Prognostication in the Medieval World
Volume 1
Prognostication
in the Medieval World
A Handbook
Volume 1
Edited by
Matthias Heiduk, Klaus Herbers
and Hans-Christian Lehner
In collaboration with
Avriel Bar-Levav, Charles Burnett,
Michael Grünbart and Petra G. Schmidl
ISBN 978-3-11-050120-9
e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-049977-3
e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-049847-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020940018
Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek
The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie;
detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de.
© 2021 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston
Typesetting: Dörlemann Satz, Lemförde
Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck
www.degruyter.com
Contents
Volume 1
Matthias Heiduk, Klaus Herbers and Hans-Christian Lehner
Introduction
1
Part I: Introductory Surveys
David Engels and Alex Nice
Divination in Antiquity
15
Elizabeth Boyle
Early Medieval Perspectives on Pre-Christian Traditions in the Celtic World
John McKinnell
Pagan Traditions of Prognostication in the Germanic Languages
67
Leszek P. Słupecki
Prognostication in Pagan Beliefs among Slavs in the Middle Ages
Matthias Heiduk
Prognostication in the Medieval Western Christian World
Michael Grünbart
Prognostication in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
Avriel Bar-Levav
Prognostication in Medieval Jewish Culture
109
153
175
Petra G. Schmidl
Medieval Traditions of Prognostication in the Islamic World
Ulrike Ludwig
Prognostication in Early Modern Times – Outlook
243
189
85
55
VI
Contents
Part II: Traditions and Practices of Prognostication
in the Middle Ages
Eschatology and Millenarism
Hannes Möhring
Traditions and Expectations in the Medieval Western Christian World
Wolfram Brandes
Traditions and Expectations in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
Natalie E. Latteri
Jewish Traditions and Expectations in the Medieval World
300
Delia Cortese
Traditions and Expectations in the Medieval Islamic World
314
269
284
Prophecy and Visions
Anke Holdenried
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Western Christian World
Michael T. Miller
Jewish Traditions and Practices in the Medieval World
342
Delia Cortese
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Islamic World
356
329
Dream Interpretation
Albert Schirrmeister
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Western Christian World
371
Steven M. Oberhelman
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
386
Annelies Kuyt
Jewish Traditions and Practices in the Medieval World
404
Contents
Delia Cortese
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Islamic World
413
Mantic Arts
Stefano Rapisarda
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Western Christian World
Michael Grünbart
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
Shraga Bar-On
Jewish Traditions and Practices in the Medieval World
453
Anne Regourd
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Islamic World
468
429
446
Astral Sciences
Charles Burnett
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Western Christian World
Anne-Laurence Caudano
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
Josefina Rodríguez-Arribas
Jewish Traditions and Practices in the Medieval World
516
Petra G. Schmidl
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Islamic World
532
485
502
Medical Prognostication
Luke Demaitre
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Western Christian World
551
Glen M. Cooper
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
567
VII
VIII
Contents
Dov Schwartz
Jewish Traditions and Practices in the Medieval World
585
Glen M. Cooper
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Islamic World
588
Calendrical Calculations
Philipp Nothaft
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Western Christian World
Jean Lempire
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
Ortal-Paz Saar
Jewish Traditions and Practices in the Medieval World
633
Daniel M. Varisco
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Islamic World
636
605
619
Weather Forecasting
Barbora Kocánová
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Western Christian World
651
Ioannis G. Telelis
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
665
Dov Schwartz
Jewish Traditions and Practices in the Medieval World
686
Charles Burnett
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval Islamic World
689
Quantifying Risks
James Franklin
Traditions and Practices in Medieval Western Christian World
697
IX
Contents
Volume 2
Part III: Repertoire of Written Sources and Artefacts
Jean Lempire
Calendars, Astronomical Tables, and Easter Tables in the Eastern Christian
World
713
Philipp Nothaft
Calendars, Astronomical Tables, and Easter Tables in the Western Christian
World
718
Bee Yun
Culture of Prognosis in the Medieval Western Christian Tradition of the
Mirror-of-Princes
723
Daniel Canaris
Debating Astrology in the Renaissance: Pierre d’Ailly (1351–1420),
Marsilio Ficino (1433–1499), Giovanni Pico della Mirandola (1463–1494)
Montse Díaz-Fajardo
Didactic Poems on Prognostication in the Islamic Middle Ages
Ortal-Paz Saar
Divination and Prognostication in the Cairo Genizah
730
742
746
Stefano Rapisarda
Doubts and Criticism on Astrology in Western Traditions from Antique to Early
Modern Literature
752
Maria Jennifer Falcone
Dream Books and Treatises on Dream Interpretation in the Medieval Western
Christian World
760
Alessandro Scafi
The End is Near: Medieval Mappae mundi and the Apocalypse
768
Matthias Heiduk
Games and Prognostication: The Examples of Libro de los Juegos and
De vetula
777
X
Contents
Moshe Idel
Gematria and Prognostication
785
Matthew Melvin-Koushki
Geomancy in the Medieval Islamic World
788
Glen M. Cooper and Petra G. Schmidl
Geomantic Artefacts in the Medieval Islamic World
794
Wolfram Brandes
Hagiography in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
Klaus Herbers
Hagiography in the Medieval Western Christian World
798
804
Michael Grünbart
The Importance of Thunder: Brontologia in the Medieval Eastern
Christian World
811
Margaret Gaida
Introductions to Astrology
814
Michael T. Miller
Journeys to the Other World: Medieval Jewish Traditions
Andreas Bihrer
Journeys to the Other World: Medieval Latin Traditions
Daniel J. Lasker
Karaite Objections to Prognostication
818
821
828
Marco Heiles
Late Medieval German Texts on Superstition
831
Wolfram Brandes
Legal Sources in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
Michael Grünbart
Lekanomanteia in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
841
846
Contents
Helena Avelar de Carvalho
Libro de las Suertes: an Example of Inter-Cultural Exchanges in Late-Medieval
Iberia
849
László Sándor Chardonnens
Mantic Alphabets in the Medieval Western Christian World
Cornelia Scherer
Mantic Practices in the Collectio Hispana
852
857
Josefina Rodríguez-Arribas
Mathematical Instruments in Astrology
861
Josefina Rodríguez-Arribas
Medical Plates in Astrological Medicine
874
Miriam Czock
Medieval Latin Liturgical Commentaries
884
Stefano Rapisarda
Novels and Poems in the Medieval Western Christian World
Avishai Bar-Asher
Ornithomancy in Medieval Jewish Literature
Alberto Spataro
Papal Prophecies in the Middle Ages
Irmi Dubrau
Physiognomy among Medieval Jews
888
895
899
908
Ron Margolin
Physiognomy and Chiromancy: From Prediction and Diagnosis to Healing
and Human Correction (Zohar 2, 70a–78a; Tiqqunei Zohar, Tiqqun 70)
915
Carolina Cupane
Prognostics in Medieval Byzantine Fictional Literature
925
Hans-Christian Lehner
Prognostication in Latin Commentaries on the Book of Revelation
932
XI
XII
Contents
Hans-Christian Lehner
Prognostication in Latin Historiography (ca. 400–1300 CE)
Ephraim Kanarfogel
Prognostication in Medieval Jewish Law and Legal Thought
937
944
Bernd-Christian Otto and Matthias Heiduk
Prognostication in Learned Magic of the Medieval Western Christian World
948
Daniela Wagner
Prophecy and Prognostication in Visual Art of the Medieval Western Christian
World
960
Regula Forster
The Pseudo-Aristotelian Sirr al-asrār/Secretum secretorum
Stefano Rapisarda
The Shoulder-Bone as a Mantic Object
965
971
Marco Heiles
Sortes
978
Daniela Wagner
Three Images of Celestial Phenomena in Sixteenth-Century German Illustrated
Broadsheets
984
Alexander Fidora
Tractates on the Division of the Sciences in the Medieval Western Christian
World
991
Michael Grünbart
Treatises for Predicting hora mortis in the Medieval Eastern Christian World
Margaret Gaida
Zījes
999
Index
1003
998
In gratiam et in memoriam
Many people have wholeheartedly supported this handbook project over the years.
They deserve great credit, and the editors would like to express their profound gratitude to all of them. The first word of thanks goes to the authors and the editors’ collaborators Avriel Bar-Levav, Charles Burnett, Michael Grünbart, and Petra Schmidl whose
contributions in written form as well as during discussions have added substance
and color to the texts of these volumes. The generous resources made available to the
ICRH by the Federal Ministry of Education and Research provided a secure financial
framework for the project, covering not only personnel costs, but also expenses for
workshops, work sessions and research stays. The ICRH administrative staff, above
all Petra Hahm in her capacity as coordinator, have kept the background of the project
running smoothly throughout the years. ICRH Fellows from various disciplines as
well as members of the advisory board have provided input into the discussion and
offered generous assistance. The editors would like to acknowledge their colleagues
from Sinology and Tibetan Studies at the ICRH, who have been valuable dialog partners and interested supporters of the project, particularly Yung-Yung Chang, Martin
Kroher, Michael Lackner, Zhao Lu, Michael Lüdke, Rolf Scheuermann, and Matthias
Schumann. The editors are deeply grateful to the de Gruyter publishing house, above
all to Laura Burlon, Robert Forke, Elisabeth Kempf, Jacob Klingner (†), and Kathleen
Prüfer for their patience and commitment and for publishing this handbook. A particular word of thanks goes to Eric Schlager for his assistance in preparing the typescript and to Sue Casson for her tireless English proofreading. The editors are deeply
indebted also to the libraries and museums for granting them the right to use pictures
of their manuscripts and objects.
While it is a great joy for the editors to express their heartfelt gratitude to so many
people, they also mourn the loss of a colleague who did not live to see the publication
of this handbook. In March 2020, our dear colleague and friend, Miriam Czock, passed
away. This handbook is dedicated to her memory.
Matthias Heiduk, Klaus Herbers, Hans-Christian Lehner
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-202
Matthias Heiduk, Klaus Herbers and Hans-Christian Lehner
Introduction
The Development of a Handbook-Project
The Tanakh, the Bible, and the Quran are rich in prognostics: From Late Antiquity
onward, the three major monotheistic religions, including their internal variations
(especially Sephardic and Ashkenazi Judaism, Latin and Byzantine Christianity, and
Shiite and Sunni Islam), established their own emphases and characteristics of prognostication. However, these did not arise independently of one another. Their development resulted, in fact, from the lively exchanges and relationships between them.
Whether directly or through reputation, the members of these religious cultures knew
each other, despised or feared each other and regarded their colleagues as ideological
opponents or allies. Knowing the teachings of another religion often led to an opposing position or to reflection on one’s own position.
Some areas of anticipating the future, like apocalyptic thinking or political prophecy, belong to traditional topics of research in the field of Medieval Studies, besides that
prognostication remained a marginal field until now. This handbook on prognostication
in the Middle Ages now brings the different facets of prognostication together comprehensively for the first time. It emerged from a series of workshops held between 2016 and
2018, each dealing with prognostic elements within the Christian, Jewish and Muslim
traditions.
This project was, in turn, prompted by in-depth research carried out at the International Consortium for Research in the Humanities (ICRH) “Fate, Freedom and
Prognostication. Strategies for Coping with the Future in East Asia and Europe” in
Erlangen, established in 2009 by the Federal Ministry of Education and Research.
The way in which people deal with issues of the future is analyzed across epochs and
cultures under the leadership of the core disciplines of Sinology and Medieval Studies.
As one of the largest interdisciplinary research projects on prognostication worldwide,
studies in multiple disciplines were funded. A large number of international visiting
fellows presented relevant work on the theme. At numerous events – workshops, conferences, seminars, and lecture series – individual aspects were deepened and their
results published. The spectrum of this research ranged from astronomy and astrology
to apocalypticism, from the history of science and philosophy to questions of divination and manticism in secular and canonical law, from hermetic tracts to personal
preventive medicine, prophecy or observing favorable and unfavorable days, to name
but a few areas. An annotated list of the most important relevant publications can be
found in the publication by ICRH deputy director Klaus Herbers (Herbers 2019).
After the mutual exchange between Sinology, Medieval Studies and other disciplines was consistently sought and implemented, it seemed obvious to bring the
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-201
2
Introduction
results together. This endeavor was carried out separately by the two leading disciplines, but approached in close exchange with one another, not least in order to
discuss and decide on the various theoretical, methodological and structural issues
within the dialogue.
The respective volume is now available for the field of Medieval Studies in its
religious and cultural diversity. In this introduction, the three editors wish to outline
the approach, reflect on the central terms “Prognostication, the Middle Ages, and the
Medieval World,” and explain the compilation, structure and usage of this volume.
The Varied Forms of Prognostication in Different
Societies – Uniform Western Traditions in
the Middle Ages?
In 2013, Léon Vandermeersch argued (Vandermeersch 2013), with regard to Chinese
history, that the Chinese pictographic scripture of the thirteenth century BCE was not
invented in order to state the facts, but rather to record “divination.”
This language, he wrote, had developed from manticology. By relying on the
examination of divinatory equations, the author concludes, among other things, that
there was something like a divinatory rationalism, characterized rather by a “raison
manticologique” than by a theological rationality (as in the European West).
Confronting this thesis with the Christian-Latin development, one aspect is striking: although, in the Christian world, the prophet was highly appreciated, fewer calculations were made to fathom the future. This more personal approach has been
common in Christianity since the prophet figure was introduced in the Old Testament.
Max Weber was so impressed by this concept that he even spoke of a “prophetic
charism” (Weber 1922, III, 4 § 10). He was referring to persons who possessed supernatural gifts that others lacked. The charism of the prophet was different from that of
the magician or priest. In the Latin West, however, prophecy gained importance above
all when, in contact with Byzantium, the ancient Sibylline traditions became relevant.
This resulted in the dichotomy between prophets and false prophets.
But what was typical for future visions? For a long time, it was claimed that utopian
ideas were barely projected in the Latin Middle Ages (Cf. Hartmann and Röcke 2013,
3–9). Nevertheless, there were also scattered phenomena, directing hope toward the
arrival of an earthly realm of peace. Especially the messianic chiliasm aimed at a real
reform “in this life.” The word “chiliasm” is derived from the Greek term χίλια chilia for
“thousand” (years), and can be traced back to the twentieth chapter of the Revelation
to John, which deals with a “millennial”/thousand year realm of peace, preceding the
end of all things. Probably the most impressive example of Christian chiliasm is provided by Joachim of Fiore. His ideas provoked a sustained impact. The philosopher
Matthias Heiduk, Klaus Herbers and Hans-Christian Lehner
3
Ernst Bloch (Bloch 1959, 590) called Joachim’s reflections the “most effective social
utopia of the Middle Ages” (“die folgenreichste Sozialutopie des Mittelalters”). Joachim
built an ideal by making use of biblical symbolism; his most essential source of know­
ledge remained the Bible. He illustrated this in his Book of Figures, the Liber Figurarum.
Conceptually, a third aspect should be emphasized: it is related to the structuring
of earthly time. The historical ideas dominant in the Latin Middle Ages followed the
doctrine of successive realms, which were finally, at the end of days and in certain
forms, raised to another level. Classically, Karl Löwith (Löwith 1953) spoke of “world
history and salvation” (“Weltgeschichte und Heilsgeschehen”) and thus of the “theological foundations in the philosophy of history” (“Die theologischen Voraussetzungen der Geschichtsphilosophie”). Apocalyptical thinking, ideas concerning the Antichrist, but even the calendrical determination of the Christian salvation and far more
belong, therefore, to the great prognostic designs of the Christian-Latin tradition.
Apart from these aspects – prophecy, utopia, the world ages and apocalypticism –,
there were also traditions, that recalled mythical knowledge, developed further practical methods such as the use of lots or resulted from various practices (partially clinging to tradition). These include the position of the stars and their interpretation in
astrology, the existing horoscopes, the reading of entrails in the ancient tradition,
games and numbers, and many other procedures regarding medical and meteorological prognoses – some of which reached the West as part of cultural exchange.
However, time and space need to be defined more precisely for the large-scale
overview intended in this handbook. To date, mainly the Christian-Latin traditions
have been the focus but an increasing amount of medieval research is underlining
the influence of the Arab-Muslim, Jewish, but also the Greek-Byzantine influences in
Medieval History.
Focusing solely on “Occidental” conceptions that only concern the Latin-Christian
area not only risk absolutization, but they also ignore the crucial exchange between
the different worlds (cf. above all Borgolte et al. 2011; Herbers and Jaspert 2007).
Many works on medieval prognostics have already pointed out that Antiquity had
a huge influence on medieval practices (e. g. Tuczay 2012). In the Greek-Byzantine
East, prophetic traditions strongly evolved. One has only to recall the prophecy of
Pseudo-Methodius, or the Sibylline writings which, in their later Latin versions as
well, reveal strong references to the Eastern Mediterranean. After all, both the Jewish
and Arab-Muslim traditions are of special significance, for they intermediated Ancient
and Eastern knowledge to the Latin Middle Ages (primarily in the Late Middle Ages).
In the present handbook, as stressed at the beginning, these different traditions are
taken into account.
In the face of the new discussions arising about the Middle Ages (recently Bauer
2018; cf. also the review article by Lehner 2020), it is indeed challenging to define
larger areas with uniform temporal boundaries for these varying geographical regions.
The Islamic World for instance included large parts of Spain in the Middle Ages, but in
very different ways and intensities during different periods.
4
Introduction
For this reason, the difficult decisions in this context were allocated to the
in­volved experts. We wish to express our sincere thanks for their manifold support! We
operated with linguistic and religious criteria equally, because these overlap to some
extent, too. The differentiation in the Western World is based not only on systematic
considerations, but also on the evidence that the “Large Areas,” the Western Roman
Empire, Eastern Roman Empire as well as the Islamic and Jewish worlds, emerged
from Antiquity (cf. for example Pitz 2001).
The structure we have proposed does not suggest homogeneous cultural areas
or periods; but without these “soft” geographical boundaries, this handbook would
hardly have been achieved. The respective deviations from a scheme familiar to many
at the same time reflect the state of research and the research opportunities within the
corresponding disciplines.
Prognostication, the Middle Ages, and the Medieval
World – the Evidently Non-self-evident
Why prognostication?
This handbook explores the views of the future in the Middle Ages. The emphasis is
placed on the term “prognostication,” whereas other publications highlight “prophecy” or “divination.” This requires an explanation. The future can be anticipated in
many different ways, as reflected in the vocabulary of the European languages and its
abundance of terms, with all of their semantic ambiguities and overlaps. Many of these
terms are loan words derived from ancient Greek and Latin (see also the etymologies
in ↗ Demaitre, Medical Prognostication Western Christian World). The future can be
foretold and predicted (predicere), foreseen (providere), forethought (prognoscere),
and known beforehand (precognoscere). Prognosis, fore-knowledge, has proven to
be the central term in this semantic field. When the processes required to gain that
fore-knowledge are taken into account, the semantic field widens to include related
terms such as prophecy (propheteia), the gift to communicate the knowledge revealed.
Inspired by divinity, the prophet or prophetess interprets this knowledge, which may
or may not be related to the future. Divination (divinatio) is the ability to recognize
and interpret the signs sent by divine powers. It encompasses the past, present and
future. In Hebrew and Arabic, the historical terms used for looking into the future are
more or less the equivalents of prophecy and divination (↗ Bar Levav, Prognostication
Jewish Culture; ↗ Schmidl, Medieval Traditions Islamic World). In European cultural
history, however, the term “divination,” originally neutral, acquired a different connotation. The Christian doctrine associated divination with magic, which consequently
became a negative term, smacking of superstition (↗ Heiduk, Prognostication Western
Matthias Heiduk, Klaus Herbers and Hans-Christian Lehner
5
Christian World). Unlike the other terms, prognostication is a neutral expression, that
clearly relates to the future and also points to both observation and calculation (see
also ↗ Grünbart, Prognostication Eastern Christian World). In this handbook, prognostication is, therefore, used as the standard term for anticipating the future, free of
all connotations. It includes the future-oriented forms of prophecy and divination, but
also purely mathematical-calculative methods, without any metaphysical or cosmological framework.
If prognostication indicates gaining foreknowledge, the handbook places the
focus on how people looked into the future, with which expectations and using
which methods. That implicates the fears, hopes, desires, and daily problems that
made them want to know the future. People wanted to know what would happen
to them and their loved ones – who was the best person to marry, what were the
chances of their children surviving, what could be done to stay healthy, when was
the best moment to make a journey, and which business transaction would yield a
profit. People also wanted to know what was in store for their community, country,
and the whole of humankind: good fortune or hardship – would the harvest be good,
the political situation stable? Was disaster looming, war, or even the end of time?
Which conclusions the knowledge-seekers might have drawn from the wide range
of possible answers in order to be prepared for what was to come, is, however, not
covered by the subject of prognostication. There are merely a few references in this
handbook to whether a prediction was, supposedly, right or wrong; for instance when
the narratives of medieval commentators are cited.
This handbook pays equal attention to all forms of prognostication: prophesies
inspired by a divinity, interpretations of dreams and visions, calculations of opportune or less opportune days or the influence of stars and constellations, the drawing
of oracle lots, the summoning of spirits, or the calculations of assurance risks and the
odds of gambling.
To this end, the expertise of many different research disciplines was collected and
summarized. Until now, the access to prognostication in each discipline is defined
by the specific characteristics of the historical evidence, so most publications on the
subject are limited either to a “history of prophecy,” a “history of astrology,” or, under
the heading of a “history of magic,” the history of divination, while this handbook
presents the sum of what is known about the history of all forms of prognostication
in the Middle Ages. The equal treatment of those different forms also breaks with
a still widespread, traditional point of view which ranks, openly or implicitly, the
subject on the basis of hierarchies of rationality, so the various methods of knowing
the future are evaluated according to their degree of progressiveness or backwardness,
dull superstition or enlightened spirit, scientific value or irrelevance, religious probity
or insubordination, sophistication or primitiveness, or, quite simply, their degree of
supposed truth or falsehood. Neither narratives of teleological progress nor accounts
of the history of development based on such dichotomies form part of this handbook.
6
Introduction
On the contrary – its content and conception may serve as an antidote to certain
current forms of prophecy, such as economic forecasts, trend research or future technologies. Still, in spite of the editors’ best efforts to present prognostication in all its
diversity as a form of cultural achievement, they must admit that, on occasion, the
reader may catch a glimpse of a certain rationality-based hierarchy in some of the
articles. This is due to the academic diversity and different scientific cultures of the
scholars involved in this project, which the editors did not wish to limit by imposing
a compulsory vocabulary.
The Concepts, Practices, and Contexts of Prognostication
The purpose of this handbook is to provide a comprehensive view of prognostication,
to shed light on its functions and structures in the social fabric, its significance for
customs and the social order, but also to examine the concepts of prognostication
prevalent in the medieval world and their practical application. Special attention is
paid to the circumstances under which prognostication was practiced in daily life,
the habitus of the people involved and their milieu. The particular emphasis which
this handbook places on the practical aspects of prognostication is the result of an
interdisciplinary dialogue at the IKGF. It became apparent that, more than any other
aspects, practical applications allow hands-on comparisons between different cultural environments over the course of history, whereas the comparability of concepts
quickly reaches its limits due to their enormous diversity. The focus on practices
leaves sufficient room for relatively unconventional approaches to prognostication
such as the study of images and artefacts. It also places the normative and classifying text genres in perspective. They represent the largest part of the historical legacy
available for research and have, therefore, long been its main focus of attention. The
conventional approach to research into prophecy and divination often builds upon the
academic classifications of the Middle Ages – such as Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologiae – and the definitions they provide. Often, however, these works are examined
out of context, without regard to the associated academic and theological discourse,
and interpreted as a universal mirror of the medieval worldview. Comparable misconceptions are usually based on the assumption that daily life faithfully reflected
the standards set in the legal texts. The genres of normative and classifying texts
undoubtedly provide important historical sources, due to the classification schemes
they offer and also their sheer abundance, but they usually describe things according to specific discourses or even from an outsider perspective. They rarely contain
information about the daily practices of prognostication or the practitioners’ perspective. Ideally, research should focus on the different settings in which prognostication
was practiced – from the ruler’s court, the places of learning and monasteries to the
households of ordinary people – to convey an overall impression of its role within
medieval life.
Matthias Heiduk, Klaus Herbers and Hans-Christian Lehner
7
The editors are keenly aware of how difficult it is to carry out this type of research.
The material available is scarce to begin with: the historical tradition offers little evidence in terms of a material legacy, and the written sources are usually limited to the
aforementioned standards and classifications. The research is also influenced by the
traditions and priorities of the various disciplines, so the degree of accessibility of the
historical material varies considerably. An expert in astrological treatise literature, for
instance, would not necessarily know what else the archives of a sovereign’s court or
a city state contained, and so might find it difficult to piece together instructions on
the practice of prognostication and the accounts of the services related to it to create
a coherent picture of daily astrological practice in the Middle Ages. The focus which
this handbook places on the practical application of prognostication is, nevertheless,
important, as it brings out surprising facets of what seemed familiar and points to the
gaps in our knowledge and the research.
Which Time Period is Covered by the Term “the Middle Ages”?
In academic and everyday language, the Middle Ages traditionally denote a period
in the history of Europe which spans the millennium between 500 and 1500 CE. This
handbook, too, follows this convention and aims to provide an overview across this
millennium. The editors understand – as mentioned above – that this timeframe is by
no means self-explanatory. In the millennium between 500 and 1500, there was no
such thing as a culturally coherent European continent, nor were there any common
characteristics which would have clearly delimitated this millennium from its preceding and ensuring periods. In terms of the history of development, Europe in the
seventh century is closely linked to Europe in the fourth century, and Europe in the
fourteenth century to Europe in the seventeenth century, whereas the seventh and
fourteenth centuries have very little in common. If, therefore, as in this handbook, the
term the “Middle Ages” is used in the conventional sense and applied to the whole
European continent over the millennium between 500 and 1500, this is done for the
purpose of spatial and chronological delimitation and is not to be understood as a
political statement, claiming that a homogeneous occidental Europe existed at the
time. By exploring the historical roots of “medieval” prognostication in Antiquity
and pointing at further developments in the Early Modern Age, characterized by both
changes and continuities, two detailed surveys in this handbook illustrate the flexibility of those period boundaries.
The editors chose to adopt a very broad approach to provide a better understanding of prognostication in “Europe in the Middle Ages.” As explained in the following
section, the history of prognostication in Europe as such emerges only in its transcultural context, i. e. only when the history of Christian-Western Europe, Christian-Eastern Europe and non-Christian Europe as well as the history of Europe’s neighbors, who
were part of the Byzantine Empire and the Islamic empires, are taken into account. It
8
Introduction
is important to emphasize once more that the term “Middle Ages” is used as a means
of chronological delimitation, and is not to be understood as a period in Jewish,
Islamic or Byzantine history. The use of both the term “Middle Ages” and the dates
indicated according to the “common era” notation system in this handbook have been
agreed upon by all participating research disciplines for the purpose of practicability.
The fact that this handbook presents different cultural regions with different calendar
systems and, consequently, different historical periodizations under the heading the
“medieval world,” does not mean that these differences are being ignored. The articles about calendars, for instance, address this subject.
What Exactly is the “Medieval World”?
In view of the above, it has already become quite clear that the medieval world, as the
focus of this handbook, is neither limited to a specific – however defined – cultural
region such as “Latin Europe,” nor to the geographical continent of Europe (which
was defined differently in Antiquity and the Middle Ages and ended at the banks of the
Don in the East). With regard to the subject of prognostication, the editors consider it
necessary to highlight the transcultural relations between the different regions. These
relations result from the shared cultural heritage of Antiquity, which was transmitted, transformed or received again in a variety of philosophical concepts, scientific
methods and the practice of prognostication in daily life in a Christian, Jewish or
Islamic environment. Part of this common heritage found its expression in the prophetical revelations of the monotheistic religions. The fact that the medieval world
did not end at the boundaries of the European continent is reflected in the history of
prognostication, which has always been characterized by knowledge transfer between
the Jewish, Greek-Byzantine, Latin-Western traditions and those of the Islamic world.
The West profited most from the flow of this knowledge transfer. In many areas –
including prognostication –, the foundation for many fields of knowledge was laid,
starting with mathematical observation and calculation methods to empirical nature
observation and cosmological interpretation methods, such as astrology. Knowledge
transfer in the Middle Ages was more than simply the rediscovery of ancient wisdom,
although this misconception is postulated repeatedly, even in academic publications.
The knowledge which the West received above all from translations from Arabic was
not a linguistically deformed version of the wealth of knowledge from the ancient
Hellenistic world, but an amalgamation, further processing and enrichment of different concepts and traditions, being a post-antique cultural achievement in its own
right. Catchphrases, such as statements about the presumably pure Aristotelianism of
scholastic philosophy or a medieval renaissance of Antiquity, oversimplify and distort
these historical facts.
But how can this complex and culturally interconnected medieval world be best
described? The editors decided to divide the individual thematic blocks on prognosti-
Matthias Heiduk, Klaus Herbers and Hans-Christian Lehner
9
cation into four parts, dedicated, respectively, to the Western-Christian, Eastern-Christian, Jewish and Islamic traditions, and to present them as equal to provide the reader
with a tool for drawing direct comparisons. This “quadrinity” appeared to be the most
pragmatic way of including the academic disciplines of Medieval Studies, Byzantine
Studies, Jewish Studies and Islamic Studies in the project, each in their own right.
Even this subdivision of the medieval world, however, is simply a means to providing a transparent outline of the subject which follows the cultural dominants Latin-Christian, Greek-Christian, Hebrew-Jewish and Arab-Muslim. It is by no means to
be understood as a postulate claiming that there were four homogeneous cultural
areas in the Middle Ages, because each of these areas is in itself highly heterogeneous.
Many parts of Europe, for example, were only Christianized late in the Middle Ages,
and Christianization has always been a lengthy process, sometimes stretching over
the whole medieval millennium. This handbook attempts to do justice to “pre-Christian” Europe as well. Three overviews address the Celtic, Nordic and Slavic traditions
of prognostication. They illustrate a recurring problem: these civilizations did not
leave behind any first hand testimony in written form. What little is known about
them is based on the outside perception of Roman writers or Christian missionaries
and chroniclers, or on testimonies such as the Nordic sagas, which were either written
by Christian authors or carry the distinctive marks of contact with Christianity. These
historical sources do transmit a rather deformed image of “indigenous” worldviews
and cultural practices. Pagan civilizations, like those of the Avars or Sami, whose
testimonies related to prognostication are almost entirely either archeological artifacts that are difficult to interpret or post-medieval references, could not be included
in the handbook because of the immensely difficult research situation related
to these.
The differentiation between pagan and non-pagan is just one aspect of the cultural
heterogeneity of the medieval world that all of the articles contained in this handbook
are committed to represent. In the Christian West, there are not only sources in Latin
but also in vernacular languages; the Christian East covers not only Byzantium, but
also the Eastern European Slavic world; while the Jewish traditions come from the
Mizrahi, the Sephardi, the Ashkenazy, the orthodox mainstream and the mythical
branches. The authors of the articles on the Islamic world will have found it particularly difficult to develop an overview of the cultural and religious heterogeneity of
the area between Andalusia and South-East Asia. The extremely difficult question of
how to define and delimitate this Islamic world and relate it to Europe could only be
answered by putting the focus on points of orientation in or near the Mediterranean
region or concentrating on particularly influential traditions. In the end, the desiderata in many fields of research assisted the actual selection which allowed the authors
to refer mainly to their own subjects.
This handbook does not present the medieval world within clearly demarcated
borders, but this vagueness has its own appeal, as it offers the advantage of facilitating the investigation of a large number of historical phenomena and the equally
10
Introduction
large number of traditions in the humanities devoted to their studies, free from any
arbitrary restrictions.
How to Use this Handbook
This handbook is divided into three major sections. In the first part, as already mentioned, the legacy of antiquity, the developments in the pagan world, as well as an
overview of the continuities and innovations of the early modern period are examined in separate survey articles. There is also an overview of the prognostics in the
Latin-Christian, Greek-Christian, Hebrew-Jewish and Arabic-Muslim traditions. The
findings from the individual studies in the following two sections are brought together
here and supplemented at certain points. In addition, the functions of prognostication
are analyzed, such as their social contexts, the role of experts and clients, or their
occasions.
The second section forms the core of the handbook. Nine areas were identified
in which medieval prognostication manifested itself. These are illuminated from the
perspective of the four mentioned traditions. This includes the area “Eschatology and
Millenarism,” already mentioned above, with the various eschatological scenarios.
In the second subchapter “Prophecy and Visions,” the division into four traditions
was abandoned, since this topic could not be separated from the eschatology in the
Byzantine context. Explanations of special forecasting techniques follow. First of all,
there is “Dream Interpretation,” which can be seen as an anthropological constant up
to the present day. The distinction made here between visions and dreams has nothing
to do with the transcendent status (of the dreamer/visionary), but rather refers to
literary genres: while visionary reports emerged in the Middle Ages, particularly in
monastic contexts, tracts on dreams look back to a tradition dating back to ancient
times. Various techniques, which differed in the different traditions, are the subject of
the “Mantic Arts” chapter. The other sub-chapters refer to “Astral Sciences,” “Calendrical Calculations,” and “Weather Forecasting.” It concludes with a contribution on
“Quantifying and Managing Risks,” the forecasting of risks, now the basis of modern
insurance. This is presented exclusively from a Latin-Christian perspective, since the
research situation in the other areas has so far failed to illustrate this phenomenon
clearly.
Each of these contributions follows an internal structure. A five-part system was
developed and proposed to the respective authors. This envisaged the individual
areas as: (I.) “Definitions and Terminology,” (II.) “Written Sources and Artifacts,”
(III.) “Techniques and Manifestations,” (IV.) “Developments, Historical and Social
Contexts,” and (V.) “Medieval Classifications and Discussions.” The authors adapted
this proposal to the respective circumstances for largely understandable reasons.
This is due to the research situation and research tradition: the individual traditions
Matthias Heiduk, Klaus Herbers and Hans-Christian Lehner
11
can access diversely detailed arrangements of the respective topic. This also means
that some contributions are shorter than others. Aside from that, of course, not every
topic can be optimally represented by the intended internal structure. This applies
in particular to the “Mantic Arts.” Cross-references between the individual chapters
(represented by: ↗ author, chapter) refer to similar developments or to the fact that
individual considerations in the different traditions were of comparable importance.
In most cases, source citations are reproduced in English, and transliterations from
Arabic and Hebrew were conducted in accordance with the respective standard transliteration systems. Names should be given in a standard form but, given the sheer
number of cases, errors should be pardoned. The articles are intended to reflect the
current state of research and offer further literature in short references in the text as
well as in an attached “bibliography.” Editions of classical works (such as Thomas
Aquinas or Cicero) were not included, as these passages are standardized in every
edition.
The third section offers a “Repertoire of Written Sources and Artifacts.” This
consists of detailed representations of text genres, text corpora, individual works or
descriptions of certain objects as concrete manifestations of prognostication. The articles, which are concise in comparison to the chapters of the previous sections, are
equipped with a bibliography which is divided into “Primary Sources” and “Secondary Literature.” In this section, the division into the different traditions has largely
been abandoned. Therefore, space was created to undertake a closer examination of
the special phenomena of individual traditions. Wherever necessary, this is indicated
by cross-references both in the chapters of part II and in the repertoire itself. The repertoire benefited particularly from the research environment at the ICRH. Most of the
visiting fellows of the past few years contributed a short entry here. On the one hand,
this leads to a certain focus due to the competences of the contributors, while, on the
other, it is the reason why the Christian West is most present in the repertoire. The
handbook concludes with an extensive register of names and places.
Bibliography
Bauer, Thomas. Warum es kein islamisches Mittelalter gab. Das Erbe der Antike und der Orient.
München, 2018.
Bloch, Ernst. Das Prinzip Hoffnung. Frankfurt am Main, 1959.
Borgolte, Michael et al. (eds.). Integration und Desintegration der Kulturen im europäischen
Mittelalter. (Europa im Mittelalter, 18). Berlin, 2011.
Hartmann, Heiko and Werner Röcke. “Das Mittelalter – ein utopiegeschichtliches Vakuum?”
Das Mittelalter 18 (2013): 3–9.
Herbers, Klaus and Nikolas Jaspert (eds.). Grenzräume und Grenzüberschreitungen im Vergleich.
Der Osten und der Westen des mittelalterlichen Lateineuropa. Berlin, 2007.
Herbers, Klaus. Prognostik und Zukunft im Mittelalter. Praktiken – Kämpfe – Diskussionen. Stuttgart,
2019 (see also http://ikgf.fau.de/publications/featured-books.shtml).
12
Introduction
Lehner, Hans-Christian. “Review of ‘Thomas Bauer, Warum es kein islamisches Mittelalter gab. Das
Erbe der Antike und der Orient, München 2018.’” H-Soz-Kult, January 30, 2020. http//:www.
hsozkult.de/publicationreview/id/reb-28267.
Löwith, Karl. Weltgeschichte und Heilsgeschehen. Die theologischen Voraussetzungen der
Geschichtsphilosophie. Stuttgart, 1953.
Pitz, Ernst. Die griechisch-römische Ökumene und die drei Kulturen des Mittelalters. Berlin, 2001.
Tuczay, Christa Agnes. Kulturgeschichte der mittelalterlichen Wahrsagerei. Berlin, 2012.
Vandermeersch, Léon. Les deux raisons de la pensée chinoise. Divination et idéographie. Paris,
2013.
Weber, Max. Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft. Tübingen, 1922.
Part I: Introductory Surveys
David Engels and Alex Nice
Divination in Antiquity
Introduction
Divination in Antiquity
As Cicero observed, there was no ancient civilisation which did not practise divination. The Mesopotamians, Egyptians, Iranians, Greeks, Etruscans, and Romans all
had their own systems in accordance with their geographical location and expertise.
His predecessor, the Greek Stoic philosopher Chrysippus, defined mantike or divinatio
succinctly and precisely:
[It is] the ability to know, to see, and to explain the signs which the gods send as warnings to
men. Its duty is to know in advance the will (the mens) of the gods towards men and what it indicates, how this may be expiated, and atoned for. (Chrysippus, fr. 1189 = Cicero, De divinatione,
2.130, trans. Alex Nice)
Prognostication in the ancient world, therefore, was not simply a desire to know what
would happen in the future, although this was, of course, an important concern, but
a desire to understand the very will and mood of the gods. The processes of divination
included not only the ability to recognise divine signs, but also the ability to interpret
them, and, further, to know which ceremonies of propitiation or atonement were necessary, regardless of whether those signs were good or bad. In other words, it did not
distinguish elements of prophecy and sacrifice from divination; they were features of
it. Even when no express pronouncement about the future was required, these processes were closely connected with the desire to understand the will of the gods.
This understanding of the gods’ will was achieved through a variety of divinatory practices. In his De divinatione, the only fully extant treatise from Greco-Roman
­antiquit on the subject of divination, Cicero (speaking through the persona of his
brother, Quintus) famously partitioned ancient divination into “artificial” (or “technical”) and “natural” practices:
For there are two kinds of divination, the one involving a technique (ars), the other involving
nature (natura). What nation or what state is there that is not influenced by the prediction of
those who examine entrails or interpret prodigies and lightning or of augurs or astrologers or lots
(these are the kinds which as a reule involve a technique) or by dreams or prophecies (these are
the two classed as natural)? (Cicero, De divinatione, 1.11–12; trans. David Wardle)
In the case of the former, divination was very much a human endeavour, dependent on human skill and artifice (ars). It relied on the inductive or deductive methods
employed by a priest or diviner through their observation and interpretation of sachttps://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-001
16
Introductory Surveys
rificial entrails (extispicy and hepatoscopy), omens from birds (augury) or portents,
sometimes in their allegorical readings of written prophetic texts. In the case of natural
practices, divination was inspired directly by the gods through dreams, oracles, and
prophecy. A further distinction could also be made, often with regard to specific types
of divination (for example, in Roman augural practice), between those signs which
had to be sought and those which occurred spontaneously in the technical language
of divination, these were respectively called impetrative signs (signa impetrativa) and
oblative signs (signa oblativa). Cicero’s De divinatione provides an understanding of
the general scope of prophecy and prognostication, and helps frame some of our discussion. However, the philosophical framework of the dialogue, which sets out the
case for and against divination and, in the manner of the New Academy avoids a definitive conclusion, does not cover the full range of divinatory experience available in a
variety of public and private contexts. For example, many of the details regarding the
exact praxis of divination are lacking even when we are able to provide reconstructions
from other sources. References to divination in private are rarely fleshed out in detail
and often referred to with intellectual contempt. Cicero’s schematic organisation also
does not do justice to the interactions of divination with medicine or magic nor does
it help the modern reader understand certain types of “fringe” divination such as necromancy (summoning the dead), cleromancy (divination by lot), lecanomancy (divination by the observation of the mixing of oil and water), or libanomancy (divination
by smoke). The challenge in this chapter has been to showcase the enormous range of
divinatory methods employed in antiquity and how divination was practised in both
public and private, while demonstrating the ways in which individual societies had
their own particular solutions for discerning the will of the gods.
Scope of the Chapter
This chapter then covers a grand scope, both geographically and historically, from
the lands of ancient Mesopotamia and Iran in the East to the provinces of the Roman
Empire in the West, from the third millennium BCE to the fourth century CE. The earliest written evidence that the heavens were routinely consulted can be securely dated
to the twenty-second century BCE when King Gudea, the ruler of Lagash in Mesopotamia, consulted the gods prior to building a new temple. The variety and significance attached to prophecy and prognostication continued to be a vital concern into
the high Empire when rival divinatory systems became a focal point in the contest
between paganism and Christianity.
In a broadly synchronic manner, we survey the worlds of Mesopotamia, Egypt,
Ancient Iran, Greece, Etruria, and, finally, Rome. Each section, by necessity, is more
diachronic and attempts to present practices of prophecy and prognostication in their
geographic milieu. Thus, the section on Mesopotamia includes the Sumerian, Babylonian, and Assyrian empires, covering a historical period from around 3100 BCE to the
David Engels and Alex Nice
17
fall of Babylon in 539 BCE. We discuss how the societies of ancient Mesopotamia treated
divination as an exact science and how, in empirical fashion, they precisely recorded
omens and the outcomes they predicted (for example, the celestial omen series Enūma
Anu Enlil or the terrestrial omen series Šumma ālu); or developed a science of hepatoscopy working from, and recording their observations on, clay models of sheep livers.
The history of Ancient Egypt likewise begins in the late-fourth or third millennium
BCE but continues well into the Ptolemaic and Roman periods. In contrast to the civilisations of ancient Mesopotamia, we discuss the emphasis placed on oracular consultation, in particular, the role played by the divine skiff. Egyptian divination also placed
considerable emphasis on dreams and dreaming, especially in a political context.
The section on ancient Iran views divination from a Median and an Achaemenid
perspective, a period lasting roughly from the seventh century BCE to the conquest
of Persia by Alexander the Great in 330 BCE. The evidence points to an interest in
cleromancy (lot divination), prodigies, and types of celestial divination, including
astrology.
Our knowledge about divination in Ancient Greece is mainly derived from the fifth
and fourth centuries BCE, although glimmers of earlier practice can be discerned in
works as early as Homer. This section emphasises the transition from practices in the
Near East which focused on the person of the individual to those which concerned
the whole community. Sacrifice and augury were the pre-eminent forms of divination
on a day-to-day basis, although oracles played an important role for major political
decisions. This section also discusses the role of divination in private life where we
find a range of divinatory practices (omens, dreams, oracles) pertinent to the individual and which impacted the daily lives of the ancient Greeks. A further subsection
discusses the place of divination in philosophical works and in Greek historiography.
Such works help to shed light on the ways in which the ancients contemplated divination and its influence on their lives, even if only with respect to the intellectual élites.
The section on ancient Rome, for which the evidence is somewhat firmer and
richer, has been separated into sections on the Republic (510–531 BCE) and Empire
(31 BCE–ca. CE 400). Here we study the importance of public divination at Rome
through its major priesthoods (the pontifices, augures, and (quin)decemviri sacris
faciundis) and contrast that with practices in private life. The chapter also traces the
development and changes in divination at Rome from Republic to Empire: in particular the ways in which divination, including methods once only the preserve of
private citizens, could be used to legitimise imperial rule from Augustus onwards.
Subsections on Roman theoretical approaches to divination demonstrate the continuing importance of divination as a subject for philosophical enquiry from Cicero to
the neo-Platonists. In contrast to the Greek philosophical sources, these works were
often written by those who practised divination both publicly and privately. They,
therefore, have a pragmatic concern to justify or deny the importance of divination in
the everyday lives of the ancient Romans.
18
Introductory Surveys
The advantages of such an approach are to privilege divination as a significant
cultural phenomenon; to highlight the different ways in which divination developed
in these societies; and how those societies employed prophecy and prognostication.
However, this is not to underplay the extent to which there were elements of diffusion
and dissemination of divination from one society to another. A particular case in point
is the spread of astrology (and astronomy). Ancient sources and modern investigations
suggest that it moved gradually eastwards from Babylonia, where it was practised by
the Chaldaean priesthood, perhaps to Egypt, then Greece, and, finally, to Rome. There
the term Chaldaeus could be used of any diviner who practised astrology and, sometimes, of those philosophers who studied astronomy. Transmission of divinatory practice seems apparent in other areas too. The conditional prescriptions in the Mesopotamian texts dependent on protasis (“if x”) and apodosis (“then y”) recur in the Etruscan
brontoscopic calendar faithfully transcribed by Cicero’s friend and polymath, Nigidius
Figulus. Greek and Etruscan sacrificial practices may have been influenced by Mesopotamian hepatoscopy. Clay models of livers from ancient Mesopotamia, literary
texts, and a bronze liver from Piacenza inscribed with Etruscan names for the gods and
regions of the sky, suggest a direct correlation between Etruria and Mesopotamia. The
Etruscans also acknowledged a special relationship with ancient Greece. Greek myth
is a recurrent figure in their art. Images of divination include Greek prophetic figures
such as Calchas and Orpheus. Roman sources allude to Persian origins for divination
by water and fire. Recent scholarship suggests that traces of the Mesopotamian omen
series may be present in Roman works on religion and divination, such as Cicero’s
De divinatione. In one tradition, augury was introduced to Italy and thence to Rome
through the activities of the Lydian king, Marsyas. A different, and more likely explanation, was that augury was transmitted to Rome from Etruria. The Greek historian
Dionysius of Halicarnassus explicitly refers to the training of the founder of Roman
augury, Attus Navius, as taking place in Etruria under the guidance of the haruspices.
Certain individual rituals such as the establishment of the pomerium (the sacred city
boundary) or difficult religious questions concerning orientation, water, and unnatural births can also be traced to an Etruscan origin.
In sum, this chapter encourages the reader to consider the ubiquity of prophecy and
prognostication in ancient societies, their vital importance for the political, military
and economic functioning of the state, and their role in encouraging the hopes and
allaying the fears of ordinary citizens.
David Engels and Alex Nice
19
Ancient Near East
Mesopotamia
The sources for Mesopotamian divination are manifold. They range from references
to divinatory practices in historical chronicles, through prophetic texts and lists of
omina, to comprehensive manuals covering the most diverse techniques for predicting
the future. Divination in Ancient Mesopotamia seems to have covered a series of techniques broadly corresponding to those well-known from Classical Antiquity. Thus, the
initiative for communication between gods and men could come from the former or
the latter; a difference later called oblative and impetrative divination.
In the case of oblative divination, the divine message itself could be more or less
clearly articulated, for example, through prophecies, dreams or oracular utterances,
or be rather symbolic. The last category was clearly the most frequent and diversified
case, and covers a variety of different forms such as meteorological or astronomical
phenomena, the behaviour of animals (in particular, the flight of birds), teratological
incidences, and others. Some of these oracles, such as the Marduk-, Shulgi-, Uruk- or
Dynastic Prophecy, also served as tools of political propaganda. They enabled certain
political groups to announce (or justify) their own advent in the form of vaticinia ex
eventu, where past rulers and diviners were credited with having announced current
(or ongoing) events and, thus, with lending them the authority of pre-determined
divine resolutions.
In the case of impetrative divination, the divination specialists used a certain
number of techniques producing more or less guaranteed responses. Thus, one
popular technique was cleromancy; others, mostly attested in the early Babylonian
period, involved lecanomancy (the observation of the mixing of oil and water), libanomancy (the analysis of smoke), aleuromancy (the scattering of flour), or hydromancy
(the observation of ripples on water). In some way, the continued use of the ordeal, the
single combat between two rival claimants, as a method for defining juridical responsibility, may also be considered as a specific form of divination. However, the most
popular and refined form of impetrative divination was extispicy: the analysis of the
inner organs of sacrificial animals, generally, but not exclusively, the lambs’ livers. In
the lore of the Babylonian seers, all possible shapes, colours, or deformations of an
animal’s liver (and sometimes also the lung, spleen, and intestines) were assigned a
certain positive or negative value. The sum of these observations provided a positive
(or negative) answer to the question posed to the relevant divinity (generally Šamaš
or Hadad) at the beginning of the procedure. The result could sometimes be crosschecked by submitting the question to a parallel round of examination or rephrasing
the question in a negative way. It was also appropriate to submit the same question to
the gods but, simultaneously, to use different, although complementary, divinatory
techniques (for example, relating to signs from the earth and from the sky). The div-
20
Introductory Surveys
inatory manuals even explicitly advised this procedure because it corresponded best
to the complex nature of the world itself.
Although there is rich evidence pointing to the existence of private practices,
our sources mainly deal with public divination. Thus, each royal court seems to have
employed the service of one or multiple divination experts (bârû) who enjoyed a high
status and counselled the ruler on all important matters and decisions. Initially, the
Mesopotamians employed a very broad array of divinatory techniques, then, during
the third millennium, they specialised in extispicy, until this was somewhat displaced
during the second millennium by the newly ascendant art of astrology. Astrologers
were gradually considered as general experts in the lore of tradition and history.
They were often simply called “scribes” (ṭupšarru), perhaps because of the close
link between the recording of astrological and historical events. Aside from the bârû
and the ṭupšarru, in neo-Assyrian and neo-Babylonian times, we also find augurs
(who generally came from Syria: dâgil iṣṣûrî), experts in unsolicited omens (ašipu),
dream-interpreters (often women: ša’iltu), or prophets (mahhu).
In Ancient Mesopotamia, divination was considered an exact science, based on
observation, verification, and an ever-growing wealth of parallel cases. Thus, the specific characteristics of livers examined during important acts of divination were conserved through the fabrication of clay models and may have had didactic as well as
self-legitimising functions. Similarly, lists (iškaru) established the correlation between
divine signs (ittu, under the form: “if x”) and the events to be expected (pišru, under
the form: “then y”), these events were often separated according to the social status
of the questioner (for example, ruler, noble or commoner). They sometimes provided
stereotyped answers, sometimes even concrete historical events linked to a previous
occurrence of the sign. A typical example from an extispicy-series runs:
If there is a Hole in the centre of the top of the Presence: A high priest will die, fall of a chief temple
administrator, he for whom the extispicy is performed will die at the beginning of the year, or his
son will die; or, one of his eyes will go blind, for warfare: Defeat of the leader of the army. Eclipse
of the evening watch, for the king: Revolt. Or, a weir will collapse during the damming of its canal
and take me away. (Manzāzu, tablet 6, A 15 D 15; trans. Ulla Koch-Westenholz)
These lists frequently focused on one type of sign, for example, extispicy, astrology,
teratology, everyday-life omens, or dreams. They also served as an ever-growing
archive of precedents with as many as 10.000 case-studies. Even after their slow canonisation in the second millennium, the resulting corpora were gradually enlarged by
commentaries.
In this context, it should be noted that the aim of Mesopotamian divination was
not necessarily to discover an immutable, pre-determined future, but rather to ask the
gods about their general attitude towards the future. If the gods seemed unfavourable,
there was always the possibility to enquire about the reasons of their wrath and/or to
try to placate them through rituals of atonement, or, if the problem was linked to the
malign involvement of a demon, through exorcism.
David Engels and Alex Nice
21
During the Hellenistic and Roman periods, alleged or real “Chaldaeans”, who
were generally associated with astrology, were popular. At Rome, they were considered as so troublesome that they had to be officially expelled from the city in 139 BCE
and on several later occasions. However, their connections to the divination practices
of ancient Mesopotamia are difficult to establish. This is even more true of the “Chaldaean Oracles”: a series of prophecies and theo-philosophical speculations based on
Platonic concepts, written down or compiled by Julian the Theurgist (second century
CE), son of Julian the Chaldaean. These “Oracles”, which rejected traditional divination and focused on the soul’s quest for virtue, were of tremendous importance
to the evolution of Middle- and Neo-Platonism and were commented upon by Porphyry, Iamblichus, Proclus, and Damascius. Although lost in late Antiquity, the “Chaldaean Oracles” were partly reconstituted through quotations from other sources and
edited by Michael Psellus (eleventh century) and Georgius Gemistus Pletho (fifteenth
century). Erroneously attributed to Zoroaster, they were long considered as the original
source of later Jewish and Greek wisdom literature and continue to remain influential
in Theosophy.
Egypt
Divination in Ancient Egypt is essentially associated with the oracles attached to its
numerous temples and shrines, most prominently those of Amun at Thebes or Siwa.
The most popular form of oracular consultation seems to have been to submit written
questions to the divine skiffs which transported the image of the god during the many
processions of the Egyptian religious year. The oracle could also be consulted outside
of these processions at the temple, although this may have essentially been a royal
privilege. The movements of the heavy skiff, uneasily borne by many carriers, were
then interpreted as expressing assent or refusal. It was not infrequently that the questioner submitted the same problem to two or even three oracles in order to maximise the chances of receiving a satisfying response. Divination in Egypt then seems to
have dealt less with the precise prediction of future events than with the gods’ attitude towards essentially binary decisions. It, therefore, appears that in many cases,
ranging from the punishment of rebels to the setting-up of last wills, oracular consultation simply served to acquire the more-or-less formalised consent of the divine to
pre-established decisions. Similarly, oracles were also used to legitimise important
personnel decisions, for example, Ramses’ II confirmation of the nomination of the
High Priest of Amun. The growing importance of temples in the country’s economy
from the Middle Kingdom onwards probably explains why the official consultation
of oracles with regard to administrative or juridical matters became gradually more
frequent. The importance of the temples in decision-making also helps to explain
why, in the 21st dynasty, the oracle of Amun in Thebes became the country’s official
regent.
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In addition to the binary responses of the divine skiff, there were other techniques
permitting the gods to express themselves in a more complex way through verbal
utterances, mostly in the context of consultations by high-ranking persons. A variety
of methods through which the gods were considered to communicate with men were
possible, including drug-induced visions, ventriloquism, and speaking tubes, but the
exact techniques used are only imperfectly understood. As with the oracular consultations, the questions addressed to the gods generally did not concern a predetermined
future, but rather the gods’ specific attitude towards a decision already planned, or
their help in clarifying past events.
Dreams also played a significant role in the divination of Ancient Egypt. They were
thought to contain a message sent by the divinity. They could occur spontaneously but
were often sought by sleeping in, or near, a holy place, a process known as “incubation”. Their symbolism needed professional interpretation. Therefore, from the
Middle Kingdom onwards, the Egyptians compiled dream-books, perhaps influenced
by similar Mesopotamian dream-compendia, and as suggested by a dream-book from
the Ramesside period of the thirteenth century, these provided precise interpretations
of specific situations experienced in the dream, for example:
If a man sees himself in a dream dead – Good. It means a long life. If a man sees himself in a
dream, his bed catching fire – Bad. It means driving away his wife. If a man sees himself in a
dream drinking warm beer – Bad. It means suffering. If a man sees himself in a dream looking
out of a window – Good. It means the gods hear his cries. If a man sees himself falling off a wall –
Good. It means the issuing of a favourable edict. If a man sees himself looking after monkeys –
Bad. It means change awaits. (P. Chester Beatty III r.; trans. K.M. Szkapowska)
As most of these dream-books were quite limited in their explanatory scope, there
must have been professional dream-interpreters from very early times, although our
sources concerning these mantic specialists, with the notable exception of Joseph,
come only from the Hellenistic period. Dreams were also important to justify political
acts which challenged traditional institutional procedures or which were linked to
spectacular events. Thus, Thutmosis IV legitimised his accession by a divine dream;
the High Priest Herihor justified his usurpation of power through a dream; and
Ptolemy III referred to a dream to justify the creation of the cult of Serapis.
The narrative patterns of some of these political dreams, first deploring the current
state of affairs, then announcing the restauration of the maat, the divine order, were
analogous to those of prophetic texts. These texts were a specific literary form known
throughout Egyptian history until the Roman age and show a close similarity to the
Mesopotamian oracular texts. In them an ancestral authority is generally credited with
having disclosed future events to a ruler or another important person. In their details,
these narratives, such as the “Prophecy of Snofru”, the “Lamb of Bokchoris” or the
“Potter’s Oracle”, belong to the genre of the vaticinium ex eventu and pursue obvious
political goals. Their structure, however, is generally the same and attests to the high
malleability, and popularity, of these texts. Normally, the oracle first “predicts”, from
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a past perspective, the many evils which characterize the respective “contemporary”
period of the oracle’s readership. It then announces the return of a semi-Messianic
rightful ruler or restored social order which correspond to the respective political aims
(or achievements) of the party for whom the prophetical text in question has been
written or adapted, as demonstrated in the following extract from the “Oracle of the
Potter”, predicting the demise of the Greeks and their capital Alexandria:
The Girdle-wearers will kill themselves as they also are Typhonians. Then Agathos Daimon will
abandon the city that had been founded and enter Memphis, and the city of foreigners, which
had been founded, will be deserted. This will happen at the end of the evols (of the time) when
there came to Egypt a crowd of foreigners. […] Then will Egypt flourish when the generous fiftyfive year ruler appears, the king descended from Helios, the giver of good things. (P. Rainer
28–41; trans. Stanley M. Burstein)
Apart from oracles, dreams, and prophecies, other forms of divination seem to have
played a rather minor role, at least up to the first millennium BCE. Thus, except for
occasional mentions of solar and lunar eclipses and very specific omina also known
from older texts, our knowledge about extra-oracular Egyptian divination comes
essentially from the New Kingdom. There, oniromancy and hemerology are regularly
attested, while astrology, augury, and wind-divination are sometimes mentioned
as secondary forms. Although such practices have not left a major impact on the
Pharaonic sources, it seems likely that the most diverse omina may have played an
important part in popular religion. The landscape of divination may have changed by
the first millennium BCE, as Herodotus insists not only on the Egyptians’ interest in
hemerology and oracles, but also on their alleged compilation of vast lists of prodigies
and their respective significance.
The growing influence of Mesopotamian, Iranian, and then Hellenistic divination,
coupled with the gradual loss of the political power of the temples, sparked interest
in diverse new forms of predictions, such as the interpretation of omina and, most of
all, astrology, a discipline previously quite foreign to Ancient Egypt. Astrology soon
became very important as indicated by the technical treatises from the Hellenistic
period ascribed to Hermes Trismegistus, the fictional Pharaoh Nechepso, or his alleged
counsellor, the prophet Petosiris. Throughout the imperial period, there is evidence
of astrological calendars and horoscopes in Demotic or Greek; some horoscopes were
even represented on tomb-ceilings. Astrology played such an important role in postPharaonic Egypt that, by Late Antiquity, the Egyptians were considered as the most
skilled practitioners of the art.
Iran
Divination in Ancient Iran is only poorly attested and mostly filtered through ancient
Greek sources. The account of Herodotus implies that the magoi were the principal
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Iranian priestly cast without whom no sacrifice could take place. They were also
considered experts in the analysis of dreams and of celestial phenomena, such as
solar eclipses. In Sasanian times, the Ancient Iranians were associated with pyromancy. Roman sources also attributed this type of divination to Persian origins.
This aspect of their divinatory art is scarcely surprising, given the divine importance
of the fire for Zoroastrianism, which makes it quite probable that this form of divination had much older origins. The Greek historian Herodotus provides a lengthy
account of a hippomantic ritual to divine the gods’ will concerning the appointment of a new ruler. Despite its probable Indo-European roots, the credibility of the
ritual is hard to establish. The Islamic scholar Ibn Qutaybah also related that the
Persians inscribed the shafts of their arrows. When they chose one of those arrows
at random to shoot at the enemy, the word inscribed was regarded as an omen; a
specific form of cleromancy which might well go back to pre-Islamic times given
the importance of bow and arrow in the Iranian society. Al-Nadîm (tenth century),
in his catalogue Fihrist, attests the existence of numerous (now lost) Persian books
on divination. The Samanide vizier Balʿamī, in his expanded Persian translation of
al-Ṭabarī’s History, quotes from a “book of divination” (ketāb-e fāl), which allegedly
contained prodigies recorded during the time of Persian supremacy. Finally, the Šāhnāma describes an important number of divinatory practices and occurrences in its
account of pre-Islamic times (for example, Alexander’s death is predicted by the birth
of a monstrous child; Khosrow II Parvēz guessed the downfall of his dynasty from
the accidental fall of a quince from the top of his throne). Although many of these
stories may reflect pre-Islamic traditions, their authenticity is notoriously difficult to
ascertain.
Besides these poorly attested forms of divination, there are some hints, such as
the “Bundahišn”, as to the importance of astrology in Zoroastrianism, mostly through
cosmological accounts. Certainly, the celestial bodies played an important theological
role from the earliest Persian origins. They were major actors in the eschatological
battle between good and evil and were variously assigned and reassigned, at different
times, to one or the other camp. However, astrology is absent in the Avesta, and its
presence as a proper divinatory discipline, seems to have been the result of Hellenistic influences. The Parthians and Sasanians translated Greek astrological texts (often
influenced by Mesopotamian concepts) into Persian and adapted them to the different
cosmological schools of Zoroastrian lore. In particular, they stressed the conjunction
of Jupiter and Saturn as responsible for many major political and religious events.
During the Sasanian period, there also appeared the starôšmâr. They were astrological professionals at the Sasanian court who cast the king’s horoscope. After this, the
cosmological and astrological texts, now mostly lost, were translated into Arabic, and
later into Byzantine Greek and Mediaeval Latin. This process means that it is difficult
to uncover a specific Zoroastrian concept of astrology.
The sources contain a few references to the alleged prediction of future historical events by semi-mythical foundation figures of Iranian society, for example Hys-
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taspes or Zoroaster. The poorly attested “Oracles of Hystaspes” seem to have been
a series of apocalyptic prophecies ascribed to Vištāspa, the patron and follower of
Zoroaster. Legend identified him with the father of Darius I. There is some debate
over the extent to which these prophecies, and the announcement of the coming of a
Saviour King, stem from old Zoroastrian traditions or rather from a Hellenistic origin
possibly inspired by the similar Egyptian and Mesopotamian oracles and superficially
draped in an Iranian style. Similarly, the Zand-i Wahman yasn (sometimes erroneously
labelled Bahman-Yašt) relates a conversation in which Ahura Mazda enables Zoroaster, to predict the future:
As is revealed in the Stūdgar, Zarduxšt sought immortality from Ohrmazd. Then Ohrmazd
showed the wisdom of omniscience to Zarduxšt. And therewith he saw the trunk of a tree on
which were four branches, one of gold, one of silver, one of steel, and one on <which> iron had
been mixed. […] Ohrmazd said to Spitāmān Zarduxšt, ‘The tree trunk that you have seen, <that
is the material world which I, Ohrmazd, have created>. Those four branches are the four epochs
that will come.’ (Zand-i Wahman yasn 1.1–6; trans. Carlo G. Cereti)
The text then further develops a world history divided into various and often inconsistent sub-sections, generally seven or ten periods. The first three ages represent the
time leading up to the “millennium of Zoroaster”; the latter ages are compared to a
tree which has a number of branches representing the eras of Iranian history. The
similarity between the metals enumerated here and early Greek ideas of a gradual
decline of world history and of the succession of Empires seems notable, although it
is not at all clear who influenced whom, even more so as the last part of the prophecy
appears to have been repeatedly remodelled to make it correspond to the respective
present. The last branches led to a period of apocalyptic events and the final battles
between good and evil.
Greece
Public Divination
Divination was a major constituent of ancient Greek civilisation and influenced all
aspects of its everyday culture, including religion, politics, and economics. Greek
divination seems to have shared many points in common with ancient Babylonian
divination on the one hand and with Roman divination on the other. There was a
bewildering variety of symbols, rituals, texts and experts, and divination existed in
both public and private. At both levels, there were numerous techniques of oblative
and impetrative divination which sought to foretell the future or at least to understand
the mood of the gods. Many of these techniques were inspired by external influences.
The Greeks themselves thought that ornithomancy was Carian, and astrology either
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Libyan, Egyptian, or Assyrian. There are also indications that they received extispicy
from the Near East.
In contrast to the ancient Near East, however, Greek public divination transitioned
from a procedure centred on the powerful individual (and, therefore, intimately linked
to monarchic or aristocratic power) to a practice involving the whole community. It
was, therefore, compatible with, and integrated into, democratic forms of constitution.
However, the main divinatory techniques appear to have remained largely unchanged
from the earliest periods of Greek history until the advent of Christianity.
Practically, the most popular forms of impetrative divination were the observation of the flight of birds and, most of all, the analysis of the inner organs of sacrificial animals. Homer had already stressed the importance of ornithomancy (mostly
through eagles, falcons, or hawks). The auguries could either be performed by
specialised seers or by private individuals on the basis of certain general rules. In
Greek augury, the right side was more favourable than the left, and significance was
attached to the number of birds, direction of flight, their appearance or actions in a
specific context. By the Classical Age, ornithomancy seems to have been displaced by
extispicy. In the Greek city, most acts of public life (for example, legislative or juridical procedures, military campaigns) were accompanied by sacrifices. The subsequent
examination of the animal entrails, especially the liver, was carried out by relevant
specialists, generally named manteis, sometimes hieroskopoi. In addition to reading
the specific characteristics of the organs themselves (form, colour, etc.), the specialist
also had to assess the flammability of the sacrificed organs and body parts. Inevitably,
the political impact of the seers’ prognostications led to numerous opportunities for
ambitious politicians (for example, Tisamenus at Sparta or Lampon at Athens) to gain
power by situating themselves as the privileged intermediary between the polis and
the gods. Although manteis continued to be employed by military commanders and
kings throughout the Classical and Hellenistic age, their importance in regard to the
polis itself started to wane. This is clear at Athens, following the catastrophic failure
of the Sicilian expedition, which had been largely approved of by the seers and whose
failure was partly caused by the general Nicias’ over-credulous belief in divination:
For he was one of those who are excessively terrified at heavenly portents, and was “addicted to
divination”, as Thucydides says (7.50.4). And in one of the dialogues of Pasiphon, it is recorded
that he sacrificed every day to the gods, and that he kept a diviner at his house, ostensibly for the
constant enquiries which he made about public affairs, whereas most of his enquiries were really
made about his own private matters, and especially about his silver mines; for he had large interests in the mining district of Laurium, and they were exceedingly profitable, although worked at
great risks. (Plutarch, Nicias, 4.1–2; trans. Bernadotte Perrin, Loeb)
From this date forward, references to diviners are virtually absent in Thucydides and
in public speeches. Diviners only become important again in the Hellenistic period in
the context of Philip II of Macedonia and Alexander the Great, who retained diviners,
like the Telmessian seer, Aristander, at their court.
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Unsolicited divine signs continued to be of great importance to the public institutions of the Greek city states. In contrast to the formulaic practices associated with
impetrative divination, their often spectacular occurrences (for example, earthquakes,
solar eclipses, or lightning) or highly symbolic nature (for example, in the domain of
teratology) represented a continuous reminder that the gods were closely watching
human affairs and cared to warn humankind about imminent dangers or the consequences of divine wrath. In all cases a public response was warranted. The progress
of science, especially in the domain of astronomy, gradually divested many prodigies
of their miraculous appearance. Nevertheless, the association of uncommon natural
events with significant public events, in military and political contexts, continued to
impress the ordinary citizen and to further belief in divination. However, in ancient
Greece, unsolicited divine signs never acquired a political and collective importance
comparable to the annual prodigies reported at Rome. They always remained somewhat on the margin, appearing only on special occasions. In stark contrast to Roman
endeavours to identify the underlying divine reasons for prodigies and their careful
expiation of them, in ancient Greece, prodigies do not appear to have been systematically collected nor met by any other political response than the termination of the
intended action.
Another authoritative form of public divination was the consultation of oracles.
The Oracle of Delphi, in particular, was regularly consulted throughout the whole of
Greek history by the different city-states. It played a vital political role, most notably
during the time of the Great Colonisation (seventh to sixth centuries BCE), where it
influenced the dispatch of different colonising expeditions. However, as the Oracle’s
responses often eschewed any external control, it sometimes complicated, rather than
simplified, collective political decision-taking, as its answers could be variously interpreted. After the Persian War, Delphi gradually lost its importance in public divination, because it had played an ambiguous role during the conflict and was accused
of Medising (supporting the Persians). Although the oracle of Delphi continued to
be a centre for private divination and a symbol of Greek religious unity, many cities
increasingly consulted oracles situated within their own borders, for example, in
Sparta, the chief magistrates (the ephors) often visited the dream oracle of Thalamai. Only in particularly critical times did oracles have renewed symbolic importance. This is seen in the importance of Siwa for Alexander the Great or Didyma for
Seleucus:
It is said that while he [i. e. Seleucus] was still serving under Alexander and following him in the
war against the Persians he consulted the Didymaean oracle to inquire about his return to Macedonia and that he received for answer: ‘Do not hurry back to Europe; / Asia will be much better
for you.’ (app., Syr. 12.56; trans. Horace White, Loeb)
But the new political form of the territorial state and the ideology of the new Hellenistic king as a theios aner (“a god-like man”) shifted the traditional power of those
oracles from the temple to the palace.
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A further important means of consulting the gods with regard to public affairs was
in the use of oracular books. Although the Greeks and the Romans had no tradition
comparable to the monotheist scriptures, there were many books circulating in antiquity which contained compilations of oracles from diverse origins and of doubtful
authenticity. They were generally held under tight control by the state authorities and
could only be consulted on specific occasions. They provided a convenient means
for seeking divine advice without the risk of much external interference since they
were regarded as the authoritative words of the gods. Thus, the Spartan ephors consulted the “skin of Ephimenides”, probably a set of oracular texts inscribed on parchment, while Onomacritus compiled a series of oracles which was kept on the Akropolis for the Peisistratids, so that they could be freer of the influence of the Delphic
oracle. These texts always required competent interpretation. Therefore, the city often
employed chresmologoi, specialists in the compilation and analysis of oracles. They
might practise privately or they could be attached to certain holy places. At times of
political crisis, they could acquire considerable political influence, as in the case of
Diopeithes in Athens. Along with other divination specialists, their influence started
to wane from the fourth century onwards.
Private Divination
Private divination practices in ancient Greece are much less well-known than those of
public divination, although the situation is marginally better than in Rome. The ritual
forms of divination were broadly the same as those practiced in public, but the focus
lay, of course, on the individual, not on the state. Therefore, some less conspicuous
forms of divination, such as omina (chance words, sayings and deeds which could be
allegorically interpreted) enjoyed a greater importance.
There was a rich wealth of individual omina. Often attested in the biographies of
important individuals, there seems little reason to suppose that they were not also
relevant to the general population. Almost every chance action or occurrence could
seem relevant, from the slip of a tongue or sneezing to an accidental stumble, as long
as it could be symbolically related to an ongoing or expected event. A special category
of omens were signs later named by the Romans, as omina imperii and omina mortis.
These played an important role in the legitimizing or condemning the power of rulers
or politicians, a role which also continued into the Hellenistic age, as exemplified in
the numerous omina associated with the rule of Alexander or Seleucus. Omina imperii
generally occurred either at the birth of the concerned individual or prior to his accession to power. They indicated that the individual had the special favour of the gods,
but did not necessarily imply that the individual had any special moral qualities. It
is, therefore, sometimes difficult to attribute these signs to either positive or negative
propaganda, such as the following example pertaining to the career of Pericles and
his opponent Thucydides:
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A story is told that once on a time the head of a one-horned ram was brought to Pericles from his
country-place, and that Lampon the seer, when he saw how the horn grew strong and solid from
the middle of the forehead, declared that, whereas there were two powerful parties in the city,
that of Thucydides and that of Pericles, the mastery would finally devolve upon one man, – the
man to whom this sign had been given. (Plutarch, Pericles, 6.2; trans. Bernadotte Perrin)
Conversely, omina mortis announced the individual’s imminent demise and thus
could either be interpreted as a sign of impending apotheosis or, more frequently,
divine wrath.
Besides omina, another important form of divination in private life was oneiromancy (“dream divination”). Dreams were probably the most popular and widespread
form of alleged interaction between the human and the divine. It was practised on
an individual basis as well as in ritualized surroundings, for example, at incubation
oracles. These were usually linked to the god Asclepius and became very popular in
a medical context. There are numerous testimonies as to the context and significance
of dreams, enabling the modern scholar to formulate hypotheses regarding the psychoanalytical disposition and psychological concerns of the ancient Greeks. Dreams
were considered as a typically human characteristic. They were sent either by Apollo
or Prometheus. Although it was generally known that many dreams were linked to
an individual’s immediate biographical experiences, nonetheless many philosophers
held that the diminution of the individual’s sensory functions and perceptions enabled
the dreamer to better perceive messages sent by the gods. This, therefore, allowed
the dreamer to gain insight into future events which it was impossible to acquire in
a waking state. There must have been, from a very early period, lists containing the
divinatory significance of dreams. Later, these were probably expanded into real compendia. Unfortunately, the only extant book on dream interpretation is Artemidorus’
Oneirocritica. The work provides precise details on interpreting dreams with different
interpretations dependent on the precise social status and biographical context of the
dreamer:
But to give you some practice in the concept of similarities, the dream that I have provided shall
suffice. A pregnant woman dreamt that she gave birth to a serpent. The child that she brought
into the world became an excellent and famous public speaker. For a serpent has a forked
tongue, which is also true of a public speaker. The woman was rich, to be sure, and wealth serves
to pay the expenses of an education. Another woman had the same dream and her child became
a hierophant [a priest]. For the serpent is a sacred animal and plays a part in secret rites. In this
case, the woman who had the dream was also a priest’s wife. Still yet another woman had the
same dream and her child became an excellent prophet. For the serpent is sacred to Apollo who
is the most versed in prophecy. This woman was also a prophet’s daughter. (Artemidorus, Oneirokritika 4.67; trans. Robert J. White)
The level of attention to this kind of detail suggests the potential complexity of the
analysis practised by formal specialists in oneiromancy and this work’s importance
for later dream-literature into the twentieth century cannot be overstated.
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The rich Greek oracular tradition already mentioned was not just exploited by
states and rulers, but also (and mainly so) by individual citizens. There was a bewildering array of Greek oracles geographically diverse and of greatly differing status.
They ranged from the more than sixty official and spectacular sites such as Delphi,
Dodona, or Didyma, to the most humble oracular rituals practised at neighbourhood
shrines or by single priests. The questions asked by individuals were equally diverse.
They could concern events such as travel, illness, marriage, infertility, legal problems,
and so on. The techniques used were also varied. At some shrines, the medium produced prophetic utterances, sometimes with the help of hallucinogen substances, or
inspired by the respective divinity (such as the Delphic Pythia), occasionally through
the intermediation of a priest. At others, the priests analysed the sacrificial fire (as
in the case of empyromancy at the Altar of Zeus in Olympia), drew lots (for example,
the casting of light and dark beans at Delphi), or, the increasingly popular practice in
imperial times, of oracles based on the casting of lots with symbolic or alphabetical
signs.
A final, though much less important category of divination specialists relevant to
private divination were the prophetes (“prophets”). The technical differences between
the prophets and the manteis are sometimes difficult to ascertain. One key difference
lies in the fact that the seers generally employed impetrative techniques, whereas
the prophets were associated with spontaneous divination. They were also generally
attached to an oracle where they demonstrated their talent by uttering words allegedly
inspired directly by the gods.
The specialists mandated with providing a professional framework for divinatory
practices in the private sphere were essentially the same as those within the context of
public divination, as the Greeks, in contrast to the Romans, scarcely employed priesthoods which dealt only with political questions. Thus, prophets, seers, or cleromantic specialists constituted a rich and complex pattern of specialists. They were often
ridiculed in contemporary literature, but nonetheless remained active and popular
until Late Antiquity. The consultation of these specialists required payment for their
services, which attracted additional criticism from philosophers and orators who
thought their mercenary activities were unbecoming in the context of true divination.
Unfortunately, the organisation of the various divinatory experts is largely unknown
to us. However, the most prestigious groups of diviners may have been united by a
hereditary aspect, as we know that the manteis of the archaic age often belonged to
the aristocracy and later on constituted real family clans such as the Melampidoi, the
Clytiadai, the Telliadai, or the Iamidai.
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Theories on Divination
In contrast to the ancient Near East which has left little information regarding theoretical, synthetical, and critical approaches to divination, there is a wealth of information from the Greek world regarding theological, philosophical, and analytical
understandings of divination. These theoretical interests are perhaps rooted in the
fact that Greek divination, as opposed to divination in the Near East as well as Etruria
and Rome, was often based on much more determinist conceptions of the future. This,
therefore, prompted an early debate regarding divination, fate, and human free will.
Already Homer had talked about the implicit competition between seers and poets.
His work suggested that there were limits to the credibility of both, even more so as
the Homeric gods did not refrain from fooling humans by sending them biased dream
messages or by breaking promises. Nevertheless, the period from the “Dark Ages”
up to the Classical period must have represented somewhat of a high point of Greek
divination, until the rise of philosophy in the sixth to fifth century led to a thorough
questioning of divination and the place of seers in Greek society. From the very beginning of the written record, there was a conflict between utter rejection of traditional
divination techniques on the one hand and conservative acceptation or philosophical
sublimation on the other. A legitimate question that might be asked is which approach
was, ultimately, more detrimental to divination itself? The philosopher Xenophanes
fully rejected any mantic belief; other writers complained about the obviously ambiguous and unhelpful responses of many oracular utterances; while the Pythagoreans,
on the contrary, had a positive attitude towards divination and were probably among
the first to differentiate between natural and artificial divination. Similarly, while the
sophists were very sceptical about tradition and divination, Socrates and his pupils
adopted a more positive attitude. He himself not only consulted the Delphic Oracle but
also, through the belief in his own daimonion, furthered confidence in the possibility
of inspired communication between man and divinity:
You do know what sort of man Chaerephon was, how vehement he was in whatever he would set
out to do. And in particular he once even went to Delphi and dared to consult the oracle about
this – now as I say, do not make disturbances, men – and he asked whether there was anyone
wiser than I. The Pythia replied that no one was wiser. And concerning these things his brother
here will be a witness for you, since he himself has met his end. (Plato, Apologia 21a; trans.
Thomas G. West)
Therefore, Plato and the early Academy, although they criticised many seers as sham
and were opposed to artificial divination, considered spontaneous divination as one
of the most beautiful arts. They focused on the idea of mantic inspiration, during
which the thinking faculties of the individual were supplanted by the divine. This
was regarded as a symmetrical reversal of man’s philosophical endeavour to send his
spirit heavenwards towards the sphere of the divine in order to comprehend the true
nature of his ideas:
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There is also a madness which is a divine gift, and the source of the chiefest blessings granted
to men. For prophecy is a madness, and the prophetess at Delphi and the priestesses at Dodona
when out of their senses have conferred great benefits on Hellas, both in public and private life,
but when in their senses few or none, […] and in proportion prophecy is more perfect and august
than augury, both in name and fact, in the same proportion, as the ancients testify, is madness
superior to a sane mind, for the one is only of human, but the other of divine origin. (Plato,
Phaedrus 244a–d; trans. Benjamin Jowett)
Aristotle and his school agreed, in the main, that the soul could communicate with
the transcendent world, but focused mainly on the phenomenon of sleep. According
to Aristotle, dreams were not the results of immediate divine intervention; he argued
rather that the soul of man, delivered from the sorrows of the body, could autonomously fully commune with the divinity. This is also why the Peripatetics largely
rejected artificial divination, albeit with some significant exceptions, such as Kratippos. Even Democritus and the atomists refrained from fully repudiating divination,
despite believing that even the gods were only composed of atoms. They thought the
gods were able to share their thoughts with men by sending them (material) images
perceived during sleep. Like the Academy and the Peripatetics, the atomists rejected
artificial divination. However, they believed that extispicy might work, not because
of divine interaction, but simply because extispicy mirrored earthly conditions, for
example the quality of the climate or the health of the sacrificial animal. This allowed
them to make a number of scientific predictions relevant to these topics.
Evidence for theories about divination in Hellenistic philosophy is very fragmentary and indirect. Most of the information is distilled through much later sources: in
particular Cicero’s De divinatione and De natura deorum, which both drew heavily
on Hellenistic literature, but also imperial compilations such as Diogenes Laertius’
biographies of the philosophers. The main philosophical antagonists of this period,
Stoicism and Epicureanism, also contradicted each other in relation to divination.
Stoicism intimately linked the existence of the gods with the existence of divination;
Epicureanism however denied any divine determinism and accepted only natural law.
Thus, the Stoa, in its endeavour to consider the traditional order as divinely pre-established, also tried to legitimise popular beliefs regarding divination, although there
were some significant exceptions to this tendency, notably Panaetius who adopted
a rather sceptical attitude. In general however, the Stoics held the ideal sage to be,
at the same time, a real mantis. His insight into the intrinsically Good was always
rewarded by insight into the future. This explains why, in ancient times, royal power,
and prophetic talent went hand in hand; a telling re-interpretation of Plato’s philosopher kings. Epicurus, however, thought that the gods, being themselves purely material, were not involved in the creation of the world and had no reason whatsoever to
interact with human beings. He believed that there was no common ground for any
form of communication, and that all techniques of divination were, therefore, erroneous, a sham, or simply grounded on a misunderstanding of natural laws. Finally, the
advocate of the Hellenistic “Middle Academy”, Arcesilas, in line with his sceptical atti-
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tude regarding the possibility of truth, adopted an attitude towards divination which
outlined the arguments in favour and against its existence, an approach taken over by
Carneades, the founder of the “New Academy”.
It seems relevant to mention the important role divination played in Greek historiography. In his Histories, Herodotus included a wealth of information regarding
the most diverse forms of divination – Greek and foreign. It seems obvious, given the
important conceptual place of oracles and dreams in his work, that divination had a
vital role in human affairs. Thus, while human hubris is at the origin of conflicts such
as the Persian Wars, the real trigger of the confrontation often consists in ambiguous
divine messages, meant to fool those who err in order to hasten their fall. Thucydides
criticised excessive believe in divination and explicitly focused on pragmatic and psychological aspects, while leaving out the “wonderful”. However, even he occasionally
mentions divine signs, such as the list of prodigies at the beginning of the Peloponnesian War. This demonstrates his interest in the importance of divination at times
of extraordinary collective tension. Although the importance of public divination
decreased during the fourth century, individual authors, such as Xenophon, continued
to express their belief in the possibility of communication between humans and the
divine. This belief came to full prominence in the Hellenistic period, when the popularity of the new literary genre of the biography and of the figure of Alexander the Great
kindled once again the belief in the manifestation of the divine will through human
agency. In particular, the biographies of the diverse Hellenistic rulers and politicians
assigned an important place to prodigies, omens and oracles. Here too, of course, the
philosophical debate on the reliability of divination led individual historians, such as
Polybius, largely to exclude divination from their narratives. Nevertheless, following the
general artistic orientation of the Hellenistic age, miraculous events seem to have occupied considerable parts of the historical narratives, although it is unclear how far these
descriptions matched aesthetic requirements rather than actual religious experience.
Etruria
Traditionally, Etruria had a religion revealed through prophecy. The so-called disciplina Etrusca (“the Etruscan discipline”) was taught to the twelve peoples of Etruria by
the small boy Tages who appeared fully-formed from a ploughman’s furrow. The words
were written down and preserved in the libri Tagetici and the libri Acheruntici. Another
myth related the transmission of books relevant to lightning lore by the nymph Begoe
(Vegoia) (the so-called libri Vegoici). The Etruscan texts no longer survive and what
we know about the disciplina Etrusca must be largely reconstructed from later, mainly
Roman, sources.
The responsibility for divination lay in the hands of the haruspices (netsvis). At
times the terminology ars haruspicina seems synonymous with the entirety of the
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Etruscan discipline. The haruspices were a body of sixty priests drawn from the sons
of Etruscan nobility, possibly representing each of the twelve cities of Etruria. Their
lore may have been passed down from father to son: there is good evidence for “dynasties” of haruspices and families with inter-generational haruspical expertise. But there
are other indications that there was a formalised system of education and a period of
apprenticeship in the ars haruspicina for the sons of Etruscan principes.
The haruspices were experts in extispicy or entrail inspection. Of particular
importance was the liver, although the heart, gall bladder, and lungs could also be
observed. In this respect, the significance of the act is attested by its portrayal on
Etruscan artefacts, sometimes in prognostic contexts. The discovery of a full-size
bronze liver from Piacenza divided into forty-two sections, named with Etruscan and
Italic gods, organised according to their heavenly and, perhaps, chthonic functions,
indicates that haruspices had didactic models to inform their interpretations. Its similarity to clay models from Mesopotamia may indicate that the Etruscans had been
influenced by their near-Eastern counterparts. Roman sources attest to a tendency for
the haruspices to make predictions from their sacrificial observations, based on the
favourable or unfavourable appearance of the entrails. The bronze liver model suggests that for the Etruscans extispicy was a complex process with multiple potential
outcomes and interpretations.
The Etruscans were also specialists in fulgural (thunder and lightning) lore. They
believed there were nine gods who threw thunderbolts and three types of lightning
sent by Jupiter. If the brontoscopic calendar preserved by John the Lydian from an
original translation by the Roman polymath, Nigidius Figulus, is a genuine Etruscan
document, then it gives some indication of methodology. It is written in a form reminiscent of Mesopotamian omen lists “if it thunders, then y”. The responses reflect a
variety of agricultural, social, and political concerns, some of which are mirrored in
the haruspical responses to sacrifice. Lightning bolts, on the other hand, seem to have
been subject to wider variations in interpretation. They could be advisory, confirmatory, or monitory, with a further hierarchy within this trifecta, whereby the prognostication could be perpetual, limited, or deferred. Furthermore, the haruspices’ response
was subject to restrictions according to whether they made their prediction on behalf
of the state or in a private capacity.
The Etruscan haruspices also had a special responsibility for the interpretation of
prodigies. At Rome they played an important role in confirming the responses of the
Sibylline Books or when a particularly dire prodigy required their intervention. For
example:
On a stormy night, while the city was taut with suspense because of the impending war, a bolt of
lightning struck and destroyed the columna rostrata;* it had been set up on the Capitoline during
the First Punic War to commemorate the victory of the consul Marcus Aemilius (the one whose
colleague was Servius Fulvius). This event was regarded as a portent and reported to the Senate.
The senators ordered the matter to be referred to the haruspices and also directed the decemvirs
to consult the sacred books. The decemvirs proclaimed that the city had to undergo a ceremo-
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nial cleansing, that a supplication and public appeal to the gods were necessary, and that there
should be a sacrifice with full-grown victims both at Rome on the Capitoline and in Campania
on the promontory of Minerva; in addition, there should be a ten-day festival for Jupiter Optimus
Maximus as soon as possible. All these procedures were carefully carried out. The haruspices
answered that the divine sign would turn out to be for the good and that it portended territorial
expansion and the death of enemies since the ships’ prows knocked over by the storm had been
enemy spoils. Other events combined to heighten the atmosphere of superstition: it had been
announced that at Saturnia it had rained blood in the town centre for three days in a row; at
Calatia a donkey was born with three legs, and a bull and five cows had been killed by a single
stroke of lightning; at Auximum it had rained earth. In response to these prodigies too, divine
rites were performed, there was a one-day supplication, and a holiday was observed. (Livy, Ab
urbe condita 42.20.1–6: 172 BC; trans. Jane D. Chaplin)
The haruspices were particularly implicated in cases where people or objects were
struck by lightning, peculiar behaviour by cows or oxen, talking infants, monstrous
human births, including hermaphrodites, violent storms, earthly flames and underground rumblings, and swarms of bees. In respect of these prodigia, the haruspices
had characteristic patterns of expiation. For example, the disposal of prodigies by
drowning or deportation, and burning. They also interpreted what prodigies portended in both a favourable and unfavourable sense. Their responses were typically
concerned with military success or civil discord, death, and bloodshed.
Haruspical interpretation also demonstrates a concern with position or orientation. This may be relevant to their augural expertise which, amongst other things,
involved rituals to establish the boundary of a city. For example, Plutarch records how
Romulus set about building his new city:
He summoned men from Etruria who were used to giving detailed instructions according to
certain sacred laws and formulae, and to act, so to speak, as the agents of holy ritual. A circular
pit was dug […]. In it were deposited offerings of all the things whose use is thought proper
according to human custom, or is rendered necessary by nature. […] They called this pit the
mundus, the same word that they used for the heavens. Then they marked out the city around it,
marking out the circle from the point of a compass. And the founder put a bronze blade on his
plough, yoked up a bull and a cow, and himself drove them on, drawing a deep furrow around
the boundaries, while his followers had the task of pushing back inside the city all the clods of
earth the plough turned up and not letting a single one lie outside. It was with this line that they
marked out the course of the wall, and it was called the pomerium. (Plutarch, Romulus 11.1–4;
trans. Mary Beard, John North, and Simon Price)
Etruscan bird lore observed unusual signs from diverse birds: crows, ravens, eagles,
and owls. Practical evidence is supplied by the famous painting of the historical figure
Vel Saties reading a bird omen, or the depiction of augurs in the “Tomba degli Auguri”
in Tarquinii, each one holding a lituus, a symbol of augural authority, used to mark
out regions on earth and in the sky. The attention to detail in other tomb paintings to
the number, colour, size, and action of birds may further reflect this Etruscan interest
in augury.
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Introductory Surveys
Other elements of Etruscan divination can be inferred from archaeological material. The evidence from the linen wrappings surrounding the Zagreb mummy and the
Capua tile indicate that religious life was built around yearly calendars which designated the sacrifices, offerings, and prayers to be offered to specific deities on specific
dates. Evidence from mirrors and other items suggests too that the Etruscans practised
lekanomanteia (divination from bowls of water) or catoptromanteia (divination with
mirrors). Moreover, they illustrate not only that Etruria might have inherited divinatory techniques from Mesopotamia, but that it could be a conduit for Greek and Italic
divination. For example, this is amply expressed in the depiction of the legendary
Greek seer Calchas reading the entrails or of the disembodied prophesying head of
Orpheus floating down the River Hebrus. Alternatively another mirror depicts the
Italic figure Cacu (Cacus), who appears less positively in the myths surround Herakles, playing the lyre and prophesying, about to be ensnared by the figures Avle Vipinas
and Caile Vipinas (the Vibenna brothers from Vulci).
Although its exact nature is shrouded in the cross-cultural elements common to
both Greek and Roman divination, the evidence which survives from Etruria then suggests a highly complex and developed system of divination. Nonetheless, it is possible to posit from the Piacenza liver or the detailed analysis of Etruscan fulgural lore
that they had a particularly analytical approach to divination. Presumably only those
trained as haruspices had access to their sacred texts. Those texts provided apparently
precise and communication with the gods, but, like other sacred texts, they required
expert exegesis by those specially trained as priests. However, this “bookishness” was
complemented by a less restrained prophetic tradition which could be traced to the
very origins of Etruscan religion. The combination explains why the Etruscan haruspices were freer than their Roman counterparts in offering allegorical and inferential
interpretations of supernatural phenomena. It also helps to explain why the Roman
state saw fit to utilise the haruspices at times of religious crisis and why, from the
second to first centuries BCE, haruspices become more conspicuous as personal advisors to ambitious magistrates.
Republican Rome
Public Divination
In one succinct paragraph Valerius Maximus, writing in the reign of Tiberius, summed
up Roman religion and divination:
Our ancestors wanted fixed and sacred ceremonies to be regulated by the knowledge of the pontiffs, authorizations for the successful conduct of affairs by the observations of the augurs, the
prophecies of Apollo by the books of the seers, and the averting of omens by the Etruscan dis-
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cipline. Also by ancient practice, attention is paid to the divine: through prayer when anything
requires entrusting to the gods; through a vow when a favour is to be requested; through a ceremony of thanksgiving when a vow is to be paid; through receipt of a favourable omen when is
necessary to consult either entrails or oracles; through sacrifice by which also the warnings of
prodigies and lightning strikes are averted when a customary rite is to be performed. (Valerius
Maximus, Facta 1.1.1; cf. Cicero, De haruspicum responso 9.18; trans. David Wardle)
Essential to an understanding of Roman religion, and consequently Roman divination, in the public sphere was the reciprocal concept of do ut des (“I give so that you
may give”). In other words, mortals made sacrifices, vows, prayers, and offerings to
the gods in order that the gods would grant their favour to the Roman state and populace. A feature of that reciprocal arrangement was the notion of the pax deorum.
The “peace of the gods” however was not a fixed concept. It had to be actively sought
with due care and attention to the appropriate rituals. This notion was of particular
concern at times of political, military, and religious crisis. Such crises could be taken
as indications of the ira deorum which, like efforts to obtain the favour of the gods,
had to be assuaged through appropriate religious measures, including sacrifices and
other ceremonies. In such situations, Roman divination was often not concerned with
a more precise understanding of future events but rather to understand the will or
intent of the gods and to ensure that the gods would become, or remain, well-disposed
to a particular political, military or religious undertaking. This mediation between
the human and the divine realm was achieved through Rome’s priests and her magistrates.
Four priesthoods had overall responsibility for divinatory matters, in addition to
a variety of other religious concerns: the pontifices (pontiffs), public augures (augurs),
the decemviri sacris faciundis (the Board of Ten, later Fifteen, in charge of the Sibylline
Books), and the Etruscan haruspices. Membership of these bodies was restricted to the
upper echelons of Roman and Etruscan society. In the case of the Roman priesthoods,
members were chosen for life by their peers, and many were also serving senators. But
in terms of the actual praxis of Roman divination, the responsibility for conducting
sacrifices or taking the auspices often fell to those officials elected under their own
auspices: the consuls, praetors, and censors. Furthermore, although it took advice
from its public priests through a process of consultation and debate, the Senate was
frequently the final authority on divine matters. Individual senators (and priests) could
also play an important role in recognizing when a ritual flaw or other portentous sign
had provoked the ira deorum, and reporting that to the Senate or appropriate college
of priests. Religious and divinatory concerns were, therefore, never dissociated from
the politico-military concerns of the Roman state and its individual magistrates.
The pontiffs, headed by the pontifex maximus, were entrusted with oversight of
the sacra publica et privata (public and private sacred rituals), the maintenance of
ancestral rites and ceremonies, and the adoption of new or foreign practices. They
were responsible for ensuring that the populace did not become corrupted either
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through a neglect of religion or through depraved religious practices. They were
also to teach which prodigies (including lightning bolts) were to be recognised and
expiated. Implicitly, this oversight also gave the pontifices power over the divinatory
mechanisms necessary to maintain or to secure the pax deorum. In particular, from
304 BCE onwards, the pontiffs maintained control over the publication of a formal
yearly calendar which prescribed those days most suited for religious activities, when
they were disallowed, and other rites and festivals intended to maintain the goodwill
of the gods.
The auspicia were the special concern of the public augurs who were both the
conduits and interpreters of the will of Jupiter, the god of the auspices. Like the pontifices, the augurs maintained their augural lore in sacred books only available to those
who were members of the priesthood. This lore primarily related to the observation of
the flight and call of birds, which were categorised hierarchically. The eagle was most
important but others, in particular vultures and crows, were considered important
indicators of the divine will. Other signs also fell to the interpretation of the augurs
including thunder and lightning (ex caelo), the tripudium solistimum, a special type of
augury involving sacred chickens, those concerning certain land animals (ex quadrupedibus), and other overtly ominous events (ex diris). It was often not the augurs who
carried out the observations but those state magistrates who held imperium (military
authority): the consuls, praetors, and censors. Potentially a magistrate might also be
an augur or an augur might be present as an advisor, but the augural college acted,
much as the pontifices, as a consultative body who could make a pronouncement on
the legality of the religious issue at hand.
Augural signs could either be impetrativa (“sought”) or oblativa (“unsought”).
Typical of the former were those ceremonies concerned with the inauguration of
people, places, and institutions. The fullest and most informative account of what
this ritual consisted comes in Livy’s anachronistic tale of King Numa’s inauguration:
After Numa was summoned he […] was then escorted to the citadel by an augur […]. Numa was
seated on a stone, facing the south, while the augur sat to his left, his head covered and holding
in his right hand a curved staff with knots which they called a lituus. Then, looking out over the
city and the countryside, he prayed to the gods and marked out an area in the sky from east to
west, designating the areas to the south “the right”, those to the north “the left”. He fixed in his
mind a landmark opposite him far off on the horizon; then, shifting the staff to his left hand and
placing his right hand on Numa’s head, he prayed as follows: ‘Father Jupiter, if it is heaven’s
will that Numa Pompilius whose head I am now touching be king at Rome, I ask you to grant
it by sending us favourable and clear signs within those boundaries that I have fixed.’ He then
enumerated the auspices that he wished to be sent. And sent they were: Numa was declared King
and descended from the sacred area of augury. (Livy, Ab urbe condita 1.18; trans. T. James Luce)
Properly regarded as auguria, the presiding augur or magistrate took up a position in
a small sacred enclosure called an auguraculum (at Rome, situated on the Capitoline
Hill on the very arx, close to the Temple of Jupiter). From there he would mark out
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another, imaginary, templum in the sky specifying a line from east to west and one
north to south with his lituus (a special, curved staff of office). With his hand placed
on the object of inauguration he would wait for Jupiter to send an indication of his
approval or disapproval. The value of the subsequent sign would depend on the quadrant in which the sign occurred.
The augural concern for orientation and the demarcation of sacred space also
delimited the boundaries between peace and war. The pomerium, a sacred ditch which
ran around the city, separated the city auspices (auspicia urbana) from the military
auspices. Within the city the auspices were always taken by the presiding magistrate
prior to the commencement of public business such as senatorial meetings or public
assemblies (comitia). An unfavourable sign from Jupiter before those meetings or
a ritual fault (a vitium), during the course of a comitium (for example, if lightning
or some other prodigy occurred) would delay or annul the proceedings for one day.
Where a political issue was particularly contentious this had the benefit of allowing passions to cool or creating space for considered reflection. However, in the later
Republic, rival politicians increasingly made use of obnuntiatio (an announcement
of adverse auspicia) to hamper the legislative ambitions of their opponents, as in the
case of Bibulus’ infamous observation of the skies in 59 BCE to prevent the legislative
programme proposed by his consular colleague, Julius Caesar:
So Caesar was chosen consul with Bibulus […]. He brought forward an agrarian law and when
Bibulus announced an obnuntiatio, Caesar drove him from the forum by force […] Caesar’s
conduct drove Bibulus to such a point of desperation that, until he departed office, hidden away
at home, he did nothing else other than announce an obstruction of the auspices through edicts.
(Sueton, Vita divi Iuli 19–20; trans. John C. Rolfe)
Such was Caesar’s control over the Senate, however, that Bibulus’ actions had minimal
effect.
On campaign, the general was accompanied by a pullarius (a chicken keeper) and
several sacred chickens retained in cages. Prior to a battle he would call on an auspical
expert who would instruct the pullarius to tell him when the chickens began to eat.
When some of the spelt fell from the chicken’s beaks on to the ground, the pullarius
would announce that there was now a tripudium solistimum and the gods had granted
their assent to the engagement. It was widely considered that failure to observe the
tripudium solistimum would lead to military defeat and disaster as in the case of P.
Claudius Pulcher who, in 249 BCE, lost the Battle of Drepanum or C. Flaminius who
was disastrously defeated at Cannae in 217 BCE.
The decemviri sacris faciundis and Etruscan haruspices were most clearly implicated in the interpretation of prodigia, although the pontifices, the Delphic Oracle, and
even the augurs could sometimes be called upon to give their opinion. Such prodigia
were a staple element of state sanctioned divination. Any event which appeared to
defy nature and challenged human reason might be considered a sign from heaven:
lunar and solar eclipses, two or three suns appearing in the sky, lightning strikes, St.
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Introductory Surveys
Elmo’s fire, mysterious rumblings in the earth, rains of stones, meat, or blood, talking
cows, two-headed sheep, five-footed horses, moving statues, interrupted sacrifices,
hermaphrodites, Siamese twins, famines, plagues, and floods, occasional dreams and
so on. By the third century BCE, prodigia appear to have become the clearest indication that something was amiss in human-divine relations. Their clustering at times
of intense political and military stress (for example, during the Second Punic War)
reflects too the religious and psychological concerns of the Roman populace during
these periods.
Such prodigia were reported to the Senate, who had the responsibility for deciding whether they were prodigia publica and pertained to the state. These were then
referred to the appropriate priestly body or bodies for interpretation. The decemviri consulted the libri Sibyllini (“the Sibylline Books”), until 12 BCE, housed in the
Temple of Jupiter; the haruspices resorted to the lore found in their libri fulgurales
and libri rituales. Normally these bodies recommended only those rituals necessary to
appease the gods, for example, a lectisternium (a ceremony honouring the gods with
wax images), a suovetaurilia (a sacrifice of a sow, sheep, and bull), or a ver sacrum
(a sacrifice of new born animals). The priests reported their findings to the Senate for
approval who instructed the consuls to oversee the various expiatory ceremonies prior
to their departure for their military commands. The fact that consuls were not permitted to leave for their provinces until they had concluded their presidency of the Latin
Festival and these expiation ceremonies, underscores the importance of the rituals as
a divinatory mechanism intended to secure and to ensure divine favour.
At all points of this process regarding prodigia there was an element of negotiation. This can be seen in the Senate’s willingness to refer the prodigia to more than
one priestly body, sometimes, for example, summoning haruspices from Etruria to
provide further exegesis; or referring the expiation ceremonies to the pontifices for
their approval. On two historical occasions, the Roman Senate sent envoys to Delphi
which recommended the importation of the foreign gods, Aesculapius and Cybele. The
responsa themselves could be a question for debate. This is explicit in Cicero’s speech
De haruspicum responsis which argued that the expiation ceremonies required by the
haruspices in response to a strange rumbling in the Ager Latiniensis applied not to
his own house as his enemy Clodius had alleged, but to a series of events in which
Clodius was implicated. Hints of similar debates emerge in 143 and 140 BCE when the
Sibylline Books attempted to block the construction of a water course to the Capitol
but were overcome by the gratia (“influence”) of the pro-praetor, Q. Marcius Rex who
was responsible for the project; or when C. Gracchus proposed colony at Junonia was
prevented after wolves were supposed to have disturbed the boundary markers. The
deliberative process around religion was also a political process which sought to come
to an informed consensus regarding the ambition of individual senators.
In the Roman world great importance was attached to sacrifice to secure the pax
deorum for a future venture or to atone for prior improprieties. Like other ritual practices associated with divination, there was “a complex diffusion of roles” among indi-
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41
viduals of different status and rank. The magistrate was assisted by experts in sacrifice
(victimiarii, popae) and officials, like their Etruscan counterparts, called haruspices,
with responsibility for reading the entrails. While the Etruscan haruspices assisted at
some state sacrifices, there appears to have been another, less esteemed, lower class
group of haruspices who performed similar duties of interpretation. A fault in sacrifice
(for example, the missing lobe of a liver or diseased internal organs) was considered
a prodigium. In Roman ritual, especially prior to battle, the sacrificant continued to
make further sacrifices until there were no evident vitia and the pax deorum could be
assured, a process known as litatio. Failure to reach the point of perlitatio (when the
gods had finally accepted the sacrifices) was disastrous and, like the taking of the
auspices, would temporarily delay action.
None of this, however, is to deny an element of prophecy in Roman ritual. There
are occasional glimpses of a richer vein of divinatory experience. For example, in 213
BCE, the Roman populace, gripped by an outpouring of superstitious fervor, began
to neglect their ancestral gods, and turned instead to foreign rites and practices. A
senatorial order demanded that anyone holding books of prophecies, prayers, or
sacrifice should submit them to the urban praetor. During the course of the investigation, oracles by a certain prophet named Marcius came to light. These seemed to
have predicted the disaster at Cannae and offered recommendations to drive Hannibal
out of Italy. Those prophecies were subsequently included in the Sibylline collection
and led to the establishment of the ludi Apollinares. Later oracles suggest that the
historical sources have perhaps painted a particularly sterile picture of the Sibylline
Oracle. For example, a reading of one oracle in 87 BCE allowed the consul Octavius to
expel Cinna and six tribuni plebis to guarantee “peace, tranquility and security” for
Rome; in 63 BCE, P. Cornelius Lentulus, the Catilinarian conspirator, had laid claim
to a Sibylline oracle predicting power in Rome for three Cornelii; in 56 BCE the Books
tactfully thwarted Pompey’s attempt to restore Ptolemy Auletes. They encouraged a
warm reception but predicted danger to the state should the Egyptian King be assisted
with a multitude.; and in 44 BCE, the quindecemviri were alleged to have found a verse
in the Sibylline Books which said that only a king could defeat the Parthians. In other
instances, we know of Etruscan texts (the Vegoia text; that of an unknown haruspex)
being incorporated into the collection and Cicero relates that the Senate listened to
the prophecies of Publicius and Culleolus, or that they reacted to a dream of Cornelia
to rebuild the Temple of Juno Sospita. It may simply be the case that for the Roman
Senate the process of procuration was far more important than any positive or negative pronouncement on future events conveyed by an oracle and, that the prophecy
was not normally divulged publicly.
Where the pontifices seem to have provided a mechanism for internal oversight,
the Etruscan haruspices provided independent and external expert analysis. This procedure of consulting foreign diviners has little parallel in other ancient societies. The
Etruscan haruspices permitted the Romans access to their specialist skills in certain
types of prodigy, for example, those concerning thunder and lighting, orientation,
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hermaphrodite births, and sacrifice. In contrast to the inductive processes associated
with Roman divination, prediction always seems to have been a feature of haruspical
interpretation.
From the second century BCE, those prescriptive responses begin to give way to
more overtly prophetic indications of the future both on the part of the Sibylline Books
and the haruspices. For example, when Cn. Manlius was about to attempt a crossing
of the Taurus mountains, he was advised not to test the disaster predicted by the Sibylline Books, or in 152 BCE after a statue before the temple of Jupiter was blown over,
the haruspices predicted the death of magistrates and priests; in 130 BCE they thought
the crying statue of Apollo indicated the end of Greece. Increasingly too prodigia were
related to specific individuals. For example, in 132 BCE a series of prodigies predicted
the death of Tiberius Gracchus, in the 40s BCE such prodigia also foretold the ends of
Pompey, Caesar, and Cicero.
Private Divination
It was once thought that diviners played a very small role in the private lives of Republican Romans and, if they did, only the lower classes were interested in such banal
activities. The surviving evidence both literary and archaeological paints a much more
vibrant and complex picture.
In the second century BCE, Cato the Elder famously forbad his vilicus (“farm
manager”) from consulting haruspices, augures, harioli and Chaldaei, not because
they were inaccessible to him or that consultation of such diviners was inappropriate but rather that they gave the vilicus access to the type of power of which only
his master could make correct and proper use. Other authors give similar rosters of
diviners: Plautus’ over-enthusiastic wife wanted money from her husband to give to
the praecantrices, coniectrices, hariolae and haruspicae. The collocation of harioli and
haruspices recurs in Terence. Quintus Cicero did not recognise sortilegi, harioli or psychomanteis (necromancers) but saved his harshest criticism for the openly mercenary
Marsian augurs, village haruspices, circus astrologers, coniectores of the goddess Isis,
and the interpretes somniorum. Later Juvenal would complain about the Jewish dream
interpreters, Armenian and Commagenian haruspices, and the Chaldaeans. Although
Etruscan haruspices could give private readings (Seneca the Elder drew a distinction
between their public and private pronouncements), Roman augurs did not. The haruspices and augures mentioned in these sources may have mimicked their officially
sanctioned counterparts but they lacked the same status. The village and foreign haruspices consulted inferior victims (frogs, doves, puppies), the terms “Pisidian” and
“Soran” (towns in Italy) were used to ridicule Appius’ Claudius’ belief in the predictive
power of augury. In addition to being well known for their augural expertise the Marsi
had a reputation for snake charming and other dubious practices associated with
magic. Such diviners provided the populace with additional outlets for their varied
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religious beliefs. The harioli uttered prophecies in an inspired frenzy, the coniectores
interpreted dreams, and the Chaldaeans (or mathematici) gave predictions based on
horary astrology. Authors such as Cicero, Livy, and Valerius Maximus critiqued their
activities because they demanded money for their services and preyed on the credulous but this is only further evidence for the pervasive presence of divination in the
everyday lives of the Romans.
Throughout the Roman world, families and individuals retained their own mantic
collections as the worldwide searches for books of oracles in 213, 83 and 12 BCE demonstrate. This supposes that such collections belonged in the hands of those who could
both read and interpret them, the Roman elite.
Not only did famous prophets, like the fratres Marcii, or Publicius and Culleolus,
belong to senatorial families but elite Romans could and did have recourse to diviners
in a private capacity. Tiberius Gracchus the Elder consulted the haruspices because a
snake had appeared in his bedroom; L. Aelius Tubero after a woodpecker had landed
on his head. In both cases the individuals were faced with an invidious choice: their
own life in exchange for that of their wife or the success of the state. The period from
the second to first century BCE witnessed a blurring between state-sanctioned divination and the use of divination to promote one’s own political ambition. Already in
the third century BCE, Scipio Africanus had feigned a special relationship with Jupiter
to enhance his own status. The tribune Gaius Gracchus consulted the haruspex Herennius Siculus, the general Marius was accompanied by a Syrian prophetess named
Martha. The demagogue Cinna appreciated the company of “Chaldaeans, sacrificers,
and Sibyllistai”: the list is not meant to be flattering. His opponent, the dictator Sulla
was guided by the haruspex Postumius and consulted Chaldaean astrologers. Aside
from the obvious explanation that written sources are more plentiful from this period
on, the Roman world had also been exposed to a variety of new religious and divinatory experiences, for example, the orgiastic rites of the Phrygian mother goddess,
Cybele, the Bacchanalian cult of Dionysus with all its mystical and magical elements,
or astrology which seems to have arrived alongside Greek philosophy and astronomical theory in the second century BCE. Furthermore, control over the divine could be
viewed as an important feature of an aspirant generalissimo’s claim to power.
Roman Theories on Divination
The study of Roman divination invariably begins with Cicero. His work De divinatione
(“On Divination”) is the only entirely extant work on the subject from ancient Greece
or Rome. Written in 45 or 44 BCE, it is the second of a trilogy of books which dealt successively with the nature of the gods, divination, and fate. The De divinatione has two
books, the first devoted to an essentially Stoic understanding of the importance and
validity of divination presented by the persona of Cicero’s younger brother, Quintus.
In the second book Marcus himself presents arguments which refute the power of
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divination. Schematically the work draws distinctions between divination through ars
(artificial divination) and divination through natura (nature). In this scheme haruspicy
(including extispicy, the interpretation of thunder (fulgura) and prodigies (ostenta)),
augury, omens, lots and horary astrology belong to artificial divination; prophecy
through inspiration (spontaneous (vaticinatio) or institutionalised (oracula)) and
dreams belong to natural divination. The work is a sophisticated attempt to set out
a complex Greek philosophical argument in pragmatic Roman terms. Ostensibly the
dialogue follows the rules of the New Academy, setting out both cases while allowing the reader to make up his own mind. Yet the two sides are not equally balanced.
Quintus’ approach is more haphazard and more inclined to examples from poetry,
not least drawing on Marcus’ own work, De consulatu suo; Marcus’ case, in contrast,
is more organised, and more rigorously and pragmatically argued. Neither persona
is wholly pro- or anti-divination. Quintus refutes the mercenary, low class characters
who inhabited the back streets of Rome. Marcus concludes that superstition must torn
up by the root, yet, as he had done in his earlier De legibus, acknowledges the value of
augury and haruspicy for the sake of political expediency and popular control.
Cicero, however, was not the first Roman to theorise on the validity of divination.
Already in the second century BCE the polymath and philhellene, C. Sulpicius Galus,
was alleged to have explained eclipses from a scientific, rather than prodigious, perspective. Poetry and prose from the same period demonstrates an understanding of
issues of reliability and validity of diviners and different forms of divination, critiquing those paid to divine or poking fun at the overly superstitious. Cato the Elder
famously claimed that he was amazed when one haruspex saw another, that he did
not burst out laughing.
Closer to Cicero’s own time the historian Sisenna had disputed the validity of
dreams but accepted the reliability of prodigies. Most significantly Varro’s magisterial
Antiquitates rerum divinarum, published just a few years prior to De divinatione, took a
very different approach. His work emphasised the human institutions relevant to divination at Rome: pontifices, augures, quindecimviri, but adopted a Greek philosophical
model for divination according to the four elements: earth, air, fire, and water.
Other authors tackled the question of divination in different ways. The pontifical
and augural lore was a matter for learned exegesis. Already in the third century BCE
Numerius Fabius Pictor had composed a work Iuris pontificii, but the most famous
attempts to illuminate the lore of the pontifices were the works by the Augustan
writers, M. Antistius Labeo and C. Ateius Capito. The grammarian Veranius published
a work Pontifical Questions in addition to one on augury. There were further works on
augury by Ap. Claudius Pulcher, L. Caesar, C. Marcellus, M. Messalla, Cicero himself
and Varro, who had all been members of the augural college. But not all upper class
Romans were solely concerned with state practices. Appius Claudius Pulcher was
ridiculed for his belief in the predictive power of augury and had a reputation as a
necromancer. No doubt, his augural work reflected his more esoteric interests. His
contemporary P. Nigidius Figulus (pr. 58 BCE) wrote works on private augury, entrails,
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dreams, published a brontoscopic calendar, and two works on astrology. His erudition reveals an intimate knowledge of Roman, Etruscan, Greek, Babylonian and other
Eastern systems of knowledge.
Empire
Public Divination
In the transition from Republic to Empire, Octavian (later Augustus) was quick to
grasp hold of the nuanced semiotic possibilities presented by divination in its various
forms at Rome. For Octavian divination became a means to exert his political superiority. When a comet shone for seven nights at the funeral games of Julius Caesar in 42
BCE, the Etruscan haruspex Volcatius interpreted it to mean the end of the ninth saeculum and the beginning of the tenth, an era marked by the ascendancy of Augustus
to sole rule. The aspirant Emperor claimed the comet was Caesar’s soul ascending to
heaven and, by implication, his own divine birthright. Furthermore, he associated the
astral symbolism with his right to rule by legitimising astrology: not only did he later
publish his horoscope but also minted coinage which celebrated his zodiacal sign,
Capricorn, and the astrum Caesaris.
Octavian also deliberately pursued a relationship with the god Apollo to undermine his political rival’s, Antony’s, association with Dionysus. A temple was dedicated and constructed on the Palatine, physically connected to Augustus’ own house.
Since the time of Sulla’s dictatorship (83–79 BCE), Apollo and his associated symbols
(tripod, Sibyl and cithara) were indications of a bright future. But under Augustus
his role as a god of prophecy was emphasised. The Sibylline books were moved from
the custody of Jupiter to the new temple and Sibylline prophecy became a feature of
the poetics of the new régime. When the Secular Games were celebrated in 17 BCE,
Horace’s carmen saeculare (“secular hymn”) connected Apollo with the change in
saecula, and coinage depicted Capricorn wreathed with the laurel of Apollo.
The appropriation of the very name Augustus recalled the founding of Rome
through augury and established a political and religious association with both
Romulus and Numa. When the Emperor later assumed the mantle of pontifex maximus
in 12 BCE, he had appropriated all the offices relevant to divination and ensured his
position as the cornerstone of human-divine relations. Etruscan, Greek, and Roman
divination and the populist appeal of astrology all served to emphasise the beginning of a new aureum saeculum the Emperor’s guidance. Res humanae and res divinae
would continue to be intertwined: the political well-being of the Emperor and the
Empire depended on his satisfactory relationship with the gods.
The emphasis on the individual emperor changed the ways in which people viewed
divination and the ways in which the ruling authorities could use it. Forms of divina-
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tion previously appropriate only in a private capacity became items for public consumption, and could even influence public behavior. In addition to the public use of
his horoscope, Augustus recorded his belief in dreams, omina (chance sayings and
happenings), and portents in his own Commentaries. He and his successors consulted
divinatory experts of all kinds. Astrologers, such as the neo-Platonists Thrasyllus and
his son Balbillus, became indispensable advisors to the Roman Emperors from Tiberius
to Vespasian. Their careers prospered if the Emperor prospered: if not, the alternative
was often death. Emperors and members of their families consulted oracular shrines
throughout the Mediterranean in efforts to demonstrate their claims to divinity: Germanicus at Claros; Titus at Paphos; Trajan at Didyma; Hadrian and Julian at Delphi.
While public prodigia were still reported and expiation ceremonies practised until
the time of Constantine (for example, one of his edicts established that the haruspices
could be consulted publicly if a building had been struck by lightning), they no longer
retained the same yearly importance. Certainly they could be indicators of some significant event such as those which predicted the Boudican revolt in CE 60:
At this juncture, for no apparent reason, the statue of Victory at Camulodunum fell down – with
its back turned as though it were fleeing the enemy. Delirious women chanted of destruction at
hand. They cried that in the local senate-house outlandish screams had been heard; the theatre
had echoed with shrieks; at the mouth of the Thames a phantom settlement had been seen in
ruins. Now the bloody appearance of the Ocean, and the appearance of human bodies left behind
by the ebbing tide, led the Britons to hope and the veterans to fear. (Tacitus, Annales 14.32.1–2;
trans. Michael Grant, lightly adapted)
Tacitus’ interest is in the psychological impact of the phenomena. But floods, earthquakes, and famine could now be dealt with by human agency and were not necessarily an indication of divine anger. Expiation ceremonies necessary to ensure the pax
deorum are all but absent from the imperial written record. The haruspical order was
so threatened that the Emperor Claudius wanted it protected by the pontifices lest it
fell into obsolescence through lack of use. By the second century CE, the biographer
and philosopher Plutarch was lamenting the decline of oracles, although these continued to be consulted well into the fourth century CE. Under the Emperors, sacrifice
remained a cohesive social force into the third century CE as the edicts of Decius and
Valerian demonstrate.
The focus on the persona of the Emperor meant that his religious welfare was of
particular concern. Indications of divine favour and displeasure were sought in those
dreams, omens, and portents which surrounded the ascendancy of a new ruler (the
omina imperii) or predicted his death (omina mortis). In Suetonius, the Emperor Domitian’s death was heralded by two omens:
A few months before he was killed, a raven on the Capitol cried out “All will be well,” an omen
which some interpreted as follows:
“Recently, a raven which was sitting on the Tarpeian rooftop,
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Could not say ‘It is well,’ but said ‘It will be.’ ”
They say that Domitian himself dreamed that a golden hump grew out on his back, and he took
this is definite omen that the condition of the empire would be happier and more prosperous after
his time. Admittedly in a short time it happened through the uprightness and moderate rule of
the succeeding emperors. (Suetonius, Vita Domitiani 23.2; trans. John C. Rolfe, lightly adapted)
No doubt many of these omina gained clarity after the fact, but they reflect a propagandistic element on the part of the Emperor to promote his own divine right to
rule and on the part of his opponents who tried to undermine that right. Such omina
marked moments of upheaval and transition from one Emperor to another, offering
a sense of continuity and allowing the Senate to recognise a new ruler as providentially assigned. Nowhere is this more evidence than in the panegyrics in honour of
Trajan or Constantine, celebrating their divine descent. Moreover, when the focus of
religion was on the Emperor’s standing with the gods, such phenomena also reflected
the psychological concerns of the populace at these moments of tension, confirming
their worst fears or reassuring them that all was well between the human and divine
realms.
Individual diviners now became part of the Emperor’s entourage, all the better
if they were not confined by the collegiate system of the augures or haruspices. Successive emperors actively and publicly consulted astrologers. Thrasyllus and his son
Balbillus advised emperors from Tiberius to Nero. Their careers prospered in line with
the fortunes of the Emperors. They had added respectability as well-known philosophers and political theorists in an age when Stoicism was the prevalent philosophy.
Private Divination
The willingness of the Emperor to look to other forms of divination also encouraged the
populace to expand their own divinatory experience. Under the Empire, experts from
Babylonia, Syria, and Judaea were embraced by the Roman populace. They actively
consulted Chaldaean astrologers, Commagenian haruspices and Jewish prophetesses.
Dream interpretation, as the references to Isiac coniectores or the works of Aelius Aristides and Artemidorus indicate, was an important and viable means of understanding
the will of the Gods. It was no longer confined to occasional pronouncements in the
Roman prodigy lists but could be discussed by Pliny the Younger and Suetonius Tranquillus as a guide to legal, political, or economic action.
Outside of the state apparatus for divination, there had always been other institutional means for approaching the divine. A case in point is the widespread existence of
shrines which used sortition (or “lots”). In response to a question, the enquirer drew a
stone or piece of wood or metal with an oracular pronouncement, not unlike modern
day Chinese fortune cookies. The most famous of those shrines was that of Fortuna
Primigenia at Praeneste (mod. Palestrina) established and maintained by the citizens
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of the town who had become wealthy through trade with the East. Cicero relates its
founding:
According to the annals of Praeneste Numerius Suffustius, who was a distinguished man of noble
birth, was admonished by dreams, often repeated, and finally even by threats, to split open a
flint rock which was lying in a designated place. Frightened by the visions and disregarding the
jeers of his fellow-townsmen he set about doing as he had been directed. And so when he had
broken open the stone, the lots sprang forth carved on oak, in ancient characters. The site where
the stone was found is religiously guarded to this day. It is hard by the statue of the infant Jupiter,
who is represented as sitting with Juno in the lap of Fortune and reaching for her breast, and it is
held in the highest reverence by mothers. (Cicero, De divinatione 2.85; trans. William A. Falconer)
And hints at the process involved:
At the present time the lots are taken from their receptacle if Fortune directs. What reliance, pray,
can you put in these lots, which at Fortune’s nod are shuffled and drawn by the hand of a child?
(Cicero, De divinatione 2.86; trans. William A. Falconer)
Presumably the involvement of a child acted as some kind of guarantee that the lots
were not being manipulated. Nonetheless, the role of an intermediary, as with other
forms of divination, was a way of mediating the god’s message and gave it validity. In
Cicero’s account the temple site had reverence through its beauty and age but was only
consulted by the common people. Archaeology, however, indicates the widespread
importance of these sacred sites. Similar sanctuaries devoted to sortition are known
to have existed throughout the Italian peninsula (for example, at Arezzo, Bahareno,
Cumae, Saepinum, Viterbo). Certainly, Cicero’s dismissal of sortition should not be
taken too seriously: the goddess Fortuna was essential to the trading and business
classes. The new imperial opportunities for economic interactions from East to West
saw widespread and itinerant sortilegi making use of ritual implements and oracular
texts like the second/third century sortes Astrampsychi to offer learned exegesis and
instill confidence in their ability to relay the will of the gods to their clients.
Foreignness and eastern esotericism, then, rooted in archaic rites and accompanied by ancient ritual texts, offered a myriad of ways to alleviate the political, social,
and economic concerns of a multi-cultural, multi-valent Imperial world.
However, none of that was without risk. Divination and its close relation, magic,
were also regarded as subversive forces. Accusations of astrology and magic as foundations of treason trials, especially in the early Empire, represented a genuine anxiety
on the part of the ruling authorities about the kind of power that individuals might
acquire through their consultations. Between 33 BCE and CE 96 there were no fewer
than ten praetorian edicts banning astrologers from Rome; Tiberius restricted the
secret consultation of haruspices; Claudius forbad Druidic rites. The fourth century
saw a renewed interest in controlling diviners. Constantine only permitted haruspices
to make public sacrifices but urged their consultation if a building had been struck
by lightning. Laws from Constantius onwards, when efforts were made to put an end
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to all types of private sacrifice and divination, became increasingly oppressive and
often violent, until the final prohibition against pagan sacrifice and the destruction
of temples in CE 435.
It is no coincidence that concerns regarding religious boundaries were most
marked in the earliest and latest years of the Roman Empire. Each occasion offered
the Emperor and his officials an opportunity to refocus and to renew attitudes towards
religion and, specifically, towards divination. Through their engagement with, and
control of, divination, successive Roman Emperors, from Augustus to Theodosius II,
could demonstrate the true location of divine power in the human realm.
Imperial Theories on Divination
The scepticism that pervades the second book of Cicero’s De divinatione is largely
absent from later, imperial Roman works. But there are no other books from antiquity
which present a theory or theories of divination so clearly and precisely. A confirmed
Stoic, Seneca the Younger could write about the scientific causes of eclipses but accept
that certain signs were sent from the Gods. Pliny the Elder’s Natural History is replete
with signs drawn from his sources. The modern scholar must look to compendia such
as Valerius Maximus’ Facta et dicta memorabilia or works of paradoxography such
as Phlegon of Tralles’, Book of Marvels where examples of divination are given with
little explanation, although that, in itself, suggests just how pervasive divination was
in both public and private life. The interest and validation of astrology meant that the
Empire spawned several astronomical and astrological works: Manilius, Astronomica
and Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos, perhaps the best known. Although both comment on the
scientific circumstances of astronomical phenomena, neither scorns the art of prognostication through the stars. Another area which gained in importance was dream
divination. The work of Aelius Aristides and Artemidorus, especially, point to the allegorical interpretations available for dreams.
Divination came back into its own with the highly sophisticated narratives of
the Neoplatonists. The works of Proclus, Porphyry, Iamblichus and others, reserved
a central place for divination in theurgy. In their narratives, human rationality and
divine revelation are intimately connected, just as they are in Plato’s Theaetetus or
Cicero’s De re publica, precisely because the Neoplatonist’s objective was to assimilate
himself to the divine.
Conclusion
Divination was embedded into all aspects of the ancient world. Politics, warfare,
business, and the daily lives of the ordinary man, woman, and slave depended on a
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carefully cultivated relationship with the divine without which society would scarcely
have functioned. It was also, therefore, deeply embedded within the power structures
of those ancient societies. In Babylonia, Etruria, and at Rome, the priests responsible
for divination also guided the state in more mundane and practical political matters.
At the governmental level divination provided a means of delaying decisions and
a mechanism for redirecting problems towards further discussion and debate; it could
prevent a particular political process or annul magisterial appointments; more positively, it was a means to soothe public anxieties when faced with political, economic,
or military hardship, thus helping to soothe both political and social tension; and,
further, it legitimated action on the part of the government and leading officials by
providing them with recourse to a higher agency. For this reason, modern scholars
have often pointed to the unscrupulous use of divination to achieve political objectives. But belief in the gods was not confined to the lower classes; the upper classes
were just as credulous even if they understood that divination could be manipulated
in their own favour.
More generally divination helped the group and individual make decisions which
were “particularly difficult, stressful, contentious and consequential” (Flower 2008).
Divination helped to validate those decisions and to provide confidence for specific
undertakings. It also, much like magic (of which it was a feature), gave society and
individuals a sense of control in situations where the causes of disquiet could not be
explained by the rational or scientific means at their disposal. For this the ancient
populations had recourse to the pseudo-scientific responses of their seers, prophets,
and diviners.
Although these ancient societies did not have anything which corresponds to
monotheistic scripture, the use of written texts was widespread. As we have seen,
numerous omen books are known from ancient Mesopotamia, for example, the
celestial omen series Enūma Anu Enlil or the terrestrial omen series Šumma ālu or
the numerous works on hepatoscopy and astrology. Similarly the Egyptians and
Greeks maintained their own records. The Etruscans kept sacred books devoted to
augury, sacrifice, and portents, and others which recorded the legendary prophecies of Tages and Vegoia (the libri Tagetici and libri Vegoici). The Romans had their
own libri augurales, and the libri Sibyllini (“the Sibylline books”) which preserved the
words of Apollo. Another significant text were the Annales Maximi which recorded
the prescriptions and responses of the pontiffs. There was an emphasis on divination
as a science or, at least, as a rational exercise which could accurately interpret the
will of the gods. Their pronouncements give the impression of verifiable outcomes
based on empirical observation and analysis. The omen books of the Mesopotamians, for example, often have an analogic structure corresponding to a conditional
statement “if x, then y”; in Etruscan lore specific expiation ceremonies were attached
to particular portents; the Romans had specific rules relating to the interpretation
of bird signs. The knowledge contained in those texts was often jealously guarded.
Only those with the right training or members of the priestly body responsible for
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their care were allowed to access their secrets. The alleged antiquity of the sources
and their acknowledgement by state authorities added to their aura of authenticity
as the words of the gods. Even written records were open to inferential explanation,
depending on the circumstances, timing, and location of the prodigious event. All of
the texts required expert exegesis whether Chaldaean priest, Etruscan haruspex, or
Roman augur.
Furthermore, forms of natural divination were always available. Some civilisations, such as the Egyptians or the Greeks, privileged inspired prophecy over artificial
divination, deferring to the warnings conveyed by oracles or dreams. The Mesopotamians preferred inductive divination, even insofar as it applied to their individual rulers. Roman practice, in contrast, emphasised the importance of sacrifice and
ritual in relation to state matters, but may, nonetheless, still have allowed elements of
prophecy, notably through the agency of the libri Sibyllini and the Etruscan haruspices.
Alongside the formal state and public contexts, there were plentiful opportunities
for the expert to offer private consultations or for itinerant and self-proclaimed divination experts to wander the Mediterranean providing advice to rich and poor alike.
Those experts too, for example, the sortilegi or dream interpreters, also had recourse
to books filled with “sacred” knowledge to promote their own claims to a privileged
relationship with the divine through public displays of their expertise and knowledge.
Sometimes those individuals mimicked the practices available at the state level. So, in
Greece, there were itinerant dream diviners, in Rome, backstreet haruspices, augurs
and Sibyllistai. The ancient Greek and Roman sources, in particular, worried about
the exploitation of divination for financial gain. A topical metaphor for understanding
ancient religion and divination is that of a “market-place”. The diffusion and variety
of divinatory methods available for the average citizen suggest that, in some respects,
this was more than a metaphor. The services of one diviner or another could literally
be purchased for a price. No doubt reputation, reliability, and the sales pitch of the
diviner were important factors in his/her financial survival.
Some final observations may be made. A ubiquitous ancient phenomenon, divination, prophecy and other methods of prognostication were diverse and complex.
There seems to have been a genuine societal need for wide varieties of engagement
with the divine. Ancient societies preferred no one method to the exclusion of all
others, whether at the state level or in private. Furthermore, individual methods of
prognostication were not constant and subject to fluctuations of interest and engagement. Notably, this can be observed in the varying fortunes of prodigy observation,
astrology, or haruspicy across the millennia. This pluralism also lent itself to a certain
fluidity and adaptation of divination in response to different or changed political and
social circumstances. For the most part, there appears to have been relaxed state regulation and minimal interference until private practices threatened the social order,
as occurred on various occasions during the Roman Republic and, more noticeably,
with the advent of Christianity. In all cases, the survival of individual rulers and whole
regimes depended on their ability to cultivate, appropriate, and actively demonstrate,
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their own special relationship with the divine. This ensured the survival of prophecy
and prognostication from one generation to the next both in public and in private.
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Plutarch. Plutarch’s Lives. 12 vols. Ed. Bernadotte Perrin. Loeb. Cambridge, MA, Reprint ed. 2014.
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Stoneman, Richard. The Ancient Oracles: Making the Gods Speak. New Haven, CT, 2011.
Struck, Peter. Divination and Human Nature: A Cognitive History of Intuition in Classical Antiquity.
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Elizabeth Boyle
Early Medieval Perspectives on Pre-Christian
Traditions in the Celtic World
General Remarks
This survey considers the evidence from the early medieval Celtic-speaking world,
principally sources in Old Irish (ca. 600–900) and Middle Irish (ca. 900–1200), Old
Welsh (ca. 800–1100) and Middle Welsh (ca. 1100–1500), as well as some key sources
in Latin that were written in Celtic-speaking kingdoms. Due to a combination of
factors, primarily the accidents of manuscript survival, but also to some extent the
circumstances of literary production, we have far more evidence from Ireland than we
do from Wales, Cornwall, Brittany or the Isle of Man before ca. 1200. Welsh sources
are far more plentiful from the thirteenth century onwards. The corpora of medieval
Cornish, Breton and Manx sources are very small. Pre-conversion sources written by
Roman ethnographers which discuss the practices of the “Celts”, or of Celtic Gaul or
Britain, cannot be presumed to give a factual account of “Celtic” society, nor can they
be presumed to apply to all areas of the Celtic-speaking world. The problematic nature
of such external sources, written by non-Celtic-speakers with complex political and
cultural agendas, has been well documented (e. g. Woolf 2011).
Literacy developed in tandem with Christianisation in Ireland (probably from the
fourth century onwards). Some monumental ogam inscriptions may date from before
the conversion period, although this is a matter of debate. We have no pre-Christian
textual sources from Ireland. Our earliest sustained Latin textual sources are the
writings of Saint Patrick, from the fifth century. Modern editions and translations of
these can be conveniently located at the Royal Irish Academy website on Saint Patrick
(www.confessio.ie). Our earliest Old Irish sources date from the late sixth or early
seventh century. Wales was Christianised during the Roman era. However, aside from
the corpus of epigraphic evidence, we have no pre-Christian textual sources from
Wales. Our earliest extended Latin source from Wales is Gildas, De excidio Britanniae, from the sixth century (Winterbottom 1978). The date of the earliest vernacular
sources is much-debated, with some arguing that the poetry of Y Gododdin may date
from as early as the sixth century, although it survives only in a thirteenth-century
manuscript. Many of our narrative sources are set in a pre-Christian context, but they
were written by Christian authors who were using the pre-Christian setting as a literary device. Christian authors were strongly influenced by the Bible, by Classical
authors and other literary texts, and by non-Christian neighbours (such as the first
generations of Scandinavian settlers in Ireland) in their depictions of pre-Christian
beliefs and practices. These sources tell us what Christian authors imaged pre-Christian belief to be; they are not accurate records of genuine pre-Christian practices.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-002
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Introductory Surveys
Because the pre-Christian religious systems of the Celtic-speaking world were
non-literate, and literacy developed as a result of contact with the Roman Empire,
we do not have a canon of pre-Christian religious texts or evidence of any centralised
moral authority. One explanation for the great variety and inconsistency in depictions
of pre-Christian practices in our medieval sources is that it may reflect local variety
in pre-Christian belief; alternatively, it may simply be the case that there is little or
no genuine information transmitted into the Christian age and the variety therefore
reflects the imaginings of the authors of our surviving sources.
Eschatology
In the seventh-century collection of writings on Saint Patrick by Tírechán, there is a
reference to the fifth-century pagan king Lóegaire awaiting the dies erdathe (day of
erdathe), which Tírechán glosses as “the day of the Lord’s judgement”, according to
the teaching of the magi (Bieler 1979, 132–133). Magi is a term usually – though problematically – translated as “druids”, but it is perhaps better understood as magi in
the biblical sense. Tírechán’s statement has been taken as meaning that pre-Christian
beliefs in Ireland included eschatological teachings about the end of the world. John
Carey, for example, has argued that Tírechán “preserves authentic traditions from the
conversion period” (Carey 1996, 42), and Jacopo Bisagni has (tentatively) described
the term dies erdathe as “the unique survival of a remarkable cultural-linguistic fossil”
(Bisagni 2011, 18). However, the context for this concept is problematic, because it
occurs in a passage where Lóegaire is describing his future burial. Tírechán states
that Lóegaire believes that he will be buried in the manner of the pagans “armed
in their tombs” on the ridges of Tara (Bieler 1979, 132–133). The problem with this
is that the type of burial that Tírechán envisages for Lóegaire is not attested in the
archaeological evidence for Ireland. Rather, Tírechán is describing contemporary
pagan burials of a kind witnessed in Anglo-Saxon England and continental Germanic
societies (↗ Mc­Kinnell, Pagan Traditions in Germanic Languages). He is drawing his
ideas of pagan burial from contemporary parallels, rather than preserving a memory
of the pre-Christian past. As such, we should be cautious of reading too much into this
reference to eschatological doctrine in pre-Christian Ireland.
A second passage in Tírechán’s work has also been taken as evidence of eschatological teaching in pre-Christian Ireland. Here, we are told that some “unbelievers”
reported that a certain deceased “prophet” had, at the mouth of a well, “made for
himself a shrine in the water under the stone to bleach his bones perpetually because
he feared the burning by fire” ([…] et dixit increduli quod quidam profeta mortuus fecit
bibliothicam sibi in aqua sub petra, ut dealbaret ossa sua semper, quia timuit ignis
exust<ion>em) (Tírechán, Collectanea, ed. Bieler, 152–153). Again, this has been taken
as evidence of pre-Christian eschatological doctrine of a great conflagration at the
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end of time and John Carey has linked it with the Classical account of Strabo (perhaps
drawing on Posidonius) that druids in Gaul “say that souls and the cosmos are indestructible, but that sometimes fire and water will overpower them” (cited in Carey
1996, 45). In spite of Carey’s sympathetic view of the reliability of Tírechán’s account,
even he concedes that there are many parallels to the idea of “conflagration and
deluge” in Judaeo-Christian apocalyptic texts (Carey 1996, 47) and, again, Tírechán
may be drawing on other models in his seventh-century construction of paganism,
rather than preserving evidence of pre-Christian belief in Ireland.
Prophecy
Some Old Irish political prophecies survive, although the more extensive and sophisticated political prophecies date from the Middle Irish period onwards. Baile in Scáil
(“The Phantom’s Frenzy”) seems to be derived from an earlier Old Irish narrative,
although it only survives in its Middle Irish reworking (Murray 2004). The narrative is
set in the reign of the mythical king Conn Cétchathach and purports to list all future
kings of Tara descending from him. The last historically identifiable king in the poem
is Flaithbertach mac Muirchertaig, king of Ailech, who became king in 1036. Despite
being written in a Christian environment, perhaps in the 860s, but reworked in its
extant form some time during or after the reign of Flaithbertach, the narrative setting
is not overtly Christian. Rather, the author uses the familiar allegorical conventions
of the feasting hall, the otherworldly apparition (the “phantom” of the text’s title,
who possesses the prophetic knowledge), and the woman who dispenses the ale of
sovereignty. One of the future rulers listed is a certain Áed Engach (in later Irish the
form of the name is Aodh Eanghach) who becomes, in later medieval Irish texts, symbolic of the ideal ruler: in praise poetry, genealogies and historical writing from the
thirteenth through to the eighteenth centuries, contemporary lords and kings are compared to him (Ó Buachalla 1989). In Baile in Scáil the “last ruler of Ireland” is said to
be a certain Flann Cinuch, who is not a descendant of Conn Cétchathach. Here, then,
we perhaps have the key to the purpose of this purported prophecy, in that it seeks
to assert the rights of one particular dynasty – the descendants of Conn, that is, the
Uí Néill – to the kingship of Tara (symbolically, if not politically, the high-kingship
of Ireland): once the “unbroken” succession of Uí Néill kings comes to an end, so
does the prophecy and by implication, since Flann is described as the “last ruler of
Ireland”, so will Ireland’s sovereignty come to an end.
There are other political prophecies dating from the Middle Irish period, such as
those attributed to Berchán (Hudson 1996). However, since these are placed in the
mouths of Christian ecclesiastical figures (in the case of Berchán, an abbot), these can
be read within the mainstream of medieval Christian political prophecies and do not
shed any light on the depiction of pre-Christian practices. For an exemplary case study
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of such prophecies being used to legitimate Middle Irish political-historical narratives
see Ní Mhaonaigh (2014).
Prophecies, set in the pre-Christian past, which predict the coming of Christianity
are very common in Old Irish literature, although the nature and methods of revelation vary from text to text. In many cases, characters are depicted as possessing a
sort of “natural inspiration”; in other cases their prophetic powers seem designed to
mirror those of the Old Testament prophets. In some versions of the Old Irish Aided
Chonchobuir (“Death of Conchobar”), the eponymous character is depicted as having
to spend seven years in a proto-penitential state: immobilised by a head injury, he can
neither feast nor make love, ride a horse or become angry. However, on the night that
Christ is crucified, he enquires as to the cause of the shaking of the elements. He is told
(either by a druí “wizard”, in some versions, or by a Roman consul in others) about
the Crucifixion. The news of Christ’s execution enrages him, and he launches into a
linguistically complex, but very beautiful, poetic utterance about his desire to defend
Christ. We are told that his rage caused a brain haemorrhage, which killed him, and
that his blood “baptised” him and he was one of the first pagans to go to heaven. The
different versions of this text are edited and translated by Meyer (1906).
In the Old Irish death-tale of Cú Chulainn, known as Brislech Mór Maige
Muirthemni, we see a very different form of prophecy about the coming of Christianity,
featuring a host of biblical and apocalyptic images of the “lamb” and the “calf”. Cú
Chulainn prophesies the coming of Christianity to Ireland “from the Alps of Europe”,
and the Crucifixion, the Harrowing of Hell and the Resurrection: “A sister’s son of men
will come; His law will fill every place; He will hinder your deception; Jesus will vanquish Hell for the tribes of Adam’s offspring in a vain realm […]” (Brislech Mór Maige
Muirthemni, ed. Kimpton, 46).
We have a variety of examples of pre-Christian figures – both human and supernatural – prophesying a general breakdown in social order, sometimes as a sign of an
approaching end time. These instances, however, draw heavily from Christian eschatology. For example, in the early Middle Irish text, Cath Maige Tuired (“The Second
Battle of Moytura”), the war-goddess, the Morrígan, prophesies the end of world –
“her dire predictions are of the breakdown and transgression of social bonds accompanied by the failure of Ireland’s fertility” (Williams 2010, 30). Similarly, the mythical
scholar, Cenn Fáelad, is depicted as predicting an end of the world in which “There
will be judges without knowledge, without information, without learning. There will
be lords without wisdom. There will be women without modesty” (Smith 1929).
Multiple pre-Christian figures are depicted as prophesying a more general arrival
of Christianity. One shorthand for the coming of Christians is the idea of the arrival
of “adze-heads”, so-called because of the shape in profile of the head of a religious
with his monastic hood pulled up. For examples of this, see the Electronic Dictionary
of the Irish Language (EDIL: www.dil.ie), s. v. tálcend. Another, found particularly in
legal texts, is prophesying of the coming of the “pure/white language of the Beati”, in
this case using a reference to Psalm 118 as a shorthand for all Christian sacred texts.
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Again, examples can be found in EDIL, s. v. biait (b). This utilises prophecy to give a
false sense of historicity to laws which were relatively recent creations: that the lawcodes were written in the seventh and eighth centuries is well-established, but jurists
sought to give them the appearance of having been written in the era of Patrick. For a
seminal study, see Ó Corráin et al. (1984).
We have a large number of sources pertaining to political prophecy from later
medieval Wales. Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Prophetiae Merlini, which forms the seventh
book of his Historia Regum Britanniae (1136) was hugely popular in Britain and beyond
from the twelfth century onwards, and it has been argued that elements of Merlin’s
prophecies are derived from earlier Welsh sources. For example, it has been argued
that his use of animal symbolism borrows elements from medieval Welsh heroic
poetry (Edel 1983/1984; see also Jarman 1991). However, with Geoffrey, disentangling
his uses of existing traditions from his own imaginative constructions is a vexed task
(on Merlin as prophetic figure see also ↗ Lehner, Prognostication in Latin Historiography). Gerald of Wales, also writing in Latin in the twelfth century, evinces a similar
interest in Merlin and in prophecy but this must be understood in its medieval Christian political context rather than being seen as evidence of the continuity of pre-Christian ideas into the Christian era (Padel 2006, 63–64).
Modern historians have frequently depicted the Welsh political rebel Owain Glyn
Dŵr (d. ca. 1415) as being obsessed with political prophecy, but Helen Fulton has
argued that this “is in fact a sixteenth-century English language construct” (Fulton
2005, 107). Fulton demonstrates that, far from being a “gullible Welshman foolishly
led by prophecy”, when Glyn Dŵr made reference to political prophecies, he was actually engaging in a mode of political discourse which was dominant among his English
contemporaries, many of whom would have read Geoffrey’s Prophetiae Merlini (Fulton
2005, 108).
Clearly, however, some Welshmen did in fact continue to dabble (whether or not
they believed) in occult practices: in a fifteenth-century Welsh poem by Ieuan ap Rhydderch we find references to both necromancy (igmars) and games of chance (rhagman,
borrowed from Middle English ragman) as being amongst the more risqué items of
knowledge of an educated gentleman (Breeze 1996, 32–33). We should view this more
as a form of intellectual curiosity in the occult, such as was common throughout late
medieval Europe, rather than as evidence of continuity of pre-Christian belief.
Manticism
Certain characters are depicted as possessing mantic abilities in medieval Irish literature, most notably Finn mac Cumaill (Nagy 1997; Nagy 1985). However, although
mantic practices are generally regarded negatively in medieval Christian literature, in
the case of Finn his powers are frequently portrayed in positive terms. The author of
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the early thirteenth-century Acallam na Senórach (“Colloquy of the Ancients”) shapes
his complex and sophisticated narrative in order to frame Finn as a proto-Christian
who uses his mantic abilities to prophesy the coming of Christianity (Acallam na
Senórach, eds. Dooley and Roe). The source of Finn’s mantic powers is his thumb –
these abilities are depicted as having been acquired in different circumstances in
different Middle Irish tales, either because his thumb was trapped in a door to the
otherworld, or because he burnt it while cooking a “salmon of knowledge”. In either
case, he puts his thumb “under his tooth” in order to access his supernatural wisdom.
Metamorphosis and Transmigration
The seventh-century Hiberno-Latin theological tract De mirabilibus sacrae scripturae,
by Augustinus Hibernicus, seeks to explain biblical miracles on rational grounds. In
one passage, where he discusses the possibility that one thing can be transformed into
another, he outlines the importance of the idea that any given thing, at any given time,
should “remain firmly within the bounds of its own nature”. Otherwise, he warns,
“We would seem, indeed, to give our assent to the laughable tales told by the magi,
who say that their forebears flew through the ages in the form of birds” (Carey 1998,
58). In his translation of this passage, Carey translates magi as “druids” and characterises Augustinus Hibernicus’s statement as evidence of the continued activity of
druids in seventh- and eighth-century Ireland and of the teaching of a “doctrine of
metempsychosis or reincarnation” (Carey 1998, 12). However, nowhere does Augustinus Hibernicus state that the magi he is referring to are Irish or contemporaneous to
him: he could be referring to earlier Greek or Latin teachings on physical metamorphosis or the transmigration of the soul.
That being said, transformation into animal form is a frequently occurring feature
in medieval Irish literature, although these metamorphoses are rarely for the purpose
of prophecy or prognostication. Rather, many of the transformations from human to
successive series of animals serve the purpose of giving a character a supernaturally
long life in order that they can survive into the Christian era as a historical witness to
events in the deep past, thus legitimating the account of “history” that is presented in
the narrative. A particularly good example of this is the Old Irish Scél Tuáin meic Chairill (“Tale of Tuán son of Cairell”), where Tuán recounts to Saint Finnia the pre-Christian “history” of Ireland, which he has witnessed while in the form of a wild boar, then
a hawk, then a salmon. However, even in his function as a historical witness, Tuán still
describes himself as a “prophet” (fáith), although his only prophecy in the text is that
Finnia’s house will flourish (Carey 1984).
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Astral Sciences, Calendrical Calculation and
­Meteorological Phenomena
In seventh- and eighth-century Ireland, scholars produced a large number of computistical texts, some of which represent scientific learning of an astonishingly sophisticated level (Warntjes 2010). Mark Williams has strongly (and rightly) criticised Peter
Beresford Ellis for his “intellectual sleight of hand” in stating that computus depended
on astronomical observations and “as astronomy and astrology ‘always’ go together,
early Irish churchmen were necessarily familiar with a kind of astrology” (Williams
2010, xxvii). It is of course important to distinguish between astronomy and astrology
and the two did not, in fact, “always” go together in the early Middle Ages. Certainly
where we have a great deal of evidence of calendrical calculations and the scientific
study of lunar and solar eclipses in early medieval Ireland, we have very little evidence
at all of interest in any form of astrology.
It has become a commonplace that druids were interested in astral sciences,
although there is little evidence to support this. One fleeting reference, upon which
much has been based, is found in the First Latin Life of Saint Brigit, or the Vita Prima.
In it, we are told regarding a certain magus that “One night this magus was keeping
watch, as was his custom, contemplating the stars of heaven […]” (Nocte quadam hic
magus erat vigilans suo more astra caeli considerans […]). Fergus Kelly cited this passage
as evidence that Irish druids were “astrologers”; however, Mark Williams has raised
several significant objections to this, not least the author’s possible debt to Isidore of
Seville’s depiction of magi as astrologers (Williams 2010, 38–39, discussing Kelly 2001).
Nélatóracht (“cloud-divination”) is a practice which is clearly described in four
Irish narrative texts, of which the earliest is Acallam na Senórach, dating from the first
decades of the thirteenth century. The four texts are discussed in detail by Williams
(2010, 42–49). However, there is a more ambiguous reference in an earlier source,
namely the mid-twelfth-century Irish Life of Saint Columba. As Williams has noted,
the fact that this instance of possible cloud-divination does not occur in earlier Lives
of Columba suggests an eleventh- or twelfth-century date for the emergence of the
cloud-divination topos in Irish literature. In the Columban text, we are told that
Columba’s priestly guardian, Cruithnechán, consults a “prophet” about whether it is
an auspicious time for Columba to begin his education. After the prophet had examined the sky (O ra fég in fáith nem) he declared that Columba should indeed learn to
read (Williams 2010, 49–50). Mark Williams has convincingly argued that cloud-divination by “druids” and “prophets” in late medieval Irish literature is “a high medieval literary innovation” rather than a continuous cultural memory of pre-Christian
practices.
By contrast, Williams has suggested that conjuring of mist or fog by druids may
well be a “genuinely ancient and pre-Christian idea”. It occurs in the seventh-century
Vita Sancti Columbae by Adomnán of Iona, and Williams has noted that the “specific
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association with atmospheric vapours is in fact one of the few elements of the early
Irish image of the druid which is not traceable to Isidore [of Seville] or the Bible”
(Williams 2010, 51).
Instances of calendrical calculation only occur in a Christian context. For example,
the (probably eleventh-century) hortatory diatribe The Second Vision of Adomnán,
though predominantly written in the vernacular, begins with a Latin opening which
connects the perceived moral decline of Irish society with the threat of a devastating fire and plague which will destroy Ireland when certain calendrical conditions
converge (Volmering 2014). This text has been connected with the year 1096, when a
“great fear” is recorded in certain medieval Irish chronicles, due to the convergence of
most of those calendrical conditions. The concerns of the author of Adomnán’s Second
Vision are mostly generic: the failure to adhere to Christian values; moral decline; the
lack of proper provision for churches. It is within this context that the author then
berates Irish Christians for backsliding into a sort of paganism “except only that they
have not worshipped idols”. He accuses them of using magic and “spells and charms,
and divination” (Volmering 2014). The author of the Second Vision seeks a return to
an imagined “Golden Age” of Irish Christianity before the perceived decline of his
contemporary society. The author also sees a clear connection between unregulated
engagement with the supernatural – augury, spells and charms – and the need for
the moral reform of society. However, his rhetoric of a return to “paganism” in Irish
society needs to be understood as typical of this sort of genre of Christian reforming tract rather than as evidence of spells and charms being used in a consciously
non-Christian context.
Prognostication through Flora and Fauna
It is often assumed in popular culture – due in part to the enduring influence of
the mythological thinking of Robert Graves’s The White Goddess – that nature in
general, and trees in particular, had a central significance in the religious beliefs
of pre-Christian Ireland and Wales. One fascinating source is the Middle Welsh Cad
Goddau (“Battle of the Trees”), which is preserved in the fourteenth-century Book of
Taliesin. This poem, in which trees and shrubs combine forces as an arboreal army,
fighting against a common foe, has attracted a great deal of interest, and its tree-list,
which comprises some thirty-four items is of major importance to natural historians.
However, Marged Haycock has argued convincingly that this poem is far from the
“sacred grove mythology” or “mystical alphabet poem” of Graves and his adherents,
but is rather “the first Welsh example of mock-heroic poetry” (Haycock 1990, 302,
306). In her close analysis of the list, she observes that in the poem there is “no correspondence at all with the order of the Welsh legal tree-tracts nor with the order of
plants listed in the early nature poetry” (Haycock 1990, 302).
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Tree-lists have often been singled out as a survival from pre-Christian “Celtic”
religion, but as Haycock has pointed out, “tree-catalogues (like other lists) were a
commonplace in Classical literature and were widely imitated by medieval authors”
(Haycock 1990, 305; for a discussion of an Old Irish tree-list see Kelly 1976). Medieval
Irish lists of trees have also been interpreted as mystical or quasi-religious survivals
from the pre-Christian era. The fact that some of the names of letters in the ogam
alphabet (an alphabet used for monumental inscriptions in the early Christian period)
are tree-names – e. g. “B” is beithe, meaning “birch-tree”; “V/F” is fern, meaning
“alder” – caused some early twentieth-century scholars to ascribe to the ogam alphabet some sort of connection with occult tree-lore, but this has since been disproven
(McManus 1991). The association with trees is more likely to result from the use of
wood as a medium for writing on.
Two short Middle Irish texts, preserved by a later scribe filling in blank spaces in
Trinity College Dublin MS H. 3.17, tell us something about prognostication from bird
calls in medieval Ireland. For example, the piece on ravens begins by stating that “If
the raven call from above an enclosed bed in the midst of the house, it is a distinguished grey-haired guest or clerics that are coming to thee, but there is a difference
between them: if it be a secular cleric the raven says bacach; if it be a man in orders
it calls gradh gradh […]” (Best 1916, 121 (text), 123 (translation, slightly adapted)). The
Christian society within which such superstitions operated is clear from these opening
lines, and the text cannot therefore be taken as preserving any pre-Christian lore.
Similarly, the piece on wrens warns that if one hears a wren call “behind thee from
the south, thou wilt see the heads of good clergy, or hear death-tidings of noble ex-laymen” (Best 1916, 122–123 (text), 125 (translation)). The “ex-layman” refers to noblemen
who enter religious orders late in life). It is stated that the calls of wrens can also
predict such misfortunes as sickness in one’s herds or the abduction of one’s wife.
Medical Prognostication
In the (seventh- or eighth-century) Vita Prima of Saint Brigit, it is a magus who interprets the meaning of Brigit’s nausea. He states that he is unclean, but that Brigit “is
filled with the Holy Spirit. She can’t endure my food”. He thus sets aside a white cow
milked by a Christian virgin for Brigit’s consumption (cited and discussed in McKenna
2002, 68). However, this is a spiritual diagnosis of a medical ailment, rather than an
instance of medical magic or prediction per se.
Predictions made of the fate of unborn children are widespread in hagiography
and narrative literature. For example, a magus predicts that the unborn Brigit will
go on to free her mother from slavery and reign over her half-siblings (the passage is
discussed in McKenna 2002, 71). In the Old Irish narrative Longes mac nUislenn (“The
Exile of the Sons of Uisliu”) a druí predicts that the unborn Deirdre will go on to be
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the cause of bloodshed amongst the Ulstermen (Hull 1949). On a related note, the Old
Irish “Book of Ogam” (In Lebor Ogaim), preserved in manuscripts dating from the fourteenth century onwards, describes something called “boy-ogam” (macogam), which
is “a method of divining the sex of an unborn child by ‘dividing’ the mother’s name
(i. e. the letters of her name) in two, an uneven division indicating a boy” (McManus
1991, 140).
We have some clear instances of medical prognostication in Irish narrative literature. In one version of the Old Irish Aided Chonchobuir (“Death of Conchobar”), we are
told that the physician, Fíngen, could identify the number of sick people in a house,
and the ailments from which they were suffering, based on the smoke that rose from
their dwelling (Meyer 1906, 8–9).
The character of Dían Cécht recurs in numerous medieval Irish narrative texts as an
archetypal physician with magico-medical skills. The association between Dían Cécht
and medical learning clearly exceeds the bounds of narrative literature and we find
intertextual references to Dían Cécht in medical, grammatical and Christian religious
texts which demonstrate the interconnections between various branches of learning
in medieval Ireland (Hayden 2014, 37–40; Hayden 2019). The presence of Dían Cécht
in texts of undoubted Christian provenance and worldview exemplifies the complex –
and as yet not fully understood – relationship between Christian authors and their
depictions of pre-Christian practices in the literatures of the Celtic-speaking world.
Selected Bibliography
Acallam na Senórach. Tales of the Elders of Ireland: A New Translation of Acallam na Senórach. Eds.
Ann Dooley and Harry Roe. Oxford, 1999.
Aided Chonchobuir. The Death-Tales of the Ulster Heroes. Ed. and trans. Kuno Meyer. Dublin, 1906.
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John McKinnell
Pagan Traditions of Prognostication in the
Germanic Languages
Introduction – The Problem of Historical Sources
This survey covers only traditions in the medieval Germanic languages, principally
Old Norse, but also Old English, Old High German and Old Saxon, and relevant related
material in Latin.
Most of the sources for pagan Germanic prognostication are more recent than
those in the other traditions considered within this project. The oldest significant
written source is Tacitus, Germania, completed in 98 CE (Tacitus, Germania, ed. Anderson; trans. Rives). The oldest known runic inscriptions (e. g. Illerup Ådal, E. Jutland,
Denmark) date from the late second century (Moltke 1985, 95–99; McKinnell et al.
2004, 43–44). The oldest surviving Old Norse poems (e. g. Bragi Boddason’s Ragnarsdrápa, Skj. I A: 1–4 and I B: 1–4) were orally composed, probably in the mid-ninth
century; and the most informative prose sources date mainly from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, one of the oldest being Ari Þorgilsson’s Íslendingabók, whose surviving (revised) version was completed by 1148 (further see Jónas Kristjánsson 1997).
The manuscripts and the prose narratives are all post-Conversion (largely from
the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, although much of their subject matter is concerned with pagan times). Some inscriptions and picture stones are from the heathen
period, but few of them are concerned with prediction (for Swedish picture stones see
Jansson 1987; for northern England see Kopar 2012; for the Isle of Man see Cubbon
1977).
Some other sources are pre-Conversion but written by outsiders who were likely
to misreport or misunderstand some of the traditions they record. In Germania ch. 10,
for example, Tacitus is probably roughly accurate in describing casting of marked
wooden chips (possibly marked with runes?) as a method of augury, but his assertion
that the Germanic peoples predict the outcome of wars through single combat may
misunderstand a system like that of the later holmgang, in which single combat is seen
as an alternative to battle rather than a prediction of its outcome (Tacitus, Germania,
trans. Rives, 81 and notes on 165–166 and 168).
In the manuscript tradition, some Eddic poems are probably of pre-Christian
origin, but they were not fixed texts (see Eddukvæði I–II and translations in Orchard
2011). Skaldic verse (for which see SP and Skj.) is harder to modify and easier to date,
and a good deal of it survives from the pre-Christian period, but most of it is concerned
to praise the past achievements of rulers rather than to predict the future.
Even when a poem includes what looks like a heathen prediction, the poet may
have been a Christian who was merely using heathen mythology as a literary device.
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In Þorfinnsdrápa 24 (Whaley 2009, 128; SP II: 258–259), Arnórr jarlaskáld says that the
sun will turn black, the earth sink in the sea and the sky be torn apart before a finer
chieftain than Þorfinnr will be born in Orkney. This refers to heathen belief in Ragnarǫk (see below), but Arnórr was a Christian, and this is a rhetorical flourish rather
than a serious prediction.
In the pre-Christian period the Germanic peoples were not literate except in runes,
and their mythology had no fixed canon of sacred texts. This made it possible for
mutually incompatible traditions to exist side by side, and for Germanic heathenism
to change and absorb outside influences.
However, there does seem to have been a generally accepted belief in an absolute
Fate which neither men nor gods could avoid, although when and how it would come
to pass might remain mysterious.
Germanic heathenism had no central organisation to control belief and behaviour
and no canon of sacred written texts to impart the moral authority that could turn
prediction into prophecy and dream into vision. I will therefore deal with these topics
only under the headings of Interpretation of Signs and Dreams and Manticism.
Eschatology: The Fate of the World
The main predictive myth within the concept of Fate was that of Ragnarǫk, the inevitable future downfall of gods and men in a cosmic war against giants and monsters,
in which the world will be destroyed.
Important elements of this myth appear on pre-Christian and Conversion-period picture stones dating from the tenth and eleventh centuries: Heimdallr blowing
his horn to warn the gods of the approach of their enemies (Jurby, Isle of Man, and
probably Ovingham, Northumberland), Óðinn being swallowed by the wolf Fenrir
(Kirk Andreas, Isle of Man, Heysham hogback side A, Ledberg stone, Östergötland,
Sweden), Víðarr taking vengeance by killing Fenrir (probably Ovingham and the Gosforth Cross, Cumbria), and general Ragnarǫk scenes at Skipwith, North Yorkshire and
(probably) Sockburn, County Durham.
Descriptions of Ragnarǫk in eddic poems whose substance is probably largely
pre-Christian appear in several Eddic poems, notably Vǫluspá and Vafþrúðnismál, and
in a prose elaboration based on eddic verse in Snorri’s Gylfaginning chs. 51–53 (Faulkes
1982, 49–54). They agree that Ragnarǫk is inevitable and that in it:
– Freyr will fall in battle against the fire-demon Surtr;
– Óðinn will be swallowed by the wolf Fenrir, who will in turn be destroyed by
Óðinn’s son Víðarr;
– Þórr and the World Serpent (Miðgarðsormr) will kill each other;
– The world will be destroyed by fire and will sink into the sea;
– A new world will then emerge from the sea.
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However, there is disagreement about which of the gods will survive Ragnarǫk.
Vǫluspá claims that the innocent gods (Hœnir, Hǫðr and Baldr) will return, whereas
the survivors in Vafþrúðnismál are Móði and Magni (“Courage” and “Strength”), the
sons of Þórr, and the just avengers Váli and Víðarr. This suggests that the ideology of
individual contributors to the poetic tradition could sometimes modify the details of
the predictive myth.
At least one description of Ragnarǫk (Vǫluspá) shows some signs of Christian
influence. Its account of the chaos before the gods created the world echoes some lines
of the Old High German Wessobrunnergebet (for which, see Schlosser 1998, 44–45).
Its use of mjǫtviðr (understood as meaning “measuring tree”) for the World Tree
Yggdrasill is probably a literal re-imagining of the Old Saxon or Old English metod,
meaning Fate or God (literally “that which has been measured”, seen for example
in the Old English Cædmon’s Hymn 2, composed ca, 680 (Hamer 1970, 122–123); and
the giant Muspell is probably a personification derived from Old High German or Old
Saxon mu(d)spilli “Doomsday” (literally “great event”), for which see e. g. the Old
Saxon Heliand 2591 (Behagel 1933, 91) and the Old High German Muspilli (ed. and
trans. Schlosser, 70–75). However, it does not seem possible to explain Ragnarǫk as
wholly derived from Christianity.
Eschatology: The Fates of Individuals
Fate could also be personified in the form of the Norns, female figures who were
thought to preside over the fates of individuals. According to Vǫluspá 20 they are three
giant women called Urðr, Verðandi and Skuld, often rendered as “Past”, “Present”
and “Future”, though their names literally mean “Fate”, “Existence” and “Debt”.
Elsewhere there are an unspecified number of norns, and Fáfnismál 13 says they are
of various origins – some related to the gods, some to the elves, and some the daughters of Dvalinn (dwarfs). Gylfaginning ch. 15 adds that some are good (i. e. bring good
fortune) and others bad (Faulkes 1982, 18). Mention of them does not necessarily
imply belief: a runic inscription from about 1200 in Borgund Church, Sogn og Fjordane, Western Norway says “The Norns have done both good and evil – they created
great trouble for me”, but the carver dates his inscription to the day before St. Óláfr’s
day and it is in the shape of a cross (McKinnell et al. 2004, 129–130). This shows that
allusion to the Norns could sometimes be no more than an elegant figure of speech.
The function and identity of the Norns seems sometimes to have merged with
those of the dísir (ON) or idisi (Old High German – see The First Merseburg Charm, ed.
Schlosser 108–109; Eis 1964, 58–61; McKinnell 2005, 197–200), spirits who probably
originated as female ancestors and could affect the lives of their descendents for either
good or ill. Thus in Hamðismál 28 (probably late ninth century in origin), Hamðir
blames the dísir for inciting him to kill his half-brother Erpr and thereby making his
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own death inevitable (Eddukvæði II, 412; trans. Orchard, 237). Similarly, in Atlamál
27 (probably twelfth century), Gunnarr’s wife Glaumvǫr relates a dream in which the
dísir, defined as “dead women”, summoned her husband to join them (Eddukvæði II,
387; trans. Orchard, 219).
The idea of dísir sometimes merged with that of the personal or family spirits
called fylgjur (literally “female followers”) or hamingjur (female spirits who adopted
the form of those they were sent to “fetch”), who might appear to a person or to their
close family, usually just before their death, either in literal “reality” or in a dream –
see Turville-Petre 1964, 221–230; for examples, see Hallfreðar saga ch. 11 (ÍF 8, 198;
trans. Whaley, CSI I, 252) and Víga-Glúms saga ch. 19 (ÍF 9, 63; trans. McKinnell CSI II,
29). It is not clear whether these spirits are thought of as controlling the fates of human
beings or as agents of a Fate predetermined by some other power.
Dreams and Other Signs
The Content of Dreams
It is usually assumed in Norse sources that dreams are prophetic; there is no use of
dreams as psychological allegory, such as we find in the Roman de la Rose and other
European sources (↗ Schirrmeister, Dream Interpretation Western Christian World).
Dreaming was regarded as passive reception of a “message” from elsewhere, and this
is reflected in the impersonal construction mik dreymdi, literally “it dreamed me”.
For this reason, dreaming did not usually carry the stigma that was often attached to
manticism.
Sometimes the boundary between dreaming and waking vision is blurred: a
dream-visitor may ask the dreamer if he is awake; he replies that he is, only to be told
that he is in fact asleep, but it will turn out as if he were awake. The visitor may be
either a hostile female (possibly akin to the dísir), as in Fóstbrœðra saga ch. 11 (ÍF 6,
174–175; trans. Regal, CSI II, 355), or a helpful male, as in Flóamanna saga ch. 15 (ÍF 13,
260; trans. Acker, CSI III, 283). The dreamer may catch a glimpse of the dream-visitor
leaving as he wakes up – see Laxdæla saga ch. 31 (ÍF 5, 84–85; trans. Kunz, CSI V, 42)
and Óláfs saga helga in Snorri’s Heimskringla, ch. 188 (ÍF 27, 340–341; trans. Finlay
and Faulkes 2014, 228).
In some dreams the supernatural being who is the object of blót (see below) comes
to give an explicit message about the future – usually one which is unwelcome to the
dreamer. In Flóamanna saga chs. 20–21 the god Þórr appears five times to Þorgils
Örrabeinsstjúpr to reproach and threaten him for converting to Christianity (ÍF 13,
274–281; trans. Acker, CSI III, 288–290); in Víga-Glúms saga ch. 26 Glúmr dreams that
his dead kinsmen have come to tell him that the god Freyr has resolved to drive him
off his estate despite their pleas for him (ÍF 9, 87–88; trans. McKinnell, CSI II, 308); in
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Þáttr Þorvalds viðförla I ch. 3 the local spirit to whom Koðrán has offered blót appears
to reproach him for the pain which he suffers from the holy water sprinkled by the
missionary bishop who is staying with him (ÍF 15, 65–66; trans. Porter, CSI V, 361). In
all these cases the prophecies are explicit and come true. From the Christian point
of view heathen gods and spirits are either devils or wicked historical ancestors, but
in medieval European dream theory devils could only cause phantasmata of no prophetic value (Macrobius, Expositio in Somnium Scipionis, trans. Stahl, 87–90), so the
fact that these predictions are all fulfilled points to some continuing tradition of belief
in the powers of the gods or spirits to whom blót was offered.
Dreams involving prophetesses (seiðkonur or vǫlur) are common, and sometimes
seem to reflect a belief in the ability of the hamr “shape, personal nature” of a person
to move beyond the body during sleep with the help of spirits known as gandar in
order to gain hidden information (see also section 4.c. below). In Fóstbrœðra saga
ch. 23 (ÍF 6, 243–248; trans. Regal, CSI II, 383–386) two rival women are troubled in
their sleep and when they wake are able to give information about the whereabouts
and actions of their enemies; the first refers explicitly to her gandar, while the second
continues to rely on heathen magic while claiming to be a Christian. A similar belief in
the sinister powers of vǫlur may underlie the dream of Þórðr in Haralds saga harðráða
ch. 81 (ÍF 28, 177; trans. Magnússon and Pálsson, 140), in which a troll-woman rides a
wolf which she feeds with the bodies of those who are falling in battle. Although this
dream is not interpreted, it clearly foreshadows Harald’s coming defeat and death.
However, since the dreamer was usually seen as a passive recipient and therefore not actively responsible for their predictions, these could sometimes be promulgated without social opprobrium or legal penalty, even when the dream informant
was a figure from the heathen past. In Laxdæla saga ch. 76 (ÍF 5, 223–224; trans. Kunz,
CSI V, 117) Herdís dreams of a dead vǫlva who complains that the penitent tears of
Guðrún are scalding her in her grave, and in Íslendinga saga ch. 190 (Sturlunga saga,
eds. Jóhannesson et al., I, 519–522; trans. McGrew and Thomas, I, 431–434) the dead
Guðrún Gjúkadóttir, who is explicitly said to be heathen, appears in a dream to give
information about the fates of important political figures; this is presented as a recent
event, said to have happened in 1255. A development of this tradition appears in Gísla
saga, where the hero repeatedly dreams of two “dream-women”, one favourable and
the other hostile (chs. 22, 24, 30, 33, ÍF 6: 70–73, 75–77, 94–96, 102–109; trans. Regal,
CSI II, 27–30, 38–39, 41–44). The “good” dream-woman gives Gísli moral advice and the
bad one urges him towards the sin of despair, and in this respect they resemble good
and bad personal angels; but they also tell Gísli how long he will live and how he will
die, and there is no clear triumph of the good dream-woman over the evil one; these
features are probably derived from native traditions about spákonur.
Another type of dream-visitor is the aggressively heathen dead male ancestor who
comes to punish the dreamer for abandoning blót and veneration of his ancestors, and
in these cases the punishment persists outside the dream. In Bárðar saga ch. 21, (ÍF 13,
168–170; trans. Anderson, CSI II, 26) Gestr Bárðarson is visited by his dead father, who
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blinds him as a punishment for converting to Christianity; and at some time around
1206 a member of Snorri Sturluson’s household is said to have dreamed that Snorri’s
heathen ancestor Egill Skallagrímsson came to him to express his disapproval of Snorri’s impending move away from the ancestral family estate (Íslendinga saga ch. 16,
Sturlunga saga, eds. Jóhannesson et al., I, 241–242; trans. McGrew and Thomas, I, 131).
However, most male visitants are saintly Christian figures who give advice
and encouragement, recall the dreamer from sin, or make favourable predictions
(St. Óláfr in Fóstbrœðra saga ch. 24 [ÍF 6, 255–256; trans. Regal, CSI II, 389–390]; Óláfr
Tryggvason in Hallfreðar saga ch. 10 [ÍF 8, 191–192; trans. Whaley, CSI I, 249] and in
Snorri’s Óláfs saga helga ch.188 [ÍF 27, 340–341; trans. Finlay and Faulkes, 227–228].
Such dreams must have been widely believed in the twelfth century, for Sverrir (King
of Norway 1181–1202) made astute political use of them, claiming dreams of being
washed in a quasi-baptism by St. Óláfr and of being anointed by the prophet Samuel
(Sverris saga chs. 5 and 10, ÍF 30, 8–9 and 16–17; trans. Sephton, 4–5 and 11–12).
Some dreams are used to predict the future and/or descendants of an unborn
child, but although these might seem to parallel the predictions by Norns, they are
largely derived from Christian sources. Some use the symbol of a great tree, which signifies noble descent or kingship and probably comes from Nebuchadnezzar’s dream
in Dan. 4 and/or the common medieval idea of the Tree of Jesse; the dreamer may be
the pregnant mother-to-be, as in Hálfdanar saga svarta ch. 6, (ÍF 26, 90; trans. Finlay
and Faulkes, 51), or another member of the family, as in Bárðar saga ch. 1 (ÍF 13, 104;
trans. Anderson, CSI II, 238), where Bárðr dreams of his royal descendants and of a
future change of faith in Norway. An adaptation of the tree to a number of leeks (traditionally the “best of grasses”, see Vǫluspá, Sigurður Nordal 1984, 15–16) appears
in Flóamanna saga ch. 24 (ÍF 13, 293–295; trans. Acker, CSI III, 292–293), where the
dreamer will become the father of the “leeks”, each of which branches to produce
further descendants. Such dreams are usually interpreted on the spot, either by the
dreamer himself or by another member of his or her family.
The Interpretation of Dreams
Most of the dream symbols are fairly easy to interpret. A man covered in blood is dead
or will die (examples include Gunnlaugs saga ch. 13 [ÍF 3, 104–105; trans. Attwood,
CSI I, 331–332]), while dream-women who sprinkle blood (e. g. Víga-Glúms saga ch. 21;
ÍF 9, 71–72; trans. McKinnell, CSI II, 299) or touch warriors with a cloth dripping with
blood (as in Íslendinga saga ch. 122, eds. Jóhannesson et al., I, 403; trans. McGrew
and Thomas, I, 308) signify a battle in which men will be killed; two instances in
Íslendinga saga are presented as recent events, said to have taken place in 1209 and
1237. Hostile warriors often appear in dreams as animals, most often as wolves, a
symbol which usually suggests treachery (Kelchner 1935: 77–143 cites nine examples,
including Harðar saga ch. 31 [ÍF 13, 77; trans. Kellogg, CSI II, 226–227]. Snakes and
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hawks also imply treachery (see Gísla saga ch. 14; ÍF 6, 46; trans. Regal, CSI II, 15),
where the snake and the wolf are obviously synonymous symbols, and Gunnlaugs
saga ch. 2 (ÍF 3, 53–55; trans. Attwood, CSI I, 306–307), where the hawk is contrasted
with two eagles), while eagles and bears are complimentary symbols (see e. g. Hrólfs
saga Gautrekssonar ch. 12 [FSN III, 77; trans. Pálsson and Edwards, 60–61]; Njáls
saga ch. 23 [ÍF 12, 64–65; trans. Cook, CSI III, 28], where the bear represents the fylgja
“attendant spirit” of the hero Gunnarr). Oxen and boars represent fierce warriors but
seem morally neutral (oxen represent the fylgjur of the men of Ljósavatn in a dream
in Ljósvetninga saga ch. 16 [ÍF 10, 85; trans. Andersson and Miller, CSI IV, 244] and
a boar is that of Hrólfr’s brother Ketill in Hrólfs saga Gautrekssonar ch. 12 [FSN III,
76–77; trans. Pálsson and Edwards, 60–61]), and there are occasional examples of
more exotic animals: dragon, leopard, lion and stag (see Kelchner). A few dreams
present less obvious symbols, like the head-dresses and rings which are interpreted
as representing Guðrún’s four husbands in Laxdæla saga ch. 33 (ÍF 5, 88–91; trans.
Kunz, CSI V, 44–45).
Two eddic poems contain rival interpretations of dream sequences. Atlamál 14–26
(Eddukvæði II, 385–387; trans. Orchard, 217–219) presents two episodes in which the
wives of the brothers Hǫgni and Gunnarr have multiple dreams which foretell the
deaths of their husbands at the hands of Atli, King of the Huns, if they accept his
invitation to visit him. Because they cannot honourably refuse the invitation, Hǫgni
and Gunnarr supply harmless interpretations, in which they themselves seem to have
little faith, while their wives either give correct interpretations or leave the dreams
unexplained. In Guðrúnarkviða II 37–43 (Eddukvæði II, 360–361; trans. Orchard, 201–
202) we meet a case of deliberately false interpretation: Atli asks his wife Guðrún to
interpret four of his dreams which actually prefigure her murder of him and the fact
that she will serve up the flesh of their two sons for him to eat. She gives false interpretations of the dreams, but is well aware of their true meaning. Again it is the man
who is lulled into security with false rationalisations, and it seems to be suggested that
women are better attuned to the meanings of dreams than men.
The disastrous interpretation of a dream is nearly always correct. This may be
because dreams of impending disaster are useful in giving a story shape and suspense – it does not necessarily imply that they were commoner than propitious
dreams in the actual social culture of medieval Scandinavia.
The historical “truth” of any dream is impossible for anyone but the dreamer to
know, but dreams are commonly experienced within the conventions expected in the
dreamer’s society, and historical experience itself may sometimes have been influenced by literary convention. Similarly, while some omens are clearly fabrications or
importations of dream material into stories of waking life, others reflect a commonly
accepted code of how chance occurrences were thought to be significant.
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Omens Outside Dreams
Many omens outside dreams are portentous events giving warning of a coming disaster, usually one involving death. A rain of blood is either an omen or the cause of an
epidemic in which many people will die; the ghosts of drowned men appear in the
hall with their clothes dripping wet; a “moon of fate” (urðarmáni) appears on the
inside wall of a hall, and is immediately and correctly interpreted as a prediction of
a human death, perhaps because a human being’s allotted lifespan could be measured as a number of changes of the moon; for examples of all of these, see Eyrbyggja
saga chs. 51, 54 and 52 (ÍF 4, 140–141, 148, 145–146; trans. Quinn, CSI V, 197–198, 201,
199–200).
Another death portent is when a military leader stumbles on the way to a battle,
but this is sometimes given competing interpretations. The optimistic one, usually
stated by the leader himself, may be derived from Suetonius, who says that Julius
Caesar stumbled as he disembarked for his African campaign and turned it into a good
omen by exclaiming “I seize you, Africa!” (Suetonius, Vita divi Iuli, ed. Rolfe 1913, I,
80–83); this is echoed, for example, in William of Poitiers’ life of William the Conqueror (Davis and Chibnall 1998, 189). But in most Germanic sources the true meaning
of this omen is that the ruler’s personal spirit has abandoned him and he will be killed
in the battle that follows. In Haralds saga harðráða ch. 90 (ÍF 28, 186; trans. Magnússon and Pálsson, 149) Haraldr harðráði invokes the proverb fall er farar heill “a fall
means good luck on a journey” when his horse stumbles before the Battle of Stamford
Bridge; but his enemy Harold Godwinsson is looking on and comments: “his personal
spirit (hamingja) has probably left him”, and is soon proved right. Occasionally the
spirits are visible to someone other than the victim, as when Una sees dead men riding
to meet her husband in Víga-Glúms saga ch. 19 (ÍF 9, 63; trans. McKinnell, CSI II, 295).
As with dreams, the disastrous interpretation usually turns out to be correct, and for
the same literary reason.
A number of events which seem unremarkable to a modern reader are taken as
warnings from personal and family spirits, as when someone is seized by violent
yawning or sneezing when a dangerous enemy is near. In Njáls saga ch. 12 the magician Svanr begins to yawn violently, and realizes that the fylgjur “attendant spirits” of
his enemy Ósvífr are approaching (ÍF 12, 37; trans. Cook, CSI III, 16). But people with
no magical gift could also experience and interpret this omen, as in Orkneyinga saga
chs. 93 and 103, when Sveinn Ásleifarson and Rǫgnvaldr kali realise that their violent
sneezes are a warning of the approach of their enemies (ÍF 34, 247 and 276; trans.
Pálsson and Edwards, 168 and 186).
On the other hand, one very strange omen is regarded as a sign of rightful inheritance: a seal’s head comes up through the floor of the hall and can only be hammered
down again by the predestined heir (Eyrbyggja saga ch. 53, ÍF 4, 147; trans. Quinn, CSI
V, 200–201), or a giant is hammered into the ground by the rightful king of Norway
(Þorsteins þáttr bæjarmagns ch. 12, FSN III, 415; trans. Pálsson and Edwards, 139).
John McKinnell
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These portents seem to reflect a belief in beings sprung from the earth who are bent
on destroying humanity and whose defeat by a chosen hero denotes his predestined
right to authority over the land.
Manticism
Manticism may be defined as the attempt to acquire specific knowledge of future or
hidden events by supernatural means. Medieval sources usually regard it with disapproval (↗ Rapisarda, Mantic Arts Western Christian World; ↗ Heiduk, Prognostication
Western Christian World), but it is hard to decide whether this reflects the Christian
view that one should not pry into God’s Providence, or whether it was already normal
in pre-Christian times (perhaps because of the frequent association of prophecy with
the disgraceful form of female magic known as seiðr).
Prognostication and Sacrifice to the Gods
In narratives set in heathen times the process of consulting gods or spirits is usually
part of blót, honouring them with sacrifice; it was also called at ganga til fréttar “to go
to find something out” or at sjá á hlaut “consulting lots”.
Tacitus (Germania ch. 10, ed. Anderson, trans. Rives, 81 and notes on 165–166)
describes one method of doing this: “They cut a branch broken off from a fruit-bearing
tree into slices (surculos), and after distinguishing them with certain different marks
they scatter them at random onto a white cloth. Then the state priest, if it is a public
consultation, or the father of the family, if it is a private one, prays to the gods and,
looking towards the sky, picks up three of them, one at a time; each is interpreted
according to the marks previously scored on it.” Something similar is probably implied
in Vǫluspá K 61 (Eddukvæði I, 306; trans. Orchard, 14), where Hœnir will hlautvið kjósa
“choose the wood of augury” in the reborn world after Ragnarǫk, and in Ynglinga saga
ch. 38 (ÍF 26, 70; trans. Finlay and Faulkes, 39), where King Granmárr of Södermanland goes to Uppsala “to make sacrifice so that there should be peace, as the custom
was at the beginning of summer. Then the augury chip (spánn) fell for him in such a
way as to suggest that he would not live long.”
Another method was to scatter blood from a sacrificed animal or human being
from a hlauttein “augury twig” so that the random splashes of blood could be “read”.
Blood could also be scattered over the building and the participants in the ceremony,
as described in Hákonar saga góða ch. 14, with an admiring and probably contemporary quotation from Kormákr’s skaldic poem Sigurðardrápa (ca. 950; ÍF 26 167–168,
trans. Finlay and Faulkes, 98–99; and see Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson 1997, 231–236).
Even gods could be portrayed engaging in this kind of sacrificial augury, as they do
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when trying to discover where they can hold their feast in Hymiskviða 1 (Eddukvæði I,
399; trans. Orchard, 76).
Those consulted by means of blót were often but not always gods. Flóki Vilgerðarson, about to leave Norway, invokes the patronage of Óðinn when he makes sacrifice
to three ravens so that they will help him to navigate (Landnámabók, Hauksbók ch. 5,
ÍF 1, 37; trans. Pálsson and Edwards, 17), while Þórólfr Mostrarskegg prefers to consult
Þórr, first as to whether he should be reconciled with the King or leave the country,
and then when he throws overboard the pillars of his high seat, on which there is a
carved image of Þórr, saying that they will come ashore where Þórr wants him to settle
(Eyrbyggja saga ch. 4, ÍF 4, 7; trans. Quinn, CSI V, 133; Landnámabók, Sturlubók ch. 85,
Hauksbók ch. 73; ÍF 1, 124–126; trans. Pálsson and Edwards, 45–46). Ingimundr Þorsteinsson is also said to have been forced to accept his destiny of settling in Iceland,
but his patron god is Freyr: in Vatnsdæla saga ch. 12 (ÍF 8, 32–36; trans. Wawn, CSI IV,
16–17) he is told by King Haraldr hárfagri that Freyr wants him to settle in Iceland, and
this is confirmed when he employs three Sámi shamans; in Landnámabók (Sturlubók
ch. 179, Hauksbók ch. 145, ÍF 1, 217–219; trans. Pálsson and Edwards, 83–84) a prophetess tells him that he will find his lost figure of the god at the place in Iceland where
he digs a hole in which to place the pillars of his high seat.
Blót in honour of other beings does not always include augury: for example, it
does not seem to have been the purpose of the annual blót to the dísir at the beginning of winter (Víga-Glúms saga ch. 6, ÍF 9, 17; trans. McKinnell, CSI II, 275, and the
heathen Anglo-Saxon matrum noctem “night of the mothers” in Bede’s De Temporum
Ratione ch. 15 [ed. Jones, col. 2320]), or of the Swedish blót to the elves in Sigvatr’s
early eleventh-century Austrfararvísur 5 (SP I, 590–592, quoted in Snorri’s Óláfs saga
helga ch. 91 [ÍF 27, 137]; trans. Finlay and Faulkes, 89). But when blót is offered to
local spirits the acquisition of esoteric knowledge is usually part of the motivation for
it. Þorsteinn rauðnefr offers blót to the spirit in a waterfall; in the last summer of his
life he knows that he and/or his large flocks are doomed, and when he dies they all
fall into the waterfall (Landnámabók, Sturlubók ch. 355, Hauksbók ch. 313; ÍF 1, 358;
trans. Pálsson and Edwards, 134). When asked to convert to Christianity, Koðrán á
Gilja replies that he has a prophet (spámaðr or ármaðr) of his own, who lives with his
family of spirits in a stone on the farm, tells him future events, guards his flocks and
advises him (Þáttr Þorvalds ens viðförla I ch. 3, ÍF 15.2, 62–68; Kristni saga ch. 2, ÍF 15.2,
7–8; trans. Grønlie, 35–36).
According to Tacitus, Germanic augury also made use of the sounds made by specially bred white horses (Germania ch. 10, ed. Anderson, trans. Rives, 81 and note on
p. 167). In some sources veneration of horses is associated with the cult of Freyr (e. g.
Vatnsdœla saga ch. 34, ÍF 8, 90–92; trans. Wawn, CSI IV, 45), but although the eating
of sacrificed horseflesh was an important part of heathen ritual and remained legal for
a few years after the Conversion opf Iceland (see e. g. Ari’s Íslendingabók ch. 7 [ÍF 1, 17;
trans. Grønlie]), and some high-status funerals included the sacrifice of horses (e. g.
in ninth-century Ribe [Denmark], see https://projects.au.dk/northernemporium/),
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77
there is no evidence that horses were still used for prognostication in the Viking
Age.
The earliest surviving law-code which prohibits blót is the Old English Laws of
Cnut (1027–1034), which forbids heathenism of all kinds: oððon blote oððon fyrhte
“whether in blood-offerings or in transmigration” (on transmigration see below); the
Latin version, known as Quadripartitus, defines blot: aut in sacrificio, id est secundum ritum Suuanorum “whether in sacrifice, that is according to the religion of the
Swedes, or […]” (Die Gesetze der Angelsachsen, ed. Liebermann, 312–313). This, and
the absence of such provisions from earlier Anglo-Saxon legal codes, suggests that
they reflect the practices of recent Scandinavian settlers in England. Most early Norwegian law-codes also forbid blót, although penalties vary from a fine of three marks
(Ældre Borgarthings Christenret I.16, NGL I, 337–372) to outlawry and total confiscation
of property (Ældre Frostathings-lov III.15, NGL I, 152). Only the Icelandic Grágás offers
a definition of blót: “A person sacrifices to heathen spirits when they consecrate their
property/livestock to anyone other than God and His saints” (Grágás ch. 18, 1997, 19;
trans. Dennis et al., 38–39). The detailed provisions for penalties and defences suggest
that blót continued to be practised in secret by some people after the Conversion, both
in Norway and Iceland.
Prognostication through Transmigration
Predictive and effective magic are difficult to separate, since both tended to come
under the heading of seiðr “enchantment”, which was practised by Óðinn but was
usually the preserve of itinerant women and other social outsiders, often members
of the Sámi (Lappish) people. In Ynglinga saga ch. 7 Snorri explains: “by means of it
(Óðinn) could know the fates of men and things that had not yet happened, as well
as cause people to suffer death, misfortune or illness, as well as taking away people’s
wits or strength and giving them to others. But so much perversion (ergi) is involved
in this kind of magic when it is practised, that it was thought shameful for men to be
involved in it […]” (ÍF 26, 19; trans. Finlay and Faulkes, 11). Ergi seems to have involved
a man “becoming a woman” in some way, possibly involving ritual transvestism like
that described in Germania ch. 43 (ed. Anderson, trans. Rives, 94 and note on 306; see
also Meulengracht-Sørensen, The Unmanly Man, 1983, 19 and 63–64). There are a few
stories of male seiðmenn other than Óðinn, but they are usually villainous foreigners,
like the Hebridean Kotkell in Laxdæla saga chs. 35–37 (ÍF 5, 95–108, trans. Kunz, CSI
V, 47–55) and the two finnar (Sámi) in Haralds saga ins hárfagra ch. 32 (ÍF 26, 135–136;
trans. Finlay and Faulkes, 78–79).
The commonest terms for women who practised seiðr are vǫlva “prophetess”
(probably from vǫlr “staff”) and seiðkona “enchantress”, but spákona “prophetess”
and vísindakona “wise woman” also appear. Family sagas often use euphemisms such
as kona […] fróð ok framsýn “a wise woman who could see the future”; þat tǫluðu
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Introductory Surveys
menn, at hon væri fjǫlkunnig “people reckoned that she was skilled in magic”; or
nǫkkut fornfróð “rather skilled in ancient things”; for examples of all these terms see
McKinnell 2005, 95–97.
Fictive descriptions of the practice of seiðr show a large measure of agreement –
see e. g. Eiríks saga rauða ch. 4 (ÍF 4, 206–209; trans. Kunz, CSI I, 5–7), Hrólfs saga
kraka ch. 3 (FSN II, 9–11); and a rather down-at-heel example in Víga-Glúms saga ch. 12
(ÍF 9, 41; trans. McKinnell, CSI II, 285–286). Similarly, in Lokasenna 24 Loki accuses
Óðinn of having “banged on a drum like a vǫlva” (Eddukvæði I, 413; trans. Orchard,
87). The vǫlva is usually invited into his house by a named householder to prophesy
for his household. She must be lavishly entertained and paid with valuable gifts, and
may arrive accompanied by a group of helpers, or may need a group of women to help
her achieve her trance through dancing, singing and/or drumming. The magic is often
performed on a platform or mound (an ancient feature which also appears in Eddius
Stephanus’s account of an attack on St. Wilfrid and his party by the heathen South
Saxons in the year 666, for which he probably had an eye-witness informant [Vita
Wilfridi ch. 13, ed. Colgrave, 28–29; trans. Webb, 119]). The trance involves a seizure
in which the vǫlva opens her mouth wide and gasps for breath. During the trance the
separable soul or gandr of the vǫlva or male magician (often one of the Sámi) typically makes a journey to discover hidden knowledge, heal sickness or revive a dead
person. The earliest source for this is the Norwegian-Latin Historia Norwegiae ch. 4
(ed. Storm, 85; trans. Kunin, 6–7), which probably dates from the 1150s; however, the
term gandr is probably of Norse rather than Sámi origin, and the two magic-workers
in this account are both male (further see Tolley 2009, I: 246–269). The vǫlva often
delivers her prophecies within the trance, in which case it is often said that “a song
came into her mouth” from elsewhere; in these cases she speaks in verse, refers to
her own faculty of “seeing”, and sometimes refers to herself in the third person, as
in Vǫluspá K 22, 34 etc. (Eddukvæði I, 296 and 299; trans. Orchard, 8 and 10). In other
cases, prophecies are given in response to questions when she has returned to her
normal waking state.
Most early Norwegian law-codes forbid this kind of prophecy, which they describe
as at segja spár “to speak prophecies” or at fara með spásögur “to go about with prophetic stories” (e. g. Ældre Gulathings-lov 28 [NGL I: 17]; Ældre Frostathings-lov III.15
[NGL I: 152]). Those who seek prophecies are said to gera Finfarar, fara at spyria spa
“make a journey to the Sámi, to go and ask for prophecies”, fara a Finmarkr at spyria
spadom “go to Finnmark to ask for prophecies”, or trua a Finna “to believe/trust in the
Sámi” (Ældre Borgarthings-Christenret II.25, III.22 [NGL I: 362 and 372]; Ældre Eidisvathings-Christenret I.45 and II. 34–35 [NGL I: 389–390 and 403]). Making, seeking or
listening to such prophecy are crimes comparable with murder, suicide and malicious
enchantment. There are provisions for valid defences, and this suggests that the practice actually existed in medieval Norway, but in Iceland it appears only in legendary
sagas about the distant past; some Icelandic legendary sagas even find it necessary to
explain what a vǫlva is (see McKinnell 2005, 98–99).
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“Sitting Out” and Prognostication by Contact with the Dead
An alternative to the trance was for the prophetess to “sit out” at night at a crossroads,
on a mound or in a cave to wake the spirits of the dead.
However, Norwegian legal prohibitions suggest that the purpose of “sitting out”
was “to wake up trolls and perform heathen practices by that means”. It is not always
clear what is meant by “trolls”, for the same codes sometimes refer to magic-working
women (or men) as trolls or trylsk “trollish”, especially when they are Sámi. “Sitting
out” is another crime that cannot be financially compensated for.
Seiðr of all kinds is often associated with the Sámi people or their territory, and
it is sometimes suggested that most historical seiðkonur and vǫlur were Sámi women.
However, other stories make the magic-worker Hebridean, Russian or Greenlandic
(e. g. Laxdæla saga ch. 35, ÍF 5, 95–100; trans. Kunz, CSI V, 47; Oddr Snorrason, Saga
Óláfs Tryggvasonar ch. 6. ÍF 25, 144–145; Eiríks saga rauða ch. 4, ÍF 4, 206 and 410;
trans. Kunz, CSI I, 5–7), and it seems likely that these tales use the Sámi, as a mysterious people inhabiting the barren and frozen north, to fill an “Other-World” slot in the
imaginative world of Old Norse culture.
In legendary sources vǫlur are sometimes implied to have non-human origins as
trolls, giants or the dead, and some prophecies are directly delivered by the dead, or
by dying characters who are not otherwise gifted with prophetic powers.
In Icelandic literary texts, vǫlur are usually employed as a literary motif. It is normally assumed that they tell the truth about an inevitable future, even in the few
stories where a vǫlva makes what seems to be a conditional prediction (e. g. Orms þáttr
Stórólfssonar ch. 5, ÍF 13, 404–406; trans. Driscoll, CSI III, 458–459), or tries to deny
the truth of what she has just foretold (e. g. Hrólfs saga kraka ch. 3, FSN II, 9–11). More
often, she asserts that her prediction will come true whether the subject likes it or not
(for examples, see McKinnell 2005, 98 and 105).
Prognostication in Runic Inscriptions
In runic charms it is often hard to distinguish between predictive and effective magic;
for example, a runic love charm from Bergen, Norway (B 257) is obviously intended to
be effective, but a similar curse in the Eddic poem Skírnismál 36 is clearly predictive
(see McKinnell et al. 2004, 131–133; Skírnismál 36 in Eddukvæði I, 387; trans. Orchard,
65). A few inscriptions mingle prediction with petition to a god, as in a fourteenth-century charm from Bergen (B 241) which calls on Óðinn to reveal the identity of a thief
(Knirk 1995). However most runic charms are practical in intent and clearly meant to
bring about a desired result rather than merely to predict it.
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Introductory Surveys
Astral Sciences
The extent to which heathen Norse mythology was mapped onto the heavens is a
subject of current academic debate, but it certainly included mythological explanations of sun- and moon-dogs, rainbows, the midnight sun and the names and origins
of some stars, although it is difficult to identify which stars are meant (see e. g. Gísli
Sigurðsson 2014, 184–198; Dubois 2014, 199–220). Viking Age seafarers were capable
practical navigators and were probably able to make rough calculations of latitude
from the elevation of the sun at different times of day, but I know of no evidence that
they consulted the stars for predictive purposes.
Medical Prognostication
Norse medicine usually aims at practical cures rather than prediction or diagnosis,
but Fóstbrœðra saga states that after the Battle of Stiklarstaðir in 1030, wounded men
were given a mixture of onion and herbs to eat: if their wounds smelt of onions, that
was a sign that the gut was pierced and that they would die, whereas otherwise they
might recover (Fóstbrœðra saga ch. 24, ÍF 6, 275; trans. Regal, CSI II, 401–402).
Medical magic appears both in Eddic poetry (e. g. Hávamál 147 and Sigrdrífumál
12; Eddukvæði I, 352 and II, 315–316; trans. Orchard, 37 and 171) and in runic inscriptions, but the poems merely assert knowledge of a charm which imparts medical skill
without including the charm itself, while most of the medical inscriptions attempt
to bring about practical cures rather than to make predictions; often, as in a copper
amulet from Sigtuna, central Sweden (McKinnell et al. 2004, 126–127), they tell the
alien being who caused the disease that he has been found and must now flee. It might
be possible to divide them grammatically, taking those which use the indicative mood
as predictive and those which use the subjunctive or the imperative as merely hopeful,
but this would be a modern distinction which probably did not exist in the minds of
those who carved them.
Calendrical Calculations
When the Alþingi (the annual general assembly of the Icelandic commonwealth) was
established in 930, the Norse calendar consisted of two seasons of twenty-six weeks
each, so that any particular date always fell on the same day of the week, but this
meant that the year had only 364 days, and in the later tenth century it was realised
that this was too short and “summer was moving backwards into spring” (Ari Þorgilsson, Íslendingabók ch. 4, ÍF 1, 9–11; trans. Grønlie, 5–6). It was therefore decided to
add an extra week every seventh year, and some years later this was further refined so
John McKinnell
81
that the extra week was added in five specified years of each 28-year cycle. Although
this correction of the calendar made obvious sense, it had to be validated by a symbolic dream before being accepted as law at the Alþingi, and after the Conversion to
Christianity it survived alongside the Church calendar. Chieftains and priests then
had to be mathematically competent enough to avoid celebrating Easter or arriving for the Alþingi on the wrong date; either of these errors made one liable to legal
penalties.
Predictions Involving the Weather
One of the mythological signs of the approach of Ragnarǫk is the fimbulvetr “mighty
winter”, in which there will be three consecutive winters with no summer between
them. In Vǫluspá (K) 40 the sunshine during the fimbulvetr is said to be black
(Eddukvæði I, 301; trans. Orchard, 11); this has sometimes been interpreted as sunshine seen through a cloud of volcanic ash. If this is right, the image must have originated in Iceland, the only Norse-speaking area which experiences volcanic eruptions,
and it cannot therefore be older than the beginning of the Norse settlement of Iceland
around 870. More particular weather-omens include a rain of blood in Eyrbyggja
saga ch. 51 (ÍF 4, 139–145; trans. Quinn, CSI I, 197–199) which turns out to be either
a prediction or the cause of a plague epidemic (see above under “Omens”), and the
employment of a vǫlva to predict when a famine will end (Eiríks saga rauða ch. 4, ÍF 4,
206–209; trans. Kunz, CSI I, 5–7).
Like most of the other types of prediction discussed here, astral, medical, calendrical and meteorological prognostications from the Norse-speaking area seem usually
to arise from the perceived practical needs of individuals or social groups rather than
from any spirit of scientific inquiry for its own sake.
Selected Bibliography
(Note: because of the nature of its contents, this bibliography is arranged in the order of the Icelandic
alphabet: long (accented) vowels are regarded as separate letters and follow the corresponding short
vowels; ð follows d; and the end of the alphabet has the order x, y, ý, z, þ, æ, œ, ǫ, ø, although in
modern Icelandic ǫ and ø are both represented as ö).
Abbreviations
CSI:
The Complete Sagas of Icelanders I–V. Various translators. Ed. Viðar Hreinsson.
Reykjavík, 1997.
Eddukvæði I–II: Eds. Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason; ÍF. 2014
82
FSN:
ÍF:
NGL:
Skj.:
SP:
Introductory Surveys
Eds. Guðni Jónsson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson. Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda I–III.
­Reykjavík, 1943–1944.
Íslenzk fornrit. Reykjavík, 1933–.
Norges gamle Love. Eds. Rudolf Keyser, Gustav Storm Munch, and Ebbe Hertzberg.
5 vols. Christiania, 1846–1895.
Ed. Finnur Jónsson; Den norsk-islandske Skjaldedigtning. 4 vols. (A 1–2, B 1–2).
København, 1908–1915.
Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages. Various editors. Turnhout, 2007–.
Aðalsteinsson, Jón Hnefill. Blót í norrœnum sið. Reykjavík, 1997.
Ari Þorgilsson. Íslendingabók. Ed. Jakob Benediktsson. ÍF 1 (1968): 1–28; trans. Siân Grønlie.
London, 2006. 1–32.
Arnórr jarlaskáld. Þorfinnsdrápa. Ed. Diana Whaley. 2009. 220–268. SP II: 229–260.
Atlamál. Eddukvæði II: 383–401; trans. Andrew Orchard. 2011. 215–230.
Bárðar saga. Eds. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson. Harðar saga. ÍF 13 (1991):
99–172; trans. Sarah M. Anderson. CSI II: 237–266.
Bede the Venerable. De Temporum Ratione (= Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina 123B). Ed. Charles
W. Jones. Turnhout, 1997.
Behagel, Otto (ed.). Heliand und Genesis. Halle, 1933.
Bragi Boddason, Ragnarsdrápa. Ed. Finnur Jónsson. Skj (1908–1915). I A: 1–4, I B: 1–4.
Cubbon, Alfred Marshall. The Art of the Manx Crosses. 2nd ed. Douglas, 1977.
Dubois, Thomas A. “Underneath the Self-Same Sky: Comparative Perspectives on Sámi,
Finnish and Medieval Scandinavian Astral Lore.” Nordic Mythologies: Interpretations,
Intersections and Institutions. Ed. Timothy R. Tangherlini. Berkeley and Los Angeles, 2014.
199–220.
Eddius Stephanus. Vita Wilfridi. Ed. Bertram Colgrave. Cambridge, 1927; trans. James Francis Webb.
The Age of Bede. Harmondsworth, 1965. 103–182.
Eiríks saga rauða. Eds. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson. Eyrbyggja saga. ÍF 4 (1935):
193–237; trans. Keneva Kunz. CSI I: 1–18.
Eis, Gerhard. Altdeutsche Zaubersprüche. Berlin, 1964.
Eyrbyggja saga. Eds. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson. Eyrbyggja saga. ÍF 4 (1935):
1–191; trans. Judy Quinn. CSI V: 131–218.
Fáfnismál. Eddukvæði II: 303–312; trans. Andrew Orchard. 2011. 160–168.
Flóamanna saga. Eds. Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson. Harðar saga. ÍF 13 (1991):
229–337; trans. Paul Acker. CSI III: 271–304.
Fóstbrœðra saga. Eds. Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson. Vestfirðingasǫgur. ÍF 6 (1943):
119–276; trans. Martin S. Regal. CSI II: 329–402.
Die Gesetze der Angelsachsen, 3 vols. Ed. Friedrich Liebermann. Halle, 1898–1916.
Gísla saga. Eds. Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson. Vestfirðingasǫgur. ÍF 6 (1943): 1–118; trans.
Martin S. Regal. CSI II: 1–48.
Gísli Sigurðsson. “Snorri’s Edda: The Sky Described in Mythological Terms.” Nordic Mythologies:
Interpretations, Intersections and Institutions. Ed. Timothy R. Tangherlini. Berkeley and Los
Angeles, 2014. 184–198.
Grágás. Lagasafn íslenska þjóðveldisins. Eds. Gunnar Karlsson, Kristján Sveinsson, and Mörður
Árnason. Reykjavík, 1997; trans. Andrew Dennis, Peter Foote, and Richard Perkins (as Laws of
Early Iceland: Grágás I). Winnipeg, 1980.
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John McKinnell
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Hallfreðar saga. Ed. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson. Vatnsdœla saga. ÍF 8 (1939): 133–200; trans. Diana
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Ældre Gulathings-lov. NGL I: 1–118.
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Peter Foote. ÍF 15.2 (2003): 49–89; trans. John Porter. CSI V: 357–369.
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Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards. London and New York, 1968. 121–140.
Leszek P. Słupecki
Prognostication in Pagan Beliefs among Slavs
in the Middle Ages
We find the first account of Slavic pagan beliefs (Słupecki 2020, in print) in a short text
in Procopius’ of Cesarea’s History of Wars, which also includes the first information
about the Slavic approach to prognostication. Procopius of Cesarea states, with regard
to the Slavs:
As for fate, they neither know it or nor do they in any wise admit that it has any power among
humans but, whenever death stands close before them, either stricken with sickness or before a
battle, they make a promise that, if they escape, they will immediately make a sacrifice to the god
in return for their life. (Procopius III, 14; trans. Dewing)
The Slavs would fulfill thereafter everything they had promised in return for their
survival. The statement about Slavic ignorance regarding fate does not sound very
promising for our research but is not entirely accurate, at least in regard to prognostication, as Procopius in the same account indicates otherwise. Referring to “rivers,
nymphs and some other spirits” that were worshiped by the Slavs, he relates how they
not only “sacrifice to all these” but also “make their divination (μαντείας) in connection with these sacrifices.”
Definitions and Terminology
Sources
Generally speaking, however, our knowledge of Slavic prophecies and prognostication
is very limited. Precisely like Slavic paganism (Gieysztor 2006; Słupecki 2013, 338–358)
as a whole, the divinations that we can investigate thanks to written sources were
recorded during the twilight of the pre-Christian beliefs of the Slavonic people in the
tenth to twelfth centuries CE, and in more extensive detail in two separate regions
exclusively: in Polabia and Pomerania on the one hand and in Rus’ on the other, what
follows simply from the fact that only there written sources brings enough material for
the topic. Furthermore, the records were mainly (with the exception of those from Rus’)
composed in Latin by foreign authors, what provides us with information written, so
to speak, “from outside” the Slavic culture and which includes in consequence very
good, highly detailed descriptions of certain divinatory rituals (first of all, cleromancy
combined with hippomancy) but says almost nothing about prophecies, which were
very difficult to understand and describe without a deeper knowledge of that partichttps://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-004
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ular language and culture. Using Ciceros’ terminology, one may also claim that, from
Slavic divinations, we learn something about artificiosa divinatio (mostly from Polabia
and Pomerania in the tenth-twelfth centuries) but virtually nothing about divinatio
naturalis, like prophecies and dreams. For Polabia and Pomerania, valuable source
information may be drawn, first of all, from such an external view on the divinations
performed there already in a relatively institutionalized way, in the form of the oracles
that were connected to the most important pagan sanctuaries of these Western Slavs
(Słupecki 1994). The relevant narratives one may find in accounts by Thietmar of
Merseburg from the turn of the tenth to the eleventh century, in three St Otto’s Lives
(Vita Prieflingensis, Helmold, and Ebo), by Adam of Bremen and Helmold of Bosau,
and in Saxo Grammaticus (all sources originate from the twelfth century; see also ↗
Lehner, Prognostication in Latin Historiography). For Rus’, the most interesting information on prophecy and prognostication is provided by the Primary Chronicle (Povest’
vremennykh let), composed at the beginning of the twelfth century, where the accounts
of divinations and a kind of prophecy are, however, strongly influenced by the Scandinavian and Finnish tradition with regard to both the narratives and also the level of
belief itself. The next stage of development of sources concerning Slavic divination is
the process of, so to speak, offering mythographical descriptions of the Slavic pagan
past, although these add little with regard to our topic. Nevertheless, a few accounts
of this nature include interesting material, like the legend from the Bohemian dynastic
tradition that ascribed divinatory and magical powers to the Czech heroine, Lubuša.
Such mythographical and demonological elements occur infrequently in accounts of
Slavic pagan divination. The following written sources already belong to the common
European wave of medieval and early modern superstition (including the picturesque
Cracovian legend about a sorcerer and a university master, Twardowski), which is
already another topic. In very rich form, however, Slavic prophecy and prognostication reemerge in the nineteenth century in the ethnographical material.
Research Perspective
In listing the academic research on Slavic prophecy and prognostication (speaking
only about works still actual today), one should begin with Szymon Matusiak’s article
(in Polish) from 1911 concerning the problem of źreb (= Latin sors) within the context
of cleromancy and hippomancy (see below), and two studies by Rolf Wilhelm Brednich (from 1964 and 1967), both in German, about the idea of destiny and the role of
the fatal sisters in the folklore of eastern Europe, together with a couple of studies
dealing with the problem of Slavic hippomancy and cleromancy, including some of
my own articles (Słupecki 2006, 2008 and 2009) and a book-chapter (Słupecki 2017,
196–207). Two papers focus on a general approach to the problem of Slavic divination,
one written in French half a century ago by Frans Vyncke (1968, 303–332), and my own
short study from the beginning of the present millennium (Słupecki 2003, 73–80).
Leszek P. Słupecki
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Genuine Terminology in a Linguistic Perspective
Despite Procopius’ skepticism, one should stress that a vital element regarding prophecy and prognostication in the Slavs’ pre-Christian beliefs is that the Slavs used the
original Slavic vocabulary preserved in their languages, which are rich in genuine
termini connected to destiny and divination. We should outline here at least some of
the more important terms employed.
To begin with destiny, the Polish term rok (Linde 1951, vol. 5, 62), which means
today simply a “year” originally denoted a definite term, or the last and ultimate day
of such definite space of time and, in this last sense, was used in Old Polish juridical terminology to denote definite times for court assemblies (roki sądowe). From the
same root originates the term wyrok (“a sentence”). From rok, however, derived also
urok (today “bewitching” or – strangely enough – “glamour”, originally simply “fate”)
and prorok (“prophet”), denoting, literally speaking “someone who says what must
come” (Matusiak 1911, 195–196; Brückner 1927, 438, 463, 565). In the languages of the
Southern Slavs, like Serbo-Croatian, exist the term sreča, denoting “fortune”, “fate”,
“doom” – literally, “saying something that has already been predicated, decided
and sentenced.” With regard to proverbs (where one may find plenty of petrified old
ideas), one should quote here after Julian Krzyżanowski (1972, 599), Polish fatalist
saying: “jak nie urok to sraczka” (actually quite obscene), originally meant: “if not
fate, so doom” is stressing the inevitability of destiny.
Turning to the techniques used for “artificial” divination, the tokens employed in
cleromancy were called in Slavic źreb (see below) and wróg. The second term in Old
Polish originally meant “fate” or “chance”, but denotes first of all tokens cast or taken
in order to discover the will of destiny. This supports translations from Latin, where
the Old Polish term wróg renders the Latin terms fatum and omen. Whether wróg came
to mean “fate” because of bad, unfavorable luck (wróg means today, in Polish, simply
“an enemy”), as Matusiak (1911, 200) argued, or whether the semantic development
was in quite the opposite direction is impossible to say. The linguistic identity of the
names denoting the divinatory token (wróg) used in lot-casting with the substantive
denoting an enemy (wróg) is less accidental as Aleksander Brückner (1927, 632; cf.
Boryś 2005, 710–711) supposed. From *vorgь, the Old Slavonic *vergti, “to cast” (cf.
Polish wierzgać, “to fling out”) derives the substantive wróżba (“presage”, “augury”,
“auspice”), wróżbita (masculine) and wróżka (feminine) meaning “fortune-teller”,
“augur”, and “fairy”, and the verb wróżyć (‘forebode’). Another term denoting fortune-telling, recorded at a very early stage (see below), was gadanie, which even today
preserves such a meaning in Russian, but in Polish has sunk to mean “twaddle, speaking about nothing.” Another term for “seer” derives from another, but equally interesting root. The substantive wiedźma means toady simply “a witch”, but derives from
the root meaning “seeing” and “knowing”, which is included in its etymology (Boryś
2005, 692) and – consequently – foreseeing appears to be one of most important fields
of activity among witches in Slavic folklore. Several genuine terms denoting those
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who practice sorcery and divination comes to the light e. g. in fifteenth century Polish
sermons (FHRS 1931, 17, 76).
The substantives źreb and wróg convey the abstract meaning of “something what
is already predestined, set out and inevitably marked” (Matusiak 1911, 199–200;
Brückner 1927, 632) by the higher powers with nicks on the tokens for lot-casting.
Because, through lot-casting (or lot-taking), people were assigned to be granted, in
the real world, possesion of – exempli gratia – part of a tract of land or, in the world
of myth and belief, good or bad luck, the subsequent notions for destiny were szczęście and dola, both denoting a part of something that comes to someone as his share
(Boryś 2005, 118 and 598), in the sense of a good, valuable share (cf. negative opposite
notions of nie-dola and nie-szczęście, built of the same substantives with the contradictive prefix “nie-”). In East- and South-Slavic folklore, at least, Dola was personified as a goddess or rather a kind of demon of destiny (Gieysztor 2006, 206–207). The
term los (“destiny”, “fate”), the dominant term in Polish today for denoting “fate”, is
clearly a loan word from High-Middle-German (Borys 2005, 290). Russian language
uses even today the genuine terms sud’ba (“something that was sentenced”) and over
mentioned dola (present still in Polish but considered somewhat of an archaism).
Slavic Gods and Demons of Destiny
Goddesses, Gods and Demons of Fate
It is not easy to establish who, in Slavic belief (or rather beliefs), was responsible for
destiny and divination. Accounts describing the oracles within the main sanctuaries
of the Polabian and Pomeranian Slavs and the gods worshiped there connect divination with questions concerning the success of planned military expeditions and future
welfare (especially related to good and bad harvests). This suggests that the shape of
destiny was regarded as lying in the hands of the (almost exclusively male) gods who
were worshiped at these shrines, but there are sufficient traces to allow us to conclude
that, among the Slavs, as among other peoples of the past, the power over destiny lay
in the hands of supernatural female goddesses, comparable to the Roman Parcae or
Old Norse Norns (Brednich 1964, 172–197; Brednich 1967). Such supernatural beings,
appearing as a numerous but slightly anonymous group, bearing simply a collective
name can (again, as in other mythologies) sometimes be reduced to three, slightly
more personified characters. The first trace of their existence occurs in Procopius of
Cesarea’s account, where he mentions some “nymphs” (and other demons) in connection to Slavic divination. Unfortunately, after this account from the sixth century,
our sources remain silent on this topic for a long time, until some Roshanitse appear
in late medieval old-Russian sources, who emerge also in South Slavic folklore as
rojenice and other female demons like sudenice (“sentencing” fate) from Bulgaria,
Leszek P. Słupecki
89
Serbia and Croatia, and sudički from Bohemia, and as similar female demons in the
folklore across all Slavic lands. It was believed that such females help people at their
birth and shape at that moment their destiny, take care of them during their lifetime
and finally remove them from this world at the appropriate time, which has been long
predestined.
In Rus’, the cult of Roshanitse was still alive in folk beliefs of the late Middle
Ages when the Orthodox Church was seeking to suppress such rituals, which means
that we have some source accounts in which – inter alia – roshanitshnaia trapesa (“a
table for Roshanitse”) is mentioned, on which were laid bread, cheese, honey and
grout, as offerings for Roshanitse and the god Rod (sources: Mansikka 1922, 142–159,
164–165, 246–247, 250, 305–307; cf. Brednich 1964, 174). A very slight trace of such kind
of demons is also found in the late-medieval Polish accounts (Bracha 2001, 319). Contrary to typical pagan goddesses of destiny, the East Slavic Roshanitse appear in the
company of the masculine god Rod. The collective name for Roshanitse (and the name
of the god Rod) connects all of these characters with the notion of birth (from roditi –
“giving birth”; cf. also: ród – “a kin”) and so, in consequence, with death and destiny
(Gieysztor 2006, 204–207). It remains doubtful, however, that the god Rod (masculine) is the same character as Dola (feminine). Nevertheless, Rod, with his Roshanitse,
appears to be a relatively important god rather like a demon. The hypothesis of the
late Russian scholar, Rybakov (1987, 239–246), who posited that Rod may have been
the most important god of the Rus’ prior to the development of the cult of the god
Perun – based as it is on the uncritical use of an account from Slovo sviatovo Grigoria
(Mansikka 1922, 306) – is, however, unconvincing. Nevertheless, Rod acts in Russian
Slavonic paganism as a god who creates humankind, or at least as a character who
grants people fertility, based on the Old Russian text, O vdunovenii dukha v tshelovieka
(Mansikka 1922, 163–165). It claims, in opposition to the opinion of the pagans, that the
Christian God is the only creator of everything and not some “Rod who is sitting in the
air and throwing clods of earth down, from which children are born.”
In the Western Slavic mythographical tradition, an echo of Roshanitse or similar
demons features in an early twelfth century account by Cosmas Pragensis (Chronica
Boemorum I, eds. Bretholz and Weinberger, 4–9) concerning Kazi, Tetka and Lubuša,
the daughters of Krok (Croccus), legendary forefather of the Royal dynasty of Přemyslids. Kazi was described as a herbalist and witch doctor, Tetka as a pagan priestess who
taught people about the heathen cult and Lubuša (the youngest) as the best one who,
unfortunately, “was a sibyl” (fuit phitonissa). Her ability to foresee the future helped
her, however when she – ruling already in the country as a kind of judge (or rather a
duke-arbiter) – decided to take a ploughman called Přemysl as her husband and a true
lord for the Czech people, finding him thanks to her second sight ability. In this way,
the Přemyslids dynasty was established, according to the Czech tradition. This may
pre-date the Cosmas account because already, in another Latin source probably from
the late tenth century called Kristiánova legenda (Strzelczyk 1998, 120–124; Vyncke
1968, 319), there appears an anonymous phitonissa who, in a similar but shorter
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story, advised the Czech people through auguries to build the city of Prague where
Přemysl was elected to rule, taking as his wife “the aforementioned virgin fortuneteller” (iuncta […] in matrimonio supramemorata phitonissa virgine). Both sources are
already mythographical in nature, but reflect the genuine Slavic tradition regarding
the very ancient rituals related to the enthronement of rulers (Słupecki 1997, 35–41).
Gods and Prophecies
To what degree were the Slavic gods able to influence destiny? Let us begin with
Helmold of Bosau’s general description of the pagan religion (ydolorum cultura) of
Polabian Slavs, that was re-born after the pagan uprising (Helmold of Bosau, Chronica
Slavorum I, 52). Mentioning first three names of gods (Prove, Siva and Radigast), the
canon of Bosau goes on to describe their priests (his dicati erant flamines) together
with their “numerous kinds of rituals” (et sacrificiorum libamenta multiplexque religionis cultus). The priest should first announce, based on the result of lot-casting,
the proper time for ceremonies (solempnitates diis dicandas sacerdos iuxta sortium
nutum denuntiat). Once the people have gathered, they sacrifice (mactant) to the gods
offerings (hostias) of cattle, sheep and sometimes human Christians (de bobus, ovibus,
plerique etiam de hominibus Christianis) because, as Helmold stresses, “they please
their gods with blood of those Christians” (quorum sanguine deos suos oblectari iactitans) and “when the priest sacrifices the victim, he drinks of its blood in order to be
more efficient at understanding oracles” (post cesam hostiam sacerdos de cruore libat,
ut sit efficacior oraculis capescendis). What Helmold’s comment stresses is that, in the
opinion of many, the drinking of the sacrificial blood serves to summon up demons
(what remains unclear is whether this reflects the opinion of many pagan Slavs or
rather that of Christian clerics). Having completed the offerings according to custom
(iuxta morum), the people began feasting and merrymaking, and – by this possibility – through drinking from the goblet (patera) circulating among them, they “blessed
it, or rather cursed, in the name of gods” (sub nomine deorum), both good and bad
gods, believing “that all good fortune is dispensed from a good god, and that bad luck
allows the bad one” (omnem proseram fortunam a bono deo, adversam a malo dirigi
profitentes). The bad god was named, according to Helmold, Diabol sive Zcerneboch
id est nigrum deum (“The Devil i. e. Zcerneboch, the black god”). The major among the
Slavic supernatural powers (numina), in Helmold’s estimation, was however “Svantevit, the god of the Rugian country” (Zvanthevith deus terrae Rugianorum) who was not
only the most important (the Slavs in his opinion “other [gods] estimate to be a kind
of half-god”, ceteros quasi semideos estimabat) but was also as “the most effective in
prophecies” (efficacior in responsibus). Yet Saxo Grammaticus has more to say about
the Svantevit cult and oracle (see below).
In Helmold’s account, one may distinguish various strata. On the level of the
cult’s geography, Helmold’s knowledge about the cult and oracle of Svantevit and his
Leszek P. Słupecki
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reference to three far more enigmatic gods are notable. This is sufficient to attest that
Prove is a god of Wagria, despite the unclear meaning of his name. Riedegost should
be rather in his place in the temple in Riedegost-Rethra, while Siva (god or goddess?)
remains a total enigma. On the level of the content of the ritual, the performance of
lot-casting is confirmed. The description of the priest ritually drinking the blood of the
victims to gain oracular inspiration sounds like a horror story but finds a parallel in a
letter of the Saxon bishops from 1108 calling for a crusade against the pagan Slavs –
which may constitute crusade propaganda. Human blood within Slavic pagan ritual
is mentioned in one further source only (written about the same time and in the same
milieu), namely, in a letter by Bishop Adelgot, who wrote about bowls of the blood of
human victims being offered to (the entirely enigmatic) Slavic god, Pripegala (Labuda
1975, 234–236; Strzelczyk 2001, 66). Contemporary Scandinavian parallels are available
(e. g. in Eyrbyggja saga 4, and Hakonar saga goða 14, cf. Słupecki 2009, 32–35; Słupecki
2010, 356–357; ↗ McKinnell, Pagan Traditions in Germanic Languages). What remains
as credible in Helmold’s account are the prophecies (oracula, responsa) spoken by
the Slavic priests. They probably drink by this possibility in a normal way, like other
people, rather some alcohol (see below). This bring us to the last stratum: the reference to the good and bad fortune granted by the good and bad gods of the Slavs, which
information was widely discussed in the research on Slavic religion as evidence for the
existence of an element of dualism within Slavic belief (obvious in folklore and possible but more doubtful in the early Middle Ages prior to Christianization; cf. Tomicki
1976, 47–66; Gieysztor 2006, 160–161). The evidently Christian name “Diabol” (from
Latin, originally Greek, diabolus) is in Polabian heathenism, unsurprisingly, re-born
after an episode of Christianization and, on this point also, Helmold’s information
appears relatively credible. His Slavic name, Zcerneboch, finds some echoes in the
Knytlinga saga (ch. 122), which describes among the idols worshiped on Rügen certain
Tjarnaglofi (“Black-heads”). The efforts to detect, within Slavic religion, a “white”
counterpart to “black” Zcerneboch, however, appear ungrounded.
In Rus’, it is impossible to demonstrate by name, apart from Rod who was connected to Roshanitse, any other god who was responsible for prophecies and prognostication. In Slovo o polku Igorievie, a legendary Russian bard, Bojan, bears the
epitheton vieshtshiy (“seer”) and is described as the “grandson of Veles,” who was the
Old Russian god of magic, what may suggest that Veles and his grandson were linked
to oracles. Unfortunately, Slovo o polku Igorievie, contrary to the assumptions made
by the old scholarship, is probably a very late source, standing closer to ethnographic
records than to medieval sources (although not simply a fake, as some scholars
assume, but rather an old bylina recorded very early by the eighteenth century, edited
and eventually re-shaped at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and wrongly
considered to be an Old-Russian medieval source).
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Oracles in West Slavic Paganism
I understand an oracle to be institutionalized divination with its proper place in the
main sanctuaries of the relevant deities within organized communities (tribes, cities,
kingdoms), performed at fixed time by professionals (priests, prophets and diviners, but sometimes also leaders like kings or chieftains). In Polabia and Pomerania,
the well-known pagan gods were – apart from Svantevit, who was worshiped in the
temple in Arcona on Rügen – Svarozic, who was revered in the temple in Riedegost/
Rethra, and Triglav, who was venerated in the temple in Szczecin. The three respective
shrines of these three aforementioned gods hosted oracles, where cleromancy and
hippomancy were employed when the priests attempted to foresee the success of the
military expeditions of relevant communities. In Arcona (and in another indefinite
place among the Lutitians, possibly in Riedegost), priests also performed divinations
based on alcohol (pure vine and hydromel), that was kept in god’s horn, to predict
future harvests. All of these constitute, however, “artificial” divination, which seems
to be, especially when related to war, the proper domain of masculine gods. Accounts
of the divinations that took place at these three shrines provide the majority of the
source material about Slavic divination that we possess.
In Arcona was practiced also the oracle concerning future harvests, which was
consulted in the autumn, after the yield and in connection to the ceremony of thanksgiving for the crops (Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum XIV, 39, 4). The oracle was
questioned about the success of military campaigns in Riedegost and Szczecin during
spring, before the expeditions began but, after successfully returning to Riedegost, it
was decided again per sortes ac per equum (“by lots and by the horse”), what kind of
offerings should be made to the gods in gratitude for the victory (Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon VI, 25).
Private divinations were performed at those shrines as well. According to Adam
of Bremen (Adam of Bremen, Gesta II, 21), the entrance to the temple-stronghold
in Rethra (which Thietmar earlier called “Riedegost”) was open only to those who
went there to request auguries (responsa petentibus). Saxo Grammaticus (Gesta
Danorum XIV, 39, 11) mentions also some private divinations that were clearly practiced in the home by women.
Divinations about Future Crops from Wine and Hydromel in God’s
Drinking Horn
The same topics enquired about during in divinations performed at the main sanctuaries of the Western Slavs are also to be found in an account by Thietmar of Merseburg
of the holy spring of Glomac in the land of Daleminci-Glomaci. It provides information
about a sanctuary in the world of nature, rather than a temple, and the divinations
are not mentioned explicitly, but the account does refer to a phenomenon that was
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interpreted as ominous. Thietmar explains that the land of Glomaci was so named
because of some:
[…] spring situated not more than two miles from the Elbe. Its waters create a large morass, on
which, the people from the area and witnesses claim, strange events occur. As long as the natives
enjoy the blessing of peace and the soil is not short of harvest, the morass is covered with wheat,
oats and acorns, and gives joy to the neighbors who crowd around it. Whenever war rages, blood
and ash inevitably mark the future. Each inhabitant reveres and respects that spring more than
any church, although what he can expect from it remains very uncertain. (Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon I, 3)
One may assume (Słupecki 1994, 164–165; Banaszkiewicz 2001, 408, 413) that this
description of such miraculous phenomena may echo true offerings of trifunctional
agricultural nature (wheat, oats and acorns offered as food for people, horses and
pigs), and also of purely military character (the blood of victims and ashes). At the
same time, it nevertheless conveys an oracular flavor.
Regarding prosperity, one should note that, in Slavic (and not only Slavic) beliefs,
gods were granting people good harvests (Herbord, Dialogus III, 4; Ebo, Vita Sancti
Ottonis III, 8) or punishing them with bad ones (Modzelewski 2004, 456–457). The
(Western) Slavs attempted to predict harvests by divination from the stand of alcohol
that was kept in a horn held in the hands of the idol of the god (or goddess?). As the
first such information recorded (following a lost German source), William of Malmesbury mentions some Vindelici et Leutici, what means simply Lutitians (“Vindelici” is
here a corrupted record of the name “Vinidi,” that was frequently used in German
sources to refer to Western Slavs – Wenden, and not the name of people dwelling in
ancient times by Augusta Vindelicorum, today Augsburg, cf. Słupecki and Zaroff 1999,
15). William of Malmesbury writes that they:
[…] worship Fortune and, placing her idol in the most prominent position, they placed a horn
in her right hand and filled it with the beverage, made of honey and water, which we call by the
Greek term, hydromel […]. Wherefore, on the last day of November, sitting around in a circle,
they all taste it and, if they find the horn full, they applaud with loud clamoring because, in the
ensuing year, plenty with her brimming horn will fulfill their wishes in all matters; but, if it be
otherwise, they lament. (William of Malmesbury, De gestis regum Anglorum II, 12)
Williams of Malmesbury’s description sounds like a poorly-constructed extract from
an account of Saxo Grammaticus about the identical ritual followed in Arcona but,
in fact, William write his text half a century earlier, using a German source for his
information (or, rather, a lost written text as an oral relation). At the same time, Saxo’s
account shows no trace of having used William’s text (or source), which proves that we
have two independent sources describing a similar ritual. What William described was
happening, I assume (contrary to Roman Zaroff; see Słupecki and Zaroff 1999), in the
main Lutitian temple in Riedegost, which still existed at the time of German Emperor
Henry III (d. 1056). We know from Thietmar’s account (Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon VI, 23–25) that the temple held an oracle but the German chronicler described
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its divinatory rituals of lot-casting and horse-divination alone. This may have been
because the oracle from hydromel in the horn was performed only once a year, in the
autumn, while the German envoys, who were probably Thietmar’s informants, may
have visited Riedegost at another time, as I assume in spring 1003 (Słupecki 2008, 242).
In William’s description only the name of the deity is problematic. On may speculate that William, like many other authors before and after him, replaced a strange
barbarian name that he found in the text lost to us with a proper classical equivalent.
The choice of “Fortuna” here is logical, as she was responsible for fortune, fate and
providing oracles but the problem is that Fortuna is female while the god responsible
for the same kind of oracle in Arcona, Svantevit, is clearly male. On the other hand,
we know very little about Lutitian goddesses, but at least one anonymous goddess is
attested relatively strongly in Thietmar’s Chronicle (Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon VII, 64) so it remains uncertain whom, in the Lutitian pantheon, was responsible
for divinations about future harvests: an anonymous Goddess or God and then eventually Svarozic (Słupecki and Zaroff 1999, 16–17).
In the description in Saxo Gramaticus (Gesta Danorum XIV, 39, 3–7) of the temple
in Arcona (Słupecki 1994, 24–50) includes a far more extensive description of divination from an alcoholic beverage (in this case, pure wine, merum) kept in the horn but,
in Saxo’s account, only one of the three public oracular ceremonies are described in
detail. After describing the temple building (although not in complete detail), Saxo
relates how a huge wooden idol of Svantevit, with four heads, stands in the inner
“chapel” of the shrine, to which only the priest had access (Gieysztor 1984, 262), and
even he only in a limited sense, as dictated by the ritual. The idol is described as
follows:
In his right hand, he held a horn (cornu) made of various metals, which was annually filled with
wine (mero) by a priest experienced in sacrifices, who could draw conclusions about the harvest
for the following year from the state of the liquid. (Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum XIV, 39, 4)
The important detail is here the alcoholic beverage. In William’s account, this was
hydromel (alcohol made of honey and water), well known in the Indo-European tradition as a ritual and festive drink, called in Slavic miód, in Old Norse mjöðr, in Latin
medus, in Greek μέθυ, and so on, up to Old Hindu mádhu (de Vries 1962, 390). The
use of wine is more astonishing but not impossible. The important detail is, however,
the unusual name that Saxo chose, as he did not use the common substantive vinum
but the relatively more sophisticated term, merum, which means “pure wine without
water,” alcohol that was used in pagan rituals in ancient times precisely in libations to
gods. Saxo did so for two possible reasons: because he knew that the Slavs in Arcona
used wine in the Svantevit oracle in precisely the same way (we should remember that
Saxo’s informants were Danish clerics, including his protector, Bishop Absalon, and
aristocrats who had personally participated in the destruction of the shrine in Arcona)
and/or because he wished to avoid any association with the ritual use of wine in the
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Christian holy service, where it is mixed with water (and in fact only such a liquid
should we name wine).
As Saxo stresses, the ritual was celebrated once a year, after the harvest, and the
oracle formed part of the ceremony of thanksgiving for the crops (comparable to the
Polish dożynki feast, cultivated in folklore up to the present day). At that time, the
people gathered in front of the temple. On the eve of the celebration, the priest:
[…] meticulously cleaned the chapel (sacellum), to which only he himself had access, with a
brush. He was careful not to breathe inside the temple. Whenever he had to breathe in or out, he
went to the door, apparently to avoid defiling the divine presence with the breath of a mortal. The
next day, while the people kept watch outside the door, he took the cup (poculum) from the idol
and carefully examined it. If any of the given liqour had disappeared, he thought that this meant
a dearth in the following year. Noting this, he would order the present yield to be kept for the
future. If he saw no lessening of its usual fullness, he would predict a good season. Depending
on this auspice (auspicium), he warned the people to use this year’s harvest either sparingly or
liberally, then he poured out the old wine (merum) at the feet of the image (ad pedes simulacri)
as an offering (libamenti nomine), and filled the empty cup (vacuefactum poculum) with fresh
liquor. Enacting a drinking ceremony, he venerated the statue with a toast, and supplicated him
in solemn words for an increase in wealth and victories for himself, the fatherland and its citizens. Having done this, he hastily put the cup to his mouth and emptied it excessively quickly,
in a single draught and, replacing it in the right hand of the statue, refilled it with wine (merum).
(Saxo Gramaticus, Gesta Danorum XIV, 39, 5–6; trans. Słupecki 1994, 28)
The ritual appears similar to that described by William but with several small, albeit
important, differences. The first difference, that has already been mentioned, was
the use of another ritual drink, having however absolutely the same meaning. More
important is the exclusive nature of the ceremony. In William’s account, the whole
community, sitting around the idol, drank of the hydromel in the horn while, in Saxo,
only the priest does so, but obviously in public (we know about some veils covering
idols in West Slavic shrines including Arcona but people were allowed to view statues
from outside, when the shrine was opened and the veils turn off on special occasions).
Even the priest should behave there in a highly restricted manner, as prescribed by the
ritual, what on may see in description of him cleaning the “chapel” (sacellum, here
probably denoting the “sanctissimum”) quoted above. The most intriguing factor is,
however, the male sex of the god. The oracle forms an integral part of the thanksgiving
ceremony. Its final ritual includes also some element of wish and desire, which is close
to magic and prognostication. The next ritual follows immediately after the oracle:
Another offering was a round cake (placenta), flavored with hydromel (mulso confecta), which
was almost as tall as a person. The priest placed it between himself and the people and, looking
at the Rugians, would ask if they could see him. If they replied that they did, he wished that they
would be unable to see him after the following year. In that way, he did not wish for himself or the
people any doom (fatum) but more abundant harvests (messis incrementa) in the future. Then,
on behalf of the idol (sub simulacri nomine), he saluted the attendant crowd (presentam turbam),
reminding (hortatus) them to continue worshiping the deity (numinis venerationem) by offering
rituals (sacrificii ritu) and promising them victory on land and sea as a certain reward for their
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worship (certissimum cultus premium). Having done this, the priest and the people spent the rest
of the day enjoying luxurious banquets, using the offerings for feast and gluttony […]. (Saxo
Gramaticus, Gesta Danorum XIV, 39, 5–6; trans. Słupecki 1994, 28–29)
Two accounts from Polabia about the same oracle, connected to the notions of abundance and future harvest, allow us to assume that this ritual was known throughout
Polabia. It might be argued that it developed from certain agrarian rituals, known
more broadly within Slavic paganism since, for instance, in ceremonies and myths
linked to the ruling dynasties of Czechia, Poland and Carinthia, several motifs of
this nature come to light, such as, for instance, the appointment of the ploughman
Přemysl as ruler of the Czech people, mentioned above. The image of a figure holding
a drinking horn is also visible on a limestone statue from Zbrutsh River, the most
impressive Slavic pagan sculpture we know.
Fig. 1: Sculpture of Sviatovid from Zbrutsh, Poland
­(Archeological Museum of Kraków; date: saec. X?). Photo
credits: Małpolska Institute of Culture.
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What is puzzling here is the link between these divine figures bearing the “horn
of abundance” with a masculine deity rather than the more common motive of “ladies
with a cup” (Enright 1996), as the powers ruling the domain of abundance, fertility, destiny and divination, well-known from other mythologies, but there also in the
shatten appear masculine characters involved, at least to some extent, in those realms.
It seems that, in West Slavic belief, such masculine figures became, at least in certain
places like Arcona, fully dominant.
Cleromancy and Hippomancy: Divination about Success in Military
Campaigns
To begin with a reference with an almost mythical flavor, in Thietmar’s extensive
account about the temple in Riedegost, the passage about divinations end with information about an ominous animal known there (testatur), thanks to “ancient superstition” (antiquitas error):
[…] whenever a calamity of long civil war hangs over them, a huge boar with foam on its tusks
emerges from the aforementioned lake [on which shore the shrine of Riedegost stands, in a kind
of holy grove] and, in front of everybody, wallows in a puddle with great satisfaction, causing
terrible tremors. (Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon VI, 24)
This description, clearly written before 1018 (when Thietmar died) has some prophetic
value indeed, as the civil war among the Lutitian tribes began some half century later,
in 1057–1059 (Modzelewski 2004, 355), which led to their decline and subsequent fall,
thereby ending the existence of the temple.
In the temple in Riedegost, described already in the very early eleventh century,
and the later portrayed shrines in Szczecin and Arcona, all military affairs, political
matters and offerings due to the gods in gratitude for victories were decided per sortes
ac per equum – “by lots and by the horse” (Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon VI, 25).
Before discussing both of these rituals in detail, it is important to offer a linguistic
comment. A special relationship between divination by lots and hippomancy is confirmed by the history of the Slavic word źreb, which shares the same meaning as Latin
sors, but denotes something else in addition. The word refers to: 1 – a fragment of the
community’s land, granted to an individual owner (or user) by drawing lots (compare
here Latin sors and its meaning in the medieval rural economy); 2 – a token used in
lot-casting, for instance for land portioning. Furthermore, however, the word źrebię/
źrebiec exists in Polish, designating a foal, undoubtedly a diminutive form of the lost
substantive *źreb, meaning “horse”. It also appears that, at some point, horses and
tokens for lot-casting were named using the same term. One may assume that the
extension of the semantic field of the substantive źreb far beyond its original meaning
may originate from the role of horses in divinatory rituals involving, at the same time,
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lot-casting (Matusiak 1911, 193–241; Słupecki 2009, 881; Słupecki 2017, 205–206). One
should remember here that all names for “horse” that are in use in Slavic languages
today are borrowed from foreign tongues, and that the original Indo-European name
for this animal vanished – probably because of some taboo.
Cleromancy
Drawing (or casting) lots, among Slavs, as in other cultures (Słupecki 2009, 876; Słupecki 2017, 143–176), formed the initial part of a longer oracular procedure (cf. Tacitus,
Germania, 10), and its result required confirmation through other methods of divination, like hippomancy and ornitomancy. Lots were particularly associated with war
affairs and decisions regarding alliances, the initiation and direction of military campaigns, the acceptance or avoidance of battles, sacrifices prior to expeditions and the
thanksgiving offerings due to the gods afterwards.
Our first reference to Slavic cleromancy dates back to the ninth century, in an
apology of the Slavic Alfabeth of Khrabr Charnoresiets (Kujev 1967, 188; cf. Słupecki
2009, 878). Stressing the fact that, prior to conversion and Cyril and Methodius’
mission, pagan Slavs did not have books (what means writings and alfabeth), he nevertheless stated that they “count (chtiakhu) and foretell (gadakhu) with marks and
nicks (tshertami i rezami).” We see the term gadanie (“forecast, fortunetelling”) here
for the first time, and the best material on which one can mark something in that way
is, of course, wooden tokens for lot-casting or lot-drawing (Słupecki 2017, 166–167).
The material shape of the lots in our sources related to the Slavs is referred to in
detail only in the description of Arcona by Saxo Grammaticus (Gesta Danorum, XIV,
39, 11, eds. Olrik and Raeder, 467), who wrote that “they were also not ignorant about
using lots (nec sortium usus ignotus), as they threw three pieces of wood (tribus ligni
particulis), white (albis) on one side and black (nigris) on the other, all together as lots
(in gremium sortium loco coniectis), with the white meaning success and with the dark
the opposite” (candidis prospera, furvis adversa signabant).
For comparison, one should recall the similar descriptions in Tacitus (Germania 10), Lex Frisonum (14, 1), and in Old Norse sources (Słupecki 2017, 150–157,
195–206), but also a late (seventeenth century), detailed account of Pretorius concerning Baltic people, which contains several astonishingly archaic elements. Pretorius described how a Lithuanian fortune-teller cast three small pieces of cut twig
(of artemisia arbotanum L.), as long as one part of the finger and, depending on how
they fell, with either the good or bad side upward, gave her answers (Mierzyński 1896,
68). To create a good and bad side for the token, it is sufficient to cut the twig down
the middle, so that the flat side, without any bark, can represent the white and the
rounded side, with the bark, can represent the dark. Strangely enough, a very similar
ritual was used by King Władysław Jagiełło, who was born a pagan prince of Lithuanian stock and, following his baptism, become a fifteenth-century Polish king and the
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founding father of the Jagielonian dynasty. According to a funeral panegyric to him,
written by future Archbishop Gregory of Sanok (Długosz XI, 1877, 531), he adopted the
following custom: as soon as he rose from his bed each morning, he would “break and
cast twigs or a cane” (virgae et calami iacendo frusta). Although the ensuing verses
contain an invocation to Jesus Christ in an attempt to justify this royal superstition,
the link to the aforementioned practice of cleromantic ritual is clear.
Hippomancy. Per sortes ac per equum
The (Western) Slavs bred horses in their major sanctuaries in Riedegost (Polish
Radogoszcz, in German Rethra: Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon VI, 24; Adam of
Bremen, Gesta II, 21/18), Szczecin (German Stettin: Vita Prieflingensis II, 11, ed. Wikarjak and Liman, 42–43, and Herbord, Dialogus II, 32–33, eds. Wikarjak and Liman,
123–126) and Arcona (Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum XIV, 39, 9–10, eds. Olrik and
Raeder, 465–467; cf. Słupecki 1994, 24–132; Modzelewski 2004, 353–365 and 456–457;
Słupecki 2006; Słupecki 2008, 241–256; Słupecki 2009, 876–883; Słupecki 2017, 196–
207). At these shrines, horses were used in divination to make decisions regarding military campaigns. In Riedegost, the ritual began by digging, in the meadow inside the
temple stronghold, a small hole in the ground to receive the tokens for the lot-casting
from the earth, hidden there below the sod. This hole, in my opinion, may have corresponded to the ancient Roman mundus and the hole in the Delphic oracle that gave
Pythia inspiration. In Riedegost, the hole was located in a similar way to a mundus, at
a point marking the mythical center of the community and granting, like the hole at
Delphi, access to the subterranean powers. The act of digging the hole was of major
importance. Thietmar relates how the priests, murmuring most probably some sacral
texts, terram cum tremore infodiunt (“dug into the ground in great fear”), which suggests that this was a kind of misterium tremendum. In this way, the chtonic powers,
unlike the igneous and solar Svarozic with his white horse, were consulted first. The
chtonic deity could be interpreted as the pan-Slavic god Weles (so Modzelewski 2004,
390) or the aforementioned anonymous goddess of Lutitians, appearing on their war
standards (Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, VII, 64) that were kept in the temple in
Riedegost (Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon VI, 23). Following the lot-casting, the
lots were replaced in the hole and covered over with the sod again, clearly to be used
again in future ceremonies.
Then, the saddled horse was used, as the analogies with Szczecin and Arcona
prove, (where it is explicitly stated) that the horse was a god’s horse, and the place on
the saddle was reserved for him. Here, one may see a difference from Germanic hippomancy where the horses drag a holy cart (Tacitus, Germania 10), and also a similarity,
as in the case of both the holy cart of the Germans and the Slavic saddle, the place
on it was reserved for the gods only. Nevertheless, the Germans used, in hippomancy,
an archaic cart (originating from the age of Indo-European ridvans), while the Slavs
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used the modern (and possibly originally nomadic) saddle. In Arcona, as explicitely
stated by Saxo Grammaticus (Gesta Danorum XIV, 39, 9, eds. Olrik and Raeder, 466),
the horse was white (flamines, peculiarem albi coloris equum posidebat) and it was
­forbidden to tear hair from its mane or tail (cuius iubae et caudae pilos convellere
nefarium ducebat). The horse was also probably white in Riedegost, in reference to
the nature of the solar god Svarozic, who was his owner, and the “solar” or at least
“shining” etymology of his name (Gieysztor 2006, 167–178). In Szczecin, the horse was
clearly black (nigri coloris), tall and fat (mire magnitudinis et pinguem). It was forbidden to ride a sacred horse. In Szczecin, Herbord states this directly:
[…] all year long, the horse did nothing (toto anni tempore vacabat) and was so holy (tantaeque
fuit sanctitatis) that nobody was worthy to mount it (nullum dignaretur sessorem) but it had one
of the four priests as its custodian (habuitque unum de quatuor sacrdotibus templorum custodem
diligentissimum). (Herbord, Dialogus II, 33)
In Arcona (Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum XIV, 39, 9, eds. Olrik and Raeder, 466),
Svantevits’ horse could be fed and ridden only by the priest (soli sacerdoti pascendi
et insidendique ius erat) and only in order to keep the animal in good condition for its
divine owner. It was believed that Svantevit (Suantovitus) rode this horse while fighting the enemies of his sanctity (adversus sacrorum suorum hostes), as was proved by
the fact that it was often found to be muddy in the morning, even though it had spent
all night in the stable. Also in Riedegost, it was forbidden to ride the sacred horse. Thietmar makes no reference to this but Annales Augustiani (1068), reporting the end of
the temple in Riedegost (called “Reda” in the annals), stated that “Burchardt, Bishop
of Halberstadt, invaded, destroyed and burnt the province of the Lutitians. He captured the horse which was worshiped as a god in Reda and returned to Saxony riding
it.” The emphasis placed on the fact that the bishop returned riding the sacred horse
stresses the breaking of the taboo (Słupecki 1994, 56).
The horse oracle was performed in Riedegost on a meadow in front of the temple,
and consisted of walking over spears stuck crosswise in (or laid on) the ground. In
Riedegost, two spears were stuck crosswise into the ground; in Szczecin, nine were
laid on the ground (Herbord, Dialogus II, 33); in Arcona, three rows of spears were
stuck crosswise into the ground (Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum XIV, 39, 9, eds.
Olrik and Raeder, 466–467). Good or ill fortune was predicted depending on whether
the horse stopped over the spears with its right or left leg (or whether it touched them
with its hoof or not). Among the Balts in Livonia, the late medieval Chronicus Livonicum Vetus (I, 10, ed. Hansen, 52–54) describes how such a horse divination saved the
life of a certain missionary. In that case, only one spear was laid on the ground and
the saddleless horse (according to the following description, riding on the horse’s
back was reserved for divine powers) and the pagans touch the animal walked in such
a way that forced them to show mercy toward the cleric because Christ mounted the
horse, guiding it invisibly. The format of this ceremony was, nevertheless, identical to
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the Slavonic ritual. Similar divinations feature also in ethnographic records related to
Eastern Slavs (Moszyński 1967, 2/1, 411–412). It is worth quoting from the oldest record
here. Thietmar, having described the temple stronghold and the temple building with
the idols (of whom he names only Svarozic – Zuarasici) and war standards kept inside
it, went on to describe the cult:
The natives have instituted priests (ministri) to take care of the temple with due solicitude. When
they gathered there to make offerings to idols or pacify their anger (immolare seu iram eorundem
placare), only they themselves sit down while the others have to stand. Murmuring secretly, they
dig with fear into the ground in turns, in order to become certain about doubtful matters through
the lots cast there (sortibus emissis). Having finished, they covered them with green sod (cespite
viridi) and took the horse (equum) which they have as the biggest of all (maximus inter alios) and
venerate as sacred (ut sacer ab hiis veneratur), and led it with great reverence over two spears
fixed in the ground with heads and puted in that way crosswise (super fixam in terram duarum
cuspides hatilium inter se transmissarum), and walking over the lots which they asked first (premissis sortibus exploravere prius), using it like something divine (per hunc quasi divinum) to make
once again auguries (denuo auguriantur). If both actions produced the same result (omen), they
acted in accordance with this but, if not, the people sadly abandoned the enterprise completely
(a tristibus populis hoc prorsus omittitur). (Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon VI, 23–25)
Other records present descriptions of the same ritual, performed with little variation,
in two further shrines, in Szczecin and Arcona, which provide sufficient material for
further speculation about particular details.
The most interesting problem concerning West Slavic hippomancy is, however,
the fact that, in their pre-Christian religion, we find the best and most detailed records
about horse divinations that we possess for the whole of pagan Europe. From the other
hand, the written sources concerning the Slavs record utterly nothing about horse
offerings! In the history of the Old Norse ritual, the situation is almost completely the
reverse (Słupecki 2009, 876–883; Słupecki 2017, 177–210). Coming back to the Slavs,
only Cosmas Pragensis (Chronica Boemorum I, 11) relates a story about something
similar to horse offering but the animal that the Czech army sacrificed at the beginning of a military expedition was, in fact, a donkey, what sounds like an effort to turn
a genuine pagan ritual (but Slavic or German?) into a mockery about pagans.
Despite investigations into many cultures (Mayer 1950; Słupecki 2009), little is
known about horse divination. Apart from Tacitus’ aforementioned account of the
Germans, the best narrative from outside the Slavonic culture, which sounds similar
to the divinations described above and includes also an element of offering is –
strangely enough – the story of Polybius (Historiae XII, 4b, ed. Paton, 316–319) about
the Romans who, at the start of a war or when deciding about important matters, in the
field (glossed as τω Καμπω which means Campus Martius), killed a horse with a spear
and predicted military success or failure based on the way in which the sacrificed
horse fell. These circumstances (divination about war matters, an oracular animal
and the instrument used during the ritual) feature also in similar oracles among the
ancient Romans and among the Slavs far later (Słupecki 2006, 226; cf. Dumézil 1966,
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Introductory Surveys
217–229), but no doubt the Slavic priests who took care of the oracular horses would
face the question of what to do with a divine animal once it became very old. In Slavic
archeology, traces of the sacrifice of such animals are very rare and dubious, although
recent excavations may shed fresh light on this matter (Chudziak 2014).
Ornitomancy and Other Rituals
In Tacitus’ (Germania 10) description of divination apart from hippomancy there
appears also a very brief reference to Germanic ornitomancy, as this ritual was well
known to the Romans from their own customs. About Slavic ornitomancy we unfortunately know very little. Fifteenth-century Polish predictions (FHRS 1931, 71, 76) refer
to certain ptakoprawnyczi as people who foretell the future based on birds’ flight and
song (qui dicunt futura ex garritu avium; in another source: et volatu avium). How
far such laconic descriptions reflect genuine Slavic beliefs and how far they simply
depend on the old tradition of Christian prediction is difficult to say, but what is astonishing is the use of many terms denoting specialized diviners quoted in those predics
in the vernacular, albeit without, unfortunately, providing any details about their art.
In Rus’, Slovo sviatovo otca Kirila (Mansikka 1922, 196) complains about the “belief in
birds” enumerating woodpeckers, ravens and tomtits, and mentioning the custom of
listening to birdsong prior to embarking on a journey to see from which side (from the
right or the left) one heard the birds (Vyncke 1968, 328). According to ethnographical
records the direction of birds’ flight was observed as well and, in both cases, the righthand side was interpreted as favorable (Moszyński 1967, 2/1, 1967, 408–409).
Prognostication in Rus’
Old Russian chronicles, letopisy, written in the vernacular, preserved some of the
original Slavic terms concerning prognostication but, nevertheless, at times display
a very strong analogy with foreign traditions. Povest vremennykh let (for the year 983,
Primary chronicle 1926, 82–83) speaks about lot-casting among the Varangian retinue
of Duke Vladimir (who was still pagan at that time) in order to select an appropriate
victim to sacrifice to the gods in gratitude for their military victory. Here, we should
remember that the Varangians were of Swedish origin: “The old people and the nobles
say: let we cast lots (mietshem shrebi) for a youth and a maid, who will be shown; them
we will slaughter for the gods!” The virgin was of little interest to the narrative, and
quickly disappeared from the story, but more was said about the youth. The father of
the young men chosen in that way, already a Christian baptised in Byzantium, refused
to give his son “to devils” and, in consequence, was killed on his estate, together
with his son. The idea about choosing men to be offered to the gods from among
Leszek P. Słupecki
103
companions from the same retinue, despite the use of the Slavic term shreb (= źreb),
recalls a similar narrative from Gautreks saga 7 (Słupecki 2017, 149 and 159), although
the form of lot-casting is different. In the Gautreks saga, the lots were taken off (kom
upp, confirming Saxo Grammaticus’ VI, 5, 7 version of the same story), what made
the choice of one individual possible, but in Rus’, was that the lots were cast – but
how was it possible to distinguish in that way one individual who should be killed?
The story in letopis is also somewhat of an echo of the already partly forgotten foreign
tradition. Again, the form of the offering is different: in the Gautreks saga, King Vikar
was hanged while the Varangian youth was to be slaughtered.
In another story in the letopis (Povest vremennykh let, for the year 912, Primary
chronicle 1926, 32) Prince Oleg, although granted the epitheton veshtshiy (“knowing
fortune” and/or “knowing fortune-telling”), asks his volchv how he will die. In answer,
he is told that it must happen because of his horse. As identified several years ago
(Stender Petersen 1934), the account of Oleg’s death is a version of the Old Norse story
from the Örvar-Odds saga (Örvar Odds Saga 2–3 and 31, eds. Jónsson and Vilhjálmsson, 283–289, 390) about Örvar-Odds’ horse, Faxi. Faxi was immediately killed following such an inauspicious prophecy, but Oleg’s horse, kept far away from the ruler,
was allowed to die naturally. The ending of both stories, however, is the same: both
arrogant leaders step over the skull of dead horse, from which a venomous serpent
emerges and kills them (Hannika 1960; Słupecki 2009, 880; Słupecki 2017, 190–195).
It is worth stressing that Faxi means, in Old Norse, “a horse with a big mane,” while
Saxo Grammaticus (Gesta Danorum XIV, 39, 9) stated that it was forbidden to tear
out or cut hair from the mane of Svantevit’s horse! It seems that Slavic sacred horses
looked similar to Nordic Faxis in this respect. Another similarity is that it was forbidden to ride both horses!
The volkhvy (sing. volkhv) mentioned in the story about Oleg are presented in the
letopis as Old Russian pagan priests and diviners, and are presented in the Povest
vremennykh let’, far more broadly in two stories that were allegedly set after the official conversion of Rus’, as the leaders of pagan uprisings, claiming to possess strong
magical power, including knowledge about the future (Povest vremennykh let, for the
years 1024 and especially 1071). One volkv also relates his own story about the origin
of humankind, from a wisp used by a god while sitting in a kind of sauna bath. In all
probablity, however, the volkhvy were, in the letopis narratives, rather an echo of a
kind of Ugro-Finnish shaman, acting in the ethnically-mixed early Russian state as
truly Slavic diviners.
Conclusion and Outlook
The weak point of the current study – which is important to stress in this conclusion –
is the emphasis placed on a very specific region of Polabia and Pomerania, which
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delivered for our research highly impressive source accounts. This was possible due to
the fact that, during the bloody conflicts with Christians (especially German Saxons),
between the tenth and the twelfth century, the Slavic pagan religion flourished there,
not in a truly syncretic way, but rather by reinforcing some of the genuine elements
already present with little regard to the well-known religion of their enemy; namely,
Christianity. As a consequence of the pagan revolt of 983 (and later uprisings), the role
of the pagan shrines (and their oracles) increased and, in the case of the tribal union
of Lutitians established after 983, we may even speak of a kind of theocracy, led by
pagan priests, and an amphictionia organised around the temple of Svarozic in Riedegost, hosting a shrine complete with idols, rituals, temple-tresor and an oracle, and
a pan-tribal assembly, where the most important judicial and political matters were
discussed and decided and the gods were consulted through divination performed
according to the rituals described above. About the “secular” rulers of Lutitians we
have, from that period, no information (if they existed at all, cf. Modzelewski 2004,
853–854; Słupecki 2006, 224). Very important and still highly influential in the twelfth
century (after the fall of the temple in Riedegost/Rethra in the late eleventh century)
was the temple in Arcona, and the rulers of Rügen, according to Helmold of Bosau,
completely dominated by the priests of Svantevit from Arcona. As Helmold sarcastically comments:
The king is not very highly esteemed in comparison with the priest (comparacione flaminis)
because the latter interprets the oracle and the results of the lot-casting (responsa perquirit et
eventus sortium expolorat). This depends on lots (ad nutum sortium), but the king and people
depend on his will. (Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum II, 108)
The “secular” aristocracy and Pomeranian dukes in Szczecin appear to have held
more power but, there also, the temple played a very important role. Nowhere else
in the Slavic lands did the role of pagan temples as institutions rise so high and, in
consequence, among the Slavs, the most highly-developed oracles are confined to this
specific region. In other Slavic lands, the situation was different and at least public
magic and divination were controlled by the ruler/leader and their families. For that
kind of pagan prognostics there, we possess, unfortunately, very scant material.
In 1209, on the head of the army of one of the Polish dukes in his fight against
the Germans appeared a witch carrying water taken from a river in a riddle, but the
water was not flowing downward. Through that sign, the witch attempted to forecast military victory for the army, but in vain (Chronicon Montis Sereni, for the year
1209; cf. Urbańczyk 1991, 89). This story, drawn from a German source, is one of the
first of its kind, illustrating the emergence of the new medieval superstitions within
Christian Slavic culture or, rather, cultures, as the same process of absorbing pan-European magic, including new kinds of prognostication, is visible not only in Slavic
lands of Latin culture, but also in Rus’, where information about eclipses and comets
was recorded, e. g., in Povest vremennykh let (for the years 1065, 1091, 1102). Similar
Leszek P. Słupecki
105
research about these and similar omina might be conducted, using Latin sources from
West Slavic lands, but this is another topic, which belong to the history of pan-European sorcery in the advanced and late Middle Ages and modern times.
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Matthias Heiduk
Prognostication in the Medieval Western
Christian World
In this compendium, prognostication is used as a collective term to describe all
methods of predicting the future. According to the Christian belief prevalent during
the millennium between the years 500 and 1500, the “Middle Ages” as they are generally called in European history, only God knows the future. Several theologians were
adamant that it did not befit humans to look into the future and God’s plan for the
salvation of his creation. Still, the biblical stories confirm that the providential plan
could be revealed through signs and the prophecies of illuminated people, so the predominant view was that predictions of the future were altogether possible, although
the nature and value of these predictions remained a subject of controversy. Future
events, according to the widely-held view, could be announced directly through
visions and dreams or indirectly through natural signs but people also actively tried
to predict events by interpreting the signs of nature or asking intermediaries about the
divine will. Saints or the departed were called upon to serve as intermediaries, because
they were closer to God and therefore more knowledgeable, but so were supernatural
beings such as angels and demons which, as entities of the celestial realms, were also
able to provide deeper insights into the course of events.
This survey offers a cursory overview of the medieval practices of prognostication
in the medieval Christian West. Part 1 provides an introduction to some of the fundamental principles of prognostication in the context of the medieval Christian outlook
on the world. It examines the concepts of time, cosmology and world-view, plus the
debates on divine providence and free will as well as on the perimeters of legitimacy
of certain practices. Part 2 illustrates various methods of prognostication and their
role in everyday life. The large variety of prognostication methods and their historical
sources are addressed in part 3. A brief outline of the crucial points in the history of
prognostication in part 4 concludes this survey.
Acknowledgement: The author is very grateful to Claudia Heiduk for her help in shaping the English
version of this paper.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-005
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Part 1 – The Foundations of Prognostication
Notions and Concepts of Time
Medieval notions of time were dominated by the parallelism of the cyclical and linear
movement of time. The daily cycle from sunrise to sunset determined the rhythm of
work and prayer, the seasonal cycle dictated agricultural activities and the dates of
fairs, and the feast days throughout the liturgical year. In the towns of the Late Middle
Ages, other modes of timing also influenced daily life. Mechanical devices such as
wheel clocks told the hour independently of the position of the sun. Guilds determined the working hours for their members, and merchants calculated profit margins
and interest rates on the basis of exact calculations of time (Dohrn-van Rossum 1992).
While the cyclical movement of time was in tune with nature, the linear movement
emerged with the idea that time on earth is limited, starting with God’s creation and
ending with the second coming of Christ and the Last Judgement. The Christian liturgy
recalls all three levels of linear time by commemorating biblical and historical events
of the past and anticipating salvation and eternal life in the present (Knoch 1995).
Acts of penance linked the time on earth with the time in the afterlife. Especially the
doctrine of purgatory, which arose during the Middle Ages, strengthened this link,
because the lengths of time for penitential acts equivalently diminished the time
period of punishments in purgatory (Le Goff 1981, 288–296). In Christian faith, the
end of the world marked the completion of the divine plan of salvation, so the future
had no open end. This, however, was no reason for resignation and inaction, but an
admonition to use the remaining time well. Since everybody’s lifetime was embedded
in the linearity of the plan for salvation, everybody – each individual and the whole
of Christianity – was expected to make this world a better place in expectation of the
end to come (Gurjewitsch 1980, 108–187; Schmieder 2015).
To calculate time and break it down into periods was seen as helpful for understanding where in God’s plan the present was situated. According to the two most
common historical concepts of the Middle Ages, Christians felt that the end was near.
The teachings of both the “Four Empires” and the “Six Ages” claimed that humankind had already reached the last period. Church Father Jerome (d. 419) attributed the
four empires brought up by Daniel the prophet to the ancient empires of the Babylonians, the Persians, the Greeks and the Romans (Jerome, Commentarius in Danielem I,
ii, 31–35), which meant that the continuation of humankind on Earth depended on
the duration of the Roman Empire. In the Christian West, this had been achieved at
least temporarily by the translatio imperii, the translation of the empire, to the Franks
and later the Germans, or, alternatively, the Pope (Goez 1954). Augustine of Hippo
(d. 430) preferred the division into the “Six Ages” based on biblical stories. The first
age starts with Adam and ends with Noah; the second extends to Abraham; the third
to King David; the fourth to King Nebuchadnezzar; the fifth to the birth of Christ; and
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the present was already part of the last period after the birth of Christ (Augustine,
De civitate dei, books 15–18). Attempts to calculate the length of these periods and,
by implication, the time remaining, led to widely differing results: Isidore of Seville
(d. 636) arrived at a completely dissimilar conclusion as Bede the Venerable (d. 735)
(Schmidt 1955/1956, 293). The heterogeneous model of history according to Joachim of
Fiore (d. 1202) exemplifies how calculating the remaining time already manipulates
the future. According to Joachim, there is also little time left for humankind’s spiritual
renewal, which is needed to withstand the Antichrist and his work of destruction.
Following the defeat of the Antichrist, Joachim envisioned a 1000-year period of peace
before the Day of Judgement. Therefore, in order to do the right thing, it was vital to
learn as much as possible about God’s plan of salvation through a correct exegesis
of the bible and a prophetic interpretation of history (Reeves 1999; Wannenmacher
2005).
In medieval philosophical treatises on time, two conflicting views became prevalent. On the one side, Augustine suggests that time is present in and measured by the
soul. The past, present and future do not have any duration, but are dimensions of the
consciousness of the soul (Augustine, Confessiones XI, 15–26). On the other side, Aristotle defines time as the number and amount of motion in accordance with the before
and after (Aristotle, Physica IV, 219b1–2). With the translation of the Physica, along
with a commentary by the Andalusian philosopher Ibn Rushd (= Averroes) (d. 1198),
Aristotle’s conception had become known in the Latin West since the thirteenth
century and caused an extended debate, as reflected in the commentaries intended
for university teaching. Many scholars joined rank with Aristotle, sometimes adding
to his perspective on time, including Robert Grosseteste (d. 1253), Albertus Magnus
(d. 1280), Henry of Ghent (d. 1293) and John Duns Scotus (d. 1308) (Jeck 1994). Toward
the end of the Middle Ages, Martin Luther, for example, tended to share Augustine’s
view (Flasch 1998).
Cosmological Frame
The cosmic world view of the Middle Ages was shaped by Ancient Greek philosophy.
Up to the twelfth century, a simplified version of Plato and the Stoics’ model of a universe with the earth at its center, as described by William of Conches (d. after 1154),
was commonly accepted (Guilelmus de Conchis, Philosophia mundi, ed. Maurach). The
earth’s spherical shape was never questioned throughout the Middle Ages, and it was
thought to consist of the four elements: fire, earth, water, and air. It was a place of constant change and transience. The celestial spheres surrounding the earth, however,
remained unchanged. Counting from the earth, the following spheres were of the
seven planets, which included the two luminaries: the Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun,
Mars, Jupiter and Saturn. The planets were not simply regarded as lumps of matter,
but as intelligent entities. They were thought to be attached to the substance-based
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Fig. 2: John of Sacrobosco, De
sphaera (New York, Public Library –
­Manuscripts and Archives Division,
MssCol 2557 (MA 69), fol. 81r; date:
saec. XIII). Photo credits: The New
York Public Library Digital Collections
(http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/
items/510d47da-e570-a3d9-e040e00a18064a99).
but transparent celestial spheres rotating around the earth. After the planets came
the sphere of the stars, which in turn was surrounded by the last sphere, the primum
mobile, which maintained all motion in the cosmos. From a Christian point of view,
it made sense to interpret the primum mobile as the divine power. With the act of
creation, the order established by God was complete, and things began to take their
natural course. The cosmos as a whole was seen as homogeneous and organic, with
the large macrocosm reflecting the structure of the human microcosm. The world soul,
as the connection between all living things, dominated the interactions between the
two.
This simplified model underwent many modifications over the further course of
the Middle Ages, most of them due to the increasingly detailed knowledge of Aristotle’s writings and those of his Arabic commentators. The main points of the debate
were the nature of aether and the world soul. Aristotle used the term aether to describe
the substance of the celestial spheres, which in their perfection and unchangeability
differed considerably from earthly matter. This meant that the cosmos was not homogeneous after all. Many medieval scholars agreed with this view, but the exact nature
of the aether remained subject to debate, as commentaries to John of Sacrobosco’s
(d. 1256) cosmological standard reference De sphaera by Michael Scot (d. about 1235),
Robert Grosseteste (d. 1253), or Cecco d’Ascoli (d. 1327) confirm (Thorndike 1949, 206).
Aristotle’s view of the eternal nature of the world soul proved to be highly problematic, because it contradicted the act of creation and the temporality of the cosmos.
Most medieval scholars rejected it categorically, but a few, such as Boetius of Dacia
(d. after 1277) and Siger of Brabant (d. 1284), referring to Ibn Rushd’s (d. 1198) commentary on Aristotle’s work, exacerbated the conflict by concluding that the eternal
nature of the world soul implied that the souls of humans were mortal (Bianchi 1999).
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Other modifications to the basic cosmological model resulted from attempts to
reconcile the biblical creation account with the conceptions of Antiquity. God separated the water, so the bible says, so that the sky appeared above the seas. This led
Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274) to believe that the water above the firmament represented
a sphere of its own in the crystal heaven, located between the starry heaven and the
outermost sphere, the Empyrean heaven, where the angels were thought to reside
(Grant 1978, 275–278). The ancient idea that intelligent entities were responsible for
the motion of the individual spheres was also considered problematic. From a Christian point of view, it was, of course, completely unacceptable to associate these entities with the planetary gods from Antiquity, which is why Thomas Aquinas and others
replaced them with angels or other more or less neutral metaphysical entities. Other
scholars, such as Jean Buridan (d. ca. 1358), abandoned the idea of animated movers
of the spheres or, such as Robert Kilwardby (d. 1279), replaced them with an intrinsic
tendency (Weisheipl 1961).
According to the generally accepted view, the movements and nature of the celestial bodies did have an influence on all things animate and inanimate. “Every natural
power of this inferior, sensible world is governed by the heaven […] and to every active
power in these inferior things, there corresponds a certain power in the heaven […]”,
as Themon Judeus (d. after 1371) states quite concisely (Grant 1978, 288–289). The
motion of the spheres was thought to be the reason for the existence of time and transience, but the stars and planets also had a strong influence: sunlight transformed
the four elements while the moon caused tidal ebb and flow and determined the mix
of bodily fluids, which was of central importance for the state of health. This knowledge of cosmic influences provided scientific explanations for many forms of medieval
prognostication, starting with the calculation of time and the observation of the stars
up to the astrological properties of the celestial bodies and their influence.
Predestination and Free Will
The question of whether humans can shape their future through autonomous, conscious decisions or whether their destiny is predetermined had already been a matter
of controversy in Antiquity. Christian theology rephrased the question: had God the
Almighty in his divine providence preordained the life of every individual or could
man be rewarded for commendable acts in the afterlife? Boethius (d. ca. 525) went to
the heart of this philosophical dilemma:
There seems to be a considerable contradiction and inconsistency’, I said, ‘between God’s foreknowing all things and the existence of any free will. If God foresees all things and cannot be in
any way mistaken, then what Providence has foreseen will happen must inevitably come to pass.
So if God has prior knowledge from eternity not only of men’s actions but also of their plans and
wishes, there will be no freedom of will; […].‘ (Boethius, Consolatio philosophiae/Consolation of
Philosophy, ed. Walsh, 100)
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Once again, it is Augustine who influenced significantly this controversy, which continued to be relevant throughout the Middle Ages and was still essential in the theology of the reformers Martin Luther and John Calvin. The Bishop of Hippo combined
the problem of predestination with his doctrine of grace. He revised his original view
that God’s grace was granted according to the merits of the individual, claiming that
God had decided who was to be redeemed and that this decision was the Divine Providence. Nobody could possibly know whether they had been chosen or not. What God’s
providence sees will happen, but not in a manner which would preclude human free
will (Flasch 2000, 46–53).
With his particularly strict interpretation of Augustine’s teachings, Gottschalk the
Saxon (d. ca. 869) advocated the doctrine of double predestination which states that
God chooses not only who will be saved but also who will be damned. This led to
the predestination controversy, and Gottschalk was harshly criticized by the intellectual elite of the Carolingian Empire. In this controversy, John Scotus Eriugena’s
(d. late ninth century) expertise De praedestinatione was significant. He emphasized
that predestination required a dimension of time, but God was outside time. Therefore Augustine’s teachings on predestination were to be understood as a tropological
exhortation. A two-fold predestination was unthinkable, because it excluded freedom
of will and connected God with evil (Schrimpf 1982). Anselm of Canterbury (d. 1109)
tried to harmonize Divine Providence and free will. According to him, God had already
included humans’ autonomous decisions in his providence (Anselm of Canterbury, De
concordia II.3).
The debate did not end with Anselm, however. Peter Abelard (d. 1142), a representative of Early Scholasticism, pointed out further inconsistencies in the debate, but
failed to come up with any solution. Thomas Aquinas also confirmed the infallibility
of Divine Providence which served the purpose of guiding humans toward the real
goal – the vision of God. According to him, providence did not exert any pressure on
people, but allowed them to make their own decisions (Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologica I, q.23, a.6). In Late Scholasticism, the focus shifted toward problems of semantic connotations, with William of Ockham (d. 1347) as a leading figure. For Ockham,
the world was determined through God’s providence, which meant that prophetic
statements about the future were possible only to a limited extent. He identified free
will with humans’ natural inclination to adopt ethical behavior, an approach which
separated ethical standards from normative principles not based on personal awareness. Even God’s omnipotence could not destroy the ethical act in itself, so there was
a clear difference between man’s disposition toward ethical behavior and predetermination (Perler 1988, 292–294).
Despite of all difficulties associated with explaining the adversarial relationship
between free will and predestination, one thing was unquestionable in the Christian
world-view of the Middle Ages: there was no determinism which could undermine
humans’ free will and their decision to do either good or evil. In the debates about
the legitimacy of mantic practices, one criticism was that divination was based on the
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principle of determinism and absolved people of their responsibility to act ethically
(↗ Canaris, Debating Astrology in the Renaissance; ↗ Rapisarda, Doubts and Criticism on Astrology).
How to Predict the Future: Prophecy versus Divination
Marcus Tullius Cicero (d. 43 BCE) described divination as the capability to recognize
and interpret the signs sent by the gods as a premonition. He used the term divinatio
synonymously with the Greek term mantike (↗ Engels and Nice, Divination in Antiquity, 15). In the Christian view, too, predictions of the future could only be made by
interpreting the signs of God’s will. Still, the Church Fathers in Late Antiquity drew a
clear distinction between the two and rejected divination. The reasons for this rejection were related to the fact that mantic practices were considered elements of the
ancient pagan rites that Christians were expected to avoid but, as astonishing as it
might seem, it was generally accepted that divination did work: that supernatural
beings communicated with humans and passed on knowledge of the future. It was
also believed that those beings, the ancient gods who were negatively perceived as
demons, used their superior knowledge to deceive people. Augustine of Hippo writes:
The demons, on the other hand, do not contemplate in the wisdom of God these eternal and, as
it were, cardinal causes of temporal things. They do, however, foresee many more future events
than men do, by reason of their greater knowledge of signs which are hidden from us. Also,
they sometimes announce their own intentions in advance. Finally, the demons often err, […].
(Augustine, De civitate dei, ed. Dyson, 386–387)
Therefore, this lead to the conclusion that mantic practices were a form of paying
homage to demons and nothing but pagan idolatry. In his Etymologiae, Isidore of
Seville offers a compact summary of Augustine’s teachings and provides explanations
of conceptual connections. His work became a standard reference for legal, theological and scientific definitions throughout the Middle Ages (Harmening 1979; Herbers
2019). He explained that diviners derived their name from God, but only pretended to
be inspired by divinity while, in reality, they were misguiding people through their
predictions (Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae VIII.9.14). Isidore considered the mantic
arts, among which he listed all of the classical approaches such as hepatoscopy,
auguries, necromancy, incantations for divination purposes, astrology, practices
based on the four elements and the casting of lots as activities performed by magi,
i. e. magicians. In his deliberations on magicians, he often uses the word malefici,
malefactors, as a synonym, emphasizing the negative connotation of the term (Etymologiae VIII.9.9). Consequently, the word magic indicated something alien, something to be shunned, similar to the Greek mageia: the religion of the others (Schwemer
2015, 17–18). In the Christian interpretation, however, the religion of pagans was, by
definition, mere superstition. Superstition signifies a far-reaching discourse in the
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further course of European history which, enhanced through the philosophy of the
Enlightenment, persists until today: the mantic arts were subsumed under magic and
categorized as superstition (Otto 2011). Isidore of Seville confirms the negative view
of magicians and their activities, although the gospel of Matthew presented the three
stargazing magoi as witnesses to the incarnation of God. Magic and the mantic arts,
according to his rather gruff admission, had only been permissible until the birth of
Christ (Etymologiae VIII.9.26).
With divination no longer an option, there were nevertheless several methods
left for orthodox Christians to receive knowledge of the future from God. Isidore of
Seville mentions this elsewhere in his Etymologiae. Here, he rigorously distinguishes
between the prophets of the Old Testament (prophetes) and the visionaries of the
pagans (vates). The prophets, he claims, would speak of the distant and would be
able to pronounce the truth about the future, because they were able to see what was
hidden (Etymologiae VII.8.1). This ability to see what was hidden was God’s gift to
the prophets, who became his voice and figures of great authority. This gift was not
only granted to the prophets of the Old Testament, but could be bestowed upon any
person, regardless of his/her social standing, gender, or age (↗ Holdenried, Prophecy
Western Christian World). There was, however, a risk involved: false prophets might
worm their way into people’s confidence and spread the lies of demons and devils.
As part II of this survey will demonstrate, those claiming to speak in the name of
God were often regarded with skepticism. Later in the Middle Ages, the Church would
increasingly attempt to verify and control these presumably prophetic voices.
Although Augustine and Isidore of Seville’s views on divination became doctrinaire, especially scholastic thinkers of the Middle Ages opted for a more differentiated
approach. As Aristotle’s writings on natural sciences and works on astrology of the
Islamic world became known and subjected to much debate, new explanations for
the cosmological relationships between the earth, humans, and the celestial spheres
became necessary. Albertus Magnus, for instance, far exceeded the limits of Augustine’s conception by adopting ideas from Antiquity and non-Christian civilizations
about the cosmos. He conceded that astrology in particular, but also hermetic talisman magic, could offer insights and have effects due to natural causes. He even
put prophets and astrologers on the same level. Their knowledge of astral influences
gave them amazing abilities, such as seeing the future. The prophet was able to make
true predictions, because his mind was able to translate divine inspiration into comprehensible messages. The astrologer gained his knowledge not only through cosmic
influences, but was even able to channel them while remaining unaffected himself
(Palazzo 2011, 80–84). Thomas Aquinas, too, accepted the idea that the interaction
between the micro- and the macrocosm provided the basis for true prognoses, and
that astrology and other mantic arts, to the limited degree to which they referred to
natural events and their signs, could be used for prognostication. There was no such
thing as sheer coincidence, according to Thomas, so even the casting of lots was
thought to be subject to cosmological principals or the laws of physics (Sturlese 2011).
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Part 2 – Prognostication in Medieval Everyday Life –
Some Examples
Prophets, Visionaries, and their Audience
Monastic libraries are full of miracle stories about visions and mythical journeys to
the Hereafter, so they must have been very popular with the spiritual communities
of the Middle Ages. A thirteenth-century manuscript from Salem on Lake Constance
(Heidelberg, University Library, Codex Salem IX 31), written by an anonymous monk,
tells of the wondrous occurrences that happened at Vaucelles, a Cistercian abbey near
Cambrai, in 1195. Roaming brigands had appeared in the area, spreading fear among
the community. In order to defend themselves, the monks had acquired weapons “to
meet violence with violence, a radical deviation from the saintly nature of their order”
(Visio Vacellis, ed. Schmidt, 159; trans. Heiduk). His brothers readiness to spill blood
obviously confronted the author with a moral dilemma but divine inspiration, delivered in a series of four visions, showed him a way out. In the first two visions, a strange
figure wearing a monk’s habit had appeared near the abbey church, given him meaningful glances, and then vanished. The monk started praying, and as he was utterly
absorbed in his prayers, a giant dove flew in through the window. The dove revealed
itself as his guardian angel, let him climb onto its back and took him with tearing
speed to the places of the Hereafter: purgatory, hell, and heavenly Jerusalem. The
pains inflicted on the poor souls in purgatory – among them, several brothers from
his monastery who had passed away – were sufficiently gruesome to make the monk’s
heart melt, so he asked his guardian angel what he could do to help. The answer was
clear and pragmatic:
Their pain will become less through alms-giving, intercessions, penance, and other good deeds,
and finally subside. If you start flagellating yourself every Monday to atone for your sins and
those of others, you will help the living as well as the dead. (Visio Vacellis, ed. Schmidt, 161;
trans. Heiduk).
This journey to the Other Side culminates in an encounter with the strange monk of
the first visions, who revealed himself to be Saint Benedict (d. 547) and gave the monk
instructions for his penance. The legitimacy of self-flagellation, a practice which contradicts the conventions of the Cistercian order, was confirmed to the monk in the
fourth vision by the order’s guiding figure, Bernard of Clairvaux (d. 1153).
Before Dante Alighieri (d. 1321) reinterpreted the genre of visionary journeys to
the Hereafter, most medieval texts on the subject mirrored the life of ascetics, nuns,
or monks (Dinzelbacher 2017, 370–377; ↗ Bihrer, Journeys to the Other World Western
Christian Traditions). The way in which the vision of Vaucelles is transmitted suggests
that it was also intended as advice on how to live the life of a penitent in the monastery. The visions of saints and places of the Hereafter were to be seen as proof of divine
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intervention, with the aim of legitimizing the practice of self-flagellation. The eschatological imagery of the Vaucelles visions expresses highly personal ideas about the
concept of monastic order. The concurrency of the different time dimensions is typical
of prophetical texts. The vision is not merely a prediction but is also meant to reveal
that God wants the errors of the past and the present remedied in order to pave the
way to a better future. A view of the places of the Otherworld tells the readers what to
expect depending on how they have lived their lives on Earth and the recommended
penance is designed as an aid to follow the right path.
Caterina di Iacopo di Benincasa, venerated as St. Catherine of Siena (d. 1380),
reached a far wider audience than the visionary from Vaucelles (on Catherine see:
Muessig et al. 2011). She led a rigidly ascetic life, devoted to the worship of God, just like
the Cistercian monk. In her case, she had to assert her calling in the face of her family’s resistance and the reservations of the Dominican tertiaries with whom she wished
to live. She shared again the urge for radical penance with the brother of Vaucelles,
although she seems to have preferred self-flagellation with an iron chain. However,
religious devotion within a spiritual community was not her only purpose in life, she
felt that God had sent her into this world to practice charity. Due to her charisma,
her altruism, her perseverance and her reputation as a mystic visionary, Catherine’s
influence continued to grow. Her audience soon included not only the environment
of her social milieu, but also the powerful leaders of the North Italian cities as well as
the popes in Avignon and Rome although, unlike her Dominican brothers, she was not
allowed to deliver sermons. That left personal encounters and an extensive correspondence, which she managed with the support of her religious advisors. In those letters,
she not only provides spiritual guidance but also makes political demands: peace in
Italy, a crusade to the Holy Land, and reform of the Church.
Catherine never wavered in her commitment, even when she was mocked, doubted
or summoned before an investigative church committee, all evidence of the basic mistrust in female visionaries and their revelations (↗ Holdenried, Prophecy Western
Christian World, 338–339). She derived her strength from ecstatic beatific visions with
the recurrent motive of a mystical union with Christ, such as the exchange of hearts
which her confessor and hagiographer, Raymond of Capua (d. 1399), describes as
follows:
It appeared to her that her Heavenly Bridegroom came to her as usual, opened her left side, took
out her heart, and then went away. […] And for some time she went on repeating this, that she
was living without a heart. […] One day she was in the church […]. All at once a light from heaven
encircled her, and in the light appeared the Lord, holding in His holy hands a human heart,
bright red and shining. […] He came up to her, opened her left side once again and put the heart
He was holding in His hands inside her, saying ‘Dearest daughter, as I took your heart away from
you the other day, now, you see, I am giving you mine, […]’.” (Legenda maior, II.6 = The Life of St.
Catherine, ed. Lamb, 165–166)
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Predictions about the future are rare in Catherine’s visions. In her revelations, she
describes mystical encounters with God or the injustices and grievances of her time.
There is an element of prognosis in her visions, based on issues of contemporary relevance, comparable to the visions from Vaucelles. This prognostication could serve
as consolation; for example, when she accompanied Niccolò di Toldo, who had been
sentenced to death, to the place of his execution. She predicted that he would soon be
united with Christ in eternal life: “Courage, my dear brother, for soon we shall reach
the wedding feast” (Letter 31, ed. Noffke, 109). In her political demands, predictions
are intended mainly to indicate what needs to change in the present, as in the following words which she addressed to Pope Gregory XI:
And if you should say to me, father, ‘The world is in such a sorry state – how can I bring it peace?’
I tell you in the name of Christ crucified that you must use your authority to do three essential things. You are in charge of the garden of the holy Church. So [first of all] uproot from that
garden the stinking weeds full of impurity and avarice, and bloated with pride. […] Plant fragrant
flowers in this garden for us, pastors and administrators who will be true servants of Jesus Christ
crucified, who will seek only God’s honor and the salvation of souls, who will be fathers of the
poor. (Letter 63, ed. Noffke, 201)
Catherine leaves no doubt that she has received her revelations from God and has the
right to speak in his name – a claim that was widely acknowledged by her contemporaries, including Pope Gregory XI, who returned from Avignon to Rome at her bidding.
Liedwy of Schiedam (d. 1433) was confined to bed for the rest of her life following
an accident. She was in permanent pain but never complained and survived, although
she ate very little (on Liedwy, see: Caspers 2014). During bouts of illness, she experienced visions of the crucified Christ and communion wafers dripping with blood,
which the parish priest interpreted as a sign of insanity and possession but, after
the Bishop of Utrecht had her examined, it was concluded that her visions were true
revelations and Liedwy’s fame started to spread. Her visitors frequently asked her to
contact saints or dead relatives, hoping to learn about their fate in the afterlife.
There were, however, many sceptics in medieval times not only among Liedwy
and Catherine’s contemporaries who had their doubts about the divine nature of
prophecies. Throughout the centuries, medieval historical works give accounts of
the exposure of false prophets and mixed reactions to supposedly divine revelations
(see further examples in: Lehner 2019, 47–49). In 847, the Annals of the monastery
of Fulda mention a certain Thiota, who had caused an uproar in the city of Mainz by
announcing the end of the world. Thiota was called before a church committee and
had to revoke her prophecy after it was revealed that she not received divine inspiration, but acted on behalf of a priest (Annales Fuldenses, ed. Kurze, 36–37). When
another doomsday preacher, the hermit Bernard, addressed a gathering of princes in
Würzburg in 960, according to the Hirsau chronicle, those present only partly believed
in his prophecy. The others either found his manner overbearing or thought he was
mentally ill (Annales Hirsaugienses, ed. Schlegel 1, 103). In 1455, the citizens of Ulm,
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Fig. 3: The angel shows Liedwy the poor souls in the purgatory (Johannes Brugman.
Vita alme virginis Lijdwine. Schiedam [print: Otgier Pietersz/Nachtegael], 1498. Fol.
70v. Utrecht, Rijksmuseum Het Catherijneconvent, BMH i44). Photo credits: Museum
Catherijneconvent / Ruben de Heer.
so Sebastian Fischer reports in his chronicle, derided a wandering prophet, who had
been paid to preach doom and gloom. About a century later, however, his words still
resounded after the city was defeated in the Schmalcaldic War (Sebastian Fischer,
Chronik, ed. Veesenmeyer, 120).
Diviners and their Clients
In his enormously popular astrology textbook, Liber introductorius ad iudicia astrorum, Guido Bonatti (d. ca. 1290) provides valuable insights into the various prognostication methods offered by medieval astrologers (see also Dykes 2015). He was
convinced that astrology was a science, which enabled him to take a stand against
scaremongers and charlatans who tried to exploit people’s superstitions, such as
Simone Mestaguerra (d. 1257), who terrorized the citizens of Forlì for three years with
his demagoguery while Bonatti claimed that he was the only one to oppose him (Book
of Astronomy 5, ed. Dykes, 343). He also describes in great detail how Giovanni da
Schio of Vicenza, who appeared in Bologna in 1233 claiming to be a miracle worker,
was never able to provide proof of his supernatural powers (Book of Astronomy 5, ed.
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Dykes, 343–345). Clerics and scholars who railed and ranted against astrology and
called it a pseudo-science are referred to as idiots in tunics (Book of Astronomy 1,
ed. Dykes, 4). Bonatti wanted people to benefit from the astral sciences and offered
his expertise to help them solve their problems caused by a hard life and misfortune
(Dykes 2015, 40–41). Guido Bonatti’s first clients were princes, all potentates who had
sided with the Ghibellines in the struggle for power in thirteenth-century Italy. Among
them were Ezzelino da Romano, Guido Novello and Guido da Montefeltro. The examples of consultations he listed in his book are all military in nature. He was to provide
information about the most opportune moment to attack the enemy or launch a siege
(Dykes 2015, 33–35, 39–40). Guido Bonatti’s astrological expertise was also frequently
requested by those seeking advice on relationships and health issues. They wanted to
know about matters such as when to start medical treatment or whether a marriage
with a certain partner was recommended. As far as issues of sexuality and pregnancy
were concerned, Guido Bonatti proved highly sensitive when his clients were female.
Many were under pressure, because they had to provide proof of their virginity or
fidelity, or the legitimacy of their children, or protect themselves from the advances
of men (Book of Astronomy 6, ed. Dykes, 435–449). Especially such notes in the Liber
introductorius confirm that not only princes sought astrological advice. While Guido’s
work for the potentates seems to have been of limited duration, he generally offered
his services to townspeople from all walks of life. The astrological case study about
the liberation of a slave could possibly be interpreted as a hint to serfs seeking his
counsel (Book of Astronomy 6, ed. Dykes, 430–431). It appears that Guido Bonatti ran a
practice, probably full of books and devices such as astronomic tables and astrolabes
serving as status symbols. A century later, Geoffrey Chaucer describes such an astrologer’s equipment and status symbols in his Canterbury Tales (Chaucer, The Miller’s
Tale, 3187–3210).
A notebook of the astrologer Richard Trewythian (d. after 1458?), who lived in
London, has been preserved: it contains business notes, the names of clients, horoscopes, and invoices, and offers detailed insights into his daily routine (Page 2001).
His clients seem to have appreciated his sophisticated astrological techniques, which
enabled him to stand out among other providers of far simpler divination services.
His expertise, however, did not come cheap, particularly when he visited clients
outside London. All in all, his clientele represented a social mix of well-to-do homeowners, merchants, clergy and simple craftsmen or innkeepers. A quarter of these
were women. Most of his clients were from London, with a few from Norwich, Leeds,
or Salisbury. Astrological prognoses were, however, not the only source of income
for Richard Trewythian. He also offered various medical treatments, sold medicines,
and worked as a money lender and bookseller. All of these activities seem to have
merged into one. Medical doctors often resorted to astrology, which was taught at the
universities as a subject of relevance for medical prognoses. Guido Bonatti’s notes
are often about health-related issues, so it seems likely that he practiced medicine as
well. Apart from health concerns, Richard Trewythian’s clients were mostly interested
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in recovering lost or stolen items, learning the whereabouts of a missing husband,
or the chances of a wife getting pregnant, while mothers asked for birth horoscopes
to learn what would become of their children or, first and foremost, how long their
children would live. Apart from such notes about individual requests, the book also
contains records of mundane astrology, such as weather forecasts for a whole year or
events of importance for the rule of the King of England. Whether Richard Trewythian
wrote such entries on his own initiative or at the request of his clients remains unclear.
Astrologers generally worked at court or in the cities, not least because they often
demanded high prices for their services, but they were not the only ones to offer prognoses of the future; there were other experts who, however, are less frequently mentioned in the historical records of the Middle Ages. This is particularly true for those
diviners who were most sought-after in medieval daily life. People in the country, but
also townsfolk and aristocrats, called upon the services of these individuals whenever they needed medicinal herbs, love potions, fortifying spells, protection from
evil spirits, or knowledge of the future. There are several different names for those
experts in the arts of healing, divination, and everyday magic in all European languages. This indicates that they did not belong to a homogeneous social group. Over
the course of history, these terms have changed and acquired different connotations.
The most common English words witch and wizard, for example, originally neutral
and frequently used to describe “wise people”, assumed an increasingly negative
meaning. Collective terms such as cunning folk only appear toward the end of the
Middle Ages, reflecting a large variety of local traditions and attributions. The French
word devins-guérisseurs (soothsayer-healers) emphasizes the link between the art of
healing and divination, similar to the Spanish curanderos, which emphasizes healing.
The German term hexenmeister or the north Italian benandanti, on the other hand,
refer to the defense against harmful spells (Davies 2003, vii–viii, 163). There are more
reports about those healers-diviners after they came to the attention of the Church
and state authorities during the witch hunts of the sixteenth century. The files of the
witch trials provide the most important historical context for information about these
local practitioners of magic, but this information remains difficult to evaluate because
it is distorted by prejudices and stereotypes (Ginzburg 2005, 76–100). In the meantime, however, research has uncovered many facets of the “cunning folk’s” activities
(Thomas 1971, 209–300; Davies 2003, 93–118; the problematic name “cunning folk” is
used in this survey in lack of a more neutral collective term according to these references), ranging from summoning ghosts, scrying or rudimentary astrology for treasure hunting or the recovery of lost things. In a time before lotteries became popular,
many people hoped to get rich by searching for lost treasure via divination. When they
wanted to know the future, they sought out these diviners for the same reasons that
the better-off consulted learned astrologers: to find out about relationships, luck in
love, business transactions, or health issues.
The “cunning folk” had undoubtedly been offering their services long before
their existence was recorded in the documents relating to the witch trials of the Early
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Modern Era. Still, it is difficult to draw conclusions from these documents about the
practices of divination in the Middle Ages. A glance at the files of the fifteenth-century
trials confirms this. In 1428, for example, Matteuccia Francisci was prosecuted in the
Italian town of Todi on the following charges: infecting people with illnesses, producing poison, and conjuring spirits for harmful spells. She was also accused of riding
the devil on her way to the witches’ Sabbath – which is already an early testimony for
the stereotype of the imagined members of the witches’ sect (Peruzzi 1955). Matteuccia had obviously offered various magical remedies, which were later documented
as the typical services provided by a witch. She had gained a reputation for being a
professional and clients traveled long distances to see her. The trial files, however, do
not mention any divinatory practices, concentrating instead on her alleged attempts
to do harm and her participation in the witches’ Sabbath. A similar case is that of
Margery Jourdemayne, the witch of the Eye near Westminster, who was involved in
what was thought to be a magical assassination attempt against King Henry VI of
England conducted by Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester, in 1441 (Carey 1992, 138–153).
Margery was accused of having prepared magically a wax figurine of the monarch
together with some of the duchess’ courtiers, to cast a harmful spell. It seems that Margery’s services were similar to those of which Matteuccia was accused. Margery had
met Eleanor when the duchess came to buy love potions from her: “suche medicines
and drynkies as the said wicce made” (English Chronicle, ed. Davies, 58–59). There are
no references to any predictions of the future made by Margery, neither in the trial
files nor in contemporary works of history, although other details of that spectacular,
scandalous incident at court received considerable attention. It was only later, when
the story became legend, that the prophecies by Margery were mentioned, such as
her prediction of the Duke of Somerset’s death and, of course, Shakespeare stages
the entire affair, leaving an impressive literary monument to the witch (Shakespeare,
Henry VI, Act I Scene 4). It appears that the accusers in the early witch trials were not
particularly interested in divination, so even without trial records there is hardly any
evidence at all of divination by “cunning folk” in the Middle Ages.
Evidence from the Early and High Middle Ages is even scarcer, which makes it
difficult to determine the diviners’ exact actions or their social class. Still, one thing
becomes evident: apart from the witches and wizards, in rural areas, there were also
scholars and priests who dabbled in the mantic arts, as references in John of Salisbury’s (d. 1180) Policraticus suggest. The Policraticus is a deeply ironic description of
the peculiarities of courtly life, combined with philosophical guidance for efficient
governance and a moral appeal to courtiers. This intellectually demanding as well as
highly entertaining work was much appreciated by a wide audience throughout the
Middle Ages (on John of Salisbury, see Wilks 1984). One rather disconcerting practice at court, in John of Salisbury’s view, was to include astrologers and diviners in
the decision-making. The respective passages in the Policraticus are mostly literary in
nature and form part of the intellectual game which the author plays with his audience, but two of them actually hint at the setting of divination in everyday life. The
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Policraticus is dedicated to Thomas Becket (d. 1170), John of Salisbury’s employer. In
his text, John asks him several questions: What did the haruspex, whom he consulted
before he went on a campaign to Brittany with the King of England, actually tell him?
And what did the chiromancer, who was also called in, have to say? (John of Salisbury, Policraticus II, 27). There is no additional information about these consultations,
but another passage of the Policraticus explains how to perform these mantic practices (Policraticus I, 12). The chiromancers were those who based their prophecies on
palm-reading, whereas the haruspices used animal bones to pronounce their oracles.
Obviously, John of Salisbury is not referring to the haruspex of classical antiquity who
observed the entrails of sacrificed animals (↗ Engels and Nice, Divination in Antiq­uity,
33–34), but to the scapulimancer who derived his oracles from the bones of animals
(↗ Rapisarda, Shoulder Bone as Mantic Object), so the Policraticus i­ ndirectly confirms
that both chiromancers and scapulimancers used complex interpretation techniques
requiring expert knowledge. It seems likely that John of Salisbury was familiar with
the latest translations of the Arabic instructions regarding these methods of divination (Burnett 1987, 189–191).
He even claims to have himself some first-hand experience with the techniques
of specularii, i. e. scrying, the search for omens in the reflections on smooth surfaces
such as swords, mirrors or water basins (Policraticus I, 12). In addition to reflecting
surfaces, this method also used spirit mediums, frequently children, who were told to
observe reflections and shadows. John of Salisbury describes a scene from his childhood when a clergyman involved him, probably to find out whether he was able to
perform what he had read up on before:
During my boyhood I was placed under the direction of a priest, to teach me psalms. As he practiced the art of crystal gazing, it chanced that he after preliminary magical rites made use of me
and a boy somewhat older, as we sat at his feet, for his sacrilegious art, in order that what he was
seeking by means of finger nails moistened with some sort of sacred oil or crism, or of the smooth
polished surface of a basin, might be made manifest to him by information imparted by us. And
so after pronouncing names which by the horror they inspired seemed to me, child though I was,
to belong to demons, […] my companion asserted that he saw certain misty figures, but dimly,
while I was so blind to all this that nothing appeared to me […]. (Policraticus II, 28, ed. Pike, 164)
Toward the end of the Middle Ages, palm-reading became a specialty, often connected
to the Sinti and Roma who have appeared as travelling folk in West European sources
since the fifteenth century (Tuczay 2012, 78–83). Johannes Hartlieb mentions them
explicitly in his Puch aller verpoten kunst (“The Book of all Forbidden Arts”), which
he completed in 1456. He states that their divination services were much sought after,
but did not comply with the standards he was familiar with and that he had described
in his work. Therefore, he assumed that they performed these services with fraudulent
intent, and so contributed to a perception which associates “Gypsies” with superstition, quackery and theft:
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There is a people who move around much in the world, called Gypsies. These people […] exercise
this art [of palm reading] a great deal […]. When they come upon gullible people, they induce
many to believe in them. Yet in truth their art has no foundation, […]. I tell you, I have asked
many of these Gypsies, […] to see if they really knew anything about their art. But in fact I have
never found among them any real skill in these matters, for all they care about is taking money
from people or stealing the shirts off people’s backs. (Johannes Hartlieb, The Book of all Forbidden Arts, ed. Kieckhefer, 78)
“Do It Yourself”-Prognostication
Up to this point, examples of the recipients of divine revelations and the prognoses
derived from those revelations have been provided, as well as predictions of the future
with the aid of mediators, such as astrologers or palm readers. The following section
offers insights into “do-it-yourself” practices. There is a large variety of such methods,
ranging from simple observations and applications of random mechanisms to interpretations derived from written instructions, for which a certain degree of literacy was
required.
Hans Vintler (d. 1419) was the district magistrate of the count of Tyrol and lived in
the famous Runkelstein Castle near Bolzano. He wrote Die Pluemen der Tugent (“The
Flowers of Virtue”), a didactic poem based on an Italian treatise about virtues and
vices. He did not adhere strictly to the original but added large sections of text about
daily magical practices and divination, which he listed under the category of vices.
It seems that he had watched many of these practices performed, such as the shoe
oracle. It was consulted during the 12 nights of Christmas, ending with Epiphany, and
intended to help people decide where to stay:
And during Twelfth Night, so I have heard, you toss the shoes backwards over your head and
where the tip is pointing, there you should stay.
(Hans Vintler, Pluemen der tugent V, 7938–7942, ed. Zingerle 266; trans. Heiduk)
Watching animals, particularly birds, was also considered helpful according to Hans
Vintler if one wished to know the future. While the croak of a raven was seen as a
bad omen, the seeing a goose early in the morning predicted a day without an accident (Pluemen der tugent V, 7885, 7876–7879, ed. Zingerle, 264–265). John of Salisbury
detected a connection between the behavior of animals and weather forecasting, predicting that, when a water fowl plunges greedily below the surface or when a crow
caws in the morning, it will rain (Policraticus II,2). Johannes Hartlieb also provides an
account of how to interpret various signs in order to make predictions. He categorizes
lead-pouring as a form of pyromancy (divination based on the element of fire). Molten
lead or tin is poured into water, and the shapes it makes and their colors are then interpreted as either good or bad omens (Johannes Hartlieb, The Book of all Forbidden Arts,
ed. Kieckhefer, 74). For the practice of aeromancy (divination based on the element of
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Fig. 4: Illustration of the shoe oracle in a Vintler manuscript (Vienna, Österreichische National­
bibliothek, Cod. Ser. n. 12819, fol.151v; date: 1419). Photo credits: Österreichische Nationalbibliothek (http://data.onb.ac.at/rep/1002E06E).
air), Johannes Hartlieb recommends interpreting sneezing, because sneezing was the
result of warm air being expelled from the body:
When a person sneezes, […] they take it for a great sign of fortune or unfortune, and they used it
for fortune-telling. If there are three sneezes, then there are four thieves about the house. If there
are two, the person should get up and lie somewhere else to sleep. If there are thirteen, that is
supposed to be very good, and whatever appears [in dreams] is supposed to be turned to good.
(Johannes Hartlieb, The Book of all Forbidden Arts, ed. Kieckhefer, 63)
It is unlikely that, back in the Middle Ages, everybody believed in the validity of
such methods of divination, and the three cited authors themselves harbor strong
reservations about those practices. From a modern perspective, all this may appear
merely a form of superstition practiced by illiterate people, but that would be a false
conclusion. John Mirfield’s (d. 1407) Breviarium Bartholomei, a medical encyclopedia
covering all fields of medical science according to the established standards of its
time, demonstrates this very clearly. Mirfield, a chaplain at St. Bartholomew’s hospital in Smithfield, London, compiled several classics of medicine in his Breviarium,
particularly the works of Bernard de Gordon (d. ca. 1330), but also included his own
observations. A highly telling example of prediction methods can be found in the
chapter dedicated to the signs of impending death. Besides the analysis of fever and
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other physical signs, John Mirfield recommends onomatomancy, divination based on
a person’s name, as a method of prediction:
Moreover, if there is any doubt as to whether a person is or is not dead, apply lightly roasted onion
to his nostrils, and if he be alive, he will immediately scratch his nose.
Furthermore, if the first vowel of the name of a patient, who has lost an eye or is otherwise mutilated, be A or O, then he will suffer in his right side, and if it be E, I, or U, then in the left.
Again, in acute diseases, uncovering of the body, and restlessness of the arms, is a deadly sign:
similarly when spasm follows the taking of a laxative. […]
Again, take the name of the patient, the name of the messenger sent to summon the Physician, and the name of the day upon which the messenger first came to you; join all their letters
together, and if an even number result, the patient will not escape; if the number be odd, then
he will recover. (John Mirfield, Breviarium Bartholomei, eds. Smith-Hartley and Aldrige, 69–71)
The matter-of-factness with which John Mirfield lists this method of allocating numerical values to a name in order to determine a patient’s remaining lifetime in his Breviarium demonstrates which mantic ruses were considered useful in everyday practice,
and this was even more evident with regard to the accidental nature of the progression
of diseases. It appears that John Mirfield and his readers were unaware of any contradiction between the contingency-based principle of onomatomancy and the otherwise
highly rational recommendations of his Breviarium that were based on expert knowledge. Such contradictions are often found in medieval medicine. In several cases,
scientific knowledge, where everything not approved by the recognized authorities
is rejected, and mantic methods of prognostication are combined to create comprehensive practical guidebooks (↗ Demaitre, Medical Prognostication Western Christian
World, 553 and 560). For practical purposes, it was entirely possible to mix elements
from the different levels of the hierarchy of knowledge but, as far as the theory was concerned, the strict standards separating scientific and unscientific knowledge remained
in place.
There are several other very popular text-based methods of divination which
deserve a brief mention here, although they are presented in more detail elsewhere in
this handbook. Since the days of antiquity, lot books have enjoyed continuing popularity (↗ Heiles, Sortes). The Sortes Sanctorum (the Oracles of the Saints) look back to
this long tradition. Based on the ancient Roman sortes, this collection of 56 oracles
had been adapted in early Christianity. Consulting the oracles is remarkably simple:
after rolling three dice, the spots are arranged in descending order. The sequence of
numbers corresponds to one sentence of the oracle. Here are two examples for demonstration purposes:
The sequence of 6, 5 and 2 yielded the following result:
You want to catch the horns of a running stag; that is difficult, because it stays in the woods, but
when it is returning to its den, it will be possible for you to catch it; so what you are doubting will
come into your hands.
(Sortes Sanctorum, ed. Montero Cartelle, 76; trans. Heiduk)
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The combination of 6, 2 and 1 read:
Your way is prepared, be patient, ask God, and you will gain what you desire.
(Sortes Sanctorum, ed. Montero Cartelle, 82; trans. Heiduk)
The oracles speak for themselves: they remain vague, with a positive or negative
tendency, can provide answers to all sorts of questions and leave sufficient room for
interpretation depending on the personal situation of the inquirer. In the Early Middle
Ages, when the rate of literacy was still very low, mediators were needed in order to
consult lot books such as the Sortes Sanctorum. These were probably mainly priests,
which explains why penitential books or collections of Church laws frequently prohibit these methods of divination. In the Late Middle Ages, when mediators were rarely
any longer required, consulting oracle books became a form of entertainment. One of
the earliest European printed book of dice oracles, which appeared in 1482, was introduced in the first sentence by its author, Lorenzo Spirito: “Per dare spasso ala fannata
mente – to give pleasure to the strained mind.” This was the very book which, some
decades later, on Shrove Tuesday of 1523, caught the attention of the mathematician
Niccolò Tartaglia. In Verona, he observed a group of young people who were clearly
having a lot of fun with Spirito’s lot book. Unfortunately, he fails to inform us exactly
what they found so hilarious, but was more interested in the mathematical problems
related to the combinations of dice falls (↗ Heiduk, Games and ­Prognostication, 781–
783). Later, he published a book on these problems, entitled the General Treatise on
Number and Measure (Rosenstock 2010, 3). Still, this short description is enough to
convey a vivid impression of how the young people were prodding and mocking each
another because of what the oracle had told them about their love lives or careers.
Interpreting most lot books is easy; interpreting the results of geomancy, however,
is somewhat more complex. This form of divination is practiced by making up to 16
rows of holes in sand or earth, or placing a similar pattern of dots on wax, clay or
paper, quickly and randomly. With the aid of a square of 12 fields – called the geomantic mirror – patterns are derived from the rows of dots and then attributed to the
planets and signs of the zodiac. The combinations of planets and signs reveal certain
properties which have an impact on the future. In a sense, geomancy is a simplified
form of horoscopy without the complicated, time-consuming calculation of the constellation of the stars (↗ Rapisarda, Mantic Arts Western Christian World, 432–434).
As a kind of “astrology light”, geomancy was practiced in various areas. One of its
practitioners was King Charles V of France (d. 1380), who enjoyed presenting himself
as a wise monarch and was very proud of his vast library in the Louvre, a public and
permanent institution. It held about 1,000 volumes, many of them lost today, but the
inventory has survived and lists the title of each volume. The list contains 23 books on
geomancy. One of them contains the king’s own signature and the bookmarks which
he used to flag his favorite works. This tells us that he took a personal interest in this
method of divination and consulted at least this particular book himself (Delisle 1907,
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123, No. 752). Unfortunately there are no medieval records about the specific geomantic inquiries made by Charles V, unlike those from the sixteenth century about the
inquiries made by August, the Elector of Saxony (d. 1586) (Ludwig 2015).
The Functions and Social Settings of Prognostication
This selection of examples from medieval everyday life illustrates the important functions of prognostication and offers clues about its social context. What stand out are
the differences between the revelations of prophets and visionaries and the alternative
methods of predicting the future. Divination and astrological calculations are supposed to give answers to specific questions, whereas visions focus on the individual
experience of a mystical encounter with a saint or God himself. Whether such experiences were actually based on states of ecstasy or whether certain literary motives
were used to deliver a message does not matter in this context. It is the setting which
is decisive, the context provided by historical evidence. Visions are about revelations
of divine mysteries, less often about predictions of the future. The future revealed in a
vision – references to the end of time or the Hereafter – is a mirror of the present. It is
now, in the present, that warnings need to be heeded and behavior needs to change:
that of individuals, spiritual communities or the whole of Christianity. The chosen
examples demonstrate that the impact of the revelations on the outside world varied.
The records of the monk from Vaucelles were passed on within his order, but there is
no evidence that they had any effect. The fact that only one manuscript has survived
could either mean that the so-called vision did not appear credible or was seen as a
marginal incident. Unlike the messages of the female visionaries Catherine of Siena
and Liedwy of Schiedham, the Vaucelles revelations had never provoked any debate
or been subject to control by the Church authorities. Catherine of Siena had always
been very self-assured when confronted with skeptics. According to her hagiographers, she was able to win many of them over. Liedwy of Schiedham was bed-ridden
and therefore less able to defend herself against hostile critics and presumptuous
admirers alike. Compared to Catherine of Siena, she appears to be far less resolute
and autonomous.
Many areas of the manic arts were male-dominated, particularly those where
thoughts and ideas were expressed in writing. Most of the authors of instructions for
divination, often scholars or clerics, as well as their disputatious critics were male.
There are a few exceptions, such as Christine de Pizan (d. after 1429), who participated
in the discourse about the role of astrology at the royal court of France (Cadden 1997).
The practical exercise of sophisticated astrology required a university education and
was therefore a privilege enjoyed by men. However, there has been no research to date
on the role that astrology may have played for female medieval healers, quite a few of
whom were highly educated. Male doctors who had graduated from university tended
to see them as competitors and attempted to prohibit them from practicing medicine
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(Green 1989). The significance of astrology for courtly life was related to its classification, however controversial, as a science. Erudite astrologers often acted as the
personal physicians to royal personages, which enhanced both their own status and
that of the ruler, who gained a reputation for being a wise man. Consulting astrologers
before political and military decisions were taken presented an opportunity for the
ostentatious display of precious instruments, computation tables, and books. Emperor
Frederick II excelled at staging such events in the tradition of the Roman Emperors,
as happened during the siege of Pavia in 1248 (Rolandinus Patavinus, Cronica, ed.
Bonardi, 84). To employ one or even several astrologers became fashionable at court.
In fifteenth-century France, the court office of the astrological advisor was created,
and other courts followed suit (Boudet 2006, 303–316). Guido Bonatti and Richard
Trewythian represent also the diversity of business models among medieval astrologers, and their clients, mostly townspeople, came from different social backgrounds.
Speculations about the imminent end of the world, based on calculations of the stellar
constellations, sometimes made it difficult to distinguish science from revelation. In
the Late Middle Ages, prophetic writings based on astrology enjoyed great popularity
(Mentgen 2005, 55–127; Boudet 2006, 316–325).
The degree of complexity achieved by astrology in the Middle Ages (↗ Burnett,
Astral Sciences Western Christian World) remains unrivalled, and no other method of
divination even comes close, although people continued to make use of the services
offered by other experts. Chiromancy and scapulimancy were mentioned as techniques that were open to many different interpretations, so it was advantageous when
the expert was a person of considerable knowledge and experience. The summoning
of supernatural forces to catch a glimpse of the future was also usually left to the professionals. It remains somewhat unclear who was considered an expert in the field of
divination, and whether a high rate of success, personal charisma, or knowledge of
ancient wisdom were key factors. Male as well as female healers-diviners in the rural
areas existed as a separate group of professionals offering a wide range of services.
The example of the Duchess of Gloucester proves that their clients came from all walks
of life. There was, however, a risk involved: that of becoming an outsider, excluded
from society because of the nature of the services offered, which materialized when
the witch hunts started at the end of the Middle Ages. In Johannes Hartlieb’s polemics
against the Roma and Sinti, the accusation of fraudulent practices provided a strong
argument for their marginalization.
The reason why people in the Middle Ages wanted to know the future and consulted astrologists, diviners or saintly mystics, had obviously more to do with universal human desires than with the circumstances of the time. The prognoses were
meant to help them to take precautions in order to ensure their security and survival
or the salvation of their souls. Guido Bonatti explicitly mentions that they also served
as a kind of therapy, to provide encouragement and consolation in times of distress or
grief, clarity before important decisions were taken, or a sense of purpose, by making
the future appear less uncertain. According to George Minois, making a prediction
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is the first step toward manipulating the future, because the future in all its guises
always reflects the present and is shaped by the intentions, desires, and fears regarding the present (Minois 1998, 17–21). Once the prognosis has been put into words,
it starts to have an influence on the future in the sense of a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Prophecies like those of Catherine of Siena provide an example of how, starting with
the Church, a whole society is prepared for change because of a new awareness of
what awaits people at the end of time. Prognoses are never neutral. When a prediction
is made and the right moment for a decision about marriage, business transactions,
or life expectancy is determined, the future starts to take shape, based on the needs
of the present but, as gloomy as this may sound, divination in the Middle Ages was
not always a matter of fate. Lot books like those by Lorenzo Spirito prove that there
was also a more playful approach to divination, as simply a source of entertainment.
Part 3 – Medieval Techniques of Prognostication
and their Historical Evidence
Overview: Methods of Prognostication
The following overview of the medieval methods of prognostication and their historical evidence is far from complete. Prodigies, for example, can be interpreted in so
many ways that, due to the sheer number involved, it is impossible to list them all.
Attributions and meanings have changed over time, so it often remains unclear which
methods were actually practiced in the Middle Ages, and which were simply book
knowledge from antiquity. Furthermore, the terminology used for mantic techniques
in the research literature is somewhat misleading, because it is based on a systematic
approach that did not exist in the Middle Ages. Terms such as capnomancy, botanomancy or sycomancy often originate from the philhellenism of Agrippa of Nettesheim
(d. 1535) and other authors of the Renaissance period. They do not, however, appear
in the medieval sources, although there were categories for the different areas of divination, used by early writers such as Isidore of Seville and later ones such as Johannes
Hartlieb. The majority referred to the four elements (pyromancy, hydromany, aeromancy, and geomancy) plus additional mantic arts like chiromancy or necromancy.
The aim of this guide is, however, to describe, not only the methods of divination,
but all types of future prognoses. For this purpose, it seems reasonable to move away
from the divergent historical models and use the following categories, as determined
by the author, instead:
a. Methods for the Calculation of Time
b. Methods for the Interpretation of Natural Signs
c. Methods for the Interpretation of Random Patterns and Casting of Lots
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d. Forms of Intuitive/Inspired Prediction
e. Methods for Quantifying Risks
a. Calculation of Time
The calculation of periods and points in time during the Middle Ages relied on astronomic principles. The distinction between astronomy and astrology, according to the
Ancient Greek classifications, was generally known in medieval times, too but, in language use, the dividing line became blurred which explains why they are often used
synonymously in the historical sources (↗ Burnett, Astral Sciences Western Christian
World, 485–487). The same applies to their practical application: the determination
of a point in time often automatically involved an astrological interpretation of the
influence that the stars would have at that moment. An obvious example of this is
the field of iatromathematics, an approach which bases the diagnosis of a person’s
health and the resulting treatment on the influence of the celestial bodies at a given
moment (↗ Demaitre, Medical Prognostication Western Christian World, 563–564).
Enormously important in daily life in the Middle Ages were prognoses about lucky and
unlucky days according to calendars, for which modern research established the term
hemerology (↗ Nothaft, Calendrical Calculations Western Christian World, 605–606).
The days listed in a calendar were not simply marked as propitious or unfavorable
but often contained relatively detailed information about which activities to avoid
on an unlucky day, such as buying a house, sowing grain, having one’s hair cut or
being bled. The doctrine of the Church categorically rejected this approach, as it did
all divinatory practices with pagan roots. Nevertheless, the practice of hemerology
underwent a certain Christianization as the feasts of saints increasingly became the
starting points for identifying days.
b. Interpretation of Natural Signs
This category includes observations of animate and inanimate nature and also predictions of the future derived from their interpretation. The preferred object of studies of
animate nature was the human being. In physiognomy, all physical features served as
indicators of personality traits and, by implication, of a person’s future behavior. In
medieval treatises, physiognomy is recommended as a reliable method for choosing
trustworthy servants and office holders (↗ Forster, Pseudo-Aristotelian Sirr al-asrār/
Secretum secretorum). The subcategories of physiognomy are the study of spots on
the fingernails – supposed to be a sign of certain medical conditions (Johannes Hartlieb, The Book of all Forbidden Arts, ed. Kieckhefer, 83) – and chiromancy, foretelling
the future by studying the lines on the palm of the hand (↗ Rapisarda, Mantic Arts
Western Christian World, 435–438). Prognostications based on animal observation are
legion. There are, however, no medieval records of ritualized observations such as
the Roman augurium, the study of bird flight, although the term was still in use. Cries
of birds and other animals, as well as their behavior at certain times of the day, offer
an inexhaustible source of interpretable signs, ranging from predictions of personal
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fate to weather forecasts. A few significant examples, such as explained in John of
Salisbury’s Policraticus, are mentioned in the previous chapter and in the article on
“Mantic Arts” (↗ Rapisarda, Mantic Arts Western Christian World, 439–440).
The first observations of inanimate nature concentrate on the elements of air and
fire. Aeromancy, as the study of all celestial phenomena, has always been a vague
term, even in Antiquity. In the Middle Ages, it still existed, but without any fixed definition. Nevertheless, the number of methods employed to interpret celestial signs
was vast. Eclipses of the sun and moon, comets, air movements, cloud formations,
rainbows, and the shades and colors of the sky were taken into account, often for
the purpose of weather forecasting (↗ Kocánová, Weather Forecasting Western Christian World). There were even books on the interpretation of thunder (= brontologies)
based on antique works (for example, Oxford, Bodleian Library, Ms Rawlinson D. 939)
(↗ Grünbart, Importance of Thunder), although there was no unambiguous collective term for these techniques of prognostication and divination in the Middle Ages.
Pyromancy describes the consultation of oracles through the flames of sacrificial fires
in Antiquity. Knowledge about these methods continued to spread, but their ritual
significance and, eventually, the practice itself were lost. Occasionally, the method of
reading smoke, its various shapes and the direction into which it drifts is mentioned
in medieval texts. This seems to have allowed for a wide variety of interpretations.
Agrippa of Nettesheim was the first to call this capnomancy. As already mentioned in
part II, Johannes Hartlieb, somewhat arbitrarily, considers lead-pouring a category of
pyromancy. On the other hand, scapulimancy, the reading of oracles from the bones
of animals (↗ Rapisarda, Shoulder-Bone as Mantic Object), generally boiled shoulder
blades, was a common term in the scholarly language of the Middle Ages.
c. Interpretation of Random Patterns and the Casting of Lots
Various prognostication methods based on random mechanisms were also widespread in the Middle Ages. Casting lots may have been the earliest form of divination: when a decision was to be made, in a tribunal or when elections were held, the
divine will was to be revealed through this method. Cleromancy is a term of Greek
origin, coined during the Renaissance for this method. During the Middle Ages, the
Latin words sortes and sortilegia were used, from which also many vernacular terms
derived. Sortes included also the type of book oracles used for prognostication, as
presented in part 2 (↗ Heiles, Sortes). Destiny was not only foretold by dice, but also by
playing cards and turntables (volvelle), or books opened at a random page. Any book
could be used for this purpose, but the Bible was preferred. In the research literature,
bibliomancy is a term that is often used to describe this kind of divination by books.
In the tradition of Antiquity, geomancy is defined as the study of movements on the
ground without, however, any further explanation being provided about how to practice this. In the Middle Ages, the technique of placing rows of dots on sand, on the
ground, or on paper, which had its origins in the Islamic world, was called geomancy.
Patterns were read from these dots and allocated to constellations. Prognoses were
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then derived from the astrological properties of those constellations (↗ Rapisarda,
Mantic Arts Western Christian World, 432–434). In his medical compendium, John
Mirfield already refers to onomatomancy, a post-medieval term for the allocation of
what were thought to be significant numbers to personal names. In the Middle Ages,
this method was used for medical prognoses but was also very popular for predicting
the outcome of single combat.
d. Intuitive/Inspired Prediction
In the research literature, both adjectives, “intuitive” as well as “inspired”, are applied
to prognoses dictated by supernatural entities. The choice of words suggests differences, depending on whether a message is sent to the soul by outside forces (lat.
inspiratio) (↗ Holdenried, Western Christian World, 330), or whether one has gained
a direct insight (lat. intuitio) (f. e. Lange, 2006, 249). The descriptions of such phenomena make it difficult to differentiate between the two, as the examples of visions
in part 2 demonstrate. The richest sources for the medieval tradition of this method
of prognostication are the countless narratives of divine revelations, made by God
himself, by angels or saints, in the form of prophecies and visions received during
wakefulness or in a dream. Still, it seems advisable to differentiate between visions
and the interpretation of dreams, because they are the subject of different literary
genres: reports about ecstatic visions are mostly found in hagiographic texts or in
monastic records of an affirmative character. For the interpretation of dreams, there
was a special type of prognostic literature, the dreambooks, based on classical treatises about dream interpretation (↗ Schirrmeister, Dream Interpretation Western
Christian World; ↗ Falcone, Dreambooks Western Christian World). Some of these
treatises first discuss what causes dreams, under which circumstances dreams are
equivalent to inspirations, and whether these inspirations are actually of divine rather
than demonic origin. Under the label oneiromancy, the interpretation of dreams is
counted as a mantic art. In the context of intuition, the sense of foreboding could
be interpreted as a precursor to visionary revelation. That people and even animals
may have a presentiment of disaster, accidents or death, is explained in both Antiquity and the Middle Ages by the sympathetic correlation between the macro- and
the microcosm: the link between earthly creatures and cosmic forces (Tuczay 2012,
291–292).
Sometimes, divine revelations, or rather the communication with supernatural
beings and with hereafter, required a little assistance. The summoning of spirits was
already mentioned in the context of everyday magic. Medieval works on learned magic
gave instructions regarding the complex rituals for summoning entities sometimes
called angels, sometimes called demons. As beings from the higher realm, they were
thought to possess deep knowledge about cosmic matters, enabling them to predict
the future of humans (↗ Otto and Heiduk, Prognostication in Learned Magic). Such
summoning rituals not only provided material for entertaining stories about devils
and wizards, such as those by Caesarius of Heisterbach in his Dialogus miraculorm
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(Caesarius of Heisterbach, Dialogus miraculorum, eds. Nösges and Schneider 3,
960–967), as the Liber florum, written by the priest John of Morigny (d. after 1315?),
illustrates that such rituals were considered elements of religious beliefs and taken
very seriously. Their adherents defended them against the official religious doctrine
(Fanger 2015, 1–12). Medieval scholars often summarized magical arts that included
summoning rituals under the heading necromancy, since the twelfth century also
known as nigromancy (lat. niger = black), a slurred version of the term (↗ Rapisarda,
Mantic Arts Western Christian World, 441). This term had a negative connotation,
which signaled the absolute damnability of such practices. Later, the so-called “black
magic” derived from these arts. Other medieval scholars, however, defined necromancy/nigromancy as the far less sinister study of the secrets of nature (Fidora 2013,
63–64; ↗ Fidora, Tractates on the Divisions of Sciences). In classical Antiquity, necromancy described rituals for summoning the dead, involving blood and body parts.
Nowadays most scholars usually don't reckon that such rituals were still practiced
during the Middle Ages. However, medieval manuals for necromantic conjurations
of the dead existed beyond doubt like the instruction in the Liber Razielis (↗ Otto
and Heiduk, Prognostication in Learned Magic, 953–955). Moreover, these manuals
were just one of various ways of communicating with the dead in the hereafter in
order to consult them about the future. There may have been attempts to summon
the dead; for instance, in churchyards (Devereux 2010). The example of Liedwy of
Schiedam in part 2 shows how visionary mystics were instrumentalized as mediums
to contact the dead. The urge to stay in touch with deceased relatives – including
physical contact with their bodily remains, for instance in ossuaries – has always
been strong. In the thirteenth century, the Church established All Souls’ Day, an
attempt to channel this desire by imposing acceptable rules for the remembrance
of the dead. People not only prayed for the salvation of the souls of the dead in an
orthodox manner but also, quite pragmatically, asked them for help in times of hardship or when they wished to know the future. The idea of consulting the dead about
lucky lottery numbers, however, is definitely a post-medieval approach (Daxelmüller
2010).
As a last intuitive/inspired form of prognostication, John of Salisbury’s method,
introduced in part 2, shall be mentioned again. Here, a medium, preferably a child,
is asked to interpret the movements of shadow and light on reflective surfaces. In the
Middle Ages, such methods were usually categorized as hydromancy, while the Byzantine term lecanomancy refers to the bowl of water used for the purpose of divination
(↗ Grünbart, Lekanomanteia Eastern Christian World). It was known that other artefacts, such as mirrors or crystal balls were used, too, but the terms for such methods
of divination, cataptromancy or crystallomancy, were created later.
e. Quantifying Risks
To date, little is known about the mathematical methods of prognostication in the
Middle Ages apart from the calculation regarding time and calendars. There are,
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however, records of very rudimentary but still rather impressive probability calculations. Merchants relied on these to determine the risks along a certain trade route
and the resulting costs for the insurance of their goods (↗ Franklin, Quantifying Risks
Western Christian World). The pseudo-Ovidian poem De Vetula contains probability
calculations based on the throwing of three hexagonal dice. This demonstrates that
medieval readers were not only aware that certain results showed up more frequently
than others, but that at least some understood how these probability calculations
were obtained and could be presented in a mathematical scheme. This enabled them
to calculate their betting odds and improve their chances of winning. (↗ Heiduk,
Games and Prognostication).
Astrology stands out in the schematic classification of prognostication methods.
While the calculations regarding time and calendars were based on astronomy, astrological interpretations formed an integral part of various other methods of prognostication. Astrology explained celestial phenomena such as comets as portents, helped
people to read the dot patterns in geomancy, determined the sequence of summoning
rituals by defining the astrologically opportune moments for their performance, and
was even connected to doomsday prophecies. If there were a hierarchy of prognostication methods, astrology would rank, uncontested, at the top, due to its versatility.
Its outstanding importance is reflected in the intense debates about its scientific value
and compatibility with the Christian doctrine, but above all in its omnipresence in the
medieval recorded history, poetry, science, and advice literature.
Written Sources, Artefacts, and Pictures
There exists a wide variety of historical evidence available for research on medieval
prognostication. However, these sources provide a very limited insight into the past,
because it was only toward the end of the Middle Ages that written records became
more common. In the area of prognostication, oral traditions probably prevailed for
the majority of the medieval millenium. The observations of everyday prognostication
practices made by Hans Vintler and Johannes Hartlieb started very late in the fifteenth
century. The same applies to the detailed records made by professional astrologers
such as Richard Trewythian. Those mantic practices, performed either in private or
in semi-public spaces, were rarely recorded. Frequently, written documents were only
produced when the state or Church authorities started intervening and trials were
held. The evidence they provide is relatively selective. Even narrative texts such as
works of history or vitae offer only glimpses of unsettling events, such as the appearance of wandering prophets, unusual natural phenomena, or the presumed miracles
worked by a visionary, written down to confirm her saintliness and proximity to God.
The research on medieval prognostication is also limited by the lack of many historical documents. While it is true that many relevant texts have been critically exam-
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ined and edited, and important fundamental research has been carried out, this work
remains far from completion, particularly in the area of astrology with its immensely
rich tradition. The digitalization of historical records for computer analysis is making
slow progress. Databases, such as the search engine on magic and mantic practices in
medieval legal texts created by the Käte-Hamburger-Kolleg in Erlangen, represent the
small beginnings of such an endeavor (https://www.ikgf.fau.de/publications/databases/). Other types of sources, such as historiographical works, have only recently
been studied in more detail with regard to visions and prognoses of the future (Lehner
2015). The following overview of source material is just a cursory listing. The main
articles on the practices of prognostication offer more detailed information.
Manuals
As far as written records are concerned, there exist enormous differences in both
the quantity and diversity of the source material. The bulk of the information about
prognostication practices comes from manuals; i. e. instructions on the application
of mantic knowledge. The majority of these are dedicated to its supreme discipline:
astrology. These records comprise the standard introductory works, textbooks, and
comments used for university studies, volumes of tables and calendars with astrological remarks, astrological prodigy literature, nativities, and predictions of mundane
astrology, but also works on mixed subjects such as astrometeorology and astromedicine. Then there is a highly specific type of work: polemic papers that argue for or
against the scientific nature and significance of astrology (↗ Rapisarda, Doubts and
Criticism on Astrology). The vast majority of these documents were written by scholars and professionals. The more popular media, such as practical calendars containing astrological mottos, hemerological instructions, and weather proverbs, appear
only in the Late Middle Ages. There is far less information available about the other
mantic arts, and it is less diverse. The number of treatises on geomancy, oneiromancy,
and physiognomy, including chiromancy, is relatively high, which suggests that this
knowledge was not only of scientific interest but also applied in practice. Instructions
on scapulimancy are less common, and other mantic techniques received only a brief
mention in treatises on other subjects. Explications of onomatomancy can be found in
works on fencing or medical compendia, but there are no specific works dedicated to
those subjects. Instructions on how to perform magic rituals also occur in surprisingly
large numbers, but divination is just a minor aspect of this type of literature (↗ Heiduk
and Otto, Manuals of Learned Magic). Following the concept of the Secretum secretorum, the instructions for several divinatory arts, in particular for physiognomy and
other relatively basic applications, were not only included in the advisory books consulted at court (↗ Yun, Culture of Prognosis in Mirror-of-Princes; ↗ Forster, Pseudo-Aristotelian Sirr al-asrār/Secretum secretorum), but also widely circulated and popular
with a large audience. Lot books, in their enormous diversity, also count as manuals.
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Countless medieval manuscripts of lot books, and the discovery that many of these
works were among the first books to be printed, confirm their popularity throughout
the ages. Textbooks on medical prognostication, on the other hand, belong to the
category of scholarly literature, whereas books on commercial agreements, including
insurance contracts, merchants’ manuals, instructions for applied arithmetic, and
tables of compound interest, were part of the merchants’ world.
Normative Texts and Reflective Works of Literature
Normative texts from the canonical as well as the secular side provide a huge amount
of source material regarding divinatory prognostication. For centuries, legal texts were
concerned with divination and prohibited it repeatedly. This indicates that regulations
from earlier times were regularly included in the current legislation, and that divinatory practices posed a persistent problem. Those legal texts address a wide range of
mantic arts but, since they often simply quoted the definitions of the Church Fathers,
it is impossible to draw any conclusions about how often those arts that are mentioned
were practiced or exactly how they were performed. Reflective works of literature, like
treatises on natural sciences or theology, summae as well as encyclopedias, are often
inspired by these normative texts, and so adopt their basic definitions of the mantic
arts and condemn their unlawful character. Sometimes, however, this criticism of all
forms of superstition sounds hollow. Instead, as in the case of Johannes Hartlieb,
the critic seems to veil the useful descriptions on how to practice these arts. In contrast to the collections of laws, reflective writings leave more room for debate on the
legitimacy of fortune telling and the basic human need to know the future. Several
scholars, such as Albertus Magnus and Thomas Aquinas (see part 1), adopted a more
nuanced view of the issue.
Narrative Texts
Knowledge of the visions, experiences of the afterlife, and the prophecies of medieval
mystics have been transmitted by narrative texts. Autographs are rarer in this context
than vitae or reports of visions by fellow brothers, confessors, or hagiographers. Autographs of female visionaries are the sole exception here. The historiographical works
of the Middle Ages, however, provide a real treasure trove of notes about presumed
portents, prophecies, astrological interpretations, apocalyptical hysterics, and the
appearance of mystics or false prophets. In these notes, the future is foretold mainly ex
eventu, with a strongly moralizing undertone. The medieval historiographers are often
the only informants about the practical aspects of prognostication in the non-Christian societies of the Middle Ages, but their accounts are often biased (↗ McKinnell,
Pagan Traditions in Germanic Languages; ↗ Boyle, Early Medieval Perspectives on
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Celtic World; ↗ Słupecki, Prognostication in Pagan Beliefs among Slavs). A special
form of narrative prose is fictional texts, such as courtly poetry and novels (↗ Rapisarda, Novels and Poems Western Christian World). The diviners and sorceresses
appear with fantastic features in those works, but this mirrors the medieval imagination about fortune telling. However, these fantasy figures often possess a surprisingly
detailed knowledge of astronomical devices or are able to quote learned authors.
Artefacts
Very few of the medieval artefacts used in prognostication have survived. Of course,
some of the archeological finds or utensils stored in treasuries, such as crystals,
mirrors, dice, or playing cards, may have been used for divination, but there are no
pre-modern artefacts known that would have been clearly marked for such use. Therefore, the tradition of objects is limited to accessories in lot books, such as the volvelle,
and to the astronomical instruments used by astrologers, most of them astrolabes
and less often quadrants. Astrolabes for daily use were made of parchment or paper
applied to wood and have not been preserved, unlike the more prestigious ones made
of metal (↗ Rodríguez Arribas, Mathematical Instruments).
Pictorial Traditions
Pictorial traditions of prognostication from the Middle Ages exist in large numbers,
most of them illustrations of the biblical traditions, about the Old Testament prophets, the Three Magi from the Orient, or the Book of Revelation. The scenes depicted
were not intended to predict the future specifically. They kept the memory of Christian tradition alive and reflected the general idea of the end of time. For people in
the Middle Ages, it was normal to be surrounded by pictures telling stories. These
were everywhere: illuminations of books of liturgy and prayer, frescos, sculptures and
stained glass windows in churches (↗ Wagner, Prophecy in Visual Art), maps of the
world that marked the places of salvation and those of the hereafter (↗ Scafi, Medieval Mappae mundi), or, at the beginning of the Modern Age, pamphlets containing
apocalyptical messages (↗ Wagner, Three Images of Celestial Phenomena). Fewer in
number were the non-biblical subjects related to prognostication. Illuminated treatises on astrology often show the authority figures from this discipline, such as its
mythical founder, Hermes Trismegistos, ancient philosophers, such as Ptolemy, or
masters from the Islamic world, such as Abū Maʻshar. Beside these authority figures,
there are also pictures of anonymous astrologers at work, observing the stars with
astrolabes and quadrants (Mazal 2001). Sometimes, such depictions simply enrich the
scenery, irrespective of any astrological activities, such as in the illuminations of travel
reports or courtly novels, with no apparent connection to the text. However, the most
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important visual medium for the study of celestial objects and phenomena are the
constellations. The pictorial tradition of the constellations started in the early Middle
Ages with the illumination of manuscripts, but soon constellations occurred as figurative motifs, for instance at the portal of San Isidoro in Léon, or, in the Renaissance, in
the frescos of the Palazzo Schifanoia in Ferrara. The results of comprehensive studies
of the pictures in manuscripts have been made available only recently in several large
volumes (Blume, Haffner, Metzger 2012–2018). Medieval pictures of the constellations
did not serve the purpose of biblical or theological studies, but were used in schools
and universities as well as by scientists. They were intended to illustrate knowledge
and make it easier to memorize. They were also an information medium, which did
not require an accompanying text. Eventually, they developed a life of their own as
motifs, independently of the original teaching purpose.
Fig. 5: Constellation of Draco, Ursa maior, and Ursa minor
according to the Leiden Aratea (Leiden, Bibliotheek der
­Rijksuniversiteit, Voss. Lat. Q. 79, fol. 3v; date: saec. IX).
Photo credits: Leiden University Digital Collections.
Part 4 – Decisive Moments in the History of
Prognostication in the Western Christian
World during the Middle Ages
The diversity of prognostication methods in the Western Christian world of the
Middle Ages was enormous. They differed from region to region and enjoyed varying
degrees of popularity, so general tendencies are difficult to identify. At certain critical moments, however, changes occurred which had a lasting impact on all areas of
prognostication. Some of them were the result of the progress of Christianity in the
Early and High Middle Ages, others of the dissemination of knowledge through the
translation movements of the High Middle Ages, and, in the Late Middle Ages, the
popularization of scholarly knowledge on the one hand, and, on the other hand, also
the increasing attempts of regulation by the religious and secular authorities.
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Prognostication and Christianization in the Early and High Middle
Ages
Part 1 of this survey has already demonstrated that, in many areas of prognostication,
the Christian doctrine changed the attitude to the traditions from Antiquity. It brought
about a radical change in the concept of time and, by implication, the concept of the
future. In medieval Christian faith, time on earth was aligned to the end. With the
second coming of Christ, the divine plan of salvation would be completed and, at the
Last Judgement, humans’ final destiny decided. From that point onward, looking at
the future could be no more than looking at a finite period of time. Since only God
knew when the end of time would happen, there was no clear conception of how
much more time on earth would be allotted to humankind. The Christians thought
that they were living in the last age, with the end already in sight. Eschatology became
the prevalent paradigm for interpreting all kinds of signs that might reveal insights
into the divine plan of salvation (Fried 2001, 24–41). Predictions about the exact date
of the end of the world remained speculative in nature, whereas the instruments for
measuring time became increasingly refined. With the spread of Christianity, also, the
liturgical calendar became widely used. Since the dates of certain holidays, such as
Easter, varied, accurate calculations were required to determine these. The Christian
calendar also determined the hours of prayer and service throughout the day, and this
cycle of prayer provided the structure for daily life. Elaborate calendrical calculations,
computistic tables, and increasingly sophisticated measuring tools made periodic
cycles predictable (Borst 1999).
With the spread of Christianity, divination lost the institutional framework in
which ancient societies had embedded it. The oracles of Delphi or Dodona were connected to sacred places, so the consultation of these oracles required the observance
of established rites, and the words of the seers were interpreted and controlled by the
priests. In ancient Roman culture, the reading of signs by priests was a ritual with fundamental importance for the state (↗ Engels and Nice, Divination in Antiquity). In the
Christian understanding, the gift of prophecy was God-given, free from institutional
contexts. People of any social standing, age or sex could become the voice of God at
any time and in any place. The examples in part 2 of the survey demonstrate that,
even by the Early Middle Ages, not all prophetic figures were perceived as trustworthy,
even if their appearance usually created quite a stir. Increasingly, the Church authorities reserved the exclusive right to verify visions, auditions, and other presumed
revelations, so the chances of being officially recognized as a true prophet became
increasingly slim after the thirteenth century. It would, however, be misleading to
speak of the “disappearance of the practice” (Minois 1998, 253–278). The popularity
of prophecies and visions remained high, although their recipients frequently came
under suspicion of holding heterodox religious beliefs. It seems logical to assume
that, in times of crisis, prophets appeared in particularly large numbers. Cataclysmic
events, such as the Mongol invasion or the plague in the fourteenth century, were
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certainly interpreted as eschatological signs, but they created a demand for historiographical reflexion rather than prophecies (Bezzola 1974, 90–109; Sprandel 1987).
So far, there are no methodologically convincing studies about the conjunctures of
prophecies over long periods of time.
Christianity also broke with the mantic traditions, as already mentioned in part 1.
Early Christian authors condemned all forms of divination as pagan rites and admonished true believers to stay away from these in order to withstand the treacherous
insinuations of demons. Following Isidore of Seville, the medieval discourse connected both the mantic arts and magic, as wicked superstitio. Although a clear distinction was drawn between Christian and pagan practices, in medieval daily life,
the dividing line between the two remained blurred for a long time. Gregory of Tours
(d. 594), for example, writes in his History of the Franks that Duke Gunthram had faith
in the classical arts of divination:
Then Gunthram sent a slave to a certain woman known to him from the time of king Charibert, who had a familiar spirit, in order that she should relate what was to happen. He asserted
besides that she had foretold to him the time, not only the year but also the day and hour, at
which king Charibert was to die. (Gregory of Tours, Libri historiarum V, 14 = History of the Francs,
ed. Brehaut, 116)
King Merovech, on the other hand, modified the ancient method of bibliomancy by
opening books of Christian liturgy at random pages to receive his prophecies (Libri
historiarum V, 14 = History of the Francs, ed. Brehaut, 117). There is every reason to
believe that the constantly repeated warnings about the dubious connection between
magic and the mantic arts – which were taken up from Isidore by Hincmar of Reims
(d. 882), Regino of Prüm (d. 915), and others – were not simply born out of the desire
to categorize all forms of divination, as they are to be understood as a reaction to the
persistence with which those ancient arts were practiced, although they had probably
long ceased to be part of pagan cults (Harmening 1979, 274–278).
The Impact of the Translation Movements of the Twelfth and
­Thirteenth Centuries
A decisive impetus to the history of medieval prognostication came from the translation movements of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. They brought about fundamental changes in many areas of the tradition and sparked a new intellectual interest in the discussion and appraisal of mantic practices. Numerous texts of ancient
writers and scholars from the Greek East and the Islamic world, which had been inaccessible until then, were translated into Latin and had an enormous impact on the
concepts and practices of prognostication. The astrology and geomancy of the Latin
West received their theoretical and methodological foundation. The interpretation of
dreams, physiognomy, and scapulimancy became increasingly the subjects of trea-
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tises and were more frequently applied in practice. The translation of fundamental
works opened up new possibilities in the areas of medical prognostication and mathematical calculation as well. It took some time for the transfer of knowledge, its organization, and its reception to take effect, with varying results in different places but its
consequences were felt throughout the Latin West. Profound changes in science and
education helped people to absorb the new knowledge. Above all the newly-founded
universities, but also the study centers of the mendicant orders, and the princely
courts as centers of art and erudition, created an enormous demand for new texts and
new knowledge. The high mobility of students and scholars – many of them travelled
all over Europe – promoted the exchange of knowledge, which was presented and
categorized in new works, such as encyclopedias, mirrors for princes, summae, comments, and text books (Brungs 2017). Most translations were produced as a result of
the knowledge exchange with Byzantium, in Southern Italy or the Iberian Peninsula,
areas where people from different cultures came into contact. Jewish scholars often
played a key role as translators from Arabic. There is also sporadic evidence of the
transfer of the mantic traditions between the Latin and Hebrew cultures (Rebiger and
Schäfer 2009, 81–85).
The large majority of translations relevant to prognostication were produced on
the Iberian Peninsula. Recent studies were able to highlight the cultural environment
of the translation movements by analyzing how they were linked to the Reconquista
and the reorganization of the Church structures (Hasse 2006). The analyses prove
that those translations were hardly the result of a direct exchange between Muslim
and Christian scholars, but often an act of appropriation of the cultural prey looted
from the libraries of the rulers of al-Andalus. The first generation of translators, who
worked in different places between Braga and Barcelona in the second quarter of the
twelfth century, was mostly interested in works on mathematics and astral and occult
sciences, including the mantic arts, which were particularly numerous in the libraries
of the Islamic rulers. Only in the second half of the twelfth century did Toledo become
a center for the translation movement, which focused also on philosophical works
(Gutas 2006). The early translators were fascinated especially by the astral sciences,
as the large quantity of translations on this subject proves. John of Seville (d. after
1153), for example, was highly productive; among his translations are two of the most
influential introductions to astrology: the Liber isagogicum by al-Qabīṣī and the Great
Introduction into Astrology by Abū Maʻshar. Plato of Tivoli’s (d. after 1145) translations include the Tetrabiblos by Ptolemy which was also translated from the Greek
by William of Moerbeke (d. 1286) in the thirteenth century. Hugo of Santalla (d. after
1145) was responsible for the translation of an important book on astrological interrogations, the Liber novem iudicum (↗ Burnett, Astral Sciences Western Christian World,
496–497). Not only the translations themselves but also several programmatic statements made by the translators indicate how intrigued they were by the Arabic texts
on astral sciences. Hugo of Santalla and Plato of Tivoli expressed their main interest in
astrology and signaled that Latin scholars had a lot of catching up to do in this area.
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Hugo even added a defense of this discipline (Burnett 1977; Ricklin 2006). In addition
to the translations of astral sciences, Hugo of Santalla was also responsible for the
Latin versions of texts on geomancy and scapulimancy, such as the Ars geomantie
and the Liber de spatula (Burnett 2006, 114–116). Through the references in the Arabic
texts, Latin scholars also became aware of the mythical authorities of the mantic arts,
like Hermes Trismegistos. As a result, Hermes was adopted as the founder of ancient
knowledge about the secrets of nature (Heiduk 2008, 327–360).
A phase of intense diplomatic contact between Italian trading towns, the Staufer
and the papal courts on the one side and the imperial court of Byzantium on the other,
coincided with the translations produced by Italian scholars between the 1130s and
1160s. Those scholars were ambassadors and interpreters at the Byzantine court. They
bought Greek books during their stay in Constantinople and translated many of them
into Latin (d’Alverny 1982, 430–438). Through this transfer, knowledge previously
unknown in the West, from the works of Aristotle for instance, made its way to Italy
and from there into the Latin world. Texts about prognostication formed part of this
knowledge transfer. It appears that Paschalis Romanus found several books on occult
sciences in the imperial library of Constantinople, among them the Liber thesauri
occulti, a compilation of various Greek books about dream interpretation. The Latin
version of this compilation also included an early translation by Leo Tuscus on the
decoding of dreams and oracles (Ricklin 1998, 247–270; Heiduk 2014, 143–145).
Translations from Arabic and Greek into Latin had been produced since the eleventh century in the area of Southern Italy that was under Norman rule and later in
the kingdom of Sicily. The work of Constantine the African (d. ca. 1087), whose name
indicates his Berber provenance, was the starting point. He translated the Arabic Versions of the books of Hippocrates and Galen during his time in Salerno and in the
monastery of Montecassino. He also compiled texts from Arabic, Persian, and Jewish
authors for medical education (Veit 2003). Although the Norman rulers were rarely
the commissioners of translations, their policy of balancing the interests of the Arab,
Greek, Jewish, and Latin-Christian communities within their kingdom promoted the
exchange of knowledge in the twelfth century. Henry Aristippus (d. 1162), Archdeacon of Catania, translated the fourth book of Aristotle’s Meteorologica and received a
copy of a fundamental work on ancient astronomy, Ptolemy’s Almagest, while visiting
Constantinople as an emissary. Later, however, the translation of the Almagest from
the Arabic by Gerard of Cremona (d. 1187) would outrank this first translation in the
history of reception (Pedersen 2011, 16–19). At about the same time, Admiral Eugenius of Palermo (d. 1202), another high-ranking official in the service of the Norman
rulers, probably translated the prophecies of the Erythraean Sibyl (Jostmann 2006,
236–238). The Staufer rulers, successors of the Norman kings, directly commissioned
translations from Greek, Arabic, and Hebrew. Among them were texts of particular
significance for prognostication, such as the astrological works Centiloquium Hermetis
or De revolutionibus annorum nativitatis, which had been translated at the order of King
Manfred (d. 1266) (Heiduk 2004; Burnett 2014). An important multiplier of astrologi-
Matthias Heiduk
145
cal and mantic knowledge, although not a translation, is the Liber introductorius by
Michael Scot (d. 1234?), which the author dedicated to Emperor Frederick II (d. 1250).
This scholar, who described himself as the emperor’s astrologer, provided not only
an introduction to the basics of astral sciences in his encyclopedic work (Ackermann
2009) but also detailed information on physiognomy, including the topics of dream
interpretation and palm reading (Michael Scot, Liber physionomie, ed. Voskoboynikov).
Michael Scot’s Liber introductorius is a good example of the reception of the
translations based on compiling the new knowledge and, indeed, very soon, Latin
scholars became quite creative in mixing and developing the information received
from the translations. In the philosophical concepts of Albertus Magnus (d. 1280) or
Roger Bacon (d. 1292), magic and mantic knowledge figures quite prominently, and
astrology even plays a key role (Hackett 1997; Rutkin 2019, 41–115), so the disciplines of
divination qualified as a legitimate approach to reading the signs of nature. The scholars, however, curious and eager to learn, soon found themselves restricted in their
freedom, because the Christian doctrine maintained its ban against divination. What
was still considered legitimate and what was prohibited became a topic of constant
discussion. In the mid-thirteenth century, the anonymous author of the famous Speculum astronomiae attempted to have astrology recognized as a discipline of the natural
sciences by strictly distinguishing it from all sorts of magical practices (Zambelli 1992).
In their effort to regulate knowledge, the Church authorities went to extremes, intending to send a clear signal, and excluded certain works from lectures at the University of
Paris in 1277, among them passages from Aristotle’s works plus, explicitly mentioned,
a book on geomancy (Flasch 1989, 90).
Popularisation and Persecution: Late Medieval Tendencies
In the long term, these efforts to ban mantic practices from 1277 did not prove particularly effective and, from the legal point of view, nothing had changed. Significant
collections of laws, such as the Decretum Gratiani, continued the discourse of whether
mantic practices were a form of magic, and practitioners of magic came under suspicion as heretics (Peters 1978, 71–78). Church sanctions, however, were rare. Until
the mid-fourteenth century, the practicing of magic was rarely punished. A glance
at the manual of the inquisitor Bernard Gui (d. 1331) confirms that wizards, diviners
and those who summoned ghosts are listed in a separate section, but the questions
for their interrogations sound like standard phrases, unlike the other highly detailed
instructions contained in the manual. The wide range of divination is compressed
into a single question regarding the suspect’s knowledge about the prognostication
of future events (Bernard Gui, Manuel de l’Inquisiteur, ed. Mollat 2, 20–24). In the
fourteenth century, however, conspiracy theories about the enemies of Christianity
who would not shrink from using harmful spells and magical assassination were on
the rise. These theories could easily be adapted to denounce and stigmatize any spe-
146
Introductory Surveys
cific group, such as the Knights Templar (1307–1312), lepers (1321), Jews in the context
of the plague pogroms (1348–1349) or the presumed members of the witch cult (Heil
2006, 272–299; Utz Tremp 2008, 311–440). According to the doctrine, sorcerers and
witches could be identified because of their pact with the devil. The examples of Matteuccia Francisci and Margery Joudemayne in part 2 demonstrate that fortune telling,
per se, was not yet considered an offense. The Malleus maleficarum from 1486, which
should have become the authoritative standard reference for inquisitors about the
witch cult, indicates the shift that occurred at the end of the Middle Ages. The whole
range of mantic arts is mentioned there several times as the characteristic evil deeds of
witches (Henricus Institoris and Jacobus Sprenger, Malleus maleficarum [print 1494],
I, q. 2 and q. 16, fol. vii and fol. xxxviii).
Astrologers rarely came under suspicion of heresy. The Christian doctrine clearly
considered astrology to be related to determinism and superstition, too, but even the
dogmatic Thomas Aquinas gave subtle hints that certain forms of astrology, provided
that they were limited to the forecasting of natural events, might be admissible (Rutkin
2019, 173–234). This provided practicing astrologers with arguments to support their
activity as well as a line of defense. In the Late Middle Ages, the triumphant advance of
astrology could no longer be halted, particularly since it was in high demand among
rulers. With his Livre de Divinacions, Nicole Oresme (d. 1382) attempted to persuade
his pupil, Charles V of France, not to rely on astrologers for political advice, but in
vain (Coopland 1952). The astrologer, as an office-bearer and part of the entourage
of courtly advisors, had become a fixture by the Late Middle Ages. This was the only
time in medieval history that prognostication was institutionalized, but that did not
mean that political decisions were based mainly on astrological or mantic consultations. They were simply one among many aids for decision making, and the sum of all
of the information and advice given was to confirm the rightness of a decision. Even
Emperor Frederick II, who, as already mentioned in part 2, loved to show off his power
by using astrology publicly, seems to have remained skeptical about the prognoses of
his astrologists. According to the Liber introductorius, he repeatedly subjected Michael
Scot to tests of his abilities (Haskins 1927, 290).
Not only astrology but other methods of divination also became increasingly
popular again in the Late Middle Ages, despite the Church’s concerted attempts
to prohibit them. Texts in vernacular languages, such as farmers’ almanacs with
their meteorological and hemerological recommendations or translations of Latin
treatises, contributed to their popularity. Instructions for mantic practices were no
longer the privilege of scholars, as an increasing number of people at court and in
the cities became literate. Translations into vernacular languages had been produced
from as early as the thirteenth century, like the Secretum secretorum (↗ Forster,
Pseudo-­Aristotelian Sirr al-asrār/Secretum secretorum), and thereafter in increasing
numbers. The traditions in the vernacular languages are still scarcely researched.
However, a few cursory examples should be mentioned here, such as the fourteenth-century compilation of astrological standard references in French for Mary of
Matthias Heiduk
147
Luxembourg (d. 1324) (Heiduk 2008, 280), the German translation from the fifteenth
century of the astrological basic rules of the Centiloquium Hermetis (Heiduk 2004,
276), and the Dutch version of The treatise of Abdallah on Geomancy, also from the
fifteenth century (Braekman 1984). Remarkably, the critics of superstition who wrote
their texts in vernacular languages also contributed to the dissemination of mantic
knowledge. Of note in this context are the debates on astrology at the French and
Burgundian courts (Veenstra 1998) or, in the German-speaking region, the works of
Hans Vintler or Johannes Hartlieb, which have already been quoted several times
(↗ Heiles, German Texts on Superstition). Another factor which helped to spread
mantic knowledge and practices was the increasingly frequent combination of divi­
nation with games and festivals. Apart from the previously mentioned lot books,
many of which were also written in vernacular languages (↗ Heiles, Sortes), astrological-cosmological board games, such as the “spherical chess” from the book of
games by Alfonso X, King of Castile, were played at the royal courts for entertainment
(↗ Heiduk, Games and Prognostication, 779–780). The lotteries based on the random
mechanism of casting lots, which had become a standard attraction at fairs since
the fifteenth century (Raux 2018), provide another example of this combination of
divination and entertainment.
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Michael Grünbart
Prognostication in the Medieval Eastern
Christian World
Basics, Definitions and Terminology
From the Byzantine empire (fourth–fifteenth centuries), traces of prophecy and prognostication are apparent in various ways: on the one hand, many Greek texts dealing
with the future, fortune telling and prediction are preserved while, on the other hand,
reflections of techniques addressing forthcoming events are mentioned in the written
sources.
The Byzantine learned culture bridges both the period from Late Antiquity to the
late Middle Ages and regions lying between the Eastern Mediterranean and Western
parts of Europe. Therefore, many modes and forms of entanglement, translation and
cross-fertilization can be found in that area (e. g. Pingree 1989).
Since the reign of Constantine I (306–337), the Roman Empire continuously transferred its political power to the East, so the newly-founded Constantinople became the
center of the late antique world, providing a multitude of opportunities. It attracted
people from the whole Mediterranean basin, thereby creating a melting-pot for ideas
and knowledge. At times, scholars found a safe harbor there due to the political changes
in the surrounding regions (e. g. after the Arab conquest of Alexandria in 641). The
so-called period of iconoclasm (theological discussions concerning the forms of venerating the divine, eighth/ninth centuries) saw an intensification of contact between
Byzantium and the Arabic world. In addition to military confrontations, the transfer
of knowledge, the translation of texts in both directions and scholarly exchanges are
recorded. In the eleventh century, Arabic astronomy became well-known in Byzantium
(see below) and scholars like Michael Psellos (1017/18–ca.1078) studied various kinds
of occult sciences. He employed the term ἀπόκρυφος/apokryphos, that corresponds to
the Latin occultus. Interested in ancient knowledge, Psellos mentioned several early
mantic practices in his writings (scapulomancy, bird-watching), but which no longer
reflected a current application.
In the twelfth century, the use and abuse of astrology were debated, with Emperor
Manuel I (1143–1180) being a fervent adherer to and discussant of the techniques related
to prognostication. Although the Byzantine Empire underwent serious changes after
the Fourth Crusade (1202–1204), the Late Byzantine or Palaiologan period (1261–1453)
witnessed a revival of the exact sciences attested by a flourishing network of learned
men (Tihon 2006).
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-006
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Introductory Surveys
Terms
The terms “prophecy” and “prognostication” form an ideal couple to divide between
the two ways of gaining information/knowledge about future developments (see
Brodersen 2001) and actions, that influence human life. Prophecy is linked to (divine)
inspiration. A person receives a heavenly sign, encounters a dream/supernatural
appearance or is struck by a sign, that opens his/her mind to a future event, offering
ways to find solutions and make decisions.
Prognostication is closer related to experts who seek to identify emerging developments by actively employing techniques based on mathematical calculations and
exact surveillance. Observing natural phenomena (celestial objects like the sun,
moon, comets, and stars, together with thunder, lightning and earthquakes) also lead
to the fixation of dates that organized daily life, administrative processes, ceremonial
life and even liturgical feasts.
The term “occult sciences” highlights the written and learned tradition of knowledge for both serving the true deity and satisfying one’s curiosity (see Magdalino and
Mavroudi 2006; they stress, that dealing with occult sciences request some knowledge
of specialised language). The occult sciences are often linked to prognostication and
discussions about future events (or the future), and offer tools for interpreting many
phenomena (astral, terrestrial or subterranean occurrences) partly based on calculation. The occult sciences stand in contrast to the magical practices that flourished
from the ancient to the medieval world.
“Magic” is both not restricted to a highly educated tradition and less elitist. That
does not mean that magic lacks any written form (ranging from simple signs to magic
spells on various media). Starting with the Greco-Roman world magic also connoted
the cultural (and religious) Other, a notion that continued in the Greek orthodox
world. From the beginning of the spread of Christian thought, especially magical practices were viewed with great scepticism and normally viewed in a negative light. In
ecclestiastical jurisdiction and law “magic” became similar to the term heresy. Magic
is used to define the usurpation of divine or demonic power in order to influence or
protect others.
It becomes apparent that “change”, “innovation” and “novelty” were described as
negative terms in Byzantine texts, although development was part of God’s plan from
the beginning of the world (Magdalino 1993). Life on earth was defined and ruled by
Divine Providence, and lead to the end of the world, the Second Coming of Christ. Byzantine eschatology had its roots in the Old Testament (especially the Book of Daniel)
and the New Testament (Matt. 24, announcing the Second Coming). According to the
creation of the world in 6 + 1 days, the idea of world history was organised according to
seven millennia (Podskalsky 1972). Naturally, the disastrous events in Byzantine politics were seen and judged in the context of that eschatological concept (e. g. the siege
of Constantinople in 626 was thought to be the fulfilment of prophecies by Ezekiel or
Isaiah; the eruption of an Aegean vulcano in 726 became the starting point for icon-
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155
oclasm in later argumentation; and Byzantine emperors in the fifteenth century were
aware of the ending seventh millennium) (↗ Brandes, Eschatology Eastern Christian
World).
Sources and Artefacts
Written Sources
During the Greek Middle Ages, several classical texts concerning prognostication were
available. Ancient treatises were copied and commented on by Byzantine scholars.
Since the tradition of classical education never disappeared from the Byzantine realm,
knowledge of all kinds was evaluated and preserved in libraries and archives (mainly
in Constantinople). Despite the critical political situation, the Byzantine Empire was
not hermetically sealed in terms of the transfer of knowledge. The exchange of scholars and written resources between the regions of the Mediterranean is well-attested
in every century.
The exact sciences and their application must be strictly distinguished from
magic and superstition, since they emphasize “scientific” or calculable aspects. The
most important written resources dealing with predictions and prognostication will
be discussed in brief.
Astronomy
Astronomy belongs to the exact sciences and formed part of education (quadrivium/enkyklios paideia; overview Tihon 2009, 392–413). The Byzantines never mixed
these terms, clearly differentiating between astronomy (the observation and theoretical aspect of celestial phenomena) and astrology (the practical, interpretative
approach). However, these form an inseparable couple (↗ Caudano, Astral Sciences
Eastern Christian World). A basic knowledge of astronomy existed in many strata of
late antique society. The church authorities, for instance, needed to calculate certain
dates in the course of the liturgical year (e. g. that for Easter); it was also necessary to
explain the cosmos, its image and history. In the military sector, the determination of
dates and interpretation of celestial phenomena are often mentioned. The beginning
of spring marked the time to recruit soldiers, the beginning of winter the end of military duties. Theophilus of Edessa, a Christian advisor of Caliph al-Mahdī (775–785)
regarding military affairs, composed a treatise entitled Labours Concerning the Beginnings of Wars, whose original was possibly composed in Greek and partially based on
Indian sources (ed. CCAG V.1 233–234). This is the only existing work that discusses
exclusively military astrology but unusual events also require explanations: A comet
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Introductory Surveys
could disturb a military camp that a competent officer would need to calm through
offering a rational explanation.
From the fourth to seventh centuries, commentaries on the Handy Tables (attached
to the Almagest of Ptolemy) were composed by Pappos and Theon (fl. 360–380). The
Tables were used to execute elementary astronomical calculations (e. g. identifying
the time difference between two towns). Theon produced two versions of his book.
The first was directed toward astronomers (only a few manuscripts have been preserved), while the second focused on more practical aspects (complex mathematical
computations are omitted; ed. Tihon 1978). The work was summarized in the outline of
the Neoplatonist philosopher Proclus (410/412–485) and its introduction by Eutokios,
Heliodoros and Ammonios.
The Aristotelian philosopher and Christian theologian John Philoponus (fl. first
half of the sixth century) wrote books on the eternity of the universe, arguing against
Proclus and Aristotle (De aeternitati mundi contra Proclum and contra Aristotelem).
John commented on several works of Aristotle (especially the organon, Physica and
Meteorologica) and described the construction and usage of the astrolabe (Stückelberger 2015). Stephen (ca. 550–after 619/620) taught actively in Alexandria, the hot
spot of mathematical knowledge in Late Antique Egypt, but moved to Constantinople
on the eve of the Sassanian conquest (Papathanassiou 2006). Besides several works
on Aristotle, he explained the astronomical commentary of Theon (Handy tables) and
texts of Hippocrates (Prognosticon and Aphorisms). He also developed an interest in
alchemy (Papathanasiou 1990–1991).
In the following period, astronomy was mainly practiced outside, but close to, the
Byzantine Empire (in Egypt, Syria and Armenia). In the ninth century, astronomical
activities returned to Constantinople: Stephen the Philosopher discussed Greek and
Islamic tables (around 800) and Leo, “the Mathematician” (first half of ninth century),
supported the study of ancient mathematics. In legend, he is described as an astrologer who was able to predict the future. However, he owned a copy of the astrological introduction by Paul of Alexandria (Wilson 1996, 79–84). Leo did not follow the
invitation by the Caliph al-Ma’mun to Baghdad, but remained in Constantinople. He
invented a system of beacon lights that was constructed to send messages from the
Eastern border to the center of the empire. The basis of this system was two clocks,
but problems arose since time differed between the regions and the lengths of hours
varied throughout the seasons. Using the commentary of Theon (on Ptolemy’s Handy
Tables), this problem could have been solved by the scholar.
From the eighth and ninth centuries onward, a couple of precious illuminated
manuscripts have been preserved, reflecting the revived interest in astronomical
topics (e. g. Vat. gr. 1291, including a sun-table for the years 826–835). A simplified
version of Vettius Valens’ text on computing the longitudes of the planets was produced in 906 (ed. Pingree 1986).
In the eleventh century, Byzantine scholars became well acquainted with Islamic
astronomy. Star catalogues were translated from Arabic into Greek (e. g. an anony-
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157
mous treatise from 1072/1088; ed. Jones 1987). Following a gap of more than a century,
texts are preserved again from the thirteenth century, although the interest in astronomical discussions did not end there, as the historian George Akropolites notes. At
the exiled Byzantine court of Nicaea (after the Fourth Crusade up until 1261), Empress
Eirene questioned a young man about the cause of eclipses (after such an event on
June 3 1239). He responded that such phenomena were due to the moon’s interposition
in front of the sun, but was criticized by a court doctor for lacking a proper theoretical
education.
The Late Byzantine period witnessed a revival of Ptolemaic astronomy (Manuel
Bryennios, Theodore Metochites, Nicephorus Gregoras), promoted by scholars like
Nicholas Kabasilas and Isaac Argyros (fourteenth century) and John Chortasmenos
and Bessarion (fifteenth century). The historiographer Nikephoras Gregoras left a
treatise on the calculation of the solar eclipse based on the Almagest and the Handy
Tables from July 16 1330 (eds. Mogenet et al. 1983). That text also reflects the competition between the Byzantine polymath and the Latin Barlaam of Seminara, who
provided calculations of the eclipses of 1333 and 1337 (eds. Mogenet and Tihon 1977).
Gregoras also dealt with the function and usage of the astrolabe in his treatise περὶ
κατασκευῆς καὶ γενέσεως ἀστρολάβου (“On the Mathematical Origin and Construction
of the Astrolabe”).
During that period, Arabic texts continued to be translated into Greek: Gregory
Chioniades investigated Persian and Islamic tables (around 1300, ed. Pingree 1985),
followed by George Chrysokokkes. Theodore Meliteniotes dealt with Ptolemaic and
Islamic astronomy in his Astronomical Tribiblos, attacking astrology (the “three books”
were composed around 1360; ed. Leurquin 1990), but Latin texts were also translated
into Greek. In the 1330s, the Cypriot scholar George Lapithes possibly produced the
Greek version of the Toledan Tables, which were completed by Arabic astronomers at
Toledo around 1080 in order to predict the movements of the sun, moon, and planets
in relation to the fixed stars. Mark Eugenikos translated the tables of Jacob ben David
Yom-tob in 1444.
Astrology
Astrology was understood to be the twin of astronomy. Since the beginning of civilisation, written records demonstrate that astrology was used to make predictions
concerning the future or results based on past human affairs. These interpretations
rest upon the positions of the planets (in relation to each other) together with the signs
of the zodiac and their subdivisions. Celestial phenomena (comets, eclipses, falling
stars) were included as well. Astrological interpretations are well-attested in the
Greek Middle Age (Tihon 2009, 420–425). There exists a vast amount of manuscripts
containing astrological compilations (see the series of editions of Catalogus codicum
astrologorum graecorum), and it is highly probable that astrology was still an impor-
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Introductory Surveys
Fig. 6: Nicephorus Gregoras, On
the Mathematical Origin and
­Construction of the Astrolabe (Paris,
Bibliothèque Nationale, Ms suppl. gr.
652, fol. 285v; date: saec. XV). Photo
credits: BNF - Départment Images et
prestations numériques.
tant component of the quadrivium in the sixth century (Westerink 1971). Astrology
can be divided into the following areas: a) genethlialogy: when a person is born, the
constellation of the stars may predict his/her future. Horoscopes are known from the
Byzantine period (emperors, the city of Constantinople, see the list in Pingree 1991) b)
catarchic (“from the beginning”): this method is used when the ideal starting point for
an action should be fixed (see the above mentioned work by Theophilus of Edessa); c)
interrogatory: the expert immediately provides answers by casting a horoscope at the
moment when the client poses his/her question/s; interrogational astrology was not
performed as part of classical Greek science. Its main goal is to predict how an action
that has already started or been taken into consideration will end (Pingree 2006); d)
political and e) omen astrology, which deals with discrete, occasional phenomena
that were interpreted without including a comprehensive system of celestial calculations. Such omens or signs are attested in all kinds of texts (↗ Brandes, Hagiography
Eastern Christian World).
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Iatromathematica
Medicine is closely related to all kinds of sciences dealing with prognostication (see
Althoff 2010). Iatromathematica or medical astrology combine the knowledge of
astronomy and conditions of the human body. Since Hippocrates, it was essential
to understand seasonal phenomena in order to understand the health of patients. In
addition, the four elements and two pairs of opposite qualities (hot–cold, dry–humid)
played an important role. In the Byzantine period, that kind of prognostication was
called skillful guesswork (entechnos stochasmos), as Emperor Manuel Komnenos
mentions in his defense of astrology (see Papathanassiou 1999).
Dream Divination
Dreambooks and dream divination (↗ Oberhelman, Dream Interpretation Eastern
Christian World). Since antiquity, the interpretation of dreams and their potential for
predicting the future or supporting decisions are well-attested. Dreams were accepted
by the church fathers, who explained them as devices for divine revelation, but their
interpretation remained problematic, since it was attached to the pagan tradition.
Dreams could also be of a demonic or simply earthly origin. The Greek terms for a
dream represent a variety of meanings: oneiros is a dream full of symbols that need
interpretation; horama reflects prophecy; while chrematismos describes the appearance of God or a saint giving advice during sleep.
From the Byzantine period, eight books on dream interpretation have been preserved (oneirocritica). The longest and probably oldest of these is the Oneirocriticon of
Achmet ben Sirin, that was compiled from Arabic sources possibly during the reign of
Emperor Leo VI (886–912). The Greek text did not depend directly on the oneirocriticon
of Artemidorus (second century CE), but incorporated ideas of the antique manual via
its Arabic translation (Mavroudi 2002). Some oneirocritica are attributed to patriarchs,
such as Nicephorus and Germanos (I or II), that demonstrates the acceptance of dream
interpretation (ed. Drexl 1922 and 1923) (further works are ascribed to Daniel, ed. Drexl
1926, Astrampsychus, and Anonymous). Again, a prose treatise on dreams is ascribed
to Manuel II Palaeologus (1390–1425) (preserved in Cod. Par. gr. 2419) (Angelide and
Calofonos 2014). Dreams are regularly reported in historiography in the context of
political divination.
Natural Phenomena
Natural phenomena like thunder, lightning and earthquakes influenced and supported the techniques of prognostication. Weather forecasting formed part of meteorology (↗ Telelis, Weather Forecasting Eastern Christian World). Brontologia are texts
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concerning divination by thunder. John the Lydian, who was a high official during the
reign of Justinian I (527–565) and as author interested in Roman antiquities, mentions
thunderbooks in his treatise, De ostentis (“On Omens”) (also preserving an Etruscan
brontoscopic calendar, see Turfa 2012). They were used for political, military and
agrarian predictions (see chapter on “Sources”).
Although the church denounced brontologia as items with a astrological/diabolic
influence, several copies have been preserved (e. g. Milan, Ambros. A 56 sup., sixteenth century). The position of the sun (or moon) in both the zodiac and the calendar influenced the arrangement of a brontologion. Seismologia, books on earthquakes
are preserved in various manuscripts. Such manuals were employed during military
campaigns, as Constantine VII describes in his treatise on campaigns (↗ Grünbart,
Importance of Thunder).
Oracle-books
The Neoplatonist philosopher Porphyry composed a (now lost) book entitled On the
Philosophy of Oracles, which was a collection of Christian utterances concerning predictions. He and his Neoplatonist colleagues highly esteemed the Chaldean Oracles,
because these supported their own view of the world. The Chaldean Oracles, which
claimed to be revelations sent by the gods, are based on a dualistic system which
divides the world into the intelligibles and a sphere of evil. The future emperor Julian
(r. 361–363) dealt with that text and the philosopher Iamblichus created a theurgical
concept that magic gains power over the supernatural world. Proclus also discussed
oracles, since these rendered divine revelations apparent to human beings. He became
one of the most influential philosophers. Michael Psellos and late Byzantine learned
men occupied themselves with the Chaldean Oracles (see O’Meara 2013, Seng 2013).
The Sibylline Oracles (Σιβυλλικοὶ χρησμοί/Sibyllikoi chresmoi) survived Late
Antiquity, since they could be adapted to suit Christian thought. The oracle book consists of 14 parts from different period (second century BCE–seventh century CE). The
hexametric predictions are of Jewish origin, with Christian additions. In the prologue
(from the sixth century), it is demonstrated that the Sibyl was an independent witness
for Christendom. The oracles were accessible at the imperial library at Constantinople
and consulted also, as an event mentioned by John Skylitzes demonstrates.
Leo V, who re-introduced iconoclasm during his reign (813–820), imprisoned the
usurper, Michael, but did not decide to kill him immediately. The end of Leon’s reign
was foretold on several occasions:
It is said that an oracle had been delivered to him some time earlier which said that he was
destined to be deprived both of the imperial dignity and also of his very life itself on the day of
the birth and incarnation of Christ our God. It was a Sibylline oracle, written in a certain book in
the imperial library which contained not only oracles, but also pictures and the features of those
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who had been emperors, depicted in colours. Now there was a ferocious lion portrayed in that
book. Above its spine and going down to its belly was the letter X [= Chi, indicating the name
Christos and subsequently the feastday]. There was a man running after the beast and striking
it a mortal blow with his lance, right in the centre of the X. On account of the obscurity of the
oracle, only the then quaestor could make sense of its meaning: that an emperor named Leo was
going to be delivered to a bitter death on the day of Christ’s nativity. (John Skylitzes, Synopsis,
ed. Wortley, 23)
Fig. 7: Leo V receives a book containing political prognostication (Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional de
España, Cod. Vitr. 26-2, fol. 58r; date: saec. XIII). Photo credits: Biblioteca Digital Hispánica.
The emperor attempted to explore future developments, because several signs indicated the end of his reign. Recalling the rich resources at court, he despatched an official to the imperial library. The book delivered by the expert contained the Sibylline
oracles. The oracles should not be confused with the Sibylline Books which contained
the wisdom of the ancient Etruscans and Romans, which were burned by order of
general Flavius Stilicho in 405 (recorded by Rutilius Namatianus, De Reditu 51–60).
Another collection of predictions connected to political prognostication formed
the so-called Oracula Leonis. Some 15 oracles were attributed to Emperor Leo VI
(3 sections: no. 1–6 reflect the circumstances after 815: 7–10 deal with occurrences
around 1204, the Fourth Crusade, and 11–15 lack datable elements). Nr 1–10 form vaticinia ex eventu and the rest can be described as real prophecy. The Oracula Leonis
do not belong to the Byzantine apocalypses in a strict sense, although they contain
elements of Pseudo-Methodios or the Visions of Daniel. The prophetic elements focus
on the emperor, who is presented as the liberator of the endtime or last emperor (Kraft
2012, Bonura 2016). Parts of them are known from late twelfth–century historiogra-
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Introductory Surveys
Fig. 8: Sultan Suleiman depicted with a sickle
and a rose in the Oracula Leonis (Venice,
­Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, Marcianus
graecus VII 3, fol. 4; date: saec. XVI/XVII).
Photo credits: Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana.
phy (Nicetas Choniates, see Karlin-Hayter 1987), but the earliest manuscripts date to
the fourteenth century. The predictions were translated into Latin in the thirteenth
century and known as papal oracles or Vaticinia de summis pontificibus.
The significance of the Oracula Leonis lies in its afterlife (after 1453). Several illuminated copies (e. g. by patrons as Francesco Barocci and George Klontzas; Rigo 1988,
Vereecken-Hadermann Misguich 2000, Brokkaar 2002) were produced, adapting the
new political situation in the East (Ottoman rulers). The prophecy about an emperor
who would defeat the Ottoman empire was appreciated by all Christian rulers.
Numerology and Onomatomancy
Methods like numerology, gematria or onomatomancy originated in the Assyro-Babylonian culture. Since Hebrew or Greek letters can also be used as numbers, the interpretation of words (or parts of them) in numerological terms formed a vivid tradition.
In the Pythagorean and Neoplatonic philosophy, numbers formed an integral aspect
of interpretation. Christian theologians continued to discuss concepts of unity and
multitude (e. g. the notion of the trinity). Numerological interpretations of names
were a common practice within prognostication (Dornseiff 1925). In imperial contexts,
questions concerning the duration of rulership and succession arose. Maurice thought
that his successor’s name would begin with the letter Phi (= Phokas, who executed
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163
him later) (cf. Theophanes, eds. Mango and Scott, 410). Nicetas Choniates concludes
the description of Manuel I (d. 1180) as follows: “I think that the lengthy duration of
his reign can be explained by that ancient adage which states, but the last syllable of
the word shall bring you profit. The last syllable of his name stands for the number
thirty-eight” (Nicetas Choniates, Historia, ed. Magoulias, 125). The ending of Manuel’s
name consisting of Eta (=8) and Lambda (=30) produces the result of 38. A passage
of the Oracula Leonis Sapientis (PG 107, 1132B) also indicates the prognostic potential
of names.
The most famous prediction of the Comnenian period is connected to the word
aima (“blood”). Following the birth of Manuel I’s son (1168/1169), astrologers provided
a horoscope and predicted a splendid future for the baby, and Manuel named his son
Alexios, choosing this name neither impulsively nor in honour of the grandfather’s
name, but taking heed of the oracular utterance in answer to the question:
‘How long shall the dynasty of Alexios Komnenos reign?’ The oracular response was aima
[blood]; if divided into letters and recounted in their order, the alpha clearly designated Alexios,
the iota John [Ioannes], and the next two letters Manuel and his successor to the throne. (Nicetas
Choniates, Historia, ed. Magoulias, 69).
That prediction was still present at court after Manuel’s death. Andronikos, who
usurped power in 1183, eliminating Alexios, Manuel’s legitimate son, was concerned
about his own successor. First, he chose as his heir the illegitimate son of Manuel, also
named Alexios, who was married to his daughter, but:
Later, he changed his mind and elected his son John instead, saying to those to whom he disclosed the secrets of [God’s] purposes that the empire would not pass from alpha to alpha but
would rather incline towards iota, and this according to divine plan. (Nicetas Choniates, Historia, ed. Magoulias, 234).
Apocalyptical Traditions (↗ Brandes, Eschatology Eastern Christian World).
John’s Apocalypse was the starting point of a long tradition of interpretations in the
East and the West; Origen and later theological writers interpreted against an eschatological concept. It means the idea of God’s reign on Earth for 1000 years before
the Second coming. However, a couple of apocryphal apocalypses including oracular
prophecies and end-time calculations influenced orthodox theological and Byzantine
political thought (see Kraft 2018).
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Introductory Surveys
Transcultural Exchange
The relations between the Arab-Islamic realm and the Byzantine Empire were mostly
characterized by competition, but there was still a constant exchange of knowledge
and ideas between the opponents. Particularly during the first decades of the Arabic
expansion, relations between the occupied population and the new governors can
be found. An influential group of learned men and theologians spoke Greek as their
mother tongue and were educated in the Hellenic tradition, but worked in a different
religious ambience later. John of Damascus (676–749) wrote in Damascus, the capital
of the Abbasid Caliphate. The Maronite Theophilus of Edessa worked as astrologer at
the court of Caliph al-Mahdī (775–785) and left an important treatise concerning catarchic astrology (in Greek). Caliph al-Ma’mun, who took a keen interest in astrology,
received an embassy in Damascus in 829. The Byzantine scholar John the Grammarian
(patriarch 837–843) accompanied the diplomats and intensive discussions are likely
to have arisen; however, Leo the Mathematician (see above) remained in Constantinople. In the ninth and tenth centuries, the interest in Greek knowledge experienced an
upswing in the Arab learned world, which can be explained by the Byzantine expansion into the region of Syria (Antiocheia was ruled by the emperor from 969 until
1084). The reaction of the Arabic learned world seems to have been an intensified philhellenism; i. e., an increasing interest in ancient Greek (pagan) knowledge, directed
against a Byzantium that was dominated by Christian thought (Gutas 1998).
The so-called book on dream-interpretation of Achmet ben Sirin was translated
into Greek around 900 (Mavroudi 2002; see above). Symeon Seth (ca. 1035–ca. 1110),
who moved between the Islamic courts of the Middle East and Constantinople, translated the Kalīlah wa Dimnah into Greek (Stephanos and Ichnelates) (Magdalino 2003).
Even the last few centuries of Byzantium witnessed an intensive transfer of knowledge (Mavroudi 2007). Theodore Metochites became an expert in oriental wisdom;
he was trained by Manuel Bryennios, whose teacher came from Persia. Nicephorus
Gregoras and his student, Isaac Argyros, used for their astrological texts and tables
of stars material of Persian origin. Gregory Chioniades (thirteenth century) travelled
between Constantinople, Trebizond and Tabriz, collecting Eastern sources on astronomy (Pingree 1985–1986).
In contrast to former research, the influence of the Byzantine learned circles
seems to be relevant for understanding the transfer of ideas and should be investigated more intensively (Mavroudi 2006).
Objects
Besides illustrations of calculations, tables and sketches in manuscripts, material evidence of divination is scarce compared with the ancient period (e. g. the Zodiac and
months from the Tetrabiblos of Ptolemy in a ninth–century Byzantine manuscript,
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165
Fig. 9: A Byzantine Astrolabe, dated to 1062 (Brescia, Museo della Città, Inv. No. 36). Photo credits:
Photographic archive Musei di Brescia-Fotostudio Rapuzzi.
now Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Vat. gr. 1292, fol.9). A rare example of an astrolabe
bearing a Greek inscription is held in Brescia. It can be dated to 1062 and belonged to
the official Sergios “of the race of the Persians.”
The usage of that tool has been described by John Philoponus, John Kamateros
(twelfth century) and many scholars from the Late Byzantine period (Theodore Meliteniotes, Gregory Chioniades).
Sundials must be mentioned as astronomical instruments as well. A telling
example (sixth century) is held at the Science Museum in London. The portable metal
object comprises two practically independent components: a sundial that can be used
at any latitude and a calendrical instrument showing the phase of the moon, the day,
and the positions of the sun and moon in the zodiac (Field 1990). The model is probably mentioned by Vitruvius.
Techniques of prognostication are depicted in a few manuscripts (↗ Grünbart,
Lekanomanteia Eastern Christian World).
In an illuminated manuscript containing works by Gregory of Nazianzus, the
virgin Justine is shown being protected by Christ as she is about to be seduced by the
magician Kyprianos, who is depicted as a pagan philosopher surrounded by a globe
and a bowl of water in front of him. Two small golden figures stand in the water (possibly a reflection of lekanomanteia) (Paris. gr. 510, fol. 332v).
Magical objects did not serve to predict future events, they protected against the
evil eye or provided aid for the hystera (“womb”) (Spier 1993).
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Introductory Surveys
Configurations of Prognostication
(see also ↗ Grünbart, Mantic Arts Eastern Christian World)
Lots
The throwing of lots for prognosis is not mentioned in Byzantine sources, but simply
serves to find the right person to guide a monastery of the ecclesiastical hierarchy (the
election of an abbot or patriarch) or determine the pole position for a team in the hippodrome (still in use in the tenth century) (see Courcelle 1957, 1248; Grünbart 2018).
However, the so-called ticket-oracle is attested several times. A question is written on
a piece of papyrus, pergament or paper, including a positive and a negative answer/
version. An expert or priest takes one sheet, influenced by a supernatural power.
Physical evidence of that practice provides a papyrus (Youtie 1975; dated to the sixth
century), and Anna Komnene (twelfth century) mentions a similar technique in her
Alexiad: The emperor Alexios asks whether he should campaign against the Cumans
or not. Sheets of paper (?) listing two options respectively were deposited on an altar.
After a night full of prayers a priest took one piece the next morning and read the
answer that was guided by God (↗ Grünbart, Mantic Arts Eastern Christian World).
Geomancy and Lekanomanteia
Geomancy was a method of divination that provides solutions through the interpretation of markings on the ground. A series of 16 figures (that is the dominant pattern)
is interpreted, which are formed by a randomized procedure. Geomancy is often combined with astrological observations (the signs produced in sand correlate with celestial objects) (↗ Grünbart, Mantic Arts Eastern Christian World).
Lekanomanteia, using bowls of water or dish-divining is an Etruscan form of divination (↗ Engels and Nice, Divination in Antiquity), but also attested in the Old Testament (Gen. 44:5). In the Byzantine period, such practices were still known and even
depicted (↗ Grünbart, Lekanomanteia Eastern Christian World).
Signs and Prodigies
Although the antique pagan techniques of prognostication vanished or were forbidden, signs and remarkable phenomena continued to be recorded. They still influenced
future actions and supported decision-making. In Byzantine written sources, observations of signs and prodigies appear in various contexts influencing actions and
decisions. In contrast to ancient times (Engels 2007; Trampedach 2015), the subject
of signs and their political dimension have not been systematically investigated for
Michael Grünbart
167
the Greek Middle Ages. Signs and prodigies occupied a special place in the perception
of the world through the Holy Scriptures. Terrestrial and stellar events need explanations and coping strategies, because they were seen as emanations of the supernatural
power or God’s will. Particularly at the imperial court, signs were noted and elucidated; observations have often been interpreted by experts. In contrast to the ancient
world, however, there is no longer any active questioning of certain media (e. g.
watching birds’ flight, reading the liver). However, according to the sources, some
techniques were still reflected and a small group of them were rarely practiced (↗
Grünbart, Lekanomanteia Eastern Christian World). A few examples should illustrate
the importance of animal signs: the eagle, for example, is a meaningful indicator of
power. When Marcian was captured by the Vandal king, Genseric (441), he was shaded
by an eagle in contrast to the other soldiers who suffered due to the sunshine beating
down. The Vandal king interpreted this as a sign of his future imperial office so treated
him well and made a non-aggression pact. This story lives on and re-appears in the
story of Basileios I (867–886). While his parents were working in the fields, young
Basileios was always protected from the sun by an eagle, which portent was seen as a
positive sign (Moravcsik 1961). Two eagles appeared after the Bulgarian ruler Simeon
and Romanos I had met and parted again (923), which was interpreted as a bad omen,
since the two birds had flown away from each other in opposite directions. Animals
from the sea were often negative omens, and King Theoderic died after being served
an evil-looking fish. The rare sight of a large fish (whale) stranded at Constantinople
was interpreted by the historiographer Procopius as an apocalyptical sign referring to
Justinian’s rulership (Signes 2005).
Such signs and miracles refer to the immediate future and can influence action
on the one hand and legitimize processes or place them in a teleological context on
the other.
The Social and Historical Context
The fourth century saw increasing offences against pagan centers of prognostication.
Constans II enacted a law against fortune-telling. An edict was promulgated that
forbade curiosity concerning future events (Codex Theodosianus 9, 16, 4). However,
the impact of that edict is unknown, since many oracles continued to operate, particularly supported by Emperor Julian (361–363). At Didyma, in Western Asia Minor, he
became the highest prophet (Julian, Letters 88, p. 451bc). Many pagan centers closed
during the reign of Theodosius I (379–395), and the laws were strictly executed at
that time. However, only a few records refer to damage to temples, etc. In Rome, the
Sibylline books, a collection of political oracles, were burnt by the magister militum
Stilicho (after 400), and only a few fragments are known to us (but see Sibylline
Oracles above). […] It seems that various techniques of prognostication were present
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at the imperial court or in imperial context through the whole Byzantine Millennium.
During the sixth and seventh centuries, there was a shift in responsibility and jurisdiction; those accused of engaging in astrology, mantic and magical practices were
tried before the ecclesiastical courts (Stolte 2002). Henceforth, the punishment for
magical offences became more prominent in canon law. The orthodox church opposed
astrology although the Bible is full of prophets interpreting celestial phenomena. The
concept of human fate being influenced by the position of a star stands against free
will and replaces (divine) Providence by necessity (↗ Grünbart, Treatises for Predicting hora mortis).
Prognostication and fortune-telling served as tools for decision-making at the
ruling courts since Classical Antiquity (Potter 1990). Knowledge of the future could
jeopardize the authority of rulers; predictions of approaching misfortune or even the
death of the emperor influenced public opinion and could encourage a coup. The
process of monopolization and control of the techniques concerning prognostication during Late Antiquity has been thoroughly investigated (Fögen 1994). Byzantine
emperors continued to contain possible criticism of them and therefore took very
restrictive action against opinions that were directed against their rulership (on “Kaiserkritik” see Tinnefeld 1973, p. 48, 77, 169; Magdalino 1982).
However, prognosticators, fortune-tellers and experts in various sciences were
present at court. They often belonged to the inner circle of advisors. Therefore, they
could influence or even mislead the process or imperial decision-making. On the other
hand, holy men and women were consulted as well. The stylite Saint Daniel came
to Constantinople, where he erected his pillar. Due to his spiritual authority, he was
visited by Emperors Leo I and Zeno, whom he advised.
Reading the sources, it becomes clear that most emperors were interested in prognosis, but they dealt with it in different ways. The spectrum ranges from the rejection of
to intensive involvement with, for example, astrology. Extraordinary events and signs
were intensively observed and noted, which were interpreted as divine waves or hints
at a certain action. Signs also played a role in the private life of the emperor. A significant example is intended to demonstrate this. Emperor Alexios III (1195–1203) wished
to move from one palace in Constantinople to another.
At the conclusion of these events, the emperor wished to go directly to Blachernai [the imperial
palace in the North-West region of Constantinople], but because the season was unsuitable (for
the emperors up to our times scrutinize the position of the stars before they take a single step),
he remained in the Great Palace through the first week of Lent [11–18 February 1201] against his
wishes. Since the sixth day [17 February] was not unpropitious for a change of residence, especially if he departed in the morning twilight, he decided to arrive at Blachernai in the dark, before
the sun had begun to cast its rays. The trireme rode at anchor of the shore of the palace, and all
the emperor’s kinsmen assembled at this side with lights to sail in company with him. Now God
demonstrated that he is the Lord of seasons and years’ and that he guides the steps of some or
trips them up: the floor before the emperor’s bed collapsed without visible cause and opened
Michael Grünbart
169
into a yawning chasm. Contrary to all expectations, the emperor was delivered from the danger…
What were the emperor’s thoughts about these events, I have no way of knowing. (Nicetas Choniates, Historia, ed. Magoulias, 291).
The emperor first observes the notion of good and bad days, but then opposes these
“rules” by making an idiosyncratic interpretation. He decides to change his place at
night, but almost plunges into misfortune and nearly fulfils the prediction.
In military contexts, prognostication is often mentioned. One of the main questions related to the termination and beginning of a battle. The treatise of Theophilus
of Edessa has been mentioned already, but many examples taken from historiography
underline its significance. Anna Komnene reports an episode concerning her father,
Alexios, who was undecided about launching a campaign against Bohemond in 1107.
He returned after departing from Constantinople, because the usual miracle in the
church of the Theotokos Blachernitissa (situated in the quarter of Blachernae in the
north western corner of Constantinople within the land walls) failed to occur. The
shrouded icon normally unveiled itself during liturgical services on Fridays and was
involved in the processes of decision-making (as Michael Psellos also mentions in an
oration). Alexios and his entourage visited the church to attend liturgy and the icon
was unveiled at the end. That sign was interpreted as a positive hint that the expedition should be resumed (Anna Komnene, Alexiad XII I 2).
Nicetas Choniates sardonically presents an example of a prediction that led to
a military disaster. Emperor Manuel was not only interested in occult sciences but
also actively involved in astrological computations. He compelled his military leader,
Constantine Angelos, to turn back after he had set sail for Sicily, because the tables
of the astronomical sphere had been misread and incorrectly calculated. The historiographer pokes fun at the efficacy of the horoscope that was cast a second time: “So
advantageous was the determination of the exact moment to the success of Roman
affairs that forthwith Constantine Angelos was delivered into the hands of the enemy!”
(Nicetas Choniates, Historia, ed. Magoulias, 56).
It becomes apparent that techniques of prognostication occur more frequently in
contexts of the determination of dates and the right moment for action (kairos). Since
success in military affairs was linked to a good timetable even in premodern times,
it is unsurprising that such events are often mentioned in the narratives of armed
conflicts.
The emperor and members of the imperial family are naturally in the limelight of
public perception, since their well-being or misfortune had a direct influence on the
course of political history and thus on the daily life of the population. In the historiographical narratives, such episodes serve to justify or criticize certain actions and
developments of the ruling class.
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Introductory Surveys
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Avriel Bar-Levav
Prognostication in Medieval Jewish Culture
In this volume, one can find surveys, entries and sources about various aspects of
medieval prognostication in the three Abrahamic religions. The aim of this general
review is to introduce this topic in Jewish culture in general, so the reader might notice
similarities and differences between the concepts and practices of prognostication
within the various cultures. The challenge is considerable, since there remain very
few general scholarly surveys of this topic in Judaism, although there are specific discussions of figures and motifs, as well as excellent surveys of medieval Jewish magic
(Bohak 2015; Harari 2011). The entry on Jewish divination, by Moses Gaster, in the
Hastings Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics from 1911 is superb but focuses on the
Bible and antiquity (Gaster 1911). Moreover, the cultural connections between Jews
and their neighbors – be they Christian or Muslim – at times blurs the line between
the various denominations. This is true for diverse groups in society, those who often
share texts and concepts with their peers, and those who might differ in terms of their
lodging and social organization, but whose magical practices often coincide somewhat with those of their neighbours. Indeed, this is not a claim regarding the identity
of the various groups, but regarding the complication associated with distinguishing
between the inner and outer influences on them. Furthermore: the question of the
periodization of Jewish culture is also complicated (Castaño 2020; Skinner 2003). In
this survey “Jewish prognostication” means prognostication as indicated (mainly) in
Jewish sources, or in sources about Jews.
A note about terminology: “Prognostication” in English is knowing – or aiming
to know or predict – the future. It is neutral regarding the source of knowledge, especially when we compare it to the (older) term, “divination,” which presumes that the
knowledge of the future (and sometimes of the past, in contrast with prognostication,
that is about the future) is divine, and can be conceived through some connection with
the divine. In mediaeval Hebrew, there is no direct equivalent for these terms. The biblical word nevu’ah, literally “prophecy,” is the main term employed for receiving divine
knowledge (↗ Miller, Prophecy Jewish Traditions), not only about the future but also,
for example, about the godhead (Cook 2011). The biblical term ḥover (Isa. 47:13) is used
to mark astrologers (↗ Rodriguez-Arribas, Jewish astral science), while niḥush (in later
periods, literally: “guessing”) marks some prediction of the future, based on special
powers (↗ Bar-On, Jewish mantic arts). Other terms (for example, qesem and qosem)
are also used to refer to specific techniques regarding prediction (Gaster 1911).
Acknowledgement: The author is very grateful to his friends and colleagues who read earlier drafts
of this survey for their most useful comments and suggestions: Avishai Bar-Asher, Shraga Bar-On,
Gideon Bohak, Yuval Harari, Geoffrey Herman, Ruth Glasner, and Gadi Sagiv.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-007
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Knowing the future is a specific case of knowing in general, and knowledge is
power. No wonder this power is treated cautiously, and that frequent attempts are
made to restrict it. Knowledge about the future can be useful for all, either for state
policy, high finance, military challenges, business or just daily survival. Although
the need is common, each stratum of society tends to be interested in different questions, and can have its own techniques for answering these. It is useful to differentiate between two fields of Jewish prognostication: personal and communal, the latter
relating mainly to the end of days or the redemption, with or without a messianic
figure (↗ Latteri, Jewish eschatology). The question of borders is central to prognostication, which itself constitutes the crossing of a border, between the past and the
present. As for the sources, it is useful to differentiate (as in Bohak 2015, 268–269;
Harari 2017, 15*–17*) between “inner” sources – such as manuals of prognostication
for use by experts (cf. Friedlander 1906), and “outer” sources – discussions of magic
and prognostication by non-practitioners (for example Maimonides, Mishne Torah:
The Book of Knowledge, trans. Hyamson, ch. 11; cf. Halbertal 2014, 217–223). Another
useful distinction is between canonical writings, such as the Bible, the Mishna, the
Talmud, the Zohar (↗ Margolin, Physiognomy and Chiromancy) as well as legal works
(↗ Kanarfogel, Prognostication in Jewish Law), and non-canonical practical works
such as Sepher ha-Razim (The Book of the Mysteries, ed. Margalioth) or Shimmush
Tehillim (The Use of the Psalms, ed. Rebiger).
I suggest viewing prognostication according to several aspects:
1. Agents who bring knowledge
2. Knowledge as a commodity
3. Modes of consciousness
4. Reading a map
These perspectives are analytical tools, but do not appear as such in the sources and
are not exclusive; some of them can overlap and operate together. However, they
might help us to think about the topic (for a different, sophisticated typology, cf.
Zuesse 1987).
Background: Biblical Prognostication –
The Biblical Prohibition against Forbidden Emissaries and their
Techniques
As stated, the question of the sources of Jewish prognostication is a complicated
one, leading us to wonder if there is indeed a specific Jewish prognostication. Jewish
thought is delivered mainly through Hebrew, but not solely – important works were
Avriel Bar-Levav
177
written in Jewish languages, especially, during the medieval period, Judeo-Arabic,
and there were lines of translation between Hebrew, Arabic, Latin and other European
languages (Steinschneider 1893).
The first source of Jewish culture is the Hebrew Bible, which was developed
against the background of Mesopotamian cultures, often in an attempt to present an
opposing position, yet one which is rooted also in the stand to which it is opposed.
There are, on occasion, differences in the Bible between the official stand and echoes
of continuing forbidden practices.
In Jewish culture, knowing and learning the divine lore is central. In contrast to
the Mesopotamian religions, in which religious knowledge was restricted to the elite,
in Jewish culture, knowledge is open to all (Idel 1995). However, knowledge of the
future in the Hebrew Bible is restricted to legitimate agents and techniques alone, and
other ways of prognostication are considered foreign and forbidden, as laid down in
Deut. 18:10–22:
(10) Let no one be found among you who sacrifices their son or daughter in the fire, who practices divination or sorcery, interprets omens, engages in witchcraft, (11) or casts spells, or who is
a medium or spiritist or who consults the dead. (12) Anyone who does these things is detestable
to the Lord; because of these same detestable practices the Lord your God will drive out those
nations before you. (13) You must be blameless before the Lord your God.
(14) The nations you will dispossess listen to those who practice sorcery or divination. But as for
you, the Lord your God has not permitted you to do so. (15) The Lord your God will raise up for you
a prophet like me from among you, from your fellow Israelites. You must listen to him. (16) For
this is what you asked of the Lord your God at Horeb on the day of the assembly when you said,
‘Let us not hear the voice of the Lord our God nor see this great fire anymore, or we will die.’ (17)
The Lord said to me: ‘What they say is good. (18) I will raise up for them a prophet like you from
among their fellow Israelites, and I will put my words in his mouth. He will tell them everything I
command him. (19) I myself will call to account anyone who does not listen to my words that the
prophet speaks in my name. (20) But a prophet who presumes to speak in my name anything I
have not commanded, or a prophet who speaks in the name of other gods, is to be put to death’.
(21) You may say to yourselves, ‘How can we know when a message has not been spoken by the
Lord?’ (22) If what a prophet proclaims in the name of the Lord does not take place or come true,
that is a message the Lord has not spoken. That prophet has spoken presumptuously, so do not
be alarmed.
This (among some other Biblical parallels) is a central text for understanding the
complex Jewish attitude toward prognostication – in fact, in this case, divination is
more fitting, because it is clear that the source of the knowledge of the future here
is indeed divine. Several prognostic techniques are forbidden, because God detests
them, and only true prophecy is permitted. Most of these detested practices are performed by women and, elsewhere, the Bible directly declares: “You shall not suffer a
sorceress to live” (Ex. 22:17).
Correct prophecy is the sign of a real connection with the Divine. This is the
beginning of the answer to the question – from where does knowledge of the future
emanate? Here, it is clear that this knowledge stems from God. The prophet is a mes-
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senger who conveys all sorts of information – for example, how to behave and how to
act politically and religiously, but it is the knowledge of the future – or, more exactly,
the proof that the future brings about past prophecies – which provides confirmation
that this messenger is not a false one but a true prophet (↗ Miller, Prophecy Jewish
Traditions). Later, in the rabbinic discussions of these commands and in the medieval
Bible exegesis of these verses, this text will be the place for the enquiry about magic
in general as well as, specifically, prognostication. Prophecy was initially mainly a
Biblical phenomenon, which ceased (with many exceptions) in the time of the Sages
(Urbach 1945), so this path to knowing the future was temporarily closed. In the medieval period, we find figures who are named “prophets,” such as the German-Jewish
Nehemiah ben Shlomo, the prophet of Erfurt (Idel 2005 and Idel 2018), or the Spanish
prophetess Inés (Beinart 1982).
Biblical prognostication was supposed to remain the sphere of the true prophets.
There is a double channeling here: first, of the only permitted profession – prophets – and then of the right kind of prophets, those who were emissaries of the true
God. Prognostication has indeed great cultural capital (as well as, of course, even
greater practical implications). In that sense, a theological competition – such as that
between the God of the Jewish Bible and the surrounding idols, is also a competition
about permitted or true prognostication. One of the implications of prognostication as
a measure of a true prophet is that the source of (true) knowledge is divine.
Another Biblical technique for divination (in this case, receiving divine information) was the Urim and Tumim (Ex. 28; 1 Sam. 14:37, 28:6). These are an instrument
rather than a messenger, although the instrument belongs to the high priest, who is a
kind of messenger himself (↗ Bar-On, Mantic Arts Jewish Traditions, 454–455).
Another aspect of a Biblical effect on prognostication is the idea of the redemption of the world at the end of days, or “the day of the lord,” (for example, Mal. 3:23)
according to some interpretations. Once this idea had been introduced, it initiated
calculations of various kinds, seeking to determine when this would occur (↗ Latteri,
Jewish eschatology).
To sum up, Biblical prognostication is officially permitted through true prophets and also through the priestly Urim and Tumim (although some positive Biblical
figures, such as Joseph, are depicted as possessing prognostic powers). Other methods
of prognostication were considered foreign and so excluded. The common techniques
of divination that were forbidden were occasionally still practiced. An example is the
witch of Endor (1 Sam. 28), whose practice of necromancy was strictly persecuted, as
we have seen, also by King Saul himself. Yet it was he who approached the witch in
order to learn the outcome of the battle in which he was about to engage, during which
he was killed, thus showing that some forbidden prognostic techniques had their own
life and continued, despite being condemned, and demonstrating the complex relations between magic and political power. In the medieval period, the interpretation of
this story was the vehicle for discussions about necromancy (cf. Leicht 2011, 251–264;
↗ Rapisarda, Mantic Arts Western Christian World, 441).
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Agents
Medieval Jews differed from their surrounding neighbors due to several factors: their
rituals, religion and religious sources (in terms of both content and language), and
their political situation. Jews were a minority everywhere they dwelled. They were
spread across the east and west, and lacked a unified religious center, but they did
have a sense of being one people and a connection with other Jews living among other
cultures. This can be seen, for example, by the twelfth-century travelogue of Benjamin
of Tudela, who describes, at the beginning of his work, the various Jewish communities that he visited, regarding them all as belonging to the same Jewish people (Benjamin of Tudela – A Medieval Mediterranean Travelogue, ed. and trans. Benjamin 1995).
As a minority, and often an alienated one, Jews employed prognostication in a
different way to their neighbors. Usually, they had less power and were responsible
for the fate of their communities but not the common land. There were many decisions in which they took no part – political treaties, for example, together with war
declarations and ancestry matters – and therefore they did not need to prognosticate
about such matters. However, some individuals worked as the state leaders’ consultants or officials, which entailed the usage of prognostication tools. The prototype of
the Jew as a consultant to a ruler appears as early as the Hebrew Bible, with Joseph
and Daniel, who are depicted as prognosticators by dream interpretations (Gen. 40;
Dan. 1:17) (↗ Kuyt, Dream Interpretation Jewish Traditions). Perhaps their situation
as outsiders enabled Jews to see a broader picture. Certainly, to act as a consultant, prognostication was a necessary course of action. The Chronicle of Aḥima’az
is a family chronicle from Southern Italy, written by Aḥima’az son of Paltiel in 1054,
which depicts the passage of the author’s family from Babylon to Italy, a story full of
magical acts and supernatural powers. The text contains both legendary and historically-based traditions (Bonfil 2009). Aḥima’az interprets correctly (and generously) a
special appearance of stars, and his success enables him both to acquire an important
place at the court of the Muslim king and to protect his fellow Jews (Bonfil 2009, 314).
The chronicle also depicts many misogynistic concepts regarding women as (mainly
evil) powerful magicians, but these are unconnected to prognostication. It is possible
that the magical capacities attributed to women in medieval Jewish culture were less
connected to prognostication (but not totally disconnected, cf. Harari 2011, 74*).
The connection between prognostication and cultural capital is prevalent not
only in the Hebrew Bible but also in the rabbinic sources. The Mishna (edited about
200 CE), the Talmud (edited about 600 CE) and the Midrash – the main vehicles for
transmitting Jewish law in late antiquity – were influenced by the surrounding Babylonian and Hellenistic cultures. Again, Jewish culture developed out of both the
competition with and the dependence on those cultures. The shift from Biblical to
Rabbinic Judaism should also be explained, as it provides a model for other shifts in
Jewish culture. This shift can be termed “cultural translation.” The first and foremost
meaningful cultural translation was that of Biblical Judaism to post-Biblical or rab-
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binic Judaism, with the literature of the Sages, that was created orally. The Mishna,
Midrash and Talmud maintained a close bond with the Biblical texts, yet they interpenetrated them with striking independence and momentum. On the one hand, the
literature of the Sages relies on the Biblical text but, on the other, it transforms it into
new cultural values. One of its main features – and one wonders about the influence
of this feature on prognostication – is the question and the doubt. The Mishna begins
with a (practical) question about the time of prayer, and offers several potential alternatives. Although only one of them is chosen, still it presents a polyphony of opinion,
and this polyphony became a central element in Jewish culture. Without the Sages,
the Hebrew Bible might have lost its relevance for the Jews, yet they succeeded in
translating and transforming it into a new cultural setting. The status of the old text
was preserved and, at the same time, a necessary new slant was added to it, and so
it continued during the next stages. This was meaningful for prognostication as well.
The Sages lacked central Biblical prognostication techniques, such as the Urim and
Tumin as well as prophecy, and also lost some of the direct knowledge about the old,
forbidden techniques. Yet they had to explain and define the content of the Biblical
prohibitions, and did so by using their knowledge of their own surrounding cultures,
Babylonian, or in Palestine, Hellenistic (Lieberman 1950). Discussions on prognostications were anchored mainly around the Biblical prohibitions against the foreign
ways, and were also connected to relevant practical legal discussions.
The literature of the Sages, which was created and first kept orally, was written
down during the period of the Geonim (from the seventh to eleventh centuries). This
was also the period of the usage of Judeo-Arabic by the Jews. The Jews were flexible about their languages, and did not stick to Hebrew alone. The Bible contains
Aramaic (in the books of Daniel and Ezra), and this phenomenon was broadened in
the Talmud. During the period of the Geonim, Judeo-Arabic was added and, later,
in Europe, Judeo-German, Judeo-Spanish, and more. During the Gaonic period, not
only was the literature of the Sages written, but also new literary genres were formed.
Saadia Gaon was one of the main pioneers, and the Karaite challenge was a central
Catalysis in this process (Drory 2000; Polliack 2005) (↗ Lasker, Karaite Objections).
Rav Hai Gaon (939–1038), the last of the Babylonian Geonim, wrote many responsa to
questions from the eastern Jewish world. One of them constitutes a thorough discussion of magic, including prognostication, about which Rav Hai is relatively skeptical
(Emanuel 2018, 124–146, especially 136–138; Bohak 2015, 271–272).
The next stages of translation were Jewish medieval philosophy, Jewish mysticism (Kabbalah), the literature of Jewish law (halakha: “legal texts”), Jewish ethical
literature and the German-Jewish Pietists in the twelfth century. All of these had views
regarding prognostication, especially the Zohar, the central work of Jewish mysticism
that appeared in Spain in the thirteenth century (↗ Margolin, Physiognomy and Chiromancy in the Zohar). Cultural translations had implications also for the ideas concerning prognostication. The old texts regarding the topic were preserved and newly-interpreted, and new ideas, stemming from Greek, Latin, and Muslim science, were
Avriel Bar-Levav
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introduced, such as the power of the stars (Sirat 1985; Leicht 2006; ↗ Rodríguez-Arribas, Astral Sciences Jewish Traditions). The Biblical verses as well as the sayings of
the Sages had to be explained in new ways, conveying the new ideas and concepts.
Theosophic Kabbalists in Girona and Castile were interested in prognostication (BarAsher 2012).
Returning to the question of emissaries, they could also be children; for example,
in a German-Jewish ritual of summing up the masters of oil or the masters of fingernails (Trachtenberg 2004, 219; Dan, 1963; Bilu 1981). In this ritual, the practitioner
(or his young male messenger) is caused – by chants or other magical means – to
see visions in liquid or shining elements, such as oil in a bowl, or the fingernails,
especially the thumb, which is wider. Those visions are interpreted according to the
relevant question (↗ Bar-On, Mantic Arts Jewish Traditions, 455–456).
Knowledge as a Commodity
The following passage is from a late Midrash, the medieval Pesiqta Rabbati. It describes
the journey of Moses to the sky on his way to receive the Torah. Moses is, of course, a
messenger, but we can see here also the concept of knowledge – including that of the
future – as a protected commodity.
As [Moses] walked by, he was confronted by the Rigyon, the river of fire, the burning coals which
burn and burn human beings. But the Holy one took Moses and led him past it. [Then] Gallitsur
confronted [Moses] about whom it is written: Is it not from the mouth of Most High that good and
bad come? (Lamentations 3:38). [Gallitsur] is the revealer of the Rock [megaleh tsur] (disclosing
the sealed reasons for God’s ways]. His wing spread out to absorb the (fiery) breath of the creatures [of the chariot]; if he had not absorbed it, the ministering angels would be burnt by the
breath of the creatures. He is also another angel, his name is Gallitsur, he stands and proclaims:
this year, [wheat] will do well, and wine will be cheap. And still another angel takes iron shovels
filled with burning coals from the Rigyon, and holds them up against kings and rulers, so that
fear will strike the world. The Holy one took Moses and led him past [Gallitsur]. (Pesiqta Rabbati,
ed. Ulmer 2017, 585)
The angel Gallitsur is responsible, according to this understanding of the text, both
for hiding secrets and for proclaiming the future. Agricultural knowledge is, of course,
crucial not only for pre-industrial society, and here we see the connection between
agriculture and the economy – knowing in advance what products will be profitable
is invaluable. The decision is made in the heavens, and the knowledge of it is concealed from humans. However, it can be heard: in a story in the Babylonian Talmud
(Berakhot 18b), a poor pietist, who escapes from his wife and sleeps in the cemetery on
New Year’s eve, overhears a conversation between the souls of the dead, concerning
profitable crops of the coming year, as determined in heaven. He uses this information to improve his financial situation, and returns to the cemetery the following year
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(Bar-Levav 2002, 28). Such knowledge is transferred orally, and can be overheard.
Later, this was used to explain the ability to interpret birds as omens: since they fly in
the sky, they can hear celestial gossip and so reveal it (Trachtenberg 2004, 211) (↗ BarAsher, Ornithomancy).
The angel Gallitsur is protecting the borders of the divine realm, while the flying
birds bring news from it. Prognostic knowledge can be especially revealed at the
borders of time – for example, the beginning of the day, week or year, in border areas,
such as cemeteries (the border between the living and the dead), and in borderline
conscious situations, like dreams or ecstasy.
According to the aspect of commodity, knowledge exists in a certain (divine)
place, and can be transferred – usually by hearing, but sometimes by other means,
such as via a note from heaven (for example, Babylonian Talmud, Bava Metiza 86a).
Hearing is not necessarily overhearing – bat qol, a divine voice, can also be heard,
according to the Sages, and reveal information (Kuhn 1989). The commodity is concealed, and acquiring it is usually connected with some kind of opening – of a cover,
curtain, and so on. At times, in order to raise the barrier and reveal the divine secrets,
one must perform a ritual of purification.
Modes of Consciousness
According to Abraham Abulafia’s system, prophetic kabbalah, the kabbalist could use
techniques in order to enter a state of ecstasy or, to use the internal term, “prophecy.”
These techniques included, for example, intensive meditation on calculations and
combinations of letters from the Torah or other Jewish texts (Scholem 1941), which
brought the practitioner to an altered state of consciousness, in which he experienced
visions and gained knowledge, including about the future. This altered state is compared in the text to a divine source of light, a temple lamp.
Ecstasy is an example of a state of consciousness that differs from the normal one,
during which one can acquire knowledge. Ecstasy can be obtained through breathing
techniques, bodily postures (especially ones based on lowering the head), concentration or meditation on texts (either remembered or read), or a combination of all of
these. Similarly, an altered state of consciousness can be gained while asleep, through
experiencing either a manipulated dream (“dream question”) or a regular one (Bazak
1972; Bellusci 2016). For the manipulated dream, a pre-sleep ritual is performed,
sometimes involving chants, bodily postures, seclusion, or writing down the question
to which one seeks an answer (↗ Kuyt, Dream Interpretation Jewish Traditions). This
idea is presented in a totally negative way by Maimonides, who argues that the claims
for prognostication are merely a fantasy of the imagination (Bar-On 2020, 153–156).
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Reading the Map
According to the aspect of the map, knowledge is grounded in the world, or in certain
aspects or parts of it. One needs to understand the map, or have a key to it, in order to
obtain the knowledge. The two main maps are the Torah and astrology. The Scriptures
are considered not only the blueprint for the world, according to which God created
it, but also a divine presence, especially the Divine names, that contains all of the
secrets of the world, and therefore can serve as a source of knowledge for those who
know how to read them, including knowledge of the future (Wolfson 2001). According
to certain traditions, all of the scriptures are divine names (Scholem 1965; Idel 2011b;
Schäfer 1997). These concepts are the basis for Jewish bibliomancy (Bar-On 2020, 183–
199; ↗ Bar-On, Mantic Arts Jewish Traditions, 460–461).
This knowledge can be derived in a variety of ways; for example, by symbolic
reading, by understanding the relations between certain words of the Torah, by counting words or the numerical value of letters (gematria) or verses (↗ Idel, Gematria and
Prognostication), by dreaming about verses, by asking children to recite verses that
they use arbitrarily (Lieberman 1950), by entering ecstatic states in relation to the
texts, and so on. As the Spanish ecstatic kabbalist Abraham Abulafia wrote in 1280,
“The entire world is within the Torah, and we are all of us in the Torah, and from
within it we see and from it we do not stray” (Abraham Abulafia, Sefer Sitrei Torah,
trans. Idel 2011b, v). Since everything is in the Torah, it can be used as a source of
light, mirror and source of knowledge, as we can see in the following text, also by
Abraham Abulafia:
The Torah shows to us today everything depicted in front of us, supernal and lower things, everything is known in accordance with it when you will be willing to follow it in accordance with the
divine, prophetic intention, and fathom it in an appropriate manner, as it is said: ‘Turn it and
turn it, because everything is in it, she is entirely within you, and you are entirely within it, and
by it we see, and from it you should not stray’ (Mishnah Avot 5:22). And insofar as our matter
dealing with esoteric issues is concerned we should compare the Torah to the menorah and its
lamps, because the lamps are the very Torah because it illumines every spirit from six extremities, and the four directions of the world, and it is the median between all [things] in gematria[—]
and according to the subject matter. Without Kabbalah, what are we, and what would our life be!
This is why it is said: ‘Blessed be He who precedes the [creation of a] medicine to the malady’
(Babylonian Talmud, Megilah 13A) […]. He left us a remnant related to the Torah and the language. This is the reason it is incumbent to inquire into the understanding of the Torah in a
manner that man will know himself within it, like someone who contemplates a mirror in order
to see his face and himself and the other within it, and from there he who looks into it will ascend
to the contemplation of God, blessed be He, and referring to this speculative principle they said
(Num. 8:2): ‘When you make the lamps ascend in front of the menorah, all the seven lamps will
light up’ (Abraham Abulafia, Mafteah ha-Sefirot (164b–165a), trans. Idel 2011b, 446).
Since everything is in the Torah, it provides the potential to know everything. This
knowledge is not immediate but should be inferred.
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Stars
The second central aspect of the map of medieval prognostication was the stars, as
interpreted by astral science (↗ Rodríguez-Arribas, Astral Sciences Jewish Traditions).
The main prevailing concept was that of talismanic magic; that is, attempts to draw
down a heavenly flux in order to benefit the world, by means of amulets or talismans.
Therefore, it was concerned not only with inspecting the stars but also with manipulating the powers that they evoked (Leicht 2006; Schwartz 2004). Saturn was considered particularly connected with the Jews (Idel 2011a). In the following text, this
relationship is explained:
[Saturn is] supreme and noble, higher than all the other planets, which is the reason that the
ancient sages said about it that it generated all the other planets […]. And they say that Saturn
is the true judge and the planet of Moses, peace be with him. The angel of Saturn is Michael, the
great minister, so called because of his great power in divine matters, and he is the ministering
angel of Israel. And the astrologers who described Saturn say that it endows man with profound
thought, law, and the spiritual sciences, prophecy, sorcery, and prognostication and the sabbaticals and jubilees. The Jewish people and the Hebrew language and the Temple are under its
jurisdiction. Saturn’s major conjunction with Jupiter in the dominion of Pisces occurred to assist
the nation and the Torah and its prophets. This planet endows the people with perfection in sciences and divine matters such as Torah and its commandments, out of its sublimity, because it is
spiritual […]. It is concerned only with thought, understanding, and design, esoteric knowledge
and divine worship and His Torah, and the Sabbath day is in its sway […] and if they will keep its
spiritual rules and laws, it will impart a spiritual influx abundantly. But if they will not keep the
way of God, it will spit out everything which is bad: prophecy will occur to the fools and babies
in an insufficient manner, and to women and melancholiacs and those possessed by an evil
spirit, and maleficent demons that obliterate the limbs and bad counsels and sorceries and anxieties and erroneous beliefs (Alemanno, untitled, MS Paris BN 849:94b–95a, trans. Idel 2011b,
149–150).
The connection between the stars and the angels forms part of the explanation of the
power of the stars in the framework of the traditional metaphysics. Saturn has a strong
influence on the wisdom of the Jews, but materially it can have a positive influence
only if the Jews abide by the spiritual laws of God. The power of ruhaniyat, spiritual
forces, was the explanation of both the influence of the stars as well as the ability to
influence them and draw heavenly flux from them (Pines 1988). The proper behavior
of the nation will result in good, respected prophets, whereas improper conduct will
result in inappropriate emissaries, such as fools, children, women, and melancholic,
unbalanced people. Alemanno points also to the possibility of manipulating the future
by way of proper behavior (and according to the Biblical warnings; for example, Deut.
30). Knowing the future indeed also provides the possibility of manipulating it, as can
be seen in the Biblical story of Jonah in Nineveh: once the people of the city heard of
their future punishment, they repented and saved themselves.
Apart from the two large maps – the scripture and the stars – other elements can
also function as maps, or parts of maps: animals – interpreting their behavior (↗ Bar-
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Asher, Ornithomancy in Jewish Literature), or their physical appearance (overall or
of their inner parts); natural phenomena – such as rain, heat, thunder, and so on
(↗ Schwartz, Weather Forecasting Jewish Traditions); dreams; human bodily appearance – interpreting the movements or physical features of the people whom one meets
(↗ Dubrau, Physiognomy among Jews; ↗ Margolin, Physiognomy and Chiromancy in
the Zohar); and so on. Interpreting their signs correctly enables an understanding of
the future.
National Prognostication – the Coming of the
Messiah
The notion of a Messiah or redeemer appears in the three Abrahamic religions.
However, for the Jews, the world is yet to be redeemed (Scholem 1971). There are two
main approaches to the role of human beings regarding the time of redemption and
the Messiah (↗ Latteri, Eschatology Jewish Traditions). According to the first, this
time is fixed and set as part of a divine plan, and there is nothing that individuals
can do in order to facilitate the end; they can only calculate when this end will occur,
although this is not recommended. According to a different approach, redemption will
occur when certain conditions are met, and therefore one who wishes to be redeemed
should try to influence the world, and bring about these conditions (Bar-Levav 2006).
The Jewish messianic idea was diverse. It ranged between the apocalyptic, the natural
(for example Maimonides, Mishne Torah, Laws of Kings, trans. Hyamson 1974, 417) and
the personal (as with Abulafia; Idel 2011c).
Abraham Abulafia was interested in prognosticating his own idea of redemption,
one that was completely personal and not national. He was expecting redemption in
1281, 40 years after the new millennium, according to the Jewish calendar. Apparently,
in this context, he also tried to meet Pope Nicholas III in Rome, a dangerous encounter
for Abulafia, since the Pope refused to see him and gave instructions for his execution
if he arrived despite this rejection. The meeting was canceled following the sudden
death of the Pope (Idel 1982/1983).
The Sages regarded it as fitting that one does not know the time of one’s death,
because they thought that this might cause depression and apathy (Midrash Tanhuma,
ed. Salomon Buber 1885, Kedoshim, 8). Similarly, the Sages implore: “Blasted be the
bones of those who calculate the end. For they would say, since the predetermined
time has arrived, and yet he has not come, he will never come” (BT Sanhedrin 97b).
Nonetheless, such speculations were almost endless (Silver 1927). Silver divides the
messianic speculations into five major techniques: relying on the book of Daniel,
relying on other Biblical texts, comparison with other exiles, making numerical calculations (↗ Idel, Gematria and Prognostication), and astrology (Silver 1927, 243–259).
To these we might add prophets, who are mentioned throughout his book but were
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not categorized as such, probably because they usually used one of the techniques.
Apart from the prophet who is an emissary, it seems that most speculations belong to
the aspect of the map.
Conclusion
Medieval Jewish prognostication is varied, and relies on both Jewish as well as
non-Jewish sources. The special political and social situation of the Jews as a religious
and cultural minority, both in Christian and Muslim lands, along with their common
role as mediators and translators, combined at times with the instability of their communities, affected their usage of prognostication. The centrality of the text in Jewish
culture left its mark also on their prognostication techniques and, at the same time,
they shared many common features with their neighbors. This is also because of the
nature of magic, which tends to be regional rather than national. However, the categories suggested above, although not exclusive, might serve as means for organizing
this diverse material.
Selected Bibliography
Abraham Abulafia. Mafteah ha-Sefirot, Ms. Milan-Ambrosiana 53.
Bar-Asher, Avishai. “Samael and His Female Counterpart: R. Moses de León’s Lost Commentary on
Ecclesiastes.” Tarbiẕ 80 (2012): 539–566 [Hebrew].
Bar-Levav, Avriel. “We Are Where We Are Not: The Cemetery in Jewish Culture.” Jewish Studies 41
(2002): 15–46.
Bar-Levav, Avriel. “Cercles messianiques: les mouvements messianiques des Juifs d’Orient.” Le
monde sépharade. Ed. Shmuel Trigano. Paris, 2006. 171–190.
Bar-On, Shraga. Lot Casting, God, and Man in Jewish Literature: From the Bible to the Renaissance.
Ramat Gan, 2020 [Hebrew].
Bazak, Jacob. Judaism and Psychical Phenomena: A Study of Extrasensory Perception in Biblical,
Talmudic and Rabbinical Literature in the Light of Contemporary Parapsychological Research.
Trans. Simon M. Lehrman. New York, 1972.
Beinart, Haim. “The Prophetess Inés and her Movement in Puebla de Alcocer and Talarrubias.” Tarbiz
51 (1982): 633–658 [Hebrew].
Bellusci, Alessia. The History of the Sheʾelat Ḥalom in the Middle East from the Medieval Era Back to
Late Antiquity. Ph.D. Dissertation, Tel Aviv University. Tel Aviv, 2016.
Benjamin, Sandra (ed. and trans.). The World of Benjamin of Tudela: A Medieval Mediterranean
Travelogue. Madison, 1995.
Bilu, Yoram. “Pondering ‘The Princes of the Oil’: New Light on an Old Phenomenon.” Journal of
Anthropological Research 37.3 (1981): 269–278.
Bohak, Gideon. “Catching a Thief: The Jewish Trials of a Christian Ordeal.” Jewish Studies Quarterly
13 (2006): 344–362.
Bohak, Gideon. Ancient Jewish Magic: A History. Cambridge, 2008.
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Petra G. Schmidl
Medieval Traditions of Prognostication in the
Islamic World
According to verse 34 of the late Meccan sūra 31, only God knows the five hidden
things (al-mughayyabāt al-khams); i. e., the hour of the Last Judgement, when rain will
come, what is in a woman’s womb, what a soul will gain tomorrow and where it will
die. Interpreting this verse literally, prognostication in Islamic societies would have
remained a very limited topic. All these divine secrets, however, are subjects of prognostic practices, as the rich heritage of prognostic texts and artefacts in the Islamic
world demonstrates.
Terminology and Definitions
Since the rise of Islam, starting with Muḥammad’s prophecies until more recent
times, prognostic practices are widespread in everyday life in Islamic societies and
widely attested by treatises, artefacts and performances. The attitude toward them –
particularly toward mantic practices and astrology –, however, changes vastly from
place to place, from time to time, between different social and religious settings, in
particular the Sunnī and Shīʻī body of thought, scholarly levels and even between
single scholars. The related methods, procedures, practices, and manifestations
that induce or aim toward learning more about the future or the arcane, change only
gradually. Rather frequently resurfacing commonalities shine through. These seek
always to discern the hidden, be it hidden in present space or in future and past time,
when prognostication unveils what has not yet come into being or explains what has
happened.
Terminology
Modern written Arabic knows mainly two roots that are related to prognostic practices,
k-h-n and n-b-w. Although their meanings partially overlap, the former, k-h-n, refers
to divination – kihāna denotes “divination” in general, kāhin the “diviner, soothsayer,
prognosticator, fortune-teller,” but also the “priest,” the person in charge of the cult.
Acknowledgements: The author likes to thank the staff of the IKGF and all colleagues who helped
in improving this paper, in particular Charles Burnett, Glen Cooper, Delia Cortese, Matthias Heiduk,
Klaus Herbers, Hans Christian Lehner, Barbara Löhden, Ulrich Rebstock, Josefina Rodriguez-Arribas
and Daniel Varisco.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-008
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The latter, n-b-w, points rather to prophecy – the Prophet; i. e., Muḥammad, is called
al-nabī. Both terms are also mentioned in the Qurʼān, kāhin twice in two related early
Meccan sūrāt and in a pejorative sense denoting a “soothsayer, diviner” (lii,29 and
lxix,42); nabī appears far more frequently indicating a “prophet” of the Old or the New
Testament, e. g., Noah (Nūḥ) or John (Yaḥyā).
Further related to this semantic field are three roots, kh-m-n, sh-kh-ṣ, and ʻ-r-f. In
general, the first, kh-m-n, comprises rather a numerical component and an element
of guesswork –takhmīn implies “appraisal, estimation,” the feminine, takhmīna, also
“prediction.” The second, sh-kh-ṣ, is rather connected to medical diagnosis and prognosis – shakhkhaṣa marḍan means “to diagnose a disease.” The third, ʻ-r-f, implies in
its basic forms ʻarafa “to know,” maʻrifa “knowledge” and maʻrūf “well-known” and
denotes in the form ʻirāfa “knowledge of the unseen, the hidden” and therefore ʻarrāf
“fortune-telling, divination,”, the person who performs it. For ʻ-r-f, k-h-n and n-b-w,
pre-modern Arab lexicographers mention similar meanings. They describe by kāhin
and ʻarrāf in general the “diviner,” although without a complete overlap of meaning.
These, at times, denote even the same person, although the latter probably describes
a person of lower rank than the former. While ʻarrāf appears to be limited to divination
and mantic practices, kāhin narrows from pre-Islamic to Islamic times from a person
who guards the sanctuary, transmits the oracle, offers sacrifices and interprets signs
by divination to only the last-mentioned aspect. Further, for “diviner,” several terms
related to specific prognostic and mantic practices are used, probably as pars pro toto,
e. g., munajjim (lit. “astrologer”) or ṭabīb (lit. “physician, doctor”). Apparently shāʻir
(lit. “poet”), albeit rarely, was also used in this sense, since the poet’s utterances rest
on the same source of inspiration; namely, the jinn. Most of these terms find their way
into Ottoman and Persian languages.
In this context, also important is the term kashf, “removing, unveiling.” It
denotes in its technical sense, mainly in Ṣūfī and Shīʻī theological writings, the lifting
and tearing away of the veil between humankind and the arcane (al-ghayb); those
things usually beyond their grasp, the knowledge that only God possesses. In the
sixth prefatory discussion of his Muqaddima li-Kitāb al-ʻIbar, the introduction to his
universal history, situated to the end of the period considered here and which was,
particularly in modern times, recognized as an important source of historical, political and sociological observations and developments, Ibn Khaldūn (d. 1406) specifies three ways of doing so. The first is open to all humans; knowledge is gained,
e. g., while sleeping or through sainthood. The second is restricted to certain persons
who sought knowledge by acquisition and technique; as an example, Ibn Khaldūn
mentions soothsaying and amplifies that this knowledge is not only obtained by
devilish and demonic insinuation and, therefore, always remains imperfect, but
also from the soothsayers’ own soul. The third way can be achieved by mystical and
meditative exercises; e. g., the ritual invocation of God (dhikr Allāh) performed by the
Ṣūfīs.
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191
Finally, a discourse, prevalent particularly among Shīʻī and Ṣūfī thought as well
as in some philosophical groups, is also related, the contrastive pair of esoteric,
inner, hidden and exoteric, outward, apparent sense or knowledge (al-ẓāhir wa-lbāṭin). This was particularly applied to the Qurʼān and other sacred texts undergoing
several extensions; e. g., in Ismāʻīlī thinking, when the lower world (al-ʻālam al-suflī)
is considered an outward manifestation of a hidden higher world (al-ʻālam al-ʻulwī)
for which access needs a tool that is, however, due to the fall of Adam and all men, no
longer accessible to anyone, but in need of intermediaries, particularly the prophets,
but also the Shīʻī imāms.
Definitions
This terminology reflects that Islamic societies of pre-modern times knew different
kinds of prognostication. Understood as all methods, procedures, practices and manifestations that induce or aim at learning more about the future or the arcane, this
knowledge can be gained by prophecies, eschatological or apocalyptical scenarios,
dreams and their interpretation, different mantic practices and procedures including,
first of all, astrology and astronomy, including the determination of time and use of
calendars, forecasting weather and medical diagnosis and prognosis.
Pre-modern written sources dealing with prognostication can be organized, in general,
into two main groups. The first covers instructive treatises that describe step-by-step
prognostic practices and explain how to perform them. Usually, these manuals and
handbooks fail to reflect on their topic, simply aiming instead to offer technical
instructions on ways to observe or generate and calculate the signs to be interpreted
and which lead to a prognostication. Often, these instructions are written in protasis and apodosis form or provided in the form of lists, tables, and schemes. In some
cases, their prefaces might include a few sentences about the raison d’être and/or the
author’s causa scribendi. Thus, both are rather found in a second group of written
sources that describe prognostic practices observed or evaluate them. Legal texts
discuss their legality, while philosophical treatises classify them and determine their
place between other arts. In historiographical and chronological writings, prognostic
practices help to explain past events, in belles-lettres such as the Arabian Nights, they
are part of everyday life, but none of these texts allow one to perform a prognostic,
mainly mantic practice. They might even mention a specific mantic method that is no
longer practiced, e. g., haruspicy.
A comparable bifurcation is observable regarding artefacts; on the one side, those
constructed and used for prognostic purposes, either exclusively such as geomantic devices or non-exclusively such as astrolabes that can be also used, for instance,
for observation, measurement and calculation (↗ Cooper and Schmidl, Geomantic
Artefacts; ↗ Rodríguez Arribas, Mathematical Instruments). On the other side belong
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artefacts that make use of the pictorial language of prognostic practices, especially
that of astrology, e. g., for decorative or magic purposes.
Difficulties Arising from the Sources and the State of Research
The current stage of research concerning treatises and artefacts related to prognostication in Islamic societies differ according to the practices described and the contents
they present. Those related to religious issues (Günther and Lawson 2017), such as
prophecies and visions (↗ Cortese, Prophecy Islamic World), apocalyptic and eschatological scenarios (↗ Cortese, Eschatology Islamic World), but also those considered
scientific, such as branches of astronomy (↗ Schmidl, Astral Sciences Islamic World)
or of medicine (↗ Cooper, Medical Prognostication Islamic World), appear to attract
more attention, while the mantic arts are rather treated as orphans – except for astrology and geomancy (Savage-Smith and Smith 2004; Melvin-Koushki 2018). Editions
and translations remain a desideratum, especially of instructive texts. The greater
amount is investigated only in parts and/or in outlines (Fahd 1966; Sezgin 1970 and
1979; Ullmann 1970 and 1972; Savage-Smith 2004), partly due to the tendencies and
fashions of modern research that led in the past to a selective, not to say eclectic,
choice of topics and texts deemed worthy of further research.
However, the situation is slowly improving. New research on the occult sciences
also informs on prognostic practices such as arithmancy and geomancy (El-Bizri
and Orthmann 2018; Gardiner and Melvin-Koushki 2017). Concerning what is done
on eschatology (Lange 2016) and magic (Günther and Pielow 2018), there also exist
points of contact. The overall situation, however, still resembles the description of
the pre- and early modern sciences in Islamic societies, that “is, for the most part,
episodic […]” due to “the lack of study, let alone editions, of the thousands of manuscripts dealing with scientific subjects that remain unexamined […]” (Ragep and
Ragep 2008, 15). In many cases, this situation prevents from obtaining an overall
picture and tracing historical developments of single prognostic practices.
Techniques and Manifestations
Historical Outline Concerning the Traditions of Prognostication
Knowledge of prognostic practices in Islamic societies relies, by one means or
another, on those traditions that were recorded and practiced in the regions falling
under Muslim rule especially in the first three centuries after Muḥammad’s death.
Commencing at the Arabian Peninsula and conquering a territory stretching from the
Atlantic Ocean to India, from Spain to the Yemen, established contact with many dif-
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ferent traditions aboundingly preserved in the indigenous societies in Ancient and
pre-Islamic Mediterranean, Egyptian, Arabian, Mesopotamian and Indian territories
that might have been based on and intermingled with even older traditions, whether
preserved orally or in written form.
In general, different prognostic traditions have different origins and are based on
different roots. The dividing line runs nearly parallel to those practices using signs
emerging from inspiration and intuition opposed to those emerging from observation
or generation and calculation. The former, prophecies and visions, eschatological and
apocalyptical scenarios, are grounded in the context of the religious movements of
late Antiquity, mainly influenced by the Jewish and Christian, but also the gnostic
traditions.
Regarding the latter, they draw on a mix of practices that coexisted or were
adapted and Islamised. There were what modern research labels folk, or popular, and
scientific, or scholarly, astronomical, astrological and weather forecasting traditions;
e. g., geomantic procedures were augmented by astrological knowledge and bibliomantic practices used the Qurʼān and other books of religious significance.
Translations play a pivotal role concerning the continuation and development
of these prognostic traditions. Before the extension of Muslim rule, Greek texts were
translated into Syriac and Pahlavī, the Middle Persian of the Sasanids, fostered by
the political changes that occurred during Late Antiquity and answering to manifold
needs, though being neither a systematic nor a continuous endeavour. While the
main interest in the translations into Syriac seems to be related to a changing attitude
toward Greek knowledge, from one of refusal to acceptance, those into Pahlavī appear
to be rooted in a religious and imperial ideology that sought to restore lost knowledge
to the Sasanid empire.
Translating Greek but also Syriac texts into Arabic began after the shift in the
political power center from the Arabian Peninsula to Syria in the seventh century,
that constituted a closer vicinity to the Byzantine Empire and Greek culture. In the
beginning, under Umayyad rule, the Byzantine administration remained in force,
so the use of Greek language for official purposes continued; Umayyad coins with
Byzantine remnants remained in circulation, although an increasing Arabisation and
Islamisation are observable. These translations were dictated especially by the everyday need for communication between foreign rulers and their local subjects, and,
therefore, were mostly incidental and mainly consisting of treatises for practical use,
e. g., related to administrative affairs or mercantile topics. Incidentally, the picture is
similar further east for Persia after the Arab conquest, where translations from Pahlavī
to Arabic were produced for comparable reasons.
The major impact came from the ʻAbbāsid translation movement, which lasted
roughly from the eighth to the tenth centuries, a period when manuscripts were
actively sought, either by official delegations or individual scholars, and texts on prognostication were translated – or rendered – mostly into Arabic, while the source language was mainly Greek, but also Syriac and Pahlavī. If Sanskrit texts were translated
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directly into Arabic at all, then most likely astronomical treatises were foremost among
them. Supported by the society’s entire elite, and therefore neither being the venture
of a minority nor based on the patronage of occasionally interested rulers, the ʻAbbāsid translation movement provided a means of contact with the hitherto unknown
scholarly traditions of prognostication, above all astrology and medicine. Several
factors promote or enable this overall patronage that relates, one way or the other, to
the ascent to power of the Sunnī ʻAbbāsids. Besides the general needs for applicable,
practical, helpful and useful knowledge, there was the necessity to legitimize the new,
ʻAbbāsid rule, mainly to manage the divergent political interests. Further, the shift of
the power centre from Syria to Iraq in the eighth century diminished the influence of
Greek orthodoxy and opened up new possibilities. Finally, the re-unification of the
formerly separated territories resulted in a simplified exchange of both material and
non-material goods, such as increased agricultural productivity based on new plants
and farming technologies. Not to be underestimated is the availability of a cheap,
durable writing material, since, in the mid-eighth century, Chinese prisoners of war,
who were brought to Samarqand, introduced the technology of making paper from
linen, flax, or hemp rags.
Besides these rather general observations, two lines link the translation movement
and prognostic practices more concretely. First, astrological history plays a major role
in legitimizing the ʻAbbāsid rule, since, in simple terms, the transition of power and
change of dynasty are written in the stars (↗ Schmidl, Astral Sciences Islamic World,
545–546). Second, the sources report a dream of al-Maʼmūn (d. 833), the seventh of the
ʻAbbāsid Caliphs and son of Hārūn al-Rashīd (d. 809), in which he meets Aristotle and
is allowed to ask a couple of question, that the philosopher answers. Although different versions exist, they all witness the Caliph’s encounter with the Greek scholar and,
therefore, his closeness to the rational sciences, although modern research discusses
controversially the report’s interpretation, the two extremes ranging from promoting
to attacking al-Maʼmūn’s attitude.
Regarding prognostication, some of the most influential translations prepared in
these times include such pivotal texts as the dream manual by Artemidorus (second
century), the astronomical and astrological texts by Ptolemy (second century), the
didactical poem on astrology by Dorotheos (first century), plus the Meteorologika
(Μετεωρολογικά; in the translation of Abū Yaḥyā al-Biṭrīq (with the title al-Athar
al-ʻulwiyya) [“The Higher influences”] by Aristotle (d. 322 BCE) and the medical treatises by Galen (second century) (↗ Cortese, Dream Interpretation Islamic World; ↗
Schmidl, Astral Sciences Islamic World; ↗ Cooper, Medical Prognostication Islamic
World; ↗ Burnett, Weather Forecasting Islamic World). The translated texts, however,
cover only a small proportion of the prognostic practices inherited by Islamic societies. Parallel to the scientific literature, they reflect how influential Greek texts were
in the fields of astronomy, astrology and medicine, but also in dream interpretation,
mantic practices and weather forecasting, while the influence of the Syriac, Persian
and Indian, and even Latin and Chinese, traditions is mainly discernable through con-
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195
cepts that are integrated. Not all prognostic techniques of former times were continued with equal enthusiasm. Haruspicy and oracles no longer played a role in Islamic
times, although some Qurʼanic verses appear to draw on a form of pre-Islamic rhymed
oracular utterances (sājʻ); e. g., sūra 84.
Still in ʻAbbāsid times, a further development loomed; a regionalisation observable in the establishement of the Umayyads in al-Andalus in 756 and centrifugal forces
in North Africa under the successors of al-Manṣūr (d. 775), that led to the de facto independence of these territories from the ʻAbbāsid Caliphate in Baghdad under the rule
of local dynasties. With the rise of the Fāṭimids, being Shīʻīs of the Ismāʻīlī branch, in
distinction to the Sunnī ʻAbbāsids, and the foundation of Cairo in 969 a third center of
power and learning, besides Baghdad and Córdoba, was established. A similar regionalisation can be observed in the East, where the ʻAbbāsid Caliphs lost, step by step,
their political power until only a representative role remained for them, first under
the Būyids, then under the Saljuqs. One might assume a parallel regionalisation of
prognostic practices, observable at least in the emergence of regional astronomical
traditions from the tenth century onward, that rely on different authorities, pursue
different interests and develop different specialities. Writing in Persian about prognostic practices reflects another aspect of this trend; e. g., the Kitāb al-Tafhīm fī ṣināʻat
al-tanjīm (“The Book of instruction into the art of astrology”) by Abū Rayḥān al-Bīrūnī
(b. 973) exists in both an Arabic and a Persian version.
In the thirteenth century, the balance of power in the eastern part of the Islamic
realm changed radically, when the Mongol invasion and conquest of Baghdad in 1258
finally brought the ʻAbbāsid dynasty to an end. In the western part, the situation also
changed fundamentally, when the Mamlūks established themselves in Cairo in 1252
in succession to the Ayyūbids – their first sulṭān, Ṣalāh al-Dīn (lat. Saladin; d. 1193)
played a pivotal role during the crusades – who had superseded the Fāṭimids around
70 years earlier. The prognostic practices continued during these developments,
becoming further elaborated and enriched. With the conquest of Constantinople by
the Ottomans in 1453, the surrender of Granada to the Catholic Kings in 1492, and
the Ṣafawid takeover of Iran and major parts of Iraq, including Baghdad in 1509, two
antagonists enter the scene: the Sunnī Ottomans and the Shīʻī Ṣafawids, both of whom
show a great interest in prognostic practices.
Principles
Macrocosm and Microcosm
What texts and artefacts concerning prognostic practices present, emerges against a
background of the history of thought that was mainly shaped by Islamic theological
and traditional studies and Greek philosophical and rational sciences based on Aristotelian principles and incorporated into a neo-Platonic body of thought. This finding
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becomes, e. g., perceptible in the descriptions of the universe’s structure preserved
in the sources, a basic concept that links signs and their interpretation, especially in
prognostic practices, by means of celestial phenomena (↗ Burnett, Weather Forecasting Islamic World; ↗ Schmidl, Astral Sciences Islamic World; ↗ Varisco, Calendrical
Calculations Islamic World), but also in physiognomy, where the human body is seen
as a microcosm (↗ Cooper, Medical Prognostication Islamic World).
Although the models presented might differ in detail, the earth being of spherical shape as the immobile center of the world is common to all. Uniformly rotating
around the earth in seven circular orbits are the moon, the two lower planets (al-kawākib al-sufliyya), Venus and Mercury, the Sun, and the three upper planets (al-kawākib al-ʻulwiyya), Mars, Jupiter and Saturn, the most distant planet observable to the
naked eye. While the fixed stars occupy the eighth sphere, some authors describe two
additional ones beyond it, the first presenting God’s footstool followed by His throne,
drawing on sūra 2:255, the throne verse (āyat al-kursī): “His throne extends over the
heavens and the earth.” Others place in the sublunar sphere, between the earth and
the moon, further spheres for the three elements: water, air and fire.
The heavenly objects are supposed to be unchanging regarding their substance
and magnitude; the fixed stars also regarding their location. Therefore, all changes
observed in the sky must occur in the sublunar sphere. Consequently, for instance,
shooting stars (shihāb, pl. shuhub), meteors (nayzak, pl. nayāzik), and comets
([kawkab] dhū dhanab or kawkab al-dhanab; lit. “[star] with a tail” and also [kawkab]
dhū dhuʼāba or kawkab al-dhuʼāba; lit. “[star] with a tuft of hair”) are considered
atmospheric phenomena and often regarded as bad omens.
Prognostication as the Interpretation of Signs
A possibile way to tie together all these prognostic methods, procedures, practices and
manifestations reckon, in the broadest sense, prognostication as the interpretation
of signs (often dalīl, pl. dalāʼil, but also ʻalāma, pl. ʻalāmāt and, slightly different in
meaning, āya, pl. āyāt). Be they considered supernatural or natural, immanent in the
emergence of all of these signs is an uninfluenceable, random element, regardless of
whether they emerge from inspiration and intuition or from observation or generation
and calculation.
On the former, inspiration and intuition, rest prophecies, often drawing on
visions, occassionally on auditions, eschatological or apocalyptical scenarios as well
as dreams and their interpretation. For instance, the Qurʼān mentions as signs of the
Day of Resurrection (yawm al-qiyāma) or Day of Judgement (yawm al-dīn; also Day of
Reckoning [yawm al-ḥisāb]), besides others, the blast of the trumpet and the reunion
of souls.
The latter, observation or generation and calculation, are based on different
mantic methods and procedures, including astrology. While observation has to be
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performed exactly and continuously – when spotting convulsions in specific parts
of the human body (ikhtilāj), when observing heliacal risings of stars and groups of
stars (anwāʼ) or when examining urine – generation and calculation rely on elaborate, complicated mechanical and numerical methods and procedures; e. g., drawing
a geomantic tableau or casting a horoscope. Signs and prognostication are associated with presuppositions and assumptions, be these associations perceptible and
comprehensible or not, established by causality, probability, analogy, simultaneity,
sympathy, antipathy, contingency, or other factors. While, for example, Abū Maʻshar
(787–886) compares in the first part, chapter three, of his opus magnum al-Mudkhal
al-kabīr ilā ʻilm aḥkām al-nujūm (“The great introduction to astrology”) – a treatise
of major impact, in Arabic and in its Greek and Latin translations – the influence
of the celestial on the terrestrial bodies to that of a magnet on iron, the search for
underground water resources probably provides an example of a practice that relies
on signs that might be linked either by cause and effect, by empirical values or by
occasion, although this needs further research. For a final assessment, however, one
must bear in mind that what nowadays appears a random, acausal link, might occur
due to information stirring out of their original contexts.
Broadly speaking, and by reducing it to a common denominator, this bifurcation
according to how these signs emerge might be reduced to prophecy and divination
as opposite poles, often described in pairs as, e. g., intuitive and inductive, i­ n­ductive
and deductive, direct and indirect, independent and dependent, passive and active,
or receiving and generating practices of prognostication. While the knowledge that
the former provides is non-reproducible, accessible only at times and solely for
­receptive or even inspired people, that of the latter can almost always be reproduced
and accessed, if the necessary materials and expertise are available. While the former
could happen to anybody, the second must be learned. Muslim traditions reflect this
bifurcation when describing prophets as those gaining their knowledge of the future
from angels, and diviners as those learning about it from demons or jinns, regarded
as envoys of the devil who tempts souls and leads astray those who do not be­lieve.
It also becomes obvious in the written sources because, regarding those practices
that are based on signs emerging from inspiration and intuition, a subdivision into
reflexive and instructive texts proves problematic. Although there are reports about
prophecies and visions as well as descriptions of eschatological and apocalyptical
scenarios, and texts that comment on them, of course, no instructive texts exist that
instruct their readers on how to observe, generate and calculate them, or manuals that
provide them with lists of single elements and inform them about their interpretation.
Concerning those practices that are based on signs emerging from observation or generation and calculation, a broad technical literature, however, provides instructions
and recipes. Ibn Khaldūn explains this in the sixth prefatory discussion of his Muqaddima by ascribing direct access to divine knowledge for a prophet, while a diviner
depends on intermediaries and auxiliaries.
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A specific case is oneiromancy. On the one hand, because of their emergence,
dreams are closely related to prophecies and visions, eschatological and apocalyptical
scenarios. Like them, they could have a transcendental aspect, but this is not compulsory. On the other hand, a reflexive oneiromantic literature exists. In particular,
manuals containing lists of single dream elements circulate and provide a standardized method for their interpretation.
With regard to application, however, the separating line between these two kinds
of prognostication is blurred. Receiving practices intermingle with generating ones.
Transcendence is, however, not immanent in prognostic techniques; for instance, a
prophet might interpret also omens and a person who has a question or a problem
might perform specific rituals before going to sleep, confident that the dream will
reveal an answer or word of advice; e. g., by writing a magic formula on one’s hand
that is placed during sleep under the right cheek or by pronouncing a few unintelligible words. Especially in mantic practices, the practitioner might utter a prayer and
seek divine inspiration before beginning his performance. Ibn Khaldūn in the sixth
prefatory discussion of his Muqaddima also blurs this line by equalizing the perceptive states – e. g., of a saint, of a geomancer that he might achieve by concentrating on
his tableau and of a Ṣūfī who practices especially the ritual invocation of God.
Concepts
All prognostic practices share certain common concepts concerning their relation to
science, religion and magic. The same holds for the role authority, time, and hazard
play.
Prognostic Practices and the Sciences
The methods and procedures involved in all prognostic practices require a certain
degree of expertise. It might be sufficient simply to receive, watch or listen, or they
might call for complicated computations and calculations. The more complex and
specialised they become, the more an expert is needed to perform them and interpret
their results. A prophet or visionary might represent one pole, while an astrologer the
other, who uses highly complicated computational procedures to cast a horoscope
and interpret it. Ensuing from the different niveau of these prognostic practices, they
might be denoted, on the one hand, as simple, popular and folkloristic or, on the
other, as scientific, scholarly, learned and elite, e. g., timekeeping by means of shadow
schemes, on the one hand, and by spherical astronomy, on the other.
Some of these prognostic practices are explicitly called ʻilm al-… (“science of …,”
“knowledge of …”), e. g., ʻilm al-raml (lit. “science of the sand”) for geomancy, ʻilm
al-kaff (lit. “science of the hand”) for chiromancy or ʻilm al-ḥurūf (lit. “science of the
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letters”) for arithmancy. Several manifestations appear in the pre-modern classifications of the sciences; e. g., in the Rasāʼil of the Ikhwān al-Ṣāfāʼ (“Epistles of the
Brethren of Purity”; tenth century[?]), a group of men of letters whose epistles on
various topics were widely received, or the Mafātīḥ al-ʻulūm (“Keys of the sciences”),
an early encyclopedia by Muḥammad ibn Aḥmad al-Khwārizmī (fl. tenth century).
Both mention the astral sciences (ʻilm al-nujūm, ↗ Schmidl, Astral Sciences Islamic
World), meteorology (ʻilm ḥawādith al-jaww or ʻilm athār al-ʻulwiyya, respectively, ↗
Burnett, Weather Forecasting Islamic World) and medicine ([ʻilm] al-ṭibb, ↗ Cooper,
Medical Prognostication Islamic World). The former also include the science of omens
(ʻilm al-zajr wa-l-faʼl) that might be understood as a pars pro toto for mantic practices
in general. Another encyclopedia of the same period, the Jawāmiʻ al-ʻulūm (“The summaries of the sciences”) by Ibn Farīghūn (also Ibn Farīʻūn or Ibn Furayʻūn; fl. tenth
century) who apparantly adresses court secretaries, lists in a separate chapter of what
he calls sciences of doubtful substance. With regard to prognostic practices it mentions the science of omens (ʻilm al-zajr and ʻilm al-ʻiyāfa), the science of divination (ʻilm
al-ʻirāfa and ʻilm al-kihāna), the science of dream interpretation (ʻilm ʻibāra al-ruʼyā),
and the science of astrology (ʻilm aḥkām al-nujūm). The chapter also includes what
is often classed as occult sciences, among others, alchemy, physiognomy and magic.
Although occult sciences (al-ʻulūm al-gharība, also: al-ʻulūm al–khāfiyya or ʻilm
al-ghayb) and prognostic practices share certain commonalities, e. g., Ibn Farīghūn
class them both in the same chapter, they do, on the one hand, not overlap when it
comes to those branches that do not aim to predict the future or the arcane, but to
alter it; e. g., magic and alchemy. On the other hand, those prognostic practices are
excluded that are regarded as non-scientific, e. g., casting lots, and those assigned to
the rational or natural sciences, such as astronomical timekeeping or medical diagnosis and prognosis. To their intersection belong particularly astrology, but also arithmancy and geomancy.
Prognostic Practices and Religion
Prognostic practices and religion intersect at different levels, from normative statements to popular manifestations. This intersection is related to people, practices and
objects. Concerning the former, the attitude of the religious authorities toward the traditions of prognosticaton, as reflected mainly in the commentary literature and legal
texts and based on the Qurʼān and ḥadīth literature recording the deeds and sayings
of the Prophet Muḥammad, sets the normative and theoretical frame for dealing with
prognostic practices. The Shīʻī imāms’ infallibillity is due to the divine endowment of
foreknowledge appertaining to them.
Further, holy or religious figures might predict future events. These manifestations of inspired prognostication concern not only prophets and Shīʻī imāms, but also
saints (mainly wālī, lit. “friend”; but also zāhid, lit. “ascetic,” ʻabīd, lit. “worship-
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per” and nāsik, lit. “recluse”) and Ṣūfīs. The former might, e. g., possess clairvoyance
by God’s generosity or receive divine inspiration to unfold hidden truths. Ibn Taymīyah (d. 1328) in his critique of those believing in miracles lists as possible the albeit
neglectable deeds of saints predicting the death of a person, flying in the air, walking
on water and telling people about stolen property or missing persons. The Ṣūfī practice
of ritually invocating God might lead to an ecstatic situation accompanied by visions.
A rather loose relation exists in seeing prophets and saints in visions and dreams
and the resulting prognostication. Additionally, the religious identities of scholars
and practitioners, be they, especially in Umayyad and ʻAbbāsid times, Muslims, Christians, Jews or others, might have some influence, as well as in later times being Sunnī
or Shīʻī, let alone those affiliated to the different schools and branches of these two
main groups.
Concerning the practices, the sources report recourse to God’s authority or invocations at the beginning of mantic performances. An example is given in a lot book
attributed to Jaʻfar al-Ṣādiq (d. 765), the imam, that both Imāmīs and Ismāʻīlīs, two
Shīʻī branches, still recognize and an authority not only in religious law (fiqh) and the
transmission of sayings and deeds of the Prophet Muḥammad (ḥadīth), but also allegedly in mantic practices. In the introduction, it recommends, following ablution, the
recitation of first the opening sūra 1, then three times sūra 112, followed by the throne
verse in sūra 2:255/256 before finally placing the finger on the page while keeping
the eyes closed. Another example is verses of the Qurʼān quoted in the prefaces of
astronomical and astrological texts; e. g., al-Ashraf ʻUmar (d. 1296) quotes sūrā 10:5
and 15:16 in the introductory paragraph of his Kitāb al-Tabṣira fī ʻilm al-nujūm, and
Abū Maʻshar sūra 78:6 in the first paragraph of his Mudkhal al-kabīr. Together with
the occasionally expressed belief that God controls the hand of the diviner, these religious borrowings illustrate the widespread assumption that only with the help of God
knowledge of the future and the arcane can be gained, by His will a wish be realized.
The dictum “And God knows best” (wa-Allāh aʻlam), uttered while being concerned
with even the nearest future, but also appearing as an ending in pre-modern scholarly
treatises and in the conclusion of contracts, illustrates this fundamental attitude.
Further, several religious obligations call for the correct orientation in space
and time so that they remain legal or valid; for example, the five ritual daily prayers
(al-ṣalawāt) must be performed facing the Kaaba in Mecca at a specific (period of) time.
The afternoon prayer (al-ʻaṣr), e. g., begins when the midday shadow has increased by
the shadow length of the gnomon that casts it, describing a specific point in time that
depends on the geographical latitude and day of the year. If a person who likes to
pray does not wish to install a gnomon and wait until this increase can be observed,
this point in time must be calculated or determined in advance – one might say,
predicted.
Finally, the two realms overlap while using religious objects for prognostic practices; e. g., the Qurʼān for bibliomancy and arithmancy or the rosary (al-subḥa) for a
kind of cleromancy, but also when sleeping in religious buildings, such as mosques or
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sanctuaries for dream incubation (istikhāra, lit. “seeking or requesting what is good or
best,” but also “casting lots,” “asking God for guidance” and “consulting an oracle”).
When leaving these concrete intersections, prognostic practices and religion share
another commonality; namely, regarding their psychological, social and anthropological functions. The main purpose of prognostication, to learn more about the future
and the arcane, goes hand in hand with further functions that find their parallels
within religion. Both provide a framework of deeds and words that meet similar needs,
such as preventing, reducing, and mastering fear, particularly of the unknown, handling uncertainties and contingencies, providing reliability and certainty, conveying
belongingness and emotional security, but also entertaining, easing decision-making
and counselling. Both answer similar questions that are essential to all human beings,
such as “what is the meaning of my life?,” but also help to solve concrete problems
through providing guidelines and unveiling hidden knowledge, such as “shall I marry
this person?” Birth and death, but also other life crisis and situations of transition,
are fraught with uncertainty. The same holds for periodical changes in natural phenomena on earth, but also in heaven. Ritual patterns, albeit differing in terms of their
origin and manifestation, help in coping with them.
Prognostic Practices and Magic
In general, one might define prognostication as all methods, procedures, practices
and manifestations that aim at predicting the future and the arcane, while magic
seeks to alter it, but this definition falls short, since they often go hand in hand; e. g.,
in texts on lunar elections such as in al-Ashraf ’Umar’s Tabṣira or the Shams al-Maʻārif
of Muḥyī l-Dīn Abū l-ʻAbbās al-Būnī (fl. thirteenth century). In this instance, the stationing of the moon in one lunar mansion defines a period of time appropriate to
make talismans. Further, magical elements might form part of prognostic practices,
such as the magical formula written on a sleeper’s hand that helps to find answers
in a dream. Likewise, and when seen from a different angle, the definition is only
partially sufficient. A prognostication might change a client’s behaviour, whether it
aims to actively seek or avoid what is predicted. Not for nothing is there the dictum of
a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Prognostic Practices and Authority
Prognostic, mainly mantic, texts show a tendency to appeal to authorities, although
their authorship is, in most cases, more than dubious. Ascribing a book to an authority makes it all in all more reliable and judgeable, and incidentally also more attractive for inclusion in the libraries of noblemen. Only if the author is known might the
reader rate his knowledge of the field and the trustworthiness of his exposition as,
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e. g., Abū Maʻshar explains, in the first chapter of his Mudkhal al-kabīr, where he presents himself as the author of this treatise. Appealing to an authority aligns a treatise
with the established traditions, so that they, and particularly their foreign elements,
are easier acclimatized, assimilated and internalized.
To the authorities, treatises on prognostic practices refer to, belong prophets and
other persons mentioned in the Old Testament, scholars and the great rulers of Antiquity, Indian and Persian sages as well as religious leaders and renowned scholars of
early Islam.
To Daniel (Dāniyāl), for instance, is attributed, besides others, a Kitāb al-Jafr,
probably of apocalyptic character, and texts belonging to the malḥama literature.
He is further credited with being the alleged inventor of geomancy. Behind his name
might hide at least two men, Daniel the Elder (Ezek. 14:14,20 and 28,3) and Daniel
the Younger (Dan. 1–14). Although not mentioned in the Qurʼān, he shows up in the
Islamic traditions as a wise man, inspired by God, and legends developed around
him. At times he appears not only as being of Greek origin, but also as the father of
Jāmāsp, according to the historiographical sources a close confidant of Zoroaster (7th
and 6th century BC [?]), and as an ancestor of Buzurgmihr (6th century), famous for
his wisdom and dream interpretation. Although legendary, by drawing a line from a
prophet of the Old Testament to a Greek scholar and to two Persian sages, this alleged
linkage raises an awareness of where the prognostic traditions find their roots.
A specific role among these pre-Islamic authorities is played by Hermes Trismegistos, the Threefold-Great, (Hirmīs, called al-Muthallath bi-l-ḥikma, “the Threefold-in-Wisdom,” also al-Muthallath bi-l-niʻma, “the Threefold-in-Grace” and others), a relatively
idiosyncratic figure who is identified in Greek texts with Thot and in the Islamic traditions associated mainly with Idrīs, who is mentioned in the Qurʼān (sūra ­19:56/57–58
and 21:85–86) and identified with Enoch of the Old Testament (Deut. 5:18–24).
Based on sources probably from late Antiquity, Abū Maʻshar introduces, in his Kitāb
al-Ulūf (“The Book of Thousands”), three men of this name. One, an antediluvian sage,
who dwelled in Egypt and who is identified with Enoch/Idrīs, was the first to discuss
astrology and medicine, investigated the sciences and protected all of this knowledge
from the Flood. The other two lived after the Deluge, one in Ancient Mesopotamia who
rediscovered this knowledge, was skilled in medicine and philosophy and knew the
natures of numbers, and another in Egypt of later times, a philosopher and doctor.
Hermes, who also found a home in the Christian and Jewish traditions, gives his
name to the Hermetica, a corpus of treatises attributed to him, mainly on alchemy
and astro­logy, but also on medicine, magic and mantic practices; e. g., on scapulimancy. Further, Hermes is credited in the Islamic sources with various inventions;
e. g., regarding prognostic practices, that of geomancy and of a variety of arithmancy
called zāʼirja (for more details, see ↗ Regourd, Mantic Arts Islamic World, 473–476).
Concerning the authorities of early Islam, the fourth Caliph, ʻAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib
(d. 661), cousin and son-in-law of Muḥammad, and the imām Jaʻfar al-Ṣādiq, are credited with promoting mantic practices such as those employing letters and numbers
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(ʻilm al-ḥurūf, jafr) and those interpreting omens, convulsions and dreams (faʼl,
ikhtilāj, taʻbīr). Further, several texts related to prognostic practices are attributed to
them, probably since both are held in great esteem by the Sunnī as well as the Shīʻī
traditions. For instance, ʻAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib appears as the author of a didactical poem
on the lunar mansions and also of a short treatise on the weekdays at the beginning of
the Muslim months: the notae. Jaʻfar al-Ṣādiq is credited with astronomical, astrological, medical and mantic treatises that deal, e. g., not only with calendrical problems
and electional astrology, but also present cleromantic and geomantic practices as well
as interpretations of omens, lots and spontaneous convulsions of the human body.
Prognostic Practices and Time
Aside from philosophical and theological reflections on time and how they are linked
to prognostication, e. g., discussions on the notion of time as either being linear, cyclic
or spiral or expectations of the end of time, time is related to prognostic practices by
measuring, qualifying, interpreting, describing and accessing it. Periodical celestial
phenomena describe points, and intervals of time. The Sun and Moon, but also the
fixed stars, function as a time base. Their regular movements can be calculated or
determined in advance and accordingly time kept – one might say, predicted. Through
their interaction, also together with the planets, they define auspicious, ambiguous
and inauspicious moments, periods and intervals of time for beginning or avoiding
an activity. The interpretation of signs might depend on the time when they occur,
e. g., when the interpretation of a dream depends on the time of its occurence or when
prognostication by spotting a halo around the sun changes from month to month.
It is most significant in casting a horoscope, not only for persons but also for social
or political entities or activities, that means to interpret a reconstruction of the sky
at a specific moment in time (↗ Schmidl, Astral Sciences Islamic World; ↗ Varisco,
Calendrical Calculations Islamic World). Further intersections concern eschatological
expectations of the mahdī at the end of time (↗ Cortese, Eschatology Islamic World)
and the time dependence of prognostic practices. Some of them can be performed all
the time, e. g., by setting a geomantic tableau where, although the practitioner might
need some time for preparation and reflection, the time for acting must be appropriate. Others are only temporarily and occasionally available; e. g., prophecies.
Prognostic Practices and Hazard
Several prognostic practices involve a great deal of hazard, an aspect they share with
gambling and that is particularly inherent in all varieties of lot-casting in the broadest
sense, be it, for instance, by book opening, dice rolling, pebble arranging, pit casting,
arrow shooting, rod throwing and other, similar practices. Despite its prognostic use,
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these techniques support choosing between possible ways, distributing goods, determining a course of action and making decisions. Especially in cases when there are
no rational reasons for preferring one option over another or no viable path for a just
distribution, they bring about a decision that might be taken to mean entrusting God’s
selection and decision.
One practice, for instance, operates with the rosary (al-subḥa) that consists of a
chain of 99 beads partitioned into three groups of 33 by three additional elements of
different shapes, sizes, materials or colors. A tassel completes the rosary. As its name
suggests, the rosary might be used to praise God by repeating the formulae “glory be
to God” (subḥāna llāh), “praise belongs to God” (al-ḥamdu li-llāh) and “God is greater”
(Allāhu akbar). It can also serve as an aide-mémoire of the 99 beautiful names of God
(al-asmāʼ al-ḥusnā). Further, the rosary protects, as an amulet, persons and things; as
a cleromantic device, it assists decision-making. Concerning one possible application,
usually after first reciting sūra 1 (al-fātiḥa) and seeking God’s help, one grasps with
both hands, randomly and unconsciously, part of the rosary and counts out the intervening beads, in groups of two or three at a time. In the first case, if, after counting,
one bead remains, this indicates a positive answer to the question asked, and, if not,
a negative one. In the second case, the first bead in each group is deemed positive, the
second ambiguous, and the third negative.
From early times onward, Muḥammad is described as casting lots; e. g., when he
had to decide which of his wives should accompany him on travels or how he shall
distribute the loot obtained from raids. Apparently, the Prophet’s deeds serve, then,
as an example, e. g., for judges who might rely on casting lots in certain cases, if their
decision is liable to be unjust toward one party, or for Shīʻī imāms when determining
the sex of a hermaphrodite.
Manifestations
Prognostic practices might be understood, in the broadest sense, as those methods,
procedures, practices and manifestations that facilitate the interpretation of signs,
be they emerging from inspiration and intuition or from observation or generation
and calculation, to learn more, whether the knowledge sought is hidden in time or
in space.
Practices Resting on Signs Emerging from Inspiration and Intuition
Prophecies
Prophecies play a pivotal role in Islamic societies, particularly in Islamic thinking
and reasoning, since their vital spark is found in Muḥammad’s prophethood, who
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received the word of God, the Qurʼān, written in Arabic, by Gabriel, the bearer of the
revelation and messenger of God. Without going into further details, all developments
and debates, varieties and ambiguities that later arose share, at least, this kernel.
Prophecies always arise with a transcendental aspect. For a prophet, but also a
Shīʻī imām, knowledge descends on him naturally and passively because of his goodness. According to Ibn Khaldūn in the sixth prefatory discussion of his Muqaddima,
the souls of prophets are specific and belong to one of three different kinds of human
souls that God freed of the hindrances of their corporeal and spiritual humanity. The
other two kinds concern, first, those relying on the perceptions of the senses and
imagination through memory and estimation. Scholars ground on this. The second
is intuitive and based on inward observations due to saints, men of mystical learning and divine knowledge. The Qurʼān, the prophetic text of Islam per se, recognizes
fewer than 30 prophets (nabī; also rasūl, lit. “messenger” with a decisively different
meaning), Islamic tradition in the sequel a few more who belong to three groups;
first, those more than ten who are also mentioned in the Old Testament and who are
held in high honor; among others, Noah (Nūḥ), after whom sūra 71 is called, Abraham
(Ibrāhīm), Moses (Mūsā) and Elijah (Ilyās). The same holds for a second group, figures
of the New Testament. John the Baptist (Yaḥyā ibn Zakariyyāʼ) is called a prophet (sūra
3:39) as well as Jesus (ʻĪsā, sūra 29:30), who announces the coming of a prophet after
him (sūra 61:6). Besides these prophets from the Jewish and Christian tradition and
further passages in the Qurʼān, where the figures are too generally described to identify them, the “Arab prophets” form a third group. Independent of their context, the
prophets’ stories in the Qurʼān mainly follow a common narrative, after commission
and installation follow rejection and punishment.
What begins in the Qurʼān continues in the ḥadīth literature. al-Bukhārī (d. 870)
includes in his Ṣaḥīḥ (lit. “the sound”), one of the six Sunnī canonical ḥadīth collections, a chapter entitled “ḥādīths of the prophets” (ahādith al-anbiyāʼ). With the
Qiṣāṣ al-anbiyāʼ (“Prophets’ stories”) developed a genre of texts that relate the lives
of the prophets of the Old Testament, even if they are not mentioned in the Qurʼān as,
e. g., Jeremiah (Irmiyā), on whom Wahb ibn Munabbih (b. 654–655) and Kaʻb al-Aḥbār
(d. shortly after 650/651) wrote.
Muḥammad marks a turning point in the perception of prophets and prophecies,
since he is, as the Qurʼān denotes, “the messenger of God and the seal of the prophets”
(rasūl Allāh wa-khātam al-nabiyyīn; sūra 33:40, but also: khatm al-nubuwwa, or: al-anbiyāʼ), and there is, according to the Muslim traditions, “no divination after prophethood” (lā-kihāna baʻd al-nubuwwa). Both of these claims to absoluteness, however,
deserve, particularly with regard to prognostic practices, a closer look. The former
passage appears to be interpreted differently in the first years of Islam under imminent expectation and then to have been reconsidered later – with different thrust in
Sunnī and Shīʻī traditions that view, generally speaking, the imāms as the heirs of the
prophets. The latter faces the long, rich tradition of prognostic practices in Islamic
societies.
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Eschatological and Apocalyptical Scenarios
In general, by relying on revelation, eschatological scenarios describe the last things
to come, be it when individuals cease or the world ends. They usually include a series
of elements whose emergence and composition depend on a place and period of time
as well as religious and social contexts. Although widely varying and expanded in
several ways, the eschatological topography and chronology especially comprise
the coming of the last hour (al-sāʻa), forging a bridge from resurrection (al-qiyāma)
to annihilation (al-fanāʼ), judgement (al-dīn) and gathering (al-ḥashr), further the
delights of heaven (janna, lit. “garden,” also with a slightly different meaning firdaws,
“paradise,” ʻadn, “Eden” and others) and the torments of hell (nār, lit. “fire,” also
jahannam and others).
An important eschatological element are the apocalyptical scenarios that describe
future events, particularly the (imminent) end either of the world, of time or of history.
As signs that herald it, frightening and terrorising occurrences are interpreted, mainly
unusual geological, meteorological and celestial phenomena, e. g., natural phenomena and disasters such as earthquakes, thunderstorms, comets and solar eclipses,
but also unnatural animal and human behaviour, occurrences or appearances such
as monstrosities, pest infestations or epidemics. In addition to these, political, social,
cultural and religious changes for the worse are also regarded as signs of the coming
end.
Further, concepts of linear, spiral and cyclic time connect with eschatological and
apocalyptical scenarios. The immiment occurrence of a specific date might have raised
expectations of the near end or of a religious renewal, as described in the ḥadīth literature. Especially the end of a century or millennium is regarded as a fateful turning
point; for instance, when the centenary of the Islamic hijra era during the reign of the
eighth Umayyad Caliph ʻUmar ibn ʻAbd al-ʻAzīz (d. 720) looms, eschatological expectations run wild. The same happens 100 lunar years later (815/816) when, following
the death of the ʻAbbāsid Caliph Harūn al-Rashīd (d. 809), two of his sons, al-Amīn
(d. 813) and al-Maʼmūn (d. 833), fought over the succession.
Thus, eschatological and even more apocalyptical scenarios comment rather about
political and religious developments, aim at the future of a dynasty and society in its
entirety rather than at an individual’s fate. Accordingly, they often occur in times of considerable change, so their claim might result in political and/or religious movements.
One of the earliest examples, the Kitāb al-fitan (“Book of Tribulation”) by Nuʻaym ibn
Ḥammād al-Marwazī (d. 843 [?]), was written during the miḥna (“testing”), initiated
by al-Maʼmūn (d. 833) and continued by his two successors, al-Muʻtaṣim (d. 842) and
al-Wāthiq (d. 847), that urges the view that the Qurʼān had been created.
The literature where these eschatological and apocalyptical scenarios are
described also reflects their rather general audience. Their foundation forms the
Qurʼān that concentrates its eschatological and apocalyptical scenarios in a couple of
Meccan sūrāt, mostly from the early period, whose elements draw on former concepts
of the Jewish and Christian traditions. The eschatological features include elements of
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announcement, weighting (al-wazn; sūra 7:8) and reckoning (al-ḥisāb; sūra 13:40 and
passim), detailed descriptions of paradise and its delights as well as hell and its torments (especially sūrāt 23, 37, 39, 69, 70, 74 and 76). These descriptions are, however,
only loosely linked to prognostic practices by informing one about what one envisages
when the end of time comes and what one might expect in the afterlife. The apocalyptic elements focus on harbingers of what will be happen. Series of if-clauses, presented in a powerful language, provide signs of the immiment end, e. g., when earth
shakes, sun darkens or mountains move (especially sūrāt 77, 81, 82, 84, 99, 101). Other
signs precede the actual hour, e. g., the blast of the trumpet (sūra 33:101 and passim),
the emergence of the beast (sūra 27:82) or the sight of angels (sūra 25:22).
These Qurʼānic verses, together with the Jewish and Christians traditions, form
the basis for the eschatological and apocalyptical scenarios emerging in the next two
to three centuries that were compiled into eschatological handbooks. Further, they
find entry into the hadīth collections and become an issue in the commentary literature.
Also linked to prognostic practices, by describing expectations concerning the end
of time and afterlife, are texts dealing with the nightly journey of Muḥammad (isrāʼ,
also with a slightly different meaning miʻrāj, lit. “ladder,” thus “ascent”). Although
differing in detail, the kernel consists of the Prophet’s encounters with prophets and
angels, his conversation with God and his visit to the seven heavens, paradise and
hell.
The eschatological and apocalyptical figures and events, but also the related
topography and chronology are expanded and augmented by more colorful and more
concrete details in the later traditions.
Already in Umayyad times, the concept of the mahdī (“the rightly [or: divine]
guided one”) emerges, a term that itself does not occur in the Qurʼān. In general,
put simply, the mahdī, often viewed as a member of Muḥammad’s family, will rule,
according to a widely-held belief, before the end restoring religion, justice, and peace.
His advent will be heralded by signs; e. g., the rising of the sun from the west and the
emergence of the dajjāl (“the deceiver”), although the chronology of events slightly
differs in the sources. Further, the mahdī himself and his restoration is a signal that
the end is near.
Over time, this concept developed in its details and underwent several reassessments; e. g., by gaining increasing messianic characteristics and by inspiring political
movements and changes. Several historical figures were regarded as the mahdī; e. g.,
the Umayyad Caliph Sulaymān (d. 717), the Fāṭimid Caliph al-Mahdī ʻUbayd Allāh
(also al-Mahdī ʻAbd Allāh; d. 934) or the spiritual leader of the Almohad movement,
Ibn Tūmart (d. 1130), and the accompanying political events were interpreted accordingly, so being identified or presented as the mahdī also provides a tool for political
propaganda. In Sunnī doctrine, the belief in the mahdī never became that essential
and intense than in Shīʻī thought; for instance, according to Imāmī doctrine, and put
in highly simplified terms, the twelfth imām lives in concealment and will return as
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the mahdī, restoring justice and religion. In Ismāʻīlī doctrine, very briefly summarized,
developed an elaborated concept of cyclic time consisting of seven eras, each comprising seven imāms, the last of the sixth era being identified with the mahdī and
heralding the seventh, eschatological era.
Probably the earliest example where these more elaborate eschatological and
apocalyptical scenarios can be found is the Kitāb al-fitan by Nuʻaym al-Marwazī, a
traditionist who is said to have sought transmissions in Iraq and on the Arabian Peninsula and transmitted, e. g., to al-Bukhārī. He organizes his information beginning with
definitions and warnings, proceeding with political events concerning the Umayyads
and the ʻAbbāsids and ending with apocalyptic elements.
In those Sunnī ḥadīth collections, that are organized according to subject-matter,
e. g., the Ṣaḥīḥ by al-Bukhārī, traditions with eschatological and apocalyptic elements
are grouped into sections entitled “tribulations” (fitan; sometimes also malāḥim,
“wars”, also “apocalyptic scenarios”) and usually either attributed to Muḥammad or,
to a less extent, also to ʻAlī ibn Ṭālib, the fourth Caliph and his son-in-law, and other
companions of the prophet (ṣaḥāba).
Further, they are included in texts described by the term malāḥim, whose characteristics are somewhat confused in the sources and in the research literature, probably due to the use of its singular, malḥama, to denote another group of prognostic
texts and also due to further commonalities that they share, so both refer to similar
authorities, in particular Daniel. They mention partially the same signs, e. g., earthquakes and winds, and show the close dependence on the Syriac traditions. Despite
these similarities, malāḥim texts are of an apocalyptic character, and their knowledge
Daniel obtains through vision and audition. They focus either on communities’ future
or the fate of dynasties, whereas the malḥama literature describes mantic practices by
means of celestial, albeit sublunar, as well as atmospheric, meteorological and geological phenomena, often presented as a series of if-then-constructions. According to
the general narrative framework, their knowledge was stored in a cave to save it from
the Deluge and recovered by Daniel.
Another, rather distinctive text genre in this context comprises treatises on jafr,
a term that, in general, designates a complex set of concepts related to prognostication. On the one side are to be found eschatological contents at times, although this
remains disputable, combined with elements of malāḥim texts. On the other side, jafr
books include mantic practices and magic applications mainly focusing not only on
the numerical values of the letters but also on their occult properties, probably also
to be understood as a tool for understanding their eschatological contents. Although
the subject of controversial discussion, in modern research, an outline is emerging
that appears to consign the first jafr books attributed to ʻAlī, Fāṭima and Jaʻfar al-Ṣādiq
rather to the realms of the foundation legends and to reject their emergence in a Shīʻī
context. Further, with that said, the assumption of a change in those practicing jafr,
namely, no longer only the imāms, but all wise men, apparently becomes obsolete.
Seemingly, over time, a close link developed between mystical thinking and jafr.
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Further, eschatological and apocalyptical scenarios were discussed in the theological and philosophical discourses. Their statements range between favouring allegorical and literal interpretations.
Interpreting and/or Reporting Dreams
Dreams (ruʼyā, but also manām and ḥulm with slightly different meanings), the
images and impressions a person receives mainly while sleeping, have been held in
high esteem since pre-Islamic times and provide, according to Muslim traditions, a
share of prophecy (↗ Cortese, Dream Interpretation Islamic World). Ancient Mesopotamian and antique traditions, although only orally transmitted and therefore difficult
to grasp, gave an additional impetus to their handling and formed the state of the
art with which Muḥammad probably became familiar. According to the sources, the
Prophet highly estimated dreams and interpreted those of his companions. Muḥammad’s conduct laid the groundwork for the later development of texts and artefacts
related to dream interpretation and dream reports.
In general, different aspects of dreams are considered in order to categorize
them, particularly their emergence, contents and reliability. They are distinguished
in dreams that are divine in origin, often through an intermediary, those coming from
Satan, and those arising from causes within the body or soul. The contents and reliability might interact, e. g., dreaming of the prophet Muḥammad describes a good, true
dream that does not require any further interpretation.
Similar to other prognostic practices that rest on signs emerging from inspiration and intuition, dreams are only occasionally accessible, although techniques were
applied that allow the fostering of their emergence. Their nucleus forms dream incubation, describing sleeping in a sacred area, in a mosque or near the Kaʻba with the
intention of experiencing a divinely-inspired dream or cure, while a prayer of invocation (duʻāʼ) might precede sleep and dreams.
Another difference to prophecies and visions, eschatological and apocalyptical
scenarios, consist in a need for experts and the existing instructive literature. The
former is reflected, e. g., in Joseph’s interpretation of the pharaoh’s dream (Gen.
41:1–36 and sūra 12:43–49), although dream interpretation can occur without them,
e. g., in the narrative of al-Maʼmūn dreaming about meeting Aristotle.
The existing instructive literature, oneiromantic treatises with their organized
arrangement of dream elements, simplify and formalize their interpretation (taʻbīr
al-ruʼyā, sometimes also tafsīr al-aḥlām); i. e., oneiromancy proper. Both, practicing dream incubation and providing instructive texts on dream interpretation bring
oneiromancy closer to those prognostic practices that rest on signs emerging from
observation or generation and calculation – even though, in general, oneiromantic
treatises and Muslim traditions regard the knowledge provided in dreams as a share
of prophecy and, therefore, these outrank other mantic practices.
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In the oneiromantic treatises, dream elements and their interpretation are mainly
arranged either according to topical categories or alphabetically. Often woven into
them are brief stories and anecdotes that, rather, belong to the group of reflexive texts.
A specific case forms practices devoting a pivotal role to the point in time when the
dream happened, although the general situation that leads to the final interpretation,
e. g., the circumstances of a dream, the role of the dreamer, and the context of the
narration, should always be considered; for instance, the days of the lunar month are
specified when true dreams occur and when they do not. Oneiromantic manuals are
usually bifurcated. A first, theoretical part introduces the general rules, basic procedures and methods as well as the duties of the person who interprets the dream.
According to a narrative in the Nuzhat al-nufūs wa-muḍḥik al-ʻabūs, a collection
of serious and humorous poetry and prose by the Mamluk literary figure Ibn Sūdūn
(d. 1464), artefacts were also used in oneiromancy. He pictures a man sitting by the
River Nile, apparently occupied with mantic practices, surrounded by artefacts,
including an astrolabe, and using a magnetic device for oneiromancy. It consists of
an ivory fish floating in a glass container filled with water, whose mouth is of magnetic
stone and whose tail of coral. The anecdote and exact circumstances regarding how
this artefact is related to oneiromantic practices, however, needs further research.
Probably, the Kitāb al-Ṭabaqāt al-kubra, a biographical encyclopaedia designed
as a tool for ḥadīth studies by Ibn Saʻd (d. 845) includes the earliest list of dreams and
their interpretations by Ibn al-Musayyab (fl. seventh century), who worked under the
Umayyad Caliph ʻAbd al-Malik (d. 705). They all follow the same pattern. First, the
dream is narrated, e. g., a man dreamed of himself urinating into his hands, which
was interpreted by Ibn al-Musayyab as an indication of an illicit marriage (cf. Fahd
1966, 311). There sometimes follows further explanation; in this case, that the wife is
a foster sister.
Although Ibn Saʻd records only one dream interpretation by Ibn Sīrīn (d. 726), the
latter’s renown as an authority on oneiromancy grew over the centuries. Even in the
time of the ʻAbbāsid Caliph al-Mahdī (d. 785), Abū Isḥāq al-Kirmānī (fl. eighth century)
lists him together with Abraham, Daniel and Ibn al-Musayyab as one of his sources
in his Dustūr fī l-taʻbīr that serve as a model for later oneiromantic treatises. Further
treatises with varying titles appear under his name, taking advantage of his prestige
as a dream interpreter.
In ʻAbbāsid times, two main treatises lead on to the establishment of an authoritative method for organizing dreams by sorting them into groups of similar elements,
the translation of Artemidorus of Ephesus’ oneiromantic treatise commissioned by the
Caliph al-Maʼmūn and the composition of the al-Qādirī fī’l taʻbīr by Abū Saʻīd al-Dīnawarī (d. ca. 1009) who relies heavily on it and combines sources of Greek and Indian,
Muslim, Christian and Jewish origin.
Of the more recent developments, two become noticable in the oneiromantic
oeuvre by Ibn Ghannām (d. 1294): first an encyclopaedic arrangement of dream elements and, second, didactic poems that couch in rhymes their interpretation to facili-
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tate learning and knowing them by heart as well as to help to cope with the ephemeral
aspect of dreaming.
Reflexive texts that report dreams, be they accompanied by an interpretation or
not, do not belong to a specific literal genre, but appear in all kinds of texts, non-­
fiction and fiction; e. g., in biographical, historiographical and hagiographical sources
as well as in belles-lettres. To include dream reports in these serves several purposes;
e. g., justification, evidence of authority, support for demands or explanation either
to entertain or to warn the audience. Besides these dream reports, other treatises,
particularly with philosophical and mystical contents, focus on the nature of dreams.
The Qurʼān reports dreams in several sūrāt; e. g., Abraham’s dream, in which he is
ordered to sacrifice his son (sūra 37, 102, cf. Gen. 2:1–19) and the fulfilling of Muḥammad’s dream that he will return to Mecca (sūra 48:27). Although only sūra 12, which
takes its title from its protagonist “Joseph,” deals with dream interpretation. It starts
with Joseph’s own dream, that he is at that moment unable to interpret (sūra 12:4–5),
and continues with the pharaoh’s dream and Joseph’s interpretation of it (sūra 12:43–
49), even using the terminus technicus for dream interpretation (taʼwīl al-aḥlām; sūra
12:44).
Additionally, early dream manuals and Qurʼān commentaries, both relying on
numerous aḥādīth, however, interpret the “good tidings (al-bushrā) in the present life
and in the world to come” (sūra 10:65) for “those who believe and are godfearing”
(sūra 10:64) as the true dreams one sees – or are seen for him. They serve in defence
of oneiromantic practices, although other interpretations of this verse are also taken
into consideration, particularly that these “good tidings” announce the closing of a
person’s death and his attainment of paradise.
Similar to the arrangement of the eschatological and apocalyptical elements in
specific chapters in those ḥadīth collections, that are organized according to subject-matter, they also include sections entitled “dream” or “dream interpretation”
(ruʼyā and taʻbīr, respectively); e. g., in al-Bukhārī’s Ṣaḥīḥ, where he somewhat anticipates the bifurcation of later dream manuals by first classifying dreams into those sent
by God and those coming from Satan. Second, he deals with specific dream elements
and their interpretation.
One of the characteristics of dreams, namely that their boundaries with prophecies and visions are blurred, is still discernable in these sūrāt and becomes more
explicit in the ḥadīth literature, where dreams are described as the 40, 46 or other fractional part of prophecy and where a saying of the prophet Muḥammad is recorded that
only good dreams will remain of prophecy. Altogether, the ḥadīth literature clearly
demonstrates in what high esteem prognostication by dreams and their interpretation
have been held since the earliest days of Islam.
When examining the theoretical and philosophical foundation of dreams and
their interpretation with a focus on their use for prognostication, particularly the distinction betweeen true, significant and false, insignificant dreams is helpful, since
only the former might guide a dreamer. One scholar who discusses this topic is Ibn
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Khaldūn, in the sixth chapter of his Muqaddima; another is Ibn Sīnā (b. 980), the
Avicenna of the Latin-speaking world and author of more than 200 scholarly treatises.
At the beginning of his book on dream interpretation, he describes true, significant
dreams arising from a cause outside the dreamer, a cause he calls a divine power, and
false, insignificant dreams occurring inside him, being, e. g., the remnants of objects
observed while awake, reflections of feelings or an imbalance in the humors (Lamoreaux 2002, 70–71).
Concerning the place of dream interpretation in the pre-modern Islamic organization of knowledge, the authors of dream manuals tend to regard it as the first science,
since it was practiced from the start by prophets. Other scholars, e. g., Ibn Khaldūn,
in the sixth chapter of his Muqaddima, subsume dream interpretation among the religious sciences while, in a relatively late example, Ḥājjī Khalīfa (d. 1657), also known
as Kātib Čelebī, the prolific Ottoman historian, bibliographer and geographer, in his
bibliographical dictionary Kashf al-Ẓunūn, it stands side by side with, among others,
medicine and astrology, and forms a branch of the natural sciences (cf. Kātib Čelebī
[Flügel] 1842, i, 34).
Prognostic Practices Resting on Signs Emerging from Observation or Generation
and Calculation
On signs emerging from observation or from generation and calculation rest the fields
of the mantic arts with their manifold varieties, of astronomy and astrology including
calendars and almanacs, of weather forecasting and of medical prognosis. One way
to organize this plethora of signs that these practices interpret is to follow, first, the
pre-modern Weltbild with its dichotomy of a sublunar world, where all changes take
place, and an unchanging supra-lunar world, and to consider next weather forecasting, and medical diagnosis and prognosis, since these are not defined by the signs
they interpret, but by the purpose they serve.
Mantic Arts
The practices employed in the mantic arts make use of mainly all signs that appear to
be random and interpret them. Although, in the widest sense, astronomical, astrological and calendrical prognostications also belong to them, they grow, from the earliest
times onward, into specific branches of knowledge.
In general, the mantic practices make use of sub-lunar signs. They are either
spotted, heard or otherwise noted in nature or generated and calculated using specific techniques, after which the results or resulting patterns are then interpreted. The
range of people who undertook this interpretation might range from persons dabbling
in a mantic practice for their personal use to experts earning a living by applying it at
the request of their clients.
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All irregularities and oddities in inanimate or animate nature are suitable for
prognostication. Commonly, these natural signs are referred to as omens (faʼl, but also
ʻiyāfa, ṭāʼir or ṭīra, and zajr, respectively and slightly different in meaning). They exist
in very varied manifestations, that all make use of randomly, occasionally and spontaneously occurring incidents, events and encounters, e. g., spotting a rainbow, discerning peculiarities of animal and human behaviour, and occurrences and appearances
such as stumbling, crowing, sneezing or convulsing. Generally, there are two ways of
interpreting these natural signs, the first relying on common knowledge, folk sayings,
and proverbs that find their way into poems and belles-lettres; for example, crows,
jays and other birds, particularly those with dark green or black plumage are considered bad omens; the passing of an animal before a person was interpreted as either
bad or good, depending on the direction from which it approached. The second way
calls for manuals that record the signs in texts, lists, schemes and tables, sometimes in
correlation with a specific point of time, so that an interested person can search there
and look up for the sign to find what it indicates – just as in dream manuals.
Inanimate natural signs used for prognostication comprise celestial, albeit sublunar, as well as atmospheric, meteorological and geological phenomena, e. g., comets
and meteors, both in general regarded as bad omens, rainbows and halos, clouds and
winds, lightnings and thunders as well as earthquakes, often interpreted as signs sent
by God. They are interpreted mainly in two groups of instructive texts: the malḥama
literature and, less prominently, in treatises on Nabatean agriculture (al-filāḥa al-nabaṭiyya). In these textual contexts, however, certain astronomical phenomena are also
considered; e. g., eclipses or conditions of the lunar crescent, i. e., if it is upstanding
or lying in the sky.
The former, the malḥama literature, is mainly associated with the prophet Daniel
and should, however, not be confused with the malāḥim texts, with their relatively
apocalyptical contents and their main focus on predictions not for individuals but
for communities or dynasties. In pre-modern usage, the term malḥama designates
writings with specifically mantic contents that, in general, relates these phenomena
with their occurrence in a specific time-period, usually a solar month, and interprets
it. So, by the backdoor, astronomy enters the stage by providing a time base for these
mantic practices (↗ Schmidl, Astral Sciences Islamic World). The interpretations concentrate on weather forecasting, so that such texts are sometimes associated with this
branch of knowledge. Related topics, such as agriculture, are also treated. Several
manifestations show apocalyptical tendencies or provide a more general prognostication of medical, social, economic or political relevance that resembles those used
in electional astrology.
The roots of the malḥama literature and the further intermediate steps toward
an Arabic version are still under discussion. Apparently, instead, a cluster of Greek
and Syriac rather than Persian texts, whose dependency is not yet properly established, serves as a basis. A certain Ancient Mesopotamian influence, however, shines
through. Equally, the relationship of the treatises belonging to the Arabic malḥama
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literature deserves further research. Persian translations and revisions, one probably
by Abū l-Faḍl Ḥubaysh ibn Ibrāhīm al-Tiflīsī (d. 1232 [?]), apparently exist also.
The basis of the latter, texts on Nabataean agriculture, forms a treatise with this
very same title, al-Filāḥā al-Nabaṭiyya, by Ibn Waḥshiyya (late ninth, early tenth
century [?]), a scholar, with whom further treatises with mantic, magic, alchemical
and medical contents, partially also claiming to be of Nabatean origin, are associated.
Besides agriculture, it includes other topics; e. g., religious, cultural and magic knowledge. The parts related to prognostic practices only form a subplot and appear less
prominently and less exhaustively than in those of the malḥama literature. Albeit the
work itself claims to be a translation from Syriac into Arabic based on earlier Ancient
Mesopotamian works, Ibn Waḥshiyya’s authorship, the origin and formation history
of his treatise are strongly disputed among scholars. Nevertheless, apparently, some
of its agricultural material stands in the Greek and Latin traditions, so seemingly there
is a link to Ancient Mesopotamia. Other information appears to refer to local customs
and conditions, probably in Northern and Central Iraq in the time just prior to the
Muslim conquest. Similar to the malḥama literature, there seems to be a link to the traditions of the Geoponicae. Ibn Waḥshiyya’s Nabataean Agriculture was very popular
and gave rise to many works summarizing it or relying on it; e. g., the voluminous Kitāb
al-Filāhā (“Book on agriculture”) by Ibn al-ʻAwwām (twelfth century [?]), the epitome
by Ibn al-Raqqām (d. 1315) and the treatise by Shams al-Dīn al-Dimashqī (b. 1256), who
combines the Nabatean agriculture probably with Byzantine traditions.
Of the practices interpreting inanimated signs, the small amount of information
we have concerning those linked to water should be mentioned briefly. Hydromantic
practices proper interpret signs of water, e. g., emerging on its or other shining surfaces,
but also ebbing and flowing of rivers. Due to the lack of research concerning this topic
and their nevertheless presumed variety and apparantly minor significance, it appears
at least certain that they are located in a grey area not only between natural and artificial signs, but also between mantic and magical practices. Also related to water are
those manisfestations that should help to find underground water and rely on different
kinds of signs, e. g., the smell of the earth, the distribution of plants and the instinctive
behaviour of certain creatures, particularly the hoopoe.
The latter two still belong to the animate natural signs used for prognostication.
They comprise, besides the distribution of plants, comprise mainly the occurrence,
behaviour, and appearance of animals, particularly their sound and their passing,
and of humans – the use of deformities, malformations and multiple births in this
context deserves further research.
What these signs indicate belongs again either to common knowledge, e. g., the
stereotype of the raven whose appearance announces the departure and separation
of two beloveds, or it is found in scholarly treatises. They deal more generally with
zoomancy and consider different animals, or concentrate on one specific manifestation, particularly ornithomancy. An example is found in the Nihāyat al-arab fī funūn
al-adab, a voluminous, comprehensive reference work, by al-Nuwayrī (d. 1333), a
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Mamluk historian and encyclopaedist, who organizes, as short, elaborate if-then-constructions, mainly animal signs and their interpretation. In the previous chapter, he
concentrates on ornithomantic practices attributed to al-Jāḥiẓ (b. 766), a man of letters
and prolific writer from early ʻAbbāsid Baghdad, whose Kitāb al-Ḥayawān (“Books
on animals”), one of his major works, presents an entertaining and relatively literary
anthology regarding this topic. The whole chapter shares many commonalities with
what is found on ornithomancy in the Ancient Mesopotamian sources. In general,
although treatises on this topic are still mentioned in the tenth century by Ibn al-Nadīm in his Fihrist, they are systematised relatively late.
A specific, elaborate terminology, closely related to texts on hunting, describes
the directions considered, e. g., where the raven croaks with respect to the person
involved, but also in a more general way, to describe where a bird flies or cries, or an
animal steps or makes a noise, since it makes little difference if the animal in question
occurs with respect to the hunter, the traveller or the practitioner of mantic arts.
While the practice that al-Nuwayrī describes restricts itself to observation, a
second one, also described in the sources, prompts a bird’s reaction, e. g., by throwing
a pebble at it, a technique that makes the bird’s behaviour less of a natural but rather
an artificial sign. To the same grey area belong practices that rely on the body parts
of animals, e. g., hepatomancy, that considers animals’ livers, and scapulimancy, that
usually takes into account sheep’s, but also goats’, shoulder blades, since they require
a certain degree of preparation before being used for prognostication. The former was
an important practice in the Ancient Mesopotamian traditions, that was renounced
centuries before the rise of Islam, although Ibn Khaldūn still includes it in his list of
mantic practices provided in the sixth prefatory discussion of his Muqaddima. The
latter, however, proceeds, although the descriptions in the sources slightly differ in
the preparatory steps they describe. In general, two methods were employed: either a
non-calcinating technique by boiling the meat until it fell off the bone, or a calcinating
one that involved extracting first the shoulder blade and then heating it until cracks
appeared. In both cases, the overall appearance, e. g., lines, grooves, hollows and
meat remnants, was then interpreted or read by considering one side to be related to
the individual and family and the other to community affairs. One of the scapulimantic sources, the Risāla fī ʻilm al-katif (“Treatise on the science of the shoulder blade”),
is attributed to Yaʻqūb ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī (d. 870), the “philosopher of the Arabs,” who
wrote, next to his philosophical works, also treatises on astrology, the mantic arts and
magic. It appears to be a revised version of an earlier treatise of Maghribī origin that
was attributed to Hermes. Both texts were also translated into Latin.
Signs related to human behaviour, occurrence, and appearance are employed
in mantic practices similarly to those of animals and should not be confused with
physiognomic practices (usually firāsa or qiyāfa, though with a slightly different and
broader range of meaning). While the former is used to predict future events and
reveal arcane knowledge, the latter’s focus rests on learning more about the character
of a person, his condition and constitution. By doing so, if one will, physiognomy
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makes accessible another kind of hidden knowledge, which may explain why it is
often presented in scholarly treatises together with other mantic practices. Physiognomic knowledge is also employed in other prognostic practices, e. g., in astrology, when
planets and zodiacal signs are associated with a person’s character or appearance (↗
Schmidl, Astral Sciences Islamic World, 537).
Accordingly, these signs are found, on the one hand, in scholarly treatises intermingled with animal omens; e. g., in the treatises by al-Ashraf ʻUmar and al-Nuwayrī where, however, less frequently, zoomancy prevails. On the other hand, a rich
scholarly literature on specific practices developed; e. g., treatises that interpret the
spontaneous convulsions or trembling of parts of the human body (ikhtilāj). Another
example comprises chiromancy (also: palmistry; ʻilm al-kaff, lit. “the science of the
hand,” but also with a slightly different meaning ʻilm al-asārīr, lit. “science of the lines
of the palm [or: the forehead]”) that takes into account the uniqueness of a person’s
hand, either its shape or its palmar creases, particularly the length of the lines, their
distances and patterns. Sometimes, even the finger joints and their nails are considered or the related parts of the sole of the foot. Based on the Greek and Indian traditions, only very few treatises are known; e. g., the Maʻrifat khuṭūṭ al-kaff wa-mā fīhi min
al-ḥikma attributed to Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d. 1209), one of the most renowned Islamic
theologians and philosophers to whom are also ascribed, among others, astrological,
physiognomic and medical treatises.
Besides these natural signs, all kinds of techniques were used to generate and
calculate artificial signs that were then read or interpreted; first, all of those practices that involve the casting of lots in the broadest sense (qurʻa, lit. “lot,” but also
istikhāra), also known as cleromancy or sortilege. A second group interprets letters
(ʻilm al-ḥurūf, lit. “the science of letters,” but also sīmiyāʼ, usually denoting [white]
magic and jafr), particularly by taking into account their occult properties (al-khawāṣṣ)
and their numerical values. Sometimes, these practices are summarized by the terms
arithmancy, numerology, gematria or lettrism, although all of these terms are associated with problems.
In general, by casting lots, the practitioner randomly and unconsciously chooses
between two or more items, the first resulting immediately in one specific outcome.
In the second case, a limited number of random patterns is produced and then interpreted. To obtain them, further steps are conducted that reduce and regroup the set
of items that might be generated by book opening, dice rolling, pebble arranging, pits
casting, arrow shooting, rod throwing, or other practices. The huge amount of items
possibly employed leads to a great variety of cleromantic practices, not all of them
equally common, popular or widespread, and some of them receiving their own name
depending on the items on which they rely; e. g., belomancy, when arrows are used,
bibliomancy when books.
Obviously, also specific artefacts are used for casting lots as witnessed by, e. g.,
two rectangular cuboids made of bone preserved in the Nasser D. Khalili Collection
of Islamic Art. Of unknown provenance and date, they are engraved, among other
Petra G. Schmidl
217
features, on the four rectangular surfaces with one, two, three or four sets of three
concentric circles with a dot in the center (Maddison and Savage-Smith 1997, 1, 158).
How they were employed, however, requires further research.
The most popular cleromantic practice, geomancy (ʻilm al-raml, lit. “the science
of sand” but also khaṭṭ al-raml, lit. “the line in the sand” and ḍarb al-raml, lit. “the
striking of the sand”), is based on casting four times four lines of dots arbitrarily onto
sand. Then, each line is reduced to one dot, if the amount is odd, and to two – or a
short stroke – if it is even. These four initial figures (shakl, pl. ashkāl) form the basis
of further regroupings, that finally lead to the geomantic tableau of 16 figures that are
then interpreted (for more details, see ↗ Regourd, Mantic Arts Islamic World, 472–473).
A vast number of instructive treatises on geomancy is preserved, their majority dating
from the thirteenth and fourteenth century and most of them anonymous. Most influential and widespread was the text by Abū ʻAbd Allāh al-Zanātī (fl. before 1232), who is
otherwise unknown and might be a member of the Berber Zanāta tribe of North Africa,
and the compiling treatise by Ibn Maḥfūf al-Munajjim whose identification with a
scholar from thirteenth century has to be reconsidered due to Latin translations of his
treatise from the twelfth century. Both sometimes form parts of larger works. Given
al-Zanātī’s time and role, together with the fact that geomantic practices are usually
not treated with dream interpretation and/or physiognomy, they might be employed
in a different milieu and might not date back before the rise of the Islam and related,
especially to Greek roots, but rather have emerged in Islamic times in (North) Africa.
Geomancy is one of the few prognostic practices, besides astrology, that employs
instruments only made for that specific purpose (↗ Cooper and Schmidl, Geomantic
Artefacts). This is clearly documented by a rectangular metal tablet preserved in the
British Museum that helps to generate a geomantic tableau. Because of its age (it dates
to 1241/1242), it makes an important contribution to our knowledge of pre-modern
geomantic practices (Savage-Smith and Smith 2004).
Bibliomancy (ṭarīq al-istikhrāj, lit. “the way of choices,” sometimes also qurʻa,
lit. “lot”), another, very popular cleromantic practice, is characterized by the twofold
role that books play in it, on the one hand informing us in detail about bibliomantic
practices and, on the other, the typical random patterns necessary to apply these practices are produced by books. Usually chosen are books either of religious signifi­cance
or of poetry, sometimes with a bibliomantic appendix, so that they turn into mantic
artefacts. The simplest method is to ask a question, then randomly open a book and
select a passage – usually the first upon which the eye falls. Next, the finding is interpreted in view of what the client wishes to know. For this practice, aside from the
Qurʼān, there might be used books of tradition, such as the Ṣāḥīḥ of al-Bukhārī, one of
the six Sunnī canonical ḥadīth collections, and on poetry, such as the Dīwān of Ḥāfiẓ
(fourteenth century), written in Persian and rather belonging to a Shīʻī environment.
Concerning bibliomancy by means of the Qurʼān, more ingenious practices are
reported, such as counting the words of Allāh on the page chosen and then skipping
the relevant number of pages before reaching the relevant verse. Qurʼān manuscripts
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Introductory Surveys
were produced, at least in Ṣafawid times, that might include either rearranged text in
schemes and tables or a bibliomantic appendix. Both features blur the borderline with
lot books, a specific variety of a cleromantic practice by means of books. They are,
especially in Eastern Islamic societies, known by the Persian term fāl-nāma (lit. “omen
book,” and therefore “book of divination”), a term that can also denote bibliomancy
in general. These lot books arrange their data in differing variations and are often
attributed to well-known authorities, such as Daniel, Jaʻfar al-Ṣādiq and al-Kindī.
A very popular, widespread variety of lot books, that also became quite popular
in early modern Europe under the title “Liber Alfadhol,” consists of three main parts:
an introduction with operative instructions, a list of 144 questions and 12 answers
to each question. This 12-part lot book (“Zwölffelderlosbuch” [Kunitzsch 1984, 284]),
with its intricate transmission history, dates back to an Arabic original, which was, in
turn, probably based on Persian or Indian traditions. It is alternatively and allegedly
attributed to al-Faḍl ibn Sahl (ninth century), probably the courtier and astrologer of
this name at the court of the ʻAbbāsid Caliph al-Maʼmūn, and al-Kindī, the famous
ninth-century philosopher and prolific author of many scholarly treatises.
A relatively late example of a bibliomantic practice is documented at least in
Ottoman and Ṣafawid times, identifiable from a group of manuscripts that transmit
elaborate pictures and prognostic texts, although the sources provide hints that these
pictorial lot books had already been in existance for a long time. The pictorial material of these Fāl-nāma draws on a wide repertoire of well-known objects, narratives
and figures issuing from Ancient Greek, Indian and Persian as well as (early) Islamic
traditions and taken mainly from the Qurʼān, the ḥadīth literature, historiographical and astrological treatises; e. g., Alexander the Great erecting the wall against Gog
and Magog, Jonah and the Whale, Muḥammad’s nightly journey or the planet Saturn.
Some of the presentations restore an eschatological topography and chronology; e. g.,
by depicting paradise, hell, the arrival of the antichrist or the last judgment. As a consequence, this bibliomantic practice, belonging to those that rely on signs emerging
from observation or generation and calculation, is linked to another whose signs rely
on those emerging from inspiration and intuition. According to hints in the sources
further artefacts were used to support bibliomantic practices; e. g., dice and rods.
Besides these cleromantic practices, a second group rests on interpreting letters
(ʻilm al-ḥurūf, lit. “science of the letters”) and draws on two fundamental issues; first,
and similar to inanimate and animate nature, the letters also possess occult properties
(khāṣṣa – khawāṣṣ). Accordingly, they might be treated in a similar way to minerals,
plants, and animals, particularly by taking into account the sympathy and antipathy
between them, and they provide ample scope for further interpretation.
Second, alphanumerical notation assigns to each letter of the Arabic alphabet
a number (see Tab. 1) similar to the usage in Greek, Syriac and Hebrew. Due to a
re-grouping of the alphabet in earlier times, the modern ordering of the Arabic alphabet differs from that of the abjad-system, which is named according to the first four
letters (alif, bāʼ, jīm, dāl), corresponding to the first four digits (1, 2, 3, 4). This alpha-
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Petra G. Schmidl
numeric system is widely used in pre-modern astronomical, astrological, mathematical and other contexts, not only for writing values in texts and tables, but also to
denote specific points, e. g., in geometric schemes or in depictions of instruments,
mainly to relate them to the accompanying descriptions.
Tab. 1: Numerical values of the Arabic (Eastern/Western part of the Islamic realm), Hebrew and Greek
letters. (The assignments differ slightly for the Western part of the Islamic realm.)
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
20
30
40
50
Arabic
Hebrew
Greek
‫ا‬
‫ب‬
‫جـ‬
‫د‬
‫ه‬
‫و‬
‫ز‬
‫ح‬
‫ط‬
‫ي‬
‫ك‬
‫ل‬
‫م‬
‫ن‬
‫א‬
‫ב‬
‫ג‬
‫ד‬
‫ה‬
‫ו‬
‫ז‬
‫ח‬
‫ט‬
‫י‬
‫כ‬
‫ל‬
‫מ‬
‫נ‬
Α
Β
Γ
Δ
Ε
Ϝ
Ζ
Η
Θ
Ι
Κ
Λ
Μ
Ν
60
70
80
90
100
200
300
400
500
600
700
800
900
1000
Arabic
Hebrew
Greek
‫س‬/‫ص‬
‫ع‬
‫ف‬
‫ص‬/‫ض‬
‫ق‬
‫ر‬
‫ش‬/‫س‬
‫ت‬
‫ث‬
‫خ‬
‫ذ‬
‫ض‬/‫ظ‬
‫ظ‬/‫غ‬
‫غ‬/‫ش‬
‫ס‬
‫ע‬
‫פ‬
‫צ‬
‫ק‬
‫רּ‬
‫ש‬
‫ת‬
‫ך‬
‫ם‬
‫ן‬
‫ף‬
‫ץ‬
Ξ
Ο
Π
Ϙ
Ρ
Σ
Τ
Υ
Φ
Χ
Ψ
Ω
Ϡ
Reading a combination of letters either as a word or number facilitates a wide variety
of arithmantic and magic uses. To provide a simple example, the combination of yāʼ
and dāl in Arabic might be read either as yad, “hand,” or “14” with yāʼ for ten, dāl for
four.
Although it only works properly with alphabets that use letters as numbers, i. e.,
Greek, Syriac, Hebrew, and Arabic, some of these practices reached Europe, too,
forming, e. g., the basis of a group of Latin texts dealing with simple arithmancy and
astrology called the Alchandreana but, there, they obtained another status, becoming less common and less scientific, probably because the link between letters and
numbers relaxes and the rules connecting them became unclear.
A widely described onomantic practice, called “The victorious and the vanquished” (al-ghālib wa-l-maghlūb but also ḥisāb al-nīm, lit. “the calculation of nīm”),
sums up the numerical values of the letters in two combatants’ names and, after performing various intermediate steps of calculation, the two results are looked up in a
list or table that provides a prediction regarding who will win and who will lose the
fight. It is presented in Greek, Hebrew, Syriac, Arabic, Latin and several vernacular
manuscripts; e. g., in the Arabic version of the Sirr al-asrār (↗ Forster, Sirr al-asrār/
Secretum secretorum).
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Introductory Surveys
These practices interpreting letters acquire further levels of meaning and interpretation through the superimposition of additional components; e. g., the grouping
of the letters according to the four elements or relating them to the seven planets
of pre-modern astronomy. An example is a procedure called zāʼirja al-ʻālam (approx.
“the circular scheme of the world”), whose first term includes a wider range of
meaning. With regard to arithmantic practices, these consist of a number of concentric circles and axes or diameters in a reactangular frame filled with numerological,
but also astrological and geomantic information, and relate these data to each other.
Ibn Khaldūn provides a highly detailed description of this in the sixth prefatory discussion of his Muqaddima, so he appears to have been familiar with this practice (↗
Regourd, Mantic Arts Islamic World, 472–473).
Closely related is jafr, a term designating, in pre-modern times, a complex set
of concepts related to prognostication. How this concrete relationship is described,
however, in modern research differs slightly. While already in Umayyad and then in
ʻAbbāsid times, jafr apparently denotes a group of esoteric texts with an apocalyptical
character that arose due to the struggle for the Caliphate by the descendants of ʻAlī
and the persecutions following their defeat, it later developed into writings on mantic
practices and magic applications that make use not only of the numerical values of the
letters but also of their occult properties. To the great variety of procedures belong the
transposition, combination, composition and substitution of letters, either to reveal
or conceal specific knowledge. Accordingly, the prognostic element, in contrast to,
for instance, onomantic practices, is relatively unclear. Jafr appears rather to exist in
a transition zone, where occult, magical, mystical, spiritual and religious practices
meet. Numerous authors wrote on this subject, among others, al-Būnī in his Shams
al-maʻārif, Muḥyī al-Dīn ibn al-ʻArabī (d. 1240) in his Miftāḥ al-jafr al-jāmiʻ, Ibn Ṭalḥa
al-ʻAdawī al-Rājī (d. 1254) in his Miftāḥ al-jafr al-jāmiʻ (or: al-Durr al-munaẓẓam fi l-sirr
al-aʻaẓam) and ʻAbd al-Raḥmān al-Bisṭāmī (1454) in his Miftāḥ al-jafr al-jāmiʻ (or:
al-Durr al-munaẓẓam fi l-sirr al-aʻẓam). In some cases, jafr even includes descriptive
astrological and folk astronomical procedures as well as prognostic practices as found
in the malḥama literature, for instance elections, the directions of the winds, the visibility of the lunar mansions, and the predictions of the year and omens, altogether
rather descriptive than calculating methods.
The attitude toward mantic practices, as reflected in examples taken from reflexive texts, is ambiguous and differs from practice to practice, while other contextual
factors might also prove influential; e. g., the overall political situation, religious movements, scholarly climate or personal intentions. While inanimate natural signs appear
in the Qurʼān, particularly in eschatological and apocalyptical contexts, e. g., sūra 99,
that even bears the title “The earthquake,” animate natural signs are regarded as bad
omens and condemned as a pagan practice, an interpretation based on sūra 36:17–18.
Both verses use terms with the same root as ṭīra, that denotes the interpretation of
flight of birds, an early mantic practice in Ancient Mesopotamia that continued into
Antiquity until pre-Islamic times. It was later extended to include all mantic practices
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221
by means of animal and human behaviour. The semantic shift in this term, however,
does not lead to an overall prohibition of these practices, probably related to the traditions reporting that the Prophet distinguishes between two kinds of omens: ṭīra,
signifying a bad one, and faʼl, a term that does not occur in the Qurʼān, a good one.
Concerning artificial signs, on the one hand two verses in sūrāt v,3 and 90 prohibit
the casting of lots by arrows without a head and feathers (istiqsām), probably referring
to pre-Islamic belomantic practices. In the second case, they are condemned together
with wine (khamr) and the game of the left-handed (maysir), likewise involving arrows,
but also the slaughter of animals, forming the basis for the ban on drinking and gambling (qimār) under Muslim law. These findings, however, create the impression that,
rather being widely practiced in pre-Islamic times that led to their condemnation then
the practices themselves, probably further influenced by accusations brought forward
by Muḥammad’s adversaries that he was a soothsayer and by getting out of hand in
that time.
Casting lots (qurʻa), however, was, in general, regarded as a licit practice, legitimated by the example of the Prophet, who employed it to make decisions, e. g., regarding distribution issues. At least concerning bibliomancy by means of the Qurʼān,
however, critical voices arise that regard this practice as illicit.
Other critical voices are more general, e. g., Ibn Waḥshiyya doubting the truth
content of soothsayers’ sayings (cf. Hämeen-Anttila 2006, 270–272) or Ibn Khaldūn
querying in the sixth prefatory discussion of the Muqaddima their capability to gain
access to hidden knowledge. Nevertheless, in some cases, mantic practices find their
place among the sciences and their branches; e. g., in Ḥājjī Khalīfa’s Kashf al-Ẓunūn.
He includes the mantic arts in general (ʻilm al-kihāna), twice, in medicine (al-ṭibb)
as well as in magic (al-siḥr). Further, he assigns chiromancy (ʻilm al-asārīr), scapulimancy (ʻilm al-aktāf), and palmomancy (ʻilm al-ikhtilāj) to physiognomy (al-firāsa),
geomancy (ʻilm al-raml), the science of (good) omens (ʻilm al-faʼl), cleromancy (ʻilm
al-qurʻa), and the science of (bad) omens (or: ornithomancy; ʻilm al-ṭīra) to astrology
(ʻilm aḥkām al-nujūm; cf. Kātib Čelebī [Flügel] 1842, I, 34–35).
In particular, what belongs to common knowledge, folk sayings and proverbs
finds its way into poems and belles-lettres; e. g., the raven that announces a departure, a well-known motif that also features in the Arabian Nights. Several stories in
this collection draw on geomantic practices, particularly to answer the question of
whether a person is dead or not (Savage-Smith and Smith 2004, 220–221). Some of
these passages deserve, however, a careful re-interpretation, because a dust board
might also serve as an auxiliary device for calculation (↗ Schmidl, Astral Sciences
Islamic World, 543).
Astral Sciences
While mantic practices interpret sub-lunar signs, the interpretation of supra-lunar
signs belongs to the realm of the astral sciences (usually ʻilm al-nujūm, lit. “the science
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Introductory Surveys
of the stars”), a term coined to cover astronomy (ʻilm al-hayʼa, lit. “the science of the
configuration”) and astrology (ʻilm aḥkām al-nujūm, lit. “the science of the judgement
by means of the stars;” for more variations and details, see ↗ Schmidl, Astral Sciences
Islamic World).
They address issues such as determining the position of the sun or the movements
of the planets to learn more about the future, be it, e. g., to determine the prayer times
for a specific place and time or to describe the character of a newborn child. Ptolemy’s two major works, the Almagest and the Tetrabiblos, translated for the first time
into Arabic in the eighth century, together with further Greek, but also Syriac, Indian,
Persian, for al-Andalus even Latin, and pre-Islamic traditions form the kernel of those
concepts and methods that developed into the characteristic manifestations of what is
nowadays often called “Islamic” or “Arabic” astronomy and astrology, although both
terms are problematic (↗ Schmidl, Astral Sciences Islamic World, 532–533).
Interpreting supra-lunar signs that, according to Abū Maʻshar, “do not alter and
are not subject to coming-to-be and passing-away, for as long as God wills” (Abū
Maʻshar ([Yamamoto & Burnett] 2019, 71, 2.25c), however, is not the only reason why
astrology plays a specific role regarding other mantic practices. As ʻAlī ibn Riḍwān
(eleventh century), a doctor and author of medical texts in Fāṭimid Cairo, states, in his
commentary to Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos:
[…] the science of prognostication is of many kinds, we will say that this art of astrology is one
of them, and you will understand first that it is more certain than all of them, more true, more
general and in every respect, complete. (ʻAlī ibn Riḍwān, trans. Burnett 1996, I, 14–15)
Recalling Ibn Khaldūn’s statement that geomancy developed because astrology was
so complicated, one might even add “more difficult” and “more elaborate.” Both
authors, however, might rather consider a high-end astrology whose understanding
requires an advanced niveau of education, particularly an adequate knowledge of
astronomy and mathematics.
Instructive texts on the astral sciences are known from the eighth century onward.
They either include both aspects (astronomy and astrology), or concentrate on only
one of them. Among the first, one might number zījes, astronomical-astrological
handbooks (↗ Gaida, Zījes) and taqwīms (lit. “correcting”, “rectifying”), a term sometimes rendered by ephemeris, although the tables that present the positions of sun,
moon and planets for every day of the year only form their core and allow, therefore,
the prediction of their movements as well as their interpretation. Additional information broadens the use of taqwīms for prognostic purposes. Often enclosed are, e. g., the
aspects of the planets and the solar altitude at the beginning of the midday (al-ẓuhr)
and afternoon prayer (al-ʻaṣr) and, less frequently, the lunar latitude, a parameter
that is important in predicting eclipses, and the time, location and condition of the
first lunar visibility, the basis of the hijra calendar. Other examples with less mathematical, but more descriptive – sometimes denounced folk – methods are ­almanacs
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223
and ­calendars, whose basic organisation follows, similar to the taqwīms, the yearly
course of the sun or the moon against the background of the stars, albeit simplified
and ­standardized (↗ Varisco, Calendrical Calculations Islamic World, 641–643).
Besides zījes and almanacs, instrument books might include not only astronomical
but also astrological information and form a bridge to the use of instruments for astrological purposes (↗ Rodríguez Arribas, Mathematical Instruments).
Due to the descriptive character of the included mantic practices, but also by providing predictions by means of eclipses, the malḥama literature might be regarded
as crossing boundaries to the astral sciences, an issue that deserves further research.
In the second category, treatises dealing exclusively with astronomy, one might
include those of the hayʼa tradition that become graspable at least as early as the eleventh century. In the third category, astrological treatises, one might include the texts
of the mudkhal genre, introductory literature into astrology (↗ Gaida, Introductions
to Astrology) and texts concentrating on specific topics; e. g., historical, electional or
interrogational astrology (↗ Schmidl, Astral Sciences Islamic World).
While texts on mantic practices barely discuss the philosophical and theological aspects of their contents, astrological treatises might include them; e. g., Kūshyār
ibn Labbān (fl. ca. 1000) at the beginning of his Mujmal al-uṣūl fī aḥkām al-nujūm
(“Summary of the principles in astrology”), also called al-Mudkhal fī ṣināʻat aḥkām
al-nujūm (“The introduction to the craft of astrology”), or Abū Maʻshar in the first
book of his Mudkhal al-kabīr, one of the earliest, most elaborate examples (↗ Gaida,
Zījes). He lists ten kinds of critics and refutes them systematically; e. g., the motif of
envy that finds its expression in criticizing astrology, returns, this time by those who
have tried but failed to master astrology. His list also allows a glimpse at the practices
of astrologers in early ʻAbbāsid times. He describes their use of zījes to find planetary
positions, but states that they are not responsible for their accuracy and recommends
instead measurement by reliable instruments.
Reflexive texts on the astral sciences and astronomical and astrological artefacts
cannot be systematized so easily. In fact, a major part does not concern the related
practices but the pictorial and symbolic language of astronomy and astrology that
stands out due to its enormous charisma, attractivity and appeal. It interacts with
other occult sciences, e. g., alchemy and magic, and is widely applied in the fields
of literature, craft, art and architecture for rhetorical, metaphorical, decorative, aesthetic and related purposes; e. g., when comparing a beautiful human face with the
full moon or using the sun as a royal symbol, as attested, e. g., by Saljūq coins from
the thirteenth century.
In the Qurʼān and the ḥadīth literature, the sun, moon and stars are mentioned
prominently. With regard to prognostic practices, however, two verses of the Qurʼān
are of particular interest. The first is sūra 10:5 which is widely interpreted as meaning
that God created the sun and moon as a time base. Their movements regulate the
lunar calendar with its feast and fast days and the five daily ritual prayers, although
their being five in number is not yet indubitably established in the Qurʼān: “It is He
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Introductory Surveys
who made the sun a radiance, and the moon a light, and determined it by stations,
that you might know the number of the years and the reckoning.” Second, in sūra
6:97, the stars are more generally described as a guidance set for humans by God: “It
is He who has appointed for you the stars, that by them you might be guided in the
shadows of land and sea.” ʻAbd al-Malik ibn Ḥabīb (d. 853), e. g., a versatile Andalusī scholar of Umayyad times not only in ḥadīth and religious law, but also in the
fields of history, medicine, genealogy, poetry, and linguistics, interprets this verse in
a strict non-astrological sense – whereby the opposite interpretation might also be
insinuated.
While several ḥadīths of the Sunnī collections organized according to subject-matter refer to mantic practices and their practitioners, only Abū Daʼūd (b. 817) equalizes
in his Sunna, in the chapter dedicated to divination and omens, the acquisition of
knowledge by means of the stars (ʻilm min al-nujūm) with the acquisition of a branch of
magic. This equalization already points to a major issue in religious, theological and
legal studies: the legitimacy and validity of astrology. Together with discussions in
other branches of the scholarly literature, particularly in philosophical, mathematical
and even astronomical treatises, they might fill entire libraries. The positions range
from a rigoros refusal to absolute approval, with all shades of grey in between.
In general, the debate is sparked less by the contents proper and the applied prognostic practices, apart from the subject of errors in astrological predictions, but more
from the philosophical and religious concepts and implications; e. g., the claim to
reveal knowledge that is usually inaccessible to humans or the place of astral sciences
in the overall organiation of knowledge.
Three examples might suffice to illustrate the diversity and complexity of this
issue, the first coming from an Ismāʻīlī setting, albeit disputable if mainstream, in
tenth-century Iraq and Iran. Abū Yaʻqūb al-Sijzī (fl. tenth century), a leading figure in
his community, treats in his Ithbāt al-nubūʼāt (“Proofs of prophecies”) a treatise whose
textual history is still not completely clear, astrology on a par with all sciences and
techniques that are revealed to prophets and imams.
The second originates from a Sunnī context of fourteenth-century Syria and
Egypt. Ibn Taymīyah deals in three formal legal opinions (sing. fatwā) with those who
believe in the influence of the planets and stars. In relying on verses of the Qurʼān
and the ḥadīth collections, he declares this belief as corrupt, and the art of astrology
as forbidden.
The third describes, in retropect, what one might understand as the place of
astrology in al-Andalus probably until the end of the Umayyad Caliphate in 1031.
al-Maqqarī (d. 1632), a historian, biographer and man of letters, who lived and worked
in seventeenth century Maghreb and Egypt, provides, in the first part of his Nafḥ al-ṭīb,
remarks by Ibn Saʻīd al-Maghribī (d. 1286), a poet, anthologist, historian and geographer from the same region. What starts as an equalization of astrology with philosophy, a term with a certain range of meaning, and a clear and general disregard
of them, is put into relative perspective in the following sentence, that refers to the
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interest in these two branches of knowledge by what might be described as the innermost circle, close to the ruler:
All sciences are well considered and studied in al-Andalus, except philosophy and astrology
(tanjīm), but these two sciences deeply interest aristocrats who do not show towards them the
same fear plebeians seem to feel. (Samsó 1979, 228)
Regarding the classification and organization of the sciences, in general, the astral
sciences were regarded as part of either the natural or the mathematical sciences (↗
Schmidl, Astral Sciences Islamic World, 542). Due to the ambiguity of the terms used,
however, it is, without checking the text, often difficult to decide if the astral sciences,
astronomy or astrology are addressed. This is not always as clear as in the case of the
third epistle of the Brethren of Purity who give it the title asṭurnūmiyā by rendering the
Greek term into Arabic and use, in the preface, ʻilm al-nujūm. In the subsequent text,
they deal accordingly with astronomy and astrology.
Reflexive texts also provide more insights into the everyday business of the practitioners of the astral sciences. The administrative sources that deal with the training
and employment of those supervising the markets in the widest sense (al-muḥtasibūn)
draw a relatively negative image of astrologers who earn their living in these public
places. They are compared with barrowmen and tricksters who madden women and
bring death to men. It should be forbidden. Elsewhere, writers of letters and astrologers are stipulated to attend to their business in the middle of the main streets, rather
than in shops and alleyways, since the necessary supervision is simplified there. The
reason for this ordinance is apparently a concern that men might exploit the situation
because the clientele of these writers of letters and astrologers tend to be women.
In the Arabian Nights, when advice and information are required particularly
concerning the future and fate of children, astrologers appear several times. Their
demeanor, however, also gives rise to mockery them (↗ Schmidl, Astral Sciences
Islamic World, 535). In the lengthy story of the slave women, Tawaddud, whose skills
in all branches of knowledge are tested before the Caliph by the most learned scholars (Nights 436–462), one gains an impression of the quantity and quality of astronomical and astrological knowledge available to a broader, albeit scholarly, audience
(Night 454–457). It comprises, e. g., the nature of the planets and further information
as found, albeit with more details, in the mudkhal literature (↗ Gaida, Introductions
to Astrology), predictions depending of the weekday of the first day of a year that
resemble those prognostic practices provided in the malḥama literature and the four
elements including their association with the zodiacal signs, but also the five things
that only God knows.
A great number of instruments used for astronomical and astrological purposes
in the widest sense are preserved – leaving aside all artefacts that only make use
of the pictorial language of the astral sciences mainly for decoration. They comprise
relatively small, transportable objects up to huge installations used in observatories,
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e. g., in Maragha in thirteenth, Samarqand in the fifteenth and Istanbul in the seventeenth centuries, that facilitate measurement, calculation, illustration and demonstration. Related, directly and indirectly, to prognostication are all kinds of timekeeping devices that were in use, such as different types of water-clocks and sundials, plus
measuring tools such as quadrants, calculating instruments and models. Different
functions are combined in astrolabes, partially also in celestial globes and armillary
spheres (↗ Rodríguez Arribas, Mathematical instruments).
Weather Forecasting
Different to mantic arts and astral sciences weather forecasting (ʻilm aḥdāth al-jaww,
lit. “the science of the phenomena of the atmosphere” or sometimes simply fī l-maṭar
[or: fī l-amṭār; “on rain[s]”, but also and including meteorology ʻilm al-āthār al-ʻulwiyya, lit. “the science of celestial effects”) is not defined by the signs interpreted, but
by the purpose it serves. Therefore, its prognostic repertoire is far broader, including
answers to the question of when rain will come, one of the five hidden things only God
knows, through interpreting signs and predicting weather phenomena linked either
by cause and effect, empirical values or occasion.
Compared with the broad variety of practices, the clients’ interest in weather
forecasts is highly specific and often determined by their work and profession; e. g.,
farmers wish to know when it will rain in order to decide when to sow or harvest; seafarers need to know when the wind will be favorable for them to set sail; military personal are interested in the weather conditions for an envisaged campaign; physicians
need breaks in the weather in order to promote human health through interactions.
Weather forecasting practices comprise mainly three lines: one that makes use
of sublunar natural signs, another that employs supra-lunar signs, and a third that
might be best rendered by scientific weather forecasting. All require different levels of
experience, from an alert mind via fundamental astronomical and astrological knowledge to an advanced experience of different branches of knowledge, including astronomy, astrology, mathematics and physics, presented in their own kind of instructive
literature.
Weather signs, all sublunar natural signs, or omens, mainly inanimate but sometimes also animate, that indicate rain and other weather phenomena, form the first
traditional line. They belong to a stock of common knowledge, folk sayings and intergenerational experience, as is also known from the Ancient Mesopotamian and Greek
traditions. In particular, atmospheric phenomena, such as the color of the sky, halos
around the sun and moon or rainbows, indicate rain and breaks in the weather. They
occur, e. g., in the malḥama literature, together with other kinds of prognostication:
Dāniyāl (P) said: If there is a halo around the Moon in the month of Nīsān this indicates a multitude of winds, earthquakes and clouds; but the fruits will be good. If this takes place in Ayyār
the barley will be better than the wheat, and the oil will be good in that year. If this happens in
Ḥazīrān heat and diseases will be frequent in that year. If this happens in Tammūz the cold will
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227
be severe, most of the people will perish in that year and the price of large olives will rise. (Fodor
1974, 112 [English translation] and 39 [Arabic text])
Ibn Waḥshiyya, in his Nabatean agriculture, also mentions as weather signs the
behavior of mammals, birds and insects:
If cows keep turning their head towards the south, this indicates rain. If ants appear from their
nest and spread around carrying their eggs from one place to another this indicates rain. If chickens cluck a lot and cocks crow continuously at unusual times and both the chickens and the
cocks shiver and louse themselves, this indicates either rain or cold. If all of a sudden many
crows which continuously croak appear, this indicates severe cold. (Ibn Waḥshiyya [Fahd], 212
[Arabic text]; Hämeen-Anttila 2006, 82 [English translation])
If all else fails, one might even draw on scapulimantic practices. Some Arabic manuscripts mark out a place on the shoulder blade that indicates abundant rain.
The second line employs supra-lunar signs, sometimes denoted as astrometeor­
ology, but in two different ways, with the first considering the apparent movement
of the sun and moon, but also of specific stars, as a time base (↗ Schmidl, Astral
Sciences Islamic World, 544). The sun’s position against the background of the zodiacal signs or, more precisely, its ecliptic longitude, answers for the seasonal and,
accordingly weather, changes, and provides a basis of all solar calendars; e. g., when
the sun enters Aries in the northern hemisphere, the days become longer, the nights
shorter, and spring begins. This parallelism of the seasons and dates is its main advantage over a lunar calendar. Therefore, the related information can be easily organized
according to the date in a solar year, as far back as the Ancient Greek traditions, and
is recorded in calendars and almanacs. Besides the sun and moon, the concept of the
anwāʼ, whose different aspects are often confused, is used in a similar way, relying
on the pre-Islamic traditions and Arab star lore. While it appears to denote, originally
and commonly, the rain falling at the acronychal setting of a star, it also describes the
heliacal risings and acronychal settings of a system of 28 stars and groups of stars
positioned alongside the ecliptic, the apparent path of the sun around the earth before
the zodiac. In Islamic times, merging with the lunar mansions, these risings and settings subdivide the year into 28 intervals of, usually, 12, 13 and 14 days (nawʼ – anwāʼ)
that run parallel to the seasons, providing a stellar calendar that can, therefore, be
used for weather forecasting. Sometimes, nawʼ only designates the setting, and less
often the rising, as discussed in the sources, that marks the beginning of such an
interval. Further, in such an interval, a shorter period of up to seven days might also be
called nawʾ, apparently possessing its own weather characteristics. The anwāʼ system
is mainly discussed in a specific genre named after it, that might not only include
its explanation and tables with the dates of the risings and settings of the stars, and
information on wind and rain, but also proverbs and poetry. Accordingly, information on weather forecasting might be more difficult to access than in a calendar or
almanac.
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Introductory Surveys
The other method employs astrological concepts for weather forecasting; e. g., considering the association of the planets with certain weather phenomena, such as the
opening of the doors (fatḥ al-abwāb), that takes into consideration the positions of two
planets and also that of their houses to each other. Another example provides the lot
of rain (sahm al-maṭar); that is, e. g., mentioned also in al-Bīrūnī’s Tafhīm, whose practical or prognostic use is, however, not specified beyond its name (↗ Schmidl, Astral
Sciences Islamic World, 542). Since the borderline with astrology is blurred, the topic
might be included not only in treatises on weather forecasting but might also appear
scattered in astrological texts; e. g., in Abū Maʻshar’s Mudkhal al-kabīr, accordingly
called astrological meteorology and understood as a branch of mundane astrology.
The third tradition, scientific weather forecasting, comprises, if one wills, the
instructive part, while meteorology provides the theoretical background. It becomes
first noticeable in al-Kindī’s treatises dealing with this topic, that are, however, only
preserved in Hebrew and Latin, as the Arabic original is lost. Familiar with Aristotle’s Meteorologica probably from the translation by Yaḥyā ibn al-Bitrīq (fl. mid-ninth
century), he makes this treatise fruitful for weather forecasting and integrates the
other two traditions.
Medical Diagnosis and Prognosis
Similar to weather forecasting and opposite to mantic practices and astral sciences,
medical diagnosis and prognosis are not defined by the signs they interpret, but by the
purpose they serve. Therefore, its prognostic repertoire is also far broader. Predictions
might cover, e. g., the appearance or disappearance of health and disease, death or
survival, and, if so, the period of time required to recover. They both form a branch of
medicine ([ʻilm] al-ṭibb) and comprise only a part of the medical process. In general,
medical diagnosis and medical prognosis both interpret signs in the widest sense; e. g.,
a patient’s temperament and humoral balance, but also seasonal and environmental circumstances. They, however, pursue different objectives – and, in the narrower
sense of the word, take place in different parts of the medical process. Not always
sharply separated and easy to distinguish, the differences might be approached by
describing the practices of medical diagnosis in order to narrow down and finally
determine a disease’s causes, while medical prognosis constitutes those practices that
make it possible to predict a disease’s progress and the impact of treatment. Due to
the inherent uncertainties and imponderabilities, both might be regarded as a kind of
prediction based on signs observed and ascertained (↗ Cooper, Medical Prognostication Islamic World).
Since medicine and medical processes include medical diagnosis and prognosis,
they both belong to the remits of the authors and practitioners working in these fields.
Accordingly, what is known about doctors (ṭabīb – aṭṭibāʼ), and further medical practitioners and their clients, or patients, holds true, in general, also for them; e. g., findings concerning different kinds of training, levels of expertise or places of practice.
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With regard to prognostication, the question of whether a doctor has to be an
astrologer is of some significance. The answer, parallel to the general attitude toward
astrology, varies widely. A couple of scholars were trained in both fields, as documented in the treatises they wrote; e. g., ʻAlī ibn Riḍwān. For Abū Maʻshar, this is
unquestionable, as he states in the first book of his Mudkhal al-kabīr, where he also
refers to doctors’ different levels of experience.
A specific case of medical diagnosis and prognosis is due to midwives. As Abū
Maʻshar describes in the first book of his Mudkhal al-kabīr, they possess a wide prognostic repertoire related to pregnancy, childbed and birth; e. g., specific changes concerning the tips of a women’s breast point to pregnancy, and the form of a pregnant
woman’s belly indicates the gender of the unborn child, therefore providing answers
to one of the five hidden things that only God knows (namely, what is in a woman’s
womb).
Apparently, medical diagnosis and prognosis by doctors was mainly available in
the bigger cities, but not in the countryside, and for influential, affluent persons who
were usually attended at home. There is, however, some evidence that, on the one
hand, experienced but uneducated women provided these practices in the rural areas,
and, on the other, that doctors were obliged to refrain from requesting payment from
patients who were unable to afford it.
Concerning their origins, the astral sciences and medicine share some commonalities; e. g., the influences of the Greek, but also the Persian, Syriac and Indian traditions; the pivotal role attributed to the oeuvre of one author, this time, Galen; and the
writing of instructive texts from the eighth century onward. Usually, diagnostic and
prognostic practices form part of larger treatises where they are combined with other
information; e. g., in the Mudkhal fī ʻilm al-ṭibb (“Introduction to medicine”) by Ḥunayn
ibn Isḥāq (fl. ninth century), a prolific translator from Greek to Arabic and sometimes
Syriac, or in the Kitāb Kāmil al-ṣināʻa aṭ-ṭibbiyya (“The complete book on the medical
art”; also al-Kitāb al-Malakī [“The royal book”]) by al-Majūsī (fl. tenth century), a
doctor of Būyid times, that deals in the seventh chapter, among other things, with
inspecting urine and feeling the pulse; if one will, sublunar signs, whose importance
for medical diagnosis and prognosis is stressed, e. g., in the Kitāb al-Sūmūmāt (“The
Book on Poisons”) by Jābir ibn Ḥayyān (lat. Geber; fl. eighth century), a pupil of Jaʻfar
al-Ṣādiq and mainly renowned due to his alchemical work. Both practices, highly
popular and widely used, might be, e. g., included in case histories such as those collected by the students of al-Rāzī (d. 925) in the Kitāb al-Ḥāwī (“The comprehensive
book”) that was later translated into Latin, like many other Arabic medical treatises,
or described in treatises solely focussing on one of these two subjects as, e. g., in two
smaller treatises by Ibn Sīnā.
Besides interpreting these bodily signs, mantic practices were also used for
medical diagnosis and prognosis; e. g., arithmancy that helps to identify the best treatment by taking into account the numerical values of the letters of a patient’s name. In
general, questions concerning health, disease, diet and treatment play a prominent
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role in many prognostic practices, to name but a few, in dream incubation, geomancy
and electional astrology.
Apart from these sublunar signs, to make diagnoses and prognoses, practitioners
also consider supralunar signs, such as the rising and setting of stars or position of the
planets. Similar to weather forecasting, they play a twofold role, although sometimes
both might be merged, either functioning as a time base or within an astrological
framework, sometimes called iatromathematics.
The former is found, e. g., in calendars and almanacs providing good and bad days
for taking medicine or bloodletting. In both cases, the practitioner predicts, if one will,
the positive outcome, when these practices are performed at the correct time. Depending on the season – and the four humors with which they are associated – doctors
might predict diseases, fevers and other thing; the line with astrological concepts is
crossed. The same holds for, e. g., harvesting medical plants when several planets
must be in specific houses or dignities, or bloodletting when the moon is in the zodiacal sign associated with the body part in question. Actual and notional concepts,
such as the zodiacal signs or the astrological houses, are associated, e. g., with the
four humors, but also with food, drink, a person’s characteristics or body parts, that
all help to provide medical diagnoses and prognoses.
Besides this system of medicine described so far, there developed another one,
called al-ṭibb al-nabawī (“prophetic medicine”), that is mainly based on what the
Qurʼān and aḥādīth state concerning medical practices, but sometimes also drawing
on certain medical sources, which became enormously popular. It appears, however,
that medical diagnosis and prognosis are relatively neglected in texts of this genre,
probably for theological and philosophical reasons.
Concerning artefacts, there are instruments for medical investigation, examination and treatment preserved, e. g., surgical instruments, but also medicinal-magic
bowls or talismanic shirts, but no objects exclusively for medical diagnosis and
medical prognosis proper.
Developments and Contexts
Prognostic practices take place in specific religious, social and political settings. They
vary widely across space and time, but also differ with regard to their specific manifestations. Nevertheless, they share certain commonalities, such as the interplay between
practitioners and clients or the dependency of the sphere of activity and level of expertise and serve, besides making accessible hidden knowledge, a range of purposes.
The practitioners who endure, present and perform prognostic practices require
different levels of scholarly knowledge and expertise depending on the specific manifestation. Those that rest on divine inspiration and intuition, such as prophecies,
visions or dreams, are, generally speaking, rather less in need of an expert than those
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231
who require being generated or calculated. The same holds for their interpretation.
Apparently, these practitioners did not restrict themselves to a single mantic practice,
and those studying lettrism were usually also interested in astrology and geomancy.
The different levels of scholarly knowledge and expertise of the practitioner on the
one side, and of his performance, entertainment and aesthetics on the other are mutually dependent. Highly-esteemed experts and scholars, working in a courtly context,
become concrete in dedications found at the beginning of their treatises, while those
of a lower standing canvass the market. Accordingly, their interactions with their
clients differ. Besides presenting their expertise by writing books or putting on a
show, they cover the further needs of their clients, who might learn, often exclusively,
something new, albeit still mysterious, and are entertained. They receive support for
decision-making and are provided with self-insurance. In general, following a prognostication, they expect to be wiser than before and to have enjoyed themselves. Their
consultation of a practitioner might even assume the form of a ritual act.
As far as known to date, all instructive texts dealing with prognostic practices
were written by men. There is, nonetheless, evidence of women’s interest and involvment in them.
An example, that rather highlights the practitioners’ side, is presented in
al-Bīrūnī’s introduction into astrology, the Tafhīm, that he dedicates to an otherwise
unknown woman called Rayḥāna bint al-Ḥasan, the daughter of al-Ḥasan, for whom
one may assume, nevertheless, a scholarly interest and a courtly background. Also,
the fact that it matters in the scapulimantic traditions whether a male or a female
practitioner cooks the sheep contributes to this finding. There is also some evidence
of female physicians, although rare, and of a competitive situation between uneducated women offering cures and care and educated doctors, as reflected in several
anecdotes.
One example that illuminates the clients’ side is found in the last paragraph of the
third chapter in Ibn Khaldūn’s Muqaddima, where he describes how mainly women
and children, but also unstable men, employ the service of those practitioners who
earn their living in the cities by predicting the future by different means and practices.
Another concerns high-ranking women patronizing hospitals.
The loci where prophets, visionaries, astrologers, diviners, doctors and other
persons, who make prognostications, work and earn their living, and where the
clients meet them to seek prognostication, shed light on their social reputation and
illustrate their relations and dependencies. To them belong the courts, observatories,
hospitals, clients and practitioners’ homes, shops, streets, and markets. The first
three loci raise the question of prognostication and sovereignty, whose link becomes
most obvious among the court astrologers and personal doctors. Besides political
advice and decision finding, the further interest of sovereigns in prognostic practices aimed to cope with the future, be it to learn more about personal affairs, such
as marriage and offspring, or public issues, such as the duration of the dynasty or
impending warfare. By applying prognostic practices to past events, as reflected,
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e. g., in the utilization of dream narratives and historical astrology, they not only
explain why things happened but also legitimize the rulership. One example that
Māshā’allāh provides in his Astrological History is that of a horoscope cast regarding
the rise of the ʻAbbāsids in 750, when the great conjunction took place in Scorpio,
“the sign of religion,” that followed horoscopes regarding the Deluge, the birth of the
Anointed, and Muḥammad.
Pre-modern Classification, Discussion, and Criticism
To speak in a general way about pre-modern classification, discussion and criticism of
all these prognostic practices faces mainly two difficulties. First, different text genres
have different interest in them, e. g., legal treatises might ask if they are licit or illicit,
or texts on philosophy might discuss the commonalities and differences between
prophecy and divination. Accordingly, some branches might be excluded. Second,
in the sources some prognostic practices might be treated as not belonging together.
Consequently, they are not discussed in the same place. In both cases, pre-modern
classification, discussion, and criticism do not cover all these prognostic practices.
Therefore, these aspects are discussed in this article when dealing with the relevant
practices. Further, this approach is aggravated by the fact that the meaning of the
terms used is often either ambiguous and/or varies in different places and times.
By recalling the five hidden things that only God knows and Muḥammad’s distinction between good and bad omens, it becomes clear that, over the long period of
time and the wide realm covered here, there existed a broad range of attitudes toward
prognostic practices, from a general critique to individual issues and from endorsement to rejection, with multiple layers of motives behind. One recurring point of criticism, however, concerns practitioners who are incapable, deceitful, and/or greedy, so
mockery appears to be a diction to express this finding.
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Ulrike Ludwig
Prognostication in Early Modern Times –
Outlook
Terminology and Definitions
Both in early modern texts and in later examinations of premodern times, there is
a highly divergent use of the terms related to the phenomena of fortune-telling and
magic. This is linked to the lack of a generally accepted definition of divination and
magic, as well as the absence of a clear distinction between these two phenomena
and/or other variables (e. g. religion and science). This meandering history of concepts and definitions is particularly apparent in regard to the broad concept of magic.
On the one hand, “magic” was used as a generic term to denote the secret arts as a
whole – from fortune-telling and witchcraft to alchemy and magia naturalis. Magic
was understood here in the sense of a transcendently grounded conception of nature.
On the other hand, the term was simultaneously used to designate a special aspect
of “magic” in the sense of wizardry (Otto 2011; Otto and Stausberg 2014). In the following remarks, therefore, no conceptual or even discourse- or reception-historical
delimitation of the phenomena is attemted: an analytical terminology is employed
instead.
In the following, divination is to be understood as the techniques and procedures
through which individuals, with the help of a higher, transcendent power, believed
themselves capable of obtaining information about future and otherwise hidden phenomena and developments (such as the fate of distant persons or the whereabouts of
lost objects). The transcendent power was, as a rule, God, a system of signs founded
by him (such as the starry sky) or – in the negative case – of a devilish nature.
The techniques through which one hoped to obtain the desired information differed considerably. In addition to the widespread, long-established methods, such as
astrology, there were also regional peculiarities or significant prognostic techniques
that were practiced for only a short time. At the same time, it should be emphasized
that, over the course of time, new forms of fortune-telling emerged (e. g. tarot, reading
coffee grounds).
In contrast to divination, magic (in the sense of sorcery) refers to all of those practices and techniques in which the actors, through recourse to a transcendent quantity,
believed that they could achieve a targeted change in the current conditions or future
development. Sorcery (whether as an active everyday aid or as dreaded witchcraft)
was omnipresent in early modern times. During the persecution of witches, centered
in the German-speaking territories in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the
contemporary confrontation with elements of “black” magic or sorcery becomes particularly apparent. In addition, there also existed a broad, albeit more inconceivable,
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-009
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“white” everyday magic (above all, protective spells for humans, animals and inanimate possessions, love spells). At the same time, we can also find relatively learned
confrontations with magic, ranging from hermetic concepts to aspects of alchemy to
debates about magia naturalis.
In this chapter, I will concentrate on the field of fortune-telling. Fortune-telling
was indeed linked to magical practices in the sense of determining the right time at
which to perform a spell, but a closer examination of these aspects lies beyond the
scope of this article.
In early modern Europe, and thus in the course of the three centuries between
1500 and 1800, fortune-telling underwent a fundamental devaluation but also a revaluation (cf. Chap. 2: Historical outline). The steadily increasing ability to write and
read in European society since the early sixteenth century, the invention of printing
press as well as the significantly lower cost of paper and ink also led to the fact that an
expanding number of testimonies of fortune-telling expertise and practice were being
created and handed down. It also becomes apparent that huge differences existed
between the description and evaluation of fortune-telling, depending on the historical context of the tradition (e. g. instructional texts, court records and prohibitions,
personal records of users or contemporary prose). This also had an effect on the use
of the terms found in the sources.
Three observations can be offered here: on the one hand, alongside the long-established Latin terms, there was an increasing use of vernacular terminology, often
consisting of translations from Latin. Only very occasionally do other terms feature,
such as geomancy. The Latin term denoted, on the one hand, the interpretations of
signs of the earth and, on the other hand, the geomancy originating from the Islamic
area (from the Arab. ʻilm alram). In German, this doubling was dissolved by the introduction of the new term, the “art of stippling” (Punktierkunst), but such fundamental
conceptual neologisms were relatively rare (↗ Melvin-Koushki, Geomancy Islamic
World).
On the other hand, it is clear with regard to the terminology that, beyond scholarly debates and instructional texts, the use of the terms quickly becomes inaccurate.
The problem here is less the variation in the terms as the lack, of specificity regarding the terms used to describe the techniques in many sources. In addition, there are
unspecific collective designations which, depending on the context, could even designate something quite particular (e. g. prognostica regarding a popular astrological
revolution in the form of a pamphlet).
Thirdly, fortune-telling has often been practiced in the semi-public, secret or
more personal contexts. Overall, it can be stated that a legitimizing reference to the
use of fortune-telling is the exception. This led to the fact that, in the designation
of actions and objects, frequently no references to fortune-telling were made; for
example, objects in princely collections related to astrology often traded under the
generic term of Mathematica. Although this term was not fundamentally incorrect,
it (possibly deliberately) emphasized the mathematical aspect while concealing the
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prophetic purpose. Subsequently it can be assumed that, in the understanding of contemporaries, the classification of objects and practices was possibly more frequently
not clearly understood as belonging to fortune-telling. This applies in particular to
those practices and objects that were part of science (scientia) or the learned arts (ars).
At the same time, however, it must be emphasized that, in view of the more diverse
sources, it is possible to explore systematically the language of the users, both in the
instructional literature and in the testimonies of prophetic practice. Here, however,
the research remains in its infancy.
Historical Outline:
General Developments of Prognostication across
Early Modern Times
Popularization and Rise
The continuities in the field of European fortune-telling from the Middle Ages to
c. 1800 are conspicuous and the debates regarding its advantages and disadvantages
were initially very similar. In addition, almost all forms of divination that were already
established and in use in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries remained significant.
This applies in particular to astrology and the applications associated with it, from
medical prognostics to calendaring, which boomed in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries (Stuckrad 2007; Minois 1998; Thomas 1991).
Only the religiously-inspired prophecies or, more precisely, the active prophets
lost some of their importance, although they did remain extremely influential in the
context of millenarian groups (such as the Anabaptists) or religious minorities (such
as the Huguenots after 1685) (Bauer 1993; Laborie 2014). Nevertheless, prophecies
remained popular, especially in the context of political propaganda (Kofler 2017;
Green 2012). A particularly prominent example of the political instrumentalisation of
prophetic texts is the interpretation of Gustav II Adolf in the Thirty Years’ War as the
“Lion of Midnight”, an interpretation thought to correspond to a prophecy by Paracelsus (Gilly 2000). Such reinterpretations of prophetic texts from the late Middle Ages
can be explained not least by the fact that the texts handed down in this way experienced numerous new editions in the course of the early modern period (Holdenried 2013).
In the sixteenth century, however, a change occurred in the form of enormous
popularization and dynamization: the combination of the “printing revolution” and
the “reading revolution”, triggered by the Reformation and Confessionalization, led
to new forms of dissemination and the use of fortune-telling as an instrument of
everyday action, as well as of overarching world interpretations. The “learned” forms
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of fortune-telling, in particular, garnered enormous popularity, due to the rapidly
increasing distribution of printed texts in the vernacular languages, as a technique
for personal use and also as a source of information. Naturally, it must be emphasized
that the important foundations for this “translation movement” into the vernacular
languages were laid in the fourteenth and especially in the fifteenth centuries (Ruhe
2012; Stuckrad 2007, 237–238).
In addition, we find not only quantitatively more users but, for the first time, also
fortune-telling mass media, such as almanacs or broadsheets, which provide information about individual, mostly disastrous prognoses. The mass distribution of printed
lotbooks also occurred, which helped the users to answer a number of standard questions themselves. Especially popular and widespread were almanacs or so called
writing calendars, as they contained astrologically determined counsels to medical
precaution, a daily weather forecast or advice for convenient days to travel, to sow or
to cut the hair. These may have made a significant contribution to the fact that astrological expertise in everyday life first became a matter of course in the cities and then,
since the late seventeenth century, increasingly also in the rural regions.
In addition, particularly unusual celestial phenomena, such as rare planetary
constellations or the emergence of long visible comets, developed into widely and
intensely discussed media events. Prominent examples are the excited discussions
about a second deluge in the 1520s (Talkenberger 1990; Zambelli 1986; Zambelli 1992;
Barnes 2016, 82–130) and the debate about comet C/1618 W1, whose long tail was
visible to the naked eye in both 1618 and 1619, and which was regarded by many as
the negative harbinger of the Thirty Years’ War (Bähr 2017, 9–19).
The everyday presence of divination is not to be confused with a fatalistic belief in
fortune-telling. The assertion that people use fortune-telling to make the “right” decision by choosing what will happen in the future misses the point anyway. The initial
studies on the practical application of fortune-telling show relatively clearly that it
was not used for making immediate decisions but to generate and/or examine information. With regard to the practical relevance of fortune-telling, it must also be clearly
emphasized that, as an information and consulting strategy, it never stood alone. The
recourse to information obtained through fortune-telling ultimately constituted only
a single strategy among others for dealing with the contingencies of present or future
situations and developments.
At the same time, it is important to note that by no means all were equally committed to fortune-telling. Samuel Pepys (1633–1703), for example, rarely mentioned fortune-telling in his extraordinarily detailed diary, comprising several printed volumes,
in which he recorded everything from secret love affairs, current political developments and intrigues, plays attended to the food he consumed. Although moving in the
same circles, he clearly did not seek the advice of William Lilly (1602–1681), the most
famous astrologer in London at this time (Pepys 1970–1983) In contrast, the diary of
Samuel Jeake of Rye (1652–1699) consists almost exclusively of fortune-telling and of
accurate astrological predictions, through the help of which Jeake understood and
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described his whole life (Hunter and Jeake 1988), These extremes clearly show that
fortune-telling as a strategy in the early modern period was a common, but by no
means universally and constantly used practice.
It should be emphasized however that, since the sixteenth century, the various
forms of fortune-telling and the information obtained about them, have become an
everyday and, above all, easily accessible common property that has been used in
all groups of society (although not by every member of these groups). Individual fortune-tellers and their predictions could also become a political factor. This is particularly evident in the English case where, during the English Civil War and the subsequent Commonwealth, astrologers’ predictions became a central support for Oliver
Cromwell and his political movement. This applies especially to William Lilly, who
unexpectedly correctly predicted the violent overthrow of the monarchy and the execution of Charles I of England (1600–1649), and whose predictions therefore carried
enormous weight thereafter (Curry 1989).
Although there was an overall “democratization” of access to fortune-telling
expertise, however, certain aspects of fortune-telling remained reserved for the elite
circles, where the ongoing debates about the astronomical foundations of astrology
(e. g. by Copernicus, Galilei, Kepler) or the further development of astrological interpretation traditions (e. g. in the case of the intermediary houses) were located. The
explosion of (Latin) texts in this field illustrates the remarkable intensity with which
various debates were conducted throughout Europe. A similar phenomenon can be
observed in the Neo-Platonic debates and the knowledge traditions around Hermes
Trismegistus. Christian Kabbala also formed a very special strand, reaching its first
climax in the environment of rapturous movements (Schubert 2008), but later finding
followers, above all, among scholars.
Enduring Delegitimization
From the mid-seventeenth century, however, a process began that led to a lasting delegitimization of divination in parts of society. This rejection can not be attributed to
a single aspect, but was linked to a wide variety of factors. According to the current
state of research, three developments, which are in part interwoven, are considered
particularly significant regarding the incipient delegitimization of divination. The first
is the rise of the natural sciences since the mid-seventeenth century and the successive implementation of new cosmological models, which lead to the eventual abandonment of the 6,000 years for the existence of the world (from creation to the last
day), which had long been considered binding. Due to this rethinking, the eschatological tendencies in prognostics in particular became far less effective. Moreover, the
detachment from sympathetic models and the ever increasingly complex astronomical database affected astrology particularly drastically. The latter manifests itself, for
example, in the constant discovery of new (and thus potentially influential) planets
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and stars, which increasingly called into question the long-established astrological
models of calculation and interpretation.
A second factor that contributed to the waning of fortune-telling was the enormous increase in the significance of other, at times new, forms of prognosis and risk
modelling that emerged since the late seventeenth century. The most notable of these
are mercantilistic approaches, which not only emphasized the planning and thus
steering of developments, but also relied on statistical surveys as the basis for the
model calculations. We can also see parallel developments in the field of private or
business risk management: Since the eighteenth century, an enormous and above all
widespread and diversified insurance industry can be observed here (Clark 2010). The
fundamentals of these developments could already be grasped in antiquity, and corresponding phenomena also existed in the Middle Ages (e. g. the insurance of goods
involved in long-distance trade) but, in the fading early modern period, the theory
of probability – often based on calculations of odds in gambling – was developed by
scholars such as Christiaan Huygens (1629–1695), Blaise Pascal (1623–1662), Pierre
de Fermat (1607–1665), Jakob Bernoulli (1655–1705), Abraham de Moivre (1667–1754),
Pierre-Simon Laplace (1749–1827) and Johann Carl Friedrich Gauss (1777–1855) (Daston
1988).
Third, regarding the lasting changes in the patterns of legitimation, the Enlightenment movement, with its emphasis on rationality as the measure of all things, should
undoubtedly be mentioned as a particularly broadly effective factor. It was precisely
the so-called “People’s Enlightenment” (Volksaufklärung) that aimed to take action
against the superstitions of “ordinary” people. As relatively unsuccessful as this People’s Enlightenment initially was, in the long run, it led to the belief in the effectiveness of the methods of divination soon being regarded as stupid, unreasonable, and
absurd in wide circles of society while, at the same time, a use of fortune-telling for
personal affairs, now increasingly kept secret, can be observed. I.e., fortune-telling
continued to be practiced in private, but this was rarely admitted publically.
As a result of these developments, a changed idea of the future established itself
in the public debates around 1800. This was negotiated in scholarly debates under
the slogan “discovery of the future”, a future that was no longer divinely predestined, but conceived and understood as open in principle (Koselleck 2004; Hölscher
2016).
However, it must be pointed out here that fortune-telling was by no means used
only in a future-oriented way or dealt with the end of the world. Rather, it was also
used by the actors as a strategy for dealing with the challenges posed by the present.
At the same time, it has been repeatedly pointed out that open concepts of the future
have been found in close connection with the concept of risk since the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries; for example, in the field of transatlantic trade (Scheller 2017;
↗ Franklin, Quantifying Risks Western Christian World). However, from 1800
on­ward – and this was the really new thing – public social debates were dominated
by open models of the future.
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The increasing delegitimization of fortune-telling in public and the rise of new
forecasting techniques should not, however, obscure the fact that fortune-telling as
a phenomenon disappeared neither during the course of the eighteenth century nor
afterwards. It should also be emphasized in this context that the Enlightenment was
closely linked to the pedagogization of education, the de-latinization of educational
material, the expansion of the publishing market, and the decreasing influence of
the church authorities. Ironically, this led, in a sense, to a broader reception, application and popularization of fortune-telling, often in the form of amusing variants
(Daxelmüller 2005, especially cap. 10 and 11) Numerous private collections of popular
forms of fortune-telling came into being during the eighteenth century, for example
(Bellingradt and Otto 2017). New editions of old texts as well as newly-produced
instructions also made fortune-telling more accessible. Finally, numerous techniques
found their way into modernity under the label of entertainment. Especially common
were fortune-telling card games, among the most famous in the nineteenth century
being The Game of Hope. The Primal Lenormand.
The Mutual Influences of the Different Religions and
Confessional Cultures on Each Other during this
Period
Contact Between the Christian, Muslim, and Jewish Traditions of
Knowledge
A discussion of the development of fortune-telling in the Islamic world and in the
Jewish communities in Europe lies beyond the scope of this paper but it should be
noted that the well-known further development of the various fortune-telling techniques and their practical application in the different Islamic societies has been (not
least in view of the manifold strands within the different regions) only rudimentarily studied. One of the rare exceptions is Carmel Cassar’s study on Malta, in which
he shows how closely interwoven the practices of fortune-telling (and magic) among
Christians and Muslim slaves living in Malta were (Cassar 1996, 65–84). And studies
on the continued flourishing of astrology/astronomy, however, which were already
highly developed in the Middle Ages, or on the very popular geomancy, are already
indicating that, similarly to Christian Europe, a relatively uninterrupted continuation
and further development of the fortune-telling traditions can be observed (Maddison und Savage-Smith 1997; Şen 2017). This remains especially tangible today, for
example, in the case of the traditional astrolabes from the sixteenth to eighteenth
centuries, but also in the context of geomantic utensils from the Arab world (Maddison und Savage-Smith 1997, 156–159, 168–265).
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The same can be said for the Jewish communities – both in Islamic societies and
in Europe (Goldberg 2011). Here, too, the various forms of divination remained present
and virulent with great continuity. In Christian Europe, Jews were even accused of
having a special proximity to all secrets which was, of course, primarily an expression
of their specific attributions from the perspective of the Christian majority societies.
In those social constellations in Europe where Jewish communities were present, a
two-way exchange can certainly be observed in the broad field of divination and magic
(Jütte 2014).
With regard to the transfer of individual textual traditions between the various
religious communities, it should nevertheless be noted that the long, comparatively
open reception of writings on divination of Islamic and Jewish provenance in Latin
Europe more or less ended during the early modern period. Although the Renaissance
and Humanism, as cultural movements, led to an intense preoccupation with the
ancient traditions of divination and their commentary as well as their further development in Islamic societies and Jewish communities, the fact remains that these two
elements were not the only cultural movements to exert a strong influence on the
development of the Islamic and Jewish communities, although this history of transfer was increasingly concealed. References to Islamic and Jewish scholars and their
knowledge became increasingly rare in texts on divination, at least when such texts
were printed. Even when dealing with the distinctively Islamic art of divination of
geomancy, the origin of this technique was frequently omitted.
While the reference to Islamic, and to a lesser extent Jewish, scholars in the late
Middle Ages was still considered proof of one’s scholarship, to which one might
proudly make public reference, Latin Europe and its ancient forerunners were now
stylized as the central strand of scholarship. This becomes especially evident in those
lines of ancestors and origin narratives that can be found in numerous divination texts,
especially with regard to the instructional passages. In addition to ancient scholars,
an increasing number of biblical figures appeared here, who traded as the founders or mediators of various prophetic techniques. This change can also, however, be
clearly observed in the decorations of the numerous astronomical clocks located in
public spaces, such as churches and town halls. The astronomical clock in St. Nicolai’s Church in Stralsund, for example, not only depicts Greek mathematician and
astrologer Claudius Ptolemy (ca. 100–160) and Castilian king Alfonso X (1221–1284),
who played an important role in the transfer of knowledge to Latin Europe, but also
Persian mathematician and astrologer Abū Maʻshar (ca. 787–886) and Islamic physician and astrologer ʻAlī ibn Riḍwān, known as Haly (ca. 988–1061/62 or 1067/68). Such
a public representation of Islamic scholarship would have been unimaginable since
the sixteenth century. On later clocks, such as those in the cathedral of Münster, the
figures depicted tend to be saints or persons with a clear Christian background.
This general tendency to conceal any Islamic and Jewish roots did not preclude
further recourse to Islamic and Jewish texts and their circulation in particular cases.
This has been shown in many ways regarding the exchange between Christians and
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Jews in Italy. Robert Jütte has demonstrated in an exemplary manner that, especially
regarding the field of secrecy, there was a place of encounter between Jews and Christians combined with a mutual interest in the texts as well as the fortune-telling services between the two groups (Jütte 2015, 85–93). The relevant manuscripts from early
modern times, which have hitherto only been rudimentarily explored compared to
printed texts, as well as the judicial files (such as those of the Roman Inquisition),
which have only been evaluated sporadically, may therefore still hold some surprises
in store. Finally, the fact that since the mid-seventeenth century there had been an
increased scientific interest in the language and culture of the Islamic and Jewish
worlds also contributed to the ongoing reception of Islamic (and to a lesser extent also
Jewish) texts in the context of the learned traditions. This initially led to the creation
of relevant collections and, from the late eighteenth century onward, the establishment of “Oriental Studies” as a subject at various European universities (Marchand
2009). Hebrew studies had already existed at these universities since the turn of the
sixteenth century, but the main focus had been on theologically relevant texts rather
than those related to fortune-telling. Whatever, this scholarly movement entailing the
reception and collection of the Islamic and Jewish fortune-telling traditions remained
selective.
Confessional Cultures and Practices of Prediction
The question of the extent to which confessional differences in the use of fortune-telling can be ascertained in the wake of the Reformation has been discussed controversially in the research. It has been emphasized that the traditional reservations regarding fortune-telling on the part of the Church, especially Catholics, continued. Within
the framework of the provisions of the Council of Trent (1545–1563), for example, a
categorical prohibition of all of these fortune-telling practices which, like judiciary
astrology, geomancy or comparable practices, claimed to provide decision-relevant
prognoses was re-affirmed. Also banned were all techniques that were suspected of
operating with diabolical support (such as necromancy, but also interrogating spirits
or divination via a medium). The index of forbidden books must be regarded as an
important instrument of persecution practice as well as an indicator of what was practiced. In the first edition of this index, a strict ban on divinatory texts was already
imposed, in Rule XI (Index 1564).
In contrast, for the Lutheran (but not the Calvinist) side, contemporary, but also
for parts of the research, a greater familiarity with fortune-telling, especially astrology, has been emphasized. With particular reference to the group of Lutheran pastors
it was pointed out that they developed into a very important circle of users and mediators of divination. In this way, for example, a surprising number of pastors can be
identified among the authors of the widespread calendars with astrologically determined instructions for each day (Barnes 2016, 16–47). Philipp Melanchthon’s enthusi-
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asm for astrology is regarded as the essential starting point for this primarily astrological affinity among Lutheran theologians. Melanchthon not only compared the study
of the stars with the reading of the Bible on the way to the revelations of God, but
also ensured that astronomy (and through it astrology) continued to be a discipline in
the quadrivium at the Lutheran universities (i. e. alongside arithmetic, geometry and
music, as the fourth mathematical subject of a total of seven artes liberales). Especially in Wittenberg, a whole generation of astrologically-inspired theologians grew
up during the Reformation who, after graduating, went on to work in various Lutheran
territories (Brosseder 2004).
The reference to the anchoring of astronomy/astrology at universities shows,
however, that it was not that simple. Astronomy/astrology had been part of the university curriculum long before the Reformation and continued to be taught at Catholic
universities after the church fractured. Also, on the Catholic side, numerous members
of the clergy can be identified among the theorists and practitioners of fortune-telling.
On the other hand, especially among the early Lutherans, there were voices critical of
fortune-telling. Above all, Martin Luther himself more than once ridiculed Melanchthon’s enthusiasm for astrology. In addition, not only on the Catholic but also on the
Lutheran side, there exist relevant prohibitions regarding fortune-telling, such as, for
instance, in England under Charles II or in Saxony under Elector August (1526–1586),
who himself intensively pursued geomancy (Constitutiones, Pars IV, Art. II). Moreover,
among the many Lutheran theological treatises, there are also those which lamented
and denounced the supposed proximity of witchcraft and divination (e. g. Scultetus
1609).
The greater affinity to fortune-telling on the Lutheran side in comparison to the
Catholic territories has so far been discussed primarily along the lines of publishing in the Holy Roman Empire. But, especially for the German-speaking countries,
it is ­necessary to put into perspective the fact that the printing centers were almost
in Lutheran cities, so an overhang of Lutheran publishing on fortune telling should
therefore not be prematurely taken to indicate a fundamentally stronger affinity to
fortune-telling among the Lutherans. In addition, the printed Practica and Calendars
of Lutheran authors were by no means aimed exclusively at a Lutheran market. On the
contrary, the texts themselves lack almost any clue that would allow a confessional
classification. At the same time, it is to be emphasized that, especially among scholars after 1517, a Europe-wide and thus also cross-confessional exchange about the
different aspects of fortune-telling can be observed. The degree of continuity of this
exchange remains unclear, however, because a comparative pan-European examination of possible differences in confessional attitudes towards fortune-telling remains
outstanding. At this point there is little evidence to suggest a fundamental dichotomy
between a more fortune-telling Lutheranism and a Catholic side opposing it categorically. The existing research shows that despite the prohibitions of the church, divination was widespread also in Catholic Europe (Oestmann et al. 2005; Lucas 2003;
Pizzamiglio 2004).
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253
Finally, the research approach guided by the the (irritating) concept of “esotericism” deals with those forms of knowledge which had their roots above all in the
Gnosis and Neoplatonism of late antiquity, refers to a lack or at least missing unambiguity of denominational (as well as quite generally religious) classification in the
field of divination.
In the Middle Ages, this strand of knowledge could still be found primarily in the
Islamic world. Since the Renaissance, however, the “esoteric stream of tradition” was
increasingly established in Christian contexts and connected here with other cultural
currents, above all natural philosophy and in part also with the emerging natural
sciences. An epistemic integration into the theological contexts of interpretation and
meaning was certainly fragile here. The key figures of this “esoteric” stream of tradition were, among others, the humanist Marsilio Ficino, Johannes Reuchlin (who
above all represents the reception of Jewish mysticism, the Kabbalah, in the Christian
context), Pico della Mirandola, Agrippa of Nettesheim, and Giordano Bruno.
The starting point for this “esoteric approach” is the thesis that, since antiquity,
hermetic knowledge can be identified as something third (in the sense of an independent community of faith) that runs across religious denominations or can be found
in all religions. This is also ultimately shown by the fact that, among Christians,
Muslims and Jews, not only were highly similar forms of divination widespread but
practitioners and scholars in all three cultures more or less relied on the same conceptual foundations (Faivre 2010; Stuckrad 2016). Nevertheless, religious/confessional
colourations (from the introductory prayer to the knowledge system summoned, for
instance picture and symbol programs with clear religious connotations) cannot be
denied, especially within divinatory practice. In addition, it must be stressed that the
approach of “esotericism” has, so far, essentially ignored the practice of divination
beyond scholarly debates.
In very general terms, it can therefore be concluded that much remains unknown
with regard to the question of religious and confessional differences as well as the
overlapping of cultural patterns and hermetic knowledge as a third factor. It is therefore extremely worthwhile to promote studies with a pan-European perspective that
examine different forms of prophetic practices in a way that compares different religions and confessions.
Written Sources and Artifacts in Theory and Practice
Problems of Sources
In general, a large variety of printed and unprinted sources has been preserved for
the Early Modern Period, which makes it possible to examine further questions, espe­
cially with regard to the practices of divination. It should also be noted, however,
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that only a fraction of the surviving sources has been recorded (or is possibly even
known) so far. Only in the field of printed books has an enormous amount of development work been carried out as a result of the digitization initiatives of the last few
years (with an emphasis on Western Europe, and gaps especially in regard to Eastern
and South Eastern Europe). The manuscript tradition, which continued parallel to the
printing press, remains almost completely untapped. Individual studies have shown
that we are dealing with diverse traditions of written records that extend into the twentieth century (Bellingradt and Otto 2017; Bachter 2002). Somewhat more advanced is
the recording of handwritten sources on fortune-telling in the field of criminal records,
but this naturally narrows the focus onto those groups and partly techniques of
­fortune-telling practice that were liable to criminal prosecution. Especially, the forms
of fortune-telling that are associated with witchcraft are comparatively well studied.
At the same time, the quantity of existing sources poses fresh challenges for
researchers: in view of the number of versions handed down (various editions, translations, printed and handwritten copies, anonymized editions and partial prints or
writings), comparative access, e. g. to record the text traditions of individual instructional texts, cannot be provided by a single researcher. The necessary electronic text
input is not yet available for computer-aided processing, however. In general, there
remains much basic research still to be done with regard to the recording of the surviving material. To date, only very few works have been published, that provide an initial
overview of the surviving sources for certain areas of fortune-telling, such as oracle
books, so-called Practica-texts or instructions on geomancy (Heiles 2017; Barnes 2016;
Charmasson 1980).
Finally, it must be stressed that, especially in the field of practical applications,
wide differences may be discerned between the various forms of fortune-telling with
regard to the extent and variety of the material handed down. The situation is particularly positive regarding the field of astrology, from nativities for the upper classes to
annual Revolutions for single cities and astrologically underpinned annual calendars
to astro-medical records and broadsheet but, beyond astrology, as the most popular
form of divination in early modern times, very little research has been undertaken. In
particular, the techniques that were not practiced (or documented) by professional
fortune-tellers are difficult to grasp, while the importance of fortune-telling in the
everyday life of the rural population or the broad urban underclass also remains
elusive.
In those cases, in which we are able to fall back on (albeit selective) traditions,
it becomes apparent how widespread and frequent the practical application of fortune-telling was (Kassell 2007; Ludwig 2014).
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Textual Sources for Fortune-telling
Prohibitions of divination by the Church and secular authorities were a constant in the
Middle Ages and continued into the Early Modern Age. These continuously repeated
prohibitions provide an important indication that fortune-telling was persistently perceived as a problem and, therefore, persistently being practiced, but exactly which
forms of fortune-telling were in use cannot be determined in such a way. There already
exist classical lists of forbidden techniques, which changed little over the centuries,
but it is more likely that they were copied from each other for a long period. The enumerations adopted must not, therefore, be equated rashly with a divinatory practice;
for example, there are no references to the use of aeromancy or liver omens, although
both were regularly banned in the Early Modern period.
In addition to these traditional lists, legal bans were imposed that related less to
concrete techniques and more to the devil’s pact, which was subject to divination.
In the corresponding paragraph of the Constitutions of Electoral Saxony of 1572, for
example, all of those forms of fortune-telling that tried to discover future and hidden
things with the help of the devil were generally forbidden. Fortune-telling by means of
a crystal ball and conversations with the devil with the help of a medium were named
specifically afterwards (Lünig 1724, col. 117). In principle, however, all forms of fortune-telling could potentially incure criminal prosecution because it could be argued
that they all entailed deception by the devil. All in all, the prohibitions and normative texts offer us an initial overview of the spectrum of the (at least rudimentarily)
known fortune-telling techniques and the fundamentally ambivalent legal position
of fortune-telling, but fail to provide more detailed information about the breadth
and differentiation of knowledge about divinatory techniques and their application.
In this context, texts providing guidance and instruction are far more informative.
A striking focus of the traditional sources here is naturally on all of those techniques
that belong to scholarly or more generally speaking to text-based forms of divination, because for the learning or application of such techniques, handwritten and/or
printed texts were required. For example, oracle books were at the same time instruments of fortune-telling and solution keys, and for calculations or interpretations in
the context of astrological procedures, in chiromancy or geomancy, one required reference works, which also frequently survived.
The majority of texts providing fortune-telling instructions and usage of the Early
Modern period can be attributed to the field of astrology. In addition to textbooks
(Lerch) and the learned astronomical-astrological tractate literature, there exist
numerous tables as aids for astrological and astronomical calculations and observations, various new editions or translations of classical texts on astrology and, above
all, a broadly diversified astrological interpretation literature with concrete prognoses or interpretation aids to suit one’s own specific needs. Quantitatively, the astrologically informed writing calendars stand out here, although the extent to which
the corresponding handwritten entries of the users in these prints allow conclusions
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regarding concrete predictive use has not yet been clearly established. In addition,
instructions on determining auspicious days, astro-medical instructions (mostly
bloodletting rules), and planetary tracts were widespread.
In addition, the few astrologers’ records that have survived show that astrological consultation was important for a broad clientele and apparently affordable; for
example, the casebooks of the English astrologers Simon Forman (1552–1611) and
Richard Napier (1559–1634), which contain many thousands of cases, impressively
document how numerous their clientele was, but also that men and women from all
social classes and of very different ages relied on his expertise in divination (Kassell
et al.). It can be seen from these and comparable sources on astrological expertise
that, in everyday life, people relied on astrology to assist them with a wide range
of everyday problems. The questions essentially centered on the same issues: love,
marriage and fidelity, illness and death, children and inheritances, the right times at
which to perform certain actions (purchases and sales, beginning medical treatment,
marriage or even embarking on a journey), the whereabouts of stolen or lost items or
the question of whom to trust.
That these questions preoccupied many people and that they hoped to be able to
obtain more precise information through the help of fortune-telling is further demonstrated in the oracle books, which have been handed down in large numbers, especially those from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. It can therefore be assumed
that oracle books as a divination technique particularly blossomed at this time
(Zollinger 1996; Heiles 2017; ↗ Heiles, Sortes). Lot or oracle books are a specifically
organized textual instrument for fortune-telling. As a rule, these books offer a series
of answers to a varying number of the standard questions already mentioned. The
answers could be found by consulting a key at the back of the book. A “suitable”
answer was obtained with the help of specifically generated random factors (e. g.
by using dice or creating name numbers) and simple but numerous, and therefore
extremely confusing, mathematical operations. What is interesting about lot books is
that they were both instructional literature and a central means of making concrete
predictions. This becomes particularly evident in light of the questions and answers
printed on the often inserted, usually paper instruments (such as simple astrolabes
or turntables for generating a random selection of options). Oracle books were comparatively uncomplicated to handle, but were nevertheless produced for very different audiences: Thus, in addition to the extremely artful and thus expensive editions
(Rosenstock 2010; Palmer 2016), there also existed very plain and therefore inexpensive prints for use by a broad clientele (Losbuch 1485).
At the same time, the line between fun and seriousness in this field was particularly fine. Thus, in addition to satirically-colored prognostic parodies, such as the
Weltlich Loszbuch by Jörg Wickram (ca. 1505 – around 1560) (Wickram 2017), popular
until the eighteenth century, there are also others that were presented as serious
divination instruments without any relativizing reference (Geomantia 1532). In view
of the sources, it is also difficult to determine if particular oracle books served as
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257
instruments for fortune-tellers during their forecasting activities. Doubts arise from
the fact that many lot books without a recognizable parodistic background used relatively simple systems for the generation of answers, which always produced identical
answers to similar questions.
Sometimes, onomastic procedures were included as appendices in such oracle
books, through which one could determine from the numerical value of the names of
two opponents the winner of a dispute. This simple variant of onomancy was widespread and can be found in various contexts, e. g. in fencing books, as a forecasting
technique for determining the winner. A prominent example is the fencing book from
1443 by Hans Talhoffer (ca. 1420–ca. 1490), who probably adopted the method from
Johannes Hartlieb’s (ca. 1400–1468) Über die Erhaltung des Sieges from 1434, but precisely this context of the tradition indicates that caution is required here, since the
explanation provided in the texts, that these procedures were eagerly employed to
determine the victor in God’s judgments attests to their remoteness from actual contemporary practice, since corresponding court fights were no longer common at the
time when these fencing books were written.
Nevertheless, there were still onomastic texts in the sixteenth century and afterwards. In addition to the simple calculations of the winners, mentioned above, there
were manuscripts, for example, in which, for the numbers one to ten or one to 16,
hundreds of corresponding meanings were listed – from plants, rivers and gemstones
to human complexions and age at death to diseases or weather phenomena (SLUB,
Mscr. Dresden N 18 [without Pag.]).
In the field of prophecy and visions, there exists also a colorful mixture of texts and
movements. In principle, prophetic texts circulated in all three Christian confessional
cultures (Green 2012, 155–203, offers an excellent overview of the phase between 1450
and 1550), but the critical or doubtful positions on prophecy have grown in importance.
Especially in Lutheran and Reformed circles, there was intense debate about whether
a message from God, communicated via a prophecy or vision, was possible beyond the
revealed texts of the Bible. The contemporary relevance of the different visions and
prophecies then also diverged considerably from case to case. In particular, printed
prophecies – mainly in the form of broadsheets and pamphlets – could gain considerable popularity. In addition, however, numerous texts were handed down only in
handwritten form. The contemporary relevance of these prophecies, which are often
only preserved once, is difficult to assess; however, the frequency with which such solitary prophecies are handed down in the archives points to an active prophetic practice
in all religious and confessional groups and a continuing interest among the various
authorities. Therefore, it seems pertinent to ask further questions about the prophetic
reception processes (in some cases, probably only local ones).
In terms of language and content, the prophetic writings dated after 1500 in the
Christian context were certainly oriented toward the existing, for instance Joachimite,
text traditions and, especially in the context of the Reformation, apocalyptic patterns
play a considerable role (Barnes 1988). There was, however, a new addition: many
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early modern prophecies legitimize themselves through astrological references (Green
2012, 109–116); sometimes quite generally, for instance through an unspecific reference to the indicating power of the stars, but sometimes concrete astrological constellations are also mentioned. In addition, many texts have a strong political impetus.
The visions report forthcoming wars, political scenarios of change, the overcoming
of schisms and, repeatedly, the massive threat posed by and final victory over the
Ottoman Empire. On the other hand, the chiliastic elements clearly receded after 1600.
In palmistry (chiromancy) and physiognomy, too, a continuous but relatively subordinate significance can be discerned from the late Middle Ages to Early Modern
Times. Both forms of fortune-telling became extremely popular in the late seventeenth
century, where the boundaries between the serious and fun forms became particularly
blurred (Höping 1673). In the eighteenth century, the female palm reader became the
epitome of the fortune-teller and iconographically replaced the figure of the learned
astrologer. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, physiognomics finally advanced
to become an important strand of the scientific foundation for racism and eugenics.
Since its emergence in Latin Europe in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, geomancy has repeatedly been called the little sister of astrology. Both systems were
closely interconnected through systems of equivalence, with the 16 geomantic signs
being assigned to certain signs of the zodiac and planets. Also, the operation of houses
was adopted from astrology, with numerous interpretation systems of geomancy. In
some systems, however, the usual 12 houses within astrology were increased to 15 or
16 to make it possible to assign all of the positions on a geomantic tableau to a separate house. Geomancy was undoubtedly also, in the early modern period, geomancy
was undoubtedly also a widespread fortune-telling technique but for a long time a
manuscript culture dominated here, which certainly resulted in specific local developments. As a result of the limited canonization and thus also consent standardization
of geomancy, comparatively few printed instructions for this form of fortune-telling
have been handed down since the late Middle Ages (Charmasson 1980), despite a
broad manuscript tradition. Nevertheless, the broad handwritten tradition, as well as
the long-lasting significance of geomancy up to the twentieth century, suggest that it
remained consistently significant for fortune-telling practice.
Instruments and Artifacts
The heyday of divination in early modern Europe is also reflected in a specific history
of objects, the basis of which is essentially formed by the holdings in cabinets of curiosity and museums.
Astrology should also be emphasized here. As a practice and representative
science, astrology was closely interwoven with the making of scientific instruments
(clocks, astrolabes, multifunctional apparatuses, globes, etc.). In addition to French
and Dutch workshops, German companies in Augsburg and Nuremberg were par-
Ulrike Ludwig
259
Fig. 10: Astronomical Pocket Set from
1558 (Augsburg, Maximilianmuseum
Inv. No. 3545). Photo credits: Richter
& Fink, Augsburg.
ticularly prominent in the field of instrument-making. It should be noted, however,
that the designation of the objects as divinatory remains ambivalent since, first and
foremost, such devices were used for astronomical determinations and observations,
which also always formed part of astrological prognostics. In some cases, astrological
details have been removed exclusively, such as the planetary aspects (Conjunction
and Opposition, Trine, Square and Sextile) which are so important with regard to
astrological interpretations.
In addition to measuring instruments and globes, another focus of the collection,
and thus also of production was the elaborate apparatuses that served primarily representative and entertainment purposes. This subheading includes, for example, the
artistic planetary clocks which were made in Kassel in Hesse and presented to the
courts of Dresden and Vienna as gifts. Planetary clocks reproduced the celestial movements with impressive precision, demonstrating at the same time that the owner was
in some sense in control of this heavenly world, or at least in a position to reproduce
it and thus ultimately interpret it. The image programs of these clocks also link the
precisely orbiting planets back to the systems of astrological symbols and knowledge,
and thus refer to comprehensive astrological interpretations of the world (Korey and
Gessner 2017).
In addition to these representative objects, the museum collections sometimes
also contain instruments intended for practical, everyday use, but such tools rarely
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found their way into such collections. The most likely to survive were the simplified
astrolabes that were especially made for doctors, which could easily be used to determine diagnostically or therapeutically relevant times (↗ Rodríguez-Arribas, Medical
Plates and Figs. 47 and 48).
Finally, “paper instruments” feature repeatedly in printed books and manuscripts.
With their help, readers could be able to make astronomically or astrologically relevant determinations themselves, for example at the time of the survey, without any
further aid (Apian 1540). Especially the latter clearly indicate that a basic knowledge
about the use of astrological instruments was probably quite widespread.
In addition to measuring instruments and objects related to the representation of
the cosmos, there also exist isolated artefacts that document the use of fortune-telling
expertise. Prominent representations here are also astrological objects, such as horoscopes engraved on metal plates and buried during the foundation stone ceremony,
which document the “fate” of the building or the most favorable time for beginning
its construction (e. g. Kassel: Astronomical-Physical Cabinet). Horoscopes, as a special
decorative element, can also be found on pocket watches, the underside of tins (Wallenstein) or, for instance, in the form of a painted constellation of stars on the ceiling
of a room (see the horoscope of Agostino Chigi in the Villa Farnesina in Rome).
Beyond astrology, however, the object history of early modern divination quickly
thins out. For many divination techniques, the question whether objects made for a
specific practice were also used for this purpose, remains open. Thus, for example,
in Christian Europe the geomantic cubes, common in the Islamic world, can only be
found as part of (princely) collections of exotic objects.
A fundamental source problem is, of course, that there is hardly any tradition
of collecting apart from cabintes of curiosity. In particular, objects related to those
fortune-telling techniques that cannot be classified as “scientific” forms (e. g. crystal
ball reading, card reading) or pieces of equipment from fortune-telling parlors are
Fig. 11: Geomantic Cubes from Iran (London,
Victoria & Albert Museum, Inv. No. 505 B-1888;
date: saec. XVII). Photo credits: Victoria &
Albert Museum, London.
Ulrike Ludwig
261
extremely rarely handed down, but pictorial depiction fill this gap to some extent:
especially since the late eighteenth century, for example, numerous illustrations can
be found that depict women laying cards and who, interestingly, did not use a special
deck of cards (such as the tarot), but operated with a simple 32-card piquet striped
deck. To read coffee grounds or tea leaves – a divination technique that became
popular in Europe with the rise and spread of coffee and black tea – one simply used
one’s own crockery.
Taken together these pictorial representations can be assigned to three main
groups of motifs: (1) the male, learned astronomer/astrologist, who tended to be
equipped with an astrolabe, armillary sphere and celestial globe, (2) the wandering
fortune-teller (palm reader, cartomancer, coffee grounds reader, etc.) with corresponding everyday utensils, and (3), finally, with an increasing tendency since the
late eighteenth century, private persons, usually female, predicting for themselves or
those close to them without the help of experts.
Conclusion and Outlook
The last two pictorial genres refer to a new turning point at the end of the early
modern age, which even the most pessimistic Enlightenment thinkers would not
have anticipated. This is because, following the “reasonable” age and revolutionary shifts in Europe and North America, completely new forms of fortune-telling
suddenly emerged in the nineteenth century. Magnetic somnambulism, in which a
person was usually put into a trance by hypnosis to become a medium to predict the
future or suddenly carry out certain actions, as if guided by magic, became particularly fashionable. In 1852, the French newspapers reported about 2,000 somnambulists in Paris who were offering their services as fortune-tellers. In 1919, the term
“somnambulist” had become a synonym for (above all female) fortune-tellers, and
the Paris-Midi newspaper spoke of 35,000 professional somnambulists. Although
probably an exaggeration, this figure nevertheless indicates that this new form of fortune-telling was perceived as a massive, even omnipresent phenomenon. The somnambulists advertised their skills in prospectuses. A magnetizer (known as a hypnotist today) would put individuals to sleep, answered every question and, according
to their self-promotion, gave crucial tips, so that one could retrieve lost objects or
make a substantial profit via the lottery or stock exchange (Minois 1998, 602–603).
Incidentally, a late but particularly well-known event of this nature can be found in
the 1920’s silent film Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari (directed by Robert Viennae). In the
movie, however, fortune-telling and madness, future vision and fraudulent staging
are closely related. During the day, for example, the figure of the somnambulist,
Cesare, predicts future deaths at a funfair while at night, as a sleepwalker under the
influence of Dr. Caligari, he himself brings about the predicted deaths. Dr. Caligari
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and the storyteller, Francis, also blur, through the narrative, the division between
madness, crime and the discovery of evil.
At the same time, together with occultism, a genuinely scientific movement
emerged during the nineteenth century, which set itself the goal of understanding
and investigating supernatural phenomena. The hosts of public séances, mediums
(in the sense of channels) and fortune-tellers of all kinds demonstrated their abilities
under strict “scientific” observation and before a enthralled audience. Documentation
and control were carried out, hoping to open up a world of spirits and supernatural
phenomena. Here, too, the transition to sociable entertainment is clear but reports of
such séances by the participants show how lastingly unsettled the visitors were by the
inexplicable phenomena and experiences.
However, the nineteenth century had far more to offer for, besides ghost beliefs,
somnambulism and occultism, there was a revival of classical prophecy and again –
as in the prophecies of the Middle Ages – the main focus was on the end of the
world. In some cases, entire new religious movements arose around the prophet,
which still exist today. The most successful of these movements originated in North
America where, in 1830, Joseph Smith (1805–1844) published the Book of Mormon to
which the Mormon community refers. Less well-known but equally successful was
the farmer, William Miller, who in the 1840s predicted the imminent arrival of Christ
and around whom a community arose that later became known as the Seventh-day
Adventists. Moreover, at the turn of the twentieth century, a religious movement
emerged that was named Jehovah’s Witnesses in 1931 by its leader at that time, Ernest
Rutherford.
On the whole, it can be stated that fortune-telling in general and even prophecy
in particular by no means disappeared in modernity, but rather remained significant,
albeit in a changed form and only for parts of society.
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Bähr, Andreas. Der grausame Komet. Himmelszeichen und Weltgeschehen im Dreißigjährigen Krieg.
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Part II: Traditions and Practices of Prognostication in
the Middle Ages
Eschatology and Millenarism
Hannes Möhring
Traditions and Expectations in the Medieval
Western Christian World
Definitions and Terminology
The question of humans regarding when the world will end – pretty soon or only
in a distant future – seems to be as old as the question about one’s own death. On
the basis of the statements made in the sources, one can assume that, in the Latin
part of Europe during Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, in nearly every generation,
there were people who thought that the end of the world was very closely connected
with the expectation of Jesus’ return, whereas others, at the same time, believed that
the end of the world was far distant in time. In general, the end of the world was
seen as possible at any time. The prerequisite, however, was the decline of the Roman
Empire, whose existence, following the general positions, secured the survival of the
world (according to 2 Thess. 2,3) or stopped and postponed the appearance of the
Antichrist – mainly conceived as a personified enemy of faith, but sometimes also
as an abstractum – and the end of the world following his reign. Therefore, end of
time expectations were silently almost always present: “At the end of times” was not
necessarily to be understood as a hint or consolation for a distant future, although
some people demanded precise, clear information, which was rarely attempted in
the circulating prophecies of those days, to avoid risking making an error and endangering their own trustworthiness and relevance. Despite the ecclesiastic prohibition
supported by the Bible (Matt. 24,36; Mark 13,32; Acts 1,7), conjectures were constantly
formed with respect to the moment when the time would end. Attempts were made
to calculate this in different ways or predict it based on supposed portents, and the
deeper circumstances were imagined. Hoping for the return of Jesus at the end of
time – that was in the face of one’s own sins – mixed with a fear not only of the Last
Judgment to be given at that time and perhaps eternal punishment in hell instead of
paradisiacal happiness, but also of heavy tests through terrible events which, according to the Bible, will precede the end of the world, as all the stars decay (Matt. 24,29;
Mark 13,25; Luke 21,26).
Undoubtedly, there have been years and decades associated with increased end of
time expectations, in which more people than usual anticipated that the world would
Acknowledgement: The author and the editors are very grateful to Eric Schlager for the English
translation of this paper.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-010
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end in a near future. Consequently, there were probably also those whose view of
this changed once their fears proved unfounded. Questions concerning the Last Days
occupied not only the less educated, but also many men of high intellect. The Church,
as an institution, or the clergy were generally willing to lower expectations of the Last
Days. Less educated laymen were hardly able to carry out complicated calculations
but, in ignorance of the scientific relations, supposed that omina, such as unusual
celestial phenomena, not least special constellations of the stars, as well as natural
disasters (earthquakes, heavy storms, etc.), could terrify those affected by them and
let them make their own considerations – especially when such events were frequent
or even occurred simultaneously, so that mere coincidence might appear to be ruled
out. Significantly, it was often said in Europe that the Antichrist, who immediately
precedes the end of the world, had already been born, so that his terrific dominion
would start in a few years’ time, and several times kings, emperors and popes have
been called the Antichrist or his forerunner.
Whenever the old or constantly emerging prophecies concerning the end of the
world proved incorrect and the world continued to exist, this did not necessarily
mean abandoning all speculation in this regard. Frequently, the prophecies claimed
divine authority, and could therefore not have been mistaken. On the other hand,
Jesus warned against false prophets or men acting as a Messiah and their signs and
wonders at the end of time (Matt. 24,11 and 23–24; Mark 13,21–22; Luke 21,8), so that
plenty of the new prophecies could be regarded as signs announcing the dawn of the
end of time.
Defining the Terminology
Apocalypticism: Perceptions of future events full of destruction and bloodshed caused
by forces of nature and foreign peoples. Allegedly revealing the divine will, these are
based on a negative evaluation of the present world, the imminent sinking of which
is to be wished.
Chiliasm/Millenarianism: A belief that can sometimes be observed among the followers of Christianity that, prior to the end of the world, a period of complete peace,
perfect justice and great happiness of a long or literally thousand years’ duration will
begin and, with it, so to speak, a kingdom of heaven on earth that anticipates the
rewards of the faithful in this world, although it is actually the reserve for the other
side. Its foundation can be found in the Revelation of John (Rev. 20,1–6), according
to which, following the return of Christ, triumphant against all enemies, an angel
will bind the Devil for a thousand years and throws him into the abyss, whereupon
the souls of the martyrs, who are devoted to their faith and have been beheaded for
this reason, come “to life and reign with Jesus for a thousand years.” This is the “first
resurrection.” Over those who participate in it, “the second death has no power.” The
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remaining dead will come to life only after the thousand years have passed, after the
ensuing final victory over the Devil and the Last Judgment (Rev. 20,7–15).
Eschatology: the study of the last things, whereby a distinction is drawn between, on
one hand, the individual eschatology concerning the individual human being in terms
of death, resurrection, the Last Judgment and bliss or perdition and, on the other
hand, the universal eschatology including the downfall of the previous world and
humankind, which is to be followed by a new world. At the point of transition to this,
a cosmic catastrophe usually occurs, entailing the collapse of heaven and the falling
of the stars, a world Judgment or even a battle of the gods.
Written Sources
Divine Punishment and Scenarios Related to the End of Time:
Biblical Sources
The Holy Scripture refers at several points to an end of time (Dan. 11–12; Is 13–24, 27,
66; Ezek. 8–12, 26, 29–30, 36, 38–48; Matt. 24–25; Mark 13; Luke 21; 1 Tim. 4:1; 2 Tim.
3:1–4), but it is certainly the last book of the New Testament, which had the greatest
impact. The Book of Revelation is the only book of the New Testament classified as
apocalyptic literature, using visions, symbols, and allegory in connection with future
events. Central passages for the question of the end of times are Rev. 7, 14, 18–20 and
22. However, it is doubtful whether the Book of Revelation awakened concrete, acute
expectations of an end of time. If the great final battle with the birth of Jesus and his
thousand-year reign in the sense of Augustine’s interpretation were already a matter of
the past and the Devil had already been freed – perhaps at the turn of the millennium
in 1000/1001 – however, then, according to Revelation, the final downfall of the Devil
and the Last Judgment were imminent.
Scenarios of the End-time: Non-Biblical Sources
Eschatological issues are treated in various forms. We find eschatological thinking
reflected in theological works (including patristic writing, bible commentaries [↗
Lehner, Prognostication in Latin Commentaries on Revelation], and liturgy [[↗ Czock,
Medieval Latin Liturgical Commentaries]) and tractates – such as the famous treatise
by Adso of Montier-en-Der (d. 992) De ortu et tempore Antichristi, a tract on the life
and career of the Antichrist. The end of times is mirrored very differently in historiographical works: This ranges from short notes on a soon to be expected end in Easter
tables to highly elaborated chronicles with a rather universal approach (↗ Lehner,
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Traditions and Practices of Prognostication in the Middle Ages: Eschatology / Millenarism
Prognostication in Latin Historiography). Visions of the Afterlife sometimes give a
glimpse of the Last Days (↗ Bihrer, Journeys to the Other World Western Christian
Traditions). Further sources are letters and diplomas. All those texts will be referred
to in chapter 3.
The most direct form of addressing the end of times occurred in prophecies. In
these prophecies relating to the end of time, the question was not necessarily when
exactly the world would end. Rather, the end-time scenario served as a prerequisite for
making the previously impossible seem – at a good end – possible, and thus allowing
hope for a complete change of religious, political or social reality.
The most widespread non-Biblical Christian prophecy in the Latin Europe of the
Middle Ages was the prophecy of the Last Roman Emperor at the End of Time. It gained
special popularity as the final part of a World History, divided into seven millennia
about the succession of generations and kingdoms, whose author wrote during the
seventh century in northern Syria under the name of the bishop and martyr Methodius
(d. around 311). The prophecy of Pseudo-Methodius (translation of the apocalyptic
text: Reinink 1993 as well as Aerts and Kortekaas 1998; for a short version see Prinz
1985) regarding the end of time begins with the statement that the tyranny of the
Ismaelites would last ten (years-) weeks, that is 70 years. At the end of the Ismaelite
reign, the (last) Greek king, i. e. the (last) Roman or Byzantine emperor, would appear
like one awakening from intoxication, who had previously been considered dead, and
destroy the power of the Ismaelites. Subsequently, Pseudo-Methodius predicts a historically unprecedented peace of indefinite duration, which will end abruptly with
the emergence of the aforementioned 22 anthropophagous peoples, among them Gog
and Magog, enclosed behind the gates of the North by Alexander the Great. They will
spread fear and terror on Earth, but after one (year-) week of trouble, these nations
will be annihilated by an archangel, and then the king of the Greeks will reign in
Jerusalem – for one and a half (years-) weeks (i. e. ten and a half years). If the son of
perdition, i. e. the Antichrist, shows himself, the king of the Greeks will head to Golgotha, place his crown on the Holy Cross erected there, which would soon be raised
toward heaven, and stretch his hands out to heaven. After handing over his kingdom
to God in this way and recommending his soul to Him, he would die, after which the
son of perdition (the Antichrist) would move in Jerusalem, sit in the temple of God
and pretend to be God. Because of his false miracles, even the saints would run after
this deceiver but, at the moment when the Lord descends from heaven, he would be
exposed to hellish fire, together with all who believed in him, while the upright Christians would find access to the heavenly kingdom.
The Scripture of Pseudo-Methodius was soon translated from Syriac into Greek,
and thence into Latin only a few decades later. The duration of the Ismaelite reign
is shortened from ten (years-) weeks to seven (years-) weeks and thus from 70 to 49
years. The prophesied duration of the reign was thus not extended after the 70 years
had expired or their expiration was impending and thus the veracity of the prophesy
was at stake. The symbolic number 49 (7x7) should perhaps not be taken literally from
Hannes Möhring
273
the beginning and could, by those means, ensure the topicality of the prophecy over
several centuries.
As far as Western Europe is concerned, the World History and Prophecy of Pseudo-Methodius is preserved in a vast number of Latin manuscripts. Apparently, the
threat of Islamic Power was not of decisive significance for the popularity of Pseudo-Methodius. In Italy, for example, few manuscripts from the fifteenth century have
been preserved, although the Ottomans seemed to initiate a major attack in 1480, and
on the Iberian Peninsula, despite centuries of Islamic rule and threat, the amount
of manuscripts is low throughout the entire Middle Ages. The example of England,
on the other hand, shows that Pseudo-Methodius was especially popular even in a
country that did not face a direct Islamic threat. Most of the manuscripts are preserved
there, with many from the thirteenth and even more from the fifteenth century, but
none from the time preceding the eleventh century. The predominance of the Latin
abbreviated version is overwhelming.
As the use by other authors demonstrates, the work of Pseudo-Methodius has
often served as a historical source, so the events of the Last Days or the question of
the end of the world and the promise of the triumph of Christianity over Islam were
not necessarily the main focus of interest.
The prophecy about a last Roman emperor abdicating in Jerusalem after the conquest of the world was spread beyond Pseudo-Methodius also in other forms, above
all in the Constans-Vaticinium at the end of the Latin Tiburtine Sibyl, which probably
originated before Pseudo-Methodius, in the fourth century, and in the Antichrist-treatise of Adso de Montier-en-Der, written in the mid-tenth century. Both were also widespread in Western Europe during the Middle Ages.
As a counterpart, so to speak, to the prophecy of the end emperor, in the thirteenth century the idea, fully established in the fourteenth century, of an angelic pope
at the end of times for whose pontificate especially the Franciscan spirituals, shaped
by the poverty movement of Francis and the thoughts of Joachim of Fiore, desired
not only a profound reform of the Church, but also the recapture of Jerusalem and
the conversion of all people to Christianity. The idea of this pastor angelicus was an
expression of the growing discontent in the thirteenth and fourteenth century with
the administration of the Popes, who did not take into consideration a reform of the
universal Church beginning at the Curia.
The idea of the Angel Pope stems from the doctrine of Joachim of Fiore. For the
first time, in his teachings the papacy had fulfilled an end time function. Already in
his 1184 Expositio de prophetia ignota he writes that immediately before the appearance of the Antichrist a pope would convert all pagans to Christianity, and in the Liber
de concordia in the last generation of the second status a pope is to renew Christianity,
which Joachim compares to an angel from the Revelation to John (Rev. 7,2).
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Developments, Historical Contexts, and Medieval
Discussions
Phases of Acute End-time Expectations
The idea of the Roman End Empire, which prevailed in the Occident during the Middle
Ages was decisively shaped by Jerome (d. 419 or 420). He regarded the Roman Empire
as the last of four world empires which, according to 2 Thess. 2,6–8, as Katechon,
would delay the Antichrist’s reign of fear to be expected at the end of the world until it
should perish. However, similar views had already been widespread among the Jewish
Christians and can also be found in Hippolytus and Tertullian.
The expectations associated with this met with the criticism of Hippolytus (d. 235),
because he saw the faith endangered by them. In his opinion, the collapse of Roman
power, which could only be followed by the appearance of the Antichrist, was not yet
imminent.
Ambrose (d. 397) also believed that the end of the world was imminent. He
regarded the Goths as those of the Last Days peoples of Gog and Magog. Sulpicius
Severus (d. around 420) had similar expectations. When the Visigoths succeeded in
conquering Rome in 410, Jerome saw the end of the world as having arrived, although
he refused to equate the Goths with Gog and Magog. In the fifth century, the Vandal
kings Geiserich (d. 477) and Hunerich (d. 484) were equated with the end-time beast
from the Revelation to John 13:11–18, which bears the number 666. Various natural
phenomena and their interpretation also bear witness to the increased expectation of
the Last Days in the fourth and fifth centuries and, in part, to hysteria.
Augustine (d. 430) did not share such expectations. He considered the end of
times to be near, but not yet arrived, and saw no correlation between this question and
the conquest of Rome by the Visigoths. Augustine stated that the course of history was
divided into six ages, the duration of which was known only to God. He opposed all
chiliastic expectations by interpreting the Revelation to John in a spiritual sense – as
did his compatriot, Tyconius. Augustine stated that, with the birth of Christ, the last
age of the world had dawned and that in the Church, that is, already in his present
time, the millennial kingdom of Christ had been realized. He understood the number
“1000” quite literally, not merely symbolically, although he refused to calculate the
exact moment of the end of the world and the Last Judgement. Augustine’s opinion
finally gained acceptance in the Latin Occident, where it probably considerably dampened the expectations regarding the end of the world.
The world era of Eusebius received little attention initially but, when his Greek
chronicle was translated into Latin by Jerome and supplemented by the meanwhile
past decades, it prevailed in the Latin West in the course of the fifth century, without,
however, completely ousting the era of Hippolytus and thus the consciousness of how
close was the year 6000 (= 500 CE), which possibly indicated the end of the world.
Hannes Möhring
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Moreover, one source states that some people announced the birth of the Antichrist
in 493 and 498. Also, the introduction of the Eusebian-Hieronymian era was not able
to banish end of time expectations. It was no coincidence that, at the end of the sixth
century, several men appeared in the Merovingian Empire who claimed to be Jesus
Christ and found many followers.
When the year 6000 of the Eusebian-Hieronymian era, which, depending on the
calculation, coincided with the time of 799–806, was less than 100 years away, in the
Latin Occident this time was also replaced by another. Probably in order to remove the
basis for speculation about the end of the world in the year 6000, one followed the
model of Bede the Venerable in the Frankish Empire during the first half of the eighth
century and passed to the time calculation of Dionysius Exiguus which was oriented
toward years of incarnation. Several sources indicate, however, that from the late
seventh century until the end of the next, i. e. until the year 6000 of the Eusebian-Hieronymian era, one obviously often wondered how much time remained until the year
6000. The end of time expectations that were directed toward this year undoubtedly
remained active.
Thus, his coronation in 800 made Charlemagne appear to be the last emperor,
who would be ruling at the end of the world. The answer to the question of whether
Charlemagne considered himself the end emperor must remain open, although Charlemagne seems to have believed that he lived at the end of the world.
In the decades preceding the thousandth year of Christ’s incarnation and passio,
the expectation of the Last Days increased again in the Occident. It was derived from
the Revelation to John. Although, in the West, its spiritualistic interpretation predominated (Augustine), it failed to replace the chiliastic interpretation completely, as can
be seen from the expectations fostered around 1000, in which the Augustinian and
the chiliastic view were confused by the circumstance that the kingdom of Christ was
regarded as long in existence, but limited to literally a thousand years – after which
Satan would become free again.
Accordingly, Odo of Cluny (d. 942), the actual founder of the Reform Monastery,
fueled the fear regarding the release of satanic power and it results, based on a letter
by a monk from Saint-Germain, probably written around 960, that numerous contemporaries in the Burgundian-Lorraine region took the time limit of a thousand years
stated in John’s Revelation verbatim, and so identified the Hungarians with Gog and
Magog and believed that the end of the world was very close.
Approximately three decades later, in 991, Bishop Arnulf of Orléans claimed that
the Antichrist, in the person of Pope John XV, had long since seized power. Furthermore, Abbo of Fleury (d. 1004) reports that as a young man he had heard a sermon
in Paris expressing that the Antichrist would appear immediately after the end of a
thousand years and that, shortly afterward, the Last Judgment would take place.
According to Abbo almost everywhere in the world, the rumor spread that, if
Mary’s Annunciation (25 March) and Good Friday coincided on the same day, the
world would end. This was the case during the second half of the tenth century, with
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the evident accumulation of three such dates at once, namely in the years 970, 981 and
992, and afterwards only again in 1065.
Another famous example is the work of Rodulfus Glaber (d. probably 1042), who
connected incidents of the time around 1000 with the unleashing of Satan after a
thousand years, as prophesied in the Revelation to John, although he expected the
end of the world just as little as did Abbo of Fleury for a certain moment in time.
For times when our sources are generally scarce, the narrative sources are relatively unproductive with regard to the end of time-expectation at the turn of the millennium 1000/1001 (not to be – as was sometimes done – mistakenly read as 999/1000).
However, with the unleashing of Satan – in other words, with the appearance of the
Antichrist – the expectation of the end of the Roman Empire preceding this event was
connected and in such an end-time context the renovatio imperii Romanorum propagated by Emperor Otto III in the last three years of the first millennium, namely 998,
999 and 1000, is to be seen as the slogan of his bulls. While, for example, the Saint
Gall monk Notker the German (d. 1022) held the opinion that, with the transition of the
empire to the Ottonians, the Roman Empire had fallen, Otto III declared its renewal
and continued existence, thus at the same time denying the possibility that the Antichrist would appear soon and the end of the world ensue. In a diploma issued on May
15 1000, Otto III believes that the end of the world and the Day of the Last Judgement
are still “far away” and speaks of (several) successors he would have. In harmony with
the Church, Otto III was apparently concerned with dampening the expectations of
his contemporaries regarding the Last Days and redirecting them to a distant future in
order to avoid hysteria consuming the masses. Since he, at the same time, promoted
the spread of Christianity in Eastern Europe, he strengthened the position of Christianity, thus, also practically ensured that the power of the Devil could not gain the
upper hand yet.
In the eleventh century, we find the first evidence of the assumption that Satan
had been freed again, after thousands of years of imprisonment. Thus, Lampert of
Hersfeld (d. after 1081), in the second half of the eleventh century, saw the Devil freed
with the deposition of Pope Gregory VII by Emperor Henry IV, in 1076. Similarly, in the
twelfth century, Gerhoch of Reichersberg (d. 1169) wrote about the Investiture Contest
whereby “many pious and understanding” people had believed that the prediction of
John’s revelation about the liberation of the Devil had been fulfilled when, a thousand
years after Christ’s death – namely in 1080, i. e. not literally a thousand years later – a
counter-pope had been raised in the form of Clement III.
With the turn of the millennium, it is impossible to overlook the fact that the
number of pilgrimages to Jerusalem and Santiago de Compostela increased. Particularly worthy of mention are the 1026–1027 and 1033 larger pilgrimages to the Holy
Land, where the return of Christ was expected. Also, in 1064–1065, many (German) pilgrims, accompanied by bishops, traveled to Jerusalem because, in 1065, again, Good
Friday coincided with Mary’s Annunciation (March 25) and the pilgrims believed that
the return of Christ had come.
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The time around 1000 was not the height of eschatological excitement in the
Middle Ages. As far as can be seen, the end of time expectation in the Latin Occident
during the approximately 500 years after the turn of the millennium was stronger than
in the 500 years preceding it. Taking into account the popularity of the Revelation
to John, the idea of the liberation of Satan after a thousand years had expired might
have contributed significantly to this. Accordingly, the Christians in Europe believed
repeatedly that the Antichrist had already been born and would soon initiate his reign
of terror.
If the plague that broke out in the mid-fourteenth century was already able to
intensify the fear regarding the Last Days, then no less was the schism of 1378, as the
supposed beginning of the reign of the Antichrist. In his treatise, De tempore adventus Antichristi, written shortly before 1300, Arnaldus of Villanova (d. 1311) predicted
the appearance of the Antichrist more or less during the year of the schism. Those
who believed the second series of the Vaticinia de summis pontificibus saw the dragon
of the Apocalypse in the fourteenth successor of Pope Nicholas III, i. e. under Pope
Urban VI (d. 1389), elected in 1378. Probably not only Henry of Kirkestede, a Benedictine from Bury St. Edmunds, identified Urban VI himself with the Antichrist.
As it results from the many records of contemporary historiographers in the Occident, Byzantium, and the Orient, in the second half of the twelfth century various
prophecies based on the same astronomical calculations attracted the greatest attention, according to which between 1176 and 1186 the conjunction of all planets was
to lead to severe concussions in nature and significant upheavals in the lives of the
peoples. Probably not only the author of the Annals of Marbach (to the year 1185)
referred this scenario to the end of the world and the arrival of the Antichrist. Many
occidental Christians believed that these prophecies were then confirmed in 1187 by
Saladin’s achievements culminating in the conquest of Jerusalem.
One of the prophecies originally aiming at the year 1186 received new topicality during the crusade of Emperor Frederick II and in the ten years of the armistice
concluded with Sultan al-Kamil in February 1229 and spread as an alleged letter of
a master John of Toledo. Disregarding astronomical-astrological calculations, it was
related to the years 1229–1239 and no longer promised the annihilation of the Muslims,
but their voluntary conversion. This so-called Toledo letter had already been in circulation around 1200. Translated into German, French and Italian vernacular, later
versions indicate, among others, 1329, 1371 and 1395 as the year of prophecy.
As far as the Investiture Contest is concerned, there can be observed only in exceptional cases acute expectations of the Last Days on the part of the contemporaries,
although a man like Gregory VII was strongly influenced by eschatological ideas and
his opponents partly got him close to the Antichrist of the Last Days or even saw the
Antichrist himself in him. Bishops belonging to the church province of Ravenna held
the opinion that the Antichrist had not yet come, since the Roman Empire was still in
existence, and even for Gregory VII the end-time had not yet dawned. Such restraint
can no longer be observed in the clash between Frederick II and Gregory IX: Twice the
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emperor was excommunicated by this pope, namely on 29 September 1227 and on 20
March 1239. Under the date of 1 July 1239 Gregory accused Frederick of heresy in an
Encyclical and compared him right at the beginning with the sea monster known from
the Revelation to John 13 and Dan. 7. In contrast, between 1243 and 1250 a Dominican
named Arnold wrote with great determination in his Epistola de correctione ecclesiae
that Pope Innocent IV was the Antichrist whom Christ would kill through the breath
of his mouth, so that the poor then would receive back all ecclesiastical goods. For the
first time in the prophecy literature the demand for a radical reform of the church is
here connected with the hope for Frederick II.
The Franciscan Salimbene (d. 1288 or 1289) gave up his Joachitic ideas when the
appearance of the Antichrist did not happen until the end of 1260 and reports that he
at first did not believe the news about the death of Frederick II, because he had held
the opinion that Frederick, as a forerunner of the Antichrist, had to commit further
misdeeds before his death. The death of Frederick II already in 1250 could barely fit
those Joachites who had identified the emperor with the Antichrist into their idea
regarding the course of history, because in their opinion the Antichrist should not
die until 1260 and thus decide on the second status. In order to preserve their idea,
however, they did not flee into the expectation that Frederick would return to the
year 1260 as the Antichrist and complete his evil work, but looked for a descendant of
Frederick II as the Antichrist.
How Individual Authors Interpret the End of Time
In the early Middle Ages, the Anglo-Saxon monk and scholar Bede the Venerable
(d. 735) should be regarded as the outstanding specialist in questions concerning the
Last Days. From his original point of view, the end of the world and the Last Judgment
were still more than 1000 years away. Like many men in the Church, he rejected all
the efforts to calculate the time of the end of the world because only God knew it.
In his opinion, the Last Judgement should take place at an unexpected and sudden
moment. At an advanced age, however, Bede believed that the dawn of the Last Days
was very near. This change in opinion was caused by the current circumstances and
events, especially in the year 716. Since he believed that with the Anglo-Saxons almost
all pagans had been converted to Christianity, even on the periphery of the known
world, in his opinion the dawn of the Last Days was imminent when the Jews would
be converted.
Centuries later, in the time of the Investiture Contest, one does not find any trace
of acute end-time or parousia expectations within the Benedictine Abbot Rupert of
Deutz (d. 1129 or 1130). However, pictures of the Apocalyptic served him to determine
the present. A way to explain that is his intention to criticize undeniable defects in
Christianity with the sharpest possible means. It was the zeal for reform that had
Rupert of Deutz and others translate the grievances of the Church into the symbolism
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of the end-times. From Rupert’s point of view, the Roman Empire was the vanguard of
the Antichrist, while the church was the last bastion that stopped him (the Antichrist).
This attitude is typical for German symbolism.
The situation is, in contrast, quite different with Otto of Freising (d. 1158): As his
world chronicle Historia de duabus civitatibus from the years 1143–1146, which in its
final part also describes the events of the end-times, shows, the bishop of Freising
at first was made so pessimistic by the temporary circumstances that he expected
the end of the world in a near future. In a situation of general decay, Otto of Freising
believed that (only) the monks of the new founded orders with their merits and intercessions halted the end of the world. He did not rule out that a Roman emperor would
become the Antichrist (Historia VIII, 3). However, Otto draw hope when his nephew
Frederick I Barbarossa (d. 1189) succeded the misfortunate Conrad III (d. 1152) on the
German throne.
Shortly after Otto’s death, the papal schism of 1159, which repeated itself in 1164,
had a considerably reinforcing effect on Provost Gerhoch of Reichersberg (d. 1169)
regarding the expectation of the Last Days. Before 1159, Gerhoch had seen the supposed portents of the Antichrist increase, but one can originally not speak of an acute
expectation of the end times in his writings. In Gerhoch’s case, the name or term of the
Antichrist mostly did not mean an individual, but a collective of multi Antichristi, who
were up to make trouble inside the Church. According to Gerhoch, the hiding place of
the Antichrist was to be located in the souls or vices of men. This spiritual interpretation eliminated any apocalypticism from Gerhoch’s thinking. In his opinion, it was the
Regular Canons who constituted a protective wall and stopped the Antichrist for some
time. As a result of the Pope’s schism of 1159, however, Gerhoch saw the Antichrist
appearing under the semblance of Christian devoutness already sitting in the temple.
He regarded hypocrisy as his religion. Nevertheless, he looked optimistically into the
future, by hoping for the return of Christ, now believed to be close.
The end of time expectation of Western Christians received new features of
far-reaching importance by the Calabrian abbot Joachim of Fiore (d. 1202), who was
related to the German Symbolists. Joachim came close to the Old Christian Millenarianism by directing his thinking towards inducing a state of perfection still within
earthly history. Building on the older concept that after the persecution by the Antichrist there would be a brief break before the Last Judgment, Joachim expected an age
of religious renewal and new spirituality following the reign of the Antichrist.
According to Joachim, world history is divided into three statuses, corresponding
to Trinity: The age of the Father, which coincides with the period described in the Old
Testament, is followed first by the age of the Son, which begins with Christ, and finally
by the age of the Holy Spirit, which makes the clergy and the papacy superfluous
through the knowledge of the inner sense of the Old and the New Testament overcoming the letter. While according to Joachim the first status lasted 42 generations of
varying duration, he imagined that the second status should comprise 40 generations
of 30 years each and two further generations of uncertain duration, which is why with
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regard to the entry into the third status it could only be said that it would take place
after the 40th generation, i. e. after the year 1200, but not necessarily only in 1261, as
a few decades after Joachim’s death some followers of his doctrine believed. As far as
the last two generations are concerned, Joachim emphasized their transitional character: they formed both the end of the second and the beginning of the third status,
and therefore it was indifferent whether the latter was to begin with the 41 st, 42nd or 43rd
generation after Christ. For the time of the 41st and 42nd generation Joachim expected
two persecutions of Christianity. He identified Sultan Saladin and his successor as the
first one. In accordance with the ten horns of one of the two apocalyptic beasts in Rev
13:1, he thought Saladin backed by ten pagan rulers. They subjugated the meanwhile
already fragmented Roman Empire, but would then finally be repulsed by the milites
Christi. In the short period of peace that followed, a universalis pontifex nove Hierusalem was to appear as a novus dux, renewing Christianity. Then the Antichrist would
bring about a further, even more severe persecution, until in the end Christ would
defeat the Antichrist and his confederate, the last Saracen ruler who once again had
fallen upon the Christians with all his might.
Joachim also expected the conversion of all peoples to Christianity and the unification of the Greek Church with the Roman Church as part of the forthcoming changes
which he considered imminent. Moreover, at the end of the second status two orders
were to appear as representatives of the new spirituality. The two newly founded mendicant orders considered themselves as these orders a few years after Joachim’s death.
The beginning of the third status basically marked the dawn of the end of the
world, because it was not to last for a time corresponding to the second status, but
maybe only for a few years. It should furthermore be noted that with the defeat of
the “actual” Antichrist, whom Joachim considered already to be born, the sufferings
imposed on mankind would by no means end, for at the end of the third status – i. e.
contrary to tradition only after the Antichrist – Joachim expected Gog to appear as the
“last” Antichrist.
As the reproduction of his teachings by several authors shows, Joachim’s contemporaries initially did not perceive his originality. They often do not even talk about the
third status, so that the impression is given that his teachings did not go any further
beyond the long-known ideas of the end times. For their effect outside Calabria, it was
of decisive importance that at the highpoint of the struggle between Frederick II and
the Papacy the idea of overcoming the clerical church in the third status was enthusiastically received by the Franciscans.
In the middle of the fourteenth century, John of Rupescissa (d. after 1365) delivered a
very detailed and widely spread description of the Last Days including, particularly
for him and his trustworthiness, dangerously exact numbers and years; he combined
various prophetic motifs with each other. In his Liber secretorum eventuum, completed
on 11 November 1349 in the papal dungeon of Avignon, he writes that, under the fourth
of the successors of Pope Clement VI (1342–1352), who fruitlessly tried to reform the
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world, the wrath of God would befall the world. The conditions prevailing in Italy after
his death caused people to fear the end of the world. Only after one and a half years a
new Pope would be elected who, like Celestine V in former times, would not stem from
the ranks of the Cardinals; he would soon be forced by them to abdicate and he would,
supported by some of the Franciscans as the true Pope, hide in the desert.
Shortly after this schism, so it continues, the great (fourth) Antichrist would
appear, who was to be identified with Louis of Sicily (d. 1355). He would almost completely destroy the city of Rome, which was rebelling against him, deprive the clergy
of all its possessions and exterminate the Dominicans. Since Louis gave the hardened
Jews freedom for a certain time, they celebrated him as the Messiah. He, too, considered himself Messiah and God. John of Rupescissa expected Louis’s open appearance
as the Antichrist for the year 1366. According to tradition, the rule of the Antichrist
was to last three and a half years until the year 1370. Finally, the faithful went into
combat as the new Maccabees against the superiority of the Antichrist. Then Christ
would come down from heaven with a host of angels and annihilate the Antichrist
and his followers. After that the Last Judgment was not to take place immediately,
but John of Rupescissa ventured to claim that the world would – in accordance with
Joachim’s third status (in the temporal sense fixed neither in terms of duration nor of
beginning) – continue to exist for 1000 years. After several tyrants had tried to control
the Roman Empire during the first 45 years, and despite many adversities all sects of
the unfaithful had been destroyed, it seemed as if paradise had come down to Earth.
Everyone would be enlightened by the Holy Spirit. The Jews accepted Christianity and
thus also received from God the universal power of the Romans – particularly remarkable due to an increased number of pogroms from 1348 to 1350, which began in southern France and were faced by Clement VI. Under the reign of Pope and Emperor, who
was supposed to come from the Abrahamic lineage, peace would prevail all over. The
pope, who resembles to the angel descending from heaven (Rev. Joh. 10,1–3), resided
in Jerusalem itself, while the emperor resided close to the city (but not in it), so that
the lay people would not disturb the spirituals. 700 years after the death of the great
Antichrist, people’s faith and ethics were decreasing again. At the lowest point, 1000
years after the death of the great Antichrist, Gog, the last Antichrist, would appear
as the last punishment of mankind. But this one will be destroyed by God, and then
Christ will give the dominion back to the Father. The early death in 1355 of Louis of
Sicily forced John of Rupescissa to change his foretelling. Thus he considered in his
Liber ostensor, completed on September 1, 1356, Louis’s brother Frederick III (IV), who
ruled over Sicily until 1377, as the great Antichrist, and the last emperor should be a
Frenchman and not any more a Jew converted to Christianity.
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Selected Bibliography
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Brandes, Wolfram, and Felicitas Schmieder (eds.). Endzeiten. Eschatologie in den monotheistischen
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Brandes, Wolfram, and Felicitas Schmieder (eds.). Antichrist. Konstruktionen von Feindbildern.
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Cohn, Norman. Das neue irdische Paradies. Revolutionärer Millenarismus und mystischer
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modernen Naturwissenschaft im Mittelalter. Munich, 2001.
Greisiger, Lutz. Messias. Endkaiser. Antichrist. Politische Apokalyptik unter Juden und Christen des
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Tiburtina, c. 1050–1500. Aldershot, 2006.
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Schriften, 54). Hanover, 2006.
Landes, Richard. “Lest the Millennium Be Fulfilled. Apocalyptic Expectations and the Pattern of
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Leppin, Volker. “Der Antichrist bei Adso von Montier-en-Der.” Der Antichrist. Historische und systematische Zugänge. Eds. Mariano Delgado and Volker Leppin. Fribourg, 2011. 125–136.
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Lerner, Robert E. “On the Origins of the Earliest Latin Pope Prophecies. A Reconsideration.”
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McGinn, Bernard. Visions of the End. Apocalyptic Traditions in the Middle Ages (Records of
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Wolfram Brandes
Traditions and Expectations in the Medieval
Eastern Christian World
Definitions and Terminology
The concept of prophecy, in a narrower sense, was, in the eyes of the Byzantines,
restricted to the real prophets of the Old Testament. In reality, prophecies as predictions of future events exist, with the meaning of an inspired proclamation of the will
of God by a prophetes. What in other regions of Christianity was called prophecy was,
in the relevant Byzantine texts, called optasía, apokálypsis, chrésmos or (simply) lógos
or órasis (also basileiographeia). The functions of the prophecy of the Old Testament
have been adopted by apocalyptical texts, such as the Sibylline oracles or so-called
testaments (e. g. of Jesus or holy persons). These various texts presented people with
the possibility of interpreting both history and the present. The fact that normally
apocalyptical and “prophetic” were pseudepigrapha texts, i. e., as the author appears
as an Old Testament prophet, like Daniel or Ezekiel, a holy person (one of the apostles,
e. g. John because of the Book of Revelation, etc.), or a famous church father (i. e., John
Chrysostom, Methodius). Usually, an angel is involved and delivers the prophecies to
the author.
This kind of text plays a role in the self-conception of the Christian Byzantines.
The knowledge about their position in time, before the real end of time and the world,
was important and had an influence regarding social behavior and sometimes politics, too. However, the eschatological beliefs tend to be hidden beneath the surface in
the majority of Byzantine literature.
Nevertheless, the Byzantines avoided using the term prophetia, as mentioned.
After the second or third centuries, the term prophetia fell out of favor, possibly due to
the warnings of the pseudo-prophets or false prophets from the New Testament, who
are creatures of the Antichrist and whose appearance heralds the advent of the end
of the world (Matt. 7:15, Mark 13:22, Rev. 16:13). Frequently, heretics have been identified as pseudo-prophets. Predictions in an eschatological context played, at all times,
a special role in Byzantium, and could sometimes influence the actions of rulers or
groups of people.
Written Sources
Amongst the written sources, the so-called apocryphal apocalypses are of great importance. They constitute a continuation of the apocalypses of both the Old (especially
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-011
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Dan. 2 and 7 or Ezek.) and New Testaments (synoptic apocalypse; of restricted importance was the Revelation to John) and of the many apocryphal texts of this genre.
According to Paul Alexander (Brandes 1990; Magdalino 1993), the majority are “historical apocalypses” (but not all!). Normally, they are pseudepigraphies because they
are transmitted together with the name of an Old Testament prophet (usually David or
Ezekiel) a disciple of Christ (e. g. John – following the canonical Revelation of the New
Testament), and also important figures from the patristic age (like John Chrysostom or
Methodius) or, on occasion, important rulers (like Constantine the Great, Heraclius, or
Leo the Wise). Frequently, Byzantine apocalypses are like a patchwork of older texts
or elements of texts of varying ages. Therefore, an apocalypse from the end of the
thirteenth century contains snippets of text about events that occurred in the seventh
century or later. These prophetic apocalypses explain the future ex eventu, ending in
the second Parousia of Christ, the resurrection of the deaths, the Last Judgement, and,
finally, the end of the world.
When, in 541, the (Justinianic) plague afflicted Constantinople and the Mediterranean, a woman in the capital began to prophesy the imminent end of the city, claiming that “that in three days’ time the sea would rise and take everybody”, according
to historian John Malalas (Thurn 2000, 406). The crowds flew into a panic and the
emperor was informed. The prediction that the sea would submerge Constantinople
became a standard motif in the apocalyptical literature (Brandes 1999). Earthquakes
frequently struck Constantinople, and these catastrophic events provided sources for
predictions regarding the end of the world, such as in 557, when a “prophetic” woman
sparked a great rumor in the city (Brandes 1999, 126), and the massive earthquake of
989 (when parts of Hagia Sophia collapsed), which led astrologers, such as Demophilus, to produce a horoscope of Constantinople, identifying 1026 as the year when time
would end (Pingree 1977; Brandes 2000, 461–462).
Predictions – mostly with a special political background – originated in every
period, reflecting special events; for example, during the Second Crusade, when the
army of the Westerners under the leadership of the (Western) emperor, Conrad III,
drew near to Constantinople (in 1147), a prediction of doom circulated among the population. The famous, learned scholar, John Tzetzes, provides an account of this: “The
Bous will cry and the Tauros will lament; woe to you, you seven hills, because you will
not exist a thousand years” (Brandes 2007a, 245–246). John’s reaction to the xantha
ethne, the fair-haired people (a common topos in the apocalyptical literature – see
Pertusi 1988, 62–109), as the Crusaders were seen by the Byzantines, was evidently to
assume that the prophecy was confirming Constantinople’s imminent destruction at
the hands of this blond army, the Crusaders (Magdalino 2008, 131–132).
By around 1200, the famous historian, Nicetas Choniates, was already employing the Oracles of Leo the Wise (↗ Spataro, Papal Prophecies, 903–904) in various
places throughout his History, albeit without naming his source. In addition, he
reports another incident, which could only be understood against the background
of apocalyptical literature and thought. Several years prior to the terrifying events of
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1203 and 1204, when the Fourth Crusade sacked and despoiled the Byzantine capital –
an event that also provoked apocalyptical feelings and texts (Brandes 2007a) – the
Third Crusade (under the leadership of Frederick I Barbarossa) drew near to Constantinople. The patriarch, Dositheus, “predicted”, “like from a tripod” (so Nicetas),
that the Frankish Crusaders would enter the city through the Xylokerkos-Gate and
cause great damage. However, “after perpetrating abominable crimes, he (Frederic
Barbarossa and his men) would then suffer the counter-balancing vengeance of
God’s scale of justice.” The emperor’s reaction was logical (according to the thinking of his time): He commanded that the gate be closed with masonry. Therefore, he
meant that the prophecy of Dositheus (whom he trusted, because Isaac predicted
his emperorship some time before he ascended the throne) would be nullified.
The real background to this astonishing story is some centuries older. In the (first)
Greek version of the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius, the translator (from Syriac
into Greek) in the eighth century interpolated a short (apocalyptical) text that contained a description (in the apocalyptical manner) of the last great siege of Constantinople by the Islamic Arabs in 717/718. The unknown author wrote during the siege
and was highly pessimistic, believing in Constantinople’s imminent fall (for details
see Brandes 2007b). Here, we have an early version of the prophecy cited by John
Tzetzes:
Woe to you, Byzas (= Byzantium, resp. Constantinople), because Ishmael overtakes you. For
every horse of Ishmael will pass through and the first among them will pitch his tent before
you, Byzas, and he will begin to make war and will break down the gate of Xylokerkos and will
proceed as far as the Bous (the Forum Bovis). The Bous will low loudly and Xerolaphos will bay,
since they were thrashed by the Ishmaelites. (Aerts and Kortekaas 1998, 172)
Then God changed the situation (“And the Lord God will then snatch the cowardice
of the Romans and thrust it into the hearts of the Ishmaelites and take the manliness
of the Ishmaelites and cast it into the hearts of the Romans; they will turn and drive
them from their homes and crush them without mercy”). The “king of the Greeks,
which is of the Romans” (the Last Roman Emperor) will force the Arabs back onto the
Arabian Peninsula, so we have here one of the rare examples where an apocalyptical text provoked a specific action by an emperor (Brandes 2007a, 247–252; Brandes
2007b, 89–90; Brandes 2008, 192–196).
The impact of apocalyptical texts on the actual behavior of the Byzantines
appears to play a noteworthy role in 1453 (May 29) also, the day of the halosis. According to the historians Laonikos Chalkokondyles and Dukas, on this dreadful day, the
people of Constantinople sought shelter at Hagia Sophia because the Ottomans has
begun to invade the city. The reason was because “false prophets” had been predicting, for many years, that the Ottomans would indeed enter the Byzantine capital, but
would only reach the column of Constantine – at which point, an angel would appear,
holding a sword, which he would hand to an unknown, poor man, saying, “Take the
sword and take revenge on behalf of the people of God.” The Ottomans would be put to
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flight and the Rhomaioi (the Byzantines) would attack them. They would be expelled
to the borders of Persia. Hagia Sophia lies behind the column of Constantine if seen
from the West, from which direction the Ottomans would have to arrive. Thus goes
the story of Dukas. Chalkokondyles told a similar story, with very slight differences,
according to which the Ottomans would only reach as far as the Forum Tauri (with
the column of Theodosius) (Brandes 2005, 456–458). The real background to these
strange actions by the inhabitants of Constantinople lies in a Byzantine apocalypse:
The Last Vision of the Prophet Daniel, in which one may read that Gog and Magog, the
apocalyptical peoples (Brandes 2012), would enter the “city of seven hills” (i. e. Constantinople) and slaughter its inhabitants. Then, the bous (i. e., the Forum Bovis, with
a sculptured ox head) would cry and the Xerolophos (one of the hills) would repine,
until a voice from heaven would shout: “Stop it; peace shall be with you […]. You will
found a man, take him and crown him as emperor. Four angels will crown him in the
church of Hagia Sophia. They will give him a sword saying, ‘Be strong and defeat your
enemies’ ” (scil. the Ismaelites [Muslims], Ethiopians, Franks, Tatars, etc.) (Schmoldt
1972, 130–132; Brandes 2005, 457–458; Kraft 2018). We see here, therefore, one of the
rare examples where apoism had a visible impact on the “real world” – of course, in
a highly extreme situation.
In certain apocalyptical texts, especially in the Vision of Daniel on the Last times
and the End of the World (Kraft 2018; Schmoldt 1972, 202), in the Vision of (the Monk)
Daniel on the Heptalophos (= Constantinople) (Schmoldt 1972, 190), in an Armenian
Daniel-apocalypse (Kalemkiar 1892, 237; cf. DiTommaso 2014) and in the apocalypse
of the Life of Andrew the Fool (Rydén 1995, 268) from the tenth century, appears a
special figure, the meirakion (“youngling”, young man), who plays a highly negative
role in the events of the last days (Brandes 2007a, 254; Brandes 2008, 190–192). The
Last Vision of the Prophet Daniel, written after 1261 (Brandes 2007b, 84; cf. Kraft 2018),
identified the meirakion probably with Alexios IV, who played such a negative role in
the events of the Fourth Crusade, and was indeed very young in 1203/1204 (Schmoldt
1972, 126). This apocalyptical figure (the meirakion) was even used as a mean of propaganda against Emperor Manuel I during a coup d’état (Brandes 2008, 190).
Techniques and Manifestations
The calculation of the end of the world and time has a long history in Byzantium
(Alexander 1985; Pertusi 1988; Brandes 1990; Magdalino 1993; Brandes and Schmieder
2008). The interpretation of the present as the end of time, as the last period of human
history by groups of people or individuals, one finds throughout Byzantine history.
Frequently, the real nature of the event found in our sources is unclear – an isolated
phenomenon (speculations of individuals) or one that involved a huge number of
people.
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Daniel’s interpretation of the dream of the Babylonian ruler, Nebuchadnezzar
(Dan. 2:32–35), as a symbol for the four world kingdoms resulted in the identification
(beginning in the second or third century with Hippolytus of Rome and Tertullian)
of the last kingdom with the Roman (= Byzantine) Empire. This is the kernel of the
so-called “Reichseschatologie” (eschatology of empires), one of the main elements
of the self-conceptions of the Byzantines (Podskalsky 1972, 1983). Also of importance
was the prediction by the prophet Ezekiel (Ezek. 38:2–3 of the invasion of the apocalyptical peoples, the Gog and Magog, coming from the North (from the Caucasus)
(Brandes et al. 2016). Of central importance were the verses of the so-called synoptic
apocalypse of the New Testament (Matt. 24 – Mark 13 – Luke 21). Here, the signs of
the coming end are noted. These circumstances were widely known in Byzantium
and their usage – e. g., in historiographical works (Nicetas Choniates, for example
[Brandes 2007a]) – implies eschatological thinking. The role of the katechon, the
“withholding power”, identified after Hippolytus and Tertullianus (post the second/
third centuries) with the Roman (= Byzantine) Empire, has already been mentioned.
This is one of the main kernels of apocalyptical thought. All of these elements of an
apocalyptical interpretation of the present age and contemporaneous events function
in combination.
Magdalino (Magdalino 2003, 239–240) discerned three aspects or methods for calculating the end:
1. “blind dating”, where natural phenomena and human events (moral, politics, etc.)
play the most important role. Simplified, one can distinguish a reaction to certain
catastrophic events (earthquakes, plague, war, etc.) – all seen as signa/semeia
of the imminent end of the world. In addition, the decay of ethical standards – a
permanent topic among the preachers and critics of their day – could give individuals or whole groups of people the impression that they are living at the end
of time, shortly before the Last Judgement. 2 Tim. 3:2–7 provides a catalogue of
the symptoms of a decaying society. The apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius cited
this passage in full, seeing within it a “sign” of the Last Days (Aerts and Kortekaas
1998, 160–161). In the Latin bible, the so-called Vulgata, this section begins with
the phrase tempora periculosa sunt, a formula with some importance in Carolingian times (Brandes 1997a). Catastrophic events, such as the capture and looting
of Constantinople in 1204 as a result of the Fourth Crusade (Laiou 2005; Brandes
2007a), or notably the halosis, the fall of Christian Constantinople to the Muslim
Ottomans in 1453, provoked a strong sense of an imminent end (Brandes 2005).
2. As a result of the computation of time, people could be awaiting the end. In addition, gematria (the numerical value of the letters within sacred names) could play
a role (see, e. g., Theophanes and his computation of the name “Jesus”) or the
major astronomical cycles like the 532-year Easter cycle were used to calculate
the end. As noted above, everyone knows that the world (and humankind) has
a beginning. God created it in six days. In addition, history (and Christian historiography) also had beginning. History, under the Christian interpretation, was
3.
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the history of salvation, ending with the second Parousia of Christ. Many scholars
and less learned individuals attempted to calculate the year (and even the day)
when history began, the date of creation. One fact seems certain: the world will
exist for (only) 6,000 years, because Psalm 90:4 states with clarity: “For to you
(= God) a thousand years are no more than yesterday when it is past, and like a
watch in the night.” In the New Testament, the second letter of Peter (2 Pet. 3:8)
agrees that God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh (Gen. 2:2).
This should mean that the world will exist for six days and, because a day, in the
sight of God, equates to 1,000 years, the world should last for 6,000 years. The
question of the interpretation of the seventh day (when God rested – the Sabbath)
remains. Will there be a seventh millennium? In combination with Rev. 20:2, the
so-called Chiliasm originated. It plays an important role in Latin Christianity but,
in Byzantium, this was unproblematic, probably because of the restricted recognition of the book of Revelation in Eastern Christianity (Brandes 1997b, 25–26).
It seems that the Letter of (Pseudo-)Barnabas (Clavis patrum Graecorum 1050),
written around 130/132, is the first known text that refers to the 6,000 years of the
world’s existence (ch. XV.3–5).
“Dating on the side” is how Magdalino (Magdalino 2003, 240) describes an eschatological chronology that is projected by apocalyptical texts, often in conjunction with sibylline-style oracles and/or biblical-style prophecies. Using the future
tense, these apocalypses describe coming events (emperors of the future, the
Last Roman Emperor, the destruction of the Roman Empire, the advent of the
Antichrist, the coming of Gog and Magog, the Last Judgement), using vaticinia ex
eventu.
Developments, Historical and Social Contexts
Christ himself has forbidden the counting of the years and the calculation of the end
(Matt. 24:36 = Mark 13:32). Paul, too, in his first letter to the Thessalonians (1 Thess.
5:1–2), emphasized this. Nevertheless, in every Christian century, attempts have been
made to identify the date when the world was created (i. e. the number of years before
the time of the calculator) or the date when it will end, after 6,000 years (i. e. the
number of years for which the world will remain). Of special importance was the date
of the birth of Christ, the incarnation, in the framework of the 6,000 years for which the
world would last. Nevertheless, frequently, catastrophic events (earthquakes, wars,
inundations, plagues, etc.) or astronomical phenomena (eclipses of sun or moon,
comets) inspired authors to “produce” prophesies – mainly regarding the imminent
end of the world. However, the Byzantines were obsessed with calculating the time.
There are some “dangerous” years in the long Byzantine history when the calculations
produced a situation in which the sense of awaiting the end of time was heightened.
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Of special significance – also for our understanding of general history – is the one
world era, according to which the terrifying 6,000 years for which the world would last
would end ca. 500 (Meier 2003). Hippolytus of Rome (d. 235), who wrote the highly
influential book, De Antichristo (Clavis patrum Graecorum 1872), in his commentary on
the book of Daniel in the Old Testament, dated the birth of Christ to the year when the
world had existed for 5,500 years (cap. IV., 22–24; Brandes 1997b, 28–29). He prefers
a “symbolic” reckoning of time. According to Rev. 17:10 and Ex. 25:10, the ark of the
covenant is 2½ cubits long, 1½ wide and 1½ high, making a combined total of 5½,
which he equated with the middle of the last millennium, ca. 500, according to our
time reckoning. Writing in ca. 200, this meant that the world would end in ca. 300
years – an extension to the usual more imminent ending from the individuals’ perspective. (Sextus) Julius Africanus is another important historian of late antiquity
(d. after 240) who dated the incarnation of Jesus Christ to the 5,500th year since the
beginning of the world (Wallraff 2007, XXIII–XXIX). His influence on the later historiographical tradition was enormous. He has been called the “forefather of Byzantine
historiography” and his system of dating was well known. In addition, the historian
Annianus from Alexandria, who wrote a (now lost) world history (from Adam to 407),
dated the birth of Christ to 5,500/5,001 years since the world began. His history was
used ca. 800 in the chronographia of Georgius Syncellus – so we know of this work
(Brandes 1997b, 29). At the same time (around 400) Panodorus, a monk from Egypt,
also wrote a world chronicle (beginning with the creation). He dated the nativity of
Christ to 5493 anno mundi. Georgius Syncellus cites several fragments of his history,
so we learned of his chronological system (Brandes 1997b, 30). In the fourth and fifth
centuries, the knowledge that the dangerous year of 6000 was at hand and can find
widespread evidence of this in all kinds of sources from this time (all examples after
Brandes 2007a). Thus, already Lactantius (d. ca. 330) wrote in his Divinae institutiones (before 313) that there were only 200 years remaining before the end of the
world. Sulpicius Severus believed, around 400, that the appearance of the Antichrist
was imminent, or, according to the holy Martin of Tours, that he was already born.
One can find countless examples from the fourth- and fifth-century literature. Therefore, as another example, in a commentary on the Hexaemeron (Pseudo-Eustathius
of Antioch), the resurrection of Christ is dated to 5531 years since the world began,
placing his birth in 5500 or 5501. Similar was the computation of Quintus Julius Hilarianus, an African bishop (ca. 397), who dated the resurrection to 5530. In addition,
the Syrian literature of the time knew the end in ca. 500. Therefore, the famous Cave
of Treasures dated the incarnation to ca. 5.500 (Brandes 1997b, 31 – here in footnote
47 more examples from the Syrian literature). This is of special interest because it was
one of the main sources of the prominent apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius which
adopted the chronological system (seven millennia) of this text (Reinink 1993, XXX–
XXXI). In addition, the Latin literature knows this dating. Therefore, for example, in
one version of the Latin Evangelium Nicodemi is also the “calculation” of Hippolytus
of Rome regarding the duration of the world according to the measurement of the ark
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of the covenant noted. In addition, the church father Methodius of Olympus knows
this (Brandes 1997b, 31–32). Prominent as proof of the awaiting of the end of the world
is one text, only published in 1967 (Alexander 1967), the so-called Oracle of Baalbek.
Using an older sibylline prophecy from the end of the fourth century (ca. 378–390; the
Tiburtine Sibyll, later [ninth or tenth century] translated into Latin and very important
for the eschatological thinking in the West), an unknown author in ca. 502–506 wrote
an apocalyptical text, which described present events (wars with the Persians, natural
phenomena). These were, for him, clear signs of the end of time (Meier 2003, 67–72).
Another apocalyptical text, the Seventh Vision of Daniel (Kalemkiar 1892; Brandes
1990, 310; DiTommaso 2014), only preserved in Armenian (the original Greek version
is lost), seems to share strong similarities with the Oracle of Baalbek. In addition, a
Very Short Chronicle, preserved in the so-called Theosophie of Tübingen from the end
of the fifth century, mentioned explicitly the imminent end of the sixth millennium
(Brandes 1997b, 55–56). In some historiographical works, the year 6000 of the world
plays a central role (Brandes 1997b, 55–57). The Oracle of Baalbek described the ruling
emperor Anastasius I (a fellow traveler of miaphysite theology that stimulated considerable trouble and civil uprising) in a manner that recalls the existing descriptions
of the Antichrist! Especially the eyes of the emperor – one green and the other blue
(hence he is called díkoros [“having a double pupil”]) – recalls the Antichrist (Brandes
1997b, 57–61). Here, we can see how the use of apocalyptical topoi and symbols results
in heavy criticism of the ruling emperor.
In the sixth century, when the year ca. 500 (as the year 6000 of the world, foretold by Hippolytus) came and went without incident, various people attempted to
offer a recalculation. Some decided that Christ was born in the year 6000 of the world
(Podskalsky 1972, 92). The (regrettably only surviving as fragments) world history of
Hesychius of Milet is the first text where this computation appears (Dindorf 1832).
With the name of Hippolytus, a (probably eighth century) text was found in some
manuscripts. Here, the 1000 years of Rev 20 have been added to the year of the journey
of Christ to hell (in the year 5533 of the world) which equated to 6534, or 1034 according to our calculation of time. Then Satan would be free.
A certain monk named Theophanes wrote, in the eighth century, a text entitled
Chronological Composition on the Consummation of the Age or of the World (von Dobschütz 1893; Podskalsky 1972, 97; Magdalino 1993, 23 and 25; Brandes 2000, 460;
Brandes 1990, 308 and footnote 2). He added the numerical value of the name Jesus
(Ἰησοῦς/Iēsoûs), 888, to Jesus’ date of birth and so arrived at the year AM 6388 (=
880 according to the Byzantine era) as the date of the end of the world. Therefore,
the world of his time (710) had only ca. 170 years remaining (von Dobschütz 1893,
550–551). Theophanes believed that Christ was born in the year 5500 of the world, but
this year, which led to his recalculation. Later (in the tenth century), his chronology
was expanded to include the calculated year of 1000.
In chronicles of the tenth century and in the famous De administrando imperio
of Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus, we find two older horoscopes – on the future of
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Islam, separately existent in some manuscripts under the name of (Pseudo-) Stephen
of Athens (or Alexandria; beginning of the seventh century), written ca. 775. One
version of the horoscope foresees the end of Islam in 987/988, while a later one posited
992 (also 958 is mentioned). One should understand that the end of Islam – the antichristian enemy par excellence – will mark the beginning of the scenario of the last
time (the Last Roman Emperor, second Parousia, etc.) (Usener 1914, 266–287; Bekker
1842, 142–143; Bekker 1838, 717; Moravcsik 1967, 80 [XVI,1–12]; see Brandes 1990, 320;
Brandes 2009, 335–339; Magdalino 2003, 242–243). This “horoscope” was recorded in
several historiographical works too – proof of its relevance and distribution (Brandes
2000, 461). It is significant that all of these calculations were placed in the second
half of the tenth century, a time when the year 1000 was approaching, and fear spread
throughout many Byzantine circles.
Far more important are sources around 1000 when also in Byzantium – not only in
the Western Christianity (↗ Möhring, Eschatology Western Christian World, 275–277) –
a fear emerged that the world could come to an end. The long-lasting discussion of
western mediaevalists on the significance of the terreur de l’an mille is not the subject
of these lines. However, it is remarkable that the quantity of evidence from Byzantine
sources played no role in these discussions, although many of the relevant sources
had been known for more than a century.
After the sixth century, when the terrifying year 500 (as the year 6,000 of the
world according to Hippolytus, Julius Africanus and others) had passed and the end
did not happen, people (learned people, of course) embarked on fresh calculations
and began to seek a chronological system. They found ways to add 500 years to the
6,000 years of the world and so the time around 1000 CE became “dangerous”. “Some
Byzantines must have continued experiencing eschatological fears and new justifications for these fears were produced” (so Ševčenko 2002, 569). A text called Historia
mystica ecclesiastica was attributed, with a high degree of probability, to patriarch
Germanos of Constantinople (715–730; d. 733). It has been edited several times (Clavis
patrum Graecorum 8023; see Brandes 2000, 458; Ševčenko 2002, 569; Magdalino 2003,
268; Magdalino 2008, 128). This text was well-known in Byzantium (there are many
manuscripts; in the ninth century, Anastasius Bibliothecarius translated it into Latin).
It includes the statement that “When the bishop blesses the people, it indicates that
the future coming of Christ will be in the year 6.500, as shown by the figure ϛφʹ.” The
bishop made the sign of the cross over his flock, forming his fingers to indicate the
number 6,500, and thus to show that Christ’s Coming would happen in the year 6,500
of the creation. Theophanes (and Nicetas Paphlagon too – see below) added that God,
in his philanthropia, has been granted two extra sixtieths to humankind, as one reads
in the apocalypse of James, the brother of Christ (von Dobschütz 1903, 550 ll. 25–26).
Therefore, he identified the year 6,500 of the world as the date of the second coming
of Christ. Nota bene: Today an apocalypse of James where Christ gives the world 2 ×
60 years is unknown – but this is no argument against its authenticity (see Brandes
2000, 460–461).
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Another text dating the end of Constantinople to around 1000 (in fact, 1026) is the
“horoscope” of the Byzantine capital, the so-called themation. The chronicler George
Cedrenus (early twelfth century) reported that the horoscope of the founding of Constantinople was cast by the famous astronomer Vettius Valens at the command of
Emperor Constantine the Great (Bekker 1838, 497). He predicted that the city would
last for 696 years, until 1026. The historical Vettius Valens lived in the second century!
John Zonaras reported the same story in his chronicle (Büttner-Wobst 1907, 14–15).
Nevertheless, it seems that a certain Demophilos wrote this horoscope of the city of
Constantinople. Certainly, the great earthquake in October 989, when parts of the
Hagia Sophia collapsed and apocalyptical fears assaulted the Byzantines, inspired
this “horoscope”. Pseudo-Vettius Valens dated the end of the city (what meant the end
of the empire) to 1026 (Pingree 1977, 305–315; Brandes 2000, 461–462; Brandes 2011,
316; Magdalino 2003, 242–244; Magdalino 2008, 131).
Another text, a Computation of the Years of the End, was published some years
ago. Here, the Second Coming of Christ is dated to 1,000 years after his incarnation
(Ševčenko 2002, 564–566). A later version of this text (Ševčenko 2002) also names
the year 6,500 of the world (ca. 1000) as the time of the end. Podskalsky (Podskalsky
1972, 94; Magdalino 2003, 268–269) found, in a still unpublished Commentary on the
Prophets by Basil, metropolitan of Neopatras, written in the ninth or tenth centuries,
the opinion that “in the middle of the seventh age the fulfilment” of time will come.
The chartophylax of the Hagia Sophia Anthimos wrote several verses on the end of
the world in 6533 AM = 1025 CE. If Magdalino’s suggestion that he wrote in 959 (Magdalino 2003, 270) is correct, he belonged to the group who viewed the near future
with trepidation (see also Brandes 2000, 462; Podskalsky 1972, 94 and 97). In a manuscript, which is based on a lost original from 995 with a kind of chronicle (connected
with different eschatological texts: inter alia excerpts from Pseudo-Methodius, a list
of “signs of the Antichrist”, we can notice that “the Antichrist was born, as St. John
says (Rev. 20,2–3), 1000 years after the birth of Christ” (Brandes 2000, 462; Magdalino
2003, 269).
At the end of the first half of the tenth century (probably in 950), Nicetas (David)
Paphlagon wrote two letters (of which fragments survived). As a student of the famous
Archbishop Arethas of Caesarea (one of the Byzantine commentators of the Revelation
of John), he was known as an important scholar. In two manuscripts, one can find
two (closely related) texts. It is the answer to a letter of the “bishops of the West”.
Here, Nicetas answered the questions of these western bishops. He shows the different ways in which the end will come 1000 years after Christ (so only 50 years hence),
or in 1041. The end of the world is near and the corrupt situation of the church and
the empire show this. In a second text, On the End (Perì synteleías), he presented
several calculations of the time of the end (Magdalino 2003, 269; Brandes 2000, 456–
457). It is striking that Nicetas wrote at exactly the same time when Adso of Montier-en-Der in France compiled his famous book on the Antichrist for Queen Gerberga
(in 954).
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After the year 1000 passed without incident, several Byzantines began to recalculate the date. Of course, Byzantine history after the eleventh century knows also
“apocalyptical” events – especially the fall of Constantinople in 1204, when the Christian (!) knights of the Fourth Crusade’s terrifying conquering and pillaging of Constantinople shocked the Byzantines (Brandes 2007a). In the second half of the thirteenth century (1261), Emperor Michael VIII was able to expel the hated Latins from
Constantinople and restore the Byzantine Empire – but the state never regained its
former importance. The strength of the Ottomans increased and many contemporaries
anticipated the end of Byzantium.
Nothing happened in the year 6,000 of the world, so the approaching year of 7,000
(= 1492 according to the so-called Byzantine era) was viewed with trepidation. People
were forced to acknowledge that they were now living in the seventh millennium.
Already the influential Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius knows of seven millennia
before the end (because of his Syrian sources, especially the Cave of treasures). In
addition, Photius, the learned patriarch of the ninth century, wrote on the coming
Last Judgement in the year 7,000 of the world, and some others too (Podskalsky 1972,
94–95; Rigo 1992; Congourdeau 1999; Brandes 2005).
After the catastrophe of 1453, the hálosis, the fall of the Christian capital into the
hands of the Islamic Ottomans, the Greek people tried to understand what had happened. How could this terrible event be part of God’s plans? Already ca. 1400 CE,
when the Ottoman sultan Bajezid had a good chance to capture Constantinople,
the ultimate end of the Christian capital of the Byzantine Empire was anticipated.
However, the Mongols of Timur Lenk overcame the Ottomans in the battle of Ankara
(1402) and saved the Byzantine capital for half a century. However, shortly before this
event, someone has written the so-called fourth redaction of the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius. Someone shortened the text, so that, alone, the seventh millennium
plays a role (Lolos 1978, 23; Brandes 2005, 455). This text (the older redactions too)
became very popular; and we have evidence that, after 1453, Pseudo-Methodius was
read by many people. A huge number of manuscripts shows this, together with several
published letters from the weeks after the fall of Constantinople (Darrouzès 1964). The
“Last Roman Emperor”, the leading figure in the scenario of the last events, who will
defeat the anti-christian powers (the Ottomans, of course), gives hope. In this time
of great distress for the Christian population, now under the Islamic yoke, this could
produce hope and optimism. Therefore, a preoccupation with this kind of eschatological text existed during the long centuries of the Turkokratia.
In 1346, there occurred one of the worst earthquakes in Constantinople, and
parts of Hagia Sophia crashed to the ground. Alexios Macrembolites, a well-known
scholar, wrote a special text on these events and other terrifying signs too (Kourouses
1969/1970; Congourdeau 1999, 57). There followed the Black Death and the corruption
of church and society, so Macrembolites found in his time all the signs from the Bible
and thought that the end and the Antichrist were near. In addition, around 1453, the
interest in understanding the catastrophes inspired the increasing study of the most
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important apocalyptical texts of the Byzantine past – namely, the Pseudo-Methodius-Apocalypse and the many Daniel apocalypses. Indeed, more than 90 % of all manuscripts which contain this kind of texts came from this time – around 1453 and later.
In addition, some writings with an oracular character – like the famous Oracles of Leo
the Wise – were very popular (Brandes 2012). In short, all kinds of prophecies, oracles
and predictions regarding the end of Constantinople existed in the fourteenth and
first half of the fifteenth centuries, and little wonder – the Ottomans were standing a
few kilometers outside the walls of Constantinople and it was miraculous that the city
survived until 1453. Archbishop Symeon of Thessalonica died in 1429 in the Byzantine
capital during the siege by the Turks. His main work was a collection of 372 tracts in
the form of a dialogue between a bishop and clergyman, but for us are of interest the
Eratopokriseis (questions and answers) to Bishop Gabriel of Pentapolius, where he
demonstrated that the world would last only 7,000 years (Rigo 1992, 161–162). On the
one side, he stressed the words in the New Testament that indicated that only the
father knows the time of the end but, on the other side, he sees the corruption within
the social relations and in the church and he believes that the end is near. At the same
time, Joseph Bryennios (an important family; d. ca. 1431), preacher at the imperial
court and enemy of the Latin Church (and its Byzantine friends), officially speaks of
the imminent end (two homilies Peri synteleias survived and were edited in 1784 [Rigo
1992, 154–161]). In the time of the emperor, in the Church of the Holy Apostles, he predicted the imminent end. He regards, of course, the year 7,000, as the last year of the
world, as far distant, but everybody must take care of his own soul – here we have,
mutatis mutandis, the same phenomenon as in the tenth century – the interaction of
universal and individual eschatology. In the other homily, read in the palace in the
presence of many bishops and courtiers, he explains that the year 7000 will be the
end – but this is no catastrophe and one should not be afraid. The second Parousia of
Christ will bring about a common change and a new, improved world.
Shortly after the year 1271 (or 1274), a certain Kosmas Andritzopoulos (a monk
or priest) wrote a letter to the high official Michael Zorianos of the despotes of Epirus
(Congourdeau 1999, 68–69). He also saw the end as imminent but, for him, the gates
are open for the Antichrist because of the Union of Lyon with the Latin Church in 1274.
One should not forget that an eschatological feeling also resulted from the political (or
social or economic) conditions. They could, of course, interact with the calculation or
explain this kind of computation.
There are more sources of this kind from the fourteenth century, e. g. Gregory
Palamas or Theodore Melitenos (Rigo 1992, 171). Scholars directed special attention to
the learned patriarch Gennadius Scholarius who was an eyewitness of the halosis of
1453 and later (1456/1457, 1463, and 1464/1465) of Constantinople under Ottoman rule
(Blanchet 2008). It is little surprise that he believed that his time would end soon, in
1492. Already before 1453 and after the halosis he expressed this opinion in several
texts (Congourdeau 1999, 69–97; Kraft 2018). Especially in his Chronographia from
1462 – to mention only one example – he calculated exactly all dates of relevance (the
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birth of Christ, the 6000th or 6500th year of the world) and his result was clear: the
world would end in the year 7,000 of the world = 1492 (Congourdeau 1999; Blanchet
2008, 132). Also, in his Letter on the Capture of Constantinople (Blanchet 2008, 131–133)
or in the Refutation of the Errors of the Jews, he emphasized that the end was near, in
1492. However, in 1492, Christopher Columbus discovered a new world, America{, and
the old world exists until now.
In Byzantium – like all Christian societies – eschatological belief formed part of
the general interpretation of the world and its history. Based on the Bible and apocryphal texts especially, the many apocalypses (Kraft 2018) exerted a considerable
influence. Nevertheless, one should observe the general phenomenon that eschatological interpretations, etc., did not appear openly in the “high” literature. These texts
may have been seen by the ecclesiastical and political authorities as criticism of the
existing society (Brandes 1991)? Only with great labor can one find in the texts of
the great theologians and historians and in the many letters or poems, traces of this
thinking. In addition, the manuscript tradition shows some peculiarities, unlike the
manuscript traditions of the “normal” literature: the majority of the manuscripts are
very late (often after 1453). It seems that the “official” texts are following the interests
of the church and state – they have seen eschatological thinking as a threat to social
order. Eschatology (and apocalyptical texts) had – in the eyes of church and state –
the potential to criticize the social structure and power of the existing institutions. It
is surprising that, in some critical situations, the historical texts show no sign of an
eschatological interpretation. The texts presented here are exceptions – but the simple
fact that they exist is proof that eschatological thinking was present in Byzantium
during every period.
Selected Bibliography
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ältesten griechischen und lateinischen Übersetzungen, I. Einleitung, Texte, Indices Locorum et
Nominum (Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium 569; Subsidia 97). Louvain, 1998.
Alexander, Paul J. The Oracle of Baalbek: The Tiburtine Sibyl in Greek Dress (Dumbarton Oaks
Studies 10). Washington, D.C., 1967.
Alexander, Paul J. The Byzantine Apocalyptical Tradition (ed. with an Introduction by Dorothy de F.
Abrahamse). Berkeley et al., 1985.
Blanchet, Marie-Hélène. Georges-Gennadios Scholarios (vers 1400 – vers 1472). Un intellectuel
orthodoxe face à la disparition de l’Empire byzantine (Archives de l’Orient chrétien 20). Paris,
2008.
Brandes, Wolfram. “Die apokalyptische Literatur.” Quellen zur Geschichte des frühen Byzanz
(4.–9. Jahrhundert). Bestand und Probleme (Berliner Byzantinistische Arbeiten 56). Eds.
Friedhelm Winkelmann and Wolfram Brandes. Berlin, 1990. 305–322, 367–370.
Brandes, Wolfram. “Endzeitvorstellungen und Lebenstrost in mittelbyzantinischer Zeit
(7.–9. Jahrhundert).” Varia III (Πoικίλα Bυζαvτιvά, 11). Bonn, 1991. 9–62.
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Brandes 1997a
Brandes, Wolfram. “Tempora periculosa sunt. Eschatologisches im Vorfeld der Kaiserkrönung Karls
des Großen.” Das Frankfurter Konzil von 794. Kristallisationspunkt karolingischer Kultur, I:
Politik und Kirche. Ed. Rainer Berndt. Mainz, 1997. 49–79.
Brandes 1997b
Brandes, Wolfram. “Anastasios ὁ δίκoρoς. Endzeiterwartung und Kaiserkritik in Byzanz um
500 n. Chr.” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 90 (1997): 24–63.
Brandes, Wolfram. “Liudprand von Cremona (Legatio cap. 39–41) und eine bisher unbeachtete
west-östliche Korrespondenz über die Bedeutung des Jahres 1000 a. D.” Byzantinische
Zeitschrift 93 (2000): 435–463.
Brandes, Wolfram. “Der Fall Konstantinopels als apokalyptisches Ereignis.” Geschehenes und
Geschriebenes. Studien zu Ehren von Günther S. Henrich und Klaus-Peter Matschke. Eds.
Sebastian Kolditz and Ralf C. Müller. Leipzig, 2005. 453–470.
Brandes 2007a
Brandes, Wolfram. “Konstantinopels Fall im Jahre 1204 und ‘apokalyptische’ Prophetien.” Syriac
Polemics. Studies in Honour of Gerrit Jan Reinink (Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 170). Eds.
Wout Jacques van Bekkum, Jan Willem Drijvers, and Alex C. Klugkist. Louvain et al., 2007.
239–259.
Brandes 2007b
Brandes, Wolfram. “Die Belagerung Konstantinopels 717/718 als apokalyptisches Ereignis. Zu
einer Interpolation im griechischen Text der Pseudo-Methodios-Apokalypse.” Byzantina
Mediterranea. Festschrift für Johannes Koder zum 65. Geburtstag. Eds. Klaus Belke et al.
Vienna, 2007. 65–91.
Brandes, Wolfram. “Kaiserprophetien und Hochverrat. Apokalyptische Schriften und Kaiser­
vaticinien als Medium antikaiserlicher Propaganda.” Endzeiten. Eschatologie in den monotheistischen Weltreligionen (Millennium-Studien 16). Eds. Wolfram Brandes and Felicitas Schmieder.
Berlin and New York, 2008. 157–200.
Brandes, Wolfram. “Der frühe Islam in der byzantinischen Historiographie. Anmerkungen zur
Quellenproblematik der Chronographia des Theophanes.” Jenseits der Grenzen (Millennium-Studien 25). Eds. Andreas Goltz, Hartmut Leppin, and Heinrich Schlange-Schöningen. Berlin
and New York, 2009. 313–343.
Brandes, Wolfram. “Endzeiterwartung im Jahre 1009 a. D.?” Konflikt und Bewältigung. Die
Zerstörung der Grabeskirche in Jerusalem im Jahre 1009 (Millennium-Studien 32). Ed. Thomas
Pratsch. Berlin and New York, 2011. 301–320.
Brandes, Wolfram. “Oracula Leonis.” Christian-Muslim Relations. A Bibliographical History, IV
(1200–1350). Eds. David Thomas and Alex Mallett. Leiden and Boston, 2012. 124–127.
Brandes, Wolfram, and Felicitas Schmieder (eds.). Endzeiten. Eschatologie in den monotheistischen
Weltreligionen (Millennium-Studien 16). Berlin and New York, 2008.
Brandes, Wolfram, Felicitas Schmieder, and Rebekka Voß (eds.). Peoples of the Apocalypse. Eschatological Beliefs and Political Scenarios (Millennium-Studies 63). Berlin and Boston, 2016.
Clavis patrum Graecorum I–V. Turnhout, 1983–1987; Supplementum (Corpus Chistianorum. Series
Graeca), eds. Maurice Geerard and Jean Noret. Turnhout, 1998.
Congourdeau, Marie-Hélène. “Byzance et la fin du monde. Courants de pensée apocalyptique sous
les Paléologues.” Les traditions apocalyptiques au tournant de la chute de Constantinople
(Varia Turcica 33). Eds. Benjamin Lellouch and Stéphane Yérasimos. Paris, 1999. 55–97.
Constantine Porphyrogenitus. De administrando imperio. Ed. Gyula Moravcsik. English trans.
Romilly J.H. Jenkins (Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae 1). Washington, D.C., 1967.
Dindorf, Ludwig (rec.). “Ex Hesychii homilia in Natalem Christi.” Chronicon Paschale, II. Bonn, 1832.
116.
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DiTommaso, Lorenzo. “The Armenian Seventh Vision of Daniel and the Historical Apocalypticala
of Late Antiquity.” The Armenian Apocalyptical Tradition: A Comperative Perspective. Essays
Presented in Honor of Professor Robert W. Thomson on the Occasion of His Eightieth Birthday
(Studia in Veteris Testamenti Pseudepigrapha 25). Eds. Kevork B. Bardakjian and Sergio La
Porta. Leiden and Boston, 2014. 126–148.
von Dobschütz, Ernst. “Coislianus 296.” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 12 (1893): 534–567.
Eusebius. Chronicon – Die Chronik des Hieronymus (Werke, vol. VII). Ed. Rudolf Helm. 3rd ed. Berlin,
1984.
Georgios Kedrenos. Compendium historiarum, 2 vols. Ed. Immanuel Bekker. Bonn, 1838 and
1839.
Ioannis Malalas. Chronographia. Ed. Johannes Thurn (Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae 35).
Berlin and New York, 2000.
Ioannis Zonaras. epitomae historiarum libri XIII–XVIII. Ed. Theodor Büttner-Wobst. Bonn, 1907.
Iulius Africanus. Chronographiae. The Extant Fragments. Eds. Martin Wallraff with Umberto Roberto
and, for the Oriental Sources, Karl Pinggéra. Trans. William Adler (Die Griechischen Christlichen
Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte; Neue Folge 15). Berlin and New York, 2007.
Kalemkiar, Gregoris. “Die siebente Vision Daniels.” Viennaer Zeitschrift für die Kunde des
Morgenlandes 6 (1892): 227–240.
Kourouses, Stavros I. “Αἱ ἀωτιλήψεις περὶ τῶν ἐσχάτων τοῦ κόσμου καὶ ἡ κατὰ τὸ ἔτος 1346 πτώσις
τοῦ τρούλλου τῆς Ἁγίας Σοφίας.” Ἐπετηρὶς Ἡταιρείας Bυζαvτιvῶv Σπoυδῶv 37 (1969/1970):
211–250.
Kraft, András. “An Inventory of Medieval Greek Apocalyptical Sources (c. 500 – 1500 AD): Naming
and Dating, Editions and Manuscripts.” Millennium 15 (2018): 69–118.
Lellouch, Benjamin, and Stéphane Yérasimov (eds.). Les traditions apocalyptiques au tournant de la
chute de Constantinople (Varia Turcica 33). Paris, 1999.
Leon Grammatikos. Chronographia. Ed. Immanuel Bekker. Bonn, 1842. 1–228.
Magdalino, Paul. “The History of the Future and its Uses: Prophecy, Policy and Propaganda.”
The Making of Byzantine History. Studies Dedicated to Donald M. Nicol. Eds. Roderick Beaton
and Charlotte Roueché. Aldershot, 1993. 3–34.
Magdalino, Paul. “Une prophétie inédite des environs de l’an 965 attribué à Léon le Philosophe
(Ms Karakallou 14, f. 253r-254r).” Travaux et Mémoires 14 (2002): 391–402.
Magdalino, Paul. “The Year 1000 in Byzantium.” Byzantium in the Year 1000 (The Medieval
Mediterranean 45). Ed. Paul Magdalino. Leiden and Boston, 2003. 233–270.
Meier, Mischa. Das andere Zeitalter Justinians. Kontingenzerfahrung und Kontingenzbewältigung im
6. Jahrhundert n. Chr. (Hypomnemata 147). Göttingen, 2003.
Pertusi, Agostino. Fine de Bisanzio e fine del mondo. Roma, 1988.
Pingree, David. “The Horoscope of Constantinople.” ΠPIΣMATA. Naturwissenschaftsgeschichtliche
Studien. Festschrift für Willy Hartner. Eds. Yasukatsu Maeyama and Willy G. Saltzer. Wiesbaden,
1977. 305–315.
Podskalsky, Gerhard. Byzantinische Reichseschatologie. Die Periodisierung der ­Weltgeschichte
in den vier Großreichen (Daniel 2 und 7) und dem tausendjährigen Friedensreiche
(Apok. 20). Eine motivgeschichliche Untersuchung (Münchener Universitätsschriften 9).
Munich, 1972.
Reinink, Gerrit J (trans.). Die syrische Apokalypse des Pseudo-Methodius (Corpus Scriptorium
Christianorum Orientalium 541; Scriptores Syri 221). Louvain, 1993.
Rigo, Antonio. “L’anno 7000, la fine del mondo e l’Imperio cristiano. Nota su alcuni passi di
Giuseppe Briennio, Simeone di Tessalonica e Gennadio Scolario.” La cattura della fine.
Variazioni dell’escatologia in regime di cristianità. Ed. Giuseppe Ruggieri. Genoa, 1992.
151–185.
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Ševčenko, Ihor. “Unpublished Byzantine Texts on the End of the World about the Year 1000 AD.”
Travaux et Mémoires 14 (2002): 561–578.
Usener, Hermann. “De Stephano Alexandrino.” Kleine Schriften, III. Leipzig and Berlin, 1914.
247–322.
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Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 157). Berlin and New York, 2006.
Natalie E. Latteri
Jewish Traditions and Expectations in the
Medieval World
Definitions and Terminology
Eschatology, based on the Greek word ἔσχατον, eschaton, or last, is typically defined
as the doctrine, or collections of doctrines, regarding “last” or “final” things. As the
ordinal nomenclature suggests, scholars of eschatology tend to conceive of last things
as future agents, events, and phenomena which collectively punctuate a linear span
of human history. Adding nuance to this definition, Moshe Idel has succinctly articulated that there are at least three types of eschaton conceived of within the Judaic tradition: a personal eschaton, as in death, that is followed by either post-mortem reward
or punishment; a communal or collective eschaton, as in the decline of a religio-ethnic
group or civilization, or the passing of one era to the next; and a cosmic eschaton,
manifest in the natural phenomena of earthquakes, blood moons, the death of stars,
and more. Idel, Henning Graf Reventlow, Bill T. Arnold, and many other scholars have
illustrated that, though gruesome accounts of death and an unpleasant afterlife, and/
or foreboding signs signaling a devastated, blighted environment contribute broadly
to Jewish eschatology, these elements are typically subsumed within a fundamentally
communal eschatology.
More than any other type, communal eschatology reflects the tribalism found in
the series of divine covenants in the Hebrew Bible that pertain specifically to God’s
Chosen People, alternately known as the Nation of Israel, or simply Israel. In the
Hebrew Bible and post-biblical Jewish literature, this unique relationship is often represented as that of a parent-child, sibling, or spouse, in which God is father, brother,
and husband – protector and provider – to an infantilized and/or feminized Israel
who He loves jealously and above all others. Within the covenant model, God rewards
the Chosen People with territory (i. e., “The Promised Land,” also known as eretz,
or the land of, Israel), sovereignty, and prosperity in exchange for fidelity; but He
punishes Israel if and when the collective fails to adequately adhere to, or fulfill, the
covenant obligations. Communal eschatology is best understood as an extension of
this form of covenant theology, or theodicy, in which devastation and decline is perceived as the result of divine retribution for the group’s moral or religious laxity. The
gravest transgressions, and those warranting the most severe punishment, include
the sins of idolatry and apostasy. For it is these transgressions more than any other
that effectually serve as Israel’s rejection of its unique relationship with God, often
cast as byproducts of assimilation to foreign culture and religion.
In addition to the overlapping of types of eschaton, there also exists a conflation
of Israel’s many eras of communal decline within the Judaic tradition that is related
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-012
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in biblical and post-biblical literature, art, artifacts, liturgical commemoration, and
ritual practice. Eras of national decline affecting all of Israel include the Assyrian
conquest of the Northern Kingdom of Israel in the eighth century BCE, the Babylonian
conquest of Judah and the destruction of the First Temple in the sixth century BCE, the
Seleucid conquest of the descendants of the Judaean exiles who had returned to Israel
from Babylon in the second century BCE, Rome’s devastation of Jewish communities
and the destruction of the Second Temple in 70, etc. Within the various regional liturgies for the Ninth of Av, a holy day of mourning, each of these eras of national decline
is mentioned in conjunction with more localized destruction – such the Rhineland
pogroms of 1096 among Ashkenazic Jews and the expulsion of Jews from Spain in 1492
among Sephardic Jews – as if each unique historical juncture were interchangeable in
the overarching, ongoing cycle of Israel’s collective retribution for breach of covenant.
Further reflecting a fundamentally cyclical conception of history and a conflation of
junctures, within the Jewish prophetic and eschatological traditions there is a clear
indication that God’s wrath ebbed and flowed in expected ways. When repentant, God
would forgive, redeem, and forge a new covenant with Israel to usher in a new “millenarian” era in a wholly repaired world – that is, until the next series of transgressions
served to usher in another era of eschatological decline.
Millenarism complements eschatology as a doctrine of beginnings. Based on the
Latin word millennium, or thousand year span, the concept of millenarism has been
understood somewhat differently among varied religious traditions as well as within
the Jewish tradition over the years. Medieval and early modern Christian exegetes,
for example, might recognize millenarism as the belief in a thousand-year era adjudicated by the Messiah and the saints and characterized by peace and prosperity following the violent end of the previous era. Yet in contemporary scholarship, the conceptualization of millenarism has been altered and expanded. The notion of a clearly
delineated, literal, thousand-year rule of the saints has been revised; and scholars
such as Robert E. Lerner, Stephen Sharot, and others, now recognize millenarism as
the expectation of an imminent, transformative era that would follow the end of the
previous wicked era. In this new millenarian age, heaven and earth would cooperate
to miraculously redeem the individual, the chosen religious collective, and nature in
a form of renovatio mundi or tikkun olam, repair of the world.
As encompassing as this new understanding of millenarism is, it should be noted
that, in contrast to other religious traditions, and especially Christianity, Jewish millenarism often incorporates, but is not necessarily predicated on, a solitary messianic
figure. The Hebrew Bible and post-biblical literature contain a variety of messianic
types who contribute to the cyclical quality of Jewish eschatology and millenarism.
Biblical messianic types include Moses, who redeemed the Chosen People from
bondage in Egypt; King David, the Lord’s anointed ruler over Israel whose ardor for
God was unparalleled; David’s relative, Zerubbabel, who governed those once in
exiled in Babylon who had returned to Israel and was instrumental in the rebuilding
of the Temple; and the so-called “suffering servant” of Isaiah 53 who, it was proph-
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esied, would appear as one who was lowly, despised, and rejected, who would be
“wounded for our transgressions; crushed for our iniquities” (Isa. 53:5) as a sin offering and as an intercessor who urged God to redeem Israel.
The eschatological and millenarian writings composed by a sect of ascetic Jews
around the turn of the Common Era, in and around the caves at Qumran and, as such,
known to posterity as the Qumran Scrolls, expand upon biblical messianic ideas and
sometimes assign the characteristics of the many messianic types to distinct Messiahs hailing from either royal or priestly lineage, respectively. Tractates codified in the
sixth-century Bavli, or Babylonian Talmud, also contain a variety of messianic types as
well as debate regarding the identity of the Messiah(s) who would ultimately redeem
Israel and usher in the Millenarian era. Sukkah 52a, for example, makes mention of
two Messiahs – the Messiah ben Joseph (Messiah of the lineage of Joseph) who would
die in the prophesied eschatological battle of Gog and Magog and the Messiah ben
David (Messiah of the lineage of David) who would live eternally and redeem Israel.
As discussed further below, each of these messianic models contributed to Jewish
eschatology and millenarism throughout the Middle Ages.
Written Sources and Artifacts
Physical evidence of Jewish eschatological and millenarian beliefs and practices
during the Middle Ages is found in a number of extant texts and artifacts. Many of
these are based on a combination of older Jewish traditions and a borrowing of the
religious traditions of peoples Jews came in contact with or lived among. And most,
if not all, reflect some level of awareness of the repetition, or cyclicality, of the rise,
efflorescence, decline, and fall of cultures or civilizations of which the eschatological
ends and millenarian beginnings are part of.
The Hebrew Bible, biblical commentary, rabbinic lore, and apocrypha provided
the foundation for all eschatological and millenarian texts composed in or circulated
during the Middle Ages. As noted above, the Hebrew Bible conveys the concept of
theodicy which contributes to the notion of communal eschatology as punitive. In
addition, the prophetic texts contain a common, though evolving, manner of description which led to the development of eschatological and millenarian archetypes and
tropes. These include representations of temptation to assimilate as a personified
and feminized city; assimilation, and especially idolatry as feminized and sexualized depravity; divine retribution through foreign conquest and domination as an
act of, or allusion to, rape; the foreign rulers who had succeeded in these feats as
God’s scourge; divine judgment and retribution as a catch-all Day of the Lord or End
of Days, precipitated by some combination of natural disaster, plague, and/or pests;
and redemption, sometimes led by a suffering servant or a royal, juridical, or priestly
Messiah who would resurrect the tzadikim, or righteous ones, who had perished and
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reunite them with the community of Israel. Redemption might also be actualized by,
or in collaboration with, a cadre of exceedingly pious individuals urging repentance
and a return to piety, known alternately as hasidim, “pious ones,” kedushim, “holy
ones,” or bnei ha-or, “the sons of light,” who had successfully fought against and/or
resisted the assimilationist bnei beli’al, “sons of worthlessness” and the evil empire
they were a part of.
Medieval Jewish authors and editors of explicitly eschatological and millenarian
texts, as well as authors and editors of texts merely containing eschatological and
millenarian ideas, manipulated these prophetic archetypes and applied them to any
number of past or future locales, events, and personae. In the process, they flattened
time, condensing it to a single point by conflating a variety of eras of decline in Jewish
history to illustrate the similarity among these and to urge a tried course of action as
a means of advancing yet another millenarian era of redemptive vitality. The most
obvious examples of such conflation are found in the texts that would come to be
known as apocalypses.
Based on the Greek term ἀποκάλυψις, uncovering or unveiling, apocalypses are
texts that might reveal any type of esoteric knowledge. The most common sub-genre of
apocalyptic literature, however, is that of historical apocalypses. In this class of apocalypse, authors employ pseudonyms and assume the characters of biblical personae
of stature while the majority of the “revelations” he or she composes are examples of
the literary technique known as vaticinium ex eventu, or “prophecy after the event,”
coupled with vague prognostications of what would occur in the near future. Indeed,
many historical apocalypses allude to specific scenarios which, and personae who,
were instrumental in bringing about a violent end of an era that readers would recognize from their own lifetime. But they also incorporate typical personae (i. e., an evil
ruler and assimilationists contra a Messiah and hasidim, etc.) found in each representation of shifting paradigms while providing suggestions for how to return to, or reestablish, lost eras of vitality through religious reform. In short, the personae, locales,
and tropes found in historical apocalypses were based on the authors’ contemporary
context, cast in the order of prophetic archetypes from the Hebrew Bible, and influenced by the religious traditions of the broader societies Jews lived within. Because
they contain an account of events that had already transpired and impacted their
authors’ contemporary reality, historical apocalypses convey a sense of imminence to
readers that they were living during the eschatological end and perched on the eve of
the millenarian beginning, as foretold by Jewish luminaries of yore.
The best known Jewish apocalypse from any era is found in the Hebrew Bible. This
originally untitled compilation text known as the book of Daniel borrowed much from
its contemporary Hellenistic culture as well as Akkadian and Hebrew prophetic texts
composed and compiled centuries earlier. While traditionally considered end-time
prophecy, modern biblicists believe Daniel was compiled in the second century BCE
by an editor or group of editors in resistance to foreign domination by the Seleucid
Empire ruled by Antiochus IV Epiphanes (175–164 BCE), as well as in response to pol-
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icies of appeasement and assimilation implemented by the Jewish elite which made it
impossible to adhere to the strictures of the Israelite Temple cult and Jewish religious
observance. In it, the editor(s) helped to establish Jewish apocalyptic precedent that
included the idea that willingness to die proved the strongest testament to religious
fidelity; that the pious of Israel who had been dispersed and thus tested (including the
righteous dead) would be gathered to reclaim God’s Promised Land; that the empires
that had overtaken Israel, though acting as God’s scourge, were evil for persecuting
God’s Chosen People; and that the most evil empire to arise before the eschaton would
be headed by an antichrist personae with ‘az panim (Dan. 8:23).
This rare descriptor literally means “face of a goat” but is typically translated as
meaning “bold” or “fierce of countenance,” or “grim-faced.” The only other place in
the Hebrew Bible that ‘az panim is found is in Moses’ Deuteronomic prophecy of the
type of nation that would arise to besiege Jerusalem and conquer Israel in the days
leading up to the Babylonian Captivity: “a grim-faced (‘az panim) nation showing no
respect to the old or favor to the young” (Deut. 28:50). In Daniel, this descriptor is
applied to the persona biblicists believe to be Antiochus IV. Through the application of
this term, as well as a variety of other literary techniques, Daniel’s editor(s) conflated
eschatological periods: the sixth-century BCE era of exile in Babylon; the second-century BCE persecutions under Antiochus; and, if intended to either appear or function
as prophecy, another eschaton in the future.
As will be discussed further in the Techniques and Manifestations section, some
readers of Daniel interpreted the text as a guide to what they believed were the endtime events they were living through. Other readers who might not consider Daniel
as prophecy, per se, or those who composed and compiled apocalypses or related
genres of literature throughout the Hellenistic and later medieval eras and appear to
have recognized and implemented the technique of typological conflation found in
Daniel, borrowed and added to the prophetic-apocalyptic archetypes to critique their
own contemporary society and call for reform so that they might usher in another
millenarian age. Historical apocalypses such as the late-antique Sefer Elijah, “Book
of Elijah,” the ca. seventh-century Sefer Zerubbabel, “Book of Zerubbabel,” the ca.
ninth-century Pirqe, or “chapters,” of R. Eliezer, as well as the less easily dated eschatological literature depicting the ’Aggadat ha-Masiah, “Legends of the Messiah,” the
’Otot ha-Qets, “Signs of the End,” or the various incarnations of literature depicting
the ingathering of the so-called Lost Tribes of Israel and their reclaiming of the Holy
Land that circulated widely throughout the duration of the Middle Ages.
Typological correlation similar to the eschatological and millenarian conflation found in apocalypses is also prolific in medieval Jewish literature. Examples of
this feature in liturgical poetry emerge in the dirges of Ephraim of Bonn (1132–1196),
Eliezer bar Joel HaLevi (ca. 1160–1235), and those of many others who aligned both the
devastation of their communities during Crusade-era pogroms to that of the patriarch
Isaac, who was commonly believed to have actually been sacrificed on Mount Moriah.
In the process, the poets promoted the idea that the suffering of their contemporaries
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should bring redemption in the same way that Isaac’s was believed to have ushered
in a new era, complete with a new covenant with God. The biblical commentary of the
rabbis Solomon ben Isaac (1040–1105) (“Rashi”), Tobiah ben Eliezer (1050–1108), and
Samuel ben Meir (ca. 1085–1158) (“Rashbam”) also reflect the extent of eschatological
and millenarian conflation. In their respective commentaries on the Song of Songs,
Rashi, Tobiah, and Rashbam each interchanged the contemporary transgressive idolatry, apostasy, and assimilation of their coreligionists in the Middle Ages with ancient
Israel’s idolatrous erection and worship of the Golden Calf when Moses led God’s
Chosen People out of Egypt and each promoted the idea that any form of redemption
their contemporaries might enjoy was predicated on Israel’s repentance, much as it
had been in Moses’ day.
Within texts bearing eschatological and millenarian themes, specific accoutrements often appear as harbingers that the end of one era and the beginning of another
was nigh while reflecting the typological conflation characteristic of apocalyptic literature. The most significant of accoutrements within medieval Jewish eschatology
and millenarism are the staff of Moses (also known as the Staff of the Patriarchs), the
shofar, or “ram’s horn,” and the lost cultic objects associated with the Temple – the
Ark of Covenant, the vessel of manna, and the vessel of sacred oil. The compendium
of apocalyptic and messianic literature common in the Levant, Spain, and Northern
Europe, known as the Sefer ha-Zikhronot, The Book of Memory, carefully compiled by
Eleazar ben Asher HaLevi (ca. 1325), suggests that many medieval Jews of an eschatological and millenarian bent believed that the Messiah would wield a staff that had
been miraculously preserved since the time of the patriarchs and belonging to other
messianic figures in Jewish history who had redeemed Israel in some manner, including Moses, Joshua, and King David. Sometimes this staff was also associated with
the flowering rod of Aaron that announced God’s election and redemption and was,
according to the biblical account in Num. 17, kept in the Ark of the Covenant for safekeeping.
The other artifacts similarly signaled past and future redemption. Within the versions of the Ten Signs, also known as the Signs of the End, as well as various other
apocalyptic literature, folklore reconfiguring Christian polemic of the “wandering
Jew,” exegesis, midrash, liturgy, and ritual medieval Jews conveyed the belief that the
ninth-century BCE prophet Elijah, who (2 Kings 2:11–12) held had ascended to heaven
in a chariot of fire, would reappear on earth as the forerunner of the Messiah. The
prophet of yore would blow the shofar – the horn associated in antique and medieval exegesis and popular lore with the patriarch Isaac’s individual redemption when
his father Abraham bound him as a sacrifice at Mount Moriah, and Israel’s collective
redemption through God’s covenants with the patriarchs – to herald the ingathering of Israel. Elijah would also resurrect the righteous dead and would miraculously
reveal the Ark of the Covenant and other Temple vessels that had been lost during
previous eras of eschatological decline in Israel’s history and thus implement a path
of return to an ideal millenarian era.
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The shofar alone of the above-noted artifacts was actually tangible and used in
religious ritual, as will be discussed further below. Other physical artifacts relating
to medieval Jewish eschatology and millenarism include the many artistic representations in synagogue paintings throughout the Levant, Spain, and Northern Europe
which sometimes depict through horoscopes or astrological symbols the cyclicality
of rising and falling eras in conjunction with conflated representations of redemptive
and punitive personae, locales, and scenarios found in the Hebrew Bible, such as
those found in the sixth-century Levantine Beth Alpha synagogue, the eleventh- and
twelfth-century synagogues of Speyer, Worms, Mainz, and their surrounding suburbs,
as well as in the thirteenth-century synagogues of Regensburg and Prague. In addition, illuminated manuscripts, especially Passover Haggadah, such as the Golden
Haggadah (ca. 1320) of Spain and numerous fifteenth-century Ashkenazi Haggadot
(pl. form of Haggadah), relate the story of the Exodus while also reinforcing cyclicality and conflation of periods of devastation and renewal by representing the ancient
prophet Elijah blowing the shofar at the time of future redemption.
Techniques and Manifestations
The clearest and most ubiquitous techniques employed in Jewish eschatology and millenarism are reflected in specific types of biblical interpretation: gematria and pesher.
When employing gematria, an exegete assigns numerical value to letters, words, or
verses in the Bible (and sometimes in the Talmud and rabbinic corpus at large) and
determines other points within this literature where the numerical value corresponds
in efforts to find an esoteric, often eschatological or millenarian, meaning of the original passage in question. In Hebrew, numerals are formed out of alphabet characters.
The first character in the alphabet, aleph (‫)א‬, is one, the second character, bet (‫)ב‬,
is two, and so on. As such, interpretation of numerical value is wholly connected to
interpretation of the text at large. Yet this practice is hardly straightforward as assignment of the numerical value itself is subjectively based on the preferred method of
computistics employed by the exegete, and because there are several terms, verses,
etc., that might have the same numerical value but which the exegete might choose to
interpret far differently for a variety of reasons.
Debate regarding interpretation is common in this mode of exegesis, as in every
other. An overarching feature, however, is that exegetes practicing gematria tended
to claim an epiphany that either they were living during the paradigm shift of eras, or
that this turning point would take place in the very near future, within the next generation or so. It should also be noted that the use of gematria during the Middle Ages
was often informed by the complimentary eschatological and millenarian techniques
of astrology and astral magic, which were especially prevalent among kabbalists
in twelfth-century Spain and Provence. Indeed, it was through a fusion of gematria
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and astrology that exegetes in the Rhineland during the second half of the eleventh
century (unsuccessfully) prophesied that the Messiah’s advent would transpire sometime between the years 1085 and 1104, and that the Sephardic exegete Abraham Abulafia (again, unsuccessfully) prophesied that he himself was the Messiah who would
usher in the new millenarian era beginning in 1290.
Distinct from, but sometimes used in conjunction with gematria, when employing
pesher, interpreters simultaneously apply any number of allusive references regarding
eschatological and millenarian moments from the biblical text and rabbinic corpus to
contemporary events. Pesher has been a common form of exegesis since the Hellenistic era at least. The Qumran Scrolls in general, and particularly the text known as the
War Scroll, show that members of the ascetic community at Qumran who challenged
the governing Jewish elite’s ties to Rome and who had witnessed the Roman destruction of the Second Temple and the siege of Masada (73–74) employed pesher to convey
to readers and hearers that they were living through the eschatological battle between
the forces of good and evil that had been foretold of by Israel’s prophets. Centuries
later, medieval exegetes dispersed throughout the Levantine, Mediterranean, and
Northern European regions continued to implement pesher in response to unusual
weather, warfare, or any number of foreboding signs they might associate with ancient
prophecy. For instance, when depicting inter-communal conflict between Christians,
Muslims, and, later, Mongols, or intra-communal conflict between competing groups
of Christians and Muslims, rabbis as prominent as the Iraqi Saadia Gaon (882–942) in
the sixth chapter of his treatise Sefer ha-Emunot ve-De’ot, Book of Beliefs and Opinions, Rashi in his commentary on Isaiah 25, and many others promoted the idea that
contemporary battles were types of the warfare of Gog and Magog prophesied in Scripture, apocalyptic literature, and a variety of rabbinic texts.
Some exegetes also employed pesher to assign historical agents the characteristics and functions of specific biblical personae through the application of passages.
Such associations were necessarily fluid and based on the exegete’s context. For
example, the anonymous mid twelfth-century Northern European exegete who wrote
the so-called Chronicle of Solomon bar Samson – an account of the Rhineland pogroms
during the First Crusade – associated crusaders with the eschatological antagonists
included in Moses’ Deuteronomy prophecy of the Babylonian Exile and Daniel’s depiction of Antichrist by use of the same rare descriptor ‘az panim, face of a goat. In the
Sefer Zerubbabel, a seventh-century apocalypse originating in the Eastern half of the
Roman Empire, this same descriptor was applied to the emperor Heraclius (610–641),
who Jewish communities came to regard as a type of Antichrist.
Other exegetes believed they could become types of biblical personae active
during the eschatological or millenarian through a combination of pesher, astral and
word magic, resurrection incantations, prayer rituals, dances, severe asceticism, and/
or consumption of hallucinogens. Indeed, medieval commentaries on the ancient
treatise Sefer Yetsirah, The Book of Creation, attributed to the above-noted tenth-century Iraqi rabbi Saadia Gaon, the twelfth-century Ashkenazi hasidic rabbi Eleazar
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of Worms, the thirteenth-century Pseudo-Saadia, and the early fourteenth-century
Sephardic kabbalist Joseph ben Shalom Ashkenazi, among others, include detailed
recipes for how faithful Jews who had attained the heights of esoteric knowledge
might become like the prophet Elijah, who Scripture holds had the power to resurrect the dead and who popular lore held would resurrect all of the righteous dead
of Israel at the time of redemption, by conjuring a clay homunculi – a golem. Essentially becoming types of Elijah, these adherents of pesher believed that they too could
summon the Messiah and thus usher in the millenarian era. In a far humbler and more
commonplace practice, medieval Jews would set out a chair for the prophet Elijah at
bris ceremonies or a glass of wine at Passover as acts welcoming this forerunner of the
Messiah, and thus beckoning the Messiah as well.
Manifestation of eschatology and millenarism in general, and employment of the
exegetical techniques of gematria and pesher in particular, exist within a broad spectrum of messianic and reform movements, magic, and mysticism developed throughout the course of the Middle Ages. The most pronounced manifestation is found in
millenarian (oftentimes deemed “messianic”) movements in which a prophetic figure
pronounced a companion to be the Messiah or, less often, that an individual named
themselves as the Messiah and led a group to revolt against the leaders of the dominant
society or the leaders of the Jewish community who were aligned with the dominant
society. Examples of specific messianic movements are discussed further in the Developments section below. Other millenarian movements took the form of eschatological
immigration, undertaken in the hopes of amassing a large enough following to revolt,
reclaim eretz Israel, hasten messianic redemption, and usher in the millenarian era.
The Sephardic philosopher Judah Halevi (1075–1141) was an early advocate of
aliya, or Jewish immigration to Israel. He championed the move as one that would
usher in messianic redemption in his poetry and philosophical writings, claiming
that the messianic city par excellence – Jerusalem – “can only be rebuilt when Israel
yearns for it to such an extent that they embrace her stones and dust,” (Halevi, Sefer
ha-Kuzari, 5:27). Other prominent Jews scattered throughout the Diaspora shared
Halevi’s view and intermittently descended en masse upon the Holy City. In 1211, for
instance, approximately 300 rabbis from England, France, Egypt, and North Africa
began to migrate in the hopes that their proactive measures might hasten redemption.
And at the turn of the fifteenth century through its first four decades, an even larger
migration consisting of over a thousand Jews from France, Germany, Spain, Egypt,
and North Africa fled widespread diasporic persecution in the hopes of hastening the
Messiah, as did their coreligionists in the wake of the Spanish exile of the Sephardic
community in 1492.
Such claims to messianic authority (identification as the Messiah and/or assertions of the ability to hasten the Messiah’s advent through aliya) were typically made
by members of society who bristled at what they perceived to be the assimilationist
policies of the leading rabbinate and blamed these leaders’ lenient interpretations
and implementations of the legal code that governed daily life and religious ritual,
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Halakhah, as the cause for Jews’ subservient position in diasporic lands occupied
by Muslims or Christians. To counter the rabbinate’s authority, the prophet and/
or Messiah figure often shared their esoteric interpretation of Scripture that was
informed by gematria or pesher and indicated that the eschatological and millenarian era was nigh, such as was the case in Lyon, France in the 1060s, when a messianic
figure arose and leapt from tree to tree as a type of the flying Messiah in the book of
Daniel (Dan. 7:13). Other messianic figures or their prophets claimed that an angelic
messenger had revealed, or that they had miraculously discovered, an allegedly
ancient prophecy – an apocalyptic text – that had been hidden until the appointed
time of the end, such as was the case in a movement that developed in Ávila in 1295.
The success of these types of millenarian movements varied greatly (i. e., number of
followers, ability to immigrate to Israel or being killed by hostile parties, etc.), but
each failed in reaching their ultimate objective of actualizing a paradigm shift to a
new era.
Another significant manifestation of eschatology and millenarism is found in the
mass martyrdoms occurring in several Rhinelandish Jewries during the First Crusade
in 1096 and the Second Crusade in 1146, Jerusalem in 1099, Blois in 1171, Troyes in
1288, during the Rintfleisch massacres of 1298, etc., in which a significant number of
Jews killed themselves and their loved ones in a practice known as kiddush ha-Shem,
Sanctifying the Name [of God]. The numerous contemporary liturgical poems and the
three extant ca. early-to-mid twelfth-century Jewish narratives about these acts – the
so-called Mainz Anonymous, The Chronicle of Eliezer bar Nathan, and The Chronicle
of Solomon bar Samson – employ pesher to align the martyrs to hasidim from other
eschatons in Jewish history, including the priests of the First and Second Temple who
leapt to their deaths inside the burning structure or impaled themselves; parents who
either sacrificed their children like the patriarch Abraham had been called to at the
time of the Akedah, or Binding of Isaac; and the youths who slaughtered themselves
rather than be sexually and morally defiled by Gentiles, much like the 400 youths in
the talmudic tractate Gittin 57b who had proven their religious devotion in the same
way. Some accounts of these events suggest that the martyrs performed the acts of
murder-suicide because they had been informed by gematria-based prophecy that the
Messiah was to come in their lifetimes. Their acts were meant to serve as repentance
and restitution for assimilation and proof of their ardor for the divine that they hoped
would merit messianic redemption.
Messianic movements, immigration to eretz Israel, and mass martyrdoms are the
most significant manifestations of Jewish eschatology and millenarism found among
medieval Jews. Yet each proved unsuccessful in terms of the tikkun olam perceived
as essential in ushering in a new era. Whether as a result of cognizance of such ineffectiveness, a less urgent sense of the imminence of the eschatological-millenarian
paradigm shift, less interest or faith in collective rather than personal redemption,
or for some other reason, many medieval Jews manifested their eschatological and/
or millenarian beliefs in a variety of other ways as well. These include various mys-
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tical and/or reform movements which, though lacking the same sense of imminence
as in millenarian movements and mass martyrdom, shared their goal of curbing the
assimilationist tendencies that they believed had resulted in Jewish subservience and
in inclining, if not hastening, messianic redemption.
Developments, Historical and Social Contexts
Jewish eschatology and millenarism developed and manifested differently depending
on the social context. The vast majority of apocalyptic literature that reflected and
affected medieval Jewish eschatology and millenarism developed in the Levantine
region in the Early Middle Ages (ca. 500–1000) against the backdrop of a declining
Roman Empire and an ascending Dar-al Islam. The personae, tropes, and scenarios
reflect a heritage of Jewish apocalyptic as well as a variety of inter-confessional cultural contact. These texts did not find their way to Northern Europe until approximately the eleventh century as a result of heightened trade and pilgrimage routes.
Once there, apocalypses began to take on some of the cultural mores of the surrounding Jewish-Christian culture as well, including religious polemic reflecting debates
from the High Middle Ages (1000–1300) regarding the virginal status of Jesus’ mother,
Mary, or what the Lost Tribes might look like, etc.
This literature permeated culture and impacted millenarian movements in early
eighth-century Syria headed by Abū ‘Isa and his disciples, Yudghan and Mushka. Collectively, these called for specific inter- and intra-communal religious reforms, which
included a strict adherence to the Law of Moses and a rejection of post-biblical rabbinic exegesis, abstaining from meat and wine, and mystical rather than literal interpretations of the Hebrew Bible. They also called for new and more vigorous prayer
rituals. And, perhaps most significantly, anti-assimilation in the form of violent
attempts to overthrow the current foreign powers and the Jews who sympathized with
them. Indeed, Abū ‘Isa, was so influenced by the apocalyptic lore that he is believed
to have gone searching for the Lost Tribes to ask for their aid in battling foreign powers
to retake the Holy Land.
As with the migration of apocalyptic texts, messianic movements also began to
emerge in Europe beginning in the eleventh century. In his Letter to Yemen, Maimonides described the failed early messianic movements in Lyon during the 1060s and in
Córdoba ca. 1100. The vast majority of the other medieval messianic movements were
concentrated in the Mediterranean. Before the expulsion from Spain in 1492, there
were no fewer than five movements that were headed by a messianic figure active in
Spain or by a Jew of Sephardic descent. There were two in the region of Castile in 1295,
one in Ávila and another in Ayllon; one in Burgos and another in Palencia in 1391; and
another emerging in Barcelona in 1271, related to a foment in Sicily in 1290, both of
which were headed by the Sephardic messianic mystic Abraham Abulafia.
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In the aftermath of the Spanish expulsion, a number of millenarian movements
arose among exiles living in Italy out of disparate hopes and rumors that the Lost
Tribes were on the move to gather the exiles and reclaim eretz Israel. Don Isaac Abravanel (1437–1508) claimed that messianic redemption would begin in 1503 and be
completed in 1531, in which the millenarian era would commence. An Ashkenazic Jew,
Ascher Lamlein, lived near Venice and inspired another Italian messianic and reform
movement in 1502 in which he assured his followers redemption would occur in six
months if they but adequately repented their sins, reformed, and prepared themselves
for the Messiah’s advent. When these dates signaling the beginning of redemption
had passed, Eliezar ha-Levi (1460–1529) pushed the eschatological-millenarian era
forward just a few more years, claiming it would begin in 1522 and that redemption in
the new era would come to fruition in 1530. Finally, David Reubeni (1490–1535) and
Solomon Molcho (1500–1552) headed especially interesting messianic movements in
the late 1520s through early 1530s that involved convincing Christian rulers they were
a prince of one of the Lost Tribes and Messiah, respectively, and that Christian princes
should arm Jews to help fight off impending threat from foreign. A few other millenarian movements would round out the Italian century of messianism in the 1560s/
1570s.
The reasons for the emergence of messianic movements vary but, as Yonina
Talmon, Stephen Sharot, and other scholars have noted, there were usually a combination of factors including oppression, disruption, beliefs, and charismatic leadership. So, for instance, a messianic movement was likely to arise when Jews felt especially oppressed by the dominant culture or assimilationist Jews who attempted to
appease them, when there was some type of battle between members of the dominant
culture and another group or blight which left them vulnerable so that Jews might
resist and revolt, when Jews were primed to think of the natural world in eschatological-millenarian tropes, or when charismatic leader or leaders arose to spur reform
as a means of redemption. Why these messianic movements occurred in the Levant
and Mediterranean far more often than in Northern Europe remains both debated and
unclear, as does the proliferation of mass martyrdom as a manifestation of eschatological-millenarian thought in the North, and the more evenly dispersed messianic
immigration mentioned above.
Medieval Classifications and Discussions
The majority of terms and certainly the concepts mentioned in the above pages were
discussed at length by medieval Jews. The Jewish Community would have been wellversed in the importance of eretz Israel as a testament of God’s covenant with His
people and the underlying tenet that their shortcomings incurred God’s wrath and
ushered in periods of decline while their fidelity inclined God’s benevolence and
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resulted in prosperity and peace. Medieval Jews would also have been familiar with
the idea of a Messiah, and likely at least two of the most common messianic figures –
the Messiah ben David and the Messiah ben Joseph – who appeared in esoteric texts as
well as popular lore. To this point, there is no denying a distinction between the eschatological and millenarian practices and beliefs among the educated elite and those
less trained. The common people, for instance, may not have been aware of gematria
and pesher, or, if they were, likely did not know how to employ these techniques, but
the rabbinic class certainly was. However, even among this elite subset of the population, there was a deep chasm in both practice and understanding of eschatology and
millenarianism. A notable example, and an exception to shared medieval terminology
or conceptualization, is that there was not a clear understanding of “apocalypse” or
the “apocalyptic genre” and how it worked as something distinct from “prophecy” –
at least not among the majority of rabbis. For instance many medieval rabbis, including Rashi, considered the Sefer Zerubbabel as prophecy. It was only the authors and/
or editors of this text and others like it who appear to have been fully cognizant of their
use of pseudonym and vaticinium ex eventu, which they adopted in efforts to bring
about a reformed society and a repaired world – tikkun olam. The same may be said for
the slew of Messiahs and messianic movements and, to some extent, the architects of
mass martyrdom. For the function, if not the technique and manifestations of eschatology and millenarianism, appears to have been synonymous across space, time, and
implementation, even if only grasped by a few.
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Delia Cortese
Traditions and Expectations in the Medieval
Islamic World
Definitions and Terminology
Al-salām ‘alaykum (Peace be upon you) is a widely recognisable greeting formula
shared by all Muslims. In paradise believers will be greeted with “Peace” (Q. 14:23),
therefore to salute with peace is the ultimate expression of wishing a person success
in fulfilling their God-prescribed duties in this world (dunyā) in order to be rewarded
with eternal peace in the hereafter (ākhira). The Quran’s insistence on human accountability in the afterlife makes the belief in the reality of the hereafter a constituent of
the Islamic faith (īmān) with faith in God, his angels, his messenger Muḥammad and
his books. Dunyā covers a range of meanings with spatial connotations referring to life
in this world, to the earth and to the lifespan of individuals in it. In this world human
action is tested in view of the afterlife. The Islamic conception of history, where time
begins with Adam’s fall from the primordial garden, shows that dunyā and ākhira are
interdependent realms. Ākhira encompasses both spatial and temporal connotations,
implying a cosmological otherness and an ending that inaugurates a realm of eternal
existence beyond our time and space. However, since dunyā and ākhira have been
created by God at the same time, glimpses of the ākhira can be gained while in the
dunyā. In the ākhira God’s power of creation is in full display with the re-creation of
human beings as total living bodies after the Hour (al-sā‘a), a cosmic event that marks
the destruction of the earth. The resurrection (qiyāma) performed by God after the
apocalypse is not intended to generate a new natural and social order but rather as
the return (ma‘ād) to the original state of God’s creation (mabdā’) of pre-Adamic fall
that completes God’s plan for all creation.
With neither the Quran nor other texts in Islamic literature presenting a systematic
“from-death-to-resurrection” explanation, the following represents a somewhat artificially reconstructed sequence of eschatological events based on the collation of the
most widely accepted views. The cosmic death of the Hour is preceded by the death of
each individual according to a God-predetermined fixed term (ajal musammā). Death
determines the end of an individual’s involvement in the dunyā and the entrance in
the ākhira. The intermediate time and place where the deceased awaits for resurrection came to be known as barzakh, a liminal place that came to be identified as the
grave where the deceased is thought to experience some kind of life. According to
the Quran at death the soul comes up the dying’s throat in a flooding-in-like process.
What happens immediately before and after this point, the Quran does not explicitly
say and it was left to medieval Muslim scholars to fill the epistemological gaps. After
death, the deceased in the grave is challenged by the angel of death, ‘Izrā’īl who, forty
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days before a person’s death, receives a sign indicating the individual designated to
die. At departure the soul (nafs) or the spirit (rūḥ) will be relinquished.
Upon leaving the faithful’s body, the soul is collected by angels who will ascend
seven heavens until reaching nearness to God. By contrast, the unworthy soul, guided
by the angel Daqyā’īl unsuccessfully attempts to make the same climb. The description of the soul’s foretaste of heaven echoes aspects of Muḥammad’s ascension (mi‘rāj)
story, following his night journey (isrā’). In the story one night the angel Gabriel woke
up Muḥammad, made him mount a winged horse called Burāq and flew together in
the space of a night form Mecca to the furthest mosque (al-masjid al-aqsā), typically
identified by exegetes with Jerusalem. From there Muḥammad climbed a ladder, saw
hell, fainted and then ascended seven heavens. Finally Muḥammad had an audience
with God, who confirmed him as his prophet.
The Quran insists on the dead enduring punishment in the grave. In time the
belief developed that two angels appear to the buried deceased to question them
about the content of their faith. Munkar and Nakīr are not mentioned by name in
the Quran and only rarely in canonical prophetic traditions (ḥadīths). Their questioning determines the deceased’s intermediate state while awaiting resurrection. Both
the faithful and faithless suffer some form of pressure (ḍaghṭ) in the grave, with the
unbelievers undergoing more severe pain. To the majority of Muslims the punishment
of the grave is a reality. According to ḥadīths those who die in the cause of Islam,
prophets but also those who die as a result of diseases like dysentery and the plague
or specific accidents like being crushed by a falling wall are martyrs assured to go
straight to paradise.
Islam espouses therefore the belief in a judgement in the grave and a second one
on day of resurrection which will sanction the final abode for every person. This cosmic
event will be preceded by the appearance of signs (ishārāt al-sā‘a). There is no hint in
the Quran about when the eschaton will take place, a secret only known to God. One
can evince from the sacred scripture though that the resurrection will be preceded by
cataclysmic events and great massacres (al-malḥama al-kubrā) that will upset both
natural and social orders. Figures will appear such as the Antichrist al-Dajjāl and the
monsters Gog and Magog. The Mahdī – a messianic figure – will play a determinant
part in sealing the ultimate triumph for the Muslim community. It is around the Mahdī
and speculations about the time of his appearance that Islamic chiliasm developed,
particularly among Shi‘is. In Shi‘i Islam the belief in the appearance of this figure is
linked to the doctrine of occultation (ghayba) their imam, a religio-political leader
from the progeny of ‘Alī, Muḥammad’s cousin and son-in-law and first of a line Shi‘i
imams. One Shi‘i group fixed the start of this major occultation with the disappearance
of the twelfth Imam (hence Twelvers), whose return as the Mahdī they await to this
day. Another Shi‘i faction fixed the start of this occultation with the son of the seventh
Imam Ismā‘īl (hence Seveners or Isma‘ilis). An alternative term for the Mahdī is Qā’im,
“he who will rise” but “the Resurrector” when used in broad Shi‘i context. Al-Dajjāl
and the Mahdī are not mentioned in the Quran where the only messianic echo is in
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masīḥ, Messiah, referring to Jesus. While conventionally used, it should be noted that
terms such as millenianism and messianism in a Judeo-Christian sense do not always
match the Islamic understanding of the awaiting for a saviour at the end of the world.
In the case of messianism, for example, the salvific role of the Islamic Mahdī bears little
relation to that ascribed to the Messiah in Judeo-Christianity. Nevertheless, the idea of
expecting a saviour at the end of time shows common ground with the Judeo-Christian
tradition as well as Zoroastrian beliefs in the advent of the salvific Saoshyant.
Other signs of the imminent eschaton include: the sun rising from west; the triple
eclipse of the moon; smoke and the manifestation of Jesus in either Damascus or Jerusalem. It is unclear whether Jesus and the Mahdī are to be considered as same figure.
Regardless, the role of Jesus is to kill al-Dajjāl, to break the cross and decimate all
the Christians, thus inaugurating a period of peace before the Hour when Islam will
prevail.
After these signs, the angel Isrāfīl will blow his trumpet (ṣūr) upon God’s
command. At the first blow the order of nature will be disrupted. A second blast will
trigger the final extinction of everything except God. Then God initiates the process
of resurrection by opening water streams from which new life will originate. God will
reassemble the bodies, re-join them with their souls and will bring them forth for the
final reckoning (ḥiṣāb). The process of bodily resurrection culminates in the terrifying
gathering (al-maḥshar), standing before God. At this point the actual judgement will
start, with God revealing to the individuals their final fate. The Quran refers many
times to the balance (mīzān), an important ākhira reality whose purpose is to weigh
human responsibilities. The weight of deeds will affect the resurrected individual’s
ability to cross the bridge (ṣirāt) unscathed on their way to their final consignment.
The faithful will go swiftly across led by Muḥammad whose intercession (shafā‘a) has
taken place at a pond (ḥawḍ) of milk and honey mentioned in the ḥadīths. From the
ninth century, for Shi‘is, ‘Alī acquired the role of the great intercessor. All good and
repenting believers will have the possibility of being saved except the mushrikūn and
kāfirūn, that is those who refuse to testify to God’s absolute oneness (tawḥīd) and
its deniers. The unforgivable nature of this sin is the only point on which all Muslim
thinkers agree. After the test of the bridge, the resurrected bodies will be consigned to
either the Garden (al-janna) or the Fire (al-nār).
Hell was understood to be in layers, with Jahannam at the top of sequence of
conically descending circles ending with the terrible Zaqqūm tree. Beside the angel
Mālik, al-zabāniyya angels guard the Fire’s gates and their purpose is to torture its
residents. The Garden instead was conceived as an upward cone of seven (or eight)
heavens (samāwāt). Terms for paradise include, among many others, firdaws or eden
(‘adn, ‘illiyīn) which typically indicate the most exclusive part of the Garden. The
Quran describes the Garden as featuring four rivers of water, wine, milk, and honey
(kawthar, kāfūr, tasnīm and salsabīl); a temperate climate thanks to a giant lote tree
(sidrat al-muntahā) at its top. Dwellers live in permanent joyous state surrounded
by lavish furnishing and robes, superb food served by young servants and, for men,
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ever-virgin, female sexual companions (ḥūr) or their wives, all while entertained by
Arabic-singing angels. Garden’s dwellers will enjoy also spiritual pleasure although
it is debatable if they will actually see God. In some traditions, upon entering the
Garden, the blessed will to eat from a huge fish and an enormous roast bull prepared
for them since the beginning of creation. Each Friday God will invite men and women
to visit him to receive his blessings.
The above descriptive survey covers three eschatological categories. The first
focuses on a person’s death, the pre-final judgement stage of ākhira and the destiny
of the individual soul. The second category relates to the end of the world. The third
deals with the topography of the hereafter. It is however by delving into a fourth category, historical eschatology, that Islamic practices and manifestations of prognostication can be found. Predictions of eschatological events; apocalyptic interpretations of
historical occurrences; observations of phenomena coinciding with millenarian-like
socio-political changes; actualisation, visualisation and pre-enactment in the dunyā
of the ākhira will form the focus of this chapter.
Written Sources and Artifacts
In every chapter of the Quran there is a passage with some eschatological content. A
tenth of Quran deals with the ākhira, making it the text that provides the skeleton for
the whole Islamic eschatological literature. Canonical and non-canonical ḥadīth collections represent the earliest extant works featuring sections specifically dedicated
to ākhira. Among the oldest stand-alone works devoted to traditions on the hereafter
noteworthy is Ṣifat al-janna (“Description of Paradise”) by ‘Alī al-Rayḥānī (d. ca. 834).
Before him other authors such as the Yemeni Hammām ibn Munabbih (d. ca. 720) and
the Egyptian traditionist Ibn Lahī‘a (d. 790) had engaged with eschatological material
but adding biblical and other near eastern stories. Ibn Lahī‘a in particular blended
history, asceticism, piety and eschatology, basing himself on pre-Islamic South
Arabian sources, among others. The trend of resorting to South Arabian material was
championed by the Egyptian traditionist Ibn Wahb (d. 813) whose work reflects the
interest in the end of time shared among South Arabian tribes. Also Egypt-based was
Nu‘aym ibn Ḥammād (d. 843), an important early collector of apocalyptic ḥadīths
whose compilation features a datable notice of the Halley’s comet appearance in 760.
The Spanish Ibn Ḥabīb (d. 853) wrote Kitāb Waṣf al-firdaws (“The Description of Paradise”) arguably the oldest extant work of ḥadīths dedicated to Islamic paradise. In the
Islamic east, Ibn al-Mubarak’s (d. 797) work on paradise and hell mirrors historical
realities of conflict and instability in regions at the periphery of Islamic empire. In the
mid-ninth century, with the Baghdadi Ibn Abi 'l-Dunyā (d. 894) the expansion of the
Sunni corpus of eschatological ḥadīths reached its peak. At least 12 of his works collate
almost three centuries-worth of eschatological imagery. The afterlife received less
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attention in canonical ḥadīth collections although due space was given to paradise
and hell in the works of al-Bukhārī (d. 870), Muslim (d. 875) and al-Tirmidhī (d. 892).
Instead, non-canonical collections produced in the tenth century were far richer in
eschatological ḥadīths. Al-Ṭabarānī (d. 971) amassed rare traditions irrespective of
soundness. His student Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfahānī (d. 1038) wrote a remarkable compilation arguing that a ḥadīth exhorting paradise or threatening hell does not require
scrutiny. Opposed to this trend was the Baghdadi polymath Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 1201) who
deemed such transmitters forgers. His call for rigour was later echoed by al-Dhahabī
(d. 1348) and the Syrian historian Ibn Kathīr (d. 1373). His al-Bidāya wa’l nihāya (“The
Beginning and the End”) is rich in apocalyptic material and his Nihāyat al-bidāya
wa’l-nihāya (“The End of the Beginning and the End”) consists of apocalyptic ḥadīths
covering from the signs of the hour to the day of judgement.
In Spain, al-Qurṭubī’s (d. 1273) al-Tadhkira fī aḥwāl al-mawt wa-umūr al-ākhira
(“Memoire on the Conditions of the Dead and the Afterlife”) set new standards in
the dissemination of eschatological knowledge. It was concise, divided into chapters,
with explanatory sections and interpretative commentary. These standards were surpassed by the Egyptian al-Suyūṭī (d. 1505) particularly with his al-Budūr al-sāfira fī
‘ulūm al-ākhira (“The Shining Full Moons on the Sciences of the Afterlife”). Al-Suyūṭī
referred to virtually all the authorities of the earlier times thus compiling “a practical
guide to paradise and hell” (Lange, 2016, 89).
Alongside ḥadīth-based works, an Islamic parenetic eschatological literature
developed that had its roots in early Islamic storytellers’ (quṣṣāṣ) tradition. These
storytellers preached about morals but also the pleasure of paradise to entice those
fighting the early civil wars. Ibn al-Jawzī in his K. al-Quṣṣāṣ wa’l-mudhakkirīn (“On the
Storytellers and the Preachers”) advised preachers to use afterlife-related themes as
a device to capture their audiences’ interest while influencing their behaviour. The
ninth century Baghdadi mystic theologian al-Muḥāsibī (d. 857) in his K. al-Tawahhum
(“Book of Envisioning”) described his passage into the hereafter culminating with the
vision of God. By contrast Abu’l-Layth al-Samarqandī (d. 983) in Tanbīh al-ghāfilīn
(“Admonition to the Regretful”) – a book that became a best seller – mixed conventional descriptions of hell and paradise with digressions echoing Persian wisdom literature. In this genre the most eminent works are al-Ghazālī’s (d. 1111) Dhikr al-mawt
wa-mā ba‘dahu (“Remembrance of Death and what Comes Aftrewards”), which is part
of his Ihyā’ ‘ulūm al-dīn (“The Revival of Religious Sciences”) as well as the Sevillen
Ibn al-Kharrāṭ’s (d. 1185) K. al-‘Āqiba (“The Book of the End”). Both al-Ghazālī and
Ibn al-Kharrāṭ blended traditions with commentaries of their own. Ibn al-Kharrāṭ’s
work is the first stand-alone example of its kind in Islam: a purpose-written book that
offered a comprehensive vision of individual and cosmic eschatology. Ibn al-Jawzī,
a critic of al-Ghazālī’s use of untrustworthy ḥadīths, wrote al-Muqliq (“The Cause of
Unrest”) aimed at preaching to inspire fear. His follower, the Damascene Ibn Rajab
(d. 1393) wrote al-Takhwīf min al-nār (“Causing the Fear of Hell”) a book that, entirely
dedicated to hell, became very popular.
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The eschatological manuals represent the genre that enjoyed the most practical
use as tools “to enjoin what is right and prohibit what is wrong”, a core duty for all
Muslims. In order to fascinate audiences their authors embellished their works with
fantastic descriptions, making these manuals didactic and moralising in character.
The authorship of these manuals was mostly posteriorly attributed to prominent
figures. For example al-Durra al-fākhira (“The Precious Pearl”) is commonly credited –
though probably correctly – to al-Ghazālī. Qurrat al-‘uyūn wa-murīḥ al-qalb al-maḥzūn
(“Refreshing the Eyes and Gladdening the Sad Heart”) is commonly attributed to al-Samarqandī. The work deals with sin and punishments in hell, a theme that became
particularly popular in twelfth century Central Asia. A third major manual is Daqā’iq
al-akhbār fī dhikr al-janna wa’l-nār (“Subtle Traditions about the Garden and the Fire”)
also known as Aḥwāl al-qiyāma of which some 200 manuscripts are in circulation. The
work is divided into 3 major corpuses. In North Africa and Spain the text is known
as Shajarat al-yaqīn (“The Tree of Certainty”) attributed to Abu ’l-Ḥasan al-‘Ash‘arī
(twelfth century). In India and further east the same work was known as al-Ḥaqā’iq
wa’l-daqā’iq (“Realities and Subtleties”) attributed mostly to al-Samarqandī. Finally,
in the Middle East was identified as work by ‘Abd al-Raḥīm Aḥmad (pre-seventeenth
century). Of all the manuals, the fourteenth century Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya’s K.
al-Rūḥ (“On the Spirit”) is generally considered one of the most authoritative. Also
to this category belongs al-Ṣuyūṭī’s Bushrā al-ka’īb bi-liqā’ al-ḥabīb (“Consoling the
Bereaved through Reunion of the Deceased”). Not a manual, but still a practical tool
is an anthology of apocalyptics by ‘Abd al-Raḥmān al-Bisṭāmī (d. 1454) that includes
a work by Ibn Ṭalḥa (d. 1254) being a practical exposition of the author’s techniques
in predicting what he saw as the imminent end of the world. Also to the technical
type of eschatological writing belongs the malḥama, an epic-like medium of foretelling apocalyptic events that blended occult elements. The oldest, Malḥamat Dāniyāl,
lists natural and astrological portents matched with an explanation of their divinatory
meanings.
Alongside manuals, popular eschatological texts included works in various
genres on Muḥammad’s ascent. The earliest account of Muḥammad’s mi‘rāj occurs
in the Sīra, Ibn Isḥāq’s (d. 760s) biography of the Prophet. One of the most elaborate
ascension narratives is the anonymous Liber scalae Machometi. In 1264 the now lost
Arabic original text was translated into Castilian and then in French and Latin. This
and other mi‘rāj narratives might have influenced Dante’s Divine Comedy. Shi‘i ḥadīths
collections feature some three hundred mi‘rāj stories as found in the works of the
Iraqi Ibn Ṭāwūs (d. 1266) and his later Persian counterpart al-Majlisī (d. 1699). Other
narratives of miraculous journeys to the afterlife include one on the Prophet Idrīs in
al-Kisā’ī’s (d. 805) Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’ (“Tales of the Prophets”). The Iranian Sufi “saint”
al-Bisṭāmī (d. ca. 848–874) claimed to have ascended the seven heaves in a dream.
Another fantastical look into the otherworld comes from a character in al-Tha‘labī’s
(d. 1035) tales of the prophets also echoed in the Arabian Nights: Buluqiyā, a prince of
the Israelites in Cairo, meets fantastical creatures who describe hell to him. Al-Ma‘ar-
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rī’s (d. 1057) Risālat al-Ghufrān (“Epistle of Forgiveness”) features his vision of heaven
and hell to mock popular beliefs on the hereafter. Also popular was the story of Jesus
and the scull found in Farīd al-Dīn ‘Aṭṭār’s (d. ca. 1221) epic poem Jumjumannāma
(“Book of the Scull”) where a scull describes to Jesus the scull’s owner experience of
hell and a vision of paradise.
Beside al-Suyūṭī’s al-Budūr al-sāfira, encyclopaedic works include the chapters on
the otherworld in al-Majlisī’s Biḥār al-anwār (“Seas of Lights”). This work contains,
among others, the apocalyptic narrative of al-Mufaḍḍal (eighth century), a close disciple of the Shi‘i imam Ja‘far al-Ṣādiq (d. 765). This is the longest tradition recorded
in Imami Shi‘i ḥadīth literature and the most important among the apocalyptic ones.
Many works of the ṣifa genre were written by Shi‘is in the ninth century such as the
work by the Kufan Sa‘īd ibn Janāḥ. In the tenth century, Ibn Bābūyah’s (d. 991) Risālat
al-I‘tiqādāt (“Tenets of Faith”) became noted for its eloquence on paradise and hell.
From the eleventh century onwards Shi‘i eschatological literature took a rationalist
turn, questioning the ocular vision of God or the factuality of corporeal resurrection.
Notable contributors to this trend were Shaykh al-Mufīd (d. 1022), al-Sharīf al-Murtaḍā
(d. 1044) and al-‘Allāma al-Ḥillī (d. 1325). Most Shi‘i theological literature focused on
the doctrine of imamate and the dogmatic belief in the apocalyptic reappearance of
the hidden Imam as the Mahdī or Qā’im. As a result, Shi‘i works on millenianism and
messianism constitute by far the most extensive contribution to this theme in Islamic
eschatology. Although Shi‘is and Sunnis articulated their messianic beliefs differently,
the intellectual boundaries between the two groups were occasionally blurred on this
subject. Contributors to Sunni messianism include the fourteenth-century Tunisian
polymath Ibn Khaldūn whose Muqaddima (“Prolegomena”) features a comprehensive
discussion of theories and traditions regarding the Mahdī. Before him, dealing with
mahdism were the traditionist Abū Daʼūd’s (d. 889) K. al-Mahdī and the historian
al-Ṭabarī’s (d. 923) Tahdhīb al-athār (“Classification of Transmitted Reports”), containing exegetical accounts on the Antichrist.
Finally, late medieval-early modern Persian and Turkic illuminated manuscripts
count as outstanding artifacts for eschatological divination. The most important are
two Timurid Mi‘rājnāmas (ca. 1430–1460), a Safavid book of omens (Fālnāma) and
seven Ottoman Conditions of the Resurrection (Aḥwāl al-qiyāma) (ca. 1600). The
Mi‘rājnāmas contain, along with text, the most elaborate series of paintings depicting
hell in the history of Islamic art.
Techniques and Manifestations
The belief that the time of the end of the world is only known to God did not deter
Muslim medieval scholars from speculating about the arrival time of judgement day.
Manuals provided an arsenal of images of the circumstances of the ākhira, an after-
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world with material conditions informed by earthly experiences and expectations.
Observations based on eschatological imagery would help formulate predictions on
the appearance of the signs anticipating the Hour. In practical terms, religious rituals
and public social protocols served as arenas where believers could pre-enact or foretaste the dramas of the afterlife; the hereafter could be foreseen in this world by physically recreating the imagery of otherworldly realms. A foretaste of paradise and hell
could be experienced on earth in locations believed to be earth-based portions of the
hereafter. A prognostication of what the afterlife would be like could be attained by
experiencing it by proxy via the tales of those who, like Muḥammad, had a preview
of it.
Islam affirmed itself in seventh century Arabia as a monotheistic religion with
news of an afterlife that were innovative in the socio-religious milieu in which it
appeared. In pre-Islamic Arabia, jinn-inspired kuhhān or soothsayers spoke only of
an unseen world within this realm of time and space and of dahr, inevitable fatality.
However, early Muslim authors believed that already in pre-Islamic time prognostications of the imminent advent of Islam and its promise of the afterlife were in circulation. Ibn Isḥāq talks of a divination, projected back to pre-Islamic time, forecasting the
kind of afterlife that Islam would bring. It is also in his Sīra that we find the earliest full
record of Muḥammad’s ascension. In time the story of the Prophet’s journey came to
be recognised as the most authoritative record of a living individual having previewed
life after death. The mi‘rāj story also became a template for those who claimed to have
undergone spiritual journeys and provided the blueprint for subsequent Islamic topographical descriptions of the Garden and the Fire. In the Shi‘i versions of the mi‘rāj
Muḥammad’s explicit designation of ‘Alī as his successor takes centre stage. Foreseeing the affairs of the ākhira served here to legitimise political posturing in the dunyā as
the narrative served the Shi‘i claim of a divinely pre-determined spiritual and political
authority bestowed to ‘Alī and his progeny.
Ḥadīth literature provides additional accounts of Muḥammad’s insight into the
hereafter. There are references to Muḥammad lecturing about the hereafter which he
claimed to have seen in dreams. Other traditions report on Muḥammad praying, upon
witnessing a solar eclipse, when he saw the fruits of paradise and hell. In another
instance Muḥammad is reported to have seen that women were the people of hell.
According to Shi‘i traditions ‘Alī not only partook in the mi‘rāj but clairvoyantly
observed the dead talking to each other on hills by the Iraqi city of Kufa.
Geographical locations could offer people a preview of the afterlife. The practice of identifying specific areas as prefiguration or actual sites of the hereafter was
reflected across the whole range of medieval Islamic ākhira works. The hell’s entrance
was typically located in the Yemeni Wādī Barhūt because of its smelly sulphur water
pools. The Zaqqūm tree was believed to grow in Yemen. Other locations included a
valley in Jerusalem. In some traditions Constantinople, Rome, Antioch and Sanaa
were equalled to hell and some ‘Abbasid emissaries associated hell with the Volga
valley. The traveller Ibn Baṭṭūṭa (d. 1377) identified al-Ukhayḍir, near Mecca, as the
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valley of hell. In the east, in the twelfth century Wādī Jahannam was located in Balkh
in Afghanistan.
The well of Zamzam, near Mecca, is often associated with the barzakh or having
prominence in the paradisial universe. Traditions list Medina, Mecca, Damascus and
Jerusalem as paradise. Ḥadīths narratives describe the rivers of paradise flowing in a
tunnel below al-Ḥaram al-Sharīf in Jerusalem. The Nile, the Euphrates and the Turkish
rivers Sayhan and Jayhan were said to spring from al-Kawthar well in paradise. Graves
were logically seen as the obvious gates into the afterlife which made cemeteries conceived as lands with entrances to the ākhira. Cemeteries like al-Qarāfa in Cairo were
declared part of paradise in their entirety.
Post-apocalypse resurrected bodies would assemble in a place of gathering (arḍ
al-maḥshar) typically identified with Jerusalem. In the first century of Islam the sacred
precinct of Thaqīf in Arabia was said to be the place where God had set his last step on
earth, hence the primordial paradise. The list of paradise cities continued to expand
as different political formations and local communities developed their own visions
of paradise on earth. If Damascus was the eastern paradise under the Umayyads, in
al-Andalus Córdoba’s Madīnat al-ẓahrā’ was its western counterpart. The Umayyads
of Spain imported from Syria the custom of planting or representing trees in mosques’
courtyards such as that in Córdoba, to emulate the Umayyad Great mosque of Damascus. In Egypt, Cairo was paradise garden due to the Nile and al-Qarāfa cemetery. For
the Shi‘is, Kerbela, the place of the martyrdom of Muḥammad’s grandson al-Ḥusayn,
became part of the garden of paradise and so did, elsewhere, the shrines of ‘Alī and
the Imam ‘Alī Riḍā. The paradisiac association with tombs can be most appreciated in
the case of the famous Taj Mahal in Agra – dedicated to Mumtāz, wife of the Mughal
emperor Shāh Jahān’s (d. 1666). It represents a prime example of this type of shrine
with its chahārbāgh (lit. “four gardens”) – a typical feature of Islamic gardens – modelled on the Quranic prototype of the Islamic paradise.
Beside tombs and gardens, the ruler’s palace became the site where paradise
could be physically actualised. Two examples best reflect the idea that mortals could
prefigure the pleasures of heaven in a palace setting. The first example is found in
Marco Polo’s (d. 1324) legend of the Old Man of the Mountain. This moniker was historically applied to the Syrian Isma‘ili leader Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān (d. 1193) but, as
legendary character, was associated with Ḥasan-i Ṣabbāḥ (d. 1124), the Nizari Isma‘ili
lord of the fortress of Alamut in Iran. According to Polo, the Old Man had secretly built
a garden by his fortress modelled along the Quranic paradise. The Old Man would
select his adepts, drug them and then enter them into the garden. On waking up, they
would think to be in heaven. Strong of what they thought to be a foreknowledge of
what the afterlife had to offer, they then would be prepared to die to fight against the
Old Man’s enemies, reassured that they would be guaranteed return to paradise upon
self-sacrificing themselves. The second example refers to the city-palace Madīnat
al-ẓahrā’ . Ordered by ‘Abd al-Raḥmān III (d. 961) this site represents arguably the most
determined effort in Islamic history to build a paradise city. Madīnat al-ẓahrā’ evoked
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paradise in several ways: its eight doors; its tank supposedly filled with mercury to
replicate the light effects of the Kawthar river; its layered gardens as described in the
Quran; ornaments with heavenly symbolism. Having inaugurated an Umayyad Caliphate in al-Andalus, ‘Abd al-Raḥmān III conceived the city as the architectural answer
to the messianic claims of the Umayyads’ caliphal rivals: the Sunni ‘Abbasids (750–
1258) in Baghdad and, in Egypt, the Shi‘a Isma‘ili Fatimids (909–1171). The ‘Abbasids
had tapped into messianic appeal to establish themselves as leaders of the Islamic
empire, originally rooting their propaganda in Shi‘i apocalyptic aspirations only to
turn to Sunnism when in power. As for the Fatimids, their propaganda about the resurfacing of a line of hidden imams from the progeny of Fāṭima and ‘Alī eventually took
hold in North Africa in 909 under the leadership of ‘Abd Allāh. Recognised by some
as the Shi‘a Isma‘ili Imam-Caliph of the time he founded a new dynasty under the
messianic name al-Mahdī. Long after the Fatimids moved their site of power to Egypt
in 969, in North Africa the allure of messianism grew around Ibn Tūmart (d. ca. 1128)
who gave rise to the Almohad dynasty.
Hell too was made a manifest, observable reality. As a deterrent, rulers meted
out punishments against criminals and opponents in public spectacles echoing the
imagery associated with hell. In 1101 in Isfahan, Isma‘ilis deemed heretics were publicly burned on a pyre managed by man nicknamed Mālik like the infernal angel.
Another hellish punishment was ignominious parading (tashhīr) with offenders
paraded sitting backwards on animals, sometime teased by monkeys, a potent sign
of the end after period of tribulation. The convicts, with faces smeared with soot like
the Quranic black faces of sinners, were vilified by onlookers. Offenders would have
written records of their crimes hanging from the neck like dead sinners who would
have lists of bad deeds dangling in front of them at resurrection. Punishing parades
would involve floggers mimicking the infernal al-zabāniyya. In Fatimid Cairo, in 1127
ignominious processions were accompanied by torch bearers imitating those angels.
Some Islamic practices gave the general public the opportunity to be actors,
instead of spectators, in dress-rehearsing the events of the afterlife. Of the five Islamic
mandatory rituals, ḥajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca, can be defined as a veritable tour of
paradise. The Ka‘ba, the structure encasing the Black Stone at the heart of the ritual,
is the earthly Quranic Enlivened House in heaven. The Zamzam well in its vicinity is
believed to be fed by the waters of paradise. The pilgrimage was typically described as
a journey towards the hereafter and Mecca as a vision of paradise on earth. The ḥajj is
the setting for the ultimate pre-enactment of what the believers will experience at the
moment of resurrection and foretaste of the joyous return to the pre-Adamic Garden.
As for other mandatory rituals, the ablution before prayer is intended to purify the
body in imitation of the state of the Garden’s dwellers. According to ḥadīths, fasting
would be a protection from hell. To these rituals the Sufis added self-annihilating
ecstatic practices that – when performed under the strict guidance of a master –
could induce in the practitioners a fleeting glimpse of God, the ultimate afterlife
experience.
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Rather than having an impression of experiencing the afterlife on one extraordinary occasion participants found themselves to be the actual people of the day of
resurrection. On 17 Ramadan 559/8 August 1164 Ḥasan II (d. 1166) leader of the Nizari
Isma‘ilis and representative of their hidden imam proclaimed to his adherents that
the end of the world had arrived. The announcement was delivered in Alamut, to
a crowd of Nizari delegates and people, from a purpose-built pulpit adorned with
coloured flags. Ḥasan II read a letter allegedly sent by the hidden imam to his community proclaiming the arrival of the day of resurrection and with it the dispensation for
the people of the imam from the outward (ẓāhir) following of the Islamic obligations
since their esoteric (bāṭin) meanings would finally prevail from that day. The event
marked the end of (Islamic) time and the start of a new “resurrected” state of earthly
existence: adherents ended the fast in the middle of Ramadan; the prayer was redirected; the calendar was restarted from that day. The proclamation of the qiyāma was
replicated in other Nizari Isma‘ili domains. The qiyāma doctrine introduced by Ḥasan
II was reformulated by his son Muḥammad (d. 1210). He, by declaring his father to be
in fact the imam, claimed the imamate for himself thus bringing about the resurfacing
of what to the Nizaris had been, up to that point, the concealed line of their political-spiritual leaders. In time the adherence to the outer performance of the rituals was
reintroduced but the Nizari adepts were to recognise every present and living imam
to be the imām-qā’im of the time. In this way the adepts would realise in their lives
the full meaning of the resurrection understood as attainment of spiritual perfection
rather than as a materially occurring event in the afterlife.
All the contexts examined so far promised varied eschatological experiences
which, at least in theory, people might be able to partake in. However, pre-enacting
the events of the afterlife or prognosticating them relied on being equipped with a
sophisticated body of knowledge, moral judgement and ability to decode mundane
symbols and signs. It required power of imagination to translate observable realities into eschatological images. Instead afterlife-themed paintings delivered the
most direct and graphic appreciation of what the hereafter might look like. From
the twelfth century onwards the complete range of pictorial representations of the
hereafter became available in manuscript illuminations. Cosmological works such as
al-Qazwīnī’s (d. 1283) K.‘Ajā’ib al-makhlūqāt (“Wonders of Creatures”) included eschatological narratives often matched with miniatures. Isolated pictures of the mi‘rāj are
known to have appeared from the late fourteenth century. A pictorial phenomenon
limited to the Persianate world, this imagery reached its peak in the sixteenth century
with the affirmation of an apocalyptic painterly tradition that intersected with the
religio-political rivalry between the Sunni Ottomans of Turkey and the Safavids who
made Shi‘ism the state religion of Iran. With the approaching of the Islamic millennium, occult and prognosticative arts flourished to enable individuals on both side of
the divide to chart their respective paths of salvation or damnation. Divination could
be sought by consulting the Dīwān of the Persian poet Ḥāfiẓ (d. 1390) or the Quran or
books of omens (fālnāma). In these books, Persian paintings of the last judgement
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served also as a tool the Safavids used to curse their political rivals. A vivid eyewitness
account of the Safavids’ use of eschatological paintings for anti-Sunni propaganda
is found in the travelogue of the Italian Michele Mambré. Having visited the court of
Shāh Tahmāsp (d. 1576) in 1539–1542, Mambré saw in Tabriz preachers, cursers, augury-tellers and storytellers use large painted images and texts to entertain people with
stories of Persian kings and Shi‘i heroes while cursing Sunni and Ottoman figures. At
court, Shāh Tahmāsp employed cursers and augury tellers known to use monumental fālnāma paintings and written omens with emphasis on eschatological themes.
In Safavid last judgement paintings the people of the house of the Prophet and the
Imams function as visual proofs of the rightful restoration of the sacred order according to the Shi‘i millenarian worldview. In these paintings, ‘Alī regularly appears figuratively more prominent than Muḥammad.
While the acceptance of the physical reality of the afterlife became normative
among Muslims, there were nevertheless some important dissenting voices. The
Mu‘tazili rationalist theologians understood the events of the afterlife figuratively.
The Shi‘a Isma‘ilis espoused the spiritual and non-corporeal nature of pleasure and
torment in the hereafter. The Sufis interiorised and intellectualised paradise and hell.
The famous Ibn Sīnā/Avicenna (d. 1037) denied the corporeal ascent of Muḥammad,
the bodily resurrection and the physical reality of the afterlife. His non-material imagination of the hereafter was further developed by the illuminationist (ishrāqī) philosopher Suhrawardī (d. 1191) whose ideas found following among Shi‘is such as Mullā
Ṣadrā Shīrāzī (d. 1640) with his vision of a philosophical-spiritual eschatology.
Developments and Discussions
In a ḥadīth Muḥammad stated that at the end of the world God would send a member
of his family named like him who would fill the world with justice and righteousness.
This prediction was paramount to the emergence of messianic movements in Islam.
By the second century of Islam the idea of a coming Mahdī as bringer of justice before
the last judgement was already well established. In Shi‘ism, contrary to Sunnism,
the coming of the Mahdī would become an article of faith. After Muḥammad’s death
in 632, a faction (shī‘a) formed in support of ‘Alī and his progeny from Fāṭima to be
the rightful leaders of the community. However, the leadership aspirations of what
would become a fully-fledged religious-political faction were dashed with the martyrdom of ‘Alī’s son al-Ḥusayn and, later on, the ‘Abbasids’ endorsement of Sunnism.
This sense of injustice led to expectation for a deliverer to rid the Shi‘a of opponents
and usurpers. Muḥammad’s prediction of the Mahdī from his blood line coupled with
ḥadīths that Shi‘is interpreted as privileging members of his family prompted the
identification of this messianic figure with a descendant in the line of ‘Alī. The vast
majority of Shi‘is deferred the coming of this restorer to an appointed time while in
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the interim directing love and devotion (walāya) to each of the imams. Though perceived to be under the constant threat of their enemies, the Shi‘i imams succeeded
one another until their safety could no longer be secured. For a group, this time came
in 941, year that marked the great occultation (al-ghayba al-kubrā) of the twelfth
imam Muḥammad ibn al-Ḥasan. For Twelver Shi‘is it is this imam that will return
as the Mahdī. Before the occultation of the twelfth Imam, Shi‘is had to grapple with
the question of who exactly would be the Mahdī announced by Muḥammad. ‘Alī and
his son, al-Ḥusayn were believed to be the awaited restores but so were a son of ‘Alī
via a non-Fāṭima line and a descendant of Muḥammad from ‘Alī and Fāṭima’s other
son, al-Ḥasan. In turn Imams like Muḥammad al-Bāqir (d. ca. 733) and Ja‘far al-Ṣādiq
were also believed to be the Mahdī. Centuries later, the Twelver Shi‘i messianic appeal
spilled into Sufism as reflected in Muḥammad Nūrbakhsh’s (d. 1464) claim to mahdiship. Muḥammad’s promise of a coming Mahdī combined with the Shi‘i belief in the
return of a hidden Imam provoked – in time of strife – the appearance of a plethora
of claimants to the role. It also led to attempts at prognosticating apocalyptic signs,
the time of the Mahdī’s appearance and the marks of his identity. For example in the
thirteenth century massive fires in cities like Aden and al-Harra near Medina came
to be seen as signs of the Hour. The appearance of comets was commonly seen as a
strong sign of an impending apocalypse. Comets, not mentioned in the Quran, were
understood as visible, inexplicable and long lasting signs from God to his creatures
which must have meant something. A correlation has been noted between the appearance of comets and the emergence of messianic claimants and movements throughout
medieval Islamic history (Cook, 2002). The Halley comet is recorded to have appeared
in 607, that is, no long before the start of Muḥammad’s revelations. The appearance
of a comet in 718 coincided with intense messianic speculation around the Umayyad
Caliph ʻUmar II (d. 720), known for his piety. The year 841 saw a comet at the time of
Abū Ḥarb al-Mubarqa‘, figure who operated under the mantle of Ṣufyānī, an eschatological character predicted to appear in Syria to confront the Mahdī. A comet was
recorded in coincidence in Basra with the Zanj messianic-inspired agrarian revolt
(869–883) against the ‘Abbasids. Shortly after the appearance of the self-proclaimed
Umayyad Mahdī Abū Rakwa (d. 1007) in 1004–1005 in North Africa there was a supernova. His revolt against the Fatimids was eventually halted in Egypt by the Imam-Caliph al-Ḥākim (d. 1021), himself at the centre of distinctive millennial beliefs. The messianic movement that in the twelfth century brought the Almohads to power coincided
with the appearance of a comet.
Although, according to Shi‘i traditions, predicting the time of the Mahdī’s rise was
prohibited, nevertheless this type of divination formed part of a distinctive literary
genre focused on universal signs of the Mahdī’s rise which prompted every generation
to expect this figure in its lifetime. For example, to some this event would happen in
70 years from ‘Alī’s time, to others it was postponed to 140 years. Unfulfilled promises
gave rise to the idea that God could change the time of the imam’s reappearance due
to considerations only know to him. However, the most cited day for the return of the
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Mahdī is when 10 Muharram – the day of al-Ḥusayn ’s martyrdom – would fall on a
Saturday in an odd numbered year of the Islamic calendar. Recently this was on Saturday 10 Muharram 1437/Saturday 24 October 2015.
Details of that special day are found in al-Mufaḍḍal’s apocalyptic ḥadīths. The
Mahdī’s name will be called out on the twenty-third night of Ramadan, the date
when the Quran’s revelation is believed to have started. Having entered Kufa first,
the Mahdī would then become manifest in Mecca. Meanwhile an ‘Alī descendant will
announce the awaited imam’s reappearance inviting the faithful to militant action in
his support. They will converge in Kufa where they will meet the Mahdī and ask him
to identify himself by showing Muḥammad’s ring, his armoury and the Quran compiled by ‘Alī. Upon showing the signs, allegiance will be paid to him. Troops will then
be sent to Damascus to kill the Ṣufyānī. At this point the raj‘a, as prelude to the final
resurrection, will take place. Al-Ḥusayn and his followers will return, followed by ‘Alī,
Muḥammad, his Companions and believers as well as his doubters. The Mahdī will
rule from Kufa assisted by his close associates, for a length of time variously placed
between 7 and 309 years. However, there is general agreement on the Mahdī and his
community succumbing to cosmic death 40 days before the day of judgement.
The Broader Cultural Milieu
Although the centrality of the hereafter in the Quran finds no equal in other scriptures
parallelisms can be drawn between Islamic beliefs and practices and those belonging
to the pre-Islamic milieu in which Islam emerged. Strong similarities are noted with
ideas that were already circulating in the ancient Middle East through the Gospels,
Talmudic and Christian Syriac literature as well as through Arab paganism. The notion
of the corpse experiencing some kind of life in the grave and the imagery attached to
the intermediate state of the dead before resurrection are comparable to doctrines
and beliefs widespread among Syriac Christian in late antiquity. Likewise shared is
the idea of resurrected sinners and the righteous experiencing the consequences of
their actions in life. The Islamic topographical descriptions of the afterlife shares similarities with late antiquity eschatology. Ephrem of Nisibis (d. 373), in his Hymns of
Paradise conceived paradise as a vertical corridor between this world and the next.
The Syriac Cave of Treasures (prob. sixth century) describes paradise as being on top
of a mountain. Echoes of pagan Arabian and astral religions are also notable in apocalyptic events linked to sightings of unusual astronomical activities. The depiction
of torment in the Islamic Fire shows some similarities with Zoroastrian narratives.
Indeed, the Islamic picture of hell can be said to be the result of the confluence of
several eschatological traditions. Apocalyptic monsters such as Gog and Magog are
found in Middle eastern mythology and the Bible. Other evidence of fusion of ideas
can be noted in the mi‘rāj stories which echo the Jewish Enoch account and the Chris-
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tian Apocalypse of Paul. The malḥama genre has equivalents in Syriac literature such
as Ḥasan ibn al-Bahlūl’s K. al-Dalā’il (“Book of Prognostication”).
Commonality of eschatological ideas and the incorporation into an Islamic fold of
beliefs and practices that were already prevalent in the lands where Islam expanded
did not result into inter-religious harmony. On the contrary, eschatology became the
preferred battlefield for religio-political polemics between Muslims and Christians.
In the hands of medieval Christians the “carnality” of the Islamic paradise became
the ultimate proof of Islam as a “false religion”, devoid of spirituality and favouring
debauchery on earth. To them, Muḥammad’s mi‘rāj was no more than a fabrication to
impress followers. On the whole, Christians understood the very rise of Islam to be one
of their apocalyptic signs. In a sort of eschatological tit-for-tat Dante cast Muḥammad
to hell for sowing religious discord while al-Majlisī cast the Apostle Paul to hell for
falsifying the true teachings of Jesus.
Selected Bibliography
Buckley, Ron P. The Night Journey and Ascension in Islam: The Reception of Religious Narrative in
Sunnī, Shī‘ī and Western Culture. London, 2013.
Cook, David. Studies in Muslim Apocalyptic. Princeton, 2002.
Filiu, Jean-Pierre. Apocalypse in Islam. Berkeley, 2011.
Gruber, Christiane, and Frederick S. Colby (eds.). The Prophet’s Ascension: Cross-cultural Encounters
with the Islamic mi‘rāj Tales. Bloomington, 2010.
Günther, Sebastian, and Todd Lawson (eds). Roads to Paradise: Eschatology and Concepts of the
Hereafter in Islam. 2 vols. Leiden, 2017.
Lange, Christian (ed.). Locating Hell in Islamic Traditions. Leiden, 2015.
Lange, Christian. Paradise and Hell in Islamic Traditions. New York, 2016.
Mahdisme et Millénarisme en Islam. Special issue of Revue des mondes musulmans et de la
méditerranée. 2000.
Rustomji, Nerina. The Garden and the Fire: Heaven and Hell in Islamic Culture. New York, 2009.
Sachedina, Abdulaziz Abdulhussein. Islamic Messianism: The Idea of the Mahdi in Twelver Shi‘ism.
Albany, 1981.
Smith, Jane, and Yvonne Haddad. The Islamic Understanding of Death and Resurrection. Albany, GA,
1981.
Prophecy and Visions
Anke Holdenried
Traditions and Practices in the Medieval
Western Christian World
Basics, Definitions and Terminology
The English term “prophecy” means a foretelling of the future. In the Middle Ages,
however, prophecy (prophetia) was much wider in scope. It was not merely the future
that could be known prophetically but all things that were hidden in mystery. Being
a prophet was about seeing “things that others did not see”, as Isidore, Bishop of
Seville (d. 636) acknowledged in his Etymologiae (Book 7, viii), a work very widely
read throughout the medieval period. Thus in the Middle Ages the term prophetia
could be applied to a much wider variety of phenomena than today, such as, for
example, certain kinds of intellectual understanding or the miraculous knowledge
of contemporary events too geographically distant to be known to the individual in
question.
The foundation stone for Christian culture was the Bible which provides many
examples of prophecy. These examples legitimised prophecy in the medieval Western
Christian World and ensured it was not merely a historical phenomenon. The prevailing Christian belief was that prophecy could still occur in contemporary society. In
the Bible, prophecy is a gift, freely given by God through the action of the Holy Spirit.
Strictly speaking therefore, as a gift from God, prophecy cannot be triggered by the
individual. It is not an active “practice” associated with “techniques” to bring about
supernatural knowledge of the future. Rather, prophecy is a personal experience
received at divine discretion. Consequently, there are no medieval manuals on “how
to do prophecy” but only records, descriptions, and abstract analyses of prophetic
experience and the divine messages this had brought.
Another important feature of medieval prophecy is that it was not narrowly
restricted to a small group of experts but potentially open to all – men, women or
even children (see 1 Cor. 12 and 14). Thus, in line with the Bible’s egalitarian approach
to the prophetic gift, surviving accounts of medieval visions and revelations show
that individuals from across the medieval social spectrum were credited with visionary experiences. Indeed, as the Old Testament story of Balaam and the ass taught its
medieval audience, even animals could be prophets (with the miraculous ability to
speak necessary to communicate their revelations (Num. 22:28)).
Ultimately, prophecy enjoyed great authority (even if there were sometimes
doubts about a particular prophecy’s divine origins). This authority derived from the
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belief, grounded in Scripture, that a prophet was God’s mouthpiece, that is, a divinely
illuminated proclaimer of divine revelations.
In medieval culture understanding the nature and purpose of divine illumination
was an important intellectual tradition in its own right and prophecy was understood
in relation to it. The term “divine illumination” had a special meaning for medieval
thinkers. It had originated with ancient philosophers and was then considered by the
Church Fathers. Thus, by the central Middle Ages there was a substantial body of discussion around the topic. Roughly, divine illumination is the belief that “the human
mind regularly relies on some kind of special supernatural assistance in order to complete (some part of) its ordinary cognitive activity” (Pasnau, Divine Illumination).
Thus theories of divine illumination tried to understand how the divine mind influences the human mind. Since divine illumination allowed the human mind to know
something otherwise beyond it, medieval philosophers approached it as a means of
knowing. Prophecy was thus a subset of divine illumination. As such, many of the
ideas associated with divine illumination came to be applied to prophecy, especially
the notion that it was a form of knowledge. Prophecy thus became entangled in epistemological arguments.
This is well illustrated by the section in the Summa Theologiae by the leading theologian and philosopher Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274) which presents a rigorous analysis
of prophecy (Summa II.2, Q. 171). In Aquinas’s Summa prophecy is expressly labelled
as a charism of knowledge, as opposed to a charism of speech or action (i. e. miracles).
Aquinas distinguishes two phases of prophecy. Firstly, an elevation of the prophet’s
mind whereby the range of his intellect is extended so that it becomes capable of
perceiving divine truths. Aquinas designates this “inspiration” (inspiratio), which is
due to the action of the Holy Spirit. Prophecy’s second phase is the actual perception of the supernatural truths, for the sake of which the inspiration has been given.
Aquinas calls this perception “revelation” (revelatio). Thus, thanks to the divine light,
the mind discovers truths previously hidden to it. For Aquinas, revelation expresses
the essential characteristic of prophecy: the disclosure of a truth which was unknown
to the prophet (Synave 1961; von Balthasar 1996). Aquinas’s treatment of these ideas
illustrates that prophecy, as an idea, intersects with ideas about the abstract process
by which an individual comes to know. Prophecy thus occupied an important place in
medieval intellectual culture as a mode of knowing.
Just as important was prophecy’s function as a tool for communication because,
as illustrated in the Bible, prophets proclaim to their community a message revealed to
them by God, often an exhortation to reform. On the basis of this scripturally endorsed
function, prophecy became an important vehicle for expressing contemporary social,
religious and political anxiety in the guise of divinely revealed messages. Capitalising
on prophecy’s supposed divine origins, many individuals merely alleged to have communicated with the divine and created fake prophecies to articulate their particular
partisan opinions. Such alleged prophecies were often carefully crafted and adhered
to a set of conventions, including pseudonymity and the incorporation of “proph-
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ecy after the event” (i. e. presenting as prophecy reports of events that had already
occurred) to enhance their credibility. Prophecies of this type were often free-floating
texts, but could also be found embedded in different genres, for example, in works
of historiography where such prophecies often assumed the form of Visions, as, for
example, in the case of the “The Vision of Charles the Fat” (Visio Caroli Grossi, ed.
Gardiner). This text, which originated ca. 887–900 in Reims, possibly in the circles
around the then archbishop of the city, describes a vision supposedly experienced
by the Carolingian Emperor Charles III (d. 888). In this vision Charles encounters his
ancestors who warn him of the coming demise of his family, that is, the text articulates
contemporary concerns about dynastic change in the near future. Significantly, the
text remained in circulation for many centuries to come and was transmitted both as
a free-floating text and as a component of works of history, including, for example,
the Gesta Anglorum by William of Malmesbury (d. 1143) (Stubbs 1887, 1:112–116). Such
literary longevity is common for medieval visions and prophetic texts of this kind.
Many remained in circulation long after the original events leading to their composition – and thus their immediate social relevance – had passed. This aspect of
medieval prophecy is well represented in some other parts of this handbook like the
legend of the coming of a Last Emperor, texts such as the Sibylla Tiburtina (known also
as the Tiburtine Sibyl) or the Revelationes by Pseudo-Methodius (known also as the
Apocalyps of Pseudo-Methodius; ↗ Möhring, Eschatology Western Christian World;
↗ Brandes, Eschatology Eastern Christian World).
Written Sources and Material Culture
Given the clerical monopoly on literacy in the period, the extant written source material was mostly – but not exclusively – produced in ecclesiastical circles and written
in Latin, although vernacular texts became increasingly prominent after ca. 1200 and
were certainly not unknown even before then. Note there were no manuals on how
to achieve prophetic revelation. Rather, texts were limited either to recording prophetic messages (e. g. copies of the prophetic books of the Bible, accounts of visions,
records of oracular pronouncements) or to dissecting prophetic experience (whether
in incidental comments on the phenomenon of prophecy or full-blown systematic
discussions of it as a mode of knowing, or in tracts about the detection of false prophecy, called “the discernments of spirits”). While from a modern perspective it may be
convenient to group written material into these two broad categories, note that they
each cover many different genres. Often these genres overlap and so for any particular
prophetic text it can be difficult to decide to which genre it should belong. Hence in
practice it is not always possible to clearly categorise surviving materials.
The extant source material for prophecy also includes Saint Lives (since prophecy
was seen as a sign of holiness) and, of course, the actual prophetic writings of proph-
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ets, mystics, and visionaries. Women’s history has always placed particular value on
the study of personal experience as it survives in various autobiographical genres.
For the medieval period this includes accounts of visionary women’s religious experience, although the involvement of male scribes and confessors in the production of
these texts has led scholars to debate whether such writings should be considered
autobiography. Rare in the early Middle Ages, such accounts proliferated after 1200,
when religious life diversified to include communities outside the walls of the cloister.
Post-1200, memoirs by nuns, female mendicants and women tertiaries of their interior
revelations and visionary experiences are thus plentiful by the standard of medieval
sources.
Autobiographical material does not survive for men in the same way. Men (and
this is true for the vast majority of them throughout the entire Middle Ages, before and
after 1200) did not write the same kind of detailed memoirs of their own interior revelations and visionary experiences as women. This fact is well known and the reasons for
it are well understood. Men had access to education and the formal study of theology,
as well as to the other, more scientific, branches of knowledge. Men could write about
experiencing God in a number of genres all grounded in scriptural authority. Occasionally, male authors abandoned the commentary genre to act as compilers instead, gathering together stories of nightly visions and ghostly apparitions in a single volume,
as did Otloh of St Emmeram (d. 1070) and Peter of Cornwall (d. 1221) (Schmidt 1989;
Easting and Sharpe 2014). After 1200, male engagement with traditions of divine illumination of the mind rapidly intellectualised even further. This is the period when
scholastic thinkers such as Albertus Magnus (d. 1280) and Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274)
produced abstract and rigorous discussions of prophecy (Torrell 1992). Women, on
the other hand, being largely barred from education, could write about God only from
the vantage point of how He had revealed Himself to them and their experience of
this encounter. The different types of sources that survive for the study of medieval
prophecy thus also reflect the difference in the educational opportunities for men and
women in the Middle Ages.
The imprint of prophecy can be seen also in medieval material culture more
broadly. For example it is not uncommon to find sculptures or images of the Old Testament prophets and the ancient prophetesses called Sibyls integrated into the decorative programmes of churches and cathedrals where they might variously adorn
pulpits, facades, or ceilings, and thus pay tribute to the mixture of ancient classical
and Christian prophetic traditions – a large topic in itself (↗ Wagner, Prophecy in
Visual Art).
The Sibyls are a particularly prominent example of the influence of Classical
rather than Christian models in the Middle Ages. Oracular pronouncements attributed to them were compiled over an extended period in antiquity as a collection of
texts (in Greek hexameters) known as the Oracula Sibyllina. Thanks to the depiction
of the Sibyls by the Christian Church Fathers such as Lactantius (d. around 320) and
Augustine (d. 430) (who mentions the Oracula) these ancient prophetesses were cel-
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333
ebrated in the medieval tradition, often treated as independent, non-Christian evidence of the divinity of Christ. When anonymous medieval authors wished to make
their supposed prophetic revelations seem authoritative, they were often attributed
to one of the Sibyls. The thirteenth-century pseudo-Joachimite prophecy known as
Sibilla Erithea Babilonica is a case in point (Jostmann 2006).
Developments, Historical and Social Contexts
In the late antique and medieval periods concepts of prophecy were adapted to new
social realities. I begin by briefly reviewing the early history of this process of adaptation. The institutional Church’s attitude to prophecy was profoundly shaped by biblical concepts of prophecy. In the Old Testament the prophet is a divinely authorised
social critic and foreteller of future events. Likewise, in the New Testament (1 Cor. 12)
the Apostle Paul had given explicit approval to prophecy as a charism, that is, a divine
gift. The Pauline texts also assume that prophecy is a practical ministry whose function is to proclaim moral truths important to a specific community. In both the Old
and New Testaments the prophet’s right to express statements publicly came directly
from his or her communication with God. This made the prophet a vocal and authoritative figure who lay outside the Church’s institutional structure. This was perhaps
less of a problem when the early Church was still relatively small and simple in organisation. Subsequently, however, as the Church developed between the second and
sixth century, institutional ecclesiastical leadership increasingly replaced charismatic
leadership. As charismatic leaders, prophets in some ways threatened the Church’s
institutional authority. Prophets and prophecy could not be done away with, however,
because prophecy was supported by biblical and Apostolic authority. In order to
resolve this conflict, and in parallel with the institutional changes in the Church, the
notion of prophecy was simultaneously restricted and extended.
Prophecy was restricted in that a variety of locally resident ministers officially
selected by the Church hierarchy (bishops, deacons, presbyters) replaced itinerant
charismatic individuals considered to have been chosen by the Holy Spirit, such as
apostles and prophets. Moreover, developments such as the condemnation of the
heresy of Montanism and, a little later, the recognition of a fixed canon of scripture
meant ecclesiastical authority was increasingly limited to a relatively small group of
officially defined Christian institutions, texts and interpretations. This growth of institutional leadership increasingly marginalized the charismatic leader and thus diminished prophecy’s practical use in the life of the Church as an instrument of instruction
and leadership – intentionally so, given prophecy’s potential to divide communities
and challenge established doctrine (Aune 1983; Mayeski 1997).
Conversely, the role of prophecy was extended in the late patristic period by re-defining the didactic and communal role of the prophet. According to Paul prophets
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Traditions and Practices of Prognostication in the Middle Ages: Prophecy and Visions
served in the new Israel to build up the community of the Church by delivering, in intelligible form, messages received directly from God. In late antiquity the view emerged
that while previously prophets had made intelligible the word of God revealed to them
directly, now making intelligible the word of God recorded in the Bible also counted as
prophecy. A passage in the preface to Cassiodorus’s Commentary on Psalms (ca. 550)
which enjoyed widespread influence in subsequent centuries embodies this understanding: “Clearly the prophet builds up the Church when through the function of
this foretelling he makes wholly clear matters exceedingly vital that were unknown.
Those who have been granted the ability to understand well and to interpret the divine
Scriptures are obviously not excluded from the gift of prophecy” (Cassiodorus, Commentary on Psalms, ed. Walsh, 28). Thus the late antique period expanded the type of
activity that is considered prophetic. Basically, from this point forward the concept of
prophecy as the intelligible transmission of divine revelation was extended to include
the intellectual activity of biblical exegesis.
The social and institutional context in which prophecy appeared changed over
the course of the Middle Ages, although there are certain broad patterns. In the historiography on the subject the year 1200 is generally regarded as somewhat of a watershed. Before ca. 1200 the pursuit of direct consciousness of God through contemplation (see section Techniques and Manifestations below) had been a matter for a fairly
small spiritual elite confined to the relatively controlled environment of the monastery
or nunnery. This was the setting in which, for example, the Benedictine abbess Hildegard of Bingen (d. 1179) and the Cistercian abbot Joachim of Fiore (d. 1202) appeared.
Both enjoyed reputations as prophets in their own days.
After 1200 new forms of religious life grew outside the walls of the cloister
among the laity and particularly women. In this later medieval period the options for
expressing a religious vocation expanded to include joining urban communities of
Beguines or becoming a Tertiary, that is, joining the so-called Third Orders (McGinn
1998). These orders were groups of lay members of the mendicant orders founded by
two men who soon after their death were considered saints, the Italian wandering
preacher Francis of Assisi (d. 1226; canonized 1228) and the Castilian priest Dominic
de Guzman (d. 1221; canonized 1234). Women with a reputation for receiving visions or
being prophetically gifted were often associated with these new types of communities.
A prominent example was Catherine of Siena (d. 1380) who was a Dominican Tertiary
and one the key prophetic figures of the Great Schism (1378–1417) which had divided
Christendom’s allegiance to the papacy. These new ways of religious life and new
forms of spirituality were not subject to such close supervision by clerical authority
as their monastic predecessors had been. This lead to anxieties about a loss of institutional control over the power bestowed by contact with the divine. Ultimately these
anxieties had a restrictive effect on prophecy, see the section Medieval Classifications
and Discussions below.
Another feature of the period post-1200 is the growth of the educated laity’s
increasing engagement with writings of prophetic content, both biblical and non-bib-
Anke Holdenried
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lical. Various factors contributed to this growth. Especially the expansion of literacy
in the vernacular and the enhanced provision of pastoral care for the laity after the
Fourth Lateran Council (1215) also encouraged the mediation of the Bible to the laity
through a whole range of different vernacular media, from rhymed verse to manuscripts written in the vernacular and containing illustrations of prophetic parts of the
Bible. This trend is well illustrated by the post-1215 innovations in the transmission
of the last book in the Bible, the Book of Revelation (also known as the Apocalypse)
which predicts the End of the World and the Second Coming of Christ. For example,
sixteen lavishly illustrated manuscript copies of the Apocalypse were produced
in England in a short space of time (ca. 1250–1275); of these, six copies employ the
vernacular (four copies have all their text in French, and two have it both in Latin
and French). These manuscripts often also have aristocratic patrons and readers and
thus illustrate the consumption of prophecy outside clerical circles. For example, the
historiated initial (fol. 1r) which precedes the Anglo-Norman prose text of the Book
of Revelation in manuscript Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS. Douce 180 (the so-called
Douce-Apocalypse, ca. 1265–1270) shows England’s Prince Edward and his wife
Eleanor bearing shields with their arms kneeling before the throne of Grace. The
Douce-Apocalypse permits a glimpse, therefore, of prophecy’s appeal to both laymen
and women, including royalty. (Morgan 2006, 11–18, 33–34). Other manuscript evidence, such as Rennes, Bibliotheque Municipale, Ms. 593 (ca. 1303/1304) illustrates
that the taste for prophecy among Europe’s high aristocracy clearly went beyond the
merely scriptural: this manuscript also includes a vast array of non-biblical prophetic
material in Old French, either as free-floating texts or contained within other works of
an encyclopaedic nature, including the Old French Livre de Sidrac. Scholars link this
luxury illustrated manuscript collection both with Joan I of Navarre (d. 1305), wife of
the French king Phillip IV and Clementia of Hungary (d. 1328), wife of King Louis X of
France (Waffner 2017, 65–66).
It is not always possible to determine precisely the use such manuscripts were
put to. In the case both of the English illustrated Apocalypse manuscripts and that of
Rennes Ms. 593 their social use oscillated between devotional reading for the purposes
of moral and religious instruction on the one hand and reading for the more secular
purpose of literary entertainment on the other. The Apocalypse, in particular, with
its depiction of a cosmic struggle between the forces of good and evil might well have
resonated with the chivalric values of an audience of knights and aristocrats (Muir
Wright 1995).
In addition, medieval narrative sources suggest that sometimes medieval readers
sought to exploit the specifically predictive value of prophetic texts for their own purposes. We often lack concrete evidence of the practical application of prophecies, but
we cannot exclude the possibility that they played a real part in guiding actual decision-making, including that of kings. For instance, the English chronicler Roger of
Howden tells us that in the winter of 1190/1191 while at the port of Messina with his
crusading army the English king, Richard the Lionheart (d. 1199), sought the views of
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Traditions and Practices of Prognostication in the Middle Ages: Prophecy and Visions
Joachim of Fiore (d. 1202) about the tribulations to be endured by the crusaders in the
near future. Joachim had a reputation for possessing the spirit of prophecy based on
his skilful interpretation of the Book of Revelation. On other occasions Joachim also
met with the Hohenstaufen imperial couple (Emperor Henry IV (d. 1197) and Empress
Constance (d. 1198)) making pronouncements about the future, again based on his
interpretation of scripture (Reeves 1969, 6–11).
Techniques and Manifestations
As a gift from God (1 Cor. 12:1–11), strictly speaking prophecy is not an active “practice”
with associated “techniques” which can bring about supernatural knowledge; rather,
prophecy is a personal experience that one receives passively. This state of inaction and passivity is often understood as “sleep” in ancient and medieval Christian
culture; for example, John, the author of the biblical Book of Revelation was asleep
on the Island of Patmos when he received his vision; this scene is a favourite motif, for
example, in medieval illustrated manuscripts of the Book of Revelation.
Yet, while it would be misleading to speak of “prophetic practice” for this reason,
prophecy nevertheless intersected very powerfully with other medieval cultural practices. This is because prophecy, of course, implies some form of divine illumination
of the mind. In the last instance, therefore, prophecy is about an individual’s direct
communication with God (or, at least, the claim to have had such an experience).
Both prophets and mystics have (or claim to have) private encounters with the divine.
Prophets, however, go further and express this publicly, for the purposes of social
criticism (Lerner 1976). Prophetic experience is thus a subset of mysticism. As such,
concepts and intellectual traditions pertaining to prophecy elide with those pertaining to mysticism, as well as to contemplation, a process of actively seeking a direct
personal encounter with the divine. Contemplation was a central practice of medieval
monasticism where it was very intimately tied to the reading practice of lectio divina
prescribed by the Rule of St Benedict by Benedict of Nursia (d. 550) which became the
predominant set of precepts in western monasticism for regulating both individual
conduct and living as a community.
This practice of reading (lectio divina) went hand in hand with meditatio, that is,
it revolved around close meditative study of the sacred page and the Church Fathers.
In other words, careful reading and interpretation of God’s revealed word in the Bible
provided the dedicated student of scripture with a means for comprehending God. If
we recall, Cassiodorus had taught that the insights gained through mastery of Bible
study were akin to those granted to prophets [see above, section Developments, Historical and Social Context]. Medieval texts often preserve echoes in some form of the
various affinities between contemplative, exegetical, and prophetic insight which
were perceived in the Middle Ages. For example, Rupert of Deutz and Joachim of Fiore
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337
confirmed the necessity of prophetic vision for their exegetical breakthroughs [see
above, section Developments, Historical and Social Context].
A further and unusually overt example survives in a religious didactic text called
Benjamin Major (also known as The Mystical Ark) by Richard of Saint Victor (d. 1173).
In this example prophetia was expressly harnessed to contemplation. The term prophetia appears in the fourth chapter of Book 5, which is entitled “Concerning raising
up of mind, by what stages it is accustomed to rise up”. Here Richard considers the
progressive stages of the expansion of the field of consciousness. This expansion takes
place throughout the contemplative ascent and ultimately leads to what Richard calls
enlarging, the lifting up of and finally the alienation of the spirit. When Richard discusses the third, and penultimate, stage of contemplation he expressly refers to prophetia. This third stage is reached, says Richard, when “we transcend the bounds of
the human condition by the flight of our contemplation”. Richard then goes on to say
“every kind of Prophecy, if it happens without alienation of mind, seems to pertain to
this third stage of raising up”. (Richard of Saint Victor, Benjamin Maior, ed. Zinn 1979,
315–316). In other words, Richard presents prophecy as analogous to a specific contemplative state in his Benjamin Major, one of the first works to systematically discuss
and teach the nature and modes of contemplation and the discipline that leads to it.
To be clear, in the context of this teaching text the mention of prophetic experience is
no more than a pedagogical device to help to explain the different states of contemplation, rather than a “how to” guide to attaining prophecy. Yet, the fact that Richard
of Saint Victor gave prophecy a place in his meditational script for his fellow monks
is indicative of a pervasive medieval “visionary culture”, that is, of the existence of a
distinct component of medieval religious culture that combined techniques to facilitate visionary experience with theories to explain it (Newman 2005).
Medieval Classifications and Discussions
In the thirteenth-century scholastic theologians, such as Albertus Magnus (d. 1280)
or Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274) systematically discussed prophecy, that is, the nature,
causes, and the manner of prophetic knowledge. These are highly specialised medieval debates about prophecy. They reflect the efforts of medieval intellectuals at
synthesising the Christian tradition with Aristotelian metaphysics in the wake of the
introduction into the Latin West of hitherto unavailable works by the ancient Greek
philosopher Aristotle on diverse topics such as logic, or the problem of the eternity of
the world. By the thirteenth century this Aristotelian corpus was having an impact on
Christian medieval attitudes to how far (and where) theological speculation should
go. What were its proper and improper objects, and what was the role of God-given
grace (a form of divine illumination) in attaining understanding? Church Fathers such
as Augustine had insisted that intellect had to be supplemented by revelation, but the
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Traditions and Practices of Prognostication in the Middle Ages: Prophecy and Visions
works of Aristotle suggested that this may not be so. In short, the intensification of
engagement with the Aristotelian corpus resulted in the intensification of medieval
discourses about how humans come to know.
In his discussion of prophecy as a charism of knowledge Aquinas stresses the role
of mind and intellect, but also considers: (a) the auxiliary role of sense perception in
the creation of prophetic knowledge and (b) the question whether prophecy demands
that the prophet has a disposition toward prophecy, that is, whether it demands the
perfection of the prophet’s imaginative faculty, and the acuteness and clarity of his
intellect. Hence, a significant part of medieval discussions about prophecy (where
understood as a form of divine illumination), concerned the issue of a prophet’s bodily
and mental capabilities (Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, II.2, Q.171–Q.174;
Torrell 1992).
Bodies, of course, are either female or male; clearly therefore it was possible
that medieval discussions about knowing God prophetically could be conducted in
gendered terms. This was often the case especially where medieval individuals confronted the tri-partite hierarchy of vision which Augustine, Bishop of Hippo (d. 430)
had included in Book 12 of his Literal Meaning of Genesis (Taylor, 1982). In the Middle
Ages Augustine’s writings commanded the highest authority and were treated as foundational by medieval writers. Here in his Genesis commentary Augustine set out his
understanding that visions involving the senses pertained to the lowest rank of visionary experience, those involving the imagination the second, middle, rank, and those
being purely intellectual the third, and highest, rank. Not surprisingly, in medieval
culture which emphasised women’s physicality and their sensory nature Augustine’s
theory of vision could be used to relegate the prophetic and visionary experience of
women to second division.
For the period before 1200 we lack the kind of systematic discussions of both
prophecy, such as that produced by Aquinas , and of how one can distinguish true
from false revelations produced in the later Middle Ages by several writers, most
notably Henry of Langenstein (d. 1397, theologian first at the Sorbonne and later
in Vienna), Bishop Alfonso Pecha (also Alfonso of Jaén, d. 1389) and in particular
Jean Gerson (d. 1429), a French theologian and chancellor of the University of Paris
(Sclosser 2000; Voaden 1999). We thus observe a debate conducted within the clerical
elite about the ability to distinguish spirits and revelations sent by God from those
sent by the devil – in the parlance of the times, the discernment of spirits (Anderson
2011; Caciola 2003; Elliott 2004).
However, although especially vigorously debated in the later Middle Ages the
discernment of spirits is in fact a much older tradition with roots in ancient Christianity. Fear of deception and wrong teaching by false apostles and deceitful workers
is already referred to in the Bible by St Paul who reminded the Christian community
that Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light (2 Cor. 11:14) and who numbered
the ability to discern spirits amongst the divine gifts. Patristic writers interpreted this
“gift” in various different ways. For example, Augustine usually connected it with the
Anke Holdenried
339
interpretation or judgement of prophetic or visionary activity (The Literal Meaning of
Genesis, Book 12). Overall, however, medieval thinkers devoted little attention to discernment. This changed when uncertainties over the Pope’s leadership of the Church
during the Great Schism (1378–1417) generated renewed interest in the alternative
leadership of prophetically inspired individuals. Contemporary female visionaries
such as Catherine of Siena (d. 1380) and Birgitta of Sweden (d. 1373) were controversial figures and prompted the composition of treatises which offered increasingly
specific guidelines for discernment of spirits and the detection of false prophecy. Yet,
as Wendy Love Anderson’s study of the discernment tradition has demonstrated “the
late medieval discourse on the discernment of spirits was […] a series of reactions to
key events in the history of Christianity, and a dynamic conversation across several
centuries […]. To reduce it to static doctrine or limit it to discussions of female spirituality is to miss a great deal”. (Anderson 2011, 8) Indeed, medieval medical theories
concerning the physiology of demonic possession are as much part of the discernment
discourse as are the wider changes in intellectual culture which took place from the
twelfth century. These changes involved a growing emphasis across different intellectual domains (principally law and theology) on rational techniques of enquiry and on
the questioning of witnesses. For example, the elaborate canonization process with its
inquiry into the “truth” of miracles dates to the time of Pope Innocent III (d. 1216). In
medieval classrooms the scholastic method instilled a mindset which prized the critical interrogation of sacred scripture. In law courts supernatural proof supplied by trial
by ordeal increasingly gave way to other forms of testimony. Similarly, the inquisition
sought to establish doctrinal error through processes based on asking questions. In
short, the period after 1200 was characterized by the rise of what scholars have termed
an “inquistional culture” (Elliott 2004). It created an intellectual climate that made
the critical examination of supernatural phenomena such as prophecy both legitimate
and desirable, not only in clerical circles but also within the local communities in
which prophets often operated.
Selected Bibliography
Albert the Great. Questio de prophetia. Ed. Anna Rodolfi. Florence, 2009.
Alfonso of Jaén. His Life and Works with Critical Editions of the Epistola solitarii, the Informaciones
and the Epistola servi Christi. Lund, 1989.
Anderson, Wendy Love. The Discernment of Spirits. Assessing Visions and Visionaries in the Late
Middle Ages. Tübingen, 2011.
Augustine of Hippo. De Genesi ad litteram / The Literal Meaning of Genesis (Ancient Christian
Writers 41). Trans. John H. Taylor. Mahwah, NJ, 1982.
Aune, David Edward. Prophecy in Early Christianity and the Ancient Mediterranean World. Grand
Rapids, 1983.
Balthasar, Hans Urs von. Thomas und die Charismatik: Kommentar zu Thomas von Aquin Summa
Theologica Quaestiones II–II 171–182. Freiburg, 1996.
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Caciola, Nancy. Discerning Spirits: Divine and Demonic Possession in the Middle Ages. Ithaca, 2003.
Cassiodorus. Expositio Psalmorum / Explanation of the Psalms (Ancient Christian Writers 51). Vol. 1:
Psalms 1–50. Trans. Patrick Gerard Walsh. Mahwah, NJ, 1990.
Coote, Lesley A. Prophecy and Public Affairs in Later Medieval England. York, 2000.
Elliott, Dyan. Proving Women. Female Spirituality and Inquisitional Culture in the Middle Ages.
Princeton and Oxford, 2004.
Henriet, Patrick, Klaus Herbers, and Hans-Christian Lehner. Hagiographie et Prophétie (VIe-XIIIe
siècle). Florence, 2017.
Henry of Langenstein. De discretio spirituum. Heinrichs von Langenstein: “Unterscheidung der
Geister,” Lateinisch und Deutsch: Texte und Untersuchungen zur Übersetzungsliteratur aus der
Wiener Schule. Ed. Thomas Hohmann. Zurich and Munich, 1977.
Isidore of Seville. Etymologiarum sive originum libri XX, 2 vols. Ed. Wallace M. Lindsay. Oxford,
1911
Isidore of Seville. Etymologies. Trans. Stephen A. Barney et al. Cambridge, 2006.
Jean Gerson. On Distinguishing True from False Revelations, which is included in Jean Gerson: Early
Works. Trans. and introduced Brian Patrick McGuire (New York, 1998). Latin text: Jean Gerson.
“De distinctione verarum visionum a falsis.” Oeuvres Complètes 3:36–56. Eds. Palémon
Glorieux and Jean Gerson. Paris, 1962.
Jostmann, Christian. Sibilla Erithea Babilonica. Papsttum und Prophetie im 13. Jahrhundert.
Hanover, 2006.
Lerner, Robert E. “Medieval Prophecy and Religious Dissent.” Past and Present 72 (1976): 3–24.
Mayeski, Marie Anne. “ ‘Let Women Not Despair’: Rabanus Maurus on Women Prophets.” Theological
Studies 58 (1997): 237–253.
McGinn, Bernard. The Flowering of Mysticism: Men and Women in the New Mysticism (1200–1350).
The Presence of God. A History of Western Christian Mysticism. Vol. 3. New York, 1998.
Muir Wright, Rosemary. Art and Antichrist in Medieval Europe. Manchester, 1995.
Newman, Barbara. “What did it mean to say ‘I saw’? The clash between theory and practice in
medieval visionary culture.” Speculum 80.1 (Jan., 2005): 1–42.
Nigel Morgan, Nigel. The Douce Apocalypse. Picturing the End of the World in the Middle Ages.
Treasures from the Bodleian Library. Oxford, 2006.
Oracula Sibyllina. The Sibylline Oracles: with Introduction, Translation, and Commentary on the First
and Second Books. Ed. Jane L. Lightfoot. Oxford, 2007.
Othloh von St. Emmeram, and Paul Gerhardt Schmidt. Otloh von St Emmeram, Liber Visionum (MGH,
Quellen zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters 13). Weimar, 1989.
Pasnau, Robert. “Divine Illumination”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2015
Edition). Ed. Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2015/entries/
illumination/ (9 March 2020).
Peter of Cornwall, Robert Easting, and Richard Sharpe. Peter of Cornwall’s Book of Revelations.
Toronto, 2014.
Richard of St Victor. Benjamin Maior (Mystical Ark). English text: Richard of St Victor. The Twelve
Patriarchs; The Mystical Ark; Book Three of The Trinity, Preface by Jean Châtillon (The Classics
of Western Spirituality). Ed. Grover A. Zinn. London, 1979. Latin text: Richard of St Victor.
Benjamin Maior (Mystical Ark). Latin text, see especially Migne, Jacques-Paul. Richardi a
Sancto Victore Opera Omnia (Patrologiae Cursus Completus. Ser. Latina). Vol. 196. Paris, 1880.
Reeves, Marjorie. The Influence of Prophecy in the Later Middle Ages. A Study in Joachimism. Oxford,
1969.
Rupert of Deutz. De Gloria et honore filii hominis super Mattheum (CCCM 29). Ed. Rhaban Haacke.
Turnhout, 1979. Trans. in Os meum aperui: die Autobiographie Ruperts von Deutz. Ed. Walter
Berschin. Cologne, 1985.
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Schlosser, Marianne. “Lucerna in calignoso loco.” Aspekte des Prophetie-Begriffes in der
scholastischen Theologie (Veröffentlichungen des Grabmann-Institutes zur Erforschung der
Mittelalterlichen Theologie und Philosophie, Neue Folge 43). Eds. Michael Schmaus et al.
Paderborn, 2000.
Synave, Paul, and Pierre Benoit. Prophecy and Inspiration. A Commentary on the Summa
Theologia II–II, Questions 171–178. New York, 1961. Part II.
Thomas Aquinas. Summa Theologiae. Blackfriars edition (61 vols., Latin and English with Notes and
Introductions, London and New York, 1964–1980). Paperback edition 2006.
Torrell, Jean Pierre. Recherches sur la théorie de la prophétie au moyen âge XIIe-XIVe siècles. Études
et textes, Dokimion 13. Fribourg, 1992.
Visio Caroli Grossi (Vision of Charles the Fat). Trans. included in Gardiner, Eileen. Visions of Heaven
and Hell before Dante. New York, 1989.
Voaden, Rosalynn. God’s Words, Women’s Voices: The Discernment of Spirits in the Writings of
Late-Medieval Women Visionaries. York, 1999.
Waffner, Petra. Le Livre de Sidrac. Die Quellen alles Wissens. Aspekte zur Tradition und Rezeption
eines altfranzoesischen Textes. Ph.D. Diss. FernUniversität in Hagen, 2017.
William of Malmesbury. De Gestis Regum Anglorum Libri Quinque, Historiae Nouellae Libri Tres
(Rolls Series 90). Ed. William Stubbs. London, 1887.
Young, Abigail Ann. “Mission and Message: Two Prophetic Voices in the Twelfth Century.” Essays
in Medieval Philosophy and Theology in Memory of Walter H. Principe, CBS: Fortresses and
Launching Pads. Eds. James R. Ginther and Carl. N. Still. Ashgate, 2005.
Michael T. Miller
Jewish Traditions and Practices in the
Medieval World
Definitions and Terminology
The Biblical Hebrew noun translated as “prophet” is navi’i (‫)נָ ִ ֣ביא‬, and the correlating
noun for prophecy is nevu’ah (‫בּואה‬
ָ ְ‫)נ‬. These were used still in the Middle Ages when
writing in Hebrew; the Arabic cognate was ‫نبي‬. The words indicate (one who receives) a
message from God, usually a message intended for the people of Israel regarding how
they should live. Ergo, prophecy itself is a general phenomenon, meaning any kind
of direct communication from God which was intended for public consumption. This
could take the form either of warnings about lifestyle – for the pursuit of the correct
way of living and worshipping so as to please God and avoid evil – or of revelation
concerning metaphysics or God’s own nature. Prognostication then is only one part
of prophecy, and had usually taken the form of warning about the consequences for
the people, should they not change their ways. Vision is an overlapping category with
prophecy, which is usually delivered verbally via an appearance of God or an angel;
however it is possible to have visions which are not prophetic (any such experience
not directed from God is not prophecy) just as it is possible to have prophecies which
are not visions (but verbal, or even simply by insight).
Rabbinic tradition names 55 biblical characters who earn the title of prophet,
although some other figures received prophecy (Daniel is an example of a non-prophet
who received prophecy). However, it is one of the principles of rabbinic Judaism that
prophecy ended after biblical times and God no longer communicates in this way
with any human beings; Now, the only medium for understanding God’s nature and
expectations from humans is the Torah as revealed to the exemplary prophet, Moses.
How then can we discuss Jewish prophecy in the Middle Ages? Many thinkers –
philosophers and mystics – speculated about how prophecy would in principle be
possible, how it could occur, and what form the experience and the information
revealed would take. These speculations concerned the biblical prophets, with a nod
to the tradition that prophecy would, in or just before the messianic age, again become
possible for human beings. So prophetic experience stood in the mythical past and the
mythical future but not in the present. This notwithstanding, there have been some
instances of individuals claiming prognostic revelation; most usually concerning the
date of the Messiah’s arrival, and this was reached through the textual analysis of
particular passages of the Torah. Some philosophers also appear to have subtly hinted
that the intellectual process of philosophy was as one with the prophetic, although the
material which they themselves had received through this seems to have concerned
the nature of Divinity and not the future (or the Law). Lastly, some mystics did claim
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110499773-015
Michael T. Miller
343
to receive revelatory visions or information regarding the future, without claiming the
title of prophet for themselves. One notable exception to this is Abraham Abulafia,
who explicitly claimed that prophecy had now returned, and that he had received prophetic revelation. It should be noted that in twelfth and thirteenth-century Germany
and France, several figures bore the appellation ha-Navi (the Prophet); this did not
necessarily indicate active prognostication, but rather the ability to embark on heavenly journeys, communicate with angels, and access secrets of the Divine (a small
portion of which may have been predictive).
Some thinkers – most famously Maimonides – saw the rabbinic sages of the
Mishna and Talmud as following in the footsteps of the prophets, and receiving Divine
inspiration. The difference is that they gained their insight from the study of Torah,
and not directly from God. However, even the perfection of the sages was now a long
way from possible in the time that these thinkers were writing, and so in the period
under our purview quite few specific predictions were made; in keeping with the intellectual agenda of the rabbinate at this time, specula