Divination and Knowledge in Greco-Roman Antiquity 2021003923, 2021003924, 9781138212992, 9781032041728, 9781315449487

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Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

DIVINATION AND KNOWLEDGE IN GRECO-ROMAN ANTIQUITY Edited by Crystal Addey

Divination and Knowledge in Greco-Roman Antiquity

Addressing the close connections between ancient divination and knowledge, this volume offers an interlinked and detailed set of case studies which examine the epistemic value and significance of divination in ancient Greek and Roman cultures. Focusing on diverse types of divination, including oracles, astrology, and the reading of omens and signs in the entrails of sacrificial animals, chance utterances and other earthly and celestial phenomena, this volume reveals that divination was conceived of as a significant path to the attainment of insight and understanding by the ancient Greeks and Romans. It also explores the connections between divination and other branches of knowledge in Greco-Roman antiquity, such as medicine and ethnographic discourse. Drawing on anthropological studies of contemporary divination and exploring a wide range of ancient philosophical, historical, technical and literary evidence, chapters focus on the interconnections and close relationship between divine and human modes of knowledge, in relation to nuanced and subtle formulations of the blending of divine, cosmic and human agency; philosophical approaches towards and uses of divination (particularly within Platonism), including links between divination and time, ethics, and cosmology; and the relationship between divination and cultural discourses focusing on gender. The volume aims to catalyse new questions and approaches relating to these under-investigated areas of ancient Greek and Roman life, which have significant implications for the ways in which we understand and assess ancient Greek and Roman conceptions of epistemic value and variant ways of knowing, ancient philosophy and intellectual culture, lived, daily experience in the ancient world, and religious and ritual traditions. Divination and Knowledge in Greco-Roman Antiquity will be of particular relevance to researchers and students in classics, ancient history, ancient philosophy, religious studies and anthropology who are working on divination, lived religion and intellectual culture but will also appeal to general readers who are interested in the widespread practice and significance of divination in the ancient world. Crystal Addey is a Lecturer in Classics at University College Cork, Ireland, and a Tutor for the Sophia Centre for the Study of Cosmology in Culture, University of Wales Trinity Saint David, UK. She is the author of Divination and Theurgy in Neoplatonism: Oracles of the Gods (Routledge 2014).

Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

Recent titles include: Roman Masculinity and Politics from Republic to Empire Charles Goldberg Exploring the Mid-Republican Origins of Roman Military Administration With Stylus and Spear Elizabeth H. Pearson Xenophon’s Socratic Works David M. Johnson Dionysus and Politics Constructing Authority in the Graeco-Roman World Edited by Filip Doroszewski and Dariusz Karłowicz Monsters in Greek Literature Aberrant Bodies in Ancient Greek Cosmogony, Ethnography, and Biology Fiona Mitchell Antonio Gramsci and the Ancient World Edited by Emilio Zucchetti and Anna Maria Cimino Holders of Extraordinary Imperium under Augustus and Tiberius A Study into the Beginnings of the Principate Paweł Sawiński Divination and Knowledge in Greco-Roman Antiquity Edited by Crystal Addey Travel, Geography, and Empire in Latin Poetry Edited by Micah Young Myers and Erika Zimmermann Damer For more information on this series, visit: https://www.routledge.com/RoutledgeMonographs-in-Classical-Studies/book-series/RMCS

Divination and Knowledge in Greco-Roman Antiquity

Edited by Crystal Addey

First published 2022 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2022 selection and editorial matter, Crystal Addey; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Crystal Addey to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Addey, Crystal, editor. Title: Divination and knowledge in Greco-Roman antiquity / edited by Crystal Addey. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2021. | Series: Routledge monographs in classical studies | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2021003923 (print) | LCCN 2021003924 (ebook) | ISBN 9781138212992 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032041728 (paperback) | ISBN 9781315449487 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Divination‐‐Greece. | Divination‐‐Rome. Classification: LCC BF1765 .D58 2021 (print) | LCC BF1765 (ebook) | DDC 133.30938‐‐dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021003923 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021003924 ISBN: 978-1-138-21299-2 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-04172-8 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-44948-7 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by MPS Limited, Dehradun

Contents

List of figures List of contributors Acknowledgements Abbreviations Introduction: divination and knowledge in ancient Greek and Roman cultures

vii viii xii xiv

1

CR Y ST A L A DD E Y

1 The enigmatic divine voice and the problem of human misinterpretation

30

JULIA KINDT

2 Torch-bearing Plato: why reason without the divine is not philosophy after all

50

DA NIELLE A. LA Y N E

3 “Work with the god”: military divination and rational battle-planning in Xenophon

84

R ALPH ANDE R SO N

4 Divination and decumbiture: Katarchic astrology and Greek medicine

109

DO RIA N GI ES E LER G R EE NB A U M

5 Divination and the kairos in ancient Greek philosophy and culture CR Y ST A L A DD E Y

138

vi Contents

6 The Pythia as matter: Plutarch’s scientific account of divination

174

ELSA GIO VAN N A SI M ON E T TI

7 Divination and female sexuality: the transformation of the Greek Pythia by the Church Fathers

194

GIULIA PE D RU C C I

8 “Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature

218

A NTTI LA M P I N E N

9 Apuleius on divination: Platonic daimonology and child-divination

248

LEO NA R DO CO STA N TI N I

10 Astral symbolism in theurgic rites

270

M AR ILY NN L AW R EN C E

Index

295

Figures

1.1 Temple of Apollo, Delphi. 1.2 This red-figure bell krater depicts the Pythia at Delphi, with the tripod, and Orestes kneeling as suppliant beside the omphalos with Apollo and Athena intervening on his behalf. Attributed to Python. 360–320 BCE, Paestum. 4.1a Diagram of the first configuration, from “Dorotheus, On Sick People” 4.1b Diagram of the second configuration, from “Another View” 4.2 Astrological boards (pinakes) from Grand, Vosges, France, showing images of the Sun and Moon in the centre, surrounded by zodiacal signs, terms, and named decans and images for each sign. The four winds are in each corner. Ivory, wood, gilding and pigment, secondcentury CE. 5.1 Roman relief after a bronze statue of Kairos by Lysippos; Greek original c.330 BCE. Museo Civico d’Arte Antica, Turin. 10.1 Olympian gods associated with the signs of the zodiac.

31

32 122 122

125

144 276

Contributors

Crystal Addey is a Lecturer in the Department of Classics at University College Cork, Ireland, and a part-time Tutor for the Sophia Centre for the Study of Cosmology in Culture at the University of Wales Trinity Saint David, UK. She is the author of Divination and Theurgy in Neoplatonism: Oracles of the Gods (Routledge 2014) and has published numerous articles and book chapters on the roles of oracles and other forms of divination within ancient philosophy (especially the Platonic tradition and Neoplatonism), with a particular specialisation in late antique theurgy and Mediterranean religious traditions, the roles of women in ancient philosophy and the complex relationship between gender and philosophy, the reception of Plato and Socrates in late antiquity, and approaches towards animals, the natural world and the environment in Greco-Roman philosophy and religions. She is an elected member of the Board of Directors for the International Society for Neoplatonic Studies (ISNS), and a Research Fellow of the Foro di Studi Avanzati Gaetano Massa (FSA; Gaetano Massa Forum for the Advanced Study of the Humanities), Rome, Italy. Ralph Anderson is a Lecturer in the School of Classics at the University of St Andrews, UK. His research focuses on Greek religion of the fourth and fifth centuries BCE, primarily in Athens. He is interested in cognitive and anthropological approaches to ancient religious experience and is currently engaged in a research project that explores ways of conceptualising religion that move beyond the traditional dichotomy of religions of belief vs. religions of performance, since this older framework provides a problematic model for Greek religion. In place of such an approach, he is developing a perspective which draws on recent anthropological work focusing on concepts of perception, skill and experience. He has published several articles and chapters on ancient Greek divination and religion, including “A story of blood, guts and guesswork: synthetic reasoning in classical Greek divination” in Prophets and Profits: Ancient Divination and its Reception, edited by Richard Evans (Routledge 2018) and “New Gods” in The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Greek Religion, edited by Esther Eidinow and Julia Kindt (Oxford University Press 2015).

Contributors

ix

Leonardo Costantini is a Teaching Associate in the Department of Classics and Ancient History at the University of Bristol, UK. His research interests involve the literary and textual aspects of the works of Apuleius, Petronius, Lucian of Samosata, and Fronto, as well as broader themes such as Platonism and Greco-Roman magic. He is the author of Magic in Apuleius’ Apologia. Understanding the Charges and the Forensic Strategies in Apuleius’ Speech (De Gruyter 2019) and is currently finishing a commentary on Apuleius’ Metamorphoses 3 for the series Groningen Commentaries on Apuleius (GCA). He is also preparing an edited volume, with Ben Cartlidge, entitled Middle Platonism in the Second Sophistic for the BICS Themed Issues series. Dorian Gieseler Greenbaum is a historian and a Tutor for the Sophia Centre for the Study of Cosmology in Culture at the University of Wales Trinity Saint David, UK. Her recent publications include the monograph The Daimon in Hellenistic Astrology: Origins and Influence (Brill 2016). Recent articles include “Porphyry of Tyre on the Daimon, Birth and the Stars,” in Neoplatonic Demons and Angels, edited by Luc Brisson, Andrei Timotin and Seamus O’Neill (Brill 2018) and, with Alexander Jones, “P.Berl. 9825: An elaborate horoscope for 319 CE and its significance for Greek astronomical and astrological practice,” ISAW Papers 12 (2017). She has also written two articles for the edited volume Hellenistic Astronomy: The Science in Its Contexts (Brill 2020). Julia Kindt is Professor of Ancient Greek History in the Department of Classics and Ancient History at the University of Sydney, Australia, and a current ARC Future Fellow (2018–22). Her publications include Rethinking Greek Religion (Cambridge University Press 2012) and Revisiting Delphi: Religion and Storytelling in Ancient Greece (Cambridge University Press 2016), as well as numerous articles on oracles and divination. She is a member of the editorial board of the Journal of Ancient History, Antichthon, and Sydney University Press and a senior editor of the Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Religion (ORE). Antti Lampinen has been the Assistant Director of the Finnish Institute at Athens, Greece since September 2018. Prior to this, his post-doctoral positions included Newton International Fellow at the University of St Andrews, UK (2015–17), and the Academy of Finland Research Fellow at the University of Helsinki (2016–18). He received his doctorate in December 2013 from the University of Turku, Finland. His research is principally concerned with ancient ethnographical and historiographical writing, the portrayal of non-Greek and non-Roman groups in ancient literature, and ancient oracles. Marilynn Lawrence taught philosophy for a number of years at Immaculata University outside of Philadelphia, USA. She is an active member of the Board of Directors for the International Society for Neoplatonic Studies and

x Contributors has organised panels on wide-ranging topics such as providence and fate in Neoplatonism, the influence of other philosophical schools on Platonic traditions, and the place of divination and astrology in Neoplatonism. Her publications include chapters in books on Neoplatonism and Middle Platonism such as “Akrasia and Enkrateia in Simplicius’s Commentary on Epictetus’s Encheiridion,” in The Neoplatonic Socrates, edited by. D. Layne and H. Tarrant (University of Pennsylvania Press 2014), “Who Thought the Stars are Causes? An Exploration of the Astrological Doctrine Criticized by Plotinus,” in Metaphysical Patterns in Platonism, edited by J. Finamore and R. Berchman (Prometheus Trust 2014), “The Young Gods: The Stars and Planets in Platonic Treatment of Fate,” in Perspectives sur le néoplatonisme, edited by M. Achard, W. Hankey and J-M. Narbonne (Les Presses de l'Université Laval 2010), and “The Place of Chance or Fortune in Platonic Fate,” in Conversations Platonic and Neoplatonic, edited by J. Finamore and R. Berchman (Academia Verlag 2010). She also maintains an interest in contemporary philosophy and is co-editor of Nature’s Transcendence and Immanence: A Comparative-Interdisciplinary Ecstatic Naturalism (Lexington Books 2017). Danielle A. Layne is an Associate Professor of Philosophy and the Director of the Philosophy Graduate Program at Gonzaga University, USA. Her areas of expertise are within the domain of ancient philosophy, particularly Plato and the later Platonic tradition. Her interests in this area are diverse and wide-ranging, with publications in Socratic Studies, Platonic hermeneutics, late antique theories of prayer, and feminist interpretations of Platonic metaphysics. Her publications include Brill’s Companion to the Reception of Plato in Antiquity, edited with Harold Tarrant, François Renaud and Dirk Baltzly (Brill 2017), The Neoplatonic Socrates, edited with Harold Tarrant (University of Pennsylvania Press 2014) and Proclus and his Legacy, edited with David Butorac (De Gruyter 2017). Giulia Pedrucci is an adjunct Professor in Religious Studies at the University of Verona, Italy. She was Marie Skłodowska Curie Cofund Fellow at the MaxWeber-Kolleg für kultur- und sozialwissenschaftliche Studien (University of Erfurt, Germany) and she is currently a Gerda Henkel post-doctoral scholar. She has been working on the epistemological key-tenets of a subfield of gender studies at the intersection between Motherhood Studies and Religious Studies (published in Numen). On this topic, she has published a monograph, edited two collected volumes and organised a cycle of three International Workshops entitled the “Religionification of Motherhood and Mothers’ Appropriation of Religion.” The results have been published as proceedings and a selection of them have been published in a Special Issue of Open Theology. Elsa Giovanna Simonetti is an FWO (Research Foundation – Flanders) postdoctoral fellow at KU Leuven, Belgium. After obtaining her joint PhD from

Contributors

xi

the University of Padova, Italy, and KU Leuven in 2016, she was a Newton International Fellow (British Academy) at Durham University, UK (2017–19). Her monograph, entitled A Perfect Medium? Oracular Divination in the Thought of Plutarch (Leuven 2017), analyses the interactions between philosophy and divinatory theories in the works of Plutarch of Chaeronea. Her main research interests lie in the interactions between divinatory and philosophical doctrines in later antiquity. In addition to contributions published on this topic, she is now editing a collected volume of studies on “Ancient Revelation: Divination, Prophecy and Epiphany,” based on an international conference that she organised at Durham University in June 2019, which was supported by the British Society for the History of Philosophy, the Classical Association, the Mind Association, the Past and Present Society, and Society for the Promotion of Hellenic Studies.

Acknowledgements

First, the editor would like to thank all the contributors to this volume for their involvement and confidence in this project, and for their hard work and efforts, and our commissioning editor Amy Davis-Poynter at Routledge and editorial assistants Elizabeth Risch and Ella Halstead for their advice, assistance, support and patience. During the course of editing this volume, I worked at three institutions – the University of St Andrews, Glasgow University, and University College Cork, as well as working part-time as a Tutor for the Sophia Centre for the Study of Cosmology in Culture, University of Wales Trinity Saint David – I would like to thank my colleagues at these institutions for their support throughout the process of preparing this volume. I would especially like to thank my colleagues in the Department of Classics at University College Cork for appointing me to my first permanent academic post and thereby creating a much more conducive and stable environment for my work and research, including the completion of work on this volume. I also thank the Research Committee of the School of Classics, University of St Andrews for generously providing me with research leave which enabled me to conceive and commence this project, and for additionally providing me with a Research Assistant for a semester of editorial and adminstrative assistance, and the Sophia Centre for the Study of Cosmology in Culture Tutor Fund (University of Wales Trinity Saint David) for generous financial assistance in contributing toward permissions and licensing costs for Figure 5.1 (Chapter 5), as well as proofreading and indexing costs for this volume. The editor and contributors thank the many reviewers who kindly offered their time and expertise, and provided advice and feedback on the papers which in due course became the chapters of this volume. Although it is anonymous work, peer-reviewing can be arduous and time-consuming but is crucial to maintaining the standards of scholarship. The time, expertise and generosity of the reviewers involved is acknowledged here with great appreciation, thanks and gratitude. The editor would also like to thank Victoria Leonard and Eleonora Zeper for their assistance with the early stages of editorial work on this volume. Victoria was particularly helpful and kind in approaching potential reviewers and offering her insightful advice on various chapters and the overall scope of

Acknowledgements

xiii

the volume – I thank her for everything she has done to assist with the production of this work and for her consistent support. I also thank Jenny Messenger for her help and assistance with editorial and proofing work on this volume during the final stages of production, and Arsen Nisanyan, a final year honours student at the University of St Andrews, who acted as a Research Assistant and completed some valuable administrative and copyediting work on the volume. Copyright Acknowledgements We would like to thank Oxford Publishing Ltd. for their permission to reprint Julia Kindt’s chapter (Chapter 1 in this volume) which was originally published in Mercury’s Wings: Exploring Modes of Communication in the Ancient World, edited by Richard J.A. Talbert and Fred S. Naiden (New York: Oxford University Press, 2017). This chapter is reproduced with permission of the Licensor (Oxford Publishing Ltd./Oxford University Press) through PLSclear. Many thanks go to Ben Kennedy at Oxford University Press for his assistance with arranging and granting this permission. We thank Harvard University Press and the Society of Biblical Literature (SBL) for their kind permission to use quotations as epitaphs in Chapters 2 and 5 respectively, and the British Museum, Heritage Images, and the Institute for the Study of the Ancient World, New York University, for their kind permission to use images and for providing high-quality reproductions of these images for the volume.

Abbreviations

Abbreviations follow those used in the Oxford Classical Dictionary, fourth edition, edited by Simon Hornblower, Antony Spawforth and Esther Eidinow. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. Exceptions and additional abbreviations are listed below. Aelius Theon Progymn.

Progymnasmata (Exercises)

Alcinous Didask.

Didaskalikos (Handbook of Platonism)

Aristotle EN

Nicomachean Ethics (Ethica Nicomachea)

Cyprian Epist.

Epistulae collectae

Galen Opt. Med.

That the Best Doctor is also a Philosopher

Hippocrates Aph. De hebd.

Aphorisms De hebdomadibus (On Sevens)

Iamblichus DM

On the Mysteries (De mysteriis)

Manilius Astr.

Astronomica

Maximus of Tyre Or. De daem. Socr.

Dissertations De daemonio Socratis

Olympiodorus In Alc.

Commentary on Plato’s Alcibiades (In Platonis Alcibiadem commentarii)

Abbreviations Plato Men. Plutarch De an. procr. De E De facie De genio De virt. mor. Plat. quaest. Porphyry Ep. Aneb. Phil. ex or. Proclus In Alc. In Parm. Psellus, Michael Opusc.

xv

Meno On the generation of the soul in the Timaeus (De animae procreatione in Timaeo) The E at Delphi (De E apud Delphos) De facie quae in orbe lunae apparet De genio Socratis On moral virtue (De virtute morali) Platonic Questions (Quaestiones Platonicae) Letter to Anebo (Epistula ad Anebonem) Philosophy from Oracles (Philosophia ex oraculis haurienda) Commentary on the First Alciabiades of Plato (In Platonis Alcibiadem) Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides (Procli Commentarium in Parmenidem) Opuscula logica, physica, allegorica, alia

Scriptores Historiae Augustae Car. Carin. Num.

Lives of Carus, Carinus and Numerianus

Scholia Schol. in Nic. Alex.

Scholia in Nicandri Alexipharmaca

Xenophon Anab.

Anabasis

Book Series and Journals AJPh American Journal of Philology G&R Greece and Rome LCL Loeb Classical Library QUCC Quaderni Urbinati di Cultura Classica RFN Rivista di Filosofia Neo-Scolastica

Introduction: divination and knowledge in ancient Greek and Roman cultures Crystal Addey

Divination (Greek: μαντική; Latin: divinatio) was ubiquitous, authoritative and extremely well respected in ancient Greek and Roman cultures.1 As it was in most ancient societies in the Mediterranean region, including Egypt and Mesopotamia, divination was a central dimension of ancient religious and ritual traditions embedded in the daily lives of the Greeks and Romans. Cicero, in his work on divination (De divinatione 1.1.2), neatly sums up the widespread and pervasive presence of divination: Now I am aware of no people, however refined and learned or however savage and ignorant, which does not think that signs are given of future events, and that certain persons can recognize these signs and foretell events before they occur.2 Whether it took the form of reading and interpreting the flight and behaviour of birds (ornithomancy and augury) or the entrails of the sacrificial animal (extispicy), the observation of thunder, lightning and other natural phenomena as omens, or the patterns and juxtapositions of the planets (astrology), the consulting of a seer in an institutional oracle or on a freelance basis, listening to and interpreting the chance utterance of a passerby (cledonomancy), the interpreting of dreams (oneiromancy), the casting and drawing of lots (kleromancy) or the throwing of dice (dice oracles), divination was used frequently in ancient Greek and Roman cultures, within both public and private spheres and contexts.3 It was utilised to advise, instruct, stimulate and assist with the making of important decisions, for the arbitration of disputes, and in initiating or commencing the undertaking of a wide range of endeavours and activities, including deciding between possible alternative forms of action. With regard to Greek and Roman contexts, we might define divination as communication with gods, heroes or other semidivine beings (such as daimones) in order to discover hidden or secret knowledge or information pertaining to the past, present or future. Despite Cicero’s aforementioned statement, it is important to note that ancient divination did not exclusively focus on prediction of the future but often pertained to the past or present: the main focus was on gaining clarity over

2 Crystal Addey the opaque. A further caveat is needed: in some cases (though they mostly occur in the late antique period), divination could pertain to eternity or what might be referred to as “timeless” matters, in the case of eschatological and theological enquiries.4 However, divination most frequently acted as an authoritative source of advice and guidance for practical action in GrecoRoman antiquity. In Greece, the most prominent form of divination used by both city-states (poleis) and individuals was the consultation of oracles, which were prestigious and well-respected institutions, while in the Roman world, augury and the taking of auspices were most frequently used.5 Nevertheless, individuals and states in both cultures resorted to the use and consultation of many different kinds of divinatory practices which flourished in both formal and informal settings and contexts. Divination was often classified (especially by ancient philosophers) into inspired and inductive types: “inspired” divination (such as oracles) was conceived of as involving divine inspiration or possession, where a deity “possessed” or “inspired” a human seer or person, while “inductive” divination (such as augury or haruspicy) involved reading “signs” – divinatory messages – in a range of natural phenomena and entities, as well as in the behaviour, flight and entrails of animals. Although this practice may seem strange to (most) modern Westerners, divination was considered to be an important and central mode of knowledge in its own right, a path toward apprehension and comprehension, in both ancient Greek and Roman cultures.6 It is crucial to note that this view is far more familiar to contemporary Tibetans, Hindus, many African peoples (including those in Burkina Faso, Kenya, Madagascar, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Sudan, Togo, Uganda and Zaire, among others), Mongolian peoples, South Americans and indigenous peoples all over the world, where divination is still widely practised and respected.7 Although divination was prevalent in Greco-Roman antiquity, classicists and ancient historians have, for the most part (with a few important exceptions), only begun to investigate ancient divination as a field of study and an intrinsic subject in its own right in the past 60 years or so.8 In addition to the collected volume of essays entitled Divination et Rationalité, edited by JeanPierre Vernant in 1974 (a work which was well ahead of its time), some recent research undertaken in the past two decades has begun to acknowledge and examine the intellectual contexts of divination and its inextricable links with epistemic value in the Greco-Roman world.9 An important strand of anthropological investigation has articulated these links explicitly in relation to contemporary non-Western cultures. For example, in a volume on African forms of divination, African Divination Systems: Ways of Knowing, the anthropologist Philip Peek suggested that divination is often the “primary institutional means of articulating the epistemology of a people” and that “Divination systems do not simply reflect other aspects of a culture: they are the means (as well as the premise) of knowing which underpin and validate all else” (Peek 1991, 2; my emphasis). Likewise, ancient Greek and

Introduction

3

Roman forms of divination were inextricably related to systems, discourses and representations of knowledge, to intellectual and social activities, and to the practicalities of daily life. They were often intimately linked with ancient intellectual culture, including philosophy, and to a wide range of knowledgeordering systems and practices. In a recent review, Alex Nice (2006) concluded: “It is high time that the modern academy looked to the paradoxical world of ancient divination as a challenge to the intellect … and revealed its centrality in the epistemology of ancient Greece and Rome.”10 This volume aims to take up this challenge – to reveal the inextricable connections between ancient divination and knowledge, and thus the centrality of divination in the epistemology of ancient Greek and Roman cultures – in two key senses: (1) primarily, by exploring ancient divination as a significant mode of knowledge in its own right within both Greek and Roman cultures and (2) by examining the connections between divination and other branches of knowledge in Greco-Roman antiquity, such as medicine (Chapter 4) and ethnographic discourse (Chapter 8).11 In relation to both aims, this work does not claim to be comprehensive or definitive – indeed, it would be extremely difficult, if not impossible, for any work to achieve comprehensiveness in exploring these themes, given the ubiquity of divination in ancient Greek and Roman cultures and the multifaceted nature and features of divination as a form of knowledge acquisition. Rather, this book offers an interlinked and detailed set of case studies which aim to catalyse and propose further directions for research and to provoke new questions relating to these under-investigated areas of ancient Greek and Roman life which have significant implications for the ways in which we understand and assess ancient Greek and Roman conceptions of epistemic value and (variant) ways of knowing; ancient philosophy and intellectual culture; lived, daily experience (insofar and to the extent that this is at all possible); and religious and ritual traditions, including divination itself.

Shifting perspectives on divination To be clear, for most of the twentieth century, classicists and ancient historians characterised ancient divination as an “irrational” and “superstitious” phenomenon.12 Lisa Raphals (2013, 3) notes: “As a mode of prediction, divination has typically been regarded as primitive superstition (religious or otherwise) or as a pseudoscience to be disparaged and debunked.” Symptomatic of this attitude is the way in which “the European tradition tends to characterize the diviner as a charismatic charlatan coercing others through clever manipulation of esoteric knowledge granted inappropriate worth by a credulous and anxiety-ridden people” (Peek 1991, 3).13 In categorising divination as “irrational,” classicists and ancient historians seem to have drawn on earlier functionalist anthropological studies “… which assumed the practice to be at best simply supportive of other social systems and at worst irrational and detrimental to its adherents” (Peek 1991, 2).

4 Crystal Addey In other words, both functionalist anthropological research and most classical scholarship in the twentieth century have tended to evaluate divination as a guise or symptom of other social and political functions. Although such approaches are important in elucidating the socio-political dimensions of divination, “they also run the risk of obscuring from view the very peoples, ideologies and experiences that scholars seek to understand,” as Lindsay Driediger-Murphy and Esther Eidinow (2019, 1) point out.14 We might add that such approaches often also serve to obscure the epistemologies of the peoples who practise and use divination. These approaches are sometimes symptomatic of a deeply held suspicion and scepticism regarding any possible intrinsic value (most especially epistemological value) of divination. With the honourable exceptions of Bouché-Leclereq’s (1879–1882) Histoire de la divination dans l’antiquité and W.R. Halliday’s Greek Divination (1913), few works in the twentieth century focused on an epistemic value and order of divination.15 Only a few monographs, which largely focus on examining the archaeological and historical evidence relating to specific oracular sanctuaries, were published during the twentieth century until the appearance of Jean-Pierre Vernant’s Divination et Rationalité in 1974.16 The latter work was ground breaking in moving beyond characterisations of divination as “irrational” and instead focusing on the links between divination, rationality and intellectual and social culture in the ancient world. Vernant (1991, 303 [1974, 9]) described divination as having dual dimensions “as a mental attitude and social institution” and framed the relevant questions under examination in his introduction to the work: What, on one hand, can be implied about the nature of the intellectual operations that take place during the stages of an oracular consultation; what defines the logic of the system that is activated by the seer in order to decipher the unseen and answer its consultants’ requests? In short, what type of rationality is expressed in the game of divinatory procedure, the apparatus of oracular techniques and symbolisms, and the classificatory frameworks used by the seer to sort out, organize, manipulate and interpret the information on which his competence is based? On the other hand, what position and function does a particular society assign to oracular knowledge? Because prophetic science is practiced on occasions when a choice, or important choices, need to be made and because it determines decisions, both public and private, how far does its field of application extend and what are the areas of social life subject to its authority?17 Vernant’s approach (and that of many of the contributors in his volume), as he himself acknowledges, was influenced by and draws on anthropological studies of the divination used by various African peoples.18 Following Vernant’s study, many works in the final quarter of the twentieth century

Introduction

5

began to explore divination in ways that take up the questions posed by Vernant and his fellow contributors, though they tended to emphasise the social and political frameworks within which divination operated in particular, focusing mainly on divination as a “social institution.”19 By the early twenty-first century, work on ancient Greek and Roman divination had attained even greater momentum. The “cultural turn” in the study of the ancient world and oracular divination has led several scholars to explore oracular ambiguity and the enigmatic, inspired voice as important elements in Greek story-telling, narration and cultural tradition which complement and often challenge traditional social and political history.20 Meanwhile, several studies have explicitly acknowledged and begun to examine the extensive links between divination and knowledge in GrecoRoman antiquity. In particular, the collection of essays entitled Mantikē: Studies in Ancient Divination (Johnston and Struck 2005) explicitly focus on the relationship between divination and intellect in Greco-Roman antiquity, offering a series of detailed case studies that explore this relationship from different angles. Michael Attyah Flower (2008) published an excellent and informative work focusing on the seer in ancient Greece, containing a chapter entitled “Divination as a System of Knowledge and Belief”; he concludes “it was the seer who acted as the critical bridge between the limited and partial knowledge of mortals and the superior knowledge of the gods” (240). Several comparative studies offer fruitful analysis: Kim Beerden (2013) takes a synchronic approach, exploring the divinatory practices of Greece in the archaic, classical and Hellenistic periods, Republican Rome, and Mesopotamia in Neo-Assyrian times, providing a comparative perspective which focuses on three central aspects of divination: the sign, the seer or diviner, and the texts used in the divinatory process, as well as examining time and uncertainty in relation to the principal functions of divination (2013, 2–5). Lisa Raphals (2013) explores divination in ancient Greece and early China, approaching divination as a hermeneutic system. Recently, Driediger-Murphy and Eidinow (2019) have edited a collection of essays entitled Ancient Divination and Experience which contains many thought-provoking studies by a range of authors. DriedigerMurphy, Eidinow and their contributors seek to move beyond functionalist methodologies by considering what ancient peoples themselves thought they were doing in using divination; they emphasise that “ancient Greeks, Romans, Babylonians and Chinese practitioners were using divination to seek some kind of truth” (2019, 10). Significantly, Yulia Ustinova (2018) has published a masterful study of altered states of consciousness in ancient Greece, which includes detailed examination of inspired divination, as well as mystical states often associated with the ancient philosopher’s path to truth. In the last two decades, scholarship has also begun to analyse processes of knowledge-ordering and systematisations of knowledge in antiquity: for example, a recent volume, Ordering Knowledge in the Roman Empire,

6 Crystal Addey presents a series of case studies which examine particular conceptions and ways of textualising knowledge and their entwinement with social and political practices in the Roman Empire, with a focus on the compilation and collection of knowledge in textual form (König and Whitmarsh 2007, 3). Significantly, Thomas Habinek’s contribution to that volume (2007, 229–40) examines Manilius’ Astronomica as a work which reflects on and constructs a conception of astrology as a system of knowledge that combines intellectual discipline with bodily knowledge.21 As such, this study opens up further ways of conceiving of ancient texts which focus on divination as collecting, reflecting on and constructing divination as a system(s) of knowledge. As Jason König and Tim Whitmarsh (2007, 6–7) note, their volume draws on Foucault’s theorisation of the links between knowledge and power to analyse the parameters of knowledge-ordering within the Roman Empire: “… knowledge and its ‘will to truth’ are central to Foucauldian power. Epistemology cannot be divorced from particular social relations and situations” (6).22 Drawing implicitly on these theoretical approaches, several contributions in this book (Chapters 7 and 8) also seek to explore the complex nuances of the relationship between knowledge and power in relation to specific ancient ideological discourses which affected cultural and textual constructions and understandings of divination in antiquity and beyond. As soon as the connections between divination and knowledge in ancient Greek and Roman cultures are investigated, philosophy becomes especially relevant. As Cicero tells us, most ancient philosophers approved of divination, with the exceptions of Xenophanes of Colophon and Epicurus (Div. 1.5; cf. Raphals 2013, 12). In this respect, both Xenophanes and the Epicureans were in a minority and represent exceptions to the rule. Platonist and Stoic philosophers were often particularly enthusiastic about the efficacy, usefulness and validity of divination, entwining it within their cosmologies, and often grounding it within their ethical, metaphysical and epistemological theories and models. Recently, several scholars published work unpacking the links between divination and philosophy in the ancient Greco-Roman world: R.J. Hankinson (1988) has explored Stoic approaches towards divination, while Struck (2016, 171–214) continued and extended this Hellenistic project by examining Posidonius’ theories in conjunction with other Stoic philosophers. My monograph Divination and Theurgy in Neoplatonism (Addey 2014) examined the interconnections between divination and late antique philosophy, specifically focusing on the central role of divination in Neoplatonism and theurgy (a type of late antique ritual based on a synthesis of Platonic philosophy and Mediterranean religious traditions). Elsa Simonetti (2017) offered an extremely valuable account of divination in Plutarch’s Delphic Dialogues. Despite the rich interest in philosophy and its connections with divination, there is not much scholarship within the wider context of Platonism as a whole. However, Struck’s Divination and Human Nature: A Cognitive History of Intuition in Classical

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Antiquity (2016) offers a study of philosophical accounts of divination, focusing on Plato, Aristotle, Posidonius and Iamblichus, ultimately arguing that their theories expose the link between divination and early conceptions of intuition and surplus knowing. In the end, this book aims to build on these approaches towards divination, although with different goals and, sometimes, from very different angles.23 Proceeding with an awareness of the contextual, social and cultural dimensions of knowledge, this book will move beyond evaluating ancient divination in purely ethnocentric terms based solely on post-Enlightenment European or “Western“ accounts of knowledge, rationality and truth.24 It was mentioned earlier that contemporary peoples in many non-Western cultures (such as Tibet, India, Mongolia and many African cultures) still use divination and see it as a crucial means for attaining insight. An appreciation of and sensitivity towards the cultural, religious and intellectual aspects of worldviews (ancient and modern) which include divination as an intrinsic element is surely important from a postcolonial perspective and can contribute to “decolonising” classical scholarship and Classics more broadly. This perspective is already implicit or explicit in much of the classical scholarship which uses anthropological studies of divination in a variety of cultures to illuminate Greek and Roman divination.25 In brief, this book seeks to move beyond approaches which conceive of divination as “irrational” (a view which relies on empirical, post-Enlightenment constructions of rationality) and treat it as epistemologically irrelevant – and instead aims to uncover some of the key connections between ancient divination and knowledge from a broader and less ethnocentric perspective.

Key themes: examining Greco-Roman divination and knowledge Before providing a systematic overview of the contributions to this volume, it will be helpful to the general reader to explore some of the common features and parameters of Greco-Roman divination. It will also be useful to outline some of the main themes and topics covered in this volume, including the interconnections and relationship between divine and human modes of knowledge, in relation to complex, nuanced and subtle formulations of the blending of divine, cosmic and human agency; philosophical approaches towards and uses of divination, such as the links between divination and variant cosmologies; and the relationship between divination and cultural discourses focusing on gender. Divination as knowledge in a connected and polyvalent cosmos Although ancient Greek and Roman religions had no fixed body of doctrine and were (generally speaking) “orthopraxic” (concerned with correct action, especially ritual action) rather than “orthodoxic” (concerned with correct

8 Crystal Addey “belief” or doctrine), it is crucial to note that for the ancient Greeks and Romans, divination was part of a wider worldview and was inextricably related to epistemological, metaphysical, cosmological and ethical framework(s) which included the following ideas or premises sketched here in basic outline. These were sometimes articulated explicitly (especially by Platonist and Stoic philosophers) or otherwise often assumed implicitly within the practices and ritual usages of divination: 1.

2. 3.

4.

5.

The gods (and other semi-divine beings, such as daimones and heroes) exist and communicate with humans, both individually and collectively. This communication occurs in a wide range of (divinatory) ways. The gods are often conceived of as possessing superior knowledge (including of the future) to that of humans which they share with them (cf. Raphals 2013, 12). A correlate of this idea evoked in some contexts (it was particularly a feature of Platonist and Stoic philosophy) is that the gods care for humans or that their communication demonstrates the operation of a kind of divine providence (pronoia) and “goodness” in a moral sense (cf. Raphals 2013, 12). The gods work through nature or the natural world, including through cosmic and natural phenomena, and non-human animals. The gods work through humans – most especially the mantis or seer but, ultimately, any human could potentially become “divinely inspired” and utter divinatory messages, or could receive an omen or divinatory sign. In relation to the previous two ideas, the cosmos or universe was seen as ordered and a precise cosmological framework characterised by a “macrocosmic-microcosmic” relationship was theorised as the ontological basis of the cosmos and as simultaneously underlying the use of divination. Cosmic and natural phenomena, including the flight and behaviour of birds; the entrails of sacrificial animals; thunder, lightning and weather patterns; the patterned movements and juxtapositions of the plants; and even language itself, frequently act as “signs” and thus embody a polyvalent and multiple set of interconnected meanings and resonances. These phenomena are therefore given “the symbolic values of the microcosm … as small-scale reflections of the total cosmic order” (Vernant 1991, 310). Consequently, a precise framework of “cosmic sympathy” (sympatheia) – the idea that there are very specific and precise invisible or hidden connections between diverse persons, creatures, phenomena and objects or entities in the world – was developed in order to theorise and explain the microcosm–macrocosm relationship and divine–cosmic–human interconnections which were considered to be inherent within the world.

This worldview implies and articulates a subtle network of connections between divine, cosmic and human agency and interaction, a cosmological and epistemological framework based on polyvalence, plurality of meaning and signification, and multiple ways of attaining and reflecting on

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understanding and insight which simultaneously (and paradoxically) look beyond the merely human while also articulating reflective models of knowledge that are contextual, situational and sensitive to the unique circumstances, contexts and practical aspects of daily life experienced individually by each person and collectively by groups of persons.26 Oracle as enigma: testing, interpreting and decoding divination For at least a thousand years, Greeks, Romans and other peoples from across the Mediterranean who came to consult the Delphic oracle saw an enigmatic inscription “Know yourself” (γνῶθι σαυτὸν) engraved on the temple of Apollo at Delphi. Significantly, this famous maxim was reputed to have been an oracular response given by the Delphic Apollo to one of the Seven Sages, Chilon of Sparta, in response to his question “What is best for man?”27 As Fontenrose (1978, 294) notes, the maxim is not easy to understand and may mean “Know your place in the world,” “Know that you are a human” or “Know your true self” (the latter of which might have several meanings, including the psychoanalytic and philosophic). Many ancient philosophers, thinkers and biographers discuss this enigmatic maxim and its possible meaning(s), often linking it with philosophical self-knowledge and insight. The extensive links between divination and knowledge are exemplified in this enigmatic proverb which itself was seen as oracular wisdom, given by Apollo – the god of both divination and philosophy (among many other areas of patronage) – to humans. Consulting an oracle or a seer was a pro-active and reflective process, involving communication between god, seer and consultant or enquirer, and thus has been conceptualised as a dialogical and dynamic interaction. This process of dialogue, debate and interpretation of the oracular response or divinatory message continued well beyond the divinatory consultation or ritual itself. Recent scholarship has emphasised the role of oracles in the arbitration of disputes between states during the classical period and up to the 380s BCE (as well as other aspects of interstate relations), and as a stimulus in political and collective debate and decision-making.28 However, with regard to divination as a form of knowledge in its own right, it is important to note that Greek and Roman divination could – and sometimes did – give messages that caused delay, considerable inconvenience or even prohibited (or catalysed the re-thinking of) certain actions and endeavours. It certainly did not just act as a confirmation or guarantee for action in every case, nor did it straightforwardly transfer divinatory authority to political states or human agents. With regard to these issues, Lindsay DriedigerMurphy (2019) has offered a compelling re-assessment of Roman approaches towards divination. She counteracts functionalist interpretations of Roman augury, which have tended to emphasise the ways in which “the augur or the magistrate … expresses his own will through augury, and the

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god who then acts on the man’s behalf” (2019, 5). On the contrary, she argues that the Romans: … did not see this form of divination as a way of controlling or binding the god. They saw it, at least sometimes, as a way of expressing and responding to his will. Moreover, they accepted that that divine will could clash with the desires … of human beings. (2019, 8) As such, Driediger-Murphy’s analysis raises important questions about the complex and nuanced relationship between divine and human agency and knowledge in antiquity. Divine, cosmic and human knowledge and agency Oracular and divinatory modes of communication reflect and relate to the aspects of life in which humanity sought to benefit from the omniscience of the gods and provide a way to access the superior knowledge of the gods. Yet, these modes of communication also, to some extent, foreground human uncertainty or the open-endedness of the future, both in terms of the questions put to seers, diviners and oracles, and in relation to the necessity of human reflection upon and interpretation of the divinatory message.29 Just as importantly, though, the process of human interpretation of divinatory messages and signs does not simply transfer divinatory authority to humans but points to the complementarity of divine and human agency and knowledge. In the process of practising divination, the Greeks and Romans engaged in a way of knowing that sought to access divine wisdom – but divination was most frequently envisaged as complementing, assisting and, ultimately, enhancing human insight, efforts and agency in many spheres of life. As Robert Parker (1985, 299) notes, it was commonly held that one should not put a question forward during the consultation of the oracle or the use of another form of divination where an obvious answer in human terms was easily available, or when there were clear religious obligations in place already (such as the obligation to protect suppliants), or to seek permission to violate a clear moral standard. With regard to fulfilling basic religious obligations, Herodotus reports a cautionary account of a consultation by the Cymaeans who had been supplicated by the refugee Pactyes but found themselves threatened with war if they didn’t hand him over to the Persians: upon asking the Oracle at Didyma what they should do in this situation to please the gods, Apollo replied that they should surrender the suppliant; when they asked for further clarification, Apollo replied that he had given this answer so that they might commit impiety and thus perish all the sooner, and not come to the oracle again to ask about handing over suppliants.30 Similarly, in relation to an obvious answer in human terms being readily available, Xenophon’s Socrates gives the examples of

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questioning whether it is better to have a competent or incompetent charioteer or steersman of a ship (Mem. 1.1.9) However, although humans should use all their skills and efforts in any type of activity or endeavour, many activities and situations involve unknown factors or uncertain conditions, and divination was envisaged as useful for accessing the superior knowledge of the gods to give insight into such factors: In short, what the gods have granted us to do by help of learning, we must learn; what is hidden from mortals we must should try to find out from the gods by divination: for to those in their favour the gods give signals. (Mem. 1.1.9)31 Although this statement might seem at first glance to be proposing a binary opposition between human and divine knowledge, Xenophon’s preceding discussion has made it clear that these modes of knowledge and agency are often blended and linked in relation to specific human actions and situations: Those who intended to control estates or states, he [i.e. Socrates] said, needed the additional help of divination. For the craft of carpenter, smith, farmer or ruler, and the theory of such crafts, and arithmetic and economics and generalship might be learned and mastered by the application of human intelligence; but the deepest secrets of these matters the gods reserved to themselves; none were clear to humans. You may plant a field well; but you know not who will gather the fruits: you may build a house well; but you know not who will dwell in it: able to command, you cannot know whether it is profitable to command: versed in statecraft, you know not whether it is profitable to guide the state … Those who think that these matters are wholly within the grasp of the human mind and nothing in them is beyond our reason, they, he said, are the irrational ones, just as it is no less irrational to use divination in matters which human beings are permitted by the gods to decide for themselves through knowledge. (Mem. 1.1.7–9)32 Thus, rather than negating or overriding human knowledge, agency or efforts, divination should be used – according to this formulation – to complement, supplement and enhance them. This view points to the limits of human knowledge as the beginnings of the proper domain and scope of divination; it suggests that humans should make full use of their own skills, reason and knowledge while simultaneously cultivating a cautious and moderate approach based on an awareness of human limitations and areas of ignorance (or lack of knowledge) which places value on and thus uses divination in areas where unknown factors and uncertainty are inherent.

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It is also important to note that interpretation of divinatory messages and signs frequently involved a complementarity of divine and human agency mediated through knowledge of the cosmos and even cosmic agency. This is most apparent in the so-called “inductive” types of divination, such as ornithomancy, extispicy and astrology, which relied on a developed understanding of “signs” and patterns observed in the flight and behaviour of birds, the entrails of animals, and in the movements and juxtapositions of planets and stars respectively, and had detailed systems of symbolic signification for how these “signs” were thought to affect or impact human life and action. These types of divination implicitly attribute a subtle level of cosmic agency to cosmic and natural objects (animals, planets, stars and so on) which act as divine intermediaries and messages, thus embodying a polyvalent signification which intertwines and blends divine and cosmic agency. When examining divine, cosmic and human agency and knowledge, we should note that twentieth-century ethnographic works have already pioneered a much wider range of methodological approaches to divination and examined divination as an important element in the mentalities of the cultures who practise(d) it. In particular, Evans-Pritchard’s seminal study Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande ([1937] 1976), based on his participant observation and fieldwork among the Zande in the late 1920s and 1930s, was radical in its time for arguing that Zande mystical notions (relating to oracles and witchcraft) are: … eminently coherent, being interrelated by a network of logical ties, and are so ordered that they never too crudely contradict sensory experience but, instead, experience seems to justify them … If you press a Zande to explain how the poison oracle can see far-off things he will say that its mbismo, its soul, sees them … It is difficult for us to understand how poison, rubbing-board, termites, and three sticks can be merely things and insects and yet hear what is said to them and foresee the future and reveal the present and past, but when used in ritual situations they cease to be mere things and mere insects and become mystical agents. (1937, 150–51, my emphasis) Moreover, Evans-Pritchard noted carefully that the Zande are not ignorant of empirical cause and effect (that is to say, physical causes) but operate with a wider framework of a plurality of causes, recognising natural and mystical modes of causation operating simultaneously and emphasising the cause most relevant to the social context and situation (24–7). His classic study is extremely relevant for studies of ancient Greco-Roman divination, the latter of which was often explained and explicitly articulated by ancient philosophers in relation to sophisticated theorisations of double or multiple causation, where different levels of causes were conceived of as operating

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simultaneously. Several chapters in this book examine ancient philosophical theories of multiple levels of causation in relation to cosmological and metaphysical explanatory models for the operation of divination, and in so doing implicitly draw on Evans-Pritchard’s classic work. Divination and philosophy The focus on the philosophical models of causation sometimes used by ancient philosophers to explain the operation of divination brings us to the close relationship between divination and philosophy in Greco-Roman antiquity. Many of the chapters in this work (Chapters 2, 5, 6, 9 and 10) focus on or include (within wider contexts) examinations of philosophical understandings of divination. From at least the mid-fourth century BCE, philosophers deemed divination important and worthy enough to write entire works investigating its operation or compiled collections of oracles. Heraclides Ponticus, a pupil of Plato, wrote a work entitled Concerning Oracle-centres (περὶ χρηστηρίων), an antiquarian treatise dealing with the most prominent oracle-centres and seers. Aristotle wrote a treatise On Divination through Sleep (De divinatione per somnium), focusing on dream divination.33 Mnaeseas of Patara, a pupil of Eratosthenes, published an oracle-collection entitled Collection of Delphic Oracles (χρησμῶν Δελφικῶν συναγωγή).34 According to Cicero, the Stoic philosopher Chrysippus compiled a collection of oracular responses, together with proof of their veracity and fulfilment (Div. 1.37), as well as writing two books discussing in detail the “whole theory of divination” (1.6: totam de divination duobus libris explicavit sententiam) and a work on dream divination (Div. 1.6). Cicero also claims many Stoic philosophers wrote works on divination, including Diogenes of Babylon, Antipater and Posidonius (Div. 1.6). The Middle Platonist philosopher Plutarch, who was also a priest at Delphi, wrote three dialogues on the Delphic oracle, collectively known as the Delphic Dialogues: these offer both an “anthropology” of the Delphic sanctuary, its oracle, foundation myths, material artefacts and monuments, and its natural setting, while simultaneously providing a well-developed and sophisticated philosophical investigation of the causes and cosmological, metaphysical and epistemological bases of Delphic divination (Simonetti 2017). Within the Roman context, Cicero’s dialogue On Divination explores multiple types of divination (including a doxography of the positions of different philosophers and philosophical schools) and their possible authority, validity and accuracy (or lack thereof). Philosophical activity focusing on divination continued in late antiquity: Cornelius Labeo (third century CE) wrote a work entitled On the Oracle of Apollo of Claros (De oraculo Apollonis Clarii). The Neoplatonist philosopher Iamblichus investigated the operations and legitimacy of divination in his work On the Mysteries, insisting on its veracity, efficacy and authority in traditional religions and theurgy, in response to Porphyry’s questions in the Letter to Anebo. Scholars have most

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often treated Porphyry as sceptical about divination – and yet he too wrote a work on oracles, Philosophy from Oracles, and found it important to quote the entirety of an oracular response about the destiny of his philosophical teacher Plotinus at the culmination of his Life of Plotinus.35 Many of the chapters in this book focus on Platonist approaches to divination, from the classical period through to late antiquity, in both Greek and Latin texts and contexts. As such, this book aims to demonstrate that divination was a consistent and important part of Platonism and the Platonic tradition as a whole. The complex relationship between divination and ancient philosophy (especially within Platonism) merits further investigation. As mentioned earlier, Struck (2016) has recently offered a study of philosophical accounts of divination, examining the works of Plato, Aristotle, Posidonius and Iamblichus as an early chapter in the cognitive history of intuition. This work is extremely valuable in drawing attention to the links between divination and conceptions of intuition and surplus knowing. Yet, in focusing on this surplus insight primarily as an artefact of human nature, “embedded in physiological processes” (251), it may possibly contribute to eliding the dynamic and nuanced frameworks of divine, cosmic and human agency – including divine inspiration and possession and their intermingling with human lives and cognitive states – often articulated explicitly in ancient philosophical texts and implicitly within divinatory practices (ancient and modern). While there is little doubt that ancient philosophers recognised and discussed cognitive states such as intuition and instinct, it is not always clear that they conceive of divination exclusively in such terms, especially when these cognitive phenomena are conceived as primarily rooted in or pertaining to the realm of the corporeal, that is to say, within human physiology. Many chapters in this book argue that the links between philosophy and divination extend well beyond this – and, indeed, that divination may well be conceived of by many Greek philosophers (especially Platonists) as an integral and intrinsic aspect of philosophy itself. Within ancient philosophical discourse and praxis, divinatory knowledge and insight are frequently envisaged as a crucial strand of philosophical understanding(s), which enable and embody the attainment of a kind of extra-rational or supra-rational level of insight which is related to – in the sense of cohering or correlating with – reason, and yet moves well beyond the cognitive realm of the discursive. For many ancient philosophers, rationality and reason were seen as a means to an end rather than an end in themselves – thus, rational and intellectual investigation, when coupled with ethical conduct and cultivation of the virtues, and ritual practices, were considered to lead to what we might describe as “mystical,” inspired, or supra-rational states of insight.36 In support of this view is the fact that divination is closely linked with the roots of philosophy in the ancient Greek world, present in some of the most important (now fragmentary) works of the so-called “Presocratic” philosophers. Parmenides – often characterised in the history of philosophy as the

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“Father of logic and metaphysics” – chose to deliver his logical and metaphysical ideas and investigations in the form of a poem where a young initiate undertakes an initiatory journey and subsequently has an oracular or divinatory encounter with a goddess who “reveals” these logical and metaphysical insights to him (see especially D4, 2244–32, D5, D6, D7, D8).37 This divine encounter has often been treated as a metaphor or literary trope, yet Empedocles – another Eleatic philosopher who may have studied with Parmenides38 – presents himself as a prophet or seer, as well as a healer: Friends, you who dwell in the great city beside the yellow Acragas … I go among you, honoured, as I am seen, Crowned with ribbons and with blooming garlands, Whenever I arrive with these in the flourishing cities, I am venerated by men and by women; they follow me, Thousands of them, asking where is the road to benefit: Some of them desire prophecies, others ask to hear, For illnesses of all kinds, a healing utterance ….39 For these early Greek philosophers, divination and divinatory states of knowing seem to be closely linked with philosophical investigation as complementary and correlated paths to truth and insight. Plato’s own approach towards divination is complex, nuanced and difficult to evaluate, yet there is evidence that for him too divination is inextricably connected with the life and cognitive states linked with philosophy. Discussions of and allusions to divination occur across the Platonic corpus; indeed, Plato has much to say about divination and its epistemological status. Plato’s complex approach towards divination offers a provocative and multi-faceted view of the phenomenon and its links with knowledge. Plato’s characterisation of Socrates’ testing of the Delphic oracle, and most especially his portrayal of Socrates’ daimonion, complicate the overall picture, raising important questions about the potential and scope of divination in relation to philosophy. Within many of Plato’s dialogues, Socrates often speaks of a daimonion, a divine “voice” (φωνή) or “sign” (σημεῖον), which has spoken to him since childhood, advising him against a specific course of action or philosophical conversation that he is in the process of initiating (Ap. 31d3–4; Phdr. 242b–243a). In the Apology, Socrates calls the daimonion his “customary mode of divination” (Ap. 40a: ἡ εἰωθυῖά μοι μαντικὴ) and connects the daimonion with the divine origin of his philosophical mission to engage others in elenchus, which he claims was inspired by an oracle from the Delphic Apollo. He makes this connection by commenting several times on the silence of the daimonion during his defence

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speech, which largely rests on the oracle and his consequent assertion of the divine nature of his philosophical mission (Ap. 40a1–4, 41d6–8. Cf. also 33c). Socrates relates that Chaerephon had asked the Delphic oracle if anyone was wiser than Socrates – the oracular response confirmed that no one is wiser (Ap. 21a). Socrates describes how this enigmatic utterance led him to question many people who were well-regarded for their knowledge (Ap. 21b–22e). Thus, Plato presents this Delphic oracle as the primary motivation and catalyst for Socrates’ philosophical journey and way of life. Divination, gender and the expertise of the Pythia As soon as we turn to examine the practitioners of divination – the seer or diviner (mantis) – gender issues become a vital consideration. In ancient Greek and Roman cultures, the seer could be either male or female; indeed, both male and female seers feature in ancient Greek and Roman historical, literary and philosophical texts from the archaic period through to late antiquity.40 Several female seers are examined within this book: Chapter 2 explores the moral dimensions of the legendary seer Cassandra’s prophecies, juxtaposing her with Socrates. Chapter 5 analyses Eunapius’ portrayal of Sosipatra, drawing out the ways in which her “psychic” remote-viewing and oracular abilities are related to her kairotic expertise. Within a historical context, both male and female seers (manteis) could act as the mouthpiece of the oracular god Apollo, or his father Zeus, at a range of oracular sanctuaries, or could read the omens within the entrails of a sacrificial animal or observed in natural phenomena. The most famous and renowned seer to serve at an institutional oracle was very clearly the Pythia, the generic name for the seer or prophetess who uttered the oracles of Apollo at the Oracle of Delphi (see Figures 1.1 and 1.2 in Chapter 1). Overall, we have more evidence about the Pythia’s role, status and activities than for any other ancient seer. There are, of course, several reasons for this: firstly, the Delphic Oracle was a Panhellenic sanctuary, consulted and revered by city-states (poleis) from across the Greek mainland and islands, and also had an international status and reputation.41 Consequently, there is a wider range of extant evidence about Delphi, including the Pythia, in ancient literary, philosophical and historical texts than survives in relation to the hundreds of other oracular sanctuaries across the ancient Mediterranean basin. Much of the scholarship on the Pythia has focused on her expertise and her cognitive state – that is to say, her prophetic, inspired condition and state of mind – when she delivered oracles to enquirers. For most of the twentieth century, scholars maintained that her cognitive condition while uttering oracles was a state of madness or wild frenzy, and characterised her as a passive victim totally overcome by the god Apollo.42 In relation to this characterisation, a further assumption made by most twentieth-century scholars was that she spoke unintelligible, inarticulate, wild “gibberish” that had to be interpreted and formed into a coherent response, or even

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supplanted by an “oracle” invented and authored by the male priests at the oracle. This hypothesis transfers religious agency and expertise from the female Pythia to the male priests, or at the very least diminishes and minimises her agency and expertise. Plutarch’s statement that the Pythia was usually a peasant woman (chosen from the local population of Delphi) who was not formally educated has led some scholars to assume that she did not have the ability to utter oracles coherently in the standard hexameter verse form.43 Using anthropological studies and cross-cultural comparison focusing on female possession, Lisa Maurizio (1995) challenged the assumption that the Pythia could not speak in hexameters in a ground-breaking article, which explored the extensive links between divination and poetry in classical Greek culture, demonstrating that hexameter verse was an important part of oral culture – frequently transmitted orally in informal contexts, often by women. Maurizio’s work has been further supported by recent work which emphasises the religious agency and expertise of women in antiquity, including their significant roles as priestesses of many cults.44

Structure of the book The chapters within this volume are not divided into thematic sections because there are many links and conceptual interconnections between the various chapters which might be obscured or limited by such a division. Chapters often share significant points of contact or connection with the preceding and subsequent chapters; however, shared themes, debates and areas of focus can be found in chapters across the volume. To note briefly some of these shared areas of focus in relation to the themes discussed in the previous sections of this introductory chapter, Chapters 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 focus on issues of divine and human knowledge and agency from diverse perspectives. Chapters 4 and 5 both explore the significance of the kairos in divinatory practices. Chapters 5, 6 and 7 of this work include examination of characterisations of the expertise and oracular activity of the Pythia from different perspectives (drawing implicitly and sometimes explicitly on Maurizio 1995). As discussed earlier, Chapters 2, 5, 6, 9 and 10 focus on or include examinations of philosophical approaches towards divination. Chapters 7 and 8 utilise theories of knowledge and power, with Chapter 8 explicitly drawing on recent work on knowledge-ordering. In Chapter 1 (“The enigmatic divine voice and the problem of human misinterpretation”), Julia Kindt explores the enigmatic and inspired mode of oracular communication associated with the Delphic oracle and other Greek oracular sanctuaries. This chapter analyses changing scholarly assessments of the “enigmatic voice” and explores the ways in which oracle stories reflect on human cognitive processes, including (mis)interpretation and the limits of human knowledge. Oracular epistemology involves human reflection, interpretation and testing of oracular responses. In relation to the latter, Chapter 1 discusses (among other examples) Plato’s depiction of Socrates’

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testing of the Delphic oracle received by Chaerephon; in this case, as in many others, oracular epistemology involves reflecting on processes of knowing; furthermore, superior knowledge is here shown to include selfknowledge. The moral dimensions of Socrates’ encounter with the Delphic oracle – and divination in a broader sense – are fully explored in Chapter 2 (“Torchbearing plato: why reason without the divine is not philosophy after all”). This chapter offers a wide-ranging, powerful and thought-provoking reassessment of Plato’s approach to divination, as exemplified in his depiction of Socrates. Danielle Layne argues that Plato conceived of philosophy as a spiritual activity resembling divinatory practices like enthused prophecy, telestic rituals and inspired poetry, through a detailed examination of dialogues such as the Phaedrus and Symposium. The chapter demonstrates that, for Plato, the rational activity which characterises philosophy is seen as a gift of and service to the divine. Furthermore, divination and divine inspiration on the one hand and reason on the other are envisaged as complementary and necessary for the attainment of self-knowledge and goodness, as well as for recognising and drawing out the good of others. Moreover, “sober” reason alone – and religious piety and inspiration without reasoned examination – are both shown to be problematic for Plato since neither by itself can compare with the life embodied by Socrates. In relation to the complementarity of divinatory states and reasoning, Layne raises important issues focusing on the interweaving of religious inspiration and rationality – and thus the complementarity of divine and human agency – which are further explored in subsequent chapters, particularly in Chapter 6 which examines the influence of Plato on Plutarch in this regard. In Chapter 3 (“Work with the god”: military divination and rational battle-planning in Xenophon), Ralph Anderson also offers a detailed treatment of the complementarity of divine and human agency, focusing on the ways in which military uses of divination supplement and enhance Xenophon’s rational battle-planning, in relation to the latter’s injunction to “work with the god” (Cavalry Commander 9.8: σὺν θεῷ πράττειν). Drawing on a range of anthropological studies of contemporary divination, this chapter argues that the apparent disjunction between the seeming irrationality of divination and the needs of a commander preparing for battle is a product of our own, modern misconceptions about the nature of divination as a source of useful knowledge and about the relationship between human effort and divine assistance in classical Greek thinking. With regard to the latter, Anderson also analyses Xenophon’s use of Socrates to articulate the epistemological conditions for the legitimate use of divination. The chapter explores the ways in which divination was fully integrated into the decisionmaking process and acted as a vital aid to facilitate the direction of human efforts, planning and practical strategising. As such, Xenophon presents divination as involving a blend of religious piety and practicality, and as a

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kind of divine assistance which supplements, extends and enhances human efforts. The inextricable connections between divine knowledge (as expressed in divination) and human efforts are also explored in Chapter 4 (“Divination and decumbiture: Katarchic astrology and Greek medicine”). Dorian Gieseler Greenbaum examines the ways in which the history of western medicine is rooted not only in the physical and empirical but also in practices which are divinatory: both the Hippocratic writers and Galen incorporate divination into their techniques of diagnosis and prescription. More specifically, this chapter analyses the ways in which divinatory astrology (most especially a sub-field of katarchic astrology, decumbiture) was used to complement and enhance medical diagnosis, prognosis and treatment, in the sense of finding the best time (kairos) for treatment or using the time when an ill person goes to bed to give a prognosis of the course of their illness. The use of decumbiture in medicine has been infrequently discussed in scholarship and this chapter offers an original investigation of the topic, while also including much-needed examination of the extensive links between ancient divination and medicine. Continuing the exploration of the interconnections between divine and human knowledge and agency, Chapter 5 (“Divination and the kairos in ancient Greek philosophy and culture”) explores the ways in which divination was used to ascertain, discover and utilise the kairos, the most appropriate, “right” or best time for action and endeavour across a wide range of disciplines, fields and spheres of activity. In ancient Greek culture, the concept of the kairos was conceived of as the critical moment when the favour of the gods or the divine gift of goodness (often formulated as pronoia, or “divine providence”) was bestowed upon humans in their endeavours, in conjunction with the full utilisation of human efforts, skill and agency. The kairos was seen as swift and fleeting – it could be utilised by humans or could pass by unused – and divination was seen as the key means of accessing this critical moment (kairos) for action. Furthermore, the kairos was conceived as an important marker of the timing of divinatory ritual itself. In relation to this, depictions of the Pythia, Socrates and Sosipatra are examined as implicitly articulating the ritual or divinatory knowledge and agency of these figures through explanations of their kairotic expertise. This chapter argues that the logic and epistemology of divination is “kairotic,” drawing on Kevin Birth’s anthropological work (2016) on the diverse temporalities, especially kairotic time, at play in contemporary Caribbean culture. The kairotic nature of divination relates to a temporality that is qualitative and centralises concepts of optimal timing, timeliness and appropriate action and behaviour (based on notions of moderation and due measure), which were deeply embedded in ancient Greek culture, philosophy and religious tradition. Chapter 6 (“The Pythia as matter: Plutarch’s scientific account of divination”) also picks up on the interweaving of divine and human agency in

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relation to Plutarch’s account of the Pythia at Delphi. Elsa Simonetti analyses the way in which Plutarch represents the Pythia’s inspiration when she delivers oracles as a dynamic intertwining of her nature and the rational power of the god Apollo, using Mary Keller’s notion of “instrumental agency” to illustrate the parameters of the Pythia’s receptivity to this inspiration, elucidating the interweaving of god, human, and divine inspiration. This chapter also examines the ways in which Plutarch draws on Plato’s cosmology (especially as set out in the Timaeus) and, even more crucially, on his harmonisation of reason and religious piety. Simonetti shows that divination accords with Plutarch’s epistemological standards, in the sense that Plutarch articulates the view that divination, like all earthly phenomena, results from a framework of double causation (operating on two levels simultaneously: inferior-physical and superior-divine). Consequently, Simonetti argues that rational investigation and religious spirit are complementary and harmonised in what Plutarch himself and the scientists of his time hold as an authentically scientific model of explanation. Chapter 7 (“Divination and female sexuality: the transformation of the Greek Pythia by the Church Fathers”) continues the exploration of the Pythia, here in relation to the complex relationship between gender and divination. In doing so, this chapter implicitly draws on recent scholarship on the relationship between knowledge, power and gendered values. Giulia Pedrucci explores the ways in which changing conceptions of gender and sexuality – which most frequently are gendered assumptions, values and expectations rooted in male-centric and male-produced discourse – especially discourses which sought to link women and the feminine to hysteria, influenced and affected shifting depictions and characterisations of the voice, agency and expertise of the Pythia at Delphi. This chapter demonstrates the ways in which late antique Christian Church Fathers (primarily Origen and John Chrysostom) take Plutarch’s account at De def. or. 438a–c out of context (together with a satirical portrayal of the Pythia prophesying in Lucan’s Pharsalia), distorting its representation of the Pythia in order to minimise her agency and expertise. These late antique characterisations counter earlier portrayals where the Pythia’s inspired voice tends to be emphasised, so that her portrayal becomes increasingly sexualised as she is characterised as a hysterical and mad woman. Moreover, these late antique accounts of the Pythia seem to have affected twentieth-century scholarly assessments of the Pythia’s oracular role and expertise. Like the previous contribution, Chapter 8 (“‘Ethnic’ divination in Roman imperial literature”) utilises scholarship which theorises the relationship between knowledge and power, as well as drawing on recent work on ancient knowledge-ordering, to examine the ways in which imperial ideologies and values influenced Roman ethnographic discourses which use divination as a central and significant marker of “ethnic” identity. Exploring a wide range of historical, philosophical and technical treatises, Antti Lampinen demonstrates that the divinatory practices of a wide range of peoples played a

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significant role in ancient ethnographic discourse as an aid to the classification of foreign cultures and contributed to Greco-Roman knowledgeordering on a cosmological scale. In Chapter 9 (“Apuleius on divination: Platonic daimonology and childdivination”), Leonardo Costantini explores Apuleius’ interpretation of Socrates’ daimonion within the context of his daimonological theory. Costantini shows that Apuleius emphasises the ways in which philosophy and divination are closely intertwined on an epistemological level: for Apuleius, studying philosophy implies the cultivation of one’s guardian daimōn so that it may progressively enable the philosopher to develop a deeper contact with the daimōn and to finally become an experienced seer partaking of divine foreknowledge. This chapter also explores Apuleius’ classification of two types of divination which use a child as medium and examines parallels between Apuleius’ account and the debates and accounts centring on this type of divinatory ritual evident in the later Neoplatonic works of Porphyry, Iamblichus and Proclus. In doing so, this chapter sheds light on the overall diffusion of these divinatory rituals in the Roman Imperial period and late antiquity. In Chapter 10 (“Astral symbolism in theurgic rites”), Marilynn Lawrence delves further into the ritual practices associated with late antique theurgy, examining the contested issue of the possible status and roles of astrology within theurgic ritual. Lawrence argues that Proclus’ interpretation of the types of madness set out in Plato’s Phaedrus (244b–245b, 265b) can be set alongside his theory of the sublime in his symbolic reading of Homer and his description of the planetary gods in his Timaeus commentary in order to illuminate the role of astral symbolism in theurgic rites. Further support for this hypothesis is gleaned by drawing on the music theorist Aristides Quintilianus’ discussions of initiatory music as a preparation of the soul for the greater mysteries, and of the role of the music of the astral spheres in contributing to the ordering of the rational soul.

Notes 1 I would like to thank Dorian Gieseler Greenbaum, Michael Griffin, Danielle A. Layne, Donka Marcus and Elsa Simonetti for reading and commenting on this introductory chapter. I am very grateful for their helpful suggestions and advice. 2 Div 1.1.2: Gentem quidem nullam video neque tam humanam atque doctam neque tam immanem atque barbaram, quae non significari futura et a quibusdam intellegi praedicique posse censeat. Trans. Falconer 1923. 3 Many useful introductory works on ancient Greek and Roman divination are available to introduce non-specialist readers to the basic parameters and practices involved: on ancient Greek divination, see especially Johnston 2008; Flower 2008; Dillon 2017. On Roman divination, see North 1990; Scheid 2003 [1998]. See also the collection of introductory articles on “Divination and Prophecy” (including Greece, Rome and Etruria, as well as Egypt, Mesopotamia, Iran, SyriaCanaan, Israel and Anatolia, and Christianity) in Johnston 2004. On oracles specifically, see Curnow 2004; Stoneman 2011.

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4 On this point, see the useful discussion in Johnston 2008, 78–9; Ogden 2018, 1–2. 5 On the Greeks’ valorisation of oral divination and oracular dialogue, see Vernant 1991, 311. On the prominence and centrality of augury and taking of the auspices in Roman divination, see, for example, Santangelo 2013; DriedigerMurphy 2019. 6 It is worth noting that divination (in various forms, such as palm-reading, tarot cards, casting of runes, reading of tea-leaves, astrology and dream interpretation) is still used by some contemporary Westerners, although such practices are largely derided or dismissed in mainstream Western culture and discourse. For example, astrologers in the contemporary Western world can train as professionals through a multitude of courses and qualifications, have their own journals and conferences, and many are also qualified therapists and/or highly educated professionals. Cf. the discussion of Johnston 2005, 7; 2008, 1–4; Raphals 2013, 7–9, who notes: Nor has our rationalist age made divination obsolete. Even if it is not quite respectable, it is immensely popular. Horoscopes appear on the pages of many, but not all, newspapers and magazines … A variety of polls attest to the ongoing popularity of astrology. During the real-estate boom of the past years, some knowledge of the Chinese geomantic techniques of feng shui (literally “wind and water”) became a practical necessity for real-estate brokers in major American cities. And in the current financial decline, fortune-tellers of various kinds continue to do a brisk business. The methods used today may differ from those used in antiquity, but divination is alive and well. (7) 7 The scholarly literature on divination in these cultures is vast – here, some important representative examples are mentioned briefly. On Tibetan divination: Rinpoche 1981; Arnott 1989; Diemberger 2005; Sidky 2011. On African divination, see Evans-Pritchard (1937) 1976; Zeitlyn 1990; 2020; the collection of essays in Peek 1991. On Cuban divination, see Holbraad 2012. On divination in Mongolia, see Swancutt 2006, 2012, especially Chapter 5. For an overview of scholarship and the terminology used for oracles in diverse Indian contexts, see the useful summary in Smith 2006, 142–6. 8 The exceptions mentioned are Bouché-Leclerq 1879–82; Halliday 1913. Other twentieth-century works published on divination are discussed further below. 9 These works include the essays contained in Johnston and Struck 2005; Flower 2008; Beerden 2013; Raphals 2013; Addey 2014, 171–213; Struck 2016; Ustinova 2018; and the articles collected in Driediger-Murphy and Eidinow 2019, all examined further below. 10 Nice 2006 reviews Johnston and Struck 2005; the latter work is discussed further below. 11 A systematic and sequential overview of chapters is provided in the final section of this introductory chapter. 12 Cf. for example, the title of Dodds’ seminal and influential study (1951), The Greeks and the Irrational, which illustrates this tendency well. 13 Contrast this with Peek’s statement – drawing on the contributions of anthropologists in his volume who have undertaken extensive fieldwork among peoples from Burkina Faso, Kenya, Madagascar, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Sudan, Togo, Uganda and Zaire: “Instead, we have found diviners to be men and women of exceptional wisdom and high personal character” (1991, 3). 14 On this point, see also Struck 2016, 6–9. 15 It should be noted that this overview of scholarship on ancient Greek and Roman divination does not claim to be exhaustive but rather aims to identify and discuss some of the main directions and trajectories in scholarship, noting representative examples of these trends along the way. There are many other valuable

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20 21

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and important studies on Greco-Roman divination including, to name just a few, Eidinow 2007; Gordon 2017; the essays collected in Luijendijk and Klingshirn 2019. These monographs include (to list a representative sample): Amandry 1950; Parke and Wormell 1956; Parke, 1967; 1985; 1988; Fontenrose 1978. This quotation is taken from Froma I. Zeitlin’s translation of Vernant’s introduction to this work (“Speech and Mute Signs”) in Mortals and Immortals, a collection of Vernant’s essays in English translation edited by Zeitlin 1991. Vernant 1991, 303–5 with nn. 2 and 3, 316–17. Cf. Johnston and Struck, 2005, 1, 9–10. Some representative examples of late twentieth-century scholarship which focus primarily on the social and political contexts and parameters of divination include: Parker’s influential study (1985) which examines Greek states and their use of Greek oracles; Manetti (1987 [1993]) uses semiotic theory to analyse ancient Greek and Mesopotamian divinatory systems. Potter (1994) analyses the use of divination in the Roman Imperial period, focusing on the ways in which it empowered the diverse inhabitants of the Roman empire in political and social arenas and how it was often utilised to support or condemn the emperor’s actions. Athanassiadi (1989–90; 1992; 1993) examines the shifting landscape of uses of divination in late antiquity, especially in relation to public and private contexts, demonstrating the ways in which this shifting landscape could illuminate broader changes in religious authority and the differences between competing pagan and Christian ideologies in the religious and social spheres. Maurizio (1995) was ground-breaking in interrogating the voice and agency of the Pythia through an investigation of Greek approaches to divinatory possession and prophecy in relation to the expertise and status of women, comparing these with anthropological studies of women and spirit possession in other cultures in an effective manner. The latter work will be discussed further below when we turn to the relationship between gender and divination. See, for example, Maurizio 1997; 2001; Kindt 2016; and in this volume. On knowledge-ordering, see also the collection of essays in Steele 2016 which examine the circulation of astronomical knowledge in antiquity, using examples from Egypt, Mesopotamia, the Greco-Roman world, India and China, and focusing especially on calendars, astrological handbooks, astronomical almanacs and planetary models. It is important to note that Foucault’s conception of the links between divination and power also has its difficulties and potential limitations, as König and Whitmarsh (2007) note – for example, on some readings it leaves little room for the agency of individuals. Though the issues involved are complex, it might be added that this theorisation seems to be based on relativistic, post-modern assumptions about knowledge and truth which may not be so useful for examining the relationship between ancient divination and philosophy, for example, given that the latter is grounded in entirely different assumptions and premises (metaphysically and epistemologically). Further, it is possible that this theory underplays significant commonalities in human experience (including mysticism, piety and intuition) which might transcend the temporal and spatial. Moreover, this model of knowledge and power could be seen as deeply anthropocentric, leaving little room for conceptions of non-human agency which are important for most or all peoples, cultures and societies which systematically engage in the practice of divination (see the section: “Divine, Cosmic and Human Knowledge and Agency”).

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23 Including the collection of essays in Johnston and Struck 2005; Raphals 2013; Beerden 2013; Struck 2016; Ustinova 2018; Driediger-Murphy 2019; and the articles collected in Driediger-Murphy and Eidinow 2019. 24 See the methodological reflections of Keller (2002, 1–22) in her comparative study of spirit possession which re-assesses religious agency, in particular her reflections on the historical legacy of colonial perspectives: “In order to make sense of our encounter with people from around the globe, the West constructs its idea of itself by contrasting its modernity, rationality, and progress to the premodernity, irrationality, and backwardness of other people” (5). Cf. also Johnston and Struck, 2005, 8–9. 25 Many works of classical scholarship have used ethnographic studies to illuminate ancient divination: the essays collected in Vernant 1974 and Maurizio 1995 are two extremely important representative examples which show the potential of cross-cultural comparison. 26 Cf. Vernant 1991, 310, who examines some of the tensions involved in divinatory praxis. 27 See Fontenrose 1978, 294, Q77 in his catalogue of Delphic oracular questions and responses. 28 Cf. for example, Vernant 1991 [1974], 311–4; Parker 1985, 309–10, 320; Bowden 2005. 29 Cf. Eidinow 2007; Chapter 1 in this volume. 30 Hdt. 1.157–160. Cf. Parker 1985, 313 with n.55. 31 Mem. 1.1.9: ἔφη δὲ δεῖν, ἃ μὲν μαθόντας ποιεῖν ἔδωκαν οἱ θεοί μανθάνειν, ἃ δὲ μὴ δῆλα τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἐστί πειρᾶσθαι διὰ μαντικῆς παρὰ τῶν θεῶν πυνθάνεσθαι· τοὺς θεοὺς γὰρ οἷς ἂν ὦσιν ἵλεῳ σημαίνειν. Trans. Marchant and Todd 2013. 32 Mem. 1.1.7–9: καὶ τοὺς μέλλοντας οἴκους τε καὶ πόλεις καλῶς οἰκήσειν μαντικῆς ἔφη προσδεῖσθαι· τεκτονικὸν μὲν γὰρ ἢ χαλκευτικὸν ἢ γεωργικὸν ἢ ἀνθρώπων ἀρχικὸν ἢ τῶν τοιούτων ἔργων ἐξεταστικὸν ἢ λογιστικὸν ἢ οἰκονομικὸν ἢ στρατηγικὸν γενέσθαι, πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα μαθήματα καὶ ἀνθρώπου γνώμῃ αἱρετὰ ἐνόμιζεν εἶναι· τὰ δὲ μέγιστα τῶν ἐν τούτοις ἔφη τοὺς θεοὺς ἑαυτοῖς καταλείπεσθαι, ὧν οὐδὲν δῆλον εἶναι τοῖς ἀνθρώποις. οὔτε γὰρ τῷ καλῶς ἀγρὸν φυτευσαμένῳ δῆλον ὅστις καρπώσεται, οὔτε τῷ καλῶς οἰκίαν οἰκοδομησαμένῳ δῆλον ὅστις ἐνοικήσει, οὔτε τῷ στρατηγικῷ δῆλον εἰ συμφέρει στρατηγεῖν, οὔτε τῷ πολιτικῷ δῆλον εἰ συμφέρει τῆς πόλεως προστατεῖν … τοὺς δὲ μηδὲν τῶν τοιούτων οἰομένους εἶναι δαιμόνιον, ἀλλὰ πάντα τῆς ἀνθρωπίνης γνώμης, δαιμονᾶν ἔφη· δαιμονᾶν δὲ καὶ τοὺς μαντευομένους ἃ τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἔδωκαν οἱ θεοὶ μαθοῦσι διακρίνειν. Trans. Marchant and Todd 2013, with slight modifications. 33 For a detailed treatment of this work, see Struck 2016, 91–170. 34 Cf. Parke and Wormell 1956, II.xv–xvi; Parke 1988, 24–5; Addey 2014, 12–13. 35 For a detailed examination of Neoplatonic approaches to divination, see Addey 2014, who argues that Porphyry has a far more positive attitude towards divination than has previously been recognised. 36 For support on this point, see Ustinova 2018, 313–43. 37 For a detailed treatment of Parmenides’ poem from this perspective, see Ustinova 2018, 330–5. Pythagoras’ apparent use of and connections with divination (and especially with the Delphic oracular tradition) could also be mentioned here but are left aside given the methodological difficulties in ascertaining the genuine views and activities of the historical Pythagoras. 38 This is attested by Diogenes Laertius (who attributes this information to Alcidamas) and the Suda, although these sources are late and may not be accurate. See Testimonia P13 and P15 on Parmenides in Laks and Most 2016, 24–5.

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39 Empedocles, Purifications fr. D4 ( = Diogenes Laertius 8.54, 8.62; Diodorus Siculus 13.83.1; Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 6.30.1). Translated by Laks and Most 2016, 363. 40 For a comprehensive examination of the seer in ancient Greece, see Flower 2008. On seers and diviners in Rome, see North 1990. 41 On the international status of the Delphic Oracle, see Plato, Resp. 427c; Parker 1985, 303–5. 42 The Pythia as a passive victim: see, for example, Dodds 1951, 140; 1965, 72. See Chapter 7 in this volume for a deconstruction of such characterisations and an analysis of the ideologies and gendered assumptions that have led to such formulations. 43 For a typical expression of this assumption, see Flaceliere 1976 [1961], 52. 44 See, for example, Price 2004, 303; Connelly 2007, who emphasises that “religious office presented the one arena in which Greek women assumed roles equal and comparable to those of men” (2).

Bibliography Ancient works: texts and translations Aristotle. De Divinatione per Somnium (On Divination through Sleep). In Parva Naturalia, edited by W.D. Ross. 1955. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Cicero. De Divinatione. Translated by William Armistead Falconer. 1923. LCL 154. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Empedocles. Purifications. In Early Greek Philosophy, Volume V: Western Greek Thinkers, Part 2, Edited and translated by André Laks and Glenn W. Most. 2016. LCL 528. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Herodotus. Histories. In Herodoti Historiae. 2 vols., edited by N.G. Wilson. 1927. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Parmenides. Fragmenta. Edited and translated by André Laks and Glenn W. Most. Early Greek Philosophy, Volume V: Western Greek Thinkers, Part 2. 2016. LCL 528. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Apology. In Platonis opera, vol. 1, edited by John Burnet. (1900) 1967. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Plato. Phaedrus. Translated by Harold N. Fowler. 1914. LCL 36. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Xenophon. Cavalry Commander. In Xenophontis opera omnia, vol. 5, edited by E.C. Marchant. (1920) 1969. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Xenophon. Memorabilia. In Xenophontis opera omnia, vol. 2, edited by E.C. Marchant. (1921) 1971. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Also cited: Xenophon. Memorabilia. Translated by E.C. Marchant and O.J. Todd. Revised by Jeffrey Henderson. 2013. LCL 168. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Modern works Addey, Crystal. 2014. Divination and Theurgy in Neoplatonism: Oracles of the Gods. Farnham: Ashgate [reprinted: New York and London: Routledge, 2015]. Amandry, Pierre. 1950. La mantique apollonienne à Delphes. Essai sur le fonctionnement de l’oracle. Paris: E. De Boccard.

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Arnott, Geoffrey. 1989. “Nêchung: A Modern Parallel to the Delphic Oracle?” Greece and Rome 26: 152–57. Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1989–90. “The Fate of Oracles in Late Antiquity: Didyma and Delphi.” Deltion tes Christianikes Archaiologikes Hetaireas Series 4, no. 15: 271–78. Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1992. “Philosophers and Oracles: Shifts of authority in Late Paganism.” Byzantion 62: 45–62. Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1993. “Dreams, Theurgy and Freelance Divination: The Testimony of Iamblichus.” JRS 83: 115–30. Beerden, Kim. 2013. Worlds Full of Signs: Ancient Greek Divination in Context. Leiden: Brill. Birth, Kevin B. 2016. Time Blind. Problems in Perceiving Other Temporalities. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Bouché-Leclereq, Auguste. 1879–1882. Histoire de la divination dans l’antiquité. Paris: Leroux. Bowden, Hugh. 2005. Classical Athens and the Delphic Oracle: Divination and Democracy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Connelly, Joan Breton. 2007. Portrait of a Priestess. Women and Ritual in Ancient Greece. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Curnow, Trevor. 2004. The Oracles of the Ancient World. London: Duckworth. Diemberger, Hildegard. 2005. “Female Oracles in Modern Tibet.” In Women in Tibet, edited by Janet Gyatso and Hanna Havnevik, 113–69. New York: Columbia University Press. Dillon, Matthew. 2017. Omens and Oracles. Divination in Ancient Greece. New York and London: Routledge. Dodds, Eric Robertson. 1951. The Greeks and the Irrational. Berkeley: University of California Press. Dodds, Eric Robertson. 1965. Pagan and Christian in an Age of Anxiety. Some Aspects of Religious Experience from Marcus Aurelius to Constantine. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Driediger-Murphy, Lindsay G. 2019. Roman Republican Augury: Freedom and Control. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Driediger-Murphy, Lindsay G. and Esther Eidinow. 2019. “Introduction.” In Ancient Divination and Experience, edited by Lindsay G. Driediger-Murphy and Esther Eidinow, 1–14. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eidinow, Esther. 2007. Oracles, Curses and Risk among the Ancient Greeks. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Evans-Pritchard, Edward E. [1937] 1976. Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande. Abridged with an introduction by Eva Gillies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Flaceliere, Robert. [1961] 1976. Greek Oracles. Translated by Robert Garman. London: Book Club Associates. Flower, Michael Attyah. 2008. The Seer in Ancient Greece. Berkeley: University of California Press. Fontenrose, Joseph. 1978. The Delphic Oracle. Its Responses and Operations with a Catalogue of Responses. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Gordon, Richard L. 2017. ““Straightening the Paths”: Inductive Divination, Materiality, and Imagination in the Graeco-Roman Period.” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome. Supplementary Volumes 13: 119–143. Habinek, Thomas. 2007. “Probing the entrails of the universe: astrology as bodily knowledge in Manilius’ Astronomica.” In Ordering Knowledge in the Roman Empire, edited by Jason König and Tim Whitmarsh, 229–40. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Halliday, William Reginald. 1913. Greek Divination. London: Macmillan. Hankinson, Richard J. 1988. “Stoicism, Science and Divination.” Apeiron 21, no. 2: 125–60. Holbraad, Martin. 2012. Truth in Motion. The Recursive Anthropology of Cuban Divination. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Johnston, Sarah Iles, ed. 2004. Religions of the Ancient World: A Guide. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Johnston, Sarah Iles 2005. “Introduction: Defining Divination.” In Mantikê. Studies in Ancient Divination, edited by Sarah Iles Johnston and Peter T. Struck, 1–28. Leiden: Brill. Johnston, Sarah Iles 2008. Ancient Greek Divination. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Johnston, Sarah Iles, and Peter T. Struck, eds. 2005. Mantikê. Studies in Ancient Divination. Leiden: Brill. Keller, Mary. 2002. The Hammer and the Flute. Women, Power and Spirit Possession. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press. Kindt, Julia. 2016. Revisiting Delphi: Religion and Storytelling in Ancient Greece. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. König, Jason and Tim Whitmarsh. 2007. “Ordering Knowledge.” In Introduction to Ordering Knowledge in the Roman Empire, edited by Jason König and Tim Whitmarsh, 3–39. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Luijendijk, Annemarie and William E. Klingshirn, eds. 2019. My Lots Are in Thy Hands: Sortilege and its Practitioners in Late Antiquity. Leiden: Brill. Manetti, Giovanni. 1993. Theories of the Sign in Classical Antiquity. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Maurizio, Lisa. 1995. “Anthropology and Spirit Possession: A Reconsideration of the Pythia’s Role at Delphi.” JHS 115: 69–86. Maurizio, Lisa. 1997. “Delphic Oracles as Oral Performances: Authenticity and Historical Evidence.” CA 16, no. 2 (October): 308–34. Maurizio, Lisa. 2001. “The Voice at the Centre of the World: The Pythia’s Ambiguity and Authority.” In Making Silence Speak: Women’s Voices in Greek Literature and Society, edited by André Lardinois and Laura McClure, 38–40. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Nice, Alex. 2006. Review: Mantiké: Studies in Ancient Divination, edited by Sarah Iles Johnston and Peter T. Struck (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2005). Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2006.04.10. North, John. 1990. “Diviners and Divination at Rome.” In Pagan Priests: Religion and Power in the Ancient World, edited by Mary Beard and John North, 49–71. London: Duckworth. Ogden, Daniel. 2018. “Introduction.” In Prophets and Profits: Ancient Divination and Its Reception, edited by Richard Evans, 1–15. New York and London: Routledge.

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Parke, Herbert William 1967. The Oracles of Zeus: Dodona, Olympia, Ammon. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Parke, Herbert William. 1985. Oracles of Apollo in Asia Minor. London and Sydney: Croom Helm. Parke, Herbert William. 1988. Sibyls and Sibylline Prophecy in Classical Antiquity. London and New York: Routledge. Parke, Herbert William and Donald Ernest Wilson Wormell. 1956. The Delphic Oracle. 2 vols. Oxford: Blackwell. Parker, Robert. 1985. “Greek States and Greek Oracles.” In History of Political Thought 6, no. 1/2 (Summer): 298–326 (also in Crux: Essays in Greek History Presented to G.E.M. de Ste. Croix on his 75thBirthday), edited by Paul Cartledge and F. David Harvey, 298–326. London: Duckworth. Peek, Philip M. 1991. “The Study of Divination, Present and Past.” In African Divination Systems: Ways of Knowing, edited by Philip M. Peek, 1–22. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Potter, David. 1994. Prophets and Emperors. Human and Divine Authority from Augustus to Theodosius. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Price, Simon. 2004. “Religious Personnel: Greece.” In Religions of the Ancient World: A Guide, edited by Sarah Iles Johnston, 302–5. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Raphals, Lisa. 2013. Divination and Prediction in Early China and Ancient Greece. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rinpoche, Chime Radha. 1981. “Tibet.” In Oracles and Divination, edited by Michael Loewe and Carmen Blacker, 3–37. Boulder: Shambhala. Santangelo, Federico. 2013. Divination, Prediction and the End of the Roman Republic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Scheid, John. 2003 [1998]. An Introduction to Roman Religion. Translated by Janet Lloyd. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Sidky, Homayun. 2011. “The State Oracle of Tibet, Spirit Possession, and Shamanism.” Numen 58, no.1: 71–99. Simonetti, Elsa Giovanna. 2017. A Perfect Medium? Oracular Divination in the Thought of Plutarch. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Smith, Frederick M. 2006. The Self Possessed. Deity and Spirit Possession in South Asian Literature and Civilization. New York: Columbia University Press. Steele, John, ed. 2016. The Circulation of Astronomical Knowledge in the Ancient World. Leiden: Brill. Stoneman, Richard. 2011. The Ancient Oracles: Making the Gods Speak. New Haven: Yale University Press. Struck, Peter T. 2016. Divination and Human Nature. A Cognitive History of Intuition in Classical Antiquity. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Swancutt, Katherine. 2006. “Representation vs. Conjectural Divination: Innovating out of Nothing in Mongolia.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 12, no. 2: 331–351. Swancutt, Katherine. 2012. Fortune and the Cursed: The Sliding Scale of Time in Mongolian Divination. New York: Berghahn Books. Ustinova, Yulia. 2018. Divine Mania: Alteration of Consciousness in Ancient Greece. London and New York: Routledge.

Introduction

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Vernant, Jean-Pierre, ed. 1974. Divination et Rationalité. Paris: Éditions du Seuil. Vernant, Jean-Pierre. 1991. “Speech and Mute Signs.” In Mortals and Immortals. Collected Essays, edited and translated by Froma I. Zeitlin, 303–17. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Zeitlyn, David. 1990. “Professor Garfinkel Visits the Soothsayers: Ethnomethodology and Mambila Divination.” Man 25, no. 4: 654–66. Zeitlyn, David. 2020. Mambila Divination: Framing Questions, Constructing Answers. London and New York: Routledge.

1

The enigmatic divine voice and the problem of human misinterpretation Julia Kindt

Introduction The ancient Greeks knew of a number of ways in which humans sought to communicate with the divine through the medium of language, including prayers, hymns, curses and oracles. All of these strategies have in common that they imagine the gods and goddesses as entities that could be addressed for certain purposes and that, potentially at least, took an interest in human affairs. Because this kind of communication addressed the supernatural, it differed from other kinds, including communication about the gods rather than with them. On the spectrum of ways in which the Greeks sought to converse with the divine, oracles stand out.1 They allowed humans to address the gods about an array of problems. Moreover, in contrast to other forms of religious communication they also promised an instant, verbal response from divi­ nity, even if this response frequently seemed to have posed more questions than it really answered (see below). A large number of institutions provided religious communication through oracles. Among them, the oracle of Apollo at Delphi was the most au­ thoritative (see Figure 1.1). Its prophecies were considered to be more truthful than, for example, the predictions and omens provided by itinerant seers (Flower 2008). This chapter enquires into the kind of religious communication the Greeks associated with Delphi (see Figure 1.2). It explores the principles and practices of oracular divination as represented in Greek thought and lit­ erature and investigates the way classical scholarship has looked at this evidence. A particular focus will be on the significance of the famous “en­ igmatic language” of the oracle – the hallmark of Delphi and other oracular institutions as represented in Greek thought and literature.

Testing the oracle A mischievous man (anēr kakopragmōn) once decided that he would prove the Delphic oracle wrong (Aesop 55 Halm). Holding a sparrow hidden

Enigmatic divine voice 31

Figure 1.1 Temple of Apollo, Delphi. 2-369-731. Artist: Samuel Magal. Source: Courtesy of Samuel Magal/Sites & Photos/Heritage Images.

underneath his cloak, he approached the oracle asking whether what he held was dead or alive. He planned either to kill the bird or let it live, depending on the oracle’s response. The god, however, saw through the cloak, and replied: “You there, hang on, do whatever you want: it is entirely up to you whether you show me something living or dead!”2 (“ἀλλ’, ὦ οὗτος, πέπαυσο. ἐν σοὶ γάρ ἐστι τοῦτο, ὃ ἔχεις, ἢ νεκρὸν εἶναι ἢ ἔμψυχον.”). Aesop, who in­ cluded this story amongst his fables, concluded with the moralising ob­ servation that the god was obviously not to be trifled with. This story plays on several aspects central to oracular divination. Most notably, it nicely captures the air of suspicion and fraud that ever so subtly (and sometimes not-so-subtly) attached itself to the oracular business. Except, of course, that in this case the ambiguity inheres not in the oracular response at all but rather in the man himself and his intent to prove the oracle wrong. In fact, Aesop’s fable upends the normal dynamics of oracle consultations because here the consultant seeks to mislead the god, not the other way around.3 The ambiguity typically associated with oracular re­ sponses – often so frustrating for those seeking to benefit from the god’s superior knowledge – is turned against the oracle itself, but with only limited success. The oracle rather elegantly deconstructs the ambiguities presented to it by naming the two possible outcomes. Compare this incident to a similar one in which a certain Daphidas asks the Delphic oracle whether he would find his horse (Suda ∆99). To outsmart

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Figure 1.2 This red-figure bell krater depicts the Pythia at Delphi, with the tripod, and Orestes kneeling as suppliant beside the omphalos with Apollo and Athena intervening on his behalf. Attributed to Python. 360–320 BCE, Paestum. Source: 1917, 1210.1, British Museum. © Trustees of the British Museum.

the oracle, our man invokes an adunaton (an impossibility): as he did not even own a horse he obviously could not retrieve one and either a positive or a negative response would prove the oracle wrong. In contrast to Aesop’s fable, however, the oracle does not immediately unmask the fraud but seemingly falls into the trap, by matching the impossible question with an equally impossible prediction: that he would soon find the horse. Valerius

Enigmatic divine voice 33 Maximus, who tells the same story, adds that the oracle also stated that he would fall from it and die.4 Later, Daphidas learns that what appeared to be the wrong answer has a second, alternative meaning, which he had not considered and which con­ firms the oracle’s authority and truthfulness and brings about – literally – his downfall. King Attalus of Pergamum seized him and had him thrown down a cliff. Just moments before his death, Daphidas learns that the rock was called hippos – “horse” – from which he concluded (rightly, it seems) that the oracle did not lie (Suda ∆99). What are we supposed to take from these obviously moralizing stories about the nature of oracular divination? And what if anything can we learn from them about the meaning and significance of enigmatic oracular com­ munication? To be sure, we could take them as evidence for an ancient tendency to challenge the perception of the enigmatic voice as genuinely inspired and divine. After all, both characters are initially unconvinced that oracular ambiguities are anything more than prophetic fiction making. In semiotic terms, both tests deny the existence of a fixed referent for the oracular sign. What is at stake is the idea that the enigmatic divine voice circumscribes a particular future, a particular reality. In both instances, the possibility is raised that oracular ambiguity does not reveal a hidden truth, divine authority, and an otherworldly system of knowledge but rather re­ presents a much more worldly instance of “deliberate ambiguity” employed to cover all possible outcomes of a given course of events. By challenging the oracle with a question that not only has no right answer (as in the second example) or the answer to which changes depending on a given course of events (as in the first), oracle-testing seeks to invalidate the very modes of meaning upon which oracular ambiguity rests. But this testing is only half the story. In both instances the oracle ulti­ mately reaffirms its role as the speaker of true prophecies and revelatory ambiguities. The enigmatic voice reflects a form of divine knowledge that exceeds human knowledge – that sees through all human clothes and is able to foretell human fate. Oracular communication, it follows, is authoritative communication, is enigmatic communication: to try to beat oracles on their home turf (as by tricking them with obscure or ambiguous requests) is as futile as it is dan­ gerous. At the very least, these two incidents suggest that if we want to benefit from the superior knowledge of the gods, we had better take oracular ambiguity seriously. We shall return to this point later in this chapter.

Ambiguities and authorities It remains to be said that – perhaps unsurprisingly – classical scholarship has inherited the suspicious attitude towards oracular ambiguity. Like the mischievous man and Daphidas, scholars have frequently put oracular ambiguity to the test, in order to show that the Delphic Oracle employed

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ambiguity deliberately in order to generate responses that cover every pos­ sible outcome of a given course of events. Take, for example, the scholarly discussion of a prediction allegedly given to the Spartans in about 550 BCE. The Spartans consulted the Pythia about conquering Arcadia and received the following response: Arcady? Great is the thing you ask. I will not grant it. In Arcady are many men, acorn-eaters, And they will keep you out. Yet, for I am not grudging, I will give you Tegea to dance in with stamping feet And her fair plain to measure out with the line.5 In their 1956 study of the Delphic oracle, Herbert Parke and Donald Wormell present this prophecy as a prime example of “deliberate ambi­ guity.” They argue that, this oracle … is evidently authentic and was delivered under approxi­ mately the circumstance which Herodotus records… . Happily for the Pythia, her metaphorical language could lend itself to other interpreta­ tions, and when the current opinion was that the gods expressed their meaning darkly, a devious construction could plausibly be put on the prophecy after the event. (1956, I: 94) In short, by choosing to employ ambiguity, the oracle preserved its standing as a speaker of true prophecies, no matter how events turned out. For long, the question of the meaning of oracular ambiguity was in­ variably tangled up with the question of authenticity. In order to write a history out of oracular responses and the circumstances surrounding them, classical scholars sought to distinguish genuine and authentic responses (that were really spoken at Delphi) from inauthentic ones and to identify the background of possible forgeries. Who invented a particular oracular re­ sponse and for what reason were the principal questions asked about ora­ cles. The ambiguous language of the oracle employing metaphors, homonyms and obscurities – what throughout this contribution (and fol­ lowing Manetti) I summarily refer to as the “enigmatic mode” – indicate that a given response was not historical.6 The extraordinary tales of enig­ matic prediction, interpretation and misinterpretation, and the subsequent spectacular fulfillment of prophecy, were frequently exposed as mere for­ geries, brought into circulation after the event. The existence of “deliberate ambiguity,” however, is easily disproved by pointing out that in most cases the circumstances according to which most of the famously ambiguous

Enigmatic divine voice 35 predictions are fulfilled are far too specific to be deliberately taken into account at the moment of their alleged delivery (see below for examples).7 Joseph Fontenrose criticised the arbitrary and subjective nature of such assessments, and sought to put the discussion of prophecies on firmer grounds. In his now classic study The Delphic Oracle published in 1978, he assigned the approximately 535 extant Delphic oracles to categories ac­ cording to the time elapsed between their alleged delivery and the moment when they were first recorded in writing. This categorisation of prophecies according to strictly formal characteristics yielded a variety of interesting insights. For example, it emerged that the en­ igmatic mode was almost exclusively a feature of responses written down long after the event. Almost all prophecies cast in the enigmatic mode fall into Fontenrose’s categories of “quasi-historical,” “legendary,” and “fictional” re­ sponses.8 Although he cautioned that the time between prediction and ful­ fillment was not a direct indicator of an oracle being genuine or authentic (in the sense that it was really spoken at Delphi), it emerged that the aston­ ishing predictions first appeared in written form long after the events to which they refer. Fontenrose concluded that ambiguity was a feature of historical story-telling and not as much of real oracles delivered at Delphi and elsewhere. Delphi, he maintained, gave more or less straightforward answers to much simpler questions, many of which were of the yes/no variety, along the lines suggested in one of Plutarch’s dialogues: “if they shall be victorious, if they shall marry, if it is to their advantage to sail the sea, if to take to farming, if to go abroad” (εἰ νικήσουσιν, εἰ γαμήσουσιν, εἰ συμφέρειπλεῖν, εἰ γεωργεῖν, εἰ ἀποδημεῖν).9 In sum: the enigmatic voice is a feature not of the real but of the imaginary Delphi as it was visited and revisited throughout Greek and Roman thought and literature. With this insight, Fontenrose made an important contribution to the study of inspired divination: he suggested a more systematic and rational approach towards oracles. At the time of publication his study was also an important statement against the rampant romanticism of Delphi – Delphic ritual in particular – in classical scholarship (see Fontenrose 1978, 196–232). In addition, his close analysis revealed many parallels in form and content between different oracle stories (Fontenrose 1978, 58–87). Overall, however, his rigid classification of oracular responses (dividing them structurally in different modes, topics, themes and patterns) was not conducive to an ex­ ploration of the significance of the enigmatic and inspired voice in the an­ cient world. Like his predecessors, Fontenrose was driven by a certain desire to look behind enigmatic prophecies, to disentangle the clothing of language, and to examine the reality underneath. He did not attempt to think through the ways in which oracles (especially enigmatic ones) reflect – and reflect on – the world. During the last 20 years or so, classical scholars have come to think about the inspired voice in more productive terms. Rather than always and ne­ cessarily using ambiguity as an indicator of an oracle’s lack of authenticity

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and historicity, the “enigmatic voice” is now embraced in its own right as a mode of thinking typical of the oracular endeavour and central to the communication of divine knowledge through predictions. In religious terms it is seen as part of a much broader meditation on the nature of the gods in Greek and Roman thought and literature (see below). What instigated this change in paradigm is certainly a larger “cultural turn” within some areas of classical studies. Questions of the responses’ authenticity and historicity pose themselves along different lines, depending on what kind of history one intends to write out of these responses and the narratives that surround them. To return once more to the example from Herodotus: if one wants to use his account of the oracle allegedly delivered to the Spartans before their attempted invasion of Arcadia to write the military history of the fifth century BCE, one must come clean about whether one is prepared to assign these responses any place in the historical succession of events. If, however, one is interested in how the responses featured in the Histories reflect the principles and practices of Herodotean historiography, or in how this account presents Greek sentiments towards Sparta and her military ambitions more generally (several later authors re­ port the same story), it will stand as a cultural product in its own right.10 The “cultural turn” in the study of the ancient world in general and of oracular prophecies in particular inspired new questions about the world­ view expressed through enigmatic oracles alongside more traditional ques­ tions regarding their social and political role (“function”).11 The cultural history that is now derived from oracles, Delphic and otherwise, comple­ ments and sometimes even challenges the traditional social and political history of the ancient world. Lisa Maurizio, for example, has suggested that we see the typical story pattern featuring an ambiguous response, sub­ sequent human interpretation or misinterpretation, and the eventual, fre­ quently surprising fulfillment of the oracle’s prophecy as either the product of a complex process of structuration and story-telling or as features of a unique and inspired voice, one both female and divine.12 Maurizio has also pointed out that in the process of this rethinking of paradigms, the authenticity of oracles has been redefined. Rather than in­ dicating forgery, invention or diplomatic evasiveness, the enigmatic mode conveys a kind of authenticity, independent of the question what happened at Delphi or elsewhere. It helps make a given oracle “a bona fide member of the Delphic tradition” (Maurizio 1997, 317). That is to say, the enigmatic mode no longer indicates an oracle’s lack of authenticity and historicity but becomes itself a trademark, a kind of sign. Before we inquire further into what is at stake in human/divine commu­ nication imagined as enigmatic communication, it may be worth pointing out that the cultural perspective puts the study of Greece and Rome on par with that of other societies both past and present. This shift opens up the possibility of a comparative appreciation of institutions, discourses, and practices. Interesting parallels between ancient divination and oracular

Enigmatic divine voice 37 communication on the one hand and ethnographic material on the other have been noted.13 For example, the enigmatic mode crops up, not just in Greco-Roman oracles but also in other divinatory systems.14 While the imagination of a divine voice as an ambiguous voice thus seems to be a cross-cultural constant, the way in which it is reflected in the ancient evi­ dence (i.e. in the apparent futility of oracle testing!) seems to be specifically Greek and Roman. In the field of classical scholarship, the productivity of this new cultural perspective towards the inspired voice is illustrated by a variety of studies investigating oracular ambiguity as a central and in itself meaningful aspect of human/divine communication. In the remainder of this contribution I discuss the core problems around which current debates about the significance and meaning of oracular obscurity revolve, as well as some of the theoretical and conceptual questions emerging from it.

The inspired voice in context A great deal of current thinking about the oracular voice starts from the narrative nature of much of the oracular tradition.15 Already Fontenrose has pointed out typical narrative features of oracles, beyond the use of hexameter verse. Thus, a conditional opening line (all’ hotan/hopotan) in­ troduces a command in the main clause (tote dē) (Fontenrose 1978, 166–74). Elaborate predictions often consist of a salutation to the inquirer (“foolish king Croesus”);16 the repetition of the question asked (“you ask about Tegea”);17 a claim of oracular authority (“I know the grains of sand on the beach…”);18 a condition; the prediction; and an explanation of the predic­ tion. None of the historical responses in Fontenrose’s category show these features. There seems to be an unbridgeable gulf between oracular practice and oracular promise, or between the real and the imaginary Delphi. Such structural features also became the target of several oracle-parodies, confirming the fact that they were widely recognised as a typical feature of the oracular voice. In Lucian’s Zeus Rants, for example, a desperate Apollo finds his predictive capacities challenged by Momus, a minor divinity. When pressed to demonstrate his skills by predicting the outcome of a debate between two humans (one arguing for the existence of the Greek gods, the other against) Apollo finally puts this forward: Hark to the words of the prophet, oracular words of Apollo, Touching the shivery strife in which heroes are facing each other. Loudly they shout in the battle, and fast-flying words are their weapons; Many a blow while the hisses of conflict are ebbing and flowing This way and that shall be dealt on the crest of the plowtail stubborn;

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Julia Kindt Yet when the hook-taloned vulture the grasshopper grips in his clutches, Then shall the rainbearing crows make an end of their cawing forever: Vict’ry shall go to the mules, and the ass will rejoice in his offspring.19

It is not just the typical structure of oracles that is parodied here. The language in which this message is formulated comprises nothing but a series of metaphors well known from other Delphic oracles. Elsewhere, however, these figures of speech do not come so thick and fast. By stacking them up, Lucian causes Apollo’s speech to appear artificial, so that the god makes an impression quite the opposite of what he intends and for which he is famous. Normally weighty, the metaphorical language loses its heft and becomes ridiculous. Hence, Apollo’s performance is rejected by Momus: Zeus:

What are you guffawing about, Momus? Surely there is nothing to laugh at in the situation we are facing. Stop, hang you. You’ll choke yourself to death with your laughing. Momus: How can I, Zeus, when the oracle is so clear and manifest? Zeus: Well then, suppose you tell us what in the world it means. Momus: It is quite manifest, so that we shan’t need a Themistocles. The prophecy says as plainly as you please that this fellow is a humbug and that you who believe in him are pack-assess and mules, without as much sense as grasshoppers.20 Lucian’s satire here takes aim at the very core of the enigmatic voice – its unimpeachable divine authority. When the linguistic structure collapses, the god’s power goes with it. In order to make sense of the oracular voice as an enigmatic voice it is not enough to consider the typical features of oracular responses. Just as im­ portant is the drama of human/divine communication that surrounds the prophecies. The ancient evidence frequently provides information, not just about the divine response itself but also about the inquiries allegedly made at Delphi, and about the human struggles to make sense of the inspired voice. The questions put to Delphi, whether real or imaginary, are perhaps as interesting as the oracles themselves, for they provide us with invaluable information about ancient concerns about the future. Moreover, oracle stories require interpretation, but they frequently also depict the act of in­ terpretation in the body of their own narratives. They are, as I will show, about interpretation in a very fundamental sense. Oracle stories have their own topography. The fundamental setup of these tales is one of question and answer, of prediction and fulfillment, of riddle and solution – and, indeed, many oracles started life as riddles (or proverbs) first before they became subsumed into the oracular genre (see Fontenrose 1978, 79–87). The ontological contrast between humanity and divinity

Enigmatic divine voice 39 constitutes the fundamental premise around which the entire exchange re­ volves. Oracle stories imagine the encounter between humanity and divinity through the medium of language, and they often do so in a formalised fashion. These stories map out not just the tension between past, present and fu­ ture but also between the apparent particularity of the prediction and the uncertainty of how to get there. In most cases, the place where one can hear the enigmatic divine voice (the oracular institution) is not the place where one can understand its meaning. The process of interpretation frequently occurs far away from the institution that allegedly generated the response, highlighting the fact that interpretation of the divine sign is a deeply human affair with all the inevitable problems, desires and possibilities for human error typically associated. Overall, then, it is important to stress that to focus on the inspired voice in context is not to degrade it to a mere trope of literary fiction-making: this would be to misunderstand the fact that story-telling is one of the preferred ways in which ancient Greek religious thought articulated itself. Rather, to consider the enigmatic voice in the context of human/divine communication flags a whole series of themes that are worth considering in detail: the re­ lationship of the inspired voice to certain real-life situations, its focus on knowledge and the process of knowing, and its claim to authority as a divine voice.

Enigmatic realities To start with the first point: a productive strand of scholarly inquiry cur­ rently explores the manifold links between the structures in which ancient Greek religion expresses itself on the one hand and the realities of life in ancient Greece on the other. Following Geertz’s definition of religion as a cultural system, John Gould in particular has argued for Greek religion to be a symbolic system, a “language” which allowed those fluent in it to converse about the world they inhabit.21 Applied to the study of Greek oracles, the question arises what aspects of the human experience the oracular voice, imagined as ambiguous and en­ igmatic, reflects. To state that all oracular communication concerns those aspects of life in which humanity seeks to benefit from the omniscience of the gods would be to state the obvious. However, it is interesting to note that the enigmatic voice not only provides a way into the superior knowledge of the gods but also, to some extent, preserves and extends human un­ certainty and the general openness of the future, for example, in the form of the question put to the oracle, or in the difficulty of interpreting the response. Several scholars have researched the link between oracular tales and particular aspects of the ancient Greek experience.22 Ambiguous responses feature particularly frequently in colonial narratives, for example, which, as

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etiologies, explain the foundation of a city in new and unmapped territory. A certain Locrus once received the response that he was to found a city where he was bitten by a wooden dog (xylinēkyōn).23 Incidentally the so­ lution of the riddle required considerable botanical knowledge: the wooden dog came in the form of a rose (a so-called kynosbatos, “Dog Briar”), which scratched Locrus, finally leading to the foundation of Oxolian Locris. In discussing this and similar examples, Carol Dougherty (1992; 1993a, 15–60; 1993b) has shown the importance of the enigmatic voice in Greek portrayals of colonization. She has argued that colonial narratives have much more to offer than a simple etiology in the form of an endorsement of the new city by an authoritative voice. The typical oracular narrative about founding a colony contains a riddle to be solved and its congenial solution by those in charge, thereby representing the challenges and rewards typically involved in colonial enterprises. She argues that “oracles within colonization traditions exploit the ambiguity of puns to create a new vision of reality, one that translates local phenomena into the Greek language just as colonization itself transforms foreign soil into a Greek city” (Dougherty 1992, 29). Note how the focus has changed from a conception of authenticity wedded to the question of “what really happened” to a much broader conception of a “cultural authenticity” of oracular responses and the circumstances surrounding their purported delivery. Lisa Maurizio (2001, 43–6) applies this productive line of enquiry to reading of another kind of etiological story: tales concerning the birth of tyrants, which also frequently feature oracles speaking in the enigmatic mode. For example, the birth of Cypselus, the future tyrant of Corinth, was apparently anticipated by the following oracle: An eagle in the rocks has conceived, and shall bring forth a lion, Mighty, ravening; and he will loose the knees of many. Give heed to these things, Corinthians, you who dwell About lovely Peirene and the rock-set town of Corinth. (Hdt. 5.92.β3)24 This is more than mere anti-tyrant propaganda. Tyrants, Maurizio (2001, 45) explained, lacked the usual credentials of an authoritative lineage. Accordingly, oracles predicting their birth in enigmatic terms acknowledge the uncertainties and ambiguities of the political situation. Here as elsewhere, the plurality and richness of the world finds expression in the infinities of language in which words can describe a seemingly un­ limited number of things. The tropes and images of this language – its homonyms, metaphors, and general obscurity – circulate in time and space until they are substantiated, and the infinite number of possible realities collapses at the moment when the prediction is fulfilled. This is a world in

Enigmatic divine voice 41 which the ominous rain falling from a clear sky turns out to be the tears falling from the eyes of a crying woman named “Aithra,” “Clear Sky”;25 a world in which the “five greatest contests,” won by a certain Tisamenus refer not to athletic competitions but to five iconic battles (Hdt. 9.33.2). Oracle stories explore the various ways the divine sign is linked with its referent and in which the human protagonist – through the act of interpretation and the detours of misinterpretation – comes to understand not only the prophecy but also the world as an agglomeration of interrelated words and their meanings (referents).

Oracular epistemology To inquire into the future, however, is always also to attempt to control it. Oracle stories featuring enigmatic language raise – and partially at least deny – the question whether humanity is able to navigate coming events with the help of the gods. In depicting the quest for the ontological relation between words and things oracle stories reflect the search for order and consistency in a world governed by accident and the contingencies of life. The Spartan king Cleomenes received the prediction that he would take Argos, but eventually he had to realise that the Argos in question was not the city he hoped to take, but merely a grove by the same name (Hdt. 6.76–80). Another Spartan king, Archidamus (Agesilaos’ son), received an oracle that he should beware of “Sikelia” (Suda ∑ 389). Staying away from Sicily did not help; the oracle re­ ferred to a hill by the same name in Attica, where Archidamus was killed in combat. More often than not, it seems, the desire to control the future col­ lapses under the consequences of misinterpretation. It is in this sense, then, that oracle stories are indeed a site of both certainty and uncertainty, to take up Michael Wood’s formulation: “An oracle is not a site of uncertainty or infallibility; it is a site of both” (2003, 56).26 This is to say that oracle stories are not so much about positive knowledge as the process in which this knowledge is gained. Frequently, the real referent of the prediction turns out to be rather trivial. For example, there is nothing terribly profound or divine about interpreting “the third harvest” not as three cycles of crops but as three generations of human offspring, as in the case of Hyllus, who had inquired how the Heraclids could return to the Peloponnese (Apollodorus 2.8.2). However, the insights at stake here exceed the numerical difference between three and three times twenty years (the average length of a generation at that time) inasmuch as they concern the very principles and practices by which we make sense of the world around us. What is interesting, then, is not so much the prediction itself but how one gets there. It is the path that matters – the destination less so.27 The focus of the story is decisively on what happens between the enigmatic prediction and its subsequent fulfillment. Insight only ever emerges in hindsight. Oracle stories, then, are not about any particular kind of knowledge. Instead, they encourage meditation about the nature of knowledge itself and

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about the processes in which this knowledge can and cannot be derived. Tales featuring ambiguous and enigmatic language do not tell people what to do in a straightforward fashion. They require interpretation and ex­ amination. Epaminondas of Thebes once received the response that he should avoid “sea” (pelagos) (Pausanias 8.11.10). But – you guessed it – the oracle did not refer to the ocean at all, rendering futile all of his efforts to stay away from it but (as in the case of Cleomenes) to a wood of the same name. To benefit from divine knowledge requires one to consider alter­ natives to the current reality and paths other than the chosen route. But not everybody fails, like Cleomenes and Epaminondas. Some indeed seem to be able to learn how oracles mean and can therefore use the knowledge gained to their advantage. To return once again to Tisamenus from Elis (the man slated to win the “five greatest contests”): when training and competition in games did not yield the desired result (although appar­ ently he once came close to winning the pentathlon at Olympia) the Spartans understood that the oracle referred to warfare and not athletic contests. They eventually persuaded Tisamenus to serve as diviner in their army but not before they granted Spartan citizenship to him and his brother (Hdt. 9.33). This story – no matter whether real or imaginary, or both – nicely illus­ trates the fact that oracles do not give easy answers to easy questions but, rather, confront the inquirer with a new question: does he understand the meaning of the oracle? Enigmatic oracles propagate an interactive, con­ versational kind of knowledge. Oracle stories also encourage us to distin­ guish real knowledge form what we only think we know. They describe the blind spots that frequently obscure human vision and that, more frequently than not, bring about human failure, as in the case of our man falling from his very own hippos.28 Take the case of Socrates, whose friend Chairephon, according to Plato and others, once asked at Delphi whether anyone was wiser.29 Apparently the oracle responded that nobody was wiser than Socrates. Upon hearing of this response, Socrates set out to examine it. He challenged a number of experts well regarded for their knowledge in the hope that they would convince him of their superior wisdom and thus disprove the oracle. In all instances, however, he found that people overstate their expertise (Plato, Ap. 22b–e). What recommends Socratic knowledge (the knowledge of the phi­ losopher) and distinguishes it from the expert knowledge of poets, craftsmen, politicians, is the fact that he is aware of his own limits. Superior knowledge includes self-knowledge – an insight from which all those misinterpreting the enigmatic mode could have benefited.30 But it was not merely individual concerns that were put to the oracle; communal questions and problems feature just as frequently in the ancient evidence. According to Dio Chrysostom (32.3), the Athenians once received the oracle that if they wanted good citizens they should put the finest thing (to kalliston) into their boys’ ears. Misinterpreting the response, “they

Enigmatic divine voice 43 pierced one of the ears of each and inserted a bit of gold” (οἱ δὲ τρήσαντες τὸ ἕτερον χρυσίον ἐνέβαλον).31 Of course, as Dio is quick to point out, they should rather have thought of paideia (education) and logos (reason). This story not only propagates and promotes the benefits of knowledge and learning for the community but also compares and contrasts material and idealistic values in a way that reverberates with the moral universe of the socalled Second Sophistic (when Dio Chrysostom composed the Discourses which featured this story).

Gods and humans At the core of this sometimes surprisingly self-reflective body of knowledge, however, is not just any voice but a voice which is considered both inspired and divine. What does the enigmatic nature of this voice say about the re­ lationship between those consulted and those consulting, between gods and men? Manetti (1993, 14–19) has illustrated that what is at stake in human/ divine communication is more than just a simple transfer of knowledge. The divine voice communicates the superior knowledge of the gods with regard to past, present and future events, but at the same time it does not close the gap separating humanity from divinity. Instead, it extends and maintains this gap by clothing the information it provides in language that requires (and sometimes defies) interpretation. In this model of oracular divination the enigmatic mode signifies the ontological difference between the human and divine spheres. Gods are like and unlike humans, just as divine language is like and unlike human lan­ guage. This language mediates between the human and the divine spheres; between human knowledge and ignorance; and between the past, the pre­ sent, and the future. Elsewhere I have referred to this function of the en­ igmatic divine voice as a “mediation triple” (Kindt 2008; 2016, 159–64). The enigmatic mode resembles other forms of divine representation. The idea that the gods are like and unlike humans, for example, is also expressed in Greek statuary that endows the gods with human bodies, and thus implies that the supernatural is in some sense like humanity; to have the gods speak to us in human language (i.e. in the form of oracles) makes the same point. But in many ways gods’ bodies (no matter whether in literature or in the form of divine statues) are never entirely like human bodies. As Vernant (1991, 27–49, 151–63) has pointed out, there is always something that gives away the divine essence. Analogously, the divine voice differs from human language by its reliance on the enigmatic.32 To make sense of this voice, then, requires us to acknowledge the inseparable gulf between humanity and divinity – a nod to divine alterity which some human protagonists, in par­ ticular those of the oracle-testing variety, are not prepared (or able) to make. Nevertheless, it would be misleading to assume that the enigmatic mode, by adding a vocal dimension, merely complements common visual mode of divine representation, including statuary. Like a sort of reverse ekphrasis,

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enigmatic oracles present an image of a future that does not yet exist. Therefore, to interpret an enigmatic oracle successfully is to bring an image into being, to match the image against a real-life scenario. More frequently than not this will involve an explosive act of revelation as in the numerous oracle stories which highlight the surprising ways in which divine predictions become fulfilled. Oracle stories highlight the very moment at which divine anticipation and foreknowledge merge fully with (or turns into) human experience. Ultimately, such stories depict the Delphic oracle as a location and in­ stitution of meaning which enables, structures and formalises human/divine communication.33 The importance of such an institution in a religious tra­ dition that is largely devoid of traditional loci of religious authority cannot be underestimated: Greek religion knew no elaborate structure of religious organisation (“a church”), no decisive formula of belief (“a creed”), no holy literature. But it did know a body of texts featuring a voice equally enig­ matic, authoritative and divine around which a vibrant conversation evolved. It is in this sense, then, that the search for oracular meaning is also a search for a religious centre in a religious culture in which such centres were conspicuously hard to find.

Conclusion The question what the enigmatic oracular voice means is really the question how we deal with the uncertainty that characterises the human condition. The oracular voice, imagined as both enigmatic and divine, ultimately confronts us with the insight into the scope and limits of human knowledge in a very profound way. At the end of our investigation of oracular com­ munication as enigmatic communication stands the strikingly paradoxical insight that, overall, the enigmatic oracular voice raises just as many ques­ tions as it is prepared to answer. Oracular knowledge is not absolute knowledge but dialogical in nature. The ancient oracles have long since gone out of business. Delphi, for one, was closed down by the Roman emperor Theodosius I in 391/92 CE after it had been in operation for over 1000 years. The reason for this was not that something was wrong about oracular communication. To the early Christians it was simply the wrong god who was speaking at Delphi (Christianity, of course, had its very own prophets instigating human/divine communication). Yet the desire to know, to control and to possess that which is ultimately beyond human grasp still persists. Our time has its very own enigmatic voices, oracular institutions and prognostic tools. Think of economic predictions, for example, or the much more mundane but equally fallible weather forecast, or the veiled language in which many of our politicians cast their vision (or its absence) of things to come. In the end, our efforts at anticipating the future remain just as challenging as those of the ancient world.

Enigmatic divine voice 45

Notes 1 On ancient Greek divination see Johnston 2008. This chapter was originally published in Mercury’s Wings: Exploring Modes of Communication in the Ancient World, edited by Richard J.A. Talbert and Fred S. Naiden (New York: Oxford University Press, 2017) and is reproduced here with the permission of Oxford Publishing Ltd. (Oxford University Press) through PLSclear. 2 Trans. Gibbs 2008, with modifications. 3 Compare also Croesus’ oracle test in Hdt. 1.46–48 with Kindt 2006. 4 Valerius Maximus 1.8 ext. 8.; see also Posidonius apud Cicero, Fat. 3.5. 5 Hdt. 1.66: Ἀρκαδίην μ’ αἰτεῖς; μέγα μ’ αἰτεῖς· οὔ τοι δώσω. πολλοὶ ἐν Ἀρκαδίῃ βαλανηφάγοι ἄνδρες ἔασιν, οἵ σ’ ἀποκωλύσουσιν· ἐγὼ δέ τοι οὔτι μεγαίρω. δώσω τοι Τεγέην ποσσίκροτον ὀρχήσασθαι καὶ καλὸν πεδίον σχοίνῳ διαμετρήσασθαι. ed. Wilson 2015, trans. Marincola 2003. For an interpretation of this response within the wider context where Herodotus features it, see Kindt 2006. 6 Manetti 1993, 24, with nn.10, 170. 7 With the exception of oracles of the type given to Croesus (that he would destroy a great empire if he waged war on the Persians, see Hdt. 1.53), which would be disproved only in the unlikely event of the war ending in a tie (with no empire being destroyed), there are very few examples of oracular ambiguities embracing all possible outcomes of a given course of events (but see also Ennius apud Cicero, De div. 2.56.116, with Fontenrose 1978, 67, 83, 343–4). 8 See Fontenrose 1978, 7–10. His “quasi-historical” category is for responses first written down long after their alleged delivery, “legendary” for those reported in timeless tales and legends, and “fictional” for those found in literature, most notably Greek tragedy. 9 Plutarch, De E 386c. Trans. Babbitt. This insight is also confirmed by the evi­ dence from Dodona: see Lhôte 2006. 10 See Fontenrose 1978, 293 (Q 88) with further literature. 11 On the social function of oracles note Morgan 1980, 148–90; Parker 1985. 12 Female voice: Maurizio 2001. Oracles and story-telling: Maurizio 1997; Kindt 2016. 13 See Maurizio 1995; Raphals 2005; Bowden 2005, 28–33; Flower 2008, 145–6. 14 See, for example, Fernandez 1991, 217–8 on the “cryptic potency” in various African divinatory systems. 15 See now in detail Kindt 2016 with further literature. 16 Hdt. 1.85.2. 17 Hdt. 1.66.2. 18 Hdt. 1.47.3 with Kindt 2006. 19 Lucian, Iupp. trag. 31: Κέκλυτε μαντιπόλου τόδε θέσφατον Ἀπόλλωνος ἀμφ’ ἔριδος κρυερῆς, τὴν ἀνέρες ἐστήσαντο ὀξυβόαι, μύθοισι κορυσσόμενοι πυκινοῖσι. πολλὰ γὰρ ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα μόθου ἑτεραλκέϊ κλωγμῷ ταρφέος ἄκρα κόρυμβα καταπλήσσουσιν ἐχέτλης. ἀλλ’ ὅταν αἰγυπιὸς γαμψώνυχος ἀκρίδα μάρψῃ, δὴ τότε λοίσθιον ὀμβροφόροι κλάγξουσι κορῶναι. νίκη δ’ ἡμιόνων, ὁ δ’ ὄνος θοὰ τέκνα κορύψει. Ed. and trans. Harmon. See also Aristophanes, Eq. 195–201; 1015–20, for oracle parodies featuring similar patterns and exaggerated tropes. 20 Lucian, Iupp. trag. 31: ΖΕΥΣ: Τί τοῦτο ἀνεκάγχασας, ὦ Μῶμε; καὶ μὴν οὐ γελοῖα τὰ ἐν ποσί· παῦσαι

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Julia Kindt κακόδαιμον, ἀποπνιγήσῃ ὑπὸ τοῦ γέλωτος. ΜΩΜΟΣ: Καὶ πῶς δυνατόν, ὦ Ζεῦ, ἐφ’ οὕτω σαφεῖ καὶ προδήλῳ τῷ χρησμῷ; ΖΕΥΣ: Οὐκοῦν καὶ ἡμῖν ἤδη ἑρμηνεύοις ἂν αὐτὸν ὅ τι καὶ λέγει. ΜΩΜΟΣ: Πάνυ πρόδηλα, ὥστε οὐδὲν ἡμῖν Θεμιστοκλέους δεήσει· φησὶ γὰρ τὸ λόγιον οὑτωσὶ διαρρήδην γόητα μὲν εἶναι τοῦτον, ὑμᾶς δὲ ὄνους κανθηλους νὴ Δία καὶ ἡμιόνους, τοὺς πιστεύοντας αὐτῷ, οὐδ’ὅσον αἱ ἀκρίδες τὸν νοῦν ἔχοντας. Gould 1985, 5; Geertz 1973, 87–125; and the discussion of the relationship be­ tween their works in Kindt 2012, 57–82. Note Malkin 1987, 17–91; Dougherty 1992; Dougherty 1993a, 18–21; Maurizio 2001. Athenaeus 2.70c–d; Plutarch, Quaest. Graec. 294e–f; Dougherty 1992, 34–5. αἰετὸς ἐν πέτρῃσι κύει, τέξει δὲ λέοντα καρτερὸν ὠμηστήν· πολλῶν δ’ ὑπὸ γούνατα λύσει ταῦτά νυν εὖ φράζεσθε, Κορίνθιοι, οἳ περὶ καλὴν Πειρήνην οἰκεῖτε καὶ ὀφρυόεντα Κόρινθον. Pausanias 10.10.6. See also Plutarch, De def. or. 408a. It is an intrinsically historiographical gaze that (a posteriori) matches the pre­ diction with its subsequent fulfillment – hence the affinities of the historiographic genre with the oracular, see Kindt 2006. See also the meditation on different pathways in the interpretation of oracular responses in Wood 2003, 63–73. See Kindt 2016, 55–86 for an example of how Greek tragedy draws on this aspect of the oracular. Plato, Ap. 21a–c. with Kindt 2016, 87–112. For a detailed treatment of Socrates’ examination of this Delphic oracular response as depicted in Plato’s Apology, see Chapter 2 in this volume. Aristotle, fr. 3 Rose, apud Clement, Strom. 1.351P. Dio Chrysostom 32.3, ed. von Arnim, trans. J. W. Cohoon and H. L. Crosby. See Kindt 2012, 36–55, on divine representations in form of oracles and statues. Its importance is further underlined by Rutherford 2017, 195–210.

Bibliography Ancient works: texts and translations Aesopus. Fabulae Aesopicae Collectae. Edited by Karl Halm. 2000. Whitefish, MA: Kessinger. (English trans. Aesop’s Fables. Translated by Laura Gibbs. 2008. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008.) Apollodorus. Apollodori bibliotheca. Pediasimilibellus de duodecim Herculis laboribus. In Mythographi Graeci 1, edited by Richardus Wagner. 1894. Leipzig: Teubner. Aristophanes. Equites. In Aristophane, vol. 1, edited by V. Coulon and M. van Daele. 1923. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Athenaeus. Deipnosophistae 1–3. In Athenaei Naucratitae deiphnosophistarum libri xv. 3 vols, edited by G. Kaibel. Leipzig: Teubner, vols. 1–2: 1887; vol. 3: 1890. Chrysostom, Dio. Orationes. In Dionis Prusaensis quem vocant Chrysostomum quae exstant omnia, vols. 1–2. 2nd edition, edited by J. von Arnim. Berlin: Weidmann, vol. 1:1893; vol. 2: 1896. English trans. Dio Chrysostrom. Discourses 31–36.

Enigmatic divine voice 47 Translated by J. W. Cohoon and H. Lamar Crosby. 1940. Cambridge, MA.: Harvard University Press. Cicero. De divinatione. In M. Tulli Ciceronis scripta quaeman seruntomnia, edited by R. Giomini. 1975. Leipzig: Teubner. Cicero. De fato. In M. Tulli Ciceronis scripta quaeman seruntomnia, edited by R. Giomini. 1975. Leipzig: Teubner. Clement of Alexandria. Stromata. In Clemens Alexandrinus, 2 vols, edited by L. Früchtel, O. Stählin, and U. Treu. 1960. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Herodotus. Historiae. In Herodoti Historiae, 2 vols, edited by N. G. Wilson. 2015. Oxford: Oxford University Press. English trans: translated by Aubrey De Sélincourt. Translation revised by John Marincola. 2003. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Lucian. Iuppiter tragoedus. In Lucian, vol. 2, edited by A. M. Harmon. 1915. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Maximus, Valerius. Facta et Dicta Memorabilia. Edited by J. Briscoe. 1998. Leipzig: Teubner. Pausanias. Graeciae descripto. In Pausaniae Graeciae description. 3 vols, edited by Fridericus Spiro. 1903. Leipzig: Teubner. Plato. Apologia Socratis. In Platonis opera, vol. 1, edited by John Burnet. 1900. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Plutarch. De defectu oraculorum. In Plutarchi moralia, vol. 3, edited by Wilhem Sieveking. 1929. Leipzig: Teubner. Plutarch. De E apud Delphos. In Plutarchi moralia, vol. 3, edited by Wilhelm Sieveking. 1929. Leipzig: Teubner. Plutarch. Aetia Romana et Graeca. In Plutarchi moralia, vol. 2.1, edited by John B. Tichener. 1935. Leipzig: Teubner. Plutarch. Moralia, vol. 5. Translated by Frank Cole Babbitt. 1936. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Suda. Suidae lexicon, 4 vols. Edited by A. Adler; vol. 1: 1928; vol. 2: 1931; vol. 3: 1933; vol. 4: 1935. Leipzig: Teubner.

Modern works Bowden, Hugh. 2005. Classical Athens and the Delphic Oracle: Divination and Democracy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dougherty, Carol. 1992. “When Rain falls from Clear Blue Sky: Riddles and Colonization Oracles.” Classical Antiquity 11, no. 1 (April): 28–44. Dougherty, Carol. 1993a. The Poetics of Colonization: From City to Text in Archaic Greece. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dougherty, Carol. 1993b. “It’s Murder to Found a Colony.” In Cultural Poetics in Archaic Greece: Cult, Performance, Politics, edited by Carol Dougherty and Leslie Kurke, 178–98. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fernandez, James W. 1991. “Afterword.” In African Divination Systems: Ways of

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Knowing, edited by Philip M. Peek, 213–221. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Flower, Michael. 2008. The Seer in Ancient Greece. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Fontenrose, Joseph. 1978. The Delphic Oracle. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Geertz, Clifford. 1973. The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays. New York, NY: Basic Books. Gould, John. 1985. “On making sense of Greek religion.” In Greek Religion and Society, edited by Pat Easterling and John V. Muir, 1–33. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Johnston, Sarah Iles. 2008. Ancient Greek Divination. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Kindt, Julia. 2006. “Delphic Oracle Stories and the Beginning of Historiography: Herodotus’ Croesus logos.” CPh 101, no. 1 (January): 34–51. Kindt, Julia. 2008. “Oracular Ambiguity as a Mediation Triple.” Classicum 334: 23–27. Kindt, Julia. 2012. Rethinking Greek Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kindt, Julia. 2016. Revisiting Delphi: Religion and Storytelling in Ancient Greece. Cambridge and New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Lhôte, Éric. 2006. Les lamelles oraculaires de Dodone. Geneva: Droz. Malkin, Irad. 1987. Religion and Colonialization in Ancient Greece. Leiden: Brill. Manetti, Giovanni. 1993. Theories of the Sign in Classical Antiquity. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Maurizio, Lisa. 1995. “Anthropology and Spirit Possession: A Reconsideration of the Pythia’s Role at Delphi.” JHS 115: 69–86. Maurizio, Lisa. 1997. “Delphic Oracles as Oral Performances: Authenticity and Historical Evidence.” CA 16, no. 2 (October): 308–335. Maurizio, Lisa. 2001. “The Voice at the Centre of the World: The Pythia’s Ambiguity and Authority.” In Making Silence Speak: Women’s Voices in Greek Literature and Society, edited by André Lardinois and Laura McClure, 38–40. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Morgan, Catherine. 1980. Athletes and Oracles: The Transformation of Olympia and Delphi in the Eighth Century BC. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Parke, Herbert W. and Donald E.W. Wormell. 1956. The Delphic Oracle. 2 vols. Oxford: Blackwell. Parker, Robert. 1985. “Greek States and Greek Oracles.” In Crux: Essays in Greek History Presented to G.E.M. de Ste. Croix on his 75th Birthday, edited by Paul Cartledge and F. David Harvey, 298–326. London: Duckworth. Raphals, Lisa. 2005. “Divination and Medicine in China and Greece: A Comparative Perspective on the Baoshan Illness Divinations.” East Asian Science, Technology, and Medicine 24: 26–53. Rutherford, Ian. 2017. “Pilgrimage and Communication.” In Mercury’s Wings.

Enigmatic divine voice 49 Exploring Modes of Communication in the Ancient World, edited by F.S. Naiden and Richard J.A. Talbert, 195–210. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vernant, Jean-Pierre. 1991. Mortals and Immortals: Collected Essays. Edited by Froma I. Zeitlin. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Wood, Michael. 2003. The Road to Delphi: The Life and Afterlife of Oracles. New York, NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

2

Torch-bearing Plato: why reason without the divine is not philosophy after all Danielle A. Layne

But they [Agamemnon and Cassandra] have not gone without their due reward: he is as he is, while she, after singing, swan-like, her final dirge of death, lies here, his lover… – Clytemnestra, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon 14411 And I think that I am myself a fellow-servant of the swans, and am consecrated to the same God and have received from our master a gift of prophesy no whit inferior to theirs […]. – Socrates, Plato’s Phaedo 85b (trans. Fowler)

Socrates and Cassandra, disbelieved and unheard despite the resounding clarity of their messages, both attack the future of those who condemn them, invoking, as witness, Apollo as the god they serve.2 In Euripides’ Trojan Women, torch-bearing Cassandra provokes the messenger, Talthybius, by speaking the prophecy of Achaean doom, lambasting their moral lunacy and seeing herself as an infamous Erinys whose blood will enact revenge on the Greeks, particularly Agamemnon, for their – and his – shamelessness.3 Talthybius reacts in a rather Socratic tone, suggesting that Agamemnon errs in his choice of a raving bride: If Apollo had not struck your wits awry, you would pay dearly for sending my generals from the land with such words. But it seems that those who are looked up to and considered wise [Agamemnon] are in no way better than those of no account.4 In short, Talthybius listens to Cassandra’s predictions but she is not heard, she is dismissed and sent to her death. So, too, is this the case with Socrates. Explicitly invoking his prophetic abilities, he turns to his peers and makes a prediction that will also fall on deaf ears: Now I want to prophesy to those who have convicted me, for I am at the point when men prophesy most, when they are about to die. I say

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gentlemen, to those who voted to kill me, that vengeance will come upon you immediately after my death, a vengeance much harder to bear than that which you took in killing me. (Ap. 39c, trans. Grube)5 One of numerous, but still beguiling, Socratic prophecies, the above passage, like Cassandra’s mourning song to the Greeks before she sets sail to the House of Atreus, is an invitation to conversion, to live the moral life, to be otherwise than deaf to the voice of divine wisdom because, if you do not heed it, you will be bombarded with this very same message twice over. You will meet something worse than death – the due punishment for your moral arrogance. Socrates and Cassandra, as peculiar and, therein, unacceptable prophets, are gifted with more than a knowledge of the past, present and future but are given the sight of virtue and vice (and, at least in Socrates’ case, the sight of beauty in the beloved [cf. Phdr. 244a–257b and Symp. 210a–212b]). They both see the persons before them for what they are and for what they deserve, a seeing that, for each, depends explicitly on divine power both as what inspires and as what guides their respective ways of life. Ultimately, because of the consistent reference to the divine, one can come to see how Socrates’ defence speech is more than a simple rational exercise but a “Cassandra-like” moment wherein he will speak a divine wisdom that, for many, simply cannot be heard, is, for the most part, dismissed as the arrogant raving of a pompous busybody – sure, a frustrating gadfly, but no servant of the divine (cf. Ap. 30d–31c). In other words, what joins Socrates and Cassandra together is how their auditors, in their attempts to flee their own moral lunacy, empty the two protagonists of divine authority and weight, leaving only a(n) (ir)rational, but certainly effete, skeleton in its wake. Without divine authority, Cassandra becomes a mere frenzied woman and Socrates a dissembling sophist.6 In short, “those who do not have ears to hear” Socrates or Cassandra are those who hubristically dismiss their selfprofessed relationship to the divine, a relationship that saturates their uncanny prophetic abilities and moral sight. Strikingly, this comparison between Socrates and Cassandra itself may strike a rather odd tone for some. Is Socrates not far from the manic, cursed and suffering Cassandra? Is he not a gifted bastion of “sober reasoning” who rejects the childishness of activities like prophecy? Perhaps most famously, Gregory Vlastos (1991) prominently rejected the value of the prophetic in the Platonic dialogues, arguing that texts like the Apology show how prophets and poets, or all such persons who depend on divine inspiration(s) for their so-called wisdom, were a group of “know-nothings.”7 Overall, Vlastos dismissed the possibility that Plato took seriously the value of prophetic foresight and divine inspiration. Indeed, for some time this was the standard song sung of Socrates; he, unlike Cassandra, is not mad, does not rave from possession but mocks such authorities as charlatans. Socrates, the quintessential philosopher, in his clear commitment to rational

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activities, rejects divine authority in favour of sober reasoning and it is for this that he is sent to his death. It is with this in mind that a dichotomy is created, albeit, as will be argued, a false dichotomy, between those who submit to divine power and those who rely solely on the human authority of reason. This dichotomy, of course, is not foreign to the contemporary world, where the clashes between faith and reason or (confessional) theology/revelation and philosophy prevail. Socrates supposedly was always a champion of the latter, committed to overturning blind obedience to the gods. Yet, throughout his corpus, Plato continuously shows that moral failure results from those who would fall into either category. The impulsive diviner, like Euthyphro, is exposed as one who fails to do the work of questioning and testing their knowledge (cf. Euthphr. 15c–d), while those who simply depend on “sober” reason without recourse to divine guidance or inspiration are depicted by Plato as ones who may wield the elenchos and other philosophical tools simply to win arguments, to overturn and dismantle established conventional truths, not for a good – nay, not even the good – but simply because they can. These are the sophists, the tyrannical despots, the misologists (Phd. 89b–91c) who use reason but only to serve all they know to be good: themselves and their reputations. This is the calculation of men like Thrasymachus or, on Cassandra’s side of the story, Odysseus, who wields a cleverness that convinces the Achaeans it is right to slaughter a toddler (Trojan Women 720–6). While Plato never invokes Euripides’ depiction of Odysseus,8 there is a strong sense throughout the dialogues that those whom Plato most distrusts are those who wield reason in such a way as to divorce it from its divine source, sustenance and end, and therein threaten to commit such heinous acts with impunity. These are the real clever busybodies for Socrates, and, moreover, these are the dangerous ones who wish to trade gold for bronze (Symp. 219a), the care of their souls for the puffing up of their reputations, for the power, pleasure and glory of winning. In contrast, to adhere to the Socratic way of life, the Platonic dialogues consistently reinforce the idea that philosophers must ask for what good they make an argument, a good not subject to human authority but to transcendent excess, to something more than human, to a vision of the beautiful that goads the argument towards a place one could not expect reason by itself to lead. In short, the Platonic dialogues demand a more appropriate wedding than the unfortunate marriage of Cassandra to Agamemnon or, as in the Republic, the bald technician who ravages the abandoned bride of philosophy in Socrates’ ailing city (Resp. 495c–e). Reason must be born of the desire for the good and therein guided by a divine light, if it is to say or mean anything at all. In other words, for Socrates, human wisdom left to its own accord is indeed worthless (Ap. 23b). In contradistinction, the human possession of or openness to divine mediation, to a reason oriented beyond the purview of human self-centeredness, births the philosophical life and, for Socrates, one cannot be a philosopher, one is only a sophist, a fool or a tyrant, if one does

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not see such rational activity as a gift of and service to the divine. In short, on the one hand, sheer piety, that is to say, naked enthusiasm, without the corresponding work of examination or, on the other hand, “sober” reason alone, without divine inspiration or guidance, are two halves of a false dilemma as neither option comes close to the life advocated for and modelled by Socrates throughout Plato’s dialogues. Ultimately, the goal of this chapter will be to argue that Plato conceived of philosophy as a spiritual activity resembling divinatory practices like enthused prophecy, telestic rituals like initiation into mystery cults and inspired poetry, and, as such, we will examine the dialogues like the Phaedrus and the Symposium that most prominently evidence this fact. Nevertheless, the central thesis will not simply be one of identifying the philosophical life with a life that resembles the divinely inspired, though that will certainly be a keystone of the essay. Rather, the larger argument will be about the kinds of relationships and the ways of life that ensue once reason serves the “more than human.” Unlike rabid Thrasymachus or disordered Alcibiades, unlike wandering Odysseus and pompous Agamemnon, unlike all those who see reason as a clever tool, but one that nevertheless only serves them, Socrates’ philosophical enterprise is an erotic, divine madness that intends to bring the lover outside oneself, forcing them to see the value of human relationships that care for the divine (Phdr. 244a–257b). In other words, Socrates’ “enthusiasm” inspires others to see how philosophical conversation is one of the few ways we can touch what is not only real itself but also real in others, constituting why philosophical activity is always about divine love, always about communing with the god, the absolute, both immanent and transcendent to our lives. Socratic inspired love or reason, married to the role of mediating and connecting the human to the divine, is a divinatory-like activity that is creative, playful and even devious in its ability to motivate and to bring what seems impossible together. It is this “service to the god” (Ap. 23b) that lights the fire of the soul (Ep. VII 341c–d), sows divine seed (Phdr. 248d) in the next generation and helps the young struggle, labour with the ideas that actually connect what is often fragmented in this world. For Plato, philosophy, as a rational activity, is not an end in itself but a means, nay, a service, to something higher than itself and, as such, Plato consistently utilises the language and imagery of divinatory activities to highlight this uncanny power and way of life wherein reason is not sober but inspired (Phdr. 244a–257b). So, in this task, I implore, rather humbly, “Sing muse!”, so that we can hear, or better yet, philosophise with each other.

Beyond the epistemological thesis and towards the divine way of life As Peter Struck (2016) and others have recently argued, divinatory activities and the language of divination are prolific throughout Plato’s corpus.

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Oracles (Ap. 21a; Cra. 383b–84a, 396d–e), divinely sent dreams (Phd. 60d; Cri. 44b; Phlb. 20b), mantic/prophetic utterances (Phd. 84e–85b; Cra. 428c; Ap. 39c–d) or predictions about the future of someone’s disposition/actions (Phdr. 279a; Tht. 142c; Symp. 279a) as well as a variety of divine signs, including Socrates’ own appeal to his personal daimonion (Ap. 31c–e, 40a–c, 41d; Euthphr. 3b; Phdr. 242b–c; Tht. 151a; Resp. 496c; Alc. 103a–b),9 saturate the philosopher’s daily interactions. Analysing how Plato uses divinatory language throughout his corpus, Struck concludes that divination signifies a kind of intuitive or non-discursive form of knowledge, be it insight into virtue (Lysis 216d; Chrm. 169b; Resp. 431e, 443c) or law (Leg. 634e, 700b, 722d, 734e, 800a–c, 952d), intuitive grasps on or recollections of Form (Phdr. 249e–50a) or the good (Resp. 505e–6a), visions of the beautiful (Symp. 210e), insights into the desires of others (Symp. 192d) or even more corporeal estimations about empirical objects (Resp. 516d) and the uncanny ability of some to possess correct opinions without secure argument (Men. 99b–c; cf. 85c). Divination, in Struck’s estimation “is useful as an emblem for a kind of knowing that happens in a flash, without being able to account for itself” (2016, 61). It is a “certain kind of cognition that works via insight and not inference” (64). For Struck, Plato’s intent in his prolific appeals to divination and divinatory-like activities come from his desire to problematise the Athenian culture’s “overinvestment in oracles” – i.e. to subvert the arrogance and conceit that humans can know with surety what the gods want (52). In short, the elenchos, dialectic and the art of interpretation in general are meant to supplement such appeals to divination while undermining the epistemological hubris that traditionally resulted from regarding them with blind authority. While discussing Kathryn Morgan’s (2010) work on divination in the Phaedo, Struck summarises their mutual estimation of Plato’s goals, particularly in his consistent allusions to divination, mystery sayings, mystic doctrines and other such phenomena: Their linking characteristic is that they derive their authority from the cultural prestige of divine speech and not from giving an account of themselves. In contrast to philosophical elenchus, which operates by doubt and is constantly forced to account for itself, divine discourse trades in surety, and does not deign to give its reasons. […] Plato’s line of reasoning is exceedingly clever—he does not just argue for the superiority of logos over divine speech. He instead has divine language engaged in transferring its own authority. Just as much as he fashions Socrates’ philosophical argument, Plato carefully constructs the oracles to underscore the main message as death approaches: philosophical elenchus is the new highest standard of epistemological value. (2016, 51) Prima facie, then, it appears that Struck, like many scholars before him, regards Plato as advocating for the superiority of rational thinking over

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divinatory pronouncements. Yet, Struck goes further when he turns to examining the Phaedrus and the Symposium, observing an important nuance in Plato’s erotic dialogues that suggests a value to non-discursive intuition over and against discursive analysis such as conceptual parsing or advancing a string of inferences. As most are aware, when attempting to rehabilitate the value of the lover, Socrates, in true dialectical mode, carves out a distinction between forms of divination wherein inspired speech is superior to augury insofar as the latter relies not on “what comes from god” but technical skill and sober thinking (244c–d). Here, Struck argues that Plato is not valorising the “ἄλογον ahead of the λογος” [the non-rational ahead of the rational] (2016, 62) but something altogether subtler: Rather than understand this famous passage as a momentary enthusiasm for the irrational, then, we are more right to read him here raising the rather trenchant possibility that nondiscursive thinking might carry an intellectual weight, in certain circumstances, that exceeds discursive thinking. Plato uses the language of divination to enter this consequential cognitive territory. (2016, 63, my own emphasis) For Struck, this “consequential cognitive territory” can be a way of knowing the highest things, be it sudden flashes of recollection, visions of the Forms, e.g. Beauty in the Symposium or the Phaedrus, or even the unexpected onset of Socrates’ divine sign. All of this helps show how divination, when applied to the life of the philosopher, can be descriptive of a kind of intuitive or nondiscursive knowledge that assists in the project of philosophy. Overall, Struck concludes that one should not overplay Plato’s view of divination itself (outside the purvey of the language that he uses to describe the kind of intuition or recollection of things like Form) insofar as within “his epistemological scheme [divination] is about as far down the ladder of reliability as one can get” (2016, 89).11 Under Struck’s auspices, then, divine utterances like oracles, prophetic pronouncements or inspired poetry ultimately must be married to reason, submit to reason and regard reason as the cognitive judge of their pronouncements, if they are to be responsible, and if they are to be valuable to the life of the sober philosopher. At first, Struck’s thesis seems altogether in line with Plato’s dialogues. Doesn’t Socrates model this “testing” of divinations (moments of so-called non-discursive wisdom or intuitions) in dialogues like the Apology or the Phaedo wherein he scrutinises the meaning of the oracle or his own visionary dreams? The philosopher is, above all, committed to the life of examination and, accordingly, he must investigate the oracle (Ap. 21b) or even reimagine the meaning of his reoccurring dream – one that told him to “make music and work at it” (μουσικὴν ποίει καὶ ἐργάζου) (Phd. 60e). In the Apology Socrates’ willingness to investigate the divine pronouncement that “no one was wiser” than Socrates (Ap. 21a) leads to the philosopher’s own surety

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that the life of recognised ignorance is better than double ignorance, the condition in which most of Socrates’ kinsmen suffer, which ultimately causes most prominent Athenians to lead immoral lives (Ap. 22b). It is this willingness to test the god that ultimately leads Socrates to see himself as a servant of Apollo. Just after offering up his third interpretation of the oracular pronouncement wherein the philosopher concludes that human wisdom is to recognise ignorance, Socrates says: Therefore I am still even now going about and searching and investigating at the god’s behest anyone, whether citizen or foreigner, who I think is wise; and when he does not seem so to me, I give aid to the god and show that he is not wise. And by reason of this occupation I have no leisure to attend to any of the affairs of state worth mentioning, or of my own, but am in vast poverty on account of my service to the god. (Ap. 23b–23c, trans. Fowler)12 Here, we should emphasise that while this is a classic instance wherein Socrates tests or investigates the meaning of prophetic wisdom, there seems to be more at stake than merely understanding its cognitive import. Rather, the oracle serves to show how the philosophical activity of crossexamination highlights Socrates’ way of life, a way of life that he regards as a divine service. In other words, the invocation of the god at Delphi as witness (Ap. 20e) to the source of prejudice against him during his trial is meant to radically transform the juries’ perspective on Socrates’ penchant for questioning and revealing ignorance. The divine witness is meant to show that the philosopher is no sophist, no mere busybody simply questioning others for the sake of puffing up his own reputation. Rather, the oracle is meant to cast him as a loyal servant to something more than human, something actually versus seemingly wise (cf. Resp. 357a–b). In other words, Socrates wants to show that he aims for some good beyond the human in his frustratingly consistent ability to uncover the ignorance in his peers and countrymen.13 As for the reoccurring dream in the Phaedo, originally supportive of philosophy, Socrates now wonders so near his death if the dream is to be understood differently. Was it really just a command to craft a hymn and a bit of verse (Phd. 60e–61b)? In this stunning moment, wherein Socrates is willing to entertain the possibility that his first interpretation is wrong, we witness something more than a mere testing of the dream. We see a devotion, to paraphrase the Euthyphro, “to follow the beloved wherever it may lead” (cf. 14c), to transform his entire way of life because he has been inspired by a dream. Overall, what should catch one’s eye in these two Socratic encounters with the divinatory is not how they merely provide content for the philosopher to analyse, but, rather, how the oracle and Socrates’ dream lead to a rethinking of the terms of his life, once at its onset and another near its end. Indeed, it is this commitment to the divine that marks Socrates’

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entire way of life – a way of life marked by an always testing, an always doubling back and going down new pathways. In other words, due to his divine service, Socrates appears Protean, always shifting and changing his tactics, continuously looking for a new way to approach a problem, unpack a mystery. He is never content with any one definition of virtue – secure in the value of the aporetic but not wishing to remain there. He playfully accepts a hypothesis but is still willing to dismantle it, ready to clarify the starting points again and again. Socrates’ way of life is not just atypical, but a-topical (atopos), as he is always wandering, unsettling and unsettled by the divine, but in such unsettling, he becomes the rousing gadfly, an uncanny gift from the god (31b). Confirming, rather earnestly, the divine source of his way of life, he reminds his fellow Athenians of the following: “I have been commanded to do this by the God through oracles and dreams and in every way in which any man was ever commanded by divine power to do anything whatsoever” (Ap. 33c).14 Overall, the divinatory at least in these two texts is less about the value of intuition or the non-discursive, and more about the transformative aspect of the divine on Socrates’ entire way of life.

Divine versus human “sober” reasoning In Socrates’ commitment to always being unsettled or willing to be unsettled by the divine, he is not advocating for sophistry, relativism or a form of argumentation that serves his own needs. Socrates decries such a worldview as eristics [disputation for the sake of winning] in the Meno (81d) and misology [hatred of reason] in the Phaedo (90b–e). Such eristic use of reason only wields argumentation for power, seeing the debater’s skill as a mere sleight of hand, a craft that one can use so as to aggrandise oneself and one’s own desires. Such cleverness is a kind of speech, much like Meletus’ accusations in the Apology, that does not care (ameleia) (25c, 26b) for the truth or even for the subjects or content of their arguments.15 This form of selfserving speech is also characteristic of Lysias’ use of rhetoric in the Phaedrus (231a–234c) insofar as Socrates clearly shows in his parody of Lysias’ speech (237b–241d), as well as his own speech in praise of the lover (244a–257b), that the “sober reasoner” or the non-lover is merely the deceitful lover. In other words, Socrates exposes how Lysias only defends the gratification of the non-lover, who wields logos (sober reason versus mad passion), for the sake of dissembling, and winning Phaedrus.16 Similarly, in the Phaedo misology is paralleled with misanthropy (89d–e). It is a disease from the same source: a centrism of the human being and the logos it wields for its own ends. The misologist sees no “good” in argumentation, no “truth” guiding the human being in his or her thinking. The misologist recognises only power and therein sees how one can always argue on both sides or, more accurately, how reason can be twisted in any which way one likes. The duplicitous use of reason explains why the misologist/

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misanthrope often becomes the sophist, the eristic power-hungry debater because, ironically, their hatred of reason makes them lovers of the human being versus a lover of that which is beyond the human, the lover of wisdom [the philo-sopher], or a truth or reality that grounds reason. For the misologist, or the “sober reasoner” like Lysias, the human is regarded as source and end and as such, the emptier reason qua reason appears. There is nothing higher, no real (read: divine) truth, beauty or justice, at which reason might aim. Reason is simply to be wielded so as to win or deceive, so as to set the human being up as that measure, reducing others to the collateral damage of becoming the source of their power. In Socrates’ estimation persons like Meletus and Lysias do not use reason in service of the other insofar as they do not care for the other. The logos and, by extension, other people become those which are there only to be subjected to one’s own will, subject to one’s own rhetorical force (cf. Resp. 327b–328c).17 The sophist’s or eristic’s business, then, is that which has a knack (Grg. 462c) or habit of wielding logos like a hammer, an axle, a tool that serves the desires of the human being rather than something leading somewhere else entirely. As Socrates warned in the Republic, these will be the technicians who cast reproach on philosophy via twisting her into something mechanical, something that pragmatically works so as to adorn (a) man with honour (495c–e). In the Meno Socrates explicitly juxtaposes such eristic, careless reasoning, which makes one indolent and lazy (81d), with the wisdom of “certain priests and priestesses who have studied so as to be able to give a rational account of their practices” (81b, trans. Lamb 1924, with modifications:...τῶν ἱερέων τε καὶ ἱερειῶν ὅσοις μεμέληκε περὶ ὧν μεταχειρίζονται λόγον οἵος τ’ εἶναι διδόναι). The latter, more inspired theory regarding the soul’s immortality motivates and rouses, aiding the pursuit of knowledge regardless of one’s current ignorance, regardless of being stung by Socrates’ stingray. Indeed, it is this “mantic” or “priestly” wisdom that is also appealed to in the Phaedo. Rather than the materialist knowledge that would scatter the soul to the winds, or the scientific examination of causes that cannot answer why good things are the way they are (96a–99e),18 Socrates wields a kind of reason that motivates his companions to live the examined life themselves, to continue to have hope in the good of things (67b) such as the absolute nature of the soul so that, ultimately, they will practise philosophy even after Socrates’ death. In this divinely motivated pursuit Socrates inspires or touches others, those like Simmias, Cebes and Phaedo, who cannot stand the thought of separation from the light charging Socrates’ prophetic swan song (Phd. 84d). Indeed, the discussions of the Phaedo are explicitly marked by something that is “more than rational sober argument,” something that is more than what merely seems convincing (cf. Resp. 357a–b). Rather, Plato, in his depiction of Xanthippe’s grief, of Crito’s relentless concern despite his lack of understanding, of Phaedo’s silent tears, and of Simmias’ and Cebes’ fears that they are being inappropriate (84d), reveals how much Socrates’ logos has touched all those he has encountered. Having bonded them

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together as a community, Socrates appears much like a magnet connecting not only the ones in the room but men like Echecrates, who listen to Phaedo, and by extension ourselves, who, through reading, eavesdrop on the final hours of Socrates’ life. Paradoxically, while arguing for the hope of separation, the Phaedo makes abundantly clear a tie that binds, a kind of wielding of logos that connects us to that room that even death cannot sever. This is not the reason of the power-hungry eristic debater but the reason of the philosopher who needs the more than human, who knows where reason can lead if it only demands that the human is not the end. In short, Socratic rationality connects and mediates, binding the human to what is otherwise than the human, in the case of the Phaedo the beautiful hope of the immortal soul.20 Of course, this connective or mediating function of Socratic philosophy – reason or philosophy is, as it were, but a middle term, a terminus per quem – saturates Plato’s Symposium, where he seems inclined to steer readers’ attention towards the daimonic, that spiritual power that secures communion between two extremes – between divine and human. As Diotima professes, the daimonic “is the means of all society and converse of human beings with gods and of gods with human, whether waking or asleep” for “God with human being does not mingle” (Symp. 203a).21 Here, it should be stressed that the daimonic or the erotic is that which allows for connection or contact with the good or the beautiful, an image that is explicitly contrasted with the preceding speaker in the Symposium: Aristophanes’ myth, which highlights human erotic futility (189c–193e). In Aristophanes’ tragic story, human beings are torn asunder by the divine without hope of reunion, so that eros is reduced to a mere escapist, momentary, carnal pleasure. The comedic playwright ultimately emphasises how all relationships between lovers begin and end in need without resource, without a divine power that can bring the human being outside of their own broken individuality (Symp. 188c–194e). In contrast, Diotima offers an image of the human being not severed but reconnected in its erotic/daimonic practices, somewhere between fragment and whole, between mortal and immortal, transporting and carrying human things to the divine and divine things to the human (202e3–5). Strikingly, Diotima presents this communion as a continual process of giving birth to immortal beauty via philosophical conversation that brings individuals round from particular beauty to absolute Beauty. Indeed, like the Eleusinian mysteries, which were explicitly concerned with mediating human concerns about life and death, so too philosophy, as both erotic bridge and as a service to the divine, mediates between being both a process of giving birth (Symp. 206c–211d) and also a practice of death (Phd. 64a), radically transforming his companions’ comportment to the value of the philosophical way of life. Overall, in practising a form of reasoning that “serves the divine,” Socratic philosophy or Socrates’ way of life seems entirely otherwise than the life of the “sober reasoner” like Lysias, the careless prosecutor like Meletus or the sophistic interlocutor who only hopes to win. Rather,

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Socrates’ appeal to a form of philosophy that is inspired, daimonic or erotic is an invitation to wield reason as that which can do some good beyond oneself.

Reason as that which cares and lights fire Returning to Struck’s thesis (cf. 2016, esp. 60–61, 90) that divination is used by Plato as a “stand-in for a kind of non-discursive knowledge that cannot give an account of itself,” there are at least two concerns that have been raised. First, while Struck’s interpretation allows for a kind of nondiscursive thinking that may exceed discursive thinking, it empties that nondiscursive thinking of its divine source. In other words, for Struck there is little sense in his account that the non-discursive is revered by Socrates/Plato or is essential in motivating/rousing one to the philosophical, or radically transformative (more than human/daimonic), way of life. Second, and perhaps more importantly, there is a strong sense that the structural analogy between non-discursive knowledge and divination that focuses on the epistemological lack of divinatory practices fails to acknowledge how divination also serves as a paradigm for a form of reasoning that sustains and fosters relationships and communities which serve something beyond the human being – virtues in themselves, the good, the beautiful and other such divine ideas. In other words, one of the most important aspects of the divinatory in Plato’s dialogues is that it serves to remind readers that philosophical reason is contrasted to the eristic naval-gazing reason. Indeed, one of the most important features of this dichotomy is that the latter form of reason “speaks to no one in particular”; rather, it always appeals to the general insofar as it does not see the power of speaking to the individual souls of its auditors, since it only intends to serve itself. Contrariwise, philosophical reason or reason inspired by the divine seems to speak to individuals qua individuals. As Socrates says of the dialectician, whom he explicitly says he would follow as if a god (266b): [The divinely enthused speaker] will classify the kinds of speech and of soul there are, as well as the various ways in which they are affected, and explain what causes each. He will then coordinate each kind of soul with the speech appropriate to it. And he will give instructions concerning the reasons why one kind of soul is necessarily convinced by one kind of speech while another necessarily remains unconvinced. (Phdr. 271b, trans. Nehamas and Woodruff)22 Interestingly, this moment in the Phaedrus exposes why Plato was committed to crafting individual characters as diverse as Phaedrus, Alcibiades, Simmias, Cebes and, yes, even Xanthippe (cf. Griswold 1986). Plato is not appealing to a “sober” reason, like Lysias’ that makes his auditor the same, a speech that could be given to anyone as it is crafted to appear objective,

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cold, dispassionate. The objective non-lover, or the sober rather than “divinely inspired” speaker, ultimately, appears to be reasonable but unfortunately fails to know or understand the needs of his audiences, a failure that results in merely wishing to seem wise. In contradistinction, as a good dialectician whose Protean nature allows him to speak in ways that seem almost incongruent, Plato crafts Socrates’ rational endeavours to be serving something other than reason itself insofar as reason cares for and tends to the unique soul of the person before him. To further unpack this emphasis on the role of individualised care in Platonic philosophy and its connection to a care for what is other to human reason, consider Plato’s account of how the truly philosophic mind would respond to instruction in his Seventh Letter: … For on hearing this, if the pupil be truly philosophic, in sympathy with the subject and worthy of it, because divinely gifted, he believes that he has been shown a marvelous pathway and that he must brace himself at once to follow it, and that life would not be worth living if he does otherwise. After this he braces both himself and him who is guiding him on the path, nor does he desist until either he has reached the goal of all his studies, or else has gained such power as to be capable of directing his own steps without the aid of the instructor. (Ep. VII 340c–d)23 Here, the true students of philosophy are those who possess a kind of divine devotion to the life of examination, a devotion that ends either in satiation or the obtainment of the power to pursue the wisdom they desire. Later, Plato describes this power as that which cannot be communicated via verbal expression but due to constant communion with the subject, the highest or divine study is “suddenly brought to birth, as light that is kindled by a leaping spark, it is born in the soul and thereafter it nourishes itself” (Ep. VII 341c–d: γιγνομένης περὶ τὸ πρᾶγμα αὐτὸ καὶ τοῦ συζῇν ἐξαίφνης, οἷον ἀπὸ πυρὸς πηδήσαντος ἐξαφθὲν φῶς, ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ γενόμενον αὐτὸ ἑαυτὸ ἤδη τρέφει, slightly adapted). Here, Plato is definitely insisting that reason is a work of examination, dialectics and analysis, but, above all else, philosophers must also make themselves like the objects they study; they must make themselves as divine as possible if they are ever to come into contact with that which is beyond science, that which exists in “the fairest region one possesses” (Ep. VII 344d: ἐν χώρᾳ τῇ καλλίστῃ τῶν τούτου). The means for reaching “the fairest region” for Plato is to diligently examine our ideas, proving them by kindly proofs and employing questionings and answerings that are void of envy – it is by such means, and hardly so, that there burst out the light of intelligence and reason regarding each

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In other words, the philosopher must care in such a way that their investigation is not an enterprise of the self, but tending to that which allows for a contact, and/or communion with what is beyond, what is wholly nondiscursive but also what is prepared for in benevolent discursive activities with others. So, what do these remarks about pedagogical and dialectical practices of care, particularly care of individuals, have to do with divination and Plato’s consistent use of this theme throughout his texts? Clearly, in the Seventh Letter Plato is concerned with inspiring pupils to what he regards explicitly as a pathway to the wholly non-discursive, to what is beyond knowledge. He does this not by giving up on the rational enterprise, but by seeing the rational enterprise as that which serves something greater. This “teaching” is not something that can be put into words but is something that bursts into the soul, lights/kindles the soul, a spark that Plato describes in the Phaedrus (255b–c) as a kind of overflowing from lover to beloved. In short, Plato insists that philosophy establishes a connection that inspires and moves, and joins us in uncanny ways, and it is here that Plato, particularly in the erotic dialogues but also no less so in texts like the Phaedo, comes to see how divinatory practices can serve as a model not simply for a kind of knowing that may not be able to give an account of itself (Struck’s argument that divination is a stand-in for a form of non-discursive knowledge), but, rather more strongly, a way of life, an enthused way of life that desires radical connection and constant diligence towards what is other than itself, be it the divine he serves or the divine in the individual souls of those he loves. As Plato insists in the Seventh Letter (340c) and as Socrates echoes in the Apology (38a), no other life is worth living. So, in the end, the appeal to divination throughout Plato’s dialogues is not simply an epistemological referent to a form of non-discursive knowing, nor does Plato believe that such divinatory influxes must submit to reason. Rather, reason is only philosophy in the Platonic sense when it comes to serve the divine and therein allows for mediation and connection between the divine and the human both qua individual before us but also as the very light that nourishes us in pursuing the philosophical life.

Divine madness and philosophy in the Phaedrus, Symposium and the Ion The classic appeal to the value of divine erotics as that which characterises the philosophical life is, of course, Socrates’ argument in the Phaedrus. Indeed, it is by taking a closer look at the other three forms of divine madness from the Phaedrus that the divinatory model between philosophy

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and (1) prophecy, (2) telestics (ritual practices like initiation and purification) and (3) poetry (Phdr. 244a–245a, 265b) are clarified.25 Like erotics, all three forms of divine madness do not merely know divine things (more than human wisdom) through a kind of non-discursive intuition, but they rather model lives that care or tend to what is “more than” themselves, more than the human. First, in the case of the prophet, explicitly identified with the seers of Delphi and Dodona in the Phaedrus (244b), theirs is an enigmatic and commanding wisdom that, as Heraclitus said, “neither speaks nor conceals but gives signs” (DK 22B93: … οὔτε λέγει οὔτε κρύπτει ἀλλὰ σημαίνει). Due to this enigmatic appearance, subjects seeking to understand the sign must inquire into themselves and their actions both past, present and future, becoming an object for themselves if they are to be in accord with the prophetic utterance.26 In short, the prophetic explicitly demands that auditors do a kind of interpretative work that forces them into a relationship with the prophet and that which inspired the prophet. As Socrates’ own case shows in the Apology, what begins as an enigma ends in the philosopher becoming subject to Apollo who, strangely and indirectly, demanded him to care for the highest things via his infamous elenctic activities. Similarly, Socrates famously casts the soul itself as prophetic in the Phaedrus (242c) just after invoking his notorious divine sign, a sign much like the oracle that does not straightforwardly command Socrates but simply holds him back (242c), preventing him from doing anything that would be against the gods: […] I thought I heard a voice from it which forbade my going away before clearing my conscience, as if I had committed some sin against deity. Now I am a seer (μάντις), not a very good one, but, as the bad writers say, good enough for my purposes; so now I understand my error. How prophetic (μαντικόν) the soul is, my friend! (Phdr. 242b–c, trans. Fowler 1914)27 In this indirect communication, the prophetic voice does more than give him something to rationalise or to test. Rather, it offers Socrates a chance to repair what may have been broken, helping him to restore communion with the divine through offering another speech. Here, the enigma of Socrates’ daimōn is the voice that insists one’s logos aim not at the desires of the human being but the gods. In the Apology, this appeal to his daimōn is why Socrates confidently makes his defence speech, rather obnoxiously ribbing his accusers and flouting their human belief that death is something to be avoided. At no time did his divine sign oppose him, signifying to him that something was amiss in his defence speech, and so he reassures those judges who voted for acquittal that “it is impossible that my familiar sign did not oppose me if I was not about to do what is right” (Ap. 40c). Here, the prophetic power of Socrates is appealed to not simply because it is a kind of knowing without justification but rather because it is a kind of knowing that

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cares for the jurors and hopes to reassure them (Cf. Lysis 216d). As is the case in the Phaedrus, it is a voice that wishes to prevent Socrates from going astray, from traversing a path that buys honour among men by sinning against the gods (242c–d).28 The second form of divine madness in the Phaedrus is the telestic form of divination (Phdr. 244e), that of the mystagogue who initiates or the healerpurifier who cleanses and purifies.29 Both roles emphasise the work of one who clears the obstacles obstructing one from entering into another form of life as well as the role of one who leads, guides and/or reveals the ineffable mysteries. This form of divination provides a model as to how philosophy is a pathway that can only be traversed by one who makes themselves ready and prepares themselves with others, letting the mystagogue expose imperfections and inabilities, not to belittle or obstruct but to allow one to enter the sacred temple, to see what is so readily apparent and worthy of reverence for those initiated. Indeed, is the Phaedo not a text markedly concerned with purification, a passage towards death that cleanses the soul from the body?30 Moreover, in the Symposium, does not Diotima perform an unusual form of cleansing? She, rather Socratically, refutes Socrates’ original beliefs regarding eros. Put otherwise, she purifies him of the particularly problematic condition of double ignorance.31 Here, the refutation is not for the sake of the refuter, as it is for the sophist. Rather, like a mystagogue who cleanses the initiate, refutation is an initial, purificatory step, a “being made ready” for the mysteries that serves the one who desires to enter – that is to say, the “refutée” who is thus unsure of where they are going.32 Unlike the eristic form of dissembling, of reducing the interlocutor to self-contradiction, the elenchos wielded by Socrates or Diotima becomes a process of excising and purifying that reveals not just human need but also human resource.33 Having become a witness to our own need, we are then ready to do the work of philosophy, of that which extends beyond. Philosophy is, of course, not a state but a desiring, a yearning and, hence, a pursuit. And so, Diotima acts as a mystagogue who initiates Socrates into the erotic rites (209e), guiding his desire towards what it actually wants, revealing the mysteries of what it means to be human in pursuit of that which is transcendent.34 Here, the wider cultural connection between the mystery cults and the whole of Diotima’s speech, particularly the movement to the vision of the beautiful, has not gone unnoticed by scholars. As Nancy Evans (2006, 19) writes: In Diotima’s rites of love, one is led to an experience as one is led to the vision of the mysteries at Eleusis. Both revelations, the Eleusinian and the Platonic, are notably passive; one is brought by a familiar and trusted person to the specific spot where learning about the divine can take place. Just as Demeter first initiated the Eleusinians, and each Eleusinian initiate (mustes) had a mystagogue, so Diotima serves as a mystagogue for Socrates, and, by extension, Socrates serves as

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mystagogue for the others at Agathon’s symposium, and even for us. When the more advanced epoptai and the first-time Eleusinian initiates (mustai), accompanied by their mystagogues, all met together into the Telesterion on the night of the Mysteries, all saw something that forever changed their conception of the world and their place in it. The experience at Eleusis was something above all intensely visual, and certainly passive. The initiates (mustai), the mystagogues, and the watchers (epoptai) took part in the Eleusinian rites, and saw something that took the terror out of human mortality. Likewise with Diotima’s initiation of Socrates. Similarly, the myth of the charioteer in the Phaedrus is explicitly depicted as an activity of the divine leading the soul to a supercelestial vision (epopteia), again, explicitly couched in the language of the mystery cults:35 But at that former time they saw beauty shining in brightness, when, with a blessed company—we following in the train of Zeus, and others in that of some other go—they saw the blessed sight and vision and were initiated into that which is rightly called the most blessed of mysteries, which we celebrated in a state of perfection, when we were without experience of the evils which awaited us in the time to come, being permitted as initiates to the sight of perfect and simple and calm and happy apparitions, which we saw in the pure light, being ourselves pure and not entombed in this which we carry about with us and call the body, in which we are imprisoned like an oyster in a shell. (250b–c, trans. Fowler)36 To be sure, telestic practices also model the value of an uncanny form of seeing, both of the mystagogue but also of the initiate. With the mystagogue there is, of course, the premier seeing that discerns whether the initiate is worthy, diagnosing what they desire and need before entering the sacred Telesterion. Much like the inspired lover who sees their leader god in the character of their beloved or the dialectician who can diagnose the needs of the soul before him, the mystagogue’s divine enthusiasm gifts them with the power not simply to intuit things about the other before them but to care appropriately for the person before them. It is this sight that leads to a tending, a care, which begins often with a purification but then leads to a revelation on the part of the one tended to. Consider Socrates’ remarks on the care given to the lover who is of philosophical stock, those who follow Zeus: The followers of Zeus desire the soul of him whom they love be like Zeus; so they seek for one of a philosophical and lordly nature, and when they find him and love him, they do all they can to give him such a character. If they have not previously had experience, they learn then

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So, in the case of the inspired lover, her love motivates the cultivation of the god in her beloved, a devotion that eventually inspires that very same uncanny and bewildering sight in the beloved but now redirected towards the lover (255d). In short, the initiate becomes the mystagogue, learning not just to follow but also to lead, to move towards the god herself.38 Ultimately, together the inspired lovers share in what is similarly witnessed in the Symposium when Diotima explicitly refers to the highest mysteries (epopteia) in her own account of the value of eros which ends in the transformation of the lovers into theophiles [god-loved/god-loving]. It is these inspired individuals who realise their immortality through a seeing that gives birth to true Beauty: For one who looks at Beauty in the only way that Beauty can be seen—only then will it become possible for him to give birth not to images of virtue—because he’s in touch with no images—but to true virtue—because he is in touch with true Beauty. And being theophiles (god-loved/god-loving) belongs to anyone who has given birth to true virtue and nourished it, and if any human being could become immortal, it would be this one. (212a, trans. Evans 2006)39 In this revealing passage, Plato, beyond the telestic divinatory practice, also appeals to the divinatory life of the poets insofar as Diotima’s speech explicitly identified all forms of production with poetry and, so, we are brought round to the value of the Phaedrus’ third form of divine madness, the god-sent poet. In the Symposium Diotima explicitly expands on what poetry can mean, arguing: “…well, you know that ‘poetry’ has a very wide range. After all, everything that is responsible for creating out of nothing is a kind of poetry” (205b–c, trans. Nehamas and Woodruff: οἶσθ᾿ ὅτι ποίησίς

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ἐστί τι πολύ· ἡ γάρ τοι ἐκ τοῦ μὴ ὄντος εἰς τὸ ὂν ἰόντι ὁτῳοῦν αἰτία πᾶσά ἐστι ποίησις). In other words, the begetting of the beautiful in the beautiful that constitutes the philosophical/erotic life is the highest form of poetic activity (possibly confirming Socrates’ initial interpretation of his dream wherein philosophy is the highest music [Phd. 61a]). Indeed, it should come as no surprise, then, that Plato looks to inspired poetry as a form of creative production that cannot be confined, that, if inspired, overflows, arousing more than oneself, enticing the maker of the production to experience divine (god-sent) beauty (cf. Carter 1967). To understand this overflowing capacity of divine poetry, the last of the three divinatory activities that parallel the life of true philosophy recall the arguments in the Phaedrus where true poetry, like prophecy, must be married to or possessed by the gods if it is to say anything of worth. Interestingly, this same theme is found in the Ion where inspired god-sent poetry, over and above the uninspired poet, is able to garner an audience:40 And for this reason God takes away the mind of these men and uses them as his servants, just as he does prophets and godly seers, in order that we who hear them may know that it is not they who utter these words of high value, for their intellect is not in them, but that it is God himself who speaks and addresses us through them. A convincing proof of what I say is the case of Tynnichus the Chalcidian, who had never composed a single poem in his life that could deserve any mention, and then produced the paean which is in everyone’s mouth, almost the finest song we have, simply—as he says himself—‘an invention of the Muses.’ For the god intended him to be a sign to us that we should not waver or doubt that these fine poems are not human or the work of men, but divine and the work of gods; and that the poets are merely interpreters of the gods, according as each is possessed by one of the heavenly powers. (534c–e, trans. Lamb with slight modifications)41 The example of Tynnichus has a dual function. He both resembles the poet in the Phaedrus who attempts unsuccessfully to craft poetry without divine dispensation (245a) while, later on, when he received the gift of the Muses, he was able to create something impressionable. Only when Tynnichus becomes receptive to the divine does he ultimately become a poet, an interpreter of the divine, transmitting and communicating what is not the work of humanity, a product of one who stands isolated in the all-too-human mode of production but as one who comes as an intercessor for something more. Before, without godly possession, Tynnichus was unable to reach or touch any audience, and unable to communicate anything of value. Yet, when the divine muse strikes, his words finally rouse an audience. Tynnichus is only able to inspire others, to touch them with his words, when the poetry is not his own. Patently, for Socrates, even the rhapsode himself becomes

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part of this divine chain of inspiration, becoming an “an interpreter of an interpreter”: I do observe it Ion, and I am going to point out to you what I take it to mean. For, as I was saying just now, this is not an art in you, whereby you speak well on Homer, but a divine power, which moves you like that in the stone which Euripides named a magnet, but most people call “Heraclea stone.” For this stone not only attracts iron rings, but also imparts to them a power whereby they in turn are able to do the very same thing as the stone and attract other rings; so that sometimes there is formed quite a long chain of bits of iron and rings, suspended from another; and they all depend for this power on that one stone. In the same manner also the Muse inspires men herself, and then by means of these inspired persons the inspiration spreads to others, and holds them in a connected chain. (533d–e trans. Lamb)42 In this stirring account of inspiration – it is worth noting that Ion describes Socrates’ words as those which touch his soul (Ion 535a) – Socrates reveals an important aspect of divination and divinatory activities like poetry that may be lost when the focus is on the epistemological lack that diviners, prophets and poets share (as Struck is wont to argue). Yes, it is true that if Socrates subjected Tynnichus to the elenchos, he would likely be revealed to lack knowledge of his own creation. Again, Struck and others are right. Tynnichus and those of his stripe possess an imagistic, non-discursive form of knowing that is unable to give an account of itself. Yet, in this passage, Plato is less concerned with highlighting the epistemological lack of the poet than in endeavouring to work through the excess, the overflow, the chain of divinity linking the god to the poet, the poet to the rhapsode, the rhapsode to the audience and so on (cf. 535e–536d). Interestingly, the inspired poet, Tynnichus, is explicitly described by Socrates as “a sign from god” (Ion 534e), a sign meant to clarify to the human audience what is and is not the work of the divine. Of course, the parallel to Socrates’ response to the divine oracle seems remarkably similar insofar as Socrates interprets the oracle to mean “human wisdom is of little to no value” (Ap. 23a). He, like Tynnichus, signifies to his peers and countrymen what is the work of the divine and what is not, showing that the only wisdom worth anything, much like the poetry of Tynnichus or the inspired mantikê in the Phaedrus, is one that is not human.43 Additionally, like Socrates’ arguments in the Ion where “the Muse inspires men herself, and then by means of these inspired persons the inspiration spreads to others, and holds them in a connected chain” (Ion 533e), Plato crafts the character of Socrates so as to resemble the inspired rhapsode who is part of a divine “Heraclea stone” connecting all those with whom he converses to the divine source of his mission.

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To return to the theme of rational, calculative (sober) reasoning in contrast to the inspired reasoning of the philosopher, we should recall that, for Socrates, in the Phaedrus augury is not divination just as technical poetry is not poetry.44 These human arts say nothing of real value; they speak to no one because they do not go beyond themselves. They are not divinely (other-) touched, graced or enthused. In other words, beyond merely uplifting a kind of non-discursive knowing over discursive knowing, Plato is clearly emphasising that these divinatory practices cannot do their work, are not really divination or poetry, without divine (other than human) possession or, in the case of the mystagogue, guidance. Ergo, sober, calculative, anthropocentric reasoning is not philosophy. For Socrates, philosophy is not a merely rational enterprise, a making of arguments without divine source, purpose and guidance. This would be like Tynnichus’ original poetry – empty, uninspiring and devoid of beauty. Consider again the role of the mystagogue: they are not leading the initiate anywhere; they are not circling back to the value of the human. Rather, they guide and lead so as to take the initiate beyond the human. So, too, the inspired lover does not practise philosophy for the sake of the human. This anthropocentric goal is that at which Socrates feared his first speech on the non-lover aimed: “That’s why, almost from the beginning of my speech, I was disturbed by a very uneasy feeling, as Ibycus puts it, that ‘for offending the gods I am honored by men’” (Phdr. 242c–d: ἐμὲ γὰρ ἔθραξε μέν τι καὶ πάλαι λέγοντα τὸν λόγον, καί πως ἐδυσωπούμην κατ᾿ Ἴβυκον, μή τι παρὰ θεοῖς ἀμβλακὼν τιμὰν πρὸς ἀνθρώπων ἀμείψω· νῦν δ᾿ ᾔσθημαι τὸ ἁμάρτημα). His second speech is not guided by the human desire to make a better speech for no good, purely because he can (he certainly shows us he can, insofar as his first speech defending the non-lover shows he has the technical ability to wield arguments simply to best others, like Lysias, at their own game). Rather, the second speech will be a recantation, a markedly purgative speech (243a–b) that must have a divine source, audience and goal. In this, Socrates appeals to his own enthusiasm, showing through his palinode what reason/dialectical activity looks like when it is divinely moved, not simply discussing the erotic mysteries, parsing them out, but performing and enacting them, showing Phaedrus the power of inspired love as they sit under the plane tree. As seen, Socrates explicitly appeals to being (1) a sort of seer, and, indeed, Socrates seems to see the soul of the beloved, recognising Phaedrus’ divine desire, despite its current misdirection, and enigmatically commands the young man to do something other than blindly parrot the words of a human lover, the so-called sober reasoner that is Lysias.45 Further, Socrates resembles (2) the mystagogue, cleansing and purifying himself and his initiate to live an otherwise than human, earthbound life, guiding/caring for the soul in its unusual journey, praying that they have honoured the gods appropriately. And, finally, Socratic love compels the philosopher to become (3) a divine poet-artist (see Ferrari 1987, 16–21), creating an unforgettable image of the soul that touches not only Phaedrus but generations of readers to see within themselves the beauty of

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divine love. Indeed, Socrates attempts to wield a logos that gives birth to true beauty, crafting a speech that inspires and rouses Phaedrus to live not the life of a philo-logist, the life of mere words and babble, but the life of the philosopher, a life, much like Socrates’ own, that creates so as to beget the philosophical life in another. So, again, in taking up the activities of all three forms of madness invoked by Plato in the Phaedrus, the inspired/erotic philosopher divines, leads, purifies and creates, and in this she tends to the pathway that returns the soul to its divine source.46 Indeed, the inspired philosopher’s tools are not the tools of the seer or mystagogue, or even a poet. No tripods or sacred staffs or tusks of corn. Rather, her tools look a bit different, her tool for communion is reason indeed but reason inspired. Reason merely at the service of humanity is self-serving and, therein, unable to move. Socrates warns Phaedrus of what becomes of those who gratify the non-lover, the uninspired human seducers, the ones who wield reason in such a way as to circle around itself rather than going outside itself: […] the affection of the non-lover, which is alloyed with mortal prudence and follows mortal and parsimonious rules of conduct, will beget in the soul the narrowness which the common folk praise as virtue; it will cause the soul to be a wanderer upon the earth for nine thousand years and a fool below the earth at last. (256e–257a, trans. Fowler)47 Reason wandering and trapped, eventually buried and forgotten, versus ascending and forever moving and caring about the other, is the difference between the paths of the non-lover and the lover, respectively. A lover who is a dialectician, who tends to the individuals before him, who sees into their soul, cleanses their soul, guides their soul and produces/creates/gives birth to the beauty that animates their soul to ascend higher and higher, that is the true friend of wisdom, the true philosopher Socrates admittedly is ready to worship (Phdr. 266b).

Conclusions: the problems of teaching and writing for the philosopher To be clear, the process of inspired philosophy is a tenuous and difficult affair. Again, Socrates is a seer but not necessarily a good one (Phdr. 242c), as he admits, because philosophy enacts a different form of sight than the sight given to the inspired mantikê, a cleansing/initiation different from the mystagogic healer-purifier and a begetting wholly other to poetry of the normal variety. Alcibiades is a good example of how Socrates’ prophetic, telestic and poetic practices are not always on the mark. Like contemporary professors who see blinding confusion married to a remarkable beauty in one particularly talented student and therein strive to guide and inspire,

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attempting to remove conceits obstructing their own divine life through not only conversations but also lectures, we, too, can fail, can be wrong about such potential. We, as philosopher teachers, are not always perfect seers. The sight might not be as clear, the purification never finished and the begetting may, despite its inspired source, fall on deaf ears, be rejected as the ramblings of a frustrating busybody who disturbs rather than assists the city in its affairs – a professor bent on speaking and passionately caring even when no one is listening. In the end, philosophy is like all these divinatory practices and in this likeness it carefully attempts to do its own work as any misstep threatens to harm what matters most. Indeed, this threat of harm, of unintentionally leading initiates (read: students or lovers) astray, is why Plato was so nervous about philosophical writing in the first place. Writing, much like the speech of the non-lover in its lack of concern for the lover, or more accurately in its inability to see the soul of the auditor, cannot intuit (prophesise) what the reader knows and does not know. It does not witness the reader’s (student’s) arrogance nor their hidden (pregnant) beauty, and it may be unable to purify them from the former and therein unable to lead them to produce (give birth to) the beauty lying dormant in their souls. In fact, all these inabilities of writing, to simply be unresponsive and unconnected to the lived individual person who reads or recites a text, risks inspiring a reader (student or lover) to go down another path, much like the path Phaedrus almost traversed in being seduced by Lysias’ “sober” as well as written speech, a path that would lead the reader to the graveyard of the merely human (Phdr. 257a) rather than somewhere other, somewhere celestial. For Socrates the true dialectician will only write for the sake of reminding oneself or for amusement and will, consequently, seek out another for one’s serious work. Thereby one becomes like the mystagogue who needs to initiate and find others to guide, teach and care for rather than irresponsibly to hope that mere words on a wax tablet, paper or screen may do such tender work. Through an analogy of two different forms of gardening Socrates contrasts the mystagogic (face-to-face) work of true philosophers with those who rather invest in writing: Socrates:

When [the dialectician] writes, it’s likely he will sow gardens of letters for the sake of amusing himself, for storing up reminders for himself “when he reaches forgetful old age” and everyone who wants to follow in his footsteps, and will enjoy seeing them sweetly blooming. And when others turn to different amusements, watering themselves with drinking parties and everything else that goes along with them, he will rather spend his time amusing himself with the things I have just described. Phaedrus: Socrates, you are contrasting a vulgar amusement with the very noblest – with the amusement of a man who can while away his

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Socrates:

time telling stories of justice and the other matters you mentioned. That’s just how it is, Phaedrus. But it is much nobler to be serious about these matters, and use the art of dialectic. The dialectician chooses a proper soul and plants and sows within it discourse accompanied by knowledge—discourse capable of helping itself as well as the man who planted it, which is not barren but produces seed from which more discourse grows in the character of others. Such discourse makes the seed forever immortal and renders the man who has it as happy as any human can be (276d–277a, trans. Nehamas and Woodruff).48

Interestingly, in this illuminating passage about the nature of philosophical pedagogy, Plato tempers the extremes of how the philosopher recovers or recollects their immortality in the Phaedo or the Symposium. In those two texts immortality (the divine life of the soul) is revealed in uncanny forms of giving birth or dying. Yet, here in the Phaedrus, Plato highlights a sowing and tending to the immortal that serves the good life of the human being right now, the life which is between birth and death. We must sow, cultivate and let things grow, a growth that creates new discourses, new ideas, but all for the sake of nurturing more seeds of the divine. While, in the end, Plato may not have thought his writing to be of serious worth – what matters more is the planting of divine seed that feeds both those who reap and also those who sow in a harvest that begins and ends in a divine thanksgiving – the dialogues, even as written texts, still seem to embody the divine spark that Plato was eager to cultivate in his students (Ep. VII 341c–d).49 Much like an oracle, the dialogues seem to be crafted to be both enigmatic and commanding, speaking to a variety of souls at a variety of levels, framing things in a divinatory manner (do we not know the past, present and future of Alcibiades, Socrates, etc. – are we not asked to have a peculiar sight?) so as to beckon readers to converse with the text, become frustrated, feel accused, see the light of understanding and misunderstanding that demands that we constantly go back, reread and converse, purifying ourselves again and again of different conceits, initiated again and again into new mysteries. This, ultimately, seems to be the real thrust of the divinatory theme in Plato’s texts – a rather uncomplicated appeal that the philosopher must be like the prophet, the telestic priestess or the poet, not in what or how they know but in how they lived and inspired others to live. To conclude with a return to torch-bearing Cassandra, that prophet whose grief, pain and erratic behaviour did not make her frenzied statements to the Achaeans any less rational, Socrates was, like her, also a doomed seer – less frenzied but not any less possessed. In point of fact, neither Cassandra nor Socrates wielded a sober rationality or, even, a mad irrationality. Rather,

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both of them were possessed by a divine power and a divinely inspired wisdom that allowed them to see through their adversaries, dismantling the idea that their pretensions, their clever reasoning, constituted their power. Fearless and committed, Socrates and Cassandra both knew that death would not be the end of their divine missions. Unlike the Achaeans and the Athenians, who did not have ears to hear, Socrates’ and Cassandra’s own fates were not to die, to be forgotten, but to live even after death, inspiring generations of others to resist and dismantle the human, all too human reason that attempted and still attempts to snuff out the torch-bearer, the prophet, the mystagogue and the poet, in us all.

Notes 1 Aeschylus, Vol. II, translated by Alan H. Sommerstein, Loeb Classical Library Volume 146, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, Copyright © 2008 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Loeb Classical Library ® is a registered trademark of the President and Fellows of Harvard College. 2 According to most classical sources, Apollo offered the famed daughter of Troy the gift of prophecy in exchange for sex. However, after receiving the divine gift, Cassandra rejected Apollo’s advances. In retaliation, Apollo condemned Cassandra to utter prophecies that no one believed. See Aeschylus’ Agamemnon and Euripides’ Trojan Women for the classical depictions of Cassandra within Athenian tragedy. With regard to Socrates, it should be noted at the outset that the following arguments focus exclusively on the role of divination and Socrates in Plato’s dialogues. For further discussion of Xenophon’s Socrates and divination, see Chapter 3 in this volume. 3 Euripides, Trojan Women 458. 4 Euripides, Trojan Women, 410–2 (trans. Kovacs). 5 Τὸ δὲ δὴ μετὰ τοῦτο ἐπιθυμῶ ὑμῖν χρησμῳδῆσαι, ὦ καταψηφισάμενοί μου καὶ γάρ εἰμι ἤδη ἐνταῦθα ἐν ᾧ μάλιστα ἄνθρωποι χρησμῳδοῦσιν, ὅταν μέλλωσιν ἀποθανεῖσθαι. φημὶ γάρ, ὦ ἄνδρες οἳ ἐμὲ ἀπεκτόνατε, τιμωρίαν ὑμῖν ἥξειν εὐθὺς μετὰ τὸν ἐμὸν θάνατον πολὺ χαλεπωτέραν νὴ Δία ἢ οἵαν ἐμὲ ἀπεκτόνατε 6 See Talthybius’ remarks in the Trojan Women (408–24) or the charges brought against Socrates in the Apology (19b–c). 7 Vlastos 1991, 170. See also Versenyi 1982 and Nehamas 1986 for others of this ilk, while for counterviews see McPherran 1985 and 1991, as well as Beckman 1979; Brickhouse and Smith 1989 and 1993. For more recent evaluations, see most particularly Schefer 1996 and 2003, as well as Evans, 2006; Morgan 2010; Landry 2014; Struck 2016. 8 Of course, it should be noted that Plato would have been very familiar with Euripides’ tragedies insofar as during his lifetime, the popularity of the tragedian’s work was unrivalled. See Sansone 1996 for a discussion of Euripides’ impact on Plato’s dialogues. For references to Odysseus in Plato’s dialogues, see Resp. 390d, 441b, 620c; Phd. 94d; Symp. 220c and, of course, the running arguments of Hippias Minor. 9 The term daimonion refers to Socrates’ appeal to an inner voice that often prevented the philosopher from committing what he believed were moral errors or blasphemous actions. For more information on Socrates’ divine sign, see Destrée and Smith 2005; particularly Brisson 2005, 1–12; Brickhouse and Smith 2005, 43–62; Van Riel 2005, 31–42. See also Chapter 5 in this volume. For Plutarch’s interpretation of Socratic divination, see Chapter 6. On Apuleius’ view of

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Danielle A. Layne Socrates’ daimonion, see Chapter 9. See also Chapter 5 for a brief discussion of the divinatory language in Socrates’ appeal to his daimonion. Cf. Morgan 2010, 72: In line with his analytic imperative Socratic divination and music transform themselves into philosophy. Narratives of belief can be investigated in argument and placed on a firm footing. The beginning of the Phaedo sets up a tension between two different kinds of accounts: reasoned philosophical argument that must generate its own authority vs. inspired (or received) accounts that claim, but do not justify, their authority. The dialogue as it progresses mediates these extremes. We see the received and imaginative logoi that Socrates presents in the first half of the dialogue pressed until Socrates is forced to justify, as well as he can, the beliefs he communicates to his companions. Brickhouse and Smith 1993, 37, who begin with the assumption that Plato may in fact regard divination as a form of knowledge but one that is rather “paltry.” ταῦτ’ οὖν ἐγὼ μὲν ἔτι καὶ νῦν περιιὼν ζητῶ καὶ ἐρευνῶ κατὰ τὸν θεὸν καὶ τῶν ἀστῶν καὶ ξένων ἄν τινα οἴωμαι σοφὸν εἶναι· καὶ ἐπειδάν μοι μὴ δοκῇ, τῷ θεῷ βοηθῶν ἐνδείκνυμαι ὅτι οὐκ ἔστι σοφός. καὶ ὑπὸ ταύτης τῆς ἀσχολίας οὔτε τι τῶν τῆς πόλεως πρᾶξαί μοι σχολὴ γέγονεν ἄξιον λόγου οὔτε τῶν οἰκείων, ἀλλ’ ἐν πενίᾳ μυρίᾳ εἰμὶ διὰ τὴν τοῦ θεοῦ λατρείαν. For a detailed account of the role of Apollo in Socrates’ understanding of his philosophical mission, see Schefer 1996. On Socrates’ testing of the Delphic oracular response, see also Chapter 1 in this volume. Ap. 33c, trans. Fowler 1914: ἐμοὶ δὲ τοῦτο... προστέτακται ὑπὸ τοῦ θεοῦ πραττεῖν καὶ ἐκ μαντείων καὶ ἐξ ἐνυπνίων καὶ παντὶ τρόπῳ, ῷπέρ τίς ποτε καὶ ἄλλη θεία μοῖρα ἀνθρώπῳ καὶ ὁτιοῦν προσέταξε πράττειν. Cf. Euthyd. 290a, where such speakers who wield logos so as to best their interlocutors are compared to enchanters. See Calvo 1992 for an in-depth discussion of Lysias’ speech and Socrates’ initial response. See Moore 2008 for the close relationship between persuasion and compulsion in Plato’s Republic. Cf. Tht. 155e where such reasoners are described as uninitiated, or Soph. 246a–d which decries the irascible nature of materialistic debaters. Wild 1939, 333: And so with reasoning: the reasons which lead to solipsism, to determinism, to materialism, are cogent indeed, almost impossible to gainsay, and sometimes are convincing enough to alter men’s outlook on life, and so even their actions. But nobody is surprised when they fail to bring conviction; many people who hold them would rather not, and seek a way by which, without forfeiting their intellectual honesty, they may avoid their conclusions. Something essential separates the reasoning which leads to our knowing that the square of the diagonal is twice the square of the side, and the reasoning that leads to solipsism. Socrates would say that the first is knowledge because it is not only reasoned but recollected, i.e. understood to correspond with absolute truth, and the second merely reasoned and not (in addition) recollected and therefore “not of much value.” See Ion, where divine inspiration is compared to a magnet binding those inspired in a kind of chain to the source of the inspiration (533d–e). More will be said on this below. For more discussion of the language of hope in Plato’s Phaedo, see Layne 2010. Symp. 203a: θεὸς δὲ ἀνθρώπῳ οὐ μίγνυται, ἀλλὰ διὰ τούτου πᾶσά ἐστιν ἡ ὁμιλία καὶ ἡ διάλεκτος θεοῖς πρὸς ἀνθρώπους καὶ πρὸς θεοὺς ἀνθρώποις. Trans. Lamb 1925 with slight modifications.

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22 δὲ δὴ διαταξάμενος τὰ λόγων τε καὶ ψυχῆς γένη καὶ τὰ τούτων παθήματα δίεισι πάσας αἰτίας, προσαρμόττων ἕκαστον ἑκάστῳ καὶ διδάσκων οἵα οὖσα ὑφ’ οἵων λόγων δι’ ἣν αἰτίαν ἐξ ἀνάγκης ἡ μὲν πείθεται, ἡ δὲἀπειθεῖ. It may be interesting to note that this divinely inspired dialectician will in some sense be determining whether it is the right time for his interlocutor to receive one speech or another. In other words, there is a real sense that the dialectician must determine the right kairos. See Chapter 5 for more on the importance of kairos for proper divination. 23 ὁ γὰρ ἀκούσας, ἐὰν μὲν ὄντως ᾖ φιλόσοφος οἰκεῖός τε καὶ ἄξιος τοῦ πράγματος θεῖος ὤν, ὁδόν τε ἡγεῖται θαυμαστὴν ἀκηκοέναι συντατέον τε εἶναι νῦν καὶ οὐ βιωτὸν ἄλλως ποιοῦντι. μετὰ τοῦτο δὴ συντείνας αὐτός τε καὶ τὸν ἡγούμενον τὴν ὁδόν, οὐκ ἀνίησιν πρὶν ἂν ἢ τέλος ἐπιθῇ πᾶσιν, ἢ λάβῃ δύναμιν ὥστε αὐτὸς αὑτὸν χωρὶς τοῦ δείξοντος δυνατὸς εἶναι ποδηγεῖν. Trans. Bury 1929. All translations of this work are drawn from this edition. 24 ἐν εὐμενέσιν ἐλέγχοις ἐλεγχόμενα καὶ ἄνευ φθόνων ἐρωτήσεσιν καὶ ἀποκρίσεσιν χρωμένων, ἐξέλαμψε φρόνησις περὶ ἕκαστον καὶ νοῦς, συντείνων ὅτι μάλιστ’ εἰς δύναμιν ἀνθρωπίνην. 25 For the classical analysis of the Phaedrus in general, but divination in particular, see Brisson 1974; Griswold 1986; Ferrari 1987; Chiesa 1992. 26 Cf. Chapter 1 in this volume. For more on the nature of oracles and their particulars see Fontenrose 1978; Roth 1982; Flower 2008; Johnston 2008. For an indepth account of oracles in late antiquity see Addey 2014, 1–82. 27 καί τινα φωνὴν ἔδοξα αὐτόθεν ἀκοῦσαι, ἥ με οὐκ ἐᾷ ἀπιέναι πρὶν ἂν ἀφοσιώσωμαι, ὡς δή τι ἡμαρτηκότα εἰς τὸ θεῖον. εἰμὶ δὴ οὖν μάντις μέν, οὐ πάνυ δὲ σπουδαῖος, ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ οἱ τὰ γράμματα φαῦλοι, ὅσον μὲν ἐμαυτῷ μόνον ἱκανός. σαφῶς οὖν ἤδη μανθάνω τὸ ἁμάρτημα. ὡς δή τοι, ὦ ἑταῖρε, μαντικόν γέ τι καὶ ἡ ψυχή. 28 For more extensive treatments of Socrates’ divine sign, see Brisson 2005; Van Riel 2005. See also Chapter 5 on this volume for the reception of Socrates’ divine sign in Late Antiquity. 29 See Brisson 1974, 226, for the relation between prophetic and telestic madness in the Phaedrus, as well as their affinity to philosophic erotic madness. Cf. Ion 533c–536d. 30 For more on pollution and purification in antiquity in general, but often discussed in the context of its relationship to philosophy and philosophical inquiry, see Dodds 1963; Dorter 1972; Parker1983; McPherran 2002; Bendlin 2007. 31 Cf. Burkert’s (1987, 93) commentary on Plutarch’s remarks on initiation into the Eleusinian mysteries and its similarity to the Socratic elenchos: According to Plutarch, “in mystery initiations one should bear up to the first purifications and unsettling events and hope for something sweet and bright to come out of the present anxiety and confusion”; there even is a special kind of “joy, such initiands experience, mixed with confusion and depression but full of pleasant hope.” […] As the initiate is accepted and hailed by a chorus of those who have gone through the same peripeties of experience, his feelings of relief will rise to the heights of exultation. Yet the texts insist that the true state of blessedness is not in this emotional resonance but in the act of “seeing” what is divine. Cf. Plutarch, On Listening to Lectures 47a and Plato, Phdr. 250b, for the importance of the act of seeing the highest things. Again, please see below for a more detailed examination of this issue. Cf. Soph. 227b–230d wherein there is an extensive discussion of being purified from the disease of double ignorance through an activity that looks much like the elenchos. 32 See Burkert 1987: 70; Riedwig 1987; Nightingale 2005; McPherran 2006; Ionescu 2007; Payne 2008, as well as Evans 2006, for more information on the mysteries in general as well as on how Diotima’s speech mirrors the structure/stages of the

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Danielle A. Layne Eleusinian mysteries specifically. In particular Ionescu (2007) argues persuasively on the parallel between the lower and higher mysteries of Diotima’s speech and the theory of recollection in the Meno, which is explicitly described by Socrates as a teaching given to him by certain priests and priestesses (81a). Cf. Soph. 230c–e and Men. 84b–d for the parallel arguments that the elenchos is a purgative device. See also Proclus, In Alc. and In Parm. for similar arguments regarding the nature of the elenchos. It is no coincidence that in the two dialogues that explicitly transform love into a spiritual/inspired affair resembling an initiation, Plato frames the openings as moments wherein individuals are being led. In the case of the Symposium, Socrates, freshly bathed, invites Aristodemus to the banquet, and like the mystagogue with an initiate, they walk together before Socrates halts, while still supporting Aristodemus in making the rest of the journey himself. So, too, the Phaedrus begins with Socrates being led outside the city walls, following the young man in his desire to converse. See Gordon 2012, 167, who notes that in the Phaedrus’ opening alone the language of leading and being led is mentioned nine times (227c1, 228c1, 229a7, 229b3, 230a7, 230c5, 230c7, 230d8, 230e1 as well as 253d3, 261a2 and 271d4). Again, Evans’ observations about Diotima’s own initiatory function as leading are helpful: “The initiate into Diotima’s rites is led by someone else who knows the way and is able to lead rightly (ho hegoumenos, 210a6–7). In Diotima’s telea, the initiate is at first led passively, is taught to love the body and beauty of another person, and, through the process, ultimately perceives and considers abstract beauty in all bodies (210b3). Diotima here plays on the meaning of the word hegeomai, a verb that means “lead,” as well as “think, consider.” The word play here is subtle, but indicates an important shift. In the first instance, the one leading the initiate (ho hegoumenos) is the grammatical subject: the leader conducts the initiate lover through the rites of love (210a6–7). But once the initiate lover recognises that the beauty of one is akin to the beauty of others, it is the initiate who becomes the subject (210b3, 210b6, 7). With this switch of subject, the meaning of hegeomai slips, and instead of meaning “lead” as it did at 210a6 and 7, in 210b it means “think, consider.” The leader drops out after a certain point, and the initiate continues alone the journey to the vision of true Being.” See also Schefer 2003, 192. See Schefer 2003 for the most detailed account of the context of the mysteries in Plato’s Phaedrus. κάλλος δὲ τότ’ ἦν ἰδεῖν λαμπρόν, ὅτε σὺν εὐδαίμονι χορῷ μακαρίαν ὄψιν τε καὶ θέαν, ἑπόμενοι μετὰ μὲν Διὸς ἡμεῖς, ἄλλοι δὲ μετ’ ἄλλου θεῶν, εἶδόν τε καὶ ἐτελοῦντο τῶν τελετῶν ἣν θέμις λέγειν μακαριωτάτην, ἣν ὠργιάζομεν ὁλόκληροι μὲν αὐτοὶ ὄντες καὶ ἀπαθεῖς κακῶν ὅσα ἡμᾶς ἐν ὑστέρῳ χρόνῳ ὑπέμενεν, ὁλόκληρα δὲ καὶ ἁπλᾶ καὶ ἀτρεμῆ καὶ εὐδαίμονα φάσματα μυούμενοί τε καὶ ἐποπτεύοντες ἐν αὐγῇ καθαρᾷ, καθαροὶ ὄντες καὶ ἀσήμαντοι τούτου ὃ νῦν δὴ σῶμα περιφέροντες ὀνομάζομεν, ὀστρέου τρόπον δεδεσμευμένοι. οἱ μὲν δὴ οὖν Διὸς δῖόν τινα εἶναι ζητοῦσι τὴν ψυχὴν τὸν ὑφ’ αὑτῶν ἐρώμενον. σκοποῦσιν οὖν εἰ φιλόσοφός τε καὶ ἡγεμονικὸς τὴν φύσιν, καὶ ὅταν αὐτὸν εὑρόντες ἐρασθῶσι, πᾶν ποιοῦσιν ὅπως τοιοῦτος ἔσται. ἐὰν οὖν μὴ πρότερον ἐμβεβῶσι τῷ ἐπιτηδεύματι, τότε ἐπιχειρήσαντες μανθάνουσί τε ὅθεν ἄν τι δύνωνται καὶ αὐτοὶ μετέρχονται, ἰχνεύοντες δὲ παρ’ ἑαυτῶν ἀνευρίσκειν τὴν τοῦ σφετέρου θεοῦ φύσιν εὐποροῦσι διὰ τὸ συντόνως ἠναγκάσθαι πρὸς τὸν θεὸν βλέπειν, καὶ ἐφαπτόμενοι αὐτοῦ τῇ μνήμῃ ἐνθουσιῶντες ἐξ ἐκείνου λαμβάνουσι τὰ ἔθη καὶ τὰ ἐπιτηδεύματα, καθ’ ὅσον δυνατὸν θεοῦ ἀνθρώπῳ μετασχεῖν· καὶ τούτων δὴ τὸν ἐρώμενον αἰτιώμενοι ἔτι τε μᾶλλον ἀγαπῶσι, κἂν ἐκ Διὸς ἀρύτωσιν ὥσπερ αἱ βάκχαι, ἐπὶ τὴν τοῦ ἐρωμένου ψυχὴν ἐπαντλοῦντες ποιοῦσιν ὡς δυνατὸν ὁμοιότατον τῷ σφετέρῳ θεῷ. […] προθυμία μὲν οὖν τῶν ὡς ἀληθῶς ἐρώντων καὶ τελετή, ἐάν γε διαπράξωνται ὃ

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προθυμοῦνται ᾗ λέγω, οὕτω καλή τε καὶ εὐδαιμονικὴ ὑπὸ τοῦ δι’ ἔρωτα μανέντος φίλου τῷ φιληθέντι γίγνεται… The language of initiation is also utilised in the Meno where Socrates asks the young man not “to go away before the mysteries, and could stay awhile and be initiated” (77a, trans. Lamb). Further, Socrates also appeals to Orphic and Eleusinian mysteries through the poetry of Pindar just before expanding on his theory of recollection: As to their words, they are these: mark now, if you judge them to be true. They say the soul of man is immortal, and at one time comes to an end, which is called dying, and at another is born again, but never perishes. Consequently one ought to live all one’s life in the utmost holiness. ‘For from whomsoever Persephone shall accept requital for ancient wrong, the souls of these she restores in the ninth year to the upper sun again; from them arise glorious kings and men of splendid might and surpassing wisdom, and for all remaining time are they called holy heroes amongst mankind.’ (81b–c, trans. Lamb) Symp. 212a: … ὁρῶντι ᾧ ὁρατὸν τὸ καλόν, τίκτειν οὐκ εἴδωλα ἀρετῆς, ἅτε οὐκ εἰδώλου ἐφαπτομένῳ, ἀλλ᾿ ἀληθῆ, ἅτε τοῦ ἀληθοῦς ἐφαπτομένῳ· τεκόντι δὲ ἀρετὴν ἀληθῆ καὶ θρεψαμένῳ ὑπάρχει θεοφιλεῖ γενέσθαι, καὶ εἴπερ τῳ ἄλλῳ ἀνθρώπων ἀθανάτῳ καὶ ἐκείνῳ. For in-depth accounts of the Ion and inspired poetry, see Harris 2004; Stern-Gillet 2004; Dixon 2008. Dixon (2008, 11) offers a more traditional reading of inspiration as a mere ironic stand-in for the more worthy, solely rational activities of philosophy. Ultimately, Plato’s use of the inspired analogy is simply to show the value of philosophy. While commenting on how philosophy is the true muse at Resp. 548b, Dixon writes: “With this the words ‘inspiration’ and ‘Muse’ lose all traditional meaning and become subsumed by a new, Platonic senses [sic.]. In this way, Plato’s use of inspiration can be seen in its proper light. This is simply as a method of introducing interlocutors and the audience they represent into a discussion which ultimately draws them towards the detailed intricacies of Plato’s own philosophy.” For analysis of Plato and poetry relevant for the discussion of divination and inspiration, see Tigerstedt 1969 and 1970, as well as Murray 1981 and 1996. διὰ ταῦτα δὲ ὁ θεὸς ἐξαιρούμενος τούτων τὸν νοῦν τούτοις χρῆται ὑπηρέταις καὶ τοῖς χρησμῳδοῖς καὶ τοῖς μάντεσι τοῖς θείοις, ἵνα ἡμεῖς οἱ ἀκούοντες εἰδῶμεν ὅτι οὐχ οὗτοί εἰσιν οἱ ταῦτα λέγοντες οὕτω πολλοῦ ἄξια, οἷς νοῦς μὴ πάρεστιν, ἀλλ’ ὁ θεὸς αὐτός ἐστιν ὁ λέγων, διὰ τούτων δὲ φθέγγεται πρὸς ἡμᾶς. μέγιστον δὲ τεκμήριον τῷ λόγῳ Τύννιχος ὁ Χαλκιδεύς, ὃς ἄλλο μὲν οὐδὲν πώποτε ἐποίησε ποίημα ὅτου τις ἂν ἀξιώσειεν μνησθῆναι, τὸν δὲ παίωνα ὃν πάντες ᾄδουσι, σχεδόν τι πάντων μελῶν κάλλιστον, ἀτεχνῶς, ὅπερ αὐτὸς λέγει, “εὕρημά τι Μοισᾶν.” ἐν τούτῳ γὰρ δὴ μάλιστά μοι δοκεῖ ὁ θεὸς ἐνδείξασθαι ἡμῖν, ἵνα μὴ διστάζωμεν, ὅτι οὐκ ἀνθρώπινά ἐστιν τὰ καλὰ ταῦτα ποιήματα οὐδὲ ἀνθρώπων, ἀλλὰ θεῖα καὶ θεῶν, οἱ δὲ ποιηταὶ οὐδὲν ἀλλ’ ἢ ἑρμηνῆς εἰσιν τῶν θεῶν, κατεχόμενοι ἐξ ὅτου ἂν ἕκαστος κατέχηται. Καὶ ὁρῶ, ὦ Ἴων, καὶ ἔρχομαί γέ σοι ἀποφανούμενος ὅ μοι δοκεῖ τοῦτο εἶναι. ἔστι γὰρ τοῦτο τέχνη μὲν οὐκ ὂν παρὰ σοὶ περὶ Ὁμήρου εὖ λέγειν, ὃ νυνδὴ ἔλεγον, θεία δὲ δύναμις ἥ σε κινεῖ, ὥσπερ ἐν τῇ λίθῳ ἣν Εὐριπίδης μὲν Μαγνῆτιν ὠνόμασεν, οἱ δὲ πολλοὶ Ἡρακλείαν. καὶ γὰρ αὕτη ἡ λίθος οὐ μόνον αὐτοὺς τοὺς δακτυλίους ἄγει τοὺς σιδηροῦς, ἀλλὰ καὶ δύναμιν ἐντίθησι τοῖς δακτυλίοις ὥστ’ αὖ δύνασθαι ταὐτὸν τοῦτο ποιεῖν ὅπερ ἡ λίθος, ἄλλους ἄγειν δακτυλίους, ὥστ’ ἐνίοτε ὁρμαθὸς μακρὸς πάνυ σιδηρίων καὶ δακτυλίων ἐξ ἀλλήλων ἤρτηται· πᾶσι δὲ τούτοις ἐξ ἐκείνης τῆς λίθου ἡ δύναμις ἀνήρτηται. οὕτω δὲ καὶ ἡ Μοῦσα ἐνθέους μὲν ποιεῖ αὐτή, διὰ δὲ τῶν ἐνθέων τούτων ἄλλων ἐνθουσιαζόντων ὁρμαθὸς ἐξαρτᾶται. Cf. Xenophon, Mem. I I 9: “What the gods have granted us to do by help of learning, we must learn; what is hidden from mortals we should try to find out from the gods by divination” (ἔφη δὲ δεῖν ἃ μὲν μαθόντας ποιεῖν ἔδωκαν οἱ θεοὶ

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Danielle A. Layne μανθάνειν, ἃ δὲ μὴ δῆλα τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἐστὶ πειρᾶσθαι διὰ μαντικῆς παρὰ τῶν θεῶν). Cf. also Chapter 3 in this volume on Xenophon’s approach to divination and the co-operation of humans with the gods and divine knowledge; on the latter topic, see also Chapter 5. For more information on the distinction between technical or skilled (human) divination or poetry versus inspired divination or poetry, see Brickhouse and Smith 1993; Harris 2004; Johnston 2008, 9. See particularly Brisson 1974; Landry 2014, whose entire dissertation is devoted to this topic while emphasising that this division clarifies many of Plato’s seeming incongruities and ambiguities about divination between dialogues like the Phaedrus or the Phaedo. See also Chapter 6 in this volume, which discusses Plutarch’s belief that both inspired and technical divination require divine receptivity. Consider also Socrates’ prophecy concerning Isocrates (279a) wherein Socrates pronounces his vision of the rhetorician’s character while also commanding him to follow the “more divine impulse” for greater things than mere human rhetoric. For more on how Lysias’ speech and Socrates’ first speech are merely manipulations of a lover in the guise of the non-lover, see Ferrari 1987, 103–12. Cf. Ap. 41a, where Socrates invokes the value of the divinely inspired when questioning those whom he might meet in death – beyond the demigods Minos, Rhadamanthus and Aeacus, there is Triptolemus and Orpheus, founder of the mysteries as well as Musaeus, a prophet and purifier and, finally, Homer and Hesiod (41a), the classical poets whose words have inspired generations. Cf. Aristophanes’ Frogs 1032–35. In death then, Socrates explicitly hopes to commune with those who invoked a more than human wisdom, a wisdom that may not be able to give an account of itself, but a wisdom that possesses us, purifies us, guides us even when we shake off this mortal coil. ἡ δὲ ἀπὸ τοῦ μὴ ἐρῶντος οἰκειότης, σωφροσύνῃ θνητῇ κεκραμένη, θνητά τε καὶ φειδωλὰ οἰκονομοῦσα, ἀνελευθερίαν ὑπὸ πλήθους ἐπαινουμένην ὡς ἀρετὴν τῇ φίλῃ ψυχῇ ἐντεκοῦσα, ἐννέα χιλιάδας ἐτῶν περὶ γῆν κυλινδουμένην αὐτὴν καὶ ὑπὸ γῆς ἄνουν παρέξει. ΣΩ. Οὐ γάρ· ἀλλὰ τοὺς μὲν ἐν γράμμασι κήπους, ὡς ἔοικε, παιδιᾶς χάριν σπερεῖ τε καὶ γράψει, ὅταν [δὲ] γράφῃ, ἑαυτῷ τε ὑπομνήματα θησαυριζόμενος, εἰς τὸ λήθης γῆρας ἐὰν ἵκηται, καὶ παντὶ τῷ ταὐτὸν ἴχνος μετιόντι, ἡσθήσεταί τε αὐτοὺς θεωρῶν φυομένους ἁπαλούς· ὅταν ἄλλοι παιδιαῖς ἄλλαις χρῶνται, συμποσίοις τε ἄρδοντες αὑτοὺς ἑτέροις τε ὅσα τούτων ἀδελφά, τότ’ ἐκεῖνος, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἀντὶ τούτων οἷς λέγω παίζων διάξει. ΦΑΙ. Παγκάλην λέγεις παρὰ φαύλην παιδιάν, ὦ Σώκρατες, τοῦ ἐν λόγοις δυναμένου παίζειν, δικαιοσύνης τε καὶ ἄλλων ὧν λέγεις πέρι μυθολογοῦντα. ΣΩ. Ἔστι γάρ, ὦ φίλε Φαῖδρε, οὕτω· πολὺ δ’ οἶμαι καλλίων σπουδὴ περὶ αὐτὰ γίγνεται, ὅταν τις τῇ διαλεκτικῇ τέχνῃ χρώμενος, λαβὼν ψυχὴν προσήκουσαν, φυτεύῃ τε καὶ σπείρῃ μετ’ ἐπιστήμης λόγους, οἳ ἑαυτοῖς τῷ τε φυτεύσαντι βοηθεῖν ἱκανοὶ καὶ οὐχὶ ἄκαρποι ἀλλὰ ἔχοντες σπέρμα, ὅθεν ἄλλοι ἐν ἄλλοις ἤθεσι φυόμενοι τοῦτ’ ἀεὶ ἀθάνατον παρέχειν ἱκανοί, καὶ τὸν ἔχοντα εὐδαιμονεῖν ποιοῦντες εἰς ὅσον ἀνθρώπῳ δυνατὸν μάλιστα. Cf. Schefer 2003, 185, who synthesises the two disparate ideas of the Phaedrus, i.e. eros and writing, by aligning them to Plato’s consistent appeal to the mysteries: Beginning, center, and end of the critique of writing harmonize in a striking way. They all refer to the mysteries. We are shown, not only by the images and philosophical terms of the passage but also dramatically, that Platonic rhetoric is only a preparatory stage of mystery initiation and that a kind of religious ‘vision’ is the aim and climax of written and oral speech. This corresponds to the dialogue as a whole: the mysteries constitute the hidden unity of the Phaedrus. So, the two basic subjects of the dialogue, the question of love and of speech, are connected in

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the mysteries. They meet at the highest stage of initiation, in the epopteia as unspeakable experience, which is the goal of love and of speech.”

Bibliography Ancient works: texts and translations Aeschylus. Volume II: Oresteia: Agamemnon. Libation-Bearers. Eumenides. Edited and translated by Alan H. Sommerstein. 2009. LCL 146. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Aristophanes. Frogs. Edited and translated by Jeffrey Henderson. 2002. LCL 180. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Euripides. Trojan Women, Iphigenia among the Taurians, Ion. Edited and translated by David Kovacs 2000. LCL 10. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Heraclitus. Diels, Hermann A. and Walther Kranz. Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker. 3 vols. 1903 (1974). Berlin: Weidmann. Plato. Alcibiades I. In Volume XII: Charmides, Alcibiades I and II, Hipparchus, The Lovers, Theages, Minos, Epinomis. Translated by Walter R.M. Lamb. 2005. LCL 201. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Apology. In Plato, Complete Works, edited, with introduction and notes by John M. Cooper. Translated by George M.A. Grube. 1997. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Company. Also cited: Plato. Apology. In Volume I: Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, Phaedo, Phaedrus. Translated by Harold North Fowler. 1914. LCL 36. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Epistles. In Volume IX: Timaeus, Critias, Clitophon, Menexenus, Epistles. Translated by Robert G. Bury. 1929. LCL 234. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Also cited: Glen R. Morrow. 1962. Plato’s Epistles. A Translation with Critical Essays and Notes. Indianapolis, IN: Bobbs-Merrill. Plato. Euthyphro. In In Volume I: Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, Phaedo, Phaedrus. Translated by Harold North Fowler. 1914. LCL 36. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Gorgias. In Volume III: Lysis, Symposium, Gorgias. Translated by Walter R.M. Lamb. 1925. LCL 166. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Ion. In Volume VIII: Statesman, Philebus, Ion. Translated by Harold North Fowler and Walter R.M. Lamb. 2006. LCL 164. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Laws. In Volume X–XI: Laws, Volumes I–II. Books I–VI and VII–XII. Translated by Robert G. Bury. 1926. LCL 187, 192. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Meno. In Volume II: Laches, Protagoras, Meno, Euthydemus. Translated by Walter R.M. Lamb. 1924. LCL 165. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Phaedo. In Volume I: Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, Phaedo, Phaedrus. Translated by Harold North Fowler. 1914. LCL 36. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Phaedrus. Edited, with introduction and notes, by John M. Cooper. Translated by Alexander Nehamas and Paul Woodruff. 1997. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. Also cited: Plato. Phaedrus. Translated by Harold North Fowler. 1914. LCL 36. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Plato. Platonis Opera. Edited by John Burnet. 1967. Oxford Classical Texts. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Plato. Republic. In Volume V–VI: Republic, Volumes I–II. Books I–V and VI–X. Translated by Chris Emlyn-Jones and William Preddy. 2013. LCL 237, 276. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Sophist. In Volume VII: Theaetetus, Sophist. Translated by Harold North Fowler. 2006. LCL 123. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Symposium. Translated by Walter R.M. Lamb. In Plato. Volume III: Lysis, Symposium, Gorgias. 1925. LCL 166. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Also cited: Plato: Complete Works. Edited, with introduction and notes, by John M. Cooper. 1997. Translated by Alexander Nehamas and Paul Woodruff. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett.. Plato. Timaeus. In Volume IX: Timaeus, Critias, Clitophon, Menexenus, Epistles. Translated by Robert G. Bury. 1929. LCL 234. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plutarch. On Listening to Lectures (De recta ratione audiendi). In Moralia, Vol. I. Translated by Frank Cole Babbit. 1927. LCL 197. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Proclus. Commentary on the First Alcibiades of Plato. Edited by L.G. Westerink. 1954. Amsterdam: North-Holland. Proclus. Commentarium in Platonis Parmenides. In Procli Opera Inedita. Edited by Victor Cousin. 1864. Paris: Aug. Durand. Xenophon. Memorabilia. In Memorabilia. Oeconomicus. Symposium. Apology. Translated by Edgar Cardew Marchant and Otis Johnson Todd. Revised by Jeffrey Henderson. 2013. LCL 168. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press

Modern works Addey, Crystal. 2014. Divination and Theurgy in Neoplatonism: Oracles of the Gods. Farnham: Ashgate. Beckman, James. 1979. The Religious Dimension of Socrates’ Thought. Waterloo, ON: Wilfred Laurier University Press. Bendlin, Andreas. 2007. “Purity and Pollution.” In A Companion to Greek Religion, edited by Daniel Ogden, 178–89. Chichester: Blackwell Publishing. Brickhouse, Thomas C. and Nicholas D. Smith. 1989. Socrates on Trial. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Brickhouse, Thomas C. and Nicholas D. Smith. 1993. “He Mantike Technē : Statesman 260e1 and 290c4–6.” Polis 12: 37–51. Brickhouse, Thomas C. and Nicholas D. Smith 2005. “Socrates’ Daimonion and Rationality.” In Socrates’ Divine Sign: Religion, Practice, and Value in Socratic Philosophy, edited by Pierre Destrée and Nicholas D. Smith, 43–62. Apeiron 38, no. 2 (June): special issue. Kelowna, BC: Academic Printing and Publishing. Brisson, Luc. 1974. “Du bon usage du dérèglement.” In Divination et Rationalité, edited by Jean-Pierre Vernant, 220–48. Paris: Seuil. Brisson, Luc 2005. “Socrates and the Divine Signal according to Plato’s Testimony: Philosophical Practice as Rooted in Religious Tradition.” In Socrates’ Divine Sign: Religion, Practice, and Value in Socratic Philosophy, edited by Pierre Destrée and Nicholas D. Smith, 1–12. Kelowna, BC: Academic Printing and Publishing.

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Burkert, Walter. 1987. Ancient Mystery Cults. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Calvo, Tomás. 1992. “Socrates’ First Speech in the Phaedrus and Plato’s Criticism of Rhetoric.” In Understanding the Phaedrus, edited by Livio Rossetti, 47–60. Sankt Augustin: Academia Verlag. Carter, Robert Edgar. 1967. “Plato and Inspiration.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 5, no. 2 (April): 111–121. Chiesa, Curzio. 1992. “Socrate devin: figures de la divination dans le Phèdre.” In Understanding the Phaedrus, edited by Livio Rossetti, 313–20. Sankt Augustin: Academia Verlag. Destrée, Pierre, and Nicholas D. Smith. eds. 2005. Socrates’ Divine Sign: Religion, Practice, and Value in Socratic Philosophy. Apeiron 38, no. 2 (June): special issue. Kelowna, BC: Academic Printing and Publishing. Dixon, Barry. 2008. “Phaedrus, Ion, and the Lure of Inspiration.” Journal of the International Plato Society, no. 8: 1–12. Dodds, Eric Robertson. 1963. The Greeks and the Irrational. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Dorter, Kenneth. 1972. “Equality, Recollection and Purification.” Phronesis 17: 198–218. Evans, Nancy. 2006. “Diotima and Demeter as Mystagogues in Plato’s Symposium.” Hypatia 21, no. 2 (Spring): 1–27. Ferrari, Giovanni R.F. 1987. Listening to the Cicadas: A Study of Plato’s Phaedrus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Flower, Michael. 2008. The Seer in Ancient Greece. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Fontenrose, Joseph. 1978. The Delphic Oracle: Its Responses and Operations. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Gordon, Jill. 2012. Plato’s Erotic World: From Cosmic Origins to Human Death. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Griswold, Charles L. 1986. Self-Knowledge in Plato’s Phaedrus. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Harris, John. 2004. “Technē and Theia Moira in Plato’s Ion.” In Daimonopylai: Essays in Classics and the Classical Tradition, edited by Rory B. Egan and Mark Joyal, 189–98. Winnipeg, MB: University of Manitoba Centre for Hellenic Civilization. Ionescu, Cristina. 2007. “The Transition from the Lower to the Higher Mysteries of Love in Plato’s Symposium.” Dialogue XLVI: 27–42. Johnston, Sarah Iles. 2008. Ancient Greek Divination. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Landry, Aaron. 2014. “Plato’s Concept of Divination.” PhD Diss., York University, Toronto, ON. Layne, Danielle A. 2010. “Ceaselessly Testing the Good of Death.” The Society for Ancient Greek Philosophy Newsletter 386. https://orb.binghamton.edu/sagp/386. Accessed 5 May 2020. McPherran, Mark L. 1985. “Socratic Piety in the Euthyphro.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 23: 283–309. McPherran, Mark L. 1991. “Socratic Reason and Socratic Revelation.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 29, no. 3 (July): 345–373.

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McPherran, Mark L. 1996. The Religion of Socrates. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. McPherran, Mark L. 2002. “Justice and Pollution in Plato’s Euthyphro.” Apeiron 35: 1–25. McPherran, Mark L. 2006. “Medicine, Magic, and Religion in Plato’s Symposium.” In Plato’s Symposium: Issues in Interpretation and Reception, edited by James Lesher, Debra Nails, and Frisbee Sheffield. Hellenic Studies Series 22. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies. https://chs.harvard.edu/CHS/ article/display/6259.part-ii-interpreting-plato. Accessed 10 August 2020. Mikalson, Jon D. 2010. Greek Popular Religion in Greek Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Moore, Christopher. 2008. “Persuasion and Force in Plato’s Republic.” The Society for Ancient Greek Philosophy Newsletter 350. https://orb.binghamton.edu/cgi/ viewcontent.cgi?article=1349&context=sagp (accessed 7 July 2019). Morgan, Kathryn. 2010. “The Voice of Authority: Divination and Plato’s Phaedo.” Classical Quarterly 60, no. 1 (May): 63–81. Murray, Penelope. 1981. “Poetic Inspiration in Early Greece.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 101: 87–100. Murray, Penelope. 1996. Plato on Poetry. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nehamas, Alexander. 1986. “Socratic Intellectualism.” In Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy II, edited by John J. Cleary, 305–6. Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Nightingale, Andrea Wilson. 2005. “The Philosopher at the Festival: Plato’s Transformation of Traditional Theoria.” In Pilgrimage in Graeco-Roman and Early Christian Antiquity: Seeing the Gods, edited by Jas Elsner and Ian Rutherford, 151–82. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Parker, Robert. 1983. Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Payne, Andrew. 2008. “The Teleology of the Ascent in Plato’s Symposium.” Apeiron 41, no. 2: 123–46. Riedwig, Christoph. 1987. Mysterienterminologie bei Platon, Philon und Klemens von Alexandrien. Berlin: De Gruyter. Roth, Paul. 1982. Mantis: The Nature, Function, and Status of a Greek Prophetic Type. PhD Diss., Bryn Mawr College. Sansone, David. 1996. “Plato and Euripides.” Illinois Classical Studies 21: 35–67. Schefer, Christina. 1996. Platon und Apollon. Sankt Augustin: Academia Verlag. Schefer, Christina. 2003. “Rhetoric as Part of the Initiation into the Mysteries: A New Interpretation of the Platonic Phaedrus.” In Plato as Author: The Rhetoric of Philosophy, edited by Ann N. Michelini, 175–96. Leiden: Brill. Stern-Gillet, Suzanne. 2004. “On (Mis)interpreting Plato’s Ion.” Phronesis 49, no. 2: 169–201. Struck, Peter. 2016. Divination and Human Nature: A Cognitive History of Intuition in Classical Antiquity. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Tigerstedt, Eugène Napoleon. 1969. Plato’s Idea of Poetical Inspiration. Helsinki: Helsingfors. Tigerstedt, Eugène Napoleon. 1970. “Furor Poeticus: Poetic Inspiration in Greek Literature Before Democritus and Plato.” Journal of the History of Ideas XXXI:

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163–178. Van Riel, Gerd. 2005. “Socrates’ Daemon: Internalization of the Divine and Knowledge of the Self.” In Socrates’ Divine Sign: Religion, Practice, and Value in Socratic Philosophy, edited by Pierre Destrée and Nicholas D. Smith, 31–42. Kelowna, BC: Academic Printing and Publishing. Versenyi, Laszlo. 1982. Holiness and Justice. Washington, DC: University Press of America. Vlastos, Gregory. 1991. Socrates: Ironist and Moral Philosopher. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wild, K. W. 1939. “Plato’s Presentation of Intuitive Mind in His Portrait of Socrates.” Philosophy 14, no. 55 (July): 326–340.

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“Work with the god”: military divination and rational battleplanning in Xenophon Ralph Anderson

The prominence of divination in the ancient world raises many questions from a modern perspective, all the more so given that it was used so routinely in the deadly business of war. What right-thinking commander, we might ask, would seek guidance on a battle-plan by picking over the entrails of a slaughtered animal or by observing the flight of birds? The role of divination in military planning throws questions of rationality and irrationality into sharp relief and, in doing so, offers us an opportunity to examine the relationship between the seemingly irrational practices of divination and what, for want of a better word, we might regard as normal, rational planning. This chapter argues that the apparent disjunction between the seeming irrationality of divination and the needs of a commander preparing for battle is a product of our own misconceptions both about the nature of divination as a source of useful knowledge and about the relationship between human effort and divine assistance in classical Greek thinking about warfare. As this chapter will show, far from being separate from, and opposed to, a rational assessment of the military situation, divination was fully integrated into the decision-making process and could provide a vital aid to a commander’s thinking. Divination in warfare has additional merit as a point of entry, in that wars and warfare were important topics in antiquity and loom large in both the written and material records. The works of Xenophon are of particular interest. Born in Athens probably around 440 BCE, Xenophon had a mixed career, which encompassed not only extensive military experience in a range of settings but also the production of a significant body of literature, which included historiography, technical treatises and philosophy.1 He makes frequent reference to divination and the proper handling of omens in a number of these genres. His Anabasis recounts his experiences as one of a large contingent of Greek mercenaries, the so-called Ten Thousand, as they struggled to return to Greece after supporting a failed attempt on the throne of Persia, led by Cyrus the Younger. Divination is a frequent occurrence and omens of all kinds are regularly noted and sometimes discussed at length.

“Work with the god” 85 Xenophon’s Hellenica, which continues the narrative thread of Greek history from the end of Thucydides to the battle of Mantineia in 362, also regularly notes the omens obtained, interpreted and sometimes ignored by commanders.2 Moreover, divination features prominently in Xenophon’s philosophical works, including his Apology of Socrates (12–14) and the opening of his Memorabilia (1.1.2–5 and 1.1.7–9), and his technical writing, in particular his short treatise, the Cavalry Commander. As well as being a soldier, Xenophon was also a friend and student of Socrates. In both his Apology of Socrates (12–14) and his Memorabilia (1.1.2–5), Xenophon likens Socrates’ divine sign, or daimonion, to more conventional forms of divination, such as the observation of birds, sacrifice and indeed the Delphic oracle.3 More significantly for the purposes of this chapter, Xenophon uses Socrates to articulate a view of the proper limits of divination and the epistemological conditions under which its use is legitimate. Xenophon’s Socrates draws a sharp distinction between those matters about which mortals can and cannot learn by their own intelligence and insists that divination may properly be used only for the latter (Memorabilia 1.1.7–9). We will return to this topic later. We turn now to the relationship between the religious and the practical in the Cavalry Commander.

The symbolic and the real at war Xenophon opens the Cavalry Commander with an injunction to the prospective commander first to seek the help of the gods – before he even procures or trains either horses or men, let alone leads them into battle – and closes it with an explanation of why he has laced his deeply practical treatise with exhortations to “work with the god” (σὺν θεῷ πράττειν, 9.8). In between, he offers advice on a range of matters, including the selection and training of both horses and men, leadership, and tactics for use in a wide variety of situations, all of which will bring success as long as they are carried out σὺν θεῷ, “with god.”4 This blend of piety and practicality is far from unique to the Cavalry Commander, though it is particularly conspicuous there. Modern interpreters have struggled to comprehend it since at least the late nineteenth century. In his monumental work, The Greek State at War, volume three of which concerns religion in Greek warfare, W. Kendrick Pritchett outlined a dispute between the great classicist, Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, and the German military historian, Hans Delbrück, which exemplifies the problem. Wilamowitz had accepted Herodotus’ claim (at Histories 6.112) that, at the battle of Marathon, the Athenians had charged a full mile at top speed to attack the Persians. This superhuman feat was possible, he felt, because the goddess Artemis had given the Greeks strength. Delbrück, by contrast, arguing on the basis of his knowledge of

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warfare and contemporary military practice, dismissed such explanations, ridiculed what he saw as Wilamowitz’ credulity and went on to produce his own (now thoroughly discredited) reconstruction of the battle.5 More recently, J.K. Anderson, in his Military Theory and Practice in the Age of Xenophon (1970), has offered a thinly veiled version of this position, presenting battlefield omens either as a useful excuse for a general to do what he wanted to do anyway, or as an irrational impediment which a wily commander must circumvent. Unfavourable omens, Anderson suggests, might be used as an “excuse for not doing something,” as when Cleander declined to take command of the survivors of the Ten Thousand, or “for holding back soldiers until their general’s plans became ripe.” In support of this view, Anderson cites Dercylidas’ decision to delay his assault on the city of Cebren in Aeolis. Even though the risk of a Persian relief force arriving made a swift assault desirable, unfavourable omens caused Dercylidas to wait for four days. In the end, the omens became propitious just as the city governor bowed to pressure from his garrison of Greek mercenaries and opened the gates. Anderson wryly concludes that “We may draw our own conclusions about his ‘inaction’.”6 In a similar vein, Anderson notes “the manner in which the omens changed at the battle of Plataea, at the very moment when Pausanias saw that the time was ripe for the decisive charge.”7 Likewise the fourth-century Athenian general, Iphicrates, when faced with unfavourable omens, would change his position and sacrifice “again and again” until he received a favourable response.8 On another occasion, Agesilaus concealed news of a defeat by sacrificing as if in celebration of a victory in order to boost his men’s morale.9 In Anderson’s analysis, then, the best that a military mantis (seer) might achieve was to give the general a good pretext for following a plan he had already devised for himself, or to provide encouragement to the troops.10 Xenophon’s own professed reliance on divination in the Anabasis Anderson seems to regard as an abrogation of the commander’s responsibility to make his own decisions: as he puts it, “Xenophon seems to have found relief in letting the gods decide at critical moments.”11 His phrasing is revealing, and the unfavourable contrast he draws between Xenophon and other commanders is unmistakeable. Similar positions can be found in a range of other historians of both religion and military matters, including Nilsson (1940), Hignett (1963) and Burn (1962). All discuss the omens that delayed the Spartan charge at Plataea, and all conclude that Pausanias manipulated them in order to launch his attack at some optimal moment which he chose for reasons compatible with modern military thinking.12 Pritchett, for his part, rejects the idea that “the interpretation of omens [was] a mere form utilized by agnostic generals to inspire or restrain their

“Work with the god” 87 superstitious soldiers.” Instead, he argues, “the mantis was expected by the exercise of his art to work success for his clients; and this art involved no little sagacity, evolved both from a knowledge of his techne and his long experience in military matters” (1979, 58). By contrast with the DelbrückAnderson view, in Pritchett’s analysis, these religio-military specialists exercised a strong, independent voice. In support of this view, he cites “the number of important occasions on which the manteis reported the sacrifice as unfavourable, that is against the plans put forth by the hegemon” and which led to those plans being abandoned. This he regards as “testimony to the conscientious spirit in which the manteis must have carried out their tasks.” He concludes that military manteis (seers) “regarded themselves as the official means of ascertaining the will and intention of the gods, quite apart from the exigencies of the tactical situation.”13 Thus, the modern literature on ancient military divination generally falls into two opposing camps. Robert Parker (2004, 143–44) neatly summarises them: “for some, military divination is all a sham, a set of mechanisms deployed by generals to improve morale when they choose to attack, and to provide an excuse when they choose not to” while others “credit the Greeks or some Greeks with a genuine willingness to suspend their rational sense of their own advantage, and to entrust themselves more or less blindly to divine guidance.” Neither extreme seems wholly satisfactory. Parker advocates a “middle way” based on the idea that “enough flexibility was built into the sacrificial system to allow one both to be a more or less sincere believer, and to act most of the time more or less as one felt to be sensible in secular terms.” He suggests that “the only projects which a general really abandoned because of bad omens were ones which he genuinely suspected might not be advisable.” After all, if a general were truly convinced of the merits of a plan, he could, as is well attested, repeat the sacrifice in the hope of getting the positive omens he sought (Parker 2004, 144; cf. 1989, 159–60). This chapter also advocates a middle way, based on a reassessment of the nature of religion in the Greek world and, in particular, the relationship between religious ways of knowing and practical action. The sceptical position outlined earlier reflects modern incredulity that anyone could think that religious factors might play a part in deciding a battle, other than in the limited sense that their psychological impact could affect the morale of the combatants. This incredulity in turn rests on an assumption that an opposition exists between the religious domain, conceived of (at best) as a domain of symbolic action, and the military, conceived of as a domain of practical action.14 Exceptions may be made in specific instances, such as when religious factors affect motivation and morale, or religious scruples constrain military action, or when such scruples are exploited for strategic or deceptive purposes, but all of these are areas in which the psychology of the combatants is at play, and we may allow that beliefs we do not share may nevertheless have real effects on the minds and behaviour of those who do.15

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With due allowance made for such cases, however, the fundamental position remains that war is a practical matter, and practical problems – such as the outcome of a battle – are not to be resolved by symbolic means. Thus, the symbolic actions of the manteis may happen to coincide with the practical decisions of the commander, but this coincidence extends only to providing religious sanction for the commander’s rejection of a plan which he already knows on rational grounds to be flawed, or support for a plan which he already knows on rational grounds to be good. The regularity with which ancient writers link success in battle with favourable omens beforehand leads the self-consciously rational modern mind to seek a rational explanation and to find it in the cunning of the general, concealed behind the superstitious flummery of divination. The central argument of this chapter is that this position rests on a false dichotomy between the religious and the practical. This chapter argues that the gaining of good omens is an integral part of the process of devising a successful strategy. Rather than viewing religion as something which attempts to transcend the mundane world in pursuit of spiritual ends – a view that reflects the priorities not only of Christianity but also of a secular outlook that seeks to exclude religion from domains of power, such as politics, law or science16 – we should view it, in this context at least, as a particular mode of engagement with that mundane world, a way of inhabiting it, grasping it, exploring it and making sense of it, something that does not impose meaning on it from outside, via the workings of doctrine, but which assists its adherents in discovering meaning within it, not in the sense of uncovering eternal truths or finding spiritual enlightenment, but in the practical sense of uncovering reasons, causes and opportunities for action. Our mistake is to regard divination as a source of knowledge which does not engage with its practical setting, and which therefore yields results which only coincidentally intersect with practical, real-world considerations, if they do so at all. To act on such knowledge would indeed be folly. By contrast, this chapter argues that Greek divination was a practice deeply implicated in understanding the dynamics of the lived-in world and which did so in profoundly practical ways. I shall illustrate these points with reference to Xenophon’s Cavalry Commander and Anabasis.

Working with the god in Xenophon’s Cavalry Commander As noted earlier, the Cavalry Commander begins with an exhortation to the prospective commander to seek the help of the gods, but this is not an exhortation to ask the gods to do the work for the commander but to grant it to the commander to think, speak and act in such a way that his command will be most pleasing to the gods, and most advantageous for himself, his

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friends and his city (1.1). The assistance of the gods is therefore sought not in the form of miraculous interventions as a substitute for human effort but in order to facilitate the proper direction of that effort. This theme emerges more clearly as the text unfolds. After a discussion of the benefits of deception in warfare, Xenophon urges his reader to recognise that the greatest successes in warfare have been achieved with the aid of deception. The ability to deceive is therefore something which a prospective commander needs and which he must “both seek from the gods and devise for himself ” (καὶ παρὰ θεῶν αἰτητέον … καὶ αὐτῷ μηχανητέον, 5.11). After further discussion of military deceptions, Xenophon advises his reader to “work with the god” (σὺν τῷ θεῷ πράττειν) when putting such schemes into practice, so that “the gods being propitious, fortune too may favour you” (ἵνα καὶ ἡ τύχη συνεπαινῇ θεῶν ἵλεων ὄντων, 5.14). Likewise, when discussing the relationship between the commander and his men, Xenophon again invokes the goodwill of the gods – no commander can make anything of his men “unless, with god’s help (εἰ μὴ σὺν θεῷ), they are ready to hold their commander in friendly regard and to think him wiser than themselves in leading actions against the enemy” (6.1). However, he immediately follows this with detailed practical advice on how to bring about this happy state of affairs. The good commander should take care to look after the interests of his men and should see to it that they have food, are safe in retreat and protected when at rest, and that, when on garrison duty, they have fodder for their horses, tents, water and firewood and everything else they need (6.2–3). Above all, he should lead by example and be an expert horseman and fighter, able to do everything he asks his men to do (6.4–5). If, on top of all this, the men are sure that their commander will not lead them against the enemy without a plan (εἰκῇ), without the gods (ἄνευ θεῶν) or contrary to the sacrificial omens (παρὰ τὰ ἱερὰ, 6.6), they will be all the readier to obey him. To win the goodwill and obedience of one’s men, therefore, is not an arbitrary gift of the gods but results from hard work, forethought and planning combined with their favour. In only one passage does divine assistance appear to replace human effort, and that is when Xenophon warns the Athenians not to expect the Periclean defensive strategy of the fifth century to work against the enemies the city faced in his own day. If the Athenians decide to rely on their walls and their navy, as they did during the Peloponnesian War, and expect the cavalry to protect Attica without support, then, as it were, Heaven help them: the Athenians will need, first, the gods as their “strong allies” (συμμάχων ἰσχυρῶν) and, after that, an outstanding cavalry commander (7.4). Intriguingly, the same discussion also features the motif of divine assistance as a supplement and support to human effort. If instead of relying on the cavalry alone, Xenophon argues, the

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Athenians field their full forces against an invader, both infantry and cavalry together, then the prospects are good, for – “with god” (σὺν θεῷ) – the cavalry will prove superior if they have been properly looked after beforehand, and the infantry will also be strong if – again “with god” (σὺν θεῷ) – they have been properly trained (7.3). The contrast is quite clear in this passage between divine intervention as a substitute for human effort and divine sanction as a necessary supplement and underpinning to it. To rely on the former is reckless, to invest in the latter is wise and will – gods willing – lead to success. The same point is repeated towards the end of the Cavalry Commander at 9.2: whatever the field of activity, whether farming or sailing or commanding, good decisions, Xenophon maintains, will not bear fruit unless care is taken that, “with the gods” (σὺν τοῖς θεοῖς), they are put into practice. Throughout the Cavalry Commander, then, Xenophon consistently asserts both that one must take action to ensure success, and that the gods’ help is a necessary requirement. For Xenophon, reliance on the gods does not supplant human effort but underpins it. Xenophon explains this emphasis on the combination of human effort and divine assistance at the very end of the Cavalry Commander, where he reveals that the repeated use of “with god” (σὺν θεῷ) is no mere verbal tic but a significant element of his military thinking. If the reader “wonders” (θαυμάζει) that he has written so many times that one should “work with god” (σὺν θεῷ πράττειν), he would wonder less, Xenophon asserts, if he had often been in danger himself (9.8). In war, he says “enemies plot against each other, but rarely know what will come of their plots” (9.8). Under such circumstances, he continues, there is no other source of advice but the gods. “They know everything, and warn (προσημαίνουσιν) whoever they wish in sacrifices (ἐν ἱεροῖς), in bird-signs (ἐν οἰωνοῖς), in speech (ἐν φήμαις), and in dreams (ἐν ὀνείρασιν)” (9.8–9). In other words, while it is necessary to train hard, plan intelligently, prepare thoroughly and act decisively, it is still possible for a plan to come unstuck in the execution, and one can never be quite sure what the enemy will do.18 In short, a wealth of unknown and unknowable factors affects the outcome of any encounter, and a mortal commander can do only so much to prepare. So while Xenophon exhorts the prospective commander to take all possible measures to ensure success, he also urges him to cultivate the gods so that they will warn him of hidden dangers and lead him towards advantageous strategies.19 In short, good planning and preparation do not stand in opposition to reliance on the gods. Instead, good preparation includes the maintenance of relations with the gods so that they may be relied upon to assist with those factors that elude human ability to plan and anticipate. There is, for Xenophon, no dichotomy between practical action and the cultivation of the gods. To cultivate the gods is in itself a practical action.

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Divination and truth This final passage of the Cavalry Commander, with its suggestion of Rumsfeldian known unknowns and unknown unknowns, and its reference to warnings given in sacrifices, omens, voices and dreams, leads us to the topic of divination and into the heart of the dispute over the relative roles of pragmatism and piety in Greek battle-planning. Divination has often been seen through the lens of a positivist model of truth, in which the efficacy of divination rests on its ability to produce objectively verifiable predictions. Since such prediction is – to the modern mind – impossible, diviners must have deceived either their clients or themselves or both. Thus, the diviner often appears in the western tradition as a “charismatic charlatan” who uses “esoteric knowledge” to exploit the credulity of others (Peek 1991, 3). Divination, meanwhile, is readily seen as a kind of “failed scientific explanation” (Shaw 1991, 137). Robert Parker’s article “Greek states and Greek oracles” (1985) challenged this view, arguing that what the Greeks sought from their oracles was not prediction of future events but guides to practical action (1985, 299–300). It is possible to develop this position further. Divination, we might say, has less to do with this objective, propositional notion of truth, and more to do with a notion of truth based on what anthropologist Rosalind Shaw (1991, 139) has termed “performative efficacy.” That is, divination is “true” not if it makes predictions which are objectively verifiable, but if it guides action which turns out to be effective.20 The examination of the kind of truth implied by divination has been taken further by Martin Holbraad, who offers what he terms an “ontography of the concept of truth” that underpins Cuban Ifá divination (2012, 86). Holbraad sets out to explore what truth might mean in the context of Ifá divination and how it differs from the positivist or representational notions of truth rejected by Shaw and others. Noting the prominence of the imagery of paths (caminos) and movement in Ifá divinatory language, Holbraad (2012, 97–100) argues that the truth-claims of Ifá divination derive from a “motile” form of truth based on what he terms a “motile logic.” In this logic, meaning is not regarded as stable but is fundamentally fluid and in motion until it is briefly crystallised in the final divinatory verdict. The meaning that is contained in such verdicts is arrived at by a process of bringing into conjunction seemingly unrelated “paths” of meaning, which include not only details of the client’s circumstances but also the “paths” (or myths) of the various divine beings invoked in Ifá divination (2012, 96–103). The truth of the verdict is not therefore to be evaluated in static representational terms, that is, in terms of its accuracy (or otherwise) in representing stable (but previously unascertained) facts of the world. Instead, the truth of divination is better regarded as “revelatory” in that it stems from the “modification that results when two initially independent strands of

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meaning are brought together” (2012, 101). The truth of Ifá divination thus lies in the productive conjunction that it draws between multiple trajectories of meaning.21 The language and imagery of motility, so prominent in Ifá divination, are largely absent from representations of Greek divination. However, a similar emphasis on the bringing together of initially unrelated phenomena so as to disclose or reveal hidden potentials for action and understanding may be detected in a range of Greek accounts of divination including, as we shall see, a number of those in Xenophon. As might be expected, Herodotus gives us some of the clearest examples. The historicity of Herodotus’ accounts of Greek oracles and divination is, of course, open to question.22 However, though Herodotus may not accurately represent the words of the Pythia, or the deliberations of real, historical Greeks, either before or during the Persian wars, his representations of oracles and divination still represent a culturally informed reconstruction of events. This is not to say that they are valuable because they offer a close approximation of actual historical events. Their value lies instead in the manner in which Herodotus reconstructs the interpretation of oracles, which sheds light on the way in which he and his contemporaries thought about and employed oracular pronouncements and divinatory outcomes.23 In other words, their value as evidence lies in their cultural verisimilitude, not their historical veracity. Herodotus’ representations of divination suggest that Greek divination, much like Ifá divination, depended on a relational process in which seemingly unconnected phenomena were brought into productive conjunction. For example, in his account of the discovery of the bones of Orestes by the Spartan former-cavalryman, Lichas, Herodotus places great emphasis on the process of “putting together” (συμβάλλω) by which the Spartan linked together the cryptic statement of the Delphic oracle, the chance remark of a Tegean blacksmith and the equipment in his forge to reveal the hidden significance of both the oracle and the smith’s words and locate the hero’s bones.24 A second example may be found in Herodotus’ well-known account of the debate over the prophecy given to the Athenians that the “wooden wall” would protect them. In this case, an authoritative but ambiguous statement by the Delphic oracle was mapped against a range of potentially viable interpretative options, which included, among other possibilities, the Athenian fleet or the thorn hedge or wooden palisade (ῥηχός) which had protected the Acropolis in the olden days.25 In both episodes, the meaning of the oracle’s verdict was intensely relational, in that its meaning was unstable (ambiguous and therefore fluid and elusive) until it was successfully brought into conjunction with salient features of the enquirers’ respective contexts. The task facing both sets of enquirers, then, was to find the correct context and the correct features of that

“Work with the god” 93 context, which would ground the meaning of the oracular verdict and thus reveal the hidden potential of the situation.26 However, in neither case should we regard the salient features of the situation as self-evident or, indeed, as salient in their own right. Their salience is constituted by the enquirers themselves through the dynamic process of seeking correspondences between the oracular statements and features of the lived-in world. In both examples, the interpretative process begins with the enquirers confronted by an overabundance of half-formed possibilities which must first be constituted as objects of examination and then whittled down to a single answer. This is no easy task. So elusive were the referents of the oracle given to the Spartans that, before Lichas unravelled it, they were looking everywhere (πάντα διζήμενοι, 1.67.5) for Orestes’ bones without success. Likewise, in the Athenian case, the hedge or fence around the Acropolis and the wooden hulls of warships were but two among many potential referents for the “wooden wall,” albeit the most significant (7.142.1). In this respect, Herodotus’ presentation of Greek divination has much in common with anthropologists’ reports of contemporary forms of divination, which often proceed from an initial “superabundance” of meaning in which cryptic and allusive language allows many possibilities to be entertained at once, to a later stage of crystallisation of a single, usable outcome.27 Moreover, the process of reducing the initial excess of potential meanings to a single outcome does not proceed by importing a meaning which is given in advance in the divinatory signs into a situation the contents of which are already fully known. It is instead a process of bringing two sets of ambiguous and polysemic phenomena, the divinatory sign and the situation in which it is interpreted, both of which are fluid in meaning, into alignment with each other so that the meaning of both becomes stable. We may thus think of Greek divination as a process of synthesis, in which divinatory signs, whether they be the utterances of an oracle, signs observed from a sacrifice, the flight of birds or a chance remark, are brought into meaningful relation with the shifting circumstances of the enquirer.28 The value of such relational and synthetic approaches for our purposes is that they relieve ancient divination of the burden of providing objective knowledge about the state of the future battlefield, deriving from some supernatural source. Instead, they recast the process of divination as one which affords the general and the mantis working together an opportunity for, and a means of, reflecting upon their knowledge, however partial, of the tactical situation.29 It is a process through which they may give shape to hopes and fears, hunches and intuitions, draw them into overt reflective discourse, and use them to generate and speculate about possible courses of action. The resulting knowledge is not objective but rather is intensely

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situated, closely linked to the circumstances in which it is generated, and it is practical rather than abstract in nature. This is, of course, a highly speculative claim. Little is known about precisely what signs the Greek mantis looked for in the entrails of a sacrificial victim. Collins’ study of Greek extispicy highlights the absence of the lobe of the liver as more or less the only sign with a definitive interpretation (always presaging disaster). He identifies various other features, such as the shape, colour, texture, bloodiness and striation of the liver, as objects of interpretation. However, he is unable to identify standard or even firm interpretations of variations in these areas.30 Nothing resembling the famous model liver from Piacenza has yet been found in Greece. Although this does not preclude the existence and use of such devices, or their equivalents in less durable materials, it may well be that the reading of the liver in Greece was conducted on a less structured basis than it was in other cultures. In the absence of direct information about the divinatory process, then, I will focus instead on the way that certain figures in Xenophon’s works, including Xenophon himself, responded to and interpreted divinatory signs. We may be sceptical about the precise details of these accounts, particularly as Xenophon himself emerges so well from many of them.31 However, even if we doubt their fidelity to actual events, Xenophon’s representations of the divinatory process may be regarded as plausible representations of a general manner of interpreting divinatory signs in Greek culture.32 The examples to be discussed show an intense dialogue between the outcome of divination and rational reflection on the prevailing circumstances. They indicate that divination was in fact an integral part of the commander’s strategic planning.

Divination in the Anabasis The first example is drawn from the Anabasis, shortly after the battle of Cunaxa. The Greeks, having triumphed in their section of the battlefield (1.8.21), had spent the night unaware that Cyrus had been killed (1.10.16), learning only the next morning that he was dead (2.1.3) and that they were now stranded deep inside Persia, facing an angry king. In between receiving messengers from Cyrus’ surviving allies and representatives from the Persian king, the overall Greek commander, Clearchus, had time to conduct a sacrifice and examine the entrails closely. He reported to the other generals and commanders that, when he sacrificed with a view to advancing against the King, the omens were unfavourable (οὐκ ἐγίγνετο τὰ ἱερά) – and with good reason (εἰκότως), he added (2.2.3). The reason for this was not, as we might assume, because Cyrus was dead or the battle had been lost. After all, the Greeks had prevailed in their section of the battlefield and had even

“Work with the god” 95 begun to pursue their fleeing enemies (1.10.4). Moreover, earlier that day, Clearchus had offered to advance against the King and put Cyrus’ friend, Ariaeus, on the throne instead (2.1.4). Clearly he did not lack confidence in his men’s abilities. As he told the generals, the obstacle, as he had now ascertained (ὡς γὰρ ἐγὼ νῦν πυνθάνομαι, 2.2.3), was that the river Tigris lay between the Greeks and the King, a river which could be crossed only by boat, and the Greeks had no boats. The Greeks, he continued, could not stay where they were, because they could not get provisions there, but the omens had been very favourable (πάνυ καλὰ … τὰ ἱερὰ ἦν, 2.2.3) for withdrawing and joining Cyrus’ friends. These omens may have been something of a surprise to Clearchus, given his earlier confident offer to continue the fight on Ariaeus’ behalf. His statement that the omens were bad with good reason (εἰκότως) perhaps anticipated similar surprise on the part of his audience. His emphasis on his subsequent investigation – “As I now ascertain” (ὡς γὰρ ἐγὼ νῦν πυνθάνομαι) – is also of interest. It suggests a process in which a set of signs which were already constituted as significant (the entrails of a sacrificed animal) drove a process of enquiry (πυνθάνομαι) which ultimately led Clearchus to discover something about his context which he did not previously know, or did not realise was important, namely that the Tigris was between him and his enemy. The entrails had to be significant, because the ritual killing of the animal made them so, but they were far from self-explanatory. Clearchus neither bent the omens to suit his predetermined plan (which they contradicted) nor followed them blindly. Instead, he worked to find out why they were negative, and if there was anything he could do about it. In the end, he learned that the omens indeed spoke reasonably, εἰκότως.33 Our second example is also from the Anabasis but features Xenophon himself (Xenophon the character) as the commander. After fighting their way out of Persia, the Greeks had arrived at Calpe Harbour on the Black Sea coast. They were short of supplies, somewhat fractious, having temporarily split into three separate factions, and bloodied, one of those factions having been attacked on the way to Calpe. On the first day at Calpe, Xenophon sacrificed with a view to marching out to get provisions and to bury the victims of the attack. The omens were good, and the excursion proceeded (6.4.9). However, on the following three days, even with food running out, the omens were bad, both for foraging and for leaving altogether (6.4.13–22). On the third day, a foraging party set out despite the omens and was attacked with the loss of around 500 men (6.4.23–5). The survivors were saved by Xenophon, who managed to obtain favourable omens for a rescue sortie by sacrificing a draft bullock (6.4.25). What is interesting is the process of speculation that the stubbornly negative omens prompted. As with Clearchus’ omens after Cunaxa, the Calpe

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omens led the men’s attention back into their surroundings in search of a reason why they should not leave their camp. One suggestion was that the omens were false and that Xenophon had coerced the mantis to announce bad omens because he wanted to stay at Calpe and found a colony (6.4.14). Other suggestions, however, sought to relate the omens to features of the men’s environment which were known or could be guessed at from recent events. The first suggestion was made by one of the men. The omens were reasonable (εἰκότως) he said, because, as he had learned from a passing ship, the Spartan harmost of Byzantium was coming with boats to pick them up, so they should stay and wait for him (6.4.18). However, they still needed food while they waited, so Xenophon sacrificed with a view to a foraging expedition – again with negative results, despite three attempts (6.4.19). When the results remained negative for foraging on the following day (the third day of bad omens), Xenophon himself speculated that the enemy had regrouped nearby and that fighting would be necessary. He suggested that the men move their camp from the beach to the headland and sacrifice again with a view to marching out to fight (6.4.21). The men rejected this suggestion, presumably still suspecting Xenophon of wanting to found a colony on the headland, and sacrificed again, using another draft animal. Despite obtaining yet another set of negative results, they ignored the omens and embarked on their disastrous foraging expedition (6.4.22–3). Both of these proposed interpretations weave back and forth between known elements of the speaker’s setting and the signs yielded by divination, using a process of recursive reasoning to synthesise omens and context and disclose hidden significance and new possibilities for action. The first speaker brought together the signs from sacrifice and the news he heard from the passing ship to produce an explanation for the negative omens which licensed a future course of action. Xenophon’s own suggestion was based on a similar procedure. He knew that the enemy was nearby, because he had had to prepare to fight them on the way to Calpe Harbour (6.3.10–23), but he lacked concrete information about their current position and intentions. Since the omens were so resolutely negative, he speculated that enemy action was the cause. His proposal, like the other speaker’s, was very practical: he suggested that the Greeks should change their tactical disposition by taking the headland as a stronghold and then venture out, ready for battle. This, he suggested, might lead to better omens (6.4.21). Eventually, he got his way, but only after the disastrous foraging expedition. Once the Greeks moved their camp to the headland and fortified it (6.5.1) – lo and behold – favourable omens were obtained. Moreover, not only did the very first sacrifice produce good omens, but an eagle was also spotted in an auspicious quarter (6.5.2), reinforcing the positive verdict. A two-way relationship

“Work with the god” 97 between divinatory signs and the lived-in world thus underlay Xenophon’s suggestion: he suggested that concrete, tactical changes might lead to better omens being gained. These tactical changes put the Greeks in a stronger position to deal with their enemies. They would neither be encumbered by their baggage train, as they would have been had they tried to leave Calpe altogether, nor be dispersed and vulnerable, as the foraging party had been (6.4.24). Moreover, they had a secure location to retreat to if necessary. Once the Greeks adopted this strong position and aggressive plan, the omens announced that they might advance. We might also note the fortuitous arrival of a ship from Heraclea which brought the Greeks barley meal, sacrificial victims and wine (6.5.1), which further strengthened their position. Given the apparent lack of definitive interpretative markers in Greek hepatoscopy – missing liver-lobes excepted – we may reasonably speculate both that doubts about the security of the Greek position lay behind the initial run of negative omens and that renewed confidence derived from the new plan, and the timely arrival of supplies prompted the more favourable interpretation on the final day.34

Divining the practical These examples suggest that, in principle, divination was an activity deeply embedded in military thinking and deeply concerned with the real. Rather than providing information which was, at best, only coincidentally related to the tactical situation, it led its users’ attention further into their world, allowing them to speculate about the possibilities latent within it and their own possible courses of action. This view contrasts markedly with the rationalising approaches outlined earlier in which divination could at best provide a morale-boosting cover for a decision which the general made for himself by other means. Thus, as noted earlier, Anderson argued that Dercylidas was not really delayed before the walls of Cebren by unfavourable omens but instead had his own reasons for waiting which the omens usefully supported. It would not have been unreasonable for Dercylidas to have calculated that a delay might serve his ends. Six cities had already gone over to him voluntarily, three of them garrisoned by Greek mercenaries who had defected out of unhappiness with their conditions (Xenophon, Hellenica 3.1.16). While Cebren was a strong city (3.1.17) and direct assault would be difficult, it too was garrisoned by Greeks, who might also defect – as, indeed, they did (3.1.18). While Anderson is therefore surely correct in suspecting that military considerations motivated the delay, the episodes from the Anabasis suggest that the assumption of a separation between irrational divination and rational military planning is unwarranted. In view of the Anabasis episodes, there is no reason to suppose that practical, military

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considerations, such as the strength of Cebren’s defences, the need for a swift victory before help could arrive and the likelihood of a revolt by the garrison, could not have been weighed up and evaluated against each other through the mechanism of divination.35 Seen from this perspective, for a commander to pay attention to omens should be seen neither as a pretext for an already-formed plan nor as a lapse of reason but as part of his scrupulous assessment of his situation.36 This principle can also be seen in an episode in Xenophon’s Hellenica which depicts a commander’s response to the apparently unambiguous omen of a liver without a lobe. The Spartan king, Agesilaus, received this omen while campaigning in Asia Minor in the 390s and promptly retreated to the coast (3.4.15). Taken out of context, this might suggest either the needless retreat of a superstitious commander or the calculating use of an omen to justify a decision made on rational grounds. However, when seen in context, it may instead be interpreted in terms of an indisputably negative omen prompting a careful review of the situation and leading to a proportionate response. The day before the lobeless liver was discovered, Agesilaus’ cavalry had been soundly defeated in a skirmish with enemy horsemen (3.4.13–4). Xenophon links this defeat to the negative omen very closely, presenting the defeat, the lobeless sacrifice and Agesilaus’ quick turn towards the sea as a single, flowing sequence (3.4.15). Only afterwards does Xenophon pause to explain Agesilaus’ reasoning: realising that, unless he strengthened his cavalry, he would be unable to campaign successfully in the plains, he retreated to the coast to recruit more (3.4.15–16). Xenophon’s presentation of this episode suggests neither a naïve overreaction nor a calculating ploy but another instance of the kind of relational reasoning outlined earlier. Agesilaus had sought omens for an advance. The lobeless liver strongly argued against that, but, on its own, made clear neither why Agesilaus should not advance nor what he should do instead. After all, though the cavalry had been defeated, Agesilaus’ infantry had repelled the enemy without loss, so he could perhaps still have hoped for success. However, an omen of such marked negativity warranted careful consideration. The obvious context for the omen, at least as Xenophon presents it with the benefit of hindsight, was the poor performance of the cavalry. Once the negative omen had been related to the cavalry defeat, it could be taken both as a clear sign that stronger cavalry really was required and as a dire warning of what might happen if it were not procured. Thus, while Agesilaus may initially have been tempted to continue his campaign regardless, since he had, after all, sacrificed with a view to advancing, the lobeless sacrifice seems to have prompted a reconsideration. In the event, his response was not a headlong flight but a strategic and temporary retreat.37 Even when the most daunting omen presented itself, then, the canny commander’s response could be practical, contextualised and measured.

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Socrates and the limits of divination The overall argument of this chapter has been that Greek military divination is a form of reasoning that assists a commander in understanding his situation and his potential for acting within it. We might therefore wonder how far it differs from any other mode of thinking or planning. At this point, it is useful to recall Xenophon’s Socratic connections. Xenophon’s statement that, in war, “enemies plot against each other, but rarely know what will come of their plots” (Cavalry Commander 9.8) evokes the programmatic statements about the uses of divination made by Socrates in the Memorabilia (1.1.6–9).38 There, Socrates asserts that, while skill in a wide range of activities – including generalship (στρατηγικὸν, 1.1.7) – can be attained by human intelligence (ἀνθρώπου γνώμῃ, 1.1.7), the gods have reserved the most important aspects of them (τὰ … μέγιστα, 1.1.8) to themselves and they are not revealed to mortals (οὐδὲν δῆλον εἶναι τοῖς ἀνθρώποις, 1.1.8). Thus, the man who sows a field cannot tell who will reap the harvest, the man who builds a house cannot tell who will live in it, and the man able to command cannot tell if it will benefit him to do so.39 Likewise, the politician cannot tell whether it will benefit him to lead the city, the man who marries a beautiful wife for his pleasure cannot tell if she will cause him pain instead, and the man who cultivates powerful friends in his city cannot tell if he will be banished from it because of them.40 Socrates asserts that those who think that such things are entirely within the reach of human understanding and that there is nothing “of the divine” (δαιμόνιον, 1.1.9) in them are mad – but so too are those who use divination in matters which the gods have granted to mortals to judge by their own enquiry (1.1.9). Socrates thus establishes a distinction between proper and improper objects of divination. To seek to learn from the gods about self-evident matters, such as whether it is better to employ an experienced or an inexperienced driver or steersman, or about any matter which can be decided by calculation, measurement or weighing, is to do what is not permitted (ἀθέμιτα ποιεῖν, 1.1.9). By contrast, in matters which are not clear to humans (ἃ δὲ μὴ δῆλα τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἐστί, 1.1.9), it is necessary to learn from the gods by divination. Socrates’ statements suggest the same relationship between human effort and divine assistance as seen in the Cavalry Commander. Humans must understand all that they can by their own means. Divination is properly to be used only for those matters which resist human understanding. The appeal to the gods for information thus supplements and extends, but does not substitute for, human effort. This synergy between mortal and divine rests in turn on an epistemological distinction between those matters which are susceptible to mortal reasoning and those which are not. However, if, in our terms, divination is to be seen as a purely human form of reasoning, then this distinction must be recast for analytical purposes, not as a distinction

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between realms of knowledge appropriate to different orders of being, such as mortals and gods, but as a distinction between different orders of objects of knowledge and different, but wholly human, ways of knowing them. Socrates’ reference to matters susceptible to calculation, measurement or weighing suggests that illegitimate objects of divination are those which are susceptible to being adequately known via the positivist or representationalist mode of truth outlined earlier. Knowledge about such matters may be evaluated in terms of how accurately it represents an objectively existing situation. Legitimate objects of divination, by contrast, concern matters which cannot be checked in this way. The examples of legitimate uses of divination which Socrates gives concern the outcome of the exercise of human abilities. In all of them, one may exercise one’s skills competently but still not be able to predict the outcome. Representations of such outcomes cannot be checked against the facts of the world because the facts of the world which they represent and against which they must be checked have not yet come to pass. The farmer will not find out who will reap the harvest until harvest-time. The general will not know if it will benefit him to take command until he has actually done so. Moreover, the success of many of these enterprises depends not only upon one’s own skill but also upon the intentions and actions of others, such as the beautiful wife, the powerful friends or the commander’s adversary. Legitimate objects of divination are contingent, fluid and provisional as potential objects of knowledge. They can be stable as objects of knowledge and be fully known only in hindsight, that is, only after human ability has been put to work and the outcome has become clear. In this respect, they are closely matched to the relational, synthetic and fluid ways of knowing employed in divination. We might go as far as to say that they are accessible only to a form of reasoning that gives form to the fluid and the contingent, and brings it into the realm of reflective reasoning. Divination may therefore serve as a means of mapping the unmappable, as it were, of teasing out hunches and quantifying gut feelings. In our terms, it does not and cannot draw knowledge from an exterior source (the gods), but it can give a voice to unvoiced, half-formed understandings of the world, crystallising them so that they may be consciously examined and perhaps acted upon.41 We can, then, it seems, characterise Greek divination without reference to the gods. Such an approach, however, is at odds with the Greeks’ own perspective, in which the gods are the authors of the signs interpreted in divination and the guarantors of its efficacy. Moreover, as Xenophon emphasises, divination takes place in the context of a relationship with the gods that is essentially social. Thus, in the Memorabilia, the gods give signs to those whom they favour (τοὺς θεοὺς γὰρ οἷς ἂν ὦσιν ἵλεῳ σημαίνειν, 1.1.9), while, in the Cavalry Commander, they are, he reasons, more willing (μᾶλλον ἐθέλειν, 9.9) to guide those who serve them well when times are good and do not approach them only when they are in need. We might read this simply as

“Work with the god” 101 a commonplace of Greek religion. However, in the context of divination, it may take on additional significance as a motivating factor in the interpretation of ambiguous divinatory signs. As David Zeitlyn has noted, the perception that a rational being lies behind a series of signs is a strong inducement to the enquirer make sense of those signs, or rather, as it appears to them, to find the sense hidden behind them, even – or perhaps especially – when they appear to contradict themselves. Contradiction can thus be a spur to inventive and subtle rethinking both of the question and of the situation.42 The Mambila divination from Cameroon that Zeitlyn studies operates on binary principles and so is more akin to Greek lot-oracles than sacrificial divination or the observation of bird-signs. However, his analysis has important ramifications for the understanding of non-binary forms of divination as well. If the gods are assumed to be sending messages by means of sacrificial signs – not to mention birds, voices, dreams and many other means – then it behoves mortals to work out what those messages are and not just to shrug them off, however obscure, ambiguous or contradictory the signs may be. The conviction that the signs are sent by the gods for the guidance of mortals thus creates a powerful incentive to attempt to uncover their meaning. While this attempt presents itself as an effort to discover a meaning which is already present in the signs, in reality, as the aforementioned argument suggests, it is the enquirers who actively create that meaning by drawing the signs into a meaningful relationship with the world around them. In our terms too, then, the gods underwrite Greek divination: the conviction that the signs originate with the gods underwrites the process of sense-making that leads the Greeks both to identify divinatory signs and to render them meaningful.

Conclusion What the episodes discussed here indicate is that military divination – and potentially divination in general – did not operate in isolation from rational reflection on practical circumstances but instead stimulated such reflection. In response to negative signs, in a military context, interpretation proceeds by intense probing of real and suspected dangers to arrive at an interpretation of both sacrificial entrails and tactical situation that adequately integrates and synthesises both. If viewed from the perspective of a model of truth based on performative efficacy rather than objective verification, military divination can be seen as a thinking tool for a general who is both rational and pious, and a means of generating workable, practical knowledge in circumstances of great uncertainty. It offers a means of refracting hopes and doubts through an external medium as part of a process of devising a plan. Far from representing a failure of reason, divination

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represents a focused attempt to extend the reach of reason into realms of uncertainty.

Notes 1 As Badian (2004, 40) notes, precise details of Xenophon’s life are difficult to pin down, including his dates of birth and death. He took part in Cyrus the Younger’s rebellion against Artaxerxes II and later served in Spartan campaigns in Asia Minor, developing a close relationship with Agesilaus. Exiled from Athens, probably in the 390s, he settled at Scillus in Elis, where the Spartans granted him an estate. His literary career probably began there. Evicted from Scillus by the Eleans after the battle of Leuctra, he may have died in Corinth c. 360/59, or possibly back at his estate in Scillus, where one account locates his grave. See Badian 2004 for detailed discussion of Xenophon’s biography, and Cawkwell 2004 on the composition of the Anabasis. 2 See, for example, 3.4.23, 4.2.20, 7.4.30 (sacrifice before battle); 4.7.7 (before building a fort); 3.4.3, 3.5.7, 4.7.2, 5.1.33, 5.3.14, 5.4.37, 5.4.47, 6.5.12 (Spartan border–crossing sacrifices; see Pritchett, 1979, 68–71); 4.8.36 (omens ignored); 3.4.15, 4.7.7 (bad omens lead to a change of plan, discussed below). 3 On the links between Socrates and divination in Plato’s Apology, see Chapters 1 and 2 in this volume. On Plato’s portrayal of the daimonion of Socrates, see Chapters 2 and 5 in this volume. For Plutarch’s interpretation of Socrates’ daimonion, see Chapter 6; for Apuleius’ interpretation, see Chapter 9; and for Proclus’ interpretation, see Chapter 5. 4 Selection and training: 1.5–6, 1.17–21; leadership: 6.1–6, 8.21–22; tactics: 4.1–6, 5.1–15, 7.6–15, 8.17–20. 5 Pritchett, 1979, 1–3. As Pritchett notes, Wilamowitz did not, of course, mean that a miracle had genuinely taken place, but that belief in the support of the goddess had spurred the Athenians on. 6 Anderson 1970, 69–70, discussing Anabasis 6.35–36 (Cleander) and Hellenica 3.1.17–19 (Dercylidas). 7 Anderson 1970, 290 n. 17 on Herodotus 9.61–62. See note 12. 8 Anderson 1970, 70 on Polyaenus, Strategemata 3.9.9. 9 Anderson 1970, 70 discussing Hellenica 4.3.13–14. 10 Cf. Nilsson (1940, 125–7), who regarded divination and reliance on omens as “hindrances to military action” but recognised their psychological value. Parker (1989, 157–8) notes a shift away from rationalising views in some works of the 1970s and 1980s. 11 Anderson 1970, 70 on Anabasis 6.1.31, 6.2.15, 7.6.44. 12 Nilsson 1940, 126; Hignett 1963, 336; Burn 1962, 538, all discussed by Pritchett, 1979, 79. Burn speaks of the value of sacrifices and omens for keeping the men in hand. Nilsson speaks explicitly of the omens as a “pretext.” Both Nilsson and Hignett envisage the Persians drawing nearer, with Pausanias delaying until they came within reach. Herodotus’ picture of the battle is incomplete and dramatised, but this passage provides little explicit support for such views. While Herodotus certainly does have the Persians advancing in 9.60.1, by the time Pausanias is sacrificing (9.61.2), they have made a fence of their shields and begun shooting at the Spartans (9.61.3). The reference to the barricade of shields suggests that the Persians halted their advance once they had the Spartans within range. The idea that the Persians continued to advance seems to arise from the need to give Pausanias a reason for holding back, which is itself required as an explanation of his adherence to the outcome of the sacrifices. In other words, since

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13

14

15 16 17 18

(it is supposed) Pausanias cannot have stood still under enemy fire simply because of bad omens, a better reason must be supplied, and the Persians’ movements are reconstructed so as to supply it. In the light of the discussion below, we might perhaps detect in the negative omens a moment of indecision on Pausanias’ part, in the face of an army which approached like a phalanx but then converted itself into a kind of fortification and attacked from a distance (note also his reluctance to face the Persians and his preference for having the Athenians face them instead at 9.46–48). The impasse was broken by the Tegeans’ charge, which changed the dynamics of the battlefield and hence the salient features captured in divination. In other words, once the Tegeans charged, it was obvious what Pausanias had to do. This interpretation, however, may be asking too much of the text. Harrison (2000, 152–3) has detected a contrast between Pausanias’ exemplary obedience to omens and Mardonius’ more cavalier attitude, and sees the story as a model of how to respond when the divination contradicts one’s own assessment of one’s best interests. Pritchett, 1979, 77–78. Divination has received relatively little attention in recent scholarship on ancient warfare. Krentz notes the role of prayer, sacrifice and divination in the departure of military expeditions, after victory and on successful return (2007, 156–8, 173 and 185) but does not otherwise explore the rationale behind it; Wheeler and Strauss briefly outline pre-battle sacrifice and its value as assurance of a just cause (2007, 203–4, 213); Whitby notes the difficulty of reconciling modern, secular interpretations of strategy with our sources’ assertions of religious motivations (2007, 66). Van Wees’ brief discussion sets military divination in the context of the heightened demands of classical hoplite battle and sees it primarily as reassurance. However, he also notes a combination of “piety and expediency” in Greek warfare, noting that the Spartans were both the dominant military power in Greece and the state most concerned with religious scruples in war (2004, 119–21). Nevertheless, detailed discussion of military divination and the mentality behind it is usually left to scholarship on religion: see, for example, Parker 1989, 154–60; Jameson 1991 (particularly 204–9); Vernant 1991; Parker 2000 (particularly 304–7). See, for example, Asad’s acerbic remark (1993, 55) that ritual is easily recognisable because “ritual is (is it not?) symbolic activity as opposed to the instrumental behaviour of everyday life.” Bell notes both the centrality of belief to modern conceptions of religion and the status of belief as “our characterization of the specific illusions of others” – that is, our term for ideas which they appear to take seriously but which we cannot accept as part of the real (2002, 100–4 and 106). Cf. Davies 2011, 406–8. Scruples: for example, Spartan absence from Marathon (Hdt. 6.106–7), Cleomenes’ burning of “Argos” (Hdt. 6.79–80); Argive attempts to claim a sacred truce (Xenophon, Hellenica 7.2–3). Christianity: see, for example, Davies 2011, 397. Containment: Asad 1993, 28; Davies 2011, 406–8; Bell 2002, 100–6 (see above, note 14). Only once the goodwill of the gods has been gained, the commander may begin to recruit horsemen (1.2). Cf. Artabanus’ warning to Xerxes that sometimes a great army is destroyed by a smaller one when the god sends panic upon it, and it perishes in an unworthy manner (Hdt. 7.10e). It is hard not to read Xenophon’s graphic account of the massacre of panicking Argive forces by the Spartans in Corinth in 393 in this light: “the god gave them an achievement (ἔργον) of such a kind that they could not have prayed for … how could one not think of it as something divine (τις θεῖον)?” (Hellenica 4.4.12).

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19 The wish in 1.1 that the gods might grant it to the commander to think, speak and act in the most advantageous way suggests that the gods’ help might extend to indicating positively beneficial plans as well as warning against dangers. 20 Peek 1991, 135. Cf. Maurizio’s remark: “that ‘truth’ in oracular tales was determined by application and interpretation, not fidelity to or recovery of an original utterance” (1997, 329). 21 Cf. Holbraad 2012, 103: “Verdicts are ... temporary truth-claims that emerge as and when the world reveals itself to itself, if you like.” 22 The two main collections of Delphic responses, by Parke and Wormell (1956) and Fontenrose (1978), both regard many of Herodotus’ Delphic oracles as inauthentic. For useful discussion, see Bowden 2005, 69–73. 23 Maurizio (1997, 308–16) argues that, since the Pythia’s precise words cannot be recovered, it is inappropriate to test the authenticity of Herodotus’ Delphic oracles against a putative original utterance. They should instead be evaluated in the terms of an oral or oral-derived tradition in which each reuse of an oracle is in effect a reperformance and recomposition, which would be accepted or rejected by its audience not for its fidelity to an original but for its validity as a contribution to the tradition, that is, for the extent to which it embodied the principles and style of the tradition. Herodotus’ depictions of divination may therefore be taken as culturally competent contributions to a contemporary tradition of divination, and therefore as evidence for Greek divinatory thinking. Cf. Anderson 2018, 57; Chapter 1 in this volume. 24 Hdt. 1.67–68, discussed in greater depth in Anderson 2018, 55–6. See also Barker 2006, 15–17. 25 Hdt. 7.141–42. Cf. Anderson 2018, 56–7. On the translation of ῥηχός, see How and Wells 1912, ad loc. 26 In the Athenian case, this context included the relationship between the Athenians and Apollo. The decisive argument that the prophecy was too mildly worded to indicate an Athenian defeat at sea and must therefore refer to the defeat of the Persians relied on the assumption (not unreasonable in the light of 7.141.3) that the gods were well disposed towards the Athenians and were not luring them to their destruction. 27 “Superabundance”: Werbner 1973, cf. Whyte 1991, 170. On the reduction of multiple possibilities to a single conclusion, see Parkin 1991. 28 Any such synthesis is at best provisional until it is tested in action, as is suggested by the numerous cautionary tales in Herodotus, such as Croesus’ disastrous interpretation of the “mighty empire” oracle (1.53–56, 1.84–91) and Mardonius’ misapplication of an oracle about the army of the Encheles (9.42–43). See Anderson 2018, 61. 29 On the integration of both commanders and manteis in discussion, see Pritchett, 1974, 56–7, Parker 2000, 305. Cf. Anabasis 2.1.9 (Clearchus is called away to inspect entrails which have been extracted in his absence); 5.2.9–10 (advice from the captains and manteis is seamlessly integrated); 6.4.15 (inspection of the entrails is opened to any manteis who happened to be in the army). Xenophon’s recommendation that a commander learn the basics of divination in order not to be at the mercy of his mantis (Cyr. 1.6.2, cf. Anab. 5.6.29) further suggests that dialogue is important. Plato’s assertion at Laches 199a that the general should command the mantis and not the other way round is compatible with such a view: all it need mean is that the final decision is the general’s. On divination as an intrinsically dialogic process, see Whyte 1991, Parkin 1991, 187; cf. Parker 1985, 301. 30 Collins 2008; cf. Parker 2004, 144–5. 31 As Cawkwell (2004, 60) remarks, “The Xenophon of the Anabasis always was right and righteous.”

“Work with the god” 105 32 See Parker 2004, 135–7 on plausibility. 33 Despite the bravado of 2.1.4, we may suspect that the outcome reflects unspoken doubts on the part of Clearchus or his advisers. The Greeks had, after all, been told by the King’s representative (2.1.11) that they were hemmed in by impassable rivers and facing overwhelming multitudes of men. For further discussion of relational reasoning in this passage, see Anderson 2018, 57–9. 34 Cf. Parker 2004, 145–6 on this episode and on nervous commanders being sensitive to even the smallest defects in a liver. 35 Such an interpretation makes sense of Xenophon’s emphasis on Dercylidas’ anger at the governor’s intransigence (3.1.17), frustration at the omens (3.1.17) and exasperation with one of his captain’s unauthorised and unsuccessful attack on Cebren’s water-supply, which he feared would demoralise the men before the real assault (3.1.18). This does not suggest a commander coolly biding his time while hiding behind compliant omens but rather one frustrated by unexpected obstacles, including adverse omens which perhaps reflected the difficulty of taking Cebren by force. 36 Iphicrates’ practice of responding to negative omens by changing his position and sacrificing again (see above) may be reinterpreted in this way in the light of Xenophon’s strategy at Calpe. If divination is understood as a tool for understanding the hidden realities of the battlefield, then poor omens indicate a flaw in one’s battle-plan which can appropriately be remedied by changing the real disposition of the troops. 37 We might compare Agesilaus’ response to a lobeless liver to that of Agesipolis (Xen. Hell. 4.7.7). Coming at the end of a successful campaign in the Argolid, when he was contemplating building a fort in the passes of Mount Celusa which opened into Argive territory, we might consider that the lobeless sacrifice encouraged him to feel he had achieved all he could and thus to return home (cf. Parker 1989, 156 and n. 71). Parker (1989, 160) also notes Agesilaus’ retreat, suggesting that Agesilaus had practical reasons for withdrawing and noting the lack of irony in Xenophon’s juxtaposition of omens and tactical reasoning. I read Xenophon’s deadpan presentation as a sign that he considered divinatory and tactical reasoning to be unified. 38 On which see Bowden 2004, 233. I am grateful to Crystal Addey and Matthew Shelton for pointing out the similarity of the two passages. On Xenophon as a Socratic writer, see Waterfield 2004. 39 We might note that Xenophon found himself in this position at Anabasis 6.1.19–31, as did Cleander, the Spartan harmost of Byzantium, at Anabasis 6.6.35–36. Both were offered command of the Ten Thousand. Both declined it after receiving negative omens from sacrifice. Tellingly, Xenophon decided to consult the gods when he reflected that the future is unclear (ἄδηλον, 6.1.21) to all men. 40 The close connection between mortals’ inability to tell the outcome of their actions and the gods’ withholding of this knowledge is emphasised by the repetition of οὔτε … δῆλον … (“it is not clear”) in all six examples, which echoes the phrase οὐδὲν δῆλον (“not revealed”) in 1.1.8. 41 We might see in this a distant echo of the claim made by Herodotus’ Delphic oracle that it can number the grains of sand, measure the sea, understand the dumb and hear the voiceless (Hdt. 1.47). 42 Zeitlyn 1990, 654–7. Zeitlyn draws on an experiment by Harold Garfinkel in which American university students were offered counselling over an intercom system. Students could talk freely to the counsellor but any questions they asked had to be susceptible to yes/no answers. Unbeknownst to the students, the counsellor’s answers were randomly predetermined, and all students received the

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same sequence of responses. Despite the randomness of the counsellor’s answers, students generally assumed there was a logic behind them and worked to uncover it.

Bibliography Ancient works: texts and translations Herodotus. The Persian Wars, Volume I: Books 1–2. Translated by Alfred D. Godley 1920. LCL 117. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Herodotus. The Persian Wars, Volume II: Books 3–4. Translated by Alfred D. Godley. 1921. LCL 118. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Herodotus. The Persian Wars, Volume III: Books 5–7. Translated by Alfred D. Godley. 1922. LCL 119. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Herodotus. The Persian Wars, Volume IV: Books 8–9. Translated by Alfred D. Godley. 1925. LCL 120. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato. Laches. In Laches. Protagoras. Meno. Euthydemus. Translated by Walter R. M. Lamb. 1924. LCL 165. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Polyaenus. Stratagems of War, Volume I: Books I–V. Translated by Peter Krentz and Everett L. Wheeler. 1994. Chicago, IL: Ares Publishers. Xenophon. Anabasis. Translated by Carleton L. Brownson. Revised by John Dillery. 1998. LCL 90. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Xenophon. Apology. In Memorabilia. Oeconomicus. Symposium. Apology. Translated by Edgar Cardew Marchant and Otis Johnson Todd. Revised by Jeffrey Henderson. 2013. LCL 168. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Xenophon. Cavalry Commander. In Hiero. Agesilaus. Constitution of the Lacedaemonians. Ways and Means. Cavalry Commander. Art of Horsemanship. On Hunting. Constitution of the Athenians. Translated by Edgar Cardew Marchant and Glen Warren Bowersock. 1925. LCL 183. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Xenophon. Cyropaedia, Volume I: Books 1–4. Translated by Walter Miller. 1914. LCL 51. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Xenophon. Hellenica, Volume I: Books 1–4. Translated by Carleton L. Brownson. 1918. LCL 88. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Xenophon. Hellenica, Volume II: Books 5–7. Translated by Carleton L. Browns. 1921. LCL 89. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Xenophon. Memorabilia. In Memorabilia. Oeconomicus. Symposium. Apology. Translated by Edgar Cardew Marchant and Otis Johnson Todd. Revised by Jeffrey Henderson. 2013. LCL 168. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Modern works Anderson, John. K. 1970. Military Theory and Practice in the Age of Xenophon. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Anderson, Ralph. 2018. “A Story of Blood, Guts and Guesswork: Synthetic Reasoning in Classical Greek Divination.” In Prophets and Profits: Ancient Divination and its Reception, edited by Richard Evans, 50–64. London: Routledge. Asad, Talal. 1993. Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press.

“Work with the god” 107 Badian, Ernst. 2004. “Xenophon the Athenian.” In Xenophon and his World (Historia Einzelschriften 172), edited by Christopher Tuplin, 33–54. Stuttgart: Steiner. Barker, Elton. 2006. “Paging the Oracle: Interpretation, Identity and Performance in Herodotus’ History.” G&R 53, no. 1: 1–28. Bell, Catherine M. 2002. “‘The Chinese Believe in Spirits’: Belief and Believing in the Study of Religion.” In Radical Interpretation in Religion, edited by Nancy K. Frankenberry, 100–16. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bowden, Hugh. 2004. “Xenophon and the Scientific Study of Religion.” In Xenophon and his World (Historia Einzelschriften 172), edited by Christopher Tuplin, 229–46. Stuttgart: Steiner. Bowden, Hugh. 2005. Classical Athens and the Delphic Oracle: Divination and Democracy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Burn, Andrew. R. 1962. Persia and the Greeks: The Defence of the West, c. 546–478 BC. London: Edward Arnold. Cawkwell, George. 2004. “When, How and Why did Xenophon write the Anabasis?” In The Long March: Xenophon and the Ten Thousand, edited by Robin Lane Fox, 47–67. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Collins, Derek. 2008. “Mapping the Entrails: The Practice of Greek Hepatoscopy.” American Journal of Philology 129, no. 3: 319–45. Davies, Jason. 2011. “Believing the Evidence.” In Evidence, Inference and Enquiry (PBA 171), edited by Philip Dawid, William Twining and Mimi Vasilaki, 395–434. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fontenrose, Joseph. 1978. The Delphic Oracle: Its Responses and Operations with a Catalogue of Responses. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Harrison, Thomas. 2000. Divinity and History: The Religion of Herodotus. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hignett, Charles. 1963. Xerxes’ Invasion of Greece. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Holbraad, Martin. 2012. “Truth Beyond Doubt: Ifá Oracles in Cuba.” HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 2, no. 1: 81–109. How, Walter, and Joseph Wells. 1912. A Commentary on Herodotus, 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Jameson, Michael. 1991. “Sacrifice before Battle.” In Hoplites: The Classical Greek Battle Experience, edited by Victor Hanson, 197–227. London: Routledge. Krentz, Peter. 2007. “War.” In The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare, vol. 1, edited by Philip Sabin, Hans van Wees and Michael Whitby, 147–185. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lane Fox, Robin, ed. 2004. The Long March: Xenophon and the Ten Thousand, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Maurizio, Lisa. 1997. “Delphic Oracles as Oral Performances: Authenticity and Historical Evidence.” ClAnt 16, no. 2: 308–34. Nilsson, Martin P. 1940. Greek Popular Religion. New York, NY: Columbia University Press. Parke, Herbert W., and Donald E.W. Wormell. 1956. The Delphic Oracle, 2 vols. Oxford: Blackwell. Parker, Robert. 1985. “Greek States and Greek Oracles.” In Crux: Essays presented to G. E. M. de Ste. Croix on his 75th Birthday, edited by Paul A. Cartledge and F. David Harvey, 298–326. Exeter: Imprint Academic.

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Parker, Robert. 1989. “Spartan Religion.” In Classical Sparta: Techniques behind her Success, edited by Anton Powell, 142–72. London: Routledge. Parker, Robert. 2000. “Sacrifice and Battle.” In War and Violence in Ancient Greece, edited by Hans van Wees, 299–314. London: Classical Press of Wales. Parker, Robert. 2004. “One Man’s Piety: The Religious Dimension of the Anabasis.” In The Long March: Xenophon and the Ten Thousand, 131–53. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Parkin, David. 1991. “Simultaneity and Sequencing in the Oracular Speech of Kenyan Diviners.” In African Divination Systems: Ways of Knowing, edited by Philip Peek, 173–89. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Peek, Philip, ed. 1991. African Divination Systems: Ways of Knowing. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Peek, Philip, ed. 1991. “Introduction: The Study of Divination, Present and Past” and “Part Four: Divination, Epistemology, and Truth.” In African Divination Systems: Ways of Knowing, edited by Philip Peek, 1–22 and 133–35. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Pritchett, W. Kendrick. 1979. The Greek State at War. Part 3: Religion. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Sabin, Philip, Hans van Wees, and Michael Whitby, eds. 2007. The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare, vol. 1: Greece, The Hellenistic World and the Rise of Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shaw, Rosalind. 1991. “Splitting Truths from Darkness: Epistemological Aspects of Temne Divination.” In African Divination Systems: Ways of Knowing, edited by Philip Peek, 137–52. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Tuplin, Christopher, ed. 2004. Xenophon and his World (Historia Einzelschriften 172). Stuttgart: Steiner. Van Wees, Hans. 2004. Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities. London: Duckworth. Vernant, Jean-Pierre. 1991. “Artemis and Preliminary Sacrifice in Combat.” In Mortals and Immortals: Collected Essays, edited by Froma Zeitlin, 244–57. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Waterfield, Robin. 2004. “Xenophon’s Socratic Mission.” In Xenophon and his World (Historia Einzelschriften 172), edited by Christopher Tuplin, 79–113. Stuttgart: Steiner. Werbner, Richard. 1973. “The Superabundance of Understanding: Kalanga Rhetoric and Domestic Divination.” American Anthropologist 75: 1414–1440. Wheeler, Everett, and Barry Strauss. 2007. “Battle.” In The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare, vol. 1, edited by Philip Sabin, Hans van Wees and Michael Whitby, 186–247. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Whitby, Michael. 2007. “Reconstructing Ancient Warfare.” In The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare, vol. 1, edited by Philip Sabin, Hans van Wees and Michael Whitby, 54–82. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Whyte, Susan. 1991. “Knowledge and Power in Nyole Divination.” In African Divination Systems: Ways of Knowing, edited by Philip Peek, 153–72. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Zeitlyn, David. 1990. “Professor Garfinkel Visits the Soothsayers: Ethnomethodology and Mambila Divination.” Man (New Series) 25, no. 4: 654–66.

4

Divination and decumbiture: Katarchic astrology and Greek medicine Dorian Gieseler Greenbaum

Introduction Astrology is generally considered to be a form of divination in antiquity (see, for example, Cicero, Div. I.vi.12), and by modern scholarship as well (though not always by modern practitioners of astrology). Ancient Greek medicine arises from and develops within a divinatory milieu (Gorrini 2005; Poyer 2013). Among their commonalities, divination, medicine and as­ trology are, furthermore, all considered to be technai, arts.1 All rely on the skills of their practitioners to be effective. Claudius Ptolemy deemed both astrology and medicine to be stochastic arts, where predicted outcomes, though not certain to happen, were based on the knowledge and educated conjecture of astrologers and doctors (Greenbaum 2010; Komorowska 2009). Furthermore, astronomy and astrology could be used in conjunction with medicine to improve diagnosis, prognosis and prescription. Both medicine and astrology depended on more than the empirical for success. Each of these systems of knowledge – divination, medicine and astrology – contributed to further human understanding and response. One technique used by those who practised astrological medicine was called “decumbiture”: that is, casting a horoscope for the time someone felt ill enough to go to bed. Although based on a moment in time, the time of a decumbiture chart is essentially subjective, based on a realisation of illness (though Galen judges that an illness begins when there are manifest signs of fever forcing people to go to bed).2 This chapter will explore the use of this practice in the Greco-Roman world and late antiquity. What are the divi­ natory connections to decumbiture? How does decumbiture fit with objec­ tive practices like examining symptoms to obtain a diagnosis, give a prognosis and propose therapies? What is the relationship of decumbiture and astrological medicine to medical practice in general, and why could all of these be considered legitimate parts of general medical practice? Although the topic of divination in recent years has focused less on the issue of whether it is rational or irrational, and more on understanding its functions on its own terms, a scholarly current of default “irrationality” is still ascribed to divination that forces some litigation of this issue in any

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scholarship on this topic.3 The same conditions surrounding the topic of divination often apply, as well, to both ancient astrology and ancient medicine. Though acknowledging this debate is important, nevertheless my purpose in this chapter is not to defend the rationality of divination, as­ trology or ancient medicine but to explain and to demonstrate the divina­ tory, cosmological and philosophical principles that form a rational knowledge construct for the use of astrology in medicine. My primary focus will be on one facet of that practice, decumbiture, and its context and ra­ tionale within medical and astrological practice. First, however, it will be useful to give an overview of the use of divination in ancient Greek medicine (especially that connected with the heavens), and a brief discussion of di­ vination as a system of knowledge in relation to Greek medicine.

Divination in ancient Greek medicine Ancient Greek medicine is not based only in the physical and is certainly not devoid of divinatory practices. An “apocryphal” Hippocratic letter (Jouanna 1999, 397) even connects the two disciplines through their ruling god, Apollo: “Medicine and divination are close kin, since Apollo is the one father of the two arts, and he is also our ancestor…” (Hippocrates, [Ep.] 15.34–15.36).4 Furthermore, Apollo is himself called iatromantis (“healerdiviner”), and the same term is applied to human divinatory healers asso­ ciated with the god.5 Some scholarship even associates the original meaning of the word ἰάομαι, from which the Greek word for “doctor,” ἰατρός, derives, with rendering or giving back strength by “magico-medical means” (Ramat 1962, 20, cited in Manetti 1993, 40). In Plato’s Timaeus (24c), we are told that both divination (μαντική) and medicine (ἰατρική) are necessary for health. Empedocles, the great philosopher-mystic-healer from Acragas, is linked with iatromantic practice: Heraclides of Ponticus describes him as “healer and diviner” (...ἰητρὸν καὶ μάντιν...).6 Healer-diviners are mentioned in Aeschylus (Ag. 1623; Supp. 263; Eum. 62 [referring to Apollo]). Thus, this tradition in Greece is not rare or obscure, and contains both historical (Empedocles) and mythical figures such as the legendary Asclepius.7 On a gross level, both divination and medicine could be said to have si­ milar aims: to diagnose a situation and provide prognosis and treatment (Langholf 1990, 232–54 [prognosis and divination], Jouanna and DeBevoise 1999, 100–3 [similarity between prophecy and prognosis]). Various types of divination could aid in both the diagnosis and treatment of disease. PreHippocratic medicine used incantations (epoidai) (cf. Plato, Resp. 426b, Chrm. 155e–157c; Pindar, Pyth. 3.47–53; Homer, Od. 19.449–458) and ritual purifications (by kathartoi, “purifiers”; Gorrini 2005, 135–8), which could be performed in a temple setting (a counterpart to the later practice of physical healing by purgation) (Raphals 2005, 91–2; 2013, 326n33). Oracles, at temples like Delphi, and at healing shrines, could be approached by the sick to ask a god for guidance.8 Statues could provide healing powers with the

Divination and decumbiture 111 proper supplication (Gorrini 2012). Dreams were especially important di­ vinatory tools: they were used in the practice of incubation, where the ill person would go to a healing temple such as that of Asclepius, or another holy site, and dreaming could allow both diagnosis of the disease and cure by the appropriate deity.9 Dreams were used in a medical context by Posidonius and Philo of Alexandria, among others (Berchman 1998, 127–9, 140–3), by Galen in confirming his medical theories (Kudlien 1981; von Staden 2003) and in Hippocratic medicine: On Regimen IV provides details on medical divination through dreams (van der Eijk 2004; Hulskamp 2008; 2013). Relating knowledge systems: divination, medicine and astrology Principles of divination as a system of knowledge provide a framework for interaction with the gods and the means for interpretation of divine signs. In both medicine and astrology,10 this interaction involves the cosmos and relationships between the heavens and the earth/humans; in other words, how humans are a part of and relate to the cosmos. The understanding of the cosmos in Greek antiquity relies on more than one ancient philosophical view, but in the timeframe under consideration in this chapter, Platonic and Stoic views have the most currency. The Platonic cosmos is considered as divine, rational and ensouled. All parts of the cosmos are coordinated. Plato’s account of the creation of the cosmos by the demiurge (demiourgos) (Ti. 30a–42e) has strong astronomical components, and this astronomical cosmology feeds into concepts of the interactions between parts of the cosmos. In Stoicism, the cosmos is singular, corporeal and finite, as well as alive, ensouled and suffused by reason (logos and nous) (Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Philosophers 7.138–140). Sympathy and tension bind heaven and earth together (7.140).11 Macrocosm and microcosm A common view of the universe at this time is that it can be organised around the concept of a macrocosm (the cosmos beyond the human world) and a microcosm (the human world below the moon). We can see the de­ velopment of the idea that there is a correspondence between the cosmos and humans, between the physical makeup of the universe and the physical makeup of humans in “Pre-Socratics” (a partial misnomer: see Nutton 2013, 44) like Democritus (c. 460 BCE–c. 370 BCE), who reportedly said that “the human is a little cosmos.”12 If humans are composed of the same stuff as the universe, they are necessarily related by their similar natures (cf. Plato, Ti. 30b–d). The relationship between macrocosm and microcosm is implicitly understood: what affects the macrocosm also affects the microcosm. Humans both reflect the macrocosm and are affected by it. With the heaven and earth thus connected, understanding the heavens leads to understanding

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the earth and the humans who live on it.13 This rationale is what engenders astrology and medical treatment as well. Sympatheia Although there are hints about the concept of sympathy in Plato and Aristotle, the doctrine begins to flower with Epicurus and develops fully under the Stoics (Brouwer 2015, 16–21).14 The Stoics posit an intricate system in which the cosmos is bound together and all of its parts are capable of some manner of cosmic “feeling together,” or sympathy (συμπάθεια). These sympathetic connections are not arbitrary or willy-nilly. They arise from an understanding of the cosmos as permeated by a pneuma (breath) that allows for affinities between parts deemed to be alike on a physical, metaphysical or even metaphorical level.15 Thus, for example, the sun is linked to gold, the flower and stone heliotrope, the right eye, the heart, the astrological zodiacal sign of Leo, and kingship. The planet Venus is linked to love and beauty, but also lapis lazuli, jewellery, cosmetics, the neck, the face and the astrological signs of Taurus and Libra. The “right time” Kairos, the “right time,” is also an important principle in divination. Rituals must be performed at the proper time to heal, propitiate or receive counsel from the gods.16 Kairos is also crucial in medical practice. In the famous Hippocratic aphorism, “Life is short, but the art is great, the opportune moment fleeting, experimentation perilous, discernment difficult,” “the op­ portune moment” translates kairos.17 Our modern saying “When opportu­ nity knocks, answer” implies the right moment to act will vanish quickly. In addition, kairos can mean “seasonal time,” which is medically useful in talking about diseases that strike at certain times of the year. But kairos also, perhaps most importantly, has the sense of what needs to be done at the proper time for the most benefit (indeed, for benefit at all), and the idea that this time must be synchronised with the circumstances. As an example, for the right and proper time to begin a ritual – to find its kairos – Iamblichus uses katarchic astrology (DM 8.4 [267.6–10]).18 Katarchic astrology (see the section below entitled “Katarchic astrology and decumbiture”) in this instance consists of casting a horoscope to find the best time to begin something. There is a relationship between this kind of astrology and kairos. The second-century astrologer Vettius Valens (b. 120 CE), who wrote an astrological textbook (Anthologies), used katarchic as­ trology in his own life. But he warned against expecting that a desired thing will come to pass without the katarchē being aligned with the right and proper time, the kairos: And I myself, since I keep a watch out for such days according to what

Divination and decumbiture 113 is possible, and make my katarchai for actions or friends according to the time-description of the opportune moments (kairoi), used to think of the katarchē as unchangeable and easily brought to completion; but when I was wandering and, through the untimely (akairos) presence or alliance of a friend, or by necessity, I made a beginning of something, I received a result that was liable to punishment and painful or causing delay. … Truly, it is useless to sacrifice to god or to consecrate offerings [when the time is not right]; for prayers will not be answered and god will not let himself be worshipped, but he will be called upon idly and ineffectively.19 The “right time” must therefore align with both the cosmos and the divine. This divinatory connection is manifest in Valens’ example. As systems of knowledge, divination, medicine and astrology are all timedependent: “to everything there is a season” (Eccl. 3:1),20 and proper timing is important, even mandatory. Therefore, both time and cosmos are essen­ tial to the operation of these knowledge systems. All practitioners of divi­ nation find ways to communicate with the gods. Gods communicate with and send knowledge to humans; they will listen to humans at a propitious time and provide a propitious time for action. If things in the universe are connected by sympatheia or in the relationship between macrocosm and microcosm, and celestial bodies and events can be signs of what the gods want you to know, then divination in general, and divination through as­ tronomy/astrology in particular, is a rational practice for obtaining knowledge. Let us turn now, first to the use of astrology in medicine, and then to the practice of medical astrology (called “iatromathematics”).

Astrological divination and medicine As we have seen, divination was a part of Greek medical practice from a very early stage.21 The use of astronomy within medicine began with the Hippocratic corpus, which contains the first use of the word astronomia in Greek literature (Jouanna 1992, 306): “...astronomy contributes not a small, but a very great part, to medicine” (Hippocrates, Aer. 2.16–18).22 This as­ tronomy provides foreknowledge: “For knowing both the changes of the seasons and the risings and settings of the stars, in what manner each of these occurs, [the doctor] may foreknow what kind of year is going to come to pass” (Hippocrates, Aer. 2.10–12).23 Within Hippocratic medicine the seasons and the cycle of the sun were important for both predicting and treating disease, while the moon and its phases were useful in predicting the critical days (days on which the illness goes through a crisis point) of an illness and its prognosis. Dreams with astronomical content could also be used to confirm health and diagnose and treat illness. In this practice the healer may use symbolism and analogy to interpret how the dream pertains to health or illness.24

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Claudius Galen (b. 129 CE) (Nutton 2013, 222 and 390n2) was enormously influenced by the Hippocratic corpus; a number of his treatises are commentaries on Hippocratic texts. It would be going too far to say that he had a large interest in the use of astronomy/astrology in medicine, but parts of his corpus touch on the subject. He discusses it in his treatise On Critical Days, and certain practices he mentions in this genuine work may explain why he was thought to be the author of the spurious Prognostications concerning Decumbiture from the Mathematical Science. We will explore this in the sections below on decumbiture.25 As evidence of other Greco-Roman era physicians using astrological practices in medicine we find Crinas of Marseilles, who used astrology in diagnosis (Pliny the Elder, HN 29.V.9, ed. Jones [1963] 1989, 188; Nutton 2008, 19–20). The physician Antigonus of Nicaea cast the horoscope of Hadrian (Heilen 2012a; 2015). A fourth-century gold ring, probably from Tartus, Syria (Stutzinger 1983, 557), contains the nativity of its owner, presumably a doctor because of its signet with the bust of Asclepius, adorned with the word hygia (Heilen and Greenbaum 2016, 138; Neugebauer and Van Hoesen 1964, 69, cited in Jones 2010, 43n59). “Natural” astrology and medicine: melothesia, humours, temperament One kind of astrology used in medical practice is usually called “natural,” that is, as in the Hippocratic corpus, it uses physical phenomena applied to medicine. Natural astrology links heavenly bodies and cycles to the years, months and days, most commonly the solar cycles that produce the seasons and days, and the lunar cycles that produce the months. The moon in particular is associated with “critical days” of illnesses, beginning in the Hippocratic corpus and extending to practitioners like Galen. Hellenistic astrological systems also link parts of the body to planets, zodiacal signs and other astrological concerns. This practice, called me­ lothesia, has origins both in Egypt, in its practice of deification of the limbs (Quack 1995) and in Mesopotamia.26 Melothesia became an important doctrine for assessing medical conditions in both Babylonian and GrecoRoman medicine.27 Another important link between astrology and medicine involved the system of humours developed by the Hippocratic writers, which assigned the qualities of hot, cold, wet and dry to fluids (chumē) in the body, namely yellow bile, black bile, blood and phlegm. Subsequently these became as­ sociated with the elements of fire, earth, air and water, respectively, and so to the zodiacal signs associated with those elements. Planets also had as­ sociations with various humours: the Sun, for example was associated with the choleric humour, the Moon with the phlegmatic, Jupiter with the san­ guine and Saturn with the melancholic. Humours were also linked to the seasons, with certain humours peaking at certain seasons. This system led to

Divination and decumbiture 115 the concept of temperament, where the mixtures of humours in the human body, and their imbalances, were linked to disease. Physicians could thus treat disease by balancing humoural makeup. Ptolemy (Tetr.: Hübner 1998, 1.2, 3.12, trans. Robbins [1940] 1994, 3.11) took up the topic of “mixture” (krasis) and applied astrology to it, and astrological practices dealing with temperament flourished at the end of late antiquity and into the medieval, Renaissance and early modern periods (see Greenbaum 2005). The basics of astrology and its applications to medicine The system and principles of Hellenistic astrology, as well as the basic factors that compose it, extend to every kind of astrology practised in an­ tiquity. Briefly, these include the luminaries (Sun and Moon); the five visible planets, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Venus and Mercury; the twelve zodiacal signs in segments of 30 degrees each; and the Ascendant, which marks the degree and sign on the eastern horizon at the time and place for which the chart is cast. The Ascendant (called a cardine) sets the orientation and organisation of planets and signs in the chart. The chart also contains 12 places (topoi), each dealing with a particular area of life. Other important interpretive points include these other cardines: the Midheaven, the sign culminating at the meridian, and the two points opposite the Ascendant and Midheaven (Setting and Underground respectively); and the Lot of Fortune (important in medical astrology because it represents the body), found by projecting the degree arc between the Sun and Moon from the Ascendant. Geometrical relationships between planets and luminaries (called aspects), and the sys­ tems of planetary dignities, which give different values to the planets, are additional factors in interpretation (see Beck 2007; Greenbaum 2016, 399–414). Astrology is organised in three branches, each united by shared principles and mechanics but with different aims. The first, and most well-known branch, is natal astrology, sometimes called genethlialogical or genethliacal astrology. A “nativity” (genesis) is cast for the place and time that a child is born. The astrologer interprets a nativity for circumstances of life, profes­ sion, marriage and other things of interest to the client. In a medical context, techniques for determining length of life can also be applied to the natal chart, and weaknesses and strengths regarding future illnesses can be as­ sessed. The natal chart may be used in conjunction with a decumbiture chart to predict the course and outcome of the disease. The second branch of astrology, general or “universal” (katholikos), is also known as mundane astrology. This branch is concerned with events that happen in general populations and circumstances. Universal astrology makes predictions about countries and their peoples, weather and the pos­ sibilities of disasters. In a medical context, this kind of astrology may predict such things as plagues or famines.

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The third branch is katarchic astrology. It deals with moments in time aside from those used in nativities and universal astrology. It is often merely called “matters” (pragmata) (as opposed to “nativities”) in astrological texts. This branch of astrology includes decumbiture. In a medical context, de­ cumbiture aids in determining the course, therapy and outcome of an illness. “Iatromathematicians”: the medical astrologers We know that astrology was used in a medical context by astrologers be­ cause detailed techniques for applying it to medical practices appear in a number of astrological manuals. A word was even coined for this: ia­ tromathematika, combining the words for doctor and astrologer. Its first attestation is in Ptolemy (Tetr. I, 3.19), but he cites the Egyptians as its originators (I, 3.18) (for more on connections between Egyptians and as­ trology, see Chapter 8 in this volume). For Ptolemy, medical astrology is an important benefit of astrological prognostication. Both Dorotheus of Sidon (first century CE) and Hephaestio of Thebes (b. 380 CE) devote several sections of their books to the various topics of medical astrology. Vettius Valens uses it, and Maximus’s poem (fourth century CE) on katarchic as­ trology also contains two chapters on medical astrology. .

Katarchic astrology and decumbiture Now we come to the “main event” in this study of divination and de­ cumbiture: the use of the astrological technique of casting a chart for the moment of the beginning of an illness, thus providing a tool, and timing, for its diagnosis and prognosis. To understand the practice of decumbiture, however, it is important to understand the branch of astrology under which decumbiture falls: katarchic astrology, sometimes called “inceptional” from a meaning of katarchē as “inception” or “beginning.”28 Katarchic astrology is arguably the most divinatory kind of astrology, since, as we saw in the examples of Valens and Iamblichus mentioned earlier, its success was thought to depend on some kind of divine sanction, if not help or even supplication via ritual or another therapeutic method. Katarchic astrology consists of four sub-branches, all related to one an­ other, with similar rationales: (1) elections, (2) events, (3) interrogations and (4) decumbitures. These follow similar methods of interpretation and to­ gether form a coherent system with consistent rules (however, as with all divinatory practices, one should not forget the spontaneous insight that can arise within interpretation to provide answers otherwise unobtainable from the mechanics of practice; see an example in Tedlock 2007, 319; also Addey 2014, 251). Two of these sub-branches – elections and decumbitures – provide overt ways to remedy or improve situations for obtaining the best outcome. They are therefore similar in scope to the goals of medicine, which, naturally, are to heal the patient, by human skill, of conditions that could

Divination and decumbiture 117 otherwise be debilitating or even fatal. They provide a means to negotiate (even negate) outcomes, belying the idea that events are entirely fated and cannot be changed. Knowledge is power, communication with the divine is possible and both astrology and medicine provide methods to achieve this. Elections choose the best astrological time to begin a particular en­ deavour, whether it be marrying, making a voyage by ship (in antiquity these were notoriously prone to danger) (Neugebauer and Van Hoesen [1959] 1987, 142–6), erecting a building, founding a city (Allison 1999; Boudet 2015) or marking a coronation.29 (This is the branch of astrology Vettius Valens referred to in the example of katarchē and kairos above.) It seeks to align the event with the heavens and with divine sanction. Event charts are cast for an event after the fact, and the outcome of the event, or its reason, is sought in the astrological configurations at the time of the event. These differ from elections because they are not planned in ad­ vance but relate to elections because both types concern material actions and circumstances (decumbitures are related to events). Examples of event in­ terpretation include discovering the thief from the time of the theft, or where a lost item might be found, based on the time when it was discovered to be missing. However, this time is not always known, and when that is the case, a question can be posed about the issue to obtain information about the event. Interrogations are charts cast at the time of asking such a question. The time of the question substitutes for the unknown time of the event. Clearly this time can have no physical/material relationship to the actual event, so its ontology belongs to a divinatory milieu, as in the case with oracles (Cornelius 2004). For example, a wife leaves but the questioner does not know when, and asks, “Will she return?” (Dorotheus, Carmen V, 17). Thus, interrogations mimic the questioning of the oracle, as well as solving the problem of how to deal with missing information. Additionally, questions may arise and be put to the katarchic astrologer, because of a personal desire to know about a particular issue (for example, “Is the unborn child mine or from another?”) (Gordon 2013, 99). Alternatively, a client may not know his or her birth time and the only means of getting information about certain life circumstances is to ask the astrologer a specific question and obtain the answer by interpreting the chart cast at that time (see Gordon 2013, 98, 101, 105–6). This may be the most practical and obvious use for casting a chart for the time a question was asked.30 Early evidence exists for elections and interrogations (Hübner 2003, 25–8).31 Allusions can be found in Propertius (c. 50 – c. 15 BCE), Elegies IV.1.71–150 (Kidd 1979), and Juvenal (c. late first–second century CE), Satire VI, 565–81 (Watson and Watson 2014, 74). An example from Manilius (fl. c. 10 CE) (Astr. 3.142–144, 3.149–155)32 coincidentally involves medical astrology. In describing a doctrine using the Lot of Fortune as an Ascendant, Manilius speaks of the eleventh place from the Lot as a place

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where one can find the “choice of remedy and the moment for administering it, or in whose hour therapy and the mixing of life-saving potions have greater efficacy.”33 This emphasis on the moment (the de facto kairos?) for adminis­ tering therapy in order to achieve greater efficacy has commonalities with Galen’s desire to find the actual time an illness begins in On Critical Days, as we shall see (“Medicine and the moment of taking sick” below) as well as ad­ ministering therapies at the right time. Decumbiture as an example of katarchic astrology The fourth sub-branch of katarchic astrology is decumbiture, kataklisis in Greek. The word decumbiture comes from the Latin verb decumbo, lie down; the chart is known as decubitus in Latin. The decumbiture chart is related to event charts in that it is also an event, in this case cast for the time an illness begins. The astrological circumstances at that time indicate what kind of therapeutic steps need to be taken by the astrologer/doctor to ac­ complish healing, and when they should be given: the therapy for “crisis days” is tailored to this time. However, decumbiture, like other katarchic astrological genres, also contains some ambiguity in ascertaining the proper time of its beginning. Medicine and the moment of taking sick When is the elusive moment someone realises that he or she is ill? This is an issue much discussed by practitioners of medical astrology from antiquity to the present day. I can relate a trivial example from my own experience of deciding when I actually had a cold. Recently, on a Sunday, I noticed that my nose was a bit runnier than usual, and I felt slightly “off” but had no sore throat or any other typical cold symptoms. I ignored these minor disturbances. However, by Monday morning, even with only a slight increase in symptoms, I realised that they were indeed the beginnings of a cold, albeit a very mild one.34 The cold continued over the next number of days, still mild, but definitely a cold. I never actually felt ill enough to go to bed. But – as an “ia­ tromathematician” treating myself with astrology – I would have cast the decumbiture chart for Monday morning, not Sunday afternoon, because that was when I realised that I actually had a cold.35 The moment of taking ill from the patient’s perspective, then, is subjective, not objective. Galen provides an ancient doctor’s viewpoint on this issue. Hippocratic writings took the appearance of fever as the beginning of illness, as does Galen. But he was also aware of the subjectivity involved in determining when illness begins. Five pages (in Kühn’s edition) of On Critical Days are devoted to this problem (Galen ed. Kühn 1821–33, IX, 795.9–799.16).36 Galen’s objective is to contrast the uncertainties and subjectivities of patient experience of illness with the surer practice of the doctor. His goal is to link

Divination and decumbiture 119 the beginning of illness, in this case specific illness involving fevers and crises,37 with the onset of acute fever that forces the patient to go to bed (On Critical Days, Galen ed. Kühn 1821–33, IX, 797.11–13).38 Nevertheless, his discussion acknowledges the patient’s perspective, and the difficulties of determining the start of an illness based both on the quality of symptoms and the proclivities of patients. For example, a patient may have trivial symptoms that increase slowly over a period of days, until he or she realises they add up to illness (795.13–17). So, by the time the patient goes to bed, the illness is already established. Equally, not everyone goes to bed at the first sign of illness. Some do “lie down” at the first mild symptom (796.7–9). Others try to “power through” their feeling of malaise (796.2–7). Galen’s specific physical objective may be contrasted with the use of astrological decumbiture which may document the beginning of illness from the patient’s physical and psy­ chological perspective. But it is also important to note that by the use of the verb κατακλίνω, Galen has effectively connected his medical decumbiture to the astrological decumbiture (kataklisis). In addition, the doctrine of critical days in Galen is equivalent to the astrological doctrine of climacterics, and both are connected to the kataklisis (Heilen 2012b; Nutton 2013, 275). Treatment of decumbiture in medical texts: Galen and Ps.Galen Though astrology does not play a large role in Galen’s medical oeuvre, he does provide some indications of its use in determining the outcomes of disease.39 While his position on the involvement of astrology with medicine in general is nuanced,40 in the following example, which applies astrology to the critical days method, his presentation is straightforward in outlining this astrological therapy: We must again take up that topic which we, having made careful observations, find always to be most true. It is what the Egyptian astronomers discovered, namely that the moon is disposed by nature to indicate what kinds of qualities the days will have, not only in disease, but also in health. For if it is placed with the well-tempered planets (εὐκράτους), which they also call benefics, it will cause the days to be good; but if with the ill-tempered (δυσκράτους) [malefic planets], they will turn out wretched. For example, let it be, when someone is born, that the benefics are in Aries, but the malefics in Taurus; this person absolutely, whenever the moon comes to be in Aries, Cancer, Libra and Capricorn, will fare well. But whenever it occupies Taurus, one of its squares or its opposing zodiacal sign, his life at that time will be spent badly and wretchedly. And furthermore, beginnings of illnesses will be most pernicious when the moon is in Taurus, Leo, Scorpio and Aquarius, but not dangerous and delivering recovery when it is passing through Aries, Cancer, Libra and Capricorn. And in regard to the great alterations which we said occur at the squares and oppositions every

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Dorian Gieseler Greenbaum seven days, in the destructive illnesses they [the alterations] are also destructive, but again, in good circumstances, good outcomes necessa­ rily occur.41

Although Galen does not employ typical astrological terminology in this passage, he is clearly describing the effects of an illness using astrological techniques. The position of the moon is the critical factor, and he applies its benefits or detriments in illness in connection with the patient’s nativity.42 This passage is enough to show the reason why the treatise Prognostications concerning Decumbiture from the Mathematical Science [astrology] was considered to be a genuine Galenic work. The specific objective of Prognostica de decubitu is to interpret planetary aspects in the decumbiture chart. Its focus is on the moon as it moves through the signs, waxing and waning, fast or slow, making conjunctions, squares and oppositions to the sun as well as to benefics or malefics. The last topic is reminiscent of what Galen said in On Critical Days when he men­ tioned the effects of lunar contact with benefics or malefics. Arguing the specifics of the text’s origins is not germane here, but it has a number of similarities with a Hermetic text called the Iatromathematika, as well as an Epitome of Pancharios (Weinstock 1948; Wilson and George 2006).43 The rationale for the text emphasises the importance of astrological practices applied to medicine: So it is necessary for the best doctor to heed the mathematical science [i.e. astrology], to examine the day and hour of the decumbiture accurately. Also to pay attention to the state of the cosmos. For nothing happens to humans apart from cosmic sympathy.44 Such advice is not that different from what the genuine Galen would say, even if it emphasises astrology more than he has actually done. Galen, too (Opt. Med. 1–3), stressed using best practices by the best doctors (and of course he considers himself to be one of those), and incorporated astro­ logical as well as astronomical doctrines in his work. The mention of cosmic sympathy here is also noteworthy. Treatment of decumbiture in astrological texts As a branch of katarchic astrology, evidence of the practice of decumbiture appears fairly early in the Hellenistic astrological tradition, but secure dates before the first century CE are difficult. Passages concerning decumbiture are ascribed pseudepigraphically to Hermes and Petosiris (CCAG I, 126, 128). Serapion (c. first century CE) mentions methods for interpreting “confinements and decumbiture” (CCAG I, 101–2). In a recent article on katarchic astrology, Richard Gordon (2013, 99–101) listed issues of interest to clients of a katarchic astrologer. Although he drew

Divination and decumbiture 121 this list from later Byzantine and Arabic sources, it is clear that some topics derive from a Greco-Roman milieu, for example, “Which charioteer will win?” (Gordon 2013, 99; CCAG I, 44 [Laur. plut. 24,33, fol. 52v, also 53]); and some refer to material already established as from earlier sources (for example Serapion) showing that both the Byzantine and Arabic sets of ca­ tegories are, therefore, of a much earlier date. Some topics are medical in nature, for example: if children will be born alive or dead, or deformed; good times for making drugs; and whether a woman will conceive. Dorotheus of Sidon (fl. first century CE), Vettius Valens, Maximus of Ephesus (d. 372) and Hephaestio of Thebes (b. 380 CE) all discuss de­ cumbiture. Although most of Dorotheus’s Carmen Astrologicum or Pentateuch only survives in an Arabic version, portions of the original Greek verse are quoted and paraphrased in Hephaestio’s Apotelesmatika (c. 415 CE). Valens’ Anthologies primarily deals with natal astrology, but katarchic astrology is mentioned from time to time, and he covers decumbiture briefly. Maximus’s astrological poem, Περὶ καταρχῶν (Zito 2016), originally 12 books, of which only eight and a half exist, uses elections (for example, for marriage and surgery), events (for example, for finding runaway slaves) and decumbiture (for illness). His sole concern in interpretation is the position of the moon, including its zodiacal sign, phase and connection to other planets. The richest material on decumbiture comes from Dorotheus and Hephaestio. Dorotheus’s Book V covers katarchic astrology and gives an introduction to the art of decumbiture. Chapter 29 outlines the interpreta­ tion of a decumbiture based on how the moon’s movements toward and away from malefic planets, as well as its waxing/waning, affect the outcome of the illness. Chapter 31 adds instructions for using the nativity along with the decumbiture, just as Galen discussed. Chapter 39 relates how to choose the best times for different surgeries. Although Chapter 41 is said to be from Qīṭrinūs the Sadwālī, parts of it can be found in Greek fragments ascribed to Dorotheus. Hephaestio’s Book III relies heavily on Dorotheus’s earlier work. Chapter 31 covers the moon and critical days in relation to the de­ cumbiture, while Chapter 32 deals with elections for surgery. Interpreting a decumbiture Once the time of the beginning of the illness has been ascertained, and the horoscope cast, the moment arrives for interpreting the chart. As is typical in katarchic charts, the cardines, also called angles, of the chart play a primary role, as they are assigned to represent the major players in the decumbiture. These players are the patient, the illness, the doctor and the prognosis. Wolfgang Hübner (2003, 186) noticed that three of these are identical to the “Hippocratic triangle” of doctor, patient and illness45 (Figure 4.1). Material ascribed to Dorotheus contains interesting examples of how a decumbiture can be interpreted. Two Greek fragments (one of which has an

Source: Diagrams created by the author

Figure 4.1 (a) Diagram of the first configuration, from “Dorotheus, On Sick People.” (b) Diagram of the second configuration, from “Another View.”

122 Dorian Gieseler Greenbaum

Divination and decumbiture 123 Arabic counterpart) are variations in the perspective of the decumbiture from both the doctor’s and the patient’s view. Each text assigns different angles/cardines to the relevant players in the illness: Set the Ascendant as the ill person, the Setting Place the place where the ill person is lying sick and what kind of illness it will be, the Midheaven the doctor, the Underground the outcome of the illness.46 (“From Dorotheus, on Sick People,” CCAG II, 157.11–14 = Pingree 1976, 420.16–19) Let the Ascendant be the doctor, the Midheaven the patient, the Setting Place the illness, the Underground the therapy.47 (“Another View,” Ἄλλη σκέψις, CCAG I, 124.2–3 = Pingree 1976, 425.11–13; the same in Dorotheus, Carmen V, 41.35–36, is said to be from Qīṭrinūs the Sadwālī) Thus, as Hübner points out (2003, 184), each text takes the viewpoint of the person consulting the astrologer on the decumbiture – the patient or the doctor (who are represented by the first place). The first text (“From Dorotheus on Sick People”) shows the Ascendant as the ill person. The second text (“Another View,” attached to an earlier topic, “On Lying Down and Illnesses”) puts the doctor in this role. When the Ascendant represents the ill person, that is the one who directs the interpretive response. In this scenario, the ill person’s counterparts/op­ ponents are the circumstances surrounding the start of the illness and what kind of illness it is. This perspective shows a focus on the impingement of ill health on the sick person’s life. For her, the doctor (the Midheaven) is the authority, and the outcome (the Lower Midheaven) is the counterpart to this, the result of the doctor’s skill and authority. The rest of the text ela­ borates on interpretation. For instance, if the Midheaven (doctor) is af­ flicted, the doctor will be bad. Malefics in the Lower Midheaven signify dangers, but benefics there will save her. When the Ascendant represents the doctor, it aligns with the doctor’s particular perspective and interests. For the doctor, the illness (and the reason for his involvement) is his antagonist (the Descendant). This ar­ rangement may prioritise the doctor’s focus on physical symptoms like fever, and the decumbiture cast for that moment. The Midheaven here is the sick one, who is now called the “patient” (kamnōn), and the Underground the “therapy,” not the outcome. These assignments confirm the professional perspective of the doctor, who sees patients and prescribes therapies. As with the first text, examples of interpretation follow. If a malefic is in the Ascendant, the doctor will be unable to help the patient and will even harm him. However, if a malefic is in the Ascendant, but a benefic in the Underground, the first doctor will not help the patient but a subsequent doctor will.

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For Hübner (2003, 186) it is scarcely plausible that the debilitated patient should occupy the Midheaven.48 But why does the doctor initiate the de­ cumbiture in the first place? It can only be because of the patient who comes to her. Thus, the decumbiture’s placement of the patient at the top de­ monstrates that the patient in some way authorises the process. There may be an implicit acknowledgement of the patient’s capacity, with the doctor’s aid, to overcome the illness (this aligns with the phrase in Epidemics 1, that patient and physician oppose the illness together).49 Ultimately, both the patient’s constitution and the doctor’s skill play a role. The use of metaphor and analogy in these examples is typical of both astrological interpretation in general, and decumbiture in particular. The Ascendant, which sets the astrological birth/beginning and is also analogous to sunrise/east, represents the person asking the question, who is tied ex­ istentially and ontologically to the whole decumbiture. The Descendant, where the sun sets, can metaphorically represent the antagonist to the questioner, but, as the doctrine of astrological aspects demands, the two are also bound together by their opposition and have the ability to interact.50 The Midheaven, where the meridian crosses the ecliptic, marks the peak of the day (noon) and thus metaphorically represents and is analogous to authority, elevation and the highest being in a hierarchy. Its counterpart, the Lower Midheaven, marks midnight (the end of the day) and represents, in interrogations generally, the outcome of the matter. In comparing the two examples, it is interesting to note that for the sick person, the Lower Midheaven is the outcome of the illness (that is, its re­ solution or not), while for the doctor it represents the therapy or treatment. Furthermore, not only do the sick person and the doctor exchange places in the Ascendant, they also exchange places in the Midheaven. Both Descendants take the role of the illness. As Hübner noted (2003, 186), the three upper angles always contain the components of the Hippocratic tri­ angle. Two observations may be made here: as the triangle continued as a force in medical practice, its use in medical astrology seems evident as well. In addition, because astrology’s mechanics privilege the four angular points, the therapy, as well as the prognosis (depending on which version is used), can be represented in the decumbiture (Figure 4.1). Though there are no documentary examples of an actual ancient de­ cumbiture, there is some material evidence of astrological practices occur­ ring at an ancient healing site (Figure 4.2). In 1968 a momentous discovery was made at the bottom of a well at a healing shrine of Apollo Grannus, in what is now Grand, in eastern France (Bertaux 1993, 43). Smashed into hundreds of pieces and thrown into the well were ivory fragments that, when reconstructed, were seen to be two astrological boards (pinax in Greek), on each of which five concentric circles were labelled with zodiacal signs, terms and decans (in an Egyptian style), thus allowing an astrologer to mark out the positions of planets, luminaries and the Ascendant (using stone or clay markers) for a client.51 While we have no way of knowing whether these

Divination and decumbiture 125

Figure 4.2 Astrological boards (pinakes) from Grand, Vosges, France, showing images of the Sun and Moon in the centre, surrounded by zodiacal signs, terms, and named decans and images for each sign. The four winds are in each corner. Ivory, wood, gilding and pigment, second-century CE. Source: ©Institute for the Study of the Ancient World, New York University. Photo: Guido Petruccioli. Used with kind permission.

boards were used at Grand to describe natal or decumbiture charts, it is possible that some were cast for decumbitures of patients at the shrine.

Conclusion The same themes and players – patient, doctor, illness, therapy, diagnosis and prognosis – underlie both the physician’s medical practice and the as­ trologer’s medical astrology. In medicine, they are applied in examining physical symptoms, giving diagnosis, prognosis and therapy. Medical as­ trologers (and some doctors) use them in another tool of healing, the in­ terpretation of the decumbiture. Both methods are part of legitimate ancient practice. There is a fine line, yet an interplay as well, between the physical, psychological and spiritual methods used by doctors and astrologers, be­ tween objective and subjective, the use of prognostication and prognosis and what “works” to heal the patient. We should not forget that astrology was part of university medical education into the early modern period; the

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physician Girolamo Cardano (1501–1576) used both decumbiture and election in his medical practice (Grafton and Siraisi 2006, 69–71, 75). We have seen, in this investigation into the use of the astrological practice of decumbiture in medicine, the weaving of two different cloths with the same threads. The links of both astrology and medicine to divination have been demonstrated in this chapter. Ancient medicine at its roots shows a deep connection to the gods as providing aid in healing human ills. Astrology uses the visible forms of those gods, the planets, to provide similar meaning for the patterns of a human life. Both systems of knowledge ac­ knowledge, and endorse, divine communication as a way to enhance their art.

Notes 1 In the famous Hippocratic aphorism ὁ βίος βραχὺς, ἡ δὲ τέχνη μακρὴ ..., medicine is the technē referred to: Aph. I, 1, ed. Littré, vol. 4:458 (see more discussion of this aphorism below). For more on medicine and divination as arts, see Van Nuffelen 2014, 339–40 and sources. 2 Arguably, this relates the time of the beginning of illness to an objective, phy­ sically quantifiable cause. 3 The present volume as a whole is designed to interrogate the ways in which di­ vination is rational and linked with knowledge in antiquity. For the debate on rational vs. irrational, one needs only to look at selected titles of works from the last seventy five years (the iconic example, possibly, is Dodds 1951); Vernant 1974; Lloyd (1979) 1999; Tambiah 1990. Scholarship on this topic is summarised in Johnston 2008, 4–27, esp. 17–27; and in Struck 2016, 12–14. And this does not even consider the fraught definitions of “rationality” and “irrationality,” an issue concisely outlined by von Staden (2003, 15–17) (in a volume entitled Rationnel et irrationel dans la médecine ancienne et médiévale: aspects historiques, scientifiques et culturels). Lloyd (2002, 21–2) provides a succinct assessment of the problem. 4 Ἰητρικὴ δὲ καὶ μαντικὴ καὶ πάνυ ξυγγενέες εἰσὶν, ἐπειδὴ καὶ τῶν δύο τεχνέων πατὴρ εἷς (35) Ἀπόλλων, ὁ και πρόγονος ἡμέων. ... Littré ed., vol. 9, 342. My translation (cited in Raphals 2005, 94, although she mistranslates the quotation [confusing τεχνέων with τέκνων]). See also the commentary on this letter in Jouanna and DeBevoise 1999, 8. 5 Langholf 1990, 233; Manetti 1993, 39–40; Kingsley 1999, 107–15; Gorrini 2005, 136–8. 6 Diels and Kranz (1951) 1966, I: 279.6 [Empedocles A1]; cf. also Diels and Kranz, I: 354–5 [B112]. The phrase of Heraclides is reported by Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Philosophers, 8.61. On Empedocles, see also the edition of Wright 1981, 134, and commentary: 264–7; and the translation of Inwood 2001, 81, 156. Empedocles is quoted in a speech in which he claims people come to him for both divination and healing. 7 For more on this topic, see Gorrini 2005, 135–8; Holmes 2010, 80 and nn. 165–6; Poyer 2013. 8 Parke and Wormell 1956, I:409–12; Raphals 2013, 325. For a discussion of oracles as a means for obtaining knowledge, see Curnow 2003. As Curnow ex­ plains (p. 7): “...for a very long time people consulted oracles to find out what they wanted to know.” 9 Edelstein and Edelstein 1945; Meier 1966, 314–18; Kudlien 1981.

Divination and decumbiture 127 10 For a study of astrology and medicine in the Roman Empire, see generally Barton (1994) 2002; also for astrology as a knowledge system, 32–3. 11 For Stoic cosmology, see also Hahm 1977, 91–135. 12 Diels and Kranz (1951) 1966, II: 153.8–9, Demokritos B34: ... ἐν τῶι ἀνθρώπωι μικρῶι κόσμωι ὄντι..., cited by David the philosopher, Prolegomena philosophiae (Introduction to Philosophy), ch. 12 (Busse 1904, 38.18). There are references to human parts as analogous to parts of the cosmos in two Hippocratic works: De victu I.10, 89–90 (Jouanna 1998; 2012, 204n30, 205) and De hebd. 6 (West 1971, 378; Le Blay 2005). Galen remarks, in On the Usefulness of the Parts (3.10, Galen ed. Kühn 1821–33, III: 241.15–16; Helmreich 1907, I: 177.10–11), that “the an­ cients who were competent on the subject of nature say that a living creature is a kind of little cosmos.”... τὸ ζῶιον οἷον μικρόν τινα κόσμον εἶναί φασιν ἄνδρες παλαιοὶ περὶ φύσιν ἱκανοί. My translation. Cf. also Aristotle, Ph. VIII, 2, 252b24–28 (cited in Galen, Tallmadge May 1968, II: 191 n.71). 13 Babylonian astrology also relies on this concept, that a sign in heaven can be linked to an event/sign on earth. The iconic text is the Diviner’s Manual. See, inter alia, Oppenheim 1974, Rochberg 2016, 71. 14 Scholarly work on the concept of sympatheia is extensive; Brouwer’s survey provides an accessible introduction. 15 For more on the connection between divination and sympatheia, see Brouwer 2015, 26–31. 16 See Addey 2014, 104–6 and Chapter 5 in this volume. 17 ὁ βίος βραχὺς, ἡ δὲ τέχνη μακρὴ, ὁ δὲ καιρὸς ὀξὺς, ἡ δὲ πεῖρα σφαλερὴ, ἡ δὲ κρίσις χαλεπή. Aph. I, 1, in Hippocrates, Littré 1839–1861, vol. 4, 458; my translation. Taking advantage of the kairos in medical practice is a desideratum for the an­ cient physician: see Mattern 2008, 46, discussing a case-study of Galen’s (Galen On the Therapeutic Method 267, K. X, 792–3); 64; 160. Galen took care to give therapy at the right time (kairos). 18 See also Shaw 1995, 201; Greenbaum 2016, 247–8, and Chapter 5 in this volume, the section “The timing of theurgic divination and ritual.” For more on ritual and katarchē see Chapter 10 in this volume. 19 Valens, Anthologies, V, 2.22, 23 (Pingree 1986, 202.17–23, 25–7): καὶ αὐτὸς μὲν οὖν τὰς τοιαύτας ἡμέρας φυλαττόμενος κατὰ τὸ δυνατὸν καὶ ποιούμενος τὰς καταρχὰς τῶν πράξεων ἢ τῶν φιλιῶν κατὰ τὴν τῶν καιρῶν χρονογραφίαν ἀμετανόητον ἡγούμην τὴν καταρχὴν καὶ εὐσυντέλεστον, ἔσθ’ ὅτε δ’ ἐπλανήθην καὶ διὰ φίλου ἄκαιρον παρουσίαν ἢ σύστασιν ἢ μετὰ ἀνάγκης καταρξάμενός τινος ἐπιζήμιον καὶ ἐπίλυπον ἢ ὑπερθετικὴν ἔκβασιν κατελαβόμην. … οὐδὲ μὴν τῷ θεῷ θύειν καὶ ἱερὰ καθιδρύειν χρήσιμον· οὔτε γὰρ εὐχαὶ συντελεσθήσονται οὔτε θεὸς θρησκευθήσεται, ἀλλ’ ὡς ἀργὸν καὶ ἄπρακτον διαφημισθήσεται. See also the dis­ cussion on this topic in Chapter 5 in this volume. 20 In fact, the Septuagint translation even uses the word kairos in these well-known passages (3:1–8) (Swete 1895–99, vol. 2, 485–6). 21 We have not touched on Mesopotamian medicine, but its connections with di­ vination are robust (Brown 2006; Heeßel 2008; Geller 2010a), and there are similarities in both the Mesopotamian and Greek systems, such as the concept of protasis and apodosis (“if x, then y”) that connect with the concept of prognosis (but the rationale between the two is culturally different): see Rochberg 2010a, 2010b, 373–97. The rationality of Babylonian divination is explored at length in Rochberg 2016, esp. Chapter 5. For a discussion of rationality and Babylonian medicine, see Heeßel 2004. 22 … οὐκ ἐλάχιστον μέρος συμβάλλεται ἀστρονομίη ἐς ἰητρικὴν, ἀλλὰ πάνυ πλεῖστον. Hippocrates, Littré 1839–1861, vol. 2, 14. My translation.

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23 Εἰδὼς γὰρ τῶν ὡρέων τὰς μεταβολὰς καὶ τῶν ἄστρων ἐπιτολάς τε καὶ δύσιας, καθότι ἕκαστον τουτέων γίγνεται, προειδείη ἂν τὸ ἔτος ὁκοῖόν τι μέλλει γίγνεσθαι. Hippocrates, Littré 1839–1861, vol. 2, 14. My translation. 24 For more on the use of astronomy in dreams in the Hippocratic material, in particular Regimen IV, see Jouanna 1998; Hulskamp 2008, 162–70 (with a useful table, 164–6); Jouanna 2012, 203–5, 221–7. 25 Though not wholly germane to the topic of this essay, a useful examination of Galen’s intellectual approach and the cultural context of his work is found in Gill, Whitmarsh and Wilkins 2009, including some remarks on his approaches to divination (125). 26 Reiner 1993 and 1995; Heeßel 2000, 112–30, 468–9 and 2008, 11–4; Geller 2010b and 2014; Wee 2015 and 2016. 27 See Greenbaum 2014, 120–21; 2016, 152–5, 216, 219–20; 2020, 356, 369–70, 372–4. 28 It is the word used for the beginning of a ritual (LSJ, s.v.). See Schmidt 1995, xxvii–xxxii. 29 Neugebauer and Van Hoesen (1959) 1987, 147–8; also, regarding the astrological monument at Nemrud Dagh, Humann and Puchstein 1890, Crijns 2002, Heilen 2005; Belmonte and Gonzaléz García 2010; Bernadet 2012, 306–14. 30 Here is not the place to delve further into the history of interrogations in ka­ tarchic astrology, but Gordon 2013 provides an excellent assessment of this practice and its ramifications in antiquity. 31 Hübner’s monograph thoroughly investigates katarchic astrology, its structures and role in ancient Mediterranean cultures. 32 The editors Goold ([1977] 1997) and Feraboli (1996, 2001) also noticed this evidence. 33 Astr. 3.142–144: “...tempusve genusve medendi/quae sibi deposcat vel cuius tempore praestet/auxilium et vitae sucos miscere salubris.” Trans. Goold. See details of Manilius’ entire system in Greenbaum 2016, 289–96, esp. 293. 34 Note that this event occurred in 2018, well before the advent of the Coronavirus pandemic. 35 Apt here is the Greek verb ἐπιγιγνώσκω, “recognise,” “discover,” but also “take notice of,” “come to a judgement,” “decide” (LSJ s.v.). Vettius Valens uses this verb when he writes on recognising times apt to cause the beginning of an illness (Anthologies IV, 29.7; Pingree 1986, 195.7). 36 I use Kühn’s critical edition of Galen to accord with the standard reference tradition for Galenic works. For a translation from Arabic of On Critical Days, see Cooper 2011 (here 142–51, commentary 415–18). 37 As Langermann 2012, 226, notes in his review of Cooper 2011, the reason for choosing fever as the start of illness was because the model for the critical day theory was malaria, which includes crises over a period of days. Langermann cites Grmek 1989, 277 for this observation. 38 “For one must stipulate that the beginning of being sick for them is that time when they have taken to their beds, beginning to have fever.” ἀρχὴν γὰρ τοῦ νοσεῖν ἐκεῖνον εἶναι νομιστέον αὐτοῖς τὸν χρόνον ἡνίκα σαφῶς ἀρξάμενοι πυρέττειν κατεκλίθησαν. My translation 39 See Booker 2014 for a detailed account of Galen’s use of astrology. 40 Accepting of astronomy and/or astrology in medical practice: Protrepticus (Exhortation to Study the Arts), 5.4–6, in Galen, ed. Wenkebach 1935; Opt. Med. (That the Best Doctor is also a Philosopher), 1; Galen ed. Kühn 1821–33, I, 53.3–6. Negative view of astrologers: On Hippocrates’ “Diet in Acute Diseases” (Galen ed. Kühn 1821–33, XV, 441; Helmreich 1914, 128.24–25); Commentary on

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41

42 43 44

45

46 47 48 49 50

Airs, Waters, Places, Arabic version, III, 11.13–23 (here 15), cited in Toomer 1985, 199–200, 202. See also Barton (1994) 2002, 53–54, 170–1. My translation. Galen ed. Kühn 1821–33, IX, 911.14–912.16: Ἐκεῖνο δ’ αὖθις ἀναληπτέον, ὅπερ καὶ ἡμεῖς παραφυλάξαντες ἀληθέστατον εὕρομεν ἀεὶ τὸ πρὸς τῶν Αἰγυπτίων ἀστρονόμων εὑρημένον, ὡς ἡ σελήνη τὰς ἡμέρας ὁποῖαί τινες ἔσονται δηλοῦν πέφυκεν οὐ τοῖς νοσοῦσι μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ τοῖς ὑγιαίνουσιν. εἰ μὲν γὰρ πρὸς τοὺς εὐκράτους (912) ἵσταιτο τῶν πλανητῶν, οὓς δὴ καὶ ἀγαθοποιοὺς ὀνομάζουσιν, ἀγαθὰς ἀπεργάζεσθαι τὰς ἡμέρας· εἰ δὲ πρὸς τοὺς δυσκράτους, ἀνιαράς. ἔστω γὰρ ἀποκυϊσκομένου τινὸς ἐν μὲν τῷ κριῷ τοὺς ἀγαθοποιοὺς, ἐν δὲ τῷ ταύρῳ τοὺς κακοποιοὺς εἶναι, πάντως οὗτος ὁ ἄνθρωπος, ἐπειδὰν μὲν ἐν κριῷ καὶ καρκίνῳ καὶ ζυγῷ καὶ αἰγοκέρωτι γένηται ἡ σελήνη, καλῶς ἀπαλλάσσει. ἐπειδὰν δ’ ἤτοι τὸν ταῦρον αὐτὸν, ἤ τι τῶν τετραγώνων, ἢ τὸ διάμετρον αὐτοῦ ζώδιον ἐπέχῃ, κακῶς τηνικαῦτα καὶ ἀνιαρῶς διάγει. καὶ δὴ καὶ νοσημάτων ἀρχαὶ τῷδε κάκισται μὲν ἐν ταύρῳ καὶ λέοντι καὶ σκορπίῳ καὶ ὑδροχόῳ τῆς σελήνης οὔσης, ἀκίνδυνον δὲ καὶ σωτήριον τὸν κριὸν καὶ τὸν καρκίνον καὶ τὸν ζυγὸν καὶ τὸν αἰγόκερων διερχομένης, καὶ τὰς ἀλλοιώσεις τὰς μεγάλας ἃς ἐν τοῖς τετραγώνοις τε καὶ διαμέτροις ἔφαμεν γίγνεσθαι καθ’ ἑβδομάδα, ἐν μὲν τοῖς ὀλεθρίοις νοσήμασιν ὀλεθρίας καὶ αὐτὰς, ἐν δ’ αὖ τοῖς περιεστηκόσιν ἀγαθὰς ἀνάγκη γίνεσθαι. Cooper’s assessment (2011, 70) that Galen has constructed a “flawed” birthchart here is incorrect; Langermann 2012, 229 has also noticed this error. Also see a new edition of the Iatromathematika correlated with passages of the Prognostica, Rovati 2018. Prognostica de decubitu ex mathematica scientia, ch. 14; Galen ed. Kühn 1821–33, XIX, 569.7–11: δεῖ δὲ τὸν ἄριστον ἰατρὸν μεμνῆσθαι μὲν τῆς μαθηματικῆς ἐπιστήμης, ἐξετάζειν δὲ ἀκριβῶς τὴν ἡμέραν καὶ τὴν ὥραν τῆς κατακλίσεως. καὶ συνορᾷν τὸν κόσμον πῶς διάκειται. ἄτερ γὰρ τῆς κοσμικῆς συμπαθείας οὐδὲν γίνεται. My translation, incorporating emendments in Rovati 2018, 122: δεῖ οὖν τὸν ἄριστον ἰατρὸν μεμνῆσθαι μὲν τῆς μαθηματικῆς ἐπιστήμης, ἐξετάζειν δὲ ἀκριβῶς τὴν ἡμέραν καὶ τὴν ὥραν τῆς κατακλίσεως. καὶ συνορᾷν τὸν κόσμον πῶς διάκειται. ἄτερ γὰρ τῆς κοσμικῆς συμπαθείας τοῖς ἀνθρώποις οὐδὲν γίνεται. Hippocrates, Epid. I: ἡ τέχνη διὰ τριῶν, τὸ νόσημα καὶ ὁ νοσέων καὶ ὁ ἰητρός· ὁ ἰητρὸς ὑπηρέτης τῆς τέχνης· ὑπεναντιοῦσθαι τῷ νοσήματι τὸν νοσέοντα μετὰ τοῦ ἰητροῦ χρή. “The art is a triad: the illness, the ill person and the doctor; the doctor is the servant of the art; the ill one must oppose the illness with the doctor.” My translation (I, 11 in Hippocrates, Jones [1923] 1957, 164–5 = I, 2.5.10–13 in Hippocrates, Littré 1839–1861, II, 636). For more on the Hippocratic triangle: Gourevitch 1984 (who studies it from the different vantage points of the three players); Mudry 1997, 320–1, who proposes a change in orientation in first century CE Rome, from the doctor being the servant of the art to the doctor being the servant of the patient. Ὑπόθου τὸν ὡροσκόπον τὸν νοσοῦντα, τὸ δὲ δῦνον τὸν τόπον οὗ ὁ νοσῶν κατάκειται καὶ αὐτὴν τὴν νόσον ὁποία τις ἔσται, τὸ μεσουράνημα τὸν ἰατρόν, τὸ ὑπὸ γῆν τὴν ἀπόβασιν τῆς νόσου· My translation. Ἔστω μὲν ὡροσκόπος ὁ ἰατρός, τὸ δὲ μεσουράνημα ὁ κάμνων, τὸ δὲ δῦνον ἡ νόσος, τὸ δὲ ὑπόγειον ἡ θεραπεία. My translation. “Daß der Kranke nun die obere Kulmination einnimmt, ist angesichts seiner Schwäche wenig plausibel.” Astrologically speaking, weak indicators for the Midheaven would signify a weak patient, and strong the opposite. The opposition is an aspect (geometrical joining of planets or points). No aspect means there is no connection, and this condition is called “averse” (apostrophos) and/or “unjoined” (asundetos).

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51 Other such ancient boards exist. See Nenna 2003; Evans 2004; Forenbaher and Jones 2011; Heilen and Greenbaum 2016, 126–31.

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Divination and decumbiture 137 Tambiah, Stanley Jeyaraja. 1990. Magic, Science, Religion, and the Scope of Rationality, The Lewis Henry Morgan Lectures. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tedlock, Barbara. 2007. “Sacred Connections between Self, Other, and the Cosmos: The Emergence of Integrative Medicine.” In Seeing with Different Eyes: Essays in Astrology and Divination, edited by Patrick Curry and Angela Voss, 311–327, Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. van der Eijk, Philip J. 2004. “Divination, Prognosis and Prophylaxis: The Hippocratic Work ‘On Dreams’ (De victu 4) and its Near Eastern Background.” In Magic and Rationality in Ancient Near-Eastern and Graeco-Roman Medicine, edited by H.F.J. Horstmanshoff and M. Stol, 187–218. Leiden: Brill. Van Nuffelen, Peter. 2014. “Galen, Divination and the Status of Medicine.” CQ 64: 337–52. Vernant, Jean-Pierre. 1974. Divination et rationalité. Paris: Éditions de Seuil. von Staden, Heinrich. 2003. “Galen’s daimon: reflections on ‘irrational’ and ‘ra­ tional’.” In Rationnel et irrationnel dans la médecine ancienne et médiévale: aspects historiques, scientifiques et culturels, edited by Nicoletta Palmieri, 15–43. SaintÉtienne: Publications de l’Université de Saint-Étienne. Wee, John Z. 2015. “Discovery of the Zodiac Man in Cuneiform.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 67: 217–33. Wee, John Z. 2016. “Virtual Moons over Babylonia: The Calendar Text System, Its Micro-Zodiac of 13, and the Making of Medical Zodiology.” In The Circulation of Astronomical Knowledge in the Ancient World, edited by John M. Steele, 139–229. Leiden: Brill. Weinstock, Stefan. 1948. “The Author of Ps.-Galen’s Prognostica de decubitu.” CQ 42, no. 1/2: 41–43. West, Martin L. 1971. “The Cosmology of ‘Hippocrates,’ De Hebdomadibus.” CQ 21, no. 2: 365–88. Wilson, Malcolm, and Demetra George. 2006. “Anonymi, de Decubitu: Contexts of Rationality.” Mouseion Series III, 6: 439–52.

5

Divination and the kairos in ancient Greek philosophy and culture Crystal Addey

In every action, there is nothing better than the right time (kairos). Iamblichus, De Vita Pythagorica 49.1

In The Obsolescence of Oracles, Plutarch of Chaeronea (c. 45–120 CE), who was a priest at Delphi as well as a “Middle Platonist“ philosopher, reports the details of a specific oracular consultation ritual at Delphi that went extraordinarily wrong (De def. or. 438a–c).2 An important state delegation had arrived at Delphi to consult the oracle and the priests were evidently eager to accommodate them. Even though the Delphic oracle could only be consulted on a specific set of dates during the year, one of the standard preliminary rituals which preceded every oracular consultation involved sprinkling libations of water on a goat (an animal sacred to Apollo) which, according to the Delphic priests, was undertaken in order to ascertain if the omens were auspicious (with the goat trembling and moving) or in­ auspicious (if the goat remained still and failed to move); the oracular ritual would only be carried out at that time if the omens were favourable, in­ dicating that the god is disposed to “deliver oracles” (θεμιστεύειν, De def. or. 437a–b).3 On this occasion, when the preliminary ritual was undertaken, the goat remained completely still and failed to move. Since the priests were keen to please the important state delegation, they continued to pour liba­ tions on the goat – eventually drenching it with water and only at this point did the goat move. Plutarch relates that the Pythia (the generic name for the prophetess at Delphi) was unwilling to go through with the oracular ritual and went into the adyton (the inner room of the temple) extremely re­ luctantly and half-heartedly. As soon as the Pythia began to speak, it was immediately clear from the harshness of her voice that she was not re­ sponding properly; eventually, she rushed out of the temple, throwing her­ self down, and then died a few days later (De def. or. 438b–c). While it is clear that this episode represents an atypical oracular consultation, it does point towards the significance of time and timing within ancient Greek oracular divination: the specific bodily reaction of the goat in the Delphic

Divination and the kairos 139 ritual signifies the proper time (καιρός) for the oracular consultation (Simonetti 2017, 211). This signification accords with the general principle expressed by Plutarch that every force expresses its natural effect at the appropriate moment (De def. or. 437c: πᾶσα γὰρ δύναμις ὃ πέφυκε σὺν καιρῷ βέλτιον ἢ χεῖρον ἀποδίδωσι·); furthermore, Plutarch adds that if the appro­ priate time (καιρός) escapes our notice, it is reasonable that the god should give signs (σημεῖα) of it. Several centuries later, the Neoplatonist philosopher Iamblichus (c. 245–325 CE) discusses the specific roots of theurgy – a type of religious ritual used by philosophers in late antiquity which included divi­ nation as a central element of ritual practice – within traditional Egyptian religion and refers to the best, most appropriate, or critical time (καιρός) at which theurgic rituals should be undertaken.4 He states that the Egyptians recommend that we ascend through the ritual practice of theurgy towards the creator god without bringing to bear anything other than the observa­ tion of the critical time (kairos) for action (DM 8.4 [267.6–10]). While Iamblichus does not elaborate on this intriguing comment, it is clear that he considers the observation of the critical time (καιρός) as an essential element of theurgic ritual and thus of divination as well. The Greek term kairos was flexible, with a broad semantic range and set of connotations which make it difficult to translate effectively into English: it is most frequently translated as “the right, best, appropriate or proper time for action,” “the right season” or “the critical moment,” but it can also bear a spatial or contextual sense and refer to the appropriate place, degree, context or set of circumstances, with connotations of “due measure, right proportion, fitness.”5 It is sometimes translated as “advantage” or “profit,” although these modern English terms are problematic for conveying the attested usages and connotations of the Greek term.6 The concept of kairos is inherently situational, relational and contextual, and, as such, it was in­ extricably linked with divination in ancient Greek philosophy and culture.7 This chapter will explore the connections between divination and kairos in Greek philosophy, religious traditions and culture, focusing specifically on: (1) the roles of the kairos and timing in oracular and divinatory enquiries and responses, (2) the importance of the kairos as the chief marker for the timing of the divinatory ritual and (3) the ways in which the kairos points to a complex set of cultural and philosophical ideas about time and provides a specific rationale for divination which indicates and reflects the importance of divination in ancient Greek culture as an epistemological phenomenon, that is to say, as a system of knowledge or a way of knowing in its own right. An investigation of the kairos will reveal much about the wider uses and characterisations of the nature of divination and its connections with knowledge in ancient Greek culture: this chapter will argue that ancient divination was conceived of as inherently “kairotic” in nature and function; furthermore, the links between the kairos and divination reveal a sophisti­ cated and complex set of cultural and philosophical conceptions of time. As such, an investigation of the links between ancient divination and the kairos

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will illuminate the cultural, intellectual and philosophical underpinnings of divination as a type of knowledge relating to cultural and philosophical notions of time and optimal timing.

The concept of the kairos in Greek culture First, it is important to examine the background, scope and connotations of the concept in ancient Greek culture. The concept of the kairos had moral, aesthetic, cosmological and metaphysical dimensions, and was related to many spheres of life, types of intellectual inquiry, and diverse practical ac­ tivities in Greek culture; its use is attested from the archaic period onwards.8 The notion of the kairos is implicit as an underlying, structuring concept within Hesiod’s Works and Days (694–8; 765–9; Beerden 2013, 182–4). In this didactic work, Hesiod offers advice which centralises the importance of the kairos in many kinds of action: “Observe due measure: rightness (καιρός) is best in all things” (μέτρα φυλάσσεσθαι· καιρὸς δ᾿ ἐπὶ πᾶσιν ἄριστος) (Works and Days 694).9 The immediate context for Hesiod’s injunction is advice about loading a cart correctly to avoid overload, showing that the term refers to “the right degree” between too much and too little, and designates quantitatively and qualitatively the due measure, proportion, and what is fitting, suitable and appropriate for the situation.10 It is also significant that, following this dictum, Hesiod offers further advice about the right time for marriage (695–705), ethical advice about friendship (706–14) and hospitality (715–23), and religious injunctions concerning practical and ritual actions (724–56). We also see this link between kairos, as the right or most appro­ priate degree or context, and moderation and moral appropriateness in the sayings attributed to the Seven Sages and the proverbial wisdom tradition surrounding them, which clearly influenced early philosophical views of kairos, themes we will return to below.11 In Homer (Il. 4.185, 8.84, 8.325–27), the adjectival term kairios signifies a critical point and time at which an arrow hits the mark and delivers a fatal blow; this usage testifies to the temporal and spatial dimensions of the concept, specifically “the point at which temporal and spatial planes inter­ sect” (Allan 2005, 135).12 This usage is particularly interesting in relation to the links between divination and the kairos, since some types of divination (especially those categorised as “inductive,” such as extispicy and astrology) were sometimes conceived as stochastic arts (that is to say, as arts which aimed at a certain target or goal using a set of skills and techniques) from the Hellenistic period onwards, and a complex network of associations existed between ideas of “aiming” as present in archery, divination (in a meta­ phorical sense) and the kairos, as will be explored below; furthermore, this network of associations may have been suggested by Apollo’s role as the god of both divination and archery.13 In classical Greek drama, we see the kairos deployed to mark the crucial time for action, as in Sophocles’ Electra when Orestes tells Electra that they must wait for the right time to avenge their

Divination and the kairos 141 father Agamemnon by taking revenge upon their mother Clytemnestra for his murder (1251–52; 1292).14 From approximately the fifth-century BCE, the concept was also used to designate the most appropriate, critical, or favourable time or moment, as well as appropriate or due measure.15 From these usages, we see that the concept (καιρός) signifies a “place in space (at first) and time (later) distinguished by a favour of nature (or a deity), the perception and use of which will promise success to human action.”16 However, we must add the qualification that the adjectival cognate used in Homer already denotes the intersection of the temporal and spatial and that Hesiod and the maxims attributed to the Seven Sages demonstrate that the term had a moral sense and also marked due measure and appropriateness at an early stage of its history. The kairos was an important concept in philosophy too, where it was connected with both cosmology and ethics.17 Aristotle refers to kairos as “the good … in time” (EN 1096a 24–7: τἀγαθὸν… ἐν χρόνῳ), relating it to practical activities and sciences such as military strategy, medicine and gymnastics, linking it to the “due amount” (EN 1096a 31–4: μέτριον) and stating that, with respect to ethics, which is not an exact system because it relates to the circumstantial nature of particular situations, “the agents themselves must always consider what is suited to the circumstances on each occasion” (EN 1104a8–9: δεῖ δ’ αὐτοὐς ἀεὶ τοὺς πράττοντας τὰ πρὸς τὸν καιρὸν σκοπεῖν).18 Thus, Aristotle attributes to the kairos an important role in ethics.19 The idea that the kairos represents the attainment of goodness at a specific moment or in relation to a particular situation would later be de­ veloped in a metaphysical direction (as a manifestation of the supreme Good in the “sensible” realm) by Plotinus and Proclus (see further below). In addition to its significance within ethics, the concept also had a cosmic significance (and often a seasonal component) for the Pythagoreans and Plato.20 Pythagorean respect for kairos as the critical time or measure for morally efficacious action is well attested: the saying that there is nothing better than the right time (kairos) for every action (Iamblichus, VP 49 – see the introductory caption) was attributed to Pythagoras. Iamblichus also claims that the latter taught his followers about appropriateness (τὸν εὔκαιρον) and inappropriateness (τὸν ἄκαιρον) in human associations and relationships as a way of encouraging and instilling justice in human action (VP 180); he con­ cludes that “the use of the opportune time (kairos), then, is a complex and multi-faceted art” (VP 181: εἶναι δὲ ποικίλην τινὰ καὶ πολυειδῆ τὴν τοῦ καιροῦ χρείαν). It is important to remember that for the Pythagoreans, justice itself was seen as a cosmic phenomenon which was linked with geometric number and the latter was considered to underlie the universe.21 In other words, the harmony of mathematical proportions in relation to the principles of numbers was linked with the construction and maintenance of cosmic and human order for the Pythagoreans: they equated numbers (or properties of numbers) with justice (δικαιοσύνη), soul (ψυχὴ), mind (νοῦς) and the critical time or oppor­ tunity (καιρός).22 In particular, they linked kairos with the number seven and

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saw this “critical moment” as linked with cycles of seven – days, weeks and years. The kairos of each cycle was seen as the turning-point or hinge: in this sense, kairos may be considered as a “sign” of both a fulfilled portion of a cosmic cycle and the beginning of another (Allan 2005, 127); in this view, kairos is seasonal and cyclical. In relation to this, it is significant that Pythagoras is said to have invented a form of divination using numbers to replace extispicy which he taught Abaris, the priest of Apollo (VP 93, 147–8; cf. Addey 2014a, 276–7). Influenced by Pythagoreanism, Plato (Laws IV, 709b) maintains that “fortune and kairos co-operate with god in governing all human affairs” (μετὰ θεοῦ τύχη καὶ καιρὸς, τἀνθρώπινα διακυβερνῶσι σύμπαντα), demonstrating the cosmic significance of kairos. He immediately qualifies this statement by pointing to the close relationship between the kairos and human art (τέχνη), skill and effort: “… these two [i.e. fortune and kairos] must be accompanied by a third factor, which is art. For that the pilot’s art should co-operate with kairos – I, for one, esteem that a great advantage” (ἡμερώτερον μὴν τρίτον συγχωρῆσαι τούτοις δεῖν ἕπεσθαι τέχνην· καιρῷ γὰρ χειμῶνος συλλαβέσθαι κυβερνητικὴν ἢ μή, μέγα πλεονέκτημα ἔγωγ’ ἂν θείην).23 The following sentence makes it clear that navigation is but one example of a skill where kairos is important – this holds equally true in other cases, in­ cluding formulating legislation (IV, 709c). Here, kairos is connected closely with the success and effectiveness of human skill in relation to practical types of action, marking a moment of connection between the divine, cosmic order and human agency. In late antiquity, Neoplatonist philosophers drew on Pythagorean theories, as well as on Plato’s and Aristotle’s comments about the kairos, and elaborate on them to offer a metaphysical view of kairos as marking a moment of bestowal of divine goodness or providence on humans and their actions or activities: Plotinus links kairos with the One, the first principle for the Neoplatonists which they considered to be identical with the “Good,” the transcendent (and paradoxically, fully immanent) source of all goodness.24 Proclus elaborates on these ideas in describing kairos as the right moment for supplying goodness to agents and their activities: For as place is determined by nature in a manner appropriate to each body so also different portions of time are suited to different activities; and as there are certain cycles of the whole universe responsible for the fruitfulness and sterility of both living organisms and plants, so also individual activities have different times suited to their accomplishment. Such time is the right moment (καιρός) for each activity as supplying the good and the ultimate purpose to the agents involved and to what is actually being done. (In Alc. 121.11–18)25 Here, Proclus links the concept of the cosmic cycles associated with the agricultural year (drawing implicitly on Hesiod’s Works and Days) with due season and kairos but also ascribes to kairos the provision of goodness and

Divination and the kairos 143 purpose to human agents and activities. He then states that the Pythagoreans called the first cause, source of the good to all, “right mo­ ment” (kairos) since it gives fulfilment and purpose to all (In Alc. 121.18–20). In relation to divinatory practices and religious tradition, it seems sig­ nificant that in the Greek world, Kairos was deified and personified as a god and received cultic worship, probably from the mid-fifth-century BCE onwards (Allan 2005, 123–4). Pausanias records an altar to Kairos at Olympia near the entrance to the stadium, alongside an altar to Hermes Enagônios, “of the Games” (5.14.9.2–4).26 He also reports that he knows of a Hymn to Kairos composed by Ion of Khios in which Kairos is said to be the youngest of Zeus’ sons (5.14.9.4–7), making him the brother of Apollo and Hermes, gods who were closely linked with divination in the Greek world. The deity Kairos was represented as a youth with winged feet (like Hermes), holding a razor and a set of scales, in Lysippos’ famous statue (fourth century BCE), of which several later Roman copies were made in relief (see Figure 5.1).27 Lysippos’ statue was celebrated in an epigram attributed to the Hellenistic poet Posidippus (Greek Anthology 16.275). Posidippus (On the Statue of Kairos, Εἰς ἄγαλμα τοῦ Καιροῦ, c.270 BCE) comments that Kairos runs on tip-toe and has winged feet, reflecting his swiftness and great speed, and holds a razor, indicating his sharp nature.28 The Turin relief (Figure 5.1) does not seem to show a running figure but the moment when Kairos descends to earth from a height and touches the ground (Boschung 2013, 36). The razor relates to the idea that the oppor­ tune or appropriate moment stands on a knife’s edge which “cuts” through time, while the scales remind us that kairos signifies the appropriate measure as well as the right time (cf. Boschung 2013, 20–30). Greek philosophers, poets and medical writers emphasise that the kairos is swift, fleeting and has a short measure for humans.29 Thucydides (4.27.4) maintains that the best moment, kairos, comes and can be utilised by humans, or can pass by un­ used if hesitation or vacillation occur. A maxim attributed to Pittacus, one of the Seven Sages, “Recognise kairos” (καιρὸν γνῶθι, often translated as “recognise moderation” or “know due measure”) also emphasises the im­ portance of perceiving kairos.30 Since the kairos as the right or most ap­ propriate time, measure or context for action was seen as (1) fleeting and swift, (2) the critical moment where the favour of the gods or the divine gift of goodness was bestowed upon humans in their endeavours – in conjunc­ tion with the full utilisation of human efforts, skill and agency, and (3) was therefore considered to be important to grasp, recognise and utilise, a question arises as to exactly how humans identify, recognise and make use of kairos in relation to practical activities and moral conduct, and here, divi­ nation was especially pertinent and played a crucial role in ancient Greek culture.

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Figure 5.1 Roman relief after a bronze statue of Kairos by Lysippos; Greek original c.330 BCE. Museo Civico d’Arte Antica, Turin. Source: Courtesy of Heritage Images. © Fine Art Images/Heritage Images

Finding the right time for action: the kairos in Greek divination Since the concept of kairos was intrinsically contextual, situational and re­ lational, it was intimately linked with divination in Greek (and Roman) culture. Divination is a relational practice with regard to (1) the relation of the enquirer to the event, issue or set of circumstances embodied in the enquirer’s question and (2) the relation and communication or dialogue between the enquirer, the seer and the god. As Ralph Anderson remarks, We may thus think of … divination as a process of synthesis, in which divinatory signs, whether they be the utterances of an oracle, signs observed from a sacrifice, the flight of birds or a chance remark, are

Divination and the kairos 145 brought into meaningful relation with the shifting circumstances of the enquirer. (see Chapter 3) Divination is inherently situational in referring to a specific person (or group of persons or state) and their connection with a specific context and set of circumstances. The close links between the concept of kairos – often translated as “due measure” – and notions of appropriateness and moderation seem to have been embedded within Delphic oracular tradition. The link between kairos as “due measure” and the Greek idea encapsulated in the maxim “Nothing in excess” (μηδὲν ἄγαν, which could also be translated as “everything in moderation” or “avoid extremes”) was a significant element of Greek cul­ ture, already implicit within Hesiod’s Works and Days. Indeed, the notions of moderation and due measure were very much part of the Delphic oracular tradition: the saying attributed to the Seven Sages, “nothing in excess” (μηδὲν ἄγαν) was one of the inscriptions engraved on the Delphic temple – together with “Know yourself” (γνῶθι σαυτὸν) – the latter of which was reputed to have been given as an oracular response to Chilon.31 Indeed, the full saying attributed to Chilon, “Nothing in excess. For all fair things be­ long to kairos” (μηδὲν ἄγαν. Καιρῷ πάντα πρόσεστι καλά) links moderation and kairos directly.32 The precept attributed to Pittacus, “Recognise kairos” (καιρὸν γνῶθι), bears a close similarity to the Delphic inscription “Know yourself” and foregrounds the importance of perceiving the kairos, linking kairos with due measure and knowledge. As discussed earlier, kairos has temporal and spatial connotations, re­ ferring to “being in the right place at the right time” but is also intimately related to human agency and action, especially to the attainment of effica­ cious, duly measured and successful action. As we have seen, Hesiod’s Works and Days links the discovery of kairos with the attainment of success in practical endeavours, including marriage (695–705), manual labour such as agriculture (see, for example, 772–99, 805–7) and navigation (618–45, 663–90), and the correct performance of ritual actions (724–56). These to­ pics were frequently the focus of client’s questions put to oracles, such as the Delphic oracle, as Plutarch attests: “if they shall be victorious, if they shall marry, if it is to their advantage to sail the sea, if to take to farming, if to go abroad” (εἰ νικήσουσιν, εἰ γαμήσουσιν, εἰ συμφέρει πλεῖν, εἰ γεωργεῖν, εἰ ἀποδημεῖν).33 Plutarch (De Pyth. or. 408c) adds some of the typical subjects of state consultations of the oracle, including yield from crops, the increase of herds and public health, that is to say, agricultural and medicinal matters. Recent scholars have emphasised that oracles – and other forms of divina­ tion – frequently functioned as guides to practical action for their en­ quirers.34 Thus, one of the functions of divination in Greco-Roman religious traditions and cultures was to determine the most favourable or suitable context or time, the kairos, for commencing or performing a specific action,

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endeavour or undertaking (cf. Beerden 2013, 183). Oracles about the ap­ propriateness or potential success of an action ask about what one should do and appear in state consultations and private enquiries (cf. Raphals 2013, 178). Often, oracular questions involve a limited time-frame, asking about courses of action in the near future, as is the case with many of the enquiries and oracular responses from Delphi, Didyma and Dodona.35 In relation to the extensive connections between kairos and moral conduct, it is interesting to note that these types of oracular questions and outcomes contain a moral element: “Whether the war was won or lost is a matter of fact, but it is also a reflection on the appropriateness of the action or the moral status of the consultor” (Raphals 2013, 178). The formula used in many oracular ques­ tions attested from Delphi and Dodona “will it be better and more good if…” (λώιον καὶ ἄμεινον) sometimes also suggests a moral dimension as well as practical forms of success (cf. Eidinow 2007, 134). The discovery of the right time (kairos) is most evident in the reading of omens, which were considered to be circumstantial and situational, marking a connection between the human being and the favourable timing of a particular action or activity. For example, Iamblichus (VP 142) refers to an episode in which Pythagoras – reputed to be a sage closely linked with Apollo – asked for an omen: “When someone wished to hear him speak, he said he would not speak until some sign appeared; and after this the white bear appeared in Caulonia” (βουλομένου δέ τινος ἀκούειν οὐκ ἔφη πως λέξειν πρὶν ἥ σημεῖόν τι φανῇ, καὶ μετὰ ταῦτα ἐγένετο ἐν Καυλωνίᾳ ἡ λευκὴ ἄρκτος).36 In this episode, the reference to Pythagoras “speaking” almost certainly refers to philosophical teaching and the white bear functions as an omen that the time is favourable for this discourse. Cledonomancy, a type of di­ vination whereby a person who needed advice asked a question and the conversation of the persons (children were considered particularly effective) whom they heard next was interpreted as an oracular divine message, was particularly kairotic – in the sense that the timing of the conversation taken as the oracular message was crucial.37 It is especially interesting that Pausanias (7.22.2–3) reports an oracle of Hermes (in the marketplace in Phaerae, Achaia) which used cledonomancy, given that the god Kairos was closely linked with his brother Hermes: here, the enquirer would burn in­ cense, light the lamps, offer a coin and then ask his or her question in the ear of the statue of Hermes; the enquirer would then block their ears and leave the marketplace, and then take their hands from their ears and whatever utterance was heard first was considered oracular. Finding the right time (kairos) for action was of central importance in Greek extispicy (the examination of the entrails of sacrificial animals for signs) performed, for example, before any significant action in military ex­ peditions. If signs proved unfavourable, the army had to stay put, even if this caused considerable delay and inconvenience (Beerden 2013, 183–4). For example, during a campaign, Xenophon’s army wanted to send out a

Divination and the kairos 147 foraging party to find provisions or leave altogether, but the signs were unfavourable: When they sacrificed, however, with a view to their departure, the victims would not prove favourable, and they accordingly ceased their offerings for that day.38 Thus, Xenophon had to keep performing divinatory rituals until the omens proved favourable – we hear that he did so on the second and third day, but the omens remained unfavourable (Anab. 6.4.16.1–2). On the third day, a foraging party set out despite this (since the army were running out of pro­ visions) but was attacked and lost about 500 soldiers (6.4.23–25). The survi­ vors were eventually saved by Xenophon sacrificing a bullock and finally obtaining favourable omens for sending a rescue party (6.4.25.2–26.1).39 Although Roman religion lies beyond the scope of this study, it is worth noting that the Romans used augury to discover whether a particular course of action was advisable at that specific time or moment.40 As Jorge Rüpke (2014, 109) notes, …the question the diviner wishes to have answered is “Can I do this action today?” A negative reply does not refer to the question per se: it only refers to the day: not a strict “No!”, but “another day,” alio die. Additionally, Roman calendars provide evidence for auspicious and in­ auspicious days and were themselves dynamic: a day could actually become inauspicious for the Romans if an especially bad event or omen (or both) occurred on that day.41 The discovery of the kairos – the favourable moment or “right” time or context for any given action or endeavour – was particularly linked with katarchic astrology, a popular form of divination in the Hellenistic, Roman and Mediterranean worlds. This form of divination was implicitly connected with several branches of knowledge, especially astronomy and mathematics, and relied on notions of harmony, symmetry and cosmic order.42 Katarchic astrology used “the condition of the heavens at a specific moment” (Gordon 2013, 98) and had four branches, one of which was particularly related to the concept of kairos – “elections” which choose the best astrological time to begin an action or endeavour (Vettius Valens describes this type of practice, as discussed below). However, we should note that two other branches had certain connections with the kairos and timing of events: “Interrogations” involve casting a horoscope at the time of the question – the astrologer would cast the horoscope for him or herself or the client at the time the question was asked and interpret that horoscope in relation to the question. This type of katarchic astrology bears close resemblances to the consultation of oracles; an example is decumbiture which involved drawing up a horo­ scope for the moment that the person becomes ill in order to determine

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therapeutic treatment for the patient and the most favourable moment(s) to administer treatment.43 Katarchic astrology could be used by the astrologer (on behalf of their client) to negotiate with fate (heimarmenē) (Greenbaum 2016, 392) through the discovery of the best possible time to begin an action. As we have seen, astrology was often considered to be a stochastic art in antiquity, and katarchic astrology particularly embodied this methodology, since stochastic arts required the development of a considered sensitivity to the specific features of particular situations and the particular (rather than general) application of skilful techniques to these specific situations, as James Allen emphasises: Thus, if they were to succeed in their art, stochastic artists needed to do more than acquire a mastery of the formal precepts of their art; they also needed to develop a sensitivity to the peculiar features of particular situations, a sense of the opportune moment (ὁ καιρός) which enabled them to undertake the right procedures, at the right time, in the right way.44 As Greenbaum (2010, 196) has argued, “certain passages in Hephaestio suggest that he may have taken for granted the status of astrology as a stochastic art.” In his astrological work, Hephaestio (born 380 CE; fl. 415), like his predecessor Ptolemy, correlates astrology with medicine, since both are therapeutic, protective and similar in their stochastic methodologies: “… they convey remedies in a way suitable to each person” (προσφόρως ἑκάστῳ τὰ βοθήματα προσφέροθσιν).45 In his discussion of katarchic astrology, Hephaestio comments explicitly on the need for the astrologer to use his personal judgement and experience to interpret the symbolism of the as­ trological configurations in a way that is appropriate to the unique situation and the specific subject of enquiry, at the right (kairotic) moment.46 Vettius Valens (born 120 CE; fl. 145–70) refers to the purpose of katarchic astrology – an attempt to discover favourable moments (kairoi) to begin a specific action – and points to the complexity of ensuring that the katarchē identifies and utilises the opportune moments fully (kairoi), noting that in his experience beginning an action without careful consideration of the kairos resulted in delay or pain; he concludes that it is useless to sacrifice or con­ secrate offerings to a god when the time is not right, implying that the kairos aligns with the cosmos and the divine.47 As Dorian Greenbaum (2016, 40–41) has argued, Valens’ words suggest that the kairos and katarchē must be synthesised and synchronised – the astrologer can pick the katarchē but the kairos is not under the control of humans. We will return to this issue further below, since Valens (IX.12.28–31) elsewhere states that implacable causes are at work in any such situation and thus the astrologer must receive a divinatory communication from a daimōn to ensure that the katarchē fully aligns with the relevant causes involved and thus attains to the kairos.

Divination and the kairos 149

Kairos in the context of ancient and modern conceptions of time Greek cultural conceptions of time differ considerably from modern, postEnlightenment temporalities: to give one example, which relates to per­ spectives concerning our position in relation to time – the ancient Greek term ὁπίσω, which meant “behind, backwards,” was also used to mean “hereafter” and thus to refer to the future, since the Greeks held that the future is unseen and was therefore regarded as behind us, whereas the past is known and therefore before our eyes – the idea here is that we have our backs to the future; this term and its connotations point towards the in­ extricable links between time and knowledge in ancient Greek culture.48 The idea that there was a “right” or “favourable” time (kairos) and an appro­ priate manner or degree (that is, a “due measure”) for undertaking a whole range of practical actions, projects and endeavours in Greek (and also in Roman) culture points to a specific set of cultural conceptions about time and timing which differ considerably from the temporality of modernity. Post-enlightenment European conceptions of time emphasise homogenous, uniform duration: these notions are underpinned by the conception of time as quantitative – “moments” in time are seen as identical, homogenous units and continuous duration is privileged over timeliness.49 As Kevin Birth (2016, 45) has argued, “the logic behind this lens privileges units of duration over auspicious moments” and homogenous time over optimal timing. Ancient Greek culture recognised several temporalities – kairos, chronos (which is closer to modern post-Enlightenment conceptions of quantitative time which emphasise chronology and duration but still maintains im­ portant differences from the former) and aiōn or eternity, the latter asso­ ciated with the divine in particular.50 In ancient Greek and Roman cultures, we see that optimal timing, auspicious and favourable moments, and timeliness were of great significance: as such, time was seen as qualitative – kairos was related to value and considered to mark a unique moment where a whole conglomeration of circumstances (a specific person or group of persons, an action or activity, a specific place, and a set of specific cir­ cumstantial factors) were considered to attain an auspicious alignment which was held to facilitate the attainment of success, goodness and virtue or excellence (in relation to practical skills and endeavours, and moral virtue).51 Furthermore, kairos marks a moment of contact between divine favour or goodness, cosmic order and human agency. In fact, kairos was seen as an intermediary or line of mediation between chronos and aiōn, eternity. For example, Plato’s Philebus states that the “fitting” (καίριον), alongside measure and moderation, is bestowed by “eternal nature” on humankind.52 Therefore, it is clear that optimal timing and timeliness (as embodied in the notion of kairos) mark a moment of connection with the eternal and the divine and were held to be important for success and ef­ fectiveness in Greek and Roman cultures and that divination in various forms – the reading of omens and taking of auspices, oracles, extispicy and

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astrology – was frequently used to assist with the discovery of the “right time” (kairos) or to ensure the timeliness of a given action or endeavour. In other words, divination was often used to discover if a particular action is appropriate not only in general but at that specific time. The use of divination in this capacity was not thought to replace human efforts, skills and agency in ancient Greek and Roman cultures – these were still seen as important and necessary for almost every kind of successful outcome – but rather divination was held to complement and enhance human efforts by indicating the best or most appropriate time or context.53 Humans must co-operate with the gods through their understanding of divinatory advice relating to optimal timing and context (kairos), and through their own efforts.54 This sense of co-operation and complementarity is en­ capsulated in Xenophon’s Socrates’ statement that, “In short, what the gods have granted us to do by help of learning, we must learn; what is hidden from mortals, we should try to find out from the gods by divination” (Mem. I.1.9: ἔφη δὲ δεῖν ἃ μὲν μαθόντας ποιεῖν ἔδωκαν οἱ θεοὶ μανθάνειν, ἃ δὲ μὴ δῆλα τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἐστὶ πειρᾶσθαι διὰ μαντικῆς παρὰ τῶν θεῶν πυνθάνεσθαι). In this sense, divination was used because of unknown, hidden factors or causes – or changeable conditions – which could affect the success (or lack thereof) of any activity or endeavour. The Greeks often held that only the gods could ultimately and fully understand all unknown factors or causes involved in human affairs because only they see and know everything.55 Thus, for the Greeks, human understanding, agency and efforts were best supplemented by seeking and implementing divinatory advice in relation to prospective endeavours in order to ensure that the latter would be timely and therefore successful or efficacious.

The kairos and timing of divinatory rituals The practice of divination in the ancient Greek context was inherently “kairological”: we have seen that it was related to an implicit view of time as qualitative and sought to establish a unique encounter between a god and human(s) located at a specific moment in time, in relation to a specific context and set of circumstances relating to the enquirer’s question. In an­ cient Greek religious tradition, the performance and undertaking of divi­ natory rituals also had to be undertaken at the appropriate and most suitable time, and – as we will see – this involved but also went well beyond observing a fixed day (or set of days) in the calendar. The timing of oracular consultation In Greek and Roman religions, oracles could only be consulted on set days and times: for example, Plutarch says that in the archaic period the Delphic oracle could only be consulted on one day of the year (the seventh day of Bysios which was considered to be Apollo’s birthday) but that at a later date

Divination and the kairos 151 (and in Plutarch’s own time) it could be consulted once a month, that is to say, on nine to twelve specific days each year; these days corresponded with the Delphic religious calendar which assigned certain dates as the days of Apollo.56 Elsewhere, Plutarch implies that there were specific days when the oracle of Trophonios at Lebadeia could be consulted: the character Ammonius refers to a previous conversation about divination which oc­ curred there and involved Lamprias; the latter replies that many activities and distractions occurred during this conversation because it took place during a day considered suitable for consultation of the oracle and for the ritual sacrifices related to it (De def. or 431c11–d5). The Oracle at Didyma also seemed to be open only on particular days, although our information about the specific dates and how many days per year the oracle was open for consultation is uncertain.57 Within the Roman context, the Oracle of Fortuna at Praeneste was only open for consultation on specific days of the year, including on the first day of the New Year (Beerden 2013, 181). In relation to this, the Romans had a complex system of auspicious and in­ auspicious days for specific actions, which affected when divination (in­ cluding taking the auspices, augury and the consultation of oracles) could be performed.58 Yet ascertaining the “right” or critical time for undertaking oracular con­ sultation went well beyond the mere observation of a set day or a fixed time in the calendar: as we saw in Plutarch’s example of a specific Delphic oracular consultation that went wrong (De def. or. 438a–c, discussed at the beginning of this chapter), on the set day(s) for oracular consultation, the Delphic priests had to perform preliminary rituals – consisting of reading the omens from the libation poured on a goat to see if it shivered or trembled (cf. also 435b–c, 437a–b). Within this dialogue, Ammonius attributes the explanation of this omen to the priests of the oracle: all parts of the animal must shake and quiver and this must be accompanied by a tremulous sound and “… unless this takes place they [the priests] say that the oracle is not functioning, and do not even bring in the prophetic priestess” (ἐὰν γἀρ μὴ τοῦτο γένηται, τὸ μαντεῖον οὔ φασι χρηματίζειν οὐδ’ εἰσάγουσι τὴν Πυθίαν).59 In the final speech of this work, Lamprias explores the theological significance of these rites as understood by the Delphic priests (ἱερεῖς καὶ ὅσιοι) who maintain that the libations of cold water poured on the goat provide proof that the goat is in a pure and sound state in body and soul as a “sign” (σημεῖον) that the god is present in the temple and ready to deliver oracles (θεμιστεύειν τὸν θεὸν), since (Lamprias argues, in respect of the goat) indifference and immobility against being suddenly wet are not characteristic of a soul in a normal state (De def. or. 437a-b).60 Lamprias maintains that the soul of the human seer (τὴν ψυχὴν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου) involved in receiving the inspiration during the oracular ritual – is the material cause of the oracle (in a process of multiple and simultaneous causes which work together to catalyse oracles) which the spirit of inspiration (τὸ ἐνθουσιαστικὸν πνεῦμα) – characterised by Lamprias as the efficient cause – uses an instrument or plectrum (De def. or. 436e–f).61 Thus, the goat

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represents a sign of the god’s presence or lack thereof in relation to the suitability of the state of the Pythia’s soul as being ready at that time to receive this inspiration from the god and thus deliver oracles effectively, since “every faculty duly performs its natural functions better or worse concurrently with some particular time (καιρός); and if that time (καιρός) escapes our notice, it is only reasonable that the god should give signs of it” (De def. or. 437c: πᾶσα γὰρ δύναμις ὃ πέφυκε σὺν καιρῷ βέλτιον ἢ χεῖρον ἀποδίδωσι· τοῦ δὲ καιροῦ διαφεύγοντος ἡμᾶς, σημεῖα διδόναι τὸν θεὸν εἰκός ἐστιν). In other words, through the preliminary ritual, the god notifies the priestly officials as to whether it is the “right time” (καιρός) for the oracular consultation to proceed based on the receptivity of the Pythia’s soul to receive the divine inspiration at that specific moment.62 It is important to note that Lamprias also claims that the harmonising and tempering of the inspiration by the daimones (an inter­ mediary cause of the oracle) must happen at the propitious moment (ἐν καιρῷ).63 Lamprias further explains that the Pythia is subject to differing influences which vary at different times and affect the part of her soul with which the spirit of inspiration comes into association – the consequence of this is that the Pythia does not always maintain one temperament. Like all hu­ mans, many annoyances and disturbances – some of which she is conscious of and others which are unperceived by humans – affect her body and filter into her soul; thus, when she is full of such disturbances, she is in an inappropriate condition to receive the inspiration, which ultimately comes from Apollo, and so should not deliver oracles at that time (De def. or. 437d). The Pythia has to be in a pure, harmonious and stable state – perfectly receptive – to receive the god’s inspiration properly. According to Lamprias, only Apollo himself can fully perceive all of the factors (especially disturbances) which affect the soul of the human seer – some of which are unclear (ἄδηλοι) and remain un­ perceived by humans – and consequently ascertain the soul’s suitability for the oracular ritual at any given moment: It is for these thinking that temperament without harm

reasons that … [they] take the omens before the oracle, it is clear to the god when she [the Pythia] has the and disposition suitable to submit to the inspiration to herself. (De def. or. 438c).64

Thus, Plutarch argues that the kairos of the oracular ritual indicates the receptivity or suitability of the Pythia’s soul and that only Apollo can in­ dicate fully the appropriate time (καιρός) for the oracular ritual because only the gods can ascertain all of the relevant factors pertaining to the receptivity and condition of the seer’s soul; many of these factors are hidden from humans and difficult to grasp in their entirety. Lamprias gives the example of the oracular ritual that went wrong to demonstrate what happens when the priests ignore the omens and fail to ascertain by taking them properly if it is the right time for oracular consultation. In relation to this example of a

Divination and the kairos 153 disastrous oracular consultation, Parke and Wormell (1956, I.37) have ar­ gued that since Plutarch was a priest at Delphi himself, his account here is “the only incident worth considering as evidence … for Plutarch’s friend, Nicander, was presiding priest on the occasion and could have supplied him with the authentic facts.”65 However, while the example certainly does tell us about the usual procedure for taking the omens prior to the oracular ritual, it cannot inform us about the Pythia’s possession state in normal divinatory conditions (contra Parke and Wormell) since the possession state experi­ enced by the Pythia during this episode is presented as atypical – Plutarch’s statements imply that her voice was unusual and extreme on this occasion, as Simon Price and Lisa Maurizio have noted.66 However, it is interesting that Plutarch attributes a significant level of ritual expertise and agency to the Pythia within this episode, since he implies that she seemed to be aware that on this specific occasion the omens were in fact not taken properly by the priests and consequently did not indicate a favourable time – kairos – for the ritual, in his report that she went into the adyton to conduct the oracular ritual unwillingly and reluctantly (De def. or. 438b).67 Thus, Plutarch implies that the Pythia herself had an understanding of the sig­ nification of the omens and an awareness of the appropriate timing (καιρός) of oracular consultation. Within this episode, we see the idea that under­ standing the appropriate moment (καιρός) for divination also means knowing the inappropriate or unsuitable times for divination, an issue we shall return to below when we examine the oracular expertise of Sosipatra. Plutarch’s account of the critical time (καιρός) for consulting the oracle in this work in some ways emphasises the gulf between divine and human knowledge, which was an important theme within Delphic tradition, since only the god – Apollo – can fully ascertain (and signify to humans) the critical time (καιρός) for the delivery of oracles. However, it is vital to note that Plutarch’s account of the critical time (καιρός) accords with his “sci­ entific account” of oracular divination: it is especially significant, in this regard, that the episode above is recounted by Lamprias as part of the final, balanced, rational account within this dialogue of the multiple (hierarchical yet simultaneous) causes underlying the delivery of oracles at Delphi (De def. or. 435e–438d).68 This account specifically draws on Plato’s theories and implicitly combines them with Aristotle’s theory of causes.69 First, Lamprias explicitly comments on the history of philosophical notions of causation: theological writers and poets focused only on the superior divine cause, leaving aside the necessary and natural causes, while, at a later time, the physicists disregarded the “beautiful and divine” cause while ascribing every phenomena to physical causes, changes and combinations (De def. or. 436d–e). Lamprias argues that Plato stands out in the history of philosophy as the first thinker who combined these two different orders of causation together (divine-superior and material-inferior; De def. or. 435e–f), and “thus developed the most complete epistemic model for the study of … earthly phenomena” (Simonetti, 2017, 98). He then applies this theory of

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multiple (yet simultaneous) causes to the operation of the Delphic oracle itself: oracles are given by Apollo (the final cause) acting through inter­ mediaries which are lower causes: the daimones, the spirit of inspiration and exhalations, and the soul of the Pythia (the latter being the material cause) (436e–437a).70 Plutarch’s account of the timing of divination and the im­ portance of kairos in oracular divination thus accords with his cosmological, ontological and metaphysical theories. Furthermore, Plutarch’s account of the preliminary ritual at Delphi – and specifically the omen provided by the goat which signifies the right time (kairos) or lack thereof – accords with his epistemology, cosmology and animal psychology. In relation to the purity of body and soul required in the goat, Plutarch argues in several works that animals are rational, against the Stoics who denied reason to animals; thus, Plutarch places animals on the same epistemological and ontological continuum as humans (De soll. an. 960a–b, 961c–d, 963b, 966b).71 As Elsa Simonetti (2017, 109) notes, Plutarch maintains that animals have the power of perception, a soul (ψυχή), feeling (πάθος) and character (ἦθος) (De Is. et Os. 382a). Furthermore, Plutarch argues that animals who live, see and move contain an emanation (ἀπορροή) or portion (μοῖρα) of the divine intellect that guides the whole universe (382b). Thus, we should honour the divine through animals since every sentient creature is an instrument (ὄργανον) and mirror (ἐσοπτρον) of the divine (382a–b). The timing of theurgic divination and ritual Like Plutarch, Iamblichus also places great importance on finding the cri­ tical or appropriate time (καιρός) for divinatory ritual within the context of theurgy: he centralises the observation of the critical moment (καιρός) for undertaking theurgic ritual, stating that Egyptian theurgists recommend ascending to the divine through theurgy without calling in the aid of matter or bringing anything to bear other than the observation of the critical time (καιρός) for action (Iamblichus, DM 8.4 [267.6–10]).72 When scholars have commented on this specific passage, Iamblichus’ statement is often viewed as a reference to katarchic astrology, which was used in antiquity as a method of choosing the right astrological moment to begin a specific action, en­ deavour or undertaking.73 Indeed, Iamblichus relates the practice of the Egyptian theurgists here to the astrological material contained in the Hermetic books.74 We have some evidence that Iamblichus himself observed the kairos as the “right,” best or favourable moment in his own ritual practice – he is portrayed by Eunapius as responding reluctantly to his pupils when asked by them for a divine sign of his close relationship to the gods: he tells his pupils to wait for the kairos – “no, that does not sit well with me, but wait for the appropriate time (kairos)” (‘ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐπ’ ἐμοί γε τοῦτο’ ἔλεγεν, ‘ἀλλ’ ὅταν καιρὸς ᾖ’) (VS 5.2,1.5–2.1) – and then later is said to

Divination and the kairos 155 ritually invoke the daimonic spirits Eros and Anteros from the springs at Gadara in an inspired fashion.75 At first glance, it is puzzling that Iamblichus claims that Egyptian theurgists do not call in or utilise the aid of matter within their ritual practice and that they only bring to bear the observation of kairos – the critical time for action. This might seem strange given that Iamblichus centralises the roles of natural material objects, such as plants, gemstones and incense, as symbols (σύμβολα) within theurgic ritual as the means to invoke a god or goddess (DM 5.23 [233.9–13]). As such, it seems as though the timing of the theurgic ritual is not the only important factor – gathering these objects together and utilising them within the ritual is also vital. Yet it is crucial to take into account that for the theurgist, stones, plants and gemstones are far more than simply “material objects” – they are “symbols” (σύμβολα) or “tokens” (συνθήματα) which are ontological expressions of a specific deity in the sensible world, envisaged as linked through cosmic sympathy with a specific god and their corresponding planet (conceived as a cosmic god) because they share the properties or characteristics of the god, and so are “akin to the gods addressed” (Tanaseanu-Döbler 2013, 105).76 As such, they are “sacred” (ἱερὰ), “perfect” (τέλεια) and “godlike” (θεοειδῆ), according to Iamblichus (DM 5.23 [233.11–12]). Iamblichus states that theurgy “links together” (συμπλέκει), stones, plants, aromatic substances and similar things and then “from all these composes an integrated and pure receptacle” (ἀπὸ πάντων τούτων ὑποδοχὴν ὁλοτελῆ καὶ καθαρὰν ἀπεργάζεται) (DM 5.23 [233.12–13]). Thus, the theurgist sets up a suitable “receptacle” to evoke and receive the gods – the symbols in the ritual space itself and the ritual re­ ceptivity (ἐπιτηδειότης) of the ritual practitioner, who would often wear, carry or otherwise utilise these symbols during the rite (DM 5.23 [234.1–4]). In relation to divination, the “receptacle” can also refer to the statue of the deity through which the theurgist received divinatory messages (τελεστική); the statue was constructed and consecrated (καθιδρύσεις ἀγαλμάτων) by the theurgist using specific symbols (such as gemstones) linked with that deity (DM 5.23 [234.3]).77 In this sense, Iamblichus clearly construes the concept of kairos (in relation to the practice of theurgic ritual and divination) in its widest sense to refer to the appropriate timing, place and context of the ritual. Like Plutarch and Proclus, he links kairos here with receptivity (ἐπιτηδειότης) – in this case, in relation to the suitability of the ritual space, timing and context, as well as in relation to the receptivity of the soul of the ritual practitioner.

Divination for the discovery of the kairos: listening to the voice of the god or daimōn In Plutarch’s account, we see that that discovering the kairos for the timing of oracular consultation was not a simple, automatic or mechanical process – it went well beyond the regular observation of a fixed time in the calendar.

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The preliminary rituals – undertaken on the specific day for consulting the Delphic oracle – were performed to ascertain if the specific day was actually auspicious (that is, kairotic) or not. Furthermore, the determination of the “favourable time” (kairos) of the oracular ritual relates to the level of “re­ ceptivity” or “suitability” of the seer’s soul. The later Neoplatonist Proclus concurs with Plutarch’s presentation of the kairos as difficult to ascertain and also relates the discovery of the kairos to the determination of the re­ ceptivity or suitability (ἐπιτηδειότης) of a human individual (the latter of which he construes – like Plutarch – as a changeable material cause in a schema of multiple yet simultaneous causation) – he claims that humans require the help of gods or daimones – provided through divinatory messages – to discover the favourable time and the receptivity or suitability of the human soul in any given moment or situation: The unsuitability (ἀνεπιτηδειότητες) of those who approach [i.e. in this case, for philosophical instruction and learning] for the most part escapes human reason and requires the discernment of the daimōn, and the distinguishing of opportune moments (kairous) can be suggested to us accurately by this means alone; humans also have devised certain methods and techniques for this purpose, but even so the resultant apprehension is obscure and falls very far short of the indications given by the good daimones. (In Alc. 82.8–13)78 In relation to the idea that humans have devised certain methods for dis­ covering the kairos, but that the result obtained by these techniques is ob­ scure and inadequate compared to the signs given by good daimones, it is interesting that Iamblichus claims (in relation to Pythagoras’ teaching of appropriateness or what accords with kairos) that the kairos is to some extent teachable and subject to calculation but that, ultimately, calculation is insufficient for the full attainment and use of the kairos in each situation (VP 182). Similarly, in his discussion of katarchic astrology, Valens (IX.12.28–31) states that implacable causes are at work in any given situa­ tion (see Greenbaum 2016, 41) and thus the astrologer must receive a communication from a daimōn to ensure that the katarchē fully aligns with the relevant causes relating to the situation or action – and thus aligns with the kairos. Proclus’ comment occurs within the context of his exposition of the timing and efficacy of philosophical teaching and discourse: although the latter can occur in any context, Proclus argues that the imparting of learning “if ac­ complished at the right moment (kairos), and purification of life, if its ap­ plication is timely, afford to the recipients thereof a benefit many times greater” (In Alc. 120.16–121.1). Proclus’ account offers a detailed exegesis of the philosophical discourse between Socrates and Alcibiades as presented in Plato’s Alcibiades I – in Plato’s work, it is stated that Socrates “approaches”

Divination and the kairos 157 Alcibiades at the time of the dialogue because his daimonion does not oppose him doing so. Plato presents Socrates’ daimonion as a divine “voice” (φωνή) or “sign” (σημεῖον) which offers negative warnings to Socrates and which the latter refers to as “his customary divination” (ἡ … εἰωθυῖά μοι μαντικὴ ἡ | τοῦ δαιμονίου).79 Proclus interprets the daimonion as Socrates’ guardian or personal daimōn who advises him through divination because Socrates is seen as an inspired, “godlike” and philosophically enlightened figure who emulates the divine in aiming for the right moment for the benefit of souls, thereby (according to Proclus) acting as an agent of divine providence: Just as the gods, by assigning to [human] souls in a due order remedies for their faults and fruits in due season, benefit them, so also godlike men subordinately aim at the right moment and beneficence toward the less perfect according thereto: the gods intelligently and divinely determining the measure of right time, humans seeking to find it by scientific knowledge, and others again making their quest thereof by the inspiration of the guardian daimōn. Contact with good daimones is of great weight to souls involved in the process towards unmistaken discernment of the right moments (kairoi). (In Alc. 121.1–9)80 For Proclus, Socrates was an inspired, godlike and wise figure who knows the most auspicious time(s) to teach Alcibiades because he listens to his daimōn who conveys this knowledge to him through divinatory messages. Indeed, Proclus maintains that the good daimōn determined for Socrates the precise moment of the latter's meeting with Alcibiades for philosophical conversation and discourse (In Alc. 124.6–7); because Socrates is divinely “inspired” (ἔνθεος), he accommodates and adjusts his personal activity to what is needful and timely (that is, to what is kairotic) (131.8–9) and thus “due season rested upon his lips” (131.10: ὁ καιρός ἐπὶ τοῦ στόματος ἐπεκαθέζετο). Proclus thinks that humans seek to find the “right time” through knowledge but a completely accurate understanding of favourable timing comes ultimately from divine beings, since it is divine knowledge: “Due season begins on high with the divine and proceeds as far as the lowest limits [of reality]” (In Alc. 124.7–8: ἄνωθεν γὰρ ὁ καιρὸς ἀπὸ τῶν θείων ἀρχόμενος πρόεισιν ἄχρι τῶν ἐσχάτων). Humans need divine assistance for timing their actions due to unknown factors and changing causes. According to this logic, a human being can never fully know without divine assistance how “receptive” another person’s soul is to learning at any particular moment in time. The model established by Proclus here suggests that the discovery of the kairos is crucial for the philosophical teacher to ascertain when the pupil will be most receptive to learning. Within Neoplatonism, receptivity (ἐπιτηδειότης) was considered to be connected with time: since it was en­ visaged as a dynamic state (linked with the active cultivation of potential

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capacities of the human soul actualised through intellectual, ethical and ritual means) which can potentially increase, change and be developed over time, it is naturally linked with movement and development through time and thereby connected with the kairos, the appropriate or critical moment. To put this another way, receptivity has to be viewed against two key Neoplatonist doctrines: the theory of recollection, whereby all human souls are said to possess knowledge in their souls which they “recollect”; and reincarnation, or the “transmigration of souls,” whereby all human souls incarnate in a succession of lives.81 The implications of these doctrines for receptivity are that, according to this view, all human souls have the po­ tential to become fully receptive and, ultimately, will eventually attain per­ fect receptivity and consequently ascend to the gods. Iamblichus (DM 8.8 [272.4–11]) maintains that the gods have laid down an ordinance (θεσμός) that all souls should ascend to them and thus the gods do not change their plans by virtue of some subsequently performed theurgic ritual; rather, the demiurgic god sent down souls from their first descent into mortal life so that they should ascend and return to him again. The key question, ac­ cording to this theurgic schema, is precisely when this will occur – and here the notion of the kairos, as the critical moment, becomes significant. Furthermore, a notion of synchronicity and a theory of multiple causes (similar to that of Plutarch) underlie Proclus’ account of the kairos: firstly, in relation to the notion of the possible “unsuitability” of human beings, Proclus distinguishes between two kinds of causes which cause the subject they act upon to learn: unmoved and moved causes. The human being who is receptive to learning can participate in unmoved causes, the intelligible causes, which are present everywhere at all times, but also in “moved” causes (such as the human teacher or educator) who sometimes approach or happen to meet with the student but are not present with them at all times. Proclus explains that: … when the suitability lies towards one of the moved causes, often the intended recipient is suitable, but the intended source of communication is absent, for the latter must come to be within the same place since it requires spatial position for its communication.82 The kairos relates to the meeting of the cause and the participant, the syn­ chronous connection or “coming-together” of the perfective power of the intended giver and the utmost suitability of the intended recipient at a particular place and time. The kairos involves synchronicity: a connection between time and a specific action or communication; since it involves sensible, moved causes, it thus involves a connection made at a precise moment in time and space, marking the intersection of the temporal and spatial. It is interesting that the astrologer Vettius Valens also alludes to the synchronicity of time and space, in conjunction with the communication he received from his “daimonion” as bringing about successful fulfilment of his

Divination and the kairos 159 search for an astrology teacher at the favourable time, as will be examined below. Valens links his own astrological practice, insights and discoveries to his communication with his guardian daimōn and to divine providence (pronoia), implying that this communication occurs at the favourable mo­ ment.83 In his account of his divinatory practice, his own intellectual efforts and cultivation of virtue in relation to astrology complement and in some way catalyse this contact with the divine which in turn increases his capacity for intellectual investigation.84 It is intriguing that he discusses the role of a certain daimonion (the use of this term is almost certainly an allusion to the daimonion of Plato’s Socrates) in the discovery of his teacher of astrology in similar terms to Proclus’ account of the meeting between Socrates and Alcibiades at the propitious time, the kairos: And at that point, we spent much time wretchedly, and while we were sadly moving from place to place, associating with those who have seriously studied such things, we kept on experimenting, until the wishedfor daimonion, through a certain providence (pronoia), made the trans­ mission in a certain place through a certain man who loved learning.85 Valens’ account of the search for his astrology teacher, whom he eventually met at a specific time and place, bears close similarities to Proclus’ analysis of the kairos in the transmission of learning as involving a synchronicity of time and place, where the cause of learning (the teacher) and the recipient (the student) meet when the conditions are auspicious. Indeed, Valens’ own explanation of the kairos centres on providence (pronoia) and he states that the daimonion works through and in relation to providence.86 The link made by Valens between his daimonion and providence bears similarities to Proclus’ explanation the link between Socrates being an agent of providence and his daimonion being a sign of this and of the kairos as bringing provi­ dential benefits. These similarities suggest a sophisticated network of con­ nections between the discovery of the kairos, education and learning, and divination and ritual. Like Proclus’ Socrates, the late antique philosopher, theurgist and pro­ phetess Sosipatra is presented as an expert on the kairos (because of her divinatory ability and her philosophical and theurgic expertise) who thereby knows the appropriate and inappropriate times to deliver oracles. Sosipatra was associated with Iamblichus’ philosophical successors and is depicted as possessing a kind of “remote viewing” power where she could know of events from a distance, an ability which is similar to what we might describe as “psychic” or clairvoyant power.87 She is also portrayed by Eunapius as listening to her guardian god while delivering an oracle in a manner clearly modelled on Plato’s portrayal of Socrates’ daimonion: by listening to her guardian god, she discovers that it is not the right time to give the oracle about her own destiny; by implication, she is presented as knowing the right time (kairos) by its absence on this occasion, like Plutarch’s depiction of the

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Pythia.88 When she was about to marry Eustathius (one of Iamblichus’ philosophic successors) she prophesied the number of children they would have (three), her husband’s destiny (including the timing of his death and his destiny after death) and is about to tell him of her own destiny when she suddenly fell silent and then states: “No, my god prevents me!” (ἀλλ’ ὁ ἐμός, … θεός με κωλύει).89 Like Socrates, Sosipatra is portrayed as an outstanding philosopher: Eunapius claims that she could expound philosophical (as well as literary and rhetorical) works easily from an early age and, in her later years, she established her own philosophical school in Pergamon alongside that of Iamblichus’ main successor Aedesius.90 She is also depicted as an exceptionally gifted prophetess. It is important to note that the character­ isation of Sosipatra’s complementary philosophical and ritual expertise was not an unusual combination within Neoplatonism (although her abilities are certainly presented as exceptionally well-developed): as well as the important parallels with Proclus’ Socrates, Eunapius presents Sosipatra as the female counterpart of Iamblichus in possessing ritual, kairotic expertise alongside her philosophical and intellectual skills.91 Furthermore, the later female theurgist Asclepigeneia, who was the daughter of Plutarch of Athens and trained Proclus in theurgy, is also characterised as possessing ritual and philosophical expertise.92 It is precisely because of Sosipatra’s com­ plementary, advanced and highly developed philosophical and prophetic oracular abilities that she was considered to be able to communicate directly with her guardian god or daimōn in order to obtain knowledge of the kairos, the appropriate time.

Conclusion The logic and “epistemology” of divination is kairotic (or what we might call “kairological”) – divination itself is relational, situational and contextual, re­ lating to the question or enquiry of a specific person, group of persons or state, about a specific activity or event occurring at a specific time and place. Divination was frequently used to discover the right or most appropriate moment to begin an activity or endeavour. Every skill and type of action – agriculture, medicine, navigation, marriage, and so on – was considered to be more likely to be successful and beneficial if undertaken at the propitious or favourable moment (kairos). Even philosophical discourse, teaching and learning were considered to be far more beneficial if undertaken at the most favourable and appropriate moment for the interlocutors. Furthermore, divi­ natory ritual itself, including oracular consultation, was considered to be best performed at the kairotic moment – as indicated by specific omens. When di­ vination is viewed from this “kairotic” perspective, it becomes clear that divi­ nation is not “irrational” but operates in accordance with a very specific kind of logic and rationality that is based on notions of synchronicity, simultaneity and situationality (of persons, events, specific moments and causes, and the divine). This logic in turn is based on a temporality that prioritises the specific and

Divination and the kairos 161 unique quality of a given moment or time in relation to a complex network of specific factors: a specific person or persons undertaking a specific action or endeavour within a specific location or place and in relation to a specific context or situation. According to this logic, time has value: it is qualitative and is comprised of unique synchronicities which are situational and relational, unlike the temporality which characterises post-Enlightenment European (or Western) modernity. The latter temporality prioritises quantitative, uniform conceptions of time, including continuous and homogenous duration. Kairos – the auspi­ cious or favourable time – points to the importance of timeliness, optimal timing, and appropriate action and behaviour, characterised by moderation and due measure, in ancient Greek culture and philosophy. Since both Kairos the deity and his gift of the propitious time were thought to move swiftly and were consequently envisaged as difficult for humans to grasp and know fully, divination often functioned as an epistemological tool for the discovery, un­ derstanding and attainment of kairos – for ensuring that one’s concern or ac­ tion was undertaken at the right time and in the appropriate manner. Divinatory ritual itself was also kairotic in the sense that it was most frequently undertaken and utilised at the kairotic moment: although the Greeks often considered that divine aid – the help of the god Apollo in particular – was needed to discover the kairos, this was because the gods were held to have a more complete knowledge than humans and could therefore “see” and know hidden factors and causes not easily perceptible to humans, if at all. Divination functioned as an epistemological tool for accessing this contextual and situa­ tional knowledge relating to all types of action and endeavour.

Notes 1 Trans. Dillon and Hershbell 1991. εἶναι γὰρ οὐχ ἕτερόν τι ἀγαθὸν ἣ τὸν ἐν ἐκάστῃ τῇ πράξει καιρόν. All translations of this work are taken from this edition. 2 For evidence that Plutarch was a priest at the Delphic oracle, see Plutarch, Quaest. conv. 700e1–10; CIG 1713, ed. Boeckh 1828–38, 171; Parke and Wormell 1956, II.ix; Lamberton 2001, 52–4, 155. For indications of Plutarch’s priestly service at Delphi for twenty-five or thirty years: Plutarch, An seni respublica gerenda sit 792f6–14. 3 Simonetti 2017, 108, notes that this is the technical verb used to express the action of prophesying and that the details of the preliminary ritual coincide with Ammonius’ earlier explanation within the dialogue (De def. or. 435b–c). For an exploration of this episode in relation to the Pythia’s expertise and voice, see Chapter 7 in this volume. For Plutarch’s depiction of the Pythia and his account of divination, see Chapter 6. 4 For a detailed definition of theurgy, see Addey 2014a, 24–6; Tanaseanu-Döbler 2013, 9–20. Cf. also Chapter 10 in this volume. On the Egyptian roots of theurgy (alongside Chaldean religious tradition) as set out by Iamblichus (including his use of the pseudonym Abammon, an Egyptian priest), see DM 7.1 (249.10–250.5), 8.5 (268.5–7), 8.6; Addey 2014a, 143–4; 159–61; 210–11; 277–8. 5 LSJ s.v. καιρός. See Wilson 1980, 177–204, for a detailed examination of the term and attested usages. Cf. also Allan 2005, 125–6; North 2018, 26; Boschung 2013, 11–14.

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6 LSJ s.v. καιρός. See Wilson 1981, 418–20. 7 I owe the application of the term “situational” to the notion of kairos to Allan 2005. 8 For example, kairos was an important principle in classical rhetoric which was particularly associated with the sophist Gorgias: see, for example, Plato, Phdr. 272a; Carter 1988, 97–112. On the importance of the principle and the personified deity Kairos in Greek athletics and aesthetics and its connections with the Olympic Games in particular, see Allan 2005. 9 Trans. West 1978 with modifications. 10 Cf. Wilson 1980, 178–9; Allan 2005, 125. 11 Cf. Wilson 1981, 179–81; Allan 2005, 126–9. 12 Cf. also Wilson 1981, 180; Boschung 2013, 12; Shew 2013, 47. 13 See Greenbaum 2010, 179–209, who notes that a term used for diviner (in ad­ dition to mantis) in the late Hellenistic period was stochastēs – this usage is first attested in the second-century BCE (183 with n.14). Aristotle, EN 1.1–2.3, 1094a states that every art and practical pursuit aims at some good and that aiming at some objective, helps us, like the archer, to hit the target. Iamblichus describes inductive forms of divination (such as astrology, haruspicy and augury) as based on stochasmos, “aiming” and “conjecturing”: DM 3.15 (135.1–2). Ptolemy frames the study of the heavens as a stochastic art (like medicine and navigation) which involves “aiming well” (eustochōs) with a grasp of the relevant data: Tetrabiblos 1.2.5; he also applies the archery metaphor to astrology, thereby stressing the stochastic methodology of the latter: see, for example, Tetrabiblos 3.1.107–108. Like his predecessor Ptolemy, Hephaestio compares astrology to medicine as a stochastic art: Apotelesmaticorum libri tres, I, Preface 7–8 (Pingree 1973, vol. 1). 14 Cf. Shew 2013, 47–8, who notes that this usage also has connotations of mor­ tality, like the Homeric passages discussed above. 15 Cf. Boschung 2013, 11–12. 16 Kerkhoff 1976, 667 s.v. Kairos, cited in Boschung 2013, 14. 17 See Zhu 2006 for a comparative study of kairos in the Stoic philosophy of Marcus Aurelius and the writings of Confucius. 18 Trans. Rackham 1926, with modifications. Cf. Moutsopoulos 1997, 49; 2003, 157. 19 See Moutsopoulos 1997, 49; Shew 2013, 49–50. 20 On the complexities of “Pythagorean” identity, and the (contested) intersection between Pythagoreanism and Platonism, see Huffman (2006) 2019: in particular, scholars tend to identify different stages of development in the “Pythagorean” tradition, and the criterion considered suitable to identify an early figure as “Pythagorean” is controversial. 21 Aristotle, Metaphysics 985b, 24–7; Iamblichus, VP 162, 179. See Burkert 1972, Ch. VI, esp. 465–6. On Aristotle’s reservations concerning whether the “socalled” Pythagoreans he discusses are actually connected with Pythagoras him­ self, see Huffman (2006) 2019. 22 Aristotle, Metaphysics 985b, 27–31. See Burkert 1972, 466; Allan 2005, 127. 23 Laws IV, 709b–c, ed. Burnet (1907) 1967. Trans. Bury 1926, with modifications. Cf. Moutsopoulos 2006, 315–6, 318–21. 24 Plotinus, Enn. VI.8.18.42–54; Lacrosse 1997, 82–83. Cf. also Enn. V.5.6.27–29, for Plotinus’ attribution of the idea of the “One” to the Pythagoreans, who called it Apollo as a denial of its multiplicity. On the Neoplatonist equation of the “One” as first principle and the “Good” as source of all goodness, see Proclus, In Alc. 109.6–8. 25 ὤσπερ γὰρ τόπος ἐκ τῆς φύσεως ἑκαστῳ τῶν σωμάτων οἰκείως ἀφώρισται, οὕπω δὴ καὶ χρόνου μόρια ἄλλο ἄλλαις ἐφαρμόττει πράξεσι, καὶ ὥσπερ τοῦ ὅλου κόσμου περίοδοί τινές εἰσιν εὐγονίας αἵτιαι καί ἀγονίας καὶ ζώων καὶ φυτῶν, οὕπω δὴ καὶ ταῖς

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καθ’ ἕκαστον πράξεσιν ἄλλαις ἄλλος προσήκει χρόνος εἰς τελείωσιν. καὶ ὁ τοιοῦτος δὴ χρόνος καιρός ἐστι πράξεως ἑκάστης ὡς τὸ ἀγαθὸν καὶ τὸ τέλος ἐπάγων τοῖς πράττουσι καὶ αὐτοῖς τοῖς πραττομένοις. Ed. Westerink 1954. Trans. O’Neill 1962, with modifications Cf. Stafford 2000, 31; Allan 2005, 123–4, who argues that Pausanias refers to the classical stadium, the third and final redesign of the race-track, dated by ar­ chaeologists to the late 450’s BCE, and it is therefore likely that the altars mentioned by Pausanias were contemporary with this stadium. In the Turin relief (Figure 5.1), Kairos has three pairs of wings: one on his back and a pair on each foot, which emphasise the fleeting nature of the deity and offer a further parallel with Hermes. Two other reliefs of Kairos (the Trogir and Athens reliefs) survive in fragmentary form: see Boschung 2013, 18–19, with Figures 2 and 3. The razor or knife held by Kairos is ascribed a different position in different ancient sources: Posidippus describes it as held in the right hand of Lysippos’ statue, while the Turin and Trogir reliefs depict it in the left hand, which implies that the reliefs represent the statue in a mirror-inverted way: on this, see Boschung 2013, 20 and 33–6 on Posidippus’ epigram. See, for example, Plato, Politicus 307b; Pindar, Pythian IV.286; Hippocrates, Aph. 1.1. Cf. Chapter 4 in this volume. Vorsokr. I.64.11, cited in Wilson 1981, 179. Cf. Boschung 2013, 12. Plutarch, De E 385d–e; De Pyth. or. 408e (attributing these maxims to the Seven sages). See Fontenrose 1978, 294, no. Q77. Cf. also Plutarch, De E 384e–385a, on the inscription of the letter E (EI) on the Delphic temple – linked with the Sages in one of the explanations of its meaning within this dialogue – as relating to Apollo’s role in catalysing the search for knowledge and love of truth. As cited in Wilson 1981, 179. This saying is best known through the epigram of Critias. Plutarch, De E 386c, ed. Sieveking. Trans. Babbit [1936] 2003. Cf. also De Pyth. or. 408c for a similar list of typical questions which clients put to the oracle, that adds “if one ought to make a loan” (εἰ δανειοτέον) to the enquiries about mar­ riage and starting a voyage. See, for example, Raphals 2013, 177–8, who identifies “requests for advice or recommendations for action” as one of four types of mantic question evident in ancient Greece. In Fontenrose’s catalogue (1978) of “historical responses” from the Oracle of Delphi, see nos. H2, H4, H5, H6, H11, H12, H13, H15, H17, H19, H21, H23, H24, H25, H27, H29, H32, H33, H36, H42, H46, H47, H54, H58, H61; catalogue of questions and responses from the Oracle of Didyma: nos. 1, 2, 6, 8, 11, 14, 15, 16, 19, 21, 23, 28, 30, 31, 36, 39, 49, 50. In Eidinow’s catalogue (2007) of ques­ tions put to the Oracle of Dodona, see the catalogue of individual questions and oracular responses: Travel: nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, 14, 15, 19, 21, 22, 23, 26, 27; enquiries about women: nos. 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16; enquiries about the birth of children: nos. 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 11, 16, 18; questions about work: nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 17; enquiries relating to slavery: nos. 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 11; questions about health or disease: nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 10; enquiries about property: nos. 4, 5, 6, 8; questions about ritual activity: nos. 2, 3; enquiries about military campaigns: nos. 1, 2; judicial activity: no. 2; questions about city affairs and politics: no. 1; questions using the formulae “What I have in mind”: nos. 1, 2, 3 Appendix 1 (questions posed by communities), numbers 2, 6, 7, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14. Cf. Eidinow 2007, 132–3; Beerden 2013, 186. On Pythagoras’ links with divination, see also Iamblichus, VP 93, 138, 147–8; Addey 2014a, 276–7; Raphals 2013, 354.

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37 Pausanias 7.22.2–3. Cf. Johnston 2004, 385. 38 Xenophon, Anab.6.4.13.4–14.1, ed. Marchant (1904) 1961.: θυομένοις δὲ ἐπὶ τῇ ἀφόδῳ οὐκ ἐγίγνετο τὰ ἱερά. ταύτην μὲν οὖν τὴν ἡμέραν ἐπαύσαντο. Trans. Brownson and Dillery 1998. Cf. Beerden 2013, 184, and Chapter 3 in this volume. 39 See Chapter 3 for a detailed examination of this episode and the wider parameters of Xenophon’s presentation of military divination; Raphals 2013, 242–47. 40 Rüpke 2014,108–11; Driediger-Murphy 2019, 24–7. 41 Cf. Beerden 2013, 183–4; Rüpke 2014, 101–17. 42 See Chapters 4 and 10. Cf. Gordon 2013, 93–137, on ancient astrology as a ra­ tionalised and rationalising knowledge-practice. 43 For an extensive treatment of these types of katarchic astrology (and of the fourth type – event charts), particularly decumbiture, see Chapter 4 in this volume. 44 Allen 1994, 88. Cf. also Greenbaum 2010, 189–99. 45 Hephaestio, Apotelesmaticorum libri tres 1, Preface 2 (Pingree 1973 vol. 1). Trans. Greenbaum 2010, 197. Cf. Greenbaum 2010, 196–99. See Chapter 4 in this vo­ lume for a detailed treatment of the use of katarchic astrology in medicine. 46 Hephaestio, Apotelesmaticorum libri tres 3, 45.10–15 (Pingree 1973 vol.1). Cf. Greenbaum 2010, 196–99, for a sustained discussion of these issues, and Chapter 4. 47 Vettius Valens V.2.22–3. Cf. Greenbaum 2016, 41, and Chapter 4 in this volume. 48 LSJ s.v. ὁπίσω. Cf. Beerden 2013, 173. The usage of this term also relies on the close association between sight and knowledge which permeated ancient Greek culture. 49 Cf. Birth 2016; North 2018, 25. See also Wagner 2008, 83–102, who examines Jean Piaget’s work which was crucial for the development of modern psycholo­ gical studies of time and temporality. In examining Piaget’s experiments relating to children’s temporal awareness, Wagner notes that Piaget makes the assump­ tion that time is everywhere uniform but does not question or interrogate this assumption (88). Wagner hypothesises that the children do not share this as­ sumption but rather implicitly believe that time may pass, be taken, or operate differently for different existents in different situations – even for the same ex­ istent in different situations (88). Wagner then argues that “There is even quite sophisticated reason to believe that, to some degree, an existent- or situationalspecific conception of temporality is in fact correct and appropriate” (89), ex­ pounding several thought-experiments and examining relativity theory in order to support his argument in an erudite and thought-provoking analysis. 50 On the juxtaposition imposed on kairos and chronos, see North 2018, 27. Ancient philosophical theories about the nature and reality of time are complex and nuanced: on Aristotle’s theory of time and its reception, see Sorabji 1983; North 2018, 21–25. On ancient philosophical conceptions of eternity, cf. Sorabji 1983, 98–136. 51 Although detailed cross-cultural examination beyond the scope of this study, it is vital to note that conceptions of optimal timing and kairotic time can be found in many ancient cultures (such as Mesopotamia, where kairotic time was also re­ lated to divination) and in “non-western” modern cultures. For representative examples, see Beerden 2013, 178, 184 (on Mespotamia and divination). For an intriguing and thoughtful anthropological study of timeliness and the kairos in contemporary Trinidad and Caribbean culture, see Birth 2016, 47–69. 52 Plato, Philebus 66a. Cf. Mattéi 1997, 29–48, esp. 41–6. On Neoplatonic con­ ceptions of time, see Sambursky and Pines 1997; Manchester 2005. 53 Cf. Moutsopoulos 2003, 84, on Proclus’ notion of human agency aligning itself with providential goodness and celestial, cosmic order. Cf. Chapter 3 in this volume.

Divination and the kairos 165 54 See Plato, Laws IV, 709b–c (discussed and quoted earlier); Xenophon, Mem. I.1.7–9; Plutarch, De E 386e10–f2. Cf. De E 384e–385a, 385c–d. See also Chapter 3 in this volume; Moutsopoulos 2002; 2006, 318–21. 55 For the idea that the gods see and know everything, cf. Xenophon, Mem. I.1.7–9; Plutarch, De E 385b, 387b–c (focusing on Apollo specifically); Eunapius, VS 6.9.15.1. See also Chapter 2 in this volume. 56 Plutarch, Quaest. Graec. 292e–f; De Pyth. or. 398a–b. Cf. Parke 1943, 19–22. Plutarch, Life of Alexander 14.4, suggests that there were certain days which were considered inauspicious at Delphi when the oracle could not be consulted Cf. Beerden 2013, 179–80, who suggests that the oracle at Delphi in which a white and black bean were picked (cleromancy) probably operated more often, possibly even continuously, since we are not aware of any time restrictions on its usage. Hesiod, Works and Days 769–71, asserts that the seventh is a holy day from Zeus since Apollo was born from Leto on this day. 57 Fontenrose 1988, 85; Beerden 2013, 179. 58 Cf. Beerden 2013, 181; Rüpke 2014, 101–17. 59 De def. or. 435c, trans. Babbit (1936) 2003. Cf. Simonetti 2017, 108–9. 60 See also Simonetti 2017, 108–9. 61 For further discussion of Plutarch’s multiple causation theory which is used to explain the operation of the Delphic oracle, see below. Cf. also Addey 2014a, 245–46; Simonetti 2017, 97–107. 62 Interestingly, Plutarch (De Is. et Os. 359b) also discusses the practice of Egyptian priests who performed sacrificial rites for the dead, including laying offerings on the tomb of Osiris, on the sacred island of Philae (which had an oracle dedicated to Isis) at “one special time” (ἑνὶ δὲ καιρῷ). 63 De def. or. 436f–437a. Cf. Simonetti 2017, 110. 64 Τούτων ἕνεκα… πρὸ τοῦ χρηστηρίου τὰ σημεῖα λαμβάνουσιν, οἰόμενοι τῷ θεῷ κατάδηλον εἶναι, πότε τὴν πρόσφορον ἔχουσα κρᾶσιν καὶ διάθεσιν ἀβλαβῶς ὑπομενεῖ τὸν ἐνθουσιασμόν. Trans. Babbit (1936) 2003. 65 For a similar interpretation of the episode, see Fontenrose 1978, 208. 66 Parke and Wormell 1956, I.39, take this specific episode to demonstrate that the Pythia, when she sat upon the tripod to give oracles, was “an easy victim to a selfinduced hypnosis. Her conscious ego became submerged” and she uttered “the confused and disjointed remarks of a hypnotized woman.” For a convincing refutation of this interpretation, see Fontenrose 1978, 208, who notes that “far from confirming these widely held [modern] assumptions of the Pythia’s delirious and irrational state, [this account] directly contradicts them.” Cf. Price 1985, 137, n.1; Maurizio 1995, 70; Deeley 2019, 229. See also Chapter 7 in this volume. 67 In late antiquity, Iamblichus also attributes ritual agency and expertise to the seers associated with oracular sanctuaries, including the Pythia at Delphi, the prophet at Claros and the prophetesses at Didyma, by discussing their ritual preparations (such as contemplation or meditation, fasting and bathing in the sacred spring) as the key means of cultivating their receptivity to receive the di­ vine within the oracular ritual: see DM 3.11–12. On Iamblichus’ conception of the receptivity (ἐπιτηδειότης) of the seer as a type of active “instrumental agency,” see Addey 2013, 14–22, 2014a, 221–37, drawing on Keller’s (2002) notion of “in­ strumental agency,” and her important reassessment of agency in relation to possession rituals and divination (2002, especially 9–10, 56–9, 65–6, 82). For a detailed comparison of Plutarch’s and Iamblichus’ conceptions of receptivity in relation to the Pythia, utilising Keller’s notion of “instrumental agency,” see Chapter 6 in this volume. 68 For a detailed examination of Plutarch’s scientific account of divination, in­ cluding his “double causation” theory, see Chapter 6. On Plutarch’s multiple or

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“double causation” theory, its philosophical background and its applicability to the operation of oracles, see Addey 2014a, 245–6; Simonetti 2017, 97–110, who notes that Lamprias’ final account is the most reliable among those proposed in De def. or., as is usually the case with the concluding intervention in Plutarch’s dialogues (97). Plato, Phaedo 98b–c; Aristotle, Metaphysics 983a–b, sets out four kinds of causes which are conceived as operating simultaneously – these are standardly called the Final, Formal, Efficient and Material causes. See Chapter 6 in this volume for a detailed examination of the ways in which Plutarch draws on Plato’s Timaeus in his use of the double causation theory and explanations of divination. For a thorough and erudite examination of Lamprias’ commentary on causes and application of the double-causation theory to the operation of oracles, see Simonetti 2017, 97–107, and Chapter 6 in this volume. At De soll. an. 963b, it is argued that animals possess reason even if their un­ derstanding and intelligence are less acute than humans (since they do not have access to study and education) and, later, they exhibit the key features which philosophers employ as proofs of rationality: purpose, preparation, memory, emotions, care for their young, gratitude, hostility towards threats, and their manifestation of good qualities and virtues, such as courage, sociability and generosity (966b). Cf. also Plutarch, The Eating of Flesh II. 997e; Simonetti 2017, 109. trans. Clarke, Dillon and Hershbell: Καὶ ταῦτα οὐδ’ ὅλως ψιλῶς θεωροῦσιν, ἀλλὰ καὶ διὰ τῆς ἱερατικῆς θεουργίας ἀναβαίνειν ἐπὶ τὰ ὑψηλότερα καὶ καθολικώτερα καὶ τῆς εἱμαρμένης ὑπερκείμενα παραγγέλλουσι πρὸς τὸν θεὸν καὶ δημιουργόν, μήτε ὕλην προσποιουμένοις μήτε ἄλλο τι προσπαραλαμβάνοντας ἢ μόνον καιροῦ παρατήρησιν. It is important to note that although Iamblichus does not name the “Egyptians” here specifically as “theurgists,” it is very clear that he considered them as such because (1) prior to and following this passage, he refers to the Hermetic writings (DM 8.4 [265.10–266.1, 5–10]) and the “the way of Hermes” (DM 8.5 [267.11–268.5]: τὴν ὁδὸν Ἑρμῆς), clear allusions to the Hermetic tradi­ tion which Iamblichus himself closely associated and even identified with theurgy: see also DM 1.1 [2.1–3, 3.6–8, 4.10–12], 10.5–7; Fowden 1986, 150–3; and (2) in the De mysteriis as a whole, Iamblichus identifies the -roots of theurgy jointly in the Egyptian, Chaldean (or Assyrian) and Greek religious traditions and con­ siders theurgy as the preservation of these traditional religions. On the Egyptian roots of theurgy (including Iamblichus‘ use of the pseudonym Abammon, an Egyptian priest), see DM 1.1 [2.1–3, 3.6–8, 4.10–12], 7.1 (249.10–250.5), 8.5 (268.5–7), 8.6; Addey 2014a, 143–4, 159–61, 210–11, 277–8 Cf. Shaw 2007; Addey 2014a, 210–11; Greenbaum 2016, 247–8, 392, and Chapter 4 in this volume; Edmonds 2019, 365–7. On katarchic astrology in Greco-Roman antiquity, see Gordon 2013, 93–137; Greenbaum 2016 and Chapter 4 in this volume. On the roles of astral rites within theurgy, see Chapter 10. Iamblichus, DM 8.4 (265.9–267.10). Cf. also 8.1 (260.14–261.3), 8.5 (267.11–268.7); Edmonds 2019, 367. Eunapius, VS 5.2.1–4 (459), trans. Wright (1921) 2005, with modifications. Eunapius’ account of Iamblichus is based on oral tradition – he states that he heard this account from his teacher Chrysanthius of Sardis who was a pupil of Aedesius, who had been one of Iamblichus’ main philosophical successors: see VS 5.2.8–9 with 5.1.11–12, 5.2.1.1, 5.3.10.3–5. Cf. Watts 2005, 334–61, who compares Eunapius’ account of Iamblichus’ school to oral history; Addey 2018, 147–48. For the planets and heavenly beings as gods, see Iamblichus, DM 1.17–18 (especially 50.113–51.10, 52.11–12). On the connection between the gods and

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cosmic beings and entities as “symbols” and “tokens,” see DM 1.20 (63.4–6), 1.21 (65.2–11), 5.23 (233.9–13), 5.24 (235.4–11). On theurgic divination by statues, see Eunapius, VS 7.2, 6.1–10.6 (Maximus of Ephesus’ theurgic animation of a statue of Hekate); Athanassiadi 1993, 123; Tanaseanu-Döbler 2013, 41, 63–66, 108, 145–47, 155, 190, 219, 241, 244–47, 259–61; Addey 2014a, 252–55. αἵ τε γὰρ τῶν προσιόντων ἀνεπιτηδειότητες λανθάνουσαι τὰ πολλὰ τὴν ἀνθρωπίνην διάνοιαν τῆς δαιμονίας δέονται διακρίσεως καὶ αἱ τῶν καιρῶν διαγνώσεις ὑπ’ ἐκείνης μόνης ἀκριβῶς ἡμῖν ὑπαγορεύεσθαι δύνανται· μεμηχάνηνται μὲν γὰρ καὶ ἄνθρωποι πρὸς τοῦτο μεθόδους τινὰς καὶ τέχνας, ἀλλ’ ἀμυδρὰ καὶ ἡ ἐκ τούτων κατάληψις καὶ τῆς τῶν ἀγαθῶν δαιμόνων ἐνδείξεως πάμπολυ λειπομένη. Trans. O’Neill (1962) 2009, with modifications. Plato, Ap. 40a, with Phdr. 242c and Phd. 85b. Cf. also Ap. 31c–d, 40b–c, 41d; Euthyd. 272e; Resp. VI, 496c;. 2014b, 52–57, and see Chapters 2, 6 and 9 in this volume. ὥσπερ οὖν οἱ θεοὶ τὰς ἰάσεις ταῖς ψυχαῖς τῶν ἁμαρτημάτων καὶ τὰς ἐπικαρπίας ἐν τοῖς προσήκουσι χρόνοις εὐτάκτως ἀπονέμοντες εὐεργετοῦσιν αὐτάς, οὕτω δὴ καὶ οἱ θεοπρεπεῖς ἄνδρες στοχάζονται δευτέρως τοῦ καιροῦ καὶ τῆς εἰς τὰ ἀτελέστερα κατὰ καιρὸν εὐποιΐας· θεοὶ μὲν νοερῶς καὶ θείως ἀφορίζοντες τὰ μέτρα τῶν καιρῶν, ἄνθρωποι δὲ κατ’ ἐπιστήμην αὐτὰ μεταδιώκοντες, οἱ δὲ καὶ κατὰ τὴν δαιμονίαν ἐπίπνοιαν τὴν θήραν αὐτῆς ποιούμενοι. μεγάλη γὰρ ῥοπὴ ταῖς ἐν γενέσει ψυχαῖς τῆς ἀναμαρτήτου τῶν καιρῶν διαγνώσεως ἡ τῶν ἀγαθῶν δαιμόνων συνουσία. Trans. O’Neill (1962) 2009, with modifications. Cf. Moutsopoulos 2003, 163–6. Proclus, In Alc. 90.9–18. On reincarnation (or the “transmigration of souls”) within Neoplatonism, see, for example, Plotinus, Enn. III.4.2. 16–31; VI.7.6.20–36; Iamblichus, DM 4.4–5 (186.5–187.7). In Alc. 123.5–8: ὅταν δὲ πρός τι τῶν κινουμένων, πολλάκις καὶ τὸ δεξόμενον ἐπιτήδειόν ἐστι καὶ τὸ μεταδῶσον ἄπεστι· δεῖ γὰρ καὶ τοῦτο ἐν αὐτῷ γενέσθαι, τόπου δεόμενον εἰς τὴν μετάδοσιν. Vettius Valens VI.1.4–5 and 7. Cf. Greenbaum 2016, 34. Vettius Valens VI.1.15–16. Cf. also V.6.9, 8.12 with Greenbaum 2016, 38–39. Vettius Valens, IV.11.7, ed. Pingree 1986, 163.13–17:…καὶ δή πολὺν μὲν χρόνον ἀνιαρῶς διήγομεν, καὶ ἐπιλύπως τὰς μέταβολάς τῶν τόπων ποιούμενοι, τοῖς περὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα ἐσπουδαικόσι συμμἰσγοντες, διάπειραν ἔλαμβάνομεν, μέχρις, οὗ τὸ δαιμόνιον βουλθὲν διά τινος προνοίας τὴν παράδοσιν ἐν τινι τόπῳ πεποίηται διά τινος φιλομαθοῦς ἀνδρός. Trans. Greenbaum 2016, 36. Cf. Greenbaum 2016, 36–45, who also suggests that the phrase “wished-for daimonion” (τὸ δαιμόνιον βουλθὲν) may indicate that Valens had experienced contact with his daimonion previously (36). Eunapius, VS 6.9.12.6–15.1 (470); 6.9.7.1–4 (470). Cf. Denzey Lewis 2014, 276–77; Addey 2018, 144–61. For a detailed examination of the ways in which Eunapius’ use of this phrase implicitly links Sosipatra with Socrates and Plotinus, and the ways in which Sosipatra teachers her pupil Maximus of Ephesus about the appropriate timing, ethics and contexts for theurgic ritual – as based upon her kairotic expertise, see Addey 2018, 152–4. Eunapius, VS 6.8.4–5 (469). In his interpretation of Plato’s Socrates, Proclus (In Alc. 80.21–81.7, 163.5–11) maintains that the fact that the daimonion always gives negative prohibitions to deter Socrates from a course of action rather than po­ sitive injunctions is due to Socrates’ advanced state of ethical and spiritual de­ velopment and ‘divine-like’ nature – he is an agent of divine providence who needs no encouragement to pursue the good or care for the souls of others, which is interesting to consider in relation to Eunapius’ characterisation of Sosipatra’s

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guardian god as delivering a negative prohibition (rather than positive injunc­ tions or advice) to her. Cf. Addey 2014b, 64–5. 90 Cf. VS 6.9.1.1–6 (469); Addey 2014a, 148. 91 See above for Eunapius’ portrayal of Iamblichus’ kairotic expertise in relation to his ritual practice. On the complementarity of philosophical and ritual expertise in Neoplatonism, see Addey 2014a, especially 1–4, 171–213, 278–80. On the in­ extricably linked relationship between Sosipatra’s divinatory and philosophical expertise, and on the parallels between Eunapius’ depictions of Iamblichus and Sosipatra, see Addey 2018, 144–61. 92 Cf. Marinus, Proclus 28.8–15, 29; Denzey Lewis 2014, 279; Addey 2018, 155–6.

Bibliography Ancient works: texts and translations Aristotle. Metaphysics. Translated by Hugh Tredennick, Vol. 17. Books I–IX. LCL 271. 1933. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics. In Aristotelis ethica Nicomachea, Edited by I. Bywater. (1894) 1962. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Also cited: Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by H. Rackham. 1926. LCL 73. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Eunapius. Vitae sophistarum. Edited by J. Giangrande. 1956. Rome: Polygraphica. Also cited: Eunapius. Lives of the Philosophers and Sophists. Edited and translated by Wilmer Cave Wright. (1921) 2005. LCL 134. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. The Greek Anthology. Volume V: Book 13: Epigrams in Various Metres. Book 14: Arithmetical Problems, Riddles, Oracles. Book 15: Miscellanea. Book 16: Epigrams of the Planudean Anthology Not in the Palatine Manuscript. Translated by W. R. Paton. 1918. LCL 86. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hephaestio of Thebes. Apotelesmaticorum libri tres. Edited by David Pingree. 1973. 2 vols. Leipzig: Teubner. Hesiod. Works and Days. Edited by Martin L. West. 1978. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hippocrates. Aphorisms. In Oeuvres complètes d‘Hippocrate, Edited by É. Littré. 1962. Amsterdam: Hakkert. Homer. Iliad. Volume I: Books 1–12. Translated by A.T. Murray. Revised by William F. Wyatt. 1924. LCL 170. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Iamblichus. On the Mysteries (De mysteriis). Edited and translated by Emma C. Clarke, John M., Dillon and Jackson P. Hershbell. 2003. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Iamblichus. On the Pythagorean Way of Life. Translated by John Dillon and Jackson Hershbell. 1991. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Marinus. Proclus ou Sur le Bonheur. Edited by H.D. Saffrey and A.-P. Segonds. 2001. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Pausanias. Description of Greece, Volume II: Books 3–5. Translated by W.H.S. Jones and H.A. Ormerod. 1926. LCL 188. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Pausanias. Description of Greece, Volume III: Books 6–8.21. Translated by W. H. S. Jones. 1933. LCL 272. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Pindar. Pythian Odes. In Pindari carmina cum fragmentis, pt. 1, 5th edition, edited by H. Maehler (post B. Snell). 1971. Leipzig: Teubner.

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Inscriptions Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum. Edited by August Boeckh. 1828–1838. Berlin: Officina Academica.

Modern works Addey, Crystal. 2013. “Ecstasy Between Divine and Human: Re-assessing Agency in Iamblichean Divination and Theurgy.” In Literary, Philosophical, and Religious Studies in the Platonic Tradition, edited by John F. Finamore and John Phillips, 7–24. Berlin: Academia Verlag. Addey, Crystal. 2014a. Divination and Theurgy in Neoplatonism: Oracles of the Gods. Farnham: Ashgate. Addey, Crystal. 2014b. “The daimonion of Socrates: Daimones and Divination in Neoplatonism.” In The Neoplatonic Socrates: Essays in Late Antiquity and the Reception of Socrates, edited by Danielle A. Layne and Harold Tarrant, 51–72. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. Addey, Crystal. 2018. “Sosipatra: Prophetess, Philosopher and Theurgist: Reflections on Divination and Epistemology in Late Antiquity.” In Prophets and Profits: Ancient Divination and its Reception, edited by Richard Evans, 144–61. New York, NY: Routledge. Allan, Arlene. 2005. “Situational aesthetics: the deification of Kairos, son of Hermes.” In Personification in the Greek World: From Antiquity to Byzantium, edited by Emma Stafford and Judith Herrin, 123–34. Aldershot: Ashgate, 123–34. Allen, James. 1994. “Failure and Expertise in the Ancient Conception of an Art.” In Scientific Failure, edited by Tamara Horowitz and Allen I. Janis, 81–108. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield. Athanassiadi, Polymnia. 1993. “Dreams, Theurgy and Freelance Divination: The Testimony of Iamblichus.” The Journal of Roman Studies 83: 115–30.

Divination and the kairos 171 Beerden, Kim. 2013. Worlds Full of Signs: Ancient Greek Divination in Context. Leiden: Brill. Birth, Kevin B 2016. Time Blind. Problems in Perceiving Other Temporalities. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Boschung, Dietrich. 2013. Kairos as a Figuration of Time: A Case Study. München: Wilhelm Fink. Burkert, Walter. 1972. Lore and Science in Ancient Pythagoreanism. Translated by Edwin L. Minar, Jr. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Carter, Michael. 1988. “Stasis and Kairos: Principles of Social Construction in Classical Rhetoric.” Rhetoric Review 7, no. 1 (Autumn): 97–112. Deeley, Quinton. 2019. “The Pythia at Delphi: A Cognitive Reconstruction of Oracular Possession.” In Ancient Divination and Experience, edited by Lindsay Driediger-Murphy and Esther Eidinow, 226–52. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Denzey Lewis, Nicola. 2014. “Living Images of the Divine: Female Theurgists in Late Antiquity.” In Daughters of Hecate: Women and Magic in the Ancient World, edited by K. B. Stratton and D.S. Kalleres, 274–97. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Driediger-Murphy, Lindsay G. 2019. Roman Republican Augury. Freedom and Control. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Edmonds, Radcliffe G. III. 2019. Drawing Down the Moon. Magic in the Ancient Greco-Roman World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Eidinow, Esther. 2007. Oracles, Curses and Risk among the ancient Greeks. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fontenrose, Joseph. 1978. The Delphic Oracle: Its Responses and Operations with a Catalogue of Responses. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Fontenrose, Joseph. 1988. Didyma: Apollo’s Oracle, Cult and Companions. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Fowden, Garth. 1986. The Egyptian Hermes. A Historical Approach to the Late Pagan Mind. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Gordon, Richard. 2013. “Will my Child have a Big Nose? Uncertainty, Authority and Narrative in Katarchic Astrology.” In Divination in the Ancient World: Religious Options and the Individual, edited by Veit Rosenberger, 93–137. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Greenbaum, Dorian Gieseler. 2010. “Arrows, Aiming and Divination: Astrology as a Stochastic Art.” In Divination: Perspectives for a New Millennium, edited by Patrick Curry, 179–209. Farnham: Ashgate. Greenbaum, Dorian Gieseler. 2016. The Daimon in Hellenistic Astrology: Origins and Influence. Leiden: Brill. Huffman, Carl. (2006) 2019. “Pythagoreanism.” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/pythagoreanism/#math (accessed: 21 October 2020). Johnston, Sarah Iles. ed. 2004. Religions of the Ancient World: A Guide. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Keller, Mary. 2002. The Hammer and the Flute: Women, Power and Spirit Possession. Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University Press. Lacrosse, Joachim. 1997. “Chronos psychique, aiôn noétique et kairos hénologique chez Plotin.” In Les Figures du Temps, edited by Lambros Couloubaritsis and Jean-Jacques Wunenburger, 75–88. Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de Strasbourg.

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Lamberton, Robert. 2001. Plutarch. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Manchester, Peter. 2005. The Syntax of Time: the Phenomenology of Time in Greek Physics and Speculative Logic from Iamblichus to Anaximander. Boston, MA: Brill. Mattéi, Jean-François. 1997. “Les figures du temps chez Platon.” In Les Figures du Temps, edited by Lambros Couloubaritsis and Jean-Jacques Wunenburger, 29–48. Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de Strasbourg. Maurizio, Lisa. 1995. “Anthropology and Spirit Possession: A Reconsideration of the Pythia’s Role at Delphi.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 115: 69–86. Moutsopoulos, Evanghélos. 1997. “Le statut philosophique du kairos.” In Les Figures du Temps, edited by Lambros Couloubaritsis and Jean-Jacques Wunenburger, 49–56. Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de Strasbourg. Moutsopoulos, Evanghélos. 2002. Variations sur le thème du kairos: de Socrate à Denys. Paris: Instituts philosophiques réunis. Moutsopoulos, Evanghélos. 2003. Structure, Présence et Fonctions du Kairos chez Proclus. Athens: Centre de Recherche sur la Philosophie Grecque. Moutsopoulos, Evanghélos. 2006. “Hasard, nécessité et kairos dana philosophie de Platon.” Mélanges Germaine Anjac, Pallas 72: 315–321. Moutsopoulos, Evanghélos. 2010. Reflets et Résonances du Kairos, Athens: Académie d’Athènes Centre de Recherche sur la Philosophie Grecque. North, Michael. 2018. What Is the Present? Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Parke, H.W. 1943. “The Days for Consulting the Delphic Oracle.” The Classical Quarterly 37, no. 1/2 (January-April): 19–22. Parke, H.W. and D.E.W. Wormell. 1956. The Delphic Oracle. 2 vols. Oxford: Blackwell. Price, Simon. 1985. “Delphi and divination.” In Greek Religion and Society, edited by Pat Easterling and John V. Muir, Cambridge. Raphals, Lisa. 2013. Divination and Prediction in Early China and Ancient Greece. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rüpke, Jörg. 2014. Religion: Antiquity and its Legacy. London: IB Tauris. Sambursky, S. and S. Pines. 1997. The Concept of Time in Late Neoplatonism. Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities. Shaw, Gregory. 2007. “Astrology as Divination: Iamblichean Theory and Its Contemporary Practice.” In Metaphysical Patterns in Platonism: Ancient, Medieval, Renaissance and Modern Times, edited by John F. Finamore and Robert M. Berchman, 73–85. New Orleans, LA: University Press of the South. Shew, Melissa. 2013. “The Kairos of Philosophy.” Journal of Speculative Philosophy 27, no. 1: 47–66. Simonetti, Elsa Giovanna. 2017. A Perfect Medium? Oracular Divination in the Thought of Plutarch. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Sorabji, Richard. 1983. Time, Creation and the Continuum. Theories in Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages. London: Duckworth. Stafford, Emma. 2000. Worshipping Virtues: Personification and the Divine in Ancient Greece. London: Duckworth. Tanaseanu-Döbler, Ilinca. 2013. Theurgy in Late Antiquity. The Invention of a Ritual Tradition. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Wagner, Michael. 2008. The Enigmatic Reality of Time: Aristotle, Plotinus and Today. Boston, MA: Brill.

Divination and the kairos 173 Watts, Edward. 2005. “Orality and Communal Identity in Eunapius’ Lives of the Sophists and Philosophers.” Byzantion 75: 334–61. Wilson, John R. 1980. “Kairos as ‘Due Measure’.” Glotta 58, no. 3/4: 177–204. Wilson, John R. 1981. “Kairos as ‘Profit.’” The Classical Quarterly 31, no. 2: 418–420. Zhu, Rui. 2006. “’Kairos: Between Cosmic Order and Human Agency: A Comparative Study of Aurelius and Confucius.” The Journal of Religious Ethics 34, no. 1 (March): 115–138.

6

The Pythia as matter: Plutarch’s scientific account of divination Elsa Giovanna Simonetti

The image of the Pythia Delphic divination has stimulated a great interest amongst ancient and modern authors; this is mainly due to its arcane, mysterious nature and its influence in multiple fields, including religion and politics, epistemological theories and, more broadly, communal social life.1 The fascinating character of the Pythia – the main protagonist involved in the divinatory act – has undoubtedly contributed to the fame of the Delphic oracle in specialised scholarship and beyond. The characterisation of the Pythia, both in ancient and modern times, tends to be viewed in dichotomous terms: some see her as irrational and frenzied (Rohde 1925, 289–91; Parke and Wormell 1956, I: 37–9), others as calm and lucid (Maurizio 1995; Price 1985). Within this controversy, Ana Iriarte (1990, 188) points out a crucial issue that, however simple, must always be borne in mind in order to understand the hypothetical, tentative nature of the interpretations proposed through the centuries. Iriarte’s caveat is the following: we do not have any empirical evidence for the psychic status of the Pythia, nor for the behaviour induced by divine possession.2 Nevertheless, as this chapter will show, Plutarch of Chaeronea (c. 45–120 CE) provides an extremely original answer to the long-disputed question concerning the “rationality” or “irrationality” of the Pythia – a solution that is of exceptional significance for both the history of philosophy and the tradition of female prophecy. Plutarch’s perspective is especially valuable since he was both a priest at the Delphic oracle for at least 20 years,3 and an important representative of “Middle-Platonism” – a chronological designation employed by modern scholars to refer to the Platonists of the early imperial age (c. first–second centuries CE), characterised by the common adherence to fundamental theoretical assumptions and beliefs.4 In order to circumscribe the activity and role of the priestess, and the present investigation, this chapter will distinguish two kinds of inspired divination (ἄτεχνος μαντική) present in Plutarch’s writings: the one is performed by the Pythia in Delphi under precise rules and within the institutional framework of the oracular shrine; the other is practised by some

The Pythia as matter 175 gifted individuals and can be effectively defined as “philosophical,” “independent” and “Socratic.” On the Sign of Socrates is the dialogue that Plutarch devotes to Socrates’ daimonic inspiration.5 The theme of the “divine sign” (δαιμόνιον σημεῖον) or “voice” in relation to Socrates’ philosophical life and mission is originally Platonic and is found especially in the Apology (cf. 31c–d) and the Phaedrus (cf. 242c). Plutarch’s daimonological theory – and the same can be said for those developed by other Middle-Platonists – stems from Plato’s heritage but also consists of the large-scale recycling of material from different sources (such as Hesiod, Xenocrates and the Pythagoreans).6 What is important here is to focus on how Plutarch re-interprets the “divine sign” received by Socrates as a prophetic message delivered by disembodied daimones to the inner daimôn of authentically wise, virtuous individuals, who conduct a real philosophical life. In Plutarch’s On the Sign of Socrates, the interior daimôn (δαίμων) appears to coincide with the intellect (νοῦς): the daimôn is the most rational and sublime part of our soul which, if kept pure and detached from corporeal influences (cf. 588d–f), receives divine instructions from superior beings, that is to say, from the demigods (δαίμονες). These divine messages, destined only for some selected individuals, reach their inner daimôn directly, without the need of any external ritual-institutional apparatus and guide these human beings through a divine educational path (παιδεία). Daimonic divination, as an inspired form of knowledge acquisition, excludes any involvement on the part of the irrational soul; rather, it proves a non-mediated connection between one’s most sublime psychic part (the δαίμων) and the divine. The protagonist of oracular-institutional prophecy described in the Delphic dialogues is completely different: the Pythia is a simple, uncultivated peasant who lacks any education, experience and philosophical upbringing. When she first enters the sacred shrine and starts her partnership with Apollo, she resembles a virgin bride arriving in her marital home (Plutarch, De Pyth. or. 405c). As this chapter attempts to demonstrate, Plutarch makes clear that oracular divination is radically different from, if not opposed to, the Socratic-philosophical kind: far from being founded on the activity of the intellect-daimôn, oracular prophecy appears to require an impairment of the rational part of the soul. Indeed, upon this very principle lies the distinction between the prophet (captured in a state of enthusiasm) and the interpreter (who maintains a sound mind), which we find both in Plutarch and in his master Plato (cf. also Ti. 72a–b). In The Obsolescence of Oracles, inspired possession is described as a radical change of status that involves the irrational part of the human soul (παθητικόν) and occurs when the rational part (λογιστικόν, φροντιστικόν) is diverted from the present (De def. or. 432b–433c). Indeed, the prophetic stream emerging from the earth in Delphi – the so-called pneûma (πνεῦμα), whose nature is similar to that of the soul – awakens the “image-making” faculty of the soul (φανταστικόν), which is influenceable by corporeal

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impressions and in charge of divination (φανταστικὴ καὶ μαντικὴ δύναμις).7 The apprehension of the future therefore happens in an irrational, illogical, imaginative way (432d: ἀσυλλογίστως, 432f: ἀλόγως, 433c: φαντασιαστικῶς). In light of this, should we really postulate Delphic and Socratic divination as completely antithetic, or would it be possible to envisage some kind of continuity between them? And this leads to the following, broader and controversial, question: how do these two modes of divination relate to the distinction between ancient definitions of irrationality and rationality? Divination in the ancient world was commonly divided into a natural and a technical kind. In simple terms, the former was based on inspiration, the latter on induction and decipherment of signs.8 Instead, in Plutarch, both kinds of divination (the inspiration attained by the Delphic Pythia, and the “rational” illumination touching the soul of Socrates and those of all the wisest human beings) require the highest receptivity on the part of the human medium, while the difference lies mostly in the kind of preparation required to perform each of these divinatory acts. Indeed, if we focus on the distinct dynamics of Delphic and Socratic divination, we can also spot two main similarities: first, both the Pythia and Socrates qualify as passive agents who employ specific psychic faculties which are naturally inherent to all human souls. Therefore, neither of them relies, strictly speaking, on external components and instruments; thus, they both receive divine illumination directly within themselves. Secondly, from an epistemological perspective, Delphic and Socratic divination (notwithstanding the supposed rationality of the latter) are both utterly far from falling under the scope of “rational divination” as a form of lucid analysis and decipherment of oblique messages. As a result, according to ancient standards of reflection, there would be no way to characterise the one as less rational than the other. Delphic and Socratic inspiration, moreover, appear to be even closer when we consider that Plutarch never talks of inspiration as a possession – a theoretical stance that radically distinguishes his approach from that of Plato (Ti. 71e).9 We can infer from Plutarch’s dualistic ontological perspective, according to which the divine and human planes are radically distinct, no divine being could ever conjoin with, or enter into, a material body, let alone take control over it to perform acts like moving or talking. This implies that the Pythia is at least partly responsible for what she utters, which makes her action more similar to Socrates’ “philosophical” illumination than to the raving fury of the possessed Bacchants. Therefore, when we shine a light on these two kinds of divination (the one Socratic and philosophical, the other oracular and inspired, performed by the uncultivated Pythia), they appear as parts of a continuum, rather than as two antithetic poles and irreconcilable extremes.10 Focussing specifically on the Pythia’s kind of inspiration, as the present chapter intends to demonstrate, will help to show that Plutarch’s philosophical reflection on divinatory practice is solidly grounded in his

The Pythia as matter 177 cosmological theory, the latter of which he develops based on an accurate reading of the works of his ancient master, the philosopher Plato, and will illuminate the profoundly original characterisation that the Delphic prophetess acquires in this scheme. Indeed, Dario Sabbatucci (1989) has shown the strong interrelations – which Plutarch’s works also confirm – existing between divination and cosmology, and demonstrated that divinatory practices are inextricably linked with the peculiar culture and system of values in which they arise. Sabbatucci, intending to define divination in a historical-objective way – and thus to analyse it independently from subjective value-judgements, envisioned it as embedded within systematic representations of the cosmos and as a way of giving order to reality by “writing”/“describing” and “reading” it in a coherent way (Sabbatucci 1989, 13). In particular, ancient Greek oracular divination, of which Sabbatucci stresses the “cosmicising” function, emerges as an important means for ordering the world and making sense of it (see also Sabbatucci 1992). In his work, he points out in a clear and convincing fashion a pivotal aspect shared by a wide range of divinatory techniques: the important role that they play within the wider process of creating a specific world-view. My analysis of the cosmic and cosmicising aspects of Plutarch’s theory of divination will focus on his Delphic dialogues, a group of philosophical writings expressly devoted to the Delphic shrine, its physical appearance and ritual apparatus.11 These dialogical works – containing multiple dialogic voices – need to be squared with some treatises that allow for a fairly reliable reconstruction of Plutarch’s philosophical views, in particular: On moral virtue (De virtute morali), On the generation of the soul in the Timaeus (De animae procreatione in Timaeo) and On Isis and Osiris (De Iside et Osiride).

Plutarch’s cosmology It is not only Plutarch’s account of oracular prophecy that is deeply rooted within cosmology; rather, he tends to systematically apply his cosmological theory to multiple areas of philosophical investigation – such as politics, ethics and epistemology, as well as oracular divination. As we will see, the profound originality of Plutarch’s views on the function, nature and role of the Delphic priestess as a privileged prophetic medium become especially clear and significant when analysed in relation to their cosmological framework. Plutarch’s cosmology is based on his exegesis of Plato’s dialogues (especially the Timaeus and the Laws) and is developed in his commentary On the Generation of the Soul in the Timaeus. This accurate commentary on the creation of the world soul (psychogonia) described in Plato’s Timaeus (31a1–36b5) attests to the rising importance of exegesis in the philosophical practice of the early imperial age (Donini 1987; Ferrari 2001). Plutarch’s original reading of Plato’s Timaeus sets him apart from the majority of the Platonists.12 By relying on a literal interpretation of the Timaeus

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cosmogony, he argues that the world has come about in time and from two principles: the “monadic principle” (νοῦς, ταὐτό, τὸ ἀμερές), which corresponds to the creator god; and the “indefinite dyad” (ψυχή, τὸ ἔτερον, τὸ μεριστόν), which corresponds to the material principle. Before the creation of the cosmos, matter is animated in a disorderly manner by an evil soul, devoid of reason (cf. De an. procr. 1014b). The god, who is the transcendent principle of rationality, created order out of this pre-cosmic disorder,13 by means of symmetry, proportion and harmony (De an. procr. 1015f ).14 Matter thus ceases to move chaotically, brought into order by god’s “gentle imposition” of forms: this “moderate” action is performed by the rational divine principle (νοῦς or λόγος) through “gentle persuasion” (πειθοῖ μεμιγμένην ἀνάγκην, De an. procr. 1026B), without any violence or constriction. According to Plutarch, indeed, the demiurge-god is not omnipotent: he does not have the power to counteract the necessity (ἀνάγκη) inherent in matter, which is the law that regulates the world of becoming and according to which “specific effects follow regularly from specific causes” (Morrow 1950, 157). What we might call the “delicate moulding” and “respectful ordering action” that god exerts on pre-cosmic nature is an extremely important concept, which will also be useful for explaining the phenomenon of oracular divination: a surprisingly similar “cosmicising dynamic” aimed at creating a “perfect psychic balance” by means of a “gentle imposition” lies at the core of the process of oracular prophecy. The soul (both the cosmic soul and the human soul), which performs the essential function of mediating between the sensible and the intelligible realms, is a pivotal element in Plutarch’s theory of divination and the main point of contact between his divinatory and cosmological theories. Plutarch’s dualism has ontological and epistemological aspects: the fundamental ontological distinction between material and immaterial reality is therefore reflected in the division between sensible and intelligible knowledge (Plutarch, Plat. quaest. 1002b–c). The relation between the realm of being (τὸ ὄν) and that of becoming (τὸ γιγνόμενον)15 is conceived as that between an ideal model and its contingent copy or image (εἰκών).16 Opinion (δόξα) relating to physical events is confined to likelihood and probability, and is constitutionally inferior to perfect knowledge and the science (ἐπιστήμη) of what is really and eternally existent.17 Human knowledge is built on the complex relationship between the physical and the transcendent realm, and all the different disciplines – natural sciences, theology, political theory, ethics and so on – are therefore strictly interconnected and share similar epistemological principles.

The notion of matter in Plutarch The concept of “matter” is crucial for understanding the connections between divination and cosmology in Plutarch, and for appreciating the epistemologically accurate explanation that he provides for prophetic inspiration. Plutarch

The Pythia as matter 179 develops his definition of “matter” starting from Plato’s chôra (χώρα), which acquires a set of different meanings throughout the Timaeus and is generally intended as the “receptacle of all becoming” (49a5–6; cf. 52a8, d3) – that is to say, the space where the demiurgic action of the god takes place. However, in Plutarch’s works, Plato’s chôra tends to be transformed into, and identified with, matter (ὕλη – which is a term notoriously absent in Plato). The conceptual conjunction between the notions of “receptacle” and “matter” – already present in Aristotle (cf. Ph. Δ 2, 209) and commonly shared by other Middle-Platonists (cf. Alcinous, Didask. 162, 29–31)18 – is also confirmed by some expressions employed by Plutarch where the two terms are clearly identified, such as: “matter and nature” (ὕλη καὶ φύσις, De def. or. 414f ), or “chôra and matter” (χώρα καὶ ὕλη, De Is. et Os. 372e–f). The overlap between these two concepts is formulated unequivocally in On the generation of the soul in the Timaeus: there, Plutarch ascribes it to Plato, who “named matter ‘mother’ and ‘receptacle’” (De an. procr. 1015d: ὁ γὰρ Πλάτων μητέρα μὲν καὶ τιθήνην καλεῖ τὴν ὕλην) – although “mother” (μήτηρ) and “receptacle” (τιθήνη) are actually two of the terms that Plato notoriously associates not with “matter,” but with “chôra.” In another passage, Plutarch makes the even more explicit assertion that “Plato called matter chôra, which is the seat and substrate” (1024c: χώραν τε γὰρ καλεῖ τὴν ὕλην ὥσπερ ἕδραν ἔστιν ὅτε καὶ ὑποδοχήν). Plutarch’s notion of “matter” therefore condenses a wide range of functions and features, even more numerous than those which Plato associated with the notion of chôra. According to Plutarch, matter is not a passive principle (as it is instead for the Stoics); rather, it is actively involved in the demiurgic creation of the world. The demiurge realises the cosmic order without any imposition, but through intelligent persuasion: therefore, the “intelligent design” finally implemented is profoundly influenced by the material elements involved in generation and their intrinsic qualities and nature.

The Pythia as matter This section will attempt to demonstrate that Plutarch’s characterisation of matter shows meaningful points of contact with his own conception and depiction of the Delphic priestess. In order to do so, it will be necessary to focus on two renowned works of Plutarch, which are devoted to the quantitative and qualitative decline of the prophetic activity of the Delphic oracle, respectively: The Obsolescence of Oracles and The Oracles at Delphi No Longer Given in Verse – the latter of which is specifically centred on the nature, features and role of the Delphic prophetess, who is significantly described as an active human instrument in the gentle hands of Apollo (see Plutarch, De Pyth. or. 404e, 405c–d, 408c–d). The parallelism that will be proposed in the present chapter will help us to understand the special status of the Delphic priestess within the divinatory process and the original way in which Plutarch faces the dilemma between a “calm” versus a “frenzied”

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Pythia. This analysis will also pave the way for an examination of the possible connections between Plutarch’s characterisation of the oracular prophetess and contemporary anthropological studies. To this end, it will be useful to classify the similarities between the Pythia and matter under four main aspects or notions: derangement, purity, resistance and receptivity. The chaotic motions of the Pythia’s soul, the ritual purity required from her, her action as a non-neutral medium and her responsiveness towards the god’s power coincide with as many aspects of Plutarch’s multifaceted characterisation of matter. In discussing the reasons for this multi-layered parallelism, this chapter will also take into account the influence exerted on Plutarch’s account by Plato’s dialogues. Derangement Looking closely at the passage of The Oracles at Delphi No Longer Given in Verse that describes the chaotic motions of the Pythia’s soul (404e), the precosmic evil soul of On the Generation of the Soul in the Timaeus soon comes to mind. The Oracles at Delphi portrays the priestess as unable to be calm, quiet and stable; she is in a state of complete disorder (ἐν σάλῳ) that agitates her body and soul.19 This chaotic status is caused by the fact that the Pythia “abdicates” her own rationality (λογιστικὸν καὶ φροντιστικόν): the rational part of her soul, paralysed by the pneûma and diverted from the present, relinquishes its natural role (De def. or. 432d, 433c). This peculiar dynamic causes her soul as a whole to remain without a guiding principle and at the mercy of its own intrinsic, disordered movements. The coincidence between the role and status of the Pythia and that of precosmic matter is also proven by some passages of The Obsolescence of Oracles corresponding to Lamprias’ interventions – a character who represents a fairly reliable source for understanding Plutarch’s own point of view.20 In particular, Lamprias connects disorder to the lack of a rational-ordering principle; more precisely, disorder is the state of that from which the rational power of god is absent (οὗ θεὸς ἄπεστιν, De def. or. 387e)21 – an assertion which echoes the Timaeus’ renowned image of the pre-cosmic chôra as a winnowing basket where the grain is tossed and sifted (Plato, Ti. 52e).22 The soul is the principle of movement, but only the ordering power of intellect is able to generate a movement that is rational and harmonious. As explained in On the Generation of the Soul, it is an evil soul, an unintelligent cause (ἀνοήτου […] αἰτίας, 1015e) that, in the absence of the divine, moves pre-cosmic matter chaotically (cf. 1041b, 1014d–1015c) and becomes indistinguishable from it: this is exactly the irrational soul or, as Plutarch also names it, the soul itself, or the soul per se (ψυχή). When the god intervenes to create an order out of the primordial chaos (ἀκοσμία), he arranges it by means of analogy and balance (δι’ἀναλογίας καὶ μεσότητος, De def. or. 430c). As will be explained below, the very same process characterises the soul of the Pythia when she submits herself to the power of inspiration.

The Pythia as matter 181 Purity The Pythia in the Delphic dialogues is described as pure and characterless like the chôra (χώρα) in the Timaeus. Like the Platonic receptacle, she has to be neutral to the highest possible degree in order to mediate between the intelligible and sensible realms: only in this way can she work as a reliable medium and an effective human instrument for divination (ὄργανον ἔμψυχον; De Pyth. or. 404b). According to Plutarch (De def. or. 414f–415a), Plato was the first to discover matter’s function as a neutral “receptacle” (ὑποκείμενον) and as a foundational constituent that underlies all created qualities – a discovery that helped to solve many difficulties in philosophy. The Delphic priestess must be sound and pure in her body and soul in order to perform the prophetic act successfully. Exactly like the Platonic receptacle, the Pythia needs to be devoid of characters and ideas (τῶν ἰδεῶν), and to receive them from elsewhere – exactly as happens with gold or other malleable materials employed in craftsmanship (Plato, Ti. 50b–51b). She is akin to a mirror, which needs to be bright and sharp in order to properly reflect the messages sent from Apollo – in the same way as the moon reflects the light of the sun (De def. or. 416e). As we read in The Obsolescence of Oracles (437d), the Delphic prophetess must be in a calm and peaceful state of mind when she submits herself to divine inspiration; she has to be clean and free from the railing disturbances and chaotic movements (δυσχέρειαι καὶ κινήσεις) intrinsic to her (irrational) soul, or soul per se (see above). When approaching the sacred source of prophecy, she must be exempt from her own inner agitations, which have no part in the divinatory process; she needs to be well-tuned and harmonious, like a musical instrument.23 As clearly stated in The Oracles at Delphi (408c), the Pythia is an inexperienced and uneducated woman. The purity expected from her is fundamentally ritualistic, simply involving no contact with strangers or other contaminating factors (Simonetti 2017, 202) – a condition that is far from the ethical-philosophical perfection required in “Socratic” divination, whose “rational” character has been examined at the beginning of this chapter. All the scrupulous rituals prescribed by the Delphic orthopraxis and the complex ceremonial procedures anticipating the consultation appear to compensate for the lack of rational-philosophical preparation on the part of the Pythia and therefore are supposed to create a controlled cultic framework and a rationally organised ideal space in which the interaction between the human medium and divine knowledge and power can take place.24 Unlike the chosen, inspired individuals (θεῖοι, θεοφιλεῖς) who in On the Sign of Socrates are said to receive direct divine inspiration, the Pythia is unable to attain prophetic knowledge by relying only on her daimôn or soul, since she lacks all the moral and intellectual qualities required for this, nor – given her life of ignorance of, and isolation from, the external world – has she the chance to develop them in any way. Moreover, a passage from The

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Obsolescence of Oracles (432d) confirms that it is not only the person of the Pythia (with her body and soul) that must be pure, but – at a deeper level – her very mantic psychic faculty (the μαντικόν) must be clean and undefined, exactly like a tabula rasa (ἄγραφον γραμματεῖον), clear and ready to receive impressions.25 Resistance Matter – in the demiurgic creation of the cosmos – and the Pythia – in the divinatory act – do not remain passive and inert, but both exert a certain degree of resistance against the ordering action performed by the superior power of divine reason (λόγος). They are not “indifferent” mediums; instead, they resist with their own qualities and nature against the harmonising power of intellect that gently guides and persuades them into order. The intrinsic characteristics of the inferior material principles nevertheless influence the ideal design conceived by divine intelligence, which is therefore implemented only in an imperfect way, as a “fallible” and “approximate” copy. Accordingly, the thoughts (νοήματα)26 that Apollo wants to convey to humankind by means of the Pythia, as well as the whole complex of the Delphic ritual-prophetic apparatus, are inevitably subject to distortion (διαφορά, De Pyth. or. 404c), due to the intermediation of the mortal body and simple soul of the prophetess. The god, who always acts in accordance with the individual qualities of humans (τέχνη ἢ δύναμις, De Pyth. or. 405a), inspires the Pythia indirectly, by engendering images and representations (φαντασίαι) and by illuminating her soul with a spiritual light that allows her to see the future (φῶς, De Pyth. or. 397c). In this process, the prophetess is therefore an active instrument or medium: by reacting according to her own nature and limited knowledge, she is primarily responsible for the formal composition of the responses. Receptivity The notion of receptivity seems at odds with the previous qualification of matter as “resistant” against external actions. Receptivity expresses the intrinsic inclination of the material principle to be moulded by the superior power of rationality.27 This virtue recalls a peculiar aspect of Plutarch’s view of matter: that expressed by the feminine power of nature and generation embodied by Isis in On Isis and Osiris (372e), who is characterised by a constant, loving longing for her spouse Osiris.28 The special relationship between the Pythia and Apollo can be similarly viewed as a marital union, and more precisely as a hierogamy between the priestess, human and fallible, and the god, immortal and transcendent but still somehow present within the material world. As is well known, Plato’s Timaeus (cf. 50d) also compares the creation of the cosmos to a familial relationship: the mother (the chôra) offers the place

The Pythia as matter 183 for generation, the father-god provides the model and their offspring (the created world) stays in between. This notorious structure is reflected in Plutarch’s allegorical reading of the Egyptian myth in On Isis and Osiris (374d): Isis corresponds to the receptacle, Osiris to the transcendent ordering principle and their son Horus to the sensible image of the intelligible world (cf. also Plutarch, De an. procr. 1026d). Finally, this model can also be applied to the prophetic act: the Pythia (as a mother) offers the material place for the manifestation of the prophetic messages; the god Apollo (as a father) provides the “model” (i.e. his thoughts, which have to be conveyed to humankind); the offspring of this peculiar union are the words uttered by the Pythia, resulting from the encounter between her own nature and divine inspiration. It is interesting to note that there is a consistent trend in psychoanalytical theory, stemming from Julia Kristeva’s first works, which draws on the notion of chôra as found in Plato’s Timaeus and puts this very concept at the centre of the discourse on the genesis of us as individuals (as in our foetal condition) and more broadly of the world we live in. The notion of chôra is admittedly a very complex element in Kristeva’s thought in psychoanalysis and in semiotics and theory of language. This is very successful and has been re-deployed with varying agendas and aims.29

Prophecy, cosmology and multiple causes In order to show in greater detail the correspondences between Plutarch’s cosmological and divinatory theories, and especially some important aspects of the relationship between Apollo and the Pythia, this chapter will present briefly the most reliable version of oracular prophecy that can be reconstructed from Plutarch’s dialogues. According to Plutarch’s epistemological account, earthly phenomena (including divination) result from the synergy of two levels of causation: the one divine-transcendent, the other physical-immanent. This model of “double causation” – drawn from a combined reading of Timaeus 68e–69a and Phaedo 98b–c – is based on the distinction between two couples of causes: the primary-rational causes (final and efficient), and the auxiliary-irrational causes (material and instrumental; cf. De def. or. 435f–436a; Donini 1986, 210–11; Opsomer 1998, 215–16). Plutarch employs this model broadly in his works; he is indeed convinced that any exhaustive scientific explanation has to account for both the divine and the material factors at work behind phenomena.30 Analogous epistemological models of explanation – developed by combining Aristotelian causes and Platonic metaphysical theories, and founded on the synergy of different levels of causation (αἰτίας εἴδη) – were commonly in use in Plutarch’s time and were handed down to students in philosophical schools.31 The clear Platonic outset of these theories is also expressed by the need for a theological-metaphysical level of causation, besides a materialphysical one (cf. Donini 1984; Van der Stockt 1992). Indeed, Plutarch is

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convinced that the search for the transcendent-rational causes distinguishes the real philosopher from the mere natural scientist (φυσικός), who is instead interested only in the material-physical level of causation (cf. Plutarch, De primo frigido 948b–c; cf. De def. or. 435e–436a). He also seems to imply that – echoing Plato’s Timaeus – we really get closer to a happy life when searching for the divine causes that engender what is beautiful and good in the world,32 and that therefore the study of oracles and, more generally, of earthly phenomena has a precious epistemological, ethical and theological value. At the end of The Obsolescence of Oracles (436e–f ), Lamprias bases his explanation of the phenomenon of divination on the double-causation theory – which he defines as both scientific and religious; his explanation seemingly represents the most reliable account among those proposed by the different characters in the dialogue. Lamprias declares that the inferiorphysical causes of the prophetic act are as follows: the human soul, which is the material cause, and corresponds precisely to “matter” (ὕλη); the pneumatic stream emerging from the earth in Delphi (πνεῦμα), which is the instrumental cause, and hits the soul as a plectrum hits a well-tuned instrument; finally, there is a superior-divine level of causation (featuring the efficient and the final cause), which is associated in very generic terms with the rational divine principle but remains fundamentally undefined.33 Lamprias’ words show that the discovery and search for the secondaryinferior causes – subordinated to the primary, divine ones – is an essential step that contributes towards our understanding of the world: the material level of causation is necessary for the occurrence of natural phenomena as well as for a correct and exhaustive explanation of what happens on earth. All this seems to support the positive and even prestigious character that Plutarch attributes to matter and to the irrational psychic principle – two elements that are closely associated. The irrational component plays a main role in multiple fields of Plutarch’s reflection – such as ontology, cosmology, psychology and even ethics: moral virtue, indeed, does not require the suppression of the passionate element. Instead, the wise and controlled balance of the passions (μετριοπάθεια) is necessary to trigger the rational part of the soul (λογισμός) and to pursue moral ends and actions.34 In this framework, the theory of double causation helps to prove and guarantee the divine origin of divination and to justify its ups and downs, which are to be ascribed to the material factors involved. This preserves the faith in the goodness, care and providence (φιλανθρωπία, ἐπιμέλεια, πρόνοια) of the god, who constantly provides everything we need for our survival and happiness (De def. or. 426e). The god appears therefore as the primary cause of oracular divination; his power, nevertheless, always has to pass through, and express itself within, the corruptible, contingent world, where the material elements are tuned in perfect synergy and prepared for the purpose of inspiration. As explained by the instrument-plectrum metaphor, under appropriate conditions the pneûma modifies the disposition (διάθεσις) of the soul of the prophetess and

The Pythia as matter 185 creates a harmonious temperament (κρᾶσις, ἁρμονία) – a peculiar, unusual condition (ἀήθη καὶ ἄτοπον) favourable for performing the prophetic act (De def. or. 432e). In this way, a new kind of order emerges from the chaos of the Pythia’s soul.35 Demigods (δαίμονες) also take part in this process as helpers, by tempering the mixture between the prophetic pneûma and the Pythia’s psychic principle (De def. or. 437a–438a). Given these premises, it can be inferred with some certainty that, according to Plutarch, the psychic condition of the priestess in the course of the divinatory session is neither a raving frenzy nor a state of complete calm. For Plutarch, the Pythia is neither “rational” nor “irrational” – an aspect that marks the absolute originality of the contribution that he gives to this long debate. According to his account, the prophetess appears to reach for a paradoxical, almost oxymoronic condition. The freezing, suspension or diversion of her rational soul engenders a state of disorder and makes her completely at the mercy of the chaotic, irrational soul. This disorder, lacking any guiding principle, becomes susceptible to being led by a superior force: it is the rational power of the god indeed that renders the priestess able to attain the inner disposition which is favourable for prophetic inspiration. This oxymoronic state, an interior disorder somehow regulated by divine intelligence, resembles the one described in Iamblichus’ On the Mysteries. As Crystal Addey (2014, 222–4, 227–9) has clearly shown in her recent monograph, Iamblichus’ prophetic theory is similarly based on the relation between the “intermediary nature of the soul” and the “paradoxical nature of the gods” which are both transcendent and somehow present in the material world (Addey 2013, 13). As Addey (2013, 7–8) explains, similar ancient psychological models directly challenge post-Enlightenment theories of personal identity. The Neoplatonic idea of “soul,” especially as it emerges from theories of theurgic-divinatory ritual, is radically divergent from, and fundamentally incompatible with, Western visions of the “self ” as an autonomous and rigidly defined entity (Addey 2013, 19–20). She points out that modern anthropological perspectives and models of subjectivity tend to envision the prophetic medium as a passive, possessed victim in the hands of the overwhelming, active power of the god; these theories have to be discarded in favour of a more articulated and nuanced notion of “agency” – a notion which would be adequate and fruitful when it comes to the study of ancient ritual practices (Addey 2013, 24). According to Iamblichus’ psychological-anthropological perspective, humans are essentially and ontologically connected to the divine (cf. DM 3.5). They bear in their soul a sign of the transcendent realm, containing in nuce the possibility of transcending the material world and reaching for the divine. Addey clarifies that it is exactly the capacity of receptivity – the important role of which we have just seen in Plutarch – enhanced by ritualascetic preparatory practices that enable the gradual assimilation of the ritual practitioner to the “transcendent and simultaneously immanent deity working through the soul of the possessed, to which it is already linked

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causally” (Addey 2013, 31). It is exactly this innate presence of an intellectual, superior and immortal essence in our soul that enables us to facilitate the connection with the divine realm. Based on textual evidence, Addey successfully mitigates the fixed distinction between a superior-divine agent and an inferior-human victim: she proves that Iamblichus sees the ritual-theurgic practitioner as an active medium, and possession as a peculiar state that implies a level of assimilation with the god.36 Some modern accounts of spirit possession – those founded on the assumption that a wholly other, alien agency takes control over the human medium – display their structural weakness when applied to ancient philosophical sources and authors (such as Iamblichus and Plutarch).37 Although we can easily recognise many analogies between Plutarch’s and Iamblichus’ respective accounts – including their common reference to multiple levels of causation involved in divination – we should always bear in mind that the Pythia in the Delphic dialogues is not represented as a “philosophical” agent. Plutarch never declares that she is able to connect with the god in virtue of the divine element present in her soul. Rather, this connection is related to the individual, Socratic kind of divination, the kind that is centred on the activity of the most sublime part of the soul (nous-daimôn) – as explored at the beginning of this chapter. Despite this difference, the notion of the “instrumental agency of the possessed” that Addey draws from Mary Keller’s (2002) work on female possession perfectly fits the condition of the Delphic priestess. As we have seen, the Pythia is not completely possessed by the superior power of god (as confirmed by the fact that Plutarch never employs the word ἔνθεος to refer to the Pythia); instead, her inspiration results from a dynamical intertwining between her nature and the rational power of the god. Keller (2002, 175) defines “instrumental agency” as the state in which the (often female) medium is “neither agent nor patient.” She also briefly takes into account the image of the Pythia and explains that her power lies exactly in her vulnerability and receptivity, that is to say, in her capacity to become the receptacle for extraneous forces that overcome the power of “rational masculinity” (175). As Plutarch’s texts clearly show, the body of the Pythia, temporarily inhabited by a peculiar kind of power, is the place where the irrational, disordered motions of the psychic principle are mitigated by the “gentle action” of the god – an encounter that transcends the ordinary power of – to use Keller’s expression – “rational masculinity,” and whose prodigious force is enclosed and disciplined within the limits of the oracular temple of Delphi.

Conclusion The identification between the Pythia and the material cosmic principle proposed in the present chapter has helped us to place emphasis on the coherence of Plutarch’s cosmology and epistemology. Moreover, it has proven important for identifying new aspects of the role and features of the

The Pythia as matter 187 Delphic prophetess, and to shed light on her psychological status and her specific connection with the god Apollo. Plutarch’s method of conceiving and analysing oracular divination in the same way as any other phenomenon on earth – under rigorous scientific standards and in accordance with deep reverential respect towards the divine (εὐλάβεια) – justifies the inclusion of the activity of the Pythia as an organic component within the “intelligent design” that the demiurge creates in the cosmos. Notwithstanding the portentous and wonderful (θαυμαστόν) character of oracular divination, its physical dynamics are conceived as determined by the laws of nature; precisely because the divinatory phenomenon is striking and mysterious for human intelligence, it triggers our curiosity and desire to know, and constitutes an excellent site of investigation that challenges our cognitive faculties and scientific understanding of the world. In Plutarch’s complex account, the Pythia emerges as the emblematic protagonist of the interaction between the material and the intelligible principles, and as a manifestation of how the intelligent cosmic order planned by divine rationality is implemented within the material world.

Notes 1 I am very grateful to Crystal Addey and the anonymous reviewer for all of their stimulating suggestions and excellent remarks on my paper. 2 Iriarte 1990, 188: “[…] la información de la que disponemos sobre el “verdadero” estado psíquico de la Pitia, sobre el comportamiento al que le inducía la “posesion divina”, es práticamente nula.” For an account of how different ideas relating to the “calmness” or “frenzy” of the Pythia have changed over time, see Chapter 7 in this volume. 3 Cf. Plutarch, Quaest. conv. 700e. For a wide-ranging analysis of textual and epigraphical sources relating to Plutarch’s sacerdotal (priestly) role in Delphi, see Casanova 2012. 4 Zambon 2006 has given an accessible and comprehensive introduction to “Middle-Platonism,” including reflection on the historiographical efficacy of this label. See also the recent and outstanding work by Boys-Stones (2017). 5 For an analysis of De genio Socratis, see Hamilton 1934; Pelling 2005; Donini 2007; Roskam 2010; Finamore 2014. For the pre-eminent role of daimonology in Platonic views of divination, see Chapter 9 in this volume. 6 Cf. Plutarch, De. Is. et Os. 360e; De def. or. 415b. For a comprehensive historicalcritical account of the notion of daimôn, see Timotin 2012. 7 This faculty corresponds to phantasia (φαντασία), which receives and collects (real or deceptive) images of sensible beings and representations of immaterial essences. For an account of phantasia in ancient philosophy, from an aesthetic perspective, see Benediktson 2000, esp. 162–98. For Plato’s references to the irrational, innate character of divination, see: Plato, Ti. 71e; Phdr. 244a–b; Ion 534b–d; Men. 99c. 8 Cf. Plato, Ap. 22b–c; Phdr. 244b–c; Men. 99b–d. 9 For a study of the relation between divine inspiration and philosophical rationality in Plato, see Chapter 2 in this volume. 10 On the phenomena of possession also seen as part of a continuum, cf. Lewis 2003. 11 The expression “Delphic dialogues” (drawn from Plutarch’s own words in De E 384e) includes the following writings: The E at Delphi (De E apud Delphos), The Oracles at Delphi No Longer Given in Verse (De Pythiae oraculis), The Obsolescence of Oracles

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(De defectu oraculorum). The date of composition of these works is uncertain but scholars generally agree that they belong to the last decades of Plutarch’s life. Cf. De an. procr. 1012b. For an analysis of this treatise, see Ηershbell 1987; Phillips 2002; Opsomer 2004; Teodorsson 2010. For the cosmogonic act see Plutarch, De an. procr. 1014d–1015c, and esp. 1015e–f: ψυχὴ γὰρ αἰτία κινήσεως καὶ ἀρχή, νοῦς δὲ τάξεως καὶ συμφωνίας περὶ κίνησιν. ὁ γὰρ θεὸς οὐκ ἀνέστησε τὴν ὕλην ἀργοῦσαν ἀλλ’ἔστησεν ὑπὸ τῆς ἀνοήτου ταραττομένην αἰτίας· οὐδ’ ἀρχὰς τῇ φύσει μεταβολῆς καὶ παθῶν παρέσχεν, ἀλλ’οὔσης ἐν πάθεσι παντοδαποῖς καὶ μεταβολαῖς ἀτάκτοις. It must be remembered that the ordered soul created by the demiurge is permanently unstable and precarious: the irrational component of the world soul recursively takes the lead and engenders disorderly motions which the intelligent god has to balance and harmonise for the sake of the universe. The human soul is characterised by a similar swaying character, due to the irrational parts present in it, which are stronger and more preponderant than those of the world soul (cf. Plutarch, De virt. mor. 441f; De an. procr. 1025d). An affective part (τὸ παθητικόν) is present in both the world and the human soul: this part, indeterminate and disordered, always needs to be regulated and kept under control by the harmonising action of intellect (νοῦς). Cf. Plato, Ti. 27b–28b. For the relation between the ideal model and its copy in the Timaeus, see Vlastos 1939, 72–73: “And what εἰκός means in this context is carefully defined: the metaphysical contrast of the eternal forms and their perishing copy determines the epistemological contrast of certainty and probability.” Cf. Plato, Ti. 29b–d; Plutarch, De E 391e–394c. Cf. Plato, Ti. 27d–29d. This epistemological distinction is strictly connected to the sceptical-aporetic nature of Plutarch’s philosophy, which realises itself in a collective, dialogical and always tentative search for the truth. For sceptical tendencies in Plutarch and other Middle Platonists, see Opsomer 1998; for scepticism and divination see Opsomer 1996. For a full account of Plutarch’s conception of matter, cf. Ferrari 1996a. Cf. the full quotation at Plutarch, De Pyth. or. 404e: μεμιγμένας δὲ δείκνυσι διὰ σώματος θνητοῦ καὶ ψυχῆςἡσυχίαν ἄγειν μὴ δυναμένης μηδὲ τῷ κινοῦντι παρέχειν ἑαυτὴν ἀκίνητον ἐξ αὑτῆς καὶ καθεστῶσαν, ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ ἐν σάλῳ † ψαύουσαν [αὐτὴν] καὶ συμπλεκομένην τοῖς ἐν αὑτῇ κινήμασι καὶ πάθεσιν ἐπιταράττουσιν αὐτήν. I suggest the importance of avoiding the expression “Plutarch’s spokesperson” in similar contexts since, in light of Plutarch’s style and argumentative technique, any direct correspondence between his authentic conceptions and what is expressed by the speakers in the dialogue is merely hypothetical for us. Cf. Plutarch, De facie 926f. For other important passages of the Timaeus on disorder and the relation between disorder and the absence of god, see: Plato, Ti. 30a, 53b and 69b. Also cf. the myth in the Politicus (Plato, Plt. 269d). Frédirique Ildefonse in her excellent edition of the Pythian dialogues (cf. Ildefonse 2008, Introd. 47–48 and 297, n. 220) similarly suggests a comparison between the Pythia and the Platonic chôra. Cf. Plutarch, De def. or. 432d–e: καθαρὰν οὖσαν ὥσπερ ὄργανον ἐξηρτυμένον καὶ εὐηχές. For a thorough analysis of how this interplay works, see Simonetti 2017, esp. 48. For a comprehensive account of all the material preconditions of the divinatory act, especially concerning the notion of the appropriate moment (kairos) for divination, see Chapter 5 in this volume. For the notion of “thoughts of god” in this context see Ferrari 1996b, 133.

The Pythia as matter 189 27 Significantly, the mantic faculty (μαντικόν) of the Pythia’s soul is itself defined as “receptive” (δεκτικόν; Plutarch, De def. or. 432d). 28 The concept of “receptivity” will be fundamental for the Neoplatonists. Cf. Addey 2014, esp. ch. 6. 29 For an analysis of the different readings of Kristeva’s notion of chôra throughout recent decades and an exhaustive set of significant references in her works, cf. Marangoni 2005. 30 For ancient philosophical explanations of divination grounded in multiple causation systems, see Addey 2014, ch.7, esp. 246; Simonetti 2017, ch.4, esp. 197. 31 For Aristotle’s theory of causes, cf. Ph. II 3 and Metaph. V 2. For its application in Plutarch and in Roman imperial times, see Donini 1992; for a thorough treatment of the issue in relation to Neoplatonic theurgy see Addey 2014, 245–46. 32 Cf. Plato, Ti. 68e–69a: τὸ μὲν ἀναγκαῖον, τὸ δὲ θεῖον, καὶ τὸ μὲν θεῖον ἐν ἅπασιν ζητεῖν κτήσεως ἕνεκα εὐδαίμονος βίου; and 46e: λεκτέα μὲν ἀμφότερα τὰ τῶν αἰτιῶν γένη, χωρὶς δὲ ὅσαι μετὰ νοῦ καλῶν καὶ ἀγαθῶν δημιουργοὶ. These are opposed to ὅσαι μονωθεῖσαι φρονήσεως τὸ τυχὸν ἄτακτον ἑκάστοτε ἐξεργάζονται (47a). 33 For Plutarch’s “elusive” treatment of primary causes see Meeusen 2013. See also Addey 2014, 245–6 and Simonetti 2017, 97–107. 34 Plutarch establishes a correspondence between human soul and cosmic soul; accordingly, human soul is μέρος ή τι μίμημα of the world soul and the cosmos is the παράδειγμα for human ethics (cf. De virt. mor. 441f–442a; Plato, Ti. 69c; cf. Opsomer 1994 and 2004). For an excellent account of Plutarch’s ethics, which assesses its possible connections with other philosophical schools, see Bellanti 2003. 35 That of “mixture” (κρᾶσις) is a key concept in this regard, especially relying on its meaningful definition found in Plutarch’s Eroticus. In this dialogue, as explained by the Theban Pemptides, the “perfect mixture,” with specific reference to the couple of spouses, is defined as a complete union of all the parts involved. This explanation can be reasonably considered fully in line with Plutarch’s own conceptions – cf. Plutarch, Amat. 769f: αὕτη γάρ ἐστιν ὡς ἀληθῶς ἡ δι’ ὅλων λεγομένη κρᾶσις, ἡ τῶν ἐρώντων. 36 Cf. Addey 2014, 266, 271. Cf. Iamblichus, DM 5.22. 37 See for instance Eliade 1972 and Rasmussen 1995, as well as Rohde 1925 and Parke and Wormell 1956, referred to at the beginning of the chapter.

Bibliography Ancient works: texts and translations Albinos. Épitomé. Edité et traduit par Pierre Louis. 1945. 3–173. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Aristotle. Metaphysics, Volume I. In Aristotle. Volume XVII. Translated by Hugh Tredennick. 1933. LCL 271. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Aristotle. Physics, Volume I. In Aristotle. Volume VI. Translated by Philip Henry Wicksteed. 1957. LCL 228. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Iamblichus. On the Mysteries (De mysteriis). Edited and translated by Emma Clarke, John Dillon, and Jackson Hershbell. 2003. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Plato. Apologia. Phaedo. Politicus. In Platonis Opera, Vol. 1: Tetralogiae I–II, edited by E.A. Duke, W.F. Hicken, W.S.M. Nicoll, D.B. Robinson, and J.C.G. Strachan. 1901. Oxford Classical Texts. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Plato. Ion. Meno. In Platonis Opera, Vol. 3: Tetralogiae V–VII, edited by John Burnet. 1903. Oxford Classical Texts. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Plato. Phaedrus. In Platonis Opera, Vol. 2: Tetralogiae III–IV, edited by John Burnet. 1901. Oxford Classical Texts. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Plato. Timaeus. In Platonis Opera, Vol. 4: Tetralogia VIII, edited by John Burnet. 1978. Oxford Classical Texts. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Plutarch. Concerning the Face Which Appears in the Orb of the Moon. In Moralia, Volume XII. Translated by Harold Cherniss. 1957. LCL 406. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plutarch. Isis and Osiris. In Moralia, Volume V. Translated by Frank Cole Babbitt. 1936. LCL 306. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plutarch. On Moral Virtue. In Moralia, Vol. VI. Translated by W.C. Helmbold. 1939. LCL 337. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plutarch. On the Generation of the Soul in the Timaeus. In Moralia, Volume XIII: Part 1: Platonic Essays. Translated by Harold Cherniss. 1976. LCL 427. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plutarch. On the Principle of Cold. In Moralia, Volume XII. Translated by Harold Cherniss. 1957. LCL 406. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plutarch. On the Sign of Socrates. In Moralia, Volume VII. Translated by Philip H. De Lacy and Benedict Einarson. 1959. LCL 405. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plutarch. Platonic Questions. In Moralia, Volume XIII: Part 1: Platonic Essays. Translated by Harold Cherniss. 1976. LCL 427. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plutarch. Table-Talk, Books 7–9. Dialogue on Love. In Moralia, Volume IX. Translated by Edwin L. Minar, Francis H. Sandbach, and William C. Helmbold. 1961. LCL 425. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plutarch. The E at Delphi. In Moralia, Vol. V. Translated by Frank Cole Babbitt. 1936. LCL 306. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plutarch. The Obsolescence of Oracles. In Moralia, Vol. V. Translated by Frank Cole Babbitt. 1936. LCL 306. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Also consulted: Plutarque. Dialogues pythiques. L’E de Delphes, Pourquoi la Pythie ne rend plus ses oracles en vers, La disparition des oracles. Edited and translated by Fréderique Ildefonse. 2006. Paris: Flammarion. Plutarch. The Oracles at Delphi No Longer Given in Verse. In Moralia, Vol. V. Translated by Frank Cole Babbitt. 1936. LCL 306. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Modern works Addey, Crystal. 2013. “Ecstasy between Divine and Human: Re-assessing Agency in Iamblichean Divination and Theurgy.” In Proceedings of the Seventh Annual International Society for Neoplatonic Studies Conference, edited by John Finamore and John Philips, 7–24. Bonn: Academia Verlag. Addey, Crystal. 2014. Divination and Theurgy in Neoplatonism. Oracles of the Gods. Farnham: Ashgate. Bellanti, Alberto. 2003. “Aristotele pitagorico? La concezione della medietà nel De virtute morali di Plutarco.” Rivista di Filosofia Neo-Scolastica 95: 3–36. Benediktson, D.T. 2000. Literature and the Visual Arts in Ancient Greece and Rome. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press.

The Pythia as matter 191 Boys-Stones, George. 2017. Platonist Philosophy 80 BC to AD 250 An Introduction and Collection of Sources in Translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brenk, Frederick E. 1973. “A Most Strange Doctrine. Daimôn in Plutarch.” The Classical Journal 69: 1–11. Casanova, Angelo. 2012. “Plutarch as Apollo’s Priest at Delphi.” In Plutarch in the Religious and Philosophical Discourse of Late Antiquity, edited by Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta and Israel Muñoz Gallarte, 151–7. Leiden: Brill. Donini, Pierluigi. 1984. “Problemi del pensiero scientifico a Roma: II primo e il secondo secolo d.C.” In La scienza ellenistica. Atti delle tre giornate di studio (Pavia, 14–16 aprile 1982), edited by Gabriele Giannantoni and Mario Vegetti, 353–74. Napoli: Bibliopolis. Donini, Pierluigi. 1986. “Lo scetticismo accademico, Aristotele e l’unità della tradizione platonica secondo Plutarco.” In Storiografia e dossografia nella filosofia antica, edited by Giuseppe Cambiano, 203–26. Turin: Tirrenia-Stampatori. Donini, Pierluigi. 1987 “Testi e commenti, manuali e insegnamento: la forma sistematica e i metodi della filosofia in età postellenistica.” In ANRW, II: 36, 7: 5026–5100. New York, NY: De Gruyter. Donini, Pierluigi. 1992. “I fondamenti della fisica e la teoria delle cause in Plutarco.” In Plutarco e le scienze. Atti del IV Convegno Plutarcheo (Genova-Bocca di Magra, 22–25 aprile 1991), edited by Italo Gallo, 99–120. Genova: Sagep. Donini, Pierluigi. 2007. “Tra academia e pitagorismo. Il platonismo nel De genio Socratis di Plutarco.” In A Platonic Pythagoras. Platonism and Pythagoreanism in the Imperial Age, edited by Mauro Bonazzi, Carlos Lévy and Carlos Steel, 99–125. Turnhout: Brepols. Eliade, Mircea. 1972. Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Ferrari, Franco. 1995. Dio, idee e materia: la struttura del cosmo in Plutarco di Cheronea. Napoli: M. D’Aurio. Ferrari, Franco. 1996a. “La generazione precosmica e la struttura della materia in Plutarco.” Museum Helveticum 53, no. 1: 44–55. Ferrari, Franco. 1996b. “La teoria delle idee in Plutarco.” Elenchos 17, no. 1: 121–42. Ferrari, Franco. 2001. “La letteratura filosofica di carattere esegetico in Plutarco.” Orpheus 22: 77–108. Finamore, John F. 2014. “Plutarch and Apuleius on Socrates’ Daimonion.” In The Neoplatonic Socrates, edited by Harold Tarrant and Danielle A. Layne, 36–50. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Hamilton, W. 1934. “The Myth in Plutarch’s De genio (589F–592E).” The Classical Quarterly 28, no. 3/4 (July–October): 175–82. Ηershbell 1987 Ηershbell, Jackson P. 1987. “De animae procreatione in Timaeo: An Analysis of Structure and Content.” ANRW II: 36, 1: 234–47. Ildefonse, Fréderique. 2008. “Introduction.” In Plutarque. Dialogues pythiques. L’E de Delphes, Pourquoi la Pythie ne rend plus ses oracles en vers, La disparition des oracles, edited and translated by Fréderique Ildefonse, 1–50. Paris: Flammarion. Iriarte, Ana. 1990. “La Pitia: figura histórica y personaje literario.” In Estudios sobre Plutarco: obra y tradición. Actas del I Symposion español sobre Plutarco (Fuengirola 1988), edited by Aurelio Pérez Jiménez and Gonzalo Del Cerro Calderón, 187–193. Málaga: Universidad de Málaga.

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Keller, Mary. 2002. The Hammer and the Flute: Women, Power, and Spirit Possession. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Lewis, Ian M. 2003. Ecstatic Religion: A Study of Shamanism and Spirit Possession. Third ed. London and New York: Routledge. Marangoni, Maria. 2005. “‘The Lost Foundation’: Kristeva’s Semiotic Chora and Its Ambiguous Legacy.” Hypatia 20, no. 1 (Winter): 78–98. Maurizio, Lisa. 1995. “Anthropology and Spirit Possession: A Reconsideration of the Pythia’s Role at Delphi.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 115: 69–86. Meeusen, Michiel. 2013. “How to Treat a Bee-Sting? On the Higher Cause in Plutarch’s Causes of Natural Phenomena: the Case of Quaest. Nat. 35–36.” Quaderni Urbinati di Cultura Classica 105, no. 3: 131–57. Morrow, Glenn R. 1950. “Necessity and Persuasion in Plato’s Timaeus.” The Philosophical Review 59, no. 2 (April): 147–63. Opsomer, Jan. 1994. “L’âme du monde et l’âme de l’homme chez Plutarque.” In Estudios sobre Plutarco: Ideas religiosas. Actas del III Simposio Internacional sobre Plutarco (Oviedo 30 de abril a 2 de mayo de 1992), edited by Manuela Garcia Valdés, 33–49. Madrid: Classic Editions. Opsomer, Jan. 1996. “Divination and Academic “Scepticism” According to Plutarch.” In Plutarchea Lovaniensia: A Miscellany of Essays on Plutarch, edited by Van der Stockt Luc, 164–96. Leuven: Peeters. Opsomer, Jan. 1998. In Search of the Truth. Academic Tendencies in Middle Platonism. Brussels: Paleis der Academien. Opsomer, Jan. 2004. “Plutarch’s De animae procreatione in Timaeo. Manipulation or Search for Consistency?” In Philosophy, Science, and Exegesis in Greek, Arabic and Latin Commentaries, vol. I, edited by Peter Adamson, 137–62. London: Institute of Classical Studies, School of Advanced Study, University of London. Parke, Herbert William and Donald Ernest Wilson Wormell. 1956. The Delphic Oracle. 2 vols. Oxford: Blackwell. Pelling, Christopher. 2005. “Plutarch’s Socrates.” Hermathena 179: 105–39. Phillips, John. 2002. “Plato’s Psychogonia in Later Platonism.” The Classical Quarterly 52, no. 1: 231–47. Price, Simon. 1985. “Delphi and Divination.” In Greek Religion and Society, edited by Pat Easterling and J.V. Muir, 128–154. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rasmussen, Susan J. 1995. Spirit Possession and Personhood among the Kel Ewey Tuareg. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rohde, Erwin. 1925. Psyche. The Cult of Souls and Belief in Immortality among the Greeks. Translated by W.B. Hillis. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co. Roskam, Geert. 2010. “Socrates’ daimonion in Maximus of Tyre, Apuleius, and Plutarch.” In Tychè et Pronoia. La marche du monde selon Plutarque, edited by Françoise Frazier and Delfim F. Leão, 93–108. Coimbra: Centro de Estudos Clássicos e Humanísticos. Sabbatucci, Dario. 1989. Divinazione e cosmología. Milano: Il Saggiatore. Sabbatucci, Dario. 1992. “Rito e sacrificio.” In L’esperienza religiosa antica, edited by Mario Vegetti, 14–28. Torino: Bollati Boringhieri. Simonetti, Elsa Giovanna. 2017. A Perfect Medium? Oracular Divination in the Thought of Plutarch. Leuven: Leuven University Press.

The Pythia as matter 193 Teodorsson, S.T. 2010. “Plutarch’s Interpretation of Plato’s Cosmology: Plausible Exegesis or Misrepresentation?” In Gods, Daimones, Rituals, Myths and History of Religions in Plutarch’s Works: Studies Devoted to Professor Frederick E. Brenk by the International Plutarch Society, edited by Luc, Van der Stockt and Frederick E. Brenk, 419–35. Utah: Utah State University. Timotin, Andrei. 2012. La démonologie platonicienne: histoire de la notion de daimōn de Platon aux derniers néoplatoniciens. Boston, MA: Brill. Van der Stockt, Luc. 1992. ‘Plutarch on τέχνη.’ In Plutarco e le scienze. Atti del IV Convegno plutarcheo (Genova-Bocca di Magra, 22–25 aprile 1991), edited by Italo Gallo, 287–95. Genova. Vlastos, Gregory. 1939. “The Disorderly Motion in the Timaios.” The Classical Quarterly 33, no. 2 (April): 71–83. Zambon, Marco. 2006, “Middle Platonism.” In A Companion to Ancient Philosophy, edited by Mary Louise Gill and Pierre Pellegrin, 561–76. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell.

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Divination and female sexuality: the transformation of the Greek Pythia by the Church Fathers Giulia Pedrucci

This chapter will examine the characterisation and depiction of the Pythia at Delphi and the ways in which her divinatory abilities are represented as demonstrating her active agency and performative voice within the ancient Greek context but are later transformed in early Christian polemic and discourse to a sexualised and distorted trope that focuses on her “performative body” (Pisano 2013–2014, 8–20). During the Roman Imperial period, the Platonist philosopher and priest at Delphi Plutarch of Chaeronea (c. 45–120 CE) discussed an episode where the Delphic oracular ritual was performed incorrectly and, as a consequence, the Pythia spoke differently than she usually did during the oracular ritual – that is to say, in a manic fashion and garbled voice. Seemingly drawing on this representation (while ignoring the context of the episode reported by Plutarch), later Roman Imperial and Christian authors (Lucan, possibly Pseudo-Longinus, Origen and John Chrysostom) further transformed the image and representation of the Delphic prophetess, depicting her in a sexualised manner as frenzied and speaking in a manic, garbled and incoherent fashion. Discourses centring on gender and sexuality are used to discredit and invalidate “pagan” divination, while portrayals of divination (pertaining to the Pythia specifically) are also constructed and transformed in relation to social-cultural constructs (values, presuppositions and prejudices) relating to gender and sexuality. The Roman-Christian characterisation of the Pythia influenced the reception of the image of the prophetess and led to later representations (for instance, in modern and contemporary art, see Lewis 2014) of the Pythia characterising her as “hysterical” within the context of and in accordance with nineteenth- and twentieth-century medical constructions of “hysteria.”

Who was the Pythia? In order to examine the transformation of the Pythia in antiquity, it is important to outline who the Pythia was. The Pythia is a generic name used to denote the priestess who served as the mouthpiece of the god Apollo at Delphi; she is the best-known female Greek seer from antiquity.1 From a

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strictly linguistic point of view, she was described as a mantis, prophetis and promantis.2 The god was thought to possess her and to speak directly through her, but the words were his. The image of the Pythia as a passive female priestess, inspired and possessed by a powerful, male god who completely overcomes his “victim” is consistent with modern, popular views of spirit possession and many twentieth-century scholarly assessments of the Pythia’s role and context; this image of the Pythia and assessment of her role is related to the common notion that virtually all political and religious power (with a few exceptions) was largely exercised by men in ancient Greek society.3 This assessment is consistent with the image that the Church Fathers built around her – and indeed was almost certainly influenced by that image, but it may well be too simple and monolithic. In fact, this modern view of the Pythia is only a distorted image of her religious role in ancient Greek society, especially given that it has recently been recognised that women played important and major roles within Greek and Roman religious practices and exercised a great deal of power within that sphere (Connelly 2007).4 However, if we wish to investigate who the real Pythia was, the flesh-and-blood female seer, we can gain only a very partial image of the Pythia because although some classical sources mention or describe the Pythia (such as Plato and Herodotus), much of our evidence relating to the Delphic prophetess is late; for example, Plutarch wrote three dialogues about the oracular shrine (known collectively as the Delphic dialogues), entitled The E at Delphi, The Oracles at Delphi No Longer Given in Verse and The Obsolescence of Oracles, while Diodorus Siculus (first century BCE) also wrote about the Delphic oracle (16.26.1–6).5 Further methodological issues surround these depictions of the Pythia. Diodorus’s account – which will be examined in greater detail below – can be seen as a rationalising tale meant to explain the anomaly of an older woman in a maiden’s apparel; but even Plutarch, despite the fact that he was a priest at Delphi himself, must not be taken at face value. As Michael Flower (2008, 223) has astutely recognised, in fact, using these authors to reconstruct the reality at Delphi during the Classical period is based on the assumption that religious institutions and practices are somehow more static and resistant to innovation than other social practices. But that is an illusion. The acme of the oracle of Delphi was between 800 and 300 BCE. Plutarch, for instance, wrote about Delphi around 100 CE: it is very likely that practices, procedures and cult personnel had undergone considerable change over the centuries. Therefore, we cannot use Plutarch and Diodorus as sources to reconstruct who the Pythia was at an earlier stage in the history of the sanctuary – that is to say, during the Classical period. However, we can read them and attempt to contextualise them in relation to the meagre information we gain from earlier authors who wrote about the Pythia. According to Diodorus (16.26.6), the Pythia was originally a young maiden. But, after she was raped by an inquirer, the Delphians passed a law that a virgin should no longer prophesy. Instead, an elderly woman in her

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fifties would utter the oracles and should be dressed as a virgin, in echo of the previous tradition. In Plutarch’s time, she was still a woman over 50 who, even if previously married, now needed to remain chaste. Secluded from contact with strangers, she lived a simple life (Plutarch, De def. or. 438c). She might come from a humble family and have no specialised training or education before she became Apollo’s priestess (De Pyth. or. 405c–d). It seems doubtful that the Pythia was ever a young maiden, since even in the Classical period – when we first see the Pythia portrayed in literary sources – she is portrayed as an old woman: according to Aeschylus, she is an old woman (Eum. 38), while Euripides has Ion refer to her as “mother” (Ion 1324). Even if we have no clear evidence in this regard, it seems reasonable to assume that in ancient times the Pythia was an educated and respectable woman. This might be assumed on the basis that she was supposed to compose her own oracles in verse without the mediation of a male priest or bard, and possibly from an image in which Themis, a mythical forerunner of the Pythia who sits on the Delphic tripod and seems to be performing divination in this representation, is wearing the veil.6 Moreover, if a woman could not become a Pythia until she reached the age of 50, we can imagine that, before reaching that age, she had undergone a long apprenticeship in a community of believers which included the already serving Pythias, the female temple staff and the various male priests and attendants (Flower 2008, 230–1). Lisa Maurizio (1995, 76–9) has demonstrated very convincingly that Greek sources tend to portray the Pythia as calm, rational and lucid, and, crucially, that she spoke and formed the oracles herself and gave them directly to the inquirer or client. After analysing some of Plato’s passages on spirit possession (Ap. 22c; Ion 533e, 534b–d; Phdr. 244a; Leg. 719c), Maurizio (1995, 79) concludes that: …the Pythia’s behaviour at Delphi falls comfortably into Plato’s typology about the effects of spirit possession on human behaviour. She, like the seers, is credited with making prophetic utterances, and, like the poets, is always depicted as coherent and articulate … when she recites her oracles, some of which were in verse.7 In relation to this, it is vital to note that the production of verses in archaic poetry is consistently depicted as resulting from divine assistance. Plato’s views of spirit possession are particularly relevant, since they may have influenced later portrayals of the Pythia. In the Ion (533e), he compares poets to the Bacchantes and to the ritual worshippers of the Corybantes since they are all possessed by the divine: For all good epic poets compose beautiful poems not by means of skill, but by being in communion with the gods and possessed; and also

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the lyric poets compose in this way. Just as the Corybantes, not being in their senses, dance about, in this way also the lyric poets not being in their senses compose their fine poetry. When they begin their harmony and rhythm, they act like Bacchantes and are possessed, just as the Bacchantes, when not in their right mind, draw honey and milk from river.8 It is here suggested that the “use of rhythm and harmony induces loss of the senses,” as in orgiastic rituals (Maurizio 1995, 77). The poems produced in this state are, like the milk and honey for the Bacchantes, “miraculous because they pour forth from the poet without his or her own efforts” (Maurizio, 1995, 77–8). Both here and in Plato’s Apology (22c), poets are portrayed as passive and witless, likely in order “to explain why poets are generally ignorant of the things about which they sing” (Maurizio 1995, 78). Later authors may have conflated this description of the Bacchantes (Euripides, Bacch. 700–74) with the Pythia’s divination and oracle-giving, as will be examined further below. Moreover, in the Phaedrus (244a), Plato compares seers, poets and orgiastic worshippers as embodying the effects of contact with the divine and he concludes “in reality the greatest of blessings come to us through madness, when it is sent as a gift of the gods” (νῦν δὲ τὰ μέγιστα τῶν ἀγαθῶν ἡμῖν γίγνεται διὰ μανίας, θείᾳ μέντοι δόσειδιδομένης).9 He is describing “three different groups of people upon whom beneficial and divine madness confers its blessings: prophets, including the Delphic Pythia and the Dodonean priestesses,” ill persons who then become members of certain orgiastic cults, and poets (Maurizio 1995, 78–9). Therefore, he describes the Pythia as inspired by divine mania, but “madness” should be considered as an unfortunate translation for mania in English because the Greek term does not necessarily imply frenzied behaviour, whereas the term “mania” in English conjures up images of nineteenth-century hysteria and asylums (see Maurizio 1995, 78 n. 65). In brief, I would suggest that the later Church Fathers almost certainly conflate Plato’s descriptions of the Bacchantes with the Pythia and distort Plato’s description of the Pythia’s mania in relation to characterisations of female hysteria, as will be discussed further below. Moreover, basing his arguments on Herodotus (1.91), Flower (2008, 232) states that “if the Pythia was considered to be nothing more than the god’s mouthpiece, it would be odd for Herodotus to represent her as discussing the intentions both of Apollo and of the Fates.” In fact, Cyrus, after defeating Croesus, wants to make an offering to Apollo; Croesus’ desire is to send his chains to Delphi and to ask Apollo if he was ashamed of having pushed him into the war with the Persians with the promise that he would have overthrown Cyrus’ empire. Even though Croesus addresses his complaint directly to the god, it is the Pythia who gives the four-part explanation about what happened, starting with the sentence “No one may escape his lot, not even a god” (Hdt., 1.91.1: τὴν πεπρωμένην μοῖραν ἀδύνατα ἐστὶ

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ἀποφυγεῖν καὶ θεῷ). Moreover, Herodotus (5.63, 90–91; 6.66, 122; cf. also Thucydides 5.16.2) gives several examples of episodes where specific consultants of the Delphic oracle attempted to bribe the Pythia: this clearly demonstrates that the Pythia issued the oracular response herself and exercised control over the oracular ritual in some sense (Maurizio 1995, 84). Things seem to have changed at some point. In Plutarch’s time, or at least in Plutarch’s opinion, the Pythia was an ordinary woman with no special training or education, who had been born legitimately and honourably, and had spent her life in a virtuous manner (De Pyth. or. 405c–d).10 Plutarch relates an idealised version of the Pythia: having been brought up in a rural environment, she had acquired nothing from education or from practice; like a fresh bride, she came to the god truly a virgin in her soul: … just as Xenophon believes that a bride should have seen as little and heard as little as possible before she proceeds to her husband’s house, so this girl, inexperienced and uninformed about practically everything, a pure, virgin soul, becomes the associate of the god. (Plutarch, De Pyth. or. 405c–d)11 This gendered metaphor and the broader image of the Delphic prophetess as an illiterate old peasant woman, who was still labelled a virgin, seems to have become quite popular during the Roman Imperial period. Indeed, from this reductive categorisation it would have been easy for the Church Fathers to construct and overlay an image of the Pythia as highly sexualised.

Sexual connotations of Pythian divination According to Giulia Sissa in her important work Greek Virginity (1990, especially 33–50), the possession of the Pythia by Apollo was a sexual act and the oracles were the offspring of this union.12 Although this is a fascinating interpretation, it is not endorsed in the relevant ancient Greek evidence. It is true that Plutarch (De Pyth. or. 405c–d) does compare the Pythia to a bride, but he only speaks of a kind of virginity in her soul; abstention from sexual intercourse was a matter of ritual purity and nothing else. The main source in this regard is Pseudo-Longinus, who describes the Pythia sitting on the tripod and being “impregnated” by the gaseous emissions (possibly the divine power itself) from the chasm over which she sat: Many gather the divine impulse from another’s spirit, just as we are told that the Pythian priestess, when she takes her seat on the tripod, where there is said to be a rent in the ground breathing upwards a heavenly emanation, straightway conceives from that source the godlike gift of prophecy, and utters her inspired oracle. (Subl. 13.2)13

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Indeed, Pseudo-Longinus is not so explicit, but the idea that she sits over a chasm from which the gaseous emissions spread and, above all, the use of the adjective ἐγκύμονα (“pregnant”) make the allusion to a pregnancy of the Delphic prophetess very clear. The sexualising of the Pythia’s body begun by Plutarch and PseudoLonginus is continued and exaggerated by Lucan, a contemporary of Plutarch, who describes her in a maddened trance in the following way: … frantic she careers about the cave, with her neck under possession; the fillets and garlands of Apollo, dislodged by her bristling hair, she whirls with tossing head through the void spaces of the temple; she scatters the tripods that impede her random course; she boils over with fierce fire, while enduring the wrath of Phoebus […] first the wild frenzy overflowed through her foaming lips; she groaned und uttered loud inarticulate cries with panting breath; next, a dismal wailing filled the vast cave; and at last, when she was mastered, came the sound of articulate speech. (Pharsalia 5.161–93)14 Divination here seems to be described as a sexual performance and it is even more striking that Lucan seems to characterise the Pythia’s trance as orgasmic. The word os, Latin for mouth, can allude to both oral sex and to the other “mouth” of the female body – the vagina.15 Domita, too, could have a sexual connotation: the “canonical” female position during sexual intercourse was under the man.16 However, the atmosphere does not suggest sexual pleasure but rather fear, unpleasantness and anxiety.17 But, as we saw earlier, the Classical Greek sources seem to have had quite a different image of the Pythia compared with the one described by later authors such as Pseudo-Longinus, Lucan and Plutarch. According to Carmine Pisano (2013–2014, 12), later Roman and Christian authors described the Pythia as a performative body, whilst Greek authors characterised her as a “performative voice.” This performative voice is never ungraceful, deep, unclear, mournful or scary. Her prophecy is an αὐδή (intelligible human voice, human speech, but also a song) sung with a melodious, clear, acute voice, in accordance with the fact that she used to prophesy in verse, and songs were always sung in verse in antiquity. This is probably why Plutarch complains of the loss of harmony in the Pythia’s prophecies which are no longer expressed in verse, as the title itself of one of his works, The Oracles at Delphi No Longer Given in Verse, demonstrates. Greek authors never denied that the Pythia was possessed by the god and the terms ἐνθουσιασμóς (having the god inside one’s body) and θεοληψíα (divine possession) do imply a psycho-physical alteration but not necessarily frenzy.18 She was possessed by the god, but she actually did speak clearly and calmly. In this regard, it is worth noting that Plutarch affirms (as a

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general principle) that a frenzied state and harsh voice on the part of the Pythia lead to an unsuccessful oracular response and reveal the faulty performance and lack of success of the oracular ritual and, in one specific case, also lead to the death of the Pythia (De def. or. 438a–b).19 Furthermore, Classical Greek authors never mention any form of hierogamy (sacred marriage) in relation to the Pythia or the oracular ritual at Delphi.20 To resume, several authors of the first and second centuries CE seem to have started transforming the Pythia from her traditional Greek image, which focuses on her “performative voice,” to a sexualised “performative body.” This process is increasingly evident in the writings of two Church Fathers, namely, Origen (184–203 CE) and John Chrysostom (344/354–407 CE).21 Origen clearly explains that the spirit of Apollo entered her genitals and, when she was filled with it, she gave utterance to oracular responses, in a state of ecstasy and madness during which she loses control of herself: It is said of the Pythian priestess, whose oracle seems to have been the most celebrated, that when she sat down at the mouth of the Castalian cave, the prophetic Spirit of Apollo entered her private parts; and when she was filled with it, she gave utterance to responses which are regarded with awe as divine truths […] Moreover, it is not the part of a divine spirit to drive the prophetess into such a state of ecstasy and madness that she loses control of herself. (C. Cels. 7.3–4)22 The mention of her genitals is crystal clear, as well as the notion that the spirit of the god uses them to enter the prophetess. Similarly, John Chrysostom speaks of an evil spirit that, ascending from beneath and entering the lower part of the Pythia’s body, fills her with madness. With dishevelled hair she acts like a Bacchant and foams at the mouth, and in a frenzied state she utters the words of her madness: This same Pythoness then is said, being a female, to sit at times upon the tripod of Apollo astride, and thus the evil spirit ascending from beneath and entering the lower part of her body, fills the woman with madness, and she with dishevelled hair begins to play the bacchanal and to foam at the mouth, and thus being in a frenzy to utter the words of her madness. (Homilies on First Corinthians XXIX 2)23 It is likely that Chrysostom here draws on Origen’s account of the portrayal of the Pythia; his words are very similar to Origen’s, particularly the disturbing detail of the Pythia’s foaming at the mouth. Would it be possible that Plato’s discussion of spirit possession in relation to the Bacchantes in the Ion influenced the portrayals of the Pythia by Origen and John Chrysostom? Origen is known to have been influenced by Plato and John Chrysostom is also known to have read

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Plato (Coleman-Norton 1930; Ramelli 2017). I would answer positively; indeed, they seem to conflate the Pythia with Plato’s descriptions of the Bacchantes. The rhetoric evoked in the depiction of the Pythia by Christian authors can be seen as an effective means of discrediting pagan practices: the composure and clarity of the Judaeo-Christian prophet, inspired directly by God himself, is juxtaposed with the obscurity and frenzy of the pagan prophet, inspired by a demonic spirit.24 In order to discredit pagan religious practices, the Christian Church Fathers not only sexualise the Pythia, but in their representations they deny both her voice and her agency, and they distort, misrepresent, appropriate and de-contextualise the representations of the Pythia in Plutarch and Lucan, lifting them from their original contexts and exaggerating the sexualisation of the Pythia. As we have seen, the only two non-Christian sources who seem to present the Pythia in a sexualised manner, in fact, are Plutarch and Lucan (and possibly Pseudo-Longinus), but both do so within very specific literary or philosophical and ritual contexts. Plutarch compares the Pythia to a bride, but (as discussed earlier) he only speaks of virginity in her soul (De Pyth. or. 405d). The other place where Plutarch characterises the Pythia as manic, frenzied and speaking in a garbled and strange fashion is De def. or. 438a–c. Here, Plutarch describes a ritual that has gone wrong because the priests at Delphi have ignored the inauspicious omens and forced the Pythia to conduct the oracular ritual, even though she was unwilling and extremely reluctant to prophesy because of the unfavourable omens. The Pythia speaks in a harsh, frenzied and hysterical manner, rushes towards the exit and throws herself down; then, she dies a few days later. In relation to this episode, however, it would be worth emphasising two points. First, Plutarch is here describing an unusual and atypical oracular consultation at Delphi, a ritual that went wrong because the inauspicious omens were not followed and the priests forced the Pythia to perform the ritual. Secondly, Plutarch presents the Pythia in a positive manner, and not to the contrary. She has an active agency in relation to her ritual expertise, in the sense that she is unwilling to perform the oracular ritual because of the inauspicious signs and omens; consequently, she goes into the temple unwillingly because she knows that the ritual timing and context is inappropriate. In Plutarch’s characterisation, the Pythia is presented as understanding the signs and omens associated with the oracular ritual and interpreting them correctly; her ritual expertise and knowledge are very clear and are, in fact, emphasised within this episode, thus indicating Plutarch’s positive assessment of her active agency and role (see also Chapters 5). With regard to Lucan (Pharsalia 5.64–236) and his portrayal of the Pythia, the context of the episode should be noted: Appius Claudius Pulcher has visited Delphi to consult the oracle, which he suggests has been silent for a long time – the Pythia is reluctant to speak because she knows that to utter

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Apollo’s prophecy will cause her death. She has to be forced into the temple and delivers an ambiguous oracle to Appius and then dies. It could well be that Lucan is deliberately alluding to and satirising the episode described by Plutarch (De def. or. 438a–c). But either way, it is likely that Lucan gives such a dramatic, exaggerated and extreme view of the Pythia to add to the atmosphere of sinister foreboding in relation to the civil war that he is describing in his epic.25 It seems likely that the two Christian Church Fathers, Origen and John Chrysostom, distort Plutarch’s and Lucan’s accounts, appropriating the sexualised imagery and exaggerating it to a very great extent, but ignoring the philosophical and ritual contexts of Plutarch’s account and the dramatic and literary contexts of Lucan’s representation. In this way, the Church Fathers de-contextualised, exaggerated and distorted earlier, sexualised images of the Pythia, so that she ceased being a graceful voice and became a body that seems to have been affected by the most stereotypical female illness: hysteria.

A hysterical old peasant woman Hysteria from Hippocratic medicine onwards is usually labelled as a typically female disease caused by the displacement of the uterus (ὑστέρα=uterus; matrix), which, in the quest for sexual intercourse, is represented as a living animal eager to conceive children.26 Even though the ascription of a female disease characterised by intense, neurotic breakdowns (like the one described in nineteenth-century medical literature prior to the work of Sigmund Freud, when it gradually became a mental, rather than a uterine or physical, affliction) was often challenged,27 ancient doctors do describe a female pathology resulting from a firmly physical cause, that is the movement of the womb, labelled as hysteria or hysterical suffocation.28 According to Hippocratic doctors (De genitura 4, Littré 7.476), male seed moistens the uterus and makes it heavier. With the absence of male seed, the uterus becomes too dry and light and starts wandering. The most efficient cures are fumigations. Widows, barren women, virgins, childless women and old women are particularly exposed to the risk of becoming hysterical.29 It can be cured by marriage and/or pregnancy, scent therapy, irritant pessaries and various herbal concoctions administered by mouth, by nose or directly to the vulva (King 1993, 14). Since the womb was believed capable of moving around much of the body, these texts attribute a wide range of symptoms to womb movement, such as epilepsy, aphasia, apoplexy, lethargy, anxiety, delirium and hyperventilation.30 One very interesting point should be highlighted – skin-breathing (cutaneous respiration) and innate heat play an important role in Galen’s theory of “hysterical suffocation,” especially in relation to a story that becomes part of the tradition surrounding hysteria: the apparently dead woman

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whose revival is described in a lost work by Heraclides of Pontus (Galen, De loc. aff. 6.5, K. 8.415): For [Heraclides] says that that woman who had neither breath nor pulse could only be distinguished from a corpse in one way: that is, that she had a little warmth around the middle part of her body.31 In the later tradition a deep concern remained over the ability of hysteria to mimic death. The duration of the apparent death varies: according to Diogenes Laertius (8.61), it is 30 days;32 while Pliny the Elder (7.52), who also wrote about this case in the first century CE, states that the duration is seven days. Moreover, Pliny states that women seem particularly liable to this disease, since they are subject to the turning of the womb (conversiovolvae).33 This story is also recalled by Origen (C. Cels. 2.16): thus, we might have here confirmation that Origen was in some sense interested in – or at least knew something about – female hysterical diseases.34 To return to the Pythia, how much gynaecology is present in the Christian depiction of the Delphic prophetess has already been expertly analysed by Giulia Sissa (1990, 41–70; 2013), and further detail is not necessary here. Basically, Sissa argues for a parallel between the Pythia’s posture on a tripod over an abyss emitting vapours and the medical treatment of hysteria, on the basis that fumigations were a sort of panacea for all female disturbances (from hysteria and sterility to childbirth), and argues that this posture represents the sexual nature of Apollo’s possession.35 Since the vagina and the mouth were symbolically equivalent in Greek culture, when the Pythia speaks Apollo’s words, according to Sissa, she is metaphorically giving birth.36 The need for female bodies to be regularly opened and closed in order to conceive was subverted in the Pythia’s body, which was perpetually, uselessly (in terms of conception and children) and “indecently” open. This image of the Pythia, who is impregnated while surrounded by gaseous emissions, seized by a frenzied orgasm, which was at least in nuce present in some Roman authors like Plutarch, Lucan and PseudoLonginus, must have been extraordinarily powerful, and the perfect terrain to work on for later Christian authors.37 If we recall their writings as analysed above, in fact, we see the representation of the Pythia as an old and (possibly) virginal woman, whose womb is depicted implicitly as affected by hysteria because of her perpetuated virginity and, consequently, is represented as eager for sexual intercourse and progeny, whilst she is represented as acting in a frenzied and orgasmic way. In some cases, she is depicted implicitly as pregnant (at least in a metaphorical sense), but her offspring is evanescent and she delivers from her mouth and not from her womb.38

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The image of the Delphic prophetess being made pregnant by the god and giving birth to oracles via the mouth represents an irregular delivery and, since the pregnancy does not end with the birth of a child, it might be compared – in some sense at least – to a miscarriage. Therefore, both the image of her body never properly closed during a regular pregnancy and of her body undergoing a “fake” – somehow “hysterical” – pregnancy can be seen as an important way, in my opinion, to sexually humiliate, discredit and undermine the prophetess and her significant religious role, which was the aim of the Church Fathers. Moreover, the representations of the Pythia developed by the Church Fathers are clearly gendered: her body is represented as a malfunctioning and subversive version of the ideal female, reproducing body. In this way, moreover, the Church Fathers seem to have specifically discredited her maternal role, making her maternity an abnormal, mocked, maimed and failed one and depriving her of a core indicator of female identity, since in both Greek and Roman cultures the only form of social recognition available to many women came from being a mother (see Pedrucci 2015, with previous bibliography). Finally, a stereotype frequently associated with older women by GrecoRoman (male) authors focuses on the nature of their sexuality, which is represented as unbridled, uninhibited and disgusting in many sources; this stereotype and bias seems to have affected depictions of the Pythia, who is almost always represented as an old woman. Even though some older women receive respect and affection in Greek and Roman sources, biases towards old women are numerous and persistent and they concern above all their disturbing sexuality.39 Of course, it is possible to imagine a distinction in terms of social class that was applied respectively to old aristocratic, respectable women and poor, lower class women, which might explain this discrepancy in the portrayal of aged women. In this regard, we can recall the fact that the Pythia is described by Plutarch as a peasant woman (even though pure and respectable). The fact of being post-menopausal, and therefore (at least theoretically) beyond the reproductive stage of life, offered older women an inestimable level of freedom, strongly denied to younger women. Generally speaking, this allowed them a level of independence which included being able to go out in public alone and to have contact with men who were not members of their own family. As a consequence, the suspicion of “abusing” this role was constant (Bremmer 1985, 293). From Aristophanes to the Latin poetry of Ovid and Martial, as well as New Comedy, we face an ascendant climax of depraved and grotesque gender biases: older women are portrayed as old hags, as nymphomaniacs who covet younger men, with a particular propensity for drunkenness and a lack of decency;40 as well as potential sorceresses. Her love for wine, a drink forbidden to younger women, was a powerful commonplace. In ancient Rome there was a proverb: anus reditadarmillum, “the old woman always goes back to the wine jar” (Bremmer

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1985, 289). This stereotype is also present in Christian literature: Paul (Epistle to Titus 2.3) demanded that aged women should avoid drinking too much wine (cf. Bremmer 1985, 289). During the Hellenistic period, the image of the old drunk woman was particularly popular. In mythological tales, divine female communities are particularly fearsome and horrible (the Graiai, the Lamiae or Empuse, the Furies, the Eumenides, the Gorgons, the Harpies, the Sirens, the Moirai). In some cases, these women are virginal and old.41 A significant number of these horridae mulieres (“awful women”) have experienced either a disastrous motherhood or a lack of motherhood, in some ways like the Pythia, whose maternity might be seen as an unreal one, since she is pregnant with oracles.42 Recalling the image of the prophetess as a woman afflicted by hysteria, with an anachronistic pun, we might say she is experiencing a hysterical pregnancy. The Romans, in particular, seem to have been extremely rude towards old women: according to Festus (Gloss. Lat. 5) anus (old) comes from a-nous (without intellect); in the Latin glosses anilis (of an old woman) is explained as amentia (dementia).43 Latin poets, moreover, used to blame those women for the regrettable practice of fellatio and also enumerate with satisfaction the signs of female physical decay: white hair, rotten teeth, squinty eyes, wrinkled face, withered breasts and smelly genitals. Some of these features are evident in the iconography.44 Thus, Greco-Roman stereotypes of older women included characterisations of them as drunken nymphomaniacs who were physically unattractive and ugly, as well as immoral and cunning. Greek and Roman women, especially those of the lower class, were surrounded by these stereotypes, which were linked with ageing and getting older. Biases like these may well have influenced Christian views and representations of the Delphic prophetess.

Conclusion: gender biases and abnormal bodies Christian authors – namely Origen and John Chrysostom – transformed the image of the Pythia, representing her in a sexualised manner as frenzied, manic and speaking in a garbled and incoherent fashion. She gets pregnant from the god and seems to act like she is having an orgasm. The suggestion of Bacchic possession (bacchatur) is constantly present.45 These authors have transformed the Pythia from her Greek image, which focuses on her “performative voice,” to a sexualised “performative body,” and this characterisation led to later representations of the Delphic prophetess as “hysterical,” in accordance with later medical characterisations of hysteria. These Christian authors might have used Roman Imperial sources, like Plutarch, Lucan and Pseudo-Longinus, who started changing the Pythia’s image in a sexualised direction, for their scope. But the Church Fathers de-contextualised, exaggerated and distorted these sexualised images of the Pythia to a very great extent. Origen is the first Christian thinker to

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explicitly sexualise the Pythia in an extreme manner – his representation of the Pythia, which was further developed by John Chrysostom, had a lasting legacy on later characterisations and receptions of the Pythia and has affected assessments of the Pythia in nineteenth- and twentieth-century modern scholarship as well.46 One of the main themes inherent within the late antique, Christian reception of the Pythia is her age; authors implicitly focus on this aspect of the Pythia in order to construct a sexualised, distorted and gendered image of the Delphic prophetess. Biases against old (especially lower-class) women were strong in Graeco-Roman antiquity: they were frequently characterised as nymphomaniac (and associated with oral sex in particular), drunk, dirty, suspicious witches. In conclusion, to discredit and ridicule “pagan” religious practices, Christian authors sought to discredit the Pythia by attacking her sexuality and her maternity, thus depriving her of one of the major indicators of social identity available to ancient women. Ultimately, in this way, the Church Fathers also convey the long-lasting Christian message of female pleasure as something inappropriate (see, for instance, Streete 1997; Jung 2000).

Notes 1 Flower 2008, 211–35. The clarification of her sex as “female” is worth noting: modern scholars generally assume that all female seers were of this type, that is to say, the passive agents of mediumistic possession. On the one hand, the passive role is consistent with female stereotypes in ancient Greece and it is difficult to imagine men in such a role (see the emblematic description of the Bacchae possessed by Dionysus: Euripides, Bacch. 700–74). However, there is reliable, if scanty, evidence that some itinerant charismatic seers were female, and that they performed so-called technical or inductive divination, which differs from inspired divination (see, for instance, Bonnechere 2007, 150–55). As Flower (2008, 212) points out, their activities are mostly not recorded by ancient writers because they did not participate in military ventures. Warfare, however, was not the only sphere of activity in which mantic assistance might be sought and paid for. It is also important to note that there was a male seer at the Oracle of Claros in Asia Minor: see Tacitus, Annals 2.54; Iamblichus, DM 3.11. See also Crippa 1998, 166–72 for gender distinctions in divination based on different kinds of voices; and Marshall 2019, on how gender dynamics influenced some authors’ points of view, such as those of Paul and Plutarch, in their own distinct ways, on the prophetic art (despite the theoretical assumption that gender doesn’t matter: When these authors work on the conceptual, abstract level – that is, when they describe how spirits interact with bodies and minds – they do not suggest that gender makes a difference. However, when they move to the concrete consideration of prophecy by a person or persons in particular bodies, issues of sex and gender arise. [221] On ancient divination, see also Johnston and Struck 2005; Johnston 2008. For gendered connotations relating to the Pythia from the Church Fathers’ point of view, see also Pedrucci 2018, 215–29.

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2 See, for example, Aeschylus, Eum. 29; Euripides, Ion 42, 321; Plato, Phdr. 244a; Hdt., 6.66, 7.111, 141; Thucydides 5.16. Cf. Flower 2008, 217. For a more detailed linguistic analysis, see Maurizio 1995, 70; Bielawski 2015. 3 For a representative example of the view that ancient Greek prophetesses, especially the Pythia at Delphi, were possessed “victims” who were completely overcome by the descent of the god in possession, see Dodds 1951, 140; 1965, 72. 4 See also Flower 2008, 232. For the historiography of the frenzied Pythia and the deconstruction of this “myth,” see Vernant 1982; Catenacci 2001, 144–48; Pisano 2013–2014, 9. 5 See Chirassi Colombo 1996; Sfameni Gasparro 1996; 2002, 113–48; Crippa 2007; Flower 2008, 222. Also, it is important to note that Lucan’s work is a controversial source which needs to be properly contextualised. Moreover, it is likely that his main purpose was to satirise Plutarch, as will be discussed later. 6 We know that Plutarch complained about the fact that the Pythia was not able to deliver oracles in verse anymore in his work The Oracles at Delphi No Longer Given in Verse. See below for further analysis. For the image of Themis, see Flower 2008, 215, Fig. 19: inside of an Attic red-figure kylix of c. 440 BCE, attributed to the Codrus painter. Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museenzu Berlin, Berlin. 7 Maurizio 1995, 79: To deny the Pythia’s fluency and poetry is to deny her possession, because both possession and poetry are inextricably linked in archaic Greece. Neither a raving hysteric nor a prop of priests who duped the public the Pythia at Delphi produced utterances that are a genuine expression of a cultural system which believed in and codified behaviours and speech that it understood as indicating the presence of the divine. To argue that spirit possession rendered the Pythia incapable of coherent prophetic speech or that the Pythia does not versify her words but waits patiently while someone else does so is to assume that the Pythia alone is an exception to the paradigm of spirit possession in early Greek culture. 8 Πάντες γὰρ οἵ τε τῶν ἐπῶν ποιηταὶ οἱ ἀγαθοὶ οὐκ ἐκ τέχνης ἀλλ᾽ ἔνθεοι ὄντεςκαὶ κατεχόμενοι πάντα ταῦτα τὰ καλὰ λέγουσι ποιήματα, καὶ οἱμελοποιοὶ οἱ ἀγαθοὶ ὡσαύτως, ὥσπερ οἱ κορυβαντιῶντες οὐκ ἔμφρονες ὄντες ὀρχοῦνται, οὕτω καὶ οἱ μελοποιοὶ οὐκἔμφρονες ὄντες τὰ καλὰ μέλη ταῦτα ποιοῦσιν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐπειδὰν ἐμβῶσιν εἰςτὴν ἁρμονίαν καὶ εἰς τὸν ῥυθμόν, βακχεύουσι καὶ κατεχόμενοι, ὥσπερ αἱβάκχαι ἀρύονται ἐκ τῶν ποταμῶν μέλι καὶ γάλα κατεχόμεναι. Translated by Maurizio 1995, 77 9 Translated by Fowler 1914. Cf. Marshall 2019, 211. 10 Cf. Sfameni Gasparro 1996; Crippa 2007. 11 ἀλλ᾿ ὥσπερ ὁ Ξενοφῶν οἴεται δεῖν ἐλάχιστα τὴν νύμφην ἰδοῦσαν ἐλάχιστα δ᾿ ἀκούσασαν εἰς ἀνδρὸς βαδίζειν, οὕτως ἄπειρος καὶ Dἀδαὴς ὀλίγου δεῖν ἁπάντων καὶ παρθένος ὡς ἀληθῶς τὴν ψυχὴν τῷ θεῷ σύνεστιν. Translated by Babbitt, 1936. Cf. Chapters 5 and 6 in this volume. 12 See also Sissa 2013, 87. 13 Πολλοὶ γὰρ ἀλλοτρίῳ θεοφοροῦνται πνεύματι τὸναὐτὸν τρόπον, ὃν καὶ τὴν Πυθίαν λόγος ἔχει τρίποδι πλησιάζουσαν, ἔνθαῥῆγμά ἐστι γῆς ἀναπνεῖν ὥς φασιν ἀτμὸν ἔνθεον, αὐτόθεν ἐγκύμονα τῆς δαιμονίου καθισταμένην δυνάμεως παραυτίκα χρησμῳδεῖν κατ̓ ἐπίπνοιαν. Translated by Havell 1890. Cf. Flower 2008, 224: “Indeed, a postmenopausal woman fifty years old or older might be surprised to learn she was about to have sex with the youthful and beautiful Apollo.” The image of the Pythia sitting on a high tripod, in a cave that is hollowed out deep

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down in the earth, with a rather narrow mouth, from which arises breath that inspires a divine frenzy, is also present in Strabo 9.3.5. Bacchatur demens aliena per antrum colla ferens, vittasque dei Phoebeaque serta erectis discussa comis per inania templi ancipiti cervice rotat spargitque vaganti obstantes tripodas magnoque exaestuat igne Iratum te, Phoebe, ferens. […] Spumea tum primum rabies uaesana per ora effluit et gemitus et anhelo clara meatu murmura, tum maestus uastis ululatus in antris extremaeque sonant domita iam uirgine uocesi. Translated by Duff 1928 In Duff’s translation the word (who was mastered) is unfortunately missing. The two mouths were supposed to be connected to each other, see n. 36 below for further discussion. Just to give one example, in Rome a goddess named Prema existed, to indicate female submission during intercourse, whilst the god Subigo assured the male position: see Perfigli 2004, 169–71. Nouns like gemitus and murmur are used with sexual connotations in Latin erotic literature (Adams 1982, 85, 161, 284; Rimell 2006, 93), even though the verb gemere bears a mournful undertone as well (Bettini 2008, 82). Ululatus (with its onomatopoeic strength), maestus and antris reinforce this sad and disquieting atmosphere. See, for instance, Plutarch, De def. or. 436f–437a; Maurizio 1995; Catenacci 2001, 145–7; Pisano 2013–2014, 11. See Pisano 2013–2014, 11; Crippa 1998, 166–7. A few lines prior to this episode, Plutarch (De def. or. 437d) states: εἰ δὲ τοῦτο μὴ δοκεῖ πιθανόν, ἀλλά γε τὴνΠυθίαν αὐτὴν ἐν πάθεσι καὶ διαφοραῖς ἄλλοτ᾽ ἄλλαις ἐκεῖνο τὸ μέρος τῆςψυχῆς; ἴσχειν, ᾧ πλησιάζει τὸ πνεῦμα, καὶ μὴ μίαν ἀεὶ κρᾶσιν ὥσπερ ἁρμονίανἀμετάβολον ἐν παντὶ καιρῷ διαφυλάττειν, ὁμολογήσετε. If this does not seem credible, you will at least all agree that the prophetic priestess herself is subjected to differing influences, varying from time to time, which affect that part of her soul with which the spirit of inspiration comes into association, and that she does not always keep one temperament, like a perfect concord, unchanged on every occasion. Translated by Babbitt 1936. According to Casadio (1990, 136–8), sexual connotations are clear here: the verb πλησιάζει (bring near), in fact, can be used for sexual intercourse and πνεῦμα (spirit) can also mean sperm. Cf. Chapters 5 and 6 in this volume. Herodotus (1.182), who describes a hierogamy in Lycia, labelled it as a bizarre foreign ritual. See Flower 2008, 224. It might be of interest to note that Origen (the first to sexualise the Pythia, 184/185–253/254 CE) was a Greek ascetic, who was said to be auto-castrated (following Matthew 19:12 literally) or castrated by the Jews. Whether these tales are true or not, they might give us an idea of his personal approach to sex. See Placher 1983, 62. Ιστόρηται τοίνυν περὶ τῆς Πυθίας, ὅπερ δοκεῖ τῶν ἄλλων μαντείων λαμπρότερον τυγχάνειν, ὅτι περικαθεζομένη τὸ τῆς Κασταλίας στόμιον ἡ τοῦ Ἀπόλλωνος προφῆτις δέχεται πνεῦμα διὰ τῶν γυναικείων κόλπων· οὗ πληρωθεῖσα ἀποφθέγγεται τὰ νομιζόμενα εἶναι σεμνὰ καὶ θεῖα μαντεύματα […] Ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸ εἰς ἔκστασιν καὶ μανικὴν ἄγειν κατάστασιν τὴν δῆθεν προφητεύουσαν, ὡς μηδαμς αὐτὴν ἑαυτῇ παρακολουθεῖν, οὐ θείου πνεύματος ἔργον ἐστίν. Translated and edited by Roberts and Donaldson 1926 Λέγεται τοίνυν αὕτη ἡ Πυθία γυνή τις οὖσα ἐπικαθῆσθαι τῷ τρίποδί ποτε τοῦ Ἀπόλλωνος, διαιροῦσα τὰ σκέλη· εἶθ' οὕτω πνεῦμα πονηρὸν κάτωθεν ἀναδιδόμενον, καὶ διὰ τῶν γεννητικῶν αὐτῆς διαδυόμενον μορίων πληροῦν τὴν γυναῖκα τῆς μανίας,

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καὶ ταύτην τὰς τρίχας λύουσαν λοιπὸν ἐκβακχεύεσθαί τε, καὶ ἀφρὸν ἐκ τοῦ στόματος ἀφιέναι, καὶ οὕτως ἐν παροινίᾳ γενομένην τὰ τῆς μανίας φθέγγεσθαι ῥήματα. Translated by Chambers 1889 Clement of Alexandria, Strom. I.135.2–3; Tertullian, Apol. 23. 5. See Pisano 2013–2014, 10–11. Many scholars have written about how Lucan uses supernatural episodes in his epic to heighten the tension and general level of apprehension and to create individual moments of horror: for a representative example, see Braund 2009, 24–5. Pedrucci 2013, especially 16, with exhaustive previous bibliography, among which, for instance: Joly 1966; Faraone 2007. This monolithic description of hysteria’s symptoms both in scientific and nonscientific literature is well known, but it can be considered a “myth” or popular fiction. As King 1993 has demonstrated, the ancient reality is much more complex: the early history of hysteria is something spurious invented by later physicians in the Middle Ages and Renaissance. It was legitimated after the event by medical historians, especially through the notorious translation of the Hippocratic texts by Émile Littré (1801–1881), who was influenced by the nineteenth-century conviction that almost all women were affected by hysteria. See Gilman et al. 1993; Arnaud 2014. In the Hippocratic corpus it is clearly stated that the womb is the origin of all diseases (De locis in homine 47, Littré 6.344). For more specific sources concerning womb diseases, see n. 29 below. This idea extends beyond medicine: Plato famously described the womb as a living animal eager to have children (Ti. 91c.). From Soranus (2.29, 3.28) and Galen (De loc. aff. 6.5, K. 8.414–37, cf. also Aretaeus, De causis et signis acutorum morborum 2.11) we learn that, at least by the second century CE, the period in which we are mostly interested, medical opinion was split on whether the movement of the womb meant that it was a “living thing” or a “wild animal.” Celsus, in the early first century CE, wrote a chapter (4.28) on diseases of the womb in his work. This begins with a description of an unnamed but violent illness that comes from the womb, an organ Celsus regarded as second only to the stomach in its influence on the rest of the body. The condition he describes takes away the breath, so that the woman falls down as if she had epilepsy; however, unlike in epilepsy, the eyes are not “turned,” there is no frothing at the mouth and the sinews are not stretched. Instead, the patient sleeps. His recommendations for treatment are no different from those attested in the Hippocratic corpus, nor is the concern to distinguish the condition from epilepsy. See King 1993, 35–44. Women were not only labelled as hysterica, but this was how women described themselves. In Martial’s Epigrams (11.71), Leda tells her aged husband she is hysterica as a device to make him summon young doctors to carry out what was then thought to be the standard treatment, sexual intercourse. Mul. I 1 (Littré 8.10); Mul. 2.145 (Littré, 8.320); Mul. 2.127 (Littré 8.272–4. Cf.: Mul. I 2 (Littré 8.12–22); 2.137 (Littré 8.310); Virg. (Littré 8.466–70). See Pedrucci 2013, 15–23. An overly prolonged virginity, in particular, was considered to drive girls crazy, especially in the Greek tradition. See Pigeaud 1987; Andò 1990; Guidorizzi 2010; Marzari 2010. For the Roman world, see Rousselle 1985, 63–77. See, for example, De morbis muliebribus 2.123–33 (Littré 8.266–310), 151–2 (Littré 8.326), 2.201 (Littré 8.384–386). Λέγεται γάρ ἄπνους τε καὶ ἄσφυκτος ἐκείνη ἡ ἄνρθωπος γεγονέναι, τῶν νεκρῶν ἑνὶ μόνῳ διαλλάττουσα, τῷ βραχεῖαν ἔχειν θερμότητα κατὰ τὰ μέσα μέρη τοῦ σώματος. Translated by King 1993, 34. For a comprehensive treatment of this topic, see King 1993, 34–5.

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32 Τὴν γοῦν ἄπνουν ὁ Ἡρακλείδης φησὶ τοιοῦτόν τι εἶναι, ὡς τριάκοντα ἡμέρας συντηρεῖν ἄπνουν καὶ ἄσφυκτον τὸ σῶμα· ὅθεν εἶπεν αὐτὸν καὶ ἰητρὸν καὶ μάντιν. At all events Heraclides testifies that the case of the woman in a trance was such that for thirty days he kept her body without pulsation though she never breathed; and for that reason Heraclides called him not merely a physician but a diviner as well. Lives of Eminent Philosophers. Vol. 2. Translated by Mensch 2018 33 Feminarum sexus huic malo videtur maxime opportunus conversione volvae, quae si corrigatur, spiritus restituitur, huc pertinet nobile illud apud Graecos volumen Heraclidis septem diebus feminae exanimis ad vitam revocatae.

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The female sex seems specially liable to this malady, caused by distortion of the womb; if this is set right, the breathing is restored. To this subject belongs the essay of Heraclides, well known in Greece, about the woman recalled to life after being dead for seven days. HN Vol. II: Books 3–7. Translated by Rackham 1942 Ὡς πρὸς ἀπίστους δὲ καὶ τὰ περὶ τῆς παρὰ τῷ Ἡρακλείδῃ ἄπνου οὐ πάντῃ ἔσται εἰς τὸν τόπον ἄχρηστα … and as we are replying to unbelievers, it will not be altogether useless to refer in this place to what Heraclides relates respecting the woman who was deprived of life. Translated and edited by Roberts and Donaldson 1926. Origen refers unbelievers to it in the context of Christ’s resurrection from the dead: although Origen does not say how long the woman in the story recorded by Heraclides lay dead, the figure of three days may come from this analogy. See King 1993, 35. Cf. Manuli 1983, 157; Rousselle 1985, 71; Sissa 1990, 47–52; Pedrucci 2013, 17. It is worth noting that Sissa 1990, 19, insists that representation of the Pythia can tell us nothing about the Pythia’s actual service at Delphi. The physiology of the female body was regulated by a periodical opening and closing: the ancient Greeks believed that the female body was opened the first time after the first penetration, closed with pregnancy and then re-opened after childbirth for a new pregnancy. They also believed that the lower “uterine mouth” and the upper mouth were linked by a canal that could be crossed. As Manuli 1983, 157 (cf. Bettini 1998, 163–4) has argued, the woman was thought as a vagina ininterrotta dalle narici all’ utero (“an uninterrupted vagina from the nostrils to the womb”). Some scholars argue that the Pythia was under the influence of gaseous emissions, which made her “high.” Even if hydrocarbon gases were present, it is unlikely that the levels were significant enough to have had much of an effect on the Pythia. See Flower 2008, 226–7. It might be of interest to note that in Greek and Roman lore there is an extremely ambivalent animal connected with childbirth, which delivers from its mouth: the weasel. In the ancient world, the weasel was a domestic animal, closely connected with the obstetrical sphere. Like the midwife herself, the weasel was considered to be an ambivalent character who could be salvific or a doom bearer at the same time. The most intriguing detail is that the weasel was said to conceive in its ears and give birth through its mouth. Plutarch, moreover, states that this is a parallel to the generation of speech (De Is. et Os. 74, 381a). According to Pliny the crow, a notoriously ill-omened bird, was said to give birth through its mouth, and its eggs might cause miscarriage (HN 10.32; 30.130). A similar circumstance can be imagined for the weasel: facilitating childbirth and causing miscarriage are not contradictory functions, since in both cases, it is a matter of expelling something from the female womb. See Bettini 1998, 143–80, 212–5, 283–313.

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39 Older women are treated with respect and affection in sources ranging from the Homeric poems, where we find the beloved Eurycleia (Homer, Od. 19.361–507), to the Roman Empire, where aged matronae were raised to embody symbolic female virtues, such as pietas, but also loyalty and chastity, as can be seen in portraits of old (aristocratic) women under the Empire, as well as some funerary inscriptions (for example, CIL VIII, 7384: an old lady who has died aged 81 is said to be innocens, castissima, praestans, rarissima, conservatrix dulcissima; CIL VI, 1478: avia carissimae ducatrix dulcissima). See Fuchs 2008; Pedrucci 2013, 91. 40 See, for example, Aristophanes, Eccl. 878–1112 (cf.: Ran. 513–528., Thesm. 504–10); Archilochus, fr. 188 West; Anacreon, fr. 432 Page: dehydration due to excessive sex. See also Menander, Sam. 86., fr. 412 Kassel-Austin; Plautus, Aulularia 354–6, Cas. 638, Curc. 76–82 and 96–109, Mostell. 157–65; Ovid, Am. 1.8; Martial 3.32, 16, 4 20, 10.67. Cf. Bremmer 1985, 297 n. 53 (with bibliography, especially on fellatio in antiquity). 41 This is the case with the Graiai, born with a beautiful face but with white hair, young and old at the same time and, thus, unsuited to sexuality and, above all, to motherhood; this is also the case with the Furies, who are described by Aeschylus (Eum. 68ff.) as loathsome, grim and wizened maidens, with whom no god or man or beast ever mingles. See Bremmer 1985, 290–3; Pedrucci 2013, 91–92. See also Aristophanes, Eccl. 1056 (Empuse); Sch. Aristophanes, Vesp. 1035c–d (Lamia). Aged and virgin women, according to Bremmer, share “structural” similarities; they are both “useless” and in some sense elusive to men. 42 And because of their lack of motherhood, these horridae mulieres are imagined as becoming nasty and hostile towards other people’s offspring, becoming real bogeys for children. See Pedrucci (forthcoming). 43 Bremmer 1985, 288. It also seems significant that anus (with a long “a”) means anus, the rectal opening. Anilis is also very often linked to superstitio by Cicero (Div. 2.19, 36, 141; Nat. D. 2.70; 3.92), which has extremely negative connotations for the Romans. 44 For example, a red-figured lekythos c. 510–500 BCE or a red-figured kylix, c. 510 BCE (Figures 12a and 12b in Pedrucci 2013). Birchler Emery 2004 categorised five hallmarks used by artists to evoke the third age, which, in order of frequency, are: white hair and/or beards, baldness, wrinkles, hunched back and stick, other physical features such as being emaciated or being overweight. Among them, wrinkles are the most common feature for both males and females, but the place where wrinkles are located is different. While for male figures wrinkles are placed on the forehead, for female figures they are placed on the neck and, in the case of naked prostitutes, on the abdomen. Sometimes they are placed on the face, but much more rarely. Throat and belly are certainly not random places – they are, in fact, two parts of the female body which are sexually connotative and which evoke the idea of procreation. Cf. Pfisterer-Haas 1989; Birchler Emery 2008; Pedrucci 2013, 90–3. 45 Casadio 1990, 138: “Apollo e le sue fedeli, dunque, ʻbaccheggianoʼ, così come Bacco e le sue seguaci ʻprofetizzanoʼ” (So, Apollo and his female worshippers act like Bacchae, just as Bacchus and his female followers “prophesy”). 46 Lewis 2014, esp. Chapters 5 and 6.

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Strabo. Geography, Volume IV. Book 8–9. Translated by Horace Leonard Jones 1961. LCL 196. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Tacitus. Annals. Translated by J. Jackson. 1962. LCL 249. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Tertullian. Apologetical works and Minucius Felix Octavius. Translated by Rudolph Arbesmann, Emily Joseph Daly and Edwin A. Quain. 2008. Washington, DC: Fathers of the Church. Thucydides. Vol. III, Books 5–6. Translated by C. Forster Smith. 1921. LCL 110. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press.

Inscriptions Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. Vol. VI Inscriptiones urbis Romae Latinae, edited by G. Henzen, I.B. De Rossi, E. Bormann, C.H.R. Huelsen, and M. Bang. 1976. Berlin: Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum Vol. VIII. Inscriptiones Africae Latinae. Collected by G. Wilmanns. Edited by T. Mommsen. 1881. Berlin: Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften.

Modern works Adams, J.M. 1982. The Latin Sexual Vocabulary. Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University Press. Andò, Valeria. 1990. “La verginità come follia: il Peri parthenion ippocratico.” Quaderni storici 25, no. 75(3) (December): 715–37. Arnaud, Sabine. 2014. L’invention de l’hystérie au temps des Lumières (1670–1820). Paris: É ditions de l’É cole des hautes é tudes en sciences sociales. Bettini, Maurizio. 1998. Nascere. Storie di donne, donnole, madriederoi. Torino: G. Einaudi. Bettini, Maurizio. 2008. Voci. Antropologia sonora del mondo antico. Torino: G. Einaudi. Bielawski, Krzysztof. 2015. “Mantic Perspectives in Greek Tragedy. Words, Persons and Performances.” In Mantic Perspectives: Oracles, Prophecy and Performance, edited by Krzysztof Bielawski, 69–84. Gardzienice, Lubin and Warszawa: Ośrodek Praktyk Teatrainych “Gardzienice.” Birchler Emery, Patrizia. 2004. L’iconographie de la vieillesse en Grèce archaïque. Thèse de doctorat, Genève. Birchler Emery, Patrizia. 2008. “Vieillards et vieilles femmes en Grèce archaïque: de la calvitie et des rides.” In Langages et métaphores du corps dans le monde antique, edited by Véronique Dasen and Jérôme Wilgaux, 61–72. Rennes: Presses universitaires de Renne. Bonnechere, Pierre. 2007. “Divination.” In A Companion to Greek Religion, edited by Daniel Ogden, 145–59. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Braund, Susanna. 2009. A Lucan Reader: Selections from Civil War. Mundelein: Bolchazy-Carducci. Bremmer, Jan N. 1985. “La donna anziana: libertà e indipendenza.” In Le donne in Grecia, edited by Giampiera Arrigoni and Bruno Gentelli, 275–98. Roma-Bari: Laterza.

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Catenacci, Carmine. 2001. “L’oracolo di Delfi e le tradizioni oracolari nella Grecia arcaica e classica. Formazione, prassi, teologia.” In La civiltà dei Greci: forme, luoghi, contesti, edited by Massimo Vetta, 131–84. Roma: Carocci. Casadio, Giovanni. 1990. “Dioniso e Apollo, prima e oltre Gutenberg.” Religioni e Società 9: 130–38. Chirassi Colombo, Ileana. 1996. “Pythia e Sibilla. I problemi dell’atechnosmantike in Plutarco.” In Plutarco e la religione, edited by Italo Gallo, 429–47. Napoli: M. D’Auria. Coleman-Norton, P.R. 1930. “St. Chrysostom and the Greek Philosophers.” Classical Philology 25, no. 4 (October): 305–17. Connelly, Joan Breton. 2007. Portrait of a Priestess. Women and Ritual in Ancient Greece. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Crippa, Sabina. 1998. “La voce e la visione. Il linguaggio oracolare femminile nella letteratura antica.” In Sibille e linguaggi oracolari. Mito, storia, tradizione. Atti del convegno Macerata-Norcia, 20–24 settembre 1994, Macerata, edited by Ileana Chirassi Colombo and Tullio Seppilli, 159–89. Pisa-Roma: Istituti Editoriali e Poligrafici Internazionali. Crippa, Sabina. 2007. Introduction to Plutarque. Sur les oracles de la Pythia, edited by Robert Flacelière, vii–xxvii. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Dodds, Eric R. 1951. The Greeks and the Irrational. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Dodds, Eric R. 1965. Pagan and Christian in an Age of Anxiety. Some Aspects of Religious Experience from Marcus Aurelius to Constantine. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fai, Vincenzo. 2016. “L’humanitas di Sorano di Efeso.” Centro di Ricerca sulle Lingue Franche nella Comunicazione Interculturale e Multimediale. Working Papers 2: 3–42. Faraone Christopher A. 2007. “The Rise of the Demon Womb in Greco-Roman Antiquity.” In Finding Persephone. Women’s Rituals in the Ancient Mediterranean, edited by Maryline G. Parca and Angeliki Tzanetou, 154–64. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Flower, Michael Attyah. 2008. The Seer in Ancient Greece. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Fuchs, Michel. 2008. “Petite vieille ou noble dame: portraits de femmes âgées sous l’Empire romain.” In Langages et métaphores du corps dans le monde antique, edited by Véronique Dasen and Jérôme Wilgaux, 73–89. Rennes: Presses universitaires de Renne. Gilman Sander Lawrence, Helen King, Roy Porter, G.S. Rousseau, and Elaine Showalter, eds. 1993. Hysteria beyond Freud. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Guidorizzi, Guilio. 2010. Ai confini dell’anima. I greci e la follia. Milano: Cortina. Johnston, Sarah Iles. 2008. Ancient Greek Divination. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Johnston, Sarah Iles and Peter T. Struck, eds. 2005. Mantikê. Studies in Ancient Divination. Leiden: Brill. Joly, Robert. 1966. Le niveau de la science hippocratique. Contribution à la psychologie de l’histoire des sciences. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Jung, P.B. 2000. “Sexual Pleasure: A Roman Catholic Perspective on Women’s Delight.” Theology and Sexuality 6, no. 12: 26–47.

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King, Helen. 1993. “Once upon a Text: Hysteria from Hippocrates.” In Gilman Sander L., Helen King, Roy Porter, G.S. Rousseau, and Elaine Showalter, eds. 1993. Hysteria beyond Freud. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.3–90. Lewis, Rosemary. 2014. The Role of the Pythia at Delphi: Ancient and Modern Perspectives. PhD diss., University of South Africa. Manuli, Paola. 1983. “Donne mascoline, femmine sterili, vergini perpetue: la ginecologia greca tra Ippocrate e Sorano.” In Madre materia. Sociologia e biologia della donna greca, edited by Silvia Campese, Paola Manuli, and Giulia Sissa, 149–204. Torino: Boringhieri. Marshall, Jill E. 2019. “Paul, Plutarch and the Gender Dynamics of Prophecy.” New Testament Studies 65, no. 2 (April): 207–222. Marzari, Francesca. 2010. “Paradigmi di follia e lussuria virginale in Grecia antica: le Pretidi fra tradizione mitica e medica.” I Quaderni del Ramo d’Oro on-line 3: 47–74. Maurizio, Lisa. 1995. “Anthropology and Spirit Possession: A Reconsideration of the Pythia’s Role at Delphi.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 115: 69–86. Pedrucci, Giulia. 2013. L’allattamento nella Grecia di epoca arcaica e classica. Roma: Scienze e Lettere. Pedrucci, Giulia. 2015. “Il corpo biologico e il corpo sociale nella donna alle origini della cultura occidentale. L’obbligo di (imparare a) essere madri in Grecia antica.” Narrare i gruppi 10, no. 1: 71–95. Pedrucci, Giulia. 2018. Maternità e allattamenti nel mondo greco e romano. Un percorso fra scienza delle religioni e studi sulla maternità. Rome: Scienze e Lettere. Pedrucci, Giulia. Forthcoming. “Balie e levatrici nel mondo greco e romano: donne affidabili o temibili ʻstregheʼ?” In Magia. Costruzione e Percezione del Mondo Magico dall’Antichità all’Età Contemporanea. June 14–18, 2016, Velletri (Italy), edited by Igor Baglioni. Rome: Quasar. Perfigli, Micol. 2004. Indigitamenta. Divinità funzionali e funzionalità divina nella religione romana. Pisa: Edizione ETS. Pfisterer- Haas, Susanne. 1989. Darstellungen alter Frauen in der griechischen Kunst. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Pigeaud, Jackie. 1987. Folie et cures de la folie chez les médecins de l’antiquité grécoromaine. La manie. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Pisano, Carmine. 2013–2014. “La voce della Pizia: tra mito, rito e antropologia.” I Quaderni del Ramo d’Oro on-line 6: 8–20. Placher, William C. 1983. A History of Christian Theology: An Introduction. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press. Ramelli, Illaria L. 2017. “Prophecy in Origen: Between Scripture and Philosophy.” Journal of Early Christian History 7, no. 2: 17–39. Rimell, Victoria. 2006. Ovid’s Lovers: Desire, Difference and the Poetic Imagination. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rousselle, Aline. 1985. Sesso e società alle origini dell’età cristiana. Bari: Laterza. Sfameni Gasparro, Giulia. 1996. “Plutarco e la religione delfica: il dio ʻfilosofoʼ e il suo esegeta.” In Plutarco e la religione, edited by Italo Gallo, 157–88. Napoli: M. D’Auria.

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Sfameni Gasparro, Giulia. 2002. Oracoli Profeti Sibille. Roma: LAS. Sissa, Giulia. 1990. Greek Virginity. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Sissa, Giulia. 2013. “The hymen is a problem, still. Virginity, Imperforation, and Contraception, from Greece to Rome.” European network on Gender Studies in Antiquity 3: 63–123. Streete, Gail P.C. 1997. The Strange Woman: Power and Sex in the Bible. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Vernant, Jean-Pierre. 1982. “Parole e segni muti.” In Divinazione e razionalità, edited by Jean-Pierre Vernant, 5–24. Torino: Einaudi.

8

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature Antti Lampinen

Introduction Literary references to foreign peoples’ divinatory practices crop up in a great variety of ancient texts, are put to a wide variety of textual uses and stem from centuries apart. This chapter will thus necessarily provide only a cursory view into the dynamics at play. Yet, within a given society’s discourse about its ethnic outgroups, divination has clear potential for being used as a paradigm for more general ideas and impressions about religiosities.1 Consequently, it seems worthwhile to look at the Greek and Roman references to the divinatory practices of ancient “barbarians,” and the ways in which these participate in the broader ethnographical register.2 This will be particularly useful in trying to complicate the conventional dichotomy often met in connection with ancient descriptions of outgroup religiosity – namely, the tendency to interpret references to non-Roman groups’ divinatory practices either: (1) as reflections of actual rituals witnessed by Greek and Roman observers (see, for example, Fitzpatrick 1991; Marco Simón 2007), or (2) as exercises in “mirrored” cultural critique or projecting “otherness” (see, for example, Hartog 1980). While these two modalities are not mutually exclusive and can both be true to a certain extent (depending on each individual context), they need to be enriched by an understanding of the discursive practices and self-fashioning of the writers engaging in such ethnographically presented descriptions. Considering the recent developments in the scholarly understanding of the literary, identity-building and knowledge-ordering aspects of ancient ethnographic writing and its affiliates, more nuanced interpretations can be offered about many ancient references to “foreign” divination.3 The same can be said about the question of why so many literary elements in the religious ethnographies of “barbarian” groups remained in a remarkably stable form for centuries after their first introduction to the tradition – to the extent that some of them can be considered literary topoi. According to the traditional explanation for the continued Imperial-era and Late Antique salience of some cultural or ethnic arguments, the search for doctrinal or moral universals became, in the Imperial era, a process of finding the oldest

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 219 and most original form of knowledge by comparing Greek and barbarian doctrines (cf. Schott 2008, 17–21). While this epistemological explanation is no doubt partially true in the case of references to “alien wisdom” in philosophical and doxographic texts, it fails to account for the tremendously widespread use of similarly ethnicising argumentation in the rhetorical genres of the Roman Imperial era.4 Technical writing in its various guises complicates the picture even more. Discussing foreign divinatory practices must have had its epistemological usefulness, but this should not lead us to ignore its literary aspects and its role in authorial self-fashioning: finding certain well-known ethnic exemplars in a text would allow the audience to draw conclusions about the quality of the text and its writer. The prestige of these formal elements (of the argument or the text, in this case) could cross differences in religious affiliation among the authors and audiences, provided that the general cultural matrix remained the same.5 For the purposes of studying ethnicised references to the divinatory practices of outgroups, it is not particularly relevant to maintain a strong distinction between Christian/Jewish and non-Christian/Jewish authors, especially when dealing with the broader monotheistic or henotheistic currents of thought during the Imperial era.6 The usages to which these elements were put, stretching back at least to the Aristotelian corpus, were common to writers of various religious affiliations and agendas.7 Indeed, an important part in the usefulness of “ethnic” examples in the ancient literary tradition was their adaptability to suit a wide range of arguments without appearing (particularly) forced. An empire, by definition, brings under its rule a broad range of peoples, and the power dynamics of showcasing the variety of “ethnic” customs and differences under the umbrella of the “perfect empire” is a recognisable trope of triumphalist rhetoric, and can be compared with more recent examples of colonialist and imperialist ordering of ethnographically framed knowledge.8 Overall, then, it seems advisable to bear in mind the rhetorical and literary aspects of religious ethnography while pursuing the topic of Greco-Roman representations of barbarian divination. This will also enable a more reasoned appreciation of the value of these texts as cultural or historical sources attesting to actual notions (and the realities) of divinatory practices in antiquity, as it makes us better aware of the contemporary aims of certain authors’ references to barbarian divination. Todd Berzon’s study of the Late Antique heresiological texts as a kind of “ethnography of knowledge” provides a useful parallel for how ethnographically presented writing can be read as participating in the negotiation over the limits of an ingroup’s knowledge frame.9 This leads us back to the epistemological benefits of writing about foreign modes of divination. This study will argue that the ethnographies of divination in antiquity participated very crucially (both due to their exemplarity and the formal prestige of the argumentation from ‘customs of the peoples’) in the broader discourse which focused on how and why the human species seeks knowledge of the future. The same discourse

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was also able to provide intimations about whether the cultural differences evident within divinatory practices pointed to some peoples possessing true wisdom, and others lacking it. Divination, then, might be an easily generalised marker (perceived as it was to be almost universal) that preChristian antiquity was prone to use in debating the limits of knowledge and the relationship between civilisational levels and religiosity.10

Ritual pasts and past rituals: divination as an object of the Greco-Roman ethnographical gaze In the literary sources of the Imperial era, ethnic outgroups – as well as the collectively imagined inhabitants of provinces – are time and time again presented as standing in an essential continuation with their predecessors. This continuum-emphasising way of understanding provincial anthropologies, including physical and mental characteristics, was supported by a range of technical theories and rhetorical gestures.11 But when Greeks and Romans of the Imperial age were thinking about the ritual pasts of the provincial inhabitants – which have been referred to as “subaltern pasts” (Buell 2009, 867) – it was not just their essentialised ways of thinking about foreign groups that emphasised the endurance and conservatism of divinatory practices. Foreigners were conceived as having similar feelings of reverence and attachment towards their ritual practices as the Greeks and Romans had towards their own. Even when individual practices were seen as against norms, memories of past rituals were perceived to still remain strong among the locals. Tacitus paints in his Histories an image of how the fire of the Capitol feeds unrest in Gaul, as “Druids chanted in their fatuous superstition that the fated flames signified the anger of gods and the passing of human fates to the Transalpine peoples” (4.54). There was no need to detail a method of prophecy, since the aim of the note is hardly to provide information about the Gallic diviners – who quite likely had been already eradicated from the continent by the time of the events described.12 Herodotus stands behind many Greco-Roman traditions about barbarian peoples’ divinatory rites, as is the case with many other ethnographical elements as well. The Magi of the Persians already emerge as experts in astrological observation in Herodotus (7.37; other Persians observe birdsigns in 3.76.3), a theme which turned out to be an enduring one. Thracians, likewise, became indelibly associated with Herodotus’ memorable descriptions of their cruel rites aiming to ensure a bounteous afterlife. In terms of divination, it is perhaps fitting that the Thracian divinatory cult among the Satrae, headed by priests of the Bessi clan, is devoted to Dionysus, a divinity with a strong, proverbial connection to Thrace. The ethnicisation is accomplished with this gesture, and the rest of the divinatory ritual is simply compared with that of Delphi, even down to the detail of a priestess uttering the god’s oracles.13

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 221 Other important “first descriptions” could similarly come to define the tradition of referring to a given population group’s divination. Caesar in the Gallic War referred to the Germanic practice of refraining from fighting before the new moon on account of their female diviners’ advice based on “lots and divination” (sortibus et vaticinationibus), which in Plutarch’s biography incorporated the additional claim of Germanic holy women basing their pronouncements on the swirls, eddies and sounds of the rivers.14 This is a significant admission of religious rites within an outgroup which Caesar otherwise constructed as entirely devoid of organised religion or even anthropomorphic representations of divinities (BGall. 6.21). By the second-century CE, the theme of river divination had become hazily but frequently associated with either Germans or Celts, combining an originally Aristotelian reference to Celts hardening their children by dipping them into cold rivers with its more recent Caesarian reapplication to the Germans.15 In its Late Antique guise, the explicitly moralising ritual involving freezing-cold river waters was usually understood as a divination ritual to ascertain the legitimacy of Germans’ (or Celts’) offspring.16 Other elements resembling those first mentioned in Caesar tend to crop up in Imperial-era literature; Dio Cassius, when describing the rebellion of Boudicca in Britain, makes the Icenian queen divine favourable omens from a hare which she has released from the folds of her garment.17 Considering Dio’s temporal remove from Nero’s rule, we should be very sceptical as to the “genuine” anthropological value of his reference; a literary gesture seems like a more believable explanation. In any case, Boudicca’s rebels did not divine their chances correctly: Tacitus notes that they inflated their own foolhardy and vengeful plans by their interpretations, convincing each other of their cause in a flurry of impetuousness (Agr. 15–16; cf. Hist. 4.54). The case of Dio, above, points to ethnographically presented details being recycled due to literary allusiveness. In addition to literary considerations, the durability of some relevant literary motifs is also partly explained by the essentialising idea that a group of people denoted by a certain name (ethnonym) and usually inhabiting the same area remained more or less unchanged throughout their history, whether incorporated into the Roman Empire or not. Such “changeless” peoples were perceived to have practices that similarly remained unaltered over centuries of Greco-Roman imagination. In addition to references to individual practices, the conventionbound lists of peoples who were particularly wise, pious or at least learned in the divinatory arts were similarly convenient for the purposes of argumentation. The effectiveness of barbarian modes of divination is surprisingly seldom commented upon, though acceptance of their validity is frequently modulated through such expressions as “it is said,” “supposedly” or “they believe that.”18 These qualifying phrases are particularly frequent in formally framed ethnographical digressions in the narrow sense, where the desired impact was best obtained by showcasing a set of barbarian customs,

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some of them falling within the typology of “unbelievable things” (apista) or “marvels” (mirabilia).19 Greek and Roman ethnographic discourse on the divination of foreign peoples clearly participated in Greek and Roman analyses of foreign beliefs and rituals, sometimes representing in a condensed form preoccupations or sentiments thought to be typical to a “foreign religion” in its various ethnic manifestations. Alien divination could be used to express the (perceived) inhumanity of distant peoples or (as will be shown later) their strange wisdom.

Late Republican and Early Imperial portrayals of divinatory practices among barbarians Historical change was sometimes acknowledged to have taken place in the religious and divinatory practices of certain groups. Gauls or Celts, for instance, were during the Early Empire clearly envisioned as having been weaned off the cruellest aspects of their religion by their Roman overlords.20 Ritual atrocities, as David Frankfurter (2001, 379) has noted, are frequently located either in the spatial peripheries of the defining culture, or in a relationship with its historical past. The ethnically itemised details about human sacrifice – made more believable by the widespread attribution of similar practices to a broad and interchangeable set of northerners – were far too interesting (and moralising) an element to let lapse. As the subsequent section on Late Antiquity shows, the memory of Celtic human sacrifice (like the Carthaginian one) remained useful for a variety of authorial agendas. In comparison, the Gallic reputation for being expert at divination through auguries – mentioned in Justinus’ Epitome of Pompeius Trogus’ Philippic Histories, and comparable to references made by Cicero and Livy – did not remain relevant beyond the Early Imperial era.21 Partly, the Late Republican and Early Imperial emphasis on Gallic (and Galatian) bird-omens may have fallen into disuse due to its lack of distinctiveness as an ethnic marker. Auguries were already a prominent and institutional part of Roman divination, and thus they were best suited for emphasising the similarity and assimilability of foreign groups with Roman practices rather than acting as a definitive distinction-making element. After the acculturation and assimilation of the Gallic provinces was perceived to be well underway, the element of augury could be argued to have been of less importance. Writing in 44 BCE, after Caesar’s Gallic War had made Druids more prominent in the minds of the Roman readership, Cicero nonetheless chose to gloss the Druidic knowledge as “natural philosophy” (using the Greek word φυσιολογία). He then added that according to Diviciacus – introduced as a Druid from the tribe of Aedui – the Druids prognosticate “partly by auguries, partly by conjecture.”22 Cicero’s comments on Diviciacus’ and the Galatian tetrarch Deiotarus’ expertise in birdomens are located in sections of his On Divination (De divinatione) where the

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 223 personages described are portrayed as trustworthy informants to the Gauls’ and Galatians’ religious practices, as well as Cicero’s personal guestfriends.23 Diviciacus is brought up in the dialogue when Quintus –Cicero’s brother who is cast as the speaker in this section – seeks to demonstrate that the practice of divination is found “even among uncivilized tribes.” Here Quintus uses an argument by common consensus (argumentum ad populum or ex consensu omnium) – met in both a positive (“all the peoples do x”) and negative form (“not even the barbarians do x”), and claiming that a proposition is true due to being popularly held.24 Druids in fact stand within the argument as the sole representatives of divination among the “uncivilized tribes.” From them, Quintus immediately moves east, mentioning the Persian Magi and the fact that the Persian king is required to know their theory and practice.25 It is notable that the vast majority of ethnicised examples are found in Book 1, dedicated as it is to Quintus’ defence of divination largely on the basis of Stoic arguments rooted in traditional customs and natural conditions.26 Book 2, argued by Marcus, relies much more on epistemology, logic and the demonstration (as in 2.28) that not even all the peoples using divination can agree on its details – just like they differ immensely in their other qualities (2.96); the consensus of the peoples (gentes) of the world turns out in this case to be as bad as asking the mob for their view (2.81). The variety made evident in the ethnography of divination can thus be used both as a proof and as a refutation of the validity, authority and importance of divination; it is significant that On Divination, true to the Academic philosophy that was important to Cicero’s self-presentation as a philosopher, does not press a final verdict on its readers but leaves them to draw their own conclusions.27 All in all, Cicero manages throughout On Divination to include a comprehensive-seeming array of foreign divinatory methods, something that builds his authority within the treatise, besides belonging to the established toolkit of philosophical essays. More broadly, it was in keeping with his reinvention of himself as a well-researched writer in technical, religious and philosophical matters – even as he continued to address political matters in an indirect way. In addition to the Gauls and Persians (1.46, 1.90, 2.75), references are made to Assyrian and Chaldaean astrology (1.2, 1.91, 2.89), Egyptian divination (1.2), Etruscan methods of haruspicy and lightningdivination (1.35, 1.92–93, 2.42) as well as augury among several groups of Asia Minor and the Arabians (1.2, 1.25, 1.91–92, 1.94, 2.76), inspired seers among the Greeks (1.3, 1.37–38) and the Carian, Sicilian and Peloponnesian prophetic families (1.39, 1.91). Cultural and natural backgrounds are presented as having shaped different peoples’ modes of divination: nomadic peoples gravitated towards augury, while farming peoples began to observe abnormal growths as prodigies.28 Greeks are included through the given examples as a partial outgroup, yet incorporated tightly into the discourse via the opinions of their philosophers, which Cicero modulates.29 Roman examples are included throughout (cf. 2.8), with an emphasis on how their

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state has introduced a salutary supervision of such a potentially subversive practice as divination (2.70) (Beard 1986, 41–3; Krostenko 2000, 363). The Romans are, however, connected to the broader world of “ethnic practices” at least via the derivation of their Etruscan diviners from Lydia. Inasmuch as there is Roman auto-ethnography, it is uncontroversial and even selfcongratulatory, though Romans who have over-dedicated themselves to divination can be subjected to mockery.30 The broader background for this scepticism is no doubt connected with Caesar’s recent manipulation of the traditional Roman religion for his own purposes (see Krostenko 2000, esp. 387–8). Despite the ostensible ubiquity of divination and the universal consensus about it, its manifestations could be arranged along a cultural gradient, frequently expressed in ethnic terms. Whereas Quintus’ Stoic universalism allowed him to include these “ethnic customs” as uncomplicated pieces of evidence, Marcus’ Academic outlook seeks to cast doubt as to their value as evidence.31 In 2.80, for instance, Cicero punningly mocks the idea of Pisidians, Cilicians and Phrygians as inventors of augury: how could such peoples devoid of normative forms of civilised sociality (expressed through Cicero’s favourite concept of humanitas) be the authors of divination (divinatio)?32 Cicero largely follows the already-established arrangement of ethnic examples – though he no doubt also ended up reinforcing their formal use within the Latin tradition. Magi and Indians, a traditional pairing, are found in 1.47 when the discussion returns to dream omens. The ordering and grouping of ethnically labelled examples frequently carry significance. In 1.25, Cilician, Pamphylian, Lycian and Pisidian practices are mentioned together, implying that Cicero is well acquainted with this corner of the Empire due to his governorship of Cilicia in 51 BCE. Quintus, for his part, had been the governor of Asia from 61 to 59 BCE, during which time he is said to have had a dream of his interpreted by local experts (1.58), and seen the oracular Plutonium at Hierapolis (1.79; cf. Strabo 13.4.14). A reference to the Sicilian dream-interpreters called Galeotae (1.39) is probably meant to bring to mind Cicero’s ties to the island, stemming from his defence of the provincials against Verres. The same combination of personal ties and a geographical angle (the procession from coastal Asia Minor to the Galatian plateau resembles works of geographical encyclopaedism) made it more attractive for him to showcase his ties to Deiotarus. The old Galatian ruler’s reliance on auguries is described immediately after Quintus has remarked how much more trustworthy the auguries were when his older brother was an augur; Cicero never holds back from stressing examples of rulers and city-founders knowing augury.33 His old ally serves as a good example: showcasing “ethnic evidence” and one’s own connections could sometimes neatly dovetail.34 Other writers of the Late Republic and Early Imperial era had much to say about barbarian divination, as well.35 Strabo, who throughout his Geography charts the relationship of the provincial pasts to Rome’s

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 225 contemporary rule over them, is perhaps more alert to historical change than many other writers.36 He includes in 4.4.5 not only “sacrifices” but also “divination” (τὰς θυσίας καὶ μαντείας) among the objectionable practices among the Gauls that Romans had stopped because they were against “our practices” (παρ᾽ ἡμῖν νομίμοις). Although Strabo refers to the divinatory rites with the conventional term μαντεία (“divination”), rather than the more delegitimising δεισιδαιμονία (literally “fear of the gods” but often translated as “superstition”), it is perhaps typical of his contemporaries’ conception of northern peoples’ divination that the practices he describes have close links with human sacrifice. In writing about the Cimbri, Strabo describes how the grey-haired and barefoot oracular priestesses (προμάντεις ἱέρειαι) crown human victims with garlands and lead them to platforms which allow them to bend the victim’s necks over giant bronze cauldrons and cut their throats: it is the blood that acts as the medium for prophetic signs, but other priestesses also search for omens of victory through what seems otherwise like a fairly conventional example of extispicy (extispicium).37 The basic ideas behind the divinatory ritual would have been recognisable to a Roman, but the overall effect of “barbarisation” has been reached by the addition of a few significant differences. The cauldron as a detail might have held particular significance in the Augustan context, since in 7.2.1 Strabo tells that the surviving Cimbri sent their holiest cauldron to Augustus as a peace offering, which seems designed to showcase the universal respect evoked by the emperor, and may echo imperial propaganda (Augustus, RG 26.4). The Cimbri retain memories about the past, too, but these take the shape of guilt or fear now that Augustus has taken over the inhabited world (οἰκουμένη): through the dedication, they essentially find a ritual to exorcise a disaster (Roman vengeance) which the hubris of their ancestors has called forth. Strabo’s details also resemble Diodorus Siculus’ description (5.31.3) of a “most extraordinary and unbelievable” mode of sacrifice among the Gauls, taken when particularly weighty matters are being debated. In this divinatory sacrifice, a victim struck by a dagger will provide the divinatory signs by his twitching and flow of blood. Both Diodorus and Strabo, of course, wrote after Caesar’s Gallic War had made the cruel rites in the area of Gaul a relevant subject again; both writers were likewise interested in providing their readers with broadly ethnographical descriptions of barbarian cultures, and religion provided a traditional topic for these. Notably, the inherited motifs could also be freely reapplied to a range of northern groups – particularly the ones thought to originate beyond the Rhine, among the irreconcilably wild northerners. The divinatory purpose of the rite could be argued to be only secondary to the emotional effects of Diodorus’ and Strabo’s descriptions, interested in astonishing and moving the reader; both writers also partake in their own ways in a literary re-development (or involution) of a motif. The two versions also demonstrate how descriptions of religious practices could be transposed between groups of barbarians that

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were considered similar enough to each other. Divinatory practices could easily provide material for vignettes that highlighted the savage ways northerners adopted in pursuit of behaviour perceived as “both pious and most pleasing to the immortal gods,” as Cicero had put it (Rep. 3.15: et pium et diis immortalibus gratissumum esse duxerunt). Such assumptions are of course implied in these texts to be fundamentally mistaken, as many other barbarian beliefs about the correct human-divine relationship were. The Late Republican and Early Imperial references to “foreign divination” often reflect the Roman belief that among the newly provincial populations earlier practices were being abandoned under the civilising influence of the Romans, even if repeating the most titillating elements of barbarous practices found much use in the ethnographical register. Overall, as demonstrated by Cicero’s On Divination, Hellenistic ways of using the evidence from “foreign divination” were being introduced into Roman knowledge-ordering operations.

References to “ethnic” traditions of divination in the Roman imperial period From the second century CE onwards, an intensification in references to “barbarian” or “alien wisdom” can perhaps be detected. This is supported by the relatively high visibility of such groups as Magi, Egyptian priests, Gymnosophists/Brahmins and Chaldaeans in sources that range from religious polemics to philosophical treatises and doxography, and even the non-literary or supplementary (paratextual) registers of glossaries, textual notes (scholia) and lexicons (lexica).38 The contents themselves tend to be unsurprising, with comparatively little innovation: the set of “ethnicised” examples was becoming increasingly conventional. Chaldaeans and Magi – two terms which could serve both as ethnonyms and occupational terms for astrologers, divinatory specialists and magicians – were often attributed with a deep knowledge in astrological divination but also frequently attracted notions of manipulative, malicious intellect and power-hunger.39 The dramatic potential and aptness of ethnically inflected religious specialists could also ensure that they remained visible in the written register even after their real-life referents were long gone. The puzzling references to “Druidesses” in the Historia Augusta fall within this category. In three imperial lives, the biographical protagonist gets either his ascension or death predicted by a “Druid-woman” (mulier dryas); the term is apparently used as a suitably ethnic denominator so as to provide an authenticating detail, locating the action in Gaul.40 Druids had already been used by Tacitus as agents of subversion in Gaul, as we saw in relation to Tacitus’ Histories. The strong tendency in Greco-Roman antiquity to think with alreadyestablished ethnic categories resulted from a combination of factors. The Imperial-era field of “scientificity” explaining the natural and enduring differences between peoples of the world and their cultures consisted of an

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 227 interlinked web of environmental, physiognomic and astrological explanations.41 Physiognomy and astrology were predictive forms of knowledge in their own right and were able to ground knowledge-ordering operations on the geographical space and human diversity evident in the world itself. The astrological-climatological theory complex especially could be made to address sacral proficiencies, such as foreign traditions of divination, quite directly. Claudius Ptolemy, in several passages of his Tetrabiblos, explains how the astrological influences over Egypt make its inhabitants particularly adept at “all kinds of usages, customs, and rites in the service of all manner of gods”; they are also well versed in divine matters “because their zenith is close to the zodiac and the planets revolving about it” (Tetr. 2.2). Divination is also mentioned as a typical feature of peoples in the “southern parts of greater Asia,” most of whom “divine future events”; generally these peoples’ temperaments are governed by Venus and Saturn in their oriental aspects. Among them, the Phoenicians, Chaldaeans and Orchinians (a rare ethnonym that derives from the ancient Mesopotamian city of Uruk) are particularly characterised as “enthusiastic astrologers,” which Ptolemy explains through their astrological affinity with the constellation of Leo and the sun (Tetr. 2.3). The mention of “most of all they worship the Sun” is a formulation familiar from ethnographicising writing. Proverbially familiar cultural predilections could thus be explained through astrological explanation models. In the same section, Ptolemy includes the self-advertising detail about inhabitants of Egypt being particularly suited for mathematical and scientific pursuits. Thus, the essentialisingly Egyptian characteristics, in the form they had been transmitted to the second century, were made even more apt and believable by being explained via astrology, one of antiquity’s most elaborate theories about the diversity of humanity. The stereotypical talking point about Egyptian skills in divination is found in a very wide range of texts: Ammianus Marcellinus, for instance, refers to it in an admiring fashion, as is typical of his appreciation of anything redolent of deep antiquity and hidden knowledge. The Expositio totius mundi et gentium, a Latin translation of an originally Greek “merchant geography” of the Empire’s provinces – itself almost coaeval with Ammianus – reports “all manner of priests and temple-attendants and diviners and worshippers of gods” in Alexandria.42 Here, the term “diviner” (haruspex) should not be taken at its exact meaning of somebody interpreting prodigies, lightning or sacrificial viscera: it merely signifies the sort of oracular specialist whom “everyone knew” Egypt had in plenty. Another redaction of the same text (Anonymous, Descriptio tot. mundi et gentium 3) cites “Manetho, the Egyptian prophet” as one of its sources – though without containing any details that the writer would have needed Manetho’s actual history for. While Manetho was well known in the literary tradition as an Egyptian priest who had also been an important authority on his homeland’s antiquities, it is noteworthy that in the Expositio, he was elevated to a level equal to that of Moses, “the prophet of the Jews,” mentioned

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in the previous sentence. Any of the “wise peoples” of old could be granted their own prophets. Meanwhile, other pagan prophets from outside the Jewish, Greek or Roman sphere – the more distant chronologically and more plausible ethnically, the better – could be used as witnesses even in overtly Christian texts. An example of the latter is the use of the oracular pronouncements of Hystaspes the Median, a pre-Trojan War figure, in Lactantius’ polemics.43 Ammianus Marcellinus, on the other hand, mentions Hystaspes as Zoroaster’s successor and as a further developer of the Magian doctrine; he is also called a “wise king,” probably after becoming confused with Darius’ father with the same name (Ammianus Marcellinus 23.6.32: Hystaspes rex prudentissimus Darei pater). For Ammianus, the divination for which the Magi of Persia were famous was derived from the arcana of Chaldaean doctrines, to which Zoroaster had added the wisdom of the Brahmins, though something is implied to have gotten lost in the process: Zoroaster “conveyed something of what he had learned to the understanding of the Magi.”44 The pedigree of wisdom among the peoples (ἔθνη) of the world was a true transmission of knowledge, but the danger of losing something along the way was acknowledged. The long roots, prestigious authorial forebears and epistemic aptness of the ethnicised shorthand references to divination helped them to maintain a continued relevance as supports to ethical and philosophical arguments. Christianity never seriously questioned the use of such separate elements from the learned tradition, since the rhetorical techniques themselves did not have a “pagan” profile. The “ethnicised” contents were to remain unchallenged enough, since they only put the obvious variation (varietas) of humanity into a rhetorical use. Thus, Tertullian in his De Anima was able to quote the Hellenistic Nicander of Colophon, a polymath who was also an oracular functionary at Apollo’s sanctuary in Claros, on dream-divination among the Celts.45 This follows another ethnicised example, the Nasamones of Libya who seek visions from their dead relatives by visiting their graves: the authorities quoted are Heraclides, Nymphodorus and Herodotus (the two former ones, significantly, were medical writers). Here, too, the layout of the argument seems to take the commonly found form of “an eastern group and a western group” ‘form’. In the Latin tradition, Pomponius Mela reports dream oracles in connection with another North African group, the Augilae (1.46); often it would not have been particularly relevant for the Greco-Roman audiences exactly which group was engaging in which noteworthy divinatory practice. Roman Imperial-era thinking tended to perceive different peoples’ qualities as persistent, and the same was true about their relationship to divination. Celts, for instance, remained tinted by the received stereotype of credulity in the face of anything vaguely numinous, a characteristic that influences the way they interpret the results of divination. In Lucian’s Alexander the False Prophet, M. Sedatius Severianus, the governor of Cappadocia who had been born in Aquitania, is called a “foolish Celt” for

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 229 believing Alexander’s oracular pronouncement favouring his ill-fated foray into Armenia (Lucian, Alex. 27). Severianus had been treated to an “autophone” type of high-end (high-cost) consultation at Glykon’s oracle in Abonoteichos; a clever ruse which Lucian has just described as having utilised cranes’ windpipes in order to carry the supposed voice of the god from outside the oracular room (Alex. 26). After Severianus had suffered a serious defeat and finally committed suicide when under siege by the Parthians, Alexander changed his oracular response retroactively into one that warned against the war (Alex. 27). The characterisation of Severianus as “Celt” was probably foregrounded due to a series of stereotypical associations which were still current among Lucian’s contemporaries: not only was a Celt likely to be deceived by a manufactured epiphany, but he was also affected by illconceived hopes for plunder, impetuosity, credulity and a propensity for taking one’s own life when things go sour. A representative of the highest imperial echelons could thus be imputed to have reacted in a sub-standard “ethnic” way to a novel and spurious introduction into the divinatory sphere. For other writers of the same era, the Celts of the past could form an exercise in describing “hard primitivism,” and it may be that the literatureconscious Greek writers influenced by the Second Sophistic were particularly receptive to such cultural ekphrases (ἐκφράσεις) – verbal descriptions of visual objects or set-piece scenes that held vividness as their principal aim.46 Pausanias (10.21.1, 6), for instance – in contrast to the earlier use by Trogus and Cicero of augury as a common cultural marker between Romans and Gauls – points in his description of the third-century BCE Celtic incursion into Greece to the possibility that the barbarian invaders cared neither for their dead, nor possessed any method of divination or interest in using a Greek soothsayer. Such a lack would have appeared natural to Pausanias in the light of the established imagery, as well as the more immediate context of attacking Delphi, the most important oracular shrine of Greece. Mentions of the attack itself had become a conventional accusation to be levelled against Gauls and Celts already in Cicero’s time whenever it was necessary to stress the utter disrespect of these groups towards oaths, sacred sites or gods themselves (cf. Cicero, Font. 30–1). Thus, the traditions about barbarian attitudes towards divination mirror the common dynamics of outgroup descriptions, which rarely need consistency in order to be believable. Tacitus notes in Germania 10 that Germans use “augury and lot-drawing” in their divination very eagerly, though their general level of culture influences the method, which is noted to be simple.47 Details are provided only about the lot-drawing with marked sticks taken from fruit trees. The lotdrawing with sticks does seem to contain institutional elements that sound suspiciously Roman: public matters are subjected to divination by the “priest of the state” (sacerdos civitatis), while in private matters the head of the household (paterfamilias) conducts the ritual. After invoking the gods, the interpreter picks up three sticks in sequence and interprets the markings

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on them.48 If the result is unfavourable, no further consultation can be made that day, and a positive result still requires a confirmation by augury. Bird augury from flight and song is mentioned, but the example that Tacitus gives about the taking of auspices has very little to do with birds: according to him, the uniquely “ethnic” (proprium gentis) augural custom of Germans is to divine from the neighing of sacred horses and is trusted by all social classes more than any other omen. The rich detail about these sacred horses forms a miniature ekphrasis of its own. Finally, a suitably combative divinatory method is added to these customs: prisoners from enemy tribes are made to do battle with the champions of their own tribe, each with their own “ethnic” weapons, and the victor is taken as an indicator for the outcome of the hostilities (Tacitus, Germ. 10). Tacitus’ image of Germans combines the idealised simplicity of a more natural civilisational stage (“soft primitivism”) with authenticating elements that a reader would have expected when reading about northern peoples.49 Another warlike method of divination is referred to early on in Germania. Tacitus describes the Germanic war chant (barritus) as doing a double duty: on the one hand it rouses the courage of the Germani, and on the other hand it – or rather its effect on the fighters – is interpreted as an omen for the forthcoming battle’s outcome.50 War is portrayed as permeated by religion for the Germans: warriors can only be punished by priests, not war leaders, and in the name of their battle god. Warriors are encouraged in battle by images and figures taken out of their sacred groves.51 Another prominent theme from the previous tradition of northern ethnography that resurfaces in Germania is the reverence for holy women: the Germans are said to believe in a “certain sanctity and prescience” in the female gender, and two historical examples of female soothsayers, Veleda and Aurinia, are mentioned by name.52 In addition to the macroscopic theories of the Imperial Era, the essentialism of received ethnic imagery was brought into sharper relief by the ubiquitous reiteration, through a wide range of registers, of strong continuation between the pasts of provincial groups and their current state. An example of the literary anachronisms that the writers of the Second Sophistic often indulged in is the rhetorical listing of Greek and barbarian oracles by Maximus of Tyre, the late second-century orator with philosophical airs. Maximus mentions the Delphic Pythia, Dodona of the Thesprotians, Zeus Ammon of the Libyans, Claros of Ionia, Xanthus in Lycia and the shrine of Ismenian Apollo at Boeotia: according to him, nothing seems to have changed after Herodotus wrote.53 Even the oracular centres of Asia Minor, the most famous of which were Didyma and Claros, built some of their fame during their Imperial heyday upon articulations of local particularism, perhaps best revealed through references to distinct and localised bloodlines. The Telmessians of Lycia, mentioned earlier, were one such group, but the sanctuaries themselves proffered traditions which not

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 231 only sought to portray their own divinatory pedigree as primordial but also linked to local groups with exceptional powers.54 The multiplicity of the religious traditions among the various peoples of the world, treated in the earlier Empire through encyclopaedic strategies,55 was often transformed in the Late Imperial mono- and henotheistic apologetics into an argument for the unity of truth. Both “traditionalist” (“pagan”) and Christian writers could point to the diversity (varietas) of religious customs as demonstrating that different peoples had erred to different degrees from an original, pure form of wisdom or piety. This made use of the earlier triumphalist dynamics whereby the rhetorically emphasised plurality of the peoples or ethnic groups (ethnē) of the world, exemplified among other things by the variety of religious forms, made the Roman Empire into a “more exact image” of the world.56 Ammianus Marcellinus’ treatment of both the Chaldaeans and the Magi in an approving fashion within his Persian digression exemplifies how foreign groups who cultivated supposed “original” forms of divination and philosophy could be portrayed in Late Antiquity in a remarkably positive way, even when they were associated with a hostile state.57 Common to both the earlier and the later pattern of argumentation is, notably, that the “correct” ingroup way of communicating with the divine is unitary, whereas the multiplicity of errors and incorrect forms is endless (cf. Schott 2008, 105, on Lactantius). The enumeration of these errors could, however, still put the traditional encyclopaedic techniques into use.58 The late second-century Alexandrian polemicist Celsus’ insistence on the constitutive peoples (ἔθνη) of the Empire to remain themselves in all of their variety (cf. Schott 2008, 45, 49, 161) and his warning that to break this providentially founded multiplicity would be impious, partake -s in a much broader Imperial-era belief in the ethnic essentialism of the various peoples of the Empire. In this current of thought, the triumphalist glory of the Empire, the applicability of the received rhetorical stereotypes and an appreciation for local traditions all seem to converge. In the Imperial-era literature, the characteristics of barbarian groups had to be retained, even though in practical terms many of the religious practices attributed to them stemmed from much earlier eras. Indeed, whether some of the rituals were still in use or not was beside the point for most arguments. Instead of erasing cultural difference, imperial regimes of knowledge tend to reinforce and distil the supposed essentialist characteristics of groups, bringing them into sharper contrast.59 In Middle and Late Imperial technical writing and rhetoric, old ethnic customs of many groups were constantly reiterated, helping them to achieve even more of a proverbial quality. Like other imperial regimes of truth, the Roman Imperial attitude to the past religious customs of provincial groups contained a clearly value-laden element of ordering. The learned writers, armed with the tradition of describing ethnic customs all over the world, represented themselves as the ones able to put the provincial pasts into their true framework. While the provincials might

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have been acknowledged to have memories of their past rituals and divinatory practices, these memories were never deemed as authentic as the literary sphere of received “barbarian traditions,” and the Greek or Roman framework. Porphyry’s project in the Philosophy from Oracles (De Philosophia ex Oraculis Haurienda) seems to have addressed quite directly, at least on the rhetorical surface level, the heuristic value of oracular pronouncements from various peoples of the inhabited world (oikoumene).60 In fact, this (now fragmentary) collection, which juxtaposes oracular responses with philosophical commentary, is founded on the notion that traditional oracles are useful for philosophy and thus have a significant epistemological function, as Porphyry makes clear in the Prologue of the work. The end result has been described as a “topography of piety and wisdom” (Johnson 2013, 215). Yet even in his case, appearing to be steeped in the foreign traditions of wisdom – and knowledgeable in the practices of “philosophers of the barbarians” as the purest remains of universal truths – was possibly a more important motivation than actually learning about non-Greek traditions for their own sake, as has been noted about Porphyry’s On Abstinence (cf. Schott 2008, 59–61). Porphyry’s marshalling of ethnic evidence can thus be compared with earlier habits of Imperial knowledge-ordering, whereby the true valence of “barbarian wisdom” stems from the ability to refer to one’s own knowledge of it, rather than going far beyond the already existing Greek impressions (and Greek-language testimonies) about it. In contrast to its professed aim of unearthing universal wisdom common to all peoples, the Philosophy from Oracles (fr. 323, 324) contains a notably conventional set of references to non-Greek divinatory practices (cf. Schott 2008, 60–2, 66). The Late Antique Neoplatonist philosopher’s stance towards “ethnicised” evidence about religious traditions was not automatically more sincere than the wide variety of uses to which references to outgroup religiosities had been put during the Early Empire.61 Old themes, such as certain savage nations using human victims in their divination, have their place in Porphyry’s De Abstinentia (2.51.1). The motif is introduced as uncontroversial, the “many of the barbarians” are left undefined, and the aim of the reference is to make light of those who would say that abstaining from eating meat would jeopardise divination. The same argument is reinforced by “ethnic examples” of the Egyptians and Essenes who do abstain from eating meat yet are known as particularly pious (Abst. 4.6.8–4.7.7; 4.11.6; see Johnson 2013, 217). Depending on the context and the literary register, both the exact details of a divinatory custom and the identity of the barbarian group engaged in it could be treated in a remarkably hazy or interchangeable way. Several assemblages of stereotypical images emerge – broad and interchangeable enough to be called macro-regional or macroscopic (cf. Berzon 2016, 24–5). Porphyry’s Philosophy from Oracles (fr. 323) emphasises the “innumerable paths” that wisdom takes: the multiplicity of peoples in the world thus has its epistemic counterpart. From Egypt, heavenly knowledge was first learned

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 233 by the Phoenicians, Assyrians, Lydians and the Hebrews.62 Astrological divination was perceived as particularly typical among the “eastern” (and practically also southern) peoples of the Middle East, Egypt and Persia, who were commonly regarded as possessing a longer civilisational pedigree than the Greeks, but also as more prone to luxury and slavery according to either nature, culture or both. Individual peoples could be given other ancient but striking oracular practices. These are frequently matched with the rest of the “commonly known” assemblage of imagery about the group’s religion, such as when Agathias in the sixth century refers to Persian Magi divining the future from flames (Agathias, Historiae 2.25) – an apt reflection of what the Late Imperial age knew about Zoroastrian doctrines. Among the western and northern barbarian groups, accusations of “atheism” and a total lack of religious sentiments stand in a curious relation to the vigorous tradition of referring to their nature-centred divination.63 The established set of ideas did, however, often end up stressing the savage and inhuman aspects of “Thracian,” “Celtic“ and “Germanic” divination. Human sacrifice is mentioned frequently as are sign-bearing animals and natural objects. Sound – especially warlike din and clang of arms – is a minor element, too. The Imperial-era sources examined in this section showcase some of the many ways in which the multiplicity and variety of ethnic customs in the field of divination could be made to support a range of arguments and knowledge-ordering operations. These techniques were adopted by authors in various genres and philosophical and religious stances – highlighting the epistemic and rhetorical usefulness of exemplars featuring “foreign divination.”

Conclusions: writing about “foreign divination” Roman descriptions of provincial pasts invite a comparison with the much later colonial-era gaze of the imperialist knowledge-regimes, which derived their encyclopaedistic authority from their claims to be able to most perfectly reflect the “reality” behind the diversity (varietas) of ethnic customs found within the ordered array of imperial possessions. The colonisers have frequently presented themselves as inherently better equipped to explain and organise the colonised people’s traditions than they themselves are – foregrounded by the fact that such traditions are created within the colonial discourse. With this in mind, a selection of studies from the fields of postcolonial, sociological, anthropological and folklore studies has been brought into play in the course of this chapter. The behaviour of subaltern practitioners of “ethnic” divination can also be explored through a combination of historical and modern case studies. Comparative approaches can only ever provide partial explanations, but considering the ubiquity of both divination and the religious polemics relating to ingroup and intergroup identities, it is worthwhile to study the ancient examples with an openness to drawing some parallels, when apposite, from other imperial contexts.

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The ability to correctly interpret signs obtained via divination formed a powerfully moralising device in Greco-Roman narratives, and it continued almost seamlessly into Christian usages. Overall, it might be argued that in describing the practices of divination among outgroups, Greeks and Romans often chose to use divination as a heuristic and representative device – a metonymic manifestation of the divine-human relations that characterised a foreign culture. Divination was useful for encapsulating both the negative and the positive aspects of a given barbarian group’s stereotypical characteristics in a condensed form. When operating within and through the loosely but consistently stereotyped groupings of barbarian divination, a Greek or Roman author was presented with a wide selection of techniques and emphases, to be suited for the occasion and the more general aims of the argument. When selecting a series of exemplary cases of outgroup divination, a variety of techniques common to encyclopaedic writing can be observed. Often, an inclusion of an entire people or outgroup may have resulted from an earlier acknowledgement of one individual from this group having possessed wisdom. Thus Zalmoxis seems to have heightened the presence of Thracians on the lists, and Anacharsis may have done the same for the Scythians (Broze et al. 2006, 134). Typically, the emphasis falls on “noteworthy” – outlandish, culturally apt, dramatic or topsy-turvy – practices, or practices which can with little alteration be presented as such. Unbidden and unique prodigia and “spontaneous omens” tend to have less variation when situated among barbarian peoples, and even in the case of unique signs, authenticating elements conforming with the rest of the stereotypical assemblage of images tend to be included with some regularity. Examples of individualised and named diviners from Greek (or Roman) history dominate in the written sources, while “ethnicised” customs are mostly what we hear about in relation to foreign groups, clearly demarcated by ethnonyms. This is not unlike the modern “flattening” effect of collective religious-ethnographic statements such as “the Igbo believe that …,” “Muslims believe that …,” and so on (cf. Whitmarsh 2016, 6). The practice being localised either in the past or among an outgroup heightens the likelihood of such statements. Some famous barbarian rulers as Midas or Cyrus have omens interpreted for them in narratives, often with some authenticating details that localise the action in “barbarian” lands. Such details could, in the case of texts which linked themselves with the tradition of ethnography, be exemplified by culturally symbolic customs that seemed apt for the group in question. One noteworthy gradient in the references to divinatory practices among the barbarians emerges if attention is paid to the differences between nearer, “inner” barbarian peoples, and the groups of the furthest corners of the inhabited world (oikoumene). The peoples furthest away, such as Ethiopians, Hyperboreans or Seres, hardly ever attract detailed descriptions of their divination, possibly because they were, from an early stage, thought to have a special, more immediate relationship with the gods. Marginal groups and areas were naturally much more likely to attract otherworldly, utopian

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 235 narrative themes (Romm 1992, 47–8, 54, 60–7, 187–96; Evans 2008, 6–30). The same applies to the location of most oracles of the dead (nekyomanteia) around the margins of the Greek world (Bremmer 2015, 128). Frequently, as when Diogenes Laertius claims that the Gymnosophists divine the future from visions of the gods themselves, or with Celsus’ references to Trophonius and other oracular divinities, going into details of the divinatory practice – or even mentioning that an oracular cult was under discussion – was not crucial (Diogenes Laertius 1. praef. 7; Origen, C. Cels. 3.34). This is connected to the role that the collective impression of an “ethnicised list” had for the purposes of learned argumentation; it could be expanded or narrowed down as needed through the inclusion or exclusion of ethnonyms, names of divinities (theonyms) or more fully fleshedout references to the practices involved. Among other points argued in this chapter, I have pointed out that in many cases, an ancient audience would have been able to fill in certain widely recognised cultural practices – including divinatory ones – from a mere mention of a population group’s name. Similarly, a reference to a distinctive type of divination also conjured up a predictable set of easily triggered groups of people who were known for the practice in question. From the Hellenistic era onwards, ancient epistemology frequently sought to discern shared kernels of truth and rationality dispersed among all the peoples of the world: Stoic universalism and the Middle-Platonist comparativism of Numenius of Apamea are two well-known examples of this.64 This was partially responsible for the continued valence of using ethnicised examples of barbarian peoples’ divinatory practices. But this was not the primary reason why such arguments enjoyed wide appeal. The ancient literary elite had been accustomed through their rhetorical paideia to a capacious use of a huge variety of ethnic customs in buttressing an equally wide variety of arguments.65 An emphasis on multiplicity, in many ways, was what characterised Imperial-era knowledge-ordering processes in technical writing and encyclopaedism. The same emphasis surfaced repeatedly in philosophical and doxographic texts, as well; this was the case already in the Aristotelian writings whenever rhetorical support was sought from the “barbarian customs” (βαρβαρικά νόμιμα). Often enough, the argument from common consensus or universal practice drove the testimonials making use of barbarian divination towards one of two possible directions. If the barbarian divinatory ritual conformed with the ingroup’s (Greco-Roman, Judeo-Christian or other similar) ideas of divinatory (mantic) or prophetic hermeneutics and epistemology, it could be used to buttress the norm. If, on the other hand, the barbarian rite was presented as contrary to the ingroup’s idea of proper religiosity, permissible forms of knowledge-acquisition or morals, its use was naturally limited to either a scandalous curiosity or a reinforcement of the ingroup’s particularism. Contemporary barbarians generally could not command enough respect to motivate Greeks or Romans to consider their divination as anything but an

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imperfect rendition of cultural practices common to all peoples (perfected by Greeks and Romans). Such customs were, for the most part, items to be collected as a reflection of the Empire, revealing in their details the myriad kinds of imperfection among outgroups. As in physiognomical argumentation – which in itself was seen as a predictive field of knowledge – the varieties of aberrancy from the norm were the real carriers of significance in religious ethnography, too. Divination acted as a useful shorthand for discussing particular “ethnic” religiosities, which in turn formed an integral part of debating grades of civilisational difference and development. The imperfections of barbarian divination made visible a “geography of insufficiency” that radiated outwards from the normative centre of the Greco-Roman cults. The barbarian sages and “wise peoples” of old occupied a much more ambiguous and manipulable position, offering useful material for debating the limits of knowledge. While the divinatory practices of a wide range of peoples played an important role in ancient ethnographic discourse as an aid in debating civilisational levels and classifying foreign cultures, bringing into greater relief a whole geography of ritual, they also contributed to Greek and Roman knowledge-ordering on a cosmological scale.

Notes 1 On modern ethnic and religious outgroups (social or other groups of people that are perceived or construed as external to the group identity of the participants in a communicative act, or ingroup), see Brewer 1999, esp. 439; Hunsberger and Jackson 2005. For divination as a shorthand for broader religiosities, see Zeitlyn 1990, 658–9; Tedlock 2001. 2 On the “ethnographical register” in ancient literature: Woolf 2011, 12–17. 3 For knowledge ordering, see König and Whitmarsh 2007. For ethnography, see Almagor and Skinner 2013. On “ethnography” not constituting a self-standing genre in ancient literature, see Woolf 2011, 12–7, 36–7. Berzon 2016, 255–7 on heresiography (understood as a type of ethnography) as a tool for analysing the limits of human knowledge. 4 “Alien wisdom”: Momigliano 1975. “Ethnicising” argumentation means here the sort of arguments that triggered audience expectations about the “foreignness” or cohesion of the group discussed; this was done by the deployment of group names (ethnonyms), and often included other elements designed to bring “ethnic” flavour into a description. 5 On the “prestige of formal elements,” encouraging audience judgement about rhetorical and artistic qualities, see von den Hoff 2004, 121, in the context of Imperial-era sculpture. 6 On pagan henotheism, see Addey 2010; see also the contributions in Athanassiadi and Frede 1999. Buell 2005 has argued that Christian universalism often cohabited with claims of ethnicised exceptionalism (138–65, cf. 10). 7 On the νόμιμα βαρβαρικά tradition and other uses of the same type of argument, see Hegedus 2003; Curnis 2006; Pajón Leyra 2015. 8 See Qureshi 2011; Thomas 2013; Cvetkovski and Hofmeister 2014. For connections between antiquity and modern imperialism, see, for example, Harrison 2013; Skinner 2013.

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 237 9 Berzon 2016. Heresiology is a modern term for literary texts claiming to represent or discuss “heretical” or non-orthodox forms of Christian practice or doctrine. 10 See Buell 2009 on the possibility of using the colonial-era category of “spiritualism” for comparisons with Christian Late Antiquity. 11 See Menander Rhetor 1.2.353–4; cf. Libanius, Orationes 11.12–5. For the Greek roots of these ideas of essential changelessness, see Kennedy 2016. On the theoretical basis and rhetorical uses of essentialism see Oudot 2001; Goldman 2016. The “impossibility of new barbarians”: Wolfram 1997, 37; cf. their “timelessness” in Plutarch, Schmidt 2002. 12 Legislation against Druids: Suetonius, Claud. 25 (under Augustus and Claudius); Pliny, HN 30.13 (under Tiberius). 13 Herodotus 4.94–96, 5.5–7, 7.111.2. See Rabadjiev 2015, 444. 14 Caesar, BGall. 1.50.4–5 (cf. 1.535–7 with Germans also casting lots); Plutarch, Caes. 19.8. By Plutarch’s time, holy women among Celts and Germans was a topos: cf. Mela 3.48 on an oracular cult on the island of Sena, with nine virgin priestesses (cf. Strabo 4.4.6; Plutarch, De def. or. 18). Tacitus, Hist. 4.61.2, Germ. 8; AE 1953, 25, and SB iii 6221 on Veleda, Ganna, and other Germanic prophetesses. 15 Aristotle, Pol. 1336a. See also Caesar, BGall. 4.1.10 on Germans hardening their children in cold rivers. This is not to claim that Caesar was directly influenced by the Aristotelian passage. 16 Paradoxographus Vaticanus 18 gives the ritual as a paternity test, and Rhine as the river. For a more detailed treatment and the Late Antique use of the same motif, see Lampinen 2014, 17–9. 17 Cassius Dio 62.6.1. The only near parallel to this detail seems to be Caesar’s mention of Britons not eating hares: Caesar, BGall. 5.12.6. 18 See, for example, Tacitus, Germ. 8: inesse quin etiam sanctum aliquid et providum putant; Favorinus ap. Aulus Gellius, NA 14.1.11: a Chaldaeis et Babyloniis sive Aegyptiis observatas ferunt; Aelian, VH 2.31: καὶ δι’ ὀνείρων δὲ λέγουσι καὶ δι’ αὐτῶν τῶν ἀστέρων πολλὰ προδηλοῦσθαι; Anonymous, Expositio totius mundi et gentium 34 (Rougé): dicunt autem Chaldeos melios colere. 19 Cf. duxerunt, arbitrantur, monstra, vero etiam, and crederent in Cicero, Rep. 3.15; Caesar, BGall. 6.16; Pliny, HN 30.4; Mela 3.18. For a useful introduction to mirabilia writing, see Sassi 1993; see also Murphy 2004, 57, 126; Naas 2011, 61–5. 20 Strabo 4.4.2; Mela 3.18; Pliny, HN 30.4. 21 Justin, Epit. 24.4.3: nam augurandi studio Galli praeter ceteros callent; cf. Cicero, Deiot. 16; Div. 1.90; Livy 5.34.2–4. 22 Though it should be noted that Caesar does not explicitly refer to Druids practising divination when he describes their portfolio in BGall. 6.13–4. The sacrifices, including that of human victims, are only said to be for driving away disease or ensuring safety in battle via substitution (6.16). 23 Cicero, Div. 1.90. For Gauls as barbarians in Cicero, see Ndiaye 2007. 24 Cf. Div. 1.1; this sentiment is repeated in 1.47, before a reference to the Indian Calanus foretelling Alexander’s death and the Magi interpreting the burning of Diana’s temple in Ephesus as foretelling the birth of “Asia’s bane.” 25 Cf. Pliny, HN 30.2. Persian Magi are also described as interpreting a dream of Cyrus (Cicero, Div. 1.46). 26 Schultz 2014, 10–13 points out that there is no reason to directly associate the contents of Book 1 with opinions that Cicero in person would have resisted, nor Book 2 with his personal opinions. 27 See Beard 1986, 34–5; cf. 43–4; Schofield 1986, 57. Beard 1986, 41 also notes how Cicero reflects the confrontation between “traditional Roman symbolic knowledge of the workings of the world” and the “Hellenizing encyclopaedic rules” for

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ordering knowledge – the latter included ethnographically presented exemplars often very prominently. Chaldaeans 1.2, with Babylonian and “Caucasian” (meaning that of Paropamisus, home of the sage Calanus: Schultz 2014, 108) astrology sneered at in 1.36; Chaldaeans “in Syria” are known for their knowledge of the stars and “shrewdness of intellect”: 1.91; Cilicians, Pamphylians, Pisidians, Lycians in 1.25; augury among the former three of these groups, as well as Arabians and Umbrians: 1.92; culture and nature influencing peoples’ methods of divination: 1.94. Greeks as one nation among many in 1.3; their divination in 1.34, 37, 95; Greek portents 1.74–75; Roman examples preferred to Greek ones: 1.55; cf. 2.8. Div. 1.19, quoting Cicero’s own poem On his consulate (F 2). Etruscan extispicy: 1.93; cf. Beard, North and Price 1998, 64–6 on the enduring image of the haruspices as “Etruscan.” The enthusiastic augur Appius Claudius was called by his colleagues “Pisidian” and “Soran” from places reputedly devoted to the craft (1.105). Schofield 1986, 53 points out that the anecdotal method in Book 1 is meant to provide an empirical basis on which the case for divination rests; these are then denied validity in Book 2 (cf. 62). The idea of Phrygians as the original augurs is still found in Isidore of Seville (Etym. 8.9.32). Humanitas is difficult to render satisfactorily in English, covering ideas about “humanity,” kindness, culture, politeness, philanthropy, courtesy, empathy and various related meanings. Cicero, in his retirement, seems to have turned to attempting a subtler form of self-glorification than his earlier, post-Catilinarian emphasis on his role as the saviour of Rome: cf. Cole 2013, 52–6; cf. Lavery 1971, 140. In responding to Quintus’ example of Deiotarus, Cicero puts forth his personally informed interpretation based on morals: Div. 2.78–9. On the hermeneutics of oracular interpretation, and its ties with the contemporary grammarians’ hermeneutics: Seppänen and Lampinen 2019, esp. 13–17. Cf. Clarke 1999, 45, 280; Dueck 2010, 241–4. On Strabo, see also the remarks in Nasrallah 2005, 284–5. Strabo 7.2.3, very closely following Posidonius’ F 272 (Edelstein-Kidd), from which it should nonetheless be separated. See for instance Pilhofer 1990; Stroumsa 1996, 344–5; Hegedus 2003, 340; Broze et al. 2006, 135–8; Bosman 2010, 175–6. Already in Cicero, Div. 1.91; Pliny, HN 30.1; even in the otherwise positive Ammianus Marcellinus 23.6.37–8. Scriptores Historiae Augustae, Alex. Sev. 60.6, Aurel. 43.3–4, Car. Carin. Num. 14. See Hofeneder 2009. ”Scientificity” as the set of ideas about what constitutes “science” in a given cultural context: see Foucault 1980, 197. On climatology: Romm 2010; on astrology: Barton 1994, esp. 121; Habinek 2007; Woolf 2011, 49–55; and Chapters 4, 5 and 10 in this volume; on physiognomy: Barton 1994, 96–122; see also the contributions in Swain 2007 and Kennedy and Jones-Lewis 2016. Ammianus Marcellinus 22.16.19–22; Anonymous, Expositio totius mundi et gentium 36 (Rougé). Lactantius, Div. inst. 7.15.19, 7.18.2. See Kaltio 2013. Ammianus Marcellinus 23.6.33: quantum colligere potuit eruditus, ex his, quae didicit, aliqua sensibus magorum infudit. Nicander ap. Tertullian, De anima 57.10: Celtas apud virorum fortium busta eadem de causa abnoctare, ut Nicander affirmat.

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 239 46 Cf. Schmidt 2002; Nasrallah 2005, 287; and the fundamental study on the identities of the Second Sophistic: Gleason 1995. 47 Tacitus, Germ. 10: auspicia sortesque ut qui maxime observant: sortium consuetudo simplex. 48 Tacitus, Germ. 10: praecatus deos caelumque suspiciens ter singulos tollit, sublatos secundum impressam ante notam interpretatur. This seems to be related to Caesar, BGall. 1.53.5–7, which similarly involves three lots. 49 On “soft” (and “hard”) primitivism, see Lovejoy and Boas 1935, 9–11; on Tacitus’ Germania as “about Rome,” cf. O’Gorman 1993; Krebs 2011, 209; on religion in Tacitus’ Germania, see Woolf 2013. For the longer reception, see, for example, Leete 2014. 50 Tacitus, Germ. 3: accendunt animos futuraeque pugnae fortunam ipso cantu augurantur. Terrent enim trepidantve, prout sonuit acies […] 51 Tacitus, Germ. 7. This seems to be undermined slightly by section 9, which refers to the old Caesarian idea of Germans being unwilling to make anthropomorphic likenesses of their gods, nor to confine them to indoor spaces. 52 Tacitus, Germ. 8: inesse quin etiam sanctum aliquid et providum putant, nec aut consilia earum aspernantur aut responsa neglegunt. vidimus sub divo Vespasiano Veledam diu apud plerosque numinis loco habitam; sed et olim Auriniam et compluris alias venerati sunt, non adulatione nec tamquam facerent deas. 53 Maximus of Tyre, Or. 8, De daem. Socr.1 (Trapp p. 69). On Maximus’ light philosophical touch, see Trapp 1997, xxi. 54 IDidyma 284; Diogenes Laertius 7.2.6 on Didyma; Tacitus, Ann. 2.54; Schol. in Nic. Alex. 11; Hesychius, s.v. Βακχιάδαι on Claros; cf. OGI 530 (= IGRom. IV.1586; Macridy 1912 numbers 1–12). See also Lampinen 2013, 60–79. 55 As an Imperial-era example of encyclopaedism using ethnic customs, we may note Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistae, a work steeped in techniques of knowledge ordering; see Wilkins 2007 and Oikonomopoulou 2013, esp. 182–91. 56 On religion used to highlight ethnic diversity: Rüpke 2014, 471, 475–9. On Neoplatonist interest in “barbarian religiosities,” see Clark 1999, 122–6. 57 Ammianus Marcellinus 23.6.25, 33. See den Boeft 1999. Ammianus also evaluates highly the pursuits of Druids and Bards in the west: 15.9.8; see Woolf 2011, 106–9. 58 See for instance Cameron 2003; König and Whitmarsh 2007; Bjornlie 2015. 59 Cf. Schott 2008, 26–27 on how Plutarch’s or Numenius’ comparativism still relied on there being distinct ethnic customs attributable to “foreign” groups, and the imperial order of knowledge influencing the use of “ethnic customs” in learned arguments. 60 Especially Porphyry, Phil. ex or. fr. 316 (Smith) ap. Eusebius, Praep. evang. 5.10.13–11.1; cf. fr. 303 ap. Eusebius, Praep. evang. 4.7.1. 61 On Porphyry’s religious stance, see Addey 2010, as well as Chapter 9 in this volume. On the Neoplatonists’ views of astrology, see Chapter 10 in this volume. 62 Porphyry, Phil. ex or. fr. 323 (Smith) ap. Eusebius, Praep. evang. 9.10.1–2. Fr. 324 (ap. Eusebius, Praep. evang. 9.10.3–5) implies that a divine providence allotted the discovery of heavenly knowledge to this set of peoples, and particularly to the Chaldaeans and Hebrews. Chapters 9 and 10 in this volume provide additional observations on Porphyry’s astrological template. 63 Groups are quite rarely said to be entirely devoid of gods, but cf. Strabo 3.4.16 on Gallaeci and Tacitus, Germ. 46 on Fenni. The theme is polemically reversed in Plutarch, De superst. 13. Accusations of atheism as a polemical device in colonial/ imperial contexts in which subaltern groups’ religious traditions come under interpretatio: Marco Simón 2017 (cf. Buell 2009 on “spiritualism” as a similar

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device). On the dialectics of atheism in antiquity, see Whitmarsh 2016, though very little is said on foreign groups. 64 Numenius of Apamea fr. 1a (Des Places) ap. Eusebius, Praep. evang. 9.7.1; Seneca, Ep. 90.38–39; Cornutus, Theol. Graec. 17.26.7–12; Stoic universalism diffused into the technical literature: Artemidorus of Daldis, Oneirocritica 1.13. See Schott 2008, 18, 32. 65 Rhetorical training featuring ethnic customs: Aelius Theon, Progymn. 116, 126 (Spengel); cf. Maximus of Tyre, Or. 2.8.

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Inscriptions L’Année Épigraphique. Edited by René Cagnat and others. 1888. Paris: Presses universitaires de France. Die Inschriften. Milet 3. Edited by Albert Rehm. 1914. Berlin: de Gruyter. Inscriptiones Graecae ad res Romanas pertinentes. Edited by René Cagnat and others. 1901–1927. Paris: Académie des inscriptions and belles-lettres. Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae. Edited by Wilhelm Dittenberger and others. 1903–1905. Leipzig: S. Hirzel. Sammelbuch griechischer Urkunden aus Ägypten. Edited by Friedrich Preisigke and others. 1915–1993. Strassburg: K. J. Trübner.

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 243 Modern works Addey, Crystal. 2010. “Monotheism, Henotheism and Polytheism in Porphyry’s Philosophy from Oracles.” In Monotheism between Pagans and Christians in Late Antiquity, edited by Stephen Mitchell and Peter Van Nuffelen, 149–165. Leuven: Peeters. Almagor, Eran, and Joseph E. Skinner, eds. 2013. Ancient Ethnography: New Approaches. London: Bloomsbury. Athanassiadi, Polymnia and Michael Frede, eds. 1999. Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Barton, Tamsyn. 1994. Power and Knowledge: Astrology, Physiognomics, and Medicine under the Roman Empire. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Beard, Mary. 1986. “Cicero and Divination: The Formation of a Latin Discourse.” The Journal of Roman Studies 76: 33–46. Beard, Mary, John North, and Simon Price. 1998. Religions of Rome. 2 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Berzon, Todd S. 2016. Classifying Christians. Ethnography, Heresiology, and the Limits of Knowledge in Late Antiquity. Oakland, CA: University of California Press. Bjornlie, Shane. 2015. “The Rhetoric of Varietas and Epistolary Encyclopedism in the Variae of Cassiodorus.” In Shifting Genres in Late Antiquity, edited by Geoffrey Greatrex, Hugh Elton, and Lucas McMahon, 289–303. Farnham: Ashgate. Bosman, Philip R. 2010. “The Gymnosophist Riddle Contest (Berol. P. 13044): A Cynic Text?” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 50: 175–92. Bremmer, Jan N. 2015. “Ancient Necromancy: Fact or Fiction?” In Mantic Perspectives: Oracles, Prophecy and Performance, edited by Krzysztof Bielawski, 119–41. Lublin and Warsow: Ośrodek Praktyk Teatralnych “Gardzienice.” Brewer, Marilynn B. 1999. “The Psychology of Prejudice: Ingroup Love or Outgroup Hate?” Journal of Social Issues 55: 429–44. Broze, Michèle, Aude Busine, and Sabrina Inowlocki. 2006. “Les catalogues de peuples sages. Fonctions et contextes d’utilisation.” Kernos 19: 131–44. Buell, Denise Kimber. 2005. Why This New Race. Ethnic Reasoning in Early Christianity. New York: Columbia University Press. Buell, Denise Kimber. 2009. “The Afterlife Is Not Dead: Spiritualism, Postcolonial Theory, and Early Christian Studies.” Church History 78: 862–72. Cameron, Averil M. 2003. “How to Read Heresiology.” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 33: 471–92. Clark, Gillian. 1999. “Translate into Greek: Porphyry of Tyre on the new barbarians.” In Constructing Identities in Late Antiquity, edited by Richard Miles, 112–32. London: Routledge. Clarke, Katherine. 1999. Between Geography and History: Hellenistic Constructions of the Roman World. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Cole, Spencer. 2013. Cicero and the rise of deification at Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Curnis, Michele. 2006. “Frammenti di storia etnografica: Nicolao Damasceno e la ethôn synagogé.” Sileno 32: 41–74. Cvetkovski, Roland and Alexis Hofmeister, eds. 2014. An Empire of Others: Creating Ethnographic Knowledge in Imperial Russia and the USSR. Budapest: Central European University Press.

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den Boeft, Jan. 1999. “Pure Rites – Ammianus Marcellinus on the Magi.” In The Late Roman World and Its Historian: Interpreting Ammianus Marcellinus, edited by Jan Willem Drijvers and Edward D. Hunt, 207–15. London: Routledge. Dueck, Daniela. 2010. “The Geographical Narrative of Strabo of Amasia.” In Geography and Ethnography. Perceptions of the World in Pre-Modern Societies, edited by Kurt A. Raaflaub and Richard J. A. Talbert, 236–51. Chichester: WileyBlackwell. Evans, Rhiannon. 2008. Utopia Antiqua: Readings of the Golden Age and Decline at Rome. London: Routledge. Fitzpatrick, Andrew P. 1991. “‘Celtic’ (Iron Age) religion – traditional and timeless?” Scottish Archaeological Review 8: 123–28. Foucault, Michel. 1980. Power/Knowledge. Selected Interviews and Writings, 1972–1977. Translated by Colin Gordon. New York, NY: Knopf Doubleday. Frankfurter, David. 2001. “Ritual as Accusation and Atrocity: Satanic Ritual Abuse, Gnostic Libertinism, and Primal Murders.” History of Religions 40: 352–80. Gleason, Maud W. 1995. Making Men. Sophists and Self-Representation in Ancient Rome. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Goldman, Max L. 2016. “Ethnic Bodies. Physiognomy, identity and the environment.” In The Routledge Handbook of Identity and the Environment in the Classical and Medieval Worlds, edited by Rebecca Futo Kennedy and Molly Jones-Lewis, 62–74. London: Routledge. Habinek, Thomas. 2007. “Probing the entrails of the universe: astrology as bodily knowledge in Manilius’ Astronomica.” In Ordering Knowledge in the Roman Empire, edited by Jason König and Tim Whitmarsh, 229–40. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harrison, Thomas. 2013. “Exploring Virgin Fields: Henry and George Rawlinson on Ancient and Modern Orient.” In Ancient Ethnography. New Approaches, edited by Eran Almagor and Joseph E. Skinner, 223–56. London: Bloomsbury. Hartog, François. 1980. Le miroir d’Hérodote: essai sur la répresentation de l’autre. Paris: Gallimard. Hegedus, Tim. 2003. “Necessity and Free Will in the Thought of Bardaisan of Edessa.” Laval théologique et philosophique 59, no.2: 333–44. Hofeneder, Andreas. 2009. “Die ‘Druidinnen’ der Historia Augusta.” Kelten am Rhein. Akten des Dreizehnten Internationalen Keltologiekongresses 23. bis 27. Juli 2007 in Bonn, 2. Teil: Philologie – Sprachen und Literaturen, edited by Stefan Zimmer, 81–94. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. Hunsberger, Bruce, and Lynne M. Jackson. 2005. “Religion, Meaning, and Prejudice.” Journal of Social Issues 61.4: 807–826. Johnson, Aaron P. 2013. Religion and Identity in Porphyry of Tyre: The Limits of Hellenism in Late Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kaltio, Outi. 2013. “Valuing Oracles and Prophecies: Lactantius and the Pagan Seers.” In Studies in Ancient Oracles and Divination, edited by Mika Kajava, 199–213. Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae. Kennedy, Rebecca Futo. 2016. “Airs, Waters, Metals, Earth. People and Environment in Archaic and Classical Greek Thought.” In The Routledge Handbook of Identity and the Environment in the Classical and Medieval Worlds, edited by Rebecca Futo Kennedy and Molly Jones-Lewis, 9–28. London: Routledge.

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 245 Kennedy, Rebecca Futo, and Molly Jones-Lewis, eds. 2016. The Routledge Handbook of Identity and the Environment in the Classical and Medieval Worlds. London: Routledge. König, Jason, and Tim Whitmarsh. 2007. “Ordering Knowledge.” In Ordering Knowledge in the Roman Empire, edited by Jason König and Tim Whitmarsh, 3–42. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Krebs, Christopher B. 2011. “Borealism. Caesar, Seneca, Tacitus and the Roman concept of the North.” In Cultural Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean, edited by Erich S. Gruen, 202–221. Los Angeles, CA: Getty Publications. Krostenko, Brian A. 2000. “Beyond (Dis)belief: Rhetorical Form and Religious Symbol in Cicero’s de Divinatione.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 130: 353–391. Lampinen, Antti J. 2013. “Θεῷ μεμελημένε Φοίβῳ – Oracular Functionaries at Claros and Didyma in the Imperial Period.” In Studies in Ancient Oracles and Divination, edited by Mika Kajava, 49–88. Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae. Lampinen, Antti J. 2014. “Cruel and Unusual? The Idea of ‘Celtic justice’ in the Greco-Roman Lighter Literature.” Studia Celtica Fennica 11: 8–23. Lavery, Gerard B. 1971. “Cicero’s Philarchia and Marius.” Greece & Rome 18, no.2: 133–142. Leete, Art. 2014. Guileless Indigenes and Hidden Passion. Descriptions of Ob-Ugrians and Samoyeds through the Centuries. Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica. Lovejoy, Arthur O., and George Boas. 1935. Primitivism and related ideas in antiquity. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press; repr. New York, NY: Octagon Books, 1997. Macridy, Theodor. 1912. “Antiquités de Notion II.” Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes in Wien 15: 36–67. Marco Simón, Francisco. 2007. “Celtic Ritualism from the (Graeco)-Roman point of view.” In Rites et croyances dans les religions du monde Romain, edited by Corinne Bonnet and John Scheid, 149–88. Geneva: Fondation Hardt. Marco Simón, Francisco. 2017. “Other People’s Gods: Atheism, Demonisation, and Interpretatio from Strabo to Bernardino de Sahagún.” Acta Classica Universitatis scientiarum Debreceniensis 53: 83–107. Momigliano, Arnaldo. 1975. Alien wisdom: the limits of Hellenization. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Murphy, Trevor 2004. Pliny the Elder’s Natural History: the Empire in the Encyclopedia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Naas, Valérie. 2011. “Imperialism, Mirabilia and Knowledge: Some Paradoxes in the Naturalis Historia.” In Pliny the Elder: Themes and Contexts, edited by Roy K. Gibson and Ruth Morello, 57–70. Leiden: Brill. Nasrallah, Laura. 2005. “Mapping the World: Justin, Tatian, Lucian, and the Second Sophistic.” The Harvard Theological Review 98: 283–314. Ndiaye, Emilia. 2007. “L’image du barbarus gaulois chez Cicéron et César.” Vita Latina 177: 87–99. O’Gorman, Ellen. 1993. “No place like Rome: Identity and Difference in the Germania of Tacitus.” Ramus 22: 135–54. Oikonomopoulou, Katerina. 2013. “Ethnography and Authorial Voice in Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistae.” In Ancient Ethnography. New Approaches, edited by Eran Almagor and Joseph E. Skinner, 170–99. London: Bloomsbury.

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Oudot, Estelle. 2001. “Penser l’autochtonie athénienne à l’époque impériale.” In Origines Gentium, edited by Valérie Fromentin and Sophie Gotteland, 95–108. Bordeaux: Ausonius Publications; Paris: De Boccard. Pajón Leyra, Irene. 2015. “Reconstructing the First Steps of Hellenistic Ethnography. The Nomima Barbarika of P. Lond. Lit. 112 Reconsidered.” Archiv für Papyrusforschung 61, no.2: 235–75. Pilhofer, Peter. 1990. Presbyteron Kreitton. Der Altersbeweis der jüdischen und christlichen Apologeten und seine Vorgeschichte. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck. Qureshi, Sadiah. 2011. Peoples on Parade: Exhibitions, Empire, and Anthropology in Nineteenth-Century Britain. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Rabadjiev, Kostadin. 2015. “Religion.” In A Companion to Ancient Thrace, edited by Julia Valeva, Emil Nankov and Denver Graninger, 443–56. Chichester: WileyBlackwell. Romm, James. S. 1992. The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought: Geography, Exploration and Fiction. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Romm, James. S. 2010. “Continents, Climates, and Cultures: Greek Theories of Global Structure.” In Geography and Ethnography: Perceptions of the World in Pre-Modern Societies, edited by Kurt A. Raaflaub and Richard J. A. Talbert, 215–35. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Rüpke, Jörg. 2014. “Ethnicity in Roman Religion.” In A Companion to Ethnicity in the Ancient Mediterranean, edited by Jeremy McInerney, 470–82. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Sassi, Maria Michela. 1993. “Mirabilia.” In Lo spazio letterario della Grecia antica I.2, edited by Giuseppe Cambiano, Luciano Canfora and Diego Lanza, 449–68. Rome: Salerno Editrice. Schmidt, Thomas S. 2002. “Plutarch’s Timeless Barbarians and the Age of Trajan.” In Sage and Emperor: Plutarch, Greek Intellectuals, and Roman Power in the Time of Trajan, edited by Philip A. Stadter and Luc Van der Stockt, 57–71. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Schofield, Malcolm. 1986. “Cicero for and against Divination.” The Journal of Roman Studies 76: 47–65. Schott, Jeremy M. 2008. Christianity, Empire, and the Making of Religion in Late Antiquity. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Schultz, Celia E. 2014. Commentary on Cicero, De Divinatione I. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Seppänen, Minna, and Antti J. Lampinen. 2019. “‘Interpreters of interpreters’ – Oracular and Grammatical Hermeneutics.” Mnemosyne 72: 883–907. Skinner, Joseph E. 2013. “Imperial Visions, Imagined Pasts: Ethnography and Identity on India’s North-Western Frontier.” In Ancient Ethnography. New Approaches, edited by Eran Almagor and Joseph E. Skinner, 203–22. London: Bloomsbury. Stroumsa, Guy. 1996. “Philosophy of the Barbarians: On Early Christian Ethnological Representations.” In Geschichte – Tradition – Reflexion. Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag: vol. 2 Griechische und Römische Religion, edited by Hubert Cancik, Hermann Lichtenberger and Peter Schäfer, 339–68. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck. Swain, Simon., ed. 2007. Seeing the Face, Seeing the Soul: Polemon’s Physiognomy from Classical Antiquity to Medieval Islam. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

“Ethnic” divination in Roman imperial literature 247 Tedlock, Barbara. 2001. “Divination as a Way of Knowing: Embodiment, Visualisation, Narrative, and Interpretation.” Folklore 112, no. 2: 189–97. Thomas, Martin. E. 2013. “Anthropology and the British Empire.” In The Routledge History of Western Empires, edited by Robert Aldrich and Kirsten McKenzie, 255–69. London: Routledge. Trapp, Michael. B. 1997. Maximus of Tyre. The Philosophical Orations. Oxford: Oxford University Press. von den Hoff, Ralf. 2004. “Horror and amazement: Colossal mythological statue groups and the new rhetoric of images in late second and early third century Rome.” In Paideia: The World of the Second Sophistic, edited by Barbara E. Borg, 105–29. Berlin: de Gruyter. Whitmarsh, Tim. 2016. Battling the Gods. Atheism in the Ancient World. London: Faber and Faber. Wilkins, John. 2007. “Galen and Athenaeus in the Hellenistic Library.” In Ordering Knowledge in the Roman Empire, edited by Jason König and Tim Whitmarsh, 69–87. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wolfram, Herwig. 1997. The Roman Empire and Its Germanic Peoples. Translated by Thomas Dunlap. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Woolf, Greg. 2011. Tales of the Barbarians: Ethnography and Empire in the Roman West. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Woolf, Greg. 2013. “Ethnography and the Gods in Tacitus’ Germania.” In Ancient Ethnography. New Approaches, edited by Eran Almagor and Joseph E. Skinner, 133–52. London: Bloomsbury. Zeitlyn, David. 1990. “Professor Garfinkel Visits the Soothsayers: Ethnomethodology and Mambila Divination.” Man 25, no. 4: 654–66.

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Apuleius on divination: Platonic daimonology and child-divination Leonardo Costantini

Introduction With his rich and remarkably versatile output, the second-century rhetorician and polymath Apuleius of Madauros (c. 125 to after 165 CE) offers a valuable insight into divination from both a theoretical and a ritual perspective.1 One has to bear in mind that Apuleius’ views are filtered through Platonic philosophy, a revival of which characterises the intellectual milieu of his time.2 Due to these Platonic beliefs, Apuleius and many of his contemporaries are convinced that humans could practise divination and partake of a divine foreknowledge through the agency of intermediary beings called daimones.3 First, this chapter will explore Apuleius’ Platonic daimonology, highlighting the key function of daimones in divination, as attested in On the god of Socrates (De deo Socratis). Secondly, attention will be paid to a passage from the Self-defence speech on magic (Pro se de magia) or Apology (Apologia), as it is commonly known, where Apuleius describes two types of divination in which a child is used as a medium. The analysis of these passages will make it possible to observe how Apuleius conceived of divination as a form of knowledge in its own right, framed within a welldeveloped daimonological system, and will also show how ideas about divination, as well as divinatory practices, circulated and were re-elaborated by Platonists, theurgists, and practitioners of magic in later times.

Platonic daimonology and divination in De Deo Socratis (On the God of Socrates) Apuleius’ ideas about divination are fleshed out in a speech handed down to us under the title De deo Socratis.4 This is a popular philosophical lecture meant to make Platonic daimonology accessible to a general audience. According to Apuleius, divination could only happen with the aid of intermediate beings called daimones. The most notable case is the daimonion (τὸ δαιμόνιον) of Socrates described in Plato’s dialogues, which Socrates calls his “customary means of divination” (cf. Plato, Ap. 40a, ἡ γὰρ εἰωθυῖά μοι

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μαντική). This is later interpreted by Apuleius and other Platonists as Socrates’ guardian daimōn.5 As well as Apuleius’ speech, Plutarch also devoted a work to Socrates’ daimōn, namely the On the daimonion of Socrates (Περὶ τοῦ Σωκράτους δαιμονίου), a complex philosophical dialogue where he presents his own daimonological views.6 Likewise, the Platonist and sophist Maximus of Tyre – a contemporary of Apuleius – delivered two lectures on this theme (Dialexeis 8 and 9) in order to familiarise a wider audience with Platonic daimonology, just like Apuleius.7 Later Platonists develop elaborate daimonologies, and Proclus in particular discusses the daimōn of Socrates in his Commentary on Plato’s First Alcibiades.8 According to John Dillon, Plato’s pupil Xenocrates seems to have expanded upon and started to formalise his master’s daimonological views, but the ideas about the nature of the daimones, their hierarchical position, and their function in divination which we find in Plutarch, Apuleius, and Maximus of Tyre should probably be ascribed to the Platonist Antiochus of Ascalon (first century BCE).9 But what is Apuleius’ precise opinion in De deo Socratis? The speech opens with an overview of the tripartite arrangement of the world, divided into astral gods, non-astral gods, and human beings. Apuleius argues that this cosmological hierarchy might leave some people disheartened: according to it, human prayers and sacrifices cannot directly reach the gods, who dwell in distant regions of the universe. Thus, there cannot be any direct communication between mortals and astral deities (De deo Soc. 1-5). Apuleius thus introduces the concept of the daimōn and its function, saying that he is quoting Plato’s words (responderit enim Plato pro sententia sua mea voce): Yet, there are certain intermediate divine powers, situated in an interjacent position between the highest heaven and the earth far below in the region of the aer, powers through which our desires and our good services are passed to the gods. The Greeks have endowed them with the name of daimones, bearers of prayers upwards and benefits downwards between the inhabitants of heaven and earth, who, moving to and fro, carry petitions from men and aid from the gods, acting between the two as a kind of go-between and bringer of blessings. […] Individuals among them oversee specific activities, with each assigned his province – whether constructing visions in dreams, or marking prophetic entrails, or directing divinatory bird-flight, or teaching oracular bird-cry, or launching thunderbolts or inspiring seers, causing clouds to flash, or indeed every other activity through which we try to make out the future. Our view should be that all these things are done by the will, power, and authority of the gods of heaven, but through the service, effort, and agency of the daimones.10 As Beaujeu (1973, 190; 204; 216, n. 2) observes, the position of the daimones in the region of the aer does not belong to Plato but to his immediate

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successors, influenced by Pythagoreanism and by the cosmology of the Timaeus. However, one can note an overall similarity with the ideas expressed in Plato’s Symposium 202e-203a, a passage to which Apuleius explicitly refers here, in which Socrates reports Diotima’s description of daimones as intermediaries between humans and gods who play a key function in divination.11 Gods do, indeed, care for human matters and, in order to do so they are assisted by ancillary beings called daimones. It is, therefore, the agency of these daimones that enables humans to contact the divine and makes divination possible. Apuleius enriches this Platonic theory with a Roman patina by adding a series of traditional examples of divination in Roman history – probably inherited from Cicero’s On divination and Livy.12 While it is impossible to see a god, daimones have an intermediate status that makes them visible to some men, providing them with advice as well as foreknowledge. Apuleius validates this point, while simultaneously showcasing his learnedness, by referring to the direct intervention of deities in Homer, Virgil, and Plautus: these literary figures do not allude to the actual gods but to daimones (De deo Soc. 11). Accordingly, their inconstant mood in literature is due to their intermediate nature. In Apuleius’ own words, daimones: … are placed between us and the gods not only in their physical location but also in the essence of their mind, having immortality in common with the gods above, and susceptibility to emotion in common with men below. For, just as we are, they can be subject to all types of mental calming and excitement, with the consequence that they are roused by anger, moved by pity, enticed by gifts, softened by prayers, irritated by insults, soothed by honours, and are thoroughly changeable in all other matters in a similar way to ourselves.13 Apuleius characterises daimones as intermediaries between gods and humans in terms of their cognitive state (ingenium mentis): although daimones share passions with humans, their immortal nature makes them akin to the gods, allowing them to access divine knowledge and foreknowledge which they can pass on to humans through divination. Apuleius accepts that not everyone may share his views (De deo Soc. 14.6, non apud omnis certam fidem) but points out that these ideas are generally known to his contemporaries (certe penes cunctos notitiam promiscuam possident). He then argues that the human soul itself can be called daimōn, and that happy people are called eudaimones because of the perfection of their soul in regard to virtue (De deo Soc. 15.2, eudaemonas dici beatos, quorum daemon bonus, id est animus virtute perfectus est). Furthermore, the spirits of those who have passed on become themselves daimones of different natures, according to their own conduct in life. Apuleius adds that human souls are inferior to the higher class of daimones, since these have never been imprisoned within a mortal body and oversee various tasks, among which is

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that of acting as the personal tutors and guardians assigned to every person (De deo Soc. 15-16). Having carefully set out this daimonological system, Apuleius introduces the example of Socrates and his personal daimōn. People’s ultimate goal should be to look after their own guardian daimōn and let it guide them towards perfection and help them in life, in the same way as Socrates’ personal daimōn did: If it is rightly acknowledged, recognised with attention, and served with reverence, just as it was revered by Socrates with the virtues of justice and innocence, a daimōn can offer a clear view forward when things are doubtful, warning in times of uncertainty, protection in case of danger, and aid in need; it is a being who can, through dreams, signs, or even perhaps by face-to-face encounters when the occasion demands, help you by sweeping away evil, promoting good, raising up lowliness, supporting weakness, elucidating obscurity, guiding success, and rectifying adversity.14 Following an established tradition that dates back to Plato, Apuleius claims that Socrates could hear the voice of the daimōn: due to its divinatory power (vis daemonis praesaga) the daimōn could inform Socrates about future events and counsel him (De deo Soc. 18-19).15 Apuleius adds that Socrates could even see the physical traces (signa) of his daimōn, that is the shape of the daimōn itself which only Socrates could see – just like Homeric heroes – thanks to his most perfect wisdom (De deo Soc. 20-1). The idea that Socrates could actually see his daimōn is presented by Apuleius as his own: this seems to expand on the fact that Plato’s Socrates could perceive a divine “sign” (σημεῖον), which did not necessarily imply a vision.16 The protreptic scope of De deo Socrates becomes clearer towards the end of the speech, when Apuleius equates the cultivation of one’s guardian daimōn to the study of philosophy (De deo Soc. 22.2: daemonis cultum, qui cultus non aliud quam philosophiae sacramentum est), and prods his audience with the following questions: “accordingly, why do you not devote yourself, too, to the study of philosophy? Why are you not keen to make sure that, when people praise you, your fame contains nothing extraneous?”17 Apuleius’ aim is to invite his audience to study Platonic philosophy, following a paragon of wisdom like Socrates – a philosopher so perfect as to always be in contact with his daimōn and have premonitions. Apuleius ultimately seems to lay emphasis on how philosophy and divination are closely intertwined on an epistemological level: studying philosophy implies the cultivation of one’s guardian daimōn so that it may progressively enable the neophyte to develop a deeper contact with the daimōn and to finally become an experienced seer, partaking of that divine foreknowledge possessed by gods. Given human anxiety over the future, the promise of being able to continuously receive anticipations of future events

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from one’s daimōn would have also been an important drive to promote Apuleius’ views, making them look appealing to a large audience. This, no doubt, accounts for the popularity and the circulation of works on the daimōn of Socrates by other Platonists in the Imperial period.

Performing child-divination: the evidence of the Apologia, its tradition, and survival The discussion of Apuleius’ theoretical views on daimones as intermediate divine powers connecting humans with the gods and their role in divination raises the question: how was divination actually practised in Apuleius’ time? There were different ways to gain foreknowledge in the Greco-Roman world,18 and Apuleius describes one of them in a passage of his Pro se de magia or Apologia. This is likely the revised version of a defence speech which he delivered in 158-9 CE in the courtroom of the North African city of Sabratha. Apuleius attempts to disprove the accusation that he was a practitioner of magic (magus) and used magic to seduce the wealthy widow Pudentilla and harm other people. His main addressee is the governor of Africa, Claudius Maximus, the Stoic philosopher and teacher of the emperor Marcus Aurelius, who was chairing the panel of magistrates during the lawsuit.19 At Apol. 42.3-47, Apuleius counters the allegation of performing a magical ritual and evil incantations that made a certain Thallus – a slave boy belonging to Pudentilla’s household – fall ill with epilepsy. To substantiate his claim, Apuleius stresses that everyone knew that Thallus was already epileptic and consequently he could never have been of use in any divinatory ritual. That Apuleius’ alleged crime had to do with divination is a detail that the prosecution probably did not mention, but was added and exploited by Apuleius to invalidate his accusers’ argument.20 He quotes two anecdotes about youths used in divination from Varro (Apol. 42.6-8),21 then he reaffirms his Platonic status by offering a readapted translation of a passage from Plato, Symposium 202e-203a, which deals with the agency of daimones in any form of divination, including that of the Magi. In Apuleius’ words: “I do believe Plato’s doctrine that certain heavenly powers are situated by their nature and position halfway between gods and humans, and that they control any form of divination as well as the miracles of the Magi.”22 Finally, at Apol. 43.3-5 Apuleius describes how divination could be performed using a youth as a medium: Indeed, I also reflect on the fact that the human soul, especially when young and innocent, can be lulled to sleep either by enticing spells or by soothing odours, and can thereby be distracted into forgetting the present. Then, in a short suspension of its physical memory, it reverts and returns to its true nature, which of course is immortal and divine, and thus foretells the future in a sort of trance. Yet at the same time, whether this is true or not, assuming that these stories deserve any

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credence, this supposed boy must, as far as I hear, be chosen for his good-looking and unblemished body, acute intelligence and eloquent speech, so that either the divine power can have a sort of suitable home in which to lodge decently, if indeed it is enclosed within the boy’s body, or so that the soul itself once aroused can quickly be restored to its divinatory power, which must enter readily and be easily recovered, not diminished or dulled by forgetfulness.23 As it emerges shortly afterwards in Apol. 43.7-10, this display is part of a calculated rhetorical strategy to buttress Apuleius’ claim that, since divination requires a pure and healthy youth and since Thallus’ soul and body are afflicted with epilepsy, the slave-boy could never have been used in a divinatory ritual. The allegation is, therefore, self-contradictory and false.24 Yet, what Apuleius reports in this passage of the Apologia provides us with significant evidence for the performance of divinatory rituals using children as a medium. These ideas are not invented by Apuleius, who explicitly stresses that they are derived from popular opinion (quantum ego audio). It seems that Apuleius – and possibly his sources – is open to two ideas: on the one hand, once the medium goes into a trance and his soul leaves its earthily abode, returning to its original dimension, his empty body can be possessed by a divine daimonic being (divina potestas), akin to the pure, noble-minded medium, and deliver oracular responses through his body. It is significant that Apuleius underscores that the chosen youth must be pure, intelligent and articulate, sharing thereby an affinity with the daimonic being who will dwell within him, so that he may reliably transmit oracular knowledge. On the other hand, the youth’s soul itself – by virtue of that daimonic nature which Apuleius ascribes to it in De deo Socratis – can recall what has been seen while dwelling in the divine dimension. For the sake of clarity, I shall call the former case “passive child-divination,” and the second “active childdivination.” In both cases the agency of daimones (established on the basis of a complex Platonic framework), the theme with which Apuleius opens this digression (Apol. 43.1-2), is the element foregrounding the dynamics of the two rituals. It remains difficult, however, to assess Apuleius’ precise sources and – even more so – to what extent Apuleius reports them faithfully. Claudio Moreschini (1989, 269-80) looks at this passage and notes some similarities between the views of Apuleius and Plutarch. He argues that the use of a youth as a passive medium described in the passage of the Apologia is similar to the divine trance of the Pythia, the priestess who receives oracular responses in the temple of Delphi, discussed in Plutarch’s The Oracles at Delphi No Longer Given In Verse (De Pythiae oraculis). Like the ideal child-medium in the Apologia, the Delphic priestess in Plutarch’s time should be pure and simple, without any specific literary knowledge (De Pyth. or. 405c, ἀγράμματον). She should come from an honest and decent family and behave in an orderly manner (γέγονε μὲν εἴ τις ἄλλος ἐνταῦθα νομίμως καὶ

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καλῶς καὶ βεβίωκεν εὐτάκτως), and inherently possess a noble character (De Pyth. or. 408c, ἡ δὲ Πυθία καὶ καθ’ αὑτὴν μέν ἐστι γενναία τὸ ἦθος). Such purity and simplicity make it possible for her to enter the shrine as a virgin soul and join the god in a divine union (De Pyth. or. 405c, παρθένος ὡς ἀληθῶς τὴν ψυχὴν τῷ θεῷ σύνεστιν), from which she derives her oracular knowledge.25 On a more general level, Moreschini (1989, 279-80) also compares Apuleius’ ideas about divination and daimonology expressed in De deo Socratis with those in Plutarch’s The Oracles at Delphi No Longer Given In Verse (De defectu oracu-lorum). There, the wandering souls of those who have passed on are considered daimones (De def. or. 431b, οἴει γὰρ ἕτερόν τι τοὺς δαίμονας […] ἢ ψυχὰς ὄντας περιπολεῖν […];)26 as in Apuleius’ De deo Socratis 15-16, and it is then accepted that human souls, because of their daimonic nature, can be inspired by daimones and obtain wondrous visions of the future (De def. or. 431c, ψυχαὶ ψυχαῖς ἐντυγχάνουσαι φαντασίας ἐμποιοῦσι τοῦ μέλλοντος). Notably, such divine knowledge is more likely obtainable when the soul exits the body and reacquires full control over its divinatory skills, an idea which underpins the active type of child-divination presented by Apuleius.27 Similar views are not unique to Apuleius and Plutarch and can already be found in Plato. In Timaeus 71d-e, divination is presented as a phenomenon related to that lower part of the soul which dwells around the liver (τὴν περὶ τὸ ἧπαρ ψυχῆς μοῖραν), and can be experienced only when the strength of someone’s reasoning is fettered by sleep, sickness, or numbed by some divine possession (ἢ καθ’ ὕπνον τὴν τῆς φρονήσεως πεδηθεὶς δύναμιν ἢ διὰ νόσον, ἢ διά τινα ἐνθουσιασμὸν παραλλάξας).28 These ideas are comparable to the case of passive child-divination described by Apuleius, in which the youth becomes the host of a divine being while he is asleep. There are, nonetheless, notable differences: Apuleius – like Plutarch himself – does not adopt the Platonic distinction between the rational and appetitive soul in Apol. 43.3-5. Furthermore, he does not present divine visions as a spontaneous phenomenon in the case of child-divination but rather as something that can be induced, specifically through a ritual involving spells (carmina) and odours (odores), presumably of sacrificial offerings. The case of active childdivination, in which the boy’s soul re-enters the body after gaining a divine foreknowledge, mirrors the dynamics of the eschatological myth of Er, retold by Plato’s Socrates in Republic 614b-21d. The story is about a Pamphylian man who was believed to have died in battle, but twelve days after his supposed death, while his body was lying on the pyre before the funeral, Er came back to life and narrated what his soul had seen in the Underworld while detached from the body (Resp. 614b, κομισθεὶς δ’ οἴκαδε μέλλων θάπτεσθαι δωδεκαταῖος ἐπὶ τῇ πυρᾷ κείμενος ἀνεβίω, ἀναβιοὺς δ’ ἔλεγεν ἃ ἐκεῖ ἴδοι).29 Similar ideas about the human soul’s ability to give prophecies when it is close to rejoining its original divine dimension also emerge in Plato’s Apology. There Socrates speaks of his wish to deliver oracles to the jurors who sentenced him to death, and explains “for I am

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now at the time when humans particularly prophesy, when they are about to perish” (Ap. 39c, γάρ εἰμι ἤδη ἐνταῦθα ἐν ᾧ μάλιστα ἄνθρωποι χρησμῳδοῦσιν, ὅταν μέλλωσιν ἀποθανεῖσθαι).30 Although it is unnecessary to overplay these similarities, which may simply point to the long-lasting circulation of beliefs concerning metempsychōsis and divine ecstasy,31 the fact that Plato expressed these views on divination may have made it easier for other intellectuals to draw and expand upon them. Indeed, this is the case with the fifth-century CE Platonist Proclus, who offers fundamental information about a ritual comparable to active childdivination while commenting on the myth of Er from Plato’s Republic. Proclus discusses the case of return to life (ἀναβίωσις) and argues that it is possible for the soul to exit and then return inside a body (ὅτι δὲ καὶ ἐξιέναι τὴν ψυχὴν καὶ εἰσιέναι δυνατὸν εἰς τὸ σῶμα), as in Plato’s myth. To confirm this belief, Proclus cites a story from the treatise On sleep by the Peripatetic philosopher Clearchus of Soli, a pupil of Aristotle (Proclus, In R. 2.122-3 = Clearchus, frg. 7 Wehrli): Clearchus’ account is about a man who performed a ritual before an audience, among whom was Aristotle himself. This man used a soul-controlling wand on a youth who had fallen asleep (τῇ ψυχουλκῷ ῥάβδῳ χρησάμενος ἐπὶ τοῦ μειρακίου τοῦ καθεύδοντος). He struck the youth with the wand and drew his soul out while the youth’s body remained literally inanimate but unharmed. Then the wand brought the soul back near the body and it entered inside again, and upon its re-entrance the boy reported everything in detail (ἐκείνην δὲ μεταξὺ διενεχθεῖσαν πόρρω τοῦ σώματος ἐγγύθεν αὐτῆς ἀγομένης πάλιν τῆς ῥάβδου μετὰ τὴν εἴσοδον ἀπαγγέλλειν ἕκαστα).32 Given the similarity between the performances described in Clearchus’ fragment and in the Apologia, one might even wonder if Apuleius – or his source – took a leaf from Clearchus’ On dreams. There are, however, two important differences between these accounts: unlike Clearchus, Apuleius does not refer to the use of a wand. On the other hand, Apuleius explains that the youth’s trance is induced by means of odours and spells (Apol. 43.3), a detail lacking in Clearchus’ fragment. It is impossible to ascertain whether Proclus omitted the description of how the youth fell asleep, or if such discrepancies should be ascribed to Apuleius. It does not seem unlikely that he might have merged into one account two kinds of practices performed on a child-medium derived from different sources, streamlining any divergent detail, but in default of further evidence it is impossible to get a clearer picture. As to passive child-divination, this practice seems widespread in the Greco-Roman world especially during the third and fourth centuries CE, and it was not only accepted by philosophers, theurgists, and practitioners of magic alike – as I shall discuss – but even by some Christian authorities. For instance, the third-century bishop of Carthage Cyprian says that youths filled by the Holy Ghost (impletur apud nos spiritu sancto puerorum innocens aetas) can have visions at night (nocturnas visiones), and during their ecstasy they can see, hear, and report the Lord’s heed (in extasi videt oculis et audit

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et loquitur ea quibus nos Dominus monere et instruere dignatur).33 Cyprian, however, firmly condemns the kind of divination practised by those under the influence of daimonic beings (principalium daemoniorum impetu).34 Later Platonists such as Iamblichus and Porphyry also believe that a simple and young person is the apt medium to gain divine foreknowledge. This is expressed in Iamblichus’ On the Mysteries (De Mysteriis) 3.17: And there is indeed another divine wonder, it seems to me, that the god indicates by these means. For just as he makes some simple-minded human being utter statements full of wisdom, by which it becomes clear to all that this is not some human but a divine accomplishment, so through beings deprived of knowledge he reveals thoughts which surpass all knowledge.35 Iamblichus only accepts that the medium can host a divine pneuma (“spirit”) passively. Thus, according to him, the medium is merely a temporary recipient of the divine. Although Iamblichus characterises the medium as a passive recipient of divine foreknowledge, he also stresses the connection between divination and knowledge and insists that the god who grants such wisdom: ... makes things unknown in nature known; things not knowledgeable he makes knowledgeable, and through these he implants wisdom in us, and by means of all beings in the cosmos he moves our mind to the truth of things that are, have been, and will be.36 The disparity between the medium’s simple-mindedness and the insightful nature of the divinatory message acts as a kind of divine wonder, showing that the medium’s response is a divine accomplishment rather than a phenomenon ascribable to the human mind. In the Letter to Anebo, Porphyry, while attacking the theurgic practices upheld by Iamblichus, discusses the idea that a pure youth is the most suitable medium for divination and offers detailed information about this kind of divinatory ritual.37 Although Porphyry’s Letter to Anebo did not survive, it can be reconstructed from other sources: specifically, the passage in question comes from Iamblichus’ refutation in DM 3.24. Porphyry seems to agree that not everyone, but especially the simple-minded and young people are more suitable to receive divine foreknowledge (Ep. Aneb. 2.5b: μὴ πάντας ἀλλὰ τοὺς ἁπλουστέρους καὶ νέους ἐπιτηδειοτέρους). The people carrying out these rituals are likely theurgists, and they implement the odours of sacrificial offerings (προσενεχθέντες ἀτμοί), as well as invocations (ἐπικλήσεις). After reporting Porphyry’s opinion, Iamblichus contends, however, that these odours and invocation are addressed to and can only be received by the gods and do not affect the psyche of the medium,38 while in Apol. 43.3 the use of odours and spells serves to force the medium into a

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trance. These differences notwithstanding, the ritual praxis that can be reconstructed from this passage represents a significant comparison with that in Apuleius’ Apologia: in both cases, the divinatory rite involves a simple and young person (Apol. 43.3: puerilem et simplicem; Porphyry, Ep. Aneb. 2.5b = Iamblichus, DM 3.24: ἁπλουστέρους καὶ νέους), and odours and utterances are needed (carminum … odorum; ἀτμοί … ἐπικλήσεις).39 Iamblichus and Porphyry reject the active involvement of the soul of the pure youth in the ritual, and only accept passive child-divination. In particular, Iamblichus draws a neat line between the higher, divine kind of possession, allowing for a true contact with divine entities, and the lower kind of ecstatic visions induced by drunkenness, madness, or magic.40 This is probably due to the fact that such practices were also common in magical practices (goēteia), as Tertullian points out, criticising practitioners of magic for summoning ghosts, defiling the souls of the dead, and, particularly, causing youths to collapse in order to obtain an oracular utterance.41 More detailed information about these practices comes from the PGM (Papyri Graecae Magicae). This is a modern collection of various texts from Egypt, mostly written on papyrus between the second century BCE and the fifth century CE but probably reflecting older traditions,42 which presents a variety of rituals and prescriptions that are generally ascribed to so-called magical practitioners (goētes or magoi).43 In the PGM we find many references to divination with boys, entailing the performance of a ritual and the utterance of a formula. Then the divine being enters the medium’s body and offers oracular responses through him.44 In particular, the ritual described in PGM VII.540-78 matches closely the praxis described in Apol. 43.3-5, since it specifies that the boy must be uncorrupted and pure (ὁ δὲ παῖς ἔστω ἄφθορος, καθαρός), and since it prescribes burnt offerings and a spell to call upon the deity so that it could enter the medium’s body.45 Apuleius simply glosses over the fact that such kinds of divination were performed by practitioners of magic,46 whereas Iamblichus is fully aware of these suspicious magical practices and endeavours to dissociate theurgy from them by stating: ... and do not, furthermore, compare the clearest visions of the gods to the images produced artificially from magic (γοητεία), for these have neither the energy, nor the essence of things seen, nor truth, but present mere images, reaching only as far as appearance.47 Although these ideas about divination through simple and pure youths still circulated in late Platonist circles of the sixth century CE, as shown by Olympiodorus,48 at the beginning of the fifth century CE severe legislation against divination and magic was promulgated, and those caught performing such practices might have even been liable to capital punishment.49 Furthermore, at around the same time, the bitter criticism of Christian intellectuals caused these practices to progressively fall out of favour:

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Augustine in particular, in his City of God (De civitate Dei) books 8 and 10, chastises the views of Apuleius and other non-Christian philosophers on divination, rejecting the idea that humans can communicate with the gods through daimones, the underlying principle of these forms of divination, and he ultimately equates theurgy with goetic magic.50 It comes as no surprise that centuries later the Byzantine scholar Michael Psellus could compare Apuleius with Julian the Chaldean, the supposed inventor of theurgy and author of the Chaldaean Oracles, and with his son Julian the Theurgist.51 Specifically, when talking about Chaldean astrology and ritual practices, Psellus claims that Apuleius tried to attain control over their sun-god (Ἑπτάκτις) in an attempt to outshine and dissociate himself from Julian the Theurgist: They draw down the gods to their control with enchanting spells and bind and release them, as for instance Apuleius constrained the SevenRayed One with oaths, so that he would not be associated with the theurgist: this was Julian the Theurgist, who accompanied the emperor Marcus Aurelius on an expedition in the campaign against the Dacians (173 CE), and who helped the emperor succeed in many other things and drove away the Dacians from the Roman borders.52 The historical accuracy of this account cannot be relied on, as is also the case with the legend concerning the magical contest between Apuleius, Apollonius of Tyana, and Julian the Chaldean to end a plague, which is transmitted in the corpus of Anastasius of Sinai’s Questions and answers (Quaestiones et responsiones).53 These stories are, in fact, largely due to Apuleius’ later notoriety for being a practitioner of magic.54 Yet, the close similarity between the two kinds of child-divination described in the Apology and the practices of the supposed founders of theurgy, on the one hand, and of the practitioners of magic, on the other, makes it possible to throw more light not only on the overall diffusion of these divinatory rituals in the Imperial age and Late Antiquity, but also on the retrospective association between Apuleius, theurgists, and magical practitioners (goētes).

Conclusion To sum up, this chapter has explored the intermediary role of daimones in divination, and two possible ways in which daimonic beings were believed to grant humans prophetic knowledge according to Apuleius’ Platonic thought. This points to the fact that knowledge and divination were conceived as two inextricably intertwined entities. The discussion of the evidence from De deo Socratis casts light on the theoretical and philosophical framework for the agency of daimones, relating to their nature, functions, and cosmological roles, which Apuleius regards as the paramount means by which humans can obtain access to divine foreknowledge. Further evidence on divination is presented in

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the Apologia: by focusing on a passage where Apuleius describes two divinatory rituals using a child as either an active or a passive medium (Apol. 43.3-5), it becomes clear how, in the case of active child-divination, Apuleius emphasises the importance of choosing a pure and intelligent child, so that the medium may have an affinity with the divine being and accurately deliver the prophecy. Conversely, in the case of passive child divination, Apuleius believes that the medium’s soul can leave the body and ascend to its original divine dimension and thereby receive divine knowledge. To gain a better understanding of these divinatory practices, I have attempted to reconstruct the type of ideas on which Apuleius might have drawn, and to show their circulation among Platonists, theurgists, and practitioners of goetic magic. This, in its turn, allows for a better appreciation not only of child-divination itself, but also of Apuleius’ later association with theurgy and magic, as attested in Christian and Byzantine anecdotes.

Notes 1 For an accessible introduction to Apuleius’ life, formation, and production, cf. especially Harrison 2017, 345-56. 2 I have avoided using “Middle Platonism,” “Neoplatonism” and related terms, which are the products of eighteenth-century German scholarship, in order to emphasise the continuity of the beliefs and divinatory practices discussed. On discarding the artificial distinction between Middle Platonism and Neoplatonism, see Catana 2013, 166-200. For a similar position, see also Addey 2014a, 1, n. 2, who mainly assigns these terms a chronological value. 3 On the Greek concept of daimōn and its semantic development, cf. DNP 3, s.v. Dämonen [S.I. Johnston], 261-4. See also the handy overview in Bremmer 2019, 167-73, which focuses on late antique and Christian perceptions of daimones. 4 For a discussion of Apuleius’ De deo Socratis, cf. especially Habermehl 1996, 11742; Regen 1999, 438-58, continued in 2000, 41-62; Harrison 2000, 136-40; 67-84; Margagliotta 2012, 67-88; Timotin 2012, 259-79; Fletcher 2014, 145-72; Moreschini 2015, 117-33; O’Neill 2017, 39-58. Quotations from this work follow the edition of Magnaldi 2020, and her paragraph division. Translations are adapted from Harrison 2001, 195-216. Other translations in this study, where not otherwise indicated, are mine. 5 Text of Plato’s Apology after Duke, Hicken, Nicoll, Robinson, and Strachan 1995. On the concept of Socrates’ daimonion in Plato’s works, see McPherran 2005, 13-30, and Van Riel 2005, 31-42. On its reception in later Platonism, see Addey 2014b, 51-72, and particularly 52-5 on the Platonic understanding of the daimonion and further scholarship on the topic, Mecci 2018, 56-75, and the papers in the edited volume by Brisson, O’Neill, and Timotin 2018. 6 For a discussion of the relationship between Plutarch’s and Apuleius’ works on Socrates’ daimōn, cf. Walsh 1981, 26-7; Hunink 2003, 251-60; Finamore 2014, 3650; Moreschini 2015, 136-8; 142-5. 7 Maximus indicates that he is addressing a lay public more clearly than Apuleius. He uses, in fact, the simile of the initiation into the mysteries to introduce his audience to philosophical concepts: ... for the moment I would ask you to embrace the following belief, as a kind of preliminary purification before you are initiated into the doctrines that are to follow.

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νῦν δὲ ἴθι αὐτὸς πρὸς αὑτὸν ἑκκαθηράμενος ταυτηνὶ τὴν δόξαν, ἵνα σοι καὶ προτέλεια γένηται ταῦτα τοῦ μέλλοντος λόγου. (Maximums of Tyre, 8.7: Text after Trapp 1994; translation by Trapp 1997, 74) On Maximus and Apuleius as philosophical popularisers, cf. Trapp 2007, 467-82. Cf. Proclus, In Alc. 67-85, on which see Addey 2014b, 60-72, and Chapter 5, 155-61 in this volume. Dillon 1977, 31-2; 89-91. On Xenocrates’ daimonological views see also Schibli 1993, 143-67. Although Antiochus’ production has not survived, his ideas about daimones and divination can be reconstructed from Cicero’s De divinatione and De natura deorum, and especially from the fragments of Varro – who studied with Antiochus – transmitted in Augustine, De civ. D. 7.6. Cf. De deo Soc. 6.2-5: ‘ceterum sunt quaedam divinae mediae potestates inter summum aethera et infimas terras in isto intersitae aeris spatio, per quas et desideria nostra et merita ad eos commeant.’ Hos Graeci nomine daemonas nuncupant, inter terricolas caelicolasque vectores hinc precum inde donorum, qui ultro citro portant hinc petitiones inde suppetias ceu quidam utrisque interpretes et salutigeri. […] Eorum quippe de numero praediti curant singuli, proinde ut est cuique tributa provincia, vel somniis conformandis vel extis fissiculandis vel praepetibus gubernandis vel oscinibus erudiendis vel vatibus inspirandis vel fulminibus iaculandis vel nubibus coruscandis ceterisque adeo, per quae futura dinoscimus. Quae cuncta caelestium voluntate et numine et auctoritate, sed daemonum obsequio et opera et ministerio fieri arbitrandum est. Cf. De deo Soc. 6.3: per hos eosdem, ut Plato in Symposio autumat, cuncta denuntiata et Magorum varia miracula omnesque praesagiorum species reguntur. I have capitalised the m in Magorum here and in the very similar passage which recurs in Apol. 43.2, see n. 22 below. For a discussion of the passage from Plato’s Symposium, see Chapter 2, 59-60 in this volume. Cf. De deo Soc. 7, where Apuleius mentions Hannibal’s dreams about the loss of his eye (cf. Cicero, Div. 1.48); Flaminius’ inspection of entrails (cf. Livy, 21.63.13); the miracle of the whetstone performed by the augur Navius (cf. Cicero, Div. 1.32; Livy, 1.36.3-5); and other legends concerning the Etruscan kings Tarquinius Priscus and Servius Tullius (cf. Livy. 1.34.8; 1.39.1). On these stories and their sources, cf. Beaujeu, 1973, 218, and Harrison, 2000, 201, n. 26 and 27. Cf. De deo Soc. 13.1-2: sunt enim inter nos ac deos ut loco regionis ita ingenio mentis intersiti, habentes communem cum superis immortalitatem, cum inferis passionem. Nam proinde ut nos pati possunt omnia animorum placamenta vel incitamenta, ut et ira incitentur et misericordia flectantur et donis invitentur et precibus leniantur et contumeliis exasperentur et honoribus mulceantur, aliisque omnibus ad similem nobis modum varient. Cf. De deo Soc. 16.8-9: si rite animadvertatur, sedulo cognoscatur, religiose colatur, ita ut a Socrate iustitia et innocentia cultus est, in rebus incertis prospector, dubiis praemonitor, periculosis tutator, egenis opitulator, qui tibi queat tum insomniis, tum signis, tum etiam fortasse coram, cum usus postulat, mala averruncare, bona prosperare, humilia sublimare, nutantia fulcire, obscura clarare, secunda regere, adversa corrigere. For the sources on this tradition, cf. Beaujeu 1973, 241-3. On Socrates’ perception of a divine sign (σημεῖον), cf. Plato, Ap. 40b; 40c; Phdr. 242c. On Apuleius’ claim that Socrates could see his daimōn, cf. Beaujeu 1973, 243-4; Regen 2000, 56-7; Margagliotta 2012, 96-101; and Timotin 2012, 279-86. The identification of Socrates’ daimōn with a Homeric deity (specifically Athena/Minerva) is also found

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in Plutarch, De gen. 580c-d, and Maximus of Tyre (De daem. Socr. 8.5). In De daem. Socr. 9.7 Maximus even claims to have seen daimonic entities such as the Dioscuri, Asclepius, and Heracles, on which cf. Benson 2016, 102-31. Cf. De deo Soc. 24.1: quin igitur et tu ad studium sapientiae ingereris vel properas saltem, ut nihil alienum in laudibus tuis audias. For a discussion of divination, cf. DNP 3, s.v. Divination VI-VII [J.N. Bremmer], 709-18. Cf. Marcus Aurelius, Med. 1.15.1-5; 16.10; 17.5, on which cf. Farquharson 1944, 275 and Scriptores Historiae Augustae, Marc. 3.2 (Claudium Maximum et Cinnam Catulum Stoicos, ed. Hohl, Samberger, and Seyfarth 1997), on which cf. Syme 1983, 34-5. Cf. Harrison 2000, 69; Costantini 2019, 135-138; 145. On these anecdotes see Abt 1908, 171-8; Hunink 1997, 128-9; Costantini 2019, 146-7. Cf. Apol. 43.2: Platoni credam inter deos atque homines natura et loco medias quasdam divorum potestates intersitas easque divinationes cunctas et Magorum miracula gubernare. Quotations from the Apologia follow the edition of Martos 2015; for Magorum in place of magorum at Apol. 43.2, see Costantini 2019, 148. Translation adapted from Jones 2017, 111. This passage occurs almost identically at De deo Soc. 6.3 (cf. n. 11 above). For an examination of the differences with Plato, pointing to Apuleius’ own appreciation of the activities of the Magi, see Costantini 2019, 148-9. Cf. Apuleius, Apol. 43.3-5: quin et illud mecum reputo posse animum humanum, praesertim puerilem et simplicem, seu carminum avocamento sive odorum delenimento soporari et ad oblivionem praesentium externari et paulisper remota corporis memoria redigi ac redire ad naturam suam, quae est immortalis scilicet et divina, atque ita velut quodam sopore futura rerum praesagare. Verum enimvero, ut ista sese habent, si qua fides hisce rebus impertienda est, debet ille nescio qui puer providus, quantum ego audio, et corpore decorus atque integer deligi et animo sollers et ore facundus, ut in eo aut divina potestas quasi bonis aedibus digne diversetur, si tamen ea pueri corpore includitur, an ipse animus expergitus cito ad divinationem suam redigatur, quae ei prompte insita et nulla oblivione saucia et hebes facile resumatur. For a more detailed discussion, see Costantini 2019, 149-50. The text of De Pythiae oraculis follows the edition of Sieveking 1997. For further remarks on Plutarch’s description of the Pythia, see Simonetti 2017, 47-8 and Chapter 6 in this volume. On the figure of the Pythia see also Chapter 7, 194-8. For general remarks on the simplicity of youths as a medium, see Dodds 1973, 190 and 196-201 on the Pythia, where he also discusses later examples including Apuleius, Apol. 43.3 and Iamblichus, DM 3.24. The text of De defectu oraculorum follows the edition of Sieveking, Gärtner 1997. On Plutarch’s understanding of the soul as a daimōn in this passage, cf. Simonetti 2017, 88. Cf. Plutarch, De def. or. 431e-f. Text of Plato’s Timaeus after Burnet 1902. On Plato’s views on divination, see Struck 2014, 17-34, especially 30-31 on this passage of the Timaeus. Text of Plato’s Republic after Slings 2003. Text of Plato’s Apology after Duke, Hicken, Nicoll, Robinson, and Strachan 1995. For a discussion of this phenomenon in antiquity, see Dodds 1951, 64-82; DNP 11, s.v. Seelenwanderung [C. Riedweg], 328-330; DNP 3, s.v. Ekstase II [F. Graf], 951-2. Text after Wehrli 1969. Further remarks on Clearchus’ fragment in Bremmer 1983, 50, n. 102 and 103; Ogden 2001, 183; 196, and Tsitsiridis 2013, 64-9. Proclus

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adds a further example to confirm ἀναβίωσις and mentions the writings of the theurgists – presumably Julian the Chaldean and Julian the Theurgist – under the emperor Marcus Aurelius (Proclus, In R. 2.123, ed. Kroll 1901); for further remarks, see Dodds 1947, 55-7. The dynamics of their practices appear to be similar to those of active child-divination but, unlike the latter, theurgic practices were performed on the person initiated (τὸν τελούμενον), who was presumably an adult. Although this was less frequent, children could also be initiated into the mysteries, cf. West 1983, 168-9; Lane Fox 1986, 184; Addey 2014a, 56, n. 52. Cyprian, Epist. 16.4, text after Diercks 1994. The passage is mentioned in Moreschini 1989, 278. Cyprian, Epist. 75.10, where he talks about a lady who claimed to be a prophetess and behaved as if she had ecstatic visions and was filled with the Holy Ghost (quaedam mulier quae in extasin constituta propheten se praeferret et quasi sancto spiritu plena sic ageret). Text after Diercks 1996. On this account, see Tuzlak 2014, 252-73. Iamblichus, DM 3.17: καὶ ἄλλο δή τί μοι δοκεῖ δαιμόνιόν τι θαῦμα ὁ θεὸς ἐν τούτοις διασημαίνει. ὥσπερ γὰρ ἐνίοτε τῶν εὐηθικῶν τινα ἀνθρώπων ποιεῖ σοφίας μέτα λόγους ἀποφθέγγεσθαι, δι’ οὗ πᾶσι κατάδηλον γίγνεται, ὡς οὐκ ἀνθρώπειόν τι, θεῖον δὲ τὸ ἔργον ἐστὶ τὸ γεγονός, οὑτωσὶ διὰ τῶν ἀπεστερημένων γνώσεως τὰ πάσης γνώσεως προέχοντα νοήματα ἀποκαλύπτει. Text and translation by Clarke, Dillon, and Hershbell 2003, 162-5. On Iamblichus’ views on divine possession, see Addey 2010, 171-185. Iamblichus, DM 3.17: οὕτω τὰ ἐν τῇ φύσει ἄγνωστα γνωστὰ ποιεῖ καὶ τὰ μὴ γιγνώσκοντα γιγνώσκοντα, ἡμῖν τε δι’ αὐτῶν ἐντίθησι φρόνησιν, καὶ δι’ ὅλων τῶν ὄντων ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ κινεῖ τὸν νοῦν ἡμῶν ἐπὶ τὴν ἀλήθειαν τῶν τε ὄντων καὶ γεγονότων καὶ ἐσομένων. Text and translation after Clarke, Dillon, and Hershbell 2003, 164-5 Porphyry, Ep. Aneb. 2.5b. Text after Sodano 1958. Iamblichus, DM 3.24: “... they are more prepared for receiving the spirit which enters from without, and which takes possession of them” (εἰς καταδοχὴν τῷ ἔξωθεν ἐπεισιόντι καὶ κατέχοντι πνεύματι οἱ τοιοῦτοί εἰσιν ἑτοιμότεροι). Text and translation by Clarke, Dillon, and Hershbell 2003, 178-179. Cf. also Abt 1908, 184, n. 2, who notes the similarity between Apuleius and the Letter to Anebo. Cf. Iamblichus, DM 3.24-5, and see the discussion in Addey 2014a, 220-1. Tertullian, Apol. 23.1: magi phantasmata edunt et iam defunctorum infamant animas … pueros in eloquium oraculi elidunt. Text after Becker 19924. For the postclassical connotation of elidere (“to make someone collapse”), cf. TLL s.v. elido, vol. 5.2, col. 373, ll. 53-73. Cf. Betz 19922, XLI. Some scholars rightly express reservations about the inclusion of papyri that might as well belong to other types of practices or other genres. Cf. e.g. Addey 2014a, 38 on the so-called “Mithras Liturgy” (PGM IV.475‒829); Middleton 2014, 139-162 on Julius Africanus’ Kestoi (PGM XXIII). Cf. PGM IV.88-93; IV.850-929; V.1-53; VII.348-358; PDM XIV.805-40. This is not entirely a case of passive child-divination, since the daimōn does not enter an emptied body, but meets the youth’s soul that dwells within his body. Text after Preisendanz 19742. On child-divination in magic, Abt 1908, 160-70, who compares the evidence of the PGM with Apuleius, Apol. 42.3-47; Hopfner 1926, 65-74; and especially the rich discussion by Johnston 2001, 97-117. Apuleius adopts, nonetheless, much caution when he expresses scepticism towards these practices (Apol. 43.4: verum enimvero, ut ista sese habent, si qua fides hisce rebus impertienda est), in order to distance himself from the suspicion of dabbling in magic. Apuleius, in fact, knows of the relevance of divination in

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magic, and e.g. in Met. 2.11.5-12.2 he describes how the Thessalian witch Pamphile performed divination with a lamp (lucerna), a practice widely attested in the PGM. Cf. the discussion in Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 203-4. Iamblichus, DM 3.25: ἀλλὰ μηδὲ ταῖς ἀπὸ τῆς γοητείας τεχνικῶς κατασκευαζομέναις φαντασίαις παράβαλλε τὰς ἐναργεστάτας θεωρίας τῶν θεῶν· οὔτε γὰρ ἐνέργειαν οὔτε οὐσίαν τῶν ὁρωμένων οὔτε ἀλήθειαν αὗται ἔχουσιν, ἄχρι δὲ τοῦ δοκεῖν φαντάσματα ψιλὰ προτείνουσιν. Text and translation by Clarke, Dillon, and Hershbell 2003, 182-183. For an examination of theurgy and astral symbolism in late antique philosophy, see Chapter 10 in this volume. Cf. Olympiodorus, In Alc. 8: ... for this reason, in fact, youths and people living in the countryside are more likely receive divine inspiration, because they are artless and simple. διὰ τοῦτο γὰρ καὶ οἱ παῖδες μᾶλλον καὶ οἱ ἐν ἀγροῖς διατρίβοντες, ὡς ἀφελεῖς καὶ ἁπλοῖ, ἐνθουσιῶσιν. (text after Westerink 1985) Cf. the remarks in Johnston 2001, 107, n. 25. Cf. the rubric de maleficis et mathematicis et ceteris similibus in Codex Theodosianus 9.16, in which are described the legal actions to be taken against practitioners of magic and of any divination; on this see the discussions by Graf 2002, 101-2; Rives 2011, 99, n. 57. For an analysis of the Byzantine laws against magic, cf. Stolte 2002, 105-15. Cf. Augustine, De civ. D. 10.9: ... and according to them, among the practitioners of such illicit arts, those who are vulgarly called malefici should be condemned – they, in fact, dabble in goetic magic – while the others, to whom they give credit for theurgy, should be praised. et inlicitis artibus deditos alios damnabiles, quos et maleficos vulgus appellat – hos enim ad goetian pertinere dicunt – alios autem laudabiles videri volunt, quibus theurgian deputant. Text after and translation adapted from Wiesen, 1968, 286-7 On the relationship between magic and theurgy, cf. Johnston 2019, 694-719, and particularly 715-6 for the use of a person as a medium. This fragment from Psellus is transmitted in a treatise by the seventeenth-century scholar Leo Allatius, entitled De Graecorum hodie quorundam opinationibus, printed in Cologne in 1645, pp. 177-8. The fragment is cited in the context of a discussion of remedies against plant pests, especially caterpillars, and deals with the supposed enchanting powers of Apuleius and Julian, the latter of whom ultimately achieves superior results in the anecdote. The passage opens as follows: “there were two wise men, experts in the secret powers of nature, Julian the Chaldean and the African Apuleius” (δύο δ’ ἤστην ἄνδρε σοφὼ τὰς ἀπορρήτους δυνάμεις ἐξησκημένοι Ἰουλιανὸς ὁ Χαλδαῖος, καὶ ὁ Λίβυς Ἀπουλήϊος). For a brief discussion, cf. Carver 2007, 58. On the two Julians, cf. the overview in Majercik 1989, 1-2; Addey 2014a, 9, n. 34. Psellus, Opusc. 3, p. 139-40: κατάγουσί τε τοὺς παρ’ ἑαυτοῖς θεοὺς θελκτηρίοις ᾠδαῖς καὶ δεσμοῦσι καὶ λύουσιν, ὥσπερ τὸν Ἑπτάκτιν ὁ Ἀπουλήιος ὅρκοις καταναγκάσας μὴ προσομιλῆσαι τῷ θεουργῷ· οὗτος δὲ ἦν Ἰουλιανὸς ὁ συστρατεύσας Μάρκῳ τῷ βασιλεῖ ἐπὶ Δάκας στρατεύοντι, ὃς δὴ ἕτερά τε πολλὰ τῷ βασιλεῖ συγκατώρθωσε καὶ τοὺς Δάκας τῶν Ῥωμαϊκῶν ὁρίων ἀπώσατο. Text after Duffy 1992. On this passage cf. Dodds 1947, 56, n. 19 and Carver 2007, 57-8. Cf. Migne, PG 89, 524d-525a, on which see also Dodds 1947, 56-7, and Carver 2007, 57. This account should not be ascribed to Anastasius himself, since this and other sections are likely the result of later revisions and adaptations, cf. Richard, Munitiz 2006, XVII-XIX. These spurious parts were, however, included in the edition of the Jesuit Jacob Gretser (1617. Sancti Anastasii Sinaitae,

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Patriarchae Antiocheni Quaestiones et responsiones de variis argumentis CLIV. Ingolstadt), reprinted in Migne, PG 89. 54 On Apuleius’ later magical notoriety, see especially Carver 2007, 17-30; 57-9; Moreschini 2015, 335-63.

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Middleton, Francesca. 2014. “Illusions and Vanishing Acts: Homeric Recension, Athetesis, and Magic in P. Oxy 412 (PGM XXIII).” Helios 41: 139–62. Moreschini, Claudio. 1989. “Divinazione e Demonologia in Plutarco e Apuleio.” Augustinianum 29: 269–80. Moreschini, Claudio. 2015. Apuleius and the Metamorphoses of Platonism. Turnhout: Brepols. O’Neill, Seamus. 2017. “The Demonic Body: Demonic Ontology and the Domicile of the Demons in Apuleius and Augustine.” In Philosophical Approaches to Demonology, edited by Benjamin W. McCraw and Robert Arp, 39–58. New York and London: Routledge. Ogden, Daniel. 2001. Greek and Roman Necromancy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Regen, Frank. 1999. “Il De deo Socratis di Apuleio (parte I).” Maia 51: 429–456. Regen, Frank. 2000. “Il De deo Socratis di Apuleio (parte II).” Maia 52: 41–66. Rives, James B. 2011. “Magic in Roman Law. The Reconstruction of a Crime.” In The Religious History of the Roman Empire, edited by John A. North and Simon R.F. Price, 71–108. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Riedweg, Christoph. 2001. “Seelenwanderung.” In Der Neue Pauly: Enzyklopädie der Antike. Band 11. Sam-Tal, edited by Hubert Cancik and Helmuth Schneider, 328–30. Stuttgart: Metzler. Schibli, Hermann S. 1993. “Xenocrates’ Daemons and the Irrational Soul.” The Classical Quarterly 43: 143–67. Simonetti, Elsa G. 2017. A Perfect Medium? Oracular Divination in the Thought of Plutarch. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Stolte, B.H. 2002. “Magic and Byzantine Law in the Seventh Century.” In The Metamorphosis of Magic from Late Antiquity to the Early Modern Period, edited by Jan N. Bremmer and Jan R. Veenstra, 105–15. Leuven: Peeters. Struck, Peter T. 2014. “Plato and Divination.” Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 15: 17–34. Syme, Ronald. 1983. Historia Augusta Papers. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Timotin, Andrei. 2012. La démonologie platonicienne Histoire de la notion de daimōn de Platon aux derniers néoplatoniciens. Leiden – Boston: Brill. Trapp, Michael. 2007. “Apuleius of Madauros and Maximus of Tyre.” In Greek and Roman Philosophy. 100 BC – 200 AD. Vol. 1, edited by Richard Sorabji and Robert W. Sharples, 467–482. London: Institute of Classical Studies. Tsitsiridis, Stavros. 2013. Beiträge zu den Fragmenten des Klearchos von Soloi. Berlin and Boston: De Gruyter. Tuzlak, Ayşe. 2014. “The Bishop, the Pope, and the Prophetess: Rival Ritual Experts in Third-Century Cappadocia.” In Daughters of Hecate. Women and Magic in the Ancient World, edited by Kimberly B. Stratton and Dayna S. Kalleres, 252–73. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Van Riel, Gerd. 2005. “Socrates’ Daemon: Internalisation of the Divine and Knowledge of the Self.” Apeiron 38: 31–42.

Apuleius on divination

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Walsh, Patrick G. 1981. “Apuleius and Plutarch.” In Neoplatonism and Early Christian Thought, edited by Henry J. Blumenthal and Robert A. Markus, 20–32. London: Variorum Publications. West, Martin L. 1983. The Orphic Poems. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

10 Astral symbolism in theurgic rites Marilynn Lawrence

Both astrology and theurgy were included among the Hellenistic and late antique practices categorised by E.R. Dodds, for example, as “irrational.” On the widespread belief in astrology, Dodds (1951, 246) speculates a flight from existential freedom: “Better the rigid determinism of astrological Fate than the terrifying burden of daily responsibility.” Theurgy was also tar­ geted by Dodds (1951, 286) as a “spineless syncretism” and an irrational corruption of the purer, philosophical Neoplatonism of Plotinus. His prin­ cipal target is “magical thinking” in theurgy and astrology, led by the concept of sympathy or what he called “the primitive conception of the world as a magical unity” (1951, 247). Such criticisms were not exclusive to Dodds, but are reflected in the commentary of many historians such as Franz Cumont and P.M. Fraser.1 These criticisms, aligned with a postEnlightenment understanding of divination and religious beliefs, not only reduce important aspects of culture and history to that which is unworthy of a scholar’s or philosopher’s time, but handle these topics with an ana­ chronistic understanding of reason and logic in the time period in question. This modern approach to rationality is grounded on specific empirical and logical rules: empirical in the sense that a rational person would alter one’s beliefs when confronted by scientific evidence or lack of evidence (in the belief), and logical in the sense that a contradiction or fallacy inherent in a belief should render it impotent.2 This approach further removes us from Greek and Roman intellectual life (and beliefs today), particularly as it pertains to astrology, Neoplatonism, and ritual. In the case of astrology, by looking more closely at its theory and practice, a careful researcher can observe that it was supported by rational principles such as order, symmetry, proximity of influence, and so forth, and was not a matter of random or arbitrary rules for reading the planetary configurations and motions. This does not imply that astrology as it was practised worked in the same way as scientific knowledge, but that the intellectuals of the day had good reasons for accepting it as a form of knowledge (usually based on the status of astral phenomena and divination within a metaphysical fra­ mework), and had good reasons for rejecting various aspects of it. Regardless of its status as rational or irrational, real or illusory, among the

Astral symbolism in theurgic rites 271 philosophers of the time, astrology was considered a fatalistic school of thought both to be reckoned with and worthy of a nuanced philosophical treatment. For most Neoplatonist philosophers on record, astrology was never fully rejected on account of the support Plato provided for the im­ portance of the planets and stars in the cosmos and world soul (particularly though the Timaeus 36c–d; 38c;40b–d and Republic 10.616d–617b). The Platonic dialogue Epinomis (likely by Philip of Opus) provides more direct testament to an astral piety that later supported astrological belief.3 The Platonists and Pythagoreans made a central link between the heavenly motions and music, viewing them as highly rational and mathematically rich. However, within the theurgic Neoplatonism of Iamblichus and Proclus, irrationality, even madness, is an important phenomenon related to the soul’s journey home beyond the heavens.4 For the Platonist who practised theurgy, there is a paradoxical necessity for irrationality in order to attain to the supra-rational, as related to the types of madness outlined in Plato’s Phaedrus (244b–245b, 265b). In theurgic practice, certain aspects of as­ trology can share with other arts, such as music, the purpose of preparing and initiating the soul for its ascent. This chapter will consider Proclus’ understanding of the rational, irrational, and supra-rational, alongside his positive reading of madness in Plato, which can help to illuminate the role of the planets and stars in theurgic rites. Theurgic astrology invokes both lower and higher mysteries, making use of the material and manifold natural world and the higher natures that the astral symbols represent. It may be helpful to provide a provisional definition of astrology and its applications before discussing its relationship to Neoplatonism. Astrology is a form of divination based on astronomical observations of the planets re­ lative to one another and against the backdrop of constellations. We could roughly define divination, in this case, as a method for obtaining knowledge (past, present, and future) that is not derived from controlled empirical observations of causal, repeatable relationships. An example of normal empirical knowledge is the statement “fire burns wood” collected from all cases where wood is set ablaze. A case of divinatory knowledge might be the statement “fire will bring destruction to London in the year 1666,” if this statement is made prior to the end of 1666 (and not made by arsonists and conspirators intent on setting fire to London). In the early years of astrology in the ancient world, the boundaries of normal empirical and divinatory knowledge are blurred, and it is only later that meteorological claims that correlate seasonal changes with the positions of stars were cordoned off as science.5 Most claims made by astrologers, such as predictions about the lives and fortunes of an individual or city, remain divinatory. In its Hellenistic development, particularly in Alexandria through the early “technical Hermetic” school, astrology was set apart from other forms of divination such as ornithomancy and oneiromancy (divination by the flight pattern of birds and by dreams respectively).6 The methods and rules for reading the heavens were more calculative and fixed by regularity rather

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than based on contingencies, chance, and the reading of omens. Everyone is born at a specific time and place that can be measured against the regular, predictable motions of the planets, while birds may or may not fly and we may or may not dream at any given time. Complex, repeatable rules for interpretation established astrology as a “rational” art alongside mathe­ matics in the view of its practitioners and supporters.7 The word mathesis, which applies to the type of learning of such rational arts was a name for astrology (as well as the name of a work by fourth-century astrologer Firmicus Maternus).8 While some forms of divination were based more directly on material phenomena, such as the qualities of a sacrificial animal’s liver or the flight patterns of birds, technical astrology, while grounded in nature (i.e. the godlike planets and stars were considered of the highest part of the cosmos but still within the natural world), employed systematic and often abstract methods for interpreting the planets and stars. The sky was divided into invisible, geometric divisions such as the horizon, meridian, zodiac signs, decans, boundaries, and degrees. Astrology’s complex calcu­ lations, such as the formulae for the various lots or κλῆροι, were based on a combination of these invisible divisions and visible planets, resulting in various points of significance within the 360 degrees of the astrological chart. Many of the surviving astrological handbooks (authored by Dorotheus of Sidon, Vettius Valens, Claudius Ptolemy, Antiochus of Athens, and others) describe the methods of natal astrology (genethlialogy), which are based on a person’s date, time and place of birth.9 The purpose was to predict per­ sonal characteristics and events pertaining to career, family, health, re­ putation, fortune, and death. A second branch of astrology, katarchê, is associated with methods including “electional astrology” (choosing the right time for an endeavour), “horary astrology” (also known as interrogation), where a chart is drawn when a question is asked, the study of significant events, and “decumbiture,” where a chart is drawn when someone takes to one’s bed with illness.10 Katarchê, for example, uses the projected positions of the planets and stars in order to choose the most auspicious time for a voyage, or for clairvoyant knowledge about the location of stolen objects or runaway slaves. Natal astrology, generally speaking, is tied to a fate that can be predicted (though sometimes circumvented), while katarchê and other magical and/or theurgic uses of astrology (such as appeasement of the planetary gods through the use of symbols) are practised to influence out­ comes or to mitigate fate.11

Neoplatonist philosophers’ responses to astrology Neoplatonists from Plotinus to Olympiodorus had a complicated relation­ ship with astrology. While they launched several criticisms against astrology, elements of the art survived these reproaches and remained useful for the­ ories about the descent of souls, as well as their ascent to the divine, which is

Astral symbolism in theurgic rites 273 a central aim of theurgy. Ancient astrological practice was, for the most part, considered by Neoplatonic philosophers to be deterministic and a re­ flection of the laws of fate.12 However, in Middle Platonism, as described in the works of Pseudo-Plutarch (De fato), Calcidius (In Tim.), and Nemesius (De natura hominis), fate (εἱμαρμένη) was held to be the “decree of provi­ dence” and less deterministic than the Stoics’ version of fate.13 Called “hypothetical fate,” it operated in the natural realm below the Moon (re­ ferred to as the sublunary realm) within a system of three levels of provi­ dence.14 The Platonists’ primary justification for the acceptance of some astral causality or aspects of astrology, as associated with fate, includes the account of the younger gods in Plato’s Timaeus 42d–43b (particularly the planetary gods) as administrators of the providence of the demiurge, and the cyclical incarnation of souls, described in the Phaedrus 246e–249b and Republic 617e–620e, as the working out of the laws of fate and nature.15 In the realm of necessity and in relation to material bodies, fate serves as an instrument of providence, though choice and responsibility are preserved.16 Plotinus’ views on astrology are well-documented elsewhere, so I will merely provide a brief summary.17 He argues against the causal determinism of those who think that everything happens as a result of the universal circuit (παντὸς φορὰν) and by the “positions and configurations of the pla­ nets and fixed stars toward one another” (Enn. III.1.2 26–28). He is at once attacking Aristotelian astral causality (exemplified in On Generation and Corruption 336a31ff and Meteorology 339a21–33) as well as the astrologers who claim predictive power through knowledge of these astral relationships. In his late treatise, Ennead II.3, Plotinus picks apart the terminology used in astrology manuals, where it might appear that planetary gods have enmities, a will to do harm, or emotional states based on their risings and settings. Despite his criticisms, he allows the planets and stars a causal contribution to the whole of nature beneath them, as well as an influence on bodily temperaments (Enn. III.1.5 1–4) and even on dispositions (Enn. IV.4.31); but, they do not determine the character and thoughts of an individual (Enn. III.1.6 4–7). Notably, he also allowed the stars to signify things below, like writing in the heavens only to be read by a few (Enn. II.3.7). Each Neoplatonist philosopher following Plotinus took an interest in astrology to varying degrees. Given Porphyry’s contribution to astrology, his Introduction to Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos (which is mostly a compilation of techniques from Antiochus of Athens); and given the detailed questions concerning astrological techniques posed to Iamblichus in his Letter to Anebo, he could be labelled as “cautiously enthusiastic.”18 Iamblichus’ lengthy reply in the De mysteriis further refines the discussion of the place of astrology within Neoplatonic metaphysics.19 Hierocles of Alexandria took a strong stance against natal astrology (genethlialogy) on the grounds of its determinism of human behaviour and character.20 He also did not accept that magical or theurgic practices could be used to mitigate against the type of fate (based on moral justice rather than “mindless necessity”) that he did

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accept (Schibli 2002, 154–58, 333). Proclus, on the other hand, presents us with a more circuitous and nuanced picture of astrology’s place in theurgy, as will be discussed below. Without contradicting his Platonic position on choice (προαίρεσις) and responsibility (ἐφ’ ἡμῖν), Simplicius held the view that astrology works fairly often on the soul’s bodily instrument because the astral influences of the “fated revolution” are consonant with the desires of the individual soul.21 And, while Olympiodorus gave a summer seminar on Paulus Alexandrinus’ Introduction to Astrology, he was critical of the ap­ plication of astrology to a person’s character.22

Astrology for initiating the soul The Chaldean Oracles, a collection of hexameter verses,23 tell us that “theurgists do not fall into the herd that are subject to destiny” (fr. 153), and that we must “flee the shameful wing of allotted fate” (fr. 130), and must not “aid in increasing Destiny” (fr. 103), which is the same as nature (fr. 102).24 We should not assume that a theurgist is born into a position above fate or that they can simply ignore fate, which in Neoplatonic terms includes the conditions of the body, earthly circumstances, the cycle of generation, and the realm of nature.25 For Iamblichus, the soul can detach itself from the domain of fate by turning back to its intelligible source, though it needs the help of gods whose furthest emanations or effluences create fate (DM 8.7): “While the gods free us from fate, the lowest level of natures which descend from them and interweave themselves with the generative processes of the cosmos and with body do bring about fate.”26 The planets and fixed stars (as gods, as influences on the descended soul, as signs of fate, as symbols, and as the locus of cosmic harmony) play multiple roles in the soul’s condition and ascent through theurgic means. Iamblichus’ critique of astrologers and astrological methods in his reply to Porphyry lays the ground for a more sacred and theurgic understanding and use of astrology. Concerning the techniques for finding one’s personal daimōn, he argues that they are ineffective, and that Porphyry’s questions about it are logically inconsistent (DM 9.2–3 [273.10 – 276.15]). Rather, what he called “sacred divination” (τῆς ἱερᾶς μαντείας, DM 9.5) or the “art of divination” (τῆς μαντικῆς τέχνης, DM 9.3) should be employed instead. Iamblichus’ complaint against astrology is by no means based on its status as an irrational art, but that its rigid techniques are too “rational,” in the sense of being derived from a fallible and mechanistic application of human logic rather than from divine truth. He writes: In the case of astrology our response is that it itself is true, but those who are wrongly informed about it fall into contradictions, since they know nothing of the truth. This situation, after all, is not peculiar to it alone, but it is true of all the sciences that have been handed down by the gods to men; for … through the repeated admixture of much that is

Astral symbolism in theurgic rites 275 mortal, the divine character of the knowledge contained in them comes to be extinguished.27 Iamblichus’ divine and true astrology differs from the practices described in text books by Dorotheus, Vettius Valens, Claudius Ptolemy, Antiochus of Athens, Firmicus Maternus and other Hellenistic and late antique astrol­ ogers.28 These technical astrologers believed the purpose of their art was to reveal a rational plan permeating nature and the cosmos, to make sense of happenstance (such as health, fortune and reputation), and to obtain knowledge of various circumstances by observing the orderly patterns of the planets and stars. The systematic development of astrology in the Hellenistic period pro­ vided its own rational coherence expressed by principles of symmetry, harmony, regularity, sameness/difference, and symbolic transference (through sumpatheia).29 These principles are expressed in the relationship between planets and signs of the zodiac, as well as the movements, speeds and cycles of planets relative to one another. For instance, in order for planets placed within zodiac signs to relate to one another, they need to be positioned at certain intervals, the third and fifth positions being harmo­ nious, the fourth and seventh being discordant.30 Each planet is also asso­ ciated with a zodiac sign in a symmetrical pattern, with the Sun and Moon next to one another, followed by Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn radiating out from this point to cover all twelve signs (see Figure 10.1). These and other rules structuring the heavens were followed by astrologers in order to rationalise the irrational aspects of the soul, body, and nature. Iamblichus’ complaint about the obscured truth of astrology, particularly exemplified by astrological techniques for finding one’s personal daimōn, is that these numerous and often complicated methods divert from the role played by the planetary gods in the theurgic ascent of the soul. He believed that divine knowledge handed down to help incarnated souls gets lost in translation when divination adheres to a series of technical rules invented (rather than discovered) by humans. Astrological texts indicate that Hermes, the god of reason and speech (logos), is also the god who governs astrology and other mantic and hermeneutical arts.31 Hermes may be the guardian of reason, but he can also be shifty and duplicitous.32 For Iamblichus, technical astrology uses the discursive function of the human mind (dianoia) rather than the purer and divine intellect of nous. While Iamblichus does not (as do other Platonists) explicitly use the term dianoia to differentiate the discursive intellect from nous, he does speak of prediction through human reasoning (dianoia) as nothing special or holy (σεμνὸν) because it is granted by nature and tied to the realm of generation (DM 10.3).33 Iamblichus inherits the inferior status of discursive reasoning (dianoia) from earlier Platonists as Plato places dianoia between opinion (doxa) and noetic thought (Resp. 511c–d).34 Astrological technique invented by human discursive thought rather than divine inspiration is subject to error and deception.35

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Figure 10.1 Olympian gods associated with the signs of the zodiac.

As Crystal Addey has argued in Divination and Theurgy in Neoplatonism (2014, 105–6, 211) and in this volume (see Chapter 5), Iamblichean theurgy accepts and makes use of katarchê, the type of astrological practice that seeks the proper kairos (the opportune or appropriate moment) for theurgic ritual. Some instructions in the Greek Magical Papyri that use three Homeric verses for a restraining spell, exemplify the katarchical use of as­ trology: “Then you are to bury the shell in the tomb of someone who died untimely, when the moon stands in opposition to the sun.”36 In this in­ stance, the instructions to the ritual practitioner are to perform this action at a specific time that is determined astrologically at the full moon (when the Sun is about 180 degrees from the Moon). Katarchê may be the most ap­ parent use of astrology in theurgic rites, though a modified version of natal astrology, also has a place in theurgic Neoplatonism through its capacity to reveal divinatory knowledge about the conditions of the descended soul. Along with Plotinus, Iamblichus was concerned about the view that evil actions and characters can be ascribed to the planets, and credits this mis­ take to practitioners of natal astrology (DM 1.18). Nevertheless, he main­ tains that because these planetary gods have visible bodies they possess a variety of powers that extend down through the realm of generation to in­ dividuals. He argues that evil qualities and activities falsely attributed to planetary gods originate from material intermingling with the immaterial emanations of the gods through participation.37 To further explain how this

Astral symbolism in theurgic rites 277 works, he uses an example of the two planets called “evil-doers” (kakopoioi) in astrology, Saturn and Mars. Iamblichus writes: The emanation derived from Saturn tends to hold things together, while that deriving from Mars tends to provoke motion in them; however, at the level of material things, the passive generative receptacle receives the one as rigidity and coldness, and the other as a degree of inflammation exceeding moderation.38 He compares the mistaken causal attribution of imbalance to these gods with a sick person who blames the sun for their own inability to bear its lifegiving heat. Gregory Shaw (2007, 91–95) reads in this passage about Saturn and Mars an acceptable use of astrology in theurgy, namely to identify and correct imbalances in the individual. Self-knowledge, a traditional core aim in Platonism starting with readings of Plato’s Alcibiades I, is an important step, or rather perpetual discovery, on the soul’s path of initiation.39 This means not just remembering the true self of the noetic realm, but under­ standing the manners in which one is affected by fate, the body and the environment. For Iamblichus, having a correct inner disposition is a ne­ cessary condition for the efficacy of ritual (DM 5.11 [215.3–7]). Care for one’s body and character comes not only by dianoetic self-observation, but through divinatory knowledge. Scholars of Neoplatonism, such as Andrew Smith, have attempted to classify different levels on which theurgy operates, such as one that is ef­ fective in the natural world, and one reserved for communion with the gods above nature.40 Crystal Addey (2014, 39–40) has made the case that while there are no “lower” and “higher” forms of theurgy, the different practices may represent different interconnected stages toward a cumulative experi­ ence of theurgic practice. Addey (2013, 19–21) also discusses three levels or stages of theurgic prayer in Iamblichus (DM 5.26) as a necessary means of interacting with the divine, as well as different types of divine inspiration and possession that occur at different points of connection with the divine.41 Each type of experience depends on one’s degree of receptivity and pur­ ification; and in this regard, the theurgist differs from an oracle or pro­ phetess by her intellectual training. These stages of contact include participation with the divine, communion with the divine through sympa­ thetic association and the soul’s discovery of its noetic essence, and, finally, the ineffable unification.42 While a non-theurgic astrologer may only in­ consistently touch upon the first stage through the interference of dianoetic thought, a theurgic astrologer would use the symbols and tools of astrology to engage in the soul’s preparation and self-discovery, although he or she would still fall short of unification without other theurgic practices.43 On this view, understanding how the planetary gods operate as contributing causes in the natural world, as well as on an individual’s disposition and course of events in life, taken together with sympathetic contact with these

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gods through appropriate prayers and rituals, leads to astrology’s role as a tool for the soul’s purification and increased receptivity, and may, as Iamblichus wrote, “gently raise up the dispositions of our thoughts.”44 Since the planetary gods are younger administrators for the Demiurge, we might think that their function is limited to the realm of nature. However, in Iamblichus (fr. 72 – Proclus on Timaeus 40A), we have the idea that the ensouling of the planets “joins them to the Whole Soul of the revolution of the Same, and causes them also to ascend to the Cosmic Soul, and estab­ lishes them, further, in the very intellectual Paradigm itself.”45 If the pla­ netary souls, or essences, are thus established in the intellectual realm, perhaps they might further the soul’s reversion beyond the material cosmos. Proclus may provide us with clues about how this would work.

Proclus on astral causality and symbolism Returning to the meaning of the maleficent planets or evil-doers (κακοποίοι), astrologers such as Vettius Valens and Firmicus Maternus associate Saturn with sorrows, ignorance, necessity, rheumatism, old people and ancient matters, slowness, coldness, illness and misfortunes.46 In special cases, based on how Saturn is situated relative to the horizon, the zodiac, and other planets, this normally maleficent planet can be rather helpful and benign. Iamblichus’ association of Saturn with “holding things together” (συνεκτική) is not found explicitly in the astrological texts of the time, but is repeated by Proclus in his commentary on the Timaeus. Proclus groups the planets Saturn and Mars into a triad with the temperate, beneficent planet Jupiter that mediates between the extremes of these two so-called maleficent planets. He writes: Saturn and Mars are indeed extremes, and are opposite one another insofar as the one is the cause of holding together but the other of division; and the one of cold, but the other of heat. But Jupiter is arranged in the middle, and leads the demiurgic productions of Saturn and Mars into a good temperament.47 We again have Saturn associated with holding together (συνοχῆς), with Mars as the cause of separating (διαιρέσεως). This can be considered the same principle as causing motion (κινητική) per Iamblichus if we think of it as a force that propels things apart or separates them. The cold and hot desig­ nation of planets is present in the astrological tradition, particularly through Ptolemy who introduces pairs of qualities, hot, cold, wet, and dry, and applies them to each planet (Tetrabiblos, 1.4–8). We learn earlier in Proclus’ commentary that per Pythagorean doctrine, Saturn and Jupiter share in the function “holding together” of wholes by connecting other celestial bodies, and of bringing about symmetry (In Tim. III.48). In this, we see among the theurgic Neoplatonists a more positive spin on the astrological associations

Astral symbolism in theurgic rites 279 of the so-called maleficent planets. These planets are still extremes requiring a mediating influence, but are not themselves evil or causes of evil in the sublunary world. Proclus also interprets the meaning of the planets Venus and Mercury in the context of their triadic relationship with the Sun. In this triad, the Sun “gives subsistence to light which is the image of truth” while Venus causes beauty in generated things (as an image of intelligible beauty) and Mercury is the cause of symmetry and logos in all things (In Tim. III.69.13–14). They are naturally grouped with the Sun as travel companions along the yearly revolution through the zodiac, since Venus and Mercury cannot stray more than forty-eight and twenty-eight degrees from the Sun respectively. The remaining so-called planet, the Moon, is the more proximate cause of all generation and corruption (In Tim. III.69). In this passage, Proclus also assigns causes to the planets similar to but not identical with the astrological tradition. The Moon is the cause of mortality, the Sun of sight (being the demiurge of all things in the sensible world), Mercury of imagination or representation (phantasia), Venus of desire (epithumia), Mars of spiritedness (thumos), Jupiter of all vital powers (zōtikōndunameōs), and Saturn of the faculty of knowing (gnostikōn).48 With his triadic grouping of planets, Proclus defends (In Tim. III.49) the order of the planets that Plato provides in Timaeus 38d against the so-called Chaldean arrangement that places Venus and Mercury below the Sun on account of the speed of each body. He also agrees with Iamblichus who does not accept “the introduction of epicycles, on the grounds that they are a fabrication and that to bring them in is foreign to the Spirit of Plato.”49 Epicycles were posited by Claudius Ptolemy and later astronomers to ac­ count for the retrograde motions of the planets, and Proclus believed they were artificial, lacking in explanatory simplicity, and unnecessary for selfmoving entities.50 In this regard, Proclus and Iamblichus share a suspicion of mechanistic thinking in astrology, astronomy and mathematics. These arts are often too formulaic and simplistic, obscuring divine truth by human-invented rules and contrivances. How might Proclus have understood the planets and astrology in relation to his theory and practice of theurgy? As we look more closely at his commentaries, it appears that he treats planets as gods and as causal agents that also participate in symbolical relations in the divine chains from the realm of nous to the world of nature. By joining this with what I call his aesthetic theory of the sublime,51 we see that these planetary gods lead the soul through their symbolic functions and through the celestial music. However, before reaching this point, some questions about the role of the planetary gods need to be addressed, including: where do these gods fit into the Neoplatonic ontological hierarchy from the One and nous to heroes and daimones? And, what do we do with the fact that there are only seven planets in astrology but a multitude of gods which are discussed by Proclus within

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his commentaries and treatises, and addressed directly and worshipped within the hymns he composed?52 Through Proclus’ interpretation of the Phaethon and chariot myth from Timaeus 22c, we find that he thought of the planetary gods as leader gods of individual souls (In Tim. I.110–111). He writes: Souls, when they are sown in the place of their associated stars, are given a particular sort of life from their leaders; so that each is not only soul, but a certain kind of soul, such as Martial, Jovian, or Lunar.53 These particular immutable qualities of each planetary god extend to all products within nature, including herbs and stones, which are suspended from the same chain.54 Theurgic rites to each god become instrumental in the purification and reversion of the soul to its source.55 In his discussion of Timaeus 23e, Proclus further clarifies that while each soul is designated with (or assigned) a guardian god (θεὸν ἔφορον), some gods are allotted by es­ sence, and some by habituation; the former is a permanent relationship while the latter is an adaptation of the soul toward other deities at different times and through various rites (In Tim. I.145, 20–30). In keeping with a theurgic astrology that would recognise all of the planets playing a role in shaping the soul, the influence of one or the other may be expressed at different times in life through habituation. This bears a similarity to the astrological doctrine of chronokrators, where each planet takes over ruler­ ship of a number of years or months of one’s life.56 If the planets are leader gods, what does it mean when we find that in Proclus’ writings, they are not the only leader gods? R.M. van den Berg (2001, 40) provides a map of gods primarily based on Proclus’ Platonic Theology: noetic (intelligible), noeric (intellective), hypercosmic (above the world), hyper-encosmic (both above and in the world), and encosmic (in the world). However, it does not result in a neat placement of the planetary gods in any one category; he identifies the leader gods with the hypercosmic ones, and of the gods that share the name of planets, only Jupiter and ApolloHelios fit in this category. Further complicating matters, Proclus is aware of the twelve leader gods from the Phaedrus, and we might readily identify these with the twelve Olympians. But what are we to do with seven planetary gods, twelve Olympians, and a few additional gods such as Hecate and Hades in the mix? In another location, Proclus also refers to another twentyone leaders who, along with other gods, double their numbers at each level down resulting in a dissipation of power (In Tim. III.197, 8; discussing Timaeus 41a). This mismatch between seven planets (including the Sun and Moon) and the twelve Olympians was recognised by astrologers such as Marcus Manilius (Astr. II.439–447) who associated the twelve zodiac signs with each Olympian god (see Figure 10.1 above). How this assignment was used is not entirely clear, but it is worth noting the rarity of it in the as­ trological texts and possibly also within the practice. Leaving aside the

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difficulty of the relationship of planetary gods to other gods for the moment, we will accept that Proclus holds multiple leaders with different functions. Concerning the ontological status of planetary gods, it is likely that the gods who bear the names of the planets do not all share the same level and may operate at more than one level in Proclus’ metaphysics. This is sup­ ported by what Proclus says about the ensouling of planets that ascend to the cosmic soul and even to the intellectual paradigm (In Tim. III.118, 16). He speaks of these gods being at one time above the heavens, and at another plunged below (Ibid., III.334).57 This might mean that these gods can move between realms: from the cosmic realm to the hypercosmic and possibly the noetic realm. The two highest (furthest from earth) planetary gods are es­ sentially noetic – Kronos/Saturn is aligned with pure nous and Zeus/Jupiter with demiurgic nous (Martijn, 2010, 52). While in different places Proclus identifies more than one Zeus or Aphrodite, we should expect, for instance, the hypercosmic Zeus and encosmic Zeus to participate in the same symbolic chain though they serve different functions. Such would be the case with other gods for which the planets are named. As noted above, the symbolic meaning of these gods is found in the astrological tradition, although Proclus’ reading of them goes beyond the surviving astrological literature.

Theurgic aesthetics: madness and celestial music Proclus’ aesthetic theory of the sublime, which can be derived from his in­ terpretation of “The Theologians,”58 along with his paradoxical under­ standing of rationality, provides an aesthetic approach to the planetary gods in theurgic astrology. Aesthetic theory, as applied to works of art, is a modern invention, but philosophical approaches to literature, music, and the visual arts, while not called “aesthetic” are certainly present in the an­ cient world. In Proclus’ approach, aesthetic is meant in two senses: (1) the use of sense-perception and the sensory world in theurgic Neoplatonism, and (2) the arts such as poetry, hymnal music, and sculpture that had an important place in theurgic ritual. Covering both meanings, Robert Berchman (2002, 257) writes, “Objects of art provided the soul with re­ cognisable forms of divine beings whose self-presentations were rendered aesthetically intelligible through theurgy.” One obvious application of the planetary gods is the aesthetic activities of the theurgist, including statue making, dream divination, invocations, hymns, and other rituals. However, we may find further riches in Proclus’ interpretation of poetry and myth in his defence of Homer.59 One of the key points in Proclus’ approach is the distinction he makes between different purposes or levels of myths, described by James Coulter (1976, 49) as “paideutic” and “entheastic,” meaning educational and in­ spired/inspiring by divine energy respectively.60 Paideutic myths are ap­ propriate for souls whose habit formation (hexis) is still being shaped, while entheastic myths use symbols that require a deeper divination through the

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use of allegory. These myths that require allegorical interpretation are ap­ propriate for souls who are already on a theurgic path, and serve as part of the initiation into the mysteries. Coulter (1976, 49) says entheastic myths are those “able to arouse the intellect, to all the classes of gods, to the proces­ sions which unfold through all being, and to the chains and their extremities which eagerly extend themselves to the lowest order of being.” Homer’s gods behaving badly do not reflect a moral shortcoming of the author(s) of these myths, but call for a symbolic or allegorical reading because, for Proclus, what appears as the basest representations of divinities, or the basest aspects of nature, are symbols for higher levels of reality.61 An entheastic or sym­ bolic myth is “daimonic by appearance” but “divine according to its secret doctrine.”62 Symbols both attract the attention of the gods and inspire the poet, rhapsode, and auditor to search beyond the surface toward the soultransforming truth. As Peter Struck (2004, 234) puts it, “Proclus … grants the poets and the artisans the capacity to produce representations that have unique ties to the transcendent divine.” Allegorical reading of such re­ presentations, which refers to finding the hidden meaning of a riddle (ai­ nigma) or symbol within a text or myth, was not a mere exercise in artificially elevating a text or inventing meaning, but was deeply tied to the transformative aims of the mystery cults.63 Proclus’ symbols, which present a confounding sublime over the beautiful, run counter to Pseudo-Longinus’ approach to the sublime in poetry. For instance, Pseudo-Longinus acknowledges a sublimity in the “Battle of the Gods” scene in Iliad 20, but he believes it to be impious and encourages readers to “attend to those [passages] which are undefiled and great, such that they are truly divine and unmixed.”64 For Proclus, however, these “mixed” passages have great significance for the theurgist. He uses the Battle of the Gods as an example of the “hidden mystical concepts” (μυστικὰς ἐννοίας ἀφανεῖς) that Homer shrouded in a symbolic cover.65 In this regard, perhaps the difference between Pseudo-Longinus and Proclus on the sublime is that Pseudo-Longinus is simply not writing for initiated souls, but for the paideutic audience. Proclus acknowledges the importance of madness, but believes Homer’s readers need to be trained into higher mysteries in order to understand sublimity. In the context of the theurgic use of astrology, at the preparatory stages, some astrological doctrines can be used to help the soul understand its irrational parts and the chaotic forces of nature, not for the purpose of enduring fate in a Stoic manner, but for the sake of self-knowledge and attunement to the soul’s inherent harmony. As a lower preparatory mystery, the soul gains an understanding of the accretions attached to it when incarnated in the body, although this knowledge is subject to human error as filtered through discursive reasoning (dianoia). When the soul advances in its initiation, it goes beyond this imperfect knowledge and comes closer to practising Iamblichus’ “true astrology” by reading the symbols of astrological charts like Homeric poetry such that the malefic planets and configurations signify a more sublime cosmic and hypercosmic story.

Astral symbolism in theurgic rites 283 As discussed above in relation to Iamblichus’ critique of technical as­ trology, theurgic Neoplatonism holds not only to ideas of the rational and irrational (as sub-rational), but also to the divine supra-rational beyond human reason. Divine inspiration and possession (enthousiasmos) are in­ strumental in connecting the human soul to the supra-rational through certain types of divine madness (mania) as found in Plato’s Phaedrus 244b–245b, 265b.66 As stated by Pseudo-Longinus, “Nothing is so sublime and noble a passion as that which bursts forth with a certain madness and divine inspiration, as though prophetic speech.”67 Proclus’ reading of sym­ bols is related to his understanding of divine madness (as influenced by Hermias and Syrianus).68 His discussion of madness and divine inspiration in Plato’s Phaedrus and Ion (in his commentary on the Republic I.180ff) emphasises the roles played by the Muses in initiating the soul by making it more pliable and receptive to the gift of the symbolic.69 Poetry and music, the dominion of Apollo and the Muses, share a link to astrology and astral symbolism in initiating the soul on a theurgic path.70 Platonic music theorist Aristides Quintilianus71 celebrates a partnership between philosophy and music where: Philosophy is the precise ritual which restores to souls, through recollection, what they lost because of the misfortune of their birth, while music is an initiation, a gracious preliminary ceremony to the ritual, which offers a little taste in advance of what is brought to complete perfection in philosophy.72 In both the Pythagorean and Platonic traditions, the movements of the planets are said to produce a celestial music, which is described in Plato’s Timaeus as the harmonious proportions of the world soul fashioned from the motions of the spheres of the same and different. Aristides uses Plato’s distinction in the Timaeus between sensible music, and the ideal celestial music that is also associated with the song of the Sirens in the Republic (616b–617e). Sensible music will never be mathematically or audibly perfect because of an irrational component, such that, for instance, a semitone is never an equal division of a whole tone. The music that emanates from the planets is filtered through denser elements in the sublunary realm so “the music that is perceived is far less accurate than the music grasped by reason.”73 Aristides claims that certain virtuous men are occasionally pri­ vileged by hearing the celestial music, each note being identified with a planet’s power and activity.74 Aristides also writes, “the first and most natural source of melody is divine possession.”75 He explains this to mean that the soul is delirious upon being birthed into the world and experiences episodes of madness throughout life. Melody is the cure from on high that seizes the soul and reminds it of its divine origins.76 Aristides associates divine inspiration (enthousiasmos) with the rational part of the soul. When

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the soul is out of harmony, the divine inspiration steps through the rational part to tame the frenzy that is our mad lot in life. How the types of madness (poetic, telestic, mantic, and erotic) were con­ sidered in the context of theurgic ritual is not entirely clear from the accounts in Hermias and Proclus, however, as discussed above, we have stronger evi­ dence that astral symbolism played a role in theurgy, and tangential evidence for the considerations a theurgist would have given to music in both con­ templation and practice. This leads to speculation that the theurgists used both astral symbolism and music to attain inspiration and connect with their leader god, or to the god who presided over that form of inspiration. Returning, then, to Proclus’ triad of the planets and gods, Hermes, Aphrodite, and Helios/Apollo, we might also consider the role of the plane­ tary leader gods in preparing and elevating the soul to its true home in the intelligible realm. R.M. van den Berg (2001, 61–4) already provides us with this triad’s association with three types of madness, as they lead up toward the intelligible virtues of Symmetry (Apollo/poetic/musician), Beauty (Aphrodite/ erotic/lover), and Truth (Hermes/mantic/philosopher).77 This leaves the tel­ estic or ritualistic madness, attributed by Plato to Dionysus (Phaedrus 265b), but which we might also associate with the Moon, for the Moon is the closest astral divinity to the natural world (the realm below the Moon), representing the contingencies of birth and mortality, therefore able to offer crucial aid and sustenance to a world-weary soul by the effects of prayer and ritual.

Notes 1 In Astrology and Religion among the Greeks and Romans, Cumont (1912, xxi), for instance, peppers his text with colourful language of disdain for ancient beliefs, and calls astrology “that desperate error on which the intellectual powers of countless generations were spent.” As noted by Liba Taub (1997), mid-twentiethcentury scholar Otto Neugebauer (1951) found in his essay, “The Study of Wretched Subjects,” the need to justify the study of astrology against those such as Peter Marshall Fraser (1972) who called it “depraved,” “debased” and a “bastard” of astronomical science, and Sarton and Siegel (1950) who referred to it as “the superstitious flotsam of the Near East.” 2 Robert Berchman (1991; 2002) addresses the inadequacy of modern philoso­ phical approaches to rationality exemplified by Dodds and others when ex­ amining ritual, particularly as it applies to Neoplatonic theurgy. 3 The author of Epinomis frames the dialogue around a search for the science that makes us wise. The Athenian character identifies Ouranos, the Heaven, as the god that provides this through the gift of number and the revolutions of the stars (Epin. 976D–977). Arguments against Plato as the author of Epinomis are cov­ ered in detail by Tarán (1975). 4 For Proclus’ approach towards divine madness, see, for example, In Remp. 1.84, 1.157, 1.168, 1.180–185, 1.201. For Iamblichus, see DM 3.8–10, 3.25. 5 For a more detailed account of the distinction between astrology and astro­ meteorology, see Taub 2003, particularly 39–41. 6 Fowden (1993, 65–68, 91–94) discusses the development of astrology out of the technical Hermetica. See Lawrence’s “Hellenistic Astrology” for discussion of the philosophical influences upon Hellenistic astrology.

Astral symbolism in theurgic rites 285 7 In Adversus mathematicos V.1, Sextus Empiricus notes an equivalent use of the terms ἀστρολογία and μαθηματικός, qualifying that he does not mean the as­ tronomy of Eudoxus and Hipparchus for the former, or arithmetic or geometry for the latter. 8 Firmicus Maternus, Mathesis (Monat 1992–1997). 9 Dorotheus of Sidon, Carmen astrologicum (ed. Pingree, 1976), Vettius Valens, Anthologiarum libri ix (ed. Pingree, 1986), Claudius Ptolemy, Apotelesmatica (ed. Hübner 1998) and Antiochus of Athens, Thesaurus (CCAG I. 1898). 10 For details of these types of katarchic astrology, please see Chapter 4 of this volume by Dorian Gieseler Greenbaum. 11 This is still an integral part of astrology in India today. See Pingree, Yavanajataka (1978) for a comparison of Hellenistic astrology and early astrology in India. 12 Plotinus Enn. II.3.9; III.1.5. For Hierocles on the deterministic nature of as­ trology, see Photius, Bibliotecha. See also Olympiodorus, In Platonis Gorgiam commentaria, 48.5.5–6. 13 Calcidius, In Tim 189a: At vero fatum providentiae scitumest, continent autem eaquae sunt in nostra potestate ut praecedentia, continent etiam meritorum collacationem. Fate, however, is the decree of providence; it contains that which is within our power as precedent causes, it also holds room for merits. Trans. Den Boeft 1970, 124 Cf. Ps-Plutarch, De fato 570b–e, and Nemesius, De natura hominis 38.109–12. 14 On the Middle Platonic notion of “hypothetical” fate, see also Lawrence 2010; O’Brien 2015 and especially Greenbaum 2016, 28–44, for a discussion of the relationship between Middle Platonic fate and astrology. 15 See Lawrence 2009 for a discussion of the role of the planetary gods in Middle Platonic accounts of fate and providence. 16 The close relationship between providence and fate in Middle Platonism con­ tinues in the theurgic Neoplatonism of Iamblichus and Proclus. In Letter 8 to Macedonius on Fate (fr. 4), Iamblichus writes, … the whole sum of things subject to Fate is thus connected to the dominance of Providence. In its very substance, then, Fate is enmeshed with Providence, and Fate exists by virtue of the existence of Providence, and it derives its existence from it and within its ambit.

πάντα οὕτω τὰτῆς εἱμαρμένης συνῆπται πρὸς τὴν προηγουμένοις πρόνοιαν. κατ’ αὐτὴν τὴν οὐσίαν ἄρα ἐπιπλέκεται ἡ εἰμαρμένη τῇ προνοίᾳ καὶ τῷ εἶναι τὴν πρόνοιάν ἐστιν ἡ εἰμαρμένη καὶ ἀπ’ αὐτῆς καὶ περὶ αὐτὴν ὑφέστηκε Trans. Dillon and Polleichtner 2009, 23 Proclus also describes this relationship in his On Providence (3, 7–8) … providence precedes fate and everything that comes about according to fate, comes about far more according to providence. The converse, however, is not true, for the supreme divisions of the universe are ruled by providence, which is more divine than fate. preexistere autem providentiam fato, et omnia quidem quecumque fiunt secundum fatum multi prius a providential fieri; contrarium autem non iam verumesse: summa enim totorum a providential rectesse diviniora fato. Trans. Steel 2007, 42 17 Covering Plotinus on astrology, see Adamson 2008; Lawrence 2007; Dillon 1999. 18 Porphyry’s understanding of the daimōn and oikeodespotēs in astrology is covered in depth by Greenbaum 2016, 236–75.

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19 Iamblichus’ approach towards astrology is discussed by Addey 2014. See also Shaw 2007. 20 Schibli 2002, 330. Hierocles’ work where he discusses astrology, On Providence, is preserved in ninth-century Photius’ Bibliotecha (1959–77), Codex 214 (Bekker 172a9–b13). 21 In his commentary on Epictetus’ Handbook, Simplicius discusses why skilful astrologers (οἱ περὶ τὴν ἀστρολογίαν δεινοὶ) can make accurate predictions: ὅτι αἱ πολλαὶ τῶν ψυχῶν, καὶ μάλιστα ἐν ταῖς μοχθηραῖς πολιτείαις, εἰς ἃς αἱ βεβαρυμμέναι ψυχαὶ ἀπὸ προτέρας ἀξίας συνάγονται, ἐκδιδοῦσαι τοῖς ὀργάνοις ἑαυτὰς περιττότερον, ὡς μηκέτι ὡς ὀργάνοις, ἀλλ’ ὡς μέρεσιν οἰκείοις κεχρῆσθαι, κατ’ ἐκεῖνα καὶ τὰς οἰκείας ὀρέξεις προβάλλονται. Ἔτι δὲ καὶ σύμφωνός ἐστιν ἡ εἱμαρμένη περιφορὰ τῇ προβολῇ τῶν ψυχῶν τῇ κατ’ αὐτὴν ἐρχομένῃ εἰς τὴν γένεσιν, οὐκ ἀναγκάζουσα μὲν τὰς ψυχὰς τῶνδε ὀρέγεσθαι ἢ τῶνδε, σύμφωνος δὲ οὖσα ταῖς ὀρέξεσιν αὐτῶν. (12.34–44) This is because most souls, especially those in the worthless republics in which souls weighed down as a result of their former value are collected, surrender themselves in an excessive way to their instruments so that they no longer use them as instruments but as parts belonging to themselves, and hence manifest the corresponding desires as well. Furthermore, the fated revolution is always consonant with the manifestation by which souls enter the realm of generation in accordance with the revolution, and it does not compel souls to desire these things or those, but rather is consonant with the desires that they have. Trans. Brittain and Brennan 2002, 50 22 Commentarium in Paulum Alexandrinum was originally attributed to a “Heliodorus:” cf. Boer, 1962. For Olympiodorus’ criticism, see In Platonis Gorgiam commentaria, 48.5. The detailed positions of these two late Neoplatonic commentators are discussed in Lawrence 2014. 23 The oracles, dated to the second or third century, survive only as fragments. They were of great importance to and are often cited by theurgic Neoplatonists, cf. Majercik 1989, 2–3. 24 153: οὐ γὰρ ὑφ’ εἱμαρτὴν ἀγέλην πίπτουσι θεουργοί, 130: Μοίρης εἱμαρτῆς τὸ πτερὸν φεύγουσιν ἀναιδές, 103: μηδὲ συναυξήσῃς θεἰμαρμένον, and 102: Μὴ φύσιν ἐμβλέψῃς· εἱμαρμένον οὔνομα τῆσδε. Trans. Majercik 1989, 107, 99, 89. 25 In this regard, Iamblichus writes, … in so far as [the soul] gives itself to the realm of generation and subjects itself to the flow of the universe, thus far also it is drawn beneath the sway of Fate and is enslaved to the necessities of nature; but in so far... as it exercises its intellectual activity … it lays hold of what is divine and good and intelligible with the accompaniment of truth. καθ’ ὅσονμὲνδίδωσιν ἑαυτὴνεἰςτὰγιγνόμενα καὶ ὑπὸ τὴντοῦ παντὸςφορὰν ἑαυτὴν ὑποτάττει, κατὰτοσοῦτον καὶ ὑπὸ τὴνεἱμαρμένην ἄγεται καὶ δουλεύει ταῖςτῆςφύσεωςἀνάγκαις· καθ’ ὅσονδὲ αὖ τὴννοερὰν ἑαυτῆς καὶ τῷὄντιἄφετον ἀπὸ πάντων καὶ αὐθαίρετον ἐνέργειαν ἐνεργεῖ, κατὰτο- σοῦτοντὰ ἑαυτῆςἑκουσίως πράττει καὶ τοῦθείου καὶ ἀγαθοῦ καὶ νοητοῦμετ’ ἀληθείας ἐφάπτεται. Letter 8 to Macedonius on Fate, fr. 2. Trans. Dillon and Polleichtner 2009, 23 26 DM 8.7 (270.1–3). Ἀλλ’ οἱ μὲν θεοὶ λύουσι τὴν εἱμαρμένην, αἱ δ’ ἀπ’ αὐτῶν ἔσχαται φύσεις καθήκουσαι καὶ συμπλεκόμεναι τῇ γενέσει τοῦ κόσμου καὶ τῷ σώματι τὴν εἱμαρμένην ἐπιτελοῦσιν. Trans. Clarke et. al. 2003, 321. Iamblichus reiterates this position on the body as subject to fate in Letter 8 to Macedonius on Fate, fr. 2–4, Dillon and Polleichtner 2009, 20–25.

Astral symbolism in theurgic rites 287 27 DM 9.4 (277.9–14): οὕτω καὶ περὶ τῆς μαθηματικῆς ἀντεροῦμεν, ὡς ὑπάρχει μὲν ἀληθής, οἱ δὲ πλανώμενοι περὶ αὐτῆς οὐδὲν εἰδότες τῶν ἀληθῶν ἀντιλέγουσιν. Συμβέβηκε δὲ τοῦτο οὐ περὶ ταύτην μόνην, ἀλλὰ καὶ περὶ πάσας ἐκ θεῶν παραδοθείσας ἀνθρώποις ἐπιστήμας· προϊόντος γὰρ ἀεὶ τοῦ χρόνου, πολλῷ τῷ θνητῷ καὶ πολλάκις ἀνακεραννύμεναι, ἐξίτηλον τὸ θεῖον ἦθος τῆς γνώσεως ἀπεργάζονται. Trans. Clarke et al. 2003, 333 28 Such works by astrologers include: Dorotheus of Sidon Carmen Astrologia, ed. and trans. Pingree 1976; Vettius Valens, Anthologiarum libri novem, ed. Pingree 1989; Claudius Ptolemy, Apotelesmatika, ed. Hübner 1998; Firmicus Maternus, Mathesis, ed. Monat 1992–97; Hephaistio of Thebes, Apotelematicorum libri tres, ed. Pingree 1973–74; and Paulus Alexandrinus, Elementa apotelesmatica, ed. Boer 1958. 29 In Adversus mathematicos (5.4; 5.43), Sextus Empiricus notes that proponents of astrology use the principle of sympathy as a basis for the effects planets may have on earthly births. 30 Ptolemy, Tetrabiblos I.13–16, Antiochus, Thesaurus I.15–16, Vettius Valens, Anthologiarium, I.7. In On Harmonics III.9, Ptolemy discusses the relationships between the zodiac signs and musical intervals. 31 Vettius Valens, I.1.88–93, Firmicus Maternus, III.8.3. Proclus refers to Hermes as the god of rationality and philosophy in Theol. Plat. VI.98.14–17, In Crat. 66.2, and In remp. II.62.16. 32 Hermes is, for instance, represented as a cunning thief and cattle-raider in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes (dated at the earliest to the seventh century BCE). In this story, Hermes as a newborn baby steals Apollo’s cattle by driving them backwards and disguising his tracks. See Three Homeric Hymns, ed. Richardson 2010. 33 For Iamblichus’ general use of dianoia for “mind” see, for example, DM 4.2 (183.4–5). See also Clarke et al. 2003, 207 n. 254. 34 Plotinus maintains the distinction between dianoia and noesis (e.g. Enn. I.4.10; V.3.2–4) but also refers to logismos to differentiate discursive thinking from nous (e.g. Enn. VI.2.21). 35 While dianoia can be dragged down toward deception (DM 2.10), it is not also affected by or replaced by divine inspiration (DM 3.7, 3.14). 36 PGM IV.2215–17, Papyri Graecae magicae, eds. Heinrichs and Preisendanz 1973. Trans. Hubert Martin Jr., The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, ed. Betz 1992, 77. Restraining spells are typically intended to restrain anger, but in this context, it may be intended to restrain a chariot in a race (cf. PGM III.162–164). On katarchê, see also Greenbaum 2016, 195–204, 206–9. 37 DM 1.18 (54–55); cf. Proclus In Tim. I.140. 38 DM 1.18 (55.5–8). Οἷον ἡ τοῦ Κρόνου ἀπόρροιά ἐστι συνεκτική, ἡ δὲ τοῦ Ἄρεος κινη- τική· πλὴν ἔν γε τοῖς ἐνύλοις ἡ παθητὴ γενεσιουργὸς ὑποδοχὴ τὴν μὲν κατὰ πῆξιν καὶ ψυχρότητα ἐδέξατο, τὴν δὲ κατὰ φλόγωσιν ὑπερβάλλουσαν τὸ μέτριον. Trans. Clarke et al. 2003, 69. 39 Iamblichus, who is credited for setting the curriculum of study for later Platonists placed Alcibiades I as the first Platonic dialogue students would encounter. It was called by Olympiodorus the “outer gates” (propulaia) of philosophical study. See Renaud and Tarrant 2015, 110, 164–67. 40 Smith 1974, 90, based on DM 5.26. 41 The experience of divine possession, according to Iamblichus, varies at three stages of ascent: participation (metousia), communion (koinônia), and union (henôsis). It means sharing in the divine’s lower, intermediate, or primary powers, and the

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difference corresponds with one’s memory of the possession (See DM 3.4–8, especially DM 3.5). See also Addey’s (2014, 215–37) discussion of this topic. On this union, see, for instance, DM 1.12, 3.5, 5.26, 10.1, and 10.6. We have evidence that some theurgists were women, as discussed in Chapter 5 in this volume. DM 5.26 (239.3): καὶ τὰ μὲν ἡμέτερα τῆς διανοίας ἤθη ἠρέμα ἀνέλκει. In Tim. 275, III.118.16–21. ἀλλ’ οὖν, ὅπερ ἐλέγομεν, ἡ ψύχωσις τῶν ἄστρων ἐντίθησι μὲν αὐτὰ ταῖς οἰκείαις ψυχαῖς, συνάπτει δὲ καὶ πρὸς τὴν ὅλην ψυχὴν τῆς ταὐτοῦ φορᾶς, ἀνάγει δὲ καὶ ἐπὶ τὴν κοσμικὴν ψυχήν, ἐνιδρύει δὲ καὶ εἰς αὐτὸ τὸ παράδειγμα τὸ νοητόν, ὃ καὶ διαφερόντως ὁρῶν ὁ θεῖος Ἰάμβλιχος τὴν τοῦ κρατίστου φρόνησιν ἐν τῷ παραδείγματι τίθεται. Trans. Dillon 2009, 187 Vettius Valens, I.1.21–28; Firmicus, Mathesis III.2. In Tim. III.67.22–26: ἄλλη τριάς ἐστι Κρόνου μὲν καὶ Ἄρεος ἄκρων ὄντων καὶ ἐναντίων ἀλλήλοις, καθ’ ὅσον ὃ μὲν συνοχῆς, ὃ δὲ διαιρέσεως αἴτιος, καὶ ὃ μὲν ψύξεως, ὃ δὲ θερμότητος, τοῦ δὲ Διὸς ἐν μέσῳ τεταγμένου καὶ εἰς εὐκρασίαν ἄγοντος αὐτῶν τὰς δημιουργικὰς ποιήσεις. In Tim. I.148, III.69.14–24. In his Commentary on the Dream of Scipio (1.12.13), Macrobius provides a similar list of faculties given by the planets to descending souls, but with notable differences: Saturn: logistikon and theoretikon; Jupiter: praktikon; Mars: thumetikon; Sun: aisthetikon and phantastikon; Venus: epithu­ metikon; Mercury: hermeneutikon; and Moon: phutikon. In Tim. III.65.7–8. Iamblichus fr. 70: ὁ δέ γε θεῖος Ἰάμβλιχος οὔτε τὰς τῶν ἐπικύκλων παρεισκυκλήσεις ἀποδέχεται ὡς μεμηχανημένας καὶ ἀλλοτρίως τοῦ Πλάτωνος εἰσαγομένας. Trans. Dillon 2009, 185. In Tim. III.56.22–57.6, III.63.32–65.31, III.96.1–32. See also Baltzly’s (2013, 15–22) discussion of Proclus’ rejection of epicycles. Proclus does not explicitly use the words translated as “sublime” (such as hupsos or hupsēlos) when discussing passages in Homer similar to those discussed by Ps.Longinus, author of De sublimitate (Peri hupsous). However, as discussed below, his understanding of an aesthetic sublime emerges through his symbolic reading of morally difficult passages in Homeric epic. For example, see his Theologia Platonica, eds. Saffrey, and Westerink 1968–1997; In Platonis Timaeum commentaria, ed. Diehl 1903–1906, repr. 1965, and for the hymns, Procli hymni, ed. Vogt 1957. In Tim. I.111, 3–7: αἱ ψυχαὶ σπειρόμεναι περὶ τὰ σύννομα ἄστρα δέχονταί τινα καὶ παρ’ αὐτῶν τῶν ἡγεμόνων ἰδιότητα ζωῆς, ὥστε μὴ μόνον εἶναι ψυχήν, ἀλλὰ καὶ τοιάνδε ψυχὴν ἑκάστην, οἷον Ἀρεϊκὴν ἢ Δίιον ἢ Σεληνιακήν· For more on material symbols (σύμβολα) such as stones and plants used in theurgical rites, see Chapter 5 in this volume. Berchman (2002) discusses Proclus’ leader gods as the visible planetary gods who assist individual souls through the reversion process that requires theurgic rites of purification. Of the leader gods, he writes (248), “Thus if the soul is mercurial her purifications are done by Mercury; if heliotic her purifications are undertaken by Apollo. Once reunited with its god the soul joins its entourage.” See, for example, Marcus Manilius, Astronomica III.510–559. See also In Tim. III.82 on Helios. This is a term used for Homer, Hesiod and “Orpheus.” Proclus believes that these figures, along with Plato and Pythagoras, are a part of a universal wisdom tra­ dition.

Astral symbolism in theurgic rites 289 59 Sheppard (1980) and Stern-Gillet (2011) both analyse Proclus’ seemingly con­ tradictory position on Homer vis-a-vis Plato’s criticism of Homeric myth in the Republic. 60 In In remp. I.81.14, Proclus uses the terms paideutikon and telestikon for what Coulter (1976) calls “paideutic” and “entheastic.” The second type of myth may also be called ‘initiatory.’ 61 For more on Proclus’ symbolic poetry, see Struck 2004, 241–48. 62 In remp. I.79.3–4. καὶ οὕτω δὴ τῶν μύθων ἕκαστος δαιμόνιος μέν ἐστιν κατὰ τὸ φαινόμενον, θεῖος δὲ κατὰ τὴν ἀπόρρη- τον θεωρίαν. Trans. Coulter 1976, 56. 63 Addey 2014, 43–82, discusses the close relationship between allegory, oracles and mystery cults through a close reading of Porphyry’s Philosophy from Oracles: “An allegory uses a series of “symbols” (σύμβολα), analogies or metaphors, as a “code” for hidden meaning, which one has to decode in order to elucidate the ‘true meaning’ of a text” (59). 64 Ps.-Longinus, De sublimitate, IX.8.1–3: πολὺ δὲ τῶν περὶ τὴν θεομαχίαν ἀμείνω τὰ ὅσα ἄχραντόν τι καὶ μέγα τὸ δαιμόνιον ὡς ἀληθῶς καὶ ἄκρατον παρίστησιν, οἷα (πολλοῖς δὲ πρὸ ἡμῶν ὁ τόπος ἐξείργασται) τὰ ἐπὶ τοῦ Ποσειδῶνος. 65 Proclus, In. remp. I.87. Plato mentions Homer’s Battle of the Gods in Republic 378d. 66 Suzanne Stern-Gillet (2011) identifies a misreading of Plato on madness and inspiration by Proclus. The four types of madness in Phaedrus are prophetic (through divination), telestic (through ritual and prayer), poetic (through inspired poetry and art), and erotic (through love). 67 Ps.-Longinus, De sublimitate, VIII.4.3–6: θαρρῶν γὰρ ἀφορισαίμην ἂν ὡς οὐδὲν οὕτως ὡς τὸ γενναῖον πάθος, ἔνθα χρή, μεγαλήγορον, ὥσπερ ὑπὸ μανίας τινὸς καὶ πνεύματος ἐνθουσιαστικῶς ἐκπνέον καὶ οἱονεὶ φοιβάζον τοὺς λόγους. 68 On this point, see Sheppard 1980, 174 ff. Chlup 2012, 175–78 also discusses the Neoplatonic readings of the four types of madness. 69 As noted by Struck 2004, 242: “Symbolic poetry arises from a divine madness that is higher than reason; it emanates from the Muses, possesses the poet, and then radiates out to the poet’s readers.” 70 See Moro Tornese 2010 for the role of music in Neoplatonism, and 2013 for Proclus on music. 71 Details about Aristides Quintilianus (c. first to third century CE) are largely unknown, though his work reflects a largely Platonic or even Neoplatonic po­ sition. See Barker 1989, 392. 72 De musica III.27.27–32: ἡ μὲν γὰρ γνώσεως ἁπάσης τελεσιουργός, ἡ δὲ προπαιδεία τυγχάνει, καὶ ἡ μὲν ἀκριβὴς τῷ ὄντι τελετὴ τὸ διὰ τὴν ἐν γενέσει συμφορὰν ταῖς ψυχαῖςτις καὶ προτέλειον εὐμενὲς σμίκρ’ ἄττα προφέρουσα καὶ προγεύουσα τῶν ἐν φιλοσοφίᾳ τελεσιουργουμένων· Trans. Barker 1989, 534–35, with slight mod­ ifications. 73 De musica III.1. 80–2: ὧν δὴ καὶ ὁ θεῖος Πλάτων ἐν Τιμαίῳ μνημονεύει, τὴν αἰσθητὴν μουσικὴν τῆς νοητῆς ἀκριβείᾳ πολὺ λείπεσθαι διελέγχων. Trans. Barker 1989, 496. Cf. De musica III.7. 74 De musica III.20. Iamblichus describes Pythagoras as such an auditor of perfect music, having fashioned instruments and vocal exercises for his students to imitate this harmony: see VP 65–66. 75 De musica III.25.1–2. Μελῳδίας δὲ ὁ λόγος ἀρχὴν φυσικωτάτην καὶ πρωτίστην τὸν ἐνθουσιασμὸν δείκνυσιν. 76 De musica III.25.2–14, III.24.9–28. Using music to cure souls of madness and agitation is an ability Iamblichus attributes to Pythagoras: see VP 25.110–15.

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77 van den Berg 2001, 61–4. Proclus links these types of madness to the virtues in Philebus 65a2.

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Modern works Adamson, Peter. 2008. “Plotinus on Astrology.” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 35: 265–91. Addey, Crystal. 2013. “Ecstasy between divine and human agency: re-assessing agency in Iamblichean Divination and Theurgy.” In Literary, Philosophical, and Religious Studies in the Platonic Tradition, edited by John F. Finamore and John Phillips, 7–24. Sankt Augustin: Academia-Verlag. Addey, Crystal. 2014. Divination and Theurgy in Neoplatonism: Oracles of the Gods. Farnham: Ashgate. Barker, Andrew. 1989. Greek Musical Writings II: Harmonics and Acoustic Theory. Cambridge and New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Barton, Tamsyn. 1994. Ancient Astrology. London and New York, NY: Routledge. Berchman, Robert M. 1991. “Rationality and Ritual in Plotinus and Porphyry.” Incognita 2: 184–216. Berchman, Robert M. 2002. “Rationality and Ritual in Neoplatonism.” In Neoplatonism and Indian Philosophy, edited by Paulos Mar Gregorios, 229–68. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Betz, Hans Dieter. 1992. The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, including the Demotic Spells, vol. 1. Second Edition. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Chlup, Radek. 2012. Proclus: An Introduction. Cambridge and New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Coulter, James A. 1976. The Literary Microcosm: Theories of Interpretation of the Later Neoplatonists. Leiden: Brill. Cumont, Franz. 1912. Astrology and Religion among the Greeks and Romans. New York, NY and London: J.P. Putnam’s Sons.

Astral symbolism in theurgic rites 293 Den Boeft, Jan. 1970. Calcidius on Fate: His Doctrine and Sources. Leiden: Brill. Dillon, John M. 1999. “Plotinus on Whether the Stars Are Causes.” Res Orientales 12 (La Science Des Cieux. Sages, mages, astrologues): 87–92. Dodds, E.R. 1951. The Greeks and the Irrational. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Fowden, Garth. 1993. The Egyptian Hermes: A Historical Approach to the Late Pagan Mind, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Fraser, P.M. 1972. Ptolemaic Alexandria, vol. 1. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Greenbaum, Dorian Geiseler. 2001. Late Classical Astrology: Paulus Alexandrinus and Olympiodorus, with the Scholia from Later Commentators. Reston, VA: Arhat Publications. Greenbaum, Dorian Geiseler. 2016. The Daimon in Hellenistic Astrology: Origins and Influence. Leiden: Brill. Lawrence, Marilynn. 2007. “Who Thought the Stars Are Causes? The Astrological Doctrine Criticized by Plotinus.” In Metaphysical Patterns in Platonism, edited by John F. Finamore and Robert M. Berchman, 17–31. New Orleans, LA: University Press of the South. Lawrence, Marilynn. 2009. “The Young Gods: The Stars and Planets in Platonic Treatment of Fate.” In Perspectives sur le néoplatonisme, edited by Martin Achard, Wayne J. Hankey, and Jean-Marc Narbonne, 95–110. Quebec: Presses de l’ Université Laval. Lawrence, Marilynn. 2010. “The Place of Chance or Fortune in Platonic Fate.” In Conversations Platonic and Neoplatonic: Intellect, Soul, and Nature, edited by John F. Finamore and Robert M. Berchman, 87–101. Sankt Augustin: AcademiaVerlag. Lawrence, Marilynn. 2014. “The Meaning of Astrology for Late Neoplatonists: Simplicius and Olympiodorus.” Paper presented at the 13th Annual International Society for Neoplatonic Studies Conference, Lisbon, Portugal, June 2014. Lawrence, Marilynn. “Hellenistic Astrology.” The Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, accessed February 26, 2016, www.iep.utm.edu/astr-hel/ Martijn, Marije. 2010. Proclus on Nature. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Moro Tornese, Sebastian. 2010. Philosophy of Music in the Neoplatonic Tradition: Theories of Music and Harmony in Proclus’ Commentaries on Plato’s ‘Timaeus’ and ‘Republic.’ Doctoral thesis. Royal Holloway, University of London. Moro Tornese, Sebastian. 2013. “Music in Proclus’ Commentaries.” In Ancient Approaches to Plato’s Republic, edited by Anne D.R. Sheppard, 117–128. London: University of London. Neugebauer, Otto. 1951. “The Study of Wretched Subjects.” Isis 42, no. 2: 111. O’Brien, Carl. 2015. The Demiurge in Ancient Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pingree, David. 1978. The Yavanajataka of Sphujidhvaja. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Renaud, François, and Harold Tarrant. 2015. The Platonic Alcibiades I: The Dialogue and its Ancient Reception. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sarton, George, and Frances Siegel. 1950. “Seventy-Sixth Critical Bibliography of the History and Philosophy of Science and of the History of Civilization (To May 1950).” Isis 40: 328–424.

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Index

Note: Page numbers followed by “n” refer to note section.

Abaris (priest of Apollo) 142 action 1–2, 7, 11–12, 19, 87–91, 93, 113, 117, 138–51, 154–61, 178–80, 182, 184, 186, 276 Addey, Crystal 1, 6, 116, 138, 142, 185–6, 276–7 advice 2, 85, 89–90, 120, 140, 146, 150, 221, 250 Aeschylus 50, 110, 196 Aesop 30–2 aesthetics 140, 279, 281 Agamemnon 50, 52–3, 141 agency 11; cosmic 12, 14; divine 10, 12, 14, 17–19, 248–50, 252–3, 258; human 10–12, 14, 17–19, 142–3, 145, 149–50; instrumental 20, 165–6n67, 186; religious 17; ritual 153, 165n67, 185–6, 194, 201 aiōn 149 Alcibiades 53, 60, 70, 72, 156–7, 159 Alcinous 179 allegory 183, 282 Allen, James 148 ambiguity 35, 42, 118, 236; deliberate 33–4; oracular 5, 31, 33–7, 39, 40, 92–3, 100, 201 Ammianus Marcellinus 227–8, 231 Ammonius 151 Anacharsis 234 Anderson, J.K. 85–6, 96–7 Anderson, Ralph 18, 84, 144 Antigonus of Nicaea 114 Antiochus of Ascalon 249 Antiochus of Athens 272–3, 275 animals 1–2, 8, 12, 16, 84, 94–5, 138, 146, 151, 154, 210n38, 233, 272

Aphrodite 281, 284 Apollo 10, 37–8, 50, 56, 63, 140, 143, 146, 150, 161, 228, 230, 280, 283–4; Apollo Grannus, healing shrine of 125; Delphic 9, 15–16, 20, 30–2, 138, 151–4, 175, 179, 181–3, 187, 194, 196–201, 203; as iatromantis 110 appropriateness 19, 60, 69, 99, 139–43, 145–6, 148–50, 152–6, 158–61, 276, 278, 281–2 Apuleius 21, 248, 260; Apology (Apologia) 252–5, 257, 259; On the god of Socrates (De deo Socratis) 248–5; as a magician 252–3, 258 Aquarius (astrological sign) 119 archery 140 Aries (astrological sign) 119 Aristides Quintilianus 21, 283 Aristotle 7, 13–14, 112, 153, 179, 255; On Divination through Sleep 13; Nicomachean Ethics 141–2 Ascendant (astrological) 115, 117, 123–5 Asclepigeneia 160 Assyrians 5, 223, 233 astral symbolism 21, 270, 283–4 astrological boards (pinakes) 124–5 astrological medicine see medicine astrology: Assyrian 223; Chaldean 223, 226–7, 258, 274, 279; divination and 223, 226, 233; general (universal, mundane) 115; kairos and, see kairos; medical 113–18, 125; natal (genethlialogy) 115, 121, 272–3, 276; natural 114; places (in chart) 115, 272; theurgic 270–1, 274–83; timing and 272, 276; see also katarchic astrology

296

Index

astronomy 109, 113–4, 147, 279 Athena 32 augury 1–2, 9, 55, 69, 147, 151, 222–4, 229–30 Aurinia 230 auspices 2, 149, 151, 230 authenticity 34–6, 40, 153, 175, 226, 230, 232, 234 Bacchants/Bacchantes 66, 176, 196–7, 200 ‘barbarians’ 218–26, 229–36 beauty 51, 55, 58–9, 65–7, 69–71, 112, 279, 284 Beerden, Kim 5, 140, 146, 151 Berchman, Robert 111, 281 Berzon, Todd 219, 232 birth 40, 59, 61, 66, 70–2, 117, 124, 203, 272, 283–4 Birth, Kevin 19, 149 black bile (humour) 114 blood (humour) 114 body 64–5, 114–15, 250, 253–5, 257, 259, 274–5, 277, 282; female 152, 180–2, 186, 194, 199–200, 202–5 Calcidius 273 calculation 96–9, 156, 271–2 calendar 147, 150–1, 155 Cancer (astrological sign) 119 Capricorn (astrological sign) 119 Cardano, Girolamo 126 cardines (astrological) 115, 121, 123 care 8, 52–4, 57–65, 71, 89, 97, 119, 148, 184, 250–1, 277 Cassandra 16, 50–2, 72–3 causality/cause(s)/causation 12–13, 20, 58, 66, 88, 143, 148, 150–61, 178, 180, 183–7, 271, 273–4, 277–9 Cebes 58, 60 Celsus 231, 235 Celts 221–2, 228–9, 233 Chaldean Oracles 258, 274 Chaldeans 223, 226–8, 231, 258 child-divination 21, 248, 252, 258; active 253–5, 259; passive 253–5, 257, 259 Chilon of Sparta 9, 145 choleric (humour and temperament) 114 chóra 179–83 Christian 20, 44, 194, 199, 201–6, 219, 228, 231, 234–5, 255, 257–9 Christianity 44, 88, 228 chronos 149

Chrysippus 13 Church Fathers 20, 194–5, 197–8, 200–6 Cicero 222–4, 229; On Divination 1, 6, 13, 109, 222–3, 226, 250 Claros 206n1, 228, 230 Clearchus of Soli 255 cledonomancy 1, 146 cleromancy 165n56 cognition 14–17, 54–6, 187, 250 Collins, Derek 93 commander 18, 84–90, 93–4, 97–9 communication 1, 8–10, 17, 30, 33, 36–9, 43–4, 63, 117, 126, 144, 148, 156, 158–9, 249 complementarity 10, 12, 18, 150 consultant 4, 9, 31, 198 Cornelius Labeo 13; On the Oracle of Apollo of Claros 13 Corybantes 196–7 cosmic cycles 142 cosmic order 8, 142, 147, 149, 179, 187 cosmic sympathy see sympathy cosmology 20, 111, 141, 154, 177–8, 183–4, 186, 250 cosmos 7–8, 12, 111–13, 120, 148, 177–8, 182, 187, 256, 271–2, 274–5, 278 Costantini, Leonardo 21, 248 Coulter, James 281–2 Crinas of Marseilles (physician) 114 critical days (of illness) 113–14, 119–21 cross-cultural translation 17, 37, 164n51 cultural difference 220, 226, 231, 234, 236 cultural interactions 218–19, 231 Cumont, Franz 270 Cyprian 255 daimōn/daimones 1, 8, 21, 63, 148, 152, 154–7, 159–60, 175, 181, 186, 248–54, 258, 274–5, 279 daimonion 15, 21, 54, 85, 157–9, 248; see also Socrates, daimonion daimonology 21, 175, 248–9, 251, 254 Daphidas 31, 33 debate 9, 21, 37, 57–9, 92, 185, 225 decision-making 1, 4, 9, 18, 84, 86–7, 89, 96–7 decumbiture see katarchic astrology deliberate ambiguity; see ambiguity Delphi 184, 195, 197 Delphic oracle 9, 13, 15–18, 30–1, 33–5, 38, 44, 85, 92, 138, 145, 150, 154, 156, 174, 179, 195, 198

Index 297 Delphic priestess see Pythia demiurge 111, 158, 178–9, 182, 187, 273, 278–9, 281 Democritus 111 derangement 180 Descendant, setting place (astrological) 123–5 dialectician 60–1, 65, 70–2 dialogue 9, 93, 144, 153, 249 dianoia 275, 282 Didyma 10, 146, 151, 230 Dillon, John 249 Dio Cassius 221 Dio Chrysostom 42–3 Diodorus Siculus 195, 225 Diogenes Laertius 203, 235; Lives of the Philosophers 111 Dionysus 206n1, 220, 284 Diotima 59, 64–6, 250 discovery 145–8, 150, 155–7, 159, 161, 184, 277 divination: Cuban Ifá 91–2; Delphic 13, 174; epistemological conditions of 18, 85; ethnography of 223; as ‘foreign’ 218–23, 226–7, 231–6; Greek 88, 91–3, 99–100, 144; inductive 2, 206n1; inspired 2, 5, 35, 174; as kairotic 19, 139, 146, 157, 160–1; limits of 85, 98; Mambila 100; military 18, 84, 87, 98, 100; oracular 5, 30–1, 33, 43, 138, 153–4, 175, 177–8, 184, 187; as rational, rationality of 3–4, 7, 11, 14, 18, 53, 84, 87, 93, 96–7, 100, 109–3, 274; as relational 92–3, 97, 99, 139, 144, 160–1; Roman 5, 7, 9, 12, 222; as situational 139, 144–6, 160–1; Socratic 176, 181; timing of 19, 113, 138–9, 150, 154–7; using numbers (Pythagorean) 141–2; see also cleromancy; child–divination; extispicy; haruspicy; oneiromancy; oracle(s) divine assistance 18–19, 84, 89–90, 98, 157, 196 divine authority 33, 38, 51–2 divine foreknowledge 21, 248, 251, 254, 256, 258 divine inspiration; see inspiration divine love 53, 70 divine madness 53, 62–4, 197, 283; erotic 53, 75n29, 284, 289n66; mantic 18, 53, 63, 284, 289n66; poetic 18, 53, 63, 70,

284, 289n66; telestic 18, 53, 63–6, 70, 72, 75n29, 284, 289n66 divine mediation 52, 62, 149, 182 divine possession see possession divine providence see providence diviner see seer divine will 10 Dodds, E.R. 270 Dodona 63, 146, 230 Dorotheus of Sidon 116–17, 121–3, 272, 275 Dougherty, Carol 40 dream-divination see oneiromancy dreams 271–2, 54–7, 67, 90, 100, 224, 249, 251; and medicine 111, 113 Driediger-Murphy, Lindsay 4–5, 9–10 Druids 220, 222–3, 226 due measure 19, 139, 140–1, 143, 145, 149, 161 due season 142, 157 Egypt 1, 114, 116, 119, 125, 139, 154–5, 183, 223, 226–7, 232–3, 257 Eidinow, Esther 4–5, 146 elements (fire, earth, air, water) 114, 283 elenchos 15, 52, 54, 64, 68 Empedocles 15, 110 enigmatic communication 33, 36, 44 enigmatic language 30, 41–2 enigmatic mode 34–7, 40, 42–3 enigmatic voice 17, 33, 35–6, 38–40, 44 enthusiasm 53, 55, 65, 69, 175, 227 Epicurus 6, 112 epistemology 2–3, 6, 17–19, 41, 154, 160, 177, 186, 223, 235 eristics 57 eros 59, 64, 66, 155 ethics 141, 177–8, 184 ethnic clichés 235, 236n4 ethnic markers 222 ethnography 219, 223–4, 230, 234, 236; ethnographic discourse 3, 20–1, 222, 236; ethnographic writing 218 Eunapius 16, 154, 159–60 Euripides 68, 196–7; Trojan Women 50, 52 Euthyphro 52 Evans, Nancy 64, 66 Evans-Pritchard, Edward 12–13 examination 18, 42, 53, 55–6, 58, 61, 92, 146 expertise 16–17, 19–20, 153, 159–60, 201, 222

298

Index

extispicy 1, 12, 93, 140, 142, 146, 149, 225; see also haruspicy fate 33, 117, 148, 197, 270, 272–4, 277, 282 Firmicus Maternus 272, 275, 278 Flower, Michael Attyah 5, 30, 195–7 Fontenrose, Joseph 9, 35, 37–8 foreign societies 21, 40, 218, 220, 222–3, 231, 234, 236 Forms 54–5, 178 Foucault, Michael 6 Fraser, P.M. 270 Galen 19, 109, 111, 121, 202; On Critical Days 114, 118–20 Gauls 220, 222–3, 225–6, 229 gender 7, 16, 230 gender(ed) bias(es) 20, 194, 198, 203–6 generation 179, 182–3, 274–6, 279 Germans 221, 229–30, 233 goat 138, 151–2, 154 gods 8, 10–11, 30, 33, 36–7, 39, 43, 63–4, 85–90, 98–100, 113, 126, 150, 155–8, 234–5, 282; goddesses 15, 30, 85, 155; guardian 21, 157, 159–60, 249, 251, 275, 280; Olympian 276, 280; planetary 21, 272–3, 275–81, 284 good (Good)/ goodness 8, 18–19, 52, 54, 56–60, 72, 141–3, 149, 184 Gould, John 39 Greece 2–3, 5, 36, 39, 84, 93, 110, 229 Greek culture 17, 19, 93, 139–40, 143, 145, 149, 161, 203 Greek Magical Papyri; see Papyri Graecae Magicae (PGM) Greek religion; see religion Greek warfare 85, 102n13 Greenbaum, Dorian Gieseler 19, 109, 114–15, 148, 156 Gymnosophists 226, 235 Habinek, Thomas 6 Hadrian (emperor) 114 Hankinson, R.J. 6 harmony 141, 147, 178, 197, 199, 274–5, 282, 284; of the spheres 21, 283 haruspicy 1–2, 223; see also extispicy Helios 280, 284 Hephaestio of Thebes 116, 121, 148 Heraclides Ponticus (Heraclides of Pontus) 13, 110, 202, 228

Heraclitus 63 Hermes (god) 143, 146, 275, 284 Hermes (pseudepigraphical author) 120 Herodotus 10, 34, 36, 85, 91–2, 195, 197–8, 220, 228, 230 Hesiod 141, 175; Works and Days 140, 142, 145 Hierocles of Alexandria 273 hierogamy (sacred marriage) 182, 200 Hippocrates (Hippocratic medicine, writers) 19, 110, 112, 114, 118, 202; apocryphal letter of 110; Regimen IV (De victu) 111 Hippocratic triangle 121, 125 Holbraad, Martin 91 Homer 21, 68, 110, 140–1, 250–1, 276, 281–2 human effort 18–19, 84, 88–90, 98, 143, 150 human understanding 98, 109, 150 humours see black bile, blood, phlegm, yellow bile hysteria 20, 194, 197, 201–3, 205 Iamblichus 7, 13–14, 21, 112, 116, 139, 154–6, 158–60, 185–6, 256–7, 271, 273–79, 282–3; De Mysteriis (On the Mysteries) 13, 185, 256, 273; De Vita Pythagorica (On the Pythagorean Way of Life) 138, 141, 146 iatromantis see Apollo, as iatromantis Iatromathematika (Hermetic text) 116, 120 iatromathematics see astrology, medical illumination 176, 182 incubation see medicine, incubation and initiation 53, 63, 65–6, 70, 277, 282–3 insight 7, 9–11, 14–15, 41–2, 44, 54, 116, 159, 256 inspiration 2, 14, 18, 20, 51–3, 66, 68, 151–2, 154, 157, 175–6, 178, 180–1, 183–6, 275, 277, 283–4 inspired voice 5, 20, 35–9 intelligence 11, 61, 85, 98, 182, 185, 187, 253 interpretation 9–10, 12, 17, 21, 34, 36, 38–9, 41, 54, 56, 67, 86, 91, 93, 96, 100, 111, 115–17, 121, 123–5, 221, 272, 280–2 intuition 7, 14, 55, 57, 63, 93 Ion 68, 143, 196 Iriarte, Ana 174

Index 299 irrationality 3–4, 7, 11, 18, 55, 72, 84, 86, 97, 109, 160, 174–6, 180–1, 183–6, 270–1, 274–5, 282–3 Isis 182–3 John Chrysostom 20, 194, 200, 202, 205 Johnston, Sarah Iles 5 Julian the Chaldean 258 Julian the Theurgist 258 Jupiter (god) 280–1 Jupiter (planet) 114–15, 275, 278–81 justice 58, 72, 141, 251, 273 Juvenal 117 kairos (concept) 19, 138–50; and medicine 19, 148; Hippocrates and 112, 117–18; and ritual 147–8, 150, 152–60, 276 Kairos (god) 143–4, 146, 161 kairotic time see time katarchic astrology (katarchê) 19, 109, 112–13, 116–18, 120–1, 147–48, 154, 156, 272, 276; decumbiture(s) 19, 109–10, 112, 114–21, 123–6, 147, 272; elections 116–17, 121, 126, 147, 272; events 116–17, 121, 147, 272; interrogations 116–17, 125, 147, 272 Keller, Mary 20, 186 Kindt, Julia 17, 30, 43 kleromancy see cleromancy knowledge 3, 41–2, 84–88, 93, 99–100, 113, 126, 139–40, 145, 147, 149, 157–8, 175, 178, 270–3; cosmic 10, 12, 14; divine 11, 19, 31, 33, 36, 42, 157, 160, 181, 250, 254, 259, 275; human 10–11, 17, 19, 33, 43–4, 153,178; intuitive 54–5; knowledge-ordering 5–6, 17, 20–1, 218–19, 226–7, 232–3, 235–6; limits of 11, 17, 44, 219–20, 236; non–discursive 54–5, 57, 60, 62–3, 68–9; and power 6, 17, 20, 117, 181–6; prophetic 181–2, 201, 258; self–knowledge 9, 42, 277, 282; surplus knowing 7, 14 König, Jason 6 Kristeva, Julia 183 Lampinen, Antti 20, 218 Lamprias 151–3, 180, 184 Lawrence, Marilynn 21, 270 Layne, Danielle 18, 50 Leo (astrological sign) 112, 119, 227 learning 11, 43, 150, 156–60, 272

Libra (astrological sign) 112, 119 liver 93, 96–7, 254, 272 Locrus 40 logic 15, 19, 91, 149, 157, 160–1, 223, 270, 274 Lot of Fortune (astrological point) 115, 117 Lower Midheaven, see Underground (astrological place) Lucan 194, 199, 201–3, 205; Pharsalia 20, 199, 201 Lucian 229; Alexander the False Prophet 228; Zeus Rants 37–8 Lydians 233 Lysias 57–60, 69, 71 Magi 220, 223–4, 226, 228, 231, 233, 252 magic 226, 252, 255, 257–9, 270, 272–3 Manetti, Giovanni 34, 43, 110 Manilius 117, 280; Astronomica 6 mania 197, 283; see also divine madness mantis see seer Mars (planet) 115, 275, 277–9 mathematics 147, 272, 279 matter 154–5, 174, 178–82, 184 Maurizio, Lisa 17, 36, 40, 153, 174, 196–8 Maximus of Ephesus 121 Maximus of Tyre 230, 249 mediation triple 43 medical astrology see astrology, medical medicine: ancient Greek 109–10; astrology and 19, 109–16, 119–20, 125–6, 148; astronomy and 113–14, 119–20; divination and 3, 19, 109–13, 126; incantations and 110, 252; incubation and 111; purifications and 110 melancholic (humour and temperament) 114 melothesia 114 Mercury (planet) 115, 275, 279 Mesopotamia 1, 5, 114, 227 microcosm and macrocosm 8, 111, 113 Middle Platonism 13, 138, 174–5, 179, 235, 273 Midheaven (astrological) 115, 123–5 mind 11, 61–2, 67, 87, 141, 175, 197, 256, 275 misinterpretation 17, 30, 34, 36, 41–2 misology (hatred of reason) 52, 57–8 moderation 11, 19, 140, 143, 145, 149, 161, 178, 277

300

Index

Momus 37–8 Moon 111, 113–15, 119–21, 124, 181, 221, 273, 275–6, 279–80, 284 moral conduct 14, 143, 146 Moreschini, Claudio 253–4 Morgan, Kathryn 54 motile logic 91 mouth 199–200, 202–3 music 21, 55, 67, 271, 279, 281, 283–4 mystagogue 64–6, 69–71, 73 mystery cult 21, 53–4, 271, 282–2; Eleusinian mysteries 59, 64–6 myth of Er 254–5 nature 8, 182, 187, 256, 272–5, 277–80, 282 Nemesius 273 Neoplatonism 157, 160, 270–1, 276–7, 281, 283 Nicander 153, 228 Numenius of Apamea 235 Odysseus 52–3 Olympiodorus 257, 272, 274 omen(s), omen-reading 1, 8, 16, 30, 84–90, 94–8, 138, 146–7, 149, 151–4, 160, 201, 221–2, 224–5, 230, 234, 272 oneiromancy 1, 13, 111, 228, 271, 281 oracle(s) 1–2, 9–10, 13–14, 30, 36–7, 39–44, 54–7, 145–7, 149–53, 159, 228, 230, 232, 235, 254; at Claros see Claros; at Delphi see Delphic oracle; at Didyma 10, 146, 151, 230; at Dodona; see Dodona; of Fortuna at Praeneste 151; of Glykon at Abonoteichos 229; and medicine 110; oracle–testing 33, 37, 43; of Trophonius 235 oracular communication 17, 33, 39, 44 oracular consultation 4, 138–9, 150–3, 155, 160, 201 oracular epistemology 17–18, 41 oracular knowledge 4, 44, 253–4 Orestes 32, 92, 140 Origen 20, 194, 200, 202–3, 205, 235 ornithomancy 1, 8, 12, 31, 84–5, 90, 93, 100, 144, 220, 222, 230, 249, 271–2 Osiris 182–3 Pancharios 120; Epitome 120 Papyri Graecae Magicae (PGM) 257, 276 Parke, Herbert 34, 153, 174

Parker, Robert 10, 87, 90 Parmenides 14–15 Pausanias 42, 86, 143, 146, 229 Pedrucci, Guilia 20, 194, 204 Peek, Philip 2–3, 90 performative efficacy 91, 100 Persia 84–6, 94, 223, 228, 231, 233 Persian wars 91 Petosiris (pseudepigraphical author) 120 Phaedrus 18–21, 53, 57, 60–62, 64–72, 75–9, 271, 273, 280, 283–4 Philo of Alexandria 111 philosophy 3, 6, 8, 13–19, 21, 50, 52–3, 55–6, 58–62, 64, 67, 69–70, 71, 74–5, 77, 84, 127, 138–9, 141, 153, 161–2, 174, 181, 187–8, 222–3, 231–2, 248, 251, 263, 283, 287; as cultivation of one’s daimōn 21, 251; philosophical activity 13, 53, 56; philosophical conversation 15, 53, 59, 157; philosophical discourse 14, 156, 160 phlegm, phlegmatic (humour and temperament) 114 Phoenicians 227, 233 piety 18, 20, 23, 53, 85, 90, 231–2, 271 pinax, pinakes, see astrological boards Pindar 77n38, 110 Pisano, Carmine 199 Pittacus 143, 145 planets 1, 12, 114–5, 119, 121, 125–6, 271–9, 280–4, 287–8 planning 18, 84, 89–90, 93, 97–8 Plato 7, 13–18, 20, 25, 42, 46, 50–75, 78–9, 103, 110–112, 141–2, 149, 156, 159, 162–4, 166–7, 168, 175–184, 195–200, 248–252, 254–5, 271–5, 277, 279, 283–4, 289, 294; Alcibiades I 156, 277; Apology 15, 51, 55, 57, 62–3, 85, 175, 195, 248, 252, 258, 262; Euthyphro 52, 56; Ion 62, 67–8, 196, 200, 283; Laws 142, 177; Meno 57–8, 76n32; Phaedo 50, 54–9, 62, 64, 72, 183; Phaedrus 18, 21, 53, 55, 57, 60, 62–72, 175, 197, 271, 273, 280, 283–4; Philebus 149; Republic 52, 58, 254–5, 271, 273, 283; Seventh Letter 61–2; Symposium 18, 53, 55, 59, 62, 64, 66, 72, 250, 252; Timaeus 20–1, 110, 177–84, 250, 254, 271, 273, 279–80, 283 Platonists, Platonism 6, 14, 157, 160, 167–8, 270–1, 276–7, 281, 283; Middle 174, 259, 270, 273

Index 301 Pliny the Elder 114, 203 Plotinus 270, 272–3, 276, 288, 14, 141–2, 167 Plutarch 13, 17–20, 35, 138–9, 145, 150–6, 174–87, 194–99, 201–5, 249, 253; Delphic Dialogues 6, 13, 175, 177, 181, 186, 195; The E at Delphi 195; Obsolescence of Oracles 138, 175, 179–82, 184, 195; On the generation of the soul in the Timaeus 177, 179–80; On Isis and Osiris 177, 182–3; On moral virtue 177; On the Sign of Socrates 175, 181; The Oracles at Delphi no longer given in verse 179–80, 195, 199, 253–4 pneuma 112, 175, 180, 184–5, 256 poetry 17–19, 53, 55, 63, 66–70, 196–7, 204, 281–3 Porphyry 21, 232, 256–7, 274; On Abstinence 232; Introduction to Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos 273; Letter to Anebo 13, 256, 273; Life of Plotinus 14; Philosophy from Oracles 14, 232 Posidippus 143, 163n28 Posidonius 6–7, 13–14, 111 possession 174, 199, 254, 263, 283 practicality 18, 85 prediction 1–3, 30, 32, 34–9, 40–1, 44, 50, 54, 90–1, 115, 271, 275 pregnancy 199, 202–5, 210n36 preparation 21, 90, 165n67, 166n71, 176, 181, 277 Price, Simon 153, 174 primitivism 229–30, 239n49 Pritchett, W. Kendrick 85–6 Proclus 21, 141–2, 155–60, 249, 255, 271, 274, 278–84; Commentary on Plato’s First Alcibiades 249; Platonic Theology 280, 289n52 Propertius 117 prophecy 18, 23, 34, 36, 38, 41, 50–1, 53, 63, 67, 92, 110, 174–5, 177–8, 181, 183, 198–9, 201, 220, 259 proportion 97, 139–41, 178, 283 providence 8, 19, 142, 157, 159, 184, 239n62, 273 Psellus, Michael 258 Pseudo-Anastasius of Sinai 258 Pseudo-Galen, Prognostications concerning Decumbiture from the Mathematical Science 114, 120 Pseudo-Longinus 194, 198, 199, 201, 203, 205, 282–3

Pseudo-Plutarch 273 Ptolemy 109, 115–16, 148, 227, 272–3, 275, 278–9, 287; Tetrabiblos 162, 273, 277 purification 63–5, 71, 75n30, 110, 156, 277–8, 280, 289n55 purity 154, 180–1, 198, 254 Pythagoras 141–2, 146, 156, 164n36, 289n58 Pythagorean(s) 141–3, 175, 250, 271, 278, 283 Pythia 177, 179, 181, 186, 253; agency of 23; body of 199–200, 203; as calm 174; as frenzied 174; purity of 180–1, 198; ritual expertise of 153, 159–60, 201; ritual knowledge of 181–2, 201; sexualisation of 20, 194, 198–202, 205; voice of 20, 23n19, 138, 153, 194, 199–202, 205 Qītrinūs the Sadwālī 121, 123 qualities (hot, cold, wet, dry) 114, 119, 166, 179, 181–2, 223, 228, 272, 276, 280 questioning 11, 52, 56, 61, 78, 177 Raphals, Lisa 3, 5–6, 8, 110, 146 rationality 4, 7, 14, 18, 59, 72, 84, 110, 126–7, 160, 174, 176, 178, 180, 182, 187, 235, 270, 281, 284 reason 11, 14, 16, 18, 20, 34, 43–4, 50–62, 67, 69–70, 73, 86, 88, 94–7, 99–100, 111, 117, 120, 123, 152, 154, 156, 178, 180, 182, 235, 237, 263, 270, 275, 282, 283; as service to the divine 18 reasoning 18, 51–2, 54, 57–9, 60, 69, 73, 95–99, 254, 275, 282; reflective 99; relational 97 receptacle 155, 179, 181, 183, 186, 277 receptivity 20, 152, 155–6, 158, 176, 180, 182, 185–6, 277–8 recollection 54–5, 76n32, 77n38, 158, 283 reincarnation 158, 167n81 religion: ancient 1; Egyptian 139; Greek 39, 44, 100; Roman 7, 147, 150, 224 religious ‘other’ 218, 222–6, 231, 236 remote viewing 16 resistance 180, 182 rhapsode 67–8, 282 ritual 1, 3, 6–9, 12, 14, 19, 21, 94, 138–40, 145, 158–61, 180, 185, 201–2, 220–2, 225, 229, 252–8, 276–7, 281,

302

Index

284; geography of 236; as manipulation 3–4, 86, 224, 226; as a shorthand 228, 236, 236n1; subaltern ritual life 220, 233, 240n63; timing and 19, 112–3, 138–40, 146, 150–5, 201 Roman culture 1–3, 6, 16, 144, 149–150, 204 Roman religion see religion Rome 3, 5, 36, 204, 208, 224 Rüpke, Jorge 147 Sabbatucci, Dario 177 sacrifice 85–7, 90, 93–8, 113, 144, 147–8, 151, 222, 225, 233, 249 sanguine (humour and temperament) 114 Saturn (planet) 114–15, 227, 275, 277, 278–9, 281 Scorpio (astrological sign) 119 Scythians 234 Second Sophistic 43, 229–30 seer 3, 5, 10, 16, 42, 52, 68, 90, 110, 147, 220–1, 224, 227, 234 Serapion 120–1 Seven Sages 9, 140–1, 143, 145; see also Chilon of Sparta; Pittacus sexuality 20, 194, 204, 206, 211n41 Shaw, Rosalind 90–1 signification 8, 139, 153; polyvalent 12; symbolic 12 signs 1–2, 10, 12, 54, 63, 90, 93–6, 99–100, 109, 111–15, 120, 124–5, 139, 144, 146–7, 152, 156, 176, 201, 205, 220, 225, 234, 251, 272, 274–6, 280 Simmias 58, 60 Simonetti, Elsa 6, 13, 20, 139, 154, 174, 181 Simplicius 274 Sissa, Giulia 198, 203 Smith, Andrew 277 Socrates 10–11, 15–16, 18–19, 42, 50–73, 85, 150, 156; as an agent of providence 159; daimonion or divine sign of 15, 21, 54, 73n9, 85, 101n3, 157–9; guardian or personal daimōn of 21, 157, 159–60, 249, 251; as servant of Apollo 56; way of life of 52–3, 56–7, 59–60, 62 sophist 51–2, 56–8, 64, 162n8, 249 Sosipatra 16, 19, 153, 159–160, 167n88, 168n89 soul 53, 59, 61–5, 68–72, 151–2, 155–8,

271, 274–6, 280–4; human soul as a daimōn 250, 254, 262n26; irrational 175, 180–1, 185; prophetic 63, 181, 184–5; rational 21, 185; see also transmigration of souls stars 12, 113, 238n28, 271–5, 280, 284n3 statue(s): healing powers of 110; of Kairos by Lysippos 143–4, 163n28 stereotype(s): ethnic 227–9, 231–2, 234; gendered 202, 204–5 stochastic arts 109, 140, 148 Stoics 112, 154, 179, 273; Stoic cosmology 127n11; Stoicism 111 story-telling 5, 35–6, 39, 45n12 Strabo 224–5 Struck, Peter 5–6, 14, 53–5, 60, 62, 68, 282 sublime 21, 175, 186, 279, 281–3, 289n51 Suda 31, 33, 41 suitability 152, 155–6, 158 sumpatheia see sympathy Sun 112–15, 118, 120, 124, 181, 199, 227, 258, 275–7, 279–80 supra-rationality 14, 271, 283 symbols 155, 271–2, 274, 277, 281–3 symmetry 147, 178, 270, 275, 278–9, 284 sympathy (sympatheia) 8, 61, 111–13, 120, 155, 270, 275 synchronicity 158–60 Tacitus 220–1, 226, 229–30 Taurus (astrological sign) 112, 119 teacher/teaching 14, 62, 70–71, 76, 146, 156, 160, 157–9, 252 telestic see divine madness temperament see choleric; melancholic; phlegmatic; sanguine temporality 19, 149,160–1, 164n49; see also time Tertullian 228, 257 Thallus 252–3 Theodosius I 44 theurgy 6, 13, 21, 39, 139, 154–5, 160, 166, 257–9, 263, 270–1, 273–4, 276–7, 279, 281, 284 Thracians 220, 234 Thrasymachus 52–3 Thucydides 84, 143, 198 time: ancient conception of: 139–40, 149–50; and duration 149, 161; as homogenous 149, 161; kairotic 19, 146, 148, 156–7, 160–1, 164n51; modern conceptions of 149–50;

Index 303 optimal timing 19, 140, 149–50, 161, 164n51; as qualitative 19, 149–50, 161; as quantitative 149, 161; timeliness 19, 149–50, 161, 164n61 tokens 155, 167n76 transmigration of souls 158, 167n81; see also reincarnation truth 5–7, 15, 33, 52, 57–8, 74, 88, 90–1, 99–100, 200, 231–2, 235, 256–7, 274–5, 279, 282, 284, 287 Turin relief (of Kairos) 143–4, 163n27 Tynnichus 67–9 uncertainty 5, 10–11, 39, 41, 44, 100, 251 Underground (astrological place) 115, 123, 125 Ustinova, Yulia 5 vagina 199, 203, 210n36 Veleda 230, 237n14 Valerius Maximus 45n4 Venus (planet) 112, 115, 227, 275, 279 Vernant, Jean-Pierre 2, 4–5, 8, 43 Vettius Valens 158, 172, 257, 278, 112, 116–17, 121, 147–8 virginity, virgin 175, 195–6, 198, 201–4, 254 virtue (aretē) 14, 51, 54, 57, 60, 66, 70, 149, 158–9, 177, 182, 184, 186, 250–1, 253, 284

Vlastos, Gregory 51 Whitmarsh, Tim 6, 234 wisdom 9, 51, 55–6, 61, 63, 68, 70, 73, 140, 220, 222, 228, 231–2, 234, 42; characterised as ‘alien’ or ‘barbarian’ 219, 226, 232; divine 10, 51; human 52, 56, 63, 68 womb 202–3, 209n28 women 15,17, 20, 50, 52, 195, 202–6, 221, 230; holy women 221, 230, 237n14; old women 202, 204–5 Wormell, Donald 34, 153, 174 Xanthippe 58, 60 Xenocrates 175, 249, 260n9 Xenophon 10–11, 18, 84, 91, 93, 95, 146–7, 150, 198; Anabasis 84, 86, 88, 94, 97; Apology of Socrates 85; Cavalry Commander 18, 85, 88–90, 98–9; Hellenica 84, 96–7; Memorabilia 85, 98–9 yellow bile (humour) 114 Zalmoxis 234 Zande 12 Zeitlyn, David 100 Zeus 16, 65–6, 143, 165n56, 230, 281 Zoroaster 228