
Paulinus regrouped.
Despite being vastly outnumbered, they
lured Budaca into a pitched battle where
Roman discipline and formation tactics
proved decisive. The rebellion was
crushed. Buudaca, facing defeat, is said
to have taken poison rather than be
captured. Though her uprising failed,
Buudaca's legacy only grew. Roman
historians painted her as a barbarian
and yet one whose courage and leadership
were impossible to ignore. For the
British, especially in later centuries,
she became a symbol of resistance
against tyranny, both foreign and
domestic.
In the war ravaged steps of central Asia
during the golden age of Mongol
expansion, there emerged a woman who
terrified warriors and embarrassed
princes, not with a sword, but with
sheer physical dominance. Her name was
Coutaloon, and she was the great great
granddaughter of none other than Genghis
Khn. But she didn't just ride in his
shadow. She carved out a legend of her
own, one headlock at a time. Born around
12 and 60 CE, Coutaloon was the daughter
of Kaidu Khan, a powerful cousin of
Kubla Khan and a rival claimant to
leadership in the Mongol Empire.
Coutalun was raised like a warrior
prince, trained in archery, horse
riding, and battlefield tactics.
But she stood out most for her talent in
wrestling, a deeply respected and highly
competitive sport among the Mongols.
According to the Persian historian
Rashid Alin, Coutalin vowed she would
only marry a man who could beat her in a
wrestling match.
Many tried, all failed. Dozens of
suitors walked away defeated and
humiliated, some even wagering horses,
gold or herds on their chances. It's
said she amassed 10,000 horses from her
victories, turning her into not just a
champion, but one of the wealthiest
women on the step. But Coutaloon wasn't
just tossing men onto the dirt for fun.
She fought alongside her father in real
battles, commanding troops and breaking
enemy lines. During campaigns against
both rival Mongol factions and Chinese
forces, Coutalun was Kaidu's most
trusted military adviser. He even
considered naming her as his successor.
An unprecedented move in a culture
dominated by male warlords. This
unsurprisingly sparked backlash. Some
Mongol nobles whispered that her
influence was unnatural, her power too
threatening.
In the end, Kaidu didn't make her his
heir, choosing a male relative instead.
But her reputation endured.
Even Marco Polo, who traveled through
the Mongol Empire, wrote of a Mongol
princess who fought like a tiger and
could ride and shoot as well as any man.
Later, histories tried to romanticize or
minimize her, turning her into a love
struck figure or reducing her story to
legend. But make no mistake, Coutaloon
was real and her strength was legendary.
She proved that in the heart of the most
maledominated empire on earth, a woman
could still rise, not because she was
allowed to, but because no one could
stop her. In a time when women couldn't
vote, own land freely, or even wear
men's clothing without risking arrest,
one French teenager not only wore armor,
she led armies.
Jonavar, born in 1412 in a tiny village
called Domi, was an illiterate peasant
girl. But by the age of 17, she would
command troops, confront kings, and bend
the course of the hundred years war
between France and England. Her rise
wasn't born from military training or
noble lineage. Joan claimed divine
inspiration. She said she heard voices,
those of saints like Michael, Catherine,
and Margaret, who told her that she had
been chosen to drive the English from
France and crown Charles the Doofan as
king. It was a wild claim, one that
should have gotten her dismissed as mad.
Instead, it got her an audience with the
future King Charles IIIth. The court
tested her. clergy grilled her for
weeks, but somehow she passed. They saw
something in her. Conviction, charisma,
something unexplainable.
And so, clad in white armor, her banner
flying high, Joan was sent to Orleon, a
besieged city that symbolized the war's
turning point. French commanders were
skeptical. But Joan's mere presence
revitalized their spirit. She didn't
just stand on the sidelines. She led
charges, braved arrows, and rallied
troops under fire. Against all odds, the
French lifted the siege. The victory
electrified the nation. Joan became
known as the maid of Orleon, a symbol of
divine favor and patriotic resistance.
After a string of victories, she
escorted Charles to Rams, where he was
crowned king, just as the voices had
foretold. But power, fame, and miracles
come with enemies. In 1430, she was
captured by Burgundian allies of the
English. Tried by a pro-English
ecclesiastical court, Joan was accused
of heresy, witchcraft, and notably
wearing male clothing, a crime
punishable by death. She was just 19
when they burned her alive in Ruan's
marketplace, but her death only
magnified her legend. Years later, the
church reversed her conviction.
Centuries later, she was canonized as a
saint. By the time Nakano Teeko took up
her naginata, a bladed pole arm favored
by samurai women, Japan was changing
fast. It was the late 1860s and the
samurai class was being dismantled as
the country modernized. But in one final
stand for the old ways, this young woman
would write herself into history as the
last true Onugata,
female warrior of the samurai tradition.
Nano was born in 1847 into a respected
family of scholars and warriors. From a
young age, she studied Confucian
classics, calligraphy, and most
importantly, martial arts. Her favorite
weapon, the naginata, was more than just
practical. It was symbolic.
Traditionally used by women of the
samurai class. It allowed for extended
reach and graceful, fluid combat. Under
the guidance of her adoptive father and
martial arts master, she trained until
her skill rivaled that of the best men
in her domain. By her 20s, Nano had
become both an educator and a warrior,
teaching other women the ways of the
sword. But in 1868, when the Bosshin war
broke out, a civil conflict between the
imperial forces and the old Tokugawa
Shogunat, Nano didn't stay behind. She
joined the defense of Aizu, one of the
last bastions of traditional samurai
resistance. Women were not officially
allowed to serve, but Nano formed an
unofficial unit of female fighters known
as the Josh Thai, the women's army. Clad
in Hakama pants and traditional armor,
these women fought fiercely alongside
the men, protecting their families,
their city, and their way of life. At
the Battle of Aizu, Nano led her unit in
hand-to-hand combat against Imperial
troops armed with rifles.
According to witnesses, she killed
several enemies before being shot in the
chest. Knowing she was mortally wounded
and unwilling to be captured or defiled,
she asked her sister to behead her.
Her body was buried at a temple in
Fukushima, her sword beside her. Nano's
bravery was legendary, even in defeat.
Today, statues of her stand in Japan,
particularly in Aizu, where she's
remembered not only as a warrior, but as
a woman who refused to bow to modernity,
to patriarchy, or to death itself. In
the smoldering ruins of World War II,
one name sent shivers down the spines of
German soldiers on the Eastern Front.
Leud Miller Pavlichenko,
nicknamed Lady Death by her enemies, she
wasn't a myth, a morale booster, or a
propaganda figure, she was the real
thing. A Soviet sniper who tallied 309
confirmed kills, including 36 enemy
snipers. She was the most lethal female
sniper in recorded history.
Born in 1916 in what is now Ukraine,
Pavlichenko was competitive from a young
age. She was fiercely patriotic and a
natural marksman.
When Nazi Germany invaded the Soviet
Union in 1941, she was just 24 years old
and studying history at university. But
instead of books, she picked up a rifle
and volunteered for the Red Army.
Officials initially suggested she become
a nurse. She refused. She wanted a
combat role and she got one. Deployed to
the front lines during the siege of
Odessa and later the siege of
Sevastapole, Pavlichenko earned her
reputation the hard way. She spent long
hours motionless, camouflaged in
freezing terrain, waiting for the
perfect shot.
Her targets weren't just foot soldiers.
She hunted officers, machine gunners,
and rival snipers.
She operated with nerves of steel,
patience bordering on supernatural, and
an absolute hatred for the invaders. Her
kill count climbed so high she was
pulled from the front and sent on a
diplomatic tour of the United States,
Canada, and the UK.
There she met President Franklin D.
Roosevelt and formed a friendship with
Elellanena Roosevelt, who admired her
composure and intellect.
Pavlichenko gave speeches urging the
allies to open a second front in Europe
and mocking reporters who asked her
sexist questions about makeup and skirt
length. After the war, she didn't
retreat into obscurity.
She earned her degree, became a
historian, and trained future
generations of Soviet snipers.
Though she suffered from war- rellated
trauma and injuries, her legacy endured.
She received the hero of the Soviet
Union Medal and remains a national hero
in both Russia and Ukraine. In a world
that often doubts the place of women in
war, Leudmila Pavlichenko didn't argue.
She didn't protest. She simply did the
job better than almost anyone who ever
lived.
For every famous name Buudaca, Tommoy
Gozen, Leudmila Pavlichenko, there are
countless others whose stories have
slipped through the cracks of mainstream
history. History, after all, was largely
written by men. And when women picked up
swords, rifles, or spears, they were
often omitted, downplayed, or turned
into myth. But make no mistake, warrior
women have been there all along across
continents. across centuries and their
silence was not voluntary. Consider the
Trung sisters of Vietnam, Trung Track
and Trungi, who led a rebellion against
Chinese occupation in the 1st century
CE.
They rode elephants into battle, rallied
thousands of followers, and ruled an
independent state for 3 years before
being crushed by superior Chinese
forces. Their resistance is still
commemorated today with temples and
festivals in their honor even though
global history books rarely mention them
or the Ya Asanttoir of the Ashanti
Empire in West Africa who in 1900 led a
rebellion against British colonial
forces.
As queen mother, she rallied her people
when the British demanded the sacred
golden stool, the symbol of Ashanti
sovereignty. She delivered fiery
speeches and led her troops in battle,
showing that leadership and defiance
knew no gender. There were Viking shield
maidens, likely not as common as legend
suggests, but very much present.
Archaeological finds confirm that women
were buried with weapons, armor, and
even war horses, not as ceremonial
tokens, but as warriors. There were
Apache women fighters in the American
Southwest like Lozan, a spiritual
warrior who rode and fought beside her
brother, the famous leader Victoria. In
every era, in every region, warrior
women fought, not always to conquer, but
to protect, to defend their families,
their cultures, their homes. Some led
armies, others fought as lone figures in
resistance movements. Some were queens,
some were peasants. But all shattered
the lie that war belonged to men alone.
Today, their legacy is being reclaimed.
From scholarly research to pop culture
representations, the stories of these
women are finally resurfacing. And each
rediscovered name is a reminder. History
is not just what was written. It's also
what was erased. These women didn't ask
to be remembered. They asked to be
respected. And slowly, the world is
beginning to listen.
In the heart of ancient Mesopotamia,
modernday Iraq, music wasn't just
entertainment. It was ritual, power, and
language. And no instrument embodied
this more than the liar.
Among the world's earliest stringed
instruments, the Mesopotamian liar dates
back over 4,500 years, emerging from the
Sumerian city of where music was woven
into both temple ceremony and royal
court life. The liars of weren't simple
harps carved from wood. They were
intricate, beautifully crafted objects,
often adorned with gold, silver, lapis
lazuli, and detailed animal motifs.
One of the most famous examples is the
bull-headed liar, discovered in a royal
tomb in the 1920s by Sir Leonard Woolly.
Its soundbox was shaped like a bull's
body, and the instrument's head was
covered in gold leaf, its beard made of
lapis. But this wasn't just for show.
The bull was a symbol of strength, and
its presence on a liar may have been
spiritual, not decorative.
played with the fingers or a small
plerum, the liar produced a resonant
haunting tone. Though we can't hear
ancient melodies exactly as they were,
scholars believe the Sumerians used a
heptonic scale, seven notes, much like
modern western music. Clay tablets
inscribed with early musical notation
provide tantalizing clues, showing that
music theory and scale construction
existed even then. These liars weren't
confined to palace halls. In temples,
music accompanied offerings and prayers
to the gods. Hymns were sung with liar
accompaniment in honor of deities like
Inana and Enlil, turning music into a
sacred bridge between human and divine.
Inerary writes, liars mourned the dead,
helping guide souls into the afterlife.
They weren't just instruments. They were
voices of transition and transformation.
Mesopotamian musicians held a respected
role in society. Some were female
priestesses, others were court
performers. They memorized complex songs
passed down orally, often learning from
a young age within structured schools
for scribes and musicians. Today,
replicas of these ancient liars are
played in museums and reconstructions.
their soft twanging echoes reminding us
that long before Mozart, before medieval
minstrels, or even Homer's sung epics,
humans were plucking strings in the
desert, chasing beauty and sound. While
the liar sang gently to the gods, the
owos screamed, wept, and danced through
the hearts of the ancient Greeks.
This reedlown doublepiped wind
instrument was no gentle flute. It was
wild, emotional, and unrelenting.
To the Greeks, music wasn't just
entertainment. It was ethos, a force
that shaped the soul. And the allos
embodied its most primal edge. Unlike
the liar, which symbolized harmony and
order favored by Apollo, the allos was
associated with Dionis, god of wine,
ecstasy, and madness. It was often
played during rituals, dramatic
performances, and military marches,
giving it a range of emotional and
functional uses. It consisted of two
pipes, usually made of wood, bone, or
ivory, each with its own reed and
fingering holes. The musician or it
played both pipes simultaneously,
producing a dense, penetrating sound
closer to a bagpipe than a modern flute.
This required incredible breath control.
Musicians often used a technique called
circular breathing, inhaling through the
nose while pushing air out through the
cheeks, allowing them to play
continuously.
The effort warped their faces and puffed
their cheeks so much so that athletes
sometimes mocked all it players for
their awkward appearance. Yet, despite
the jokes, all it players were
respected, even revered in certain
circles. The Oloss was not for calm
background music. It stirred the blood
in ancient Greek theater. It accompanied
tragedies and comedies, adding mood and
momentum to performances by Sophocles
and Uripides. In battle, it kept
hoplights marching in step, its blaring
voice slicing through the chaos. And
during Bakic rituals, it pushed dancers
into trance-like states, dissolving the
line between performer and possessed.
Plato had a complicated relationship
with the owos in his republic. He
famously dismissed it as too emotionally
overwhelming, preferring instruments
like the liar and Cathara for their
intellectual clarity.
Yet even he couldn't deny its power. The
owos could simulate sorrow, mimic fury,
or stir euphoria, sometimes all in the
same breath.
Today, fragments of ancient alloy
survive in museums, and modern
reconstructions hint at its raw energy.
Unlike the mathematically balanced liar,
the Allos wasn't about perfection. It
was about release. It carried the sound
of frenzy, mourning, seduction, and war.
In the ancient courts and scholar
studios of China, music was more than
art. It was philosophy in motion. And
few instruments embody this more than
the Guin and the Gujang, two stringed
zithers that carried the sounds of
dynasties, meditation, and poetic
introspection. They may look similar at
a glance, but each served a distinct
role in shaping China's musical
identity. The Gin is the elder of the
two, an instrument with over 3,000 years
of history. With seven strings and a
long fretless wooden body, it produced
quiet, subtle tones.
To the untrained ear, the guuchine
sounds almost whisper-like. Gentle
slides, harmonics, and plucked notes
that echo like raindrops on old tile.
But to Chinese scholars and sages, these
sounds reflected the balance between
heaven and earth.
Confucious himself was said to play the
guin, believing it cultivated moral
character and inner harmony.
In ancient China, learning to play the
guine wasn't about becoming a performer.
It was about becoming civilized.
Contrast this with the Gujang, a
younger, louder cousin with a brighter
sound and more public life. With 16 to
21 strings or more in modern versions,
the Gujang was built for performance.
Its curved wooden frame and movable
bridges allow for rich melodies and
dramatic gissandos.
Musicians pluck the strings with plea
attached to their fingers, creating
cascades of notes that shimmer like
flowing water.
It was favored in palaces, folk music,
and even military camps.
Where the guin whispered to the soul,
the Gujang sang to the crowd.
Both instruments had roles in ritual and
storytelling.
The Guin often accompanied poetry
readings, philosophical lectures, and
meditation. The Gujen was used in
banquetss, operas, and to recount
historical epics. Its music could mimic
galloping horses, flowing rivers, or
weeping lovers, all through vibrating
silk strings and masterful fingerwork.
These instruments also represented
gendered spaces in ancient China. The
Guin was traditionally played by male
scholars while the Gujang became more
associated with female performers,
especially in later dynasties.
Yet both were respected, taught in
musicalmies and written into the
Confucian ideals of balanced education.
Today both Guin and Gujang are still
played, revived in classical and
contemporary settings alike. They remain
living echoes of China's ancient soul
where music was not only heard but felt
as a path to virtue and emotional depth.
In ancient Egypt, music wasn't
background noise. It was a sacred tool,
a form of divine communication that
echoed through temples, tombs, and daily
life. From pharaohs to peasants, music
was everywhere. It soothed laborers,
honored the dead, guided religious
rituals, and entertained the living. And
the instruments that shaped this
soundsscape were as diverse as the Nile
itself.
One of the oldest and most iconic
Egyptian instruments was the harp.
Early harps curved like bows evolved
into larger angular harps that stood as
tall as a man. These instruments were
plucked with the fingers often by temple
musicians or court entertainers. Harps
weren't just for art. They were
associated with the afterlife. Tomb
paintings often show harpists playing
for the souls of the dead, easing their
journey into eternity.
Then came the Cyrum, a sacred rattle
associated with the goddess Hatheror,
protector of music, motherhood, and joy.
Made of metal with loose crossbarss, the
cyrum produced a jangling sound when
shaken. It wasn't subtle, but it was
powerful. Used in temples to summon
gods, purify spaces, and drive out evil
spirits. The shaking of a cyrum was
believed to please deities and maintain
cosmic order. Flutes often made from
reed or bone added breathy melodies to
processions and rituals.
The double clarinet with two pipes
played simultaneously created a rich
buzzing harmony, a predecessor of the
owos of Greece. Percussion came through
frame drums, hand clappers and even
castinets, especially in dances and
festivals. Professional musicians in
Egypt held respected positions. Many
were women depicted in art as harpists
and singers, often serving temples.
These women were more than entertainers.
They were shantresses of Ammon,
musicians of Isis, figures of spiritual
power. Music could honor gods, accompany
offerings, and mark the transition
between life and death.
Egyptian notation remains elusive.
Unlike Mesopotamia or Greece, few
musical records survive. But their
instruments depicted vividly in tombs
and temples tell us enough. Ancient
Egyptians understood music as structure,
emotion, and magic. Even in death, music
was essential. Instruments were buried
with the elite, their owners believing
they'd play again in the field of reeds,
the Egyptian paradise.
To them, music wasn't a pastime. It was
eternity's language. Long before written
words etched history into stone, ancient
African cultures used something far more
primal and immediate. Rhythm. Across the
continent, drums weren't just
instruments. They were voices. They
spoke, commanded, remembered, and
summoned. In Africa's ancient societies,
music, especially percussion, was a
living, breathing language that carried
stories, laws, identities, and the pulse
of the divine.
Drums varied by region and purpose. But
one of the most iconic was the talking
drum found in West Africa.
Shaped like an hourglass and strung with
leather cords, this drum could mimic the
tonal language of the people.
Skilled drummers could speak entire
phrases by adjusting tension on the
chords while striking it with a curved
stick. Messages were sent across
villages announcing births, deaths,
warnings, or royal summons. Long before
the invention of paper or the postal
system, the drum became the continent's
first wireless communication system. But
drums weren't just practical, they were
spiritual.
In kingdoms like ancient Kush and No,
drums summoned ancestors and deities. In
Epha and Benin, they honored kings and
gods in elaborate court rituals.
Drumming was central to initiation
ceremonies, healing rituals, and
funerals. It was said that to beat a
sacred drum was to awaken forces beyond
the veil. African drums came in
countless forms. Jembe, Dundon,
Bugarabu, and Kedi. Each with specific
roles in the musical hierarchy. They
were carved from single logs, carefully
hollowed and fitted with animal hide,
each tuned to a specific pitch or tone.
The craftsmanship was sacred, passed
down from father to son with rituals
even during the making of the
instrument, and percussion didn't stop
at drums. Rattles, bells, shakers, and
thumb pianos added layers of rhythm and
melody, creating a complex poly rhythmic
soundsscape that Western music wouldn't
fully understand until centuries later.
In African tradition, music was
inseparable from movement. You didn't
just listen, you danced, breathed,
sweated with it. The drummer wasn't a
performer. He was a conduit channeling
energy, spirit, and communal memory.
These rhythms traveled through the
transaharan trade, through the Nile, and
later through the Atlantic slave trade,
shaping diasporic music from Brazil to
the Caribbean. But their heart was
always Africa, where the beat wasn't
entertainment. It was identity,
ancestry, and survival.
High in the Andian mountains, where the
air thins and the clouds brush the
earth. Music floated through the stone
cities and terrace fields, not from
string or drum, but from wind. Ancient
Andian civilizations like the Nazca,
Mochce, and Inca developed a rich
musical tradition centered around
aerophones, flutes, whistles, and most
famously pan pipes or secu. The secu is
a deceptively simple looking instrument.
Multiple reads or bamboo tubes of
varying lengths lashed together in a row
or stacked in double rows. Each tube
plays one note and players alternate
rapidly between rows to create melodies.
The result is a haunting breathy harmony
that echoes across mountains like a
conversation with the wind itself.
Seeu ensembles were often played in
pairs. Two players performing
alternating notes in interlocking
patterns, a technique called hocketing,
which symbolized the Andian ideal of
duality and balance in nature and
society.
Flutes made of bone, clay, or reed were
also widespread. Some so small they
could hang from necklaces, others large
enough to produce deep, resonant tones.
Many were carved in the shapes of birds,
snakes, or spirits, showing the
spiritual link between sound and the
natural world.
These weren't just musical instruments.
They were sacred tools. Music was used
to call rain, bless harvests, honor the
sun, or communicate with ancestors.
One particularly fascinating find is the
ceramic whistling vessels of the Mcha
civilization. When water was poured into
them, internal chambers forced air
through a whistle, producing eerie
tones, literally musical pottery.
These were likely used in rituals,
combining water, air, and sound into a
single ceremonial act. In Inca society,
music accompanied every stage of life.
From birth celebrations to funerals,
from military parades to agricultural
festivals, there was a melody for every
moment. Inca musicians played for gods
like Ini, the sun, and Patchamama, the
Earth, offering their breath as a form
of spiritual devotion.
Even soldiers marched with coordinated
flute music, turning warfare into ritual
choreography.
Though Spanish colonization nearly
erased many native traditions, the sound
of Andian flutes never fully vanished.
Today, their echoes can still be heard
in Peruvian highlands and Bolivian
villages. An ancient voice of stone,
wind, and sky still singing in the thin
air. In ancient India, music was more
than a performance. It was cosmic
engineering. According to Hindu
philosophy, the universe itself was
created from sound, from the primordial
vibration known as OM.
From this belief grew one of the world's
most intricate and enduring musical
traditions rooted in ritual,
mathematics, and spiritual
transformation.
Early texts like the Vades dating back
to at least 1500 B.CE be already contain
hymns known as saman chants which were
meant to be sung not just recited.
These hymns formed part of sacred
rituals with specific melodies designed
to align the soul with divine forces.
The priestly cast the brahinss were
trained not only in philosophy and fire
offerings but in voice modulation and
musical cadence. Precision was
essential. Mispronouncing a note could
in theory corrupt the ritual. The
earliest instruments used in Vadic and
postvdic India served both sonic and
symbolic roles. The Vienna, a plucked
string instrument with a resonating
gourd, became a symbol of learning and
divine expression. It was and still is
associated with the goddess Sarasuati,
the deity of wisdom and the arts. Its
strings were said to echo the vibrations
of the cosmos, allowing the player to
connect with universal truths through
melody. Wind instruments like the
bansuri bamboo flute were not only tools
of melody but vehicles of myth. Lord
Krishna, the god of love and divine play
was often depicted playing the flute,
charming humans and animals alike. The
sound of the bansuri was believed to
pierce the illusions of reality maya and
transport listeners to a higher state of
consciousness.
Percussion also held immense power. The
midangam and taba weren't just rhythm
keepers. They mirrored heartbeats,
breath patterns, and cosmic cycles.
Rhythms or talus were complex
mathematical patterns, some cyclical,
some asymmetrical, each linked to
emotional states and times of day.
Indian music was deeply tied to Rasa
theory, the belief that music should
evoke specific emotional flavors like
love, heroism, serenity or sorrow.
Even in ancient times, ragas, melodic
frameworks were designed to stir the
soul and guide meditation.
Unlike many ancient traditions lost to
time, India's musical roots have not
only survived, they've evolved. But at
their core remains the same ancient
belief that to make music is to touch
the divine. In the ancient cities of
Meso America, from the towering pyramids
of Teotiwakan to the ceremonial plazas
of the Meer and Aztecs, music was
inseparable from the sacred. It wasn't
just art. It was power used to speak to
gods, sanctify blood offerings, summon
rain, and terrify enemies.
For the peoples of Meso America, music
was ritual technology, an invisible
thread linking humans to the divine and
the dead. Drums dominated the
soundsscape. The most iconic was the
Hugh Huettle, a tall single-headed drum
carved from hollowed tree trunks and
played with bare hands. Covered in
animal skins and adorned with glyphs or
sacred images, the Huhettle throbbed
during festivals, warfare, and
sacrifices.
Its deep resonant sound echoed through
stone courtyards like the heartbeat of
the gods. Then came the Teonasti, a slit
drum made of hollowed wood played with
rubber tipped mallets. Its surface was
carved into two tongues that produced
different pitches when struck. The
teenasti wasn't just percussive. It
could speak. In Nwatal, the Aztec
language, it was said that Teanasti
could sing the names of deities or the
rhythms of fate itself.
Wind instruments were also central.
Flutes made of bone, clay, and reed were
common, often shaped like animals or
gods. Some were so intricately made that
they could mimic bird calls, jaguar
growls, or human screams. In fact, the
infamous Aztec death whistle, shaped
like a skull and blown like a flute,
produces a blood chilling shriek,
possibly used during war or sacrificial
ceremonies to strike terror into enemies
or open portals to the spirit world.
Music accompanied every major event,
birth, coming of age rights, warfare,
agricultural cycles, and death.
Musicians and dancers trained in special
schools, performing not just for crowds,
but for the gods.
Certain instruments were reserved for
nobles or priests. Playing them
incorrectly could be considered a
spiritual offense. Even sacrifice,
central to Aztec religion, was carried
out to a musical score. Drums pounded,
flutes wailed, and conch shells howled
while hearts were offered to the sun.
The music didn't soothe. It activated.
It guided souls, fed gods, and kept the
cosmic engine turning. In Meso America,
music wasn't a backdrop. It was the
ceremony. It wasn't meant to entertain.
It was meant to transform. Though the
civilizations of antiquity have risen
and fallen, their music has never truly
died. It lingers, not always in sound,
but in ritual, design, and cultural DNA.
In many ways, ancient music was never
meant to be preserved in sheet music or
captured in recordings. It was passed
through hands, mouths, and hearts. A
living tradition encoded in memory and
performance. Take the Chinese guine or
Indian vena. These aren't museum pieces.
They're still played today, often using
techniques that have been passed down
for millennia. Performers don't just
mimic ancient sounds. They embody them.
Each note carries centuries of
philosophy, culture, and meditation. In
a single pluck, you can feel the same
longing or joy that an emperor or sage
once felt. In Africa, the drums still
speak. The rhythms of the gamber, the
call and response of go, the syncupation
of dance, all echo ancient practices
that predate colonial maps or written
history. Even in the Americas, the
haunting breath of the Andian seeku or
the thunder of pow-wow drums among
indigenous tribes reflects echoes of
ancestral voices. Some instruments are
direct descendants, others are inspired
reinventions, but the roots are ancient.
Even in modern western music, ancient
concepts survive. The seven note
heptonic scale used in Mesopotamia laid
a foundation for modern harmony. Greek
music theory, modes, intervals, ethos
fed into early Christian chant and the
eventual birth of classical music and
the instruments. The liar became the
loot which birthed the guitar. The
olos's double reed design inspired the
obo and bassoon. But perhaps the most
enduring legacy is the purpose of
ancient music. It wasn't meant to sell
tickets or top charts. It was ritual. It
was healing. It marked birth and death,
sewing and harvest, love and war. It
meant something. Even today, music
remains our universal language, able to
stir emotion without words, to create
community without walls. In a digital
world overflowing with noise, ancient
music reminds us that sound can be
sacred, that rhythm can be memory and
melody a thread between worlds. Whether
whispered from a guin, shouted through a
war drum, or piped from a clay flute,
the songs of our ancestors still echo.
We just have to listen.