Eros and Myrrh

They call you myrrh, but I call you flesh-eater and inflamer of the heart... and I am sending you forth to Hellas, to Phrygia, to Babylon, to Persia, to Arabia and wherever else you desire to be...

The Call to the One who has Bound the Fiery Bars of the Fourfold Root

Recite,

Hear my call, for I am a star, wandering about with you and shining forth out of the deep, ΟΧΥ Ο ΞΕΡΘΕΥΘ. O walker upon fire, ΠΕΝΤΙΤΕΡΟΥΝΙ, encloser of all, ΣΕΜΕΣΙΛΑΜ, firebreather, ΨΥΡΙΝΦΕΥ, feeler of fire, ΙΑΩ, breather of light, ΩΑΙ, rejoicer in fire, ΕΛΟΥΡΕ, beautiful light, ΑΖΑΙ, Aion, ΑΧΒΑ, master of light, ΠΕΠΠΕΡ ΠΡΕΠΕΜΠΙΠΙ, body of fire, ΦΝΟΥΗΝΙΟΧ, giver of light, ΑΩΙ, sower of fire, ΑΡΕΙ ΕΙΚΙΤΑ, driver of fire, ΓΑΛΛΑΒΑΛΒΑ, forcer of light, ΑΙΩ, whirler of fire, ΠΥΡΙΧΙΒΟΟΣΗΙΑ, mover of light, ΣΑΝΧΕΡΩΒ, shaker of thunder, ΙΗ ΩΗ ΙΩΕΙΩ, light of glory, ΒΕΕΓΕΝΗΤΕ, increaser of light, ΣΟΥΣΙΝΕΦΙΕΝ, maintainer of the firelight, ΣΟΥΣΙΝΕΦΙ ΑΡΕΝΒΑΡΑΖΕΙ ΜΑΡΜΑΡΕΝΤΕΥ, star-tamer, ΩΙΑ.

The Calling

 

Facing the east recite the following prayer,

Greetings, O lord, you who are the way to receive favour for the universe and for the world in which we dwell.

Heaven has become a place of dancing for you: ΑΡΣΕΝΟΦΡΗ, O king of the heavenly gods: ΑΒΛΑΝΑΘΑΝΑΛΒΑ, you who possesses righteousness: ΑΚΡΑΜΜΑΧΑΜΑΡΕΙ, gracious god: ΣΑΝΚΑΝΑΘΑΡΑ, ruler of nature: ΣΑΤΡΑΠΕΡΚΜΗΦ, origin of the heavenly realm: ΑΘΘΑΝΝΟΥ ΑΘΘΑΝΝΟΥ ΑΣΤΡΑΦΑΙ ΙΑΣΤΡΑΦΑΙ ΠΑΚΕΡΤΩΘ ΣΑΒΑΩΘ ΗΡΙΝΤΑΣΚΛΙΟΥΘ ΗΦΙΩ ΜΑΡΜΑΡΑΩ.

Let my ability to speak and command not leave me. Let every god, archangel, angel, spirit, daimon and mortal pay attention to me, for I am ΠΕΡΤΑΩ ΜΗΧ ΧΑΧ ΜΝΗΧ ΣΑΚΜΗΦ ΙΑΩΟΥΕΗ ΩΗΩ ΩΗΩ ΙΕΟΥΩΗΙΗΙΑΗΑ ΙΗΩΥΟΕΙ! Grant to me that which I ask and that which is your will!

The Rite of the Headless One

Prepare for the ritual by writing out the formula ΑΩΘ ΑΒΡΑΩΘ ΒΑΥΣΜ ΙΣΑΚ ΣΑΒΑΩΘ ΙΑΩ on a strip of papyrus and also draw the magical sign on it.

Face north and stretch the strip of papyrus across your forehead from one of your temples to the other and recite the six names,

ΑΩΘ ΑΒΡΑΩΘ ΒΑΥΣΜ ΙΣΑΚ ΣΑΒΑΩΘ ΙΑΩ.

Recite,

Subject to me all daimons so that every daimon, whether heavenly or aerial, or earthly or subterranean, or terrestrial or aquatic, might be obedient to me, and every enchantment and scourge which is from god.

Now recite the summoning of the god,

I summon you, headless one, who created earth and heaven, who created day and night, you are Osoronnophris whom none have ever seen; you are Iabas , you are Iapos, you have provided for discrimination between that which is just and unjust; you have made female and male; you have revealed both the seed and fruit; you have made humans love each other and hate each other.

I am Hermes Trismegistos your prophet to whom you have transmitted your mysteries celebrated by Khem; you have revealed the moist and the dry and all nourishment; hear me!

I am the messenger of pharaoh Osoronnophris; this is your true name which has been transmitted to the prophets of Khem. Hear me, ΑΡΒΑΘΙΑΩ ΡΕΙΒΕΤ ΑΘΕΛΕΒΕΡΣΗΘ ΑΡΑ ΒΛΑΘΑ ΑΛΒΕΥ ΕΒΕΝΦΧΙ ΧΙΤΑΣΓΟΗ ΙΒΑΩΘ ΙΑΩ! Listen to me and turn away this daimon!

I call upon thee, awesome and invisible god, with an empty spirit, ΑΡΟΓΟΓΟΡΟΒΡΑΩ ΣΟΧΟΥ ΜΟΔΟΡΙΩ ΦΑΛΑΡΧΑΩ ΟΟΟ. Holy headless one, deliver me[1], from the daimon which restraineth me! ΜΑΡΑΡΡΑΙΩ ΙΟΗΛ ΚΟΘΑ ΑΘΟΡΕΒΑΛΩ ΑΒΡΑΩΘ, deliver me[2], ΑΩΘ ΑΒΡΑΩΘ ΒΑΥΣΜ ΙΣΑΚ ΣΑΒΑΩΘ ΙΑΩ.

He is the lord of the gods; he is the lord of the inhabited world; he is the one whom the winds fear; he is the one who made all things by the command of his voice.

Lord, king, master, helper, empower my soul, ΙΕΟΥ ΠΥΡ ΙΟΥ ΠΥΡ ΙΑΩΤ ΙΑΗΩ ΙΟΟΥ ΑΒΡΑΣΑΞ ΣΑΒΡΙΑΜ ΟΟ ΥΥ ΕΥ ΟΟ ΥΥ ΑΔΩΝΑΙΕ, immediately, immediately, messenger of god ΑΝΛΑΛΑ ΛΑΙ ΓΑΙΑ ΑΠΑ ΔΙΑΧΑΝΝΑ ΧΟΡΥΝ.

I am the headless daimon with sight in my feet; I am the mighty one who possesses the immortal fire; I am the truth who hates the fact that unjust deeds are done in the world; I am the one that makes the lightning flash and the thunder roll; I am the one whose sweat is the heavy rain which falls upon the earth that it might be inseminated; I am the one whose mouth is utterly aflame; I am the one who begets and destros; I am the favour of the Aion; my name is a heart encircled by a serpent; come forth and follow.

Allow time for the god to become manifest in your soul. This ritual should be repeated until success is gained.

---

[1] You are to state your name.

[2] You are to state your name.

The Call of Astraios

Silence! Silence! For I am a star, wandering about with you and shining forth out of the deep, ΟΧΥ Ο ΞΕΡΘΕΥΘ...

The Rebirth of the Bakkhante

Behold her, not as porne or the expression of mortal eros, but blindfolded with darkness, naked, half, haunted and tortured by the desires beyond the veil, yearning for the sexual energeia of the pure forces of the cosmos as a dynamic and violent act of penetration... hear her psyche howling with infernal ekstasis and witness her body riving with theia mania ... behold the rebirth of the Bakkhante...

Invocatory Call to Hekate Ereschigal

You are Hekate Ereschigal, the one holding her thumbs, O Ereschigal Hekate, serpent, wreath, key, herald’s wand, golden sandal of the lady of Tartaros. ΑΣΚΕΙ ΚΑΤΑΣΚΕΙ ΕΡΩΝ ΟΡΕΩΝ ΙΩΡ ΜΕΓΑ ΣΑΜΝΥΗΡ ΒΑΥΙ ΦΟΒΑΝΤΙΑ ΣΕΜΝΗ. ΑΣΚΕΙ ΚΑΤΑΣΚΕΙ ΕΡΩΝ ΟΡΕΩΝ ΙΩΡ ΜΕΓΑ ΣΑΜΝΥΗΡ ΒΑΥΙ ΦΟΒΑΝΤΙΑ ΣΕΜΝΗ. ΑΣΚΕΙ ΚΑΤΑΣΚΕΙ ΕΡΩΝ ΟΡΕΩΝ ΙΩΡ ΜΕΓΑ ΣΑΜΝΥΗΡ ΒΑΥΙ ΦΟΒΑΝΤΙΑ ΣΕΜΝΗ. I have been initiated and I went down into the underground chamber of the Dactyls and I saw the other things down below.

Rite of the Invocation of Selene

Recite,

Turn to face Selene and chant Α. Burn myrrh and anoint your forehead with myrrh oil whilst chanting ΣΕΛΗΝΗ[1]. The chant of the god-name is to be repeated 9 times.

Recite the orphic hymn to Selene,

Hear, Goddess queen, diffusing silver light,
Bull-horned and wandering through the gloom of night.  

With stars surrounded, and with circuit wide
Night's torch extending, through the heavens you ride:
Female and male with borrowed rays you shine,
And now full-orbed, now tending to decline.
Mother of ages, fruit-producing moon,
Whose amber orb makes night's reflected noon:

Lover of horses, splendid, queen of night,
All-seeing power bedecked with starry light.
Lover of vigilance, the foe of strife,
In peace rejoicing, and a prudent life:
Fair lamp of night, its ornament and friend,
Who gives to nature's works their destined end.
Queen of the stars, all-wife Artemis hail!
Decked with a graceful robe and shining veil;
Come, blessed goddess, prudent, starry, bright,
Come moony-lamp with chaste and splendid light,
Shine on these sacred rites with prosperous rays,
And please accept your suppliant's mystic praise.

Recite,

I call upon you who have all forms and many names, double-horned goddess, ΜΗΝΗ, whose form no one knows except him who made the entire world, ΙΑΩ, the one who shaped you into the 28 shapes of the world so that you might complete every figure and distribute breath to every animal and plant, that it might flourish, you who has wax from obscurity into light and wane from light into darkness.

Come to me night-shining, triple-sounding, triple-voiced, triple-headed, Selene, triple-pointed, triple-faced, triple-necked, and goddess of the triple ways, who hold untiring flaming fire in the triple baskets, and you who oft frequent the triple way and rule the triple decades with three forms . From toneless throats you send a dread, sharp cry when you. O goddess, have raised up an awful sound with triple mouths. Hearing your cry, all worldly things are shaken: the nether gates of and Lethe’s holy water and primal Chaos and the shining chasm of Tartaros. At it every immortal and every mortal, the starry  mountains, valleys and every tree and roaring rivers, and even the restless sea, the lonely echo, and daimons through the world, shudder at you, O blessed one, when they hear your dread voice. Come here to me, goddess of the night, beast-slayer, come to me with love. And heed my prayers, Selene, who suffer much, who rise and set at night, O triple-headed, triple-named ΜΗΝΗ ΜΑΡΖΟΥΝΗ, fearful, gracious-minded and Persuasion. Come to me, horned-faced, light-bearer, bull-shaped, horse-faced goddess, who howl doglike; come here, she-wolf, and come here now, mistress of night and chthonic realms, holy, black-clad, round whom the star-traversing nature of the world revolves whenever you wax too great, you have established every worldly thing, for you engendered everything on earth and from the sea and every race in turn of winged birds who seek their nests again. Mother of all, who bore Eros, Aphrodite, lamp-bearer, shining and aglow, Selene, star-coursing, heavenly, torch-bearer, fire-breather, woman four-faced, four-named, four-roads’ mistress. Hail , goddess, and attend your epithets, O heavenly one, harbor goddess of the crossroads; O nether one, goddess of depths, eternal, goddess of dark, come to my sacrifices. Fulfill this of which I ask, and as I pray give heed to me, lady, I ask of you. Come,  ΑΚΤΙΩΦΙΣ, mistress, Selene, only ruler, swift fortune of daimons and gods, ΝΕΒΟΥΤΟΣΟΑΛΗΘ ΙΩΙ ΛΟΙΜΟΥ ΛΑΛΟΝ.

And the first companion of your name is silence[2], the second a popping sound, the third a groaning, the fourth a hissing, the fifth a cry of joy, the sixth moaning, the seventh barking, the eight bellowing, the ninth neighing, the tenth a musical sound, the eleventh a sounding wind, the twelfth a wind-creating sound, the thirteenth a coercive sound, the fourteenth a coercive emanation from perfection.

Ox[3], vulture, bull, beetle, falcon, crab, dog, wolf, serpent, horse, she-goat, asp, goat, he-goat, baboon, cat, lion, leopard, fieldmouse, deer, multiform, virgin, torch, lightning, garland, a herald’s wand, child, key.

I have said your signs and symbols of your name, so that you might hear me, because I pray to you, mistress of the whole world. Hear me, you, the stable one, the mighty one, ΑΦΕΙΒΟΗΩ ΜΙΝΤΗΡ ΟΧΑΩ ΠΙΖΕΦΥΔΩΡ ΧΑΝΘΑΡ ΧΑΔΗΡΟΖΟ ΜΟΧΘΙΟΝ ΕΟΤΝΕΥ ΦΗΡΖΟΝ ΑΙΝΔΗΣ ΛΑΧΑΒΟΩ ΠΙΤΤΩ ΡΙΦΘΑΜΕΡ ΖΜΟΜΟΧΩΛΕΙΕ ΤΙΗΔΡΑΝΤΕΙΑ ΟΙΣΟΖΟΧΑΒΗΔΩΦΡΑ.

Perform the deific formula of the thumos followed by a meditation on Selene. You are then to partake in the eucharistic feast of Selene.

To end the rite recite,

O ΜΗΝΗ I thank you for having come to me, and may you always be a part of my life.

---

[1] You are to attach a title of Selene that represents the aspect of Selene you seek to invoke.

[2] As you recite the following words you are to hear each one resonate within you.

[3] As you recite you are to see each symbol and form.

A Prayer to Isis

It is to be spoken on the full moon.

Recite,

I call on you, lady Isis, whom the agathos daimon permitted to rule in the entire black land. Your name is ΛΟΥ ΛΟΥΛΟΥ ΒΑΘΑΡΘΑΡ ΘΑΡΗΣΙΒΑΘ ΑΘΕΡΝΕΚΛΗΣΙΧ ΑΘΕΡΝΕΒΟΥΝΙ ΗΙΧΟΜΩ ΧΟΜΩΘΙ Isis Sothis, ΣΟΥΗΡΙ, Boubastis, ΕΥΡΕΛΙΒΑΤ ΧΑΜΑΡΙ ΝΕΒΟΥΤΟΣ ΟΥΗΡΙ ΑΙΗ ΗΟΑ ΩΑΙ. Protect me, great and marvellous names of the god (if you desire you are to include any other names of gods you are to invoke); for I am the one established in Pelusium, ΣΕΡΦΟΥΘ ΜΟΥΙΣΡΩ ΣΤΡΟΜΜΩ ΜΟΛΩΘ ΜΟΛΟΝΘΗΡ ΦΟΝ Thoth. Protect me, great and marvellous names of the great god (if you desire you are to include any other names of gods you are to invoke).

ΑΣΑΩ ΕΙΩ ΝΙΣΑΩΘ. Lady Isis, Nemesis, Adrasteia, many-named, many-formed, glorify me, as I have glorified the name of your son Horus.

Hymn to Thoth

Recite,

Thoth, son of Re, moon, of beautiful rising, lord of appearing, light of the gods, hail to you, moon, Thoth, bull in Khmun, dweller in Hesret, who makes way for the gods! O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

Who knows the secrets, who records their expression, who distinguishes one speech from another,

who is judge of everyone! O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

Keen-faced in the ship-of-millions, courier of humankind, who knows a man by his utterance, who makes the deed rise against the doer! O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

Who contents Re, advises the sole lord, lets him know whatever happens; at dawn he summons in heaven, and forgets not yesterday’s report! O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

Who makes safe the night-bark, makes tranquil the day-bark, with arms outstretched in the bow of the ship. O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

Pure-faced when he takes the stern-rope, as the day-bark rejoices in the night-bark’s joy, at the feast of crossing the sky. O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

Who fells the fiend, the ennead in the night-bark worship you lord Thoth, they say to you: “Hail, son of Re, praised of Re, whom the gods applaud!” O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

They repeat what your ka wishes, as you make way for the place of the bark, as you act against that fiend: you cut off his head, you break his ba, you cast his corpse in the fire, you are the god who slaughters him! O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

Nothing is done without your knowing, great one, son of a great one, who came from her limbs, champion of Harakhti, wise friend in On, who makes the place of gods, who knows the secrets, expounds their words! O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

I give praise to you, Thoth, straight plummet in the scales, who repulses evil, who accepts him who learns not on crime! O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

The vizier who settles cases, who changes turmoil to peace; the scribe of the mat who keeps the book, who punishes crime, who accepts the submissive! O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

Wise among the ennead, who relates what was forgotten. O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

Counsellor to him who errs, who remembers the fleeting moment, who reports the hour of night, whose words endure forever, who enter dat, knows those in it,

and records them in the list! O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

Thoth, son of Re, moon, you who distinguished the tongue of every foreign land, you who recalls all that has been forgotten, you who balances the scales, scribe of the gods, lord of the books, counter of the stars, lord of magic! Hail to you Ibis-headed one, who knows all secrets, great is your word! O Thoth, you I adore, you I invoke!

A royal offering to you, Thoth, lord of writing, lord of Khmun, who determines maat, who embarks Re in the night-bark. May you hear your suppliant’s mystic praise.

I am the righteous one towards the courtiers, if a wrong is told me, my tongue is skilled to set it right. I am the recorder of royal laws, who gives directions to the courtiers, wise in speech, there is nothing I ignore. I am the adviser to the gods, who teaches man his course, without forgetting my charge. I am the one who reports to the lord of the two lands, who speaks of whatever was forgotten, who does not ignore the words of the lord. For I am a just one of god since being on earth, I satisfy him maat every day. I have shunned wrongdoing before him, I never did evil since my birth; indeed I am a gentle one before god, one wise, one calm, who listens to maat. May I always be in the crew of the neshmet-bark, at its feast in the region of Peqer. I am the herald of the council, who does not ignore the plans of his majesty.

For I am Thoth, son of Re, iah-Djehuty, the moon god, Sheps, lord of Khemennu, Asten, Khenti, Mehi, Hab, and A'an. I am the one who distinguished the tongue of every foreign land, who recalls all that has been forgotten, who balances the scales, scribe of the gods, lord of the books, counter of the stars, lord of magic! For I am he who is like the ibis, who knows all secrets, great is my word!

The Calling of the Anemoi

Recite,

Come, come to me from the four winds of the world, air-transversing, great god.

Face the East, trace the invoking pentagram of air and intone the name of the eastern wind, ΕΥΡΟΣ. He shall appear him as a young and slender man, his black hair blowing in the wind, surrounded by clouds of rain darkening the eastern horizon. Feel a warm wind coming from his direction.

Face the North, trace the invoking pentagram of air and intone the name of the northern wind, ΒΟΡΕΑΣ. He shall appear as a very strong winged old man, with shabby hair and beard, forcefully descending from dark winter clouds in a violent temper. Feel a strong and cold wind coming from his direction.

Face the West, trace the invoking pentagram of air and intone the name of the western wind, ΖΕΦΥΡΟΣ. He shall appear as a handsome young man, gently descending from a beautiful spring sunset. Feel a soft wind bring with it the smells of blossoming flowers.

Face the South, trace the invoking pentagram of air and intone the name of the southern wind, ΝΟΤΕΑΣ. He shall appear as a bearded man, drenched in sweat, descending from a violent late-summer storm with dark clouds slowly swallowing up the sun. Feel a hot wind coming from his direction.

Face the Sun and gaze into the air of the horizon feeling, hearing and seeing the Anemoi.

 

ΑΝΟΧ... ΦΝΟΥΘ... ΒΑΙΝΦΟΥΝ... for these shall be the words which you shall invoke and meditate... for you are in heaven, the god within you and upon the watery abyss you stand...

http://www.newdawnmagazine.com/articles/the-art-science-of-sexual-magic

The Eucharistic Feast of Dionysos, the central rite of the Temple of Iakkhos, is now complete...

Orphic Hymn to Hermes

Recite,

Hermes, draw near, and to my pray'r incline,

Angel of Zeus, and Maia's son divine;

Studious of contests, ruler of mankind,

with heart almighty, and a prudent mind.

Celestial messenger, of various skill,

Whose pow'rful arts could watchful Argus kill:

With winged feet, 'tis thine thro' air to course,

O friend of man, and prophet of discourse:

Great life-supporter, to rejoice is thine,

in arts gymnastic, and in fraud divine:

With pow'r endu'd all language to explain,

Of care the loos'ner, and the source of gain.

Whose hand contains of blameless peace the rod,

Corucian, blessed, profitable God;

Of various speech, whose aid in works we find,

And in necessities to mortals kind:

Dire weapon of the tongue, which men revere,

be present, Hermes, and thy suppliant hear.

Assist my works, conclude my life with peace,

Give graceful speech, and me memory's increase.

The Rite of the Revelation of the Serpent-faced God

Recite 3 times, ΙΑΩ.

Recite,

Let the earth be still, let the air be still, let the sea be still, let the winds also be still, and do not disturb me during this revelation. No sound, no loud cry, no whistling. I call upon you, ΦΘΑ ΡΑ ΦΘΑ ΙΗ ΦΘΑ ΟΥΝ ΕΜΗΧΑ ΕΡΩΧΘ ΒΑΡΩΧ ΘΟΡΧΘΑ ΘΩΜ ΧΑΙΕΟΥΧ ΑΡΧΑΝΔΑΒΑΡ ΩΕΑΕΩ ΥΝΗΟΧ ΗΡΑ ΩΝ ΕΛΩΦ ΒΟΜ ΦΘΑ ΑΘΑΒΡΑΣΙΑ ΑΒΡΙΑΣΩΘ ΒΑΡΒΑΡΒΕΛΩΧΑ ΒΑΡΒΑΙΑΩΧ.

Open my ears and eyes. Speak to me in my heart. Reveal to me what I desire of these matters. Come forth, come forth and speak to me concerning those things about which I shall question you.

Let there be depth, breadth, length and light, ΑΒΛΑΝΑΘΑΝΑΛΒΑ ΑΒΡΑΣΙΑΟΥΑ ΑΚΡΑΜΜΑΧΑΜΜΑΡΕΙ ΘΩΘ ΧΩΡ ΑΘΩΩΠΩ. Enter lord, and reveal!

Recite,

Ancient and potent protector, Agathodaimon, hail! I adore you and you I invoke!

Glorious serpent-faced God, Knouphis-Agathodaimon, hail! I adore you and you I invoke!

Abundant goodness bestowing, Agathodaimon, hail! I adore you and you I invoke!

Terrible invincible god, Knouphis-Agathodaimon, hail! I adore you and you I invoke!

Holy shepherd of your people, Agathodaimon, hail! I adore you and you I invoke!

Your winged splendour with broad pinions of emerald and gold, Knouphis-Agathodaimon, hail! I adore you and you I invoke!

Divine priest of the sun, thou white and scintillant, Agathodaimon, hail! We adore thee and thee we invoke.

Aid of the seeker for truth, Knouphis-Agathodaimon, hail! I adore you and you I invoke!

Mighty champion of the way, Knouphis-Agathodaimon, hail! I adore you and you I invoke!

Orient spirit of light, Agathodaimon, hail! I adore you and you I invoke!

Now and ever blessed, crowned with the crown of the twelve rays, Knouphis-Agathodaimon, hail! I adore you and you I invoke!

You shall await the revelation of the serpent-faced god and when he shall appear you will become the vessel for the godform of the serpent-faced god.

Recite as the serpent-faced god,

I am the holy one who shall arise and my voice shall cry in the dawn, Yea, my mighty voice shall cry in the dawn.

I shall go forth in my name Knouphis-Agathodaimon and my fearsome loveliness shall scourge the worlds.

A thousand aions shall adore me, and men shall seek death. The earth shall tremble, the voice of I the Holy One shall sound in the tempest.

The gnostic shall stand in contemplation. He shall raise his hands in adoration. Above him shall be the diadem of light, and these shall be the words of the gnostic: terror and vastness are about me. Behold the broad wings of the serpent-faced god enfolding the darkness.

The fleeing darkness is before me. But I keep in concealment the glory which is mine.

I stand in majesty and power and bliss unending and the time has come to unveil my face before the fleeing darkness.

Await the revelation from the serpent-faced god who shall speak to you in your heart.

Once the revelation has been made you shall dismiss the serpent-faced god and make an offering of snake’s skin.

Do not let my Ba be trapped, do not let my Khaibit be fettered, let the way be opened for my Ba and my Khaibit, may it see the Great God.

Emperor Julianus... an extract from Adrian Murdoch's “The Last Pagan: Julian the Apostate and the Death of the Ancient World”

At around midnight a man died in a tent roughly fifty-three miles north of the capital of what is now Iraq. It was the end of June, AD 363, and with him paganism died.

A month after his thirty-first birthday, Flavius Claudius Julianus, better known as Julian the Apostate, had been ruler of the Roman Empire for less than two years. He was dark haired, of average height for the era—around 5 foot 4 inches—and with a trim build. Underneath his hair, which he tended to wear combed down onto his forehead like all the members of his family, he had penetrating eyes, heavy eyebrows, a straight nose, and a rather large mouth with a pendulous lower lip that was hidden behind the bristly beard he wore trimmed to a point, like those you can see of the ancient Greek philosophers in the Louvre or the British Museum. It was a deliberate affectation, a sign of his deep love of Hellenic culture and passionate hatred of the Galileans, as he dubbed Christians. Many mocked him and called him a goat behind his back.

He had been wounded in battle, three months into a campaign in the East against the Persian Empire and its king, Shapur II. Although the Roman army had been advancing slowly in readiness for battle, Julian, who had gone on ahead to reconnoiter, had received word that the rearguard had been ambushed from behind. As he rode back to lend moral support to those in the rear, he was summoned by the news that the van, which he had just left, had been similarly attacked. Before he could restore the position, a troop of Parthian cuirassiers attacked the center and breached its left wing. The soldiers broke ranks in confusion—just as Alexander the Great’s had in India six centuries previously—at the sight, smell, and noise of elephants.

But the center held and the enemy was beaten off. Julian charged at the Persians to encourage his soldiers to pursue the now routed army. It was a foolhardy move. He had forgotten his breastplate and was armed only with a shield—some say that he was confident in his victory but more plausibly he had rushed out without time to put on his armor, or perhaps had disregarded it because of the heat of the Mesopotamian summer. There was blood everywhere, and dying and screaming men. The confusion was made worse because as the battle raged, a violent dust storm had arisen that reduced visibility so much that reports say that the sky and the sun were totally concealed by the clouds.

Nonetheless Julian continued his attack, shouting and waving his arms. In his enthusiasm and in the heat of the battle, he had only one attendant. The rest of the emperor’s escort of guards had been scattered in the mêlée.

A horseman appeared through the dust charging at full gallop. He rode up and aimed his cavalry lance directly at the emperor. It found its mark. The spear grazed Julian’s arm, pierced his ribs, and ended up in the lower part of his liver. It was a double-bladed spear, so sharp that as Julian tried to pull it out he cut the fingers of his right hand to the bone.

In pain he fell from his horse. Although now weak from loss of blood, Julian tried to conceal what had occurred from his soldiers. He remounted straightaway and gave some orders, calling out to everyone he met not to be afraid about his wound for it was not fatal. He then lost consciousness. Men rushed to the spot and the emperor was carried to the camp and laid out on his lion skin and straw bed where he received medical attention.

Four people were with Julian as he died: his doctor and confidant Oribasius; a friend from his tours of duty in Gaul, Salutius Secundus, prefect of the East; and two philosophers Maximus and Priscus. On his deathbed he asked after Anatolius, his minister of finance. Aware that he was about to die, the emperor had wanted to appoint him executor of his will. When told that he had fallen in battle, the emperor spent time mourning him.

In his last hours, Julian engaged his friends in a philosophic dialogue about the nature of the soul. Aware that they were in enemy territory, harried on all sides, and about to be without a leader, they kept interrupting him and begged him to appoint a successor. Julian had decided to leave that decision to the army, his men—many of whom had followed him faithfully all the way from Gaul. Suddenly the wound in his side gaped wide and the veins in his throat swelled up and obstructed his breath. He asked for, and drank, some cold water. Then at around midnight, Julian lost consciousness and passed away peacefully.

The rule of few Roman emperors had been quite so eagerly anticipated as Julian’s. When the new emperor entered Constantinople, the capital of the Roman Empire, on December 11, 361, he was met by the classical equivalent of a ticker-tape parade. His popularity is hardly surprising; Julian was young, quick-witted, and had a proven track record in the two areas most citizens cared about—on the battlefield and in reducing taxes. He was also popular with the soldiery and despite his obvious adherence to pagan religion; there was little trace of sectarianism about him.

As emperor, Julian ruled for only eighteen months, yet his reign is a beacon of light in the later Roman Empire and the story of Julian’s life and death has survived vividly. Along with Constantine, he is arguably the only late Roman emperor of whom most people have heard. How did this happen?

First, Julian was different. The previous century had been a time of upheaval and a series of violent and forgettable soldier emperors sat on the throne. As often as not they were soon murdered by the men who had put them there in the first place. An intellectual was a curiosity and a novelty.

The battle that Julian picked—Christianity—was fought by the era’s greatest and most articulate thinkers. When the emperor Constantine accepted Christianity as the religion of the Roman Empire in 313, he let loose a philosophy that was to pervade every aspect of political, social, cultural, and, of course, religious life right up to modern times. But that is all with the benefit of hindsight. Christianity did not become the official winner until seventeen years after Julian’s death. When Julian took the purple, the battle against Christianity was by no means over. The Christians were not a unified organization, splintered as they were into numerous groups; indeed, much of the empire was still pagan.

At a time when neither pagan nor Christian ideologies reigned supreme, the state of your soul was arguably the single most important issue of the day. Few were short of opinions on the last Roman emperor to oppose Christianity—seen most trenchantly in the way that he is still best known as the “Apostate,” the one who renounced Christianity—and it is of little surprise that both pagan and Christian apologists comment extensively on his reign, in Latin, Greek, Syriac, Arabic, and Armenian. For most writers then, as now, Julian is either monster or saint. He was just as Napoleon was to the Italian poet Manzoni: “an object of undying hatred and incomparable love.”

When news of his death broke, one of the emperor’s closest friends wailed: “Gone is the glory of good. The company of the wicked and the licentious is uplifted. . . . Now the broad path, the great doors lie wide open for the doers of evil to attack the just. The walls are down.” At the same time, a former fellow student from the university in Athens trumpeted the death of “the dragon, the apostate, the great mind, the Assyrian, the public and private enemy of all in common, him that has madly raged and threatened much upon earth, and that has spoken and mediated much unrighteousness against Heaven.” It is a cry that is as exultant as it is pitiless.

As a result of the passion that he generated, Julian’s reign is one of the best-illuminated periods in antiquity. It is comparable to, and arguably much better served than, the latter days of the Roman republic and the early empire. But even more intriguing, a huge range of Julian’s own writings has survived, more so than of any other Roman ruler. For Julius Caesar we have the self-serving propaganda of The Civil War and Conquest of Gaul of which one modern editor dryly notes: “des Mémoires ne sont pas des Confessions.” For the philosopher emperor Marcus Aurelius we have his stoic Meditations, which tell us a great deal about his thoughts on philosophy but very little about the man himself. But in Julian’s vast array of extant writings—which run to over 700 pages—we have more than sixty letters, both public and private, speeches, philosophical and religious thoughts, even a satire.

What all of this material does is to make Julian emerge from history a vital, engaging, flesh and blood man. It is too easy to pigeon-hole many of the other great Roman leaders, from Julius Caesar, the consummate politician and Trajan, the workaholic soldier, to Constantine, the cynical opportunist. But the wealth of contemporary material gives us Julian warts and all. He can be kind, thoughtful, funny, and whimsical. He can also be petulant, childish, bad-tempered, and even sulky.

But we do not just remember Julian because he is a three-dimensional character. A mystique developed around the emperor because of the mythic nature of his demise, something that continues to intrigue. Julian has in many ways become a figure of far greater potency in death than he ever was alive. Who was that mysterious cavalryman? The Persian king offered a reward for Julian’s killer, yet it was never claimed. Within a few years various suggestions had been made which range from the plausible to the utterly fanciful. They emerged almost at once and make Julian’s death the classical equivalent of the JFK assassination—the cavalryman became a fourth-century spearman on the grassy knoll. Even contemporaries admitted as much. “One and the same story is not told by all, but different accounts are reported and made up by different people—both of those present at the battle and those not present,” wrote one former friend.

For many pagans, Julian’s death had parallels with that of his spiritual mentor Alexander the Great—indeed he had not wholly discouraged those comparisons during his lifetime—at its most basic level with the war in Asia Minor itself. One historian writing only fifty years or so after the emperor’s death, suggested that Julian believed that he was possessed of Alexander’s soul.

But Julian never did comprehensively defeat the Persian king and he never did conquer Asia, and this is a complementary part of the attraction. Julian failed, quite magnificently and irredeemably. The romantic failure has always been attractive in Western thought and not only did few of Julian’s innovations survive his death, many were starting to unravel even before he died. Just as when reading Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Goethe’s Sorrows of Young Werther, or Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, the reader of any biography of the emperor knows that Julian is doomed from the beginning. He stops being an emperor and starts being a tragic hero.

The dark portent of Julian’s death is brought into sharp relief because, unlike literature, there are so few moments in history that can be regarded as definitive watersheds. Take the fall of the Roman Empire as an example. When did it finally collapse? Was it on August 24, 410, when Rome was sacked by Alaric the Visigoth? Was it on September 4, 476, when the last of the Western Roman emperors, the thirteen-year-old Romulus Augustulus, was deposed by barbarians and sent off to live in peace and obscurity with his relatives near Naples? Or was it on May 29, 1453, when Constantine XI, the final Byzantine emperor, died on the ramparts of Byzantium clutching a picture of the Virgin Mary to his chest as the Turks sacked the city?

In a way all of them are right. But with the death of Julian we have something different. To all intents and purposes we can say that paganism died as a credible political and social force in the last days of June 363.

As soon as the man becomes myth, he becomes depersonalized. It was in his role as an opponent of Christianity that Julian not only became best known, but known at all. As such he was lumped together with all the other opponents of the Church. When, in the aftermath of the murder of Thomas Beckett in 1170, a French archbishop wrote to the pope to complain about Henry II, he refers to the actions of the English king as exhibiting the “wickedness of Nero, the perfidiousness of Julian and even the sacrilegious treachery of Judas.”

The emperor became a touchstone for man’s relationship with God and the Church throughout history. In the unwavering Christian societies from the Middle Ages to the seventeenth century it was a black-and-white affair. One of the biographers of Charlemagne refers to Julian simply as “hateful in the eyes of God,” while John Milton in his pamphlet on the freedom of the press written in 1644 called the emperor “the subtlest enemy to our faith.”

As society’s relationship with God began to change during the Enlightenment, so too Julian’s position shifted in the popular mind. The emperor’s apostasy fitted Voltaire’s idea of abstract deism as well as his anti-clericalism. The author of Candide famously dismissed a contemporary biography of the emperor by the Abbé de la Bleterie with: “above all you must be dispassionate and that is not something that ever applies to a priest.” It is not hard to imagine Julian saying the same thing. The Roman emperor was being reborn as a creature of the Enlightenment and began to stand for the liberation of man. Most influentially of all, Edward Gibbon made Julian the hero of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

But by the end of the nineteenth century it was the emperor’s paganism that was celebrated by the later Victorian poets like Swinburne and writers like Thomas Hardy, only for him to suffer again in the twentieth century. The brilliant modern Greek poet, Constantine Cavafy, who wrote a cycle of nine poems about Julian, thought that the emperor was “a bore and perhaps the only thing he tolerated in him was the fact that his was a lost cause” while Gore Vidal’s 1964 novel Julian brings us almost full circle, presenting an overly exuberant young philosopher king.

If all of this shape-shifting seems confusing to the reader, it presents even more problems for the biographer. The difficulty with trying to disentangle Julian the man from Julian the myth is that almost too much has survived. Nonetheless, it is possible to strip away the many veneers of bias and distortion and see the man, his motivations, and the world in which he lived.

There are always going to be difficulties in understanding a man who stood on the boundary of the classical and medieval world, particularly in a society that has become distanced from the day-to-day practice of religion. But these challenges can be overcome and it is possible to make the connection across the centuries. After all, the idea of divine voices, visions, and revelations in the contemporary framework of our understanding would appear no more odd to Julian than our speaking of the subconscious would to him.

It is unfair that Julian is still known to us primarily for attributed and spurious dying words. That tradition has the wounded and dying emperor filling his hand with blood, flinging it into the air and crying: “Thou hast conquered, O Galilean!” But then the history, as ever, was written by the winning side. Whether the Galilean actually won or not, it is perfectly possible to go beyond an entry in the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations and look not just at Julian’s death but, beyond that, to his life, to see how he was a product of his time. It was a narrow—one might even say lucky—victory for the Galilean, and Julian might just as easily have entered the history books as Julian the Philosopher rather than as Julian the Apostate.