Naming The Witch

naming the witch
gender, theory, + religion

naming the witch
magic, ideology, + st e r e o t y p e
in the ancient w o r l d
Kimberly B. Stratton
columbia university press

new york
c olumbia university press
Publishers Since 1893
New York Chichester, West Sussex

Copyright 2007 © Columbia University Press
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stratton, Kimberly B.
Naming the witch : magic, ideology, and
stereotype in the ancient world / Kimberly B. Stratton
p. cm. — (Gender, theory, and religion)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
isbn 978-0-231-13836-9 (cloth : alk. paper) —
isbn 978-0-231-51096-7 (ebook)
1. Magic, Ancient. 2. Magic, Roman. 3. Magic, Greek.
4. Magic, Jewish. 5. Stereotypes (Social psychology)
I. Title. II. Series.
bf1591.s77 2007
133.4'3093—dc22
2007016311
Casebound editions of Columbia University Press books are

printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper.
Printed in the United States of America
c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
designed by vin dang

to pierre, for his patience through all this,
and my parents, who made it possible
contents
preface ix
acknowledgments xiii
abbreviations xvii
one Magic, Discourse, and Ideology 1

two Barbarians, Magic, and Construction of the Other in Athens 39
three Mascula Libido: Women, Sex, and Magic in Roman Rhetoric and
Ideology 71
four My Miracle, Your Magic: Heresy, Authority, and Early
Christianities 107
five Caution in the Kosher Kitchen: Magic, Identity, and Authority in
Rabbinic Literature 143
Epilogue: Some Thoughts on Gender, Magic, and
Stereotyping 177
notes 181
works cited 247
index 277
preface
N aming the Witch explores the social background of and motivations

behind powerful and enduring stereotypes of the magician, sorcer-
ess, and witch. In the ancient world accusations of magic could carry the
death penalty or, at the very least, marginalize the person or group they
targeted. Accusations, however, always arise from somewhere: they draw
on and reinscribe fears of the Other, ideals about the Self, and conceptions
of antisocial behavior. By these means, accusations of magic and stereo-
types of magicians or witches mirror social values and accepted notions
about the way things should be among the group employing this rhetoric.
These ideas will vary from society to society and, concomitantly, so will
the images and ideas associated with magic. Naming the Witch examines
the earliest manifestations of stereotypes of witches and sorcerers in West-
ern literature, seeking to understand the specific contexts that gave rise to
these stereotypes in Western history. This book challenges universalizing
generalizations and reductionist approaches to magic by seeking instead to
understand the factors that contributed to the emergence of specific stereo-
types at particular moments in time.
In order to uncover the background and motivations for stereotypes of
magic, Naming the Witch examines literature from four different historical
periods and cultures in the ancient world: classical Athens, early imperial
Rome, pre-Constantine Christianity, and rabbinic Judaism. Through this
comparative and cross-cultural approach, Naming the Witch illuminates
certain aspects of ancient magic that have, so far, gone unnoticed—it high-
lights the differences between patterns of representing magic in various an-
p r e f a c e
cient cultures and explores the relationship between these stereotypes of

magic and the social factors that contributed to shaping them. It reveals
magic to be a form of discourse (i.e., a constellation of ideas, practices, and
institutions) that functions differently depending on the social context. This
discourse, I argue, emerged in fifth-century Athens, following the Persian
wars, and contributed to the construction of xenophobic ideas about the
un-Greek and uncivilized Other. This discourse of alterity then passed to
Rome and the rest of the Hellenized world during the Hellenistic period
where it adapted to and reflected local social concerns. In each situation,
magic constitutes a discursive formation that negotiates power by operat-
ing as a foil for claims to legitimacy and authority.
Existing scholarship on ancient magic falls largely into four categories:
1. The first includes works that document material evidence for ancient rit-
ual activities commonly classified as “magic.” Such studies generally pres-
ent the material without extensively commenting on or evaluating its social
history.1 2. Second are works that attempt to reconstruct the social history
of ancient magic with reference to either literary descriptions of magic
and magicians and/or the material evidence mentioned just above.2 These
analyses sometimes uncritically accept representations of magic that have
at their base ideological motivations and vilifying stereotypes. 3. Third is
scholarship that recognizes the pejorative connotations of magic in both
ancient and modern usage and, for this reason, questions the validity of
continuing to use magic as a heuristic category in scholarship at all.3 These
scholars argue that uncritically accepting magic as a descriptive term in an-
cient texts reinscribes polemical labels and dangerous stereotypes, but they
can also ignore the evidence that certain people did engage in practices per-
ceived as impious, threatening, and antisocial by members of their society.
In other words, some ancient people knowingly and perhaps subversively
engaged in ritual activities they themselves considered to be magic. 4. The
final category of scholarship on magic responds to the conundrum posed by
the third group. These scholars attempt to resolve the tension between con-
tinuing to study magic, despite the negatively charged baggage (both an-
cient and modern) that the term carries, and rejecting the term altogether.4
Naming the Witch falls into this final category. I critically read represen-
tations of magic with an awareness of their ideological motivations and the
rhetorical strategies that support and shape them. That is, I continually ask:
“Whose interest do they serve?” But I also take seriously the archaeologi-
cal evidence for practices that were commonly regarded as magic by people
in the ancient world (i.e., rituals that violate social mores and traditions of
p r e f a c e xi
piety in order to harm or gain control over someone else). Stereotypes do

not emerge without reason; they reflect, at the very least, the perception of
(real or imagined) danger. To dismiss the existence of magic altogether as
just a form of slander ignores the very real relationship between accusa-
tions and fear, stereotypes and social tension. It is the source of these stereo-
types that preoccupies my attention in Naming the Witch, using representa-
tions of magic as the tool to unveil struggles over defining authority and
Otherness, legitimate power and unacceptable behavior in the four ancient
societies that are the subjects of this study.
This research seeks to complicate existing ideas about magic by showing
magic to be contingent—existing in different ways in different places—
while at the same time I strive to show the continuity of magic as a dis-
course as it passed from Greece to the rest of the Mediterranean. Certainly,
ideas about dangerous supernatural power, evil female demons, or strange
foreigners exist in many different cultures in diverse times and places.
What I argue is that labeling all these magic or witchcraft and attempting to
identify a single explanation for them confuses important differences and
cultural distinctions. Instead, I focus on understanding how the particular
constellation of ideas and Othering devices known as magic developed in
Western culture. I argue that magic has a definite history, the understand-
ing of which will illuminate the process of marginalizing groups of people
and negotiating power in culturally determined ways.
acknowledgments
W hile it is customary to thank one ’s Ph.D. supervisor and committee,

I will go further back since the journey to complete a Ph.D., and
eventually a book, begins a long time before and many people are respon-
sible for making the journey possible.
I would like to thank Paul Raymond, Mark Terry, and Ellen Taussig for
founding the Northwest School in Seattle and teaching me at an early age
to approach the understanding of history and human society holistically.
Timea Szell and Maire Jaanus at Barnard for being smart women and in-
spiring role models, John Stratton Hawley for encouraging me in the field
of comparative religion, Alan Segal (twice wholeheartedly) for introducing
me to the fascinating world of Hellenistic religion and later for ushering me
through its labyrinths as a doctoral student. Helmut Koester, Kimberley
Patten, Margaret Miles, and James Kugel for their support and guidance
while a masters student at Harvard Divinity School. Miri Kubovy and Jo-
seph Dan for encouraging me to learn Hebrew and pursue Jewish studies
despite a late start. Ruth Fagen for welcoming me into her Talmud class at
Jewish Theological Seminary despite my utter lack of background. My col-
leagues at Carleton University, especially Roland Jeffreys, Josh Beer, and
Shane Hawkins, who carefully read and corrected my chapters on Greek
and Roman literature. Additional scholars who have volunteered their time
to read and offer comments include Gil Anidjar, Stamenka Antonova, Zeba
Crook, David Frankfurter, Amy Hollywood, Dayna Kalleres, Jason Kal-
man, Richard Kalmin, Barry Levy, Todd Penner, Annette Yoshiko Reed,
James Rives, Ian Scott, Barbette Spaeth, and Steve Wilson. I benefited
xiv a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s
immeasurably from their criticisms, questions, and suggestions as well as

from those of the anonymous readers for the Press, which included Mary
Rose D’Angelo, who offered to make herself known to me and has been an
unflagging support ever since. I take full responsibility for any shortcom-
ings that remain. Additional thanks go to Elizabeth Castelli for providing
useful feedback and helpful advice during the dissertation process. Kristina
Milnor loaned me her unpublished dissertation, which was of immense use
in formulating the argument of chapter 3. It has since appeared as Gender,
Domesticity, and the Age of Augustus. Helene Foley gave me the proofs to
her book, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, before it appeared in print, which
was an excellent resource for drafting my argument for chapter 2. David
Kraemer kindly sent me a copy of his 2001 SBL conference paper and, later,
the proofs to his forthcoming book on the topic of Jewish eating practices,
which helped me develop my argument in chapter 5. Beth Berkowitz, Rabbi
Reuven Bulka, and Jonathan Milgram fielded questions on rabbinic materi-
als. Harold Remus continues to offer excellent advice and encouragement.
He also gets credit for initially suggesting that I contact Wendy Lochner at
Columbia University Press, who has been a wonderful, patient, and sup-
portive editor. Thanks also to Susan Pensak, my manuscript editor, for her
helpful suggestions, delicious recipes, and other good advice. My research
assistants, Alexander Dearham, Meredith Humphrey Burnett, Schuyler
Playford, and the amazingly efficient Simon Gurofsky have helped in nu-
merous ways by proofreading and tracking down research materials. Dan-
iel and Bonita Slunder warmed my toes during cold Ottawa winters with
osso bucco and homemade wine. Colleagues in the College of Humanities
at Carleton University welcomed me to Canada with unparalleled colle-
giality and genuine friendship. My husband, Pierre, has been immensely
patient and supportive throughout this long process, helping to edit sec-
tions of text and discussing the ideas and arguments contained therein. He
brings his tremendous analytical skills to bear on unwieldy prose and un-
formed theories. It is with love and appreciation that I dedicate this book to
him and to my parents, who have encouraged and supported me in all my
wacky endeavors, including this one.
Finally, the warmest thanks go to my long-time mentor, friend, and in-
defatigable Ph.D. supervisor, Alan Segal, and the rest of my committee,
Vincent Wimbush, David Halivni, and Helene Foley, for believing in the
project and encouraging me to work across fields despite the challenges
this posed.
a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s xv
Naming the Witch received funding as a doctoral dissertation from the

American Association of University Women, which generously granted
an American Dissertation Fellowship for the 2000–1 academic year. I also
received a Josephine de Kármán Fellowship in 2000–1, contributing much-
needed additional funds. Columbia University kindly supported my grad-
uate studies as well as assisting with summer funds for travel and research.
The dean of arts and sciences at Carleton University supplied grant money
for the completion of the manuscript and support for research assistants.
I am honored and thankful for the financial support and morale-boosting
encouragement of these institutions and associations.
A portion of chapter 4 was published as “The Rhetoric of ‘Magic’ in
Early Christian Discourse: Gender, Power, and the Construction of ‘Her-
esy’ ” in Todd Penner and Caroline Vander Stichele, eds., Mapping Gender
in Ancient Religious Discourses (Leiden: Brill, 2006). An earlier version of
material from chapter 5 appears in “Imagining Power: Magic, Miracle, and
the Social Context of Rabbinic Self-Representation,” Journal of the Ameri-
can Academy of Religion, 73, no. 2 (June 2005): 361–393.
abbreviations
A ll translations of primary sources are my own except where noted oth-

erwise. Editions of the primary texts can be found in the bibliogra-
phy. Abbreviations for classical, Jewish, and Christian sources follow the
guidelines of The SBL Handbook of Style for Ancient Near Eastern, Biblical,
and Early Christian Studies, ed. Patrick H. Alexander et al. (Peabody, MA:
Hendrickson, 1999). Additional abbreviations are listed here.
aar American Academy of Religion

anf Ante-Nicene Fathers (Grand Rapids, MI, 1956–1962)
anrw Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt
b Babylonian Talmud
cp Classical Philology
d Digesta Justiniani
dk H. Diels and W. Kranz, eds., Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker,
vol. 1, 6th ed. (Berlin, 1951)
htr Harvard Theological Review
jaar Journal of the American Academy of Religion
lcl Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge: Harvard University Press)
Littré Emile Littré, ed., Oeuvres complètes d’Hippocrate, 10 vol. (Paris,
1961 [1839–61])
m Mishnah
njpsv New Jewish Publication Society Version
nrsv New Revised Standard Version
xviii a b b r e v i a t i o n s
pg J.-P. Migne, ed. Patrologia cursus completus [Series Graeca]

(Paris, 1857–1886)
pgm K. Preisendanz, ed. Papyri graecae magicae: Die grieschischen
Zauberpapyri (Berlin, 1928)
pl J.-P. Migne, ed. Patrologia cursus completus [Series Latina]
(Paris, 1844–1864)
rsv Revised Standard Version
sbl Society of Biblical Literature
t Tosefta
y Jerusalem Talmud
zpe Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik
naming the witch
one
magic, discourse, + ideology
Round about the cauldron go;

In the poison’d entrails throw.—
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter’d venom, sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’th’charmed pot.
macbeth 4.4– 9
I n their nocturnal howling, conjuring chaos around a cauldron, the three

weird sisters encountered by Macbeth exemplify a type recognizable to
almost everyone. Their strange countenances and vile activity connote
witchcraft or magic in the Western imagination, where disheveled old
women, diabolical cooking, and mischievous manipulation of the human
will constitute attributes of magic. But where did this portrait come from,
and has it always existed?
This book illuminates the emergence of powerful and enduring stereo-
types in Western cultural history: namely, the magician and witch. It argues
that these stereotypes were constructed over several centuries through re-
peated representation and coincide with the development of ideas about
ritual deviance and illegitimate access to sacred power emerging at the same
time. It traces the development of a new discourse of alterity that emerged
in Greece in the fifth century bce and persisted as a marginalizing strategy
until the modern period. In fact, it continues to operate in modern discus-
sions of foreign cultures and beliefs, where it serves as a foil for notions
m a g i c , d i s c o u r s e , a n d i d e o l o g y
like rationality, religion, and science.1 In its origin this discourse employed
a combination of terms designating foreign, illegitimate, subversive, or
dangerous ritual activities and integrated them into a powerful semantic
constellation. Through the repeated combination of these terms with each
other, the discourse drew on and amplified connotations of each term so
that the use of one could harness or invoke a network of meaning created by
association with the others. I designate this constellation with the English
term magic. In modern parlance magic is most often associated with fatu-
ous sleight-of-hand tricks or with esoteric rituals to harness occult power.
Both conceptions reflect, to some degree, ancient aspects of this discourse,
which included terms designating charlatans and frauds as well as terms for
subversive ritual practices that undermine social order and legitimate chan-
nels of divine favor. In order to understand better how these terms function
individually and in combination I will close this chapter with a discussion
of ancient terminology (Greek, Latin, and Hebrew) and the development
of the semantic constellation I label magic. This discussion will also serve
to introduce readers to the key terms that appear throughout the pages of
this book. Unfortunately, the modern understanding of magic carries con-
ceptual baggage as well, yet, despite its imprecision, I employ magic as the
best approximation to this ancient discourse.2
This book will consider the particular shape that representations of
magic take in different cultural contexts. By concentrating on the differ-
ences that emerge between these patterns of representation, it reveals the
degree to which magic was a discourse; it was dynamic, twisting, and con-
torting to meet the ideological needs of various situations. This book does
not, therefore, concentrate on the actual practice of “magic” in antiquity,
nor does it try to define objectively what that practice might have been.
Rather, it examines how a discourse that includes stereotypes, accusations,
and counterlegislation, as well as certain types of ritual practices, emerged
and functioned in the ancient world. In the chapters that follow I examine
representations of the jilted wife, who uses herbal potions to win back the
affection of her husband, and contrast this with depictions of lascivious old
hags (apparently unmarried) who stop at nothing—even infanticide—to
manipulate and magically control hapless young men whom they desire.
These two stereotypes, while distinct, both profile women as practitioners
of magic arts. Yet men could also be identified as magicians: namely, the
charlatan swindler who uses magic to cajole credulous onlookers and se-
duce witless women. While these depictions show magic to be constructed
negatively in the ancient world, magic could also exhibit positive attributes
in some contexts, demonstrating authority and superiority. Certain rab-

bis in the Babylonian Talmud, for example, are represented as excelling at
magic arts.
Each of these representations emerges as dominant at a different social
and historical moment, demonstrating that the understanding of what con-
stitutes magic is culturally determined and subject to change. Yet, these
differences demand that we ask what accounts for them: why does one
particular stereotype dominate in a certain culture or historical context?
What is the connection between social contexts and patterns of represen-
tation? In order to address these questions, each chapter examines a pat-
tern of representation against its historical setting and in light of cultural
configurations, thereby illuminating the ways in which depictions of magic
function in the social drama of which they are a part. I demonstrate that the
particular shape magic assumed in each case reflects the particular issues
at stake in that context and, especially, for those deploying the stereotype.
This is not to assume, however, that particular representations of magic
or the larger stereotypes upon which they draw simplistically derive from
the psychological complexes or personal struggles of individuals. Rather, I
explore how representations of magic operate within an entire cultural sys-
tem, which affords their meaning and semantic sense. Individual instances
of magic accusation or labeling draw on but also reinscribe the existing
body of knowledge that defined and delimited the parameters of what was
considered magic in that culture. As we will see, what the ancients regarded
as magic does not always correspond with common modern definitions,
which is why I adhere to ancient designations whenever possible.
Understanding where these stereotypes come from and how they devel-
oped can illuminate contemporary acts of Othering as well. While seem-
ingly remote in time and social context, these representations nonetheless
continue to figure in demonizing accusations that marginalize certain peo-
ple, such as, for example, assertive women and communities with different
religious practices or beliefs. Contemporary uses of these stereotypes do
not necessarily involve accusations of practicing magic, although they can,3
but they do draw on vilifying images and associations that evolved part and
parcel of magic discourse in antiquity. Thus assertive women are frequent-
ly portrayed as lustful and domineering witches, while foreign religions are
commonly painted in terms familiar from ancient representations of magic
as threatening and uncivilized. Furthermore, modern conceptions of magic
as irrational have played an important role in justifying colonial and impe-
rialist policies on the grounds that “primitive” religious practices resem-
ble magic and therefore need to be elevated through rationalist, scientific

knowledge brought by Europeans; rationality as construed by European
thinkers constituted a prerequisite for self-government.4 Even our mod-
ern identity is defined partly in opposition to constructed notions of what
constitutes magic. Randall Styers persuasively argues that definitions of
magic formulated over the past few centuries contributed to the construc-
tion of ideas about modernity by acting as a foil for the conceptualization
of distinctly modern concepts such as science, religion, and rationality.5 It
therefore becomes ever more pressing to understand the origins of this en-
during concept and how magic, variously construed, has emerged as one of
the most compelling and powerful strategies of difference in the Common
Era, contributing to the construction of identity and maintenance of social
control. In order to consider the emergence of these stereotypes and their
deployment in various social contexts, it is necessary, first, to address the
problem of defining magic, which for over a century has confounded schol-
ars of anthropology, classical history, and comparative religion. It contin-
ues to do so today.
magic
The modern academic study of magic has revolved largely around opposi-
tions perceived to exist between magic and other aspects of human culture:
namely, religion and science. Following Sir Edward Tylor’s discussion of
magic in his two-volume anthropological survey, Primitive Culture, the
common conception of magic has posited an opposition between religion,
on the one hand, and magic and science, on the other.6 Tylor conceived
human culture to be evolutionary. It developed through stages from sav-
agery to barbarism and finally to modern educated life (27).7 Since earlier
forms of human culture, Tylor thought, persist as “survivals” in primitive
or savage cultures as well as, to a certain degree, in European folk culture
and superstition (72), studying ethnography was a way to understand the
developmental history and origins of human civilization (24).
According to Tylor, magic constituted one of the most primitive forms
of belief: it was “one of the most pernicious delusions that ever vexed man-
kind” and “belongs to the lowest stages of civilization and to the lowest
races” (112). Despite this extreme opprobrium, Tylor perceived magic to
rely in essence on rational functions (115–16). Like science, magic per-
ceived connections to exist between events:
Man, as yet in a low intellectual condition, having come to associate in thought

those things which he found by experience to be connected in fact, proceeded
erroneously to invert this action, and to conclude that association in thought
must involve similar connexion in reality. He thus attempted to discover, to
foretell, and to cause events by means of processes which we can now see to
have only an ideal significance.
(116)
Magic thus constituted a “pseudoscience,” which mistook ideal connec-
tions for real ones (119).8 Religion, on the other hand, Tylor defined mini-
mally as “belief in spiritual beings”—animism constituted the most primi-
tive form of religion and the root from which all religions developed.9
Following Tylor’s lead, Sir James Frazer postulated an evolutionary
scheme that incorporated magic, religion, and science in a developmental
framework according to which religion superseded magic and science su-
perseded religion. Magic could be distinguished from science by its faulty
grasp of cause and effect and from religion by its domineering attitude to-
ward the supernatural. It constituted a “spurious system of natural law as
well as a fallacious guide of conduct; it is a false science as well as an abor-
tive art.”10 According to Frazer, magical theory claimed that properly con-
ducted spells could alter the course of events automatically or mechanisti-
cally.11 Like science, therefore, magic presumes the existence of universal
laws of nature that can be manipulated to attain specific ends. Religion, in
contrast, involves humble submission to the divine. It worships and propi-
tiates powerful forces that are considered to be beyond human understand-
ing or control.12 While magic does sometimes resemble religion in its use
of spiritual beings, Frazer distinguishes them by claiming that magic at-
tempts to coerce or constrain the deity through rites and sacrifices, treating
the divine as an impersonal force that can be manipulated to achieve au-
tomatic results.13 This distinction between magic and religion has become
axiomatic in the fields of religious studies and anthropology.14 It continues
to figure in debates over definitions and terminology—cropping up tacitly
even in studies that try to avoid use of the term magic altogether.15
Frazer’s approach to understanding magic has dogged the heels of schol-
ars ever since. While some scholars continue to operate within Frazer’s
magic/religion categories, others challenge the oppositional bifurcation
altogether.16 Marcel Mauss, for example, attempted to break down both
sets of oppositions in his A General Theory of Magic. According to Mauss,
magic resembles scientific techniques in its practical aspects and in the “au-
tomatic nature” of its actions.17 It resembles religion in that both are based
on communal belief in “mystical forces” and rely on those forces in daily
life.18 Bronislaw Malinowski similarly challenged these Frazerian catego-
ries. First he rejected the view that “savages” misunderstood causal con-
nections. He proposed instead that magic was a way to reduce anxiety in
situations where human skill and technical knowledge were insufficient to
ensure success. Malinowski grouped magic with religion as sacred activities
and distinguished it from science, which, he firmly believed, the Trobriand
Islanders possessed.19 Despite this early endeavor to eliminate the breach
perceived to exist between magic, religion, and science, the debate has con-
tinued until the present day.20 The latter part of the twentieth century, for
example, saw interest concentrated on resolving the magic/science debate,
specifically addressing the conceptualization of rationality and irrationality
upon which this distinction is founded.21
Much of that debate was sparked by the work of anthropologist E. E.
Evans-Pritchard, who, like Bronislaw Malinowski, looked for an explana-
tion of magical beliefs that honored the rationality of his subjects. Evans-
Pritchard describes belief in “witchcraft” as a “natural philosophy”—it
explained events and relationships, provided a means of reacting to such
events, and regulated human conduct.22 Certain antisocial behavior, he no-
ticed, attracted suspicions of witchcraft and might lead to accusations.23 By
shifting the focus onto accusations of witchcraft and their social motivation,
Evans-Pritchard’s research radically changed the study of magic, contrib-
uting not only to anthropological studies of magic but also to historical
studies, including those of the classical world, and to philosophic discus-
sions of rationality and relativism.24 These studies tended to treat magic
as a symptom of social tension and sought to explain it by discovering the
social factors that contributed to generating conflict. They succeeded to
the extent that they turned a lens on and illuminated sources of social ten-
sion that may have gone unnoticed or been smoothed over in the “official”
versions of history. They have been subject to criticism, however, for fail-
ing to explain why magic, specifically, served in those instances to function
as the strategy of social control or marginalization when others might have
been available as well.25
More recently the debate has focused on resolving the equally tenacious
distinction between magic and religion.26 In 1933 Nock explored the his-
tory and meaning of the term magos in Greek writings and determined that
the word had a number of connotations and uses: originally, it designated
priests of the Persian religion, but later acquired the meaning of religious
charlatan, quack, or impostor. He proposed, therefore, that accusations of
magic in the New Testament may not actually represent the true activi-
ties of those accused but instead reflect a contest over religious authority—
those accused of magic in Acts of the Apostles, he argues, were actually
contemporary religious figures who competed against the early apostles
and missionaries.27 Accusing them of “magic,” Nock claimed, was a way
to delegitimate their religious authority: by drawing on the second, derog-
atory meaning of magos, Luke portrayed them as quacks and swindlers.
With this article, Nock opened a decades-long debate over the “real” na-
ture of magic accusations in ancient literature. Increasingly, scholars began
to question the basis of these accusations and the assumption that early
Christian and other antique writers accurately depicted the world around
them. Instead, accusations of magic were seen to be part of a marginalizing
strategy, whose deployment indicated the presence of competition and con-
test rather than the practice of either magic or “superstition.”
Alan Segal, for example, addresses this issue in his seminal essay, “Hel-
lenistic Magic: Some Questions of Definition,” where he challenges the
commonly held Frazerian distinction between magic and religion. By ex-
amining ritual descriptions from self-professed magical documents,28 Segal
undermines the perceived differences between magical activities and reli-
gious ones: certain rituals in the Papyri Grecae Magicae (hereafter PGM),29
for example, seek the same results as initiations into the mystery religions
or baptism in the Pauline churches. They demonstrate the degree to which
different Hellenistic religions, including Christianity, shared the same cos-
mological framework, the same religious goals, and the same religious
language as so-called magical texts.30 Thus, the designation magic in an-
cient (or modern) texts does little to inform us about the actual rites being
practiced. Segal notes that in a climate where each religion claimed to be
exercising divine power any competing charismatic or miraculous activity
needed to be dismissed as fraud or demonic agency.31
Harold Remus draws similar conclusions from his analysis of terminol-
ogy for miracle and magic employed in ancient documents.32 Like Segal, he
notes that context largely determined whether a particular practice or activ-
ity was considered to be magic or not:
With respect to the Greco-Roman world, part of the difficulty, however, lies in
the materials themselves. “Miracle” is not a univocal term. Neither is “magic.”
Practices that ancients label with a term associated with what they call “magic”
may in another context be ascribed to divine power, i.e., regarded as “mira-

cle.” The criteria put forward by moderns to distinguish magic from miracle
or from religion often reveal little more that the fact that “magic” has many
“religious” elements, and vice versa, and that “your magic is my miracle, and
vice versa.”33
By examining the criteria that distinguished miracle from magic in sec-
ond-century writings, Remus discovers that the distinction emerged most
often in polemical situations where the consciousness of we and they was at
play.34 In his thoughtful and exhaustively researched article, applying soci-
ology of knowledge to ancient religion, C. R. Phillips similarly argues that
“a charge of magic represented a persuasive way to denigrate one’s theo-
logical opposition: the opposition would have to ‘prove’ that its alleged
powers derived from the ‘right’ cosmic forces.”35 Susan Garrett reinforces
this view of magic accusations in her study of magic in the Gospel of Luke
and Acts of the Apostles. She writes, “In the Graeco-Roman world, accu-
sations of magic typically occurred in situations of social conflict. Because
the use of magic was regarded as socially unacceptable, labeling someone a
‘magician’ was an effective way to squelch, avenge, or discredit undesirable
behavior.”36 Garrett demonstrates that the depiction of Simon as a magi-
cian in Luke-Acts functions not so much to reveal anything about Simon’s
actual practices but rather as a foil for demonstrating the superior power of
the Holy Spirit and Christian authority over Satan in the postresurrection
period.37 Garrett’s research further underscores the extent to which magic
operated as a trope in ancient writings, revealing less about people’s actual
practices than about the author’s desire to delegitimate and denigrate some
person.38
As a result of this and similar research, many scholars began to move
away from use of the term magic to describe certain types of ritual, employ-
ing instead emic definitions that derive from and, it is argued, reflect bet-
ter the context and conceptions of the culture under study. This approach
appeared to avoid the problem of using paternalistic definitions, such as
magic and superstition, to describe other people’s ritual practices. Because
the concepts magic and religion evolved to make Protestant Christianity
more palatable in an age of reason and science (as well as to justify impe-
rialist policies and colonization), neither term, it was argued, accurately
applies to ancient or foreign cultures.39 Among classical scholars, who pos-
sess precise technical vocabulary to describe a variety of ritual practices
(often in original languages), descriptive terms such as sacrifice, libation,
binding spell, curse tablet, and incantation became preferred. These terms
do not carry the pejorative baggage (ancient and modern) or misleading
opposition to religion and science that the broader term magic does. Fur-
thermore, they more precisely characterize the practice under discussion
without falsely dichotomizing it, allowing for the fact that many of these
practices (e.g., libation, sacrifice, curse, and prayer) occur both in officially
sanctioned rituals (commonly designated religion) and in marginal or il-
licit rituals (usually labeled magic).40 Numerous books and articles in the
past decade and a half have consequently tended to follow this approach,
eschewing the term magic wherever possible.41
The pendulum, however, seems to have swung back in the other direc-
tion: many new publications argue for reintroducing the term magic into
scholarly discourse.42 H. S. Versnel, for example, argues that scholarship
can only be undertaken in etic terms. The attempt to employ emic termi-
nology not only falsely proposes that scholars can shed their own cultural
knowledge and ways of thinking but that they can empathically assume
those of the culture they study as well.43 Furthermore, Versnel argues, it
is impossible to do cultural research without the aid of broad, prototypical
definitions, which serve, at the very least, as models of contrast. Instead of
rejecting terms such as magic and religion, Versnel suggests that we employ
polythetic definitions, which involve a long list of characteristics. When a
specific case matches a majority of the characteristics stipulated in the defi-
nition, it can be said to “fit.”44 This approach recognizes that not all aspects
of the definition will apply to each and every case under study but that most
of the time a majority of the characteristics will fit well enough to allow
application of the label. Neither magic nor religion exist, Versnel admits,
except as concepts in the minds of scholars and, as such, they are helpful for
scholarly analysis.
C. A. Hoffman similarly endorses the use of magic as a comparative
term. He notes, first, that many ancient sources define magic along lines
equivalent to Frazer, demonstrating that this definition is not so anachro-
nistic after all: Clement of Alexandria, for example, “posited coercion as a
distinguishing feature of magic in his Exhortation to the Greeks.”45 Sources
as far ranging as the Hebrew Bible and Pliny the Elder, he argues, con-
ceptualize magic as a form of “performative utterance”—that is, words
with the power to accomplish deeds, corresponding to Frazer’s notion of
auto-effectiveness.46 Hoffman also criticizes various efforts to avoid the
term magic by using alternative terminology. More specialized terms such
as divination or execration, he argues, are just as subject to Western history
10 m a g i c , d i s c o u r s e , a n d i d e o l o g y
and prejudices as magic. Furthermore, he proposes that in their specificity

they should be considered “species” within the larger genus magic. Other
attempts to supplant magic with euphemisms such as ritual power or un-
sanctioned religious activity merely repackage Frazerian notions in different
language; they suggest that the traditional dichotomies between coercion
and supplication or private versus public continue to define magic—even
when called by another name.47
Jonathan Z. Smith characteristically complicates this scholarly debate by
illuminating problems inherent both in using the term magic and in avoid-
ing the loaded designation altogether. First, he criticizes use of magic as a
“substantive term in second-order, theoretical, academic discourse” when
more precise and useful categories for comparison exist, such as “healing,”
“divining,” and “execrative.”48 Magic is too broad and too amorphously
applied to be useful, he complains. To demonstrate the problem, he points
to shifting fads in scholarly taxonomy that obfuscate real understanding
of phenomena under consideration. “Shamanism,” for example, was “the
very type of ‘magic’” in nineteenth- and twentieth-century studies, but
later became rehabilitated as “religion” (16).
Smith also critiques the exclusive adherence to native vocabulary as
equally obfuscating; it at best provides lexical definitions that inhibit com-
parison and display “little explanatory power” (20). Such narrow use of
emic terminology prevents the comparative treatment of phenomena with
“the stipulative procedures by which the academy contests and controls
second-order, specialized usage” (20). The importance of retaining a theo-
retical definition of magic, Smith argues, derives from the fact that “every
sort of society appears to have a term (or terms) designating some modes
of ritual activities, some beliefs, and some ritual practitioners as danger-
ous, and/or illegal, and/or deviant” (17). While Smith questions whether
native terminology for such deviant or dangerous ritual activity can be ad-
equately conveyed by English terms such as magic, sorcery, or witchcraft,
he remains committed to finding a “substantive, theoretical definition of
‘magic’ ” (17).
Smith also takes aim at social explanations for magic that “shift attention
away from the act and actor to the accuser and the accusation” (18). Such
approaches, which understand magic solely in terms of the accusation,
Smith notes, look for explanations in the relationship between the accuser
and the accused. “While the accusation of ‘magic’ may well be a power
ploy that marginalized the accused, the accusation may equally well be
between members of elite groups, or directed by the marginal against the
m a g i c , d i s c o u r s e , a n d i d e o l o g y 11
elite” (19).49 Such social explanations, Smith argues, also ignore the possi-
bility that magic can be considered a source of power or prestige in a given
society and the fact that “‘magic’ is just one possible option in any given
culture ’s rich vocabulary of alterity” (19).50 Smith’s approach represents
one of the most sophisticated and nuanced within magic studies—recog-
nizing magic’s social function, on the one hand, while endorsing the search
for a cross-cultural heuristic definition of magic, on the other.
None of these theories, however, adequately considers the degree to
which magic is constructed through shared belief: once the concept exists in
a particular culture, it acquires power, forever altering the way certain prac-
tices or people are viewed. This new classification consequently changes
the way people respond to each other and to those practices, places, ani-
mals, and objects that are identified to some degree with the constructed
notion. The resulting expansion, through these associations, reinforces the
concept’s influence and reality in the minds of people in that society. It also
opens a new avenue for people to access power by embracing those prac-
tices identified now as magic. In a different culture or at a different time,
the same practices may not be labeled magic. Such is clearly the case when
previously accepted practices are suddenly forbidden after a regime change
or when foreign practices imported into a society are regarded as unaccept-
able because of their origin. The practices themselves are neutral. They
defy a positivist or universal definition of magic that is based on types of
ritual activities (coercive or automatic) or social locations (marginal or un-
sanctioned). Certain practices become magic only by the shared definition
or understanding of people in that society. It is important to emphasize that
no definition of magic is universal. The construction of magic varies from
culture to culture; furthermore, magic does not appear in every society.51
Once an idea of magic does exist, it wields social power—it becomes “real”
for people who believe in it. Marcel Mauss comes closest to this under-
standing of magic when he states:
Legends and tales about magic are not simply exercises of the imagination or a
traditional expression of collective fantasies, but their constant repetition, dur-
ing the course of long evening sessions, bring about a note of expectation, of
fear, which at the slightest encouragement may induce illusion and provoke the
liveliest reactions. The image of the magician grows from story to story.52
Later, he elaborates: “It is public opinion which makes the magician and
creates the power he wields.”53 Mauss suggests in these passages that magic
is both real—to the extent that people believe in and practice it—and a
social construct—to the extent that people believe in and practice it. In
other words, magic becomes real when the concept of it exists and people
in that society live and act in such a way as to realize that concept through
their actions. This includes not only rituals performed by people who un-
derstand their activities to be a form of magic but also accusations and per-
secutions that concretize magic in the form of social control or repression.
Mauss’s work indicates that the search for a broad heuristic definition of
magic must also take into consideration the social drama in which magic
functions. This is to say that attention should be paid to emic definitions
since what is or is not magic is largely defined by how a particular society
understands and classifies certain people and practices. Magic is fundamen-
tally a social phenomenon and needs to be understood in these terms.54
how i defi n e t h e t e r m m a g i c
As both Versnel and Hoffman emphasize, magic is not merely a modern
construct, reflecting Frazerian biases and colonialist sentiments, but existed
as a concept in the ancient world as well. The English word magic, in fact,
derives from ancient Greek and Latin terms: mageia/magia. Furthermore,
much of what constitutes common sense definitions of magic in the modern
period mirrors conceptions expressed by ancient writers. These include the
sentiment that magic coerces rather than supplicates the divine.55 Magic
employs demonic rather than divine forces.56 It seeks individual goals in
private rituals rather than communal goals in public celebrations.57 Magic
was practiced for personal gain whereas legitimate priests practiced as an
act of devotion or public service.58 Magic sought to harm or constrain an-
other person and was consequently treated as a form of invisible physical
assault comparable to poisoning.59
While these observations are true and may point toward the existence of
a broad polythetic definition of magic, as Versnel and Hoffman suggest, the
observations of scholars who employ sociological methods in their study of
magic need to be taken into account as well. They argue that these charac-
teristics were not applied neutrally to ancient persons or practices. Rather,
accusations of enlisting the help of demons rather than God or of practic-
ing nefarious rites in private rather than public ceremonies in the light of
day or of causing someone to fall in love through the use of love potions
were leveled against individuals and groups of people for sociopolitical
reasons.60 That is to say, while the characteristics may constitute part of
a widely held conception of magic, they cannot be interpreted in simply a
positivistic manner. They are not neutral. They indicate, most often, the
presence of social factors such as conflict, competition, and fear. Cultural
sentiments and ideological prejudices, such as xenophobia, also constitute
contributing factors—as much to ancient definitions of magic as to mod-
ern—returning us to Mauss’s proviso that magic is a social phenomenon.
Consequently, I emphasize attention to emic terminology in order to
illuminate the ideological prejudices behind representations of magic. By
focusing on ancient terminology, one can discern when and how magic
was mobilized as a discourse in antiquity. This differs from approaches that
impose a universal second-order definition of magic onto other cultures
and concomitantly impose modern distinctions and categories as well. Such
approaches conceal the presence of ideological factors that may be shap-
ing the representation or determining the choice of terminology. Why, for
instance, is one feat of power presented as miracle (thauma) and a similar
one magic (mageia or goēteia)? Ancient writers deliberately crafted their
depictions to conform to one or another set of stereotypes. In Acts of the
Apostles (8), for example, Simon’s activities are labeled magic (mageia 8.9,
11), while those of Philip and Peter are described as signs (sēmeia 8.6, 13) or
mighty deeds (dunameis megalas 8.13). Similarly Philostratus, a third-centu-
ry biographer, is careful to depict the miracle worker Apollonius of Tyana
according to stereotypes of itinerant philosophers and holy men rather than
profit-seeking “magicians” in order to deflect charges of magic against his
protagonist (4.45).61 Versnel’s polythetic typology, thus, may obfuscate the
object of study rather than illuminate it. Central elements of Versnel’s ty-
pology do not apply to the PGM, for example, which, since their discov-
ery, have been consistently treated as examples of ancient Greek magic, as
their name would imply.62 Robert Ritner and David Frankfurter, however,
argue that the Sitz im Leben of these documents is the late antique Egyptian
temple and its officiating priesthood.63 Evaluating these documents, there-
fore, according to Greek standards of “religious” practice and, on those
grounds, designating them magic because of their deviant sacrifices, private
rituals, and marginal social location is misleading.64 These documents, Rit-
ner and Frankfurter argue, should be understood in the context of Egyp-
tian temple practices: they were centered around the temple, the priest-
hood, and age-old ritual methods, involving animal sacrifices, sacrilegious
blame, and coercion of the divine. That these practices have a long and
venerable history in Egypt, where they were regarded as part of the official,
legitimate temple cult, is obscured when one applies the label magic to
them. I am not necessarily arguing that the PGM’s designation be changed,
but rather encouraging scholars who study these documents to do so on

their terms (late antique Egypt) and not to ascribe a definition of magic
to them based on standards from a different culture (classical Greece or
modern science).
A similar problem with applying magic as a designation arises in the
case of certain types of “mystical” texts from early Judaism known as Sar
Torah texts.65 These documents narrate stories of famous rabbis using ritu-
als to invoke an angelic “Prince of the Torah” to grant them mastery of
rabbinic learning and scholarship. These rituals involve fasting, prayer, and
the recitation of angelic and divine names in order to compel this angel to
grant the desired wisdom and knowledge. Are these texts magic? Certain
scholars think so and describe the practitioners of this type of ritual prac-
tice as “magicians.”66 To my mind, however, there is nothing specifically
magical about these texts from the perspective of an ancient practitioner.
Fasting, prayer, and recitation of divine names could all be considered le-
gitimate “religious” practices to repent, gain merit, demonstrate self-con-
trol, and express piety. These practices do not match ancient stereotypes of
magicians but rather modern ones that oppose magic to science. Given the
largely pejorative connotations of the concept magic in antiquity it is not
at all clear that these texts should be considered magic or that an ancient
Jew would have considered them to be a form of magic (kishuf). On the
other hand, a similar type of Jewish text from this period that describes the
ascension to heaven and view of the divine throne room involves practices
that might well have been considered magic by ancient observers and prac-
titioners. Sepher Ha-Razim combines the recitation of angelic names and
the use of protective amulets with the invocation of Greek deities (Hermes,
Helios, Aphrodite)67 and the violation of Jewish dietary practices (ingest-
ing blood) in order to gain special privileges and powers—such as love
and success—on the way to beholding the heavenly chariot.68 This text
demonstrates the messiness and indefiniteness of ancient practices, which
often cross boundaries between what we consider to be magic and religion.
It presents the difficulty of imposing scholarly classifications from a purely
etic perspective that import modern categories and conceptions. It is for
this reason that I emphasize the importance of paying attention to emic ter-
minology and the discursive strategies employed in local contexts in order
to understand if, how, and why the discourse of magic is operating.
Another aspect to consider is the material evidence for people practicing
magic. Archaeological findings indicate that certain people in the ancient
world did engage in practices widely regarded by their society as magic.
How are we to understand these rituals? Naomi Janowitz argues that no

one in the ancient Mediterranean applied the label magic to themselves and
their practices.69 This position precludes the possibility, however, that
magic could be viewed positively or that people could engage in unsanc-
tioned ritual activities subversively. For example, in the second century ce
a philosophy teacher and writer, Apuleius of Madaurus, offers a positive
valuation of magus in a defense speech against the charge of using magic.70
His definition of magic in that situation, while clearly polemical and exag-
gerated, indicates that magia could carry positive connotations of esoteric
wisdom and divine power in the Roman world. Similarly, the Gospel of
Matthew describes three magoi visiting the infant Jesus as authoritative wit-
nesses to the significance of his birth (2.1). Babylonian rabbis sometimes
depict themselves as masters of magic arts, demonstrating their special
access to divine knowledge and power. The PGM also employ the term
mageia as a self-designation several times, associating their rituals with sa-
cred or holy mysteries.71 All these examples demonstrate that magic could
function positively in at least certain circumstances, usually when it con-
noted ancient Near Eastern wisdom.
On the other hand, there is ample evidence that some people deliber-
ately and subversively engaged in practices they understood to be magic.
Certain ancient rituals involved transgressing traditional notions of piety
by disturbing a grave or sacrificing in an aberrant manner. People practic-
ing these types of rituals may have been inverting expectations of tradi-
tional piety as a form of subversive discourse or in order to access power
and exert control over their lives when other avenues for self determina-
tion appeared closed.72 Of course, the individuals engaged in these types
of practices may also have justified their actions as just or warranted in
the situation. Given magic’s polyvalent character and shiftiness, how can
one attempt to answer Versnel and Smith’s call for a heuristic definition?
Is such a thing possible in the face of magic’s contradictory meanings and
ideological baggage? My response to this question is to regard magic as a
form of social discourse.
magic as dis c o u r s e
In formulating my understanding of magic in the ancient world, I have
drawn inspiration from the writings of Michel Foucault and others who
have adopted his notion of discourse. Fairly early in my research I made
the following observations and inferences regarding ancient magic:
1. Magic is conceived differently in different ancient Mediterranean cultures:

despite certain common features and shared mythologies, the details of the
representations vary considerably from place to place and over time, form-
ing identifiable patterns or stereotypes. 2. Because these stereotypes exhibit
strong marginalizing potential, power is inextricably bound up in their def-
inition and deployment. 3. The differences between these representational
patterns can largely be accounted for by understanding the particular social
and political context in which they emerged and functioned as strategies for
gaining power; conceptions of magic, therefore, can be treated as local and
distinct rather than as universal or a priori. Foucault’s notion of discourse
provides a useful theoretical approach to articulate these observations and
formulate an understanding of magic that bridges the gulf between those
who reject the use of magic as a concept altogether and those who seek a
universal heuristic definition.
Foucault’s theory developed over the course of his career and can be di-
vided roughly into two main periods: the period in which he conceptualized
his work as a form of archaeology and the later period in which he devel-
oped the method of historical analysis he termed genealogy.73 The notion
of discourse figures prominently in both phases of his thought, but how he
conceived it evolved. As the object of archaeology, Foucault understood
discourses to be constituted by serious statements (énoncés) that carried in-
stitutional authority by having passed appropriate “tests” and could thus
claim the status of knowledge (savoir)—becoming “objects to be studied,
repeated, and passed on to others.”74 Discourses had their own histories
and development, which Foucault understood to be somewhat random re-
sponses to external and internal constraints or rules.75 He did not see a me-
tahistorical principle at work behind these conceptual shifts, but rather the
influence of nondiscursive factors such as events, economic processes, de-
mographic fluctuations, and political decisions.76 Foucault eventually shifts
his understanding of discourse from one that focuses on authoritative state-
ments and the creation of “knowledges” to one that places greater emphasis
on the role of power and human embodiedness. Significantly, for our pur-
poses, Foucault becomes more attuned to the agonistic aspect of discourse
in this later phase of his career: “Subjection, domination, and combat are
found everywhere he looks. Whenever he hears talk of meaning and value,
of virtue and goodness, he looks for strategies of domination.”77 Foucault
realizes that competing discourses can operate at the same time in a given
society, reflecting different interests and agendas. History is largely the
story of this contest, which leads him to correlate power and knowledge:
We should admit that power produces knowledge (and not simply by encourag-
ing it because it serves power or by applying it because it is useful); that power
and knowledge directly imply one another; that there is no power relation with-
out the correlative constitution of a field of knowledge, nor any knowledge that
does not presuppose and constitute at the same time power relations.78
Foucault’s later work increasingly emphasizes the complex relationship
of power and the construction of individual subjects through technologies
that manipulate the body. For example, he regards the rise of modern insti-
tutions such as prisons, schools, and factories to be strategies for produc-
ing disciplined workers in the modern capitalist state. Social sciences such
as criminology, psychology, demography, and social hygiene arise as dis-
courses part and parcel of these new institutional technologies.79 They sup-
port and reify the need for discipline in the creation of the modern state.
Foucault’s notion of discourse informs my understanding of magic in
the following ways: first and foremost, I consider magic to be a socially
constructed object of knowledge. Like madness or sexuality, which Fou-
cault demonstrates have particular histories and arise in particular contexts
for particular reasons, so too I will argue that the concept magic arose
in a particular social and historical context for specific reasons. Once it
emerged, magic acquired reality in the minds (and practices) of people in
societies where the discourse functioned. Consequently, the concept magic
endures in Western discourse where debates over whether this or that thing
can be considered magic continue to exercise contemporary scholars. Sec-
ond, as a discourse, magic exhibits agonistic characteristics. That is, magic
is integrally bound up with notions of power and authority, legitimacy and
danger. Magic functions as a discourse among competing discourses where
it sometimes overlaps, supports, undermines, or subverts those other dis-
courses. It is important to ask, therefore, at any moment when encounter-
ing instances of magic as either accusations, representations, or practices,
whom does the discourse serve?80 Third, Foucault’s emphasis on locality
versus universality is important to remember when considering magic. As
we will see, the specific discursive strategies in which magic is employed
vary from culture to culture in the ancient world. There is no one single
definition or understanding of magic.
The concept magic in Western culture was largely formed by elite
Greek writers in the fifth and fourth centuries bce who actively sought to
shape the society in which they lived according to their own set of values
and prejudices.81 Thus the association of magic with barbarous activities,
foreign rituals, and dangerous women reflects the precise forms of mi-
sogyny and xenophobia circulating among those elite writers and their
compatriots at that time. The questions I consider in this book regard how
magic operated as a discourse in ancient contexts: who defined magic, which
practices were labeled magic, and how was power negotiated through the
application of this label?
For Foucault, discourse is not only a form of knowledge, it is a prac-
tice.82 Discourse confers and regulates power. Once the notion magic ex-
ists, it takes on a social reality: it can operate as a form of social control
through the fear of accusation. It can also exist as a new form of ritual
practice: individuals can decide to do magic once the notion of magic exists
and is conceived to be a source of power.83 The construction of the con-
cept enables the performance. Whether it is understood to be subversive or
not depends on the intentions of the practitioner, the interpretation of the
observer, and the possibilities of interpretation available in that culture.84
Magic constitutes a discursive practice to the extent that naming someone or
something magic, performing a ritual understood to be magic, or choosing
to promulgate a different understanding of magic (as Apuleius does in his
defense speech) all constitute forms of social action. They negotiate power
through the construction and possession of knowledge. This understanding
of magic as discourse has implications for conventions that distinguish be-
tween literary genres, forensic accusations, material realia, and legal codes.
A discursive formation constitutes all these; it is dispersed across tradi-
tional disciplinary boundaries and conceptions of genre.85 Consequently,
magic discourse appears across a range of texts and as a variety of forms of
conduct at a number of institutional sites within ancient societies.
plan of th e b o o k
The chapters of this book focus on the literary representation and produc-
tion of magic in antiquity. They take as their primary source material the
imaginary and imagined practice of magic and witchcraft in literature from
the ancient world. To this end I am not presenting a “history” of ancient
magic: it is not my goal to rediscover or reconstruct the practice of magic
as an artifact of ancient life. Many excellent scholars have already contrib-
uted significantly to this endeavor.86 Rather, I am trying to reveal magic’s
role as a discursive practice, which mediates power and social identity in
specific ancient contexts. Consequently, this is not an exhaustive survey of
all the “evidence” for magic in antiquity, and specialists will certainly find
important material that I have overlooked. Certain material artifacts, how-

ever, do figure in my discussion when they illuminate the construction and
deployment of magic stereotypes in literary representations. For example,
the discovery of lead binding spells (katadesmoi) dating to the fifth and
fourth centuries bce offers interesting evidence for the practice of rituals
that, around the same time, are described as harmful magic (pharmakeia).87
This type of concurrence between the archaeological and literary record
indicates the presence of a discursive formation that includes naming strat-
egies as well as ritual practices. These rituals or similar ones may have ex-
isted before, but they acquire new and sinister meanings with the develop-
ment of a discourse that labels them foreign, subversive, illegitimate, and
dangerous.88
The texts I examine are primarily the products of elite writers. This re-
flects the nature of education and leisure in antiquity, which were primarily
reserved for the upper classes. Further compounding this imbalance in the
historical record is the fact that of all the literary products produced in an-
tiquity only a very few survived, and these tended to do so because of their
privileged status. These texts, more than others produced at the same time,
carried authority and influence. Consequently they were copied frequently
and preserved widely. While not representative of a universal point of view
on magic in their respective societies, the texts do offer us a picture of what
some elite thinkers said and thought about it. Many of these thinkers con-
tributed to shaping later representations of magic, reinscribing their point
of view across a variety of texts and genres.89 Some also happen to have
been in positions to influence social policy.90 Because of their elite status,
therefore, these texts can teach us a great deal about how magic emerged
and functioned as a discursive formation in antiquity. They illuminate the
intersection of knowledge and power.
Not all of the texts considered in every chapter, however, constitute elite
texts in an absolute sense. At the time some of them were written (e.g., the
New Testament and Babylonian Talmud), the communities that produced
them were marginal relative to the dominant culture. Their texts only be-
came authoritative centuries later. This is certainly true of Christian litera-
ture written before the fourth century. Increasingly, it is realized to be true
of rabbinic literature as well, which did not attain authoritative status until
perhaps as late as the seventh or eighth century. The accusation of magic,
therefore, in early Christian writings—which is leveled against Rome and
the Greco-Roman gods—can be read ironically: it was Christian rituals
that closely resembled common stereotypes of magic and were regarded
to be such by non-Christian observers.91 Thus Christian claims that they

perform “miracles” while Romans and Jews perform “magic” invert tradi-
tional categories and no doubt resonated subversively at the time. Christi-
anity’s lack of official status and power needs to be considered when read-
ing these texts, since it changes the meaning of the magic accusations in
them: the accusation of magic by outsiders or rebels complicates the more
common sociological understanding of magic, which sees it as a strategy
of social control and marginalization wielded by those with power. The
subversive use of magic further demonstrates its pliant character as a dis-
course. It shifts and adapts, reconfiguring meaning in every context where
it operates, allowing the continual evolution and reinscription of itself
across historical and cultural settings. This adaptation of magic explains
both its widespread use as a discourse of alterity as well as the discreet ways
in which its meaning and function change from context to context. It also
points to the importance of considering each text and context separately
rather than drawing broad definitions or universal descriptions.
In order to account for the different ways magic discourses function, I
have broken the book down into four chapters. Each focuses on interpret-
ing representations of magic in a Mediterranean culture at a distinct mo-
ment of its history: fifth-century Athens, early Imperial Rome, second- and
third-century Christianity, and rabbinic Judaism. I selected these particular
periods and contexts because they happen to be rich in representations of
magic, fairly easy to delineate temporally,92 and are periods of time when
the cultures under discussion appear to be at crossroads, where the defi-
nition and deployment of authority were being challenged or redefined.
This is not to suggest that these societies were static at other times or that
authority is not always being challenged in some way. But these chapters
focus on points where new forms of government or conceptions of leader-
ship were emerging; consequently, these periods and their rich literatures
suggested themselves as particularly fruitful for investigation.
I do not intend to suggest by my chapter divisions an artificial separation
of “Jews,” “Greeks,” “Christians,” and “Romans.” It has become increas-
ingly evident that identities were complicated and mixed in the ancient
Mediterranean. Jews could consider themselves to be followers of Jesus,
Greek through education (paideia), or Roman by citizenship.93 Similarly,
many early Christians continued to attend Greek festivals and sacrifices
or synagogue services.94 The Roman Empire afforded a variety of gods to
worship, organizations to join, and rituals to practice; individuals could be-
long to several different communities at once: ethnic, vocational, and sote-
riological. Depending on context or situation, people identified themselves

by their guild, their ethnic origins, the god they worshipped, or some com-
bination of these.95 Consequently, ancient communities may not have been
as separate and distinct as scholars previously thought.96 Nevertheless, the
deployment of magic discourse in the texts below indicates that accusations
of magic could be used to shore up and defend these boundaries, rhetori-
cally erecting artificial barriers and clearly delineated identities where none
in reality stood.
As a result of limiting myself to these specific periods, I miss the oppor-
tunity to discuss many worthwhile texts that deal with magic from other
time periods and cultures of the ancient world. Since the book strives to
make a larger theoretical point, however, I hope that some of these over-
sights can be taken in stride. I have also tried to limit discussion, as much
as possible, to texts that employ emic terminology for magic (or indi-
cate clearly from their context that something close to English’s magic is
meant). This approach reflects my interest in discerning how magic is de-
ployed by the author and seeks to avoid, as much as possible, retrojecting
my own definitions of magic onto ancient writers who may have had dif-
ferent conceptions and categories. Pliny’s discussion of various techniques
for healing, for example, includes some that he regards as superstitious or
associates with the Magi and many others that he does not. Virtually all of
these cures, however, would fit modern Frazerian definitions of magic and
have, for this reason, been treated as magic in many modern studies.97 In
order to understand how ancient authors like Pliny understood magic one
must pay attention to the categories and criteria that they use. In the gospel
of Mark, for example, spittle is represented as a legitimate part of Jesus’s
miraculous healing powers that identify him as the Son of Man,98 but later
gospel writers excised references to the use of physical material or gestures
that could be interpreted as magic.99 Similarly, early Christian apologists
such as Origen tried to downplay any aspects of Jesus’s miracle working
that might attract the accusation of magic, suggesting shifting concerns and
ideas about what constituted legitimate or illegitimate healing activities.
Paying attention to emic usage also allows one to see when magic discourse
is functioning positively and to learn what this means in that context; if the
designation magic is self-applied, what does that indicate about the social
stance of the author who applies it?
While I emphasize the differences that exist between patterns of rep-
resenting magic in these four contexts, I do not mean to imply that each
text, author, or period is separated from others or from each other. On
the contrary, magic discourse traveled; it crossed linguistic, geographic,

and cultural boundaries. Many aspects of each culture’s arsenal of magic
stereotypes can be said to have come from the same source and been bor-
rowed.100 To this extent, there are tremendous similarities in aspects of the
particular representations. However, even in the similarities there are no-
table differences. To take one striking example: although women are typed
as sorceresses in both Greek and Roman literature, Greek depictions tend
to focus on jilted wives abandoned for another woman. This characteriza-
tion differs from the wizened old hags of Roman literature, who scavenge
in cemeteries for body parts to use in love magic. These old women are
apparently unmarried (there is usually no mention of a spouse)101 and use
magic in a predatory fashion to seduce younger men. While previous stud-
ies have remarked on the tendency of Greek and Roman literature to ste-
reotype women as witches (in stark contradiction to the material evidence
that indicates men commissioned a significant majority of magic spells),102
no one seems to have investigated the differences between these stereotyp-
ing patterns. Because I focus on the how of magic as a form of discourse
rather than the what of magic as a social object, this difference presents
itself as particularly relevant and compelling.
While I concentrate on illuminating the local deployment of magic, I
eschew any simplistic, unilinear, causal connection between text and con-
text. As Stuart Clark convincingly argues, explanations that try to show
a causal link between outbreaks of magic persecution and a social, politi-
cal, or economic phenomenon fail: there is too much local variation for
such explanations to apply universally. He demonstrates that, with regard
to early modern demonological treatises, “the subject of witchcraft seems
to have been used as a means for thinking through problems that origi-
nated elsewhere and that had little or nothing to do with the legal prosecu-
tion of witches.”103 Instead, he shows how intellectual concerns of the day
and a tendency toward binary thinking generally contributed to validating
theories about witches that had virtually nothing to do with sociological
phenomena: witches came to signify something about the world and had
very little to do with real events or real women and their occult practices.
Clark’s research on the early modern fascination with witchcraft reinforces
two aspects of this study: 1. conceptions of magic (or witchcraft) function
independently of what people actually do: they are ideological constructs.
(The constructed ideas, however, may shape certain people’s activities
and, concomitantly, ideas about what people do could influence certain de-
tails of representations.) 2. Local variation stymies any effort at a universal

explanation for magic accusations or persecutions.
While Clark supports my contention that magic should be understood
as a discourse rather than an objective reality and that it defies universal
explanation, his argument that persecution outbreaks or even individual
accusations do not have a clear relation to sociological phenomena misses
important evidence to the contrary. Recent work on anti-Jewish violence in
medieval and early modern Europe demonstrates that, in fact, while very
ancient stereotypes of the Jew played a part in fueling or justifying inci-
dents of violence, the choice to use violence or not and which aspects of
the stereotype would be drawn upon were locally determined and reflect
the particular issues at stake in each context.104 In other words, these stud-
ies argue that in response to specific economic, political, or other social
tensions certain individuals or communities harnessed existing stereotypes
to incite anti-Jewish violence. Thus, while anti-Semitic stereotypes have
a long history that is independent of the specific outbreaks of persecution
(similar to the demonological treatises Clark discusses), the implementa-
tion of the discourse is local, reinscribing relevant aspects of the broader
stereotype in specialized and targeted representations.
By stereotypes I mean broadly construed reductionist conglomerates
of images and ideas about a group or type of people. Stereotypes are dia-
chronic, persisting for centuries; they are amorphous and ambivalent, ac-
cruing an eclectic hogdepodge of competing and often contradictory im-
ages and associations that conjure both fear and fantasy.105 Homi Bhabha’s
description of the colonial stereotype would apply to ancient stereotypes of
magic as well:
Stereotyping is not the setting up of a false image which becomes the scapegoat
of discriminatory practices. It is a much more ambivalent text of projection
and introjection, metaphoric and metonymic strategies, displacement, over-
determination, guilt, aggressivity; the masking and splitting of “official” and
phantasmatic knowledges to construct the positionalities and oppositionalities
of racist discourse.106
Representations, on the other hand, constitute the local and specific de-
ployment of stereotypes. They draw on limited aspects of the broader ag-
gregate—concentrating on those characteristics that are most relevant and
intensifying their power to incite action. Most important, representations
signify.107 That is to say, they construct meaning and establish it as natural,
universal, and “true.” This distinction clarifies how patterns of representa-

tion emerge at specific times, both drawing on and reinscribing particular
aspects of larger, more widely held stereotypes. For this reason, one can
say that magic is represented as a feminine practice, contributing to the
construction of an enduring witch stereotype. But this observation alone
does not explain why old women are depicted as sorceresses in Roman lit-
erature and younger women figure more prominently in Greek writings.
By focusing on understanding magic as a discursive practice, the local na-
ture of specific representations can be studied while the broader configura-
tion of magic as a stereotype can also be appreciated.
magic and g e n d e r
The association of women with magic is axiomatic, appearing already in the
pages of ancient literature. As one scholar writes, “The history of witch-
craft is primarily a history of women.”108 This sentiment is articulated even
more succinctly by a first-century rabbi who claims, “The more women
(nashim), the more witchcraft (keshafim).”109 Despite voluminous ancient
testimony to women’s involvement with magic, however, archaeological
evidence, consisting of curse tablets written on lead or some other durable
material, indicates substantial male involvement.110 Approximately 86 per-
cent of erotic binding spells are performed by or on the behalf of men.111
The statistics increase when one includes magic to manipulate political,
rhetorical, or athletic competitions. Consequently, the common literary
portrait of female sorcery should be questioned; it is not a straightforward
mimetic representation of ancient life as some scholars have regarded it.112
The question to ask is what accounts for this discrepancy? Why are women
overwhelmingly represented as the practitioners of magic when men, in
fact, contributed their fair share to the magic arts?
By reframing this question in terms of gender rather than women, one
comes to a different perception of the issues at play. Like magic, notions
about sexual difference and the appropriate roles for men and women in
society are socially constructed; they do not derive from nature.113 Further-
more, the two categories operate in binary opposition to each other; one
cannot be thought without reference to the other.114 Thus, when focus is
placed on the male, as it usually is, ideas about the female operate as a foil—
the proverbial Other—against whom masculine ideals are constructed.
Gender also implies networks and systems of power.115 It comes as no
surprise, therefore, that magic and gender intersect in ancient representa-
tions. By ordering human relationships and defining social roles, gender

participates in establishing hierarchies of power. Weakness or dependency
is conceived to be naturally feminine, while dominance and strength are
conceived to be masculine. Consequently, who controls whom financially,
legally, and physically is often conceived in gendered terms. This is es-
pecially true in the ancient world, where male slaves were feminized by
playing the passive role sexually. Their “female” passivity vis-à-vis a male
owner was expressed both legally and sexually. Concomitantly, free men
who chose to play the “female” role sexually were regarded as having for-
feited their “male” authority and citizen rights.116 Conceptions of authority,
legitimacy, and power were thus signified largely in terms of gender.117
Regarding magic as integrally related to gender, therefore, does not ac-
cept the connection between women and magic as historically true. While
some scholars treat ancient representations as mimetic and consequently re-
inscribe the dynamics of power that used magic to marginalize both women
and men, their approach ignores the ideological component of these depic-
tions and assumes a connection between real historic individuals and the
women represented in these texts. 118 As Kate Cooper demonstrates, how-
ever, women often function as a trope in ancient literature to signify some-
thing else: male discourse about women usually has more to do with men
and their relationships to power than with actual women and their lives.119
Women’s compliance with gender expectations bears on men’s social posi-
tion and authority. A man’s female relatives constituted extensions of his
political self and could threaten his “masculinity,” and hence authority,
if they failed to exhibit proper “feminine” comportment and behavior.120
For this reason, representations of “women’s” magical practices in ancient
writings may have little or nothing to do with what women actually did but
instead reveal something about concerns and issues relating to men. Even
where men are represented as magicians, magic conveys connotations of
gender: conceived as an illegitimate and effeminate source of power, ac-
cusations of magic can delegitimize men by associating them with women
and women’s wily ways.121 Consequently, throughout this study, I regard
conceptions of magic as intimately tied up with gender and power.
Before continuing to an examination of magic’s discursive role in specif-
ic local contexts, I will begin by reviewing briefly the history and different
connotations of ancient terminology for magic. This will serve as a further
introduction to the chapters that follow and offer readers, who may not be
familiar with the ancient languages, an entrée into the different discussions.
It is not meant to be exhaustive.
ancient t e r m i n o l o g y f o r m a g i c
Greek
The earliest attestations in Greek literature of words that later combine to
formulate a concept comparable to magic in English indicate that the vo-
cabulary was originally ambiguous; magic as a discourse of alterity did not
yet exist. Words such as pharmakon could signify herbs used for healing as
well as harmful drugs or poisons—the difference depended on context.122
In the Odyssey, for example, Circe employs an herbal concoction to be-
witch Odysseus’s crew and transforms them into wild boars (10.210–213).
The word used to describe her potion, pharmakon, is the same word as
that used to designate the antidote Odysseus receives from Hermes (Od.
10:290–292). Pharmakon thus functions ambivalently in the Odyssey. It can
serve positive and negative purposes; it can function apotropaically as a
medicine or deleteriously as a poison. The herbal antidote Hermes gives
to Odysseus is described as “good” (esthlon), while the potion Circe prof-
fers is “evil” (kaka). Odysseus searches for a “poison” drug (pharmakon
androphonon) in which to dip his arrows and make them more deadly (Od.
1.261), while Machaon, son of the divinized healer Asklepios, uses “sooth-
ing” drugs (ētia pharmaka) to treat Menelaos’s wound during the Trojan
War (Il. 4.218). Pharmakon in and of itself is neutral. Using pharmaka
constitutes a kind of technē or skill that can be employed for good or ill
without any inherent indication of its moral valence. So when the adjective
polupharmakou is used to describe Circe (Od. 10.276), it does not express
the strong negativity that English translations such as “witch”123 or “sor-
ceress”124 do. A more accurate translation would be simply “skilled with all
kinds of drugs.” In the Iliad the same adjective describes physicians—iētroi
polupharmakoi—articulating a positive valuation that attests to the term’s
neutrality (Il. 16.28).125
Beginning in the fifth century, however, Greek literature reveals that
four terms—pharmakon, epaoidē, goēs, magos—and their derivatives come
to constitute a semantic constellation connoting dangerous, foreign, illegit-
imate, or spurious ways to access numinous power. In its preclassical origin
each term bears a distinct, even technical, meaning and often continues to
do so in classical literature. However, with time, these terms also come to
express more abstractly threatening notions roughly equivalent to magic
or sorcery in English as they are combined with one another and with other
designations to construct negative associations and stereotypes.126 The
continual use of these four terms in combinations and in contexts that des-
ignate dangerous and antisocial activities, such as poisoning, expands the
meaning for each word to convey marginality and danger. By repeatedly
associating these words with each other and with women and foreigners,
they come to connote a general sense of Otherness and menace. This con-
stellation of terms, and the prejudices they concretize, constitutes the ori-
gin or birth of magic as a discourse of alterity in Western culture. Far from
being a universal concept, magic emerged at a particular moment in Greek
history fulfilling a specific social role. Like other cultural artifacts of the
Greeks, magic discourse was adopted and adapted by its heirs. To discover
magic in non-Western cultures involves importing Western categories and
modes of conception. This does not imply that other societies will not have
similar or comparable ideas about legitimate and illegitimate access to nu-
minous power, but the particular formulation of those discourses will dif-
fer, reflecting the specific concerns that dominate in those societies.
I will discuss each term and its history briefly in turn. In book 19 of the
Odyssey a nurse recognizes Odysseus (who is posing as a beggar) by a scar
he received as a child. One day while hunting, Odysseus was gored by a
wild boar; his uncles stanched the blood with an epaoidē—usually trans-
lated as “charm” or “incantation” (457).127 The word’s etymology relates
to singing: it is “a song sung to or over.”128 Epaoidē appears again in the
fifth century where it continues to mean charm or incantation. For example,
Prometheus asserts to the chorus in Prometheus Vinctus that he will not be
moved by “the honey-sweet charms of persuasion” (meliglōssois peithous
epaoidaisin). Here, epaoidē conveys a more negative sense associated with
charm—namely, beguilement or manipulation.129 But epaoidē also retained
its medical connotations: in the Eumenides (649) Apollo remarks that there
is no incantation (epōdas) to return a corpse to life. Evidence from the fifth
century shows that epaoidē could also include love magic. Pindar, for ex-
ample, describes how Jason seduced Medea with a ritual he learned from
Aphrodite: he tied a bird to a wheel and uttered prayers (litas) and incanta-
tions (epaoidas) (Pyth. 4.217).130
Goēs derives from goaō, meaning to groan, weep, bewail, and has been
associated with ritual lament for the dead.131 In the Iliad Andromache is
said to lead the lamentation (gooio) for her husband Hector (24.723). Even
before his death the women of his house are said to mourn (goon) the “still
living Hector” (Il. 6.500).132 The noun goēs develops a different set of con-
notations, however, becoming by the fourth century one of the preeminent
components of magic discourse, designating a trickster or charlatan. A frag-
ment from Phorinis (2 6.1 to 2 6.2) may indicate this transition; it describes
goētes as mountain-dwelling men from Mount Ida in Phrygia (goētes Id-
aioi Phruges andres oresteroi oiki enaion) who, among other skills, cultivate a
“fabulous plant” (eupalamoi therapontes oreiēs Andrēsteiēs).133 Based on this
and other evidence, some scholars relate goēs to a form of archaic shaman-
ism involving “ecstasy, divination, and healing.”134 In the fifth century goēs
appears twice, both times in Aeschylus and both times associated with the
dead and mourning: a fragment from a lost Aeschylean play, Psychagōgos,
for example, links goētes with leading the souls of the dead.135 In Choephoroe
the chorus states that it will sing a positive fair song rather than the plaint
of mourners (krekton goētōn). These examples indicate the continuing as-
sociation of goēs with mourning and death.
It is this connection to the dead that may have contributed to the word’s
later link with “magic” through Persian magoi. Walter Burkert notes that
early information about magoi from the Derveni papyrus (ca. fourth cen-
tury bce) and other ancient testimony indicates their use of incantations,
sacrifices, and libations to control demons and access souls of the dead.136
Thus, an association between magoi and the dead may have led to an iden-
tification of magoi with goētes. The link between goētes and magic was
then easily made by the use of restless souls (aōroi) in curse tablets and
binding spells, widely regarded as forms of harmful magic in the ancient
world (Plato Leg. 933a–b). Furthermore, it is likely that these ritual prac-
tices (katadesmoi) were introduced to Greece from Mesopotamia sometime
in the late Archaic or early classical period when contact with magoi first
began and led to the association between these spells, magoi, and goētes.137
By the classical and Hellenistic periods, goēs came to express notions of
fraud or charlatanism in addition to magic and remained the most explicitly
negative of Greek terms contributing to magic discourse.
The sixth century represents a critical moment in the development of
magic discourse due, among other things, to the introduction of the word
magush from old Persian, which identified a member of the priestly tribe.138
Magos first appears in Greek documents in the sixth century when Persian
expansion and Greek colonialism fostered encounters between the two cul-
tures and an interest in each other’s religious practices.139 Consonant with
the original definition in Old Persian, the term magoi (pl.) in Greek writings
initially designates Persian priests and, as such, conveyed a technical and spe-
cialized meaning.140 For example, one early reference to magoi, quoted by Ar-
istotle (Met. 14.4.10–11), suggests their role as theologians or philosophers:
according to Aristotle ’s account, a lesser known philosopher and mythog-

rapher, Pherecydes (sixth century bce), defines the original generat-
ing agent (gennēsan prōton) to be the “Best” (ariston), as do the magi (hoi
Magoi), Empedocles, and Anaxagoras. Magoi appear in this testimony
alongside early philosophers who speculated on cosmology and metaphys-
ics. Walter Burkert’s recent book supports this understanding of their role;
he documents the significant influence of magoi and Persian thought on the
development of Greek philosophy, including such important tenets as Pla-
tonic dualism and belief in an immortal soul.141 Another possibly early ref-
erence to magoi includes them disparagingly in a list of religious practices
that the Milesian philosopher Heraclitus (sixth century bce) deems unholy.
According to Clement of Alexandria: “Heraclitus threatens ‘night-time
roamers, magoi, Bacchoi, revellers, and mystery initiates’ with what comes
after death (ta meta thanaton) and he prophesies fire for them. For ‘the
things considered among men as mysteries (musteria) they perform impio-
ulsy (anierosti)’ ” (Protr. 2.22.2).142 In this fragment Heraclitus rails against
certain ritual practices that he finds objectionable. While his opinion was
preserved by like-minded intellectuals and eventually came to dominate
Western discourse, it almost certainly did not represent the majority view
in sixth-century Ionia where mysteries were more likely to be regarded as
“mainstream” than philosophy was.143
By the fifth century these four terms come to construct and convey the
notion magic in various ways. They conveyed connotations of subver-
sive power and illegitimate authority. Words that originally occurred in-
dependently in extant texts increasingly appear in combination with each
other—through intertextual layering their definitions inform each other
and confuse categories such as poison, incantation, and Persian religion.
Herodotus, for example, uses a verbal derivative of pharmakon (pharmakeu-
santes) to describe magian rituals during Xerxes’ campaign in Asia Minor
(Hist. 7.114.1). Aristophanes describes Circe as mixing drugs (pharmaka)
and practicing trickery (manganeuousan) (Plutus 310). While Herodotus at-
tributes the practice of Circe ’s dangerous herbal art (pharmakeia) to the
magi, Aristophanes associates pharmacological practices with a verb desig-
nating deception or deceit that came to be closely identified with the devel-
oping concept of magic (manganeuousan).144 Such juxtapositions of termi-
nology color the meaning of each word. They delegitimate magian priests
by linking them to a negatively charged word for “drug” or “poison” and
reinforce the negative valence of pharmakon by identifying it as a form of
trickery or cheating. This intertextuality amplifies the negative associations
of each term, gradually conjuring a more amorphous, malleable, and sin-

ister concept that draws on the power of each stereotype yet eludes precise
definition.145
Plato reflects the dispersal of this discourse across a broad semantic field:
he uses the term pharmakeia to designate both “poisoning,” which harms
the body directly “according to nature ’s laws,” as well as certain rituals
that “by means of trickeries (manganeiais) and incantations (epōdais) and
binding spells (katadesesi), as they are called, not only convinces those who
endeavor to cause injury that they really can do so, but convinces also their
victims that they certainly are being harmed by those who have the power
to perform magic” (hupo toutōn dunamenōn goēteuein, Leg. 933a–b). Plato’s
use of these terms together shows how far pharmakeia’s semantic range
has extended beyond pharmacology; it can include now a variety of prac-
tices Plato believes affect people psychologically—because they believe in
them. The use of pharmakeia to classify these other practices reveals the
emergence of a complex discursive formation that emerges from the nexus
of meaning created by these different terms and their various associations
(negative and positive). In this passage Plato combines five terms desig-
nating different types of ritual practices (pharmakeia, manganeiais, epōdais,
katadesesi, and goēteuein) into a single constellation that signifies antisocial
and destructive behavior. Elsewhere, he combines certain of these terms
again when he levels criticism against men who destroy not only individu-
als but entire families and communities through their claim to evoke the
dead and win over the gods through sacrifices, prayers, and “magic incan-
tations” (epōdais goēteuontes, Leg. 909b). Plato’s promiscuous commingling
of these distinct terms to designate inappropriate ritual activities reveals
the existence of a discursive formation, which I label magic, operating in
Greek thought no later than the early fourth century bce. This discourse
subsumes a variety of terms and practices, including certain forms of medi-
cine and pharmacology, but also incantations, curses, and poisoning.146 It
was this discursive formation that influenced Latin literature and Roman
law through exposure to Hellenistic, especially Alexandrian, literature.147
Latin
The first references to something resembling magic discourse come from
Rome ’s early law code, the Twelve Tables, which survives only in frag-
mentary testimonials quoted by later writers or speakers. It remains dif-
ficult to determine definitively the original intent and wording of the law,
however, since the writers who quote it inevitably contribute an element of

their own interpretation to our understanding. Nonetheless, a fairly clear
reconstruction can emerge.148 The elder Pliny quotes two laws from the
Twelve Tables in his Naturalis historia (28.17), an encyclopedia of ancient
practices and phenomena: the first law proscribes using incantations to
charm a neighbor’s produce into ones’ own field (qui fruges excantassit).149
The second law prohibits the use of harmful songs (qui malum carmen in-
cantassit). In both cases the law seems to proscribe using charms (carmina)
to cause harm rather than the practice of incantation itself. Like epaoidē
in Greek, carmen in Latin seems to function neutrally. For example, the
first law specifies using chants to steal someone else’s crops, suggesting that
theft is the primary concern rather than magic.150 The term excantare ap-
pears here to mean “chant something out.” In this case it is crops or a field’s
fertility that is “chanted out,” but it could also be used to chant stars out of
the sky (Horace, Epode 5.45)151 or someone ’s sanity out of his head (Lucan
6.457).152 It also appears in medical contexts, where it indicates the use of
chants to remove illness from the body.153
The second law forbids malum carmen; it is unclear, however, what
exactly this proscription intends to ban. Pliny understands it be harmful
curses. Others, however, regard it to prohibit invective or slander: cursing
of another sort.154 Augustine, for example, uses a quotation from Cicero to
demonstrate that Roman law banned slander; the passage he quotes from
one of the now lost books of Cicero’s De republica specifically mentions
the Twelve Tables and their law against carmen.155 The term carmen thus
carries a double meaning: depending on context and interpretation, it can
mean either to charm or to curse. This dual signification reflects the extraor-
dinary power of words—to name something is to have power over it.156
Another term that contributes to the discourse of magic in Roman writ-
ing is venenum. Similar to pharmakon in Greek, venenum connotes “potion”
or “poison” but comes to express evil or destruction more generally as it
develops.157 The two terms venena and carmina occur frequently together,
suggesting the combined or juxtaposed use of herbal and verbal technolo-
gies. James Rives proposes that, in an unattested law, the Twelve Tables
originally included venena along with carmina as a forbidden way to steal
someone else ’s crops: he cites the case of a freedman mentioned by Pliny
(Nat. 18.41–3) who was accused and brought to trial for using veneficia to
make his farm prosper at the expense of his neighbors.158 If this is so, the
treatment of venena (potion) and carmina (incantation) as comparable or
complimentary technologies may stem from the republican era. Gradually,
Rives notes, other terms come to replace venena and its related compounds,
veneficus and veneficium. Maleficium, for example, which etymologically
means a “wicked deed,” increasingly came to express the notion magic. By
the fourth century ce, Rives argues, it replaced veneficus almost entirely.159
The term magus, borrowed from Old Persian through Greek, first ap-
pears in extant texts in an invective poem of Catullus (90), where it ar-
ticulates a variety of notorious and derogatory stereotypes about magi
that already circulated in the Greek world.160 For example, in his attack on
Gellius161 he accuses him of incest with his mother and hopes that a magus
will be born of the union if this “impious custom of the Persians is true” (si
uera est Persarum impia religio). He then envisions the future misbegotten
progeny of incest worshipping his gods with songs of praise and attending
sacrificial fires according to the tradition of the magi. Catullus’s mocking
portrait corresponds to much of what we know about the magi from Greek
sources, such as Herodotus, but draws on it as a disparaging stereotype
to marginalize Gellius, indicating that negative associations with magi,
which developed in Greece following the Persian wars, were transmitted to
Rome and found continuing employment as a discourse of alterity in color-
ful Latin verse. Cicero provides another early witness for use of this term,
which again reveals a negative perception. Referring to magi as Persian
priests and diviners, he disparages them for extravagant tales (portenta),
which he compares to Egyptian dementia and “the [uninformed] opinions
of the masses” (Nat. d. 1.43). Both Catullus and Cicero attest to an early
association of magi with bizarre, outlandish, and even blasphemous beliefs,
yet in both cases magus remains a technical term for Persian priest. It has
not yet acquired broader semantic coverage.
This specialized usage disappears, however, by the end of the republican
era. In Virgil’s Aeneid Dido employs incantations (carmina) to win back
Aeneas’s love and prevent him from abandoning her. She apologizes for
resorting to this sordid action, referring to it as “magic arts” (magicas artis)
(4.492).162 This passage indicates that by the end of the first century bce
magia had exceeded the technical meaning of Persian religion and begun to
subsume traditional terms, such as carmina, into a broader discourse. Di-
do’s apology indicates that she (and we presume her audience) understands
the use of carmina to be negative, perhaps even illicit. Two centuries later,
Apuleius was accused of doing magic on the grounds that he performed
strange rituals and worshipped barbarous idols. The real reason behind this
accusation was most likely his marriage to a wealthy widow, whose former
in-laws had wanted to keep her estate in their family. His response to the
charge demonstrates the persistent ambivalence of this term.163 On the one

hand, he argues, magus is a Persian priest who possesses great knowledge,
wisdom, and piety; in which case magic should be revered rather than pro-
scribed (Apol. 25 and 26). On the other hand, in the more vulgar concep-
tion, magus is someone who knows how to perform harmful spells through
the power of incantation and communion of speech with the immortal
gods. In which case his accusers should be afraid to level a charge of magic
against someone they believe to be so powerful and dangerous (Apol. 26).
Apuleius’s distinction between these definitions of magus illuminates the
conflicting connotation of magia in the second century. Magia could sig-
nify either ancient and venerable worship of the gods or dangerous and
illicit rituals to cause harm. More often the second, “vulgar,” meaning is
the one that held sway.164
Maleficium, literally a “crime” or “evil deed,” becomes increasingly as-
sociated with magic until it comes to function as a synonym for it. Rives
draws on lexical evidence to conclude that, by the second century, when
Apuleius defends himself against the charge of using magic, a broad poly-
thetic conception of magic exists. This conception includes, in addition
to incantations (carmina) and poison (venenum), “religious” deviance as
well, approximating much more closely the Frazerian understanding of
magic.165 One should also include in a discussion of terminology saga,
which means “wise woman,” but acquires the connotation of “procuress”
as well as “witch.” As Matthew Dickie emphasizes, these two figures ap-
pear frequently combined into a single character in Latin elegy. Tibullus,
for example, describes the magic ritual performed by a saga for his lover,
so she can escape getting caught in adultery.166 Propertius invokes a similar
image with a different word, docta, as he angrily portrays his lover’s pro-
curess as an evil sorceress (4.5.5–18).167 Apparently she had encouraged his
lover to take better-paying clients rather than the poor, if passionate, poet.
Matthew Dickie further notes that saga usually connoted an old woman
and was, in this way, employed as a term of abuse.168
It has been argued that Alexandrian poetry introduced the Greek no-
tion of magic into Roman thought.169 Richard Gordon, for example, sug-
gests that a “strong view” of magic (that is a negative one approaching the
Frazerian definition) developed only in the Hellenistic period and found its
way to Rome from there.170 Matthew Dickie argues even more forcefully
that the concept of magic was introduced from Greece to Rome during
the Hellenistic period.171 It is in the Augustan era, however, that we see a
heightened interest in magic among Romans, manifest both in the rich lit-
erary output of texts dealing with magic as well as in the application of this
discourse as a form of social control. Beginning with the reign of Tiberius
accusations of magic, often combined with other treasonable offenses, such
as consulting astrologers, figure in politically motivated trials leading to
execution or exile.172 Astrologers and magicians were also banned from
Italy under Tiberius’s reign and again during the reign of Claudius (Tac.
Ann. 2.32, 12.52). By the second century ce, the concept magic had ex-
panded to include religious deviance and could be prosecuted as maleficia
under the Lex Cornelia de sicariis et veneficiis.173 It was also during this pe-
riod, as Ramsay MacMullen documents, that magicians came to be seen as
a threat to the empire, resulting in periodic purges of magicians along with
astrologers from Rome.174 Magic in Roman thought thus came to function
as a versatile designation for a broad range of ritual practices perceived to
be dangerous or subversive.175 The accusation of magic could be launched
against various groups including, for example, Christians, who were per-
ceived to be strange or un-Roman but considered themselves to be practic-
ing legitimate forms of piety and claimed to pose no threat at all to the pub-
lic good.176 Charges of practicing magic in Rome thus reflect social location
and the perception of the one leveling the accusation and may not have an
absolute or objective referent.
Hebrew
In the Hebrew Bible many foreign religious practices are proscribed but
continue to be regarded as powerful and even attractive. These practices—
designated in Deuteronomy 18:9–14 by various terminology such as qosem,
menahesh, and mekhashef—all come to connote magic in a sense similar
to Greek and Roman semantic constellations by the rabbinic period. The
problem with labeling them magic and then distinguishing them from Isra-
elite religion in the biblical period is that, to a large extent, many of these ac-
tivities resemble legitimate ones observed by Hebrews at the time. In fact,
Brian Schmidt argues that many of the practices banned in Deuteronomy
(including child sacrifice) were originally part of the Yahweh cult.177 They
were proscribed during the Josianic reforms of the seventh century bce, but
the prohibition was retrojected backward onto the figure of Moses and the
Torah he received at Sinai, according to biblical tradition. By condemning
these practices as “foreign” and linking them to Canaanites, who according
to the Bible were displaced from the land by the covenant between Yahweh
and Israel for being idolatrous and immoral, the authors of Deuteronomy
granted legitimacy to Josiah’s reforms.178 It is important to note that these
practices are condemned for being foreign, not for being magic. Nothing
about them, in and of themselves (child sacrifice notwithstanding), war-
rants prohibition except their alleged association with other deities.
Even those practices condoned by the Bible bear striking resemblance
to foreign practices. The similarity, however, works strategically to dem-
onstrate Yahweh’s power over and above the competing gods of other na-
tions.179 In Genesis 41:8, for example, Joseph succeeds at interpreting Pha-
raoh’s dream while the mantic specialists of Egypt (hartummei mitzrayim)
fail.180 The RSV and the NJPSV both translate hartummim as “magicians,”
however, the context suggests that they are no different than Joseph except
that Joseph excels in his interpretation, demonstrating Yahweh’s power to
control human destiny through plague, famine, and predictive dreams.181
In the book of Daniel, hartummim again appear as dream interpreters in a
story obviously dependent on the Joseph account from Genesis 41. In Dan-
iel, however, they appear in conjunction with other divination specialists
(ashafim, mekhashefim, kasdim) including astrologers (gazrin) who com-
prise the class of “Babylonian wise men” (hakimi bavel).182 This commin-
gling of terminology for different types of foreign religious functionaries
suggests that at the time Daniel 1–6 was written (Persian or early Helle-
nistic period) a process of semantic aggregation, similar to what happened
with Greek terms magos, epoaidē, and goēs, is occurring. As Ann Jeffers
states:
It is striking that the hartummim in this list are mentioned along with other
magicians despite the differences of function. The general impression given by
such lists (see also Dan 2:27; 5:11) is of a confused intermingling of the various
terms.183
Another term, commonly translated as “magic” and more often as
“witchcraft” because of its association with women (Ex 11:17), also resists
a simple definition. According to Ann Jeffers, mekhashefim “appear in a list
of practices and practitioners that are an ‘abomination’ to Yahweh (Deut
18:12) because of their heathen connections (v. 9).”184 From this reference
in Deuteronomy the precise nature of the proscribed activity cannot be
determined. Some scholars have proposed that mekhashefim are diviners
“because of the way the qosemim and me‘onenim are mentioned once again
in verse fourteen and are played off against the true prophets.”185 Jeremiah
(27:9) accuses the keshafim of being false prophets, reinforcing the concep-
tion that they are diviners of some sort. Micah (5:12–13) threatens to cut
off keshafim along with me‘onenim (soothsayers).186 Mekhashefim served an
official function within foreign courts and according to 2 Kings (9:22) were
introduced into Israel by foreign queens.187 Interestingly, Exodus 11:17
employs a feminine form—mekhashefa—in its prohibition of the practice,
indicating that women could also practice keshafim. Perhaps on account of
this gendered identification, the Septuagint translates keshafim most often
with the term pharmaka, which was commonly associated with women in
Greek thought.188
These biblical terms designate various and specific foreign practices that
are forbidden to Israelites, but they do not convey the sense of a discur-
sive formation equivalent to magic. Nothing suggests that these practices
in and of themselves were distinct from similar practices of the Israelite
priesthood. Rather, Jeffers argues that Israelite and foreign practices seem
to have been regarded as roughly equivalent; Israelite priests and proph-
ets functioned in the same capacity and perhaps with the same technology
as their neighboring colleagues.189 Peter Schäfer reaches a similar conclu-
sion; he claims that the Hebrew Bible is full of examples where Israelites
transgress the boundary between magic and religion, indicating that “the
notion of magic as distinct from religion seems to be alien to the Hebrew
Bible.”190 This equivalence of ritual practice, no doubt, accounts for the
vitriolic denunciation biblical writers level against the foreign competition.
It also most likely underlies stories depicting Israelites besting their foreign
counterparts with superior divine power (Ex 8) and divinatory ability (Gen
41; Dan 1:20, 2:19–24, 4:16, 5:11–12).
When did the concept magic arise in Hebrew thought and language?
The book of Daniel suggests that during the postexilic period a discourse
of alterity comparable to the Greek discourse magic was developing. Other
evidence points to the Hellenistic period: according to Jewish writings from
this period, magic is introduced to humankind (specifically women) by the
fallen angels of Genesis 6:1–2.191 Significantly, the earliest version of this
narrative, the Book of the Watchers (third century bce), does not articulate
the forbidden knowledge of the angels in terms of a single category magic,
nor is the role of women emphasized.192 Rather, specific sorts of prohibited
knowledge are articulated: root cutting, spells, divination. The later Greek
translation of the text (ca. first century bce), however, enhances both the
element of gender and magic. It is also at this time that notions of false
prophecy, which are closely tied to magic, appear as a topos in Jewish litera-
ture.193 In other words, while the Hebrew Bible includes numerous proscrip-
tions of foreign religious practices, the existence of an Othering discourse
that covered a constellation of practices regarded as foreign and threaten-
ing did not emerge until the Hellenistic period and, I would argue, suggests
Greek influence. Prior to contact with the Greeks “harlotry” (zenut) was
the preferred discourse of alterity in Hebrew writings: engaging in foreign
ritual practices was denounced as infidelity and adultery.194 In late antique
Jewish literature, such as the Babylonian Talmud, a discourse identifiable
as magic can be seen to operate. But it is deployed more often in the state-
ments of Palestinian rabbis, who were living in a Hellenistic milieu, than
by their Babylonian colleagues. The Babylonian sages, in contrast, express
an attitude that more closely resembles the one in pre-exilic biblical writ-
ings—namely, our ritual technology is superior to theirs.195
This survey of ancient terminology for magic suggests that while certain
types of ritual practices have been prohibited as either foreign or harm-
ful throughout history, the formulation of a broad, polythetic discourse
magic to classify and censure people and practices under one heading has
a specific history. The concept magic emerged from the complex matrix of
Greek culture and thought sometime between the sixth and fifth centuries
bce; it is clearly identifiable as a discourse of alterity in fifth- and fourth-
century literature, including drama, philosophy, medical treatises, and fo-
rensic speeches. Through the spread of Hellenistic culture, magic became
a shared discourse across the ancient Mediterranean, traversing boundaries
and languages. It operated not only as a semantic field, subsuming exist-
ing terms in different languages, but also allowed for the development of
magic as a ritual practice. Extant papyri, curse tablets, and other material
evidence suggest that some people did engage in practices that correspond-
ed to their culture ’s understanding of magic. Furthermore, these practi-
tioners sometimes appear to have drawn on stereotyped representations of
magic for images and leitmotifs, suggesting that they were adopting a self-
consciously subversive stance in relation to the institutions of authority in
their culture.196 This is not to say that all or even most practices labeled
magic (by ancient or modern commentators) constituted “magic” for the
practitioners. Nonetheless, it seems clear that some people did draw on the
discourse of magic to inform and shape their ritual practices.
Despite the wide dispersal of this discourse across the ancient Medi-
terranean, representations of magic reflect the particular issues at stake in
local sites of deployment. Magic is not universal; it operates in specific and
contextualized ways. Thus it is to an examination of local magic represen-
tations that I turn in the following chapters.
two
barbarians, magic, +
construction of
the other in athens
O ur brief review of ancient terminology in the last chapter suggest-

ed that the fifth century in Greece constituted a watershed in the
emergence of magic as a discursive formation. This historical period was
punctuated by two defining wars (with Persia and later between Athens
and Sparta), the development of democracy as a form of government, and
the rise and fall of Athens as an imperial power. In the context of emer-
gent democracy and imperial prosperity, definitions of citizenship also be-
came pressing, forcing new citizenship legislation into effect and limiting
enfranchisement to men who could demonstrate two Athenian parents—
mother as well as father. These events, I suggest, contributed to the con-
cretization of magic as a discourse of alterity in Greek usage and to the
specific shape that representations of magic took during this period. The
consequences of these developments play out in the legacy of magic dis-
course in Western history.
the emergen c e o f m a g i c a s
a discourse o f a l t e r i t y
Ionian revolts in 494 bce, backed by Athens, accelerated the conflict be-
tween Persian expansion and Athenian independence. In 490 Persia at-
tacked Attica but was driven back by an Athenian army of hoplite soldiers
at the battle of Marathon. This victory against the far greater and seeming-
ly undefeatable Persian forces increased Athenian confidence in democracy
and mistrust of aristocrats.1 While democratic reforms had been established
40 b a r b a r i a n s , m a g i c , a n d c o n s t r u c t i o n o f t h e o t h e r
twenty years earlier by Cleisthenes, it was during the period following the
second successful victory against Persia at Salamis in 479 that enthusiasm
for and confidence in democracy began to grow. As a result, democracy
and specific cultural characteristics associated with it (such as rationality,
social equality, and justice) played an increasingly central role in Athenian
self-identity throughout the fifth century.2 Additionally, in the middle of
the fifth century (451/0 bce) new legislation was passed that changed the
way citizenship was determined. This law, attributed to Pericles, limited
citizenship to men born of two Athenian parents. Women’s sexual chastity
and the legitimacy of children increasingly became a public concern and
source of vulnerability for various people. Some members of the aristoc-
racy, for example, who had mothers from noble families of other cities sud-
denly found themselves disenfranchised.3 Similarly, a man who might have
publicly acknowledged his children by a foreign mistress suddenly found
them excluded from citizenship. It is widely accepted that this law had a
profound impact on life in Athens at that time.4
The ongoing wars with Persia also had the effect of souring Athenian at-
titudes toward Persians and, consequently “barbarians” in general; they be-
came not just strange foreigners but hostile enemies. As Edith Hall states:
It is difficult for readers in the late twentieth century western world to imagine
either the strength of the emotions which thinking about Persia could stir up,
or the depth of the conceptual chasm which was felt to yawn between West and
East. Just as importantly, the defeat of Persia approximately coincided with the
inauguration of the Cleisthenic democracy; the Athenians’ drive to push back
Persia was conceptually inseparable from their desire to protect their political
system.5
Hall demonstrates the degree to which a “discourse of barbarism”
emerged during this period and found expression on the tragic stage where
it also served to authorize an ideology of imperialism.6 Persians became as-
sociated with tyranny, decadent effeminacy, cruelty, and chaos.7 Magic dis-
course, I argue, emerged at this time part and parcel of the new discourse
of barbarism. Mageia—the religion of Athens’s enemy, Persia—now also
acquired associations with various characteristics and practices that Athe-
nians regarded as un-Greek and barbaric. Thus, at a time when Athenians
were promoting and, in fact, forging a new identity in response to their
novel political institution and military and economic power, a semantic
constellation developed that reflected a new discourse of alterity and oper-
b a r b a r i a n s , m a g i c , a n d c o n s t r u c t i o n o f t h e o t h e r 41
ated as a foil for expressing and formulating Athenian values and virtues.8
Magic came to signify the threatening Other.
According to the archaeological record, it was also during the fifth cen-
tury that a new kind of ritual practice developed or, if in use already, be-
came more widespread.9 These rituals, known as katadesmoi, constrained
a person by binding him or nailing her down (katadein) with the use of an
image or other proxy (sometimes merely a folded piece of lead, pierced
with a nail). Numerous parallels with Akkadian texts suggest that this type
of ritual was introduced from Mesopotamia at the end of the Archaic pe-
riod when itinerant craftsmen and magi traveled to Greece from Assyria.10
The most common form of this type of ritual consisted of a lead tablet on
which the victim’s name had been engraved. In the simplest and most basic
form, the act of nailing and the verbal directive to bind the person seems to
have been adequate.11 The curse tablet was then deposited in a liminal place
associated with chthonic deities, such as a well, or in the grave of a person
who suffered a violent or untimely death (biaiothanotos).12 In more elabo-
rate versions specific gods were called upon, the issue at stake was identi-
fied, and the petitioner asked that the victim be made cold and useless like
the lead or the corpse in the grave.13 These spells were enlisted most often
in situations of competition: either lovers competing for the affection and
attention of a beloved, business rivals in competition, or political, legal, and
athletic rivals seeking to impair a competitor’s ability and thereby gain the
advantage.14 Consequently, they have been regarded as a natural expres-
sion of the agonistic society that prevailed in ancient Greece, where one
man’s or family’s honor rose at the expense of someone else’s and honor
determined social standing, political influence, and economic wellbeing.15
Because so much has been written on these rituals already, my discussion
is not meant to be exhaustive, rather I introduce these rituals here in order
to understand better how a constellation of xenophobic stereotypes and
specific ritual practices combined in the fifth-century imagination to form
a cultural construct that I label magic discourse. I propose that while the
katadesmoi became quintessentially associated with magic in Greek thought,
these practices in and of themselves should not be considered a priori to
constitute magic.16 Such an approach presupposes the existence and validi-
ty of the category that, I hope to demonstrate, developed in response to the
advent of these practices in a particular political and social climate. Initially,
it would appear that a variety of ancient Near Eastern ritual technologies
were introduced to Ionian Greeks during the Archaic period.17 Some of
these were transformed and absorbed into Greek tradition such as hepatos-
copy and the purification of blood guilt through sacrifice of a pig.18 Others
were adopted into popular practice but remained peripheral and “foreign,”
such as the use of curse tablets and figurines. After the Persian Wars, part
and parcel of an ensuing xenophobia, the latter practices were associated
(correctly or incorrectly) with stereotypes of the barbarous foreigner that
crystallized around the magi. These two ingredients combined with other
existing notions in Greek thought, such as pharmakeia, epōidos, and goēteia,
to create a powerful and enduring construct: magic.
In addition to their probable foreign provenance, there are many rea-
sons katadesmoi appeared subversive or dangerous to Greeks of the clas-
sical period. Many katadesmoi violate cultural mores and taboos, such as
desecrating a grave; they consequently transgress respect for the dead,
which was an integral component of Greek culture and piety (eusebia).19
Most katadesmoi invoke chthonic deities such as Hecate, who was by the
classical period identified with the underworld, sorcery, danger, and death.
People would leave sacrifices to her at the crossroads away from domestic
civilization in order to keep her and her hordes of restless spirits at bay.20
Theophrastus, for example, mocks a superstitious man who requires ritual
purification after seeing figures of Hecate, ringed with garlic, at crossroads
(Char. 16). The author of On the Sacred Disease describes night terrors as a
fear of assault (epibolas) by Hecate.21 Thus invoking Hecate in katadesmoi
was a certain way to engage powerful and potentially dangerous forces that
normally one was expected to avert. Rituals in her honor involved placa-
tion or purification (katharsion) rather than worship or invocation, seeking
to keep her and her itinerant ghosts away.22 Katadesmoi also often invoke
souls of those who died violently: motivated by envy or vengeance, the
untimely dead in ancient Greece, like ghosts in modern legends, sought
to harm the living by causing sickness or plague.23 For all these reasons,
katadesmoi engaged dangerous forces, violated cultural taboos, and caused
the practitioner to incur ritual pollution (miasma), which cut him or her off
from the Olympian gods and the benefits they bestowed.24 Gaining power
through this sort of ritual inversion and subversion may have offered a po-
tent way to triumph over rivals in the agonistic contests that characterized
Greek life, but, by transgressing piety and civility, practitioners of these
rituals were seen to have adopted a deliberately antisocial stance.25 Curse
tablets and binding spells for this reason contributed to and constituted an
integral part of the emerging magic discourse.
Plato, for example, lists binding spells (katadesesi) among practices

he describes as harmful and should be penalized. Additionally, under
the heading pharmakeia (literally “use of drugs”), Plato lists both poison
(which harms the body physically) and practices that harm people psy-
chologically, among which he includes: “trickery” (manganeiais), “incan-
tations” (epōdais), and “binding spells” (katadesesi) (Leg. 933a). He also
describes the frightening practice of leaving wax images at crossroads,
doorways, and tombs (Leg. 933b), which were sites sacred to the goddess
Hecate and her restless hordes.26 Plato’s description of these activities cor-
responds largely to what we know about katadesmoi from archaeological
finds; they are frequently found in tombs, wells, crossroads, and other lim-
inal places.27 Plato criticizes these rituals on the grounds that they cause
psychological harm to people who believe in their power. While Plato’s
skeptical opinion certainly does not reflect that of the majority of Greek
or even Athenian citizens, his testimony supports the view that, at least
among some intellectuals, previously innocuous practices such as incanta-
tions (epōdais) and pharmacology (pharmakeia) came to be identified with
harmful curses (katadesmoi). By the early fourth century bce these prac-
tices increasingly became identified with magoi as well, forming a broad
semantic constellation: magic.
While it is tempting to suppose that this understanding of magic arose in
response to and reflected the emergence of katadesmoi as an actual practice
in Greece, this approach does not account for the multiple ways in which
magic as a discourse of alterity went far beyond merely describing certain
ritual practices. Thus to say that rituals of the magi were regarded nega-
tively because they were magic is circular reasoning.28 Rituals to gain power
over other individuals had certainly existed prior to these and apparently
prior to labeling them magic. Circe, for example, employs an herbal potion
(pharmakon) and a wand to transform men into beasts (Od. 10.210–213).
While Circe ’s potion is clearly identified as “magic” by the fifth century
(Aristophanes Plutus, 310), it is generally agreed that in Homer the con-
cept “magic” does not yet exist.29 Rather, Circe ’s power seems to come as
much from her semidivine status as it does from any specific type of ritual.
Pharmakon in and of itself does not yet carry a connotation beyond that of
“drug” or “remedy.” Hermes, for example, offers Odysseus an antidote to
Circe ’s drug, which is also designated as a pharmakon (Od. 10:290–292).
The practices in and of themselves therefore were not magic but came to be
identified as magic part and parcel of the emergence of this discourse in the
broader context of Athenian identity, imperialism, and what Hall calls the
“discourse of barbarism.”
I argue that as a result of developments in Athenian political and so-
cial institutions during the fifth century (when most of the influential
Greek literature was produced), magic emerged as a powerful Othering
discourse, which connoted effeminate treachery, subversion, and oriental
barbarism. Early expressions of this discourse, which I will discuss more
fully in the next section, appear in fifth-century tragedy. By the fourth
century bce, magic constituted a fully established marginalizing device:
words such as magos and goēs functioned in political invective as terms
of denigration. Aeschines, for example, denounces Demosthenes as a
magos and goēs (Ctes.137). For his part, Demosthenes employs the term
goēs on several occasions to designate a liar, deceiver, or someone who
“bewitches” others with rhetoric and sophistry (Cor. 276; Fals. leg. 102,
109; 3 Aphob. 32). This exchange of invective indicates that magos and
goēs no longer signify specifically ritual specialists of one sort or another
but operate much more generally as terms of abuse, connoting deception,
beguilement, and fraud. By the fourth century, therefore, magic as a dis-
course had subsumed treachery and greed as well as barbarism and charla-
tanism in its semantic range.
This association of magic with political illegitimacy and fraud is evident
also in early medical writings. The author of On the Sacred Disease, for ex-
ample, chastises and mocks certain healers who, he says, claim to be pious
and wise but hide their ignorance behind spurious rituals involving purifi-
cations and sanctifications. He labels these men magoi and kathartai (puri-
fiers) as well as agurtai (vagabonds or beggars) and alazones (charlatans).30
His representation combines a variety of rhetorical strategies to delegiti-
mate these competitors, including the assertion that they are itinerant,
which bore connotations of deception and fraud in ancient Greece.31 He
challenges his competitors’ claim to piety, arguing that they actually deny
the existence of the gods by blaming them for causing the disease. Further-
more, they are impious, he says, in their claims to know how to draw down
the moon (selēnēn kathairein), control the weather, and accomplish similar
prodigies.32 He mocks their attempt to cure an ostensibly “sacred” disease
through dietary regime and ritual purifications; if they claim the disease is
caused by the gods, he argues, how can such mundane measures be of any
use?—only the gods should be able to cure it.33 In contrast, the Hippo-
cratic author proposes that this disease, like all others, has a natural cause;
he denies that there is any sacred or divine element to it.34 He attributes the
malady to phlegm that has collected in the brain, cutting off the supply of
air that flows through veins from the liver and spleen.35
Many scholars have relied upon this passage and one from Plato (Resp.
364b–365a, quoted below) among other brief references to reconstruct an
image of the magician as an itinerant priest who offered to cure credulous
people of their ills and guarantee them a better afterlife with the aid of puri-
fication rituals and initiations.36 Consequently, they regard the “magician”
to be a charlatan exposed by the “rational” and “scientific” author of this
text. G. E. Lloyd, however, highlights the foolishness and fanciful basis
of the so-called natural and scientific explanation proffered by the Hip-
pocratic author, exposing instead an episode of competitive name calling.
Lloyd notes that this Hippocratic author’s conception of the human body,
which forms the basis for his theory, could easily have been verified and
disproved;37 the remedies he proposes (based on flawed physiology) would
not have been any more successful than those of the magicians (magoi) that
he ridicules. Furthermore, the Hippocratic author lacks the authority of a
healer connected to an established healing cult or sanctuary, which would
have given his prescriptions legitimacy even in the event of failure. Conse-
quently, it appears that the Hippocratic author resorts to the use of invec-
tive to legitimize himself by delegitimizing his competitors. Like Demos-
thenes and Aeschines, he enlists magic discourse to paint the other healers
as quacks and charlatans, revealing less about a magic/science debate and
more about the construction of a disparaging stereotype. Magic’s employ-
ment as a rhetorical device, aimed at delegitimizing an opponent, demon-
strates the powerfully negative associations it carried by the late fifth or
early fourth century when On the Sacred Disease was written.
This denigrating portrait of cathartic healers and ritual specialists re-
sembles what Plato describes in the Republic as begging priests and sooth-
sayers (agurtai de kai manteis); they go to the doors of rich men and con-
vince them that they can expiate any misdeed of the man or his ancestors
through the use of sacrifices and incantations (thusiais te kai epōdais).38 Ad-
ditionally, these specialists offer to hinder an enemy through invocations
and binding spells (epagōgais kai katadesmois, 364b-c). Plato furthermore
claims that they possess ritual handbooks of the Muses and Orpheus, which
they follow for their sacrifices. And they can atone for wrongdoing through
purification rituals (katharmoi) and sacrifices (thusiōn), offering initiations
(teletas) that deliver one from suffering in the other world (364e–365a).39
Plato’s testimony here links practices identified with the discourse of magic
to mysteries and the promise of some kind of better afterlife. Like Heracli-
tus, who is quoted as caustically dismissing “night-time roamers, magoi,

Bacchoi, revelers, and mystery initiates” for offering an impious initiation
(14.2), Plato associates purveyors of cathartic healing and Orphic myster-
ies with trickery (manganeiais) and the practice of binding spells (katadesi),
both of which he identifies with harmful rituals and poisoning (pharmak-
eia).40 The criticisms these writers lodge against a certain class of itinerant
prophet and healer suggest that such a character may in fact have plied his
ritual wares (including curse tablets and binding spells) in ancient Greece
and have had a relationship with Persian magoi, as some have argued.41
In each case, however, the ancient writers reject what appear to be fairly
popular contemporary practices and beliefs.42 For this reason, their pejo-
rative point of view should not be taken to represent the majority opin-
ion or to accurately depict these ritual specialists as charlatans and fakes.
Epoaidē, for example, was an ancient and traditionally recognized form of
healing attested as early as Homer (Od. 457) and associated with the cult
of Asklepios and legitimate physicians.43 Many early philosophers, such as
Empedocles and Pythagoras, combined an interest in cosmology and natu-
ral causes with certain practices that resemble those criticized by the author
of On the Sacred Disease.44 Empedocles, for example, apparently claimed to
know how to control the weather and raise ghosts from Hades (DK 111),
while Pythagoras proscribed many foods similar to those ridiculed in On
the Sacred Disease.45 Thus, while it would seem that depictions of wander-
ing quacks and charlatans may reveal a certain aspect of ancient culture,
these representations also demonstrate that magic, identified vaguely with
antisocial practices and impious rituals, could be enlisted in a variety of
contexts to delegitimate a competitor.
While these writers depict an itinerant magos, who purveyed sacred mys-
teries and harmful curses, the earliest extant expressions of the emerging
magic discourse appear in tragedy, where spurned women employ lethal
potions (pharmaka) out of jealousy. In Attic tragedy magic is feminized: it
is associated with women, danger, and gender subversion. This identifica-
tion of magic, specifically pharmakeia, with perfidious females contributes
to and, I suggest, reinforces its Othering capacity in other contexts, such
as political rhetoric, where (broadly construed and conveyed by a variety
of terms such as goēs and magos) magic conjured associations of treachery,
deception, and danger. In Attic tragedy women’s pharmakeia followed a
particular stereotyped form—it sought to resolve love triangles—either
by removing the competing party or by restoring amorous desire to the
heart of an errant lover. In order to understand how and, perhaps, why
Athenian drama represents magic in this particular way, I will consider,

first, depictions of women’s magic from the Attic stage where tragedy pro-
vided its audience with an opportunity to reflect on and articulate ideas
about contemporary social concerns. Then I will consider the social con-
text that may have contributed to shaping these specific representations.
Finally, I will argue that these representations emerged from and respond-
ed to a prestige structure that made male honor at least partially dependent
on female behavior.
magic, gend e r , a n d d a n g e r o n t h e t r a g i c s t a g e
I will begin with the description of a male magos from Greek tragedy in
order to show how magic was associated with gender transgression—femi-
nizing males and masculinizing females. In Euripides’ Bacchae Dionysos
(disguised as a priest of his own cult) arrives in Thebes where he seeks
revenge for the shameful disrespect shown to his mother and the conse-
quent rejection of his divinity. This description of his costume and ecstatic
female followers combines various discourses of alterity, creating a richly
layered and composite stereotype of an oriental46 magos reinscribed later,
as we have seen, by Plato and the Hippocratic author of the On the Sacred
Disease:
They say that some stranger, a magician-enchanter (goēs epōidos), has arrived
from the land of Lydia, wearing long hair in fragrant blond curls, with wine-
colored [cheeks], having the graces of Aphrodite in his eyes; that days and
nights he passes in the company of young women, holding out before them the
ecstatic cry of initiation.
( bacch . 233–238)
This passage showcases several important topoi. First and foremost,
Dionysos is identified as foreign and for that reason suspicious; Lydia, like
Persia, was identified with barbarian tyranny.47 Furthermore, he is effem-
inate, wearing perfume and long hair with flushed cheeks and flirtatious
eyes like a girl. Elsewhere Pentheus reveals a latent attraction to Dionysos’s
feminine beauty (451–460). As Edith Hall points out, effeminate traits such
as flaccid skin, wearing perfume and fancy clothes, were part of the Hel-
lenic stereotype of the barbarian.48 Such traits deviated from one of the
principal characteristics held in esteem by Athenian society: self-restraint
(sōphrosunē), which was regarded as an essential trait for citizen men to pos-
sess.49 It is also alleged of Dionysos “that days and nights he passes in the
company of young women, holding out before them the ecstatic cry of ini-
tiation.” This accusation resonates on two levels. First, it evokes an image
of oriental promiscuity and the sort of debauchery imagined to have taken
place there.50 In the Greek imagination, spending too much time in the
women’s quarters, indulging in luxury, contributed to becoming effeminate
and morally soft (malakos). For Pentheus, Dionysos combines his weak-
ness for spending time with women with a penchant for mystery initiations.
As we saw above, purveyors of mystery initiations could also be associated
with vendors of binding spells, katadesmoi, which Plato condemns as harm-
ful. This association of Dionysos with feminine luxury, oriental excess, and
harmful magic is borne out through the description of him as a goēs epōidos.
The discussion of terminology in chapter 1 revealed that epōidos signified
an incantation or verbal charm, while goēs originally had connections with
the dead and later with harmful magic, fraud, and charlatanry. Euripides’
description of Dionysos in this passage thus combines references to these
two types of ritual specialists with a highly charged constellation of femi-
nizing and orientalizing stereotypes that communicate Dionysos’s threat-
ening presence on Theban soil. This foreboding cocktail of imagery and
representation captures Dionysos’s uncanny Otherness, foreshadowing the
tragic denouement of the play.
Not only is Dionysos presented as effeminate and therefore crossing
gender boundaries, but, more important, he drives the women of Thebes
to throw off their traditional duties and overturn gender roles themselves
by running away to the mountains where they live like wild animals in
harmony with nature (677–713). This harmony turns macabre, however,
when the women discover a spying cowherd and fly into a rage, tearing
his cows apart with their bare hands (737–746). Their frenzied violence
ominously anticipates the climactic messenger’s speech where, in their ec-
static delirium, the women tear King Pentheus limb from limb (1114–1139).
His own mother, Agave, proudly marches back to the palace carrying her
son’s head, which she believes to be that of a lion, on a stake as a trophy
(1139–1143). In this grisly turn of events the women invert every aspect
of social order and gender expectations: their bare-handed hunting per-
verts the traditional hunting done by men; their violent eating of raw flesh
subverts the properly roasted meat eaten following a pious sacrifice to the
gods; they flee their traditional places in the home and their own children to
breast-feed wild fawns on the wooded mountainsides. Dionysos vengefully
instigates this subversion of social order and gender roles as punishment
against Thebes.
Euripides warns here of the danger involved in arrogantly dismissing

the god of wine and ecstatic release by declaring oneself to be a devotee
to reason and good judgment. This may be a critique of Athens, which
prided itself on superior rationality and sōphrosunē even while embarking
on a destructive and ultimately ruinous quest for power, wealth, and impe-
rial dominance in the Aegean.51 Such dedication to social control actually
results in imbalance, whereas properly observed rites and recognition of
Dionysos’s ulterior power allows tempered release followed by a return
to order. Euripides’ dramatic representation of Dionysos’s myth also rein-
scribes Greek stereotypes about women: they were perceived to be more
irrational than men and liable to hysterics as well as enslaved by their emo-
tions and sexual nature.52 Euripides thus reaffirms the need for thoughtful
and moderate male restraint. By combining the stereotype of the effemi-
nate barbarian with the mystery-mongering magos, as Pentheus perceives
it, Euripides contributes to the emerging magic discourse by identifying it
with gender subversion and social disorder.
Magic and Revenge in the Medea

The arch-sorceress of Greek and, later, Roman tradition is Medea. In Eu-
ripides’ dramatization of her myth, Medea is recently abandoned by her
husband and seeks revenge by killing his new royal bride with a magically
poisoned robe. She then murders her own two sons. This story of seduc-
tion, betrayal, betrayal again, and finally a double murder followed by in-
fanticide has all the makings of an engrossing thriller even the most auda-
cious Hollywood producers cannot surpass. Yet, that is not how her story
always read. Hesiod, for example, makes no mention of her murderous or
magical reputation but amiably narrates her return to Iolcus with Jason as
his “blossoming” (thalerēn) wife and notes further only that she bore him
two sons, Medeios and Cheiron (Theog. 996–1002). Corinth possessed an
epic tradition that portrayed a very different Medea from that of Attic trag-
edy. Fritz Graf describes a seventh-century Corinthian epic poem attrib-
uted to Eumelos, according to which Medea rules Corinth as rightful heir
of Aeëtes.53 She accidentally causes her children’s death by taking them to
Hera’s temple where Hera promised to immortalize them.54 This Medea,
Graf states, “had little to do with the Medea whom epic located in Colchis
and Iolcus. Herbal magic was not her concern—and far less magic of any
other kind. Just the opposite,” Graf argues, “whereas the Medea we meet in
Iolcus could rejuvenate Aeson, the Corinthian Medea failed to immortalize
even her own children.”55 Martin West has recently argued that Medea’s
appearance in the Corinthian epic was a way to harmonize an existing local
cult to a goddess named Medea and the infamous sorceress of legend:
The underlying fact is a Corinthian cult of the dead children, whose tomb was
situated in the precinct of Hera. It is probable that the dead children of the cult
were originally sons of a local goddess Medea who had no connection with
the Medea of the Argonautic legend. The coincidence of name led to Aietes’
and Jason’s introduction into the Corinthian story. Once the cult is provided
for, there is no further role for Medea. She takes her leave, and hands over the
throne to the Aeolid Sisyphos.56
Pausanias reports that the Corinthians were the ones to murder Medea’s
children in revenge for Medea murdering their princess; they then erected
a monument to expiate their crime.57 In fact, some scholars propose that
Euripides invented her barbarian origins and introduced the most appalling
element—the infanticide—into his presentation of her myth as a way to
dramatically underscore her Otherness.58
The most common outline of Medea’s mythic biography includes her
descent from Helios and relationship to Circe,59 her childhood as a prin-
cess in Colchis, and her expertise at pharmakeia.60 When Jason arrives on
her island with his band of heroes, the Argonauts, he seduces the maiden
into betraying her family and assisting him to capture her father’s golden
fleece.61 Like Circe, Medea is described as being skilled with all kinds of
herbs—pampharmakou (Pindar, Pyth. 4.233)—and uses her knowledge to
protect Jason with magic unguents and potions during his battle to steal
the golden fleece (Pyth. 4.220–223). In order to escape with Jason and his
golden prize, Medea murders her brother.62 After their return to Iolcus,
where Jason presents his usurping uncle, Pelias, with the coveted prize,
Medea deceives Pelias’s daughters into murdering their father with magic
arts they believe will rejuvenate him. By the time Medea’s story brings her
to Corinth, the scene of Euripides’ tragedy, the maiden already has accrued
a long docket of murderous acts and magical interventions. It is on this
reputation for magic and violence that Euripides draws for his rendition of
her story.63
Euripides takes up the story of Medea and Jason later in their lives; they
have already survived the journey back from Colchis, paid their ill-fated
visit to Pelias, and have created two children together. They are living as
a respectable domestic couple at this point, far from the adventure that
marked their early years together. That is, until Jason announces his plans
to marry the princess of Corinth and abandon Medea. Medea is left an un-
welcome exile, bereft of family to which she can return since, on Jason’s
behalf, she killed her brother and alienated her father.64 In the legal context
of classical Athens, Medea finds herself in the worst possible position for a
woman—alone and without any legal protection.65
This provides the context for the opening scene of Medea: the nurse
enters from the house lamenting the arrival of the Argo in Colchis and
Medea’s flight to Iolcus, “her heart driven mad by love for Jason” (erōti thu-
mon ekplageis’ Iasonos, 8). The nurse describes Medea’s heart as ekplageis,
which conveys the sense of “driven out of one ’s senses,” “panic stricken,”
or “in shock.”66 Thus, the opening scene introduces Medea as a woman
controlled by her emotions and somehow out of control or “out of her
mind.”67 The themes of self-control (sōphrosunē) and reason unfold, often
ironically, throughout the drama, constituting a central element for Athe-
nian reflection.
Euripides plays with this notion of sōphrosunē and Athenian preconcep-
tions about who has it and who does not. The importance of such a debate
centers on the fact that for democratic Athens sōphrosunē comprised an es-
sential quality of leadership, replacing noble birth and wealth as attributes
that qualified one to govern.68 The representation of Medea as ekplageisa,
out of her senses and emotionally overwrought, conforms to Athenian dis-
course about women and foreigners, both of whom were excluded from
democratic self-government on the grounds that they lacked qualities such
as sōphrosunē; for Athenian women sōphrosunē involved obedience and sub-
mission to male control.69 The nurse ’s depiction of Medea, therefore, as
ekplageisa reinforces this stereotype; her observation appears to be neutral
and objective. It is presented as self-evident even to an uneducated slave.
Yet, after establishing a conception of Medea that confirms accepted
knowledge about women and foreigners, Euripides complicates this con-
struction. He represents Jason as selfish, albeit sensible. Jason (who is also
an exile since Medea murdered his uncle and drove them both from his
kingdom at Iolcus) has arranged for himself a marriage with the royal house
of Corinth, where he and Medea have taken refuge. Unlike Medea, Jason
appears to be thinking rationally rather than emotionally. He presents his
marital arrangements as a sound plan to secure a more stable future for the
whole family: “As for the reproaches you cast upon me with regard to my
royal marriage, here I shall explain, first, that I am wise (sophos), and then,
self-controlled (sōphrōn), and finally, a great friend to you and my children
(547–550).” He reasonably negotiates a more secure future for himself and,
he claims, his family through an auspicious alliance. He contrasts this abil-

ity to act rationally and to see beyond one ’s personal desires with Medea’s
foolish jealousy:
But stay calm! Ever since I moved here from the land of Iolcus, dragging along
numerous impossible misfortunes, what more favorable windfall could I stum-
ble upon, being an exile, than to marry the king’s daughter? Not—which is
what provokes you—because I detested your conjugal bed (echthairōn lechos)
and was smitten with desire for a fresh bride; nor out of zeal to compete in the
procreation of many children—for the ones born [to us] are plenty and I am
not dissatisfied. But in order that—the greatest thing—we might live well and
not be in want, knowing that everyone flees far from a penniless friend.
(550–561)
In his dismissal of Medea’s anger Jason invokes a common trope of
Greek literature—women’s sexual jealousy.70 His marriage, he argues,
will secure a better future for his sons and Medea. Medea, however, accepts
none of it. She argues that Jason has violated his oaths, sworn by the gods,
and abandoned her, his lawfully wedded wife, for personal gain or erotic
attraction—it does not matter which (492–515).71 She claims to have the
legitimate position in this marital tug-of-war.
Throughout their debate, Jason appears rational, yet also cold and cal-
culating. Euripides presents Medea’s claims on Jason in such a sympathetic
light that both the audience ’s sentiment and that of the chorus may incline
with her. Cold rationality here seems weak in the face of human commit-
ment and sacred oaths; Jason vowed betrothal to Medea when he seduced
her back in Colchis and then publicly wed her after their escape.72 To treat
her as a foreign concubine now that a royal marriage presents itself seems
shrewdly calculating and unvalorous.73 While Medea demonstrated loyalty
and devotion to Jason and his crew, helping them capture the golden fleece
and escape to Iolcus, Jason has shown none of that virtue to her. Euripides
ironically casts the Other—foreign woman and sorceress—as the repre-
sentative of democratic ideals, while critiquing Jason, who represents an
older aristocratic notion of individual glory.74
Once this characterization has been set and the audience is brought to
sympathize with Medea as the representative of their commonly shared
human values—loyalty, devotion to one ’s philoi, and honoring vows—Eu-
ripides inverts the audience ’s expectations yet again. Medea assumes the
aristocratic pursuit of personal glory; she decides that she must avenge
Jason at all cost to protect her honor—a masculine virtue in ancient
Greece.75 Medea’s quest for honor and revenge thus inverts gender expec-
tations (previously affirmed by her emotional instability and seductibility)
and simultaneously brings her to the horrendous task of murdering her
own children—the ultimate inversion of gender norms. That act, she con-
cludes, is the only one that will genuinely harm Jason and cause him suffer-
ing, as he has inflicted pain upon her. Medea buries her maternal affections
and emotions to execute this mission, which she frames in explicitly heroic
and masculine terms:76
But what emotion is overwhelming me? Do I wish to incur ridicule by permit-
ting my enemies to go unpunished? I must dare to do this; but what cowardice
is mine, even to admit such timid words into my heart! Go children, into the
house! Anyone not permitted to witness my sacrifices (thumasin) should take
care for himself; I shall not weaken (diaphtherō) my hand.
(1049–1055)
Medea states that she is unwilling to “weaken” her hand. Diaphtherō also
carries the moral sense of “seduce” or “corrupt by bribes.”77 Thus Medea
refuses to give in to moral temptation and seduction now, as she did in the
first instance when she followed Jason’s deceptive promises. Medea’s char-
acter evolves from the emotionally womanish and seduced figure, whom
the nurse describes in the play’s opening scene, to a woman questing after
heroic honor and willing to murder her own children in the process. Fur-
thermore, Medea transforms herself from the recognizable caricature she
was as an emotional foreign mistress into an unrecognizable hybrid of in-
fanticidal mother and masculine hero, usurping even the male role of pre-
siding over religious sacrifices (thumasin, 1055). By embracing traditionally
epic qualities of the male hero, Medea transforms herself into a monster.
She ejects herself from the sphere of empathy, where the audience recog-
nizes in her their own moral values and virtues, and ghoulishly inverts so-
cial order. Jason, no doubt, expresses the audience’s opinion at this point
when he claims:
O hateful creature! O most utterly despicable woman—to the gods, to me and
to the entire race of humans—You who dared to cast the sword against your
own children, whom you brought into this world, you have destroyed me with
childlessness. And having done this, can you gaze upon the sun and earth, hav-
ing brought yourself to commit this most heinous deed? May you perish! I am
thinking clearly now, before I was not in my right mind when I led you from
your home and a barbarian land to a Greek house—a terrible evil—betrayer of
your father and the earth that raised you. But the gods have sent against me your
avenging spirit, for it was you who murdered your brother at the hearth and
then embarked on the lovely-prowed ship Argo. You began with such deeds;
yet even when you were taken by me in marriage and borne me children you
killed them on account of the marriage bed. There is no Greek woman who would
have dared such a thing, yet I deemed you worthy of marriage above them, and
a deadly and hateful wedlock it is to me.
(1323–1341) 78
Medea inverts natural order and confirms her position as the ultimate
Other, outside everything Greek society upholds. Several critical themes
emerge in this quotation. The first and most striking is Medea’s foreignness.
Twice, Jason emphasizes that Medea is a barbarian whom he took from her
barbarian home and brought to a Greek house. She betrayed her father
and murdered her brother—two things a Greek woman would never do, if
for no reason other than self-interest since she depended on her natal oikos
for legal protection and support.79 Finally, she murdered her own children
“because of sex and the marriage bed” (eunēs hekati kai lechous).
Jason again strikes the theme of sexual jealousy, which repeatedly fig-
ures in the context of magic, specifically women’s use of pharmaka in Greek
tragedy.80 In order to eliminate her rival and punish the royal house for its
audacious proposition to her husband—a legally married man in Medea’s
view—Medea sends the bride a golden robe on which she has smeared poi-
son unguents (toioisde chrisō pharmakois dōrēmata, 789). When the prin-
cess dons the radiant garb it bursts into flame, engulfing her and searing
her flesh.81 When her royal father attempts to rescue her he too becomes
ensnared in the resinous burning potion as it grips his flesh and prevents
him from rising; he dies glued to his daughter’s fallen corpse over which
he laments (1204–1221). Medea’s use of magic (pharmakois) functions here
among many marginalizing strategies, including her barbarian origin, in-
version of gender norms, violent emotion, and sexual jealousy. While sub-
verting gender expectations in her quest for glory (kleos) and vengeance,
Medea affirms stereotypes of women’s behavior, now linking them with
women’s treacherous pharmakeia.
Magic and Mistake in the Trachiniae

The themes of sexual jealousy and women’s magic emerge also in Sopho-
cles’ Trachiniae, which was probably produced about ten years before Eu-
ripides’ Medea.82 Heracles’ devoted wife, Deianeira, decides to employ

a love philter to win back the affection of her womanizing husband. The
etymology of Deianeira’s name means “manslayer,” establishing early in
her mythic life its telos.83 Yet she does not appear as a cruel or vicious char-
acter. She is not at all, in fact, like Medea, with whom she shares many
tragic similarities.84 Rather, Deianeira unwittingly causes the death of the
man she has faithfully served in marriage despite his long absences and fre-
quent dalliances;85 he is, as she describes, “like a farmer who owns a re-
mote field—he sees it only once when sowing and once when harvesting”
(32–33). The situation changes, however, after Heracles’ final task; he falls
victim to a greater power than himself—Erōs (354–355, 489).86
After a year’s absence during which time Deianeira devotedly waits for
her heroic husband without knowledge of whether he is dead or alive, Her-
acles returns home. Actually, he sends ahead of him his captured war bride
for whom he sacked an entire city and murdered its inhabitants. Heracles’
lust for this woman is a destructive force—destructive not only for her
natal home and family but proving to be so for Heracles’ family as well.
Somehow, for all his strength and cunning, this great hero lacks basic com-
mon sense and human awareness—a thoughtfulness that his herald dem-
onstrates, albeit deceitfully, when he attempts to conceal the true nature
of Heracles’ captured concubine from Deianeira, realizing the pain such
disclosure would cause her (314–319). Repeatedly, the narrative juxtaposes
the animal and the human—the monstrous and the civilized.87 Heracles
rescues Deianeira twice from monstrous courtship: once from the river god
Acheloüs (9–17), who tried to betroth her, and once from the centaur Nes-
sus, who lustfully fondled her while ferrying her across a river (565–568).
In both instances Heracles bested monstrous lust with heroic strength. Yet
his own lust finally transforms him, the defender of civilization, into a de-
structive force akin to those his life of burdens had sought to eradicate.88
Sophocles draws into question many of the same issues regarding mas-
culine identity that Euripides addresses in the Medea. The themes of self-
control, proper conduct within one’s household, and respect shown to one’s
social inferiors and dependents constitute the central elements of this trag-
edy—what occurs when a man fails to acknowledge the effects of his power
over others. Deianeira’s dependence on Heracles and the helplessness of
both her and his children without him recur as themes again and again:
Ever since he slew mighty Iphitus, we have been driven from our home and
are dwelling as the guests of a man here in Trachis, while he has gone some
place—no one knows where—except that he is absent, striking me with sharp

pangs for him.
(38–42)
Deianeira’s situation parallels that of Medea in many respects: her re-
course to magic similarly responds to the threat of abandonment. Unlike
Medea, however, who knowingly commits homicide with her art, Deianei-
ra naively believes she is giving Heracles a love charm (philtre) that will
win his affections back from the concubine he has brought home as a war
trophy and second wife.89 But, while Deianeira remains feminized in her
naïveté and never adopts a masculine language of honor, or vengeance, as
Medea does, she nonetheless effects a gender transformation. Her very at-
tempt to win back Heracles’ affection with magic violates social expecta-
tions that men alone express erotic desire while wives appropriately exhibit
self-controlled affection (philein or stergein) for their rightful spouses.90
Thus, without intending masculine heroism, her acceding to desire inverts
the gender dynamics between her and Heracles. He becomes the victim
instead of her. He is reduced to wailing and crying like a woman while
Deianeira heroically, even erotically, takes her own life by plunging Hera-
cles’ sword—a symbol of masculine valor and virility—into her naked side
while sitting atop their bridal bed.91
Having leapt up, she seated herself in the middle of her marriage bed, and
bursting into a hot flood of tears, she exclaimed: “O my bed and my bridal
chamber, farewell now forever, for you shall never again receive me within the
covers of this conjugal berth.” She said only this much, then—with a violent
jerking of her hand—loosened her mantle, on which a golden brooch was fas-
tened over her breast, and uncovered her whole side and her left arm. And I
[the Nurse] go, running at full speed, with all my strength and informed her son
of her intentions. But, by the time we rushed backed to where she was, we saw
that she had already stabbed herself in the side beneath her liver and diaphragm
with a double-bladed sword.
(917–931)
The masculine and sexualized language used to describe her death con-
trasts with Heracles’ own pitiful description of himself while dying, emas-
culated, crying like a woman: “Pity me, who am pitiable to many, wailing
and weeping like a girl, and no one could claim to have seen this man acting
in such a way at any time before. But, without a sigh I always submitted to
my burdens. Now, from such as this, in my suffering I am discovered to be

female!” (thēlus hēurēmai, 1070–1075).92
Like Euripides in his Medea, Sophocles introduces his audience to a
scene of total chaos and inversion; social categories and expected gender
roles—predicated on observations of nature and cultural knowledge—get
overturned and subverted. A well-intentioned wife accidentally murders
her own husband in a tragic misperception that results from her credulous
simplicity; Deianeira’s fealty to social expectations that a woman live a
sheltered domestic life leads her naively to believe the centaur’s treacher-
ous deception.93 Deianeira thus represents the ideal of feminine simplic-
ity taken to a tragic extreme. Similarly, Heracles’ masculine strength and
virility, taken to the point of sacking a city for the sake of sex, extends cul-
tural expectations of male promiscuity to tragic extremes. Deianeira un-
consciously attacks her husband in response to his own lack of conscience
in bringing a war bride home to share his bed.
Sophocles teaches a lesson in moderation and responsible conduct. Her-
acles’ lack of judgment and enslavement to his animal passions jeopardizes
the entire society—beginning with Oechalia, home of his concubine, Iole,
and concluding with his own home and family. Deianeira’s situation in
many ways parallels that of Medea in that both she and Medea face aban-
donment for another woman. Legally, however, it constitutes the inverse
in that Deianeira was Heracles’ lawful wife and Iole his foreign concubine.
Medea claims the rights and privileges of a legal wife but, according to
Athenian law after 451/0 bce, she was merely Jason’s foreign concubine.
This fact would probably have resonated deeply with an Athenian audi-
ence well aware of the disruptions Pericles’ citizenship law introduced. So,
although both women face the same matrimonial predicament, their stories
would have sounded a different tone in the ears of the audience grappling
with this issue.94
In both the Medea and Trachiniae murderous acts involving pharmaka
result from crises of infidelity and betrayal, demonstrating how familial
disorder can prove fatally dangerous, threatening the stability of an entire
society.95 Other tragedies draw on the same theme of jealousy, magic, and
marital discord: in Euripides’ Ion the title character asks how many women
have murdered their husbands with a potion (pharmakōn) or the knife (616).
In the Andromache Hermione accuses Andromache (who is a captured slave
and concubine of Hermione ’s husband Neoptolemus) of using secret phil-
ters (pharmakois kekrummenois) to obstruct her fertility (Andr. 32). Later
Hermione states that by use of drugs (pharmakoisi) Andromache has made

her abhorrent to her husband and adds: “for the Asiatic mind of women is
clever (deinē) in such things” (159–160). She thus asserts it as self-evident
that barbarian women use pharmakeia, helping to establish and fortify the
emerging discourse of magic. Euripides deploys this stereotype of danger-
ous foreign women ironically, however: Andromache, the barbarian con-
cubine, operates in this play as the ideal wife. She is sympathetic to her
husband/master and is virtuous, in contrast to his legitimate wife, Herm-
ione. Since Hermione is herself Spartan (with whom Athens is at war) and
the daughter of that infamous wife, Helen (over whom the Trojan War
was fought), Euripides plays one set of cultural stereotypes or expectations
off another to demonstrate his moral point about female virtue and marital
harmony. The antisocial, barbaric, and subversive power of magic func-
tions in these plays to dramatize the intense disorder and chaos that can
result from male mis-actions and female reactions, attesting both to the de-
pendence of women on male decisions and the consequent need for men to
exercise good judgment and self-restraint.96
These plays represent women resorting to magic out of jealousy or
competition. Women appear in these depictions to be motivated primar-
ily by sex. Jason summarizes the attitude well when he accuses Medea of
being obsessed with their connubial relationship: “But you women have
reached the point that you believe you have everything when marital rela-
tions prosper. However, if some misfortune befalls your marriage bed you
reckon as most hurtful the things that are [in fact] most desirable and most
noble” (569–573). It is this sexual jealousy, Jason claims, that leads Medea
unreasonably to resist his “wise” decision to marry into the royal family.
The chorus also seems to link Medea’s anger to sexual jealousy, reinforc-
ing Jason’s reductionist view of Medea’s indignation.97 Deianeira’s fear of
sharing her marriage with the young war bride, Iole, similarly reflects this
picture of wives as driven by jealousy. Deianeira graphically imagines the
two women sharing Heracles’ love under the same sheet: a vision that leads
her mistakenly to murder Heracles with a love potion:
For I have accepted into my presence a maiden (korēn)—no, I can imagine
that no longer—rather a woman yoked already in marriage (ezeugmenēn), as a
sailor accepts cargo—outrageous freight for my heart! And now the two of us,
abiding together, wait for his embrace beneath one blanket. Such is the repay-
ment my so-called good and faithful Heracles sends back to us for keeping his
house after such a long time.
(536–542)
Ancient Greek medicine confirmed this conception that women are con-
trolled by their sexual nature.98 For example, according to various medical
theories of the time, hysteria and other “female” ailments arise from physi-
cal pressures created by the womb’s need to procreate. Plato describes the
womb as an animal that craves procreation and that, when it remains “un-
fruitful” for too long, gets angry and wanders through the body, blocking
respiration and causing disease (Tim. 91c). Hippocratic writings expound
a similar theory, according to which the womb in women, excessively dry,
requires male sexual emission to moisten it and weigh it down.99 When the
womb becomes overly dry it rushes up toward the moisture where it im-
pacts other organs, causing suffocation and internal injury (Mul. 1.7).100
Explanations for female ailments tended to identify coitus as the sole
cure, making women dependent on men for good health and perpetuat-
ing conceptions that women’s sexual physiology controls them. The Hip-
pocratic corpus, for example, explained that women suffering from amen-
orrhea require sexual intercourse to open a passageway for their menses
(Mul. 1.2). This condition particularly afflicted virgins; the pressure of the
backed-up blood pressed on their hearts and lungs and drove them into
hysterical seizures—even to commit suicide (De virginum morbis). For such
young women, the Hippocratic doctors prescribed cohabitation as soon as
possible. Greek medical knowledge contemporary with our texts thus au-
thorized the view that women are subject to their sexual anatomy. Medea
and Trachiniae seem to draw on and confirm this notion, combining it with
themes of magic and danger.
While Medea and Deianeira claim that jealousy is not their main motiva-
tion and point instead to the social displacement and resulting vulnerability
they experience as the result of their abandonment, descriptions of their
poisons’ effects reinforce the perception that erōs motivates their recourse
to magic. Erōs, conceived as possessing and burning its victim, appears to
infuse the magical poisons. For example, the description of Medea’s fatal
potion consuming her rival invites the connection between sexual passion,
jealousy, and fire. The princess’s excitement when she receives Medea’s
mortal gift also betrays an erotic component to her death. According to the
messenger, she donned the many-colored gown and placed the diadem on
her head, arranging her locks around it. She coquettishly paraded in front
of a mirror, smiling and admiring herself, taking pleasure in her enhanced
beauty, no doubt anticipating her connubial bed: “Thereupon, having risen
from her seat, she passed through the room, stepping delicately on her pale
white feet, rejoicing exceedingly in her gifts, and repeatedly admiring the
straightness of her tendon with her eyes (1163–1166).” The language used
to describe this scene, emphasizing the princess’s daintiness and self-appre-
ciation, evokes sensual arousal. Her confident expectation of marital union
contrasts with Medea’s frequently mentioned jealousy over her abandoned
marriage bed. The two women, both brides of Jason, are thus dramatically
juxtaposed. They each suffer from desire for Jason and each will be a victim
of that desire. The princess’s aroused anticipation seemingly transforms
into full erotic possession—she falls as if in ecstasy onto a chair, foaming at
the mouth—as Medea’s spiteful poison overwhelms her.
But what followed was a dreadful sight to see: for she changed color and with
trembling limbs fell backwards sidelong into a chair, only just avoiding falling
on the ground. And some old woman among the servants, supposing perhaps
that a frenzy from Pan or another of the gods had come [upon her], shouted
with joy, until she saw white foam issuing from her mouth, and the maiden’s
eyes rolling backward, and her flesh without blood.
(1166–1175)
Desire and pleasure collapse into paroxysms of pain as the golden
robe consumes the princess’s dainty flesh. Anticipating marital union, the
princess loses herself in a mortal embrace with Medea’s vengeance. The
messenger’s narration of the princess’s fiery death elicits parallels between
erotic passion and burning poison. The princess’s swoon at first appears
to be that of ecstasy rather than torment, so much so that one of her ser-
vants shouts out in jubilant celebration (1171–1173). The princess’s death
parallels Medea’s own burning jealousy—her magic effects a transference
of that passion onto the princess. Conversely, the princess’s own sexual de-
sire could be understood to have led her so easily into Medea’s snare; she
eagerly grasps the gifts and basks in her carnal beauty. Both women are
depicted as succumbing to their innate female sensuality, starkly contrasted
by Jason’s indefatigable rationality.
Deianeira’s desire and jealousy inform both her own eroticized and mas-
culine suicide as well as the inflamed destruction of her errant husband. In
her tragic blunder the spell aimed to inspire love and rekindle erotic attrac-
tion overshoots its mark and instead destroys the one it sought to retain:
“But as the flame for the holy sacrifices blazed forth blood-red from the
juicy resinous wood, sweat broke out on his skin and the tunic enclosed
him, clinging to his sides and all his limbs as if it were part of a sculp-
ture. Convulsive burning penetrated to his bones. Then, like the venom
of a murderous and hateful viper it devoured him” (765–771). The poi-

son tunic traps Heracles in its searing embrace much as he traps the con-
quered war bride, Iole, in his amorous grasp. Like Jason’s princess-bride,
Heracles seems to be devoured as much by his own excessive passion as
by Deianeira’s jealousy and suddenly realized sexual desire, manifested in
her desperate use of a “love” potion. His painful suffering and madness
(nosountos, 784) stems from and parallels his former passion (nosos) caused
by erōs (445).101 Furthermore, the poison’s own origin—venom-infused
blood from the dying centaur—reinforces the tragic connection between
excessive sexual desire and magic in this play. Heracles created this poi-
son himself when he killed the centaur for molesting his wife, with arrows
dipped in the Hydra’s lethal venom.102
These depictions of magical revenge reinscribe belief in the destructive
power of women’s jealousy motivated by their uncontrollable sexuality.
This latent danger, realized with the aide of magic poisons, threatens society
by inverting gender relations—leading women to adopt masculine courage
and men to reveal themselves as womanish or cowardly. Significantly, in
Aeschylus’s Agamemnon Clytemnestra slays her husband, Agamemnon,
when he returns from Troy with a conquered war bride, not through magic
but by the sword—she butchers him with a sharp blade in the same way
that he slaughtered their virgin daughter, Iphigenia, to pursue glory at
Troy.103 But this difference reinforces the connection I wish to draw be-
tween magic and erōs in Greek tragedy. Vengeance motivates Clytemnestra
and her lover to kill Agamemnon, not jealousy (although she does dispatch
her husband’s lover, Cassandra, as well).104 Furthermore, she is not aban-
doned by her husband for a concubine; rather she abandons him first, tak-
ing his cousin as her lover. Clytemnestra’s murderous revenge and adultery
therefore deviate from the pattern discussed above in which jealous women
employ pharmakeia to win back (or avenge) the love of an errant man, usu-
ally with lethal consequences and always by subverting male prerogatives
and social dominance.
As in the Bacchae, magic discourse emerges in these texts to express a
sense of danger and Otherness in representations of women transgressing
gender roles and threatening society. Hall and others have argued that trag-
edy presented a forum for Athenians to think about and assess their social
and political structures by projecting contemporary issues and concerns
onto a remote and mythologically distanced drama.105 This distance safely
allowed tragedians and their audiences to reflect on, critique, and reaffirm
Athenian values. It is to a discussion of the way in which magic discourse

participated in this self-reflection and formulation of democratic ideals that
I now turn.
magic disc o u r s e a n d p o w e r i n
athenian p o l i t i c s
Gender inversion and jealousy emerge as prominent themes in tragedies
that depict the use of magic. Magic is associated in these dramas with femi-
nine subversion of male decisions and sexual freedom, driven by women’s
perceived addiction to their marriage bed. While both Euripides and Sopho-
cles suggest that it is men’s irresponsible disregard for their wives’ feelings
that leads ultimately to the tragic results that follow, magic nonetheless
constitutes the form that women’s emotional reaction takes in these plays.
Magic (pharmakeia) becomes essentially women’s weapon. Yet, as we saw
with Plato, pharmakeia is also identified with binding spells (katadesmoi),
incantations (epaoidē), and sorcery (goēteia) used by men.106 Aeschines and
Demosthenes demonstrate the deployment of magic discourse in political
invective, accusing each other of being a magos or goēs (or both). Magic
discourse thus emerges by the fourth century as a blending of these associa-
tions and representations, forming a powerful stereotype of feminine/bar-
barian Otherness and danger that persists until the modern period.
Magic discourse, drawing as it does on the two poles of barbarian and
feminine alterity, functions as a foil for the formulation of civic identity
in democratic Athens. Magic represents illegitimate power and subversive
practices. It demonstrates unmanly weakness—operating covertly and in-
directly. It is identified with overwrought or uncontrolled emotion and lack
of self-control, which Plato defines as one of the essential qualities of a
good city and its citizens (Resp. 4.427e 10–11).107
The conception represented in tragedy that magic subverts traditional or
expected gender roles, catapulting women (willingly or unwillingly) into
the part of heroic male while reducing men to simpering weak “women,”
has political ramifications that go beyond the private sphere of matrimonial
relations. Male honor was expressed frequently in sexual terms. To play
the passive role sexually constituted a form of assault (hubris) that not only
dishonored a man but could lead to his disenfranchisement as well.108 To
be penetrated sexually was the role of the politically weak and powerless:
slaves and women (for whom it was considered natural), but also the con-
quered enemy.109 This understanding of penetration is graphically repre-
sented on an Athenian vase, which depicts a vanquished Persian soldier

offering his hinder parts to a triumphant Athenian who approaches him
with his erect phallus, ready for the chance to humiliate him.110 Whether
the sexual violation of conquered warriors was acted out in fact or merely
symbolically on vase paintings is not relevant to this discussion since in
either case it shows that political domination and honor could be conceived
and expressed in sexual terms.111
The sexual violation and shame of a man also occurred vicariously
through the seduction of his female relatives. A man’s honor was thus ex-
pressed not only in terms of his own sexual dominance but through the
chastity and sexual purity of the women in his family as well.112 This in-
cluded women directly under his authority, namely, his wife and daugh-
ters, but also his mother and sisters by extension. Their sexual violation or
indiscretion damaged his reputation and raised questions about his ability
to control those under his authority. Furthermore it opened his household
(oikos) to suspicions of illegitimacy. Consequently, magic, which was as-
sociated both with female sexual assertiveness (expressing women’s erotic
desire and subjectivity) as well as with women’s efforts to curtail men’s sex-
ual freedom, constituted a direct challenge to masculine honor and sexual
prerogative.113 Sophocles expresses this well: Deianeira’s heroic and erotic
suicide atop her bridal bed is juxtaposed with Heracles’ whimper that he
“finds [himself] female” (thēlus ēurēmai, 1070–1075). Similarly, Dionysos’s
orientalized femininity, combined with his disruption of gender roles and
civic harmony, demonstrates the association between magic, barbarian ef-
feminacy, and the violation of proper social order. Greek masculinity was
exhibited, among other ways, through the control of women.
The actual degree to which Athenian women were or were not con-
trolled and sequestered has been debated recently by historians. Some
scholars have noted the relative “seclusion” of well-born Athenian women
of the classical period compared with women represented in Archaic lit-
erature, who seem to have exercised more social “liberty,” at least in the
literary representations. Noble women depicted in Archaic literature, for
example, dine with their husbands and socialize with male nonrelatives,
whereas well-born Athenian wives did not participate in the primary social
pastime of Athenian elites—the symposium. Respectable Athenian women
were said to stay away from unrelated men except at public gatherings like
religious festivals and funerals where, it turns out, they were also vulner-
able to seduction.114 Chaste women were said to avoid contact even with
their male relatives, and for a man to enter a house without invitation was
tantamount to hubris since it violated the privileged inner sanctum of the

women’s quarters.115 For their part, men took pride in the control and super-
vision they exercised over young wives, keeping a vigilant eye on potential
threats to their social position.116 Men’s discourse about women’s behav-
ior, however, may not accurately reflect the reality of women’s comport-
ment—how women negotiated the social constraints on their lives, which
is always more complex than men’s representations of it. Consequently,
such statements and depictions may better illuminate men’s fears and per-
ceived sources of vulnerability than any kind of social “reality.”117 This is
especially true given the fact that extant Greek literature reflects the social
customs and ideals of wealthy and elite minorities. In other words, much
Athenian discourse on women may be prescriptive rather than descriptive,
describing how women ought to behave (and the social chaos that ensues
when they do not) rather than how they actually did behave. For this rea-
son, public discourse demands attention not for its historical veracity but
for what it reveals about underlying ideals and self-conceptualization.
Magic and Marriage Laws

Since Greek literature locates women’s use of magic in situations of infidel-
ity—the tragedies discussed above, for example, all depict conflict stem-
ming from marital triangles—the most likely place to find an ideological
impetus for the stereotype of “women’s magic” is in an examination of
marriage laws, specifically changes instituted during this time, which may
have produced new sources of social reflection or negotiation. In 451/0
bce Pericles decreed that only sons of two Athenian parents—mother
and father—would be regarded as legal citizens and enfranchised in the
democracy.118 Pericles’ citizenship law had serious repercussions for many
elements of the population.119 Athens had been a cosmopolitan center for
at least a century, and many foreigners had come to reside in Athens as
tradesmen, craftsmen, and freed slaves.120 Women, especially, were brought
from abroad as slaves or wives of travelers and colonists, producing chil-
dren regarded as “illegitimate” (nothoi) under Pericles’ new law.121 Among
the aristocracy, exogamy had a long tradition, fostering alliances between
aristocratic families scattered across the Greek world.122 By defining more
stringently the category “citizen,” Pericles effectively limited the number
of people who benefited from Athens’s burgeoning empire.123 Concomi-
tantly, as citizenship became increasingly identified with Athenian birth,
Athens’s ideology focused on nationalistic themes such as the autochtho-

nous birth of the Athenians and the superiority of Athenian nature.124
Additionally, Pericles’ law opened a new avenue for litigious Athe-
nians to attack and delegitimate their legal and political opponents.125 By
accusing a man of either passing illegitimate children off as Athenian or
of being illegitimate himself, one could eliminate a political rival or legal
opponent.126 Similarly, in cases of contested inheritance, the accusation of
“illegitimacy” frequently made an appearance in an effort to secure patri-
mony.127 These cases show that men were vulnerable politically and legally
through their womenfolk—mothers, wives, and daughters.128 The social
invisibility of “respectable” Athenian women contributed to the possible
confusion over a woman’s status or legitimacy.129 Witnesses who had seen
a woman participate in religious festivals as part of an oikos or who had
witnessed her husband’s declaration of their marriage needed to be called
to testify to her status as a legitimate daughter of Athenian parents lawfully
wedded to an Athenian man.130 Doubt could still arise, however, regarding
her sexual exclusivity and consequently the legitimacy of her husband’s
children. Illegitimate births constituted a popular theme in New Comedy
of the fourth and later centuries.131 It also factors in the defense speech of
a husband, arrested for the murder of his wife ’s lover, whom he claims to
have caught in flagrante delicto. He justifies killing the adulterous seducer
with the argument that such men violate not only the sanctity of the mar-
riage bed but the integrity of the oikos and, through it, the stability of Athe-
nian society (Lysias 1.32–33).
Part and parcel of Pericles’ new citizenship law, therefore, an increasing
anxiety over women’s sexual comportment and the ability to demonstrate
legitimate ancestry seems to have developed or become exacerbated.132
This anxiety, dramatically displayed in New Comedy, appears also to have
affected women’s social liberty in the fifth century.133 Lacey, for example,
writes:
The importance of being able to prove legitimacy had two principal results; it
made adultery a public as well as a private offense, and it made the Athenians
excessively preoccupied with the chastity of their womenfolk, with the result
that they were guarded in a manner nowadays thought to be intolerable.134
While this statement may be exaggerated,135 it seems that some Athe-
nian women did experience greater restriction on their freedom of move-
ment and association; these were “the wives, daughters, and mothers of
free and prosperous Athenians.”136 Since men in the public eye were most
likely to attract accusations of illegitimacy, it was well-born women who
needed to exercise the greatest caution and restriction.137 The behavior of
the most noble, however, may have been emulated by other classes desiring
to raise their social status.138
The central role that women played in securing and guarding male
honor as well as a man’s fundamental rights of citizenship, following Peri-
cles’ new citizenship requirements, may have contributed to representa-
tions of women’s dangerous magic in Greek tragedy at this time.139 In her
introduction to Sexual Meanings, an edited collection of articles on anthro-
pology and gender, Ortner suggests that societies in which men’s status de-
pends on women are also those societies most likely to attribute powers of
pollution and danger to women.140 “Prestige structures”—namely, social
systems that determine relative status and power—rely on “symbolic as-
sociations” or “ideologies” to make a particular ordering of society appear
sensible and natural, “compelling the ordering of human relations into pat-
terns of deference and condescension, respect and disregard, and in many
cases command and obedience.”141 Like all social systems and ideologies,
prestige structures are not “given” but rely on the acceptance of culturally
determined conceptions. Gender constitutes one such system of structur-
ing prestige, which will often be coordinated with other systems such as
kinship or economic exchange. Ortner notes that in societies where male
prestige depends heavily on women, such as women’s productive labor, be-
liefs about female danger or pollution “tend to flourish.”142 While there is
virtually no evidence for a fear of female pollution in fifth-century Greece,
Ortner’s theory suggests that anxieties over male status manifested in other
ways, such as, perhaps, fear of women’s dangerous magic.
Ortner’s findings seem to have direct relevance for understanding Athe-
nian concerns over women’s sexuality and the representation of them using
magic in the post-Periclean era.143 With men’s citizenship status, ability to
inherit ancestral property, bring a lawsuit, and vote in the assembly depen-
dent on legitimacy, women’s sexual comportment became a central feature
of the Athenian prestige structure and consequently of male concern at this
time. An Athenian man’s honor and civic identity hung on the sexual con-
duct of his womenfolk. A single woman could destroy the viability of an
entire oikos through sexual misconduct or even the suspicion of it. This
dependence on women and vulnerability to their behavior contributed, I
suggest, to shaping the emerging stereotype of women’s dangerous magic
that I outlined above.
Fear of women, specifically wives, practicing magic on unfaithful hus-

bands, arises at least partly, I suggest, from this women-dependent prestige
structure in several possible ways. First, the fear of women doing magic
may be an expression of anxiety over men’s vulnerability to women, as
Ortner suggests. Archaic women were thus less likely to be identified as
sources of magical danger because civic identity and prestige did not de-
pend on them in the same way.144 Second, the fear of women’s magic may
in fact be justifiable; socially secluded and deprived of self-determina-
tion, Athenian women may have employed rituals of power in an effort to
control certain aspects of their destiny, especially when faced by betrayal
and abandonment.145 For example, around the year 420 bce, a young man
brought a case against his stepmother in which he accused her of plotting
his father’s murder with poison/magic (pharmakeia). According to the ac-
cusation, this woman convinced another woman, who was the concubine of
her husband’s friend, to administer a “love” philter to both men. This po-
tion (pharmakon) was designed to win back each man’s affection for his re-
spected partner—the concubine in one case and the accused stepmother in
the other. The plaintiff claims that his stepmother knew all along what she
was doing; she deliberately intended to murder her husband (his father)
and did not mistake, as Deianeira did, a love potion for poison.146
The outcome of the trial does not survive, nor is it known whether this
forensic speech, attributed to Antiphon, was ever actually delivered in a
court of law. Some scholars for example, believe the speech was “a rhetori-
cal exercise built on an imaginary case.”147 The speech does, however, ar-
ticulate what, on the basis of Greek literature, seems to have been a concern
among some Athenian men—that women will use magic against them.148
The congruence between literary imaginings and real fears comes to the
fore in this example, especially since it is unknown whether Antiphon is
drawing on and reinscribing stereotyped imaginings or a real historical in-
cident. Even in the case that the suit was actually brought to court, one can
not know whether he is using the power of a stereotype to strengthen a
false accusation or whether the case itself points to some reality behind the
dramatic depictions. Whether or not the speech was used in a real trial or
as a rhetorical exercise, it indicates the deployment of magic discourse. His
speech naturalizes “knowledge” about women’s surreptitious activities and
utilizes it to defame the accused (whether fictional or historical).
The public presentation of these tragedies suggests that social discord
stemming from Pericles’ new law needed to be addressed and problema-
tized on the dramatic stage, that tensions around this law troubled many
Athenians.149 For example, this law was abrogated on behalf of Pericles

himself when both his legitimate sons died leaving only a son by Aspa-
sia, his famous foreign mistress, as a descendant and potential heir.150 Ad-
ditionally, a speech attributed to the great orator, Demosthenes, shows
that evasion of this law may not have been altogether rare; the prosecu-
tor accuses a woman, named Neaera, of being a Corinthian prostitute who
bought her freedom, came to Athens, and was now passing as a respectable
Athenian matron.151 Furthermore, his accusation alleges that her Athenian
husband claimed Neaera’s daughter by prostitution to be his own child and
gave her in formal marriage to an Athenian man, who believed her to be
“legitimate” and allowed her to perform sacred cultic duties while he was
archon.152 Another speech records a case brought against two men by their
brothers-in-law, claiming that these men were illegitimate sons of a slave
mistress and had been falsely presented to the phratry as legitimate heirs
(Isaeus 6.18–24). They strengthen their claim by asserting that the mistress
seduced the man with pharmaka, thus enlisting magic discourse to explain
why he would leave his legitimate wife in favor of a slave and former pros-
titute (Isaeus 6.21). All these cases indicate the complexity of implementing
Pericles’ law, the litigious opportunities it provided, and, perhaps, evidence
of quiet resistance to it.
Both Medea and Trachiniae explore the anxiety and pain Pericles’ law
appears to have provoked on the personal level—rupturing families, dis-
placing wives, and forbidding certain kinds of love. No doubt many men
in Athens found themselves caught between a beloved foreign wife or mis-
tress and the requirement to produce legitimate Athenian heirs. Some may
have skirted the law, as in the case of Neaera, trying to pass off children of
foreign women as Athenian. Even in cases where the children were legiti-
mate, anxiety lingered over one ’s ability to prove their Athenian heritage.
While it is impossible and inadvisable to reduce an entire discourse to
one social factor or condition, the combination of women’s poisonous
magic with love triangles involving foreign women in fifth-century tragedy
suggests that magic discourse was enlisted in the public contemplation of
tensions resulting from Pericles’ citizenship law. Furthermore, in the con-
text of Athenian ideology, imperialism, and democratic rhetoric, women’s
threat of pharmakeia merged with notions of barbarian religion (mageia),
trickery (manganeia), charlatanism (goēteia), and harmful curses (katades-
moi), producing a potent discourse of alterity that characterized anything
opposed to proper Athenian piety and masculine self-control. Magic dis-
course thus emerged in this social-historical context and reflected the spe-
cific concerns and ideological exigencies of the Athenian polis at that time.
Like so much of Athenian culture, magic discourse was inherited by the
Hellenistic world: the constellation of representations and associations that
made up the discourse in its original setting was adapted and augmented,
responding to different social and ideological situations. Magic discourse
thus displays surprising tenacity and endurance; it contributes to stereo-
types of the Other right down to the modern era. The following chapters
demonstrate that, while this discourse surfaces at various times and in
various ways, its particular manifestations change, mirroring the particular
social dramas in which it is deployed. “Witches” in Latin literature, for
example, only barely resemble their Greek counterparts, even when the
characters themselves are borrowed directly from Greek mythology, as in
the case of Medea.
three
mascula libido
Women, Sex, and Magic in Roman Rhetoric and Ideology
C avorting in cemeteries, committing infanticide, transforming former

lovers into beavers, or themselves into predatory birds, animating the
dead and stealing their body parts for use in necromantic rituals—these are
merely some of the practices attributed to sorceresses in Roman literature.
As the list suggests, women’s magic in Roman imagination evolved be-
yond the dangerous yet largely defensive pharmakeia employed by women
in Athenian literature. It became grotesque, predatory, and cruel. In this
chapter I consider the factors that contributed to shaping the Roman de-
ployment of magic discourse, arguing once again for local contributing fac-
tors rather than universal patterns.
In the previous chapter I proposed that the discourse of magic develops
part and parcel of the emerging discourse of barbarianism in fifth-century
Athens: representations of women doing magic in Attic tragedy acted as
a foil for the construction of Athenian identity at the height of Athens’s
imperialism and democracy. In those depictions magic is nearly always em-
ployed by women in contexts of competition resulting from infidelity and
marital love triangles, possibly expressing tensions generated by Pericles’
citizenship law. The magic is thus presented as being restorative and defen-
sive rather than predatory or aggressive. Furthermore, the women respond
to relationships they are in already; that is, they do not employ magic in
these depictions to seek out or attract a new lover. Even when retaliatory,
as in the case of Euripides’ Medea, the magic reacts to a sense of injustice,
one that the audience most likely would have recognized.1 Consequently,
while women’s magic may be deliberately or accidentally injurious, it is
72 m a s c u l a l i b i d o
defensive in nature.2 In the Hellenistic period sorceresses continue to be

portrayed according to the model of jilted lover, which we saw in Attic
tragedy, even while becoming more powerful and predatory.3
This Greek pattern of representing magic thus contrasts dramatical-
ly with that of Roman writings. By the first century bce hags prowling
cemeteries, looking for body parts of crucified criminals to use in nefari-
ous nocturnal rites, was becoming a stock motif of Latin literature. These
“witches” (sagae) employ magic primarily for erotic love—adopting a
predatory stance, they use magic to satisfy their “masculine lust” (mascula
libido). What accounts for this difference in representation? It is possible
that developments in ritual technology contributed to some of the more de-
tailed depictions of women’s magic, such as that found in Apuleius’s Meta-
morphoses, where Pamphile is said to have used lead tablets and pulsating
innards in her magic to attract a lover (3.18).4 Other scholars have sug-
gested that a universal archetype of the “night-witch” is at work in these
portraits,5 or that these representations express anxiety over patrolling the
boundaries of legitimate Roman religion and identity.6 These suggestions,
while illuminating on a certain level, suffer from overgenerality: they do
not account for the particular characteristics of Roman magic stereotypes
or explain why certain representations predominate over and above others,
such as the male magician, at this time. Consequently, I attempt to explain
the specific features of Roman magic discourse by situating them in their
social context. I argue that long-standing societal concerns about female
sexual license combined with Augustan political ideology to shape the de-
ployment of magic discourse in both literary representations as well as po-
litical indictments during the imperial period.
The portrait of predatory, lustful, and violent sagae presented in Roman
literature draws on and dramatically reinforces a parallel discourse of
women’s dangerous independence that circulated as early as the third cen-
tury bce.7 The particular form these combined discourses take reflects
the specific legal and social factors that shaped the lives of elite women in
Rome. A few women, under these conditions, gained tremendous wealth,
independence, and political influence, which was threatening to and cri-
tiqued by some Roman men. At this time a discourse of wicked women
emerges that censors independent women by portraying them as licen-
tious, power grasping, and overly masculine. Catherine Edwards further
reveals that this discourse of female immorality served to express anxiety
about men’s social and political power, the status of patriarchy, and, ul-
timately, the health of Rome as a whole.8 Magic was added to the mix in
m a s c u l a l i b i d o 73
the Augustan period, heightening the demonizing power of this rhetoric.

The combined discourse, wicked women and witch, operates throughout
the imperial period and forges a powerful stereotype that undergirds crimi-
nal accusations among the aristocracy and, later, accusations of heresy and
witchcraft in Christianity. In order to understand the particular function of
magic as a discourse in Roman literature and politics, it is necessary first to
consider the social conditions that shaped this discourse and made it mean-
ingful in its context.
the discour s e o f “ w i c k e d w o m e n ”
A number of different factors contributed to creating what one author has
called the “paradox of elite Roman women,” referring to the astonishing
power, wealth, and influence that some Roman women were able to com-
mand during the last century of the Republic and into the empire.9 While
this phenomenon was restricted to a minority of women who comprised the
elite, a discourse about women’s dangerous power, influence on politics,
and immodest involvement in male affairs emerged, possibly, as early as
the third century bce.10 In order to understand the basis for these concerns,
it is necessary first to consider how Roman law and custom contributed to
creating a climate in which some women from elite families were able to
become influential socially and politically despite laws excluding their of-
ficial participation in government.11
Roman women, like Roman men, were under the legal authority of their
fathers (or grandfathers if still alive) until the latter died. This control was
total, encompassing the ability to own property as well as basic human
concerns such as whom to marry.12 The power of the father (patria potes-
tas) terminated for both men and women, however, once the oldest male
in the agnate (paternal) line died. Men would then become the paterfa-
milias or head of the household for their own children and grandchildren,
while women would become legally independent (sui iuris) if they had re-
mained under their father’s legal control during marriage, which was com-
mon practice by the late Republic.13 Certain types of economic and legal
transactions by women required the consent of a legal guardian (tutor),
who was assigned to the woman at her father’s death.14 In other respects,
however, women who were sui iuris were able to conduct their lives, con-
tract marriages, and manage financial decisions largely according to their
own will and without male supervision or interference.15 Such women also
maintained a large degree of autonomy within their marriages while their
fathers were still alive, since it was the father who legally looked after his
daughter, her property, and financial affairs, even while she resided under
her husband’s roof.16 While men controlled their wives’ dowries, in all
other respects the property of husband and wife remained separate during
marriage, fostering wealthy women’s autonomy from their husbands both
legally and financially.17
Many women from elite families inherited substantial wealth during
their lifetimes, which they controlled with the oversight of a tutor.18 The
oldest code of Roman law, the Twelve Tables, granted sons and daughters
equal shares of their father’s estate in the absence of a will.19 This legal
parity contributed to women’s financial equality and influence within the
family. By inheriting equally with brothers, daughters were recognized as
economic players not only in the family but in the society at large, where
their wealth could support a large client base and contribute toward po-
litical and social endeavors.20 Judith Hallett argues that, in addition to
legal and economic privileges, Roman daughters had a special relationship
with their fathers, expressed publicly through their shared nomen.21 Even
after marriage, Roman women continued to operate in the interest of their
agnate family and were recognized as influential and powerful brokers
in Roman politics, based as it was on kinship and patronage.22 Not only
did daughters inherit from their fathers, but they could inherit from their
brothers or uncles as well if these men died without leaving heirs of their
own.23 Husbands also could leave substantial legacies to their wives.24 This
ability to inherit, which distinguished Roman women from many others in
the ancient and modern world (including Athenian women), contributed to
making some Roman women very wealthy and powerful as Rome’s wealth
and power itself increased.25
There is evidence, however, that some men perceived women’s inde-
pendence and wealth to be a danger to the state. Livy, for example, records
the fierce debate over repeal of the lex Oppia, which was imposed during
the heat of the Punic War and restricted women’s possession of gold to an
ounce or less, forbidding them from wearing particolored clothing or rid-
ing in a carriage within the city or nearby town.26 Passage of this law sug-
gests that during the turmoil and uncertainty of war ostentation and luxury
were regarded as inappropriate—with women’s costume, in particular,
being singled out for interdiction. The law was challenged and overturned
twenty years later. Livy’s rendition of events, especially Cato’s speech op-
posing repeal of the law, reflects a concern over women’s dangerous power
and shows how women’s excessive luxury became a symbol for the ailing
health of the body politic.27 According to this speech, women have too
much independence already and are seeking to increase their dominance
over men.28 In his effort to defeat the bill, Cato, in Livy’s account, employs
a variety of rhetorical techniques to belittle the women’s concern, demon-
ize them as seductresses, and accuse them of trying to take over the govern-
ment and enslave their husbands: wealth and luxury combined with un-
bridled immodesty and a desire to control men’s vote constitute women’s
threat. His speech skillfully exaggerates the women’s goal, suggesting, for
example, that they desire to ride in chariots through the city as if to cel-
ebrate a triumph (triumphantes) over the law and over the votes they have
captured from the men:
What explanation, the least bit respectable, is presented for this female in-
surrection (seditioni muliebri)? “In order that we may shine in gold and pur-
ple,” they say, “and that we may be borne through the city in carriages on
festival and nonfestival days as though celebrating a triumph over the van-
quished and abrogated law and, even more, over the votes seized and torn away
from you.”
(34.3.8–9)
By presenting the women as victorious soldiers returning from battle, he
conjures a powerful and frightening image of women usurping male power.
In this rhetorically rendered scenario, the women assume the masculine role
of a victorious general (triumphator) who exercises the right of command
over others, celebrating a triumph over foreign foes. In this case, however,
the foes are Roman men and their laws—that is, the Republic itself. Women
usurp male prerogatives in another way also. According to Livy, mobs of
women flooded the streets around the Forum to protest the law—physi-
cally invading male political space, these women sought to interfere in male
decisions and, in so doing, forsook their proper domain in the home.29
Cato’s speech, according to Livy, combines this accusation of trying to
usurp male space and privileges with insinuations of sexual license. He asks
the women whether they have come out into the streets because they are
more attractive in public and to other women’s husbands than to their own
(An blandiores in publico quam in privato et alienis quam vestris estis? 34.2.10).
He thus accuses the women of using their beauty to manipulate men as
well as insinuates that the women are interested in adultery—approaching
men to whom they are not married rather than merely addressing the issue
with their own husbands at home. Furthermore, he characterizes women
categorically as uncontrollable creatures (indomito animali), who have an
immoderate nature (impotenti naturae, 34.2.13–14). It is for this reason they

seek to have not just liberty but complete license (licentiam). They will not
be satisfied to attain parity with men: “As soon as they begin to be your
equals, they will be your superiors” (Extemplo, simul pares esse coeperint,
superiores erunt, 34.3.3).
Many aspects of Cato’s speech, as presented by Livy, reflect what I call
the discourse of wicked women: it targets elite women (or certain of them)
as licentious, seeking control over men, acting in inappropriately mascu-
line ways, and forsaking their modesty and proper place in the home. This
discourse, which rhetorically inverts the ideals of the chaste domestic wife,
served to demonize individual women as well as groups. To these charges
can be added an additional one: poisoning. Allegations of using poisons
(venena) were made against a variety of women from the early period of
Roman history into late antiquity. The most high-profile and dramatic ac-
cusations emerge during the aristocratic rivalries in the early empire; the
precedent, however, was established already in 331 bce when a group of
matrons was tried for poisoning after a number of prominent citizens died
of some unknown pestilence (Livy 8.18.2). A serving-woman informed on
them, claiming that these patrician women were concocting noxious poi-
sons (venena) in their homes (Livy 8.18.6). When the women were con-
fronted with their crime, they chose to drink their own potion (medica-
mento) and die rather than confess and suffer punishment (Livy 8.18.9).
Richard Bauman sees in this obscure event an early form of feminist activ-
ism.30 If the incident occurred as described, it suggests that these women
were taking matters into their own hands, but the goal of their sedition is
uncertain. Even if it did not happen, however, legend of the episode es-
tablished a precedent for accusing well-born women of using poison to
achieve political ends.31 It thus contributed to the emerging discourse of
wicked women and, later, to the accusation of using magic/poison (venena)
in political contexts.32
These two accounts come to us from Livy, who wrote centuries after
the events are said to have taken place. His narrative may therefore reflect
the concerns and attitudes of his own time, the Augustan era, as much as
the period in question.33 On the other hand, there is evidence from other
sources that the discourse of wicked women operated during the late Re-
public.34 Cicero’s treatment of an influential aristocrat, Clodia Metelli, for
example, reveals the use of this discourse in a court of law. In his speech
on behalf of Caelius (56 bce), Cicero leverages his defense with an explic-
it attack on Clodia, an opposing witness, referring to her as a prostitute

(meretrix) whose feminine libido must be restrained (muliebrem libidinem
comprimendam putet, 1).35 Cicero undermines the credibility of her charges
by alleging that they are motivated by Clodia’s jealousy and anger over
her breakup with his client, Caelius; he thus concentrates on discrediting
her for his defense (31–32).36 He launches an effective smear campaign on
her character, alleging that she poisoned her husband (60), was sexually
promiscuous (literally “everyone ’s mistress,” amicam omnium, 32), and in-
sinuates that she committed incest with her brother (36) (which was alleged
earlier about a younger sister, also Clodia, during a divorce proceeding
with her husband).37 Cicero invokes images of aristocratic luxury degener-
ating into dissolute indulgence (35, 38), stirring up first envy and then cen-
sure against Clodia among the jury.38 Importantly, he emphasizes Clodia’s
sexual freedom as a widow without male restraint (si vidua libere, proterva
petulanter, dives effuse, libidinosa meretricio more viveret, 38). Furthermore,
Cicero maligns Clodia by referring to her as the “Palatine Medea” (Pala-
tinam Medeam, 18), identifying her with the infamous sorceress of Greek
mythology who is driven by passion to kill her own kin. In this speech
Cicero combines central features of what I have designated the “wicked
woman” discourse: he charges Clodia with excessive luxury, sexual mis-
conduct, as well as poisoning. Additionally, by comparing her to Medea
he adds an allusion to “magic,” invoking magic discourse for the first time
(known) in a legal context in Rome.
As Cicero’s speech, pro Caelio, demonstrates, accusations of poisoning
were often coupled with charges of adultery or licentious misconduct; con-
cern over women’s immodesty went hand in hand with charges that they
sought to dominate men. It is no surprise, therefore, that influential women
were frequently maligned as libidinous seductresses and/or adulteresses.
Another woman stands out for the vicious treatment she receives at the hand
of Sallust in his account of the Catiline conspiracy. Sallust claims that Ca-
tiline had gained the support not only of men but of some women as well.
These women, he claims, had contracted enormous debts through disso-
lute luxury, which they could no longer support through prostitution (stu-
pro corporis), having advanced in age (Bell. Cat. 24.3). Presumably this ex-
plains their desire to join the sedition. Among these women was Sempronia,
whom he describes as abundantly favored in birth and beauty as well as with
a good marriage and children. She was well educated (docta) in the literature
of both Greece and Rome; she could play the lyre and dance better than
necessary for a virtuous woman (quam necesse est probae). She possessed
many other talents as well, which, Sallust claims, are instruments of luxury
(Bell. Cat. 25.2). For example, he attributes to her a gift for writing, wit, and
charm. His description of Sempronia confirms what we know to have been
true of many elite women. She was wellborn, well-bred, and well educated.
Sempronia’s role in the actual conspiracy is not at all clear. Her crimes,
according to Sallust, include breaking her oath and repudiating debts as
well as being an accessory (or witness) to murder (caedis conscia fuerat,
Bell. Cat. 25.4). To this he adds a desire so impassioned that she sought men
more frequently than she was sought by them (lubido sic accensa, ut sae-
pius peteret viros quam peteretur, Bell. Cat. 25.4). Like the women accused
in Cato’s speech against repeal of the Lex Oppia, she forsakes appropriate
feminine pudor (modesty) to chase after men to whom she is not married.
In fact, Sallust claims that anything and everything was worth more to her
than honor and chastity (Sed ei cariora semper omnia quam decus atque pu-
dicitia fuit, Bell. Cat. 25.3). His depiction of Sempronia draws on the dis-
course of wicked women to disparage, not just Sempronia and the other
women allegedly involved in the conspiracy, but Catiline as well. The asso-
ciation of men with dissolute women recurs frequently as a trope in Roman
invective, where it demonstrates the man’s lack of good judgment and
self-restraint. As Anthony Marshall notes, the treatment of women often
“serves to reinforce the bad impression that we are given of the character
and career of ” men with whom they are associated.39 Similarly, Catherine
Edwards argues that the discourse about women’s immorality shows their
male relatives (especially husbands and fathers) to be politically weak and
effeminate.40 Insinuations and accusations about women’s sexual miscon-
duct and luxury thus often concealed political and social contests between
men and should not be accepted as a straightforward portrayal of women’s
behavior.41 Women’s conduct also functioned as a metaphor for political
and social order in Roman rhetoric.
Sempronia epitomizes the characteristics of the discourse of wicked
women in Roman writing: she is beautiful and seductive, uses her charms
to indulge an intemperate lust, and her behavior is masculine in its asser-
tiveness and audacity. As Sallust writes, she committed acts of masculine
daring (virilis audaciae facinora commiserat, Bell. Cat. 25.1). For these rea-
sons, Sempronia provides an excellent entrée to Roman representations of
magic: while she is never accused of using magic herself, Sallust’s depiction
enlists many of the attributes found later in portrayals of villainous sagae
performing baleful magic. In fact, no depictions of women using magic

appear in extant Roman writings before the second century bce.42 Conse-
quently, it appears that magic discourse, which was introduced from Hel-
lenistic sources sometime during that century, combined with the existing
discourse of wicked women to create a powerful strategy of demonization
and delegitimation that spoke to specific Roman values and concerns.43 It
is to an examination of this combined discourse of magic and predatory
women that I now turn.
mascula lib i d o : m a g i c a n d p r e d a t o r y w o m e n i n
latin liter a t u r e
Virgil represents one of the first Roman authors to develop women’s use of
magic as a literary motif.44 His eighth Eclogue, for example, depicts a love-
struck maiden performing incantations (carmina) to win back the affections
of her strayed lover. Following the poetic inspiration of Theocritus’s sec-
ond Idyll,45 Virgil presents in great detail the ritual manipulations and pri-
vate comments of a young sorceress and her assistant:
Bring out water, and wreathe these altars with tender fillets; and burn rich cy-
press and male frankincense, that I may try to remove the sanity of my be-
trothed (coniugis) through magical rites (magicis sacris): nothing here is mis-
sing except incantations (carmina).
(64–67)
By employing magic to win back an errant lover, the young woman of this
poem adheres to the pattern of representation analyzed in chapter 1: magic
is used to protect a threatened relationship. Like Deianeira and Medea
(who were both married to the men who abandoned them),46 the sorcer-
ess in Virgil’s eclogue perceives herself to be in a formal relationship with
Daphnis and refers to him as coniunx (66).47 Some differences in Virgil’s
depiction, however, anticipate the more striking characteristics of Roman
representations of magic. For example, she adopts a form of erotic magic
that archaeology suggests was practiced most often by men.48 In this way
Virgil masculinizes the sorceress, depicting her engaged in sexual pursuit—
a virile activity in Roman thought. Furthermore, Christopher Faraone has
proposed that the ritual she performs itself inverts gender roles; Virgil’s
sorceress stages a sympathetic ritual according to which she becomes hard
and masculine while Daphnis becomes soft and effeminate.49
As this clay hardens, and as this wax melts in one and the same flame, so Daph-
nis will melt in love for me. Sprinkle grains of spelt, and kindle brittle bay leaves
in bitumen pitch. Disloyal Daphnis burns me; I burn this laurel on Daphnis.
(80–84)
The girl seeks to inflict on Daphnis the same burning desire that afflicts
her.50 In this goal she follows the model of ancient agōgē rituals, which
nearly always request that the gods or demons inflict injury and pain on the
beloved until she comes to the lover and gratifies his sensual desires. This
girl’s ritual diverges, however, in that the victim of extant agōgē spells is
nearly always female and the petitioner of the spells male.51 Virgil’s sorcer-
ess, therefore, adopts a typically masculine position according to ancient
idealizations of love; she assumes the role of pursuer to her beloved, who
is configured as passive. An interesting shift, therefore, seems to have oc-
curred between fifth-century Athenian portraits of wives, desperately em-
ploying magic to win back straying husbands, and this portrait of a sexually
assertive young woman adopting practices associated with male courtship
behavior.52
Beginning with Virgil’s eighth Eclogue, women practicing predatory
erotic magic figure prominently as a topos in Roman literature. One of the
more shocking early representations is Horace’s eighth Satire of book 1. In
this bawdy depiction, two old women dig in a forgotten pauper’s cemetery
on the Esquiline (at the time it had been turned into a park), searching for
bones and other necromantic ingredients to use in their love spells. A statue
of Priapus narrates the following nefarious scene:
I have seen Canidia, myself, walk with black robe tucked up, feet bare, and hair
wild, shrieking with the elder Sagana: their sallow tone had made them both
dreadful to look upon. They began to scratch the earth with their nails and to
tear apart a black lamb with their teeth; the stream of blood was poured together
in a furrow, so that from that place they might draw out spirits who would de-
liver an answer. There was a woolen effigy and another of wax; the larger one
of wool sought to restrain and punish the smaller one; the one of wax stood like
a petitioner, who at that moment awaited death in a slavish manner. One [hag]
invoked Hecate, the other savage Tisiphone. You might also have seen snakes
and infernal hounds roaming about and the moon, blushing, hide behind the
great tombs so as not to be a witness to this event. . . . Why should I relate the
individual details? How the shades, speaking alternately with Sagana sounded
mournful and shrill? Or how they secretly hid in the earth a wolf ’s beard with
the tooth of a dappled serpent? Or how much larger the flame burned because
of the wax image, and how I shuddered at the voices and deeds of the two Fu-
ries but took vengeance for what I had witnessed? For as loud as the sound of a
burst bladder, I split my fig-tree rump with a fart. And those two ran into town.
You might have seen with great laughter and joking the [false] teeth of Canidia
together with the lofty wig of Sagana fall down along with herbs and enchanted
cords tied in a knot from their arms.
(23–36, 40–50)
This poem typifies many aspects of the discourse of magic that surfaced
during the Augustan era. Like Virgil’s sorceress in Eclogue 8, Canidia and
her accomplice Sagana perform a sympathetic ritual that enacts the desired
relationship between besotted hag and beloved victim. They take two fig-
ures, one of wool and one of wax, the larger wool figurine commands the
suppliant smaller wax one, which slavishly expects death (maior lanea, quae
poenis compesceret inferiorem; / cerea suppliciter stabat, servilibus ut quae iam
peritura modis, 30–31). This description resembles the ritual melting and
hardening in Virgil’s imagined ritual. Although not expressly stated, Hor-
ace implies that the dominant figure represents Canidia while the compli-
ant wax figure stands in for her desired lover. A spell similar to this, which
prescribes ritual binding and torturing of an image to gain a lover, exists
from the fourth century ce. PGM 4. 296–466 proclaims itself to be a “won-
drous spell for binding a lover” (philtrokatadesmos thaumastos). According
to this spell, one fashions two figures out of wax or clay: “make the male in
the form of Ares fully armed, holding a sword in his left hand and threat-
ening to plunge it into the right side of her neck. And make her with her
arms behind her back and down on her knees.”53 This spell parallels the
ritual imagined by Horace: the two figures represent the lover and beloved,
whose relationship the magician seeks to alter and control through manipu-
lation of the two figurines. Significantly, the PGM recipe scripts the pas-
sive victimized position for the female partner, while the male assumes the
dominant, commanding, position of her attacker.54 So, like the sorceress of
Virgil’s Eclogue, Canidia inverts the gendered norm by assuming the role
of aggressive conqueror, casting her male partner as the passive “female”
victim. Like Sempronia, the two women exhibit a masculine lust in their
aggressive pursuit of male lovers. Their amorous desire, however, is ren-
dered both more dangerous and more depraved by the addition of magic
to their hunt.
In another poem, Epode 5, Horace less humorously describes a homi-

cidal ritual that employs the liver of a young boy for use in an erotic po-
tion. Once again Canidia and her faithful friend Sagana perform the rite,
this time accompanied by Folia of Ariminum, who is described as masculae
libidinis—possessing a “masculine libido.” The women dig a hole in the
ground where they bury a youth up to his neck and, setting a plate of food
before his face, starve him to death—desiring but unable to satiate his hun-
ger. The boy’s liver will somehow distill this power of mortal desire and
function as the potent ingredient to match the magic of her rival, whom
Canidia believes is keeping her lover away:
That, the boy buried with head protruding,
like people in water suspended by the chin,
might die from the sight of a meal changed twice or thrice during the day,
in order that his marrow and parched liver,
cut out, can be employed as a love potion (amoris poculum),
once his pupils, fixed on the forbidden food,
will have wasted away.
(32–40)
In this epode Horace employs many of the same topoi to portray demonic
hags as he did in his satire, but he exaggerates them to increase their bane-
ful effect. Canidia’s hair is not only disheveled but entwined with vipers
(brevibus implicata viperis / crines et incomptum caput, 15–16). Sagana also
has streaming hair (horret capillis, 27) like some kind of sea urchin (ut mari-
nus asperis / echinus, 28). The women employ dangerous potions (venena)
of Medea, whose reputation for evil and disruption was becoming height-
ened in Roman literature, reinforced by attributions such as this.55 They
utter Thessalian incantations that control cosmic forces, including the stars
and moon. Horace thus links these women with Greek mythology and with
“magic” as it had come to be construed in Hellenistic thought. He aligns
Canidia and her cohort with a genealogy of women practicing magic that
extends into the hoary mythological past, naturalizing the constructed ste-
reotype by attributing to it an ancient origin.
This portrait even more emphatically demonizes the women: by com-
mitting infanticide, they join the ranks of Medea as aberrations, even in-
versions, of the female ideal.56 Furthermore, they perpetrate this diabolic
ritual with amorous intentions. They are driven by an insatiable lust that
can only be cured by the distilled desire of a murdered child, whose own
inability to satiate the natural desire of hunger led to his demise. Thus, like
her cohort Folia, Canidia can be described as masculae libidinis. Stopping
at nothing to fulfill her carnal urges, Canidia assumes the predatory role
typically taken by men in Roman culture and in the majority of extant at-
traction spells recovered archaeologically.
Ancient authors speculated on the identity of Canidia and her relation-
ship to Horace while certain modern authors have tried to reconstruct her
magical activities on the basis of Horace ’s description.57 Eugene Tavenner,
for example, theorized the reasons behind certain aspects of Canidia’s ghast-
ly nocturnal rites, such as her choice to dig bare-handed (scalpere terram
unguibus, Sat. 8.26–27) rather than use a tool:
If, as seems probable, Horace in this Satire is following the actual order of
events, their first act was to dig a trench with their fingers, probably because
of a taboo on iron implements, or possibly merely to add savageness to the
general concept.58
Tavenner reads Horace ’s satire as descriptive of “actual” events and attri-
butes this aspect of the ritual to a possible taboo on the use of metal in
magic rituals rather than to Horace ’s desire to demonize Canidia with bes-
tial images of her clawing in the dirt.59 More recently, Matthew Dickie has
argued that Canidia presents “evidence” for the use of magic by prostitutes.
While admitting that some satirical exaggeration may be involved in Hor-
ace ’s account, Dickie nonetheless assumes that behind the character stands
a “real” person and uses her as an exemplum on which to build his theory
of the prostitute-witch.60 Furthermore, he largely takes Horace’s portrait
at face value, accepting, for example, the depiction of Canidia as old and
sexually unappealing, and hypothesizing that Canidia and women like her
(i.e., old, used-up prostitutes) employed magic to retain or punish errant
clients.61 What Dickie only barely acknowledges is that both old age and
sexual promiscuity (including prostitution) constituted invective tropes in
Roman discourse along with magic.62 To accept that Canidia is a prostitute
based on Horace ’s satirical smear campaign is the equivalent of accepting
Cicero’s insinuation, in his pro Caelio, that Clodia Metelli practiced openly
as a meretrix.63 Sexual slander constituted a central feature of ancient invec-
tive and should only be accepted as historical fact with great caution.64
Horace ’s satire demonstrates the colorful use to which the combined
magic/wicked woman discourse could be put. He dramatically enhances
the satire ’s realism by employing descriptive details that reflect popular
conceptions of magical practices. Walking barefoot and wearing the hair

loose (pedibus nudis passoque capillo, 24), for example, occur in other con-
temporary depictions of magic rituals: Virgil’s Dido performs her suicidal
curse/love spell barefoot (Aeneid, 4) and Ovid’s Medea is said to supplicate
her patron deity, Hecate, the goddess of magic, barefoot and in a flowing
robe (Met. 7.183). In all these cases the narrative details confer a verisi-
militude to the scene described by the poet. They may in fact reflect the
way certain kinds of rituals were actually practiced in the ancient world.65
In any case, these literary representations contribute to a developing dis-
course of magic; by repeatedly enlisting stereotyped portrayals, the poets
both harness and reinscribe magic’s demonizing power. Interestingly, there
is some evidence that certain rituals drew inspiration from literary depic-
tions rather than vice versa, indicating a circle of discursive influence and
ideological deployment.66 Fritz Graf correctly writes that poetic depictions
of magic ritual follow laws internal to literature, consequently, “their in-
terest bears less on the understanding of magic than that of literature. . . .
These authors make [use] of the motif of magic for their own poetic and
sometimes psychagogic objectives.”67
Horace ’s work most clearly demonstrates the power of combining magic
discourse, drawn from Greek writings, with the existing discourse of wick-
ed women, which demonized independent women as lascivious and cruel,
seeking to overthrow male dominance.68 The widespread use of this trope
demonstrates the popular adoption of this discourse across a variety of lit-
erary genres. The work of two elegiac poets from this period, for example,
also enlists the combined magic/predatory woman discourse. Like Virgil,
whose work reflects the strong influence of Hellenistic literature, Tibullus
and Propertius follow Greek models by choosing erotic themes and mythic
or pastoral settings for their work. They extol love as the only enduring
and meaningful thing in a world beset by the dangerous and destructive
vicissitudes of war.69 This dedication to the theme and pursuit of love takes
each poet into contact with magic, which becomes increasingly associated
with love, sex, and seduction in Roman literature. In at least a couple of
poems by each author, practitioners of magic make an appearance.70 In
each case the character described resembles the figure of the wicked hag
depicted by Horace. She employs disgusting and diabolic ingredients in her
magic and is said to control cosmic forces or the souls of the restless dead.
Propertius, for example, angrily curses his lover’s procuress, Acanthis, for
encouraging her to take on more economically advantageous clientele and
to turn him, the poor poet, away:
But this witch (docta)71 can soften even Hippolytus’s resistance to Venus
ever an unlucky omen for marriage and harmony
Penelope, also, she might have driven to marry lustful Antinoos
neglecting rumors of her husband[’s return].
When that woman determines, a magnet will not be able to draw iron
And a bird will be a stepmother to her own nestlings.
And certainly if she would place herbs from the Porta Collina in a ditch,
sturdy things would be dissolved in running water.
Audaciously, she would impose her laws on the enchanted moon
and conceal herself at night in the skin of a wolf,
so that she might blind determined husbands with her cunning.
She digs out the innocent eyes of crows with her fingernail
and consults the screech-owls concerning my blood, and against me
she combines the effluence of a mare in heat with the seed of a pregnant
mare.
(4.5.5–18)
In his poetic tirade Propertius’s description of Acanthis paints her as a
witch in increasingly familiar terms. She possesses powers of erotic magic
so strong she could corrupt the mythically chaste. Instead, she uses her
powers to deceive husbands (intentos astu caecare maritos, 15), destroying
the sacred marital bond that Propertius elsewhere idealizes in his treatment
of a free-spirited Cynthia.72 Furthermore, he associates Acanthis with vio-
lent animal imagery, visually drawing her bestial Otherness in the reader’s
imagination.73 Acanthis tears out crow eyes with her nail (cornicum eruit
ungue genas) and consults screech owls (consuluitque striges). She can dis-
guise herself as a wolf (fallere terga lupo) and employs the effluence of preg-
nant mares (hippomanes fetae semina legit equae) in her magic.74 Although
less severe and demonic than Horace ’s depiction of Canidia, Propertius
draws on the same stock themes of the witch-hag to vilify and curse Acan-
this for interfering with his love life.
Similarly, the poet Tibullus describes a magic ritual performed by a sor-
ceress so his lover, Delia, can deceive her husband and commit adultery:
With a magic rite (magico ministerio), not even your husband will believe this
[rumor],
so the witch (saga) has promised me in truth.
I have seen this woman pull down constellations from the sky,
she reverses the course of a rapid river with her incantation,
she cleaves the ground with a chant, she lures shades out of their tombs,
and summons bones from a still-warm funeral pyre.
Now she holds the infernal throng with a magic hiss,
now she commands them to turn back again after they have been sprinkled
with milk.
When it pleases her, she expels the clouds from a mournful sky;
when it pleases her, she summons snow in the summer season.
She is said to be the only one possessing malignant herbs of Medea,
alone to have subdued the feral hounds of Hecate.
This woman composed for me incantations to enable you to deceive:
chant three times, the incantation thus spoken, spit three times.
That man will be able to believe no one in anything [he says],
he will not be able to believe [even] himself if he sees us on a soft bed!
You, nevertheless, must abstain from other men: for that man will perceive all
the rest;
of me alone will he detect nothing.
(1.2.41–58)
In his portrait of this wise woman (saga) Tibullus employs mythic themes
encountered previously—namely, Medea’s noxious pharmaceutical skills
(malas Medeae herbas) and allusions to Odysseus’s meeting with the shades
in book 11 of the Odyssey, where he pours milk as part of the chthonic of-
ferings.75 All of this helps to establish a pedigree for his saga and evoke the
imagined world of nefarious magic. That this ritual is imaginary and not
the description of an actual magic rite can be ascertained from the constel-
lation of vague ritual actions, like hissing and sprinkling with milk, which
lack concrete referents or any ritual logic.76 They are what they seem: allu-
sions to actions or people that are associated with magic in the poetic imagi-
nation. Tibullus’s poem thus reinscribes the association between these sub-
stances or actions and the fictitious world of magic.77
Both poems demonstrate the link between unchaste women, either mis-
tresses or adulteresses, and magic. Magic is used in the second poem to as-
sist Tibullus’s lover in deceiving her husband. In the first poem Propertius
accuses the procuress of using magic to destroy chastity and marital har-
mony. Magic functions in both cases to deceive husbands, facilitate female
infidelity, and ultimately to subvert patriarchal control over the domus.78
It thus naturally combines with elements of the wicked women discourse,
which also regarded women as trying to subvert male control.
In this elegy by Tibullus and in Horace’s Epode 5, Medea’s name is in-

voked to describe the harmful herbs being employed. Medea has, by the first
century ce, come to signify women’s deadly magic in the Roman imagi-
nation. Invocation of her name alone conjures allusions to women’s unre-
strained passion, subversive desire to control their husbands, and penchant
for using dangerous poisons and magic rites. Two depictions of Medea from
this period develop her mythic image more fully, highlighting the differenc-
es between Greek and Roman magic discourse as it was developing in the
first century. Ovid’s depiction of Medea in his Metamorphoses, for example,
emphasizes her magical powers by concentrating on two episodes from
myth in which sorcery is central—the rejuvenation of Aeson and the mur-
der of Pelias.79 Ovid enhances these scenes of enchantment with sinister el-
ements drawn from but also reinforcing the emerging stereotype of wicked
sorceresses in Latin literature. Like Canidia and Sagana in Horace’s satire,
Ovid’s Medea performs her magic barefoot with hair uncovered, flowing
over her shoulders (nuda pedem, nudos umeris infusa capillos, 7.183). In this
respect she resembles an ecstatic maenad whose disheveled demeanor visu-
ally attests to her wild lack of restraint. As Albert Heinrichs has argued, by
the Roman period maenads were associated with sexual license and drunk-
en debauchery, having very little if any relationship to the chaste Hellenic
worshipers of Dionysos.80 Later, when Ovid describes Medea’s spell to re-
juvenate Jason’s aging father, he explicitly compares her to a Bacchant:
. . . with unbridled hair
like a Bacchant, Medea circles the blazing altars
and dips multi-clefted torches into the dark pit filled with blood and,
once stained, she kindles them on the twin altars, three times
purifying the old man with flame, three times with water, three times with
sulfur.
(7.257–261)
Ovid thus draws the connection between Bacchanalian excesses and
Medea’s powerful magic. He follows his description of this dark ritual by
narrating in quick succession the murderous deeds perpetrated by Medea
from the time she flees her barbarian home in Colchis until her attempt
to poison Theseus in Athens. In stark contrast to Euripides’ treatment
of Medea’s story, where she appears as a complex figure grappling with
conflicting social and human values—mother love versus honor and re-
venge—Ovid paints Medea flatly.81 She never struggles or feels the pull
of emotion (either loving or vengeful).82 Instead, Ovid reduces her story to

a series of ghastly episodes—whose interest lies more in the description of
brutality than in her humanity. The reader no longer comes to identify with
Medea, to sympathize with her predicament. Rather, she is wholly Other.
Her saga becomes just another spectacle to be consumed and forgotten. In
the appropriation of Medea as a sign for female danger and social chaos,
she becomes unidimensional: she loses her humanity.
Another depiction of Medea similarly uses her as a trope for feminine
emotion and violence. In writing a tragedy that depicts the destructive
power of overwhelming passion, the great writer and Stoic philosopher
Seneca had a ready character in Medea. She functions in his version of her
tragedy to convey the destructive power of erotic desire, anger, and exces-
sive love.83 Already linked in the popular imagination with violence, exces-
sive pride, and crafty magic, Medea represents in this tragedy the human
soul tormented by uncontrolled emotion. Seneca reinforces his philosophi-
cal message by, among other things, rewriting the character of Jason.84 In
earlier renditions of the myth, such as Euripides’ Medea, Pindar’s fourth
Pythian Ode, and Apollonius’s Argonautica, Jason appears to be a cad. He
is insensitive and opportunistic, seeking alliances with whichever woman
will enhance his status and further his immediate goals.85 Seneca’s Jason, in
contrast, appears to be motivated by justifiable fear—of Medea (102–103)
and also of Creon (415–416, 414, 529)—rather than by ruthless ambition.
Claiming to marry the princess Creusa under compulsion, Jason presents
himself as thoughtful, considerate, and emotionally faithful to Medea (note
his triple repetition of fides in 434–437).86 Medea, however, is justifiably
suspicious (529). Nevertheless, her jealous anger and spiteful revenge ap-
pear incomprehensible and incommensurate with Jason’s claim to be de-
voted to her and concerned for her well-being.
By rewriting Jason as a “nice guy,” Seneca casts Medea as an “evil
woman”; her anger has less justification in this depiction. Instead of steel-
ing herself to perform the ultimate act of sacrifice and revenge (infanti-
cide), as she does in Euripides’ version of her story, Seneca’s Medea seeks
blood lust for its own enjoyment. Furthermore, she is proud of her crimes
and revels in violent revenge:
It delights me, delights me to have torn off my brother’s head,
to have carved up his joints and stolen
my father’s hidden sacred [fleece]; it delights me to have armed
daughters for the destruction of an old man.
(911–914)
Medea exhibits only momentary regret for slaying her children, the de-
scription of which Seneca prolongs for twenty-eight lines and finalizes in
front of Jason’s own eyes despite Jason’s pleading that he is the one guilty
and deserving of death (997–1025). Seneca thus demonizes Medea as bru-
tally inhuman to the core.
Seneca uses this depiction of Medea to demonstrate the danger of un-
controlled emotions: love, especially, in Seneca’s perception is a violent and
destructive force.87 In order to accomplish this philosophical and moral
agenda, Seneca draws on many of the same topoi we have seen previously
to depict dangerous magical women. For example, Medea aligns herself
almost immediately with death and disorder when she invokes chaos, the
infernal deities, and restless dead to witness her complaint even as they
witnessed her wedding (9–18). Her ritual draws on the now expected list
of mythic ingredients associated with magic: Hydra’s serpents (701–702),
herbs splattered with Prometheus’s gore (709), and a variety of barbarian
herbs and poisons. Like Canidia and Sagana, she loosens her hair maenad-
like and goes barefoot, calling forth infernal deities of death. Medea also
wields cosmic powers that control forces of nature; she can change the order
of the seasons (759) and stop the movement of the heavens (768–769). She
even uses her own blood as a sacrifice to the goddess of death and magic:
To you [Hecate] we offer this sacred rite
on the bloodied altar of sod, to you a torch,
snatched from the midst of a funeral pyre has raised
its fires; with my head tossed [back]
and neck bent88 I have uttered the invocation for you;
for you my wild hair is encircled
with a fillet in the funerary way,
for you I rattle a gloomy branch caught
from a wave of the Styx; for you with breast uncovered
Maenadlike, I shall slash my arms
with a consecrated knife. Let our blood flow
upon the altars: accustom yourself, O hand,
to draw the blade and to be able to endure
the stream of precious gore.
(797–810)
Seneca draws on the stereotyped character of Medea as a cosmic witch to
communicate his stoic ideal of emotional equilibrium and acceptance of
fortune. Medea represents the counterideal; she dismisses Jason’s sage ad-
vice to accept her lot as he has grudgingly accepted his (forced to marry a
royal virgin). Instead, driven by erotic love and jealousy, Medea brings ruin
on a kingdom, her husband, and her children. Like the Medea of Euripid-
es’ tragedy, Seneca’s Medea manages to flee without harm, but unlike the
Athenian version, where Helios’s winged chariot commends her skyward,
there is no sense of divine acquittal. Her coach in Seneca’s play confirms
her bestial, demonic nature—it is pulled by serpentine dragons, suggesting
the source of Medea’s poisonous venom (686, 694–706) and possibly her
uncontrolled libido.89
Seneca’s nephew, Lucan, similarly draws on the trope of nefarious fe-
male sorcery in his civil war epic, Pharsalia. In this work he recounts im-
portant episodes in the bloody struggle between Pompey and Caesar that
eventually led to the rise of Augustus and the end of the Roman Republic.
Book 6 of his epic narrates a fictional episode in which Pompey’s younger
son, Sextus Pompey, visits a Thessalian witch, Erictho, in order to divine
the future events of the war and the fate of the Pompey party. Lucan’s por-
trait of Erictho and her necromantic ritual enlists the developing stereotype
of the Roman witch:
Emaciation consumes the face that is repulsive with filth, and her dreadful coun-
tenance, unseen by bright skies, is oppressed by a Stygian pallor and weighed
down with matted hair; if a rain-storm and black clouds hide the stars, only
then does the Thessalian [witch] go forth from the abandoned tombs and try to
catch nocturnal lightning flashes. Her step has burnt the seeds of fertile ripened
corn, and her breath has destroyed the air, which previously was not fatal.
(515–522)
Not only is she ugly, as Canidia and Sagana are described to be by Horace,
but Erictho also collects body parts from cemeteries and funeral pyres for
her necromantic rituals:
But, when [the dead] are laid to rest in stone, by which their internal fluid
is drawn off, and the decayed marrow is absorbed,
the bodies ossify; at that time, she eagerly rages on all the joints
and plunges her hands into the eyes, delighting to dig out
the congealed orbs, while she gnaws the pale fingernails
of a desiccated hand. She has broken the lethal knot of a noose
with her teeth, and has picked at the suspended bodies and has
scraped the crosses; she has torn away the entrails battered
by heavy rain and the marrow cooked down by exposure to the sun.
(538–546)
To describe such a passage as pornographic in the lurid explicitness of

its details would not be an overstatement.90 Lucan here capitalizes on the
negative associations of magic—necromantic ingredients and employment
of the restless dead—and exaggerates them in the full glory of their gro-
tesqueness. But why? The easiest answer would be to say that Roman so-
ciety demanded such vivid and brutal entertainment, accustomed as it was
to the arena and to the gratuitous violence displayed there.91 No doubt this
partly accounts for the increasing tendency to portray violence and degen-
eration graphically. Roman sexual humor was equally graphic and indulged
in prurient pleasure.92 On an ideological level such a narration serves to
marginalize Sextus Pompey, the petitioner seeking to know the fate of the
war, as well as the violent civil war itself.93 When a society divides against
itself in combat, civilization crumbles, leaving the necromantic prowl-
ings of a witch the most apt portrait of human society and the depths of
depravity to which it can fall.94 Shadi Bartsch summarizes Lucan’s attitude
well when she writes, “[the] torn and bleeding forms he seems intent on
exposing to our view [function] as a metaphor for the collapse of the self in
civil war.”95
This stereotype of the predatory and nefarious witch persists in Latin
literature. Approximately one hundred years after Lucan wrote Pharsalia,
Apuleius of Madaura drew on many of the same topoi in his famous novel
Metamorphoses. Apuleius, who was himself accused of using magic to se-
duce a wealthy widow into marriage,96 narrates the adventures of Lucius,
a self-described novelty seeker, who is accidentally turned into a donkey
through the mismagic of a sorceress’s apprentice. The novel constitutes a
bawdy tale of magic, sex, and murder until Lucius is redeemed from his
bondage to the whims of Fortune by the goddess Isis (book 11). The book
thus represents a tribute to this goddess and testimony to her grace and
saving power.
The novel opens with a chilling tale of magic and murder. While travel-
ing to Thessaly, that infamous land of witches, Lucius hears a story about a
man destroyed by the wanton lust and possessive jealousy of an innkeeper
witch. This narrative within a narrative establishes the main themes and
tone of the entire novel, whose plot is propelled forward by witches’ lust
and unscrupulous magic. While it is Lucius’s own interest in the occult and
curiosity about magic that leads him into his eventual predicament of being
turned into an ass, the real magicians in the story are primarily women,
and it is to women that Lucius turns in his desire to witness magic and
experience the miraculous.97 When he discovers that his host’s wife is a
consummate witch (maga primi nominis, 2.5.4), Lucius seduces her servant
in the hopes of gaining access to secret magic arts. Throughout the book
the descriptions of magic draw on the same stock themes delineated so far
in Roman literature. The first witch encountered in the novel, the one of
the traveler’s tale, is described as an old woman who uses magic to disguise
herself and seduce hapless men on whom her desire lands.98 Like other
witches encountered in Roman literature, she wields power over nature:
she can lower the sky, suspend the earth, raise up ghosts, and bring down
gods (1.8).99 She uses magic to make men fall madly in love with her and
to punish them if they ever offend her or misbehave. One man she turned
into a beaver for sleeping with another woman and a competing innkeeper
she transformed into a frog (1.9). Her victim in the traveler’s tale tried to
escape her lust but was fiendishly murdered in a jealous fit (1.13). The wit-
ness to the deed barely lived to report her crime. Thus the familiar topoi
of lustful women using magic to seduce younger men, necromantic ritu-
als, and control of nature make appearances in the Metamorphoses. Lucius’s
hostess performs a rooftop rite to summon her lover, according to the stock
themes of literary magic:
First, she assembled her infernal workshop with the customary apparatus, filled
with every sort of herb and metal tablets inscribed with unknown languages
and the ruined remains of an unlucky ship; on display were a great variety
of body parts from corpses mourned and even buried; here some noses and
fingers, there some flesh-covered nails of a crucified criminal, elsewhere the
preserved gore of victims butchered, and a mutilated scalp wrenched from the
teeth of wild animals.
(3.17.4–5)
This description resembles Lucan’s portrait of Erictho in Pharsalia, espe-
cially in the graphic enumeration of the various body parts stolen from
cemeteries or places of execution. Unlike Lucan’s description, however,
Apuleius’s portrait is meant to entertain, not shock.100 It does not margin-
alize war nor express the degeneration and inhumanity of Roman society
as Lucan does. Rather, by the time Apuleius writes his novel, roughly a
hundred years later, these details form a common stereotype that Lucius
parodies: each witch is more insatiable and cruel than the last. He continues
to describe her ritual:
Then she pronounced an incantation over still-living entrails and made offer-
ings with various liquids, now spring water, now cow’s milk, now mountain
honey and mead. Next, having fastened those borrowed hairs together in a
knot, she delivered them to living coals to be incinerated along with various
scented [herbs]. Suddenly, through the irresistible force of magic arts (magi-
cae disciplinae) and the hidden violence of coerced gods, those bodies, having
been summoned by their smoking hairs, borrow human breath and perceive
and hear and walk to the place where the odor of their clippings was drawing
them. Instead of that young Boeotian, it was they [the inflated wineskins] who
came, leaping and bounding, and eagerly assaulted our gates.
(3.18.1–4)
What begins as an apparently earnest description of a magic ritual, draw-
ing on stock themes—such as offerings of milk and honey, knotted hair,
exotic herbs and body parts—rapidly becomes a farce. Apuleius plays on
the reader’s expectation of a magic rite to stage a joke. Since the hair had
been taken from shaved wineskins made of boar hides, the “lover” invoked
by the witch’s powerful magic is none other than those inflated wineskins.
The witch’s magic is thus so powerful she can accidentally endow life to in-
animate objects (spiritum mutuantur humanum et sentiunt et audiunt et ambu-
lant), drawing those with her lust-induced necromantic rites. By depicting
Pamphile ’s ability to bind and control inflated boar hides, Apuleius draws
on a credulous belief in magic’s efficacy to entertain his audience.
Apuleius’s Metamorphoses attests to the endurance and tenacity of magic
discourse, which in Roman hands contributed to shaping the familiar West-
ern witch stereotype. Although many aspects of the portrait have parallels
in other ancient and premodern cultures,101 the particular constellation of
themes that we have examined appears with dramatic flourish in the Augus-
tan period and continues to develop well into the second century ce. No-
tions of predatory older women, witches with cosmic powers, and a fixation
on necromancy and lurid violence characterize Roman portraits of wom-
en’s magic and distinguish them from their classical Greek predecessors,
as well as from early Christian representations of magic and those found
in rabbinic literature. While the differences may point to a development
in technology related to the practice of magic,102 or to Roman tastes for
the gruesome and exotic, the preoccupation with women’s sexual predation
suggests that we need to look at social and ideological factors to understand
these particular depictions and the stereotypes that underlie them.
I suggested above that this portrayal reflects concern over the perceived
sexual license and dissolute luxury of elite Roman women combined with
an ideal of female chastity as an indicator of social order and stability. Two
texts highlight this connection between wealthy, libidinous women and the
stereotype of magic in Roman literature. In his eighth epode, for example,
Horace unleashes a vitriolic attack on an apparently old woman with whom
he is trying to have intercourse. The significant element of this epode, for
our purposes, is that many of the qualities he mocks present this woman in
terms reminiscent of those portrayed doing magic—she is sexually willful
as well as bestial:103
You, foul by your long century, ask
what unmans my strength,
when you’ve a black tooth, and old age
plows your brow with wrinkles,
and between your dried-out cheeks gapes filthy
an asshole like a dyspeptic cow’s?
But your chest and decaying tits arouse me,
like mare’s udders,
and your soft belly and your skinny thigh
on top of swollen shins.
Congratulations, and may images of great men
precede your funeral train,
nor may there be a wife who walks
laden with rounder pearls.
And so what if Stoic booklets like to lie
between your silk pillows?
Do unlettered cocks harden less for that?
Or does that phallus droop less,
which you have to work on with your mouth
to raise from its proud crotch?104
Numerous descriptive details of this ribald poem suggest that the woman is
affluent and from an influential family: she wears round pearls (nec sit mar-
ita, quae rotundioribus / onusta bacis ambulet) and will have the busts of her
illustrious ancestors escort her funeral train (esto beata, funus atque imag-
ines / ducant triumphales tuum).105 Furthermore, she is identified as a blue-
stocking who associates with the cultured and literary set—Stoic booklets,
Horace claims, lie between her silk pillows (quod libelli Stoici inter Sericos
iacere pulvillos amant). She epitomizes, therefore, the qualities I identify
as the source of the magic/wicked woman discourse: she is sexually in-
dependent and desiring, she possesses wealth and therefore, presumably,
some autonomy as well as social and political influence. Furthermore, with
these qualities she threatens a sphere of male activity and achievement.106

Richlin, for example, cites other examples of old women who are satirized
for using money to buy sexual favors. In so doing, these women flaunt their
disposable income and, more important, usurp the traditional prerogative
of men to buy sex, drawing the entire patriarchal system into question.107
Later Roman writers demonstrate a similar discomfort with elite wom-
en’s autonomy and perceived unchastity, linking them explicitly with
magic. Juvenal’s sixth satire, for example, attacks Roman women for being
unchaste (passim), unfaithful (passim), cruel (219–223, 480–493), and in-
satiably libidinous (329–334). According to this comic rant, women seek
sexual gratification anywhere and from anyone they can—although rare-
ly from their husbands. These poor men they merely deceive (271–278),
dominate (209–218), and ruin financially (508–511). Additionally, Juvenal
mocks women who transgress gender boundaries by playing the intellectual
and legal scholar (434–440, 448–456, 242–245) or who dabble at sport and
practice sword games. These women don the armor of gladiators, wrestle
in mud, and humiliate their husbands with a display of masculine daring
despite requiring a chamber pot to urinate (246–264).
He crowns his tirade against the “fairer sex” with an accusation of
magic. According to Juvenal, Roman women stop at nothing, not even the
use of incantations, love potions, and poisons, to achieve their devious and
subversive goals:
This man provides magical incantations, that one sells her Thessalian
love potions with which she can impair the mind of her husband
and spank his rump with a slipper. To the extent you are going mad,
[my friend],
that is the cause. That is the reason for your foggy mind and great
forgetfulness
of things you did just recently. Yet, this is tolerable as long as you don’t
begin to go stark raving mad like Nero’s famous uncle,108
to whom Caesonia administered the entire frontal lobe of
a trembling foal. What wife will not act in the same manner as an empress?
(610–618)
Well-born women, he claims, especially hate stepchildren and think noth-
ing of murdering them with poison. In fact, he sardonically declares that
it is now lawful to murder a stepson (priuignum occidere fas est, 628) and
warns everyone to mistrust their food, even when served by your own
mother (631).
Juvenal’s diatribe against Roman women combines the main elements

of magic discourse with the discourse of wicked women. He identifies
wealthy women as sexually promiscuous, encroaching on male territory,
overly assertive, dominating, and, finally, engaging in magic. Such a tirade,
while clearly meant to be satirical, reveals the link between elite women’s
imagined libido and Rome ’s particular form of magic discourse. The as-
sociation between women, magic, and the violation of sexual decorum per-
sists until well into the modern period, informing ideas about witches and
the writing of demonological treatises.109 Richlin suggests that the invec-
tive against old women represents a type of “apotropaic satire” that seeks
to conquer and control the power of death by belittling old women who
personify chthonic forces of sterility and decay.110 This symbolic reading
may apply on some level to the fear and disgust of old women, articulated
so well by these poems. I argue, additionally, that the preoccupation with
sexually predatory old women and women with money reflects a particu-
larly Roman concern that women who were economically independent and
socially emancipated threatened male control over the domus and the very
structures of society.111 Coincidentally, at approximately the same time that
men of the senatorial class were losing power under Augustus’s new Prin-
cipate, the image of the libidinous witch burst upon the literary scene.112
These two poems indicate an ongoing concern with elite women’s sexual
behavior and the perception that they are increasingly debauched. Women’s
sexual license and dissipation had long been tied to social decline and moral
decay in Rome.113 Already in the late Republic concern was expressed that
women’s decadence threatened the stability and honor of the state.114 In the
next section I explore how this idea was harnessed by Augustus as part of
his imperial ideology.
gender dis c o u r s e a n d i m p e r i a l i d e o l o g y
In the preceding representations of magic the discourse of wicked women
that circulated already in the republican era emerges strong and clear. The
women in these portrayals appear as sexually aggressive and independent—
that is, they are either not obviously married or, if they are, they use magic
to assist their adultery. In addition to sexual predation and unchastity, these
women often appear cruel or bestial—harbingers of social chaos. What ac-
counts for the emergence of this demonizing discourse that vilifies women
as witches and paints them as sexually predatory and uncontrolled: why
combine magic discourse with the discourse of wicked women at this time?
Certainly the blending of these two discourses was a logical development

once magic was introduced as a discourse of alterity during the second or
first centuries bce.115 I suggest that it may also be seen as part of a larger
discourse about gender and social order that operated already in republican
Rome but was amplified by Augustus as part of his moral and religious re-
forms following the civil wars. Ideals about feminine domesticity and virtue
had existed since the republican era and served as a topos for representing
the relative health of the Roman state.116 Augustus enlisted this existing pre-
occupation with women’s perceived sexual license and violation of proper
gender roles, making it a matter of state concern and legal regulation.
In 18 bce Augustus enacted the first of a series of laws intended to renew
Roman morality and restore the integrity of the family, which was per-
ceived to have fallen into disrepute.117 The lex Julia de maritandis ordinibus
exhorted men and women to marry, offered economic inducements to those
who wed, and penalized those who did not. For example, widows were re-
quired to remarry within two years and divorcees within eighteen months.
Those who did not marry met with penalties, such as restrictions on their
ability to collect an inheritance. On the positive side, certain inducements
were offered to those who married and bore children. Men with children
more easily attained promotion. Women with children (three if she was
freeborn or four if she had been a slave) received the right to control their
own legal and financial affairs without a tutor, granting them a greater de-
gree of autonomy and self governance.118
While Augustus’s marriage law targeted primarily the wealthy (with its
emphasis on inheritance and control of property), it also provided the basis
of a moral ideology that reached far beyond the scope of the law’s actual
application.119 Scholars have speculated on the purpose behind the law.
Some propose that the marriage law was intended to check the increasing
dissolution of Roman society prompted by decline into excessive luxury
following the civil wars.120 Writers of the early Principate, for example,
such as Livy and Horace, present their society as degenerate and enslaved
to luxury, desperately needing Augustus’s timely moral intervention. Livy,
especially, seemed concerned to delineate proper behavior for women.121
Later, Juvenal attributes the luxury and dissoluteness of elite women to ex-
cessive wealth and leisure generated by the empire (Sat. 6.292–295). Pov-
erty and hard work, he claims, keep women chaste (Sat. 6.287–290). While
decadence may have contributed to these legal decrees, population decline
and the extinction of many noble houses have also been proposed as pos-
sible incentives.122
A year following passage of the lex Julia de maritandis ordinibus, Au-

gustus passed an additional law aimed even more explicitly at improv-
ing the moral rectitude of Rome ’s population—targeting, especially, free
women.123 In 17 bce he outlawed adultery, turning what had previously
been a family concern into a criminal offense and an affair of the state.124
According to the lex Julia de adulteriis, sexual intercourse with free women,
whether married, divorced, or widowed (also including unmarried virgins,
of course) counted as stuprum, a legal offense subject to severe punishment,
including exile.125 A man could have legal intercourse outside marriage only
with certain categories of women: prostitutes, actresses, innkeepers, and
unmarried freedwomen. All freeborn women remained off limits whether or
not they had passed into their own manus, that is possessed legal autonomy.
According to some accounts, some free women sought to register as prosti-
tutes and escape prosecution for adultery under the new laws.126
What accounts for this moral legislation, which explicitly limits women’s
sexual freedom rather than focusing on encouraging procreation? Leo Fer-
rero Raditsa suggests that these laws were intended to restore “moral feel-
ing and self-respect to men who had survived a historical catastrophe [the
civil wars] in which the best had probably been killed.”127 But why concen-
trate on the sexual conduct of women to boost men’s morale? Why stipulate
certain categories of women as permitted for sexual congress while others
remain illicit? These laws were clearly passed for ideological reasons. Al-
ready in the late Republic, perceptions of moral decline and women’s un-
chastity were linked to decadence in the burgeoning empire. Nostalgia for
the rugged and simple life of early Rome was articulated as an ideal.128 Au-
gustus drew on and magnified this sentiment, presenting himself (rightly
or wrongly) as the savior of Rome and restorer of moral values. Much has
been written on these reforms: their social and political effect, their motiva-
tion, and their sincerity.129 Whatever position one takes on these debates,
it is clear that Augustus was capitalizing on existing sentiments and values.
His reforms propelled concerns over women’s sexual comportment into
the public sphere and turned previously private matters (punishable by the
family) into matters of state regulation.130 These reforms demonstrate the
political power of gender discourse during the Imperial period:
Women as the focal point of the domestic sphere had an important role to play
in the new vision of Roman society, as representatives of what the imperial re-
gime had to offer—both an imagined return to the unproblematic and virtuous
past, and a fresh way of understanding what it meant to participate in Roman
public life. The result was an overriding concern with feminine virtue and its
locations.131
I suggest that while Augustus was promoting domesticity and an idealized
and politicized vision of female behavior as part of his imperial ideology,
the image of the witch emerged as the antithesis. Her uncontrolled libido,
masculine behavior, and independence signified chaos, a reversal of natu-
ral order, and social evils such as murder and infanticide. The witch thus
functions as a foil for the symbol of imperial order, peace, and domestic
harmony embodied in the chaste women of the imperial house, who were
prominent icons of Augustus’s civic renewal.132
This opposition between imperial order and the nefarious witch becomes
most apparent in the generation following Augustus. During the reign of
Tiberius, magic discourse operated as a powerful political weapon. Ac-
counts of criminal proceedings during his Principate indicate that charges
of magic (usually combined with accusations of treason—maiestas) could
be leveled against political opponents or perceived threats to power. These
charges appear to have been trumped up in nearly every case. As such, they
reveal the complex intersection of power and knowledge inherent in magic
discourse. What constituted magic was defined in part by those in power,
but the accusation of magic also had the ability to take down the powerful,
reversing the fortunes of people dangerously close to the imperial throne.133
Magic discourse was thus integrally tied to power and participated in the
negotiation of who had it and who did not.
Interestingly, adultery, which figures so prominently in the literary rep-
resentations of magic and also appears frequently as a criminal charge at
this time, only rarely operates in combination with magic accusations.134
Instead, the two discourses—magic and sexual crimes—operate separately
to marginalize and criminalize perceived threats to those in authority. Both
charges, however, utilize and reinscribe the emerging stereotype of the
sexually depraved and libidinous witch; an accusation of one crime would
readily suggest involvement in the other transgression. It is to an explora-
tion of the political side of magic discourse that I turn now.
magic disco u r s e i n r o m a n p o l i ti c s
The lex Julia de adulteriis, passed by Augustus in 17 bce, provided
grounds for convicting women of sexual crimes, resulting in the wom-
an’s exile and the confiscation of her property.135 In addition to this law,
Tiberius revived the lex maiestatis, which prohibited any show of disre-
spect toward the emperor’s majesty or toward former emperors, now di-
vine (Tac. Ann. 1.72).136 These two laws served to generate a reign of ter-
ror among the political elite of Rome, who could arbitrarily be brought
to trial by corrupt and ambitious accusers eager to ingratiate themselves
with the emperor, eliminate an enemy, or gain wealth from the confiscat-
ed property (Tac. Ann. 4.33; Suet. Tib. 61; Dio 57.19.1). The first to be ac-
cused of magic together with revolutionary activities (moliri res novas) is a
man of the Scribonian family, Libo Drusus. He was a descendant of Pom-
pey and could claim Augustus’s second wife, Scribonia, for a great-aunt.
He thus came from illustrious loins and could furthermore claim cousin-
ship with the Caesars. According to Tacitus’s account, one of Libo’s clos-
est friends directed him into foolish practices—namely, consulting Chal-
dean astrologers, magic rituals (magorum sacra), and the interpretation of
dreams—pointing to his illustrious ancestry and, it would be inferred, his
equal claim on the throne (Ann. 2.27). This friend then divulged Libo’s
crimes to Tiberius. It wasn’t until another informer reported to Tiberius
that Libo had tried to raise infernal spirits through incantations (carmini-
bus), presumably with the aim of consulting them about the future, that
Tiberius demanded a senatorial inquiry. During his trial Libo’s personal
papers were read aloud in which he pathetically inquired of his oracles
whether he were to become rich enough to cover the Appian Road with
money (2.30). In the end Libo opted for suicide, although Tiberius after-
ward claimed he would have interceded with clemency. This case dem-
onstrates the use to which magic discourse could be put in the vicious
political intrigues of imperial Rome: one could not even trust old friends
who might seek to improve their own status by leading one into trouble
with the law—all under the pretense of friendship.137
Libo’s case is also important because it demonstrates that not only
women but men also were accused of magic in the political intrigues of
imperial Rome. Following Libo’s trial, for example, Tiberius expelled as-
trologers and magicians from Italy, two of whom—both men—were ex-
ecuted (Ann. 2.32). Accusations of magic, therefore, could target men as
well as women.138 Nonetheless, the majority of accusations on record were
lodged against women or involved women as primary actors.139 In the in-
famous case of Germanicus’s death, for example, Gnaeus Piso, governor
of Syria, and his wife Plancina, a close friend of the empress Livia, were
implicated. Tacitus describes Plancina in terms that resonate with what
I have identified as the discourse of wicked women. He writes that Plan-
cina was unable to “contain herself within the limits of female decorum”
(Nec Plancina se intra decora feminis tenebat) and attended cavalry exercises
and infantry manoeuvres (Ann. 2.55). She also cultivated loyalty among
the troops. In other words, according to Tacitus, she took on traditionally
masculine roles and activities. Plancina and, more important, Piso were al-
legedly commissioned by the emperor Tiberius to undermine his nephew
Germanicus and weaken his claim on the throne. Eventually, the assault on
Germanicus took a sinister and fatal turn: Piso and Plancina are alleged
to have employed magic arts to remove him from the contest for imperial
power. According to Tacitus:
It is a fact that explorations in the floor and walls brought to light the remains
of human bodies, spells, curses, leaden tablets engraved with the name “Ger-
manicus,” charred and blood-smeared ashes, and other implements of witch-
craft (malefica) by which it is believed the living soul can be devoted to the
powers of the grave. At the same time, emissaries from Piso were accused of
keeping a too inquisitive watch upon the ravages of the disease.
( ann . 2.69) 140
Germanicus himself, as his last remaining strength waned, is said to have
accused Piso of his murder (Ann. 2.70). Already convicted in the court of
public opinion and facing an almost certain conviction, Piso settled his af-
fairs and then committed suicide. According to rumor, however, he was
actually murdered to prevent his revealing Tiberius’s own part in German-
icus’s death (Ann. 3.16). Meanwhile Plancina won a pardon through the
intercession of the empress Livia and increasingly distanced herself from
the fate of her husband. Public opinion charged that Plancina’s drugs were
next to be turned against Agrippina, Germanicus’s royal widow, and her
children, who—being Augustus’s great-grandchildren—were rightful
heirs to the throne (Ann. 3.17). In addition to Plancina and, allegedly, Livia,
another woman was also implicated in the murder. Rumor held that Mar-
tina, a notorious poisoner and friend of Plancina, had supplied the drugs
with which Germanicus was murdered (Ann. 2.74). She was later found
murdered herself, and it was asserted that Piso had her killed to prevent her
from giving testimony against him (Ann. 3.7).
This tangled web of rumor, accusation, and narrative embellishment
(enriched over the years since the events occurred) reveals a persistent
representation: powerful women, ambitious in their own right, enlist the
use of magic or poison in their sinister pursuit of power. While Tacitus’s
history is likely based on some facts (the occurrence of the trials them-
selves),141 his consistent expansion and reliance on rumor illuminates the

operation of magic discourse and the discourse of wicked women on a
number of levels: first, in the senate tribunal, accusations and convic-
tions (or pardons/acquittals) more often implicate women in the use of
magic than men. Second, in the court of public opinion rumor feeds and
is fed by these stereotyping discourses. Third, in the historical narratives,
where nearly one hundred years have passed since the events occurred,
Tacitus may draw on discourses prominent in his own day to dramatize
the past. Furthermore, he takes the opportunity as a historian to comment
on the state of the empire and the morals of the emperors, often using the
past as a foil for the present. His invocation, therefore, of wicked women
stereotypes, employing magic to further their political ambitions, may
reflect issues and concerns of his own time as much as the events of the
first century.
For example, Tacitus appears to enlist “wicked women” and “magic”
as rhetorical tropes to critique the excesses of imperial rule—personified
in the cruelty of empresses.142 In several accounts, ambitious women of
the imperial domus employ magic discourse to resolve “feminine” rival-
ries. According to Tacitus, Livia nursed such animosity for her step-grand-
daughter, Agrippina, that she was complicit in bringing charges against
Agrippina’s good friend and second cousin, Claudia Pulchra, which includ-
ed unchastity, adultery, poisoning attempts against the emperor, and illicit
devotions or curses (crimen inpudicitiae, adulterum . . . veneficia in principem
et devotiones) (Tac. Ann. 4.52).143 These charges were clearly trumped up;
Tacitus quotes Agrippina as saying that Claudia’s only fault was choosing
to remain friends with her despite the hostility of the imperial house.144 A
generation later, Agrippina’s daughter (also Agrippina), employed simi-
lar means to punish her rivals. For example, she commissioned someone
to bring charges of astrology and magic against her rival Lollia Paulina,
who had been a contestant for marriage to the emperor Claudius (Tac.
Ann. 12.22). Later, in a move reminiscent of the biblical Jezebel, this same
Agrippina coveted the gardens of Statilius Taurus and had Tarquitius Pris-
cus bring an accusation of “a few crimes of extortion” (pauca repetundarum
crimina) and, more seriously, addiction to “magical superstitions” (magicas
superstitiones) against him (Tac. Ann. 12.64). He chose suicide over facing
a lying accuser. She also accused Domitia Lepida, the mother of Messalina,
Claudius’s former wife and alleged adulteress, of practicing magic against
her (Tac. Ann.12.64).145 According to Tacitus, the quarrel resulted from
Domitia’s pride. She was a grandniece of Augustus and first cousin once
removed of Agrippina. She therefore perceived her lineage to be equal to

that of the empress, a claim Agrippina could not tolerate.
Other cases exist for which the motivation is much less clear although
the accused’s nobility suggests rivalry and political intrigue. As Syme
states: “When public emphasis is put on moral transgressions, a political
motive will be suspected.”146 Aemilia Lepida, who counted Sulla and Pom-
pey among her ancestors, was accused of falsum (feigning to have a child)
by her former husband, Publius Quirinius.147 This charge was compound-
ed by accusations of adultery, poisonings, and consulting astrologers on
matters pertaining to the Caesarean domus (Adiciebantur adulteria, venena
quaesitumque per Chaldaeos in domum Caesaris). From Tacitus’s account,
Tiberius seemed to favor conviction and permitted various legal manipula-
tions to that effect (Ann. 3.22).148 While the politics behind this case are not
altogether clear,149 Lepida seems to have wielded a certain amount of influ-
ence among the Roman nobility: during the games that interrupted her trial
she entered the theater with a group of noble women and stirred up sympa-
thy on her behalf (Ann. 3.23). According to Tacitus, the crowd was moved
by the nobility of her lineage against the pettiness of the background of
Quirinius, who was bringing the accusations. Additionally, she had claims
on the imperial house since she had been the chosen bride for Augustus’s
grandson and heir, Lucius Caesar (before he died) and therefore was des-
tined to be a daughter-in-law of the deified Augustus himself. Nonetheless,
under torture, Quirinius’s slaves revealed that she had attempted to poison
their master and this “evidence” was sufficient to seal her fate (Ann. 3.23).
An odd case involved the murder of a woman by her husband, Plau-
tius Silvanus, who pushed her out a window (Ann. 4.22). He claimed that
her death was a suicide, but an investigation into the matter revealed signs
of struggle and the use of force, implicating Silvanus. When his grand-
mother sent Silvanus a dagger, he took it as a hint from the emperor that
he should commit suicide—his grandmother being close personal friends
with the emperor’s mother, Livia. Interestingly, from our point of view,
Silvanus’s first wife, Numantina, was blamed for the affair; she was charged
with driving her husband insane through the use of incantations and po-
tions (carminibus et veneficiis) (Ann. 4.22). This case suggests that magic
discourse, linking as it does women’s lust and desire to control men with
the use of magic, contributed to the accusation and was reinforced by it.
Numantina was acquitted.
Those cases in which charges are not obviously trumped up and politi-
cal motives are less than clear invite the suggestion that perhaps these men
and women were, in fact, guilty of the charges attributed to them. People
certainly were practicing rituals regarded as magic by ancient authors, and
evidence suggests that some women engaged in the sort of magic spells at-
tributed to them in literature or in the courtroom.150 But, as I have argued,
the specific features of the Roman stereotype suggest that larger ideological
factors had a hand in shaping it. Anthony Marshall argues that women’s
visible presence in senatorial trials suggests their political influence and im-
portance at this time. They are not merely passive observers of political
intrigue or loyal supporters of their fathers and husbands. Rather they act
independently for their political goals/ambitions.151 If so, this suggests that
none of the trials for magic are without political implications.
The use of magic discourse in political invective and propaganda ap-
pears most clearly in the case of Cleopatra. During the civil war between
Octavian (the future Augustus) and Antony, Octavian presented himself
as the “protector” of Rome, employing xenophobic propaganda against
Antony, who was aligned with Cleopatra, the infamous queen of Egypt.152
Octavian’s propaganda machine quickly transformed his own quest for
power against a well-respected and beloved Roman general and noble into
a foreign war against an “oriental” queen, spreading the tale that Cleopatra
sought the destruction of Rome and the death of the empire.153 This charge
provided only a thinly veiled pretext for eliminating his political rival: a
vastly popular military leader, the right-hand man of Julius Caesar when
he was alive, and the main obstacle to Octavian’s supreme rule. After the
battle of Actium, in which Cleopatra and Antony suffered unsustainable
losses that led to their defeat and eventual suicides,154 Octavian celebrated
a triumph as if he had won a war against a sovereign nation. He thus dis-
guised his grab for power as a foreign war despite the shedding of Roman
blood.155 Later tradition largely accepted Octavian’s portrait of the war and
not only portrayed Cleopatra as a dangerous foreign enemy but employed
magic discourse and the discourse of wicked women to malign her as well.
Plutarch, for example, suggests that Cleopatra used pharmaka and goēteia
to seduce and manipulate Antony (Ant. 37). While it is not clear if magic
discourse was enlisted in Augustus’s own time as propaganda to vilify
Cleopatra, the portrayal of her as a seductive and manipulative sorceress
certainly came to be associated with her in popular imagination and histori-
cal depictions by the second century. This image of Cleopatra largely per-
sists to the present day, underscoring the effectiveness of magic discourse
to demonize powerful and independent women as well as the men who as-
sociate with them.
The use of magic discourse has a long and, at times, bloody legacy in the
West. Witch hunts and demonological treatises of the early modern period
drew substantially on Rome ’s formulation of the stereotype. Excessive li-
bido, inversion of the natural order, transgression of gender roles, includ-
ing grotesque acts of infanticide and necromancy, all make their appear-
ance in early modern representations of the witch that fueled European and
North American persecutions.156 Yet this demonization of women did not
immediately follow the Roman model. Certain early Christian writers, for
example, drew on magic discourse to vilify male contenders for religious
authority, charging that they used magic to seduce foolish women into fol-
lowing “heretical” forms of Christianity. While in many cases the primary
source of contention with the condemned movements was their inclusion
of women in leadership roles, women are not depicted as dangerous sorcer-
esses themselves but as victims of male sorcery. The explanation for this
operation of magic discourse is not self-evident. Therefore, it is to a closer
examination of this phenomenon that I turn in the next chapter.
four
my miracle, your magic
Heresy, Authority, and Early Christianities
But some man by the name Simon had previously been in the city practicing magic
arts (mageu0̄n) and amazing the nation of Samaria, saying that he himself was
someone great.
acts 8:9
B eginning with this account of Simon from the Acts of the Apostles,
magic functions in Christian writings as the discourse of alterity par
excellence.1 From its earliest appearance in the New Testament until the
witch hunts of the early modern era, magic has been equated with demonic
power and Satan. Charged in this way by the dualism of Christian cos-
mological thinking, magic discourse has been enlisted to demonize virtu-
ally any and all opponents of Christian “truth.” Early in Christian history
the accusation of magic was used to undermine the ancient and venerated
cults of Greece and Rome. Simultaneously, magic discourse functioned to
marginalize and alienate other Christians who followed teachings or prac-
tices that certain writers rejected. Consequently, assertions that one or an-
other contender for authority within the early church harnessed the power
of demons through magic should not be taken as descriptive, but rather
read within the context of rhetorical invective and slander. As the previous
chapters have shown, by the second century ce magic had developed into
a powerful Othering discourse: charges of practicing magic could result
even in capital punishment.
What is interesting about early Christian accusations of magic is their
divergence from the pattern of stereotyping women as magic practitioners.
108 m y m i r a c l e , y o u r m a g i c
While Greek and Roman literature had a strong tradition of associating

women with magic arts, Christian writings from the first two centuries por-
tray men rather than women as sorcerers. Women figure in representations
of magic as the victims of male magical predation, inverting the common ste-
reotype of sorceresses enlisting magic to manipulate the affections of male
targets. This difference in the deployment of magic discourse, I argue, can
be traced to Christianity’s marginal status in the pre-Constantine empire.
After the third century this pattern begins to change: women once more
become identified as those most liable to engage in illicit ritual activities and
to consort with demons. By the early modern period this stereotype, tragi-
cally, was patent. In order to understand the deployment of magic in early
Christian discourse, I begin by locating Christian charges of magic in the
competition between charismatic miracle workers in the second century.
Then I consider the role accusations of magic play in the contest over au-
thority within the early church. Finally, I examine the way Christian texts
gender magic and ask what, if anything, they reveal about women’s status
in the early church and the church’s status in the Roman Empire.
magic ster e o t y p i n g i n t h e s e c o n d c e n t u r y
The second century marks a shift in representations of magic. While the
previous two chapters have shown that Greek and Roman literature primar-
ily depicted women as magic practitioners, the second century witnessed a
marked increase in representations of male magicians. The stereotype of
the magos (or goēs) as a charlatan ritual specialist reemerges prominently
at this time and may reflect the influence of the Second Sophistic, which
saw many elements of Attic literary culture revitalized.2 For example, the
eternal skeptic Lucian of Samosata caricatures this type of expert in his sa-
tirical dialogue, Philopseudes, “The Lover of Lies.” This dialogue opens
with a discussion between a group of philosophers credulously compar-
ing their first-hand experiences of magic, ghosts, animate statues, and
other “paranormal” phenomenon.3 Lucian satirizes their credulity and, at
the same time, pokes fun at pretentious philosophers who accept common
superstition as much as the unlearned man even while laying claim to su-
perior rationality.4 In this dialogue one of the interlocutors, Cleodemus,
relates the miraculous works performed by a Babylonian Chaldean who,
he claims, can rescue a man from dying by snakebite (11), summon and
kill all the neighboring snakes and serpents (12), as well as perform a po-
tent love spell (14). In his description of this “Hyperborean magos” (14),
m y m i r a c l e , y o u r m a g i c 109
Lucian draws on many stock themes we have encountered in earlier lit-

erature. For example, the magician invokes Hecate, makes a model out of
clay for use in the love spell,5 and utters sacred names from an old book.
Foremost among the stereotyped characteristics is the magician’s ethnic
identity and foreign origin—he hails from Babylonia, the infamous land
of magicians and astrologers according to Greek topology. Lucian’s satire
thus draws on and reinscribes popular conceptions of magic, including, es-
pecially, the predilection of certain ethnic groups to traffic in it. Later in this
dialogue Cleodemus describes how he hired the Hyperborean magician to
attract a woman with whom his ward had become infatuated. The spell
worked like a charm: the woman came immediately and “wrapped herself
in amorous embrace around the infatuated youth” (14). This spell achieves
immediate results, but the joke, in Lucian’s dialogue, is on the spell’s peti-
tioner, Cleodemus. His friend, Tychiades, reports that he knows the woman
well: she is amorous and readily accessible (erastēn gunaika kai procheiron,
15). He claims that only a small amount of change would have been suf-
ficient to summon her services without resorting to “the clay ambassador
and the Hyperborean magician and the moon herself ” (15). Lucian thus
attributes the magic’s apparent efficacy to “natural” causes (the woman’s
lusty character), poking fun at the credulity of Cleodemus and others of his
sort. While comically mocking popular belief in magic, Lucian’s satire also
demonstrates the tenacity and resilience of this ancient stereotype, which
identified magoi with foreign superstition and fraud.
In another satire that similarly reflects Lucian’s skepticism, he lampoons
a man who, according to Lucian, defrauds people by pretending to be a
pious priest and miracle worker. Lucian cynically reports that this man,
Alexander, established mysteries to Aesclepius and installed himself as
high priest and hierophant of this new cult by employing false miracles
and beguiling people into believing in him. Lucian describes some of the
tricks Alexander supposedly used to fabricate these miracles, which include
chewing soapwort to make himself foam at the mouth and appear to be mad
or in ecstasy and manipulating a snake puppet, which posed as the oracle
and was sufficiently lifelike to convince many onlookers of its veracity (12).
Lucian’s depiction of Alexander resembles those of charlatan priests and
itinerant healers portrayed centuries earlier in On the Sacred Disease; he
draws on these stereotypes to disparage Alexander and his oracular mys-
teries—demonstrating that the discourse of magic, which was being for-
mulated in the fifth and fourth centuries bce, carried considerable rhetori-
cal weight by his time.
It is possible that Alexander did everything Lucian ascribes to him.

However, given Lucian’s skepticism and general opposition to what he re-
garded as superstition, it is equally possible that he rhetorically vilifies a
sincere devotee of Aesclepius who may have believed in his own divine
power as much as the crowd that participated in his mysteries.6 Religious
sincerity is difficult to gauge. So while we can assume that there were many
swindlers in the second century—after all, wherever money can be made
one will discover chicanery—one should read Lucian’s denigrating por-
trait with a grain of salt. Lucian no doubt exaggerates certain questionable
characteristics of his protagonist for rhetorical effect. In so doing, his por-
trait of Alexander reinscribes the powerful stereotype of the magos/goēs
upon which he draws for his satire.
Apuleius’s Metamorphoses offers further evidence for a renaissance of
the magos stereotype in the second century ce. First, the hero of the story,
Lucius, encounters a peripatetic Chaldean who earns his living dispensing
oracles for a fee in towns through which he passes. He predicts (correctly
it turns out) that Lucius’s upcoming trip to Thessaly will increase his repu-
tation and produce a long, unbelievable story, a book in several volumes
(2.12). Lucius is not able to imagine, at this stage in the story, the meaning
of this fortune. Later, Lucius discovers that the man is a swindler: his host,
Milo, knows this oracle-producing Chaldean and reports that the man has
suffered a string of personal misfortunes, leading to the obvious conclusion
that he cannot correctly predict and avoid disasters in his own life let alone
that of others (2.14). The irony is that, although the Chaldean is reportedly
a charlatan, his prediction for Lucius ends up being true. Apuleius teasingly
leaves open the question of magic’s efficacy; he satirizes dispensers of false
fortunes even while making their oracles come true.
In another episode of the Metamorphoses involving a magos-type miracle
worker, an Egyptian prophet (Aegyptius propheta) revives a corpse in order
to reveal the identities of its murderers (2.28). The prophet places a special
herb on the mouth and chest of the corpse; then he faces east and invokes
the rising sun. In contrast to his earlier irreverent portrait of the oracle
giver and Lucian of Samosata’s portrait of Alexander and the Hyperborean
magos, Apuleius adopts a respectful attitude in this depiction. For example,
he describes the prophet’s attire in terms that suggest he is a priest of Isis;
he wears only vegetable-derived clothing, pure of any animal products.
Apuleius also narrates the ritual in positive, even reverential terms. For ex-
ample, the prophet silently invokes the waxing power of the sacred Sun and
he describes the rite as a “hallowed spectacle” (venerabilis scaenae, 2.28),
hinting, perhaps, at Lucius’s conversion to the Egyptian cult of Isis at the

end of the story.7
Furthermore, unlike the hucksters lampooned by Lucian, this prophet
succeeds in resurrecting the corpse, who reveals that his wife murdered
him for the sake of an adulterer.8 As proof that his story is true, the re-
vivified corpse points to the man who guarded him the night before, dis-
closing that the man’s nose and ears are wax replicas: witches stole the
real ones for use in their necromantic rituals the night before and replaced
them with wax duplicates to disguise their crime. The poor guard had
been hired to protect the corpse because witches, as we have seen, were
reputed to steal body parts according to Roman stereotypes.9 Despite his
vigilance, however, these witches were able to hypnotize the guard to
sleep and purloin his facial organs; because the guard and the corpse co-
incidentally shared the same name, he, rather than the corpse, responded
to the witches’ invocations. This anecdote capitalizes on two different sets
of stereotypes: witches who mutilate corpses for use in erotic magic (2.22),
which we explored in the previous chapter, and the ritual specialist who
masters ancient wisdom and performs miracles, which we will consider
more closely in this chapter. These two stereotypes function side by side
throughout the Metamorphoses and reflect different ways in which magic
operated as a discourse at this time. Apuleius’s depictions of male magi-
cians in the Metamorphoses illuminate the ambivalence that characterizes
the second century’s attitude toward these types of specialists; they can
be considered genuine prophets and miracle workers or swindlers, de-
pending upon one ’s religious commitment and also, perhaps, the person’s
genuine integrity and sincerity. The Gospel of Matthew similarly reflects
a positive conception of magoi in its depiction of the three “wise men”
(magoi) who pay homage to the infant Jesus after his birth (2.1, 7, 16).10
It is for this reason that I draw attention to the ambiguity surrounding
the stereotype of the male magician. The line between “true” and “false”
prophet was a thin one, determined primarily by ideology and conflicts
over authority.
In contrast to Apuleius’s Metamorphoses, early Christian authors draw
primarily on one stereotype—male charlatan—rather than the other—
wicked witch. In order to understand this peculiarity, it is necessary to ex-
amine the function of the magos stereotype as it operated in second-cen-
tury religious competition. Apuleius’s depictions in the Metamorphoses
comically demonstrate the high degree of interest in and apparent preva-
lence of so-called miracle workers and magicians in this century. While his
fantastical narrative is better understood as a caricature or exaggeration

rather than true portrait of historic circumstances, his novel does rein-
force the impression, supported by other contemporary writings, that this
period experienced an explosion of interest in various ritual experts, peri-
patetic priests, fortune-tellers, and miracle workers, even while continu-
ing to vilify libidinous witches. The desire for occult power and divine
intervention has been linked by some scholars to an increasing need for
and availability of religious options and opportunities at this time.11 The
smorgasbord of religious possibilities and the often fierce competition be-
tween them guaranteed magic a central position in the arsenal of strategies
employed to delegitimate religious rivals. In this context the accusation
of magic served to undercut a contender’s claims to sacred power (and
hence to authority), identifying him instead with the widely promulgated
stereotype of the charlatan goēs. Alongside magic as a discourse of alter-
ity, a discourse of legitimacy—miracle—operated to authorize sources of
power and people who laid claim to them.
miracle di s c o u r s e
Like magic, miracle functioned as a discourse in the ancient world: miracles
demonstrated divine power and hence conferred authority. Even emperors
could be attributed with the ability to perform miracles, legitimating with
divine favor their de facto political and military control.12 Despite a few
cynics such as Lucian of Samosata, who satirized popular belief as “super-
stition,” most intelligent and educated people accepted miracles as manifes-
tations of divine power and therefore as rational phenomena. Inscriptions
from Epidaurus, for example, testify to the miraculous cures performed
there by the god Aesclepius:13
A man came as a suppliant to the god. He was so blind that of one of his eyes
he had only the eyelids left—within them was nothing, but they were entirely
empty. Some of those in the Temple laughed at his silliness to think that he
could recover his sight when one of his eyes had not even a trace of the ball, but
only the socket. As he slept a vision appeared to him. It seemed to him that the
god prepared some drug (pharmakon), then, opening his eyelids, poured it into
them. When day came he departed with the sight of both eyes restored.14
The gospel accounts of Jesus’s ministry also rely heavily on miracle to
demonstrate Jesus’s power. Significantly, the valence assigned to miracles
in early Christian literature is not consistent and reveals changes and ten-
sions within the fledgling communities over the use and meaning of mira-
cle as a “sign” (sēmeion) of divine authority. In Mark, for example, mira-
cles demonstrate Jesus’s authority and attest to his role as the Son of Man,
presaging the imminent parousia. Thus, when Jesus casts out demons, they
“recognize” him and proclaim him to be the “Holy One of God” (ho ha-
gios tou theou, 1:24), and Jesus is said to heal a paralytic so that “you may
know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins” (2:10).15
In John the miracles themselves prove to be problematic: on the one hand,
they serve as a sign of Jesus’s divinity and help convert people who ex-
pected to see miracles as proof of spiritual power.16 On the other hand,
John criticizes reliance on miracles for faith and extols converts who do not
require signs (sēmeia) and wonders (terata) to believe.17 John belittles those
who rely on miracles as unable to perceive Jesus’s spiritual message; they
comprehend his life and teachings only on the level of the flesh. Matthew,
however, appears to be the most aware of the danger in using miracles to
demonstrate divine power since they can easily be construed as magic. For
this reason, it seems, Matthew plays down the magical element of Jesus’s
miracles, often rewriting them to omit words-of-power or ritualistic ele-
ments such as spittle, which may have been construed as magic by ancient
observers.18 These gospels reflect a tension within early Christianity over
the meaning of miracles—miracles attest to divinity and constituted an es-
sential component of charismatic authority in the ancient Mediterranean,
yet Christians sought to distinguish their message (which varied accord-
ing to the gospel) from that of similar competitors in the religious market-
place.19 Jesus is unique, they claimed, and not subject to the same circuit of
circus tricks to prove himself.
Other itinerant philosophers and healers (or their followers) also laid
claim to miracle for legitimation. For example, around the turn of the third
century, the empress Julia, wife of Septimius, commissioned Philostratus
to write a biography of the miracle-working philosopher and near con-
temporary of Jesus, Apollonius of Tyana. Philostratus records the life of
Apollonius about a hundred years after the events narrated were supposed
to have occurred, based purportedly on a diary belonging to Apollonius’s
friend Damis.20 It has been claimed that this biography deliberately sought
to resuscitate the reputation of Apollonius by describing him in terms of
a “divine man” (theios aner) and to distance him from charges of being a
magician.21 Philostratus depicts Apollonius as a powerful miracle worker:
he saved a city from plague, expelled many demons, vanished from a room
full of people, and, most impressively, raised a girl from the dead. Based on
the similarity of the miracles, many scholars of early Christianity looked

to Apollonius as a model for the Jesus of the gospels.22 More recently,
scholars have suggested that Apollonius’s miracles are actually modeled
on those of Jesus in an attempt to counter the influence of Christianity.23
The most likely explanation for similarities between Apollonius and Jesus
is that miracle stories were common topoi in the second century; they con-
veyed notions of divine authority and were necessary to establish religious
legitimacy.24
Philostratus’s depiction of Apollonius also reflects some of the ambiva-
lence toward miracles that Mark and John exhibit. For example, accord-
ing to Philostratus, Apollonius’s power and ability to perform wondrous
cures derive from his ascetic lifestyle, philosophical training, and special
insight into nature rather than from ritual techniques.25 As Howard Clark
Kee notes, “his aim is to protect Apollonius from the charge of practic-
ing magic,” indicating the relative and perspectival nature of these two
discourses—the difference between them resides primarily in the eye of
the beholder and the authority of the one wielding the label.26 Philostratus
also strives to avoid any accusation of magic by demonstrating Apolloni-
us’s selfless motivations. For example, moved by the grief of a mourning
procession, Apollonius revives a deceased maiden and refuses payment in
return (4.45). By having Apollonius refuse the money, Philostratus seeks
to differentiate him from the charlatans caricatured by Lucian and Apu-
leius. These types used their powers for financial gain.27 Philostratus, in
contrast, seeks to demonstrate Apollonius’s piety and present him as a le-
gitimate purveyor of charismatic power—that is, one who does not pur-
sue personal advancement. This effort to avoid the accusation of magic
testifies to the prevalence of the magos stereotype in the second century
and its capacity to delegitimize various figures who wielded numinous
power outside of recognized institutions, such as established oracles and
mysteries.28
magic and p o l i t i c a l i n t r i g u e
While miracle was enlisted as a discourse to legitimate sources of power by
linking them with divine authority, including the de facto political and mili-
tary power of an emperor, the opposite was true of magic.29 Accusations of
magic surfaced frequently in this period to delegitimate an enemy and were
reinforced by stereotyped representations in literature. Roman historians
Tacitus and Suetonius, for example, document the frequent employment of
magic discourse during the reign of terror under Tiberius and later Nero.30
In these periods of political intrigue, accusations of magic were enlisted to
eliminate rivals or just to ingratiate oneself with the emperor and facilitate
ones own promotion at the expense of an innocent neighbor. Taking a cue
from the elites, magic discourse also surfaces in private conflict or competi-
tion. The author of the Metamorphoses, Apuleius of Madaura, for example,
was accused of using magic to seduce and marry his friend’s wealthy wid-
owed mother.31 In a fortuitous congruence between history and literature,
the defense speech from Apuleius’s trial survives and reveals much of the
ambivalence surrounding stereotypes of magic at this time.32 His case also
illuminates the intersection of literary imagination and social history. Like
the politically charged accusations of magic lodged against Roman elites
and their compatriots (discussed in chapter 3), the accusation of sorcery
against Apuleius underscores the way these stereotypes functioned in actu-
al social settings where magic’s potency as a discourse to malign and mar-
ginalize was fully harnessed and exposed. Such accusations of magic attest
to the political component—the element of control and domination—that
subsists under the surface of the literary portraits. Apuleius’s contenders
enlist this discourse to make him into a magician by virtue of the power and
fear such stereotypes wield. They fail to the extent that Apuleius, excelling
in rhetoric, was able to utilize the ambiguity surrounding this charge in his
own defense. Apuleius skillfully draws on competing conceptions of magic
and the magician to undermine the power of the stereotype his interlocu-
tors sought to invoke. For example, Apuleius cites the Persian etymology
of the word magus and claims that, according to the correct understanding
of this word, magic should be held in high esteem as the wise art of wor-
shipping the gods:
You hear, you who rashly reproach the art of the Magi. It is an art acceptable
to the undying gods, well versed in honoring and venerating them, pious and,
you may be sure, understanding [things] divine, celebrated since that moment
when Zoroaster and Oromazes created it, the presiding priestess of heavenly
powers.
(26.1–2)
He contrasts this enlightened understanding of magic—the accusation of
which would be high praise rather than calumny—with the popular con-
ception of magic that regarded it as an illegitimate and dangerous exercise
of power. If the second definition is true, he demands to know why his ac-
cusers are not more afraid of his power.
But if my adversaries define magus according to the common fashion as one

who, through special fellowship of speech with the immortal gods, has power
beyond belief to fulfill whatever he may desire through the peculiar power of
incantations, I marvel very much why they are not afraid to accuse someone
whom they acknowledge to have so much power.
(26.6)
Apuleius continues to demonstrate the ridiculous nature of the accusation
by arguing that, in any case, the practices he is accused of doing conform to
neither portrait of magic but rather are those of the philosopher and natural
scientist. He thus turns the accusation of magic into a defamation of phi-
losophy and defends his learning, poverty, and natural curiosity on that
ground (3). Apuleius’s great learning and rhetorical skill extricated him
from a dangerous legal situation; charges of magic could lead to capital
punishment in his day.33 Apuleius manages through rhetorical skill to por-
tray his accusers as anti-intellectual, wealth-mongering imbeciles and to
enhance his reputation as a sympathetic philosopher-scholar. The accusa-
tion against Apuleius thus demonstrates the extent to which belief in the
dangerous power of magic and in the villainy of magicians could be used to
ruin someone by conjuring the extraordinary power of this stereotype.
christiani t y , c o m p e t i t i o n , a n d m a g i c
Christianity, in all its various forms, emerged in the religiously plural
Roman Empire and competed for converts against other purveyors of sal-
vation, such as Apollonius of Tyana and the goddess Isis.34 Like the Isiac
initiation described by Apuleius (Met. 11), which promised salvation from
the cruel domination of Fortuna and an improved lot both in this life and
in the world to come, baptism into Christ, according to Paul, offered sote-
riological benefits: namely, resurrection and a spiritual transformation.35
Christian initiates put on an imperishable nature after the likeness of Christ
(1 Cor 15:53) and received baptism into Christ’s death, sharing also his res-
urrection and promise of eternal life (Rom 6).36 Through this ritual initia-
tion Christians could acquire a new identity and community that gave them
a sense of belonging and meaning.37 Furthermore, apocalyptic expectations
made sense out of the violence of Roman hegemony by locating it in a his-
torical drama unfolding before one ’s eyes. These were the birth pangs of
the end times, some claimed, in which human suffering was granted a sense
of deep meaning and even purpose in the fulfillment of divine prophecy.38
Those who suffered now would in the end triumph and judge the bloody
triumphs of the irreverent Romans, who were basking in the violent har-
vest of their imperial greed.39 As a competitor in the religious marketplace,
Christianity—especially the more ecstatic and “bizarre” (from a Roman
perspective) forms of it—became a target of magic accusations.40 Some
Christians also wielded the accusation of magic against others in an attempt
to marginalize competitors and claim for themselves divine power. To un-
derstand how these Christian writers used the accusation of magic in their
struggle to define legitimate authority, we must first attend to accusations
of magic made against Christians by non-Christians.
Accusations of Magic from “Outsiders”

Christianity inspired suspicion and disdain among many of its neighbors.
One of the earliest extensive descriptions of Christianity from a non-
Christian source discusses the investigation of this “superstition” and its
strange and occult practices. In a letter to Emperor Trajan, the younger
Pliny requests advice on how to handle the Christian problem. He states
that his current method of dealing with the illegal superstitio is to ask the
accused whether they admit to being Christian. If they persist in affirming
this identity, he sends them away to be executed since this obstinacy in and
of itself seems worthy of punishment: “whatever the nature of their con-
fession is, certainly their inflexible stubbornness deserves to be punished”
(10.96.3). He admits, however, that upon further investigation—which in-
volved the torture of two slave women holding the position of deaconess
in their church—he can discover nothing untoward or criminal about their
practices: “I discovered nothing other than a perverse and immoderate su-
perstition (superstitionem pravam et immmodicam)” (10.96.8). He also in-
terviewed people who claimed to have been Christians formerly, and they
described their practices as follows:
They were accustomed to gather before light on an established day and in
turn among themselves chant a song to Christ as if to a god, and also to bind
themselves by an oath—not to some sort of crime—but rather to abstain from
theft, robbery, adultery, to deceive no one ’s trust and not to deny a deposit
when being summoned [to restore it]. When finished, it was their custom to
disperse and assemble again later to take food that was, at any rate, common
and harmless.
(10.96.7)
Although Pliny appears to question the real danger posed by this “per-
verse and immoderate superstition,” certain elements would almost cer-
tainly have provoked suspicion in antiquity, especially in their resemblance
to magic or other kinds of nefarious ritual behavior. Similar activities had,
after all, led to charges of illicit religious practice in the Bacchanal scandal
of 186 bce where prosecutors alleged that participants held nocturnal ritu-
als that involved sexual promiscuity, swearing an oath, and vowing to com-
mit fornication and other crimes such as forgery and murder (Livy 39.13).
While this event took place roughly three hundred years prior to Pliny’s
interrogation of the two female presbyters, it had been brought into mem-
ory more recently by Livy in his ab urbe condita (ca. 29 bce), renewing its
relevance for a Roman audience of the early second century, which was in-
creasingly concerned to patrol the boundaries of “Roman religion.”41 The
Bacchanal scandal thus could have served as a precedent to which Romans
referred in their efforts to define and regulate legitimate and illegitimate rit-
ual practices.42 The Christians met in secret and at night. They took oaths
to each other, worshipped an executed criminal, and shared a sacred re-
past consisting of their hero’s flesh and blood. Furthermore, the invocation
of someone who had died violently (a0̄ros) figures prominently in ancient
curse tablets (katadesmoi); Christian invocation of Jesus’s name, therefore,
would have resembled magic to most people living in the ancient world.43
Additionally, the Bacchanal and other nocturnal rites were associated with
women in Roman tradition and were, on this account, especially suspect.44
No doubt, the fact that female slaves held leadership positions in this new
religion, combined with its nighttime assemblies, triggered long-held fears
of hysterical women, unrestrained promiscuity, and the violation of tradi-
tional patriarchal codes.45 Christianity thus smacked of magic, superstition,
and possible treason from the viewpoint of an ancient Roman.46
A second witness to outsider perceptions of Christianity explicitly
identifies Jesus as a magician. Around 176 ce a pagan philosopher named
Celsus published an attack against Christianity. While his original text has
not survived, a Christian theologian, Origen, preserved many of Celsus’s
arguments as quotations in his defense. From these quotations we can re-
construct to a large extent Celsus’s original argument. One accusation that
recurs in Celsus’s attack on Christianity is “magic.” Celsus apparently
claimed that Jesus performed his miracles through sorcery—underscor-
ing the degree to which magic and miracle discourses were interchange-
able, depending on ones perspective. From Celsus’s point of view, Jesus
was no different than the frauds lampooned by Lucian.47 Origen refutes
this charge, first of all, by attempting to distinguish Christian miracles

from pagan magic. He claims that, unlike magicians, Christians do not em-
ploy spells or incantations but only “the name of Jesus (onomati tou Iēsou)
along with other words from the holy scripture in which they put faith”
(1.6.27). Origen enlists here the common stereotype that magic involves
incantations or ritual manipulations to access power. He asserts that Chris-
tian practices are different in that they invoke the divine name.48 In other
words, he invokes miracle discourse to defend Jesus’s power. This refu-
tation is somewhat disingenuous, however, since many incantations that
Origen and his contemporaries would have identified as magic consisted
substantially of sacred names, including those of the Jewish God along
with various other deities from the Greek and Roman pantheon.49 Conse-
quently, the invocation of Jesus’s name or various biblical phrases would
have been indistinguishable from magic on these grounds as far as an out-
sider was concerned. Furthermore, as already noted, Jesus is no ordinary
fellow. He constitutes an a0̄ros and, as such, was considered a source of
violent and subversive power.
Another aspect of the magic stereotype that applied to Christianity is
secrecy. Origen tries to defuse this charge on the ground that all myster-
ies have some doctrines they reveal only to the faithful (1.7). Philosophy
also, he points out, has some teachings that are exoteric and others that are
esoteric. As an example, he cites Pythagoras who, he argues, divided his
teaching according to secret and revealed doctrine. Origen thus struggles
to align Christianity with legitimate purveyors of wisdom and to negate the
association between Christianity’s secrecy and maleficium.
Against Celsus’s charge that Jesus represents a common goēs, who per-
forms exorcisms for the price of a few obols, Origen points to Christianity’s
moral adjurations. He argues that the marketplace prophet performs for
money and cares nothing about his spectators’ behavior, while Jesus, on the
other hand, manifests his divine authority by exhorting his followers “to
live as men who are to be justified by God” (h0̄s dikai0̄thēsomenous, 1.68).
Like Philostratus, who depicts Apollonius’s altruism to protect him from
accusations of magic, Origen enlists a similar discourse to defend Jesus.
He eliminates any fear of subversion by portraying Jesus as a morally con-
structive force, endorsing a pious lifestyle and good citizenship.
The debate between Celsus and Origen reveals how magic and miracle
discourses functioned interchangeably in ancient religious conflict. Secre-
cy, divine names, words of power, and the performance of mighty deeds
(dunameis) were all features that could be associated with magic. On the
other hand, miracles and knowledge of divine names were also the com-
mon coinage of sacred power in the ancient world. Thus, accusing a com-
petitor of using magic undercut his claims to authority by asserting that his
miracles derived from nefarious practices rather than from God. Christian-
ity suffered from this sort of delegitimation as nonbelievers (both Jewish
and gentile) accused Jesus of being a magician.50
Christians, for their part, participated equally in using this accusation to
undercut their competitors. From their position as a marginal and embattled
movement in the empire, however, Christian accusations of magic against
Jews and polytheists constituted a form of corrosive discourse—that is,
they targeted sites of authority from the social margins. In Authority: Con-
struction and Corrosion Bruce Lincoln describes “corrosive” speech as those
types of discourse that undermine authority indirectly, surreptiously, and
insidiously. He includes in this category of speech: gossip, catcalls, carica-
tures, graffiti, lampoon, and curses.51 These forms of speech constitute the
discourses of the lower classes and those lacking sufficient power (or cour-
age) to stand up to authority and voice their opposition openly. But such
discourses are effective in that they can eat away at the edges of authority
until their encroachment causes the regime to collapse under its own weight
like an old barn collapsing from the incursion of termites. Christian accusa-
tions of magic against the established cults and deities of the Roman Empire
should be understood in this light. As we will see in the next section, Chris-
tian apologists ironically turned the accusation of magic around on their
accusers. But, coming as it did from an oftentimes illicit and persecuted
movement, such an act of naming constituted a form of subversion.52
Christianity and Corrosive Discourse

In response to outsider claims that Jesus was a magician, Christian apolo-
gists countered that all worship of Greek or Roman gods was equivalent
to demon worship and, hence, magic. Even the highest and most revered
deities of the Greek and Roman pantheon were impostors—not divine at
all. Christians denounced as magic any divine power attributed to Greek
and Roman gods: miracles, prophetic dreams, and oracles were all achieved
through the manipulation of demonic forces. Justin, for example, inveighs
against the worship of idols in his First Apology, stating that idols are
made in the image of demons (9). In his Second Apology (5) he draws on
the biblical account of fallen angels in Genesis (6.1–2).53 According to the
narrative in Genesis, angels lusted after human women and copulated with
them, producing a breed of violent giants whom Justin identifies with Greek
and Roman gods. This legend played a significant role in pseudepigraphal
writings during the period of the Second Temple to explain the origin of
evil and the practice of magic in a world divinely created by a just God.54
Justin combines this mythic explanation of magic and the origin of demons
with Greek mythology to repudiate the gods of Greco-Roman tradition:
For this reason, poets and mythologists—not knowing that those angels and
the demons who were begotten from them caused these things to happen to
men and women, cities and nations—wrote it all down and ascribed it to God
himself and to the sons, who were engendered by him as offspring, and equally
to the offspring of those who were called his brothers, Poseidon and Pluto, and
their children.
(5.5)
Greek and Roman gods are thus none other than the demonic offspring re-
ported in the Bible, enslaving human beings through magic and beguiling
them into believing they are divine and worshipping them (1 Apol. 14). Jus-
tin rhetorically marries the Greco-Roman discourse of magic with dualistic
Jewish traditions about fallen angels to disparage the worship of Greco-
Roman gods as fraud or charlatanism. He thus takes aim at the entire edifice
of Roman belief and piety in one stroke through this clever combination of
Jewish and Greco-Roman mythologies.
Another Christian apologist, Tertullian, similarly explains the demonic
identity of pagan gods by drawing on the same biblical narrative of fallen
angels from Genesis 6. Providing more detail than Justin, Tertullian enu-
merates the qualities and attributes of these demons that lend them the air
of divinity. For example, he claims that the demons possess wings like an-
gels, which enable them to travel swiftly from place to place and to give
the impression of being omnipresent: their quickness of movement is un-
derstood as divinity, because their nature is not known (Apol. 22). Ter-
tullian also states that the demons (posing as gods) use magic to perform
miraculous healings in order to attract adherents. The truth is, he argues,
they first cause the illness with magic and then remove it, falsely claiming to
be divine on the basis of this fraudulent healing (Apol. 22). Developing this
line of reasoning further, Tertullian equates all Greek and Roman divinities
with demons and all priests or hierophants with magicians. The demons’
pretense, he argues, is exposed when they are confronted by Christians and
confess their identity as “false gods,” for if they truly were gods, Tertullian
reasons, they would not be intimidated into giving fraudulent testimony by
mere human beings (Apol. 23).
This argument, linking fallen angels and demonic power not only with
magic but with polytheistic worship, functioned brilliantly to undercut the
authority of traditional Greek and Roman religions. It also added an im-
portant new component to the discourse of magic in Christianity: magic
was no longer merely charlatanism or subversive rituals to gain power,
it was now identified with Satan and cosmic dualism.55 Once Christian-
ity became the dominant religion in the Roman Empire, this conception of
magic as Satan worship (even if done in ignorance) became the dominant
discourse. Magic was now seen not just as a form of subversion but as the
ultimate heresy—allegiance to Satanic forces—and hence the ultimate sin.
In this way Christian dualism radicalized the discourse of magic, contribut-
ing to later representations of “witches” as Satan worshipers.
In the Contest with Judaism

While Christian apologists could denounce Greco-Roman gods as demons
and their miracles and divine acts as magic, they needed to be more circum-
spect in their contest with Judaism because the god they both worshipped
was one and the same. As the earliest Christian writings show, Christians
were originally part of the Jewish community and perceived their messiah
to be the fulfillment of biblical prophecy. By the middle of the second cen-
tury this began to change among certain Jewish and Christian leaders, who
struggled to define Christianity and Judaism as distinct communities and
identities.56 Through a process similar to the formulation of magic dis-
course, rabbis and “church fathers” created heresy, which labeled a variety
of forms of both religions that were deemed unacceptable by these authori-
ties. Included as heretics were Jewish Christians and Christian Jews, who
refused to identify themselves as either exclusively Jewish or Christian, in-
dicating that these classifications, categories, and identities did not exist yet
or apart from this process of differentiation.57 In the first century followers
of Jesus struggled over correct interpretation and practice within the Jew-
ish community. Much of this contest is recorded in the New Testament.
Mark, for example, depicts Jesus in conflict with the Pharisees, priests, and
scribes.58 Mark’s portrait reflects not so much the actual conflict between
Jesus and religious leaders of his time (although it may do that also) as the
antagonism Mark’s community experienced toward its interpretation and
promulgation of Jesus’s teachings later when the gospel was being written.
The conflict is presented as an issue of authority: who has the legitimacy
to teach and to interpret Moses’s law.59 The religious authorities in Mark
oppose Jesus because his teachings contradict their own; his interpretation
of Mosaic law violates what Mark presents as more stringent and literalis-
tic interpretations by the Pharisees.60 In this contest over legitimacy, Mark
employs miracles as well as parables to demonstrate Jesus’s superiority over
the Pharisees—unlike them, Jesus teaches “as one who has authority.”61
While Mark utilizes miracle discourse to trump opposing authorities,
Matthew draws heavily on the rhetoric of biblical prophets to criticize those
who reject Jesus. For example, Jesus chastises the towns of Chorazin and
Bethsaida for not accepting his call to repent:
“Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! For if the miracles (dunameis)
performed in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented
long ago in burlap and ashes. I say to you, surely it will be more tolerable for
Tyre and Sidon than for you on the day of judgment.”
(matt 11:21–22)
The rhetoric is familiar from biblical prophecy; Matthew identifies Jesus
with the prophetic tradition and marginalizes his opponents by accusing
them of failing to keep the covenant. Acceptance of Jesus becomes equated
with covenant and rejecting him with sin. According to the polemical dis-
course of prophets such as Hosea (1:2), Jeremiah (3:6), and Isaiah (1:21),
such covenant breaking is tantamount to idolatry and even harlotry.62 Like
Mark, Matthew’s rhetoric belongs to a sectarian battle for authority and
leadership within a religious and ethnic community; he seeks to legitimize
Christ against antagonistic opponents by aligning him with accepted au-
thorities of their shared tradition, harnessing the prophetic rhetoric for his
own cause.63
The evangelists Mark and Matthew thus criticize fellow members of the
Jewish community, especially their leadership, for failing to acknowledge
Jesus and embrace his message, but neither denounces “Jews” or “Juda-
ism” per se.64 Because early Christian writers saw Christ as the fulfillment
of Jewish prophecy and expectation, they sought to legitimize him within
Jewish tradition. To that end they employed various rhetorical strategies,
but not accusations of magic—this would have demonized the very tradi-
tion they sought to inherit.
In the gospel of John the evangelist’s community appears to be in the pro-
cess of separating from the community of Jews who did not accept Jesus.65
The painfulness of the split manifests in the harsh strategies of “distancing”

that John uses in his discourse. Despite this apparent disparity between
the two communities, however, John never resorts to magic discourse as
a strategy to demonize the Other. Rather, he distances the opposing group
spatially by locating them in the synagogue and in the world, both of which
signify sites of conflict and rejection of Jesus in John’s gospel. He further
distances the other group linguistically by calling them Jews. By identify-
ing them as Jews, John suggests that his community has forsaken its own
identification with Judaism; they no longer regard themselves to be Jews.66
Luke-Acts represents a break with the other three gospels in that it reveals
an increasing shift toward seeing the Jew as Other against whom Chris-
tians must define themselves. More than any previous Christian document,
Luke-Acts engages issues of identity raised by the gentile mission; it at-
tempts to formulate a Christian self-understanding in light of the changing
composition of the movement and its increasing success among gentiles.67
Perceiving Jesus’s ministry as poised at a pivotal moment in history, Luke
imagines world history as a carpet rolling out in both directions toward
the future and the past. Christianity plays a crucial role in this unfolding
of God’s plan. Beginning with Adam, Luke perceives the salvific message
of the Hebrew prophets to extend, through Christianity, to all humanity.
Drawing on biblical tradition to understand both Christianity’s success
among gentiles as well as its rejection by Jews, Luke attempts to formulate
a sacred history that negotiates the church’s relationship with Judaism. He
understands Jesus to stand in the line of Hebrew prophets rejected by Is-
rael and perceives the destruction of Jerusalem to be divine punishment for
Israel’s rejection of Christ.68 Salvation has passed to the gentiles.69
In this contest over not only authority but identity, Luke harnesses
magic as a potent Othering device. For example, in Acts 19, he depicts
the failure of some “itinerant Jewish exorcists” (perierchomen0̄n Ioudai0̄n
exorkist0̄n, 19:13) to cast out a demon in the name of Jesus and Paul: the
demon chastises them, saying, “Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are
you?” While Luke does not use the term magos or goēs here, the associa-
tion of magic with control of demons suggests that this is a case of magic
discourse.70 In this short story Luke invokes a stereotype of Jews as magi-
cians, which may have derived, in part, from the secrecy in which they held
the name of their god.71 By invoking and reinscribing this stereotype, Luke
denigrates Jewish charismatics, showing them to be inferior and lacking the
proper authority. He also demonstrates the superiority of Christian exor-
cists and the power of the Holy Spirit.72 In contrast, the Jews appear to be
failed magicians, trying to steal their competitor’s technology.
This incident communicates three things central to Luke’s message: the
superior power of the Holy Spirit (recognized even by Jewish “magicians”),
the authority of Paul, whom the demons recognize when they do not rec-
ognize the other exorcists, and the inferiority of Judaism, which Christian-
ity has superseded.73 Luke enlists the discourses of both magic and miracle
to undercut Judaism and to dramatize Paul’s authority (which, contrary to
Paul’s own claims for himself, Luke never identifies as being apostolic).74
The demon’s comic reply, for example, attests to Paul’s legitimacy; not just
anyone can adopt the name of Christ and begin a career casting out demons
as the Jewish exorcists are depicted trying to do. Rather one needs to have a
divine commission from Christ.75 The narrative thus uses magic discourse
to impugn competing Jewish miracle workers and miracle discourse to
demonstrate that, although Judaism constitutes the root of Christianity, it
does not possess the fruit or flower whose power is realized in the divine
name Jesus when properly used by those with authority.
The employment of this dual discourse strategy arises again in the infa-
mous story of Simon Magus, who, according to Luke, amazed the people
of Samaria with acts of magic (tais mageiais) until he was converted to
Christianity by the missionary Philip (Acts 8:11ff ). Because Simon comes
to be closely associated with heresy in Christian writings and is accused of
spawning them all, I will consider his role in early Christian literature in
the following section, which examines the use of magic discourse to negoti-
ate authority among Christian communities.
The Making of a “Heretic”: Simon Magus

The earliest Christian writings reveal that, already in the formative years of
Christian history, struggles over authority and theology occurred. Both the
letters from Paul and Luke ’s more idealized portrait of Paul’s mission be-
tray the existence of dissent, disagreement, and political contest within and
among the early churches.76 The Apocalypse of John also witnesses to in-
ternecine struggle and the employment of visionary authority to legitimate
one side of a debate.77 As the struggle over authority intensified, Christians
enlisted familiar rhetorical strategies to delegitimate and discredit competi-
tors and opponents not only outside the church (as we saw above) but be-
tween churches as well. It is in this context that Luke’s accusation of magic
against a competing messianic figure came to be enlisted in the internecine

struggles of early Christianities.
According to Luke, Simon attracted a large following among the Sa-
maritans and was called by a title that some have identified as messianic:
But some man by the name Simon, had previously been in the city practicing
magic arts (mageu0̄n) and amazing the nation of Samaria, saying that he him-
self was someone great. Everyone attended to this man, from the least to the
greatest, saying that this man is “the power of God that is called Great.”78 And
they paid heed to him thanks to his amazing them with magic for a long time.
(8:9–11)
Luke portrays Simon as powerful, but attributes his spiritual charisma to
magic, deploying the now familiar discourse to delegitimate religious com-
petition. He also undercuts Simon’s moral authority by depicting him try-
ing to purchase the power of the Holy Spirit from Philip. This infamous
scene led to coining of the term simony for the acquisition of religious office
through bribery and forever branded Simon the arch-heretic and paradig-
matic fraud in Christian history. The story of Simon functions in Luke to
affirm the superiority of the Holy Spirit over and above the power of magic
(identified with Satan) as well as to associate the power of the Holy Spirit
with the twelve apostles.79 Philip, for example, is able to perform miracles
and to baptize the masses in Samaria. Yet his baptism is incomplete—it
lacks the transference of the Holy Spirit, which only apostles such as Peter
and John possess (8:14). According to Luke, it was the authority to confer
the Holy Spirit that impressed Simon most and distinguished Christianity
from mere magic.
Over the course of the second century Simon evolved from his position
as dangerous outsider to heretical insider—he was singled out as “the fa-
ther of all heresy” and accorded the dubious honor of being the first of the
“gnostics.”80 This metamorphosis did not occur immediately; Justin, for
example, does not actually label Simon a gnostic but describes his soterio-
logical mythology in terms that resemble what came to be called gnosticism
in the second century and later. He also portrays Simon as much more im-
portant and influential than Luke does:
A certain Samaritan, Simon, from a town called Gitto, accomplished powerful
acts of magic (dunameis poiēsas magikas) in your royal city Rome during the
reign of Claudius Caesar by means of the art of demons operating [in him]
(dia tēs t0̄n energount0̄n daimon0̄n technēs). He was considered a god and was
honored by you as a god with a statue; this statue was erected on the Tiber River
between the two bridges, bearing the following inscription in the language of
Rome: Simoni Deo Sancto.81 Nearly all Samaritans and a few among other na-
tions as well worship him, commonly proclaiming him to be the first god. And
a woman, Helena, who used to go about with him at that time, who formerly
had been made to stand in a brothel, is the first thought (ennoian pr0̄tēn), they
say, to come into being through him.
(1 apol . 26)
This account presents Simon as a significant and widely influential figure
while the Acts of the Apostles accords Simon a following in Samaria alone.
Justin also introduces the detail of Simon’s consort, Helena, to whom Jus-
tin attributes theological significance as Simon’s ennoian pr0̄tēn or “first
thought.” It is difficult to know whether Justin, living around a hundred
years after Simon was active in Samaria, can be relied upon to give ac-
curate testimony of Simon’s teachings or whether his report reflects years
of development—either by Simon’s own followers or in the imaginations
of anti-Simonists.82 It is possible that Justin accurately describes the more
developed “Simonism” of his own day, which has added so-called gnostic
elements such as Simon’s ennoian pr0̄tēn. It has also been suggested that
Luke misrepresents Simon, deliberately downplaying his influence and
theological teachings—reducing him to the status of a mere magician and
charlatan.83 However we account for the discrepancy between Luke’s and
Justin’s descriptions of Simon, details about his soteriology continue to de-
velop in the writings of subsequent church fathers and serve as a pretext for
dismissing competing forms of Christianity as gnosticism and Simonism.84
Most interesting for our purposes is the way that discourses about magic
and gender blend in accusations against Simon. In the following quotation,
for example, Irenaeus elaborates on the role of Simon’s partner, Helena,
whom he describes as a former prostitute.85 By casting aspersions on the
chastity of this woman, Irenaeus deploys a common trope of sexual slan-
der, which measured a man’s authority by the modesty and propriety of his
female relatives:
Moreover, Simon of Samaria, from whom all heresies derive (haereses substi-
terunt), uses material of such a kind in the formulation of his sect: a certain
woman, Helena, whom he delivered from prostitution in Tyre, a city of Phoe-
nicia, and used to lead around with him, claiming her to be the first conception
of his mind, mother of all, through whom in the beginning he conceived in his
mind to create the angels and archangels. Indeed, this Ennoia springing forth
from him, understanding what her father desired, descended to the regions
below and generated angels and powers by whom he declared that this world
was made.86
( adv. haer . 1.23.2)
In the passages following this one, Irenaeus describes Helena’s “fall” and
enslavement in human form along lines that resemble the well-known So-
phia myth from sources such as The Apocryphon of John. Like Sophia, Hel-
ena is trapped in human form by the powers and angels she has created; she
is unable to ascend to her father until Simon releases her from bondage and
confers salvation upon men through his self-revelation (1.23.2–3). Accord-
ing to this description, Simonism resembles other forms of early Christian-
ity commonly labeled gnostic in heresiological writings.87
Thus, the nature of Simon’s “heresy” seems to have evolved over time
and to have been embellished by early Christian writers in their various
accounts.88 For example, R. M. Grant detects three different and distinct
Simons in the literature and questions whether or not they are, in fact, the
same person:
In the documents that we possess, there are three Simons, not just one. There
is the Simon of Acts; there is the Simon of Justin and Irenaeus; and there is the
Simon of the pseudo-Clementine Homilies and Recognitions. And it is a real
question whether or not these three are one.89
Early heresiologists identified Simon as the single source of all heresies in
the early church. Why? I suggest that it is because he was explicitly associ-
ated with magic and fraud in a widely revered early Christian writing, Acts
of the Apostles, which carried great authority. When some early Christians
felt threatened by different forms of Christianity, associating their oppo-
nents with Simon and magic effectively anathematized them with the power
of scriptural authority.
These writers, in a brilliant rhetorical move, retrojected onto Simon
forms of Christianity that were only developing in the second century.
This helped disparage them as Simonism and, consequently, magic, under-
cutting any claim these churches made to authority—their teachings come
from Simon, not Jesus. While accusations that Greek and Roman gods
were nothing more than demons worked to discredit Greco-Roman piety,
it would not work to delegitimate other Christians, who also claimed to
be worshipping the one true God through teachings of Jesus Christ. The
scriptural status that Simon held as magician, therefore, enabled second-

and third-century heresiologists to employ the accusation of magic against
other Christians by associating them with Simon ab initio. So, just as asso-
ciating oneself with Paul could legitimate a certain set of teachings or prac-
tices, an association with Simon had the opposite effect—it immediately
designated that teaching to be heretical.90
Once the connection between heresy and magic became established
through Simon, other heretical leaders could also be denounced as magi-
cians. Marcus and, later, Priscillian are two notable examples.91 This connec-
tion between Simon and later heretics, however, is even more tenuous than
the connection between Simon and gnosticism. As Wilson states: “Irenaeus
identifies Simon as the father of all heresies and refers to different gnostics
as disciples of Simon without demonstrating connections and relationships
between them.”92 In fact, Irenaeus himself betrays the manufactured link
between Simon and later heresies when he admits that these “heretics” do
not themselves claim Simon to be their spiritual father or teacher. Rather,
Irenaeus is the one who draws this connection between Simon, magic, and
any form of Christian teaching with which he disagrees:
But, at this time, I have mentioned him [Simon] out of necessity, in order that
you may understand that everyone who in any way perverts the truth and injures
the official teaching of the church is a disciple and follower of Simon Magus
of Samaria. They do not acknowledge the name of their leader, [however], in
order to mislead others as much as possible, yet they teach his way of thinking.
Indeed, bringing forth the name of Christ Jesus as an inducement, they intro-
duce the impiety of Simon in various ways, and [thus] destroy a great many.93
( adv. haer. 27.4)
Further evidence that the link between Simon and gnosticism was manu-
factured comes from Yamauchi, who maintains that no unambiguous traces
of gnosticism can be demonstrated in fourth-century Samaritan documents,
such as the Memar Marqah, undermining the presumption that Samaria had
been a birthplace of gnosticism, based on its ties with Simon.94 The evolu-
tion of gnostic elements in patristic accounts of Simonism combined with
the lack of evidence for gnostic origins in Samaria suggest that the connec-
tion between Simon and gnosticism arose more from polemical efforts of the
church fathers to delegitimate other forms of Christianity—by associating
them with magic—than from any connection to Simon’s actual teachings.95
This chapter has, so far, examined various functions of magic as a dis-
course of alterity in first- and second-century writings where it serves to
delegitimize marginal religious movements, including Christianity, under-

cut competing contenders for religious authority, such as Simon of Samaria,
and subversively challenge the validity of dominant religious authorities as
a corrosive discourse. An interesting aspect of this discursive warfare is
that magic accusations are directed primarily at men, suggesting perhaps
that women were excluded from this contest for religious authority or were
irrelevant to it. Yet this hypothesis contradicts the strong evidence we have
for women’s involvement in early Christianity, especially in what became
forms denounced as heresy by later self-proclaimed orthodox writers.96 In
the next section I turn to examine this paradox and what, if anything, early
Christian representations of magic can reveal about women, power, and
the struggle over identity and authority in early Christian communities.
Given the connection made through Simon between magic and heresy, it
is surprising that women in competing Christian movements were not de-
monized as witches by the heresiological literature, especially since it was
the involvement of women in a public capacity that in most cases provoked
the charge of heresy.
male magi c i a n s , f e m a l e v i c t i m s
As the previous discussion demonstrates, early Christian writers employed
magic as a discourse of alterity to define boundaries and forge identities.
The Apocalypse of John, for example, attributes various practices, includ-
ing magic, fornication, and idolatry, to outsiders (non-Christians but also
other Christians of whom the author does not approve) and uses these
charges to distinguish saints from sinners, the redeemed from the damned,
us from them. In dualistic language characteristic of apocalyptic literature,
John’s Apocalypse paints the world in stark binary terms: “you are either
with us or against us.” Among his primary targets is Rome, depicted as a
rapacious whore who deceives all the nations with her sorcery (pharmak-
eia) and devours the blood of the saints (18.23–24). Interestingly, this har-
lot, Babylon, represents virtually the only female figure in early Christian
literature to be accused of practicing magic. Significantly, it is not a human
female but an entire empire that stands accused and whose worship was
later dismissed as nothing more than demon worship.
Early Christian accusations of magic target primarily men.97 If women
figure at all in magic accusations it is as the magician’s sidekick or, more
often, his victim.98 Before Constantine ’s conversion, when the Roman
church established itself as the arbiter of doctrine and practice, an accusa-
tion of “heresy” carried little weight. Other strategies needed to be em-

ployed to persuade early Christians that one form of Christianity was le-
gitimate and preached the true teachings of Jesus while another did not.
In this internecine competition, accusations of magic appear frequently
alongside charges of sexual misconduct and of appealing to foolish women.
These strategies combine to undercut a competitor’s authority, reflecting
the long-established association between magic, gender inversion, and
danger in Greco-Roman rhetorical tradition. For example, in Against Her-
esies Irenaeus combines these three potent strategies to assail a rival and
explain away his apparently considerable charisma. He begins by accusing
him of magic:
But another one among the aforementioned [heretics], Marcus by name, pro-
claims himself to be better than his teacher, the most adept in magical chica-
nery (magikēs kubeias), and through this method he has beguiled many men
and not a few women, and made them cleave to him as to someone who is the
most knowledgeable and most perfect, and who possesses the greatest power
from the invisible and ineffable realms; thus he is truly the precursor of the
Antichrist. For combining the trickery of Anaxilaus with the villainy of the
so-called Magi, he is imagined by those who have no sense and are out of their
minds to accomplish miracles (dunameis epitelein) through these means.
(13.1)
Irenaeus undercuts Marcus here by both alleging that his power is derived
through magic and by accusing his followers of being “senseless” and “out
of their minds.” Irenaeus thus lays claim to legitimacy and authority by
identifying his opponent with irrationality and demonic power—both
long-standing tropes of magic discourse. Furthermore he excises the fol-
lowers of Marcus as “outsiders” not only to Christianity but to all civilized
society: they lack that essential and distinctive human quality, rationality.99
Irenaeus reinforces this allegation in the following description of a “pseu-
do” eucharist in Marcus’s church that makes the ritual sound preposterous
and the woman participating exceptionally gullible: he claims that Marcus
would give a chalice of wine to a woman for consecration, then take this
wine and pour it into a larger cup and recite the following benediction:
“May the Grace (charis) that precedes the universe, and is beyond [human]
comprehension and description, fill your inner person and increase in you her
knowledge, [thereby] sowing the mustard seed in good earth.” [Irenaeus fur-
ther comments:] And saying something such as this, he drove the miserable
woman wild (or “mad,” exoistrēsas); his wonder-working was revealed [to be
nothing more than] causing the larger cup to become full and to overflow from
the smaller cup.
(7.2.14–20)
Irenaeus suggests that Marcus beguiles witless women into believing
they are receiving his divine “grace” through this ritual, which involves
merely a sleight-of-hand trick—causing the wine from a smaller cup to fill
a larger cup to overflowing. Irenaeus’s description also enlists possible sex-
ual allusions in its reference to sowing seeds, filling wine cups, and driving
women wild. The term exoistrēsas (driving someone wild), for example,
carries connotations of ecstasy and insanity—both of which were associat-
ed with women’s sexual and religious excesses and their liability to lose self-
control.100 Irenaeus invokes common stereotypes of women’s seductibility
here to undercut Marcus’s religious authority. By portraying his eucharis-
tic ritual as nothing more than a sleight-of-hand trick, he demonstrates the
foolishness of Marcus’s followers and the hollowness of their experience.
Irenaeus elaborates further on the charges of sexual misconduct, and, in
fact, this charge becomes the axis around which the others revolve. Magic,
it seems, was employed not only to fool people—men and women alike—
into believing that Marcus possessed special knowledge but also to seduce
his female followers with the use of love potions:
Furthermore, that this man, Marcus, produced love potions (philtra) and at-
traction spells (ag0̄gima) with which to insult the bodies of some of the women,
if not all, has been confessed in full by women who often return to the Church
of God and [admit] their body to have been corrupted by him and to have loved
him with a consuming passion.
(7.4.1–6)
Irenaeus portrays Marcus here as a sexual predator. He draws a contrast
between the chastity of women in the true church—which is under the pro-
tection of legitimate bishops—and the sexual promiscuity and deviancy
of Marcus’s church.101 Women’s sexuality serves in this discourse to locate
types of Christianity on the scale of orthodoxy and heresy: their sexual-
ized bodies symbolically measure the presence of heresy like thermometers
determining the presence of fever. In this depiction Irenaeus invokes a
central tenet of Roman social order—the integrity and impenetrability of
the domus through the bodies of its women. Recent work on portrayals of
women in Roman and early Christian writings demonstrate the degree to
which women function as a trope to signify the honor of households and the
men who head them.102 A man’s honor in ancient Rome depended to a large
extent on his ability to govern a household, which was measured in turn by
the sexual chastity and proper decorum of its female members. For this
reason, an attack on a woman’s sexual honor was tantamount to an attack
on the honor of her household’s head (paterfamilias).103 Early Christian
churches, which largely met in private houses, were seen by their members
and the outside world as extensions of the domus.104 Thus, by accusing the
women of Marcus’s church of being sexually accessible, Irenaeus is, in fact,
attacking Marcus. Rather than guarding women’s chastity and good repu-
tations, as “legitimate” bishops claimed to do, Marcus is portrayed here as a
sexual wolf, preying on the innocent sheep in his own fold.
While it is certainly not unknown for charismatic leaders and people
with power to exploit others under their influence, as the many instances
of sexual harassment in the workplace and in religious communities have
shown, accusations of sexual misconduct should not be accepted merely at
face value but should also be considered ideologically to determine what if
any rhetorical purpose they serve. Consequently, while Irenaeus’s claims
about Marcus may bear some element of truth, the strategic function of
the accusations demands consideration.105 Interestingly, one of the primary
characteristics of Marcus’s deranged magic, according to Irenaeus, is the
presence and participation of women in his rites. The large number of fe-
male followers and their devotion to Marcus seems to be the only “evi-
dence” for Marcus’s use of magic. In a rhetorical move reminiscent of Apu-
leius’s litigious in-laws, who accused him of using magic (rather than charm
or good looks) to make a profitable marriage, Irenaeus points to Marcus’s
female devotees as evidence that he uses spells and seduction rather than
charisma or divine power to attract his followers. Such a charge undercuts
not only Marcus’s legitimacy, it also calls into question the women’s ability
to determine their own lives and to make rational choices. By depicting
the women as utterly powerless and passive toward Marcus, Irenaeus rein-
scribes women’s foolishness, weakness, and seductibility.106 For example,
he cruelly caricatures a female prophet in Marcus’s church:
But she, filled with conceit, and too easily cajoled by these pronouncements,
with her spirit heated from the expectation that she herself is about to prophesy,
and her heart racing to the requisite degree, boldly ventures to babble every
frivolous thing that happens to occur to her in a vacuous and presumptuous
manner, just as from someone heated with an empty wind.
(7.2.41–46)
Dismissing the woman’s prophecy as frivolous babble (lalein lēr0̄dē kai ta

tuchonta panta) from an empty wind (kenou pneumatos), Irenaeus alleges
that the woman offers Marcus both her possessions and her body in grati-
tude for her prophetic gift. The mantic receptivity of Marcus’s female
followers, Irenaeus insinuates, corresponds to their sexual looseness.107
He thus accuses her of sexual promiscuity in addition to haughty fool-
ishness. Such slander undermines not only Marcus’s authority but, more
important, it negates the validity of the prophetess’s experience and the
message she delivers, which is not even recorded. By concentrating his
vitriolic attack on Marcus’s seduction of silly women rather than on any
real doctrinal deviation, Irenaeus suggests that women’s participation in
Marcus’s rites, rather than his teaching, violates orthodox Christian prin-
ciples. The issue seems to be one of praxis—women’s participation—not
doctrine.108
Irenaeus’s rhetoric thus functions circularly: by affirming women’s fri-
volity, Irenaeus dismisses any religious leader who gains a large following
of women or, even worse, accords women participatory roles. The topos
of women’s foolishness thus operates as a strategy of containment not only
against unacceptable doctrines (e.g., gnosticism) but against women’s reli-
gious participation or leadership in “orthodox” Christianity as well. Wom-
en’s participation in Christian ritual renders any church “heretical,” what-
ever its teachings or doctrines might have been.
A later portrait of Simon Magus in Hippolytus’s Refutations similarly
employs the combined strategy of sexual slander and an accusation of
magic to discredit Simon and, through him, gnosticism. I bring this text in
here, rather than in the previous section on Simon Magus, to underscore
the particular use of gender in internecine magic accusations. Hippolytus
describes Helena as Simon’s subordinate and sidekick—she rides with him
to demonstrate his soteriological power. According to Hippolytus’s depic-
tion, the relationship between Simon and Helena appears to be objectify-
ing, if not a little victimizing:
Immediately after having purchased her release, he would lead her around with
him, asserting this to be the lost sheep, and proclaiming himself to be the power
(dunamin) above all things. But the false man, falling in love with this woman,
Helena as she is called, purchased her for himself to possess, and being ashamed
of this with respect to his students, fabricated this story (muthon).
(6.19.4.4)
In this account Simon purchases Helena to be his sexual servant as well as to

demonstrate his soteriological capabilities. Hippolytus’s portrait of Simon
thus combines elements of sexual slander with accusations of magic and
heresy in a familiar rhetorical cocktail. Caution must be exercised, again,
when trying to distill historical fact from this highly polemicized narra-
tive. The real relationship between Simon and Helena can never be known
based on these accounts, nor can Helena’s actual status in Simon’s so-called
gn0̄sis. What can be gleaned from this description and others like it is how
women and magic functioned rhetorically in early Christian writings. Hip-
polytus, like Justin and Irenaeus before him, does not employ the familiar
trope of women’s magic to undercut Helena and, through her, Simon, but
depicts him as the magician and her as his victim.
In addition to these heresiological writings, which use magic discourse
to demonize Christian opponents, apocryphal acts of the apostles and ha-
giography also employ the trope of male magician and female victim to
buttress ideological positions. For example, in the second-century apoc-
ryphon Acts of Andrew, the apostle Andrew warns a Christian woman who
has committed herself to asceticism to avoid “the filthy and evil sorceries of
[her husband]” (tais rhyparais autou kai kakais goēteiais).109 By accusing her
husband, a proconsul, of using magic to seduce his own wife, this apocry-
phon inverts the expectation that the male intruder (in this case the apostle
Andrew) is a magician and instead uses magic to demonize marriage and
lawful reproduction. This apocryphon thus employs the discourse of magic
to denigrate not only a competitor (the woman’s husband) but the entire
social system that advocated and rewarded lawful reproduction. It consti-
tutes an assault on the Roman state itself.110 In the apocryphal Acts of Paul
and Thecla, by contrast, the intruding apostle is accused of magic as one
would expect. Thecla’s fiancé accuses Paul of bewitching young women
with magic; Thecla has become so enthralled by Paul’s teaching that she
desires nothing but to follow Paul and call off her betrothal to a prominent
young citizen (15). The irony in this narrative is the insider knowledge that
Paul “bewitches” Thecla not with magic but with the power of the evan-
gelical message.111
The theme of using magic to seduce consecrated virgins figures repeat-
edly in early Christian literature. In addition to the above passage cited
from Acts of Andrew, where magic discourse functions to attack Roman val-
ues and institutions, in the following passage from this apocryphon magic
operates to demonstrate the extraordinary power of ascetic practice. The
story begins with four soldiers surrounding the apostle Andrew and his
followers. One of the soldiers, possessed by a demon, suddenly shouts out
and falls down, foaming at the mouth. Andrew, empowered by the Holy
Spirit, divines the poor man’s situation as follows:
This young man whose body is convulsed has a virgin [parthenos] sister who is
a great devotee [politeutēs] and ascetic [athlētēs]. I tell you truly that she is near
to God because of her purity, her prayers, and her love. Now, to tell it without
elaboration, there was someone living next door to her house who was a great
magician. Here is what happened. One evening the virgin went up on her roof
to pray, the young magician saw her at prayer, and Semmath entered into him
to fight with this great ascetic [athlētēs]. The young magician said to himself,
“Even though I have spent twenty years under my teacher before acquiring
this ability, this now is the beginning of my career. If I do not overpower this
virgin, I will not be able to do anything.” So the young magician conjured up
some great supernatural forces against the virgin and sent them after her. When
the demons left to tempt her or to win her over, they acted like her brother and
knocked at the door. She got up and went downstairs to open up, supposing it
was her brother. But first she prayed fervently, with the result that the demons
became like ( . . . ) <they> fell down and flew away ( . . . ) <the young> man
. . . [two pages are missing].112
According to this narrative, the young magician sees a consecrated virgin
praying on her roof and, like David desiring Bathsheba, he seeks to have
her. Using magic, he summons a demon, Semmath, who enters into him
and using his demonic power conjures greater powers to control the virgin.
Based on the familiar pattern of ancient ag0̄gē spells, it would seem that the
magician sought to have these demons bring her to him.113 However, the vir-
gin possessed a power stronger than the magician—she was a “great devotee
[politeutēs] and ascetic [athlētēs]” who had drawn “near to God because of
her purity and her prayers and her love.” The virgin is thus able to overcome
the magician’s demonic retinue with the power of her spiritual charisma.
The magician, like the virgin, remains unnamed in this text, strongly
suggesting that the goal is not to defame or discredit any particular indi-
vidual as in the heresiological tractates discussed previously. Rather, the
narrative uses magic as a foil to demonstrate the power of asceticism. In a
manner similar to Luke-Acts (where magic functions as a foil for the su-
perior power of the Holy Spirit), magic functions in this text to show the
merit and power of virginity. The virgin’s identity matters no more than
the magician’s; like him, she functions as a trope to show that even a pow-
erless young girl can overpower demonic magic through ascetic practices
(askēsis).
This story conforms, therefore, to the ideological tenor of this second-
century apocryphon, which strongly advocates asceticism and celibacy.114
According to the translator, Jean-Marc Prieur, Acts of Andrew preaches a
dualistic and gnostic-influenced conception of salvation that involves the
ascent of the soul toward the pure from the impure world of flesh and
body.115 Continence and ascetic rejection of material pleasure and posses-
sions are a central feature of this spiritual attitude. The description of magic
in the Acts of Andrew mirrors this overall theological framework; the magi-
cian seems to represent the snares of this world, especially sexual lust,116
while the virgin signifies the pure soul, whose freedom and power triumph
through rigorous asceticism.117 Her victory over the demons thus drama-
tizes in narrative form the victory of the soul through askēsis and gn0̄sis.
Significantly, the words used to describe her accomplishment—politeutēs
and athlētēs—are borrowed from the language of politics and sport in the
ancient polis: she is described as a “statesman” and an “athlete.” The virgin
thus ascends to the heights of masculine power and achievement through
her ascetic prowess, transcending the natural weakness of her gender. But,
like the female victims of magic portrayed in heresiological writings, this
woman also functions as a trope. She is shown to triumph because of her
ascetic merit whereas the other “women” failed insofar as they allowed
themselves to be seduced. Neither trope—that of the heretical woman nor
that of the pure virgin—represents real women. In both cases the female
characters of men’s writing dramatize male issues and concerns. They are
“being used to think with.”118
Jerome ’s Life of St. Hilarion narrates a similar story but with a different
outcome and ideological message, demonstrating that “magic” and “vir-
gins” are being used to present competing theological worldviews. In this
account a young man desires to seduce a consecrated virgin and at first at-
tempts to do so through the standard means of seduction: “with touching,
jokes, nods, whistles, and the rest” (21.2670–2675). When that fails he goes
to Egypt to learn the art of magic. Upon returning, he casts a spell on the
virgin through a method widely attested archaeologically—the defixio—
“he buried under the threshold of the girl’s house an instrument of tor-
ture, as one might say, made of words and monstrous figures carved onto a
Cyprian plate” (21.2715–2730).119
On the spot, the virgin went insane, the cover of her head having been thrown
aside, she tossed her hair about, gnashed her teeth, and called out the youth’s
name. For you see, the magnitude of her affection had turned into a raving
madness. As a consequence, having been led by her parents to the monastery
and been handed over to the old man [St. Hilarion], shrieking continually, the
demon confessed.
(21.2735–2765)
In this description of a magic spell the virgin reacts exactly as ancient spells
sought their victims to react—that is, she goes mad with desire for the
magician and exhibits signs of possession—just like the female prophet in
Marcus’s ritual.120 This spell succeeds where the demonic attack on the vir-
gin in the Acts of Andrew fails. No sooner had the girl’s parents delivered her
to the “aged saint” (seni traditur ululante) than he was able to extract from
the demon the reason he was possessing a virgin of God. Jerome continues
to relate that Hilarion performed purgations on the girl and expelled the
demon. Then, when the girl had been restored to health, Hilarion “rebuked
her, for she had committed such [acts] through which she had enabled the
demon to enter” (21).121
This narrative contrasts sharply with the one from Acts of Andrew de-
spite the nearly identical plot of seducing virgins through magic. While
the Acts of Andrew portrays the virgin as powerful and self-reliant—she is
able to fend off the demons through her great spiritual power—the virgin
in Jerome ’s Life of St. Hilarion is not only victimized by the magician but
by the saint as well: he accuses her of being responsible for her own attack.
Thus she is doubly victimized in this story. The virgin’s lack of spiritual
power and ability to defend herself in Jerome’s account reflects an ideol-
ogy in which women, even ascetic virgins, were not regarded as possess-
ing sufficient spiritual merit to be independent. Jerome’s narrative uses the
story of the girl’s demonic possession (read penetration) to reinscribe the
familiar stereotype of foolish, weak, and seducible women. She functions
like the “women” seduced by Marcus; she demonstrates that women are
liable to hysteria and uncontrollable lust, despite spiritual piety and even
askēsis. In fact, this narrative could be read as an antidote to the message
conveyed in Acts of Andrew where a girl is shown to possess great spiritual
merit through control of her own sexuality. In this narrative power resides
strictly with authorized men associated with orthodox institutions, such as
the monastery. Unlike Acts of Andrew, Jerome does not depict the virgin as
a powerful ascetic, practicing her devotion independent of church authori-
ties. Rather, her lack of power and her susceptibility to seduction provide
a foil for demonstrating the power of male monks and “orthodox” institu-
tions.122 This virgin’s failure thus reinscribes female sexual weakness and
justifies men’s authority to control them.
Through their opposing resolutions of the story, these two narratives of
magical seduction reveal competing ideologies of power and female sexual
autonomy.123 In one asceticism is portrayed as all powerful, while in the
other only male monks can defeat demons; women, even ascetic virgins, re-
quire male custody and protection. In both cases magician and virgin serve
as tropes in debates over spiritual authority. Neither story illuminates the
historical reality of being a virgin, a woman, or of practicing magic. Rath-
er, women function symbolically: their bodies (chaste or penetrated, pure
or defiled) communicate ideas about male authority and legitimacy.
The question to ask, at this point, is why heresiologists did not invoke
the familiar and powerful witch stereotype to demonize these women and
heterodox churches with them. Why did these writers enlist the trope of
female foolishness to disparage these movements? The fact that heresiol-
ogists level accusations of magic only against male leaders of competing
movements could suggest that women were not perceived to be threaten-
ing and most likely were not the “leaders” in charge. On the other hand,
the most pressing concern for at least certain of these writers seems to be
women’s public involvement and ministerial roles in heterodox churches.
Unless women’s involvement is functioning entirely as a trope to ridicule
and undermine the competing churches, one may assume that women did,
in fact, play a prominent role in these churches and that it was precisely
their involvement that garnered the hostility of heresiologists. In which
case the accusations against men could have been a strategy of silencing
women by ignoring their leadership roles and accusing only men of being
dangerous threats. By depicting women as victims and not as magicians,
this rhetorical strategy would reinscribe women’s passivity in opposition
to the historical reality of some women’s lived experiences. Furthermore,
attacking the sexual chastity of these women would pressure men in their
churches to conform to “orthodox” standards in order to protect their own
honor in society.
This pattern of representation begins to change, however, in the third
century. In a letter to Cyprian (256 ce), Firmilian, the bishop of Cappodo-
cia, accuses a female prophet of being possessed by demons and of using
their power to perform miracles (75.10.2).124 Firmilian admits in his let-
ter that this woman conducts the eucharist and baptism according to usual
orthodox requirements, but claims that her sacraments are invalid because
she accomplishes them with demonic rather than divine power. What is
it about her power that indicates she is possessed by demons? Given the
orthopraxy of her rituals, one has to assume that the single problem with
her miracles and sacraments is her sex. In other words, we see here exactly
what one would expect to see in earlier instances where women’s ministry
is being challenged—namely, the employment of magic discourse to un-
dermine a woman’s legitimacy. By accusing this woman of being possessed
by demons and using their power, Firmilian, for all intents and purposes,
charges her with sorcery and harnesses the witch stereotype circulating in
Roman literature. His accusation presumes and reinscribes the gendered
discourse of magic encountered in previous chapters; Firmilian can assume
that no one will question the demonic origin of this woman’s power be-
cause everyone “knows” that women engage in magic. This case occurs
in the mid-third century; other accusations of magic against women can
be found in fourth-century writings. John Chrysostom, for example, casti-
gates women in his congregation for slipping back into idolatry by employ-
ing incantations and amulets.125
I suggest that Christianity’s marginal status in the first and second cen-
turies contributed to shaping its use of magic discourse. Drawing on the
work of Virginia Burrus and Daniel Boyarin, I suggest that Christian de-
pictions of female victims and male magicians reflect an ego identification
on the part of these male writers with vulnerable but chaste female bodies
over and against the invasive violence of Roman masculinity.126 In these
narratives the magician/heretic threatens the carnal integrity of Christian
women. Depending on the ideological location of the writer, the virgin
either succeeds or fails to defend herself through askēsis. The victimized
women serve as a trope for early Christian writers to locate themselves and
the church in opposition to Rome ’s power and violence, imagined in terms
of the sexualized masculinity and aggression of the “magician.” Compet-
ing forms of Christianity—so-called heresies—are likewise demonized
through identification with the violent danger of the male Other. Through
these rhetorically crafted representations, competing forms of Christianity
are collapsed into the same ideological opposition that Rome is: aggressive,
threatening masculinity against the vulnerable body of the virgin church.
In this imagined opposition, chaste female bodies represent the purity of
the true Church, while violated female bodies signify the corruption and
deviance of heretical churches.127 According to this line of thinking, early
Christianity’s marginal status is what determined its application of magic
discourse and its choice of stereotypes in the contest for authority that de-
fined its early history.
The deployment of magic as a discourse in early Christian writings,
thus, again reveals local rather than universal factors. It also offers an ex-
planation for reconciling women’s ministry and visibility in early Christi-
anity with the patronizing stance of the heresiologists who portray women
in competing churches as passive victims of magical and sexual predation.
By the fourth century, when Christianity emerged as the official religion
of the Roman Empire, this pattern of magic representation had begun to
change, indicating a new set of circumstances and concerns.
This chapter has demonstrated the use of magic discourse to demonize
competitors in the religious marketplace of imperial Rome. While Apuleius
attests to positive connotations of magic, describing it as “an art acceptable
to the undying gods . . . pious and understanding [things] divine,” the label
generally functions negatively in Greco-Roman writings, including Chris-
tian. Significantly, certain Jewish writings from late antiquity indicate an
ambivalence similar to that expressed by Apuleius. In the Babylonian Tal-
mud, for example, which is a giant compendium of biblical exegesis, legal
commentary, and folklore, magic can both authorize superior power and
knowledge and demonize threats to rabbis and the Jewish community more
broadly. The ambivalence toward magic in rabbinic literature, I argue,
stems from and reflects the complex nature of these redacted texts. It is to
an examination of magic discourse in rabbinic literature that I turn next.
five
caution in the kosher kitchen
Magic, Identity, and Authority in Rabbinic Literature
T he previous three chapters trace the operation of magic discourse

from classical Athens, where it emerged part and parcel of the dis-
course of barbarianism, through lurid portrayals of libidinous women in
Roman literature and its use as a trumped-up accusation in imperial poli-
tics, to magic’s appearance in early Christian polemic, where it served as
a foil for the claim to legitimacy and authority. Magic, however, was not
universally regarded as negative and could sometimes operate in positive
ways to signify divine power and special knowledge or ritual technology.
Such was the case of the Babylonian Talmud.
The distinguishing feature of magic discourse in the Babylonian Talmud
is its ambivalence: just as Apuleius could offer two opposing definitions of
magic in his defense speech (Apol. 26.1–2), magic in the Babylonian Tal-
mud could connote either divine power or subversive danger, depending on
context. These two attitudes, I propose, reflect different cultural influences
and conceptions of power and authority. In Mesopotamia, where many of
the practices Greeks considered to be magic originated, the use of apo-
tropaic incantations, amulets, and figurines constituted an ordinary part of
the culture.1 These practices were regarded neutrally and did not contrib-
ute to the formation of a metadiscourse of alterity such as magic. On the
other hand, Jews in Palestine and other parts of the Mediterranean encoun-
tered Greek discursive constructs, including magic, and assimilated many
of them. For this reason, two distinct attitudes toward magic exist side by
side in the Talmud. On the one hand, ideas that magic is foreign, illicit,
and dangerous appear. On the other hand, rabbis are sometimes depicted
144 c a u t i o n i n t h e k o s h e r k i t c h e n
as masters of these same or similar arts. The operation of these contrast-

ing discourses and the tension between them constitutes the focus of this
chapter. But first, because of the peculiar nature of the Babylonian Talmud
and the challenges involved in using it as a historic resource, I will begin by
discussing the history of this complex document and scholarly debate over
how to interpret its contents.
the babylo n i a n t a l m u d
As part of the conquest of Judea by Babylonia in the late sixth century
bce, a significant portion of the Judean population was exiled to Meso-
potamia. Following the conquest of Babylonia by Persia, a small minor-
ity returned to rebuild Jerusalem while a sizable community remained in
exile. These two communities, living under different cultural influences
and political exigencies, remained in contact throughout the Persian, Hel-
lenistic, and Roman periods. After the destruction of the Second Temple
in Jerusalem and two wars with Rome in the late first and early second
centuries ce, a group of legal interpreters, rabbis, began to move into the
vacuum of power that was created by the destruction and disorder. The
degree to which their leadership was accepted (and when) continues to
be debated.2 What is known is that the rabbis began to record and codify
a body of oral law that had been passed down since the first century bce
when the temple still stood.3 The first codification of this oral law is the
Mishnah, produced circa 200 ce. A second additional code, the Tosefta,
was produced shortly thereafter. Immediately following its production,
the Mishnah functioned as the authoritative book of law for the rabbinic
movement and became the object of clarification, debate, and expan-
sion, much as the Constitution is for jurisprudence in the United States.4
Rabbis in both Palestine and Babylonia eventually produced volumi-
nous commentaries on the Mishnah. The first, known as the Jerusalem
Talmud, was redacted from oral statements early in the fifth century ce
in Palestine. The rabbis of Babylonia produced a similar but larger and
more developed commentary a century later in the middle of the sixth
century.5 For various political and historical reasons, the Babylonian
Talmud eventually eclipsed the earlier Jerusalem Talmud in authority.6
This Talmud, known also as the Bavli, constitutes the primary focus of
this chapter, although I will draw on passages from other compilations of
rabbinic literature where they are instructive or illuminating.
c a u t i o n i n t h e k o s h e r k i t c h e n 145
The Bavli consists of a collection of rabbinic statements, narratives,

and legal rulings handed down from sages who lived during the first six
centuries of the common era in both Palestine and Babylonia and who
spoke two languages, Hebrew and Aramaic.7 These various statements
and rulings were woven together during the late sixth century into a con-
catenated whole that gives the semblance of a unitary discourse or dis-
cussion. This appearance of being a single discussion is entirely fictional,
however; the Bavli is a literary creation whose final form expresses the
social concerns and situation of its anonymous redactors, known as the
stam or stammaim (from the word “anonymous” in Hebrew).8 For this
reason, many scholars argue that it is impossible to regard the content of
any statement as reflecting views of the rabbis to whom it is attributed.
The best one can do is try to reconstruct the concerns and values of the
sages who redacted it.
On the other hand, many scholars, including myself, believe that it is
possible to recover, to a certain extent, earlier attitudes and social values
that are preserved in rabbinic sayings. By removing sayings from their cur-
rent literary context and comparing them with other contemporary state-
ments, one can detect patterns that reveal practices, values, and beliefs of
the society that produced them.9 By employing this methodology, I will
argue that the different attitudes expressed toward magic in the Bavli can be
at least partially accounted for by cultural influence and social context.
magic disco u r s e i n t h e t a l m u d
The following quotation demonstrates well the ambivalence toward
“magic” that is characteristic of the Babylonian Talmud:
Abaye said: at first I believed that one does not eat vegetables from a bunch that
is tied by the gardener because it appears like gluttony. The master taught me
that it is because of magical attack (meshum de-qashi le-keshafim). Rav Hisda
and Rabbah bar Rav Huna were traveling on a boat. Some woman, a matron
(matronita), told them to take her with them. They refused. She said a “word”
(milta) and bound their boat. They said a “word” (milta) and released it. She
said to them: “What can I do to you who do not wipe yourselves with a shard
[of pottery after using the toilet], and do not crush lice on yourselves, and do
not eat vegetables from a bunch that was tied by the gardener.”10
(b. hullin 105b)
In this passage magic appears to be the domain of hostile women (pos-

sibly foreign), who threaten two rabbis for no apparent reason.11 What
is interesting to note is that the rabbis are represented as able to surpass
the woman with their own knowledge of magic. That is, they utter a spell
(literally “word”) and undo the woman’s incantation. Interestingly, the
term used to designate her spell, milta, is the same word as that used to
label their counterspell; in both instances milta clearly refers to a “magi-
cal charm.”12 Nothing about this narrative suggests that the rabbis draw
on a power that is distinct from hers—there is no explicit claim that they
access the power of God or Torah while she draws on demons, nor is there
a semantic distinction between her act as magic and their act as miracle,
as operated in early Christian writings.13 Rather, the text merely proposes
that their spell is superior to hers. Furthermore, they not only undo her
spell, but she complains that they observe certain apotropaic practices that
preserve them from magical attack: they do not wipe themselves after using
the toilet with a broken shard of pottery, they do not crush lice on their
clothes, and they do not eat vegetables from a bunch that was tied by the
gardener. These practices, it turns out, have parallels in ancient Mesopota-
mia, where according to M. J. Geller, “the use of potsherds and untying of
vegetables occur in incantation rituals, while the act of delousing the head
is mentioned in connection with ghosts in Babylonian incantations.”14 It
thus appears that this odd little narrative attests to rabbinic knowledge of
or at least familiarity with Mesopotamian incantation rituals. Rabbis know
enough to take precautionary measures. It appears, however, that they
know much more than that.
Magic, in the above narrative, functions ambivalently: on the one hand,
it demonstrates the superior power of Rav Hisda and Rabbah bar Rav
Huna. On the other hand, it identifies the matron as a source of danger.
These two functions of magic—namely, demonstrating power and mar-
ginalizing a social danger—emerge throughout the Bavli and form a pat-
tern that characterizes magic discourse in the Talmud. I will examine, first,
the portrayal of rabbis as consummate magicians.
Magic and Power

Many anecdotes and narratives in rabbinic literature reveal knowledge
of incantations and an expectation that rabbis could or should be adept at
them. For example, in a passage similar to the one quoted above, three rab-
bis encounter a sectarian or heretic (min) who utters an incantation (amar
mah de-mar)15 and binds them in a bathhouse in Tiberias. The rabbis then
utter an incantation (amar mah de-mar) and bind the min to the gate. He
then says to Rabbi Joshua, “unbind me from what you have done.” To
which Rabbi Joshua answers, “you unbind and then we will unbind.” So
they released each other from their respective spells (y. Sanh. 7.13). Like
the encounter discussed above, these two rabbis are attacked by a hostile
Other, in this case a sectarian of some sort. Debate has raged over the pre-
cise definition of min, whether it should be considered a Christian, a gnos-
tic, or some other representative of nonrabbinic Judaism.16 For our pur-
poses this clarification does not matter: what is important to note is that the
min is portrayed as hostile and adept at magic. Furthermore, the rabbis are
portrayed as equally adept at magic. The parties thus reach a standoff and
are forced to stand down.
Magic in these two passages operates both as a discourse of alterity, to
identify dangerous outsiders or opponents, and as a demonstration of equal
or superior power. Other examples reveal that sages, especially those from
Babylonia, commanded a storehouse of knowledge about magic and could
surpass others with their expertise. For example, in a passage discussing
which activities constitute forbidden forms of “magic” (kishuf ), a Baby-
lonian sage describes how two rabbis were able to create a living animal
through study of the laws of creation (hilkot yetsirah):17
Abaye said: the laws governing magic acts (keshafim) are like the laws gov-
erning the Sabbath. Some transgressions are punishable with stoning, others
are exempt from punishment but forbidden nonetheless, and some are permis-
sible (muttar) from the start. Doing an actual act of magic is punishable with
stoning; performing a sleight of hand (ahizat ainayim) is exempt but forbid-
den. And which acts are permissible from the beginning? Those, such as Rav
Hanina and Rav Oshaia did; they spent every Sabbath evening engaged in the
study of the laws of creation and by means of which they created a third-grown
calf and ate it.
(b. sanh. 67b)
This passage is immediately followed by a discussion of gentiles who at-
tempt to create live animals with magic but fail, revealing their magical
inferiority:
“Then the magicians said unto Pharaoh, This is the finger of God” (Exod
8:19). [This quotation represents the Egyptian priests’ response when they are
unable to duplicate Moses’s plague of lice.] R. Elazar said: “from this we learn
that a demon (shed) cannot create something smaller than a barley corn.” Rav
Papa said: “By God! he cannot produce something even as large as a camel.
But these [smaller pieces] he can collect [and create the illusion of magic], while
those [bigger pieces] he cannot collect.” Rav said to Rabbi Hiyya: “I saw an
Arab traveler cut up his camel with a sword, whereupon he rang a bell and the
camel arose.” Rabbi Hiyya said to him: “Was there any blood or dung after
that?” Rather it was a sleight of hand (ahizat ainayim). Zeiri went down to Al-
exandria in Egypt and bought a donkey. When he went to give it some water,
it dissolved. And there stood [in its place] a wood crossboard [instead of the
donkey]. They said to him, “If you were not Zeiri, we would not return [your
money]. For who buys something here and does not [first] test it with water?”
(b. sanh. 67b)
These attempts to create an animal reveal the inadequacy of gentile magic.
The gentiles are at best able to produce something larger than a barley corn
(Exod 8:19) or smaller than a camel, or an apparition that dissolves in water.
Abaye ’s statement thus demonstrates the greater magical ability of the sages
who create an actual living animal, the reality of which is demonstrated by
the fact that they ate it.18 From the context it is clear that the redactors of
this pericope (sugya) regarded the creation of a live animal through study
of the laws of creation to be magic (kishuf) or at least comparable to magic.
It constitutes, however, a “permissible” (muttar) form of magic. Not only
is sacred study presented as an acceptable way to access numinous power
according to this text, but the power that it raises surpasses that of gentiles,
who are able to conjure merely the illusion of animals.
Other passages similarly demonstrate rabbinic knowledge of and excel-
lence at magic. For example, in Tractate Pesahim a rabbi is said to have
written a one-demon amulet that consequently failed to exorcise a sorb
bush possessed by sixty demons. A second scholar came along who rec-
ognized the reason for the failure and wrote an appropriate sixty-demon
amulet that worked (b. Pesahim 111b). The Bavli also reports rabbis who
know apotropaic spells against demons, recalling early Greek associations
between magi and rituals to control demons and ghosts:
Rav Papa said: “Yosef the demon told me that for two drinks the demons kill,
but for four drinks we do not kill. For four drinks we [merely] injure. For two
drinks we hurt whether [he did it] in error or deliberately.19 For four drinks, if
it was deliberate [we injure], but if it was in error we do not.” And, in the case
where a man forgets [he has drunk an even number of drinks] and goes out
[where he is open to demonic attack], what can save him? “He should take the
thumb of his right hand in the left hand and the thumb of the left hand in the
right hand and say the following: ‘You and I, behold we are three.’ And if he
hears someone say to him, ‘you and I, behold that is four,’ he should say, ‘you
and I, behold we are five.’ And if he hears someone say, ‘you and I, behold that
is six,’ he should say, ‘you and I, behold that is seven.’” Once it happened to go
as far as one hundred and one, and the demon burst.
(b. pesahim 110a)
These passages thus portray rabbis as adept at magic: they use rituals and
incantations for protective and creative purposes.
Other statements and stories, however, indicate tension with this posi-
tive valuation of magic and point toward a more negative or cautionary
stance with regard to accessing numinous power through such means. One
passage, for example, addresses the problem raised by rabbis, in particular,
practicing magic and resolves the conflict by concluding that it is accept-
able for rabbis to study magic in order to learn what not to do:
One day, when we were walking along the road, he [Rabbi Akiva] said to me
[Rabbi Eliezer]: “Rabbi, teach me how to plant cucumbers.” I said one thing
(devar ehad), and the entire field filled with cucumbers. He said to me: “Rabbi,
you taught me how to plant cucumbers, now teach me how to uproot them.” I
said one thing, and they all gathered into one place.
(b. sanh. 68a)
The Babylonian Talmud cites this anecdote in a discussion over who taught
Rabbi Akiva magic (keshafim). According to one tradition, Rabbi Akiva
learned magic from Rabbi Joshua, but according to this story he learned
how to plant cucumbers using magic from Rabbi Eliezer.20 The Bavli re-
solves the apparent contradiction by explaining that Rabbi Akiva did, in
fact, learn magic from Rabbi Eliezer, but failed to understand it fully. He
then went to Rabbi Joshua, who clarified it for him—thus both traditions
are true and there is no contradiction. The text then questions whether or
not it is problematic for rabbis to be practicing magic at all and concludes
that studying for the sake of knowledge is permitted but studying for the
sake of practice is not:
But how did he do this? Did we not learn: “The one who performs an [actual]
act of magic (maaseh) is liable to receive the death penalty?” (b. Sanh. 67a). For
the purpose of learning is different, as it is written: “Thou shalt not learn to
do [after the abominations of these nations]” (Deut 18:9). [The Bible prohibits]
learning in order to do. But if one learns in order to understand and to instruct
[it is permitted].
(b. sanh. 68a; my emphases)
The claim that it is permissible to practice magic in order to teach and un-
derstand (because one does not intend to violate the ban on idolatry in Deut
18:9)21 excuses Rabbi Eliezer’s magical planting and gathering of cucum-
bers. At the same time, however, this attempt to rationalize the transgres-
sion of biblical law reveals discomfort with the knowledge that rabbis were
engaging in practices that walk a fine line between acceptable and forbid-
den. By seeking to justify those practices this passage illuminates a source
of anxiety and ambivalence in tension with the more positive portraits of
rabbis employing magic considered previously. Magic, here, is regarded
negatively: rabbinic magic needs to be justified. This attitude toward magic
as something transgressive appears also in numerous statements and nar-
ratives where magic marks Others as dangerous. It should come as little
surprise, given the strong biblical association of women with idolatry, to
discover that women figure most often in representations of magical dan-
ger as well.22 Male Others, such as gentiles and “heretics” (minim), could
also be accused of magic.
Magic and the Dangerous Other

Many passages in the Bavli reflect a strongly negative attitude toward
magic that contrasts with passages considered in the previous section and
resembles the demonizing rhetoric surveyed in the previous three chapters.
For example, in the following story a woman attempts to collect dirt from
under the feet of a rabbi in order to perform magic:
R. Yohanan said: “Why are they [magicians] called by the name ‘keshafim’? Be-
cause they diminish the heavenly family (makhhishin familia shel maalah).”23
[But what about the verse from Deuteronomy that contradicts this by saying:]
“There is none other besides him [God]” (4:35)? R. Hanina says [this verse] ap-
plies to acts of magic (devar keshafim) as well. Some woman attempted to take
earth from under the feet of R. Hanina [for magical purposes]. R. Hanina told
her, “if it [collecting the dirt] helps, go and do it [the magic spell]; however,” he
warned, “it is written ‘there is none other besides him (Deut 4:35).’”24 Can that
be? Did not Rabbi Yohanan say: “Why are they called by the name keshafim?
Because they diminish the heavenly family”? R. Hanina was in a different cat-
egory [impervious to magic] because of his great merit (de-nafish zekhuteh).25
(b. sanh. 67b)
This passage demonstrates two elements that characterize the antimagic
trajectory observed in rabbinic literature. First, it narrates a magical attack
by an anonymous woman. Second, the rabbi does not protect himself with
a counterspell or special apotropaic observances like his colleagues in the
passages discussed above; rather, Rabbi Hanina is said to be protected by
his “great merit” (de-nafish zekhuteh). In contrast to portraits that depict
rabbis as consummate magicians, possessing magical savoir faire, the rep-
resentations in this section depict magic as the dangerous practice of an
Other. Magic is not considered, in these passages, to be a potent technol-
ogy, demonstrating superior skill or knowledge, but an antisocial and sinis-
ter enterprise that threatens rabbis and the general community.
In the above quotation a woman’s unprovoked attack on Rabbi Hani-
na, and his confident assertion that magic cannot harm him because of his
faith in God, is introduced as a possible contradiction to Rabbi Yohanan’s
statement that magicians (keshafim) are so named because they weaken the
heavenly family (a pun on the word keshafim). This apparent contradic-
tion—between Rabbi Hanina’s claim and Rabbi Yohanan’s etymology—is
resolved by claiming that Rabbi Hanina is in a different category; he alone
is impervious to magic because he possesses special merit. Rabbi Hanina’s
statement, that magicians have no power over God, holds true for him
alone. This merit, to which the anonymous commentator attributes Rabbi
Hanina’s protection, may derive from vows of abstinence (nazirut). Accord-
ing to a biographical narrative transmitted in b. Nazir 29b, Rabbi Hanina’s
father dedicated him to be a nazir while he was still a legal minor.26 Austeri-
ties and abstinence were held to be sources of charismatic power in the an-
cient Mediterranean.27 According to biblical tradition, Samson was a nazir
(Judg 13.5) but lost his special power when his hair was cut, violating part
of his ascetic oath and consecration to God (Judg 16.19).28 In the Roman
era groups such as Montanists directly attributed prophetic ability to the
observance of dry fasts and sexual continence.29 Thus, by attributing Rabbi
Hanina’s special immunity from magical attack to pious renunciation rath-
er than to knowledge of apotropaic magic or counterattack, this narrative
stands in contrast to those cited in the previous section, where rabbis called
upon special protective observances and knowledge of counterincantations
to rescue themselves from situations such as the one in which Rabbi Hanina
finds himself.
Other passages express a similarly negative estimation of magic and
continue to associate it with “outsiders” such as women or sectarians.30 For
example, one account from the Jerusalem Talmud tells how the grandson
of a prominent rabbi, Joshua ben Levi,31 is cured with an incantation in the
name of Jesus.32 The rabbi concludes that it would have been better for him
to die than be cured in this way:
His grandson had swallowed [something harmful].33 A certain man came up
and whispered to him in the name of Jesus Pandira and he recovered.34 As
he [the man who whispered] was leaving, he [R. Joshua ben Levi] said to
him “what did you whisper to him?” He replied “a certain incantation (milah
pelan).”35 “It were better had he died,” the other responded and so he did.
(y. shab. 14.4)
This passage shows magic, especially sectarian incantations, to be effective,
but concludes that it is better to die than to benefit by transgressing the law.
Here it seems that rabbis either do not know magic or they are not willing
to engage in magic; the grandson would apparently have died without the
intervention of the “magician.” It also strongly identifies magic with “her-
etics” since the name invoked is that of Jesus.36 In a similar story a rabbi is
about to be cured from a snakebite with an incantation in the name of Jesus
ben Pantira but dies before he can justify violating rabbinic law:
It is related of Rabbi Elazar ben Damah who was bit by a snake: Yakov, a man
from the village of Sama, came to heal him in the name of Jesus ben Pantira
(meshum Yeshua ben Pantira). But Rabbi Ishmael did not allow it. He said to
him: “you are not permitted.” Ben Damah replied: “I will bring you proof that
[it is permitted] for him to heal me,” but he [ben Damah] did not have time to
bring the proof before he died. Rabbi Ishmael said: “How praise worthy are
you, ben Damah, that you left this world in peace and did not breach the sages’
fence [around the Torah]. For everyone who breaches the fence of the sages,
calamity comes upon him.”37
(t. hullin 2.6)
This short narrative constitutes part of a longer discussion that explicitly
seeks to marginalize “heretics” (minim) by curbing social interaction with
them. For example, their meat is forbidden (while meat from gentiles is
permitted), as is their bread and wine. Their books are regarded as “magic
books” (sifre qosemin); their children are regarded as illegitimate (mamzerin);
and it is forbidden to intermarry with them or to teach their boys a trade.

Furthermore, it is forbidden to be healed by one of them even though one
may accept medical help from qualified gentiles (y. Shab. 14.4).38 These
two anecdotes suggest that rabbis witnessed Jesus’s name being used (by
Christians or perhaps others) for healings and exorcisms but thought that
death was preferable to enlisting this idolatrous or heretical power.39 It also
demonstrates how magic discourse could be enlisted by rabbis to demon-
strate the transgressive character of a competing form of Judaism. It would
be better to die, they claim, than participate in Christianity, even if it ap-
pears to be powerful and effective.40
Other passages characterize magic as not only unacceptable and trans-
gressive but also dangerous. In the following passage Rabbi Shimon ben
Yohai warns travelers not to pick up food left by the side of the road, be-
cause Jewish women may have used it for magic:
It was taught (ve-hatanya) that Rabban Gamliel was riding on a donkey once
from Ako to Keziv and R. Ilai was following behind him. Passing a loaf of fine
bread by the road, R. Gamliel told R. Ilai to pick it up. . . . R. Yohanan said in
the name of Rabbi Shimon ben Yohai: “That ruling [to pick up edible food]
only applies (lo shanu ela) in the first generations when the daughters of Israel
did not widely engage in magic (perutsot be-keshafim). But in the last genera-
tions, in which the daughters of Israel do widely engage in magic, we pass over
edible food.”
(b. eruvin 64b)
In this passage the ruling of a first-century sage, Rabban Gamliel—that one
should not pass up edible food found by the side of the road—is abrogated
by a second-century sage, Rabbi Shimon ben Yohai, on the grounds that in
his day the daughters of Israel widely practice magic.41 This accusation is
presented as a simple statement of fact, not requiring evidence or justifica-
tion. By assuming that such an assertion would appear to be self-evident,
the author of this statement reinforces and naturalizes the association of
women with magic, an association that appears repeatedly in rabbinic lit-
erature and which we will consider later in this chapter. Rabbi Shimon ben
Yohai is also attributed with a denunciation of women in the Jerusalem Tal-
mud, where he states that even “the best Jewish woman is expert at magic”
(y. Kid. 4.11).42
Another early sage reputedly attributes magical practices to Jew-
ish women, painting all daughters of Israel with the same condemnatory
brush:
The rabbis taught: one was walking outside the town and smelled the smell of
incense. If most of the residents are gentiles [literally “worshipers of stars”]
one does not say a blessing; if most are Israelite, say a blessing. Rabbi Yosi said:
“Even if the majority are Israelite, you do not say a blessing because the daugh-
ters of Israel burn incense for magic” (le-keshafim). [The anonymous commen-
tator asks,] Is all of it burned for magic? He should have said: a little bit is for
magic and also a little bit is for scenting clothing;43 one does not bless [incense]
when the majority is not being used for scent and whenever the majority is not
being used for scent it is being used for work.
(b. berakhot 53a)
In this passage the anonymous commentator qualifies R. Yosi’s misogy-
nistic pronouncement with the remark that “only a little bit is burned for
magic and the rest is used for scenting clothing,” but Rabbi Yosi’s ruling
that one does not say a blessing is allowed to stand.
The statement “most women engage in magic” (rov nashim mitzuyot
be-keshafim) (b. Sanh. 67a) has often been quoted as evidence of rabbinic
misogyny.44 To understand it, however, one needs to look at its literary
context, in which this statement serves to explain the already gendered pro-
hibition of magic found in Exodus, where it states that “a sorceress shall not
[be allowed] to live” (mekhashefa lo tehayeh) (22:17 ). The Hebrew word
used, mekhashefa, is feminine, while mekhashef is masculine and would
have been the “inclusive” form in biblical Hebrew. In an attempt to explain
why the Bible singles women out for this proscription, the anonymous sage
(tanu rabbanan) claims, perhaps partly tongue in cheek, that “most women
must be sorceresses.” While this statement may have been made as a sar-
castic reply to a textual difficulty posed by the Bible, it serves to reinscribe
an association of women with magic.
The assumption expressed by these rulings is that people (generally
women) practice magic, that magic is dangerous, and that rabbis eschew
this sort of activity. Furthermore, none of these passages offers a prophy-
lactic against the magical designs of Jewish sorceresses; one just has to use
common sense and avoid their danger. These statements, therefore, do not
appear to endorse protective spells or countermagic like the statements ex-
amined in the previous section where rabbis skillfully defend themselves
against magical attacks. I propose that behind these differing attitudes and
representations lie two distinct attitudes toward numinous power and ways
of accessing it.
social cont e x t , c u l t u r a l i n f l u e n c e , a n d
rabbinic att i t u d e s t o w a r d m a g i c
Incantations, amulets, figurines, and other technologies for accessing, con-
trolling, or protecting oneself from demons and ghosts existed in ancient
Mesopotamia.45 Curse tablets and figurines appear in Greece by the fifth
century bce and were well known throughout the Mediterranean region
by the Roman era. Amulets also were in common use by this time. The
author of Second Maccabees (circa 100 bce), for example, complains that
fallen Jewish soldiers were discovered wearing idolatrous amulets, which
he identifies as the cause of their death (12.40). Three centuries later, rab-
bis take amulets so much for granted that they debate the legal implications
of their use, including how to tell an approved amulet from a prohibited
one (if it is proven effective three times it is approved), whether or not to
regard them as sacred since they may contain the name of God (which has
implications for wearing them into a bathroom or rescuing them from a
fire), and whether or not wearing one on the Sabbath constitutes a religious
violation (b. Shab. 61a–b, 67a). Abaye, a Babylonian sage, gives directions
for making an amulet to cure rabbis (b. Yoma 84a) and offers a long list of
amulets and other protective practices that he learned from his mother for
treating various afflictions (b. Shab. 66b).46 Thus it is evident that sages re-
garded amulets and other similar protective devices to be a normal part of
their culture and not something illicit; amulets constituted an accepted part
of science and medical technology in that day.47
Despite this approval for many apotropaic and medicinal practices,
other similar observances were rejected as foreign idolatry and labeled the
“ways of the Amorite” (b. Shab. 67a, t. Shab. 6–7). The activities regard-
ed as permitted and forbidden are often so similar, according to rabbinic
texts, that the only way to know the difference is to ask a rabbi.48 As Naomi
Janowitz points out, this effectively brought these types of practices under
rabbinic jurisdiction and control.49 Despite the ban, however, a practice
that belonged to the “ways of the Amorite” was permitted if it was shown
to heal (y. Shab. 6.9; b. Shab. 67a).50 Archaeological evidence confirms the
importance of amulets for late antique Jews; a substantial number of Jewish
talismans and amulets have been collected by E. R. Goodenough.51 These
amulets unself-consciously blend polytheistic and Jewish symbols, sacred
names, and ritual elements. Jewish themes and divine names also abound
in Greco-Roman incantations, such as those found in the Greek Magical
Papyri.52 This syncretism attests to shared traditions and technologies.

More important, the unmistakable borrowing of cultural symbols and
languages points to significant blurring of religious and cultural/ethnic
boundaries at this time, the extent of which scholars are increasingly be-
coming aware. The work of Joseph Naveh and Shaul Shaked reveals the
widespread use of amulets and incantation bowls among both Babylonian
and Palestinian Jews. Significantly, their findings suggest that the use of
this type of technology was more widespread in Mesopotamia (150 bowls
in Jewish Aramaic, Syriac, and Mandaic) than in Palestine (ten Aramaic
amulets), although this conclusion may reflect the random nature of ar-
chaeological preservation and discovery.53
One question to ask about all this material is to what extent do these
practices belong to the realm of “science,” and to what extent “magic” or
“religion”. In other words, did ancient practitioners consider these prac-
tices to be helpful technologies or forbidden magic? It is useful to point
out that this distinction is not entirely modern and did exist to some ex-
tent in the ancient world; however, what qualifies as “magic” or “science”
for an ancient observer often differs substantially from that of a modern
person. Pliny the Elder, for example, classified numerous healing practices
as legitimate medicine that a modern person would categorize as magic or
superstition, such as curing baldness with the application of sheep’s dung
mixed with cyprus oil and honey or by applying the hooves (reduced to
ash) of a mule of either sex in myrtle oil (Nat. 29.34).54 Conversely, Plutar-
ch regarded as superstition the legitimate practice of hanging wild figs on
a domestic fig tree to prevent it from dropping its fruit and compared it to
the belief that women’s menstrual rags avert hail (Quaest. conviv. 7.2). Such
a practice, known as caprification, facilitates pollination and constitutes a
valid horticultural practice.55 The rabbis thus adopted a pragmatic stance
on this issue when they concluded that if it “worked” it was permitted (i.e.,
science) and not forbidden (i.e., magic).56
Complicating this picture is a category of texts, usually labeled mystical,
that prescribe techniques for and narrate stories about rabbis ascending to
heaven to perceive the throne of God and his celestial court.57 These texts
raise numerous complications by confounding the distinction between
magic and religion altogether.58 One case in particular, Sefer ha-Razim,
which most scholars date to the rabbinic period, functions as a “mystical”
text in that it offers technologies for ascending to heaven and describes
the doxology in praise of God that the mystic recites there as he beholds
the glorious heavenly throne.59 On the other hand, this same text offers
numerous spells to recite, employing secret angelic names, and rituals to

perform to win favor from an emperor or other superior, question a ghost,
speak with the moon or stars, make a wealthy woman fall in love with one,
or cause an enemy to have insomnia. This text thus confounds distinctions
between magic and religion, mysticism and theurgy. More important, it
raises questions about the relationship of rabbis to other literate and reli-
gious Jews at this time and about the penetration of magic into the heart of
Jewish society.60
Despite, or perhaps because of, this widespread penetration of “magic”
practices into Jewish society, a certain trajectory within the rabbinic cor-
pus registers concern about magic, rejecting such practices out of hand.
Some statements explicitly condemn magic or indicate, through narrative
strategies, that magic is not appropriate even for apotropaic purposes—it
belongs entirely to the realm of the Other. In contrast to these negative
positions, other passages clearly indicate that not only are such technolo-
gies acceptable but mastery of them demonstrates superiority. It is possible
that the different attitudes reflect different opinions of individual sages and
not any metahistorical phenomenon or cultural ideology. Using text-criti-
cal methods of analysis, however, I argue that these two attitudes reflect
patterns within redactional strata of the Bavli and can, to a certain extent,
be localized.
The first category of representation—according to which magic carries
a positive valence and functions to demonstrate rabbinic superiority and
mastery of esoteric arts—can be traced to Babylonia. Babylonian sages
Rav Hisda and Rabbah bar Rav Huna know apotropaic practices and a
spell to protect themselves from the magical attack of an anonymous ma-
tron (b. Hullin 105b). Rav Papa knows to avoid eating or drinking in pairs
to protect one from demons and a spell to say in case one forgets this rule
and needs additional protection (b. Pesahim 110a). Amemar relates a use-
ful spell to say when one encounters “the women who practice magic” (b.
Pesahim 110a),61 and Rav Hanina and Rav Oshaia create a calf and eat it
with the power generated by their study of the laws of creation (b. Sanh.
67b). In each case context makes it explicitly clear that rabbis perform ritu-
als of a sort comparable to those of their gentile neighbors, which can be
considered “magic” (kishuf), and excel at them.
In contrast to these positive portraits of magical savoir faire, other pas-
sages reject magic out of hand or depict it as the predatory practices of an-
tagonistic Others, such as women or gentiles. This negative stance I trace
to Palestine, where rabbis in the Tosefta and Jerusalem Talmud can claim
that it is better to die than be healed by a sectarian incantation. Rabbi Yosi

and Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai, both early Palestinian sages (Tannaim), at-
tribute harmful magical practices to women categorically, including Jewish
women. And Rabbi Hanina defends himself from magical attack with the
greatness of his merit rather than with counterspells and incantations.
These diverging attitudes toward magic may or may not reflect any-
thing about the actual practice of these types of rituals in those societies,
for which we have ample evidence even from Palestine. But it does express
something about ideologies of power and conceptions of legitimate and il-
legitimate sources of authority at work in each culture. In the following
section I will expand upon this idea and argue that the attitudes toward
magic expressed by Palestinian and Babylonian rabbis are part of a larger
attempt to depict rabbis as authorities invested with power in accordance
with the values and expectations of their surrounding culture.
Palestinian Piety and Ascetic Power

As we have seen, statements attributed to Palestinian rabbis or that reflect
a Palestinian milieu tend to eschew magic and regard it negatively. What
emerges instead is a pattern of attributing power and prestige to acts of
piety and religious devotion. Thus, Rabbi Hanina, a first-generation Pal-
estinian Amora,62 is said to be impervious to magical attack because of his
great merit, not his ability to quote scripture or his knowledge of protective
incantations (b. Sanh. 67b).63 Unlike Rav Hisda and Rabbah bar Rav Huna
(both Babylonian Amoraim), Rabbi Hanina does not resort to defensive
spells. His charismatic immunity flows, it appears, from the austerities of
his nazirut.64
The notion that austerities or ascetic renunciation enable one to access
sacred power can be seen also in the following quotation from the Mishnah,
which derives from Palestine:
Rabbi Pinhas ben Yair says: Scrupulousness leads to cleanliness. Cleanliness
leads to purity. Purity leads to renunciation (perishut). Renunciation leads to
holiness. Holiness leads to meekness. Meekness leads to fear of sin. Fear of sin
leads to piety. Piety leads to the Holy Spirit (ruah ha-qodesh). The Holy Spirit
leads to resurrection of the dead (tehiyat ha-metim). Resurrection of the dead
comes through Elijah, blessed be his memory, Amen.
(m. sotah 9)
In this quotation piety and renunciation lead one to possess the Holy Spirit,
a powerful source of charisma that also portended the messianic age.65
The association between abstinence and possession of the Holy Spirit
explains why Rabbi Akiva (Palestinian Tanna) can complain that, because
of sin, the Holy Spirit no longer descends on one who has fasted:
And when Rabbi Akiva reached this verse, he wept: “if one starves himself in
order that an impure spirit may rest upon him, an impure spirit rests upon him.
If one fasts in order that a pure spirit may rest upon him, how much more so
[should he be successful]! But what can I do? Our sins have caused this, as it is
written: ‘But your iniquities have separated you and your God’” (Isaiah 59).
(b. sanh. 65b)
Both this statement and the one from Pinhas ben Yair reflect an ethos in
which sacred power was believed to flow from acts of renunciation rath-
er than from special utterances, knowledge of amulets, or even study of
Torah.66 Jacob Neusner uses this same quotation from Rabbi Akiva to
demonstrate that sacred power flows from knowledge of Torah.67 While
this is certainly true for Babylonian rabbis, as I will demonstrate below, I
do not believe that it applies in this case where Akiva identifies fasting to be
what attracts a spirit to rest on someone. Akiva’s statement points, rather,
toward the association of spiritual power with asceticism and should not be
confused with later conceptions of Torah as the source of spiritual power.
While some early rabbinic (Tannaitic) statements may point toward the
spiritual power of Torah, this one does not.68
Other scholars have noted a similar tendency in Palestinian sources to
attribute sacred power to piety and prayer rather than to Torah study. W. S.
Green, for example, examines the tradition surrounding Honi ha-meagel
(Honi the circle drawer) in rabbinic literature and concludes that Honi
originated as a Palestinian Jewish magician who was subsequently purified
of “magical” attributes and eventually “rabbinized.” Tannaitic sources, ac-
cording to Green, minimize the “magical” elements of Honi’s ritual circle
drawing, while maximizing the supplicatory element of his prayer.69 Later
Babylonian sources inscribe Honi within the rabbinic circle, claiming a
charismatic figure renowned for his rain-making capacity as one of their
own.70 Baruch Bokser executes a similar study on the traditions surround-
ing Hanina ben Dosa, whom tradition describes as a first-century miracle
worker known for the efficacy of his prayers and prescience. Although later
accorded the title rabbi, Bokser argues that Hanina was not a member of
the rabbinic class but a type of Jewish holy man.71 Bokser traces the devel-
opment of the Hanina legends and notes that in Babylonian sources Hanina
and other biblical figures are depicted as “strong-willed prayers” while
Palestinian sources tend to present them as models of modesty and piety.
Both these studies concur that, in contrast to Babylonian sources, Palestin-
ian sages tend to conceive numinous power in terms of piety rather than
magical knowledge, special apotropaic practices, or study of Torah. What
accounts for this difference?
I suggest that the Palestinian tendency to eschew magic or anything re-
sembling it and to attribute power to piety or asceticism reflects the Hel-
lenistic social context of Palestinian sages.72 As we have seen in previous
chapters, “magic” conveyed notions of alterity and marginality in the
Greco-Roman world.73 Beginning from an association with the enemy’s
religion following the Persian wars, certain types of people and practices
were labeled magos/mageia and regarded suspiciously as un-Greek and po-
tentially dangerous in Greek thought. This discourse of alterity was then
taken over into Roman thought as well, where it expressed fears of danger-
ous women and served as a political weapon in the hands of the imperial
elite. I propose that the same Greek constellation of ideas and practices,
identified broadly as magic and perceived as dangerous or subversive, left
its mark on Palestinian Jewish attitudes where it reinforced long-standing
opposition to foreign religion and “idolatry.” This Hellenistic influence is
what accounts for the operation of magic discourse in Second Temple and
rabbinic writings where it helped concretize an existing but unformulat-
ed aversion to “foreign” practices, especially various kinds of divination
(Deut 18:10–11).74 Babylonian sages, on the other hand, living under Per-
sian dominance, appear to have been less influenced by this discourse.
While many ritual practices to gain power were regarded with suspicion
in the Greco-Roman world, asceticism carried a more positive valence.75
Self-control (sōphrosunē) constituted a necessary quality to rule others in
Greek thought.76 As a consequence, sōphrosunē operated as a central topos
in the political discourse of Greek democracy: in the rhetorical competi-
tions between political aspirants and litigants one could eliminate a rival by
demonstrating his lack of self-control and thereby undermining his politi-
cal credibility. Similarly, Roman statesmen could argue for legitimacy based
on nobility of character, self-possession, and Stoic self-control.77 Not only
did self-control and certain forms of renunciation demonstrate mastery and
therefore superiority, but, as James Francis shows, extreme acts of renun-
ciation functioned subversively—trumping elite claims to authority based
on sōphrosunē and rejecting the status quo through refusal to marry, pro-
create, or fulfill householder duties.78 By choosing a life on the margins of
society, ascetic men and women cultivated powerful charisma. Peter Brown
has demonstrated that such individuals could garner esteem from extreme
and heroic acts of renunciation and bodily control: the holy man was an
“athlete” whose reputation rested on the violent heritage of the arena.79
The ability to master oneself enabled holy men to lead others; people came
to them for juridical decisions, social mediation, and political interven-
tion. Their outsider status, combined with and reinforced by their extreme
askēsis, endowed holy men and women with a transcendent authority that
surpassed that of institutionalized offices.80 Palestinian sages, I suggest,
similarly perceived power to inhere in pious self-restraint, which when
practiced in moderation could garner tremendous numinous power.81
The degree to which rabbis embraced or rejected ascetic expressions of
religiosity is contested: Yitzhak Baer strongly argues for rabbinic asceticism
while Ephraim Urbach argues equally strongly against it. Steven Fraade
negotiates a middle way through this debate by demonstrating that Tan-
naitic rabbis both embraced and contained ascetic impulses within Judaism,
legislating reasonable and controlled acts of renunciation such as leaving a
small portion of one ’s house unplastered in memory of the destroyed Je-
rusalem temple.82 Fraade proposes that the moderate ascetic compromise
the rabbis adopt functioned to forge an inclusive form of Jewish piety and
enabled them to assume leadership and authority over Judaism in the post-
temple period.83
Even while reducing pietistic demands on the common people for the
sake of unity Palestinian rabbis appear to have cultivated certain forms of
renunciation as a source of spiritual power. Unlike some early Christians,
however, who advocated radical acts of asceticism and withdrawal from
this world, rabbis endorsed—in fact legislated—marriage, procreation,
and the controlled enjoyment of worldly pleasures.84 Their practice of re-
nunciation thus was not the world-rejecting asceticism practiced by Chris-
tian holy men.85 Rather, sayings attributed to Palestinian rabbis suggest
that one could cultivate sacred power through limited renunciation, good
deeds, and prayer. This feature of Palestinian piety should not surprise us:
fasting has long been regarded as a way to achieve ecstatic experiences.86 It
also has biblical precedents.87 Because a conception of authority that rests
on notions of pious self-control harmonizes with Hellenistic models, where
the elite laid claim to authority by virtue of their self-mastery, it appears
that Palestinian sages enlisted this discourse of elitism and authority preva-
lent in their cultural milieu to reinforce an existing set of cultural and reli-
gious practices. Furthermore, such a conception of power that did not in-
here in military mastery, political sovereignty, or temple ministration may
have seemed especially appealing in the wake of the devastating Roman
wars and destruction of the Jerusalem temple. It offered another means to
demonstrate power and gain authority.
Babylonian Magic and the Power of Knowledge

Contrast this approach with the Babylonian sages previously discussed,
whose power over demons and dangerous witches stemmed from their
knowledge of incantations and special apotropaic practices. Again, I link
the conception of spiritual power to cultural influence. It has become in-
creasingly evident that rabbis were immersed in the culture of Sassanian
Babylonia and were influenced by its customs and values. The control of
demons and ghosts through incantations and figurines had been an ac-
cepted practice in Mesopotamia since the second millennium bce and was
regarded by rabbis and other Jews living in Babylonia as high culture and
“science.”88 Consequently, practices that came to be regarded as magic and
viewed negatively in Greece and Rome were not rejected as problematic by
Babylonian Jewish sages unless they violated Deuteronomy 18:9–11.89
Another aspect of Babylonian culture to shape rabbinic thought is de-
monology. During the Talmudic era Zoroastrianism and its dualistic belief
in demons dominated the religious and cultural landscape of Babylonia.90
According to this philosophy, the cosmos is presided over by two opposing
deities, one of light, Ohrmazd, and the other of darkness, Ahriman. Both
deities control celestial retinues that can be placated through propitiatory
sacrifices.91 Demonology and the ability to assuage and control demons
for apotropaic and magical purposes emerged from this dualistic cosmol-
ogy and played an important role in shaping the daily lives of common
people, including, as the Talmud indicates, Jews.92 It has been remarked
that demons figure much more prominently in the sayings of Babylonian
sages than in those of their colleagues from Palestine.93 The belief in de-
mons and the perception of them as dangerous thus seems to contribute
to Babylonian sages’ attitudes toward certain kinds of ritual practices.
Babylonian rabbis command a variety of verbal and ritual defenses against
demons in addition to knowing dietary observances and hygienic prac-
tices that serve an apotropaic function, such as not wiping oneself with a
pottery shard after using the toilet. These practices differ markedly from
Palestinian claims that merit through piety and renunciation protects one
from magical assault.
In addition to their acceptance of ritual technology and incantation, Bab-
ylonian sages invested studying Torah with special power over and above
their Palestinian colleagues; Torah study as a source of numinous power is
emphasized more often in Babylonian than Palestinian statements. I also at-
tribute this trend to cultural influence. In 226 ce a Persian satrap, Ardashir,
defeated the Parthian confederation and founded the Sassanian Empire,
reestablishing Persian dominance in the eastern Mediterranean after eight-
hundred years of impotency and inconsequence.94 His ascension involved
a nationalist revival that centered around the elevation of Persian religion
as the official state cult, which led at times to zealous persecution of foreign
religions, including Judaism, Christianity, and Zoroastrian heresies such as
Manichaeism.95 During the Sassanian dynasty, magi wielded tremendous
influence: according to Zaehner, they “became all-powerful” under the
rule of Shapur II and his successors.96 In an official capacity magi acted
as counselors to the king, implementing religious reforms, consolidating
temple property and power, and involving themselves in every affair of the
state and individual:
The [Mandean] church gave to secular power its sacred character and at the
same time intervened in the life of each citizen at all important [life] events;
one could say, so to speak, that it followed the individual from cradle to grave.
“Now, everyone reveres them (the magi) and regards them with veneration.
Public business is arranged according to their council and their predictions,
and they direct in particular the affairs of all those who have a legal dispute,
surveying with care what is being done and delivering their judgment, and
nothing among the Persians seems to be legitimate and just unless it is affirmed
by a mage.”97
In addition to advising the king, the magi handled every sacerdotal func-
tion, the most important of which was tending the temple fires but also
included the performance of purifications, hearing confessions, granting
absolution, and performing ceremonies of birth, death, and marriage.98
Magi also served as legal functionaries for the government and commu-
nity.99 Thus the magi garnered tremendous esteem and prestige in the Sas-
sanian Empire, holding the highest offices in the temple state and directly
influencing social and political policy.
This cultural and religious revolution under Sassanian rule provides the
backdrop for understanding rabbinic representations of power and author-
ity in the Babylonian Talmud. Babylonian sages lived under a regime with
a different model of authority than that of the Greek and Roman empires
where authority was perceived to flow from self-control. In Babylonia
the tremendous authority and influence of the magi issued from special
knowledge, unlike with the Mediterranean holy man, who derived power
from outsider status and asceticism.100 Magi possessed a body of esoteric
teachings and arcane lore, which they redacted into a collection of sacred
texts, the Avesta, sometime during the Talmudic period. Shaul Shaked has
documented the importance of esotericism in Zoroastrian tradition. He de-
scribes the role of an elite learned minority that had access to secret inner
teachings. “Knowledge [constituted] the power of Ohrmazd, but it [had]
its dangers.”101 Knowledge also guaranteed salvation and assisted one in
the battle against demons. In a slightly gnostic formulation, the elite know
“the secret things of the beneficent Creator (which are as every hidden se-
cret)—excepting Him himself, the all-knower, who is full of the knowledge
of all that is in all.” To possess “knowledge of the eschatological reward
due to the righteous” guaranteed access to that very salvation.102 Zoroas-
trians, thus, placed a high premium on knowledge; it is secret knowledge
of their Creator and his redemption that grants the learned access to salva-
tion. Knowledge also assisted one in the battle against demons and for this
reason it was thought to be a good idea to spread the secret teachings more
broadly.103 Zoroastrians believed that observance of strict purity regula-
tions would “counter the forces of evil.”104 This involved isolating sources
of impurity such as menstruant women, “materials cast off from the human
body” (including fingernail clippings and hair), and animal corpses. Many
of these specific observances find their way into the practices of Babylonian
rabbis and are recorded in the Talmud.105
It is this notion of authority, based on secret teachings and possession of
a sacred text, I propose, that significantly influenced the self-representation
of Babylonian rabbis. Statements traceable to Babylonian sages depict rab-
bis wielding power through their knowledge of Torah, possession of secret
spells, and special apotropaic observances. It is interesting to note at this
point that the statement quoted above from R. Pinhas ben Yair, which iden-
tifies scrupulousness, cleanliness, and renunciation to be the paths to pos-
session of the Holy Spirit (m. Sotah 9), appears in the Babylonian Talmud
with the addition of “Torah.” In the Bavli the redactor has added Torah
as the first cause that leads to acquisition of scrupulousness, cleanliness,
piety, etcetera (Avod. Zar. 20b). In so doing, this redactor emphasizes the
primacy of study in the acquisition of piety and religious power.
Magic, Text, and Power

Several scholars have traced rabbinic representations of Palestinian holy
men (in Brown’s sense of the term), showing how their portrayal changed
over time toward an increasing rabbinization that included a tendency to
depict knowledge and study of Torah as the source of their power.106 Three
studies in particular demonstrate an increasing tendency to “rabbinize”
holy men or miracle workers, usurping for the rabbinic movement char-
ismatic authority of prerabbinic (Bokser) or nonrabbinic (Kalmin) figures.
Furthermore, these studies reveal an inclination on the part of Palestinian
sources to attribute charismatic power to activities other than Torah study
while Babylonian sources concentrate on Torah study as the primary source
of spiritual authority. In the previous section I pointed out a similar pattern
in representations of magic. Palestinian sources eschew magic and almost
unanimously portray it negatively as a source of danger, attributing power
to piety and spiritual merit, while Babylonian sources draw on the image
of the magi to represent themselves as masters of ritual expertise and de-
monology.107 In the competitive and sometimes combative academic atmo-
sphere of the Babylonian yeshivot, as Jeffrey Rubenstein has demonstrated,
excelling at dialectic and Torah knowledge served as a source of authority
and power within the rabbinic community.108 Next to lineage, dialectical
skills determined a sage ’s social standing within the hierarchical academies
that were developing at the end of the Talmudic era.109 Stories of rabbis
besting demons and witches with superior knowledge and special ritual ob-
servances, I suggest, hint at this world of Babylonian sages by expressing
the extraordinary importance and authority that derived from command
of Torah, where Torah was seen to encompass all rabbinic knowledge.110
These portraits also help legitimize the creation and interpretation of a new
legal text—the Bavli—which was being redacted at this time.
Jack Lightstone proposes that the writing (redacting) of a text and the
special knowledge necessary to read and interpret that text positioned the
rabbis as religious leaders in sixth-century Babylonia where the Sassanian
Empire itself was collecting and compiling its great religious and literary
traditions as part of a cultural renaissance.111 My reading of magic in the
Talmud suggests that this rabbinic authority was also demonstrated by the
sage ’s claim to possess sacred power through knowledge of that text, draw-
ing on symbols from the surrounding culture where access to numinous
power through esoteric knowledge conferred legitimacy. Creation of a text
consolidated rabbinic authority, on the one hand; representations of rabbis,
magically defeating their opponents with superior knowledge and mastery

of Torah, legitimated authority, on the other. Textual authority and magi-
cal authority are here interdependent—magical authority legitimates tex-
tual authority of which it is itself a creation.
The success of this redactional enterprise is reflected in later “mystical”
literature, dated to geonic times (seventh to eleventh century), in which
a practitioner seeks instant knowledge of Torah through adjuration of an
angelic “Prince of the Torah” (Sar Torah).112 Michael Swartz locates these
texts in circles of nonrabbinic but literate Jews “who wished to achieve for
themselves the tangible benefits—honor, power, and wealth—of that [rab-
binic] intelligentsia.”113 This respect, even awe, of Torah learning suggests
that rabbinic representations of Torah as a source of numinous power con-
tributed to the perception expressed in the Sar Torah tradition that Torah
knowledge conveyed special power and prestige. As James Davila writes:
“These texts promoted the view that power over the Sar Torah trans-
formed the magician into a wonder worker akin to the rabbis portrayed in
the Babylonian Talmud.”114
Despite the positive representation of magic in certain strata of the Bab-
ylonian Talmud and later ascension texts, negative estimations of magic
as dangerous abound in rabbinic writings. Previous examples demonstrate
the strong association between harmful magic and women, and it is to this
gendering of magic that I turn in the next section.
caution fr o m t h e k o s h e r k i t c h e n :
women and m a g i c a l d a n g e r
A number of feminist scholars have identified a misogynist ideology behind
the negative portrayals of women and magic in the Bavli.115 My approach
here is to illuminate the specific motivations and ideology underlying the
use of magic as an Othering strategy in these depictions. For example, in
the following narrative a rabbi accuses the daughters of Rav Nahman of
practicing magic in order to cast aspersions on their integrity. He does this
to justify his own violation of rabbinic law, which puts the two women at
risk and demonstrates his selfish lack of compassionate consideration:
The daughters of Rav Nahman used to stir a pot with their hands. This posed
a difficulty (qashiya) for Rav Ilish since it is written [referring to virtue] “one
man in a thousand I have found but a woman among all those I have not found”
(Eccl 7:28),116 but behold the daughters of Rav Nahman!117 Behold, a [terrible]
thing happened to the daughters of Rav Nahman and they were taken captive,
and he [Rav Ilish] was also taken captive with them. One day, Rav Ilish was
sitting next to a man who knew the language of birds. A raven came and called
to him. He [Rav Ilish] said to the man: “what did it say?” He answered: “Flee
Ilish, flee Ilish.” He said: “the raven lies, one cannot trust it.” And then a dove
came and called. He said to him: “what did it say?” He answered: “Flee Ilish,
flee Ilish.” He said: “the community of Israel is compared to a dove. Learn
from this that a miracle will befall me.” He said: “I will go and see the daugh-
ters of Rav Nahman; if they have retained their virtue, I will take them back
[with me].” He said: “women share every word of their personal business in
the toilet (be-beit ha-kisei).” He heard them saying, “[these men] here are our
husbands, and the Nehardeans [back home] are [also] our husbands. Let us say
to our captors to remove us far from here so that our husbands do not hear
[where we are] and redeem us.” He got up and fled, the other man coming with
him. A miracle was performed for him; he crossed the river. The other man
was caught and killed. When he returned, he came and said: “they stirred the
pot with magic (be-keshafim).”
(b. gittin 45a)
In this passage an accusation of magic serves to legitimate the irrespon-
sible behavior of Rav Ilish by delegitimating Rav Nahman’s daughters.
This narrative follows a rabbinic ruling that one must not redeem a cap-
tive for more than he is worth nor help a captive escape, in both cases, for
the good of the world (mipnei tiqun ha-olam). Rabbi Shimon ben Gam-
liel explains that it is for the good of the other captives, fearing that the
ones left behind will be harmed in revenge. The story of Rav Ilish and
Rav Nahman’s daughters, therefore, addresses a situation in which some-
one, a rabbi no less, disregarded this prohibition and recklessly endan-
gered his fellow captives. Magic functions in the passage to disparage Rav
Nahman’s daughters and to justify Rav Ilish’s decision to flee without
them. First, the question is raised concerning their virtue. The statement
that they stirred a pot with their hands suggests that they had miraculous
powers by virtue of great merit. Rav Ilish doubts whether such merit in
women is possible (quoting Eccl 7.28 that a woman with merit cannot be
found), setting the foundation for the conclusion of the story in which he
accuses them of stirring the pot with magic. By linking magic with an ac-
cusation of sexual impropriety—in this case, adultery—Rav Ilish doubly
disparages the women’s reputations and justifies his decision to leave them
behind in violation of a rabbinic decree.
Magic functions in this passage to marginalize two individuals. By ac-

cusing the women of infidelity and sorcery, Rav Ilish excises them from
the Jewish community and permits himself to leave them behind as cap-
tives, where they face certain punishment and possible death. It may not
be coincidental that it is the daughters of Rav Nahman, specifically, who
are accused of stirring the pot with magic. Their mother, Yalta, acquired a
reputation in rabbinic literature for being headstrong and challenging rab-
binic authority.118
Women’s Resistance: The Case of Yalta

Two narratives in the Bavli describe Yalta challenging members of the rab-
binic class. In a tractate on laws regulating menstrual impurity and separa-
tion (Niddah), Yalta shows a spot of questionable blood to a rabbi for a
ruling on whether or not it is menstrual, which would require sexual sepa-
ration from her husband. When he rules that it is, she takes the blood to
a different rabbi to get a second opinion, and he deems the blood to be
nonmenstrual, permitting her to have sex with her spouse (b. Nid. 20b).119
Since rabbis were not permitted to overturn a previous ruling by one of
their colleagues, the Talmud provides an explanation to overcome this dif-
ficulty: the first rabbi’s eyesight was poor that day.120 In a second incident
a rabbinic guest at her house did not include Yalta in a blessing over the
meal; she is insulted and breaks four hundred jars of wine (b. Ber. 51b).
The offending rabbi justifies his action with a quotation from Deuterono-
my, which states that God “will bless the fruit of your (masculine) womb
(pri-bitnekha) (7:13).” He infers from this quotation that God blesses men;
women derive their blessing secondarily through men and, therefore, need
not be included in blessings over meals. Charlotte Fonrobert illuminates
how, in both these situations, Yalta challenges rabbinic efforts to exclude
women from judgments that affect them.121 She sees these stories about
Yalta as signaling an uneasiness or tension within rabbinic literature over
regulation of women and especially women’s bodies.122
Whether one accepts biographical narratives in the Talmud as authen-
tic kernels of historical information or as pure fiction (or as something in
between), the presence of such narratives points to their importance for
revealing social concerns. As Fonrobert aptly states, “These narratives do
not merely represent individual incidents within the literary corpus of the
Babylonian Talmud as a whole, but provide us with narrative concentra-
tions of tensions which are fundamental to the cultural universe of the Tal-
mud.”123 As a character in rabbinic literature, Yalta signifies resistance to

rabbinic authority—specifically female resistance. Deprecating her daugh-
ters as witches may therefore function within a larger ideological discourse
to communicate ideas about “good” women and “bad.” By portraying the
daughters of a known rabble-rouser as both sexually promiscuous and con-
summate sorceresses, this narrative pressures women to subscribe to rab-
binic social values and legal interpretations or be identified as witches and
excised from the community like the daughters of Rav Nahman.
Women, Food, and Magic

In rabbinic narratives that characterize women as sorceresses, food often
figures prominently (although not universally). While Palestinian sources
more often adopt a virulently antimagic stance, one that denounces women
categorically for practicing magic, the tendency to depict women engaging
in maleficent magic and employing food in their practice transcends the
distinction between Palestinian and Babylonian. If there is a single ideol-
ogy regarding magic in rabbinic writings, the association of women, food,
and magic might be it.
Let us return to the sources previously discussed for some examples. An
anonymous matron binds a boat carrying two rabbis and claims they are
protected from her spell because they do not eat vegetables from a bunch
that was tied by the gardener (b. Hullin 105b). Rabbi Shimon ben Yohai
claims that Jewish women use bread for magic and leave it by the side of
the road as a danger to travelers (b. Eruvin 64b).124 Rav Nahman’s daugh-
ters are said to have used magic to stir a pot (of boiling liquid) with their
bare hands (b. Gittin 45a). Two other passages, not yet discussed, also sug-
gest a connection between women, magic, and cooking. In the first one a
rabbi is offered a drink at an inn that has been impregnated with a spell:
Yannai came to an inn and requested a drink of water, and they offered him a
drink of flour mixed with water.125 He saw the lips of the waitress whispering
as she brought the drink to him, whereupon he spilled some on the ground and
it turned into scorpions (aqravei). Then he told them: “I have drunk of yours,
now you drink of mine.” She drank [and turned into] a donkey, and he rode on
her back to the market. But her friend came and released her so that he was seen
riding upon a woman in the market.
(b. sanh. 67b)
In this anecdote Yannai detects the woman’s attempt to bind him with magic
and reverses her spell, transforming her into a donkey. The story takes an
amusing turn when he decides to ride the donkey-woman into town; her
friend releases the magic and humiliates Yannai, who is “seen riding on
a woman in the market.” This story about a Palestinian sage indicates a
negative view of magic: it is something that dangerous women do and is
not appropriate for rabbis, or, at least, it cautions them from engaging in
harmful countermagic.126 It also reveals the potential danger of ordering
food from an unknown woman.
In another passage, which resembles the spell to say against demons
(cited above), Amemar reports that he learned a protective charm from the
head of women who practice magic:
Amemar said: “The head of the women who practice magic (reishteinhi de-
nashim keshfaniot) said to me: one who runs into one of the women who prac-
tice magic (nashim keshfaniot) should say the following: ‘Hot excrement in per-
forated baskets into your mouths, women of sorcery. May you become bald,
may the wind carry off your crumbs, may your spices be scattered, may a blast
of wind carry off the new saffron that you are holding, women who do magic.
As long as he graced me and graced you, I did not come among you. Now that
I came among you, my grace has cooled and your grace has cooled.’”127
(b. pesahim 110a)
This protective incantation targets the ingredients presumably used in
women’s magic—spices, crumbs, and saffron—suggesting an association
between women’s cooking and their practice of magic. In a passage from
the Jerusalem Talmud related to the legend of Shimon ben Shetah, who ex-
ecuted eighty women of Ashkelon for practicing magic,128 the women are
said to conjure various dishes of food with magical incantations: “As soon
as one entered [the cave where they dwelt] she said an incantation [liter-
ally, “said what she said,” amrah mah de-amrah],129 conjuring bread, and
another one said what she said, conjuring stew, and another one said what
she said, conjuring wine” (y. Sanh. 6.6). Interestingly, the women lose their
magical powers when lifted off the ground, which is how they are captured
and killed.130
Even where cooking is not explicitly involved, food can lay one open to
magical attack. For example, in another narrative an ex-wife is said to have
deliberately violated the taboo on eating and drinking in pairs by serving
her former husband an even number of drinks and then turning him out
onto the street at the mercy of demonic predators (b. Pesahim 110b). All
these passages point to a concern over food as a source of magical danger

and to women, the primary preparers of food, as potential threats.131
What can account for this association between magic and women’s cook-
ing? The obvious answer would be that women had the most direct access
to their victims through food. Apollodorus’s accusation against a step-
mother, discussed in chapter 2 above, suggests that women were suspected
of putting magic potions in food, which could accidentally harm or even
kill the recipient.132 While this may have been true, it does not adequately
account for this rabbinic representation and stereotype of magic. Women
cooked in all the ancient Mediterranean cultures that produced depictions
of magic—and especially of women practicing magic—yet food does not
figure as consistently in any of the other stereotyping patterns. In Greek
tragedy abandoned wives use emollients on clothing rather than potions in
food to effect magic—symbolically inverting their sacred and traditional
role as weavers.133 In Roman literature old hags commit infanticide and
necromancy; their crimes are of the most heinous and violent sort, but do
not involve food.134 Early Christian sources do not tend to depict women
as magicians at all, but rather as the victims of men’s seductive magic.135
So the obvious explanation that women cook and therefore food is the
source of their magic does not adequately explain the rabbinic association
of women, magic, and food. A better explanation, I suggest, considers the
ideological value of food and its importance as a site for asserting power
and authority in rabbinic society. I propose that the apparent anxiety over
women’s cooking emerges from the significant role dietary observances
play in delimiting Jewish identity.
Cooking and Community Boundaries

In rabbinic Judaism food preparation and consumption assumed increasing
importance as a means for defining Jewish identity and piety through reli-
gious observance. The proper observance of kashrut, tithes, blessings, and
ablutions played a significant role in distinguishing emergent rabbinic Ju-
daism from common Jews, the so-called people of the land (am ha-aretz).136
In addition to the dietary regulations stipulated in the Torah and accepted
by most Jews, rabbis introduced significant innovations that raised the
standards of dietary observance and separated them as a group from the
majority of self-identifying and Torah-observing Jews in their community.
For example, the Mishnah introduces the separation of meat products from
all milk products, extending the biblical prohibition against cooking a kid
in its mother’s milk (Deut 14:21).137 According to David Kraemer, this law
was accepted at its word by prerabbinic and nonrabbinic Jews.138 All the
evidence suggests that Jews could eat cheese with meat or meat cooked in
the milk of another animal without compunction. The Gemara’s confu-
sion over this Mishnaic stipulation, Kraemer suggests, indicates the relative
newness of this law. No consensus existed yet as to the exact nature of the
rules—whether one could eat meat and then milk separated only by wash-
ing hands, wiping the mouth, or drinking a beverage, or whether one need-
ed to wait a certain amount of time between them.139 Kraemer suggests that
rabbis initiated this and similar innovations as a way to distinguish them-
selves from the majority of Jews “as the keepers of what was then a more
esoteric law.”140 He also proposes that this stipulation emulated Roman
dietary customs and reflects a desire on the part of Palestinian rabbis to
avoid eating foods associated with barbarians in Hellenistic thought.141 Ob-
servance of special dietary practices thus appears to have fostered a sense
of identity and feeling of belonging among rabbinic disciples and their
teachers as seen, for example, in Abaye ’s explanation of his master’s eat-
ing regulations (b. Hullin 105b). It is possible that, in addition to being an
“esoteric” law, this practice of separating meat from milk resembled a type
of renunciation and, as such, was seen to garner spiritual power.142
Kraemer links rabbinic dietary innovations to the contest for power in
the wake of Jerusalem’s destruction:
Who was a Jew and what were to be his or her practices?—these were real and
at least partially open questions. And, against all this, the traditional center,
commanded by the Torah, lay in ruin, the traditional leadership, now without a
base, was rendered impotent. These were confusing times, when the future of
Jewish form and expression could not be known.
It was in the context of this Galilean mixture that a new community of re-
ligious adepts, the rabbis, began to formulate and promulgate their version of
Judaism.143
Thus the battle over correct religious praxis reflects the larger battle over
defining the shape and direction of Judaism in a post-temple world. Part
and parcel of this struggle to define Judaism is the struggle over author-
ity—who will assume leadership of the Jewish community in a world with-
out a temple. As the rabbis asserted their role as arbiters of religious law and
practice, food became a central symbol of their influence and power.144
Food served not only to distinguish rabbis from other Jews, but rabbinic
stipulations, if properly observed, could contribute to separating Jews from
gentiles. Kraemer notes that, while some rabbinic legislation accommodat-

ed living among gentiles as a necessary reality in Roman Galilee,145 other
laws reflect a strong desire to create social boundaries: among this type of
legislation, the rabbinic prohibition of gentile wine, bread, and olive oil
stands out. These three foods constitute part of the staple “Mediterranean
triad”—wine, olives, and bread. By hedging consumption of these foods
rabbis “would have erected a high fence between Jewish and gentile societ-
ies.”146 This attempt to separate Jews from gentiles would have resonated
deeply in a society as complex and diverse as second-century Galilee where
Jews had regular and sustained contact with gentiles and gentile culture.147
Apparently rabbis feared this intimacy would contribute to breaking down
Jewish identity, especially with the loss of the temple cult to distinguish
them religiously.
In addition to this practical explanation for dietary prohibitions, Mary
Douglas suggests a semiotic one. In Purity and Danger Douglas proposes
that the human body symbolically represents the social body: taboos relat-
ing to substances that transgress the physical borders of the human body—
such as effluvia and food—express a concern for protecting the integrity of
the social body. Thus dietary prohibitions and purity regulations commu-
nicate a desire to maintain sharp social distinctions.148 Anxiety over food
in rabbinic sources may, therefore, express not only concern over the ac-
tual introduction of magic into one ’s meal, but a more general discomfort
with ambiguous boundaries and a desire to exert control over defining the
identity and preserving the integrity of the Jewish community.149 In other
words, rabbinic representations of magic that identify food as a source of
danger employ food as a discourse, communicating ideas about identity,
community, and authority.
Much evidence, both rabbinic and extrarabbinic, attests to friction be-
tween the rabbis and other Jews over the assertion of rabbinic authority.150
In conflict often with members of the priestly class, aristocratic Jews, “sec-
tarian” Jews, and the people of the land (am ha-aretz), rabbis struggled to
establish themselves as arbiters of religious praxis.151 Using various tech-
niques of persuasion and social control, the rabbis legitimated their au-
thority and sought to direct the development of post-temple Judaism both
in Palestine and later in Babylonia.152 Accusations that women used food
for magic may respond, therefore, to rabbinic anxiety over the impossibil-
ity of enforcing their legal rulings.153 Despite rabbinic adjudication over
food preparation, proper observance of kashrut ultimately lay in the hands
of women who may or may not have been as punctilious as the rabbis
desired. For example, one Babylonian sage reports that he overheard

women asking how much milk is required to cook a piece of meat—in di-
rect and unequivocal violation of rabbinic law (b. Hullin 110a).154 Whether
this report reflects the reality of Babylonian observance or lack thereof, it
does attest to the perception and concern that at least some women, prob-
ably members of the nonrabbinic class, were not strictly obeying rabbinic
laws. Women’s cooking represented a real or perceived threat to the sages’
authority.155 Women’s resistance to, or ignorance of, rabbinic legislation
may have functioned to subvert rabbinic authority in a manner difficult to
identify and eradicate. The example of Yalta—who, despite being the wife
of a prominent sage, rejected rabbinic opinions that failed to take her sub-
jectivity adequately into account—and her daughters—who were accused
of stirring a pot with “magic”—further points toward the association of
women’s subversion with dangerous magic. A concern for preserving rab-
binic authority may, therefore, underlie depictions of women magically at-
tacking rabbis or the community through food.
Food as a Metaphor for Sex

Another factor to consider when attempting to understand rabbinic por-
trayals of women and magic is the metaphorical use of food and eating
to speak about women and sexual intercourse.156 Michael Satlow, Daniel
Boyarin, and others have drawn attention to the fact that rabbis employ
metaphors of food consumption to refer to sexual relations with their
wives.157 Some feminist scholars have regarded this as an objectification of
women on the part of rabbis, who treat them as “pieces of meat” for male
consumption and enjoyment.158 Boyarin addresses the apparent objectifica-
tion and argues that in other contexts the rabbis fully recognize and accord
women subjectivity and the right of enjoyment in marital relations.159 My
concern lies not in the supposed objectification of women through the met-
aphor of food and eating but in what the association between food and sex
may contribute to our understanding of the association between women,
cooking, and harmful magic.
The fear of women preparing food, expressed in many rabbinic repre-
sentations of magic, may mirror a deeper anxiety over controlling women’s
sexuality. Many societies that value maintaining strong boundaries between
them and their neighbors, as rabbinic Judaism does, also display strict con-
trol over women’s sexuality.160 For example, Jill Dubisch’s anthropologi-
cal research on pollution beliefs and women’s cooking in a modern Greek
village brings many illuminating parallels to bear on rabbinic attitudes to-

ward women’s cooking and sexuality.161 Dubisch draws a connection be-
tween women’s bodies, boundary maintenance, and food. First, she argues
that women function as preservers of culture through their cooking; they
transform natural products into cultural ones.162 “Food is part of a gen-
eral idiom in which social relationships are expressed. It symbolizes bonds
within the family and between the family and the outside world” (207). In
their preparation and presentation of food, women “sustain those bonds
necessary for social order”(208).
Dubisch makes the relationship between women’s cooking and women’s
sexualized bodies even more explicit in the following quotation, which il-
luminates the association I am suggesting between rabbinic representations
of women’s magical cooking and women’s dangerous sexuality:
We might draw a parallel between the kitchen and the vagina, each an impor-
tant entryway for the maintenance of the family—through sustenance and pro-
creation, respectively—but each also a potential arena for pollution. . . . Both
kitchen and sexual entryway are subject to cultural rules regarding the passage
of substances, rules that serve to turn a natural product or impulse into a cul-
turally approved one. And each, because it is a point of entry between inside
and out, carries a certain element of ambivalence or liminality.
(211)
While drawn from fieldwork in a contemporary Mediterranean society and
heavily influenced by Structuralist dichotomies, Dubisch’s insights into the
connection between women’s bodies and women’s cooking are nonetheless
suggestive for understanding rabbinic fascination with women’s cooking
and magic.163
Similarly, Judith Wegner’s research on women in Mishnaic law supports
the idea that women’s sexuality—specifically their bodies as entryways to
the community—figures prominently in rabbinic discourse on women’s
threatening magic. She claims that in cases where control over women’s
sexuality and sexual productivity is not at stake, women function legally as
near equivalents of men—that is, they are legally “persons.” However, in
situations where women’s sexuality is at stake, women function legally as
“chattel,” the possession of some man, equivalent to livestock, a slave, or
other economically productive property.164 While Wegner’s argument has
been criticized for exaggerating the dichotomy between person and chattel
in rabbinic law,165 her findings nonetheless suggest that a desire to control
women legally corresponds largely to women’s productive capacity as child
bearers. For our purposes, it is also in this capacity that women threaten the
borders of the community by introducing new members either legitimate-
ly or illegitimately. Daniel Boyarin echoes this sentiment when he states:
“The struggle for rabbinic authority is . . . in part, a struggle for control of
women’s bodies and sexuality.”166 In further support of this reading, Char-
lotte Fonrobert has recently shown how women’s bodies were sites for rab-
binic assertion of control over defining Jewish identity in late antiquity. By
legislating the purity and impurity of women’s bodies through menstrual
purity laws (niddah), rabbis determined which women and communities
were to be counted as Jewish and which were not.167 By designating only
certain menstrual separation practices to be legitimate, the rabbis excised
large groups of practicing Jews from the community of Israel as they were
defining it. This concern to maintain social boundaries and assert authority
through control over women’s cooking and sexuality, I suggest, contrib-
utes to representations of women’s nefarious magic in rabbinic literature.
In this chapter I have tried to show how competing and diverging atti-
tudes toward magic in rabbinic literature reflect, to a large degree, the cul-
tural influences in different regions as well as different ideologies of power
operating there. Thus no single conception of magic can be said to obtain
in rabbinic literature. Rather, rabbinic representations of magic and atti-
tudes toward sources of numinous power reflect different trajectories and
influences preserved in the redactional layers of the texts—magic can oper-
ate as a discourse of alterity, where it helps define boundaries and expresses
anxiety over patrolling them, or it can summon images of numinous power
and divine authority. The particular ways that magic functions discursive-
ly in rabbinic literature reflect the specific exigencies of different cultural
contexts—who is defining legitimate and illegitimate access to power and
how. Thus magic reveals itself again to be socially constructed, local, and
dynamic.
epilogue
Some Thoughts on Gender, Magic, and Stereotyping
T his book has examined the development of magic as a discourse of

alterity in the ancient Mediterranean. While, to a certain extent, ste-
reotypes of the magician and witch crossed social boundaries in the ancient
world, the specific details of a community’s magic representations emerged
out of and reflected local factors and concerns. For this reason, magic dis-
course varied from period to period and location to location, evolving and
adapting to the ideological exigencies of each situation. As a constellation
of terms and ideas designating Otherness, illegitimacy, and danger, magic
constituted a key element in the construction of notions about legitimate
and illegitimate authority in the formative period of Western thought.
In the formulation of Athenian notions about civic identity, for example,
magic functioned along with women and barbarian as a foil for the concep-
tualization and expression of idealized notions about what is male, rational,
and Greek. Magic, thus, came to designate the Other in Greek thought and
combined with various strategies to marginalize activities, persons, or ideas
considered to be unacceptable or illegitimate. Through the spread of Hel-
lenism, the discourse of magic was introduced to and adopted by neighbor-
ing cultures and languages. For this reason, magic should be regarded as a
cultural formation that not only operates in similar ways across the ancient
Mediterranean but also differs substantially in its precise shape and applica-
tion in individual contexts and periods of time. The search for a universal
definition of magic diverts one from understanding how local factors con-
tribute to shaping the particular deployment of magic in any given con-
text: why certain representations are harnessed while others are not. It also
178 e p i l o g u e
prevents understanding the root cause of persecution and stereotyping by

accepting the metanarrative underlying the application of the accusation.
In The Postmodern Condition Jean-François Lyotard examines and cri-
tiques universalizing metanarratives that function to legitimate particular
claims to truth.1 Lyotard’s conception of metanarrative as a discourse that
produces and legitimizes a comprehensive conception of the world and
history provides a useful lens through which to consider the meaning and
function of magic in ancient literature. The concept magic operates as part
of larger legitimizing narratives—in Lyotard’s terminology, metanarra-
tives. It holds the place of and designates that which is being marginalized
or delegitimated. The manner of this role, however, will vary according to
the nature of the metanarrative in which it is employed since, as Lyotard
points out, there is no such thing as a universal metanarrative. All metanar-
ratives are local.2
An important question to ask is why, if magic functions always in local
metanarratives, does the accusation against women repeatedly arise? The
association of women with witchcraft appears to be nearly universal. Look-
ing for universalizing explanations, however, naturalizes the stereotype
rather than interrogates it as artificial and historically determined. Return-
ing to the work of Sherry Ortner, which I discussed in chapter 2, I would
suggest that the tendency to identify women with magic or any other dan-
gerous power, such as the evil eye or menstrual impurity, reflects women’s
perceived power over men in some respect. Ortner proposes that the as-
sociation of women with danger arises when men’s social status depends
on women. Thus, when women’s sexual comportment determines men’s
honor in society, fears about women and concern over controlling them
arise. This would seem to clarify the deployment of magic discourse in
many instances. I proposed, for example, that women became a vulnerable
point in men’s claim to citizen status in fifth-century Athens and, conse-
quently, became a source of anxiety and focus of heightened social control
after Pericles restricted citizenship to people who had been born from two
Athenian parents. Similarly, in Rome, the honor of a domus depended to
a certain extent on the actions of its female members: their comportment
and public demonstrations of filial piety, chastity, and beneficence served
as powerful symbols of respectability and civic order.3 In both Athens and
Rome, therefore, attacks on men often took the form of attacks on women.
Litigants in classical Athens could draw into question their opponents’ le-
gitimacy or that of his children.4 In Rome a political rival might cast as-
persions on the sexual purity of a man’s wife or sister, insinuating that he
e p i l o g u e 179
lacked the manliness to keep his women under control. In both contexts
female sexuality operated as the focus of larger conflicts and competitions,
so much so that Augustus enlisted this highly charged symbol as the center
of his moral reforms and claim to legitimacy.
Rabbinic literature—both Palestinian and Babylonian—similarly asso-
ciates women with magic, especially dangerous cooking. This suggests that
a lack of control over women’s practices in the kitchen threatened or was
perceived to threaten rabbinic authority, which asserted itself at this time
through, among other means, legal innovations in dietary practices and
new restrictions. Food as a metaphor for sexual relations and women’s bod-
ies in rabbinic literature also invites the interpretation that fear of women’s
magical cooking may reflect anxiety over patrolling the carnal boundaries
of the community.
The lack of accusations against women in early Christian writings is
perplexing given Ortner’s theoretical explanation. It might seem, based on
this theory, that men’s status did not depend on women. Margaret Mac-
Donald demonstrates, however, that this was not the case. Male authori-
ties in the early churches were quite concerned over the behavior of their
Christian sisters and felt the need to rein in Christian freedom for the sake
of preserving a good public image.5 Christianity’s status in the empire de-
pended to a large extent on the comportment of its womenfolk. I suggest,
then, that early Christian writers conceived themselves to be Other in the
Roman Empire and used women’s vulnerability as a trope to express their
own sense of abjection and marginality. From this I would draw the con-
clusion that where men define their cultures’ discourses and configure their
identities vis-à-vis women, gender and magic will naturally be combined
as discourses of alterity. Where men or a community of men see them-
selves as marginal vis-à-vis other larger powers, women will operate as a
mirror for Self rather than a foil for conceptualizing the Other. In those
cases women will be seen as “one of us” rather than the dangerous, bar-
barian (heap on other marginalizing discourses) Other. Thus, for example,
history demonstrates that the pattern of representing women as victims of
men’s predatory magic did not persist for long. Beginning in the mid-third
century ce, accusations of magic against Christian women began to appear
and persisted throughout Christian history, contributing to the construc-
tion of a powerful and demonizing stereotype of the witch that served such
a prominent role in later persecutions and witch hunts.
Given the continued deployment of demonizing stereotypes in the mod-
ern world, it is imperative to understand how perceived threats to author-
180 e p i l o g u e
ity and identity can foster their creation. As we have seen, stereotypes of
witches and sorcerers emerged in the ancient world as foils in the struggle
to define legitimate power and authority. Similarly, in the twenty-first cen-
tury, ideas about fanatical extremists arise in opposition to claims of free-
dom and democracy: each side of the conflict claims legitimacy by painting
the Other as the barbaric and demonic rival. This book has tried to uncover
that stereotyping process—how caricatured images of the Other develop
and assume a truthlike quality that shapes experience according to its own
constructed fantasies and expectations.
notes
preface
1. This group includes, among others: Audollent, Defixionum Tabellae; Wünsch,
“Antikes Zaubergerät aus Pergamon,” Defixionum Tabellae Atticae, Antike
Fluchtafeln; Bonner, Studies in Magical Amulets, “Amulets Chiefly in the Brit-
ish Museum”; Jordan, “Defixiones from a Well”; López Jimeno, Las tabellae
defixionis de la Sicilia griega. Material available in English includes Betz, The
Greek Magical Papyri in Translation; Gager, Curse Tablets; Meyer and Smith,
Ancient Christian Magic; Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls; and
Ogden, “Binding Spells.”
2. This group includes Bernand, Sorciers Grecs; Dickie, Magic and Magicians
in the Greco-Roman World; Faraone, Ancient Greek Love Magic; Graf, Magic
in the Ancient World, Idéologie et Pratique de la Magie dans l’Antiquité Gréco-
Romaine; Luck, Arcana Mundi, “Witches and Sorcerers in Classical Litera-
ture”; Tupet, La Magie dans la Poésie latine, “Rites magiques dans l’antiquité
romaine,” in addition to a vast number of articles on individual themes or
characters.
3. Segal, “Hellenistic Magic”; and Remus, “‘Magic or Miracle?’” were among
the first to point this out. Janowitz, Magic in the Roman World has most re-
cently argued for a complete moratorium on use of the term magic in aca-
demic discourse.
4. See, for example, Remus, “‘Magic’”; Versnel, “Some Reflections on the Re-
lationship Magic-Religion”; Graf, “Theories of Magic in Antiquity”; Hoff-
man, “Fiat Magia”; Versnel, “The Poetics of the Magical Charm”; Smith,
“Great Scott!”; Styers, Making Magic; and Penner, “Rationality, Ritual, and
Science.”
182 p r e f a c e
1 . m a g i c , discourse, and ideology

1. Styers, Making Magic.
2. On the “baggage” this term carries, see discussion of modern conceptions of
magic on pp. 3–4.
3. Accusations of actually practicing magic can sometimes appear in modern
contexts and reflect the enduring power of this discourse. Shaw, Memories of
the Slave Trade, 206, for example, argues that “witchcraft” is not a timeless
aspect of traditional religion in Sierra Leone (as many anthropologists have
regarded it), but rather seems to have been introduced or developed as a re-
sult of contact with Europeans and the destructive consequences of the slave
trade. To understand witchcraft, Shaw demonstrates, it is essential to locate
witchcraft discourses in their history. Another recent ethnography also shows
the influence of Western stereotypes of magic on contemporary persecutions
of “witches” in modern South Africa. Niehaus, Witchcraft, Power and Poli-
tics, 17, shows how numerous villagers in Green Valley converted to Zionist
churches, which provided a dualistic framework through which they recast
their previous beliefs in spirits, divination, and ancestors. “In this new ecol-
ogy of belief witchcraft became the predominant expression of evil.”
4. Styers, Making Magic, 14.
5. Ibid., chapter 1, and passim.
6. Tylor, Primitive Culture; page numbers hereafter will appear parenthetically
in text.
7. Tylor expressed an optimistic regard for science; he perceived the develop-
ment of civilization to be reflected in the progress of art and knowledge.
8. See also discussion of this view in Tambiah, Magic, Science, Religion, and the
Scope of Rationality, 45. Legacy of this developmental theory lingers in subtle
ways. See Styers, Making Magic, 14.
9. Tylor, Primitive Culture, 424–26.
10. Frazer, The Golden Bough, 11.
11. Ibid., 48–49. Frazer divides magic into two fields, “practical magic” and
“theoretical magic,” which correspond roughly to ritual practice and magical
theology or theory.
12. Ibid., 50. Frazer postulated that religion superseded magic as a belief system
once human beings began to realize their powerlessness and inability to con-
trol nature and human destiny. Ibid., 57.
13. Ibid., 51.
14. Bremmer, “The Birth of the Term ‘Magic,’” 11–12, documents this point
nicely.
15. Hoffman, “Fiat Magia,” 191, for example, notes that terms like ritual power
and unsanctioned religious activity “come dangerously close to adopting the
coercion criterion that marked Frazer’s magic.”
16. Barb, “The Survival of Magic Arts,” 101, for example, argues in favor of a
classic “Frazerian” definition of religion and magic. Barb differs from Frazer,
1 . m a g i c , d i s c o u r s e , a n d i d e o l o g y 183
however, in that he regards magic to be a later, “tainted” stage in the devo-

lution of religion: corrupted by “human frailty,” religion deteriorates into
“white” and then “black” magic (p. 101). More recently the category religion
has been questioned by scholars who argue that no such sui generis concept
exists. Rather, religion is an artificial construct, whose definition derives from
specific ideological/theological positions that are grounded in nineteenth-
century colonialist, rationalist agendas. See, for example, Asad, “The Con-
struction of Religion as an Anthropological Category,” 27–54; Fitzgerald,
The Ideology of Religious Studies; and McCutcheon, Manufacturing Religion.
Styers, Making Magic, 63–68 and passim, also touches on this theme as it re-
lates to the modern definition of and fascination with “magic.”
17. Mauss, A General Theory of Magic, 86.
18. Ibid., 141.
19. Malinowski, Magic, Science and Religion, 30–31.
20. See, for example, the essays collected in Mirecki and Meyer, Magic and Rit-
ual in the Ancient World, part 2: “Definitions and Theory”; and in Neusner,
Frerichs, and Flesher, Religion, Science, and Magic in Concert and Conflict.
21. See, for example, Lloyd, Magic, Reason, and Experience; Tambiah, Magic,
Science, Religion; Winch, “Understanding a Primitive Society”; and Penner,
“Rationality,” to name a few. This issue seems to have been more pressing in
the 1970s and 1980s with, to my mind, no publications addressing this prob-
lem in recent years.
22. Anthropologists commonly apply the term witchcraft to beliefs and practices
in foreign cultures where the European connotations of the term do not nec-
essarily pertain. Thus the problem of definition is the same as that for magic.
23. Evans-Pritchard, Witchcraft, Oracles, and Magic, 18.
24. See, for example, the collection of essays in honor of Evans-Pritchard, Doug-
las, Witchcraft Confessions and Accusations. Of particular interest for schol-
ars of antiquity is Brown, “Sorcery, Demons and the Rise of Christianity,”
119–43 (reprinted in the above-mentioned volume). For a discussion of magic
and its relevance for the debate between rationality and relativism that draws
directly on Evans-Pritchard’s research, see Winch, “Understanding a Primi-
tive Society,” passim.
25. This point is raised by Clark, Thinking with Demons, v–vi, as well as by Smith,
“Trading Places,” 19.
26. This debate began very early. See chapter 1, note 16. It attracted a great deal
of interest during the 1980s and 1990s and continues to generate discussion
and debate. See, for example, Bremmer, “The Birth of the Term ‘Magic,’”
9–12.
27. Nock, “Paul and the Magus,” 183.
28. Segal notes that some magical papyri (e.g., PGM 4.2289, 243, 2081) employ
the terms magic and magical to describe their own activities. Segal, “Helle-
nistic Magic,” 351. Remus, “‘Magic,’ Method, Madness,” 267, similarly cites
PGM 1.127, 4.210, 244, 2450.
184 1 . m a g i c , d i s c o u r s e , a n d i d e o l o g y
29. Specifically, the so-called Mithras Liturgy (PGM 4.475–829).

30. Segal, “Hellenistic Magic,” 354–55. See also Segal, Paul the Convert, 63–64,
and Romans 6:3ff.
31. Segal, “Hellenistic Magic,” 370.
32. Remus, “‘Magic,’ Method, Madness.” See also Remus, “Does Terminology
Distinguish?” and Pagan-Christian Conflict Over Miracle in the Second Century.
33. Remus, “‘Magic,’ Method, Madness,” 129. See also Garrett, The Demise of the
Devil.
34. Remus, “‘Magic,’ Method, Madness,” 148 and passim.
35. Phillips, “The Sociology of Religious Knowledge in the Roman Empire.”
36. Garrett, The Demise of the Devil, 4–5.
37. Ibid., 74–75.
38. David Frankfurter, “Luke ’s μαγεία and Garrett’s ‘Magic,’” criticizes Gar-
rett for focusing too narrowly and selectively on a handful of passages from
the New Testament while ignoring other documents and materia necessary
for understanding Luke ’s social world and for rejecting “all theoretical ap-
proaches to the problem of ancient ‘magic.’” Other reviewers are much more
positive. See, for example, Clark Wire, “Review of The Demise of the Devil”;
Pervo, “Review of The Demise of the Devil”; and Klutz, “Review of The De-
mise of the Devil.”
39. See, for example, McCutcheon, Manufacturing Religion, 3; Fitzgerald, The
Ideology of Religious Studies, ix–x; Asad, “The Construction of Religion as an
Anthropological Category,” 28; Styers, Making Magic, 9, 14.
40. See, for example, Segal, “Hellenistic Magic,” 354–55; Johnston, “Sacrifice in
the Greek Magical Papyri”; Versnel, “Beyond Cursing”; and Graf, “Prayer
in Magical and Religious Ritual,” 188–213.
41. Gager, Curse Tablets; and Janowitz, Icons of Power, are two good examples
of this practice. Other books continue to use the term magic in their titles
even while challenging or problematizing use of this term. See, for example,
Janowitz, Magic in the Roman World, ix; Faraone and Obbink, Magika Hiera,
vi; Meyer and Smith, Ancient Christian Magic, 1; Graf, Idéologie et Pratique de
la Magie dans l’Antiquité Gréco-Romaine, retitled in the English translation as
Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, 2; Meyer and Mirecki, Ancient Magic and
Ritual Power, 2–3; Schäfer and Kippenberg, Envisioning Magic.
42. See Johnston, “Describing the Undefinable.”
43. Versnel, “Some Reflections on the Relationship Magic-Religion.”
44. Ibid., 186.
45. Hoffman, “Fiat Magia,” 184; see also Graf, “Theories of Magic in Antiquity,”
who explores this theme.
46. Hoffman, “Fiat Magia,” 186–88.
47. Ibid., 191.
48. Smith, “Trading Places,” 16–17. Citations will appear hereafter parentheti-
cally in text.
49. See chapter 3, where I discuss politically motivated accusations among elite
Romans close to the imperial throne, and chapter 4, where I argue for accusa-
tions by marginal Christians against elite Romans.
50. See, for example, chapter 5, this volume, where the positive valuation of magic
in the Babylonian Talmud is explored.
51. Although other, possibly similar, discourses of alterity will.
52. Mauss, General Theory, 33.
53. Ibid., 40.
54. Ibid., 141–44.
55. Witches in Horace ’s Epode 8 snatch the stars and moon out of the sky with
magic incantations (quae sidera excantata voce Thessala lunamque caelo deripit,
ll. 45–46). In Virgil’s Eclogue 8 the young sorceress claims that “songs can
even draw the moon down from heaven” (carmina vel caelo possunt deducere
lunam, l. 69). The PGM contain numerous rituals that first try to conciliate the
gods; when that fails, they resort to coercion. See, for example, IV.2891–2942,
and Johnston, “Sacrifice in the Greek Magical Papyri,” 350, who discusses it.
56. The girl in Virgil’s Eclogue 8 summons spirits from their graves (l. 98). De-
fixiones inscribed on lead as well as rituals from the PGM indicate that invok-
ing chthonic deities and/or souls of those who died untimely was common
practice in antiquity. See Johnston, Restless Dead, chapter 5, on this practice.
Christian apologists drew on the association of demons with magic to dis-
credit polytheistic worship. Justin, First Apology (9) and Second Apology (5),
identifies Greek and Roman gods with the fallen angels of Gen 6.1–2, who
teach human women magic arts. Tertullian also accuses Greco-Roman gods
of being demons: first they cause illness, then they seemingly perform a mir-
acle by removing it (Apol. 22). Celsus apparently accused Jesus of wielding
demonic power (Origen Cels. 1.6).
57. Virgil’s Eclogue 8 provides a good example of this as does Apuleius’s Meta-
morphoses 3.20, 21. Both authors depict private rituals where women perform
love magic. This is also one of the concerns Pliny the Younger raises about
Christianity in his letter to Trajan (10.96). He suspects it to be a subversive
superstitio since the secret rituals are performed at night. Celsus also accused
Christianity of being “secret” and therefore “magic” (Origen Cels. 1.7).
58. Celsus likens Jesus to marketplace magicians who perform cures in exchange
for a few obols (Origen Cels. 1.68). Lucian of Samosata left two satires of
magicians who misrepresent their powers in order to defraud people: Philop-
seudes and Alexander (Pseudomantis). Apuleius was accused of using magic to
marry a wealthy widow for her money (Apol. 28).
59. Pliny’s Nat. 30 identifies magia, the art introduced by the magi, with rites
involving brutality of some sort, such as human sacrifice. Plato regarded both
poisoning and binding spells as forms of magic (pharmakeia, Leg. 933a–b). In
Roman law, magic was prosecuted along with poisoning as a form of malefi-
cia. See Rives, “Magic in Roman Law,” 318, 334–35, and passim.
60. Some scholars have also posited psychological motivations for using or ac-
cusing someone of using magic. See, for example, Winkler, “The Constraints
of Desire.”
61. See discussion in chapter 4.
62. Remus, “‘Magic,’ Method, Madness,” 258–68, discusses this fact and the im-
plications it has had on subsequent scholarship.
63. Ritner, “Egyptian Magical Practice Under the Roman Empire,” passim;
Frankfurter, Religion in Roman Egypt, chapter 5. See Graf, Magic in the An-
cient World, 5, for a different opinion.
64. See Johnston, “Sacrifice in the Greek Magical Papyri,” passim, for this sort of
approach.
65. Similar problems of definition arise with use of the term mysticism. Please see
the excellent discussion in Katz, “Language, Epistemology, and Mysticism.”
66. Swartz, Scholastic Magic.
67. Alexander, “Sefer Ha-Razim,” 176, argues that invocation of foreign gods did
not violate monotheistic principles in that these gods were clearly seen to be
beneath the power of Yahweh and under his control.
68. Margalioth, Sepher Ha-Razim.
69. See Janowitz, Magic in the Roman World, 3.
70. He was accused of using magic to seduce and marry a wealthy widow. In his
defense speech he alleges that the charge was trumped up by her former in-
laws in order to keep her and her money in their family. Apol. 25–26. See also
discussion of his speech in chapter 4, this volume.
71. See chapter 1, note 28.
72. On magic as a form of subversive discourse, see Scott, Domination and the
Arts of Resistance, 143–44.
73. He never drops the idea of archaeology as a method of history but rather
subordinates it to the interests and goals of genealogy. Dreyfus and Rabinow,
Michel Foucault, 104.
74. Ibid., 48.
75. By “rules” he is thinking in a semistructuralist manner that also compares
with Kuhn’s understanding of the role of paradigms in scientific fields, where
a ruling paradigm determines the types of questions legitimately asked and
the types of inquiry legitimately pursued. Ibid., 71–77.
76. Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, 157; Dreyfus and Rabinow, Michel
Foucault, 77.
77. Dreyfus and Rabinow, Michel Foucault, 109.
78. Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 27.
79. Dreyfus and Rabinow, Michel Foucault, 160.
80. Foucault, Power/Knowledge, 115; Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge,
224–25.
81. See section, “The Emergence of Magic as a Discourse of Alterity,” in chapter
2, this volume.
82. Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, 46.
83. See, for example, my discussion of magic as a form of subversive practice:

Stratton, “Ritual Inversion and Social Subversion.”
84. Meaning is dialogic, negotiated between two people. Hall, Representation,
235–36.
85. Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, 37–38.
86. For example, Gordon, “Aelian’s Peony”; Graf, Magic in the Ancient World;
Gordon, “Imagining Greek and Roman Magic”; Faraone, Ancient Greek Love
Magic; and Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World.
87. Plato describes the use of binding spells and calls it a form of φαρμακεία
(Leg. 933a–b). See discussion, p. 43.
88. See discussion in chapter 2.
89. For example, it has been argued that Euripides embellished the ending of his
Medea, depicting her as an infanticidal monster rather than the victim of other
people’s violence, which was the case in other versions of her myth. See Mc-
Dermott, Euripides’ Medea, 5; and Johnston, “Corinthian Medea and the Cult
of Hera Akraia,” 45. If so, Euripides’ version became the commonly accepted
one and influenced later presentations of her story. Seneca’s Medea, for exam-
ple, follows this version. Furthermore, many aspects of Seneca’s Medea seem
to be echoed in the magical papyri (PGM 4.2799–2805): most notably, the
repetition of serpentine qualities. There is no way to demonstrate “borrow-
ing,” but the resemblance suggests a dispersal of the discourse across genres
and over time. See discussion in Stratton, “Ritual Inversion,” forthcoming.
More direct is the influence of Theocritus’s Idyll 2 on Virgil’s Eclogue 8.
90. For example, Plato’s writings and philosophical school, the Academy, re-
mained influential throughout antiquity (until the sixth century ce). The
elder Pliny held a succession of procuratorships. He became a counselor to
Vespasian and Titus. His nephew and adopted son served as governor of Pon-
tas and Bithynia under Trajan and mediated accusations against Christianity
(see discussion in chapter 4, this volume). The writings of Justin and Tertul-
lian contributed to the formulation of doctrinal positions that achieved legal
status in the fourth century.
91. See, for example, Wypustek, “Magic, Montanism”; Smith, Jesus the Magician,
chapter 6 and passim, on how Jesus conformed to commonly held concep-
tions of a magician; and Penner, “Res Gestae Divi Christi,” who demonstrates
the subversive quality of Christian claims to perform “miracle” in Acts of the
Apostles.
92. Dating passages in the Babylonian Talmud is less straightforward. See discus-
sion in chapter 5, this volume.
93. Philo of Alexandria, for example, identified himself ethnically and religiously
as a Jew. He was also educated according to traditional Greek παιδεία, which
included Greek mythology, literature, and philosophy. Paul of Tarsus identi-
fied himself as ethnically Jewish; he wrote in Greek, is said to have been edu-
cated according to Pharisaic tradition and to be a Roman citizen (Acts 22:3,
27). He also believed Jesus was the crucified messiah.
94. See 1 Cor 8:10 and Rev 2:20 on eating food sacrificed to idols; Justin Dial. 47
on Christians continuing to attend synagogue and observe Jewish law.
95. See, for example, Harland, Associations, Synagogues, and Congregations, and
“Acculturation and Identity in the Diaspora: A Jewish Family and ‘Pagan’
Guilds at Hierapolis.”
96. For recent discussion, see papers collected in Becker and Reed, The Ways
That Never Parted.
97. See, for example, Kee, Medicine, 102.
98. For example, Mark 7:33, 8:23.
99. See Smith, Jesus the Magician, 92, and discussion in chapter 4, this volume.
100. See discussion on “Ancient Terminology for Magic” at the end of this
chapter.
101. Pamphile in Apuleius’s Metamorphoses is married to Milo but uses her magic
to commit adultery (2.5, 3.16).
102. See discussion on p. 24.
103. Clark, Demons, viii.
104. See, for example, Nirenberg, Communities of Violence, 93, who argues that ac-
cusations against Jews, lepers, and Muslims in 1321 ce were “drawn from an
ancient hoard of stereotypes” and used in novel ways to resist evolving royal
power. They constitute a “strategic adaptation and adoption of vocabular-
ies of hatred”. . . . whose “usefulness was negotiated case by case.” Similarly
Rubin, Gentile Tales, 2, states: “One truth which emerges from confronting
the host desecration accusation as narrative is that even the most pervasive
representations—visual or textual—can only be understood fully when ob-
served embedded within the contexts that accredited them and gave them
meaning. . . . Textuality provides the conditions within which meaning and
self-knowing are possible, and is thus intimately related to processes by which
people have represented their violence as justifiable and necessary.”
105. See, for example, Bhabha, “The Other Question,” in The Location of Cul-
ture, 66, who writes: “For it is the force of ambivalence that gives the colonial
stereotype its currency: ensures its repeatability in changing historical and
discursive conjunctures; informs its strategies of individuation and margin-
alization; produces that effect of probabilistic truth and predictability which,
for the stereotype, must always be in excess of what can be empirically proved
or logically construed.”
106. Bhabha, “The Other,” 81–82.
107. Hall, Representation, 17, 24.
108. Karlsen, The Devil in the Shape of a Woman, xiii. Quoted in Clark, Demons,
107.
109. M. Avot 2.7. The statement is attributed to Hillel. The word nashim can also
be translated as “wives”; the context of the statement suggests that one should
avoid multiplying them, presumably in polygamous marriage.
110. See Gager, Curse Tablets, 80–81; Winkler, “The Constraints of Desire,” 72

and passim; Faraone, Ancient Greek Love Magic, 43, n. 9; and Graf, Magic in
the Ancient World, 185.
111. Faraone, Ancient Greek Love Magic, 43, n. 9, presents the numerical break-
down of the spells. I calculated the percentages.
112. See, for example, Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 6,
who states: “When we move away from Athens to Hellenistic Alexandria, we
encounter for the first time portrayals of magic-working and sorceresses in
action. These themes were not invented by the poets who lived and worked
in Alexandria. There is nonetheless in the poets of this era a greater inter-
est in portraying social reality” (my emphases). Similarly, Faraone, Ancient
Greek Love Magic, ix, proposes “a new bipolar taxonomy based mainly on the
genders of the agents and their victims.” His conclusions regarding “men’s”
magic are based on material evidence for rituals practiced in the ancient
world, while he relies on depictions of women from texts authored by men
to construct his conception of “women’s” magic. Ironically, when Faraone
does provide material evidence for what he designates as “women’s” magic,
it points instead to male practitioners. See also Stratton, “Review of Ancient
Greek Love Magic,” for fuller discussion. Gordon, “Lucan’s Erictho”; and
Gordon, “Aelian’s Peony,” 64–65, more cautiously distinguishes between
men’s literate magic, such as we find recorded in the PGM and extant defixio-
nes, and women’s use of herbs and incantations. But this differentiation does
not correspond with literary portraits either, since some “witches” (i.e., Pam-
phile, Apul. Met. 3.17.4–5) are described using the ritual techniques Gordon
ascribes to men.
113. “Gender is, in this definition, a social category imposed on a sexed body.”
Scott, “Gender,” 32. See also Ortner, “Is Male to Female as Nature Is to Cul-
ture?” 21. Butler, Gender Trouble, 10–13, notes that it is impossible to imagine
a prediscursive sexed body—one that exists prior to culture—since the notion
of sexual difference presumes already ideas about gender. Rather, it is cultur-
ally constructed notions about gender that determine how the body becomes
sexed. The construction of gender applies to men as well, as Gleason, Mak-
ing Men, xxii and passim, demonstrates. She provides interesting evidence for
the construction of gender through rhetoric in ancient Rome: “rhetoric was a
calisthenics of manhood.”
114. De Beauvoir, The Second Sex, xxii. See also Butler, Gender Trouble, 14, for
other ways to think about this difference.
115. Scott, “Gender,” 32. See also de Beauvoir, The Second Sex, xxvi–xxvii.
116. See discussion in chapter 2, this volume.
117. See Cohen, Law, Sexuality and Society, 183; Dover, Greek Homosexuality, 16;
and Keuls, Reign of the Phallus, 291–98. Gleason, Making Men, xxviii, shows
how gender characteristics (masculine or feminine) served to legitimate or
delegitimate ancient speakers.
118. See, for example, Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 1,
who writes: “It is even more surprising that the figure of the female magician
has not attracted more attention from those who are interested in the his-
tory of women or in representations of the female in antiquity. Witches and
sorcerers, who for the most part did not belong to the more elevated levels of
society, would seem to be an obvious topic of research for those concerned
with the down-trodden and the oppressed.”
119. Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride, 6, 11, and passim. See also Castelli, “Ro-
mans”; and Clark, “Ideology, History, and the Construction of ‘Woman,’”
163. See also Matthews, “Thinking of Thecla,” for an important caveat re-
garding this view.
120. Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride, 4–5, 13–14.
121. See discussion of Euripides’ Bacchae in chapter 2, this volume.
122. See discussion also in Bernand, Sorciers Grecs, 47–48; Graf, Magic in the An-
cient World, 28; Luck, “Witches and Sorcerers in Classical Literature,” 100.
123. Fitzgerald, The Odyssey, 173.
124. Murray, The Odyssey, 365.
125. Hesiod similarly employs πολυφάρμακε to describe Circe (Fragment 302.15)
and φάρμακον to designate a “remedy” for planting late (Works and Days
485).
126. Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 32–35, makes a simi-
lar argument.
127. Fitzgerald, Odyssey, 367, translates this word as “rune,” signifying a mystical
or magical character of the cure.
128. Liddell and Scott Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “ἐπῳδή.”
129. Similarly, Clytemnestra justifies the murder of her husband, Agamemnon, to
the chorus by remarking that they did not judge him when he sacrificed his
own daughter to charm (ἐπαοιδαισιν) the winds of Thrace (Ag. 173).
130. Pindar’s is the first mention and description of the ἴυγξ, a spell attested later
in Hellenistic and Roman writings. See, especially, Theocritus Idyll 2 and
discussions of it in Faraone, “The Wheel, the Whip,” and Ancient Greek
Love Magic, 55–69. The exact nature of Jason’s spell is contested. Faraone,
“The Wheel, the Whip,” passim, identifies sympathetic magic to be at work
in Jason’s use of the ἴυγξ; by binding and torturing a bird on the wheel,
Jason sympathetically binds and tortures Medea. Johnston, “The Song of
the Iynx,” passim, suggests that the ἴυγξ worked through sound; by creating
a mesmerizing song the ἴυγξ, siren like, seduced and entrapped Medea. See
also Gow, “ΙΥΓΞ, ΡΟΜΒΟΣ, Rhombus Turbo,” 1–13, for yet a different
interpretation.
131. Liddell and Scott Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “γοάω.” See Graf, Magic in the
Ancient World, 28; Bernand, Sorciers Grecs, 46–47; and especially Johnston,
Restless Dead, 100–2.
132. Not surprisingly, given the large amount of death and mourning in the Iliad,
derivatives of γοάω appear 32 times in a quick search of γοο in the TLG
database.
133. Bernabé, “Phorinis Fragmenta.” Liddell and Scott Greek-English Lexicon, s.v.
γόηϚ, cites this passage in its definition of γόηϚ to mean “sorcerer” or “wiz-
ard,” however, it may not bear out such a strong sense of the word. Rather,
this passage refers to a group of men who seem to live on the margins of so-
ciety and who are expert in various sorts of archaic technology. To translate
γόηϚ as “wizard” may anticipate its later meaning. See also Dickie, Magic and
Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 31, who makes a similar point.
134. See Burkert, “ΓΟΗΣ zum griechischen ‘Schamanismus,’” passim; Bernand,
Sorciers Grecs, 47; Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, 28. Johnston, Restless
Dead, 100–23, examines the association of γόηϚ with mysteries and control-
ling the dead but discounts the identification of γόητεϚ with “shamanism”
(see p. 106, n. 56 and p. 116).
135. Aeschylus fr. 278 in Snell, Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, 88–89.
136. Burkert, Babylon, Memphis, Persopolis, 117–22. This image corresponds with
what we know about the importance of controlling demons in Zoroastrian
Babylonia from Jewish documents of the Sassanian period. See chapter 5.
137. Johnston, Restless Dead, 111–16, suggests that γοητεία, ritualized manipu-
lation of the dead, was imported during the later Archaic or early Classical
age. Its association with the dead naturally lent to the association of γοητεία
with other concepts evolving in Greek thought at the time, such as ἐπαοιδή
and μαγεία. On the importation of “magic” technologies, such as curse tab-
lets and the use of figurines, from the ancient Near East see Burkert, “Seven
Against Thebes,” 42–44; Fortson, Indo-European Language and Culture,
25–26. On the use of figurines in ancient Mesopotamia see Braun-Holzinger,
“Apotropaic Figures at Mesopotamian Temples”; and other essays in Abusch
and van der Toorn, Mesopotamian Magic. On the use of the dead and ghosts
in Mesopotamian ritual see Scurlock, “Magical Uses of Ancient Mesopota-
mian Festivals of the Dead.”
138. Benveniste, Les Mages dans l’Ancien Iran, 11; Burkert, Babylon, Memphis, Per-
sopolis, 107–8; and Schmitt, “‘Méconnaissance,’” 105–7.
139. See Burkert, Babylon, Memphis, Persopolis, 107–9.
140. Ibid., 108. Herodotus, although writing in the fifth century, mentions the
μάγοι frequently in his descriptions of the Persian court, presenting them as
counselors to the king and presiding over sacrifices.
141. Burkert, Babylon, Memphis, Persopolis, 110–23.
142. Diels and Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker (14.2). This fragment is quoted
by Clement of Alexandria (second century ce). Its late date and juxtaposition of
terms, which do not appear together in other extant texts from the sixth cen-
tury, raise questions about its reliability. See also Lloyd, Magic, Reason, and
Experience, 12–13; and Bremmer, “The Birth of the Term ‘Magic,’” 2.
143. Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 29, argues that in
sixth-century texts there is no indication that μάγοι did anything resembling
“magic.” Rather, he suggests, they “offered initiation into private mystery-
cults.”
144. Chantraine, Dictionnaire Étymologique de la Langue Grecque, 655–56, s.v.
“μάγγανον.” See also Plato (Leg. 933a–b).
145. Individual terms could continue to carry neutral or even positive connota-
tions: φάρμακα, for example, signified pigment or dye as well as herbal rem-
edy (Plato, Crat. 434.b.1; 394.a.7); μάγοϚ could invoke the image of wise and
learned Persian priests (Apuleius, Apol. 25 and 26).
146. Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, 47, notes that before the era when postmor-
tem examinations could detect the evidence of poison in a body and deter-
mine it to be the cause of death, poison may have seemed as “mysterious” in
its workings as demonic powers summoned through “magic.”
147. Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 127; Graf, Magic in
the Ancient World, 56–57.
148. See Rives, “Magic in the XII Tables Revisited,” passim.
149. Seneca (Nat. 4.7.2) and Apuleius (Apol. 47.3) also mention this law, although
Seneca understands it to forbid using incantations to conjure storms to dam-
age rather than steal a neighbor’s crop.
150. Rives, “Magic in the XII Tables Revisited,” 278, notes that loading a neigh-
bor’s produce onto a cart and hauling it away did not need special mention
because it was illegal under ordinary laws protecting property. Surreptitious-
ly diverting the fertility of a neighbor’s field into one ’s own was less obvi-
ous, however, and needed to be singled out. Warmington, Remains of Old
Latin, 479, understands excantassit to mean “destroy” rather than “steal” but
he is in the minority. See Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, 41–42; and Dickie,
Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 143, who concur with Rives.
151. See note 55 above.
152. Mens hausti nulla sanie polluta ueneni excantata perit.
153. Marcellus Empiricus (De medicamenti 15.11). This text dates to the fifth cen-
tury ce; Rives, “Magic in the XII Tables Revisited,” 273 n. 18, notes, how-
ever, that the carmen preserved here “is generally considered to be archaic in
origin.” For additional references and discussion, see Rives, “Magic in the
XII Tables Revisited,” 274.
154. Rives, “Magic in the XII Tables Revisited,” 279–80.
155. Cicero Resp. 4.12 quoted in Augustine Civ. 2.9.
156. This ancient notion is expressed in Gen 1 and 2:19. Pliny also credits his ances-
tors with a strong belief in verbal power (Nat. 3.143). See also Butler, Excit-
able Speech, 18–19, and passim, on the power of speech to constitute and sub-
ordinate the subject. Butler’s conception that hate speech injures its addressee
by interpellating them into a position of social subordination resonates with
the dual meaning of carmen. Slander or hate speech does not merely describe:
it acts. It constructs relations of dominance in the very act of speaking.
157. Lewis and Short, A Latin Dictionary, s.v. venenum II.A.1b.

158. Rives, “Magic in the XII Tables Revisited,” 275–79.
159. Rives, “Magic in Roman Law,” 322.
160. Catullus, The Poems of Catullus, 202–3.
161. Probably Lucius Gellius Publicola, consul in 36 bce.
162. Testor, cara, deos et te, germana, tuumque / dulce caput, magicas invitam ac-
cingier artis.
163. See Benveniste, Les Mages, 5, also on the ambivalence.
164. Thus, early Christians can accuse each other and others of doing “magic” as
a way to undercut their rival’s legitimacy and divine authority. See discussion
in chapter 4, this volume.
165. Rives, “Magic in Roman Law,” 327.
166. Tibulli Carmina 1.2.43.
167. His use of docta may be ironic here since it is usually employed in elegy to
describe the poet’s beloved.
168. Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 15. On invective
against old women in Latin poetry see Richlin, “Invective Against Women in
Roman Satire,” and The Garden of Priapus, 105–15.
169. Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, 37–39; Tupet, La Magie, 107, 223–24.
170. Gordon, “Imagining Greek and Roman Magic,” 164–65.
171. Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 127.
173. The Lex Cornelia sought to bring a variety of actions associated with murder
together under one heading. See Rives, “Magic in Roman Law,” 318, 334–35.
174. MacMullen, Enemies of the Roman Order, chapters 3 and 4.
175. Pliny’s Nat. 30, for example, ranges over a wide variety of foreign and bizarre
practices that he identifies with magia, the art introduced by the Magi. Most
of these rites involve brutality of some sort, such as human sacrifice, which is
what distinguishes them, it seems, from medicinal practices discussed in book
28. Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, 50–51, emphasizes a different aspect of
Pliny’s conceptualization of magic: namely, that magic differs from genuine
medicine by being a false and arrogant claim to possess special divine powers.
On Roman conceptions of magic as generally subversive, see Frankfurter,
Religion in Roman Egypt, 219.
176. For example, in his Contra Celsum Origen claims that, unlike “magicians,”
Christians do not employ spells or incantations (ἐπῳδων) but only the simple
name of Jesus and “certain other words in which they repose faith” (ἄλλων
λόγων πεπιστευμένων), 1.6.26–28.
177. Schmidt, “Canaanite Magic.”
178. Ibid., 253–54.
179. See also Ricks, “The Magician as Outsider,” 136, for a similar argument.
180. See Jeffers discussion of this passage, Magic and Divination in Ancient Pal-
estine and Syria, 44–49. See also Levy, “Review of Magic and Divination in
Ancient Palestine and Syria,” who points out some of the limitations of Jeffers’
study.
181. The Septuagint more closely approximates the sense of the Hebrew by trans-
lating ‫ חרטמי מצרים‬as “Egyptian interpreters” (ἐξηγητὰϚ Αἰγύπτου).
182. Dan 1.20; 2.2, 10, 27; 4.4; 5.7, 11.
183. Jeffers, Magic, 47; my emphasis.
184. Ibid., 68.
185. Ibid.
186. Ibid., 80–81; Jeffers discusses the difficulty of defining ‫מעוננים‬. Apparently the
divinatory element is fairly certain, however, the method itself lies in doubt.
Judges 9:37, for example, refers to the diviner’s tree (‫)אלון מעוננים‬, suggesting
“a method used for obtaining oracles from trees.”
187. Ibid., 69.
188. See discussion in chapter 2, this volume. Jeffers, Magic, 69, points to a con-
nection between Micah 5:11 and the root ksp in the Ras Rhamra text, “con-
necting it with plants and medicinal herbs.” Thus the word may be related
to herbal practices, as suggested by the LXX translation as φάρμακα, rather
than divination. See also Levy’s critique of this theory. “Review,” 150.
189. ‫קסם‬, for example, seems to have been someone who divined by drawing lots.
See Jeffers, Magic, 96–98.
190. Schäfer, “Magic and Religion in Ancient Judaism,” 33.
191. See: 1 Enoch 6.1; 19.1; Testament of Reuben 5.1, 5–6; Jubilees 4.22, 5.1; 2
Apocalypse of Baruch 56.10; Tobit 6.14, 8.3; Josephus, Antiquities 1.73. For a
critical examination of this legend and its reception history, see Reed, Fallen
Angels.
192. Reed, “Angels, Women, and Magic.”
193. See Garrett, Demise, 13–17.
194. See, for example, Jer 13:27; Ezek 16, 23; Hos (passim); and Nah 2:4.
195. See Stratton, “Imagining Power” and chapter 5 in this volume.
196. See my discussion and examples in Stratton, “Ritual Inversion,” forthcoming.
2 . b a r b a r ians, magic, and

co n s t r uction of the other
1. Murray, Early Greece, 283. This new confidence may have to do with changes
in military technology and strategy; see Ehrenberg, From Solon to Socrates, 21,
55, and note 74, this chapter.
2. In the fifth century a gradual shift toward democratic leadership occurs: the
use of lots to decide members of the βουλή in 450 bce was later reinforced
by the introduction of pay for public service in 411, opening these offices to
unaffluent citizens. Hornblower, “Greece,” 159. Democracy also constituted
an important aspect of Athenian ideology; it defined the difference between
2 . b a r b a r i a n s , m a g i c , a n d c o n s t r u c t i o n o f t h e o t h e r 195
Greeks and “barbarians” for Athenian writers of this period. See Hall, Invent-
ing the Barbarian, 2.
3. Lacey, The Family in Classical Greece, 103–4; and Boegehold, “Perikles’ Citi-
zenship Law of 451/0 B.C.,” 58.
4. See further discussion in section Magic and Marriage Laws (this chapter).
5. Hall, Aeschylus: Persians, 4–5.
6. Ibid., 2.
7. Ibid., 7, 13.
8. With regard to the increasingly negative attitude toward magi after the Per-
sian Wars, Burkert, Babylon, 101, writes: “Yet after the great conflict of the
Persian Wars, the Greeks seemed to form their self-conception from a ten-
dentious contrast with other peoples. After 479 ‘Asia’ was seen as the antago-
nist of ‘Hellas.’ Some Greeks were even prone to take Ionians for Asiatics.”
9. The earliest extant κατάδεσμοι date to the early fifth century and, possibly,
to the late sixth century. See Ogden, “Binding Spells,” 4, for a recent discus-
sion. On ancient interpretations of these spells, see my discussion further in
this section.
10. Burkert, “Itinerant Diviners and Magicians,” 116; Burkert, The Orientalizing
Revolution, 67–68, proposes that figurines and curses along with cathartic
healing rituals and protective amulets were introduced to Greece from an-
cient Mesopotamia during or prior to the Archaic period.
11. Gager, Curse Tablets, 7, suggests that, as literacy spread, the verbal directives
that originally accompanied the spell were written on the tablet itself.
12. Some tablets indicate from their wording that they were buried in a grave
(see, e.g., Gager, Curse Tablets, no. 22). Others have been recovered ar-
chaeologically from wells, graves, or thresholds. Published collections in-
clude Wünsch, Defixionum Tabellae Atticae; Audollent, Defixionum Tabellae;
Wünsch, Antike Fluchtafeln; López Jimeno, Las tabellae defixionis de la Sicilia
griega; and Jordan, “Defixiones.” For examples translated into English with
discussion, see Gager, Curse Tablets, 19 and passim; and Ogden, “Binding
Spells,” 15–23.
13. This type of curse functions analogically. See Collins, “Nature, Cause, and
Agency in Greek Magic,” 43–45, for a different understanding of how these
curses work. Regarding the nature and development of inscribed messages
on κατάδεσμοι see Gager, Curse Tablets, 4–12; and Faraone, “The Agonistic
Context of Early Greek Binding Spells,” 4–10.
14. Gager, Curse Tablets, devotes a chapter to each one of these competitive
arenas. See also Faraone, “The Agonistic Context of Early Greek Binding
Spells,” 10–17.
15. Versnel, “Beyond Cursing,” 62.
16. The degree to which these rituals should or should not be labeled magic by
modern scholars has been amply debated in recent years. See, for example,
Gager, Curse Tablets, 24–25; Faraone and Obbink, Magika Hiera, vi; and Far-
aone, “The Agonistic Context of Early Greek Binding Spells,” 17–20.
196 2 . b a r b a r i a n s , m a g i c , a n d c o n s t r u c t i o n o f t h e o t h e r
17. See Burkert, “Itinerant Diviners,” 116–19.

18. Ibid., 116–17.
19. Greek mores demanded reverence and care be shown to the dead. A body
left unburied or a tomb that was desecrated could bring plague or misfortune
upon an entire community. Tiresias, in Sophocles’ Antigone, for example, de-
scribes the μίασμα and resulting fracture between gods and men caused by
Polyneicēs’ lack of proper burial (1005–1022). Attending to the tomb of one ’s
ancestors was considered to be an important aspect of filial duty and could be
counted as proof of legitimate descent in cases where inheritance was con-
tested. Garland, The Greek Way of Death, 104. Rituals for the dead sought
to honor and make the deceased more comfortable by offering food, making
libations, and decorating the tomb with ribbons or garlands; ibid., 108–18.
20. Early references to Hecate in Hesiod (Theog. 404–452) and the Homeric Hymn
to Demeter (22–25, 51–61, 438–440), in contrast, do not reveal any association
with magic. In fact, Hesiod, attributes an exceptionally important and posi-
tive role to her. It is probable that Hecate ’s identification with liminality is
the origin of her later identity as patron goddess of magic and sorcerers. See
Johnston, Hekate Soteira, who illuminates Hecate ’s association with liminal
places and life events.
21. Littré 1.92–3.
22. See the classic discussion of Hecate in Rohde, Psyche, 590–95, where he iden-
tifies her with Lamia and other female demons who attack children; Tupet, La
Magie, 14–15; Johnston, Restless Dead, chapter 6. See also Johnston, Hekate
Soteira, 34–35.
23. Souls of the untimely dead were frequently considered to be restless, angry, or
unsatisfied and thus especially prone to exploitation for destructive or deviant
ends. See Rohde, Psyche, 594. Tupet, La Magie, 12, similarly writes: “La haine
qu’ils éprouvent envers les hommes peut être utilisée par le magicien pour
servir des desseins funestes.” The Greek term for this wrath of the dead is
μήνιμα and it could be expiated through certain purification ceremonies; the
death of Pausanias, for example, was believed to have polluted the precinct of
Athena in Sparta and required mantic specialists to expiate. See Burkert, The
Orientalizing Revolution, 42, 66.
24. Tombs continued to convey a portion of the μίασμα or pollution that at-
tached to the corpse at death; festivals of the dead and worship of heroes at
their tombs rendered one ritually unclean. See Parker, Miasma, 38–39. Olym-
pian gods could not remain near or witness death, even that of a beloved dev-
otee (Hippolytus 1437–39), and pollution caused by death similarly cut one
off from contact with these deities (Antigone 1005–1022). See note 19 in this
chapter.
25. For further discussion of the subversive power derived from ritual inversion,
see Stratton, “Ritual Inversion,” forthcoming. Collins, “Theoris of Lemnos,”
notes that, while magic (referring to φάρμακα and ἐπωδαί) was not illegal in
Athens, causing harm through poison (φάρμακα) was an actionable offense.

See also Versnel, “Beyond Cursing,” 62, on their use in an agonistic culture.
26. E.g., Theophrastus Char. 16.14 (crossroads); and Aristophanes Vesp. 804
(doorways).
27. Gager, Curse Tablets, 18–21; and note 12 in this chapter.
28. See Bremmer, “The Birth of the Term ‘Magic,’” 8.
29. See, for example, Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 23;
and Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, 28.
30. Littré 6.354. Martin, Inventing Superstition, 36–50, discusses this text in the
context of Greek ideas about superstition.
31. E.g., Aristophanes, Nub. 102-3. Montiglio, “Wandering Philosophers in Clas-
sical Greece,” describes the rhetorical effect of accusing someone of itiner-
ancy: “Since Homer, calling someone a wanderer was tantamount to insult-
ing that person. Similarly, Plato undermined the sophist’s worth by attaching
to them the label of the wanderer. . . . The Sophist’s nomadism reflects the
deceptive and unsettled nature of his rhetorical wanderings. . . . In sum, the
Sophist’s wanderings connote verbal deceits, greed, and an evasive, slippery
nature.” Her findings suggest that this “portrait” of early “magicians” needs
to be treated cautiously. Burkert, “Itinerant Diviners,” 116, on the other
hand, accepts the description as more or less accurate and compares it to one
of an Assyrian incantation priest who uses a similar ritual to purify people of
disease.
32. Littré 6.358–360.
33. He also mocks this approach by pointing out that certain people in other parts
of the world rely on these proscribed items for sustenance and yet do not suf-
fer disproportionately of the disease; Littré 6.356–358.
34. Ibid. 6.352.
35. Ibid. 6.366.
36. See, for example, Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 47f;
Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, 21f, 24f, 30–35; Bremmer, “The Birth of the
Term ‘Magic,’” 3–4; and Collins, “Theoris of Lemnos,” 482–84, who, fol-
lowing Lloyd, notes the rhetorical and competitive quality of this depiction.
37. “Attempts to provide empirical backing for his own ideas are often feeble and
abortive . . . ” Lloyd, Magic, Reason, and Experience, 24.
38. See Burkert, “Itinerant Diviners,” 116, on an Assyrian parallel to this practice.
39. Burkert, “Itinerant Diviners,” 119, discusses this passage in connection to
Mesopotamian influences on Orphic anthropogony and theogony.
40. Leg. 933a. The association of magic with Orphic mysteries is supported by
Pausanias (30.2): he claims that the citizens of Aegina celebrate mysteries
brought by Orpheus in honor of Hecate, who, as we have seen, is closely
identified with binding spells and the restless dead. This observation, how-
ever, may not be reliable for understanding fifth-century cultic developments
since Pausanias was writing in the second century ce.
41. Bremmer, “The Birth of the Term ‘Magic,’” passim; Nock, “Paul and the
Magus,” 176–78. Walter Burkert presents the strongest evidence for this con-
nection. See Burkert, “Itinerant Diviners” and Burkert, Babylon, 99–124.
42. Collins, “Theoris of Lemnos,” 482, 484, makes this same point.
43. See, for example, Aj. 581–2; and Pindar, Pyth. 3.51ff.
44. Lloyd, Magic, Reason, and Experience, 33–34; Burkert, Babylon, 117.
45. For discussion and texts, see Lloyd, Magic, Reason, and Experience, 34–37;
Kingsley, Ancient Philosophy, Mystery, and Magic, 218; and Kirk and Raven,
The Presocratic Philosophers, 225 (quote. 274 = Diogenes Laertius 8.1).
46. Even though Dionysos is said to come from Lydia, this portrait is clearly
“orientalized.” See Burkert, Babylon, 100–1, on association of Lydia with Per-
sia and Persian customs at this time.
47. See Hall, Inventing the Barbarian, 58. Linear B tablets, in contrast, indicate that
Dionysos was most likely worshipped in Greece as early as 1400 bce, during
the Minoan-Mycenaean era. Parker, “Greek Religion,” 309. Greek tradition
and mythology, however, attributed foreign roots to him, which forms the
basis of Euripides’ Bacchae. See also Hall, Inventing the Barbarian, 151.
48. “Various terms . . . to evoke the luxury of the Persian court were to become
closely associated with the barbarian ethos, especially chlidē, luxury, pomp,
and the concept habrosunē or habrotēs, an untranslatable term combining the
sense of softness, delicacy and lack of restraint,” Hall, Inventing the Barbar-
ian, 81. See also Hall, Aeschylus: Persians, 13; and Sancisi-Weerdenburg, “Exit
Atossa,” 32.
49. Excessive refinement and luxury, which Aristotle calls μαλακία or τρυφή,
shows a lack of Hellenic self-restraint. Hall, Inventing the Barbarian, 126.
Σωφροσύνη was also a trait expected of women, which related specifically
to the protection of their chastity and their family’s honor. See Foley, Female
Acts,109, 111; and discussion in North, Sophrosyne; and Rademaker, Sophro-
syne and the Rhetoric of Self-Restraint.
50. For other examples, see Hall, Inventing the Barbarian, 80–81, 126.
51. The Bacchae was written near the end of Euripides’ life (c. 407 bce) and not
produced until 405 bce, after his death in 406 bce. These years also marked
Athens’s defeat at the end of the Peloponnesian war, which was instigated in
part by Spartan ambition and in part by Athens’ own exploitation of her allies
who sought Spartan help in their liberation.
52. See Carson, “Putting Her in Her Place,” 38, and discussion this chapter,
pp. 58–59.
53. West, “‘Eumelos,’” 109, argues that the attribution is incorrect.
54. Graf, “Medea, the Enchantress from Afar,” 34–36.
55. Ibid., 35.
56. West, “‘Eumelos,’” 123–24.
57. Johnston, “Corinthian Medea and the Cult of Hera Akraia,” 46–47.
58. Hall, Inventing the Barbarian, 35, proposes that Medea’s barbarian identity was
the invention of tragedy and possibly of Euripides himself. She notes that
Medea does not appear in Persian costume on vase paintings until after 431
when Euripides’ Medea was produced. Pharmaceutical skills were, however,
an old element to her story, which may have contributed to the barbarian as-
sociation. McDermott, Euripides’ Medea, 5, states that “in having Medea kill
her sons to gain vengeance on their father, Euripides is forging new mythic
ground.” In contrast, Johnston, “Corinthian Medea and the Cult of Hera
Akraia,” 5 and passim, rejects the view that Euripides invented the infanticide:
fifth-century authors inherited an infanticidal Medea from myth. Specifically,
the “Medea whom we meet in Euripides’ play developed out of a folkloric
paradigm that was widespread both in ancient Greece and in other ancient
Mediterranean countries—the paradigm of the reproductive demon—and
that this paradigm is likely to have been associated with the Corinthian cult of
Hera Akraia.” West, “‘Eumelos,’” 121–25, convincingly demonstrates, how-
ever, that the Medea of the Argonautic legend had nothing to do with the
Medea associated with the cult of Hera in Corinth. Furthermore, the Corin-
thian Medea accidentally kills her children by burying them in the temple of
Hera, believing this would immortalize them. See also Michelini, “Neophron
and Euripides’ Medea,” who explores the possibility that Euripides was influ-
enced by an earlier Medea of Neophron.
59. Helios fathered both Aeëtes, Medea’s father, and Circe (Hesiod, Theog.
1011).
60. Pindar knows this tradition early in the fifth century; he describes her as
παμφαρμάκου (Pyth. 4.233–234). A fragment (534) from Sophocles’ lost
play, The Root-Cutters, describes Medea cutting roots naked in preparation for
magic. There may be another Medea, however, associated with Corinth: see
note 58.
61. The Odyssey mentions the story of the Argonauts as popular legend in its day
(18.246). Hesiod also refers to this story in the Theogony (993–1002).
62. On the implications of this act and a discussion of the different versions of
it in classical literature, see Bremmer, “Why Did Medea Kill Her Brother
Apsyrtus?”
63. Euripides plays down Medea’s magical ability until the end, portraying her
initially, at least, as a sort of “everywoman” with whom the audience can
identify. See Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 257–58, n. 53, for discussion
and relevant bibliography.
64. In Greek tradition brothers were supposed to protect their sisters in the
absence of their fathers. Thus, having killed one and thereby alienated the
other, Medea has no family from which she can seek protection or redress for
her humiliation by Jason. See Bremmer, “Why Did Medea Kill Her Brother
Apsyrtus?” 95.
65. On women’s legal status, see Sealey, Women and Law in Classical Greece,
chapter 2; Lacey, The Family in Classical Greece; and Blundell, Women in An-
cient Greece, 113–29. Regarding Medea’s murder of her brother, see Bremmer,
“Why Did Medea Kill Her Brother Apsyrtus?” 100: “By killing her brother,
Medea not only committed the heinous act of spilling familial blood, she also
permanently severed all ties to her natal home and the role that it would nor-
mally play in her adult life. Through Apsyrtus’s murder, she simultaneously
declared her independence from her family and forfeited her right to any pro-
tection from it. Once Apsyrtus was gone, Medea was brotherless. There was
only one way for Medea to go, then: she had to follow Jason and never look
back.” See also McDermott, Euripides’ Medea, 44: “The countervailing fea-
ture of the system is that the woman was never left helpless and alone: that
is, she was never bereft of the male protection that Greek society deemed the
sine qua non for the weaker female sex.”
66. Liddell and Scott Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “εκπλήττω.”
67. θυμόϚ is associated with both the mind, soul, and spirit of a person as well
as with the emotions (passion, anger, etc.). Liddell and Scott Greek-English
Lexicon, s.v. “θυμόϚ.”
68. Athenian democracy radically appropriated the rhetoric of the “good” and
the “noble” from the aristocracy and applied it universally to all citizen men.
Solon initiated this rhetorical appropriation by “reversing the usual concepts
of class description, calling many of the rich ‘bad,’ and claiming that the poor
were ‘good.’” Ehrenberg, From Solon to Socrates, 64. See also Ober, Mass and
Elite in Democratic Athens; and Loraux, The Invention of Athens, 149, on the
role of the autochthony myth and Athenian perceptions of democratic nobil-
ity. See also Foucault, The Use of Pleasure, 61. Foucault’s interpretation of the
ancient literature has drawn some criticism. See, for example, Marin, “Re-
view of Care of the Self,” 64.
69. Aristotle attributes σωφροσύνη to women, but identifies it as obedience
rather than self-governance (Pol. 1260a20–24, 1277b20–24); because women
were perceived to lack reason and emotional restraint, female σωφροσύνη re-
quired submitting to male guardians who controlled them. See Foley, Female
Acts in Greek Tragedy, 109; and Carson, “Putting Her in Her Place,” 142.
70. See Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 247, on Medea’s justification for
being angry over betrayal of the marriage bed; “it represents a broader set
of social issues for a woman than mere desire.” The accusation that women
care only about gratifying their sexual needs plays a central and comic role
in Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazousae; women take over Athens’s government and
immediately proclaim sexual democracy according to which women acquire
sexual privileges granted to men in historic reality. See Zeitlin, “Utopia and
Myth in Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazousae.”
71. See discussion in Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 243, 248.
72. Pindar Pyth. 4.217 describes Jason’s use of a love spell on Medea to win her
support and turn her against her father. Jason may allude to this event in
Euripides’ Medea 526–528 when he states that it was Aphrodite alone who
helped him succeed. Medea claims they are legally wed in this play (492–515).
Hesiod (Theog. 992–1001) and Pindar (Pyth. 4.222–223) also support her ver-
sion of events.
73. Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 262.

74. Medea and Jason represent competing conceptions of heroic valor and vir-
tue. The epic and aristocratic ideal was single-handed combat and glory. See
Nagy, The Best of the Achaeans, passim, on the heroic quest for glory. In the
classical age, by contrast, men fought in unison as hoplites, whose shields
linked one over the other, each man protecting his neighbor as well as him-
self. The entire regiment stood or fell together—they were as strong as their
weakest member—and to break ranks and run jeopardized the entire group.
In this context, loyalty rather than self-interest emerges as a greater virtue.
On the relationship between democracy and the invention of the φάλαγξ
see Ehrenberg, From Solon to Socrates, 21, 55. On Medea representing mas-
culine ethics, see Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 243-271, with further
bibliography.
75. See Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 260. While pursuit of glory and
defense of honor were the domain of men, respectable women in Classical
Athens were expected to be as little noticed or known about as possible. As
Pericles is quoted as saying: “The greatest glory is hers who is least talked
about by men, whether in praise or in blame” (Thuc. 2.45.2). Seidensticker,
“Women on the Tragic Stage,” 154. See also Cohen, Law, Sexuality and Soci-
ety, 41–47.
76. Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 248; and Boedeker, “Becoming
Medea,” 136.
77. Liddell and Scott Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “διαφθείρω.” Similarly, in Eu-
ripides’ Hippolytus (388) Phaedra refuses to be corrupted or seduced into
using a love potion (φαρμάκωι διαφθερει̂ν) by her nurse.
78. My emphasis.
79. See note 65 in this chapter.
80. See discussion this chapter.
81. The messenger narrates the entire ghastly episode (1136–1230).
82. The Medea is dated to 431 bce while the Trachiniae is believed to have been
produced before the Antigone in 441 bce, but that date is also not firm.
83. See Davies, “Deianeira and Medea,” 469; and Faraone, Ancient Greek Love
Magic, 112.
84. See discussion of mythic similarities in Davies, “Deianeira and Medea,”
passim.
85. Faraone, Ancient Greek Love Magic, 110–19, discusses Deianeira’s mistake in
the context of other ancient evidence for women’s (and men’s) accidental ho-
micide while seeking to win affection (φιλία) with magic.
86. On the conception of ἔρωϚ as a disease, see Faraone, Ancient Greek Love
Magic, 43–54.
87. Loraux, “Herakles,” passim.
88. On Heracles’ excessive masculinity and virile strength, see Loraux, “Herak-
les,” 25. Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 95, discusses the moral chaos
introduced into the house by Heracles’ “illegitimate erōs.”
89. Deianeira imagines both women sharing Heracles’ bed at one time (539–540).
See Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 95–97, for a discussion of Deianei-
ra’s magic. For evidence that Deianeira was originally closer to the model
of a murderous wife along the lines of Clytemnestra or Medea, see Davies,
“Deianeira and Medea,” passim, who includes a rich bibliography of ancient
and modern sources.
91. On the sexualized suicide, see Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 97. On
Heracles’ femininity, see Loraux, “Herakles,” passim.
92. My emphasis.
94. Euripides produced the Medea about twenty years after Pericles passed this
law—when the children of mixed unions born just prior to passage of the law
would be coming of age and raising questions about legitimacy. I thank my
colleague Josh Beer for pointing this out and also for sharing an unpublished
conference paper on the topic with me.
96. Ibid., 95–96.
97. See, for example, Medea 155–59, 205–7, 998–99.
98. Carson, “Putting Her in Her Place,” 138–39. On conceptions of women’s
bodies in Greek medicine more generally, see Aline Rousselle, Porneia, chap-
ter 2.
99. Elsewhere, Hippocratic writings describe women as excessively moist and in-
clining toward water. Regimen, 1.27.2 and 1.34.2.
100. Although the Hippocratic writings describe the condition as an overly dry
womb, the treatment they prescribe (in addition to coitus) involves applying
sweet or foul smelling odors and pessaries (Mul. 2.123), suggesting a concep-
tion similar to that of Plato—namely, the womb is a hungry animal and will
be attracted by pleasing odors.
101. Easterling, Sophocles, 170.
102. See also Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 96.
103. Artemis required that Iphigenia be sacrificed to her in order for the Greek
fleet to sail to Troy. See Euripides, Iph. aul. for a presentation of this myth.
104. Interestingly, Cassandra enlists magic discourse to prophetically foretell her
own murder at the hands of Clytemnestra, describing Clytemnestra as prepar-
ing a deadly potion (φάρμακον) of recompense to mix into her drink as well
as Agamemnon’s (Ag. 1260), which suggests the link between φαρμακεία
and jealousy.
105. See, for example, Goldhill, “Civic Ideology and the Problem of Difference”;
Hall, Inventing the Barbarian, 1–2; Zeitlin, “Thebes”; Ober and Strauss,
“Drama, Political Rhetoric”; and Foley, “The Conception of Women in
Athenian Drama.”
106. See p. 43.
107. See also Hall, Inventing the Barbarian, 121, for discussion.
108. For example, Aeschines indicted the rhetor Timarchos on the charges of
squandering his paternal estate to satisfy sexual appetites and prostituting
himself for pleasure; this unmanly lack of σωφροσύνη demonstrated an in-
ability to control his own desire and consequently an inability to manage pub-
lic affairs or advise the assembly ([Tim] 1.28–32). See also Winkler, “Laying
Down the Law”; and Cohen, Law, Sexuality and Society, 184.
109. Winkler, “Laying Down the Law,” 61.
110. See Keuls, Reign of the Phallus, 293, which includes photo illustration (fig.
261). For a different interpretation of this vase, see Davidson, Courtesans and
Fishcakes, 170–71.
111. Winkler, “Laying Down the Law,” 54 and passim.
112. Winkler, “The Constraints of Desire,” 74.
113. See ibid., 97–98; and Faraone, Ancient Greek Love Magic, 121, 130.
114. According to Lysias 1.7, the plaintiff ’s young wife first made her seducer’s
acquaintance at her mother-in-law’s funeral.
115. Lysias 3.6. See also Rabinowitz, Anxiety Veiled, 6.
116. Lysias 1.9, for example, brags that he kept a vigilant eye on his wife before the
birth of their first child.
117. Claims regarding ancient women’s lives pose a problem for historiography;
literature, whether philosophical prose, forensic speeches, or drama, simplifies
the real picture. Men’s discourse about what women do or should do conceals
the complex reality of how women actually negotiate their lives within male-
dominated social and political space. See, for example, Bourdieu, Outline of a
Theory of Practice, who analyzes the construction of social space as reflective
and determining of people’s socialization. See also Cohen, Law, Sexuality and
Society, passim, who draws heavily on Bourdieu’s work to frame his analysis
of ancient Athenian law and society.
118. The law is cited by Aristotle (AP 26.4) and Plutarch (Pericles 37.3). See the
discussion in Boegehold, “Perikles’ Citizenship Law of 451/0 B.C.” Various
theories exist regarding the innovations of Pericles’ law. Lacey, The Family in
Classical Greece, 103, for example, claims that prior to this law men were able
to contract legal marriages with non-Athenian women and breed legitimate
children. Patterson, Pericles’ Citizenship Law of 451–450 B.C., in contrast,
suggests that although this may have been possible, Athenians traditionally
sought brides from within their own tribe; the endogamous practice enforced
by Pericles’ law already existed as the nomos. If such were the case, however,
Pericles would not have needed to pass such a law and conflicts issuing from
it would not be so evident in the extant court cases. See further discussion,
this chapter.
119. Ober, Mass and Elite in Democratic Athens, 80–81, emphasizes the impact
Pericles’ law had on the poorer elements of the population, who benefited
from klerouchies (land grants in Athenian colonies awarded to citizens) and
married foreign wives while abroad. Others have argued that the law was
aimed at reducing oligarchic foreign alliances, which mutually supported

each other against tyranny or, in Athens’s case, democracy. See Patterson,
Pericles’ Citizenship Law of 451–450 B.C., 99–100, who addresses some prob-
lems with this theory. Lacey, The Family in Classical Greece, 100, suggests that
one reason for passing the law was to ensure enough husbands for Athenian
daughters at a time when the female to male ratio was quite high due to war.
120. Connor, “The Problem of Athenian Civic Identity,” 35–37; Davies, Democ-
racy and Classical Greece, 88–94.
121. Connor, “The Problem of Athenian Civic Identity,” 37; Ober, Mass and Elite
in Democratic Athens, 81.
122. Patterson, Pericles’ Citizenship Law of 451–450 B.C., 99–100, questions wheth-
er aristocratic alliances factored into Pericles’ law. Connor, “The Problem of
Athenian Civic Identity,” 36; and Boegehold, “Perikles’ Citizenship Law of
451/0 B.C,” 58, suggest that, if aristocratic marriages with foreign οἶκοι were
not a motivating factor, the elite were, nonetheless, constrained by the law.
123. Patterson, Pericles’ Citizenship Law of 451–450 B.C., passim, proposes that
Pericles’ citizenship law responded to a large influx of foreign immigrants
following the Persian war. Athenians sought to restrict the number of people
who could claim such benefits of citizenship as receiving klerouchies or grain
from the grain dole. See also Frost, “Aspects of Athenian Citizenship,” 45;
and Boegehold, “Perikles’ Citizenship Law of 451/0 B.C,” 60–61, for addi-
tional suggestions.
124. See Loraux, Les enfants d’Athéna, and The Invention of Athens; and Patterson,
Pericles’ Citizenship Law of 451–450 B.C., 132–33.
125. Connor, “The Problem of Athenian Civic Identity,” 40.
126. For discussion and examples, see Connor, “The Problem of Athenian Civic
Identity,” 41; Wallace, “Private Lives and Public Enemies,” 143; and espe-
cially useful is Scafuro, “Witnessing and False Witnessing.”
127. Scafuro, “Witnessing and False Witnessing,” 176–77, provides an informa-
tive table that shows the majority of ξενία cases to be related to inheritance.
128. Connor, “The Problem of Athenian Civic Identity,” 41, notes that even if
ones citizenship were unchallengeable in the paternal line, the maternal line
might still leave one open to accusation and doubt. This is due to the dif-
ficulty in proving female “citizenship.” See Scafuro, “Witnessing and False
Witnessing”; Patterson, “The Case Against Neaira,” examines the central
importance of the οἶκοϚ in Athenian ideology and the vulnerability of the
οἶκοϚ to its female members.
129. On women’s invisibility see Pericles’ comment cited in note 75.
130. See Scafuro, “Witnessing and False Witnessing,” 162–63, who notes that live
witnesses were regarded as superior to archival documents. See also Pome-
roy, “Women’s Identity and the Family in the Classical Polis,” 111–21.
131. On anxiety over paternity, see Konstan, “Premarital Sex, Illegitimacy, and
Male Anxiety,” 217–35.
132. See Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 84–87, who examines the theme of
adultery and out-of-wedlock children in Athenian drama as well as problems
of a childless marriage.
133. Scholars mostly concur that the fifth century saw the curtailment of some
women’s social freedom. See, for example, Lacey, The Family in Classical
Greece, 68, 113.
134. Ibid., 113.
135. Katz, “Women and Democracy in Ancient Greece,” analyzes scholarly esti-
mates of women’s status in ancient Greece and concludes that the perception
that women’s position was, as Lacey states, “nowadays thought to be intoler-
able” depends on ideological positions of the scholar and her social-political
context rather than the actual experience of ancient women. See also Katz,
“Ideology and ‘the Status of Women’ in Ancient Greece.”
136. Seidensticker, “Women on the Tragic Stage,” 153.
137. Wallace, “Private Lives and Public Enemies,” 143–45.
138. Seidensticker, “Women on the Tragic Stage,” 153.
139. On timing of the Medea, see note 94, this chapter.
140. Ortner, “Introduction,” 20.
141. Ibid., 14.
142. Ibid., 20.
143. Interestingly, Aeschylus’s Agamemnon predates passage of this law, which
may contribute to the absence of magic in its representation of Clytemnes-
tra’s murderous revenge. But this is purely speculative.
144. Before Pericles instituted the law requiring both parents to be Athenian,
men’s social and political status depended much less on women. A man could
acknowledge as his legitimate son even one born to a foreign woman. Lacey,
The Family in Classical Greece, 103.
145. This would concur with Faraone ’s interpretation. See Faraone, Ancient Greek
Love Magic, chapter 3. At least one woman was tried and executed for being
a φαρμακίϚ and using harmful ἐπωδαί in fourth-century Athens. [Demos-
thenes] Aristog. 25.77-80. See discussion in Collins, “Theoris of Lemnos.”
[Aristotle] Magna Moralia 16 = 1188b29-38; and Antiphon, In Novercam, also
record trials of women using love potions on their husbands. They may be
referring to the same case. See Collins, “Theoris of Lemnos,” 481.
146. Antiphon, In Novercam.
147. Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 88–89, who, at the
same time, uses it as evidence for upper-class women practicing magic.
148. See, for example, Euripides, Ion 616; [Aristotle] Magna Moralia 16 ( =
1188b29–38); and Plutarch, Moralia 139a and 256c. See also Keuls, Reign of the
Phallus, 322; and Faraone, Ancient Greek Love Magic, 110–19, for an excellent
discussion of the cases in which such a fear is expressed.
150. Reported by Plutarch (Pericles 37.2–5). See also Patterson, Pericles’ Citizen-
ship Law of 451–450 B.C., 1–2.
151. This does not imply accepting all of Demosthenes’ accusations at face value
but recognizing that they must have appeared plausible to be effective in front
of a jury. In other words, the fear of such an occurrence happening must have
existed.
152. Demosthenes [Neaer.]. See also Foley, Female Acts in Greek Tragedy, 89.
3 . m a s c u l a libido
1. Jason’s abandonment of Medea is presented as callous and calculating, part
of Jason’s unheroic self-promotion even at the cost of breaking his oath. See
discussion in chapter 2.
2. See Faraone, Ancient Greek Love Magic, 110–19, for more discussion on this
point.
3. Medea wields almost cosmic power in Apollonius’s Argonautica. Simaetha in
Theocritus’s second Idyll actively pursues her errant lover with magic, yet, like
Medea, she has been seduced and abandoned. Her magic ritual thus appears
justified in protecting her honor and wounded heart (on Simaetha’s identity
as a courtesan see note 47). Neither character is depicted as cruel, demonic,
nor as committing necromancy. Ogden, Greek and Roman Necromancy, 128,
notes that the imperial period constitutes the “heyday” of Roman depictions
of necromancy. This suggests that its importance as a discourse of alterity
parallels that of magic, which also flourished in the imperial period.
4. It is well established that curse tablets became more complex over time. The
earliest tablets, which date to the fifth century bce, usually state only the
name of the person to be bound, suggesting that a verbal command figured
prominently in the rite. See Gager, Curse Tablets, 5–9. Later tablets recovered
archaeologically as well as recipes from the PGM collection, which dates to
the 4th century ce and derives from Egypt, indicate increasing complexity in
binding rituals, including, for example, the use of nonsense language (voces
mysticae) as well as bizarre ingredients. PGM 1.247–62, for example, instructs
one to “take the eye of an ape or of a corpse that has died a violent death.”
See also PGM 2.1–64; 1. 262–347; 4. 2943–66, 1390–1495, and 2145–2240
for examples of spells that employ macabre ingredients. LiDonnici, “Beans,
Fleawort, and the Blood of a Hamadryas Baboon,” discusses the existence of
codes used to conceal the real (and more normal) meanings for many seem-
ingly bizarre ingredients in the PGM. In which case, Apuleius’s description of
Pamphile in the Metamorphoses reflects the ignorance of an outsider while re-
inscribing magic’s terrifying exoticism in popular imagination. See also Gor-
don, “Lucan’s Erictho,” 235–37, who discusses what “knowledge of magic”
may have entailed in the first century ce.
5. Gordon, “Lucan’s Erictho,” 239–41; Cohn, Europe’s Inner Demons, 206–8.
6. Beard, North, and Price, Religions of Rome, 212–14, 219–22.
7. Most of the evidence for this discourse dates to the first and second centuries
ce and is therefore contemporaneous with the emergence of magic discourse.
3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o 207
Nonetheless, certain quotations from earlier writers, such as Cicero and Sal-
lust, indicate the operation of this discourse already in the late Republic. See
notes 10, 28, and discussion in this chapter.
8. Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome, 36.
9. Hallett, Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society, 4. Gardner, Women in Roman
Law and Society, 1, criticizes what she calls “an exaggerated estimate of the
self-assertiveness and independence of Roman women.” Milnor, “Suis Omnia
Tuta Locis,” 52, critiques Gardner’s view.
10. I am tracing the beginning of this discourse to 215 bce, when the lex Oppia
was passed (see discussion this chapter), although certainly one could suggest
the poisoning trials of 331 as a likely starting point as well. Both events are
related by Livy, who did not write until the end of the first century bce—as
much as three centuries later. His representation of the events may, therefore,
be colored by his own perspective. See notes 26 and 29 in this chapter.
11. Lefkowitz, “Influential Women,” passim, notes that upper-class women could
intervene in male politics for the benefit of their male relatives. This sort of
female activism was praised in Roman rhetoric, while women’s activism on
their own behalf was regarded as selfish and a violation of women’s proper
decorum.
12. Gardner, Women in Roman Law and Society, 5–11; Grubbs, Women and the
Law, 20.
13. By the first century ce marriages that transferred the woman to her husband’s
power (cum manu) were rare, so rare in fact that it was difficult to find people
whose parents were married in this way, which was a requirement for cer-
tain priesthoods (on the problem of finding men to serve as flamen, see Tac.
Ann. 4.16). See also Gardner, Women in Roman Law and Society, 12; Grubbs,
Women and the Law, 20; and Fau, L’Émancipation féminine, 3. Treggiari,
Roman Marriage, 80, does not see any evidence that this form of marriage was
revived in a later period.
14. This requirement was abrogated by Augustus in 18 bce for women who had
borne three children or more. See note 18.
15. Gardner, Women in Roman Law and Society, 14–22.
16. Pomeroy, Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves, 155.
17. Fau, L’Émancipation féminine, 10; Grubbs, Women and the Law, 21. See also
Raditsa, “Augustus’ Legislation Concerning Marriage,” 318, on women’s so-
cial freedom after marriage.
18. This changed in 18 bce, when Augustus sought to encourage procreation
by relaxing women’s requirement for a tutor (tutela mulierum) to handle her
legal affairs if she had birthed a certain number of children. According to the
ius liberorum, freeborn women with three children and freedwomen with four
children were granted exemption from tutelage. Pomeroy, Goddesses, Whores,
Wives, and Slaves, 151, remarks that this law did not change women’s behav-
ior much, since women who wanted to manage their own affairs had been
208 3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o
able to find ways around the disapproval of a tutor. See also Gardner, Women
in Roman Law and Society, 168, and the discussion in this chapter.
19. Hallett, Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society, 90.
20. Ibid., 29, 54–55. Skinner, “Clodia Metelli,” 285, notes that Clodia Metelli’s
wealth and family connections enabled her to maintain “a wide network of
contacts and acquaintances” as well as to act in politically significant ways
independent of either her husband or her brother.
21. Hallett, Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society, 78–79.
22. Ibid., 59; Pomeroy, Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves, 154. Clodia Metelli,
for example, chose to support her brother over her husband during a politi-
cal rivalry. See Skinner, “Clodia Metelli,” 280 and Fau, L’Émancipation fémi-
nine, 50.
23. The lex Voconia (169 bce) may have sought to curtail women’s wealth by
limiting their ability to inherit; for example, it restricted “agnate succession
by women to full sisters of the deceased.” Gardner, Women in Roman Law and
Society, 171. On rules of inheritance more generally see Gardner, Family and
Familia, 20–24.
24. Gardner, Women in Roman Law and Society, 163.
25. Hallett, Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society, 93; and Pomeroy, Goddesses,
Whores, Wives, and Slaves, 162.
26. Except as part of a publicly recognized sacred festival (nisi sacrorum publicorum
causa veheretur, 34.1.3). Livy constitutes the first extant reference to this event.
Milnor, “Suis Omnia Tuta Locis,” 56–57, regards the account as a reflection of
concerns in Livy’s own day. See also Pomeroy, Goddesses, Whores, Wives,
and Slaves, 177–81; and Bauman, Women and Politics in Ancient Rome, 25–27,
31–34, who sees the passing of the law as a measure to limit wealthy women’s
political influence and the law’s repeal as due to women’s direct political in-
volvement. On Livy’s reliability as a historian, see Walsh, Livy, 150–51 and
chapter 6, passim.
27. Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome, 34, 43–46.
28. While Livy lived almost two centuries after the event he describes in this book
and almost certainly invented Cato’s speech, it is generally agreed that he
presents Cato’s point of view accurately. Based on Cato’s extant speeches and
writings, he was a traditionalist, opposed to women’s liberty and advance-
ment. See, for example, his complaints about well-dowered wives (CRF3
fg. 158, quoted in Gardner, Women in Roman Law and Society, 72). Cicero
presents a similar view (attributed to Scipio) that if women enjoy the same
rights as their husbands it will lead to utter anarchy with even the beasts of
burden rejecting their masters’ hand (Resp. 1.67), indicating that this type of
discourse about women and power was operating in the late Republic. Walsh,
Livy, 219–20, states that Livy composed his speeches with great care and
used them to “get inside” the speaker and present “a psychological portrait
of his qualities.” For this reason his speeches were respected by other ancient
authors.
3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o 209
29. Milnor, Gender, Domesticity, and the Age of Augustus, demonstrates the degree
to which locating women and their proper role in society became a preoc-
cupation in the Augustan period. From Livy’s description of the debate over
repeal of the lex Oppia to Ovid’s love elegies, Augustan literature reflects
a concern over the location of women and the division between public and
private roles.
30. Bauman, Women and Politics in Ancient Rome, 14. Although Bauman consti-
tutes an excellent resource on women’s political involvement in Roman his-
tory, he often accepts at face value accounts of women’s activities (such as
poisoning), attributing political motivations to what he regards as archaic
forms of political subversion rather than questioning the accusation’s veracity
in the first place.
31. Cicero charges that Clodia Metelli poisoned her husband (Pro Caelio 56–62).
Similarly, Cornelia and her daughter Sempronia were suspected of poisoning
the latter’s husband, Scipio Aemilianus, because he opposed the legislative
reforms instituted by Cornelia’s sons, the famous Gracchi (Livy Per. 59). The
empresses Livia and Agrippina the younger were both suspected of using poi-
son to secure the throne for their respective sons, Tiberius and Nero (Tac.
Ann. 1.5, 2.69; Suet. Tib. 52, Claud. 44; Dio 56.30.1–2, 57.18.8–9). See also
Barrett, Agrippina, 8–9, on the deployment of poisoning as a trope in Roman
literature.
32. Although Catherine Edwards notes that there does not appear to have been
much concern about confirming children’s paternity (despite the claim that
aristocratic women were rampantly committing adultery), she does suggest
that accusations and fears of poisoning symbolically reflect “concern with
women’s capacity to ‘pollute ’ their husbands’ lines by conceiving children
in adulterous relationships.” Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient
Rome, 51–52. In light of the lack of evidence that paternity was a serious so-
cial concern in Rome (unlike in Athens), I would tend not to interpret ac-
cusations of poisoning in this way but rather to see these charges as merely
another aspect of the discourse of wicked women, which registered anxiety
over women’s independence and threat to male control more generally.
33. See discussion of Augustan reforms, this chapter.
34. See note 28 for additional examples.
35. Bauman, Women and Politics in Ancient Rome, 70–71, notes that Cicero’s at-
tack not only undermines Clodia’s credibility but also indirectly challenges
her right to appear in court, since prostitutes were not competent witnesses
according to the lex de vi (D. 22.5.3.5). For other instances where he labels her
a courtesan or prostitute (meretrix), see pro Caelio 49–50. See Long, Claudi-
an’s In Eutropium, 70–75, on using sexual slander to discredit an opponent.
36. The charges, among other things, include theft and attempt to poison. In both
cases the victim of the crime is Clodia.
37. The effectiveness of this invective is witnessed both by the acquittal of Caelius
and even more so by the enduring reputation of Clodia. Later writers, includ-
210 3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o
ing many modern scholars, have drawn on Cicero’s speech to reconstruct the
life of a typically debauched “emancipated” Roman woman. Skinner, “Clodia
Metelli,” 273–74, offers examples. On the incest charge, see Skinner, “Clodia
Metelli,” 276; and Fau, L’Émancipation féminine, 46–47.
38. On arousing the jury’s envy, see Skinner, “Clodia Metelli,” 285–86.
39. Marshall, “Ladies in Waiting,” 172, 173, 174–75.
40. Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome, 54–57.
41. Ibid., 46.
42. See note 44.
43. On the introduction of magic through Hellenistic sources, see Graf, Magic
in the Ancient World, 37–39; Gordon, “Imagining Greek and Roman
Magic,” 164–65; and Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman
World, 127, 141. See also discussion in chapter 1.
44. Catullus 90, which predates Virgil’s Eclogue 8, mocks Persian magi. Dick-
ie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 131–33, discusses some
fragmentary texts from the second century bce that include references to the
use of love magic. Tupet, La Magie, 223–24, states that these texts are too
fragmentary, however, to determine exactly how they treated the theme of
magic.
45. Tupet, La Magie, 224. Both Theocritus’s original and Virgil’s Eclogue 8 re-
flect a Hellenistic fascination with the sufferings and aspirations of common
folk as well as a baroque interest in the exotic. See Fowler, The Hellenistic
Aesthetic, passim.
46. Although Jason tries to argue that Medea is merely his barbarian concubine,
Medea perceives herself to be his legitimate wife. Tradition usually accords
her this status, and Jason sometimes admits to it as well (Euripides’ Medea,
1336). See also Apollonius’s extensive description of their marriage in Argo-
nautica, book 4.
47. The status of Virgil’s “sorceress” is hotly debated along with that of the sor-
ceress in Theocritus’s Idyll 2. Griffiths, “Home Before Lunch,” reads The-
ocritus’s description of Simaetha as evidence for women’s emancipation in
Alexandria. Faraone, Ancient Greek Love Magic, 153–54, rejects this position
and reads Simaetha’s independence to be that typical of and recognizable
to an ancient audience as a courtesan’s. Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the
Greco-Roman World, 102–3, follows this interpretation but further tries to re-
construct the historical world of Simaetha. See also Faraone, “Clay Hardens
and Wax Melts.”
48. Eighty-six percent of extant erotic spells from antiquity are performed by
men on women. See Faraone, Ancient Greek Love Magic, 43, n. 9. See also
Gager, Curse Tablets, 244–45 and chapter 2, passim.
49. Faraone, “Clay Hardens and Wax Melts,” passim.
50. Erōs, according to Greek thought, was a form of possession or a disease that
afflicted one. Consequently, it has been argued that the language of erotic
magic projected the symptoms of the lover onto the beloved, displacing the
3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o 211
psychological suffering of desire through transference onto the Other—the

desired victim. See Winkler, “The Constraints of Desire.”
51. See note 48.
52. In both cases, Greek and Roman, the magic involves gender inversion and the
transgression of social roles. In Roman examples the inversion is exaggerated
and the women are generally depicted as predatory rather than protective.
It has been argued that Hellenistic women experienced more independence
than Athenian women (referring primarily to women from the middle and
upper classes). See, for example, Pomeroy, Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and
Slaves, 120–48; and Griffiths, “Home Before Lunch.” If this is the case, it may
contribute to shaping the different representations of sorceresses in Hellenis-
tic and Athenian literature.
53. Betz, The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, 44.
54. A fourth-century figurine discovered in Egypt (now at the Louvre) corre-
sponds almost exactly to the directions of the PGM recipe 4.296–466 cited
here. For a discussion (and photograph) of the figurine and its text, see Gager,
Curse Tablets, 97–100. See also Martinez, A Greek Love Charm from Egypt.
55. See further discussion in this section.
56. Oliensis, “Canidia, Canicula,” 127, for example, describes her “plant[ing] a
child in Mother Earth to die” as a “monstrous perversion of motherhood.”
57. On the woman behind Canidia, see Oliensis, “Canidia, Canicula,” 114–15;
and Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 180.
58. Tavenner, “Canidia and Other Witches,” 17 (my emphasis).
59. Oliensis, “Canidia, Canicula,” passim, explores Canidia’s association with
dogs.
60. Dickie, Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World, 180–81.
61. Ibid., 180.
62. Ibid., 181, admits that this portrait may be invective but argues that it “will
nonetheless represent a reality of a kind: Gratidia cast in the rôle of prostitute
and sorceress.” On the trope of libidinous old women in satire, see discussion
further in this section and Richlin, The Garden of Priapus, 109–16, and “In-
vective Against Women in Roman Satire,” passim.
63. See discussion, in previous section, “The Discourse of Wicked Women.”
64. Knust, Abandoned to Lust, 1–3.
65. PGM 1.38, for example, requires that the petitioner walk barefoot (ἄβλαυτοϚ
ἴθι). This is the only example, however, that I can find for this stipulation.
More common is the requirement to walk backward, which does not feature
in these literary depictions (see PGM 4.44, 4.2493; 36.273). The late date
of the PGM makes it possible that this ritual is, in fact, influenced by the
literary depictions rather than the other way around. See Stratton, “Ritual
Inversion.”
66. Gordon, “Lucan’s Erictho,” 237; and Stratton, “Ritual Inversion.”
67. Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, 176.
68. See also his Epode 17, in which both Canidia and magic figure again.
212 3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o
69. They are writing in the period just after the destructive and violent civil wars.
See Conte, Latin Literature, 323.
70. Prop. 1.1.19–23; 2.1.51–56; 2.28b, 35–38; 3.6.25–30; and Tib. 1.5.11–16; 1.5.48–
56.
71. I translate docta (wise or educated woman) as “witch” to reflect Propertius’s
sinister description of Acanthis and her magic arts. He may be using the term
ironically here since it more often positively describes the beloved in Roman
poetry. I thank James Rives for pointing this out to me.
72. Much ink has been spilled over the nature of Propertius’s relationship with
Cynthia, and even more over her identity. Conte, Latin Literature, 323, writes
that Propertius figured his relationship with Cynthia “as a conjugal relation
and therefore to be bound by fides, safeguarded by pudicitia, and suspicious of
luxuria and urban sophistication.” Propertius’s idealization of the relationship
is, thus, according to Conte, ironic since Cynthia belongs to a class of women
with whom Augustus’s lex Julia de maritandis ordinibus forbids marriage (see
discussion below). Propertius’s relationship with her compromises his social
status and respectability. Cynthia, for her part, Conte describes as haughty,
capricious, tyrannical, and unfaithful, yet also elegant, refined, and “of great
literary and musical culture,” Latin Literature, 333–34. Some caution should
be used, however, when reading Propertius or other of the elegiac poets au-
tobiographically. The description of the poet’s beloved complies with stock
themes and stereotypes of the willful courtesan and functions in the poems to
express the poet’s sense of subjugation and powerlessness—enslaved as he is
to love. Furthermore, the identity of the beloved is either vague or changes
according to the needs of the poem. In one poem she is married, in another
she is modeled as a courtesan. The women that populate the elegies, therefore,
could be read as caricatures or stereotypes, functioning semiotically to facili-
tate the poets’ discourse on love and suffering. They may only very roughly
represent historical women, if at all. See, for example, Veyne, Roman Erotic
Elegy, 1–14, who writes that the women of elegy should be read as “signs.”
He believes that the women depicted suggest courtesans and “free” women of
the demimonde, not noble or respectable women. Milnor, “Suis Omnia Tuta
Locis,” 183–87, in contrast, reads Cynthia as a “respectable” woman, func-
tioning in a discourse on private versus public; Propertius sings about Cyn-
thia because she is often inaccessible to him, being respectfully enclosed in
the privacy of her domus. He contrasts this with the prostitute who occupies
public space.
73. Richlin, “Invective Against Women in Roman Satire,” 70, notes that animal
imagery for invective purposes is relatively rare. When employed it is most
often applied to women, especially old women.
74. On the erotic use of horse imagery in Coptic magic, see Frankfurter, “The
Perils of Love,” especially 484–97.
75. In that case the milk helps attract shades rather than drives them away. See
also note 76.
3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o 213
76. Usually in magic spells one spits, for example, on or in something a certain
number of times, not just randomly; the spit constitutes a magical substance
(ὀυσία) for use in the ritual. Also, milk is usually poured as an offering, not
sprinkled to chase the dead spirits away: see, for example, Odysseus’s nec-
romantic ritual in the Odyssey (11:23–27), which provided a model for later
magic rituals. Queen Atossa also pours milk at the tomb of Darius in Aeschy-
lus’s Persians (611ff ) and the Derveni papyrus describes pouring milk as a
libation for the dead. See Burkert, Babylon, Memphis, Persopolis, 118. See also
Tupet, La Magie, 340, who makes this same point but credits the poet with
artistic brevity rather than invention. She suggests that he employs the essen-
tial traits—hissing, sprinkling milk—because these were the operations most
associated with magic in popular belief and therefore the most evocative.
77. It appears that Tibullus and other writers may have had some vague knowl-
edge of “magic” rituals such as those found in the PGM. This does not sug-
gest, however, that the literary portraits should necessarily be read as descrip-
tive of real practices or real magicians and witches. Rather, the similarities
indicate a process of reciprocal influence. Aspects of the PGM, which date
to the 4th century ce, suggest that those rituals may be influenced by liter-
ary depictions rather than the other way around. See Gordon, “Lucan’s Eric-
tho,” 236–37; and Stratton, “Ritual Inversion.”
78. See also Pollard, “Magic Accusations Against Women,” 205–8.
79. Newlands, “The Metamorphosis of Ovid’s Medea,” 178, notes that Ovid con-
centrates on those elements of Medea’s story in which magic features most
strongly in contrast to Euripides, who played down Medea’s magic power.
80. While Greek maenads, as far as can be determined, practiced their rituals
chastely, by the Roman period, maenadism, and bacchanalia more generally,
had become associated with wine and sexual license. See Heinrichs, “Greek
Maenadism from Olympias to Messalina,” 135–36, 155–59. See also McNally,
“The Maenad in Early Greek Art,” 118–22, on the evolution of the maenad
in Greek art. Ovid’s comparison of Medea to a maenad may, therefore, be
intended to invoke notions of uncontrolled female sexual passion in addition
to sinister ritual sacrifice, resonating with the discourse of wicked women.
81. Newlands, “The Metamorphosis of Ovid’s Medea,” 179, makes this same ob-
servation.
82. In Heroides 12, however, Ovid attributes more emotion to Medea, emphasiz-
ing the excessive passion, jealousy, and barbarism that lead her to murder.
This may also have been true of Ovid’s depiction of Medea in his now lost
play by that name.
83. Following Nussbaum, “Serpents in the Soul.” See also Rosenmeyer, Senecan
Drama and Stoic Cosmology, x and 186.
84. It is possible that Ovid’s missing Medea may have already introduced some of
these changes. See discussion in Chaumartin, Sénèque Tragédies, 149.
85. In Pindar’s telling of the myth, for example, Jason is the first to employ magic
when he ensnares innocent and virginal Medea with a seductive ἴυγξ spell,
214 3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o
turning her magic powers against her own family to capture the golden fleece.
Although ultimately critical of Medea and portraying her as the dangerous
barbarian mistress, Euripides’ version of the story complicates Medea’s por-
trait by representing Jason as a thoughtless self-promoter; he seeks to en-
hance his status through a royal marriage to the princess of Corinth, reckless-
ly discarding Medea when he no longer finds her useful. Apollonius spends
the entire book 3 of his Argonautica detailing Jason’s seduction of Medea with
magic and false promises. Medea emerges in this story as a modest maiden,
observant of her filial duties and reputation, while Jason appears as deceit-
ful and self-promoting. See also Clauss, The Best of the Argonauts, passim, on
Apollonius’s presentation of Jason as the new heroic model; he has human
failings and is morally questionable but realizes his goals nonetheless.
86. I would like to credit my colleague, Roland Jeffreys, for pointing this out.
87. See Nussbaum, “Serpents in the Soul,” 229–31, for a discussion of Seneca’s
Stoic position against Aristotle ’s positive valuation of love.
88. These were common features that marked the maenad’s trance. Heinrichs,
“Greek Maenadism from Olympias to Messalina,” 122.
89. Nussbaum, “Serpents in the Soul,” 234–37, suggests that Seneca deliberately
employs snakes as an ambivalent symbol of sexual desire, passion, and erōs in
his Medea.
90. Numerous critics have chosen to dismiss Lucan’s “deviant syntax” and “dis-
membered bodies” as mere rhetoric that conceals the poem’s meaning. Crit-
ics applying a deconstructionist approach to Lucan, on the other hand, have
argued that his style enacts the chaos of civil war. See Bartsch, Ideology in Cold
Blood, 4, 6–7.
91. Kyle, Spectacles of Death in Ancient Rome, 2–7, discusses the general approval
and enjoyment of the games by all classes of Romans.
92. See, for example, Richlin, The Garden of Priapus, 106 and chapter 5 passim.
93. Sextus Pompey emerges as an ambivalent character in this poem. In fact,
Bartsch, Ideology in Cold Blood, 7–8, argues that there are two Pompeys in
the epic: “One is Caesar’s rival for Roman supremacy, a man as greedy for
regnum as his energetic father-in-law” and the “other is Pompey the hero . . .
the last defender of the Roman Senate.” Bartsch points out that the portrait
is conflicted; the narrator praises Pompey as a hero even as the narrative it-
self presents him as a grasping tyrant. Lucan’s Pharsalia can also be read as a
comment on the moral depravity and corruption of power under the Caesars,
especially Nero, his former friend and now enemy.
94. On Erictho as a symbol of civil chaos, see Gordon, “Lucan’s Erictho,” 233–
35; and Beard, North, and Price, Religions of Rome, 220.
95. Bartsch, Ideology in Cold Blood, 2–3.
96. See his Apologia and discussion in chapter 4, this volume.
97. Lucius never does learn the arts of magic about which he is so curious. See my
discussion of the Egyptian prophet (Aegyptius propheta, 2.28) and Chaldean
diviner (2.12) in chapter 4, this volume. While these men practice arts fre-
3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o 215
quently associated with magic, they are not demonized by the morbid activi-
ties ascribed to the women portrayed as witches in this novel.
98. At first she is described as “rather attractive” (1.7), but later, when she comes
to take revenge, the narrator of the story, who has not been bewitched and can
see the “real” woman, describes her and her accomplice as “women of rather
advanced age” (1.12).
99. This is not to suggest that sorceresses in Greek legend did not also control
nature to some extent: Aristophanes Nubes, 749–50, for example, refers to a
γυναι̂κα φαρμακίδεϚ from Thessaly who can draw down the moon. The as-
sociation of Thessalian women with magic, and, specifically, the cryptic art of
drawing down the moon, thus has very ancient roots.
100. Although Johnson, Momentary Monsters, sees humorous elements in Erictho
also.
101. See, for example, Scobie, Apuleius and Folklore, 75–154, with a discussion of
“night-witches,” 97–99; and Cohn, Europe’s Inner Demons, 207.
102. See note 4.
103. Descriptions of the old woman’s sagging buttocks or pendulous breasts par-
ody love elegies’ standard praise of the beloved’s smooth stomach and firm
bosom. Furthermore, the hag’s sexual eagerness and desire, itself a source of
repulsion as well as humor, inverts the inaccessibility of the beloved in elegy.
Richlin, The Garden of Priapus, 110–11.
104. Translation from Richlin, The Garden of Priapus, 110.
105. As in the case of love elegy, we can assume that this description does not
represent a real woman as much as Horace ’s own fantasy of the grotesque. It
presents him with an opportunity to explore his impotency in the same way
that love elegy enabled Propertius the chance to meditate on his misery and
slavish suffering.
106. Education and law were also spheres in which men appear to have felt threat-
ened by female “intrusion.” The comic poet Titinius, for example, who is
known from only a few fragments and titles to his plays, wrote a comedy
called Iurisperita that seems to have mocked a woman for acting as her own
lawyer and “parad[ing] her legal knowledge.” Bauman, Women and Politics
in Ancient Rome, 46. Valerius Maximus, a first-century ce moralist, also de-
scribes women who, he claims, abandon their matronly pudor in order to plead
cases in court. One woman was so skillful at her own defense that she was
given the moniker “Androgyne” to characterize her manly spirit. Another
woman, Carfania, was so notorious for making speeches before the praetor
that her name became synonymous with “impudence” and, he states, is still
applied to women who act shamelessly (8.3.2.). See Grubbs, Women and the
Law, 61, for text and commentary. Juvenal’s sixth satire also castigates women
of the literary set for what he perceives to be overbearing demonstrations
of intellect and education (434–440). Juvenal’s primary source of complaint
with such a woman lies in her intrepid treading on male territory.
216 3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o
107. Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome, 54, notes that “[when
wealthy women can buy sex] notions of sexual and economic freedom are
elided. Money buys a woman the right to indulge her desires as she pleases.
What are the implications of this for the husband? A man who is poorer than
his wife is less of a man (a reminder that Roman notions of masculinity are
bound up with perceptions of power).” On the comic exaggeration of fears
and fantasies in satire see Richlin, The Garden of Priapus, 114, “Invective
Against Women in Roman Satire,” 67; and Braund, “Introduction,” 1.
108. Caligula.
109. See Clark, Thinking with Demons, 11, and passim.
110. Richlin, The Garden of Priapus, 113. Oliensis, “Canidia, Canicula,” 120–26,
argues that invective against oversexed old women compensates for the poet’s
own impotence, both physical and political—“civil war and war between the
sexes are inextricably linked.”
111. I am not using emancipated here in the modern sense of self-aware and politi-
cally empowered. Rather I mean economically and legally liberated from the
control of male relatives or husbands.
112. On the erosion of senatorial influence and the resulting sense of resentment
and malaise, see Syme, The Roman Revolution, chapter 22; and Salmon, A
History of the Roman World, 39–52.
113. Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome, 42–44.
114. Sallust, for instance, identifies luxuria and licentia as two vices that began to
infect Rome under Sulla’s regime (Cat. 11–13). See also Edwards, The Politics
of Immorality in Ancient Rome, 5.
115. See note 44.
116. See, for example, Barrett, Agrippina, 7–8; Milnor, Gender, Domesticity, and
the Age of Augustus, 5–10; and Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient
Rome, 42–43.
117. McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality, and the Law in Ancient Rome, 78–79, notes
that Augustus was not the first to use legislation to govern moral conduct. The
Gracchi sought similar policies. Metellus Macedonicus, censor in 131–130, for
example, promoted marriage and child rearing. It was his speech that Augus-
tus read to the Senate as a precedent for his own marriage legislation in 18
bce. See Holmes, The Architect of the Roman Empire, 43–44, for a clear sum-
mary of marriage laws, compiled from various historical and legal sources.
The lex Popia-Poppaea of 9 ce modified the lex Julia de maritandis ordinibus
in response to noncompliance and complaints among the elite; it is difficult
now to tell which part of the legislation belongs to which date. See Grubbs,
Women and the Law, 84. See also Raditsa, “Augustus’ Legislation Concerning
Marriage,” 322–23; Gardner, Women in Roman Law and Society, 77–78.
118. See Grubbs, Women and the Law, 84, for a succinct summary. In reality this
law may not have been such an incentive since the tutor was, by this time,
more or less a formality; women were able to petition to have a guardian
3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o 217
changed if he did not cooperate with her wishes. On the effects of the law on
women’s tutela, see Gardner, Women in Roman Law and Society, 20–21.
119. Most scholars have assumed that the law targeted and primarily affected the
upper class; McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality, and the Law in Ancient Rome,
79–80, suggests that the law may have reached farther down the social scale
than some have previously argued.
120. Holmes, The Architect of the Roman Empire, 41–42, for example, describes a
“growing repugnance to marriage” expressed by the younger members of so-
ciety and a preference for amusement over responsibility and children. South-
ern, Augustus, 148, similarly states that the increasing independence and au-
tonomy of upper-class women made them unbearable as wives and suggests
that men preferred docile former slaves as mistresses.
121. Hänninen, “Conflicting Descriptions,” proposes that Livy’s historical ac-
count of Cybele ’s arrival as an officially sanctioned cult at Rome in 204 bce
and his description of the so-called Bacchanalia scandal of 186 bce represent
a discourse on women’s morality. In his contrasting depictions of those two
events, she writes, Livy delineates an ideal for women’s proper behavior, con-
centrating on their sexual comportment.
122. See Holmes, The Architect of the Roman Empire, 41. Raditsa, “Augustus’ Leg-
islation Concerning Marriage,” 288–89, writes that scholarship since the
1930s has tended to concentrate on demographic concerns of population de-
cline rather than moral or eugenic motivations. Recently, for example, South-
ern, Augustus, 147, accepts the legislation as a means to increase procreation
among the upper classes. Others challenge the theory that Rome suffered
from population decline and focus on the ideological aspect of the law. See
also Raditsa, “Augustus’ Legislation Concerning Marriage,” 283–84, for a re-
view of previous positions on the issue.
123. Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome, 37, argues for dating
both laws to 18 bce.
124. Milnor, “Suis Omnia Tuta Locis,” 40, insightfully points out that not only does
this law challenge the private/public dichotomy but it also grants women “a
kind of legal subjectivity which they had never before enjoyed, and thus plac-
es the question of women’s role in public life squarely on the table.”
125. See Raditsa, “Augustus’ Legislation Concerning Marriage,” 310–19, on lex
Julia de adulteriis, which includes discussion of previous scholarship.
126. Tac. Ann. 2.85, for example, mentions the case of Vistilia, daughter of a prae-
torian family, who registered as a prostitute with the Aediles to avoid a charge
of adultery. She was sentenced to exile on the island of Seriphos. See also Ra-
ditsa, “Augustus’ Legislation Concerning Marriage,” 318; Gardner, Women
in Roman Law and Society, 252; and Pomeroy, Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and
Slaves, 160–62.
127. Raditsa, “Augustus’ Legislation Concerning Marriage,” 282.
128. See Milnor, Gender, Domesticity, and the Age of Augustus, 5–10; and Edwards,
The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome, 15.
218 3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o
129. See, for example, Raditsa, “Augustus’ Legislation Concerning Marriage”;

Galinsky, “Augustus’ Legislation on Morals and Marriage”; Carey, Popula-
tion Problems of the Time of Augustus; McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality, and
the Law in Ancient Rome; Gardner, Family and Familia; Syme, The Roman
Revolution, 59; Milnor, Gender, Domesticity, and the Age of Augustus, 143–54.
130. Milnor, Gender, Domesticity, and the Age of Augustus, 150–51. Bauman, Women
and Politics in Ancient Rome, 16, records the trial of a group of matrons for
stuprum in 295 bce.
131. Milnor, Gender, Domesticity, and the Age of Augustus, 3–4.
132. On women of the imperial house functioning as icons, see ibid., 80–93.
133. Accusations of magic ruined the careers and cost the lives of many prominent
people (see discussion, this chapter).
134. According to the cases compiled by Marshall, “Women on Trial Before the
Roman Senate,” 362–65, out of eleven charges of adultery, twenty charges of
maiestas, and nine charges of magic, adultery and maiestas are combined five
times, magic and maiestas four times, and magic and adultery (including also
maiestas) occurs only once. These figures are based on explicit charges and
do not take into consideration the fact that charges, such as adultery, may be
brought for political purposes where “evidence” for maiestas was harder to
“uncover.” Additionally, the accusations of magic do not necessarily include
other related phenomena, such as consulting an astrologer, which frequently
formed part of a maiestas charge.
135. For a woman, half her dowry and a third of her other property; for her male
lover, half his property. Grubbs, Women and the Law, 83–84.
136. Tacitus notes that Tiberius changed the intention of the law, which had origi-
nally covered offenses such as betrayal of an army, seditious incitement of the
people, or other similar acts that destabilized the Roman nation (Ann. 1.72).
137. Similar cases occurred in which false friends led someone to commit maiestas
by encouraging them to complain about the emperor and then serving as a
witness against them (Dio 57.23.1, 58.11).
138. Other cases include Furius Scribonianus, who was driven into exile for con-
sulting astrologers about the death of the sovereign (Tac. Ann. 12.52); Calpur-
nius Piso was accused of hiding poison (venenum) at his house (Tac. Ann.
4.21).
139. This may reflect the bias of the historians and their rhetorical use of magic
discourse as much as the actual distribution of accusations. See further discus-
sion in this section.
140. See also the accounts in Suet. Tib. 52 and Dio 57.18.8–9.
141. Recently an inscription was discovered in Spain that sheds new light on
the episode and on Tacitus’s methods and reliability. See Damon, “Senatus
Consultum.”
142. Joshel, “Female Desire and the Discourse of Empire,” 222–23, for example,
demonstrates that, in Tacitus’s history, Messalina’s “violence, her excessive
desire that produces chaos and emasculates” functions as a sign “in a dis-
3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o 219
course of imperial power that simultaneously informs, if not determines, her

image.” See also Marshall, “Ladies in Waiting,” passim.
143. In a similar case preceding this one, Sosia Galla, a close friend of Agrippina,
was accused and convicted on charges of extortion—the real crime being her
devotion to Agrippina (Tac. Ann. 4.19).
144. One has to include Sejanus in this discussion also since he was fueling the ire
against Agrippina for his own ambitious purposes. Nonetheless, he fed exist-
ing hostilities and rivalries, to which Tacitus makes frequent allusion—call-
ing them “feminine” jealousies or rivalries.
145. Messalina’s alleged adultery, while it seems to have been the cause of her ex-
ecution, according to historians, functions as a trope in Tacitus just as much
as magic does. See note 142. Both constitute central features of the “wicked”
woman discourse.
146. Syme, History in Ovid, 209–10.
147. Suetonius states that they had divorced twenty years earlier and suggests that
the charges were motivated by greed (Tib. 49).
148. Such as transferring her slaves to the consul in order that they may be ques-
tioned under torture against her. This novelty was introduced, according to
Tacitus, by Tiberius during the trial of Libo Drusus (Ann. 2.27) (previously
discussed).
149. See note 147.
150. One woman, for example, on an extant spell from Boeotia seeks to break up
a marriage. Gager, Curse Tablets, no. 18, 85–86. The petitioner in this spell
appears to be the mistress or “other woman” in a love triangle who desires to
separate a man from his wife in order to have him all to herself. This tablet
may date to as early as the fourth century bce (based on the simple style of
the petition). Women also used erotic magic to attract other women. Ber-
nadette Brooten, for example, devotes an entire chapter to women’s use of
magic to pursue other women erotically. Love Between Women, 73–113. Ad-
ditionally, evidence exists for women’s use of magic in situations of economic
and social competition. See Gager, Curse Tablets, 161–62, 168–71.
151. Marshall, “Women on Trial Before the Roman Senate,” passim.
152. See, for example, Horace ’s Ode 1.37, which celebrates Cleopatra’s defeat and
describes her suicide. It has been suggested that, in fact, she was executed by
Octavian’s forces. See Mulroy, Horace’s Odes and Epodes, 14.
153. . . . dum Capitolio / regina dementis ruinas / funus et imperio parabat, Hor.
Odes 1.37.6–8.
154. A year later. See also note 152.
155. One could not celebrate a triumph over fellow Romans in civil war. Too
much guilt and shame attached to such a victory, which was won at the cost
of Roman lives. Civil war inverted the traditional honors and virtues that at-
tached to warfare—“victory” was equivalent to “murder”; “loyalty” equaled
“betrayal” or “treason.” For this reason, exaggeration of Cleopatra’s role in
the war enabled Augustus to turn the battle of Actium into a mythic battle
220 3 . m a s c u l a l i b i d o
of West against East, civilization against barbarians. See Gurval, Actium and
Augustus, 149–56.
156. See Clark, Thinking with Demons, passim.
4 . m y m i r acle, your magic

1. For example, magic discourse abetted persecution of Jews and “heretics,”
early modern witch hunts, and the elimination of the Knights Templar as
well as operated in numerous individual conflicts. See Cohn, Europe’s Inner
Demons. Charges of magic are also often coupled with other marginalizing
discourses such as sexual misconduct, foolishness, or irrationality. See Knust,
Abandoned to Lust; and Nasrallah, An Ecstasy of Folly.
2. See, for example, Anderson, The Second Sophistic.
3. Paranormal here reflects a modern post-Enlightenment designation of these
phenomena, but, as the discussion indicates, the men themselves describe
these phenomena as incredible or miraculous. In the end, they affirm their be-
lief in such events. Lucian, however, mocks such men as foolish for believing
in superstition.
4. Lucian’s satire illuminates one ancient skeptic’s perception of the degree to
which belief in magic and the miraculous held sway even among intelligen-
tsia. The elder Pliny, for example, records medicinal aids that seem outland-
ish to us but were “almost universally believed” (consensu prope iudicii) in his
time and, he asserts, “for which careful research can assure us” (Nat. 28.2).
On this list Pliny includes ingesting a salamander preserved in honey for an
aphrodisiac (Nat. 29.24), a cure for baldness that involves ash of sheep’s dung
with cyprus oil and honey, or hooves (reduced to ash) of a mule of either sex
applied in myrtle oil (Nat. 29.34). Pliny also includes verbal formulas (carmi-
na) to charm away disease and injury (Nat. 28, 29). These practices constitute
legitimate forms of medicine, rather than magic, for Pliny. Lucian thus pres-
ents a rare criticism of such beliefs, presaging post-Enlightenment attitudes
toward these sorts of practices.
5. In this case the model is of Cupid, who goes to fetch the desired woman,
Chrysis. In rituals that employ figurines the model usually represents the be-
loved who is made to suffer, through torture inflicted upon the figure, until
she (rarely he) gratifies the lover who commissioned the spell.
6. According to Lucian’s own testimony Alexander’s cult was popular and well
regarded (18, 30). On Lucian’s attitudes toward religion and myth more gen-
erally, see Betz, Lukian von Samosata, 23–28. Nock, Conversion, 96, notes that
Lucian “was deeply out of sympathy with popular religion and in the tradi-
tion of ancient invective some very unpleasant charges were conventional.”
For this reason, Lucian’s description of Alexander should not be regarded
as representative of common attitudes. On the other hand, Nock, Conver-
sion, 97–98, accepts that some established cults did produce false miracles.
Yet, he also cautions us to “beware being over free with charges of deliberate
4 . m y m i r a c l e , y o u r m a g i c 221
bad faith.” Ancient ritual “rested on the assumption that material objects and
persons could be given a new and supernatural content and significance.” He
concludes, “there can be no doubt of the sincerity of those who recorded the
miracles by which they believed themselves to have benefited.”
7. Apuleius may hint of Lucius’s future conversion to Isis in this scene by por-
traying the efficacy and sanctity of the Egyptian priest in respectful terms.
8. Even though the Chaldean oracle-giver mentioned earlier accurately predicts
Lucius’s fate, the portrait there is more negative in that he ultimately is unable
to predict his own future. Thus, his prophecy for Lucius may only be acci-
dentally accurate.
10. The common translation of μάγοι as “wise men” (RSV and NRSV) rather
than “magicians” or even “magi” attests to the continuing influence of magic
discourse as translators try to avoid the negative connotations associated with
magi and magic.
11. See, for example, Tarn, Hellenistic Civilisation, 351–54; Nock, Conversion, 103–
4; Walbank, The Hellenistic World, 210; Martin, Hellenistic Religions, 23–24;
Dodds, Pagan and Christian in an Age of Anxiety, 2 and passim.
12. E.g., Tacitus Hist. 4.81–82, regarding Vespasian, and Philo Legat. 144–145,
regarding Augustus. Cited in Cotter, Miracles in Greco-Roman Antiquity, 40–
41. See also discussion in Penner, “Res Gestae Divi Christi.”
13. Most date to the fourth century bce.
14. Inscriptiones Graecae, IV2, 1, nos. 121–22. Text and translation from Edelstein
and Edelstein, Asclepius, T. 423.9, pp. 223, 231–32. See also the extensive
collection of miracle accounts in Cotter, Miracles in Greco-Roman Antiquity,
passim.
15. Howard Clark Kee locates Mark’s use of miracle within Jewish apocalyptic
tradition, which used power over evil as a sign that “God’s Rule is already
manifesting itself in the present.” Medicine, 73. See Cotter, “Cosmology and
the Jesus Miracles,” 118–19, for a different opinion. This “apocalyptic” mean-
ing of miracle as a sign of God’s Kingdom is in tension with an understanding
of miracle as the act of a θει̂οϚ ἀνήρ (Divine Man). On the problem of using
the “divine man” typology see Koskenniemi, “Apollonius of Tyana,” who ar-
gues against the existence of a Hellenistic θει̂οϚ ἀνήρ type that influenced the
representation of Jesus in the Gospels. He proposes that the model for Jesus’s
miracles is not Greek but rather Jewish holy men such as Elijah and Moses.
See also Barry Blackburn, Theios Aner and the Markan Miracle Traditions, for
a critique of the θει̂οϚ ἀνήρ concept. Other scholars understand the secrecy
motif (Mark 1:43–44, 5:43, 7:36) to oppose a popular understanding of Jesus
as ordinary miracle worker. See, for example, Kee, Medicine, 85. The secrecy
motif alerts the reader to a deeper theological significance than the obvious
“popular” one and prepares the reader for Mark’s passion narrative. Despite
this tension and desire to represent the deeper mystery of Christ’s identity,
Mark nonetheless capitalizes on Hellenistic expectations of miracle to demon-
222 4 . m y m i r a c l e , y o u r m a g i c
strate Jesus’s eschatological power. As Wilson, Related Strangers, 43, writes:

“There can be little doubt that Mark wishes to present [Jesus] positively as a
powerful and impressive figure, a sort of divine man.” But as the fulfillment
of scripture, Jesus is not a heroic messianic figure in Mark; rather, he must
suffer, die, and be raised (8:31). It is this new conception of messiahship that
heralds the apocalyptic age in Mark: “And he said to them, ‘Truly, I say to
you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see
that the kingdom of God has come with power’” (9:1).
16. Much scholarship has examined the role of miracles (“signs”) in John’s gos-
pel. Following Bultmann’s proposition of a Signs-Source (Semeia-Quelle),
numerous scholars have examined John’s redaction and use of this source.
See, for example, Fortna, The Gospel of Signs; and Smith, Johannine Christian-
ity, 62–79.
17. See, for example, 4:48, 12:37–43, and 20:29.
18. Hull, Hellenistic Magic and the Synoptic Tradition, 139.
19. Beginning with Moses in the Hebrew Bible, including also Elijah, Elisha,
and numerous figures from the rabbinic period such as Hanina ben Dosa and
Honi ha-meagel, Jewish tradition had accepted miracles as testimony of spiri-
tual power and charismatic piety. In the Greek and Roman tradition, heroes
traditionally perform miracles and manifest divine powers. See, for example,
Kee, Medicine, chapter 3, passim; Smith, Johannine Christianity, 25, 76; and the
articles collected in Cavadini, Miracles in Jewish and Christian Antiquity. See
also Koskenniemi, “Apollonius of Tyana,” passim.
20. This diary is largely regarded by classical scholars to be Philostratus’s in-
vention. See Bowie, “Apollonius of Tyana,” who argues that not only is the
diary an invention of Philostratus but the person of Damis is also a fiction and
would have been understood by ancient readers to be a “novelistic topos.”
21. See Koskenniemi, “Apollonius of Tyana,” 456–64, who discusses the history
of this interpretation and critiques it. On charges that Apollonius was a magi-
cian, Lucian already a century earlier identifies Alexander “the false proph-
et’s” teacher to be a disciple of Apollonius of Tyana in an obvious effort to
disparage Alexander by identifying him with a “disreputable” lot. See Harris,
“Apollonius of Tyana,” 189–90. See also Mead, Apollonius of Tyana, 53–64;
and Conybeare, “Philostratus,” v–xv. On the other hand, Bowie, “Apollonius
of Tyana,” 1671–73, proposes that Apollonius was already associated with
Pythagorean philosophy before Philostratus wrote his VA; this characteriza-
tion, therefore, was not invented to legitimize a goēs.
22. Noticing that Q does not contain miracle stories, some form-critical scholars
attributed Jesus’s miracles to Hellenistic influence and to the gospel writers’
desire to compete with Apollonius. They thus tried to dissociate the “his-
torical” Jesus from the miracle-working Jesus of the gospels. See Kee, Medi-
cine, 75–79, for discussion and bibliography. Koskenniemi, “Apollonius of
Tyana,” rejects this view.
23. See Mead, Apollonius of Tyana, v; and Kee, Medicine, 85, on the VA as a kind
of “counter-gospel.”
24. Both Paul’s second epistle to the Corinthians (12:11f ) and John’s Gospel
(4:48), for example, testify to the public demand for miracles as signs of char-
ismatic power. See also Mark 8:12 where some Pharisees demand a sign from
Jesus to test him but he remarks that “no sign shall be given to this genera-
tion.” See also Herczeg, “Theios Aner Traits,” 38.
25. Kee, Medicine, 86, notes that many of Apollonius’s cures fall under the head-
ing “natural therapy,” reflecting commonsense knowledge of the body rather
than superhuman interventions into nature.
26. See also Reimer, Miracle and Magic, 13 and passim.
27. Ibid., 130–39. Neyrey, “Miracles, in Other Words,” illuminates the economy
of miracle and breaks down this dichotomy somewhat. He demonstrates that
all social acts, including healing, involve a value exchange; the god or miracle
worker expects honor and acclaim for his miraculous cures.
28. See also Reimer, Miracle and Magic, 98 and passim.
29. On miracles and emperors see note 12 above.
30. See chapter 3, this volume.
31. The charge of magic was brought by her in-laws who had hoped to retain her
inheritance within their own family, according to Apuleius’s defense.
32. The speech probably reflects original arguments presented in court that have
been reworked, polished, and elaborated for publication as was common
practice for rhetoricians of that day.
33. See discussion in chapter 3. See also Kippenberg, “Magic in Roman Civil
Discourse,” 144–49, who discusses the laws under which Apuleius was most
likely charged and their anticipated punishment.
34. “Salvation” is understood broadly to include anything from the promise of
life after death, access to special wisdom or knowledge (γνω̂σιϚ), and libera-
tion from the vicissitudes of Fortuna, to merely advocating the philosophic
and ascetic life.
35. Tarn, Hellenistic Civilisation, 355, notes that Isis is said to be “above” Fate. See
also Nock, Conversion, 103; and Martin, Hellenistic Religions, 24–25. It is im-
portant to emphasize that not all Christians—perhaps only a small minority at
this point—were “Pauline” and followed this interpretation of Christianity.
36. On baptism into Christ’s death and resurrection, see Romans 6:2–11; on the
imperishable body, see 1 Corinthians 15:42–57. See also discussion in Segal,
Paul the Convert, 59–61.
37. See Meeks, The First Urban Christians, 85–94, on the language of “belonging”
and experience of communitas in early Pauline churches. See also Segal, Paul
the Convert, 110–14, on messianic and sectarian elements in the earliest Chris-
tian communities.
38. Mark 13:5–37 predicts persecution of the faithful in preparation for the apoca-
lyptic judgment and restoration. See Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory, on the
role of martyrdom in shaping early Christian identity and community.
39. Revelation 17 portrays Rome as a harlot, arrayed in scarlet and jewels and
drunk on martyrs’ blood, whom Jesus defeats while the faithful look on.
40. See Wypustek, “Magic, Montanism,” especially 277–80.
41. See Beard, North, and Price, Religions of Rome, 211–44.
42. Sherwin-White, The Letters of Pliny, 705, does not find the linguistic similari-
ties between Livy 39.18.3 and Pliny 10.96.7 to be convincing evidence that
Pliny is deliberately echoing Livy here (contra Grant). Nonetheless, it is
highly likely that Pliny and many of his readers would have seen a structural
similarity between early Christian ritual and Livy’s description of the Bac-
chanal affair. Frend, The Rise of Christianity, 109, for example, cites this event
as a precedent and justification for the Neronian persecutions of 64 ce.
43. On the use of aōroi in magic see Johnston, Restless Dead, 71–80.
44. Bauman, Women and Politics in Ancient Rome, 35–37, highlights what he re-
gards as a “feminist” aspect of the Bacchanal movement, which he sees as a
form of “social protest.” Bauman tends, however, to accept ancient testimony
at face value without questioning the veracity of the account. In other words,
he accepts as true charges against the Bacchanals and interprets them as de-
liberate acts of political subversion. He does not entertain the possibility that
the charges may be trumped-up and ideologically motivated or that Livy’s
account may be exaggerated. See also MacDonald, Early Christian Women
and Pagan Opinion, 37 and especially 56, where she notes that Livy’s descrip-
tion of the Bacchanal scandal may have influenced Pliny’s attitude toward this
new cult and its female participants. Pomeroy, Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and
Slaves, 217, notes that the cult of Bacchus was tolerated in Rome as long as it
was confined to women; the Bacchanal scandal resulted from opening the cult
to male participation, which led to licentious misconduct. Kraemer, Women’s
Religions in the Greco-Roman World, 16, notes that the association of Baccha-
nalia with women could function as a defamatory trope in Greek rhetoric as
early as the fourth century bce.
45. MacDonald, Early Christian Women and Pagan Opinion, 37, 50–59.
46. See Wypustek, “Un Aspect Ignoré,” who discusses the association, in Roman
minds, of certain Christian practices with erotic magic.
47. See discussion in earlier section “Magic Stereotyping in the Second Centu-
ry.”
48. See Remus, “Does Terminology Distinguish?” for a discussion of the differ-
ent perceptions and ways of naming acts of power in Christian, Jewish, and
pagan writings.
49. Smith, Jesus the Magician, 61–64; and Betz, The Greek Magical Papyri in
Translation, xlv, discuss the use of Jesus’s name in extant “magical” texts such
as the PGM and various amulets. On the use of Jewish themes in magical
papyri, see Betz, “Jewish Magic.” See Meyer and Smith, Ancient Christian
Magic, for examples of amulets and spells that employ the name of Jesus, the
title “Christ,” or historiolae from Jesus’s life. See also Frankfurter, “Narrating
Power,” on the use of historiolae in Coptic spells.
50. On Jewish accusations that Jesus was a magician, see Smith, Jesus the Magi-
cian, 46–50. Because these rabbinic sources date to the fourth century ce or
later, I do not discuss them here in the context of the early contest for power.
But see chapter 5 where I discuss rabbinic responses to the use of Jesus’s name
in magic.
51. Lincoln, Authority, 78.
52. Christianity was not always proscribed in the empire. Except for a few in-
stances of imperial decrees, its status and treatment varied depending on local
authorities, whose duty and prerogative it was to prosecute crime. See Cas-
telli, Martyrdom and Memory, 37–38; and Wypustek, “Magic, Montanism.”
53. This laconic story was greatly developed in postexilic sources. See: 1 Enoch
6.1, 19.1; Testament of Reuben 5.1, 5–6; Jubilees 4.22, 5.1; 2 Apocalypse of
Baruch 56.10; Tobit 6.14, 8.3; Josephus, Antiquities 1.73.
54. See Reed, Fallen Angels.
55. See, for example, Garrett, The Demise of the Devil.
56. The process continued for several more centuries. See essays in Becker and
Reed, The Ways That Never Parted.
57. Daniel Boyarin sees this process being initiated by Christian apologists, such
as Justin, and imitated by rabbis. See Border Lines, 11 and introduction. Rob-
inson and Koester, Trajectories Through Early Christianity, 15, in contrast, sees
the “emergence of normative Christianity” as part of an empire-wide trend
toward “stabilizing, normalizing, rigidifying, standardizing” expressions of
religiosity in both Jewish and “pagan” circles.
58. See Guelich, “Anti-Semitism and/or Anti-Judaism in Mark?” on Mark’s po-
lemic against Jewish authorities, which includes earlier bibliography.
59. See, for example, Mark 1:22, 27, 8:11–13, 10:2–9.
60. E.g., Mark 2:23–28 and 3:1–6 on Sabbath observance, 7:1–8 on washing
hands, 7:9–13 on vowing property to the temple instead of supporting ones
parents.
61. Jesus’s ability to perform miracles and cast out demons demonstrates that he
possesses an authority that the Pharisees do not. See, for example, Mark 1:23–
27, 2:9–12, 3:22–27. He also outsmarts the Pharisees with parables and clever
answers to their legal challenges (Mark 7:1–23).
62. See Evans, “Faith and Polemic,” 4.
63. McKnight, “A Loyal Critic,” passim.
64. Ibid., 56. This is qualified by Matt 28:15, where his use of the term Jews sug-
gests that the communities are already divided.
65. See John 9:22, 12:42, and 16:2 for references to Jesus’s followers being put
out of the synagogue. The cause of this division can be identified as either
theological or practical or a combination of both: it seems that the communi-
ties split over the correct way to conceive Jesus’s identity and role, part and
parcel of which may have been a disagreement over the correct way to ob-
serve Torah. Traditionally, it has been argued that the split was theological,
resulting from a reluctance among the “Jews” to accept John’s high Christol-
ogy. See, for example, Brown, The Community of the Beloved Disciple, 71–73;
and Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel. Recently, Reinhartz,
“Martyn’s Method Revisited,” has challenged this reading, which emphasizes
doctrine over praxis, and points out that the text itself suggests the conflict
was over correct observance of Passover and Shabbat.
66. Kysar, “Anti-Semitism and the Gospel of John,” 114–17. See also Reinhartz,
Befriending the Beloved Disciple, 52–53.
67. Tiede, “‘Fighting Against God,’” 102–12, for example, analyzes Luke ’s ne-
gotiation of identity vis-à-vis the Jews and notes that, like the other three
evangelists, Luke is preoccupied with Israel’s rejection of Jesus.
68. Segal, Paul the Convert, 7, for example, shows how Luke depicts Paul’s con-
version experience in terms of biblical calls to prophecy. Luke is not alone
in his interpretation of events; other Jewish texts also interpreted the war
with Rome as divine judgment leading to repentance and restoration. Tiede,
“ ‘Fighting Against God,’ ” 105–7. On Israel as a model for salvation and
judgment in Luke, see Flender, St. Luke, 107–17.
69. It is not clear whether in passing to the gentiles Luke saw salvation as open or
closed to the Jews. See Wilson, Related Strangers, 64–66, for discussion and
bibliography.
70. See also Morton Smith, Jesus the Magician, 82–91.
71. Following Schüssler Fiorenza, “Miracles, Mission, and Apologetics,” 12–16.
On Jews’ reputation for magic and the reality behind this myth, see Trachten-
berg, Jewish Magic and Superstition, introduction.
72. See Garrett, The Demise of the Devil, on the power of the Holy Spirit in Luke-
Acts.
73. Schüssler Fiorenza, “Miracles, Mission, and Apologetics,” 9.
74. Luke’s depiction of Paul places him at the juncture between Jesus’s ministry
and the church’s salvific history. On the one hand, Luke seems to subordinate
Paul to the apostles (see 14:4 as an exception). On the other hand, he depicts
Paul as in every respect equal to the apostles and in some respects superior
to them. Miracles, especially, serve to display Paul’s spiritual authority and
equality with the twelve. Flender, St. Luke, 129–32; and Haenchen, The Acts
of the Apostles, 112–14.
75. Hull, Hellenistic Magic and the Synoptic Tradition, 115.
76. E.g., Acts 11:2–3, 15:1–29, 15:37–41; Gal 1:7–9, 2:4, 2:11–14; 2 Cor 10:10–13,
11:3–6, 11:13–15, 12:11. See also Betz, “In Defense of the Spirit,” passim, on
Paul’s struggles with the church in Galatia.
77. Rev 2:9, 2:13–17, 2:20–23, 3:2–6, 3:8, 3:15–17.
78. “The power of God that is called Great” ἡ δύναμιϚ του̂ θεου̂ ἡ καλουμένη
Μεγάλη (8:10). See Schüssler Fiorenza, “Miracles, Mission, and Apologet-
ics,” 14, on the messianic implications of this title. On Simon’s identity as the
Samaritan “messiah,” Ta’eb, see Fossum, The Name of God and the Angel of
the Lord, 112.
79. Garrett, The Demise of the Devil, passim; and Haenchen, The Acts of the Apos-
tles, 308.
80. The category gnosticism is problematic. See, for example, Williams, Rethink-
ing “Gnosticism.” Nevertheless, I will continue to use it, not as a heuristic
category, but as an emic definition employed by the ancient authors I am
considering.
81. According to Grant, Gnosticism and Early Christianity, 74, an inscription found
on the island in 1574 actually reads: SEMONI SANCO DEO FIDIO—a
dedication to a god of oaths, heaven, thunder, and lightning. It may have been
related to a shrine of Jupiter, and since Simonians were accustomed to identi-
fying Simon with this god, they may have attributed the inscription to him: an
interpretation which Justin learned from them. See Roberts and Donaldson,
“First Apology,” 171, for an argument against Grant’s suggestion.
82. If we accept Luke ’s report as accurate, at least chronologically, we locate
Simon in roughly the same time period as the apostles. This concurs with
later traditions recorded in the Pseudo-Clementines that he was a disciple of
John the Baptist; in which case Simon’s ministry would have been concur-
rent with that of Jesus. See Fossum, The Name of God and the Angel of the
Lord, 47–48.
83. Haenchen, The Acts of the Apostles, 307; and Conzelman, Acts of the Apos-
tles, 66.
84. See also Yamauchi, Pre-Christian Gnosticism, 60–61; and Tuzlak, “The Magi-
cian and the Heretic,” 416–26.
85. He may have derived this information from Justin, quoted previously.
86. The Greek text for this section has been lost; the text’s reconstruction relies
on Old Latin and fragments from Syriac and Armenian.
87. Many scholars have accepted this as “evidence” for Simon’s gnosticism and
explored the possibility that gnosticism emerged from a combination of Hel-
lenism and dualistic Judaism found in Samaria. Fossum, The Name of God
and the Angel of the Lord, 74, for example, identifies Samaritan messianism
and dualism as a possible origin for Simonian gnosticism. Based on Luke ’s
depiction of Simon as a μάγοϚ, Barrett, “Light on the Holy Spirit,” 286, sug-
gests that μαγεία may have contributed to the development of gnosticism.
Grant, Gnosticism and Early Christianity, 92–93, proposes that Simonian
γνω̂σιϚ arose out of Judea-Samaritan sectarianism in three stages: first, the
period close to Dositheus and the notion of the “standing one” as a prophet
like Moses. Second, the period when apocalyptic turned into gnostic, when
Simon would come to regard himself, or be regarded by his disciples, as the
power not of but above the Creator and when his fellow schismatic Helen
would be regarded as “Wisdom, the mother of all.” At this point would come
the coordination of Simonian mythology with Helen of Troy and with Chris-
tology. Only the later stage of Simonian doctrine was known to the church
fathers, and this is why they treat Simonianism as the beginning of gnosti-
cism, ascribing its origins to interest in magic or simply to the paranoid mad-
ness of Simon. Wilson, “Simon and Gnostic Origins,” 485, also accepts the
“gnostic” character of Simon’s religious movement: “Irenaeus’s description
of Simon’s trinitarian claims, the myth of Helen and the account of the cre-
ation of the World reveal that this system may be regarded as fairly primitive.
As with other early Christian-gnostic groups there is as yet no Demiurge.”
See also Yamauchi, Pre-Christian Gnosticism, for a review of the different po-
sitions in favor of Simon’s gnosticism. While it is likely that Simon must have
been some sort of religious leader who contended for power with the earliest
Christians, it is far less clear that he was the gnostic founder described by the
church fathers. See discussion further in this section.
88. See Haenchen, Acts, 307; and Conzelman, Acts, 66. According to Yamauchi,
Pre-Christian Gnosticism, 60–61, the main objection to viewing Simon as a
representative of a fully developed gnosticism is the fact that Acts, our earli-
est account, portrays Simon as a magician rather than as a gnostic. Haenchen
argues that this only means that the NT tradition has degraded Simon from a
divine redeemer into a mere sorcerer. Haenchen, “Gab es eine vorchristliche
Gnosis?” 348. The possibility, however, that Luke “downgraded” Simon to
the status of magician does not necessarily mean that Simon was a gnostic
either. Rather, the early literary evidence suggests he was a religious leader of
some sort but not a gnostic as this term comes to be understood in the second
century. Quispel and Cerfaux both identify Simon with pregnostic γνω̂σιϚ:
his teachings provided a seedbed in which gnosticism could later grow. See
Yamauchi, Pre-Christian Gnosticism, 61–62, for discussion and bibliography.
See also Garrett, The Demise of the Devil, 61–62, who proposes that Luke ’s
portrait of Simon has less to do with the historical Simon than with Luke ’s
use of him as a narratological device to demonstrate the power of the Holy
Spirit over Satan and his minions, magicians.
89. Grant, Gnosticism and Early Christianity, 70–71.
90. Forms of Christianity that later became both “orthodox” and “heterodox”
identified with Paul and claimed him as the authority for their teachings. See,
for example, MacDonald, The Pauline Churches; MacDonald, The Legend and
the Apostle; and Burrus, Chastity as Autonomy, 104–5.
91. Priscillian was not actually accused of being “gnostic” but was, for similar
reasons, accused of practicing magic. On Priscillian, see Breyfogle, “Magic,
Women, and Heresy.” On Marcus, see my further discussion, this chapter.
92. Wilson, “Simon and Gnostic Origins,” 485; my emphasis.
93. My emphasis.
94. Yamauchi, Pre-Christian Gnosticism, 58.
95. It is possible, of course, that elements of Simon’s religion resembled aspects of
gnosticism. But, as Williams points out, “gnosticism” is so broadly construed
as to be almost meaningless as a heuristic device. Certainly the claim that
Simon is the “father” of gnostic heresy is trumped up by the heresiologists.
Gwatkin says, “I see nothing in Simon’s system beyond a generalized orien-
talism and an incidental use of Christianity which may well belong to the first
century. There is no specific mark of Gnosticism upon it.” Early Church His-
tory to A.D. 313, ii, 31. Similarly, Wilson writes: “While Simon may reason-
ably be described as a Gnostic in the sense of Gnosis it is by no means clear
that he was a gnostic in the sense of the later developed Gnosticism.” Wilson,
Gnosis and the New Testament, 49. See also Wilson, The Gnostic Problem, 99ff.
Quoted in Barrett, “Light on the Holy Spirit,” 285.
96. Paul, for example, speaks in praise of Phoebe, a deacon (διάκονον) of the
church at Cenchreae (Rom 16:1), Prisca, whom he describes as a fellow work-
er in Christ (συνεργούϚ, Rom 16:3), and Chloe, who seems to lead a com-
munity of believers in Corinth (1 Cor 1:11). See also Schüssler Fiorenza, In
Memory of Her; Torjesen, When Women Were Priests; Jensen, God’s Self-Con-
fident Daughters; the essays in Kraemer and D’Angelo, Women and Christian
Origins; Gryson, Le Ministère des Femmes; and King, The Gospel of Mary of
Magdala.
97. Beginning in the third century this trend begins to change. See discussion
later in this chapter.
98. Helena, for example, was said to travel about with Simon. She, however, is
never accused of practicing magic herself and, in fact, seems to be one of the
many followers beguiled into believing that Simon had special divine powers.
See discussion below.
99. See Nasrallah, An Ecstasy of Folly, 26 and passim, on the relationship between
discourses of rationality and irrationality, claims to authority, and the con-
struction of group boundaries.
100. See MacDonald, Early Christian Women and Pagan Opinion, 109.
101. See Burrus, “The Heretical Woman as Symbol,” 232, who describes the sexu-
ally permissive “heretical woman” as the polar opposite of the “orthodox fe-
male virgin.” The one leaves “all the gateways of her body unguarded” while
the other remains obediently silent, closing her mouth as well as her genitals.
102. See Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride, 1–19; and MacDonald, Early Christian
Women and Pagan Opinion, 30–40.
103. See Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome, 46, 57, and discus-
sion in chapter 3.
104. MacDonald, Early Christian Women and Pagan Opinion, 30–31.
105. Castelli, “Romans,” 274, persuasively argues for the importance of recogniz-
ing the existence of multiple “readings” or “meanings” in a single text. Simi-
larly, Virginia Burrus suggests that the reality behind a rhetorical trope does
not exclude the ability to consider its “symbolic” or ideological function in a
text. Burrus, “The Heretical Woman as Symbol,” 233. I present merely one
possible approach. Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism,” 174–75, for example,
reads Irenaeus’s accusation as a misunderstanding of a Marcosian rite called
“spiritual marriage.”
106. Irenaeus uses the passive form of κρατέω (κρατηθεὶϚ γυναικὶ and
κρατηθη̂ναι γυναικόϚ, 1.12.34–1.12.36) to describe Marcus’s effect on the
women, emphasizing the perception of them as passive, victimized, and de-
ceived. See also Castelli, “Romans,” 284. Women’s “foolishness” as a literary

topos has a long history, dating back at least to the fifth century bce. See
chapter 2, this volume.
107. Corrington, “The ‘Divine Woman?’” 172–73, traces the long-standing as-
sociation in Greek and Roman thought between women’s sexual penetration
and prophetic ability. Corrington notes Chrysostom’s reference to Lucan,
who attributes the Pythia’s prophecy to her “being raped by the god” (Bell.
civ. 5.166f ). See also Burrus, “The Heretical Woman as Symbol,” 232.
108. The issue of women’s participation operated also in the condemnation of other
so-called heresies such as Montanism and Carpocratianism. See, for example,
Trevett, Montanism; Breyfogle, “Magic, Women, and Heresy,” passim; Bur-
rus, “The Heretical Woman as Symbol,” passim; Cardman, “Women, Minis-
try, and Church Order”; and Heine, Women and Early Christianity, 130–46.
109. Greek text from Detorakis, “To Anekdoto Martyrio tou Apostolou Andrea,”
345.
110. As Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride, 58 and passim, argues, such an attack
on marriage constitutes an assault on the Roman state, its institutions, and its
survival.
111. Wypustek, “Un Aspect Ignoré,” 57, discusses this passage in connection with
accusations that Christians were manipulating converts with love magic.
112. Page 10 of Papyrus Coptic Utrecht 1. Text and translation (with slight chang-
es) from MacDonald, The Acts of Andrew, 244–47. See also translation and
commentary in Hennecke, Writings Related to the Apostles, 124–25.
113. See Faraone, Ancient Greek Love Magic, chapter 2, and the example of the
inflated wineskins from Apuleius’s Metamorphoses discussed in ch. 3, this
volume.
114. See the introduction to the Acts of Andrew by Jean-Marc Prieur in Hennecke,
Writings Related to the Apostles, 111–12.
115. Ibid.
116. The magician could also represent Rome. Boyarin, Dying for God, 79 and
chapter 3 passim, considers the ideological function of “virgins” in early Jew-
ish and Christian martyrologies; he posits that both rabbis and church fathers
“identified” with female virgins as a mode of “disidentification” with vio-
lent and aggressive Rome. This insight into the symbolic role of virgins in
early Christian discourse may illuminate the above narratives of magical at-
tack where the virgin represents the pure church and the magicians symbolize
violent, invasive, and phallic Rome. See further discussion in this chapter and
note 127.
117. Burrus, “The Heretical Woman as Symbol,” 239, identifies the pure virgin
with the true church: “To violate the virgins constituted a rape of the true
church and a defilement of its purity.”
118. Castelli, “Romans,” 280–81; and Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride, 11. This
is not to say that the depictions have no relationship to or shed no light on
the lives and experiences of “real” historical women, as MacDonald, Early
5 . c a u t i o n i n t h e k o s h e r k i t c h e n 231
Christian Women and Pagan Opinion, 74–75, emphasizes. See also Matthews,

“Thinking of Thecla,” 46–50, who cautions against erasing women’s his-
tory by overemphasizing the rhetorical use of women as tropes in ancient
writings.
119. For similar examples and discussion see Gager, Curse Tablets, 78–115; and
Ogden, “Binding Spells.” See also discussion and notes in chapter 2, this
volume.
120. See Faraone, Ancient Greek Love Magic, 43–55; Winkler, “The Constraints
of Desire.” See also Faraone, “The Agonistic Context of Early Greek Bind-
ing Spells”; Faraone, “Aphrodite ’s KESTOS” and “Clay Hardens and Wax
Melts,” passim, which examine issues of power and violence in ancient ἀγωγή
spells.
121. Et magis reddita sanitate increpuit / virginem, cur fecisset talia, per / quae
daemon intrare potuisset.
122. See also Frankfurter, “The Perils of Love,” 497–500, on the opposition of
“monks” and “magicians” in Coptic miracle stories.
123. Burrus, Chastity as Autonomy, argues that the Apocryphal Acts originated as
folktales in a female milieu; as such, they reflect women’s interests and self-
perception. If true, this would help account for the divergent representations
of the two virgins—the first successful, the second victimized. Castelli, “Vir-
ginity and Its Meaning,” insightfully points out that “the ideology of virgin-
ity” was equivalent to the “ideology of marriage” in that both commodified
women’s sexuality and used it as an object in social or spiritual trade. While
virginity may have afforded women some degree of social freedom, it did so
at the expense of women’s identity and sense of selfhood by calling for a re-
jection of their inferior “feminine” nature.
124. I thank Ayse Tuzlak for pointing this text out to me.
125. E.g., Hom. Col. 8 (PG 62.357–9); Catech. 2 (PG 49. 240).
126. Boyarin, Dying for God, chapter 3; and Burrus, “Reading Agnes.”
127. As Boyarin, Dying for God, 79, writes: “Identification with the female virgin
was a mode for both Rabbis and Fathers of disidentification with a ‘Rome ’
whose power was stereotyped as a highly sexualized male.”
5. c a u t i o n i n the kosher kitchen

1. See, for example, Braun-Holzinger, “Apotropaic Figures at Mesopotamian
Temples”; and Burkert, “Itinerant Diviners and Magicians,” 116–19.
2. See, for example, Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi”; Levine, The Rabbinic
Class of Roman Palestine; Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 103–28;
and, most recently, Boyarin, Border Lines.
3. Starting with Hillel and Shammai. On the Mishnah as oral tradition see
Neusner, Method and Meaning in Ancient Judaism, 59–75.
4. On reception of the Mishnah see Halivni, Midrash, 59–65. Hermeneutical
techniques were often employed to limit, amend, or undercut rulings in the
232 5 . c a u t i o n i n t h e k o s h e r k i t c h e n
Mishnah. See, for example, Kraemer, “The Formation of Rabbinic Canon,”

616–27; Goldberg, “The Mishna,” 243–44; Goldberg, “The Babylonian Tal-
mud,” 327–33; and Neusner, Uniting the Dual Torah.
5. I follow the dating of the redaction proposed by David Weiss Halivni, who
argues that the Talmud was redacted by anonymous sages (stammaim) in the
sixth century in Babylonia from a body of oral tradition (mostly legal rulings
but also some narrative as well), which had been passed down from the early
rabbinic period. This theory has been worked out in critical studies of indi-
vidual tractates: Vol. 1, Nashim, Vol. 2, Yoma-Hagiga, Vol. 3, Shabbat, Vol. 4,
Eruvin-Pesahim, and Vol. 5, Bava Qama. See also Halivni, Peshat and Derash
and Midrash, chapter 5, for an accessible introduction to his theory and meth-
od. For other opinions on dating the redaction see Kalmin, The Redaction of
the Babylonian Talmud, who argues for a Saboraic redaction, and Hauptman,
Development of the Talmudic Sugya, who argues that most sugyot developed
earlier and consisted of a collection of Tannaitic statements (baraitot) upon
which Amoraim later commented. According to her theory, the stam redacted
the Gemara so that it appeared as if baraitot were introduced by the Amoraim
to support their positions or answer questions, when, in fact, Hauptman ar-
gues, the baraitot were already part and parcel of the original proto-sugya. On
this topic also see Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud; Kalmin,
Sages, Stories, Authors, and Editors; and all the essays in Avery-Peck, The Lit-
erature of Early Rabbinic Judaism, part 1.
6. See Goldberg, “The Palestinian Talmud,” 314–15, for a concise explanation.
7. After the conquest of Israel by the Assyrians and Judah by the Babylonians,
Hebrew no longer functioned as the official language of these regions. While
Hebrew continued to be spoken by local populations, Aramaic and later
Greek became the languages of commerce and international interchange. It is
difficult to know exactly what percentage of the population in Judea and Gali-
lee spoke Hebrew at this time. Synagogue inscriptions appear in Aramaic,
Hebrew, and Greek, as do epitaphs. See Foerster, “The Ancient Synagogues
of the Galilee,” 298, and Weiss, “Social Aspects of Burial in Beth She‘arim.”
Most of the Dead Sea Scrolls were written in Hebrew as were some of Bar
Kokhba’s correspondences. However, since the majority of Bar Kokhba’s
epistles are in Aramaic, the lead excavator, Yigael Yadin, suggests that Bar
Kokhba was trying to revive Hebrew by decree as part of his messianic ideol-
ogy. Yadin, Bar-Kokhba, 124, and his published field report, The Finds from
the Bar Kokhba Period. In contrast, Rendsburg, “The Galilean Background of
Mishnaic Hebrew,” 235–36, argues that the Hebrew of the early rabbis (Tan-
naim) reflects the dialect spoken in Galilee (where the Mishnah was redacted)
and derives from the pre-exilic Hebrew of Israel rather than Judah, which is
the Hebrew represented in the Bible. Steven Fraade, however, significantly
complicates the debate by arguing that the bilingualism of the Mishnah and
Talmud does not reflect the language of the speakers but rather a rhetorical
framing device employed by the redactor: Hebrew is the language of instruc-
tion while Aramaic is the language of “debate, question and answer, as well
as the editorial connecting and framing structures.” See Fraade, “Rabbinic
Views on the Practice of Targum,” 275–76. Similarly, he claims that inscrip-
tions do not indicate the language spoken by the majority of the population
in a particular location but rather formal genres appropriate to the type and
use of a particular inscription (277–81). He concludes that the Jewish popula-
tion of Galilee in the rabbinic period were able to use and understand (at least
partially) all three languages—Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek—switching be-
tween them as demanded by context and rhetorical intent. See also Alexander,
“How Did the Rabbis Learn Hebrew?” who assumes that Hebrew was no
longer in use after ca. 300 ce outside of rabbinic schools.
8. See especially Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories, 18–22, and The Culture of the
Babylonian Talmud, 1–7.
9. Kraemer, “On the Reliability of Attributions,” 187, makes this point well. For
good examples of this approach see Hauptman, Rereading the Rabbis; Valler,
Women and Womanhood in the Talmud; and Kalmin, “Holy Men, Rabbis, and
Demonic Sages.” Many scholars are skeptical of attributions and the ability to
use them to reconstruct history. See especially Neusner, Method and Meaning
in Ancient Judaism, chapter 2; Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 10–11; Lightstone, The
Rhetoric of the Babylonian Talmud, 12–23; and, more recently, Stern, “Review
of Shaye D. Cohen (Ed.).”
10. This narrative of a magical contest between Rav Hisda, Rabbah bar Rav
Huna, and a matron appears in almost identical form on b. Shab. 81b, where it
is quoted to demonstrate that one should avoid wiping oneself with a pottery
shard after using the toilet on Shabbat because someone could have used the
pottery shard to write down a curse—these types of curses are well docu-
mented archaeologically. See Gager, Curse Tablets, 3, n. 5; and Naveh and
Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, 17. The talmudic redactor uses this anec-
dote here to endorse rabbinic dietary innovations. See further discussion in
this chapter.
11. On the identity of the “Matrona” in rabbinic texts see, for example, Gershen-
zon and Slomovic, “A Second Century Jewish-Gnostic Debate,” 9.
12. See discussion of ‫ מלה‬in Sperber, Magic and Folklore, 60–66.
14. Geller, “The Influence of Ancient Mesopotamia,” 50.
15. Sperber, Magic and Folklore, 63, emends text to read ‫ אמר מה דאמר‬and states
that it plainly means “cast a spell.”
16. See, for example, Segal, Two Powers in Heaven, 4–8, Rebecca’s Children, 148–
58; Wilson, Related Strangers, 176–94; Boyarin, “On Stoves, Sex, and Slave-
Girls,” 171, and, most recently, Border Lines, 29–30, 54–65.
17. In another version of this story, Rav Hanina and Rav Oshaia are said to be
studying from the “book of creation” (‫ )ספר יצירה‬when they create the calf
(b. Sanh. 65b). This has often been understood to refer to the well-known
book of early Jewish mysticism. See, for example, Scholem, Origins of the
Kabbalah, 24–35.
18. See y. Sanh. 41a where this is explicitly stated. In ancient literature eating is a
way to demonstrate the corporal reality of something that might otherwise be
regarded as fantastical. For example, in the gospel of John (21:9ff.) the resur-
rected Jesus is said to have shared not only bread with his disciples but fish as
well, establishing his physical existence. I thank Alan Segal for this insight.
19. For example, according to one story, a certain man was protected from the
magical designs of his ex-wife as long as he abstained from eating or drinking
in pairs. When his vigilance was down one night, due to inebriation, she gave
him an even number of drinks; he fell victim to demons and died (b. Pesahim
110b).
20. A textual parallel to this passage appears in y. Sanh. 41a, where it explicitly
states that R. Eliezer used “magic” (‫ )מכשפה‬to plant cucumbers. Here it is
inferred from the subsequent discussion. The Jerusalem Talmud, however,
records only R. Eliezer’s teaching that the one who does an actual act of
magic is guilty of a crime while the one who performs an illusion is not. It
does not narrate the following story of R. Eliezer and R. Akiva planting and
gathering cucumbers with magic, suggesting that this part of the sugya was
introduced by the editors of the Bavli. On “pseudo” baraitot see Rubenstein,
Talmudic Stories, 261–62; and Friedman, “Uncovering Literary Dependen-
cies,” 43–44.
21. Blau, Das altjüdische Zauberwesen, 26–27, accepts this justification as applying
to all cases where rabbis are reported to practice magic. Supporting this posi-
tion is R. Yohanan’s statement that no one could sit on the Sanhedrin without
mastering knowledge of magic (‫( )בעלי כשפים‬b. Sanh. 17a).
22. See, for example, the infamous “witch of Endor” episode in 1 Sam 28:7ff, in
which a woman calls up the ghost of the prophet Samuel for King Saul when
all other methods of divination had failed him. Ezek 8:14 and 13:19 also as-
sociate Israelite women with illicit foreign practices, such as necromancy and
idolatry. The association of women with magic occurs explicitly in Second
Temple Jewish writings, which identify magic as one of the dangerous arts
passed to human kind through women by the fallen angels of Gen 6. See 1
Enoch 6.1, 19.1; Testament of Reuben 5.1, 5–6; Jubilees 4.22, 5.1; 2 Apoc-
alypse of Baruch 56.10; Tobit 6.14, 8.3; Josephus, Antiquities 1.73. See also
Reed, “Angels, Women, and Magic.”
23. R. Yohanan is treating the word for magic (‫ )כשפים‬as an acronym, standing
for: “they diminish the heavenly family.” This type of wordplay and im-
promptu etymology is common in rabbinic literature.
24. R. Hanina’s opinion that magic has no power over God contradicts that of R.
Yohanan, who claims that magic can harm even the divine assembly.
25. See b. Hullin 7b for a slightly different version of this passage.
26. It is not necessary to regard this biographical narrative as historically “true”
to see how it established or reinforced a legend surrounding the persona of
Rabbi Hanina that, as a renunciate, his devotion, piety, and self-restraint

could wield protective power. On the problem of accepting rabbinic biog-
raphies, see Neusner, In Search of Talmudic Biography, and Development of a
Legend.
27. Francis, Subversive Virtue, discusses both the social power that could derive
from asceticism and also the suspicion that extreme forms of asceticism gen-
erated as deviant and subversive practices. See also Brown, The Body and
Society.
28. On the laws pertaining to ‫ נזירות‬see Num 6.1–21.
29. See Tertullian’s Jejun. 6–8, on fasting and prophecy among Montanists. On
Montanism in general, see Trevett, Montanism.
30. Clearly not all women are considered to be outsiders, but certain passages
suggest that as a category “women,” even Jewish women, were regarded in
this way by certain rabbis. See discussion below.
31. The ‫ פירוש‬by Korban ha-Edah clarifies that it was Joshua ben Levi, loc. cit.
s.v. ‫בר בריה‬.
32. It is not clear from the language of the text if the “magician” is a Christian or
just utters an incantation in the name of Jesus Pandira.
33. Possibly a leech or a bone. See Korban ha-Edah’s ‫פירוש‬, loc. cit. s.v. ‫הוה‬
‫ליה בלע‬.
34. Standard printed editions do not contain the phrase “in the name of Jesus
Pandira” (‫)מן שמיה דישו פנדירה‬. Manuscript variants can be found in Schäfer,
Synopse Zum Talmud Yerushalmi.
35. See note 12.
36. See Smith, Jesus the Magician, 46–50, on this and other versions of Jesus’s
name in rabbinic literature. See also Sperber, Magic and Folklore, 61, who dis-
cusses the previous passage.
37. My translation is based on the first printed edition (‫ )דפוס ראשון‬of the Tosefta
in comparison with the Vienna MS and the London MS, according to Fried-
man and Moscovitz, Primary Textual Witnesses to Tannaitic Literature, avail-
able online from Bar Ilan University. See parallels in y. Avod. Zar. 2.2; y.
Shab. 14.4; and b. Avod. Zar. 27b.
38. Elsewhere it is stated that they may only heal if there are no other options and
death seems certain (b. Avod. Zar. 27a–b).
39. The Acts of the Apostles (19.13) suggests that the use of Jesus’s name to exor-
cise demons was in use by both Christians and non-Christians in the late first
and early second century ce; the name Jesus appears also on amulets and in
“magical” papyri from the rabbinic period. See discussion in Smith, Jesus the
Magician, 61–64; Betz, The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, xlv. Extant
examples are collected in Meyer and Smith, Ancient Christian Magic. These
spells often employ the title Christ and historiolae of Jesus’s life in place of or
in addition to the name of Jesus. See also Frankfurter, “Narrating Power,” on
the use of historiolae in Coptic magic.
40. Contrast this with the attitude toward other forbidden practices collectively
labeled “ways of the Amorite” (‫)דרכי האמורי‬: if something is shown to heal, it
does not belong to the “ways of the Amorite,” which is to say it is not forbid-
den (y. Shab. 6.9 and b. Shab. 67a). See also Veltri, “The Rabbis and Pliny the
Elder.”
41. This statement has a parallel in Vayikra Rabbah 37.3 where it is attributed to
R. Yaakov bar Zavdi in the name of R. Abahu (both Palestinian Amoraim).
Furthermore, that version states simply that “now (‫ )עכשו‬one passes edible
food on account of magic (‫ ”)מפני כשפים‬and lacks the explanation that “the
daughters of Israel widely engage in magic.”
42. .‫הכשירה שבנשים בעלת כשפים‬
43. My translation follows Rashi (loc. cit.), who explains ‫ לגמר את הכלים‬to mean
that they used the spices to scent clothing.
44. See, for example, Janowitz, Magic in the Roman World, 86; Lesses,
“Exe(o)rcising Power,” 343; Ilan, “Cooks/Poisoners,” 121; and Aubin, “Gen-
dering Magic in Late Antique Judaism,” 141.
45. See Braun-Holzinger, “Apotropaic Figures at Mesopotamian Temples”; Scur-
lock, “Translating Transfers in Ancient Mesopotamia,” and “Magical Uses.”
On the use of incantations to counter the harmful magic of “witches” see
Abusch, “The Demonic Image of the Witch.”
46. On the magical expertise of Abaye ’s mother, see Lesses, “Exe(o)rcising
Power,” 362–64.
47. See Bar-Ilan, “Between Magic and Religion,” 385–96, on the use of “sym-
pathetic magic” as an accepted practice by rabbis. He notes that scholars are
quick to lump a variety of ancient practices into the category magic, such as
astrology, that do not belong there; they were regarded as legitimate science by
the ancients including Jewish sages (384). He also correctly notes that many
of the medical treatments he discusses in his article as sympathetic magic are
not actually labeled magic by the rabbis.
48. Veltri, “Defining Forbidden Foreign Customs,” 32, argues that the “Ways of
the Amorite” is “in Rabbinic Judaism a relative concept, not an essential qual-
ity of an act.” See also Veltri, “Der Magier im antiken Judentum,” 153–60.
49. Janowitz, Magic in the Roman World, 24.
50. .‫כל שהוא מרפא אין בו משום דרכי האמורי‬
51. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols. Neusner recently published an abridged ver-
sion that is very useful for gleaning the most important contributions.
52. See Betz, “Jewish Magic.” Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, 35–
38, also discuss this.
53. Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, 9. See also Morony, “Magic and
Society in Late Sasanian Iraq.”
54. Pliny records innumerable “bizarre” medicinal practices popularly believed
to be effective in his day (Nat. 28.6–8), many of which resemble those en-
countered in rabbinic literature. While some of these Pliny admits appear to
be “outlandish” (barbaros), he asserts that he has chosen to record only those
medicinal aides “almost universally believed” (consensu prope iudicii) and “for
which careful research can assure us” (Nat. 28.2). For example, he relates that
ingesting a salamander preserved in honey (after entrails, feet, and head have
been removed) acts as an aphrodisiac (Nat. 29.24). Pliny also mentions the
use of incantations (carmina) to charm away disease and injury (Nat. 28, 29).
See also Veltri, “The Rabbis and Pliny the Elder,” 68–78.
55. See discussion in Lieberman, Greek in Jewish Palestine, 101–2.
56. Veltri, “The Rabbis and Pliny the Elder,” 83–84.
57. The dating of these texts is problematic: manuscripts of this visionary litera-
ture date to the middle ages and represent centuries of accretions and redac-
tions. See Schäfer, Synopse zur Hekhalot-Literatur, for a synopsis of the differ-
ent manuscripts. It is largely accepted, however, that this literature reflects a
visionary tradition (whether practical or exegetical is debated) that originated
in Palestine between the third and sixth century ce. Schäfer, “Magic and Re-
ligion in Ancient Judaism,” 39. See also Alexander, “Mysticism,” who dates
this literature to the fifth to eighth centuries ce. For different approaches to
interpreting and situating this literature in its social and historical context, see
Segal, “Heavenly Ascent in Hellenistic Judaism”; Himmelfarb, The Ascent to
Heaven in Jewish and Christian Apocalypses; Halperin, The Faces of the Chariot;
Davila, Descenders to the Chariot; and, most recently, Boustan, From Martyr to
Mystic.
58. See, for example, Swartz, Scholastic Magic; Schäfer, “Magic and Religion in
Ancient Judaism,” 39–43; Schäfer, The Hidden and Manifest God, 150–57;
Davila, Descenders to the Chariot, 25–51; and Lesses, Ritual Practices to Gain
Power.
59. The text was reconstructed from various geniza fragments and published in
Margalioth, Sepher Ha-Razim. Margalioth, Sepher Ha-Razim, 24–26, dates the
text to the late third century based on a number of criteria. Gruenwald, Apoc-
alyptic and Merkavah Mysticism, 226, in contrast, dates the text to the sixth or
seventh century; Alexander, “Sefer Ha-Razim,” 188, dates it to between the
fifth or sixth centuries ce (inclining toward the later date) and offers, in my
opinion, a persuasive argument for this conclusion.
60. Margalioth, Sepher Ha-Razim, 10–11, suggests that the author belonged to a
group opposing the rabbis, perhaps one of the ‫מינים‬. Alexander, “Sefer Ha-
Razim,” 189, argues that the author of Sefer ha-Razim had at least some rab-
binic training. Alexander sees the harmful aspects of some of these spells as
the biggest challenge to understanding this text, not the syncretistic elements
and apparent lapses into idolatry. See also discussion on the relation of rabbis
and magic in Schäfer, “Magic and Religion in Ancient Judaism,” 37–38; and
Swartz, Scholastic Magic, 214–21, who addresses this question in relation to
the Sar Torah texts.
61. See p. 170 for text and commentary.
62. Amora/Amoraim (pl.) refers to rabbinic scholars who lived in the period
after the Mishnah was compiled (circa 200 to 500 ce) and comment on it. The
term Tanna/Tannaim (pl.) applies to rabbis whose teachings are recorded

in the Mishnah, Tosefta, and various baraitot. They lived during the first two
centuries of the common era.
63. The story of R. Hanina is in Hebrew while the anonymous comment that
he is saved by merit is in Aramaic. I attribute this comment to a Palestin-
ian Amora rather than to a Babylonian one; this passage—Hebrew story and
Aramaic comment—appears elsewhere as a unit (b. Hullin 7b), suggesting
that it was already a received tradition by the time it came to Babylonia. See
Hauptman, Development of the Talmudic Sugya, and note 5 in this chapter for
discussion of the early date and Palestinian provenance of many sugyot.
64. See note 26.
65. A similar conception of the Holy Spirit’s role as harbinger of the messianic
era can be seen in early Christian writings such as Acts 1:8 and 2:2–21.
66. Parallel passages similarly state that God’s presence (‫ )שכינה‬rests on one who
merits her through piety and humility (b. Sanhedrin 11a; b. Sotah 48b).
67. Neusner, Talmudic Judaism, 57.
68. See note 62 for explanation of terms.
69. Green, “Palestinian Holy Men,” 636.
70. Ibid., 644–46.
71. For this reason no legal rulings are issued in his name. Bokser, “Wonder-
Working,” 42.
72. See Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, who makes a similar argument
and notes further the generally negative attitude toward asceticism among
Babylonian rabbis.
73. See also Segal, “Hellenistic Magic”; Remus, “Magic or Miracle?”; Remus,
Pagan-Christian Conflict; Remus, “‘Magic,’ Method, Madness”; Janowitz,
Magic in the Roman World. See also Hull, Hellenistic Magic and the Synoptic
Tradition; Nock, “Paul and the Magus”; Smith, “Prolegomena” and Jesus the
Magician.
74. It appears increasingly likely that these practices were not actually foreign at
all but were condemned as such by the Deuteronomic redactor. See Schmidt,
“Canaanite Magic.”
75. There was, however, a certain ambivalence regarding asceticism and its
power. See Francis, Subversive Virtue, xiv–xviii and passim.
76. See North, Sophrosyne, for an exhaustive survey of the conceptualization
and utilization of σωφροσύνη in Greek and Roman thought. Pages 273–285
focus, specifically, on its adaptation and employment as a topos in Roman po-
litical rhetoric. See also Foucault, The Use of Pleasure, 60–61; and Rademaker,
Sophrosyne and the Rhetoric of Self-Restraint.
77. Wimbush, Renunciation Towards Social Engineering.
78. Francis, Subversive Virtue, 131–79.
79. Brown, Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity, 138.
80. Ibid., 131–32.
81. Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society, 75–79, also notes that Palestinian sources
attribute power more often to piety than to great learning or knowledge. He
suggests that this reflects the influence of Byzantine Christianity, “which ex-
hibits the same tendency to treat people who are not religious profession-
als as ‘loci of the sacred.’” See also Neusner, A History of the Jews in Baby-
lonia, 297–402, who identifies rabbis with Peter Brown’s description of the
Syrian holy man. Oddly, Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, downplays
any association between renunciation and spiritual power, favoring instead to
concentrate on the association between mourning, sacrifice and asceticism.
82. T. Sotah 15:10–12; b. Baba Batra 60b. Fraade, “Ascetical Aspects of Ancient
Judaism,” 271.
83. Fraade, “Ascetical Aspects of Ancient Judaism,” 272.
84. This is not to ignore the tension present in rabbinic discourse between ascetic
impulses and the desire to curtail radical world negation. See Biale, Eros and
the Jews, chapter 2; Satlow, Tasting the Dish; and Boyarin, Carnal Israel.
85. Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, 7.
86. Lewis, Ecstatic Religion, 34.
87. Moses fasted forty days (Exod 34:28, Deut 9:9, 18) as did Elijah (1 Kgs 19:8).
Daniel also fasted before his visions (Dan 9:3, 10:3).
88. Gafni, The Jews of Babylonia in the Talmudic Era, 161–72; Geller, “The In-
fluence of Ancient Mesopotamia,” 47–52; and Elman, “Ashmedai and Lilit,”
describe the extensive influence of Persian demonology on Babylonian Jews,
including rabbis, and affirm that belief in astrology, demons, and magic amu-
lets was high culture and science in its day.
89. Babylonian sages do, however, accuse women of practicing harmful magic,
demonstrating that magic could, in certain circumstances, be enlisted as a
discourse of alterity there. See also Abusch, “The Demonic Image of the
Witch,” for a discussion of women’s ritual practices being denigrated and de-
monized in Mesopotamia while equivalent practices of men are not.
90. See note 88.
91. Demons figure also in pre-Zoroastrian Mesopotamian medical theory and
treatment. See Braun-Holzinger, “Apotropaic Figures at Mesopotamian
Temples”; and Scurlock, “Translating Transfers in Ancient Mesopotamia.”
Bidez and Cumont, Les Mages hellénisés, 146–47, followed by Zaehner, Zur-
van, 13–23, suggest that in contrast to the form of Zoroastrianism represented
in the Avesta, which they designate “orthodox,” the form of Mazdaism that
dominated the Sassanian empire (Zurvanism) canonized the worship of de-
mons by creating a cult to Ahriman and offering him sacrifices. This they
identify to be the origin of magic and demonology. See also Cumont, Oriental
Religions in Roman Paganism, 152, 191.
92. Cumont, Oriental Religions in Roman Paganism, 152. Elman, “Ashmedai and
Lilit,” also supports this view.
93. Gafni, The Jews of Babylonia in the Talmudic Era, 167–72; Ginzberg, On Jew-
ish Law and Lore, 22; and Lightstone, The Commerce of the Sacred, 37, 50–56,
all attest that demons play a diminished role in Palestinian, especially Tan-
naitic, writings relative to Babylonian sources. This contrasts sharply with the
New Testament, in which demons figure prominently. See also Trachtenberg,
Jewish Magic and Superstition, chapter 3, who explores the role of demons in
Jewish cosmology from antiquity through the Middle Ages.
94. The date is disputed. Zaehner, Zurvan, 7; and Neusner, A History of the Jews
in Babylonia, 1, give the date as 226. Frye, The Heritage of Persia, 198; and
Boyce, Zoroastrians, 101, state the date as 224, but acknowledge that the exact
date is uncertain.
95. Neusner, A History of the Jews in Babylonia, chapter 2, discusses persecutions
of the Babylonian Jewish community. See also Frye, The Heritage of Per-
sia, 210–11; Boyce, Zoroastrians, 102–3; and Zaehner, Zurvan, 8, who quotes
from a Sassanian account by Zoroastrian priests in the fourth book of the
Denkart.
96. Zaehner, Zurvan, 25.
97. Agathias 2.26, quoted in Christensen, L’Iran Sous les Sassanides, 117. My
translation from the French.
98. Ibid., 120.
99. Neusner, Talmudic Judaism, 81.
100. Brown, “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man,” 131, n. 141.
101. Shaked, From Zoroastrian Iran to Islam, 211.
102. Ibid., 208–9.
103. Ibid., 211.
104. Oxtoby, “The Zoroastrian Tradition,” 163–77.
105. Elman, “Ashmedai and Lilit.”
106. See, for example, Green, “Palestinian Holy Men,” on the rabbinization of
Honi ha-meagel; Bokser, “Wonder-Working,” on the Hanina ben Dosa leg-
ends; and Kalmin, “Holy Men, Rabbis, and Demonic Sages,” 234–41, on the
rabbinization of such unlikely characters as the demon Ashmedai.
107. My theory differs from that of Neusner, Talmudic Judaism, 54–55, in that
Neusner does not take as fully into account, as I attempt to do, the imaginary
and rhetorical component of the depictions. In other words, I argue, magic
is being used “to think with” in these narratives. See also Neusner, A His-
tory of the Jews in Babylonia, 147–50. Furthermore, Neusner does not distin-
guish between Babylonian and Palestinian sources, regarding them as equally
representative of Babylonian Jewry. For this reason, he identifies the rabbis
simultaneously with holy men, after the manner of Peter Brown’s Syrian re-
nunciates, and with magi. See Neusner, A History of the Jews in Babylonia,
297–402. Brown, himself, points out the incompatibility of Neusner’s rab-
binic “Magi” with Holy Men (see note 100). This difficulty could be avoided,
I suggest, by distinguishing between Palestinian sources that attribute power
to ascetic renunciation and Babylonian sources that depict power inhering in
esoteric knowledge.
108. Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud, chapter 3.
109. Ibid., chapter 5.

110. See Boyarin, “On Stoves, Sex, and Slave-Girls,” 180–81.
111. Lightstone, The Rhetoric of the Babylonian Talmud, 275.
112. These texts form a strata within the early “mystical” tradition known as Mer-
kavah or Hekhalot.
113. Swartz, Scholastic Magic, 218.
114. Davila, Descenders to the Chariot, 19.
115. See, for example, Janowitz, Magic in the Roman World, 86; Lesses,
“Exe(o)rcising Power,” 343; Ilan, “Cooks/Poisoners,” 121; and Aubin, “Gen-
dering Magic in Late Antique Judaism,” 141.
116. This statement asserts an absence of virtue among women and concludes that
a man pleasing to God flees woman, whose heart is a snare and her hands
fetters.
117. Rav Ilish is here questioning the source of the women’s power; miracles de-
mand extraordinary merit and Rav Ilish doubts that such virtue is possible in
women, based on the verse cited from Ecclesiastes.
118. B. Kid. 70a–b; b. Ber. 51b; b. Hul. 109b; b. Nid. 20b; b. Git. 63. I thank Susan
Weingarten for pointing out this connection to me. Rav Nahman also had
conflicts with members of his community. See b. Kiddushin 70a–b. I thank
Richard Kalmin for pointing this out to me.
119. See the provocative and insightful investigation of rabbinic discourse on
menstrual purity in Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity.
120. This passage functions to demonstrate that a woman is believed when she
gives testimony about the status of her blood. Nonetheless, the structure of
the narrative serves to contain women’s control over their own bodies by fo-
cusing on the authority of the rabbis to legislate. Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity,
122–25.
121. Charlotte Fonrobert discusses both cases in “Women’s Bodies, Women’s
Blood,” 156–57. In Menstrual Purity, 118–22, she discusses just b. Niddah
20b.
122. Fonrobert, “Women’s Bodies, Women’s Blood,” 158–59, and Menstrual
Purity, 126–27.
123. Fonrobert, “Women’s Bodies,” 158.
124. Lesses, Ritual Practices to Gain Power, 136, notes that four early adjuration
texts, prescribing rituals for mystical revelation, stipulate that “the adept bake
his own bread, in two cases specifically mentioning that he should not allow
a woman to bake it.” In these texts the concern seems to be with ritual pu-
rity and accompanies other stipulations that the adept avoid intercourse with
women (sexual or social) in order to preserve a high state of ritual purity.
125. Jastrow, s.v. ‫שתיתא‬.
126. Rashi correctly or incorrectly suggests that Yannai appears without his rab-
binic title in this passage to indicate displeasure with his use of magic (loc. cit.
s.v. ‫)ינאי איקלע לההיא אושפיזא‬.
127. Rashbam holds that this is an allusion to Ezek 13:18f (loc. cit. s.v. ‫)פרח פרהייכו‬.
A formula similar to this one appears in an incantation bowl; see Naveh and
Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls,183. I thank Yaakov Elman for pointing
this bowl out to me. Fishbane, “Most Women Engage in Sorcery,” 154–56;
and Bar-Ilan, “Witches in the Bible,” regard this passage as evidence for the
existence of an “association” of women who practice magic. I suggest that
both this account and that of Rav Papa’s encounter with the demon Yosef be
classified as fiction (‫ )אגדה‬and be read more as marvelous exaggerations than
as evidence of women’s social history.
128. Various texts refer to this episode: m. Sanh. 6.4; b. Sanh. 45b; y. Hag. 2.2; y.
Sanh. 5.9.
129. See discussion of this phrase in Sperber, Magic and Folklore, 63–64.
130. See y. Hagigah 2.2 for a parallel version of this narrative. Murray, “The Magi-
cal Female,” notes that the women in this story gain their magical power from
the earth while rabbis gain their power from God.
131. Ilan, Jewish Women in Greco-Roman Palestine, 222–23, closely examines the
list of activities prohibited in the Tosefta for being “the ways of the Emo-
rites [sic]” and classifies them according to gender. The activities associated
with women, Ilan notes, “fall into areas in which women were normally oc-
cupied” such as lamenting the dead and cooking. See also Ilan, “Cooks/Poi-
soners,” 110–12. Blau, Das altjüdische Zauberwesen, 26, states that household
remedies (Hausmittel) applied by women were naturally coterminous with
magical cures (Zaubermittel). Lesses, Ritual Practices to Gain Power, 144–55,
describes various food restrictions that were part of the ritual preparations
for mystical adjurations in Hekhalot literature, including “any kind of veg-
etable,” and bread baked by women or by gentiles. These foods apparently
rendered one “impure.”
132. Antiphon, In novercam. See discussion in chapter 2, this volume.
133. Circe is an exception: she puts herbs (φάρμακον) into a drink. But this rep-
resentation predates the development of “magic” as a distinct discourse (see
the discussion in chapters 1 and 2). Circe ’s herbs are best understood within
the context of ancient pharmacology rather than magic discourse. On the
symbolic significance of weaving as women’s work in ancient Greece, see
Blundell, Women in Ancient Greece, 72, 141.
134. In one case lack of food is responsible for the death of a boy, whose liver is
then used for a love potion (Hor. Epod. 5). Poisoning figures in numerous ac-
cusations or allegations made against women of the imperial house in particu-
lar. Livia was suspected of poisoning Augustus’s grandsons and heirs, Drusus
and Lucius, so that her son, Tiberius, could inherit the Principate. Agrippina
the younger was said to have given her husband, the emperor Claudius, poi-
sonous mushrooms the night that he died. In each case, royal women were
suspected of using poison to ensure the ascension of their sons over others.
135. See chapter 4, this volume.
136. A derogatory term for nonrabbinic Jews.

137. David Kraemer, “Jewish Eating Practices in the Early Rabbinic Age,” paper
presented at the annual congress, Society of Biblical Literature (Denver,
2001), 5, now published in Kraemer, Jewish Eating and Identity Through the
Ages, 41.
138. Kraemer, Jewish Eating, chapter 3.
139. Ibid., 46.
140. Ibid., 50.
141. Ibid., 53.
142. Diamond, Holy Men and Hunger Artists, 11, follows this line of thought by
regarding Jewish dietary observance as a form of asceticism but does not link
it to spiritual power or charisma.
143. Kraemer, Jewish Eating, 40.
144. Neusner, Talmudic Judaism, 67, also discusses the importance of sacred meals
and eating rituals for marking the “existence of a holy community or brother-
hood” among the rabbis.
145. Kraemer, Jewish Eating, 66. The same argument appears in “Problematic
Mixings,” 47.
146. Kraemer, Jewish Eating, 68.
147. Kraemer, 39-40. See also the essays collected in Levine, The Galilee in Late
Antiquity.
148. Douglas, Purity and Danger, 114–28.
149. Segal, Rebecca’s Children, 123–28.
150. See Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi,” passim, and Levine, The Rabbinic Class
of Roman Palestine, chapters 3–4. Brody, The Geonim of Babylonia, 83–99, de-
scribes challenges to rabbinic authority in the geonic period and the need to
justify rabbinic leadership with reference to scripture.
151. Segal, Rebecca’s Children, 128–41. Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society, chap-
ter 4, discusses the urgency with which rabbis forbid contact with sectarians
(‫ )מינים‬and Christians, suggesting that such contact did occur and that bound-
aries were perceived to be fuzzy. Social separation was effected by prohibit-
ing “social and sexual intercourse with Minim, forbid[ding] their food and
drink, and label[ing] their children mamzerim (‘illegitimate ’).” Boyarin, Bor-
der Lines, 11, sees this as a response to Christian efforts to define identity and
establish firm boundaries.
152. Segal, Rebecca’s Children, 132; Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi,” 163.
153. Pace Kraemer, Jewish Eating, 66, and “Problematic Mixings,” 47, who argues
that rabbis entrusted women, as “resident experts” of their kitchens, with
enforcement of dietary legislation. Greenberg, “Here Come Israel’s Pass-
over Police!” reports that in modern Israel a team of inspectors descended
on Israeli restaurants during the week of Passover to enforce the prohibition
against possessing or consuming leavened products (‫ )חמץ‬during the holy
week. This is an extreme measure that demonstrates the need to police dietary
observances. Neusner, A History of the Jews in Babylonia, 275, acknowledges

the difficulty of supervising “every kitchen in Babylonia.”
154. This statement corroborates Kraemer’s argument that nonrabbinic Jews
cooked meat in milk. See also Abrams, The Women of the Talmud, 13f, on
women’s observance of kashrut; and Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi,” 163,
on rabbis’ powerlessness to enforce. They had to rely on persuasion and, when
that failed, excommunication and refusal to bury as their primary weapons of
coercion.
155. Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity, 126, makes this same point about menstrual
purity.
156. I thank Susan Weingarten for suggesting this connection and line of inquiry
to me, following my 2001 AAR presentation of this material.
157. Sexual intercourse with one ’s wife is compared to eating kosher meat; it
doesn’t matter how you cook it, it is still kosher. Also, sexual congress in a
nonmissionary position is referred to as turning over the table (b. Nedarim
20a–b). See Satlow, Tasting the Dish; and Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 72, 110.
158. See, especially, Wegner, Chattel or Person?
159. Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 113–22; see also Hauptman, “Review of Chattel or
Person?” 14.
160. Douglas, Purity and Danger, 125.
161. I am fully aware of dangers involved in uncritically applying contemporary
anthropological research on Mediterranean cultures to the ancient Mediter-
ranean. See, for example, Herzfeld, “Honour and Shame”; and Chance, “The
Anthropology of Honor and Shame.” Selective and judicial use of this mate-
rial can, however, illuminate certain aspects of ancient societies. Such is the
case here.
162. Dubisch, “Culture Enters Through the Kitchen,” 195; page numbers hereaf-
ter will appear parenthetically in text.
163. See note 161.
164. Wegner, Chattel or Person? passim. Numerous scholars have critiqued Wegn-
er for overdetermining the chattel/person dichotomy to fit a feminist model.
They point out that while husbands did control women’s sexual production,
women were not merely “chattel,” that is, possessions of their husbands to be
treated as objects. Rather, numerous rabbinic laws indicate the large degree
to which women’s subjectivity was taken into account and accommodated or
protected—albeit within a decidedly patriarchal system. See Hauptman, “Re-
view of Chattel” and Rereading the Rabbis, 74, n. 1; King, “Review of Chat-
tel”; Peskowitz, “Review of Chattel”; and Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 114–15, n. 6.
165. See previous note.
166. Boyarin, “On Stoves, Sex, and Slave-Girls,” 179.
167. Fonrobert, “When Women Walk.” Heschel, “Sind Juden Männer?” 95–96,
similarly links rabbinic elaboration on the laws of menstrual purity with this
period of religious and social change. She suggests (drawing on Freud) that
rabbinic “fetishizing” of menstrual blood reflects male associations between
e p i l o g u e 245
menstruation and the punishment of the mother for her lost phallus. In her
view, blood, loss, and punishment (Blut, Verlust und Strafe) would have taken
on “new connotations as metaphorical expressions for the political and social
upheaval following the destruction of the Second Temple.”
epilogue
1. Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition, xxiii.
2. Ibid., 66.
3. See Hallett, Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society, especially 136–39, 144.
4. Demosthenes [Neaer.] raises questions not only about the status of Stepha-
nus’s wife/concubine but also about his daughter, which is the more serious
charge. Isaeus 6.18–24, presents a case in which a woman’s citizen status is
challenged in order to prevent her sons from inheriting the paternal estate.
Apparently, her sons are from a second marriage or relationship, and the sons
of the first marriage seek to disqualify their rivals.
5. MacDonald, Early Christian Women and Pagan Opinion.
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index
Abaye, 145, 147–48, 155, 172 Against Heresies (Irenaeus), 131–32

Acanthis, 84–85, 212n71 Agamemnon (Aeschylus), 61
Accusations, 21, 34, 188n104, 197n31; Agōgē (rituals), 80, 84–86, 213n76
gender and, 25, 100, 107–8; illegiti- Agrippina, 101, 102–3, 209n31, 242n134
macy, 65–66; otherness and, 35, 109; Ailments, female, 59
Persian magi as aim of, 32; poison- Alexander, miracles/cult of, 109–10,
ing, 67, 76, 77, 209n31; politics and, 220n6, 222n21
100–105, 114–16; scholarly focus Alexandrian poetry, magic term as in-
on, 6–7, 10; sorcery, 115–16; witch- troduced through, 33
craft, 6; of women, 74–79, 139–40, Alterity, see Discourse of alterity;
178, 245n4 Otherness
Accusations of magic, 10, 21, 100, 114– Ambivalence: ideology/authority
16, 186n60; Apuleius of Madaura, and, 111; magic discourse, 143, 146,
32–33, 115–16; Christianity and, 149–50; miracle discourse, 113
107–8, 117–20, 126, 185n58; against Amulets, 155, 156
Jews, 120, 124–25, 220n1; modern Andromache (Euripides), 57–58
contexts of, 182n3; rabbinical Juda- Angels, fallen, 120–21
ism, 150, 166–68; reign of Tiberius, Animals, rabbis creating, 147–48
34, 99, 100, 101, 103, 114–15, 218n136 The Apocryphon of John, 128, 130
Acts of Andrew, 135, 137, 138 Apollodorus, 171
Acts of Paul and Thecla, 135 Apollonius of Tyana, 113–14, 116
Acts of the Apostles, 13, 124, 235n39; see Apologists, Christian, 120–21
also Luke Apuleius of Madaura, 15; magic ac-
Aeneid (Virgil), 32, 84 cusations towards, 32–33, 115–16;
Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 61 Metamorphoses, 72, 92–93, 110–11
Aesclepius, 109–10, 112 Aramaic terminology, Hebrew and,
Aeshines, 62 34–38, 145, 146–47
278 i n d e x
Archaeology, 15, 16, 63, 79, 137, 165; spiritual power and, 162–66;
233n10; amulet, 155; textual evi- see also Talmud
dence v., 19 Bacchae (Euripides), 47–49, 61
Archaic period, 63, 67; ritual as intro- Bacchanal scandal, 118, 224n44
duced during, 41–42; women in, Baer, Yitzhak, 161
63, 67 Baptism, 116
Archetype, night witch, 72 Barbarians, 40, 42, 47–48, 68, 180;
Aristophanes, on herbs, 29 religion and, 68; stereotypes of,
Aristotle, magic terminology and, 47–48, 68
28–29 Bartsch, Shadi, 91
Asceticism, 136, 137, 158–62; author- Bauman, Richard, 76
ity and, 161–62; celibacy, 151; food Bavli, 145, 150–51, 157, 165, 166–74, 176
and, 172; spiritual power accessed Ben Dosa, Hanina, 159–60
through, 158–62 Bethsaida, 123
Assyria, 41 Bible, see Acts of the Apostles; Hebrew
Astrologers, banning of, 34, 100 Bible
Athenian vase, 63 Binding spells, 19, 41, 42, 43, 195n13
Athens (classical), 39–69; citizenship Bokser, Baruch, 159
law of, 40, 64–69, 203n118; democ- Book of Daniel, 35, 36
racy of, 40, 52, 194n2; discourse Book of the Watchers, 36
of alterity in, 39–47, 68; Persia Boyarin, Daniel, 140, 174, 176
and, 39–40, 42; politics/power in, Brown, Peter, 161
62–69; women’s independence in, Burkert, Walter, 28, 29
63–64, 203n117, 205n135; see also Burrus, Virginia, 140
Greece
Augustan era, 33–34, 72–73, 76, 80–81, Canidia, 80–82
97–99 Caprification, 157
Augustus, 97–99, 216n117 Cassandra, 61, 202n104
Authority: ambivalence and, 111; as- Catiline conspiracy, 77–78
ceticism and, 161–62; gender and, Cato’s speech, 74–76, 208n28
25; ideology and, 111, 158; miracle Catullus, 32, 210n44
legitimizing, 113; New Testa- Celibacy, prophecy and, 151
ment and, 123–25; rabbinical, 158, Celsus, against Christianity/Jesus, 118,
161–76; secret teachings and, 164; 119, 185n58
sexuality and, 176; spiritual, 139, Charlatan, 27
176; text and, 165–66; women under Charm, Greek term for, 27
father’s, 73–74 Chastity, 93, 95, 97, 198n49; see also
Avesta texts, 164 Asceticism; Celibacy; Virginity
Chorazin, 123
Babylon, 109, 130, 141, 162–66, 173; Christianity (pre-Constantine), 107–
demonology in, 162; Jews and, 41; accusations of magic in, 107–8,
156, 157, 158; power/knowledge 117–20, 126, 185n58; apologists and,
in, 162–64; Sassanian, 162, 163–64, 120–21; competition and, 114,
i n d e x 279
116–30; discourse of alterity in, Cultural identity, Roman worship and,

107–41; Greco-Roman worship 20–21, 187n93
and, 120–22; infidelity and, 111; Ju- Culture, ix, 177; magic concept in
daism and, 122–25; magic discourse Western, 17–18, 37; Rabbinic,
in, 124–25, 140; Memar Marqah 155–66
and, 129; miracle discourse in, Curse tablet, 41–42, 155, 195n12, 206n4
112–14; otherness and, 108–9, 124, Curse, terminology for, 9–10
179; political intrigue and, 114–16; Cynthia, Propertius and, 86, 212n72
Protestant, 8; rationality and, 112,
131; rituals in, 19–20, 116–18; ste- Damah, Rabbi Elazar ben, 152
reotypes in, 108–12; superstition Danger, 17, 27, 46, 67, 131, 143, 153–54,
in, Pliny on, 117–18; third-century, 166–76, 234n19; context and, 143;
141; women in, 108, 130–41, 179 food/cooking and, 166–76, 234n19;
Chrysostom, John, 140 mythology and, 42, 46, 196n20; of
Chthonic offerings, 41, 86, 96 rationality, 49; sexuality, 61; women
Cicero, 32, 76–77 and, 61, 166–74
Circe, herbal by, 26, 29, 43, 50, 199n59, Daphnis, effeminacy of, 79–80
242n133 Davila, James, 166
Citizenship law, Athenian, 40, 64–69, Death, 28; buried/starved youth’s, 82;
203n118 Deianeira’s erotic, 56, 60
Clark, Stuart, 22–23 Deceased, rituals for, 28, 42, 196n19
Classical period, 63 Deceit, herbs/drugs linked with, 29
Clement of Alexandria, 9 Defense strategy, predatory nature v.,
Cleodemus, 109 71–72
Cleopatra, 104 Deianeira myth, 55–57, 58, 59, 60, 63,
Clytemnestra, 61, 190n129, 202n89, 67, 202n89
202n104, 202n145 Delia, mascula libido in, 85–87
Coercion, worship v., 12 Democracy, Athenian, 40, 52, 194n2
Competition: Christianity, 114, 116–30; Demonology, 82–83, 148–49, 162;
Judaism/Christianity, 122–25; reli- Greek gods and, 121; medicine/
gious, 111 healing and, 239n91; Zoroastrian-
Context, 3, 7–8, 14, 71, 143, 177; poi- ism, 162
soning and, 26, 27 Demosthenes, 44, 62, 68, 245n4
Control: over women, resistance to, Derveni papyrus, 28
168–69; self, 51, 55 Deuteronomy, 34, 35, 150, 162
Cooking, see Food/cooking Dickie, Matthew, 33, 83
Cooper, Kate, 25 Dido, Virgil’s, 32, 84
Corinth: cult of the dead children, 50; Dionysos myth, 47–49, 198n46, 198n47
epic tradition of, 49 Discourse, magic as, 15–18
Counterspell, terminology and, 146 Discourse of alterity, 37, 39–47, 147;
Cult: of Alexander, 109–10, 220n6, Christianity, 107–41; Greek/Athe-
222n21; of the dead children, 50; of nian, 39–47, 68; rabbinic, 147; see
Yahweh, 34 also Barbarians
280 i n d e x
Discourse of miracles, 112–14, 225n61; Evidence: archaeological, 15, 16, 19,

in defense of Jesus, 119 63, 79, 137, 155, 233n10; magic prac-
Discourse of wicked women, 73–79; tice, 14–15; textual, 19
Cato’s speech and, 74–76; sexual Evil deed, terminology and, 31
license and, 75 Execration (term), 9–10
Discursive strategies, power and, 16
Divination (term), 9–10 Fallen angels, 120–21
Divine, coercion/supplication of, 12 False prophets, 36
Domesticity, 99 Faraone, Christopher, 79
Donkey: Lucius and, 91–92; rabbinic Father-daughter relationship, Rome
story of spell/counterspell, 169–70 and, 73–74
Dosa, Hanina ben, 159–60 Fear, of women, 67
Douglas, Mary, 173 Female ailments, Greek medicine and,
Dream interpretation, Joseph’s, 35 59
Drugs, see Herbs/drugs Feminization, 46, 62
Drusus, Libo, 100 Firmilian, 139–40
Dubisch, Jill, 174–75 First Apology (Justin), 120
Fonrobert, Charlotte, 168, 176
Eclogue (Virgil), 79–80, 185n56 Food/cooking: danger and, 166–76,
Edwards, Catherine, 72, 78 234n19; rabbinic Judaism and, 169–
Effeminacy, 25, 79–80; otherness and, 76; religion and, 171–74, 244n154;
40, 44, 47–48, 49, 63 sex metaphor in, 174–76; women
Egyptian prophets, accusations to- and, 169–76
wards, 110 Foreignness, see Otherness
Egyptian temple rituals, 13 Foucault, Michel, 15; discourse theory
Emic terminology, 10 of, 16–17, 18
Emotions, 62 Fraade, Steven, 161
Epaōidē/epaoidé (Greek), 26, 27, 30, Francis, James, 160–61
42, 43, 45, 47–48 Frankfurter, David, 13
Epidaurus inscriptions, 112 Frazer, James, 5, 182n16
Epode (Horace), 82, 87, 185n55
Erictho, 90–91 Garett, Susan, 8
Eros, 59 Geller, M. J., 146
Eros/passion, 61; magic/Greek trag- Gender, 24–25, 47–62, 79, 108,
edy and, 61; poisoning and, 59–60 189n113; accusations and, 25, 100,
Eumelos, Medea of, 49 107–8; authority and, 25; Greek
Eumenides, incantation and, 27 tragedy and, 47–62; imperial ideol-
Euripides: Andromache, 57–58; Bac- ogy and, 96–99; rabbinical texts
chae, 47–49, 61; Ion, 57; Medea, and, 154, 166; see also Misogyny;
49–54, 68, 187n89, 198n58–199n58, Women
202n94 Gender inversion, 53, 56, 57, 61, 79,
Europeans, rationality and, 4 211n52
Evans-Pritchard, E. E., 6 Genealogy, Foucalut theory of, 16–17
i n d e x 281
A General Theory of Magic (Mauss), Heinrichs, Albert, 87

5–6 Helena, Simon Magus and, 127–28,
Genesis, 35, 36, 120–21 227n87–228n87, 229n98
Germanicus, death of, 100–101 Hellenistic period, 28, 37, 72, 160, 161
Gnosticism, 126, 127–29, 134, 164, Heracles, 55–57, 58, 61, 63
227n87, 228n88, 228n95–229n95 Heraclitus, 45–46
Herbs/drugs, 26, 29–30, 46, 54, 57, 67,
Goēs (Greek), 26, 27, 28, 48, 62 68, 112; Circe ’s use of, 26, 29, 43,
Goētes (Greek), 28 50, 199n59, 242n133; deceit linked
Goodenough, E. R., 155 to, 29; early perceptions of, 29; po-
Gordon, Richard, 33 tions, 31, 46, 54, 82, 132, 170–71; see
Gospels, miracles of Jesus in, 112–14, also Medicine/healing; Poisoning
221n15, 225n61 Heresy, 129, 131–32, 140–41, 146–47,
Graf, Fritz, 49, 84 152–53; creation of, 122–25; magic
Greco-Roman worship, 86; Christiani- and, 129, 140–41, 146–47, 152–53;
ty discourse against, 120–22; Jewish rabbinic Judaism and, 146–47, 152–
themes in, 155–56; polytheism of, 53; Simon Magus, 125–30; women
120–22, 186n67; variety in, 20–21, and, 130
187n93 Herodotus, 29
Greece: Archaic period overview of, Hesiod, Medea rendered by, 49
41–42, 59, 63; discourse of alterity Hippocratic medicine/healing, 44–45
in fifth century, 39–47, 68; magic Hippolytus, Refutations, 134–35
terminology in ancient, 12, 26–30, Hisda, Rav, 146, 158
32; masculinity in, 55–56, 63; medi- History: ideology v., 64, 139; Latin text
cine in, 44–45, 59; New Comedy read as, 83; magic definition, 4–12;
of, 65; Rome v., stereotyping of, 22; terminology and, 26–38
sorceress of, 49–54, 215n99; see also Hoffman, C. A., 9, 12
Athens Holy man, 160, 161, 164, 239n81
Greek tragedy, 46–62; danger in, 46; Holy men; see Spiritual power; specific
eros, 61; gender and, 47–62; mas- people
culine identity in, 55–56; otherness Homer, Odyssey, 26, 27
in, 50, 54, 61; potions in, 46; see also Honi ha-meagel, 159
Myths/mythology Honor, 41; sexuality and, 62–63, 127,
Green, W. S., 159 178
Horace, 84, 97; Epode, 82, 87, 185n55;
Hall, Edith, 40, 61 Satire, 80
Hallett, Judith, 74 Hosea, 123
Hartummim (Hebrew), 35 Hostility, in women, 145–46
Hebrew Bible, 34, 35, 36, 37, 222n19; Huna, Rabbah bar Rav, 146, 158
see also New Testament Hydra’s venom, 61
Hebrew, terminology in, 34–38, 145,
146–47, 150, 232n7 Ideology, 22–23; ambivalence and, 111;
Hecate, 42, 89, 109, 196n20 asceticism, 136, 137; authority and,
282 i n d e x
Ideology (continued ) Jesus, 119, 123; contemporary miracle

158; chastity, 93, 95, 97, 198n49; worker of, 113–14; gospel accounts/
history v., 64, 139; imperial, 96–99; miracles of, 112–14, 221n15, 225n61;
sexual misconduct and, 133; virgin- as magician, 118, 119–20, 185n58;
ity, 136, 138, 140, 231n123 rabbinical law and, 152; rabbis
Iliad, 26; lamentation in, 27 against, 152
Ilish, Rav, Rav Nahman’s daughters Jews, 155–56; accusations of magic
and, 166–68 against, 120, 124–25, 220n1; Babylo-
Illegitimacy, 152–53, 176, 177; accusa- nian, 156, 157, 158; Palestinian, 156,
tions of, 65–66; ritual, 118 157–62; rabbinical authority over
Imperialism, 44, 102; gender and, practicing, 176; sorceresses, 154;
96–99 women, 153–54
Incantation, 48; Greek term for, 27; John, Gospel of, 123–24, 223n24
Hebrew/Aramaic term for, 146–47; Joseph, dream interpretation of, 35
Latin term for, 32 Josianic reforms, 34
Incense, 154 Judaism: competition against Christi-
Independence: Athenian women, anity of, 122–25; food and, 171–74;
63–64, 203n117, 205n135; Roman in Greco-Roman worship, 155–56;
women, 73–75, 84, 95, 98 see also Rabbinic Judaism
Infidelity, 57, 64, 65–66, 75, 99; Chris- Julia, wife of Septimius, 113
tianity and, 111; poisoning and, 77, Justin, 127, 128; First Apology, 120;
87, 209n32; rabbinic Judaism and, Second Apology, 120–21
166–68; Roman laws against, 98, Juvenal, Satire, 95–96, 97
99–100, 216n117
Inscriptions, Epidaurus, 112 Kathartai (Greek), 44
Intertextuality, 29–30 Kee, Howard Clark, 114, 221n15
Ion (Euripides), 57 Keshafim (Hebrew), 36, 150
Ionia, sixth-century, 29 Kings (Hebrew Bible), 36
Irenaeus, 128, 134; Against Heresies, Knowledge, Magi power and, 162–64
131–32 Kraemer, David, 172, 173
Isaiah, 123
Isis, 91, 116 Lacey, W. K., 65
Italy, astrologers/magicians as banned Lamentation, 27
in, 34, 100 Latin: magic in, 12; terminology, 12,
30–34, 72, 85, 115, 119; witch in,
Janowitz, Naomi, 15, 155 33, 85
Jason, Medea and, 27, 49–54, 57, 58, Latin text, magic discourse in, 79–96
60, 88–90, 190n130, 201n74, 210n46 Laws: Athenian, 64–69; citizenship,
Jealousy, sexual, 47, 52, 58, 61 40, 64–69, 203n18; infidelity, 98,
Jeffers, Ann, 35 99–100, 216n117; magic, 30–31, 150;
Jeremiah, 123 against magic, 31; marriage, 64–69,
Jerome, Life of St. Hilarion, 137 74, 97, 207n13; oral, 144; rabbinical,
Jerusalem Talmud, 144, 157–58, 170 144, 150, 152, 158, 172; reign of
i n d e x 283
Tiberius, 34, 114–15, 218n136; sexu- counterspell, 146; definition history

ality, 98, 99–100, 216n117; Twelve of, 4–12; emic terminology and, 10;
Tables/Roman, 30–31, 74, 192n154; Greek, 12, 26–30, 32; historical def-
see also Accusations; Accusations initions of, 4–12; Latin, 12, 30–34;
of magic see also Terminology
Lex Julia de adulteriis, 98, 99–100 Magic discourse, 15–18; ambivalence in,
Lex Oppia, 78 143, 146, 149–50; Athenian, 62–69;
Life of St. Hilarion (Jerome), 137 Christianity, 124–25, 140; Latin texts
Lightstone, Jack, 165 and, 79–96; politics and, 62–69, 99–
Literal interpretation, 83 105, 114–16; Roman, 99–105; Tal-
Literary representation, 18–19 mud, 143, 145–54; see also Discourse
Livy, 97, 118; Cato’s speech of, 74–76, of alterity; Discourse of miracles;
208n28; Pliny and, 224n42 Discourse of wicked women
Lloyd, G. E., 45 Magicians, banning of, 34, 100; see also
Love charms: Christian literature and, Magi
109; Greek tragedy and, 46 Magoi, 28–29, 44, 111
Lucan, Pharsalia, 90–91 Magos, 6–7, 62, 108; Persian root of
Lucian of Samosata, 109–10; Philop- term, 28–29
seudes (The Lover of Lies), 108–9 Magos (Greek), 26
Lucius, donkey and, 91–92 Magus (Latin), Persian/Greek deriva-
Luke: Acts, 124–26, 127, 136, 184n38, tion/use of, 32, 115
226n68; Gospel of, 8, 126, 226n68 Male magician, 111
Lydia, barbarian symbol, 47 Male promiscuity, 57
Lyotard, Jean-François, 178 Maleficium (Latin), 32, 33, 119
Malinowski, Bronislaw, 6
Mageia (Greek), 12, 40; religion and, Mandean church, 163
40 Manslayer, Deianeira as, 55
Magi: knowledge/power of, 162–64; Marital property, 74
Persian, accusations of, 32, 115; as Mark, Gospel of, 21, 113, 122–23
philosophers, 28–29; as unholy, 29 Marriage law, 74; Athenian, 64–69;
Magia (Latin), 12, 33 Roman, 97, 207n13
Magic: amulets and, 155, 156; charm Marshall, Anthony, 78, 104
term in, 27; death and, 28; herbs/ Mascula libido, 72, 79–96; Lucan’s
drugs and, 26, 29–30, 46, 54, 57, Erictho and, 90–91; Propertius’s
67, 68, 112; incantation, 27, 32, 48, Acanthis and, 84–85, 212n71; Sem-
146–47; laws against, 30–31, 150; pronia, poisoning accusation of, 78,
love charms, 46, 109; potions, 31, 209n31; Tibullus’s Delia and, 85–87;
46, 54, 82, 132, 170–71; science v., Virgil’s Eclogue and, 79–80, 185n56
156; Western culture concept of, Masculinity: Greek, 55–56, 63; sorcer-
17–18, 37; see also Accusations of ess, 79; witches and, 72
magic; Miracle(s); Spells Mathew, Gospel of, 15, 111, 113, 123
Magic (term), 2, 12–15; Alexandrian Mauss, Marcel, A General Theory of
poetry theory, 33; avoidance of, 9; Magic, 5–6
284 i n d e x
Medea: Hesiod/Eumelos on, 49; Jason Mysticism: rabbinical texts on, 156,
and, 27, 49–54, 57, 58, 60, 88–90, 237n57, 237n61; See also Gnosticism
190n130, 201n74, 210n46; Ovid’s Myths/mythology, 69, 82, 84, 121;
depiction of, 84, 87–88; Seneca’s Cassandra, 61, 202n104; Circe, 26,
depiction of, 88–90; Tibullus use 29, 43, 50, 199n59, 242n133; Cly-
of, 85–86 temnestra, 61, 190n129, 202n89,
Medea (Euripides), 49–54, 68, 187n89, 202n104, 202n145; Deianeira, 55–57,
198n58–199n58, 202n94 58, 59, 60, 63, 67, 202n89; Dido,
Medicine/healing, 156, 193n176, 32, 84; Dionysos, 47–49, 198n46,
236n54; archaic/ancient Greek, 198n47; Heracles, 55–57, 58, 61, 63;
44–45, 59; demons and, 239n91; fe- Hydra, 61; Medea, 84, 86, 87–90;
male ailments and, 59; Hippocratic, Medea (Euripides), 49–54, 68,
44–45; see also Herbs/drugs 187n89; murder of Pelias, 87; Pen-
Mekhashef (Hebrew), 34, 35 theus, 47, 48; Pindar versions of, 17,
Memar Marqah, 129 50, 88, 200n72; Sophia, 128
Menstruation, rabbinic law and, 164,
168, 241n120 Nag Hammadi, The Apocryphon of
Mesopotamia, 143–76; demons and, John, 128, 130
162, 239n91; rituals of, 146 Nahman, Rav, 241n118; See also Rav
Metamorphoses (Apuleius of Madaura), Nahman’s daughters
72, 92–93, 110–11 Naturalis historia (Pliny), 31, 193n176
Metamorphoses (Ovid), 72, 87 Naveh, Joseph, 156
Metelli, Clodia, 76–77, 209n31 Neaera, 68
Milk, 86, 213n76 Nero, 115
Miracle(s), 7–8, 13, 222n19; Alex- Neusner, Jacob, 159
ander’s, 109–10, 220n6, 222n21; New Comedy, Greek, 65
discourse, 112–14, 119; Epidaurus New Testament, religious competition
inscriptions on, 112; Jesus and, in, 122–25
112–14, 119, 221n15; spiritual power Night witch archetype, 72
as sign of, 113 Nock, 6–7
Miracle workers, 109–12, 159
Mishnah, 144, 158, 172 Odyssey (Homer), 26, 27
Misogyny, 154, 166 Old Testament; see Hebrew Bible
Modern day: accusations of magic, On the Sacred Disease, 42, 44, 109
182n3; otherness, 180 Oral law, Talmud and, 144
Moral legislation, Rome ’s, 97–99; see Origen, 21, 118–19
also Rabbinic law Ortner, Sherry, 67, 178
Mount Ida, 28 Otherness, 150–54; accusations and, 35,
Mourning, 28 109; Christian literature and, 108–9,
Murder of Pelias, 87 124, 179; effeminacy and, 40, 44,
Mystery religions: philosophy v., 29; 47–48, 49, 63; Greek tragedy and,
secrecy rhetoric and, 119, 164; ste- 50, 54, 61; as Hellenistic, 37; mod-
reotype and, 48, 109; see also Rituals ern, 180; rabbinical Judaism and,
i n d e x 285
124, 150–54, 157, 166; Roman, 88, Poisoning, 12, 43, 46, 54, 61, 87,
140; see also Barbarians; Discourse 192n147; accusations of, 67, 76, 77,
of alterity 78, 209n31; context and, 26, 27;
Ovid: Medea depicted by, 84, 87–88; eros/passion and, 59–60; infidelity
Metamorphoses, 72, 87 and, 77, 87, 209n32; Medea and, 49,
54, 60; semantic constellation for,
Palestine, 173; Hellenistic influence 43; terminology and, 26, 27, 29, 30
on, 160, 161; Jewish attitudes and, Politics, 40; accusations and, 100–105,
156, 157–62; spiritual power and, 114–16; Athenian power and, 62–69;
158–62, 165 Christianity and, 114–16; magic dis-
Papyri graecae magicae (PGM), 13–14, course and, 62–69, 99–105, 114–16;
81 Roman, 99–105; women and, 224n44
Passion; see Eros/passion Polytheism, 120–22, 186n67
Pausanias, 50 Postexilic period, 36
Pentheus, 47, 48 Potions: Christianity and, 132; food
Pericles, 65, 67–68, 203n118 and, 170–71; Greek tragedy use of,
Period(s): Archaic, 41–42, 63, 67; 46, 54; Latin terminology for, 31;
classical, 63; Foucault theory, 16; Roman literature and, 82
Greece/ Archaic, 41–42, 59, 63; Power: Athenian politics and, 62–69;
Hellenistic, 28, 37, 72, 160, 161; discursive strategies and, 16; fa-
postexilic, 36; Second Temple, 121 thers’, 73–74; knowledge and, 162–
Persian magi, accusations against, 32, 64; rabbinic Judaism and, 146–50;
115 see also Spiritual power
Persian terminology, 28–29; magus, Predators: witches as, 71–72, 91–92;
32, 115 women as, 79–96; see also Hostility
Persian wars, 39–40, 42 Priapus statue, 80–81
Peter (Biblical), 13 Prieur, Jean-Marc, 137
PGM; see Papyri graecae magicae Primitive Culture (Taylor), 4
Pharmakon/pharmakeia (Greek), 26, Prince of the Torah, 166
29–30, 46, 54, 57, 67, 68, 112 Propertius, Sextus, 84–85, 212n72
Pharsalia (Lucan), 90–91 Property, marital, 74
Philip (Biblical), 13 Prophets/prophecy, 35–36, 110; celi-
Phillips, C. R., 8 bacy and, 151
Philopseudes (Lucian of Samosata), Prostitute witch, 83
108–9 Protection, spiritual power as, 151
Philosophers, magi as, 28–29 Protestant Christianity, 8
Philostratus, 113 Punic War, 74
Phorinis text, 28, 191n133 Purity, 196n24; spiritual power and, 164
Pindar, 17, 50, 88, 200n72
Plato, 30, 45–46, 187n90 Qosem (Hebrew), 34
Pliny, 117–18; Livy and, 224n42; Natu-
ralis historia, 31, 193n176 Rabbinic Judaism, 34, 143–76; accusa-
Pliny the Elder, 156, 187n90 tions of magic in, 150, 166–68; anti-
286 i n d e x
Rabbinic Judaism (continued ) Christian, 19–20, 116–18; chthonic

magic attitude in, 150–54; Bavli text offerings, 41, 86, 96; for deceased,
in, 145, 150–51, 157, 165, 166–74, 28, 42, 196n19; Egyptian, 13; He-
176; cultural influence in, 155–66; brew Bible and, 36; Mesopotamian,
discourse of alterity in, 147; food/ 146; sacrifice, 41–42; terminology
cooking in, 169–76; gender and, and, 8–9, 13–14, 28, 29, 30, 32,
154, 166; history of, 172; misogyny 34–35, 36, 37; see also Religion;
in, 154, 166; otherness in, 124, Worship
150–54, 157, 166; power in, 146–50; Rives, James, 31–32, 33
Sassanian empire in, 162, 163–64, Rome (early imperial), 20–21, 71–105,
165; Sefer ha-Razim mysticism/text 140, 192n154; accusations of magic
in, 156, 237n57, 237n61; social con- in, 114–16; Augustan era, 33–34,
text in, 155–66; spiritual power in, 72–73, 76, 80–81, 97–99; authority
158–66; women in, 164, 168, 169– over women, 73; chastity, 93, 95,
76, 234n22, 241n120; see also Acts of 97, 198n49; cultural identity vari-
the Apostles; Hebrew Bible ety/worship in, 20–21, 187n93; dis-
Rabbinic law, 150, 152; Mishnah text course of wicked women in, 73–79;
of, 144, 158, 172 father-daughter relationship in,
Rationality, 52; Athenian/Attic, 49; 73–74; infidelity/sexuality laws in,
Christian, 112, 131; danger of, 49; 98, 99–100, 216n117; Latin text and,
European, 4; sensuality v., 60 79–96; marital property in, 74; mar-
Rav Nahman’s daughters, 166–68, 169 riage law in, 74, 97, 207n13; Medea
Refutations (Hippolytus), 134–35 myth of, 84, 87–90; otherness in,
Reign of terror, 100, 114–15 88, 140; politics/magic discourse
Reign of Tiberius, accusations of of, 99–105; women independence
magic during, 34, 99, 100, 101, 103, in, 73–75, 84, 95, 98
114–15, 218n136 Rubenstein, Jeffrey, 165
Religion, 5–6, 14, 115, 157–58, 182n16;
barbarian, 68; competition in, 111, Sacrifice, 41–42
114, 116–30; food/cooking and, Saga (Latin), 33, 72
171–74, 244n154; magic and, 5–6, Sagana, 80–82
14, 115, 157–58, 182n16; Persian/ Sallust, 77–78
mageia, 40; see also Christianity; Sar Torah, 14
Rituals; Worship Sassanian Empire, 162, 163–64, 165
Remus, Harold, 7–8 Satire (Horace), 80
Representation, stereotype v., 23–24 Satire (Juvenal), 95–96, 97
Resistance, women and, 168–69 Satlow, Michael, 174
Revenge, 47, 49–54, 61, 87–88, 167, Schäfer, Peter, 36
205n142 Schmidt, Brian, 34
Richlin, Amy, 95, 96 Scholarship: accusations focus of, 6–7,
Ritner, Robert, 13 10; categories of, x, 181n1–181n4
Rituals: agōgē/Roman, 80, 84–86, Science, 162; magic v., 156
213n76; Archaic period and, 41–42; Second Apology (Justin), 120–21
Babylonian, 164; baptism, 116; Second Maccabees, 155
i n d e x 287
Second Temple period, 121 Sorceress: Greek, 49–54, 215n99;

Secrecy, 119, 164 Jewish, 154; masculinized, 79; ste-
Sefer ha-Razim, 156, 237n57, 237n61 reotypes of, 22; Tibullus, 85–86;
Segal, Alan, 7 Virgil’s, 79–80
Self-control (sōphrosunē), 47, 49, 51, Sorcery, 108; accusations of, 115–16;
160, 161, 238n76 terminology and, 191n133
Semantic constellation, 2; Athenian, Spells: binding, 19, 41, 42, 43, 195n13;
40–41; binding spells, 43; herbs/de- counter spells and, 169–70; curse
ceit link example of, 29; negative tablets and, 41–42, 155, 195n12,
associations in, 29–30; otherness 206n4; against demons, 148–49;
in, 37, 50, 54, 61, 69, 88, 108–9, 124, food impregnated with, 169–70;
140, 150–54, 157, 166; Persian wars milk use in, 86, 213n76
and, 40; poison in, 43; term inter- Spiritual power: asceticism giving ac-
mingling, 35 cess to, 158–62; authority and, 139,
Sempronia, poisoning/masculinity 176; Babylonian, 162–66; magi,
and, 78, 209n31 162–64; miracles v., 113; Palestinian
Seneca, Medea depicted by, 88–90 Jews and, 158–62, 165; as protec-
Sensuality: rationality v., 60; women tion, 151; purity and, 164; rabbinic
and, 59–60 Judaism and, 158–66; virginity at-
Sexual jealousy: male promiscuity and, testing to, 138
57; women and, 52, 58, 61 Stereotypes: barbarian, 47–48, 68;
Sexuality: danger and, 61; fallen angels Christian, 108–12; definition of,
and, 120–21; food as metaphor for, 23; Greek v. Roman, 22; ideal wife,
174–76; honor and, 62–63, 127, 178; 58; Jew as magician, 120, 124–25;
misconduct in, 75, 132–36; Roman male magician, 111; miracle worker,
laws governing, 98, 99–100, 216n117 109–12; predatory witch, 91–92;
Shaked, Shaul, 156 representations v., 23–24; sorcer-
Shamanism, 10, 28 ess, 22; witch, ix, 84–86, 90, 93, 139,
Shetah, Shimon ben, 170 140, 178
Simon Magus, 125–30, 134, 227n82, Styers, Randall, 4
228n88, 228n95–229n95; Hel- Suetonius, 114–15
ena and, 127–28, 227n87–228n87, Superstition, Christianity as, 117–18
229n98 Supplication, 12
Smith, Jonathan Z., 10–11 Swartz, Michael, 166
Social conflict, 8
Social construct, 12 Tacitus, 101–2, 114–15
Social context, 6; Athenian, 62–69; Talmud, 141, 143, 144–45, 163–64;
discourse of wicked women, 73–79; Jerusalem, 144, 157–58, 170; magic
rabbinical, 155–66; Roman Empire, discourse in, 143, 145–54; purity
72–79, 93–94; worship in, 34 rituals in, 164
Sophia myth, 128 Tavenner, Eugene, 83
Sophocles, Trachiniae, 54–61, 68 Taylor, Edward, Primitive Culture, 4
Sōphrosunē, 47, 49, 51, 160, 161, Terminology: charlatan, 27; Christian
200n69, 238n76 rituals and, 19–20; divination, 9–10;
288 i n d e x
Terminology (continued ) Victims, women as, 108, 130–41

emic, 10; evil deed, 31; execration, Virgil: Aenid, 32, 84; Eclogue, 79–80,
9–10; Greek, 12, 26–30, 32; He- 185n56
brew/Aramaic, 34–38, 145, 146–47; Virginity, 136, 138, 140, 231n123; see
herbs/drugs, 26, 29–30; history also Asceticism; Chastity
and, 26–38; intermingling of, 35;
Latin, 12, 30–34, 72, 85, 115, 119; Wealth, women inheriting/managing,
Persian, 28–29, 32, 115; poisoning 74, 208n23
and, 26, 27, 29, 30; potions/Latin, Weapon, 62
31; rituals and, 13–14, 28, 29, 30, Wegner, Judith, 175–76
32, 34–35, 36, 37; sorcery, 191n133; West, Martin, 50
spell/counterspell, 146; see also Se- Western culture, magic concept in,
mantic constellation 17–18, 37
Tertullian, 121 Wicked women, discourse of, 73–79
Text/textuality, 188n104; archaeologi- Witch(es): Acanthis, 84–85, 212n71;
cal evidence v., 19; authority and, archetype, 72; Canidia/Sagana,
Text/textuality (continued) 80–82; cosmic, 89; Erictho/The-
165–66; Avesta, 164; intertextuality, salian, 90–91; Horace ’s depiction
29–30; Latin, 79–96; literal inter- of, 80, 82, 84; Latin terms for, 33,
pretation of, 83; Memar Marqah, 85; mascula libido and, 72, 79–96,
129; Mishnah, 144, 158, 172; Nag 185n56, 209n31; predatory, 71–72,
Hammadi, 128, 130; Phorinis, 28, 91–92; Propertius, 84–85; prosti-
191n133; rabbinical mystical, 156, tute, 83; Rav Nahman’s daughters
237n57, 237n61; see also specific texts as, 168; Sagana, 80–82; stereotype,
Thessalian witch, 90–91 ix, 84–86, 90, 93, 139, 140, 178
Tiberius, accusations of magic in reign Witch hunts, 105
of, 34, 99, 100, 101, 103, 114–15, Witchcraft: definitions of, 6, 183n22;
218n136 social motivation/accusation of, 6
Tibullus, 84, 85–87, 213n77 Women, 46, 62; accusation of, 74–79,
Tisiphone, 80 139–40, 178, 245n4; ailments of,
Torah, 163, 164, 165–66, 171, 172; Sar, 59; Archaic, 63, 67; chastity and,
14 93, 95, 97, 198n49; Christianity
Tosefta, 144 and, 108, 130–41, 179; danger and,
Trachiniae (Sophocles), 54–61, 68 61, 166–74; demonized, 82–83;
Tractate Pesahim, 148 discourse of wicked, 73–79; fear
Trajan, Pliny’s letter to, 117–18 of, 67; food/cooking and, 169–76;
Travenner, Eugene, 83 heresy as involving, 130; hostile,
Twelve Tables, 30–31, 74, 192n154 145–46; independence of, 63–64,
73–75, 84, 95, 98, 203n117, 205n135;
Urbach, Ephraim, 161 Jewish, 153–54; magic as emotional
weapon of, 62; as magic victims,
Veneficus (Latin), 32 108, 130–41; mascula libido and,
Venenum (Latin), 31 79–96; menstruation and, 164, 168,
Versnel, H. S., 9, 12 241n120; misogyny, 154, 166; poli-
i n d e x 289
tics and, 224n44; predatory, 79–96; Empire and, 20–21, 187n93

rabbinic Judaism and, 164, 168,
169–76, 234n22, 241n120; resistance Yahweh cult, 34
of, control and, 168–69; sensual- Yair, Rabbi Pinhas ben, 158, 164
ity and, 59–60; sexual jealousy of, Yalta, 168–69, 174
52, 58, 61; virginity ideology and, Yamauchi, 129
136, 138, 140, 231n123; wealth/in- Yannai, donkey/spell story of, 169–70
heritance and, 74, 208n23; see also Yohai, Rabbi Shimon bar, 158
Gender Yosi, Rabbi, 154, 158
Worship: coercion v., 12; Greco-
Roman, 86, 120–22, 155–56; social Zoroaster/Zoroastrians, 115, 164; de-
context of, 34; variety of, Roman monology and, 162
Gender, Theory, and Religion
Amy Hollywood, editor
The Gender, Theory, and Religion series provides a forum for interdisciplinary schol-
arship at the intersection of the study of gender, sexuality, and religion.
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Elizabeth A. Castelli
When Heroes Love: The Ambiguity of Eros in the Stories of Gilgamesh and David
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Abandoned to Lust: Sexual Slander and Ancient Christianity
Jennifer Wright Knust

Naming The Witch

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naming the witch

gender, theory, + religion

columbia university press

New York Chichester, West Sussex

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Casebound editions of Columbia University Press books are

Printed in the United States of America

designed by vin dang

one Magic, Discourse, and Ideology 1

N aming the Witch explores the social background of and motivations

cient cultures and explores the relationship between these stereotypes of

piety in order to harm or gain control over someone else). Stereotypes do

W hile it is customary to thank one ’s Ph.D. supervisor and committee,

immeasurably from their criticisms, questions, and suggestions as well as

Naming the Witch received funding as a doctoral dissertation from the

A ll translations of primary sources are my own except where noted oth-

aar American Academy of Religion

pg J.-P. Migne, ed. Patrologia cursus completus [Series Graeca]

Round about the cauldron go;

I n their nocturnal howling, conjuring chaos around a cauldron, the three

in some contexts, demonstrating authority and superiority. Certain rab-

ble magic and therefore need to be elevated through rationalist, scientific

Man, as yet in a low intellectual condition, having come to associate in thought

may in another context be ascribed to divine power, i.e., regarded as “mira-

and prejudices as magic. Furthermore, he proposes that in their specificity

but rather encouraging scholars who study these documents to do so on

How are we to understand these rituals? Naomi Janowitz argues that no

1. Magic is conceived differently in different ancient Mediterranean cultures:

important material that I have overlooked. Certain material artifacts, how-

to be such by non-Christian observers.91 Thus Christian claims that they

riological. Depending on context or situation, people identified themselves

the contrary, magic discourse traveled; it crossed linguistic, geographic,

tails of representations.) 2. Local variation stymies any effort at a universal

universal, and “true.” This distinction clarifies how patterns of representa-

tions. By ordering human relationships and defining social roles, gender

according to Aristotle ’s account, a lesser known philosopher and mythog-

of each term, gradually conjuring a more amorphous, malleable, and sin-

however, since the writers who quote it inevitably contribute an element of

charge demonstrates the persistent ambivalence of this term.163 On the one

O ur brief review of ancient terminology in the last chapter suggest-

Plato, for example, lists binding spells (katadesesi) among practices

tus, who is quoted as caustically dismissing “night-time roamers, magoi,

Athenian drama represents magic in this particular way, I will consider,

Euripides warns here of the danger involved in arrogantly dismissing

Magic and Revenge in the Medea

he claims, his family through an auspicious alliance. He contrasts this abil-

Magic and Mistake in the Trachiniae

ripides’ Medea.82 Heracles’ devoted wife, Deianeira, decides to employ

place—no one knows where—except that he is absent, striking me with sharp

my burdens. Now, from such as this, in my suffering I am discovered to be

Hermione states that by use of drugs (pharmakoisi) Andromache has made

of a murderous and hateful viper it devoured him” (765–771). The poi-

Athenian values. It is to a discussion of the way in which magic discourse

sented on an Athenian vase, which depicts a vanquished Persian soldier

tantamount to hubris since it violated the privileged inner sanctum of the

Magic and Marriage Laws

Athens’s ideology focused on nationalistic themes such as the autochtho-

Fear of women, specifically wives, practicing magic on unfaithful hus-

Athenians.149 For example, this law was abrogated on behalf of Pericles

C avorting in cemeteries, committing infanticide, transforming former

defensive in nature.2 In the Hellenistic period sorceresses continue to be

the Augustan period, heightening the demonizing power of this rhetoric.

immoderate nature (impotenti naturae, 34.2.13–14). It is for this reason they