Venomous snakes have long held our imaginations in thrall.
And it makes sense: to this day, humans fall prey to their natural defenses.
Secretive, slithering, seductive, and scary, the serpent has claimed a prominent place
in our literature, art, religion, even natural history.
And there are few serpents more frightening or pervasive than the king of snakes: the
mighty basilisk.
I’m sure for some of you when you see this picture, you’ll say—oh wait, that’s
a cockatrice.
Well…you’re not wrong.
That’s right, the elusive and terrifying snake monster and the fiery rooster monster
not only share origins, but are arguably the same monster, just with two different names.
This , this, and this, are all the same creature.
Technically, even this little one.
But we’ll get to that cutie later.
Join me on an exploration of the basilisk-cockatrice connection—and how it went from frightening
snake to a metaphor for pure evil.
[Monstrum intro.]
The earliest references to this serpentine monster date back thousands of years, to the
1st century.
In his epic poem Pharsalia, the Roman poet Marcus Annaeus Lucanus, known in English as
Lucan, introduced us to a serpent capable of producing immense terror, writing “The
Basilisk which pours forth, hisses terrifying all beasts, which harms before its poison
and orders the entire crowd far out of its way and on the empty sand is king.”
With the stroke of his pen, Lucan brought to life a terrifying snake whose royal status
was firmly established from the beginning.
So lethal, the Basilisk’s venom can kill even after the beast has been destroyed, as
the soldier in Pharsalia learns when he stabs the snake and the venom runs up the spear
into his hand.
In a moment of foresight, the man slices off his own hand with a sword to save his life.
Pliny’s encyclopaedic Historia Naturalis-- or “Natural History” -- contains a similar
story, only this time both the rider and his horse die after the basilisk is speared.
In this text, the blackish-yellow, more-than-foot-long snake slithers along with its upper body erect,
hypnotizing its prey with eyes sunken into a sharp head.
According to Pliny, the basilisk can kill with its gaze alone, as well as with its noxious
breath.
Interestingly, we also learn of the monster’s weakness—the stench of a weasel will kill
the basilisk, although the weasel too will perish.
Pliny asserts that the basilisk earns its Greek name, basiliskos [vasiliskos; βασιλίσκος]
and Latin equivalent basiliscus—both meaning “kinglet”— for a crown- like white spot
on its sharp head resembling a diadem.
In fact, those two early texts -- Pharsalia and Historia Naturalis -- laid the foundation
for the attributes that have been associated with the basilisk ever since: that it is a
venomous snake whose breath, gaze, or even hiss could destroy all life—animal, human,
or vegetable.
Moreover, the origin stories of the basilisk include mention of an ability to summon other
snakes with its hiss even as it frightens off or kills all other creatures.
It’s unsurprising then that this powerful, decorated snake with its crown-like spot would
be subsequently called “the king of the serpents” in the Greek poet Nicander’s
Theriaca.
Authors and artists in the Medieval period seem to have taken liberty with the “kinglet,”
depicting the creature with a crown or even a rooster’s comb.
Beginning in the 13th century, we find texts describing a “reptilian monster,” and
even the “king of serpents” with all of the traits of the basilisk plus a new one:
a rooster’s comb rather than a crown adorns its head, and it bears a new name — the
cockatrice.
Over time we see the names “basilisk” and the “cockatrice” used interchangeably
as the creature becomes more and more of a snake-bird hybrid.
The cockatrice appears in literature and art, in marginalia and coat of arms.
Bearing a combination of chicken and reptilian features (with dragon wings or an extra head
occasionally thrown in there for good measure), it is said to petrify with its gaze or a touch
of its beak.
With all this fantastic and suggestive imagery around its appearance, it’s no surprise
that religions would embrace its wealth of allegorical power.
In the Christian tradition, the serpent was already associated with sin and the Devil,
due largely to its seductive role in the fall of the Garden of Eden.
So the basilisk a.k.a. the cockatrice didn’t really stand a chance.
Take for example an origin story of the basilisk that emerged in the 1100s, which proposed
that it is born from an egg hatched by a toad.
The first person to suggest this was St. Hildegard in her book Physica.
She even goes as far as to say it is the “diabolic art of the ancient serpent” that comes from
“the Antichrist” that spawns this unnatural hatching.
Over time, these dubious origins became part of the basilisk and the cockatrice myths,
evolving even further to include details like the egg is laid by a rooster and that it would
be incubated in a dung heap....
The basilisk became not just dangerous and poisonous, but a literal embodiment of evil
that must be vanquished.
In fact, a lot of art from the Medieval period shows Christ, a saint, or some other holy
figure defeating the basilisk or cockatrice.
But it can still be killed by a weasel, which explains these absolutely delightful illustrations.
And of course, given the shift toward religious allegory in the history of the serpent beast,
we see the power of prayer taking hold as another defense against its evil effects.
A bit confusingly, around this time we learn that carrying a rooster around can also protect
you—because the rooster’s crow can frighten the basilisk to death.
Or, if you’re quick on your feet, spotting the basilisk before it spots you, or showing
it its own reflection are among your defensive options.
Oh yes, the idea that humans could survive the deadly gaze of the basilisk by looking
at it in a mirror had begun to take hold.
So apparently, Harry Potter got that part correct, even though Voldemort’s ‘basilisk’
Nagini is much, much, much larger than any other depiction of a basilisk in literature
or art.
That’s artistic license for you!
Interestingly, the deadly gaze of the monster, along with its more negative associations
with sin and evil in Christianity, eventually led to its allegorical use to indicate both
“vile scoundrels” and dangerously beautiful and seductive women in the 17th century and
beyond.
Which likely goes back to the portrayal of Eve in the Garden of Eden, although there
many other plausible contributing factors including the myths of Medusa and the Lamia,
along with you know—patriarchy.
John Dryden, famous English poet and playwright of the 17th century was one such author.
The queen in The Spanish Frya, or the Double Discovery is called the Basilisk of Torrismond
since she “kills…with her Eyes.”
But let’s go back to those early origins of the basilisk.
There are scholars who argue that the basilisk of ancient lore was actually a real snake
that, with time and the human imagination, was imbued with more and more traits until
it became something utterly fantastical, and completely divorced from its mundane roots.
If it is true, as some assert, that the early basilisk at one point believed to be native
to Libya, this makes sense.
After all, Libya is home to the Egyptian cobra, one of the most terrifying snakes on the planet.
Cobras are also illustrated in Egyptian hieroglyphics with the middle of the body raised up —in
a manner that resembles bird feet, which might have later contributed to the cockatrice interpretation
of the monster—and which calls to mind Pliny’s description of the basilisk’s erect upper
body.
While the Egyptian cobra is a perfectly serviceable real-life origin snake for our evil serpent,
it is not the only candidate for the honor.
Another theory?
I offer you: the humble grass snake.
The grass snake (Natrix natrix) has a yellow, orange, or white -collar, and its defensive
mechanisms include “aggressively hissing,” secreting a foul-smelling substance from the
anal glands, and even playing dead.
Grass snakes also happen to love to hatch their eggs in rotting wood, plant debris,
compost, and dung heaps.
What’s most interesting about the grass-snake-as-real-basilisk theory is that grass snakes, while totally
common, are rarely mentioned in ancient bestiaries and early animal “encyclopedias.”
Meanwhile, the fictional basilisk is identified as a “species” in almost every one of
these resources.
This might indicate that the grass snake was at one point misidentified as a basilisk before
the latter’s evolution to the cockatrice blurred the lines between reality and fiction
even more.
To make this even more interesting, the cock’s egg origins of the basilisk-slash cockatrice
could be explained by the perfectly normal phenomenons of hens occasionally laying yolkless
eggs or hens acting like roosters because of a hormone imbalance or an unusually dominant
personality.
Then there’s the occasional appearance of parasitic worms in eggs—which will sometimes
look like tiny snakes.
Whether or not the basilisk aka the cockatrice was truly based on a real animal is unclear.
What we do know is that we humans have been fascinated with the idea of the basilisk for
centuries.
So much so that they have permeated into our literature and art.
To this day, the basilisk and cockatrice live on in books, D&D, video games, and film.
And coming full circle from its vaguely reptilian associations, there are real, modern lizards
named after this fantastic beast.
Four species of lizards, in fact.
They are in the Iguanidae family in the genus Basiliscus, better known as casquehead lizards.
Their common names include the brown or striped basilisk, the western basilisk, the common
basilisk, and the plumed lizard—whom you may also recognize as the “Jesus lizards”
for their ability to run across water.
This seems particularly ironic given the basilisk’s one-time association with the Devil.
While these lizards have no powers that allow them to cause death with a glance, they do
have a long tail and an elongated head that looks like a rooster’s comb.
Just another way monster history infiltrates our real world.
The basilisk and the cockatrice have thrived in our imaginations for a very long time.
From king of the serpents to sin incarnate to a metaphor for the exaggerated dangers
of a woman’s allure, these serpentine/avian monsters both fascinate and repel—their
lethal gaze lingering from the pages of antiquity into our modern world.
Have you ever wondered what makes words, well, words?
Otherwords, PBS’ newest show about language and linguistics, has you covered.
Otherwords dives into languages around the world to uncover the fascinating, unexpected,
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Check out Otherwords, right here on Storied.