Chapter 4 discusses the sign of the cross, another gesture with a long history going back to the early church. In the Middle Ages the cross was believed to have power to protect against evil, and was widely used both as a gesture of everyday blessing and in rituals and charms of healing. After the Reformation its use was discouraged, but it survived in the Prayer Book rite of baptism, where the minister was instructed to trace a cross on the child’s forehead. This necessitated a radical transformation in its meaning, removing the associations with exorcism and purification and redefining it simply as a symbol of allegiance to Christ. Yet the belief in the apotropaic power of the cross persisted in early modern England and was reflected both officially, in the ritual of the royal touch, and unofficially, in the use of the gesture as a form of protection against witchcraft. Even among theologians who regarded the cross as symbolic, there was still a sense that it was not ‘merely’ symbolic but retained some kind of operative power to effect change.

How did religious and political debates that had only recently generated violent conflicts become relatively peaceably conducted in growing numbers of publications and clubs?

A Greek hymn is selected among other examples in the corpus of Greek ‘magical’ papyri written in Egypt during the Roman Imperial time. Addressed to the Moon goddess in a plurality of forms and names, it draws a complex portrait of a powerful divinity for love affairs. The incantation weaves innovative denominations together with a poetic and ritual tradition in order to enact power. The poet realised a technical ‘tour de main’ to picture a many-faced goddess, tying heavenly and shining traits to the gloomiest and the deadliest, and entangling anthropomorphic characteristics to a patchwork of animal features. The poetic mastery over names and figures offers tools for the making of the divine inside the ritual performance, with the effect of rendering a vivid perception of the Moon goddess encompassing all her aspects.

This chapter uses archaeological theory to enrich readings of Old Norse-Icelandic literature, exploring human interactions with the physical world during the Viking Age. The focus is on artefacts, buildings and constructed places in the landscape. The chapter begins with a survey of Viking Age material culture studies, emphasizing the move beyond data collection to ways of probing meaning and highlighting new areas of archaeological research and theory, including landscape archaeology, geophysics and laboratory-based techniques such as isotopic analysis. Theories of landscape and the social significance of the physical world are discussed, and also the way materials, methods of construction, and the form and decoration of material culture carry meaning. The role of diaspora studies is also explored. The chapter continues with an analysis of three particular kinds of object – swords, brooches and combs – and moves on to consider acts of transformation and the magic associated with objects, especially hoards and ritual deposition. There are sections on the construction of Viking Age buildings, ships and mounds and what they can tell us about life in the Viking Age.

This final chapter extends the argument in chapter five by investing the “Prince of Torah” section in the earliest Jewish mystical corpus known as the Hekhalot literature. It reads through the extended narrative of this text through the genre of a historiola, demonstrating that the rhetoric through which it separates between a “human, earthly” Torah and a “divine Torah” resonates with the manner in which Neoplatonists, Manichaeans, and “Jewish Christians” distinguished between “mere prognosis” and “divine prognosis” in chapter five. Not only does this text present the reader with a way of elevating his own learning faculties to be more like the angels, but Torah itself is conceptualized as something that is “instantly knowable” in a moment of divine comprehension.

When grappling with the extremely uncertain world in which they lived, Byzantine people felt able to choose within a pluralistic mixture of practices and a distinctly diverse set of attitudes, theories, and methodologies. Thinking about ‘drugs’ in Byzantine magic thus involves an exploration of one small part of the fluid spectrum of possible responses that were open to people faced with ill health. Although modern scholars may once have considered these responses under such discrete headings as rational, spiritual, and magical, it is now widely recognised that such distinctions are not applicable. What constituted a drug for the Byzantines, how it was thought to work, and how it might be administered seem to have involved a considerably broader conceptual framework and range of practice than our own. Looking at specific examples of the use of ‘therapeutic substances’ in later Byzantine magic may help us understand this difference.

In The Guide to the Perplexed III.37, Moses Maimonides attacks pagan ‘medical’ practices which give a sheen of efficacy but are ultimately dependent on magic and astrology. Nonetheless, he allows certain exceptions found in late antique rabbinic literature which have been proven through experience – even if they are not ‘prescribed by reason’. His preference for empiricism over principles or causes is noteworthy. In this, Maimonides follows others such as al-Ghazālī who prized Galen’s medical empiricism over medical theory. In this chapter I examine these exceptional cases in light of the literature of antiquity in order to discuss their efficacy. I also reveal how Maimonides’ begrudging acceptance of experience over theory also underpins his ‘proof’ of the creation of the world – which also ultimately turns to Galen. Thus, I reflect on the importance of Maimonides’ loyalty to Galen’s experimental method for both physics and metaphysics, showing methodological continuities across different domains.

This chapter surveys cuneiform texts that reflect various degrees of linguistic awareness, providing the reader with a general perspective on Babylonian semiotics and linguistics. The chapter begins with a discussion of the scholarly settings in which cuneiform developed and goes on to explore how this writing system, together with practices of divination and magic, influenced the linguistic consciousness of scribes. It examines a variety of texts, including the basic elementary school exercise SA A, which Assyro-Babylonian scholars often interpreted as an esoteric text describing the very first human words. It also investigates the conceptions of language in epic narratives such Adapa and the South Wind and Gilgamesh.

The book’s final chapter argues that the various elements of fairy belief as we might recognise it, including belief in an underground otherworld inhabited by sometimes pygmy-sized otherworlders, the connection between fairies and fate, and the sexual aspects of fairy activity, were brought together as a direct result of the Norman Conquest. The key role played in the Conquest by Breton nobles who felt a cultural affinity with the Cornish and Welsh, combined with the Normans’ desire to escape the English past, resulted in the crafting of a new ‘British’ identity for the whole island of Great Britain by authors with a Brittonic cultural background such as Geoffrey of Monmouth, Gerald of Wales and Walter Map. These authors united elements of English and Brittonic folklore to fashion a new fairy world that was subsequently adopted as the setting for literary romances and became the background to late medieval popular belief.