scion

I’ve recently been watching the show ‘A Discovery of Witches’ (based on the ‘All Souls Trilogy’ by Deborah Harkness) and in the third series the word ‘scion’ is used to describe a magical being born from unions (by which I mean sexy sex, tee hee) between witches, vampires, daemons and humans.

Scion also has a couple of rather more mundane definitions in the real world. The first one is a figurative one – it’s used to refer to a descendant, heir or offspring, especially in the context of a family or lineage. Usually a posh family or lineage. If you move in those types of circles then you might have heard the phrase ‘scion of a wealthy family’. Lucky you.

How do you like them apples?

The second explanation is a botanical one. In this context a scion refers to a shoot or twig that’s cut off and then grafted onto another plant. This all sounds a bit Frankenstein to me as a non-gardener (although I did grow two whole lettuces this summer), and allows horticulturists to combine the nice bits of two different plants into one. For example, they might graft a scion from a tree with yummers fruit onto a rootstock which has good disease resistance, or likes a certain type of soil (more on that in a minute).

‘Scion’ has its roots (geddit?) in Middle English and was borrowed from Anglo-French, which itself originated from continental Old French. The French term ‘cion’ meant ‘offspring’ or ‘new growth of a plant’, and came from a combination of a West Germanic root (again, sorry) meaning ‘sprout’ or ‘bud’. The horticultural meaning came first (in the 14th century), and the posh family meaning probably followed due to the metaphorical idea of a new growth or offshoot representing the continuation of a family or lineage.

Grafting scions is used for most commercially successful apples, because it’s basically impossible to grow a particular type of apple tree from a seed. So if you’re eating a Granny Smith and plant one of the seeds, you won’t get a Granny Smith tree. That’s because apple seeds are a result of sexual reproduction (tee hee again), meaning they inherit genetic material from both the mother tree (the apple variety you’ve just eaten) and a pollen source (which has to be a different apple tree). Apple trees also take bloody ages to grow. That makes grafting a scion from a mature, known tree onto a rootstock much quicker and more reliable, as it means the new tree will be genetically identical to the parent and have the same characteristics. So basically all the apples we eat are CLONES. Mind blown.

mausoleum

It’s another slightly morbid word this week, once again in honour of Hallowe’en. I expect you know what a mausoleum is – a big old tomb or burial structure, often containing lots of members of the same family (dead ones only, obvs). But did you know it’s actually an eponym, or a word named after a person*?

‘Mausoleum’ is named for Mausolus, a ruler in ancient Caria (a region in southwestern Anatolia, now Turkey) during the 4th century BCE. Mausolus died in 353 BCE, and his remains were put in an enormo tomb that he’d commissioned, and that became known as his mausoleum. You may well have heard of it – the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus AKA one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Over time, the word ‘mausoleum’ caught on and we started using it to refer to any grand or imposing tomb or burial chamber.

A slightly underwhelming model of the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus

Mausolus’s widow and sister (yuck), Artemisia II, oversaw the construction of this mausoleum, and it was designed by two Greek architects named Satyros and Pythius. It included bits from lots of different architectural styles including Greek, Egyptian and Lycian (nope, me neither). The mausoleum had a rectangular base with a series of ascending terraces. The top level included a stepped pyramid or ziggurat (excellent word), topped with a massive chariot statue showing Mausolus and Artemisia in all their incesty glory.

The mausoleum also featured various statues and friezes showing scenes from Greek mythology and Carian history created by famous Greek sculptors of the time. Its base measured 36 by 63 meters (118 by 210 feet), and the total height, including the incest statue, was around 45 meters (148 feet).

Mausolus’s mausoleum stood for 16 (16!) centuries, overlooking what’s now Bodrum in Turkey. But then a load of earthquakes sent that nasty chariot statue crashing to the ground. And by 1404 AD, only the base was left. Medieval cowboy builders also nicked bits of it to build other things (notably to fortify Bodrum Castle against invaders), and at some point graverobbers tunnelled their way in and stole all the treasure, as well as the bodies of Mausolus and Artemisia. Today only the foundations and some scattered remnants remain on the original site.

Just in case you’re going to a pub quiz any time soon, here are some facts and figures about the other Wonders of the World:

The Great Pyramid of Giza: The only one that’s still standing, you’ll find this tomb for Pharaoh Khufu (also known as Cheops) in Egypt. Initially standing at 146.6 metres (481 feet), the Great Pyramid was the world’s tallest human-made structure for over 3,800 years. I say initially because it was originally covered in a white limestone casing which was completely smooth – what we see now is the underlying core structure. What happened to the limestone? Well, it was those cowboy builders again – in the 1300s, workers broke off the limestone to use for construction in nearby Cairo. That brought the pyramid’s height down to the current 138.5 metres (454.4 ft).

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon: Nobody’s quite sure if these actually existed or not. If they did, they were in the ancient city of Babylon (no shit) in Iraq. They were nothing to do with hanging people, thankfully, but so called because plants and trees appeared to hang from multiple terraces.

Looking good, Zeus

The Statue of Zeus at Olympia: A giant statue – about 12.4m (41 feet) tall – in Greece, made of gold and ivory on a wooden framework. No one knows exactly what happened to it, but in 391 AD, a Christian Roman emperor called Theodosius I banned pagan cults and the temple it was housed in fell into disuse. It’s possible it was carried off to Constantinople and destroyed in a fire in 475 AD.

The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus: This is another one that was in Turkey. It was a big old temple known for amazing architecture and art, and was destroyed (once by a flood and once by a fire) and rebuilt twice. These days all that’s left on the site of the temple is a single column built from various fragments discovered there. Aw.

The Colossus of Rhodes: big statue, little willy

The Colossus of Rhodes: A mahoosive bronze statue of the sun god Helios that stood at the entrance to the harbour of Rhodes, Greece. It took 12 years to build and was 33 metres (108 feet) high, making it about the same size as the Statue of Liberty. The Colossus stood for 55 years before an earthquake snapped it at the knees. The remains lay on the ground for over 800 years (from 226 BC to 653 AD). No one’s quite sure what happened to it after that, but the metal was likely recycled for coins or tools.

The Lighthouse of Alexandria: This stood on the island of Pharos, near Alexandria in Egypt. It’s estimated to have been at least 100 metres (330 ft) high. This is another one that got taken out by earthquakes – its submerged remains were discovered in 1916, although they weren’t properly explored until 1994.

*After I’d written this, I realised I’d already done ‘mausoleum’ in this blog post but had entirely forgotten. So apologies for repeating myself. This goes into much more detail though, honest.

sarcophagus

Tis the season for ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedy beasties, with Halloween (or Hallowe’en if we’re being grammatically correct) just around the corner. So the word of the week is also jumping on the spooky bandwagon with ‘sarcophagus’.

A sarcophagus is a type of stone container or coffin, usually made of limestone, marble or something similar. They were particularly popular in ancient Egypt as people believed that bodies should be preserved, and sarcophagi were good protection for those mummified remains.

The word itself actually has Greek origins. It comes from ‘sarx’ (σάρξ) meaning ‘flesh’, and ‘phagein’ meaning ‘to eat’ or ‘to consume’. So sarcophagus actually translates as ‘flesh eating’. Yum. Why? Well, the term was originally used to refer to a particular type of limestone that was believed to decompose or consume the flesh of the deceased more quickly. And unlike the Egyptians, many religions saw this as a good thing as it would speed up the journey to the afterlife.

The word ‘sarcophagus’ was adopted into Latin as ‘sarcophagus’ (which was very unimaginative). From there it passed into various European languages, including our own, keeping its meaning as a stone coffin or tomb, but losing the whole flesh-eating bit.

One of the most famous sarcophagi in history belonged to Tutankhamun, or King Tut, whose mummy was discovered in 1922 by British archaeologist Howard Carter in the Egyptian Valley of the Kings. Tut was actually entombed in a series of ornate sarcophagi, with the innermost one being made of solid mother-flipping gold.

Tut facts:

• he was only around 18 or 19 years old when he died, so didn’t actually get to do much pharaoh-ing

• no one really knows what killed him – theories include complications after a leg injury or a genetic disorder

• a few people died after the discovery of Tut’s tomb giving rise to the legend of the ‘Curse of the Pharaohs’ (and lots of terrible horror films). One of those was Lord Carnarvon, a financial backer of Carter’s expedition who died from an infected mozzie bite shortly after the tomb was opened. His half brother also died not long afterwards (of blood poisoning) as did his secretary, and two other members of the expedition. Howard Carter didn’t shuffle off for another 17 years or so though, so it wasn’t a very good curse.

lemma

A lemma is a term or phrase that’s being defined or explained. Huh? Here it is in action – when you look up a word in a dictionary or, more likely these days, type a word into a dictionary search bar, the word you’re typing is called a lemma.

Lemma has its origins in ancient Greek. It’s derived from the Greek word ‘λῆμμα’ which means ‘something taken’, ‘an assumption’ or ‘a proposition’. It’s the noun (person, place or thing) form of the verb (doing word) ‘λαμβάνω’, or ‘lambanō’, which means ‘to take’.

The plural of lemma is either ‘lemmas’ or, if you’re feeling a bit arcane, ‘lemmata’. And it’s also where we get the word ‘dilemma’ from – which is ‘lemma’ in the sense of a proposition, with ‘di’ meaning ‘two’ at the start – two propositions.

All of this emma-based etymology caused me to ask ChatGPT what my name means. He told me it comes from the Germanic word ‘ermen’ or ‘irmin’, which means ‘whole’ or ‘universal’. He went on to say that Emma is ‘a classic name that carries a sense of timelessness and elegance’. Fingers crossed he wasn’t just buttering me up before he steals my job and brings about Judgement Day.

If you’re not a fan of ‘lemma’, another word for a term being defined is a ‘definiendum’. It’s fun to say, and will deffo make you sound like a smarty pants. You’re welcome.