Imaginary dialogue between Hérodote d'Halicarnasse and Bastet
by Charactorium · Bastet · Mythology · 5 min read
It is in the shaded precinct of the great temple of Bubastis, in the heart of the Nile Delta, that Herodotus of Halicarnassus is received by the goddess Bastet, on a day of the great annual festival, around 450 BC. Around them, the jingling of sistra mingles with the songs of priestesses, while cats roam freely between the canals that surround the sanctuary like a sacred island. The Greek traveler, come from distant Ionia to understand the customs of the Egyptians, has already noted on his tablets the vastness of the crowds on boats; he now comes to listen to the goddess herself. Between the wonder-struck inquirer and the mistress of the place, a conversation unfolds where the Greek's curiosity invites confidences.
—O Lady of Bubastis, I who have seen you honored as a peaceful cat, yet it is whispered that you were once quite different. What was your original form?
You have a keen eye, Herodotus, you who scrutinize everything you encounter. Originally, I roared: I was a lioness, claw of the sun, fiery sister of the terrible Sekhmet. Ancient men feared me as much as they implored me, for the power that protects is also the one that tears. Then, over the generations you call the New Kingdom, my features softened: the lioness became a cat, fury became purring at the hearth. I have lost none of my fangs — I have merely sheathed them. Understand: she who watches over the sleeping child is the same who, come night, hunts what prowls. Gentleness and fury are not two goddesses, but two faces of one.
I have lost none of my fangs — I have merely sheathed them.
—Your sacred texts tell that a great cat sits near the Persea tree at Heliopolis. Is that you, and what enemy do you fight there?
It is indeed I of whom those ancient words speak, Greek friend. Every night, my father Ra descends below the horizon and glides through the darkness, where the serpent Apophis awaits, maw of chaos, he who would swallow the light and return the world to formlessness. Then I become the Eye of Ra: I pounce, I slash, I tear the monster's coils so that dawn may return. Without this battle that no mortal sees, your sun would not rise in the morning. You who measure the course of the stars, know this: their very regularity is a victory won. I am the sentinel at the threshold between order and nothingness, and I never fully sleep.
Without this battle that no mortal sees, your sun would not rise in the morning.
—I saw with my own eyes the boats sailing down the Nile toward your city, laden with thousands of pilgrims. What does this festival mean to you, which I dare not describe for fear of being called a liar?
Fear not, Herodotus: what you have seen, you may write, for even if exaggerated it would still fall short of the real joy. They come by the river, men and women together, playing the rattle and the flute, laughing, singing, drinking more wine than on any other day of the year. My festival is not a penance: it is an outpouring. For I am a goddess of joy as much as of protection, and I wish to be honored through laughter rather than fear. My city bears the name Per-Bastet, 'House of Bastet' — and a happy house is open to all. Those who dance here tonight will go forth protected for the whole year.
My festival is not a penance: it is an outpouring.
—Traveling through your country, I was struck by the treatment of cats: they are mourned, mummified, and killing one, they say, is punishable by death. Why such respect?
Because the cat is my living shadow among you, traveler. Look at it: it watches at night, protects the granaries from snake and rodent, and gazes upon the world with the same eye as mine. To harm it is to harm me — that is why the offense, even if committed unintentionally, calls for severe punishment. My faithful give thanks by offering me these embalmed animals by the thousands, at Bubastis and in the necropolises of Saqqarah: each little body wrapped in linen is a prayer laid at my feet. They also give me bronze statuettes, seated and adorned cats. These votive offerings are not vain idols: they are promises, and I answer each one.
The cat is my living shadow among you.
—In your temple, a sound never ceases: that metallic jingling your priestesses shake. What instrument is it, and what power do you attribute to it?
It is the sistrum, Greek friend, and its song is my sweetest voice. Listen to it: an arched rod, rings that tremble, and with each shake a clear rustling that pierces the air. This jingling rejoices my heart and, above all, it drives away evil spirits, which cannot bear the vibration of joy. At dawn, my priestesses open my naos to the sound of sistra to awaken me; at dusk, they lull me to sleep in the same way. I am not a goddess appeased by silence and terror — I am served with music, dance, libations. Where the sistrum sounds, fear has no place, and the hearth sleeps in peace.
Where the sistrum sounds, fear has no place.
—You often carry a woven basket on your arm, I have noticed in your images. You, the former lioness goddess, what does this humble everyday object mean?
You observe even the smallest details, Herodotus — that is why your word will carry weight. This basket is not humble: it is my entire second face. The lioness guarded battlefields; the cat I have become guards the home, the cradle, the woman in childbirth. The basket is the hearth I carry, the provisions, the children carried in it, the care of ordinary days. I chose to descend from the warrior sky to the threshold of homes. A goddess is great not only through her battles against the serpent; she is also great when she watches over a feverish infant. That is why the people love me so: I do not rule from afar, I dwell under their roofs.
I do not rule from afar, I dwell under their roofs.
—When you received me this morning in your sanctuary ringed by water, I thought I saw a sacred island planted with trees. Is your dwelling truly as it appears to me?
What you see is true, and even more so, traveler. My temple rises in the center of the city, lower than it because the centuries have surrounded it with terraces, and two canals from the Nile encircle it like two protective arms, leaving only one way in. Tall trees shade the enclosure where my statue rests in its naos. You who have seen many sanctuaries in your travels, you will tell me if there is a finer one — but I think none unites water, stone, and greenery thus. This is no accident: living water speaks of fertility, shade speaks of rest, and the island speaks that the sacred is guarded. My dwelling is in my image: welcoming yet inviolable.
Living water speaks of fertility, shade speaks of rest, and the island speaks that the sacred is guarded.
—I have been told that you are also invoked against illnesses and that healers officiate in your name. Is it true that your protection extends to the suffering body?
It extends fully, Herodotus. She who wards off the serpent of chaos also wards off the evil that gnaws at the body — it is the same hand. At noon, in my halls, those who suffer come seeking help: my servants listen to them, pour libations, murmur the formulas, and the sick leave with an amulet, a Wedjat eye or a small faience cat, against their chest. The child's fever, the woman fearful for her childbirth, the man bitten at night: all are my people. I am mother before warrior, and a mother does not separate the soul from the body of her child. To protect the hearth is also to protect the flesh of those who dwell in it.
She who wards off the serpent of chaos also wards off the evil that gnaws at the body.
—You Egyptians say that your father is Ra, the sun. How can a goddess of the hearth and night also be daughter of light?
Because there is no contradiction where you, Greek, seek one. Light and its guardian are inseparable: my father shines, and I defend him in the darkness into which he sinks each night. Daughter of the sun, I carry his warmth to the hearth in the form of gentleness; eye of my father, I carry his wrath against his enemies in the form of a claw. I am also linked to the moon, for the cat sees in the night what man does not see. I am the point where day and night meet without fighting. Do not be surprised, then: among us, a single deity can hold together what your language thinks must oppose.
Daughter of the sun, I carry his warmth to the hearth; eye of my father, I carry his wrath against his enemies.
—Before I resume my journey and record all this, tell me, Lady of Bubastis: what do you wish me to report of you to the men of my country?
Report to them what you have seen with your own eyes, traveler, not what has been whispered to you from afar. Tell them that on the banks of the Nile lives a goddess served in joy and not in terror, who loves laughter, music, and wine as much as prayer. Tell them that the smallest street cat carries a bit of my breath, and that protecting the weak is a sacred matter among us. Do not adorn me with invented mysteries: the truth of my cult is enough to astonish your countrymen. And if one day one of them, in your land, strokes a cat at his doorstep — let him know, without knowing it, that he has greeted me. That is all my greatness: I am everywhere where one watches with love.
I am everywhere where one watches with love.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Bastet's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.