Citation with stable link: Philip A. Harland, 'Egyptian wisdom: Apuleius on Zatchlas the Egyptian prophet who calls up the dead (late second century CE),' Ethnic Relations and Migration in the Ancient World, last modified April 20, 2024, https://philipharland.com/Blog/?p=19228.
Ancient author: Apuleius of Madaura (mid-late second century CE), Metamorphoses, or The Golden Ass 2.21-30 (link; link to Latin).
Comments: Among the many “foreign” characters in Apuleius’ fictional story of Lucius’ adventures is this Egyptian prophet with skills in consulting the dead. He appears in a tale at a banquet related by the character Thelyphron, set in Thessaly. Also involved are local female diviners with expertise in Magian skills who are after body parts to use in their practices.
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[Thelyphron’s story]
[Protecting a corpse from female diviners in Thessaly who use Magian techniques]
(2.21-27) ‘When I [Thelyphron] was still a student in Miletos I sailed across to watch the Olympic games. Since I also wanted to visit this region of the famous province, I travelled all through Thessaly and arrived one unlucky day at Larissa. Since my purse was feeling rather thin, I was wandering all over town seeking a source of funds when I saw a tall old man standing on a block of stone in the middle of the market-place announcing that anyone willing to guard a corpse for a night might bid for the work. “What’s this?” I asked, of a passer-by, “Are corpses here in the habit of running off?”
“Hush, young man!’ the old man replied. “You’re an innocent stranger and it seems you don’t realize you’re in Thessaly where female diviners (sagae) are always gnawing away bits of dead men’s faces to use in their Magian skills (artis magicae).”
“Tell me then, if you would” I countered, ‘what this guardianship involves.’”
“Well firstly,” the old man replied, “you need to stay wide awake all night, eyes straining unblinkingly and focussed on the corpse, and never glancing around you or letting your concentration waver, because those dreadful women have the power to change their shape and can creep up on you silently, transformed to any sort of creature they want, defeating the sun’s eye or the gaze of justice. They can look like dogs, birds, mice or even flies. Then they send the watcher to sleep with dreadful incantations (cantamina). No one could count the number of tricks those evil women contrive to gain their wish. Yet only four or five pieces of gold are the pay for this dangerous task. Oh yes, I almost forgot to say that if, by the morning, any piece of the body’s face is damaged, the watcher must part with bits sliced from his own face to replace the portions removed.”
Despite this I [Thelyphron] plucked up my courage, like a man, went straight up to the crier and said: “You can stop advertising. Hand over the cash.” “Ten gold pieces,” he said, “will be waiting for you. But now, young man, beware. The dead man was a son of one of our leading families: guard him carefully from those evil Harpies.” “That’s all nonsense to me,” I replied, “not worth a thing. You see before you a man of iron, unsleeping like Argus; I’m eyes all over, with sharper sight than Lynceus himself.”
I’d barely finished speaking when he dragged me off swiftly to a house whose entrance was bolted, and led me through a small back door and into a darkened room with barred windows, where he pointed to a weeping woman robed in black. He approached her saying: “Here’s the man I’ve contracted to guard your husband’s body securely. She parted her hair that fell loose and with her hand brushed it either side of a face that was even beautiful in grief, then looking at me she said: “Please see that you watch as vigilantly as you can.” “Don’t worry!” I replied, “Just give me a little bonus.”
The matter being agreed, she took me into an adjoining room where the corpse lay, covered with pure white linen. She called in seven mourners as witness, uncovering the body with her own hand, and after a lot more weeping, she made everyone swear a solemn oath. While one dutifully wrote down her inventory of the dead, she pointed out each individual feature: “Look,” she said, “one nose intact, two untouched eyes, two ears whole, the lips unscathed, one chin complete. Citizens, good and true, bear testimony to this.” Once finished, the tablets were sealed, and she prepared to leave.
But I said: “Madame, would you see that I have everything I need.” “And what might that be?” she answered. “A large lamp,” I said, “enough oil to keep it burning until dawn, hot water, wine and a cup, and a plate of what’s left from supper.” “Away with you, you fool,” she replied, with a shake of her head, “asking for a meal in a house of mourning! There’s been no food, not a puff of smoke in the house for days on end. Do you think you’re here for a banquet? Adapt yourself to the moment, with tears and lament.” And turning to her maid as she spoke she cried: “Myrrhine, hand him the lamp and the oil then lock him in, and go at once.”
Left alone to look after the corpse, I rubbed my eyes and readied them for vigil, keeping up my spirits by humming a song, as twilight fell and darkness came, then deeper darkness, and deepest hush, and at last the dead of night. Fear gradually crept over me.
Suddenly a weasel appeared, stopped in front of me, and fixed me with its piercing eyes. It was far too bold for such a tiny creature, and that was troubling. In the end I shouted: “Off with you, impure beast, go and hide with your weasel friends before you feel the weight of my hand, and make it quick! Off you go!”
It turned at once and fled from the confines of the room. Instantly I fell into a profound abyss of sleep. Even the god of Delphi [Apollo] would have had trouble deciding which of us in the room might be the corpse. I lay so motionless I was barely alive, and needed another watcher for myself.
The cockcrow from the crested ranks was sounding a truce to night when I woke at last and in a panic ran in terror to the body. I brought the lamp up close, uncovered the face, and examined it carefully item by item, but everything was there. Then the poor weeping wife entered the room with the witnesses as before. At once she fell anxiously on the corpse, kissing it long and passionately, and subjecting every detail to the lamp’s judgement. Then she turned and summoned her steward, Philodespotos, and told him to give the successful guard his reward without delay. He paid me there and then. “We’re extremely grateful to you, young man,” she said, “and by Hercules in return for this dedicated service of yours we count you among our friends.”
I was filled with joy by this welcome windfall, and delighted at the gleaming gold coins that jingled together in my hands. “Rather, my lady” I said, “consider me one of your servants, and whenever you need the like again call on me without question.”
No sooner had I uttered such an inauspicious omen than the household began to curse me, and launched themselves at me with whatever weapons they could muster. One thumped my jaws with his fist, another pounded my shoulders with his elbows, a third thrust violently at my ribs with the flat of his hands. They jumped on me, kicked me, grabbed my hair and tore my clothes. Torn and mangled like Pentheus, or Orpheus the bard, I was tumbled out of the house.
[Wife accused of having poisoned the dead man]
As I recovered my strength in the street, I reflected on that thoughtless, ill-omened remark, and couldn’t but agree I deserved an even worse beating than I’d had. Just then the bier emerged from the house, and the dead man was celebrated and mourned for the last time. He was borne through the market-place in open funeral procession, a hereditary rite appropriate to a leading citizen. Then an old man dressed in black, grieving, weeping, and tearing at his fine white hair, hurried to take hold of the bier with both hands, and cried out in a passionate voice, broken by frequent sobs: “Citizens, for honour’s sake, it’s your public duty to grant justice to a victim, and take stern vengeance on this wicked guilty woman for the worst of crimes. For she herself, none other, poisoned this poor young nephew of mine in order to please her lover and steal the estate.”
The old man kept on shouting these lamentable accusations, till the crowd on all sides were aroused, the plausibility of the motive lending him credibility. He called for fire, rooted out stones, and urged a gang of youths to kill the woman. With serviceable tears, and swearing by all the gods as devoutly as one can, she denied the dreadful deed.
[Consulting Zatchlas the Egyptian prophet and expert in calling up the dead]
(2.28-30) So the old man spoke again: “Let’s put the truth to the test, let divine providence judge. There’s a man here called Zatchlas, a first-rate Egyptian prophet (propheta), whom I’ve paid a fortune to bring my nephew’s spirit back from the dead, and re-animate his corpse for a moment, as it was before his death.”
At this point the old man introduced a youth with shaven head, wearing a long linen robe and palm-leaf sandals. The old man kissed the prophet’s hands a while, and clasped the knees in supplication. “Take pity on us, priest, take pity!” he begged, “By the heavenly stars, by the powers of the underworld, by the natural elements, by the silence of the night; by the sanctuaries of Coptus, by the Nile’s inundations, by the mysteries of Memphis, and the sistra of Pharos, grant eyes closed for eternity a brief glimpse of the sun, and illuminate them with its rays. We have no argument with fate, nor deny the earth its own. We only ask for an instant of life to solace us with revenge.”
[Prophet’s technique and the consultation of the corpse]
The seer, yielding to his request, touched the corpse’s mouth with a certain little herb and placed another on its chest. Then he turned to the east and invoked in silence the vast power of the rising sun, rousing the spectators at the awesome sight to ready expectation of miracle.
Now, I’d thrust my way through the crowd, and standing on a fairly tall stone right behind the bier, I was watching everything with curious eyes. The corpse’s chest swelled and filled, then the major arteries and veins pulsated, the lungs began to breathe, the body rose, and now the dead man spoke: “Why do you bring me back to life an instant, when I was close to drinking Lethe’s draught, and about to swim the Stygian lake? Desist, I beg you, desist, and let me return to rest.”
Such were the corpse’s words, but the prophet replied excitedly: “No, tell these people everything, and illuminate the mystery of your death. Or know that I’ll invoke the avenging Furies with my curse, and your weary flesh will end in torment!”
The dead man answered from his bier, after a deep groan, speaking to the crowd: “Through the evil skills of my new bride, murdered by a cup of poison, I yielded my still warm marriage bed to an adulterer.”
At this the brazen wife, showing amazing presence of mind, began to defend herself by arguing blasphemously with the husband. The crowd swayed back and forth, pulled in opposite directions. Some said the dreadful woman should be buried alive at once, alongside the corpse, others that a corpse’s utterances were hardly to be trusted.
But their doubts were removed by the dead man’s next speech. He groaned deeply again: “I’ll give you proof,” he said, “clear proof of the unchallengeable truth. I’ll tell you something no one else could know or guess.” Then he pointed his finger at me! “You see, while this attentive watchman was keeping close guard of my corpse, some old female chanters tried to get at my remains. They’d changed shape for the purpose, but in vain, since despite repeated attempts they couldn’t evade his unremitting care. At last they veiled him in the mists of sleep, and drowned him in deep slumber. Then they began to summon me by name, and carried on until my cold limbs with their rigid joints were slowly struggling to obey the demand of their Magian skill.
However, because the watchman, Thelyphron, has the same name as mine, and was still alive but only dead asleep, unconsciously woke at the sound of their call, and rose up, unaware of his own name. He brought on himself the mutilation meant for me, and though the bedroom door had been tightly bolted, they removed his nose and then his ears through the keyhole. Then to conceal what they had done, they shaped waxen ears like the ones they’d taken, fitted them to suit, and fashioned him a nose like his own. And there the poor wretch stands, having earned the reward of mutilation for all his efforts.”
Terrified at his words, I clapped my hand to my face, and grasped my nose. It came off! I rubbed my ears and they fell off! Everyone craned their necks to see, pointed at me and burst out laughing. In a cold sweat I escaped through the legs of the encircling crowd. Maimed as I was, ridiculous, I couldn’t return to my native city. I’ve let my hair grow long at the sides to hide the scars that were my ears, and I’ve stuck this canvas nose to my face for the sake of decency.’
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Source of translation: A.S. Kline (© 2013), slightly adapted (link).