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The Byzantine chapter of Greek history has often been seen as a period of stasis, where little more than repetition took place in a suffocating theocratic regime.1 This impression is gradually being corrected in the newer scholarship, much of which explores the artistic, literary, and scientific prowess of the Byzantines.2
As outlined in my previous article, an especially fruitful area for exploration is the world of Orthodox hagiography (lives of saints). A literary and iconographic genre in its own right, it has only recently begun attracting scholarly attention, since for years the hagiographical genre was written off as little more than internal Christian propaganda.
The Menologion of Emperor Basileios II is one of the most richly illuminated Byzantine manuscripts. Dating from 985-6 CE, it contains many lives of saints following the ritual year (beginning in September), and over 430 miniature illuminations. Pictured here is the emperor himself.
Though this use was indeed applied, the hagiographical narratives of the Orthodox Church conceal many fascinating secrets, from overt vestiges of their pagan predecessors to their function as a vehicle for cultural identity. Their modes of transmission and persistence in the modern era demonstrates their traction among the lay and ecclesiastical population alike, revealing a great deal about local communities and cultural idioms.3
If illuminations such as that pictured above reflect the ‘elite’ uses and perceptions of hagiographies, at the other end of the spectrum, oral and visual folk narratives such as the story of Panagia the Mermaid reflect the interplay between ‘high’ and ‘low’ culture, as well as pagan and Christian symbolism and motifs.
These hagiographies are shaped by a combination of Church teachings, classical mythography, and folk narratives which interacted through oral, literary, and visual retellings to shape each mythos. Some drew directly on the myths of local pagan cults, retold with a Christian gloss, others on actual historical events, crystallised, Homeric-style, as epic retellings of heroic deeds.
The Orthodox Church itself claims that the hagiography of St Barbara is a gloss on the goddess Hekate. Her worship preserves many elements found in practices directly associated with Hekate. For more on this, read my dedicated article here.
These should not be thought of as histories: as highlighted in my previous article, the characterisation and focus on miraculous and divinely inspired elements are typical of this genre and serve specific purposes. They have been compared to caricatures: not in the pejorative sense, but in the sense of rendering a figure or event larger than life so as to better capture its essence and thus highlight its value or desirable virtue - and superhuman nature in the case of divine or quasi-divine figures.4
While many such hagiographical biographies from late antiquity can be historically proven to connect with earlier myths and local cults, others offer us a window into the Greek Middle Ages - Byzantine and later, Ottoman - that is a world away from the jewel-encrusted glories of Constantinople. Coastal life was precarious in both the Ionian and the Aegean archipelagoi, and despite initial Byzantine rule, the islands were frequently the target of raids and nests of corsairs and privateers from the Umayyad Caliphate.5 With a largely Greek population, protection from the Byzantine empire was scarce given the numerous pressures on its borders; reflected in the local architecture and tendency to select higher inland fortifications to avoid the raids. The picturesque narrow streets enjoyed by visitors today have more pragmatic reasons for their formation.
The Aegean island of Mytilene (Lesvos) was repeatedly raided by pirates and privateers from many of the empires and centres of power throughout its history. Though the ‘Saracen’ raids of 851 and 1055 were by no means unique, they left the island with a special legend: that of an avenging warrior angel.
The external icon of St Michael the Archangel at Mandamado Monastery. It disappeared mysteriously in 1964, and reappeared equally mysteriously some years later.
In Greek Orthodox hagiography, warrior-saints are a category unto themselves, and the next instalment will look at them in more depth. Today’s offering is a traditional narration of the legend of the Archangel of Mandamado: a small village in northeastern Lesvos whose monastery was the target of pirates in the ninth century. I have translated the story directly from the monastery website, and it is written by the chief priest of the monastery pictured here. A brief commentary follows the story, including the unique practices of the Church of the Archangel of Mandamado which include bull sacrifice (as late as 2024). More on warrior saints in the next instalment.
Protopresbyter Efstratios Dissos
The Archangel of Mandamado
Fire, smoke, and dark skies on the Mediterranean coast. The Saracen ships roam freely on the blue waters of the Aegean, scattering horror and destruction on its lacy beaches. Like vultures, the Saracens land wherever they smell food, opening their hatches and pouring out the worst of human brutality. Bodies bringing darkness, human beasts, the terrible pirates and terror of the coastal communities, devastation.6
They hold nothing sacred, they respect no God, they worship only plunder, their companions are the hatchet and the dagger, their pleasure crimson blood and wine. These resemble each other and they love them equally.
They attack the coastal towns like the plagues of the Pharaoh and wreak destruction. They slaughter men and animals. They burn and leave devastation in their wake.
But the greatest destruction was wrought upon our islands. Unprotected as they were, scattered in the blue embrace of the Aegean, they attracted the Saracen attention and greed all the more. As many residents as were able to flee, went inland to avoid their attacks.
Lesvos, one of our most beautiful and rich islands, was a great target for the Saracens. Perhaps because its rich land and developed trade of the seaside communities made their homes wealthy and full of children, and Constantinopolitan and Venetian gold and silver, and so a great target for the raiders.
In those days, the Byzantine state could not retaliate against them, because it had many greater enemies, also perhaps because, large as the island is, with beaches, many inlets, natural harbours, isolated and safe from the eyes of any enemy, the Saracens became more confident and they saw it as a place for rest and replenishment. That’s why even today, many such isolated locations, away from people and winds, with coves and harbours, are called Sarakina, Sarakinio, Sarakonisi, etc. These places are the old stamping grounds of the Saracens and were named for them.
Towards the end of the 10th century and beginning of the 11th (ie., 900-1000), the Saracens were in their prime. They feared no-one, and nobody pursued them. So the islands were theirs for the taking, whenever they felt like it they sailed to them, burning villages, raiding, killing, pillaging the land and filling their ships with slaves and plunder for the slave-markets and the rich markets of the East.
In the living tradition of Mandamados, the creation of the icon of Archangel Michael from the blood of monks slaughtered by the Saracens is said to have occurred precisely during this period, ie., 900-1000. The tradition is so well-rooted, and the events and locations are genuine, so it is likely to have a basis in actual history. The passage of time has not erased nor added details to the events that took place on those terrible days.
In the region of “Lesvados,” (a place in Taxiarches, about two kilometres from Mandamado), named for the first resident of the island, there used to be a monastery built in the name of the Archangels, whose founding is lost to time.
It had few monks, only 18, and according to tradition they had fortified it with walls and a tower (the tower still stands), to repulse the Saracen raids. They succeeded many times, to the extent that the pirate captain Sirhan was angrily determined to burn the place, rather than raid it, out of sheer spite.
The monastery bell tower. The oldest elements of the monastery have been dated to the seventeenth/eighteenth century; nonetheless, this narrative should be read as legend and not pure history.
It was spring. Perfumed Lesvos, wearing her lush green garment, billowed like a beautiful bride on the blue waters of the Aegean. The bitter winter had been quiet. The pirates, fearing the anger of the Aegean, which is sharper during the winter, had stayed in the hideaways of their homeland to enjoy their plunder, repair their ships, and prepare for new raids.
After the quiet of the long winter, in the first days of spring the monks began preparations for Easter. The cells, the large yard, and all the monastery buildings were whitewashed and given a celebratory air. The winter had made the monks forget the terrible pirates somewhat, and they became lax about monastery security. Their thoughts were given over to the pious processions of Lent and the preparations for the bright occasion of the Resurrection.
But with the first calm seas of spring, the Saracens set sail on the Aegean. Captain Sirhan’s ship, sails aloft, approached Lesvos’ coast. It had evaded Methymna with its unassailable castle and headed for Sarakina, the beach of Mandamado, three quarters of an hour hence from the Archangel’s Monastery. The day grew old. The bright spring sun was descending for the heavenly purple gates of dusk, and infinite colours spread over the sea’s blue waters.
On his pirate ship, Captain Sirhan called together his band. He was a huge man, almost two metres tall. Lesvos had known its worst devastation and ruin at his hands. He stood fiercely on the bridge. His face was that of a demon from hell. Gold rings hung from his ears and nose, making his dark face all the more striking and ferocious. His full lips were red and as he spoke his big white teeth were revealed, themselves a formidable weapon in battle. His hawkish eye - for the other was always covered with a black cloth tied behind his left ear - spat flames when he looked at you.
Naked from the waist up, his broad chest was covered in thick black hair. His strong hairy hands were so great that between his fingers the hatchet looked like a delicate tool in the hands of an artisan. Around his waist, a colourful belt, holding both hatchet and sword close to his body. When he strode among his band with his legs wide, they swung a palm’s length from him. Orders given in his booming voice made his whole band shrivel backwards.
“Listen well,” he said loudly, “This time we will take the monastery. Everything is yours. Burn, ruin, pillage, do as you please, I only want the golden cup the monks use in their service, to drink my wine from; all the rest, gold, silver, and riches, are yours. If anyone deserts, I’ll hang them from the masts. If we don’t take it this time, I’ll leave you on the island and sail, and the Greeks can impale you. No more delays. Did you hear me well?”
The pirate’s band answered positively with howls and cheers. His booming voice silenced them.
“We will land at our old hideout, and when it’s fully dark, we’ll start out and attack before dawn, when they won’t be expecting us. Take care. We must not be caught by day, it will be our undoing. So you have no other choice. Either we take it quickly and then make for the ship, or the Greeks will get wind of us, and united they’ll tear us to pieces.
The cunning pirate captain presented it so that on the one hand the greed for pillaging, on the other the fear of delays costing their lives, prepared them to act carefully and passionately for the raid to succeed. At the monastery, life went on as usual, the monks’ attention fully absorbed by the pious liturgies and preparations. That evening, as they did every evening after dinner, the monks retired to their cells to rest from the day’s work. Darkness fully embraced the surrounding land, and the silence was soft and peaceful. Nothing suggested the evil that would follow that night.
In the Saracen lair, preparations for the raid were afoot. No fire, not a sound. Everything happened in the darkness, quietly, so that no shepherd would get wind of their presence and make them known to the locals. Around midnight they made for the monastery. They walked slowly, carefully. Surprise was everything. They took more than two hours to walk the three quarter route. They didn’t take the path, but went through fields and woodland. They stopped a little way from the monastery and hid among the trees, waiting for the right time.
“It’s time,” said the pirate captain’s first officer. “They’re all asleep, they won’t notice us.”
“No,” said the captain. “It’s too dangerous. The monks have fought us off and done us damage many times. I’d love to have them in my band, they’re good fighters. But it’s impossible, we’ll strike them when they’re not expecting us, once they’re in their church for the dawn service. Now it’s very dangerous. They’ll trap us among their cells and flatten us. I know better. Just don’t let them get wind of you, beware.”
The hours passed with the pirates keeping watch outside the monastery, when the soft silence of early dawn was rent by the sweet chiming from the monastery, calling the monks to the matins service. The bells had barely stopped and the monks’ heavy footsteps were heard, rhythmically striking the wooden terrace of the monastery, on their way down to the church. Soon all was quiet again. All the monks had gathered in the temple.
The pirates waited a little longer and then, slowly emerged from their hiding place and carefully approached the monastery wall. The first officer unwound the hook from his waist, wrapped its hooks in a large canvas so it would not make a sound as he threw it over the wall, swung it about a few times, then artfully flung it very high and straight up the wall. He tested the rope to make sure it had found purchase, turned, signalled to the captain, and began climbing.
The entrance to the monastery as it looks today. The monastery dates from the eighteenth century; the church from the nineteenth.
At the pirate’s signal they all ran to the great castle door of the monastery, which the first officer would open from within. Soon the pirate with the hook was in the yard, and, under cover of thick darkness, he crawled to the door, and opened it pulling the great latch. Like hell’s demons, the pirates lunged into the monastery with loud cries and entered the church. Stricken, the monks had no time to react, and died under the Saracens’ hatchets.
Gabriel, the novice monk, who had been in the inner sanctum helping the abbot in his duties, had quicker reflexes, and opening the narrow sanctum window, he climbed onto the church roof. But, his movements were not missed by the Saracens, who gave chase, fearing he might run and alert the surrounding villages. Some managed to half climb onto the roof with some ladders left by the monks who had been whitewashing the monastery walls.
But, God Almighty! A strong wind and humming from the roof of the church was suddenly heard, and turned into a raging sea, and over the white-capped waves a colossal, fierce soldier with a flaming sword, came towards the pirates. The pirates’ hair stood on end and with meaningless cries, they dropped their weapons and loot, and ran down the hill.
Seeing this miracle save him, the monk fainted. When he came around, day was breaking. At first he was lost. “But what happened?” he wondered. Gradually all the terrible things that had happened returned to his mind. When he considered the events, he crossed himself, stammering the hymn to the Archangels. He went back down and entered the church. His blood froze as he saw all his companions slaughtered.
Depiction of the slaughter of the monks. It hangs in Mandamado Monastery.
His body turned to wax and his feet were rooted to the ground. He stayed in this position for a long time, his eyes wide and terrified. The sacred space of the church, that only a short while earlier had been perfumed with incense and brought alive by the monks chanting, now seemed like a graveyard. A soft caress of the morning breeze, entering silently through the open window left by the monk in his effort to flee, brought him to. He looked around him as if just waking, and then ran anxiously to each of his bloodied companions in turn, hoping that he might find even one of them alive. But his hopes were dashed. All the monks were dead.
His soul brimming with grief for the loss of his companions, his thoughts foggy from the events, he felt faint again. But he forced himself to stay alert. He dragged his steps to the Archangel’s icon and almost hung himself from it with both hands clasped to the corners. With difficulty he raised his gaze to the icon of the Archangel and silently begged for help and illumination.
The shaky, faint light of the candles caressed the Saint’s face in waves. He felt something powerful enter his very being, strengthening him. Through the wavering shadows of the icon, his eyes gradually saw the face of the Archangel. My God, what a face! Ethereal, living, hypercosmic!
“My Commander, my Commander,” he almost screamed. “Take the souls of my brother monks into your hands and beg the Lord to forgive every sin, every misstep.”
The Archangel’s face sweetened. But what sacred sweetness! His soul began to soften too. Oh, that he could somehow capture that exquisite form. Make an image of it. But he was not trained in iconography and did not even have the basic materials for such a project.
“Why, Why? My Commander, why should this sinner not be able to?” he exclaimed.
In dismay he clasped his fingers tight and felt his nails tear his flesh. He felt pain, and opening his fingers, he looked at his palm. On his white skin were a few drops of blood like tiny ruby beads. Staring at them in a daze, suddenly, as if making an important, amazing discovery, he shouted:
“Blood! Blood! That’s it! Thank you, my Commander, thank you!” And after crossing himself, quickly, like a whirlwind, he ran out of the church, up the stairs, and into his cell. Soon he ran out quickly again, carrying a clay basin and a sponge. He entered the church. There, with great care and reverence, he began gathering the monks’ blood in the basin, murmuring:
“Thank you my Commander, thank you for illuminating me and showing me the way.” And addressing his dead companions:
“My dear brothers, your blood will not be in vain. With it I will make the icon of Archangel Michael, to thank him on your behalf, for bringing your souls to the Creator in his sacred hands.”
When he had finished collecting the blood, he left the church again, only to return with a large clay cup of finely ground siliceous earth. He placed it next to the basin of blood, got up, traced his steps to the Archangel’s icon, made three devotions, kissed the icon, and said:
“My Archangel, please help me. You know I know nothing of such work and, if I decided to do it, it was through your illumination. Please, I beg you, hold my hands.”
He crossed himself again, bent over the two cups, and began making clay with the monks’ blood and the siliceous earth. Soon the large clay basin was full of a dark, reddish clay.
The monk stood upright, raised his face to the sky, asked the help of God and his Archangel Michael, crossed himself, and began with shaking hands to create the icon of the Archangel. With his first movements he began reliving vividly the events he’d seen from the roof. His initially shaking hands gradually steadied, working assuredly, fast, and gracefully, as if an invisible power was helping them. The face of the Archangel on the roof, fierce but also divine, seemed to be before him, fully alive in every detail. This helped him imprint its characteristics on the blood-drenched clay with great ease.
He spent a long time working, and when he stopped to briefly survey his work from a distance, he was awed by the total likeness of the Archangel he had seen on the roof. Then he looked at the clay basin and realised that there was barely any clay left. My God! And he had only made the Saint’s face; his wings and his flaming sword. In his agonising effort to capture the Saint’s features, he had not noticed the dwindling supply of clay. Should he ruin what he had made and start again? Impossible. He was not sure he could recreate what he was now proudly looking at.
And so? He bent, gathered the rest of the clay, and just as an inexperienced child draws a human body on a sheet of paper, drawing the body, arms, and legs of a person with a single clumsy line, so too, with the little remaining clay, the monk drew the body of the Archangel, very clumsily from the neck down, but complete. We can see it today when we open the secure casket of the Archangel, which hides the rest of his body.
The Archangel made of clay and the blood of monks, the casket hiding the unfinished body. Before him in the casket is a sword; the swords, shield, and iron shoes placed beside it are traditional votives brought by the faithful. The casket dates from the eighteenth century, and the earliest documentation of the monastery is in the sixteenth century. Though the dating offered in the narrative cannot be confirmed, pirate raids on the Aegean islands are well attested.
Many hundreds of years have passed since the icon of the Archangel with its dark bloody colour was sculpted; it remains unaltered, alive, far from the laws of degeneration and time. Far from degeneration through the kisses of thousands of faithful who flood his Sacred Temple every year, caressing and often wiping with cotton wool the sweat and tears from his face. They even stick metal coins of all kinds to his forehead and cheeks, which mark his face, but these marks quickly vanish. All this is enough to convince every Christian with what grace, love, and care, the Archangel Michael embraces his handmade, sculpted icon.
“All those embracing your holy and sacred icon, Greatest Michael, free them of rage and grief and spare them from bitter, sudden death and terrible harm, wise Commander, as we ask for salvation through your holy protection, praising your sacred name.”
Protopresbyter Efstratios Dissos Holy Orthodox Church of the Chief Leaders of the Angelic Armies (Taxiarches) Mandamados, Lesvos
The feast day of the Archangel
The feast day of the Archangel is famous throughout Greece and pilgrims flock to ask the Archangel’s help for many ailments. The monastery website features testimonies of miracles performed in recent years, and the church is full of votives in the form of iron shoes - which the local people say the Archangel needs for his many missions.
Some of the shoes and boots brought by the faithful for the Archangel
Although 8th November is the official fixed feast day of the Heavenly Hosts (following the hierarchy of (pseudo)Dionysius the Areopagite which are given great honours in the Orthodox Church, the Archangel of Mandamado has his own, floating feast day on Sunday of the Myrrh-bearers (female disciples of Jesus) which falls on the second Sunday after Greek Easter.
Though Greek religious festivals are often an experience unto themselves, with many ancient practices woven tightly into their practices in full knowledge and tolerance of Church officials, that of Mandamado is one of the most extreme. Up until 2015, it featured the slaughter of a live bull, complete with adornments of flowers and special rituals, after which the faithful would dip a ball of cotton into its blood and keep it on their icon-stand since it is believed to hold the same power as the archangel. The bull would be carved, roasted overnight in the church yard, a piece offered to the angel, and the rest distributed among the congregation.
Animal rights organisations led a legal battle to put a stop to the practice and in the first couple of years following the court order the church openly defied the ruling, stating that tradition trumps modern laws. It was reinforced with police intervention, but defied again in 2024. For the coming festival this year, it is said that the bull will be slaughtered humanely in a nearby slaughterhouse, but the angel and the congregation will still get their offering.
According to the priest at Mandamado, this practice was established as a reminder of the sacred duty to feed those in need, reflecting the principle of charity and in remembrance of the refugees who fled to Lesvos following the Ottoman genocide of the Greeks Asia Minor in the early twentieth century.
From the festival of 2017
However, some researchers point out that Lesvos has a much older tradition of bull sacrifice, and at least six other churches on the island also feature a similar festival on their feast days. While the subject remains taboo, both for its clear pagan features as well as its questionable animal rights profile, it is one of the most overt examples of open pagan practice in the context of Greek Orthodox tradition.
According to one chronicle, in the past the maidens of the village would wear headdresses of flowers and their Sunday best, to display their availability in search for a match (more on the heavily ritualised matter of matchmaking here). Eventually some villagers began offering bulls as votives, and the maidens’ wreaths of flowers were extended to the bulls.
This is not a pagan revivalist tradition, and if it is a revival at all, its roots are likely to be traced to the eighteenth century which is when most of the island’s churches, including that of Mandamado, were reinstated following centuries of destruction by the occupiers. Despite concessions for animal rights, the belief and local fervour for the power bestowed by the sacrificial ritual and bull’s blood are growing in popularity and look set to continue for years to come.
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Elizabeth Jeffreys, “We need to talk about Byzantium: or, Byzantium, its reception of the classical world as discussed in current scholarship, and should classicists pay attention?” Classical Receptions Journal, Vol. 6(1), Jan. 2014, 158–174
Herrin J, Unrivalled Influence: Women and Empire in Byzantium, Princeton University Press, 2013.
Cameron A, The Byzantines, 2006, Oxford: Blackwell Publishing
Elizabeth Jeffreys, “We need to talk about Byzantium: or, Byzantium, its reception of the classical world as discussed in current scholarship, and should classicists pay attention?” Classical Receptions Journal, Vol. 6(1), Jan. 2014, 158–174
Though the history of piracy is complex and should not be thought of as homogeneous or stereotypical, as one side’s pirate is another’s war hero, this is written from the perspective of the Greeks of the Aegean in order to provide context for the story that follows. See the map here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Early_Caliphate_navy for a sense of the Byzantine/Caliphate maritime interactions.
On the historical usage of the term Saracen, see Retsö, Jan (4 July 2003). The Arabs in Antiquity: Their History from the Assyrians to the Umayyads. Routledge. On piracy, slavery, and the ordeals of the Greek populations of the Cycladic islands between the 9th and 19th centuries see: Dimitropoulos, D. (2022). "Chapter 5 Piracy in the Aegean: Aspects and Contradictions of Stereotypes". In Greek Maritime History. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill. https://doi.org/10.1163/9789004467729_006
