I never thought I’d see the day that an Amsoft game, more especially Harrier Attack, would be getting an enhanced edition. It is one of the best games I have ever played on the Amstrad CPC 464, and to see it remade for the Amstrad CPC Plus by Chris Perver fills me with retro joy. Originally Harrier Attack was released in 1984 and the concept of the game was to fly a British Harrier Jet across the landscape on bombing runs destroying both enemy buildings and aircraft. [embedded content] And here’s the latest. “Some are under the impression that Harrier Attack was written in the BASIC programming language. They may think this due to its slow speed, blocky movements and 8×8 character-sized sprites. But it is written in machine code. Its slow speed is due to the entire screen being scrolled one byte at a time. There are also program loops inserted by the programmer to deliberately slow the game down, presumably to make it easier for children to ‘win’ on the earlier levels. As Harrier Attack is a fairly simple game, I wanted to see if I could disassemble it, to try to speed it up. The result is Harrier Attack Reloaded!” The post Harrier Attack Reloaded – An enhanced classic for the Amstrad CPC Plus by Chris Perver appeared first on Old School Gamer Magazine.

  Artemis didn’t just have an affinity for animals—she was the huntress who held dominion when it came to wildlife, including both prey animals and predators. Goddess of the hunt, queen of the wilderness, and the administrator of all things untamed, she made no apologies to those who trampled upon her domain and were doled out punishment for their transgressions. After all, the rules of the wild are stark and unforgiving. Artemis had a whole entourage of sacred creatures and a penchant for turning followers and foes alike into one. A stag, a bear, a sacrificial deer—there was a roulette wheel of options for the great goddess to turn to.   Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My! Two archers with Artemis (?), from a wine Mixing Bowl, watercolor by A. Dahlsteen, 1760s. Source: Wellcome Collection   Artemis wasn’t just a divine huntress—she was the queen of the wild, ruling over creatures that ranged from majestic to absolutely beastly. Most steles and statues depict her with deer and hunting dogs, but the bigger, toothier beasts also fall under her dominion. Lions? Check. Bears? Absolutely. Snakes? Certainly.   And, much like these creatures that hunted and roared their dominance over the land, Artemis was known to be rather ruthless. For example, the way she treated Callisto was less than merciful. Callisto was one of Artemis’s devoted handmaidens, which was a rather freeing setup for an ancient girl who didn’t want to marry and raise a family—until Zeus and his wandering eyes got involved. He seduced Callisto by disguising himself as Artemis.   When the real goddess of the hunt found out, she was quite irritated. Since Callisto had broken the sacred vow of chastity (though the stories clearly state the handmaiden had absolutely no say in the matter), Artemis transformed her into a bear and banished her to the wilderness. It was a harsh punishment, but Artemis played by strict rules. Her inner circle was made up of maidens and creatures of the wood only. Callisto was no longer one of those categories, so she was transformed into the other.   Artemis/Diana, Woodcut from Rome, 1878. Source: Picryl   Callisto’s story is indeed tragic, but she wasn’t the only carnivore closely related to Artemis’s mythology. The goddess herself had a strong association with lions, as seen in a stunning 6th-century BCE Greco-Persian seal. The carving depicts Artemis—wings spread, commanding two lions before her. She grips each lion’s tail as they rear up on their hind legs with jaws open, looking back at her as if they know exactly who’s in charge. This little artifact is quite telling. It serves as proof that Artemis wasn’t seen by devotees as just a hunter—she was a warrior, a force of nature who could handle the most fearsome beasts nature could make.   Also of note is the goddess’s penchant for pelts. Artemis was often depicted wearing the skin of a lion, a sharp reminder that she, not the king of the jungle, was the apex predator. Though this habit may bring to mind Hercules, who wore his lion pelt as proof of his success in his trials, Artemis didn’t need the validation—she wore it because she could. She was the goddess of the wild, the untamed, and the fiercely independent. That meant draping herself in the remnants of a once-mighty lion, a fashion statement for the greatest of all huntswomen.   Whether she was turning people into bears, taming lions, or rocking a big cat fur coat, Artemis didn’t just rule over animals—she mastered them. Her mythology is proof that in the wild, power belongs to those who are willing to wield it. In Artemis’s case, she wielded it with a bow, a no-nonsense attitude, and a kind of aloof respect for the creatures she both protected and conquered.   Artemis and the Doe Artemis and Apollo with the Hind, 19th century. Source: GetArchive   Artemis had a signature animal, and it was the doe. While modern thinking classifies deer as gentle, skittish creatures, Artemis’s deer were lithe, swift, and glorious. In fact, there were times when her bounding does were downright untouchable—particularly the Ceryneian Hind, a creature so legendary that even Heracles struggled to get his mighty hands on it.   According to myth, the golden-antlered hind wasn’t just some regular woodland creature—it was a sacred blessing. The nymph Taygete, one of the Pleiades, had a very bad time when Zeus set his sights on her (sounds like Callisto’s story?). To escape his unwelcome advances, she called out to Artemis for help. The goddess, in her usual no-nonsense fashion, turned Taygete into a cow to keep Zeus at bay. Later, when Taygete regained her true form, she gave Artemis a doe in gratitude—a very special doe, with golden antlers and hooves of shining brass. Artemis, who had a thing for collecting powerful and symbolic animals, accepted this offering of thanks.   The Ceryneian Hind was so fast it could outrun an arrow in flight, which made it the perfect emblematic badge for a huntress deity. It was also untouchable—literally. Killing it was a surefire way to enrage Artemis, which Heracles found out the hard way during his Twelve Labors. Ordered to capture the hind, he spent a full year tracking the beast through Greece before finally subduing it.   Even in his temporary victory, he had to tread carefully. He knew Artemis would not take kindly to him harming her sacred creature, so he tried to pass off the whole affair as a misunderstanding. The fact that he survived the encounter suggests that either Artemis believed him—or she just respected a good chase, so long as it didn’t end in the death of her prized hind.   Artemis with deer, 1st century BCE-1st century CE, now in the Met, New York. Source: Wikimedia Commons   This divine connection to deer was immortalized in ancient art. Roman statues often depicted Artemis with a deer by her side, like the image now housed at the Met in New York. In this particular bronze, Artemis stands poised and regal, her hunting attire perfectly draped, as if she’s just stepped into view for a divine epiphany. A deer looms comfortably beside her, reinforcing her role as the goddess of the wild.   Other artworks, like an ancient Greek oil jar attributed to the Oreithyia Painter, show Artemis cradling a spotted doe while holding a phiale, a vessel likely used for ritual activities. This wasn’t just decoration—it was a visual reminder of Artemis’s dominion over both the hunt and the creatures who fell within her holy purview.   Even the Romans, who rebranded her as a more grown goddess version of the huntress, Diana, kept the deer close to her mythology. Her most important sanctuary at Aricia, near Lake Nemi (nicknamed the “Mirror of Diana”), was a place where deer roamed freely. Whether as an untouchable beast, a divine companion, or a sacred offering, the doe was always at Artemis’s side—a reminder that, in all her fierceness, she was the guardian of the untamed wild.   Goddess of Snakes Artemis of Ephesus, Roman copy of the 2nd century BCE original. Source: GetArchive   You’d think a goddess known for running through the woods with a bow and a pack of wild animals wouldn’t have a great love of snakes—but Artemis was full of surprises. She’s best known as the goddess of the hunt, but she also has a snaky side.   Ancient writers like Pausanias described Artemis as breathtakingly beautiful, but not in the fragile, wispy way of other Olympian goddesses. She was a force of nature, draped in deerskin or a lion pelt, armed with a quiver of arrows, and—since regular weapons weren’t intimidating enough—carrying a torch and two live snakes in her hands. This association with serpents would later tie her to Hecate, the eerie, enchantment-crafting goddess of witches, ghosts, and the general creeping dread of the unknown.   While Hecate leaned into the whole underworld vibe, Artemis had a different relationship with snakes—one that involved divine protection, monstrous guardians, and the occasional giant serpent baby. Snakes, in the ancient world, were related closely to the myth of dragons, and what is a dragon if not the lion of the serpent world?   Statue of Hecate and the Three Graces, 1st-2nd century BCE. Source: The MET, New York   Take, for example, the Drakon Ophiogeneikos, or the Dragon of the Serpent-Born. This wasn’t your average snake slithering through the underbrush—it was a massive, fear-inducing beast that guarded Artemis’s grove in Mysia.   Just like the very king of the gods was known to do, the serpent apparently took a liking to a young woman. She was named Halia, and she just wanted to visit the shrine of the maiden goddess. However, after the encounter with the dragon, she gave birth to Ophiogenes, whose name literally means “Serpent-Born,” and this child went on to found an entire tribe. This story mostly serves to reinforce that when it came to Artemis’s sacred spaces, snakes were part of the package (and that, whether it be a massive dragon, a swan, or a bull, women of the ancient world could never trust the sudden appearance of an animal).   Snakes in the Temple of Asclepius, Cos. Source: The Wellcome Collection   Artemis inherited this whole snake-wrangling aesthetic. She might’ve gotten it from her mom, Leto. According to myth, while pregnant with Zeus’s twins Artemis and Apollo, Leto had a stalker—a massive serpent that followed her around throughout the length of her entire pregnancy. Not ones to easily offer mercy or forgiveness, Artemis and Apollo wasted no time hunting the thing down once they were born, filling it with arrows and ensuring it never shadowed Leto’s steps again. Similarly, when the giant Phokis decided to be deeply inappropriate toward Leto, Artemis, and Apollo tag-teamed him into an early trip to Hades. Clearly, lusting after Leto led to an early and painful death.   So, while Artemis wasn’t just a snake goddess, the connection is there. She wielded the slithering beasts like accessories, kept them in her sacred spaces, and had no problem putting them down when they crossed the line. Snakes, much like Artemis herself, were wild, untamed, and dangerous when provoked.   Offerings and the Sacrificing of Her Animals Marble Showing Offering to Artemis, 329-8 BCE. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Artemis might have been the ultimate minister of wild animals, but ancient Greeks were nothing if not pragmatic. Worshipers didn’t just admire her creatures from afar—they sacrificed them in her honor. It is the kind of divine irony that would make a small family farmer nod in understanding. You can care deeply for an animal, even nurse it through its adolescence, and still recognize its place in the grander cycle of survival. Animals, to the ancients and their gods, were resources; valuable, yes, but still a commodity.   Excavations at her temples—particularly the massive sanctuary at Amarynthos in Greece—have uncovered layers of buried ash and striated bones, physical proof of the sacrificial rites done in the goddess’s name. Ancient devotees would lead animals, mostly deer or goats, in a procession to the altar, where they were ritually slaughtered and (some bits) burned as offerings. Specific parts were set aside for the goddess, while the rest of the meat was typically shared among the worshippers in a sacred feast or festival.   The process wasn’t just about spilling blood—it was an act of devotion, a way to honor Artemis as both the protector and the hunter. In many ways, it was the worshipers’ polytheistic version of tithing.   Sanctuary of Artemis at Sardis. Source: Wikimedia Commons   In ancient Greece, people didn’t view sacrificing animals as a brutal act but as a necessary exchange—giving Artemis her due in return for her help with successful hunts, fertile lands, and safe childbirth. One of her roles, perhaps strangely for a virgin goddess, was as a patroness of labor and delivery. Maybe, however, it’s not so strange. Never are women more in the wilderness, more at the mercy of the rhythms of their own bodies, than while in the midst of childbirth. Artemis, guardian of all things wild and untamed, wouldn’t have turned away from the blood and pain of the birthing room.   Artemis While Hunting, by Schnorr von Carolsfeld, 1869. Source: Picryl   In addition to full sacrifices, Artemis also received symbolic offerings made from animal bones, horns, and hides. Archaeologists have unearthed these relics at various temple sites, suggesting that some worshippers chose to leave tribute without outright slaughter. Others crafted small votive figurines in the shape of Artemis’s sacred animals—tiny stags, dogs, and even bees—which was perhaps a more practical way of offering their devotion without losing a valuable farm animal.   Unfortunately, we know of sacrifice-making to Artemis that didn’t involve animals but, instead, a princess. Agamemnon’s ill-fated decision to sacrifice his daughter, Iphigenia, to appease Artemis before the Trojan War was one of the most famously shocking tales of her demand for appeasement via bloodshed. Yet, even here, Artemis subverted expectations—at the last moment, she whisked Iphigenia away and replaced her with a deer, reminding everyone that while she might require sacrifice, she wasn’t predictable in her rare benevolences.   Ultimately, Artemis embodied the balance between reverence for nature and the inevitability at the end of survival. The Greeks understood this—and glorified her not only with the blood but with the bones, carvings, and whispered prayers left behind in her temples that honored her with the likenesses or essences of her sacred animals.

  Maine’s history is a rich blend of Indigenous heritage, colonial conflict, maritime industry, and cultural resilience. Once part of Massachusetts, Maine played a pivotal role in early American warfare, from French and Indian battles to Revolutionary outposts like Fort Western and Fort Halifax. Its statehood in 1820 marked the beginning of a unique identity rooted in rugged coastlines, shipbuilding, and steadfast communities. The state’s harbors launched six-masted schooners, while its towns raised poets, generals, and artisans who shaped American culture. That legacy still breathes through its remarkably preserved landmarks. Below are ten historic sites across Maine that bring the state’s past vividly to life.   1. Portland Head Light, Cape Elizabeth Portland Head Light, Cape Elizabeth, Maine. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Standing sentinel on the rugged coast of Cape Elizabeth, Portland Head Light is Maine’s oldest lighthouse and one of its most iconic. Commissioned by George Washington and completed in 1791, the lighthouse has guided ships safely into Portland Harbor for over two centuries. Built with local stone and once powered by whale oil, it has withstood fierce Atlantic storms and changing times, remaining a steadfast symbol of Maine’s maritime heritage.   Today, visitors come not only for the sweeping ocean views and dramatic cliffs, but also for the sense of history etched into every corner of Fort Williams Park, where the lighthouse stands. You can explore the old keeper’s quarters, now a museum filled with artifacts and stories of shipwrecks and lighthouse life. The grounds offer picnic spots, walking trails, and panoramic photo opportunities.   2. Fort Knox State Historic Site, Prospect Fort Knox State Park on the Penobscot river, Prospect, Maine. Source: Flickr   Perched on the west bank of the Penobscot River in Prospect, Fort Knox stands as a testament to 19th-century American coastal defense. Constructed between 1844 and 1869, it was the first fort in Maine built entirely of granite, sourced from nearby Mount Waldo. Named after Major General Henry Knox, the first U.S. Secretary of War, the fort was part of the Third System of coastal fortifications, designed to protect the Penobscot River Valley and the vital lumber port of Bangor from potential British naval incursions.   Though never engaged in battle, Fort Knox was manned during the Civil War and the Spanish-American War, serving as a training ground for troops, including members of the renowned 20th Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment. Today, visitors can explore its well-preserved granite walls, underground passages, and original Rodman cannons. The fort also features “hot shot” furnaces, once used to heat cannonballs intended to set enemy ships ablaze.   Adjacent to the fort is the Penobscot Narrows Bridge and Observatory, the tallest public bridge observatory in the world. A swift elevator ride transports visitors 420 feet above the river, offering panoramic views of the surrounding landscape.   3. Fort Western, Augusta Fort Western, Augusta, Maine. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Nestled along the banks of the Kennebec River in Augusta, Old Fort Western stands as the oldest surviving wooden fort in the United States. Constructed in 1754 during the French and Indian War, this National Historic Landmark offers a vivid glimpse into 18th-century colonial life. Originally built by the Kennebec Proprietors, a Boston-based land company, Fort Western served as a fortified trading post and supply depot for Fort Halifax, located 17 miles upriver. Its strategic location at the head of navigation on the Kennebec River made it a vital link in the chain of British colonial defenses.   In 1775, during the American Revolutionary War, Benedict Arnold’s expedition to Quebec stopped at Fort Western. Arnold, along with notable figures like Daniel Morgan and Aaron Burr, used the fort as a staging area to repair bateaux and gather supplies before continuing their arduous journey northward.   Today, Old Fort Western operates as a living history museum, meticulously restored to reflect its original 18th-century appearance. Visitors can explore the original 1754 garrison building, reconstructed blockhouses, and palisade walls.   Costumed interpreters bring history to life, demonstrating colonial-era crafts, military drills, and daily activities. Exhibits showcase artifacts from the period, providing insight into the lives of soldiers, traders, and settlers.   4. Victoria Mansion, Portland Victoria Mansion, Portland, Maine. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Nestled in Portland’s historic West End, Victoria Mansion, also known as the Morse-Libby House, is a premier example of 19th-century Italianate architecture in the United States. Built between 1858 and 1860 as a summer residence for hotelier Ruggles Sylvester Morse and his wife Olive, the mansion showcases opulent design and advanced technological features of its time.   Designed by architect Henry Austin, the mansion features a brownstone exterior with a distinctive four-story tower, overhanging eaves, and ornate windows. The interiors, crafted by German-born cabinetmaker Gustave Herter and Italian artist Giuseppe Guidicini, boast elaborate wall paintings, carved woodwork, and original furnishings. Notably, the mansion incorporated modern amenities such as central heating, gas lighting, and hot and cold running water, luxuries uncommon in the mid-19th century.   After changing hands to the Libby family in 1894, the mansion remained largely unaltered until the early 20th century. Threatened with demolition in 1940, it was rescued by preservationist William H. Holmes and opened to the public as a museum in 1941. Today, over 90% of its original interiors are intact, offering visitors a rare glimpse into Victorian-era elegance.   5. Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, Maine. Source: Wikimedia Commons   The Wadsworth-Longfellow House in Portland stands as a testament to American history and literature. Built between 1785 and 1786 by Revolutionary War General Peleg Wadsworth, it is the oldest standing structure on Portland’s peninsula and the first wholly brick dwelling in the city. This Federal-style home became the childhood residence of his grandson, renowned poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who lived there for 35 years.   In 1901, Anne Longfellow Pierce, Henry’s sister and the last family member to reside in the house, bequeathed it to the Maine Historical Society. The following year, it opened to the public as Maine’s first historic house museum.  Today, visitors can explore rooms preserved with original furnishings, offering a glimpse into 19th-century domestic life. Adjacent to the house is the Longfellow Garden, a tranquil Colonial Revival-style garden established in 1924. This serene space provides a peaceful retreat in the heart of downtown Portland.   6. Fort Halifax, Winslow Fort Halifax, Winslow, Maine. Source: Picryl   At the confluence of the Kennebec and Sebasticook Rivers in Winslow stands Fort Halifax, home to the oldest surviving wooden blockhouse in the United States. Constructed in 1754 during the French and Indian War, this fortification was part of a strategic network, including Fort Western and Fort Shirley, designed to protect the northern frontier of the Massachusetts Bay Colony from French and Native American incursions.   Named after George Montagu-Dunk, 2nd Earl of Halifax, the fort was established under the command of Major General John Winslow. Upon arrival with a force of 600 men, Winslow documented the fort’s construction:   “…On the next day, laid out the ground, began to clear it… hoisted the King’s colors with the beat of drum and sound of trumpet and discharge of our whole artillery and small arms, drank to his Majesty and called this place Fort Halifax…”   Despite its formidable presence, Fort Halifax faced challenges. In November 1754, Wabanaki warriors attacked, resulting in casualties and captives. Such raids underscored the volatile nature of frontier life during this period.   After the fort’s military relevance waned, it was largely dismantled by the early 19th century, leaving only the blockhouse. This structure endured until a devastating flood in 1987 swept it away. Remarkably, many original logs were recovered downstream, and by 1988, the blockhouse was meticulously reconstructed on its original site.   7. Sabbathday Lake Shaker Village, New Gloucester The library and schoolhouse at Sabbathday Lake Shaker Village in New Gloucester, Maine. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Tucked into the rolling hills of New Gloucester, Maine, Sabbathday Lake Shaker Village is the last active Shaker community in the world. Founded in 1783, this National Historic Landmark spans over 1,800 acres of farmland, forest, and 17 historic buildings, preserving the Shakers’ legacy of simplicity, craftsmanship, and communal living.   Visitors can explore the Shaker Museum, which houses over 13,000 artifacts, including furniture, textiles, tools, and medicinal herbs, that reflect over two centuries of Shaker life. Guided tours offer insights into the community’s daily rhythms, from worship in the 1794 Meetinghouse to work in the Brethren’s Shop and herb gardens. The village also hosts seasonal events, craft workshops, and Sunday worship services open to the public.   8. Joshua L. Chamberlain Museum, Brunswick Joshua Chamberlain House and Museum, Brunswick, Maine. Source: Flickr   In the heart of Brunswick, the Joshua L. Chamberlain Museum offers a window into the life of one of America’s most revered Civil War heroes. Chamberlain, celebrated for his leadership at Gettysburg’s Little Round Top, was also a four-term Maine governor and president of Bowdoin College. His home, now a museum operated by the Pejepscot History Center, preserves his legacy through personal artifacts and stories.   Visitors can explore rooms filled with original furnishings and memorabilia, including Chamberlain’s Civil War boots, his ceremonial governor’s chair and desk, and the minié ball that nearly ended his life at Petersburg. The house itself, moved and expanded by Chamberlain in 1867, reflects architectural styles of the era and the family’s personal touches.   Open seasonally from Memorial Day weekend through October, the museum offers guided tours that delve into Chamberlain’s military achievements, academic contributions, and personal life.   9. Winslow Homer Studio, Prouts Neck, Scarborough Winslow Homer Home & Studio, Prouts Neck, Scarborough, Maine. Source: Flickr   Perched on the rugged cliffs of Prouts Neck in Scarborough, the Winslow Homer Studio offers an intimate glimpse into the life and work of one of America’s most revered artists. Originally a carriage house, the building was transformed in 1884 by architect John Calvin Stevens into a studio and residence for Homer, who sought solitude and inspiration from the sea.   Homer lived and worked here until his death in 1910, creating iconic seascapes like The Fog Warning and Eight Bells, capturing the raw power and beauty of the Atlantic. The studio’s second-floor balcony, known as the “piazza,” provided Homer with panoramic views that deeply influenced his art.   In 2006, the Portland Museum of Art acquired the property and undertook a meticulous restoration to return the studio to its original state. Today, visitors can experience guided tours that begin at the museum and transport them to Prouts Neck, where they can explore the studio, view original furnishings, and immerse themselves in the environment that inspired Homer’s masterpieces.   10. Maine Maritime Museum, Bath Maine Maritime Museum in Bath, Maine. Source: Wikimedia Commons   On the banks of the Kennebec River in Bath, the Maine Maritime Museum captures the deep maritime legacy of a state shaped by shipbuilding and sea trade. Open since 1962, the museum sits on a 20-acre waterfront site that includes the historic Percy & Small Shipyard, the only surviving shipyard in the United States where large wooden sailing vessels were built. Visitors can walk through original 19th-century buildings, including a blacksmith shop and caulking shed, and witness where ships like the massive six-masted schooner Wyoming were once launched.   The museum’s exhibits are both immersive and hands-on, covering everything from lighthouse life to lobster fishing. The restored Donnell House offers a glimpse into the daily life of a 19th-century shipbuilder’s family. Outside, a full-scale sculpture of the Wyoming dominates the landscape. In warmer months, river cruises offer a close-up look at Maine’s lighthouses, wildlife, and the active Bath Iron Works shipyard. For anyone curious about Maine’s seafaring story, this museum is essential.

  Artemis didn’t just have an affinity for animals—she was the huntress who held dominion when it came to wildlife, including both prey animals and predators. Goddess of the hunt, queen of the wilderness, and the administrator of all things untamed, she made no apologies to those who trampled upon her domain and were doled out punishment for their transgressions. After all, the rules of the wild are stark and unforgiving. Artemis had a whole entourage of sacred creatures and a penchant for turning followers and foes alike into one. A stag, a bear, a sacrificial deer—there was a roulette wheel of options for the great goddess to turn to.   Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My! Two archers with Artemis (?), from a wine Mixing Bowl, watercolor by A. Dahlsteen, 1760s. Source: Wellcome Collection   Artemis wasn’t just a divine huntress—she was the queen of the wild, ruling over creatures that ranged from majestic to absolutely beastly. Most steles and statues depict her with deer and hunting dogs, but the bigger, toothier beasts also fall under her dominion. Lions? Check. Bears? Absolutely. Snakes? Certainly.   And, much like these creatures that hunted and roared their dominance over the land, Artemis was known to be rather ruthless. For example, the way she treated Callisto was less than merciful. Callisto was one of Artemis’s devoted handmaidens, which was a rather freeing setup for an ancient girl who didn’t want to marry and raise a family—until Zeus and his wandering eyes got involved. He seduced Callisto by disguising himself as Artemis.   When the real goddess of the hunt found out, she was quite irritated. Since Callisto had broken the sacred vow of chastity (though the stories clearly state the handmaiden had absolutely no say in the matter), Artemis transformed her into a bear and banished her to the wilderness. It was a harsh punishment, but Artemis played by strict rules. Her inner circle was made up of maidens and creatures of the wood only. Callisto was no longer one of those categories, so she was transformed into the other.   Artemis/Diana, Woodcut from Rome, 1878. Source: Picryl   Callisto’s story is indeed tragic, but she wasn’t the only carnivore closely related to Artemis’s mythology. The goddess herself had a strong association with lions, as seen in a stunning 6th-century BCE Greco-Persian seal. The carving depicts Artemis—wings spread, commanding two lions before her. She grips each lion’s tail as they rear up on their hind legs with jaws open, looking back at her as if they know exactly who’s in charge. This little artifact is quite telling. It serves as proof that Artemis wasn’t seen by devotees as just a hunter—she was a warrior, a force of nature who could handle the most fearsome beasts nature could make.   Also of note is the goddess’s penchant for pelts. Artemis was often depicted wearing the skin of a lion, a sharp reminder that she, not the king of the jungle, was the apex predator. Though this habit may bring to mind Hercules, who wore his lion pelt as proof of his success in his trials, Artemis didn’t need the validation—she wore it because she could. She was the goddess of the wild, the untamed, and the fiercely independent. That meant draping herself in the remnants of a once-mighty lion, a fashion statement for the greatest of all huntswomen.   Whether she was turning people into bears, taming lions, or rocking a big cat fur coat, Artemis didn’t just rule over animals—she mastered them. Her mythology is proof that in the wild, power belongs to those who are willing to wield it. In Artemis’s case, she wielded it with a bow, a no-nonsense attitude, and a kind of aloof respect for the creatures she both protected and conquered.   Artemis and the Doe Artemis and Apollo with the Hind, 19th century. Source: GetArchive   Artemis had a signature animal, and it was the doe. While modern thinking classifies deer as gentle, skittish creatures, Artemis’s deer were lithe, swift, and glorious. In fact, there were times when her bounding does were downright untouchable—particularly the Ceryneian Hind, a creature so legendary that even Heracles struggled to get his mighty hands on it.   According to myth, the golden-antlered hind wasn’t just some regular woodland creature—it was a sacred blessing. The nymph Taygete, one of the Pleiades, had a very bad time when Zeus set his sights on her (sounds like Callisto’s story?). To escape his unwelcome advances, she called out to Artemis for help. The goddess, in her usual no-nonsense fashion, turned Taygete into a cow to keep Zeus at bay. Later, when Taygete regained her true form, she gave Artemis a doe in gratitude—a very special doe, with golden antlers and hooves of shining brass. Artemis, who had a thing for collecting powerful and symbolic animals, accepted this offering of thanks.   The Ceryneian Hind was so fast it could outrun an arrow in flight, which made it the perfect emblematic badge for a huntress deity. It was also untouchable—literally. Killing it was a surefire way to enrage Artemis, which Heracles found out the hard way during his Twelve Labors. Ordered to capture the hind, he spent a full year tracking the beast through Greece before finally subduing it.   Even in his temporary victory, he had to tread carefully. He knew Artemis would not take kindly to him harming her sacred creature, so he tried to pass off the whole affair as a misunderstanding. The fact that he survived the encounter suggests that either Artemis believed him—or she just respected a good chase, so long as it didn’t end in the death of her prized hind.   Artemis with deer, 1st century BCE-1st century CE, now in the Met, New York. Source: Wikimedia Commons   This divine connection to deer was immortalized in ancient art. Roman statues often depicted Artemis with a deer by her side, like the image now housed at the Met in New York. In this particular bronze, Artemis stands poised and regal, her hunting attire perfectly draped, as if she’s just stepped into view for a divine epiphany. A deer looms comfortably beside her, reinforcing her role as the goddess of the wild.   Other artworks, like an ancient Greek oil jar attributed to the Oreithyia Painter, show Artemis cradling a spotted doe while holding a phiale, a vessel likely used for ritual activities. This wasn’t just decoration—it was a visual reminder of Artemis’s dominion over both the hunt and the creatures who fell within her holy purview.   Even the Romans, who rebranded her as a more grown goddess version of the huntress, Diana, kept the deer close to her mythology. Her most important sanctuary at Aricia, near Lake Nemi (nicknamed the “Mirror of Diana”), was a place where deer roamed freely. Whether as an untouchable beast, a divine companion, or a sacred offering, the doe was always at Artemis’s side—a reminder that, in all her fierceness, she was the guardian of the untamed wild.   Goddess of Snakes Artemis of Ephesus, Roman copy of the 2nd century BCE original. Source: GetArchive   You’d think a goddess known for running through the woods with a bow and a pack of wild animals wouldn’t have a great love of snakes—but Artemis was full of surprises. She’s best known as the goddess of the hunt, but she also has a snaky side.   Ancient writers like Pausanias described Artemis as breathtakingly beautiful, but not in the fragile, wispy way of other Olympian goddesses. She was a force of nature, draped in deerskin or a lion pelt, armed with a quiver of arrows, and—since regular weapons weren’t intimidating enough—carrying a torch and two live snakes in her hands. This association with serpents would later tie her to Hecate, the eerie, enchantment-crafting goddess of witches, ghosts, and the general creeping dread of the unknown.   While Hecate leaned into the whole underworld vibe, Artemis had a different relationship with snakes—one that involved divine protection, monstrous guardians, and the occasional giant serpent baby. Snakes, in the ancient world, were related closely to the myth of dragons, and what is a dragon if not the lion of the serpent world?   Statue of Hecate and the Three Graces, 1st-2nd century BCE. Source: The MET, New York   Take, for example, the Drakon Ophiogeneikos, or the Dragon of the Serpent-Born. This wasn’t your average snake slithering through the underbrush—it was a massive, fear-inducing beast that guarded Artemis’s grove in Mysia.   Just like the very king of the gods was known to do, the serpent apparently took a liking to a young woman. She was named Halia, and she just wanted to visit the shrine of the maiden goddess. However, after the encounter with the dragon, she gave birth to Ophiogenes, whose name literally means “Serpent-Born,” and this child went on to found an entire tribe. This story mostly serves to reinforce that when it came to Artemis’s sacred spaces, snakes were part of the package (and that, whether it be a massive dragon, a swan, or a bull, women of the ancient world could never trust the sudden appearance of an animal).   Snakes in the Temple of Asclepius, Cos. Source: The Wellcome Collection   Artemis inherited this whole snake-wrangling aesthetic. She might’ve gotten it from her mom, Leto. According to myth, while pregnant with Zeus’s twins Artemis and Apollo, Leto had a stalker—a massive serpent that followed her around throughout the length of her entire pregnancy. Not ones to easily offer mercy or forgiveness, Artemis and Apollo wasted no time hunting the thing down once they were born, filling it with arrows and ensuring it never shadowed Leto’s steps again. Similarly, when the giant Phokis decided to be deeply inappropriate toward Leto, Artemis, and Apollo tag-teamed him into an early trip to Hades. Clearly, lusting after Leto led to an early and painful death.   So, while Artemis wasn’t just a snake goddess, the connection is there. She wielded the slithering beasts like accessories, kept them in her sacred spaces, and had no problem putting them down when they crossed the line. Snakes, much like Artemis herself, were wild, untamed, and dangerous when provoked.   Offerings and the Sacrificing of Her Animals Marble Showing Offering to Artemis, 329-8 BCE. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Artemis might have been the ultimate minister of wild animals, but ancient Greeks were nothing if not pragmatic. Worshipers didn’t just admire her creatures from afar—they sacrificed them in her honor. It is the kind of divine irony that would make a small family farmer nod in understanding. You can care deeply for an animal, even nurse it through its adolescence, and still recognize its place in the grander cycle of survival. Animals, to the ancients and their gods, were resources; valuable, yes, but still a commodity.   Excavations at her temples—particularly the massive sanctuary at Amarynthos in Greece—have uncovered layers of buried ash and striated bones, physical proof of the sacrificial rites done in the goddess’s name. Ancient devotees would lead animals, mostly deer or goats, in a procession to the altar, where they were ritually slaughtered and (some bits) burned as offerings. Specific parts were set aside for the goddess, while the rest of the meat was typically shared among the worshippers in a sacred feast or festival.   The process wasn’t just about spilling blood—it was an act of devotion, a way to honor Artemis as both the protector and the hunter. In many ways, it was the worshipers’ polytheistic version of tithing.   Sanctuary of Artemis at Sardis. Source: Wikimedia Commons   In ancient Greece, people didn’t view sacrificing animals as a brutal act but as a necessary exchange—giving Artemis her due in return for her help with successful hunts, fertile lands, and safe childbirth. One of her roles, perhaps strangely for a virgin goddess, was as a patroness of labor and delivery. Maybe, however, it’s not so strange. Never are women more in the wilderness, more at the mercy of the rhythms of their own bodies, than while in the midst of childbirth. Artemis, guardian of all things wild and untamed, wouldn’t have turned away from the blood and pain of the birthing room.   Artemis While Hunting, by Schnorr von Carolsfeld, 1869. Source: Picryl   In addition to full sacrifices, Artemis also received symbolic offerings made from animal bones, horns, and hides. Archaeologists have unearthed these relics at various temple sites, suggesting that some worshippers chose to leave tribute without outright slaughter. Others crafted small votive figurines in the shape of Artemis’s sacred animals—tiny stags, dogs, and even bees—which was perhaps a more practical way of offering their devotion without losing a valuable farm animal.   Unfortunately, we know of sacrifice-making to Artemis that didn’t involve animals but, instead, a princess. Agamemnon’s ill-fated decision to sacrifice his daughter, Iphigenia, to appease Artemis before the Trojan War was one of the most famously shocking tales of her demand for appeasement via bloodshed. Yet, even here, Artemis subverted expectations—at the last moment, she whisked Iphigenia away and replaced her with a deer, reminding everyone that while she might require sacrifice, she wasn’t predictable in her rare benevolences.   Ultimately, Artemis embodied the balance between reverence for nature and the inevitability at the end of survival. The Greeks understood this—and glorified her not only with the blood but with the bones, carvings, and whispered prayers left behind in her temples that honored her with the likenesses or essences of her sacred animals.

  Circe in The Odyssey is one of Greek mythology’s most infamous enchantresses, a woman who blurs the line between gods, their minor counterparts, and the intimidation factor of mortal wielders of witchcraft. The daughter of Helios, god of the sun, and the ocean nymph Perse, she inherited a unique heritage that tied her to the very power base of Olympus. Unlike the major goddesses who are given specific domains of influence, Circe carved her own path using magic, potions, and a cunning that cut when weaponized. In The Odyssey, she is both a threat and a guide to Odysseus, a woman who turns men into pigs but also helps wayward heroes get back on track. Whether she is an antagonist or a misunderstood sorceress depends on who is telling the story.   Who Was Circe, and Was She a Goddess? Circe drinking from a cup with the companions of Odysseus, by Giulio Bonasone, 1531-76. Source: The MET, New York   Circe is one of Greek mythology’s most enigmatic figures, neither fully divine nor mortal, feared and respected in equal measure. Whatever her classification, she was a deeply magical woman. Born to Helios, the god of the sun, and the ocean nymph Perse, Circe inherited both celestial and dark traits. This duality, a seesawing between light and shadow, defined her. She was not an Olympian, nor was she a vanilla mortal; instead, she carved a spot all her own in the nebulous realm of lesser deities. At times she was called a nymph, a sorceress, or even a minor goddess, though of what isn’t evident.   Circe’s most distinctive trait, however, is not her parentage but her persona. While many deities and their offspring wielded brute force or commanded the elements, Circe’s authority was embedded in her mastery of magic. She was a mistress of transformation, capable of turning men into beasts and bending nature to her will. Unlike the gods she was descended from, Circe wasn’t born with power. No, she had to study to gain it. She had to educate herself in a world in which women weren’t meant to expand their knowledge in such a way. She learned the properties of herbs, the secrets of the earth, and the subtle art of potions and spells. This marked her as a dangerous figure in Greek mythology—a woman who was willing to level herself up in spite of common expectations.   Circe Transforming Men, woodcut, 1474, photo by the Culture Class Collection. Source: Flickr   For those stuck on technicalities, the question of whether or not Circe was truly a goddess still lingers. The answer is complicated. In some sources, she is given the glorification of a minor goddess due to her divine lineage. However, it is unclear if she was immortal or worshiped in her own right. Instead, she resembled other magical figures in Greek mythology, such as Medea (who was her niece) and Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft. On the one hand, Circe was similar to nymphs who often had divine parentage but were seen as passive or reliant on a natural element to sustain themselves. What made Circe stand out was her agency. She was an independent operator with her own island and opinions. She was not a servant of the gods, acting as a soldier for one side or another in their causes. She reigned over her own island of Aeaea, maintaining it without interference from Zeus or any other Olympian.   In simple terms, she was special—an extraordinary character who held herself apart from the world of man and the schemes of gods. In a world where gods ruled and men sought fame, Circe answered to no one. Her story in The Odyssey reflects this: rather than simply being an obstacle for Odysseus, she became a fulcrum in his story, forcing him to rise to her challenge.   In a mythology dominated by gods of war, thunder, and the Underworld, Circe represented something different: the power of knowledge, transformation, and defiance. What made her legend truly frightening to those in power in the ancient world was that this sort of talent could be achieved by anyone willing to go against the grain.   Circe and Odysseus: Power, Passion, and Unease Circe Invidiosa, by John William Waterhouse, 1892. Source: Google Arts & Culture   Circe and Odysseus had one of the most complex (and therefore confusing) relationships in The Odyssey—a fanciful mix of hostility, seduction, mentorship, and, ultimately, mutual respect. Unlike the typical hero-meets-goddess story, their encounter was neither a straightforward conquest nor an idealized love affair. Instead, it began with treachery, flirted with the edge of violence, and evolved into something enigmatic.   When Odysseus and his men washed up on the beaches of Aeaea, Circe did not greet them with open arms. Instead, she did what she did best—she magicked them. Offering the weary sailors food and drink laced with a potion, she turned them into pigs. Unfortunately for them, this enchantment took from them their human form but left their minds intact.   Many have debated why Circe does this, and what it means. Was it simply an act of evil queen-style witchery, the poisoned apple before Snow White ever existed? Was it a woman forcing men’s inner beasts (after all, many of these mens had killed in war, and pillaged and raped while overtaking Troy) to the surface? Was Circe guarding herself and her handmaids from being taken advantage of by the men who suddenly appeared? It is left up to individual interpretation.   Odysseus, however, was not tricked into transformation. Thanks to Hermes, who provided him with a magical herb that repelled sorcery, he became immune to Circe’s spells. When he called her out, emanating anger and a sense of betrayal, the scene grew heavy with tension. Circe, who recognized his strength and intelligence, chose not to fight back. Despite his menace, she surrendered. Instead of a continued clash of enemies, she offered Odysseus another arrangement. Their battlefield became the bedroom, and the stakes were uncertain.   Circe and Odysseus, from the Odyssey, 1968 miniseries. Source: Picryl   Their relationship, from that point on, took on an ambiguous quality. Circe did not become another simpering love interest in Odysseus’s journey but more of an equal. She certainly was no Penelope, waiting loyally at home. Nor did she become Calypso, who tried to keep Odysseus as a permanent lover and companion. Instead, Circe’s behavior was more that of a temptress mixed with a guide. She agreed to restore his men to their human forms and invited Odysseus and his beleaguered crew to stay on her island for one year. There was a pact of comfort, pleasure, and a sense of peace—but it was only temporary.   Odysseus, ever restless, eventually decided he must leave. Circe, independent and unpredictable, didn’t cajole the hero to stay. Rather than resist his departure, she gave him the tools to get home. She instructed him on how to navigate the perils that loomed ahead, from the Underworld to the deadly sirens. This is what made Circe so different from other female figures in The Odyssey. She did not love Odysseus as a mistress, as one who felt a sense of ownership of him—she was a wise woman able to equip him with the knowledge he needed to survive. She had been fine before his arrival on her island, and she clearly felt she would be fine once he was gone.   Circe and the Swine, by Briton Riviere, 1896. Source: Picryl   Was there any genuine affection between them? Like so many aspects of Homer, it is unclear. Some versions of the myth suggested that Circe bore Odysseus a son, Telegonus, who would later cause Odysseus’s death. Yet, the Odyssey itself did not dwell on deep affections between them. Their relationship is one of mutual recognition—Circe sees Odysseus for what he is, a cunning survivor, just as he sees her as a force both dangerous and valuable.   In the end, Circe was one of the few figures in Odysseus’s labyrinthine journey who neither hindered him nor clung to him. She did not demand devotion, nor did she expect him to provide her with anything. Instead, she was a pillar of power, wisdom, and a glimpse of something rare in Greek mythology—a relationship between a man and a woman based not on dominance, but on an exchange of knowledge and mutual respect.   Circe in Fiction: From Homer to Riordan Circe Pouring Poison into a Vase and Awaiting the Arrival of Ulysses, by Edward Burne-Jones, 19th century. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Circe has captivated audiences for centuries, evolving from Homer’s dangerous enchantress to a fully realized character in modern fiction. While her core role as a sorceress often remains intact, different authors have reshaped her story to reflect shifting cultural attitudes toward gender and a woman’s conduct. From her original role in The Odyssey to her reinvention in Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series, Circe has transformed from a feared temptress to a symbol of defiance and feminine vengefulness.   Homer used the character of Circe as both a threat and friend, a figure who emasculated Odysseus’s men (turning them into pigs couldn’t really be anything but a sort of sterilization) only to later guide their hero on his journey. In The Odyssey, she embodied the duality of female figures able to act independently: dangerous but wise, alluring yet untamable. Unlike the mortal women Odysseus encountered, Circe held power over men who entered her kingdom. She was a woman who didn’t need help, didn’t need the use of Odysseus’s skills, and was quite able on her own. Such a woman was an outlier in The Odyssey and in the Greek world at large.   Despite all this, Circe’s role in The Odyssey is brief—she appears in only two chapters of the tale (books 10 and 12)—but her impact is great. She proved a single figure could be both obstacle and ally, that defying a hero didn’t necessarily make a woman a villain. Her ability to be comfortably both has mystified and enchanted readers for centuries. If her dual nature and inability to fall on her knees to glorify a man sound familiar, scholarship connects Circe to Morgan Le Fay of Arthurian legend, the elder influencing the shape of the newer.   Circe the Temptress, by Charles Herman, 1880-81. Source: Picryl   Circe’s own myth has undergone a significant transformation in modern literature. In Madeline Miller’s Circe (2018), she is no longer a supporting figure in a male hero’s story but the protagonist of her own story. Miller reclaims Circe from Homer’s bare margins, portraying her as a misunderstood woman who grows from a naïve nymph into a powerful sorceress.   Instead of being defined by her interactions with Odysseus, Miller’s Circe forges her own path, finding strength in her exile and carving out a place for herself in a world that fears that autonomy. Miller’s Circe challenges the way ancient myths often depict powerful women as threats to be conquered. Going against their original portrayals, this time Odysseus is but a short interlude in Circe’s story.   Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson and the Olympians series takes a different approach to Circe, portraying her as vain and manipulative. In The Sea of Monsters, she runs a luxury spa where she uses her magic to “refine” and “improve” men by transforming them into guinea pigs (a nod to her Odyssey portrayal). For girls, she promises to help them reach their true potential by remaking them in her own image.   Lady Hamilton as Circe, by George Romney, 1782. Source: Waddesdon Collection   Riordan’s Circe is a reimagined caricature of her mythological counterpart, emphasizing her vanity, control over men, and taste for theatrics. In Percy’s world, she once again becomes a figure who can’t outgrow the ancient world—powerful, yes, but ultimately just an obstacle for the young heroes to overcome.   From Homer to Miller to Riordan, Circe’s evolution reflects changing perceptions of female power but a continued obsession with a figure who is made of so many incongruous aspects. In The Odyssey, she is a mysterious and dangerous figure, neither fully villainous nor entirely benevolent. In modern fiction, she has been reimagined both as a feminist icon and a humorous antagonist.   What remains consistent, however, is Circe’s undeniable power. Whether she is an obstacle, a mentor, a mother, or a villain (or some combination of them all), Circe defies the traditional roles imposed upon women in both myth and fairytale. She is not a passive damsel, nor a one-dimensional seductress—she is a force unto herself.   Circe, Pigs, and Greek Womanhood Novel, Circe’s Daughter, 1913. Source: Library of Congress   Of all the things Circe could have transformed Odysseus’s men into, why pigs? Homer wasn’t just making a farmyard reference—this particular bit of sorcery carries symbolic weight. Circe’s pig transformation is one of the most memorable magical moments in The Odyssey. It is more than just a demonstration of what she can do. It reflects Greek anxieties about women, desire, and the role of women in the lives of their lovers, sons, and sisterhoods.   Circe is not alone in subverting depictions of ideal Greek womanhood. Grecian mythology is full of ladies like her who wield power in ways that make men deeply uneasy. Medea, who uses her magic to aid Jason before turning it against him, is one example. The Gorgons, whose gaze literally unmakes men, are another. Circe fits into this tradition of fearsome women, but she’s unique in that her magic doesn’t kill—it transforms. By turning men into pigs, she strips them of their agency, an integral part of them that defined their masculinity.   Medea, by Frederick Sandys, 1868. Source: The Norwegian Encyclopedia   We must remember that Greek society was deeply patriarchal. A man was expected to be rational, strong, and in control—both of himself and of the women of his household. A woman like Circe, who disrupted that gendered dynamic, was a source of anxiety. Worse, Odysseus’s men don’t put up much of a fight against Circe’s offered comforts. Had they been a bit more steadfast, they may have smelled something fishy about her easy hospitality. Instead, they give in easily to their cravings.   Odysseus, by contrast, resists. He doesn’t fall into the trap of indulgence, and in doing so, he reasserts himself above base instincts. Rather than killing her or otherwise giving into his anger, as one might expect of a monster or macho man, he did something more shocking. He took her as his lover. This was extremely disruptive in a world where men and women couldn’t meet as equals.   Seated Odysseus, by the Dolon Painter, 380 BCE. Source: Picryl   If Circe symbolized the fearsome aspects of female power, she also revealed something about how Greek society viewed women in general. Women who were too independent, too knowledgeable, or too charming were dangerous. They needed to be tamed, controlled, or—even better—conscripted into serving male interests. Think of Helen. Too beautiful. Or Medea. Too sharp. Even Arachne. Too confident.   Circe and Odysseus’s unusual alliance mirrors a broader theme in Greek mythology: women who threaten male authority must either be destroyed or domesticated. Circe’s ultimate fate is not as grim as that of Medusa or Medea, but the message remains the same—female power, when unchecked, is dangerous, but when it serves male ambition, it becomes acceptable.   Circe’s story has fascinated readers for centuries because it taps into something primal: the struggle between control and chaos, precaution and indulgence, men and women. Her ability to perform man-to-pig transformation is, at its heart, a test. It asks audiences to reflect on what separates man from beast, leader from follower, hero from fool.

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