Percy Jackson, episodes 1 to 3

The new Percy Jackson and the Olympians series has begun to come out — three episodes, at the time of writing. It makes many changes from Rick Riordan’s book, Percy Jackson and the lightning thief (2005). It adds many new classical references, but it also begins to address some serious problems with the book. Spoilers follow.

Percy (Walker Scobell) stands in front of Antonio Canova’s ‘Perseus with the head of Medusa’ (1804–1806) at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. (Percy Jackson and the Olympians episode 1, 2023)

Medusa

One of the biggest changes is Medusa. Book Medusa is a monster through and through. As soon as she meets Percy, Grover, and Annabeth in chapter 11 she immediately tries to pose them in preparation for making them a statue group.

In the series the encounter still ends in a fight, but Medusa is a fleshed out character, with her own motivations. Her first action is to protect the three companions from Alecto, the Fury pursuing them. She makes a point of empathising with Percy’s mother, and offers him an alliance.

Her race has also changed. Book Medusa was caricatured as vaguely ‘Middle Eastern’: a loaded stereotype, four years after 9/11. Medusa’s mythological home is in Morocco or an island off the Atlantic coast (see here), and she has become a potent symbol in modern African American racial discourse. So it may be no accident that an actor of part African extraction, Jessica Parker Kennedy, has been cast to portray her.

Episode 1 laid groundwork for the encounter with Medusa, in a conversation between young Percy and his mother at the museum.

[Sally and young Percy stand in front of Antonio Canova’s ‘Perseus with the head of Medusa’ (refreshingly uncensored)]

Sally. What do you see?

Young Percy. Perseus. That’s me.

Sally. Mm-hm, that’s who you’re named after.

Percy. Is that why you named me after him? Because he was a hero?

Sally. (smiling) What makes you think he was a hero?

Percy. Because he kills monsters.

Sally. What makes you think she was a monster? ... Not everyone who looks like a hero is a hero. And not everyone who looks like a monster is a monster.

In episode 3 Medusa appears in person. After rescuing the companions, she tells them her own tragic background — to the disbelief of Annabeth, daughter of Athena. It’s only after Medusa takes Percy aside and offers to ‘help’ him by eliminating his companions — she points out, truthfully, that his friends will betray his real purpose, which is to rescue his mother — that hostilities break out.

Medusa (Jessica Parker Kennedy) smiles: ‘The gift the gods gave me is that I cannot be bullied any more.’ (Percy Jackson and the Olympians episode 3, 2023)

Medusa. Athena was everything to me. I worshiped her, I prayed to her, I made offerings. She never answered. Not even an omen to suggest she appreciated my love. (To Annabeth) I wasn’t like you, sweetheart, I was you. I would have worshiped her that way for a lifetime — in silence. But then one day another god came, and he broke that silence. (To Percy) Your father. The sea god told me that he loved me. I felt as though he saw me in a way I had never felt seen before. But then Athena declared that I had embarrassed her and I needed to be punished — not him: me. She decided that I would never be seen again by anyone who would live to tell the tale.

Annabeth. That isn’t what happened. My mother is just. Always.

Medusa. The gods want you to believe that — that they are infallible. But they only want what all bullies want. They want us to blame ourselves for their own shortcomings.

Annabeth. That is not what happened, and you are a liar.

On one level, Annabeth’s disbelief is simply because she’s in denial, or else because Medusa actually is lying. The series doesn’t pin that down.

But to someone who knows their way around the relevant ancient sources, there’s something a little more complicated going on. Medusa’s and Annabeth’s disagreement reflects different versions of her story in ancient sources.

• Hesiodic Theogony 270–283 (Greek, ca. 700 BCE). Medusa and Poseidon have a sexual liaison in a meadow. Details aren’t specified; there’s no mention of a transformation.
• pseudo-Apollodoros, Library 2.4.3 (Greek, perhaps 1st century BCE). ‘It is said by some’ that Athena commissioned Perseus to kill Medusa because she had dared to compare her beauty to Athena’s.
• Ovid, Metamorphoses 4.790–803 (Roman, 1st century BCE). Medusa is raped by Neptune (~Poseidon) in the temple of Minerva (~Athena), and in response, Minerva curses Medusa.

(There are other ancient variants: these are just the most relevant ones.)

The story Medusa tells, that she was cursed as a punishment for Poesidon’s actions, is the one invented by Ovid. Medusa’s liaison with Poseidon is present in ancient sources all the way back to Hesiod. But it’s only Ovid that casts it as rape, and it’s only Ovid that talks about her being transformed.

Myths always depend on the authors who choose to write them. But it’s especially on the nose in this case, because Ovid is so transparently interfering with an existing story, more than reimagining it. The idea that Medusa is punished for being a rape victim is, in a sense, his fan-fiction; and Ovid is particularly known for his sexism.

Then again, Annabeth insists Medusa has been cursed, and the curse is Ovid’s invention too. The scene in the series doesn’t give enough details to clarify exactly what’s going on in Medusa’s and Annabeth’s minds. But for someone who’s familiar with these variants, it does a very good job of tantalising, surrounding Medusa with open questions.

The Greek god of disappointment

Percy. Is there a Greek god of disappointment? Maybe someone should ask him if he’s missing a kid.

Chris. Oizys ... but she’s a goddess ... and her whole thing isn’t really disappointment, it’s more like failure.

Yes, this is for real. Kind of. We have a single literary source that lists Oizys as one of the children of Night: the Hesiodic Theogony, possibly the earliest work of Greek literature (ca. 700 BCE).

Chris Rodriguez (Andrew Alvarez), son of Hermes, knows his Hesiod. (Percy Jackson and the Olympians episode 2, 2023)

Νὺξ δ’ ἔτεκεν στυγερόν τε Μόρον καὶ Κῆρα μέλαιναν
καὶ Θάνατον, τέκε δ᾽ Ὕπνον, ἔτικτε δὲ φῦλον Ὀνείρων.
δεύτερον αὖ Μῶμον καὶ Ὀϊζὺν ἀλγινόεσσαν ...

And Night bore hateful Doom and dark Fate
and Death, and she bore Sleep, and she bore the tribe of Dreams;
and again she bore Blame and painful Woe (Oizys) ...

Theogony 211–212, 214

Note. Line 213 is usually transposed after line 214, because it doesn’t work syntactically between lines 212 and 214. The result makes sense, but this arrangement of the text isn’t exactly secure. See West 1966: 227.

The names in this passage are all personifications: they’re standard Greek words. Nyx means ‘night’; thanatos and hypnos mean ‘death’ and ‘sleep’; and so on. And oizys means ‘woe’.

Thanatos (death) and Hypnos (sleep) are a famous pair, and they appeared in many other literary works, as well as in paintings and statues. But this is literally the only mention of Oizys. We know nothing about her outside these lines. Don’t go expecting temples, or paintings, or statues: there’s always a big gap between myths and actual religious practice. As with Ovid, above, mythical narratives are often more like fan-fiction than long-standing folktales.

Conspicuously non-Spartan shields

The demigods at Camp Half-blood have round shields with chevrons, obviously intended as an inverted letter lambda (Λ). This is based on the popular perception that classical Spartan aspides had a lambda on them, referencing the actual name of their city-state, which was Lakedaimōn.

Clarisse La Rue (Dior Goodjohn), daughter of Ares, prepares for war games alongside other demigods at Camp Half-blood. Notice the design on their shields. (Percy Jackson and the Olympians episode 2, 2023)

The lambda design is, uh ... problematic. In much the same way as a flag of the Confederate States of America is ‘problematic’. Its high profile stems from the film 300 (2006), where it’s carried by Spartan soldiers. Since then it has become emblematic of xenophobia and white supremacy, white Europeans fighting ‘nonwhite hordes’. (This is all total bollocks of course: apart from anything else, many more Greeks supported Xerxes’ invasion than resisted it. I discussed it a bit here a few years back; there are many other discussions out there.)

Members of an Arkansas-based Neo-Nazi group pose with ‘Spartan’ shields in 2017. (Source: ADL)

The evidence that ancient Spartan shields had a lambda on them is extremely sparse (see e.g. McDaniel 2021). On balance, though, it’s moderately likely to be true, at least sometimes. The only direct evidence is in the 9th century Lexicon of Photios, Patriarch of Constantinople, who claims that Spartan and Messenian aspides had the letter, and quotes a line from a lost 5th century BCE comic play,

ἐξεπλάγη γὰρ ἰδὼν στίλβοντα τὰ λάβδα

for he was terror-struck when he saw the gleaming lambdas

Eupolis fr. 394 K-A
(= Photios, Lexicon s.v. λάβδα, p. 200,7 ed. Theodoridis)

We don’t know for sure who ‘he’ was or what the circumstances were. It could be about the death of the Athenian general Kleon at the battle of Amphipolis in 422 BCE; but there were no Spartiates at Amphipolis, only helots, so who knows.

However, there is some corroboration to be found in an anecdote related by Xenophon, which has Sikyonian troops carrying shields with the letter sigma.

When the Spartan cavalry commander Pasimachos and his few cavalry saw that the Sikyonians were hard pressed, he bound the horses to trees and took their shields from them. They advanced against the Argives with volunteers. When the Argives saw the sigmas on the shields, they were unconcerned, thinking they were Sikyonians.

Xenophon, Hellenika 4.4.10

I’d say the ‘lambdas on Spartan shields’ story may have a certain amount of truth to it, but it’s far from definite.

Regardless of historicity, the lambda logo is now a symbol of racial violence — just as much as the Confederate flag, the ‘thin blue line’, or the number 1488. The shields in Percy Jackson could have had completely unrelated designs. But the inverted lambda at least rejects its racist symbolism, rather than embracing it.

The de-whitening thief

Yes, more about race. Because there’s an important speech — an appalling speech — in chapter 5 of The lightning thief which has thankfully been completely omitted in the series.

Chiron (Glynn Turman) no longer eulogises the marvellousness of ‘western civilisation’. (Percy Jackson and the Olympians episode 2, 2023)

‘Come now, Percy. What you call “Western civilization.” Do you think it’s just an abstract concept? No, it’s a living force. A collective consciousness that has burned bright for thousands of years. ... The fire started in Greece. Then ... the heart of the fire moved to Rome, and so did the gods. ... Did the West die? The gods simply moved, to Germany, to France, to Spain, for a while. Wherever the flame was brightest, the gods were there. ... And yes, Percy, of course they are now in your United States. ... Like it or not ... America is now the heart of the flame. It is the great power of the West. And so Olympus is here. And we are here.’

Chiron, The lightning thief (2005) chapter 5

The series does retain Mount Olympus’ migration to the Empire State Building — evoked by the art-deco closing credits, and we see Hermes delivering a certain package there at the end of episode 3 — but omits the colonialist and imperialist rationale. I say ‘omits’, rather than ‘rejects’, because the series hasn’t explicitly dealt with it at the time of writing.

I’d like to think this is because the author, Rick Riordan, is receptive to criticisms like that of the classicist Maxwell Paule in his 2020 essay ‘The whitening thief’.

So, we could pretend that it’s a coincidence that in a novel predicated on the Greek gods creating and shaping western civilization, the author chose as the site for one of the book’s most impressive battles a monument intrinsically linked to the concept of Manifest Destiny — that is, the notion that America’s westward expansion was divinely sanctioned. We could do that. ...

... but that would be neglecting the fact that

latent notions of white supremacy (which are everywhere) permeate modern narratives of classical antiquity, narratives which in turn justify actual goddamned Neo-Nazis who claim to be the ideological (or literal) heirs of Greece and Rome.

M. T. Paule, ‘The whitening thief’ (2020)

Paule’s words remind me of a very bad book that came out that year, by an American with a degree in classics, which referred to ‘our Greek ancestors and Founding Fathers’. (Yes, that’s a verbatim quotation.)

It isn’t that the phrase ‘western civilisation’ has been appropriated by white supremacists since 2005. It was white supremacism all along. It was just easier in the past to get away with not thinking about it.

Nowadays, if someone talks about ‘western civilisation’, and means it, look for the swastikas. You’ll find them.

I’m not aware that Riordan has ever publicly commnted on Paule’s criticisms or the substance of them. Riordan himself co-wrote episode 2. I’d like to think that his omission of the ‘western civilisation’ speech is a tacit acknowledgement. An omission, not a correction, but still. Riordan was certainly vocal, in 2022, in his own criticism of racist reactions to the casting of Leah Jeffries as Annabeth. (See also coverage on CNN and The LA Times.)

Reference

• McDaniel, S. 2021. ‘Did Spartan shields really bear the letter lambda?’ Tales of Times Forgotten, 24 Nov 2021. [Internet Archive]
• Paule, M. T. 2020. ‘The whitening thief. Latent white supremacy in Percy Jackson.’ Eidolon, 23 Jan 2020. [Internet Archive]

Who is the hero of the Iliad?

Every now and then an article about Homer pops up in my alerts and I’ll see if it’s worth sharing. This one isn’t. But maybe it’s a teaching opportunity. It’s a short piece about Achilles and Hector at The imaginative conservative, by Joseph Pearce, a writer and editor attached to a Catholic college in New Hampshire.

Worshippers at the altar of ‘western civilisation’ have to put in many hours denying that early Greek literature shows influence from Anatolia and Mesopotamia, or avoiding thinking about non-binary gender representation in the Odyssey. Today’s deflection is about Hector in the Iliad.

Hector, says Pearce, is the very model of a modern hero. He’s admirable, he has noble qualities, he protects and defends his family. He, not Achilles, is the ‘hero’ of the Iliad. Achilles is only a hero for ‘neopagan or atheist humanist readers’.

If you’ve read the Iliad, you’ll already know this is nonsense. It seems as if Pearce relies a little too heavily on Hollywood for his knowledge of Homer.

Hector genuinely does fight Achilles to protect his kin — in this version of the story. (Eric Bana as Hector, Brad Pitt as Achilles; Troy, 2004, dir. W. Petersen)

Hector may be a tragic figure, as Redfield has argued (1975). Some readers may even find him sympathetic. But he’s also obstinate, rude, and easily swayed by pride. He can’t take advice from others, he always has to be told where he’s needed, and most of all, he intentionally and wilfully chooses destruction, solely to save face.

Here’s what Pearce claims.

The Iliad begins with Achilles’ refusal to serve as a protector and defender of his own people, casting him in the role of an anti-hero, and ends with the heroic death and subsequent eulogizing of one who had laid down his life as a defender and protector of his wife, child and people.

Pearce 2023

And, for the record, here’s one of those ‘eulogies’, spoken by Andromache.

My husband, you were lost young from life, and have left me
a widow in your house, and the boy is only a baby
who was born to you and me, the unhappy. I think he will never
come of age, for before then head to heel this city
will be sacked, for you, its defender, are gone, you who guarded
the city, and the grave wives, and the innocent children,
wives who before long must go away in the hollow ships,
and among them I shall also go, and you, my child, follow
where I go, and there do much hard work that is unworthy
of you, drudgery for a hard master; or else some Achaian
will take you by hand and hurl you from the tower into horrible
death, in anger because Hektor once killed his brother,
or his father, or his son; there were so many Achaians
whose teeth bit the vast earth, beaten down by the hands of Hektor.
Your father was no merciful man in the horror of battle.

Iliad 24.725–729 (tr. Lattimore)

Hector did protect her in the past. But now he has left her high and dry: the Trojans have no defender or protector. Hector has consigned his wife, son, parents, and compatriots to murder, violence, and enslavement.

And make no mistake, this isn’t because Hector made a noble effort but failed. It’s absolutely and precisely his own choice. His parents beg him at length to withdraw to safety, to live and fight another day. His father Priam specifically points out to Hector that if he chooses to fight Achilles then his father’s corpse will be mutilated by dogs, his brothers killed, their wives raped, their babies dashed to the ground (Iliad 22.56–76). His mother begs him to continue defending Troy from inside the walls (Iliad 22.84–85).

But Hector is obstinate. (As he routinely is.) He’s fully aware of the consequences of his choice, but he chooses it anyway, because he can’t bear the prospect of someone else pointing out his mistakes.

So these two in tears ahd with much supplication called out
to their dear son, but could not move the spirit in Hektor ...
Deeply troubled he spoke to his own great-hearted spirit:
‘Ah me! If I go now inside the wall and the gateway,
Poulydamas will be first to put a reproach upon me,
since he tried to make me lead the Trojans inside the city
on that accursed night when brilliant Achilleus rose up,
and I would not obey him, but that would have been far better.
Now, since by my own recklessness I have ruined my people
I feel shame before the Trojans ...’

Iliad 22.90–91, 98–105 (tr. Lattimore)

This isn’t a ‘heroic death’. He’s a narcissist. Rather than get blamed for some deaths, he’d prefer that everyone die.

Mind, this isn’t to say Achilles is a saint. Pearce is right to point out his betrayal of the Greeks. But Pearce genuinely seems to believe that one of them has to be ‘the hero’ — that a reader has to choose between them. One of them has to be the good guy.

If you take a class on the Iliad, one of the first things covered is to avoid that kind of puerility. They’re all awful people — in all senses of the word. Homeric heroes aren’t people who are good, they’re people who have an extraordinary impact on those around them. They’re larger than life. They’re powerful enough that they don’t need to care what you think of them.

Hector and Achilles as depicted in Doctor Who, ‘The myth makers’ (1965): Hector (Alan Haywood, facing camera) as musclebound thug, Achilles (Cavan Kendall) as artful dodger.

Here’s another teaching moment. This time it’s about linguistics. Pearce puts a lot of weight on the linguistic origins of the word ‘hero’.

Etymologically, the Greek hḗrōs means ‘protector’ or ‘defender’.

Pearce 2023

Much of his argument hangs on this. It’s the basis for his conclusion, which I quoted above: Achilles refuses ‘to serve as a protector and defender’, Hector lays ‘down his life as a defender and protector’.

The etymology is entirely false. Pearce got it from Wikipedia.

The word hero comes from the Greek ἥρως (hērōs), ‘hero’ (literally ‘protector’ or ‘defender’) ...

Wikipedia, ‘Hero’ (version of 22 Oct. 2023)

This false claim was added to the Wikipedia article anonymously in 2007, along with the related claim (since removed) that the word is cognate with Latin servo. These falsehoods appear to have infected the Etymonline article too — and Wikipedia now cites Etymoline for the etymology. That is, the claim is now sustained by circular reporting.

In reality, the origins of ἥρως are simply unknown. The etymology ‘protector, defender’ was firmly disproved the moment Linear B was deciphered.

Not from ἡρωϝ-, as previously assumed, because of the Mycenaean form [ti-ri-se-ro-e /tris-ērōʰes/ ‘triple hero’]. Probably a Pre-Greek word.

Beekes 2010: 526

The imaginary *ἡρωϝ- root is the one that would have the meaning Pearce wants. If it existed, it would mean ‘watch, shepherd, protect’ (from PIE *ser-u-o).

As used in Homer, though, hḗrōs simply means ‘warrior’, or even just ‘man’ (Cunliffe 1924: 183). In later Greek it came to have a specifically religious meaning. It got used primarily in the context of hero cults, the thousands of Greek religious sites devoted to the worship of legendary figures and culture heroes. As with Homeric characters, these figures of worship weren’t necessarily good or bad: they were just there.

The amorality of Greek religious figures is rather like laws of the land. A law may be morally good or bad, but it’s still the law. And if you break it, you’re still going to face penalties.

Even if hḗrōs were related to Indo-European *ser-u-o — which it isn’t — that wouldn’t matter. Etymologies don’t decide meaning. If they did, English dolphin would mean ‘pertaining to wombs’, weird would mean ‘fateful’, and lord would mean ‘bread monitor’. And somehow I doubt that when Pearce says his prayers he’s thinking about bread.

‘Hero’ is no different. In the sense Homer uses, all the Iliad’s male characters are hērṓes. In the sense of ‘a person idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities’, it’s hard to see that the Iliad has any heroes at all.

And really, that’s a pretty level-headed picture of armed conflict. That clarity — that understanding that while violence can be fascinating, there’s nothing admirable or noble about it — is one of the reasons the Iliad is a remarkable piece of literature.

References

• Beekes, R. 2010. Etymological dictionary of Greek. Leiden/Boston. [Internet Archive]
• Cunliffe, R. J. 1924. A lexicon of the Homeric dialect. London/Glasgow/Mumbai (reprinted 1963, Norman, OK). [Internet Archive]
• Pearce, J. 2023. ‘Hector versus Achilles: who’s the hero?’ The imaginative conservative, 23 Oct. 2023. [Internet Archive]
• Redfield, J. M. 1975. Nature and culture in the Iliad: the tragedy of Hector. Chicago. [Internet Archive]

Doctor Who, ‘The Myth Makers’ (1965)

In late 1965 Doctor Who featured a four part story about the end of the Trojan War. All four episodes are lost, though the audio track survives intact, along with a selection of photos and video snippets. In spite of that The myth makers, by Donald Cotton, is widely regarded as a highlight of Doctor Who’s early years.

My aim here is to highlight how it plays on prior models. One target is Homer, of course, but it also plays on the 1956 Hollywood epic Helen of Troy starring Rossana Podestà, as well as Shakespeare’s play Troilus and Cressida.

Some surviving materials of The myth makers are set photos, rather than stills from the actual episodes. Notice the lighting rig overhead. (My composite of a set photo with the logo from the 1985 novelisation)

This story isn’t the Doctor’s only visit to the ancient Mediterranean world, though it is his only onscreen encounter with ancient Greeks. He has also encountered Romans in The Romans (1965), The fires of Pompeii (2008), The Pandorica opens (2010), and The eaters of light (2017); and ancient Egyptians in The Daleks’ master plan (1965–1966) and Dinosaurs on a spaceship (2012).

The first three episodes are comical in tone. Helen is conspicuous by her absence. Achilles runs away from Hector. Odysseus thoroughly enjoys competing with the Doctor’s trickery. Cassandra is a bloodthirsty executioner, Agamemnon a bully, Paris an imbecile. The fourth episode is much darker, and represents one of the very worst failures in the Doctor’s long career.

The Doctor, Vicki, and Steven land the TARDIS near Troy, interrupting the duel of Hector and Achilles. The Doctor and Steven become prisoners of the Greeks, while the Doctor’s TARDIS — with Vicki still inside — is seized by the Trojans. Vicki adopts the persona of Cressida and ends up staying behind with Troilus. Steven fights a duel against Paris. And the Doctor desperately tries to get Odysseus to adopt any stratagem except a wooden horse, because he finds the story so utterly silly.

Steven. Why not the wooden horse?
Doctor. No, my dear boy, I couldn’t possibly suggest that. The whole story is obviously absurd. Probably invented by Homer as some good dramatic device. No, I think it would be completely impractical.
[ ... ]
Doctor. Have you, ah, thought of tunnelling, hm?
Odysseus. It’s been done. What we want is something revolutionary.
Doctor. Ah yes, dear me, dear me. Well, tell me, have you thought about flying machines, hm?
Odysseus. No, I can’t say I have.

The Doctor (William Hartnell) and Odysseus (Ivor Salter) compete in outwitting each other, much to Odysseus’ delight. They’re both way ahead of Agamemnon (Francis de Wolff, seated).

Subverting Homer: Achilles and Hector

Right from the opening scene, The myth makers subverts expectations based on the Iliad. In Homer, Achilleus chases Hektor three times around the walls of Troy before he turns and fights (Iliad 22.136–207). In Doctor Who, the roles are reversed: a hulking Hector chases a relatively slender Achilles. Cotton’s 1985 novelisation of the story draws the contrast especially clearly:

They were both big men; but one was enormous with muscles queuing up behind each other, begging to be given a chance. This whole, boiling-over physique was restrained, somewhat inadequately, by bronze-studded, sweat-stained leather armour ... Seams strained and gussets gaped. ... [H]e could only be the renowned Hector, King Priam’s eldest son, and war-lord of Troy.

His opponent was a different matter; younger by some ten years, I would say, and with the grace of a dancer. Which he certainly needed, as he spun and pirouetted to avoid the great bronze, two-handed sword which Hector wielded — in one hand — ...

The story continues to poke jabs at Homer. Watching from inside the TARDIS, the Doctor points out how long-winded Hector and Achilles are:

Vicki. Doctor, be careful! They look terribly fierce.
Doctor. Oh, what nonsense. If you take notice of them, I think they’re doing more talking than they are fighting.

His reaction mirrors that of many Iliad readers. In Homer, heroes sometimes make long speeches to daunt each other before fighting. Glaukos spends 67 lines reciting his genealogy to Diomedes instead of attacking (Iliad 6.145–211).

When Odysseus arrives on the scene, a good-humoured but remorseless pirate, he makes fun of Achilles’ claim to have killed Hector. As he does so he provides cues to provide an in-story explanation for how Homer ended up making things different in the Iliad.

Odysseus. But what a year is this for plague! Even the strongest might fall. Prince Hector — hah, that he should come to this. You met him here, you say, as he lay dying?
Achilles. I met him, Odysseus, in single combat.
Doctor. Oh yes, it’s true.
Odysseus. And raced him round the walls ’til down he fell exhausted? A famous victory!

This, we are to understand, is where Homer gets the story of the plague in Iliad book 1, and Achilleus chasing Hektor around the walls in book 22.

Subverting Hollywood: Paris, Cassandra, and Helen

Episode 2 introduces the Trojan prince Paris (Barrie Ingham) as a purely comic character, practically out of the pages of a P. G. Wodehouse story. Paris is a boastful and bewildered Bertie Wooster without a Jeeves to guide him: desperate for his father Priam’s approval, resentful of his sister Cassandra’s superior intelligence.

Paris. I sought Achilles, father, even to the Grecian lines, but he skulked within his tent. Ha ha ha, he feared to face me!
Priam. ... (observing the TARDIS) What — what is that you have got there?
Paris. Ah! A prize, father. Captured from the Greeks!
Priam. Hah, captured, you say? I wager they were glad to see the back of it. What is it?
Paris. — what is it? Ah, well. It’s, er, it’s a, sort of a, erm — a shrine, or so it seems.
[ ... ]
Priam. ... Get back to the war!
Cassandra. And take that thing with you!
Paris. Oh, really! If you — if you knew the weight of, this, this, this — thing —

Cassandra (Frances White), the distrustful high priestess of Troy. Until recently Frances White was appearing opposite another veteran Doctor Who villain, David Graham, the very first Dalek voice, in Peppa Pig (2004–2021) as Grandma Pig and Grandpa Pig.

Cassandra is his bloodthirsty sister, the high priestess of Troy. She repeatedly gives a command that the Doctor’s companions be executed, only for it to be countermanded by Priam or Paris every time. She foreshadows the future when she explains why Paris should never have brought the TARDIS into the city:

Cassandra. Why do you imagine that they allowed you to capture it? [ ... ] I dreamed that out on the plain the Greeks had left a gift, and although what it was remained unclear, we brought it into Troy. Then at night, from out its belly, soldiers came and fell upon us as we slept.

On one level, these depictions are somewhat true to Greek legend, if only as caricatures. The Paris of the Iliad has to be rescued from his duel with Menelaos, and he spends his time having sex with Helen while the Trojans are fighting for their lives. Kassandra appears only in one scene in Homer (Iliad 24.698–708), but in post-Homeric Greek legend she is a seer whose prophecies are never believed.

It isn’t Homer that’s being subverted here, but the 1956 Hollywood epic Helen of Troy. Paris in the film has nothing laughable about him. He’s a romantic hero, brave and noble; the love of Helen and Paris is pure and tragic. Cassandra is a vulnerable teenager who fears for her brother’s future, and Paris sees her prophecies as a sign of an unfortunate illness.

Paris. And I suppose that evil horse of hers will spring out and trample me. Huh, very well. Let it come, my lord. If that’s the price of living in a world of fables.
Cassandra. Do not say that, Paris. Do not seek peace elsewhere, dear brother, until first you have pacified Athena.
Paris. My little Cassandra, there can be no postponement. So come along, and give me your blessing for a happy voyage.
Cassandra. I cannot bless what I see in your future, Paris.

Helen of Troy (1956)

At the end, Paris is on the point of defeating Menelaus in a one-on-one duel when one of Menelaus’ men treacherously stabs him from behind. Cassandra is seized and (offscreen) raped by a Greek warrior in the fall of Troy. Ingham’s Paris and White’s Cassandra in The myth makers are their opposites in every way: Paris a coward and a fool, Cassandra vindictive and vicious. Both are played for laughs.

Top, Helen of Troy (1956): Cassandra (Janette Scott), Paris (Jacques Sernas), and Helen (Rossana Podestà). Bottom, The Trojan horse (1961): Cassandra (Lidia Alfonsi) and Paris (Warner Bentivegna) (and an anonymous handmaid in the background: maybe Katarina? I kid, I kid).

It’s just possible there may also be an element of parody of The Trojan horse (La guerra di Troia, 1961), a peplum film which depicted Paris as a treacherous, chinless poser who takes pleasure in betraying his family, Cassandra as aloof, and Helen as malicious and conniving. Helen of Troy was the better known film.

And that brings us to Helen herself. Helen of Troy puts Helen front and centre. It’s practically a Rossana Podestà vehicle, coming on the heels of her success as Nausicaa in another Homeric film, the 1954 Ulysses, opposite Kirk Douglas. The whole concept of Helen as a character revolves around her matchless beauty: ‘the face that launched a thousand ships / and burnt the topless towers of Ilium’ (Marlowe, Doctor Faustus).

Priam. I don’t particularly notice good looks. Only gets you into trouble. Look at Paris. Handsome as the devil, but a complete coward.
Vicki. I thought he was rather nice.
Priam. Yes, women generally do, that's what got us all into this trouble. Oh, of course, you've not met Helen yet, have you?
Vicki. No, I'm looking forward to it.
Priam. Yes, well, she’s a — oh well never mind. If only he’d met a nice, sensible girl like you.

The thing is, of course, that we never do meet Helen. She’s mentioned three times, but she never appears: these lines are the most we get. Priam’s talk of good looks directly draws attention to Helen and her legendary beauty — and in doing so, he also underlines the failure of that beauty to actually appear. The audience, watching these characters, are denied the opportunity to see the legendary sight that the whole thing is supposedly about: Helen’s face.

This too is a dramatic subversion of Helen of Troy. The myth makers turns Paris, previously a romantic hero, into a bombastic, cowering nitwit. Cassandra, once a vulnerable teenager, becomes a snarling executioner. And Helen, the Hollywood beauty known for her appearance, becomes ... invisible.

Subverting Shakespeare: Troilus, Cressida, and Diomede

In Greek legend Troilos is a youth that Achilleus ambushes, pursues, and kills while Troilos is outside the walls of Troy, watering his horse at the shrine of Thymbraian Apollo. The Iliad mentions him once in passing, as someone who has already been killed (Iliad 24.257). His story isn’t told fully in any ancient literary work. But it was extremely popular in Greek art: 20% of all ancient depictions of Achilleus are occupied with the story of his ambush of Troilos. (See Gainsford 2015: 60–61 for further details.)

Set photo of the dungeon where Troilus visits Vicki.

In The myth makers, Troilus is Vicki’s love interest. She begins to take an interest in him at the end of episode 2. In episode 3, when she and Steven are imprisoned in a Trojan dungeon, Troilus visits and becomes friendly with her. In episode 4 she tries to save him from the destruction of Troy by asking him to go on an errand outside the city. Outside the walls he encounters Achilles, but unlike his ancient counterpart, Troilus wins the fight. Vicki finds him and remains with him in antiquity, while the Doctor time-travels onwards.

The thing is, by the time Vicki meets Troilus, she has already changed her identity. In episode 2, when she emerges from the TARDIS and Priam befriends her (much to Cassandra’s disgust), the Trojans decide that Vicki is too ‘heathenish’ a name. Priam decides to call her Cressida. Meanwhile, Steven is trying to get inside Troy to help Vicki, in the guise of a dead Greek warrior named Diomede.

Enter Shakespeare, stage left.

Cressida isn’t in any ancient source. She developed out of a 12th century French epic, Le roman de Troie by Benoît de Sainte-Maure. Dares of Phrygia, a late antique Latin source, had made Troilus a major character in the Trojan War: Benoît added a romance with Briseida (a character with virtually no connection to the Homeric Briseis), and a love triangle with the Greek hero Diomedes (Burgess and Kelly 2017: 204–212, 216–217, 226–228, etc.).

Angelica Kauffmann, ‘Diomed and Cressida’ (1789)

150-odd years later, Boccaccio compiled the bits about Troilus and Briseida into a poem called Il filostrato (‘the one laid prostrate by love’). In Boccaccio they’re named Troilo and Criseida. This poem in turn served as the basis for various English versions: Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde, Lydgate’s Troy book, and Caxton’s Recuyell of the historyes of Troye. Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida (ca. 1602) is based on these.

In Act V of the play, Diomedes tries to seduce Cressida once she arrives at the Greek camp, and Troilus spies on them and vows to seek Diomedes’ life in battle. In The myth makers, when Troilus visits Cressida in her cell, he is concerned about her relationship with ‘Diomede’ — that is, Steven —

Troilus. Look here, is this Diomede a particular friend of yours or something?
Vicki. A very good friend, yes.
Troilus. Well, I don’t see how you can be friends with a Greek.
Vicki. Oh, look, Troilus. When you come from the future you make friends with a lot of people, and he’s one of them.
Troilus. I see. But he’s not in any way special?
Vicki. No. Why do you keep on?
Troilus. Well, because that’s what I was — I mean, that’s what the others were worried about.

— and in episode 4, when ‘Cressida’ sends him outside the walls to save him from the fall of Troy, his errand is to look for ‘Diomede’, who has escaped from prison. Troilus laments over the fact that Cressida has apparently betrayed him, echoing his fury in the play.

As in the play, Troilus survives. Unlike the play, Troilus and Cressida have a happy-ever-after together.

Left: Agamemnon (Brian Cox) in Troy, 2004. Right: Agamemnon (Francis de Wolff) in The myth makers, 1965. Presumably there’s no direct influence, so it’s a little eerie how similar their designs are. The Agamemnons in Helen of Troy and The Trojan horse look very different.

So, that’s The myth makers and intertextuality. There are many other intrinsic points of interest that I haven’t touched on: the design of the wooden horse (much more interesting than the one in Helen of Troy, and infinitely better than the clumsy junkpile used in The Trojan horse); the sudden introduction of Katarina as a new companion for the Doctor; the Doctor’s convivial relationship with Odysseus. These things I’ll leave to more Whovian-focused forums.

Where to hear or read The myth makers

• ‘Temple of secrets’: transcript | audio
• ‘Small prophet, quick return’: transcript | audio
• ‘Death of a spy’: transcript | audio
• ‘Horse of destruction’: transcript | audio
• Novelisation by Donald Cotton (1985): Internet Archive

References

• Burgess, G. S.; Kelly, D. 2017. The Roman de Troie by Benoît de Sainte-Maure. Cambridge.
• Gainsford, P. 2015. Early Greek hexameter poetry. Cambridge.

Santa’s reindeer, Odin’s horse, and Siberian shamanism

Is Santa based on Odin? Is he a Siberian shaman? Well, if a title asks a yes-no question, you know the answer is nearly always ‘no’. At their heart, both arguments revolve around Santa’s flying reindeer.

Left to right: Odin and his horse Sleipnir (Thor, 2011); Santa Claus; shamans in northern Buryatia, Siberia

People who buy into this kind of theory often aren’t interested in probing the details. So that’s the job I’m taking upon myself here. If you don’t buy into the theory, it’ll be redundant. Still, there are several factors involved, and some of them are rather interesting. Here’s a contents listing of what follows:

1. The core of the argument: the flying reindeer
2. St Nicholas
3. St Nicholas’ horse and Santa’s reindeer
4. Sleipnir can’t fly
5. Eight-legged horses aren’t ‘typical’

So, in Odin’s case, the central idea is that Santa’s reindeer are derived from Odin’s amazing horse Sleipnir, which has eight legs and — supposedly — can fly.

Odin we know to have been pictured as a restless, wandering god, who ... himself rode to the Land of the Dead through the air on his eight-legged horse Sleipnir ... It has been stated in a number of books on English folklore that the image of Father Christmas travelling through the sky in his sledge drawn by reindeer is based on such traditions of the heathen god.

Davidson 1970: 182

(In Davidson’s defence, she immediately goes on to point out that this is all nonsense.)

The ‘Siberian shaman’ argument isn’t so obvious. The central idea there is that

Santa Claus is a shaman who gives out psychedelic mushrooms as ‘gifts.’

Derek Beres, Psychedelic spotlight, 2020

You can find the ‘Odin’ story repeated by History daily, Wikipedia, History.co.uk, and an American public library; the ‘Siberian shaman’ story by NBC, Medium.com, LiveScience, NPR, McGill University, and The Atlantic. And every December, naturally, both stories get repeated on every social media channel under the sun.

1. The core of the argument: the flying reindeer

In Odin’s case, it’ll be obvious that the flying reindeer are the central idea. What about the shamans? The shaman argument is about magic mushrooms, right? So how do reindeer come into it?

Amanita muscaria, or fly agaric, purportedly used in western Siberia for alleged psychoactive effects. Amanita muscaria is not the same thing as magic mushrooms: it is toxic, and consuming it can have lethal effects if medical care is unavailable. (source: Wikimedia.org)

Actually it’s the other way round. The real question is: how do the mushrooms come into it? Santa isn’t popularly known for his interest in recreational pharmacology. The shaman argument depends on a cluster of more concrete parallels: that Santa (a) flies through the air, (b) has reindeer, (c) brings presents, and (d) wears red clothes. Supposedly, these are all true of Siberian shamans too. Put them together with the fact that shamans in western Siberia supposedly hand out free hallucinogens — that’s what’s claimed — and out pops the shaman argument.

That is, the mushrooms are secondary to the four parallels I mentioned. And those alleged parallels are of variable quality. In reality, Buryat shamans don’t give free samples, they don’t typically dress in red, and mushroom use isn’t standard practice.

‘If you look at the evidence of Siberian shamanism, which I’ve done,’ [Ronald] Hutton said, ‘you find that shamans didn’t travel by sleigh, didn't usually deal with reindeer spirits, very rarely took the mushrooms to get trances, didn't have red and white clothes.’

And they didn't even run around handing out gifts.

NPR, 2010

(Professor Ronald Hutton is a very good scholar: if he says straight out that something is the case, it’s best to take him at his word.)

So in fact it all rests on the first two points: (a) Santa flies; (b) Santa has reindeer. That’s the real backbone of the ‘Siberian shaman’ argument.

The claim is that reindeer are important in Siberian shamanism. Also, in some circles it’s claimed that there’s an additional link via Odin and his amazing horse Sleipnir. Sleipnir has eight legs; and eight-legged horses are claimed to be a typical motif in Siberian shamanism and Indian funeral rites.

Now, our objective here isn’t to disprove things: it’s to follow the chain of evidence, see how far it goes, and what it really says.

Here are the key facts.

• Santa’s reindeer were invented in New York in the 1820s.
• Other Anglo-American traditions about Santa Claus are derived from 17th century Dutch customs.
• Sleipnir isn’t a flying horse. At least, not in 10th–13th century sources.
• Eight-legged horses aren’t a widespread thing in Eurasian shamanism. They aren’t even spread: there’s only one. It’s in a 20th century report from Buryatia, in eastern Siberia, a millennium later than Odin, nearly two millennia later than St Nicholas, a long way from supposed mushroom use in western Siberia, and over 5,000 km away from Odin and St Nicholas.

These aren’t my conclusions, they’re the evidence. If you want to argue that Santa is derived from Odin or a Siberian shaman, these the facts you have to work with. Do they sustain your argument? The answer to that should be obvious. Let’s plunge into the details now.

2. St Nicholas

St Nicholas or Nikólaos was a historical Christian bishop in Anatolia in the 3rd–4th centuries CE. There are various stories about him — providing young women with dowries; saving children from being pickled by a mad butcher; slapping the heretic Áreios in the face at the Council of Níkaia in 325 CE. The stories are apocryphal, but he did exist, and he was venerated in Constantinople by the 500s.

St Nicholas slaps Áreios: early 18th cent. fresco, Soumelá Monastery, Trabzon Province, Turkey (source: Livius.org; photo by Marco Prins)

Arius the red-faced heretic
Has a very shiny cheek.
That’s ’cause Saint Nic’las wasn’t
Acting oh-so-very meek.

Credited to ‘Orycteropus’, St Nicholas Center, 2020

Note. For copious details of documentation and evidence for St Nicholas from antiquity to the Modern era, see McDaniel 2019.

His saint’s day, 6 December, became associated with St Nicholas bringing gifts to children. That’s still the case in parts of present-day Europe: in Bavaria and Austria it’s common to see a member of the community dressed as a bishop and handing out small presents at neighbourhood events on St Nicholas’ Day.

Heiliger Niklaus visits a kindergarten in Amlach, Austria, 6 December 2022 (source: Amlach.net)

In the Modern era, St Nicholas underwent several transformations. When the Lutherans tried to put an end to the cult of the saints in the 1500s, the baby Jesus — the Heiliger Christ or Christkindl — was introduced as a Protestant replacement for St Nicholas. The Christkindl brings gifts at Christmas, not St Nicholas’ Day, to avoid any whiff of Catholicism. (Some modern German children get presents from both the Niklaus and the Christkindl, on 6 December and 25 24 December respectively.)

St Nicholas, or a blended version — a Christmassy St Nicholas — ended up merging with various bits of local folklore in several regions in the 17th–20th centuries. As a result there are many local variants: the Dutch Sint Nikolaas, the Slavic Ded Moroz, the Finnish Joulupukki, the English Father Christmas, the American Santa Claus, and several more. Some of them have partially merged — Father Christmas isn’t really separate from Santa Claus these days — and some variants they have a companion who attends to naughty children in various ways: Père Fouettard, Krampus, Schmutzli, etc.

It’s possible some of these figures have local pagan precursors. Tracking down good evidence is hard, though. Partly because people like assigning pagan origins to things without going into pesky details like evidence; partly because good evidence is only available if you know the right languages and have physical access to the right archives.

I recommend caution. When people assign ‘pagan’ origins to Anglo-American Christian customs, they routinely turn out to be modern innovations. Father Christmas, for example, started out in 17th century England as a sympathetic allegorical figure in anti-Puritan pamphlets, when the Puritans outlawed Christmas.

Note. For further details on ‘Old Father Christmas’, see Durston 1985; McDaniel 2019.

3. St Nicholas’ horse and Santa’s reindeer

In Dutch tradition, St Nicholas has a horse, not reindeer. He rides on it across rooftops and down chimneys. The earliest surviving appearance of this tradition seems to be in the 1660s, in Jan Steen’s painting The Feast of St Nicholas.

Jan Steen, Het Sint-Nicolaasfeest (1665–1668). Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam (source: Rijksmuseum)

Steen depicts children delighted at the presents that they have received in a shoe they left out. At the left, one boy is in tears because he has received only birch twigs, representing punishment. And at the right, an older boy is pointing out the chimney to two younger children.

Textual evidence of the custom appears in 1720, in a dictionary of proverbs: ‘St Nicholas enters the chimney with his little horse, to put something in [children’s] shoes’.

Note. Tuinman 1720: 162: ‘Sint Niklaas met zyn paardje ter schoorsteen inkomt, om wat te brengen in de schoenen ...’ For these early references to Dutch traditions about St Nicholas’ Day I am indebted to /u/Iguana_on_a_stick, who kindly pointed them out to me in 2021 on AskHistorians. For a wider range of European references, once again see McDaniel 2019.

In the early 1800s Washington Irving’s A history of New York (under the pseudonym ‘Diedrich Knickerbocker’) gave a satirical account of the 17th century Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam. St Nicholas has a prominent role, as the patron saint of both Amsterdam and New Amsterdam. Irving describes a ship’s figurehead in the form of St Nicholas (1809 edition vol. 1, p. 79) —

... a goodly image of St. Nicholas, equipped with a low, broad brimmed hat, a huge pair of Flemish trunk hose, and a pipe that reached to the end of his bow-sprit.

And refers to the observance of St Nicholas’ Day (1809 edition vol. 2, p. 252) —

... nor was the day of St. Nicholas suffered to pass by, without making presents, hanging the stocking in the chimney, and complying with all its other ceremonies.

St Nicholas’ mode of transport didn’t appear in the original edition: Irving added a chapter for the 1812 revised edition that describes it (1812 edition vol. 1, pp. 106–107):

And the sage Oloffe [van Kortlandt] dreamed a dream — and lo, the good St. Nicholas came riding over the tops of the trees, in that self same waggon wherein he brings his yearly presents to children; and he came and descended ... And when St. Nicholas had smoked his pipe, he twisted it in his hat band, and laying his finger beside his nose gave the astonished Van Kortlandt a very significant look, then mounting his waggon he returned over the tree tops and disappeared.

The wagon may be an American innovation: the Dutch Sint Nikolaas rides a horse, with no wagon, as we saw earlier, and as we see in Jan Schenkman’s Sint Nikolaas en zijn knecht (1850).

American and Dutch versions of St Nicholas riding on rooftops next to a chimney. Left: the first ever appearance of Santa’s reindeer and sleigh, in the 1821 New York poem ‘Old Santeclaus with much delight’ (source: Beinecke Library, Yale University). Right: Sint Nikolaas on horseback in a ca. 1880 edition of Schenkman’s Sint Nikolaas en zijn knecht (source: Koninklijke Bibliotheek).

Nine years later, also in New York, St Nicholas’ horse became a reindeer, and the wagon became a sleigh. The very earliest reindeer appears in the 1821 book The children’s friend. Number III. A new-year’s present to the little ones from five to twelve, published by William B. Gilley. The book contains an anonymous poem about St Nicholas’ arrival and his gift-giving:

Old SANTECLAUS with much delight
His reindeer drives this frosty night,
O’er chimney-tops, and tracks of snow,
To bring his yearly gifts to you.

This version of Santeclaus visits at Christmas, not St Nicholas’ Day. That suggests some kind of merger with the German Christkindl — or perhaps with the Weihnachtsmann, another German figure, who resembles Santa Claus; but I haven’t found any pre-20th century evidence of the Weihnachtsmann in Germany.

Addition, two days later: in a comment below, Karlheinz Drescher has kindly pointed out evidence of the Weihnachtsmann going back at least to 1784, with the motif of gift-giving attested from 1797. This certainly clears the way for the possibility of some influence from the Weihnachtsmann on the American Santeclaus/St Nicholas.

The most influential step in Santa’s development took place two years later: A visit from St Nicholas, or ‘’Twas the night before Christmas’. This famous poem first appeared in the newspaper The Troy Sentinel (New York) on 23 December 1823.

We know not to whom we are indebted for the following description of that unwearied patron of children — that homely, but delightful personification of parental kindness — SANTE CLAUS, his costume and his equipage, as he goes about visiting the fire-sides of this happy land, laden with Christmas bounties ...

A visit includes traditional elements that we saw linked to St Nicholas earlier, but which aren’t present in ‘Old Santeclaus with much delight’: (a) St Nicholas and his transport are tiny creatures, as in the 1720 book of proverbs; (b) they swap between riding on the snowy ground and riding on rooftops, as in Irving; (c) St Nicholas smokes a pipe, again as in Irving; (d) the gesture of laying his finger by his nose, as in Irving. It also repeats one element that first appeared in ‘Old Santeclaus with much delight’, that Santa dresses in fur, not as a bishop.

There are also novel elements. The poem multiplies Santa’s reindeer into eight, and gives them the names that are still used today: Dasher, Dancer, and so on. When the team rides from ground level up onto the roof, the poem introduces the key word ‘flew’ —

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys — and St. Nicholas too.

In the wake of this, Santa had his sleigh, his eight reindeer, the element of flying, and ‘a round little belly / That shook when he laugh’d, like a bowl full of jelly’. From there it’s only a few short steps to the modern Anglo-American Santa.

Odin and Sleipnir as depicted in a fresco shown in Thor Ragnarok (2017)

4. Sleipnir can’t fly

Sleipnir was an amazing horse, to be sure. He had eight legs. His mother was Loki. He was stupendously fast. But his main disqualification as a parallel for Santa’s reindeer, aside from his species, is that he couldn’t fly.

Note. Sleipnir having Loki as his mother may be more startling than the idea that he has something to do with Santa’s reindeer. That bit is absolutely grounded in a mediaeval source, though, albeit a 12th–13th century Christian author: Snorri, Gylfaginning 42 (= 35,14–35 ed. Faulkes).

Or rather, the modern Sleipnir can evidently fly. Because that’s how he’s been reimagined now. But the mediaeval Sleipnir couldn’t fly.

There are two mediaeval sources that have been construed as suggesting the power of flight. First the 12th–13th century Danish author Saxo Grammaticus, reported by Wikipedia as follows:

The old man [i.e. Odin] sings a prophecy, and takes Hadingus back to where he found him on his horse. During the ride back, Hadingus trembles beneath the old man’s mantle, and peers out of its holes. Hadingus realizes that he is flying through the air ...

And second, the 12th–13th century Icelandic author Snorri Sturluson:

Hrungnir asked who it was that wore a golden helmet and rode through the sky and over the sea on such a fine horse.

At first sight, these look like conclusive support for the claim that Sleipnir can fly. However, the first is misreported; and the second, misinterpreted.

Here’s what Saxo Grammaticus actually says (Gesta Danorum 1.6.9, tr. Fisher).

With these words [the old man] set the young man on his horse and brought him back to the place where he had found him. Hadding hid trembling beneath his cloak, but in intense amazement kept casting keen glances through the slits and saw that the sea lay stretched out under the horse’s hoofs [equinis freta patere vestigiis]; being forbidden to gaze, he turned his wondering eyes away ...

No, your eyes don’t deceive you: there’s no reference to flying. A Wikipedia editor made that up. The lack of flying is even clearer in Saxo’s Latin: vestigia doesn’t mean ‘hoofs’, it means ‘tracks’ or ‘hoofprints’. That is, the tracks that Sleipnir is leaving on the surface of the sea. Not above the sea.

Let’s move on to Snorri. Here’s a bit more context (Skáldskaparmál 17 = 20,20-22 ed. Faulkes, trans. Young):

Hrungnir asked who the man was in the golden helmet who was riding through the air and over the sea [lopt ok lǫg], adding that he had a remarkably fine horse. Odin replied that he would wager his head its equal was not to be found in Giantland. Hrungnir said that Sleipnir was a fine horse, but maintained that he possessed one called Gold-mane that could step out much better, ...

Hrungnir and Odin then have a horse race, which Odin wins easily.

There are two catches here. The small catch is that an isolated attestation in a 12th-13th century Christian writer isn’t terrific evidence for a pre-Christian tradition — especially when a much larger argument hangs on the existence of that tradition.

The bigger catch is that lopt ok lǫg is a formulaic phrase. It isn’t a kenning, exactly, but it is a trope, a quasi-poetic image. Literally, lopt does mean ‘sky, in the air, aloft’, and lǫgr means ‘sea, water’ (Gordon and Taylor 1957: 367–368). Here are the other contexts where it appears, all in Snorri (and all given in Young’s translation):

1. Gylfaginning 35 (30,7-9 Faulkes)

The fourteenth [goddess] is Gná; Frigg sends her on her errands. She has a horse that runs through the air and over the sea [lopt ok lǫg] called Hoof-flourisher. Once when she was riding, some Vanir saw her riding in the air [i loptinu] and one said:

What is flying there [Hvat þar flýgr?],
faring there
and gliding through the air [at lopti líðr]?

She answered:

I am not flying [Ne ek flýg],
although I am faring
gliding through the air [at lopti líðk]
on Hoof-flourisher ...

2. Gylfaginning 37 (31,4-6 Faulkes)

... when [a woman] raised her arms to open the door, they illumined the sky and sea [bæði í lopt ok á lǫg], and the whole world grew bright from her.

3. Gylfaginning 51 (50,11-12 Faulkes)

The Miðgarð Serpent will blow so much poison that the whole sky and sea [lopt ǫll ok lǫg] will be spattered with it ...

4. Skáldskaparmál 17 (20,20-22 Faulkes). Odin and Sleipnir: see above.

5. Skáldskaparmál 35 (42,27-29 Faulkes)

To Frey he gave the boar, saying that it could run through the air and over the sea [lopt ok lǫg] day or night faster than any horse ...

6. Skáldskaparmál 35 (43,2-3 Faulkes)

Loki had shoes in which he could run through the air and over the sea [á lopt ok lǫg]. Then the dwarf asked Thór to catch him and he did so.

Passage 1 is the most substantial, and at first sight is the clearest in indicating a flying horse. However, it must give pause for thought that Gná expressly states that she is not flying. The translator’s choice of words for ek liðk, ‘I am gliding’, is tendentious — líða means ‘go’ in a general sense, not ‘glide’ — but even if we change it to ‘I am not flying, I am going aloft’, it still seems a strange distinction for Gná to draw.

Put a pin in that for now. Move on. Passages 2 and 3 are quite different from the others, and suggest a meaning ‘all over the place, everywhere’. That’s how Kate Heslop puts it in her commentary on Hallfreðr’s Erfidrápa, stanza 4 (2012: 407):

lopt ok lǫg is a common phrase in prose, with the connotation ‘everywhere’.

Passages 2 and 3 don’t help us much, then. But the passages in the Skáldskaparmál do. In all three, the common theme is not location, but speed. Sleipnir beats Gold-mane in a race; Frey’s boar is faster than any horse; no matter how fast Loki runs, Thor can catch him.

With these — and therefore also with passage 1 about Gná’s horse — the phrase lopt ok lǫg isn’t a definite claim that flying is taking place. Instead, it’s a claim that Sleipnir, Frey’s boar, and Loki are incredibly fast. The underlying flavour of the expression is probably that someone is running so fast that their feet don’t touch the ground, like a cartoon Roadrunner.

Hann rann á lopt ok lǫg: Dash Parr, The Incredibles (2004)

The cartoon-speedster image would be a reasonable fit for the general style of Old Norse imagery. It would also have the benefit of making sense of Gná’s distinction, ‘I am not flying; I am going aloft.’ You wouldn’t say that Dash, above, can ‘fly’ — but you could say that he’s almost as fast as Sleipnir. You can say that he runs á lopt ok lǫg.

Whatever the precise connotations, we can’t say Odin is ‘flying’ on Sleipnir, any more than the Vanir can say Gná is ‘flying’ on her horse. Anyway, Sleipnir is still phenomenal: I mean, he can run on the surface of water. That should be miraculous enough for any supernatural horse.

5. Eight-legged horses aren’t ‘typical’

Now, we know that the octopod horse is typically shamanic.

Eliade 1964: 469

No, we do not. Eight-legged shamanic horses owe much more to Mircea Eliade’s imagination than to real shamans. It’s wildly wishful thinking to imagine Sleipnir is ‘the typical steed of a shaman’, or that he’s ‘one of several eight-legged horses of the ancient world’.

Eliade is a cherry-picker. He scours material worldwide, selects minor parallels out of context, and then claims that they demonstrate a deep causal relation. It’s very like when someone hears about pyramids in Mexico and Sudan and decides that they’re related — without stopping to consider that that’s the single simplest way of stacking rocks. Or someone who looks at any circular architectural layout anywhere and declares that it’s Atlantean.

Eliade has a grand total of three eight-legged horses. They aren’t ‘typical’, they aren’t ‘several’, and only one of them is shamanic.

The first is Sleipnir. No problem here ... though it is painfully conspicuous that Eliade chooses to cite two books written by card-carrying Nazis (1964: 469 n. 13), instead of the actual source, Snorri.

The second horse is from a Buryat story, in south-eastern Siberia, about a shaman spirit named Höhme (Sanžeev 1927: 607–608, my translation):

Höhme ... awaited the appearance of her shaman-spirit-ancestor, so that she could marry him. A sign of this event was supposed to be the birth of an eight-footed foal in the herd. Höhme’s (earthly) husband saw this, and he cut off four legs — superfluous, as he supposed. On her husband’s return from the steppe, Höhme asked him: ‘Hasn’t an eight-footed foal been born to our herd?’ Her husband said he had found one and had already cut off the four extra legs. ‘Oh, woe! Look, that was my foal that I would have ridden to become a shaman!’

And the last is from a Muria funeral song, in central India (Elwin 1947: 150):

Let us take the Raja home.
Twelve times have the folk been called.
Come, brothers, come.
A thousand men have gathered.
What horse is this?
It is the horse Bagri Maro.
What should we say of its legs?
This horse has eight legs.
What should we say of its heads?
This horse has four heads.
...
There are men before and behind.
There are police on either side.
The horse begins to run.
What is this palace?

Let’s deal with the last one first. Eliade purposely misrepresents the Muria funeral song. I say ‘purposely’ because his source, the English anthropologist Verrier Elwin, makes it perfectly clear what’s really going on.

[T]he horse Bagri Maro is, of course, the bier and its four bearers. The men and police on every side are the escorting chelik. The palace is the grave and the tomb that is usually built above it for for an important man.

That is, the funeral procession is described in lyrical terms as if it’s transporting a living wealthy man. There are no ‘police’, there is no ‘palace’, and there is no ‘horse’ — let alone a shamanic horse. Anyway, this is in central India. What on earth does it have to do with Siberia?

That leaves us with just one eight-legged shamanic horse, the Buryat one, in Garma Sanžeev’s report. Is it related to Odin’s horse? Well, no, of course it isn’t.

• It’s an isolated report: it isn’t ‘typical’ in any sense.
• It’s a 20th century story.
• It’s from Buryatia, over 5,000 km from Scandinavia.
• There’s no resemblance between Odin and Höhme.
• For Höhme the horse represents access to mystic knowledge; Odin already has his mystic knowledge and his leadership of the Æsir before Sleipnir is born.
• Höhme’s foal is born into an ordinary herd; Sleipnir is the offspring of Loki and a supernaturally strong stallion.
• Höhme’s horse has four legs amputated as a foal; Sleipnir keeps his eight legs and grows to maturity.

Enough: this is nonsense. Sleipnir and the Buryat story have nothing to do with each other. Add Santa’s reindeer are an ocean further removed still.

One final resort might be to ignore legs and just focus on the number eight. In that case you could suggest some kind of link to the eight-winged horse of Mir-Susne-Hum, an Ugrian mythological figure in the Urals, attested in two 21st century Russian sources (Uliashev 2019: 21). But that really would be desperate — especially if you recall that Sleipnir isn’t a flying horse.

Note. Thanks to Joseph A. P. Wilson for pointing out Mir-Susne-Hum’s horse to me in 2021 on Twitter.

The long-and-short of it is that people really want to be able to explain where ideas like Santa’s reindeer come from. Coming up with a new explanation is intrinsically appealing. And second-option bias is a powerful force.

That has the effect of making real explanations — that the flying reindeer were invented in America in the 1820s — unappealing. Falsehoods and speculations get disseminated at the expense of evidence. And that’s unfortunate.

But fortunately, falsehoods don’t spontaneously generate fake evidence out of thin air: all they can do is repeat themselves. The real evidence doesn’t go away. And if we look hard enough, as we’ve tried to do here, we can still find the real stuff.

Note, 17 Dec. 2022: I originally quoted Snorri as being a 14th century author; the date is now corrected above. Thanks to the anonymous comment below for suggesting the correction.

References

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• Durston, C. 1985. ‘Lords of misrule. The Puritan war on Christmas 1642–60.’ History today 35.12: 7-14. [ProQuest | HistoryToday.com]
• Eliade, M. 1964. Shamanism. Archaic techniques of ecstasy. Tr. W. R. Trask. Princeton. (Orig. La chamanisme et les techniques archaïques de l’extase, Paris, 1951.)
• Elwin, M. 1947. The Muria and their ghotul. Mumbai (‘Bombay’). [Government of India]
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• McDaniel, S. 2019. ‘The long, strange, fascinating history of Santa Claus.’ Tales of times forgotten, Dec. 2019. [online]
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