Ancient Magic: Then and Now 3515127968, 9783515127967

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Ancient Magic Then and Now Edited by Attilio Mastrocinque, Joseph E. Sanzo and Marianna Scapini

Ancient History Franz Steiner Verlag

Potsdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge

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Potsdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge Herausgegeben von Pedro Barceló (Potsdam), Peter Riemer (Saarbrücken), Jörg Rüpke (Erfurt) und John Scheid (Paris) Band 74

Ancient Magic Then and Now Edited by Attilio Mastrocinque, Joseph E. Sanzo and Marianna Scapini

Franz Steiner Verlag

Das Kolleg „Magic in the Ancient World – New Perspectives“ wurde unterstützt durch die Alexander von Humboldt-Stiftung

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2020 Druck: Druckerei Steinmeier GmbH & Co. KG, Deiningen Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISBN 978-3-515-12796-7 (Print) ISBN 978-3-515-12797-4 (E-Book)

CONTENTS Giacomo De Angelis Preface .......................................................................................................................

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Hans-Christian Günther Foreword ................................................................................................................... 15 Marianna Scapini and Joseph E. Sanzo Introduction............................................................................................................... 19 SECTION 1. MAGIC AS A CATEGORY: VOICES FROM THE PAST, VOICES FROM THE PRESENT ......................... 25 Joseph E. Sanzo Deconstructing the Deconstructionists: A Response to Recent Criticisms of the Rubric “Ancient Magic”........................ 27 Antón Alvar Nuño, Jaime Alvar Ezquerra “Pure Magic” and its Taxonomic Value ................................................................. 49 Orietta D. Cordovana Pliny the Elder between Magic and Medcine ......................................................... 63 SECTION 2. INTERPRETING MAGICAL TEXTS AND OBJECTS .............. 81 Silvia Salin Anti-Witchcraft Rituals Against Depression in Assyro-Babylonian Therapeutic Texts.................................................................... 83 Attilio Mastrocinque A Lamella from Vinkovci (Croatia) and the Jewish Necromancy ........................ 97 Celia Sánchez Natalías Seth in the Fountain of Anna Perenna? A New Interpretation of the Container.................................................................... 113

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Contents

Francisco Marco Simón Domino Neptuno corulo pare(n)tatur: Magic and Law in the Romano-Celtic world ......................................................... 123 Francesca Diosono Lamps as Ritual and “Magical” Objects in Archaeological Contexts .................. 139 Juan Ramón Carbó García Magia y cultos “orientales” en la Dacia romana .................................................... 159 Véronique Dasen Play with Fate ........................................................................................................... 173 Christopher A. Faraone The Use of Divine Images in the Dream-Divination Recipes of the Greek Magical Papyri...................................................................... 193 Emilio Suárez de la Torre Women as Users of Erotic Spells: Evidence Provided by Papyri and Defixiones ........................................................ 211 Isabel Canzobre Martínez Remarks on the Categorisation of the Divine in the PGM .................................... 233 Miriam Blanco Cesteros The Paradox of a “Magical Hymn”: Reviewing the Poetic Compositions of the Greek Magical Papyri............................................................ 257 Giulia Pedrucci On the Use of Breast Milk and Menstrual Blood in the Greek and Roman Worlds ........................................................................................ 287 Aurelio Pérez-Jiménez Importancia de la oposición derecha/izquierda en la magia y la astrología ......... 315 SECTION 3. THE TRANSMISSION OF ANCIENT MAGIC .......................... 333 Franco Ferrari Filosofia e teurgia negli Oracoli Caldaici ............................................................... 335 Laura Mecella Guerra e magia nei Cesti di Giulio Africano .......................................................... 349

Contents

Raquel Martín Hernández The Transmission of the Sortes Homericae. A Papyrological Approach to the Texts .................................................................. 375 Salvatore Costanza Dottrina magica nei manuali divinatori greci, bizantini e metabizantini ................................................................................ 387 Marina Foschi Albert Magic Potions, Homeric Cunning and Jason’s Charm: Magic Motifs in Gottfried von Strassburg’s Middle High German version of the Tristan Legend .................................................................................. 405 Tiziano Dorandi Considerazioni sull’ecdotica dei testi magici antichi alla luce del PLeid. J 395 (PGM XIII) ................................................................................... 415 Carlo Martino Lucarini La prima apparizione di Circe nella letteratura greca e il fantasma dell’epos argonautico pre-odissiaco .................................................. 425

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PREFACE Giacomo de Angelis,* INFN (Istituto Italiano di Fisica Nucleare) As President of the Alexander von Humboldt Italian Association, I was extremely glad to open the Humboldt Kolleg “Magic in the Ancient World‒New Perspectives” held at the “Accademia di studi italo-tedeschi ‒ Akademie deutsch-italienischer Studien” in Meran (BZ, Italy) on 27th‒29th October 2016. Ancient Magic: Then and Now represents a remarkable result of that event. Both the conference and the editorial process which led to this book were funded by the Alexander von Humboldt Stiftung. We strongly hope that this joint effort may contribute to the scholarly debate around the phenomenon “magic” in the ancient world. I take this opportunity to outline a historical overview regarding the evolution, from the Renaissance, of the relationship between what nowadays, in our society, we tend to label generically as “magic” and what we consider to be “science.” As a nuclear physicist, I believe my perspective may be of interest, being in some way complementary to the point of view of the Humanities scholars who have contributed to this volume. Magic has often been caricatured as a power to influence events by using mysterious and supernatural forces. The term derives from the Greek word µαγεία, meaning the art of the Magi (µάγοι). These individuals were originally priests in Ancient Persia. By contrast, science is typically said to constitute a systematic enterprise that builds and organises knowledge in the form of verifiable explanation and predictions about the universe. Accordingly, magic and Science are seen today as opposites. Magic is often seen as a realm of mysticism and as a violation of scientific law. Science is seen in a realm of matter and technology. These two realms are often viewed as eternal opposites. This was not so in the past and in many cases ideas from magic or metaphysical beliefs helped science extend the laws of physics into new contests. Natural Magic, in the context of Renaissance magic, is the part of the occult which deals directly with natural forces. Ceremonial Magic, on the other hand, deals with the summoning of spirits. Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa used this term in de vanitate in 1526. In 1556 Giovan Battista della Porta published his Magia Naturalis (Natural Magic) in Naples. The twenty books include observations on geology, optics, medicines, poisons, cooking, metallurgy, magnetism, cosmetics, perfumes, gunpowder and invisible writings. Magia Naturalis is a fine example of pre-Baconian science which includes learning from the ancient world in the shape of Pliny the Elder and Theophrastus.

*

President of the Italian Association “Alexander von Humboldt.”

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Fig. 1. Stamps with (left) the only picture of Johan Friederich Böttger. On the right its seal.

Defined as such, therefore, magic included astrology, alchemy and disciplines which today would be considered fields of natural science. The modern sciences of botany, astronomy and chemistry derived from Natural Magic, herbology, astrology and alchemy.

Fig. 2. Jar with leaves: Meissen porcelain.

To convert ordinary elements into gold was the dream of all alchemists. The Jung alchemist Johann Friedrich Böttger (1682‒1719) was one of them.1 The King of Saxony, Augustus II of Poland, was always short of money. He demanded Johann Friederich 1

Queiroz, Carlos Araújo, and Simeon Agathopoulos. 2005. “The discovery of European porcelain technology.” Trabalhos de Arqueologia 42: 211–215; Gleeson, Janet. 1999. The Arcanum: the extraordinary true story. New York: Warner Books.

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Böttcher to produce the so-called Goldmachertinktur (gold/maker/tincture) needed to convert base metals into gold. Like all other alchemists his attempt failed. Instead, he discovered another kind of gold, namely the secret of making porcelain. This was prepared from a mixture of kaolin, feldspar and quartz. His discovery was the base for Meissen porcelain. Porcelain was valued as equal to silver and gold and was even referred as white gold. The Meissen factory, established in 1710, was the first to produce European porcelain in large quantities. The recipe was kept a trade secret by Böttcher for his company. Though Böttcher ran the first porcelain factory in Europe, he was often held prisoner, lest his secret be betrayed. In the end the honour of running the Meissen factory was taken away because of his immoral ways. He died in Dresden on March 13th 1719, in extreme poverty, after returning to alchemy.

Fig. 3. A ship of the Duch East Indies.

The metaphysical belief that a basic force (Urkraft) is at the origins of matter is the principle that guided the work of Julius Robert Mayer.2 Mayer was a medical doctor born in Heilbronn, Germany. He was employed as ship’s doctor on a vessel bound for the tropics. Shortly after reaching the Dutch East Indies, some of the sailors fell ill. Mayer’s treatment included bloodletting. He was amazed to find that the sailors’ venous blood was bright red, almost the same colour as arterial blood. Back in Europe venous blood was much darker. Mayer knew that the body’s use of food, at least in part, amounted to burning it in a controlled way to supply the body with warmth. The darker venous blood, containing ashes, was then delivered to the lungs and expelled as carbon dioxide. Since less food was needed to burn to keep warm in the tropics, he concluded that that was the reason for the lighter coloured blood. Mayer understood the sequence: a chemical reaction produces heat and work and that work then produces a definite amount of heat. Motion and heat had the same ontological status, each as a different manifestation of a single “Urkraft.” The causal relation between forces only 2

Schmolz, Helmut, and Hubert Weckbach. 1964. Robert Mayer. Sein Leben und Werk in Dokumenten. Heilbronn: Veröffentlichungen des Archivs der Stadt Heilbronn.

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implied their indestructibility and transformability, not the reducibility of one to the other. He did not speculate on the nature of the “Urkraft”; this force possessed the property of substantiality, but this did not grant it the status of material entity.

Fig. 4. Monument to Robert Mayer in Heilbronn.

In the first paragraph of his “On the quantitative and qualitative determination of forces,” Mayer writes, “[W]e can derive all phenomena from a primitive force that tends to annihilate the existing differences, to unite everything that exists into a homogeneus mass in a mathematical point.”3 Based on this somewhat mystic idea Mayer reached the statement he made on the conservation of energy in the global meaning that we have today. Mayer was aware of the importance of his discovery, but his inability to express himself scientifically led to a degrading speculation and resistance from the scientific establishment. Contemporary physicists rejected his principle of the conservation of energy; even acclaimed physicists like Hermann von Helmholtz and James Prescott Joule viewed his ideas with hostility. In 1848 two of his children died in rapid succession. Mayer’s mental health deteriorated. He attempted suicide on May 18th, 1850 and was committed to a mental asylum. On his release in 1860, a broken man, he gingerly re-entered public life. In the 3

von Mayer, Robert. 1889. Über die Erhaltung der Energie. Briefe an Wilhelm Griesinger nebst dessen Antwortschreiben aus den Jahren 1842–1845. Berlin: Gebrüder Paetel.

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meantime, though, his scientific renown had grown. He received belated scientific acknowledgement for his achievements. Perhaps, though, it was too late for him to be able to enjoy it. With these two examples, on behalf of the Italian Humboldt Association, I wish to express my faith in the progress of knowledge and in the scientific effort. And, once again, I hope that the studies included in this volume may provide fresh insight into the modern debate centred on ancient magic.

FOREWORD Hans-Christian Günther,* University of Freiburg Dass Religion und Magie miteinander verwandt sind und einander zum Teil stark überlappen, ist offenkundig. Ebenso offenkundig ist es, dass etablierte Religionen in durchaus verschiedenen Epochen zumindest der europäischen Kultur magische Praktiken verurteilten und entschieden bekämpft haben. Das ist in anderen Kulturen durchaus anders, und das hängt durchaus nicht nur damit zusammen, dass dies bei monotheistischen Offenbarungsreligionen mit Alleingültigkeitsanspruch unmittelbar verständlich ist, auch religiös restaurative Regime der Antike – notorisches Beispiel das des Augustus – standen magischen Praktiken feindlich gegenüber. Es lohnt sich, bevor man hier allzu vorschnell eine Erklärung gibt, die sich durchaus unmittelbar aufdrängen mag, den beiden Phänomenen etwas näher nachzugehen. Nun, dazu sollte man vielleicht mit einer Klärung der Terminologie beginnen. Im Falle Magie ist dies etwas einfacher. Unter Magie verstehe ich Praktiken, Geschehnisse auszulösen, die jenseits des alltäglich durch menschliche Einwirkung Erreichbaren liegen. Es sind somit automatisch Praktiken, die nur von Personen mit besonderen, ‘übermenschlichen’ Fähigkeiten bewirkt werden können. Dies sind nicht Fähigkeiten, die sich – jedenfalls theoretisch – jeder durch das Erlernen im Alltag gewöhnlich angewendeter Techniken aneignen kann: es sind esoterische Fähigkeiten, die ebenso wie die bewirkten Geschehnisse jenseits des als gewöhnlich Menschlich Angesehenen liegen. Religion ist ein äußert schwieriger, bis heute nicht befriedigend geklärter Begriff. Letztendlich ist er auf die zahlreichen Phänomene nicht-europäischer Kulturen nur anwendbar, da er bereits durch seine Übertragung von der paganen römischen religio auf das Christentum jeglichen präzisen Sinns entleert wurde, insofern das nun derart bezeichnete Christentum so ungefähr das diametrale Gegenteil zu paganer römischer religio darstellt.1 Die Phänomene, die wir heute in europäischen Sprachen als Religion bezeichnen, sind so verschieden, dass es eigentlich besser wäre, das Wort Religion gar nicht dafür zu verwenden. Denn dieses dem europäischen Sprachraum entstammende Wort bringt in seiner gemeinsprachlichen Verwendung Konnotationen mit sich, die auf die Mehrzahl der mit Religion bezeichneten Phänomenen, einschließlich der antiken Paganen Religion nichts zu tun haben. Insbesondere sollten Wörter wie ‘glauben an’ ferngehalten werden. Nun verwenden wir freilich dieses Wort Religion, ein anderes existiert nicht. Eine voll befriedigende systematische Untersuchung der Religion genannten Phänomene * Promoter of the Conference “Magic in the Ancient World ‒ New Perspectives,” Meran (BZ, Italy), 27th–29 th October 2016. 1 S. Günther in: Yousefi, H.R./ Seubert, H. (eds.), Toleranz im Weltkontext (Wiesbaden 2013) 257f.

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liegt nicht vor, freilich gibt es eine durchaus beachtliche Zahl guter alter und moderner Untersuchungen. Ich möchte es hier vorläufig einmal mit folgender Beschreibung von Religion versuchen: die Religion betrifft unseren Bezug zum Ganzen unserer Lebenswelt. Modern naturwissenschaftlich ausgedrückt könnte man sagen: das menschliche Gehirn ist so beschaffen, dass wir stets implizit die Frage nach dem Ganzen stellen, obwohl unser Gehirn nicht dazu in der Lage ist, diese Frage zu beantworten. In der Religion begegnet uns dieses Ganze explizit und unmittelbar. Dieses Ganze begegnet uns zunächst als das Fragliche, Unheimliche, Übermächtige, uns Beherrschende und von uns Unbewältigbare. Griechisch gesprochen als das Kreitton oder als deinon. Unser Empfinden ist ein Gefühl der Furcht vor dem Unheimlichen. Die Haltung, durch die wir damit umzugehen versuchen, ist respektvolle Scheu, in der respektvollen Scheu wird das furchtbar Übermächtige zum Heiligen: Übermacht impliziert Distanz, Umgang mit diesem Übermächtigen impliziert Annäherung. Das religiöse impliziert somit Nähe und Ferne zugleicht: das religiöse Gefühl der respektvollen Scheu hält uns in der heiklen Balance von nähernder Entfernung und entfernende Annäherung. Diese Religiosität impliziert zunächst keinerlei Theorie, sie besteht aus einem reinen Set heiliger Handlungen, dem Kult. Diese Religiosität ist vorzüglich apotropäisch und, insofern es dabei um den Umgang mit dem Übermächtigen und unbegreiflichen geht, skeptisch-vorsichtig. Es besteht gerade kein Verhältnis vertrauensvoller Zuwendung. Erst in der philosophischen Ausdeutung oder dem Bezug zu einer schriftlichen, somit expliziten deutbaren göttlichen Offenbarung wird die Frage nach dem Ganzen zur Frage nach dem Sinn des Ganzen. Nur in dieser Form erhebt Religion einen Wahrheitsanspruch, und dieser Wahrheitsanspruch beruht dann – je nach Religion auch je nach Gewichtung – auf dem Verstand oder Glauben im recht verstandenen Sinne. Darauf kann ich hier nicht eingehen. Festzuhalten bleibt jedoch, dass in der Regel – nicht immer! – auch eine derartige Religiosität stets auch heilige Handlungen, zumeist sogar in großem Umfang beinhaltet. Die heilige Handlung ist ja Ursprung des Religiösen und wird zwar in manchen entwickelten Religionsformen stark zurückgedrängt, verschwindet aber nie ganz. Was wir gewohnt sind Religion zu nennen, zeichnet sich zudem dadurch aus, dass es sich in Kultgemeinschaften organisiert. Die Organisation kann dabei lockerer oder straffer sein: jedenfalls ist es einleuchtend, dass sich die vorsichtige Scheu vor dem Unheimlichen den apotropäischen Kulthandlungen kollektiv widmet, da das Kollektiv zugleich Geborgenheit im Angesicht des Furchterregenden bietet und sie zugleich das Kollektiv insgesamt angehen. Die Unberechenbarkeit des Unheimlichen gebietet Abstand! Annäherung ist gefährlich. Sie bedarf besonderer Vorkehrungen. Solche Vorkehrungen beruhen auf dem Althergebrachten. Volle Sicherheit, wie die Reaktion des angegangenen Unheimlichen ausfällt, gibt es nicht. Aber je genauer man das traditionelle Zeremoniell beachtet, desto größer ist die Chance auf Erfolg. Ist somit das Verhältnis des Einzelnen zum Gegenstand Heiliger Handlungen wesentlich von Furcht geprägt, delegiert er gerne seinen Kontakt zu besonders im Umgang mit ihm Kompetenten: in der Religion gibt es somit offiziell dazu Befugte. Der Unbefugte bleibt so passiv wie möglich, hält den gebührenden Abstand.

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Gibt es göttliche Offenbarungsschriften, so ersetzen diese das Althergebrachte, freilich geht letzteres in diese ein. Kommen wir nun zur Magie zurück! Magie versucht mit besonderen Fähigkeiten Dinge zu bewirken, die über das alltägliche Vermögen des Menschen hinausgehen. Kultische Handlungen fallen somit zunächst alle unter Magie, sogar unter Magie im eminentesten Sinne. Auch die vorzüglich zu Kulthandlungen Befugten besitzen Kenntnisse oder Kräfte, die der gewöhnliche Mensch nicht besitzt. Diese Kenntnisse sind jedoch im Gegensatz zu denen des Magie Betreibenden mit einer sozusagen offiziellen Befugnis verbunden. Die Fähigkeit wird durch offizielle Befugnis erworben oder offizielle Belehrung erworben, Magie dagegen beruht auf esoterischer persönlicher Fähigkeit. Mit der privat betriebenen Magie wird somit das Befugnismonopol der offiziellen Kultbefugten in Frage gestellt. Zudem nimmt eine Gemeinschaft, die kultische Handlungen ernst nimmt, auch magische Fähigkeiten in mehr oder minder hohem Maße ernst. Somit entgleitet durch das Betreiben von Magie der Kultgemeinschaft mit ihren offiziell zu kultischen, d.h. magischen Handlungen Befugten, die Kontrolle darüber, dass magische Handlungen nur im von ihr gewünschten Sinne und nur zu Zwecken, die sie für wünschenswert hält, angewendet werden. Religion und Magie haben weitgehend dieselben Wurzeln und Funktionen. Und eben deshalb geraten sie so oft in Konflikt. Religion impliziert kontrollierte, offiziell delegierte Magie. Private Magie fordert somit die institutionalisierte Magie der etablierten Religion heraus. Letztendlich liegt der Grund zu ihrer Ablehnung durch die etablierte Religion in ihrer Unkontrollierbarkeit und der Kollision zwischen privatem und institutionalisiertem Anspruch. Die Lage ist ganz parallel zur Mystik, die sich immer am Rande der Häresie bewegt, weil sie auf eine private, besondere Offenbarung rekurriert. Zuletzt möchte ich noch einmal explizit darauf hinweisen: weder Religion noch Magie impliziert ein Glauben an oder vertrauen auf. Im Gegenteil: eine auf einem set kultischer Handlungen beruhende Religion oder Magie impliziert vorsichtige Skepsis: magische oder kultische Handlungen sind versuche, etwas unkontrollierbares unter Kontrolle zu bringen. Das Ergebnis ist immer ungewiss, die Einschätzung der Wahrscheinlichkeit des Erfolges mag von person zu person variieren. Sicherheit, glaube an ist nicht nur nicht impliziert, ursprünglich ist er geradezu ausgeschlossen. Ich mache einen Sprung: wie steht es mit dem Problem heute? Sind wir heute wirklich klüger als dazumal, als man an Magie glaubte? Nun: manchem wird in meinen Ausführungen aufgestoßen sein, dass ich Religion in einem zentralen Aspekt mit Magie gleichgesetzt habe. Wir unterscheiden gerne zwischen Religion und Aberglauben, zumal heute, wo wir ja selbst als religiöse Menschen, zumindest in Europa aufgeklärt und rational sind. Wie aber steht es in Wirklichkeit damit. Gewiss, es gibt Formen von Religiosität, wo das Wunderbare und magische kaum oder gar keine Rolle spielt. Kaum eine Rolle spielt es im Islam oder dem reformierten Christentum, jedenfalls dem eines Rationalisten wie Calvin. Keine Rolle spielt es in einer hochentwickelten Form des Buddhismus. Es ist freilich bezeichnend, dass diese Form, der japanische Zen-Buddhismus, eine ‘Religion’ der Gebildeten ist. Die buddhistische Religion des ‘kleinen Mannes in Japan beruht ganz auf heiligen Handlungen und die Hal-

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tung des religiösen ist seit der Jesuitenmission Japans zu Recht mit der des christlichen, zumal des protestantisch Gläubigen verglichen worden. Eine – jedenfalls nach Bekenntnis der autoritativen Vertreter dieser Religion – zentrale Rolle spielt das Magische im Katholizismus: dort werden Sexualneurotiker einem Zeremoniell unterzogen, das sie befähigt, Wein in Blut und Brot in Fleisch zu verwandeln, und dieser billige Trick für Kinderpartys scheint eine ganz zentrale Rolle zu spielen. Und daneben gibt es auch heute noch Heilige: und die müssen bekanntlich nachweislich Wunder vollbracht haben. Ich frage mich und jeden Menschen, der bei rechtem Verstand ist: ist es etwas anderes, ist es Aberglaube an Spiritismus, Handauflegen zu glauben, oder zu meinen, man müsse Schwellen mit einem bestimmten Fuß überschreiten, ist das etwas anderes, als an die Transsubstantiation oder die Wunder von Johannes Paul II zu glauben? Und ist es nicht, recht besehen, viel absurder, wenn man für billige Kindertricks hochkomplexe philosophische Erklärungen aus einer Zeit anführt, deren ganzer Wahrheitsbegriff heute völlig irrelevant ist? Begriffe wie Wunder und übernatürliches haben heute schlichtweg keinen Sinn. Es gibt nur erklärbare und bis jetzt nicht erklärbare Phänomene. Wer heute von Wundern, von Mysterien des Glaubens spricht, der steht unter dem einfachen Menschen mit seinem alltäglichen Aberglauben, denn er kaschiert und institutionalisiert Humbug mit pseudophilosophischem Gefasel. Das Verhältnis Aberglaube Religion hat sich heute umgekehrt: offizielle Religionen mit ihren billigen magischen Tricks in einer modernen Gesellschaft sind die absurdeste Form des Aberglaubens und der Magie, die es je gegeben hat. Dagegen ist Vorsicht, die naturwissenschaftlich nicht erklärbare Phänomene nicht sofort abtut, sondern daraufhin prüft, ob hier nicht letztendlich eher ein noch nicht erklärtes Phänomen vorliegen könnte, das, wenn auch noch ohne befriedigende Erklärung, dennoch eine mehr oder weniger große probabilität besitzt, und somit naturwissenschaftlich prüfenswert ist, eminent vernünftig. Es ist vielleicht dem naturwissenschaftlichen Laien heute nicht hinreichend klar, dass die moderne Naturwissenschaft heute – in eklatantem Gegensatz zu der Naturwissenschaft von Newton bis zur ersten Hälfte des letzten Jahrhunderts eine lückenlose Erklärung des Ganzen nicht nur nicht anstreben kann, sonder eine derartige Erklärung geradezu für grundsätzlich unmöglich ansehen muss: je größer der Erkenntnis Fortschritt heute ist, desto klarer ist, dass das Wissen mit jedem Fortschritt immer fragmentarischer wird. Der Grund dafür ist einfach der, dass naturwissenschaftliche Erkenntnis in Bereiche vorgestoßen ist, die unser Gehirn adäquat zu verstehen, nicht in der Lage sein kann, da sie nicht seinen im Laufe der Evolution entwickelten Fähigkeiten entsprechen. Somit sind wir heute, recht besehen, in die Situation des religiösen im Angesicht eines unerklärbaren, übermächtigen ganzen zurückgekehrt ‒ nur in einem reflektierteren Sinne. Vor dem Hintergrund dieser Reflexion ist freilich Magie schlichtweg ein sinnentleerter Begriff: das wunderbare gibt es nicht mehr, es ist das noch nicht erklärte, und in vollem Sinne auch nie erklärbare. Dasselbe gilt freilich in noch höherem Maße für metaphysische Religiosität oder für jede Religiosität mit faktischen Wahrheitsanspruch. Sie ist heute schlichtweg sinnlos. Es ist seltsam – oder ich jedenfalls finde es seltsam, dass dies heute von kaum jemanden bedacht oder jedenfalls klar ausgesprochen wird.

INTRODUCTION Marianna Scapini, University of Verona Joseph E. Sanzo, Ca’ Foscari University of Venice Ancient Magic: Then and Now sets its sight on the rubric “ancient magic,” both as an analytical construct and as a domain of historical inquiry and imagination.1 The essays in this volume engage the category “ancient magic” from three partially overlapping perspectives. First, this volume assesses the heuristic value of “magic” as a category of analysis. Second, this volume offers a collection of case studies that together synthesize the most important developments in the study of ancient magic. Indeed, the past decade alone has witnessed a proliferation of books and edited volumes devoted to specific aspects of premodern “magic”: e.g., scribal culture;2 archaeological context;3 gender studies;4 authoritative tradition;5 materiality;6 and writing.7 Each of these volumes usefully illuminates an aspect of ancient magic. Yet, the highly specialized nature of these studies tends to treat such aspects in isolation. This volume places these manifold methodological developments into conversation with one another through specific case studies. Third, Ancient Magic: Then and Now includes several essays that trace the reception of ancient magic in subsequent historical periods. This part of the volume illuminates the category “ancient magic” as a register of late antique, medieval, and early modern imagination. It also helps better situate ancient magic within the growing field of classical reception studies.8 The structure of Ancient Magic: Then and Now is oriented around these three perspectives. The first section, “Magic as a Category: Voices from the Past, Voices from the Present,” is devoted to different discourses – from both the past and the present – pertaining to ancient practices that most contemporary scholars label as magic. These studies support the value of “magic” as a heuristic rubric in certain contexts of the 1

2 3 4 5 6 7 8

The papers in this volume are based on a conference (“Magic in the Ancient World‒New Perspectives”) that took place at the “Accademia di studi italo-tedeschi – Akademie deutschitalienischer Studien” in Meran, Italy on 26th - 29th October, 2016. The editors of this volume would like to express their gratitude to the Alexander von Humboldt Stiftung for funding this event and these proceedings. E.g., Bohak, Harari, and Shaked, ed. 2011. E.g., Wilburn 2012. E.g., Stratton and Kalleres, ed. 2014. E.g., Boustan, Dieleman, and Sanzo, ed. 2015. E.g., Boschung and Bremmer, ed. 2015. E.g., de Haro Sanchez, ed. 2015. The importance of classical reception is attested by the several recent journals devoted to this topic (e.g., Classical Receptions Journal and New Voices in Classical Reception Studies). See also Hardwick and Stray, ed. 2008; Torlone, Munteanu, and Dutsch, ed. 2017.

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study of antiquity. Therefore, they provide the book with a coherent methodological frame, which inform to a large degree the papers in the following sections. In “Deconstructing the Deconstructionists: A Response to Recent Criticisms of the Rubric ‘Ancient Magic’,” Joseph E. Sanzo highlights that, whilst the category magic is plagued by many analytical and taxonomic problems, this category possesses great heuristic value for certain research questions in the study of antiquity. Anton Alvar Nuño and Jaime Alvar Ezquerra (“‘Pure Magic’ and Its Taxonomic Value”) focus on a cluster of supernatural powers labelled in anthropology as “pure magic,” and discuss the taxonomic value of this lexeme for the studies on Graeco-Roman religion. In “Pliny the Elder between Magic and Medicine,” Orietta Dora Cordovana analyses several practices of the 1st century Roman Empire ascribed by Pliny to the realm of ars magica. She focuses on the socio-cultural dimension of these practices and their relationship with medicine. Overall, the authors of these chapters agree that “magic” is a rubric, which helpfully classes under a single umbrella practices whose purpose is more or less similar. Quoting a passage by Antón Alvar Nuño and Jaime Alvar Ezquerra’s chapter, this aim may be defined in the following terms: alleviating “situations perceived to be crises by the individual, who decides to resort to an intermediary or other type of semi-institutionalized pragmatic solution.” In keeping with Sanzo’s argument, the use of the category “magic” (and its cognates) is justifiable insofar as it helps isolate and organise patterns in the primary source material for certain research purposes. Of course, the application of the category magic to the sources in this volume does not necessarily preclude the use of alternative labels (e.g., “religion”) for these sources in other academic endeavors should the scholarly aims mandate it. In short, this volume operates according to the view that scholarly labels (magic among them) do not point to metaphysical realities, but are merely heuristic tools to be deployed for select research questions. It is not surprising, therefore, that the manifold interests reflected the second and third sections require diverse approaches to the category “magic.” Whilst the first section brings together voices that talk about the category magic, the second section of the volume sets its sights on specific phenomena that have been habitually labelled as “magic” in scholarly discourse: defixiones, healing recipes, exorcism, divination, necromancy, erotic rituals, incantations, amulets, etc. Like the authors in the first section, the authors here by and large find heuristic utility in the term “magic.” In “Anti-Witchcraft Rituals against Depression in Assyro-Babylonian Therapeutic Texts,” Silvia Salin shows how Assyro-Babylonian therapeutic texts could cure depression and related symptoms by the recitation of prayers and incantations and through the performance of anti-witchcraft rituals. The following set of papers, in turn, is focused on Graeco-Roman magical phenomena across the territories of the Roman Empire, from Pannonia to Egypt, from Dacia to the Celtic world. The texts, amulets, gems and inscription taken into account – often with a special focus on their “materiality” – reflect the manifold ways ancient cultures drew upon one another in ritual contexts and illuminate the underlying social dynamics behind instances of interaction.

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In “A Lamella from Vinkovci (Croatia) and the Jewish Necromancy,” Attilio Mastrocinque analyses a thin sheet of gold from Cibalae, Pannonia, found in the mouth of a dead man. Mastrocinque argues that it was composed to urge the deceased to send dreams. Celia Sánchez Natalías (“Seth in the Fountain of Anna Perenna?: A New Interpretation of Magical Container 475549”) also proposes a new interpretation of an inscription on a container discovered in the sanctuary of Anna Perenna in Rome, arguing that it is in fact a defixio. In “Domino Neptuno corulo pare(n)tatur: Magic and Law in the Romano-Celtic world,” Francisco Marco Simón also analyses a fourthcentury C.E. defixio from Brandon, Suffolk, and gives us a glimpse into what he calls “so-called ‘magico-religious’ practices” in the Romano-Celtic world and the relationship of these practices with law. Francesca Diosono (“Lamps as Ritual and Magic Objects in Archaeological Contexts”), on the other hand, focuses on an entire material category (i.e., lamps), taking into account several archaeological contexts in which the presence of oil lamps can be related to the performance of para-religious or magic rituals. Juan R. Carbó’s “Magia y cultos “orientales” en la Dacia romana” also considers a whole category of materials – in this case magical gems and gems with Egyptian iconography that were discovered in sanctuaries of Dacia. Carbó also analyses the prevailing tendency among the Romanian scholars in the last century to ascribe these artifacts to an early Christian gnostic sect: an interesting case study which prompts further reflection on the relationship between ancient material evidence and contemporary scholarly rubrics. Véronique Dasen’s “Play with Fate” constitutes the last study of this section and is mainly focused on Roman magical inscribed artifacts. By attending to a board game scene that is depicted on an amulet gem, Dasen is able to reflect more generally on the possible magical and divinatory values of board games in the Roman period. Christopher A. Faraone’s “The Use of Divine Images in the Dream-Divination Recipes of the Greek Magical Papyri” opens a selection of studies devoted to the Greek magical papyri. By analysing an ibis surrounded by a text in a Greek magical handbook, Faraone suggests that the client of the spell was supposed to go to sleep with the image in order to receive a dream from the god. In “Women as Users of Erotic Spells: Evidence Provided by Papyri and Defixiones,” Emilio Suárez de la Torre also deals with spells included in the PGM, in particular with erotic enchantments. He sheds light upon the social conditions and roles of the women mentioned in these texts. The two following studies, on the other hand, which also take into account the PGM, focus more on the religious and literary dimensions that recur within the whole corpus. Isabel Canzobre (“Remarks on the Categorization of the Divine in the PGM”) analyses cases in the Greek Magical Papyri in which gods, daimones, angels, and spirits are apparently confused. Miriam Blanco (“The Paradox of a ‘Magical Hymn’: Reviewing the Poetic Compositions of the Greek Magical Papyri”) deals with the so called “magical hymns” included in the PGM (i.e. metrical sections probably aimed at reinforcing the spells). The following two chapters, which close this second section of the book, take us far from the PGM corpus. Giulia Pedrucci (“On the Use of Human Milk and Menstrual Blood in the Greek and Roman worlds”) overlaps with Suarez’ study, isolating practices strictly related to Greek and Roman women (e.g., the use of human milk and

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menstrual blood). In “Importancia de la oposición derecha/izquierda en la magia y la astrología,” Aurelio Pérez-Jiménez examines a wide range of sources as part of his contention that the polarity between right and left – a central theme in the Greek and Roman astrology – can also be found in Greek and Roman therapeutic and aphrodisiac recipes and spells. The third section of the book, “The Transmission of Ancient Magic,” includes chapters that detail the subsequent transmission and reception of ancient traditions, practices and texts – including theurgical, divinatory texts and a few literary works from Antiquity to Medieval and Modern Europe – which according to most contemporary scholars are in some way related to ostensibly “Greek and Roman magic.” While Franco Ferrari, in “Filosofia e teurgia negli Oracoli Caldaici,” deals with theurgy in Late Antiquity and its relationship with philosophy, Laura Mecella, in “Guerra e magia nei Cesti di Giulio Africano,” focuses on the numerous references to what might be called “magic” in the sections of the Cesti of Julius Africanus pertaining to military science. Raquel Martín Hernández (“The Transmission of the Sortes Homericae: A Papyrological Approach to the Texts”) provides a revised edition of the papyri containing the text of the Sortes Homericae, and puts forward an analysis of their textual and material dimensions. Divination is also at the core of Salvatore Costanza’s “Dottrina magica nei manuali divinatori greci, bizantini e metabizantini,” which draws a comparison between Medieval divinatory treatises and some parts of PGM . Marina Foschi Albert’s “Magic Potions, Homeric Cunning and Jason’s Charm: Magic Motifs in Gottfried von Strassburg’s Middle High German version of the Tristan Legend” leads us to the world of Medieval German literature. She explores in particular the thematic connection between magic, cunning, and love as shown in Strassburg’s hero Tristan, who shares a few traits with ancient Greek heroes, such as the Homeric Ulysses and Jason. In “Considerazioni sull’ecdotica dei testi magici antichi alla luce del PLeid. J 395 (PGM XIII),” Tiziano Dorandi draws our focus back to the PGM (though from a strictly philological point of view). The philological perspective is also present in the last chapter of the volume, Carlo Lucarini’s “La prima apparizione di Circe nella letteratura greca e il fantasma dell’epos argonautico pre-odissiaco.” The analysis of a literary character – enchantress Circe – has a strictly philological function in this case. Accordingly, although the volume is principally oriented around “ancient magic” (in terms of objects and rituals), these final chapters emphasises a different, through important, dimension of magic in the pre-modern world. It is our hope that this volume as a whole – with its diverse approaches to the wide range of ancient concerns, sources, and rituals typically deemed “magical” – brings to the fore various lines of inquiry that are often separated by discipline (e.g., Egyptology, Classics, and Early Christian studies) and scholarly region (e.g., America and Europe) and, therefore, underscores the interdisciplinary and international interests intrinsic to the study ancient magic.

SECTION 1: MAGIC AS A CATEGORY: VOICES FROM THE PAST, VOICES FROM THE PRESENT

DECONSTRUCTING THE DECONSTRUCTIONISTS: A RESPONSE TO RECENT CRITICISMS OF THE RUBRIC “ANCIENT MAGIC”* Joseph E. Sanzo, Ca’ Foscari University of Venice The utility of “magic” as an analytical category has been the subject of a robust debate within the Humanities and Social Sciences over the past several decades.1 This debate has produced a range of voices in the study of antiquity. Many scholars have found heuristic value in the term magic. Accordingly, they have produced monographs, edited volumes, and essays on ancient magic over this period.2 Although these works do not completely dispense with the term magic (at least not in their titles), most of the authors, editors, and contributors behind them seek – or at least claim – to offer more critical approaches to this lexeme than prior scholarly analyses. Other scholars, however, are unconvinced that magic ought to remain a vibrant part of our scholarly lexicon. In fact, the view that magic should be removed from the analytical vocabulary of ancient studies has gained considerable traction in recent decades. John Gager underscored already in 1987 how the term magic might distort the study of the so-called Greek Magical Papyri (PGM): …by labeling these texts and the human activities described and prescribed in them as ‘magic,’ they [i.e., Karl Preisendanz and his colleagues] succeeded in relegating them to the periphery of Greco-Roman culture, the superstitious zone, the realm beneath religion, philosophy, and other human activities of a more respectable sort.3

Of course, Gager penned these words before many of the monumental volumes, which have helped dispel such biases against ancient magic, were published. Consequently, despite the marginal status of magic within current religious studies and history, few

*

1 2 3

The title of this chapter pays homage to Denis Donoghue’s essay (“Deconstructing Deconstruction”) in The New York Review of Books (Donoghue 1980). As will become evident over the course of this paper, however, I do not use the term “deconstructionism” (and its cognates) in a technical, Derridean sense, but as a shorthand for (hyper-)critical analysis and for scholarly approaches that call for the complete abandonment of analytical terms (esp. magic) on account of ambiguity, anachronism, ethnocentricity, and the like. This more general or colloquial use of deconstructionist terminology has precedent in the study of ancient magic (e.g., Otto 2013, 321, n. 55 [cited below]). E.g., Winkelman 1982; Brown 1997; Cunningham 1999; Styers 2004; Sørensen 2007. For a convenient survey of these debates, see the chapter by Antón Alvar Nuño and Jaime Alvar Ezquerra in this volume. E.g, Faraone and Obbink 1991; Meyer and Mirecki 1995; Graf 1997; Mirecki and Meyer 2002; Bohak 2008; Collins 2008; Bohak, Harari, and Shaked, 2011; Stratton and Kalleres 2014. Gager 1987, 80–81.

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critical historians and religionists today would use such demeaning language to describe ancient texts and artefacts, such as the PGM. Nevertheless, the deconstructionist position that Gager articulated shows few signs of abating. This line of scholarship more or less maintains that the term magic is too laden with cultural and analytical baggage to remain a useful scholarly rubric in the study of antiquity. Two scholars have recently championed this deconstructionist position, contending that magic ought to be removed from scholarly analysis of the ancient world. In a 2007-essay, David Aune provided a detailed study of the problems endemic to the term magic and, accordingly, called for its removal from scholarship in early Christian studies.4 Aune not only stressed that magic is a fundamentally problematic construct, but he also highlighted the problems associated with the term “religion,” which, he rightly claimed, has often been overlooked in the study of ancient magic.5 Aune concluded that scholars ought to replace the term magic with “sorcery,” which, he contends, is not burdened with the same degree of ideological bias.6 This 2007-study marked a radical departure from Aune’s widely influential essay, “Magic in Early Christianity” (1980), in which he advocated for what might be usefully described as a deviance approach to magic: …magic is defined as that form of religious deviance whereby individual or social goals are sought by means alternate to those normally sanctioned by the dominant religious institution…Religious activities which fit this first and primary criterion must also fit a second criterion: goals sought within the context of religious deviance are magical when attained through the management of supernatural powers in such a way that results are virtually guaranteed.7

In this earlier instantiation of Aune’s thoughts on magic, the term was thought to possess heuristic utility ‒ albeit only in dialogue with culturally specific notions of acceptable religious behaviour and when it refers to acts achieved by means of “virtually guaranteed” mechanisms of “supernatural powers.”8 In 2013, Bernd-Christian Otto penned an important essay that also called for the removal of the term magic from scholarship on antiquity.9 Otto correctly underscored many of the problems associated with magic, including its ambiguous use by scholars10 and its long history of devaluing religious beliefs outside the acceptable bounda-

4 5 6 7 8

Aune 2007. On this point, see Sanzo 2013, 357–58. Aune 2007, 293–94. Aune 1980, 1515. It is also worth noting that, within Aune’s governing taxonomy, magic constitutes a particular “species” of the “genus” religion (Aune 1980, 1516). 9 Otto 2013. 10 Otto highlights this ambiguity dimension of “magic” to an even greater degree in Otto 2017. In this latter work, he addresses the broader problem of “critical categories” in the study of religion, with a particular emphasis on “religious individualization.” For a more detailed critique of Otto’s approach in this article, see the Conclusions (esp. n. 86) below.

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ries of elite religious discourse.11 He concluded that magic should be replaced as an analytical category by “[a] critical interpretation of the concept of ‘religion’ accompanied by modern interpretations of the concept of ‘ritual’ and subordinate functional terms (describing ritual goals such as ‘divination,’ ‘healing,’ ‘binding,’ etc.)…”12 For Otto, therefore, the concepts “religion” and “ritual” ‒ albeit only when critically engaged ‒ provide better alternatives to magic. By disassociating magic from its associative constituent parts, Otto aligned himself with the methodological position that Jonathan Z. Smith promoted nearly two decades earlier (1995): We have better and more precise scholarly taxa for each of the phenomena commonly denoted by ‘magic,’ which, among other benefits, create more useful categories for comparison. For any culture I am familiar with, we can trade places between the corpus of materials conventionally labeled ‘magical’ and corpora designated by other generic terms (e.g., healing, divining, execrative) with no cognitive loss.13

For Smith (and Otto), more specific categories of function, such as healing and divination, are preferable because they do not carry the same pejorative connotations and taxonomic limitations as the term “magic.” Otto’s deconstructive analysis ultimately led him to adopt a “historicizing” approach to magic. This approach consists of tracing the history of the “concept” “magic,” examining how particular writers used terms for “magic” (e.g., µαγεία), especially in light of what he calls the “discourse of exclusion” (i.e., using “magic” in its negative sense) and the “discourse of inclusion” (i.e., the self-referential use of “magic” terminology).14 In 2014, David Aune entered once again into this discussion, publishing a theoretical chapter on magic in the Festschrift for John H. Elliott.15 In keeping with his position from 2007, Aune argued here that “magic” ought to be removed from the field of early Christian studies. In contrast to his 2007-essay, however, Aune concluded in this more recent piece that the practices and texts typically regarded as “magical” should not be labelled “sorcery,” but should fall under the rubric “ancient religion” ‒ a concept that the scholar must disaggregate.16 He writes, “[i]t is more important to focus on the individual components of the complex reality of ancient religion, including prayer, ritual, exorcism, curse tablets, divination and the like.”17 Although Aune advocated in this 2014 essay a more ritually and materially oriented list of religion than the functional lists of magic found in Smith and Otto, Aune joins those scholars in promoting a methodology whereby the items typically deemed magical are disaggregated into their respective “religious” components. 11 Otto also appropriately highlights, however, that µαγεία/magia (and their cognates) could be used in a positive sense (Otto 2013, 315). 12 Otto 2013, 320–21. 13 Smith 1995, 16–17. 14 Otto 2013, 319–39 (cf. Otto 2017, 44–50). Otto provides a more detailed historiographical sketch of magic in the published version of his dissertation (Otto 2011). 15 Aune 2014. 16 Despite their overlapping ideas, Aune does not cite Otto in his essay. 17 Aune 2014, 24.

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These studies collectively not only pose a considerable challenge to the scholarly use of the term “magic,” but they also agree that disaggregating the practices and functions typically classified under the category magic provides a valid methodological alternative. Whilst there is much to commend in these studies, I find that their conclusion to abstain from using the term magic in scholarship is ultimately unhelpful. By contrast, I will argue that magic should in fact be kept as one of our heuristic categories in the study of antiquity. Of course, I contend that, like all categories of scholarly analysis, magic must be continually subjected to critical reflection and scrutiny, so that we might uncover further biases and distortions of the evidence attached to it.18 1. MAGIC: A PROBLEMATIC CATEGORY It is necessary to stress at the outset of this section that most of the criticisms levelled against “magic” in the studies of Aune, Otto, Smith and others are beyond dispute. For instance, many of the assumptions, which have long been associated with “magic,” fail to do justice to the complexities of ancient religious life. The Augustinian/Durkheimian distinction between private and public rituals ‒ which, within the scholarly tradition, corresponds to magic and religion respectively ‒ does not accurately reflect all the social realities of antiquity.19 For instance, Andrew T. Wilburn’s archaeological analysis of the curse tablets from the Ballesta necropolis in Empúies (Spain) demonstrates that these objects were deposited in cinerary urns before or during inhumation.20 Accordingly, the deposition of these curse tablets required the participation (on at least some level) of the families of the deceased who were placed in the urns. This social setting thus challenges facile notions of the public (religion)/private (magic) distinction.21 In addition, it has long been stressed that the simple supplicatory (= religion) vs. manipulative (= magic) dichotomy, for which Frazer famously advocated, fails to capture accurately the divisions of ancient ritual practice.22 To this end, many ostensibly “magical” artefacts cite the Lord’s Prayer ‒ the epitome of “religious” supplication ‒ as the primary or only authoritative tradition in their spells.23 18 The argument presented in this essay has many points of resonance with (prior) scholarly discussions. Alongside the literature cited throughout this essay, the reader is especially encouraged to examine Bremmer 1999; Johnston 2003; Frankfurter 2019. 19 The private/public distinction was central to St. Augustine’s view of magic. For a discussion, see Markus 1994. Such a view also has difficulty accounting for ostensibly “magical” rituals performed on behalf of groups more generally. On this point, see Mair 1972, 225. 20 Wilburn 2013, 219–53. 21 What is more, it is even possible that the efficacy of curses, for instance, was sometimes partially contingent upon its partial revelation or “semi-public” nature (Wilburn 2013, 261–63). 22 E.g., Frazer 1911, 220–23 (cf. Weber 1993, 28 [original 1920]). For discussion of magic as manipulation in early ecclesiastical texts, see Remus 1982, 134‒36. 23 E.g., P. Schøyen I 6; P. Oxy. LX 4010; BGU III 954; P. Duk. inv. 778; Athens Nat. Mus. nr. 12 227. For discussion of the use of the Lord’s Prayer on amulets, see Sanzo 2014, 47–51; de Bruyn 2017, 157–65. R. Greenfield is thus incorrect and merely recapitulates the rhetoric of certain

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Moreover, as I have noted above, magic ‒ and ancient terms that scholars have linked with the English word (and its equivalents in other modern languages) ‒ has been used to denigrate practices ancient writers and modern colonialists attempted to suppress and marginalise. Such “discourses of ritual censure” have taken a variety of forms, even in antiquity.24 As Michelle Salzman has demonstrated, Christian emperors ‒ beginning already in the fourth-century C.E. ‒ ushered in a new age of castigating traditional Roman rituals under rubrics, such as superstitio.25 Moreover, David Frankfurter, drawing cross-culturally on the work of Robert Redfield, has argued that specific rituals, which were a normal part of local religion, could be recast as deviant or magical once they appeared in global or central contexts.26 In addition to such temporal and spatial considerations, Kimberly Stratton has demonstrated that magic could, under certain cultural conditions, be used as a tool for slandering and prohibiting various types of female knowledge and rituals27 ‒ though we must acknowledge along with Annette Yoshiko Reed that the overarching gendered stereotype of ancient magic is largely dependent upon scholarly projections of misogyny onto the pre-modern world.28 Perhaps more counterintuitive is the fact that objects, which scholars have labelled magical (e.g., amulets and spells), occasionally organise other ritual practices considered harmful or detrimental under rubrics, such as µαγεία, φαρµακεία, and the like.29 For instance, Leiden, Ms. AMS 9 (a.k.a. P. Anastasi 9), a sixth-to-eighth century C.E. Coptic codex that includes spells for healing, protection, and exorcism, condemns as “evil” (ⲡⲟⲛⲏⲣⲟⲥ) those who practice “sorcery” (ⲙⲛ̅ⲧⲣⲉϥⲣϩⲓ̈ⲕⲛⲉ), “invocations” (ⲙⲛ̅ⲧⲣⲉϥⲙⲟⲩⲧⲉ) and other harmful rituals.30 This litany of discourses clearly demonstrates that magic and magician ‒ and the ancient terms related to them in scholarly practice ‒ by no means represent culturally neutral, unbiased, or unproblematic categories.

24 25 26 27 28 29 30

ecclesiastical leaders when he writes: “[magic is] a form of religious belief and activity which did not conform to the doctrinally defined dominant orthodoxy Christianity; it was essentially associated with the demons and/or with the notion of automatic control of desired outcome or response” (Greenfield 1995, 118). For the term “discourse of ritual censure,” see Frankfurter 2005, 257. Salzman 1987. Frankfurter 1997. Stratton 2014. Reed 2014. It is important to note that Stratton is also quite nuanced in her account, highlighting instances of both female and male witchcraft accusations (Stratton 2014). For a fuller treatment of this phenomenon, see Sanzo 2019a. Leiden, Ms. AMS 9, 1r, 1–13. For the editio princeps, see Pleyte and Boeser 1897, 441-79. The pagination of this artefact does not agree with Richard Smith, who paginated this artefact incorrectly. I have paginated this manuscript in consultation with images of the original manuscripts provided online by the Rijksmuseum van Oudheden (http://www.rmo.nl/ collectie/zoeken?object=AMS+9). I would like to extend my gratitude to Jacques van der Vliet, who confirmed my readings of the online images through an in-person examination. On the dating of this artefact, see Petrucci 1995, 10; Szirmai 1999, 43 n. 6. It is also possible that it was part of a monastic library (de Bruyn 2017, 87).

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2. THE PROBLEMS WITH THE ALTERNATIVES TO MAGIC Highlighting the analytical limitations endemic to magic and its cognates, however, ought also to bring into sharper relief the problems inherent in the proposed alternatives to magic in these and other studies. Many scholars have avoided magic in favour of other terms to describe artefacts and practices that have traditionally been labelled magic. Perhaps most importantly, Marvin Meyer and Richard Smith have proposed the rather influential lexeme “ritual power” as an alternative to magic.31 Yet, merely altering the terminology in this way does little to offset the problems and biased perspectives we inherit. What was “ritual power” in antiquity? Which practices did or, perhaps more significantly, did not involve “ritual power” in antiquity? In light of the facile nature of this new lexeme, it is not surprising that Meyer and Smith’s volume was not only titled Ancient Christian Magic, but the corporal limits of their book were also restricted to objects that had previously been associated with “magic.”32 In the end, “ritual power” is little more than a euphemism for “magic.” The intersection of ancient and modern terminology has also been a site for taxonomic reflection ‒ and confusion ‒ and for offering potential alternatives to magic. Many scholars have wedded magic with ancient terminology, such as µαγεία, as a matter of intuitive reflex. As it relates to the canonical Acts of the Apostles, for instance, New Testament commentators have habitually translated, referred to, and analytically framed Simon’s µαγεία as “magic” (Acts 8:9–24).33 But µαγεία is not “magic.”34 I would argue that the English “magic” (or the rough equivalent in other modern languages) is especially inappropriate for the Simon narrative because his stated practices hardly resemble anything we would call “magic” or a witchcraft accusation: the text does not mention any ritual objects or practices; Simon is not said to have manipulated any divinities or anything of the sort; and his actions were not considered deviant (by the audience in the narrative), but were publicly praised. If anything, µαγεία in this text is more closely linked to charlatanry, spectacle, or inferior (ritual)

31 Meyer and Smith 1995 (rev. ed. 1999). The notion of ritual power also plays a considerable role in Lesses 1998. 32 On the presence of “magic” behind our collections of ancient sources, see, for instance, Versnel 1991; Frankfurter 2019, 10. In the interest of full disclosure, Richard Smith personally communicated to me that it was the original publisher (Harper San Francisco) that insisted on the title Ancient Christian Magic. 33 The scholarly literature tying the Simon in Acts to “magic” is immense. See, for instance, the following monographs: Garrett 1989, 61–87; Heintz 1997; Klauck 2003, 13–30. See also Stratton 2007, 98; Twelftree 2009. In addition to the noun µαγεία, the redactor also uses the verb µαγεύω (Acts 8:9). 34 On the problems with confusing µαγεία with “magic,” see Frankfurter 2019, 4; Aune 2007, 236– 49; Graf 1997, 26 (and several other places). Rather interestingly, Otto translates µαγεία as “magic” (with scare quotes) several times in his essay. For instance, as part of his historicising analysis of magic, he asks the following question about the “self-referential” use of µαγεία in the PGM: “[w]hy did the authors of the PGM employ the concept of ‘magic’ as a self-referential term?” (Otto 2013, 337).

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activity (in comparison with Philip);35 Peter ultimately condemns Simon for his monetary improprieties (Acts 8:18-24).36 We must, therefore, always bear in mind that, despite their etymological relationship and occasional overlaps (see below), magic and µαγεία are not identical. In response to the differences between modern and ancient conceptions of illicit ritual, other scholars have preferred to retain the ancient terminology (i.e., using the native words in the ancient text [e.g., µαγεία or φαρµακεία] instead of terms, such as “magic” and “sorcery”). Although there are many research questions for which the use of native terminology is viable (and perhaps even preferable), Jan Bremmer’s words about the use of native Greek terminology in scholarly analysis are apt: “[t]he exclusive use of Greek terms may suggest an absence of the modern world, but one’s own cultural framework will inevitably serve as a point of reference.”37 In other words, this approach can mask scholarly presuppositions about antiquity, giving an air of objectivity whilst tacitly organising analysis around contemporary biases. At the same time, this approach has the potential to stifle comparative analysis by obscuring with ancient language meaningful conceptual parallels between the ancient Mediterranean and other times, locations, and cultures. We would do well to attend to the work of historian Victoria Bonnell on comparison, in which she distinguishes between the analytical use of comparison (i.e., oriented around similar kinds of individuals/groups at a particular period of time) and the illustrative use of comparison (i.e., attempting to illuminate a broader idea, concept, or model that transcends specific groups or a particular time period).38 One assumes differences between the various groups and practices in the latter illustrative mode. Drawing from the work of Bonnell and Jonathan Z. Smith, David Frankfurter has usefully summed up the values and limitations of this illustrative use of comparison: We engage in it for the greater understanding of human society. For this kind of illustrative comparison our own specialty areas ‒ through which we investigate patterns comparatively ‒ really constitute a kind of ethnographic fieldwork for the larger understanding of religion. We do not, of course, delude ourselves with the impression that the patterns exist apart from their heuristic function in making sense of religion in context or that they grasp in any way the totality of content or experience. They simply aid us in making sense of phenomena and in bringing our observations to new situations.39

35 I would argue, therefore, that the English word “magic” is not the best term for this kind of activity. 36 On the problems with understanding Acts more generally through the lens of magic, see Sanzo 2019b, 198–202. To be sure, the association of illicit ritual practice with avarice and other dubious financial practices was widespread in antiquity (e.g., Plato, Respublica, 2.364; Sophocles, Antigone, 1055; Cicero, Divinatione, 1.58; Josephus, Antiquitates, 6.48; 18.65–80). Nevertheless, the redactor does not directly connect the µαγεία with Simon’s financial misdeeds. 37 Bremmer 1998, 12. 38 Bonnell 1980. 39 Frankfurter 2012, 88 (emphasis in original).

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Indeed, as I will highlight in more detail below, ancient and modern categories of licit and illicit ritual do in fact partially overlap, thus imbuing the term “magic” with some explanatory power for certain research questions. To be sure, many of the scholars calling for the end of the category magic are well aware of the problems with other categories and rubrics, especially their primary replacement category, religion. In addition to the many classic essays of Jonathan Z. Smith on the category religion40 and Aune’s 2007 essay, in which he simultaneously deconstructed both magic and religion, Otto’s 2013 article also emphasised the analytical problems with religion in a concessionary footnote. Given the importance of this footnote, I will cite it in toto: Of course, one could argue that the concept of ‘religion’ implies problems similar to those of ‘magic’; likewise, ‘religion’ is characterized by fuzzy semantics, implicit judgments, and a long and diverse history; it provoked, similarly, an ongoing academic dispute offering no final answers. As a matter of fact, no academic term is able to survive the critical analysis of a postmodern deconstructionist; monolithic, well-defined concepts have become (quite rightly) extinct alongside the burial of the phenomenological school and its grand narratives. However, one has to make choices: it seems reasonable to argue that some terms are (in a quite pragmatic sense) better than others. ‘Religion,’ with a loose working definition of belief in spiritual beings, is no doubt applicable in Classical Antiquity (and is, in fact, usually applied in this sense in Classical Studies). Bringing in the concept ‘magic’ while analyzing ancient sources evokes the well-known arsenal of theoretical problems implied in the terminological dualism of ‘magic’ and ‘religion.’ Thus, instead of working with two problematic concepts the distinction of which may forever remain unclear, it seems reasonable to stick to the more established (and less disputed) term and discard the other. In the end, this is a pragmatic decision which cannot be ultimately justified; however, as this paper will show, the methodological approach proposed here can actually help to make better sense of the ancient sources and, thus, contribute to academic progress.41

It is useful to unpack Otto’s rather helpful summary of the problems associated with definition in the Humanities and Social Sciences more generally since it raises fundamental questions about his (and Smith’s and Aune’s) methodological objections to magic. First of all, Otto appropriately underscores that most of the analytical categories scholars take for granted have been thoroughly deconstructed. In addition to “religion” and its contiguous sub-categories ‒ such as Christian, Jewish, and Gnosticism ‒ the terms that scholars have destabilised (for ancient studies) include: ritual;42 identity;43 experience;44 text;45 author;46 and history.47 It is difficult to imagine a study of

40 E.g., Smith 1980; Smith 1998. See especially his collected essays in Smith 2004. 41 Otto 2013, 321, n. 55. 42 See Grimes 2000, 259–70. On the problems with identifying “ritual” in archaeological fieldwork, see e.g., Brück 1999. 43 See Brubaker and Cooper 2000. 44 Fitzgerald 2000a. 45 See Clark 2004, 130–55. 46 E.g., Woodmansee 1984; Malina 2014. 47 See e.g., Clark 2004, 9–28; 86–105.

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antiquity, however, that does not use ‒ or conceptually rely upon on some level ‒ one or more of these and other “problematic” rubrics. More to the point, although he alludes to the analytical shortcomings of religion, Otto claims that religion is “less disputed” than magic. This claim inappropriately downplays the growing sentiment in the field of religious studies that religion constitutes an inherently biased category and, according to some, should thus be removed from scholarly analysis. Already in 1962, Wilfred Cantwell Smith’s classic tome, The Meaning and End of Religion, argued that religion inappropriately oriented the scholarly discourse in favour of systems instead of feelings.48 Talal Asad contended that religion ‒ at least in the individualistic and definable way we currently conceive of it ‒ is a post-Reformation-era product.49 Even Randall Styers’s interesting critique of the category magic, which Otto cites with verve, is ironically based in large measure on Timothy Fitzgerald’s similar deconstructive analysis of religion.50 It is difficult to overestimate the impact of religion in the promotion of colonial ideals and thereby in the construction, maintenance, and defence of modern secular society.51 In this vein, Otto’s claim that magic is particularly problematic because it necessarily involves another category (i.e., “religion”) is not only disputable in and of itself,52 but it is also misleading since it fails to account for the historical linkage between the categories “religion” and “secularism” that many scholars have stressed. Asad writes, “…‘religion’ is a modern concept not because it is reified but because it has been linked to its Siamese twin ‘secularism.’”53 More recently, Craig Martin has expressed his concern with the intrinsically binary nature of the term religion: The norms [associated with the term religion] typically adhere to or are inherent in binary schemas, wherein two opposing terms are conceived as properly or essentially distinct, either de facto or de jure: for example, religion vs. magic; religion vs. superstition; religious experience vs. organized religion; individual religion vs. institutional religion; outward ritual vs. inward sincerity; reasonable religion vs. fundamentalist religion; church vs. the state; religion vs. politics; religion vs. the secular; the private sphere vs. the public sphere; religion vs. spirituality; religious faith vs. scientific knowledge; revealed knowledge vs. empirical knowledge; etc.54

This expanded list of binaries ‒ of which religion is a contrasting component ‒ ought to make it clear that Otto’s critique of magic on the basis of its binary quality equally applies to religion and, therefore, should also preclude him from using the latter term.55 48 49 50 51

52 53 54 55

Smith 1962. Asad 1993, 27–54. Styers 2004, 11 (cf. Fitzgerald 2000b). For the impact of Styers on Otto, see Otto 2013, 317, 318. As Fitzgerald noted, “[t]he category religion is at the heart of modern western capitalist ideology...it mystifies by playing a crucial role in the construction of the secular, which to us constitutes the self-evidently true realm of scientific facticity, rationality, and naturalness” (Fitzgerald 2000b, 3). Bremmer 1999, 9–12. Asad 2001, 221. Martin 2015, 297–98. On the binary quality of most of our analytical vocabulary, see Frankfurter 2019, 11.

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But it is not only modern theorists of religion that have advocated for religion’s removal from scholarship. Given the significant role the category religion has played in the construction of modern political and economic systems and sensibilities, scholars have questioned its utility specifically for the study of antiquity. Aune raised questions in 2007 about the explanatory power of religion for ancient studies on the grounds that religion did not constitute a discrete domain of Graeco-Roman antiquity: “[w]hat modern scholars call ‘religion’ was embedded in ancient Greek and Roman culture to such an extent that it is impossible to disentangle the one from the other.”56 This critique of the category religion has not gone out of style in scholarship on antiquity. In fact, Brent Nongbri has recently devoted an entire monograph to the subject of religion’s numerous anachronistic biases and assumptions with respect to the study of the ancient Mediterranean world.57 Whether or not one agrees that religion ought to be removed from the scholarly study of antiquity ‒ I personally do not ‒ it is clear that religion is susceptible to the very same critiques of anachronism as magic. Otto’s particular definition of the term “religion” (i.e., religion as belief in “spirit beings”) also requires critical reflection. The isolation of belief as the primary definitional criterion for religion is not merely anachronistic; ironically, it also orients analysis around the very same Protestant proclivities that constructed magic as a foil for religion (i.e., [Protestant] religious beliefs in contrast to [Catholic] magical rituals).58 What is more, religion ‒ if it is characterised as belief in “spirit beings” ‒ is also a generic category that, if applied to antiquity, encompasses virtually the entire corpus of ancient primary source material.59 To be sure, Aune (2014) and Otto ‒ drawing on Smith ‒ mitigate the dangers of this potential pitfall by advocating for an atomising approach, whereby “ancient religion” (including “magic”) is disaggregated into a series of discrete rubrics, such as healing, protection, exorcism, and curse tablets. Yet, this approach is not without its own theoretical and methodological problems. The automatic impulse to sub-divide practices according to function or specific ritual practice can distort our understanding of antiquity by fragmenting domains that some ancients considered unified. Natalie Zemon Davis has appropriately warned against such fragmentation:

56 Aune 2007, 235. 57 Nongbri 2013. Although the majority of this book leads one to conclude that scholars ought to abandon the category “religion” in the study of antiquity, Nongbri changes course in the end of his study, arguing for a “more informed” way of discussing this category (Ibid., 154–59). Simon Price has also highlighted problems with the term “religion” in the ancient Greek world (Price 1999). Likewise, Jan Bremmer has written, “…religion was not yet conceptualized as a separate sphere of life in the Greco-Roman period and the term ‘religion’ only received its modern meaning in the immediate post-Reformation era, when the first contours of a separate religious sphere started to become visible” (Bremmer 1999, 10). 58 On the role of Protestantism in the construction of the religion–magic binary, see e.g., Thomas 1971, 51–77; Thomas 1975, 96; Smith 1995, 44. 59 Even letters written for practical concerns, such as P. Oxy. 46. 3314, include prayers and use expressions, such as “divine providence.” For a useful discussion of this object, see Blumell 2012, 28.

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[we should] examine the range of people’s relations with the sacred and the supernatural, so as not to fragment those rites, practices, symbols, beliefs and institutions which to villagers or citydwellers constitute a whole. We consider how all of these may provide groups and individuals some sense of the ordering of their world, some explanation for baffling events or injustice, and some notion of who and where they are.60

Davis’ words are particularly apt since several artefacts reveal that ancients grouped together various ritual practices. In fact, at least on occasion, the practices and texts that make up our category “magic” were likewise organised under a single conceptual rubric in antiquity. As Michael D. Swartz has noted about Jewish magic, “…there is a great deal of formal cohesion among amulets, magical handbooks, and the like.”61 The Greco-Egyptian magical materials likewise display a degree of “formal cohesion,” especially when compared to other kinds of objects. Certain Egyptian scribal habits tend to be exclusive to ‒ or at least uncommon outside of – the various texts and practices scholars deem “magical.” For instance, the so-called charaktêres were commonly used in late antique curses, healing rituals, and apotropaic contexts, yet were uncommonly ‒ if ever ‒ used in contexts we would typically regard as “non-magical.”62 There is, therefore, tremendous heuristic value in calling the charaktêres a “magical” practice.63 In close dialogue with the material evidence ‒ and, for that matter, our modern taxonomies ‒ certain texts primarily designed to dictate and manage normative behaviour reveal that the practices we consider “magic” were at times conceptually related in late antiquity. For instance, the text traditionally labelled Canon 36 of the Council of Laodicea states: Those who are of the priesthood, or of the clergy, ought not be magicians, enchanters, numerologists, or astrologers; nor ought they make what are called amulets, which are chains for their own souls. Those who wear (amulets), we command to be cast out of the Church.64

In this text, the ritual practices of “magicians” (µάγους), “enchanters” (ἐπαοιδούς), “numerologists” (µαθηµατικούς), and “astrologers” (ἀστρολόγους) were related to the extent that they constituted a single threat and thus relegated to a single canon.65 What is more, these diverse ritual experts were connected to the production and use of 60 Davis 1974, 312 (cited in Frankfurter 2005, 268–69). 61 Swartz 2001, 190. 62 For a recent analysis of the charaktêres, which stresses its changes over time and across space, see Gordon 2014. See also Mastrocinque 2004, 92–98. For the ability of the charaktêres to reshape mundane objects as “magical,” see Gordon 2015, 160. 63 In this sense, Bronisław Malinowski’s “coefficient of weirdness” has analytical utility – though, of course, it must be constantly checked and reformulated in light of new insights into contemporary biases about the bizarre in antiquity (Malinowski 1935, 2:218–25). For the application of Malinowski’s “coefficient of weirdness” to the study of ancient magic, see Wilburn 2012, 12–13; Frankfurter 2006, 15–19. 64 Translation taken from Stander 1993, 64. On the problems with connecting this canon to a single Council of Laodicea, see Joannou 1962, 127–28; de Bruyn 2017, 39. 65 On this point, see Sanzo 2019b, 216–17.

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φυλακτήρια, a Greek term often translated as “amulet” (see above). To be sure, as Fritz Graf has deftly demonstrated, the taxonomic relationship between µαγεία and divination was not consistent throughout antiquity.66 Although practices associated with divination were in earlier periods generally thought to be distinct from µαγεία, they were linked under a larger demonological umbrella by Christian thinkers.67 The same holds true for the relationships between magic and other subcategories of “ancient religion,” such as astrology. It is not surprising, therefore, that Epiphanius of Salamis cast aspersions on Nimrod as the source of both ἀστρολογία and µαγεία (Pan. I.3.3). Such taxonomic developments notwithstanding, ancient and modern classifications of ritual do in fact occasionally overlap in substantive ways. The strict avoidance of magic can, therefore, occlude such instances of intersection. The atomising approach is problematic for another reason: it is predicated on the assumption that the disaggregated categories (e.g., amulet, healing, protection, cursing, and divination) constituted clearly identifiable and distinct spheres of ancient religious practice. Yet, within the cluster of social contexts we call the ancient Mediterranean world, the demonological and pathological domains were often inextricably linked.68 The material record from Christian late antiquity testifies to the blurred boundaries between curative, protective, and exorcistic rituals. Take, for instance, BGU III 954, a now-lost sixth-century CE “amulet” from Heracleopolis Magna (Egypt): Master, Oh God Almighty, The Fath[er] of our Lord and Savior [Jesus Christ], and Saint Serenus, I, Silvanus, Son of Sarapinus, give thanks and bow [my] head before you, asking and beseeching in order that you might chase away from me, your slave, the demon of the evil eye, the (demon) of the e[vil] d[e]ed an[d] the (demon) of unpleasantness and remove every sickness and every malady from me in order that I might be healthy and [able] to speak the Gospel-prayer [of health]. Our Father, who resides in the heaven[s, may] your name [be holy,] may [y]our ki[ngdom] arrive, may [your] will be done on earth [as] it is in heaven. Give u[s] today o[ur] daily bread and forgive our deb[t]s [a]s also [we] forgive those who are indeb[ted to us,] and do [not] bring us into temptation, Lord, b[ut] deliv[er] us from ev[il. For yours is] the glor[y] forev[er…] and the [?] of those [?]…In the beginning was the [Wor]d. The book of the ge[nealogy of Jesus Christ, S]o[n of David, Son of Abraham.] Oh Light of light, True God, grant me, your servant, light graciously. Saint Serenus, beg for me that I may be completely healthy.69

66 Graf 2011. 67 Graf 2011, 133. It must be noted, however, that magic and divination have not always been closely connected in scholarship. Sarah Iles Johnston has stressed how magic figured much more prominently in colonial discourses. As a result, magic has played a significantly greater role in postcolonial scholarship. Johnston appropriately notes: “...because the practice of divination had never acquired the same dangerously exotic stamp as had magical practices, and because the term ‘divination’ had never acquired as deeply pejorative overtones as those that had prompted attempts to redefine ‘magic,’ it failed to fascinate the same [postcolonial] scholars who began to take up the study of magic” (Johnston 2008, 26). 68 For this connection in the Gospel of Luke, see Twelftree 2014, 217. 69 Translation taken from Sanzo 2008, 31–32.

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The juxtaposition of physical concerns (“remove every sickness and every malady from me in order that I might be healthy and [able] to speak the Gospel-prayer [of health]”)70 and demonic threats (“chase away from me, your slave, the demon of the evil eye, the (demon) of the e[vil] d[e]ed an[d] the (demon) of unpleasantness”)71 on the object makes it difficult to classify with reference to the proposed subdivisions. Leiden, Ms. AMS 9 (see above) includes requests for protection (e.g., Leiden, Ms. AMS 9 2r, 5–16; 3v, 22–4r, 4), exorcism (e.g., Leiden, Ms. AMS 9 1r, 1; 3v, 10), and healing (e.g., Leiden, Ms. AMS 9 7v, 3-4). With which of the labels proposed by Otto, Aune, and Smith should we assign this Coptic codex?72 As John Gager has appropriately noted about facile distinctions between defixiones and other ritual technologies, “…across time uses [of amulets] expanded to cover other needs, so that the boundary lines between bowls, amulets, and defixiones gradually disappeared.”73 In sum, the deconstructionist position more or less consistently advocated by Smith, Aune, and Otto fails on two analytical levels. First, this approach does not grapple enough with the occasional ‒ though significant ‒ taxonomic overlaps between ancient and modern notions of magic. Although one certainly cannot claim that ancient practitioners organised their taxonomies of illicit ritual along the same lines as, for instance, modern scholars, there are in fact many important points of convergence between these respective groups. Such moments of intersection can be usefully illuminated in dialogue with broader analytical categories, magic among them. Second, the deconstructionist approach does not take into sufficient account the conceptual connections that some ancient practitioners made between the domains of healing, protection, cursing, and divination and thus the occasional blurring of these subcategories on particular ritual artefacts. In other words, the disaggregating methodology offered by these scholars does little to alleviate taxonomic ambiguity. Indeed, the simple preference for religion over magic ‒ with or without the various micro-categories ‒ frequently exchanges one set of analytical problems for another. Jesper Sørensen captures well the underlying problems with the abstinence approach to scholarly terminology, especially magic: …it is difficult to see what is gained by exorcising such broad synthetic terms as magic (or ‘religion’ for that matter). The whole idea seems to rest on a dubious reminiscence from logical positivism where concepts, and especially scientific concepts, are thought of as neutral reflections of real things found out there in the world. Of course, ‘magic’ is not a natural category found in the world, but neither are ‘religion’, ‘society’, and ‘elephant’.74 70 Greek: πᾶσαν δὲ νόσον καὶ πᾶσαν µαλακίαν ἄφελε ἀπ᾽ἐµοῦ, ὅπως ὑγιάνω κ(αὶ) [µελ]λ[ήσω] εἰπεῖν τὴν εὐαγγελικὴν εὐχὴν [ὑγιής]. 71 Greek: διώξης ἀπ᾽ἐµοῦ, τοῦ δούλου, τὸν δαίµονα προβασκανίας καῖ τον κ[ακο]ε[ρ]γίας καὶ τὸν τῆς ἀηδίας. 72 In addition to the blurred lines between exorcism, apotropaic activity, and healing in the amuletic record, exorcism was conflated with the domains of baptism and “conversion” in texts, such as the Apostolic Tradition. See especially Dölger 1909; Leeper 1993; Sorensen 2002, 14–17. 73 Gager 1992, 220. 74 Sørensen 2007, 2. Henk Versnel makes a very similar point when he writes, “Magic does not exist, nor does religion. What do exist are our definitions of these concepts” (Versnel 1991, 177).

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In the end, Otto’s claim that replacing magic with religion inherently “make[s] better sense of the ancient sources” is unconvincing. 3. CONCLUSIONS This essay has sought to demonstrate that, like the uncritical use of the term magic, the complete avoidance of the term magic ‒ especially when it is governed exclusively by an atomising approach to ancient religion ‒ has inherited biases that can negatively impact analysis and interpretation. One must, therefore, adopt a position, which neither completely avoids the term “magic” nor naively absorbs and reproduces the ideological baggage associated with the term in its traditional (scholarly) usage.75 Ironically, it was Jonathan Z. Smith who penned one of the best statements about analytical vocabulary, specifically about the term religion: ‘Religion’ is not a native term; it is a term created by scholars for their intellectual purposes...It is a second-order, generic concept that plays the same role in establishing a disciplinary horizon that a concept such as ‘language’ plays in linguistics or ‘culture’ plays in anthropology. There can be no disciplined study of religion without such a horizon.76

To take a bit of liberty with Smith’s words on religion and apply them to the concerns at hand, magic is not a problematic term per se, but one tool among many that scholars of antiquity should use. This is not to say that we should wield the term haphazardly (e.g., translating every instance of µαγεία as “magic”); as scholars we must critically engage with the category magic, balancing deconstructive analysis with the need in certain contexts for magic as a heuristic rubric.77 To be sure, the application of such a balanced approach will not be a simple or easy task. Which items ought to be considered “magical”? Which “religious”? Which “scientific,” “economic,” or “political”? Which “ancient”? Which “late antique”? There will never be perfect answers to such questions. Ultimately, our selection of rubrics should depend upon our analytical goals and research questions. Does labelling a text, object, or practice magical ‒ and thus placing it into comparison with other materials scholars have labelled magical ‒ facilitate our examination of a specific text or help us address a particular question? If not, we must try to find a better match.78 But, one might object, isn’t magic a vague or imprecise term (and thus analytically unhelpful)? In another venue, Otto noted that, in his co-edited volume Defining Magic: A Reader, more than 39 semantic and 35 theoretical notions of “magic” were

75 For a similar approach to the category religion, see Wendt 2016, 30–36. 76 Smith 1998, 281–82. 77 I thus agree with those scholars who see the need for magic as an “etic” term (e.g., Versnel 1991; Bremmer 1999; Johnston 2003, 50–54). 78 Frankfurter reaches a similar conclusion, when he notes that we should “ask ourselves what is gained or lost by describing data with one etic term or another” (Frankfurter 2019, 11).

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offered.79 This “heterogeneity” of scholarly ideas about “magic” might appear to reflect the term’s absence of any clear reference point.80 Yet, despite the divergent definitions of and approaches to magic, there is a high degree of scholarly agreement on which concerns, functions, and primary sources are included within the category “ancient magic.” As Roy Rappaport once noted about the term religion, “…vagueness is not vacuity, and we know well enough what people mean by the term to get on with things.”81 Ironically, the theorists who deny the usefulness of magic inadvertently concede this point. In addition to the words of Jonathan Z. Smith (cited toward the beginning of this essay), in which he argues for sub-dividing “phenomena commonly denoted by ‘magic,’”82 David Aune (2007) argued that magic is: typically thought to include most of the following types of rituals: healing, exorcism, divination, curse tablets (‘tabellae defixionum,’ or ‘defixiones’), necromancy, erotic rituals, incantations, the evil eye, uses of the divine name, and amulets, to list major categories.83

Likewise, Bernd-Christian Otto (2013), after making the case for abandoning the category magic, posed the question, “…how should Classicists deal with source material habitually tagged as ‘magic’ in Classical discourse?”84 This long-standing and broad agreement in scholarship about which sources and concerns make up the category “(ancient) magic” in fact offers a very useful point of departure. But again, we must always reflect on the inherent biases of our analytical categories. We should critically engage with the connotations and associations that magic currently evokes, without necessarily feeling compelled to postulate new definitions.85 Are any of the inherited qualities of magic inappropriate for the source(s) we are examining? If so, we should be explicit with our readers about such incongruities. This 79 Otto 2017, 43; cf. Otto and Stausberg 2013, 2–3, 9–10. 80 Mark C. Taylor has in fact argued that the “rich equivocity” of terms in the study of religion contribute to their analytical usefulness (Taylor 1998, 16–18). 81 Rappaport 1999, 23. 82 Smith 1995, 16–17 (emphasis mine). 83 Aune 2007, 231–32 (emphasis mine). 84 Otto 2013, 319 (emphasis mine). 85 Otto is certainly correct in challenging the automatic impulse to offer monothetic or polythetic definitions of terms (Otto 2017, 51). But the “polysemantic analysis” (i.e., dividing scholarly usages of a given term into “sets of notions” or “triggers,” which provide the guiding analytical framework) that he pioneers is, in my estimation, unworkable; many of the “sets of notions” are likewise based on problematic categories, which would require their own “polysemantic analyses,” thus resulting in an endless chain of “triggers” and sub-triggers. For instance, Otto includes under his first set of notions of “religious individualization” the following trigger (A3): “Pluralization (this may imply basic ‘extensions of social orbits,’ but also multi-religiosity, syncretism, hybridity, patchwork, entanglement…)” (Otto 2017, 34). Each of the items on this list is “polysemantic” in its own right and would thus require its own “set of notions” (presumably before one might consider its meaning and significance for the original category, “religious individualization”). This critique of his “polysemantic analysis” notwithstanding, his taxonomic focus on scholarly approaches to terms (and not on some naïve “emic” view) is worthwhile and resonates with the argument I make below (see Otto 2017, 32).

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kind of analysis will inevitably need to be nuanced, taking into account the strengths and weaknesses of a given theory/theorist or of the boundaries around a given corpus of sources. To take just one example: although many of Sir James Frazer’s thoughts on magic (e.g., its placement at the beginning of a cultural evolutionary scheme86 and its “manipulative” quality) are not very useful for virtually all contemporary research questions, his claim that magic operates according to the sympathetic principles of homeopathic association (i.e., “like produces like or that an effect resembles its cause”) and contagious association (i.e., “things which have once been in contact with each other continue to act on each other at a distance after the physical contact has been severed”) goes some way toward capturing the assumed logic found in many of the extant ritual objects from antiquity.87 Indeed, several scholars, including Derek Collins, David Frankfurter, and myself, have found explanatory power in the principle of analogy for our analyses of ancient magical practices (even if we have rejected many of Frazer’s colonial biases on the matter).88 We must also continually bear in mind that several of the problems with magic have little to do with magic per se; they reflect broader problems with rigidly organised scholarly taxonomies. Both users and deniers of magic have often assumed that a given kind of object (e.g., amulet or defixio) or concern (e.g., healing or cursing) must have only one overarching label ‒ whether magic, religion, or whatever. But such a narrow approach to labelling is by no means our only option. In this vein, we should not merely take a critical stance toward all of our inherited rubrics, but we should also be willing to experiment with categories, classifying familiar sources in unfamiliar ways (if only for select studies).89 One can find much analytical utility for certain research questions in treating amulets and similar objects, for instance, alternatively as “magical” or ‒ in the tradition of Otto and Aune (2014) ‒ as “religious.” To reference 86 As Robert H. Lowie noted nearly 100 years ago, “Frazer’s argument breaks down at every point, and even if we adopt his definitions there is no reason to ascribe greater antiquity to magic than to religion” (Lowie 1925, 147). 87 Frazer 1911, 52. 88 Frankfurter 1995, 469; Collins 2008, 108–109; Sanzo 2014, 65–69. Collins, who finds value with Frazer’s notion of analogy (with, of course, further nuance), properly notes: “…to the extent that homeopathic and contagious magic were premised on a misunderstanding of natural law, Frazer’s theory has largely been proven wrong” (Collins 2008, 20). Scholars now generally orient their discussions of analogy in magic around Stanley Tambiah’s notion of “persuasive analogy,” whereby the participants are not thought to operate from a mistaken idea of empirical analogies, but are said to encourage such analogies through ritual performance (Tambiah 1973; cf. Faraone 1991, 8). Frankfurter has also recently noted that magic – as a heuristic tool of scholars – might usefully connote, for instance, the “material aspects of ritual, local applications of official ritual, and shifting evaluations of traditional religious figures or rites” (Frankfurter 2019, 19). Frankfurter, however, ultimately frames magic as a transitional category, “point[ing] us to something more fundamental in all the religions of antiquity (and beyond): that what we call religion inevitably revolves around the image and the amulet, the assemblage and the inscribed letters, the shrine and the body” (Frankfurter 2019, 20). Although I would agree that magic can point us to such “religious” dimensions, I remain unconvinced by Frankfurter’s claim that the utility of magic is limited to its transitional function. 89 For a similar approach to heuristic terms, see Gordon 2015, 134–35.

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Leiden, Ms. AMS 9 once more: this Coptic codex might be productively described as a magical object or as a religious object. If one’s scholarly interest, for instance, centres on questions of scriptural reception in apotropaic, curative, and exorcistic contexts ‒ and/or in quotidian contexts traditionally ignored in scholarly research ‒ Leiden, Ms. AMS 9 might be usefully labelled as a “magical” object. Indeed, this codex has been typically classified as “magical” and included within scholarly collections of “magical” objects.90 Such a classification is not arbitrary since the scribe explicitly says in its opening text (The Prayer and Exorcism of Saint Gregory) that his “prayer” (ⲉⲩⲭⲏ) could be used as an “amulet” (ⲫⲩⲗⲁⲕⲧⲏⲣⲓⲟⲛ [e.g., Leiden, Ms. AMS 9, 4r, l. 1]) and, accordingly, could be deposited (e.g., Leiden, Ms. AMS 9, 1v, l. 28) and worn (e.g., Leiden, Ms. AMS 9, 1v, l. 21). It is no wonder, therefore, that this object shares qualities with other artefacts that scholars have labelled “magical” and might be usefully compared with them for certain types of scholarly inquires.91 If, however, one wishes to assess the practitioner’s native classification of this codex, then Leiden, Ms. AMS 9 should be conceived of as “religious” ‒ or, even better, “antimagical” ‒ and, therefore, ought to be placed alongside other early Christian discourses against illicit rituals.92 Indeed, the practitioner not only refers to the object as a “prayer” (ⲉⲩⲭⲏ), but, as I also noted above, this codex explicitly condemns a host of rituals with a vitriolic tone, which easily rises to the level found in the writings of Chrysostom, Augustine, and their ilk. Such taxonomic flexibility ought to be multi-directional and not limited to objects typically deemed “magical.” There is much value in treating early Christian prayer, for instance, as a magical practice. One ought not conduct such a study for sensational effect or in order to denigrate prayer, but to raise new questions in light of different comparanda and research frameworks. Situating early Christian prayers within the world of amulets, curses, and the like can help raise new questions about the poetics of prayers. What principles of analogy or contiguity ‒ if any ‒ were at work? How did historical precedents and authoritative traditions function in a given prayer? What role did local specialists play in the promotion of certain forms of prayer and ideas about prayer? How do the material characteristics of an object inscribed with a prayer contribute to the prayer’s efficacy? Again, we should not be shackled by our analytical rubrics, but use them in ways that are valuable to us for our particular studies. In the end, so long as our taxonomies remain flexible and, consequently, we do not relegate particular items, such as healing objects, curses, Roman emperors, coins, and Jesus, exclusively to one particular domain of social experience, magic alongside other rubrics (e.g., science, religion, politics, and economy) can help us better understand the fascinating world of antiquity.

90 E.g., Kropp 1931, 73–76, Meyer and Smith 1994, 314–25. 91 For instance, this codex includes the incipits of the Gospels and LXX Ps 90:1, which are common on amulets and similar contexts during late antiquity. For discussion, see Sanzo 2014, esp. 82-83, 109. 92 For this latter approach to Leiden, Ms. AMS 9, see Sanzo 2019a. On early Christian discourses of illicit ritual, see most recently de Bruyn 2017, 17–42; Sanzo 2019b.

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Bibliography Asad, Talal. 1993. Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Asad, Talal. 2001. “Reading a Modern Classic: W. C. Smith’s The Meaning and End of Religion.” History of Religions 40: 205‒222. Aune, David E. 1980. “Magic in Early Christianity.” In Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt. Volume. II. 23.2, edited by H. Temporini and W. Haase, 1507‒57. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Aune, David E. 2007. “‘Magic’ in Early Christianity and Its Ancient Mediterranean Context: A Survey of Some Recent Scholarship.” Annali di storia dell’esegesi 24: 229‒94. Aune, David E. 2014. “The Use of the Term ‘Magic’ as a Socio-Religious Category in the Study of the Greco-Roman World and Early Christianity.” In To Set at Liberty: Essays on Early Christianity and Its Social World in Honor of John H. Elliott, edited by Stephen Black, 15‒26. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Baumgarten, Albert I. and Marina Rustow. 2011. “Judaism and Tradition: Continuity, Change and Innovation.” In Jewish Studies at the Crossroads of Anthropology and History: Authority, Diaspora, Tradition, edited by Ra‘anan Boustan, Oren Kosansky and Marina Rustow, 207‒37. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Betz, Hans Dieter. 2003. The “Mithras Liturgy”: Text, Translation, and Commentary. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Blumell, Lincoln H. 2012, Lettered Christians: Christians, Letters, and Late Antique Oxyrhynchus. Leiden: Brill. Bohak, Gideon. 2008. Ancient Jewish Magic: A History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bohak, Gideon, Yuval Harari, and Shaul Shaked, eds., 2011. Continuity and Innovation in the Magical Tradition. Leiden: Brill. Bonnell, Victoria E. 1980. “The Uses of Theory, Concepts and Comparison in Historical Sociology.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 22:156‒73. Bremmer, Jan N. 1998. “‘Religion,’ ‘Ritual,’ and the Opposition ‘Sacred vs. Profane’: Notes Towards a Terminological ‘Genealogy.’” In Ansichten Griechischer Rituale: Geburtstags-Symposium für Walter Burkert, Castelen bei Basel 15. bis 18 März 1996, edited by Fritz Graf, 9‒32. Stuttgart: B. G. Teubner. Bremmer, Jan N. 1999. “The Birth of the Term ‘Magic.’” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 126: 1‒12. Brown, Michael F. 1997. “Thinking about magic.” In Anthropology of Religion: A Handbook, edited by Stephen D. Glazier, 121‒36. Westport, CT: Greenwood. Brubaker, Rogers and Frederick Cooper. 2000. “Beyond ‘Identity.’” Theory and Society 29: 1–47. Brück, Joanna. 1999. “Ritual and Rationality: Some Problems of Interpretation in European Archaeology.” European Journal of Archaeology 2: 465‒85. Clark, Elizabeth. 2004. History, Theory, Text: Historians and the Linguistic Turn. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Collins, Derek. 2008. Magic in the Ancient Greek World. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Cunningham, Graham. 1999. Religion and Magic: Approaches and Theories. New York: New York University Press. Davis, Natalie Zemon. 1974. “Some Tasks and Themes in the Study of Popular Religion.” In The Pursuit of Holiness in Late Medieval and Renaissance Religion, edited by Charles Trinkaus and Heiko A. Oberman, 307‒36. Leiden: Brill. De Bruyn, Theodore. 2017. Making Amulets Christian: Artefacts, Scribes, and Contexts. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dölger, Franz Joseph. 1909. Der Exorzismus im altchristlichen Taufritual: Eine religionsgeschichtliche Studie. Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh. Donoghue, Denis. 1980. “Deconstructing Deconstruction.” The New York Review of Books. June 12, 1980 issue.

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Faraone, Christopher A. 1991. “The Agonistic Context of Early Greek Binding Spells.” In Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion, edited by Christopher A. Faraone and Dirk Obbink, 3‒32. New York: Oxford University Press. Faraone, Christopher A. and Dirk Obbink, eds. 1991. Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic & Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fitzgerald, Timothy. 2000a. “Experience.” In Guide to the Study of Religion, edited by Willi Braun and Russell McCutcheon, 125‒39. London: Continuum. Fitzgerald, Timothy. 2000b. The Ideology of Religious Studies. New York: Oxford University Press. Frankfurter, David. 1995. “Narrating Power: The Theory and Practice of the Magical Historiola in Ritual Spells.” In Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, edited by Marvin W. Meyer and Paul A. Mirecki, 457–76. Leiden: Brill. Frankfurter, David. 1997. “Ritual Expertise in Roman Egypt and the Problem of the Category ‘Magician.’” In Envisioning Magic: A Princeton Seminar and Symposium, edited by Peter Schäfer and Hans G. Kippenberg, 115‒35. Leiden: Brill. Frankfurter, David. 2005. “Beyond Magic and Superstition.” In A People’s History of Late Antique Christianity, edited by Virginia Burrus, 255‒84. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Frankfurter, David. 2006. “Fetus Magic and Sorcery Fears in Roman Egypt.” GRBS 46: 37‒62. Frankfurter, David. 2012. “Comparison and the Study of Religions of Late Antiquity.” In Comparer en histoire des religions antiques: Controverses et propositions, edited by C. Calame and B. Lincoln, 83–98. Liège: Presses universitaires de Liège, 2012. Frankfurter, David. 2019. “Ancient Magic in a New Key: Refining an Exotic Discipline in the History of Religions.” In Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic, edited by David Frankfurter, 3‒20. Leiden: Brill. Frazer, James. 1911. The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion. London: Macmillan. Gager, Gager, John G. 1992. Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Garrett, Susan R. 1989. The Demise of the Devil: Magic and the Demonic in Luke’s Writings. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Gordon, Richard. 2014. “Charaktêres between Antiquity and Renaissance: Transmission and ReInvention.” In Les saviors magiques et leur transmission de l’Antiquité à la Renaissance, edited by Véronique Dasen and Jean-Michel Spieser, 253‒300. Florence: Edizioni del Galluzzo. Gordon, Richard. 2015. “From Substances to Texts: Three Materialities of ‘Magic’ in the Roman Imperial Period.” In The Materiality of Magic, edited by Dietrich Boschung and Jan N. Bremmer, 133‒76. Munich: Wilhelm Fink. Graf, Fritz. 1997. Magic in the Ancient World, translated by Franklin Philip. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Graf, Fritz. 2011. “Magic and Divination: Two Apolline Oracles on Magic.” In Continuity and Innovation in the Magical Tradition, edited by Gideon Bohak, Yuval Harari, and Shaul Shaked, 119–34. Leiden: Brill. Greenfield, Richard P. H. 1995. “A Contribution to the Study of Palaeologan Magic.” In Byzantine Magic, edited by Henry Maguire. Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection. Grimes, Ronald L. “Ritual.” 2000. In Guide to the Study of Religion, edited by Willi Braun and Russell T. McCutcheon, 259‒70. London: Cassell. Heintz, Florent. 1997. Simon ‘Le magicien’. Actes 8.5‒25 et l’accusation de magie contre les prophètes thaumaturges dans l’antiquité. Paris: Gabalda. Hobsbawm, Eric. 1992. “Introduction.” In The Invention of Tradition, edited by Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, 1‒14. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Joannou, P.-P. 1962. Discipline génerale antique (IVe–IXe s.), vol. 1/2: Les canons des synodes particuliers. Vatican: Tipografia Italo-Orientale ‘S. Nilo.’ Johnston, Sarah Iles. 2003. “Describing the Undefinable: New Books on Magic and Old Problems of Definition.” History of Religions 43: 50‒54.

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Johnston, Sarah Iles. 2008. Ancient Greek Divination. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Klauck, Hans-Josef. 2003. Magic and Paganism in Early Christianity: The World of the Acts of the Apostles, translated by Brian McNeil. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Kropp, Angelicus, ed. 1931. Ausgewählte koptische Zaubertexte. Vol. 1, Textpublikation. Brussels: Édition de la Fondation égyptologique Reine Élisabeth. Leeper, Elizabeth Ann. 1993. “The Role of Exorcism in Early Christianity.” StPtr 26: 59–62. Lesses, Rebecca. 1998. Ritual Practices to Gain Power: Angels, Incantations, and Revelation in Early Jewish Mysticism. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International. Lowie, Robert H. 1925. Primitive Religion. London: George Routledge and Sons. Mair, Lucy 1972. An Introduction to Social Anthropology. London: Clarendon. Malina, Bruce J. 2014. “Were there ‘Authors’ in New Testament Times?” In To Set at Liberty: Essays on Early Christianity and Its Social World in Honor of John H. Elliott, edited by Stephen Black, 262‒71. Sheffied: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Malinowski, Bronisław. 1935. Coral Gardens and the Their Magic: A Study of the Methods of Tilling the Soil and of Agricultural Rites in the Trobriand Islands. 2 vols. London: G. Allen & Unwin. Markus, Robert A. 1994. “Augustine on Magic: A Neglected Semiotic Theory.” Revue des Études Augustiniennes 40: 375‒88. Martin, Craig. 2015. “Theses on the Critique of ‘Religion.’” Critical Research on Religion 3: 297‒302. Mastrocinque, Attilio. 2004. Sylloge gemmarum gnosticarum. Roma: Bollettino di Numismatica. Meyer, Marvin W. and Richard Smith, eds. 1994, Ancient Christian Magic: Coptic Texts of Ritual Power. Princeton University Press. Meyer, Marvin W. and Paul A. Mirecki, eds. 1995. Ancient Magic and Ritual Power. Leiden: Brill. Mirecki, Paul and Marvin W. Meyer, eds. 2002. Magic and Ritual in the Ancient World. Leiden: Brill. Nongbri, Brent. 2013. Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept. New Haven: Yale University Press. Otto, Bernd-Christian. 2011. Magie: Rezeptions- und diskursgeschichtliche Analysen von der Antike bis zur Neuzeit. Berlin: De Gruyter. Otto, Bernd-Christian. 2013. “Towards Historicizing ‘Magic’ in Antiquity.” Numen 60: 308‒47. Otto, Bernd-Christian. 2017. “Magic and Religious Individualization: On the Construction and Deconstruction of Analytical Categories in the Study of Religion.” Historia Religionum: An International Journal 9 (2017): 29‒52. Otto, Bernd-Christian and Michael Stausberg, eds. 2013. Defining Magic: A Reader. Sheffield: Equinox. Petrucci, Armando. 1995. “From the Unitary Book to the Miscellany.” In Writers and Readers in Medieval Italy: Studies in the History of Written Culture by Armando Petrucci, edited and translated by Charles M. Radding, 1‒18. New Haven: Yale University Press. Pleyte, Willem and Pieter A. A. Boeser. 1897. Manuscrits coptes du Musée d’antiquités des Pays-Bas à Leide. Leiden: Brill. Price, Simon. 1999. Religions of the Ancient Greeks. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rappaport, Roy A. 1999. Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reed, Annette Yoshiko. 2014. “Gendering Heavenly Secrets? Women, Angels, and the Problem of Misogyny and ‘Magic.’” In Daughters of Hecate: Women and Magic in the Ancient World, edited by Kimberly B. Statton and Dayna S. Kalleres, 108‒51. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Reimer, Andy M. 2002. Miracle and Magic: A Study in the Acts of the Apostles and the Life of Apollonius of Tyana. London: T&T Clark. Remus, Harold. 1982. “‘Magic or Miracle’: Some Second-Century Instances.” Second Century 2: 127‒156. Salzman, Michelle. 1987. “Superstitio in the Codex Theodosianus and the Persecution of Pagans.” VC 41: 172‒88. Sanzo, Joseph E. 2008. “Canonical Power: A ‘Tactical’ Approach to the Use of the Christian Canon in P. Berlin 954.” Saint Shenouda Coptic Quarterly 4: 28‒45.

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Sanzo, Joseph E. 2013. “Review of Materia Magica: The Archaeology of Magic in Egypt, Spain and Cyprus (Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press, 2013).” The Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrologists 50: 353‒58. Sanzo, Joseph E. 2014. Scriptural Incipits on Amulets from Late Antique Egypt: Text, Typology, and Theory. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Sanzo, Joseph E. 2019a. “At the Crossroads of Ritual Practice and Anti-Witchcraft Discourse in Late Antiquity.” Magic, Ritual, and Witchcraft 14.2: 230–54. Sanzo, Joseph E. 2019b. “Early Christianity.” In Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic, edited by David Frankfurter, 192‒233. Leiden: Brill. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1980. “Fences and Neighbors: Some Contours of Early Judaism.” In Approaches to Ancient Judaism, edited by W. S. Green, Vol. 2, 1‒25. Missoula: Scholars Press. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1995. “Trading Places.” In Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, edited by Marvin W. Meyer and Paul A. Mirecki, 13–27. Leiden: Brill. Smith, Jonathan Z. 2002. “Great Scott! Thought and Action One More Time.” In Magic and Ritual in the Ancient World, edited by Paul Mirecki and Marvin W. Meyer, 73‒91. Leiden: Brill. Smith, Jonathan Z. 2004. Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Smith, Wilfred Cantwell. 1962. The Meaning and End of Religion: A New Approach to the Religious Traditions of Mankind. New York: Macmillan. Sorensen, Eric. 2002. Possession and Exorcism in the New Testament and Early Christianity. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002. Sørensen, Jesper. 2007. A Cognitive Theory of Magic. Lanham: AltaMira Press. Stander, H. F. 1993. “Amulets and the Church Fathers.” Ekklesiastikos Pharos 75.2: 55‒66. Stratton, Kimberly. 2007. “The Rhetoric of ‘Magic’ in Early Christian Discourse: Gender, Power, and the Construction of ‘Heresy.’” In Mapping Gender in Ancient Religious Discourses, edited by T. Penner and C. Vander Stichele, 89‒114. Leiden: Brill. Stratton, Kimberly B. 2014. “Interrogating the Magic-Gender Connection.” In Daughters of Hecate: Women and Magic in the Ancient World, edited by Kimberly B. Stratton and Dayna S. Kalleres, 1‒37. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Stratton, Kimberly B. and Dayna S. Kalleres, 2014. Daughters of Hecate: Women and Magic in the Ancient World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Styers, Randall. 2004. Making Magic: Religion, Magic, and Science in the Modern World. New York: Oxford University Press. Swartz, Michael. 2001. “The Dead Sea Scrolls and Jewish Magic and Mysticism.” Dead Sea Discoveries 8:182‒93. Szirmai, John A. 1999. The Archaeology of Medieval Bookbinding. Aldershot: Ashgate. Tambiah, Stanley J. 1973. “Form and Meaning of Magical Acts: A Point of View.” In Modes of Thought, edited by Robin Horton and Ruth Finnegan, 199‒229. London: Faber and Faber. Taylor, Mark C. 1998. “Introduction.” In Critical Terms for Religious Studies, edited by Mark C. Taylor, 1‒20, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Thomas, Keith. 1971. Religion and the Decline of Magic. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Thomas, Keith. 1975. “An Anthropology of Religion and Magic, II.” The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 6: 91‒109. Twelftree, Graham H. 2009. “Jesus and Magic in Luke-Acts.” In Jesus and Paul: Global Perspectives in Honor of James D. G. Dunn. A Festschrift for his 70th Birthday, edited by B. J. Oropeza, C. K. Robertson, and Douglas C. Mohrmann, 46‒58. London: T&T Clark. Twelftree, Graham H. 2014. “Exorcism in Early Christianity.” In Hermeneutik der frühchristlichen Wundererzählungen: Geschichtliche, Literarische und rezeptionsorientierte Perspektiven, edited by Bernd Kollmann and Ruben Zimmermann, 205‒30. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Versnel, Henk S. 1991. “Some Reflections on the Relationship Magic‒Religion.” Numen 38: 177‒97. Weber, Max 1993. The Sociology of Religion. Boston: Beacon Press.

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Wendt, Heidi. 2016. At the Temple Gates: The Religion of Freelance Experts in the Early Roman Empire. New York: Oxford University Press. Wilburn, Andrew T. 2013. Materia Magica: The Archaeology of Magic in Roman Egypt, Cyprus, and Spain. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Winkelman, Michael. 1982. “Magic: A Theoretical Reassessment.” Current Anthropology 23: 37‒66. Woodmansee, Martha. 1984. “The Genius and the Copyright: Economic and Legal Conditions of the Emergence of the ‘Author.’” Eighteenth Century Studies 17: 425‒48.

“PURE MAGIC” AND ITS TAXONOMIC VALUE Antón Alvar Nuño, University of Málaga Jaime Alvar Ezquerra, University Carlos III, Madrid 1. FROM MAGIC TO “MAGIC” The intense debate that took place from the end of the 1980s and throughout the 1990s in regard to the taxonomic category of “magic” in Classical Studies is widely known.1 This debate culminated in a paradigm shift that began with the deconstruction of the concept of magic ‒ as it had been used since the end of the 19th century ‒ and ended with its subsequent semantic reconceptualization.2 Until this paradigm shift, magic as a category had been defined from opposing binomials. In contrast with the concept of religion, magic was coercive and unholy; it pursued selfish, individualistic goals; it was antisocial, feminine, and practiced in the dark of night. It invoked the infernal chthonic deities rather than the august, uranic gods. It was fraudulent and irrational.3 The model that was imposed on classical studies during most of the 20th century is indebted primarily to two schools of thought. First, the psychological connotations associated with the concept of magic ‒ understood to be a form of religiosity inferior to religion and science, primitive, irrational, and common among the ignorant, illiterate and brutish ‒ had its foundations in British evolutionism, and, more concretely, in the school of the Cambridge Ritualists, whose principal and most influential exponent was Sir James G. Frazer.4 Second, the view of magic as a system 1

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The collection edited by Faraone and Obbink 1991 is frequently considered to be the work that established a paradigm shift. To be sure, there were previous, equally relevant works, specifically the sociological approach to phenomenon of Brown 1970 and the structuralist analysis of Annequin 1973. Versnel 1991 provides a comprehensive review of the debate through that time. The process included philological revisions of the terms γόης, µάγος, magus (e.g., Bremmer 2002 or Graf 1995). Among the new, redefining essays, the following are worth highlighting: Alvar Nuño 2017a; Eidinow 2011; Gordon and Marco Simón 2010, 43‒47; and Frankfurter 2001. Regarding the historiography of women and magic, see Stratton 2014, 1‒37. Dickie 2001, 124‒141 presents magic in the Roman era as essentially subversive. Velázquez 2001 conceptualizes it as a series of primitive and irrational beliefs entrenched in western culture. Otto 2011 and Styers 2004 are detailed studies of the conceptual history of the term “magic” and how it has been used in the West in contrast to the concepts of “religion” and “science.” The collective work by Turpin and Moreau 2000 demonstrates how the vast majority of participants conceive of magic as the antithesis of religion and communal values. See the definition of magic in Frazer 1920, 53. It should be pointed out that his theories were out of date in anthropology by the time his work was published. In this respect, L. Wittgenstein’s “Bemerkungen über Frazers The Golden Bough,” edited on a number of occasions and finally published in book form in Wittgenstein 1979, is famous. On Frazer’s influence on classical studies, see Fowler in ThesCRA vol. 3 (2005), 6.i, “Magische Rituale”: 284: “The evolutionism has long been discarded, and Frazer’s understanding of religion is consistent with only the most

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removed from the collective values of the social body, individualistic and reprobate, was rooted in the sociological postulates of the French Sociological School and the related works of Emile Durkheim and his nephew, Marcel Mauss.5 In the 1970s and 1980s, the golden age of social history studies, the idea of magic inherited from early 20th century anthropological theories was not questioned, but rather reformulated in order to be applied to the new historiographic trends. Academic interest in popular resistance movements that questioned and challenged authority saw the traditional notion of magic ‒ specifically as defined by the French Sociological School ‒ as a reflection of confrontation with the established order, in particular the religious superstructure. Magic was not merely counter culture, but rather a total Bakhtin-like world ‒ view parallel to the cultural forms of expression of oligarchies.6 Magic, thus conceived, became a form of religiosity situated on the margin of the system, and therefore susceptible to persecution when circumstances warranted. However, as J. Z. Smith highlighted even a decade ago, magic’s Begriffsgeschichte has spanned such a long trajectory and is so commonly used in the West that before the paradigm shift it functioned more as an evaluative principle than an interpretive category. It was precisely the work undertaken in the 1990s to transcend the ideological and evaluative connotations related to the concept of magic, sustained in a diachronic fashion, and to analyze it from an emic point of view ‒ that is to say, to observe the phenomenon of magic by using inside information from direct sources (curse tablets, spell books, amulets, epodai, historiolae) in the face of the construction of a literary stereotype that reinforces the concept over the longue durée ‒ which provoked uncertainty about its usefulness as a valid heuristic category. The result has not been the expulsion of the term from the regular lexicon of the study of the history of religions; rather, discreet quotation marks are used to distinguish “magic” from magic. In the debate that advanced the paradigm shift, different options were explored. One, which was defended primarily by Henk Versnel in a memorable article published in 1991, chose to maintain magic as a heuristic category distinct from the heuristic category religion; ultimately, “magic does not exist, nor does religion. What do exist are our definitions of these concepts.”7 On the other side of the spectrum, there are authors such as Jonathan Z. Smith, Marvin Meyer, David Frankfurter, Paul Mirecki, and Richard Smith, who, faced with

5 6

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extreme positivism. Nonetheless, his list of characteristics is still widely applied in discussions of magic, though in completely different explanatory frameworks.” See also Graf 1994, 14f. Mauss and Hubert 1902‒1903. Bakhtin’s most influential work in Europe was his doctoral thesis (defended in 1940), which was first published in Russian in 1967. It was translated into the principle European languages in the 1970s. The English version is Bakhtin 1968. The studies of Kristeva 1967 and Burke 1988 significantly contributed to his popularization. His theories were introduced into classical studies by Rösler 1986. Jiménez Sánchez 2013, Hidalgo de la Vega 2008, and Stratton 2007 demonstrate the strong relationship between magic and representations of religious alterity. For his part, Carastro 2006 shows us that, although Greek terminology for magic was used to denominate religious imports from the East to such an extent that it became a pejorative term, its praxis was embedded in Greek culture. Versnel 1991, 177.

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an overwhelming number of testimonials that put into question the traditional assumption that marginal warlock ritual practices exist or are situated on the periphery of religious norms, have explored the possibility ‒ at least on occasion ‒ to employ the periphrasis “ritual power” as a substitute for “magic,” and “ritual expert” as a substitute for “sorcerer.”8 In the words of J. Z. Smith, “substantive definitions of ‘magic’ have proven empty in concrete instances and worthless when generalized to characterize entire peoples, whole systems of thought or world-views.”9 With the intention to invalidate the prejudices accumulated from using the term magic as a differentiator to delineate legitimate religion-like a broken mirror that reflects the ideological conflicts of the present in the interpretation of the past ‒ some researchers have spotted an escape route in Greco-Roman terminology. Resorting to external taxonomic constructs is not required when an inductive approach to the sources provides an enormous variety of specific categories: magoi, goēteis, pharmakeis, epōdoi, thaumatopoioi, rizotomoi, manteis, magi, sagae, ueneficii, herbarii, cantatrices... This approach, however, is not error-free given that researchers cannot discard their own systems of values, beliefs, and motivations. Like a chameleon, a researcher must embrace the subtleties and ambiguities of a culture that, for the most part, reaches us in fragments.10 Additionally, since the linguistic turn underscored the fact that sources reciprocate the exclusionary discourses of different competing groups attempting to protect their investments in the religious system, we should assume that we do not have access to transparent and unadulterated historic realities.11 The debate that has taken place over the course of the last twenty years has not been in vain. The concept of magic continues to be a valid category as shown, in fact, by the title of this very congress. But, unlike the semantic content of the term coined by Frazer and Mauss, the connotations that its use implies today are very different. One of the most successful re-definitions is to orient it around the participants’ perspective, instead of as a function of the polis’ religious system.12 From this position, magic is defined as a pragmatic and instrumental subsystem of religion meant to alleviate situations perceived to be crises by the individual, who decides to resort to an intermediary or other type of semi-institutionalized pragmatic solution (as in the case of the writing of defixiones, many of which were written by the very parties involved). This is the general approach that we assume. Be that as it may, we would like to use this opportunity to highlight a topic that has been on the margin of the debate surrounding the concept of magic in the classical world: it deals with a body of mani8

The relevant reference works are Meyer and Smith 1994; Meyer and Mirecki 1995; and Meyer and Mirecki 2001. In these volumes, the editors have compiled articles from investigators, such as those mentioned here, who are critical of the use of the concept of magic. 9 Smith 1995, 16. 10 Segal 1981, for example, refuses to define the concept of magic because it is culturally determined. Against those who have proposed the use of emic categories instead of the generic use of “magic” and “sorcerer,” see Hoffman 2001 and Versnel 1991. 11 This clearly appears in works like Gordon 2009; Carastro 2006; and Marco Simón 2001. 12 The most recent redefining works are those of Albrecht, Degelmann, Gasparini et al. 2018, 4‒5 and 8‒13; Eidinow 2011 and Kindt 2012, 90‒122. Hammond 1970 and Thomassen 1999 previously explored this possibility.

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festations of supernatural powers distinctly labeled in anthropology as “witchcraft” or “pure magic.” The debate over the concept of magic in the Classical World has been strongly influenced by the nature of the testimonials. The paradigm shift is substantiated through a detailed analysis of a corpus of materials that has substantially improved since the beginning of the 20th century and its early editions. The corpus of curse tablets (defixiones, katadesmoi), the well-known Greek Magical Papyri, and those from amulets and magical engraved gemstones, are undoubtedly leading sources for the study of magic as pertaining to the supply and demand in the civic religion’s market. This corpus has made possible the analysis of aspects of social activity, such as individual motives, the perception and management of risk, exemption of liability, interpersonal conflicts, authority strategies, collective negotiation of meanings from different narrative levels, empowerment and many more. But the picture is incomplete if we cling exclusively to the “materiality” of magic, to use a recent term.13 How do we account for those ethnographic reports that allude to beliefs that leave no material vestiges? What about those that do not even have a ritual dimension? Despite the absence of such qualities, these beliefs are nonetheless pivotal for explaining daily misfortunes. In addition, their characteristics empirically validate the existence of harmful magic.14 These are precisely the cases that lend significant value to the idea of pure magic. 2. MANGU, KOYB... Since the publication of Edward Evans-Pritchard’s Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande in 1937, anthropologists, especially those with experience in colonial Africa, have distinguished between two forms of magic: “witchcraft” and “sorcery.”15 According to Evans-Pritchard, the Azande ‒ an ethnic group distributed across the north of the Democratic Republic of Congo, the southwest of South Sudan and the southeast of the Central African Republic ‒ designated a specific form of magic called mangu. This term describes the capacity of some individuals to cause harm through psychic emanations caused by an inherent, biologically transmitted physiological condition. In the case of the Zande mangu, demonstrable verification of an individual’s supernatural abilities was seen in the liver; therefore, witches could only be identified after death. The Azande distinguished mangu from ‘ngua, a type of magic that was invoked through rituals. Based on his formalist point of view, Evans-Pritchard decided to use the term “witchcraft” for mangu and “sorcery” for ‘ngua. Subsequently, Marwick used the same distinction as Evans-Pritchard in his study of the Ceŵa in Northern Rhodesia (present-day Zambia), adding more detail to the distinctions between these types of 13 Boschung and Bremmer 2014. 14 Note, for example, the striking omission of Heim’s 1893 compilation work of enchantments in ThesCRA vol. 3 (2005) 6.g (Die magische Defixio) and 6.i (Magische Rituale). 15 Evans-Pritchard 1937. In regard to the general consensus of this distinction, see Stewart and Strathern 2004, 1‒9.

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magic. The most important for our purposes are: (1) that sorcery is a conscious act whereas witchcraft is unconscious; (2) that sorcery is induced by a momentary bout of rage, whereas witchcraft is a compulsive behavior not necessarily accompanied by motive; and (3) that sorcery is perceived to be a more plausible practice and less disturbing than witchcraft since it uses material substances (drugs) or specific magical incantations.16 Mary Douglas, however, criticized the terminology proposed by Marwick because she claimed that it framed the concepts of witchcraft and sorcery too restrictively. Instead, she proposed a more general use of these terms, in the style of Edmund Leach, who limited the distinction to controlled, conscious mystical powers in contrast to uncontrolled, unconscious mystical powers.17 Ultimately Douglas wanted to carry out a transcultural sociological analysis of the accusatory environments and social control strategies that witchcraft brought to light.18 By contrast, Marwick was redefining concepts whose semantic histories had spanned a long period of time. From his perspective, framing witchcraft and sorcery in dialogue with the African ethnographic reality in particular distanced them from the vernacular meanings. In any event, it is certain that the ethnographic reports ‒ be they African, European, American or Asian ‒ collect local interpretations of supernatural powers that correspond to the conventional notions of witchcraft in British social anthropology, or as we prefer, “pure magic.” These notions have contributed to a general acceptance of the formulation of two distinct, yet related taxons among anthropologists. Compared to ritual magic ‒ a performative activity, which is developed through training; requires the use of material substances (believed to possess specific powers); employs incantations or other types of verbal commands; and tends to involve divine intercession ‒ pure magic is considered to be an internal, biological, mystical power. In some instances, there is a specific organ or physical characteristic ‒ hereditary, and generally involuntary and uncontrollable ‒ used as empirical evidence of its existence. Additionally, pure magic, unlike the impersonal nature of ritual magic, tends either to be provoked immediately upon an intense, unrestrained emotional episode (envy, hate, rage) or it signals pure malice.19 It is unnecessary to turn to the exoticism of the central African ethnography to find examples of this kind. In the judicial proceedings against witchcraft in England in the 16th and 17th centuries, for instance, physical traits were commonly used to describe a witch’s body and were thought to reveal her inherent wickedness. Apart from the prevalent stereotype of witches as old, ugly, poor women, it was thought that their wickedness and impurity was naturally transmitted to their descendants. In addition, a witch generally had an adopted animal that acted as her familiar spirit and

16 Marwick 1965, 81–82. 17 Leach 1961, 22–23. 18 Douglas 1967, 72. The British anthropologist’s resolve to contrast different cultural realities and find room for shared debate for anthropologists and historians alike is apparent in the colloquium she organized and published in Douglas 1970. 19 Here we have adhered to the definition from Stewart and Strathern 2004, 1–28. Nutini and Roberts 1993 is another excellent example of the differentiation between witchcraft and sorcery applied to ethnographic testimonials outside Africa.

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acted out the witch’s desires. In exchange, she allowed the animal to drink her blood from an unnatural teat that grew from her body.20 Both pure magic and ritual magic provide elements that facilitate the construction of plausible accusations or evident explanations of arbitrary misfortunes. The possibilities can range from the identification of circumstances, which have made the victim susceptible to the aggressor’s involuntary or accidental mystical attack, to the cataloging of a systematic source of malice that puts the social order at risk.21 For example, in some areas of Papua New Guinea, it is acknowledged that if a person who is expecting a gift does not receive it, his frustrated desire can be channeled in the form of a sickness and directed against the individual that did not fulfill the remunerative duty.22 The disgruntled person provokes the curse merely by involuntarily swallowing saliva upon receiving the bad news. This type of explanatory model for illness is especially relevant in societies organized around the principle of gift-giving; an unanticipated affliction can be interpreted as a punishment, which results from a moral infraction for failing to comply with the socioeconomic standard that revolves around the exchange of gifts. In other cases, the accusations of witchcraft (using the connotation derived from African anthropology as “witchcraft/pure magic”) reflect more complex situations of social tension. Again in Papua New Guinea, the escalation of accounts of witchcraft produced from the 19th century among the ethnic Karam people in the highlands of the Madang province proves to be an illustrative case. According to the ethnographic reports collected by Inge Riebe,23 the Karam explain supernatural, harm-causing innate abilities through the idea that a parasite in the form of a snake (the koyb) is lodged in a person’s abdomen. From the symbiosis with the koyb, the individual acquires the ability to kill people using mystical power. Movements of populations, which occurred in the area during the 19th century, led to the arrival of new ethnic groups, specifically the Melpa and Ramu, whose belief systems contributed to the development of a more elaborate portrait of koyb witches. Influenced by the new ethnic group’s more sophisticated conceptualization of pure magic, the Karam began to claim that the koyb endowed its host with several abilities: to transform into animals or other humans; to become invisible; to move at a great speed; to be able to be at two places at the same time; to kill without physical contact; and even to resuscitate people who had been murdered with conventional weapons. The parasite, however, also caused its host to have an insatiable appetite for human flesh. Furthermore, they began to believe that the person, in whom the koyb was lodged, not only acted out of

20 Rosen 1991, 29–32. In continental Europe, witches were also often identified by bodily marks that revealed their pact with the devil (e.g., a white mole or a birthmark in the shape of a goat’s hoof). On this point, see Tausiet 2004, 47. 21 The body of scientific literature about the witch trials in modern Europe is enormous. In fact, the volume edited by Douglas 1970 was directly inspired by the work of McFarlane 1970 on the witch trials during the Tudor and Stuart periods in England. A relatively recent compilation on the state of the question can be found in Ankarloo, Clark and Monter 2002. 22 Stewart and Strathern 2004, 18. 23 Riebe 1987; Ead. 1991. Stewart and Strathern 2004, 114–125.

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physiological needs created by the parasite, but could also control his power and kill on demand. As is often the case in these situations, the Karam began to identify koyb witches from among the members of the new, colonizing ethnic groups. This identification not only reflected the tensions and conflicts that resulted from the new division of territory and the rupture in the dynamics of reciprocity imbedded in the giftexchanging organization of the Karam (the koyb witches are greedy and sell their services). But it also, as Riebe explains, provided an explanation for the increase in deaths with no apparent cause, which resulted from new illnesses (in particular dysentery and malaria) that originated from the low valleys. 3. ...BASKANIA, PTHONOS, FASCINUM, INVIDIA In the Greco-Roman world various types of magic existed that could be considered “pure.” In his description of the voice fascinum in the monumental Dictionnaire des Antiquités Greques et Romaines of Daremberg and Saglio in 1896, the French philologist George Lafaye was the first to recognize differences between mystical aggressions provoked by a natural power and ritualized curses.24 What we now, out of convention, call the evil eye is probably the most commonly known form of pure magic in the Greco-Roman world. It is this topic on which we will focus the rest of this paper.25 Even so, other forms of power certainly existed that could be included in the category of pure magic, such as the “natural” abilities of the Ophiogenes, who cured poisonous snakebites with a mere touch, or the Psylli, whose bodies generated a deadly venom, or the Marsi, whose saliva and sweat had similar properties, or the Pharmaces, whose sweat was able to cure diseased bodies. The compilation of paradoxoghraphical stories in which the attributed powers are of a biological nature rather than ritual, homines monstrificas naturas et ueneficos aspectus, is vast.26 24 See also Clerc 1995: 88f., who uses Evans-Pritchard’s categories witchcraft/sorcery for the classical world. 25 Although there is a tendency to think that the Greco-Latin expressions baskania, phthonos, fascinum, invidia and livor make reference to a harmful power that emanates from the eyes – and, in fact, that was the preferred option of the classical authors – it is true that other possibilities can fit into this conceptualization: e. g., Catull. 7: [...] quae nec pernumerare curiosi / possint nec mala fascinare lingua, or Philarcus in Plut. Quaest. Conv. 680D: καὶ γὰρ τὸ βλέµµα καὶ τὴν ἀναπνοὴν καὶ τὴν διάλεκτον αὐτῶν παραδεχοµένους τέκεσθαι καὶ νοσεῖν (“and those affected by the look, breath or voice of these people, felt sick and went limp”). Regarding the heuristic value of the term evil eye in modern anthropology, see Herzfeld 1981: 560‒574. On the other hand, the GrecoRoman conceptualization of the evil eye was diverse and not limited to beliefs in the existence of supernatural, mystical powers. Plut. Quaest. conv. 680‒683 and Heliod. Aeth. 3.7–8 are intellectual essays that try to explain the evil eye from a purely physical standpoint. In regard to this belief and its articulation of the Roman world’s religious superstructure, see Alvar Nuño 2012b. 26 The quotation is from Plin. nat. hist. 28.30. Both in this passage and in 7.13–21, Pliny compiles many references to authors, such as Isigonus, Nymphodorus, Apollinides, Damon, Agatharchides, Varro and Cicero. Regarding the influence of paradoxographical authors on the creation of a witch archetype in Latin literature, see Alvar Nuño 2012a. Other ethnic groups had alleged innate

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A considerable number of textual references attest to congruencies between the Greco-Roman idea of the evil eye and the defining characteristics of pure magic.27 As is the case with the vernacular ideas, which fall under the general category of “witchcraft/pure magic,” phthonos, baskania, invidia, livor and fascinum have elements that distinguish them from ritual magic ‒ although on occasion they may appear interrelated.28 First of all, the evil eye is not initiated by means of a performative action, invocation, or stereotypical formula. The only known example of the evil eye invoked through a ritual action is in Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica in the passage that describes Medea invoking the Ceres and the Hounds of Hades three times with incantations and prayers and channeling her power through her gaze to attack the giant bronze Talos.29 However, this episode is not adopted in later versions of Argonautica. Valerius Flaccus does not include it in his Latin version; therefore, it is probable that Varro Ataecinus’s first Latin translation of Argonautica (the first century B.C.E.) did not include it either.30 Additionally, as we have seen with the different narrative strategies deployed by the peoples of Papua New Guinea to explain random misfortune or advocate accusations, the conceptualization of the evil eye in the Greco-Roman world oscillates on a continuum between involuntary activation by means of an emotional incident to rhetorical use in literature to portrayals of an individual’s inherent malevolence. As a mystical expression of envy, the belief in the evil eye justifies the flaws in the theodicy of good fortune and allows for the evasion of individual responsibility in the face of random misfortune. Unlike the Aristotelian view, according to which envy can only occur among equals or in social environments where inequalities are minimal,31 the Roman world viewed it in other terms. In various passages of his Institutio Oratoria, Quintilian indicates that envy is a natural part of the humiliores, and people of a higher status suffer from its wrath more frequently (given their privileged situation).32 In other words, envy is an emotion that is structurally related to poverty. Seneca the Younger expresses it in similar terms when he suggests that one should not

27 28 29 30 31 32

supernatural abilities, specifically, prophetic power. These families, such as the Melampodidae, the Iamidae, the Clytidae, the Telliadae, the Galeotae or the Branchidae, were typically considered the descendants of mythic seers who were usually blind and received the gift of prophetic vision as a form of divine compensation. Unlike the monstrous families described by Pliny, these gifted seers did not have physical deformities that indicated their mystic powers, but prestigious eponymous ancestors such as Teiresias, Phineus or Euenius. On this matter, cf. Flower 2008, 37‒50. In fact, Eidinow 2016, 102–163, inspired by the works of the previously mentioned Mary Douglas, recently analyzed the use of phthonos in the processes of building accusatory environments in the Greek world. E.g., Ov. Am. 1.8.16; Plin. nat. hist. 7.15–18; Polemon, Phgn. 1.18r Förster. As we point out later, the evil eye in these cases is used with the moralistic intention to construct an archetypal profile. Ap. Rhod. Argon. 4.1638‒1688, with Dickie 1990. Cf. Morel 1927, 93–96. Arist. Rh. 2.10. See also Ben-Ze’ev 1992, 551–581, whose analysis of envy in contemporary societies brings him to conclusions similar to the Greek philosopher. Quint. Inst. 11.1.17: inde inuident humiliores (hoc uitium est eorum, qui nec cedere uolunt nec possunt contendere); ibid. 12.8.14: Nam plurimum refert inuidia reus an odio an contemptu laboret, quorum fere pars prima superiores, proxima pares, tertia humiliores premit.

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envy those of higher rank (Nec inuideamus altius stantibus).33 Although envy is the implicit acknowledgment of the existence of marked imbalances of power, it is the responsibility of the envier who, unable to contain himself, allows his bitterness to pollute his body. This pollution manifests itself as a negative emanation that affects the happiness of the individual who is envied. “In general, the emotions of the mind increase the violence and energy of the body’s powers.”34 In its moral dimension, the evil eye is a measure of systemic malevolence. This idea can be found in the Ovidian narrative of the witch Dipsas, whose pupula duplex epitomized the vicious character of a drunk, lascivious, and cruel old woman who lives in the dark of night.35 One might also point to the Gallic warlock, whom Polemon describes in his treatise on physiognomy as having the worst sort of eyes, deceitful and scamming.36 The evil eye also has physically identifying features that provide empirical evidence of the existence of harmful magic, frequently appearing in association with specific ocular disorders. Typical abnormalities that are associated with the evil eye in Greco-Latin literature are the already referenced pupula duplex or gemina pupilla and the obliquo oculo. Some time ago these expressions were identified with the ocular deformities classified in ophthalmology as heterochromia (the condition of having two different colored irises) and coloboma iridis (a hole or mark on the iris that gives the impression that there are two pupils in one eye).37 Pliny the Elder provides the most complete literary description: Isigonus and Nymphodorus report that there are families in the same part of Africa that practice sorcery... Isigonus adds that there are people of the same kind among the Triballi and the Illyrians, who also bewitch with a glance and who kill those they stare at for a longer time, especially with a look of anger, and that their evil eye is most felt by adults; and that what is more remarkable is that they have two pupils in each eye. Apollonides also reports women of this kind in Scythia, who are called the Bitiae, and Phylarchus also the Thibii tribe and many others of the same nature in Pontus, whose distinguishing marks he records as being a double pupil in one eye and the likeness of a horse in the other... Also among ourselves Cicero states that the glance of all women who have double pupils is injurious everywhere.38

33 Sen. Dial. 9.10.5. Cf. ibid. 10.20.1. 34 This text deals with the application of the theory of pores and effluvia to the case of the evil eye as done by Plut. Quaest. Conv. 681D‒682A: καὶ ὅλως τὰ πάθη τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς ἐπιρρώννυσι καὶ ποιεῖ σφοδροτέρας τὰς τοῦ σώµατος δυνάµεις. (Trans. By Clement and Hoffleit, Loeb 1969). 35 Ov. Am. 1.8.1–16. 36 Polemon, Phgn. 1.18r Förster. 37 Cf. Smith 1902 and McDaniel 1918. 38 Plin. nat. hist. 7.16–18: in eadem Africa familias quasdam effascinantium Isigonus et Nymphodorus, [...] notabilius esse quod pupillas binas in oculis singulis habeant. huius generis et feminas in Scythia, quae Bitiae vocantur, prodit Apollonides. Phylarchus et in Ponto Thibiorum genus multosque alios eiusdem naturae, quorum notas tradit in altero oculo geminam pupillam, in altero equi effigiem; [...]. feminas quidem omnes ubique visu nocere quae duplices pupillas habeant, Cicero quoque apud nos auctor est. (Trans. by Rackham, Loeb 1969 [1942]).

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Pliny’s account clearly contains ideological significance.39 His ethnographic description ‒ a mix of a recovered Greco-Hellenistic paradoxographical tradition and its modernization with materials produced by Latin authors ‒ merges the institutional level of the theodicy of good fortune by placing the structural misfortune of entire nations, who suffer the consequences of pupula duplex in the most remote corners of the Empire or among peoples who are reluctant to integrate, with the individual level; he includes the Ciceronian passage with his referencing of impacted peoples, a passage that recognizes the ubiquitous and arbitrary nature of the evil eye. Interpreted as such, the evil eye is not only a strategy used to minimize individual responsibility in the face of daily, random misfortunes, but it also deflects this responsibility onto individuals occupying a less favorable social position. Their diminished living conditions ‒ a product of the structural violence that surrounds them (e.g., sickness, poverty, marginalization, inequality) ‒ are trivialized by being interpreted as a mystical expression of their bitterness. Social injustice is as ubiquitous as pure magic. Ritual specialists can find themselves in a condition of social exclusion or dependency, but thanks to their knowledge of rituals, they can empower themselves against their peers or even those who enjoy a more privileged position. Unlike ritual magic, which is capable of building persuasive authoritarian messages and reproducing the system of collective values,40 the cultural indicators that make up the generic category of pure magic frequently operate as narrative strategies to justify rejection, exclusion, and marginalization. And this is even more dramatic when those who are themselves marginalized assume the blame for their precarious social condition by also using pure magic as an explanatory model for their living conditions. When warnings about the spread of AIDS broke out in Haiti in the 1980s, the local populations interpreted it as a new and extreme form of witchcraft. Paul Farmer, a North American anthropologist, was doing fieldwork at the time. One of his informants concluded in an interview: “Haiti will never change as long as poor people keep sending sickness on other poor people.”41 Bibliography Albrecht, Janico, Christopher Degelmann, Valentino Gasparini, et al. 2018. “Religion in the Making: The Lived Ancient Religion Approach.” Religion 48: 1–26. Alvar Nuño, Antón. 2012a. “Ocular Pathologies and the Evil Eye in the Early Roman Principate.” Numen 59: 295–321. Alvar Nuño, Antón. 2012b. Envidia y fascinación: el mal de ojo en el occidente romano, Arys Anejo 3, Huelva: Universidad de Huelva. Alvar Nuño, Antón. 2017a. “Morality, Emotions and Reason: New Perspectives in the Study of Roman Magic.” Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 18‒19: 307‒25. Alvar Nuño, Antón. 2020. “Ritual Power, Routine and Attributed Responsibility: Magic in Roman Households, Workshops and Farmsteads.” In Choosing Magic, edited by Francisco Marco Simón, Richard L. Gordon and Marina Piranomonte, forthcoming. 39 For a detailed study of the subject, see Alvar Nuño 2012a. 40 On this point, see e.g., Gordon 2013; Wendt 2016: 40‒73; Eidinow 2017; Alvar Nuño 2020. 41 Farmer 1990: 22. Quotation from Dieudonné, one of Farmer's informants.

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Stratton, Kimberly B. 2007. Naming the Witch: Magic, Ideology, and Stereotype in the Ancient World. New York: Columbia University Press. Stratton, Kimberly B. 2014. “Interrogating the Magic‒Gender Connection.” In Daughters of Hecate. Women and Magic in the Ancient World, edited by Kimberly B. Stratton and Dayna S. Kalleres, 1‒37. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Styers, Randall. 2004. Making Magic. Religion, Magic, and Science in the Modern World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tausiet, María. 2004. “Avatares del mal: el diablo en las brujas.” In El diablo en la Edad Moderna, edited by James S. Amelang and María Tausiet, 45‒66. Madrid: Marcial Pons. Thomassen, Einar. 1999. “Is Magic a Subclass of Ritual?” In The World of Ancient Magic. Papers from the Norwegian Institute at Athens, 4‒8 May 1997, edited by David R. Jordan, Hugo Montgomery and Einar Thomassen, 55‒66. Bergen: Norwegian Institute at Athens. Turpin, Jean-Claude, Moreau, Alain, and Pascale Brillet-Dubois, eds. 2000. La Magie: actes du colloque international de Montpellier, 25‒27 mars 1999. 4 Vols. Montpellier: Publications de la Recherche ‒ Université Montpellier III. Velázquez, Isabel. 2001. “Intersección de realidades culturales en la Antigüedad Tardía: el ejemplo de defixiones y filacterias como instrumentos de la cultural popular.” Antiquité Tardive 9: 149‒62. Versnel, Hendrik S. 1991. “Some Reflections on the Relationship Magic‒Religion.” Numen 38: 177‒97. Wendt, Heidi. 2016. At the Temple Gates: The Religion of Freelance Experts in the Roman Empire. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1979. Bemerkungen über Frazers Golden Bough / Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough. New Jersey: Humanities Press International.

PLINY THE ELDER BETWEEN MAGIC AND MEDICINE Orietta Dora Cordovana, Aarhus Institute of Advanced Studies, University of Aarhus It is commonly known that Roman law was made up of diverse punitive measures. These included the repression not only of various magical practices, but also of magic as a whole, a discipline per se. Yet, there are few relevant regulatory norms recorded by ancient writers in the Digests. Ulpian, Marcianus, Modestinus, and Callistratus in particular report the implementation of the early lex Cornelia de sicariis et veneficiis (Cornelian Law of Assassins and Poisoners). Paul comments on this statute in the Sententiae. The lex Cornelia was passed in the age of Cornelius Sulla, in 81 BCE. With the addition of various amendments during the Imperial age it became the most important body of regulations in Roman criminal law. The whole corpus shows that the main interest behind it lies in the prevention and condemnation of offences that threatened people’s well being. The text lists a series of crimes. These include cases of castration (circumcision was also considered a form of castration), murder, involuntary manslaughter, caused by the corruption of judges or determined by an instigator. It also catalogues an interesting record of poisoning practices. The use of poisons, drugs, and potions was widespread in Roman society. There were socially acceptable pharmaceutical dispensations for therapeutic purposes, as well as those used for premeditated murder.1 The jurist Marcianus gives a specific definition of mala venena and non mala venena. He paints a picture of intensive trading related to veneficia. This included the preparation and selling of magic potions, as well as various kinds of spells for different purposes.2 He also writes of the existence of a practice whose principal characteristics show that there was a significant amount of ambiguity between medical learning and the domain of magic. Amongst the capital crimes covered by the lex Cornelia there are various forms of intentional or accidental poisoning, either through ignorance or negligence. Allegedly, human sacrifice was also used for divination, and so murder in ritual magic contexts is also listed. Examples are mentioned in the precepts of the lex Cornelia itself, as reported by Paulus:

1

2

My gratitude goes to Attilio Mastrocinque Joseph Sanzo and Marianna Scapini who involved me in the work of the Humboldt meeting. Special thanks also to Andrew Worley and the anonymous editor, who patiently made my English comprehensible. See Marc. l. 14 inst.: D. 48.8.1‒3 and 48.8.3.3; Paul. sent. 5.23.1‒19; Gai. XII Tab. l.1: D. 50.16.236. D. 50.16.236 Evidence of root-cutters and sellers (rhizotomoi and rhizopoloi), as well as pharmakopolai dates back to Classical Athens and the Hellenistic age: Theophr. hist. pl. 9.16.8, 9.17. See esp. Bultrighini 1999, 87‒90; Repici 2006, 72‒90; 2015, 146‒8; Totelin 2016, 65‒85. Magical and non-magical aspects of experts in ancient botany are also investigated by Hardy, Totelin 2016, 41‒9.

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Orietta Dora Cordovana Those who have performed, or arranged for the performance of impious or nocturnal rites, in order to enchant, transfix, or bind someone, are either crucified or thrown to the beasts. (16) Those who have sacrificed a man or obtained omens from his blood, or have polluted a shrine or a temple shall be thrown to the beasts or, if honestiores, be punished capitally.3

This premise aside, this paper does not intend to address the phenomenon of magical practices in the Roman world from a legal point of view. Nevertheless, working from criminal records, legal evidence mirrors part of a reality that built up over many centuries and which stimulates detailed reflection. The legal apparatus echoes an unambiguous substratum of widespread collective customs. The latter were woven into a distinct social and cultural fabric. This analysis specifically focuses on those uses and social customs which are often found amalgamated into medical practice. These encompass an infusion of naturalistic empiricism and magic, matched to the specific cultural contexts to which they belong. Two principle questions lay behind this investigation. Apparently neither has yet been fully examined. This is especially true of Pliny the Elder’s point of view, a prime source for this argument.4 The first is the question as to whether a degree of awareness of a distinction between magic and medicine is detectable in the Naturalis Historia, and which parameters characterise that distinction. Point two consists of an analysis of the background and circumstances of the interchangeable recourse to either magic or medicine, especially on the basis of what emerges from Pliny’s writing. Leaving aside the thorny definitional issues associated with the rubric “magic,” which have dominated scholarly discourse, this paper focuses on various phenomena and their historical developments during the first century of the Empire.5 This essay will thus privilege the socio-cultural dimension of ostensible “magic” (and its intertwined links to “medicine”) as reflected Pliny’s account. 1. MEDICAL PRACTICE IN PLINY’S OVERVIEW Pliny the Elder’s mention of predominantly Hellenistic sources on medical practice rightly places him as the first Latin writer on the topic. His work is also interwoven with clear references to formulas and magical practices from a broad, and not technical, point of view.6 This is what distinguishes him from Cato the Elder and Varro, his predecessors. These two were mainly interested in agronomy, but their treatises also provide random data of a medical therapeutic character, along with magic formulas. Likewise, Pliny’s contemporaries, Celsus and Scribonius, have different perspectives and approaches towards medical subjects. Ugo Capitani rightly highlights the 3

4 5 6

Paul. sent. 5.23.15‒16: Qui sacra impia nocturnave, ut quem obcantarent defigerent obligarent, fecerint faciendave curaverint, aut cruci suffiguntur aut bestiis obiciuntur. (16) Qui hominem immolaverint exve eius sanguine litaverint, fanum templumve, polluerint, bestiis obiciuntur, vel si honestiores sint, capite puniuntur. See also Plin. nat. hist. 30.16 (below in n.55) and Rives 2006, 47‒67. Different and important aspects have been highlighted esp. by Nutton 1986, and Beagon 1992. A status quaestionis on “magic” and its heuristic value is developed by J. Sanzo in this volume. Cracco Ruggini 1994, 35‒59; Gaillard-Seux 2004, 83‒98; 2014, 201‒23.

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different cultural environments and professional activity of the two. They practised official medicine among Roman aristocracy and at the Imperial court, with sharp practical scepticism. As physicians themselves, Celsus in particular used to carefully select his Greek sources for the preparation and treatment of diseases. Their particular focus was on what they considered superstitious custom in the preparation of magical remedies.7 In contrast, in the eyes of a stoic naturalist, Pliny was more interested in the holistic description of all forces and resources of nature, be they positive or negative. These may have derived from Graeco-oriental, Egyptian, or Latin traditions. This basic focus determined his seemingly uncritical collection of data which defines the Naturalis Historia. This is even evident in his excursus on magic and medicine, seemingly drawn up as a series of contradictions and clashing opinions. But different shades of reasoning can be drawn from further analysis of the books in question. An osmotic fusion of magic and medicine was common among ancient authors. The structured learning within both disciplines lent the two a certain autonomy, one from the other. Nevertheless, ancient commentators were aware of several points of contact, “flexible boundaries,” between magic and medicine.8 Given this, the topic Pliny chooses for his introduction to the twenty ninth and thirtieth books of the Naturalis Historia is no accident. These books describe fundamental issues about the many remedies that can be derived from animals. These remedies were used to treat various human diseases, usually from a practical approach. Nevertheless, the introduction opens with an important insight into medicine and then magic. Between the lines, we can piece together a degree of the historical development of these subjects.9 Pliny is very critical of doctors and magicians. In his description, the activities of both professions are heavily geared towards, and dominated by, profit. For him, medical practice and magic attract all sorts of charlatans who, with great rhetorical skill, act in the name of fraudulent dishonesty.10 This criticism should not be taken as a social stereotype or literary commonplace. Scholars have focused on ancient doctors’ persuasive and rhetorical approach to their work, especially among the Hippocratic ones. These physicians often had to practice in highly competitive environments, pitted against rivals with poor scientific grounding and inadequate therapeutic resources. This phenomenon appears as far back as Plato’s time in the Corpus Hippo-

7

Capitani 1972, 120‒40; Sconocchia 1993, 845‒922; Mudry 2012, 91‒102; von Staden 2012, 161‒92. 8 The aspects related to magic are developed below. Also in Galen, who was aware of the difference between true rational medicine (i.e. Hippocratic) and ‘other’ practices, sometimes the line becomes “very thin.” See Nutton 2004, 266‒71 and his important overview on Roman medicine: 273‒309. On Galen and some lexical aspects of the Greek-Hellenistic tradition: Boudon 2003, 109‒31; Jouanna 2011, 44‒77. 9 The importance of defining the historical internal changes in magic and medical knowledge is highlighted in recent literature: see e.g. Bonnard, Dasen, and Wilgaux 2015, 169‒90 with further quoted references. 10 On Pliny’s judgement of doctors, see the pivotal comment of Nutton 1986, 30‒58. The topic has been largely examined by modern scholars. See esp. Mazzini 1982‒84, 75‒90; Beagon 1992, 202‒40. The literary aspects are also corroborated by evidence in epigraphic sources: see below and Bitto 2006, 123‒44; Mastino 2014, 8‒11.

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craticum, as well as in some of Galen’s writings in the second century CE.11 On the one hand, good skill in rhetorical communication and persuasion was essential to any possible explanation of disease and the efficacy of its remedy, in an attempt to earn the confidence and attention of potential clients. On the other, to reach the most reliable diagnosis and prognosis, a good physician and his patient had to establish a clear and plain dialogue with clean set questions and answers. Pliny proceeds with a specific historical description of the developments in learning in the field of medicine. Scientific and technical achievements in medicine, though, do not come into his assessments. Coherent with the general aims of his Naturalis Historia, which was intended to offer useful tools for everyday problems, he deliberately pours scorn upon slick and unscrupulous healers.12 By using home remedies, honest citizens could avoid the extortion of quack doctors. The naturalist goes on to give an in-depth description of some of these home recipes. The scams and deceit of doctors, sorcerers, and charlatans of several types can be avoided with a practical approach, using natural, “popular medicine,” home remedies to treat the most common diseases.13 These theories and basic objectives can be seen in parts of the Naturalis Historia concerned with animal pharmacopoeia and natural therapies derived from it. The introductory chapters of the twenty ninth and thirtieth books are a reliable source for reconstructing the context and depth of learning in the fields of medicine and magic of the time. They concern the historical evolution of both medical science and magical therapeutic practices, especially during the Early Imperial period. The initial section of the twenty ninth book is thirty paragraphs long. Strongly critical, Pliny describes an art largely characterised by its instability: “none of the arts has been more unstable, or even now more often changed, although none is more profitable.”14 His main emphasis is on the high profits inherent to medical practice. In the popular mind these were as reprehensible as the physician who devoted himself to them. What follows these claims is very insightful. First and foremost, there is a pertinent historical excursus into the main exponents of this art through the ages. The beginnings of medicine are enveloped in a mythical past, a circumstance symptomatic of the deceptive nature of the matter in question. Asclepius, the mortal founder of medicine, was ranked among the gods, but, in mythology, accused of a crime (famam etiam crimine). There is a fabula that Asclepius was struck down with a lightning bolt in punishment for his resurrection from the dead of Tindareus (among many). Pliny then moves on to more concrete facts. He informs us precisely that medicine was 11 Pl. Leges 4.720a‒e, 9.857c‒e; Gorgias 456b 1‒5; Gal. de optimo medico cognoscendo, CMG Suppl. Or. IV. See Cambiano 2006, 1‒15; Romano 2006, 168‒79; Cosmacini, Menghi 2012, 16‒8, 31‒5. 12 Analysis of Pliny’s aims and his philosophical stoic background is in Paparazzo 2005, 363‒76; 2011, 95‒8, 102‒5; see also Cordovana 2017, 111. 13 A precise distinction between “popular” medicine and “official/scientific” medicine is in Capitani 1972, 120. An overview is in Harris 2016, 1‒64. 14 Plin. nat. hist. 29.2: nullam artium inconstantiorem fuisse aut etiamnunc saepius mutari, cum sit fructuosior nulla. (Engl. transl. by W. H. S. Jones, London‒Cambridge MA 1963).

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“famous in Trojan times, in which its renown was more assured, but only for the treatment of wounds.”15 It can be inferred that more or less during the Archaic period, most medical science was based more upon surgery than on internal medicine. Details and notions of therapeutic practices related to the latter become more frequent from the Classical period onward. Undoubtedly, Hippocrates was a pivotal turning point. Apart from “temple medicine,” Pliny states that the introduction of ars clinica, “clinical medicine,” was introduced by Hippocrates after Asclepius’ temple was burnt to the ground. Hippocrates had saved from the fire documents listing all the treatments and remedies that had proved efficient against certain diseases. This would imply that doctors had a new method of visiting and treating patients, at their bedside. This was ars clinica, practiced at the kline or couch. This replaced treatment and cures in temples or tabernae, the equivalent of outpatient surgeries. Essentially, this could be seen as the initial stages of an embryonic diagnostic approach to medicine. During an illnesses’ progress, notes on therapies were being taken and, purportedly, observations and descriptions of symptoms as well. Pliny proceeds with his evaluation and compares several leading lights in medicine, their scientific and philosophical practices, and their schools. He mentions, allegedly by mistake, Prodicus from Selymbria (though intending Herodicus), founder of iatraliptic medicine. This was based on energetic rubbing of the body to create heat from friction, as well as massages. After him, by the end of the fifth century, Acron of Agrigentum’s Empirical sect was active. This was strongly criticised by Herophylus, an anatomy and physiology expert. Other changes, essentially opposing the humoral Hippocratic theory, were introduced by Asclepiades of Prusa, who promoted his atomist school. Asclepiades’ disciple, Themison of Laodicaea, on the other hand, set up his Methodic school. This, in turn, was opposed by Antonius Musa, personal physician to the Emperor Augustus. Among other eminent physicians of the Imperial period, Pliny makes particular mention of Crinas and Charmis from Marseilles. The former combined mathematics and medicine to treat patients. The latter was an adamant supporter of cold bath treatment. Women in medicine also come into Pliny’s overview of medical practice, mainly related to childbirth and gynaecological problems.16 Two aspects stand out in this excursus, briefly summarised here. Firstly, this conspicuous list of physicians and schools is instrumental in demonstrating a variety and subsequent confusion of methods, theories, and remedies used to treat illnesses. Secondly, it is clear that physicians earned such high profits in medical practice that some of them could be listed among the wealthiest benefactors of their home towns.17 This was the case of individuals such as Cassius, Carpetanus, Arruntius, Rubrius, and Quintus Stertinius. The latter, together with his brother, tastefully refurbished public buildings in Naples during the reign of the Emperor Claudius (29.4). These are the 15 Plin. nat. hist. 29.3: clara troianis temporibus, a quibus fama certior, vulnerum tamen dumtaxat remediis. 16 These aspects have been investigated esp. by Buonopane 2006, 101‒110; 2016, 506‒7. 17 The phenomenon is well renowned especially in Greek areas. Public gifts of euergetai were very common and contributed to increase cities’ prestige: see esp. Samama 2003, 54‒7, 62‒5. There is also evidence of the honours which, in turn, the cities bestowed on proxenoi: Mack 2015, 47‒8, 61, 215.

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roots of Pliny’s definition of the evolution and transformation of medical practice over the centuries, highlighting the reasons behind the average person’s frequent disaffection for and mistrust of doctors. The proliferation of different schools, as well as their frequently divergent medical theories, had terrible consequences, especially on therapies. These were susceptible to being constantly altered, under the influence of what Pliny defines as “the breeze of the clever brains of Greece” (ingeniorum Graeciae flatu). For Pliny, these quack doctors “in their hunt for popularity by means of some novelty, did not hesitate to buy it with our lives.” There was no doubt that any authoritative charlatan “assumes supreme command over our life and slaughter.”18 The arrival of medical experts in Rome, that “Greek breeze,” can be pinned down to a specific moment in time, under the consulship of Lucius Aemilius Paulus and Marcus Livius Salinator. Arcagatos, son of Lysanias, native of the Peloponnese, moved to the capital after receiving Roman citizenship. In 219 BCE he became the first professional physician to set up practice in a taberna, purchased for him at public expense. This was the equivalent of a modern outpatient surgery. He was a skilled surgeon, but was soon loathed by the people of Rome, and with him medical science as a whole. His core activity of amputation and cauterization was performed with such cruelty that he was given the nickname “The Executioner.” The worst thing “was not medicine itself that the forefathers condemned, but medicine as a profession... chiefly because they [the would be patients] refused to pay fees to profiteers in order to save their lives.”19 Greeks were the main culprits for this situation and unquestionably at the heart of a movement to damage and corrupt Roman customs. Pliny goes so far as to finish his tirade, with inevitably moralistic tones, by saying that medicine is the only Greek art that “Roman dignity” has rejected. In spite of the high profits they stood to gain, very few Romans dedicated themselves to the art. (…) If medical treatises are written in a language other than Greek they have no prestige even among unlearned men ignorant of Greek, and if any should understand them they have less faith in what concerns their own health.20

An admission of Greek scientific superiority in the field, and Roman dependence on it, is implicit. However, from a pragmatic point of view, this judgement mirrors basic confusion over medical theories and therapies. Any understanding of these was made even more difficult for the average person by the way any technical terms were voiced in a foreign language.

18 Plin. nat. hist. 29.11: nec dubium est omnes istos famam novitate aliqua aucupantes anima statim nostra negotiari (…) mutatur ars cottidie totiens interpolis, et ingeniorum graeciae flatu inpellimur, palamque est, ut quisque inter istos loquendo polleat, imperatorem ilico vitae nostrae necisque fieri. 19 Plin. nat. hist. 29.16: non rem antiqui damnabant, sed artem, maxime vero quaestum esse manipretio vitae recusabant. 20 Plin. nat. hist. 29.17: solam hanc artium graecarum nondum exercet romana gravitas, (…) immo vero auctoritas aliter quam graece eam tractantibus etiam apud inperitos expertesque linguae non est, ac minus credunt quae ad salutem suam pertinent, si intellegant.

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Despite the norms we know of from the lex Aquilia (a third century BCE law concerning compensation for intentional damage to owners’ property), as well as from the above mentioned Republican lex Cornelia, Pliny also complains about the official state institutions’ absolute lack of supervision and monitoring of the accounts of doctors and their professional practices.21 In his time, it had become a habit to rely on the first comer who claimed to be a doctor. This could prove to be extremely dangerous: (…) Besides this, there is no law to punish criminal ignorance, no instance of retribution. Physicians acquire their knowledge from our dangers, making experiments at the cost of our lives. Only a physician can commit homicide with complete impunity.22

In the remaining chapters of book twenty-nine, Pliny goes on with his dissertation on remedies obtained from animals. But the conclusion to his introduction is in line with the general purpose of the Naturalis Historia: by keeping a global vision of his surrounding world, man can find solutions and remedies in nature for many problems, especially if he considers “not things themselves, but causes and results.”23 2. AN AVERAGE PERSON’S OPINION OF DOCTORS Pliny’s harsh criticism of medical practices was not a point of view limited to intellectual and cultured persons, intent on keeping Roman traditions from being tainted by Greek culture.24 Although criticism and mistrust of physicians were not generalised, these feelings can often be found in popular culture. Of the many examples, let us take a few of the more famous ones. Numerous grave stones are engraved with complaints about recurrent cases of incompetence, blaming ignorant and incompetent doctors.25 This was the fate of Ephesia Rufria, “a mother and good wife, who died of a bad fever, which doctors had caused unexpectedly”: Ephesia Rufria ma[ter et coniux bona] / hic adquiescit qua[e mala periit febri] / quam medici praeter e[xspectatum adduxerant] solamen est hoc sim[ulatique criminis] / nec vera vox tam dulc[em obisse feminam] / puto quod deorum est [visa coetu dignior].26

21 Inst. 4.3.6‒7. A pertinent comment is in Nutton 1984, 34‒5, who recognizes that there is truth in Pliny’s allegation, despite the norms of lex Aquilia and lex Cornelia that could be bypassed. 22 Plin. nat. hist. 29.18: nulla praeterea lex, quae puniat inscitiam capitalem, nullum exemplum vindictae. discunt periculis nostris et experimenta per mortes agunt, medicoque tantum hominem occidisse inpunitas summa est. 23 Plin. nat. hist. 29.28: proinde causas quisque et effectus, non res aestimet. 24 See Petr. Sat. 42; Mart. epigr. 1.47, 8.74, 9.96; Plut. Cato 23.3‒4. 25 ILS 7787, 9441; CIL 3.14188; CIL 6.30112, 9604, 25580. See esp. Bitto 2006, 127‒33; Mastino 2014, 16‒8. 26 CIL 6.25580 = CLE 1.94 (Bücheler): “Here rests Ephesia Rufria, a mother and good wife, who died of a bad fever, which doctors had brought beyond the expected. This is solace, not a true voice of a simulated crime. I think that such a sweet woman had to die because she appeared worthier of the gods’ assembly.”

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Similar inscriptions, mainly referring to the tragic loss of women, confirm the editor of this epitaph’s suppositions in Carmina Latina Epigraphica. Female and infant mortality was high, particularly in childbirth. All over the empire husbands and fathers mourned the deaths of young wives and children caused by “guilty doctors.” In an epitaph found in Augusta Raurica (Augst) in Germania Superior we find “I would lament the lamentable guilt of the doctor forever…”: Prisca Iulia I[‒‒‒]ann(orum) XX heic si[ta est]. deflendam semper medici [deflerem ego culpam] si non et reges idem raperentu[r ad orcum]. (…) 27

In Gorsium (Székesfehérvár) in Pannonia Caius Dignius Secundianus, mourns the death of his wife during his absence, “due to the fault of those who looked after her.” D(is) M(anibus). | C(aius) Dignius Secundian[us] | natione Rae(tus) v(ivus) f(ecit) sibi Aur[el(iae)] | Decciae coniug(i) et munic[ipi] | piissimae et feminae rarissim[ae] | ac pudicissimae, cuius mortem | dolens per absentiam mei conti|gisse per culpam curantium co[n]que|ror. I (…) 28

Likewise, Euhelpistus, a young 27 year old freedmen, was “cut and killed” by doctors: D(is) M(anibus) / Euhelpisti lib(erti) qui et / Manes vixit annis XXVII / mens(ibus) IIII dieb(us) XI floren/tes annos mors subita / eripuit anima inno/centissima quem / medici secarunt / et occiderunt / P(ublius) Aelius Aug(usti) lib(ertus) Peculiaris / alumno suo.29

Apparently, these professionals were not legally responsible for any fatal error. Central government does not appear to have any supervision over doctors’ professional competence and responsibility in medical practice. Despite this lack of supervision, the Emperor Vespasian went still further in the opposite direction and placed physicians in a privileged category of specialists. Along with masseurs and teachers, he exempted them from taxation.30 Vespasian’s aim was to encourage intellectual and cultural activities considered useful for public health and morality. However, two decades later, in 93 or 94, Domitian was forced to publish an edict limiting the abuses committed by physicians stimulated by their notorious greed. They had illegally been making huge profits by exploiting trained slaves in a money making organisation: 27 AE 1952, 16: “Prisca Iulia … aged 20 is buried here. I would lament the lamentable guilt of the doctor forever, if it weren’t for the fact that even kings are snatched to the underworld. (…)” 28 CIL 3.3355: “To the Spirits of the Departed. Caius Dignius Secundianus, Raetian by origin, made this [monument] for himself while still alive and for Aurelia Deccia, his wife, a most conscientious citizen, and a most unique and chaste woman, whose death I mourn in pain to have happened in my absence and due to the error of those who attended to her.” 29 CIL 6.37337: “To the Spirits of the Departed of Euhelpistus, freedman. He and his spirits lived 27 years, 4 months, 11 days. A sudden death snatched away in the prime of his life: a most innocent soul! Doctors cut him and killed him. Publius Aelius Peculiaris, freedman of the emperor, for his foster-son.” 30 FIRA I2, 73 is a Graeco-Latin inscription from Pergamon, 74 AD. Subsequently the provision was also extended to other professionals by Hadrian and Antoninus Pius: D. 27.1.6.1; 50.4.18.30. See Marotta 1988; Samama 2003, 46.

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[Imp(erator) Caesar Domitia]nus tribuniciae potestatis XIII / [imp(erator) XXII cens(or) perp(etuus) p(ater) p(atriae)] A(ulo) Licinio Muciano et Gavio Prisco / [avaritiam medicorum atque] praeceptorum quorum ars / [tradenda ingenuis adulesc]entibus quibusdam multis / [in disciplinam cubiculariis] servis missis inprobissime / [venditur non humanitatis sed aug]endae mercedis gratia / [severissime coercendam] iudicavi / [quisquis ergo ex servorum disciplin]a mercedem c[apiet] / [ei immunitas a divo patre meo indulta] proinde ac [si] / [in aliena civitate artem exerceat adim]enda [est].31

It was not until the third century CE that state supervision was set in place over training medical professionals, as well as their professional expertise and liability.32 In the Historia Augusta, the biographer provides evidence that dates the creation of state controlled official schools and medical courses to no earlier than the reign of Alexander Severus.33 Constantine’s constitution in 337 combines the same principles which inspired Vespasian’s edict and Alexander Severus’ institution of medical schools. Constantine granted medics and other artifices fiscal immunity. We command that artisans who dwell in each city and who practice the skills included in the appended list shall be free from all compulsory services, since indeed their leisure should be spent in learning these skills whereby they may desire the more to become more proficient themselves and to instruct their children.34

This law was aimed at enforcing periodic refresher courses for senior professionals and the education of young doctors. In this way the quality of their professional skills moved into the public domain. Years later, another imperial law, in the Codex Theodosianus, was vital in terms of public welfare. Its passing implies that as early as the fourth century there is evidence of an embryonic “national” health service, organised by Valentinian and Valens between 368 and 369 CE. As many chief physicians shall be appointed as there are districts of the City, except in the districts of Portus Xystus and in the areas belonging to the Vestal Virgins. Such physicians, knowing

31 FIRA I2, 77 = AE 1936, 128: “Emperor Caesar Domitian, holding the tribunician power for the thirteenth time, saluted imperator for the twenty-second time, perpetual censor, father of the fatherland, to Aulus Licinius Mucianus and Gavius Priscus. I have decided that the strictest restraints must be imposed on the avarice of physicians and teachers, whose art, which ought to be transmitted to selected freeborn youths, is sold in a most scandalous manner to many household slaves trained and sent out, not in the interest of humanity, but as a money-making scheme. Therefore, whoever reaps a profit from trained slaves must be deprived of that immunity bestowed by my deified father, just as if he were exercising his art in a foreign state.” (Engl. transl. by Johnson, Coleman-Norton & Bourne, Ancient Roman Statutes, Austin, 1961, 161, n. 199). On this text see Germino 2005, 7‒37. 32 This is clear evidence in Ulp. l. primo opin.: D. 1.18.6.7; Ulp. l. 18 ad edic.: D. 9.2.7.8; Gai. l. 7 ad edic. prov.: D. 9.2.8 pr.; Alf. l. 2 dig.: D. 9.2.52pr.; Ulp. l. 3 opin.: D. 50.9.1 33 HA, Al. Sev. 44.4. 34 C.I. 10.66.1 = Cod. Theod. 13.4.2 (2nd Aug. 337): Artifices artium brevi subdito comprehensarum per singulas civitates morantes ab universis muneribus vacare praecipimus, si quidem ediscendis artibus otium sit accommodandum, quo magis cupiant et ipsi peritiores fieri et suos filios erudire. Et est notitia ista: architecti medici mulomedici pictores … (Engl. transl. Pharr 1985).

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This evidence illustrates the principal turning points in a singular evolution of page after page of medical history. The various elements of continuity and change, easily followed, stem from that scanty Republican legislation on murder by poisoning, the lex Cornelia. They follow through to the introduction of more articulated laws in Late Antiquity. Undoubtedly the influence of Christianity also played its part. Unquestionably, Pliny’s critical voice of warning highlights a wider socio-cultural network, illustrating social behaviour and medical learning of the time.36 Let us try and schematically pinpoint those stages of continuity and change. 1. From the Republic to the first centuries of the Empire, the main unvaried element lies in the numerous points of contact in the amalgamation of magic and medicine. This point will be the object of further consideration below (paragraph 3). In spite of the influence of the Hippocratic school, followed by Galen, medicine was not yet seen as a science. Despite the empiricist fashion in which potions, drugs, and even poisons were prepared, there was still room for a substantial overlap between medicine and magic. 2. The social importance and good or bad reputation of physicians and all kinds of healers was a direct consequence of their activities. The decidedly lucrative side of the profession enticed all kinds of pretenders, regardless of their skills or expertise in the field. 3. The turning-point consists in the development of tighter state control on medical education, as well as increasingly recognised responsibility of practitioners involved in premeditated or unintentional homicide, especially by poisoning and malpractice. During the Severan period, apart from medical schools for practitioners being set up, further improvements were made to the Republican law. Marcianus refers to two earlier senatus consulta in the Digest. Notably, these transformations came in with the adoption of specific binding and punitive measures against illegal therapeutic practices. They are also a clear sign of a gradual acquisition of public and social awareness of the responsibilities intrinsic to medical practice. 4. More importantly though, during the Late Antiquity a decisive break with the past was the idea that the State had to, in some way, supervise and guarantee a basic right to health care for the masses, mindless of social class or economic resources.

35 Cod. Theod. 13.3.8: Idem AAA. ad Praetextatum praefectum Urbi. pr. Exceptis portus xysti virginumque vestalium quot regiones urbis sunt, totidem constituantur archiatri. Qui scientes annonaria sibi commoda a populi commodis ministrari honeste obsequi tenuioribus malint quam turpiter servire divitibus. (Phar 1985). On this norm of the Codex see esp. the comment of Albana 2006, 253‒80 with earlier literature; Buonopane 2016, 496‒7. 36 On habits related to poisoning and moral implications in Pliny see Gaillard-Seux 2012, 295‒309.

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3. “MAGIC” AND MEDICINE No matter what his level of knowledge and expertise, a doctor was severely limited when attempting to cure certain illnesses. These included hierá nósos (epilepsy) and tertian or quartan malarial fevers.37 It was commonly acknowledged that the art of medicine, especially clinical medicine, was virtually useless against obscure and mysterious diseases. These were usually considered the result of an evil spiritual influence over human beings. The subtle and permeable border between medicine and magic permeated the depths of this belief. No wonder many doctors, both men of science inspired by the Hippocratic method and intellectuals interested in keeping technical records of their work, often fell back on the use of amulets (amuleta/phylakteria) and poultices (cataplasmata) to treat some diseases. 38 Some modern scholars have rightly interpreted this “ambiguity” with the basic principle in magic of natural antipathy and sympathy between elements and substances, animals and plants.39 From what many ancient authors have written, it appears that “magic” basically existed in the sympathy or antipathy felt between a specific cure (be it an amulet or a poultice) and the illness to be treated. This was “natural” magic, which even recognised physicians usually were willing to use. It was believed that by resorting to magical remedies, a “transfer agent” was activated and the evil was discharged from a sick person into an animal or inanimate object, an amulet. However, this mutual transference between substances, no matter how vital, is a typical element of magic, and not the only one. The introduction to magic in book thirty of Naturalis Historia enlightens this multifaceted phenomenon. It is full of details in a myriad of shades. The ancient theory of a relationship between sympathy and antipathy among substances seems to be no more than the slightest part of magic. The question can not be reduced to a one-sided perspective, especially since not all authors mention this theory when they refer to magic and natural remedies.40 Pliny specifically dedicated the opening chapters of his thirtieth book to “magic.” In his words, magic is the most fraudulent of all arts, and has exerted enormous power over the world for several centuries. But what is particularly evident in Pliny’s considerations is his definition of the art, conforming to a basic connotation that was taken as proven fact at the time. The most fraudulent of the arts, it has embraced three others that hold supreme dominion over the human mind, and made them subject to itself alone. Nobody will doubt that it first arose from medicine, and that professing to promote health it insidiously advanced under the disguise of a higher and holier system; that to the most seductive and welcome promises it added the powers of religion, about which even today the human race is quite in the dark; that again meeting with suc-

37 Evidence of these diseases in Hippocr. de morb. sacr. 1, 10; Theophr. hist. pl. 9.11.3; Plin. nat. hist. 28.35; 30.98. 38 Theophr. hist. plant. 9.19.2‒4; Diosc. 2.79.2; Galen. de simpl. medic. temp. ac fac. 10.19 (Kühn 12, 207); Cael. Aurel. tard. pass. 1.4.119 (CML 6.1, 500). Dasen 2011, 69‒74. 39 See esp. Beagon 1992, 102‒4; Mastrocinque 2006, 91‒100; Gaillard‒Seux 2003, 113‒28; 2015, 201‒23. 40 E.g. Scribonius and Dioscorides; see Gaillard-Seux 2015, 211.

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Medicina, vires religionis, artes mathematicas: these are the key words of Pliny’s definition about “magic” (magicas vanitates). They are combined in a crescendo of associated elements in a system of cause and effect. The insistence on the religious component, vires religionis, without doubt needs to be taken in the Latin sense of the term religio.42 This effectively translates not only as a devotional sense or fear for a set deity, but also any ritual system, and the obligations structural to its worship. In contrast, superstitio was a sort of label for any ritual, cult, or unfamiliar practice which might diverge and deviate from an official cult, when not accepted by Roman tradition and public order. It was “un jugement de valeur sur certains comportements dans le culte ancestral aussi bien que dans des cultes nouveaux ou barbares.”43 In the Roman cultural system, this distinction was fundamental, but to modern eyes in particular, superstitio is not so easily defined and often gets dovetailed into ambiguity. Evidence of these concepts are usually found in Republican sources. They tend to be Varro, Livy, and Cicero. These unveil the deep diversity of Roman religious ritual and cultural habits compared to a modern approach and mindset concerning religion and superstition.44 Any further examination of this point would divert our attention from Pliny. However, keeping in mind the distinction between religio and superstitio as an initial premise, this needs to be taken borne in mind to better understand the background to Pliny’s passages on magic. Let us try and define how medicina, vires religionis, and artes mathemathicae evolved into ars magica. Within this general framework, Pliny specifically refers to: (A) a complex structure of formulas and (B) precise actions inherent to casting magic spells prepared and performed to treat illnesses. 1. “Magic” and medicina. All these recipes for specific potions, compounds, and substances made from plants and animals, for the magic ritual, derive from ars medica or, better, empirically “herbal” medicine. 2. “Magic” and vires religionis. The potion, a medical element, only works as magic if placed within its specific ritual context of space and time. Space is naturally conditioned and bound by the performance of the ritual. In other words, this is an inference to the term religio.

41 Plin. nat. hist. 30.1‒2: fraudulentissima artium plurimum in toto terrarum orbe plurimisque saeculis valuit. auctoritatem ei maximam fuisse nemo miretur, quandoquidem sola artium tres alias imperiosissimas humanae mentis complexa in unam se redegit. natam primum e medicina nemo dubitabit ac specie salutari inrepsisse velut altiorem sanctioremque medicinam, ita blandissimis desideratissimisque promissis addidisse vires religionis, ad quas maxime etiam nunc caligat humanum genus, atque, ut hoc quoque successerit, miscuisse artes mathematicas, nullo non avido futura de sese sciendi atque ea e caelo verissime peti credente. See also 26.19‒20. 42 On this topic see also the analysis by J. Sanzo in this volume with further literature. 43 Pivotal analysis on this topic has been developed especially by Scheid 2013, 81‒105, quotation: 104. 44 See also Dickie 2010, 79‒103; Rives 2010, 53‒78; Rüpke 2016a, 6‒11; 2016b, 2‒7, 64‒79 (on specific aspects of “magic”).

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3. “Magic” and artes mathematicae. The moment chosen for these recitals in a set space is not a question of chance, but is a deliberate choice drawn from astralastrological observation. The latter is derived from specific calculations based on artes mathematicae. So there is a clear correlation between the different elements and disciplinae from which ars magica is derived. The origins and essence of magic, therefore, is a result of this unique synthesis, uniting: (a) empirical substance (the amulet/prescription, as part of ars medica, “herbal” medicine in particular); (b) ritual together with a magic-religious formulary (vires religionis); (c) a specific spatial location of the magical performance; (d) a fixed moment in time, correctly chosen, based on accurate astral calculations (artes mathematicas).45 Several cross references on the topic bring us to this interpretation, these are also to be found in the twenty-eighth book. The importance of these elements, and the cultural religious background to magic, are largely corroborated by passages found there. Pliny explicitly refers to the importance of the ritual, the sacrifice, and their timing for the effectiveness of the whole process, in both a divinatory and religious sphere, as well as in magical rituals. “Magic,” though, could also be sacrilegious and distorted. This was especially true if it involved atrocities against persons, drifting astray from the appropriate ritual tribute due to the gods.46 In terms of Pliny’s practical approach that characterises his intellectual framework and adhesion to Roman values, the main point is whether he believes incantations have any effects. In fact, the sacrifice of victims without a prayer is supposed to be of no effect; without it too the gods are not thought to be properly consulted. Moreover, there is one form of words for getting favourable omens, another for averting evil, and yet another for a commendation. We see also that our chief magistrates have adopted fixed formulas for their prayers; that to prevent a word’s being omitted or out of place a reader dictates beforehand the prayer from a script; that another attendant is appointed as guard to keep watch, and yet another is put in charge to maintain a strict silence.47

This encaptivating image merges us deep inside daily Roman life, with its religious traditions and cultural apparatus connected to the mos maiorum. Pliny adds that these procedures had received special regulation in the Laws of the Twelve Tables, but it was only in 97 BCE that human sacrifice was prohibited by a specific senatus consultum.48 45 The example about verbena is very instructive of these concurrent elements: Plin. nat. hist. 25.106‒7. 46 See esp. Plin. nat hist. 28.4‒8. 47 Plin. nat. hist. 28.10‒11: quippe victimas caedi sine precatione non videtur referre aut deos rite consuli. Praeterea alia sunt verba inpetritis, alia depulsoriis, alia commendationis, videmusque certis precationibus obsecrasse summos magistratus et, ne quod verborum pratereaturaut prae posterum dicatur, de scripto praeire aliquem rursusque alium custodem dari qui adtendat, alium vero praeponi qui favere linguis iubeat (…). 48 Plin. nat. hist. 28.17‒18; 30.12.

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4. “MAGIC” AND RELIGIO. FALSITY AND SECRECY OF “MAGIC” Magic practice, as well as religious ritual, guaranteed a continuous relationship with the divine world. This aimed to mitigate the influence of the gods in every aspect of human life. Specifically in the timing, content, and form of the ritual, as well as by words, the destinies and omens of mighty events are changed (14) … Let these instances suffice to show that the power of omens is really in our own control, and that their influence is conditional upon the way we receive each (17).49

In the thirtieth book, after the sorcerers’ treatment of quartan fevers, a specific procedure must be adopted accordingly, with the passage of the Sun and the Moon, in front of the twelve zodiacal constellations.50 Yet, the difference between ars magica and religio is striking. Unlike religio, magic aims at complete control and influence over nature and gods. In the main it subverts that primary link between man and nature. Sorcerers have no respect for human dignity, evident from the perverse use in magica remedia of disgusting ingredients obtained from human beings. Even human sacrifice is a component of this sacrilegious approach. The magician’s main goal is to reduce nature and gods to beneath his will and interests.51 Traditional religio, on the other hand, relates to the public interest. It only imposes secrecy to preserve Rome’s safety. Two passages are paradigmatic for this explanation. At any rate, in the teaching of the augurs it is fundamental principle that neither evil omens nor any auspices affect those who at the outset of any undertaking declare that they take no notice of them; no greater instance of the divine mercy could be found than this boon. (28.17)

Likewise, the following paragraph is instructive about the practice of introducing to and promising worship for foreign gods inside the city, during sieges and in war times: Down to the present day this ritual has remained part of the doctrine of the Pontiffs, and it is certain that the reason why the tutelary deity of Rome has been kept a secret is to prevent any enemy from acting in a similar way (28.18‒9).52

Against this framework, the use of specific historical evidence very often becomes hard evidence for bizarre practices in magic, swallowed up by the lies and deception behind them. The case of the Emperor Nero, who loved magic as much as the harp and singing, is emblematic: 49 Plin. nat. hist. 28.14: multi vero magnarum rerum fata et ostenta verbis permutari; 28.17: ostentorum vires et in nostra potestate esse ac, prout quaeque accepta sint, ita valere. 50 Plin. nat. hist. 30.96. 51 See esp. 28.17‒19; 30.13. Similar conclusions are in Beagon 1992, 107‒11. 52 Plin. nat. hist. 28.17: in augurum certe disciplina constat neque diras neque ulla auspicia pertinere ad eos qui quamcumque rem ingredientes observare se ea negaverint, quo munere divinae indulgentie maius nullum est. 28.18‒19: et durat in pontificum disciplina id sacrum, constatque ideo occultatum in cuius die tutela Roma esset, ne qui hostium simili modo agerent.

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His greatest wish was to issue commands to the gods, and he could rise to no nobler ambition. No other of the arts ever had a more enthusiastic patron. Every means were his to gratify his desire ‒ wealth, strength, aptitude for learning – and what else did the world not allow!53

It is obvious that Nero possessed the resources, necessary products, and ingredients for all kinds of spells. Pliny adds “he was free to choose the fixed days, could easily obtain perfectly black sheep, and as for human sacrifice, he took the greatest delight in it.”54 But all these fake magic gimmicks simply proved abortive to his purposes, leading him to lose interest. Similarly, given its inevitable failure, Pliny clearly shows how “magic is detestable, vain, and idle; and though it has what I might call shadows of truth, their power comes from the art of the poisoner, not of the Magi.”55 He goes on to specify different ways of poisoning, each receives an accurate description. Why, though, does he list magic recipes with such precision? Is not there a contradiction in listing both the rational and irrational elements which characterise the domain of magic, medicine, and religion? This list describing magical remedies develops through more than four books. It often runs hand in hand with a description of the appropriate spatial and “astrological” conditions required to make them work. Pliny also mixes in an explanation of a series of superstitious acts, placing them in the domain of popular culture. This is why modern scholars claim that Pliny seems to frequently waver between scepticism and belief. The reason why lies in the validity and enforceability of these actions and superstitious rituals. Pliny does not stick to the “boundaries,” recognising Hippocratic medicine as the only rational ars. This is because his view of true medicine, when it comes down to it, not far removed from magic, is based on physica, the sympathy and antipathy between substances.56 Specifically, the roots of Pliny’s ambiguities lie in this basic belief. His desire for completeness and thoroughness in his reporting significantly seems to prevail, in spite of the rational judgment he expresses for each given recipe. He goes so far as to describe revolting, and sometimes farfetched examples of compositions and magical concoctions. Expressions, such as narratur, dicunt, tradunt hint at a disjunction of thought on the author’s side. He always follows with what can be rationally credible, reliable, and useful in the preparation of home medicine for common illnesses, especially with the help of amulets.57 This means that any problems faced in a search for coherence are left unresolved. The reader is left with an implicit sense of superficiality in Pliny’s methods of data collection. There is also a sensation of ambiguity in his apparent belief in some forms of magic. However, more

53 Plin. nat. hist. 30.14‒5: primumque imperare dis concupivit nec quicquam generosius voluit. nemo umquam ulli artium validius favit. ad hoc non opes ei defuere, non vires, non discentis ingenium, quae non alia patiente mundo! 54 Plin. nat. hist. 30.16: nam dies eligere certos liberum erat, pecudes vero, quibus non nisi ater colos esset, facile; nam homines immolare etiam gratissimum. 55 Plin. nat. hist. 30.17: intestabilem, inritam, inanem esse, habentem tamen quasdam veritatis umbras, sed in his veneficas artes pollere, non magicas. 56 The theory of sympathy and antipathy between substances has been highlighted by Gaillard-Seux 2015, 213. 57 See also Fausti 2015, 41.

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detailed reading, especially of the introduction to the book on magic, may uncover further observations. The basic elements which distinguish a magus have already been illustrated, especially in terms of his immoral and impious stance. Magicians and sorcerers of all kinds do not respect gods, human dignity, and, above all, man’s basic relationship with nature. Another element, though, strongly characterises this abhorrence for magic. This ars is secret and turns its back on knowledge, the knowledge of nature, a precious gift which needs to be accessible, unbound, and communicable. Pliny openly states this in the following passage where he wonders if incantations can have effect: Of the remedies derived from man, the first raises a most important question, and one never settled: have words and formulated incantations any effect? If they have, it would be right and proper to give the credit to mankind.58

Surprisingly, no magician’s name can be tied to a single famous treatise from those very early times. Nor is it possible to identify any eminent school that provides a continuity of memory and tradition. There are only unconfirmed reports of persons who “transmitted (the tradition) by memory (and this) is the most extraordinary phenomenon in history” (30.9).59 Knowledge based on oral tradition is proof of a secrecy typical of the domain of “magic.” In contrast, the discipline of scientific knowledge has a long literary tradition of one treatise after another. Botany and herbal medicine are a part of these, the peculiarities of which Pliny was perfectly aware. Although magic is very close to and similar to herbal medicine, it is defined by a fundamental boundary. Magicians and sorcerers are unscrupulous in not reporting side effects and specific therapeutic characteristics of substances they use in their incantamenta. Take just one, though very representative and idiosyncratic example. Pliny considers Mithridates VI, King of Pontus, a brilliant expert in the field of botany and herbal medicine, never depicting him as a sorcerer. On the contrary, in the modern world, he could be seen as a man of science, given his research and careful descriptions of ingredients, herbs and the effects of drugs.60 When considered in these terms, any signs of contradiction or ambiguity, especially when looking at his detailed list of medical and magical remedies, and any apparently rational or irrational approach to the topic, could be taken in a different light. We should interpret Pliny’s desire for encompassing all knowledge, hence his long lists of magic and medical recipes, rational and irrational practices, as fundamental evidence of his main intent: the diffusion and preservation of knowledge, firm footed opposition to all that is kept secret and hostile to the natural order of life.61

58 Plin. nat. hist. 28.10: Ex homine remediorum primum maximae quaestionis et semper incertae est, polleantne aliquid verba et incantamenta carminum. quod si verum est, homini acceptum fieri oportere conveniat. 59 Plin. nat. hist. 30.4‒5 and 9. See also Hardy, Totelin 2016, 56‒8. 60 Plin. nat. hist. 25.6‒7, See esp. Beagon 1992, 228‒9. 61 These aspects concerning the importance of cultural transmission in any field of knowledge are evident in many passages of the Naturalis Historia. See e.g. 25.16.

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5. CONCLUSIONS In the context of such an articulated framework, some tentative considerations may lead us to assume that to Pliny there was a specific and conscious differentiation between magic, religious rituals, and empirical practice in medicine. Nevertheless, we should not presume him to be a man of science, and we cannot pigeonhole him within cultural structures which were not his, but ours. Rational method in medicine and a greater distinction between magical and medical practice was to be a further step and turning point in scientific knowledge, with Galen and Alexander of Tralles. But these were doctors and men of science, rather than naturalists ante litteram. During the Imperial period, the interconnection between various artes was widespread practice and was aimed mainly at resolving the most common pathologies. Though the official Hippocratic approach to medicine was mainly rational, even the Greek-Hellenistic tradition in some ways combined magic with treatments. Plausibly, this could be by virtue of that psychological/emotional component of the placebo effect, which might alleviate some suffering. However, a clear distinction persisted between poisonous and intoxicating potions, between veneficia and harmless substances, the mala and non mala venena reported in legal records. On the other hand, in many ways the empirical approach was nothing other than the essential prelude to what in modern scientific medicine is the observation and statistical monitoring of therapeutic effects and counter indications following the consumption of certain drugs. There is evidence here that significant antecedents of this practice can also be detected in Pliny’s work, which in no way can be classified as a simple collection of data. Bibliography Albana, Mela. 2006. “Archiatri … honeste obsequi tenuioribus malint quam turpiter servire divitibus (C.Th. 13.3.8).” In Poveri ammalati e ammalati poveri. Dinamiche socio-economiche, trasformazioni culturali e misure assistenziali nell’Occidente romano in età tardoantica, Atti del Convegno di Studi, Palermo 13‒15 ottobre 2005, edited by Marino Rosalia, Concetta Molè, and Antonino Pinzone, 253‒279. Catania: Edizioni del Prisma. Beagon, Mary. 1992. Roman Nature. The Thought of Pliny the Elder Oxford: Clarendon Press. Bitto, Irma. 2006. “Medici, malattie e cause di morte nei CLE Bücheleriani.” In Poveri ammalati e ammalati poveri. Dinamiche socio-economiche, trasformazioni culturali e misure assistenziali nell’Occidente romano in età tardoantica, Atti del Convegno di Studi, Palermo 13‒15 ottobre 2005, edited by Marino Rosalia, Concetta Molè, and Antonino Pinzone, 123‒144. Catania: Edizioni del Prisma. Bonnard Jean-Baptiste, Véronique Dasen, and Jérôme Wilgaux. 2015. “Les technai du corps la médecine, la physiognomonie et la magie.” In L’histoire du corps dans l’Antiquité: bilan historiographique. (Dialogues d’Histoire Ancienne, Supplément 14), edited by Florence Gherchanoc, 169‒190. Besançon: Presses Univ. de Franche-Comté. Boudon, Véronique. 2003. “Au marges de la médecine rationnelle: médecins et charlatans à Rome au temps de Galien (IIe de notre ère).” Revue des Études Grecques 116: 109‒131. Bultrighini, Umberto. 1999. “Maledetta democrazia”. Studi su Crizia. Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso. Buonopane, Alfredo. 2006. “Scrittrici di medicina nella Naturalis historia di Plinio?” In Medicina e Società nel Mondo Antico, Atti del convegno di Udine 4‒5 Ottobre 2005, (Studi Udinesi sul Mondo Antico 4), edited by Arnaldo Marcone, 101‒110. Firenze: Le Monnier.

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Mack, William. 2015. Proxeny and Polis: Institutional Networks in the Ancient Greek World. Oxford: University Press. Marotta, Valerio. 1988. “Multa de iure sanxit”. Aspetti della politica del diritto di Antonino Pio. Firenze: Giuffrè. Mastino, Attilio. 2014. “Scritto sulle epigrafi: premessa per una ricerca su malattie, cause di morte e medici in età imperiale romana.” Diritto@Storia 12: 1‒18. Mastrocinque, Attilio. “Medicina e magia. Su alcune tipologie di gemme propiziatorie.” In Medicina e Società nel Mondo Antico, Atti del convegno di Udine 4‒5 Ottobre 2005, (Studi Udinesi sul Mondo Antico 4), edited by Arnaldo Marcone, 91‒100. Firenze: Le Monnier. Mazzini, Innocenzo. 1982‒1984. “Le accuse contro i medici nella letteratura latina e il loro fondamento”. Quaderni Linguistici e Filologici: 75‒90. Mudry, Philippe. 2012. “Maladies de civilisation enquête dans la Rome antique.” In Conserver la santé ou la rétablir le rôle de l’environnement dans la médecine antique et médiévale, Actes du colloque international de Saint-Étienne, 23‒25 octobre 2008, edited by Nicoletta Palmieri, 91‒102. Saint-Étienne: Publications de l’Université de Saint-Étienne. Nutton, Vivian. 1986. “The Perils of Patriotism: Pliny and Roman Medicine.” In Science in the Early Roman Empire: Pliny the Elder, His Sources and His Influence, edited by Roger French and Frank Greenaway, 30‒58. London: Croom Helm. Nutton, Vivian. 2004. Ancient medicine, (2nd ed. 2013). London – New York: Taylor & Francis. Paparazzo, Ernesto. 2005. “The Elder Pliny, Posidonius and Surfaces.” The British Journal for the Philosophy of Science 56.2: 363‒76. Paparazzo, Ernesto. 2011. “Philosophy and Science in the Elder Pliny’s Naturalis Historia.” In Pliny the Elder. Themes and Contexts, edited by Roy K. Gibson and Ruth Morello, 89‒112. Leiden: Brill. Repici, Luciana. 2006. “Medici e botanica popolare.” In Medicina e Società nel Mondo Antico, Atti del convegno di Udine 4‒5 Ottobre 2005, (Studi Udinesi sul Mondo Antico 4), edited by Arnaldo Marcone, 72‒90. Firenze: Le Monnier. Repici, Luciana. 2015. Nature silenziose. Le piante nel pensiero ellenistico e romano. Bologna: Il Mulino. Rives, James B. 2006. “Magic, Religion, and Law: The Case of the Lex Cornelia de sicariis et veneficiis.” In Religion and Law in Classical and Christian Rome, (Potsdamer Altertumwissenschaftliche Beiträge 15), edited by Clifford Ando and Jörg Rüpke, 47‒67. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Rives, James B. 2010. “Magus and its cognates in classical Latin.” In Magical Practice in the Latin West, Papers of the International Conference held at the University of Zaragoza 30 Sept.‒1 Oct. 2005, edited by Richard L. Gordon and Francisco Marco Simon, 53‒78. Leiden: Brill. Romano, Elisa. 2006. “Modelli intellettuali e modelli sociali in Galeno.” In Medicina e Società nel Mondo Antico, Atti del convegno di Udine 4‒5 Ottobre 2005, (Studi Udinesi sul Mondo Antico 4), edited by Arnaldo Marcone, 168‒179. Firenze: Le Monnier. Rüpke, Jörg. 2016a. Religious Deviance in the Roman World. Superstition or Individuality? Cambridge: University Press. Rüpke, Jörg. 2016b. On Roman Religion. Lived Religion and the Individual in Ancient Rome. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press. Samama Evelyne 2003. Les médecins dans le monde grec sources épigraphiques sur la naissance d’un corps medical, (École pratique des Hautes Études, Sciences historiques et philologiques 3. Hautes études du monde gréco-romain 31). Geneva: Librairie Droz. Scheid, John. 2013. Les dieux, l’État et l’individu. Réflexions sur la religion civique à Rome. Paris: Seuil. Sconocchia, Sergio. 1993. “L’opera di Scribonio Largo e la letteratura medica latina del I sec. d.C.” Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt II.37, 1, 845‒922. Stannard, Jerry. 1986. “Herbal Medicine and herbal Magic in Pliny’s Time.” Helmantica 37: 95‒106. Totelin, Laurence. 2016. “Pharmakopōlai: A Re-Evaluation of the Sources.” In Popular Medicine in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, edited by William V. Harris, 65‒85. Leiden: Brill. von Staden, Heinrich. 2012. “The living Environment: Animals and Humans in Celsus’ Medicina.” In Conserver la santé ou la rétablir le rôle de l’environnement dans la médecine antique et médié-

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SECTION 2 INTERPRETING MAGICAL TEXTS AND OBJECTS

ANTI-WITCHCRAFT RITUALS AGAINST DEPRESSION IN ASSYRO-BABYLONIAN THERAPEUTIC TEXTS Silvia Salin, University of Verona The idea of depression as we know it is relatively new. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries CE the word “depression” (Latin “to press down”) replaced the Greek term “melancholia” (Greek “black bile”). Theories about black bile were apparently no longer thought to be appropriate. According to modern medical definitions, the condition is fairly frequent and complex. This isn’t the place to go into the matter in depth, but suffice it to say that common features of all depressive disorders include feeling down or irritable, along with an overall sensation of worthlessness and hopelessness. It is worth noting that manifestations of symptoms affecting cognition and the autonomous nervous system may also be present. These include trouble concentrating, memory alteration, anorexia and/or bulimia, and sleep disturbance.1 Assyro-Babylonians “had no understanding of our modern concepts of neurological and psychiatric disorders.”2 However, some signs and symptoms described in a variety of articles (letters, literature, omina, and medical texts in particular) could be interpreted as descriptions of some of the typical signs of depression. Reading, translating and interpreting words related to this condition is not easy. The meaning of verbs and nouns used to describe this sort of problem are not yet completely comprehensible, and modern scholars often give conflicting interpretations.3 What is more, trying to match ancient pathologies to modern diseases can be hindered or complicated by retrospective diagnosis. In N.P. Heeßel’s words: The difficult situation is well-known: diseases change over time, some vanish, some come into being, descriptions of symptoms are not systematic enough for a differential diagnosis, diseases are categorised differently over time and space, names of diseases can change over time or the same name denominates different diseases, diseases that originate in a specific area are transmitted to more distant regions and finally and most importantly modern diseases are defined on micro-bacteriological or pathological-anatomical grounds whereas in ancient times were defined solely on a symptomological basis.4

With such taxonomic problems in the background, this study will try to illustrate briefly certain Assyro-Babylonian words and expressions (especially from sources dating to the second and first millennium BCE) that probably indicate some of the characteristics of depression. This leads to an analysis of some of the most significant examples, in which a description of the effects of depression is followed by instructions for anti-witchcraft rituals intended to cure the patient. 1 2 3 4

For an in-depth analysis of all depressive disorders, cf. DSM-5, 155–188. Reynolds and Kinnier Wilson 2014, 2614. See, for instance, also Robson 2008, 461. Heeßel 2004b, 6.

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1. DEPRESSION IN ASSYRO-BABYLONIAN MEDICAL TEXTS The whole corpus of medical texts can be divided into three main groups: diagnostic, pharmaceutical, and therapeutic. In the diagnostic texts there are descriptions of signs and symptoms followed by their diagnosis. Diagnostic texts include either the name of the disease or, in some cases, the aetiology (information about its cause) and sometimes a prognosis. Pharmaceutical texts contain information about the curative effects of plants and their parts, stones and minerals. Therapeutic texts usually offer different kinds of prescriptions. They include instructions for the preparation of drugs and the application of medications. In some cases, these are followed by prayers, incantations, and/or instructions for ceremonial rituals. In general, texts listing problems concerning afflictions characteristic of depression belong to diagnostic and therapeutic categories. In particular, those offering antiwitchcraft rituals belong exclusively to the third group. In the following paragraphs some of the most interesting cases in this last category will be specifically examined. These texts have a set structure, with distinct parts. Each is introduced by a specific expression. The first part usually contains a list of signs and symptoms. A typical introductory formula is šumma amēlu (“if a man”) followed by the diagnosis. This may be no more than the name of the disease, but it can be more elaborate, with a description of the procedure to perform the bewitchment. The second part opens with the expression ana bulluṭīšu (“to cure him”). It either focuses on a list of ingredients, sometimes along with guidelines for the preparation and application of the medication, or gives instructions for the preparation of a ritual. In some cases, there is also a prognosis. This is followed by either a prayer or incantation. In some cases there’s an abracadabra like formula, introduced by ÉN=šiptu “incantation,” or the rubric KA.INIM.MA (“it is the wording of the incantation”) and/or instructions for the ritual, which is introduced by the formula DÙ.DÙ.BI or KÌD.KÌD.BI (“its ritual”). 1.1. Some brief considerations on signs and symptoms There are many words relating to signs and symptoms of depression.5 One of the commonest is the noun ašuštu and the related verb ašāšu. They are associated with the concept of “worry, dejection.”6 Modern scholars’ interpretations over the years have been many and divergent. They include “doleur” (Labat 1951), “distress” (Annus and Lenzi 2010) and “Betrübnis”” (Heeßel 2000). Others tend to translate the words as “depression” and “to be/become depressed.” One such example is that of J. Scurlock and B.R. Andersen: (1) If his words are unintelligible and depression (ašuštu) keeps falling on him at regular intervals, (…).7

5 6 7

The analysis of the words proposed here, together with other terms related to depression, is examined in greater depth by the author in a specific study to be published in the near future. Cf. respectively CAD A2, 479; AHw, 86, and CAD A2, 422; AHw, 79. Scurlock and Andersen 2005, 383, Text no. 16.85.

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The same might be said for other terms, such as the verbs anāḫu, adāru, and the noun tādirtu, which may be connected to the idea of “tiredness, exhaustion” (anāḫu),8 and “gloominess, distress, worry” (adāru, tādirtu).9 All of them have often been taken as “to be/become depressed,” or “depression.” Taking some examples, in which we find these words, it seems that their translation could be more general, especially in cases where they belong to long lists of signs and symptoms: (2) If a man eats and drinks, but it (=the food) does not ‘approach’ his flesh, he is now pale, now flushed (and) now his face continually becomes dark, he becomes gloomy (adāru), (and) he continually is exhausted (anāḫu), he does not want to talk, he is afflicted (ašāšu), he walks hunched, […], [he does not stand] his bed, war[lock and witch have …] that man.10 (3) If a man, his head conti[nually devours him], he has vertigo, his limbs are continually ‘poured out’, he continually becomes afflicted (ašāšu), his mouth is continually confused, his heart goes down (libbašu šapil), he is short-tempered, he has fever, stiffness, li’bu-disease, (and) distress (tādirtu), his chest and his back continually devour him, sweat continually attacks him, his hands and his [fe]et continually devour him, his upper thighs keep twisting out of place, he is to weak to rise, to stand and to talk, his neck muscles continually devour him, he continually gets cold, saliva continually flows on his bed, he keeps turning, he continually is exhausted (anāḫu), he continually becomes afflicted (ašāšu), he keeps opening his mouth (and) keeps forgetting ‘the speech of his mouth’, his dreams are numerous, (but) the dreams he sees he cannot remember, he keeps seeing dead people, he keeps talking to his heart (=to himself), he retches and vomits, the limbs of his body cause him throbbing and stinging pain, he has […], (…) he says ‘woe’ (and) cries ‘alas’, he has no desire to eat and drink, this man is bewitched (…).11

In my opinion, it is wrong to translate each of the terms in parentheses as “depression.” Considering the complete texts found above, it appears that words like anāḫu, ašāšu, ašuštu and tādirtu are related to psychological (and probably also neurological) problems. But it seems that they belong to a group of signs and symptoms, which only when taken together can be considered a state of depression. This is why I interpret them more literally: “to be exhausted,” “affliction,” “to be afflicted,” and “distress.” All of which can be taken as signs of depression. For the Akkadian expression libbašu šapil, I propose the translation “his heart goes down.” This goes against the usual interpretation, “he (the patient) is depressed.” The dictionary translates the verb šapālu as “to become low, to go deep, to go down, fall, etc.”12 When taken with libbu (“heart, abdomen, entrails, womb; inside (or inner part) of something, of the human body; mind, etc.”)13 it could be read as “the heart goes down,” in a kind of depression. This Akkadian expression “clearly refers to the concept according to which the centre of the body is seen as the place where feelings

8 9 10 11 12 13

CAD A2, 101; AHw, 48. CAD A1, 103; AHw, 11, and CAD T, 34; AHw, 1300. AMT 86, 1+AMT 85,1, ll. 28’-34’. Cf. Abusch and Schwemer 2011, 91–92, Text no. 2.3. BAM 3, 231, ll. 1–15. Cf. Abusch and Schwemer 2011, 343–344, Text no. 8.7. CAD Š1, 422; AHw, 1169. CAD L, 164. On the various and divergent meanings of libbu, see Salin (forthcoming), “The Akkadian libbu and concepts related to the centre of the body.”

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and emotions are perceived, describing depression and related sufferings as something that causes the heart to fall.”14 Another interesting, and disputed, expression is ḫīp libbi. It appears to indicate a sort of “break (ḫīpu) of the libbu.” Modern scholars have given it a variety of meanings. For M. Stol its meaning depends on the context it is found in; he suggests “heart-break” when it occurs in medical texts, while in letters it “seems to have a different shade of meaning, and ‘panic’ seems to be the best translation.”15 He associates “heart-break” with the concept of “melancholia,” derived from an Ancient Greek word meaning “black bile.” Other scholars point out16 that it is difficult to employ this translation outside of a Greek context. Sometimes this expression is preceded, and perhaps completed, by the word ḫūṣ(ṣ)u or ḫūṣṣa. Its meaning is not clear.17 M. Stol makes no distinction between ḫīp libbi and ḫūṣ ḫīp libbi, reading both as “heartbreak.”18 The same can be said of T. Abusch and D. Schwemer’s interpretation, as “depression.”19 On the contrary, J. Goodnick-Westenholz and M. Sigrist, following J.V. Kinnier Wilson,20 define the former as “depression,” the latter as “mental breakdown, neurosis.”21 Here are some examples of both: (4) If a man, the middle of hi[s head stings him, his knee is heavy, he excretes a lot, he is cont]inually tired, he continually has ḫīp libbi, his kidneys hurt him, he is continually thirsty, he is shorttempered, to remove his illness: (…).22 (5) If a man, his he[ad continually devours him], his tongue stings him, he has vertigo, his ears buzz, his neck […], his neck muscles continually devour him, his chest and [his back] continually devour him, his upper thighs keep twisting out of place, his arms have spasms, his fingers (and) his hands are constantly immobilised, his intestines are continually bloated, his bowels are convulsed, his legs (and) his feet cause [him a gnawi]ng pain, his flesh has spasms, he is too weak to rise, [to st]and and to talk, he is now flushed, now pale, he keeps talking to his heart (=to himself), his heart ponders foolishness, his mind is continually confused, he keeps forgetting ‘the speech of his mouth,’ he has fever, stiffness, li’bu-disease and distress (tādirtu), his dreams are confused (and) numerous, he continually sees dead people, he keeps speaking to dead people, his heart goes down (libbašu šapil), he is short-tempered, the dreams he sees he cannot remember, he retches and vomits, he is continually frightened on his bed, sweat continually attacks him, he continually gets cold tremors, he rises (but then) kneels down, [… hi]ts him, he continually has ḫūṣ ḫīpi libbi, he experiences [quarrel at ho]me (and) squabble in the street, his nipqū (=shortness of breath?) is close, he says ‘woe’ (and) cries ‘alas,’ he has no desire [to eat and] drink, he has no desire to go to a woman, his ‘heart’ does not arise in front of a woman, he continually opens his mouth, he is continually rigid, he is continually exhausted (anāḫu), he keeps …, he says ‘have mercy on me!’, [hi]s mouth is continually troubled, (then) that man has been given (bewitched) bread to eat, (bewitched) beer to drink, has been anointed with (bewitched) oil.23 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

Salin (forthcoming), “The Akkadian libbu and concepts related to the centre of the body.” Stol 1993, 30. Cf. Geller 2007, 191, and among others Parys 2017, 109. Cf. CAD Ḫ, 260 (“a. physical pain; b. an emotional hurt”), and AHw, 361 (“Leibschmerzen”). Stol 1993, 30. Cf. Abusch and Schwemer 2011 and 2016. Kinnier Wilson 1965, 291. Cf. also Reynolds and Kinnier Wilson 2013, 478. Goodnick-Westenholz and Sigrist 2006, 1. UGU 1: 239’‒243’. Cf. Worthington 2005, 22. AMT 21, 2+. Cf. Abusch and Schwemer 2011, 329, Text no. 8.6, ll. 1–22; Parys 2017, 107.

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The meanings of both ḫīp libbi and ḫūṣ ḫīp libbi are not easy to understand. For me, most of the translations are too specific. It all depends on how we interpret libbu. Is it to be taken as “heart,” “entrails,” “abdomen,” or “mind”? M. Parys gives an interesting reading, considering these expressions as “(douleur de) brisement de l’intérieur.” Her words: Il est difficile de ne pas penser à une mal-être psychique. Être brisé de l’intérieur dénote une sensation, voire une émotion. Est-ce une sensation d’anxiété, de ‘stress’ que l’on peut ressentir au niveau de la cage thoracique ou du ventre? Ou est-ce plutôt un sentiment de brisement au sens de dépression, également ressentie dans cette région du tronc? Il semble douteux, particulièrement dans ce contexte, de considérer ce symptôme comme gastro-intestinal.24

Far from resolving the debate over what these expressions’ mean,25 we can conclude that the signs and symptoms described as ḫīp libbi and ḫūṣ ḫīp libbi belong to today’s “psychosomatic suffering.” I believe they indicate a physical pain in the chest or heart, perhaps caused by depression. Apart from the problems relating to the interpretation of technical terms such as those given above, it is worth considering the texts proposed as a whole. They include several, and decidedly various, signs and symptoms. Even though I cannot see any words that could be taken as what we call depression, in our too modern definition of the term, we can see, among other pathologies, many of those signs that are part of this condition. In the third and fourth examples the patient is irritable (described as short-tempered); in the third and fifth his sleep is disturbed (his dreams are confused and numerous, he sees dead people, he is uneasy in bed etc.); and he has lapses of memory (he cannot remember his dreams, and his words); in the second he probably suffers a general sense of worthlessness, and hopelessness (he is exhausted, does not want to talk, is too weak to get up, stand and talk etc.), and so on. Given the contexts of the above examples, we could say that ancient professional physicians “were observing some of the common neurological and psychiatric disorders that we recognise today.”26 We can also add that they used to analyse both physical pain (in the head, chest, back, hands and feet), pain that consumes a patient (fever etc.) and emotional suffering (affliction, distress, gloominess etc.). They did not distinguish feelings from physical pain. Instead they analysed the signs and symptoms as a whole. In other words, we can conclude that Assyro-Babylonians were aware of the psychosomatic nature of some diseases.27 This is borne out by their therapeutic treatises. 1.2. Anti-witchcraft rituals as a therapy for depression As a whole, Assyro-Babylonians considered falling ill, among other causes, as a sign 24 Parys 2017, 109–110. 25 Among others, the interpretations offered by JoA. Scurlock as angina pectoris should be mentioned (Scurlock and Andersen 2005, 168). 26 Reynolds and Kinnier Wilson 2014, 2618. 27 Cf. Stol 1999, 57.

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of the wrath of the gods. This sort of loss of composure, both physical and social, was thought to have been caused by an individual’s personal gods and goddesses. These deities guaranteed success, fortune and physical and mental health. They could either turn against or abandon a person, leaving him (or her) unprotected. Gods, demons, ghosts, and human beings (often witches and warlocks) could attack a victim in various manners. Essentially, in some cases, illness was believed to be a punishment ordered by the gods after a person had committed (deliberately or not) a sin or a transgression.28 It installed itself directly inside the human body through physical contact.29 In addition to the use of ointments, medication, etc., an illness could also be removed from a patient’s body by performing rituals: amulets might be used to remove it, placed around the neck of the patient (or in a specific spot); it might be washed away with water; the individuals old clothes could be stripped off, and the illness with them; or it could be transferred to figurines, using so called “magic analogy” or a “substitution rite.” Basically, rituals were performed as if they were a trial, the aim of which was to prove the victim’s innocence, and to give him (or her) back his freedom, health. As with other diseases, disorders of depression could be cured through the performance of rituals which can be inferred from recipes containing therapies to address such problems. In keeping with scholarly convention, I classify these texts and their related rituals under the category “magic” though I am aware of the analytical and taxonomic problems with this category.30 Recipes containing therapies to cure some of the characteristics of such disorders could be very short, or very long. The preparation of medications or amulets tended to be fairly quick. But long and complex rituals included the recitation of prayers, incantations, and the performance of set rituals. Some examples: (6) If a man has vertigo, his limbs are ‘poured out,’ he continually suffers from ḫuṣṣa ḫīpi libbi (and) fear, (then) there is “Hand of mankind” against him. (To cure it): silver, gold, bronze, iron, anzaḫḫu-glass, ḫuluḫḫu-glass, black frit, zalāqu-stone in [a leather bag (around his neck)].31 (7) If a man is continually frightened, he is worried day and night, he repeatedly suffers losses, (his) profit is cut off, (people) defame him, who(ever) speaks to him does not say the truth, (people) maliciously point at him, in his palace he is not well received, his dreams are evil, he keeps seeing dead people in his dream, he suffers from ḫīpi libbi, he cannot hold on to the dreams he sees, in his dream his semen is dripping like that of a man who has been having sex with a woman, the wrath of god and goddess is upon him, god and goddess are angry with him, with diviner and seer his 28 For an in-depth analysis of this complex topic cf. especially van der Toorn 1985, 56–93; Bottéro 1995, 228; Heeßel 2000, 11‒12; 2004a, 99; Scurlock 2005, 429‒430; 2006, 74; 2016, 4; Koch 2015, 273‒278. 29 This contact was usually indicated by the expression qāt DN “Hand of X” (cf. in particular van der Toorn 1985, 78; Stol 1993, 33; Avalos 1995, 135; Heeßel 2000, 53‒54, 77). Furthermore, it should be mentioned that, among other actions, some gods, demons or ill-wishing human beings could “seize” (ṣabātu), “hit” (maḫāṣu), “touch” (lapātu), etc. the victim as the result of abandonment by his/her personal god. For a deeper analysis of these specific verbs cf. Couto-Ferreira (2007), and in particular Salin (2015; 2018). 30 On the theoretical and methodological issues associated with the category “magic,” see Otto 2013 and the essays by Joseph E. Sanzo and Antón Alvar Nuño and Jaime Alvar Ezwuerra in this volume. 31 BAM 317, rev. ll. 24–26. Cf. Abusch and Schwemer 2011, 50, Text no. 1.5.

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(oracular) judgement and decision do not turn out well, he is afflicted with speaking but not being listened to, he is offensive to (any)one who sees him … for him, (any)one who sees him is not pleased to see him, he gives, but is not given to. In order to determine his (oracular) decision (and) to make his judgement turn out well: Its ritual: ‘Mercy’-stone, ḫilibû-stone, carnelian, alabaster, [papardilû-stone], ayyartu-shell, girimḫilibû-stone, yānibu-stone, ‘silver stone,’ ‘gold stone,’ basalt, ‘male copper stone’: twelve stones, (…). If ‘hate-magic’ of the fourth day of the month of Abu has been performed against him, in order to undo (it): You string (these stones) on a string (var. cord.) of flax. In their midst: lupine, ‘heals-a-thousand’-plant, ‘heals-twenty’-plant, elikulla-plant, ŠITA-wood, amēlānu-plant, imbu’ tâmti-mineral, tamarisk wood, white cedar wood. You pack these nine plants in wool, you wrap (them) up in (a) leather (bag), together with the stones you string (it on the cord). (In addition) you wind these plants (around the cord) in between the stones. You put (it) around his neck. Then, the (oracular) pronouncement for him will be positive, his dreams will be propitious, speaking and being listened to are granted to him; his god and his goddess will be friendly with him, (people) will point at him in favour, he will give, and much will be given to him, who(ever) sees him will be pleased, who(ever) speaks to him will say the truth, … will thrive for him.32

In the first case the description, not only of the signs and symptoms, but also of the preparation of the amulet, is uncomplicated and brief. The healer is simply asked to put some stones and glass in a leather bag. However, in the second example, both the diagnosis and therapy are fairly complex and specific. The āšipu has to fix twelve particular stones to a string of flax, add nine plants packed in wool, place them in a leather bag, wind the plants around the string in between the stones, and put them around the neck of the sick person. These particular necklaces were used as amulets, objects believed to have magical powers. They were either worn by the patient, as above, or placed in a specific spot. They could bring either good fortune or dispel evil, or both.33 Stones and plants were usually knotted and strung out on a woollen thread. These knots were believed to absorb and retain the power of the incantation that the healer recited over them, ensnaring demons and their relative diseases. 34 Indeed: “Tying a knot in magic implies hindering the actions of demons due to the symbolic relationship between its function (to bind and to tie as a practical as well as mnemonic device) and the homeopathic or imitative principle in magic.”35 Besides the use of amulets, evil could be averted in other ways, as follows: (8) [If a man, his …], his legs are continually limp, [… per]sist, and he is always afflicted (ašāšu), […], his ears continually roars, […], his […] cause him a gnawing pain, he continually gets cold tremors, […], his heart is always afflicted (ašāšu), (and) he continually vomits: (then) figurines representing that man have been enclosed in a wall. (To cure him:) you mix a cone (and) a she[kel of …] in cypress oil. You recite over the cypress oil the incantation ‘You are furious, [you are] wild, you are [aggressive], you are proud, you are cruel, you [are evil], you are strong! [Who] is able to [ca]lm you but Ea? [Who] is able to [pa]cify you but Asall[uḫi]? May Ea clam you, [may Asalluḫi paci]fy you!’ Incantation formula. You rub [him] (with it) on the 21st, 22nd (and) 2[3rd] day [in] the morning, at midday and in the

32 SpTU 2, 22//SpTU 3, 85//STT 275, ll. 1‒23. Cf. also Abusch and Schwemer 2016, 24, Text no. 3.4. 33 For an in-depth analysis of amulets cf. in particular Schuster‒Brandis 2008. 34 Cf. among others Abusch and Schwemer 2011, 24, and Böck 2003, 13. 35 Cf. Böck 2003, 13.

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Silvia Salin evening; and […] who dispels (the evil) of man and wo[man. Th]is [man] will recover.36

In this case the healer had to mix a particular substance (unfortunately unknown because of the fragmentary state of the tablet) with cypress oil, recite an incantation over it, and rub the patient with it three times a day on three specific days of the month. The act of rubbing the patient was a practice which, asides from its therapeutic effects, had magical implications. By massaging in a centrifugal direction, the healer attempted to expel a disease caused by evildoers from the body of a sick person.37 In another example, the patient suffers from a wide range of disorders, including an irritable disposition and probably anorexia and bulimia (“he is in turn fat and thin”). These were considered signs of depression: (9) [If a man …], his hips […], […] is reduced, he does n[ot w]ant to talk, he continually has ḫuṣṣa ḫīpi libbi, his limbs are limp all the time, he is continually bloated, he gnaws his lips, his ears buzz, his hands are numb, his knees and legs cause him gnawing pain, his epigastrium continually protrudes, he is not able to have an intercourse with a woman, he is not attracted by a woman, cold tremors continually afflict him, he is in turn fat and thin, saliva continually flows from his mouth, he is often irritable, he cannot stand his bed, (and) sometimes he is paralyzed, (then) that man is bewitched; figurines representing him have been made and bur[ied] in the lap of a dead person. To undo the witchcraft, to save his life, to reconcile him with his angry personal god, to heal him: he drinks lupine, ‘heals-a-thousand’-plant, ‘heals-[twenty]’-plant, sikillu-plant, elkulla-plant, baluḫḫu-plant, aktam-plant, atā’išu-plant, ‘marsh-apple,’ ‘apricot-turnip,’ alu[m], imbu’ tâmtimineral, nuḫurtu-plant, tīyatu-plant, ḫašû-plant, urnû-plant, samīdu-plant, šiburratu-plant, azu[piru]-plant, nīnû-plant, beetroot, shoots of the baltu-thorn, shoots of the ašāgu-thorn, maštakal, maštakal seed, burāšu-juniper, burāšu-juniper seed, …-salt, amannu-salt, date, seed of the uḫluppu-tree, su[ādu]-plant, [kurkānû-plant, kasû-plant], 37 drugs for undo[ing] witchcraft [that are we]ll proven. He d[rinks (them) in beer, in wine, in water, in] oil or in diluted beer. (ll. 28’-31’ too fragmentary for translation) ‘The incantation is not mine, it is the incantation of Ea and [Asalluḫi], the incantation of Marduk, the king, the incantation of Šazu, Za[rpanītu] and Ningirima. They spoke it, but I [did only repeat it!’ (Incantation formula)]. (…). Its ritual: [You …] lupine, ‘heals-a-thousand’-plant, ‘heals-twenty’-plant, sikillu-plant, elkulla-plant, ‘wood-of-release,’ Lamaštu-plant, kukuru-plant, burāšu-juniper, ce[dar, ‘sweet’ reed, tamarisk], maštakal-plant, ‘horned’ salt-plant, salt, sulph[ur, 16 drugs for undoing witchcraft]. You recite this incantation over (it) three times. […], you rub him with oil, then witchcraft […] will not approach him. This man will be pure, his heart will be cleansed […].38

The patient had to drink 37 drugs in a liquid. The drugs had probably, as was usually the case, been dried out and then ground down. The liquid would have been beer, wine, water, oil or diluted beer. The healer then had to recite an incantation three times over another group of sixteen drugs, and rub the sick person with them. The following text offers a very similar diagnosis, but a quite different therapy:

(10) If a man continually has ḫuṣṣa ḫīpi libbi, his limbs are limp all the time, his tongue is always swollen, he bites his tongue, his ears buzz, his hands are numb, his knees (and) legs cause him a

36 AMT 86, 1//85, 1, ll. 54’’‒70’’. Cf. Abusch and Schwemer 2011, 92, Text no. 2.3. 37 Cf. for instance Böck 2003, 11‒12. 38 BAM 438, ll. 4‒27. Cf. also Abusch and Schwemer 2011, 119, Text no. 7.2.

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gnawing pain, his epigastrium continually protrudes, he is not able to have intercourse with a woman, cold tremors continually afflict him, he is in turn fat and thin, he continually salivates from his mouth, […], that man was given (bewitched) bread to eat, (bewitched) beer to drink, was anointed with (bewitched) oil, […]. To cure him: you dry, crush (and) sift lupine, ‘heals-a-thousand’-plant, ‘heals-twenty’-plant, maštakal, sikillu-plant, erkulla-plant, imbu’ tâmti-mineral, lapat armanni (=apricot--turnip?), seed of the ḫuluppu-tree, urnû-plant, ḫašû-plant, šibburratu-plant, nuḫurtu-plant, […], ḫašḫur api (=marsh-apple?), […]. In the morning you make him drink (and) eat (it) on an empty stomach. You make him vomit with a feather. Afterwards he drinks roasted […] in grape juice. You put […]. On the (day of the) new moon you bathe him; then he will recover. You take mating geckos from the open country, dry them and burn (them) as fumigants with burāšu-juniper, old human bone (and) with ‘horned’ salt plant. You burn kurkānû-plant (and) atā’išu-plant with ‘horned’ salt plant as fumigants. You burn sulphur, a lizard (and) a male ḫurribird with ‘horned’ salt plat as fumigants. […]. His illness will not return and will not come near him. Ruin will not approach him. (Incantation:) ÉN (=šiptu) pati patiti patakar patakar ḫatbī ḫatīb TU6 ÉN (=tê šipti) It is [the wor]ding (of the incantation) to undo witchcraft. [Its ritual (DÙ.DÙ.BI)]: you slaughter a […]-bird, you collect its blood in a bowl. You recite the incantation seven times over it. Then this man rubs himself daily (with it). That witch he fears will not reach him.39

Here the therapy has different parts: a medication is prepared, which the patient has to drink and eat on an empty stomach, and then vomit; there is ritual bathing on the day of the new moon; the patient is fumigated with the smoke from burning a lizard, a bird and plants; and the incantation and ritual which involves the man rubbing himself with the blood of a bird. All these practices could be considered purification rites. It may be that making the patient vomit helped expel the witchcraft residing in his body. The same could be said of bathing and fumigation; water, often poured from a sacred vessel, and censers (both considered purifying substances) were used to remove illness and evil from a sick person (sometimes returning it to the wicked sender).40 Another useful procedure for expelling evil was an altar, usually set up before the sun-god Šamaš, where libations were poured and/or figurines of the warlock and witch made. Interesting examples of these practices are often found in texts in which the victim of witchcraft has signs and symptoms that look like a sort of persecution mania. This could be considered a disorder related to a state of depression. The following text is emblematic. The victim is thought to have acquired an adversary (bēl lemutti): (11) If a man has acquired an adversary, his heart is frightened, […], he keeps forgetting his words, his mind is confused, […], his heart goes down (libbašu šapilšu), he is causing himself fear, his heart ponders foolishness, […], he is continually terrified on his bed, he is continually frightened, […], he keeps saying (that there is) aggression (against him), he continually sees dead people in his dreams, […], from before god, king, magnate (and) nobleman he is normally dismissed and […], there is hate against him [in the mouth] of the people, they slander him and […], he continually 39 BAM 445//AMT 64, 2: 47‒75. Cf. Abusch and Schwemer 2011, 157, Text no. 7.7. 40 Cf. for instance Verderame 2013, 308, Abusch and Schwemer 2011, 23‒24.

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Silvia Salin suffers loss, his profit is cut off, a fall from the roof […] in his house, sons (and) daughters are born to him regularly, (but) they are seized(?), annually disaster […], he keeps going to the palace (but) he is not received, he speaks but nobody list[ens], he is pointed at maliciously behind his back: that man, the ‘Hand of mankind’ is upon him. Together with materials gathered from him, figurines representing him have been encl[osed] in a hole of a wall to the north. He has been fed with (bewitched) bread, he has been given to drink (bewitched) beer and wine, [he has been anointed] wi[th (bewitched) oil]. (…) Its ritual: during the night you set up the holy water vessel. In the holy water vessel you put [bīnutamarisk (leaves)], palm shoots, šalālu-reed, silver, gold, ir[on], carnelian, lapis lazuli, [serpentine], ašgigû-stone (and) šupuḫru-cedar. You leave (it) out overnight under the stars. You tie into a headscarf kasû-plant, beer bread (and) car[nelian (…); you put (it)] on [his head]. You [drip] oil with ḫašūru-cypress and resin of the ṣumlalû-plant. You get up before da[wn] and you set up a portable altar before Šamaš in a [secluded] place. On the alt[ar you place] twelve emmer loaves. You set up a censer with burāšu-juniper, […]. You sacrifice (one) sheep; you pour a libation of milk, beer (and) wine, you perform the [merdītu-libations]. [You distri]bute the small heap(s) of flour (and) draw the line in the manner of a diviner. Th[at] man […], his arms behind him. You bind the headscarf around his head. Whenever […], you speak [thus]: Incantation (abracadabra Sumerian). (…) You go away, then you make two clay figurines of warlock and witch, you strew a censer of burāšu-juniper before the gods of the night (and) pour a libation of beer (and) wine […]. You pour hot bitumen upon them (and) [you beat them] with a stick of ēru-wood. You recite the incantation three times over them; [you recite] the incantation ‘Kurkur billa kurkur i[nnaka’]. He takes off his garment and washes with water over (them). […]. He wears a clean garment, (and) you move censer and torch past him, then he [goes straight] to [his] house. (…).41

This is a really interesting, but very complex, therapy. The healer prepares a sacred water vessel containing plants and stones, considered to be purifying substances. It needs to be left outside overnight under the stars. This act could be interpreted as serving “the double purpose of maceration and exposure to the influence of the astral deities.”42 After that, a headscarf is placed around the head of the patient, as a sort of amulet. He then sets up an altar, makes a sacrifice and pours libations. As usual, these offerings are presented at the beginning of the anti-witchcraft ritual. They have to be performed in front of Šamaš before dawn, when the sun-god leaves the netherworld.43 It is also worth noting that Šamaš, the god of justice, is in these cases called to judge the patient, the wronged party, unfairly attacked by a warlock and witch, as if in a lawsuit. The ritual expert, the lawyer, helps the victim to be acquitted, cured and purified.44 Then the healer makes figurines of the warlock and witch. This act, typical of anti-witchcraft (but also witchcraft) rituals, is called a “substitution rite.” For H. Hubert and M. Mauss: “L’image n’est, en somme, définie que par sa fonction, qui est de rendre présente une personne.”45 Figurines are seen as substitutes, representing a person (or people), gods, demons and evildoers who cannot be present during the ritual

41 STT 256: 1‒39. Cf. Abusch and Schwemer 2011, 144–145, Text no. 7.6.7. 42 Abusch and Schwemer 2011, 24. 43 Another propitious time to perform offerings is sunset – that is when the sun-god enters the netherworld – or, for instance, during the night (when astral deities are involved). 44 Cf. in particular Schwemer 2007, 207–208; Maul 1994; Ambos 2010, 22; Salin (forthcoming), “Anti-witchcraft Rituals in the Assyro-Babylonian Medical Texts: an Overview.” 45 Hubert and Mauss 1902–1903, 66.

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procedure.46 It is worth noting that the ritual is only considered valid when all those involved are present, or, if not, when they are substituted by these figurines. C. Ambos: The key concept behind the fashioning and the use of the figurine was basically that of establishing a magic identification, which then could be exploited by the exorcist to the disadvantage of the demons and for the benefit of his patient: demons and evil forces were harassing humans in various states and were therefore difficult to deal with. But because the exorcist had identified the figurine with the demons and disease-causing agents, there now existed magic sympathy between this statuette and the evil forces. Thus the demons and disease-causing agents had become comprehensible and manipulable by the human participants according to the needs of the ritual.47

In particular, in the text above, the healer has to pour hot bitumen on to the figurines and beat them with a stick of ēru-wood. After that, he recites a certain incantation three times, and then, when the patient takes off his garment and washes himself with water over the figurines, he has to move the censer and torch past him. All these actions are performed in order to purify the patient’s body, and to remove what the evil warlock and witch had done, sending it back to them. 2. CONCLUSION Medical texts like those proposed in this study involve the use of magic. This plays an important role in Mesopotamian healing practices. The above analysis was divided into two main parts: the first examined some of the most common Akkadian terms concerning depression, the second offered examples of anti-witchcraft rituals to fight this condition. The considerations proposed in the first part show that no specific words indicate depression. Instead, there are descriptions of signs and symptoms which could be considered typical of what we recognise as a depressive state. From a modern psychologist or neurologist’s point of view, Mesopotamian medical professionals were careful observers of these disorders and their patients’ behaviour. The second part noted that signs of depression could be taken, among other things, as the result of the actions of a second or third party. For the AssyroBabylonians these particular disorders were caused by the evil actions of a warlock and witch, perhaps because the ancient healers “had no knowledge of brain (or psychological) function.”48 Caused by supernatural powers, depression could be cured with magic rituals. These were either really short and simple or long and complex. There were different kinds of therapies: amulets to put around the patient’s neck or head; ritual bathing or fumigation to purify his or her body; and so on. So-called “substitution rites” are interesting. Here the healer was asked to make figurines representing the warlock and witch, not present during the procedure, and use them to remove the illness from the victim’s body, sending it back to the evildoers. 46 Cf. also Verderame 2013, 307–308. 47 Ambos 2010, 24. 48 Reynolds and Kinnier Wilson 2014, 2617.

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Signs of what we call depression and their therapies were intensely studied by Mesopotamian medical professionals. Observed from different perspectives they were treated with different methods, which may have influenced each other. This seems particularly relevant considering that the medical experts were operating at the royal court. Here knowledge was controlled by the king, with whom these scholars interrelated, including those who copied and composed diagnostic and therapeutic collections. This could have encouraged not only research into the efficacy of magicmedical remedies, but, in particular, debate about and research into the causes of illness. Bibliography Abusch, Tzvi. 2000. Mesopotamian Witchcraft. Toward a History and Understanding of Babylonian Witchcraft Beliefs and Literature (Ancient Magic and Divination 5). Leiden‒Boston: Brill. Abusch, Tzvi, and Daniel Schwemer. 2011. Corpus of Mesopotamian Anti-Witchcraft Rituals (Ancient Magic and Divination 8/1). Leiden‒Boston: Brill. Abusch, Tzvi and Daniel Schwemer, with Miikko Luukko, and Greta van Buylaere. 2016. Corpus of Mesopotamian Anti-Witchcraft Rituals (Ancient Magic and Divination 8/2). Leiden‒Boston: Brill. AHw. 1965–1981. Akkadisches Handwörterbuch. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Ambos, Claus. 2010. “Ritual Healing and the Investiture of the Babylonian King,” in The Problem of Ritual Efficacy (Oxford Ritual Studies), edited by William S. Sachs, Johannes Quack and Jan Weinhold, 17–44. Oxford: Oxford University Press. AMT. 1923. Assyrian Medical Texts from the Originals in the British Museum. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Annus, Amar, and Alan Lenzi. 2010. Ludlul bēl nēmeqi. The Standard Babylonian Poem of the Righteous Sufferer, (State Archives of Assyria Cuneiform Texts 7). Winona Lake: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Avalos, Héctor. 1995. Illness and Health Care in the Ancient Near East. The Role of the Temple in Greece, Mesopotamia, and Israel (Harvard Semitic Monographs 54). Atlanta: Scholar Press. BAM. 1963–1980. Die Babylonisch-Assyrische Medizin in Texten und Untersuchungen. Berlin. Böck, Barbara. 2003. “When you Perform the Ritual of ‘Rubbing’: on Medicine and Magic in Ancient Mesopotamia.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 62/1: 1‒16. Bottéro, Jean. 1995. Mesopotamia: Writing, Reasoning, and the Gods. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. CAD. 1956–2010. The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Chicago: The Oriental Institute. Couto-Ferreira, Erica. 2007. “Conceptos de transmisión de la enfermedad en Mesopotamia: algunas reflexiones.” Historiae 4: 1–23. DSM-5. 2013. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (Fifth Edition). American Psychiatric Association. New Library: Washington, DC. Geller, Markham J. 2007. “Médecine et magie: l’asû, l’āšipu et le mašmâšu.” Le Journal des Médecines Cunéiformes 9: 1–8. Goodnick-Westenholz, Joan Marcel Sigrist. 2006. “The brain, the marrow, and the seat of cognition in Mesopotamian tradition.” Le Journal des Médecines Cunéiformes 7: 1–10. Heeßel, Nils P. 2000. Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik (Alter Orient und Altes Testament 43). Münster: Neukirchener-Verlag. Heeßel, Nils P. 2004a. “Reading and Interpreting medical cuneiform texts. Methods and problems.” Le Journal des Médecines Cunéiformes 3: 2–9. Heeßel, Nils P. 2004b. “Diagnosis, Divination and Disease: Towards an Understanding of the rationale behind the Babylonian Diagnostic Handbook,” in Magic and Rationality in Ancient Near Eastern and Graeco-Roman Medicine (Studies in Ancient Medicine 27), edited by Herman F.J. Horst-

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manshoff and Marten Stol, 97–116. Leiden‒Boston: Brill. Hubert, Henri, and Marcel Mauss. 1902–1903. “Esquisse d’une théorie générale de la magie.” Année sociologique 7: 1–146. Kinnier Wilson, James V. 1965. “An introduction to Babylonian Psychiatry,” in Studies in Honor of Benno Landsberger on his Seventy-fifth Birthday, April 21, 1965, (Assyriological Studies 16), edited by Hans G. Güterbock and Thorkild Jacobsen, 289–298. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Koch, Ulla S. 2015. Mesopotamian Divination Texts: Conversing with the Gods. Sources from the First Millennium BCE (Guides to the Mesopotamian Textual Record 7). Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Köcher, Franz. 1963–1980. Die Babylonisch-assyrische Medizin in Texten und Untersuchungen (BAM 1–6). Berlin: De Gruyter. Labat, René. 1951. Traité akkadienne de diagnostics et pronostics médicaux (TDP). Paris: Académie internationale d’histoire de sciences. Maul, Stefan. 1994. Zukunftsbewlätigung. Eine Untersuchung altorientalischen Denkens anhand der babylonisch-assyrischen Löserituale (Namburbi), Baghdader Forschungen vol. 18. Mainz: Verlag Philipp von Zabern. Otto, Bernd.Christian. 2013. “Towards Historicizing ‘Magic’ in Antiquity.” Numen 60: 308–47. Parys, Magalie. 2017. “Introduction aux symptômes mentaux en Mésopotamie,” in Fortune and Misfortune in the Ancient Near East. Proceedings of the 60th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale at Warsaw, 21–25 July 2014, edited by Olga Drewnowska and Małgorzata Sandowicz, 105–117. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Reynolds, Edward H., and James V. Kinnier Wilson. 2013. “Depression and anxiety in Babylon.” Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine 106: 478–481. Reynolds, Edward H., and James V. Kinnier Wilson. 2014. “Neurology and Psychiatry in Babylon.” Brain. A Journal of Neurology 137: 2611–2619. Robson, Eleonore. 2008. “Mesopotamian Medicine and Religion: Current Debates, New Perspectives.” Religion Compass 2/4: 455–483. Salin, Silvia. 2015. “When Disease ‘touches’, ‘hits’, and ‘seizes’.” KASKAL 12: 319–336. Salin, Silvia. (forthcoming). “The Akkadian libbu and concepts related to the centre of the body.” In Linguistic Studies of Iranian and Indo-European Languages. Proceedings of the Symposium in memoriam Xavier Tremblay (1971–2011), edited by Antonio Panaino, Claudia Fabrizio, HansChristian Luschützky, Céline Redard, Velizar Sadovski. Salin, Silvia. (forthcoming). “Anti-witchcraft Rituals in the Assyro-Babylonian Medical Texts: an Overview.” In The Ritual Sphere, edited by Paola Cotticelli and Velizar Sadovski. Salin, Silvia. 2018. “La sofferenza individuale nei testi assiro-babilonesi.” In La Medicina AssiroBabilonese, edited by Frederick Mario Fales, 143‒166. Roma: Scienze e Lettere. Schuster-Brandis, Anais. 2008. Steine als Schutz- und Heilmittel. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Schwemer, Daniel. 2007. Abwehrzauber und Behezung: Studien zum Schadenzauberglauben im alten Mesopotamien. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz-Verlag. Scurlock, JoAnn. 2006. Magico-Medical Means of Treating Ghost-Induced Illnesses in Ancient Mesopotamia (Ancient Magic and Divination 3). Leiden: Brill. Scurlock, JoAnn. 2014. Sourcebook for Ancient Mesopotamian Medicine (Writings from the Ancient World 36). Atlanta: SBL Press. Scurlock, JoAnn. 2016. “Divination between Religion and Science.” In Divination as Science. A Workshop Conducted during the 60th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Warsaw, 2014, edited by Jeanette Fincke, 1–10. Winona Lake, Indiana. Scurlock, JoAnn, and Burton R. Andersen. 2005. Diagnoses in Assyrian and Babylonian Medicine. Illinois: University of Illinois Press. Stol, Marten. 1993. Epilepsy in Babylonia (Cuneiform Monographs 2). Groningen: Brill. Stol, Marten. 1999. “Psychosomatic Suffering in Ancient Mesopotamia.” In Mesopotamian Magic. Textual, Historical, and Interpretative Perspectives (Ancient Magic and Divination 1), edited by Tzvi Abusch and Karel van der Toorn, 57–68. Brill. Stol, Marten. 2009. “Insanity in Babylonian Sources.” Le Journal des Médecines Cunéiformes 13: 1– 12.

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van der Toorn, Karel. 1985. Sin and Sanction in Israel and Mesopotamia: A Comparative Study. Maastricht: van Gorcum. Verderame, Lorenzo. 2013. “Means of Substitution. The Use of Figurines, Animals, and Human Beings as Substitutes in Assyrian Rituals.” In Approaching Rituals in Ancient Cultures. Questioni di rito: Rituali come fonte di conoscenza delle religioni e delle concezioni del mondo nelle culture antiche. Proceedings of the Conference, November 28–30, 2011, Roma (Rivista degli Studi Orientali Nuova Serie 86), edited by Lorenzo Verderame and Claus Ambos, 1–23. Pisa ‒ Roma: Fabrizio Serra Editore. Worthington, Martin. 2005. “Edition of UGU 1 (=BAM 480 etc.).” Le Journal des Médecines Cunéiformes 5: 6–43. Worthington, Martin. 2007. “Addenda and Corrigenda to ‘Edition of UGU 1 (=BAM 480 etc.)’ and ‘Edition of BAM 3’.” Le Journal des Médecines Cunéiformes 9: 43–46.

A LAMELLA FROM VINKOVCI (CROATIA) AND THE JEWISH NECROMANCY Attilio Mastrocinque, University of Verona 1. THE LAMELLA FROM VINKOVCI In 1979 Stojan Dimitrijević published the results of the excavation of a Roman tomb in Vinkovci, Croatia, in the Vukovar-srijem county (the ancient Colonia Aurelia Cibalae in the Roman province of Pannonia Secunda), where it was unearthed in 1932 near Ulica Augusta Cesarca. The funerary goods, presently held in the civic museum of Vinkovci1 and in the National Archaeological Museum of Zagreb, are datable to the 3th (or even the beginning of the 4th) century AD, and are noteworthy because of a gold lamella (5,1x2,5 cm, inv. A‒904) rolled and placed in the mouth of the deceased (fig. 1).2 The burial also included several bronze objects: a pair of compasses; a pin ending in form of a hand; two spatulae; a stilus; a key shaped as a ring; a relatively tall statuette of a cock (fig. 2) with the inscription DIABONICUS; and a gold ring with some letters, which Dimitrijević read as ΠΕ.

Fig. 1: Gold lamella from Vinkovci. 1 2

I thank Hrvoje Vulic, responsible for Roman archaeology in this museum, for his kind help for my research. I am also grateful to Roy Kotansky and Alessia Bellusci, who works at the Library of Israel, for their suggestions. Klajn 1963, 9; Dimitrijević 1979, 172; 238‒239, and pl. 18.1; cf. Od Nepobjedivog sunca do sunca pravde 1994, 74, no. 7; Kovács 1998, no. 114, where the find is labelled “curse tablet” and the text is read in the following way: ΣΕΡΦΥΡΙΩΔΚΩΙΥΜΥΝΝ / ΑΙΣΡΕΔΔΔΑΩΝΕ / ΤΙΑΩΑΔΑΩΟΣΟΦΡ / ΝΟΩΩ.

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The writings on the lamella begin with six charakteres, then continue with six lines of Greek text, and finish with 16 or 17 charakteres. There is in fact another text (text one), which was written with a stilus producing less deep furrows, similar to graffiti: Text one: .Θ Β̣Ϲ̣ΗΜΩ̣ΤΟΥΧ Ο ΤΧ Χ ΕΥ̣ΟΙ̣Κ.. ΟΡΟΒ This reading is uncertain. The reconstruction of the semitic words β(α)ϲηµ, “in the name of…,” is tenuous at best, and I do not, therefore, recommend it. Text two: This is the main text covering the major part of the lamella. Form of some letters: ω for Ω, h for Η; their height ranges from 4 to 2 mm. Diplomatic transcription: 6 charakteres IAΩ ϹΑBΑΩ ϹΕΡΦΥΟΙΩΔΑΩΟΑΔΩΧIΑI ΑΙϹΡΕΡΑΔΩΝΕ ΤΑΩΑΡΑΩΟϹΟΦΡΗΝΙ ΝΟΩΩ 7 charakteres 9 charakteres Interpretative reading: Ἰάω Ϲαβαώ. Σερβίῳ Ἰουδαίῳ σαδώκ, ΙΑΙΑ Ἰσραὴλ Ἀδωναΐ, τὰ Φαραὼ ὁ σώφρων ι νοωω Translation: Iao (i.e. Yahwe) Sabaoth. (To?) Servius, the Jew, the righteous. Iaia Israel Adonai. The things the wise pharaoh. The text presents a peculiarity: the occurrence of omegas are largely above average: 16.9% of the letters. One could suspect that in some cases omegas were written for

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other Greek letters. In the Hebrew alphabet the more similar letter is the sin: ‫ש‬, apparently like an omega: ω, but also tet: ‫ט‬, and (if rotated) pe: ‫פ‬. The sequence ΟΑΔΩΧ requires a correction because it is meaningless and the combination ΟΑ is very improbable. The easiest correction seems to be that of recognizing a C instead of O (i.e. σαδωχ), with an aspirated ch instead of k (as in the expected σαδωκ, corresponding to Hebrew ‫צדוק‬, “the righteous”). Two corrections, even if minor, make the reading σαδωκ uncertain, but this appears to be the most suitable solution. The sequence ΤΑΩΑΡΑΩΟ necessitates a correction as well. ΑΡΑΩ is the nearly complete title Φαραώ, whose first letter ω depended on a badly written Φ; for example, a could have been copied as an . By singling out Φαραὼ (in Hebrew ‫)פרעה‬, the preceding two letters appear to be the Greek pronoun τὰ, and the following text ΟϹΟΦΡΗΝΙ presents a familiar Greek sound, in which one recognizes either ὁ σώφρων, “the wise,” or σώφρονι, “to the wise.”3 Among the charakteres, the first is worth discussing because it often refers to the Jewish god. Its form is either circular, square, or rectangular and a cross (shaped as a + or a x) is written inside, while the four zones into which it is divided could either be empty, bear small circles, or include the four letters of the Tetragrammaton (i.e. the name of Jahweh). There is a similar charakter, in which the name of Iao is written within a square. Moreover, a similar sign is depicted at the end of a Christian magical papyrus and under the menorah on a Jewish inscription from Rome.4 2. GRAMMATICAL CASES This Greek text is written inaccurately and includes many mistakes. As a result, the meanings of several words are recovered with different degrees of probability. That said, one can confidently reconstruct ΙϹΡΕΡ as Ἰσραὴλ and ΙΩΔΑΩ as Ἰουδαίῳ, thus demonstrating the Jewish background of the text. The reading of the personal name could reflect nominative cases, with sigmas shared by two contiguous words; Σέρβιος and Ἰουδαῖος αδώκ (or, more cautiously, without accent: σαδωκ). Yet one can avoid such corrections and simply postulate a series of datives: Σερβίῳ Ἰουδαίῳ. Pharaoh (indeclinable) cannot be a dative because it is followed by the article ὁ, a nominative; in the case of a dative it would have been τῷ σώφρονι. The nominative would render the final ι (after σώφρων) meaningless. The iota could be connected with νοωω in the following line. But, if we prefer to read a dative noun or the adjective σώφρονι, we should understand the text as Φαραὼ (τ)ῷ σώφρονι, i.e. “to the wise pharaoh” or “the pharaoh to the wise man.” The reconstruction σώφρων, however, is more probable because the η of σώφρην (which is actually written) was similar to a ω rather than to a ο; I thus suppose that it was a badly written omega.

3 4

One might in theory reconstruct the word here as ΦΡΗΝ, the name of the Egyptian god Rhê, or Rha, preceded by the article Φ, as it occurs in many magical texts. See A. Mastrocinque, in Mastrocinque and Buonopane 2005, 252‒253.

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3. ONOMASTICS Iao is Yahwe in the current Greek form. Ϲαβαώ(θ) is probably the correct reading. Servius was used in the Roman world either as a praenomen5 or a nomen gentilicium.6 If we recognize in Oαδωχ the name of Sadok, the final χ represents an aspirate form instead of the expected final kappa. Sadok could have been the original name of Servius’ family, which recalled the ancient priestly family of the biblical Sadok (frequently mentioned in 2Kings), the high priest Sadok, and also the followers of the Sadducean sect, frequently mentioned in Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities.7 But it is also possible that Sadok was the third personal name of Servius, which was used as a Jewish cognomen. In this case, however, it would be surprising that the adjective Ioudaios was placed before this cognomen because one would expect, eventually, a sequence, such as Σερβίῳ Σαδώκ Ἰουδαίῳ. Sadok could have been Servius’ Jewish surname: “Servius Iudaeus also known as Sadok.” Another, preferable, solution is that σαδώκ is the adjective ‫צדוק‬, which signifies “righteous.” In this case, we should translate the phrase as “Servius Iudaeus the righteous” or “Servius the righteous Jew.” ΙΑΙΑ is a well-known form of the Tetragrammaton, composed of its first two letters (YH = iah), repeated twice with the insertion of the vowel A (as in Iao and Allelujah).8 The reconstruction of ΙϹΡΕΡ as Ἰσραὴλ is very probable and could be justified by the frequent substitution of the final -ηλ in some angelic names with -ηρ.9 It is also worth mentioning that Israel is often written along with angelic names ending in -el.10 Ἀδωνε instead of Ἀδωναΐ is quite normal in this period and especially in magical papyri or gems. The mention of the wise pharaoh is difficult to understand; we should first examine the use of inserting magical writings into the mouth of a corpse and the phenomenon of divination by means of skulls, which will provide us with a clue. It is only after we take these ritual practices into consideration that we can come back to the reference to pharaoh. The adjective σώφρων, “the wise” was used to define the quality of a man,11 and we will discuss its connection with the pharaoh at the end of our study. In the final line, before νοωω, a Δ is lightly written, probably by another hand, as its shape is different from that of the other deltas. ινοωω represents probably an imperfect series of vowels, which are common in magical texts. 5

As in some inscriptions: AE 1964, 154 (Ostia); AE 1973,182 (Interamna); AE 1953, 163 (Salamis); AE 1998, 1594 (Caesarea Mauritania). 6 As in other inscriptions AE 1975, 110 (Rome); AE 1974, 242 (Aquinum); AE 1950, 18 (Potaissa); CIL II.7, 345; CIL I, 2267 (Kokodrilopolis). Tac. Hist. II.48 uses Servius instead of the nomen when he says: post Iulios Claudios Servios (he alludes to Servius Sulpicius Galba). 7 Jos. A.J. XVIII.1.4 underlines that, according to the Sadducees, the human soul perished with the body. This lamella was placed into the mouth of the deceased, a fact that hardly fits such a belief. On Sadok as a personal name, see Levi della Vida, Amadasi Guzzo 1987, 141, no. 91. 8 Mouterde 1930‒1931, 98; Kotansky, Kovács, and Prohászka 2015, 139. 9 Delatte 1914, 64. Cf. per es. Mastrocinque 2014, nos. 313‒314. 10 See Kotansky 1994, no. 33, 5: Εἰστραήλ 38,3; 41,33 and 62, 7: Ἰστραήλ; PGM IV 1815: Ἰστραήλ; 3029 Ὀσραήλ; XXXVI. 259: Ἀσστράηλος; lamella from Halbturn (cf. footnote 14): Ἰστραήλ. On the variants of the name of Israel, see Ganschinitz 1916, 2233. 11 See Ameling 2004, no. 226.

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The high number of mistakes is by no means unexpected in a magical writing; these mistakes could have been occasioned by difficulties in reading and copying a written model in narrow lines and limited space. It might also reflect the work of a writer who did not know Greek. Ever since the reign of the emperor Hadrian, Cibalae was a Roman colony, where Latin was spoken. Nevertheless, magical text typically required the use of the Greek language and alphabet. The man mentioned in the spell was a Jew; therefore, he and the writer of the lamella probably spoke either Latin or Hebrew/Aramaic as his/their native language, despite writing in Greek. A remarkable overemphasis on the writer’s (and probably also of the buried person) Jewish identity can be noticed as well. In this case, general hypotheses on why the writer used the adjective Ioudaios / Ioudaius are of little help; the lamella was not on display as was the case with funerary stelae or other objects, where Ioudaios / Ioudaia were typically used to characterize a Jew out of Judaea, among the gentiles. Sometimes a Jew was deemed domo Iudaeus / Iudaea, especially when he/she was not a native of a city.12 As Margaret H. Williams underscored,13 apart from rare cases in which Iudaeus was a personal name similar to Judas, the basic function of Ioudaios is always the same: that of drawing an explicit distinction between Jews and nonJews in the provinces of the Roman Empire (save Judaea). Ever since the discovery of the golden lamella from the Roman necropolis of Halbturn, Austria, the archaeological remains of Jewish inhabitants in Pannonia have been collected and studied carefully.14 Jews had settled there at the end of the 2nd century CE, between the reign of Commodus and that of Severus (after the German invasion of this province that caused a depopulation and many damages to towns).15 This is the reason why the related documents are mostly dated to the 3rd and 4th centuries CE. The gold lamella from Halbturn bears a Greek inscription with Jewish content, whose translation is: “Hear Israel, the Lord is God, the Lord is 1.” Here the number A (= 1 in Greek) stands for “the unique,” “the unique god.” Another interesting 4th century CE lamella from Aquincum has been recently published16 and its inscription reads (after some charakteres, among which the circle framing an X): “Astheni[[r]]as o braaoth Sabao, the King, protect from headache.” The name of Abraoth has been interpreted as “he who makes pass over, pass across,”17 and was construed with the same root ‘BR “do over, pass across,” which built the name of the Hebrews. Therefore it signifies also “the god of the Hebrews.” These lamellae bear indeed a strong Jewish inprint.

12 Beutler and Kremer 2014. 13 Williams 1997. 14 David 2014. In this book, one can find many essays on the lamella and other religious and cultural features of the Jews from this period. 15 Also Syrian troups were settled in Pannonia during this period and they, therefore, influenced the social and religious life in this territory (see Fitz 1972; see the overview by Tibor 2016). 16 Kotansky, Kovács, and Prohászka 2015. 17 Kotansky, in Kotansky, Kovács, and Prohászka 2015, 138.

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4. LAMELLAE IN THE MOUTH OF DEAD PERSONS The most discussed lamella discovered in the mouth of a corpse is that from Rome (from the colombarium of Vigna Codini). It was discovered in a skull, which was kept in a pot. This gold lamella bears an invocation to Serapis, the king of the dead.18 In a recent exhibition at the Archaeological Museum of Aquincum, near Budapest, a silver lamella, cut into four pieces was on display. It was found in a late 3rd or 4th century burial of a young woman in Pannonia (at Pécs, close to the Janus Pannonius Museum). The archaeologists describe the finding in the following manner: “Based on the position of the object and the skeleton, as well as the meaning of the text, it seems likely that the plate got into the mouth of the corpse as a part of a magic necromancer ceremony (nekromanteia), since the grave was disturbed shortly after the burial. The tiles covering the grave were smashed so as to gain access to the head of the corpse, and a bone pin was also placed on the mouth”.19 We are informed that Justinian ordered in 556 CE the revered sanctuary of Montanism at Pepouza to be destroyed. Michael the Syrian (Chron. 9.33) reports that the tombs of Montanus and his female assistants Priscilla and Maximilla were discovered there, and that their mouths were covered with gold lamellae. Michel Tardieu20 connects these lamellae with prophecy and with the belief according to which Montanus represented the Spirit (pneuma) and the Paraclete. Montanus, Priscilla, and Maximilla were prophets, and sometimes uttered some unintelligible prophetic words.21 Tardieu puts in comparison this use of corpses for prophecy with the Orphic prophetic tradition and with the papyrus known as “Empedocles of Strasbourg” ‒ a document that was found wrapped around the head of a buried man. The idea was that one could activate the deceased through specific spells placed onto or into his mouth. Starting from line 1872, the PGM IV reports a series of recipes teaching how to use corpses and skulls for prophecy and other aims. Many of these recipes are ascribed to Pitys, whose name is an abbreviation of Pityaxes or Patizeithes (i.e. the Magus who was credited with rising Cambyses’ brother from the dead).22 Among those recipes is a “spell of attraction of king Pitys over any skull cup”; this is a prayer addressed to Helios and aimed at winning the submission of the soul of a man who died a violent death. At the end it prescribes the placement of a writing on the forehead of the skull.23 Then a letter follows:24 “Pitys’ spell of attraction: Pitys to king 18 According to Seyrig 1955 and Faraone 2005, the lamella was protective and the reading should be: Αἰωνεργέτα, κύριε Σάραπι, δὸς νείκην κατὰ τῶν ὑπὸ πέτραν (Eternal Worker, Lord Serapis, give victory in the name of those who are under the stone); but, according to Kotansky 1994, no. 28, it was aggressive and the text should be read in the following manner: Αἰωνεργέτα, κύριε Σάραπι, δὸς νείκην κατὰ ὀ(νοµάτων) τῶν ὑπογεγραµ[µένων (Eternal Worker, Lord Serapis, give victory over the names written below). 19 Németh and Szabó 2016; On secret paths 2017. The inscription ends with the words: Ἀκελλίνα ἐµι: “I am Aquilina.” 20 Tardieu 2014. 21 Euseb. Hist. Eccl. V.14‒15. 22 Altheim, Junker, and Stiehl 1949. 23 PGM IV, 1928‒2005.

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Ostanes: greetings. Since you write to me on each occasion about the enquiry of skull cups…” In this long recipe one can subsequently read: Take a leaf of flax and with the black ink which will be revealed to you, paint on it the figure of the goddess who will be revealed to you, and paint in a circle this spell (and place on his head the leaf which has been spread out and wreathe him with black ivy, and he will actually stand beside you through the night in dreams, and he will ask you, saying, ‘Order whatever you wish, and I do it’).

Finally the practitioner summons directly the ghost and threatens him of terrible punishment if he does not obey. After this long recipe another one explains how to make some speaking skulls keep silent:25 A restraining seal for skulls that are not satisfactory [for use in divination], and also to prevent [them] from speaking or doing anything whatever of this [sort]: ‘Seal the mouth of the skull with dirt from the doors of [a temple] of Osiris and from a mound [covering] graves. Taking iron from a leg fetter, work it cold and make a ring on which have a headless lion engraved. Let him have, instead of his head, a crown of Isis, and let him trample with his feet a skeleton (the right foot should trample the skull of the skeleton). In the middle of these should be an owl‒eyed cat with its paw on a gorgon’s head; in a circle around [all of them?], these names: MADOR INBA NICHAIOPLEX BRITH.’

Another recipe26 says: Pitys the Thessalian’s spell for questioning corpses: “On a flax leaf write these things: ‘AZEL BALEMACHO’ (12 letters). Ink: [Made] from red ochre, burnt myrrh, juice of fresh wormwood, evergreen, and flax. Write [on the leaf] and put it in the mouth [of the corpse].”

Median and Persian Magi were credited with great skill in necromancy and Pliny reports that the Magi purified the mouth of some persons with honey and put a pebble of Chelonia (i.e. the eye of a sea turtle) onto their tongue and thereby they were enabled to utter prophecies.27 A recipe in PGM VII28 gives directions on how to make a lead lamella “for silencing, subjecting, and restaining” and to “set it with a person who has died prematurely.” A recipe for obtaining love in PGM XIX29 explains how to force a ghost to persuade a woman to have sexual intercourse with the practitioner and the ritual consisted in putting a written text into the mouth of a dead person. This papyrus itself was discovered in the mouth of a mummy. Other recipes resorted to 24 PGM IV, 2006‒2125, transl. O’Neil. 25 PGM IV, 2125‒39, transl. M.Smith. On a magical gem similar to the seal, see Mastrocinque 1998, 32‒34. 26 PGM IV, 2140‒44, transl. Grese. 27 Plin. nat. hist. 37.155; see Gordon 2001, 298. 28 PGM VII, 396‒404, transl. Hock. 29 PGM XIXa, 1‒54.

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rituals performed close to a corpse, even if some texts only alluded to necromancy in a cryptic form.30 An amusing trick for making a fake skull utter prophetic words is described by Hippolytus.31 In another papyrus,32 one can read a love spell of attraction, which uses an inscribed piece of ass’ skin placed in the mouth of a dead dog; in yet another one,33 a love ritual performance is enacted over a dog, which was probably killed for this purpose. PGM XII (starting from verse 107) reports a series of recipes for sending dreams. The first34 gives the prescription to place a written strip of papyrus into the mouth of a black cat that has died a violent death. The use of a skull for prophecy was ancient among the Greeks; we know of an oracular place where Orpheus was revered and his head, when was inquired, answered from the subsoil.35 Some images on Etruscan gems and mirrors show inquiries of human prophetic heads, probably conceived after the Greek Orphic model.36 Two main purposes of pagan necromancy can be recognized: prophecy and dreams. Dreams were sent by the soul of a deceased person with the aim of either making him utter prophetic words or tormenting a person, in case of a maleficent ritual, often performed for erotic purposes. 5. MESOPOTAMIAN AND EGYPTIAN NECROMANCY Necromancy and skull divination were ancient practices in Mesopotamia, and many interesting documents concerning this practice have been gathered and studied by Irwin Finkel.37 For example, an Accadic incantation (British Museum, inv. BM 36703) on a clay tablet is addressed to Shamash with the intention that this solar god summons a “ghost from (lit. of) the darkness.” This ghost, once brought up from its place of rest, is then supposed to enter a skull placed there for that purpose. The reciter of the incantation says: “I call [upon you], O skull of skulls: may he who is within the skull answer me !” In the Assyro-Babylonian world necromancers were called ša etemmi or mušelu etemmi. Necromantic texts from ancient Egypt are scarce, but we know many texts, images, and objects related to a ritual known as “Opening of the mouth,” which was enacted with statues of gods and images of Osiris in particular. While the phrase “opening of the mouth” appears as early as the fourth dynasty, a complete and illustrated version of the entire ritual is not known until the New Kingdom.38 Egyptian 30 See Faraone 2005a, 255‒286. 31 Hippol. Ref. IV.41.1. Ogden 2001, 210‒211, deems Hippolytus’ account to be “largely mendacious.” In any case, it testifies to the popularity of such rituals. 32 PGM XXXVI, 361‒371. 33 PGM XIXb, 4‒18. 34 PGM XII, 107‒121, transl. Grese. 35 This is documented by images on Greek ceramics (see Faraone 2004; Burges Watson 2013). 36 Thomson De Grummond 2011. 37 Finkel 1983‒84, 1‒13. 38 For some reason, I was unable to change the size of the font for the footnote number 37 (see below). Quack 2011; Szpakowska 2003.

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sources refer to this oneiric technique performed by a priest during a funerary ritual and aimed at self-inducing an oneiric vision of a completed statue. 6. LAMELLAE AND JEWISH NECROMANCY As Finkel underlined, Mesopotamian necromantic spells continued to be recopied well into the classical period and were later absorbed into the Jewish tradition of necromancy. The most ancient and famous episode of necromancy is that of Saul and the witch of Endor39 (dating to the eleventh century), which makes it clear that the evocation of a spirit was forbidden (Saul went secretly to the pagan witch40), but reliable (the evoked spirit of Samuel told him the truth). The Bible repeatedly forbids necromancy,41 but, in spite of this, the Bible and the Jewish tradition are rich in episodes of necromancy and necromancers. The Babylonian Talmud42 deals with necromancy at lenght and the following passages are particularly interesting: “A yidde’oni is one who places the bone of a yidoa’43 in his mouth and it speaks of itself.” A discussion on Saul’s inquiry follows: Our Rabbis taught: Ba’al ob denotes both him who conjures up the dead by means of soothsaying and one who consults a skull. What is the difference between them? The dead conjured up by soothsaying does not ascend naturally [but feet first], nor on the Sabbath; whilst if consulted by its skull it ascends naturally and on the Sabbath too. … He who enquireth of an ob ‒ is that not the same as one that consulteth the dead? ‒ As has been taught: Or that consulteth the dead: this means one who starves himself and spends the night in a cemetery, so that an unclean spirit [a demon] may rest upon him [to enable him to foretell the future].

The late 3rd century CE Sifre Deuteronomy, when dealing with a passage, 18.10, devoted to magic arts, defines each sort of specialists and says of those who inquire of a ghost that they are necromancers and make ghosts speak from their armpits; this sort of diviner is called pitom, and is distinguished from those who raise a spirit from the dead by means of either conjurations (zekuru) or inquiries over a human skull.44 A Medieval collection of Midrashim, the Midrash Tanhuma,45 deals at lenght with prophetic dreams in the Bible, and particularly in the Genesis. A large part of the discussion concerns the Pharaoh’s dreams and their interpretation by Joseph.46 A section of this work, entitled Va-yeze, deals with pagan idols known as teraphim (Genesis 31.19) and says: 39 I Samuel 18. 40 “Saul disguised himself and put on other garments, and went, he and two men with him; and they came to the woman by night.” 41 Lev. 19.31; 20.6, 27; Deut. 18.11; Isa. 8.19. 42 Bab. Talmud, Sanhedrin 445 (65a Engl. transl.). See Trachtenberg 1939, 223‒224. 43 An unknown animal. 44 See recently Lesses 2014, 81. 45 Published by Buber 1885; See also Midrash Tanhuma 1989. Sperber 1985, 96‒97. 46 Midrash Tanhuma 1989, 252‒261.

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Attilio Mastrocinque And how did they make (them)? They would bring a first-born man, slaughter him, and salt him with salt and oils. Then they wrote on a golden plate the name of an unclean spirit, and placed the plate with magic under his tongue. Then they placed him in (a niche in?) a wall, and lit before him candles, and prostrated themselves before him, and he would speak with them in oracles.

The belief in objects which enabled a mouth to utter prophetic words was rooted in the Jewish tradition and also in non-Jewish practices which appealed to Jewish magic. An exorcism reported in PGM IV, 3003 ff. gives directions about how to force a spirit to utter words from the mouth of a possessed person, and summons the spirit by saying: “ὁρκίζω σε κατὰ τῆς σφραγῖδος, ἧς ἔθετο Σολοµὼν ἐπὶ τὴν γλῶσσαν τοῦ Ἰηρεµίου, καὶ ἐλάλησεν” (“I adjure you by the seal of Solomon laid upon the tongue of Jeremiah and he spoke.”). This seal was very famous and was supposed to conceal the name of God and to be a formidable means to perform wonderful deeds, and especially to submit and control demons. The Testament of Solomon is a work that narrates the performances of this seal by the hands of king Solomon. Another judaizing book, the Sepher ha-Razim (the Book of Mysteries),47 written in Late Antiquity, reports a recipe to send disturbing dreams by means of a dog’s skull: If you want to make your enemy sleep disturbed, take the head of a black dog that never saw light and take a lamella of PSWKWTRWN,48 and write on it (the names of) these angels and say this: ‘I consign to you, O Angels of Wrath who stand in the fourth encampment, the life, the soul and the spirit of N son of N, so that you bind him in iron chains and tie him in bronze rods. And do not give sleep, neither light sleep nor deep sleep, to his eyelids. And he will cry and scream like a parturient woman. And do not give any man permission to release him (from the spell).’ And write this and put (it) in the mouth of the dog and put wax on the mouth and seal (it) with a ring, which has a lion engraved upon it. And go and hide it (the dog’s head) behind his house or in a place in which he goes out and enters. If you want to release him (from the spell), take it (the dog’s head) from the place where it is hidden and remove its seal and take out the (lamella with the) text and throw it in the fire and he will immediately fall asleep. Do this with humility and you will succeed.49

Dan Levene has described a few human skulls bearing inscriptions which are kept in different museums.50 Their writings are in Aramaic or Hebrew, but Levene maintains that “in spite of the square script and some Jewish names, the absence of the Tetragrammaton and the presence of a pagan god (Libat) and Gnostic and pagan formulae, these bowls are not of Jewish origin.”51 Moreover, he notices that “the inscribed skulls do not appear to bear any evidence that necromancy was their purpose.” The worship of the Jewish god, magical uses of his name, and speculations on him were widespread in antiquity among both Jews and, even more, non-Jewish people. But we are informed that the Jews practised necromancy, like all the other peoples on earth, 47 Morgan 1983; Rebiger and Schäfer 2009. 48 Probably from the Greek word ψυχροφόρον (i.e. cooler, referred to a lead waterpipe; see Bellusci 2015). 49 Sepher Ha-Razim §§ 137‒140. 50 Levene 2006. 51 Levene 2006, 362.

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even though they prohibited it with even more severity than other peoples. The mantic use of animal and/or human bones was and is practised everywhere by many people. Take, for example, the dices game which requests ivory or bone cubes. 7. NECROMANCY AND DREAMS We know that some ancient practitioners went to cemeteries and performed rituals by urging the souls of the untimely dead to harm or even torture personal enemies or desired women. In the latter case, a woman was said to be unable to sleep because a ghost haunted her and compelled her to be ready for sex with the author of the ritual performance.52 This was not exactly necromancy, which is a form of prophecy by means of the dead, and did not resort to peculiar objects placed into the skull in order to activate the mouth. In our contemporary world necromancy is terrifying because we are not accustomed to live along with the dead. By contrast, the Romans, for example, allowed the dead to come back into their town, and the dead souls were received during specific days, such as the Lemuria, the days of mundus patet, the Parentalia, and the Compitalia. Dangerous ghosts were known to pagans as well; however, cults and rituals allowed the Romans to have relationships with the dead under control. Nowadays we are frightened by the prospect of opening the gate of the afterlife, especially because we avoid every possible contact with Hell and demons. Christianity has been obsessed for centuries by the idea of the Devil and his demons who rule over a lot of bad deceased people. But, on the contrary, the ancients did not believe in the Devil and did not conceive of Hell as a realm of evil and demons. Their contact with the dead, therefore, was usually easier and more normal that now. Apart from the maleficent use of the souls of untimely dead people, necromancy was essentially the enquiring of the dead and usually recurred to prayers to or compulsion of gods of the dead.53 One of the most important aims of necromancy was ‒ and indeed still is ‒ prophecy, in particular the request for prophetic dreams. In contemporary Naples some persons, especially women, are accustomed to taking care of old bones. These bones, which are kept in some churches, are polished and covered with flowers during certain religious feasts. Individuals tell recurring stories about the sad fate of the dead whose bones figure into the ritual. The aim of this ritual is to receive dreams from the deceased and to get suggestions for gambling on lotto. Similar 52 See e.g., Eitrem 1999; Gager 1992; Faraone 1999. Rabbi Baruch HaLevi (www.RabbiB.com ‒ on Jewish necromancy), after quoting many instances from Medieval and modern Jewish authors, writes: “Too many Jews espouse unequivocally that Judaism does not believe in life after death. Too many Orthodox Jews acknowledge life after death but believe that Judaism does not allow for communication with the dead or consulting those, like Mediums, who are conversant with the dead. In both cases these individuals are ill informed, if not outright ignorant on these subjects.” According to Ios. B.J. II.165, the Sadduceans did not believe either in the survival of the soul or in the rewards or punishments in the next world, and thus reflect an ancient stream of belief similar to that described by HaLevi. 53 See e.g., a recent article by Martín Hernández 2015.

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to the ancient beliefs that the souls of untimely dead persons would stay on earth until the prescribed date for dying54 and could be enslaved by the practitioner by means of rituals and spells and used for his purposes, southern Italians believed the participating dead people would stay in Purgatory and possibly help people to know the good numbers for gambling.55 The ritual enacted in Cibalae could be easy labelled “necromancy,” but the judgement should take into account that everyone sees his relatives in dreams and someone looks for a means to make them appear in a dream in order to receive directions, suggestions, and prophecies. It is evident that the personal judgments about ritual relationships with the dead depend on many factors (kind of rituals, personal culture, religious beliefs etc.) and also their classification in the category “magic” or even “necromancy” depends on even more varying factors and is all but an objective classification. The late antique Jewish text known as The Sword of Moses also includes a prescription for sending a dream: To send a dream against someone, write on a silver plate from ‘BNSNS until QYRYW’S and place (it) in the mouth of a cock and slaughter it while it is placed in its mouth and turn its mouth around and place it between its thighs and bury (it) at the bottom part of a wall. And put your heel on its place and say thus: in the name of [ ]may the swift messenger go and torment N, son of N, in his dreams until my will is fulfilled.56

An entire part of the Talmud is devoted to dreams, the Bavli Berakhot,57 and several medieval Jewish texts (dating from the 10th century onwards) deal with rituals aimed at controlling dreams, including especially the She’elat Ḥalom, a technique for obtaining hidden information in a dream, and the Haṭavat Ḥalom, a practice aimed at reversing a bad dream (including bad dreams that resulted from curses).58 Jewish texts from the Genizah of Cairo also deal with requests for dreams. For instance, a 11th century codex mentions a man who summoned the spirit of a priest dwelling in a house to reveal where some gold was concealed.59 8. THE MEANING OF THE LAMELLA Now it is the time to go back to the lamella from Vinkovci and its text: Ἰάω Ϲαβαώ. Σερβίῳ Ἰουδαίῳ σαδώκ, ΙΑΙΑ Ἰσραὴλ Ἀδωναΐ, 54 55 56 57 58 59

Serv. Aen. IV.386; cf. Plin. nat. hist. 28.2.9; Isid. Etym. 14. See Ciambelli 1980, or perform a google search of “anime purganti,” “smorfia” and “cabbala.” Sword of Moses 70. Harari 2005, 89; Bellusci 2017, 154‒155. See Alexander 1995. Weiss 2011; Bellusci forthcoming a; Bellusci forthcoming b. Cf. also Bohak 2007, 320‒321; 408. Bohak 2010, 9‒23, Harari 2011; Bellusci 2014.

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τὰ Φαραὼ ὁ σώφρων ι νοωω

Fig. 2: Bronze cock found in Vinkovci along with the lamella.

As the words ΩΑΡΑΩ Ο ϹΟΦΡΗΝ need a correction, the reading of both Φαραὼ and σώφρων seems to be highly probable, and the meaning of the spell depends on those two words. Since the text emphasizes its Jewish origin, the wise pharaoh cannot be but that of the final part of Genesis. Only one pharaoh was wise and good in the Jewish tradition: the pharaoh in the story of Joseph. Joseph interpreted first the dreams of the chief butler and the chief baker of the pharaoh, then he interpreted the famous dream of the pharaoh himself, who saw seven sleek and seven fat cows. After his correct and useful interpretation of the dream, Joseph was honoured by the pharaoh, who gave him his daughter Aseneth in marriage and invited him and his family to settle in Egypt.60 Joseph story was a reference text for the philo-ptolemaic Jews in the Hellenistic Age, and the novel of Joseph and Aseneth testifies to the Jewish favour received by Egyptian kings in the 2nd century BCE.61 The reference to the wise pharaoh in the lamella, preceded by the pronoun τὰ, suggests that the text was aimed at urging the dead to send dreams, as in the case of

60 Gen. 40‒47. 61 See Bohak 1996.

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pharaoh’s dreams. If we accept a dative case of Servius’ name, we can suppose that the dreams were to appear to him. Also the bronze cock could have played a role in this necromancy. We have seen that in The Sword of Moses a cock was used to send dreams. This animal was supposed to be absent from Hell, where never a cockcrow was heared. Several early medieval exorcisms urge a demon to flee into a land where the cock never crows.62 The cock Diabonus was probably put into the tomb in order to wake up the dead and urge him to send dreams. Bibliography Alexander, Philip S. 1995. “Bavli Berakhot 55a–57b: The Talmudic Dreambook in Context” Journal of Jewish Studies 46: 230–248. Altheim, Franz, Junker, Heinrich, and R. Stiehl, Ruth. 1949. “Inschriften aus Gruzinien”. In Mélanges Henri Grégoire, 1‒25. Brussels: Annuaire de l’Institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales et Slaves 9. Ameling, Walter. 2004. Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis, II. Kleinasien, Tübingen: Mohr–Siebeck. Bellusci, Alessia. 2014. “A Dream Request for Ṣedaqah ben Maqmalyah: Mosseri VI.5”. In Discarded History: The Genizah of Medieval Cairo. Exhibition at the Cambridge University Library. http://www.lib.cam.ac.uk/Taylor‒ Schechter/fotm/december‒2014/index.htm Bellusci, Alessia. 2015. “Oneiric Aggressive Magic: Sleep Disorders in Late Antique Jewish Tradition.” In Demons and Illness from Late Antiquity to the Early Modern Period, edited by S. Bhayro and C. Rider, 134‒174. Brill: Leiden. Bellusci, Alessia forthcoming. “A Genizah Finished Product for She’elat Ḥalom based on Sefer HaRazim” forthcoming in Journal of Jewish Studies. Bellusci, Alessia forthcoming a. “Jewish Oneiric Divination: From Biblical Dreams to the Dream Requests of the Cairo Genizah.” In Workshop on Jewish Divination, Friedrich-AlexanderUniversity of Erlangen‒Nürnberg. Beutler, Franziska and Kremer, Gabriella. 2014. “Domo Iudaeus.” In Im Licht der Menora, 141‒155. Bohak, Gideon. 1996. Joseph and Aseneth and the Jewish Temple in Heliopolis, Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Bohak, Gideon. 2008. Ancient Jewish Magic: A History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bohak, Gideon. 2010. “Cracking the Code and Finding the Gold: A Dream Request from the Cairo Genizah.” In Edición de Textos Mágicos de la Antigüedad y de la Edad Media, edited by J.A. Álvarez-Pedrosa Núñez and S. Torallas Tovar, 9‒23. Madrid: CSIC. Buber, Salomon. 1885. Midrash Tanhuma, Wilna: Romm. Burges Watson, Sarah. 2013. “Muses of Lesbos and (Aeschylean) Muses of Pieria? Orpheus’ Head on a Fifth-century Hydria,” GRBS 53: 441‒460. Ciambelli, Patrizia. Quelle figlie, quelle spose: il culto delle anime purganti a Napoli, Rome: De Luca. David, Nora. “Juden in Pannonien.” In Im Licht der Menora, 131‒140. Delatte, Auguste. 1914. “Études sur la magie grecque, III‒IV,” Musée Belge 18: 5‒96. Klajn, Matije. 1963. Informator o muzejskim rijetostima u Vinkovačkom muzeju, I, Vinkovci: Gradski muzej Vinkovci. Dimitrijević, Stojan. 1979. “Arheološka topografija i izbor arheoloških nalaza s vinkovačkog tla.” In Corolla memoriae Iosepho Brunšmid dicata, 133‒282. Vinkovci: IzdHAD (Isdanja Hrvatskog Arheoloskog Društva Svezak) 4.

62 Grégoire 1922, 125, no. 341 ter; and Pradel 1907, 15‒16; Gil 1981.

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Eitrem, Samson. 1999. “Dreams and Divination in Magical Ritual.” In Magica Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion, edited by C.A. Faraone and D. Obbink, 175‒187. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Faraone, Christopher A. 1999. Ancient Greek Love Magic, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Faraone, Christopher A. 2004. “Orpheus’ final Performance: Necromancy and a singing Head on Lesbos.” Studi Italiani di Filologia Classica 97: 5‒27. Faraone, Christopher A. 2005. “A Skull, a Gold Amulet and a Ceramic Pot: Evidence for Necromancy in the Vigna Codini?” MHNH 5: 27‒44. Faraone, Christopher A. 2005a. “When Necromancy goes underground: Skull- and Corpse-Divination in the Paris Magical Papyri (PGM IV 1928‒2144).” In Mantikè: Studies in ancient Divination, edited by P. Struck and S. Johnston, 255‒286. Leiden: Brill. Finkel, Irwin L. 1983‒84. “Necromancy in Ancient Mesopotamia,” Archiv für Orientforschung 29‒30: 1‒17. Fitz, Jenö. 1972. Les Syriens à Intercisa. Bruxelles: Collection Latomus 122. Gager, John. 1992. Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World, Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press. Ganschinitz, Karl. 1916. “Israel.” In Real-Enzyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, 9, 2233. Stuttgart: Metzler. Gil, Fernàndez. 1981. “Epigrafía antigua y moderna,” Habis 12: 161‒176. Gordon, Richard L. 2001. “Persei sub rupibus antri: Überlegungen zur Entstehung der Mithrasmysterien.” In Archaeologia Poetovionensis II, 289‒301. Ptuj: Pokrajinski Muzej. Grégoire, Henri. 1922. Recueil des inscriptions grecques chrétiennes d’Asie Mineure, Paris: Leroux. Harari, Yuval. 2005. “Sword, Moses, and the Sword of Moses: Between Rabbinical and Magical Traditions,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 12: 293–329 Harari, Yuval. 2011. “Metatron and the Treasure of Gold: Notes on a Dream Inquiry Text from the Cairo Genizah.” In Continuity and Innovation in the Magical Tradition, edited by G. Bohak, Y. Harari, and Sh. Shaked, 289‒320. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Im Licht der Menora. Jüdisches Leben in der römischen Provinz, Ausstellung Frankfurt 2014‒2015, 141‒155. Frankfurt‒New York: Campus Verlag. Kotansky, Roy. 1994. Greek Magical Amulets, Wiesbaden: Springer Fachmedien. Kotansky, Roy, Kovács, Péter, and Prohászka, Péter. 2015. “A Gold Lamella for Migraine from Aquincum,” Journal of Ancient Judaism 6: 127‒142. Kovács, Péter. 1998. (with a supplement by G. Németh and F. Sipos), Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum Pannonicarum (CIGP), Hungarian Polis Studies 3. Debrecen: Kossuth Lajos University Lesses, Rebecca. 2014. “‘The most worthy of Women is a Mistress of Magic’: Women as Witches and Ritual Practitioners in I Enoch and Rabbinic Sources.” In Daughters of Hecate. Women and Magic in the Ancient World, edited by K.B. Stratton, D.S. Kalleres, 71‒107, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Levene, Dan. 2006. “Calvariae Magicae: The Berlin, Philadelphia and Moussaieff Skulls”, Orientalia 75: 359‒379. Levi della Vida, Giorgio – Amadasi Guzzo, Maria Giulia. 1987. Iscrizioni puniche della Tripolitania (1927‒1967). Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider. Martín Hernández, Raquel. 2015. “Two Requests for a Dream Oracle Two Different Kinds of Magical Handbook.” In Écrire la magie dans l’antiquité, edited by M. De Haro Sanchez, 41–49. Liège: Presses Universitaires de Liège. Mastrocinque, Attilio. 1988. Studi sul Mitraismo. Il Mitraismo e la magia, Rome: Giorgio Bretschneider editore. Mastrocinque, Attilio and Buonopane, Alfredo. 2005. “Un phylaktérion d’oro iscritto dal territorio di Vicetia.” In Epigrafia di confine. Confine dell’epigrafia, Atti del Colloquio AIEGL‒Borghesi, Bertinoro 2003, edited by M.G. Angeli Bertinelli and A. Donati, 244–256. Faenza: Fratelli Lega. Mastrocinque, Attilio. 2014. Les intailles magiques du Département des monnaies médailles et antiques. Paris : Bibliothèque Nationale de France.

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Midrash Tanhuma 1989. Midrash Tanhuma: translated into English with introduction, indices, and brief notes (S. Buber Recension), I. by John T. Townsend. Hoboken (N.J.): Ktav Publ. http://kodesh.snunit. k12.il/tan/b0007.htm. Morgan, Michael A. 1983. Sepher Ha-Razim (The Book of Mysteries), Chico, California: Scholars Press. Mouterde, René. 1930‒1931. “Le glaive de Dardanos: objets et inscriptions magiques de Syrie,” Mélanges de l’Université St. Joseph, Beyrouth 15, 3: 53‒87. Németh, György and Szabó, András. 2016. “A Lady with a Bone Hairpin in her Mouth. A Silver Magical Lamella from the Northern Necropolis of Sopianae (Pécs, Hungary), edited by A. Rubel, Die Barbaren Roms. Inklusion, Exklusion und Identität im Römischen Reich und in Barbaricum (1.‒3. Jahrhundert n. Chr.), 239‒252. Konstanz: Hartung-Gorre Verlag. Od Nepobjedivog sunca do sunca pravde 1994. Od Nepobjedivog sunca do sunca pravde (From the Invicible Sun to the Sun of Justice). Exhibition Catalogue, Zagreb: Arheoloski Muzej. Ogden, Daniel. 2001. Greek and Roman Necromancy, Princeton‒Oxford: Princeton University Press. On secret paths. 2017. On secret paths. Dark spells in Aquincum. Temporally Exhibition 3rd December 2016–5th November 2017. Catalogue of the objects exhibited. Aquincum: Aquincum Museum. Also online: http://www.aquincum.hu/wp‒content/uploads/2016/10/M%C3%A1gia‒katal%C3% B3gus_eng.pdf. Pradel, Fritz. 1907. Griechische und süditalienische Gebete, Beschwörungen und Rezepte des Mittelalters. RGVV III.3, Giessen: Töpelmann. Quack, Joachim-Frederich. 2011. “Remarks on Egyptian Rituals of Dream-Sending.” In Ancient Egyptian Demonology: Studies on the Boundaries between the Demonic and the Divine in Egyptian Magic, edited by P. Kousoulis, 129‒150. Louven and Paris: Peeters. Rebiger Bill and Schäfer, Peter. 2009. Sefer ha-Razim I und II: Das Buch der Geheimnisse I und II, 2 vols., Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck. Seyrig, Henry. 1955. “Deux notes d’épigraphie relatives aux cults alexandrins, in Mélanges Isidore Lévy, 610‒612. Brussels: Annuaire de l’Institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales et Slaves 13. Sperber, Daniel. 1985. “Some Rabbinic Themes in Magical Papyri.” In Journ. for the Study of Judaism 16: 93‒103. Szpakowska, Kasia Maria. 2003. Behind Closed Eyes: Dreams and Nightmares in Ancient Egypt, 147‒151. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Tardieu, Michel. 2014. “Les lamelles d’or montanistes et orphiques.” In Noms barbares I. Formes et contextes d’une pratique magique, edited by M. Tardieu, A. van den Kerchove, and M. Zago, Bibliothèque de l’École des Hautes Études, Sciences Religieuses 162, 67‒76. Turnhout: Brepols. Thomson De Grummond, Nancy. 2011. “A barbarian Myth? The Case of the talking Head.” In The Barbarians of ancient Europe, edited by L. Bonfante, 313‒346. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tibor, Grüll. 2016. “Jewish Presence in the Danubian Provinces of the Roman Empire.” In Židovský kultúrny fenomén v stredoeurópskom kontexte, edited by M. Hrbácsek, Nitra: Univerzita Konštantína Filozofa v Nitre https://www.academia.edu/31131371/Jewish_presence_in_the_ Danubian_provinces_ of_the_Roman_Empire. Trachtenberg, Joshua. 1939. Jewish Magic and Superstition, New York: Behrman. Weiss, Haim. 2011. “All Dreams Follow the Mouth:” A Reading in the Talmudic Dreams Tractate (in Hebrew), Tell Aviv‒Be’er Sheva: Kinneret. Williams, Margareth H. 1997. “The Meaning and Function of Ioudaios in Graeco-Roman Inscriptions“, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 116: 249–262.

SETH IN THE FOUNTAIN OF ANNA PERENNA? A NEW INTERPRETATION OF THE CONTAINER 475549 Celia Sánchez Natalías, University of Zaragoza1 In 1999, during the construction of a new parking lot in Rome between Piazza Euclide and Via G. dal Monte, workers unexpectedly came across what is now known to be a fountain dedicated to the goddess Anna Perenna and her nymphs. An emergency excavation carried out by Marina Piranomonte of the Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma has revealed that the sanctuary was in use between the 4th century BCE and the 6th century CE. The fountain was supplied by a krene, i.e. a spring.2 Its cistern contained an extraordinary deposit that consisted of 549 coins, 74 lamps, 22 defixiones, 10 containers of lead or terracotta, a caccabus, preserved pine cones, egg shells, twigs and, finally, a variety of wooden plaques.3 In this paper we will pay specific attention to just one of the lead containers (inventory number 475549) found in this deposit. When first discovered, it was thought to be a single object that was closed with a flat lid with a handle. Upon further examination, however, those working on the restoration revealed a series of three containers of diminishing size. From within the smallest, which bears an inscription and itself was closed with a flat lid, a figurine emerged. Both the inner and outer lids ‒ it appears that the middle container did not possess one ‒ were both lined with resins that created a hermetic seal.4 This, along with cool temperatures, allowed for the preservation of the figurine, which was made from organic material. It represents a man surrounded by a snake that is about to devour him. In addition, the man and snake are nailed to a tabella that contains a drawing of a standing figure surrounded by symbols and the Greek Θ, “probably a theta nigrum,” as Marina Piranomonte has suggested.5 Although this large series of containers and its figurine caught my attention some years ago,6 in this paper I will focus on the reading and interpretation of a different short and intriguing text which was inscribed directly on the container. Several years ago, Piranomonte rightly observed that these containers from Anna Perenna can be fruitfully compared to the small lead sarcophagi engraved with curses 1

2 3 4

5 6

University of Zaragoza, Research Group Hiberus. I would like to thank Francisco Marco Simón, Attilio Mastrocinque, Roger Tomlin and Camilla Campedelli for their comments and suggestions. Special thanks are also due to Ben Jerue, who translated this paper from Spanish into English and made fruitful suggestions. The contents of these pages remain my sole responsibility. Piranomonte 2010 b, 196. On the sanctuary, see the monograph edited by Piranomonte 2002. The discoveries are regularly updated: cf. at the latest, Piranomonte 2015. It is also worth noting that, after the examination of fingerprints preserved on the resins that seal the containers, the Polizia Scientifica from Rome was able to deduct that the person who enclosed the container was likely young and perhaps a woman. On this, see Piranomonte 2002, 43 (=Piranomonte 2010, 25). Piranomonte 2015, 81 and Piranomonte 2010 b, 207. Sánchez Natalías 2015.

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that were discovered at the Kerameikos in Athens and have been dated to the 4th century BCE.7 She goes on to suggest that the lead containers from Rome were, in origin, either inkwells or medicinal jars.8 Hence, the objects were repurposed before being deposited in the fountain. As I have already proposed,9 ancient inkwells, however, have several definite characteristics that problematize this hypothesis: produced in pairs, they tend to come in standard sizes and hence could not be nested like the Anna Perenna containers. In fact, (and as far as I know) there is no example of a set of three that come in various sizes. Furthermore, the lids of such containers typically contain holes through which pens could pass. Medicinal jars, such as pyxides, on the other hand, were produced in a variety of shapes, sizes and materials. This part of the hypothesis, therefore, cannot be disproven. That said, I believe that these containers from Anna Perenna were not recycled objects, but rather were deliberately manufactured with a specific purpose in mind. In particular, the text inscribed on this artefact is comparable to defixiones and the PGM, ancient textual objects that most scholars have classified under the category “magic.” The well-known problems with this category notwithstanding, by placing this artefact into conversation with texts, objects, and rituals traditionally labelled as magical, we can get a better understanding of its operative function. Furthermore, these pages follow the scholarly convention that classifies as “magical” crisis situations that are solved via rituals that invoke supernatural intermediaries. Although many such situations and solutions (e. g. prayer) might be productively labelled as “religious” for certain scholarly inquiries, the rubric magic (and its cognates) usefully draws attention to the ritual dimension that plays such an important role in the defixiones and the PGM, more generaly, and this artefact, in particular.10 As we shall see, these containers were crafted in such a way as to carry out specific ritual functions and hence had to have certain physical characteristics. For the time being, I want to highlight the two basic functions these containers performed. In the first place, they served as vessels for holding the figurine, which represents the victim of a curse. Second, the container provided an atypical medium on which a defixio could be inscribed. As Marina Piranomonte has convincing argued, the abovementioned coffins from Athens do indeed provide a compelling archaeological parallel for these containers from Rome. Building upon Piranomonte’s work, I suggest that the PGM provides an equally important ‒ and certainly chronologically closer ‒ piece of evidence that can shed light on the ritual purposes of the Anna Perenna containers. In a recipe that instructs how to avoid being cuckolded, the PGM recommends the following:

7

Piranomonte 2006, 196, note 1 (= 2015, 79, note 15). On these sarcophagi, see Jordan 1985, 156‒157. 8 Piranomonte 2010 a, 28‒30 and, more recently, 2015, 79‒80. 9 Sánchez Natalías 2011, 79‒81 and Sánchez Natalías 2015, 196‒197. 10 See the chapter by Antón Alvar Nuño and Jaime Alvar Ezquerra in this volume. Apart from the first sentence, this paragraph was added by the editors of the volume in order to clarify the use of the category “magic” in these pages.

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If you want your wife not to be had by another man: Taking earth and mixing with it ink and myrrh, mold a crocodile, and put it into a lead cinerary urn (ορίον µολιβοῦν)11and write on this the great Name and that of your wife and, ‘Let NN not cohabit with any other man except me, NN.’ The name to be written on the feet of the image is: BIBIOU OUĒR APSABARA KASONNAKA NESEBACH SPHĒSPHĒ CHPHOURIS.

Though I do not want to claim that the ritual described in the PGM and that carried out at Anna Perenna were exactly the same, I do want to highlight that both employ a strikingly similar type of container, both of which bear an inscription. To follow this parallel further, if we compare the Anna Perenna containers to real examples of Roman cinerary urns, we find important typological similarities. Indeed, there are welldocumented examples of cinerary urns, sometimes but not always made of lead, that have a cylindrical body and a flat or conical lid. (While the container being discussed here is of the flat-lid type, it is worth noting that other containers from the fountain bear a striking resemblance to the conical-lidded cinerary urns).12 Taking these parallels into account, it strikes me as evident that these lead containers from the fountain are cinerary urns in miniature that carry out a similar function to the little coffins from the Kerameikos: to bury metonymically the victim of the spell. As the abovementioned PGM recipe makes clear, an important function of a cinerary urn in a magical ritual could be offering a surface to be inscribed. Likewise, the smallest of the three urns from Anna Perenna contains a short inscription written in new Roman cursive (see fig. 1). The text is divided in two columns, between which a figure has been drawn. Jürgen Blänsdorf, author of the editio princeps, has proposed the following reading:13 col. I: Sete/ Mnu/ S/ Θ standing figure col II: Decen/ tias

Fig. 1. The inscription of the innermost container (drawing made by the author from the image apud Blänsdorf 2010, plate 20 and the drawing apud Piranomonte 2012, fig. 29).

11 Morton Smith (with Betz) translated ορίον µολιβοῦν as “lead coffin.” As Karl Preisendanz makes clear, however, the Greek word ορίον does not mean coffin, but rather cinerary urn (1931: PGM XIII, 322). Σορίον is a diminutive form of σορός, and therefore σορίον is a small cinerary urn. The rest of the translation follows Morton Smith. 12 Compare, for instance, the container inventory number 475539 (with Piranomonte 2010 a, 33, fig. 3) and a marble cinerary urn from the British Museum (inventory number 1856.1226. 1737). 13 See Blänsdorf 2010, 218‒219 and 232‒233. Also, Blänsdorf 2012.

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Regarding the first columns, Blänsdorf argues: (…) The letters SETE are (…) the name of the Egyptian god Seth, in the vocative. Below it we read MNU, an approximation to one of the ritual names of the deceased Mnevis-bull, identified with Osiris. Below that again we find (…) the letter S (…) and (…) an uncertain letter. I think these are to be taken together and interpreted as a Greek abbreviation of Seth (ΣΗΘ).14

As mentioned previously, between the columns there is a drawing of a standing male figure. According to Blänsdorf: “…adorna di un copricapo difficilmente identificabile (forse un elmo), e da linee curve disegnate sul corpo, interpretabili come elementi di una corazza, designa certo la divinità.”15 This cuirass, perhaps, is what gave this container its nickname “il gladiatore” amongst the restorers and M. Piranomonte.16 Although his reading is doubtlessly suggestive, there is, in my opinion, a more probable reading that includes a common personal name.17 This reading, however, depends exclusively on the photographs and drawings published, given that I have not yet had the opportunity to examine the object in person. That said, my suggestion is as follows: col. I: sebe-/ rinu-/ s/ Θ col. II: Θ (standing figure) col. III: decen-/ tias/ (five charâkteres)

Fig. 2. Gladiatorial scene in a 3rd century CE mosaic from Rome (now preserved in the Museo Arqueológico Nacional, Madrid [inventory number 3600]; image: Jordi Moliner Blanch). The name of the retiarius Kalendio is followed by the theta nigrum symbol. 14 15 16 17

Blänsdorf 2010, 218. Blänsdorf 2012, 623. Blänsdorf 2010, 218. Blänsdorf’s reading also relies on the fact that another Anna Perenna texts employs voces magicae in Egyptian and in Coptic. Specifically, it is the defixio against Sura, in which the terms blobes (Coptic) and irilesus (Egyptian) are attested. On this, see Blänsdorf 2010, 225‒226.

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Regarding the first column, palaeographically, Blänsdorf’s t (l. 1, third letter) should be read as a b composed of two strokes (as is usual in this script), the second of which is slightly separated and runs to the right rather than the left (probably because of the curved surface of the container made it hard to inscribe). His m (l. 2, first and second letters) should be interpreted not as a single letter but rather as the syllable ri. In fact, in this type of script the m is normally made of a continuous zigzag stroke, but here the vertical stroke of the i neatly crosses the second horizontal stroke of the r. Concerning the third column, I agree with the reading of Blänsdorf. Here, the employment of ligatures (such as ce and ti) evidences that the author was a trained scriptor. In line with the inscriptions on other containers from the fountain, which bear the target’s name,18 Seberinus would be the name of the victim of the curse.19 In addition, it is worth noting that the name is followed by Θ, a fact that we will return to momentarily. Between the two columns we find a figure that represents, in my opinion, the curse’s victim, Seberinus. Above his head, instead of a helmet, I believe we find another Greek Θ. At this point, it is necessary to remember that the victim, represented also by the figurine that was nested in this container, had been pierced to a tabella. As said before, the sheet was inscribed with signs, a drawing of the target and the letter Θ, “probably a theta nigrum.”20 Turning back to the inscription of the container, and in line with Piranomonte’s suggestion, it must be noted that judging from an epigraphic point of view, the Greek theta frequently appears in gladiatorial inscriptions and mosaics. Accordingly, I propose that this is indeed the theta nigrum, a well-known epigraphic symbol used to denote a person who has perished (vid. fig. 2).21 In addition, where theta nigrum is used on mosaics to mark deceased gladiators, the symbol is regularly placed just after their names and/or above their heads, as is the case in our inscription.22 Here, however, the symbol indicates not a past event but rather a wished for future one. In other words, the verbal curse has been summed up in a single symbol. In between the two columns, there is a drawing of a standing male figure, represented with marked pectoral muscles, wearing greaves, and with his arms stretched down along his body. We must point out here the great difference between his two arms: the right arm is significantly larger than the left. This marked difference would certainly not be unusual if this figure were meant to be a gladiator. Comparisons with certain representations of thraeces (vid. fig. 3) and retiarii (which usually wore the manica, a protective device for the left arm)23 clearly bear this out. In line with his reading, Blänsdorf has interpreted this figure as the god Seth, and the object above his head as a crown or helmet.24 In my opinion, however, this crown

18 For instance, Leontius: on this, see Piranomonte 2010 a, 26. 19 Also attested in ICUR‒01, 01971 = ILCV 04055; ICUR‒10, 26437, 1. For Severinus, see OPEL IV: 76. 20 Piranomonte 2015, 81 and 2010 b, 207. 21 See Perea Yébenes 2009, 53‒55. 22 Perea Yébenes 2009, 55, figs. 6‒7. 23 Such as Iulius Balerianus (!), represented on his funerary stele (on this, see CIL VI, 10185). 24 Blänsdorf 2012, 623.

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or helmet is better understood as a repetition of the theta nigrum symbol, so that the figure would be the (deceased) target Seberinus.

Fig. 3. Stele of M(arcus) Antonius Exochus, represented with the armor in his right arm (apud the term “gladiator” in Daremberg-Saglio, fig. 3583). On this, see CIL VI 10194.

As for the third column, I agree with Blänsdorf’s reading (i.e., decentias). As previously mentioned, other containers from the fountain of Anna Perenna bear short inscriptions with the name of victims. For this reason, it is reasonable to suppose that Seberinus and Decentias are both anthroponyms. This short inscription, however, provides several problems and interpretive possibilities that need to be taken into account. For instance, how many individuals were involved in this ritual and what were their respective roles? I propose the following options. A. We can take Seberinus and Decentias as two distinct individuals who were involved in the ritual. Here there are four possibilities: A1. If the text has the nominative singular Seberinus followed by the accusative plural Decentias, we would have a simple formula in which Seberinus plays the role of the defigens who curses a group of women called the Decentiae. Therefore the fully spelled out text would be the following: (Ego) Seberinus Decentias (defigo). This hypothesis may strike some as strange given that in defixiones each victim is normally named individually in the most precise form possible. An amusing parallel for this tendency comes from a curse from Britain, which reads Martia sive Martina.25 Here the defigens did not know the correct spelling of the victims name and included two spellings to cover all bases. Hence, including two individuals under one 25 AE 1992, 1123.

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anthroponym may seem like a stretch. There is another text from the fountain, however, that does recommend such a reading. The relevant epigraph was written in a spiral on the bottom of another container. It reads: Quirinus Pistor, Auctulus Quirius, qui natus est de Equi[tia?, equisone?], Decentia Seberi, Decentia [C]omeronis ues[---] sa[---]tam nocturnas quam diernas. Iam iam, cito cito, modo modo.26

It appears that there were indeed two women named Decentia. Could the women from this second curse be the same as those found in the Seberinus text? To pursue the possibility, the text and ritual may have had an erotic nature similar to the spell from the PGM XIII discussed at the outset of this paper. In this case, we could suppose that Seberinus was attempting to isolate the two Decentiae from other male lovers. This hypothesis, however, does not square well with the iconography. If Seberinus is represented, he is the victim, not the defigens. The inclusion of theta nigrum would further complicate this theory. A2. Since the reference to two victims with a single plural anthroponym would be somewhat out of the ordinary, it is possible that the final -s of Decentias was a mistake on the scribe’s part (who should have written an -m instead). Hence the text would be: (Ego) Seberinus (defigo) Decentia With this solution, needless to say, the same incongruity between text and iconography discussed in A1 would remain. A3 and A4. Alternatively, we could take all the names as representing the victims of the spell. In this case, the formula would be: or

A3 Seberinus (et) Decentia{s} (defixi sunt) A4 Seberinus (et) Decentia (defixi sunt)

Again, we must highlight that the inclusion of two victims under one name would be unparalleled. Accordingly, A3 would be the more likely of the two, though the iconography still does not match well. B. As mentioned above, some of the containers from the fountain of Anna Perenna bear only the name of a single victim. Accordingly, would it be possible that, instead of referring to more than one individual, Seberinus and Decentias actually refer to the same individual? Here we have two options that, in my opinion, seem more likely than those discussed in section A. 26 Blänsdorf and Piranomonte 2012, with further references.

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B1. Seberinus and Decentias are two anthroponyms that belong to a single onomastic formula. In this case, Decentias would be an error for Decentius, using the Greek suffix -as instead of the Latin -us. This phenomenon has been attested in other cognomina, such as in an inscription mentioning a contraretiarius called Longinas (instead of the expected Longinus).27 This, too, could bring us back to the realm of gladiators. In fact, there was a great diversity in onomastics: although most were only referred to with a single cognomen, other gladiators had the tria nomina (in addition to a supranomen) or the duo nomina. Here, it is noteworthy that these last two groups would be freeman.28 To further complicate matters, we know that during the games gladiators often abandoned their real names and took up sorts of “stage names” that were drawn from their equipment,29 physical endowments,30 technical ability31 or were simply meant to be amusing.32 Perhaps Decentius could be counted among this final group of stage names. The irony would be clear; for the Romans there was nothing “decent” about the ludi. In addition to playing on the concept decorum, Decentius could also refer to beauty or attractiveness, as the TLL points out. In fact, the 4th century CE philosopher Calcidius explains that the term decentia could be used as a synonym for pulchritudo.33 As is well known, Roman gladiators had the reputation of inducing the suspiria puellarum.34 In this case, could the nickname simultaneously play on Seberinus’ lack of dignity and excess of beauty? Or, in turn, could the name be purely ironic, and thus the gladiator lacked dignity and beauty in equal parts? Following this hypothesis, many aspects would nicely come together, though the final possibility (B2) seems more likely. B2. Instead of being a nominative singular nickname, Decentias could refer to the name of the victim’s mother. In this case, the text’s full reading would be something like:

27 See Kajanto 1982, 130. 28 See Ceballos Hornero 2003, 318. 29 E.g., Mucro (CIL IV, 4708), whose name is related to the weapon used by the gladiator. In this regard, see Mosci Sassi 1992, 190. 30 A good example would be Leo (Cic. Sest. 135), a terrifying gladiator known for his strength and ferocity (on this, see Mosci Sassi 1992, 189). 31 E.g., the gladiator Capreolus (CIL IV, 4388), whose name recalls his lightness and agility (see Mosci Sassi 1992, 188). 32 Following the hypothesis of Attilio Mastrocinque (per litt.), a great example is ῾Ηδύµελος documented in a bronze votive to Zeus Phíloplos (Perea Yébenes 2015). In Greek, ῾Ηδύµελος could mean “sweet singing” and, therefore, it could be an appropriately ironic nickname for a gladiator who screams ferociously during the fight (contra Perea Yébenes 2015, 132). 33 See TLL 5.1.131.3‒5; Chalcid. Comm 226. Decens is attested as a cognomen in an inscription from Lambaesis (CIMRM I, 136), while Decensies is documented in Rome (ICUR VIII, 21017). Steph. Byz. p. 224 Meineke says: ἔθνος Παννονίας, ἀπὸ Δεκεντίου … τὸ θηλυκὸν Δεκεντιάς, ὡς Παρθένιος ὁ Φωκαεύς. A feminine Δεκεντιάς -άδος is unconvincing because the feminine of Δεκέντιος should have been Δεκεντία. 34 See Juv. VI, 103 and ff. Additionally, see the Pompeian graffito CIL IV 4342 and 4397 about Celadus, the gladiator who aroused the “suspirium puellarum.”

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Seberinus (quem peperit) Decentia{s} (defixus est) This reading would place our text with the majority of curses from Anna Perenna, which target only one victim. Furthermore, there are other instances from the fountain where the curse includes a sort of matronymic reference35 ‒ a phenomenon that is well attested in Roman curses more generally. Finally, the theta nigrum is only found over the pictorial representation of the victim and next to the cognomen Seberinus. That is to say it is not repeated next to Decentias. Accordingly, the inclusion of the matronymic would be here solely for specificity’s sake and not to curse mother and son. Alternatively, though with a similar meaning, we could read Decentias as a Greek genitive.36 Here, again, we must wonder if this Decentia could be related somehow with the “Decentia Seberi” attested in the inscription from the bottom of a different container (discussed above in section A1). In addition, if Seberinus was really a gladiator (and hence probably a slave), it seems much less likely that his mother’s name would be known. Perhaps Decentia was an ironic way to refer to her, similar to the formula “qui natus est de vulva maledicta” attested in another curse from the same fountain?37 These questions must remain open since the short inscription is, unfortunately, too elusive to be definitely analyzed. Perhaps, once all the materials from the fountain are published, we will have a more complete understanding that allows us to solve this enigma. Nevertheless, and given the context and the type of inscription, the new reading Seberinus seems more appropriate than the previously suggested Sethe-Mnu. As I mentioned above, other containers from the fountain bear the name of the victim, and (until now) this vital piece of information was missing in the vessel under consideration, as Piranomonte has noted several times.38 Whether or not Seberinus was a gladiator ‒ and however we choose to understand Decentias ‒ what seems clear is that his poor soul was unavoidably consigned to the fountain and its numina as a real hostia. Bibliography Betz, Hans D. 19922. The Greek Magical Papyri in translation. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Blänsdorf, Jürgen. 2010. “The defixiones from the sanctuary of Isis and Mater Magna in Mainz.” In Magical Practice in the Latin West. Papers from the International Conference held at the University of Zaragoza 30 Sept‒1 Oct 2005 edited by Richard Gordon, Francisco Marco Simón, 141‒190. Leiden: Brill.

35 Thus, see the three defixiones against “Victor quem peperit Pell[---]ta” (cf. Blänsdorf 2010, 221 and 235‒236), and also the curse against Sura, “qui natus est de vulva maledicta” (on this, see Blänsdorf 2010, 221‒227 and 236‒241). 36 I thank A. Mastrocinque for his suggestion. 37 On this, see footnote 35 above. 38 Piranomonte 2006, 194 and Piranomonte 2015, 81.

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Blänsdorf, Jürgen. 2012. “Contenitore magico iscritto.” In Terme di Diocleziano. La collezione epigráfica edited byRosana Friggeri, Maria Grazia Granino Cecere, Gian Luca Gregori, 623. Roma: Electa. Blänsdorf, Jürgen and Piranomonte, Marina. 2012. “Contenitore magico iscritto.” In Terme di Diocleziano. La collezione epigráfica edited by Rosana Friggeri, Maria Grazia Granino Cecere, Gian Luca Gregori, 619‒620. Roma: Electa. Ceballos Hornero, Alberto. 2003. “Epitafios latinos de gladiadores en el Occidente Romano.” Veleia 20: 315‒330. Jordan, David. R. 1985. “A Survey of Greek Defixiones not included in the Special Corpora.” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 26: 151‒197. Kajanto, Iiro. 19822. The Latin Cognomina. Roma: Giorgio Bretschneider Editore. Mosci Sassi, Maria Grazia. 1992. Il linguaggio gladiatorio. Bologna: Pàtron Editore. Perea Yébenes, Sabino. 2009. “...in bello desideratis. Estética y percepción de la muerte del soldado romano caído en combate.” In Formae mortis: el tránsito de la vida a la muerte en las sociedades antiguas, edited by Francisco Marco Simón, Francisco Pina Polo, José Remesal Rodríguez, 39‒88. Barcelona: Publicacions i Edicions de la Universitat de Barcelona. Perea Yébenes, Sabino. 2015. “Un extraordinario exvoto de bronce (con inscripción griega inédita) dedicado a Zeus Phíloplos, el amante de las armas.” Hormos. Ricerche di Storia Antica (n.s.) 7: 126‒147. Piranomonte, Marina. 2002. Il santuario della musica el il bosco sacro di Anna Perenna, Roma: Electa. Piranomonte, Marina. 2006. “I contenitori e le figurine. Magia nera alla fontana di Anna Perenna.” In Roma. Memorie dal sottosuolo, edited by Maria Antonietta Tomei, 195‒196. Milano: Electa. Piranomonte, Marina. 2010 a. “I contenitori di piombo dalla fontana di Anna Perenna.” In Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 76/1: 21‒34. Piranomonte, Marina. 2010 b. “Religion and Magic in Rome: the Fountain of Anna Perenna.” In Magical Practice in the Latin West. Papers from the International Conference held at the University of Zaragoza 30 Sept‒1 Oct 2005, edited by Richard Gordon, Francisco Marco Simón, 191‒213. Leiden: Brill. Piranomonte, Marina 2012. “Anna Perenna. Un contesto magico straordinario.” In Contesti magici. Contextos mágicos, edited by Marina Piranomonte, Francisco Marco Simón, 159‒174. Roma: De Luca Editori d’Arte. Piranomonte, Marina. 2015. “The discovery of the fountain of Anna Perenna and its influence on the study of ancient magic.” In The Wisdom of Thoth: Magical Texts in Ancient Mediterranean Civilisations, edited by Grażyna Bąkowska-Czerner, Alessandro Roccati, Agata Świerzowska, 71‒85. Oxford: Archaeopress. Preisendanz, Karl. 19742. Papyri Graecae Magicae. Stuttgart: Teubner. Sánchez Natalías, Celia. 2011. “Escribiendo una defixio: los textos de maldición a través de sus soportes.” Acta Classica 47: 79‒93. Sánchez Natalías, Celia. 2015. “Magical Poppets in the Western Roman Empire: a case study from the Fountain of Anna Perenna.” In The Ritual Year 10. Magic in Rituals and Rituals in Magic, edited by Tatiana Minniyakhmetova, Kamila Velkoborská, 194‒202. Innsbruck, Tartu: ELM Scholarly Press.

DOMINO NEPTUNO CORULO PARE(N)TATUR: MAGIC AND LAW IN THE ROMANO-CELTIC WORLD Francisco Marco Simón, Universidad de Zaragoza1 1. THE BRANDON DEFIXIO AND THE ROMANO-BRITISH NEPTUNE In 1979 a metal detector found a very well preserved defixio curse tablet in silt dredged from the River Little Ouse. The spot lay just South of the Romano-British site of Hockwold-cum-Wilton, in Brandon (Suffolk). The fourth century CE tabella is now on display in Brandon’s Moyses Hall Museum. The irregular rectangle, cut from lead sheet, measures 4 x 5.7 cm. In accordance with the long-standing scholarly approach (and expressed elsewhere in this volume),2 I consider the defixiones to be a class of “magical” objects. “Magic” refers in this case to a means of coping with a situation of crisis via practices which are generally different from those provided by the dominant religious institutions.3 The text carries seven lines written from left to right, in flowing letters: SERADVASORISDVAS / s(i) ser(v)us si anc(i)i(l)a, si li(bertus si) / liberta, si m(u)lie[r]/ si baro, popia(m) fer(re)a(m) / EAENEC furtum fece / rit domino Neptuno /corulo pare(n)tatur. (Whoever)… whether male slave or female slave, whether freedman or freedwoman, whether woman or man… has committed the theft of an iron pan (?), he is sacrificed (?) to the Lord Neptune with hazel (?).”4 The text includes some vulgar Latin terms, such as serus for servus, popia for popiam, fera for ferream, fecere for fecerit and paretatur for parentatur. This scribe has also made some mistakes in his transcription (ancela, mlier, corlilo). The formula likewise includes furtum fecerit instead of the more common involaverit. It has been thought that the first line contains the “sacramental words” of a deliberately archaic formula addressing the divinity: sera duas oris duas, “give the liquids, give (the words) of the mouth.” In this way duas is interpreted as an archaic subjunctive of donare.5 Paulus Festus interprets it differently,6 considering sera as “lock” or 1 2 3 4 5

Grupo de Investigación “Hiberus.” See the chapter by Celia Sánchez Natalías. I comment to a greater extent on this issue in my recent article (Marco Simón 2019). Hassall and Tomlin 1994, 293. See also Kropp 2008, 3.3./1 Kerneis 2013, 12. In the British tablets from Bath, the reputatio of the goddess’ judgement is expressed in the formula liquet / non liquet (Tomlin 1988, no. 98. See Gell. NA 14.2.25: “ut absoluerem tamen, inducere inanimum non quiui et propterea iuraui mihi non liquere atque ita iudicatu illo solutus sum”). According to Kerneis 2013, it is possible that the formula through

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“rod,”7 a very ancient magical word.8 This is not the only archaism in the Brandon text. Parentatur is another unusual and very archaic formula. It was used in the fourth century Latin of the famous lex Luceria.9 The Brandon text belongs to a group of defixiones in fures known as “prayers for justice.”10 In these objects, a defigens, claiming that he or she has been wronged by a third party, asks the god, in this case Neptune, to intervene and punish a wrongdoer.11 The god Neptune, mentioned in other curse tablets found in rivers, does not appear in defixiones outside Britannia. One example comes from the estuary of the River Hamble, which flows into the eastern shores of Southampton Water: Lord Neptune, I give you the man who has stolen the solidus and six argentioli of Muconius. So I give the names who took them away, whether male or female, whether boy or girl. So I give you, Niskus, and to Neptune the life, health, blood of him who has been privy to that taking-away. The mind which stole this and which has been privy to it, may you take it away. The thief who stole this, may you consume his blood and take it away, Lord Neptune.12

In another text found in Caistor St. Edmund / Venta Icenorum, the thief of the stolen items is also offered to Neptune:

which the priests translated the divine word appears in the first line of the Brandon defixio. The priests would then stipulate that a hazel branch be mixed with water and blood (serum) in order to discover the divinity’s verdict (Kerneis 2010, 494). An Irish text, “Cormac’s Adventure in the Land of Promise,” refers to the ten ordeals in the service of the king and mentions how three pieces of wood were thrown into the water: one for the master, one for the ollamh, and one for the accused. If the wood of the accused sank, they were found guilty; if it floated, they were declared innocent (Windisch and Strokes 1891, 183‒221; Kerneis 2010, n. 57). 6 Proposed by my colleague, Dr. G. Fontana, of the University of Zaragoza, whom I thank for the suggestion. 7 Varr. LL 7.18; Ov. F. 1.266; Met. 14.710; Petr. 16.2. The Spanish word “cerrar,” “to close” derives from serare. 8 Fest. 25.11 Müll.; 182.32 Müll. The alternative translation would be: “May you give a lock, may you give gates (? ores duas). Whether a male slave, or a female slave, if a freedman or a freedwoman, whether a woman or a man, whomsoever may have stolen the popam ferream, may they be sacrificed to the Cerulean Lord Neptune” (this interpretation of corulo as Caeruleo will be discussed below). 9 CIL IX, 782 (p. 667) = CIL I, 401 (p. 720, 883). 10 Versnel 1991; Versnel 2010. For a critical comment on Versnel’s distinction between “prayers for justice” and aggressive curses, see Gordon 2013, 267‒268. 11 On the Ancient Near East earliest forms of this type of curse, see Faraone et al. 2005. 12 Tomlin’s translation. See Tomlin 1997, 455‒458; AE 1997, 977; Kropp 2008, 3.11/1: Domine Neptune / t(i)b(i) d(o)no (h)ominem qui / |(solidum) involav[it] Mu/coni et argent[olo]s / sex ide(o) dono nomi(n)a / qui decepit si mascel si / femina si pu{u}er si pu{u}e/lla ideo dono tibi Niske(!) / et Neptuno vitam vali/tudinem sangu(in)em eius / qui conscius fueri eius / deceptionis animu qui hoc involavit et / qui conscius fuerit ut / eum decipias furem / qui hoc involavit sangu(in)em / ei{i}us consumas et de/cipias domin[e] Ne[p]/tune. Niskus is a god previously unattested, but with interesting linguistically related theonyms, such as the Niskae, who are female divinities mentioned in four texts on lead discovered in Amélie-les-Bains, Aquitania (Coromines 1975; Mees 2009, 47).

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Vroc…sius (?) carries off from Nase… a wreath, bracelets, a cap, a mirror (?), a headdress, a pair of leggings, ten pewter vessels, whether he be man or a woman, boy or girl. If you (Neptune) want (lit.: shall have wished for) the pair of leggings, they shall become yours at the price of his blood, so that he, Neptune, shall seek him out, and a cloak and head-dress and bracelets, fifteen denarii, the cap. Then the thief holds onto the wreath at the cost of his blood in accordance with the transaction on the above written sheet.13

An incomplete inscription found in Chesterholm / Vindolanda is also dedicated to the god Neptune. If, as has been proposed, the last surviving letters refer to Nodens,14 this would be an example of interpretatio or assimilation of Neptune with the deity of the Dobunni (Nodens presides over the sanctuary of Lydney on the River Severn,15 and large numbers of defixiones have been found there). But this conjecture remains unconvincing. A better explanation is that the large bearded head that dominates the pediment of the Temple of Sulis Minerva in Bath is an image of Neptune (or some equivalent indigenous masculine deity).16 The head, with small wings in its hair, has been interpreted as a male Medusa17 or as Oceanus. The latter explanation is somewhat undermined by the fact that one of the characteristic iconographic elements of Oceanus is crabs’ legs protruding from his hair,18 not present in the image in Bath. Depictions of Neptune, on the other hand, are closest to the large head on the Bath pediment (e.g., the image on the mosaic in Cirencester).19 It is fairly convincing, therefore, that not just Minerva, but also Neptune, would have played a significant role in the religious complex of Aquae Sulis. This point helps explain why the British defixiones petition the aquatic god for justice. Neptune was originally the god of fresh and life-giving waters in Rome and Italy.20 Numerous inscriptions were dedicated to him near lakes and rivers. He did not 13 Hassall and Tomlin 1981, 408‒409. See also AE 1982, 669; Kropp 2008, 3.7/1: A Nase[…] / eve(h)it Vroc[…]/sius fascia(m) et armi[lla]/s cap(it)lare(!) spectr[um(?)] / cfia(m) duas ocrias X vas/a stagnea si mascel si e/mina si puer si pu(e)lla duas / ocri(as) si vl{l}(u)eris factae sang(uine) / suo ut (i)llu(m) requrat{at} Neptu(nu)s e(t) amictus e(t) cfia arm(i)lla[e …] / denarii XV cap(t)lare tunc sanguin(e) / fasciam tenet fur e / c(h)arta s(upra) s(cripta) ratio(n)e. A tabella addressed to Metunus was found on the north foreshore of the Thames in London. According to the editors (Hassall and Tomlin 1987, 360‒364), the theonym Metunus should address the god Neptune; however, this proposal is not convincing since Metunus can easily be explained within Celtic languages. As is well known, medhu-, “mead,” “inebriation,” is an important element in the formation of theonyms and anthroponyms in Celtic languages (Delamarre 2001, 188). A goddess called Meduna – with a similar root to our Metunus – is documented in Bertrich (Germany) (CIL XIII 7667), and Medurinis is an epithet of Toutatis in an inscription from Rome (CIL VI 31182). 14 CIL 07, 00708 = RIB‒01, 01694: Deo / Neptuno / ara(m) [p]o/s(uit) [1]NO. 15 Green 1992, 161. 16 A comparable example would be that of Bindus, the Illyrian aquatic god interpreted through the Roman Neptune, whose five altars are preserved in Bilhac (Bosnia): Cambi 1994, 500. 17 Cunliffe and Fulford 1982, pl. 10. 18 This is how the large head of Oceanus appears, for example, on the silver plate from the Mildenhall treasure, which dates to the fourth century CE (Icard-Gianolio and Szabadios 1992, no 253). 19 Simon and Bauchhens 1994, nº 163. The mosaic is dated to the fourth century CE. 20 Serv. Georg. 4.24: “Neptunus fluminibus et fontibus et aquis ómnibus praeest.”

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gain dominion over the sea until a later period (in dialogue with the Greek Poseidon). In this regard, the nature of his two feminine paredrae seems important: Salacia Neptuni21 represents abundant bubbling water, while Venilia22 is the divine personification of still water, fresh and yielding. Romano-British Neptune23 would be similar to the Maponos invoked in the Chamalières tablet. He was interpreted by the GalloRomans as Apollo, but would appear to correspond better with the Celtic Nechtan. The latter was a forebearer of the Irish Manannan and Welsh Manawyddan. He can also be related to the Indo-Iranian Apam Napât, “descendent of the waters,” 24 and the Etruscan Nethuns. Be that as it may, the Brandon defixio is the first case that offers the thief up as a sacrificial victim (parentatur) to Neptune in particular. Other thieves, besides those mentioned in the texts from the estuary of the River Hamble or Caistor St. Edmund, are often “devoted” or “given” to the gods.25 In Bath, some victims are offered to Minerva Sulis.26 One of these is another example referring to the theft of an iron pan.27 2. THE INTERPRETATION OF CORULO Aldhouse-Green points out that “there appears to be a recurrent link between watery ritual murder and the presence of hazel, whether or not drowning is suspected as the cause of death.”28 The body of a middle-aged man from Windeby in the Domland Fen (south of Eckenförde in Schleswisg) was found in 1952 with “across the neck a flexible finger-thick hazel bough with which he was probably strangled.”29 Only 20 days earlier the body of a young girl had been discovered nearby. She had lived in the first century CE. The young man unearthed in the Irish bog at Gallagh in Co. Galway was

21 22 23 24

25

26 27 28 29

Gell. NA 13, 23. Varr. LL, 12. On the Celtic Neptune, see Sterckx 1994. Sergeant 2004, 524‒526. The second element of the name of that deity, the same as the theonym of the Romano-Italian god, would relate to a hypothetical form *neptu-, “wet substance.” This stem would also be linguistically connected with the Irish god Nechtan, lord of the well, from which spring or into which flow all the rivers of the world (Bloch 1981, 346‒347). In 393 BCE, in the context of a war between Rome and Veii, a prodigy happened: the flood of Lake Albano, which would be related to Neptune and the Neptunalia festival of the 23rd July (Dumézil 1973, 21 ff.). Hassall and Tomlin 1995, 295. A very interesting example is the defixio found in baths in Leicester / Ratae Corieltauvorum, in which Servandus consecrates to the god Maglus whichever of his slaves had stolen his cloak. Servandus requests that the slave be destroyed within nine days: see Alfayé 2016, 29‒30, who emphasises the nature of baths as spaces of magical topography, as “scary places” (cf. Eliav 2009, 91‒92). Tomlin 1988ª, nos. 65 and 66. Tomlin 1988, nos. 60, and 66. Aldhouse-Green 2001, 121. Glob 1969, 116.

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killed sometime between 470 and 120 BCE. He had a withy around his neck made from interwoven bands of hazel or willow.30 Hazel figures strongly in the Celtic tradition. Ancient Druids and early Irish Bishops carried hazel wands. Valued for its rods and nuts, the Coll (hazel) was classified as Airig Fedo. Hazel was one of the seven “nobles of the wood” found in the eighthcentury CE list of trees in the Bretha Comaithchesa (The Laws of the Neighbourhood), an important legal text for farmers. There are stories of a sacred Well of Knowledge, surrounded by the Nine Hazels of Wisdom. This is comparable to Mimir´s Well at the root of the Scandinavian world tree. The name of one of the mythical kings of Ireland was MacGuill, “Son of the Hazel.”31 The Irish were particularly keen on using hazel and rowan in magic rituals. Until recently the Welsh word coelbren was only taken to mean “alphabet.” Its original sense, however, was “casting lots,” from pren, “wood,” and coel, “prognostic, use.” Divination through casting lots of wood is attested as early as Hippolytus.32 It is also well documented in the ancient laws of Ireland.33 Hazel also features as part of ancient Ireland’s legal system. The smallest liquid measure mentioned in the laws is a “halfshell of a hazelnut.” This measurement was used to determine the compensation due to victims of crime, depending upon the amount of blood they had shed. Half a hazelnut shell was said to hold five drops of blood.34 The editors’ interpretation of the Brandon text connects the term corulo to hazel (coryllus). This connection is in fact supported by a very well documented ritual tradition in the Celtic world: ritual sacrifice with hazel or an ordeal in which a hazel’s branch is added to a sacred liquid. But another interpretation is possible.35 The term corulus may have nothing to do with hazel, but is an epithet for Neptune, caeruleus. A possible shift from caeruleus to corulus follows a phenomenon typical of vulgar Latin, involving the syllabic reduction of vowels in hiatus. Neptunus caeruleus is mentioned by Ovid as the brother of Jupiter.36 The use of the epithet corulus (caeruleus) to accompany Neptune in the Brandon defixio would also emphasise the chthonic or infernal character of the divinity interpreted by the Romano-Italian god. Like Greek Poseidon, Roman Neptune also seems to have taken on a chthonic character.37 30 Aldhouse-Green 2001, 124. Another individual, deposited in a Danish bog at Undelev Fen (southwest of Jutland), was associated with three hazel rods (Glob 1969). In addition, one of the men from Lindow Moss in Cheshire (Turner 1996, 34; Holden 1995, 76‒82), who died in about 100 CE and had been beheaded (either causing or subsequent to his death), consumed a meal of crushed hazelnuts just before he was killed (Aldhouse-Green 2001, 121). 31 Rees and Rees 1961, 161 (with references). 32 Philosophumena 1. 25. 33 Le Roux and Guyonvarc’h 1978, 154‒157 (with references). 34 Hopman 2008, n. 7. 35 I am grateful to my colleague Gonzalo Fontana for suggesting this alternative interpretation (see supra, notes 4‒6). 36 Ovid. Met. 1. 275: “Neptunus caeruleus frater Iovis.” 37 After an earthquake shook the ager latiniensis, the Roman haruspices (i.e., diviners who read entrails) identified the need to appease Neptune after Jupiter and Saturn and before Tellus (Cic. Har. Resp. 20).

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It is no coincidence in this respect that the term cerae should denote effigies of ancestors kept in the atrium of a Roman house.38 Pliny specifically refers to them as follows: Very different were the images which could be seen in the atria of the ancestors: they were not statues, works by foreign artists, nor made of either bronze or marble; they were faces, modelled in wax, which were arranged neatly in separate niches in order to preserve the images that would accompany funerals of the family.39

Neptune is a divinity whose connections are not only to the aquatic, but also to the infernal. The interpretation of the term corulo as a vulgarised expression of caeruleo, an epithet of Neptune, would therefore make complete sense. In the Celtic world, water is an element that typically leads to the world beyond. This, and the coolness of water might help explain the mass of defixiones found in aquatic environments. This custom is not only typical of Roman Britain, but also of other areas on the European continent, including those with Celtic roots, such as Gaul and along the Danube.40 Tacitus writes of watery ritual murder among the Germans: while traitors and deserters are hanged on trees, cowards and unwarlike men are plunged into bogs.41 3. MAGIC, LAW AND SACRIFICE IN THE ROMANO-CELTIC WORLD The rituals contained in the curse tablets have been characterised by traditional historiography in terms of “sympathetic” or “homoeopathic” magic. However, they correspond more accurately with Tambiah’s category of “persuasive analogy,”42 used in a ritual to stimulate future action. The key to this type of ritual roots belief in the persuasive power possessed by certain types of formulaic utterances, in this case performative.43

38 Cic. Nat. 1. 71; Juv. S. 8. 19. See Flower 1996. 39 Plin. nat. hist. 35.2, 6: Aliter apud maiores in atriis haec erant, quae spectarentur; non signa externorum artificum nec aera aut marmora: expressi cera vultus singulis disponebantur armariis, ut essent imagines, quae comitarentur gentilicia funera. 40 The deposition of defixiones in aquatic environments has been interpreted in terms of sympathetic magic (an association between the coldness of water and the desire to “freeze” the victim symbolically) (thus, Ogden 1999, 23). An inscription from Bath alludes to the dissolution of the victim in water “sic licuat com[o]do agua[…” (Tomlin 1988, nº 1). An alternative, yet complementary, explanation would be that the deposition related to the association of water with the realm of the chthonic powers and infernal gods (thus Martin 2010, 27). See also Marco Simón, forthcoming. 41 Tac. Germ. 12.1: …ignauos et inbellis et corpore infamis caeno ac palude, iniecta insuper crate, mergunt. 42 Tambiah 1973. 43 Faraone 1991, 8. On the relationship between the performative value of writing and the magical value attributed to signs, see Kropp 2010; Mastrocinque 2010.

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Curse tablets addressed to the gods demanding justice44 or revenge, and mentioning the victim of theft or fraud, are rare in Italia, the Danube region, Gaul and Africa, and present in some notable documents in Germania (Mainz and Groß-Gerau), and Hispania (Emerita Augusta, Italica).45 This type of defixio is, on the contrary, particularly abundant in Britannia, where they account for two thirds of the total number.46 They date to between the second and fourth century CE. Most have been found in just two sanctuaries, those dedicated to Sulis Minerva in Bath / Aquae Sulis47 and to Mercury (or the local god assimilated to Mercury) in Uley.48 Both complexes lie in the southwest of Britain, not far from the Severn estuary. Unlike the rest of the island, especially the North, this is an area where no engraved stone inscriptions have been found. These laminae literatae49 were probably displayed on the walls of temples, at least in the first phase of their process. This stands in contrast to the secrecy of other types of curse texts, and is, therefore, a characteristic that distinguishes them from the rest of the defixiones.50 The evidence points to a two-part process of the curse texts, which is comparable to that of the Dayaks on the island of Borneo.51 Like the Dayak process, the first phase involved an accusation of theft and the tablet was displayed in the sanctuary. This phase also involved the mediation of the temple priests, who would try to encourage a

44 Versnel 1987, 5‒22, on the legal implications of the formulae addressed to deities. This type of defixio seeks reparation for an injury already incurred in the past, while the majority of the other types contain a message more or less referring to the immediate future. 45 Versnel 2010, 22. 46 Tomlin 2010, 247. On the psychological aspects of cursing in the north-western provinces of the Roman Empire, see Gordon 2013. 47 Tomlin 1988. Around 130 defixiones have been found in the sanctuary of Sulis Minerva. A significant alteration was made to the architectural design of the spring in the late second or early third century. This saw the spring enclosed behind walls, under a great barrel vaulted ceiling. According to archaeologists’ estimates, however, this number should be expanded to around a thousand to account for the entire group, given that only a small part of the ritual deposit has been excavated (Cunliffe 1988, 4). On the etymology of Sulis, see Delamarre 2001, 242: suli- /soli-, “(good) vision,” “eye” is related to the Indo-European root that designates the Sun (cf. the ancient metaphor of the Sun as the all-seeing eye). The patron goddess of the sanctuary would thus be an examining “eye” associated with the Sun (Kerneis 2010, 487). 48 Tomlin 1993. Tomlin 2010, 254‒273, notes the parallels between the formulae employed in the defixiones from Britannia and Hispania. 49 The expression comes from Apuleius, Metam. 3. 17. 4. 50 One of the defixiones from Bath (Tab. Sulis 8) asks the goddess Sulis to exact six silver coins from those whose names are recorded on the written page that has been copied out (carta picta pers(cripta)) on the lead sheet. This defixio implies the displaying not only of the written text (like the tituli picti that contained the names of debtors and informed them of the actions taken against them), but also of the transcript of the carta that would have contained the legal formula, which was copied (prescripta) (Tomlin 2008). This process recalls the transcription of the formulae contained in the Graeco-Egyptian magical papyri. 51 According to Frazer’s reports (1914, 61‒62), the victim of a theft would solemnly and publicly curse the thief. He would first invoke the spirits of the waters, the mountains and the winds, and, afterward, curse the male or female thief. The essential aim of the action is to obtain the return of the stolen object; only when this does not take place is divine punishment sought.

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confrontation and reconciliation of the parties.52 If this first phase did not lead to reparation of the damage, a second, darker and more perilous, phase then started. This latter phase culminated in the deposition of the lamella in the water, calling upon preternatural powers to identify and punish the culprit. In the early days of the Republic, ius was above all a powerful utterance, a performative expression. Its efficiency was rooted in a priest’s precise wording of formulae and in the scrupulous observance of the ritual.53 Over time, and with some influence from Greek thought, a process of rationalising the law took place. By the Imperial period, the result was a criminal justice system at the public’s service.54 In the Roman world, the link between the law and magic is clearly apparent in obligatio, an important component of Roman law. Etymologically, obligatio and obligare have to do with the action of binding, tying, linking, fixing, fettering and, as a consequence, obliging. This notion is equally basic and essential to the magic-religious rituals associated with the defixio. These rituals also allude etymologically to fixing, tying, binding or piercing the victim. In many cases, the latter is archaeologically corroborated by the nail that has pierced the tabella itself.55 It is not surprising, therefore, that the language used for the defixiones is decidedly bureaucratic and quasilegal. The defigens expresses the accuser’s complaint and threat in terms of a Roman legal vocabulary (reus, petition, commonitorium).56 This invokes the maiestas of the deity to find (invenire) the guilty party and reclaim (exigere) the stolen item before the divine court (in suum rostrum) can pass judgement on the infraction.57 There is an all-inclusive formula typical to these defixiones, which reiterates the plea for those found guilty of fraud or theft to pay or compensate with their own blood (“si mulier, si baro, si servus, si liber, si puer, si puella”). A passage from Pomponius Mela written in the reign of Claudius58 states that in spite of the abolition of human sacrifice among the Gauls, savage elements of their ancestral customs clung on. The consecrated (devoti) were taken to altars and offered as sacrificial victims. Some liquid (blood) was drawn from them as an offering. The relationship between fraud and petitioning the gods to condemn a culprit has a long history in the Roman world. In the Twelve Tables, a patron who deceives his client is declared sacer, damned.59 This same Twelve Tables law labels as suspensum Cereri (ritually consecrated to Ceres) a person who steals harvest produce by night.60 52 Kerneis 2013, 11. 53 Magdelain 1995, 67‒111; Schiavone 2008 on the ius as a collection of words and rituals, an esoteric knowledge kept by the priests. 54 Gaudemet 1951, 465‒499; Kerneis 2013, 26. For the relationship between magic and law in the Greek world, see Martín Hernández 2010. 55 Already observed by Huvelin in 1901. 56 Tomlin 1988, 44.11; Tab. Sulis, 15; Kerneis 2010, annex. Tomlin 2010, 249: “The language is not magical, but bureaucratic or quasi-legal.” 57 Kerneis 2010, 488. 58 De Chorographia 3. 2.18: “Gentes superbae superstitiosae aliquando etiam immanes adeo, ut hominem optimam et gratissimam diis victimam crederent. Manent uestigia feritatis iam abolitae, atque ut ab ultimis caedibus temperant, ita nihilhominus, ubi deuotos altaribus admouere delibant.” 59 Leg. XII Tab. 8.21: Patronus si clienti fraudem fecerit, sacer esto. 60 Leg. XII Tab 7.10

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Another law calls for the dismemberment of a debtor who consistently does not repay his debt.61 Dionysius of Halicarnassus also writes that a patron who infringes a code (attributed to Romulus) could be put to death as a sacrifice to Zeus Katachtonios, the infernal Jupiter.62 In each of these cases, the crime’s punishment is linked to the culprit being offered in sacrifice, just like in the Brandon defixio. A culprit declared sacer (“damned,” one of two semantic word horizons, along with that of “sacred”) could be killed with impunity without the assassin needing to undergo any sort of trial. Livy puts it succinctly, “Eum ius fasque esse occidi” (that such killing should not be deemed a capital offence).63 The sacer is no longer seen as a living being, but excluded from society (like the later Merovingian wargus, the Anglo-Saxon outlaw, and the German verachtet). Deprived of his legal rights, he can be killed with impunity at the first opportunity.64 This exclusion is a human sanction, which seeks to erase the social identity of the excluded. The guilty party’s damnation, on the other hand, is a divine sanction through which the damned is abandoned to supernatural powers.65 Once we bear in mind that ius was initially a word solemnly sworn and uttered during a sacrificial ritual66 – that source of essential concepts in the cultural history of Rome67 – it is not surprising that the culprit would be punished with ritual death and rendered up to the gods (usually the infernal ones). According to Caesar, although the Gauls’ gods prefer the sacrifice of thieves and bandits, the Gauls would not hesitate to sacrifice innocent victims as well.68 There is evidence of this institutionalisation of capital punishment, transformed into legitimate human sacrifice, in other ancient cultures as well. Suffice it to say that the anonymous early-fifth-century CE author of Querolus (The Complainer) mentions that the bagaudae along the River Loire and the Armorica region followed iura siluestria – judgements passed in the woods. These judgements ended in verdicts of capital punishment, which were carried out using oak trees (or next to oak trees).69 Our curse texts contain a real devotio that consecrates the culprit (or the victim) to the infernal deities. This process is comparable to that of the devotio hostium.70 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

Leg. XII Tab 3.6. Dion. Hal. 2.10.3. Liv. 3. 55.5. Jacob 2006, 524. Jacob 2006, 531 and 574. Jacob 2006, 533. “L’atelier conceptuel d’où sont sortis ses principaux étalons de valeur,” in the words of John Scheid (1984). 68 Caes. Gall. 6. 16: Supplicia eorum qui in furto aut in latrocinio aut aliqua noxia sint comprehensi gratiora dis immortalibus esse arbitrantur; sed, cum eius generis copia defecit, etiam ad innocentium supplicia descendunt. 69 “Lar: illic iure gentium vivunt homines; ibi nullum est praestigiuym, ibi sententiae capitales de robore proferuntur et scribuntur in ossibus; illic etiam rustici perorant et privati iudicant” (Querol. 1.2 = 17. 16‒22 Ranstrand). For the Germans, see Tac. Germ. 12. 70 Versnel 1976 distinguishes two types of deuotio: deuotio hostium and deuotio ducis. The former is the oldest – originally deuotio was practised independently – while the latter (in reality a consecratio that bore the name of a deuotio) is not mentioned independently, but only in combination with a deuotio hostium.

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The actions of the execratio and the maledictio,71 consecrating the victim to Neptune in the Brandon defixio, are, as in other known cases, a ritual of “transferred death.”72 A close reading of the British tablets demonstrates that in a dozen cases the death of the cursed is the requested punishment. 73 The expression ut sanguine suo redimat (and its variations) has been interpreted as a petition for the death of the victims mentioned in the texts.74 One cannot, however, exclude the possibility that this phrase meant something like “with their own body” or “with suffering,”75 or connote a subjective loss of “bodily strength” or “vitality.”76 Some Romano-British texts mention a cauldron, into which the blood of the culprit must flow: “in anio finem facere,” “sanguine suo in aenio.”77 It has been thought that the reference to a cauldron could refer to the ordeal by cauldron we know from later periods;78 however, we cannot dismiss the possibility that these references point to a “sacrificial cauldron.” As is well known, the cauldron is of vital importance to Celtic cosmologies.79 Some sources link human sacrifice to a cauldron.80 These allusions to blood in a cauldron in some defixiones could be interpreted as a petition to the gods for the punishment of the wrongdoer in terms of sacrifice or transferred death (as our Brandon text implies). 71 Jacob 2006, 554 and 559. 72 Through formulae such as tradite Manibus and katatithenai in Greek (Marco Simón 2009). 73 Kiernan 2004, 125. The formulae documented are: redimat ni vita, redimat illud vital suae, ut eum dea Sulis maximo letum adigat, ut eos maximo leto adigas, ut animam suma in templo deponat. And also the verbs tabescere, contabescere, extabescere, express the desire that the target suffer horribly until he or she dies (Gordon 2013, 270‒271, n. 55). 74 This meaning appears in the late Latin of the period, often in Christian texts that refer to the redemption of humanity through the blood of Christ (Kiernan 2004, 126‒127); other, earlier evidence (for example, Cicero, Quinct. 39; Sest. 24; Dom. 23), however, appears to use such phrases to connote a legal or political death (rather than a physical one). 75 Versnel 2001, 85‒86; Kiernan 2004, 128. 76 Gordon 2013, 270. 77 Tomlin 1988, 31 and 44. 78 Kerneis 2013, 11. On the appearance of new legal concepts in the vulgar Latin of the British tablets and parallels with Germanic barbarian laws, see Adams 1992. 79 Consider, for example, the extraordinary iconography of the Gundestrup cauldron (different interpretations in Olsmted 1979; Berquist and Taylor 1987; Christensen et al. 2005) and the importance of the sacred cauldron (Mac Crossan 1991). 80 Strabo, 7.2.3 on the Cimbrians is paradigmatic: “Writers report a custom of the Cimbri to this effect: Their wives, who would accompany them on their expeditions, were attended by priestesses who were seers; these were grey-haired, clad in white, with flaxen cloaks fastened on with clasps, girt with girdles of bronze, and bare-footed; now sword in hand these priestesses would meet with the prisoners of war throughout the camp, and having first crowned them with wreaths would lead them to a brazen vessel of about twenty amphorae; and they had a raised platform which the priestess would mount, and then, bending over the kettle, would cut the throat of each prisoner after he had been lifted up; and from the blood that poured forth into the vessel some of the priestesses would draw a prophecy, while still others would split open the body and from an inspection of the entrails would utter a prophecy of victory for their own people” (transl. H.L. Jones). See Hofeneder 2008, 236, pointing to Poseidonius as the origin of the information – related perhaps to the war episodes of Arausio and Vercelae – with references to the probable Celtic religious context of the passage.

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4. CONCLUDING REMARKS Defixiones in fures discovered in Britannia and elsewhere are essential for the study of theft and the recourse to divine justice in Roman antiquity.81 These texts do not follow a traditional form of Roman justice, and could be seen as a kind of alternative justice to the law of the Roman governor.82 This alternative form of justice might have to do with the nature of criminal justice in the Roman world; it was “an under policed world,”83 which forced petitioners to turn to the gods for justice. These tabellae correspond to “social scripts” or widely shared cultural representations. Such cultural representations are appropriated by individuals in particular situations of crisis84 as a strategy for reducing perceived risk.85 In this sense they belong to one of the “neuralgic points of uncertainty” in the Empire, where cursing was an individual strategy of problem solving.86 This strategy reflects the difficulties facing “common people” – even Roman citizens – to protect their rights against physically and socially more powerful individuals.87 It may be that the other British defixiones, like the Brandon one, were an expression of dissenting identities in the provincial Roman world.88 In this respect, it has been highlighted how the votive epigraphy from Britannia is mainly concentrated in the military zones of the North. “Romano-Celtic” temples, on the other hand, were located, above all, in the rural areas to the southeast of the island, which more or less correspond to the zones in which British defixiones have been found.89 There were virtually no votive altars and military garrisons in these areas. These curses were an essential form of epigraphic communication with the gods for the inhabitants of these lands. They thus point to a religious practice (a crucial aspect of identity) much different than those associated with votive altars, which more or less reflect a higher degree of “literacy.” Tomlin describes the finds in Bath in terms of “writing Latin, but not becoming Roman.”90 In this context, legal proceedings contained in the Bri81 Menard 2000. The importance of the theft of goods in Romano-British society is attested through the figures mentioned in some tablets: a defixio from Uley mentions 100,000 denarii (Tomlin 1993, 78). But the value of the utensils is estimated by their owners far higher than their nominal cash value (Gordon 2013, 274, with references to the expansion of manufactured goods, especially iron tools, and the circulation of money in the north-western provinces). 82 Kerneis 2010; Kerneis 2014. 83 Tomlin 1988, 70. 84 Gordon 2013, 263, n. 20. 85 Eidinow 2007. 86 Gordon 2013, 257‒258. 87 Private Roman law depended always upon what von Jehring deemed “das System der Selbsthilfe.” In this sense, the expression “self-authored curse-tablets on lead” in reference to these documents (Gordon 2013, 256) seems perfectly appropriate. The defixio is thus a pragmatic rejection of the resignation before the theodicy of good-fortune (“Theodizee des Glückes” according to Max Weber term). This theodicy is grounded in the belief that it is the gods who maintain social order as it is, with social and economic privileges for the elite (Gordon 2013, 263). 88 Mattingly 2004, 13‒22. 89 Mattingly 2004, 17 ff. and fig. 3. 90 Tomlin 2002, 173‒174 (his italics).

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tish tablets, concentrated especially in the southwest of the province, acquire even more significance. The Emperor’s justice or that of his representatives would have been replaced by temple justice. The latter aimed at conciliation under the threat of supernatural punishment.91 Paradoxically, at the same time, these practices no doubt contributed to the extension of Roman judicial procedure in time of peace. Such procedures were defined by a progress of acculturation (as in the evolution of municipal praxis).92 In this respect, temple priests would have blended Roman norms (visible in the conspicuously legal formulae employed) with local social criteria, in a “third space”93 or “middle ground”94 where negotiation and communication could take place. Bibliography Adams, James Noel 1992. “British Latin: The Text. Interpretation and Language of the Bath Curse Tablets.” Britannia 23: 1‒26. Aldhouse-Green, Miranda. 2001. Dying for the Gods. Human Sacrifice in Iron Age & Roman Europe, Charleston: Tempus. Alfayé, Silvia 2016. “Mind the Bath! Magic at the Roman Bath-houses.” In From Polites to Magos. Studia György Németh sexagenario dedicata, edited by Ádám Szabó and Edina Gradvohl, 28‒38. Budapest‒Debrecen: University of Debrecen, Department of Ancient History. Arce, Javier. 2000. Memoria de los antepasados. Puesta en escena y desarrollo del elogio fúnebre romano. Madrid: Electa. Babha, Homi K. 1994. The Location of Culture. Cambridge: Routledge Classics. Bergquist, Anders, and Timothy Taylor. 1987. “The origin of the Gundestrup cauldron.” Antiquity 61: 10‒24. Bloch, Raymond. 1981. “Quelques remarques sur Poseidon, Neptune et Nethuns.” CRAI 125/2: 341‒352. Cambi, Nenad. 1994. “Neptunus‒Bindus.” LIMC VII, 1, 500. Charles-Edwards, Thomas M., and Paul Russell, eds. 2007. Tair Colofn Cyfraith: The Three Columns of Law in Medieval Wales: Homicide, Theft and Fire. Bangor: The Welsh Legal History Society. Christiansen, Charlie, et al. 2005. “The Gundestrup Cauldron: Scientific and Technical Investigations.” Acta Archaeologica 76: 1‒58. Corominas, Joan. 1975. “Les plombs sorothaptiques d’Arles,” Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie 91: 1‒53. Cross, Tom Peete. 1952. Motif-Index of Early Irish Literature. Bloomington: Indiana University. Cunliffe, Barry. 1988. “The Context of the Votive Deposit.” In The Temple of Sulis Minerva at Bath. Volume 2: the Finds from the Sacred Spring, edited by Barry Cunliffe, 1‒4. Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology. Cunliffe, Barry, and Michael Fulford. 1982. Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani. Great Britain, vol. I. fasc. 2 Bath and the rest of Wessex. London – Oxford: Oxford University Press. Delamarre, Xavier. 2001. Dictionnaire de la langue gauloise une approche linguistique du vieuxceltique continental. Paris: Errance. 91 A good parallel to our curse tablets can be found in Sri Lanka, where the priests of all three major religions (Hinduism, Buddhism and Islam) offer clients aggressive or even deadly magic (Obeyesekere 1975; see Gordon 2013, 275). 92 Lamoine et al. 2011, 577‒579: “Les sanctuarires peuvent être ainsi considerés comme des laboratoires où s’experimentaient le fonctionnement de la civitas mais aussi des innovations.” 93 Bhabha 1994. On the “third space” see also Soja 1996. 94 Thus, for example, Woolf 2011, 28.

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Dumézil, Georges. 1973. Mytheet epopee, III. Histoires romaine’s, Paris: Gallimard. Eidinow, Esther. 2007. Oracles, Curses and Risk among the Ancient Greeks. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eliav, Yaron. 2009. “A Scary Place: Jewish Magic in the Roman Bathhouse.” In Man Near a Roman Arch: Studies presented to Prof. Yoram Tsafrir, edited by Leah Di Segni et al., 88‒97. Jerusalem: The Israel Exploration Society. Faraone, Christopher A. 1991. “The Agonistic Context of early Greek Binding Spells.” In Magika Hiera. Ancient Greek Magic and Religión, edited by Christopher A. Faraone and Dirk Obbink, 3‒32. New York – Oxford: Oxford University Press. Faraone, Christopher A., Brien Garnand, and Carolina López-Ruiz. 2007. “Micah’s mother (Judges 17:1‒4) and a curse from Carthage (KAI 89): Canaanite precedents for Greek and Latin curses against thieves.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 64: 161‒186. Flower, Harriet I. 1996. Ancestor Masks. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frazer, James. 1914. La Tâche de Psyché. De l’influence de la superstition sur le développement des institutions. Paris: Armand Colin.Gaudemet, Jean. 1951. “Utilitas publica.” Revue historique de droit français et étranger 29: 465‒499. Glob, Peter Vilhelm. 1969. The Bog People. London: Faber and Faber. Gordon, Richard. 2013. “Gods, Guilt and Suffering: Psychological Aspects of Cursing in the NorthWestern Provinces of the Roman Empire.” Acta Classica Universitatis Scientiarum Debrecensis XIX: 255‒281. Green, Miranda. 1992. Dictionary of Celtic Myth and Legend. London: Thames and Hudson. Gurvitch, Georges. 2004. La magie et le droit. Paris: Dalloz (1ª ed. 1938). Hassall, Mark, and Roger Tomlin. 1982. “Roman Britain in 1981. II. Inscriptions.” Britannia 13, 396‒422. Hassall, Mark, and Roger Tomlin. 1994. “Roman Britain in 1993. II. Inscriptions.” Britannia 25: 293‒314. Hofeneder, Andreas. 2008, Die Religion der Kelten in den antiken literarischen Zeugnissen. Band II. Von Cicero bis Florus. Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Hofeneder, Andreas. 2010. “Späte Zeugnisse zum keltischen Eichenkult.” In Celtic Religion across Space and Time, IX Workshop FERCAN, Molina de Aragón, 17‒20 September 2008, edited by Jesús Arenas Esteban, 283‒298. Toledo: Junta de Comunidades de Castilla-La Mancha. Hopman, Ellen Evert.2008. A Druid’s Herbal of Sacred Tree Medicine. Rochester: Destiny Books. Huvelin, Pierre. 1901. “Les tablettes magiques et le droit romain.” Annales internationales d’histoire. Congrès de Lyon. Mâcon: 47‒58. Icard-Gianolio, Noelle, and Anne-Violaine Szabados.1992. “Nereides.” LIMC VI, 785‒824. Jacob, Robert. 2006. “La question romaine du sacer. Ambivalence du sacre ou construction symbolique de la sortie du droit.” Revue historique CCCVIII/3: 523‒588. Kelly, Fergus. 1976. “The Old-Irish Tree List.” Celtica 11: 107‒124. Kerneis, Soazick. 2010. “La question enchantée. Les jugements des dieux dans l’île de Bretagne (IIe‒IVe siècle).” Revue historique de droit français et étranger 88 (4): 483‒498. Kerneis, Soazick. 2013. “Magie et Doit dans l’île de Bretagne IIe‒IVe siècles.” In Les savoirs magiques et leur transmission de l’Antiquité à la Renaissance, edited by Véronique Dasen and JeanMichel Spieser, 25‒42. Firenze: SISMEL/Edizioni del Galluzzo. Kiernan, Philip. 2004. “Did the Curse Tablets work?” In TRAC 2003. Proceedings of the 13th. Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, edited by Ben Croxford et al., 123‒134. Oxford: Oxbow. Kropp, Amina. 2008. Defixiones: Ein aktuelles Corpus lateinischer Fluchtafeln. Speyer: Kartoffeldruck-Verlag Kai Broderson. Kropp, Amina. 2010. “How does Magical Language works? The Spell and Formulae of the Latin defixiones. In Magical Practice in the Latin West. Papers of the International Conference held at the University of Zaragoza 30 sept.‒1st. October 2005, edited by Richard Gordon and Francisco Marco Simón, 357‒380. Leiden – Boston: Brill. Lambert, Pierre Yves. 2004. “Defining Magical Spells and particularly Defixiones of Roman Antiquity. A Personal Opinion.” In Fluchtafeln. Neue Deutungen zum antiken Schadenzauber, edited by Kai Brodersen and Amina Kropp, 71‒80. Frankfurt am Main: Verlag Antike. Lamoine, Laurent, Clara Berrendonner, and Mireille Cébeillac-Gervasoni, eds. La praxis municipale dans l’occident romain. Clermont-Ferrand: Presses universitaires Blaise Pascal.

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Le Roux, Françoise, and Christian Guyonvarc’h. 1978. Les druides. Rennes: Ogham-Celticum. Magdelain, André. 1995. De la royauté et du droit de Romulus à Sabinus. Roma: L’ “Erma” di Bretschneider. Mac Crossan, Tadhg. 1991. The Sacred Cauldron. St. Paul, MN: Llewellyn. Marco Simón, Francisco. 2009. “Tradite Manibus: Trasferred death in magical rituals.” In Formae Mortis: El tránsito de la vida a la muerte en las sociedades antiguas, IV Coloquio Internacional de Historia Antigua Universidad de Zaragoza, Zaragoza, 4‒5 de junio de 2007, edited by Francisco Marco Simón, Francisco Pina Polo and José Remesal Rodríguez, 165‒180. Barcelona: Publicacions i Edicions Universitat de Barcelona. Marco Simón, Francisco. 2016. “Magia y derecho en la antigua Roma: textos execratorios en el Occidente latino.” Semanas de Estudios Romanos. Pontificia Universidad Católica de Valparaíso, vol. XVII: 243‒258. Marco Simón, Francisco. 2019. Los contextos de la magia en el Imperio Romano: Incertidumbre, ansiedad y miedo. Zaragoza: Prensas de la Universidad de Zaragoza. Marco Simón, Francisco. forthcoming. “Escritura y analogía persuasiva: las defixiones en contextos acuáticos del Occidente latino”, in Plumbum Litteratum. L’escriptura sobre plom a l’época romana. Barcelona, 5–7 setembre 2018. Institut d’Estudis Catalans. Martin Hernández, Raquel. 2010. “Justicia divina. Reflejos de procedimientos judiciales en las maldiciones griegas.” In Lex Sacra. Religión y derecho a lo largo de la historia, Actas del VIII Congreso de la Sociedad Española de Ciencias de las Religiones, Valadolid, 15‒18 de octubre de 2008, edited by Emilio Suárez de la Torre and Enrique Pérez Benito, 67‒74. Valladolid: SECR. Mastrocinque, Attilio. 2010. “Le pouvoir de l’éscriture dans la magie.” Cahiers Mondes anciennes I http://mondesanciens.revues.org/index168.html) (consulted on 12/9/2017). Mattingly, David. 2004. “Being Roman: expressing identity in a provincial setting.” Journal of Roman Archaeology 17: 5‒25. Mees, Bernard. 2009. Celtic Curses. Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Ménard, Hélène. 2000. “Le vol dans les tablettes de la Bretagne romaine.” Revue historique de droit français et étranger 78: 289‒299. Obeysekere, Gananath. 1975. “Sorcery, pre-meditated murder, and the canalisation of agression in Sri Lanka.” Ethnology 14.1: 1‒25. Olmsted, Garrett. 1979. The Gundestrup Cauldron its Archaeological Context, the Style and Iconography of its Portrayed Motifs and their Narration of a Gaulish Version of Táin Bó Cúailnge, Collection Latomus 162. Bruxelles: Société d‘Études Latines de Bruxelles. Plummer, Charles. 1910. Vitae Sanctorum Hiberniae. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Rees, Alwyn, and Brinley Rees. 1961. Celtic Heritage. Ancient Tradition in Ireland and Wales. Sánchez Natalías, Celia. forthcoming. Sylloge of Defixiones from the Roman West. Oxford: BAR International Series. Scheid, John. 1984. “La spartizione a Roma.” Studi Storici. Rivista trimestrale dell’Istituto Gramsci 25: 945‒956. Schiavone, Aldo. 2008. “Ius.” L’invention du droit en Occident. Paris: Belin (First Italian edition Torino 2005). Scholz, Markus. 2011. “Verdamter Dieb. Kleinkriminalität im Spiegel von Fluchtäfelchen.” In Gefärliches Pflaster Kriminalität im römischen Reich, Xantener Berichte 21, edited by Marcus Reuter and Romina Schiavone, 89‒106. Mainz: Verlag Philipp Von Zabern. Sergeant, Bernard. 2004. Le livre des dieux. Celtes et Grecs, II. Paris: Payot. Simon, Erika, and Gerhard Bauchhens. 1994. “Neptunus.” LIMC VII, 483‒500. Soja, Edward. 1996. Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Sterckx, Claude. 1994. “Nûtons, Lûtons et dieux celtes.” Zeitschrift für celtische Philologie 46: 39‒79. Tambiah, Stanley Jeyaraja. 1973. “Form and Meaning of Magical Acts: A Point of view. In Modes of Thought, edited by Robin Horton and Ruth Finnegan, 199‒229. London: Faber and Faber. Tomlin, Roger. 1988. Tabellae Sulis: Roman Inscribed Tablets of Tin and Lead from the Sacred Spring at Bath. Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology. Tomlin, Roger. 1993. “Votive objects: the inscribed Lead Tablets.” In The Uley Shrines. Excavations of a Ritual Complex on West Hill, Uley, Gloucestershire 1977‒1979, edited by Ann Woodward and Peter Leach, 113‒130. London: English Heritage.

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Tomlin, Roger. 1997. “Roman Britain in 1996.” Britannia 28: 455‒472. Tomlin, Roger. 2002. “Writing to the Gods in Roman Britain.” In Becoming Roman, wiriting Latin? Literacy and Epigraphy in the Roman West. Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplément 48, edited by Alison Cooley, 165‒179. Portsmouth, R.I.: Journal of Roman Archaeology. Tomlin, Roger. 2008. “Carta picta perspcripta. Lire les tablettes d’exécration romaines en GrandeBretagne.” In Romanisation et épigraphie. Etudes interdiciplinaires sur l’acculturation et l’identité dans l’Empire romain, edited by Ralph Häussler, 334‒350. Montagnac, Éditions Monique Mergoil, Archéologie et Histoire Romaine, 17. Tomlin, Roger. 2010. “Cursing a Thief in Iberia and Britain.” In Magical Practice in the Latin West. Papers of the International Conference held at the University of Zaragoza 30Sept.‒1st. October 2005, edited by Richard Gordon and Francisco Marco Simón, 245‒273. Leiden – Boston: Brill. Versnel. H.S. 1976. “Two types of the Roman Devotio,” Mnemosyne 19,4: 365‒410. Versnel. Hendrik Simon. 1987. “Les imprecations et le droit.” Revue historique de droit français et étranger: 5‒22. Versnel. Hendrik Simon. 1991. “Beyond Cursing: The Appeal to Justice in Judicial Prayers.” In Magika Hiera. Ancient Greek Magic and Religión, edited by Christopher A. Faraone and Dirk. Obbink, 60‒106.‒ New York – Oxford: Oxford University Press. Versnel. Hendrik Simon. 2010. “Prayers for Justice, East and West: New Finds and Publications since 1990.” In Magical Practice in the Latin West. Papers of the International Conference held at the University of Zaragoza 30 Ssept.‒1st. October 2005, edited by Richard. L. Gordon and Francisco. Marco Simón, 275‒354. Leiden – Boston: Brill. Stokes, Whitley. 1891. “The Irish Ordeals. Cormac’s Adventure in the Land of Promise.” In Irische Texte mit Wörterbuch III, edited by Ernst Windisch and Whitley Stokes, 183‒221. Leipzig: S. Hirzel. Woolf, Greg. 2011. Tales of the Barbarians: Ethnography and Empire in the Roman West. Blackwell Bristol Lectures on Greece, Rome and the Classical Tradition. Chichester – Malden, Ma: WileyBlackwell.

LAMPS AS RITUAL AND “MAGICAL” OBJECTS IN ARCHAEOLOGICAL CONTEXTS Francesca Diosono, Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich Oil lamps are utensils for everyday use, of no particular value. Given this, they tend to be studied from a typological or chronological point of view, for their place of manufacture, or as epigraphic sources. The choice of iconography and decorative motifs, sometimes present, is another source for analysis. However, in certain ritual contexts their use takes on a different value. The same is true if they are found in large numbers or in unexpected places. These circumstances encourage new interpretative theories for their deposition. The power to command, carry and exploit light meant that lamps were perceived to be a means of communication with supernatural importance. The lamp’s depositional context and its date should, therefore, be read within its historical and cultural framework. In this way we can consider whether they should be seen as straightforward ritual tools, “ex voto for transformation,”1 or an active part of the ritual. As we shall see below, in several contexts lamps seem to have been used in situations where individuals aimed at obtaining personal advantages, like a revenge (defixio rituals) or a success in love (erotic spells). I will follow the general scholarly convention in labelling such practices as “magical.”2 Oil lamps are as common in early Greek sanctuaries as they are in their Roman counterparts. They are found in temples and bothroi, around altars, and in sacrificial spots. They usually show signs of heavy wear. These “everyday” lamps can be seen as ritual accessories, sacred utensils used for sacrifices and for nocturnal, orgiastic and mystical rituals. They can also be understood as a votive offering to various divinities. This was because their flame was viewed symbolically, almost as a living being.3 In the Ancient Greek world particular importance was given to lamps in the worship of female deities.4 As Eva Parisinou has pointed out,5 light was one of the features of the cult in Archaic and Classical Greece, and light ‒ mainly in the form of lamps ‒ was a common offering. Lamps in sanctuaries to Artemis were employed in various dimensions of her cult,6 whether as votive offerings or during nocturnal rites. In Corinth, for example, the vast number of lamps found at the sanctuary of Demeter and Kore, which date from the last quarter of the first century CE, have been inter-

1 2 3 4 5 6

On “ex-voto for transformation,” see Morel 1992, 223‒228. An analogous approach is followed elsewere in this volume in chapters devoted to the analysis of defixiones and love spells: see, e.g., the chapters by Celia Sánchez Natalías and Emilio Suárez de la Torre. Nilsson 1950; Parisinou 1997, 108; Parisinou 2000; Palaiokrassa 2005, 365; Estienne 2008; Dimakis 2015; Tal – Taxel 2017. See Scheibler 1976, 150 ff. and also Nilsson 1950. Parisinou 2000. Parisinou 2000, 46‒47, 51‒54 and 151‒156.

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preted as ritual tools (for the most part votive offerings).7 Public festivals involving lamps are well known in Egypt or in cults originating there. Herodotus (2.62) described the Lychnokaia, the night of burning lamps. It was a domestic festival in honour of Athena–Neith held at Saïs and throughout Egypt in the fifth century BCE. A 217 BCE inscription from Raphia celebrates a festival of lamps on the anniversary of Horus’ birth.8 In Priene, the lampadeia was dedicated to Isis.9 In Rome the Lychnapsia, a festival of lamps held on August 12th, is generally regarded as a celebration of the birth of Isis;10 Osiris-shaped lamps are also known in the Roman world.11 On Delos12 and in Athens in the second century CE13 the cult of Isis associates lamp-bearing women with the interpretation of dreams. Apuleius (Met. 11.10) claims that carrying a lamp during processions was a characteristic of the highest level of a woman’s priesthood. The considerable number of lamps found in a sanctuary devoted to Isis and the Magna Mater in Mainz14 may be explained by their ritual use for divination in the cult of Isis. Archaeologists excavating the temple of Palaimon in Corinth (from between the first and third century CE) believe the large number of lamps found there are associated with mystery rites and divination.15 A connection between lamps and an oracular cult can be found in the Hermes Agoraios of Pherai in Achaea Fthiotida (Paus. 7.22.2‒3). The statue of the god held a bronze lamp that was to be filled with oil and lit by whoever desired enlightenment. Lamps were also very common in domestic worship and rituals.16 The written tradition often associates them with erotic spheres,17 but more so with magic and fortune telling. Ovid sees the light from his lamps as a good omen for the letter he is writing (Epist. 19.151‒2); Pliny writes that lamps can be used to forecast the weather or discover underground springs (nat. hist. 18.357 and 31.49); Apuleius describes people using a lamp to foresee the future or transform themselves into an owl (Met. 2.11.5‒6 and 3.21.1‒6). So it is the context in which it is used that gives a lamp its precise symbolic meaning. During magical rituals in particular these objects change as they are used. They transform from mere accessories to an essential part of the ritual, taking on the power of a living entity.18 The kiln site in the Agorà of Morgantina is part of the Central Sanctuary and dates to the second century BCE. More than 3000 lamps were found there.19 It is important to note that a few defixiones (lead curse tablets) were also 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

Warner Slane 1990, 8; Bookidis ‒ Pemberton 2015. Merkelbach 1995, 158. I.Priene 195. Salem 1937; Salzman 1990, 174‒75. Laflı-Buora-Mastrocinque 2012. I.Delos 2619. IG 2‒32.3.4771. Witteyer 2003; Witteyer 2004. Broneer 1976, 50‒62. See also Koester 1990. Frankfurter 1998, 134‒37. Colantonio 2015, 129‒131; Raffaelli 2015. Mitchell 2007, 336‒337. Edlund Berry 1989‒90, 327‒338; Edlund Berry 1992, 367; Edlund Berry 1996, 15‒19; Edlund Berry 2001, 71‒75. For the kiln, see also Cuomo di Caprio 1992, 20‒23, “fornace n.7.” The lamps

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found in the same context. The co-presence of defixiones and a sizable collection of lamps ought to prevent us from simply assuming that the latter were mere accessories to the cult; they were in all likelihood also an integral part of the magic rituals. Good evidence of magical practices was found in the fountain in the sacred grove of Anna Perenna (outside Rome).20 Seventy-six fourth-to-fifth century CE lamps were found in a cistern. Fifty-four of them had no signs of wear whatsoever; twenty appeared to have been lit only once; two had coins in them; and six held curse tablets. Although these rituals had taken place on a sanctuary site, the ceremony no longer had the status of an officially recognised pagan religion (cf. Morgantina). The Fontana di Anna Perenna lamps thus qualify as “Lampenzauber” (like those studied by Attilio Mastrocinque).21 Mastrocinque connects the lamps to the practice of divination and to the spells described in the Greek Magical Papyri. These formularies require that the lamps used for the ritual be unused and never the colour red. The Greek Magical Papyri provide numerous examples of the use of lamps from Hellenistic times up to Late Antique Egypt (or even later).22 The rituals are solitary and secretive and often performed by a hired practitioner23 (more rarely by a lone individual).24 Lamps are just one of the accessories. Their importance lies in their ability to control and exploit the primordial powers of fire and light. Sometimes the quality and quantity of oil to be used in the lamp is specified.25 No red lamps26 and/or only new ones27 are used in rites (fig.1). This is to guarantee good fortune and success and the ability to manipulate the behaviour of others (especially in the realm of love and sex). Above all, they facilitate the seeing of visions or dream oracles, the reading of the future in bowls of water, and the conjuring up of deities, other divine spirits and daimones.28

20 21 22 23 24 25 26

27 28

are being studied by Ingrid Edlund Berry (Edlund Berry in print). Thanks go to Serena Raffiotta for her collaboration. Mele 2006; Piranomonte and Mele 2006, 191; Piranomonte 2010, 202; Piranomonte 2013, 156‒57; Piranomonte 2016 (where the presence of Christian lamps is considered of Christians using pagan curses). Mastrocinque 2007. For a recent synthesis with previous bibliography, see Gordon 2012, 147‒151. About sorcerers and their social roles, see Ritner 1993, 215; Frankfurter 1997; Gordon 1997, 81‒82; Gordon 1999, 182‒191; Luck 1999, 102‒107; Iles Johnston 2002, 345; Gordon 2012, 155. Gordon 1997, 90‒94. Pure olive oil (PGM 4.3191); sesame oil (PGM 8.87); good oil and cedar oil (PGM 62.1); fine pure oil of radishes (PGM 2.55 ff.); not refill the lamp with any more oil (PGM 13.366 and 683). PGM 1.277 and 293; 2.57; 3.21‒43; 4.2359‒372 and 3191; 7.542 and 594; 8.87; 12.27 and 131; 62.1; PDM col.5.4. The explicit association of not red and new lamp compares only in PDM 14.120, 480 and 816 (to have visions); a white lamp whose wick is clean in PDM 14.150. A specific glazed lamp only in PGM 4.1090 (to have visions). The avoidance of the colour red in beneficial magic comes from practices attested much earlier in Egypt and echoed in the late Greek Magical Papyri (Ritner 1993, 144‒148). PGM 4.52‒55 and 66; 11b.1‒5; 13.1018; 14.1095; PDM 14.759 and 1067; PDM Suppl.35 and Suppl. 157. On deities and gods in PGM and in particular about these aspects, see Totti 1988; Merkelbach 1995, 188‒191; Ogden 1999, 44‒46; Mastrocinque 2011. On the iconography of Antinous on lamps and his oracular rôle, see Capriotti Vittozzi 2013.

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Fig. 1. Percentages of the characteristics required for the lamps used in the rites described in the Greek Magical Papyri.

Fig. 2. Use of lamps in rites related to love / good luck and to divination practices in the Greek Magical Papyri.

Apart from a smaller amount of examples where the lamps appear to be used in love or fortune spells,29 the Greek Magical Papyri by and large describe lamps in relation to divination practices (fig. 2).

29 Above all for influencing sleep and dreams: PGM 7.359‒360 and 376; PDM Suppl. 146. See also Pseud. Callisth. Alex. Rom. 5.

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A young boy is often used to see into the future, be it as an apparition of a god, a dream oracle, or by interpreting visions hidden in the flame of a lamp or in its light reflected on water.30 The use of lamps in these oracular practices is known as lychnomanteia or lychnomancy31 (divination from a flame). Alongside lychnomancy you often find hydromancy (divination from water).32 In the Papyri, these rituals more or less seem to be performed in domestic settings.33 Lychnomancy also appears in Latin texts: Pliny (nat. hist., 28.104 and 30.14) describes the Persian Magi conjuring up deities or divining using lamps, bowls, water, balls, air, stars, axes and much more; Apuleius (Apol. 42) was charged for crimen magiae for using a bewitched boy, a small altar and a lamp for divination in a hidden place. One could ask, should divination be interpreted as religion or magic? To make such a distinction in the framework of the ancient world is intrinsically difficult.34 There is also the question (see below) regarding the link between divinatory and magical rituals using lamps on earlier, ancient ritual sites (bringing them back to life). The line between divination and magic is especially difficult to draw for Late Antiquity. In the Roman world, manifestations of intrusive magic, such as magic potions, evil spells, curses and much more (love philters lie in a grey area) had been illegal in Rome since the Law of the Twelve Tables. They had always been seen as crimes against persons (similar to poisoning).35 At the same time, oracular practices were usually performed in the great sanctuaries. Outside them, divination could only be practiced by priests (members of the official cult) or magistrates (as representatives of the community). These practices could only take place in the common public interest. Private divination was condemned and punishable by death, like other crimes connected with magic.36 Richard Gordon points out37 that the Roman legal attitude towards magic and divination during the Republic and Principate was above all a political matter. Its repression was not automatic or sustained over time. At the same time, there was a very thin line between the condemnation of material acts of magic and divination, and the mere knowledge of how to perform magical arts was a crime in itself. Although the latter may have already been the case in Severan times, it was certainly so from Constantine on. The truth is that acting outside or against traditional religious beliefs was always seen as disruptive to the maintenance of social order: an established and traditional religious consciousness was seen as a collective identity, managed by the social elite. Magic and divination, on the other hand, were sinful and 30 In addition to what has already been cited in the previous notes, see PGM 1.262‒347; 4.930‒1114; 7.226, 250‒54, 255‒59, 359‒60, 575, 665 and 703‒26; 13.11; 22b.27 and 32; 102.1; PDM 14.122, 145‒49, 150‒231, 415, 459, 489‒515, 516, 530, 846 and 1047; 61.63. Gordon 1997, 80‒94. 31 On lychnomancy see also Ganszyniec 1927 and Eitrem 1991, 176‒177. 32 Cunen 1960; Luck 1985, 254‒255. An example of lekanomancy in PGM 4.222‒60. 33 Smith 1995, 22‒27. 34 Luck 1985, 7‒8; Gordon 1997, 66; Iles Johnston 2002, 344; Dufault 2008; Ogden 1999, 85‒86; Luck 1999, 97‒101; Otto 2011. 35 Smith 1978, 192; Kippenberg 1997; Gordon 1999, 260. It has even been suggested (Dickie 2001, 159‒161) that in the Greco-Roman world it was forbidden for a known or reputed magician to enter religious sanctuaries (as they were seen as impure). 36 Gordon 1999, 166; Rüpke 2013, 9. 37 Gordon 1999, 191‒194, 210‒215 and 253‒266.

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illegitimate practices that went against the perceived good of communal norms because these ritual practices were said to be designed for the personal gain of the individual.38 Divination was tolerated in some circles, but was punishable by law (much as it is today).

Fig. 3. Patras. The lamps found in the underground structure identified as a lychnomanteion (after Petropoulos 1999).

Archaeologists have identified some sites as sacred spots where lychnomancy may have been practiced. The almost unused third-century CE lamps found in the three cisterns at Nemea39 are considered evidence of lychnomanteia. Another is the underground structure at Patras (near the oracular spring of Demetra). Activity there has been dated to between the mid-second and early fourth-century CE. During the excavation of Patras, archaeologists found a considerable number of lamps40 (fig. 3). Other, very similar contexts to the above (underground chambers, both natural and manmade, often with water present) have not been taken into account or interpreted in the same fashion. The Fountain of Lamps in Corinth41 (fig. 4) owes its name to the hundreds of lamps found there. They date to the end of the fourth through to the first half of the fifth century CE. The marble-lined fountain, inside a natural cave, was fed by a branch of a defunct aqueduct. Although it is uncertain whether the lamps were simply used to light the chamber or were ritual objects, a religious significance was attached to them. They may have been pagan votive offerings or elements from a Christian cult (possibly

38 39 40 41

Gordon 1999, 260‒264; Smith 2003, 23‒35; Dufault 2006, 64; Gordon 2008, 84‒87; Rüpke 2015. Miller 2004, 57‒59. Petropoulos 1999. Wiseman 1969, 75‒78; Wiseman 1970; Garnett 2012.

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associated with rituals such as baptism).42 In a grotto below the theatre in Miletus lies an ancient sanctuary. It is connected to an underground spring. Fragments of statues were found, together with pottery and lamps. These discoveries suggest a return of activity to the site during Late Antiquity43 (fig. 5).

Fig. 4. Corinth. Plan of the Fountain of the Lamps (after Wiseman 1970).

Fig. 5. Miletus. The sacred cave under the theatre and some of the lamps recovered inside (after Niewöhner 2016).

42 This second hypothesis is mentioned by Jordan 1994. 43 Niewöhner 2016.

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In this regard, Sozomen’s description (Hist. 2.4.5) of a well in Mamre (near Hebron), traditionally associated with Abraham, is particularly interesting. In Constantine’s time Christian, Jewish and pagan rituals were performed coexistently there. The “pagan” rituals featured burning lamps, wine, bread, coins and scented essences being cast into the well.44 One could argue that the excavations around the well confirm this tradition. Layers containing large numbers of coins, jewellery and pottery (including lamps) were excavated. They were interpreted as debris from periodic cleaning of the well.45 In Greece there is a particularly high number of ancient sanctuaries in grottoes. These were active in the Archaic and Classical periods, fell out of use, and then returned to life towards the end of the Empire and into Late Antiquity. A large number of lamps deposited there date to the latter period.

Fig. 6. Mount Ida. Position of the lamps found into Zeus’ sacred cave (after Sapouna 1998). 44 See Augustine (Ep. 47.4) about pagans throwing sacrifices into wells or fountains. 45 Mader 1930, 109. In general on the construction built by Herod around a well (Netzer 2006, 230‒232).

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More than one thousand lamps were found inside Zeus’ sacred cave on Mount Ida on Crete (fig. 6). They date between the first century BCE and the fifth century CE. Unlike many of the finds listed above these have been extensively studied. This extensive study of the lamps inside Zeus’ sacred cave stands in marked contrast to publications that merely mention an unusually large number of lamps on a given site. Their function is uncertain; they might be practical, votive offerings or, less likely, evidence of lychnomancy.46 Gérard Capdeville has already proposed, on other bases, that in this Cretan cave an oracle could be consulted.47 There were so many Roman lamps found in Pan’s grotto at Phyle, on the slopes of Mount Parnassus, that the excavators described their number as “infinite.”48

Fig. 7. Vari. A south view of the grotto of Pan (after Goette 2011).

Examples from late antiquity, in which lamps were discovered in grotto sanctuaries in lower numbers, include those found on the Hymettus mountain range at Vari49 (fig. 7) and Varzika.50 Hans Lauter and Heide Lauter-Bufe51 posed the question as to why lamps were left in the latter grotto over four hundred years after the site had been abandoned. Such a length of time makes it difficult to speak of a continuation of the cave’s life or to see the lamps as simple votive offerings.52 The argument that their presence could be tied to occasional visits to the grotto, associated with migratory 46 Sapouna 1998, 171‒173. On cave cults in late antique Crete, see Sanders 1982, 40; Chaniotis 1987, 227‒231. 47 Capdeville 1990; see also Capdeville 2017. 48 For this grotto, see Travlos 1971, 319 ff.; Vikela 1997, 217; Goette 2001, 267 (with the previous bibliography). 49 Weller et al. 1903, 338‒349; Schörner-Goette-Hallof 2004; Goette 2011, 111‒117. E. Garousi presented a systematic research project on the Byzantine lamps from the Vari cave at the Late Roman Coarse Wares 6 conference in May 2017 at Agrigento. 50 Lauter-Lauter Bufe 2010. 51 Lauter-Lauter Bufe 2010, 82‒83. 52 Langdon’s work on the (few) Late Antiquity lamps found in the Sanctuary of Zeus also on the Hymettus mountain range (Langdon 1976, 73‒78).

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herding, is not convincing. Nor is the idea of seeing them as a simple means of lighting. Firstly, the lamps show very little sign of wear. Secondly, why should their owners have left them behind? Given the length of time the cave lay abandoned, the most important question is: what is the relationship between these late-antique lamps found in a Classical Period sanctuary53, on the one hand, and the cult of its previous occupants, on the other hand? These objects call to mind the case of the late-antique lamps found in the Fountain of Lamps in Corinth. What importance can be attributed to the use and then abandonment of these lamps in what were simply underground chambers, which only might have held water and were not necessarily connected with previous cult worship? Maybe the ability to recognise an ancient sanctuary was now lost? Otherwise, were they looking for a spot with certain requisites: existent but abandoned, underground, far from inhabited areas, possibly ‒ this was not compulsory ‒ with water and a previous history of pagan cult worship?

Fig. 8. Nemi. Selection of the lamps recovered on the Lake bed as displaied in the Museo Nazionale delle Navi Romane (photo F. Diosono).

In the Fascist Era, Lake Nemi was drained in order to recuperate Caligula’s two enormous ships. Yet again, trying to establish a link between the presence of large numbers of lamps and sacred spots, Tiziano Cinaglia and I recently studied54 the nearly 250 lamps (fig. 8) that were retrieved from the lake bottom along with the ships. The chronological span of almost all the lamps ‒ from the middle of the first to the end of the second century CE ‒ is too long to argue for an isolated event or a single collective ritual. The different types and different workshops represented also suggest that we are dealing with an act repeated on numerous occasions. On each occasion, the necessary materials would have been selected and acquired on the open market. That very characteristic equally suggests that the lamps were part of an indi53 On caves’ cult in Greece, see Ustinova 2009; Pisano 2017. 54 Diosono–Cinaglia 2016. On the lamps found during the Sanctuary of Diana excavation, see Cinaglia-Leone 2014 (they differ as to the frequency of types and their usage when compared to those recovered from the lake).

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vidual ritual practice, which culminated with them lying on the bottom of the lake.55 It is worth stressing that the Lake Nemi lamps fit the requisites of the Greek Magical Papyri for ritual lamps: they are intact, barely used, and most are not red. In sum, it is impossible to link directly the lamps’ presence in the lake waters with either the nearby sanctuary of Diana or her worship at the spot. It is likely, however, that these lamps, which were used and then placed in the water, were, on a broad scale, part of this religious context. The lake ritual could have been a product of or been influenced by its proximity to this important sanctuary. At the same time, the setting for the ritual was a lonely and singular volcanic lake. Its depth and nearby ancient forest were seen as a means of communication with an otherworldly dimension. Its landscape was also thought to be connected with the Underworld, perfect for the characteristics of Diana Trivia, similar to Tauric Artemis and Hekate.56 Love and erotic spells in the Greek Magical Papyri tend to call upon female goddesses: besides Isis, Aphrodite and Persephone, Artemis, Selene and, above all, Hekate were used on account of their presence in the sacred landscape of Nemi. In those spells, their roles or functions sometimes overlap.57 As tempting as it might be to place the Lake Nemi lamps within the magical sphere of Hekate, it is important to stress that none of the rituals associated with her in the Greek Magical Papyri ‒ or in other ancient literary sources (where the goddess is sometimes described as the patron of witches and malign magic)58 ‒ calls for the use of lamps. My research has led me to speculate that the rituals in which lamps were used were private affairs, presumably at night, and thus not part of a public ceremony. But it remains difficult to decide how the ritual was conducted, by whom, and for what purpose. Unfortunately, despite the material characteristics of the lamps,59 there is no other evidence to support the idea that the lamps were used for lychnomancy. It is useful at this point to offer a somewhat counterintuitive proposal. What would happen if we examined a similar site, in which we are unsure if any lamps were found during excavation? The hypogaeum in Via Livenza, in Rome60 was built 55 Bremmer 1998; Kyriakidis 2007, 297; Chadwick 2012, 294‒296; Rüpke 2013, 10‒11. 56 Spineto 2000, 19‒20; Diosono 2014, 80. On connections between Diana/Artemis, Selene and Hekate, see also DT 41 (CT nr.85), where Hekate is called Moon and Triple‒named Moon. 57 PGM 4.1432‒44, 2119‒2121, 2524, 2558 (where Selene is called lamp-bearer), 2622‒2707, 2708‒784, 2785‒2890, 2943‒966; 7.862‒918; 62.25; 70.16; 93.6. 58 Gordon 1999, 185 and 208; Ogden 2009, 91‒93. Examples in Greek and Latin literature: Hippocr. On the sacred Disease 1.38; Theocr. Idyll. 2 (Hekate and the Moon); Apoll. Rhod. Argon. 3.1026; Theopr. Charact. 16; Hor. Sat. 1.8; Tibull. Eleg. 1.2.42‒66; Lucian. Philops. 17.22‒4. An episode of necromancy in Horace (Ep. 5) describes witches conjuring up Diana and the Night. Interesting that Diodorus (4.45) describes Hekate as an evil queen founding the cult of Tauric Artemis. In the Orphic Argonautica (887‒1021) the magical expertise of Medea is presented in terms of an initiation into the cult of Artemis‒Hekate. 59 Diosono-Cinaglia 2016, 464‒465. 60 Site records only mention the fragments of statues and inscriptions (Paribeni 1923; Paribeni 1923‒24), and it has not been possible to find reference to other finds from this hypogaeum in either the archives or storage inventories. My thanks go to Maria Gabriella Cimino and Antonella Gallitto of the Soprintendenza Comunale di Roma for their kind help during this research. On the excavation of this hypogaeum, see also Cupitò 2007, 92‒93.

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around the middle of the fourth century CE and lies in a vast burial ground near the Salaria Vetus (fig.9). When it was built, access to the underground chamber was down about twenty-one metres of steps (fig.10). At the bottom, there is an apse decorated with a representation of Diana the Huntress (known as the Versailles type) above a water tub (fig.11).

Fig. 9. Rome. Position of the hypogeum in via Livenza and the surrounding necropolis near to the via Salaria (after Paribeni 1923‒24).

This representation and its placement match the image of Diana at Nemi. The chamber had been backfilled with a wealth of statues and inscriptions from the surrounding burial ground. Ever since its discovery, scholars have grappled with the function of this monument. Indeed, it was built underground according to an unusual plan. It dates to later than the surrounding burials, but at a time when the graves would still have been visible and the whole area continued to have a sepulchral character61. The amalgamation of themes used to decorate it is also unusual. The only recognisably Christian reference is a fragment of a mosaic representing the Miraculous Spring. Other images are taken from the pagan world. A variety of interpretations of the building have been offered: meeting place of a mysterious sect; an underground nymphaeum; a Christian baptistery; a place of worship, and a pleasure den for the Roman elite.62 The similarities with some of the above-cited examples are clear, even if the 61 Bodel 2014. 62 Paribeni 1923; Paribeni 1923‒24; Wilpert 1923‒24; Usai 1972, 2‒3; Flore 2006; Croisier 2006; Brandenburg 2008; Tortorella 2017. I thank Attilio Mastrocinque for having personally discussed with me the possibility that these are places of worship of pagan secrets in the now Christian

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lack of data suggesting a quantity of lamps does not allow us to place alongside the other examples.

Fig. 10. Rome, hypogeum in via Livenza. Cross section of the building (after Paribeni 1923‒24).

In either case, this paper was not intended to develop an interpretative model for aquatic and/or underground chambers, notable for the elevated number of lamps found, datable to between the second and fourth century CE and known of in a variety of ancient Mediterranean regions. The elements that they have in common are more suggestive than hard facts: we are dealing with lamps (mostly new or barely used), which tend not to be red and which were deposited in large numbers in water or underground chambers left over from earlier periods in time. Moreover, most of these chambers had been places of worship in a previous life. One can only rarely find supplementary material evidence for the casting of curses. Even if the rituals that use oil lamps in the Egyptian Magical Papyri or the acts performed at Corinth, Miletus, Vari, Varzika, Phyle, Patras, Nemea, Crete, Mamre, the Anna Perenna fountain and Lake Nemi all ultimately have the same origins, they have all developed in different ways, each influenced by differing historical and geographical contexts. They also have unclear relationships with aspects of the official religion (see the case of lamps found in the Iseum of Mainz or in the Palaemonium in empire, like other known examples in Rome (Piazza Dante: Ceci-Martini in print), Tomi (Robert 1981; Bordenache Battaglia 1988) or Sidon (Vermaseren 1956, II, 74‒87; Baratte 2001).

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Corinth). The rituals described in the Greek Magical Papyri were more prone to mutation than those of traditional cults: as modifications of established rituals, enacted for specific reasons,63 they adapted to change. As a result, it is methodologically risky to interpret material evidence like ours only on the basis of other instances later in date or performed in a different land. The role and significance of lamps used during rituals evolved over the centuries. We have to imagine a ritual process that involves a lit lamp, usually new and usually not red, within a sequence of expressions that we cannot reconstruct. We do not know why the lamp was abandoned underground and/or immersed in water. Rituals have their own history:64 the meaning of their individual components and their functions change over time and space, much like a given word used in different languages.

Fig. 11. Rome, hypogeum in via Livenza. Detail of the paintings with Diana above the water tub (after Usai 1972).

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Paribeni, Roberto. 1923. “Via Salaria. Scoperta di un edificio sotterraneo con pitture e mosaici.” Notizie degli Scavi di Antichità 1923: 380‒395. Paribeni, Roberto. 1923‒24. “Un edificio sotterraneo di tarda eta imperiale presso la Via Salaria.” Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia. Rendiconti 2: 45‒52. Parisinou, Eva. 1997. “Artificial illumination in Greek Cult Practice of the Archaic and the Classical Periods: Mere Practical Necessity?” Thetis 4: 95‒108. Parisinou, Eva. 2000. The Light of Gods. The Role of Light in Archaic and Classical Greek Cult. London: Duckworth. Petropoulos, Michalis. 1999. Ta εργαστήρια των ρωµαϊκών λυχηναριών της Πάτρας και το λυχηνοµαντείο. Athens: Tameio Archaiologikon Poron kai Apallotrioseon. Piranomonte, Marina and Caterina Mele. 2006. “Le lucerne della fontana di Anna Perenna.” In Tomei 2006: 191. Piranomonte, Marina. 2010. “Religion and Magic at Rome: the Fountain of Anna Perenna.” In Magical practice in the Latin West. Papers from the international Conference held at the University of Zaragoza, 30 Sept.–1 Oct. 2005, edited by Richard Gordon and Francisco Marco Simón: 191‒213. Leiden – Boston: Brill. Piranomonte, Marina. 2013. “Rome. The Anna Perenna Fountain. Religious and Magic Rituals connected with Water.” In Rituelle Deponierungen in Heiligtümern der Hellenistisch-Römischen Welt, Internationale Tagung Mainz, 28.–30. April 2008, edited by Alfred Schäfer and Marion Witteyer: 156–157. Mainz: Generaldirektion Kulturelles Erbe, Direktion Landesarchäologie. Piranomonte, Marina. 2016. “The Discovery of the Fountain of Anna Perenna and its Influence on the Study of Ancient Magic.” In The Wisdom of Thoth: Magical Texts in Ancient Mediterranean Civilizations, edited by Grażyna Bąkowska-Czerner, Alessandro Roccati and Agata Świerzowska: 71–85. Oxford: Archaeopress. Pisano, Carmine. 2017. “La categoria di “grotta sacra” tra testi classici e storiografia moderna.” In Maiuri 2017: 27–43. Raffaelli, Renato. 2015. “Conscia lucerna.” In Micheli–Santucci 2015: 137–149. Ritner, Robert K. 1993. The Mechanics of Ancient Egyptian Magical Practice. Chicago: University of Chicago. Robert, Louis. 1981. “Le Serpent Glykon d’Abônouteichos à Athènes et Artémis d’Ephèse à Rome.” CRAI 1981: 513‒535. Rüpke, Jörg. 2001. Die Religion der Römer. Eine Einführung. München: C.H.Beck. Rüpke, Jörg. 2013. “New Perspectives on Ancient Divination.” In Divination in the Ancient World. Religious Options and the Individual, edited by Veit Rosenberger: 9‒19. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Rüpke, Jörg. 2015. Superstition ou individualité. Déviance religiouse dans l’empire romain. Bruxelles: Latomus. Salem, Michael S. 1937. “The Lychnapsia Philocaliana and the Birthday of Isis.” Journal of Roman Studies 27: 165‒167. Salzman, Michele R. 1990. On Roman Time: The Codex Calendar of 354 and the Rhythms of Urban Life in Late Antiquity. Berkeley: University of California Press. Sanders, Ian F. 1982. Roman Crete, An Archaeological Survey and Gazetteer of Late Hellenistic, Roman and Early Byzantine Crete. Warminster: Aris & Phillips. Sapouna, Polina. 1998. Die Bildlampen römischer Zeit aus der Idäischen Zeusgrotte auf Kreta. Oxford: Archaeopress. Schäfer, Peter, and Hans G. Kippenberg, eds. 1997. Envisioning Magic: A Princeton Seminar and Symposium. Leiden: Brill. Scheibler, Ingeborg. 1976. Kerameikos 11. Griechische Lampen. Berlin: De Gruyter. Schörner, Günther, Hans R. Goette, and Klaus Hallof. 2004. Die Pan-Grotte von Vari. Mainz: von Zabern. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1978. Map is not Territory: Studies in the History of Religions. Leiden: Brill. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1995. “Trading Places.” In Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, edited by Marvin Meyer and Paul Mirecki: 13‒20. Leiden: Brill.

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Smith, Jonathan Z. 2003. “Here, There and Anywhere.” In Prayer, Magic and the Stars in the Ancient and Late Antique World, edited by Scott Noegel, Joel Walker and Brannon Wheeler: 21–36. Pennsylvania University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press. Spineto, Natale. 2000. “The king of the wood oggi: una rilettura di James Frazer alla luce dell’attuale problematica storico-religiosa.” In Nemi. Status quo: recent research at Nemi and the sanctuary of Diana. Acts of the seminar arranged by Soprintendenza Archeologica per il Lazio, Accademia di Danimarca, Institutum Romanum Finlandia, Istituto di Norvegia in Roma, Istituto Svedese di Studi Classici a Roma at Accademia di Danimarca Oct. 2–3, 1997, edited by J. Rasmus Brandt, Anne Marie Leander Touati and Jan Zahle: 15–25. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Tal, Oren – Taxel, Itamar 2017. “More than trash. Cultic use of pottery lamps found in late antique dumps. Apollonia (Sozousa) as a test case.” In Expressions of cult in the Southern Levant in the Greco-Roman period. Manifestations in text and material culture, edited by Oren Tal and Zeev Weiss, 181-193. Turnhout: Brepols 2017. Tomei, Maria Antonietta, ed. 2006. Roma. Memorie dal sottosuolo. Ritrovamenti archeologici 1980‒2006. Catalogo della mostra (Roma, 2 dicembre 2006 ‒ 9 aprile 2007). Milano: Electa. Tortorella, Stefano. 2017. “L’Ipogeo di via Livenza a Roma. Il contesto, gli affreschi, il mosaico.” In Context and meaning, Proceedings of the Twelfth International Conference of the Association Internationale pour la Peinture Murale Antique (Athens, September 16‒20, 2013), edited by Stephan T.A.M. Mols and Eric M. Moormann, 375‒380. Leuven‒Paris‒Bristol: Peeters Publishers. Totti, Maria. 1988. “Kαρπoκρατης Aστρoµαντις und die λυχνoµαντεια.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 73: 297–301. Travlos, John. 1971. Bildlexikon zur Topographie des antiken Athen. Tubingen: Wasmuth Ernst Verlag. Usai, Luisanna. 1972. “L’ipogeo di Via Livenza.” Dialoghi di archeologia 6: 363‒412. Ustinova, Yulia. 2009. Caves and the Ancient Greek Mind: Descending Underground in the Search for Ultimate Truth. Oxford‒New York: Oxford University Press. Vermaseren, Maarten J. 1956. Corpus Inscriptionum et Monumentorum Religionis Mithriacae. Den Haag: Martinus Nijhoff. Vikela, Eugenia. 1997. “Attische Weihreliefs und die Kult-Topographie Attikas.” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts. Athenische Abteilung 112: 167‒246. Warner Slane, Kathleen. 1990. Corinth XVIII.2, The Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore. The Roman Pottery and Lamps. Princeton: American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Weller, Charles H., Maurice E. Dunham, Ida C. Thallon, Lida S. King, Agnes Baldwin, and Samuel E. Bassett. 1903. “The Cave at Vari I. Description, Account of Excavations, and History.” American Journal of Archaeology 7: 263–349. Wilpert, Giuseppe. 1923–24. “Un battistero a̔ d nymphas Beati Petri.̕ ” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 2: 57–82. Wiseman, James. 1969. “Excavations in Corinth: the Gymnasium area 1967–68.” Hesperia 38: 64– 106. Wiseman, James. 1970. “The Fountain of the Lamps.” Archaeology 23: 130–137. Witteyer, Marion. 2003. Göttlicher Baugrund. Die Kultstätte für Isis und Mater Magna unter der Römerpassage in Mainz. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. Witteyer, Marion. 2004. Das Heiligtum für Isis und Mater Magna. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern.

MAGIA Y CULTOS “ORIENTALES” EN LA DACIA ROMANA1 Juan Ramón Carbó García, Universidad Católica de Murcia El mundo de la espiritualidad en el mundo antiguo y sus formas de expresión parece haber sido mucho más variado y rico que lo que los tradicionales etiquetados en la historiografía especializada nos han dado a entender. Religión y magia2 aparecían como fenómenos completamente separados e incluso enfrentados. Las prácticas mágicas reales eran perseguidas por sistemas religiosos organizados como la religión cívica romana, porque atentaba contra la posibilidad de un control directo sobre los practicantes de los diversos cultos ejercido por el sistema religioso y por el poder político al que de forma habitual aquél iba siempre unido. La magia podía servir igualmente de mediación en la comunicación con la divinidad, siendo uno de los enemigos fundamentales del sistema sacrificial greco-romano, ya que según éste, los magos pervertían el código sacrificial para sus propios fines malignos y eran un ejemplo del caos que resultaría de la desaparición del papel religioso del emperador, garante del orden social, político y religioso.3 Desde esa misma perspectiva, aunque nuestra línea de investigación principal ha girado en torno a los tradicionalmente denominados “cultos orientales” en las provincias dácicas nordanubianas de época romana, también es cierto que a lo largo de los años de investigación en Rumanía sobre los diferentes cultos orientales en la Dacia hemos tenido ciertos “encuentros” – denominémoslos así – con expresiones de la magia antigua. Anteriormente no fueron objetivo de nuestras pesquisas, dejadas a un lado debido a esa maniquea separación y enfrentamientos mencionados, y sin embargo, ya entonces pudimos constatar cierta relación con los cultos orientales, y más concretamente con los cultos egipcios o alejandrinos.4 Nos pareció lo suficientemente interesante como para que, pasados los años, haya permanecido latente en la memoria y se haya manifestado precisamente ahora, cuando buscábamos un planteamiento sugerente para esas nuevas perspectivas sobre la magia en el mundo antiguo a las que hacía referencia el título del congreso en el que se presentaron inicialmente los resultados de esta investigación. 1

2

3 4

Este artículo es resultado de la ponencia con el mismo título presentada en el Convegno humboldtiano “La magia nel mondo antico. Nuove prospettive”, celebrado en Merano entre el 27 y el 29 de octubre de 2016, en la Accademia di studi italo-tedeschi. Deseo agradecer a los organizadores de este congreso su amabilidad al haberme invitado a presentar esa ponencia y especialmente quiero dar las gracias a Marianna Scapini por haber contado conmigo. Consciente de las problemáticas de la categoría (ver el capítulo de Joseph E. Sanzo en este volumen), voy a utilizar el término “magia” para referirme a la “búsqueda ritualizada de objectivos individuales o sociales por medios alternativos a aquellos sancionados normalmente por el establishemnt o la institución religiosa” (Marco Simón 2019, 20). Gordon 1990, 253‒254. No es momento éste de enredarnos en el archiconocido debate sobre la denominación de “cultos orientales” ni tampoco sobre la más concreta en torno a la de los “cultos egipcios” de época romana imperial, aspectos ya tratados anteriormente en Carbó 2010, 18‒26, 369‒370.

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Nuestro propósito es plantearnos la posibilidad de que esa separación y enfrentamiento mencionados entre religión y magia no fueran tan claros en las vivencias de la espiritualidad de los practicantes de unos u otros cultos, o de unos u otros usos mágicos. Y lo hacemos acotando nuestro estudio al marco geográfico de las provincias dácicas y, en lo que se refiere al aspecto religioso, a los cultos orientales, mediante el análisis de varias gemas mágicas en las que aparecen mencionados dioses que podrían incluirse en esos cultos, u otros objetos relacionados con los rituales del culto en los que aparezcan, por un lado, fórmulas mágicas y, por otro, la mención de uno o más dioses orientales, de tal modo que, aun sin poder llegar a una conclusión definitiva por el estadio incipiente de la investigación en esta línea en Rumanía, veamos si la práctica religiosa cultual y algún aspecto mágico podrían haber coexistido dentro de algún templo de los dioses de alguno de los cultos orientales en Dacia. Para empezar, quizá lo más apropiado sería establecer el estado de la cuestión de los estudios sobre la magia antigua en la bibliografía rumana de la especialidad. Por supuesto, las gemas antiguas en las que son representadas divinidades clásicas o egipcias, figuras teriomorfas del tipo del gigante con piernas de serpiente y cabeza de martillo, junto con inscripciones crípticas en alfabeto griego y símbolos de alfabetos exotéricos – charakteres – ya no son consideradas por los investigadores actuales como instrumentos usados por los gnósticos basilideanos, sino por los magos de la Antigüedad.5 En la literatura rumana de la especialidad podemos constatar un desarrollo paralelo en el siglo XX, de modo que entre los autores rumanos existió un consenso casi total en lo que se refería a la interpretación de las gemas denominadas abraxas como pertenecientes a los gnósticos basilideanos de Alejandría en la Antigüedad Tardía; fueron consideradas después como pruebas de la presencia del paleocristianismo en la Dacia.6 Tan sólo a finales del siglo pasado y en los últimos años hasta la fecha han cambiado las perspectivas para adaptarse a la corriente mayoritaria en la especialidad. Efectivamente, en el siglo XX, la historiografía externa a Rumanía comenzó a cambiar esa perspectiva, promoviendo la idea de que la mayor parte de usuarios de tales gemas eran magos antiguos y no miembros de aquella oscura secta gnóstica7. Cuando se descubrieron papiros mágicos egipcios, algunos de los cuales contenían las “recetas” mágicas para realizar los amuletos mágicos, se pudo comprobar que ambas categorías de artefactos – papiros y gemas – pertenecían al mismo fenómeno, la magia “internacional.”8 Ésta reunía diferentes tradiciones místicas y era un fenómeno con una distribución relativamente unificada a lo largo y ancho del Imperio Romano. Las gemas que muestran diversos diseños místico-ocultistas e inscripciones por lo general crípticas o ilegibles eran usadas con diferentes propósitos, incluyendo una finalidad curativa mágica. Mediante el grabado de sus figuras, símbo-

5 6

7 8

Nemeti 2012, 113‒114. Entre la extensa producción, mencionaremos tan sólo algunos estudios más representativos: Russu 1958, 324‒325; Gramatopol 1974, 34; Vlassa 1974; Ionescu 1975, 539‒540; Vlassa 1977; Bărbulescu 1984, 138; Gudea and Ghiurco 1988, 43, 54; Rusu 1991, 93; Zugravu 1997, 170; Nemeti 2002, 103‒112; Nemeti 2005, 300‒306. Como ejemplos, Delatte and Derchain 1964; Bonner 1950. Nemeti 2012, 114.

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los asociados, invocaciones o encantamientos mágicos, se solicitaba la ayuda o la benevolencia de ciertas divinidades y poderes divinos.9 En Rumanía, la mayor parte de los estudios sobre magia en la Dacia romana se han concentrado en gemas que, por lo general, están relacionadas con el aspecto curativo de la magia, más que con maldiciones – defixiones. Además de las gemas, también se han estudiado algunos amuletos con la misma finalidad curativa, sin tratarse de gemas, o incluso algún otro soporte que, sin ser claramente identificado con prácticas mágicas, sí incluía algún tipo de invocación seguida de nombres divinos del estilo de las que aparecen en gemas.10 En cualquier caso, son también muestras del modo en que eran invocados en Dacia los poderes divinos o demoniacos que poblaban el mundo de la magia antigua: otras vías, mágicas – a veces, supersticiones, en realidad – que eran diferentes del tradicional marco de las prácticas religiosas votivas, el medio principal y oficial que regulaba las relaciones entre los dos mundos en el sistema religioso del politeísmo clásico greco-romano.11 Como decíamos, el abuso de los arqueólogos rumanos en el siglo XX de la interpretación “gnóstico-paleocristiana” de los artefactos mágicos en Dacia – especialmente las gemas – ha contribuido a que la magia y lo oculto estén prácticamente ausentes en el cuadro de la historia de la Dacia romana. Esto también tiene una explicación historiográfica, dado que las interpretaciones de esos artefactos mágicos como “gnósticos-paleocristianos” se debieron al deseo de documentar una presencia lo más antigua posible de cristianos en el territorio de la antigua Dacia y sostener así la teoría de las raíces antiguas del Cristianismo rumano y su ortodoxia en comparación con las otras religiones cristianas presentes hoy en Rumanía,12 una concepción viciada por la tendencia interpretativa principal en la historiografía rumana a lo largo del siglo XX: la teoría de la continuidad de los rumanos al norte del Danubio a partir de los dacoromanos que, según esa misma teoría, habrían permanecido allí tras la retirada ordenada por Aureliano en el 271 d.C. y habrían dado origen al pueblo rumano actual, a la lengua rumana – romance – en medio de un mar de lenguas eslavas, a la mayoritaria religión cristiana ortodoxa, etc.13 Las invocaciones escritas, las inscripciones en las que podemos leer los nombres de dioses o de sus poderes intermediarios, así como sus imágenes, tienen una función diferente sobre las gemas y algunos amuletos mágicos en relación con la que tienen los nombres y las imágenes de los dioses comunes en las prácticas votivas. En las inscripciones votivas, los nombres forman parte de la fórmula epigráfica por medio de la cual el dedicante se dirige directamente al dios y le solicita ayuda prometiéndole una contraprestación – la esencia del contrato votivo. Pero como sabemos, en la magia, los nombres de los dioses, extraídos del contexto votivo, están subordinados al 9 10 11 12 13

Ibidem, 115. Acerca de las gemas mágicas y de su relación con los papiros mágicos grecoegipcios, sobre los amuletos de gemas grabadas y aquéllas con una finalidad curativa, ver especialmente Sfameni Gasparro 2003; Mastrocinque 2003. Ver Nemeti 2002, 103‒112, con bibliografía. Nemeti 2012, 115. Carbó García 2016, 209‒218. Ver nuestro estudio anterior, Carbó García 2015, 182‒196, con amplia bibliografía sobre esta cuestión.

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principio de la eficiencia. Los nombres y las imágenes de los dioses están integrados en otro contexto, en fórmulas rituales, cuyo objetivo es obtener un resultado determinado por un rito mágico eficaz. A las inscripciones se añaden las imágenes de los dioses, que participan de modo activo en el ritual mágico. No tienen aquí la función de señalar la divinidad, de “guiar” a los dedicantes para aprender sobre las divinidades. Del mismo modo, su función decorativa pasa a un plano secundario. Las imágenes esquemáticas de las gemas y de otros soportes sirven para invocar a las divinidades, para hacer que “aparezcan”. La función de los nombres y de las imágenes es tan importante como la de las mismas fórmulas mágicas.14 Todo esto, aunque bien sabido, es especialmente relevante para los casos que se van a presentar a continuación, todos ellos en relación con los nombres de divinidades orientales en Dacia: una tablilla de oro mágica, dos gemas mágicas, dos amuletos y un estandarte procesional. Con esta selección pretendemos mostrar, por una parte, la importancia de la magia oriental, especialmente egipcia, y de sus artefactos en contextos que pueden relacionarse en algunos casos con la presencia de personas de origen egipcio en Dacia; y por otra parte, la interacción entre lo mágico, lo supersticioso y también la parafernalia religiosa que adornaba la práctica cultual isiaca en el ámbito de los cultos egipcios – o alejandrinos – en la Dacia romana, y en especial, en el caso específico de una localidad importante en cuanto a la presencia de esos mismos cultos: Potaissa, actual Turda, que fue la base de la legión V Macedonica. 1. La primera pieza interesante que vamos a comentar es una tablilla de oro con inscripción mágica, descubierta en 1968 con ocasión de las excavaciones arqueológicas de urgencia en lo que probablemente era un taller de trabajo de metales. Actualmente se conserva en el Museo Regional de las Puertas de Hierro, en Drobeta-Turnu Severin. Sus dimensiones son 8 cm de anchura, 3 cm de altura y tan sólo 0,02 cm de grosor. La placa presenta tres registros, de izquierda a derecha: en el primero hay un grupo de vocablos mágicos junto al nombre y el símbolo de Adonai, epíteto de Iahve. Dichos vocablos de la magia internacional antigua expresan signos de exclamación y de sufrimiento. En el segundo registro aparece un símbolo criptográfico de IAW, marcado por un capitel rectangular, y encima, otro símbolo en forma de candelabro de siete brazos. En el tercer registro hay una inscripción en lengua latina, cuya escritura es cursiva y bastante elegante.15 Primer registro: ὤί (---) / ύύύύ / ίύ Ἀδ(ω)να(ι) / θεός Segundo registro:

θεοὶ / ὕψ(ιστοι)

14 Nemeti 2012, 136; Nagy 2002, 165‒166. 15 IDR III/1, 43 (Inscripţii Daciei Romane); Mărghitan 1980, 147, 163, fig.2; Gudea 1999‒2000, 197‒198, nº 3.3; Nemeti 2005, 379, nº 339.

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Tercer registro: Demon im(m)unditi(a)e / te agite(t) / Aeli Fir- / me ste(t) supra caput / Iuliae Surillae Traducción: ¡Oh, ay, ay, ven Señor Dios! ¡Al Dios muy glorificado! ¡Que el demonio de la inmundicia te infeste, Aelius Firmus! ¡Que se estrelle sobre la cabeza de Iulia Surilla! El carácter de defixio de esta pieza no nos proporciona datos sobre el aspecto cultual de Θεὸς ῞Υψιστος, ya que se centra en los aspectos mágicos, pero su mención junto a Adonai y a los símbolos judaicos señala la proximidad al Iahve de los judíos. Asimismo, esta placa es testimonio de la presencia del nombre de Theos Hypsistos en la Dacia romana en la misma época en la que son datadas el resto de inscripciones que le son dedicadas,16 puesto que Gudea la databa a finales del siglo II o comienzos del siglo III d.C., por las características de la escritura.17 Este tipo de artefactos mágicos, como también las gemas grabadas e incluso algunas inscripciones votivas dedicadas a divinidades como el mismo Theos Hypsistos, Deus Aeternus o incluso Sabazius, han sido esgrimidos para demostrar la práctica religiosa judaica en la Dacia romana, pero esta tableta o las gemas parecen más bien aportaciones judaicas relacionadas con la magia, del mismo modo que las inscripciones votivas parecen ser expresiones de una conciliación entre la fe judaica y determinados cultos integrados en el sistema religioso imperial, que Cumont ya denominó como “judeo-pagana”, al estilo de lo sucedido en las colonias judías establecidas en Frigia por los Seléucidas.18 Resulta difícil poder hablar de expresiones religiosas del Judaísmo en sentido estricto, ya que hasta la fecha, todavía no se ha encontrado ninguna sinagoga enmarcada en los límites geográficos y temporales de la historia de la Dacia romana. La relación, para el caso de Theos Hypsistos, o al menos la mezcla de las diversas formas de contacto con la divinidad, ortodoxas o heterodoxas, puede apreciarse para la Dacia al analizar una de las tres inscripciones votivas dedicadas a este dios:19 se trata de una placa votiva de mármol en estado fragmentario, de 23 x 16 x 6 cm, con una oreja esculpida en el centro, a la cual le correspondería una segunda oreja en la parte derecha de la placa, que no se conserva. Las dos líneas de la inscripción, en griego, se reparten encima y debajo de la oreja, con letras de un tamaño entre 2,5 y 2 cm. La representación de las orejas podría suplir el epíteto ἐπήκοος, lo que hablaría a favor de la lectura ῾Υ[ψίστῳ ---], como sucede en las otras inscripciones votivas halladas en Dacia. Este tipo de placas votivas eran ofrecidas a las divinidades, en general para solicitar su curación, y del mismo modo son similares a exvotos dirigidos a divinidades con atributos curativos. Las orejas representadas en la placa significarían que la divinidad ha escuchado los ruegos. Este modo de ilustrar las relaciones entre el 16 17 18 19

Carbó 2010, 905‒908, inscripciones del corpus nº 207, 208 y 209. Gudea 1999‒2000, 198. Cumont 1987, 60‒62. Carbó 2010, 907‒908, nº 209.

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dedicante y la divinidad lo encontramos en monumentos egipcios antiguos, transmitiéndose también a otras religiones orientales.20 Como veremos enseguida, la presencia de este tipo de representaciones se constata igualmente en amuletos mágicos egipcios en Dacia. 2. La segunda pieza es una gema de ópalo (2,5 x 3,6 x 1,7 cm), conservada en el Gabinete Numismático de la Academia Rumana de Bucarest. Por una cara aparece una inscripción de 5 líneas, con letras del alfabeto griego, que fue transcrita en 1974 por Mihai Gramatopol de izquierda a derecha y de arriba abajo, con letras invertidas (en reflejo), el cual la consideró un verdadero “texto gnóstico”, sin intentar descifrarla o explicarla en ningún sentido, de modo que fue incluida en el repertorio de materiales arqueológicos cristianos descubiertos en Rumanía, como una piedra de anillo con símbolos gnósticos.21 Sin embargo, las lecturas recientes y la interpretación de los símbolos indican que es una gema mágica utilizada para tratar unas afecciones estomacales. La inscripción de 6 líneas (no 5) se lee de derecha a izquierda, no al revés, comenzando con la primera línea de la parte superior. El texto es un bien conocido logos mágico que termina con el signo de Cnoubis (tres zetas o sigmas inscritas en el centro de la sexta línea horizontal).22 Se trata de una fórmula mágica conocida bajo el nombre de Stochbathlē-Logos, que comienza con ese nombre divino. Se conocen 5 casos hasta la actualidad y en 4 de ellos esta fórmula se asocia con el signo de Cnoubis. Bonner puso el nombre divino de Stochbathlē en relación con los dioses solares de la magia egipcia.23 En este caso está relacionado con el dios Knum / Cnoubis, representado en gemas como una serpiente con cabeza de león con un nimbus, la corona de rayos solares.24 Nemeti señala otro logos que tiene un nombre muy similar, Sthombaole-Logos, común en amuletos que enfatizan la imagen del niño divino Harpócrates sentado en la flor de loto.25 El Stochbathlē-Logos contiene además dos palabras compuestas con la partícula hebrea abra-: Abrammaoth (con el sufijo -aoth, como en Sabaoth) y Abramel (con el sufijo angélico -el, como en Michael, Gabriel…), ambos presentes en gemas con la imagen de la serpiente con cabeza de león radiada de Cnoubis.26 En cuanto a la mención de Abramaoth, su aparición en la invocación ha sido interpretada habitualmente como una forma de dar a la palabra un aspecto semítico misterioso con el añadido de la theta final y la imitación de las terminaciones hebreas en -oth y -ath.27 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Nemeti 2005, 373, nº 298; Nemeti y Nemeti 2006, 483‒489. Cfr. Nemeti 2012, 122‒123; Gramatopol 1974, 70, nº 400. Michel 2002, 121‒122. Bonner 1950, 206. Delatte and Derchain 1964, 54–70. Nemeti 2012, 125; Delatte and Derchain 1964, 84, 150–153. Cfr. Nemeti 2012, 125; Bonner 1950, 170–171; Delatte and Derchain 1964, 469, 480; Nemeti 2002, 110–111. 27 Bonner 1950, 187.

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De este modo, esta fórmula Stochbathlē-Logos es una invocación dirigida a un número de 5 poderes divinos / demoniacos. La presencia de la fórmula junto al signo de Cnoubis indica el carácter curativo de esta categoría de gemas, utilizadas muy probablemente para el tratamiento de algunas afecciones estomacales. Los amuletos con la representación ya mencionada del dios egipcio son utilizados para la cura de dolencias del estómago, tal y como se puede observar en las leyendas de algunos amuletos y también en los textos antiguos.28 3. Otra gema también proveniente de la Colección del Gabinete Numismático de la Academia Rumana es un jaspe dorado de forma ovalada (20 x 24 x 4 mm) que Mihai Gramatopol describió así: “Una avestruz a la derecha, serpiente con cabeza de león y águila comienzo un conejo, rodeados de signos gnósticos y letras en el anverso y el reverso”.29 Sin embargo, en la fotografía se puede observar, de izquierda a derecha, un águila, una serpiente con cabeza de león – Chnoubis – vuelto hacia la derecha, un ibis hacia la izquierda (y no un avestruz), y una especie de altar con signos alfabéticos mágicos – charakteres. El significado del grupo fue descifrado, de modo que este tipo de piezas fueron incluidas dentro del grupo de gemas destinadas a la magia curativa. El altar, con tres barras, en forma de T, es una forma del jeroglífico dbh que en época egipcia tardía servía para la escritura de palabras cuyo sentido es “lo necesario, la parafernalia” o “la mesura”. La presencia del pájaro ibis y el jeroglífico dbh relaciona esta gema con Toth, el doctor del ojo de Horus, así como podemos ver en un papiro médico: “esta medida dbh con la que yo peso este medicamento, es la medida dbh con la que Horus ha controlado su ojo” (Papiro Haerst 13, 7).30 La asociación del grupo “ibis con el signo dbh” con figuras como la serpiente con cabeza de león Cnoubis, con el signo de Cnoubis, con la matriz y el nombre Ororiouth, indicaría la relación de estas gemas con las prácticas mágicas egipcias para el tratamiento de las enfermedades estomacales o de los dolores relacionados con el embarazo y el parto.31 Como decíamos antes, en la magia los nombres de los dioses, sus signos o sus representaciones no tienen el mismo significado que en las inscripciones votivas. En los dos casos de gemas grabadas que acabamos de ver, sin embargo, el atributo curativo de las divinidades egipcias mencionadas sí que está muy presente, sólo que se apela a ellas mediante las fórmulas mágicas, y en el segundo caso, además, la presencia del ibis alude a la invocación directa de Toth, junto a la de Cnoubis. El mayor problema que presentan las gemas, sin embargo, es el de su procedencia, la mayor parte de las

28 29 30 31

Cfr. Nemeti 2012, 126 (Galenus, XII; Aetius, Tetrab., I, 2, 36; Marcellus Empiricus, 20, 98). Gramatopol 1974, 69, nº 395. Cfr. Nemeti 2012, 131; Delatte and Derchain 1964, 142. Ibidem.

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veces desconocida, sin un contexto arqueológico que nos hubiese permitido comprobar si se encontraron en domicilios particulares, templos, contexto militar, etc.32 A continuación vamos a ver dos ejemplos de los que han sido considerados como amuletos relacionados con la protección y con la búsqueda de alegría y felicidad, en este caso por la alusión iconográfica y la mención del nombre del dios egipcio Apis. 4. El primero de ellos es un monumento en relieve de arenisca con inscripción que representa y menciona a Apis. No disponemos de datos sobre su descubrimiento, aunque perteneció a la colección de Kemény – y entonces muy probablemente procedía de Potaissa – , donde fue visto por Neigebaur y por otros estudiosos.33 Fue conducida a Pănet y, finalmente, al Museo de Tîrgu Mureş, donde se conserva en la actualidad. En el relieve, el buey Apis está representado siguiendo las proporciones y el volumen, aunque el cuerpo es muy alargado. Sus dimensiones son 68,5 cm de anchura, 38 de altura y 26 de grosor. Las patas son delgadas y cortas, mientras que la cola es un poco larga. Los cuernos, orejas y el hocico del animal, con la boca, están realizados de forma esquemática. La parte correspondiente al lugar donde se encontraría el ojo está muy erosionada. En la parte inferior, entre las pezuñas, se distingue la inscripción, que contiene únicamente el nombre del dios egipcio en caracteres griegos. El culto del buey Apis no apareció inicialmente ligado a un símbolo determinado y tampoco tuvo un sacerdocio propio. Adorado en sus comienzos en Memphis en el templo de Ptah, entre ambas divinidades se creó una relación, de forma que acabaron siendo adorados conjuntamente en el mismo templo. En sincretismo con Osiris y Serapis, y formando parte de los dioses pertenecientes al círculo isiaco, el culto de Apis está ligado a las creencias de la fertilidad, con la muerte y resurrección del buey simbolizando el ciclo de la naturaleza.34 En la época egipcia tardía su culto estaba bien representado en Egipto, con sacerdotes que se ocupaban de forma exclusiva de los rituales festivos del dios. Pero para lo que nos interesa, de época romana se conoce mucho menos y sobre todo se conoce poco sobre lo que simbolizaba para sus adoradores. Favorecido por los emperadores Flavios y adorado especialmente desde época de Adriano, parece que desempeñaba las funciones de protector y portador de alegría y felicidad. De esta época no se conocen lugares de culto ni inscripciones votivas dedicadas a la divinidad. No tiene un culto separado con un sacerdocio propio y más bien podríamos hablar de su transformación en un amuleto con connotaciones mágicas que proporcionaba alegría y felicidad al portador o a los habitantes de una casa.35

32 De hecho, hay que hacer notar que, de las gemas que podemos encontrar en las colecciones de Rumanía, es posible que algunas provengan de fuera del ámbito geográfico de la antigua Dacia romana. 33 Neigebaur 1851, 209, nº 63; Ackner and Müller, 1865, nº 666; Carbó García 2010, 992–993, corpus nº 281, con bibliografía. 34 Bricault 2000, 199. 35 Matei, 1977, 148–149.

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Sería este significado de amuleto de felicidad y alegría el que correspondería a la pieza que comentamos, en la que la divinidad es fácilmente identificable por la forma del buey representado y, naturalmente, por la inscripción con el nombre del dios. Teniendo en cuenta la escasa presencia de menciones de este dios en la Dacia romana, así como los caracteres griegos en los que está escrito el nombre de la divinidad, podemos hablar de seguidores aislados de los cultos egipcios, muy posiblemente de origen egipcio, que llevaron con ellos su creencia supersticiosa en los poderes mágicos de protección y otorgador de felicidad y alegría del talismán de Apis al norte del Danubio y a la ciudad de Potaissa. En esta ciudad se ha podido detectar una importante difusión de los propios cultos egipcios y una cantidad notable de piezas de origen egipcio, sobradamente contrastadas.36 Esto nos hace pensar que muchas de esas piezas tendrían que ver muy probablemente con un grupo étnico de origen egipcio y no con personas de etnias diversas adoradoras de las divinidades egipcias o con practicantes aislados de la magia egipcia. 5. La siguiente pieza es un relieve que incluye también una inscripción con el nombre de la divinidad egipcia, mencionado por Neigebaur como proveniente de Potaissa, a mediados del siglo XIX. La pieza no se conserva actualmente. Se trata de un relieve mal trabajado que representa un ojo de buey y que incluye una inscripción mencionando el nombre de la divinidad egipcia Apis. No disponemos de datos sobre el soporte.37 Se trata de un monumento muy raro, ya que no representa a Apis bajo la conocida imagen del buey, ya sea en un relieve o en una estatua de bronce, como en el resto de casos de la Dacia romana.38 El dios está representado bajo la forma de uno de los ojos del animal, acompañado por una inscripción con su nombre, escrita en caracteres griegos. El ojo, en este caso, sería un símbolo de suerte asociado al atributo de portador de felicidad y alegría que tenía el dios en su concepción como amuleto mágico. En este caso, podemos identificar a la divinidad egipcia gracias a la inscripción con su nombre en caracteres griegos. De nuevo, al igual que con la pieza anterior, la escasa presencia del dios Apis en la Dacia romana, así como esos caracteres griegos en los que está escrito el nombre de la divinidad, nos llevan a pensar más bien en personas aisladas, muy posiblemente de origen egipcio, que llevaron con ellos su creencia supersticiosa en los poderes mágicos del amuleto de Apis al norte del Danubio. Su probable origen en la misma localidad que la pieza anterior, Potaissa, podría ser puesta en relación con la presencia de una comunidad de personas de origen egipcio y seguidores de los cultos egipcios, que habrían contribuido a la gran difusión de éstos en esta ciudad de la Dacia Porolissensis. En una inscripción de esta ciudad dedicada a Isis, con el conocido epíteto myrionima, se nos presenta la existencia de un collegium 36 Carbó García 2010, 369–432, 469, 475. 37 Neigebaur 1851, 209, nº 63; Ackner and Müller, 1865, 142; Carbó García 2010, 993, corpus nº 282, con bibliografía. 38 Popa 1979, 68.

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Isidis, del que los dedicantes, Caius Iulius Martialis y Lucius Livius Victorinus, eran respectivamente Pater y Quaestor.39 En cualquier caso, dicho collegium presupondría la existencia de una comunidad importante de creyentes devotos de Isis, organizados en esa asociación cultual, independientemente de la existencia o no de un templo, que de todos modos parece muy probable por las numerosas piezas escultóricas halladas,40 entre ellas un relieve en el que aparece representada una sacerdotisa de Isis.41 6. Por último, y tal y como anuncié anteriormente, queda una pieza por mencionar, relacionada con los dioses egipcios, que no es una gema mágica, ni tablilla, ni tampoco un amuleto. Esta pieza, también proveniente de Potaissa, es una cabeza de estandarte o de cetro de bronce en forma de esfinge, con una inscripción en la base (Fig. 1). La pieza se hallaba en la colección de Kemény, pero no se conserva hoy en día. La esfinge presenta cuerpo de león alado y cabeza humana. La inscripción de la base está escrita en griego y tiene un carácter de invocación o aclamación, comprendiendo varios nomina sacra.42 La inscripción dice: “¡Iao, Iao, Tithoes, Re-Harmachis!” Tithoes era una divinidad solar egipcia con forma de esfinge, Re era el Sol, la divinidad suprema de los egipcios, y Harmachis era el dios del sol del amanecer. De este modo, la misma divinidad, el sol egipcio, está representada por estos tres nombres, en hipóstasis diferentes. La invocación Iao también muestra el carácter solar de la inscripción. Este tipo de combinaciones con otros apelativos era propia de la mezcla de creencias de origen semita y griego de Alejandría, pero aquí, al igual que en los casos anteriores, no nos encontramos con un objeto de culto a esos dioses mediante una inscripción votiva. Esa cabeza de estandarte o de cetro en forma de esfinge estaría considerada entre los aegyptiaca o isiaca minora, un objeto utilizado muy probablemente como decoración de estilo egipcio o incluso en las procesiones rituales en el templo de Isis y Serapis de Potaissa. Así pues, no es una inscripción votiva a los dioses Tithoes, Re y Harmachis, pero formaría parte del “instrumental” religioso utilizado en el templo de Isis y Serapis, en el marco del culto isiaco; y por ende, la inscripción que aparece en la base, que leemos de derecha a izquierda, nos parece una invocación muy habitual de corte mágico, por la que se apela al poder directo de esos dioses tanto por la mención de sus nombres como por la representación iconográfica. ¿Sería posible, entonces, que en el ámbito del desarrollo del culto isiaco en Potaissa encontrásemos no sólo muestras religiosas votivas, sino también la presencia de esas fórmulas relacionadas con la magia egipcia? ¿Religión y algún aspecto mágico podrían coexistir dentro de un templo de los dioses egipcios? ¿Entre fieles isiacos de 39 Carbó García 2010, 425, corpus nº 293, con bibliografía. 40 Sobre el collegium, ver Pribac 2006, 113ss. Sobre el templo, Bărbulescu 1994, 71; Rusu-Pescaru and Alicu 2000, 156–157. 41 Drexler 1890, 56. 42 Neigebaur 1851, 216, nº 211; Vlassa 1980, 133–153; Bărbulescu 1994, 165; Nemeti 2005b, 352, nº 13; Carbó García 2010, 1024, corpus nº 315.

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procedencia egipcia? ¿En un collegium Isidis? Al fin y al cabo, estaríamos hablando del ámbito de lo espiritual, y se trataría de un caso particular en el que entre los asistentes a ese templo en Potaissa o miembros de esa comunidad de seguidores habría existido un núcleo de personas de origen egipcio: quizá de esa forma podríamos intentar explicar que aunasen por un lado sus expresiones de religiosidad mediante las prácticas votivas habituales en el mundo greco-romano, y por otro, sus habituales muestras de la creencia en supersticiones egipcias y el poder de la magia egipcia, con piezas como las que hemos visto.

Fig. 1. Cabeza de estandarte o de cetro de bronce en forma de esfinge, con inscripción (dibujo de Ignacio Barbero para el autor en Carbó García 2010, a partir de dibujo en Ruscu 2003, nº 69).

En estos momentos, es una cuestión que está en estudio. Las excavaciones arqueológicas en Potaissa prosiguen y la interacción con la magia y la importancia a este respecto de la presencia en Potaissa de personas de origen egipcio que ayudasen a explicarla debe ser estudiada con mayor profundidad a la luz del estudio de las colecciones arqueológicas y de los datos proporcionados por las nuevas excavaciones.

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En cualquier caso, ¿cuál es la relación que estas divinidades integradas en el dominio de la magia internacional han tenido con las tradiciones religiosas que les vieron nacer? Las influencias egipcias, pero también las griegas o las judaicas, fueron recibidas y reelaboradas dentro de un medio sincretista, y por lo tanto perdieron su valor religioso original para asumir un nuevo carácter mágico. Pero esto no significa que en algunos momentos, en determinados contextos, la vivencia de la espiritualidad no pudiera entrañar la coexistencia o al menos cierto entrelazado entre lo mágico y lo religioso, entre las prácticas mágicas y los ritos cultuales. Bibliografía Ackner, Michael J., and Friedrich Müller. 1865. Die römischen Inschriften in Dacien. Vienna: Verlag von Tendler & Comp. Bărbulescu, Mihai. 1984. Interferenţe spirituale în Dacia romană. Cluj-Napoca: Editura Dacia. Bărbulescu, Mihai. 1994. Potaissa. Studiu monografic. Turda: Muzeul de istorie Turda. Bonner, Campbell. 1950. Studies in Magical Amulets chiefly Graeco-Egyptian. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Bricault, Laurent. 2000. “Études isiaques: perspectives.” In De Memphis à Rome: Actes du Ier Colloque int. sur les études isiaques, Poitiers‒Futuroscope, 8‒10 abril 1999, edited by Laurent Bricault, 189‒210. RGRW 140. Leiden: Brill. Carbó García, Juan Ramón. 2010. Los cultos orientales en la Dacia romana: formas de difusión, integración y control social e ideológico. Salamanca: Publicaciones de la Universidad de Salamanca. Carbó García, Juan Ramón. 2015. Apropiaciones de la Antigüedad. De getas, godos, Reyes Católicos, yugos y flechas. In Anejos de la Revista de Historiografía, vol. 3. Madrid: Publicaciones de la Universidad Carlos III de Madrid. Carbó García, Juan Ramón. 2016. “El panorama étnico‒religioso en la conformación de Rumanía y las apropiaciones identitarias y religiosas de la Antigüedad.” In La religión como factor de identidad, edited by Juana Torres and Silvia Acerbi, 209‒218. Salamanca: Escolar y Mayo editores. Cumont, Franz. 1987. Las religiones orientales y el paganismo romano. Madrid Ediciones Akal (1st ed. París,1906). Delatte, Armand, and Philippe Derchain. 1964. Les intailles magiques gréco‒egyptiennes. Paris: Bibliothèque nationale. Drexler, Wilhelm. 1890. Mythologische Beiträge, I, Der Cultus der ägyptischen Gottheiten in den Donauländer. Leipzig: Teubner. Gordon, Richard. 1990. “Religion in the Roman Empire: the civic compromise and its limits.” In Pagan Priests, edited by Mary Beard and John North, 235‒255. London: Cornell University Press. Gramatopol, Mihai. 1974. Les pierres gravées du Cabinet Numismatique de l´Academie Roumaine. Brussels: Latomus. Gudea, Nicolae, and Ioan Ghiurco. 1988. Din istoria creştinismului la români. Mărturii arheologice. Oradea: Editura Episcopiei Ortodoxe Române a Oradiei. Gudea, Nicolae. 1999‒2000. “Evreii în provinciile Dacice. 106‒275 p. Ch.,” Ephemeris Napocensis 9‒10: 179‒208. Ionescu, Ion. 1975. “Le problème des gemmes gnostiques découvertes sur le territoire de la Republique Socialiste de Roumanie.” Eirene 12:539‒540. Marco Simón, Francisco. 2019. Los contextos de la magia en el Imperio Romano: Incertidumbre, ansiedad y miedo. Zaragoza: Prensas de la Universidad de Zaragoza. Mărghitan, Liviu. 1980. Banatul în lumina arheologiei, II. Timişoara: Facla. Mastrocinque, Attilio. 2003. “Le gemme gnostiche.” In Sylloge gemmarum gnosticarum, edited by Attilio Mastrocinque, 49‒112. Roma: Ist. Poligrafico dello Stato. Matei, Alexandru V. 1977. “O statueta reprezentând pe Apis descoperita la Porolissum.” Acta Musei Porolissensis 1: 147‒150.

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Michel, Simone. 2002. “Der NYXEYA BOΛBAX-Logos. Zu einer neuen magischen Formel und ihrer Bedeutung.” In Gemme gnostiche e cultura ellenistica, edited by Attilio Mastrocinque, 119‒134. Bologna: Pàtron. Nagy, Árpád M. 2002. “Gemmae magicae selectae. Sept notes sur l’interprétation des gemmes magiques.” In Gemme gnostiche e cultura ellenistica, edited by Attilio Mastrocinque, 153‒179. Bologna: Pàtron. Neigebaur, Johann D. F. 1851. Dacien aus den Ueberresten des klassischen Altertums, mit besonders Rücksicht auf Siebenbürgen. Kronstadt (Braşov): Johann Gött. Nemeti, Irina. 2005. “Isis din colecţia Botár.” In Corona Laurea. Studii în onoarea Luciei Ţeposu Marinescu, 349‒355. Bucharest Muzeul National de Istorie a României. Nemeti, Irina, and Sorin Nemeti. 2006. “Theos Hypsistos Epekoos la Sarmizegetusa.” In Fontes Historiae. Studia in honorem Demetrii Protase, 483‒489. Bistriţa‒Cluj: Editura Accent. Nemeti, Sorin. 2002. “Magia în Dacia romană (I).” Revista Bistriţei 16: 103‒112. Nemeti, Sorin. 2005. Sincretismul religios în Dacia romană. Cluj‒Napoca Presa Universitară Clujeană. Nemeti, Sorin. 2012. Dialoguri păgâne. Formule votive şi limbaj figurat în Dacia romană. Iaşi: Editura Universităţii “Alexandru Ioan Cuza.” Popa, Alexandru. 1979. Cultele egiptene şi microasiatice în Dacia romană. Cluj‒Napoca, Tesis doctoral de la Universidad Babeş‒Bolyai. Pribac, Sorin. 2006. Aspecte sociale ale vieţii spirituale din Dacia romană. Cu privire specială asupra cultelor Greco-Romane. Timişoara: Editura Excelsior Art. Ruscu, Ligia. 2003. Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum Dacicarum. Debrecen: Hungarian Polis Studies. Russu, Ioan Ioani. 1958. “Materiale arheologice paleocreştine din Transilvania. Contribuţii la istoria creştinismului daco‒roman.” Studii Teologice 10: 324‒325. Rusu, Mircea. 1991. “Paleocreştinismul în Dacia romană.” Ephemeris Napocensis 1: 81‒112. Rusu‒Pescaru, Adriana, and Dorin Alicu. 2000. Templele Romane din Dacia (I). Deva: Acta Musei Devensis. Sfameni Gasparro, Giulia. 2003. “Le gemme magiche come oggetto d’indagine storico‒religiosa.” In Sylloge gemmarum gnosticarum, edited by Attilio Mastrocinque, 11‒45. Roma: Ist. Poligrafico dello Stato. Vlassa, Nicolae. 1974. “Interpretarea plăcuţei de aur de la Dierna.” Acta Musei Napocensis 11: 125‒141. Vlassa, Nicolae. 1977. “O nouă plăcuţă de aur gnostică de la Dierna.” Acta Musei Napocensis 15: 205‒219. Vlassa, Nicolae. 1980. “Sfinxul de bronz de la Potaissa.” Potaissa. Studii şi Comunicarii 2: 133‒153. Zugravu, Nelu. 1997. Geneză creştinismului popular al românilor. Bucharest: Ministerul Educaţiei, Institutul Român de Tracologie.

PLAY WITH FATE Véronique Dasen, University of Fribourg (Switzerland) A gemstone made in the Roman imperial period, now in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, displays the dynamic of tychê (“luck”), which is managed by divine and human will.1 The scene combines Egyptian and Graeco-Roman elements and creates an original visual discourse. The rectangular intaglio is carved in lapis lazuli. The shape and the design date on stylistic grounds to the 2nd century CE.2 The ancient silver setting is preserved, with a loop showing that the piece was used as a pendant. The piece is of unknown provenance; however, it was most likely produced in Egypt or in the eastern Mediterranean since it belonged to the collection of Henri Seyrig (1895‒1973), director of the Institut français d’archéologie in Beyrouth. Henri Seyrig acquired several antiquities in Syria, including possibly this one.3

Fig. 1a–b. Lapis lazuli in a silver setting (19,7 x 18 x 4 mm, including the setting). Paris, Département des Monnaies, médailles et antiques de la Bibliothèque nationale de France, Collection Seyrig, AA.Seyrig.81. © Photo A. Mastrocinque.

On one side (fig. 1a), two male figures are sitting on folding chairs, face to face, playing together on a board put on their knees. The man on the left is jackal-headed, naked, with a chlamys on his left shoulder; he raises his right hand, the left one resting on the left upper corner of the board. On the right, a naked, muscular, ram-headed 1

2 3

First published by Mastrocinque 2014, 52, no 120; CBd-3288. This research is part of the ERC Advanced Grant project Locus Ludi. The Cultural Fabric of Play and Games in Classical Antiquity (741520) based at Fribourg University. Many thanks to Salvatore Costanza, Anne Dunn-Vaturi, Árpád M. Nagy, Ulrich Schädler, Erika Zwierlein-Diehl, and above all to Attilio Mastrocinque for reading this paper in earlier drafts and making comments. For the dating and the description of this gem, Zwierlein-Diehl 2019. On the biography of Henri Seyrig (with bibliography), Mastrocinque 2014, 17.

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young man touches the board with his left hand, as if ready to move a piece; his right arm is hidden behind the board. Over twenty round counters are placed on the board, including ten ones in line on its lower end. The gesture of the left player suggests that the play is soon completed. Yet it is unclear whether he is announcing his victory or that of his opponent; his posture could also just express the strong emotion aroused by play. On the other side of the gem (fig. 1b), a series of Greek letters are carved in three lines: ΘΕΝ | ΘΕΝ | ΝΕΡΘω. These letters represent a secret word that was intended to be read from the stone itself, not from a print. These features suggest that the pendant belongs to the category of so-called “magical gems” produced in the Roman Imperial period, and characterised by a number of formal elements.4 Like them, the lapis lazuli is carved on both sides, and it was not meant to be used as a seal. It bears an inscription in Greek letters of a uox magica. The place of production of this specialised type of amulet is still debated. Most likely several workshops were active. The visual and verbal idioms combine elements from Graeco-Roman, Egyptian, and Jewish traditions, reflecting the hellenisation of Egyptian priestly tradition, as well as the globalisation of activities implying “magical gems” in the imperial period. These practices circulated widely in the Roman Empire, and such amuletic devices could be made anywhere in the Roman Empire, so long as ritual experts were available to direct the production.5 The interpretation of the inscription on the Seyrig stone is difficult to determine because ancient experts intentionally manipulated and distorted scripts in order to display their authority. The frequent use of pseudo-writing, or charactêres, was also used to convey a specialised knowledge of secret divine names and entities.6 On the lapis lazuli, the reading of the inscription is uncertain. Did it order a god to appear?7 ΘΕΝ may also be a transliteration in Greek letters of the Hebrew imperative form ten (“give!”), ordering, for example, the divinity to provide luck. That said, a uox magica was not written to be deciphered.8

4 5

6 7 8

On this category of ancient glyptic, see Dasen and Nagy 2019; on dating and reception, ZwierleinDiehl 2014, 87-130. On the circulation of handbooks and of practitioners, see the black stone in Budapest, Museum of Fine Arts, CBd‒4, with the indication “…as is prescribed,” instead of the formula written in the handbook. On allusions to a handbook on gemstones, as well as on the use of gemstones as a handbook, see Faraone 2010, 79‒102, and 2012, 63‒74. On charactêres, see Frankfurter 1994, 198‒221; Mastrocinque 2004, 90‒98; Dzwiza 2013; Gordon 2014. In Greek νέρθε means “below,” “from below.” I thank Joachim Quack for this suggestion; he adds that ΝΕΡΘω may also be associated to ΝΕΘω, to be understood as “great god” in Egyptian, but all these proposals “mainly demonstrate once again how tricky it is to establish clear etymologies for such sequences of short words with little context.”

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1. A GAME FOR THE DEAD: AN EGYPTIAN JOURNEY TO THE AFTERLIFE? This board game scene combines Egyptian and Graeco-Roman elements. This fusion allows for a bilingual reading with different, but similar, metaphoric meanings depending on the respective culture of the Egyptian or Greek viewer. The figure on the left depicts the jackal-headed Anubis. The god is best known in Egyptian religion as psychopompos, conducting the mummification and rejuvenation of Osiris, and hence of all dead. In Egyptian funerary iconography, Anubis appears in judgment scenes accompanying the deceased to Osiris and attending the weighing of his/her heart. On Roman period coffins, mummy shrouds or labels, Anubis is also holding a key because he leads the dead in his journey to the afterlife, and acts as the opener of the doors or gates of the underworld.9 On the Seyrig stone, the god wears the chlamys of Hermes and can be more specifically identified with Hermanubis, a Roman period creation.10 In the 2nd and 3rd century CE, military attire often stressed the invincibility of the god. On a “magical gem” in the British Museum, Hermanubis stands, wearing armour and a cloak or paludamentum, holding the kerykeion and the palm of victory.11 The opponent of the god is a curiously ram‒headed muscular young man, who may represent the Egyptian god Khnum, the creator of life, or a form of Amun.12 Does the presence of two Egyptian gods on the Seyrig gem imply that the game is the well-known senet or “passing” game?13 Peter A. Piccione proposed a convincing reconstruction of this traditional race game going back to the Predynastic period.14 Two players each have a set of seven or, in later periods, five pawns, on a board composed of three rows of ten squares. The goal of the game is to move all the pieces 9 On the keys of Anubis, see Parlasca 2010, 221‒232; Dasen 2015a, 71. 10 Zwierlein-Diehl 2019. On Hermanubis, Grenier 1977, esp. 39‒40. 11 Carnelian, London, British Museum G 420 (ΕA 56420); CBd‒438. See also heliotrope, London, British Museum, G 31 (ΕA 56031); CBd‒439; Yellow jasper, Paris, Cabinet des Médailles; Mastrocinque 2014, 51, no 113; CBd‒1301. About the haematite, London, British Museum G 38 (EA 56038); CBd‒421, with Anubis supporting a mummy above his head, and surrounded by a vegetal crown and a palm branch, see Michel 2001, 27, no 42: “Anubis ist in seiner Rolle als Psychopompos und Totengott angesprochen und somit der Regenerationsgedanke artikuliert. Den Ewigkeitssymbolen Palmzweig und Kranz oder Vollmondscheibe ist noch der Οuroboros hinzugefügt, ‒ das Symbol für Ewigkeit schlechthin.” 12 Identification first made by Zwierlein-Diehl 2019. Ram-headed figures occur on magical gems, e.g. Standing, naked, holding a thunderbolt and a sceptre; red jasper, formerly Peter Paul Rubens coll.; CBd‒2160 (post-antique?). Standing, naked or in a kilt, holding a branch: haematite, London, British Museum G 447 (EA 56447); CBd‒716. Magnetite, London, British Museum G 30 (ΕA 56030); CBd‒717. Three ram-headed figures standing in a kilt: jasper, Berlin, Ägyptisches Museum, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin 9805; CBd‒2112. 13 So does Mastrocinque 2014, 52, no 120: “Il s’agit du jeu du senet, que les défunts faisaient dans l’au-delà pour gagner la survie de leur âme ou un sort meilleur: on les voit jouer tout seuls au senet dans les papyrus du Livre des Morts. On a d’ailleurs trouvé des tables à jeu dans des tombes égyptiennes.” 14 Piccione 2007; Crist, Dunn-Vaturi, de Voogt 2016, 41‒80. The oldest depiction of the Senet equipment is found in the tomb of Hesy-Ra in Saqqara (3rd Dynasty c. 2686-2613 BCE); Crist, Dunn-Vaturi, de Voogt 2016, 23, fig. 2.5.

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off the board. The progression along the path is determined by the throw of four sticks or knucklebones. Beside slab-like and graffito-boards, the standard type of board is a rectangular box during the New Kingdom (fig. 2; 1400 BCE‒1200 BCE).

Fig. 2. Ivory game-board/box for Senet with game pieces, sticks and knucklebones (4.5 cm x 28 cm). The twenty squares game is on the underside of the box. London, British Museum EA66669. © Trustees of the British Museum.

In the introduction of chapter 17 of the Book of the Dead (Book of Coming Forth by Day, or Emerging Forth into the Light) the play is part of the transfiguration process of the deceased who wishes to become the living ba of Osiris and to return to the land of the living.15 In the New Kingdom, the funerary dimension of senet is displayed by the decoration of the board indicating good or bad spaces. The game starts on square 1 with the House of Thoth, alluding to the judgment scene of the dead, ending on square 30 with Re‒Horakhty, the sun god, symbolising eternal rebirth. According to P. A. Piccione, the passing of the soul through gates may be equated with the movement of the gaming pieces on the board.16 The agonistic dimension of the play itself could have a ritual dimension. In The Great Game Text, preserved in New Kingdom sources, the deceased struggles against an opponent in order to access rejuvenation.17 15 Book of the Dead, introduction of chapter 17: “Formulae for elevation and transfiguration, for going out from the necropolis, for being in the following of Osiris, and being content with the food of Wennefer, going out by day, taking any form desired to be taken, playing the board-game senet, being in the pavilion, a living soul, the Osiris N among the revered before the great Ennead which is in the west, after he moors. This is good for the one who does it on earth”; transl. R. O. Faulkner, The Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead (London 1989) 44. On the wishes of the deceased, see Smith 2017, 237. 16 On the symbolism of the decoration of the squares of the senet board, Piccione 2007, 58. 17 The Great Game Text and the designs of the P.Turin 1775 (20th dynasty) depict gods and events in the netherworld, also with pitfalls such as square 16 “House of Netting” or square 27 “Waters of

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He or she is sitting in a pavilion before a table facing an invisible player, as on the Papyrus of Hunefer (fig. 3; Dynasty 19, ca 1280‒1270 BCE).18

Fig. 3. Papyrus of Hunefer. London, British Museum EA9901,8. After Rossiter, E. 1979. Le Livre des morts, Papyrus d’Ani, Hunefer, Anhaï. Fribourg, Genève: Liber, Minerva, fig. on 85.

2. A GAME FOR THE LIVING: ROMAN ALEA AND TURRICULA? The reading of the scene as displaying the funerary senet can be challenged for at least two reasons. First, because of the media: “magical gems” did not aim at protecting the dead, but the living. Most gemstones were used as amulets to repel evil and heal various diseases, provide divine protection and success.19 Second, the game is not senet. The shape of the board is square, not rectangular. It is placed on the knees of the players, suggesting that it was made of wood, as in a lively wall-painting scene in the tavern of Salvius in Pompei (fig. 4; 1st cent. CE), or on a panel of the xenia mosaic decorating the triclinium of a wealthy house in Thysdrus (3rd cent. CE).20 2.1. Playing polis? The structure of the board is hardly visible on the miniature surface of the gem, but the range of possible games is not very large. A grid would allow a capture game

Chaos”; Piccione 2007, 60‒62; Crist, Dunn-Vaturi, de Voogt 2016, 55‒56. Playing pieces are often jackal-shaped, perhaps alluding to the role of Anubis as protector of the deceased; Crist, DunnVaturi, de Voogt 2016, 64‒67, fig. 3.6 and 3.7. 18 Crist, Dunn-Vaturi, de Voogt 2016, 55‒56, fig. 3.4. An unusual opponent appears on a New Kingdom satirical papyrus from Deir el Medineh (1295‒1069 BCE) in London, British Museum, showing a lion and an antelope, unequal adversaries, but the game may that of Twenty squares; DunnVaturi 2016, 14‒28. 19 Dasen and Nagy 2019. 20 Dunbabin 2003, 157‒158, fig. 91.

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called polis, πóλ(ε)ις, “city” or “cities,” described by Pollux in the 2nd century CE.21 This game is played with counters, called “dogs,” in two distinct colours for each player. No die is used; the counters are seized by being encircled.

Fig. 4. Pompei, VI.14.36, caupona of Salvius. Naples, National archeological museum. Inscription: Exsi, Non trias duas est. After Lambrugo Cl., Slavazzi F., and A. M. Fedeli (ed.). 2015. I materiali della Collezione Archeologica “Giulio Sambon” di Milano 1. Tra alea e agòn giochi di abilità e di azzardo. Firenze: All’insegna Del Giglio, pl. 2b.

Fig. 5. Amethyst set in a gold ring (7 x 9 mm). Paris, Département des Monnaies, médailles et antiques de la Bibliothèque nationale de France, Luynes 115. Author’s drawing after Lafaye 1900, 994, fig. 4368.

The Roman period ludus latrunculorum is a variant that applies the same method of capture.22 An amethyst gem set in a gold ring may depict this kind of game (fig. 5; 1st century BCE/CE).23 Two men are sitting with a board on their knees. The counters are scattered on its surface as in a capture game. The man on the left raises a hand, as 21 Pollux, Onomasticon, 9.98; Cratinus cited by Zenobius (Zenob. Ath. III 16 = vulg. V 67 = 61 Kassel‒Austin). Cf. the grid in a reused marble block in the sanctuary of Hera on the island of Samos. On this game, see Schädler 2002. 22 Schädler 1994, 47‒67. 23 Minervini 1853, 192, pl. VIII, 5; Lafaye 1900, 994, fig. 4368; Dasen 2019, 18-19, fig. 3.

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if indicating a number. Two onlookers surround them and seem to comment the course of the play. The animation of the scene alludes to the public dimension of the performance. The 4th century scholion of the Praise of Piso thus tells us that a crowd gathered when C. Calpurnius Piso displayed his strategic skills.24 The anecdote may not relate to the historical Piso, but it is based on the observation of daily life scenes. A similar show may be recalled in the miniature stone.

Fig. 6. Bronze dice tower (H. 22.5 x 9.5 x 9.5 cm), from a Roman villa, Wettweiss Froitzheim. Bonn, Rheinisches Landesmuseum 85.0269. Photo J. Vogel, LVR‒LandesMuseum Bonn.

2.2. Playing Ludus duodecim scripta or Alea? On the Seyrig gem, however, another game takes place. The players are using dice as a detail reveals. The vertical structure engraved beside Anubis on the upper left corner of the board looks like a turricula or pyrgos, a miniature tower used for rolling dice in board and dice games. Dice towers are well known in ancient literature, archaeology, and iconography. The earliest mention is literary. The poet Martial (1st century CE) provides a description of its use which he associates with the prevention of cheating: “Little tower. If the shameless hand that knows how to throw the bones prearranged has thrown them through me, it does nothing but pray.”25 This type of 24 Schol. Iuu., Sat. 5.109: in latrunculorum lusu tam perfectus et callidus, ut ad eum ludentem concurreretur. For a description of the game, see Ps. Calp. Piso, 5.190‒208. Peirano 2012, 153 underscores that the text attributed to Calpurnius Siculus was written after the death of Piso, with a possible parodic tone, subverting the expected panegyrics of Piso’s military skills. 25 Mart. 14.16: Quae scit compositos manus improba mittere talos, si per me misit, nil nisi uota feret (transl. D. R. Shackleton Bailey, Loeb). See also Isid. Etym. 18.61 (600 CE): “The dice tumbler is so called because dice pass through it or because it is shaped like a tower; for the Greeks call a tower purgos:” Pyrgus dictus quod per eum tesserae pergant, siue quod turris speciem habeat. Nam Graeci turrem πύργον uocant (transl. St. A. Barney et al., Cambridge, CUP).

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object also exists in the extant material record.26 A well-preserved one, made in bronze, comes from a 4th century Roman villa near Froitzheim in Germany with an inscription celebrating the victory of the Romans over the Picts: “The Picts defeated, the enemy wiped out; play without fear” (fig. 6; 370‒80 CE).27

Fig. 7. Panel of the Horses mosaic (60 x 60 cm). Carthage, Antiquarium. After C. Lambrugo, F. Slavazzi, and A. M. Fedeli (eds.). 2015. I materiali della Collezione Archeologica “Giulio Sambon” di Milano 1. Tra alea e agòn giochi di abilità e di azzardo. Firenze: All’insegna Del Giglio, pl. 1a.

In iconography, however, the item is rarely depicted. Most representations date to Late Antiquity, usually associated with the display of status, leisure, and pleasure. In the House of the Horses in Carthage, a large mosaic depicts fifty circus horses and related scenes distributed in small panels. One of them shows two men playing with two large dice and white counters; a turricula stands on the edge of the board (fig. 7; early 4th century CE).28 The Seyrig gem is thus the earliest extant iconographic testimony of this device in the second century CE. The presence of the turricula is important because it implies playing with at least one die. Most likely the two men concentrate on a popular Roman game of the Backgammon family, played on a board of three rows of twelve fields, each row being divided by a symbol or space forming two series of six fields, as on the mosaic board from Antioch (fig. 8).29 26 For a list of turriculae, all dating to 4th century archaeological contexts, see Horn 1989; Cobbett 2008; Cobbett 2013 (Qustul, Nubia, wooden turricula with silver and ivory engraving, from a tomb with boardgame, dice, counters; bronze turricula in baths, Chaves, Portugal; fragments in a Roman fort, Richborough and a Roman villa, Dorchester, GB). 27 Pictos uictos hostis deleta ludite secure; Horn 1989; Schamber 2009, no. 112. 28 Dunbabin 1999, 116, fig. 119. See also the tower with two dice on three 16th and 17th century manuscripts illustrating the Saturnalia of December on the Calendar of 354 AD or Calendar of Filocalus; the player, dressed in a tunic with fur, is standing, holding in his left hand a torch alluding to the nocturnal setting, and pointing two fingers of the right hand. The text addresses the slave (uerna), who is now allowed to play with his master; Salzman 1990, 74‒76, figs. 23, 43 and 52. 29 Levi 1947, 295, fig. 123; Kondoleon 2000, 160, cat. 44.

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Two variants are known. One was played with two dice (Ludus duodecim scripta), the other with three dice (Alea).30 In both variants counters are lined during the course of the play, as depicted on the Seyrig gem.

Fig. 8. Mosaic board, Alea (96 x 122 cm). Princeton University Art Museum. Gift of the Committee for the Excavation of Antioch (y1965‒616).

The popularity of Alea is suggested by the high number of literary allusions to the game,31 as well as by over two hundred inscribed Alea board games recorded in the Roman Empire.32 This type of game was often played in public spaces, as depicted on the Megalopsychia (“Magnanimity”) mosaic from a Late Roman wealthy villa at Yakto, near Antioch (fig. 9 a, b; mid-5th cent. CE).33 The border surrounding a large hunt scene depicts a town and its buildings and monuments. A scene of play is repeated twice with variants: on the southern side (fig. 9a), two men play sitting on folding stools, like those on the gem, under a building designated by an inscription, ho peripatos (“the portico”). The board, however, does not rest on their knees but on a table where counters and a dice tower are depicted. The men on the left touches the top of the tower as if throwing the dice, whereas his opponent lifts a hand, throwing fingers in the air, as if indicating a score. On their left, food is being prepared, possibly near public baths (dêmosion [loutron]). On their right, a servant pours wine to a client lying on the 30 Non. 170.22 explains scripta as “puncta tesserarum”; thus the name of the game should be understood as “the game of twelve points,” referring to the highest possible throw with two dice. See Schädler 1995, 73‒98. 31 Purcell 2007, 90‒97; Roueché 2007. 32 For a catalogue of inscribed Alea boards, Ferrua 2001 (200 items); Schamber 2009 (113 items). 33 See the description of the topographical border by Levi 1947, 326‒337, esp. 330‒331, fig. 136, pl. LXXIX, b, c; Dunbabin 1999, 180‒183, fig. 194; Kondoleon 2000, 8, fig. 6, colour plate on 114.

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floor in a tavern.34 In the second scene of play (fig. 9b), two men play with similar gestures before a house, but their roles are reversed. The man on the right is throwing dice in the tower; the left one lifts the finger as if announcing a number. The presence of board games in two parts of the urban scenery suggests the visual importance of such activity in a late antique town.35 Their gestures also contribute to the display of an animated social life. In the central medallion, the bust of Megalopsychia personifies generosity; she holds coins in her open palm, most likely to distribute them, but possibly alluding to the well-off status of citizens who often played for money.36

Fig. 9 a–b. Megalopsychia mosaic, topographical border. Antioch, Hatay Archaeological Museum, Antakya 1016. Photo Antioch Expedition Archives, Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University. 34 Levi 1947, 330. 35 On late antique sociability, Schädler 2002; Goncalvez 2013. 36 Levi 1947, 339‒340.

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3. HERMANUBIS AND DIVINATION On the Seyrig gem, the jackal-headed Hermanubis sheds light on the meaning of this scene. In ancient Greece, Hermes is not restricted to the role of psychopompos; the god presides over games, often associated with cledonomancy, a specific form of divination produced by involuntary motion or words. For example, the random motion of the spinning top could be interpreted as a divine message (like the spontaneous speech of children).37 The image of the mastix beating the top is also associated with Anubis. In the Greek Magical Papyri, the victim is whipped like a top by the god in order to make her loose control and obey her lover: Anubis, god on earth and under earth and heavenly; dog, dog, dog, assume all your authority and all your power against Tigerous, whom Sophia bore. Make her cease from her arrogance, calculation, and her shamefulness, and attract her to me […], until she is scourged by you and comes desiring me […]. Aye lord, attract to me Titerous, whom Sophia bore, to me, Hermeis, whom Hermione bore, immediately, immediately, quickly, quickly-driven by your whip, mastix.38

The relation of Hermes to divinatory games also appears on a series of “magical gems” where play is associated with luck and divination. On a green jasper gem in the British Museum, the god plays with a hoop that looks like the wheel of Nemesis (fig. 10).39 The meaning may be erotic. On a series of “magical gems,” the wheel of Nemesis is associated with Psychê and love. A green jasper gem in the Skoluda collection in Hamburg40 thus depicts Psychê standing to left, bound to a column, her hands tied behind her back. On the top of the column a griffin holds the wheel. Eros stands before Psychê with bow and arrow; behind him, a burning torch alludes to the torture of passion. Another association with Egypt may be at work too. For the Greeks, Hermes was also assimilated to the god Thoth who was regarded as the inventor of games. Plato reports this Egyptian tradition: I heard, then, that at Naucratis, in Egypt, was one of the ancient gods of that country, the one whose sacred bird is called the ibis, and the name of the god himself was Theuth. He it was who invented numbers and arithmetic and geometry and astronomy, also games with counters and dice, and, most important of all, letters.41 37 E.g. Pittacus of Mytilene advises to observe children playing with tops in order to choose a wife; Callim. Epigr. 1.8 (= Anth. Pal. 7. 89, On Pittacus). On games associated with love magic, Dasen 2016. 38 PGM XVIIa, transl. Betz 1992, 253‒254. 39 Green jasper, London, British Museum G 1986,5‒1,126; CBd 441. With charactêres on the back: Berlin, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Ägyptisches Museum, CBd‒2013 (hoop); green jasper, London, British Museum G 382, ΕΑ 56382, CBd‒440. Nemesis is holding a similar wheel on a haematite, London, British Museum G 43 (EA 56043); CBd‒486. 40 Dark green jasper, Skoluda M02; CBd‒1725. Inscription: δικαίως, “Justly.” Similar scene on a green jasper without Eros: Skoluda M027; CBd‒1726. London, British Museum G 116 (EA 56116); CBd‒488. 41 Pl. Phdr. 274 c‒d: ἤκουσα τοίνυν περὶ Ναύκρατιν τῆς Αἰγύπτου γενέσθαι τῶν ἐκεῖ παλαιῶν τινα θεῶν, οὗ καὶ τὸ ὄρνεον ἱερὸν ὃ δὴ καλοῦσιν Ἶβιν: αὐτῷ δὲ ὄνοµα τῷ δαίµονι εἶναι Θεύθ. τοῦτον

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Fig. 10. Green jasper (12 x 10 x 3 mm). London, British Museum G 1986,5‒1,126. © Trustees of the British Museum.

Fig. 11. Nicolo (13 x 11 x 3 mm), from Karanis, Egypt. Ann Arbor, Kelsey Museum of Archaeology. Maurice Nahman, 1932. KM 26068. © Photo Randal Stegmeyer,University of Michigan Library. Inscription: τύχη.

In the byzantine period, Eustathius repeats the tradition that Hermes invented board games whereas Thoth invented dice.42 4. AGÔN AND TYCHÊ Most likely, however, a love spell is not the concern of the lapis lazuli. The scene displays the divinatory as well as the agonistic value of play. Many Alea board games are carved with inscriptions, each of six words of six letters, composing short senδὴ πρῶτον ἀριθµόν τε καὶ λογισµὸν εὑρεῖν καὶ γεωµετρίαν καὶ ἀστρονοµίαν, ἔτι δὲ πεττείας τε καὶ κυβείας, καὶ δὴ καὶ γράµµατα. 42 Eust. 1397,28.

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tences where play is a metaphor for successful competition. Often they refer to the board as an allegory for the battlefield; the player is compared with a soldier, win with victory over enemies: “The Empire’s strength! The enemy is in chains; let the Romans play,” or “Italy, you rejoice in the defeat of the enemy!,” “The Parthians have been killed, the Briton conquered; Romans, play on.”43 Other inscriptions teach how to manage the reversal of roles, winning and loosing: “The conquered stand up, the beaten withdraw. You don’t know how to play.”44 In the Greek Anthology, a poem develops the comparison between the board and the battlefield:45 On a Game-Board. Your bones, O Palamedes, should have been sawn up and made into instruments of the art that is derived from war. For being in the wars you did invent another war, the war of friends on a wooden field.

The gods are also at play. The use of dice reflects the fact that the issue of the game, as well as of war, is partly determined by divine will, as stated by Aeschylus: “Ares will decide the issue with his dice, kuboi.”46 Throwing dice or knucklebones could also be performed to draw lots (kleroi), in order to obtain an answer from the gods about future.47 The Greek Palamedes invented dice, (kuboi), and dedicated them in the temple of the goddess Tychê in Argos.48 This vision of lots, however, is not fatalist. Play is also a way of negotiating with the divine. Lucian thus describes how a bad throw could reveal a disaster, but that it was allowed to have a second one that could reverse it.49 Personal competences operate as well. Terence expresses the idea: “Life is like a game of dice. If you don’t get the exact throw you want, you have to use your skill and make the best of the one you do get.”50 Some inscriptions on board games convey similar messages. When throws are bad, victory can still occur thanks to strategic qualities: “If the die favours you, I will beat you with skill.”51

43 Parthi occisi Britto uictus ludite; Ferrua 2001, no 2; Schamber 2009, no 111. On this category, see Schädler 1995, 80‒81. Ferrua 2001, nos 104‒108, 110, 124. On the popular literacy of board games, see Purcell 1995; Purcell 2007; Chaniotis 2015. 44 Rome, Catacombs of St. Callixtus; Ferrua 2001, no 25; Schamber 2009, no 97. See also inscriptions comparing the board with the circus: “The game‒board is a Circus: retire when you’re beaten: you don’t know how to play!” (Ferrua 2001, nos 83‒103, 109, 179). 45 Anth. Pal. 15.18; Εἰς τὴν τάβλαν. Ὀστέα σου, Παλάµηδες, ἔδει πρισθέντα γενέσθαι / ὄργανα τῆς τέχνης τῆς ἀπὸ τοῦ πολέµου·/ ἐν πολέµοις γὰρ ἐὼν ἕτερον πόλεµον κατέδειξας, / ἐν ξυλίνῳ σταδίῳ τὸν φιλικὸν πόλεµον. 46 Aesch. Sept. 414: ἔργον δ᾿ ἐν κύβοις Ἄρης κρινεῖ. 47 On cleromantic use of dice or astragaloi, see e.g. Graf 2005, 51‒97; Nollé 2007; Bundrick 2017. 48 Paus. 2.20.3: πέραν δὲ τοῦ Νεµείου Διὸς Τύχης ἐστὶν ἐκ παλαιοτάτου ναός, εἰ δὴ Παλαµήδης κύβους εὑρὼν ἀνέθηκεν ἐς τοῦτον τὸν ναόν. 49 Lucian, Am. 16. On play as a modality of action that aims at providing luck, see Hamayon 2016. 50 Ter. Ad. 4.739‒741: ita uitast hominum quasi quom ludas tesseris. si illud quod maxume opus est iactu non cadit, illud quod cecidit forte, id arte ut corrigas. 51 Rome, Catacombs of St. Callixtus: sitibi tessel/lafaue tegote/studio uincam; Ferrua 2001, no 19; Schamber 2009, no 97. On the similar ideology of the pente grammai scenes depicting Achilles and Ajax on archaic Greek vases, see Schädler 2009; Dasen 2015b (with earlier bibliography).

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The scene depicted on the Seyrig gemstone thus can be interpreted as a ludic metaphor of the Graeco-Roman concept of tychê (“luck”), mixing divine protection and personal skill. The stone itself delivers a message about tychê. The notion of luck is embodied in the material. Lapis lazuli is associated with the Egyptian goddess Hathor and with the Graeco-Roman Aphrodite/Venus who gives her name to the best throw.52 On the gem, the game is not finished, the issue is uncertain. The turricula stands on the side of Anubis who is a powerful provider of luck. In inscriptions dating to the Roman period, Anubis secures victory, listens to prayers and fulfils wishes.53 Like Hermes, he cares for successful passages in the course of life. On a gem in the Kelsey Museum of Archaeology, Anubis is standing, dressed in a short tunic, holding a situla and a was-scepter, with the inscription τύχη (“luck”) (fig. 11; ca 2nd cent. CE).54 The ram-headed man on the right may be identified with Khnum, who is associated with regeneration for the living on “magical gems” of the same period. On a haematite in the Cabinet des Médailles in Paris (fig. 12; ca 2nd cent. CE),55 the ram-headed Khnum displays his power over the beginning of human life. He is sitting, holding in his right hand the uterus in the shape of a cupping-vessel; he protects the growth of the embryo symbolised by Harpocrates crouching on top of the vessel, a hand to his mouth.56

Fig. 12. Haematite, partly broken (18 x 11 x 3 mm). Collection Seyrig, AA.Seyrig.7. Paris, Département des Monnaies, médailles et antiques de la Bibliothèque nationale de France © Photo A. Mastrocinque. 52 On Venus’ throw with knucklebones, see Suet. Aug. 71: “We gambled like old men during the meal both yesterday and today; for when the knucklebones were thrown, whoever turned up the ‘dog’ or the six, put a denarius in the pool for each one of the dice, and the whole was taken by anyone who threw the Venus.” See Schädler 1996, esp. 70‒71. On anchors with the throw of Venus, see Queyrel 1987. 53 Grenier 1977, 23 and 174. 54 Nicolo, Ann Arbor, University of Michigan, Kelsey Museum of Archaeology 26068; CBd‒1031. 55 Mastrocinque 2014, 57, no 133. 56 On Khnum on uterine gems, securing a safe pregnancy and an easy delivery, see Dasen 2015a, esp. 64, 124‒136, fig. 2.6 and 4.9. Anubis as a door opener is active too.

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Fig. 13. Chalcedony (18 x 16 x 6 mm). Paris, Département des Monnaies, médailles et antiques de la Bibliothèque nationale de France 618, Froehner coll. © Photo A. Mastrocinque.

The meaning and function of the Seyrig gem may thus relate to the wish of the owner to safeguard the life course compared with the course of the play, between life (Khnum) and death (Anubis). A similar notion occurs on other “magical gems”. A green chalcedony in the Cabinet des Médailles in Paris (fig. 13; ca 2nd cent. CE)57 is carved with an inscription adapting a Homeric verse: A | ΚΑΙΤΟ | ΤΕΔΗΧΡΥ | CΕΙΑΠΑΤΗ |ΡΕΤΙΤΑΙΝ | ΕΤ̣ΑΛ ̣ Α | ΝΤΑ.58 The text refers to the weighing of the fates of Achilles and Hector: “[...] The Father [Zeus] lifted on high his golden scales, and set therein two fates of grievous death, one for Achilles, and one for horse-taming Hector; then he grasped the balance by the midst and raised it; and down sank the day of doom of Hector, and departed unto Hades.”59 The up and down motion of the scale refers to the same idea as the play. Philo of Alexandria (1st cent. BCE/CE) uses a ludic metaphor for expressing the uncertainty of fate in war and politics: “So much do human affairs twist and change, go backward and forward as on a board game.”60 This vision of the board game as an allegory for the course of life continues in Late Antiquity. Isidore of Seville (560‒636 CE) reports that players could regard the distribution of six fields in three rows as the six ages of life associated with past, present, and future: They maintain that they play with three dice because of the three tenses of the world – present, past and future – because they do not stand still but tumble down. They also hold that the paths on the board are divided into six regions, for the age of a human, and in three lines, for the three tenses. Hence they say that a gaming board is marked off in three lines.61 57 Mastrocinque 2014, 219, no 618. On the use of Homeric verses against evil, see e.g. Lucian, Charon or the Inspectors, 7 (Hom. Il. 5.127 for recovering eyesight). 58 Hom. Il. 22.209: καὶ τότε δὴ χρύσεια πατὴρ ἐτίταινε τάλαντα. 59 Hom. Il. 22.209‒213 (transl. A. T. Murray, Loeb). See the same image in Il. 8.69 about the fate of the Acheans and Trojans. In Greek iconography, Hermes holds the scale with miniature eidola of warriors: Vollkommer 1992, 19‒21, nos 57‒69 (kerostasia). 60 Philo, De Iosepho, 136‒137 (modified transl. of F. H. Colson, Loeb: petteia as boardgame instead of draught-board). 61 Schädler 2009, 81. Isid. Etym. 18.64, De figuris aleae. Quidam autem aleatores sibi videntur physiologice per allegoriam hanc artem exercere, et sub quadam rerum similitudine fingere. Nam tribus tesseris ludere perhibent propter tria saeculi tempora: praesentia, praeterita, futura; quia

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In the Byzantine period, the interpretation of the Alea board becomes cosmic and astrological. The chronicler John of Antioch thus equates the twelve squares to the twelve zodiacal signs, the seven dice to the seven planets, and the pyrgos to the sky.62 5. AN AMULET FOR A MAN? The Seyrig pendant contributes to the on-going discussion about the gendered identity of amulets’ wearers.63 It probably belonged to a man at risk. Men also wore amulets, perhaps less regularly than women and children. Men especially wore amulets in health hazards, such as an acute illness, 64 or when placed in critical situations, such as the battle Plutarch reports about Sulla:65 There is a story that he had a small golden image of Apollo from Delphi, which he was always wont in battle to carry about him on his chest, and that he then kissed it with these words, O Apollo Pythius, who in so many battles has raised to honour and greatness the Fortunate Cornelius Sulla, will you now cast him down, bringing him before the gate of his country, to perish shamefully with his fellowcitizens?

Several inscriptions on board games refer to the uncertainties that a soldier had to face, such as “May you win victoriously, make a successful voyage, and come home safely.”66 The blue colour of the Seyrig stone could also suggest water and the wish for a safe travel of a war leader.67 6. CONCLUSION The Seyrig gem is the typical product of the cosmopolitan society of Roman Egypt. It demonstrates the diffusion of ludic practices, and the knowledge related to “magical

62

63 64 65 66 67

non stant, sed decurrunt. Sed et ipsas vias senariis locis distinctas propter aetates hominum ternariis lineis propter tempora argumentantur. Inde et tabulam ternis discriptam dicunt lineis. Excerptum Salmasianum p. 390, 2 (= K. Müller, FHG, IV p. 550); repeated by the Suda s.v. τάβλα, ὄνοµα παιδιᾶς. Ταύτην ἐφεῦρε Παλαµήδης εἰς διαγωγὴν τοῦ ἑλληνικοῦ στρατοῦ σὺν φιλοσοφίᾳ πολλῇ· τάβλα γάρ ἐστιν ὁ γήινος κόσµος, ιβ' δὲ κάσοι ὁ ζωδιακὸς ἀριθµός, τὸ δὲ ψηφοβόλον καὶ τὰ ἐν αὐτῷ ζ' κοκκία τὰ ζ' ἄστρα τῶν πλανήτων, ὁ δὲ πύργος τὸ ὕψος τοῦ οὐρανοῦ· ἐξ οὗ ἀνταποδίδοται πᾶσι πολλὰ καὶ κακά. Cf. Three graffito-boards scratched on the roof of the temple of Khonsu in Karnak and of Hathor in Dendera (Late period); Crist, DunnVaturi, de Voogt, Ancient Egyptians at Play, 50 and 61. van den Hoek, Feissel and Herrmann 2015, 309‒357. See Pericles during the plague of Athens; Plut. Per. 38.2. Plut. Sull. 29.11.12; Dasen 2015a, 286. From Rome. uictor uincas nabiges felix salbus redias. Ferrua 2001, no 119; Purcell 2007, 21; Schambler 2009, no 12. The emperor Claudius used to play when he travelled: Suet. Claud. 33: Aleam studiosissime lusit, de cuius arte librum quoque emisit, solitus etiam in gestatione ludere, ita essedo alveoque adaptatis ne lusus confunderetur. Cf. Lambrugo 2015, 25‒30.

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gems” in the Roman Empire.68 To Egyptian eyes, the equation of this game with senet is not out of question – and not just because pawns can be in the shape of jackals. Senet was also used for gambling and could symbolise mediation between mortals and gods, the living and the dead. In the 3rd century BCE Demotic tale of Setne, the hero, the prince Setne‒Khamwas enters the tomb of Nineferkaptah in order to steal the book of magic of Thoth. The deceased comes back to life and engages in gambling with Setne‒Khamwas by playing the Senet three times.69 In the Greek tradition, dice are played with the dead or the gods. According to Herodotus, Rhampsinitus thus went to Hades and played dice (συγκυβεύειν), with Demeter. Plutarch, Hermes/Thot played a board game with Selene and won the five additional epagomenal days of the year.70 Abbreviation CBd: The Campbell Bonner Magical Gems Database, edited by Á. M. Nagy. Budapest: Museum of Fine Arts. (http://classics.mfab.hu/talismans).

Bibliography Betz, Hans Dieter, ed. 1992. The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Bundrick, Sheramy Sh. D. 2017. “Altars, Astragaloi, Achilles: Picturing Divination on Athenian Vases.” In Gods, Objects, and Ritual Practice, edited by Sandra Blakely, 53‒74. Atlanta: Lockwood Press. Chaniotis, Angelos. 2015. “Studying Graffiti in an Ancient City: The Case of Aphrodisias.” The Institute Letter. Princeton Institute for Advanced Study. Online publication (https:// www.ias.edu/ideas/2015/chaniotis%E2%80% 93graffitti). Cobbett, Roland E. 2008. “A Dice Tower from Richborough.” Britannia 39: 219‒235. Cobbett, Roland E. 2013. “Turricula: les tours de jeux.” Archeothema 31: 48‒49. Crist, Walter, Dunn-Vaturi, Anne-Elizabeth, and de Voogt, Alex. 2016. Ancient Egyptians at Play: Board Games Across Borders. London: Bloomsbury. Dasen, Véronique. 2015a. Le sourire d’Omphale. Maternité et petite enfance dans l’Antiquité. Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes. Dasen, Véronique. 2015b. “Achille et Ajax: quand l’agôn s’allie à l’alea,” Revue du Mauss 46: 81‒98. Dasen, Véronique. 2016. “Jeux de l’amour et du hasard en Grèce ancienne.” Kernos 29: 73‒100. Dasen, Véronique, ed. 2019. Ludique. Jouer dans l’Antiquité, catalogue de l’exposition, Lugdunum, musée et théâtres romains, 20 juin–1er décembre 2019, Gent: Snoeck. Dasen, Véronique, and Nagy, Árpád M. 2019. “Gems.” In Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic, edited by David Frankfurter. Leiden: Brill, 406–445. 68 On evidence of Ludus duodecim scriptorum in Roman Egypt, see Haensch in press. 69 Lichtheim 1980, 132‒133. 70 Plut. Mor. De Is. et Os. 12: “Later, playing with dice with the moon, he won from her the seventieth part of each of her periods of illumination, and from all the winnings he composed five days, and intercalated them as an addition to the three hundred and sixty days.” Contact between mortals and gods, life and death is also reflected in the story of Rhampsinitus told by Hdt 2.122; Haziza 2009, 138‒142.

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Dunbabin, Katherine M. 1999. Mosaics of the Greek and Roman World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dunbabin, Katherine M. 2003. The Roman Banquet: Images of Conviviality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dunn-Vaturi, Anne-Elizabeth. 2016. “Entre satire et parodie: représentation d’animaux joueurs en Egypte.” In Jeux interdits. La transgression ludique de l’Antiquité à nos jours, edited by Vincent Cousseau, 14‒28. Limoges: Presses universitaires de Limoges. Dzwiza, Kirsten. 2013. Schriftverwendung in antiker Ritualpraxis, anhand der griechischen, demotischen und koptischen Praxisanleitungen des 1.‒7. Jahrhunderts. PhD Dissertation. University of Erfurt (http://www.db‒thueringen.de/servlets/DocumentServlet?id=23500). Faraone, Christopher A. 2010. “A Greek Magical Gemstone from the Black Sea: Amulet or Miniature Handbook?” Kernos 23: 9‒102. Faraone, Christopher A. 2012. “Scribal Mistakes, Handbook Abbreviations and Other Peculiarities on Some Ancient Greek Amulets.” Revista Internacional de Investigación sobre Magia y Astrología Antiguas 12: 63‒74. Ferrua, Antonio. 2001. Tavole lusorie epigrafiche. Città del Vaticano: Pontificio istituto di archeologia cristiana. Frankfurter, David. 1994. “The Magic of Writing and the Writing of Magic.” Helios 21: 198‒221. Gongalves, Vincent. 2013. “Aleae aut tesserae? Les significations d’une opposition ludique dans la Rome d’Ammien Marcellin.” Antiquité Tardive 21: 257‒264. Gordon, Richard. 2014. “Charaktêres between Antiquity and Renaissance: Transmission and Reinvention.” In Les savoirs magiques et leur transmission de l’Antiquité à la Renaissance, edited by Véronique Dasen and Jean-Michel Spieser, 350‒390. Firenze: Edizioni del Galluzzo. Graf, Fritz. 2005. “Rolling the Dice for an Answer.” In Mantikê. Studies in Ancient Divination, edited by Sarah Iles Johnston and Peter T. Struck, 51‒97. Leiden: Brill. Grenier, Jean-Claude. 1977. Anubis alexandrin et romain. Leiden: Brill. Haensch, Rudolf. In press (2019), “Spiele und Spielen im römischen Ägypten: Die Zeugnisse der verschiedenen Quellenarten.” Archimedes 6, Games and Play in Antiquity. Identity and Multiculturality edited by Véronique Dasen and Ulrich Schädler. Hamayon, Roberte. 2016. Why We Play. An Anthropological Study. Chicago: Hau Books. Haziza, Typhaine. 2009. Le kaléidoscope hérodotéen. Images, imaginaire et représentations de l’Égypte à travers le Livre II d’Hérodote. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Horn, Heinz G. 1989. “Se per me misit, ni nisi vota feret. Ein römischer Spielturm aus Froitzheim.” Bonner Jahrbücher 189: 139‒160. Kondoleon, Christine, ed. 2000. Antioch: The Lost Ancient City. Exhibition Catalogue. Princeton: Princeton University Press and Worcester Art Museum. Lafaye, Georges. 1900. S.v. “Latrunculi.” In Dictionnaire des Antiquités grecques et romaines. III, 2, edited by Charles Daremberg and Edmond Saglio, 992‒995. Paris: Hachette. Lambrugo, Claudia. 2015. “Giocare per terra e.... per mare!” In I materiali della Collezione Archeologica “Giulio Sambon” di Milano, I, Tra alea e agòn: giochi di abilità e di azzardo, edited by Claudia Lambrugo, Fabrizio Slavazzi and Anna Maria Fedeli, 25‒30. Firenze: All’Insegna del Giglio. Levi, Doro. 1947. Antioch Mosaic Pavements. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lichtheim, Miriam. 1980. Ancient Egyptian Literature. III, The Late Period. Berkeley: University of California Press. Mastrocinque, Attilio. 2004. Sylloge Gemmarum Gnosticarum I. Roma: Istituto Poligrafico dello Stato. Mastrocinque, Attilio. 2014. Les intailles magiques du département des Monnaies, Médailles et Antiques. Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France. Michel, Simone. 2001. Die magischen Gemmen im Britischen Museum. London: British Museum Pr. Michel, Simone. 2004. Die magischen Gemmen. Zu Bildern und Zauberformeln auf geschnittenen Steinen der Antike und Neuzeit, Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Minervini, Giulio. 1853. Bullettino archeologico Napoletano. N.S. 1, 192. Nollé, Johannes. 2007. Kleinasiatische Losorakel: Astragal-und Alphabetchresmologien der hochkaiserzeitlichen Orakelrenaissance. München: C.H. Beck.

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Parlasca, Klaus. 2010. “Anubis mit dem Schlüssel in der Kaiserzeitlichen Grabkunst Ägyptens.” In Isis on the Nile, Egyptian Gods in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt, edited by Laurent Bricault and Miguel John Versluys, 221‒232. Leiden: Brill. Peirano, Irene. 2012. The Rhetoric of the Roman Fake: Latin Pseudepigrapha in Context. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Piccione, Peter A. 2007. “The Egyptian Game of Senet and the Migration of the Soul.” In Ancient Board Games in Perspective: Papers from the 1990 British Museum Colloquium, with Additional Contributions edited by Irving L. Finkel, 54‒63. London: British Museum Press. Purcell, Nicholas. 1995. “Literate Games: Roman Urban Society and the Game of Alea.” Past & Present 147: 3‒37. Purcell, Nicholas. 2007. “Inscribed Imperial Roman Gaming Boards.” In Ancient Board Games in Perspective: Papers from the 1990 British Museum Colloquium, with Additional Contributions edited by Irving L. Finkel, 90‒97. London: British Museum Press. Queyrel, François. 1987. “Le motif des quatre osselets figurés sur des jas d’ancre antiques.” Archaeonautica 7: 207‒212. Roueché, Charlotte. 2007. “Gameboards and Pavement Markings at Aphrodisias.” In Ancient Board Games in Perspective: Papers from the 1990 British Museum Colloquium, with Additional Contributions edited by Irving L. Finkel, 100‒105. London: British Museum Press. Salzman, Michele R. 1990. On Roman Time: the Codex‒Calendar of 354 and the Rhythms of Urban Life in Late Antiquity. Berkeley – Los Angeles: University of California Press. Schädler, Ulrich. 1994. “Latrunculi – ein verlorenes strategisches Brettspiel der Römer.” In Homo Ludens. Der spielende Mensch, IV, Brettspiele, edited by Günther G. Bauer, 447‒67. Salzburg: Katzbichler. Schädler, Ulrich. 1995. “XII Scripta, Alea, Tabula – New Evidence for the Roman History of Backgammon.” In New Approaches to Board Games Research, edited by Alexander J. de Voogt, 73‒98. Leiden: International Institute for Asian Studies. Schädler, Ulrich. 1996. “Spielen mit Astragalen.” Archäologischer Anzeiger1: 61‒73. Schädler, Ulrich. 2002. “The Talmud, Firdausi and the Greek game ‘City’.” In Step by Step. Proceedings of the 4th Colloquium Board Games in Academia, edited by Jean Retschitzki and Rosita Haddad‒Zubel, 91‒102. Fribourg: Editions Universitaires. Schädler, Ulrich. 2009. “Ajax et Achille jouant à un jeu de table.” In L’Art du Jeu. 75 ans de loterie nationale, edited by Annemie Buffels, 64‒65. Gand: Fonds Mercator. Schamber, Peter. 2009. XII Scripta: Compilation, Analysis and Interpretation. PhD. Thesis. Depaw University. Smith, Mark. 2017. Following Osiris: Perspectives on the Osirian Afterlife from Four Millennia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. van den Hoek, Annewies, Feissel, Denis, and Herrmann, John. 2015. “More Lucky Wearers: the Magic of Portable Inscriptions.” In The Materiality of Magic, edited by Jan Bremmer and Dietrich Boschung, 309‒357. Padeborn: Wilhelm Fink Verlag. Vollkommer, Rainer. 1992. s.v. “Ker,” Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (LIMC) VI. Zurich and Munich, Artemis Verlag, 14‒23. Zwierlein‒Diehl, Erika. 2014. “Magical Gems in the Medieval and Early-Modern Periods: Tradition, Transformation, Innovation.” In Les savoirs magiques et leur transmission de l’Antiquité à la Renaissance, edited by Véronique Dasen and Jean-Michel Spieser, 97‒130. Firenze: Edizioni del Galluzzo. Zwierlein-Diehl, Erika. 2019. “Dating Magical Gems.” In Magical Gems in their Contexts, edited by Kata Endreffy, Árpád M. Nagy and Jeffrey Spier. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 305–339.

THE USE OF DIVINE IMAGES IN THE DREAM-DIVINATION RECIPES OF THE GREEK MAGICAL PAPYRI Christopher A. Faraone, University of Chicago A Greek magical handbook in London has a drawing of bird (fig. 1) surrounded by a swirl of text that comprises an invocation and a brief bit of instruction (PGM VII 300). The text helpfully identifies the species of bird: Sachmouozozo, the one who thunders, who shakes heaven and earth, who swallowed the serpent, who hour by hour raises the disk of the sun and surrounds the moon, Chônsou Ochcha Ensou Obiberoêsos. Write on your left hand with myrrh ink these things surrounding the ibis.

Fig. 1. Drawing of ibis at PGM VII 300 by R. Hernandez Martin used with permission.

Because this recipe lacks a rubric or introduction, its purpose is unstated, but I will suggest, in fact, that the ibis drawn here serves as an image of the god Hermes‒Thoth and that we are supposed to go to sleep with the drawing pressed to our left ear and receive a dream in which the god speaks to us. I will support this suggestion by adducing a series of dream-divination recipes – all of them dating, like this one, to the 4th or 5th century CE – that involve the creation of a divine image that will somehow be a conduit for prophetic speech in the context of a dream. There are three basic types of images: (i) a drawing in special ink on a hand or a cloth, (ii) an engraved ring-stone, or (iii) a miniature statue set up in the house at whose feet we are to lay our head as we fall asleep. With the image of the ibis in mind, we will also see that the blood, eggs and even the windpipes of birds play important roles in the manufacture of these images. Despite their variety, in the end I shall argue that all of these rituals domesticate and miniaturise the traditional practice of sleeping on the ground in the sanctuary of a special god, like Asclepius or Imhotep, in order to receive a reliable dream directly from the god depicted in the image. We shall also see that, although this kind of ritual is probably the origin of all of spells under discussion, these images were also easily adapted to the performance of other rituals with similar prophetic goals, such as lamp-divination and necromancy. To establish the basic type, I begin by examining two short recipes that instruct us to carve a ring with a divine image, place it on our finger and then fall asleep. I then move on to cases where a home-made statuette of Hermes or a drawing of Hermes‒Thoth are used in similar fashion and for a similar purpose. I close with some

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recipes in which the image of the Egyptian god Bes is painted upon a linen cloth or a hand and then held close to the head during sleep. Although in recent years scholars have discussed separately and in detail the recipes involving Hermes or those involving Bes, they have missed the common ritual threads by focusing primarily or even exclusively on the deities and the prayers used to invoke them. In what follows, however, we will reverse the process: focus on the ritual apparatus and actions rather than the invocations or the precise identities of the gods invoked. 1. RINGS WITH IMAGES OF IMHOTEP AND SARAPIS We begin with a papyrus recipe for preparing a special ring in PGM VII 628‒42: Take a lizard from a field and let it down into oil of lilies until it is deified. Then engrave the Asclepius in Memphis upon a ring of iron from a leg fetter and put it into the oil of lilies. When you use it, take the ring and show it to the pole-star saying 7 times ‘Menôphri who sits near the Cherubim, send me the true Asclepius, and not some deceitful daimôn instead of the god!’ Then take the incense burner wherever you are going to sleep, burn 3 grains of frankincense and carry the ring around in the smoke of the incense saying 7 times the [spell]: ‘Chauaps Ôaeiaps Ôaisly Siphtha (= son of Ptah), Lord Asclepius appear!’ Wear the ring on the index finger of your right hand.

Despite the name of the Greek god Asclepius, this recipe clearly comes from the Egyptian realm: the ring is deified by a typical Egyptian drowning ritual1 and we know from other sources that the Asclepius worshipped in Memphis in the Roman period was, in fact, Imhotep, the deified Egyptian architect and physician, who was eventually equated with Thoth, the son of Ptah.2 His images seem to be of two sorts. The earliest, which date back to late Pharaonic times, depict him as a scribe, seated, wearing a skull-cap and reading a scroll on his lap.3 Several hundred high-quality bronze statuettes of him in this pose survive at Saqqara and Memphis from Thirteenth Dynasty. But it was not until the Roman period that he becomes a popular god for the masses, who used similar images, albeit often of very low quality and perhaps even mass produced. The Greeks, however, referred to him in their inscriptions and books as Asclepius and depicted him as a standing bearded man, looking much like Asclepius.4 Chances are, then, that if a Greek read this passage, he would think of this bearded image, which does occasionally turn up on magical amulets, although these amulets are more concerned with 1 2

3 4

Drowning is a form of deification in the Egyptian world well known to the Greeks since the time of Herodotus; see Griffith 1909. In the Ptolemaic and Roman periods, Memphis was the centre of his popular cult, which included, it seems, dream incubation on matters related to health and healing; he was the one “who heals illness, who cures limbs.” From the time of Augustus, for example, a dedicatory inscription of the head priest explains how the god appeared to him in a dream and promised that his wife would bear the child they were longing for. See Wildung 1977, 31‒82. For his common title “Imhotep the great, son of Ptah,” see ibid. pp. 38‒39, 61‒63, 73‒74 etc. Wildung 1977, 43‒46 and 51‒52. Wildung 1977, 39‒43.

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healing than prophecy. In the passage quoted above, two short invocations follow the instructions for manufacture, and they secure the identification of Imhotep. In the first, we invoke a superior god named Menophri, “the Memphite one,” equated with Jahweh (“who sits near the Cherubim”) to send the true Asclepius,5 and then we must ask “son of Ptah, Lord Asclepius”6 himself to appear, whilst we hold the ring over the burning incense.7 This recipe also lacks a rubric and after telling us to place the ring on the index finger of our right hand, it does not explain precisely what we are to do next. The anxiety about deceitfulness and the final scene in the bedroom do suggest, however, that we are to go to sleep so that the god can come to us and tell us truthful things. The second recipe for a prophetic ring follows a similar procedure and also lacks a rubric:8 On a jasper-like agate engrave Sarapis seated in front9 and holding an Egyptian royal scepter and on the scepter an ibis, and on the back of the stone inscribe the name and keep it shut up (i.e. in the setting of a ring). When the need [arises] hold the ring in your left hand and in your right a spray of olive and laurel [twigs], waving them toward the lamp while saying the spell 7 times. Then you put [the ring] on the index finger of your left hand with the stone facing inwards, and thus withdraw without speaking to anyone and go to sleep holding the stone to your left ear.

The description of this gem as a “jasper-like agate” is vague and in fact typical of the haphazard typologies of gems and minerals in the Greek world,10 but since both Pliny and Dioscorides tell us that jaspers were popular media for magical amulets, the recipe here probably refers to a jasper gem.11 As it turns out, the image described here of Sarapis enthroned with his sceptre survives in nearly eighty intaglios of Roman date.12 Roughly one-third of these gems 5 6 7

R.K. Ritner apud GMPT VII 635. For Siphtha = “son of Ptah” = Thoth, see R.K. Ritner apud GMPT VII 640. For the close relationship in PGM divination spells between a superior Jahweh ‒ or Zeus-like deity, who sends an inferior god or angel, like Apollo or Michael, to visit and speak directly to mortals, see Faraone 2004 and 2005. 8 PGM V 447–58. 9 The participle prokathêmenon is translated in GMPT as “facing forward (?),” but the word essentially means “seated before,” for example, in front of a city gate or an assembled people – here it probably describes a famous cult statue that is both “seated” and “presiding” with authority. See below for further discussion. 10 For a full discussion of these problems, see Rapp 2002, 71 (“few areas of lithic nomenclature are as confusing”) and Oldershaw 2008, 194‒206. 11 Plin. nat. hist. 37.169 notes with disapproval a book on stones written by Zachalias, who claimed that jasper was beneficial, if worn by litigants or petitioners appearing before a king, and that it was also useful against eye- and liver-disease. He also mentions at nat. hist. 37.118 the claims of the “Magi” that a special kind of “air-colored” jasper was “useful for those who harangue the assembly.” Dioscorides MM 5.142, however, does not limit these beliefs to the Magoi, when he says that “everyone thinks that jasper stones were protective amulets (phylacteria) when tied on, and when tied around the thigh, were promoters of quick birth.” 12 The god appears in two different poses on Roman-period gems: there are some twenty-seven examples of the god facing the viewer and twice that many in profile. Veymiers 2009, 280‒93, with a few additions in (2011) describes three different sub-types: II.AA 1‒26 (trónant de face),

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carry magical words or motifs like the ouroborus that suggest they were used as amulets or for some other ritual purpose (fig. 2).13 On six of these magical gems an ibis perches on Sarapis’ sceptre as we can see in (fig. 3),14 four of which can be directly linked with some divinatory or prophetic purpose. Of the latter, the first is a white agate with an image of Zeus‒Sarapis enthroned on the obverse holding a thunderbolt and gesturing toward an eagle, both of which are symbols of Zeus; but the kalathos on the god’s head and the three‒headed dog at his feet assure us that he is Zeus‒Sarapis.15

Fig. 2. Gemstone depicting Sarapis enthroned with Cerebus; BM 30, photograph of the author.

The inscription on the back of the gem begins16 ὦ Ζεῦ Δωδωνῆ (= Δωδωναῖε), Δαώνα (“O Dodonian Zeus, Dione”), invoking the sacred couple, whose names appear most frequently on the hundreds of lead oracle tablets found at Dodona.17 This gem, in

13 14 15 16 17

II.AB 1‒38 (trónant de trois-quarts) and II.E 1‒16 (trónant dans une composition magique). In the last category, all of the images are “de trois-quarts.” For simplicity’s sake, I refer to the threequarter types as profile: they have a profile head, but their torso and legs are turned slightly toward the viewer. In addition to the 17 listed in Veymiers 2009 and 2011 magical type II.E – see previous note – there are 8 others with magical names: II.AA 8, AB 3, 12, 13, 17, 27, 32 and 43. The ibis appears only six times on the god’s sceptre on gems that also have magical words on them (II.E.2, 6, 7, 14, 16 and 17). On two other gems with magical words we find a herald’s staff with two birds, E.5 and 13. Veymiers 2009, II.AB 32, which appeared on the antiquities market in Monte Carlo in 1982. See Faraone, 2017. Plutarch’s description (Sulla, 29.11‒12) of a small, golden statue of Pythian Apollo owned by Sulla, suggests that the Roman general used a miniature pendant of the god to similar effect; see Faraone, forthcoming. See, for example, Dakare et. al. 2013, nos. 2220B, 2438B, 3293B and 3463A for ὦ Ζεῦ Δωδωναῖε, and nos. 2261A, 2421A and 3113A for ὦ Ζεῦ Δωδωναῖε καὶ Διώνα (or “Διώνη”). Indeed, most of

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short, assimilates Sarapis to a much earlier oracular divinity, Zeus at Dodona, and was therefore most likely used for divination, like the gem in the recipe.

Fig. 3. Gemstone depicting Sarapis enthroned with ibis sceptre, scorpion and crocodile; Bonn 33, photograph of the author.

Three other gems depicting the enthroned Sarapis were apparently also designed for divination. They are carved from gem-media commonly used for magical amulets – a hematite or magnetite gem from Syria and lapis gems in New York and London18 – and they carry magical inscriptions that are quite similar to each other and to a part of a series of magical names recommended in yet another recipe, this one called “Sarapic Oracle,” which is found in the same magical handbook that contains the recipe for the Sarapis ring (PGM V.1‒10); the invocation begins: “I call upon you, O Zeus, Helios, Mithras, Sarapis unconquered, ….”19 Here, then, despite the rubric that names Sarapis alone, we can see that the deity is also initially addressed as Zeus. The fact, moreover, that no other magical gem or magical papyrus carries this invocation suggests that it was limited to gems carved with an image of Sarapis on his throne and used for mantic purposes. It is, moreover, important to stress that this image of Sarathe tablets requesting answers to oracular questions reference the two gods in the accusative or dative case in the following stereotyped manner: “Zeus Naos (or “Naios”) and Dione.” But there are occasionally vocatives, like those that appear on the gem, for example, Parke 1967, nos. 2 (Δέσποτα ἄναξ Ζεῦ Νάιε και Διώνη) and no. 23 (Ζεῦ, Διώνη). The spelling of Dione’s name as Δαώνα is admittedly odd, but the equally strange form Δηώνα appears at least thrice on the tablets: Parke 1967, 266‒67 and Lhôte 2006, nos. 49, 65 and 103. 18 Mouterde 1930‒1931, 83‒85 no. 15 = Veymiers 2009, no. II.AA 8 (frontal image on a hematite or magnetite gem from Syria and now in a private collection in Hamburg); AB 13 (three-quarter turned image on a lapis-lazuli gem in the Metropolitan Museum in New York); and BM 32 (frontal image with radiant solar nimbus on a lapis-lazuli gem in the British Museum). For full discussion of the Greek texts, see Faraone, 2020. 19 This papyrus recipe is basically a long invocation and although it requires a child, a lamp, a saucer and a bench, we are not given any instructions about how to use them. For the practice of divination by having a child stare into the flame of an oil lamp, see Johnston (2001) and Zografou (2010).

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pis enthroned is thought to imitate the monumental statue of the god that stood in his temple in Alexandria, a sanctuary where people, especially the sick, often slept in anticipation of a curative or prophetic dream. The recipe for the ring in PGM V with the same design of Sarapis enthroned tells us to fall asleep with the ring placed against our ear, suggesting that it and the four extant rings discussed above imitated the same temple ritual, but did so in a way that allowed the owner of the ring to remain at home and dream, rather than spend the night in the god’s sanctuary. This may seem far-fetched, but we have, in fact, one additional piece of evidence from outside of Egypt that the inhabitants of the Roman Empire wore rings bearing miniature images of oracular gods for divinatory purposes. In Lucian’s satiric dialogue Lover of Lies the superstitious main character Eucrates – in a conversation about prophecy – rebukes a skeptical interlocutor and says the following:20 What is your opinion about that sort of thing – I mean oracles, prophecies, outcries of men under divine possession or voices heard from inner shrines, or verses uttered by a maiden who foretells the future? Of course, you disbelieve those sorts of things, too! For my own part, I say nothing of the fact that I have a holy ring with an image of Apollo Pythius engraved on the seal, and that this Apollo speaks to me, lest I seem to you to be bragging beyond belief.

Eucrates, the wealthy Corinthian in whose house the dialogue takes place, boasts that he possesses a “holy ring” bearing an image of the foremost prophetic god in the Greek world, and that this ring somehow allows the god to talk directly to him.21 Eucrates is, of course, the fool of the dialogue and Lucian a satirist prone to great exaggeration; however, the extant Sarapis gems with oracular texts and the two PGM recipes for prophetic rings all suggest that in this case, at least, the satire is based on a fairly popular practice. Eucrates’ ring, given the wealth of its owner and the secondsophistic date of Lucian, was most probably a gem intaglio set into the gold ring, with a divine image on one side and, perhaps, a divine name of the reverse. 2. IMAGES OF HERMES OR THOTH IN STATUETTE OR ON CLOTH Because they lack rubrics and detailed instructions, the two PGM ring-recipes discussed in the previous section are not explicit about their divinatory focus, but this is not the case in the recipe for a small domestic statuette found in PGM V 370‒446, just before the recipe for the Sarapis ring. First come the detailed instructions for making a dough (phurêma) of wheat meal, earth and other vegetal materials, as well as the egg of an ibis. The recipe then continues as follows (PGM V 370‒390):

20 Lucian, Lover of Lies 38, Loeb translation with minor changes. The manuscripts are slightly confused as to whether the ring or the seal of the ring is engraved, either of which supports the argument being put forth. 21 The reverse of a green jasper gem in London (BM 68) has on its reverse an image of a male, probably Apollo, holding a staff or an arrow and leaning on a tripod. The inscription around it reads: “Be favorable to me, Proserius, with respect to whatever I undertake to do, and be for me a promoter of success!” For this text, see Daniel 2003, 139‒40.

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[These ingredients are made] into the figure of Hermes wearing a mantle …. Let Hermes be holding a herald’s staff. Write the spell on hieratic papyrus or a goose’s windpipe … and insert it into the figure for the purpose of inspiration (enpneumatôsis). When you want to use it, take some papyrus and write the spell and the matter (i.e. about which the prophecy is needed), clip off hairs from your head and roll them into the papyrus, binding it with a piece of purple cord, and put on the outside of it an olive branch and place it at the feet of the Hermes….

Here we are to make a statuette of Hermes as the conductor of dreams with his traveling cloak and herald’s staff. We are then told what to do with his image (lines 390‒99): And let the figure lie in a lime-wood shrine. When you want to use it, place the shrine by your head along with the god and recite, as you burn on an altar incense, earth from a grain bearing field and one lump of rock salt. Let it (i.e. the shrine and the image within) rest beside your head and go to sleep after saying the spell, without giving an answer to anyone.

The spell that follows these instructions begins with a long and mostly hexametrical hymn to Hermes, which ends with the request (lines 420‒21): “I ask you, lord, be gracious to me and without deceit appear and prophesy to me!” This is a recipe, then, for constructing in our home a miniature sanctuary – with an altar, a lime ‒ wood temple, and a cult statue moulded from dough – for the purposes of encouraging prophetic dreams, in which Hermes himself is expected to appear. Parallels with the previous recipes include the anxiety about possible deceit, the stipulation not to talk to anyone, when we are going off to sleep, and the role of birds: here the egg of an ibis and the windpipe of a goose are both used in the manufacture of the statue. A much simpler version of this spell – and one without any image – appears in another papyrus handbook and it begins like this (PGM VII 664‒66): Dream-Request Spell: Take a linen strip and on it write with myrrh ink the matter and wrap it in an olive branch and place it beside your head beneath the left side of your head and go to sleep, pure on a rush mat on the ground while saying the spell 7 times to the lamp.

The treatment and placement of the papyrus and the olive branch closely follow the previous recipe, as does the command to go to sleep and the invocation, which uses the same hexametrical hymn to Hermes, followed by the same string of magical names. In this case, however, instead of proposing that Hermes come to us, it asks: “And to an uncorrupted youth reveal a sign and send him your true skill in prophecy!” The earlier mention of a logos spoken over a lamp and the mention here of an uncorrupted youth both suggest that the author of this recipe has adapted a spell originally designed for dream divination and has used it instead in another popular kind of divination ritual called lycnomancy (“lamp-divination) that involved an inquirer, an uncorrupted child and a lamp into whose flame the boy is to gaze.22 But regardless of its precise use, this seems to be a less expensive version of previous recipe: here we have no need of a miniature cult statue, temple or altar. Indeed, all that is necessary is

22 Johnston 2001, Bortolani 2008, Zografou 2010, Dosoo 2017 and Nagel 2019.

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a papyrus inscribed with an oracular request, which is then tied up in the same way to an olive branch and placed at the left side of the head. A third dream divination spell also involves a kind of Hermes and it, too, is quite short (PGM XII 144‒52): Request for a dream, an exact method for all things: Using blood from a quail, draw on a strip of linen the god Hermes, standing upright with the face of an ibis. Then with myrrh write also the name and say the formula: ‘Come to me here quickly, you who have the power. I call upon you, the one appointed by the god of gods over the spirits to show this to me in dreams…. Prophesy concerning this, concerning all things [about which] I inquire!’

Fig. 4. Gemstone in Paris depicting Thoth with ibis-head D&D 194 (= LIM 98), photograph of A. Mastrocinque used with permission.

Here we have an image not of the Greek god Hermes, but of the Egyptian god Thoth, depicted as he often was with the head of an ibis, as we can see in the gemstone in fig. 4. Thoth was, of course, a god often equated with Hermes in Roman Egypt, and in this recipe we have explicit references to dream-divination, both in the rubric and in the final request that the god appear in a dream and prophesy about a certain subject. And as birdwatchers, we should also note that in addition to its ibis-head this image is to be inscribed on the linen cloth with the blood of yet another bird: the quail. What we lack here, of course, are the explicit instructions found in the other recipes that we are to lie on the ground with our head or ear near the image and go to sleep. We have seen, therefore, a series of recipes for miniature divine images used in the home to procure prophetic dreams. In the case of the Sarapis ring, we were able to confirm the prophetic use of rings in areas outside of Egypt and at an earlier time period by looking at a passage from Lucian and also at the four extant gems of Imperial date that carry invocations that suggest prophetic use. We likewise know that divinatory statuettes similar to the Hermes and Hermes‒Thoth images were being made by others in Late-Antiquity, because they were apparently discussed by the theurgist Porphyry. Only fragments of a few of these recipes have survived, including one for a statuette of Hecate made from the plant named rue, purified in a special

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manner and then consecrated at night during a waxing moon by a repeated prayer that ends with the request: “Appear to me in sleep!”23 3. IMAGES OF BES DRAWN ON THE HAND AND ON CLOTH Although the ring-images of Sarapis and Imhotep discussed earlier in Section 1 present clear cases of the domestication and miniaturization of civic cults, this can hardly be true in the case of Bes, whose images from quite early on were often present in the bedroom and already in miniature form, as a god who protected sleepers from a variety of dangers.24 Two similar recipes for divinatory images of Bes survive among the Greek magical papyri. We begin with the longer and more complete version (PGM VIII 64‒69): Request for a dream from Besa: On your left hand draw Besa in the way shown below. Put around your hand a black cloth of Isis and go to sleep without giving answer to anyone. The remainder of the cloth wrap around your neck.

Fig. 5. Drawing of Bes at PGM VIII 111 by R. Hernandez Martin used with permission.

Fig. 6. Roman Era Relief of Bes with sword.

We are told, then, to draw a figure on our hand and cover it and our neck with “a black cloth of Isis,” a cloth that scholars have not yet identified. One should note that if the inscribed hand were placed next to the ear or head like the Sarapis ring, it would be quite easy to cover both hand and neck with a single cloth. And despite the apparently female form of the name “Besa” used in the rubric, we can see from the description at the end of the recipe that the male god Bes was meant (lines 105‒10):

23 Porphyry in Eusebius, Praep Evang 5.12; for discussion, see S. Eitrem [and F. Graf] 1991, 179. 24 Bortolani 2015, 268‒69.

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Christopher A. Faraone What you draw is of this sort: a naked man standing with a diadem on his head and in his right hand a sword that by means of a bent [arm] rests on his neck, and in the left hand a wand. If he prophesies to you, wipe off your hand with rose perfume. This is the drawing for the procedure:

At this point we do indeed find a helpful drawing (fig. 5), which seems to be a schematic and poorly rendered version of the typical image of Bes in the Roman period, who threatens the viewer with his sword (fig. 6). And as we saw in the other recipes for divine drawings, we must use a special ink, that places the blood of birds prominently as the first items on the list (70‒73): “This is the ink with which you draw (i.e. the figure): Blood of a crow, blood of a white dove, myrrh, black writing ink, cinnabar, sap of the mulberry, rainwater, juice of single-stemmed wormwood and vetch.” As in the ritual involving the images of Hermes, a hexametrical hymn follows, which – we can presume – was to be recited whilst we fall asleep. This hymn, however, seems to have been borrowed from a different kind of recipe, because it addresses Helios, rather than Bes, and ends with a different kind of request (80‒82): “If you go to the depths of the earth and reach the region of the dead, send up a truthful prophet out of that innermost abode!” Just as the second Hermes recipe begins with a rubric advertising it as a dream-request spell, but apparently ends as a spell for lamp divination, this Bes recipe begins with the same rubric for dream divination, but is then transformed into a necromantic ritual. The idea seems to be that, because the sun-god Helios, in good Egyptian and Mesopotamian fashion, goes through the underworld each night, he is able find a prophetic ghost and send it up to the person who is performing the spell.25 The next section provides yet another possibility for using the same image of Bes and the black cloth of Isis: it is introduced by the condition “if you wish to call him for a direct vision” and there follows a recipe for creating a special lamp. This second version of the spell uses a different prayer composed in prose, not hexameters, and is directed to the “headless god,” the akephalos theos (PGM VIII 95‒104): I call upon you, the headless god, having a face beside your feet, the one who hurls lightening and thunders; you are the one whose mouth is continually full of fire, the one placed over Necessity. I call upon you … the one lying on a coffin of myrrh, having resin and asphalt as an elbow cushion…. Rise up, daimon! …. You are the god who gives oracles!

Scholars agree that this god lying in a coffin with his special elbow cushions is Osiris, but I would argue that there is no need to equate this “headless god” directly with Bes, because Osiris is simply a more powerful “corpse” than the “prophetic” one that Helios was asked to send up in the previous hymn.26

25 Faraone 2004, 213‒32 and Bortolani 2016, 1‒18 both discuss the syncretism evident in the magical papyri of late-antiquity, which by the fourth century assimilates most male deities to the sungod of Egypt and female gods to the moon goddess of the Near East. 26 Bortolani 2015, gives a full discussion of this recipe, pointing out various theories about the “headless god” and the possible connections between Bes and Osiris at Abydos, where there was a functioning oracle of Bes in Roman times.

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Our final recipe for a Bes image is an abbreviated version of the last and it has the same rubric. It also begins with a slightly corrupt recipe for the same ink from the blood of a dove and a crow (PGM VII 222‒28): “Request for a dream from Besa: Take red ochre [and blood] of a white dove and likewise of a crow, also sap of the mulberry, juice of single-stemmed wormwood, cinnabar and rainwater and write with it and with black writing ink and recite the formula to the lamp at evening.” What follows, however, adds some important details missing from the longer version (PGM VII 228‒33): Take a black [cloth] of Isis and put it around your hand. When you are almost awake the god will come and speak to you and he will not go away unless you wipe off your hand with spikenard or something of roses and smear the picture (i.e. of the god) with the black of Isis. And put the cloth of Isis around your neck so he will not strike you.

Here we get a description consistent with dream divination, because the early morning, when we are almost awake, is a time when we have our most vivid and most easily remembered dreams. In this description, however, we see the ambiguity that we find elsewhere in Greek thought between an appearance of a god in a dream and his appearance in a theophany, in which the god meets with a person whilst they are awake. We also learn that at the end of the encounter we should use the Isis cloth to wipe away the god’s image and thus presumably break contact with him. The same cloth, moreover, whilst resting on our sleeping necks apparently served as an amulet of sorts to protect ourselves from the god’s blows – presumably delivered by the sword that Bes traditionally brandishes. This recipe ends with an invocation entitled “Formula to be recited to the lamp” (PGM VII 244‒48), which is, for the most part, the same prayer to the headless god that we saw at the end of the previous recipe, with one important addition, which begins (244): “You are the headless god, the one who has his head and his face beside his feet, dim-sighted Besa. We are not ignorant.” The longer version of the spell did not directly equate Bes and the Headless demon, but here it seems that the composer of this more compact version felt obliged to make this equation. Much ink has been spilt trying to understand this connection, but I think it was simply another one of these on-the-spot improvisations created by practitioners and scribes who, somewhat like an orally composing poet, can enlarge, shrink or otherwise adapt a ceremony depending on the wishes and budget of the client. The final request in this shorter PGM VII recipe also differs from that in the longer version (247‒48): “Come, Lord, and without deceit or treachery prophesy to me concerning the so-and-so matter, now, now, quickly, quickly!”27 We can see more clearly the parallels with the other recipes discussed above, if we turn to the chart beneath. 27 A scarab gem from Tusculum bears an inscription with a similar request: “Prophesy to me on this night truly”; see Wünsch 1899, 294‒9. There is also an inscription on a tile that seems to testify to a similar kind of ritual; see Mastrocinque 2005, 243‒248. See Martín Hernández (2015) 48 after comparing the PGM V and PGM VII Bes recipes concludes: “the spell on PGM VIII was a deliberate amplification of a simpler recipe, like the one of PGM VII…”

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Divine images used in the dream incubation recipes IMAGE (bird)

SPEECH

RITUAL

TEXT

SLEEP?

Ibis (=Thoth?) (VII 300) “Asclepius” = Imhotep (VII 628–42)

drawing of ibis on the left hand with myrrh ink engraved on iron ring; worn on right index finger

(none)

(none)

(none)

Sarapis enthroned: (V 447–58)

engraved w/ ibis-sceptre on an agate, for a ring; worn on left index finger engraved on ring-stone

(i) ask Menophri to send “Asclepius” (ii) ask “Asclepius” to appear prose prayer “reveal what I want”

drown lizard in oil; then submerge ring; show to north star; wave ring over incense wave ring & branches of olive/laurel over lamp

long invocation of Sachmouozozo, the one who thunders (none mentioned)

(NA)

dough statue w/ mantel and caduceus in limewood temple (ibis egg and goose windpipe in dough) (none)

statue made of rue in a shrine of laurel-wood drawing of ibisfaced HermesThoth (ink = quail blood) Bes drawn on left hand (ink contains the bllod of a dove and a crow)

Apollo Pythius (Lucian) Hermes (V 370–446)

Hermes (VII 664–85) (adapted for lampdivination) Hecate (Porphyrius) HermesThoth (XII 144–56 Bes (VIII 64– 110) (adapted) for necromancy)

Bes (VII 222– 49)

(same as above)

RUBRIC/ PURPOSE (no rubric or request)

(not explicit)

(no rubric) “send” and “appear”

magical name (of the god?) on reverse of gem

while holding hand to left ear

(no rubric)

(NA)

(NA)

(NA)

(i) ex. hymn to Hermes (ii) magical names

burn incense, earth and rock salt on altar

names & request (on papyrus tied to an olive branch w/ purple cord and placed at the feet of statue)

with head beside temple and statue

Apollo speaks to him (no rubric) “prophesy to me”

version of same ex. hymn (7x); “prophesy to a boy”

(none)

request (on linen strip wrapped around (?) olive branch

on a rush mat on the ground

To obtain dream revelation

prayer that H. “appear to me in sleep” (none)

“purified”

NA

appearance in dream

(no explicit)

Request for a dream

over lamp

repeated prayer at night by the waxing moon name & request “come & in dream prophesy to me” (ink = myrrh) (none)

on rush mat; inscribed hand and neck covered w / black cloth

Dream oracle of Besa

same

(none)

same + wipe away image when awake

(same)

(i) hymn to Helios “send true prophet” (ii) prose invocation of the headless-god: “Rise up, … you are the oraclegiving god” (similar to above but only the prose)

(none)

4. CONCLUSION

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Let us return then to where we began: that almost comic image of an ibis (fig. 1) surrounded by text that is to be inscribed on the left hand. By now we can see that this short recipe and diagram, despite its missing rubric, was most likely designed to produce a revelation in a dream by falling asleep, perhaps whilst holding the palm of our inscribed hand pressed to our left ear. And, as it turns out, the first magical name, Sachmouozozo, with which the text begins, and the claims about his cosmic powers are found in only one other Greek magical recipe (a “request for a dream oracle”) in a formula to be spoken seven times to lamp, before putting out the flame and going to sleep. This recipe appears in the same handbook (PGM VII) sixty-five lines after the drawing of ibis: PGM VII 300 (written around the ibis): “Sachmouozozo, the one who thunders, who shakes heaven and earth, who swallowed the serpent, who hour by hour raises the disk of the sun and surrounds the moon….” PGM VII 366 (spoken formula): “Sachmoune … the one who shakes, who thunders, who swallowed the serpent, surrounds the moon and hour by hour raises the disk of the sun … reveal to me concerning the things I wish!”

Here both the rubric and the request at the end of the invocation confirm our suspicions that the ibis drawing was used in dream divination. Scholars suggest that the name either renders the name of the Egyptian the lion-headed goddess Sakhmat or is an epithet for or acclamation of the sun god in Heliopolis.28 The ibis itself, as we can see in the first column, re-appears on the ibis-sceptre of Sarapis and as the head of Hermes‒Thoth. We have, in fact, seen the use of bird blood and other avian materials in the creation of these crucially important images, for example, the egg of the ibis and the windpipe of a goose in the recipe for the Hermes statuette. The windpipe was described as a device used to put breath into the statue, a common enough Egyptian practice, but perhaps in this recipe it was also thought to facilitate the prophetic speech of the god in the dream encounter. The use of dove, crow or quail blood in the ink used to draw the images in two other recipes also suggests some connection between avian bodies and these prophetic images, a feature that we occasionally find in Greek myths concerned with oracular sites (e.g., the doves who allegedly spoke oracles from the oak tree in the sanctuary of Zeus at Dodona).29 One might argue, of course, that the usual representation of HermesThoth – a male body with only the head of an ibis – is a divine image, and that therefore the drawing here of an ibis alone does not suffice. But during the Roman period we sometimes find the bird alone (fig. 7 b) holding the same kerukion carried by Hermes and Thoth, a fact which suggests that the bird itself could act as a representation of the god. There is also an emphasis in these recipes, albeit inconsistent, on the left side of the human body: the Sarapis ring is worn on the left index finger with the stone tur28 Sakhmet: W.C. Grese apud GMPT VII 367; Sun god: Brashear 1995, 3598 sv. σαχµ ουν ονο (sic), PGM VII 300 (“Mächtig‒Gesunder, Strahlend‒Groser”) and σαχµουνe, PGM VII 365 (“stark ist der Gott von Heliopolis”). 29 Parke 1967, 34‒43.

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ned inwards and then placed against the left ear; the shorter Hermes recipe in PGM VII says to place the rolled papyrus on the left side of the head; and the images of Bes and the ibis are both to be inscribed on the left hand. Only the recipe for the Imhotep ring says to wear it on the right. In the case of the drawings on the hand one could, of course, propose a practical explanation: since most people are right-handed, drawing and writing on the left hand would be much easier. But given the concern in three of these recipes about separating true prophecy from deceit, we might speculate that the left side – however sinister in name – was in this context more reliable. This suggestion finds some support in the long classical tradition that true dreams come from the gate of horn and false ones from the gate of ivory, although there is not, as far as I can tell, any description of one gate being on the right and the other on the left.

Fig. 7 a–b. Gemstone in Paris depicting Hermes on obverse and ibis with caduceus on reverse, LIM 105, photograph of A. Mastrocinque used with permission.

But regardless of whether the precise point of entry is on the left or right, we repeatedly get the impression that these various divine images are crucial in a very concrete manner for making a direct connection with the god. In the case of the statuette of Hermes, this meant sleeping with our head close to the shrine that held the image – a miniature and domestic imitation (as I suggested earlier) of scenes in the sanctuaries of gods like Imhotep‒Asclepios or Sarapis, where people went to sleep overnight in search of reliable divine dreams. This is especially clear in the recipe for the statuette of Hermes‒Thoth, at whose feet we lay the papyrus oracle-request rolled up around a bit of our hair. The crucial importance of these images is underscored by the provision in one of the recipes to use “the black of Isis” to wipe away the image once the dream has ended in order to get the god to go away. It is also curious to note that these recipes cluster in only three of the papyrus handbooks and often without rubrics: two in PGM V (both without rubrics); four in PGM VII (two without rubrics) and one in PGM VIII (which has a rubric). The fact that the rubrics are often missing is important: one gets the feeling that at least in PGM V and VII, they were unnecessary, because the procedure was so well known.

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I close by stressing a methodological point with which I began: the importance of tracing the persistence of a type of ritual technique or object, rather than focusing on the identities of the gods invoked. We saw how the use of images in dream-divination spells probably began with the miniaturization of images of Asclepius‒Imhotep and Sarapis, gods who welcomed potential dreamers into their sanctuaries. These rings, as well as the one reported by Eucrates in Lucian’s satire, are created out of more valuable materials and required the help of an expert metal worker or gem cutter. In contrast, the other images are of Hermes or of domestic Egyptian gods like Thoth or Bes and could be created easily by an amateur and out of ingredients that were fairly accessible: a statuette moulded from earth, flour, egg and vegetal matter or drawings in ink on the hand or on cloth. This technique of using divine images as focal points for dream incubation began, I suggested, with miniature images of gods, like Imhotep‒Asclepius and Sarapis, whose civic sanctuaries were the sites of dream divination, and it was later adapted to the domestic images of Hermes‒Thoth and Bes and sometimes for different reasons. This flexibility of the technique was also illustrated by the occasional shift in the midst of a recipe to a divinatory ritual of a different type. We saw, for example, that the shorter version of the Hermes spell in PGM VII employs a lamp and has a different request: it asks Hermes to send “his true skill in prophecy” to an uncorrupted child, who will presumably become the medium for a ritual of lamp-divination. We saw a similar transformation in the longer of the Bes recipe in PGM VIII, which, although clearly labelled by its rubric as a dream divination spell, is transformed by the inserted hymn to Helios into a necromantic ritual by which a ghost or even Osiris himself could be compelled to appear and prophesy. It is important to note, however, that in all three of these adaptations, the images, despite the care taken in their manufacture, are not used in the final ritual, which has nothing to do with dreams. Abbreviations BM = S. Michel, Die magischen Gemmen im Britischen Museum, 2 vols. (London 2001) 2 vols. GMPT = H.D. Betz (ed.), The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation (Chicago). PGM = K. Preisendanz [and A. Henrichs], Papyri Graecae Magicae: Die Griechischen Zauberpapyri2 2 vols. (Stuttgart 1973‒1974).

Bibliography Bortolani, Ljuba Merlina. 2008. “Bes e l’ἀκέφαλος θεός dei PGM.” Egitto e Vicino Oriente 31: 105– 26. Bortolani, Ljuba Merlina. 2015. “The Oracle of Bes at Abydos and the ‘Dream Oracle of Bes’ in the Magical Papyri: From Sacred Site to Magical Ritual?” Simblos: Scritti di Storia Antica 6: 263‒282. Bortolani, Ljuba Merlina. 2016. Magical Hymns from Roman Egypt: A Study of Greek and Egyptian Traditions of Divinity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bortolani, Ljuba Merlina. 2019. “The Greek Magical Hymn to Hermes: Syncretism or Disguise? The Hellenization of Thoth in Graeco-Egyptian Magical Literature.” In Tracking Hermes, Pursuing

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Mercury, edited by John F. Miller and Jenny Strauss Clay, 293–308. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brashear, William M. 1995. “The Greek Magical Papyri: An Introduction and Survey; Annotated Bibliography.” In Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.18.5, edited by Hildegard Temporini and Wolfgang Haase, 3380‒3684. Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter. S. Dakare, I. Bokotopoulou and A.Ph. Christide. 2013. Τα χρηστηρια ελασµατα της Δωδωονης. Athens: Σωτήρη Τσέλικα. Daniel, Robert Walter. 2003. “Some Magical Gems in the British Museum.” ZPE 142: 139‒142. Dosoo, Korshi. 2017. “Rituals of Apparition in the Theban Magical Library” (Macquarie University, Sydney 2017). Eitrem, Samson [and Fritz Graf]. 1991. “Dreams and Divination in Magical Ritual.” In Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion, edited by Christopher Athanasious Faraone and Dirk Obbink, 175‒187. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Faraone, Christopher Athanasious. 2004. “The Collapse of Celestial and Chthonic Realms in a Late Antique ‘Apollonian Invocation’ (PGM I 262‒347).” In Heavenly Realms and Earthly Realities in Late Antique Religions, edited by Ra’anan S. Boustan and Annette Yoshiko Reed, 213‒232. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Faraone, Christopher Athanasious. 2005. “When Necromancy Goes Underground: Skull‒ and Corpse‒Divination in the Paris Magical Papyri (PGM IV 1928‒2144).” In Mantikê: Studies in Ancient Divination, edited by Sarah Iles Johnston and Peter T. Struck, 255‒286. Leiden: Brill. Faraone, Christopher Athanasious. 2013. “Notes on Some Greek Magical Gems in New England.” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 53: 26‒49. Faraone, Christopher Athanasious. 2017. “Sarapis Invoked as Zeus Dodonaios on a Magical Gem Used for Divinatory Purposes.” Romanitas: Revista de Estudos Grecolatinos: 138‒146. Faraone, Christopher Athanasious. “Sulla’s Agalmation of Pythian Apollo: Protective Amulet or Miniature Oracle?” Classical Philology 115 (2020) forthcoming. Griffith, Francis Llewellyn. 1909. “Herodotus II.90: Apotheosis by Drowning.” Zeitschrift für Ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde. Erscheinungsjahr 46: 132‒134. Johnston, Sarah Iles. 2001. “Charming Children: The Use of the Child in Ancient Divination.” Arethusa 34: 97‒117. Kenyon, Frederic George. 1893. Greek Papyri in the British Museum. London: London British Museum. Lhôte, Éric. 2006. Les lamelles oraculaires de Dodone. Genève: Droz. Mastrocinque, Attilio. “Le apparizioni del dio Bes nella tarda antichità. A proposito dell’iscrizione di Gornea.” ZPE 153: 243‒248. Martín Hernández, Raquel. 2015. “Two Requests for a Dream Oracle Two Different Kinds of Magical Handbook.” In Écrire la magie dans l’antiquité, edited by Magari de Haro Sanchez, 41‒49. Liège: Presses Universitaires de Liège. Michel, Simone. 2004. Die magischen Gemmen: Zu Bildern und Zauberformeln auf geschnittenen Steinen der Antike und Neuzeit. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Mouterde, René. 1930‒1931. “Le glaive de Dardanos: Objets et inscriptions magiques de Syrie.” Mélanges de l’Universite Saint-Joseph 15: 53‒87 with plates I‒III. Nagel, Svenja. 2019. “Illuminating Encounters: Reflections on Cultural Plurality in Lamp Divination Rituals.” In Cultural Plurality and Ancient Magical Texts and Practices, edited by Ljuba Merlina Bortolani, William Furley, et al. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Oldershaw, Cally. 2008. Gems of the World. Richmond Hill: Firefly Books. Parke, Herbert William. 1967. The Oracles of Zeus: Dodona, Olympia, Ammon. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Rapp, George Robert. 2002. Archaeomineralogy. Berlin‒Heidelberg‒New York: Springer-Verlag. Veymiers, Richard. 2009. Hileôs tôi phorounti”: Sérapis sur les gemmes et les bijoux antiques. Brussels: Académie royale de Belgique. Veymiers, Richard. 2011. “Hileôs tôi phorounti: Sérapis sur les gemmes et les bijoux antiques. Supplément I.” In Bibliotheca Isiaca II, edited by Laurent Bricault and Richard Veymiers, 239‒271. Bordeaux: Ausonius.

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Wildung, Dietrich. 1977. Egyptian Saints: Deification in Pharaonic Egypt. New York: New York University Press. Wünsch, Richard. 1899. “Sopra uno scarabeo con iscrizione greca.” Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 27: 294‒299. Zografou, Athanassia. 2010. “Magic Lamps, Luminous Dreams. Lamps in PGM Recipes.” In Light and Darkness in Ancient Greek Myth and Religion, edited by Menelaos Christopoulos, Efimia D. Karaktanzia and Olga Levaniouk, 276‒294. Plymouth: Lexington Books.

WOMEN AS USERS OF EROTIC SPELLS: EVIDENCE PROVIDED BY PAPYRI AND DEFIXIONES,* Emilio Suárez de la Torre, Pompeu Fabra University, Barcelona The present study focuses on tabellae defixionum and magical papyri in which the agent of the action was a woman, whether the practice had a negative aim (neutralizing or harming a rival or breaking up a couple) or a positive one (obtaining the ἀγωγή – “attraction” – of the desired man). As elsewhere in this volume (and in general agreement with scholarly practice), the defixiones and the PGM will be ascribed here to the category “magic,” despite my awareness that the heuristic value of “magic” as an analytical category has been the subject of much controversy over the past decades. In contrast to the more deconstructive lines of scholarship, I believe that this rubric is a useful interpretative tool since it encompasses all the situations echoed by these materials. These situations may be interpreted as individual experiences of crisis sorted out via practices centred around rituals that involved supernatural intermediaries. The first part of this study is a quick review of the common characteristics of erotic spells in general, with reference to formulas and some features of the known examples of applied magic (real practice) whose targets were men. The main body of this study then discusses the above‒stated examples with female agents. Recourse to magic to amorous ends is present in all cultures. In the case of Greece and Rome, literary texts, which will not be dealt with in this study, are abundant and well-known, from Homer on. However, it is not always easy to define what parts of these texts coincide exactly with real practices (as opposed to literary elaboration). On the other hand, archaeological, epigraphic and papyrological discoveries have gradually supplied materials of great value and direct relevance for learning about the nature, types and varieties of such practices. By the same token, the fact that such evidence comes from a great number of areas of the Graeco-Roman world allows us to delve into the local characteristics of this phenomenon. This factor is particularly valuable in the case of Egypt, where papyri with magical content (from both Pharaonic Egypt and the Hellenistic and Imperial Roman periods) allow a fascinating voyage through the evolution of such practices and thus provide excellent knowledge on various aspects, making them particularly valuable for socioanthropological analysis. The number and quality of works dedicated to love magic in which archaeological and papyrological documentation is fundamental calls for an extensive, individualized analysis which I cannot, of course, carry out here. From a theoretical and interpretive point of view – and on account of their influence on the selected topics as well as the enormous utility of the various editions of such texts * The present study was carried out as part of Research Project Number FFI2014‒57517, of the Spanish Ministry of the Economy, Industry and Competitiveness (MINECO).

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(whether isolated or as compendiums) – I would like to emphasize the importance of the specific contributions (together with others of a broader spectrum) made by David F. Moke, Ioannis Petropoulos, David Martínez, Christian Faraone, John Winkler, John G. Gager, Bernadette J. Brooten, Matthew W. Dickie, Eleni Pachoumi and David Frankfurter, along with those by Lise Manniche, Dominic Montserrat and Karol Myśliwiec (the latter three in relation to Egypt).1 Successive discoveries and editions allow us at present to analyse the general and particular features of erotic spells, the persistence of theoretical models, and the applied instantiations of those models. Catalogues of erotic practice options (for both attraction and separation as well as simply for sexual stimulation) were developed. The magicians, who drew up handbooks, used these catalogues and adapted them to different types of ensembles. The different profiles of these grimoires should be placed in relation to their production context and to the perspectives of external circulation of the different spells. The spells cohered with the whole: there was an adaptation to the environment. This idea can be corroborated by a quick review of some of the main manuals. In PGM IV,2 there are many agogai, and the elaborate nature of the whole (with texts such as the “Mithras Liturgy”), which reveals the particular care taken by the compiler in his “librarian” activity, includes examples such as the admirable φιλτροκατάδεσµος3 (which I will return to shortly) or the “Sword of Dardanus,”4 with impeccable examples of magical hymns. In PGM VII,5 the erotic spells are more concise and display a varied typology, with the presence of φίλτρα and ποτήρια: along with homeromanteia, Democritus’ paignia and others, it provides an external projection more in keeping with an upper-class background, with less theosophical interests and greater inclination towards demonstrating status (without forgoing the component of playfulness). PGM XXXVI,6 which, as I indicated in a previous study, was held in a private library – or in any case a library focussing on magic that had a relatively specific type of user – shares certain similarities with the content of PGM VII. By the same token, the compilation of manuals representing the broad, multilingual context of late antique Egypt resulted in cases such as PGM XLI, 7 in Demotic and Greek, with examples that, though they contain more or less common elements, also display special characteristics (e.g., some formulas were designed for very specific situations and include a greater number of Egyptian features). The case of XIV8 is similar – in Demotic, where procedures of praxis and lógoi naturally have a greater weight in Egyptian culture. Comparison of the model found in the renowned φιλτροκατάδεσµος θαυµαστός of PGM IV with the examples illustrating the application of this prototype (as 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Moke 1975, Petropoulos 1988, 1997, Martinez 1991, Faraone 1999, Winkler 1990, 1991, Gager 1992, Brooten 1996, Dickie 2000, Pachoumi 2012, 2013, Frankfurter 2014; Manniche 1988, Montserrat 1996, Myśliwiec 1998. P.Bibl.Nat.Suppl. gr. no. 574. PGM IV 296‒467. Graf’s commentary is very useful: Graf 1996, 124‒138. PGM IV 1715‒1867. P.Lond.121. P.Oslo I 1. P.gr. 339 = P. Rainer 4, Vienna. P.Lond. demot. 10070.

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Martínez had done)9 – the majority of them from an earlier date – reveals not only that the former model persisted over a significant space‒time arc (although Hawara, Antinopolis, Oxyrhynchus and Ashmun seem to predominate). This model also possessed a certain amount of flexibility in its practical application. It is clear that the Theban text contributes an entire underlying ritual and, at the same time, an enrichment of the whole in its last stage of compilation and adaptation to that manual. Nevertheless, specific cases are revealing insofar as they demonstrate the possibilities for technical and textual variation, including personalization (although this is more delicate ground). A striking example lies in the variations of the descriptions of erotic sentiment and individual desires. Such descriptions reflect what we might call a poetization of erotic expression (with certain roots in the tradition of love poetry) and include versified texts, historiolae, procedures of repetition with intensification or gradation (for instance, in the case of voces magicae). This group of documents, which has male subjects, provides a window into personal situations in antiquity. One could practically write a novel on Theodoros’ obsession with Matrona. He must have spent more money than even Lucian’s Glaucias did on the Hyperborean mage – this is not a random comparison since everything seems to indicate that the bearer of the venerable name of Matrona was a prostitute. Of the three extant textual examples of this passion10 (two of which are lead plates and a third a clay vessel), the first, though it follows the above‒stated prototype, introduces decisive innovations in the lógoi that even allow it to be associated with the Orphic tradition.11 It also provides substantial evidence for the reconstruction of the ephesia grámmata.12 The second is more conventional and the third, the shortest, stands out for the material support on which it is written13 and other details. The papyrus with the story of Euphemia and Theon14 presents a very notable structural variant with respect to the hypothetical model, apart from providing a curious variation: love will not last for all eternity, but for only ten months. Although it is more common that the women desired in the agogai were prostitutes, the diakopoi seem to indicate diverse situations, with a few agogai even noting that the women were married (e.g., PGM XIXa). Primarily conceived by and for men, the process of seduction or submission to be gained from these texts can be broken down into a relatively simple, schematic outline: she should not have sexual intercourse with others; she should experience various negative effects of a psychosomatic nature (at times described as “torment”), especially a burning sensation; she should be completely submissive; the daimon 9 10 11 12 13 14

The lead tablets SM 46 to 50, the text on the clay vessel SM 1 (previous to PGM IV), and the papyri PGM XIXa and SM 51 follow the model of PGM IV. For an evaluation of the varied cultural background of this spell, see Faraone 2002a. Published by Wortmann 1969 (with excellent commentary). See also the edition and commentary in Daniel‒Maltomini, nos. SM 49, 50 and 51. Also detectable in “The Sword of Dardanus” (cf. Suárez 2012‒2013). Bernabé 2003, 2013. It is a ποτήριον that is connected to the ancient tradition of the “cup of love” (cf. the inscription on the “Cup of Nestor”) and also (as indicated and well-documented by Wortmann) with Egyptian funerary traditions. SM 45, datable to the 5th century CE.

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should lead her to the agent of the spell (or she should go to him herself); and she should satisfy the client’s desires and remain with him (eternally or for a period of time). The aspect that has attracted most attention is the description of the symptoms and effects sought by the spell, which have been interpreted variously: for instance, transferal of passion and its effects,15 with a certain therapeutic value, not to mention a strong impulse to dominate in a socially “legitimised” manner;16 a substantial part of a particular strategy of persuasion;17 adaptation of symptoms of illness (in relation to a very widespread stereotype);18 assimilation to public torture in certain cases with social repercussion.19 1. WOMEN’S RECOURSE TO EROTIC MAGIC Aside from the literary tradition, ancient Greek texts showing a relationship between the practice of magic (with accusations similar to “witchcraft”), amorous relations, prostitution, and legal conflicts are few but well known. One need only mention the names Theoris of Lemnos, Ninon, Phryne, Lais, and Neaera. These representatives of a feminine typology arise in a specific social context that has been the focus of several interesting studies (especially in recent years)20 and that illustrates how Greek society responded to uneasy situations by using certain mechanisms of collective defensive reaction, often with very negative consequences for the women involved. However, those texts refer to a specific period and social milieu (generally speaking, 4th century Athens). It is appropriate at this point to turn to a different time period and geographic and social setting – one that directly introduces us to personal situations without the biased filter of judicial‒rhetorical language. 1.1. An Ancient Episode and a Revealing Document The female use of amatory magic, normally via recourse to pharmaka, is amply attested, both in mythical tales and in the Greek (and Roman) literary traditions.21 On account of its relation to Egypt and its parallels to the topic of this section, I will first discuss the account given by Herodotus (II 181) of an episode in the life of the 15 Martínez 2001. 16 See the (not always coinciding) reflections of Winkler 1990, 1991 and Gager 1992; see also the discussion in Brooten 1996, 96‒105. Cf. Faraone 1999 and Eidinow 2012, 206‒224. 17 Salvo 2016. 18 Pachoumi 2012; for the ancient literary tradition of this assimilation, see Cyrino 1995. 19 Eidinow 2016, 166‒262. 20 See the analyses by Dickie 2000, 77‒106; Glazebrook (2006); the contributions in Stratton‒Kalleres (eds.) 2014; Stratton 2007; Eidinow 2016; Blanco 2017. For the Classical Athenian context, see Pomeroy 1975 and Davidson 1997. The case of Neaera deserves special mention because of its extensive bibliography. I will only cite here the classic book by Paoli 1953, the more recent work by Hamel 2003, and the commentary by Kapparis 1999. For an analysis of this case in the legal and social context of the time, see Just 1989. 21 See the bibliography mentioned above in Note 19. Here, I will simply recall the definition of Theoris of Lemnos as a φαρµακίς in Dem. 25, 79. On her specific case, see Collins 2001.

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Pharaoh Amasis II (570‒526 BCE). The latter, who was on good terms with Cyrene, married a Greek woman called Ladice (daughter of Battus or of Critobulus), with whom he had the following problem: every time he slept with her, he “became unable to have intercourse,” despite his ability to have sex with other women. Fed up with this situation, he called her to him, accused her of having cast a spell on him with a potion (Ὦ γύναι, κατά µε ἐφάρµαξας) and threatened her with a terrible death. She denied it, but he only grew angrier. Ladice then prayed inwardly (ἐν τῷ νόῳ) to Aphrodite, promising that, if she could have intercourse with Amasis that night, she would send a statue of the goddess to be deposited in Cyrene. Since even the goddesses had a price, it is no surprise that Ladice’s sexual problems with Amasis were solved at that time – as Herodotus asserts, “after that he loved her extraordinarily” (καὶ κάρτα µιν ἔστερξε µετὰ τοῦτο). Naturally, Ladice fulfilled her promise and the statue of Aphrodite was erected in the outskirts of Cyrene. Five centuries later, in an unknown year (not specified on the papyrus) of the 1st century BCE, in the autumn month of Choiak, a woman called Thais (gr. Θαίς),22 daughter of Tarutinus, married an individual (son of Hermogenes) whose name has not been preserved. She signed a document (PSI I 64)23 consisting of marriage vows written in her own hand in which she swore “by Osiris, Isis, Horus, Zeus and all other gods and goddesses” to abide by the following vows: (1) share her life with him, without being absent from his bed or his house; (2) conduct herself nobly and lovingly with him, without neglecting any of his interests; (3) return everything she had received from him as a gift or loan, should she find herself forced to separate from him, without availing herself of anything; and (4): “not have relations with anyone else24 as per the proper manner of a woman, nor make love or curse potions against you, putting them in neither drink nor food, nor be an accomplice of anyone that may harm you under any pretext25 whatsoever.” This particular text is a good way of linking social reality with the documents known as “erotic spells.” It is worth noting that the oath of fidelity includes a section preventing the possibility of ingesting magical potions prepared by the wife: it must not exactly have been infrequent. One need only think of the distinction between φάρµακα26 and φίλτρα καὶ κακοποιά, assuming they do not represent a case of hendi22 Thais is a frequent given name in papyrus documents. For instance, the name coincides with that of two famous courtesans of antiquity: Alexander the Great’s lover (and first wife of Ptolemy I), and, three centuries later, the one who would become a devout Christian nun (later canonised a saint). Thais is a frequent given name in papyrus documents. 23 PSI I 64 comes from Oxyrhynchus (Rowlandson 1998, No. 255, pp. 322‒23). I avoid calling it a “contract” per se for reasons I will indicate later. 24 Probably “man,” given the use found in certain contemporary texts (including the magical papyri) with the equivalent ἄνθρωπος ‒ ἀνήρ; see Suárez 2016, 360 with reference to PGM XXXVI 225, where you can read χάριν πρὸς πάντας ἀνθρώπους καὶ πρὸς πάσας γυναῖκας. 25 The Greek text of this paragraph reads: καὶ οὐθενὶ / ἄλλωι [ἀ]νθρώπων σ̣[υ]νέσεσθαι κατὰ γυναικεῖον τρόπον / πλὴ[ν] σοῦ, µηδὲ ποι[ή]σειν εἴς σε φάρµακα φίλτρα µηδὲ / κακοποιὰ µήτε ἐν ποτοῖς µήτε ἐν βρωτοῖς, / µηδὲ συνιστορήσειν µηδενὶ ποιήσοντι παρευρέσει ᾑτινιοῦν. The term παρεύρεσις could also mean “fraud” or “deceit.” See note 30 below. 26 It is inevitable to recall Od. 4, 527‒530 (with reference to the φάρµακα of Egyptian lands). On a very different chronological and contextual level, see the requests for protection included in amu-

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adys. Moreover, this text is a sort of “oath of fidelity” (signed exclusively by the woman), in which she addresses the man directly. In other words, it is not a marriage contract per se – although it includes quite a few of its features – but a commitment she made under a solemn oath. In fact, extant marriage contracts from the same period, first and foremost, mention both parties and introduce equivalent clauses for each,27 sometimes with even more detail in reference to the husband’s obligations. For instance, P. Eleph. 128 includes a concise reference to the wife’s duty of fidelity (εἰὰν δέ τι κακοτεχνοῦσα ἁλίσκηται ⟦ἁλίσκηται⟧ ἐπὶ αἰσχύνηι τοῦ ἀνδρὸς Ἡρακλείδου Δηµητρία, στερέσθω ὧµ προσηνέγκατο πάντων), whereas the restrictions of the husband on inter alia sexual behaviour are detailed more fully.29 Of course, the oath uses the legal terminology of contracts, as can be seen in the use of παρεύρεσις (cf. terms such as ἀφήµερος).30 These and other, similar documents present the image of a certain balance in gender relations, which somewhat departs from the notion of the wife’s absolute submission reflected in other contexts. Let us not fool ourselves, however: despite the detailed domestic restrictions applied to the husband, there is no indication that he must avoid extramarital relations (so long as he did not have children with another woman). The sexual proscriptions affecting the wife were in general31 more drastic.32 By the same token, Montserrat has noted that there is an evolution that is not exactly favourable to the wife.33 The contract between Thermion and Apollonius (signed in Alexandria in 13 BCE) generally forbids the husband from bringing home another woman (and nothing more). The wife (for whom any relationship with another man is prohibited), however, is clearly confined to the home unless she accompanies her husband: καὶ τὴν δὲ Θέρ/[µιον ̣ ̣ ]̣ τιλιν τὰ πρὸς τὸν ἄνδρα καὶ [τὸν κοι]νὸν βίον δίκαια καὶ µήτε ἀ/ 25[πόκοι]τ̣ο̣ν̣ µήτε ἀφήµερον γίνεσθαι [ἀπὸ τῆ]ς οἰκίας ἄνευ τῆς Ἀπολλωνί/[ου] το[ῦ Π]τολεµαίου γνώµης µηδὲ φθίρειν /[µηδὲ] καταβλάπτειν τὸν κοινὸν οἶκον /[µήδʼ ἄλ]λῳ ἀνδρὶ συνεῖναι. It should be noted that, in this and other documents, there are clauses against what to-

27

28 29

30 31 32 33

lets numbers 46 and 52 in Kotansky 1994, 240‒244 and 270‒300, respectively, with a protection request of φαρµακία and φάρµακα and (in the second case) its relation with erotic contact. See, by way of example, the references to possible non-compliance with the contract by the wife in P. Freib. 3.30: µέχρι δὲ τούτου ἔστω Εἰρήνη παρὰ Μένωνι] / [πειθαρχοῦσα αὐτοῦ ὡς προσῆκόν ἐστι γυναῖκα ἀ]νδρί, κυριεύου[σα µετʼ αὐτοῦ κοινῆι τῶν ὑπαρχόντων αὐτοῖς...]/ [...µηδὲ γε]νέσθω Εἰρήνη ἀ[πόκοιτος µηδʼ ἀφήµερος ἀπὸ τῆς Μένωνος οἰκίας ἄνευ τῆς Μένωνος γνώ]/[µης µηδʼ ἄλλωι ἀνδρὶ συνέστω µηδʼ αἰσχυνέτω Μ]ένωνα ὅσα φέρει ἀ̣[νδρὶ αἰσχύνην ἢ αὐτὴ τούτων τι διαπραξαµένη κριθεῖσα στερέσθω τῆς φερνῆς]. Datable to 311 BCE. See the commentary by Pomeroy 1984, 86. Mὴ ἐξέστω δὲ Ἡρακλείδηι γυναῖκα ἄλλην ἐπεισάγεσθαι ἐφ᾽ ὕβρει Δηµητρίας µηδὲ τεκνοποιεῖσθαι ἐξ ἄλλης γυναικὸς µηδὲ κακοτεχνεῖν µηδὲν παρευρέσει µηδεµιᾶι Ἡρακλείδην εἰς Δηµητρίαν. Cf. P. Giess. 2, ll. 20‒24. …καὶ µὴ ἐξέστω αὐτῶι γυναῖκα ἄ[λλην ἐπεισάγεσθαι ἐπʼ Ὀλυ]µπιάδα µηδὲ παλλακὴν µηδὲ παιδικὸν ἔχειν [µηδὲ τεκνοποιεῖσθαι ἐ]ξ ἄλλης γυναικὸς̣ ζώσης Ὀλυµπιάδος µηδʼ ἄλλ[ην οἰκίαν οἰκεῖν ἧς οὐ κυριεύ]σει Ὀλυµπιὰς µηδὲ ἐκβάλλειν µηδὲ ὑβρί[ζειν µηδὲ κακουχεῖν αὐτὴ]ν µηδὲ τῶν ὑπαρχόντων µηθὲν ἐξαλλο[τριοῦν ἐπʼ ἀδικίαι τῆς Ὀλυµπιά]δος. Here perhaps “fraud” or “deceit.” Cf. κακοτεχνοῦσα. See Pomeroy 1984, 98, regarding what is expected of a wife. See the observations of Montserrat 1996, 86‒89. Also see Préaux 1959, who offers a measured evaluation of the situation of women based on documentary evidence in Hellenistic Egypt. Ibid., 87‒88.

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day would be called “gender‒based violence” (µὴ /κακ[ουχ]ῖν αὐτὴν µηδὲ ἐγβάλλειν µηδὲ/ ὑβ[ρί]ζιν) – although, when speaking of the wife, such clauses do not extend beyond prohibitions against the harming of the common interests of the οἶκος. Based on the extant evidence, the situation in the 1st century seemed to have been more restrictive for wives than for husbands, with documents reflecting a particular fear of the risk that the former at some point might leave the conjugal bed (ἀπόκοιτος) or, even worse, might be absent from home (ἀφήµερος). However, it should be noted that the specific circumstances of the extant contracts are relatively variable and that some have no references of this type. For instance, P. Oxy. 3.496 includes many details on matters of property and household slaves, but limits conjugal coexistence to only the following line: συµβιούτωσαν οὖν ἀλλή[λο]ις ἀµέµπτω[ς οἱ γ]αµοῦντες (but the woman may separate). The oath of Thais in fact leads to more questions than answers. In principle, the signatory commits to be the γνησία γαµετή of Hermogenes’ son (in other words, there is no doubt that she is speaking of matrimony here); however, questions arise regarding the reason for this oath and its terms. Did Thais have a dangerous reputation that had to be ameliorated with such solemnity? And, above all, what was this woman’s status and profession? Her profession is relevant not merely because of the connotations of the name Thais.34 But in fact the connection between prostitution and the dangerous practices mentioned therein was ubiquitous in ancient society (as we have already indicated with respect to Classical Athens) and common in the particular social context in which these texts were written.35 The document does not specifically speak of a dowry, but of the money, jewellery and clothing that he has given her. Apparently, she had also lent or given him five bronze talents. Although it is not entirely certain, such data could suggest that this woman had reached a comfortable economic level – a financial position that could have resulted, for instance, from an inheritance received from an earlier husband.36 Of course, it could also be the product of an earlier, somewhat disreputable, situation of independence. Be that as it may, the document includes a caveat that reveals a reality coinciding with the background of the PGM and that, at the same time, involves an entire tradition of distrust, insofar as it relates to the magical abilities of women in the sexual sphere. 37 1.2. Women as Users of Love Magic on Papyri and Defixiones

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In this section, I will discuss examples of magical tablets or papyri in which women were the ones employing magical love spells (in both the attraction and separation or 34 35 36 37

See note 21 above. On this relation, I again refer you to Blanco 2017. Consider the case of the “wealthy widow” (Pudentilla), whom Apuleius married. The risk of being poisoned (i.e, the use of not necessarily erotic pharmaka) was always present, as can be seen, for instance, in Defixio DT 4, from Knidos, in which the agent invokes Demeter and Persephone to punish the one who has falsely accused her of poisoning her husband (l. 2, ὅτι ἐγὼ τῶι ἐµῶι ἀνδρὶ φάρµακα ποιῶ). See also note 25 above (on Amulet No. 46 in Kotansky). 38 I am not including formulas, but there are clear cases of models for women (PGM LXXVIII). There are some in which it is understood that the user can be either male or female (ὁ/ἡ δεῖνα).

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maleficent varieties). I will examine texts from the 4th century BCE to the 4th century CE, following, a general chronological order (though taking into consideration issues of typology when appropriate). The first seven examples are magical tablets used by women who are trying to prevent the union of the man they love with another women. The chronological grouping shows that the oldest cases of applied magic are from Greek territories. The oldest example that I am including (T1) is from Pella and datable to circa 375‒350 BCE. It is that of a jilted woman (the name cannot be read very well) in love with Dionysophon, who nevertheless decides to marry Thetima. Emmanuel Voutiras has produced a very thorough study of this text, to which I refer for further details.39 It is a highly interesting document for various reasons, not the least of which is its testimony to the presence of the Doric Greek dialect in Macedonian territory. The tablet was buried next to the corpse of an individual called Macron. It calls on him and all the demons to prevent the couple’s marital union (and in addition, the man’s union with any other woman, whether widowed or single), to harm Tetima, and to make the requestor happy (as she wishes to grow old with Dionysophon). In any case, however, she reserves the right to break this spell by unearthing the tablet. Although in the last part “another woman” is mentioned, the prohibition of matrimony at the beginning covers “all women, widowed or maiden,” which seems to be referring to women who are free (i.e., “married, widowed and maidens”), as indicated by Voutiras.40 In support of this idea, we can again mention the contract included in the above-cited P. Giessen 2, which specifies that he may not “bring another woman home, nor keep a pallake nor a boy, nor have children by another woman while Olympias lives.”41 One problem that recurs in some of these examples is that the gender of the person depositing the defixio is uncertain – although at times it is more likely that it was a woman, given the content. This is the case with a tablet from Attica, which is also datable to the 4th century BCE (T2). This katadesmos invokes Demeter and Persephone; the request revolves around making it impossible for the victims, Charias and Theodora, to say or do anything (that is, that they remain ἀτελεῖς). By the same token (through a second invocation to Hermes, the ἀτέλεστοι and Tethys),42 they will be unable to have sexual relations. At the same time, it is requested that Charias “forget,” not only the union with Theodora, but also the “son of Theodora.” This could be a variant of the frequent petition to “forget” loved ones,43 which is part of the request for exclusivity in these spells. With respect to the gender of the person making the request, it could be a woman, precisely because of request for the man to forget the son of Theodora. If this is the case, it seems we should conclude that a woman with whom Charias is having a relationship44 requests that any links be broken between Charias and Theodora, who could be his wife, or at least a woman with whom he has 39 Voutiras 1998. See the observations in Salvo 2016, 271‒273. 40 Voutiras ad loc. 41 ll. 20‒24. …καὶ µὴ ἐξέστω αὐτῶι γυναῖκα ἄ[λλην ἐπεισάγεσθαι ἐπʼ Ὀλυ]µπιάδα µηδὲ παλλακὴν µη/δὲ παιδικὸν ἔχειν [µηδὲ τεκνοποιεῖσθαι ἐ]ξ ἄλλης γυναικὸς̣ ζώσης Ὀλυµ/πιάδος. 42 It refers to Τηθύς. 43 See Davies 2010. 44 It is impossible to determine whether it is a widow, a libertine, or a prostitute.

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a relatively stable relationship. Nonetheless, I acknowledge that it could also be a request by a man since the text requests that Theodora be prevented from having relations, not only with Charias, but also “with all other men.”45 Of course, it could simply be the usual exaggeration found in these negative requests. A different situation is present in another tablet from the same date and place (T3). In this tablet, the agent wishes to eliminate any possibility that Aristocides would get together46 with another woman (except for her) or a boy. If our interpretation is correct, the agent is radical in cutting off any possibility of union with “any women who may appear.” Dickie47 indicates that it is not necessarily a jealous woman, but one who did not want her livelihood threatened or destroyed. In other words, it would be an example of a case in which the erotic aspect does not play a primary role. Nevertheless, such a context should be taken into consideration since the requestor believes her personal situation is at risk (it could be a request by a pallake, as we will see below in T6). In another interesting defixio of uncertain date48 from Boeotia (T4), the agent of the curse wishes to prevent the relationship between Zoilos and Antheira (later apparently called Timokles). The main problem of this example is the difficulty in confirming the gender of the agent, a subject to which I will return shortly.49 The wish to end the relationship is materialised in the detail of the erotic practices to be prevented. These practices are described with a range of varied terminology, from the most elementary (β[α]ινέµεν)50 to more discreet or precise expressions, such as “mutual affection” (ἀλλα̣λοφιλία), “union in bed” (εὐνά), “chatting” (λάλησις), “affection” (φίλη̣σις), “bodily contact” (ἅψις), kisses (φλείµατα) and “sexual intercourse” (υνουσιάσµατα). The text’s register suggests to Dickie that Antheira was a prostitute. Eidinow, for her part, calls attention to the fact that the curse seems to focus more on Zoilos than on Antheira (as seen on side B), in which the negative effects of the curse are extended to anything to do with Zoilos: “just as the lead is perforated… so too may Zoilos’ workshop, livelihood, affection and everything else of his be perforated.” Apparently, this could tip the scales towards a male agent, who not only wishes to break the couple up, but also seriously harm Zoilos. Nonetheless, this does not seem to fit with the mere interest of a desperate woman in recovering or reorienting this individual’s passion. I am thus inclined to believe (along the lines of Dickie) that the signs point to a jilted woman who is passionately cursing the man who left 45 It specifically says ἀτέλεστα her “words and deeds”: καὶ ἔπη καὶ ἔργα τὰ πρὸς Χαρίαν καὶ πρὸς / τοὺς ἄλλους ἀνθρώπους. I again understand ἄνθρωπος = ἀνήρ (see note 25 above). 46 Here γῆµαι is used more generally and not in the more specific sense of “take as wife” since it mentions both a woman and a boy as the direct objects. 47 Dickie 2000, 575‒6. 48 Dates have been suggested, which range from the 3rd century BCE to the 3rd century CE; however, a range of 3rd to 1st centuries BCE seems more reasonable. 49 See Eidinow 2007, 216: “There is no conclusive evidence for the gender of the agent (that Timokles mentioned at l. 6 of side B might be the agent is possible, but the text is far too fragmentary to prove this).” 50 Eidinow is inclined to translate β[αί]νεµεν into English as “to come”; however, this results in anomalous syntax, with an accusative devoid of a preposition. Of course, it is true that grammatical correctness is not always a feature of these documents.

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her.51 In any case, the peculiarity of the lexicon referring to practices should be noted, as it is clearly distinct from the usual expression of male erotic desires in other cases. The following two tablets are from Knidos. In the first one, which is very brief (T5), the agent of the curse seems to call upon Demeter and Persephone in order to neutralise Dorothea, who has “appropriated herself” of her husband.52 The text reads as follows: [Δ]άµατρι καὶ Κούραι καὶ τοῖ[ς /ἄλ]λοις θεοῖς πᾶσι ἀνατι[θ/ηµι] Δωροθέαν τίς τὸν ἐ/µὸν ἄνδρα εἶχε… There is a syntactical problem in the function of the pronoun τίς as an equivalent to ἥτις ‒ or, rather, with regard to ἥ ‒ since, in contrast to the following example, the agent indicates the name of her rival. By contrast, in the following tablet (T6), which is a request by a woman called Prosodion,53 τίς is used in the indefinite sense of “she (whoever it may be) who….” It does so, moreover, twice, since, apart from the initial request against the anonymous rival, it is later expanded to “any other woman” (τίς ἄλα). This text is different from the usual invocations, which approach attraction in terms of sexual passion. This tablet is also unusual because it does not express spite against him per se nor does it wish upon the other woman anything more than hostility or a lack of favour from the goddesses invoked. You could say it is a request for protection in the face of a threat represented by another woman (from the point of view of a mother).54 This attitude is understandable, moreover, due to the woman’s weak situation in case of divorce, and more so if she was a pallake. Prosodion wishes to avoid any detrimental effects to her (ἐπὶ πονηρία).55 At times, the assumption that the rival is a “courtesan”56 (and probably the agent of the spell as well) is unquestionable, as in the Boeotian tablet from the same period (T7).57 In this tablet, the user invokes Gaia and Hermes against a woman called Zois of Eretria (also called the “Kabira” or “Kabirea”58). The particularity of this defixio is its list of Zois’ abilities, faculties or objects that should be affected by the magical action, namely, on side A: “her food, drink, sleep, laughter, intercourse, her art of 51 In any case, there is a definite need for caution, as stated by Eidinow, p. 336, Note 58: “Gager (1992, 88) interprets this text as primarily targeting Zoilos and therefore most likely written by a rival (male) suitor. Dickie (2000, 576) notes that there is a further man mentioned in the text and that this makes it likely that Antheira was a courtesan, and that the text was composed by a woman, a rival for Zoilos’ affections. However, the text is so fragmentary that the role of Timokles and the nature (indeed, the fact) of Antheira’s relationship with him remains a mystery.” 52 See Audollent ad loc. According to him, we have an: uxor a viro derelicta quae eum allexit Dorotheam devovet. 53 The name is truly peculiar. It looks like a diminutive similar to other prostitute names. 54 As Eidinow has noted, she could be the wife or a pallake. 55 See the observations in R. and C. Koeger 1992, 194 and Foxhall 2013, 156. 56 I realize that there is not always a distinction between ἑταίρα and πόρνη, especially when making an argument in this respect: see Dem. 59, 114 and the observations by Glazebrook 2006. 57 DT 86, Boeotia II/I Against a possible prostitute rival (Eidinow 2012, 217‒18, Dickie 2000, 576). 58 Eidinow 2012, 217 interprets it as “belonging to Kabeira” and wonders: “Is this a way of describing their relationship: was she some kind of hetaera with a long-term contract, or was he her pimp? The inclusion of this detail need not have been intended to serve any purpose other than identification, but it might underline the frustration of the agent of the curse, resentful of attractions displayed by an unattainable (because owned or somehow partnered) woman.” But the author also disputes this alternative because then the curse would be placed against Kabira.

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playing the kithara,59 her ‘entrance’ (“passage,” πάροδος, “manner of entering?”), her ‘pleasure,’ her ‘little buttocks,’ her thinking, her eyes”; and on side B: “her perverse walk, her verse?, her deeds, her evil talk…” This is an interesting example of an enumeration of features and qualities that make Zois a dangerous rival. This quick catalogue introduces us to the world of the arts of “courtesans” and their operating environment, which undoubtedly includes the symposium. The following text (PGM XVI, [T8] a lead tablet catalogued as P. Louvre 3378 [1st century CE])60 consists of a ἀγωγή through which Dioscorus wishes to attract Sarapion. She more than fulfilled the usual procedure: the lead sheet was found rolled up together with four hairs and wrapped in a carton. The text itself uses the common form of repetition (here up to 9 times) of the request to subdue the victim (what does change is the series of voces magicae inserted in between). It requests the desired man’s consumption, his complete “melting,” and even that the nekydaimon invoked suck (cf. ἐκθήλασον) his blood via φιλία, ἔρως and ὀδύνη (a new version of Sappho’s bittersweet sentiment), until her desires be fulfilled and he remain at her side until the time of departure to Hades. This is, therefore, an expansion of the motif of being consumed by passion through a curious combination of terminology that verges on the medical, but also with a touch of the poetic. A very simple example of ἀγωγή, but with certain noteworthy features, is the double lead tablet (in diptych format) from Panopolis (T9, SM 37, T. Heid. Arch. Inst. Inv. F 429 a‒b). This tablet, which is now housed in Heidelberg, has been dated anywhere from the 1st century BCE to the 2nd century CE. The nekydaimon is invoked by name (Orion, son of Sarapus).61 The drawing may be of his mummy. On both sides, the request is simply that Nika feel passion (ἐρασθῆναι) for Paetus or Pantus,62 although on the second tablet, it is specified to have to lasted for five months. There are four holes through which needles were to be stuck. Its homoerotic nature has been questioned ever since it was published by Boll,63 but see the discussion in Brooten, with arguments in favour of that variant.64 Of the numerous defixiones from Hadrumetum (where those of erotic nature abound), one of the most remarkable deals with the passion a certain Septima (Σέπθιµα), daughter of Amoena (Ἀµένε φιλια), has for Sextilius, son of Dionysia (Σεξτίλλιος Διονισίε φιλιους). This defixio was written in the Latin language (in the Greek alphabet) and is dated to the 2nd century CE (DT 260, T10). Through repetition (with variations), it insists that Sextilius burn with passion and suffering by means of 59 See Prauscello 2004; Solez 2015. 60 See the improved readings in Jordan 1988, who published eight of the variants (omitting the last one for its difficult reading) and reconstructs the following pattern of the spell’s formula: ὁρκίζω σε, νεκύδαιµον, κατὰ τοῦ (VVMM) ποίησον φθίνειν καὶ κατατήκεσθαι Σαραπίωνα, ὃ ἔτεκε πᾶσα µήτρα, ἐπὶ τῷ ἔρωτι Διοσκοροῦτος, ἣν ἔτεκε Τικαυί, καὶ τὴν καρδίαν αὐτοῦ ἔκτηξον καὶ το αἷµα ἐκθήλασον φιλίᾳ, ἔρωτι, ὀδύνῃ, ἕως ἔλθῃ Σαραπίων, ὃν ἔτεκε πᾶσα µήτρα, πρὸς Διοσκοροῦν, ἣν ἔτεκε Τικαυί, καὶ ποιήσῃ τά καταθύµια µου πάντα καὶ διαµείνῃ ἐµὲ φιλῶν, ἕως ὅταν εἰς Ἅιδην ἀφίκηται. 61 See similar cases in SM 47, 50, PGM XXXII. 62 On tablet A, we read the genitive Παιτοῦτος; on B, Παντοῦτος. 63 Boll 1910. 64 Brooten 1996, 90‒96.

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the usual psychosomatic alterations (I transcribe to the Latin here): non dormiat… uratur furens… non dormiat neque sedeat neque loquatur, sed in mentem habeat me Septimam… amore et desiderio meo… ne somnum contingat, sed amore et desiderio meo uratur huius spiritus et cor comburatur, omnia membra totius corporis Sextil… It concludes with a threat to destroy the ταφή of Osiris since she identifies with the doyen of the gods. From the same period, the PGM XXXII ἀγωγή (Hawara papyrus 312, T11) is another example of the scarce (but valuable) extant evidence of female homosexuality. In this case, Herais (Ἡραεὶς), daughter of Thermoutharin, wishes to gain the love of Sarapias (Σαραπιὰς), daughter of Helena. She begins by addressing the (probable) corpse of Evangelos with the formula of ἐξορκείζ[ω] (with reference to infernal gods). The request is made through three attraction formulas with little variation: ἄξαι καὶ καταδ/ῆσαι Σαραπιάδα (4‒5), ἐξ ψυχῆς καὶ καρδίας ἄγε αὐτὴν τὴν Σαραπιά/δ[α](9‒10) and ἄξον καὶ κα[τάδησ]/ον ψυχὴ[ν καὶ καρδίαν Σαραπιάδο/ς] (14‒15). It thus shares the characteristics with the heterosexual agogai. Also from Hawara is PGM LXVIII (P. Kair. 60.636, T12), datable to the 2nd‒3rd century CE, in which Eriea wishes to attract Eutyches.65 The spell is based on the fourfold repetition of the request, καῦσον τὴν ψυχὴν καὶ τὴν καρδίαν Εὐτύχους ἐπ’ αὐτὴν Ἐριέαν, alternating the names of the gods to whom it is addressed. A prominent motif here is again that of “combustion.” A combination of the persistence of formulaic models, on the one hand, and adaptations to concrete situations, on the other hand, can be seen in a defixio from Hadrumetum (DT 271, Wünsch 5, T13), which has been dated to the 3rd century CE.66 Despite the formulaic elements employed, certain details of the original situation can be discerned in this case. Domitiana, daughter of Candida, wants Urbanus, son of Urbana, to once again live with her (cf. ἐπανελθεῖν) as a σύµβιος, a term that has lead scholars to believe that these are not full citizens, but rather freed slaves.67 Domitiana undoubtedly turned to services of a mage with powerful spells. On this occasion, he opted for a long series of adjurations of the ὁρκίζω type, in which the powers of divinity are specified in biblical terms, with relevant textual parallels to the Jewish tradition.68 Among them, the request to recover Urbanus appears four times, with a certain gradation. Apart from the request for ἐπανελθεῖν, the verb forms of ἄγω and ζεύγνυµι are repeated, as are the desire that he experience the usual psycho‒physical 65 The reference to Typhon associates this spell with PGM XXXIIa (a male homoerotic spell); however, it is a more basic text. 66 Pachoumi 2013, p. 313 considers it an “exception” – together with the one from Pella – because of the type of request. 67 Wünsch 1907, p. 21: the key once again lies in the term σύµβιος. 68 It is not that it reflects a “Jewish mage” (“Dass der Schreiber kein Jude war, hat man wohl mit recht aus der Verschreibung bekannter Eigennamen geschlossen,” Wünsch rightly indicated (1907, 21), with regard to the work by Deissmann). Nonetheless, it is an excellent example of the assimilation of Biblical traditions and language persisting in magical formulas, as Deissmann indicated (1895, 23‒54 = 273‒300 in the English language translation from 1903). On the issue of religious identification in PGM and related corpora (especially labels, such as “Jewish”), see now LiDonnici 2017 and Boustan ‒ Sanzo 2017. I owe this bibliographical information to the kindness of Joseph E. Sanzo, who has also made a thorough revision of my English text, for which I am very grateful.

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symptoms that will influence him to return (ἐρῶντα καὶ δεόµενον αὐτῆς). Specifically, this petition is repeated fourfold, but with a certain gradation in extension and intensity, as stated, and concluding as follows: ἄξον ζεῦξον τὸν Οὐρβανόν, ὃν ἔτεκεν Οὐρβα, πρὸς τὴν Δοµιτιανάν, ἣν ἔτεκεν Κανδιδά, ἐρῶντα µαι[ν]όµενον βασανιζόµενον ἐπὶ τῇ φιλίᾳ καὶ ἔρωτι καὶ ἐπιθυµίᾳ τῆς Δοµιτιανῆς, ἣν ἔτεκεν Κανδιδά, ζεῦξον αὐτοὺς γάµῳ καὶ ἔρωτι συµβιοῦντας ὅλῳ τῷ τῆς ζωῆς αὐτῶν χρόνῳ, ποίησον αὐτὸν ὡς δοῦλον αὐτῇ ἐρῶντα ὑποτεταχθῆναι, µηδεµίαν ἄλλη[ν] γυναῖκα µήτε παρθένον ἐπιθυµοῦντα, µόνην δὲ τὴν Δοµιτια[νάν,]ἣν ἔτεκεν Κανδιδά, σύµβιον ἔχειν ὅλῳ τῷ τῆς ζωῆς αὐτῶ[ν χρόνῳ]· ἤδη ἤδη, ταχὺ ταχύ. It is worth noting that the request is that he not only avoids relations with another woman, but also that he avoids desiring her. Again, the γυνή / παρθένος specification seems to indicate that the relationship is not with a freewoman, as with Dionysophon (although in that case widows were also mentioned). By the same token, there is a highly interesting papyrus from the 3rd century CE held at the Museum of Alexandria (PGM XV T14). In it, Capitolina, daughter of Peperous, wishes to attract Nilos, son of Demetria. This papyrus betrays a certain originality in comparison with the more formulaic trend of others. Although the general pattern and alternation of invocations to demons and requests are habitual, there are certain unique aspects worth mentioning. Thus, for instance, in the reference to Nilos’ maternal filiation, it is specified that his mother bore him κακοῖς µεγάλοις. Immediately afterwards it is specified that no divinity or human being shall free him (which is uncommon).69 The person using the spell may be a prostitute; yet, despite the commonness of the formula or motif, it introduces the ἐπιλήσῃ γονέων, τέκνων, φίλων sequence, which would indicate a man with children.70 The whole is placed within the framework of a relatively original series of expressions of the wish for submission and exclusivity: ἔσῃ µοι κατὰ πάντα ἀκόλουθος, ἕως ἂν ἐγὼ βούλωµαι, ἵνα µοι ποιῇς ἃ ἐγὼ θέλω καὶ µηδενὶ ἄλλῃ, καὶ µηδενὸς ἀκούῃς εἰ µὴ ἐµοῦ µόνης Καπετωλίνας. Even the lexicon is original (cf. ἀκόλουθος and ἀσάλευτoς used in reference to people). Davies71 comments on the absence of references to parts of the body (as was frequent in spells used by males); however, there is a reference to the deprivation of the νοῦς (that is, the most radical form of forgetting). And finally, it seems that the text on the papyrus was to be transferred onto a tablet, which in turn would be placed in a box or case with the individual’s ousia (that is, she has a way of obtaining it). The example I consider most spectacular brings us to a somewhat later date (3rd‒4th century CE). It is a lead tabella with more evidence of female homoerotic relations (SM 42, T15) since it describes the passion of Sophia, daughter of Isara, for Gorgonia, daughter of Nilogenia.72 The example reveals the way in which the extant models could be applied to real situations, in the sense that, among the multiple options they provide, a selection is made and combined with less common elements (in addition to tending to repetition accompanied by a certain degree of intensi69 I find it preferable to keep the reading of the papyrus, εὕρωσι, instead of Henrichs’ reconstruction as εὕρω σoι. 70 See Davies 2010, 263‒264. 71 Davies 2010, 263. 72 See my analysis in Suárez 2014.

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fication). I believe it is an example in which we can again observe a significant effort to use highly efficient and well-selected resources. I will focus on two characteristics of this spell. One is the use of iambic and choliambic trimeters in two brief hymns addressing the infernal powers: iambs in lines 1 to 8 (secondary infernal deities) and choliambs in lines 20 to 25 (to the supreme infernal female deity), and everything with a particular balance between the Egyptian and Greek features. The other characteristic is the way in which the erotic “combustion” (which is the most used and reiterated here) is associated with the mention of public baths. The baths do not appear only as the place in whose ὐποκαῦστρον (or similar) the spell or the ousia of the desired person should be deposited.73 but also as the place where, when the desired woman submerge herself, she will feel the ardent effect expected in situ. In this case, in addition, the daimon must act as βαλάνισσα. And so, this papyrus reflects one of the social spaces conducive to erotic relations in antiquity. In addition, Daniel and Maltomini have highlighted references in their commentary that demonstrate that bath houses were considered appropriate places for the practice of magic, specifically on account of their “haunted” nature.74 And this brings us to the 4th century, in which I shall close this series of examples with a small Oslo papyrus (P. Oslo 4, PGM XXXIX, T16).75 This artefact is an example of applied magic using a succinct version of the usual elements of magic (as we saw in PGM XXXVI): a magical drawing; the wing-shaped layout of a vox magica that grows progressively smaller (θατθαραθαυθωλθαρα) – with the particular feature that this layout allows the (progressively smaller) sequence to be read both horizontally and vertically (“false acrostic”); and a conjuring formula. The image or ζῴδιον is that of the god Bes (drawn with a red tongue) accompanied in the background by what seems like a daimon with a sword or dagger in its right hand and a head in its left.76 The brief text, which mentions Alus (or Alute), daughter of Alexandria, who desires Herakles, son of Taepis, is the following: Ἐξορκίζω σε τοῦ (τῶν) δώδεκα στυκίων (στοιχείων) / τοῦ οὐρανοῦ καὶ ἰκοσιτέσσερα στυκί (στοιχεί)/ων τοῦ κόσµου, ἵνα ἄγις (ἄγῃς) µοι Ἡρακλῆν, ὃν ἔτεκεν [Τα]/επις (αῖπις), πρὸς Ἀλλοῦν, ἧς (sic) ἔτεκεν Ἀλεξανδρία, ἤδη, ταχὺ ταχύ. Despite its brevity, it contributes interesting information to our discussion by mentioning “the twelve

73 That is how it appears in IV 735, VII 436, 469, XXXVI 75, 334, 340 and XXXVIII 3. 74 Daniel‒Maltomini I 1990, 133. For his part, Montserrat 1996, 191 considers that the baths were more appropriate because in baths the victims were more vulnerable: “it is there that naked bodies are exposed to the dangerous touch and sight of strangers.” Rowlandson 1988, 361 adds: “They were often supposed to be haunted, and their furnaces were notorious for causing fires.” I believe they are omitting a fundamental aspect: the baths must have been as much a common meeting place as, or above all, a space with a significant amount of prostitution (and of thievery – a phenomenon that would persist in the Roman world, as demonstrated, for instance, by the many defixiones of Bath [see Fagan 1999]). 75 Published by Eitrem 1925, 20. See Hickey‒Maravela‒Zellmann‒Rohrer 2015, 169‒170. 76 Preisendanz described it as “ein Bês, rotzüngig, neben ihm kleinere Gestalt mit erhobenem Schwert, in der ausgestreckten L(inken) einen Kopf an den Haaren haltend” (177 ad loc). A similar, but larger image in PGM XXXVI seems to represent the daimon who bears the strength of the victim (?) [but it is only the head]. For iconographic relationships, see Graham 2016.

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elements of the sky and the twenty-four elements of the earth,” an expression with parallels to the Apocalypse of John and to Diodorus Siculus.77 2. CONCLUSIONS78 There is an abundance of examples (which corroborate what we know from literary texts and other non-magical documents), which confirms that recourse to erotic magic was not exclusively a male phenomenon. Examples of females using magic complement the view of erotic relations provided by male users. Since the majority of examples refer to prostitutes or pallakai, they provide a view “from the other side.” Of the 16 texts analysed, 7 consist of negative magic, aiming to neutralise rivals. It so happens that all of the latter are of Greek geographic origin (Macedonia, Boeotia, Attica, Knidos), whereas the rest are distributed between Hadrumetum and Egyptian territory (Hawara, Alexandria, Panopolis). In the extant formulas (above all the separation ones), we see that sometimes the user could be either a man or a woman. Yet, it is precisely the cases of applied magic that reveal an active female role, whether of a heterosexual or a homosexual nature. The situation of Egypt differs (to varying degrees) from the more restrictive Athenian model; however, this difference does not mean that they did not have more social and personal restrictions. In any case, some examples from this period display resolute female participation in love magic activity in all its variations. We have seen how non‒magical documents, in which marriage relations are regulated, match perfectly the environment and mind set that can be deduced from magic spells. Of course, we can understand that the anonymous son of Hermogenes, who married Thais, had good reason to take the precautions the stated document mentions. Such precautions were not necessary only because Thais had a past that would justify them (which we know nothing about). Instead, they were necessary because it was an entirely feasible situation in the society of that time. The defixiones allow us to follow this practice from quite an early date, as can be seen in the example from Pella regarding Dionysophon’s marriage. The extension of the models apparently follows the patterns seen in those used by men. From Thessaly to Hadrumetum – not to mention various in Egyptian towns (again, especially Hawara) – the persistence of models and, at the same time, the possibilities for variation were significant. Use was extended to women of both free status and those who were freed slaves. There was also significant use by prostitutes. By the same token, the examples of female homosexual relations, which we find in three examples of varying complexity (with one being particularly elaborate and providing a window onto the world of public baths), indicate situations of freedom of action that are not easy to

77 Diod. II 31, 4; Apoc. Joh. 4,4: vid. Eitrem 1925, 20. 78 I have not included the following because they are formulas (although some refer to a possible female user) and present other problems: PGM CXXII (SM 72, datable to between I BCE ‒ I CE), PGM LXXVIII, DT 299 (highly questionable), PGM XIXb, P. Berlin 77137 y PDM XVI 95‒99 (questionable, it does not seem merely erotic).

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delimit. Brooten79 asserts that the protagonists of the female homosexual relations were women desiring to have a “fling” of that nature. This hypothesis is neither easy to sustain nor contradict; however, the data provided by the author about the social context is interesting, as it testifies to a period when there were certain cases of acknowledged female homosexual marriages. Despite the similarities and persistence of predominantly male-oriented models, I believe the texts, in which women are agents, do display some features of their own. For instance, we have observed that the texts where the aim is to neutralise rivals (whether real or possible) can be found in the defixiones and in some cases those rivals are seriously cursed. The desire for exclusivity as well as forgetting loved ones is repeated (despite the few female examples), even with a more radical tendency. The woman’s situation of social defencelessness, especially those who belong to more marginal sectors, leads to a more radical expression of desperation. Consequently, these texts do not always have an erotic motive. The description of erotic practices, which abound in spells where men are the agents, is highly reduced and simplified here. This is of course not to suggest that women are necessarily less interested in the sexual act per se; however, these texts seem to concentrate more either on neutralising a rival or on the dimension of permanence and support for the male partner. When the woman wishes to eliminate the danger of a rival with particular qualities, however, there is an enumeration of those skills (in order to neutralize them). Thus, additionally we are thereby almost fully introduced to the atmosphere of the symposium and the private party. The case of Prosodion reflects a possible pallake’s anguish at the possibility of losing her livelihood. The most common characteristics of erotic spells – above all those referring to the symptoms or effects of erotic passion, the request to cause psychosomatic alterations – is here more limited. To be sure, the wishes for burning and, of course, the entire lexicon of binding is maintained, but also enriched with curious novelties, such as the request to “suck the blood” of the victim. There is furthermore recourse to a lexicon not very common in other types of spells (apart from some notable case of assimilation of the Jewish tradition). As a final observation, I find it important highlight the testimonial value of these documents regarding the situation and experiences of women in antiquity. Despite the predominance of formulaic models conceived especially for male use (with certain exceptions) – and social circumstances that did not typically leave women with much freedom for action – these documents allow us to see a venue in which women could get relief from the limitations surrounding them; in female magic spells – both those for free women and (above all) for παλλακαί, ἑταῖραι or πόρναι – there was always the possibility of adapting traditional magical resources to concrete situations.

79 Brooten 1996, 108‒109.

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Appendix: cited texts [T 1] NGCT 31, SEG 43, 434. Pella (Macedonia), 4th century BCE. (Voutiras 1998) [Θετί]µας καὶ Διονυσοφῶντος τὸ τέλος καὶ τὸν γάµον καταγράφω καὶ τᾶν ἀλλᾶν πασᾶν γυ / [ναικ]ῶν καὶ χηρᾶν καὶ παρθένων, µάλιστα δὲ Θετίµας, καὶ παρκαττίθεµαι Μάκρωνι καὶ / [τοῖς] δαίµοσι· καὶ ὁπόκα ἐγὼ ταῦτα διελέξαιµι καὶ ἀναγνοίην πάλε̣ιν ἀνορόξασα / [τόκα] γᾶµαι Διονυσοφῶντα, πρότερον δὲ µή· µὴ γὰρ λάβοι ἄλλαν γυναῖκα ἀλλ’ ἢ ἐµέ, / [ἐµὲ δ]ὲ συνκαταγηρᾶσαι Διονυσοφῶντι καὶ µηδεµίαν ἄλλαν· ἱκέτις ὑµῶν γίνο / [µαι· - - -]αν οἰκτίρετε δαίµονες φίλ[ο]ι, ΔΑΓΙΝΑΓΑΡΙΜΕ δαπ̣(ε)ινὰ γάρ ἰµε (Dubois) φίλων πάντων καὶ ἐρήµα· [T 2] DT 68. Attica, 4th century BCE. [κα]ταδῶ Θε[ο]δώρα[ν] πρὸς [τ]ὴ‒ [ν] παρὰ Φε[ρρε]φάττηι καὶ πρὸς [το(ὺ)ς] ἀτελ[έ]σ[το(υ)ς]· ἀτελὴς ε]ἴ[η] α[ὐτὴ] [κα]ὶ ὅτι ἂµ πρὸς Καλλίαν διαλ[έγειν] µέλ‒ [ληι καὶ πρ]ὸς Χαρίαν ὅτι ἂν διαλέγ[ειν µέλληι] [καὶ ἔ]ργα καὶ ἔπη καὶ ἐργασίας· ‒α πρ ἔπη λόγον ὃν ἄµ πο[τε] καὶ λέ[γηι· καταδῶ(?)] [Θεο]δώραν πρὸς Χαρίαν ἀτελῆ αὐτὴ ε[ἶν]αι [καὶ ἐπι]λαθέσθαι Χαρίαν Θεοδώρα[ς] καὶ το[ῦ π]α[ι] ‒ [δί]ο(υ) τοῦ Θεοδώρας ἐπιλαθέσ[θ]αι Χαρί[α]ν [καὶ τῆς] κοίτης τῆς [π]ρὸς Θε[οδώ]ρα[ν]. [καὶ ὡς] οὗτος [ὁ νεκρὸς] ἀ[τ]ε[λ]ὴς κ[εῖται] [οὕτως] ἀτέλεστα ε[ἶναι Θεοδώραι πάντ] ‒ [α κα]ὶ ἔπη̣ καὶ ἔργα τὰ πρὸς Χαρίαν καὶ πρὸς [το(ὺ)ς ἄ]λλο(υ)ς ἀνθρώ[π]ο(υ)ς· καταδῶ [Θ]ε[ο]δώρ[αν] [π]ρὸς τὸν Ἑρµῆν τὸ(γ) χθόνι[ον] καὶ πρὸς το(ὺ)ς [ἀτε]λέστο[(υ)ς] καὶ πρὸς τὴν [Τ]ηθύν· [π]άντα [καὶ] [ἔπη κ]αὶ ἔργα τὰ πρὸς Χαρίαν καὶ το(ὺ)ς ἄλλο(υ)ς [ἀνθ]ρώπο(υ)ς καὶ [τὴν] κοίτην τὴν π[ρ]ὸς Χαρίαν [ἐπι]λαθέσ[θ]αι Χαρίαν τῆς κ[οί]της· [Χ]αρ[ίαν] καὶ το(ῦ) παιδίο(υ) [Θ]ε[οδ]ώ[ρας ἐπιλαθέ] ‒ [σθαι ἧσ]π[ερ] ἐρᾶ[ι] ἐκε[ῖνος] γ ο [T 3] DTA 78. Attica, 4th century BCE. ᾿Αρι[σ]τοκύδη καὶ τὰς φανο(υ)µένας /αὐτῶι γυναῖκας· / µήποτ’ αὐτὸν γῆµαι ἄλλην γυναῖ(κα) µήτε παῖδα. [T 4] DT 85. Boeotia, 3rd century BCE–3rd century CE? A. ὥσπερ τύν, Θεόνναστε, ἀδύνατο[ς] εἶ χειρῶν, πο[δ]ῶν, σώµατος πράξῃ τι ἢ κονοµήση τι, φίλιµεν παργίνη κακά ἴδεµεν, οὕτως κὴ Ζωίλος ἀδύνατος µένει, δι’ Ἄνθειρν βαίνιµεν κὴ Ἄνθειρα Ζωίλον τὸν αὐτὸν τόπον· φιλατα κὴ Ἑρµᾶ κατὰ φυλ̣α̣τα χιπυτα ἀλλα̣λοφιλίαν κὴ εὐνὰν κὴ λάλησιν κὴ φίλη̣σιν Ἀνθείρας κὴ Ζωίλω κ̣ὴ ατο· ουναν τὰ [πὸ]τ ἀλλάλως συναλλάγµατα· ὥσπερ κὴ ὁ µόλυβδος οὗτος

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ἔν τινι χωριστῶ ἀπ̣ὸ τῶν ἀνθρώπων, οὕτως Ζωίλος χωρισµένο παρ’ Ἀνθήρας τὸ σῶµα κὴ ἅψιν ὴ τὰ φλείµατα κὴ τὰ υνουσιάσµατα τὰ Ζωίλου κὴ Ἀνθείρας κὴ φβον Ζωίλω ἐνεγίνειν(?) καταγράφω κὴ ἀπορίαν κατὰ σφραγῖδα. B. γρ̣․․․γ․․ακ̣ο τοιαύταν µισ․ο․․․τες αλλα αλωσαι αν̣ κὐχ ἁλίσκοις, θιὲ, Ἄνθειρν κὴ Ζωίλ̣ο ․․․σ̣․ τάνδε νύκτα κὴ ετινιταν [µὴ] µετ’ ἀλλάλων γίνεσθ κὴ αφ․․ας ε Τιµοκλε͂ν τὸ αὐτὸ εωθογεα· λατ̣ ως περι̣φιµµίσῃ ἀνθρώπο̣υς̣ ἐνδέρσας· ․․․ παµφοιρντο κατάδεσµον ․εδεµ․µµ․π․․ τω, οὕτως κ̣ὴ Ζωί‒ λ[ος]. ηεει αµµρεπισω̣φ̣ιω κι․․ µ․ν εἰ κὴ ἐπιτελεῖ π․ εἰς α τετον ο․․ κ̣ατ̣άδεσµον οὗτον κὴ λ̣ιτοψεξχ ․τ․απαλοχ․․․․․․․․․ α̣ὖτις ἔστω vac. λαλῶντα [π]ο̣νφό{γ}λυ[γας] {πονφόλυγας} ․․, [κ]η ἀµναστ βαστ εο ὥσπερ ὁ µόλυβδος ὀ̣ρώρυχτ π[ά]ν‒ παν κατορωρυγµένος κὴ οτε̣ι․̣ α αµ ․νζ̣ν, οὕτως κὴ Ζωίλωι α̣ κατορύχοις κὴ ἐργα[σ]ία κὴ οἰκονοµία κὴ φιλία κὴ τὰ λοιπὰ πάντα. [T 5] DT 10. Knidos, 2nd–1st century BCE. [Δ]άµατρι καὶ Κούραι καὶ τοῖ[ς /ἄλ]λοις θεοῖς πᾶσι ἀνατι[θ/ηµι] Δωροθέαν τίς τὸν ἐ/µὸν ἄνδρα εἶχε… [T 6] DT 5. Knidos, 2nd–1st century BCE. (Eidinow 389 = Audollent 1904) [καὶ θεοῖς το]ῖς παρὰ Δάµατρι, τὶς τὸν Προσο‒ [δίου ἄνδρα {τὸ]ν Προσοδίου ἄνδρα} περιαιρῖται [Νάκωνα πα]ρὰ τῶν παιδίων· µὴ τύχοι εὐιλά‒ [του] µὴ Δάµα{µα}τρος {Δάµατρος} µὴ θεῶν τῶν παρὰ Δάµατρι· [εἰ τοὺς π]αρ’ Ἀνάκωνος ὑποδέχεται ἐπὶ πονηρίαι τᾶι [Προσοδ]ίου, Προσοδίοι δὲ ὅσια καὶ αὐτᾶι καὶ τοῖς παιδίοις [κατὰ πᾶ]ν µέρος· καὶ τὶς ἄλ Νάκωνα τὸν Προσοδίου [ἄνδρα] ὑποδέχεται ἐπὶ πονηρίαι τᾶι Προσοδίο[υ], µὴ τύχοι εὐιλάτου µὴ Δάµατρος µὴ θεῶν [τῶν] [T 7] DT 86. Boeotia, 2nd–1st century BCE. παρατίθομαι Ζο/ίδα τὴν Ἐρετρικήν, τὴν Καβείρα.80 γυναῖκα,/ [τ]ῇ Γῇ καὶ τῷ Ἑρμῇ, τὰ βρώ/ ματα αὐτῆς, τὸν ποτᾶ, τὸν ὕ/πνον αὐτῆς, τὸν γέλωτα,/ τὴν συνουσίην, τὸ κιθ{ΦΕ}άρισ[μα] αὐτῆς κὴ τὴν πάροδον αὐ/[τῆς], τὴν ἡδον, τὸ πυγίον,/ [τὸ] (φρό)νημα, {Ν} ὀφθα[λμοὺς]/ [— —]ΑΑΠΗΡΗ τῇ Γῇ. 80 Or Καβειρᾶ: Chaniotis SEG 54, no 524.

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[T 8] PGM XVI (P. Louvre 3378). 1st century CE. Formula according to the “model” reconstructed by Jordan 1988. ὁρκίζω σε, νεκύδαιµον, κατὰ τοῦ (VVMM) ποίησον φθίνειν καὶ κατατήκεσθαι Σαραπίωνα, ὃν ἔτεκε πᾶσα µήτρα, ἐπὶ τῷ ἔρωτι Διοσκοροῦτος, ἣν ἔτεκε Τικαυί, καὶ τὴν καρδίαν αὐτοῦ ἔκτηξον καὶ το αἷµα ἐκθήλασον φιλίᾳ, ἔρωτι, ὀδύνῃ, ἕως ἔλθῃ Σαραπίων, ὃν ἔτεκε πᾶσα µήτρα, πρὸς Διοσκοροῦν, ἣν ἔτεκε Τικαυί, καὶ ποιήσῃ τά καταθύµια µου πάντα καὶ διαµείνῃ ἐµὲ φιλῶν, ἕως ὅταν εἰς Ἅιδην ἀφίκηται. [T 9] SM 37 (T. Heid. Arch. Inst. Inv. F 429 a‒b). Ca. 1st century BCE–2nd century CE. (Tab A.) Ὡρίων Cαραποῦτοϲ, ποίηϲον καὶ ἀνάγκα/ϲον/ Νίκην /Ἀπολλωνοῦ/τοϲ ἐ/ραϲθῆ/ναι Παι-/ τοῦτ[οϲ,] /ἣν ἒτ̣[εκ]/ε Τµ̣εϲι̣ῶ̣ϲ.̣ (Tab. B) ποίηϲον Νίκην Ἀ[πολ]/λωνοῦτοϲ/ ἐραϲθῆναι Παντοῦ/τοϲ, ἣν ἔτεκεν / Τµεϲιῶϲ, ἐπὶ ε / µῆναϲ. //

[T 10] DT 270. Hadrumetum, 2nd century CE. Non dormiat… uratur furens… non dormiat neque sedeat neque loquatur, sed in mentem habeat me Septimam… amore et desiderio meo… ne somnum contingat, sed amore et desiderio meo uratur huius spiritus et cor comburatur, omnia membra totius corporis Sextili… [in Greek letters]. [T 11] PGM XXXII (p. from Hawara 312). 2nd century CE. ἄξαι καὶ καταδ/ῆσαι Σαραπιάδα (4‒5), ἐξ ψυχῆς καὶ καρδίας ἄγε αὐτὴν τὴν Σαραπιά/δ[α] (9‒10) y ἄξον καὶ κα[τάδησ]/ον ψυχὴ[ν καὶ καρδίαν Σαραπιάδο/ς] [T 12] PGM LXVIII (P. Kair. 60.636). Hawara, 2nd–3rd century CE. Ὡς ὁ Τυφῶν [ἀντίδικό]/ς ἐστιν τοῦ Ἡ[λίου, οὕτω]/ς καὶ καῦσον [τὴν ψυχὴν] Εὐτύχους, ὃ[ν ἔτεκεν Ζω]/σίµη, ἐπὶ αὐτὴ[ν Ἐρ]ι[έαν,] ἣν ἔτεκεν Ἐ̣[ρχηε]λιώ· /Ἁβρασάξ, καῦσον αὐτοῦ / Εὐτύχους τὴν ψυχὴν καὶ τὴν καρδίαν ἐπ’ α[ὐ]/τὸν Εὐτύχην, [ὃ]ν ἔτεκε/ν Ζωσίµη, ἄρτι, ταχύ, ταχύ, τῇ αὐτῇ ὅρᾳ καὶ /τῇ αὐτῇ ἡµέρᾳ. Ἀδω/ναΐ, καῦσον τὴν ψυχ/ὴν Εὐτύχους καὶ τ/ὴν καρδίαν ἐπ’ αὐτ/ὴν Ἐ̣ρ̣[ιέαν], [ἣ]ν ἔ[τεκ]ε[ν] / [Ἐ]ρχη[ελιώ], [ἄ]ρτι, ταχ/ύ, ταχύ, τῇ αὐτῇ ὅρᾳ / καὶ τῇ αὐτῇ ἡµέρᾳ. [T 13] DT 271 (Wünsch 5). Hadrumetum, 3rd century CE. ἄξον ζεῦξον τὸν Οὐρβάνον, ὃν ἔτεκεν Οὐρβά, πρὸς τὴν Δοµιτιάναν, ἣν ἔτεκεν Κάνδιδα, ἐρῶντα µαι[ν]όµενον βασανιζόµενον ἐπὶ τῇ φιλίᾳ καὶ ἔρωτι καὶ ἐπιθυµίᾳ τῆς Δοµιτιανῆς, ἣν ἔτεκεν Κάνδιδα, ζεῦξον αὐτοὺς γάµῳ καὶ ἔρωτι συµβιοῦντας ὅλῳ τῷ τῆς ζωῆς αὐτῶν χρόνῳ, ποίησον αὐτὸν ὡς δοῦλον αὐτῇ ἐρῶντα ὑποτεταχθῆναι, µηδεµίαν ἄλλη[ν] γυναῖκα µήτε παρθένον ἐπιθυµοῦντα, µόνην δὲ τὴν Δοµιτιά[ναν,] ἣν ἔτεκεν Κάνδιδα, σύµβιον ἔχειν ὅλῳ τῷ τῆς ζωῆς αὐτῶ[ν χρόνῳ]· ἤδη ἤδη, ταχὺ ταχύ. [T 14] PGM XV (P. Alex. Inv. 491). 3rd century CE. ἔσῃ µοι κατὰ πάντα ἀκόλουθος, ἕως ἂν ἐγὼ βούλωµαι, ἵνα µοι ποιῇς ἃ ἐγὼ θέλω καὶ µηδενὶ ἄλλῃ, καὶ µηδενὸς ἀκούῃς εἰ µὴ ἐµοῦ µόνης Καπετωλίνας. (…) περιέλετε Νίλου, οὗ ἐστιν ἡ οὐσία, τ̣ὸ̣ν νοῦν, ἵνα µου ἐρᾷ Καπετωλίνας καὶ ἀσάλευτός µου ᾖ Νῖλος, ὃν ἔτεκε Δηµητρία, πάσῃ ὥρᾳ καὶ πάσῃ ἡµέρᾳ. [T 15] SM 42 (PSI I 28). 3rd–4th century CE. κατανάγγαcον αὐτὴν βληθῆναι Cοφίᾳ, ἣν αἴτεκεν Ἰcάρα, εἰc τὸ βαλανῖον αὐτῇ· καῦcον, πύρωcον, φλέξον τὴν καρδίαν, τὸ ἧπαρ, τὸ πνεῦµα Γοργονία, ἣν αἴτεκεν Νιλογενία, ἐπ’ἔρωτι καὶ φιλίᾳ Cοφία… ἐπ’ ἀγαθῷ (….) καὶ γενοῦ βαλάνισσαν.

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Bibliography Ahearne-Kroll, Stephen P., Paul A. Holloway, and James A. Kelhoffer, eds. 2010. Women and Gender in Ancient Religions. Interdisciplinary Approaches. Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck. Audollent, Auguste M. H. 1904. Defixionum Tabellae, Paris: A. Fontemoing. Bernabé, Alberto. 2003. “Los ephesia grammata: genesis de una fórmula mágica,” MHNH 3: 5‒28. Bernabé, Alberto. 2013. “The Ephesia Grammata: Genesis of a Magical Formula.” In The Getty Hexameters: Poetry, Magic, and Mystery in Ancient Selinous, edited by Christopher A. Faraone and Dirk Obbink, 71‒96. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Blanco, Miriam. 2017. “Women and the Transmission of Magical Knowledge in the Greco-Roman World. Rediscovering Ancient Witches.” In Magikê Tekhnê. Formación y visión social del mago en el Mundo Antiguo / Training and Social Perception of the Magician in the Ancient World, edited by Emilio Suárez de la Torre, Miriam Blanco, Eleni Chronopoulou, Isabel Canzobre, 95‒110. Madrid: Dykinson. Boll, Franz. 1910. Griechischer Liebeszauber aus Ägypten. Heidelberg: Carl Winters Universitätsbuchhandlung. Boustan Ra’anan and Sanzo Joseph E. 2017. “Christian Magicians, Jewish Magical Idioms, and the Shared Magical Culture of Late Antiquity,” The Harvard Theological Review 110.2 (2017): 217– 40. Brooten, Bernadette J. 1996. Love Between Women: Early Christian Responses to Female Homoeroticism, Chicago – London: The University of Chicago Press. Clark Koeger, Richard and Catherine 1992 (e-book 2014). I Suffer Not a Woman: Rethinking I Timothy 2:11‒15 in Light of Ancient Evidence. Grand Rapids: BakerBooks. Collins, Derek, 2001. “Theoris of Lemnos and the Criminalization of Magic in Fourth Century Athens,” Classical Quarterly 51 (2): 477‒493. Cyrino, Monica Silveira, 1995. In Pandora’s Jar. Lovesickness in Early Greek Poetry. Lanham – New York – London: University Press of America. Daniel, Robert W., and Maltomini, Franco. 1990. Supplementum Magicum. Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, I‒II. Davidson, James N. 1997. Courtesans and Fishcakes: The Consuming Passions of Classical Athens. London: Harper Collins. Davies, S. J. 2010, “Forget Me Not: Memory and the Female Subject in Ancient Binding Spells.” In Women and Gender in Ancient Religions. Interdisciplinary Approaches, edited by Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll, Paul A. Holloway and James A. Kelhoffer, 255‒266. Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck. Deissmann, Albert. 1895. Bibelstudien. Marburg: Elwert (English translation by A. Grieve Bible Studies, Edinburgh 1903). Dickie, Matthew W. 2000. “Who Practised Love-Magic in Classical Antiquity and in the Late Roman World?,” Classical Quarterly 50 (2): 563‒583. Dickie, Matthew W. 2001. Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World. London – New York: Routledge. Eidinow, Esther. 2007. Oracles, Curses, and Risk among the Ancient Greeks. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eidinow, Esther. 2016. Envy, Poison, and Death: Women on Trial in Classical Athens. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eitrem, Sansom. 1925. Papyri Osloenses, Fascicle I, Magical Papyri. Oslo: Jacob Dybwad. Fagan, Garrett G. 1999. Bathing in Public in the Roman World. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Faraone, Christopher A. 1999. Ancient Greek Love Magic. Cambridge Ma. ‒ London: Harvard University Press. Faraone, Christopher. 2002a. “The Ethnic Origin of a Roman-Era Philtrokatadesmos (PGM IV, 296‒434).” In Magic and Ritual in the Ancient World, edited by Paul Mirecki and Marvin Meyer, 319‒343. Leiden: Brill. Faraone, Christopher. (2002b). “Agents and Victims: Constructions of Gender and Desire in Ancient Greek Love Magic.” In The Sleep of Reason: Erotic Experience and Sexual Ethics in Ancient

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Greece and Rome, edited by Martha C. Nussbaum and Juha Sihvola, 400‒426., Chicago: University of Chicago. Faraone, Christopher, and Laura McClure, eds. 2006. Prostitutes and Courtesans in the Ancient World. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Foxhall, Lin. 2013. Studying Gender in Classical Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Frankfurter, David. 2014. “The Social Context of Women’s Erotic Magic in Antiquity.” In Stratton‒Kalleres 2014, 319‒339. Gager, John G. 1992. Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Glazebrook, Allison. 2006. “The Bad Girls of Athens: The Image and Function of the Hetairai in Judicial Oratory.” In Prostitutes and Courtesans in the Ancient World, edited by Christopher Faraone and Laura McClure, 125‒138. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Graf, Fritz. 1996. Gottesnähe und Schadenzauber. Die Magie in der griechisch-römischen Antike. München: C. H. Beck. Graham, Lloyd D. 2016. “Perseus, Mars and the figurae magicae of PGM XXXVI.” (https://www.academia.edu/28232099/Perseus_Mars_and_the_figurae_magicae_of_PGM_XXX VI). Hamel, Debra. 2003. Trying Neaira: The True Story of a Courtesan’s Scandalous Life in Ancient Greece. New Haven: Yale University Press. Hickey, Todd, Anastasia Maravela, and Michael Zellmann-Rohrer. 2015. “Historical and Textual Notes on Magical Texts in the Papyrus Collection of the University of Oslo Library.” Symbolae Osloenses 89,1: 156‒182. Johnson, Marguerite, and Terry Ryan. 2005. Sexuality in Greek and Roman Society and Literature. London: Routledge. Jordan, David R. 1988. “A New Reading of a Papyrus Love Charm in the Louvre.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 74: 231‒243. Just, Roger. 1989. Women in Athenian Law and Life. London: Routledge. Kapparis, Konstantinos A. 1999. Apollodorus “Against Neaira,” with commentary. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Kotansky, Roy. 1994. Greek Magical Amulets: The Inscribed Gold, Silver, Copper, and Bronze Lamellae, Part I, Published Texts of Known Provenance. Cologne: Westdeutscher Verlag (Papyrologica coloniensia vol. XXII/1). LiDonnici, Lynn. 2007. “‘According to the Jews:’ Identified (and Identifying) ‘Jewish’ Elements in the Greek Magical Papyri,” in Heavenly Tablets: Interpretation, Identity and Tradition in Ancient Judaism (ed. Lynn LiDonnici and Andrea Lieber; Leiden: Brill) 87–108. Manniche, Lise. 1988. Liebe und Sexualität im alten Agypten. Zürich – München: Artemis Verlag. Martínez, David. 1991. P. Michigan XVI. A Greek Love Charm from Egypt (P. Mich. 757). Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press. Martínez, David. 2001.“‘May She Neither Eat nor Drink’: Love Magic and Vows of Abstinence.” In Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, edited by Marvin W. Meyer and Paul A. Mirecki, 335‒359. Leiden: Brill. McClure, Laura (ed.). 2002. Sexuality and Gender in the Classical World: Readings and Sources. Oxford: Blackwell. Moke, David F. 1975. Eroticism in the Greek Magical Papyri: Selected Studies. PhD Thesis. Ann Arbor, Michigan: University Microfilms. Montserrat, Dominic. 1996. Sex and Society in Graeco-Roman Egypt. London – New York: Paul Kegan. Myśliwiec, Karol. 1998. Eros on the Nile. London: Duckworth. Pachoumi, Eleni. 2012. “Eros as Disease, Torture and Punishment in Magical Literature.” Symbolae Osloenses 86: 74‒93. Pachoumi, Eleni. 2013. “The Erotic and Separation Spells of the Magical Papyri and Defixiones.” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 53: 294–325. Paoli, Ugo Enrico. 1953. Die Geschichte der Neaira und andere Begebenheiten aus der alten Welt. Bern: Francke Verlag

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Petropoulos, Ioannis. 1988. “The Erotic Magical Papyri.” In Proceedings of the XVIII Congress of Papyrology (Athens 25‒31 May 1986), vol. II, edited by Basil G. Mandilaras, 215‒222. Athens, Greek Papyrological Society. Petropoulos, Ioannis. 1997. “Συµπτώµατα έρωτος στους ερωτικούς µαγικούς παπύρους.” In Γλώσσα και µαγεία: Κείµενα από την αρχαιότητα, edited by Αναστάσιος, Φοίβος Χριστίδης and David Jordan, 104‒119. Αθήνα: Εκδόσεις Ιστός. Pomeroy, Sarah B. 1975. Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves: Women in Classical Antiquity. New York: Schocken Books (Spanish translation 1987. Madrid: Akal). Pomeroy, Sarah B. 1984, Women in Hellenistic Egypt. New York: Schocken Books. Prauscello Lucia, 2004. “A note on tabula defixionis 22 (A).5‒7 Ziebarth: When a musical performance enacts love.” Classical Quarterly 54: 333‒339. Préaux, Claire. 1959. Le statut de la femme en époque hellénistique, principalement en Égypte. Paris: Librarie Encyclopédique. Preisendanz, Karl, and Albert Henrichs, eds. 19732–19742. Papyri Graecae Magicae, Die griechischen Zauberpapyri, I‒II. Stuttgart: Teubner. Rowlandson, J. ed. 1998. Women and Society in Greek and Roman Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Salvo, Irene 2016: “Emotions, Persuasion, and Gender in Greek Erotic Curses.” In Emotion and Persuasion in Classical Antiquity, edited by Ed Sanders and Matthew Johncock, 263‒279. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Sanders, Ed, Chiara Thumiger, Christopher Carey, and Nick J. Lowe, eds. 2013. Erôs in Ancient Greece. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Solez, Kevin. 2015, “Zois the Eretrian, wife of Kabeiras (22 Ziebarth): Music, sexuality and κιθάρισµα in cultural context”, EuGeStA 5: 85–102. Stratton, Kimberly B., and Dayna S. Kalleres, eds. 2014. Daughters of Hecate: Women and Magic in the Ancient World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Suárez de la Torre, Emilio 2003. “Eros en el simposio.” In Logos Hellenikós. Homenaje al Profesor Gaspar Morocho Gayo, vol. I, edited by Jesús‒María Nieto Ibáñez, 423‒440. León: Universidad de León.Secretariado Publicaciones y Medios Audiovisuales. Suárez de la Torre, Emilio 2012‒13. “Pensamiento filosófico y pensamiento mágico: el hechizo de Eros y Psique en la Espada de Dárdano (PGM IV 1715‒1870).” Ítaca. Quaderns Catalans de Filologia Clàssica, 28‒29: 167‒181. Suárez de la Torre, Emilio 2014. “Yambos y coliambos en un hechizo erótico (SM 42).” In Som per mirar. Estudis de filologia grega oferts a Carles Miralles, vol. I, edited by Eulàlia Vintró, Francesca Mestre and Pilar Gómez, 325‒345. Barcelona: Universitat de Barcelona. Suárez de la Torre, Emilio 2016. “Some lexical remarks and a textual conjecture on P. Oslo n. 1 (PGM XXXVI) col. 9 (ll. 211‒230).” In Nuevas interpretaciones del Mundo Antiguo. Papers in Honor of Professor José Luis Melena on the Occasion of his Retirement, edited by Elena Redondo Moyano and María José García Soler, 357‒362. Vitoria: Universidad del País Vasco. Suárez de la Torre, Emilio, Miriam Blanco, Eleni Chronopoulou, and Isabel Canzobre, eds. 2017. Magikê Tekhnê. Formación y visión social del mago en el Mundo Antiguo / Training and Social Perception of the Magician in the Ancient World. Madrid: Dykinson. Voutiras, Emmanuel. 1998. Διονυσοφῶντος γάµοι. Marital Life and Magic in Fourth Century Pella. Amsterdam: Gieben. Winkler, John J. 1990: The Constraints of Desire. The Anthropology of Sex and Gender in Ancient Greece. New York – London: Routledge. Winkler, John J. 1991: “The Constraints of Eros.” In Ancient Greek Magic and Religion, edited by Christopher A. Faraone and Dirk Obbink, 214‒243. Oxford: Oxford University Pres. Wortmann, Dieter. 1969. “Neue magische Texte.” Bonner Jahrbücher 169: 56‒111. Wünsch, Richard. 1907. Antike Fluchtafeln. Bonn: A. Marcus‒E. Weber Verlag. Ziebarth, Erich. 1934. Neue Verfluchungstafeln aus Attika, Boiotien und Euboia. Berlin: Verlag der Akademie der Wissenschaften.

REMARKS ON THE CATEGORISATION OF THE DIVINE IN THE PGM1 Isabel Canzobre Martínez, Pompeu Fabra University, Barcelona Several years ago, Giulia Sfameni2 described the magical universe of Late Antiquity, including the Greek magical papyri, as follows: “it’s like a river with different currents flowing together, leaving it impossible to distinguish the origins of an individual current, because each derives new value and significance from contact and fusion with the others.” This is a very accurate overview of what the Greek magical papyri signify. It is a perfect metaphor to avert the unwary from plunging into an ambiguous world. By “different currents” the author is alluding to Egyptian and Graeco-Roman religious traditions, on the one hand, and Judaism, on the other hand. In addition to these traditions, Gnosticism, Hermetism, and Neoplatonism helped shape this new spiritual world. The magic-filled papyri became a magnificent showcase for these religious expressions. This fusion is traditionally known as syncretism.3 Its effects on the magical papyri are magnified because of the lengthy time span over which the PGM were produced. These artefacts date from the second century BCE to the fifth century CE. The desire of ancient practitioners to revise these texts, which resulted in manifold elaborations over the centuries,4 and the manifestly diverse beliefs and origins contained therein contributed to this melting pot. In this new reality, the organisation of the divine sphere was also altered. Consequently, the categories of the entities in the PGM are not always well defined. There are cases in which a deity is called a δαίµων, ἄγγελος or πνεῦµα (an intermediate being). Although both deities and intermediate beings belonged to the superior sphere, they are located at different levels in a divine hierarchy. The main goal of this study is to isolate such instances in the PGM and to attempt to clarify the practitioner’s motive for rendering deities in this way.

1 2 3

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This article has been written within the framework of the project FFI2014‒57517‒P of the Spanish Ministry of Economy and Competitiveness (MINECO). Sfameni 2001, 158. About the use of the term “syncretism” and how to approach the study, see Kraeling 1941, Ringgren 1969, Pye 1971, Stewart–Shaw 1994, Kraft 2002, Frankfurter 2003 and Leopold–Jensen 2004. Against the use of the term, see Baird 1971, 126‒154 and Boustan–Sanzo 2017. Concerning syncretism in the PGM, see Sfameni 2001. On this point, see Suárez de la Torre 2009.

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1. THE DIVINE SPHERE IN GRAECO-ROMAN EGYPT The association between superior and intermediate beings is found in eleven papyri:5 I, III,6 IV, V, VII, VIII, XII, XIII, XV, XXIII and XXXVI. These date to the fourth century CE, with the exception of VII and XXIII, which date to the third century CE, and XV, whose date is still uncertain.7 An analysis of the spells in the following pages presents these intermediate beings in the context of each tradition (its origins and main characteristics) and the new reality presented in the texts of the Greek magical papyri. Because daimones are the entities most frequently mentioned in the PGM, they figure more prominently in this analysis than angels or spirits. 1.1. δαίµονες After deities, daimones are the most represented figures in the PGM. These entities appear in all three main traditions: Egyptian, Graeco-Roman, and Jewish. For this reason, we can observe a trajectory in the evolution from one to the other and establish differences and similarities. The Egyptian tradition does not have a specific term to refer to daimones (i.e., as a discrete category, separate from the superior gods).8 According to Hutter, the lack of a name of their own means “that within the cosmological and theological context ‘demons’ are ontologically closer to gods than to men.”9 As Lucarelli10 notes, only by comparing their functions, appearances, statuses ‒ as well as their associated rituals and spells ‒ is it possible to define them. Taking these factors into account, Hutter distinguishes two types of daimones. First, there are daimones linked to a specific place (what she calls “stationary demons”), whose main function is to save and protect that spot. Second, there are roaming daimones (“wandering demons”). The main characteristic of the latter is their constant movement between the heavens and earth, casting illness and harm on humanity.11 Szpakowska12 provides an alternative twofold classification system. She distinguishes between daimones, who are cruel or hostile entities, and genii,13 who protect individuals or places.14 She divides the se5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

The cases in which deities are labelled as intermediary beings can be seen in Table 1 in the Appendix. About the new structure of PGM III, see Love 2017. Brashear 1995, 3491‒3493. According to the Ancient Egyptian Onomastikon of Amnenimopet (Gardiner 1947), there are six categories in the hierarchy of beings: god (netjer), goddess (netjeret), transfigured male spirit (akh), transfigured female spirit (akhet), king (nswt), and goddess of kingship (nesyt). Hutter 2007, 21. Lucarelli 2010, 2 and 2012, 16‒17. Lucarelli 2011 and 2012, 17. Szpakowska 2009, 799. During the Middle-New Kingdom (2050‒712 BCE), the genii “are often called netjer, the Egyptian Word for god, thus emphasising their identity as one of those who inhabit the afterlife, but they are clearly not in the same category as the major gods who have names and cults.” (Szpakowska 2009, 802).

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cond category into four groups of entities:15 a) demonic entities who threaten the living. These can be enemies (kheftyu), adversaries (djay), or unjustified dead (mut); b) a host of transfigured spirits (akhu);16 c) demons of darkness (khayty); and d) the Great Ones (werets). The existence of a specific term for these entities in the Greek tradition does not necessarily assist with their analysis; daimones carries multiple meanings. Sfameni17 proposes three basic meanings for the Greek “daimonology”:18 (1) the theological, in which daimones constitute a category of superhuman beings within a graduated hierarchy (gods‒heroes‒men); their task is to intermediate between gods and men;19 2) the anthropological, in which the daimon is equivalent to the soul of a person (living or dead) or their individual destiny (Moira)20 or fortune (Tyche);21 and 3) the cosmological, wherein the daimones are found in either of the cosmic levels.22 In the magical papyri, the most common are the daimones of death (the nekudaimones). These are the spirits of those who died prematurely or met a violent death; they are, therefore, included in the anthropological category.23 On account of their deaths, these restless dead are more susceptible to the invocation of a magician and eager to collaborate with the earthly world. The existence of the term daimon in Greek24 implies that there is no confusion between superior and intermediate beings. But throughout 14 Lucarelli does not differentiate between them but she points out that “the role of demons vis-à-vis the human world remains ambivalent and dependent on their specific context of appearance. In general, it can be stated that demons always act on the border between order and chaos. (…) In order to define the ancient Egyptian concept of demons, we can call them ‘religious frontierstriders,’” (2010, 2). Regarding the concept “religious frontier-striders” (Grenzgängerkonzepte in German), see Ahn 1997 and 2006, 503. 15 Szpakowska 2009, 800‒802. 16 On this topic, see Szpakowska 2011. 17 Sfameni 2015, 414. 18 Sfameni (2001, 157) suggests a categorisation of daimones: the daimon for erotic charms; the prophetic daimon; the invading daimon; the personal daimon; and the daimon-paredros. 19 Plato, in Smp. 202d., presents this meaning: Δαίµων µέγας, ὦ Σώκρατες· καὶ γὰρ πᾶν τὸ δαιµόνιον µεταξύ ἐστι θεοῦ τε καὶ θνητοῦ. 20 Hom. Il. VIII 166: ἔρρε κακὴ γλήνη, ἐπεὶ οὐκ εἴξαντος ἐµεῖο / πύργων ἡµετέρων ἐπιβήσεαι, οὐδὲ γυναῖκας / ἄξεις ἐν νήεσσι· πάρος τοι δαίµονα δώσω. Pi. P. 3.34: ἐπεὶ παρὰ Βοιβιάδος / κρηµνοῖσιν ᾤκει παρθένος· δαίµων δ’ ἕτερος / ἐς κακὸν τρέψαις ἐδαµάσσατό νιν, καὶ γειτόνων / πολλοὶ ἐπαῦρον, ἁµᾶ / δ’ ἔφθαρεν·. S. OT 34: θεοῖσι µέν νυν οὐκ ἰσούµενόν σ’ ἐγὼ / οὐδ’ οἵδε παῖδες ἑζόµεσθ’ ἐφέστιοι, / ἀνδρῶν δὲ πρῶτον ἔν τε συµφοραῖς βίου / κρίνοντες ἔν τε δαιµόνων συναλλαγαῖς·Ar. Pl. 7: τοῦ σώµατος γὰρ οὐκ ἐᾷ τὸν κύριον / κρατεῖν ὁ δαίµων, ἀλλὰ τὸν ἐωνηµένον. 21 On the anthropological meaning, I add the πλοὺτος in Hesiod (Op. 121‒126: αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ δὴ τοῦτο γένος κατὰ γαῖα κάλυψε, / τοὶ µὲν δαίµονες ἁγνοὶ ἐπιχθόνιοι τελέθουσιν /ἐσθλοί, ἀλεξίκακοι, φύλακες θνητῶν ἀνθρώπων, / [οἵ ῥα φυλάσσουσίν τε δίκας καὶ σχέτλια ἔργα / ἠέρα ἑσσάµενοι πάντη φοιτῶντες ἐπ’ αἶαν,] / πλουτοδόται· καὶ τοῦτο γέρας βασιλήιον ἔσχον.), and the divine strength (Physis) in Thales (A 3 DK: οἱ δ’ ἄρ’ οὐχ ὑπήκουσαν, / οὐ πάντες, ἀλλ’ οὓς εἶχεν ). 22 For a detailed discussion of the different meanings of daimon, see Suárez 2000, 47‒87; Rodríguez 1994, 185‒198, 1995, 29‒46, 1999, 175‒187; Dillon 2000, 89‒117. 23 About the spirits of the dead, see Johnston 1999. 24 For a broad overview of the daimones in the Greek tradition, see Brenk 1986 and Kotansky 2000.

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Greek literature they appear associated in different contexts. 25 Four Homeric Hymns are an example: to Hermes,26 to Demeter,27 to Pan,28 and to the Earth.29 The same is the case in three different texts of Pindar: Olympian VII 39, referring to Hyperion;30 Pythian IV 28, naming Triton;31 and Fragment 311, in which the god is unknown.32 Finally, Parmenides33 uses the term in relation to the cosmos, which guides the supreme god.34 Sfameni thinks that the word daimon is unquestionably a synonym of theos (from the Homeric poems).35 Luck, however, notes that a development occurs when the term daimon is associated with evil spirits during the later Hellenistic period.36 The Jewish traditions played an important role in this changing scenario. The new situation imposed by this “monotheistic” religion encouraged the transference of these figures to an evil sphere, demonising their activities.37 In this way, the daimones’ “good” attributes passed to the angels, while their “bad” attributes remained. Consequently, the daimones were turned into figures of evil.38 Philo of Alexandria discusses this issue in his De Gigantibus. He mentions the differences between daimones, whom men say can be good or evil, and angels, who are called man’s ambassadors to God.39 In his Isis and Osiris, Plutarch notes that the epithet derived from daimones is used equally for good and evil.40 This brief presentation of daimones in different traditions has set the stage for my primary aim: to discuss the texts in the PGM in which a superior entity is called a daimon. I begin with Helios, the deity most frequently associated with an intermediate being (e.g., daimones, angeloi and pneumata).41 That Helios would assume a pro25 I present here just a brief example. For additional cases, see Suárez 2000, 60‒64. 26 h.Merc. 138: αὐτὰρ ἐπεί τοι πάντα κατὰ χρέος ἤνυσε δαίµων / σάνδαλα µὲν προέηκεν ἐς Ἀλφειὸν βαθυδίνην, / ἀνθρακιὴν δ’ ἐµάρανε, κόνιν δ’ ἀµάθυνε µέλαιναν / παννύχιος· 27 h.Cer. 300: οἱ δὲ µάλ’ αἶψ’ ἐπίθοντο καὶ ἔκλυον αὐδήσαντος, / τεῦχον δ’ ὡς ἐπέτελλ’· ὁ δ’ ἀέξετο δαίµονος αἴσῃ. 28 h.Pan 22: δαίµων δ’ ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα χορῶν τοτὲ δ’ ἐς µέσον ἕρπων / πυκνὰ ποσὶν διέπει, λαῖφος δ’ ἐπὶ νῶτα δαφοινὸν (…). 29 h. 30, 16: παῖδες δ’ εὐφροσύνῃ νεοθηλέϊ κυδιόωσι, / παρθενικαί τε χοροῖς φερεσανθέσιν εὔφρονι θυµῷ / παίζουσαι σκαίρουσι κατ’ ἄνθεα µαλθακὰ ποίης, / οὕς κε σὺ τιµήσῃς σεµνὴ θεὰ ἄφθονε δαῖµον. 30 τότε καὶ φαυσίµβροτος δαίµων Ὑπεριονίδας / µέλλον ἔντειλεν φυλάξασθαι χρέος / παισὶν φίλοις, / ὡς ἂν θεᾷ πρῶτοι κτίσαιεν. 31 τουτάκι δ’ οἰοπόλος δαίµων ἐπῆλθεν, φαιδίµαν / ἀνδρὸς αἰδοίου πρόσοψιν / θηκάµενος· φιλίων δ’ ἐπέων / ἄρχετο, ξείνοις ἅ τ’ ἐλθόντεσσιν εὐεργέται. / δεῖπν’ ἐπαγγέλλοντι πρῶτον. 32 (…) ξεινοδόκησέν τε δαίµων (…). 33 Rodríguez Moreno 1995, 36. 34 22 B 12 3: τῶν δὲ συµµιγῶν τὴν µεσαιτάτην ἁπάσαις / τε καὶ κινήσεως καὶ γενέσεως / ὑπάρχειν, ἥντινα καὶ δαίµονα κυβερνῆτιν (…). 35 Sfameni 2015, 416. 36 Luck 2006, 207. 37 For the use of the term daimon in the Bible, see Riley 1999, 235‒240. 38 Flint 1999, 293. About this topic, see section 2.2. 39 Philo De. Gig. 16. 40 Plut. De Is. et Os. 361A. 41 The prominent role that Helios has in this particular case or in the PGM in general should not surprise us for two principal reasons: (1) during the time period that preceding monotheism, a

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minent role in this regard ‒ and in the PGM more generally ‒ should not come as a surprise; prior to monotheism there was a struggle for the position of Supreme God between Zeus and Helios.42 Helios also appears merged with Apollo, another prominent figure in the Greek pantheon. There are other reasons why Helios became so important in the PGM recipes.43 For instance, his prominence is no doubt linked to Aurelian’s imposition of the cult of Sol Invictus during the 3rd century. In the description of a spell for a charm to unleash bonds (PGM XII 161‒179),44 the conjuror addresses Helios, referring to him as “star-grouping god, you thunderbolt-with-greatclap-Zeus-confining-world-flashing-abundant-bolt-bestowing daimon, cracking through-the-air (…).”45 The association between Helios and a daimon is emphasised through a reference to Hephaestus in line 177. Here, in order to finish the rite, the conjuror has to use “the name of Helios for everything: ‘Fiery, ephaie, Hephaistos, who is shining with fire (…).’” Helios’ association with Osiris46 seems to give him a chthonic nature. This chthonic dimension alongside the relationship Hephaestus has with volcanus (i.e., natural elements that connect the bowls of the earth with its surface) bolstered the Helios‒Hephaestus‒daimon fusion.47 PGM V 214‒30448 states that a ring must be made for Hermes to receive knowledge of the past, present and future of any man. The spell has to be pronounced to Helios, whom the conjuror invokes: “you under the earth; arouse [yourself] for me, / great daimon, he of Noun, the subterranean (…).” The recipe in PGM IV 2967‒300749 is one of the clearest examples of the phenomenon. The spell describes how to collect herbs. One step is to invoke “the name of the daimon to whom the herb / is being dedicated, calling upon him to be more effective for its use.” In the recipe, it is not only Helios that is mentioned; Hermes, Selene, Osiris, Kronos, Hera, Amon, Isis and Uranus are also called daimones. The association between the term and these gods ‒ from both the Egyptian and Greek tradition ‒ suggests that the terms theos and daimon are interchangeable in this context (as in PGM V 214‒304). I now turn my attention to the figure of Aion. PGM XIII 345‒64550 is the beginning of the second version of a spell known as the “Eighth Book of Moses.”51 In it,

42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

struggle for the position of Supreme God took place between Zeus and Helios and (2) he was conflated with Apollo (Catast. 1.24 R25). Finally, in the third century CE, Aurelian imposed the official cult of Sol Invictus onto the Empire. The Sun god (understood as the supreme god) is not an innovation of the Greek tradition; already at the end of the Egyptian Old Kingdom, the Sun was worshipped as “supreme divinity, creator and protective of all the creatures and things” (Hornung 1999, 52). On the hymns to Helios in the PGM, see Blanco 2017. [T1] in the appendix. Unless otherwise stated, I use the Greek texts edited by Preisendanz 1972‒1974 and the Betz’s English translation 1986. Helios assumes the ability of Osiris to move between the heavenly world and the underworld, transforming him into a chthonic deity whose field of action fluctuates between both worlds. See Suárez, Blanco, Chronopoulou 2016, 204‒205. This is just one example in which we have to deal not only with the association between superior and intermediate beings, but also with the fusion between superior entities. [T2]. [T3]. [T4].

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the Kosmopoía (i.e., the creation of the world from the laughter of a god) is narrated in more detail. The conjuror refers to the god in lines 570‒571 as “the creator of all, who are greater than all, you, the self-begotten god, who sees all and hears all and are not seen.” He is also “King of kings, Tyrant of tyrants, most glorious of the glorious, Daimon of daimons, most warlike of the warlike, most holy of the holy.” The terms theos and daimon appear to have been used interchangeably (as in the previous case). Something similar seems to occur in PGM V 448‒490.52 Here a recipe invokes the transcendent god to receive freedom, invisibility and dreams. In the spell, the god is called “the creator of the earth, Supreme Intelligence, administrator of all things, god of gods and daimon.” If this greatness were not enough, he is associated with other entities: Zeus, Adonais and Iao. Bohak explains the association of Iao with the other gods as resulting from the lack of a recognisable image of the deity.53 In this vein, it was easier for ancient magicians to attach his name to other figures.54 Consequently, to call Iao a “daimon” would not be a problem. But what about with Zeus and Adonais? Here again, we should think of a correlation between the two terms. PGM VII 864‒91855 is a Lunar spell. Selene is called “Mistress of the entire world, ruler of the entire cosmic system, greatly powerful goddess, gracious daimon, lady of the night (…).” Though the term daimon is reconstructed (θεὰ µεγαλοδύναµε, [δαίµ]ων ἱλαρῶπι, νυχία), the fact that Selene is the daughter of Hyperion and Theia, and not an Olympic goddess, supports the reconstruction made by Preisendanz. The next spell, PGM VII 940‒968, addresses Osiris.56 Though the god is not mentioned by name, the conjuror invokes him saying “you who never grieved for your own brother, Seth.” This phrase indicates that Osiris is the god in question, “the unconquerable daimon.” In his Isis and Osiris, Plutarch agrees with “the judgement of those who hold that the stories about Typhon, Osiris, and Isis, are records of experiences of neither gods nor men, but of daimones.”57 But a few lines later he announces that, because of their virtues, both of them move from being daimones to gods, as Heracles and Dionysus do later, receiving honours as gods.58 Alvar points out59 that this fact reveals Plutarch’s system of demonology as an open taxonomic

51 The first version comprises the first 345 lines of the papyrus. 52 [T5]. 53 On the incorporation of Jewish elements into the Christian amuletic tradition, see Boustan‒Sanzo 2017. 54 Bohak 2000, 8. Some pages later (2000, 11), Bohak presents the theory of Varro (De cons. Evang. 1.22.30; 23.31; 27.42) according to which, the Jewish god is equated with Ouranos or Zeus because the Latin name Iov- calls to mind Iao. 55 [T6]. 56 [T7]. I refer to this text again in section 2.3. 57 Plut. De Is. et Os. 360D: Βέλτιον οὖν οἱ τὰ περὶ τὸν Τυφῶνα καὶ Ὄσιριν καὶ / Ἶσιν ἱστορούµενα µήτε θεῶν παθήµατα µήτ’ ἀνθρώπων, / ἀλλὰ δαιµόνων µεγάλων εἶναι νοµίζοντες (…) 58 Plut. De Is. et Os. 361E: αὐτὴ δὲ καὶ Ὄσιρις ἐκ / δαιµόνων ἀγαθῶν δι’ ἀρετὴν εἰς θεοὺς µεταβαλόντες, / ὡς ὕστερον Ἡρακλῆς καὶ Διόνυσος, ἅµα καὶ θεῶν καὶ / δαιµόνων οὐκ ἀπὸ τρόπου µεµιγµένας τιµὰς ἔχουσι, / πανταχοῦ µὲν ***, ἐν δὲ τοῖς [ὑπὲρ γῆν καὶ] ὑπὸ γῆν / δυνάµενοι µέγιστον. 59 Alvar 1992, 248‒249.

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category. The mobility of the group is an effect of the artificial way in which the deities are concentrated. PGM VII 222‒272 and VIII 65‒11060 can be taken together as they present (almost) identical texts. Both are addressed to the headless god in connection with Bes and seek a dream oracle. In both cases, the conjuror calls the god daimon,61 also calling him Anut (a name for Osiris) and Sabaoth. For Smith,62 the terms “daimon” and “god” are practically equivalent.63 Pachoumi expresses the same view and translates τὸν ἀκέφαλον θεόν as “the headless daimon.”64 PGM XV 1‒2365 includes just one recipe. In it, a woman, Capitolina, seeks the love of Nilus. To attain this love, she invokes a great number of daimones including a very special one: “the greatest daimon Iao Sabaoth (…) the only‒begotten god in heaven.” He has to send daimones to accomplish the mission. In this spell, the terms “god” and “daimon” appear to be equivalent. The next text, PGM IV 155‒285,66 falls under the category lechanomancy. It is in a recipe drafted as a letter from Nephotes to Psammetichos. There is a formula to collect plants and a love spell. In this formula, the conjuror is required to say a hymn to Typhon (lines 179‒201), “ruler of the realm above and master, god of gods, dark’s disturber, thunder’s bringer, whirlwind, night‒flasher, breather‒froth of hot and cold, god of gods, master and daimon.” It is reasonable to consider this label not simply an epithet meant to increase his power, but also a synonym of “god.” The next recipe, PGM I 1‒40,67 is designed to obtain a paredros.68 For it, a falcon named Orion is deified. The association between a superior entity and an intermediate being derives from the fact that Orion is related to Horus and Osiris.69 The mention of the fertility of the Nile in line 30 relates to the peculiarities of Osiris, god of vegetation and agriculture, charged with the regeneration of the Nile. Abraxas is the last entity named as a daimon. He is found in PGM XXIII 1‒15.70 Because of the fragmentary condition of the text, hymn 24 has been used to decipher it.71 The name Abraxas is one of the reconstructed words. This lacunose text ‒ together with uncertainity surrounding his figure ‒ makes it difficult to understand whether he is considered a proper daimon or if the concepts “god” and “daimon” are interchangeable (as in previous cases). The daimon can clearly be seen not only as an evil spirit, but also as an intermediate being subordinate to superior entities. Fort this reason, it is surprising to find the 60 [T8] and [T9]. 61 There is a peculiar contradiction in these spells; the recipe says “rise up, daimon. You are not a daimon, but the [blood] of the 2 falcons / who chatter and watch before the head of Heaven.” 62 Smith 1988. 63 He proposes that the being in mind is the earth. 64 Pachoumi 2017, 159. 65 [T10]. 66 [T11]. 67 [T13]. 68 On the paredros in the PGM, see Pachoumi 2017, 35‒62. 69 Chronopoulou 2017, 129. 70 [T12]. 71 Betz 1986, 262 n.4.

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term used so often as the equivalent of theos. But, as Smith points out, “since magic is a matter of ad hoc spells rather than systematic thinking, it’s not surprising that you get survivors and mixed forms of various different lines and stages of earlier thought.”72 1.2. ἄγγελοι With the advent of monotheistic religions, a significant change in the concept of the term ἄγγελος occurred; its original, ambiguous meaning, “messenger,” took on a specific sense. From then on, the term would be associated with God’s servants and, as a consequence, “demonising” the daimones (as an antithetical category). This situation is well reflected in Origen’s work, Contra Celsum. He disputes Celsus’ idea that angels were the same entities as daimones.73 He defends the nature and purpose of God’s angels as different,74 claiming that the name “daimones” is for evil powers, which separate God from humanity.75 Origen and Celsus are not the only ones to fall for this terminological confusion. Philo of Alexandria thought the daimones ‒ a label used by some philosophers ‒ were those Moses called “angels.”76 Nevertheless, a basic difference exists between them. Daimones are repressed by divine power, and subject to the plans and decisions of superior entities (that may or may not want to be such). Angels, on the other hand, were created by the gods and, therefore, work side by side with them as their servants.77 Although this shift in meaning occurs in the papyrological record already in the first centuries CE, the PGM texts do not seem to apply the new concept to these figures. In fact, in the texts presented below, it could be said that these texts reflect the Egyptian perspective. For the Egyptians, there was no clear categorical differentiation between daimones, messengers and gods. The Egyptian legend, “The Destruction of Mankind,” is illustrative in this regard. This text, which was written during the New Kingdom, tells of a rebellion of mankind. In this story, Hathor ‒ a cosmic divinity and one of the most important goddesses of Egyptian religion ‒ appears as a messenger of Re. As Schipper points out, if one analyses Hathor on the basis of this story alone, she might be deemed either a daimon or an aggelos, despite being, as just indicated, one of the major goddesses.78 Likewise, it is possible to find superior entities in the magical papyri permorming the role of 72 Smith 1988. 73 Origen, c. Cels. 5.2.: Θεὸς µέν, ὦ Ἰουδαῖοι καὶ Χριστιανοί, καὶ θεοῦ παῖς οὐδεὶς οὔτε κατῆλθεν οὔτ’ κατέλθοι. Εἰ δέ τινας ἀγγέλους φατέ, τίνας τούτους λέγετε, θεοὺς ἢ ἄλλο τι γένος; Ἄλλο τι ὡς εἰκός, τοὺς δαίµονας. 74 Origen, c. Cels. 3.37: (…) οἱ δὲ τοῦ θεοῦ θεῖοι καὶ ἅγιοι ἄγγελοι ἄλλης εἰσὶ φύσεως καὶ προαιρέσεως παρὰ τοὺς ἐπὶ γῆς πάντας δαίµονας (…) 75 Origen, c. Cels. 5.5: Ἀεὶ δ’ ἐπὶ τῶν φαύλων ἔξω τοῦ παχυτέρου σώµατος δυνάµεων τάσσεται τὸ τῶν δαιµόνων ὄνοµα, πλανώντων καὶ περισπώντων τοὺς ἀνθρώπους καὶ καθελκόντων ἀπὸ τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ τῶν ὑπερουρανίων ἐπὶ τὰ τῇδε πράγµατα. 76 Philo De. Gig. 6.3: Ἰδόντες δὲ οἱ ἄγγελοι τοῦ θεοῦ τὰς θυγατέρας τῶν ἀνθρώπων, / ὅτι καλαί εἰσιν, ἔλαβον ἑαυτοῖς γυναῖκας ἀπὸ πασῶν, ὧν ἐξελέξαντο. /οὓς ἄλλοι φιλόσοφοι δαίµονας, ἀγγέλους Μωυσῆς εἴωθεν /ὀνοµάζειν· 77 Suárez, Blanco, and Chronopoulou 2016, 206‒207. 78 Schipper 2007, 3‒4.

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messenger, usually associated with intermediate beings. Let us have a look at the magical texts in which this happens. We will then analyse the term ἀρχάγγελος. The first text is PGM III 1‒164.79 It recounts of a heinous exercise against enemies in which a cat is transformed into an Esies by submerging it in water. As part of the ritual, the magician drowns the feline. The recipe contains three pleadings to three different divinities: Hekate, Seth‒Typhon,80 and Helios. Two of them are called ἄγγελοι. First, the conjuror invokes Seth‒Typhon as “the powerful and mighty aggelos” (ἄγγελον κραταιὸν καὶ ἰσχυρὸν) and as a “cat-faced aggelos” ([αἰ]λουρ[οπ]ρόσωπος ἄγγελος). Second, the conjuror calls Helios, “the aggelos of the holy light” (ὁ ἄγγελος τοῦ ἁγίου φέγ[γ]ους). Although Betz81 uses three different terms (angel, spirit and messenger respectively) to translate the same Greek term ἄγγελος, there is not enough information in the text suggesting this distinction as necessary. Betz does not justify his decision of using one or another term, so his choice might be due either to a stylistic preference, or to his intent in stressing the ambiguity of the Greek term. The next text, PGM III 185‒262,82 is an attempt at prophetic communication with Helios. The hymn to the god83 refers to Iao as the “flaming messenger of Zeus, divine Iao.” Iao is not the only entity mentioned. Michael,84 Titan, Adonais and Sabaoth are also named in what appear to be different aspects of Helios. The four are all different faces and sides to Helios’ character. PGM XXXVI 38‒5085 also mentions Iao. Here it is not only he, but also Sabaoth, Adonais, Eloai and Abraxas, 86 who are called “supreme angels.” The very short recipe seeks to overcome anger and dominate in a court in which no supreme god is mentioned. This absence of a god may reflect the spell’s low tone and the idea that only angels are needed to attain the goal. PGM I 43‒19587 is intended to obtain a paredros. It is a complicated and confusing case. The problem with this recipe lies in the use of the term “god” and “angel.” In lines 75‒77, the text reads, “you will look at the angel whom you summoned and who has been sent to you and you will quickly learn the god’s wishes.”88 This is followed by further instructions: “approach the god and, taking his right hand, kiss it and say these words to the angel,” and then “set these before the god with an uncorrupted boy serving and keeping silence, until the angel departs.” The oscilation between the terms “angel” and “god” leaves us with two possible interpretations. Either the terms in this recipe are used synonymously,89 or the text does not present a 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86

[T14]. On the use of Seth‒Typhon in this recipe, see LiDonnici 2007, 92‒94. Betz 1986. [T18]. Regarding the hymns to Helios in the PGM, see Blanco 2017. On the Archangel Michael in the PGM, see Kraus 2007. [T19]. The remainder of the reference consists of voces magicae that include πεφθαφωζα, φνεβεννουνι. For the claim that these voces magicae mean, “he is Path the healthy, the lord of the Abyss,” see Betz 1986, 270 n.2. 87 [T20]. 88 Translations take from Chronopoulou 2017. 89 Ciraolo (1995, 283) defends this assumption.

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coherent portrait of the entity.90 The first option is preferable since such terms could be interchangeable (as we have already seen in the cases above) and since the entity the conjuror addresses is ambiguously referred as “the god.” As previously stated, the following texts associate a superior entity with a ἀρχάγγελος. The divinity referred to as an “archangel” is always Helios. The use of such a significant term is noteworthty since he could simply be referred to as ἄγγελος (like other entities). The term ἀρχάγγελος occurs in a recipe of the “Eighth Book of Moses” (PGM XIII 235‒344).91 Helios is called “archangel of those subject to the cosmos.” Betz believes the spell has a Jewish background and was inserted later into the text.92 Such an interpolation would not be surprising in light of the allusions to cherubim and the “One and the Only.” The example in PGM III 495‒610 is a little different.93 In this latter case, Helios is directly named Gabriel. In his attempt to communicate with Helios, the conjuror must describe the form of the god and his names. A gap in the text makes it impossible to read the appropriate form for the twelfth hour. It is, however, possible to read that his name is Adonais and Gabriel. Although the term “archangel” is not used, the connection between both spheres is established using the name of one of the most recognisable acolytes of God. Lastly, PGM III 282‒424,94 is a fairly difficult case. In this spell, the conjuror seeks to communicate with Apollo to reach the prognosis. Any possible association between Helios and an archangel remains uncertain due to the fragmented nature of the text. We are left with two possibilities. First Helios, the prime target of the spell, could be the addressee of the name. Second, one might conclude that Thoth (hence Hermes) is in view since the name of the god is legible in the voces magicae that follow (‘ἐλθέ µο[ι, µ]έγισ[τος] [ἀ]ρχάγγελος, ἐλθέ µοι ξασρ· ξαµ [Θω]ούτ .. ἐλθέ µοι, τύραννε [τῆ]ς οὐσίας ηµι...θ̣η.βα Θωούθ· θεω̣ρει.. ε̣νη ̣ ν̣ παυπιου ψιβιοαυ̣ [α]βλαναθανα[λ]βα .αµοαµµα̣). In many versions of late antique Judaism, archangels are the closest beings to God. In either case, therefore, the use of the term “archangel” for Helios or Hermes‒Thoth once again appears to exalt the god. 1.3. πνεύµατα The last entities presented here are the pneumata, spirits.95 Originally, pneumata were seen as an expression of respiration or the wind. Since respiration is inherent to living creatures, pneuma began to refer to the soul (as opposed to expiration). In Greece, a figurative meaning of the term was commonly used as a synonym for inspiration. The term appears eighty-three times in the PGM: thirty-seven times the term refers to

90 91 92 93 94 95

Pachoumi 2011, 155‒165. [T16]. Betz 1986, 179 n.64. [T15]. [T17]. Kleinknecht (1985, 332‒359) established a categorization of the pneumata: 1. Wind; 2. Breath; 3. Life; 4. Soul; 5. Transferred Sense of Spirit; 6. pneúma and noús; 7. Mantic pneúma; 8. Divine pneúma; 9. God and pneúma; and 10. Non-Greek Development of Meaning.

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spirits;96 twenty-nine to the soul;97 twelve to the wind or aerial space;98 and five, in a metaphorical fashion, to prayers or magic words.99 Paige100 asserts that in the magical papyri pneuma is used as a synonym for god or daimon. For him, this is a new use of a term imported to Egypt from a specialised religious vocabulary of Christians or Jews (in dialogue with the Septuagint).101 In our examples, the cases in which a superior entity is called pneuma confirm Paige’s belief: the term is used interchangeably with “god.” In the PGM, the pneumata appear four times in relation to the superior beings Helios, Aion, Hermes and Osiris. In PGM III 282‒424 (see also above),102 Helios is invoked under the epiteth “holy spirit.” In the Old Coptic section, the presence of Gabriel and Michael a few lines below is exceptional. Due to the fragmentary nature of the text, it is impossible to situate their names within a proper context or to suggest Jewish influence or origins. There is a similar case in PGM IV 1115‒1164,103 in which there is an inscription addressed to Aion. He is described in lines 1140‒1165 as the “god of gods, the one who brought order to the universe, the one who gathered together the abyss at the invisible foundation of its position, etc.,” called pneuma. In a lamp divinatory spell in PGM VII 540‒579,104 the conjuror invokes Hermes as the “spirit that flies in the air.” Again, in PGM VII 940‒968,105 the conjuror needs Osiris to subdue someone. All of the texts are meant to invoke the god. As part of this invocation, the conjuror claims that there is a physical representation of the gods (as spirits). Although the use of the term pneuma in the PGM appears to be derived from a meaning imposed by the Jewish or Christian traditions, one should not intuit behind their usage a developed doctrine or any special theological meaning.106

96 πνεῦµα ἀἐριον: I 50, 97, 180; IV 1116, 1117, 1124, 1146, 1174; VII 559; XIII 278 / θεῖον πνεῦµα: I 284, 313; III 551; IV 966 / ἱερον πνεῦµα: III 8, IV 510 / ἅγιον πνεῦµα: III 290, 394, 549; XII 174 /πνεῦµα: III 33; IV 489, 715, 1134, 1448; V 405, 460, 466; X 10; XII 147, 262; XIII 790, 798; XV 16; XXI 23; XXIX 9; XXXV 31; XXXVI 160. 97 (human): I 178; III 588; IV 489, 489, 617, 627, 1530, 1946, 2306, 2495; VII 991; XII 303; XIX 49; XXXV 25 / (divine): IV 505, 589, 629, 1179, 2984, 3034, 3061, 3071, 3076; VII 965; XIII 371, 378, 982 / (animal): VII 762; XII 33. 98 IV 538, 658; V 121; VII 776, 961; XII 368, 452; XIII 640, 641, 762; XIV 16; LXII 24. 99 XII 327, 328, 329, 330, 331. 100 Paige 2002, 433. 101 According to Paige (2002, 433), the earliest uses of pneuma as “spirit” in this sense occure in: (a) Celsus’s True Doctrine, as a parody of Christian view; and (b) the magical papyri of the third to the sixth centuries CE, which clearly borrowed this usage from Jewish and Christian sources. 102 [T17]. 103 [T21]. 104 [T22]. 105 [T7]. 106 Paige 2002, 419: “Now there is no disputing that a concept of inspiration existed in Greek religion and philosophy. It is probably not going too far to say Greek religion – at least in certain cult places, ceremonies, or practices – had a mystical aspect. But having a concept of inspiration does not automatically imply a developed doctrine of ‘spirit’ akin to Jewish and Christian usage, nor does it necessarily imply any special theological meaning attached to πνεῦµα, not even if some of the terms used in Greek literature (such as ἐπίπνοια, ἐµπνέω) may share a similar lexical root.”

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2. FINAL THOUGHTS The texts of the PGM reflect the complexities in the contemporary religious world. This cultural encounter ‒ especially the synergy between three different religions ‒ stimulated an amalgam of traditions and concepts. We have focused on the period when most of the papyri were written (i.e., the third century CE and, especially, the fourth century CE). We have seen how, at this time, terms for intermediate beings refer to divine entities, which are placed at a higher level within a hierarchical structure. Although one might conclude that these associations degrade a superior entity to a lower status, it is more likely that in the PGM the terms daimon, aggelos and pneuma are used as synonyms for “god.” The contexts in which the spells are cast help explain this use of intermediate beings. The conjuror needs to seek contact with the divinity to reach his goal. This is not always easy to achieve, either because the god is not interested or because it is too risky. It may be that the magician resigned himself to using a more modest material representation of the god. The most remarkable fact of this phenomenon is the neutralisation of the former hierarchy of divine entities, which was still prevalent when most of the papyri were written. Tab. 1 Helios

Aion Hermes Osiris Iao The god Seth‒Typhon Orion Besas‒Headless god Selene

Typhon

δαίµων IV 2967‒3007 [T3] V 214‒304 [T2] XII 161‒179 [T1] V 448‒490 [T5] XIII 345‒645 [T4] IV 2967‒3007 [T3] IV 2967‒3007 [T3] VII 940‒968 [T7] XV 1‒23 [T10]

I 1‒40 [T13] VII 222‒272 [T8] VIII 65‒110 [T9] IV 2967‒3007 [T3] VII 864‒918 [T6] IV 155‒285 [T11]

ἄγγελος/ἀρχάγγελος III 1‒164 [T14] III 282‒424 [T17] III 495‒610 [T15] XIII 235‒344 [T16]

III 185‒262 [T18] XXXVI 38‒50 [T19] I 43‒195 [T20] III 1‒164 [T13]

πνεῦµα III 282‒424 [T16] IV 1115‒1164 [T21] VII 540‒579 [T22] VII 940‒968 [T7]

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XXIII 1‒15 [T12] IV 2967‒3007 [T3] IV 2967‒3007 [T3] IV 2967‒3007 [T3] IV 2967‒3007 [T3] IV 2967‒3007 [T3]

Appendix: cited texts [T 1] PGM XII 161‒179 ὅταν δὲ ῥαγῇ τὰ δεσµά, λέγε· ‘ε[ὐχ]αριστῶ σοι, κύριε, ὅ[τι] µε ἔ[λυσε]ν τὸ ἅγιον πνεῦµα, τὸ µονογενές, τὸ ζῶν.’ καὶ πάλιν λέγε τὸν λόγον· ‘ἀστροθ[ετῶν] θεέ, κεραυνοµεγαλονοζηνπερατοκοσµολαµπροβελοπλουτο δαίµων, ἀεριαφρίξ, ἀκτινοπῶν, δατοροφρήν, ὁ δολο.’ τέλει δὲ καὶ τὸ τοῦ Ἡλίου ὄνοµα πρὸς πάντα· ‘αἴθων, ηφαιη, Ἥφαισ[τ]ε, πυριφαῆ, λαµ‒ προφοῖτα, ανανωχα, αµαρζα, µαρµαραµω.’

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[T 2] PGM V 214‒304 λόγος λεγόµενος πρὸς ἥλιον· ‘ἐγώ εἰµι Θωύθ, φαρµάκων καὶ γραµµάτων εὑρετὴς καὶ κτί‒ στης· ἐλθέ µοι, ὁ ὑπὸ γῆν, ἔγειρέ µοι , ὁ µέγας δαίµων, ὁ Φνουν, ὁ χθόνιος (ἢ οἱ Νουν, ο χθόνιοι). ἐγώ εἰµι Ἥρων ἔν‒ δοξος, ὠὸν ἴβεως, ὠὸν ἱέρακος, ὠ‒ ὸν Φοίνικος ἀεροφοιτήτου, ἔχων ὑπὸ τὴν γλῶσσαν τὸ τέλµα τοῦ Ἐµ, τὴν δορὰν τοῦ Κεφ περιβέβληµαι.

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[T 3] PGM IV 2967‒3007 (…) εἶτα κῦρι θυµιά‒ σας καὶ τὴν διὰ τοῦ γάλακτος σπονδὴν χεά‒ µενος µετ’ εὐχῶν ἀνασπᾷ τὸ φυτὸν ἐξ ὀνόµα‒ τος ἐπικαλούµενος τὸν δαίµονα, ᾧ ἡ βοτά‒ νη ἀνιέρωται, πρὸς ἣν λαµβάνεται χρείαν, παρακαλῶν ἐνεργεστέραν γενέσθαι πρὸς αὐτήν. ἐπίκλησις δ’ αὐτῷ ἐπὶ πάσης βοτάνης καθ’ ὅλον ἐν ἄρσει, ἣν λέγει, ἐστὶν ἥδε· ‘ἐσπάρης ὑπὸ τοῦ Κρόνου, συνελήµφθης ὑπὸ τῆς Ἥρας, (2975) διετηρήθης ὑπὸ τοῦ Ἄµµωνος, ἐτέχθης ὑπὸ τῆς Ἴσιδος, ἐτράφης ὀµβρίου Διός, ηὐξήθης

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ὑπὸ τοῦ Ἡλίου καὶ τῆς δρόσου. σὺ ἡ δρόσος ἡ τῶν θεῶν πάντων, σὺ ἡ καρδία τοῦ Ἑρµοῦ, σὺ εἶ τὸ σπέρµα τῶν προγόνων θεῶν, σὺ εἶ ὁ ὀφθαλµὸς τοῦ Ἡλίου, σὺ εἶ τὸ φῶς τῆς Σελήνης, σὺ εἶ ἡ σπου‒ δὴ τοῦ Ὀσίρεως, σὺ εἶ τὸ κάλλος καὶ ἡ δόξα τοῦ Οὐρανοῦ, σὺ εἶ ἡ ψυχὴ τοῦ δαίµονος τοῦ Ὀσίρε‒ ως, ἡ κωµάζουσα ἐν παντὶ τόπῳ, σὺ εἶ τὸ πνεῦ‒ µα τοῦ Ἄµµωνος. ὡς τὸν Ὄσιριν ὕψωσας, οὕτως ὕψωσον σεαυτὴν καὶ ἀνατεῖλον, ὡς καὶ ὁ Ἥλιος ἀνατέλλει καθ’ ἑκάστην ἡµέραν· τὸ µῆκός σου ἴσον ἐστὶ τῷ τοῦ Ἡλίου µεσουρανήµατι, αἱ δὲ ῥίζαι τοῦ βυθοῦ, αἱ δὲ δυνάµεις σου ἐν τῇ καρδίᾳ τοῦ Ἑρ‒ µοῦ εἰσιν, τὰ ξύλα σου τὰ ὀστέα τοῦ Μνεύεως, καί σου τὰ ἄνθη ἐστὶν ὁ ὀφθαλµὸς τοῦ Ὥρου, τὸ σὸν σπέρµα τοῦ Πᾶνός ἐστι σπέρµα. ἐγὼ νίζω σε ῥητίνῃ ὡς καὶ τοὺς θεούς, καὶ ἐπὶ ὑγείᾳ ἐµαυτοῦ, καὶ συναγνίσθη‒ τι ἐπευχῇ καὶ δὸς ἡµῖν δύναµιν ὡς ὁ Ἄρης καὶ ἡ Ἀθηνᾶ. ἐγώ εἰµι Ἑρµῆς. λαµβάνω σε σὺν Ἀγαθῇ Τύχῃ καὶ Ἀγαθῷ Δαίµονι καὶ ἐν καλῇ ὥρᾳ καὶ ἐν καλῇ ἡµέρᾳ καὶ ἐπιτευκτικῇ πρὸς πάντα’.

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[T 4] PGM XIII 345‒645 σοῦ γὰρ φανέντος, καὶ κόσµος ἐγένετο καὶ φῶς ἐφάνη, καὶ διῳκονοµήθη τὰ πάντα διὰ σέ. διὸ καὶ πάντα ὑποτέτακταί σοι, οὗ οὐδεὶς θεῶν δύναται ἰδεῖν τὴν ἀληθινὴν µορφήν, ὁ µεταµορφούµενος ἐν ταῖς ὁράσεσιν, Αἰὼν Αἰῶνος· ἐπικαλοῦµα σε, κύριε, ἵνα µοι φανῇ ἡ ἀληθινή σου µορφή, ὅτι δουλεύω ὑπὸ τὸν σὸν κόσµον τῷ σῷ ἀγγέλῳ (…) Ἧκέ µοι, κύριε, ἀµώµητος, ὁ µηδένα τόπον µιαίνων, ἱλαρός, ἀπήµαντος, ὅτι ἐπικαλοῦµαί σε, βασιλεῦ βασιλέων, τύραννε τυράννων, ἔν‒ δοξε ἐνδοξοτάτων, δαίµων δαιµόνων, ἄλκιµε ἀλκιµωτάτων, ἅγιε ἁγίων· ἐλθέ µοι πρόθυµος, ἱλαρός, ἀπήµαντος.’

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[T 5] PGM V 448‒490 Ἄλλως. ‘ἐπικαλοῦµαί σε τὸν κτίσαντα γῆν καὶ ὀστᾶ καὶ πᾶσαν σάρκα καὶ πᾶν πνεῦµα καὶ τὸν στήσαντα τὴν θάλασσαν καὶ σαλεύ[σαντα] τὸν οὐρανόν, ὁ χωρίσας τὸ φῶ[ς ἀ‒] πὸ τοῦ σκότους, ὁ µέγας Νοῦς, ἔν[νο]‒ µος τὸ πᾶν διοικῶν, αἰωνόφθα[λ]‒ µος, δαίµων δαιµόνων, θεὸς θ[ε]‒ ῶν, ὁ κύριος τῶν πνευµάτων, ὁ ἀ‒ πλάνητος Αἰὼν Ἰάω ουηι· εἰσά‒ κουσόν µου τῆς φωνῆς. ἐπικαλοῦ‒ µαί σε, τὸν δυνάστην τῶν θεῶν, ὑψιβρεµέτα Ζεῦ, Ζεῦ τύραννε, Ἀ‒ δωναί, κύριε Ἰάω ουηε· ἐγώ εἰµι

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ὁ ἐπικαλούµενός σε Συριστὶ θεὸν µέγαν ζααλαηριφφου. καὶ σὺ µὴ παρακούσῃς τῆς φωνῆς.’ (Ἑβραϊστί· ‘αβλαναθαναλβα αβρασιλωα’.) [T 6] PGM VII 864‒918 καὶ ὁ λόγος σεληνιακός· ‘ἐπικαλοῦµαί σε, δέσποινα τοῦ σύνπαντος κόσµου, καθηγουµένος τοῦ σύµπαντος, θεὰ µεγαλοδύναµε, [δαίµ]ων ἱλαρῶπι, νυχία, ἠροδία, φεροφορη αναθρα ...ουθρα ἐξούσ[α]σα τὰ ἱερά σου σύµβολα δὸς ῥοῖζον [καὶ] δὸς ἱερὸν ἄγγελον ἢ πάρεδρον ὅσον διακονή‒ [σον]τα τῇ σήµερο[ν ν]υκτί, ἐν τῇ ἄρτι ὥρᾳ προκυνη Βαυβὼ φοβειος µηε, καὶ κέλευσον ἀγγέλῳ ἀπελθεῖν πρὸς τὴν δεῖνα, ἄξαι αὐτὴν τῶν τριχῶν, τῶν π[ο]δῶν· φοβουµένη, φανταζοµένη, ἀγρυπνοῦσα ἐπὶ τῷ ἔρωτί µου καὶ τῇ ἐµοῦ φιλίᾳ, τοῦ δεῖνα, ἥκοι σηκῷ.’ ὧδε ἡ ᾠδή ἐστιν.

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[T 7] PGM VII 940‒968 ‘Δεῦρό µοι, ὁ ἐν τῷ στερεῷ πνεύµατι, ἀόρατος, παντοκράτωρ, κτίστης τῶν θεῶν· δεῦρό µοι, ὁ ἀκαταµάχητος δαίµων. δεῦρό µοι, ὁ τὸν ἴδιον ἀδελφὸν µὴ λ[υ]πήσας, Σήθ· δεῦρό µοι, πυριλαµπὲς πνεῦµα· δεῦρό µοι, ὁ ἀκατα‒ φρόνητος θεός, δαίµων, καὶ φίµωσον, ὑπόταξον, καταδούλωσον τὸν δεῖνα τῷ δεῖνα καὶ ποίη‒ σον αὐτόν, ὑπὸ τοὺς πόδας µοι ἔλθῃ’.

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[T 8] PGM VII 222‒272 λόγος ὁ λεγόµενος ἐπὶ τὸν λύχνον· ‘Ἐπικαλοῦµαί σε τὸν ἀκέφαλον θεόν, τ[ὸ]ν ἐπὶ τοῖς ποσὶν ἔχοντα τὴν ὅρασιν· ὁ ἀστράπων, ὁ βροντάζων, σὺ εἶ, τὸ στόµα διὰ παντὸς προσχέεται, σὺ εἶ ὁ ἐπὶ τῆς Ἀνάγκης Αρβαθιαω, σὺ εἶ ὁ ἐπὶ σορῷ κατακείµενος καὶ πρὸς κεφαλῆς ἔχων ὑπαγκώνιον ῥητίνης καὶ ἀσφάλτου, ὃν λέγουσιν Ἀνούθ. ἀ[ν]άστα, δαίµων· οὐκ εἶ δαίµων, ἀλλὰ τὸ τῶν βʹ ἱεράκων τῶν πρὸς κεφαλῆς τοῦ Οὐρανοῦ λαλούντων καὶ ἀγρυ‒ πνούντων. ἔγειρόν σου τὴν νυκτερινὴν µορφήν, ἐν ᾗ πάντα ἀναγορεύεις. ὁρκίζω σέ, δαίµων, κατὰ τῶν βʹ ὀνοµάτων σου Ἀνούθ, Ἀνούθ: σὺ εἶ ὁ ἀκέφ[α]λος θεός, ὁ ἐν τοῖς ποσὶν ἔχων κεφαλὴν καὶ τὴν ὅρ[α]σιν, Βησᾶς ἀµβλυωπός. οὐκ ἀγνοοῦµεν· σὺ εἶ, οὗ τὸ στόµα [δ]ι[ὰ] π[αν]τὸς καίεται· ὁρκ[ίζω σὲ κατὰ] τῶν βʹ ὀνοµάτων σου Ἀνούθ: Ἀνούθ: µ̣.......ο̣ρα φησαρα η... ἐλθέ, κύριε, χρηµάτισόν µοι περ[ὶ] τοῦ δεῖνα πράγµατος ἀψεύστως, ἀσκαν̣δ[̣ α̣]λίστως, ἤδη, ἤδη, ταχύ, ταχύ.’

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[T 9] PGM VIII 65‒110 (= VII 222‒249) ‘ἐπικαλοῦµαί σε, τὸν ἀκέφαλον θεόν, σοῖς παρὰ τοῖ ποσὶν ἔχοντα τὴν ὅρασιν, τὸν ἀστράπτοντα καὶ βροντάζοντα. σὺ εἶ, οὗ τὸ στόµα διὰ παντὸς πυ‒ ρὸς γέµει, ὁ ἐπὶ τῆς Ἀνάγκης τεταγµένος. ἐπικα‒ λοῦµαί σε, τὸν ἐπὶ τῆς Ἀνάγκης τεταγµένον θεὸν Ἰαεω· Σαβαώθ: Ἀδωναί: Ζαβαρβαθιάω: σὺ εἶ ὁ ἐ‒ πὶ τῇ ζυρνίνῃ σορῷ κατακείµενος, ἔχων ὑπα‒ γώνιον ῥητίνην καὶ ἄσφαλτον, ὃν λέγουσιν· Ἀνούθ: Ἀνούθ: ἀνάστα, δαίµων· οὐκ εἶ δαίµων, ἀλλὰ τὸ αἷµα τῶ δύο ἱεράκων τῶν πρὸς κεφαλῆς τοῦ Ὀσίρεως λαλούντων καὶ ἀγρυπνούντων.

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[T 10] PGM XV 1‒23 διορκίζω ὑµᾶς δαίµονας κατὰ τῶν ὑµῶν πικρῶν ἀναγκῶν τῶν ἐχουσῶν ὑµᾶς καὶ ἀνεµοφορήτων, Ιω Ιωε Φθουθ Ειω Φρη, ὁ µέγιστος δαίµων Ἰαὼ Σαβαὼ Βαρβαρε Λαιλαµψ Ὀσορνωφρι Εµφερα, ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ θεὸς ὁ µονογενής, ὁ ἐκσαλεύων τὸν βυθόν, ἐξαποστέλλων ὕδατα καὶ ἀνέµους· ἔξαφες τὰ πνεύµα‒ τα τῶν δαιµόνων τούτων ὅπου µού ἐστιν ἡ πύξις, ἵνα µοι τελέσωσι τὰ ἐν τῷ πυξιδίῳ ὄντα, ἤτε ἄρσενες ἤτε θήλειαι, ἤτε µικροὶ ἤτε µεγάλοι, ἵνα ἐλθόν‒ τες τελέσωσι τὰ ἐν τῷ πυξιδίῳ τούτῳ καὶ καταδήσωσι Νῖλον τὸν καὶ Ἀγαθὸν Δαίµονα, ὃν ἔτεκε Δηµητρία, ἐµοὶ Καπιτωλίνᾳ, ἣν ἔτεκε Πιπερο[ῦς], [ὅλο]ν τῆς ζωῆς αὐ̣τοῦ χρόνον. φιλῇ µε Νῖλος φίλτρον αἰώνιον. ἤδη ἤδη ταχ[ὺ ταχύ.

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[T 11] PGM IV 155‒285 τὸ νεῦµα ἔχων πρὸς τῷ ἡλίῳ κατάρχου λό‒ γων τῶνδε. λόγος· ‘Κραταιὲ Τυφῶν, τῆς ἄνω σκηπτουχίας σκηπτοῦχε καὶ δυνάστα, θεὲ θεῶν, ἄναξ (…) σὺ δὲ ἀναστὰς ἀµφιέσθητι λευκοῖς εἵµασιν καὶ ἐπίθυε ἐπὶ θυµιατηρίου γεΐνου ἄτµη‒ τον λίβανον σταγονιαῖον λέγων τάδε· ‘συνεστά‒ θην σου τῇ ἱερᾷ µορφῇ, ἐδυναµώθην τῷ ἱερῷ σου ὀνό‒ µατι, ἐπέτυχόν σου τῆς ἀπορροίας τῶν ἀγαθῶν, κύριε, θεὲ θεῶν, ἄναξ, δαῖµον (…)

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[T 12] PGM XXIII [‘Κλῦθί] µοι, εὐµειδὴς καὶ ἐπίσκοπος, εὔσπο[ρ’ Ἄν]ουβι, [κλῦθί τε, αἱ]µ̣ύλε, υπτὲ πάρευνε, σαῶτι Ὀσί[ρεω]ς, [δεῦρ’, Ἑρ]µῆ, ἅρπαξ, δεῦρ’, ε[ὐ]πλόκαµε, χθόνιε Ζεῦ, [κῦρσα]ι δωσάµενοι κρηήνατε τήνδ’ ἐπαοιδήν. [δεῦρ’, Ἅιδ]η καὶ Χθών, πῦρ ἄφθιτον, Ἥλιε Τιτάν, [ἐλθὲ καὶ] Ἰάα καὶ Φθᾶ καὶ Φρῆ νοµοσώσω[ν,] [καὶ Νεφ]θὼ πολύτιµε καὶ Ἀβλαναθὼ πολύολβε, [πυρσ]οδρακοντόζων’, ἐρυσίχθων, αἰπυκαρείη, [Ἀβραξ]ᾶ, περίβωτε τὸ κοσµικὸν οὔνοµα δαίµων, [ἄξονα] καὶ χορίον καὶ φῶτα νέµων παγέρ’ Ἄρκτων, [ἐλθὲ κ]αὶ ἐνκρατείᾳ πάντων προφερέστερ’ ἐµοί, Φρήν, [σὲ κα]λ̣έω ̣ , Βιεῦ, καὶ Φάσιε, καὶ σ’ Ἰξίων, [καὶ Γε]νεὰ καὶ Ἀφηβιοτὰ καὶ Πῦρ καλλιαιθές,

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[ἠδ’ ἔλθοι]ς, Χθονία καὶ Οὐρανία, καὶ ὀνείρω[ν] [ἣ µεδέει]ς, καὶ Σείρι’, ὃς [ ].’ (15) [T 13] PGM I 1‒40 παρεδρικῶς προσ̣[γίνεται δαί]µων, ὃς τὰ πάντα µηνύσει σοι ῥητῶς κα[ὶ συνόµιλος καὶ συ]ναριστῶν ἔσται σοι καὶ συγ‒ κοιµώµενος. λαβὼν [οὖν ὁµοῦ] δύο σαυτοῦ ὄνυχας καὶ πά‒ σας σου τὰς τρίχα[ς ἀπὸ κε]φαλῆς καὶ λαβὼν ἱέρακα κιρ‒ καῖον ἀποθ[έ]ωσον εἰς [γάλα βο]ὸς µελαίνης συµίξας αὐ‒ τῷ µέλι Ἀττικὸν (…) καὶ πρὶν τοῦ σε ἀναπεσεῖν λέγε ἄντικρυς αὐτοῦ τοῦ πτηνοῦ ποιή‒ σας αὐτῷ θυσίαν, ὡς ἔθος ἔχεις, καὶ λέγε τὸν προκείµενον λόγον· ‘α εε ηηη ιιιι οοοοο υυ[υυυ]υ ωωωωωωω ἧκέ µοι, ἀγαθὲ γεωργέ, Ἀγαθὸς Δ[αί]µων, Ἁρπον [κνοῦ]φι βριντατην σιφρι βρισκυλµα αρουαζαρ β[αµεσεν] κριφι νιπτουµιχµουµαωφ. ἧκέ µοι, ὁ ἅγιος Ὠρίω[ν, ὁ ἀνακ]είµενος ἐν τῷ βορείῳ, ἐ‒ πικυλινδούµενος [τὰ τοῦ Νε]ίλου ῥεύµατα καὶ ἐπιµιγνύων τῇ θαλάττῃ καὶ ἀλλ[οιῶν ζω]ῇ καθώσπερ ἀνδρὸς ἐπὶ τῆς συν‒ ουσίας τὴν σπορὰν, ἐ̣π[̣ ὶ .... βάσει] ἀρραίστῳ ἱδρύσας τὸν κόσµον, ὁ πρωίας νεαρὸς καὶ ὀ[ψὲ πρεσ]βύτης, ὁ τὸν ὑπὸ γῆν διοδεύων πόλον καὶ πυρίπνεος ων, ὁ τὰ πελάγη διεὶς µηνὶ αʹ (…)

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[T 14] PGM III 1‒164 ‘ὁρκίζω σε, τ[ὸν] ἐν τῷ τόπῳ τ[ού]τῳ µὲν ἄγγελον κραταιὸν (71) καὶ ἰσχυρὸν τοῦ ζώου το[ύτο]υ· ἔγειρόν µ[οι] σεαυτὸν καὶ [πο]ίησον τὸ δεῖνα π[ρᾶγµα] καὶ ἐν τῇ σήµ[ε]ρον ἡµέρᾳ κα[ὶ ἐν] πάσῃ ὥρᾳ καὶ ἡµέρᾳ· ἔγειρόν µοι σεαυτὸν κα[τὰ τ]ῶν ἐχθρῶν µου, τῶν δεῖνα, καὶ π[οί]ησον τὸ δεῖνα πρᾶ[γµα] (κοινά), ὅτι ὁρκίζω σε Ἰάω, Σαβαώθ, Ἀδωναί, Ἀβρασὰξ καὶ κα τοῦ µεγάλου θεο[ῦ] Ἰαεω (λόγος) αεηι[ουω] ωυοιηε[α] χαβραξ φνεσκηρ φιχ[ο] φνυρο[φ]ωχωβ[ωχ] αβλανα[θα]ναλβα ακραµµαχα[µ]αρι σε[σε]νγενβ[αρ‒] φαραγγ[ης] Μίθρα ναµαζαρ [α]ναµ[αρ]ια Δα[µνα]µεν[εῦ,] χευ̣χθω̣[νιε]θ̣ορτ̣οει, ἅγιε β[ασι]λ[εῦ, ὁ] ναυτ[ικός, ὁ] τὸ[ν οἴ‒] ακα [κρατῶν κυ]ρίου θεοῦ· [ἔγε]ι[ρ]όν µοι σ[εαυτόν,] [αἰλ]ουροπ[ρόσω]πος µέγας, οἴακα κρατῶν [θεοῦ], ποίη‒ σ[ο]ν τὸ δεῖνα [π]ρᾶγµα (κοινά) ἀπὸ τῆς σήµερο[ν] ἡµέρας ἤδη ἤδ[η, τ]αχὺ ταχύ. συντέλεσόν µοι τὸ δεῖνα πρᾶγµα, κοινὰ ὅσα θέλεις, [κρ]αταιὲ Σ[ὴ]θ Τυφῶν, καὶ ἀνόµησον τῷ σθέν‒ [ει σ]ου καὶ[ κα]τάστρεψον τὸ δεῖνα πρᾶγµα ἐν τῷ τόπῳ τού‒ τῳ .....τ̣ιο̣ὶρι̣, ὡς ἂν κελεύσω τῷ εἰδώλῳ σου, ὅτι ὁρ[κίζ]ω σε Μασκελλι Μασκελλω (λόγος)· συν‒ [τ]έλεσό[ν µ]οι τοῦτο τὸ δεῖνα πρᾶγµα ἐπὶ τῇ µορφῇ σου, [αἰ]λουρ[οπ]ρόσωπος ἄγγελος, συντέλεσόν µοι τὸ δεῖνα πρᾶγµα (κοινά) καὶ τὰ ἑξῆς γραφόµενα (εἰς ἄλ‒ [λα]ς χρεία[ς]).’ (…) ‘δεῦρό µ[οι], ὁ µέγιστος ἐν οὐρανῷ, ᾧ ὁ οὐρανὸς ἐ‒ γένετο [κ]ωµαστήριον, σατις / πεφωουθ / Ὥρα (130) ἀ[νά]γκῃ ποίησον τὸ δεῖνα πρᾶγµα ηιλααν‒ χυχ· α[κα]ρβην / λααρµενθρησεν εβεχυχ ὁ ὢν φ[ιλ]οµαντόσυνος, ὁ χρυσοπρόσωπος, ὁ χρυσαυ‒

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γής, ὁ πυ[ρ]ὶ καταλάµπων τῆς νυκτός, ἄλκι‒ [µ]ος ἄ[λκι]µος κοσµοκράτωρ, ὁ πρωῒ ἐπιλάµ‒ πω[ν τῆς ἡµ]έρας, ὁ δύνων ἐν τῷ λιβι[β]όρῳ τοῦ οὐρ[ανοῦ, ὁ ἀν]ατέλλων [ἐκ τ]οῦ ἀπηλιώτου, σ̣λ.̣ .ιξ, [ὁ] γυροειδής, ὁ τρέχων ἕως µ[ε]σηµ‒ βρ[ί]ας κα[ὶ] διατρίβων ἐν τῇ Ἀραβίᾳ µουρωφ ὁ̣ εµ̣φε̣..ι̣ρ, ὁ ἄγγελος τοῦ ἁγίου φέγ[γ]ους, ὁ κ[ύ]‒ κλος ὁ π[υ]ροειδὴς περταωµηχ περακωνχµ[ηχ] περακοµφθω ακ Κµηφ ὁ ἔκλαµπρος Ἥλι[ος, ὁ] αὐγάζω[ν] καθ’ ὅλην τὴν οἰκουµένην, ὁ ἐν [τῷ] ὠκεαν[ῷ ὀ]χεύων, ψοειω ψοειω π[ν]ουτε νεντηρ τηρ[ου·

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[T 15] PGM III 495‒610 [Σύστασις πρ]ὸς Ἥλιον. περὶ πά[σης πρ]άξ[ε]ως καὶ περ[ὶ π]άν̣[τω‒] ν ποί[ησις], περὶ ὧν ἐὰν θέ[λῃ]ς, οὕτως ἐπικαλοῦ· (…) (495) [................. ὥρ]ᾳ ιβ µ[ορφὴν] [ἔχεις] ...... ὄνοµά σ]οι Ἀδων[αί .....] [κα]ὶ Γαβριὴλ (533) [T 16] PGM XIII 235‒344 Ἡλίου δεῖξις. λέγε πρὸς ἀνατολάς· ‘ἐγώ εἰµι ὁ ἐπὶ τῶν δύο χερουβείν, ἀνὰ µέσον τῶν δύο φύσεων, οὐρανοῦ καὶ γῆς, ἡλίου τε καὶ σελήνης, φωτὸς καὶ σκότους, νυκτὸς καὶ ἡµέρας, ποταµῶν καὶ θαλάσσης· φάνηθί µοι, ὁ ἀρχάγγελος τῶν ὑπὸ τὸν κόσµον, αὐθέντα Ἥλιε, ὁ ὑπ’ αὐτὸν τὸν ἕνα καὶ µόνον τεταγµένος· προστάσσει σοι ὁ ἀεὶ καὶ µόνος.’ λέγε τὸ ὄνοµα.

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[T 17] PGM III 282‒424 [εἰς τ]ὴν ἀ̣ν̣ατ̣ ο̣ λὴν τῆς Σελήνης τριακονθήµ̣ερον [λέγε·] ‘ἐλθέ µο[ι, µ]έγισ[τος] [ἀ]ρχάγγελος, ἐλθέ µοι ξασρ· ξαµ [Θω]ούτ .. ἐλθέ µοι, τύραννε [τῆ]ς οὐσίας ηµι...θ̣η.βα Θωούθ· θεω̣ρει..ε̣ν̣η̣ν παυπιου ψιβιοαυ̣ [α]βλαναθανα[λ]βα .αµοαµµα̣ πρ̣όσθ[ες] µοι, τῷ δεῖνα, µνήµην (…) ὅταν ὁρκ[ίζῃ]ς τὴν γαῖαν λέγων τὸν ἕβδοµον [λόγο]ν [εἰς τὴν] γῆν κ̣α̣ὶ̣ [ἅ]π̣α̣ν̣τ̣ας̣ ̣ τ̣ο̣ὺς̣ ̣ [θεοὺς] ἀθανάτου[ς. λ]όγος οὗτος· ‘ἧκέ µοι, κύρι[ε ....] [ἅγι]ο̣ν πνεῦ[µα’ ...]

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[T 18] PGM III 185‒262 Ἔστι δὲ ἡ σύστασις τῆς πράξεως ἥδε πρὸς Ἥλιον γιν[οµένη·] (197) (…)Σηµέα βασιλεῦ, κόσµου [γενέτω]ρ, ἐµοὶ ἵλαος ἔ[σσο,] κάν[θαρε, χ]ρυσοκόµην κλ̣[ῄζω θεὸν] ἀθάνατόν , κάν[θαρε, π]ᾶσι θεοῖσι καὶ [ἀνθρώ]ποις µέγα θα[ῦµα,] ........πο.....ε̣πι̣σ̣......ι̣νον̣ πυρε̣σ[ίθυµε], δέσποτα ἀν[τολίης], Τίταν, πυροεὶς ἀνατε[ί]λας, [σὲ] κλῄζω, πύριν[ο]ν Διὸς ἄγγελον, θεον Ἰάω, καί σε, τὸν οὐράνιον κόσµον κατέχοντα, Ῥ[αφαήλ,] ἀντολίῃς χαίρ[ω]ν, θεὸς ἵλαος ἔσο, Ἀβρασά[ξ,] καί σε, αἰθέριε, κλῄζω ἀ[ρ]ωγόν σου Μ[ιχαήλ] καὶ σώζοντα βι̣.οσ̣ιδιω̣ αιρ̣... ὄµµα τέλ[ειον] καὶ φύσιν δείξαντα καὶ ἐκ φύσεως φύσιν α[ὖθις,] καὶ κλῄζω ἀθανάτων ...ο̣π̣ασ̣ηηπ̣α σεσε[νγενβ]αρφαραγγης·

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παντοκράτωρ θεός ἐστι, σὺ δ’, ἀθάνατ’, ἔσσι µέγι[στος·] ἱκνοῦµαι, νῦν λάµψον, ἄναξ κόσµοιο, Σα[βαώθ,] ὃς δύσιν ἀντολίῃσιν ἐπισκεπάζες, Ἀδωνα[ί,] κόσµος ἐὼν µοῦνος κόσµον ἀθανάτων ἐ[φοδε]ύεις, αὐτοµαθής, ἀδίδακτος µέσον κόσµον ἐλ[αύνων]. [T 19] PGM XXXVI 38‒50 ἔστι δὲ τὰ γραφόµενα ὀνόµατα ταῦτα· ‘Ἰαώ, Σαβαώθ, Ἀδωναί, Ἐλωαί, Ἀβρασάξ, Ἀβλαναθαναλβα, Ἀκραµµαχαµαρι, πεφθα‒ φωζα, φνεβεννουνι, κύριοι ἄγγελοι, δότε µοι, τῷ δεῖνα, ᾧ ἔτεκεν ἡ δεῖνα, νίκην, χάριν, δόξαν, ἐπιτυχίαν πρὸς πάντας ἀνθρώπους καὶ πρὸς πάσας γυνεκας, µάλιστα πρὸς τὸν δεῖνα, ὃν ἔτοκεν ἡ δεῖνα, ἐπὶ τὸν ἀεὶ καὶ ἅπαντα χρόνον.’ τέλ(ε)ι.

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[T 20] PGM I 43‒195 πῦρ] δὲ ἀνάψας ἔχε µυρσίνης κλάδον [.ι̣.....]ο̣ν̣ σείω̣[ν καὶ χαιρ]έτιζε τὴν θεόν. ἔσται δέ σοι σηµεῖον ἐν τάχει τοιοῦ[το·ἀστὴρ αἴθω]ν κατελθὼν στήσεται εἰς µέσον τοῦ δώµατος καὶ κατ’ ὄµ[µα κατα]χυ[θ]ὲν τὸ ἄστρον, ἀθρήσεις, ὃν ἐκάλεσας ἄγγελον πεµφθ[έντα σ]οί, θεῶν δὲ βουλὰς συντόµως γνώσῃ. σὺ δὲ µὴ δειλοῦ· [πρόσ]ιθι τῷ θεῷ, καὶ χεῖρα αὐτοῦ δεξιὰν λαβὼν κατα[φί]λ̣ησον, καὶ λέγε ταῦτα πρὸς τὸν ἄγγελον· λαλήσει γάρ σοι συν[τόµ]ως, πρὸς ὃ ἐὰν βούλῃ. σὺ δὲ αὐτὸν ἐξόρκιζε τῷδε [τῷ ὅρκ]ῳ, ὅπως ἀκίνητός σου τυγχάνων µείνῃ καὶ µὴ προσι[γήσῃ µη]δὲ παρακούσῃ ὅλως. ἐπὰν δέ σοι τοῦτον ὅρκον ἀ[ποδ]ῷ ἀσφαλῶς, χειροκρατήσας τὸν θεὸν καταπήδα, κ̣[αὶ εἰ]ς̣ στενὸν τόπον ἐνεγκών, ὅπου κατοικεῖς, καθ[ίστη. π]ρῶτον δὲ τὸν οἶκον στρώσας, καθὼς πρέπει, καὶ ἑτοι[µάσας] παντοῖα φαγήµατα οἶνόν τε Μεν‒ δήσιον, προανά[φερε εἰ]ς τὸν θεόν, ὑπηρετοῦντος παιδὸς ἀφθόρου καὶ σιγὴ[ν ἔ]χοντος, ἄχρις ἂν ἀπίῃ ὁ̣ [ἄγγ]ελος.

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[T 21] PGM IV 1115‒1164 Στήλη ἀπόκρυφος· ‘χαῖρε, τὸ πᾶν σύ‒ στηµα τοῦ ἀερίου πνεύµατος φωγα‒ λωα· χαῖρε, τὸ πνεῦµα τὸ διῆκον ἀπὸ οὐρανοῦ ἐπὶ γῆν ερδηνευ καὶ ἀπὸ γῆς τῆς ἐν µέσῳ κύτει τοῦ κό‒ σµου ἄχρι τῶν περάτων τῆς ἀβύσσου µερεµωγγα· χαῖρε, τὸ εἰσερχόµενόν µε καὶ ἀντισπώµενόν µου καὶ χωρι‒ ζόµενόν µου κατὰ θεοῦ βούλησιν ἐν χρη‒ στότητι πνεῦµα ϊωη ζανωφιε· (…) [ἐ]νουράνιον πεληθευ· αἰθέριον ιωγαραα ἐναιθέριον θωπυλεο δαρδυ ὑδατῶδες ϊωηδες γαιῶδες περηφια πυρῶδες αφθαλυα· ἀνεµῶδες ϊωϊε ηω αυα φωτοειδές αλαπιε· σκοτοειδέ[ς] ϊεψερια· ἀστροφεγγές αδαµαλωρ·

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ὑγροπυρινοψυχρὸν πνεῦµα· αἰνῶ σε, ὁ θεὸς τῶν θεῶν, ὁ τὸν κόσµον καταρτισάµενος (…) ὁ σείων περατωνηλ, ὁ ζωογονῶν αρησιγυλωα, ὁ θεὸς τῶν Αἰώνων· µέγας εἶ, κύριε, θεέ, δέσποτα τοῦ παντός αρχιζω νυον θηναρ µεθωρ παρυ φηζωρ θαψαµυδω· µαρωµι χηλωψα:‘

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[T 22] PGM VII 540‒579 λόγος· ‘Φισιο: Ἰάω: αγεανουµα: σκαβαρω σκασαβρωσου ασαβρω ὅτι δέοµαι ὑµῶν ἐν τῇ σήµερον ἡµέρᾳ, ἐν τῇ ἄρτι ὥρᾳ φανῆναι τῷ παιδὶ τούτῳ τὸ φῶς καὶ τὸν ἥλιον, Μανε Οὔσειρι, Μανε Ἶσι, τὸν Ἄνουβιν, τ[ὸ]ν πάντων θεῶν ὑπηρέτην, κα[ὶ] ποίησον τὸν παῖδα κατασπασθῆναι καὶ ἰδεῖν τοὺς θεοὺς τοὺς εἰς τὴν µαντείαν παραγινοµένους πάντας. φάνηθί µοι ἐν τῇ µαντείᾳ, ὁ µεγαλόφρων θεός, τρισµέγας Ἑρµῆς, φανήτω ὁ τὰ τέσσαρα µέρη τοῦ οὐρανοῦ καὶ τὰ τέσσαρα θεµείλια τῆς γῆς ῥεσεννηεθω: βασ[ε]νεραιπαν: θαλθαχθα‒ χωθχ· χινεβωθ: χινεχωθ: µιµυλωθ: µασυντορι· ἀστοβι, ἧκέ µοι, ὁ ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ, ἧκέ µοι, ὁ ἐκ τοῦ ὠοῦ· ὁρκίζω ὑµᾶς κατὰ τοῦ εντω ταψατι λεγηνισθω ηλεγη Σερφουθ: µουϊσρω: λεγε, οἱ δύο θεοὶ οἱ περὶ σέ, Θαθ. καλεῖται ὁ εἷς θεὸς Σω, ὁ ἕτερος Ἀφ, καλου καγωηι σεσοφηϊ: Βαϊνχωωωχ’. ὁ λόγος ὁ λεγόµενος· ἧκέ µοι, τὸ πνεῦµα τὸ ἀερο‒ πετές, καλούµενον συµβόλοις καὶ ὀνόµασιν ἀφθέκτοις, (560) ἐπὶ τὴν λυχνοµαντείαν ταύτην, ἣν ποιῶ, καὶ ἔµβηθι αὐτοῦ εἰς τὴν ψυχήν, ἵνα τυπώσηται τὴν ἀθάνατον µορφὴν ἐν φωτὶ κραταιῷ καὶ ἀφθάρτῳ, ὅτι ᾄδων καλῶ...

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bulario religioso griego, edited by Esteban Calderón and Sabino Perea, 201‒233. Salamanca: Signifer. Suárez de la Torre, Emilio. 2000. “La noción de daimon en la literatura de la Grecia Arcaica y Clásica.” In Seres intermedios: ángeles, demonios y genios en el mundo mediterráneo, edited by Aurelio Pérez Jiménez and Gonzalo Cruz Andreotti, 47‒88. Málaga: Ediciones Clásicas. Suárez de la Torre, Emilio. 2009. “The Religious Background of the Greek Magical Papyri.” Paper presented in FIEC-Conference, Berlin, 24‒29 August 2009. Szpakowska, Kasia. 2009. “Demons in Ancient Egypt.” Religon Compass 3/5: 799‒805. Szpakowska, Kasia. 2011. “Demons in the Dark: Nightmares and other nocturnal enemies in Ancient Egypt.” In Ancient Egyptian Demonology. Studies on the Boundaries between the Demonic and the Divine in Egyptian Magic, edited by Panagiotis Kousoulis, 63‒76. Leuven, Paris and Walpole (MA): Peeters. Walker, Alicia. 2012. The Emperor and the World. Exotic Elements and the Imaging of Middle Byzantine Imperial Power, Ninth to Thirteenth Centuries C.E. New York: Cambridge University Press.

THE PARADOX OF A “MAGICAL HYMN”: REVIEWING THE POETIC COMPOSITIONS OF THE GREEK MAGICAL PAPYRI1 Miriam Blanco Cesteros, University of Bologna The belief that poetry had special properties beyond its artistic features was very deep rooted in Ancient Greece; it was already attested in the Odyssey when the prodigious recovery of Odysseus by an ἐπῳδή – “song, charm” (Od.19.457) – is narrated. According to ancient authors, Pythagoras himself used the chant of paians accompanied by a lyre as a medical treatment.2 The special properties of poetry were explained in the ancient world, on the one hand, by the mystic strength of the musical cadence, and, on the other hand, by the divine power which took part in its composition; the poet, as an inspired person, was not very different from the “enthused” diviner. Moreover, the divine power that inspired the verses remained in them.3 So it is not surprising that a large amount of ancient Greek ritual formulas had metrical form,4 and Greco-Egyptian practitioners found in poetry a great way to reinforce the power of their spells. Therefore, together with prose – and very often combined with it – the Greco-Egyptian practitioners used poetic compositions to invoke the gods involved in their practices; these metrical sections, usually composed in hexameters or iambic rhythms, were called “Magical Hymns” by K. Preisendanz. He was not the first editor in the most of the cases, but was the first in identifying systematically and editing all the metric passages of the Greek magical papyri.5 This collection might be deemed heterogeneous insofar as it gathers together different corpora of papyri. Some of them are the handbooks of the ancient GrecoEgyptian magicians – more than hundred papyri with formulas, spells and instruc1

2 3 4 5

This article has been written within the framework of the project FFI2017‒87558‒P (AEI/FEDER, UE) of the Spanish Ministry of Economy and Competitiveness. In this paper, the corpora of magical texts has been cited in the usual way through the following abbreviations: PGM = Preisendanz 1973-1974; Suppl.Mag. = Daniel‒Maltomini 1990-1992. For the numeration of the magical hymns (henceforth abbreviated Hymn.Mag.) used in this paper and their correspondence with the Preisendanz’s catalogue, see the appendix. Ancient authors and works not included in the list of abbreviations of the Oxford Classical Dictionary has been quoted according to the LSJ. Finally, I warmly thank Joseph Sanzo for his precious suggestions and careful proofreading of the text. Porph. VP 25.111 Collins 2008, 234. See Faraone 2009 and 2011. The whole catalogue of “magical hymns” was to be published in the third volume of Preisendanz’s work Papyri Graecae Magicae Die griechischen Zauberpapyri (known as PGM), but it was destroyed by a bombardment of the Second World War. Saved thanks to the printing’s proofs, the catalogue was finally published in the second volume of the 1973‒1974 edition of Preisendanz’s PGM. In this second edition, E. Heitsch revised some of the hymns. He had edited some of these compositions in Die griechischen Dichterfragmente der römischen Kaiserzeit (1963). The Suppl.Mag. – two volumes that supplemented Preisendanz’s collection of magical papyri – contains six new poetic passages not included in Preisendanz’s compilation.

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tions to carry out magical procedures; however, others are examples of so-called “applied magic,” that is, magical writings produced in the contexts of a magical ritual – tabellae defixionum, amulets, curses in papyri, etc.6

1. OUTLINING MAGICAL HYMNS: ORIGIN, DATING AND AUTHORSHIP To date, more than forty metrical passages have been identified (including the magical papyri edited after Preisendanz). These metrical sections were infrequently transmitted in papyri as independent lógoi, that is to say, as self-standing poems without prose interpolations.7 More frequently, however, these metrical passages present a prose invocation or closure in order to reinforce their power.8 On the other hand, another part of these compositions was integrated in longer prose lógoi, which could combine more than one metrical section from different origin.9 The most usual place 6

7

8

9

It should be noted that I follow general scholarly convention in classifying the practices and texts in the PGM under the rubric “magic.” Since it is beyond the scope of this paper to provide a comprehensive overview of scholarship on magic, I will simply mention some of the fundamental studies, which treat the major theoretical and taxonomic issues involved in this discussion: on the lack of a clear opposition between religion and magic in Greco-Roman world, see Faraone 1991, 17–20; Fowler 1995; Otto 2013; Graf 2016 and Versnel 1991. On magic as integral part of Egyptian religion, see Pinch 2010. On the formal similitudes of the ritual practices transmitted in the Greco-Egyptian magical papyri and the Greek religion, see Johnston 2000, Graf 1991, and 2005, Zografou 2008. On how these practices were perceived by their ritual practitioners (emic point of view), see Betz 1991 and 19922, 258, n.2; Dieleman 2005; Suárez–Blanco–Chronopoulou 2016, 207ss. On the politic and legal discourse on magic (and its use as rhetoric method of defamation), see Bremmer 1999 and 2002, Bernabé 2006, Calvo Martinez 2007. See also the chapters by Joseph E. Sanzo and Antón Alvar Nuño and Jaime Alvar Ezquerra in this volume. E.g., Hymn.Mag. 7 and Hymn.Mag. 36 are transmitted as independent lógoi without prose additions. They were distinguished from the text that precedes and follows them by means of paragraphoi; in the case of Hymn.Mag. 14A and B, the hymn has been separated from the ritual indications by full stop and blank space. Hymn.Mag. 16 appears also as independent lógoi without prose additions. The most outstanding case is the hymn titled 24Γ, which is transmitted as stand-alone text in a papyrus without any context. E.g., Hymn.Mag. 17 presents additions in prose at the beginning and the end. In Hymn.Mag. 9, the reason for the introduction of a prose closure seems to be the lack of an appropriate request in the hymn; in the case of Hymn.Mag. 15, the prose closure has an emphatic aim because it repeats the invocation and the request of the hymn (see Hymn.Mag. 13 below). The closure of Hymn.Mag. 10 has rhythmic echoes as a consequence of the employment of poetic epithets. E.g., PGM VI+II 1–59 (on this papyrus, see n.90 below) is a lógos formed by a conglomerate of prose and metric passages: two hymns addressed to Daphne (Hymn.Mag. 2 and 5); three to Apollo (Hymn.Mag. 3A and B, and Hymn.Mag. 6, a request of a hymn to Apollo); and an Homeric passage also addressed to this god (Il. I 37–41, see below n.121). Because of the nature of the entire logos – a motley amalgam of poetic and prose passages without internal coherence, but all addressed to Apollo or linked with the Apollinean sphere) – it seems probable that the compiler was using some kind of anthology of Apollinean oracular request. On the other hand, the “magical hymns” themselves can be composed, sometimes, by agglutination of pre-existent metric materials, usually revealed by the presence of inconsistences of form (e.g. different types of verses) or content (e.g. different request). The most outstanding case is Hymn.Mag. 1, in which scholars have identified 4 materials: a one-iambic trimeter formula, probably with medical aim, addressed to Apollo

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for them in these cases is the beginning-introductive function – or the end – as closure – of a prose prayer.10 Some of those, inserted in scriptio continua in the lógoi without divisions or lectional signs between the verses, were transmitted as prose, with the resulting loss of their poetic dimension and the consequent damage of the metric structure.11 Laying aside the question of the hymnic nature of some prose lógoi of PGM12 or the “hymnic” status of the whole combination of prose and verse passages – a problem brilliantly addressed by I. Petrovic – 13 the clear metrical nature of these passages makes them stand out in their context of transmission. Establishing the origin or the authorship of these compositions is a thorny issue. Greek magical papyri, usually dated by palaeography, come from to a wide time interval from the 1st century BCE to the 5th century CE, although the majority of them are dated between the 2nd and 4th century CE. Magical hymns are present already in one of the most ancient magical recipe books preserved, PGM XX (also known as Philina’s Papyrus; 1st century BC),14 which contains three medical incantations written in hexameters.15 Christopher Faraone, who has studied in depth this little fragment of a iatromagical anthology,16 has found in the two charms better preserved very clear signs of traditional Greek content that link these epaoidai with traditional Greek magical incantations in verse.17 On the other hand, however, the second spell can be linked with the spells preserved in a papyrus fragment from Oxyrhynchus two centuries later (4th century CE).18 The same occurs regarding the magical petition formula τέλει τελέαν ἐπαοιδήν. It is already attested in Aristophanes,19 but also in several spells and magical hymns, such as the Hymn.Mag. 36 (Suppl.Mag. 72, col.i, l.14;

10

11 12 13 14 15

16 17 18 19

(Hymn.Mag. 1a); a hexametrical fragment, probably pertaining to the invocation of a longer magical hymn (Hymn.Mag. 1b); a solar hymn composed over an angelic invocation with parallels in Hymn.Mag. 9 (Hymn.Mag. 1c); and a version of Hymn.Mag. 14 (Hymn.Mag. 14Δ) with a request that a priori differs from that of Hymn.Mag. 1c. On this composition, see Bortolani 2016, 59–96 and Calvo 2005. E.g. Hymn.Mag. 8 is inserted as an opening at the beginning of a long prose lógoi. The same occurs in Suppl.Mag. 42, a long katadesmós that contain the same metrical passage at the beginning and at the end (Hymn.Mag. 32). Suppl.Mag. 49 contains two metrical passages at the end combined with prose requests (Hymn.Mag. 34 and 35). E.g. Hymn.Mag. 27 (see below) and 11. On this topic see, e.g., Calvo 2002. Petrovic 2015. On this papyrus, see Maas 1942, Daniel 1988, Dickie 1994, Faraone 1995. The first one is partially preserved and, consequently, it is not possible to know its exact purpose; at the very least, however, we can say that it was medical. Regarding the remaining two: the first is introduced as “the charm of [lost name] a Syrian woman from Gadara against the inflammation” and the second as “the incantation of Philinna the Thessalian for headache.” See bibliography in the previous note. According to Faraone (1995, 210), a comparison with the way in which the compiler entitled each spell and the way in which the anthologists distinguished poems in Greek epigrammatic anthologies suggests that this artefact is probably a fragment of a much larger collection. The same applies to the use of the iambic trimeter in magic, which, as Faraone has demonstrated, stands behind the oral origin of some magical formulae written in late-antiquity amulets (Faraone 2009). Suppl.Mag. 88 Ar. Amphiaraus fr.29 (Kassel–Austin); cf. Ael. NA 12.9. On this fragment, see Faraone 1992.

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dated to Augustan Age) and the Hymn.Mag. 23 (PGM IV 2935; 3rd/4th century CE).20 These two examples illustrate that poetic magical charms belong to a long tradition that starts in the Hellenistic (or even Classic) Greek world, rooted in oral Greek folklore, and continues and spreads across the Mediterranean from the imperial period to late antiquity. Yet, there is a considerable leap from short magical formulae in verse to long magical hymns. PGM XX is our most valuable witness to this leap because it demonstrates that the increase in the complexity of these compositions could be specifically linked with putting magical recipes in writing. Three pieces of information from the context in which these compositions have been transmitted give us complementary information about their textual lives. First, although they have strong bonds with contemporaneous religious and non-religious literature, no magical hymn has parallels outside magical texts. Second, as far as we can tell, the magical hymns are rarely attested outside the writings of the professional magical practitioners: only 4 hymns have been transmitted through testimonies of applied magic, as part of katasdesmoí (Hymn.Mag. 32, 33, 34, 35), and 2 more (Hymn.Mag. 24Γ, an oracular request to Hermes, and 31, a poetic passage of dubious magical character) were copied in papyri where they stand alone. That implies, a priori, that the magical hymns reflect a literary context restricted to the Greco-Egyptian magicians and are directly connected with the phenomenon of the magical handbook.21 Third, although magical hymns are mainly unica, several facts indicate these texts “circulated.” For instance, it is noteworthy that some hymns have been preserved more than once:22 Hym.Mag. 3 (two three-verse oracular request addressed to Apollo with slight variants; both are gathered in the same lógos);23 14 (a solar hymn transmitted in four versions in three different papyri);24 20 (two versions of the same ritual diabolé addressed to Hecate, gathered in the same praxis);25 24 (hymn to Hermes in three versions transmitted in three different papyri);26 and 25 (a hymn to Apollo partially preserved in PGM VII 1–5, reconstructed on the basis of a second version 20 Faraone 1992 and 2011, 197–201. 21 A probable explanation for their infrequent attestation in applied magic would be their oral dimension: magical hymns were composed to be pronounced (not written) in the magical ritual, as the usual formulas that introduce them evince: λέγε, κάλει, see below. 22 I excluded here Hymn.Mag. 32 because it is the same text copied twice in the same katadesmós (see above n.10). Future discoveries could increase this catalogue, as has been the case of Hymn.Mag. 25 (on this hymn, see bibliography in n.27, below). 23 It does not seem that the redactor of the praxis has repeated the same passage. The textual variants along with the nature of the entire logos in which it was inserted, evince that the compiler copied two versions of the same oracular request (see above n.9). 24 Version A is considered the most complete; B and Δ have been modified to function in different contexts; Γ is the most mutilated and corrupted. On this magical hymn, see Calvo 2006 and Bortolani 2016, 59–116. 25 In this case, the second one is given as a version of the former. Greco-Egyptian magicians managed a bibliographical tradition and exchanged knowledge between them, as evinces the usual practice of compiling different versions of the same spell, praxis, or even magical treatise (e.g. PGM XIII contains several versions of the magical book named “The Monad” or “the Eight Book of Moses.”). On the compilation work done by the author of PGM XIII, with a wide bibliography, see Suárez de la Torre 2013 and 2017. 26 On this hymn, see Ramos Jurado 1972, Calvo 2009, Suárez de la Torre 2015.

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[without variants] in P.Oxy. LVI 3831).27 In addition, almost all the hymns show problems only explicable as alterations produced in the textual transmissionintroduction of glosses, copyist errors by duplication or haplology, corrupted passages, corrections, or verses’ transposition. Intertextuality is a third phenomenon linked with the circulation of these compositions among the magicians.28 The aforementioned phenomena confirm that these compositions have suffered different degrees of textual corruption. These phenomena also validate the thesis offered by E. Heitsch29 concerning the existence of a “tradition” of magical hymns, which would go back to the reign of Hadrian – or slightly earlier (to the Augustan Age, if we consider the aforementioned testimony of Hymn.Mag. 36).30 This dating would place this hymnic tradition at approximately the same period as the composition and collection of the Orphic Hymns (ca. 2nd and 3rd century CE).31 The hymns with more than one version are in turn evidence that the magical hymns, as well as magical recipes, had a great “elasticity.” The freedom with which the hymns were modified to make them fit in new ritual contexts, the use of pre-existent metric passages to compose new hymns, etc. show a dynamic tradition of changing texts.32 In addition, with the exception of the incantamenta of Philinna and the Syrian woman from Gadara from the PGM XX, no other metric passage of the Greek magical papyri has been transmitted with reference to its authorship. And, even in the case of the Philinna’s Papyrus, the ascription to a concrete author is in all likelihood a pseudoepigraphic attribution.33 This absence of the authorship tells us that these texts were considered to be the common property of the users’ community; their nature, according to J.L. Calvo, is similar to that of oral poetry, in which each participant in the transmission could contribute to the text without damaging its validity.34 As a result, Calvo has noted that the concept of “archetype” or “proto-text” is irrelevant regarding magical hymns; since the modifications passed into the textual transmission, their composition was actually a continuous process. Accordingly, the magical hymns were texts without a fixed form (unlike literary compositions). Yet, as I will show below, some internal traits, which are characteristic of magical language and style, alongside a given text’s aim make it possible to determinate whether or not a lógos has been composed in a magical context to be used in a magical ritual. To be sure, the impossibility to establish a concrete authorship does not 27 See Maltomini 1995, 109‒110. 28 E.g. verses 15‒17 of Hymn.Mag. 8 are based on Hymn.Mag. 3B 2–3 (= A 5–6) and Hymn.Mag. 7; Hymn.Mag. 19 and 22 also share an important volume of verses. 29 Heitsch 1959. 30 This periodization has been supported also by E.A. Ramos Jurado (Ramos Jurado 1972) who arrived at the same conclusion in his analysis of Hymn.Mag. 24 to Hermes. 31 This is the date preferred by some scholars, such as Ricciardelli (2000, xxx–xxxi) and Morand (2001, 231–287, especially 282–287). 32 Th. de Bruyn has dealt with this issue at length in de Bruyn 2015. 33 The aim of these pseudopigraphical attributions would likely have been to make these spells more valuable by connecting them to the distinguished traditions of the Thessalian witches and the Syrio-Palestine magic. In fact, M. Dickie (see Dickie 1994) has demonstrated that there are traces of authoritative traditions behind both names. 34 Calvo 2006b, 158.

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necessarily suggest the absence of a first composer. Neither should our inability to determine authorship preclude us from asking about the original structure of the text. Nevertheless, the aforementioned reasons make it clear that we cannot impose our “reconstructed” structure onto the preserved texts, as some modern editors have done by replacing the “anomalies,” such as contra metrum words or passages and magical or non-Greek elements. We cannot confirm that these “anomalies” were missing from the original text nor can we determine with certainty at which point in the transmission process they were added (if in fact they were not initially present). As a result, the modern editor only must determine which of the text’s alterations were the result of errors in the textual transmission; regarding the rest, he or she must establish a “philological” limit in the restoration of the text in order to resist the temptation to return these poetic passages to an ideal (but unreal) stage of “normality.” 2. MAGICAL HYMNS IN GREEK HYMNOGRAPHY’S STUDIES Magical hymns, considered poems of low literary value due to the poor quality of their verses, have been excluded from studies of Greek hymnology. At the same time, as I noted in the introduction, the debate over magic and religion has also affected the editorial history of these texts. In fact, historically, the magical hymns were edited over decades among orphic or gnostic compositions like a subtype of such texts, which were re-used and modified by Greco-Egyptian magicians.35 These compositions thus had not been edited and gathered together until the work of Preisendanz. This exclusionary stance has figured even into relatively recent scholarship, such of the compilation of Greek hymns made by J.M. Bremer and W.D. Furley in 2001, in which these compositions were not included because they constitute, in the words of the editors, “a distinctly subliterary genre (…), fascinating records of what might call an ʻundergorundʼ branch of religion.”36 After that, they have received the attention of several scholars,37 but not systematic studies until 2016.38 The reason for this lack of scholarly interest could also stem from the inherent difficulty to classify them in a concrete genre or taxonomy. In fact, every attempt to find a conceptual (what is a magical hymn?) or formal (how is a magical hymn?) definition confronts the issue of their heterogeneity; the so35 In fact, as P. Poccetti has pointed out, “il collegamento con questi ultimi – the Orphic Hymns – marca il primo approccio agli inni magici” (Poccetti 1991, 181–182). For instance, the first editor of Hymn.Mag. 14, Miller (1868, 435), presented it as “une découverte importante (…), a nouvel hymne orphique adressé au Soleil.” Some years later, Dilthey published hymns 14 and 4 and some passages of the hymns addressed to Hecate in his work die Griechischen Hymnen as “orphic hymns,” see Dilthey 1872. 36 Bremer-Furley 2001, vol. I, 49. 37 Graf 1991; Heitsch 1959 and 1960; Pocceti 1991; Riesenfeld 1946. But, particularly, about the magical hymns there has been an explosion of works from 2000 onwards: Blanco 2012, 2013, 2017; Bortolani 2016; Calvo 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2012, 2013; Herrero Valdés 2016; Petrovic 2015; Suárez de la Torre 2015; Tissi 2013, 2014 and 2015. 38 Bortolani 2016, Herrero Valdés 2016 and Blanco 2017 are studies that analyse exhaustively the full collection of these compositions.

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called “magical hymns” have only three features in common: (1) their metrical form; (2) the context in which they have been transmitted (the Greek magical papyri); and (3) that they are lógoi addressed to the gods. What is more, their classification as “hymns” also creates problems. The use of the term ὕµνος to define the poetic compositions of magical texts cannot be maintained on the basis of the native terminology employed in the Greek magical texts because it only appears four times,39 and only once in reference to a metrical lógos.40 These metrical passages, on the contrary, are usually labelled with either generic terms, such as λόγος (“formula”),41 κλῆσις (“invocation”),42 ἐπαοιδή (“enchantment”),43 or with more specific names that reflect their form, such as ἀοιδή (“song”),44 or function, such as σύστασις (“formula of communication”),45 or χαιρετισµός (“formula of salutation”).46 Moreover, as L. Tissi has shown, the primary verbs that accompany these compositions are λέγε and κάλει (“pronounce”).47 In fact, there are no indications that these compositions involved singing, which, by contrast, does appear in connection with non‒poetic lógoi.48 On the other hand, the term ὕµνος (“hymn”) is complicated, not only because it has a strong semantic connotations, which establish immediately a bond with religion (or, most specifically, in philological spheres, with traditional Greek religious hymns), but also because ὕµνος is a term still open to debate. As its meaning changed throughout antiquity,49 there have been many attempts to give a synthetic definition of the con39 PGM I 71; III 233, 390; XIII 628. 40 PGM III 233, in reference with Hymn.Mag. 10. It is, in fact, accompanied by the indication “παιανίζων;” however, it cannot ruled out that it simply means “pronounce the paian.” 41 In magical texts, “lógos” is a technical term for τὰ λεγόµενα (see Suárez et al. 2016, 11–12). 42 PGM VI+II 128 –130, in a marginal note with reference to Hymn.Mag. 7. 43 In PGM I 296, with reference to the lógos (Hymn.Mag. 1); in Hymn.Mag. 14 and 21, 22, 23 this term is used within the metrical lógos with a self‒referential function. 44 Within the hymn itself, with a self‒referential function: Hymn.Mag. 1 and Hymn.Mag. 7; never in the indications. 45 PGM III 198, with reference to Hymn.Mag. 15, and PGM IV 261, with reference to Hymn.Mag. 13. 46 PGM VI+II 134 (with reference to Hymn.Mag. 8). 47 For a complete catalogue of all the magical hymns and how are they referred in their context, see Tissi 2015, appendix 1. 48 On metrical passages, see n. 40 (above); on prose passages see n.39 (above) and Petrovic 2015, 13–15. 49 Plato considered that a ὕµνος was a laudatory form of song designed to be addressed to the gods in opposition with the praise for humans (Pl. Resp. X 607a); however, this term for him did not yet possess the sense of “literary genus,” but only the unspecified meaning of εὐχαὶ πρὸς θεούς (Pl. Leg. III 700b 1–5) as opposed to specific terms used to refer to a prayer sung to particular gods as a “paean” (to Apollo) and a “dithyramb” (to Dionysus). Its use by Aeschylus is even more wide: in his work, ὕµνος is used to refer to praises to mortals (Sept.7), to the Nile (Suppl.1025), but, more frequently with a negative meaning, as a general funeral and mournful song (e.g. Aesch. Ag. 709, Sept. 868; with negative divine powers, such as the Erinys or Eris Ag. 1191, 1471), or even as “spell, enchantment” (Eum. 306, 331 and 344; praise to the chthonic gods asking for a daimon for a consult Pers.629). The use of ὕµνος as a “literary genus,” which includes religious cultic compositions like paeans, dithyrambs, prosodia, etc. does not seem to have been unanimously employed in rhetoric theory until the Roman Imperial period (its first attestation with this meaning would be Poll. Onom. I 38 according to Bremer 1981, 194‒95). On the ancient history of this term, see Furley 1995, 31–32 and Bremer-Furley 2001, vol. I, 8–14.

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cept of “hymn” in Greco-Roman world: a “sung prayer (Bremer-Furley)”;50 a “verbal ἄγαλµα (Furley)”51 and “composición literaria (y musical) con la que los creyentes tributan culto a la divinidad (Torres Guerra).”52 However, some of the historical forms of the hymnic genre do not fit well in these attempts at definition: for instance, late ‒ antique prose hymns; Hellenistic literary hymns designed to appeal to the author’s public, but not to play a role in a ritual context; and the Homeric Hymns, which are based on the relationships between individual performers or worshipers and the gods. In their work Greek Hymns, Bremer and Furley dedicate eight pages to the definition of this concept;53 the length of their analysis points to the complexities involved in defining this term even if we restrict ourselves only to a Greek religious context. Despite the difficulties inherent in establishing a definition, which accounts for all the exceptions as well as the historical evolution of this genre, there is general agreement on a few points: first, the style and language (solemn and elevated) distinguishes the hymn from the prayer.54 Second (and this is the principal problem involved in the application of the label “hymn” to some of the texts we will discuss), a “hymn” is unanimously recognized as a pious way of communicating with the gods. This is why Furley defines hymns as “verbal ἄγαλµα,” emphasizing that the final purpose of the hymn is to be a kind of offering composed by words to obtain the divine χάρις.55 The metrical passages of magical papyri have been frequently analysed in contrast with traditional religious Greek hymns or prayers in search of similarities and differences. But, curiously, what makes a text “magical” (a key concept in this discussion) has been rarely studied, as E. Szepes already noted in an article of 1976.56 Taking Szepes’ work as a starting point, I will analyse a few examples of the socalled “magical hymns” in order to illustrate some of the principal features of these compositions. On the light of the conclusions of this analysis, I will try to show the problems associated with classifying some of the metrical lógoi of PGM within the hymnic genus.

50 Bremer (1981, 93) understood “prayer” in an inclusive way: any form of lógos addressed to the gods. According to that, “sung prayer” would be a defining label for the hymns, which specify that a hymn is a poetical and musical form of prayer (see Bremer-Furley 2001, vol. I, 11 and 14–19). 51 Furley 2007, 119. He proposes a pragmatic definition instead of a conceptual one because, in his opinion, a hymn differs from a prayer not on the basis of form, but on the basis of purpose (τέλος): the prayer attempts to present a request, whereas the hymn tries to be pleasing to the divinity (regardless of whether it introduces a request). 52 Torres Guerra 2000, 657. This last definition is not very different from the ancient one given by Dionysius Trax: ὑµνος ἐστὶ περιέχον θεῶν ἐγκώµια (…) µετ’ εὐχαριστίας (D.T. 451.6 Hilgard). 53 Bremer-Furley 2001, vol. I, 1–8. 54 In this respect, Bremer‒Furley 2001, vol. I, 1–8, as well as Pulleyn 1997. 55 On the importance of the χάρις procurement in the hymn, see Pulleyn 1997, 49ss., Bremer-Furley 2001, vol. I, 60–63 and Furley 1995 and 2007, 118–119. 56 Szepes 1976, 206.

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3. THE PROBLEM OF AN ARTIFICIAL CORPUS: NOT ALL “HYMNS,” NOT ALL “MAGICAL” 3.1. Hymn.Mag. 13

57

1

5

10

σὲ καλω, τὸν πρῶτα θεῶν ὅµιλον διέποντα, σὲ τὸν ἐπ’ οὐρανίων σκῆ/πτρον βασίλειον ἔχοντα, σὲ τὸν ἄνω µεσεύοντ’ τῶν ἄστρων, Τυφῶνα δυνάστην, σὲ τὸν ἐπὶ τῷ στερεώµατι δεινὸν ἄνακτα, σὲ {τὸν} φοβερὸν, τροµερὸν καὶ φρικτὸν ἐόντα, σὲ τὸν δηλον, ἀµήχανον, µισοπόνηρον, σὲ κα/λέω, Τυφῶν, ὥραις ἀνόµοις, ἀµετρήτοις, σὲ βεβαῷτ’ ἐπ’ ἀσβέστῳ πυρὶ θείῳ, σὲ τὸν ἄνω χιόνων κάτω δὲ πάγους σκοτεεινοῦ, σὲ τὸν ἐπ’ εὐκταίων Μοιρῶν βασίλειον ἔχοντα. κλῄζω, παντοκράτωρ, ἵνα µοι ποιήσῃς, ἅ σ’ ἐρωτῶ, κεὐθὺς ἐπινεύσῃς µοι ἐπιτρέψῃς τε γενέσθαι {κοινά} I call you who did first control the gods’ wrath,/you who hold royal sceptre over the heavens,/ you who are midpoint of the starts above, you, master Typhon,/ you I call, who are / (5) the dreaded sovereign over the firmament./ You who are fearful, awesome, threatening,/ you who are obscure and unconquered and with hostile sentiments,58/ you I call, Typhon, in hours unlawful and unmeasured,/ (10) you who have walked on unquenched, clear-crackling fire, / you who are over snows, below dark ice,/ you who hold sovereignty over the Moirai./ I invoke you, almighty one,/ to carry out for me what I ask you / (15) and, immediately, you assent to me and permit it occurs. (trans. adapted from Betz)

This lógos appears in a magical praxis that is presented as a letter of Nephotes to Psaméticus, “King of Egypt” (l.155), and consists of an αὐτοψία or direct vision of the divinity on the water of a container (an oracular process called lecanomancy). The praxis, however, is more complicated and contains, in the first place, a request for the magician’s strengthening, whereby the magician asks the god to give him his σθένος (ll. 155–223). After this, it describes the lecanomancy (ll.223–260). Our lógos, addressed to Seth–Typhon, concludes with a prose passage not reproduced here (ll.273–285). The metrical passage, thus, appears in this second part and is introduced as σύστασις τῆς πράξεως, “divine encounter of the praxis.” Accordingly, this constitutes the logos, that produces the encounter with the divinity of the aforementioned lecanomancy; however, in that invocation the ritual practitioner does not in fact ask the god to answer or inform him about something (as would be expected in a divination practice). Instead, he calls upon the god to do something on his behalf, a request

57 I follow the edition of Calvo 2008, 239 (Bortolani 2016 does not include it). This hymn corresponds with Hymn.Mag. 7 in ed. Preis. = PGM IV 261–285 (P. Paris. Bibl. Nat. suppl.gr.574; 4th century AC). 58 Since Seth was the god of disorder and violence, Calvo corrects δῆλος in a more coherent ἄδηλον and interprets ἀµήχανον and µισοπόνηρον as “unconquered” and “with hostile sentiments” respectively. These last ones are based on Plu. 2.313 and Demotic parallels in the Demotic magical papyri (see Calvo 2008, 241).

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usually found in practices that invoke divinities for practical purposes59 or as the collaborators (páredroi) of ritual practitioners.60 The prose passage that ends the logos only repeats the invocation and the petition of the hymn. This repetition reinforces such sections and – by means of the voces magicae with which the request is combined – supports the magical power of the invocation. In so doing, this prose passage is a typical example of reinforcing closure. It seems that this composition, therefore, was not composed to form part of an oracular procedure. As far as the metrical composition is concerned, it can be clearly divided into invocation (vv.1–10) and request (vv.11–12). The invocation (vv.1–10) consists of epithets and participial or relative clauses, which describe (a) the divine nature, attributes or fields’ of power – what Riesenfeld defined as “predication essentielle” – and (b) acts in the god’s fields of power – what Riesenfeld defined as “prédication dynamique.”61 As one can clearly see, there are no references to cult places. In the invocation of magical hymns, this kind of reference appears only in Apollinean hymns;62 in the others, the celestial or even hyperuranian nature of the gods does not facilitate a link with a particular cult place. The lack of reference to concrete cult places is also occasioned by the supra-local character of the magical ritual, the efficacy of which was believed to work at any time and in any location.63 59 For instance, a similar request appears in procedures to subdue an enemy (ἐπάκουσο[ν ἐν]ευχοµένου µου, ὅπως ποιήσῃς τὸ δεῖνα [πρᾶγµα] PGM III 108); to subdue someone‒amatorium‒(ἐλθ’ ἐπ’ ἐµαῖς θυσίαις καί µοι τόδε πρᾶγµα τέλεσσον PGM IV 2866 = Hymn.Mag. 23.55, cfr. ἐλθὲ ἐπ’ ἐµαῖς θυσίαις καί µοι τόδε πρᾶγµα ποίησον IV 2561= Hymn.Mag. 20.37); request of a practices “valid for all purpose” (φθασάτω πρὸς σέ, τὸν πάντων δεσπότην, ὅπως [π]οιήσῃς πάντα τὰ τῆς εὐχῆς µου PGM III 590; καὶ τελεσθήτω τὰ διὰ τοῦ λίθου τούτου, διὰ τοῦ φυλακτηρίου τούτου, τὸ δεῖνα πρᾶγµα ἐφ’ ᾧ αὐτὸ τελῶ. ναί, κύριε Κµήφ· IV 1700–1703); etc. 60 E.g., ὅπως ἂν πέµψωσί µοι τὸ θεῖον πνεῦµα / καὶ τελέσῃ ἃ ἔχω κατὰ φρένα καὶ κατὰ θυµόν Hymn.Mag. 1c 15–16 (=PGM I 312–13). 61 See Riesenfeld 1946, 157–158. In traditional Greek hymns, the narration of divine actuations comprises also mythical narrations starred by the god. As I will demonstrate below, this kind of narration is almost entirely missing from magical hymns. In its place, magical and Orphic Hymns usually mention actions developed by gods in the performance of their powers: e.g., regarding Helios, the sun’s diary journey through the sky (or the nocturnal one under the influence of Egyptian mythology). 62 Perhaps, this connection relates to the special link drawn between Apollo and oracular sanctuaries, such as Delphos or Colophon (e.g. Παρνάσιον λίπ’ ὄρος καὶ Δελφίδα Πυθὼ, “Leave the Parnassian mountain and the Delphic Pytho!” Hymn.Mag. 1b.1 = PGM I 298). In fact, Apollo is the only god referred to in connection with the formula ναίων ἐν… (see Hymn.Mag. 7.4 below). 63 The supra-local character of Greco-Egyptian magic is also consequence of the miniaturization of the ritual for domestic purposes (i.e., sacrifices, offerings and ritual acts become smaller and more symbolic in order to be made by individuals in the protection of their homes). This phenomenon has been usually interpreted as a result of the dismantling of the pagan cults in Late Antiquity, as sustained by Frankfurter (1997, 126‒127; 1998). However, this thesis, which has marked the scholarly approach to Greco-Egyptian magic to date, has been recently contradicted by M. Escolano Poveda in her PhD thesis (The Image of the Egyptian Priests in the Graeco-Roman Period (3rd century BCE–early 4th century CE): an Analysis on the Basis of the Egyptian and Graeco-Roman Literary and Paraliterary Sources, 2017, Johns Hopkins University [Advisor: Richard Jasnow]. All rights of this text are reserved).

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The invocation, which consists of verses syntactically independent that are formed by sequences of eponyms, titles, and epithets (epiklêseis), is also typical of magical texts. Although similar to that of the Orphic Hymns, the extension and profusion of names and adjectives of the god in Greco-Egyptian magical texts does not reflect the magician’s wish to praise the divinity. Instead, Bortolani has correctly associated this magical practice with the great importance that the names have in Egyptian culture, in which they were directly connected with the existence of the entities.64 In Greco-Egyptian magic, this notion was undoubtedly accentuated by a second reason: a magical principle that Szepes calls demand on completeness. It consists in the necessity of specification and precision in order to ensure the efficacy of the magic ritual. If we apply this principle to the invocation of a god, the practitioner would have sought to achieve a total evocation of the divinity, so that the god would not disregard his call.65 This explains why the naming of the divine acquired such importance in Greco-Egyptian magic. The enumeration of the names, titles, and epithets of a god, however, does not usually have a coercive character (that is to say, it does not serve to compel the god), but an argumentative character, as Graf has stated.66 Consequently, in magical hymns the epiklêseis replaced the traditional part of the pars epica or aretalogy,67 which, as this hymn illustrates, is usually absent. The absence of the pars epica and the aretalogy can be connected, in turn, with the aforementioned supra-local character of the magical ritual; a mythical link with a concrete cult place would be ritually restrictive and thus impractical.68 At the same time, the existence of 64 See Bortolani 2016, 44 for specific bibliography on this topic. In Greco-Egyptian magic, this idea is present, for example, when the magician actuates over the name as a symbol for the named person (e.g., through the damage of the name, the named person is damaged: PGM X 36–50), or when the conjuration formula ὁρκίζω/ἐξορκίζω is used to conjure up a divinity through its name (i.e., when the name is pronounced, the divinity who is “essentially” bound to it is automatically present in the practice). In PGM the names are considered even like daimons, a divine but independent part of the god that can actuate separately: e.g., the names of Aphrodite, go with, penetrate and subdue the victim (PGM VII 385). 65 Szepes 1976, 211. This full approach to the divinity comprises also nomina magica and shows the strong syncretistic character of Greco-Egyptian magic. 66 Although divine names occur sometimes in conjunction with coactive resources as the conjuration formula ὁρκίζω/ἐξορκίζω and cognates, the enunciation/knowledge of these names serve as a source of power for the magician, see Graf 1991, 192ff. 67 The pars epica in traditional Greek hymns were designed to praise the god by acclaiming his actions, demonstrating the worshipper’s knowledge about him, and linking the god’s celebration with the ritual context through etiological or foundational myths, which were related to the cult or the ritual place. 68 Petrovic (2015, 246) argues that “the amalgamation of several Greek (and some non-Greek) divinities makes it impossible for the composer of the hymn to resort to well-known myths about one specific Greek deity.” However, the lack of the mythical narration in the form to which we are accustomed in Greek hymnography, in my opinion, has nothing to do with the syncretistic character of magic – e.g., mythical narration is also missing from Orphic hymns and short Homeric hymns, hymns which reflects a concept of the divinity more “traditionally Greek.” On the contrary, I find most convincing the Bortolani’s argument on the Egyptian hymnography’s influence. But, above all, it is necessary not to forget the practical dimension of these compositions: the mythical narration (I repeat, in the form to which we are accustomed in Greek hymnography) was not functional in the context of magic ritual because of its supra-local character. Actually, if we examine

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a long epiklêseis, which substitutes the mythical narration, has been related also with the influence of the Egyptian hymnography,69 in which the mythological events are not narrated. This lack of narrative is due to the fact that they were considered well known by the participants in the hymnic performance. Consequently, practitioners only needed to allude to them through epithets and indirect references.70 This background helps to explain the predominant use of compound adjectives or relative and participial clauses instead of narratives.71 In our hymn, adjectives, such as ἀµήχανον and µισοπόνηρον (v.6),72 could reflect the character of Seth in Egyptian mythology. The marked du-Stil of this composition is also characteristic of the magical hymns. The magical ritual is performed in private, with only participation of the ritual practitioner, who speaks in first person, and the god, referred in second person. Unlike religious hymns ‒ but similarly to some literary hymns ‒, the religious community beneath the words of the compositor disappears from the ritual. Consequently, because of the absence of an audience, a practical purpose replaced the literary‒artistic aim of the poetical composition. As a result, the form (the metric rhythm, the poetic quality of the verses) was subordinated to the content, and the aim of the magician (what the ritual practitioner wanted ‒ or needed ‒ to say) was more important than the metric aspect of the verses. In other words, the metrical correctness and a brilliant poetic expression were secondary in the composition of these poems: their composers were not poets, who tried to demonstrate their literary excellence, but ritual practitioners, who attempted to reinforce their words by the power of verse. It explains why the metrical particularities of the composition I am analysing coincide with the use of the cletic formula σὲ καλέω and the use of the pronoun σέ at the beginning of each verse. Calvo suggests that the use of brevis in longo in the first syllable of the hexameter73 could be corrected by κλήζω (as in verse 11), which is metrically most correct.74

69 70

71 72 73 74

Greco-Egyptian magic with a most open-minded approach, the mythical narration can be discovered in specific arguments of the magical milieu such the so-called historiola (Hymn.Mag. 17, 23, 28, 29) or the ἐγώ εἰµι argumentum. For instance, the magic practitioner in Hymn.Mag. 12.7– 11 claims to have collaborated with Typhon-Seth in the death of his rival Osiris. It seems, therefore, that mythical narration was not abandoned, but readapted according to new uses and forms in the context of magic (see below n. 70). On the magical historiola, see Frankfurter 1995; on ἐγώ εἰµι argumentum, see Chiarini 2016. Petrovic 2015, 265–67; Bortolani 2016, 39–45. In magical hymns, we find compound adjectives and short references that allude to myths, such as Πυθoλετοκτυπος (Hymn.Mag. 10.2), Πυθολέτα (Hymn.Mag. 4. 3) or Δάφνη, Φοίβοιο ἑταίρη (Hymn.Mag. 5.2) or the adjective µεγαλόστονος for Apollo in reference to Daphne (Hymn.Mag. 2.7). They are absent in the hymns to Helios or Hecate-Selene, perhaps due to their supra-local character and hyperuranian nature. The exceptions are Hymn.Mag. 10, which could contain some kind of short narrative (although it is not possible to be sure because of the fragmentary state of the text), and Hymn.Mag. 7.1–2. On this hymn, see discussion infra. On Egyptian hymnography, the study of reference is Assmann 1999. See above n. 58. According to the Egyptian mythology, the conflict between both divine brothers was caused by the hate and envy of Seth towards Osiris. For more examples of this kind of adjectives, see n.70, above. Calvo (2008, 238), however, stresses that the use of brevis in longo in the first syllable of the hexameter already attested in Homer where it is more irregular than incorrect. Calvo, ibid.

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However, other magical hymns show that the meter could be subordinated to the content and could be disrupted, especially when the magician needed to use a particular formula or name or when he had to use a specific pronoun or adverb.75 The use of σὲ καλέω in this composition seems to be deliberate; if the author wanted to use κλῄζω, he would have done so from the beginning, as occurs in Hymn.Mag. 9. How can we explain this decision? In the magical dialogue with the divine, the laudatory verbs were replaced – due to the great importance of the divine names in achieving successful invocations – by “appellative-enunciative” formulae that are created by verba dicendi,76 through which the magician “pronounces” and “enumerates” the gods’ names. Since the aim of the magical invocation is not laudatory, traditional Greek praise verbs (e.g., κλῄζω) carried a more neutral sense and thus became synonyms of the verba dicendi,77 which were more useful for the evocative purpose of the magical epiklêseis. The use of σὲ καλέω instead of κλῄζω reveals an intention to mark the “appellative-enunciative” character of this invocation, avoiding a tone of praise. The author has chosen also to mark explicitly the addressee of the invocation in each verse, which reflects both the appellative‒enunciative intention and the aforementioned demand on completeness: the desire to avoid misunderstanding results in highly deictic language with an overabundance of adverbs or pronouns.78 In so doing, he also creates an intentional anaphora, which takes us to the marked repetitive style of this composition. Repetition is one of the most characteristic features of magical language.79 It was a language’s trait considered powerful and magical per se; it was able to bewitch the gods and men by its acoustic effect. In this text, repetitiveness is present at all textual levels: at the structural level, the use of parallel structures with a strong anaphora, which favours the repetition of sounds and lexemes, and the use of concatenated sequences of epithets reinforce the “chant effect” of the invocation; the repetitive use of 75 For instance, several verses of Hymn.Mag. 9 have been lengthened beyond the hexametrical structure through the inclusion of divine names that cannot be excluded because these names are the central element of the verse. The necessity to explain clearly the request obligated also the author of Hymn.Mag. 1c to abandon the metric rhythm in the request (vv.14–16), which has dactylic resonances but not a hexametrical structure. The lines cannot be transformed into correct hexameters without significantly changing the textus receptus. 76 These verbs are: ἐπικαλοῦµαι (used 127 times in PGM), καλέω/καλώ/καλέσω (used 24 times), λέγω (used 17 times), παρακαλέω (used 12 times), ὀνοµάζω (used 1 time), φράζω (used 1 time). This same sense is also found in φωνέω (2 times: PGM VII 324 and ΙV 278) and ἀποµιµέοµαι: κύριε, ἀποµιµοῦµαι ταῖς ζʹ φωναῖς· α εε ηηη ιιιι οοοοο υυυυυυ ωωωωωωω (PGM XIII 206 and 700). For a general study on the formulae used in magical lógoi, see Suárez, Blanco, and Chronopoulou 2016, 217–23. 77 κλῄζω is used 15 times in PGM compared to the 17 uses of λέγω, and interchangeable with it: (a) λέγω/κλῄζω + τὰ ὀνόµατα σου/σον + nomina, “I Invoke/pronounce your names, NN”: e.g. λέγω γάρ σου τὰ ἀληθινὰ ὀνόµατα Ἰωερβήθ· Ἰωπακερβήθ· (PGM ΙV 278); κλῄζω δ’ οὔνοµα σόν, Ὧρ’ · αχαϊφω θωθω φιαχα αϊη ηϊα ιαη· (IV 1979); (b) λέγω/κλῄζω + σε + nomina, “I invoke/name you, NN”: e.g. λέγω σε, ταρταροῦχε, παρθένε (PGM IV 2321); κλῄζω σε, τὸν οὐρανοῦ ἡγεµονῆα καὶ γαίης (IV 443). 78 See Faraone 1995. 79 Szepes 1976, 208–13; García Teijeiro 1996, 163ff. Both with detailed bibliography on this topic.

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metric rhythms, such as the hexameter or the iambic trimeter, constitutes another source of repetition;80 at the level of phonetics, we find alliterations in the verses 3 (“τ” sound) and 5, in which the phonetic stress coincides with the metrical one. This effect, which poets avoided because it made the verse too strong to the ear from a rhythmic point of view, was used in magic in order to strengthen the firmness of the magician’s words.81 Finally, as I stated above, the petition82 is characteristic of a magical lógos and can be identified with a particular typology of magical rituals. It guides all the divine actuation (the god has to consent to the request, permit it and perform it), which can once more be linked with the demand on completeness. In order to imbue the action’s accomplishment with a particular vehemence, it stresses its immediate compliance through the use of the adverb εὐθὺς (v.12). This emphasis is expressed in prose requests through the use of the adverbial formula “ἤδη, ἤδη, ταχύ, ταχύ” – “now, now, quickly, quickly” – and it is also a distinctive characteristic of the magical dialogue with the divinity.83 At the same time, it is possible see that this kind of petition,84 which is present in other magical hymns,85 is absolutely indifferent to the central concept of the religious hymnic εὐχή – the obtaining the divine χάρις. I have tried to show that Hymn.Mag. 13 is a clear example of a poetic composition that was written in a magical environment to function in a magical practice. In terms of form, this composition (like many other magical hymns) has the minimum canonical parts of the traditional Greek hymn (i.e. invocation and request), but adapted them to the Greco-Egyptian environment and the exigencies of magic. The argumentative part, which in traditional Greek hymns usually took the form of a mythical narration, has been replaced by the description of the god; although not excluded, the mythical narration has changed its function or is summarized and contained in metonymic epithets86 (as in Egyptian hymnography). Some of the formal peculiarities of the magical hymns, such as the lack of pars epica which is replaced by an invocation composed by a long list of epithets, and the du-Stil are not exclusive of magic hymns, 80 Szepes 1976, 210–11. 81 E.g., νεῦσον ἐµοί, λίτοµαι, ὅτι σῡµβŏλᾰ µῡστῐκᾰ φρᾱζω (Hymn.Mag. 15.7) 82 In order to denominate this part of the magical hymns – according to the diversity of the language’s register (from the propitiatory prayer to the coercive command) that it can reflect in these compositions – it is necessary to adopt a neutral and inclusive designation. For this reason, I prefer “request” or “petition” to the traditional names used to label the hymnic request, such as εὐχή or prayer (Bremer and Furley 2001, vol. I, 60; also used for magical hymns in Tissi 2015, 158), 83 E.g., δεῦρό µοι, ἔρχε[ο θ]ᾷσσον. ἔπειγέ µοι ἀείσασθαι / θεσµοὺς θεσπ[εσί]ους (Hymn.Mag. 5. 4– 5); καὶ νῦν µοι σπεύσειας ἔχων θεσπίσµατ’ ἀληθῆ. (6.6); ἐλθὲ τάχος δ’ ἐπὶ γαῖαν ἀπ’ οὐρανόθεν (Hymn.Mag. 7. 5), µαντοσύνην (…) / ἔννεπε (…) θᾶττον, Ἄπολλον (7. 10–11); δεῦρο τάχος δ’ ἐπὶ γαῖαν, Ἰήιε κισσεοχαίτα. / µολπὴν ἔννεπε, Φοῖβε (8.16–17); ἄξατε νῦν αὐτήν (16.13). 84 I.e., a request lacking plea-verbs (e.g., λίσσοµαι, ἱκνοῦµαι, ἰκετεύω/ἱκετῶ), vehemence, or imperatives. It can even be openly coactive (e.g., in Hymn.Mag. 18, we see τὸ δεῖνα ποιήσεις, κἂν θέλῃς κἂν µὴ θέλῃς). 85 E.g., ὁρκίζω τὰ ἅγια καὶ θεῖα ὀνόµατα ταῦτα,/ὅπως ἂν πέµψωσί µοι τὸ θεῖον πνεῦµα / καὶ τελέσῃ ἃ ἔχω κατὰ φρένα καὶ κατὰ θυµόν (Hymn.Mag. 1c. 17–18); Λ]ητοΐδη, ἑκάεργε, [θε]οπρόπε, δεῦρ’ ἄγε, δεῦ̣[ρο] / δεῦρ’ ἄγε, θεσπίζ̣ω̣[ν], µαντεύεο νυκτὸς ἐ[ν ὥ]ρῃ (3A y B, 2–3). 86 J. Sanzo has an entire chapter devoted to metonymy in magical contexts, see Sanzo 2014, 20–53.

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but appear in other hymnic corpora, such as the Orphic or brief Homeric hymns.87 At least from a formal point of view, therefore, magical hymns are not different from some religious ones. For this reason, scholars, such as Petrovic,88 maintain that these compositions can be classified under the category hymns. That said, the tone and purpose of these compositions differ significantly from the religious and literary hymns and prayers. The analysed composition, which is merely an invocation that introduces a command without any formula of praise, does not seek the divine χάρις, which has been considered the defining quality of the hymnic genus. There are other examples even more compelling: some of the magical hymns addressed to Hecate– Selene – such as Hymn.Mag. 22, which is too long to be analysed suitably in the chapter – are remarkable examples of what Petrovic calls “the anti-hymn.”89 Formally identical to the analysed text, the features of the magic language (e.g., repetition, insistence, deictic specification) converge with all the magical arguments imaginable (e.g., threats, conjuring formulae, diabolai, historiolae, authority arguments based on the ἐγώ εἰµι formula). This produces lógoi, which are “hyper-characterized” from the point of view of magic and strongly coercive. Therefore, some of the compositions labelled “magical hymns” have noteworthy differences from the religious or literary concept of “hymn” as it was manifested in the Greek and Egyptian cultures. However, not all of the “magical hymns” are so markedly “not religious.” 3.2.

5

10

Δάφνη, µαντοσύνης ἱερὸν φυτὸν Ἀπόλλωνος, ἧς ποτε γευσάµενος πετάλων ἀνέφηνεν ἀ[οι]δὰς. αὐτὸς, ἄναξ σκηπτοῦχος, ἰήιε Παιάν, ἐν Κολοφῶνι ναίων, ἱερῆς ἐπάκουσον ἀοιδῆς. ἐλθὲ τάχος δ’ ἐπὶ γαῖαν ἀπ’ οὐρανόθεν {†ὁ µιτράων ὕδωρ†}, ἀµβροσίων στοµάτων τε σταθεὶς ἔµπνευσον ἀοιδάς. αὐτός, ἄναξ µολπῆς, µόλε, µολπῆς κύδιµ’ ἀνάκτωρ, κλῦθι, µάκαρ, βαρύµηνι, κραταιόφρων, κλῦε, Τιτάν· ἡµετέρης φωνῆς νῦν, ἄφθιτε, µὴ παρακούσῃς. στῆθι· µαντοσύνην ἀπ’ ἀµβροσίου στοµάτοιο ἔννεπε σῷ ἱκέτῃ, πανακήρατε, θᾶττον, Ἄπολλον.

5da 3º:‒ ‒ ᴗ

1º y 3º:‒ᴗ

Laurel, Apollo’s holy plant of presage,/ whose leaves (Apollo) once ate and sent forth songs./ You yourself, the sceptre-bearing lord, ie Paian!/ who has your site at Colophon, listen the sacred song./ Come quickly to the Earth from the Heaven {you who are surrounded with water?},/ after standing here inspire songs from (your) ambrosian lips./ You yourself, lord of song, come, renowned ruler of song./ Hear, blessed one, heavy in wrath, stern, hear, Titan./ Now, unfailing one, do not ignore our voice./ Stand here! Tell a presage from your ambrosian mout / to the supplicant, quickly, all-pure Apollo. (Translation mine)

This hexametric composition addressed to Apollo asks the god for oracles, which is consistent with the magical request into which it is inserted (ll. 111–149). Its structure 87 On the similarities between these last ones and the magic hymns, see Petrovic 2015, 17–19 and 22–24. 88 Petrovic 2015, 255. 89 Petrovic 2015, 260.

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– although less clear than in the previously analysed example – could be synthetized in the following way: {1st invoc. (vv.1–4) + request A (vv.5–6, “come, inspire”)} + {2nd invoc. (vv.7–9, “come, listen”) + request B (vv.10–11, “inspire”)}. The invocation stands out because, in addition to a reference of an Apollinean cult-place, it contains also a brief two-verse reference to a mythical event (v.1–2).90 The idea that this composition could be, a priori, a pious praise arises, first, from the description of the composition (it is presented as a ἱερὴ ἀοιδή, “holy song” [v.4]), and, second, from the self-definition of the petitioner, who calls himself ἱκέτης (“supplicant” [v.11]). The epithets which proclaim the power and the sovereignty of the god in combination with verba audiendi and veniendi from the religious language reinforce the similitudes between this invocation and a traditional Greek hymn. Therefore, although it does not contain proper praise or plea verbs, the entire poem (from the invocation to the request) is imbued with a plea-tone that can be considered openly laudatory, especially in verses, such as v.7: αὐτός, ἄναξ µολπῆς, µόλε, µολπῆς κύδιµ’ ἀνάκτωρ, “You yourself, lord of song, come, renowned ruler of song.” For this reason, it could serve perfectly as verbal ἄγαλµα for the divinity. That said, although the use of plurals in the requests (ἀµβροσίων στοµάτων ἔµπνευσον ἀοιδάς [v.6]; ἡµετέρης φωνῆς µὴ παρακούσῃς [v.9]) gives the impression that the hymn is being sung by a chorus,91 v.11 reveals that the hymn is actually being performed by a sole petitioner, who requests oracles for himself – a form of selfinterest that would have had no place in any other kinds of ancient Greek hymns. The self-definition of the practitioner as a supplicant, which appears also in the praxis of this hymn (VI+II 212),92 has parallels with other self-identifications from magical hymns in which the practitioner presents himself as a priest or even a pious man.93 Regarding the definition of the composition like a ἱερὰ ἀοιδή, the adjective ἱερός used to designate the magical lógos can be found in Hymn.Mag. 22.2 (PGM IV 2785 ἐπάκουσον ἐµῶν ἱερῶν ἐπαοιδῶν), in which the practitioner used it to describe a magical hymn addressed to Hecate. As E. Suárez has stated,94 this adjective is the most frequently used term in the magical papyri that is linked with the lexical field of the sacred and purity in Greek. In magical texts, it was used to designate the magical

90 Although unknown, this event can be considered a mythical narration because it stars a god and occurred in an imprecise past. 91 On the use of choral plurals in Greek hymnography, see Alcaeus’ Paean cf. Himer. Or. 48.115ff. (Bremer and Furley 2001, vol. I, 99–102 and vol.II, pp.21ff.); B. 2, 9ss. Maehler; Pind. Pae. 6, 121–22 (52f Snell and Maehler, D6 Rutherford). Their uses in literary hymns, such as Callim. Hymn 2 (vv.12–13, 28–31 Williams), reveals that this kind of plurals became a topos of the paean. This topos appears also in other magical hymns: Hymn.Mag. 1b 2, and, perhaps, in Hymn.Mag. 10, 14–15. On the mimesis of the paeans in magical hymns to Apollo, see Blanco 2013. 92 ἵλαθί µοι, τῷ σῷ ἱκέτῃ, καὶ ἔσο εὐµενὴς καὶ εὐίλατος, / φάνηθί µοι καθαρῷ τῷ προσώπῳ (VI+II 212 –214). 93 In Hymn.Mag. 10.24, the magician defines himself as a προφήτης; in Hymn.Mag. 25C 22 (PGM XVIIb 22) as a ἄνθρωπος ὅσιος (cf. PGM V 415); in Hymn.Mag. 18.13–14, the magician presents himself as σου µυσταγωγὸς πραγµάτων/ ὑπυργός εἰµι καὶ συνίστωρ. 94 Suárez, Blanco, and Chronopoulou 2016, 224–25.

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writings,95 magical praxis,96 and magical lógoi97 in a broad sense that designated anything linked with the divinity (and the gods themselves). In other words, it did not imply a pious intention but a divine dimension. At the same time, the term ἀοιδή is used in another poetic composition markedly magical, the Hymn.Mag. 12.21 (PGM IV 199 ἐµαῖς ἀοιδαῖς … µολών), addressed to Seth–Typhon and analogous to the first analysed text. In the example we are examining now the composer actually plays with the polysemy of the term ἀοιδή: in v.2, on account of the reference of the laurel leaves’ consumption, it should be interpreted as “oracles,” which in the ancient world usually had a hexametrical form,98 while, in v.4, ἀοιδή refers to the composition itself and in v.6 it has an ambiguous meaning: it could refer both to the verses’ composition, which the magician-poet is pronouncing or to the oracular response that he requests. This lexical play is surely also influenced by Apollo’s role as god of inspiration in both the music/poetic and the mantic fields. Nevertheless, it tells us about the author’s knowledge of the Greek hymnic tradition, in which the requests of inspiration are common (e.g., in hymnic subgenres like the Homeric Hymns). The magical context of this hymn’s production also reveals itself from other subtle features, which are impossible to identify without a thorough analysis. For example, although less clear than in the hymn to Typhon–Seth, this hymn places a particular stress on the immediate compliment of the request (ἐλθὲ τάχος, v.5; ἡµετέρης φωνῆς νῦν, ἄφθιτε, µὴ παρακούσῃς, v.9; µαντοσύνην … ἔννεπε σῷ ἱκέτῃ θᾶττον, v.11). Despite the effort to maintain the variatio (which, it should not be forgotten, is a repetitive feature), repetition is also present: v.2 finishes, and v.3 starts in the same way as verses 6–7 (V+ ἀοιδάς,/ αὐτός ἄναξ), creating a parallelism between the first and second parts of the hymn. Verses 5–6 and 10–11 also present a parallelism since ἔµπνευσον ἀοιδάς and µαντοσύνην ἔννεπε are synonyms in the context of this text. In v.7 the repetition of the group *µολ- is clearly alliterative and ἄναξ µολπῆς / µολπῆς κύδιµ’ ἀνάκτωρ are in chiasm. The variatio is especially notable also in the verbal field: κλῦθι / κλύε (in the same verse, v.8), ἐπάκουσον (v.4)/ µὴ παρακούσῃς (v.9), σταθείς (v.6) / στῆθι (v.10). Another key trait that can be used to establish the magical context of the text’s composition is the use of other magical hymns as sources in the creation of this piece. The more remarkable example is the first verse, which consists of an incipit that appears in two other magical hymns from this same papyrus (Hymn.Mag. 2.1 and 6.1).99 This incipit, which is addressed to Daphne, fits well in these two hymns because they are directed to her. It does not, however, fit into our composition, which is addressed to Apollo. As a result, the author introduced an explanatory excursus about the role of the laurel in the Apollinean oracular rite that seems not to have connection with the rest of the hymn. Yet, in v.10 the beginning of the verse is not hexametrical 95 E.g., ἱερὸς λόγος (I 62, IV 1281, 2245, VII 1008); ἱερὸν βίβλος (III 424, XIII 3, 231, 232, 341, 343, XXIV 2, Suppl.Mag. 72.1); ἱερὴ στήλη (XIII 61, 568), etc. 96 E.g., ἱερὰ θυσία (XIII 121, 678); ἱεραὶ τελεταί (XII 94); ἱερὰ µυστήρια (IV 2477). 97 E.g., ἱερὸς λόγος I 62, IV 1281, 2245, VII 1008; ἐπαοιδαί/ἐπῳδαί (I 317, 322; IV 1974, 2788). 98 This narration makes reference to the ancient popular belief that the Pythia’s mantic ecstasy in Delphos began after eating laurel leaves (on the development of this narrative, see Blanco 2013). 99 On the use of incipits on magic, see Sanzo 2014.

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but trochaic by the imperative στῆθι. The previous editors added a monosyllable to supply the missing syllable and reconstruct the first dactyl; however, στῆθι, in addition to its rhythm, stands out with respect to its vehemence. This imperative, clearly jussive, gives a direct and sharp order to the god, which contrasts with the precedent precative imperatives. It is not surprising, therefore, that στῆθι and its plural – στῆτη – were used in trochaic magical formulae to “stop” things (animals, illness, earthquakes, divine entities).100 As occurs in the hymn to Typhon–Seth, the author sets meter aside to use a concrete and specifically magical formula. The Hymn.Mag. 7 presents characteristics that have parallels, inter alia, with hymn 22, examined by Graf,101 or with hymn 10, which I analysed in a prior paper.102 Hymn.Mag. 7 serves as example of another kind of metrical lógoi, which is classed under the rubric “magical hymn”: poetic compositions that, although composed in a magical context to function in a magical ritual, used divine praise as a rhetorical resource to attract the favour of the god. These types of magical lógoi, in which the magical context of production and the purpose of the magician emerge much more subtly than in the hymn to Typhon–Seth, demonstrate that praise is in fact not alien to magic, but a useful resource that could be effective in obtaining divine collaboration. Since they use the praise to obtain the divine χάρις, Graf concludes that it is impossible to establish the difference between this kind of magical hymns and traditional Greek religious prayer.103 3.3. Hymn.Mag. 27

104

1 13 2 5

10

Τίς µορφὰς ζώων ἔπλασε; τίς δ’ εὗρε κελεύθους ἠελίου µήνης τε, δρόµους νυκτός τε καὶ ἠοῦς; τίς καρπῶν γενέτης; τίς δ’ οὔρεα ὑψόσ’ ἀείρει; τίς δ’ ἀνέµους ἐκέλευσεν ἔχειν ἐνιαύσια ἔργα; τίς δ’ Αἰὼν Αἰνα τρέφων Αἰῶσιν ἀνάσσει; εἷς θεὸς ἀθάνατος· πάντων γενέτωρ σὺ πέφυκας καὶ πᾶσιν ψυχὰς σὺ νέµεις καὶ πάντα κρατύνεις, Αἰώνων βασιλεῦ καὶ κύριε, ὅν γε τρέµουσιν οὔρεα σὺν πεδίοις, πηγῶν ποταµῶν τε τὰ ῥεῖθρα καὶ βῆσσαι γῆς καὶ πνεύµατα, πάντα τὰ φύντα· οὐρανὸς ὑψιφαής σε τρέµει καὶ πᾶσα θάλασσα, κύριε παντοκράτωρ, ἅγιε καὶ δέσποτα πάντων·

Hex.

4ºᴗ –

100 καὶ ϲύ, ῥεῦµα, ϲτῆθι (Suppl.Mag. 32.10); Ἐὰν ἴδῃς ἀσπίδα καὶ θέλῃς αὐτὴν στῆσαι, λέγε στρεφόµενος ὅτι ‘στῆθι.’ (PGM XIII 249–250; the same in XIII 260–264 against snakes); Χριστὸς µεθ’ ἡµῶν, στῆτε, with iambic rythm (cited by Faraone 2009, 231). 101 Graf 1991. 102 Blanco 2013. 103 Graf 1991, 194. 104 Hymn.Mag. 1 in ed. Preis. = PGM XII, 244–252 (AMS 75 =; 4th century CE). AMS 75 is the actual number in the RMO’s catalogue (= P. Leiden Gr.2 no. V = P. Lugd. Bat. J 384 verso). The text is based on the edition done as part of my PhD thesis (Blanco 2017, 413–39 [free online version available at Ph.D. Dissertations’ Repository of the University of Valladolid, http://uvadoc. uva.es/handle/10324/23035]). For other editions of this hymn, see Calvo 2003 and Bortolani 2016, 202–16.

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σῇ δυνάµει στοιχεῖα πέλει καὶ φύεθ’ ἅπαντα ἀέρι καὶ γαίᾳ καὶ ὕδατι καὶ πυρὸς ἀτµῷ. Who modelled the form of the creatures? Who found the routes/ of the sun and the moon, the course of the night and the dawn?/ Who is the begetter of the fruits? Who makes the mounts emerge?/ Who ordered the winds to hold annual tasks?/ Who Aion that nourishes Aions, rules over the Aions?/ One immortal god. You, begetter, has generated all/ and you dispense the souls to everything and everything governs,/ King of the Aions and lord, in front of whom tremble/ the mountains with the plains, the current of the fountains and rivers/ and the valleys of the earth, and the winds, and everything that exists./ The highshining sky trembles in front of you and all the seas,/ Lord, all-powerful, sacred and ruler of all./ With your power the elements exist and everything come up/ in the air and the earth and the water and the steam of fire. (Translation mine)

Magical hymn 27 is a representative example of the third (and last) kind of metrical composition included under the label of “magical hymns.” Its characteristics, however, are translatable to an homologous piece, the Hymn.Mag. 11. The composition we are now analysing appears integrated in scriptio continua in a longer lógos in prose – a factor which undoubtedly contributed to the damage of its verses. In the papyrus some verses have been transposed, which indicates that it has suffered a certain textual transmission. The first characteristic that requires attention is the absence of a clear theonym. In fact, the god is celebrated more by his powers and acts than through his titles or concrete epithets, which are completely absent. Αἰὼν could be considered a theonym; however, due to its profuse use in magical texts and contemporaneous literature, it is more likely a title of divine exaltation than a defining name.105 In fact, the entire composition is full of acclamatory expressions (e.g., Αἰώνων βασιλεῦ, κύριε παντοκράτωρ, πάντων γενέτωρ, etc.). The definition εἷς θεὸς, a formula of acclaim very common in this period,106 does not solve the problem. The same occurs with the rest of the descriptive elements of this hymn, which depicts a theos hypsistos, cosmogenetor and pantocrator, a powerful and terrible divinity that certainly could have been attributed to almost all the male divinities of PGM.107 Yet, since there was not a request or offering without a divine receiver, and naming the divine addressee was a commonplace in ancient Mediterranean religions, a prayer or hymn without a clear theonym (even more, without concrete and defining epithets!) is very unusual. As S. Mitchell has stated, “in ancient pagan ritual it was necessary to name the object of worship, even when there were not doubts about the nature of the god in question.”108 On the other hand, in Egyptian culture, “not to have a name meant not to exist.”109 But this lack of attribution is more striking even in

105 “Aiôn is a fluid term, popular perhaps because of the vague suggestion of the unknowable. It was not a proper nomen; hardly an ‘individuality’,” see Nock 1934, 84. On Aiôn in magical texts, see Festugière 1981, vol. IV, 182–99. 106 On the use of this formula in polytheism, see Peterson 1926, 268–70 and Chaniotis 2010, 126ff. 107 This description is translatable, for instance, to Typhon-Seth, if we return to the first text analysed. 108 Mitchell 1999, 91. 109 Bortolani 2016, 44.

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magic, where the definition of the divine addressees, as I expounded before,110 had become the main element that sustained the magical power of both the ritual and the practitioner. On the other hand, this composition is a mere eulogy of the god; there is no petition or even invocation, there are no verba veniendi or audiendi – omnipresent in Greek hymnography. There is only a god’s description in acclamatory tone. In addition, although the Du-Stil is clear, the “I” worshipper is completely missing from the text. In keeping with the other characteristics of the magical language examined in the previous two examples, there are no repetitive structures or figures, instances of temporal deixis, vehemence, magical resources, or textual sources, which denote a magical context of production. It would be reasonable to conclude that the compiler of the magical practice, in which this composition was included, selected a passage from a longer hymn, removed concrete theonyms and the original request. Yet, it is outstanding that the style, topics, and the way in which the divinity is described are exactly the same as in Hymn.Mag. 11 (PGM III 549–558):111

5

- ᴗᴗ >, παντὸς κτίστα, θεῶν θεέ, κοίρανε η (vd. babil. burašu = pino), la forma in -αϲϲοϲ nel pap. sembra quella che meglio corrisponde all’originale orientale, vd. Schnabel 1923, 3; Kuhrt 1987, 53‒55. 15 Theocr. 2, 161‒62: Τοῖα οἱ'ἐν κίστᾳ κακὰ φάρµακα φαµὶ φυλάσσειν / Ἀσσυρίῳ δέσποινα παρὰ ξένοιο µαθοῖσα. Cfr. Graf 1994, 199‒230; Pralon 2000, 325. Si tratta di un metarituale inscenato da Simeta, che riesce ad evocare suggestioni collegate alla magia familiare al pubblico dei lettori. 16 Ed. Costanza 2009, 130‒38 e 156‒60. Sul problema dello Ps.-Melampo, vd. ibid., 20‒22. 17 Nel ms. Vindob. è tradita sotto il titolo Ἑρµοῦ Τρισµεγίστου περὶ τῶν µελῶν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου ὅταν λαγκεύουν (λαγκέβουν cod.) γνώριζε οὕτως, ed. Costanza 2009, 175. Si noti la vox castrensis λαγκεύω, invece dei verbi usuali nei manuali palmomantici: ἅλλοµαι, πάλλοµαι, vd. Diels 1908, 6 e n. 1. 18 Nei codici del XIV secolo si riscontra la semplice indicazione Περὶ ἁλλοµένων µελῶν nel Laur. Plut. XVIII 14, mentre il Par. Gr. 2381 omette qualsiasi elemento di titolatura. 19 Πυθαγόρα ἡ σύνταξις, Laur. 28, 14, ed. Costanza 2005, 11‒15, cfr. Vítek 2006, 263‒64. 20 Sotto il titolo Βίβλος σοφίας. Περσῶν Παλµική, ms. Athen. EBE 1493, XIII sec., ed. Costanza 2007, 606‒17, cfr. Id. 2012b, 777; Vítek 2006, 264. 21 Un esplicito riferimento a tale metodo divinatorio si rileva nell’atto di accusa contro il patriarca Michele Cerulario circondato da vari indovini, come per l’appunto un Persiano tenuto in considerazione per la capacità di esaminare con esattezza l’osso della scapola (ὁ δὲ ὅτι τὸ περὶ τὸν ὦµον ὀστοῦν ἀκριβῶς κατοπτεύοι), vd. Par. Gr. 1182, f. 148 del XIII secolo, ed. Bidez 1928, 71‒89: 76. 22 Cfr. Michael. Psell., ed. Duffy 1989, 113‒115, in part. 113, 10‒12 fra le opere autentiche. Sull’eredità postbizantina dell’esame delle scapole, vd. Politis 1872 con utili prove del folclore neogreco.

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probabile ambito geografico e culturale di derivazione di un metodo profetico ignoto in Grecia prima del periodo mediobizantino.23 Nella recensione più estesa della Zuckungsliteratur è elaborata anche una lettera di dedica ad un referente regale desunto dalla remota distanza temporale della dinastia tolemaica nella lontana terra del Nilo, patria per antonomasia della magia e serbatoio inesauribile di tradizioni esoteriche.24 L’epistula ad Ptolemaeum trova un autorevole antecedente nella dedica del mago Nefote a Psammetico, un altro rappresentante della regalità egiziana nel “Grande Papiro Magico di Parigi”, il quale è ricordato per convalidare il prestigio di una ricetta lecanomantica e rilanciarne la spendibilità nel mercato della credulità tardoantica.25 Questo topos letterario continua paradossalmente ad esercitare il suo fascino nell’età contemporanea e mantiene la sua efficacia comunicativa, tant’è che taluni si ostinano ancora a credere nell’autenticità del racconto imbastito dal falsario.26 Altri paralleli medievali sono elaborati nella dedica delle Sortes Astrampsychi diretta ancora una volta al grande Tolemeo27 o in quella rivolta specificamente al Filadelfo nello Ps.-Manetone.28 Il Widmungsbrief è utilizzato pure per un libro sull’interpretazione dei sogni ascritto al profeta Daniele e recante una dedica al re Nabucodonosor,29 Nell’universo dell’oniromanzia bizantina30 sono elaborate, peraltro, numerose rivendicazioni epigrafiche intorno ad alcune figure emblematiche, quali Astrampsico, letteralmente “Ani-

23 Βιβλίον παραδοθὲν ἔκ τε Τούρκων καὶ βαρβάρων προδηλωτικὸν τῶν ἐσοµένων ἐν τῷ ὠµοπλάτῃ φαινοµένων τεκµηρίων (Libro tràdito dai Turchi e dai Barbari, composto per indagare gli indizi del futuro nella scapola), cfr. l’ed. Costanza 2012a, 57‒78. 24 Per tale strategia nobilitante, cfr. Speyer 1970, 118; Ehrman 2013, 92‒95. 25 PGM IV ll. 154‒55: Νεφώτης Ψαµµητίχῳ, βασιλεῖ Αἰγύπτου αἰω/νοβίῳ χαίρειν, ἐπεί σε ὁ µέγας θεὸς ἀπεκατέ/στησεν βασιλέα αἰωνόβιον. (Nefote saluta Psammetico, re eterno dell’Egitto perché il grande dio ti ha posto re in perpetuo). 26 Sono irretiti dalla trappola della dedica a Tolemeo Irby‒Kaiser 2002, 343; Beerden 2013, 144, che assegnano su tale base le opere assegnate a Melampo al III secolo a.C., cioè all’epoca del Filadelfo, cfr. le osservazioni in merito di Costanza 2014, 126‒31. 27 Scor. II 14, XV sec., f. 1, ed. Zuretti 1032, n. 12: βασιλεῖ µεγάλῳ Πτολεµαίῳ Ἀστράµψυχος ἱερεὺς