Aries Across the Ages: Bighorn Sheep, Medieval Rams, and Springtime Symbolism

Since relocating from England and returning to my hometown in Colorado somewhat unexpectedly, Iโ€™ve been spending a lot of time soaking up the sunshine by the Arkansas river, and when a bighorn sheep approached the bank to drink the other day, it was not only a sure sign of spring but also a stunning reminder of how medieval symbolism and modern day animals create connections across time and space, even entire continents.

Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep, one of seven subspecies native to North America, occupy mountainous areas in the United States and Canada. They are named for the maleโ€™s large, curved horns, a pair of which can weigh up to 30 pounds โ€“ the equivalent of the weight of all the bones in the maleโ€™s body. They are powerful, steadfast creatures with males weighing upward of 500 pounds.

Male bighorn sheet. Photo courtesy of The National Wildlife Federation Blog.

During rutting season, which runs from October to January, rams battle for dominance and breeding rights with ewes. After descending from steep, treacherous terrain to lower territory, males can be observed rearing and smashing their horns together in a violent collision, producing sounds that can be heard up to 40 miles away.   

Rams butting heads. British Library, Yates Thompson MS 13 [Taymouth Hours], folio 183r.

Indeed, we are in the season of the Ram, just as the Western medieval world would have been at this time of year. The sun entered the constellation Aries, the ram, on March 20th in line with the spring, or vernal, equinox in the northern hemisphere and will remain in this astrological sign until approximately the same date in April before transitioning into Taurus, the bull.

The spring equinox marks the moment the sun crosses the celestial equator, bringing nearly equal day and night lengths and signifying the start of spring. When the sun passes through Aries, it also marks the astrological new year. As the first sign of the zodiac, Aries season symbolizes a reset after a long winter and a sense of reemergence, both in modern and medieval times.

Ram depicted in Bibliothรจque Municipale de Douai, MS 711 [De Natura animalium], folio 18r.

In the medieval world, the season was perfect for pilgrimage. The characters of Geoffrey Chaucerโ€™s Canterbury Tales, of course, begin their journey to Canterbury in mid-April as described by the first several lines of the General Prologue:

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, an the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his half cours yronneโ€ฆ (Chaucer 1-8).

When April with its sweet-smelling showers
Has pierced the drought of March to the root,
And bathed every vein (of the plants) in such liquid
By which power the flower is created;
When the West Wind also with its sweet breath,
In every wood and field has breathed life into
The tender new leaves, and the young sun
Has run half its course in Ariesโ€ฆ (Translation from Harvard’s Geoffrey Chaucer Website)

Sheep have maintained a strong presence in the English landscape since their domestication during the Neolithic era. Although they were not initially valued as highly as other livestock, they were integral in the early medieval period as providers of milk, wool, and manure. Their bodies were also harvested for meat, skin, fat, bones, and horns. They were hardy animals, able to thrive on rough grazing and survive during harsh winters.

A shepherd holding a lamb and tending a flock of sheep, including two rams in the foreground. Cambridge University Library, Kk.4.25 [Bestiary (Third Family)], folio 58v.

They were also used for ecclesiastical purposes. The best vellum was produced from either calf or lamb skin, and regular parchment was procured from the skin of sheep and goats. Additionally, rams were some of the first animals to be sacrificed on altars in the ancient world. Isidore of Seville, in his 7th-century Etymologies, writes, โ€œThe ram [aries] is either named after the word aris, that is, after โ€˜Marsโ€™ whence we call the males in a flock โ€˜malesโ€™ [mas, maris] โ€“ or because this animal was the first to be sacrificed on altars [ara, aris] by pagans.โ€

Further to the etymological origins of the word, the Oxford English Dictionary defines a “ram” simply as an adult male sheep, and the word has remained relatively unchanged since it first appearance in English during the Anglo Saxon period, wherein rams appear as sacrifices in Biblical stories, notably that of Abraham, and other Christian contexts.

Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac with ram behind. Morgan Library & Museum, Bible historiale MS M.322 I, fol. 032r.

The term ram, however, also appeared in the context of battle, describing both a weapon of war (later renamed the “battering ram”) and the action of ramming as with the weapon itself, just as two rams would collide in conflict. Circa 1470, Thomas Malory in Morte Darthur describes how knights โ€œhurteled togydirs lyke too rammes,โ€ emphasizing the brute strength and blunt impact of the men as their bodies meet in battle.

At this time of year, bighorn sheep are less interested in fighting and more focused on lambing. Females typically give birth between late April and June, during which time they find steep, secluded habitats to protect their newborn babies from predators like mountain lions, coyotes, and bears. Males, during this time, live apart from females, maintaining a hierarchy of dominance amongst themselves. The separation during the springtime season creates an apt juxtaposition of violence and renewal from an ecological perspective, as well as a personal one: the hardest part has passed, and rebirth is possible.

The sighting of a bighorn sheep in early spring — powerfully yet gracefully poised on a rocky mountainside — poignantly connects my Colorado roots with my medieval interests and my previous home in England. It also reminds me that I am on the precipice of a new life after a difficult struggle, that this season symbolizes the beauty of living after a battle.

Emily McLemore, Ph.D.
Alumni Contributor, Department of English

Making Waves in the Medieval Mediterranean Sea with Dr. Thomas Burman

A few years ago, Ben and Will sat down with Dr. Thomas E. Burman, Professor of History at the University of Notre Dame and former Director of the Medieval Institute. Dr. Burman’s work focuses on the cultural and intellectual exchange between Jews, Christians, and Muslims in the medieval Mediterranean world. He is the author of Religious Polemic and the Intellectual History of the Mozarabs: c. 1050-1200 (1994), Reading the Qur’ฤn in Latin Christendom, 1140-1560 (2007), and most recently, he co-authored, with Brian A. Catlos and Mark D. Meyerson, The Sea in the Middle: The Mediterranean World, 650-1650 (2022), which retells the history of the medieval west by foregrounding the Mediterranean Sea as a site of religious and cultural cross-pollination.

Dr. Burman discusses with Ben and Will how he and his co-authors came upon the idea for this book, how they decided on the date range of 650 to 1650, the actual process of co-authoring, what they hope it can be used for in the classroom, and more. Building on Burman’s insistence that we come to see the Middle Ages as a time of intersecting religious and cultural influences (not unlike the modern world), they conclude by discussing the future possibilities of narrating a Eurasian or even global history of the medieval world.

Thanks for listening, and stay tuned for more!

Confinement in Byzantine Narrative, Part II: A Woman Between Walls โ€“ St. Matrona of Perge and the Power of Chosen Enclosure

In Part Iย of this discussion, we saw how imprisonment in Byzantine martyr narratives could become a spiritual threshold. Confinement was not merely punishment; it could mark transformation.

But what happens when confinement is not imposed โ€“ when it is actively sought?

The Greek Life of St. Matrona of Perge, written in the mid-sixth century or later, offers a striking answer. Unlike martyrs forced into prison, Matrona repeatedly chooses enclosure. Yet she must move constantly in order to find it.

Her story unfolds across cities โ€“ Constantinople, Emesa, Jerusalem, Beirut โ€“ and is marked by flight, disguise, and pursuit. Beneath this movement, however, lies a single, persistent aim: isolation for the sake of God.

Movement Toward Enclosure

Matrona begins as a married woman who longs for a more ascetic life. In Constantinople, she takes the dramatic step of disguising herself as a eunuch and entering the male monastery of Bassianos. There she lives for three years in disciplined seclusion. The monastery becomes her first chosen confinement โ€“ a space of radical self-redefinition.

When her identity is discovered, she is compelled to leave. What follows is not freedom, but further searching. Her husband pursues her from city to city. Each escape becomes a new attempt at enclosure.

The most revealing episode occurs in Beirut.

A Deserted Temple at the Edge of the City

After a series of perilous journeys, Matrona settles in a deserted pagan temple on the edge of the city. It is an abandoned structure โ€“ neither fully urban nor truly wilderness. This marginal setting becomes the stage for her most intense confrontation with space.

Here, the narrative slows down. The rapid sequence of travels pauses, and attention shifts to the place itself.

One night, while chanting psalms, Matrona hears voices responding to her, though no one is present:

Now, it happened once, as she performed the nightly psalmody, that demons sang most fervently in response, for she heard the voices of many men singing. Taking fright and fortifying herself with the sign of the cross, she completed the psalmody, considering within herself and saying: โ€œthis place is deserted and the house unhallowed; there is no populated place in this area, nor have any passers-by approached; whence, then, come these voices?โ€

(trans. Featherstone and Mango 1996: 35)

The temple is empty โ€“ yet inhabited. In late antique imagination, abandoned pagan sites were not neutral ground. They were associated with demons, remnants of displaced gods. By choosing this place, Matrona does not withdraw into safety. She enters contested territory.

Soon a demon appears in the form of a woman and urges her to leave: this is no place for you; return to the city, where there is comfort, hospitality, and provision.

The temptation is subtle. The demon does not threaten; it invites. The argument is pragmatic: ascetic isolation is unnecessary, even dangerous. The city offers order and security. Why remain in desolation?

Matrona refuses.

Yet the text carefully preserves tension. The temple, including its environs, is described in two sharply contrasting ways. On the one hand, it is hostile, demonic, barren. On the other, it miraculously sustains her, โ€œsupplying her with daily nourishment, as if by tributeโ€ (cf. trans. Featherstone and Mango 1996: 36). The very space that appears lifeless becomes productive.

Confinement in Matronaโ€™s Life is thus presented as both threat and gift. The place resists her presence, yet it also yields to it. The demon attempts to drive her away; the environment sustains her perseverance.

The temple is not merely a backdrop. It becomes an active participant in her ascetic formation.

By remaining in the temple, she affirms that isolation is necessary for spiritual concentration. Confinement becomes a deliberate narrowing of focus. The deserted temple is thus transformed into a workshop of holiness.

What makes Matrona especially compelling is that she is not a desert solitary; she remains largely within urban settings. Even her most radical isolation occurs at the margins of a city. Her holiness is shaped not by geographical remoteness, but by deliberate withdrawal within inhabited worlds.

Movement, paradoxically, enables enclosure. Each journey strips away a former identity โ€“ wife, mother, and disguised monk. Each new space intensifies her spiritual focus.

Return, Foundation, and Spatial Memory

After years in Beirut, Matrona eventually returns to Constantinople. The narrative comes full circle. The city she once fled becomes the site of her lasting foundation: she establishes her own monastic community and dies as its revered abbess.

The woman who once concealed herself within male walls now builds her own.

A later reworking of her Life from the tenth century adds a striking spatial detail. It specifies the precise location of her convent in Constantinople: the place โ€œhad the sea on the right side, and on the other, it neighbored the monastery of Bassianosโ€ (cf. trans. Bennasser 1984: 148).

This detail is remarkable. In the end, Matrona is situated between the two elements that shaped her identity: the monastery of Bassianos โ€“ her first place of confinement in male disguise โ€“ and the sea, the medium of her repeated journeys from one city to another. Movement and enclosure, which structured her life, are now fixed in geography.

St. Matrona of Perge, Menologion of Basil II (c. 1000), Vatican Library, Vat. gr. 1613, p. 169. The miniature from the Menologion depicts her simply as a nun. The dramatic episode of male disguise has faded from view. What remains is her identity as founder and spiritual mother. The visual tradition, like the later literary tradition, stabilizes her legacy.

Matronaโ€™s story suggests that holiness in Byzantine narrative is not achieved through static withdrawal alone. It is forged through negotiation with space โ€“ through choosing where to remain, where to depart, and where to resist departure.

In Part I, prison was a threshold imposed by others. In Matronaโ€™s Life, enclosure becomes intentional. She enters it again and again, not because she is forced, but because she recognizes its power.

Confinement, in her life, is not a boundary. It is a method.

And perhaps that is why her story endured: it proposes that spiritual transformation does not always require distant deserts. Sometimes it begins at the edge of the city โ€“ in a place others have abandoned โ€“ when someone decides to remain.

For Matrona, holiness is not found by fleeing walls, but by deciding which walls to inhabit โ€“ and why.

Christodoulos Papavarnavas
Visiting Assistant Research Professor
Medieval Institute
University of Notre Dame


Papavarnavas, Christodoulos. “Confinement in Byzantine Narrative, Part I: Martyrs and the Threshold of Holiness“. Medieval Studies Research Blog. Medieval Institute: University of Notre Dame (October 15, 2025).