Return of the Storm God - Chapter 8b
Including the anthropological roots of religious misogyny and the suppression of women.
Restoring the True Meaning of Pythagoras: The Path to the Origin of Light
Consensus tells us Pythagoras was a man of Samos. A mathematician. A mystic. A cult figure who believed in number and harmony. That much is admitted as possible, but not proved. The man remains elusive - more shadow than source. But if Pythagoras was any man of the 6th century BCE, he must have been entitled thus, not named so - the leader of the Pythagorean cult, not its origin. And therefore, more than a single man.
Even the syllable ag in his name implies leading, guiding, or moving toward - it is the root of agency itself. In this light, Pythagoras therefore symbolically means ‘the Leader of the Path of Pyth’ - a title denoting the one who walks and teaches the serpent path, the harmonic spiral of Phi, toward the origin of light. That is, the Ag of Pyth to the Or of Ra. The name is not a Greek invention, but a Greek retention of a much older Egyptian encoding - one that veils, yet preserves, the feminine source within the axis.
But ask any mainstream linguist, academic historian, or AI trained on consensus material about the deeper origin of this name - about its connection to Egyptian cosmology - and they will tell you it is coincidental. Always coincidence. Never continuity.
Their logic is governed by the presence of formal documentation. If no direct lineage exists in the available records, then it is assumed not to be so. But this is a flawed foundation. Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence - especially in cultures where secrecy was sacred, where initiatory orders protected knowledge through symbolic layers, and where written traces were either concealed, destroyed, or never committed to perishable record in the first place.
Nor does this academic presumption account for the systematic redactions of history, the political destruction of texts, or the institutional hoarding of counter-narratives. The most obvious example remains the Library of Alexandria - a vast compendium of ancient knowledge, of which we do not know how much was lost, nor to what extent its destruction was accidental, political, or deliberately orchestrated.
It is entirely within the bounds of reason to assume that what threatened the imperial or ecclesiastical status quo was removed. And what could not be removed - was recast, veiled in scripture, or buried in vaults. To this day, the Church’s archives remain sealed to all but the highest ranks - thousands of years of written record locked away from public scrutiny.
To ignore this context is not scholarship. It is dogma under a scholarly name.
Yet ask a Pythagorean initiate - one steeped in the sacred function of number - or a high-degree Freemason familiar with the symbolic architecture of the axis, and you will find full recognition of what I now assert, at least none of them will deny its plausibility and logic:
The name ‘Pythagoras’ is not a personal identifier. It is a title. A symbolic sentence encoded with cosmological intent. It means: ‘The one who moves through serpent wisdom (Pytha) toward the origin of light (Ag–Ur–Ra).’
This is the very definition of the phrase ‘path to enlightenment’ inherent in every religion and philosophy known.
This is not poetic speculation. It is rooted in linguistic morphology, symbolic recurrence, and sacred function. It is not ‘folk etymology’ - it is the original encoding of knowledge by those who understood that language is a vessel, not just a code.
Let us break it down structurally:
The Word: PYTH–AG–OR–AS
Pytha (Putah/Ptah) - The Egyptian Father and creator principle of utterance, shaping, and speech - the form-bringer, the Word utterer – the Logos. But also Pyth, the veiled serpent at Delphi, beneath the omphalos. The breath before the Word.
Ag - To move, lead, or initiate. Found in agō, agni, and all words of action and transmission. It is the path.
Ur / Or / Ra - The source. The flame. The original light. In Sumerian and Egyptian, Ur is the city of origin, and Ra is the visible light that emerges from it. The origin of radiance.
Agora (Greek: ἀγορά) - Conventionally translated as ‘marketplace’, but in structure and function it means ‘the coming together’ - the convergence of the many onto the one. The very function of the Djed, the cross, the axis, the omphalos - all symbolic centres of alignment.
The Agora is not only a meeting or a marketplace. It is the ritual convergence. The place where the field lines meet, where the axis stands upright, and where - within the pillar - is concealed the goddess: Isis veiled.
In ancient Greece, an ‘agora’ was a central public space where citizens would meet for commerce, political debate, and philosophical discussions.
It is the point of sacred assembly, where the many converge upon the One, where heaven touches earth, and the breath of the unseen moves through the centre. The Agora is the meeting of any cult or priesthood dedicated to a deity at the ritual axis site: the Omphalos at Delphi, Tara in Ireland, the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, the ziggurat of Babylon, the pyramid of Giza, the Benben of Heliopolis - even the altar of a church. All are iterations of the same principle: convergence upon the veiled centre. The meeting place is not geographical - it is geometric, harmonic, symbolic. The Agora is the gathering around the Djed, the joining of the cross, the entry to the Duat. And within it stands the axis, and within the axis - the goddess, whose breath animates the Word.
Pythagoras is The Initiate of the Converging Path
He is:
The walker of the axis – a medjed in function
The one who follows the tetractys - 1, 2, 3, 4 = 10 - the path from unity to manifestation and back again
The servant of Phi, the golden proportion
The heir of Isis, the one who guards the mystery of the origin through veiling, not obscuring
The Pythagoreans were not simply numerologists or Greek mystics. They were initiates - high-level mathematicians and philosophers sworn to secrecy - and their core tenets were drawn directly from Egyptian typology. They meditated daily upon the Tetractys, the sacred triangular figure comprising ten points in four rows (1–2–3–4 = 10), which encoded not only arithmetic harmony but the very architecture of creation. The Tetractys was not abstract geometry - it was cosmology, symbol, and soul-structure all at once.
They also believed in the transmigration of the soul - the cycle of rebirth through successive lives - a doctrine entirely consistent with the Egyptian model of the ba (soul) and ka (life-force) undergoing purification and return through the Duat. This was not Stoic ethics or Platonic idealism. It was a direct echo of Egyptian metaphysics, where the soul journeys through trial, measurement, and restoration before ascending to unity with the divine.
Every principle the Pythagoreans held sacred - number as living force, soul as eternal, harmony as law, and secrecy as duty - can be found already encoded in the Egyptian priesthoods of Memphis, Thebes, and Heliopolis. This was not Hellenistic invention, but Hellenic transmission of an older system. What they called the Tetractys, the Egyptians already encoded in the Djed, in the geometry of Saqqara, at Giza, and in the very naming of the gods.
Pythagoras, whether historical or archetypal, stood at the threshold of that transmission - not its source, but its inheritor.
Ask Yourself: Who Should We Trust?
Ask an academic linguist or etymologist who relies on consensus derivations such as PIE, and they will tell you this is all a web of misreadings. Coincidence. Backformation. Mistaken comparison. Poor ‘dot connecting’ through confirmation bias. A ‘conspiracy theory’ even.
But ask a Pythagorean - an initiate of the tradition that built the Western canon of number, form, harmony, and proportion - and they will affirm it. They have always known this was the origin of the name. It was encoded, not declared. Hidden in plain sight.
Ask a Freemason, high in the degrees, who has worked through the rituals of the cross, the axis, the Word, the veil - and they too will affirm it. The pillar, the python, the convergence - all encoded within the name.
I remind the casual reader - particularly those unfamiliar with the world of secret orders and initiatory guilds and their symbology - that many of the front-facing figures of historical significance were not simply political or religious actors, but also initiates of esoteric traditions. The Founding Fathers of America, for instance, were not merely Christians; many were Freemasons, steeped in archetypal thinking, symbolic logic, and occult correspondences. Their worldview was shaped by systems of meaning that emphasised mythic structure, numerical resonance, linguistic depth, and ritual geometry - not unlike the framework we are restoring here.
What we are doing, then, is not abstract speculation, nor mere play with words and numbers. We are reconstructing meaning using the very symbolic logic that these orders, priesthoods, and institutions themselves preserved - and which have been encoded into architecture, scripture, law, and language across millennia. This is the mode of interpretation used by those who have shaped the trajectories of religion, royalty, commerce, and empire. We are not departing from history. We are reading it through the lens its makers used - not the one their institutions later imposed.
And yet academia, trained on 19th-century philological rules designed to serve imperial and ecclesiastical needs, will never admit this. They deny Isis, the original harmoniser. They deny Phi as the golden ratio embedded in all life. They deny the serpent of wisdom, the cobra of Wadjet, who sees from above and guards the brow of divine insight. They deny the feminine, because the Church demanded it - because Rome could not tolerate a cosmos governed by balance, water, measure, and restoration. They deny the existence of the soul outside of the body because to admit it would restore meaning to those cultures that have accepted it and which do not endorse religious dogmatism or narrow-minded and unnatural man-made systems.
But when KRST is revealed in its true form - not as a crucified male saviour, but as the ancient Egyptian typology of the soul of Osiris, the corpus kar (the hard, dry hydronymic form) - anointed by the sacred waters of Aset (Isis), the ‘st’ that completes and vivifies the body - then the entire Judeo-Christian narrative – their appropriated pyramid of deception - comes tumbling down.
We have already proved the entire story of Jesus to be thousands of years older than the Gospels, and almost entirely Egyptian.
The further distorted myth imposed as history is unveiled as fabrication (the woven cloth from the twisted flax – which I will explore later) - its structure inverted, its centre hollow. The sacred name KRST, once a theanonym - a divine compound denoting the anointed field-body, resurrected through the balance of masculine form and feminine waters or oils - became devoid of meaning when Rome transformed it into Christ, a male-only title severed from its source. What had once been a symbol of sacred polarity, of kar (the dry, inert form) brought back to life by st (the sacred waters of Isis), was reduced to a theological slogan - emptied of function, stripped of the goddess, detached from the field.
But when recovered in its full symbolic frame, KRST still stands as a poorly disguised theanonym - not a man, but a structure. Not a saviour, but a state of resurrection through balance. It encodes the eternal law: that life is restored only when the masculine is anointed by the feminine - when the dry is made wet, when the word is made fertile, when the pillar is raised by the veiled power within it. When form is given the life breath – HU restored through the ankh of the goddess and god as one.
The name was never lost. It was only veiled.
With the sacred feminine restored as the animating power behind the resurrection - the veiled force behind the axis - the very pillar upon which Christianity was built crumbles into dust. Because it was never theirs. The Djed was Isis's. The anointing waters were hers. The path through the Duat, hers. The KRST was always the anointed field-body - not a man, but a structure restored through the feminine.
And when this truth is remembered - not theorised, but embodied, and re-aligned - the spell breaks.
Ask them why the pentagram within the circle - a shape constructed entirely from the golden ratio of Phi - was the very sign for the entry into the Mother’s Womb. The symbol of the Duat (or Tuat) - the Egyptian underworld, which is not a realm of punishment, but the sacred space of initiation and reconstitution. It is the place where the soul begins its journey, is measured in the scales of Ma’at, and must pass through the gate of the goddess’s geometry - the Phi-ratio that defines the pentagram.
This sign was not obscure: it was carved into tombs, drawn on star charts, and later survived as the Duat symbol in Gardiner’s lexicon - a pentagram within a circle. The sign they made into a symbol of evil and satanic witchcraft. In English vulgarisation Tuat becomes twat - the veiled mockery of the Tuat, the gate of the sacred feminine. In Irish it echoes as Tuat and Tuatha - the People of the Goddess Danu, children of light and field structure. What was once the womb of origin and spiritual return was somewhat degraded into obscenity, erased from sacred memory, and severed from its cosmological function. This is not etymological drift. This is symbolic inversion; rendering the sacred profane.
Ask them also why there are so many ‘coincidences entirely unrelated’ in the culture of the Celts and the Culdees, those who gathered in cells - like early monastic star-chambers - to contemplate the mysteries of the cosmos. All beginning with cel/cul/chal hydronyms.
Ask why the Tuathian inheritors of the Chaldean wisdom traditions revered the Mother as Water, as ethereal flow, not terrestrial possession. Ask how it is that the sacred lineages of Danu, Anu, and Inanna - all ancient mother goddesses of light, water, and fertility - are so evidently present in Ireland, Scotland, and the Hebrides, not as cultural borrowings, but as the living substratum. Inanna, whose cult included the Gala priests - and whose sacred language was ceremonial, ritual, hydronymic - somehow gives rise to a people thousands of years later whose own high spiritual language is still called Gaelic (pron. Gal-ik). A language formed not arbitrarily but from hydronymic, luminymic, and theanonymic roots. A language flowing like water, like a river or gala filled with light-words and god-names. A language that remembers. This is not claimed as evidenced by direct lineage in linguistic terms, but as a typological echo within the Drift Culture memory stream, wherein the evidence may have been removed deliberately by certain vested interests to obscure it. For, where consensus academia says coincidence, we often see continuity.
We are told this is all coincidence. That there is no relation between Gala and Gaelic. No connection between the Tuatha Dé Danann and the ancient Chaldeans. That Danu and Anu are localised Celtic inventions, not preservations of the primordial Mother and Father called Inanna and Anu in ancient Mesopotamia. That the Culdees - the hidden spiritual fire-tenders - were Christian monks and nothing more. And that the sacred cells they inhabited - like those of Egypt, like the hermetic stone huts of Skellig Michael - were architectural necessities, not resonant chambers of cosmological silence of the ancient shamanic traditions.
But the truth is already known to those who have ears to hear it: this is not coincidence. It is continuity. The Mother never died. Her names flowed westward. Her water carried her wisdom. Her serpent lit the stars. And her priests - the Gala - simply changed tongue, evolved into new ritualistic forms, became localised to the Irish environment. Gaelic is not just a dialect or indigenous language. It is a sacred Drift Culture language, encoded with the breath of the Source, that retains a memory stretching back thousands of years.
To the Romans, this ancient Pythagorean cult - with its reverence for number, rebirth, harmony, and the veiled goddess at the centre of the axis - was anathema. It stood as a direct threat to the imperial worldview. Just as they did with the Celts, the Druids, the pagans of Gaul, Albion, and Hibernia, the Romans sought to denigrate what they could not control; so they absorbed it, branding the original as uncivilised, primitive, and chaotic in contrast to the supposed apex of order and reason: Rome. But what Rome brought was not an egalitarian communal civilisation - it was systematised domination, enforced through military conquest and theological inversion.
They had to paint over the older cultures, to dismantle their symbols, to mock their serpent wisdom, and above all, to replace their feminine-rooted balance with a centralised male figurehead - a god-man made in the image of empire. This new myth, crystallised centuries later as the Christianised Jesus, served Rome’s needs perfectly. Through it, they created a theology of hierarchy, guilt, salvation, and reward that fed the Roman machine. The land, once held as sacred gift by indigenous peoples, became taxable. The fruits of the Earth, once offered in rites of gratitude to the Mother, were now given to Rome through tithes, conquest, and economic servitude - justified by divine right.
In the name of Christ, they seized harvests. In the name of civilisation, they burned the oak groves. They also tortured and burned the people into submission – Christ or death through torture was the choice given. And in the name of the male god, they buried the memory of the goddess - in language, in law, in stone, and in time. But memory lives where truth was never destroyed - only veiled.
And when they were caught in their lies, they justified them as necessary. They were not deceivers, they claimed – they were pious frauds, practitioners of a necessary evil.
‘It is an act of virtue to deceive and lie, when by such means the interests of the Church might be promoted.’ - Ecclesiastical History, Bishop Eusebius
(A man whose ‘history’ is still cited by consensus academics as a reliable source of factual data.)
Holy strategists. Liars for God. They forged gospels. They fabricated letters from biblical figures. They invented saints, manufactured martyrdoms, and rewrote myth as history – all, they claimed, to save souls. An unfortunate but necessary deception, they said, to bring the ignorant masses – the children of God – into the fold. The ends justified the means. The flock was too stupid, they believed, to find truth within their own conscience, and so had to be tricked into salvation.
But what they saved was not the souls of the flock. What they preserved was their own power. What they harvested was obedience. And through obedience, they took all the most valuable worldly goods – gold, grain, land, minerals – and returned them to the Mother Church under the guise of divine right.
We are not asserting that any individual does not have the right to believe whatever they wish, nor to find solace, structure, or spiritual comfort in those beliefs. But no person – and certainly no institution – has the right to insist, against all evidence, that their belief is unchallengeable truth. And they most certainly have no right to impose that belief upon others – to mandate it, legislate it, or use it as a tool of persecution.
There exists more than enough evidence to demonstrate that organised religion was founded upon a mountain of lies – and that many spiritual dogmas, often presumed to be sources of inherent morality, are in fact constructs built upon deception. That is not to say there is nothing of truth within religion. Much is morally valid, symbolically powerful, even archetypally resonant. But far too little survives intact to justify the colossal delusions that have been wrapped around these fragments – and passed off as divine truth.
Not all of these lies were recognised as lies in their own time. The redactors, clerics, and chroniclers of the Church wrote for a largely illiterate and parochial audience, one unprepared for the revelations of future centuries – for the sands of archaeology, the proofs of carbon dating, the evidence of genetic science, the comparative analysis of myth, symbol, language, and cosmology. Those future discoveries did not concern them. Their only concern was service to the masters who sought to maintain their place atop the social and theological pyramid.
Respect the right to believe. But never respect a belief that is demonstrably false. No one should be expected to defer to fiction out of politeness. Especially not academia. The line between what is true and what is false, what is possible and what is not, and what is probable versus what is convenient – must be drawn. It must be expressed with clarity. And it must be defended.
We follow the evidence here – and let the evidence speak for itself.
Because now, as the veil lifts – with centuries of science and archaeology behind us – we are exposing a deeper architecture of deception, more thorough than even the early heretics or reformers ever imagined. Beneath the surface layer of biblical invention lies an older theft: the theft of the serpent, the measure, the field, the goddess – the entire symbolic structure of sacred origin.
This is the lie they could never fully erase – only obscure.
And it is this lie we now reveal – word by word, root by root, symbol by symbol.
So, Who Are the Real Scholars?
Is it the gatekeepers of consensus – the curators of inherited dogma – who claim authority by citation and reduction? The ones who dismiss all pattern as coincidence, and all convergence as error? Who explain away a hundred structural alignments as ‘unrelated’ simply because they were not first validated by a journal, inscribed in Latin, or authorised by a member of a self-appointed elite caste?
Or is it those who, like the followers of ‘Pythagoras’, of ‘Imhotep’ – like the builders of Giza, Delphi, Chartres, and Rosslyn – preserved and transmitted the architecture of the sacred cosmos: in sound, in stone, in measure, in myth? Who understood not only the function of number, but the life behind it – the soul and spirit within ratio?
Let us be clear.
Consensus relies on the very men it now fails to embrace.
The initiates – not the academicians – were the true philosophers.
The geometers of light – not the editors of etymology – were the real scientists.
The keepers of the veil – not the gatekeepers of consensus – were the bearers of truth.
When science becomes dominated by gatekeepers, it ceases to be inquiry and becomes doctrine. It becomes scientism – a belief system that defends institutional authority rather than seeking structural truth.
Not all adherents of this cult of scientism are aware of their role in it. Most are not. But some are – those who serve powers greater than themselves, who operate near or within the apex of the symbolic pyramid, aligned with long-standing orders embedded in religion, commerce, and academia.
This, inevitably, opens the ground for what is commonly called conspiracy theory – and rightly so. For when has history not been shaped by conspiracies? By quiet alignments, hidden agendas, concealed knowledge, and deliberate narrative control?
What distinguishes theory from insight is structure, correspondence, and recursion. And those who shaped the foundational architecture of the modern world did not think in material isolation – they thought in symbols, archetypes, and alignments. So do we.
Whether our interpretation is ultimately correct remains open to question. But what we offer is a reasoned belief – that this work presents the most coherent and structurally justified reading of the evidence available. That the cumulative pattern, the symbolic continuity, and the cross-disciplinary correspondence are sufficient to support this as the most accurate conclusion.
The ancients knew what Pythagoras meant – because they lived it.
They are not here to tell us directly.
So it falls to us to recover their meaning – from what they left behind.
Either Or?
The consensus academics will say it is either my speculative version or the correct, established one.
But let us pause – and look more closely.
What is this ‘or’, this disjunction, this gate through which they divide?
In Greek, the word or is rendered as the disjunctive particle ἤ (í), or the conjunctive form εἴτε...εἴτε (eíte...eíte) – ‘either...or’. It is a device of division. A forked road. A split.
But this ‘or’ – this disjunction – is itself a symbol, hidden in plain sight.
For in Egyptian, OR is not a particle. It is a principle.
OR = UR = the origin.
OR is the circle.
OR is the source of light – of Ra, of fire.
And critically – OR is the Veil.
In symbolic typology, OR is the being behind the veil of Isis. The Greek disjunctive ἤ resembles the glyph for the folded cloth – the sign of concealment. The alternative presented by academia – ‘either...or’ – is not neutral. It is the curtain before the origin. The shade before the lamp. The veil before the goddess.
That which is hidden behind ‘either...or’ is not always uncertainty. It is often truth, wrapped.
Through the lens of archetype and typology, etymology and logic, we restore the symbolic truth behind the name:
Pythagoras = The one who moves through serpent wisdom toward the origin of light.
It is the path of the Tetractys, the Phi spiral, the Djed, the omphalos, and the veiled goddess. It is Egyptian in origin, not Greek. The Greeks preserved it – they did not invent it.
This is not theory. It is memory restored.
We still speak the ancient sacred language. Yet academia has divorced us from it. They have taken the perfect statue of David – the beloved, the harmonic ruler – and smashed it. Then they show us the dust and shards and expect us to reassemble it blind, without memory or root.
They claim that Sumerian is unrelated to Indo-European. That Egyptian is purely Afro-Asiatic. But we say it is both. Just as David is not merely an Italian sculpture – he is a universal archetype. A symbol of truth.
Memory survives in speech. As I have shown throughout this work, English retains ancient phonemic roots that are well-established in both Sumerian and Egyptian.
When a modern architect or mason declares that they have created an arch – and anchored it, stabilised it with a capstone – if someone were to hear them say, ‘I’ve measured and wedged it,’ they might unknowingly be echoing the sacred formulation: ‘I have Medjed and Wejet.’
If someone were to remark on ‘an issue with the lugal system,’ one might naturally assume they were referring to the legal system.
If someone were to say they had ‘made a jar on a Ptah’s wheel,’ they would be clearly understood as meaning a jar on a potter’s wheel.
If someone were to say, ‘I’ve put some wine in a gar,’ we would hear ‘jar’.
If someone were to say, ‘Boy, the sun was hot today – I really felt the Re,’ we would hear ‘rays’.
If someone were to say, ‘I’ve dedicated my life to the krst,’ we would hear ‘Christ’.
These are not outlandish comparisons. The phonemic structure is barely changed in thousands of years.
L. A. Waddell saw through the distortions of reconstructed language and exposed their bias. Gerald Massey understood the symbolic function behind the word. We have taken this further – identifying hydronymic, luminymic, and theanonymic roots across Drift Culture memory and aligning them with recurring mythological and linguistic structure.
What may appear as pure speculation in this chapter is in fact derived from evidence – not always in the form of a linear, documented academic lineage, but through structural typology and phonemic or etymological derivations that I have established throughout this work. Some of it remains tentative, and at times highly speculative, but I aim to provide sufficient context to demonstrate that such proposals are not arbitrary. They are rooted in logic, pattern, and recurrence – not conjecture without cause.
The Suppression of the Sacred Feminine and the Inversion of the Sexual Axis
The traditions inherited from ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia placed the feminine not as subordinate, but as central to cosmic regeneration. Isis, Ma’at, Inanna, Danu – these were not merely maternal figures. They were structural principles: the breath of life, the field of form, the matrix through which resurrection becomes possible. The body, in these systems, was not shameful. It was sacred – a living glyph.
In Egyptian theology, the resurrection of Osiris is performed not by any male god, but by Isis. The dried and dismembered corpse – the kar – is reconstituted through the sacred waters of the goddess – the st. The resulting structure – KRST – is not a man, but a symbolic field-body: an axis raised through feminine anointing.
This archetype – later overwritten by Christian theology – was originally a structural metaphor, not a biographical claim.
Likewise, the god Min stands in full erection, arm raised, crowned with cobra iconography, and holding the flail – a symbol of generative control. He is the living Djed. His phallus is neither hidden nor shamed; it is the visible axis of creation. The pointer, the measure, the source of life. The Egyptians, as the keenest observers of nature, recognised the penis as the origin of all human and most animal life. It was therefore naturally sacred.
A stela from Deir el-Medina, depicting the Syrian goddess Qadesh, who became the consort of Min during the Eighteenth Dynasty. Image: Museo Egizio, Turin - from article Min: the most popular deity in the Eastern Desert?
But this organic structure was later inverted.
As the Roman imperial system absorbed and restructured the mythic codes, it rendered sacred symbols profane, and redefined the generative body as sinful. The phallus, once a symbol of measure and breath, became an object of shame. The vagina, once the sacred gate of emergence, was concealed – even as its form was replicated in cathedrals, mitres, and ecclesiastical architecture.
Sacred sexuality – once understood as the convergence of polarity through Ma’at – was reduced to sin, guilt, and control. The field-body of resurrection was replaced with a crucified male. The balance of feminine and masculine was rewritten as a hierarchy. The spiral became a cage.
And thus the axis – once a path of breath and regeneration – became the cross of oppression.
Unleavened Bread and the Removal of Breath
In the Hebrew tradition, and later in Christian sacramental practice, unleavened bread became the prescribed standard. Yet in Egyptian symbolic logic, bread that rises does so by breath – fermentation, expansion, animation – all attributes of Hu, the divine utterance of Atum, and the life-bestowing principle of the goddess. Leavened bread was a living glyph: it rose, it expanded, it took in air – and in so doing, became an edible expression of life-force. Bread and beer were sacred to the initiates for this reason.
By contrast, unleavened bread is lifeless. Dry. Flat. Breathless. Its ritual imposition – especially in sacred observances such as Passover and the Eucharist – marks the removal of the feminine, the denial of breath, and the rejection of living matter as holy. It is rendered merely functional: to fill the belly, not to embody spirit.
In Christian liturgy, the host – flat, pale, and sterile – becomes the emblem of a body without breath, offered in the name of resurrection while stripped of the very processes that give rise to life.
The Rising Phallus and the Sacred Axis
Naturally, life issues from the penis only after it has risen – when it is filled with, and expresses, the ‘male milk’ of semen. No examination of the archetype of rising – whether in the Djed, the Benben, or any related symbol – can be complete without addressing the phallus.
Any treatment of the axis mundi must therefore include sacred erotic symbolism, as expressed overtly in the Egyptian tradition. One of the most striking depictions is Geb lying on his back, with the naked goddess Nut arched over him – the earth below, the sky above, body and field in unbroken contact. In this scene, Geb declares: ‘As Geb, I shall impregnate you in your name of Sky.’
Here, the axis is not a metaphor. It is embodiment. The vertical is not abstract – it is literal, generative, and therefore sacred. Nothing is truly divine if it is abstract and unreal – if it exists only as theological decree, without grounding in nature.
Circumcision and the Decapitation of the Serpent
The phallus, once sacred, was anatomically altered. In Egyptian cosmology, the uncircumcised penis – especially in erection – mirrors the hooded cobra, the uraeus, sacred to Wadjet, who protects the brow and enables divine insight. The foreskin is symbolic of the serpent’s hood: it flares, it guards, it conceals. In this context, the serpent is not shameful, but sacred – a sign of awakened vision and generative wisdom.
The ritual removal of the foreskin – circumcision – constitutes, symbolically, a decapitation of the serpent. It is the removal of the hood, the severing of the field-laden crown from the axis. In Judaic law, this act is defined as covenant. In Christian contexts, it is inherited theologically or preserved through cultural custom, yet the ritual is reversed in doctrine – reframed as a rejection of Judaic legalism. (Later, I will explore how this reversal served not a theological, but a political function.)
In either case, the result is the same: the phallus is stripped of its original serpentine resonance. What remains is a hoodless stalk – neutralised. No longer symbolic of wisdom or protection, god or Ned, but of legal submission.
Ecclesiastical Dress and the Inversion of Sacred Anatomy
The serpent and phallus were not only stripped of symbolism – they were re-encoded through priestly attire and gesture. Yet the forms persist:
The monk’s hood is symbolic of a collapsed cobra hood – a covering once sacred, now worn as submission.
The tonsure – the shaving of the crown – reproduces the garlanded head of the phallus, echoing the meatus, but shorn of potency. Said to represent the crown of thorns, but more likely a sign of submission to Roman imperial theology – a mimicry of the laurel wreath of the Emperor.
The mitre is a stylised phallus. Its vertical split mirrors the cleft of the glans – the meatus. Shaped like the open mouth of a fish or the beak of a dolphin, it reflects earlier aquatic symbolism: life-bearing semen, the waters of the field, the breath of the goddess. The dolphin, sacred to Apollo and the Delphic Oracle, was a classical emblem of rebirth. The early Roman-Christian iconography of anchor and dolphin encodes this logic: the anchor as phallus or Djed, the dolphin as semen or spiral generative force. These forms were preserved – but their meanings inverted or denied.
And yet, even as the mitre is worn as a symbol of male authority, its cleft implies the goddess. The feminine is always present – never named, but never absent. This is the method of veiling: to retain form, while denying function.
One of the central disputes at the Synod of Whitby in 664 CE concerned the correct form of the tonsure – the ritual shaving of clerical hair. The Roman (Petrine) tonsure, which involved shaving the crown and leaving a ring of hair, was eventually imposed across Britain. The form of the Celtic tonsure, however, remains debated. Some accounts suggest it involved shaving the head from ear to ear, leaving the crown untouched – a form which would symbolically preserve the serpent hood or wedjet crown atop the skull.
If the Celtic tonsure did retain the function of the sacred crown, then this dispute was far more than a disagreement over hairstyles. It was a confrontation over spiritual authority, initiation symbolism, and cosmic alignment. In that context, the Roman imposition of a new tonsure was not merely disciplinary – it was a ritual severing of the axis. A symbolic rejection of the connection between the head, the serpent, and the breath of wisdom.
For the Celtic monastics – likely steeped in esoteric memory and sacred geometry – the adoption of the Roman tonsure would have been intolerable. That they withdrew to Ireland following the Synod is often dismissed as cultural stubbornness. But it is more credibly understood as a refusal to submit to the inversion of sacred structure by an invading power.
The plain fact of biology shows that the vagina is an entrance crowned by a protruding clitoris, itself cowled by a hood of skin. In contrast, the penis is a protrusion ending in a small exit at the meatus, likewise cowled. This is a direct expression of recursive duality in nature – ingress and egress, enclosure and projection – and it is precisely the kind of structural polarity the Egyptians observed, honoured, and symbolised in their theology.
The commonality lies not in function or dimension, but in form – and above all in the hood, which echoes the Wedjet serpent, the cobra, the emblem of protection, insight, and veiled power. Even in English, the sacred sound is retained – the ‘hoo’ of Hu in hood. Just as the hydronym car is retained in cowl.
Here again, in the symbolism of the generative organs, the feminine archetype dominates: the clitoris is not absent, but veiled; not subordinate, but crowned. In both anatomical structures, the presence of the cowl or hood points back to the Isis archetype – the goddess as she who is veiled, the one who guards the axis, conceals the mystery, and reveals only to those who seek with purified intent.
The Church as Recast Body: Architectural Eroticism Without Acknowledgement
Ecclesiastical architecture retains many of the visual cues of the sacred feminine - yet these are never acknowledged, only sublimated.
The church doorway is vaginal in shape - a vertical arch.
The rose window or rose shaped capstone in the arch, at the apex represents the clitoris or the crown of spiritual illumination, set precisely where the energy would rise. The wedge of Wedjet in place to support the structure.
The nave becomes the vaginal canal, leading to the altar.
The dome overhead echoes the womb - the enclosure of heaven, as well as the medjed or benben form.
These are not incidental. They are the residues of earlier symbolic structures. But where once these forms invited entry, union, and breath, they are now sites that barely remember their origins. The body is there, but denied. The erotic is present, but criminalised. The goddess is implied, but never spoken.
Celibacy and the Total Prohibition of the Feminine Body
Celibacy was introduced not merely as discipline, but as doctrine. The body was recast as temptation. Flesh became the enemy.
Sexual activity was forbidden.
Masturbation became a moral crime.
Nakedness, even implied, was subject to regulation.
Female flesh, in particular, was covered, controlled, or condemned.
Even the word twat – clearly derived from Tuat or Duat, the Egyptian underworld and womb-space of rebirth – was degraded. What had once been a gateway of stars became a vulgarity. The vagina, once the temple entry, became the site of shame.
All of this was ultimately blamed on Eve – the one who disobeyed the Lord and listened to the serpent. She, and all womankind, were burdened with this original dishonour – the stain of Original Sin. From that point, nakedness was shameful. To see female flesh – or even think of it – was considered sinful. The feminine body became taboo.
But who, truly, was the first sinner in the Bible? The one who disobeyed the Lord? Or the one who disobeyed the liar?
One of God's first acts in Genesis was to prohibit Eve from obeying the serpent – who promised knowledge. The serpent was ultimately correct. Eve did not die as God had said. She gained knowledge, exactly as the serpent had promised. It was for that – the acquisition of knowledge – that she was punished.
God had declared that on the day she ate the fruit, she would die. But she did not die.
Much theological effort has been spent trying to resolve this. The standard defence claims that Eve introduced mortality, and that God did not lie – only that his words were misunderstood. A convenient interpretation – and one that conveniently lets God off the hook as the first liar in the Bible. It also serves those who insist the Bible is the literal Word of God – except, of course, when they themselves choose to interpret it figuratively.
We have already established that Adam and Eve are none other than Atum and Iusaas.
Atum, whose penis created the first form through his ejaculate.
He ‘came’ – and was ‘iusa’, the ever-coming one – not only in the sense of eternal recurrence, but as the generative creator through male ejaculation.
Atum’s penis became Adam’s rib – through ambiguity and mistranslation. The ribcage is where the female milk-giving orifices lie. The penis is where male ‘milk’ – semen – emerges. The symbolism is obvious when viewed through Egyptian logic.
The Bible, by contrast, is a much later, politicised construction – one that distorts nature’s truths for the purpose of social control.
That the serpent – once the bringer of insight – became the deceiver, and Eve the disobedient fool, while it was actually God who was deceptive, is typical of the Bible’s inversion of myth, archetype, and symbolic truth. The feminine was rebranded as error. The masculine god was recast as the sole authority. All wisdom – once embodied in the serpent, the goddess, and the erotic axis – was stripped, inverted, and encoded as sin.
Such inversion lies at the heart of religious power.
And at the root of its fear – is always the body of the woman.
Osiris, the Lost Phallus, and the Cosmic Axis
In the myth of Osiris, Isis, and Set, we find one of the most enduring cosmological motifs: the dismemberment of the divine body and the loss of the generative organ.
When Set murders Osiris, he cuts his body into pieces and scatters them across Egypt. Isis, in her role as restorer and reassembler, gathers the fragments, reconstructs her husband’s form, and through sacred breath and magical rite, reanimates him.
Yet one part is missing: the phallus – the generative axis – which, according to the myth, was swallowed by a fish. Isis fashions a new phallus herself, often said to be made of gold or wax – a constructed Djed. And through union with this reconstituted axis, she conceives Horus.
This narrative is not merely mythological. It is overtly sexual. It encodes a foundational principle of Egyptian cosmology:
The resurrection of the axis requires the feminine.
When the natural phallus is lost, it is not replaced by divine fiat or sacrifice – but by the hand of the goddess. She restores it, refashions it, and reanimates it. The body does not rise by martyrdom, but by breath, by joining, by alignment with the field.
Minos and the Bull: Greek Echoes of Egyptian Archetypes
The later Greek myth of Minos and the Minotaur reflects a distorted memory of the Egyptian cosmological structure.
Minos, whose name may derive not from a personal name but from a title based on the Egyptian god Min, is associated with judgment and the labyrinth – a symbolic echo of the Duat or underworld passage.
The bull, which becomes the Minotaur, represents an uncontrolled phallic force, imprisoned within the labyrinth – an axis severed from the feminine, now monstrous.
Pasiphaë, who unites with the bull, is a veiled echo of Isis – a goddess-figure whose union is recast as abomination rather than sacred joining.
The labyrinth itself is a geometric distortion of the womb-temple – no longer a place of initiation and return, but a trap, a maze, a site of fear and forgetting.
In this inversion, the bull – once a glyph of strength and generative power (as in Apis or Taurus) – becomes dangerous. The union with the goddess is prohibited. The labyrinth is no longer a cosmic path. It is a prison. The phallus is no longer celestial. It is buried beneath shame and secrecy.
Yet in the sky, the truth remains: Osiris, as Sah of Orion, forever faces the bull Taurus in our prime stellar nexus. His masculine force – generative, initiatic – is required to meet the power of the bull. And always, just behind him, rises his consort: Isis as Sothis – Sirius – the feminine field, the breath of return.
In the oldest Egyptian cosmology, it is Atum who generates creation through masturbation – not as an act of shame, but of cosmic potency. He brings forth Shu and Tefnut from himself, often shown doing so by his own hand. But this hand is not merely anatomical. It is symbolic. It is the goddess-consort, the feminine force that enables and directs the act.
The generative impulse is male – but the hand that brings it forth is female.
The axis initiates. The field receives, shapes, and aligns.
Creation is not an act of isolated power. It is always an act of polarity – even when expressed through a single form. The goddess is always present – even if veiled as gesture, as breath, or as a hand.
Etymology and Symbolic Morphology
Here I extend the natural symbolism drawn from evidence – because none of this would escape the notice of an initiate who thinks in archetypes and correspondences, as we do. What follows may strain academic credibility in the conventional sense, but we must ask: when have we ever bowed to academic consensus if the typology remains accurate – linguistically, etymologically, and mythically?
The symbolic logic holds. The structures are consistent. And for those with eyes to see, the deeper continuity between body, language, and field is unavoidable.
Monk
From Greek μοναχός (monakhós) = ‘solitary one,’ from μόνος (monos) = ‘alone’
Proto-Indo-European root men- = ‘small, isolated, apart’
This root gives us monos (alone), monad (indivisible), monarch, and monk
Thus: monk = the one who stands alone – the isolated axis.
Symbolically: the Priapus-type – the solo phallus, set apart from the field.
Priapus, the Greek fertility god, erect and alone, arose from the primordium – just as Atum arose from the primeval mound of Ptah.
Monastery
From Greek monastērion = ‘place of solitude’, from monazein = ‘to be alone’
Built from the same mono- root
Yet in reality, monasteries are not solitary. They are communities – cells of celibacy, organised around a ritualised denial of union.
Ministry
From Latin ministerium = ‘service, attendance, office of a servant,’ from minister = ‘inferior, servant’
Rooted in minus = ‘less’ – denoting subordination, but also smallness, humility
Yet within Christian structure, ministry becomes authority – a theological paradox: the one who serves becomes the one who rules.
The minister is Priapus with licence – the male axis in ritual service to the divine, but without union.
The Hidden Polarity: Min + Esther / Ishtar
Now we introduce the symbolic pairing of Min and Esther – an encoded polarity:
Min is the erect, generative god of Egypt – the standing Djed, the axis. He is the clear precursor to Priapus.
Esther represents feminine field resonance.
Ishtar, Astarte, Ashtoreth, and Esther are all linguistically and morphologically descended from ancient goddess traditions.
These names carry resonance with womb, star, field, mother, and fertility.
Esther is a veiled name, preserved in scripture but stripped of divine status. Her cousin, Mordechai, is a direct linguistic link to Marduk.
Thus: Min–Esther symbolises Min within Esther – the male axis (Min) placed within the feminine field (Esther/Ishtar/Eostre). She is encoded, but veiled – embedded within the structural function of ministry.
Perhaps the link denied by consensus academia – between ministry and Min, the solitary generative phallus – is most clearly preserved in the term minster. Consider York Minster and Westminster Abbey. Both are regional ad-ministra-tive axes of ecclesiastical power – crowned with vast towers and pointed spires.
These are not simply architectural flourishes. They are glyphs of the Djed – towering generative forms.
Min–ster is almost exactly Min’s star – and as shown, star shares root structure with Esther, Ishtar, and Isis.
Either that, or this is all another coincidence.
To state the case clearly: if one traces a word only partway back through its recorded lineage, and ignores earlier bifurcations of meaning or form, then consensus etymology can declare a truth to be false.
Language is not always linear. It drifts. It forks. It collapses. It is redirected by culture, by power, by secrecy. Etymological declarations made without reference to symbolic continuity, initiatory transmission, or historical redaction risk mistaking absence of evidence for evidence of absence.
In this case, ministry and minster are denied as related – yet conventional etymology only traces both back as far as Latin and Old English.
This is where we are ahead of the game: recognising the typological continuum and the deeper etymological roots.
I have developed what may be the most advanced symbolic pattern analysis system currently available – a multilevel AI-assisted framework called VENIX. It is a simple but powerful tool, designed to eliminate bias, bypass shallow linguistic tracing, and focus on known data structures.
By examining cross-cultural symbols, linguistic recursion, and functional continuity, VENIX compiles a numeric value representing the truth-likelihood ratio (TLR) of any given claim, based on multi-tier meta-analysis.
When applied to the AI-generated assertion that minister and minster do not share an etymological relationship, VENIX returned a TLR score of 0.42 – indicating low reliability.
My own model, by contrast, scored the relationship at 0.83 – indicating strong structural continuity, even if not formally acknowledged in classical etymology.
This reflects not speculation – but a more complete reading of the symbolic and functional systems that shaped our languages and institutions.
The Veiled Hieros Gamos
This may appear to stretch credulity, but becomes increasingly pertinent as we see Min 'pop up' again later in Vedic myth and symbolism. With words that appear related to Min, such as men, we also find the feminine counter-term menses. One is obviously masculine, the other clearly feminine. Do they share a common mythic root? As we have seen, god and goddess are always related in ancient dualistic symbolism whenever it involves creation. These words are often theanonyms, with a shared mythic structure in the background. It is not unreasonable, then, to contemplate that the masculine and feminine separated in language just as they separated in myth.
Menses is not an isolated term. It shares phonetic and etymological roots with moon, mind, mania, and month. All derive from the Indo-European root men- or mēn-, which consensus etymology traces to the concept of measure - particularly time. But for early societies, time was not measured by clocks, but by the moon. The lunar cycle governed planting, tides, and most crucially, the female body. Hence, menses is literally the measurement of the feminine cycle in moonlight.
From mēn- we also derive moon, the celestial regulator of feminine rhythm; menses, the visible outward sign of that rhythm; mind, the container of thought and reflection; and mania, the disruption of mental order. The implication embedded in this sequence is that the feminine rhythm, being lunar, is unstable - waxing and waning, bleeding and retreating in flux. The mind, when unbound, becomes manic. The female becomes moonstruck. Hence also lunacy, from luna, the moon - long associated with female ‘madness’ or disorder.
In contrast stands Min - the archetype of stability. The phallus is erect. The god stands upright. He is the guardian of form, constancy, and directed generative force. He is still while the world turns.
Linguistically, Min is compact, fixed. Its sound does not flow or spiral - it states, it stands, it anchors.
This dualism is repeated across mythological systems worldwide: order and chaos, male and female, sun and moon, axis and field. One projects, the other surrounds. But under patriarchal reorganisation, the sacred matrix of the feminine was reframed as disorder. Her cycles became signs of danger. Her blood became a curse. The moon became madness. The womb became pathology.
Menses, once a synchronised sign of divine rhythm, was reframed as a marker of impurity. The very word that once indicated her sacred timing was rebranded as a symbol of shame.
Meanwhile, the masculine axis - Min - retained his position as upright clarity, control, and stable reason. Even when rendered absurdly or mythically, the male generative symbol was never mocked. It was glorified.
This resulted in a structural manipulation: the feminine was essential yet marginalised; her bodily functions coded as dangerous; her generative role pathologized. The male was cast as free from tides, blood, or madness - as stable and sane by default. The language itself came to preserve the drift: the repression of sacred polarity through etymological inversion.
To realign this system is not to play games with language, but to recover what was embedded in it - that words like menses, moon, and mind are not signs of disorder, but of sacred rhythm. Only when we see the flux as heartbeat rather than chaos does the goddess return to her rightful role as co-creator. Her blood is not danger. It is the signal of becoming.
It is even tempting to see the word Amen - the ritualised ‘so be it’ - as a Roman pun: a-menses, ‘no menstruation here’. No goddess. No feminine flow in this book. Again, this may seem a stretch, but as will become increasingly clear, Roman puns are among their most deliberate and revealing devices. They did not deny the goddess directly. They veiled her - in word, in law, in ritual.
Feminine archetypes were routinely re-coded with negative connotation. The term venereal comes directly from Venus - the Roman goddess of beauty, love, fertility, and sacred sexuality. Yet it is now associated with disease - with sexually transmitted infection. The name that once signified generative love becomes a symbol of promiscuity, contamination, and fear. Likewise the pentagram - the star of Venus, drawn from Phi - became demonised as a satanic mark. The act once blessed by Venus became immoral. The vessel of life became the risk.
So too with hysteria - derived from hystera, Greek for womb. Until the twentieth century it was used as a formal diagnosis for supposed feminine irrationality. A label applied to nearly any behaviour deemed inconvenient, disruptive, or independent. The womb, rather than being honoured as the creative core of all life, was cast as a source of instability - a site of madness and moral danger.
These shifts did not emerge by accident. They represent a consistent cultural programme: the disempowerment of the goddess and the inversion of her bodily powers into pathologies. Venus, Isis, Inanna, Hathor - all goddesses of love, beauty, fertility - are rewritten as harlots, sirens, or madwomen. Their symbolic gifts - menstruation, conception, sexual pleasure, childbirth - are covered in shame, medicalised, legislated, and distorted in language itself.
To reverse this requires more than reinterpreting ancient myth. It requires restoring the feminine in language - in naming, in rhythm, in cycle, in breath. When Venus means love again, and not infection; when the womb is seen as wisdom, not disorder; when menstrual blood is no longer taboo but seen as life’s signature - then the words themselves can once again function as glyphs of truth, not fragments of distortion.
Until then, language remains as archaeological evidence - a record of what was suppressed, and what now must be restored.
In the original mythic structure:
The union of Min and Esther/Isis/Ishtar = the hieros gamos – the sacred sexual union
The KRST is the result of this joining: the anointed form
In Christian liturgy:
The minister performs communion – symbolically a joining: body and blood, spirit and matter
Yet the female principle is absent
There is no Isis, only a male celebrant and a genderless wafer
The host (from hostia = victim) is unleavened – no breath, no field, no fertility
The body enters the church, the phallus enters the temple, but the womb is absent. The goddess is veiled – always implied but never invoked.
And yet, sexual union is what creates the entire human race. A penis enters a vagina to create a child. The Son comes always from Mother and Father – in the symbolic myth and in natural reality. To deny this is to deny Nature itself. And this is precisely what biblical theology tends toward – a fantasy and denial of Nature, replaced by a man-made structure that imposes its will upon the world by redefining Creation according to its own needs, not its observed reality. It constructs a symbolic order in which man is sole actor and sole authority, and where the field, the womb, and the feminine are overwritten or removed.
But Nature does not lie. Creation comes through union. And all doctrine that denies this is a denial of life.
This produces a reversed ritual structure:
The monk is the isolated phallus, celibate, standing alone
The monastery is the contained womb, but barren – no union permitted
The minister enacts the joining (communion), but with no feminine partner
Even the word communion – from Latin communio = sharing, union – is transformed:
From a sexual-spiritual convergence into a ritualised consumption of a dead male body
The act of joining is simulated without the presence of the feminine principle
Synthesis: The Axis in the Field, Veiled and Reversed
In origin:
Min stands in the field of Esther, Ishtar, or Isis
The phallus is raised, the goddess anoints, the Djed is restored
The vagina is moistened, thereby lubricating the passage for the penis
The sacred union produces life, measure, and resonant form
In Christian liturgical inversion:
The phallus is denied
The goddess is veiled or banished
The field becomes cloth
The anointed becomes Christ, stripped of Isis
The ritual becomes a mimicry, where only the axis is named and the field is implied
There is no water, no lubrication, no anointment – except by lip service to the myth
This is the ministry – Min without Esther, Ishtar, or Isis
The monastery – the axis within a wombless temple
The monk – the phallus without the serpent
The communion – the union without the goddess
An asexual act, ethereally performed by a community of men.
Whereas in the nunnery, the same logic applies in reverse - an asexual union symbolically performed with the male god, resulting in no offspring, and perpetuating the concept of the feminine as servant of the male. She becomes a Bride of Christ - a partner to a distorted myth, with no hope of natural consummation. Expected to remain dry between the legs, as it will never be used for its ‘God-given’ function.
The Men of the Cloth
The culmination of this systemic inversion is the figure of the priest - the ‘man of the cloth.’ The phrase itself reveals the trajectory:
The cloth, once the sacred veil of Isis, becomes the instrument of concealment.
The axis, once anointed, becomes forbidden.
The phallus, once sacred, is denied.
The goddess, once the central animating force, is rendered either virgin or whore - or erased.
Thus those who once stood at the convergence of field and form became the custodians of denial.
By the time the Roman authorities had compiled and canonised their Bible, they had already demonstrated themselves to be unparalleled masters of manipulation, double standards, and symbolic inversion. While presenting themselves as civilisers and spiritual authorities, their governing ethos was structurally aligned with the very vices they would later codify as the Seven Deadly Sins. It was these sins far more than their seven hills that appear to be their foundational typology and character traits. These so-called capital vices, drawn from early Christian teachings and systematised by later theologians, form a moral framework that Rome demanded of its subjects - all while embodying the very vices they condemned.
Pride – excessive belief in one's own supremacy
→ Everything was for the glory of Rome; all triumphs, all territories, all gods were ultimately absorbed into the imperial image of dominion.Greed (Avarice) – obsessive pursuit of wealth and dominance
→ The Roman Empire existed to extract wealth from indigenous populations, funnelling gold, land, and labour back to the imperial centre.Wrath – vengeful domination and violent reprisal
→ The God of the Old Testament - whom they adopted as their own - was cast in their image: jealous, punitive, and destructive.Envy – covetous appropriation of other cultures
→ Rome annexed temples, rituals, names, and gods - from Egypt to Britain - remaking them as Roman property by imperial decree.Lust – culturally institutionalised excess
→ Despite moralising scripture, Roman society was renowned for sexual indulgence, ritualised orgies, and the state-sanctioned celebration of excess.Gluttony – excess in consumption and opulence
→ The elite practised overindulgence as ritual - with banquet halls, vomitoria, and endless display of luxury as status.Sloth – moral indifference and religious hypocrisy
→ While preaching moral restraint, Roman authorities turned a blind eye to their own corruption, violence, and decadence - a refusal to live by the values imposed on others.
Contrast this with the Seven Heavenly Virtues (as demanded of the flock):
Humility – self-denial and obedience
Charity – redistribution (encouraged among the poor, not the rich)
Patience – tolerance of injustice, even under occupation
Kindness – submission in the face of cruelty
Chastity – repression of natural desire
Temperance – acceptance of one’s station
Diligence – productive labour in service of the Church and State
These virtues were presented as divine ideals - and encoded into scripture. The masses were taught that humility was holy, that suffering was sanctified, and that submission was godly. ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,’ they were told. ‘Turn the other cheek.’ Obedience was now spiritual. Resistance was now sin. Disobedience was now immorality.
The Mechanism of Control: Carrot and Stick
Rome enforced its system through a dual mechanism: incentive and coercion - the promise of reward, and the threat of punishment.
Where religious integration succeeded, Roman rule was spiritualised through temples, festivals, and the absorption of local myth.
Where it failed, brute force followed - crucifixions, burnings, decimations, and the destruction of indigenous priesthoods (as in Judea, Gaul, Britannia, and Carthage).
Over time, the flock learned: submission meant safety; obedience brought grace.
Thus was the empire spiritualised. The shepherds of the so-called faith - bishops, priests, and theologians - became the enforcers of empire. The shepherds of Rome - city of the wolf-mother - turned sheepfolds into fortresses. And as every initiate and farmer knows: when the wolf meets the sheep, it is not the wolf who bleeds.
This contrast is not incidental. It reveals a systemic moral contradiction: those who preached virtue to the masses were structurally aligned with the very vices they condemned. The Roman institution, cloaked in religious authority, presented itself as the arbiter of virtue while exercising power through its systematic inversion.
Romans 13: The Manifesto of Imperial Control
I reject the theological and academic debate that seeks to frame the following Pauline passage as nuanced spiritual doctrine, or a veiled attempt to spread the Word while avoiding the wrath of Rome. I do not accept the many interpretations which claim the text is taken out of context, or that it requires layered exegesis to be properly understood. It is what it plainly appears to be: a written rationale for political subjugation, authored by and for the Roman elite.
Qui bono? Who benefits? Rome.
Who authorised it as part of their canonical text to support their fictitious history of Jesus? Rome.
Who then presented it to the flock as canonical instruction? Rome.
No matter who or what Paul was – whether the writing is an authentic letter or not (though possibly a Roman fake, after the style of Eusebius) – none of that really matters here. The simple fact remains: Rome put it in their book and used it to control the masses, to tame them, and to deceive them into believing fiction as history. They clearly intended it to be exactly what it appears to be – direct instruction to obey the Romans, or else.
Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God.
Consequently, whoever rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted, and those who do so will bring judgment on themselves.
For rulers hold no terror for those who do right, but for those who do wrong. Do you want to be free from fear of the one in authority? Then do what is right and you will be commended.
For the one in authority is God’s servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for rulers do not bear the sword for no reason. They are God’s servants, agents of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer. (my emphasis)
Therefore, it is necessary to submit to the authorities, not only because of possible punishment but also as a matter of conscience.
This is also why you pay taxes, for the authorities are God’s servants, who give their full time to governing.
Give to everyone what you owe them: If you owe taxes, pay taxes; if revenue, then revenue; if respect, then respect; if honour, then honour. – Romans 13:1–7
This is not wisdom. This is not ethics. It is a manifesto for submission, cloaked in theological language to grant imperial governance the aura of divine legitimacy. This is not spiritual truth – it is a blueprint for obedience. Written not by prophets of moral enlightenment, but by men embedded in – or serving – the Roman system of domination.
That this passage appears in the Bible – a text which elsewhere teaches true virtue: compassion, forgiveness, the dignity of others, the golden rule – is precisely why it must be recognised as a contradiction. Yes, the Bible encodes great wisdom, drawn from Egypt, Greece, and the philosophical lineages of antiquity. Yes, many Christians live by the highest ethical standards encoded in that wisdom. But this passage is not part of that legacy.
This is where morality was weaponised.
Romans is the moment where righteousness was rewritten to serve Rome. It is the juncture where law was deified, and the sword made sacred. It declares that taxation is holy, that obedience is moral, that rulers are agents of God, and that resistance is a crime not only against man, but against heaven.
This is the voice of empire – not of God.
And it was the priests and clergy – appointed not from spiritual ecstasy, but by ecclesiastical authority – who became the foot-soldiers of this system. These were the enforcers of divine hierarchy, earthly taxation, and moral silence.
History has proved repeatedly that when an authority employs enticement and coercion to instil a sense of good and bad within a population, a clear, stark division develops that is ripe for exploitation. This method is so simple and so effective that it continues to be employed by Machiavellian elites to this day.
It has been evidenced countless times throughout history: those professing to worship the Prince of Peace and his God have tortured and slaughtered the ‘other’ out of a conviction that they were ‘good’ – and that the targets of their violence were ‘bad’, because authorities told them so.
A recent example occurred during the Covid pandemic. A programme of ‘persuasion’ was deployed to convince the public that those who obeyed the rules were good, and those who questioned them were bad. Governments used both enticements and coercions that had long been outlawed under the Nuremberg Code. Medical decisions are, by that standard, supposed to be based on fully informed consent – free from both pressure and reward. Enticement and coercion are forbidden.
Yet they did so.
Entire societies became divided. Some called for the dissenters to be locked up, punished, or denied treatment – convinced they were morally righteous because they had obeyed the message of authority. They believed themselves to be on the side of ‘good’, even though those same authorities later admitted to using illegal coercion, unlawful enticement, and deliberate psychological pressure.
A campaign of exaggerated fear and state-sponsored misinformation was openly confessed after the fact – all deployed to ensure uptake of a new, rushed-to-market vaccine, developed on a genetic therapy-based platform that had never previously been used in mass human application. A vaccine with a history of flawed and manipulated trial data, and potentially lethal consequences – promoted in direct violation of the Nuremberg Code, which was specifically established to prevent such abuse of medical authority ever again.
The slogan ‘safe and effective’ was never proven – yet the majority accepted it without question.
One of the architects of this global response – Jesuit-educated Anthony Fauci, Director of the US National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases – echoed the doctrine of Romans 13 almost word for word when he declared:
“Attacks on me, quite frankly, are attacks on Science.”
He may as well have quoted the scripture directly: “Whoever rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted.”
Sex as the evolutionary driver
Anthropology has long explored the question of how Homo sapiens became the dominant human species, but the deeper motivational drivers behind this ascendancy remain largely underexplored. One such neglected factor is the human sex drive itself. When viewed not merely as a reproductive instinct but as a total behavioural force, the hormonal and erotic impulse offers a powerful lens through which to reinterpret the emergence, expansion, and supremacy of Homo sapiens over other hominin types such as the Neanderthals and Denisovans.
Homo sapiens appears to have possessed a heightened hormonal profile that encouraged exploratory behaviour, novelty seeking, and reproductive assertiveness. Elevated testosterone levels in males are strongly correlated with risk-taking, movement, and conquest of new environments. This is not merely incidental. The act of moving on from overpopulated or resource-stressed areas may have served, in part, as an expression of the alpha drive - a hormonal urge to find new opportunities for status, reproduction, and adventure. Although Neanderthals appear to have matured more rapidly in physiological terms, they did not reproduce at the same rate, and likely lacked the same expansionist drive.
The hormonal structure of Homo sapiens also supports more complex bonding mechanisms. Oxytocin, the hormone associated with social bonding and trust, likely played a larger role in the formation of extended kinship networks, which allowed for greater integration between disparate groups. This would have allowed not only for more frequent sexual encounters across tribal boundaries but for the consolidation of cultural and genetic traits into a wider, more resilient species profile.
Interbreeding provides one of the strongest pieces of evidence in support of this theory. Virtually all modern non-African humans carry between one and four percent Neanderthal DNA, and many populations also exhibit Denisovan genetic markers. This suggests not isolated contact, but rather ongoing sexual interaction across generations. The interbreeding pattern is largely asymmetrical - with Homo sapiens males breeding with Neanderthal or Denisovan females, rather than the reverse. This asymmetry suggests an assertive - perhaps dominant - reproductive behaviour by Homo sapiens males during periods of migration and encounter.
Population dynamics also play a significant role in this picture. Archaeological evidence shows that Homo sapiens populations grew rapidly, often resulting in pressures that triggered further migrations. Neanderthals, by contrast, appear to have remained in smaller, more stable bands with lower overall reproductive rates. Their populations did not overpopulate or expand in the same way, and there is little evidence of symbolic mating displays or wide-ranging social rituals comparable to those of Homo sapiens. In this light, sexual drive and the social behaviour that emerges from it can be seen not as background noise, but as a central force in demographic expansion.
It is also worth considering that Homo sapiens’ expansionist behaviour was not simply a side effect of environmental necessity, but also a direct expression of hormonal incentive. Novelty seeking, mating opportunity, and the dopamine feedback loop of conquest - sexual, social, and territorial - may have driven early humans to push into new territories long before material need became urgent. This erotic engine, as it might be termed, would have naturally selected for those individuals most willing to take risks and engage with the unknown, thereby spreading their genes more widely than any other human type.
The final result is clear in the genetic record. Homo sapiens did not merely survive contact with other hominin species - they absorbed them. The legacy of that absorption is carried within our very DNA, a testament to the fact that dominance was not won through violence alone, nor through intellect alone, but through an overwhelming reproductive strategy that outpaced, outlasted, and ultimately replaced all rivals.
This dimension of human evolution - rooted in the sex drive, hormonal feedback, and the urge to expand - has been largely overlooked in traditional anthropology. Yet it offers a vital key to understanding not only the triumph of Homo sapiens, but the underlying logic of mythology itself. Where myth speaks in the language of desire, fertility, conquest, and mating, it encodes the deeper biological story of our emergence. The Storm God, whose cultic and symbolic manifestations are explored throughout this work, is not only the bringer of rain and the wielder of thunder.
He is also the embodiment of fecundity and fertility, the driving force that pushed man beyond the edge of the known world - seeking not only land and food, but sex, power, and the ecstasy of expansion.
The Implosion stage of cultural development
If the sex drive accounts for the expansionary thrust of Homo sapiens, then the survival drive accounts for his pattern of settlement, cultural emergence, and symbolic development. At the most fundamental level, man is driven not by abstract ideals but by necessity - the need for water, food, and shelter. The environment dictates the mode of life. He studies nature not to worship it, but to live. Observation becomes the first sacred act, because it is the means by which he learns to survive.
Early man does not leave the riverine zones until he has mastered them. He builds culture only where nature first provides the conditions for life. The fertile crescent is not only the birthplace of agriculture - it is the cradle of myth. It is only after the necessities are secured that the symbolic imagination truly ignites and is amplified. When the belly is full and the body is sheltered, the mind turns to the stars. Creativity is not an excess - it is a pressure release. It is the redirection of instinct, the upward movement of energy that once pulsed through the groin and now flows through the hand, the eye, the voice. It is the flowering of instinct, when no longer needed for survival.
Mesopotamia arises because water is plentiful and predictable, soil is rich, and food is assured. The Tigris and Euphrates permit farming, which permits settlement, which permits time. With time comes rhythm, observation, recollection. These become ritual, myth, and art. The gods are not invented - they are seen in the cycles of the natural world and the behaviour of the human group. When life becomes stable, man has the space to reflect on it, to speak it aloud, to shape it into symbol.
It is only then that man begins to push into harsher territory. Egypt is not the beginning, but a secondary phase. The desert cannot support unprepared man. It is only after the river has given us the tools of measurement, irrigation, and architectural planning that we dare to enter the Nile valley and impose order upon it. In this sense, Egypt is a ritual re-enactment of Mesopotamian mastery. It is an echo of an earlier triumph, applied to a harsher environment. But necessity still drives it. Only when he knows he can endure does he enter. Man does not seek hardship for its own sake - he is always compelled by the invisible gradient of need.
This pattern reveals itself like a simple pressure gradient. Man moves out from the centre when necessity demands it. He saturates one zone, and then flows into the next. With each saturation comes the birth of culture. But once all territory is filled, the movement turns inward. The cities begin to grow. Population rises. The problem is no longer how to survive, but how to coexist. The creative energy that once mapped rivers now maps social space. Law emerges. Ritual becomes institution. Myth becomes memory.
The sex drive and the survival instinct are not lost - they are transfigured. When they are no longer required to ensure mere existence, they are redirected into self-contemplation. They become the inner gods. The field turns inward. The pressure that once pushed outward into the world now coils inward into the symbolic. Civilisation is not the suppression of instinct - it is its flowering. It is the final act of the same story.
Wherever humans began to gather into rectilinear settlements and construct permanent townships, the archaeological record shows that technological advancement accelerated - but at a cost. The innate genius of Homo sapiens, shaped by necessity in the wild, was now redirected. Instead of contending with the elements for survival, the individual - especially the male - was required to contend with social pressures, inter-group politics, and new collective dynamics. The lone hunter became a citizen. Cooperation was now necessary. So too was hierarchy.
Each man, once measured against nature alone, was now measured against other men. Alpha traits, when confined within shared walls, became volatile. This is where the record becomes revealing: as settlement density increased, so too did evidence of aggression and conflict. Violence escalated in tandem with technological progress. What had once been survivalist ingenuity became, in part, weaponised ambition.
It is therefore significant that the earliest known rectilinear communities - Göbekli Tepe and Çatalhöyük in Anatolia, and Jericho in the Levant - did not endure. These sites appear almost anachronistically early, predating the city-states of Uruk, Eridu, Abydos, and Faiyum by millennia. Logically, they should have provided the foundation for permanent civilisation much earlier than Sumer or Egypt. But that did not happen.
Mankind, it seems, was not yet ready. The pressures of sustained cohabitation required the sublimation of individual dominance into collective order. But the transition proved unstable. Testosterone-driven impulse, status competition, and tribal hierarchy became destabilising forces. The very energies that once ensured survival in nature now triggered social fracture within the walls.
It is as though we remembered that first time – that original attempt at civilisation in the Anatolian hills. As though the memory endured, drifting southward over generations. The Egyptians would later call it Zep Tepi – the First Time – the primal emergence from chaos at the mound. And we, in modern archaeology, call that earliest remembered mound Göbekli Tepe.
Close communal living also increased the risk of disease transmission. As human groups settled into shared spaces, sanitation challenges emerged: waste disposal, stagnant water, and the cohabitation of food, refuse, and excrement in confined environments. These conditions provided ideal breeding grounds for pathogenic bacteria. Viral and parasitic diseases flourished, particularly where humans lived alongside domesticated animals. Cross-species infection and viral mutation became far more likely. In such settings, disease could ravage entire communities rapidly – in ways that nomadic populations, dispersed and mobile, were far less vulnerable to.
At Çatalhöyük, the evidence suggests that while humans were intellectually capable of settlement – understanding the needs for water, food, and shelter, and achieving a sophisticated level of craftsmanship and artistic expression – they were not yet biologically or socially adapted to the new pressures. Disease, violence, and social breakdown appear to have intensified in tandem with urbanisation, ultimately leading to abandonment. Çatalhöyük thus stands as an early evolutionary experiment – one that Homo sapiens was not yet optimised for.
We had not yet learned how to manage the emotional, biological, and political consequences of permanent settlement. We struggled to relinquish individual authority to collective organisation. And we lacked the medical understanding to prevent or contain disease within such concentrated populations.
These challenges are not confined to prehistory. They remain with us. Epidemics and pandemics still threaten modern societies. Social fragmentation, inter-cultural conflict, and psychological dysfunction continue to erupt in urban environments – often triggered or inflamed by unresolved masculine dynamics: competition, aggression, and sexual rivalry. As cities grow and populations swell, the rectilinear housing blocks and constrained spatial structures exert a quiet but persistent pressure on the human psyche.
When too many people are confined within artificial boundaries – without natural release or social harmony – that pressure builds. And, as always, something must give.
Duality is All – It is Nature’s Reality
Once the pressures of survival and expansion give way to settlement and contemplation, culture turns inward and begins to narrate itself. Myth emerges not as fantasy, but as encoded memory – a symbolic echo of the processes man has witnessed in nature and undergone within himself. The divine is not distant, nor external. It is the name man gives to the invisible laws he observes in the world and within his own being. Culture, at this stage, becomes self-identity expressed in symbols. It is the song of man remembering his own emergence.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the god and goddess traditions of the Drift Culture – the slow migration of symbolic forms from Anatolia through Mesopotamia and into Egypt. These were not isolated mythologies, but a continuous morphogenic current. They reflect a shared perception: that nature expresses herself in patterns, and that those patterns can be seen, measured, remembered, and named. The divine becomes a mirror of natural law. The stars, the flood, the tree, the mountain, the womb, the seed – all take form in the gods. All are recognised as symbols of life, death, return, and balance.
At the height of this process stands the pyramid age. It is the apotheosis of symbolic expression in stone – the clearest architectural embodiment of myth as structure. But the pyramid is not merely a tomb. It is a cosmogram – a perfected form that speaks the language of ratio, direction, light, and rebirth. It encodes the dual principles in balance. Above and below, horizontal and vertical, passage and chamber, shaft and stone – all are polarities in reconciliation. This is not religion in the modern sense. It is knowledge, set into form.
Crucial to this entire system is the understanding that god and goddess are not separate or rival forces. They are interwoven principles. In every early mythic system – from Inanna and Dumuzi to Isis and Osiris, from Ninhursag and Enki to Nut and Ra – the feminine is not only equal but generative. She is the field, the ether, the matrix in which the masculine arises. The male acts, but only because the female allows. She is the condition of his being.
This is not subjugation, nor matriarchy in the modern political sense. It is structural truth. In nature, all things emerge in duality. Day and night. Sun and moon. Hot and cold. Wet and dry. Penis and vagina. Each completes the other. Each defines the other.
The feminine in myth is not simply a character – she is the field itself. The wetness, the darkness, the curve, the womb, the allowing – the receptive/passive principle. Negative in polarity, not in value. The masculine is direction, projection, seed, assertion – the force or active principle. Positive in polarity, not superiority. But without the field, he has no space in which to act. Without the womb, no birth. Without the earth, no tree. The gods of old remembered this. The myths preserved it.
What we find, therefore, is not superstition, but sacred memory. Myth encodes the natural order. It preserves the understanding that the world is made of reciprocals. The inner and outer mirror each other. So the stories do not simply entertain – they recall. They re-member. And in doing so, they transmit not belief, but pattern. Religion, in its earliest form as myth, was not dogma. It was recognition.
The Most Fundamental Archetype of All
The Ultimate Inversion - The Asexual Christ and the Death of Wetness
The statement attributed to Jesus – ‘Who is my mother?’ – makes no literal, relational, or theological sense when taken at face value. Even within the framework of the canonical gospels, Jesus knows exactly who his mother is. Mary is not a marginal figure. She is approached by angels, called blessed among women, and identified as the mother of the Lord. She is not only of the faith – she is depicted as central to the divine plan. She is the theotokos – the god-bearer, the vessel of incarnation.
There is no surface logic to the claim. No parable. No theological insight. It is, quite simply, an intentional disavowal.
Theologians have long attempted to explain it away. They say Jesus was teaching a spiritual lesson – that faith is greater than blood, that kinship is defined by obedience to the will of God. But these are evasions. No spiritual lesson that requires the public erasure of the divine mother can be coherent within the symbolic systems from which the figure of Jesus emerged. In all ancient cosmologies, the mother is not only central – she is the origin. She is the field from which the axis rises. She is Isis to Horus, Sophia to the Logos, the yoni to the lingam.
This is where ambiguity reveals the Roman method. The phrase appears harmless on the surface, even virtuous. But it encodes a structural rupture. It is not a question at all, but a declaration. It severs the son from the mother in full view of the reader. It rewrites the foundational relationship of all creation. It establishes a new precedent – where the divine is no longer born of the womb, but of doctrinal will. The mother becomes redundant.
This same tactic appears across the constructed gospel texts. Mary Magdalene, the anointing woman, is veiled or degraded. The Holy Spirit – feminine in the Hebrew ruach – becomes neutered or masculinised. The church is handed to Peter, not to the Magdalene. The Spirit does not descend through the goddess but hovers abstractly. The feminine is used, then displaced.
The erasure of the mother is part of a broader programme. We see it mirrored in language. Menses becomes taboo. The blood of the woman is labelled unclean. The womb becomes the root of the word hysteria. The goddess Venus gives rise to the term venereal disease. The feminine principle – once sacred and central – is reframed as chaotic, unstable, and contaminating. Lunar rhythm becomes madness. Mater becomes matter, something to transcend. Women are either whores or sanctified mothers – and never allowed to be both.
But lest men forget: their saintly mother was once a young sexual being. How can the mother be a saint if her middle stage of life was as a whore?
There is a gross contradiction and dichotomy inherent in this attitude – one that is only resolved by abandoning the theological fictions used to justify disrespect and mistreatment of women. True kingship – if it exists at all – is permitted only by the queen. If a man is king of his castle, it is by her agreement. Leadership is co-creation, not domination.
The gods are not real. They do not exist according to human need or design. They have no genetics, no hormones, no flesh to navigate. To act as if their mythic patterns justify biological hierarchy is to confuse symbol with structure, myth with law.
The phrase “Who is my mother?” encapsulates the entire agenda to reduce the feminine and erase her from the central role. It is not a lapse or a teaching moment. It is an embedded device. The Roman editors did not merely overwrite old myths – they encoded their inversions with precision. They placed words into the mouth of their constructed god to obscure the goddess beneath him. The erasure is ritual. And the ritual is binding.
To restore meaning is not to reinterpret the surface text. It is to decode the buried structure. The mother of the saviour is not an afterthought. She is the beginning of the pattern. The denial of her is the denial of the field, the rhythm, the origin of all life.
Once that fracture is seen – it cannot be unseen.
The literalisation of myth becomes a perversion – not only of the symbolic and natural framework, but of nature itself. It becomes an unnatural and confused act – as if the organic and the symbolic had been forcibly merged into something biologically grotesque.
Incest is not a natural act in human societies. Biologically, it leads to degradation if conception occurs. This is not moral judgement – it is natural law. Later myths such as that of Oedipus echo this taboo, not because they are real, but because they encode the psychological disturbance that arises when symbolic order is mistaken for literal truth.
This presents a structural problem that had to be resolved if the myth of Jesus was to be accepted as historical. If he is to be both human and divine, born of a woman, yet without human sexual origin, then the mythic model must be rewritten. But the original mythos is purely symbolic, based on cycles of nature, not on people. In the Egyptian formulation, Isis births Horus, who rises in the east as the young sun, matures into Osiris, and then dies to become the nocturnal god of the underworld. The son becomes the father. This is not a story of people or morality, but of light and time. The familial structure is symbolic. There is no wrongdoing in nature.
However, in the culminating myth, Isis reassembles the body of Osiris and restores his penis, which she uses to impregnate herself. Osiris, in this stage, is an older form of Horus. There is implied incest, but again, this is not narrative perversion. It is symbolic recursion. The axis restores itself through the field. The field anoints the axis with life. There is no sin because there is no literal genealogy. The story expresses the return of the life-force through the sexual pole, not a biological scandal.
But Mary must be a virgin. If she is to be a real, historical woman, the implications of sexual union must be eliminated. This creates a paradox. The child is born of woman, but without sex. The myth is retained, but sterilised. The sexuality of the goddess is erased. The symbolism is gutted. And the solution chosen by the Roman editors was not to ignore the contradiction, but to subvert it.
The question ‘Who is my mother?’ is not a spiritual teaching. It is an attempt to override the symbolic problem by introducing a ritualised rejection. If the son refuses to name the mother, then the incest is avoided. But the cost of this device is enormous. It creates a logical contradiction within the text and fractures the mythic structure that underlies the story. The divine child, born of the goddess, must now disavow her publicly, lest the veil fall and the pagan origins be exposed.
What results is not clarity but compression. A single question, delivered by the constructed messiah, becomes the container for a buried scandal. It masks the unresolved tension between symbolic cosmology and imposed historicity. It severs the son from the mother, while still claiming divine birth. It silences the feminine, while still requiring her function. It is the perfect example of Roman narrative engineering: ambiguous, theologically safe on the surface, but containing a buried charge designed to disable the older mythic system from within.
This is the faultline that runs through the entire New Testament. A mythos of nature and field encoded in symbols is forcibly mapped onto a literalist framework of patriarchal control. The axis is retained, but the field is denied. The result is dissonance. And it is in that dissonance that the original myth still cries out, waiting to be heard again.
There can be no clearer sign of the total inversion of natural truth than the invention of the Christ figure as a man born without sex, untouched by desire, forever sterile in body, and yet declared the sole mediator of life. This is not myth. It is denial as theology. The mythic structure once encoded in Osiris and Isis - the sacred body kar restored through the waters or unguent of the goddess st - becomes, under Rome, a sterile male crucified upon the axis, devoid of moisture, of union, of the feminine altogether.
The virgin birth is not a miracle. It is a lie. An impossibility given as fact. It is the theological erasure of the most fundamental reality - that all life emerges through the woman, and only when she permits it. The original KRST was not a man anointed with oil as a ceremonial rite. He was the dry corpus - the kar - made whole only through the wetness of the goddess. The ‘st’ is not a suffix. It is the anointing. The lubricant. The breath. The veil that allows penetration, union, and rebirth.
Without wetness, there is no humanity.
And yet, wetness does not come at will. It is not automatic, and it is not male. It is feminine by nature - hormonal, cyclical, sovereign. It cannot be commanded. It must be stirred, awakened, permitted. And this, perhaps more than any other single truth, is what man could not bear.
For it is the woman who stimulates the man. Not only physically, but symbolically. It is she who causes arousal, and it is her body that determines readiness. In this act, the male becomes dependent. His power is conditional. His function requires permission. In that moment, the man is no longer master, no longer autonomous. His most primal function - his desire, his drive, his erection - is triggered by the feminine, and this alone constitutes a reversal of the entire male-coded structure of authority.
It is perhaps the only context in human life where the man is physiologically made subject to the woman, not by force or law, but by design. The stereotypical male posture - the boss, the warrior, the protector - is here undone. For all his strength, size, and social dominance, he cannot act unless she opens. He cannot enter unless she is ready. He cannot fulfil his biological imperative without the gift of her wetness.
And herein lies the hidden wound.
Woman, though smaller in stature, less able to impose physically, genetically optimised for nurture, sustenance, and social cohesion, is nonetheless the keyholder of life. She is the one who enables the act of creation. She is not the gatekeeper by choice. She is the field itself. And man, sensing this, often unconsciously, responds with resentment, anxiety, or domination.
The masculine psyche, unable to command the field, attempts to override it.
This is the deep root of the suppression of the feminine. Not merely cultural, nor religious, but biological and psychological. The man, driven by his ever-present readiness, encounters the woman's selective rhythm - and rather than revere it, he seeks to control it. Her body becomes a battleground. Her cycle a threat. Her pleasure irrelevant. Her agency denied.
Rather than honour the timing of her arousal, he reduces it to taboo. Rather than acknowledge his dependence on her wetness, he pretends to be self-sufficient. He invents theology to erase the act. He rewrites mythology to remove her role. He brands her temptation. He calls her gate the sin.
And yet it is from this gate that he came.
This is not simply misogyny. It is ontological inversion. A refusal to accept that male power, at its root, is activated by the feminine. The wetness of the woman is not only the biological necessity for sex and childbirth - it is the archetypal anointment of the act itself. Without it, there is no passage. No pleasure. No life. Without it, all that remains is dry penetration - which is not union, but violence.
And so, the myth of the virgin-born, asexual Christ emerges - not as revelation, but as reaction. A figure born without sex, never aroused, never joined. His mother is sanctified only by her lack of participation. Her holiness is her chastity. Her body is sealed. Her wetness, erased.
This inversion is the final expression of the fear of feminine power. It turns the matrix of life into a theological silence. It turns the sacred wetness into a moral offence. And it replaces the ritual of generative union with a male-only ritual of domination - one in which the woman is present only as a vessel, never as a participant.
What was once arousal becomes shame. What was once anointment becomes abstraction. What was once sex becomes sacrament - emptied of body, emptied of moisture, emptied of woman.
This is the death of wetness. And it is the death of truth.
This is not poetry. It is structural reality. The vagina must be lubricated for the phallus to enter. Without this natural oil – whether through arousal, desire, or ritual blessing – the act is not union. It is violation. The entire process of human generation depends on the readiness of the feminine vagina. And readiness is not constant. It is cyclical, hormonal, sovereign. A woman must open. Her body, her moisture, her timing. The man may desire, but it is the woman who allows.
Homo sapiens male is built to dominate, to procreate, to defend. He is designed to be strong and aggressive when required – the agent of force in family and society. He is the driver and the explorer, and when acting as alpha, he carries the responsibility of protecting the whole. He is the outer force, the mover, the challenger. The woman, by contrast, is the companion, the axis of the home, the field itself. She is mystery – in flux, in rhythm, in seasonal flow. She does what man cannot: she creates life, holds it for nine months within, and then feeds it from her own body. He has given but a moment and a tiny amount of milky fluid, yet she holds this within and nurtures it, then produces copious amounts of her own milky fluid over a great length of time until the babe is able to be weaned off the tit.
Man plays a brief role in the act of conception, but the woman is the continuity. She is the constant. And here is where the mystery begins – the part he cannot control. This is the place where he must yield. This is where the roles bend – not inverting, but shifting. Man, the protector, now becomes the one who must protect the space of the woman. The woman becomes not subordinate, but central – not just the mother, but the giver of time, the axis of continuity, the place through which all of civilisation must pass. Men cannot control the time, cannot speed the process nor refashion it creatively to serve any other purpose. Woman and pregnancy, her sexuality and resultant child are beyond a man’s control. Yet, the inbuilt evolutionary instinct of men is to control, to reshape, to make tools that improve his ability to further control and master all that he surveys.
The woman herself is his biggest mystery – the one thing outside his control. A woman is also emotionally influenced by her hormones and may become affected, which may seem to him irrational and illogical at times. Rather than adjusting with respect and patience, it is far easier to dominate and control. If it is not there when he wants it, if she is not impressed by his manliness or receptive to his charm, if it is not given, then he will take it. Rape becomes something that lies deep within the psyche of men – not from a moral choice, but as the consequence of evolution. Not all enact this, and not all are even aware of it, as many men are simply not imprinted that way; but not all deny it either. And if the temptation is overwhelming, and he can justify it, and convince himself that he has the right, especially if divinely ordained, how dare a mere woman deny him what is rightfully his?
Rape is never trivial. Not even between couples who share a close, intimate relationship. What may be a moment of uncontrolled lust to the offender can be, to the recipient, an act of betrayal and violation that leaves psychological scars lasting a lifetime. It may also be a deliberate act – a conscious assertion of power that enforces submission and perpetuates a sense of servitude to the abuser. This becomes a form of control that is both physical and psychological – a pattern imposed on the vulnerable for the agenda of the dominant.
How much more obscene – how much more unholy – is it when this is done to children?
And how much more damning of religion could it be that the Catholic Church – and the Anglican – self-declared guardians of moral law, have become infamous not for rooting out such crimes, but for protecting the paedophiles and rapists within their own ranks?
The ideal requires an adjustment by the man as he evolves further to outgrow his primordial nature. This is not a reversal, but a mutual structure with alternating emphasis. It is civilisation of the most basic kind. It is symbiosis and reciprocation; it is mutual co-operation from which true creativity emerges. The masculine acts. The feminine allows. The masculine penetrates. The feminine envelops. The masculine seeks. The feminine chooses. And in that choosing, the usual imprinting dynamic flips. The man becomes the one who waits. He must serve the readiness of the woman, support her through gestation, provide the stability within which the flux of her becoming can unfold.
Here, the woman dominates – not with violence, but with inherent power. Not through command, but through necessity. She cannot be replaced. Her timing cannot be overridden. She is the mystery at the centre of life – and the man, in this structure, must become the guardian of that mystery, not its master.
This is what the Church could not tolerate.
Typically, as an historic stereotype, men want. Men take. That is how Homo sapiens established itself. Women, by nature, must grant. And in that biological structure, the woman holds the power – but rarely has the strength or force that would be required to resist.
Yet beyond the male's inability to control his ardour – beyond his size, his hormonal profile optimised for dominance, and his evolutionary inhibition against fear – the woman is not lesser. She is reciprocal. She is not weak, but structured differently. She is not slow, but measured. She is not subordinate, but cyclical.
Women are as intelligent, as creative, and as capable of leadership, vision, and discovery as any man. They are thinkers, scientists, artists, warriors, diplomats, healers, and sages. And history is not lacking in examples. There have been countless women who have led, created, discovered, built, solved, and revealed.
And yet, time after time, their names were buried, their achievements erased, and the credit claimed by men – or by the institutions that men controlled.
This is not due to inability. It is due to ingrained cultural theft – imposed by unnatural religious dogma and adherence to an illusion of reality. The field was never level. The story was never fairly told. The wetness that birthed the world was repackaged as impurity. The intuition that read the rhythms of land and sky was renamed superstition. The minds that envisioned wholeness were excluded from the halls of reason. And still, they endured.
The entire cultural development of mankind – since we left the riverine lands and trees and began building our townships and cities – has been driven by a single unresolved paradox in the heart of man: his biological urge to dominate is at odds with his existential dependence on the feminine. Rather than reconcile this truth, he turned it outward. Rather than honour the power of the woman, he sought to control her.
The fault lies not with women. It lies with men. And this is not a political statement. It is not grievance. It is structure. It is history. It is biology. It is an outcrop of an evolutionary tree that has been allowed to roam free.
Women have not been veiled, confined to kitchens, denied positions of power, barred from science, art, governance, or thought because they were unworthy or incapable – but because men could not sufficiently adjust to what they represented. The woman, in her cyclical nature, her sexual sovereignty, her capacity to choose, to hold, to withhold – posed a challenge to the male psyche driven by constant readiness and desire. So man did what man has always done when faced with a challenge he cannot dominate – he rewrote the narrative. He invented a new method to get what he wanted. In that way, he followed his instincts. In another way, he made a choice – to follow his penis rather than his heart.
He made her the cause of the fall. He made her the temptress, the betrayer, the weak one. He cloaked her, silenced her, and rewrote laws to bind her. Not because she failed, but because he could not control himself. And rather than admit that truth, he projected blame.
The doctrine of original sin is the final proof. The woman bears the fault. The man is absolved. The serpent speaks to her. The fall comes through her. And yet it is he who blames, he who rules, he who writes the story in which his weakness is her crime.
The ancient myths reflected the reality of the relationship between men and women, the feminine and the masculine, the relationships between the substrate and the created, the hidden and the seen, the wet and the dry. They honoured both polarities, and the admixtures of them, in reciprocation. This is natural science in its earliest and most unblinkered form – apolitical, realistic, and truthful.
Ma’at is the principle that honours truth and balance – unburdened and unconcerned with mankind’s frail ego, desire, politics, or power struggles. She upholds nature’s principles. And she is an aspect of the goddess as the superior principle – because the Mother is the All from which all emerge, and to which all return: be it water, the underworld, or the afterlife – the elemental unseen forces that enable the material and formed, the ratio behind the measure, the matrix and supporter of all that exists.
She is ever-present in the myth, while the male gods orbit her as the returning, resurrected ones – together with the goddess, leaving the goddess, returning to the goddess. And she bears, births, nurtures, releases, waits, and embraces the return, and mourns the loss. But she remains – the ever-present and primary Creatrix.
By the time the Romans came to create their Bible and install the inversions as doctrine, myth had already devolved. Man’s nature, politics, and desires had been imposed upon the gods, embodied as personalities in the characters of the Greek pantheon. The dramas and soap-opera-style stories reflected mankind’s struggles with his own nature, as well as with nature itself.
The Romans absorbed these cultural myths, as well as others that existed across the lands they controlled – from Egypt to Syria, to Britain, to Transylvania. This admixture of mythologies was assimilated as much for the purposes of infiltration and adjustment to local diversity as for any genuine theological aim. In many regions, the goddess remained the primary and recognised elementary form of godhood. In others, the distinctions had already been blurred. And in cultures such as Greece, the gods had long become confused with human traits: tales of rape, incest, punishment, jealousy, lusts both satiated and denied were woven into the stories of what had once been symbolic representations of natural law.
Still, in the most ancient Egyptian myth – the one that would become their dominant myth of Jesus – the feminine remained primary. The goddess was the All.
Rather than honour this, the Church rewrote the myth:
· They made Mary passive – a virgin not only in womb but in will
· They made Jesus untouched – no lovers, no arousal, no wetness
· They removed the Isis anointment and replaced it with ritual oil
· They erased the vagina – the Tuat, the twat – and installed the cross
· They turned life-giving sex into barren abstinence
And then, worst of all, they retained the word – anointing, KRST, the sacred oil – but emptied it of function. In Egyptian, to be anointed is to be made wet, made whole, made ready. In the Church, it becomes a symbol of submission, not readiness. A male priest applies oil to the head of another man, declaring him sanctified – but the goddess is nowhere present. The field is gone. The wetness is erased. The male priest takes the role of the goddess.
What was once the most sacred rite – the joining of man and woman, god and goddess, axis and field – becomes a celibate hierarchy of male-only ritual. The communion becomes a wafer, not a womb. The wine becomes blood, not arousal. The church becomes a stone box filled with men – the phallus without the vessel.
This is not spirituality. It is the subversion of Nature.
Yet that is religion.
When Inanna chose her lovers, it was her power. When Isis anointed Osiris, it was her timing. The phallus had no access without the field’s agreement. In myth after myth, the feminine chose. Only in rape myths – where balance is broken – does the masculine force take what was not offered. And these become the template not for ritual, but for empire.
The asexual Christ, then, is not merely a symbol of piety. He is a lie erected in place of truth. A man, nailed to the Djed, robbed of the wet field that gives meaning to the axis. No ejaculation. No erection. No womb. No kiss. No breath. No life.
What remains is a dry body on a dry cross, exalted as saviour – when in truth, he is the erasure of the saviour archetype. The KRST was always the anointed one – not by ceremony, but by goddess wetness. Without her oil, there is no rebirth. Without her breath, no spirit. Without her moistening, no entrance – to the womb, or to the Duat.
The axis without wetness is a weapon. A crucifixion, not a resurrection.
And so the Church built a theology on a body that never entered and a womb that never opened. And then demanded the world worship it – under pain of death.
We will not. We return now to the truth: the KRST is the corpus Osiris made whole by the st of Isis. The goddess is the vessel, the veil, the lubricant of life. And when she is denied, all that remains is violence, conquest, and shame.
And we wonder why the world is broken.
The stereotyping of the female as lesser, a wrongdoer, responsible for calamity or betrayal – fashioned after Eve or a whore – is common in the myths and legends of the Bible and those that followed its introduction into the lands the Church sought to control. There is no strong feminine figure in Church tradition who is not either denied power, sexualised and punished, rendered passive, or martyred. The Church cannot allow a woman to be wise, sovereign, sexual, and active – at least not all at once. One of those traits must be removed. And often all of them.
In every case where a woman holds power, influence, or sexual agency, she is either punished, rewritten, humiliated, or framed as morally suspect. The only permissible female archetypes under Roman and later ecclesiastical editorial control are:
· The silent virgin
· The obedient wife
· The grieving mother
· The repentant whore
Any woman who does not conform is made a warning.
Let’s lay out the pattern more clearly.
Delilah
A Philistine woman with intelligence and autonomy. She outwits Samson not through magic, but through observation and persistence. Yet she is framed as a seductress and betrayer. Her strength becomes sin. Her cunning becomes treachery. The moral: beware the woman who asks questions and wants to know your secrets.
Salome
Her story barely exists in the source material – her name isn’t even mentioned in the Gospels – but by the time of the Roman retellings, she becomes the embodiment of dangerous, erotic femininity. Her dance leads to the beheading of John the Baptist. In truth, the political motive lies with Herodias, yet Salome is sexualised and turned into the killer. Another woman blamed. Another man made the victim.
Esther
One of the few truly complex women in the Hebrew Bible. She uses intelligence, strategy, and charm to save her people. But even here, the framing reduces her to a beauty in a harem who uses seduction to influence a king. Her action is made suspect by the implication of manipulation. Her wisdom becomes political cunning.
Hosea’s wife (Gomer)
She is referred to as a whore – not just metaphorically, but as a defining trait. Her sexuality is treated as symbolic of Israel’s disobedience. Her character is not developed. She is an object of shame, a symbol of betrayal. Her body becomes the map of national sin.
Mary Magdalene
As already discussed, the Church conflates her with the anonymous sinful woman and renders her identity permanently stained by a sin never named. She is allowed proximity to the divine, but only through grovelling, weeping, and penitence. Her original role as anointer and companion is erased in favour of moral correction.
Jezebel
A queen – foreign and powerful. She is painted as wicked, idolatrous, manipulative. Her death is brutal. Her body is thrown from a window and eaten by dogs. No male figure in the same narrative receives equivalent punishment. Her crime was influence. Her sentence was annihilation.
Lot’s daughters
They get their father drunk and sleep with him to preserve his lineage. In any symbolic system, this would be treated as mythic recursion or ritual preservation. But under post-Roman interpretation, it becomes perversion. The act is read as deviance, not transmission.
The Whore of Babylon
An apocalyptic composite of all feminine threat. She rides the beast. She is clothed in purple and scarlet. She drinks the blood of the saints. She is not a character. She is an abstracted demonization of powerful, visible, feminine sovereignty. Babylon becomes Rome’s proxy for every past culture that honoured the goddess.
This is the strategy. When a woman shows agency, her story becomes a warning. When she holds power, it is reframed as corruption. When she speaks, she lies. When she acts, she betrays. The only safe woman is a mother who does not speak – or a virgin who dies.
Even when a character begins as heroic, Roman or later redactors inject the pattern: sexualisation, shame, silence, or symbolic punishment.
And when no individual figure can contain the projected fear, they create a composite. The Whore of Babylon – the ultimate inversion of the goddess. Crowned, sexual, scarlet – but damned.
This is not storytelling. It is editorial theology. A weaponised literary system to remove the goddess from the sacred record – and replace her with an absence, a silence, or a punishment.
Every single time a woman in scripture or myth holds space, the redactors move quickly to either vilify, infantilise, or erase her. The figure is either stripped of agency, made unrealistically perfect, or veiled behind obedience and silence. The pattern is stark: strong women are either humiliated, tamed, or excluded entirely. When a feminine figure is permitted to appear virtuous or elevated, it is only through the erasure of sexuality, voice, and power. She must be chaste, silent, and passive. That is the price of inclusion.
The Virgin Mary
She is the Church's most prominent female figure. But she is not strong in any active sense. She is pure because she is untouched. She is obedient. She speaks little. She never acts independently. Her power lies in her silence. Even her motherhood is depersonalised – she births the Son of God, but does not pass on any traits or teachings. She is a vessel, not a sovereign.
Saints like Catherine, Cecilia, Lucy
These women are canonised for their chastity, their refusal to marry, and often their martyrdom under torture. They are not celebrated for action, knowledge, or leadership. Their virtue lies in suffering. Many of them are killed or maimed, and that is what secures their sainthood. The female saint must bleed or burn to be sanctified. She may be remembered, but only in death or in refusal.
Mary Magdalene
As discussed, she is turned from a possible high priestess, anointer, and transmitter of gnosis into a repentant sinner. Her proximity to Jesus is uncomfortable for Church doctrine. She is either sexualised, downgraded, or excised. In the Eastern traditions, she fares slightly better, but never regains full agency. The Church allows her closeness – but only if she remains humbled and forgiven.
Joan of Arc
Much later, and not a Church invention. The Church burned her. Only centuries later, under pressure, was she canonised. She heard voices, wore armour, and led armies – and for this she was condemned. The fact that the Church later embraced her only confirms the pattern: a woman may be used for propaganda after death, but not allowed power in life.
Allegorical women
In Church literature, the feminine sometimes appears symbolically – Wisdom, Ecclesia, Charity. But these are not people. They are abstractions. And even these are usually kept subordinate to Christ, the Logos, or the Father. Sophia, in early Christianity, was once a central cosmic force. But as the Church solidified, Sophia was discarded. Wisdom became a male attribute. The field was removed.
The Bride of Christ
In monastic tradition, the idea of the soul or nun as the Bride of Christ becomes common. But again, this is not empowerment. It is celibate union, where the woman gives up the world, her body, and her selfhood. It is often erotic in language – but the eroticism is sublimated, internalised, spiritualised – and utterly controlled by the male framework of Christ the groom.
As we have already explored in depth, even In the Beginning, Eve is made to bear the Original Sin for all mankind to come.
That is the clearest mark of the intervention. In any tradition that remains structurally intact from pre-Roman influence, the feminine appears as co-creator, initiator, holder of mystery. In the Church, she is either mother, virgin, penitent – or ghost.
What follows is a sequence of mythic and legendary cases where the feminine is structurally degraded through narrative inversion, humiliation, or symbolic displacement. None of these are drawn from biblical material. All of them show signs of Roman or Romanised cultural reworking – either directly, or through the hands of later Christian or courtly scribes inheriting the same patriarchal framework. These are not isolated corruptions. They are a patterned interference strategy.
Guinevere and the cart of shame
In the French Arthurian romances, particularly Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart by Chrétien de Troyes, Guinevere is transported in a cart used for criminals. This image of the queen in a vehicle of dishonour is a stark departure from the older Celtic tradition, where the queen represents sovereignty and chooses the king. Her affair with Lancelot, far from a symbol of balanced polarity, becomes a scandal that destroys Camelot. Her sexuality is recoded as betrayal, and she is structurally blamed for the fall of the axis.
Igraine and the deception of Pendragon
Uther Pendragon, with the help of Merlin, disguises himself as the husband of Igraine to sleep with her. She does not know she is being used. The result is Arthur. In older mythic forms, sovereignty arises through consent and alignment between the land (queen) and the axis (king). Here, the axis imposes itself through trickery. The myth of divine kingship begins with rape, reframed as providence. Igraine’s body is used, her voice erased.
Brynhild and the forced marriage
In the Norse and Germanic versions of the Volsung legend, Brynhild is a valkyrie – a chooser of the slain, a weaver of fate. But in the later Christianised sagas and in the Nibelungenlied, she is tricked into bed, drugged, and passed between men. Her betrayal and humiliation lead to destruction. Her power is turned into tragedy, her role recoded from divine agency to woman scorned.
Kriemhild and the descent into vengeance
In the Nibelungenlied, Kriemhild is manipulated and used by men throughout the narrative. Her grief over Siegfried is real, but her rage becomes a tool for further violence. She is ultimately portrayed as the cause of catastrophic revenge. Her emotional depth, rather than being honoured, is weaponised and collapsed into the trope of the vengeful widow.
Gullveig and the burning of the witch
In the Völuspá, Gullveig is burned three times by the Æsir for unclear reasons. She survives, renamed Heiðr, and becomes a seeress. Many scholars link her with Freyja. Her burning is a public act of purification or rejection. It is not framed as tragedy, but as necessary. In the Roman pattern, feminine magic or wealth is marked for destruction. Her survival only comes by transformation and renaming.
The Vestal Virgins and the policing of chastity
The Vestals were originally priestesses of the eternal flame, maintaining the hearth of Rome. Over time, their role was reduced to sexual abstinence. Any breach of virginity was punished with live burial. Their power was narrowed into purity alone. The sacred feminine was allowed to exist only as a negation of sex – and under strict male control.
Lucretia and the founding of the republic
Lucretia is raped by the son of a Roman king and kills herself. Her death becomes the spark for political revolution. She is portrayed as the perfect Roman woman: silent, chaste, and self-erasing. Her body becomes the pivot for male action. Her story is not one of justice or restoration, but of submission through death. The violation of the feminine is used to justify the rise of male civic power.
Dido and the abandonment by Aeneas
In Virgil’s Aeneid, Dido is a powerful queen and founder of Carthage. She falls in love with Aeneas and is abandoned by him under divine orders. Her grief ends in suicide. Her city, Carthage – later Rome’s great enemy – is destroyed. Dido is reduced from sovereign and founder to a tragic obstacle in the hero’s journey. Her story legitimises Roman conquest. Her love is framed as weakness.
Camilla the warrior maiden
Camilla, a warrior aligned with Diana, is portrayed in the Aeneid as skilled, fierce, and loyal. But she is killed because she is distracted by a beautiful object – a trivial flaw inserted to make her death seem deserved. Her role affirms that no matter her ability, a woman cannot survive the masculine epic. She is praised, then removed.
Medusa and the murder of the violated
In earlier versions of the myth, Medusa is raped by Poseidon in the temple of Athena. Athena punishes Medusa, transforming her into a monster. Her hair becomes snakes, her gaze deadly. She is slain by Perseus, and her head used as a weapon. The victim becomes the threat. Her power, once symbolic of protection and mystery, is inverted. Her death is celebrated. Her body made a trophy. The older feminine power of the Gorgon is recast as evil to be destroyed.
These are not isolated redactions. They form a coherent pattern. Each of these women or goddesses originates in older symbolic systems as sovereign, divine, or powerful in her own right. Through Roman or Roman-influenced retelling, her role is altered. She becomes dangerous, emotional, weak, seductive, or vengeful. She is punished, silenced, or removed. The sacred field is displaced. The axis is enthroned alone.
The cart, the flame, the rape, the bed, the betrayal – these are not just narrative motifs. They are ritualised acts of cultural editing. Each marks a point where the Roman order imposed itself on the symbolic landscape and recast feminine agency as liability.
This is the hallmark of Roman interference. Their mythography does not simply reshape story. It encodes control. And wherever that control is exercised, the first to be rewritten is always the goddess.
The Curious Case of the Missing Queen
This gives us further pause for thought when considering even today’s official histories that are given from Roman sources.
It makes one wonder, indeed, about the official Roman version of the role of Cartimandua. What survives of her story comes entirely through Roman sources – primarily Tacitus – and the interference pattern is unmistakable. The narrative that survives carries all the familiar distortions. A powerful woman is allowed to rule only so long as she remains useful, and the moment her sovereignty contradicts Roman ideals of loyalty or morality, she is degraded, sexualised, or erased.
Cartimandua ruled the Brigantes in the first century CE. She was what the Romans called a client queen – maintaining nominal independence while allied with the empire. She famously handed over the resistance leader Caratacus to Roman authorities. The sources present this as an act of betrayal. Later, she divorced her husband Venutius and took his armour-bearer Vellocatus as her consort. This is framed by Tacitus as scandalous – both politically and sexually.
But when we look past the Roman lens, a different image emerges.
She is a female monarch holding direct power during a time of war and occupation. That alone would have deeply unsettled Roman chroniclers. In Roman society, women could not hold such positions. Their role was domestic, symbolic, or dynastic. Cartimandua ruled openly, managed alliances, made military decisions, and exercised agency over her own household. That made her a threat to the imperial narrative.
The handing over of Caratacus may have been a calculated political move. She may have sought to protect her people, avoid devastation, or stabilise her territory. But Roman commentary reduces all local strategy to a binary of loyalty or treason. Her decision is interpreted as treachery. No context is given.
Her decision to divorce Venutius and choose another man is treated as moral collapse. Yet what it actually demonstrates is that Cartimandua was not subject to male control. She managed her own succession and chose her consort. The Roman view cannot tolerate this. In their literature, when a man changes wife or mistress, it is political manoeuvre. When a woman does it, it becomes moral decline. The framing reveals more about Rome than about her.
Eventually, Venutius leads a rebellion. The Romans praise him for honour and bravery. Cartimandua is evacuated by Roman forces and disappears from the record. There is no defence of her rule, no protection of her legacy. She is abandoned. Her memory is reduced to a footnote. Her agency dismissed. Her story left to rot in the shadow of male narratives.
The comparison with Boudica makes the pattern obvious. Boudica rebels, and is depicted as a barbarian fury. Cartimandua cooperates, and is depicted as a treacherous harlot. Whether they resist or comply, strong women are punished. Their fates differ, but their portrayal is equally destructive. In both cases, the axis is preserved – and the field is shamed.
Cartimandua’s image is not history. It is editorial theatre. It is what remains after Rome has done its work.
If her own people had written her story, we might remember her as a strategic queen who maintained local power during invasion – who preserved her tribe while others were crushed. Instead, we are left with a silhouette. The shape of a woman through the words of men who could not allow her to stand on her own terms.
The pattern, once again, probably betrays its source. (I will discuss this more later in the book).
