Greek Magic Ancient Medieval and Modern - Filosofia (2024)

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<p>G R E E K M A G I C</p><p>Magic has always been a widespread phenomenon in Greek society, starting</p><p>from Homer’s Circe (the fi rst ‘evil witch’ in Western history) and extending to</p><p>the pervasive belief in the ‘evil eye’ in twenty-fi rst-century Greece. Indeed,</p><p>magic is probably the most ancient and durable among social and religious phe-</p><p>nomena known to classical and other scholars, and it can be traced over a span</p><p>of some three millennia in sources in the Greek language as well as in an impres-</p><p>sive range of visual and other media. Th ese include curse tablets from fourth-</p><p>century bce Athens, the medico-magical gems of late antiquity, early Christian</p><p>amulets, and various exorcism prayers from the medieval and later periods.</p><p>Organized chronologically, the intriguing panorama off ered by this book</p><p>guides the reader through the ancient, medieval, modern and even contempo-</p><p>rary periods, highlighting the traditions, ideologies and methods of magic in</p><p>each period of Greek history. It brings together the latest insights from a range</p><p>of experts from various disciplines: classicists, art historians, archaeologists,</p><p>legal historians and social anthropologists among others.</p><p>J.C.B. Petropoulos is Associate Professor of Ancient Greek Literature at the</p><p>Democritean University of Th race and Chairman of the Board of Harvard</p><p>University’s Center for Hellenic Studies in Nafplio. He specializes in Greek</p><p>poetry and is generally concerned with social-anthropological issues relevant</p><p>to ancient Greek literature and society. He also has an interest in the recep-</p><p>tion of ancient Greek sub-literary and ‘popular’ song tradition beyond antiq-</p><p>uity in the Greek-speaking world.</p><p>G R E E K M A G I C</p><p>Ancient, Medieval and Modern</p><p>Edited by J.C.B. Petropoulos</p><p>First published 2008</p><p>by Routledge</p><p>2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, OX14 4RN</p><p>Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada</p><p>by Routledge</p><p>270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016</p><p>Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business</p><p>© 2008 J.C.B. Petropoulos for editorial matter and selection; individual</p><p>All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or</p><p>utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now</p><p>known or hereaft er invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any</p><p>information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing</p><p>from the publishers.</p><p>British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data</p><p>A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library</p><p>Library Congress Cataloging in Publication Data</p><p>A catalog record for this book has been requested</p><p>ISBN 10 0-415-28232-2</p><p>ISBN 13 978-0-415-28232-1</p><p>“To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s</p><p>collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.”</p><p>This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2008.</p><p>ISBN 0-203-93188-2 Master e-book ISBN</p><p>C O N T E N T S</p><p>List of fi gures viii</p><p>List of contributors ix</p><p>Prologue xi</p><p>PA RT I</p><p>Magic in ancient Greece</p><p>1 Introduction: Magic in ancient Greece 3</p><p>J.C . B . P ET R O P O U L O S</p><p>2 Th e ‘wretched subject’ of ancient Greek magic 6</p><p>D AV I D J O R D A N</p><p>3 Magic, amulets and Circe 10</p><p>NA N N O M A R I NATO S</p><p>4 Magic and the dead in classical Greece 14</p><p>S A R A H I L E S J O H N S TO N</p><p>5 Ancient Greek sculptors as magicians 21</p><p>A N TO N I O C O R S O</p><p>6 Hocus-pocus in Graeco-Roman Egypt 28</p><p>† W I L L I A M B R A S H E A R</p><p>7 Ancient magical gems 34</p><p>A R PA D M . NAG Y</p><p>C O N T E N T S</p><p>vi</p><p>PA RT II</p><p>Magic in Byzantium</p><p>8 Introduction: Magic in Byzantium 41</p><p>J.C . B . P ET R O P O U L O S</p><p>9 Magic and the Devil: From the Old to the New Rome 44</p><p>S P Y R O S N. T R O JA N O S</p><p>10 Magic and visual culture in late antiquity 53</p><p>G A RY V I K A N</p><p>11 Another ‘wretched subject’: Th e demons of the world 58</p><p>D AV I D J O R D A N</p><p>12 Th e magician Vigrinos and his victim:</p><p>A case of magic from the Life of St Andrew the Fool 64</p><p>G E O R G E T H . C A L O F O N O S</p><p>13 Spells and exorcisms in three post-Byzantine manuscripts 72</p><p>AG A M E M N O N T S E L I K A S</p><p>PA RT III</p><p>Magic in modern Greece</p><p>14 Introduction: Magic in modern Greece 85</p><p>J.C . B . P ET R O P O U L O S</p><p>15 Magic and Orthodoxy 87</p><p>C H A R L E S S T EWA RT</p><p>16 Ritual word and symbolic movement in spells against the evil eye 95</p><p>C H R I S T I NA V E I KO U</p><p>17 Th e evil eye among the Greeks of Australia:</p><p>Identity, continuity and modernization 106</p><p>VA S S I L I K I C H RY S S A N T H O P O U L O U</p><p>18 Th e enchanted garment 119</p><p>N I KO S X E N I O S</p><p>C O N T E N T S</p><p>vii</p><p>19 Erotic and fertility magic in the folk culture of modern Greece 125</p><p>T H E O D O R E PA R A D E L L I S</p><p>PA RT I V</p><p>Th e theory of magic</p><p>20 Introduction: Th e theory of magic 137</p><p>J.C . B . P ET R O P O U L O S</p><p>21 Talking of magic 139</p><p>R I C H A R D G O R D O N</p><p>22 Magic as a point of reference in anthropological theory 150</p><p>E L E O N O R A S KO U T E R I-D I D A S K A L O U</p><p>23 Technology and magic 160</p><p>† A L F R E D G E L L</p><p>24 Th e social dimension of magic 168</p><p>S T R AT I S P S A LTO U</p><p>25 Magic, gender and social ‘racism’ 175</p><p>C O N S TA N T I N O S M A N D A S</p><p>List of abbreviations 178</p><p>Bibliography 179</p><p>Index 189</p><p>L I S T O F F I G U R E S</p><p>1 Medea, assisted by two maidservants, prepares her rejuvenating drug</p><p>in a cauldron. Roman copy of a relief by Alkamenes (5th century bce).</p><p>Rome, Vatican Museums 4</p><p>2 Circe off ers her unconventional potion to a pig-man. Her nakedness</p><p>brings out her sexuality. Archaic terracotta plaque, now in Sicily</p><p>(see Canciani, LIMC VI, no. 4) 13</p><p>3 Among other divinities, Hekate was invoked in ‘binding spells’ to help</p><p>the dead in harming a living victim. Six-handed Hekate amid ‘characters’.</p><p>Lead defi xio found in the Athens Agora (reproduced by kind permission</p><p>of D. Jordan) 15</p><p>4 Athena adorning Pandora. Niobid painter, ca. 460 bce. London,</p><p>British Museum 23</p><p>5 Phylactery seal. Early Christian period. Byzantine Museum, Athens 45</p><p>6 Th e Empress Zoë (detail): Was she really a witch? Mosaic, 11th century,</p><p>Haghia Sophia, Istanbul 70</p><p>7 Magic symbols. Dimitsana MS., nineteenth century 74</p><p>8 Magic circle used for predicting the future. Cod.115, ?early 18th century,</p><p>Historical and Ethnographic Society of Athens. In A. Delatte, Anecdota</p><p>Atheniensia, Liége, 1927, i, 25 88</p><p>9 Ancient Greek eye-shaped kylikes, 6th century bce. Th e eyes on these</p><p>drinking-vessels protected symposiasts 96</p><p>10 Th e good fairy (Neraïda) is the guardian of the bridal couple pictured</p><p>to the right and left . Embroidered bridal pillow from Leucas, 18th century.</p><p>Benaki Museum, Athens 128</p><p>C O N T R I B U T O R S</p><p>William Brashear was Keeper of the Papyrus Collection at the Egyptian</p><p>Museum in Berlin</p><p>George Th . Calofonos is a Byzantine historian.</p><p>Vassiliki Chryssanthopoulou-Farrington is Research Fellow at the Hellenic</p><p>Folklore Research Centre of the Academy of Athens.</p><p>Antonio Corso is a fellow of the Institute for Advanced Study-Collegium</p><p>Budapest.</p><p>Alfred Gell was Reader in Anthropology at the London School of Economics</p><p>and did fi eldwork both in Papua New Guinea and in central India.</p><p>Richard Gordon is Honorary Professor of the History of Greek and Roman</p><p>Religion at the University of Erfurt, Germany.</p><p>Sarah Iles Johnston is Associate Professor of Greek and Latin at the Ohio State</p><p>University in Columbus, Ohio.</p><p>David Jordan is a member of the American School of Classical Studies at</p><p>Athens.</p><p>Constantinos Mandas has a doctorate in ancient history from the University</p><p>of Bristol.</p><p>Nanno Marinatos is former Professor of Archaeology at College Year in</p><p>Athens.</p><p>Arpad M. Nagy is Keeper of the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities</p><p>in the Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest.</p><p>Th eodore Paradellis is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Social</p><p>Anthropology at the University of the Aegean in Mytilini.</p><p>Stratis Psaltou is a historian of religion.</p><p>Eleonora Skouteri-Didaskalou is a social</p><p>Eastern Asia and Oceania.</p><p>7 Statius, Silvae, 1, 6, 4; Minucius Felix, 22, 5; Arnobius, 4, 24; Macrobius, Saturnalia, 1, 8, 5.</p><p>8 Th e evidence is collected and analysed by Jones 1998: 139–43.</p><p>9 See Schwarz 1971.</p><p>10 See Robert 1992: 373–483.</p><p>11 See Wüst 1959: 2074–5.</p><p>12 On Philostephanus, see Gisinger 1941: 104–18.</p><p>13 Clement, Protrepticus, 4, 50–1 and Arnobius, 6, 22.</p><p>14 Ovid, Metamorphoses, 10, 243–97.</p><p>A N C I E N T G R E E K S C U L P T O R S A S M A G I C I A N S</p><p>27</p><p>15 See Plato, Symposium, 210 e–211 c and Corso 1997–1998: 63–91.</p><p>16 See Pliny, N.H., 35, 122 and 133.</p><p>17 See Alexis, Graphê, fr. 41 Kassel and Austin; Philemo, fr. 127 Kassel and Austin; Adaeus, Peri</p><p>agalmatopoiôn in Athenaeus, 13, 606 A; see also 605 F.</p><p>18 Pliny, N.H., 35, 140: see Corso 1988: 453, n, 4 ad locum and 886.</p><p>19 See Posidippus, Peri Knidou, frs 1–2 FGrHist, 3 b, 447 Jacoby; Valerius Maximus, 8, 11, ext.</p><p>4; Pliny, N.H., 7, 127 and 36, 21; Lucian, Amores, 15–7 and Imagines, 4; Clement, Protrepticus,</p><p>4, 47 and 51, and Arnobius, 6, 13 and 22.</p><p>20 See Blümel 1992: nos. 162 and 178 and, for their interpretation, Corso 2001: 227–36.</p><p>21 Aelian, Varia historia, 9, 39.</p><p>22 Pliny, N.H., 36, 22.</p><p>23 Varro in Pliny, N.H., 36, 39.</p><p>24 Pliny, N.H., 34, 82; Martial, 2, 77; 9, 50; and 14, 171.</p><p>25 Meleager, Anthologia Graeca, 12, 57.</p><p>26 See my comment in Corso 1988: 50.</p><p>27 See Cicero, De divinatione 1, 13, 23; 2, 21, 48; Pliny, N.H., 36, 11 and 14; Callistratus,</p><p>Ekphrasis no. 9.</p><p>28 Lucian, De sacrifi ciis, 11; Pro imaginibus, 8, and Gallus, 24.</p><p>29 Th e related passages have been collected in Corso 1996: 54–8.</p><p>30 Th eodoret, Graecarum aff ectionum curatio, 3, 71, 49.</p><p>31 See Cormack 1985: 9–256.</p><p>32 See Mango 1963: 53–75, and Cameron and Herrin 1984: 27–8; 31–4; 45–53.</p><p>28</p><p>6</p><p>H O C U S - P O C U S I N</p><p>G R A E C O - R O M A N E G Y P T</p><p>† William Brashear</p><p>It’s a bright, sunny day in Egypt. Which day in Egypt isn’t bright and sunny and</p><p>hot?! Two housewives, Th oeris, an ethnic Greek, and Flavia, a slightly</p><p>Romanized Egyptian, happen to meet on the street while out shopping. Th e</p><p>conversation that follows has much to tell us about Graeco-Egyptian magic in</p><p>late antiquity.</p><p>T H O E R I S : How are you?</p><p>F L AV I A : A little under the weather. I’ve been running a fever for four days and</p><p>can’t seem to shake it off . How are you?</p><p>T H O E R I S : Oh, Flavia, I’m in love. Apart from that I’m fi ne.</p><p>F L AV I A : Anyone I know?</p><p>T H O E R I S : Down tending the grocer’s shop. I’ve found out his name is Creon.</p><p>Isn’t he gorgeous?</p><p>F L AV I A : He certainly is!</p><p>T H O E R I S : Oh, Flavia, he’s the most beautiful hunk of man I have ever seen! I</p><p>can’t wait to get my hands on him and have him get his hands on me! What</p><p>am I going to do? He doesn’t look at me! He doesn’t even know I am alive!</p><p>I can walk right past him on my way to the market, and he acts as if I didn’t</p><p>exist! I’m at my wits’ end!</p><p>F L AV I A : Maybe he’s just as interested in you as you are in him and just playing</p><p>hard to get. Why don’t you go to the Jewish magician down on Ibis Street?</p><p>I know when Claudia was pining over Serapion she went to him. Jewish</p><p>magicians always have the most powerful kinds of magic, and he helped</p><p>her. Look at her now! Th e magician will have all sorts of ways to get the</p><p>apple of your eye into your arms, I’m told. He can, for sure, mix up some-</p><p>thing for you, maybe for both of you: a love charm for you, a love potion</p><p>for him that you can slip into his food or drink on the sly.</p><p>T H O E R I S : I knew if I talked to you, you would have some good ideas and give</p><p>me some good advice!</p><p>F L AV I A : While you’re at it, Th oeris, ask the magician to give me some curses to</p><p>take to the races tomorrow. In fact, why don’t you come along with me to</p><p>the races? It’ll take your mind off your troubles until the love charm starts</p><p>H O C U S - P O C U S I N G R A E C O - R O M A N E G Y P T</p><p>29</p><p>taking eff ect. Th e greens won last time! I want the blues to win tomorrow!1</p><p>You can forget the reds and greens! Th ey’re hopeless! I hope the greens and</p><p>their horses keel over in their tracks! If he’s worth his salt, the magician can</p><p>make that happen too! Right now I want to ask the gods about a few things</p><p>on my mind. Will I go on a trip? Will I be rich? Should I open up a shop?</p><p>You can ask them too about the possibility of your marrying Creon.</p><p>T H O E R I S : No problem! But which gods? You have so many here in Egypt –</p><p>most of them, slithery, slimy things like snakes and crocodiles! Th e gods</p><p>where I come from are beautiful, and there are only twelve of them!</p><p>Several days later, Th oeris and Flavia meet up again:</p><p>T H O E R I S : Flavia, I’ve got the most wonderful things to tell you!</p><p>F L AV I A : Were you at the sorcerer’s, Th oeris? Did you tell him what you</p><p>wanted? Did he have anything to help you?</p><p>T H O E R I S : Yes, yes and yes! He told me he has an ancient Egyptian charm,</p><p>which he found in the Temple of Hermes at Heliopolis. It is so eff ective,</p><p>tried and proven, that it has been translated into Greek – no one speaks in</p><p>hieroglyphs any more! Somewhere I have to fi nd some apples! At this time</p><p>of year it is not going to be easy, and I can’t wait until autumn. Maybe I can</p><p>use some pomegranates from last winter still lying around. Th ey’re a bit</p><p>hard outside and may hurt him, if I throw them too hard!</p><p>F L AV I A : Hurt him?! What on earth are you going to do, Th oeris?</p><p>T H O E R I S : Th e magician told me to take an apple, eat part of it and then throw</p><p>or give the other part to Creon to eat. Th e magician claims this technique</p><p>together with a silent prayer to Aphrodite, the love goddess, is an infallible,</p><p>irresistible love charm.</p><p>F L AV I A : I don’t want to play the pessimist, Th oeris, but what if it doesn’t work?</p><p>Did he have anything else up his sleeve?</p><p>T H O E R I S : Oh, does he ever! If that doesn’t do the trick, then I can bake some</p><p>little fi gurines of Creon and eat them saying: ‘I ingest your eyes. I drink</p><p>your blood. I eat your liver. I put on your skin.’ Th e goddess in heaven will</p><p>look down on me and everything will happen just the way I want it! Isn’t</p><p>that nice?</p><p>F L AV I A : Sounds pretty gory and gruesome to me!</p><p>T H O E R I S : Well, he’s so scrumptious-looking I could eat him all up, if I wanted</p><p>to! Who cares about cakes and pastries?! I’d take the real thing any day!</p><p>F L AV I A : Drinking blood? Eating fl esh? Th oeris, do be careful! Otherwise you</p><p>might be (mis)taken for a Christian! Th ey drink the blood and eat the fl esh</p><p>of their god, you know.</p><p>T H O E R I S : I can also go out onto the roof at night, undress, untie my hair,</p><p>perfume my body, while praying: ‘You are the perfume with which Isis</p><p>anointed herself when she went to the embrace of Osiris, her husband and</p><p>brother, giving her grace and charm on that day. Give me now the same</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>30</p><p>grace and charm you gave her on that day.’ I am to pray to the perfume,</p><p>lift ing my hands to the stars, waving them back and forth: ‘I pray not for</p><p>beauty, not for fame, not for money. I only want him who ignores and over-</p><p>looks me! Please, may he have no peace of mind, may he not be able to sit</p><p>down and eat! May he have nothing on his mind but me, me and me!’</p><p>F L AV I A : Well, that all sounds very impressive! I hope it works! You certainly</p><p>deserve a nice man like Creon! I hope it works!</p><p>T H O E R I S : I do, and I am sure it will. Yet, the magician also gave me something</p><p>else in the deal.</p><p>F L AV I A : What’s that?</p><p>T H O E R I S : A headache charm.</p><p>F L AV I A : A headache charm?! What ever for?</p><p>T H O E R I S : He said that sometimes all this hocus-pocus can wear you down. So</p><p>he gave me a headache charm against three kinds of headaches. Here,</p><p>Flavia, take a look at it.</p><p>F L AV I A : You know I can’t read!2 Never learned to read! All those scribble</p><p>scrabbles are Greek to me! But you are Greek. Can’t you make out any-</p><p>thing at all?</p><p>T H O E R I S : Not really. You see,</p><p>Flavia, even if it is written in Greek, the words</p><p>are Hebrew or Egyptian or some other foreign language. Magicians always</p><p>couch their incantations in mysterious formulations. Sometimes the scrib-</p><p>ble scrabbles are not even in real letters but fantasy symbols they have</p><p>thought up on the spot. He gave me the translation – it goes like this:</p><p>‘Osiris’ head will ache, Ammon’s temples will ache, Esenephthys’ migraine</p><p>will drive her mad, unless my headache stops!’ Th is is the charm I am to</p><p>recite if I get a headache.</p><p>While the scenario sounds modern, it could have taken place in Egypt two</p><p>thousand years ago, according to a Greek papyrus which was written during the</p><p>reign of Augustus (30 bce–14 ce) and extracted from a mummy coffi n in</p><p>Berlin in 1973. Th is papyrus is actually a whole handbook with instructions on</p><p>how to conduct magical ceremonies. In addition to papyri, many amulets that</p><p>were worn or carried by the enamoured persons have been found by archaeolo-</p><p>gists in graves or in the ruins of houses where they were left when the owners</p><p>departed or died. Th ese objects were covered by the hot, dry Egyptian sand and</p><p>thereby survived to the present day.</p><p>Th e most spectacular fi nd, which has earned the sobriquet of ‘Th e Th eban</p><p>Magical Library’, is unparalleled in the history of magical studies. Some time</p><p>around 1828, reportedly in a grave in West Th ebes (the precise details are unknown</p><p>and irretrievable), Egyptians happened upon a trove of papyrus rolls and codices.</p><p>Almost immediately the curators of papyrus collections in London, Stockholm,</p><p>Leiden, Paris and Berlin rushed to procure books and scrolls from this cache. To</p><p>this day the texts are unrivalled for their length and content. Composed in four</p><p>languages and alphabets (Hieratic, Demotic, Coptic and Greek), these texts are</p><p>H O C U S - P O C U S I N G R A E C O - R O M A N E G Y P T</p><p>31</p><p>the most complete handbooks to have survived from antiquity. Th is cache may</p><p>have been stowed in the grave in the fourth century ce to hide it from authorities</p><p>intent on eradicating magic and its practitioners; or it may have been meant to</p><p>expedite and accompany their deceased owner into the aft erlife. Either way, the</p><p>result was to keep this priceless treasure intact for 1,400 years.</p><p>Magical ensembles found in the 1970s in Egypt are now in Cologne and</p><p>Munich. Each group consists of a vase containing, on the one hand, a Greek</p><p>charm written on papyrus and, on the other, two wax fi gurines in embrace.</p><p>Another ensemble, now in Paris, consists of a vase, a lead leaf and a clay fi gurine</p><p>pierced by nails. Although their provenance is unknown, presumably these</p><p>objects were found in graves. Instructions in the Th eban magical handbooks</p><p>(grimoires) for preparing amatory incantations precisely delineate the proce-</p><p>dures for making such clay and wax fi gurines and depositing them in vases in</p><p>tombs, especially in the tombs of the violently or prematurely deceased. Th ese</p><p>restless, wandering spirits (νεκυδαίμoνες) could be invoked and commanded to</p><p>do the bidding of the sorcerer.</p><p>Health</p><p>Next to aff airs of the heart, bodily concerns seem to have been the second most</p><p>important preoccupation of our forebears. Numerous phylacteries for prevent-</p><p>ing or alleviating diseases, aches and pains, especially fever, are also preserved in</p><p>the aforementioned languages. Fever – not an actual disease but rather one of</p><p>the multifarious symptoms accompanying (and thus betraying the presence of )</p><p>many maladies of varying origins – has always been a formidable foe assailing the</p><p>body’s defences and defying most doctors and their attempts to rout it both in</p><p>antiquity and in more modern times. People therefore placed their hopes in the</p><p>traditional skills of medicine men who might prescribe anything from the dung</p><p>of dogs, cats or humans to spiders and their webs or balneotherapy to cure fever.</p><p>Given the meagre panoply of febrifuges at the disposal of doctors in antiq-</p><p>uity, Pliny’s remark about the futility of combating quartan (malarial and</p><p>undoubtedly most other kinds of ) ague bespeaks the frustration ancient</p><p>medical practitioners must have felt when going into battle against this ubiqui-</p><p>tous and omnipotent – even divine! – adversary. Although the corpus of ancient</p><p>medical writings, including anonymous tractates preserved on papyrus, occa-</p><p>sionally broaches the subject of pyrexia, the ancients’ attitude towards this</p><p>affl iction is much more clearly expressed in the numerous magical charms pre-</p><p>served from antiquity in over half a dozen languages – especially from Egypt</p><p>thanks to the papyri. Egyptian fever amulets are attested from the pharaonic</p><p>period on through later Demotic, Coptic, Arabic and Hebrew documents, but</p><p>above all in the Greek papyri and parchments. Where Pliny and the doctors</p><p>threw their hands up in despair, the magic-mongers rushed in.</p><p>Th e text of a Berlin fever amulet (P. 21165) (third–fourth century ce)</p><p>reads:</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>32</p><p>Adonai, Eloai, Sabaoth, Ablanathanabla, Akrammachamari, Sesenger Bar</p><p>Phrarnges, aeeioyo Iao Phre … eao iao eao, aeeioyo Ouriel, Michael, Gabriel,</p><p>Souriel, Raphael. Semesilam aeeioyo. Salamaxa bameaiaza … Protect</p><p>Touthous, whom Sarah bore, from all chills and fever, tertian, quartan,</p><p>quotidian.</p><p>Here Hebrew, Persian and nonsense names are mixed together in wild abandon,</p><p>leaving no option open, in a desperate attempt to procure relief from illness. Th e</p><p>‘ouroboros’, the snake grasping its own tail in its mouth and forming a circle rep-</p><p>resenting completeness and eternity, was already known in ancient Egypt. Th e</p><p>Greeks and Romans took it over, as did European soothsayers and cabalists of the</p><p>Middle Ages and Renaissance. It is still in vogue in New Age circles today.</p><p>Oracles</p><p>Th e technique of consulting a deity about the future is attested throughout the</p><p>ancient world, usually indirectly through the reports of ancient authors and</p><p>historians. Only rarely do we have the actual questions themselves. Again Egypt</p><p>with its dry climate has preserved dozens of these oracle questions for about</p><p>600 years.</p><p>Oracle questions (fi ft y Greek, forty Demotic and a dozen Coptic) consult</p><p>various gods, Greek (Helios, Dioskouroi, Zeus) and Egyptian (Sarapis,</p><p>Harpokrates), about the future. An oracle priest wrote each question twice (in a</p><p>negative and a positive formulation) on a piece of papyrus, snipped the papyrus in</p><p>two and deposited both questions near the statue of the god addressed in the ques-</p><p>tion. ‘If I will … give me this chit back,’ ‘If I will not … return to me this chit.’</p><p>Berol. 21712 (3rd – 4th c. CE)</p><p>To my lord Soknopaios, the great god, and the gods in the same temple,</p><p>Etrenio asks: if it is not granted me that my wife Ammonous return to me of</p><p>her own accord, but I have to go hunt her and bring her back, then give this</p><p>chit to me.</p><p>Berol. 21713 (3rd – 4th c. CE)</p><p>To Soknopaios, the great, great god, and Ammon and Sokkopia. If we do not</p><p>have a case, then bring this chit to me.</p><p>Metals</p><p>In the jargon of magical studies lamella is the term used to designate good luck</p><p>charms and phylacteries scratched onto bronze, silver or gold leafl ets, while</p><p>defi xio is the term for curses and bind spells written usually on lead.</p><p>H O C U S - P O C U S I N G R A E C O - R O M A N E G Y P T</p><p>33</p><p>More than a thousand ancient curse texts, written on a variety of materials,</p><p>usually metal but also stone, parchment and papyrus, date from the late sixth</p><p>century bce to the fi ft h century ce. Th ese texts have been found all the way</p><p>from England in the north to Nubia in the south and from Spain in the west to</p><p>Luristan in the east. Th eir contexts span a wide gamut of human preoccupa-</p><p>tions: athletics, theatrical competitions, judicial proceedings, amatory and</p><p>business rivalries.</p><p>Gems</p><p>Th ousands of ancient so-called ‘Gnostic’ gems (jasper, hematite, chalcedony,</p><p>lapis lazuli, rock crystal, carnelian, agate, plasma, obsidian, steatite) are housed</p><p>in collections around the world, most of them still unpublished. Minerals had</p><p>associations with planets and deities and were believed to have powers sug-</p><p>gested already by their colour: galactite, a white stone, was supposed to promote</p><p>the fl ow of milk in women and animals; wine-coloured amethyst was believed</p><p>to prevent drunkenness; red stones (jasper, hematite, carnelian) were to prevent</p><p>menstrual bleeding. Incantations featuring prayers for health, luck, long life</p><p>and good will were carved into the gems in Greek, pseudo-Greek, corruptions</p><p>from Egyptian, Hebrew, Aramaic, or plain gibberish. Any symbol, alphabetic</p><p>or spontaneous, fantasy creation of the soothsayer, will have made a strong</p><p>impression on an illiterate, gullible customer and was regarded as imbued with</p><p>powerful magic. Sometimes fi gures of deities or demons were also engraved on</p><p>the stones. Th e gems were ‘energized’ by consecration ceremonies before they</p><p>were sold to the hopeful client.</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 In Roman-style chariot races the horses’ teams competed under various colours – red, white,</p><p>green and blue. In Rome these famous colours may date to the end of the third century bce.</p><p>Th e fans of each colour (or team) in the hippodrome (or circus) were later organized along</p><p>professional lines. Alexandria in the early principate had a large race-track, located in the</p><p>south-west of the city. Th e hippodrome factions were intoduced here shortly before 315 ce.</p><p>A number of authors including Dio Chrysostom (fi rst–second century ce) describe the</p><p>drunken, oft en rowdy claques at the city’s horse races (Or. 32.31, 40–3, 45–6, 74–5, 77, 81,</p><p>89). See also Humphrey 1986, esp. 137–8, 505–12; Bowman 1986: 50, 145.</p><p>2 From the end of the fourth century bce onwards and throughout the principate, literacy in</p><p>the Greek language increased in terms of the volume of papyri, particularly in large cities</p><p>under Roman occupation. Knowledge of grammar seems, however, to have been limited</p><p>chiefl y to administrative use, and outside government circles knowledge of Greek script and</p><p>literature remained the preserve of a small but devoted readership. Th e majority of the</p><p>indigenous population probably had no knowledge whatever of either Greek or (Egyptian)</p><p>demotic. See esp. Bowman 1986: 158–9, 162; Th ompson 1994: 67–83.</p><p>34</p><p>7</p><p>A N C I E N T M A G I C A L G E M S</p><p>Arpad M. Nagy</p><p>Around the beginning of the previous millennium we fi nd evidence of a new</p><p>genre of ancient glyptic: the so-called magical gems.1 In that period and even</p><p>earlier we note, to be sure, an increase in gem-engraving, but the types now</p><p>appearing seem to diff er from the others in conception. Th ere are four main</p><p>characteristics – obviously not always present together on all pieces – which are</p><p>worth mentioning (the fi ft h, and perhaps the most important, will be men-</p><p>tioned shortly).</p><p>First, a number of representations incised on these gems represent deities</p><p>and demons never seen before and unknown to both the Graeco-Roman and</p><p>the Egyptian pantheons; in these cases, when deities of the classical cultures are</p><p>present, they occur in new iconographical contexts.</p><p>Th is change is refl ected mainly by the incised text accompanying the represen-</p><p>tation – a second characteristic of the magical gems. Inscribed gems of this type</p><p>are of course not a new phenomenon, since the names of the gem-cutter or that of</p><p>the owner as well as sometimes good wishes were oft en incised on gems at earlier</p><p>periods too. Th e inscriptions appearing now, however, are diff erent. In general</p><p>they are written in Greek letters, but unintelligible in this language, e.g.</p><p>ABPAΣAΞ, ΞYΞ BAKAΞYXYΞ, BAINXΩΩΩX (ονόματα βάρβαρα, ‘barbar-</p><p>ian words’ making no sense to the uninitiated).2 Also, their text has not been</p><p>incised in the usual way, i.e. with writing reversed in order to be comprehensible</p><p>on the impression; such gems, consequently, were not meant to be used as seals –</p><p>as was usual in the previous centuries – but rather as amulets. Th ey contain cryp-</p><p>tographic signs, the so-called χαρακτη̂ρες (charactêres) alongside the texts and</p><p>images: magicians considered each character to be the secret seal of a deity.3</p><p>In their other features they are similar to regular incised stones. As for the</p><p>manufacturing process, it did not diff er from that of other gems of the imperial</p><p>age, given that the shape of the stones and the tools employed were identical.</p><p>Th e materials used are usually the same, too, as those used for other gems: car-</p><p>nelian, jasper, chalcedon and hematite for the most part (these are modern</p><p>names, which seldom correspond to the ancient terminology).4 In addition to</p><p>semi-precious stones, examples of glass and bronze are known, produced in</p><p>general with moulds taken from gems.5</p><p>A N C I E N T M A G I C A L G E M S</p><p>35</p><p>Our knowledge concerning the history of this genre is scarce at present.6</p><p>Th eir production could hardly have begun later than the beginning of the</p><p>Roman Empire; it continued in the second and third centuries and ended in</p><p>late antiquity – in keeping with the general demise of gem-cutting and the legal</p><p>proscription of pagan magical arts, which became increasingly harsh from the</p><p>middle of the fourth century.7 Th ough the workshops were probably situated in</p><p>the eastern Mediterranean, nevertheless the scarcity of pieces of known prove-</p><p>nance8 must make us cautious. Th eir number has been estimated at about 5,000.</p><p>Th ey were obviously made according to recipes. Th us, for example, it is possible</p><p>to fi nd diff erent pieces with the same magic formula – evidently incomprehen-</p><p>sible and sometimes copied out inaccurately by the engraver. Th e inscription</p><p>itself is the last stage in the actual manufacture of the magical gem.</p><p>Surely the most important diff erence between magical and non-magical</p><p>gems is that the former required something more, an initiation (teletê), consist-</p><p>ing chiefl y of prayer and ritual practices, by means of which the magician used</p><p>charms to charge the stone, produced by the engraver, with magic force.9</p><p>Among the new iconographical types, the representation of a being of</p><p>unknown name constitutes the most noticeable diff erence from Graeco-Roman</p><p>ideals of the divine. It is an alectrocephalos, but with legs replaced by two snakes</p><p>and a cuirassed human torso. Th is creature holds a whip in his right hand and a</p><p>big circular shield in his left , the shield being inscribed with three letters: IAΩ</p><p>– the name of the God of Israel in Greek.10 Near the fi gure the name Aβράσαξ</p><p>(Abrasax) oft en appears. Present exclusively on magical gems, this iconographi-</p><p>cal type never appears on other objects, apart from a bronze statuette of ques-</p><p>tionable authenticity.11 Contemporary research into this type recalls the case in</p><p>which we know the fi nal result of a mathematical equation, but without under-</p><p>standing the way it was obtained. It is certain that the divinity depicted is the</p><p>Sun, which was of central importance in pagan theological thought of the</p><p>imperial age (as was, for example, the Egyptian Horus or the Greek Helios),</p><p>and is therefore the divinity most oft en represented on magical gems. It remains</p><p>to be explained, however, why the fi gure is made up of elements which were</p><p>never combined either in Graeco-Roman or in Egyptian religion.12</p><p>Th is example well illustrates the chief diffi culty in the study of magical gems.</p><p>Representations featured on them can be interpreted in a number of ways</p><p>because of the polyvalence of the iconographical types; the same attributes may</p><p>have innumerable meanings. Magical spells, on the other hand, are intended</p><p>precisely to be incomprehensible to outsiders. Th e interpretation of single types</p><p>depends in the fi rst instance on the amount of written material relating to them.</p><p>In rare cases the inscribed words happen to reveal the objective of the magical</p><p>gem. A sardonyx gem preserved in the Hermitage at St Petersburg, for example,</p><p>repeats a theme already popular from the archaic period</p><p>of Greek art: Perseus</p><p>fl ying with the severed head of the Gorgo. Th e text inscribed on the reverse of</p><p>the gem, on the other hand, illustrates the context for which the image was</p><p>freshly enlisted: ‘Flee, Podagra, Perseus is chasing you away’.13 Podagra (‘Gout’),</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>36</p><p>considered a demon, has good reason for escaping: she is pursued by the hero</p><p>par excellence of Greek mythology, his weapon transforming his enemies into</p><p>stone. Th e effi cacy of the mythical act performed illo tempore can be taken as</p><p>valid also even aft er the end of mythical times.14</p><p>Th e use of a mythical or religious exemplum is a principle of popular medi-</p><p>cine independent of cultures and times. A group of magical gems with perhaps</p><p>the most representative pieces was similarly used for therapeutical purposes,</p><p>but worked through a diff erent mechanism. Th ese were composed entirely of</p><p>stones of green colour, decorated with the fi gure of a lion-headed snake with a</p><p>crown of rays, and usually presented also a charaktêr consisting of three oblique</p><p>lines. Th is character is so typical of the group as to have led scholars to give it</p><p>the name of ‘Chnoubis sign’ (aft er the demon oft en inscribed). Th e fi gure of</p><p>Chnoubis is known from Egyptian religion, and according to the most plausi-</p><p>ble interpretation, he is one of the thirty-six divinities dominating the single</p><p>signs of the Zodiac in 10° triads (the ‘decam’), and is perhaps the lord of the</p><p>second part of Cancer or of the fi rst part of Leo. As written sources show, an</p><p>amulet furnished with such representations was to be worn against indigestion.</p><p>It was tried out even by Galen, one of the greatest medical scientists of antiq-</p><p>uity, who expressed his satisfaction about its effi ciency. According to ancient</p><p>doctrines of the salubrious eff ects of the planets, this decam is connected with</p><p>the stomach. Th is view is confi rmed further by the inscriptions of some of the</p><p>gems of the type: pepke – ‘digest’.15</p><p>Another common type is decorated with an ancient Greek iconographical</p><p>scheme: the Aphrodite Anadyomene. Th e type goes back to a painting by</p><p>Alexander the Great’s favourite painter, Apelles. Th e picture won the apprecia-</p><p>tion of Augustus to such an extent that he had it removed to Rome and placed</p><p>in the temple of the late descendant of the goddess, the deifi ed Caesar. Th e</p><p>theme was extremely popular in ancient art.16 Th e word Arôriphrasis inscribed</p><p>on the reverse of the gems (perhaps a secret name of Aphrodite) moreover sug-</p><p>gests that stones so decorated functioned as amulets. One key to interpretation</p><p>of this gem type is to be found in an ancient magical handbook, the Kyranides.</p><p>Th is book records magical recipes, of which the ingredients are a plant, a bird,</p><p>a fi sh and a precious stone, each with names beginning with the same letter.</p><p>Under the letter epsilon we read that the stone euanthos has to be decorated</p><p>with the fi gure of Aphrodite plaiting her hair. A piece of root of the plant eus-</p><p>dômos and the tongue of a nightingale are to be placed beneath the gem, and</p><p>aft er that it is to be mounted and worn. As an eff ect of the amulet, its wearer</p><p>will be loved by all, he will be famous and eloquent also before gods and demons,</p><p>and all animals will fl ee from him.17</p><p>What was said about the last two amulet types illustrates the supposed oper-</p><p>ating mechanism of magical sympatheia. All amulets refl ect a conception of the</p><p>cosmos as being suff used with divine forces. Th eir principal sources of power</p><p>are the sun and the stars, which operate in both living and lifeless nature, and</p><p>direct life and death. A force of this kind can manifest itself in the greatest</p><p>A N C I E N T M A G I C A L G E M S</p><p>37</p><p>variety of ways. Th us in the last example, amulets work through a defi nite γένος</p><p>of plant, bird, fi sh and stone, the interconnectedness of which is established</p><p>also by the identity of their initials, while in the fi rst example they work on a</p><p>part of the cosmos (the stars) and one of a microcosmos (the human body). If</p><p>the magician knows the working of these forces, if he can manage them, he can</p><p>also change them; his knowledge is power.18 An illustrative modern simile</p><p>would be that the universe is a closed computer system of gigantic size. Its oper-</p><p>ation is wholly impersonal; thus whoever knows the password has access to it.</p><p>By his knowledge, the magician is enabled to enter it and to some extent modify</p><p>at least some of the system’s programs. To return to the two examples above: it</p><p>was not originally encoded in the working project of the system that someone</p><p>should be loved by all, or that he shouldn’t have stomach pains. Th e two gems</p><p>show that the magician has the power to change this. But while the Chnoubis</p><p>gems were used only for one purpose (at least according to our sources), the</p><p>eff ect of the Aphrodite amulets is complex: the demon enclosed in the gem has</p><p>complicated tasks. And the less specifi ed its use, the more diffi cult the interpre-</p><p>tation of a gem.</p><p>For a rough understanding of gem amulets the most useful aid are the magic</p><p>texts preserved on papyri (Papyri Graecae Magicae and Supplementum</p><p>Magicum). A recipe of book XII of BEM (270–350) describes, for example,</p><p>how a magic ring is to be manufactured, which ‘renders glorious … to the best</p><p>of one’s power. Th e Sun is carved … wear it in purity.’ Th e initiation, the teletê</p><p>mentioned above, in this case consists mostly of a prayer dedicated to the Sun,</p><p>‘rising early’, and of the prayer which follows: ‘God most great … Sabôein, etc.</p><p>I have invoked you … perform this perfect rite.’ Th us it was necessary here to</p><p>engrave on the gem the image of the being to whom the magician addressed his</p><p>prayers, that is, the sun god.</p><p>As has already been pointed out, it is possible that most magical gems show</p><p>the sun god, a deity of pagan theology of the time, in various forms; but it was</p><p>not necessarily he who was expected to fulfi l the magician’s wishes. For example,</p><p>in an erotic charm (PGM LXI 1–38) it is a demon who has to secure the desired</p><p>woman for the magician’s client. It is he who is sent by the magician to NN,</p><p>daughter of NN, with the following orders: ‘Make her dizzy for all time’. Th e</p><p>magician is able to press the demon to do so (literally) in the name of the great</p><p>god: ‘I conjure you, great god Th oth. Hearken to me through duress.’ Th e iden-</p><p>tity of the god is made clear by the continuation of the recipe ‘When you do</p><p>this … Abrasax’. Th e same god is to be asked, in one of his other guises, to put</p><p>an end to an aff air no longer desired: one only needs a scarab, to which he says</p><p>the following: ‘Gulp down my philtre … orders you to carry out.’</p><p>As noted, the beginning of the production of magical gems is dated by archae-</p><p>ologists to the beginning of the imperial age. Nevertheless, ring amulets are men-</p><p>tioned from the Greek archaic period onwards.19 Magical gems of the pre-imperial</p><p>period, however, have not as yet been isolated as a type. Th e number of magical</p><p>gems in an archaeological sense (that is to say those of imperial date) is much</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>38</p><p>smaller than those from the religious-historical domain (that is those used as</p><p>amulets). Gyges’ ring,20 which made its wearer invisible, is at present also invisible</p><p>to researchers.</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 Th e basic work is still Bonner 1950. Further important publications are Mouterde 1930: 53–</p><p>137; Delatte and Derchain 1964; Philipp 1986; Zwierlein-Diehl 1992.</p><p>2 Brashear 1995.</p><p>3 Ibid., pp. 3440–3.</p><p>4 See the glossaries of Riederer and Ullrich in Philipp 1986: 27–46, and Zwierlein-Diehl 1991:</p><p>41–9.</p><p>5 On distinguishing examples made of glass and those made of precious stone: Raederer in</p><p>Philipp 1986: 141–3. Th e scholar’s task is made diffi cult by the fact that ancient gems could</p><p>be copied in antiquity, as well as in modern times: see for example Philipp 1986, nn. 143,</p><p>167, 169. A series of bronze pieces:</p><p>Bonner 1951: 307–9.</p><p>6 A good summary: Zwierlein-Diehl 1991: 18–19.</p><p>7 Astonishing examples fi rst of all in the books of Ammianus Marcellinus: Barb 1963:</p><p>100–25.</p><p>8 A fi rst list: Philipp 1986: 8, 18.</p><p>9 Eitrem 1939: 57–85.</p><p>10 Summed up most recently by Zwierlein-Diehl 1992: 29–36. A bibliography of the name</p><p>Aβράσαξ (its meaning is unknown, the number of its letters is 7, their numerical value is 365):</p><p>Brashear 1995: 3577; see also Harrauer 1996: 31.</p><p>11 Le Glay 1981: 3, 1.</p><p>12 Th e attempt at interpretation that opens the greatest perspective is: Barb 1957: 67–86.</p><p>13 Jones Roccos 1994: 336, 55; R. Kotansky, in Faraone and Obbink 1991: 118–19.</p><p>14 Kotansky, op.cit., 107–37.</p><p>15 Michel 1995: 379–81. About the decans: Abry 1993: 77–112.</p><p>16 Scheibler 1994: 26–9.</p><p>17 Waegeman 1987.</p><p>18 Good summary: Fowden 1986.</p><p>19 Bonner 1950: 1–7.</p><p>20 Fauth 1970: 1–42.</p><p>Part II</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>41</p><p>8</p><p>I N T R O D U C T I O N</p><p>Magic in Byzantium</p><p>J.C.B. Petropoulos</p><p>Even if those who deal in amulets contrive relentlessly, saying,</p><p>‘We do nothing more than summon God’ … this matter is still idolatry.</p><p>St John Chrysostom, Homily VIII on Colossians</p><p>Mark’s account of the Woman affl icted with the Issue of Blood (Mark 5: 25–34)</p><p>shows Jesus working a miracle without even realizing it: the woman comes up</p><p>behind Christ in a large crowd and, by simply touching his garment, is healed</p><p>aft er twelve years of medical ordeal. Christ has said or done nothing to cure her.</p><p>Unaware even of her presence, he realizes only that the ‘power within him’ has</p><p>suddenly left him,1 having apparently emanated outwards. Aft er reading Gary</p><p>Vikan’s chapter (10) we might understand that Jesus is functioning in this nar-</p><p>rative exactly like the magico-medical amulets made of hematite which were</p><p>meant to prevent or cure haemorrhaging: somebody makes purposeful contact</p><p>with a supernaturally charged medium (Christ’s person or at least his clothes)</p><p>and is instantly healed through its immanent power. Th is particular miracle, as</p><p>Vikan remarks, ‘comes as close to the essence of Graeco-Roman magic as any in</p><p>the Bible’. A pagan would probably have construed it as an act of ‘magic’ – except</p><p>that here, as Mark is at pains to stress, it is the woman’s faith, and not only her</p><p>brush with an object, that has cured her: ‘Daughter,’ Christ announces, ‘your</p><p>faith has made you well’.2</p><p>Given the range and various styles of his miracles, Christ would easily be</p><p>reckoned by pagans as a magos – and if one violently opposed his particular doc-</p><p>trines one might, like the philosopher Celsus in the late second century, classify</p><p>him as a goês … hated by the gods.3 If, moreover, Christ had promised to answer</p><p>all petitions made in his name,4 could he not also be invoked in a magical opera-</p><p>tion? Vikan reminds us that the confl ated Christ/Crucifi x oft en replaced the</p><p>evil eye apotropaion on early Christian amulets in the eastern Mediterranean.</p><p>Aft er an inchoate phase of ‘syncretic confusion’, it was soon time to draw</p><p>fi rmer lines – notional boundaries and, it also turned out, battle lines – between</p><p>magic and the emergent religion. Th e Early Church saw the distinction as</p><p>straightforwardly theological and moral: magic, indeed the entire gamut of</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>42</p><p>pagan religious practices (of which magic was in fact part), was reclassifi ed as</p><p>demonic (in the pejorative, Jewish sense),5 as the work, that is, of incorporeal</p><p>beings (originally fallen angels) who served the Devil. According to early</p><p>Christian writers, magic, even when not an illusion meant to impress and</p><p>ensnare, always was the work of evil forces, miracles the work of a loving God.</p><p>As Spyros Trojanos notes in Chapter 9, canon law followed suit in the late fourth</p><p>century, when Gregory of Nyssa declared in his third canon that magicians</p><p>acted in alliance with demons. Yet old habits die hard – if they die at all: as</p><p>Trojanos shows, the fact that Byzantine state and canon law persistently penal-</p><p>ized magic, in eff ect continuing the anti-magical legislation of the Roman</p><p>Republic and Principate, suggests the tenacity of a large number of practices</p><p>which even pagans would probably have regarded as ‘magical’. (Th is author also</p><p>brings out the fact that under state and canon law heresy, mental disease and all</p><p>types of crime were eventually branded as diabolical.)</p><p>Because Christians were by self-defi nition locked in a constant, if ultimately</p><p>successful struggle against evil spirits, the paradigmatic miracles, especially in</p><p>the Synoptic Gospels, were exorcisms. Exorcism, Gibbon’s ‘awful ceremony’,</p><p>was by and large a Jewish speciality, its purpose being the sudden ejection of</p><p>invasive spirits from an individual. Th e trick, as Christians soon learned, was to</p><p>force the demon to name himself and thus subject himself to the exorcist’s</p><p>mastery. Th e eschatological importance of the procedure perhaps explains the</p><p>Byzantines’ abiding interest in the names and especially the categories of</p><p>demons. In Chapter 11, David Jordan demonstrates the replication, albeit with</p><p>permutations, of six basic categories of demons in a succession of extraordinary</p><p>texts which includes a third-century ce papyrus exorcism, an excerpt from</p><p>pseudo-Psellos and an exorcism attributed (probably wrongly) to St Ephrem</p><p>the Syrian.</p><p>Jordan’s investigation bears out the close connection between ancient philos-</p><p>ophy and science, on the one hand, and erudite medieval magic on the other.</p><p>Indeed, philological enquiry confi rms one of the key fi ndings of archaeologists</p><p>and art historians studying Byzantine material culture: Byzantine magic was a</p><p>composite of postclassical and Christian erudite forms and practices encrusted,</p><p>as it were, with popular elements of varied origin that persisted well beyond</p><p>1453. Th e spells, the exorcism texts and the nomocanones from three post-</p><p>Byzantine manuscripts, here published for the fi rst time by Agamemnon Tselikas</p><p>in Chapter 13, contain many elements that bear a striking resemblance to motifs</p><p>and procedures attested in the magical papyri of late antiquity. Is it by mere</p><p>chance that one of Tselikas’ exorcisms refers to δαιμόνια καταχθόνια and εναέρια,</p><p>two categories which Jordan traces to Empedocles via the Chaldaean oracles?</p><p>Th eologically speaking, religion and magic were not only diametrically</p><p>opposed (God vs. the Devil) but mutually exclusive: as Paul put it, ‘I do not</p><p>want you to become sharers with the demons’.6 In reality, though, magic oft en</p><p>drew upon the texts and practices of the established faith in furthering its aims.</p><p>(Th is was only natural in a society which had a well-entrenched system of</p><p>I N T R O D U C T I O N</p><p>43</p><p>authoritative scripture and ritual.) Th e episode from the tenth-century fi ctional</p><p>vita of St Andrew the Fool which George Calofonos discusses in Chapter 12 is</p><p>indeed ‘a compelling narrative’, almost comparable to a psychological thriller.</p><p>Apart from its entertainment value, this portion of the vita, as Calofonos points</p><p>out, has a clear didactic purpose: to expose magic as a dangerous hoax to which</p><p>the desperate and gullible are especially prone. In the text a magus named</p><p>Vigrinos attracts a large clientèle by posing as a pious Christian and using the</p><p>accessories of the Orthodox religion – for instance, a censer and icons. In actual</p><p>fact his actions amount to a sickening perversion of the baptismal rite. Vigrinos</p><p>may have solved his client’s immediate problem, but the succession of horrifi c</p><p>dreams which both she and her spiritual father experience aft erwards points to</p><p>the disastrous consequences of magic. Th at indeed was the oft -beguiling paradox</p><p>of Byzantine – and generally Christian – magic: it usually borrowed from the</p><p>ideology and rituals of the true faith, yet it always was, according at least to the</p><p>Church, its very perversion.</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 Mark 5: 30.</p><p>2 Ibid., 34; cf. ibid., 28–9.</p><p>3 Origen, Contra Celsum 1.71.</p><p>4 John 14:14: ‘If you ask anything</p><p>in my name, I will do it’.</p><p>5 Cf., e.g., I Cor. 10: 20: ‘the things which the nations sacrifi ce they sacrifi ce to demons, and not</p><p>to God’.</p><p>6 Ibid.</p><p>44</p><p>9</p><p>M A G I C A N D T H E D E V I L</p><p>From the Old to the New Rome</p><p>Spyros N. Trojanos</p><p>In Rome magic had been criminalized quite early, especially in relation to two</p><p>acts: worship which was unacceptable to law and order, and any association</p><p>with poisonous substances, since the lethal eff ect or other harmful consequences</p><p>of the latter were ascribed to supernatural powers. Th is is why the word phar-</p><p>makos came to be synonymous with ‘magician’.</p><p>From the Pandect it is clear that the Cornelian law on murderers provided</p><p>for both categories of act. Th us, under this law, those who administered poison</p><p>to someone in order to kill him as well as those who carried out ‘evil sacrifi ces’</p><p>were to be punished. It is understood, of course, that the protected legal value</p><p>in this case was that of human life. Consequently the above provisions aimed</p><p>chiefl y at the protection of this good, and opposed magic only indirectly. Th e</p><p>prosecution of magic was, nevertheless, associated with this law, as arises from</p><p>the summary formulation of the whole legislation in the Justinian Proposals.</p><p>Communication with supernatural powers and their invocation, so long as</p><p>they did not concern deities which were offi cially worshipped, were not ‘legal-</p><p>ized’ by religion, and those who resorted to such practices violated the limits of</p><p>‘normality’ which were acceptable to the state’s law and order.</p><p>In Greek philosophical thought, if its entire historical development is taken</p><p>into account, the term ‘demon’ had a rather fl uid content and did not necessar-</p><p>ily entail its inclusion among the evil spirits.</p><p>Th e Old Testament does not feature a systematic demonology, because the</p><p>monotheistic nature of the Jewish religion did not allow for the existence of</p><p>intermediate beings on a more or less divine level. At any rate, in the Old</p><p>Testament we fi nd traces of demons of Eastern origin, with whom the Jewish</p><p>world had once come into contact. Th ey appear in the Jewish text under various</p><p>names (which are rendered periphrastically in the Septuagint translation) and</p><p>are represented in various forms. To be sure, all worship of these demons and</p><p>any divining practice were forbidden explicitly. However, the Devil is not asso-</p><p>ciated with these demons in the Old Testament. Only in the late Judaic period</p><p>do we fi nd in spurious works the emergence of certain conceptions, under</p><p>Persian and Hellenistic infl uences, that admit both the grouping and the order-</p><p>ing of evil spirits, as well as their ability to interfere in human life.</p><p>M A G I C A N D T H E D E V I L</p><p>45</p><p>Neither does the New Testament contain a systematic teaching on demons.</p><p>Traces of late Jewish demonology are nonetheless clear. What distinguishes</p><p>the Old from the New Testament is that the latter accepts the existence of the</p><p>Devil’s ‘dominion’, which constitutes the opposite of God’s heavenly polity.</p><p>At the same time, ‘evil’ acquires a more specifi c form and the Devil is consid-</p><p>ered the chief of all evil spirits. Initially, certain notional diff erentiations were</p><p>made on the basis of these spirits’ provenance, but these were fi nally aban-</p><p>doned. Th e Evangelists and St Paul employ various names for the Devil and</p><p>his instruments.</p><p>In its prohibition of the worship of various demonic forms, the Old Testament</p><p>included every kind of divining practice. However, Christianity’s reaction to</p><p>magic was at fi rst very moderate. Th e passages of the New Testament which</p><p>oppose magicians are few and cannot be compared either in number or in</p><p>content with the multitude of analogous passages in the Old Testament. Th e</p><p>accusations levelled against Christians, however, that they supposedly per-</p><p>formed acts of magic (as testifi ed by apocryphal ‘apostolic’ texts, which recount</p><p>miracles attributed to magical tricks), and the confusion that oft en ensued,</p><p>Figure 5 Phylactery seal. Early Christian period. Byzantine Museum, Athens.</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>46</p><p>made it necessary to clarify the situation. Th us, in the earliest prescriptive eccle-</p><p>siastical works, such as the ‘Instructions’, the so-called ‘Epistle of Barnabas’ and,</p><p>in particular, the ‘Apostolic Commands’, prohibitions of clear Judaic origin</p><p>gradually appear. Th e move from the apologetic nature of the initial reactions</p><p>to the Church’s attempt to bring under control all forms of association with</p><p>supernatural powers becomes obvious in these provisions.</p><p>It is characteristic of the importance attributed to this eff ort that magic was</p><p>among the topics that exercised the fi rst local synods. At the Synod of Ankara,</p><p>the fi rst in the Eastern section of the empire (314 ce), it was decided to punish</p><p>with fi ve-year excommunication ‘those involved in divination and persisting in</p><p>pagan habits, or introducing certain persons into their homes in order to supply</p><p>them with spells (pharmakeiai) and purifi cations’ (canon 24). A few years later</p><p>the Synod of Laodicea (c. 380 ce) prescribed a stricter penalty for the ‘hieratics</p><p>or clergy’ proven to be magicians, charmers, mathematicians, astrologers or</p><p>makers of the so-called amulets, ‘for these are prisons of their souls’. Complete</p><p>excommunication is prescribed in these cases.</p><p>Th e Fathers of the fourth century also tried to suppress magic outside the</p><p>synods. Th e contribution of St Basil was of particular importance, because he</p><p>repeatedly dealt with this issue from various angles in his canonical epistles,</p><p>wherein he ranks magic among the most serious of canonical off ences.</p><p>Th e anonymous codifying works of the fi rst centuries and the canons of the</p><p>synods and of St Basil identify the magical arts with idolatry, without however</p><p>making an explicit reference to the magicians’ relationship with evil spirits in</p><p>general. Th e association is only indirect: whatever is outside the Church’s realm</p><p>– and this applies to pagans – falls under the Devil’s jurisdiction.</p><p>For the fi rst time in the fi eld of canon law, the Devil was directly linked with</p><p>magic in Gregory of Nyssa’s canon 3, where it is clearly stated that magicians</p><p>operate through the agency of demons aft er forming an ‘alliance’ with them.</p><p>On this point, however, state legislation and the Church’s canons diff ered. It</p><p>follows from the relevant regulations that what the state banned were private</p><p>and/or nocturnal, and therefore secret and uncontrollable, devotional acts</p><p>involving sacrifi ces. When such acts were public, and therefore open, they were</p><p>allowed.</p><p>Of decisive importance for the criminalization of magic not only in the</p><p>entire early period, but throughout the Byzantine era, was a stipulation by</p><p>Constantine the Great which distinguished between ‘good’ and ‘evil’ magic – a</p><p>diff erentiation which has survived to our day, albeit under a diff erent terminol-</p><p>ogy. Today we talk of ‘white’ and ‘black’ magic. Th is distinction was certainly</p><p>not invented by Constantine the Great, for it is known, even from legal sources,</p><p>that magical means were used for curing illnesses or warding off natural disas-</p><p>ters. State legislation in the following centuries evolved within this context in</p><p>its evaluation of magic as a crime.</p><p>Matters were diff erent, as we have seen, in the ecclesiastical world. Here any</p><p>recourse to magical means and methods was forbidden as absolutely incompat-</p><p>M A G I C A N D T H E D E V I L</p><p>47</p><p>ible with Christian doctrine. In the eyes of the Church, every supernatural</p><p>event which ostensibly is provoked by human action can only be put down to</p><p>the assistance of evil spirits, that is demons. Th is applies even if the specifi c</p><p>event has – at least superfi cially – benefi cial results for one or more persons. To</p><p>the question of how to interpret the ability of certain magicians to drive away</p><p>evil spirits from humans and in so doing cure them, the answer given is based on</p><p>the Gospel</p><p>(Matthew 12: 26 and Mark 3: 23). In this case it is not the magician</p><p>who expels the demons, but the demons themselves who depart of their own</p><p>accord, in order to deceive humans as to the eff ectiveness of magic.</p><p>Th e communication, therefore, of magicians and diviners with demons con-</p><p>stitutes – from early on – a topos in Byzantine theological literature. All Church</p><p>Fathers, both in the East and in the West, were more or less involved with fi ght-</p><p>ing magic. St John Chrysostom gives a vivid description of the relationship of</p><p>magicians and diviners with the Devil. Th rough their identifi cation with him</p><p>they shed their personality and become his instruments, which, like a soulless</p><p>fl ute, repeat everything he dictates to them: ‘For when the demon falls upon</p><p>their soul, he incapacitates their mind and darkens their thought and thus they</p><p>utter everything without realizing what they are saying, but rather like a soul-</p><p>less fl ute utter sounds.’</p><p>Th e conviction that evil spirits have the power to transmit secret knowledge</p><p>to persons who come under their sway is a topos of popular thought. It was in</p><p>this way that the notion of a pact with the Devil was born and became extremely</p><p>widespread. Th is is richly attested, chiefl y in hagiological sources. According to</p><p>these testimonies, a magician usually undertakes the role of mediator, and the</p><p>agreement is as a rule a written one, accompanied by a form of real surety. Th e</p><p>soul of the ‘contracting party’ is off ered to the Devil as a guarantee, though at</p><p>times it is the soul of a third party that is off ered – for instance, that of a child</p><p>yet to be born. Th e necessary precondition for exemption from these undertak-</p><p>ings and for the return of the surety is the destruction of the document of the</p><p>agreement. Hence, great importance is attached in the texts to the attempt to</p><p>extract the document from the Devil. To this end a powerful saint is mobilized,</p><p>at times the Holy Virgin herself. Research has identifi ed the ultimate models of</p><p>these narratives in ancient Greek and Eastern traditions.</p><p>We fi nd descriptions of the drawing up of a pact with the Devil in early</p><p>Byzantium already in the fourth century. In the evolution of these texts the</p><p>characteristics of the protagonists, as well the content of the myth, do not</p><p>remain constant. With the passage of time, they are aff ected by the changes in</p><p>the social structures and especially in Christian teaching. In the earlier instances,</p><p>the types of demon, the indirect way they act and their relationship with the</p><p>magician – which is not a relation of servitude, since the magician can rebuke</p><p>the demons – are testimony of ancient Greek infl uences on the fundamental</p><p>content of the myth. In other narratives the change of scenery is obvious, when</p><p>the Devil appears with features corresponding to Eastern models – which even-</p><p>tually predominated in the theological literature of Byzantium. At other times,</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>48</p><p>apart from the Eastern infl uence observable in the Devil’s function as sovereign</p><p>of a realm, we notice the thoroughgoing ‘legalization’ of the entire relationship</p><p>of the agreement, based on the everyday experiences of legal matters of the</p><p>period. As we know, the written form was dominant in Byzantine law.</p><p>Starting with the magician Simon of the Acts of the Apostles – an episode</p><p>which was greatly elaborated in the apocryphal Acts of the fi rst centuries – hag-</p><p>iographical texts generally bring out magic as a typically Jewish activity.</p><p>Among the various activities attributed to the Devil is the corruption of the</p><p>true faith – indeed it is one of the most important. Th us, he is thought to be</p><p>responsible for the emergence of the great heresies. Th e iconomachy is a charac-</p><p>teristic example, which in the eighth and ninth centuries shook not only the</p><p>Byzantine Church, but also the entire empire. Th e Byzantines did not fail to</p><p>attribute to the Devil the entire upheaval, which lasted for more than a hundred</p><p>years, and in successive stages fashioned a myth about the origin of the prohibi-</p><p>tion and destruction of icons. Th e familiar triptych ‘Devil–magician–Jew’</p><p>again surfaces here.</p><p>According to this myth, an oversize Jewish magician proposed to a Syrian,</p><p>that is an Arab, Caliph (Yazid II [720–724] is implied) the following contract:</p><p>the Jew would secure an untroubled 30–40-year reign for the Caliph, if the</p><p>latter banned the icons of the Christians. Th e Caliph accepted the proposition</p><p>and an agreement was drawn up. Th e disappearance of the icons from the</p><p>Caliphate was the model, according to the myth, for the Byzantine emperors.</p><p>Scholars have argued that the Caliph’s description matches the emperor</p><p>Constantine V, given that as a scion of the ‘Isaurian’ dynasty he had Syrian</p><p>origins. Th e large Jewish magician was none other than the Devil. Th e allegory</p><p>was perfectly obvious: the iconomachy was founded on an agreement made by</p><p>the Isauroi emperors with the Devil. It goes without saying that while members</p><p>of this dynasty were still on the throne, such a tale could not circulate openly.</p><p>Another legend which is very similar in content concerns Julian the Apostate.</p><p>Julian, it was claimed, renounced the Christian faith and attempted to</p><p>restore idolatry under the guidance of the Devil and a Jew.</p><p>Th e Isauroi devoted three provisions to the prosecution of magic in the leg-</p><p>islative collection they issued in 741 ce, known as the Ekloge. Among others,</p><p>magicians and sorcerers who called on demons to harm people were to be pun-</p><p>ished, and this attests to the infl uence of Church doctrine. Th is infl uence is also</p><p>discernible in other clauses of this legislative collection.</p><p>A century and a half aft er the publication of the Ekloge, the legislation of</p><p>the Isauroi was revised by the Macedonian emperors, fi rst with the Eisagoge</p><p>and then with the ‘Provisional Law’. Th ese two legislative acts contain many</p><p>more clauses against magicians than the Ekloge. Th e legislative provisions of</p><p>the Isauroi and the Macedonians correspond up to a point. In the clause,</p><p>however, which chiefl y concerns magicians and their collaboration with</p><p>demons, despite the fact that the objective nature of the crime is maintained</p><p>as formulated in the Ekloge, we observe a signifi cant departure concerning its</p><p>M A G I C A N D T H E D E V I L</p><p>49</p><p>subjective nature: ‘Th ose calling on demons to harm people, if not acting out</p><p>of ignorance, will be punished by the sword.’ Th e wording of the text does not</p><p>allow the slightest doubt that the perpetrator’s ignorance is no reason for</p><p>reducing the sentence, but it rules out punishment on the grounds of actual</p><p>deception.</p><p>As mentioned above, from a certain period onwards the Devil was consid-</p><p>ered the personifi cation of ‘evil’ and, in consequence, the source of every crimi-</p><p>nal act. In 535 or 538, Justinian notes this in Chapter 1 of his act (Neara) 77.</p><p>A few centuries later, Manuel I Komnenos portrays the Devil much more</p><p>vividly, but also in ‘poetic’ vein, as the source of all crime in his legislative act</p><p>(Neara) of 1166 which concerns the penal treatment of murderers. Th e father</p><p>of evil has sown in the leaders of the human race the roots of evil in the form of</p><p>evil and murder. He conceived envy, but aft er the pregnancy he gave birth to</p><p>murder as an enemy of life and a rival of the Creator of the human race.</p><p>Th is viewpoint apart, the very perception that magic could also serve good</p><p>causes confi rmed the converse view that it was apt to lead to horrifi c crimes. A</p><p>terrifying incident is attested, with almost similar wording, in the works of two</p><p>historians, Th eophanes and Patriarch Nikephoros, in their description of the</p><p>siege (and fall) of Pergamon in 717 to the Arabs. In order to bolster the defence</p><p>of the city – according to the narrative – and to repulse the invaders, the inhab-</p><p>itants, following a magician’s advice, brought a woman about to give birth (to</p><p>her fi rst child according to one</p><p>of the historians); the magician extracted the</p><p>child by Caesarean section, and the child was then boiled in a cauldron. Into</p><p>this, those who were to fi ght on the city walls dipped their right sleeve. Th e his-</p><p>torians attribute the fall of the city to this unholy act (and consequent divine</p><p>retribution).</p><p>Regardless of the narrative’s accuracy or the particular matter of its source,</p><p>the fact that two serious historians incorporated it into their work proves that</p><p>its content was, if not necessarily true, at any rate credible according to the cri-</p><p>teria of the period. Besides, as can be deduced from much earlier sources, it</p><p>appears that such magical practices were not unusual, especially for predicting</p><p>the future.</p><p>Viewing as unacceptable the consequences of distinguishing between evil –</p><p>therefore forbidden – magic, and benign – therefore permitted – magic (cer-</p><p>tainly not by the Church, but by state legislation), Emperor Leo the Wise</p><p>overturned the distinction in the late ninth century with his act (Neara) 65,</p><p>stating that magic was disastrous, irrespective of the goal pursued. Nothing will</p><p>convince me, writes Leo, that magic can ever have a good result, even if it gives</p><p>that impression at fi rst sight. His argument has a theological basis – which is</p><p>usual for this particular emperor – and concerns the relationship of magicians</p><p>with demons. Whosoever, for whatever reason, invokes demons instead of God</p><p>has lost the ultimate good: his soul. Th is person resembles, Leo writes in the</p><p>law, one who wanting to protect his arms in a scuffl e, exposes his head or belly</p><p>to blows. Leo therefore bans every magical act, whether performed to cure</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>50</p><p>ailments or to ward off the destruction of crops. He does not explicitly state the</p><p>penalty, but cites the punishment of apostates (being consistent with his per-</p><p>ception of the nature of magic as an act of apostasy, in accordance with Church</p><p>doctrine), which was nothing less than death.</p><p>According to the Romans and later the Byzantines, the resort to magical</p><p>means, including the administration of drugs ‘causing ecstasy of the mind’,</p><p>could cause mental illness or derangement. Th is also emerges from the legal</p><p>texts which penalized the relevant acts. According to these notions, the posses-</p><p>sion of a human body by one or more demons had the same result. In the latter</p><p>case, these persons are the so-called demonized or ‘possessed’. Th e legally correct</p><p>term for mental patients which the older sources employ is ‘raging’ (mainome-</p><p>noi). But already from the middle Byzantine period, legal texts tend to use the</p><p>term ‘possessed’, or similar terms, to defi ne the mentally ill.</p><p>Both canon and state law were seriously concerned with the ‘possessed’. In</p><p>canon law, the issue was raised early on, as to how the Church was to deal with</p><p>the faithful who were ‘possessed’. Apostolic canon 79 debars such persons not</p><p>only from ordination at any rank while in that state, but also from participat-</p><p>ing in the liturgical life of the community. Th e ‘possessed’ were considered to</p><p>be unclean, because it was believed that they had some predisposition owing to</p><p>their sins and somehow provoked the demon to enter their body. Th is notion</p><p>did not, however, cover all cases. In some, for instance in the case of ‘lunatics’</p><p>as epileptics were usually called (their fi ts being attributed, in established</p><p>Byzantine theological thought, to demonic acts), the demon’s incursion was</p><p>due to the Devil’s general and continuous attempts to harm human beings, and</p><p>in this way strike out against the Creator. A consequence of equating the sub-</p><p>jection to demons with insanity was the gradual recognition of insanity as</p><p>grounds for divorce.</p><p>Th e ‘possessed’ were an important chapter in hagiographic literature. A large</p><p>number of the miracles contained in the lives of saints describe the exorcizing</p><p>of demons and the cleansing of the ‘possessed’, indeed with particular frequency</p><p>in connection with certain saints. Several works of this genre bear out the per-</p><p>ception that magicians could cause demons to enter the human body. Here</p><p>again the collaboration of magicians with the Devil appears, though in a diff er-</p><p>ent context from what we have seen so far.</p><p>A characteristic sample is found in the Life of St Hilarion: a youth, frustrated</p><p>in his love of a maiden, resorted to a magos in Egypt, who instructed him in</p><p>magical spells. As a result of these spells, the girl started dishevelling her hair,</p><p>gnashing her teeth and shamelessly invited the young man to join her. In other</p><p>words, she behaved as though possessed by the Devil.</p><p>Th e maiden was conducted by her relatives to St Hilarion’s hermitage, and</p><p>the demon, anticipating what was to follow, began protesting: ‘I was happy and</p><p>carefree at Memphis where I fooled human beings with the phantasies of</p><p>dreams. To be sure I was wrongly despatched here.’ He claimed that he was</p><p>unable to abandon his victim, unless freed by the magician who controlled him:</p><p>M A G I C A N D T H E D E V I L</p><p>51</p><p>‘I will not depart unless the youth binding me releases me.’ At length he was</p><p>forced by the saint to vanish. Th e long interchange between Hilarion and the</p><p>demon, apart from anything else, is also indicative of the current beliefs on the</p><p>relations of magicians and demons.</p><p>It can be deduced from canon 60 of the Penthect Synod that there were also</p><p>‘individuals’ who pretended to be under a demon’s spell, in order (it seems) to</p><p>gain some material benefi t, foreseeing the future among other things. In accor-</p><p>dance with the canon, they were treated in the same way, since their attitude</p><p>betrayed voluntary identifi cation with evil spirits.</p><p>From the mock-‘possessed’ we must distinguish another category, the ‘fools</p><p>for Christ’, who behaved as though they had been possessed by a demon, but</p><p>regarded this way of life as a form of spiritual exercise.</p><p>During the last centuries of Byzantium, magic was extremely widespread not</p><p>only among the popular classes but also within the ranks of the clergy, as can be</p><p>seen from the numerous trials before the Patriarchal synod involving clergymen</p><p>and monks charged with the serial practice of magic. When one reads synodic</p><p>texts of the period, one comes to the conclusion that the leadership of the</p><p>Church considered that all the Devil’s activities against mankind were con-</p><p>nected with the spread of magic.</p><p>Among the methods employed by the Devil to infi ltrate people’s everyday</p><p>life was the confusion which up to a point existed about the precise demarca-</p><p>tion between medicine and magic. Apart from the psychiatric fi eld mentioned</p><p>above, there generally existed a kind of professional competition between</p><p>doctors and magicians. It was natural for magicians to call for the assistance of</p><p>their protector in this rivalry.</p><p>Th e following instance survives in the sources. During an investigation</p><p>arising out of a case that was brought before the Patriarchical court at</p><p>Constantinople in May 1370, several books on magic were discovered, the well-</p><p>known Koiranis among others, as well as a notebook full of demonic invoca-</p><p>tions and (magical) incantations. Th is was not a copy of a single book, but</p><p>rather a compendium of many similar compositions – proof that its compiler</p><p>had an entire collection of texts at his disposal. It was established that this par-</p><p>ticular text had been compiled by one Father Demetrios Chloros, who had just</p><p>then been appointed protonotary of the Patriarchate.</p><p>In his apology, however, Chloros claimed that the contents of this notebook</p><p>did not pertain to magic and, consequently, his soul was in no danger, given</p><p>that – as he said – medical treatises contained the same matters. He claimed, in</p><p>other words, that it was simply a medical book. Th e synod then adjourned and</p><p>resorted to a probative method, common enough in today’s legal procedures,</p><p>but not so usual at the time: it ordered an expert opinion. It summoned the</p><p>‘best of doctors’, the elite</p><p>of the capital’s medical profession, ‘and the said note-</p><p>book was read for all to hear’. As the minutes of the synod report, the hall</p><p>was shaken on hearing so many names of demons and their invocations, and the</p><p>audience was utterly terrifi ed. Understandably, the doctors’ reaction was</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>52</p><p>particularly vehement, and they were incensed to hear Hippocrates and Galen</p><p>referred to as magicians. Addressing themselves to the synod, their representa-</p><p>tives stated that they had spent their long lives in practising medicine, and had</p><p>inducted many young people to the fi eld through the study of scientifi c trea-</p><p>tises of Christians and pagans. As far as they knew – and the whole city could</p><p>bear witness – none of them had ever reached such a level of irreverence as to</p><p>renounce the faith and follow the Devil, recognizing him as a professor and</p><p>instructor, for what they had heard bore no relation to medicine, but were dia-</p><p>bolical works.</p><p>If we compare offi cial ecclesiastical texts of various periods which refer to the</p><p>‘Devil’, we observe an absolute overlap as to the main feature of the Devil’s activ-</p><p>ity, which is characterized everywhere as ‘homicidal’, but a considerable diff er-</p><p>ence on the level of theological treatment.</p><p>Th is specifi c point is dealt with more fully in the text of the ‘address’ which</p><p>the Fathers of the Penthect Synod delivered to the emperor Justinian II: ‘He</p><p>who was driven back from primordial beauty on account of his pride, the</p><p>serpent aboriginal, the great mind, the Assyrian is captured by his former</p><p>captives and by the power of the Word made incarnate is rendered powerless,</p><p>for it is written “Th e enemy’s swords vanished in the end.”’ In these lines, which</p><p>originate from an ecumenical synod, we fi nd in condensed form all the teach-</p><p>ings of the Eastern Church concerning the genesis of the Devil and his place in</p><p>the plan of Divine Providence.</p><p>Th e various Patriarchal documents of the last Byzantine centuries constitute</p><p>the very opposite of this text. Th eir tendency is to popularize the phenomenon</p><p>of the ‘Devil’. Here the Devil is linked more directly with magic than ever</p><p>before.</p><p>Th ere is no doubt that with this direct association the Church met its pasto-</p><p>ral needs, by delineating its own space in an authoritative manner. Th ese needs</p><p>apparently arose from people’s growing search for other, new sources of knowl-</p><p>edge beyond the accepted ones. A similar culminating trend during the waning</p><p>of the Roman world was combated by the imperial legislation of the fourth</p><p>century. Could it be that certain similar symptoms of our times augur the arrival</p><p>of a new era?</p><p>53</p><p>10</p><p>M A G I C A N D V I S U A L C U LT U R E</p><p>I N L AT E A N T I Q U I T Y</p><p>Gary Vikan</p><p>Th e object types exemplifi ed by magical papyri and gem amulets comprise</p><p>the bedrock of material-culture magic in late antiquity: the ‘word power’ of</p><p>the magical papyri1 and the ‘image power’ of the gem amulets.2 Some thou-</p><p>sands of the latter survive, some hundreds of the former, which is hardly sur-</p><p>prising, given their material and the energy with which they were banned and</p><p>burned. Th e papyri and the gems [examples not reproduced] are contempo-</p><p>raries, from roughly the second to the sixth century, and both are eastern</p><p>Mediterranean, with a common pool of Egyptian gods and Hebrew angels; in</p><p>each, the sacred name IAV3 predominates. But otherwise, they are surpris-</p><p>ingly independent, with health, specifi cally, the preoccupation of the (mostly</p><p>iconographic) gems, while the papyri attend in addition to matters of love,</p><p>money and prognostication, through elaborate word schemes of white- and</p><p>black-magic manipulation. Among the magical papyri is a Coptic papyrus</p><p>containing a prayer for inducing pregnancy. It is addressed to God as the</p><p>creator of man ‘in His own likeness’ and as the one who promised ‘our mother</p><p>Sarah’ that she would give birth. One of the types of gem amulet was that</p><p>grudgingly prescribed by Alexander of Tralles (525–605) for those patients</p><p>with peptic stomach who could not tolerate drugs: the amulet shows the</p><p>sympathetic magic of Herakles choking back the breath of the Nemean lion.</p><p>Campbell Bonner’s work on gem amulets brought him to the threshold of a</p><p>large and distinctive group of copper-alloy pendant amulets now numbering well</p><p>in the hundreds. Syro-Palestinian in origin, they are datable, in part through</p><p>tomb fi nds, from the fourth to sixth centuries. Most show the generic magic of</p><p>the Holy Rider4 and the Much-Suff ering Eye of Envy,5 augmented by a relatively</p><p>short menu of apotropaic acclamations and power names, though some specifi -</p><p>cally target stomach problems. Iconographically related and roughly contempo-</p><p>rary is a smaller, more homogeneous series of hematite intaglios, which by</p><p>medium, technique and function form a late subgroup among the gem amulets.</p><p>Th eir potency is more specifi cally directed against threat to the parturient womb</p><p>and to the new mother from the arch she-demon Abyzou. Th us the magically</p><p>styptic medium ‘bloodstone’ and thus the dominance of the Abyzou-impaling</p><p>‘Solomon’ Holy Rider, though occasional examples bear instead the standing</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>54</p><p>fi gure of Christ Emmanuel, various individual saints, or the guardian Archangel</p><p>Michael with the Long Cross.</p><p>Much less familiar among scholars, though in fact as common, are late</p><p>antique amulets in glass, either oval intaglios or stamped ‘cameo’ pendants.</p><p>Slightly broader in their pattern of distribution and slightly earlier in date than</p><p>the metal and mineral Holy Riders, they are much more varied in their imagery</p><p>and much less thoroughly magical, relying (when they are amuletic at all)</p><p>mostly on solar images, on some fairly tepid religious power symbols, such as</p><p>the Chrismon, and on the sympathetic magic of Old Testament salvation histo-</p><p>riolae, such as the Sacrifi ce of Isaac. Much the same is true of cast-lead pendant</p><p>amulets, which because they were simple, impersonal and ‘mass-produced’,</p><p>probably serviced similar consumer needs. Whatever fi ndspot evidence exists</p><p>points again towards the eastern Mediterranean, but although Old and New</p><p>Testament salvation imagery, such as the Raising of Lazarus, appears in this</p><p>medium and format as well, there is something much more specifi cally amu-</p><p>letic about lead pendants than about their glass counterparts. Moreover, while</p><p>glass was by the sixth century disappearing as a medium for amulets, lead seems</p><p>only then to have been coming into its own and it continued well beyond late</p><p>antiquity.</p><p>Unlike glass and lead, which as media were incidental to amuletic potency,</p><p>silver, like hematite, was in late antiquity a magical material of choice, apparently</p><p>because of its responsiveness, through tarnishing, to the ‘monthly fl ux of women’.</p><p>It and an impressive arsenal of magical images and words unite a small but icono-</p><p>graphically rich group of amuletic rings and pendants datable from the sixth</p><p>century to the eighth, and localizable, again, to the eastern Mediterranean. Th e</p><p>rings are characterized by an inscribed octagonal hoop, and by an over-sized,</p><p>round bezel with a non-sealing intaglio – a bezel which, but for being a bit smaller</p><p>and simpler, and for being decorated on one side only, is substantially identical to</p><p>the rarer pendant version of the amulet type. And both have much in common</p><p>with the incised discs characteristic of a series of two dozen or so amuletic arm-</p><p>bands of similar date and origin. Th e armbands appear about as frequently in</p><p>copper alloy as in silver, but those in copper will oft en show just a single disc, and</p><p>that disc will usually bear the Holy Rider as on the metal pendants. And this disc</p><p>type, too, will appear in a ring-bezel version which serves to demonstrate how</p><p>densely interrelated and how chronologically and geographically concentrated is</p><p>the stuff of late antique material magic.</p><p>What do these several groups of amulets have</p><p>in common, besides the fact</p><p>that all were made to be worn or carried on the body? Th ey may all be localized</p><p>to Syria–Palestine or Egypt, and all may be dated from the fourth to the seventh</p><p>century, with concentration in the fi ft h and sixth centuries. Th eir potency is</p><p>generally multivalent and their range of amuletic images, symbols, words and</p><p>phrases rich and varied. In addition to the Holy Rider, the Evil Eye, the</p><p>Archangel with Long Cross, and the Old and New Testament salvation histori-</p><p>olae already mentioned, this range comprises:</p><p>M A G I C A N D V I S U A L C U L T U R E</p><p>55</p><p>‘ring signs’ or characters6 of the sort common among the gem amulets,</p><p>including the pentalpha device of King Solomon’s magical seal ring;7</p><p>the abdominally, gynaecologically targeted Chnoubis,8 plus the running</p><p>lion and the crawling snake;</p><p>the Heis Th eos or ‘One God’ apotropaic acclamation, the Chrismon, the</p><p>Chi-Mu-Gamma formula, the word Hygieia (‘Health’), the Trisagion and</p><p>especially Psalm 90 (‘He that dwells in the protection of the Most</p><p>High…’);</p><p>a variety of sacred names, including IAW, Sabaoth, Emmanuel and the</p><p>names of the Archangels;</p><p>and a few bear the ‘Flee, fl ee, fl ee, O detested one…’ adjuration, or the</p><p>incantation against the wandering womb, the ‘black and blackening,’ that</p><p>crawls like a snake, roars like a lion and hisses like a dragon, that it might</p><p>‘lie still like a lamb’.</p><p>Th ere is sensitivity in late antiquity to what the amulet is made of, with green</p><p>jasper, iron, silver and hematite (among others) all chosen on diff erent occa-</p><p>sions for their presumed magical powers (the last of these, for the ‘persuasive</p><p>parallel’ that it, as an iron oxide, can hold its ‘blood’ red within its shiny black</p><p>skin); and there is sensitivity, as well, to how the amulet is shaped, with the</p><p>octagon, especially, the preferred outline for the hoops of amuletic rings. Again,</p><p>Alexander of Tralles prescribes an amulet in the treatment of colic:</p><p>Take an iron ring and make its hoop eight-sided, and</p><p>write thus on the octagon: ‘Flee, fl ee, O bile, the lark</p><p>is pursuing you.’</p><p>Besides the smattering of biblical vignettes, and the sacred names and symbols</p><p>already mentioned, overt Christianity penetrated a still heavily pre-Christian</p><p>magical vocabulary initially in the form of the apotropaic power of the Cross.</p><p>In the words of an inscribed sixth-century Syrian house lintel: ‘for as long as the</p><p>Cross is set in front of it, the Evil Eye will not have power’. Th is functional equa-</p><p>tion of the Cross with the Much-Suff ering Eye of Envy is made explicit on a few</p><p>otherwise typical Holy Rider pendant amulets, where a confl ated Christ/Cross</p><p>takes the side usually occupied by the Evil Eye apotropion.</p><p>Drawing on quite a diff erent Christological potency, the group of amuletic</p><p>armbands introduced above complements the power of the Chnoubis, the ring</p><p>signs and Psalm 90 with a narrative iconographic charm comprising half-a-</p><p>dozen episodes from the Life of Christ, beginning with the Annunciation and</p><p>ending with the Ascension. Th ese scenes are, by choice and by specifi c iconog-</p><p>raphy, drawn not directly from the Gospels, but from locus sanctus imagery</p><p>developed for the eulogiai or ‘blessings’ of sacred oil and earth brought back by</p><p>visitors from the famous pilgrimage shrines of the Holy Land.9 Th eir power to</p><p>protect may be intrinsic in the manner of the Christ-miracle amulet from</p><p>•</p><p>•</p><p>•</p><p>•</p><p>•</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>56</p><p>Adana (in south-eastern Asia Minor) discussed below, and is certainly at least</p><p>associative, since we know from the inscriptions on such ‘souvenirs’, and from</p><p>pilgrim diaries and saints’ lives describing their use, that narrative scenes in</p><p>general functioned as amulets to protect the Holy Land traveller in transit, and</p><p>to heal him, by way of contact with their contagion-empowered medium, once</p><p>he got there.</p><p>Among the New Testament stories with the greatest power of ‘persuasive</p><p>analogy’ is the miracle of the Woman with the Issue of Blood, a healing that in</p><p>the Gospel account itself comes as close to the essence of Graeco-Roman magic</p><p>as any in the Bible. In a sixth- or seventh-century intaglio amulet traditionally</p><p>attributed to Egypt, the healing power of the original event is reconveyed</p><p>through image and word, and through the object’s very medium again, the sym-</p><p>pathetic ‘styptic magic’ of hematite. Th e same miracle appears among a half-</p><p>dozen others on a well-known early Byzantine gold amulet from Adana; here,</p><p>however, the Christological picture cycle as a whole may be said to function</p><p>amuletically, much like the Christological narrative cycle sometimes invoked in</p><p>the magical papyri:</p><p>Fly, hateful spirit! Christ pursues thee; the Son of God</p><p>and the Holy Spirit have outstripped thee. O God (who</p><p>healed the man at) the sheep pool, deliver from every</p><p>evil thy handmaid Joannia… O Lord Christ, Son and</p><p>Word of the living God, who healest every sickness and</p><p>every infi rmity, heal and regard thy handmaid Joannia…</p><p>Chase from her and put to fl ight all fevers and every kind</p><p>of chill, quotidian, tertian and quartan, and every evil…</p><p>Upon thy name, O Lord God, have I called, the wonderful</p><p>and exceeding glorious name, the terror of thy foes. Amen.</p><p>At its most basic level, this papyrus amulet draws its power from the invocation</p><p>of the sacred name, and thereby from the primal, magical belief that such names</p><p>share in the being and participate in the power of their bearers. But this object</p><p>is magical, as well, on a secondary, ‘aretalogical’10 level, since the power of the</p><p>deity, as if this were Isis, is also being invoked through a recitation of His most</p><p>glorious deeds. And the same is likely true of the Adana amulet and perhaps of</p><p>the armbands and the pilgrim fl asks that bear the locus sanctus picture cycle as</p><p>well, to the extent that their individual scenes may be read as sequential verses</p><p>in a visual aretalogy. Th is method of invoking sacred power is attested among</p><p>Christians as early as Origen (185?–254?), who in response to the accusation of</p><p>Celsus (c. 170–180) that his co-religionists got their power from reciting the</p><p>names of demons, countered by saying that</p><p>It is not by incantations that Christians seem to prevail</p><p>(over evil spirits), but by the name of Jesus, accompanied</p><p>M A G I C A N D V I S U A L C U L T U R E</p><p>57</p><p>by the announcement of the narratives which relate to</p><p>Him; for the repetition of these has frequently been the</p><p>means of driving demons out of men.</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 For the magical papyri see especially above, Ch. 6.</p><p>2 For gem amulets see above, Ch. 7.</p><p>3 A holy name in Hebrew which served as apotropaic, hence protective exclamation.</p><p>4 A type of mounted warrior, sometimes identifi ed with Solomon. Th is image generally sym-</p><p>bolized the triumph of good over evil.</p><p>5 Th e Much-Suff ering Eye as depicted on amulets represented the eye of the malevolent indi-</p><p>vidual who supposedly suff ered evil on account of his envy. Being a warning for envious</p><p>persons, the image was an antidote against spells.</p><p>6 Characters were cryptographic symbols inscribed next to the texts and images of the magical</p><p>gems.</p><p>7 According to a tradition traceable to a Christian text of 400 ce, demons were subject to</p><p>Solomon’s authority. Generally considered a model of wisdom, this biblical fi gure was associ-</p><p>ated with magic.</p><p>8 A Graeco-Egyptian demon, depicted on magico-medical amulets as a snake with a lion’s</p><p>head, nimbus, rays and astrological elements.</p><p>9 Such imagery comprised a series of images narrating biblical episodes. Connected with the</p><p>main pilgrimage sites of pre-Islamic Palestine, this iconography developed on ‘souvenirs’ (e.g.</p><p>oil jars, clay tokens, reliquaries) made at the sacred places and taken home by pilgrims.</p><p>10 Aretalogy is the quasi-ritual enumeration (or ‘advertisement’) of the qualities, power and</p><p>miracles of a deity. It was a cultic practice from the Hellenistic period onwards.</p><p>58</p><p>11</p><p>A N O T H E R ‘ W R E T C H E</p><p>anthropologist.</p><p>Charles Stewart is a Lecturer in the Department of Anthropology at University</p><p>College London.</p><p>Spyros N. Trojanos is Professor of Law at the University of Athens Law</p><p>School.</p><p>Agamemnon Tselikas is a philologist and palaeographer, and is Director of the</p><p>Historical and Palaeographical Archive at the National Bank of Greece.</p><p>Christina Veikou has a doctorate in social anthropology, and is a Lecturer in</p><p>the Department of History and Ethnology at the Democritean University</p><p>of Th race.</p><p>Gary Vikan is Director of the Walters Art Gallery in Baltimore, Maryland.</p><p>Nikos Xenios has a doctorate in political philosophy.</p><p>C O N T R I B U T O R S</p><p>x</p><p>P R O L O G U E</p><p>Th is book brings together the articles that appeared in four successive special</p><p>issues on magic (December 1999–December 2000) in the trimonthly Greek</p><p>journal, Archaiologia kai Technes. Mrs Anna Lambraki, the publisher of the</p><p>journal, formulated the topic. She and all of the staff at Archaiologia provided</p><p>a congenial environment in which I worked as guest editor of the ‘magic</p><p>series’. Without her unstinting support for the project from its early stages,</p><p>this compilation in English would not have been conceivable. I wish to thank</p><p>her for all this.</p><p>Mrs Lydia Hatzidakis is also to be thanked for her kind help with sundry</p><p>technical matters I had to deal with in preparing the text for Routledge.</p><p>Lastly, I am grateful to Dr Richard Stoneman who watched over the begin-</p><p>nings, and to Ms Geraldine Martin and Mr Matthew Gibbons who attended</p><p>patiently to the subsequent stages of what was a complicated multi-lingual</p><p>undertaking. I have truly been the benefi ciary of a succession of Greek and</p><p>British publishers whose commitment and enthusiasm have proven nearly</p><p>magical.</p><p>J.P.</p><p>Athens</p><p>Part I</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T</p><p>G R E E C E</p><p>3</p><p>1</p><p>I N T R O D U C T I O N</p><p>Magic in ancient Greece</p><p>J.C.B. Petropoulos</p><p>Th e Greek word μαγεία comes from the Old Persian makuç, originally a member</p><p>of an ancient Median tribe or clan which became specialized in religious func-</p><p>tions. St Matthew, as many of us know, recognized that the Magoi (in Greek)</p><p>were competent astrologers intimately familiar with the sky. But well before the</p><p>Christian era, Herodotus revealed the members of this γένος to be carrying out,</p><p>in 480 bce, actions which in other classical and post-classical sources are oft en</p><p>called γοητεία, φαρμακεία, μαγγ ανεία or even μαγεία: if Herodotus is to be</p><p>believed, these men performed unspecifi ed φαρμακεία (φαρμακεύσαντες) on the</p><p>Strymon River in Th race and slightly later appeased blustery winds off the coast</p><p>of central Greece by chanting spells (καταείδοντες).1</p><p>Magic, however, was hardly a Persian import. Its origin dated to unknown</p><p>times in the Greek world and it was largely the province of local men and</p><p>women. By the time of Heraclitus (c. 500 bce) male practitioners might be</p><p>called μάγοι2 but more oft en, at least in the case of itinerant professionals, they</p><p>had other names, such as γόης, μάντις or αγύρτης. In Chapter 4, Sarah Iles</p><p>Johnston explores the death-related activities of this exclusively male occupa-</p><p>tional class. If magic was not late, neither was it peripheral to archaic, classical</p><p>and later Greek society. As David Jordan and others have recently shown (see</p><p>Chapter 2), while Plato was expounding his (rather peripheral) philosophical</p><p>religion, mainstream Athenians were cursing their neighbours through magical</p><p>means. In time, from the Hellenistic period onwards, magic became more and</p><p>more elaborate and ‘syncretic’, borrowing much from Eastern mystery religions</p><p>and especially Near Eastern and Egyptian lore, as William Brashear shows in</p><p>Chapter 6.</p><p>How, in general, did the ancients’ magic work? For one thing, it operated</p><p>outside the sphere of public, or polis, religion; it was always private and usually</p><p>had the character of mystery, or secret, cultic practice. Second, it mobilized,</p><p>manipulated or even occasionally coerced the demons of the dead (νεκυδαίμονες)</p><p>or certain (usually underworld or chthonic) gods, and it did so in an automatic,</p><p>mechanical manner. Magic, in other words, normally lacked the element of</p><p>χάρις – of reciprocity; hence the notions of supplication or vow were absent or</p><p>extremely rare in, say, defi xiones (κατάδεσμοι). Gods and demons were either</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>4</p><p>commanded or otherwise ‘induced’ (Plato uses the ambiguous term πείθειν)3 to</p><p>carry out the spell-operator’s invariably selfi sh acts. Th ese acts were meant to be</p><p>either harmful (‘black magic’, which Circe works at fi rst; see the discussion by</p><p>Nanno Marinatos in Chapter 3) or benefi cent (compare the medicinal eff ects</p><p>of a number of magical gems, as examined by Arpad Nagy in Chapter 7).</p><p>Because of its destructive potential (which even Plato allowed),4 and also</p><p>because it worked outside the polis, oft en reversing civic religious rituals and</p><p>ideas, magic was defi nitionally an anti-social activity in the Graeco-Roman</p><p>world. Perhaps, as Brashear and Iles Johnston demonstrate, the driving force</p><p>behind magic in general was the φθόνος and the frustrations engendered in an</p><p>agonistic, competitive society. What is more, a number of laws and other texts</p><p>which date from the early fi ft h century bce onwards and which proscribe</p><p>magical acts show that the Greeks and Romans regarded this phenomenon as a</p><p>potentially harmful subset of religious activity. Yet despite its alleged anti-social</p><p>Figure 1 Medea, assisted by two maidservants, prepares her rejuvenating drug in a cauldron.</p><p>Roman copy of a relief by Alkamenes (5th century bce). Rome, Vatican Museums.</p><p>I N T R O D U C T I O N</p><p>5</p><p>‘marginality’, magic formed the penumbra or background of much high litera-</p><p>ture and even of the visual arts. It is quite probable, as Antonio Corso argues in</p><p>Chapter 5, that Praxiteles himself and other sculptors used magical processes to</p><p>create lifelike, seductive statues of mortals and gods.5</p><p>Indeed, now our own ‘rational’ twentieth century has drawn to a close, it is</p><p>high time we remembered that the ancient Greeks’ legacy to Western culture</p><p>was not only democracy and rational enquiry, but also numerous magical</p><p>beliefs, practices and fi gures such as the medieval and modern witch and</p><p>warlock.6 Whether or not it is true, as the anthropologist M. Winkelman has</p><p>argued,7 that magical traditions generally have a serious basis in parapsychol-</p><p>ogy, the study of Greek and Roman antecedents is a vast and compelling chapter</p><p>in the history of religion and society. Wilamowitz put it well: He was eager, he</p><p>said, to study Greek magic ‘in order to understand my Hellenes, to be able to</p><p>judge them fairly’.8</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 Hdt. 7. 113–14; 191. Th e term μαγεία is fi rst attested in a dismissive sense in Gorgias DK 82</p><p>B 11, 10 (Eλένης εγκώμιον); but in Th phr. HP 9. 15. 7 the plural μαγεĩαι, is used in a neutral</p><p>sense for ‘magic’.</p><p>2 Heracl. DK 12 B14 employs the term μάγοι (in the plural) in a pejorative sense suggestive of</p><p>a charlatan as do Soph. (OT 387 μάγον… μηχανορράφον) and other authors. Th e plural form</p><p>μάγοι may be attested in a positive, technical sense in the Derveni Papyrus, dating from the</p><p>late fourth century bce.</p><p>3 Rep. 364 B-C; Laws 10. 909 B.</p><p>4 Rep., loc. cit.; Laws, loc. cit.; however, at Laws 11. 933 B Plato is uncertain about this</p><p>potential.</p><p>5 Picasso is reported once to have performed a quasi-magical ceremony before moulding clay.</p><p>He also talked of his creative powers in magical or near-magical terms. See Berger 1965:</p><p>99–101; cf. also below, Ch. 23.</p><p>6 For instance, since L. Spohr’s Faust of 1815 (based on the Faust legend but ultimately in large</p><p>part on Graeco-Roman sorcery), about sixty-fi ve operas on the same theme have been com-</p><p>posed. Romantic literature and ballet also abound in related themes.</p><p>7 Winkelman 1982.</p><p>8 Von Wilamowitz-Moellendorf 1931: 10.</p><p>6</p><p>2</p><p>T H E ‘ W R E T C H E D S U B J E C T ’</p><p>O F A N C I E N T G R E E K M A G I C</p><p>D</p><p>S U B J E C T ’</p><p>Th e demons of the world</p><p>David Jordan</p><p>In Chapter 2 of this volume, I discussed the oft en disappointing reaction of schol-</p><p>ars to the study of Greek magic.1 Th at subject, ‘wretched’ though it may be con-</p><p>sidered, is a rich mine for the history of ideas. Here I discuss another concept that</p><p>we fi nd in magical texts and popular superstition: the demons who control this</p><p>world. It too is important for intellectual history but is equally scorned today.</p><p>One of our main sources for late Greek demonology is a short but elegantly</p><p>written Platonizing dialogue, Timotheos or on Demons, which the manuscripts</p><p>ascribe to Michael Psellos (1018–1081). In previous generations, scholars have</p><p>studied it and searched for the sources of its ideas about demons.2 Th e problem</p><p>became immensely more complicated when the French Byzantinist Paul Gautier</p><p>demonstrated in 1980 that the dialogue was not by Psellos at all.3 Th is discovery by</p><p>no means lessens the importance of the work, but its author, who evidently belonged</p><p>to a highly literary, intellectual stratum, is now unknown, and in fact all we can say</p><p>about his chronology is that he was a Christian who necessarily wrote sometime</p><p>before the last years of the thirteenth century, the date of the oldest extant manu-</p><p>script of the work. Th ere are two speakers: Timotheos, who is a priest at</p><p>Constantinople, and Th rax, who has returned from some time spent among Satanists</p><p>and demon-worshippers. Timotheos is, of course, eager for details. Th rax replies that</p><p>not all his own knowledge is fi rst-hand: much of it comes from one Markos of</p><p>Mesopotamia, once an adept at these pagan rites but now a monk ‘in that part of the</p><p>Chersonese that abuts Greece’.4 Markos tells Th rax of six categories of demons, which</p><p>he lists in the order of their location, from the Empyrean down to the centre of the</p><p>earth. Th e uppermost inhabit an area known as the ‘fi ery’ (diapyron), the second cat-</p><p>egory the ‘airy’ (aerion), the third the ‘earthly’ (chthonion), the fourth the ‘watery’</p><p>(evidently fresh and salt: hydraion and enalion), the fi ft h the ‘sub-earthly’ (hypochtho-</p><p>nion) and the sixth the ‘light-hating and insensible’ (misophaes and dysaisthêton).</p><p>No such Markos of Mesopotamia is otherwise known to us. He is no doubt</p><p>fi ctitious, but even so we are meant to believe that he is speaking from a knowl-</p><p>T H E D E M O N S O F T H E W O R L D</p><p>59</p><p>edge of a tradition of beliefs about demons. Indeed, in the poem (lines 32–3)</p><p>that precedes the hymns proper in manu scripts of the Orphic Hymns, we fi nd a</p><p>very similar list of demons:</p><p>Demons heavenly (ouranious) and airy</p><p>and earthly and sub-earthly and fi re-dwelling (empyriphoitous).</p><p>In this introductory poem, the order is slightly diff erent, and the ‘fi re-dwellers’</p><p>have an odd position in the list, replacing the last ‘Markan’ category, the ‘light-</p><p>hating’, which is presumably even deeper in the earth than the ‘sub-earthly’. Th e</p><p>striking term misophaes had long been known to philologists, but only from the</p><p>phrase ‘light-hating world’, quoted by the neo-Platonist Proklos (fi ft h century),</p><p>in his commentary on Plato’s Timaeus (III 325.32), as being from the Chaldaean</p><p>Oracles (fi rst or second century). Th en came the publication, in 1927, of a manu-</p><p>script of exor cisms in Greek, copied in May 1710 and now preserved in the</p><p>National Library at Athens (MS. 825).5 One of the exorcisms is labelled ‘Prayer</p><p>of our holy father Ephrem of Syria’. Th is is the fourth-century saint whose feast</p><p>the Greek Orthodox Church celebrates on 28 January. It is diffi cult to know</p><p>how much, if any, of the exorcism is his own work, for he wrote only in Syriac,</p><p>and also there is a reference to the seven ecumenical synods (fo. 31b), the last of</p><p>which did not take place until 787. If the reference is a later addition and the lan-</p><p>guage of the exorcism not Ephrem’s own, we may wonder whether much else is</p><p>original. On fo. 29a, in any case, there is the phrase: ‘Drive from him every evil</p><p>and unclean demon, be it airy or land-born (chersaion) or watery or fi ery or</p><p>earthly or light-hating, and send it to places dry and trackless.’ Th e ‘places dry and</p><p>trackless’ evidently belong to the same tradition as the ‘Headache Prayer’ dis-</p><p>cussed in Chapter 2, but the categories seem basically to match those of ‘Markos’.</p><p>Th e correspondence is not exact, however: like the Orphic ‘fi re-dwellers’, the</p><p>‘fi ery’, here between the ‘land-born or watery’ and ‘earthly’, seems to be in the</p><p>wrong place relative to ‘Markos’, and I assume that the ‘land-born or watery’</p><p>somehow corresponds to the ‘fresh- or salt-water’ of ‘Markos’. What shows that</p><p>his and ‘Ephrem’s’ lists are no doubt from a single tradition is their use of the rare</p><p>word ‘light-hating’. Th at tradition, whatever it was, poses an interesting enigma.</p><p>One of my vices as a scholar, let me confess, is to work on too many projects</p><p>at the same time, but this can produce the occasional reward. While wondering</p><p>about the intellectual context of ‘Markos’ and ‘Ephrem’ and the phrase ‘land-</p><p>born or watery’, I happened to be reading, in Preisendanz’ edition of the magical</p><p>papyri, a Christian prayer recorded by the sixth-century poet and scribe</p><p>Dioskoros of Aphrodito in Upper Egypt.6 In its main request, ‘Protect me from</p><p>every evil spirit and subject to me every spirit … (and all demons) earthly</p><p>(epigaia), sub-earthly (hypogaia), watery (enydra), and land-born, and every</p><p>shadow’, I noticed the same phrase. Th e ‘earthly’ and the ‘sub-earthly’ of the</p><p>papyrus must be the inhabitants of the ‘earthly’ and the ‘sub-earthly’, respec-</p><p>tively, of ‘Markos’, and for the last category of ‘Markos’ and ‘Ephrem’, i.e. the</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>60</p><p>‘light-hating’, Dioskoros’ text has substituted a generalizing phrase. I accord-</p><p>ingly looked elsewhere among the magical papyri for other lists of demons by</p><p>category.</p><p>One of the papyri contains a wonderful exorcism ascribed to the third-</p><p>century magician Pibechis.7 It has many Jewish elements, but there is a thick</p><p>Christian overlay, for one is to exorcize the demon ‘by the king of the Hebrews,</p><p>Jesus’. A sentence runs: ‘I adjure you by the seal that Solomon placed on Jeremiah’s</p><p>mouth, and he spoke. You speak too, whoever you are, heavenly (epouranion) or</p><p>airy, earthly (epigeion), sub-earthly, Ebousaion, chersaion, or Pharisaion.’ In these</p><p>last words the copyist, perhaps distracted for some reason, evidently thought</p><p>that he had a reference to the tribe of Jebusees (Iebousaioi) whom the Jews found</p><p>in the Promised Land (e.g. Exodus 3.8, 3.18) and to the Pharisees (Pharisaioi) of</p><p>the New Testament. What, if anything, he thought the papyrus’ chersaion meant</p><p>is unclear. In any case, ‘Pibechis’’ ‘heavenly’ evidently corresponds to ‘Markos’’</p><p>‘fi ery’, the ‘sub-earthly or earthly’ (as one category) to his ‘sub-earthly’, the</p><p>Ebousaion or chersaion to ‘Ephrem’s’ ‘land-born or watery’ and the Pharisaion</p><p>conceivably to the misophaes, the ‘light-hating’, a rare term that an ignorant or</p><p>careless scribe might easily corrupt.</p><p>Another papyrus has a prayer addressed to an invisible god with an Egyptian-</p><p>sounding name, Osoronnophris, who is also called ‘Headless’ and ‘Adonaï’.8 Th e</p><p>prayer ends: ‘Subject all demons to me, in order that obedient to me shall be</p><p>every demon heavenly and etherial (aitherios) and earthly and sub-earthly and</p><p>land-born and watery and every enchantment and whip of God.’ Again, if we</p><p>allow ‘Ephrem’s’ ‘land-born or watery’ to correspond to ‘Markos’’ ‘fresh- and</p><p>salt-water’, we have, even if the order is not the same, the fi rst fi ve ‘Markan’ cate-</p><p>gories, followed by a generalizing phrase.</p><p>As Table 11.1, this is all a little easier to see.</p><p>‘Markos’ ‘Euphrem’ Dioskoros ‘Pibechis’ Prayer to</p><p>Osoronnophris</p><p>1 fi ery 1 airy 1 heavenly 1 heavenly</p><p>2 airy 2 land-born 2 airy 2 etherial</p><p>or watery</p><p>3 earthly 1 earthly 3 earthly 3 earthly</p><p>4 fresh- and salt- 3 fi ery 3 fresh- and salt- 4 sub-earthly</p><p>4 sub-earthly</p><p>water water (hypogion) or (hypogeios)</p><p>earthly</p><p>(katachthonion)</p><p>5 sub-earthly 4 earthly 2 sub-earthly 5 Eboussaion or 5 land-born</p><p>land-born and watery</p><p>6 light-hating 5 light-hating 4 every shadow 6 Pharisaion 6 every incant-</p><p>and insensible ation and whip</p><p>of God</p><p>Table 11.1 [table title here]</p><p>Note: Th e numerals show the order within the individual lists.</p><p>T H E D E M O N S O F T H E W O R L D</p><p>61</p><p>Th anks to the late Athenian manuscript with ‘Ephrem’s’ exorcism, we are put</p><p>onto a path that enables us to observe that ‘Markos’’ categories of demons fi nd</p><p>ready parallels in the magical papyri, chiefl y in prayers or ex orcisms with Jewish</p><p>or Christian overtones. Its word ‘light-hating’ points even farther, however. As I</p><p>wrote above, the adjective is known from the phrase ‘light-hating world’ quoted</p><p>by Proklos from the Chaldaean Oracles.9 Th ese last, attested today only in frag-</p><p>mentary quotations, consist of hexameters dating to the fi rst and second centu-</p><p>ries of our era and attributed to one Julian ‘the theurge’; like certain of the</p><p>Platonic dialogues, they were the subject of a commentary by Proklos. Little</p><p>over a generation ago, we knew none of the context of the phrase ‘light-hating</p><p>world’. In 1969, however, H.D. Saff rey published, from an important tenth-</p><p>century manuscript of Aristotle, a previously unnoticed scholium consisting of</p><p>four lines of verse entitled simply logion, a term oft en used to refer to the</p><p>Chaldaean hexameters:</p><p>Do not hasten towards the turbulent, light-hating world of matter,</p><p>where are murder and dissensions and the generation of troublesome vapours</p><p>and parching sicknesses and putrefactions and eliminations: he who is going</p><p>to cherish Father Nous must fl ee these things.10</p><p>One of the principal forces in the cosmology of the Chaldaean Oracles is the</p><p>‘Father Nous’ in line 4. Th e lower, light-hating ‘cosmos’, we may infer, is part of</p><p>that same system and stands in opposition, perhaps as the extreme contrast, to</p><p>‘Father Nous’. We may cautiously ask whether all six classes of demons have their</p><p>place in this ‘Chaldaean’ theology. Four of the classes, in any case, obviously cor-</p><p>respond to the traditional four cosmic elements: fi re, air, earth and water. But in</p><p>his commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, Proklos, drawing on Plato as his source,</p><p>tells us that the number six is more appropriate for the human being: s/he has a</p><p>front and a back, an above and a below, and a left and a right. Th erefore the uni-</p><p>verse, of which man is the microcosm, must also have six corresponding parts. It</p><p>is in Proklos’ discussion of this doctrine that he quotes the phrase ‘light-hating</p><p>world’ from the hexameters above, as if to illustrate what Plato has just espoused.</p><p>It is tempting to think that when the author of the Timotheos or on Demons</p><p>invented the character Markos who told Th rax about the six categories of</p><p>demons, his attribution of a Mesopotamian origin to Markos was his hint to us</p><p>that Markos got his knowledge from the Chaldaean Oracles.</p><p>Here too we can say more and shall end our discussion, as in Chapter 2, with</p><p>a question. Th e traditional four elements, we are told, go back to Empedokles.11</p><p>Even before the publication of the Paris manuscript with its oracular poetry,</p><p>lines 2 and 3, with their description of the ills of the ‘light-hating world’, were</p><p>already known from Proklos himself, who, in his commentary on Plato’s</p><p>Republic, attributes them to Empedokles. Th is at least is what we read in the</p><p>manuscripts of that commentary. As Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorf has</p><p>shown,12 the manuscripts of Proklos’ work are incomplete, however, and report</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>62</p><p>only excerpts of an original longer commentary, now lost, on the Republic;</p><p>Proklos’ source for the two lines, he argued, was probably not in fact Empedokles,</p><p>but some other body of writing that Proklos was in the habit of quoting along-</p><p>side Empedokles, a source that the compilers of the manuscripts’ excerpts of</p><p>Proklos neglected to record. Th e likeliest would be the Chaldaean Oracles,</p><p>which indeed Proklos quotes in the same breath with Empedokles to support</p><p>his discussion in his commentary on the Timaeus:</p><p>Th us too in the Republic (IX 621A) he refers to the river Lethe as being the</p><p>entire generative nature, in which there is Forgetfulness (lêthê) and ‘the</p><p>meadow of Bewilderment’, as Empedokles says (fr. 121 Diels),13 and ‘the tur-</p><p>bulence of matter’ and ‘the light-hating world’, as the gods [i.e. the Chaldaean</p><p>oracles] say.</p><p>For the student of ancient philosophy, one of the most important of recent</p><p>developments has been the publication of a papyrus from Panopolis in Egypt.14</p><p>Its date is the second century before our era, and it contains several columns of</p><p>the poetry of Empedokles – the work itself, not merely extracts from it. Scholars</p><p>must now rethink their assumptions about the infl uence of Empedokles on later</p><p>philosophy, for the papyrus shows, beyond any doubt, that his work was availa-</p><p>ble and could be read and enjoyed even in the early centuries of the Roman</p><p>Empire. It would certainly have been available to the composer of the Chaldaean</p><p>Oracles. When we reread the Oracles and ponder again the question of the</p><p>sources of their doctrines, should we not now bear in mind the possibility that</p><p>even though Proklos himself may have taken his description of the ‘light-hating</p><p>world’ and his information about the six divisions of the world not from</p><p>Empedokles but from the Oracles, the composer of the Oracles himself was</p><p>drawing on the doctrines of Empedokles and that those six categories of demons</p><p>that we saw in the ‘Markos’ of the Pseudo-Psellos, in ‘Ephrem’ and in the magical</p><p>papyri originated in the teachings of that most remarkable of pre-Socratic</p><p>philosophers?</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 See above, pp. 6–9.</p><p>2 In particular Svobada 1927.</p><p>3 Gautier 1980: 105–94.</p><p>4 Ibid., 148 n. 29 suggests that this may refer to the Chalkidike. Have we an allusion to Mt</p><p>Athos?</p><p>5 Delatte 1927: 250–62. It was Delatte who prepared the Athenian fascicle (Codices athenienses</p><p>[Brussels 1924]) of the Catalogus codicum astrologorum graecorum referred to in Ch. 2 above.</p><p>6 Preisendanz 1974, no. 13a. Th e prayer has been re-edited by MacCoull 1987: 95–7; see now</p><p>Jordan 2001: 87–90 (the words ένυδρα σκιάν form an iambic trimeter). A good treatment of</p><p>Dioskoros’ life and cultural milieu is MacCoull 1988.</p><p>7 Preisendanz 1974, IV 3007–86. For the magician see Preisendanz 1941: 1310–12.</p><p>T H E D E M O N S O F T H E W O R L D</p><p>63</p><p>8 Preisendanz 1974, V 99–172, esp. 165–70.</p><p>9 Th e most recent and convenient edition is Budé 1971.</p><p>10 Saff rey 1969: 59–72, esp. 64–7.</p><p>11 For a good and sympathetic recent account of Empedokles and his doctrine, see Kingsley</p><p>1995.</p><p>12 Wilamowitz-Moellendorf 1929: 626–61, 637–8; cf. Saff rey 1969: 65–7.</p><p>13 Th e full verse, which Proklos quotes in his commentary on Plato’s Republic (II 157.24), is:</p><p>‘through the meadow of Bewilderment in darkness they stray’.</p><p>14 Martin and Primavesi 1999.</p><p>64</p><p>12</p><p>T H E M A G I C I A N V I G R I N O S</p><p>A N D H I S V I C T I M</p><p>A case of magic from the Life of St Andrew the Fool</p><p>George Th . Calofonos</p><p>By following an extreme and quite rare form of Christian ascesis, the ‘fools’ –</p><p>lunatics, that is, for Christ’s sake – oft en found themselves beyond the limits of</p><p>what was socially and religiously acceptable.1 Th eir stereotyped behaviour,</p><p>which even today is recognized as a symptom of mental illness, featured sudden</p><p>swings from aggression to extreme exhilaration, refusal to wear clothing, disre-</p><p>gard for rules of propriety and hygiene and aimless wandering; owing to such</p><p>behaviour, their contemporaries considered them possessed and treated them</p><p>as social outcasts, a fact which helped them gain eternal life. Th eir saintliness</p><p>was known to only a few – perhaps only to their biographer or to no one at all –</p><p>and the statistically improbable possibility</p><p>of a saint lurking behind any outcast</p><p>and possessed person undermined the certainties of social conventions, stress-</p><p>ing the deceptiveness of appearances.</p><p>Th e Life of St Andrew the Fool is also in many ways a deceptive text. Concerning</p><p>a fi ft h-century Constantinopolitan saint, it purports to have been written by a</p><p>contemporary biographer personally acquainted with Andrew. In reality it is a</p><p>later work, based on the surviving Life of another fool, that of Symeon (a</p><p>seventh-century work concerning a sixth-century saint). Composed most prob-</p><p>ably in the tenth century,2 the Life of Andrew is largely a hagiographic novel, in</p><p>which the unconventionality of the fool’s life-history is counterbalanced by the</p><p>utterly conventional presence of Epiphanios’ aristocratic and pious student,</p><p>who subsequently became Patriarch of Constantinople. Th e elegance of the epi-</p><p>sodes is complemented by the edifying and, therefore, didactic aims of the</p><p>author. Here, I shall concentrate on an extensive episode involving magic in this</p><p>text, a fascinating story of demonic deception, where nothing is what it seems</p><p>(ll. 2425–47, ed. Rydén):</p><p>A pious woman, despairing of her unfaithful husband, who not only dissi-</p><p>pated his fortune through his regular visits to brothels, but had acquired a</p><p>V I G R I N O S A N D H I S V I C T I M</p><p>65</p><p>permanent mistress, thought of fi nding a spiritual father to help her bring</p><p>him to his senses. Following the advice of a friend, she approached a certain</p><p>Vigrinos, a man who could fulfi l any of her wishes. Having waited patiently</p><p>for her turn while a large crowd appealed to this man, she stated her problem</p><p>and asked for his help, promising to reward him according to her means. He</p><p>asked her what she wanted her husband to suff er: he could make him impo-</p><p>tent, bring about his death or order a demon to possess him. Th e woman</p><p>answered that all she desired was for him to make her husband love her and</p><p>her alone. Vigrinos assured her that he would do so, and asked her to have an</p><p>oil-lamp, a wick, a girdle and a fi re ready at home, where she was to expect him</p><p>on Wednesday. In the meantime he proved his powers to her by relating her</p><p>entire life from birth up to that time.</p><p>On Wednesday he visited her home. Mumbling unintelligible words, he fi lled</p><p>the oil-lamp with oil, inserted the wick, and having placed it in front of the</p><p>icons of the house, he lit it. Th en, again whispering certain invocations, he</p><p>tied four knots on the girdle and gave it to the woman, telling her always to</p><p>wear it with her undergarments. As payment he demanded a trimesio,3 which</p><p>he would distribute to the poor. She gave it to him, and promised him more if</p><p>she were to see results. Indeed, from that day on her husband stopped desiring</p><p>other women and became a model spouse.</p><p>Within six days, however, the woman started having disturbing dreams. In</p><p>the fi rst, she found herself alone in a plain. Suddenly, she was approached by</p><p>an elderly Ethiopian who told her he was her new husband and was consumed</p><p>by the desire for her and tried to rape her. While fi ghting him off , she woke up</p><p>terrifi ed and wondered what it was that had brought the devil so near to her.</p><p>She soon fell asleep again, only to fi nd herself in the bosom of a large black</p><p>dog which caressed her like a human and kissed her on the mouth. She woke</p><p>up disgusted, crying out, ‘Alas, Satan has fallen in love with me.’ A few days</p><p>later, she dreamt she was at the hippodrome and was kissing the ancient</p><p>statues which adorned it. Feeling a brazen attraction towards them, she</p><p>started embracing the statues, trying to make love to them. In another dream</p><p>she again saw a dog which took her away. In yet another she was consuming</p><p>the fi lthiest of animals: lizards, snakes, frogs and others, even worse. Being</p><p>unable to rest in her sleep, and not knowing what else to do, she began fasting</p><p>and praying, asking God to rid her of these affl ictions.</p><p>In the course of her fasts she again had a dream. She stood before her icons</p><p>and prayed, but they were positioned the wrong way, so that she was facing</p><p>west instead of east. While she prayed, a young man appeared before her to</p><p>reveal the cause of her tribulations. He showed her the icons and told her:</p><p>‘See what this ghastly magician has done to you.’ And then she noticed that</p><p>the icons were covered in excrement and gave off an incredible stench. Th e</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>66</p><p>youth revealed to her that the cause of all this was Vigrinos, who had dese-</p><p>crated the icons, turning them into plain wood and paint. ‘Th e grace of God’,</p><p>he told her, ‘has departed, not being able to stand the demons’ stench.’ Th e</p><p>woman noticed that the oil-lamp was full of dog’s urine, and that the name of</p><p>the Antichrist had been carved on the wick’s base, and above it were the words</p><p>‘Demons’ sacrifi ce’. She woke up in tears, pitying herself for her gullibility.</p><p>Wondering what to do, she turned to the young Epiphanios, whose piety she</p><p>well knew. He advised her to burn the girdle with the knots, break the oil-</p><p>lamp and give him the defi led icons, although he knew that the demons would</p><p>thereby turn against him. Having done what Epiphanios advised, the woman</p><p>dreamt of the Ethiopian covered in burns, standing at the threshold of her</p><p>home, not daring to come in. When another Ethiopian, who was passing by,</p><p>asked him how he had ended up in this predicament, he bewailed the fact that</p><p>the wife to whom his master had bound him with four knots, was no longer</p><p>his because of Epiphanios. Th ereupon an army of red demons attacked</p><p>Epiphanios in his sleep. At fi rst they tempted him with erotic dreams which</p><p>consumed him with desire, but his virtuous nature helped him resist. Th en</p><p>they took the shape of wild beasts which terrifi ed him by chasing him and</p><p>threatening to devour him, but Epiphanios, summoning the weapon of prayer,</p><p>raised his arms to heaven, and then, in a fl ash, a huge hunting net fell from</p><p>above and the red demons scattered in terror.</p><p>Th e next morning the woman looked for Epiphanios to tell him she had got</p><p>rid of the demons, and to thank him. He turned to St Andrew the Fool, his</p><p>spiritual father, who already knew of the case in all its details. Answering his</p><p>disciple’s questions, Andrew revealed to him that demons oft en employed</p><p>magic for apparently benign purposes but with the ultimate aim of making</p><p>unsuspecting persons susceptible to their infl uence. He explained the symbol-</p><p>ism of the ritual which the magician Vigrinos had followed to entrap his</p><p>victim. He had used the magical counterparts of the components of Christian</p><p>baptism but with the aim of nullifying it. Th e oil-lamp symbolized the font;</p><p>the water and oil therein, the water of the font and the holy oil; the wick, the</p><p>candles which were lit during the sacrament; the girdle, fi nally, stood for the</p><p>ribbon worn by the novice. Th e saint also explained to his disciple the way in</p><p>which the magician managed to defi le and neutralize the holy icons. He</p><p>secretly spread on them his pulverized excrement, which he also placed inside</p><p>the oil-lamp, using it as his personal sacrifi ce to the demons. With these expla-</p><p>nations and an analysis of the means by which magicians look into the past,</p><p>this highly informative if somewhat disgusting episode draws to a close.</p><p>Th e point of this story, which as noted, was written in the tenth century, appar-</p><p>ently was to provide support for the Church’s established position that there</p><p>was no such thing as good or bad magic, a position which, as Spyros Trojanos</p><p>V I G R I N O S A N D H I S V I C T I M</p><p>67</p><p>demonstrates in Chapter 9 of this volume, was introduced in secular legislation</p><p>of the same period. Th e seemingly benefi cent act of bringing an unfaithful</p><p>husband to his senses by relatively harmless means – the lighting of an oil-lamp</p><p>in front of icons and the tying of four knots in a girdle by an ostensibly pious</p><p>person – in reality paves the way to the forces</p><p>of darkness. Th is, however, is not</p><p>easy to understand.</p><p>Unlike Andrew the Fool – a social outcast possessed by demons – the magi-</p><p>cian Vigrinos presents himself as a sought-aft er and devout person. People fl ock</p><p>to his house, and he supposedly donates his fees to the poor. Th e woman’s deal-</p><p>ings with him do not appear to be marginal or secret, but take place quite</p><p>openly. Her friend’s recommendations concerning the magician, her waiting in</p><p>his ante-room for her turn, the rehearsal of her problem, the negotiation of a</p><p>fee, the promise of an additional payment should the procedure prove eff ective:</p><p>this entire process appears to be a normal part of her everyday life. And when</p><p>the magical act is performed, bringing about the desired result, the woman does</p><p>not even realize she did anything wrong. All would have been fi ne save for her</p><p>dreams.</p><p>It is only a series of repulsive erotic dreams that indicates to the woman that</p><p>something is wrong. Th e infatuated Ethiopian and the wild black dog appearing</p><p>in her sleep are such potent symbols that she realizes that a demon is pursuing</p><p>her.4 Initially, the dreamer attempts to resist this pursuit. However, as the dreams</p><p>proceed, her own desires are aroused. She now experiences in her sleep an impure</p><p>attraction to the ancient statues of the hippodrome, a place traditionally associ-</p><p>ated with magic.5 Th e statues, traditionally haunted by ancient magicians, were</p><p>off ensive to people of the time, because of both their demonic nature and their</p><p>indecent nudity;6 these become objects of her desire. Th e woman’s gradual sur-</p><p>render to the demon is also stressed by dreams of boundless desire for every kind</p><p>of fi lthy food.7 Epiphanios’ dreams, caused by the army of red demons, also</p><p>belong to the demonic domain. Like the woman’s dreams, they refer to the</p><p>Platonic theory of the tripartite soul, as adapted by Evagrios of Pontus to the</p><p>Christian concept of the demonic dreaming. Apart from the erotic dreams</p><p>arising when demons attack the appetitive, Epiphanios also suff ers from terrify-</p><p>ing dreams of wild beasts, which, according to Evagrios, correspond to an attack</p><p>on the passionate part of the soul (PG 40, col. 1245–8). Unlike the anonymous</p><p>woman, Epiphanios does not simply endure the demons’ attacks nor succumb</p><p>to desire or terror. He succeeds in facing the demons in the same dream by</p><p>taking action, which is a mark of great sanctity according to John of Sinai, the</p><p>eminent ascetic writer of the seventh century (26.37, PG 88).</p><p>Th e unfortunate woman, on the other hand, is powerless to resist the demon’s</p><p>attacks in her sleep, nor does she know what really caused them. Th e revelation</p><p>comes again through dreams, God-sent this time. Her guide in the dream, the</p><p>young man, is obviously her guardian angel, as oft en happens in dreams recorded</p><p>in contemporary sources.8 Th e magnitude of the disaster is gradually revealed to</p><p>her: fi rst, the reverse direction of her prayer (she is facing west), then the actual</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>68</p><p>state of her icons (covered with excrement) and fi nally the cause of all this (the</p><p>satanic oil-lamp fi lled with dog urine). Th e demonic – i.e., the result of magic –</p><p>is expressed by a reversal of Christian terms: black instead of white, west instead</p><p>of east, stench instead of fragrance. Th e reality of appearances is expressed only</p><p>in the dream. What is more, the same is true of the next dream, where the demon</p><p>confesses his defeat aft er the magical implements are destroyed. Here another</p><p>reversal is apparent: the four knots on the woman’s girdle did not ‘tie’ her</p><p>husband to her, as one would expect, but rather bound the voluptuous demon</p><p>himself.</p><p>At the end of the episode Andrew explains theologically, or rather demon-</p><p>ologically, the inverted world of magic adumbrated through dreams. Th e</p><p>magician’s ritual constitutes the cancellation of the Christian ritual. By means</p><p>of a kind of symbolic Satanic liturgy he submits his victim to a ‘black’ baptism,</p><p>which denies her the protection provided by Christian baptism. In order to</p><p>make the catastrophe complete, he defi les more objects of protection, the</p><p>holy icons of his victim’s home, by spraying them with his own dried excre-</p><p>ment, which he also burns as a form of Satanic incense intended to attract</p><p>demons.</p><p>Th e existence of Satanic icons and ‘black’ rituals, which conceal, behind the</p><p>façade of a Christian devotional act, an appeal to demons and the performance</p><p>of magic, is already mentioned by Neilos the Hermit, a fi ft h-century Church</p><p>Father:</p><p>Having constructed the icons of certain supposed saints, the magicians</p><p>(charmers), aft er taking certain female demons hostages, insert them, by some</p><p>trick, on the back of the icons, and when they wish to make a woman commit</p><p>adultery, or intend to kill someone, or make a horse weak, they observe an</p><p>accursed and execrable fast and lie awake before the icon, having lit candles</p><p>and lamps, and remain there, calling upon the demons until they appear.</p><p>(PG 79, col. 308)</p><p>Th ese magicians closely resemble Vigrinos. Th ey conceal their demonic aims</p><p>behind a false piety: instigating adultery, magical murder, or the annihilation</p><p>by magical means of the opposing team at the races, which was very common in</p><p>the early period. Vigrinos had himself suggested solutions of a similar malice to</p><p>the deceived wife. Of course the icons here are fakes, prepared in advance for</p><p>magical purposes. Nevertheless, the desecration of the woman’s icons by</p><p>Vigrinos ultimately produced the same result: the Christian icons lost God’s</p><p>grace and attracted the demons. It is a telling detail that when Epiphanios takes</p><p>the desecrated icons, he is aware that he will bring the demons to him. Th e rest</p><p>of the ritual – the lighting of lamps and the invocations before the magical</p><p>icons, as well as the vigil and fast – just like Vigrinos’ ritual, does not in the least</p><p>betray its demonic nature, thus providing the magicians not only with a cover</p><p>but also with the ability to deceive the gullible faithful.</p><p>V I G R I N O S A N D H I S V I C T I M</p><p>69</p><p>Another story, from the eleventh century this time, presents an icon which</p><p>participates in an activity that straddles faith and magic. It is the icon of Christ</p><p>‘Antiphonetes’, which, as Michael Psellos (6.64–7, ed. Renauld) informs us, was</p><p>made by the empress Zoë Porphyrogennete (see Figure 6). She spent all her</p><p>days preparing rare aromatic substances, which – Psellos intimates – she burnt</p><p>before this icon9 (one hopes their composition diff ered from Vigrinos’ perverse</p><p>‘incense’). Zoë, according to Psellos, used the icon to foresee the future, asking</p><p>it questions and receiving answers from the changes in its colours. Despite</p><p>Psellos’ assurances that all this was the product of excessive piety, he clearly</p><p>implies that the empress was involved in magical acts. Her construction of the</p><p>icon, as well as her use of special incense, were no doubt strong indications of</p><p>guilt to the suspicious reader of the time.</p><p>Like the empress Zoë and the anonymous humble heroine of the episode in</p><p>question, women oft en play a leading role in episodes involving magic in ancient</p><p>and Byzantine literature. Th eir limited social role did not give them much infl u-</p><p>ence, and this applied even in the case of the empress, who spent the greater</p><p>part of her life secluded in her quarters. Magic must therefore have been one of</p><p>the few solutions on off er to gain some control over their lives, as indeed was</p><p>piety. Th e deceived wife who had recourse to Vigrinos had no other means of</p><p>reacting to her husband’s adultery, a situation which also had fi nancial reper-</p><p>cussions in as much as the husband was squandering their fortune on whores.</p><p>Beyond the possibility of revenge (by rendering the husband impotent or pos-</p><p>sessed), the magician off ered her the chance of killing him. Th is would have</p><p>been quite acceptable to other women in her predicament, in an era when</p><p>divorce was not available.</p><p>Th e unnamed heroine did not desire anything of the kind. She only wanted</p><p>her husband back. She did not even suspect that Vigrinos was a magician. She</p><p>was a victim of her own gullibility, which, in any case, seems rather exaggerated.</p><p>Even if in another episode of his Life, Andrew the Fool himself threatened a</p><p>sinner with possession (in order to bring him to his senses), Vigrinos’ off er to</p><p>have her husband put to death ought to have aroused her suspicions. We must</p><p>not, however, overlook the prominence, in this episode, of the woman’s salva-</p><p>tion from the demons’ infl uence, which Epiphanios’ intervention achieves;</p><p>hence she has to appear devout and consequently worthy of salvation, while</p><p>being a victim of the magician.</p><p>On the other hand, in a world where the Christian faith was a given and</p><p>not a matter of choice, the boundaries between faith and gullibility, piety and</p><p>superstition, prayer and magical incantation, miracle and magic, were not</p><p>always strictly defi ned.10 It is possible that the author of the Life wished to</p><p>point out precisely this to his readers, thereby off ering us a glimpse of how</p><p>magic operated in practice, or even of how a devout Byzantine may have</p><p>thought it functioned.</p><p>Figure 6 Th e empress Zoë (detail): Was she really a witch? Mosaic, 11th century, Haghia Sophia,</p><p>Istanbul</p><p>V I G R I N O S A N D H I S V I C T I M</p><p>71</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 On fools see Angelidi 1993.</p><p>2 On the Life in general and the problems of dating it more particularly, see vol. I of the Rydén</p><p>edition.</p><p>3 Byzantine coin.</p><p>4 For the appearance in dreams of demons in the form of Ethiopians (meaning blacks) see</p><p>Karpozilos 1993: 74–6.</p><p>5 Magoulias 1967.</p><p>6 Mango 1963.</p><p>7 Republic 9. 476A-D. Similar bulimic dreams of unclean foods are mentioned in Plato.</p><p>8 As e.g. the dream of Emperor Romanos I (Th eophanes Continuatus 438–9, ed. Bekker), or</p><p>that of Romanos II as appears from the correspondence of the dignitary Th eodore Daph-</p><p>nopates (letters 15 and 16, ed. Darrouzés-Westerink).</p><p>9 Here I follow Duff y 1995.</p><p>10 See Kazhdan 1995 on the problem of distinguishing miracle from magic; also Fögen 1995,</p><p>on the changes between the early and late Byzantine periods.</p><p>72</p><p>13</p><p>S P E L L S A N D E X O R C I S M S I N</p><p>T H R E E P O S T - B Y Z A N T I N E</p><p>M A N U S C R I P T S</p><p>Agamemnon Tselikas</p><p>Th e so-called magic texts – spells or exorcisms – have a long tradition going</p><p>back to the dawn of time. We fi nd them in ancient Greek inscriptions, on scrolls</p><p>and in many manuscripts from the Byzantine and post-Byzantine eras, and</p><p>especially in medical codices and some prayer-books. Th is co-existence is</p><p>explained by the fact that many compilers of medical prescriptions and authors</p><p>of medical collections considered it essential to copy these texts as additional</p><p>help in relieving the pain and anxiety of others in the face of the unknown and</p><p>the uncontrollable.</p><p>From time to time, such texts have been the object of study by philologists,</p><p>but chiefl y by folklorists and ethnologists. We are still far from having a full</p><p>overview of these texts and a systematic classifi cation into chronological</p><p>periods, and we are unable to determine their precise origins. It is nevertheless</p><p>clear, even from a cursory reading, that during the Hellenistic period and the</p><p>subsequent Roman domination in the East the beliefs and superstitions of</p><p>many Mediterranean peoples came to the fore. Later too, in the Christian era,</p><p>pagan material survives intensely and continuously, despite attempts to adapt</p><p>to and harmonize with the new religion by reference to saints and other sacred</p><p>names, though this did not mean that such texts were acceptable to the Church.</p><p>As Spyros Trojanos discusses in Chapter 9 of this volume, several Church</p><p>canons strictly condemn their use by lay persons and clergy alike. Human curi-</p><p>osity, however, and innate superstition proved to be stronger than prohibitions</p><p>and hence numerous texts strayed from the canons of both the offi cial prayer-</p><p>book and classical medical writings. Th e confl ation of phrases, words and</p><p>names originating from diff erent cultures and their mainly oral diff usion at</p><p>once raise a philological problem. Th us in many cases their identifi cation is</p><p>impossible, as is their reduction to a crystallized form. Th ese are fl uid and com-</p><p>plementary texts, poorly composed and unintelligible, both to those who mem-</p><p>orized them and to those who copied them. Th is was surely due to their</p><p>S P E L L S A N D E X O R C I S M S</p><p>73</p><p>apocryphal nature, which did not in any case appear strange, but on the con-</p><p>trary was in tune with the whole atmosphere in which they were used, like</p><p>something paradoxical and beyond common logic, since this was exactly what</p><p>those who resorted to their use needed.</p><p>We shall quote below specimens of such texts, selecting them from two manu-</p><p>scripts, one of the early nineteenth century from the Peloponnese (Dimitsana; see</p><p>Figure 7) and the other of the mid-sixteenth century from central Greece (Lamia).</p><p>Both are medical manuscripts and their authors, in keeping with their task of</p><p>copying medical prescriptions, cite these texts with the same sense of seriousness</p><p>and responsibility towards their readers. Th ey may not be totally unknown to spe-</p><p>cialists, and certain variations have probably been published from other oral or</p><p>written sources. We also cite, from a law-canon manuscript of the late sixteenth</p><p>century, the canons of the Church which condemned those who dealt with spells</p><p>and other magical acts. Th is manuscript comes from the Prousos Monastery in</p><p>Eurytania, though the text occurs in several other similar manuscripts.</p><p>Th e Dimitsana Manuscript</p><p>For love of a woman</p><p>When you wish to love a woman, repeat these words nineteen times: ‘Let none</p><p>[fem.] remain in me.’ Take three times in your mouth1 and spit inside, and spit</p><p>[sc. it] in food or drink and give it to her to eat or drink. And when you want to</p><p>spit you should utter her name.</p><p>To make a woman love you</p><p>Take a piece of paper or dry cloth and write these characters [… … … …] on the</p><p>cloth or paper and mix it with water or wine and give it to the woman you want</p><p>to drink, and she will love you much.</p><p>If you want to make a woman love no other man</p><p>Take the egg of a turtle-dove and beat it and when you want to lie with your</p><p>woman daub your mouth and she won’t desire another. Your woman must do</p><p>the same so that her man will not love another woman.</p><p>So that a woman does not bear a child</p><p>When a woman does not want to become pregnant, write these characters at</p><p>the waning of the moon: α ξ β δ χ σ θ ω ξ η θ γ ω π φ ε γ χ. Th e woman does not</p><p>get pregnant when she holds them on her. But her husband must not know it.</p><p>And if you wish to test this, tie these characters on any tree you want, and it will</p><p>not bear fruit or will dry up completely.</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>74</p><p>For a thief</p><p>Write the following characters on bay leaves and give them to those you suspect</p><p>and whoever has the object cannot make use of it and confesses it: β β β τ ο υ ρ</p><p>ε ο ρ ς φ β.</p><p>For a person with jaundice2</p><p>When someone has jaundice, take pure wine and place it in a jug and put inside</p><p>a gold coin and place it out to the stars at nightfall. Read the following wish in</p><p>the morning:</p><p>As the Virgin Mary left the Mount of Olives with thousands of angels and</p><p>archangels, Oktor came across her and did not greet her and went his way.</p><p>Th e Virgin turned round and said to him: ‘Where are you going, Oktar, green</p><p>and yellow, death’s companion and Charon’s brother?’ Oktor then turned</p><p>round and said to her: ‘Th e mountains saw me and fl ed, the trees saw me and</p><p>were uprooted and you stand there and ask me where I am going? I am going</p><p>to such-and-such man, to enter his navel, to rush into his side, to enter his</p><p>liver.’ Th e Virgin Mary, Mother of God, replied to him thus: I abjure you fi rst</p><p>by the grace of my son and secondly by the twenty-four letters that the sun has</p><p>in its heart,</p><p>depart to the mountains and caves and the depths of the sea and</p><p>the underworld. Go there to eat and choke, there to vent your anger, because</p><p>this man is baptized, anointed and has surrendered to my son and thus hold</p><p>your anger.</p><p>Figure 7 Magic symbols. Dimitsana MS., nineteenth century</p><p>S P E L L S A N D E X O R C I S M S</p><p>75</p><p>For a court of law</p><p>When you want to win your case in court against your opponent, you should say:</p><p>Leaving my home and going my way with the Archangel Michael on my right</p><p>and the Archangel Gabriel on my left and mouths and tongues talking against</p><p>the servant of God (name) should stop. Prophet Daniel, you who once tied</p><p>up the lions’ mouths in the pit, tie up the mouth of the judge and direct his</p><p>anger onto my opponent’s head.</p><p>And to make your enemy have no strength to harm you, write his name on a bay</p><p>leaf and place it under your foot inside your shoe and he will have no more</p><p>strength to harm you.</p><p>Another</p><p>If you have an enemy and you are afraid, recite David’s psalm 74, the ‘O God,</p><p>why hast thou cast us off for ever?’ the whole psalm and write down these char-</p><p>acters on a blank paper: σχ δχ πε λε κ ψ λι κλ ψ χχ. And say the following:</p><p>Come, Archangel Michael, Gabriel, turn him away, Urael, prevent him,</p><p>Raphael, hold him, let his path be dark and slippery and let the angel of the</p><p>Lord pursue him. Depart, leave the servant of God (name), unfordable river,</p><p>impassable bush. May Christ and his mother with all the saints be with you to</p><p>obstruct him.</p><p>For fever</p><p>Holy John, Prophet and Baptist of our Lord Jesus Christ, your holy head set</p><p>sweetly on a platter and bringing shivers to the onlookers, your holy head cried</p><p>out and said: Fever3 of the third and fourth degree, daytime and nocturnal, leave</p><p>the servant of God (name) ς Δ ς μ φ β θ. Ili Ili lama savachthani, my God, my</p><p>God, why you have forsaken me, your servant? Christ brought the good news –</p><p>go away, shiver, Christ was born – go away, shudder, Christ was baptized, go</p><p>away, shiver, Christ has risen from the dead – go away, shiver. Christ has risen</p><p>from his servant (name). Christ the Victor reigns for ever. Th en write down the</p><p>present seal of the cross.</p><p>For a patient who cannot sleep</p><p>Take a piece of tile, let it be from a church, and write with the holy spear these</p><p>letters:</p><p>God the holy when Adam was asleep in paradise and when He put to sleep</p><p>Abimelek in Agrippa’s vineyard and the seven youths in the cave at Ephesos,</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>76</p><p>bring sleep to the servant of God (name) in the sleep of life in the name of the</p><p>Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, amen.</p><p>Write these letters with the characters and put them under his pillow.</p><p>Furthermore write David’s fourth psalm together with the characters: ε ξ σ χ φ</p><p>σ κ θ and put them on the threshold of the door and say the following: Th e</p><p>house of Raphael is new, the citizen of God, and the seller Diomides, Eugeneios,</p><p>Symvatios, Stephanos, Provatios, the Lord God Savaoth.</p><p>In order to bind your enemy and not fear him</p><p>Find a live ass or foal and cut its tongue by three fi ngers in the front. Place it on</p><p>a clean plate and beat the tongue to powder. And when it is pulverized keep it</p><p>in a paper and put it in the coff ee, food or water or wine of your enemy and give</p><p>him to drink and he no longer dares speak to you, he only fears you.</p><p>To separate two fr iends</p><p>To separate two very dear friends or a woman from a man, take a fi ve metre</p><p>candle and take it to Saint Xorinos,4 make a prayer in the name of the person or</p><p>the woman. You take earth from the sanctuary of the church and aft er leaving</p><p>the church you should not pass through any other door. And if you do you</p><p>should leave the earth outside. And leaving take it with you, until you reach the</p><p>house of the man or woman and you place it under her doorway and when she</p><p>crosses it she no longer turns to look at her man and the man his woman.</p><p>Another</p><p>In order to separate two friends, so that they may not like each other again, take</p><p>forty drams of holy candle and hairs from a black dog and knead them well and</p><p>break them into bits and make two human effi gies, if they are men, and if they</p><p>are women, two women’s faces. Repeat these words twenty-one times: Enzeher,</p><p>Enzeher, Enzehir. And tie these idols back to back with seven kinds of silk and</p><p>place them in their doorways so that these friends cross over them and they sep-</p><p>arate completely. And while kneading say the names above.</p><p>Another</p><p>In order to separate two dear friends, take three bay leaves and write on each one</p><p>a pentacle. Take from dead soil from the head a measure and recite the ‘Our</p><p>Father’ twice. And [sc. take] from the legs another measure and say from the ‘Our</p><p>Father’ eight words, two from the middle. And you grind the leaves with the soil</p><p>and take it on a Saturday when the moon is thirty days old or twenty and on what-</p><p>ever day you knead the soil, make a brick and go to the river, fi nd a stone and</p><p>S P E L L S A N D E X O R C I S M S</p><p>77</p><p>break it on it saying thus: As the dead were separated from the living, thus let so</p><p>and so separate from so and so, woman or man. And they separate for sure.</p><p>For dead children</p><p>When a woman has children who have died, on the twenty-fi ft h of December</p><p>when Christ is born, who the same day he is baptized on the morrow, not</p><p>because there are two baptisms on the fi rst day St John, on the second Christ,</p><p>you cut four oranges in the font where Christ is baptized, and when the priest</p><p>has fi nished and the Christians bring oranges, go home and bury one [sc.</p><p>orange] in every corner and leave them and do not disturb them and God</p><p>willing you will have a child and it will live.</p><p>To release a married couple</p><p>In order to release a married couple, take bile from a raven and essence5 in equal</p><p>parts and let the man smear his entire body and write the Pentecost hymn so</p><p>that he can keep it on him. It breaks the binding spell and cools the fl ame and</p><p>so forth. And then let him lie with his woman and the divination [i.e. spell] is</p><p>dissolved.</p><p>Another</p><p>In order to release a married couple bound by a spell, take sulphur, pepper, holy</p><p>candle, oil, bay leaves, lemon juice, salt from Vlachs and ashes, make these into a</p><p>pie and let the husband take half and the wife the other half and on each piece</p><p>write: ‘Th ey were opened for you, Lord’ and the binding spell is broken. Let them</p><p>tie the hymns in their entirety tightly on their belly, performing three hundred</p><p>genufl ections of penitence and let them sleep and they break [sc. the spell].</p><p>Another for release</p><p>Take deer’s skin and write the following and let the man wrap it on his thigh</p><p>and let the woman, rolling it, do the same: God who released the heavens,</p><p>release your servants (names)… Th e one who untied Christ’s garments let him</p><p>untie and release the servant of God (name) and the servant of God (female). It</p><p>breaks the binding spell.</p><p>Write on a paper the ‘He who rose from the tomb’, make it like a belt and let</p><p>the man wear it on his right thigh and the woman likewise and they shall be</p><p>untied.</p><p>Another</p><p>When husband and wife cannot come together write these holy words:</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>78</p><p>Christ was born, Christ was circumcised, Christ was baptized in the river</p><p>Jordan and crushed the dragon’s heads, Christ was crucifi ed, Christ was</p><p>buried, Christ rose from the dead and released Adam and Eve from their</p><p>bonds, thus Lord Jesus Christ our God, Son and Word of the living God</p><p>crush and break the fetters and every bond from the servant of God (name of</p><p>man) σ μ κ λ σ μ μ τα φ β θ, amen.</p><p>Write these characters on three pieces of paper with the above words and the</p><p>one piece you should put on a new plate, dilute it with water for the couple to</p><p>drink both of them and the second the husband should tie to his right thigh</p><p>and the third they should place under their pillow and with Christ’s help they</p><p>will be released.</p><p>Another</p><p>You who descended into Hades and broke the</p><p>fetters of death, who also reversed</p><p>Hades’ condemnation (i.e. sentence of death), release your servant (name) and</p><p>your female servant (name). Th is you must write on two apples, one for the</p><p>man and the other for the woman, and they should eat them on a Sunday</p><p>evening, when they want to go to sleep. And you should write it on the same</p><p>Sunday. On the same day, too, whoever writes this should be clean from female</p><p>and all other things and he should wear a new shirt unworn or washed clean</p><p>and to be given to him by the couple. And take musk and yolk and rose-water,</p><p>put them in a new plate where nothing has been placed and mix them well.</p><p>Take another plate, a new one, and write in it with the other plate’s contents the</p><p>following hymns: ‘Th e gates of death were opened to you, Lord, and you led us</p><p>out of darkness and the shadow of death and shattered our fetters,’ and this</p><p>breaks the bonds and ‘Th e fl ame is cooled, the children sing hymns, the only</p><p>Saviour is praised by the whole of Creation.’ When you have written this in the</p><p>unused plate, pour some water to rinse it and when you want them to go to bed,</p><p>when they shall eat the apples and drink this, the husband should drink half</p><p>and the wife the other half and with God’s help the spells binding them will be</p><p>broken.</p><p>Another</p><p>Take a new lock and put it in rainwater, lock it and unlock it seven times and</p><p>utter their names, that as the lock locks and unlocks, so may so-and-so (male)</p><p>and so-and-so (female) be released and it works.</p><p>If you want to teach a child to read or any craft without eff ort, write down on</p><p>a tray the following words and give it to the priest to offi ciate for seven days and</p><p>then to melt the letters with Epiphany holy water and then give it to the child</p><p>on three mornings without food: Chariot of Christ, freedom, Christ and I beg</p><p>the Holy Spirit, spirit of wisdom and spirit of rhetoric and reading, spirit of</p><p>S P E L L S A N D E X O R C I S M S</p><p>79</p><p>Jesus Christ the Son of God, you can, illuminate the servant of God (name) the</p><p>holy to the holy, Spirit, may the Holy Spirit come to him and may the strength</p><p>of the Almighty be with you.</p><p>Amulet against all evil</p><p>In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, amen. Recite</p><p>the whole Creed. Secondly, ‘Christ the King’. Th irdly, ‘Christ has risen and the</p><p>Devil was destroyed, let all the opposing forces be crushed under the sign of the</p><p>Cross.’</p><p>Let the prayer of the holy martyr Cyprian be of use against all illness or</p><p>against a female demon or the evil and wicked hour, against a nocturnal, midday</p><p>or infernal demon, aerial and against every ghost, so that they might depart</p><p>from the mind and thought of the servant of God (name) and the Gospel</p><p>according to St Matthew. At that time Jesus invited his twelve disciples, etc. You</p><p>received freely, you should give freely to the servant of God (name). Before me,</p><p>holy angel Sabaoth Michael on my right, on my left Gabriel and Raphael upon</p><p>my head, Urael and Misael to my rescue, Cherubim and Seraphim the power of</p><p>the Almighty Lord, tie up and bridle my enemies who put a spell on me the</p><p>servant of the Lord (name) … make me a shepherd and them sheep and let them</p><p>be before me blind, dumb, lame, blind and mad and hunchbacks and incapable</p><p>of speech, and let guns and pistols, knives, stones and wood fl ee from me, all are</p><p>bound and harnessed by our lord Jesus Christ and our Lady the Mother of God</p><p>and St Constantine and his mother St Helen, so that they may shelter and pre-</p><p>serve the servant of the Lord (name), amen. ς ς ς Χε δ π θ ο π ς θα ιι τ η ο β η π τ.</p><p>He should carry on him another amulet against demons and write on it on a</p><p>Saturday: ‘Ματθαίου φείσον Ιωάννη έφραζον δ σ μ μ ψ η. Λουκά γινα μάρκου τίγρις</p><p>η β β β β’.</p><p>Lamia Manuscript</p><p>For bound humans</p><p>Write on a deer-skin strap ‘Having risen from the grave’ in full and wrap it</p><p>around his body, the letters on the side of his body and write:</p><p>Let the heavens rejoice and let the earth be fi lled with joy and everything on</p><p>it. For the ruler of all, having descended into Hades in three days, has risen</p><p>and broken the fetters of those bound and has risen against death through his</p><p>victory and has granted us the resurrection.</p><p>Having risen from the grave and having broken the bonds of Hades, you</p><p>released everyone … you appeared before your disciples and sent them forth</p><p>to preach and in your great mercy … you off ered peace to the universe.</p><p>M A G I C I N B Y Z A N T I U M</p><p>80</p><p>Take a needle and read over his belt and bring the nose of one and read over the</p><p>anus of the other and wrap it around him. Take a new pot and a knife with a</p><p>black handle and a silver ring and go fetch water in silence in a jug under a</p><p>waning moon and pour the water into the pot and say thus: In the name of the</p><p>Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Take the belt and make the sign of the</p><p>cross over the water. Say thus: St Barbara is coming from nine mountains and</p><p>nine plains with the servant of God (name). Untie his head and marrow, untie</p><p>his cross, untie his knees, untie his joints. Let us stand aright, let us stand in fear.</p><p>Say this thrice and he will be healthy.</p><p>If you want to know whether a man will live or die</p><p>Take a white candle and write on it with the wick the following ciphers:</p><p>Th en light it and when the burning fi re comes close to the letters and if the</p><p>candle does not go out itself but the letters get burnt, know that the man</p><p>shall live, but if it goes out then he will die. Th en go say to him: Κάφυ όροχ</p><p>πάρχον. And if the patient looks at you he will live, but if he fares poorly, he</p><p>will die.</p><p>Another to know whether a sick man is getting well or dying</p><p>Take a drinking glass and write the following names saying: Rau faithful Noistei</p><p>Auai Manae Paraclete. And write these three times. And whoever brings the</p><p>news do not let him move from where he stands. And make him drink three</p><p>times and you shall learn the truth, whether the sick man will live or die.</p><p>[On fi nding treasure]</p><p>A mole is a blind animal crawling beneath the earth. From it comes the so-</p><p>called mole-stone which, being alive, is useful for fi nding a treasure. Take the</p><p>stone at the conjunction of Venus [sc. and the earth] and at its waxing inscribe</p><p>on this [sc. mole-stone] a naked man holding a two-pronged fork, stooped and</p><p>hoeing, and all around [sc. write] the following.</p><p>On the back [sc. write] the name Aram and, enclosing it in pure gold, wear it</p><p>on your small right fi nger and you will come to where the treasure is.</p><p>Manuscript from the Monastery of Prousos in Eurytania</p><p>Th e charmer, that is, the magician and the seer and the candle-maker and the</p><p>worker in lead and the astronomer and he who ties animals so that they may not</p><p>be devoured by the wolf or couples so that they might not mingle, and he who</p><p>casts spells against giddiness, may he not receive communion for ten years</p><p>according to canon 65 of St Basil and canon 72 of the same saint.</p><p>S P E L L S A N D E X O R C I S M S</p><p>81</p><p>If a priest should commit one of these acts, that is uses such an evil craft , he</p><p>is defrocked and expelled from the church, that is from holy communion</p><p>according to canon 36 of the Synod of Laodicea. And if you wish, look up in</p><p>Matthew6 chap.1 who are charmers and users of spells under the letter M. So</p><p>charmers are those who attract demons by divination to do their bidding and</p><p>bind wild beasts and reptiles so as to stop a creature wreaking havoc if perchance</p><p>it lives somewhere outside. Similarly look in Zonaras7 and search in canon 36 of</p><p>the Synod of Laodicea and you shall fi nd the relevant passages.</p><p>If some go to seers to get predictions or turn to the stars or bind the wolves,</p><p>so that they won’t devour their animals or couples in order not to come together</p><p>or to learn something they do not know, so that the seer may pour wax or lead,</p><p>these individuals may not receive communion for fi ve years according to canon</p><p>60 of Tourle8 and canon 83 of St Basil. And if a priest</p><p>be such let him be</p><p>defrocked.</p><p>Th ose who go to gypsy women for predictions and those who bring a seer to</p><p>their homes to rid them of bewitchment, if they are ill or anything else, they</p><p>may not receive communion for fi ve years according to canon 24 of the Synod</p><p>of Ankara.</p><p>Similarly for those who get predictions by using barley or chickpeas, fi ve</p><p>years according to chapter 1 under the letter M in Matthew.</p><p>Similarly those who carry amulets from herbs or suchlike or apply tinctures</p><p>to their children or animals to ward off magic, they may not receive commun-</p><p>ion for fi ve years according to canon 60 of Tourle.</p><p>Whoever invites magicians to perform witchcraft in order to harm another</p><p>man, is censured like those [sc. magicians], that is, for twenty years as one who</p><p>has committed murder deliberately, according to canon 63 of St Basil and 72 of</p><p>the same…</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 Th us in the MS., with no mention of what it is.</p><p>2 Ikteros, in the MS. nyktoras.</p><p>3 Reading uncertain in MS.</p><p>4 Th us in the MS. He is obviously not a saint, but a demon.</p><p>5 Etheral oil produced from the plant melissa offi cinalis. See Landos 1991: 260, for the same</p><p>recipe.</p><p>6 Matthaios Vlastaris, author of a fourteenth-century legal-canon collection Constitution by</p><p>Letter of the fourteenth century.</p><p>7 Eminent legal expert of the twelft h century who commented on the holy canons.</p><p>8 Of the Synod of Troullos.</p><p>Part III</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N</p><p>G R E E C E</p><p>85</p><p>14</p><p>I N T R O D U C T I O N</p><p>Magic in modern Greece</p><p>J.C.B. Petropoulos</p><p>How do we defi ne magic in relation to post-Byzantine Greek society? When</p><p>does religion end and magic begin? Or is even this distinction erroneous? Th ese</p><p>are some of the questions which Charles Stewart takes up in Chapter 15, in his</p><p>brief survey of the Orthodox Church’s approach to the evil eye from the time of</p><p>the Cappadocian Fathers to the present. In at least one instance, that of the offi -</p><p>cial prayer against evil eye bewitchment which was introduced by the seven-</p><p>teenth century, it is obvious that a body of beliefs and practices which the</p><p>Church initially denounced and outlawed as ‘superstitious’ and ‘diabolical’ can</p><p>in time be validated by this very agency. What is just as striking is that the con-</p><p>verse may occur: a once-valid set of Church beliefs and practices may subse-</p><p>quently be redefi ned by the Church as ‘magic’.</p><p>It is scarcely surprising that this section features three chapters (and part of a</p><p>fourth) that deal with the evil eye from diff erent angles, for the ophthalmos</p><p>ponêros (to use ecclesiastical parlance) is demonstrably one of the most ancient</p><p>– and therefore most durable – and widespread aspects of magic in the Greek-</p><p>speaking world. Whatever its derivation (ancient Mesopotamia?), this belief is</p><p>clearly a ‘pagan way of looking at the world’,1 and its continuance in modern</p><p>Greek society attests how slowly well-entrenched cultural habits change over</p><p>time.2</p><p>In Chapter 16 Christina Veikou views bewitchment by the evil eye and its</p><p>antidote as a unifi ed system of complementary relations created by affl iction</p><p>and treatment respectively. Noting that ‘vision is the most social, the most</p><p>polysemous and the most penetrating of senses’, this social anthropologist refers</p><p>to her fi eldwork at Eleft herna, a mountain village near Rethymno, Crete, in</p><p>analysing the causes as well as the social and emotional dynamics of the evil eye.</p><p>For villagers the spell against the evil eye is not an act of magic, but on the con-</p><p>trary ‘an action pleasing to God, a popular rite’. Th e human eye itself, in keeping</p><p>with the local euphemism, is ‘good’ by nature – yet also liable to turn demonic</p><p>depending on the particular emotions its bearer may experience even by chance.</p><p>To be sure, bewitchment by the evil eye entails its reversal, and at Eleft herna</p><p>carrying out the spell against it is a man’s job par excellence. Th e incantations</p><p>recited at this public performance are actually typical spells, superb specimens</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>86</p><p>of ‘magical speech’, as Veikou shows. She quotes three unpublished spells from</p><p>this village, which she discusses in detail. In her third text the Apostles – defi ni-</p><p>tionally transitional fi gures linking the divine and secular spheres – admire the</p><p>Virgin Mary’s beauty and clothes and thereby cast the evil eye on her, prompt-</p><p>ing Christ’s intervention. ‘Unorthodox’ narrative and ritual details of this kind</p><p>(for instance, the performer is required to lick the victim’s forehead) bring us</p><p>back to Stewart’s central question: where exactly does religion end and popular</p><p>magical tradition begin in modern Greece?</p><p>Vassiliki Chryssanthopoulou’s chapter also examines the evil eye. Drawing on</p><p>her own fi eldwork, she explores in Chapter 17 the extent to which this concept</p><p>and certain apotropaic and exorcistic practices associated with it still inform</p><p>wedding customs among Castellorizian immigrants and their epigoni in Perth,</p><p>Australia. As she points out, the evil eye is in reality a social disease, usually aff ect-</p><p>ing persons in a ‘marginal’ or transitional stage, such as the bridal couple, or women</p><p>aft er childbirth; through the various spells against the evil eye these individuals are</p><p>reintegrated into society. Th e incidence of the evil eye is not only an index of the</p><p>Cazzies’ (as they are called) competitiveness towards one another, but also a crucial</p><p>component of this group’s ethnic identity, as Chryssanthopoulou shows. (In much</p><p>the same way, one might add, the persistence and development of voodoo prac-</p><p>tices helped to forge a communal bond among the slaves uprooted from west</p><p>Africa and their descendants in Haiti from the seventeenth century on.)3</p><p>Among other ingredients, magic in modern Greek society involves the use of</p><p>herbs. In Chapter 18 Nikos Xenios touches upon this and moves on to the</p><p>related topic of the magical deployment, which oft en verges on fetishism, of</p><p>certain articles of clothing in modern Greek folk-tales about female demons, or</p><p>Neraïdes. (Xenios may cause many readers to look at contemporary clothing</p><p>advertisements as the end-product of shamanistic magic.)</p><p>Magic in any agrarian society, ancient or modern, will invest considerably in the</p><p>ensuring – or withholding – of the fecundity of crops, animals and human beings.</p><p>Modern Greek magic is no exception in this regard, as both Chryssanthopoulou</p><p>and Paradellis show. Th eodore Paradellis, in particular, surveys in Chapter 19</p><p>some of the fertility symbols featured in Greek folk-songs (and, incidentally, folk-</p><p>art)4 and discusses some of the spells intended to promote or deny sexual effi cacy</p><p>in general. Nowadays, as Greek society is fast becoming focused on technologi-</p><p>cally induced sexual perfectionism, it may be refreshing to read that until recently</p><p>men used a ‘male drop’ (sperm), which they dried in the sun and served to their</p><p>loved one in a magical potion in order to attract her.</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 See Dickie 1995: 9–34.</p><p>2 See above, Ch. 8.</p><p>3 See Hurbon 1995.</p><p>4 See Zora 1994, 1995: passim.</p><p>87</p><p>15</p><p>M A G I C A N D O R T H O D O X Y</p><p>Charles Stewart</p><p>Th e identifi cation of ‘magic’ is ultimately an arbitrary matter. Below I will illus-</p><p>trate this statement by studying the changing boundaries between Christianity</p><p>and magic, paying special attention to the situation in Greece. In the West,</p><p>‘magic’ has historically taken shape as a category by contrast with socially central</p><p>and highly valued activities such as religion and science. Small-scale, non-liter-</p><p>ate societies that do not have developed, circumscribed institutions of religion</p><p>or science probably do not have a category corresponding to ‘magic’ either. It is</p><p>usually those people most involved in the activities of religion or science – theo-</p><p>logians, clerics, scientists and philosophers – who decide what magic is. Magic</p><p>helps to defi ne religion and science by exemplifying what they are not. Magic is</p><p>‘bad science’ or sub-standard religion – a body of superstition and error.</p><p>Th e Victorian anthropologists E.B. Tylor and Sir James Frazer held that</p><p>magic typifi ed a ‘primitive’ approach to the world. Th ey thought that, in the</p><p>course of human evolution, magic would inevitably be transformed into reli-</p><p>gion and then fi nally into science. In ‘civilized’ societies – such as the Great</p><p>Britain where these writers lived – science should ultimately supplant magic</p><p>altogether. Any magical practices still existing in such societies were considered</p><p>unfortunate, but harmless, ‘survivals’ from earlier stages of evolution. By identi-</p><p>fying these atavistic survivals, anthropologists could help to wipe them out and</p><p>this was one of anthropology’s contributions to human progress.</p><p>Th e recognition of magic seems straightforward today because our concep-</p><p>tions of religion and science are so clear and well disseminated. Yet the practices</p><p>defi ned as magical have varied historically in relation to changes and develop-</p><p>ments in mainstream religion and normal science. Th is has not been a straight-</p><p>forward and consistent process, but a relationship marked by numerous</p><p>reversals. Yesterday’s Orthodox Christian practice has, in some cases, become</p><p>today’s magical practice just as alchemy was once an acceptable form of science</p><p>but is now considered a magical pursuit.</p><p>In his Les formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse, fi rst published in 1912, the</p><p>French sociologist Emile Durkheim systematically contrasted magic with reli-</p><p>gion. Magic, he contended, was individualistic, designed to achieve ends that</p><p>did not benefi t the whole society. ‘Th ere is no church of magic,’ Durkheim</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>88</p><p>declared. Magic could not be practised as a central rite appealing to the broad</p><p>society. By defi nition, it was marginal and anti-social. Th e possibility of ‘white</p><p>magic’, such as that practised today by followers of Wicca in central London and</p><p>other parts of Europe and North America,1 was left out of consideration. For</p><p>Durkheim magic was necessarily black.</p><p>I think that the theorizations of magic by supposedly disinterested, atheistic</p><p>social scientists were actually conditioned by the long-standing views of the</p><p>main Christian churches. Th e early Church Fathers, such as John Chrysostom,</p><p>assimilated much of pre-Christian religious practice to ‘superstition’ and then</p><p>sought to eradicate it. Th e belief in multiple minor gods and spirits of nature;</p><p>the approach to such deities through sacrifi ce, divination or astrology; and the</p><p>conviction that such practices eff ected immediate changes in nature, or helped</p><p>one to gain privileged knowledge of future events – these were all signs that</p><p>people were engaged in magic, or superstition (δεισιδαιμονία: ‘the fear/worship</p><p>of demons’). Th e basic dividing point was the acceptance of monotheism. If</p><p>people converted to the idea that there was only one all-potent God, then in</p><p>theory the logic and appeal of magic disappeared completely. People would</p><p>Figure 8 Magic circle used for predicting the future. Cod. 115, ? early eighteenth century,</p><p>Historical and Ethnographic Society of Athens.</p><p>M A G I C A N D O R T H O D O X Y</p><p>89</p><p>quickly understand that prayer and resort to authorized Church rituals and</p><p>clerics were the best means to enlist divine assistance. Th e will of God was the</p><p>supreme powerful force in the cosmos and Christianity off ered the only valid</p><p>and eff ective means of approach to God. Th e idea that nature could be directly</p><p>infl uenced or controlled via spells was anathematized.</p><p>Yet, even when Church councils did make clear pronouncements on such</p><p>matters, there was the problem of transmitting this information to remote par-</p><p>ishes in a form that semi-educated local priests and largely illiterate local parish-</p><p>ioners could understand. At the local level there remained diffi culties in</p><p>distinguishing sorcery from proper Christian practice. In Chapter 12 of this</p><p>book, Calofonos has presented a study of the tenth-century Life of St Andrew</p><p>the Fool (Salos) that illustrates this very situation. A devout woman resorts to a</p><p>highly respected local Christian fi gure named Vigrinos in order to resolve her</p><p>marital problems. Only aft er following his advice does she realize that she has</p><p>been misled into anti-Christian magical practice. An acolyte of St Andrew then</p><p>helps extricate her from the grips of Vigrinos’ sorcery. As Calofonos points out,</p><p>this story could be read as the attempt to sensitize the population to the recent</p><p>legislation outlawing every sort of magic, by translating the message into the</p><p>popular story format of a saint’s life. Th e story shows how diffi cult it sometimes</p><p>was for people to distinguish magic from religion.</p><p>Western medieval Christendom encountered the same problem. Th e Russian</p><p>medievalist Aron Gurevich has asserted that the only way to distinguish mirac-</p><p>ula from malefi cia was by observing who was performing the act.2 Any ritual</p><p>performed by an authorized cleric was de facto a Christian practice. But the ‘Mad</p><p>Saints’ (Άγιοι Σαλοί) of the Eastern Church, such as St Simeon or St Andrew</p><p>considered above, render even this pragmatic diff erentiation of magic and reli-</p><p>gion problematic. Wearing rags or no clothes at all, performing all manner of</p><p>ridiculous or astonishing ascetic practice, the mad saints were surely marginal to</p><p>the mainstream Church. It would have been diffi cult for the average person to</p><p>tell whether they were valid Christian holy men or just social misfi ts.3 Th is diffi -</p><p>culty of deciding the identity of practitioners was one of the points that the</p><p>story of Vigrinos was meant to dramatize.</p><p>Even if we could devise objective criteria for distinguishing religion from</p><p>magic we confront another problem. Rituals approved by the Church at one</p><p>point in time can later be rejected and even demonized. Th e anthropologist and</p><p>historian William Christian furnishes a good example of this from Catholic</p><p>Spain. Th e local priest in the village where he conducted fi eld research told him</p><p>that people should pray only for the souls of the dead in purgatory. Th at is, their</p><p>prayers should be addressed only to God on behalf of the dead, so that the souls</p><p>of the deceased might eventually be admitted to Paradise. It was considered the-</p><p>ologically unacceptable for people to pray to souls in purgatory, as if the souls</p><p>themselves possessed independent power to help people. In the course of histor-</p><p>ical research, however, Christian came across a manual for priests dating to the</p><p>nineteenth century in which the practice of praying to souls in purgatory was</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>90</p><p>validated.4 People who today prayed to the souls in purgatory might actually</p><p>have been following the earlier instructions of the Catholic Church, unaware</p><p>that they had been superseded.</p><p>If the foregoing example demonstrates how the Church doctrine of one</p><p>period can become the superstition of a later one, then the treatment of the evil</p><p>eye in Greece illustrates the converse. Th e belief that people can exert evil power</p><p>over others by means of their eyes alone is as old as the myth of Perseus and the</p><p>Gorgon in Greece. Historical evidence indicates that the belief in the evil eye</p><p>was fi rmly rooted in all of the societies of the eastern Mediterranean by the end</p><p>of antiquity. Th e Fathers of the Early Church disapproved of this popular belief</p><p>and considered it an element of pagan superstition that proper Christians should</p><p>leave behind. St John Chrysostom censured women who besmirched the faces</p><p>of their children with mud, an action meant to make them less enviable and</p><p>therefore less susceptible to the evil eye. He considered that through this ‘ugli-</p><p>ness’ (askhimosyni) these women fell into ‘the snares of the devil’ (diavolikas</p><p>pagidas).5 St Basil, in his Homily on Envy, rejected the idea that envious eyes</p><p>alone can cause damage. In his view this was just an old wives’ tale.6</p><p>Th at these sorts of dismissals of the evil eye needed to be repeated</p><p>in ecclesias-</p><p>tical pronouncements throughout the Middle Ages indicates that evil eye beliefs</p><p>and practices had not died out among the laity. Apparently realizing that it could</p><p>not abolish folk beliefs in the evil eye, the Orthodox Church incorporated a</p><p>special prayer against evil eye bewitchment. It slipped into the Small Prayerbook</p><p>(Mikron Evkhologion) sometime aft er the seventeenth century. Th is offi cial</p><p>prayer evidently draws on traditional spells against the evil eye (xematiasmata)</p><p>in its formulation.7 Th e Church thus legitimated what it had earlier criticized as</p><p>superstition; yesterday’s sorcery became validated as part of today’s religion.</p><p>In the course of anthropological research on the island of Naxos, I uncovered</p><p>similar areas of uncertainty and reversal between the domains of ‘superstition’</p><p>and acceptable Orthodox religion. As in many other parts of Greece, various</p><p>‘spells’ (giteies, xorkia) treating illnesses such as erysipelas (anemopyroma), sun-</p><p>stroke (iliasis) and jaundice (ikteros) circulated until recently. Some of them may</p><p>still be practised today. Like the rituals performed to remove the evil eye, these</p><p>spells were addressed to the saints, Christ and God in order to remove the illness.</p><p>It may not always have been evident to people that these ‘spells’ were not valid</p><p>Orthodox prayers. Th e villagers referred to them as ‘prayers’ (prosevkhes); only</p><p>outside analysts such as Orthodox clerics and folklorists classifi ed them as spells.</p><p>Th e situation was further complicated by the fact that priests had oft en grown</p><p>up in the very parish where they then offi ciated and had not received a high level</p><p>of theological training.8 Th e village priest was thus prone to making the same</p><p>errors of judgment as the laity.</p><p>Th is clearly happened in one case in the late nineteenth century when the</p><p>parish priest of Apeiranthos, Primikirios, was brought before the Metropolitan</p><p>of Paros and Naxos and reprimanded for reading the kharti tis yalous (χαρτί της</p><p>γιαλούς), an exorcism against the child-stealing Gello. Th e text of this exorcistic</p><p>M A G I C A N D O R T H O D O X Y</p><p>91</p><p>spell was published by the folklorist D.B. Oikonomidis, who noted that he had</p><p>found versions of the text in the possession of the village schoolteacher and a</p><p>local archimandrite in the 1930s.9 Th is may suggest that even these eminent</p><p>members of local society did not view the kharti as falling outside the sphere of</p><p>acceptable Orthodox religious practice.</p><p>I would now like to turn to a broader question – the possibility that</p><p>Orthodoxy and magic in Greece have developed from common roots in the</p><p>ferment of religious ideas in the Hellenistic and early Imperial periods. Th is has</p><p>arguably given rise to certain resemblances between the two at the level of form</p><p>and intention. Th is may further account for the diffi culty ordinary people</p><p>sometimes have in distinguishing magic from religion in Greece.</p><p>Consider, for example, the ritual for ‘unbewitching’ someone aff ected by the</p><p>evil eye (xematiasma). Th ere are many ways of doing this in Greece. Some</p><p>involve burning cloves or charcoal and dropping these into water, or dropping a</p><p>cross into water. One of the most common forms of the xematiasma ritual is to</p><p>drip oil into a bowl of water while uttering a prayer. Sometimes the prayer is said</p><p>as each drop of oil is dripped into the water, or it may be recited aft er all the oil</p><p>has been added to the water. It is thought that by looking at the reaction of the</p><p>oil and the water, the un-bewitcher can tell whether the suff erer really has been</p><p>given the evil eye. If the water separates from the oil, then the person was not</p><p>bewitched, but if the water and oil mix, then the person has indeed been a victim</p><p>of the evil eye. In either case the ritual proceeds to the same conclusion: the</p><p>patient is sprinkled with the oil and water mixture. I call the words spoken</p><p>‘prayers’ because, although they are not offi cially sanctioned by the Church,</p><p>they are generally straightforward appeals to Christ or the saints. Occasionally</p><p>they include obscene or violent threats against the person who has cast the evil</p><p>eye as in the following spell from Naxos:</p><p>Aν είν’ από γυναίκα να πρηστούν τα βυζιά της.</p><p>Aν είν’ από άντρα να πρηστούν τ’ αρχίδια του.</p><p>Kαράβια ανεβαίνουνε, καράβια κατεβαίνουνε.</p><p>If [the evil eye comes] from a woman, may her teats swell.</p><p>If [the evil eye comes] from a man, may his balls swell.</p><p>Ships go up, ships go down.</p><p>But this was more the exception than the rule. For the most part, the prayers and</p><p>the actions in un-bewitching ceremonies are consistent with the orientation of</p><p>Orthodoxy, as shown by the fact, for example, that the offi cial Orthodox un-</p><p>bewitching rite also calls for a sprinkling with Holy Water (agiasmos).</p><p>On Naxos a person who feels bewitched by the evil eye may silently enumer-</p><p>ate the nine bodily apertures while silently praying.10 Th is practice reminds us</p><p>immediately of the ritual of baptism where the sense organs of the initiate are</p><p>anointed and sealed with oil and then with myrrh. Th is symbolizes the ‘sealing’</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>92</p><p>of the human body with the grace of the Holy Spirit so that it will be inviolable</p><p>to demonic incursions. At the moment when one suspects the evil eye may be</p><p>taking hold, the re-enumeration of the apertures while praying reasserts the</p><p>eff ectiveness of baptism by replicating part of the baptismal ritual.</p><p>It can be argued that the evil eye ritual and the Orthodox baptism ceremony</p><p>are homologous. Th e two involve similar ritual form and intention. Water is</p><p>blessed with the addition of oil in both rituals and the participant is then</p><p>brought into contact with the water. Th ere is a diff erence between the full</p><p>immersion of baptism and the sprinkling of the xematiasma ceremony. In both</p><p>rituals, however, the water is used to purify the person from demonic posses-</p><p>sion. Since there is a risk that the water which will be used to purify the individ-</p><p>ual may contain demonic spirits, the water itself is purifi ed in both rituals. At</p><p>the very least the evil eye ritual can be viewed as a folk form of agiasmos, but I</p><p>would also consider the agiasmos ritual as a miniature baptism; a reminiscence</p><p>and restoration of the purifi ed state of baptism.</p><p>How can we explain these similarities between central Orthodox rituals and</p><p>magical rites? I suspect that many people would argue that the Orthodox ritual</p><p>of baptism must have come fi rst. Th e evil eye ceremony and the agiasmos cere-</p><p>monies would be later, partial imitations and references to it, much as village</p><p>children devise their own imitation epitaphios processions for weeks and months</p><p>aft er Easter. I would contend that neither ritual came fi rst. I think they both</p><p>developed independently in late antiquity from common Hellenic ideas about</p><p>the power of demons, the eff ectiveness of exorcism, the sanctifying power of oil</p><p>and the purifi catory eff ect of water. Th e two rituals, baptism and xematiasma,</p><p>were thus cut from the same cultural cloth, as it were. But they then followed</p><p>diff erent trajectories in Hellenic culture over the succeeding two millennia.</p><p>Th e core of the Orthodox baptismal ceremony was formulated in the second</p><p>century ce and the ritual was further developed by theologians and clerics who</p><p>gradually formalized a textual script for the ceremony. Meanwhile, the evil eye</p><p>ceremony followed a diff erent course. Although drawing on the same pool of</p><p>ideas as the baptismal ceremony, the xematiasma ritual, as well as other spells to</p><p>cure illness, were proscribed by the Church. Th ey were transmitted orally,</p><p>subject to constraints such as that the spells be passed on between sexes in suc-</p><p>ceeding generations: from mother to son and then from father to daughter and</p><p>so on. Th is oral transmission gave the spells a diff erent rate of change from the</p><p>textually recorded, doctrinally protected rite of baptism.</p><p>One of the curious features</p><p>David Jordan</p><p>Over fi ft y years ago, the English scholar E.S. Drower published a careful edition</p><p>of the Mandean ‘Book of the Zodiac’. Shortly aft erwards, it was reviewed in the</p><p>American journal Isis by George Sarton, then the doyen of the history of science,</p><p>who described the book as ‘a wretched collection of omens, debased astrology,</p><p>and miscellaneous nonsense’. In the next issue of that journal Otto Neugebauer,</p><p>the historian of ancient astronomy, wrote a reply ‘to explain to the reader why a</p><p>serious scholar might spend years on the study of wretched subjects like ancient</p><p>astrology’.1</p><p>Neugebauer pointed to the work of such great men as the Belgian Franz</p><p>Cumont, who assembled a distinguished international group of philologists to</p><p>produce the monumental Catalogus codicum astrologorum graecorum (Brussels,</p><p>1898–1936).</p><p>Th e oft en literal agreement between the Greek texts and the Mandean trea-</p><p>tises requires the extension of Professor Sarton’s characterization to an enter-</p><p>prise which has enjoyed the whole-hearted and enthusiastic support of a great</p><p>number of scholars of the fi rst rank. Th ey all laboured to recover countless</p><p>wretched collections of astrological treatises from European libraries, and</p><p>they succeeded in giving us an insight into the daily life, religion and supersti-</p><p>tion, and astronomical methods and cosmogonic ideas of generations of men</p><p>who had to live without the higher benefi ts of our own scientifi c era.</p><p>Indeed, the astrological manuscripts are better than any other source for the</p><p>intimate details of the transmission of ancient astronomical concepts (Greek,</p><p>Egyptian, Babylonian) and of their survival to present times.</p><p>Shortly aft er Neugebauer’s reply, Alfons Barb, himself then the doyen of the</p><p>study of ancient magic, wrote a thoughtful analysis of this disdain. He had</p><p>begun his career as a specialist in the Roman archaeology of his native Austria.</p><p>Rather early on, in 1925, he published a small, fragmentary scroll consisting of</p><p>two inscribed thin metal sheets, gold and silver, rolled up inside one another. It</p><p>had been found in a grave and dates probably to the third century ce. Th e silver</p><p>sheet had a Greek text: ‘For migraine: Antaura came out of the sea, cried aloud</p><p>T H E ‘ W R E T C H E D S U B J E C T ’</p><p>7</p><p>like a deer, shouted out like a cow. Ephesian Artemis met her: “Antaura, where</p><p>are you going?” “Into Headache.” “Don’t [go] to into [ ]”’.2</p><p>Th e little scroll is what the ancients called a phylakterion (from the verb phy-</p><p>lassô, protect), which would have been worn by the deceased in his or her life-</p><p>time as a protection against headache. Th e text is part of a story preserved, in</p><p>slightly diff erent form, in a sixteenth-century manuscript produced in southern</p><p>Italy:</p><p>‘Migraine’ prayer against headache: Migraine came out of the sea, crying (?)</p><p>and bellowing, and our lord Jesus Christ met it and said: ‘Where are you</p><p>going, migraine and headache and eye-ache and infl ammation-of-the-breath</p><p>and tears and infl ammation-of-the-cornea and dizziness-in-the-head?’ And</p><p>headache answered our lord Jesus Christ: ‘We are going to sit on the head of</p><p>the slave of God so-and-so’. And our lord Jesus Christ says to him: ‘See that</p><p>you don’t go into my slave, but fl ee and go into the wild mountains and enter</p><p>the head of a bull, there to eat meat, there to drink blood, there to destroy</p><p>eyes, there to addle the head, to harm, to destroy. And if you disobey me, there</p><p>I shall destroy you in the burning mountain, where dog bays not and cock</p><p>crows not’. Th ou who set the mountain in the sea, set migraine and pain to the</p><p>head, the forehead, the brows, the brain of the slave of God so-and-so.3</p><p>Th is phylactery and the ‘migraine prayer’ and the long search to document their</p><p>background in folk belief were to play a major role in Barb’s own development</p><p>as a scholar. He was a deeply religious man, a practising Roman Catholic. In the</p><p>Hitler years, he settled in London, where he eventually found a post as librarian</p><p>at the Warburg Institute, itself long a centre for the study of the ‘wretched sub-</p><p>jects’ that Neugebauer had defended. With such bibliographical resources now</p><p>at his disposal, he produced an article that will remain a classic for the study of</p><p>Christian iconography,4 in which he shows, somewhat contra exspectationem,</p><p>that the imagery of certain representations of the Virgin Mary can be traced</p><p>back to that of the headache demon Antaura who rose from the sea. His years</p><p>of research gave him a valuable perspective; a result was his own analysis of the</p><p>opposition to the study of what Sarton had called ‘miscellaneous nonsense’.5</p><p>One of Barb’s specialties within the study of magic was the ‘Abraxas’ or the</p><p>‘gnostic’ gemstone.6 Th roughout the Renaissance these semi-precious stones</p><p>were avidly collected. Th e year 1657 saw the publication in Antwerp of a book</p><p>that did much towards providing a scientifi c basis for their study, the Abraxas</p><p>seu Apistopistus of J. Chifl et and J. Macarius (L’Heureux). Th ose were the days,</p><p>Barb wrote, before Humanism was replaced by Classicism.</p><p>Th e disappearance of the old-fashioned ‘antiquary’, outdone and discredited</p><p>by the more fashionable ‘historian’ (who now in turn might expect a similar</p><p>fate from the social anthropologist) has left a regrettable vacuum. With the</p><p>advent of Classicism, it became de rigueur to deride any ancient object that</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>8</p><p>did not support one’s idealized view of Greek and Roman antiquity. Th e clas-</p><p>sical archaeologist Adolf Furtwängler, for example, insisted that the magical</p><p>gemstones of the Berlin Antiquarium should be transferred to the Department</p><p>of Egyptology.</p><p>Barb might have told of the attitude towards the largest extant Greek papyrus of</p><p>ancient magic, a codex of thirty-fi ve leaves, in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris:</p><p>in the catalogue of the library’s manuscripts it is described as ‘fromage gnostique’.</p><p>Karl Preisendanz, who edited all the Greek magical papyri that had come to light</p><p>before the Second World War,7 writes eloquently of the obstacles that German</p><p>profes sors met when they tried to introduce these unfashionable texts into their</p><p>seminars: one professor, in order to succeed in off ering a course on the subject,</p><p>had to announce the seminar innocuously as ‘Selected Greek Papyri’.8</p><p>Ancient magic is no longer déclassé as a subject in academic circles, and the</p><p>magical papyri them selves have reached a larger public through being trans-</p><p>lated into English and Spanish.9 But if Barb were alive today and were still</p><p>choosing books for the Warburg, he would see from the book catalogues that</p><p>his fears were justifi ed. Th e academic circles have sadly changed from those of</p><p>his day: ancient magic, the texts of which in Barb’s hands were a tool for research</p><p>into the history of ideas and beliefs, is now popular mostly as the plaything of</p><p>the amateur social anthropologist (now to be found even in classics depart-</p><p>ments), who, having elbowed the historian and the humanist aside, oft en fails</p><p>to consider the texts themselves. I daresay these amateur social anthropologists</p><p>would regard such texts, with their oft en contradictory details, their in structions</p><p>for preparing magical ointments from frog’s blood and worse, their outlandish</p><p>names of de mons, their reference to otherwise unknown cosmogonies, as</p><p>no thing more than another ‘wretched subject’.</p><p>From what I have written it will have emerged, I trust, that I am opposed to</p><p>this development. Here I present an example from Greece of this ‘wretched</p><p>subject’. Published over a century ago, the text in question contributes, in its</p><p>own way, to the history of traditional beliefs in the Mediterranean.</p><p>Above I quoted from the ‘migraine prayer’ in the south Italian manuscript.</p><p>Th ere Jesus dispatches Headache into the head of a bull. We are naturally</p><p>reminded of the account of the Gerasene demoniac, in which Jesus sends the</p><p>demons into a herd of swine (Mk.</p><p>of the xematiasma ceremony is its divinatory</p><p>component. By looking at the mixture of oil and water it is thought that one can</p><p>tell whether or not the patient has indeed been bewitched, yet even if it is deter-</p><p>mined that the person is not bewitched, the ritual is not halted but rather carried</p><p>through to completion. Th e practice of divining by looking into a bowl of water,</p><p>with or without the addition of oil, was called lekanomanteia11 and it was a</p><p>known practice in antiquity; it continued throughout the Byzantine period.</p><p>Th e xematiasma ritual seems to have preserved some formal elements of</p><p>M A G I C A N D O R T H O D O X Y</p><p>93</p><p>lekanomanteia, but the meaning of the divinatory component seems to have</p><p>atrophied because it does not aff ect the teleology of the ritual. Th e baptismal</p><p>ceremony may also have drawn on the principles of lekanomanteia, but as divi-</p><p>nation was a practice classifi ed as pagan and superstitious in the Early Church,</p><p>it is no wonder that this once meaningful dimension of the ritual has been</p><p>totally removed.</p><p>To a very large degree Christianity developed in relation to Hellenic culture</p><p>of the fi rst centuries of our era. Christianity was initially a Semitic idea which</p><p>then travelled beyond Palestine and won many of its fi rst converts in Greek-</p><p>speaking communities in what is now Greece. Christianity developed as a sys-</p><p>tematic religion through this process. Much of the New Testament was written</p><p>in Greek; this was the language and culture into which the kerygma was trans-</p><p>lated and adapted. Present-day Greece thus presents a highly unusual situation.</p><p>It constitutes an example of what the anthropologist McKim Marriott has called</p><p>an ‘indigenous great tradition’. Th is means that the Greek form of Christianity</p><p>(with all this implies about Greek culture in the broader sense) is the result of</p><p>local elaboration rather than outside colonial or imperial imposition.12 In other</p><p>words, there is a genetic relationship between Orthodoxy and local village</p><p>culture in Greece that is not the case in many other parts of the world such as</p><p>South America or Africa, where European Christianity was imposed on funda-</p><p>mentally non-European peoples and in social and climatic conditions very dif-</p><p>ferent from those in the eastern Mediterranean.</p><p>One of the results of this situation is that local religious practices considered</p><p>‘superstitious’ by the Church are actually formally quite similar to its own central</p><p>rites. Centuries of interaction and accommodation between the two traditions,</p><p>such as those considered above, have increased the complexity of the situation.</p><p>Foreign, imported forms of magic may be easy for all Greeks to recognize, but</p><p>the dividing line between folk-magic and Orthodox practice is oft en more diffi -</p><p>cult to decide. Ultimately the matter comes down, not to who is performing the</p><p>ritual, but to what the Church declares. Such declarations can take time to be</p><p>pronounced, and may later be reversed. Th is is the nature of the arbitrariness</p><p>and uncertainty that beset the attempt to distinguish between magic and reli-</p><p>gion in Greece.</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 Luhrmann 1989.</p><p>2 Gurevich 1988: 74.</p><p>3 I thank Giorgos Calofonos for this observation.</p><p>4 Christian 1989: 94.</p><p>5 Veikou 1998: 61. On atopa and geloia as means of warding off the evil eye, see Engeman 1975:</p><p>30.</p><p>6 Greenfi eld 1988: 112.</p><p>7 Stewart 1991: 235.</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>94</p><p>8 In 1920 only 1 per cent of all Orthodox clergy (excluding bishops) had received university</p><p>education. By 1975 this had risen to only 8 per cent. See Ware 1983: 217.</p><p>9 Oikonomidis 1940: 65ff .</p><p>10 For a discussion of similar data from Crete see Herzfeld 1986: 107–20.</p><p>11 For this and other related practices, see Delatte 1932.</p><p>12 Marriott 1955.</p><p>95</p><p>16</p><p>R I T U A L W O R D A N D</p><p>S Y M B O L I C M O V E M E N T</p><p>I N S P E L L S A G A I N S T T H E</p><p>E V I L E Y E 1</p><p>Christina Veikou</p><p>Words are not enough. Acts are needed for the words to take hold.</p><p>Th e belief in the evil eye, in the harmful power which the insistent and pene-</p><p>trating gaze has on admirable persons and objects, is a cultural idiom wide-</p><p>spread among people in the Mediterranean, who cite it in order to comprehend</p><p>and subsequently cope with the consequences of unexpected and inexplicable</p><p>misfortune. Particularly in Greek culture, the evil eye is considered as the most</p><p>probable cause of a sudden and unjustifi able, personal and mainly physical, dis-</p><p>turbance. Such a cultural interpretation signifi es a moral/evaluative system</p><p>binding the individual to society.2 Th is system serves to interpret the interac-</p><p>tion of personal perceptions and social relations.3</p><p>Within the framework of everyday life, persons, values and ways of behaving</p><p>are exposed to the gaze of others; therefore they must appear to be compatible</p><p>with and analogous to the accepted principles of communal life. Th us, when-</p><p>ever these principles are violated by superiority (whether conscious or not) in</p><p>appearance or the material goods someone exhibits, the ideal sociability of col-</p><p>lective life is undermined and the resulting structural disorder brings about the</p><p>danger of the evil eye, that is the visual attack on the transgressor. Th e evil eye</p><p>attacks the body, the property, the personal and social being of the affl icted.</p><p>Recovery requires the spell against the evil eye, that is, the ritual reintegration</p><p>of the affl icted person in society.</p><p>Th e sentimental logic of xematiasma4</p><p>Th e evil eye reveals a momentary crisis in the relation between the bodily secu-</p><p>rity of a person and the stability of social life. Th is crisis is considered to be</p><p>extraordinary, because it is unexpected according to the local cultural logic; so</p><p>it is attributed to supernatural and irrational causes, to the ‘evil eye’, the ‘evil</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>96</p><p>gaze’, the ‘evil encounter’, the ‘dangerous hour’, to a vague feeling of transcend-</p><p>ent evil which is diff used and ever present among people, a constant threat not</p><p>only to personal being but also to social cohesion. Local society emphatically</p><p>declares that ‘You cannot avoid the (evil) eye, no matter where you go, whatever</p><p>you do, wherever you may be, at home, at work, in the street, in the coff ee-shop,</p><p>the evil eye will fi nd you.’</p><p>Th e vehicle of this fearful power is the eye, the organ of vision and visual</p><p>communication. Vision is the most social, the most comprehensive and the</p><p>most penetrating sense. Its organ, the eye, is a symbol of knowledge and power</p><p>across many cultures. Th e eye knows because it sees, and for this reason it has a</p><p>possessive power over the objects it views. It transmits experiences and emo-</p><p>tions, it is the intermediary between man and the world, it captures and it</p><p>recalls the truth of past and future events: ‘One look is a thousand years,’ as an</p><p>elderly Cretan sums it up, using his retrospective imagination to describe the</p><p>dominant power of the eye and of vision in social events.</p><p>Although people recognize the potency of the eye and agree that one must</p><p>guard against the evil eye, nevertheless, when they attempt to account for the</p><p>attack of the evil eye, they approach it as something natural, as an innate</p><p>attribute someone possesses without deliberately aspiring to harm others.</p><p>Public rhetoric in this area of Crete insists that ‘the eye is not evil, though it</p><p>may have harmful eff ects. It is given by nature for some people to infl ict harm</p><p>or be harmed by the evil eye. And s/he who has this power is unaware of it. S/he</p><p>does not do it out of spite, s/he does not mean to do it, it just happens. It is</p><p>something like a current, a force, a wind blowing, but it pulls like a magnet.’</p><p>In this way, local discourse clears the evil eye of any wilful, damaging and</p><p>malevolent magical infl uence. It does not include the casting of the evil eye in</p><p>the category of intentional, deliberate magic,5 because it is ‘of little harm’. It</p><p>presents the evil eye as a natural attitude</p><p>whose eff ect is uncontrollable but rec-</p><p>ognizable and acceptable, since it is known to all and may occur at any time. Its</p><p>randomness and the indeterminacy as to when and where the casting of the evil</p><p>eye may occur are precisely the features that diff erentiate it from ‘sorcery’.</p><p>Magic, in the common view, is a specifi c and personifi ed action which is carried</p><p>out in secret, at a precise time and place, by persons who have special abilities</p><p>and knowledge. It is governed by a variety of restrictive and initiatory rites and</p><p>directed against specifi c persons, aiming to infl ict permanent harm, destruc-</p><p>tion and devastation.6 Th e annulling of magic, ‘the undoing of sorcery’, requires</p><p>one to turn to special persons versed in the proper secret rites, whereas the</p><p>Figure 9 Ancient Greek eye-shaped kylikes, sixth century bce. Th e eyes on these drinking vessels</p><p>protected symposiasts.</p><p>S P E L L S A G A I N S T T H E E V I L E Y E</p><p>97</p><p>healing of the evil eye is straightforward, open and easy, since ‘everyone knows</p><p>how to cure the evil eye’. Th e major reason, however, that most people invoke to</p><p>describe the diff erence between affl iction by the evil eye and magic, is that the</p><p>cure for the evil eye is ‘accepted by the Church’, which in their opinion is a guar-</p><p>antee that not only is it not an evil deed, but on the contrary it is an action</p><p>pleasing to God, a popular sacred rite. ‘Th is spell we use here to remove the evil</p><p>eye’, stressed a Cretan healer, ‘is said to be like magic. But it is not evil, because</p><p>the Church too believes in the evil eye since it has a text on it, a thiarmophyl-</p><p>lada.’7 A woman from the same village, also a healer, told me that when she</p><p>started healing the evil eye, she fi rst confessed it to the village priest, and not</p><p>only did he not discourage her, but he advised her to go ahead and do it ‘for the</p><p>sake of her soul and her departed loved ones, because it was a good thing’.</p><p>Th e meaning of evil which emerges from the system of casting and healing</p><p>the evil eye (xe/matiasma) in the moral ideology of highland Crete does not</p><p>imply the notion of intentional sinful malice, as presented in Christian theod-</p><p>icy. It is rather a practical perception of protection against random dangers</p><p>which threaten people’s valuable goods – their health and property – and which</p><p>cannot be attributed to any other cause. Th e evil eye is a possible but managea-</p><p>ble danger, a socialized evil.</p><p>At the Cretan village of Eleft herna, the evil eye appears to be free of the</p><p>occult and unexpressed infl uence of a demonic ‘evil’. Here it has a decidedly</p><p>secularized presence, devoid of any metaphysical or mystical tendency. It is</p><p>something natural, part of the order of human things and an element of the way</p><p>people are reconciled to life: ‘the one who casts the evil eye does so involuntar-</p><p>ily, it just happens. S/he intends no harm, but it is his/her eye that strikes the</p><p>other. While evil is a diff erent thing. Th e evil, the sneaky person wants to</p><p>destroy you, so that you lose what you have, he does not intend only to cast the</p><p>evil eye.’ Th is clear certainty about the disinterested character of the evil eye is</p><p>strengthened even more by arguments of practical morality governing collec-</p><p>tive life: ‘Th e evil eye is not pathetic (meaning it does not cause pathimata,</p><p>“suff erings and passions”), it is not enmity. No one is so evil as to know that he</p><p>casts the evil eye and wish to use his power to an evil end. If the evil eye were</p><p>caused by enmity then we would have devoured each other. We here have no</p><p>enmity within us. We haven’t hurt anyone. We say all we know. We are good.’</p><p>As proof of this asserted common goodness, the healing of the evil eye is</p><p>carried out easily, willingly, publicly, mainly by men. It is a technique and a per-</p><p>formance with a dose of theatricality, nothing supernatural or awe-inspiring, a</p><p>distinct but natural power, totally in tune with the ethos of the locality. It is a</p><p>functional part of a tradition which is displayed as a cultural asset, as a local</p><p>peculiarity exhibited in exchange for the symbolic off er of a drink of tsikoudia.</p><p>Nonetheless, this emphatically declared climate of consensus raises some</p><p>questions – could this overtly positive public rhetoric in reality conceal a reverse</p><p>evaluation? Could it be, that is, that people present the evil eye as natural, rea-</p><p>sonable and benevolent, precisely in order to placate evil and reconcile them-</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>98</p><p>selves to unpleasant situations, which they are unable either to explain or to</p><p>overcome? Could this all be, fi nally, a verbal euphemism? Public discourse is</p><p>socially constructed; it is rhetoric which instead of revealing, more oft en con-</p><p>ceals the truth of things. Th is ambiguity is concealed under the private state-</p><p>ment of an 80-year-old Cretan woman healer, who, when I asked her whether</p><p>the eye was good or evil, answered: ‘What is good and what is evil, my child,</p><p>man does not know.’</p><p>Further, the naturalistic explanation of the belief in the evil eye, instead of</p><p>clarifying the terms and conditions that produce it, stresses even more the</p><p>ambivalent and vague character of the relationships involved in the phenome-</p><p>non. For the ‘natural’ explanation reveals a logical contradiction: how can the</p><p>judgment concerning a natural phenomenon (the function of the eye), which is</p><p>an empirical and not an evaluative judgment, immediately turn into a moral one</p><p>(the evil eye), and consequently be evaluative and intentional at the same time?</p><p>Th e catalyst which, according to the local arguments, transforms the empiri-</p><p>cal impression into a moral category is emotion. ‘Man’s eye is natural, it is not</p><p>evil. Everyone thiarmizei (“casts an evil eye”) and everyone thiarmizetai (“falls</p><p>under its spell”). An evil result occurs when sentiment comes into it, admira-</p><p>tion and apokamaroma (“extreme admiration and gloating over something or</p><p>someone”). When you keep it in mind and remember it, then you do not cast</p><p>the evil eye. When you admire from the heart, lust for and gloat over something</p><p>or someone, it is then that you cast the evil eye.’ Th e same reasoning is discerni-</p><p>ble in another version: ‘Th e eye is spontaneous, it is an air one possesses, it</p><p>comes out of his/her heart. Anyone who realizes at the moment that s/he is</p><p>looking and may cause harm, then his/her stare does not work, because it comes</p><p>out of his/her mind and not out of his/her heart.’ As long as people’s senses and</p><p>thoughts are controlled by rational judgment, no fi ssure arises in interpersonal</p><p>relations and no danger threatens collective life. When, however, people allow</p><p>themselves to be overtaken by intense emotions, rationality and right-minded-</p><p>ness are cast aside and their behaviour becomes malevolent, full of passion</p><p>(pathos) and causes pathimata (‘suff erings’). Th e logic of xe/matiasma is the</p><p>logic of the heart and body, not of reason and the mind: ‘It is because of his/her</p><p>love and his/her craving that one casts the evil eye.’ Th is epigrammatic popular</p><p>formulation refl ects precisely the intensity of social interaction and the opposi-</p><p>tional nature of personal feelings. Th e love of and desire for the other, the most</p><p>positive emotion, includes its negation, since it entails the threat of destruction</p><p>when not tempered by reason. Th us the logic of emotion dictates a practical</p><p>morality,8 a peculiar categorical command. For people’s relations to be in</p><p>harmony, senses and feelings must always be controlled by reason.9</p><p>Spells and ‘healing’ practices: the word as act, the body as locus</p><p>Th e bodily symptoms of affl iction by the evil eye denote the personal or social</p><p>confl icts of the suff erer, and the ‘illness’ caused becomes a symbolic bridge</p><p>S P E L L S A G A I N S T T H E E V I L E Y E</p><p>99</p><p>joining the human with the social body. For this very reason, the cure takes</p><p>place on a symbolic level, the ‘healing is no doctor’s job’. It requires skill and</p><p>technique,</p><p>‘it needs words and acts’. Th e healer restores order and reinstates the</p><p>‘patient’ to his prior security by creating a participatory performative atmos-</p><p>phere of physical contact and emotional reaffi rmation and by introducing into</p><p>the fi eld of action not only social individuals, but also extra-social entities</p><p>(Christ, the Virgin Mary, saints, thiarmos (‘the evil eye’)), which rule good and</p><p>evil and establish an entire system of cosmic order.</p><p>Th e spells recited for lift ing the evil eye are prayer-like incantations in the</p><p>literal sense of the therapeutic ‘enchantment’ they evoke. Th ey are speech-acts,</p><p>they act while speaking and describe while acting. Th is is ‘magical’ speech,</p><p>which contains all the elements characteristic of a ritual; a rhythmic, represen-</p><p>tational and repeatedly recited speech,10 with an arbitrary lexical, syntactical</p><p>and semantic structure, where the comprehensible and the incomprehensible</p><p>co-exist. It is also an emotional discourse, with many ambiguous meanings. It is</p><p>not a clear utterance but rather an implicit signifi cation – the words do not</p><p>denote persons and things, they are the persons and things.</p><p>Th e three examples that follow are charms for curing the evil eye, which are</p><p>used in the village of Eleft herna; these spells are special only for humans affl icted</p><p>by the evil eye, for it is sacrilegious for the healer to use the same charm for both</p><p>humans and animals. I have selected these three spells from among other varia-</p><p>tions with the same apotropaic content, because they present a clear gradation</p><p>in the eff ect of the evil eye. Th e fi rst charm describes the disruptive attack of</p><p>thiarmos on all forms of social life, the second depicts the affl iction but also the</p><p>ritual protection of the human body, and the third narrates the infl uence of the</p><p>evil eye even in the transcendent realm.</p><p>1 In the name of Christ, God and all the Saints.</p><p>Th e thiarmos set off , the anguish, the evil gaze to go</p><p>to the earth,</p><p>to exterminate the sheep, to bring old men into dotage,</p><p>to drive old women mad,</p><p>to attack the baby in the cradle.</p><p>Th e prophet Christ was looking at him and tells him:</p><p>Where are you going, thiarme, anguish, evil gaze of the earth?</p><p>I am going to exterminate the sheep,</p><p>to bring old men into dotage,</p><p>to drive old women mad,</p><p>to attack the baby in the cradle.</p><p>Yes, but come back and go away to the high mountains,</p><p>where no ox bellows, where no dog barks,</p><p>there you shall eat, there you shall drink,</p><p>there you shall reside,</p><p>and look for wild creatures to slaughter,</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>100</p><p>to eat their meat, to suck their blood,</p><p>and quit the innards of this [person], the servant [of</p><p>God]…</p><p>Five, ten, fi ft een, twenty, twenty-fi ve, thirty, thirty-fi ve, forty.</p><p>[Th e healer counts, touching the suff erer from head to toes.]</p><p>May the Forty Saints help you and escort you.</p><p>2 On December twenty-fi ve Christ is born,</p><p>this moment and that one are thought to be the same.</p><p>Two eyes attacked this person, three words have cured him/her.</p><p>[In the name of ] the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.</p><p>Amen.</p><p>Saint Panteleimon, great healer of all people,</p><p>you who cure all wounds, you who console all pains,</p><p>cure this person [name] and take all the hurts out of his/her body.</p><p>Five, ten, fi ft een, twenty, twenty-fi ve, thirty, thirty-fi ve, forty.</p><p>Forty Saints help him/her and lift the thiarmos out of his/her body.</p><p>Th e healer counts the twelve holes of the suff erer’s body: two eyes, two nostrils,</p><p>the mouth, two ears, two breasts, the navel, the urethra and the anus.11 Th en the</p><p>healer licks the suff erer’s forehead and if the latter is really under the evil eye,</p><p>his/her forehead has a salty taste. Finally the healer spits on the ground three</p><p>times and says, ‘Earth, take his/her suff ering and give him/her health’.</p><p>3 Saints Anargyroi, great healers of all people,</p><p>May he/she [name] be cured</p><p>[because] s/he has been baptized and anointed and sanctifi ed.</p><p>Th e Virgin Mary had her hair washed and combed,</p><p>She put on her lovely garment and sat on her throne.</p><p>She looked withered and languid.</p><p>Christ passed by and asked her:</p><p>What is happening to you, my mother, and you look so withered and</p><p>languid?</p><p>And the Virgin Mary answered him:</p><p>I have had my hair washed and combed, I put on my lovely garment and sat</p><p>on my throne.</p><p>Th e Apostles passed by and admired me</p><p>and they cast an evil eye on me.</p><p>Th en Master Christ told her:</p><p>Count, my mother, nine times [the healer counts]</p><p>and spit on the ground three times [the healer spits]</p><p>and you shall feel well, you shall be cured of the envious</p><p>looks, of the evil eye.</p><p>S P E L L S A G A I N S T T H E E V I L E Y E</p><p>101</p><p>Go away, evil eye, envious looking, and leave him/her [name],</p><p>Christ orders you out, go away.</p><p>Aft er the spell, the healer measures with his/her handkerchief. He/she holds</p><p>one end of the handkerchief with a little salt in his/her palm and folds the other</p><p>end under his/her elbow. Th en s/he loosens the fi rst end from his/her palm and</p><p>measures what is left . Sometimes, it is said, half the length of the palm is missing,</p><p>sometimes the whole.</p><p>In all three charms we can clearly distinguish the three stages of displace-</p><p>ment in space and time, which according to Turner12 defi ne a ritual. Th e charms</p><p>begin with the stage of separation in place and time, so that the situation might</p><p>be symbolically detached from the process of everyday reality and be ideally</p><p>located in ‘another’ sacred time-space, inhabited by transcendent beings, a</p><p>world beyond, which is not historical and therefore not constrained by human</p><p>conventions, and where accordingly anything may happen. Th is is clearer in the</p><p>second charm (‘this moment and that one are thought to be the same’) – ‘this</p><p>moment’ takes us back to ‘that one’, the time of Christ’s birth and so both</p><p>moments are sanctifi ed. Additionally, the initial invocations of God, Christ,</p><p>the Virgin and the saints are blessings that sanctify the whole event.</p><p>Th e second stage reveals the liminality of the situation. However, liminal time</p><p>is diff erentiated in the three charms. In the fi rst, the critical time of transition</p><p>begins with the calamitous journey of thiarmos towards the human world and</p><p>ends with the saving intervention of Christ: it is the classic motif of the struggle</p><p>between good and evil. In the second charm marginal time is shortened through</p><p>a brief formulation (‘two eyes attacked this person, three words have cured him/</p><p>her’). Th e primeval struggle of good and evil has been concluded and the removal</p><p>of evil is confi rmed in the ritual sphere, where the ‘three words’ overcome the ‘two</p><p>eyes’, thanks to the holy forces connoted by the sacred number ‘three’.</p><p>In the third charm the liminality of the occasion is even more critical, since</p><p>the very being of the benevolent entity is at stake. It is the Mother of Christ who</p><p>has been affl icted by the admiring look of his pupils, the Apostles. Th e Apostles</p><p>themselves are transitional entities, men who through their devotion to Christ</p><p>were sanctifi ed, having passed, that is, from the secular to the sacred sphere. But</p><p>the Virgin, too, appears here in a transitional state, since she tends to herself in</p><p>a most human way (she has her hair washed and combed, she puts on her lovely</p><p>garment) and thus transcends the accepted boundaries of sanctity, which entail</p><p>the renunciation of the physical body. When the Virgin Mary behaves like a</p><p>beautiful woman, she provokes the admiration of the male Apostles and meets</p><p>with the same fate as humans – she is attacked by the evil eye. Th e narrative</p><p>clearly implies that the origin of evil lies in the human world, but its power</p><p>extends even to the spiritual one. Th rough the ritual, the displacement from</p><p>one world to the other is not paradoxical but self-evident and unimpeded.</p><p>Th e fi nal stage is that of reunion. Now speech is literally transformed into an</p><p>act which is performed over the human body. Th e fi rst two charms end with</p><p>M A G I</p><p>C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>102</p><p>counting from one to the holy number of forty: the fi rst with the measurement</p><p>of forty spans on the body of the affl icted person (fi rst from the toes to the head</p><p>and then in reverse) and the second with the enumeration of the twelve body</p><p>orifi ces and with the licking of the patient’s forehead.13 In the third charm, the</p><p>part of body in which the presence of evil is tangibly and visibly confi rmed is</p><p>the healer’s hand, in particular the one with which s/he performed the xemati-</p><p>asma. Th us the healer ‘takes onto him/herself the evil’, s/he manipulates it as</p><p>the one who knows and masters the situation, and s/he fi nally demonstrates the</p><p>defeat of the evil by the shortened length of his/her handkerchief.14 Th e licking</p><p>of the forehead is also an extreme form of bodily empathy between the ‘patient’</p><p>and the healer. Th e performer of the spell recognizes and disperses the spell,</p><p>through his tongue coming into direct physical contact with the body of the</p><p>patient. Here licking is a ‘physical’ procedure of cleansing and cure. Th e body</p><p>fl uids, the brow’s sweat and the mouth’s saliva are meaningful symbols signify-</p><p>ing the withdrawal of evil and the purifi cation of the suff ering body. Th rough</p><p>these performances speech turns into act, acts are ‘embodied’, and the body</p><p>becomes the chart on which all the symbolic displacements of the affl iction are</p><p>inscribed in the process of the therapeutic ritual.15</p><p>Also noteworthy are the parts of the social and human body affl icted by the</p><p>evil eye, as vividly described in the charms. Th iarmos destroys the animal herd,</p><p>makes young children sick and drives the elderly mad. It thus destroys the forces</p><p>which ensure survival, reproduction and the wise administration of human</p><p>society, that is, all the elements which defi ne the physical existence and the social</p><p>identity of human beings. In this way thiarmos can transform the organized social</p><p>collectivity into a wild state. Th is is why the cure eff ected through the interven-</p><p>tion of Christ’s holy power16 is carried out in a homeopathic manner, through the</p><p>divine command to evil to return ‘to the mountains’, to the extra-social space of</p><p>wild nature, ‘where no ox bellows, where no dog barks’, far from every locus of</p><p>human community or even in the depths of the earth, according to the conclud-</p><p>ing wish of the second charm. Th e ritual oscillation between the primary struc-</p><p>tural limits of nature and culture is, I think, obvious.</p><p>Above and beyond these limits, the ritual word interposes the holy community</p><p>of the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit, the Forty Saints, the Saints Anargyroi, St</p><p>Panteleimon and All Saints. In this way, it expands the universe and unifi es the</p><p>physical, social and transcendent world, while transforming the discontinuous</p><p>human present into a symbolic, everlasting world, where the problems of this</p><p>world vanish. Th e ritual brings forth an inversion of the context: it is not the</p><p>affl icted party who summons a holy power for his cure, but rather it is the sacred</p><p>situation which imposes and validates this cure.17 In other words, the cure which</p><p>is sought by the third charm is not a suff erer’s request but his (or her) rightful</p><p>claim, because ‘s/he has been baptized and anointed and sanctifi ed’, that is, s/he is</p><p>a child of God and a member of the sacred community of the believers.</p><p>In this ritual context, the human body comes to the fore as a locus not only</p><p>in the semiotic sense, as a vehicle, that is, of messages and images, but also in a</p><p>S P E L L S A G A I N S T T H E E V I L E Y E</p><p>103</p><p>practical sense, as part of social experience and practice. Th e human body is a</p><p>peculiar complex of cultural inscriptions and personal attitudes. Th rough it</p><p>people live out, recognize and express the meanings and values of their culture;</p><p>through it they also express the problems they encounter in their relationships.</p><p>Th e physical symptoms of affl iction by the evil eye are a sensitive index of the</p><p>confl icts which people experience; the healing process resolves these confl icts</p><p>through the body, too. Th e reverse counting of the forty spans over the body of</p><p>the affl icted person, starting from below and moving upwards and then in the</p><p>opposite direction, represents the removal of evil from the patient’s body and</p><p>his/her return to a normal state, just as one takes off a dirty garment in order to</p><p>put on a clean one.18</p><p>Th e eff ect of the evil eye is not, however, restricted to a person’s exterior</p><p>appearance. It enters his body and decays his/her inside. Noting that all the</p><p>vital human organs are located within, we can appreciate that the imminent</p><p>danger is death. Th is is why the commands for the removal of the evil eye, ‘quit</p><p>the innards of this [person]’ and ‘take all the hurts out of his/her body’, have</p><p>such an accurately specifi ed referent.</p><p>A person’s life and soul are to be found inside his/her body and every entry</p><p>or exit ‘hole’ of the body is liminal, endangering his/her survival. Th is is the</p><p>reason that the spell names every specifi c ‘body hole’ – in this way the bounda-</p><p>ries of the body are controlled and guarded against any possible intrusion. Th e</p><p>openings of the body are borderline orifi ces, entrances for evil and exits of vital</p><p>breath. Th ese orifi ces are cultural metonymic forms which denote the continu-</p><p>ity of internal and external space. Th e substances which enter or exit from these</p><p>orifi ces delimit the participation in, or the exclusion of the human body from,</p><p>the social domain. Th e ritual which controls the fragile boundaries of physical</p><p>being is, fi nally, an act of safeguarding the human social being.</p><p>Th e ritual healing of the evil eye restores bodily integrity and secures the life</p><p>cycle of the community. It occupies an intermediate space between the spoken</p><p>and the unspoken, manifest and secret, speech and silence, rational and magical,</p><p>life and death. Th rough it the human body constitutes, materially and symboli-</p><p>cally, the locus where collective ideas, values, intentions and sentiments are per-</p><p>ceived, expressed and reaffi rmed. Th is is why such a symbolic idiom, however</p><p>bizarre it may seem from the viewpoint of ‘pure’ logic, is rendered completely</p><p>self-evident and plausible through the process of collective life. It is society that</p><p>always transforms particular events into indexes or symbols of another order of</p><p>things.</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 Th e term used for the ritual healing of the evil eye affl iction is xematiasma. It entails holy</p><p>spells accompanied by symbolic acts. Th e ethnographic material presented in this chapter</p><p>(mainly oral descriptions by native healers and three incantations against the evil eye) origi-</p><p>nated from fi eldwork I undertook in 1989 at Eleft herna, a mountain village in the prefecture</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>104</p><p>of Rethymno, Crete. Th e emphasis on local parlance aims on the one hand to bring out the</p><p>‘social poetics’ of the language, that is, its constructive contribution to the interpretation of</p><p>social relations, and on the other to describe the expressiveness of language used during the</p><p>performance of a ritual.</p><p>2 Mauss 1990: 225, pointed out that all symbolic systems, as well as magic or religion, are not</p><p>the work of individual thought but an expression of social feelings which take form through</p><p>a game of value judgments, that is, expressive aphorisms which ascribe various qualities to dif-</p><p>ferent persons or objects entering the system.</p><p>3 See Veikou 1998: 90: ‘Th e spell of the evil eye is one of the phenomena connecting symbolic</p><p>life with practical action, social process with personality, the person with his/her body … It is</p><p>furthermore a form of visual perception and a code of communication: a strategy which</p><p>people use in order to construct their personal identity as well as their social relations, by</p><p>obeying or defying the common but oft en contradictory principles of collective life – socia-</p><p>bility and</p><p>autonomy, cooperation and competition, conformity and exhibition, mutuality</p><p>and selfi shness.’</p><p>4 In Greek I use the composite term xe/matiasma as a common form of expression to denote</p><p>both the attack and the ritual healing of the evil eye. It is a system of relations, where the two</p><p>processes form a unity, given that the fi rst necessarily entails the second, and the latter in turn</p><p>ritually completes the fi rst.</p><p>5 Skouteri-Didaskalou 1997: 12, 36, includes the evil eye spell in the ‘partial analytical catego-</p><p>ries’ which compose the total phenomenon of magic. She classifi es it, positively, under the</p><p>category of ‘good magic’ (witchcraft ), ‘of an innate psychic force which its bearer is not con-</p><p>scious of and which acts or harms over and above the intentions of its agent’. However, indig-</p><p>enous discourse in Crete does not seem to agree with such a typology which connects the evil</p><p>eye with magic, because, in the local context, magic is conceived as exclusively evil and inten-</p><p>tional, whereas the evil eye ‘is not by ill will’. Comparative ethnographic evidence from fi eld-</p><p>work in eastern Greek Macedonia and the region of Skopje (in the former Yugoslav Republic</p><p>of Macedonia) also supports similar conclusions: see Veikou 1998: 297–8: ‘Th e evil eye bears</p><p>no relation to evil. Anyone casting the evil eye has this innate ability, he cannot help it… an</p><p>evil person does not necessarily have the evil eye’ and also Rheubottom 1985: 77–8: ‘Th e evil</p><p>eye is an innate but potential attribute. Th e people of Skopje say: “He has an evil eye but does</p><p>not make use of it. He is a good person.”’</p><p>6 Th e classic defi nition by Mauss 1990; 1903: 90 defi nes as magic ‘every ritual which does not</p><p>form part of an organized cult, which is private, secret, mystical and tends towards the for-</p><p>bidden’. Evans-Pritchard 1937; 1976: 201, 226–8, on the basis of his fi eldwork among the</p><p>Azande, diff erentiates between ‘good magic’, or witchcraft , which is a socially acceptable</p><p>psychic force, and ‘bad magic’ (sorcery), which is illicit and immoral.</p><p>7 Th e thiarmophyllada is a generic term for the religious texts included in the prayer-books of</p><p>the Christian Church and recited by the priests as blessings against spells. Th iarmos or phthi-</p><p>armos is a word used in Crete for the spell of the evil eye. Th e etymological origin of the word</p><p>is unclear. It is probably a local idiom, a lexical corruption of an earlier form. Two probable</p><p>linguistic affi nities may be put forward: either with the word ptarmos (= ‘sneeze’), a phenom-</p><p>enon considered to denote the expectation of good news, hence a good omen (in this case</p><p>phthiarmos is a euphemistic metonymy for the evil eye) or with the word phtharmos (=‘attri-</p><p>tion, catastrophe’), where phthiarmos is the literal rendering of the consequences of the attack</p><p>of the evil eye. In either case, thiarmos bears a close resemblance in terms of sound and sense</p><p>to the word ophthalmos (= ‘eye’), and may be interpreted as a local oral evolution of the origi-</p><p>nal lexical form. Besides, in symbolic systems words are used as magical entities and not as</p><p>carriers of a cognitive message.</p><p>8 Rosaldo 1983: 136 n. 4, observes that emotions entail the involvement of the physical experi-</p><p>ence with conscious judgment: ‘Emotions are not passive situations, they are moral acts.’</p><p>S P E L L S A G A I N S T T H E E V I L E Y E</p><p>105</p><p>9 Th e dualistic explanatory scheme, heart/thought, sentiment/mind, is strongly reminiscent of</p><p>the Platonic relation of thymic and logic, the elements which compose the soul and determine</p><p>human action antagonistically.</p><p>10 See Christidis 1997: 56–8. Rhythm and repetition constitute precisely what Malinowski</p><p>1935; 1965: 238, calls ‘the creative metaphor of magical speech’, that is, the belief of the par-</p><p>ticipant that repetition of certain words will make real the situation they describe.</p><p>11 A healer, in enumerating the orifi ces of the body, added the gall-bladder and the heart. Th ese</p><p>organs are not orifi ces, but ‘channels’, as he called them, that is, conduits of body fl uids</p><p>(blood, bile), and therefore they can be passages through which evil may enter the human</p><p>body.</p><p>12 Turner 1979: 235, following Α. Van Gennep’s typology of rites of passage, considers that</p><p>every ritual is performed in three stages: separation, liminality and reintegration.</p><p>13 In Crete, this stage of the healing is also called xemetrima (= ‘counting’), the whole procedure</p><p>oft en being called xemetrima, too. Th e xemetrima makes the attack visible and tangible. On</p><p>the sealing of body orifi ces during the healing see also above, Ch. 15 (Stewart).</p><p>14 Th e ‘missing palm’ on the healer’s handkerchief is identifi ed with evil – it was this that acted</p><p>and had to vanish. Male healers who recite the third charm use their headscarf in the healing</p><p>process, and this brings an additional symbolic signifi cance to their ability to heal, since the</p><p>headscarf becomes the visible symbol of their healing capacity. Th e most competent male and</p><p>female healers, who are in great demand at Eleft herna, are called cherikarides [= ‘with an effi -</p><p>cient hand’] because ‘their hand has a good touch’ and they are well versed in the art of</p><p>healing. It seems that what Lévi-Strauss 1967: 36, claims for the famous magician Quaselid</p><p>applies also to the Cretan healers of the evil eye: ‘Quaselid was not a great magician because</p><p>he healed his patients; he healed his patients because he was a great magician.’</p><p>15 As noted by de Coppet 1992: 5, 14, the displacement in space and time is a fundamental</p><p>feature of the ritual, which does not simply express abstract ideas but accomplishes things,</p><p>having an impact on the real world.</p><p>16 Th e sacred intervention eff ectively begins with Christ’s imperative address to the thiarmos:</p><p>‘Where are you going, thiarme?’ Th rough its naming, the destructive force is identifi ed and</p><p>controlled and its expulsion begins.</p><p>17 Lévi-Strauss 1972: 198, has pointed out that ritual therapeutic systems provide a linguistic</p><p>idiom through which otherwise inexpressible mental conditions can be immediately</p><p>expressed. Th e displacement on the linguistic level imposes order upon the actual experience</p><p>and makes it comprehensible, for it would otherwise be chaotic and incomprehensible.</p><p>18 Th e same symbolism of dressing anew and a person’s admittance to the sacred community of</p><p>God’s believers also occurs in the baptism ceremony, wherein the newly baptized has his/her</p><p>clothes removed and changed with new ones symbolizing his/her entry into a new state.</p><p>106</p><p>17</p><p>T H E E V I L E Y E A M O N G T H E</p><p>G R E E K S O F A U S T R A L I A</p><p>Identity, continuity and modernization</p><p>Vassiliki Chryssanthopoulou</p><p>Even the Lord Christ, even He was frightened of the evil eye.</p><p>An elderly Castellorizian migrant in Perth, Western Australia, uttered this pro-</p><p>verbial phrase in answer to my question about the power of the evil eye. She</p><p>went on to narrate the following explanatory myth that she had heard from her</p><p>grandmother.</p><p>Th e story is, that Christ passed by an olive tree. He tasted an olive and it was</p><p>so sweet that He said: ‘How sweet it is!’ Th en the tree fell down. And the</p><p>Disciples said: ‘What have you done, Lord? Th e poor people eat of this tree.’</p><p>He said: ‘I put the evil eye on it. But take three olive leaves (vayia) and put</p><p>them on the censer and the evil will go away. I shall teach you some words to</p><p>say when you suff er from the evil eye, so that it disappears. And you will also</p><p>put a few olive leaves on the censer.’ And this is the vayia [the narrator contin-</p><p>ued]. Not these other things that people use today. When you are suddenly</p><p>feeling weak while you were feeling fi ne before, then you are suff ering from</p><p>the evil eye. You burn your censer, you put incense inside, you put three olive</p><p>leaves on it, you make the sign of the cross over them and say:</p><p>Christ passed by</p><p>He touched with His left hand</p><p>He scattered all evil,</p><p>Th e male and the female snake</p><p>And the evil</p><p>neighbour.</p><p>May as many Saints help you</p><p>As many eyes see you.</p><p>You take handfuls of this smoke and pass it over your face, and the evil goes</p><p>away immediately. I do this for myself on my own.</p><p>T H E E V I L E Y E A M O N G T H E G R E E K S O F A U S T R A L I A</p><p>107</p><p>Th e concept and its interpretations</p><p>Th is narrative contains condensed information on beliefs surrounding the evil</p><p>eye, as followed by many Castellorizians and other Greeks of Australia, espe-</p><p>cially immigrants. Th ese beliefs and ways of dealing with the evil eye are similar</p><p>to those prevailing throughout Greece. Th e incorporation of the evil eye belief</p><p>in the cosmology of Christianity, as manifested in the informant’s narrative</p><p>above, is especially interesting; it is also important as it proves how strong and</p><p>widespread belief in the evil eye is: Christ Himself in this human manifestation</p><p>involuntarily admired the olive tree for its sweet fruit; this admiration resulted</p><p>in Him putting the evil eye on it, thus destroying what set it apart and made it</p><p>enviable.1 However, ‘he who has harmed will also cure’. Th us Christ, according</p><p>to the narrative, revealed to man the cure for the evil eye, by teaching people the</p><p>spell and the ritual actions they have to perform, but also the objects they have</p><p>to use to achieve this aim.</p><p>‘Our Church also believes in the [evil] eye,’ elderly Castellorizians oft en</p><p>retorted to young, Australian-born ones who relegated this belief to the order</p><p>of superstition. Believers in the evil eye had a special prayer (efh i epi vaskanian),</p><p>which priests are invited by suff erers and their relatives to read to possible</p><p>victims of the evil eye. Most Castellorizians, however, would cure the evil eye by</p><p>applying traditional practices. Initially, Christianity did not condone concepts</p><p>such as the evil eye, which were seen as pagan by the early Church Fathers, such</p><p>as St Basil (Dundes 1981, 259).2 As time went by, however, the Orthodox</p><p>Church incorporated many of the beliefs constituting part of the cultural values</p><p>of its followers (Veikou 1998, 64). Th e evil eye or vaskania, as it is referred to in</p><p>the religious texts, is attributed to envy, which is born of the Devil:</p><p>we implore You, keep away and chase away from Your servant (name) any</p><p>action of the devil, any attack and any evil attempt by Satan, as well as any</p><p>cunning curiosity and evil damage by the eyes of harmful and cunning people;</p><p>and whether this happened either because of beauty or bravery or happiness</p><p>or jealousy and envy or by vaskania. You, benevolent Lord, extend your strong</p><p>arm … and send an Angel of peace to him.</p><p>(Mikron Efh ologion, 1981, 276)</p><p>Belief in the evil eye and practices centring on its avoidance are widespread in</p><p>the Indo-European and the Semitic world and especially so in countries of the</p><p>Mediterranean, in Africa north of the Sahara, in the Middle East, in India and in</p><p>Latin America, which was colonized by Spanish speakers. However, such beliefs</p><p>and practices do not exist among the natives of Australia, Oceania, North and</p><p>South America, nor in Africa south of the Sahara (Dundes 1981, 259). Belief</p><p>in the evil eye is also widespread among communities of migrants and their</p><p>descendants from Europe and Asia to America and Australia (Schoeck (1955)</p><p>1977, 227; Jones, Hand, Stein, in Dundes 1981, 150–68, 169–80, 223–57</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>108</p><p>respectively; Chryssanthopoulou 1993, 351–65). Despite local variation, beliefs</p><p>connected with the evil eye and, in particular, ways of diagnosing and curing it</p><p>are very similar. On the basis of this similarity, various theories attempting to</p><p>explain such beliefs have been formulated. Dundes, for example, sees its origin</p><p>in the fundamental opposition wet:dry which in Indo-European and Semitic</p><p>ideology corresponds to the opposition life:death. Th rough the use of many</p><p>examples, he shows that the evil eye is seen as the draining of vital liquids, of the</p><p>victim’s vitality by the one who puts the evil eye on him, and that it can be cured</p><p>by restoring physiological and symbolic balance (Dundes 1981, 257–98).</p><p>Belief in the evil eye is widespread in ancient Greek and Roman texts and art</p><p>and is substantiated by archaeological evidence, such as amulets and other apo-</p><p>tropaic objects aimed at keeping away its evil infl uence.3 Th e motif of the head</p><p>of Medusa or the Gorgon found in Graeco-Roman art is expressive of this</p><p>belief. Medusa, whose gaze turned the viewer to stone, was killed by Perseus</p><p>who off ered the severed head to Athena. Th e latter used it as a symbol of power</p><p>on her suit of armour and ancient Greeks adopted it as an apotropaic and pro-</p><p>tective symbol on theirs (Veikou 1998, 50–1). In Plato’s Phaedo, Socrates is</p><p>presented as warning Cebes not to praise him excessively ‘so that no evil eye</p><p>may aff ect our coming discussion’ (Phaedo, 95b 5–6, in Veikou 1998, 55).</p><p>In modern Greece, many folklorists, such as Polites, Megas, Loukatos,</p><p>Romaios and the Byzantinist Koukoules, have studied the evil eye, as have</p><p>several anthropologists such as Blum, Dionysopoulos-Mass, Hardie, Campbell,</p><p>Du Boulay, Peristiany, Hirschon, Herzfeld and Stewart, among others. Th e</p><p>most comprehensive anthropological analysis of the evil eye in Greece, however,</p><p>is to be found in Christina Veikou’s recent book, Evil Eye: Th e Social Construction</p><p>of Visual Communication.4 Th is study presents the phenomenon as a fundamen-</p><p>tal cultural construct which conveys the values of the community investigated,</p><p>its cohesion, as well as the clashes and the negotiation of identity, as they are all</p><p>expressed through embodied beliefs and practices.</p><p>Belief in the evil eye entails that a person, man or woman, has the ability, vol-</p><p>untarily or not, to harm another person or his property through the power of</p><p>his eye. Beliefs as to what may be aff ected by the evil eye and how its symptoms</p><p>are manifested vary according to society, since people’s fears are to a great extent</p><p>culturally constructed: ‘Fears themselves are produced through collective</p><p>apprehension, through a kind of involuntary agreement, and become transmit-</p><p>ted through tradition. Th ey are unique in a given society’ (Mauss (1902) 1972,</p><p>129). Generally, however, the evil eye aff ects negatively whatever is of value for</p><p>the survival and reproduction of a community (Veikou 1998, 143–5), as well as</p><p>those goods and situations that are crucial, but not completed yet (Schoeck</p><p>(1955) 1977, 229). Th ese two categories of goods are interrelated, as I hope to</p><p>illustrate in what follows.</p><p>Goods of value for the survival and reproduction of a community include</p><p>the appearance and health of its members, the children who ensure its continu-</p><p>ity and the fundamental elements of its productive economy. Th us, the</p><p>T H E E V I L E Y E A M O N G T H E G R E E K S O F A U S T R A L I A</p><p>109</p><p>Sarakatsani nomads of north-western Greece believed that their animals, which</p><p>constituted the basis of their economy and survival, were particularly suscepti-</p><p>ble to the danger of the evil eye, whether it came from a malevolent neighbour</p><p>or their own wives during menstruation, when they were considered polluted</p><p>(Campbell 1964, 31). In the refugee community of Neo Kastro in Macedonia,</p><p>where viticulture and farming in general form the basis of the economy, several</p><p>narratives featuring the evil eye refer to its ability to dry vines and trees (Veikou</p><p>1998, 144). In other cultures, the terms of reference may be diff erent, but the</p><p>phenomenon is the same. In a small town of fi shermen on the Amazon the</p><p>inhabitants do not talk of the evil eye, but of panema, i.e the spiteful disposi-</p><p>tion of an acquaintance or a neighbour which may render their fi shing nets</p><p>empty. Such is the fear of panema that fi shermen hesitate to sell fi sh caught in</p><p>new nets or by a new fl ying-line (Schoeck (1955) 1977, 229).</p><p>Th e concept of envy is fundamental to the understanding of the evil eye. Th e</p><p>evil eye can harm, whether</p><p>intentionally or not. In an ethnographic analysis of</p><p>a farming community in Portugal, Cutileiro mentions that the inhabitants dis-</p><p>tinguish these two cases both as terms and as concepts: quebranto is the unin-</p><p>tentional infl uence of the evil eye, and mau olhado is its intentional infl uence</p><p>(Cutileiro 1971, 274). Th is distinction parallels Evans-Pritchard’s classic dis-</p><p>tinction between witchcraft and sorcery. His pioneering anthropological study</p><p>of the Azande, a tribe in Southern Sudan, laid the foundations for understand-</p><p>ing the concept of the evil eye in relation to witchcraft . Th e Azande distinguish</p><p>between witchcraft and sorcery. It is believed that a person who possesses witch-</p><p>craft has from birth the psychic power to harm others in a specifi c manner. Th e</p><p>Azande believe that this power is inherited unilineally, namely from father to</p><p>son and from mother to daughter. Sorcery, however, employs a practical, mech-</p><p>anistic approach. Th e sorcerer uses certain practical means, such as herbs, to</p><p>achieve his aim, thus forcing supernatural powers to collaborate with him</p><p>(Evans-Pritchard 1937, passim).</p><p>Th e idea of the unintentional psychic power that emanates from a person</p><p>whenever he admires or ‘envies’ another person or a thing, not necessarily mali-</p><p>ciously, is a fundamental part of the concept of the evil eye. Th us in Greece,</p><p>people believe that the evil eye can be put on small children even by their own</p><p>mothers, or by members of their families who take unmalicious pride in them.</p><p>Th e Sarakatsani, the transhumant nomads mentioned above, incorporate the</p><p>evil eye in the cosmology of Orthodoxy, believing as they do that it constitutes</p><p>a demonic infl uence due to people’s weak and sinful nature, a nature prone to</p><p>jealousy (Campbell 1964, 337–40). Th erefore, we are all potentially carriers of</p><p>the evil eye and we can harm others unintentionally. An elderly Castellorizian</p><p>woman from Perth clearly expressed the connection between the evil eye and</p><p>the Devil:</p><p>We Christian women who are christened and have got holy oil [myrrh] on us,</p><p>we are envied by the enemy [i.e the Devil], who pursues us and wants to</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>110</p><p>destroy us. Sometimes I come back home feeling very weak. And while I am</p><p>seated, my tears start fl owing and I start yawning. Th is is good. People say that</p><p>the evil eye goes away in this way.5</p><p>However, the Castellorizians of Perth pointed out specifi c persons whom they</p><p>considered ill-intentioned and whose power they dreaded:</p><p>Th is woman – whenever I see her, I run away. And whenever she gives me</p><p>wishes, I am petrifi ed and I am sure that something bad will happen to me.</p><p>She does not have a good eye. I think that she is not a good person.</p><p>Th is statement refers to an Australian-born Castellorizian woman who used to</p><p>belong to the elite of the community, but gradually lost her high socio-eco-</p><p>nomic position. Her eye is considered to be especially evil, since people are con-</p><p>vinced that she is jealous of those relatives and acquaintances of hers who have</p><p>continued to prosper.</p><p>A psychoanalytical approach also suggests the idea of envy, combined with</p><p>aggressiveness, as an interpretation of the evil eye. In his essay entitled Das</p><p>Unheimlich, written between 1917 and 1920, Freud suggests that the fear of the</p><p>evil eye is due to the projection of the feelings of the person potentially aff ected</p><p>by its infl uence onto other people: ‘Whoever possesses something valuable, but</p><p>fragile, fears other people’s envy. He projects upon them the jealousy that he</p><p>himself would feel if he were in their position’ (Schoeck (1955) 1977, 228).</p><p>In her book Veikou provides a semantic analysis of the evil eye, which she</p><p>examines in the context of the ideology and values of the community of Neo</p><p>Kastro. Th e Kastriots believe that the evil eye is a quasi-automatic social reac-</p><p>tion against any person who acts in an independent way, thus disregarding,</p><p>intentionally or not, social uniformity and convention. A well-dressed woman</p><p>returning from town laden with shopping knows that she will be aff ected by</p><p>the intense looks that she attracts while walking. Th e same holds for a hard-</p><p>working man who has managed to increase his property. Th e evil eye recog-</p><p>nizes and exposes the anti-social feelings of jealousy and envy deriving from</p><p>competition which communal rhetoric conceals. Diff erence and ostentation</p><p>provoke aggressiveness and envy in the form of the evil eye and contrast with</p><p>egalitarianism which is stressed as a communal ideal (Veikou 1998, 239–50).</p><p>Th at the evil eye is attracted by dissimilarity and autonomy, interpreted by</p><p>some people as inimical to the community and its values, can be seen in the fol-</p><p>lowing words of an elderly Castellorizian woman: ‘[People] are jealous of me. I</p><p>am too independent. [Th e phrase “too independent” was said in English.] I am</p><p>not like other women. I have my parents’ blessing and the help of the Mother</p><p>of God.’ Th is quotation makes it evident that this woman believes that she is</p><p>infl uenced by the evil eye. Interestingly, however, this same non-conformist</p><p>woman is also perceived as wielding the evil eye herself, as has already been</p><p>mentioned.</p><p>T H E E V I L E Y E A M O N G T H E G R E E K S O F A U S T R A L I A</p><p>111</p><p>Although it punishes people transgressing uniformity and established values</p><p>and ways, the community nevertheless cures them and helps them return to</p><p>health through the ritual removal of the evil eye, or xematiasma. Th is is an inter-</p><p>action between individual and community by which the social personality of</p><p>the person aff ected is recreated. Th is cure is achieved not only through the</p><p>words and actions of which the ritual consists, but also through the social</p><p>approval shown to the person suff ering from the evil eye. All this is expressed by</p><p>an idiom of incorporation or embodiment which presents the whole sequence of</p><p>being aff ected by the evil eye and then being cured of it, as expressed through</p><p>the body.6</p><p>Not only does the evil eye aff ect people and objects vital for the survival and</p><p>reproduction of a community; it also aff ects individuals in a liminal or transi-</p><p>tional situation, and therefore particularly vulnerable. Pregnant women who</p><p>have not become mothers yet, newly delivered mothers (lechones) who have not</p><p>completed the forty-day cycle of the post-partum period, babies who have not</p><p>been blessed and christened in church yet, thus not having been symbolically</p><p>accepted as members of the community, and couples before their wedding – all</p><p>these are considered to be in great danger of the evil eye, and are consequently</p><p>surrounded by ritual precautions (Chryssanthopoulou 1984, 5–11). In his</p><p>analysis of the structure of rituals performed in various cultures, van Gennep</p><p>made a useful distinction consisting of three stages in people’s progression</p><p>through rites of passage or life crisis rituals: separation from the previous condi-</p><p>tion, transition or liminality, and incorporation into the new situation or status</p><p>(Van Gennep (1909) 1977, passim). While in transition, people fi nd them-</p><p>selves in relatively unstructured areas of society. Th us they are considered both</p><p>vulnerable and dangerous. Th e concept of miasma, or pollution, surrounding a</p><p>new mother or unbaptized child is an indirect way in which society controls</p><p>these liminal individuals. Such individuals are ritually avoided or segregated,</p><p>hence protecting both the individuals and the rest of society, which is in a dis-</p><p>ordered and hence vulnerable state (Douglas 1966, 102). Th e danger of the evil</p><p>eye aff ecting the bridegroom or the bride during a wedding ceremony consti-</p><p>tutes a well-known case in point in Greek culture. It belongs to the same struc-</p><p>tural and ideological framework as the familiar ambodema, namely the ‘tying’</p><p>of the groom by spells and other magical means which prevents his sexual inter-</p><p>course with the bride.7 Th e relationship between the two cultural phenomena</p><p>is expressed in the following words by an elderly Castellorizian woman:</p><p>If a woman is jealous of the groom, she can perform magic while the priest</p><p>utters the fi rst word of the wedding service so that the groom may not be able</p><p>to sleep with his wife. Th at’s why they put a pair of scissors on the person of</p><p>the groom, so that it cuts the evil tongues. Th ey also put an amulet containing</p><p>olive leaves (vayia), a small cross, a black bean, so that it renders your eye</p><p>black, or a net as it has a cross (a pentalpha) on it.</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>112</p><p>Th e evil eye in the pre-wedding rituals of the Castellorizians of Perth</p><p>Th e original ethnographic information used in this chapter derives from fi eld-</p><p>work conducted in Perth, Western Australia, mainly during 1984–1986 (see</p><p>Chryssanthopoulou 1993). Th is section examines the position of the evil eye in</p><p>the beliefs and rituals of the Castellorizians of Perth. In particular, I focus my</p><p>analysis on the role of the evil eye in the formation of their ethnic identity</p><p>within the broader Australian social and cultural context. I also look at the role</p><p>of the evil eye in transmitting this culture and identity from one migrant gener-</p><p>ation to another.</p><p>Perth, the capital of Western Australia, has a fl ourishing Greek community</p><p>numbering about 15,000. About 7,000 are Castellorizians, either immigrants</p><p>or Australian-born – ‘Cazzies’, as they call themselves and are referred to by</p><p>other Australians. Cazzies are mostly second- and third-generation adults.</p><p>Castellorizian migration started towards the end of the nineteenth century</p><p>with the arrival of young and ambitious men from the island of Castellorizo or</p><p>the Castellorizian settlements in Egypt. Th ese men sought their fortune either</p><p>in the goldmines of Australia or in businesses they set up, such as oyster bars or</p><p>hotels-cum-bars which provided their customers with food, drink and accom-</p><p>modation. Most Castellorizians, however, migrated to Perth during the three</p><p>decades before the Second World War through chain migration, that is, by invit-</p><p>ing or by being invited by their relatives and friends. Today, the inhabitants of</p><p>Castellorizo do not exceed 200, while in Australia there are several thousands</p><p>of Castellorizians who maintain a distinct collective identity in the context of</p><p>the Greek and Australian communities.8</p><p>Th e pre-wedding rituals of the Castellorizians of Perth provide a framework</p><p>within which fundamental cultural values and symbols constituting the ethnic</p><p>identity, collective and personal, of this group are expressed, reproduced, trans-</p><p>mitted and changed. Castellorizians themselves consider wedding rituals as an</p><p>epitome of their distinctive identity. ‘It was just like a Cazzie wedding,’ said a</p><p>young, second-generation Castellorizian male, in reference to the conference of</p><p>the World Castellorizian Association, which took place in Perth in 1986. Pre-</p><p>wedding rituals are rites of passage through which the transition of individuals</p><p>from unmarried to married status is realized. Th ey are saturated with cultural</p><p>symbols that, in their turn, lead to ‘emotional symbolic reinforcement of ethnic</p><p>patterns’ (De Vos 1975, 26). Moreover, in pre-wedding rituals the danger of</p><p>being aff ected by the evil eye and the evil tongue is greater, since the couple-to-</p><p>be and their families are exposed to the inquisitive eyes of other members of the</p><p>community when the couple’s happiness is at a peak.</p><p>Here we look at the most important pre-wedding rituals of the Castellorizians</p><p>of Perth, namely, votania and mousoukarfi a. Th e focus of my analysis rests on the</p><p>expression and negotiation of values and practices concerning the evil eye.</p><p>Castellorizians characteristically refer to these two rituals by their native names,</p><p>even when speaking in English or when referring to the evil eye, which they nor-</p><p>T H E E V I L E Y E A M O N G T H E G R E E K S O F A U S T R A L I A</p><p>113</p><p>mally refer to as to mati or to matiko. Th ese and other words, which also convey</p><p>the experience of shared values and a shared past, thus function as symbols of</p><p>their ethnic identity, standing like landmarks that express their cultural distinc-</p><p>tiveness in the midst of the fl ow of their English conversation.</p><p>Th e votania ritual is part of the Savvatovrado, the separate gathering of rela-</p><p>tives and friends in the family homes of bride and bridegroom on the Saturday</p><p>before the wedding. Th e families involved collect votania, or lavender, in a</p><p>white cloth tied at the top. Th is is placed on the fl oor of the house or in the</p><p>garden, or on a table. On the top of the votania is set a tray in which incense</p><p>burns. Th en they ‘smoke the clothes’. Th at is, the clothes to be worn by the bride</p><p>and the bridegroom in church are brought, covered or packed in boxes, and are</p><p>ritually held over the burning incense. Meanwhile, the participants sing, invok-</p><p>ing on the couple’s behalf the help of God, the saints, relatives and fate.</p><p>Tonight it is Savvatovrado and there is a smell of incense.</p><p>May the clothes perfumed with incense bring good luck.</p><p>Come, blessing of the Mother of God and of the Holy Trinity,</p><p>Come, blessing of your trusted godmother and of your sweet mother.</p><p>Later the votania are ritually scattered throughout the house. A close relative of</p><p>the bridegroom or of the bride, man or woman, makes three ritual circles round</p><p>the house or the table. Accompanied by the songs of the participants, the friend</p><p>carries the votania and scatters them through the house. Th ey are not cleaned</p><p>up until the day aft er the wedding. Th e songs accompanying the scattering of</p><p>the votania also invoke supernatural assistance for the protection of the newly</p><p>married couple.</p><p>Saint Nicholas of Myra with your grey beard,</p><p>Come and give your blessing to the votania tonight.</p><p>To my questions regarding the meaning of the ‘smoking of the clothes’, some</p><p>Castellorizians replied that it was good for the house. Elderly Castellorizians</p><p>spread incense round their homes on a daily basis, to ensure protection against</p><p>all evil and the Devil, whom they refer to as o ehthros, or ‘the enemy’.</p><p>Th e censer and vayia are a must. You hang vayia behind your door and they do</p><p>not let any evil, demon or other enemies come inside, as they have a cross on</p><p>them. I am not boasting, but I have not had any burglaries all these years, and</p><p>I never stopped censing the house.</p><p>Consequently, censing constitutes a ritual way of cleansing the house and pro-</p><p>tecting its entrances, because it creates a symbolic, metaphysical circle of pro-</p><p>tection for the house and its residents. Its use in the marriage ceremony is</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>114</p><p>therefore necessary, as danger looms over the still unmarried couple, the evil eye</p><p>being the main peril.</p><p>Th e symbolism of the votania, which are fi rst blessed through censing and</p><p>then are ritually scattered around the house, should be seen in conjunction</p><p>with the meaning of the censing of the clothes of bride and bridegroom. When</p><p>asked about the meaning of this custom, most Castellorizians said that it takes</p><p>place ‘so that the house has a lovely perfume’ or that ‘it is good for the house’.</p><p>An elderly Castellorizian settled in Rhodes told me that by spreading votania</p><p>people exorcized evil and purifi ed the home of all demonic infl uence. But why</p><p>did they use the votania? Th e original ritual as carried out in Castellorizo off ers</p><p>the answer. In fact, the ritual still takes place there, with some changes, of</p><p>course.</p><p>In Castellorizo the votania, herbs growing wild on the hills of the island and</p><p>on neighbouring islands, were gathered on Friday before the wedding by boys</p><p>both of whose parents were alive (amphithaleis). Th e auspicious gender and</p><p>good fate of the boys would, it was hoped, infl uence the fertility and luck of the</p><p>couple.9 Baskets fi lled with votania were left in chapels on the hills overnight.</p><p>Th e following morning they would be ritually carried</p><p>by the same boys, who</p><p>had not eaten anything until that time, to the homes of bride and bridegroom</p><p>where the ritual was to take place. Th e initial version of the custom, which con-</p><p>tains elements drawn from nature, the locus of fertility par excellence, clearly</p><p>demonstrates that votania express and solicit fertility. Th eir censing, together</p><p>with the censing of the bride’s and bridegroom’s clothes, as well as the boys’</p><p>fasting and the churching of the votania, all reinforce the initial aim: to secure</p><p>highly desirable fertility and protection from dangers such as that of the evil</p><p>eye. Th e ritual prohibition among Castellorizians of Perth that the bride should</p><p>not plant votania before giving birth to her fi rst daughter also expresses the</p><p>connection of this ritual with fertility.</p><p>Mousoukarfi a, another pre-wedding ritual, takes place two to fi ve weeks</p><p>before weddings in Perth. In Castellorizo mousoukarfi a used to take place on</p><p>Th ursdays before the wedding ceremony. Since the 1970s the ritual has been</p><p>combined with the Australian custom of the kitchen tea, which previously had</p><p>constituted a separate occasion in Perth. In the current form of the ritual, female</p><p>relatives and friends of the bride gather in her parental home on a Saturday or</p><p>Sunday aft ernoon, to bring her ‘presents for the kitchen’, as they say. Th ese gift s,</p><p>which relate to the equipping of the household in general, are opened and dis-</p><p>played to all participants at the end of the ritual and aft er tea has been served.</p><p>At such an event, the good fate of the prospective bride as well as her gift s are</p><p>exposed to many eyes and may provoke the evil eye, intentionally or not. Th is</p><p>possibility may have led, whether consciously or not, to the merging of these</p><p>two ritual occasions so that the mousoukarfi a ritual might protect the bride</p><p>against the evil eye.</p><p>Aft er the women invited to the event have sat down in the parlour, the bride</p><p>fetches a bowl fi lled with cloves, or mousoukarfi a, as Castellorizians call them.</p><p>T H E E V I L E Y E A M O N G T H E G R E E K S O F A U S T R A L I A</p><p>115</p><p>Th ese cloves have been soaked in water overnight. Th read, needles and cloves</p><p>are distributed in abundance to those present. Th e bride’s mother is the fi rst to</p><p>thread a gold coin as well as three cloves. Th en all the women, in order of prior-</p><p>ity depending on closeness of relationship and age, thread three cloves each,</p><p>thus creating a necklace for the bride. Th roughout the ritual the women sing</p><p>rhythmically, invoking supernatural protection for the bride and praising her</p><p>many qualities. Th e bride later places the necklace in her jewel-box and does</p><p>not touch it again until handing it over to her daughter. (I saw such a necklace</p><p>hanging on the side of the bridal bed during its ritual construction during the</p><p>display of the girl’s dowry. Th e latter is another occasion which may involve the</p><p>risk of the bride and her property falling victim to the evil eye.) Th e guests also</p><p>thread cloves to form for themselves necklaces and bracelets which they take</p><p>home when they leave. Cloves wrapped in cellophane are also off ered to those</p><p>invited to the ritual making of the marital bed, or krevati.</p><p>What is the purpose of mousoukarfi a?</p><p>Th e answers I received from Castellorizian informants varied greatly.</p><p>Mousoukarfi a is celebrated ‘for good luck’ or ‘for the house to have a lovely</p><p>perfume’, as also happens with votania. In Castellorizo, the water in which cloves</p><p>had been soaked was used to wash the bridegroom’s hair. Two elderly Castellorizian</p><p>women, however, directly related the mousoukarfi a ritual to the evil eye: ‘Th ey use</p><p>cloves for the (evil) eye’, a woman said to me, and added that she became aware of</p><p>it when she saw cloves used in an amulet for a baby in Th essaly, central Greece.</p><p>Another elderly woman informed me that the mousoukarfi a ritual is not done for</p><p>women who marry again, since ‘it is only for those pure’. Th e evil eye is expected</p><p>to aff ect women marrying for the fi rst time, who are younger and whose fertility</p><p>and sexuality have not been tested yet.</p><p>To understand the anti-evil eye properties of cloves, one needs to see them</p><p>within their broader framework of meaning. Etymologically speaking, the word</p><p>itself means ‘perfumed nail’. Th e shape of the clove also suggests a kind of nail. A</p><p>Castellorizian woman once said to me that a way to ward off the evil eye is to</p><p>stretch out the fi ngers of one palm, thus forming the mountza gesture while at</p><p>the same time pronouncing the following spell against people who may cast the</p><p>evil eye: ‘Nails to your eyes!’ Th e use of a nail, as well as other sharp objects and</p><p>symbols to exorcize the evil eye, is widespread. Th e use of a nail in magic to</p><p>render the victim susceptible to the harmful will of the magician is also</p><p>common.10 Apart from its apotropaic symbolism, the mousoukarfi a necklace is</p><p>also a strong expression of the protective attitude of the community towards the</p><p>bride, who is vulnerable because in a liminal state. Th is is an example of Turner’s</p><p>communitas, namely, of the protective attitude of the community towards ritu-</p><p>ally weak and liminal individuals (Turner 1969, 125). However, not all</p><p>Castellorizians feel comfortable with this custom. At a kitchen tea held by a</p><p>second-generation Castellorizian woman, there was a brief and hasty perform-</p><p>ance of the mousoukarfi a ritual. Th e women invited prepared only one necklace</p><p>for the bride, who was visibly irritated. ‘Maria does not want mousoukarfi a. She</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>116</p><p>says that it is a silly custom,’ her mother said in an apologetic manner, while</p><p>some elderly Castellorizian women commented sadly, ‘Young people do not</p><p>want these things. Th ey do not understand them.’</p><p>In our discussions, several second- and third-generation women clearly</p><p>rejected the idea of the evil eye as a superstition that does not suit educated</p><p>people today. Other women were hesitant. Th ey stressed the fact that though</p><p>the Orthodox Church accepts the evil eye, they were also worried about the</p><p>opinion of their Anglo-Australian acquaintances, were the latter to fi nd out</p><p>that the Castellorizians believed in the evil eye. Finally, there were various</p><p>Castellorizians who subscribed to this belief and employed it in their personal</p><p>behaviour and cosmology.</p><p>Rituals, continuity and modernization in the context of migration</p><p>How, then, are we to interpret the phenomenon of the evil eye? First, the evil</p><p>eye is a culturally specifi c illness and should thus be examined within the</p><p>context of the community in which it appears. Second, it is not suffi cient to</p><p>focus our attention only on rituals employed to diagnose and cure the evil eye,</p><p>in order to understand it. Relevant beliefs and practices are oft en incorporated</p><p>as a latent if dominant idea and value into rites of passage such as the pre-</p><p>wedding rituals of the Castellorizian Greeks of Perth. Since rituals are imbued</p><p>with cultural symbols, these are expressed and transmitted to participants in</p><p>rituals, together with their associated values. Th is does not mean that all those</p><p>participating in a ritual interpret a cultural symbol in the same way, as one can</p><p>see from the examples we have just examined. However, the power of symbols</p><p>lies in their ability to create a sense of belonging in a community which relies on</p><p>the sharing of common forms rather than a common content. Community</p><p>created through symbols does not necessarily imply homogeneity (Cohen</p><p>1985, 20). Th e sharing of symbols creates a community of feelings among the</p><p>individuals belonging to the same group. Th us there are Castellorizians who</p><p>follow the traditional pre-wedding rituals which have decidedly apotropaic</p><p>character, despite their rejection of belief in the evil eye. ‘I love wedding customs.</p><p>I will have them at my wedding, whether I marry a Greek or not,’ a young third-</p><p>generation Castellorizian said to me, visibly delighted</p><p>by the festive atmosphere</p><p>prevailing at the celebration at his cousin’s Savvatovrado.</p><p>Finally, even when belief in the evil eye is not explicitly stated, its concomi-</p><p>tant cultural values and attitudes may still exist in a community. As various</p><p>scholars have pointed out, oft en people do not talk about the evil eye, but about</p><p>an evil tongue, evil mouth or evil thought (Schoeck (1955) 1977, 229). Th us</p><p>Castellorizians also recognize the infl uence of gossip in their community and</p><p>try to avoid it. ‘Everything becomes known. Nobody can escape here,’ a well-</p><p>known gossip said mischievously and commented on the power she derived</p><p>from gossip. ‘I get angry with myself. Why should I learn all this? I know more</p><p>than necessary.’ A young, third-generation Castellorizian confi ded to me that</p><p>T H E E V I L E Y E A M O N G T H E G R E E K S O F A U S T R A L I A</p><p>117</p><p>his sister had been living away from the family home before marriage. Th ose</p><p>phoning her, however, were told only that she was not at home. In this way, her</p><p>parents attempted to avoid community gossip. Similarly, many young</p><p>Castellorizian and other Greek couples hide their relationships from other</p><p>young friends, and go out secretly, for fear that the news may be spread in the</p><p>community. Th is would lead to their parents putting pressure on them.</p><p>Th e Castellorizians of Perth are internally divided along socio-economic</p><p>and class lines. Th ey have their own elite which sets the pace of community life</p><p>particularly in the area of religion and customs. Competition between elite</p><p>families centres around leadership in churches, charity and the precise adher-</p><p>ence to the correct form of the wedding rituals. Th e news of the forthcoming</p><p>marriage of a Castellorizian woman to a suitable groom, preferably of</p><p>Castellorizian or other Greek origin, is expected to trigger envy among other</p><p>Castellorizians whose tongue and eye are feared by the prospective couple and</p><p>their families. ‘Better be eaten by the tongue of a snake than by that of people,’</p><p>an elderly Castellorizian immigrant said emphatically. In-group rivalry and</p><p>comp-etition and rivalry between Castellorizians and other Greeks of Perth,</p><p>expressed and promoted through gossip, are important for the maintenance of</p><p>a moral community in which the idea of the evil eye continues to exist. Th is is</p><p>the case, even though the members of this community may ostensibly reject it</p><p>or even express adherence to it in a diff erent way.</p><p>Moreover, despite the fear of educated, Australian-born Castellorizians lest</p><p>they appear superstitious, should they declare belief in the evil eye, they resort</p><p>to the traditional Australian attitude, the ‘tall poppy syndrome’, which applauds</p><p>social homogeneity and conformity. Th ose who do not conform stick out like</p><p>‘tall poppies’. Th e rich and ostentatious, when they suff er misfortune, are said to</p><p>have been ‘served right’. Th us the attitudes expressed in the evil eye coincide</p><p>with some of the values of the broader Anglo-Australian context.</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 In Mark 11: 12–15, 20–3, Christ curses a barren fi g tree, whereupon it dries up completely.</p><p>See also the spell quoted by Veikou in Ch. 16.</p><p>2 See above, Ch. 9 and Ch. 15.</p><p>3 On the archaeology of the evil eye in the early Christian period, see above, Ch. 10.</p><p>4 See also above, Ch. 16.</p><p>5 See also Hirschon 1989: 22, on the meaning of holy oil for the Asia Minor refugees of</p><p>Kokkinia, Piraeus.</p><p>6 Th e concept of embodiment was introduced to the social sciences by Bourdieu 1977.</p><p>7 On ambodema see Oikonomopoulos 1990: 199–222.</p><p>8 On the history of Castellorizian migration, see Chryssanthopoulou-Farrington 1986: passim,</p><p>and Chryssanthopoulou 1993: 39–41. On Castellorizo generally, see Hatzifotis 1982:</p><p>passim.</p><p>9 Th e magical use of the pais amphithalês is also attested in ancient Greek wedding rituals. On</p><p>magic related to fertility in contemporary Greece, see below, Ch. 19.</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>118</p><p>10 On the use of necklaces made of nails and worn by pregnant women, see Oikonomopoulos</p><p>1983: passim. He interprets this custom as an attempt to ensure a successful pregnancy.</p><p>However, it is also an attempt to ward off the evil eye which threatens these women.</p><p>Nails were also used in black magic in the ancient Greek world. See, for example, the kata-</p><p>desmoi, curse tablets pierced with nails: D. Jordan, ‘Mia Isagogi stis Ekdoseis Arhaion</p><p>Magikon Keimenon’, in Christidis and Jordan (eds) 1997: 147–52.</p><p>119</p><p>18</p><p>T H E E N C H A N T E D G A R M E N T</p><p>Nikos Xenios</p><p>Th is chapter considers the usage over time of a type of magic present through-</p><p>out Greek culture: cloth fetishism, which involves a fairy in bondage, a substi-</p><p>tute for erotic desire, and the ‘instrument’ of the veil. Popular and learned</p><p>literary narratives about magical practices associated with garments exist in</p><p>many traditions. Th e garment also carries its own symbolism in the language of</p><p>dreams ( Jung), where it acquires the features of an archetype, and has the same</p><p>anthropological value as nudity. ‘Homeopathic’ magic includes many individ-</p><p>ual practices as well as regional versions of particular practices. In ‘primitive’</p><p>cultures the garment is invested with moral qualities which survive to this day.</p><p>It functions as a vehicle for numerous magical properties and, by means of a</p><p>‘magic-like’ operation, passes these properties on to its user. According to social</p><p>anthropologists, the impregnation of a garment with a liquid in keeping with a</p><p>magical formula belongs to the ‘private’ sphere of magic, which may indeed be</p><p>viewed as ‘black’ magic.</p><p>Substitution I</p><p>As a method, black magic at fi rst presupposes a high degree of treachery or, in</p><p>general, evil intent. In Euripides’ Ion, for instance, Creusa in collusion with her</p><p>old servant (the pedagogue) selects the form of ‘deceit’ to be used; and he off ers</p><p>her the following advice: ‘For this reason, perform a womanly act, and either by</p><p>the sword or by deceit or with poison kill your husband and his child, before</p><p>you receive death from their hand’ (843–6). What the heroine eff ectively</p><p>attempts to achieve is somehow to ‘exorcize’ death. And in order to fool death,</p><p>one has but to use mêtis, that is practical ‘cunning’. Th e characters’ ‘cunning’</p><p>becomes the central theme of the action, both in the cinema and chiefl y in those</p><p>dramatic art forms which represent romantic periods or simply romantic dispo-</p><p>sitions. Th e trick usually involves a specifi c practice of ‘magic’, namely the tech-</p><p>nique of substitution.</p><p>Feelings of jealousy, divine envy, impaired erotic disposition, or simply</p><p>rivalry may be embodied in the tragedies of Euripides, something which, for</p><p>that matter, occurs in Homer and the entire tradition of drama which preceded</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>120</p><p>Euripides. In Ion, Creusa cries out: ‘Woe! Th e stabbing pain in my entrails!’</p><p>(765–7). Τhe manifestations of this particular feeling include bodily pains, a</p><p>‘pricking’ of the lungs or other feelings of bodily pain or grief.</p><p>Mania (Wahnsinn)1 is the term which may approximate to the uncontrolled</p><p>feeling that overcomes the hero or heroine and arouses the desire to seek revenge,</p><p>to poison and to destroy in general. In the Bacchae, where ceremonial magic is</p><p>reduced to a cohesive system of codes, we have a sublime dramatic portrayal of</p><p>‘mania’, the ‘divine illness’. Th e magic which occurs on stage refers back to Plato</p><p>(Phaedros 245a and the Republic), who mentions itinerant ‘charmers’ able to</p><p>perform binding spells, that turn the spirits of the dead against the living (Republic</p><p>364B5–365A3; see Laws 933 A–E).2 In Medea, the protagonist wants her rival,</p><p>Glauce, to experience the same pain (and by means of magic realizes her wish).</p><p>Th us Medea soaks her robe in poison and delivers it, by means of a ploy, as a</p><p>wedding gift (and as a supposed gesture of noble-mindedness) to the unfortu-</p><p>nate princess. Th e theme of the magical, ‘homeopathic’ use</p><p>5.1–20, Mt. 8.28–34, Lk. 8.26–39), but</p><p>what we do not fi nd in these Gospel accounts is his threat with its phrase ‘where</p><p>dog bays not and cock not crows’. Elements of this threat are heard today in tra-</p><p>ditional protective charms (xorkia) against the evil eye: ‘Into the wild hills,</p><p>where cocks crow not nor bride and groom have children’. In a charm from</p><p>Crete: ‘Go into the mountains, the hills, where cock crows not, dog barks not,</p><p>to fi nd the wild animals.’ From Cephalonia: ‘May sickness go where cock crows</p><p>not, bells sound not, small child plays not with his hoop.’ And from Athens:</p><p>‘Jesus and the Penniless Saints chase the evil eye into the mountains, the hills….</p><p>Th ere [no child] receives a hoop, and cock crows not.’10</p><p>T H E ‘ W R E T C H E D S U B J E C T ’</p><p>9</p><p>How ancient is the phrase? In 1900, one Father Prasinos found on his prop-</p><p>erty near the town of Arkesine on Amorgos a curious thin sheet of metal,</p><p>inscribed in Greek. He transcribed its text and sent a copy to the French School</p><p>at Athens. Th ere Th éodore Homolle received the letter and asked Father</p><p>Prasinos to make a second, independent, transcription. Although Ho molle had</p><p>no access to the metal sheet or to a photograph, he was able, by comparing the</p><p>two transcriptions, to publish a ten tative text in 1901.11 Its orthography and</p><p>vocabulary suggest the very early centuries of the Christian era. Th e text is a</p><p>prayer addressed to ‘lady (kyria) Demeter, queen’, written by or for a slave-</p><p>owner who begs her to curse someone who had induced the slaves to escape.</p><p>Th e curse includes the words: ‘May no child cry, no happy sacrifi ce be off ered,</p><p>no dog bark, no cock crow.’</p><p>Here we see that the curse of ‘dogs not barking, cocks not crowing’ belongs to</p><p>a tradition that spans two millennia. We can say a bit more. Th e goddess’s title,</p><p>‘lady (kyria)’, is Eastern in origin, as students of Mediterranean religion have</p><p>long recognized.12 Excavators on Delos, by unearthing another lead curse tablet,</p><p>have provided a good illustration of this.13 Its text invokes (in Greek) the ‘lady</p><p>Dea Syria’: she too is to punish a malefactor. Th e texts from Amorgos and De los</p><p>belong to a type of curse studied by the Dutch scholar H.S. Versnel, who charac-</p><p>terizes them as ‘prayers for justice’. Th e type is usually thought to have an Eastern</p><p>background. Let me close with a speculation: could the motif of ‘dogs not</p><p>barking, cocks not crowing’ belong to this Eastern background? Could it, in</p><p>other words, be even older than its fi rst recorded Greek instance, from</p><p>Amorgos?</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 Neugebauer 1951: 111.</p><p>2 Barb 1926: 53–67. Th e text now appears, with further discussion, in Kotansky 1964: no. 13.</p><p>Kotansky’s valuable book is now the source to consult for this category of amulets inscribed</p><p>on thin sheets of precious metal. Th e Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris has a manuscript with</p><p>a slightly diff erent version of the spell (Legrand 1881: 17f.), in which Jesus sends the head-</p><p>ache demon to Mt Ararat. A Euchologion on Mt Sinai also preserves a spell against ‘Headache’</p><p>but with a demon named Aura, and she meets Michael, not Jesus.</p><p>3 Pradel 1907: 7–33.</p><p>4 Barb 1966: 1–23.</p><p>5 Barb 1953: 193–238 at 193f.</p><p>6 See, for example, Barb 1960: 971–4; and see now Jordan 2002: 61–9, with bibliography.</p><p>7 Preisendanz 1974. Th ere is an excellent edition of the magical papyri that have appeared since</p><p>the war: Daniels and Maltomini 1990–2.</p><p>8 Betz 1986: xliii; see also Betz 2003.</p><p>9 Betz (n. 8 above); Martínez and Romero 1987.</p><p>10 Th e examples are collected by Homolle 1901: 412–56 at 426 n. 2. Cf. Pradel 1907: 267f. For</p><p>further related examples and discussion see Stewart 1991: 238f.</p><p>11 Homolle 1901: 412–30.</p><p>12 Drexler, 1890–1894: 1755–69 at 1755.</p><p>13 See Jordan 2002: 55–60, with bibliography.</p><p>10</p><p>3</p><p>M A G I C , A M U L E T S A N D C I R C E</p><p>Nanno Marinatos</p><p>Th e naked goddess and Mistress of Animals as an apotropaion</p><p>Th e object of this chapter is to show how ancient magic and myth interacted. A</p><p>good example of such interaction is Circe, the Homeric witch. As I hope to</p><p>show, magical images engraved on amulets and imported to Greece from the</p><p>Near East were combined with rituals and literary tradition to give shape to the</p><p>mythical persona of Circe the witch.</p><p>Th is investigation will start in the second millennium bce in the Near East</p><p>where a number of Near Eastern cylinder seals, beautiful gems which could be</p><p>used as personal ornaments, were engraved with visual magical formulae. Th e</p><p>effi cacy of the imagery was sometimes reinforced by inscriptions, which were</p><p>either dedications or prayers. For example, a second-millennium seal was</p><p>engraved with pairs of Masters of Animals. Th e inscription reads: ‘Marduk,</p><p>wise one of heaven and earth, protector of life, who makes the righteous rich,</p><p>light of heaven and earth: may the servant who reveres you, the user of this seal,</p><p>be always in good health.’ Th e inscription is thus a prayer accompanied by ‘good</p><p>luck’ images, those of the Masters of Animals. But why should the Master of</p><p>Animals bring good luck? It has been shown that this fi gure guarantees the</p><p>order of the universe by subjugating wild animals which inhabit the desert or</p><p>the mountains and therefore signify disorder. Jahweh in the Old Testament</p><p>makes a similar claim of guaranteeing order in the Book of Job.</p><p>Just as the Master of Animals guarantees order, so does the Mistress of</p><p>Animals in the art of the Near East. Sometimes she is shown trampling on an</p><p>animal. A special feature of the female deity here is that she is naked. Th is</p><p>emphasis on sexuality reinforces the potency of the female, which is also</p><p>expressed as dominance over the animal world.</p><p>On a seal of unknown provenance, another nude goddess holds a goat by its</p><p>horns in one hand while she seizes a lion by its ears in the other. She thereby</p><p>combines predator and prey and establishes supremacy over both. Frontally</p><p>nude goddesses stepping on lions are also known from Egypt where they were</p><p>engraved on stelai. Th is particular motif originated in the Near East, especially</p><p>Syria and Palestine.</p><p>M A G I C , A M U L E T S A N D C I R C E</p><p>11</p><p>Naked goddesses holding animals upside-down also fi gure on amulets. Th ere</p><p>is a class of Syro-Palestinian bronze, silver or even gold pendants which were</p><p>worn around the neck and which feature such goddesses. Noteworthy is a gold</p><p>pendant which was found in the Late Bronze Age shipwreck of Ulu Burun off</p><p>the coast of southern Turkey. It may have belonged to a Syrian sailor or have</p><p>been transported from Syria as a valuable commodity to the Aegean. Th is</p><p>pendant is concrete evidence of the export of magical amulets from Syria.</p><p>Statuettes of the Egyptian female demon Beset also depict her in the nude,</p><p>holding snakes in her hands. Th ese fi gurines have been found in private house-</p><p>hold shrines, their function being to protect against evil.</p><p>More surprising perhaps is the appearance of the naked goddess on weapons</p><p>– shields, axes and horse-pieces. Such articles were imported to Greece in the</p><p>Orientalizing period and have been found in Greek sanctuaries as, for example,</p><p>at the Heraion of Samos and the Idaean cave on Crete. In all these cases the</p><p>naked goddess was meant to protect the warrior and thus functioned as an</p><p>apotropaion.</p><p>In sum, the fi gure of the naked Mistress of Animals served the function of</p><p>displaying power in two ways: by dominating wild and dangerous animals and</p><p>by revealing her nude body frontally.</p><p>Why should female nudity imply power in the Near East? Female sexuality</p><p>was perceived as dangerous for males, as a trap for men because it might lead to</p><p>loss of control. A warrior had to guard himself against the image of the seduc-</p><p>tive goddess on his enemy’s shield or amulet. Here another component has</p><p>entered our discussion: this imagery was addressed to males, not females, because</p><p>female nudity was neither threatening nor tempting to a woman. Th e fact that</p><p>the naked Mistress appears</p><p>of personal items</p><p>occurs in other tragedies too. Creusa’s dilemma consists in choosing between</p><p>two herbs, a therapeutic elixir and a deadly poison. Finally in Hippolytus, among</p><p>other – purely decorative – objects, we fi nd a ‘gorgoneion’, that is a Medusa’s</p><p>head, and a golden necklace representing a snake, the symbol of the succession to</p><p>the throne. Th e hero’s ‘sympathetic’ association with these symbolic objects is</p><p>reminiscent of more recent traditions, according to which ‘witches’ require that</p><p>they be supplied either with hair from the person their client wants to aff ect or</p><p>with garments (usually underwear), which are treated magically in order to harm</p><p>the victim.</p><p>Substitution II</p><p>Man attempts to harm or conquer the erotic – or other – object of his desire by</p><p>substituting the real with the imaginary. Oft en, by placing on a person’s effi gy a</p><p>piece of their clothing or a sample of their hair, the magician believes that what</p><p>he does to the effi gy is also transferred to the particular person. Here we have a</p><p>mixture of ‘homeopathy’ and ‘contagious’ magic. If the fundamental elements</p><p>which constitute the world of magic consist of voice (incantations, invocations,</p><p>prayers, curses, and so on), movement (including dance, mime, rituals, making</p><p>the sign of the cross) and their implements, then it is easy to appreciate the gar-</p><p>ment’s function as an ‘instrument’. Together with the herbs, the intoxicating</p><p>substances which induce visions, the burning of incense, the crucifi xes and other</p><p>objects, the magician uses clothing (and in Euripides’ Bacchae the disguise or</p><p>‘transvestism’ of Pentheus), and even make-up, in an attempt to bring about the</p><p>desirable outcome in a homeopathic – and transmissible – way.3</p><p>Th e veil already appears as an implement of ‘magic’ in Homer’s Odyssey,</p><p>when the nymph Leucothea rescues Odysseus from certain drowning by means</p><p>of a kerchief (Odyssey 5: 333).4 In papyri we oft en come across the magical use</p><p>of animal skins, sometimes for therapeutic purposes. Th us, covering oneself</p><p>T H E E N C H A N T E D G A R M E N T</p><p>121</p><p>with a hyena’s skin is recommended as a cure for coughs. Hercules’ lion’s hide</p><p>performs a similar protective function. On other occasions, the garment itself</p><p>carries ‘substitution’ to the extent that we encounter the veil in lieu of its bearer.</p><p>Such, for instance, is the case of the mythical veil which was snatched in place</p><p>of Helen of Troy, an explanatory motive of the Trojan war.5</p><p>One could mention numerous examples from Mediterranean cultures, as</p><p>well as other ‘primitive’ cultures studied by social anthropologists, in order to</p><p>establish that the attire, in whole or in part, can be considered an implement of</p><p>magic. Furthermore, the magical relation between clothing and metaphysics is</p><p>evident in the vestments of a shaman or contemporary clergyman. Special gar-</p><p>ments are used not only to enhance the solemnity of a ceremony but because of</p><p>the power these garments are believed to incorporate. At this point it is worth</p><p>referring to the magical power of the ‘golden fl eece’, which retains its omnipo-</p><p>tence only within the context of the eastern cult of the Sun, that is in Colchis,</p><p>the land of its provenance, which also happens to be Medea’s homeland. Th e</p><p>theft of the fl eece from its place of origin automatically removes its magical</p><p>qualities, which are nevertheless regenerated – through a ‘double projection’ –</p><p>as soon as Medea comes into contact with her metaphysical origins and employs</p><p>the golden fl eece to commit the crime of infanticide.6</p><p>Euripides exploits this tradition and turns it into an eff ective theatrical tool</p><p>in his Medea, where the heroine is described as ‘Gorgo’, ‘Empousa’, ‘Harpyia’,</p><p>‘Lytta’, ‘Echidna’, ‘Erinys’, ‘Alastor’, ‘a bearer of many evils’, as a woman totally</p><p>lacking the normal moral code of the average Greek female. Th is ‘heinous</p><p>nature’, this ‘divine disease’ which affl icts Medea corresponds to the ‘mania’ in</p><p>Sophocles’ Ajax, to Creusa’s divine incitement in Euripides’ Ion and to posses-</p><p>sion in the Bacchae. As mentioned earlier, Medea sends the harmful veil as a</p><p>wedding present to Princess Glauce. Burnt alive, Glauce suff ers a terrible death</p><p>for a crime she did not commit.</p><p>Medea’s act of taking the law into her own hands is recognized as a vested</p><p>right, both by the myth and by the tragic poet, ‘Despite the lioness’s look with</p><p>which she stabs her slaves’ (Medea 187–8). Like a lion, beyond human limits,</p><p>Medea ‘παραλλ άσσει τάς φρένας’ (‘warps the honest souls’)7 of the Chorus and</p><p>turns into a typical witch.</p><p>Enactment</p><p>In his work On Mysteries, Iamblichus8 avers that ‘the road to Salvation is not to</p><p>be found in Reason, but in ritual cults. Divine union (that is, the union of man</p><p>with the divine) is achieved only through ritual, that is, the performance of</p><p>ineff able deeds carried out in the proper manner, actions which lie beyond all</p><p>understanding, as well as through the power of unutterable symbols which only</p><p>the gods can understand’ (On Mysteries 96. 13, Parthey). When one cannot</p><p>imagine that this ram is Iphigeneia, then ostensibly one need only name it</p><p>‘Iphigeneia’, and so on. And this ostensibly simplistic ‘act of substitution’ is but</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>122</p><p>the beginning of magic. Exactly the same applies to the ‘appurtenances’ of this</p><p>practice, particularly garments. Wittgenstein mentions the ritual ‘adoption’ of</p><p>a child, during which the mother places the child under her clothes. It is clear</p><p>that the beginnings of theatre are to be found in this magical representational</p><p>form. Th is procedure also constitutes the ‘performance’ of a desire which has</p><p>not yet been satisfi ed.9 We may mention here the example (also cited by</p><p>Wittgenstein) of Th e Song of the Nibelungen: King Gunther, Siegfried’s good</p><p>friend, has decided to marry Brunhilde, and Siegfried is the only person who</p><p>can help him win her in the ensuing contests, thanks to his unique power, par-</p><p>ticularly his magic mantle, which makes him invisible and invulnerable.</p><p>Popular magic</p><p>Popular magic is usually the last resort for those in despair, those whose hopes</p><p>have been defeated both by God and by human beings.10 Popular theosophy is</p><p>apt to fl ourish during historical periods when values undergo an acute crisis (be</p><p>they religious values, the questioning of which deprives entire generations of</p><p>their metaphysical shelter, or broader humanistic-sociopolitical values, such as</p><p>communism or democracy, etc.). During these generally transitional periods,</p><p>the average person turns to parapsychology, astrology, divination, that is magic</p><p>in its various forms. In ancient Greek literary texts we fi nd numerous examples</p><p>of magical practices, which are also to be found in non-literary works.11</p><p>Hellenistic and, in particular, early Roman texts are full of recipes and refer-</p><p>ences to herbs and ‘aggressive’ magical recipes. As for the neo-Hellenic tradi-</p><p>tion, and particularly the fairy tale, it is almost exclusively founded on, and</p><p>becomes reifi ed in the popular tacit assumption (and oft en enjoyment) of its</p><p>magical components: the nereid’s veil, which if you snatch it, turns its owner</p><p>into your captive; the magic mantle which makes the hero invulnerable and</p><p>invisible; the cloth on which the incantation to free the princess from spells is</p><p>to be written; but also forms of acutely aggressive (black) magic, such as the gar-</p><p>ments endowed with supernatural powers, the magic carpet, the sock with</p><p>satanic symbols, and so on. Th e Orthodox Church has classifi ed most of the</p><p>relevant beliefs and practices as belonging to the world of Satanism.</p><p>Th e garment</p><p>Th e semantics of the garment can be traced mainly in popular oneiromancy</p><p>(divination by means of dreams), as well as in the use of animal entrails, plants</p><p>and herbs, psychic divination (dreams, premonitions, visions), image and fi re</p><p>divination, ‘invocations’ and related parapsychological phenomena.</p><p>Th e experience of</p><p>dreaming is certainly associated – in the fi eld of fantasy –</p><p>with the fi gurative ‘fi re’ of passionate love:12 see Sophocles fr. 474 (Pearson ii:</p><p>128; Winkler 1990: 85), and Plato Charmides (155d): ‘Th en I caught a sight of</p><p>the inside of his garment and was set afi re, and could no longer control myself.’</p><p>T H E E N C H A N T E D G A R M E N T</p><p>123</p><p>Th is ecstatic dimension of love may originally have referred to the ‘idiolect’ of</p><p>dream language. From antiquity to our time popular fantasy presents, within</p><p>the framework of male fantasies, the witch gathering herbs in the nude (that is</p><p>having shed her social identity). Th us the witch turns into an object of erotic</p><p>desire. According, for example, to local traditions on Lesbos concerning fairies</p><p>and the function of their garments, ‘they wear white, fl imsy silk dresses, long</p><p>and wide, like a tunic, open in the middle and buttoned at the side’; or velvet,</p><p>azure, lace and gold-embroidered garments ‘which shine in the moonlight like</p><p>diamonds’, as described by certain old men in Mytilini. Th e ‘fairy’ (neraida)</p><p>loses her power when someone takes her veil, her kerchief, thereby forcing her</p><p>to follow that person: ‘Should her veil be taken, she is unable to fl ee.’ It is possi-</p><p>ble to enslave a fairy by snatching a ‘small piece’ of her garment. Th e following</p><p>story told by 76-year-old Stavros Michailaros from Aghia Paraskevi on Lesbos,</p><p>is typical:</p><p>Once upon a time at a dance, a man grabbed a fairy’s cloth without her notic-</p><p>ing. When it was time to go she was powerless and had been enslaved to the</p><p>man who had her cloth. She begged him to return it but he hid it instead.</p><p>Th en the day dawned. Th ey got married and lived together for many years,</p><p>but they had no children. One day, she found the cloth while searching in the</p><p>house. She disappeared immediately. Th e cloth was her power!</p><p>Th e ‘cloth’ is removed without the fairy noticing it. Th is removal coincides with</p><p>the loss of her magic power and is tantamount to her bondage. It is a classic case</p><p>of erotic bondage, which leads to marriage (somehow institutionalizing the</p><p>bond), but not to procreation. Th e story takes place during the night, which</p><p>subconsciously symbolizes the time/space for magical practices. With the</p><p>approach of ‘dawn’ come the legitimization and authentication of this union,</p><p>for reasons related to popular concepts about this institution’s binding nature.</p><p>In this particular case, we notice a functional substitute for erotic desire which</p><p>is none other than the garment of the desired person. Th e symbolic act of the</p><p>substitution of erotic desire (equivalent to bondage) is clear in the phrase: ‘Her</p><p>[the fairy’s] power was the cloth!’, which is the narrator’s fi nal statement. It is</p><p>evident that the cloth can only symbolically substitute for the erotic desire in a</p><p>homeopathic manner. Th e spells which ‘bind’ or ‘unmake’ love are almost</p><p>exclusively verbal, although the ‘substitution’ presupposes a fetish.13</p><p>Addendum</p><p>Th e subconscious operation of ‘substitution’ performed by the enchanted</p><p>garment may, up to a point, explain the function of advertising in the contem-</p><p>porary world. A product’s consumption (e.g. the purchase of a very expensive</p><p>garment) is informally associated with the qualities which the advertiser</p><p>attaches to it, particularly during the course of a brief advertising spot, where</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>124</p><p>the garment promoted, a piece of underwear, a perfume, even a car or a brand</p><p>of margarine or alcoholic drink is directly associated with social status or</p><p>beauty, a comfortable lifestyle or professional success, indeed oft en (in a vulgar</p><p>manner, it might be said) with values, such as family peace or love. Like a con-</p><p>temporary magus, the advertiser anticipates the desired result, knowing in</p><p>depth the techniques of ‘contemporary magic’ likely to captivate the buying</p><p>public, and which totally ‘irrational’ means will induce them to buy the product.</p><p>Th is phenomenon is in turn indissolubly linked with contemporary myths;</p><p>indeed it oft en turns out to be their creator.</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 On erogenous mania in particular (Wahnliebe) and the mobilization of mania in ancient</p><p>Greek magic in general, see Petropoulos 1997: 105–7.</p><p>2 See above, Ch. 4.</p><p>3 A distinction made by Frazer.</p><p>4 Th e sea nymph/goddess Ino Leukothee presents Odysseus with a κρήδεμνον άμβροτον, that is</p><p>a magical female headdress. Th is ‘kerchief ’ functions like the real full-length talismans</p><p>(bands) which were used in certain ancient rituals and provided protection from drowning.</p><p>5 Cf. the interpretation of Euripides’ Helen 619 given by Seferis in his poem ‘Helen’.</p><p>6 Medea is descended from Helios and Circe, and she particularly venerates Hekate (Medea</p><p>395), who is associated with magic from the classical period. See Kottaridou 1991.</p><p>7 Th at is, it ‘distorts’ or ‘warps’. Cf. Soph. Antigone 298, ‘παραλλ άσσει φρένας / χρηστάς’.</p><p>8 Neo-Platonic philosopher, c. 245–c. 325 ce. He founded his school in his native Syria. He</p><p>concerned himself, among other things, with the theology and demonology of the Orphics,</p><p>the ancient Egyptians, the Persians and others.</p><p>9 According to Malinowski, the entire magic procedure – that is the ‘sayings’ together with the</p><p>symbolic gestures and other acts (τα δρώμενα) – functions as imitations and substitutes for</p><p>the expected outcome: see Petropoulos 1997: 105.</p><p>10 See above, Ch. 12.</p><p>11 See Graf 1994.</p><p>12 On the infl ammation caused by love see Petropoulos 1997: 107–10.</p><p>13 A fetish is an object which in certain cultures possesses supernatural powers and consequently</p><p>is usually regarded with awe.</p><p>125</p><p>19</p><p>E R O T I C A N D F E R T I L I T Y</p><p>M A G I C I N T H E F O L K</p><p>C U LT U R E O F M O D E R N</p><p>G R E E C E</p><p>Th eodore Paradellis</p><p>Erotic and fertility magic forms part of a sum of beliefs, practices and expres-</p><p>sions which are based on metaphorical and analogical thought. Th is totality is</p><p>ruled by a logic of the tangible and specifi c and when applied to the symbolic</p><p>cosmic order, achieves certain concrete results. Erotic magic aims at drawing</p><p>the love of a certain person, and, in its negative form, at turning love into aver-</p><p>sion or rendering all erotic contact impossible. Fertility magic, on the other</p><p>hand, aims at securing fertility, accelerating conception and overcoming steril-</p><p>ity and childlessness.</p><p>In order for us to approach this subject, however, we need to place it in the</p><p>more general ideological and cosmological context of modern Greek folk</p><p>culture and give at least a schematic picture of the perceptions and representa-</p><p>tions underlying the concept of fertility and sexuality. Female fertility in the</p><p>Greek world is perceived and expressed mainly, but not exclusively, through the</p><p>metaphor of vegetal fertility and reproduction. Indeed it is perceived as a</p><p>‘domesticated’, ‘cultivated’ vegetal fertility rather than as the fertility of uncon-</p><p>trolled, self-growing ‘wild’ life. From this standpoint, even when it refers to the</p><p>‘uncultivated wild nature’, this relation is mediated by symbolic or ritual acts,</p><p>which, in a sense, ‘domesticate’ this force, controlling and channelling it in a</p><p>legitimate and moral direction: towards procreation within the marital frame-</p><p>work. Conversely, illegitimate sexuality, and particularly that articulated</p><p>outside marriage, but also between spouses on important religious occasions</p><p>(e.g. on Sunday, on the feast of the Annunciation), is opposed to fertility, or is</p><p>associated with an unhealthy form which leads to teratogeny, miscarriage, pre-</p><p>mature death of the newly born or the infant.1 Th is ideological scheme also</p><p>functions, however, as a self-fulfi lling prophecy, since the product of illicit love</p><p>is born in secret, in wild places. In general, the ‘mother of the bastard’ is also</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>126</p><p>held responsible for the hail which destroys vineyards as well as for animal and</p><p>human illnesses; she is thought,</p><p>that is, to attract evil.2</p><p>Wild nature is populated mainly by forces hostile to man, which oft en</p><p>approach and lie in wait at all sorts of places of passage (crossroads, cemeteries,</p><p>windmills, bridges, and so on). And there they must remain apart and far from</p><p>sanctifi ed man-made and inhabited space. Th ey must also be expelled from</p><p>there, if they ever approach and cause harm to humans. Th e incantations and</p><p>the spells despatch pain, illness, hail and other evils ‘to the mountains’ or ‘to the</p><p>wild mountains and fruitless trees’ or ‘to the gorges’, or ‘to the depths of the sea’,</p><p>‘forty fathoms deep into the earth’. By ostracizing and driving these intrusive,</p><p>harmful forces into exile, by sending them back where they belong, to their</p><p>‘place’, sacred inhabited space is defi ned, marked out and protected from any</p><p>natural, mental or moral insalubrity. On the other hand, since evil ‘invades’ and</p><p>since we can expel it, we can also cause it, that is ‘summon’ it, and this is the</p><p>intention of every harmful magical act.3 Th e cycle of man and nature, of birth</p><p>and death unfolds within a given and structured universe, where space, time</p><p>and species are not confused, but are nonetheless associated through symbolic</p><p>relations (analogical, metaphorical, metonymic, of correspondence and so on).</p><p>Th us, for instance, in this universe, animals portend human events, plants heal,</p><p>mountains crack because of men’s misfortunes, copulation hampers hunting,</p><p>menses destroy plants, the weather is revealed through animal behaviour, a</p><p>blessing expels harmful demons, specifi c chronological moments infl uence the</p><p>transformation of beings and substances, the dead send messages to the living,</p><p>the saint mediates in human aff airs, bodily fl uids are infl uenced by external</p><p>causes, and so forth.</p><p>It is within this universe that the process of conception, birth and humaniza-</p><p>tion takes place, a process which acquires the dimensions of a cosmological drama.</p><p>Th e centre of this dramatic scene is occupied by inhabited space, which is sur-</p><p>rounded by the outer world, the underworld and the celestial world. Th is is, none-</p><p>theless, a dynamic universe, where benign and evil forces, substances and entities</p><p>are in continuous motion, aff ecting, shaping, strengthening or undermining</p><p>human destiny. Despite the fact that ‘giving birth is ruled from above’, which</p><p>refers to the vertical axis of this world, fertility in popular perception is located</p><p>and sought chiefl y on the horizontal axis, which joins nature with culture.</p><p>Th e form of cultivated vegetal fertility is detected everywhere: in love songs,</p><p>the young woman is named aft er the names of fruit-bearing trees or fruits –</p><p>apple, lemon, bitter orange, orange, cherry – or perfumed fl owers – rose,</p><p>jasmine, laurel. Oft en in songs the maiden appears in a garden or vineyard, inac-</p><p>cessible, while the youth must fi nd a way of approaching her.4 Fertility symbols</p><p>abound at the wedding and again concern fruits: apples, pomegranates, walnuts,</p><p>hazelnuts, currants. Th e standard of the nuptial procession was made of tree-</p><p>branches, on which a piece of the wedding cloth or a handkerchief was tied and</p><p>lemons, pomegranates, apples and other fruit were hung on the branches.</p><p>Branches of ivy were placed on the nuptial bed while people recited: ‘As the ivy</p><p>E R O T I C A N D F E R T I L I T Y M A G I C</p><p>127</p><p>clings to the tree and spreads/so may the bride be joined to the groom and put</p><p>down roots.’ Th e symbolism of childbirth (especially for a male child) is oft en</p><p>quite clear: on the threshold they hang a garland of lemon branches with three</p><p>lemons arranged so as to be reminiscent of the male genitalia. Th e fertility</p><p>symbols we observe at marital ceremonies also appear in other contexts, such as</p><p>the preparations for sowing: the seeds are mixed with various fruits (including</p><p>walnuts, apples, almonds) and wheat from the year before, and a pomegranate</p><p>is placed in the seed-bag, to be eaten aft er sowing. Th is pomegranate is occa-</p><p>sionally crushed on the ploughshare.</p><p>A widespread wedding custom in the Greek world clearly reveals the symbolic</p><p>link between human and plant fertility: when entering her new dwelling the bride</p><p>stepped on a ploughshare placed on the threshold. In a variation ‘a ploughshare is</p><p>wrapped with a steelyard in a black cloth, and placed by the door for the bride to</p><p>step over’. Th e black cloth, which wards off harm, encapsulates a whole fertilizing</p><p>act, from its start, the cultivation, the ploughshare, right up to the end, the steel-</p><p>yard, that is the measure used for weighing wheat on the threshing-fl oor.5 Th e</p><p>steelyard, as the symbol of the fulfi lment of a deed, also appears in the case of</p><p>death, when ‘the steelyard is placed by the patient for him to die eff ortlessly’. In</p><p>another variation, before the bride enters the house, ‘strips are attached to her</p><p>shoulders to which the bridegroom’s oxen are tied and she holds a plough in her</p><p>hands’. In Lefk ada, the childless or those who wanted male children stepped bare-</p><p>foot on two small ploughshares which were kept in the chapel of St John.6</p><p>Woman is reduced to her reproductive capacity and is occasionally called</p><p>‘fi eld’ (‘he has a good fi eld’). Th e words sow and sowing are oft en used of procrea-</p><p>tion, the verb giving birth/sowing is used abusively ‘of mutual cooperation of</p><p>spouses in procreating’ (‘may she be cursed for sowing/giving birth to you’), the</p><p>word seed denotes the sperm and the child (my father’s seed, Turk’s-seed, Devil’s-</p><p>seed), and conception itself is rendered by the words catch, catching, which also</p><p>refer to plant seeds.7 Further, the standard answers to children’s questions about</p><p>how they came into the world oft en refer to the world of vegetation: ‘I found</p><p>you in the vineyard and I took you,’ ‘I found you in the nettles,’ ‘you sprang up</p><p>from the earth like the grass and I took you’.</p><p>Th us, in case of childlessness, fertility is sought in the world of nature. Th e</p><p>liquid element in its spermatic or fertilizing guise is one of the means used by</p><p>the ‘dried-up’ and sterile woman to procreate. Water, a multivalent symbol</p><p>both in popular representations and in Christian thought, suggests (among</p><p>other things) the image of a fertilizing, life-giving and creative force. More-</p><p>over, according to popular and learned midwifery concepts, a woman’s fertility</p><p>is associated with the womb’s humidity. Sources, natural springs, holy waters</p><p>and the sea are moving waters that are never stagnant (‘still water stinks’).</p><p>Water is occasionally associated metonymically with some miracle-working</p><p>saint. Particular eff ectiveness was thus attributed to the fi rst three drops of</p><p>blessed water on the feast of Epiphany, which the childless couple drank in</p><p>order to procreate.</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>128</p><p>A magic ritual act used in various stages of procreation, but also in cases of</p><p>illness, consists in passing through an opening (trypoperasma). One of the rit-</p><p>ual’s versions involves passage through a fi ssure in a tree. Th e childless woman,</p><p>who has wedges, fi nds a single tree on the mountain, cuts it open and passes</p><p>naked through it, and ‘then the wedges vanish and the woman procreates’.</p><p>Th is ‘spatial passage’ through the tree’s fi ssure clearly connotes a new birth,</p><p>Figure 10 Th e good fairy (Neraïda) is the guardian of the bridal couple pictured to the right and</p><p>left . Embroidered bridal pillow from Leucas, 18th century. Benaki Museum, Athens.</p><p>E R O T I C A N D F E R T I L I T Y M A G I C</p><p>129</p><p>which symbolically annuls childlessness, at the same time representing what</p><p>is desirable.8</p><p>Another way of coping with childlessness is to have recourse to outsiders, ‘the</p><p>witches who possess famous herbs … and know of spells and their undoing’, or</p><p>to midwives, ‘who are all middle-aged … when the heat of life … is beginning to</p><p>cool off ’.9 One of the most widespread magical agents of conception was the</p><p>onion, which is planted at the</p><p>full moon and dug up at its waning. Th e onion</p><p>with its exterior skins and its similar interior ones – an image which recalls</p><p>pregnancy – is cooked and the ‘heart’ placed in the womb. Or, again, the child-</p><p>less woman swallows the powder of three smoke-dried leeches before copulat-</p><p>ing. Th e leeches, which are oft en used to draw blood, to get rid of ‘bad blood’,</p><p>here suggest the image of the embryo, which is glued to the womb and feeds on</p><p>its mother’s blood; they consequently suggest the image of conception. Th e</p><p>magical act is occasionally accompanied by the refrain: ‘As leeches stick to man,</p><p>so let the child stick to the woman who drinks this, her name being so and so.’</p><p>Th is method is also used in the case of pregnancy, when there is danger of mis-</p><p>carriage. A woman also employed a suppository of rennet and the excrement of</p><p>a hare, a fertility symbol par excellence, represented metonymically by a piece of</p><p>the animal’s entrails and a piece which is discarded.10</p><p>In a world which ‘is a tree and we its fruit’ the childless woman appeals to nature</p><p>to ‘arouse’ her own fertility. Th us, childless women sat on the grass and as it were</p><p>grazed, actually chewing it with their teeth or crawling on it on 1 May, an ambiva-</p><p>lent day of passage, repeating ‘Eat grass, cunt.’11 Th e same basic logic is served by</p><p>washing and steaming and smoking, which use exclusively vegetal elements. Th ey</p><p>gather all the fl owers of the earth, they boil them and take the water, pour it in</p><p>a pot on which sits the woman who looks ahead to pregnancy. Immediately</p><p>aft erwards she has to have intercourse with her husband, because we then have</p><p>a dilation of the womb.</p><p>(Papamichael 1975: 54; italics added)</p><p>Apart from fl owers, and particularly the May varieties, other plants are employed,</p><p>some of which are also used at the wedding: lemon leaves, walnut leaves, chest-</p><p>nuts, orange leaves, apple leaves, bay, rosemary, marjoram, basil, rose petals,</p><p>mallow, chamomile, and others. Many are used for smoking, washing, for com-</p><p>presses on the underbelly or perineum, ‘so the nostril of the womb opens up and</p><p>a child is begotten’.12 And as at the wedding, fruits connote fertility. Th e child-</p><p>less woman, for instance, procreates when she eats a pomegranate from a tree</p><p>growing in a nunnery and producing one or three fruits (a male and a magical</p><p>number respectively). In narratives, the eating of an apple or pomegranate</p><p>off ered by a monk leads to procreation. Here, fertility is provided by persons</p><p>who will not make use of their own fertility (nuns, monks).</p><p>Female fertility in the Greek world is also conceived through the metaphor</p><p>of the preparation of bread. In the region of Gortynia, when a new watermill</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>130</p><p>was being built, ‘the women place the childless woman on the millstone and let</p><p>her revolve until a small quantity of wheat is ground. Th is fl our is kneaded to</p><p>make a bread off ering, which she sends to the priest to celebrate the liturgy in</p><p>her name.’ Here, the whole transformation of the seed (nature) into fl our, then</p><p>into dough through kneading and fi nally into bread which ‘puff s up’ in the oven</p><p>(culture) repeats the act of procreation, which is subsequently sanctifi ed. In an</p><p>inverse way the so-called sterile herb, which is considered to cause sterility for</p><p>seven years if eaten by a woman, was so potent that when placed on her, it</p><p>stopped the millstone of the water-mill. According to a similar custom the</p><p>childless woman eats bread baked in a new oven: through an inversion, the</p><p>fertile product of the oven enters the mouth of the sterile woman to come out</p><p>of her womb as a product of human fertility.13</p><p>In many communities the priests would not accept a bread off ering for the</p><p>service from a childless woman14 (who was described as uncommemorated in the</p><p>liturgy). Th e priest refused to accept the special loaf ‘because it is reminiscent of</p><p>Christ, who was taken to church by the Virgin Mary’, or, in the formulation of</p><p>the Church itself, holy bread distributed at the end of the liturgy is sanctifi ed</p><p>because it was off ered to God and in fact bears the stamp of the Th eotokos’</p><p>‘womb’. Th e refusal also applies in the case of prostitutes and concubines,</p><p>persons, that is, who ‘are attracted by pleasure’ and give themselves over to</p><p>‘carnal love’, thus distancing themselves from fertility and the maternal poten-</p><p>tial of female nature.15 Th is refusal has its parallel in the secular sphere: the</p><p>childless woman does not sow ‘so that the wheat will not turn sterile’, and yeast</p><p>is not accepted from a childless woman. What is more, yeast, the basis of all</p><p>kneading, is oft en called a mother.16</p><p>Man, unlike woman, who is held to be absolutely responsible for childless-</p><p>ness, never appears sterile, but ‘bound’ by magical means, incapacitated,</p><p>impotent. Th e danger of being ‘bound’ lurks during the marriage ceremony, at</p><p>the moment the priest recites ‘Let them be one fl esh’ or ‘the servant of God …</p><p>is marrying the servant of God…’ Th e binding is carried out by an enemy, who</p><p>at the right moment ties one, three or nine knots in a handkerchief, silk thread</p><p>or hair, or turns a key in a lock saying, ‘I tie up the bridegroom.’ Th e binding</p><p>can also be achieved in various ways from a distance, as when, for instance, a</p><p>branch of Spanish broom is tied with string and the person casting the spell</p><p>says, ‘I tie and retie the bridegroom.’ Th e binding spell may be meant for the</p><p>couple or the bride alone. In this case the spell ‘locks’ the woman, who can no</p><p>longer receive her husband’s seed.17 For their part the couple defend them-</p><p>selves by taking the necessary precautionary measures. Th e bride wears her</p><p>underwear inside out (an inversion of her anatomy), fastens a net around her</p><p>waist, carries a small pair of scissors in her bodice ‘to cut off evil tongues and</p><p>spells’, and the marital crown is made without tying a knot, ‘so as not to bind</p><p>the couple’. Occasionally, the defence against binding spells was undertaken</p><p>by the bride’s mother-in-law, who locked everything that could be locked</p><p>in the house, unlocking it only aft er the transitional, liminal and therefore</p><p>E R O T I C A N D F E R T I L I T Y M A G I C</p><p>131</p><p>dangerous moment of the ‘crowning of the couple’. Th e bridegroom performs</p><p>similar acts: he ties a knot saying, ‘I alone tie myself, and alone I shall untie</p><p>myself.’18</p><p>Menstrual blood is particularly powerful and is used in erotic magic. It is</p><p>ambivalent. When the woman ‘is in blood’ she is considered to be ‘defi led’. Th e</p><p>small loaf kneaded on that day is not off ered in church, for otherwise great</p><p>harm will occur (‘defi led liturgy’). Th e menstruating woman does not attend</p><p>church, or receive Holy Communion, and must also not come into contact</p><p>with wine and salt water, for they turn sour, nor does she come near the vine-</p><p>yard, the beehive and the crops, and she does not milk.19 Menstrual blood,</p><p>however, is clearly a fertilizing, therefore positive, element, because it is one of</p><p>the prerequisites for procreation. Delayed menstruation, ‘trapped menses’ and</p><p>the ‘white period’ cause particular anxiety. Either menstrual blood is associated</p><p>with the embryo or the latter feeds on it, a notion which is no diff erent from</p><p>the nineteenth-century medico-philosophical view.20 But this blood, which</p><p>also appears at regular intervals beyond the control of the human body, signi-</p><p>fi es the opposite of procreation, namely non-conception, non-creation of a new</p><p>life; it signifi es, that is, sexuality without maternity, a fundamental distinction</p><p>of modern folk culture which is refl ected in the two models of woman, as Eve</p><p>and the Virgin Mary. Th us, many herbs thought to be conducive to menstrua-</p><p>tion are also used for abortions or as aphrodisiacs: rue, parsley, celery, maiden-</p><p>hair and the so-called killer or killer-weed, ‘because it sets the blood in motion’.</p><p>It is also believed that the woman who suff ers great pains during her</p><p>period</p><p>does not procreate. Th ese pains, that is, belong to childbirth and not to men-</p><p>struation, and so their reversal leads to sterility. 21</p><p>Th e blood of the menses, therefore, becomes dangerous, impure, though not</p><p>in an absolute sense, but in connection with processes and substances which</p><p>have an opposite meaning, an opposite cosmological import, and so it must not</p><p>come into contact with and in relation to them, or at least not without certain</p><p>ritual prerequisites. Th us, the processes of growth, birth, creation, kneading</p><p>and transformation must not come into contact with menstrual blood. It is also</p><p>unthinkable for consecrated bread and Christ’s ‘blood’ to come into contact</p><p>with a woman during her period, without consequences, for only God can ‘join</p><p>… the alien and mix the unmixable’.22 By contrast, women can enter the sanctum</p><p>aft er their period, when ‘the life-drives begin to wane’.</p><p>In particular, the blood of a virgin daughter’s fi rst period, which is consid-</p><p>ered the most potent, is kept by her mother as a magic potion, until she reaches</p><p>marriage age. Th en she gives the potion to the bridegroom whom ‘they have</p><p>caught in their sights’, who ‘goes mad for her’. Occasionally, hairs from the girl’s</p><p>vulva are browned and pulverized, or the mother slips the maiden’s dry navel in</p><p>powder form into the bridegroom’s tobacco. By contrast, men use a ‘male drop’</p><p>(sperm), which they dry in the sun to give to their loved one in a magical potion.</p><p>Sperm is considered to spring from the spinal chord and to contribute to con-</p><p>ception, a view we also fi nd in the Hippocratic tradition. Sexual relations</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>132</p><p>disrupt men’s work and are forbidden on holy days, and sexual excess is thought</p><p>to cause problems to the spinal chord.</p><p>Th e notions relating to masturbation are also typical; it is a prerequisite of</p><p>erotic magic, yet is regarded as bringing about the destruction of the ‘most valu-</p><p>able bodily fl uid’, sperm, of which ‘a dram … is worth forty drams of blood, and</p><p>its potency equals that of forty drams of blood’.23</p><p>By contrast, magic which causes hate or enmity uses substances that break up</p><p>or harm: salt, snake’s tongue, excrement, water in which a cat and dog have</p><p>washed, or blood from slaughtered animals. Soil from a recent burial is occa-</p><p>sionally used, aft er it has been ‘meditated’ on with the words: ‘As the dead man</p><p>forgot the world, so may he/she (name) forget his/her (name),’ and placed in</p><p>the seams of the clothes of the person in love.24 Here magical practice commu-</p><p>nicates with a world which is inverted, repugnant, ‘exotic’, at times when dark-</p><p>ness prevails and in unsanctifi ed, oft en liminal places, and it employs substances</p><p>which are unclean, defi led, whose taxonomy and moral character are ‘out of</p><p>place’, but which are combined with the regularity, holiness and fl ow of every-</p><p>day life.25</p><p>Th e magic act is based on the creation of a substitute for what one wishes to</p><p>infl uence or control; it combines similarity with contact. Similarity, which is</p><p>always in relation to one or more features of the prototype, but is taken as iden-</p><p>tity, creates the impression of intelligibility, contact and dominance. Th e sub-</p><p>stances employed, such as blood, sperm, pubic hairs, are symbols of the sexual</p><p>act and of passion but, at the same time, they form part of the act’s ontological</p><p>reality. Furthermore, they materially and specifi cally embody a relation (which</p><p>is not, in any event, tangible and visible), a positive or negative feeling for that</p><p>relation, a sense of lack, but also an intention. Th is ‘simulation’ is oft en com-</p><p>bined with corresponding incantations, which are speech acts, performative</p><p>utterances in an imperative mood, wherein the representation of a thing or situ-</p><p>ation also signifi es its realization. Th is is a notion and practice deeply rooted in</p><p>cultural and normative social reality, open to experimentation, something</p><p>between technique (where cause and eff ect are mediated by analogical thought),</p><p>art and poetics, with all this entails from the point of view of imagination,</p><p>manipulation, resistance or submission of reality to man’s desires each time.</p><p>And this poetic art-technique is applied in a world in which the human com-</p><p>munity, religion and nature, though all delineated and hence occupying liminal</p><p>zones which do not belong to any realm, are dynamically interlinked. Nature,</p><p>as part of a totality which every individual perhaps views in a diff erent way, is a</p><p>living nature which joins in and reacts to human aff airs, heeding moral and ille-</p><p>gitimate commands alike. It is also a practice which, through the particular</p><p>material dimension of objects, deeds and utterances, gives expression to ideas,</p><p>emotions, values and relations not actually subject to our senses. From this</p><p>standpoint they concretize the sense of this abstract reality, and reorganize the</p><p>personal perspective of the world we experience.</p><p>E R O T I C A N D F E R T I L I T Y M A G I C</p><p>133</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 In an article of this length bibliographical references can only be suggestive. Frangaki 1978:</p><p>34; Karapatakis 1979: 37, 47.</p><p>2 ‘He fooled me, he seduced me, he took away my honour…/ which mountain shall I climb to,</p><p>to get out of the childbed, / to have the partridge as midwife and the eagle as servant,’ Th e</p><p>Seduced, Th eros 1951: 185, Karapatakis 1979: 36–8.</p><p>3 Kyriakidou-Nestoros 1975: 15–40, Politis 1931: 90–4, Stewart 1991: 164–72, Tzavaras</p><p>1979.</p><p>4 ‘I entered a garden, where I found my love…’, ‘he enters a small garden…/ he waters trees and</p><p>branches…/ he waters small lemon trees,/ he also waters a lemon tree, laden with lemons’, ‘I</p><p>enter a garden and I fi nd an apple tree…’, Th eros 1951: no, 40, 89, 166, 183, Papazafi ropoulos</p><p>1887: 123, 157, Petropoulos 1954: 33, 37, 39, 77.</p><p>5 Special scales (stateras, kandari), used for relatively heavy weights.</p><p>6 Th e childless woman again, in a well-known and widely diff used song, replies to her com-</p><p>plaining husband. ‘I gave you a fi eld to sow, to harvest, / but if your oxen are weak, your</p><p>ploughs broken / and your ploughshare unusable, what do you want from me?’ Romaios</p><p>1923: 343–53. See also Petropoulos 1954: 77.</p><p>7 Th e concept of a woman as a fi eld to be ‘ploughed’ by a man and ‘planted’ by the male seed,</p><p>which contains the vital force that produces the ‘fruit’, has a long history in the wider</p><p>Mediterranean world. Hippocrates, On a Child’s Nature 22–4, Delaney 1986, Gélis 1984.</p><p>8 Megas 1917, Politis 1918.</p><p>9 Psychogios 1951: 41, Karapatakis 1979: 84–6.</p><p>10 Argenti and Rose 1949: 410, Skouvaras 1967: 79–80.</p><p>11 Megas 1952: 18–19, Papamichael 1975: 54.</p><p>12 Papamichael 1975: 57–9, Fragaki 1978: 31, Karapatakis 1979: 85, Psychogios 1951: 341,</p><p>Letsas 1953: 300.</p><p>13 Athanasopoulos 1915: 408–9, Megas 1939: 121, Frangaki 1978: 310–32.</p><p>14 Konsolas 1966: 228, Athanasopoulos 1915: 48, Rigas 1970: 49, Papamichael 1975: 10,</p><p>Deuteraios 1979: 19.</p><p>15 Pedalion 1976; 1800: 408, 681–3.</p><p>16 Vonazounta 1963: 522, Karapatakis 1979: 8, Konsolas 1966: 228, Salvanos 1929: 146.</p><p>17 Apart from the act of ‘locking up’, the image of the lock has sexual connotations which are</p><p>quite clearly expressed; for instance in the riddle: ‘I stoop, I kneel before you, my long one in</p><p>your crack’ (lock), Abbott 1903: 367, Laographia 1910: II: 354.</p><p>18 Megas 1942: 112–13, Koukoules 1926: 450–506, Frangaki 1978: 243, Chaviaras 1891: 213,</p><p>Psychogios 1989: 43–4, Papazafi ropoulos 1887: 49–51, Blum and Blum 1970: 18, 19, 24. A</p><p>characteristic binding spell for a couple from the Aidipsos region (Euboea) shows its mecha-</p><p>nism clearly. Th e enemy while tying his hands three times in front and three times in the back</p><p>on the wedding day, utters an incantation, which, inverting the holy ceremony, associates it</p><p>metonymically with the Devil: ‘… A devil-priest set off , he took his devil-stole / he took his</p><p>devil-papers / to go to devil-marry the young couple. / As much as the half-cut snake can get</p><p>into its</p><p>hole, so much can he too go to his wife. / As much as a baked leek can pierce a baked</p><p>tile, / so much can he too pierce his wife’s cunt, etc.’</p><p>19 Michailidis-Nouaros 1969: 184, Boutouras 1931: 16, Psychogios 1989: 34, 52, Blum and</p><p>Blum 1965: 33–4, 138, Campbell 1964: 31.</p><p>20 ‘When the Male Seed has entered by the opening below… into the Womb of the woman…</p><p>and goes through the opening… to her Fallopian tubes… to the Ovary… then these eggs…</p><p>wetted and warmed, detach themselves from one or two together… and go through these</p><p>Fallopian tubes… to the Womb… where they stick, sucking the blood of the female menses.</p><p>Th ese eggs, while feeding there, revitalize and augment the embryo in the Womb of women,’</p><p>Pyrros 1831: I: 298.</p><p>M A G I C I N M O D E R N G R E E C E</p><p>134</p><p>21 Frangaki 1978: 33, and 1969: 51, Pyrros 1831: I: 34 and II: 201, Megas 1941–1942: 167,</p><p>Agapios Monk 1850: 147, Sarandi-Stamouli 1938: 197–8.</p><p>22 Kritikopoulou 1883: 299. Th e same rationale prescribes that Holy Communion should not</p><p>be mixed with grapes, as the fi rst is given ‘for vitalization and absolution of sins’ (soul), while</p><p>the latter are blessed in a separate prayer ‘to thank God who gives such fruits which feed and</p><p>nourish their bodies’ (body), Pedalion, Canon, 28: 243.</p><p>23 Hippocrates, Περί γονής 1 and 2, Περί οστέων φύσιος 14–15, Plato, Timaeus: 86: το δε σπέρμα</p><p>ότω πολύ και ρυώδες περί τον μυελόν γίγνεται και καθαπερεί δένδρον πολυκαρπότερον, Frangaki</p><p>1969: 33, Psychogios 1989: 34, 45–6, Megas 1941–1942: 110, Diamantopoulos 1916: 625,</p><p>Kouzis MEE, 12: 820 Argenti and Rose 1949: 408–9, Blum and Blum 1965: 115. See also</p><p>Onians 1951: 182.</p><p>24 Frangaki 1978: 33, Psychoyos 1989: 45–6, Megas 1941–1942: 110, Koukoules 1948: 232,</p><p>234, Zoirou-Passa 1937: 124–5, Blum and Blum 1970: 22.</p><p>25 Douglas 1970; 1966.</p><p>Part IV</p><p>T H E T H E O R Y O F M A G I C</p><p>137</p><p>20</p><p>I N T R O D U C T I O N</p><p>Th e theory of magic</p><p>J.C.B. Petropoulos</p><p>A dose of theory is not a bad thing. (Even those of us who dismiss theory as</p><p>applied to archaeology and philology in particular are, ultimately, basing our</p><p>dismissal on a theoretical assumption.) Th e authors featured in this fi nal section</p><p>seek to proceed even further along theoretical lines than those in Part III and</p><p>to examine a number of general questions concerning Greek and non-Greek</p><p>magic across history.</p><p>Arguably the fi rst individual in Western tradition to hazard a few theoretical,</p><p>albeit passing, observations on magic was the sophist Gorgias (fi ft h century</p><p>bce) in his rhetorical jeux d’esprit, Helen: incantations, he noted, belonged to a</p><p>range of artifi ces (technai) which he subsumed under the heading of goêteia</p><p>(‘enchantment’); and mageia,1 spells, he added disparagingly, operated in the</p><p>domain of falsehood and illusion (‘these are errors of the soul/intellect and</p><p>beguilement of opinion’).2 Around the same time the Hippocratic treatise on</p><p>epilepsy (On the Sacred Disease, 2) drew a fundamental distinction between sci-</p><p>entifi c medicine and the charlatan methods of magoi. Plato, like Gorgias,</p><p>remarked on the ready availability of mageutikê (sc. technê)3 – what we might</p><p>call the technology of magic. Th inkers such as Gorgias and Plato – not to</p><p>mention Plutarch4 and Plotinus5 among many others – looked at magic fr om</p><p>within their indigenous (Greek) culture. Probably the fi rst to take an outsider’s</p><p>point of view were St Paul and the Early Church. Magic was usually still taken</p><p>in deadly earnest – the emperor Constantine even offi cially distinguished</p><p>between its black and white versions, but now the theoretical terms in which</p><p>magic and superstition in general were analysed (and roundly condemned)</p><p>became self-consciously theological and moral: all pagan practices were demonic</p><p>and evil tout court.6 Needless to say, the Church Fathers had no reason to formu-</p><p>late any fi ner distinctions between pagan religion and pagan magic.</p><p>In the mid-nineteenth century things changed. As Eleonora Skouteri-</p><p>Didaskalou observes in Chapter 22, social anthropology emerged largely out of</p><p>the Victorians’ ‘discovery’ of magic and the ensuing investigation of its pre-</p><p>sumed qualitative diff erences from religion. (One might say that Sir Arthur</p><p>Burnett Taylor’s and Sir James Frazer’s enquiries into magic spawned anthro-</p><p>pology, just as Émile Durkheim’s analysis of suicide gave rise to sociology.) In</p><p>T H E T H E O R Y O F M A G I C</p><p>138</p><p>common with Skouteri-Didaskalou, the other four authors in this section</p><p>engage with some of the key theoretical questions raised by the study of magic</p><p>especially in the twentieth century:</p><p>1 Is the concept of magic itself universal and diachronic? Or is it a late</p><p>Victorian, middle-class (imperialist) construct?</p><p>2 If the distinction between magic and religion is universal or at any rate</p><p>useful, is it a static concept or does it vary over time and across cultures? Is</p><p>Hippocratic magiê essentially the same as the magia naturalis of, say, the</p><p>Italian High Renaissance or ‘magic’ in Zululand?</p><p>3 How, then, do we defi ne magic? Is it inferior religion? Defective reason-</p><p>ing? A parapsychological process? Is it regressive behaviour or, as Alfred</p><p>Gell argues in Chapter 23, a childlike fantasy which, paradoxically, inspires</p><p>technological progress? In historical terms, does it represent a ‘primitive</p><p>stage’ of human development?</p><p>4 How do we analyse magic? As a symbolic system? As a performance whose</p><p>words and actions have distinctive formal traits?</p><p>5 What are the main characteristics of the performers of magic, namely the</p><p>magos and the witch? (See the chapters by Stratis Psaltou and Constantinos</p><p>Mantas.)</p><p>6 Given that magic has been considered a technology since the fi ft h century</p><p>bce, will it eventually die out as high technology reaches even greater</p><p>heights? (See, again, Gell’s chapter.)</p><p>Richard Gordon well notes in Chapter 21 one of the most serious practical</p><p>obstacles faced by an archaeologist or ancient historian studying the magic of an</p><p>earlier culture: because his or her subjects are dead and buried, the specialist has</p><p>no local informants to rely upon. Th e theoretical essays in this concluding</p><p>section go some way towards remedying this practical setback. With the help of</p><p>theory we can achieve critical distance to an extent that allows us to formulate</p><p>pertinent questions about magic – and religion – in ancient and more recent</p><p>societies.</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 Helen 10. Th is is also the fi rst attestation of the term mageia in the Greek language: see above,</p><p>Ch. 1, and Bremmer 1999: 1–12.</p><p>2 See also Romilly 1975: 120.</p><p>3 Plato, Statesman 280e, where he assumes that such technê is unreliable.</p><p>4 On Superstition 164 E f.</p><p>5 See Porphyry, Th e Life of Plotinus 10, 5–9.</p><p>6 See above, Ch. 8 and Ch. 9.</p><p>139</p><p>21</p><p>TA L K I N G O F M A G I C</p><p>Richard Gordon</p><p>Th is section is devoted to the study of magic in general. We might fi rst just take</p><p>a step back and refl ect upon the enterprise itself, studying magic. To be in a posi-</p><p>tion to study magic is in itself to stand outside, above, to be a benefi ciary, but</p><p>also in a sense a victim, of the Enlightenment and, ultimately, Christian notion</p><p>of superstition. Th ose whose daily lives engage at least potentially with magic</p><p>generally have no such privilege. Moreover, they oft en refuse it to the anthro-</p><p>pologists who study them. Jeanne Favret-Saada, who studied witchcraft beliefs</p><p>in the Norman Bocage in the early 1970s, soon found that her questions about</p><p>the topic led others to suspect her of being a witch, with immediate conse-</p><p>quences for the success of her enterprise. And when Anthony Buckley tried to</p><p>study Nigerian magical medicine, he was at fi rst asked to pay £20, £30, £100 –</p><p>sums far greater than a mere doctoral student could then aff ord – because it was</p><p>assumed that he wanted to learn the craft in order to become a practitioner</p><p>himself. Th e idea of critical distance in relation to magic is by no means self-</p><p>evident.</p><p>Th e historian or the archaeologist apparently has</p><p>things easier: his or her sub-</p><p>jects are dead and buried. But the price paid for that advantage is steep: in the</p><p>absence of knowledgeable living informants, even the most garrulous kind of</p><p>‘evidence’ – written documents – is likely to impose severe limits on the ques-</p><p>tions we can profi tably ask. Th e best modern studies, Favret-Saada’s for example,</p><p>or Richard Lieban’s account of malign magic in the Philippines (Cebuano</p><p>Sorcery, 1967), have relied very largely upon the information and insights pro-</p><p>vided by indigenous actors, above all practitioners prepared to talk about their</p><p>art. Artefactual remains impose even more serious restrictions. For the crucial</p><p>contexts which control their use, value and meaning are absent, and require to</p><p>be scrupulously, and laboriously, reconstructed from other sources. Nothing can</p><p>substitute for an intelligent local informant.</p><p>Sustaining a magical world</p><p>It is now a commonplace to say that what really needs to be explained is not</p><p>magic but the scepticism of dominant groups in modern societies about the</p><p>T H E T H E O R Y O F M A G I C</p><p>140</p><p>possibility of magical events or eff ects. Modern culture has, so to speak, a magic-</p><p>shaped hole. We may be confronted with it, but – except to modern ‘suburban</p><p>witches’ – it means very little to us. Quite diff erent is the position of the person</p><p>in whose world magic is taken as a realistic possibility. R.F. Fortune, who was a</p><p>pupil of the British functionalist anthropologist1 A.R. Radcliff e-Brown and</p><p>wrote the fi rst anthropological account of magical practice based upon his own</p><p>fi eldwork (Sorcerers of Dobu, 1932), recounts an instructive story from Dobu,</p><p>one of the D’Entrecasteaux islands off the coast of eastern Papua. An informant</p><p>told him how he had witnessed a vada sorcerer killing a man who had insulted</p><p>him. Th e sorcerer crept up on the man, who was working in his garden, and sud-</p><p>denly burst out upon him, screaming. Th e victim fell writhing to the ground.</p><p>Th e sorcerer feinted to rap his victim gently over the body with his lime</p><p>spatula. Th e body lay still. He cut open the body with the charmed spatula,</p><p>removed entrails, heart and lungs, and tapped the body again with the spatula,</p><p>restoring its appearance to apparent wholeness […]. Th e sorcerer’s attentions</p><p>here left the body of the victim, and transferred to charming the lime spatula</p><p>anew. Th e body rose […]. Th e man went to the village, and arrived raving …</p><p>[he] lay down writhing, groaning and calling on his abstracted vital parts by</p><p>name – by this time it was mid-day […]. Next day the sun climbed to its zenith</p><p>and he lay dead.</p><p>A classicist will at once recall an episode in Apuleius’ novel Metamorphoses,</p><p>written c. 160 ce, in which a man named Socrates is punished by his witch-mis-</p><p>tress by having his heart wrested out of his living body, the wound then being</p><p>staunched magically by a(n invisible) sponge. Next day, Socrates seems a little</p><p>off -colour, but with his friend carries on with his journey until they come to a</p><p>river. Just as Socrates is leaning forward to drink from the stream, ‘the wound in</p><p>his throat gaped open with a deep hole and the sponge suddenly rolled out of it,</p><p>accompanied by just a trickle of blood’ (Met. 1, 11–19). He falls down dead.</p><p>Th ese narratives, separated by nearly 1,800 years, represent virtually the same</p><p>belief about the powers of the sorcerer or witch. But their context, and therefore</p><p>their meaning, are very diff erent. Fortune’s Dobuan informant made no distinc-</p><p>tion between two types of awareness, between what he saw (supposing indeed</p><p>he actually saw any of this scenario) and what he knew. Everyone on Dobu</p><p>knows, or once knew, that vada sorcery consists precisely in an attack upon the</p><p>victim’s innards, just as everyone would have an idea of what such an attack</p><p>would be like. Th is cultural knowledge supplied the meaning of the passes made</p><p>with the spatula over the body: the informant did not see the sorcerer removing</p><p>the innards, but he ‘knew’ that was what he was doing. Th e meaning of the sor-</p><p>cerer’s gestures passes directly into the narrative as an observed sequence of</p><p>events. An informant is not a witness in a court of law. Th e sorcerer too had</p><p>learned his part, by consuming gallons of salt water to keep him from swallow-</p><p>ing his own black spells with his saliva, and chewing heaps of ginger and gau to</p><p>T A L K I N G O F M A G I C</p><p>141</p><p>increase his body heat so that he could kill more eff ectively. Perhaps even more</p><p>important, the victim also knew what the sorcerer was doing, and obligingly –</p><p>indeed, being without his innards, quite naturally – died, piteously lamenting</p><p>his loss. All three participants in the drama, sorcerer, victim and witness, knew</p><p>how to perform their roles in (re-)creating a magical event. Th e wider context of</p><p>Dobuan belief enabled them to occupy these roles fully.</p><p>Apuleius’ narrative is a literary construct, indeed presented as an ironical,</p><p>secondary narrative within the primary, episodic one. Even Apuleius, though</p><p>his context does not allow him to endorse the witchcraft narrative without res-</p><p>ervation, gives us to understand that, with magic, one never knows where one</p><p>is. In a magical world, the rules are, at any rate, quite simply diff erent.</p><p>Th e case of this late antique author makes the point that a culture committed</p><p>to the possibility of magic can tolerate a good deal of distancing and scepticism</p><p>about it. It may also produce more or less elaborate rational accounts of how it</p><p>might work. Th e Neo-Platonist philosopher Plotinus (205–269/70 ce), for</p><p>example, suggested that magical incantation was eff ective at a distance, i.e. even</p><p>when the victim or client was not physically present, because it was able to tap</p><p>into the World-Soul, the higher Mind that links all life together: ‘a word spoken</p><p>quietly acts on what is far off and makes something separated by an enormous</p><p>distance listen’ (Enneads 4,9,3, 4–9). Magic is naturalized by being assimilated</p><p>into integral elements of the Neo-Platonist cosmology. Th e very existence of</p><p>such an explanation underwrites the general proposition that incantation is eff ec-</p><p>tive. Plotinus also developed an account that reconciled his Platonic psychology2</p><p>with the experience of being attacked by an opponent’s malign magic. Some phi-</p><p>losophers claimed to be immune to magical attack, because, unlike the unedu-</p><p>cated poor, they were careful to lead a healthy life. But Plotinus had experienced</p><p>strange spasmodic pains in his insides. Th e explanation he preferred was that he</p><p>had been ‘caught’ by one of his rivals, Olympius of Alexandria. Th at meant that</p><p>he had to fi nd a more sophisticated explanation than the one that claimed all phi-</p><p>losophers were immune to magical attack. Th e thought he came up with is that,</p><p>although the rational part of the soul cannot be aff ected by malign magic, the</p><p>irrational parts might be. Th e physical pains he felt must have been the conse-</p><p>quence of incantations entering his body through his appetitive soul. Why did he</p><p>not die? Because his soul, as a whole, was powerful enough to beat back the force</p><p>of the attacks, indeed to turn them back upon the aggressor, who was therefore</p><p>compelled to desist (Enneads 4,4,43; Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 10, 5–9).</p><p>All of this is simply another way of making a point made by E.E. Evans-</p><p>Pritchard, another British anthropologist, at Oxford, in his study of witchcraft</p><p>among the Zande people, who live, or used to live, along the Nile–Congo divide</p><p>in the Southern Sudan (Witchcraft , Oracles and Magic among the Azande, 1937).</p><p>He showed that, given some elementary premises – for example that harm can</p><p>be caused by ‘mystical’ agencies, and that ill-luck takes the form of a person</p><p>wishing one ill – the rest of the complex world of magic follows quite logically.</p><p>Th e premises are constantly reinforced by experience: the fact of illness shows</p><p>T H E T H E O R Y O F M A G I C</p><p>142</p><p>that witches are active; the identity</p><p>of the witches is indicated by oracles; when</p><p>a counter-spell is laid, somebody dies in the locality; the oracle confi rms that he</p><p>was the witch. All these claims are protected by a range of secondary beliefs or</p><p>rationalizations. For example, it may be pointed out that, when questioned on</p><p>the same matter at diff erent times, the benge oracle gives contradictory answers.</p><p>Aha, say the Zande, that only shows that the oracle is sometimes interfered with</p><p>by another power. Th e notion of a hierarchy of oracles may also be invoked here:</p><p>the sort of low-powered oracle consulted by women and children can be expected</p><p>to give inferior, i.e. less accurate, ‘wrong’, answers as compared with those given</p><p>by important oracles patronized by men.</p><p>Probably the most-studied ‘native’ magician in the world is a man named</p><p>Laduma Madela, a ‘lightning magician’ from Zululand in South Africa. He was</p><p>born c. 1908, and at least in 1993 was still alive, though very old, infi rm and</p><p>partly blind. His father was an itinerant healer, who used a traditional method</p><p>of divining, by scattering bones, to diagnose illnesses. Laduma was his medi-</p><p>cine-carrier, and also his pupil. Laduma earned his living for many years as a</p><p>smith, but his real interest lay in healing and magic, and in due course he became</p><p>a perfect example of a ‘primitive intellectual’. He had learned to read and write</p><p>from his father, and in the 1930s joined a Zulu Wesleyan sect. In the years aft er</p><p>a vision of the creator-god Mvelinqangis in 1951, he wrote an enormous ‘Bantu-</p><p>Bible’, a personal account of his conception of the world, whose printed version</p><p>extends to 440 pages, not counting hundreds of annotated drawings, which are</p><p>representations of the visions he has received. Th is work brought him to the</p><p>attention of a German ethnologist, Katesa Schlosser, with whose encourage-</p><p>ment Madela expounded not merely his observations of nature and animals,</p><p>and his methods of healing and sorcery, but also the workings of his ‘medicines’.</p><p>Even in a compressed form rendered suitable for publication, this additional</p><p>material fi lls three large books. Much of this lore is undoubtedly traditional, but</p><p>Madela has made the eff ort to combine traditional, partly collective or general</p><p>knowledge, with his own private vision of the world. To an outsider, his hut</p><p>looks like a dark, untidy attic stuff ed with an Augean medley of extraordinary</p><p>objects; but to him every object in it has its own history, meaning, properties</p><p>and value. It would be right to suspect that without the support and interest of</p><p>the prestigious foreign outsiders, to say nothing of the residual stimulus of his</p><p>knowledge of Christianity, Madela would probably not have been so ambitious</p><p>– without a receptive, and generous, audience, there would have been no point</p><p>in transferring his visions to paper, for example, or recording his animal-lore, his</p><p>conceptions of the physical and ‘mystical’ body, or his views of the diff erent</p><p>departments of magical practice. And we cannot assume that all, or even very</p><p>many, magical practitioners are as learned and intelligent as he – though we</p><p>would do well to recall Marcel Mauss’ observation that it is not a society’s incom-</p><p>petents who are called to be its magicians.3 Nevertheless, Madela’s project is par-</p><p>adigmatic for magical practice in its self-consciousness, and in its determination</p><p>to root power in knowledge. Th e magician is always aware of the image(s) of the</p><p>T A L K I N G O F M A G I C</p><p>143</p><p>‘magician’ in his or her own society, and of the numerous stories concerning</p><p>them. To a signifi cant degree he or she models his or her own role and self-</p><p>understanding on them.</p><p>Magical beliefs are not mere items, therefore, which can easily be singled out</p><p>and examined in and for themselves, as they generally are in books dealing with</p><p>local folklore. Th ey are arranged in an inextricable way with all the other propo-</p><p>sitions that a culture, and in particular the practitioner, entertains about the</p><p>world. Th ey are frequently diffi cult, indeed impossible, to understand without</p><p>an enormous background knowledge, which oft en even the anthropological</p><p>‘expert’ on a given area does not possess. What can be the sigifi cance of these</p><p>shrivelled, dried, oft en rebarbative-looking ‘medicines’ that litter a magician’s</p><p>hut? Yet as societies become more complex, and individuals’ experience becomes</p><p>systematically and continuously diff erent in relation to class, wealth and relative</p><p>power, wide diff erences may also open up in the degree of acceptance of such</p><p>beliefs, and indeed in their very nature. Th e elite of Late Republican Rome had</p><p>access, for example, to a Hellenistic Greek model which suggested that only</p><p>those on the margins – above all, old countrywomen and foolish children –</p><p>believed in the possibility of magic, and told stories about it. One day such</p><p>beliefs will die away: time is on the side of scepticism, for it ‘obliterates false-</p><p>hoods of common belief ’ (Cicero, Nat. D. 2, 5).</p><p>Th e Augustan poets also sometimes toyed alternately with belief in and with</p><p>scepticism about magic. Horace, for example, imagines a story told by an old</p><p>wooden statue of Priapus, up on the Esquiline Hill, now a smart suburb, but for-</p><p>merly the site of mass-graves of the poor, where witches used to scavenge for</p><p>their bits of mouldering fl esh and bones, to perform necromancy and goodness</p><p>knows what else. One day, he boasts, he made a fart, and the old biddies went</p><p>scuttling back home in fright, scattering their false teeth and wigs (Sat. 1, 8).</p><p>Here the familiar Mediterranean ithyphallus performs its traditional duty of</p><p>protecting us against evil. But other poems by the same poet are a good deal less</p><p>confi dent that all this is a thing of the past. In one poem, for example, Horace</p><p>imagines the pleas of a little boy who has been carried off to play the part of the</p><p>sacrifi cial victim in a necromantic ritual (Epod. 1, 5). Th e same Cicero who</p><p>laughed at silly old women could claim, in a judicial speech against a pro-praeto-</p><p>rian governor, that the accused had regularly murdered boys to enable him to</p><p>perform necromancy (In Vat. 14). And an inscription from Rome laments the</p><p>fate of a 4-year-old slave belonging to Livia Iulia, the sister of Germanicus and</p><p>the future emperor Claudius (reigned 41–54 ce), who was carried off ‘by the</p><p>cruel hands of a witch (saga)’, and killed by her (ILS 8522). Again the Elder</p><p>Pliny, a senior member of the equestrian order, observed some years later, in the</p><p>third quarter of the fi rst century ce: ‘No one is unafraid of being “caught” by</p><p>curses’ (Hist. Nat. 28, 19). All this suggests, once again, how unusual our own</p><p>post-Enlightenment scepticism, or rather indiff erence, is.</p><p>T H E T H E O R Y O F M A G I C</p><p>144</p><p>Th eorizing magic</p><p>Th e earliest anthropological theories were based upon the evolutionist premise</p><p>that magic belongs to a more primitive level or stage of human thought than</p><p>religion. It was thus made peculiar in failing to adapt, turned into a living fossil,</p><p>a coelacanth of the mind. Its typical habitat was to be found among remote</p><p>tribes, which evolution and progress had overlooked. But – oddly enough –</p><p>there were pockets of such primitive thinking even in the working class in</p><p>England, and in the vogue for American spiritualism that had been gathering</p><p>since its ‘invention’ in 1848. E.B. Tylor, in Primitive Culture (1871, 1891), saw</p><p>magic as based on a mistaken realist application of the universal human ability</p><p>to perceive associations, especially analogy and similarity: these connections are</p><p>actually ‘ideal’, but the believer in magic insists on mistaking them as ‘real’. He or</p><p>she infers an objective, albeit ‘mystical’, link from a perceived analogy. Tylor here</p><p>succeeded in distancing magic from the occult – an important achievement – at</p><p>the cost of psychologizing it. J.G. Frazer in Th e Golden Bough (1890, 1922)</p><p>picked up the point about analogy and turned it into the basis</p><p>of two universal</p><p>‘Laws of sympathy’, homoeopathic magic and contagious magic, based on the</p><p>Law of similarity and the Law of contact respectively. Indeed, the two principles</p><p>are actually for him the basis of the working of the human mind: magic is correct</p><p>reasoning based upon false premises. Insofar as magic continues to exist in a world</p><p>dominated by more rational intellectual modes, it does so as a survival from an</p><p>outmoded stage of mental evolution, the inability (rather than the temporary</p><p>refusal) to distinguish between preception and conception. Evolutionism and</p><p>psychological realism likewise supported the philosopher Lucien Lévy-Bruhl’s</p><p>distinction in Les fonctions mentales dans les sociétés inférieures (1910, 1912)</p><p>between pre-logical and ‘scientifi c’ mentalities: the believer is trapped inside his</p><p>magico-religious world, and it is only the development of complex social organ-</p><p>ization and above all literacy and numeracy which, by making possible and insti-</p><p>tutionalizing more diff erentiated psychological representations, permits escape</p><p>from it.</p><p>It is characteristic of all these older views that the problem of magic was</p><p>located primarily in the individual’s mind: there were occlusions and compul-</p><p>sions which prevented ‘natives’ or ‘primitives’ from thinking straight. Th is claim</p><p>underlies the still widespread tendency to ‘explain’ a magical ritual by revealing</p><p>the (erroneous) psychological processes that it is supposedly based on. Th ere</p><p>were, moreover, two very important background factors which encouraged this</p><p>view of the nature of magic and what it is to explain it. First, almost all the mate-</p><p>rial available to early anthropological theorists was derived from reports by mis-</p><p>sionaries, travellers, colonial servants and other privileged foreigners, whose</p><p>understanding of the ‘natives’ and their practices was oft en quite rudimentary,</p><p>and normally tinged with varying degrees of disgust and condemnation. Th ey</p><p>therefore tended to take note of what they thought they could recognize, a selec-</p><p>tion inevitably based upon the residual categories of their own culture. Th e very</p><p>T A L K I N G O F M A G I C</p><p>145</p><p>process of ‘noting’ was also a selection and interpretation of what they actually</p><p>saw. Th ere certainly are some exceptions to this, such as the outstanding work of</p><p>W.W. Skeat in Malaya (Malay Magic, 1889), but in general the knowledge of</p><p>magical practice available to the early armchair anthropologists left a great deal</p><p>to be desired. Second, the classical tradition with which early anthropologists</p><p>were familiar had already provided a model for the decontextualization of</p><p>magical practice. Th e ‘medical’ books of Pliny the Elder’s Historia Naturalis</p><p>(particularly Books 24–30) virtually never refer to the full rituals used by ‘root-</p><p>cutters’ and other magical healers. In keeping with the conventions of the</p><p>Hippocratic and later medical writers, the properties of plants and animal parts</p><p>are treated naturalistically. Occasionally indeed the rules for collection are men-</p><p>tioned, as in the case of Peucedanum (identifi ed as sulphur-wort): ‘Th e [roots]</p><p>are cut up with bone knives into strips four fi ngers long and pour out their juices</p><p>in the shade, the cutters fi rst rubbing their head and nostrils with rose oil lest</p><p>they should feel dizzy’ (25, 117f.). But the preparations themselves are treated as</p><p>medical simples, removed from their embeddedness in the praxis of individuals</p><p>working within a tradition.</p><p>One of the most penetrating criticisms of Lévy-Bruhl’s use of arguments</p><p>based on the primitives’ ignorance of the law of non-contradiction is that the</p><p>contradictions they are alleged to have tolerated are generally quite illusory, the</p><p>consequence of observers’ misunderstanding and misreporting: the double dis-</p><p>tance between theorist and reality made it all too easy to disregard, even to be</p><p>totally unaware of, the fact that beliefs are specifi c to a particular context. But it</p><p>was the penetration of sociology into anthropology that most eff ectively under-</p><p>mined the plausibility of the early psychological views of magic. First, Emile</p><p>Durkheim argued in Les formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse (1912) that sym-</p><p>pathetic magic, for example, was merely an element or aspect of magical rituals.</p><p>One has rather to examine the purpose of the ritual as a whole. Its eff ectiveness is</p><p>a function not of its logic but of the collective representations which inspire it.</p><p>Th is view broke decisively with one of the main evolutionist presuppositions,</p><p>the contrast between magic and religion, which was simply a thinly disguised</p><p>tenet of Christianity in its struggle against the pagan beliefs of the Roman</p><p>Empire. Consequently, Durkheimian magic looks very much like Durkheimian</p><p>religion: the cure has killed the patient. Marcel Mauss, in what is still an excel-</p><p>lent overview of a whole range of problems connected with magic (‘Esquisse</p><p>d’une théorie générale de la magie’, 1902–1903), tried to retain the traditional</p><p>notion of the magician as anti-religious and anti-social as well as remain faithful</p><p>to the general Durkheimian project; and succeeded only in tying himself in</p><p>knots (‘une diffi culté grave’, ‘un dilemme’).</p><p>Th e most important innovation came, however, from the Polish anthropolo-</p><p>gist Bronislaw Malinowski, who, in several works on the Trobriand islanders,</p><p>above all Coral Gardens and their Magic (1935), laid emphasis upon the per-</p><p>formance and especially the language of magic. Malinowski’s descriptions of</p><p>garden-magic ceremonies, interspersed as they are with a commentary upon the</p><p>T H E T H E O R Y O F M A G I C</p><p>146</p><p>complex symbolic relationships between acts and substances in the magical</p><p>realm and in the realm of the everyday, demonstrate the importance of context in</p><p>the construction of meaning in such rituals. Close examination of the sequence</p><p>of rituals directed towards a given end showed that there need be no appeal to a</p><p>special form of thinking. Moreover, although the Trobrianders made a distinc-</p><p>tion between ordinary speech and magical language, he was able to show that</p><p>the</p><p>weirdness consists very largely in artifi cial form, in the ungrammatical use of</p><p>certain roots, in reduplications or couplings, in mythological references and</p><p>concrete topographical allusions … the coeffi cient of intelligibility is found in</p><p>the fact that even the strangest verbal formations refer directly or indirectly to</p><p>the matter with which the magic deals.</p><p>(2: 230)</p><p>Th e eff ect of Malinowski’s work, which remains exemplary in its detail and pre-</p><p>cision, was to direct attention fi nally away from the narrow issue of the practical</p><p>intention of the magical rite and towards the question of the appropriate con-</p><p>texts for understanding the social meaning of such rituals. In eff ect, he intro-</p><p>duced the notion of magical action as symbolic action.</p><p>Magic in action</p><p>Th e eff ects of this liberation were quickly felt. Although there has not been</p><p>much in the way of highly detailed analyses of magical ceremonies – the world</p><p>in which these were still observable was rapidly shrinking even in Malinowski’s</p><p>day – the notion that magical action should be understood as symbolic was</p><p>taken up in other ways. One of the main consequences was that anthropologists</p><p>began to look at the roles of magic in daily life. Once again, the dominant theo-</p><p>retical account of magic ensured the discovery of the empirical materials it</p><p>required. For contingent reasons, which had much to do with the domination</p><p>of the fi eld by the structural-functionalism of Radcliff e-Brown, and the role of</p><p>Evans-Pritchard at Oxford, many chose to look at the most prominent aspect</p><p>of magical beliefs, witchcraft and sorcery.4 Th ey examined the variable incidence</p><p>of witchcraft the world over, the structural tensions in society as revealed by pat-</p><p>terns of accusations, the type of people accused, sexual roles, fears and violence,</p><p>accusations as interpretations of misfortune, the role</p><p>of the evil eye as a form of</p><p>social control. Th is seminal work, almost all of which appeared in the form of</p><p>articles, was brought together in three collections that appeared in, or belong to,</p><p>the 1960s, J. Middleton and E.H. Winter’s Witchcraft and Sorcery in East Afr ica</p><p>(1963), M. Marwick’s Witchcraft and Sorcery and M. Douglas’ Witchcraft</p><p>Confessions and Accusations (both 1970). It was already apparent in the two</p><p>latter books that European social historians had begun to discover the value of</p><p>anthropological fi ndings in opening up the roles of witchcraft , and especially</p><p>T A L K I N G O F M A G I C</p><p>147</p><p>the functions of accusations, in the wider context of the late medieval and early</p><p>modern witch-hunts. Since the pioneeering work of Keith Th omas (Religion</p><p>and the Decline of Magic, 1971) and his pupil Alan MacFarlane (Witchcraft in</p><p>Tudor and Stuart England, 1970) on English witchcraft , there has been a massive</p><p>re-evaluation of Continental archival material relating to the persecution of</p><p>witches, a re-evaluation which can now conveniently be followed in the Athlone</p><p>History of Witchcraft and Magic in Europe now in the course of publication.</p><p>Th e only ancient historian to have followed these trends very closely was</p><p>Peter Brown, who contributed to Mary Douglas’ collection what is still one of</p><p>the best articles on accusations of magic at court in the fourth century ce. Given</p><p>the general paucity of information about ancient Greek magic, one of the most</p><p>promising lines of approach is to try to use the curse tablets, especially those</p><p>from Classical Athens, as evidence for the social roles of malign magic, the place</p><p>of the law-court in pursuing and perpetuating feuds, the symbolic value of the</p><p>curse and the ways in which the tablets seek to acquire authority. Some work has</p><p>been done here by C. Faraone (1985, 1989, 1991), and by D. Ogden (1999), but</p><p>a great deal more is required. And some scepticism is called for: is it of any</p><p>explanatory value, for example, to invoke the ‘agonal’ features of Greek social</p><p>life in trying to explain the curse tablets? But we also need to return to</p><p>Malinowski’s other preoccupation, his emphasis upon the linguistic features –</p><p>phonetic, semantic, rhetorical – of magical language, if we are to escape from</p><p>easy assumptions about the meaning and value of such texts, given that we have</p><p>no hope of examining in detail the construction of magical rituals. I have myself</p><p>tried to make a start here (Gordon 1999) by looking more closely at the roles of</p><p>lists and listing in the tablets. Th e issue of the special nature of magical language</p><p>has become topical once again since Stanley Tambiah’s attempt to redefi ne it as</p><p>performative,5 as aiming to transfer properties by way of metonymy and meta-</p><p>phor. Beyond language again, Ariel Glucklich (1997) has urged that we need to</p><p>develop a taxonomy of physical acts within magical rituals, tasting, pointing,</p><p>beating, stepping, inhaling, blowing: ‘the events of the rite are more important</p><p>than its symbols’ in establishing its meaning as a whole. We are compelled, at</p><p>any rate up to a point, to fi t the questions we can profi tably ask to the materials</p><p>at hand; but we can also make use of theoretical discussions to alter our horizon of</p><p>enquiry, to read the texts diff erently.</p><p>On the other hand, the sociology of accusations and witchcraft is only a</p><p>corner of the fi eld, even though it is the anthropological legacy which is most</p><p>familiar outside that discipline.</p><p>We can also use the notion of magical action as symbolic to examine the</p><p>social sites of magic more closely. Why does it occur so insistently in certain</p><p>areas of social life – in the context of sexual relations, legal confl icts, high-risk</p><p>enterprises such as gambling, craft production? Where are we to place ‘magical</p><p>healing’? What kind of people are or become magicians? Is there a hierarchy of</p><p>roles and capacities? Th e materials of archaeology can lead directly to engage-</p><p>ment with wider questions of social structure and history. What can a close</p><p>T H E T H E O R Y O F M A G I C</p><p>148</p><p>reading of these texts contribute to an understanding of the larger structures</p><p>within which they are merely incidents? What types of imagery are used? What</p><p>is their role, and how does imagery contribute to the force of the curse? What</p><p>is the value of writing in magic?</p><p>One of the most obvious advantages of the symbolic view of magic is that it</p><p>allows the contrast between religion and magic to fade into the background. A</p><p>modern Greek who thinks about magic will probably think fi rst of divination,</p><p>with the lees of coff ee-cups, or the cards, which is mildly censured by Orthodox</p><p>belief. Aft er that, of sorcery. Prominent among the images of sorcery in modern</p><p>Greece are the ideas that sorcery is a matter of reciting certain spells and per-</p><p>forming certain ritual actions in precisely the correct manner – an example of</p><p>extreme ritual fi xation. Another widely known feature of sorcery is the guilt it is</p><p>supposed to inspire in those who appeal to it or seek to use it. Sorcery is in fact</p><p>conceptually the extreme opposite of one’s normal religious and social duty, the</p><p>ultimate form of seeking private advantage at the expense of others.</p><p>Such views are what one expects within a Christian dispensation and cosmol-</p><p>ogy. In the ancient world things were much more complex, since evil was con-</p><p>ceptually also the responsibility of the same gods who upheld the social order</p><p>and the usual theodicy of good fortune. Magic, even malign magic, could not so</p><p>easily be separated from ‘religion’. Although the term μαγεία entered the lan-</p><p>guage around 600 bce, its semantic fi eld only partly overlapped with the modern</p><p>European notion of ‘magic’. Its meaning was in fact much more similar to our</p><p>use of ‘magic’ in relation to some performer such as David Copperfi eld, or the</p><p>German duo with the white tigers, Siegfried Fischbacher and Roy Uwe Horn,</p><p>who mystify for gain and pleasure, but in truth eff ect nothing. It was not until</p><p>the Hellenistic period that μαγεία acquired substantially more of the modern</p><p>meaning, when there emerged the notion of natural magic, in the ‘Magian’ writ-</p><p>ings, and the traditional female witch-fi gure, a Circe or a Medea, gave way in</p><p>favour of a male stereotype, the learned magician. But even so, no agreed ‘ancient</p><p>view’ of magic emerged until the Christian empire: so long as the ancient world</p><p>remained pagan, the notion of illicit religious power rubbed shoulders uneasily</p><p>with a positive conception of the μάγος as a holy priest, magical healing had to</p><p>be set against sorcery, the threat of the mighty magician was forced to compete</p><p>with the thought that there really was nothing in magic at all, that it was all the</p><p>merest vanity.</p><p>Th e Greeks, in other words, were as much at a loss to defi ne magic as we are.</p><p>But unlike us, they viewed it fr om within. Even the modern follower of the wicca-</p><p>cult cannot scramble back inside the bell-jar of belief. For magic to be true, you</p><p>need more than a sect, you need a cosmos in which the Other World is in con-</p><p>stant invisible traffi c with Here and Now, and you need access to a language, real</p><p>or fi gurative, which can aff ect that traffi c. Without those preconditions, one is</p><p>simply playing make-believe.</p><p>T A L K I N G O F M A G I C</p><p>149</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 See below, Ch. 22.</p><p>2 Mainly in his Republic (4.435–42, 9.580d, etc.), Plato envisaged a tripartite division of the</p><p>soul into the rational, the passionate and the appetitive.</p><p>3 For Mauss’ views see also below, Ch. 24.</p><p>4 Th e author is referring to the anthropological distinction formulated by Evans-Pritchard</p><p>between two types of destructive (‘black’) magic. Witchcraft is oft en (but not always) prac-</p><p>tised by women, and is attributable to certain innate, occult qualities of the witch, who as a</p><p>rule is a perverse individual. Sorcery is practised by anyone, male or female, since it does not</p><p>presuppose special mental or spititual</p><p>on weapons carried by male warriors defi nes the</p><p>function of the Mistress of Animals as a patroness of men.</p><p>Now we have to explain why the threatening and dangerous naked goddess</p><p>was also protective. Th e imagery of nude female divinities in the Near East and</p><p>Egypt abounds on seals, stelai and pendants. Even the Egyptian protective</p><p>female demon Beset can appear naked. Th e naked goddess is also a decorative</p><p>feature of shields or weapons. Nudity therefore means protection for the bearer</p><p>of the weapons or the owner of the amulets, statuettes, and so on. And yet, the</p><p>logic of the apotropaion is always ambiguous. Th is object must be dangerous to</p><p>the opponent but protective to the person wearing or carrying it. Th e shields,</p><p>the pendants and the Near Eastern cylinder amulets were supposed to confer</p><p>protection upon the owner and danger upon the enemy, since female sexuality</p><p>was regarded as a dangerous trap for men. It is precisely this logic that underlies</p><p>the fi gure of Circe in the Odyssey, inasmuch as she is a dangerous female who</p><p>ultimately turns into the protectress of Odysseus and his men.</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>12</p><p>Circe</p><p>Circe in the Odyssey has many similarities to the amuletic devices of Near</p><p>Eastern origin discussed above. She is a Mistress of Animals. She lives alone on</p><p>an island populated with wild animals; wandering through her domain,</p><p>Odysseus encounters and kills a huge stag. Th e house of Circe is surrounded by</p><p>wolves and lions which rise on their hind legs to be caressed, as if they were</p><p>almost tame. Circe is also sexual. Her seductive song lures Odysseus’ men into</p><p>a false sense of comfort. Odysseus will eventually go to bed with her at her invi-</p><p>tation and will enjoy the pleasures of this cohabitation for at least a year.</p><p>In archaic vase paintings, Circe retains many of the features of the naked</p><p>goddess. She is shown naked with a clear emphasis on her pubic triangle. Such</p><p>portrayal clearly conveys the sexuality of the witch, whereas the image of the</p><p>pig-men in these vases is an allusion to the demise of man aft er his encounter</p><p>with the sexually dangerous goddess. On a sixth-century vase (Figure 2), Circe</p><p>off ers a drink to a pig-man, one of Odysseus’ comrades who has been aff ected</p><p>by her magic. Again she is naked. Odysseus approaches from the left , his sword</p><p>drawn. On another vase of the same century, Circe confronts Odysseus, who is</p><p>about to draw his sword. Circe embodies the unusual combination of sexuality</p><p>and danger which typifi es a number of Oriental amulets. When Odysseus con-</p><p>quers her, she will become his protective amulet, as it were.</p><p>Another issue worth investigating is why Circe is a witch, though in the</p><p>Odyssey she is explicitly called a goddess. Witchcraft and magic are terms loaded</p><p>with ambiguity and it is oft en diffi cult to make a clear-cut distinction between</p><p>religious and magical rituals. One property of magical rituals is their anti-social</p><p>aspect: they invert the accepted (religious) ritual forms. Circe, for example,</p><p>does not give Odysseus’ comrades the usual food prescribed by the code of hos-</p><p>pitality, namely meat and wine. Instead she gives them a mixture of cheese,</p><p>barley and honey, and Pramnian wine (which is not really wine but a strange</p><p>brew; see Od. 10, 234–5). All this is food more appropriate for the dead. By</p><p>off ering these items, Circe consigns these men to the realm of the underworld.</p><p>Next, Circe mixes in dangerous poison (pharmaka lugra: ibid., 236). Th is too is</p><p>an anti-social activity. Finally she strikes the men with a wand (rhabdos: ibid.,</p><p>238), clearly an aggressive act. Magicians oft en appear with wands in antiquity;</p><p>in Egypt such wands take the form of snakes (compare Beset, mentioned</p><p>above).</p><p>Moreover, magicians are marginal fi gures in society: women, outcasts, for-</p><p>eigners. Circe, although a goddess, fi ts this description well. She is an unmar-</p><p>ried female, lives at the end of the world, near the gates of the Underworld, and</p><p>she is a daughter of the Sun, a non-Olympian god. We have identifi ed two com-</p><p>ponents in the persona of Circe. First, the magical image of the naked goddess</p><p>and Mistress of Animals who combines sexuality with danger. Th e inspiration</p><p>behind this image most probably came to Greece from the Near East in the</p><p>form of amulets or images engraved on weapons. Second, the ritual practices of</p><p>M A G I C , A M U L E T S A N D C I R C E</p><p>13</p><p>anti-social magic determine her actions: she gives the wrong food, more appro-</p><p>priate for the dead than for the living, she uses a wand, and she dispenses poisons</p><p>(pharmaka). And yet, this anti-social witch is capable of turning into a helper</p><p>once her sexuality is ‘domesticated’ by a man. It is a signifi cant point in the</p><p>Circe story of the Odyssey that she is transformed from a dangerous adversary</p><p>to a helper and sees Odysseus safely through his most threatening adventure,</p><p>namely the descent into the Underworld. Circe the sorceress becomes the pro-</p><p>tector of Odysseus and his men. In other words, she herself assumes the function</p><p>of the apotropaic amulet. Th e interaction of ritual, magical amulets and texts</p><p>produced a story, the unforgettable literary merits of which we owe to the poet</p><p>of the Odyssey.</p><p>Figure 2 Circe off ers her unconventional potion to a pig-man. Her nakedness brings out her</p><p>sexuality. Archaic terracotta plaque, now in Sicily (see Canciani, LIMC VI, no. 4).</p><p>14</p><p>4</p><p>M A G I C A N D T H E D E A D I N</p><p>C L A S S I C A L G R E E C E</p><p>Sarah Iles Johnston</p><p>Th e Corinthian tyrant Periander sent his henchmen to the oracle of the dead to</p><p>ask where he had lost something.1 Th e ghost of Periander’s dead wife, Melissa,</p><p>was conjured up but she refused to tell them where the object was because she</p><p>was cold and naked; she said that the clothes buried with her were useless</p><p>because they had not been burnt properly. To prove who she was, she told the</p><p>men to tell Periander that he had put his bread into a cold oven. Th is convinced</p><p>Periander, who knew that he had made love to Melissa’s corpse aft er she died.</p><p>Periander immediately ordered every woman in Corinth to assemble at the</p><p>temple of Hera. Th ey all came wearing their best clothes, thinking there was</p><p>going to be a festival. Periander then told his guards to strip the women naked</p><p>and burn their clothes in a pit while he prayed to Melissa. Th en Melissa’s ghost</p><p>told him where the missing object was.</p><p>So goes one of our oldest ghost stories, which illustrates how relations</p><p>between the living and the dead were supposed to work in ancient Greece.2 We</p><p>learn from it that the dead demanded proper funerals, which ought to include</p><p>gift s they could use in the aft erlife. In return, the living could expect the dead’s</p><p>cooperation when they needed help or advice.</p><p>Every person in ancient Greece was concerned, like Periander, to keep rela-</p><p>tions between the living and the dead in good order, but during the later archaic</p><p>age there also arose a class of specialists, to whom the average person could turn</p><p>when problems with the dead occurred, just as Periander turned to the offi cials</p><p>at the oracle of the dead. Such a specialist was called a γόης and the art he prac-</p><p>tised was γοητεία. Th ese are words that modern scholars oft en translate simply</p><p>as ‘magician’ and ‘magic’. Th eir linguistic root, however, which is shared with</p><p>γοâν, ‘to sing a lament’, indicates that the essence of ancient Greek magic</p><p>involved communication with the dead. Th is communication could have several</p><p>goals, depending on the problem that the γόης was hired to solve: sometimes he</p><p>was required to appease the dead in order to avert their anger and ensure their</p><p>help (the specialists at the oracle of the dead, whom Periander consulted, might</p><p>well have been called γόητες). Sometimes he might rouse the dead into action</p><p>against a living person, in order to serve the interests of a client whose enemy</p><p>the victim was. Sometimes, fi nally, the γόης might advise</p><p>traits. Th e sorcerer need only secure the required</p><p>magical substances (especially in Africa) or recite the obligatory incantations (in Oceania).</p><p>See also below, Ch. 22.</p><p>5 For Tambiah see below, Ch. 22.</p><p>150</p><p>22</p><p>M A G I C A S A P O I N T O F</p><p>R E F E R E N C E I N</p><p>A N T H R O P O L O G I C A L</p><p>T H E O R Y *</p><p>Eleonora Skouteri-Didaskalou</p><p>In great measure, ‘magic’, mysterious, vague and ambiguous, owes its power and</p><p>permanence precisely to the fact that it cannot be defi ned. If defi ned, it ceases to</p><p>be what we wish to investigate. In other words, it is an indeterminate and mar-</p><p>ginal subject which has the protean ability to adjust to contingencies and to</p><p>change form, always preserving, however, its fundamental characteristic: its mar-</p><p>ginality. Despite its marginal nature, which was always its fi xed point, ‘magic’ was</p><p>and continues to be part of our life, both literally and as a metaphor. In spite of its</p><p>marginal position in society, indeed perhaps because of it, ‘magic’, both as a way of</p><p>thinking and as practical behaviour, was and remains a subject which cuts across</p><p>various fi elds of everyday speech. Th rough it various social behaviours are also</p><p>expressed, individually or in groups; from the most mysterious rituals to the more</p><p>mundane constancies, habits and practices connected with prayers and curses,</p><p>prejudices and superstitions, horoscopes and predictions, cups and cards.</p><p>Marginality is distinct to ‘magic’ and adds to it the fascination of the</p><p>unknown and the exotic, the self-delusion of having access to, or expecting the</p><p>intervention of, supernatural sources of – and the illusion of power over – forces</p><p>which determine human matters from afar and beyond. ‘Magic’ belongs simul-</p><p>taneously to the domain of the forbidden and uncontrollable, its distinguishing</p><p>features being diachronic across cultures. For this reason it has become an</p><p>object of dominant offi cial parlance and institutionalized practices.</p><p>It is therefore diffi cult to conceive that ‘magic’ is an issue which engages</p><p>anthropology exclusively. Nevertheless, it is generally accepted that ‘magic’ is a</p><p>priority among anthropologists. Anthropology (in all its academic and episte-</p><p>mological versions, its variants bearing general or specialized names and titles:</p><p>anthropology, social anthropology, cultural anthropology, ethnology, ethnogra-</p><p>phy, even folklore) took pains to confi rm, secure and reproduce this priority,</p><p>M A G I C A N D A N T H R O P O L O G I C A L T H E O R Y</p><p>151</p><p>occasionally to such an extent that it ran the risk of losing its scientifi c or philo-</p><p>sophical nature and becoming a science of the magical. ‘Magic’, at any rate, was the</p><p>testing ground for anthropology and at the same time an anthropological fi eld,</p><p>since – according to at least one version of the history of this particular social</p><p>science – ‘magic’ constituted its chief object. Magical practices, prejudices and</p><p>superstitions, symbolisms and rituals were considered expressions of a particular</p><p>type of thought and behaviour which covered whatever was left behind by the</p><p>evolution of the modern, rational and individualized way of thinking: ‘remnants’,</p><p>the ‘irrational’, the ‘erratic’ and the ‘inexplicable’, that is everything characterized</p><p>by an adherence to anonymous mass tradition and an associative way of inter-</p><p>preting the world; all that falls under the rubric of Lévy-Bruhl’s pre-rational</p><p>thought,1 or the way of thinking of the primitive or the primitives or the tradition-</p><p>alists or the common or uneducated people, or of others in general, according to</p><p>the respective defi nitions which have decisively aff ected the nature of anthropol-</p><p>ogy and folklore in their European course. Quite simply, the primitive or tradi-</p><p>tionalist or popular domain (culture, society, way of life, way of thinking) was</p><p>thought to be distinguished by superstitions and prejudices, conservatism and</p><p>passivity; that a vis a tergo (regressive force) held thought and behaviour captive,</p><p>preventing their progress. According to this basically rationalist perception,</p><p>‘magic’ is the most characteristic example of a particular way of thinking which</p><p>operates in the realm of the belief of the many rather than in that of the truth of</p><p>the few. Th e few are propelled by a vis a fr onte (progressive force) towards the lib-</p><p>eration of thought, by means of rational logos and education, towards progress</p><p>and evolution, which cancel the illogical, irrational and pre-logical. Anthropology,</p><p>at any rate (and up to a point ethnography too, for its own reasons), undertook</p><p>by defi nition and priority to study this diff erent fi eld. Led by a perception which</p><p>considered the other as diff erent, it further defi ned it as unlike, from a diachronic</p><p>but also from a synchronic or inter-cultural viewpoint. Th e defi nition of diff er-</p><p>ent oft en simply brings out the strange. In this particular course of anthropology</p><p>the subject of ‘magic’ was always a fi xed point of reference. For over a century,</p><p>anthropology was suspended over the abyss of the meanings of ‘magic’, caught in</p><p>the quagmire of its uses, its spells, its incantations and pretences.</p><p>Th e deeper causes of sociological, historical and epistemological speculation</p><p>focusing on the study not only of ‘magic’, but also of mentality and perceptions,</p><p>culture and the collective conscience, and of course the social phenomenon itself,</p><p>must be sought in the milieu of the Année Sociologique and the circle of scholars</p><p>around Emile Durkheim2 in the early twentieth century. Th e history of the</p><p>anthropological approaches to ‘magic’ must always reckon with this landmark.</p><p>Only then is it possible to arrive at a systematic defi nition of the specifi c subject</p><p>that allows us to see and analyse the pre and ante situations. Before the sociologi-</p><p>cal theory of ‘magic’, the theory of evolution was dominant, E.B. Tylor being its</p><p>earliest and most systematic exponent, and J.G. Frazer its latest and most promi-</p><p>nent. Subsequently, the functional method of approaching ‘magic’ made its</p><p>appearance (with the systematic analyses of Bronislaw Malinowski, the father of</p><p>T H E T H E O R Y O F M A G I C</p><p>152</p><p>ethnography); the historical-empirical approach (with Clyde Kluckhohn’s char-</p><p>acteristic work);3 and the structural approach of E.E. Evans-Pritchard. More</p><p>recently we have the neo-functional analyses of the Manchester School, the</p><p>structural analysis of C. Lévi-Strauss, semiotic approaches and historical analy-</p><p>ses, which assisted and were assisted in turn by the change in perspective in the</p><p>fi eld of historical anthropology and anthropological history.4 Th ere are, in addi-</p><p>tion, the postmodern attempts to analyse ‘magic’ in a deconstructive way.5 We</p><p>should not be confused by the numerous names of methods and theories, nor by</p><p>the names of a multitude of scholars; despite their signifi cance, most are usually</p><p>known only to anthropologists and historians. Of course, the sociological view</p><p>of ‘magic’ and the chain reactions it caused in anthropological theory and prac-</p><p>tice did not in the least aff ect the situation outside anthropology. As a result, the</p><p>evolutionary theories of ‘magic’ infl uenced anthropologists for about a century.</p><p>Th ese theories continue to infl uence specialists in related scientifi c and academic</p><p>fi elds (e.g. folklore,6 philology, archaeology, religious studies, etc.), providing</p><p>tools both for the analysis of separate cases of ‘magic’ and for the overall view and</p><p>interpretation of the ancient world and traditional society.</p><p>At any event, the view formulated by M. Mauss7 and Henri Hubert in their</p><p>short study Esquisse d’une théorie générale de la magie (1902–1903) provided</p><p>later anthropologists with a new ‘key’ for defi ning and studying the subject of</p><p>‘magic’. In this sense the Outline of a General Th eory of Magic laid the ground-</p><p>work for the subsequent approaches of anthropologists (or at least the more</p><p>inquisitive among them) to ‘magic’: it proved that ‘magic’, just</p><p>people as to how they</p><p>M A G I C A N D T H E D E A D</p><p>15</p><p>could perform rituals while they were still alive that would ensure that in their</p><p>own aft erlives, their ghosts would be happy.</p><p>Appeasing the dead</p><p>In addition to the tale from Herodotus, we hear several stories about γόητες solving</p><p>problems caused by the dead. One of the most famous involves the Spartan traitor</p><p>Pausanias who, aft er being murdered by his countrymen outside the local temple</p><p>of Athena, returned to punish the whole city.3 Pausanias’ ghost lurked outside the</p><p>temple’s entrance and frightened anyone who tried to enter it so badly that all</p><p>business at the temple came to a halt. At their wits’ end, the Spartans asked the</p><p>Delphic Oracle for advice and were told by Apollo to call in Th essalian γόητες (or</p><p>ψυχαγωγούς, ‘leaders of souls’, as some sources for the story also call them). Th ese</p><p>experts advised the Spartans to bury Pausanias’ corpse near the temple, and also</p><p>to erect two statues of Pausanias outside the temple doors.</p><p>None of our versions of this story tell us exactly what the Spartans were sup-</p><p>posed to do to the statues once they were in place, but other ancient texts tell</p><p>about statues of the dead being chained up in order to stop their ghosts from</p><p>walking,4 as in the case of Actaeon’s ghost, who haunted Orchomenos, or being</p><p>fed and then abandoned in a distant forest, as in the case of statues of threaten-</p><p>ing ghosts that are mentioned in a sacred decree from fourth-century bce</p><p>Cyrene, a Greek colony on the coast of Libya.5 Clearly, when dealing with trou-</p><p>blesome ghosts, it was best both to appease them with gift s or kindnesses (such</p><p>as burial in the case of Pausanias or clothes in the case of Melissa) and to take</p><p>Figure 3 Among other divinities, Hekate was invoked in ‘binding spells’ to help the dead in</p><p>harming a living victim.</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>16</p><p>measures physically to prevent them from infl icting further injury, either by</p><p>restraining them or removing them from the area that they were haunting.</p><p>Th ere were other methods of controlling ghosts that people might under-</p><p>take without the help of γόητες or ψυχαγωγοί, as well. From Aeschylus’ Choephoroi</p><p>we learn that gift s might suffi ce: when Queen Clytemnestra is haunted by</p><p>nightmares that she believes were sent by the ghost of her murdered husband</p><p>Agamemnon, she instructs her daughter Electra to pour libations on</p><p>Agamemnon’s grave in hopes of soothing his ghost and thus bringing an end to</p><p>the dreams.6 Libations were part of traditional funerary rituals; here they have</p><p>simply been adapted to a new purpose.</p><p>Immediately aft er Clytemnestra had murdered Agamemnon, she had tried to</p><p>implement quite a diff erent method of controlling Agamemnon’s ghost, in the</p><p>hope that trouble wouldn’t start in the fi rst place: μασχαλισμός, dismemberment</p><p>of the corpse, so called from the fact that the arms were hacked off at the armpits</p><p>or μασχάλαι.7 Obviously, μασχαλισμός didn’t work completely, since it didn’t</p><p>prevent Agamemnon’s ghost from causing nightmares, but it provides an inter-</p><p>esting insight into the way the Greeks sometimes viewed ghosts: however much</p><p>they might have considered the soul and the body to be separate in some ways,</p><p>they also believed that the two were closely enough connected that to injure one</p><p>might injure the other. We could also conclude this from the case of Spartan</p><p>Pausanias, where burial of the ghost’s corpse helped to assuage his anger.</p><p>Libations at the grave that were intended to appease ghosts might be sup-</p><p>plemented at times by monthly off erings of food called suppers (δεĩπνα) that</p><p>were deposited on the night of the new moon outside cities at places where</p><p>three roads came together (τρίοδοι). Th ese suppers were consecrated not only to</p><p>the ghosts whose anger needed to be averted but also to their mistress, the</p><p>goddess Hekate, since the living hoped she would help to restrain these ghosts.</p><p>Hekate’s close relationship to ghosts was the main reason that she became the</p><p>divinity who was most important to the γόητες and others who practised magic</p><p>in antiquity, a role that we still see Hekate playing in Shakespeare’s Macbeth.</p><p>Rousing the dead</p><p>Th is brings us back now to the γόητες and their profession. Th e expert who</p><p>knew how to calm and avert the anger of the dead naturally knew how to rouse</p><p>them up against people as well, and ancient sources are full of remarks about</p><p>γόητες who do just that. In his Republic, Plato mentions wandering experts who</p><p>knock on the doors of wealthy citizens, promising that for a small fee they will</p><p>use αγωγαί καί κατάδεσμοι (‘spells to lead on the dead and binding spells’) to</p><p>harm anyone their client wishes.8 Th e meaning of αγωγαί is clear: these are spells</p><p>with which the γόητες can ‘lead ghosts’ against the living just as the Th essalian</p><p>γόητες led the ghost of Pausanias away from the temple of Athena.</p><p>Kατάδεσμοι, which literally means ‘spells that restrain’, is the technical term</p><p>for what are usually called ‘curse tablets’ by modern scholars. Th ese were small,</p><p>M A G I C A N D T H E D E A D</p><p>17</p><p>thin sheets of lead on which were inscribed requests to divinities who were</p><p>thought to have control of the dead, such as Hekate and Hermes Psychopompos,</p><p>and to the dead themselves; the divinities were expected to help compel the</p><p>dead to harm a living victim. Th e tablets were deposited where the divinities of</p><p>the dead and the dead themselves would fi nd them most easily: in graves, in</p><p>wells and sometimes under the fl oors of temples belonging to divinities who</p><p>had a relation to the dead, such as Demeter. Our earliest curse tablet comes</p><p>from the late sixth century in Sicily; they show up in Athens in the mid-fi ft h</p><p>century and elsewhere in the Greek world beginning in the fourth century.</p><p>Curse tablets were used against one’s enemies particularly in situations where</p><p>competition existed: the courtroom, the sports arena, the marketplace and love.</p><p>A papyrus that preserves a magician’s private collection of spells includes a</p><p>recipe for making a curse tablet of this last type.9 Several real tablets based on</p><p>this recipe also have been excavated.10 Th e spell instructs the magician to write</p><p>the following words upon the lead:</p><p>I entrust this curse tablet to you, [gods of the Underworld], and to men and</p><p>women who have died untimely deaths, to youths and maidens, from year to</p><p>year, month to month, day to day, hour to hour. I adjure all daimones of this</p><p>[cemetery] to serve as assistants to this daimon. Arouse yourself for me,</p><p>whoever you are, whether male or female, and go to every place and every</p><p>quarter and to every house, and attract and bind [the woman I love]. …Let her</p><p>be unable to either drink or eat, not be contented, not be strong, not have</p><p>peace of mind, not fi nd sleep without me. …drag her by the hair, by her heart,</p><p>by her soul, to me…</p><p>Th e magician who places the tablet in a grave is not sure whose grave it is; this</p><p>is why he refers to the δαίμων, or ‘ghost’, as either male or female. Nor is he</p><p>certain that this ghost can do the job alone; he attempts to ensure his success,</p><p>therefore, by calling both on some of the gods of the dead and on the many</p><p>other dead souls whose graves are nearby. Th e way that these dead are described</p><p>is interesting: the magician particularly seeks help from maidens and young</p><p>men who have died in an untimely manner: that is, before they have completed</p><p>a full life, including marriage and parenthood. We meet these types of ghost, as</p><p>well as the ghosts of those who have died by violent means or whose bodies lie</p><p>unburied, in many Greek magical texts. Th ese δαίμονες were considered the best</p><p>sorts to invoke for two reasons: they were understood to be especially unhappy</p><p>at having missed out on life, and would therefore be easier to rouse to anger</p><p>against someone else, and their souls were believed to be unable to enter Hades;</p><p>they had no place to rest in the aft erlife. Th</p><p>ese ghosts did not enjoy the work</p><p>that γόητες forced them to do: other spells try to bribe the ghosts to cooperate</p><p>by promising that if they do, they will never be called up to serve the living</p><p>again. Along the same lines, Plato tells us that people became very upset if,</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>18</p><p>when visiting their parents’ graves, they found lying upon them a sort of small</p><p>wax doll sometimes used to supplement the work of curse tablets.11</p><p>Sometimes the dead were called up by the living for less off ensive reasons.</p><p>Th e passage that opened this chapter illustrates one of the most important: the</p><p>dead knew things that the living did not, and therefore could be used to proph-</p><p>esy. By the classical period, there were several oracles of the dead in operation.</p><p>Judging from a famous literary scene, one might also call up the dead to proph-</p><p>esy privately. In Aeschylus’ Persians, the queen of Persia asks the elders of the</p><p>court to invoke the ghost of her husband Darius in order to get advice about the</p><p>outcome of the war their nation is waging against Greece.12 Of course, this scene</p><p>takes place in what was, for the Greeks, a strange, barbarian land where perhaps</p><p>everyone was likely to have such skills; if one wished to invoke the dead back</p><p>home in Greece, one probably needed, once again, the help of a γόης.</p><p>Th e γόης as specialist in the soul</p><p>If the γόης was capable of calling up ghosts to help and to harm the living, and</p><p>equally able to appease and avert them when necessary, it follows that he knew</p><p>a lot about the way in which the Underworld worked, and how to earn favours</p><p>from the divinities who ruled over the ghosts who dwelt there. Because of this,</p><p>the γόης also developed a reputation as an expert who could prepare the souls of</p><p>the living for the aft erlife, by initiating them into special mystery cults where</p><p>they would learn how to win a pleasant existence in the Underworld. Plato tells</p><p>us this explicitly13: the same experts who travel door-to-door selling curses</p><p>against one’s enemy also promise that, for a price, they will initiate clients into</p><p>mysteries that will protect their souls aft er death. Plato adds that in some cases,</p><p>not only individuals but entire cities had been taken in by these wandering</p><p>experts. Th is might be an allusion to the work of the Cretan holy man</p><p>Epimenides, who was called into Athens in the late seventh century to deal with</p><p>problems being caused by the ghosts of prominent citizens who had been mur-</p><p>dered, but who also, while he was there, introduced certain mystery cults to the</p><p>Athenians. Plato also mentions that some of the mystery rites taught by the</p><p>wandering experts promised to help improve the situation of those who had</p><p>already died – this would be good for a suff ering ghost, of course, but might</p><p>also help any living relatives whom the unhappy ghost was persecuting.</p><p>Th e duties of the γόης as an invoker of the dead and an initiator into myster-</p><p>ies came together in the mythical fi gure of Orpheus, whom several ancient</p><p>sources call a γόης. Orpheus is well known to most modern readers for the fi rst</p><p>of these two talents: the story of his trip to Hades to retrieve the soul of his dead</p><p>wife has been told by Vergil, Ovid and many a later poet. But in antiquity</p><p>Orpheus was at least as well known for conveying the secrets of the Dionysiac</p><p>and Eleusinian mysteries in his songs and for developing initiatory rituals for</p><p>the former. Th e close link between the two functions of invoking souls and ini-</p><p>tiating people into mysteries is expressed by Orpheus himself in a late antique</p><p>M A G I C A N D T H E D E A D</p><p>19</p><p>poem attributed to him, where he claims that everything he has taught mortals</p><p>about the Underworld in his songs was learned when he descended to Hades,</p><p>‘trusting in my cithaera, driven by love for my wife’.14 Orpheus knew what he</p><p>did about the Underworld because he had visited it once himself and forged</p><p>special connections to the powers that reigned there. We should remember</p><p>that, as he himself emphasizes in the quotation, he was able to journey to the</p><p>Underworld and regain the soul of his wife because he was a splendid musician:</p><p>in ancient Greece, music of all kinds was believed to have magical power of its</p><p>own, over animals, over the living and over the realm of the dead.</p><p>Of course, Orpheus’ quest to win back the soul of his wife failed in the long</p><p>run: eventually her soul was sent back to the Underworld, where it stayed. If, as</p><p>so many ancient sources tell us, Orpheus was a γόης,15 an expert in invoking</p><p>souls of the dead, why did he ultimately fail in the very task on which all γοητεία</p><p>is based? Th e dramatic requirements of narrative are part of the answer: tragic</p><p>endings make for a better story. But the story itself provides another reason that</p><p>makes perfect sense within the rules of γοητεία as we know them from other</p><p>sources: Orpheus turned his gaze upon the soul whom he had invoked. Many a</p><p>Greek text warns against looking at or interacting with the spirits of the dead</p><p>whom one has invoked. King Admetus, for example, when he receives the soul</p><p>of Alcestis back from the Underworld, is admonished not to converse with her</p><p>for three days, aft er which she will once again be counted among the living.16 A</p><p>newly published sacred law from fi ft h-century bce Selinus17 advises the indi-</p><p>vidual who wishes to summon a ghost to ‘turn himself around’ before the ghost</p><p>arrives. When Orpheus turned to look at his wife’s ghost, then, he was forget-</p><p>ting the rules of γοητεία.</p><p>One thing that is clear from our preceding discussion is that, like so many</p><p>other things with which magic deals, the dead were a source of both potential</p><p>benefi t and potential harm to humans; one had to take precautions to ensure</p><p>that they worked on your behalf, rather than against you. Th is was one reason</p><p>that a class of experts – the γοητεία – arose in Greek society, to provide knowl-</p><p>edge and techniques that the average person did not possess. But if we glance</p><p>back through this chapter, we will notice something else: frequently, the γόης</p><p>was associated with races of people who were considered foreign by the ancient</p><p>Greeks who told these stories. Orpheus was Th racian and the γόητες who con-</p><p>trolled Pausanias’ ghost were Th essalians; in classical Greece, both Th race and</p><p>Th essaly were viewed as strange lands at the border of civilization. Epimenides</p><p>was from Crete, another land viewed as mysterious and potentially dangerous</p><p>by mainland Greeks. Th e Dactyls, divine γόητες who were reputed to have</p><p>trained Orpheus himself, were associated with Crete as well. Th ese attributions</p><p>probably do not refl ect reality, of course; although it is very likely that there</p><p>were, as Plato suggests, itinerant γόητες who may have entered Greece from</p><p>foreign lands, there probably were also plenty of local, homegrown γόητες. But</p><p>the persistent association in antiquity of γοητεία with foreign lands nonetheless</p><p>tells a tale: however useful the magical role of the γόης may have seemed to</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>20</p><p>them, the Greeks were never completely comfortable with it; controlling the</p><p>dead, who are somewhat unfamiliar and frightening, had to remain the duty of</p><p>someone who was himself outside normal society.</p><p>Notes</p><p>1 Hdt. 5.92.</p><p>2 Th e topics discussed in this chapter are more fully covered in Iles Johnston (1999). Further</p><p>references to ancient sources may be found there as well.</p><p>3 See esp. Plu. Moralia, fr. 126 (Sandbach) and Sertorius 560 e-f; Th uc. 1.134.4, 135.1, D.S.</p><p>11.45 and Paus. 3.17.7–9.</p><p>4 For a similar practice, see Ch. 5, below.</p><p>5 SEG ix 72 (=LSS 115).</p><p>6 See esp. A. Ch. 84–164.</p><p>7 See A. ibid., 439–43 (cf. also S. El. 444–6).</p><p>8 Pl. R. 364 b5–365 a3.</p><p>9 Full text in PMG IV 296–466.</p><p>10 Th e tablets that are based on the papyrus recipe mentioned above (n. 9) were published by</p><p>Martínez (1991).</p><p>11 Pl. Lg. 933 b 2–3.</p><p>12 A. Pers. 598–842 (the necromancy scene).</p><p>13</p><p>See n. 8 above.</p><p>14 Orph. A. 40–2.</p><p>15 Strabo 7.330, fr. 18 (=Orph. fr. 40 Kern), Lucian Astr. 10, etc.</p><p>16 E. Alc. 144–6.</p><p>17 SEG xliii 630.</p><p>21</p><p>5</p><p>A N C I E N T G R E E K S C U L P T O R S</p><p>A S M A G I C I A N S</p><p>Antonio Corso</p><p>Ancient Greek statues were very oft en considered as the magical equivalents of</p><p>the subjects represented, or at least as a sort of material container of their per-</p><p>sonalities and souls, and they were consequently believed to be endowed with</p><p>life as well as the main features typical of human life, such as feelings, motion,</p><p>voice, the power to make love, to listen and to determine happenings.</p><p>Already Daedalus was credited with having made statues provided with</p><p>motion, feelings and sometimes also with voice. See, for instance, Euripides,</p><p>Hecuba, 836–8:</p><p>If only I had a voice in my arms</p><p>and my hand and my hair and my footsteps,</p><p>(… ) through the arts of Daedalus.*</p><p>Compare also Plato, Meno, 97 D: ‘Th ey [sc. the statues of Daedalus], unless</p><p>bound, run away and escape, but if they are fastened down, they remain in</p><p>place.’</p><p>Th e belief in statues endowed with life has been thought to have arisen in</p><p>Greece in the orientalizing period (seventh century) thanks to strong infl uence</p><p>from Near Eastern cultures (Ugarit texts have been considered to off er the</p><p>closest antecedents of these ideas), where the concept of living statues had a</p><p>long tradition.1 However the polytheistic and animistic conception of the world</p><p>which was diff used throughout the eastern Mediterranean world and which</p><p>implied the presence of divine forces operating in nature, inevitably involves</p><p>the idea that gods and heroes, with their own personalities and lives, could also</p><p>be present in their representations. Near Eastern infl uence, which is probable,</p><p>thus favoured and made clearer a concept which was already latent in Greek</p><p>Dark Age religion.</p><p>In fact, the idea of fi gures created by an artist and provided with life, mind</p><p>and motion is evidenced already in Homer, who however attributes this power</p><p>not to human artists/magicians, but to the god Hephaestus. See especially Iliad,</p><p>18, 418–20:</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>22</p><p>Golden girls [sc. created by Hephaestus], like unto living maidens,</p><p>in whom is a mind and wits, and in whom a voice</p><p>is and strength.</p><p>See also Hesiod, Th eogony, 581 and 584:</p><p>and he [sc. Hephaestus] worked on it [sc. a crown of gold placed on the head</p><p>of Pandora] many daidala, (…), wonderful creatures, like living creatures with</p><p>voices.</p><p>Moreover, the creation of Pandora, the fi rst woman, as narrated by Hesiod, at</p><p>Th eogony, 570–89 and Works and Days, 60–105, is similar to that of a statue</p><p>(Figure 4), in as much as Hephaestus fashions her of clay, though she is never-</p><p>theless a living being.2 Th e diff usion of the belief in animate, moving statues led</p><p>to the practice of restraining statues representing deities of good fortune so as</p><p>to prevent them from running away. Consider, for example, these cases: a) the</p><p>wooden image of Wingless Victory on the Acropolis of Athens, was perma-</p><p>nently immobilized through the deliberate removal of her wings; thus she could</p><p>never escape;3 b) the ancient wooden image of Enyalius who was represented in</p><p>fetters at Sparta: held fast, Enyalius would never run away.4 A Phoenician ante-</p><p>cedent was cited in antiquity for this habit: the people of Tyre were said to have</p><p>kept their gods in bonds.5 However, this habit is evidenced across many cul-</p><p>tures dominated by magical thinking.6 Th is practice was also adopted at Rome,</p><p>where the feet of Saturnus’ image were fastened with woollen bonds.7</p><p>Th e attribution of life to statues may perhaps have paved the way for the</p><p>belief, attested on Th asos in the early fi ft h century bce, that statues could</p><p>commit murder and other crimes and therefore be tried and convicted in courts</p><p>of law; but this conclusion is far from certain. In fact, inanimate objects could</p><p>also be tried under Draconian law, which was adopted at Th asos; thus the fact</p><p>that a statue was tried does not necessarily imply that the statue was seen as an</p><p>animate object.8 Th e topos of live statues oft en concerns statues of the classical</p><p>and especially late-classical periods: the largest body of evidence of this pattern</p><p>are the epigrams of the Greek Anthology which describe works of art, espe-</p><p>cially of the fi ft h and even more oft en of the fourth century.9 Th e prevalence of</p><p>the ‘animistic’ way of regarding works of art was due partly to a ‘theatrical men-</p><p>tality’ (to use J. Pollitt’s phrase), which strove to show fi gures as plausible equiv-</p><p>alents to the subjects represented. It was also due to the success of late classical</p><p>sculpture, whose favourite subjects were young naked deities, such as Aphrodite</p><p>or Eros, and whose styles gave emphasis to the smoothed surfaces of the fi gures.</p><p>Th ese surfaces became plausible as renderings of the skin and were made even</p><p>more credible usually through the smearing of transparent wax on them. Th ese</p><p>representational trends paved the way for what was the most daring outcome of</p><p>the belief in living statues: agalmatophilia, or the desire of certain men to make</p><p>love to statues.10</p><p>A N C I E N T G R E E K S C U L P T O R S A S M A G I C I A N S</p><p>23</p><p>A mythical antecedent for agalmatophilia goes back to Cyprus, in keeping</p><p>with the previous suggestion that the theme of live statues was particularly</p><p>widespread in Phoenician culture. In fact, the name of the protagonist of this</p><p>episode, Pygmalion, is typically Phoenician.11 Th ere are two diff erent versions</p><p>of this episode. In the fi rst, Pygmalion was the king of Cyprus and made love to</p><p>an ivory cult-statue of naked Aphrodite. Th is version was recorded by</p><p>Philostephanus of Cyrene in his treatise Peri Kyprou, in the second half of the</p><p>third century bce12 and is reported later by Roman Imperial writers.13 According</p><p>to another version, Pygmalion was a Cypriot sculptor who fell in love with an</p><p>ivory statue of a gorgeous naked female which he had made. Venus brought this</p><p>statue to life and he married his ideal woman. Th is legend, known only in the</p><p>Roman world,14 may have been the result of a contaminatio of Philostephanus’</p><p>story by the myth of Daedalus, the creator of live statues, and subsequent</p><p>Hellenistic instances of men who loved naked female statues. In late classical</p><p>Greek society, two new forces must have favoured agalmatophilia:</p><p>Th e fi rst was Platonism: the Platonic need for an art which transcended the</p><p>imitation of nature promoted the belief in living statues. Moreover, the idealist</p><p>journey from subjective experience to the contemplation of absolute beauty</p><p>and love15 encouraged men to seek intercourse with statues of love deities in the</p><p>hope of achieving metaphysical ends.</p><p>Th e second was Praxiteles’ art: this Athenian sculptor aimed at giving an</p><p>appealing appearance to statues of deities of love and preferred to represent young</p><p>naked subjects with smooth skin, which he made even more seductive through</p><p>transparent waxes smeared on them.16 Moreover, in working on statues which</p><p>Figure 4 Athena adorning Pandora. Niobid painter, c. 460 bce. London, British Museum</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>24</p><p>were meant to commemorate theatrical victories (e.g., choregic sculpture), he</p><p>developed a stage-like conception of sculptural images. All these features must</p><p>have made some statues appealing enough to move men to make love to them.</p><p>An early instance of sexual attraction to a statue is narrated in sources dating</p><p>to around 300 bce: Cleisophus of Selymbria, having become enamoured of</p><p>the statue of a maiden in Parian marble at Samos, locked himself up in the</p><p>temple, hoping to have intercourse with it; and when he found this impossible</p><p>on account of the frigidity of the stone, he immediately desisted.17 Th e statue</p><p>was a work of Ctesicles, also known as a painter, and active in Ionia in the age</p><p>of the Syrian queen Stratonice, in the early third century bce.18</p><p>Th e most</p><p>famous episode of agalmatophilia in the ancient world dates also to the early</p><p>third century. It is recounted in the treatise Peri Knidou by Posidippus, proba-</p><p>bly the homonymous epigrammist of Pella, who was interested in works of art</p><p>and whose activity dates to around 285–265. A nobleman, having fallen in love</p><p>with the Cnidian Aphrodite, hid in her temple at night behind the door when</p><p>it was locked, ravished the statue, left a stain on the goddess’s thigh and aft er-</p><p>wards committed suicide.19 Two inscriptions from Cnidus dated to around 300</p><p>and 200 bce respectively, may have been dedications from lovers of Praxiteles’</p><p>Aphrodite.20</p><p>In an undated incident reported by Aelian (early third century ce), a young</p><p>nobleman fell deeply in love with a statue of Good Fortune which stood near</p><p>the Prytaneum at Athens. He fl ung his arms around the statue and kissed it.</p><p>Spurred on by passion, he appeared before the Boulê and off ered to buy the</p><p>statue for a large sum. When he failed to persuade them, he put a large number</p><p>of crowns and garlands on the statue, off ered sacrifi ce, decorated it richly and</p><p>killed himself, aft er uttering a prolonged lament.21 Another statue of Praxiteles,</p><p>the Eros of Parion in Propontis, was loved by the Rhodian Alcetas – it is not</p><p>known when – according to Pliny.22 Th e frequency of these incidents particu-</p><p>larly in the Hellenistic period is hardly surprising. Th is is in fact also the golden</p><p>period of the idyll and Arcadia, when fi gurative representations of Olympian or</p><p>mythological fi gures in general were meant to be so lifelike as to appeal to the</p><p>viewer and invite him to enter their seductive mythical world. Of course, only a</p><p>few noblemen could dare to consort with the gods; our sources oft en either</p><p>stress these noble individuals’ lineage or report their names, which imply their</p><p>elevated status. Entering the divine world, however, proved in the end to be a</p><p>utopia, which is why two lovers of agalmata committed suicide.</p><p>With the removal of classical Greek statues to Rome, agalmatophilia put</p><p>down roots also in this city. One of the Th espiad Muses brought from Th espiae</p><p>to Rome in 146 bce was loved by the Roman knight Iunius Pisciculus in the</p><p>age of Varro or earlier.23 Moreover, a bronze statue of a young boy by Strongylion,</p><p>an Attic master of the late fi ft h century bce, was fancied by Brutus, the Caesar-</p><p>slayer.24 Cases of agalmatophilia are not mentioned aft er the period of Apollonius</p><p>of Tyana (fi rst century ce). Th is suggests that this phenomenon disappeared as</p><p>a result of his public teachings.</p><p>A N C I E N T G R E E K S C U L P T O R S A S M A G I C I A N S</p><p>25</p><p>How did the personality of a deity enter into his or her statue? As I see it, this</p><p>was eff ected through magic. Meleager (fl . 100 bce) seems to allude to this pro-</p><p>cess in an epigram on the Eros of Th espiae by Praxiteles:</p><p>Praxiteles the ancient creator of living beings fashioned a delicate statue, but</p><p>working stone into shape, he in reality created a lifeless, speechless fi gure of</p><p>beautiful form (agalma/apsukhon). Summoning through magical means living</p><p>beings (empsukha mageuôn), he created the arch-scoundrel Eros within the</p><p>heart of this stone. Th e statue is perhaps the same only in name, because it is</p><p>more powerful in its actions. For Praxiteles has transformed not the stone but</p><p>the spirit of the statue’s mind. May Eros mould my disposition in a favourable</p><p>way, so that having shaped my inner soul, it [my soul] might house the temple</p><p>of Eros.25</p><p>Th ere are thus three phases in the process of the creation of this statue:</p><p>fi rst, the creation of the material statue, which is very beautiful indeed, but</p><p>still lifeless;</p><p>second, internal life (empsukha) is poured into the statue through magic</p><p>(mageuôn); Love is now moulded in the heart of the image, and his power is</p><p>extraordinary;</p><p>third, Eros, in epiphany inside his own statue, can now transmit his power</p><p>and mould the minds of people, including that of the poet.26 Th e information</p><p>given by the sophist Callistratus (third or fourth century ce) is consistent with</p><p>that given by Meleager. See, for instance, his description of the Bacchant by</p><p>Scopas (Ekphraseis, no. 2):</p><p>Th e hands of sculptors (…), when they are seized by the gift of a more divine</p><p>inspiration, give holy utterance to creations that are possessed and full of</p><p>inspired enthusiasm. So Scopas, moved as it were by some inspiration, instilled</p><p>divine frenzy into this statue. (…). A statue of a Bacchant, wrought from</p><p>Parian marble, has been transformed into a real Bacchante. (…) Scopas (…)</p><p>imprinted miracles on bodies made of inanimate matter.</p><p>See also his description of the Archer Eros by Praxiteles (no. 3):</p><p>My discourse desires to interpret another sacred work of art: for it is not right</p><p>for me to refuse to call the productions of art sacred. Th e Eros, the workman-</p><p>ship of Praxiteles, was Eros himself, a boy in the bloom of youth with wings</p><p>and bow. Bronze gave expression to him, and as though giving expression to</p><p>Eros as a great and dominating god, it was itself subdued by Eros; for it could</p><p>not endure to be just bronze, but it became Eros with all his greatness.</p><p>Praxiteles was also said to have used supernatural, or ‘magical’, tools in fashion-</p><p>ing his Cnidian Aphrodite. As we learn from two sources (‘Plato’, A.P. 16. 160;</p><p>M A G I C I N A N C I E N T G R E E C E</p><p>26</p><p>Ausonius, Epigrammata 55), his iron tools did not obey him, but worked of</p><p>their own accord, guided entirely by Ares, the god of iron. But apart from this</p><p>detail, we lack any specifi c information about the magical practices by which a</p><p>sculptor endowed a material statue with the personality of the subject repre-</p><p>sented. Th e fact that these transformations of statues are linked to Scopas and</p><p>Praxiteles suggests that the most successful of the late classical agalmatopoioi</p><p>were praised not only as artists in the narrow and modern meaning of the word,</p><p>but also as magicians capable of bringing about the apparition of deities and</p><p>heroes sub specie statuarum before the eyes of viewers. Th e belief that marble</p><p>statues were trapped inside the sculptor’s blocks of stone from which he mirac-</p><p>ulously released them and the related belief in talking statues (the most famous</p><p>being the statue of Memnon in Egyptian Th ebes) were common in the</p><p>Hellenistic and Roman periods.27 However, from the Second Sophistic move-</p><p>m e n t</p><p>(c. 60–230 ce), criticism of cult statues as conventional and entirely material,</p><p>and therefore unrelated to the gods, became intense and was expressed esp-</p><p>ecially by Lucian.28 Th e dependence of the shapes of the god’s statues on the</p><p>subjective opinion of mortals and hence their entire inconsistency from a phil-</p><p>osophical and theological point of view, was stressed frequently by the Church</p><p>Fathers, from Tatian and Athenagoras to Clement of Alexandria, Arnobius,</p><p>Firmicus Maternus29 and fi nally Th eodoretus.30 Yet the magical power of images</p><p>did not end with the establishment of the civitas Christiana. Henceforth, bene-</p><p>fi cial infl uences were attributed to Christian icons,31 and diabolical power was</p><p>repeatedly ascribed to surviving pagan images.32</p><p>Notes</p><p>* Th e English translations, with the exception of Meleager A.P. 12, 57, are taken from their</p><p>Loeb editions or from Morris 1992.</p><p>1 Status quaestionis in Morris 1992: 3–386, where a large selection of passages on live statues is</p><p>off ered; see also Nyenhuis 1986: 313–21. Comparisons with analogous opinions on self-</p><p>moving statues in Burma have been suggested by Frazer 1913: 3, 336–8.</p><p>2 On the creation of Pandora, see Oppermann 1994: 163–6. On Hephaestus as a magician, see</p><p>Faraone 1992: 18–21; on Pandora, pp. 100–2.</p><p>3 Pausanias, 1, 22, 4; 3,15, 7 and 5, 26, 6.</p><p>4 Pausanias, 3, 15, 7.</p><p>5 Plutarch, Questiones Romanae, 61; Curtius Rufus, 4, 3, 15. For examples of bound statues in</p><p>Egypt, Faraone 1992: 78–81.</p><p>6 Frazer (1913) collected several analogous examples from Far</p>
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